“And tere’s another thing, Malcolm, tat’s much wanting to you: you’ll never pe a man—not to speak of a pard like your cranfather— if you’ll not pe learning to play on ta bagpipes.”
Malcolm, who had been leaning against the chimney-lug while his grandfather spoke, moved gently round behind his chair, reached out for the pipes where they lay in a corner at the old man’s side, and catching them up softly, put the mouthpiece to his lips. With a few vigorous blasts he filled the bag, and out burst the double droning bass, while the youth’s fingers, clutching the chanter as by the throat, at once compelled its screeches into shape far better, at least, than his lips had been able to give to the crude material of Gaelic. He played the only reel he knew, but that with vigour and effect.
At the first sound of its notes the old man sprung to his feet and began capering to the reel—partly in delight with the music, but far more in delight with the musician, while, ever and anon, with feeble yell, he uttered the unspellable Hoogh of the Highlander, and jumped, as he thought, high in the air, though his failing limbs, alas! lifted his feet scarce an inch from the floor.
“Aigh! aigh!” he sighed at length, yielding the contest between his legs and the lungs of the lad—“aigh! aigh! she’ll die happy! she’ll die happy! Hear till her poy, how he makes ta pipes speak ta true Gaelic! Ta pest o’ Gaelic, tat! Old Tuncan’s pipes’ll not know how to be talking Sassenach. See to it! see to it! He had put to blow in at ta one end, and out came ta reel at the other. Hoogh! hoogh! Play us ta Righil Thulachan, Malcolm, my chief!”
“I kenna reel, strathspey, nor lilt, but jist that burd alane, daddy.”
“Give tem to me, my poy!” cried the old piper, reaching out a hand as eager to clutch the uncouth instrument as the miser’s to finger his gold; “hear well to me as I play, and you’ll soon be able to play pibroch or coronach with the best piper between Cape Wrath and ta Mull o’ Cantyre.”
He played tune after tune until his breath failed him, and an exhausted grunt of the drone—in the middle of a coronach, followed by an abrupt pause, revealed the emptiness of both lungs and bag. Then first he remembered his object, forgotten the moment he had filled his bag.
“Now, Malcolm,” he said, offering the pipes to his grandson; “you play tat after.”
He had himself of course, learned all by the ear, but could hardly have been serious in requesting Malcolm to follow him through such a succession of tortuous mazes.
“I haena a memory up to that, daddy; but I s’ get a haud o’ Mr Graham’s flute-music, and maybe that’ll help me a bit.—Wadna ye be takin’ hame Meg Partan’s blackin’ ’at ye promised her?”