The Pipes

I wrote a poem several years ago, but seem to have lost it. Several of the lines continue to return to me at odd intervals, so I decided I should try to recreate it and archive it in some more permanent place (like this). It is not an exact duplicate, but I think still carries much the same weight and message as the original. If you’ve any Scottish blood, it should at least stir a little something of ancestral pride and community.

The Pipes

By Mark Fotheringham 

A lone piper stands at the crest of a hill

And plays a mournful tune

Of battles lost and battles won

And men who died too soon,

Of sons and brothers who died too soon.

And as the sound is carried 'round

O'er mound and stony tomb,

Its echoed call through craggy halls

Rebukes the ancient doom,

A doom which grieved each mother's womb.

Then over town and finally down

Into this lonesome vale,

The sound is of a thousand pipes

Retelling every tale,

Each tale of courage when hearts would fail.

A thousand bagpipes playing true

As memory's refrain,

To raise the pyre of Scottish fire

And stir the blood again,

The blood which flowed o’er field and fen. 

So hear the pipes, the pipes, my friend,

That soar and dip and moan.

And you will know what the piper knows,

That no man pipes alone.

No, no man pipes alone.