"McRae, McRae (for the McRaes were all pipers), play me back, back till I hear my mother laughing, in the evening, till I see the grass, green, green and beautiful in the sun, and the golden ben-weeds swaying to the breeze, and I am a boy again—I, Red Roland, searching among the heather, with the scent o' wild honey around me, searching for the shy white heather to bring coyly to my lass, and bravely the sun shines among the hills, and the hawk's brown wings flutter in the blue vault. Play me back, McRae, till I hear the water wimpling on the hill burns, when I lie flat to drink, the brown peaty water, McRae, and the sheep looking at me before they run. The sun and the sea and the wild winds o' my youth, McRae; bring them back to me before I go."
As he spoke, the Red Laird lolled his head on the back of his chair. His eyes were closed, and his mind looked backwards; and as he cried for the sun and the growing grass and the wave of the wind in the hay, his hand rose and fell. And McRae, McRae the piper, looked long into the glowing fire, looked till his harsh face softened and the smiling came round his eyes, and softly, softly he played. And in his playing I saw the goodman bend over his wife and whisper. I saw her face glow in the evening sun, and I heard her laughter, clear and sweet like diamonds ajingle, as she struck him playfully, and walked stately and slow to the green where her children played on the lush grass, and ever and ever she looked over her shoulder for her man, because he was her lover still. And I saw a boy moving among the crags, the honey dust round his knees, and ever and ever his eyes searched the heather, and I heard his cry of gladness as he fell down beside the lucky heather, white and chaste as a virgin.
And I looked at Dan and saw him far away in his youth, and even McKelvie looked not comfortable. But the Laird was all happy, a boy again with all his days before him, and when McRae made an end of his piping, said Dan with a queer sigh—
"A great gift, Hamish, to be drowned in drink," and as I watched the piper gulp his usquebach I kent what he meant.
But at his stopping, the Laird rose. "Let be the days o' innocence, McRae. The March, The March, now, and the onset o' battle. Dirl it out, dirl it out, for Red Roland was first in the charge, and the cries o' fear made the blood tingle in his back, the women screaming, and the men crying, and the red blood flowing, and my father's sword dauntless in the van—bring it back, McRae. Make my cauld blood hot as in my manhood."
When he cried for the battle-music, his clenched fist beat the air, his long locks tossed like an old lion's mane, and the war love shone in his eyes. A great change came on the piper. He stood his full height, as straight as a young larch tree, and a cold deadly pride came on his face, and then with a great swing he threw the drones to his shoulder, his arm caressed the bag, and his foot beat, beat, beat like a restive horse, till he got the very swing of his pibroch.
Then with that fine prideful swing of his shoulders he started to march, and I saw the clansmen gather, wet from the mountain torrents, with knees red-scarred by the briars of many a wood. I heard the clamour of their talk, and the high note of their anger, and then swiftly, silently, below a pale moon I saw their ranks lock and the grim march begin, onward, onward to the southlands.
And then I heard the wail of the southern mothers, and the laughing cry of the clansmen as the foemen stood to arms, the wild devilish lilt of it for glory or a laughing death, and all around a black, black land, lighted alone with blazing farms, and the broad red swathe where the hillmen trailed. Came the very struggle, the gasping for breath, the cry of the fallen, the hand-to-hand grip, and then the great blare of triumph, and the Red Laird yelled aloud—
"Through, by God, through!"
"I've lived my life, McBride, my ain wild life, and the sadness is coming on me, to leave my bonny hills and the cold splash o' a summer's sea. The sadness o' the silent peaks and the gloom o' the hidden valleys, McBride—ay, but it's fine, the sadness, better than the heated joys o' the south." And again McRae played, looking into the heart of the fire, and the far-away look in his eyes, and as he played I felt a lump rise in my throat, for a sorrow I kent not, except that the wind moaned eerily through the thatch, and grey and gurly grew the sea, with the black jackdaws flying low inshore. The uneasy cattle were lowing in the byre, and the rain fell in great drops from the leafless trees—fell on the cold wet earth, and the fire on the hearth was out, and cold white ash marked where nevermore would peat be lighted; and oh! I heard the wail of the mourners, and saw the sobbing daughter cling to her mother, and the youngest son leave for the wars, the last of his house and name, and his name forgotten in the glens already.