"But isn't it grand? O, isn't it grand?" "Ay, a fine auld player is Mylands, But the pipes' wild sound disna stir my bluid"— He was not born in the highlands.
Do you know what I saw as I sat there? I saw the hills and the heather, The green, and the lads and the lassies there All dancing the reels together.
I saw our glen, half hid, and the rocks Standing guard like grim old watchmen. Oh, the land o' heather and hill and loch Must e'en be dear to a Scotchman.
And I saw, too, the soldiers blithe and brave Their flag to the breeze unfurling, As they marched away on a morning fair To the bagpipes' merry skirling.
My brother was one. As he kissed my cheek, I could hear him proudly saying: "Ho! you'll know when we come marching home, For you'll hear our pipers playing."
Oh, the bonniest lads in kilt and hose— Braver men, you cannot find them— And few, so few, came marching home To the loved ones left behind them.
'Twas a loyal heart, and a strong right arm, With a stubborn foe before them; A soldier's grave in a far off land, And God's blue sky bending o'er them.
As I hearkened to sweet old martial airs I could hear my brother saying: "Ho! you'll know when we come marching home, For you'll hear our pipers playing."
There are only harps in heaven, I'm told, And maybe I shouldn't say it, For a harp of gold's a wondrous thing In a hand that's skilled to play it.
But those highland lads, 'twas the pibroch's call They heard morning, noon, and even, And the pibroch's call, I believe in my heart, They will hear in the streets of heaven.