“If she had known she was so fond of ta music, she could have had ta pipes before ta supper.”
On its last round that story had reached Siberia, and the Celt, who was hungry, was pursued by a pack of wolves, who “fled with hideous howls” when the slogan of the clan was heard.
The next illustrates the Highlander’s propensity towards whisky drinking, and it rarely varies to any great extent. A Highland laird, being unable to maintain a permanent piper, employed a local musician occasionally when he had a party. Donald was once overlooked as to his usual dram before commencing to play, and in revenge he gave very bad music, which caused the laird to remonstrate with him and ask the cause. “It’s the bag,” said Donald; “she pe ferry, ferry hard.” “And what will soften it?” asked his employer. “Och, just whusky.” Accordingly the butler was sent for a tumblerful of the specific, which Donald quickly drank. “You rascal,” said the laird, “did you not say it was for the bagpipes?” “Och, yess, yess,” said Donald; “but she will pe a ferry peculiar pipes this. She aye likes it blawed in.”
The piper’s story associated with “Boyne Water” is the fourth. The name and the regiment vary, but the story is always the same:—
Sandy Mac-something or other—the surname has not come down to posterity—was an old piper in the 92nd, and when his detachment was located in Ireland an order was given that “Boyne Water” was not to be played. The colonel probably did not wish to hurt the feelings of any of his neighbours. “Boyne Water,” however, was Sandy’s favourite tune, and to the surprise of the colonel, the first time the company marched out after the prohibitory order had been issued, Sandy struck up the forbidden air. “What do you mean?” cried the officer. “Do you not know that you are not allowed to play ‘Boyne Water?’” “It’ll no pe ‘Boyne Water’ at all,” replied Sandy. “It’ll pe quite another tune, but to the same air.” But Sandy had to stop playing it all the same.
An amusing description is given by a writer who travelled in the Highlands about seventy years ago, of a competition which he witnessed between two pipers in Tongue. There was a certain John Mac Donald who had blown before the Emperor of China, having accompanied an embassy to that country, and a Donald Abroch, who traced his descent from some of the hereditary pipers. Both had gained prizes in public, and they were natural rivals:—
“The drone of Donald’s pipes streamed with bonny flags of red and blue, while he made his cheeks as red as crimson, and bobbed around as he blew. Meantime the banner of defiance hoisted on his antagonist’s spirit-stirring engine floated on the troubled air in the radiant yellow of the Celestial Empire. As etiquette demanded that each should be heard in turn, the Imperial piper, having the preference, as of divine right, put forth all his energy on the advent of his rival, as the cock crows a louder defiance should some neighbour chanticleer intrude on his hereditary domain. But John was now seventy, nor had his wind much improved by the quantity of monsoon which he had swallowed in the Indian seas. His breeze being blown, Donald, who knew the weak point in his rival’s lungs, now raised a blast so loud and dread that it reminded one of the roaring of the lion of Rabbi Johosuah Ben Hananiah, at the sound of whose voice all the people’s teeth dropped out of their heads. John turned yellow with despair, as the Imperial ribbons, and thus ended the first act.
“It was not for us to decide between rival pibrochs or rival pipers, but by the aid of some judicious applause and more acceptable whisky a sort of amicable armistice was produced till the next act should begin. It was now necessary that they should play together a duet, composed of different pibrochs in different keys, in which it was the business of each to outscream his neighbour by the united force of lungs and elbows. The north side of the room was in possession of the Emperor’s piper, and he of our clan drew up his force on the south; each strutting and bellowing till, like rival bullfinches, they were ready to burst their lungs and bag, each playing his own tune in harmonious dissonance; and both as they crossed each other at every turn, looking the defiance they would have breathed had their wind not been otherwise employed. The chanters screamed, the drones grunted, and as the battle raged with increasing fury, Donald’s wind seemed ready to burst its cerements, while the steam of the whisky distilling through the bag dropped as from the nozzle of a worm-pipe. Poor John was now nearly blown, but as we were unwilling that he should puff out for our amusement the last of that breath which he had with so much difficulty brought all the way from Pekin, we determined that enough had been done for honour, and put an end to the concert according to the rules of bucolic contest, by allowing equal praise and equal prizes to each swain. That they had both played fort bein could not be doubted, still less according to the French pun that they had played bein fort.”
Pipers, when playing in public, often get into awkward positions. During the performance of the well-known Julien Army Quadrilles, in connection with which local bands represent England, Scotland, and Ireland—the chief performing band being the orchestra—the pipes were once put into a cellar in the lower part of the building and the door closed. Here, on a given signal, they struck up “The Campbells are coming.” Thereupon the doors gradually opened, and the pipers marched up from the lower regions and through the vast hall, which was crowded. On their approach the cheering was so vociferous that it was impossible to hear the sound of the pipes, and it was only by carefully watching the parts of the tune, the step, and the swing of the leading piper (who was endeavouring to reach the platform on which the orchestra was seated) that they were able to play in unison. Having ascended the platform, they placed themselves in a conspicuous position, and when they stopped playing, the well-known imitation fierce battle, for which these quadrilles are famous, began. While rehearsing this performance, it should be added, the door of the lower apartments had been accidentally left open, so that the sounds were distinctly and loudly heard by the bandmaster, who was a German. With lightning rapidity he came tearing downstairs in a furious rage, exclaiming in wild tones—“Mein Got, fat is this. You may be as well up on de stage. Why is de door not closed according to my instructions?” Being thus interrogated, the pipe-major appealed to piper Dougal Mac Donald, who was the last to enter, and who should have closed the door.
“Why did you not shut the door when you came in, Dougal?” he asked.