“North-west of a line from Greenock by Perth to Inverness is the land of the Gael—of the semi-barbarous instrument the bagpipe, of wild pibroch tunes, or rude melodies, very little known and still less admired, and of a species of song which has rarely been considered worth the trouble of translation.”
English writers who attend northern gatherings feel themselves in duty bound to be partly amused and partly terrified at the din of the pipes, and they often express the greatest wonder that our civilised ears can find pleasure in it. In the same way they used to look on our religion with contempt, and ridicule it on every opportunity. “Suffer Presbytery and bagpipes to flourish beyond Berwick” exclaims one in his wrath. The two seemed to be equally despicable. Butler, in putting this contempt into rhyme, works himself into a fine frenzy of mixed metaphor;—
“Whate’er men speak by this new light,
Still they are sure to be i’ the right;
’Tis a dark lanthorn of the spirit,
Which none can see but those who hear it.
· · · · ·
This light inspires and shines upon
The house of saint like bagpipe drone.”
How men can speak by light, how this light can be a lanthorn, how men can hear light, or how a bagpipe drone can shine upon a house, he does not stop to explain, but proceeds:—