Rather a nasty allusion that to the bagpipe and the bears. It reminds us of the dancing bear, or the organ and the monkey of our own day. Whatever the piper might think of himself, people seemed disposed to think the worst of him, and innumerable petty offences were laid to his charge. In 1570 three St. Andrews pipers were admonished to keep the Sabbath day holy, to attend sermon, and to abstain from playing on the streets after supper or during the night. Playing and dancing on Sunday came so often under clerical censure as to show very plainly the general use of the instrument on the one hand, and on the other its adoption in connection with dancing, particularly in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh.
In 1574 a great complaint was made by a burgess of Stirling to the Privy Council of an assault “by are namit Edmond Broun, are Highland piper,” when bit to the effusion of blood “by the said pyperis dog.” In 1591 and 1593 George Bennet, piper in the Water of Leith, and James Brakenrig, agreed to abstain from playing on the bagpipes on Sunday; in 1595 and 1596 Thomas Cairns, following the same vocation there, fell under displeasure for playing and dancing on Sunday; and William Aiken pledged himself never to profane the Sabbath day again with the pipes. In 1598 “Duncan Ure and Johnne Forbes, pyper,” were sentenced to imprisonment, and to be fed on bread and water, on confessing that they had sat up all night “playing at the dys quhill iiij hours in the morning,” when they quarrelled. In 1606 Richard Watsone, piper in the Water of Leith, was threatened with censure, and in 1624 James Clark was “fined of xxsh. for having an pyper playing in his house in tyme of sermon, vpoun the Lord his Sabbath.” “William Wallace, pyper,” was sentenced by the kirk session of St. Cuthbert’s “to stand for one day upon the pillar, and thereafter to remove furth of the parochine, ay an quhill he be ane renewit man of his manneris, and to get lief of presbyterie to retourne, after they sie amendiment in his lyf and conversatioun,” and in Galloway there is still the “great well of Larg,” of which it is said a piper stole the offering, but when he was drinking ale, which he intended to pay for with the stolen money, the gout seized on him, of which he could not be cured but at that well and after he had restored the money.
At length the immoralities of the humble musicians became a bye-word, so much so that a slanderous biographer of Archbishop Sharpe thought he had blackened his character enough when he said, “As for his father, he was a piper.” There was nothing to be said after that. So late as 1860, a traveller in Caithness-shire who visited Brawl Castle, one of the county seats, wrote, more let us hope in joke than in earnest—“John Gunn, their piper, played extremely well, but it was sometimes necessary to station him in a distant room, as the skirl was a little too harsh to be enjoyed at close quarters, particularly when John made too free with whisky, without which, however, it was not easy to get John to play at all.”
Gambling, ebriety, nocturnal revels, and gross immoralities, says the author of Musical Memoirs of Scotland, accompanied this subordinate species of music, to the manifest annoyance of the more tranquil part of the community, and even then (1849) where frequent in towns, licentiousness was seldom far removed from it. In 1661 the minister of a Scottish parish has left it on record, “he found two women of his congregation ‘full’ on a week day, and dancing with pipers playing to them.” Truly a severe indictment.
From these things it is refreshing to turn to the story of William Mac Donald of Badenoch, who played so well, even when rivals had given him too much drink, that he always got a prize at competitions. His son was piper to the Prince of Wales, but owing to religious scruples he resigned his situation and burned his pipes. He evidently did not think there was anything sacred about the instrument.
The evil that men do lives after them. So these stories derogatory to pipers have been preserved while many equally good and reflecting credit on their characters as public men have no doubt been buried with their bones. They always had a “guid conceit o’ themselves,” and were apt to think they were better than average humanity, so much so that “as proud as a piper” passed into a proverb. When the late Duke of Edinburgh required a piper he asked the advice of the Prince of Wales’s piper as to how he should get one. The Prince’s piper asked the Duke what kind of a piper he wanted, whereupon the Duke said “Oh, just a piper like yourself, Donald.” “Oh, it’s easy to get a piper,” said Donald, “but it’s no easy to get a piper like me.” Then there was Mac Donel, the famous Irish piper, who lived in great style, keeping servants and horses. One day he was sent for to play to a large company during dinner, and a table and chair were placed for him on the landing outside the door, a bottle of claret and a glass on the table and a servant waiting behind the chair. Mac Donel appeared, took a rapid survey of the preparations, filled his glass, stepped to the dining room door, looked full in the midst of the gathering, said “Mr. Grant your health, and company,” drank off the dram, threw half-a-crown on the table with the remark to the servant, “There, my lad, is two shillings for my bottle of wine and a sixpence for yourself,” then ran out, mounted his horse and galloped off, followed by his groom. An almost similar story is told of Ian Dall, the Gairloch piper, but in his case the language used was hardly so choice. It was of the kind which is best represented thus * * * *
Not only were the old masters proud, they were also jealous. When the colleges for training pipers were in Skye, the Mac Crimmons had some private “tips” on pipe music which they did not give away to their pupils. A girl friend, however, learned how some of the secret notes were produced, and in private she taught her sweetheart. When her nearest relatives learned what she had done, they instantly cut off her fingers that she might show no more how they practised their tunes. Ross, a grand old Breadalbane piper, in a mad fit of jealousy, thrust the right hand of his boy brother into the fire, and held it there till it became a charred lump, to prevent the boy becoming a better piper than himself, which seemed likely. Neil Munro’s story of Red Hand is but a variation of the same theme. Giorsal, jealous of her stepson Tearlach’s piping being better than that of her husband, cuts off Tearlach’s hand while he sleeps. It is beautifully told, but that is the whole story.
And they have always been a happy lot who could enjoy themselves to the utmost with pipe and music and song and dance, and also perhaps with some of the national beverage of Scotland, which is still rather unfairly coupled with the tartan and the pipes. When the Princess of Thule came back to the Lewis, John the Piper was told—“Put down your pipes, and tek off your bonnet, and we will have a good dram together this night! And it is Sheila herself will pour out the whisky for you, John, and she is a good Highland girl, and she knows the piper was neffer born that could be hurt by whisky. And the whisky was never made that could hurt a piper.” This, too, passed into a proverb—“As fou as a piper”—but however true it may have been in one generation it has nowadays no more than a figurative meaning. Pipers now are as much in the public eye as ever they were, but they are matter-of-fact people, who have their livings to make and their characters to uphold. They are therefore neither over proud, over jealous, nor over jolly. They have fitted themselves into nineteenth century circumstances, and do not care how much the public eye is upon them.
The piper as a man of peace has been and still is closely concerned with every side of the social life of the Highland people, but his name is not writ nearly so large on history’s page as is that of the piper as a man of war. In Whistlebinkie we have verses by Alex. A. Ritchie, which illustrate the attachment of the Irish piper to his pipes, and which, for lack of a better opening, may be inserted here. They are too good to leave out altogether:—