The Old Scotch Bagpiper

Up the long gray streets,

In the whirling snow,

He pipes to the houses

Row on row.

Round the pipes his lips are pressed,

And he crooks his arm to make a nest

For the worn red bag that fills and plays

The skirling notes of vanished days,

And he sways like those dark and bending trees

That cling to cliffs by northern seas.

The passersby all smile to see

His ulster flapping crazily—

Not one of them is glad to hear

The tune that once gave kings good cheer,

That once bade kilted armies go

With clattering swords against the foe,

Or sounded that Queen Mary should

Put on her crown in Holyrood.

Up the long gray streets,

In the whirling snow,

He pipes to the houses

Row on row.