The Highland bagpipe

by W. L. Manson

The piper, however, entered the kitchen, and made for the fire. It so happened that the head cook—a stout, portly, good-natured woman—was a native of Tobermory. She took the drenched man in hand, and when she discovered that he could speak Gaelic, they became the best of friends. He got himself so much into her favour that she undertook to dry his coat and polish all his accoutrements. In course of time he got brightened up and ready for any call. He had to ignore all the time the repelling looks and nasty hints of the head official referred to, who would have nothing to do with him, and whose dignity was evidently hurt at his presence there without her being consulted. At two in the morning he was sent for by the mistress of the house—a fine specimen of the old Scottish lady—who led him to a door which communicated with the ball-room, and, without more ado, she gave him the following instructions:—

“You’ll just blow up your bags and you will play in there”—pointing to the door—“and John will show you where to go to.”

The piper struck up the “Cock of the North” very suddenly, to the surprise of everyone. When he entered the room he nearly fell, the floor was so smooth. Next, his big drone touched the chandeliers, under which were standing three or four ladies with the usual long trains to their dresses. He naturally became somewhat embarrassed, for he had to watch his tune, to watch his feet, to watch the chandelier, as well as to avoid the ladies’ dresses, and at the same time to watch “John,” who ultimately led him into the recesses of a window, where he played the “Highland Scottische” and “Reel of Tulloch.” This done, it was part of his programme to play “The Campbells are coming,” and make his exit by the door through which he entered. There were, unfortunately for him, too many doors, and, as “John” had left, he was again perplexed. He, however, made for, as he thought, the proper door, under the same difficulties as he experienced on his entrance; but, instead of getting out, he was landed in a pantry where there were two young women busily engaged cutting up sandwiches. Here he was kept prisoner for about half an hour. Any pipers who have had the same experience will admit that it requires no little confidence and caution to discharge satisfactorily such duties under similar circumstances.

There is a story told of another piper, which does not terminate quite so happily. Piper Hugh Mac L—— was engaged to play at an Irish wedding. Now, Irish people are generally very kind, and on such occasions are possessed of a good supply of “the mercies.” The room in which the wedding was held was rather small for dancing purposes, considering the number of guests. They therefore placed a table in the corner of the room, on the top of it a chair, and on the top of that a small flat stool, on which sat the piper. Here he blew with might and main till three o’clock in the morning, when down fell piper, pipes, and all on the floor. There were, luckily, no bones broken. Legs were broken, but they were wooden ones. After this somewhat amusing catastrophe the music ceased for the night.

Pipers were a resourceful race, if the following story is to be considered a typical one. A well-known piper, whose name is withheld because some of his people are still with us, was very often hard put to it for money, and many and various were the means he took to raise the wind. One day, more than usually dead-broke, he found an old mahogany leg of a table lying at the Clydeside, near Glasgow Green. He picked it up, and going to a joiner’s shop in the Briggate, he hired a turning lathe for an hour or two. Being an expert maker as well as player, he soon had an imitation set of drones and a chanter turned out of the mahogany. Then he got a piece of old skin and made a bag which would not have kept in small stones, not to speak of wind, and by means of borrowing pence from acquaintances, he raised some green velvet and ribbons. After he had carefully covered and adorned his “pipes,” he bored holes about an inch down the “drones,” stained the “virls” black, and gravely offered the lot to a pawnbroker. He, poor man, did not know much about pipes, for he gave the piper £1 on them. Then the dead-broke man repaid all his loans and went off a richer man by some seventeen or eighteen shillings. What the pawnbroker said when he attempted to sell the “pipes” has not come down to posterity.

The best of the bagpipe stories, however, come from the regimental piper. Army pipers were, and perhaps still are, treated a little more leniently than their fellows. A piper of the 79th Cameron Highlanders was brought before the officer in command for being drunk. The officer was a bit of a wag, and on the delinquent being marched in he, looking very severe, said, “Are you the piper that played before Moses?” “Yes, sir,” said the piper, taking advantage of the familiarity. The officer was a bit nonplussed, and shouted, “Get out of here, you scoundrel, and never come before me again.” A day or so after the piper was again brought up for being drunk, and the officer, annoyed at seeing him back so soon, said, “I don’t wish to punish you, but if you continue coming before me I must treat you like any other delinquent.” Quoting from the defaulters’ sheet, he continued, “Drunk, drunk, drunk; why, sir, you’re always drunk. Look here, just put yourself in my position and see what you would do.” On the officer vacating the chair the piper, nothing daunted, took his place, and proceeding to scan his own defaulter sheet, said in grave tones, “Drunk, drunk, drunk. Why sir, you’re always drunk; I’ll give you seven days’ cells and twenty-eight days confined to barracks.” The officer was too amazed at the piper’s impudence to do more than shout at the top of his voice—“Sergeant-major, take this man out of here,” and as we have no record of any future infliction of punishment, we may infer that the piper’s game of bluff succeeded in getting him off scathless.

Another story of a piper who “took more than was good for him” is associated with “Lochaber no more.” It was the duty of a piper of the 93rd Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders to play the officers’ mess. Feeling somewhat unsteady, he chose “Lochaber no more” as being an easy tune and suited for hiding his condition. His eccentric performance, however, did not escape the colonel, who was in quarters close by dressing for dinner, and, in passing to the mess room he called out “Piper Mac Donald.” “Yes, sir,” replied the piper, approaching the colonel with his best salute and under the impression that he was to be complimented for serenading the commanding officer by his rendering of such a beautiful air. “What tune was that you played?” growled the colonel. “Hic! ‘Lochubu no more,’ sir.” “Then,” said the colonel severely, “you’ll be piper no more, sir,” and Piper Mac Donald forthwith returned to the ranks.

It is a well-known fact that pipers in Highland regiments are posted to companies, and follow them wherever they go. On one occasion a company of the Gordons were marching from a place called Jullunder to Fort Kangra, situated on one of the lower ranges of the Himalayas. Accompanying them was an elephant, on which were placed sick and exhausted men. After a few days’ march they were deprived of music on account of the piper’s feet becoming blistered, and he was relegated to the back of the elephant. On the last day’s march, before entering their new station, some one suggested that in order to brighten them up the piper might be requested to play on the elephant’s back at the head of the company. To this the officer assented, and accordingly the piper was handed his pipes. When he began to tune them up it was evident that the elephant had no appreciation of such sounds, for he shook his head, flapped his big ears menacingly, raised his trunk, with which he embraced the piper round the waist, and violently threw him and his pipes into a ditch as a mark of his disapproval of such music.

A camp of exercise some three miles out of Delhi was visited at night by a terrible storm of rain and wind. Tents were blown over, and much wreckage and damage done. The pipe-major and drum-major, who, of course, were both staff-sergeants, occupied a small tent by themselves, situated in a hollow. Towards morning, just as daylight appeared, it was observed from the sergeants’ mess that the pipe-major had got all his valuables—silver, pipes, banner, dirk, sporran, etc.—placed in a tub in which he himself was sitting. All round outside his tent, for a considerable distance, was a sea of water, so hard had it rained during the night. Being very anxious to save his valuables, uniform, and appointments he embarked in the tub and paddled shorewards, and while doing so his comrades began to shout and jeer at him. This roused the pipe-major’s temper to boiling pitch, and caused him to become rather unsteady in his precarious craft. Veering a little too much to one side, over it went, and piper and cargo were thrown into the water, to the evident delight of his comrades.

The playing of the Lords of Session from the hotel to the Court House in Glasgow was an old custom. After having performed this duty, the captain usually marched the band and escort to Gallowgate Barracks by way of Saltmarket, which was at one time a very rough locality. While playing through the street, the pipe-major of a gallant corps suddenly found himself in a very unpleasant fix. A decrepit, drunken fish-wife pounced upon him, lovingly caught him round the neck, and insisted on hugging and kissing him. To make things worse the band kept marching on through the large crowd, and no amount of struggling and swearing would make this enthusiastic follower relinquish her hold of the pipe-major. At last by a supreme effort he managed to extricate himself from her dirty clutches. It is needless to say that the escort and pipers enjoyed a fine laugh at the pipe-major’s predicament.