They marched to the old belovèd airs 'Mid the bullets' hail and rattle; 'Twas the last sweet sound that fell on their ears 'Mid the clamor and clang of battle.
O a harp when an angel strikes the strings Is softer and sweeter, but try As I will, I cannot fancy a harp In the hands of, say, Peter MacKay.
And were an angel to proffer him one, Methinks I can hear him saying: "'Twas not on an instrument like the same That Pete MacKay will be playing,
"For she neffer set eyes on it before, Isn't quick to learn, or cleffer; She'd break the strings if she took it in hand, She couldn't do it, whateffer.
"So please be excusing old Pete MacKay— But hark! bring the chanter to me, I'll play the 'March o' the Cameron Men,' And afterward 'Bonnie Dundee.'"
I told this to Donald late that night; He said, as he sipped his toddy, "Do ye ken ye shocked the elder the night? Yersel' is the doited body.
"And are ye speaking o' bagpipes in Heaven? Ah, Christy, I'm that astoonded I'll hae the guid meenister speak tae ye, For, Christy, ye're no weel groonded."
Well, if it is heresy to believe In the promise of the Father, "Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard," I am heretical, rather.
I believe when the last loud trump shall sound, The old flag again unfurling, My highland lads will come marching home To the bagpipes grandly skirling.