DOMHNULL PIOBAIRE AND THE BAGPIPES.

(Written for a Social gathering of the Kingston Caledonian Society). AIR.-"Wooed an' married an' a'."

OUR gathering night—more's the pity—
But once in a year cometh round;
Good-bye the dull cares of the city,—

This evening wer're heather-ward bound!
The bag-pipes to charm and to cheer us-
The darlings we love in full sight —
The tartan around us and near us-
Who would not be proud of our Night!
Lis'ning Mac's gathering call,

Surely his sense must be small

Who would not declare such rare piping
Enough any heart to enthral!

Away with your brass-bands a-braying!
John Bull thinks them grand-but you'll own
When Tubal invented such playing

'Twas surely worse discords to drown.
Some think that such music he planned, sirs,
The wolves of his time to affright,
Then fashioned the bagpipe so grand, sirs,
For times like our gathering night.
Heard or in hut or in hall,

Who, save one as deaf as a wall,
But owns of all music 'neath Heaven
There's nothing to match it at all!

Let Donald but screw up his chanter,
And give us the Tullaichean rare,
What mortal but feeleth instanter

As if he could dance in the air!

He strikes up a charge, and proud Preston,
Or famed Killicrankie's fierce fight
We fight o'er again as we listen,

Loud lauding both Mac and our Night.
Piobrachds, marches, and all
Enough to charm even a Saul—
These are of the witcheries endless
That minstrel has aye at his call.

There's life in the voice of the Clàrsach,
But would you join rapture to praise,

Just hear some sweet spring from the Oinnseach,
Just dance to its Reels and Strathpeys!

Its Coronach sets us a-weeping,

Its Flings make us wild with delight; It has tones for all moods in its keepingRare treat for a gathering night!

Out on the thick-headed thrall

Who his dislike o't would drawl!

The right way to deal with such creatures
Were nailing their ears to the wall!

A bicker of good Athol brose is

Not bad when a battle is near;

But the right thing, when coming to blows, is
The pipe's stirring notes in your ear:

From Bannockburn down to this hour, sirs,

Its place is the front of the fight; Then hey for the gallant Piob-mhor, sirs, The glory and pride of our night! Drums and bugles and all

Such things may well suit a roll-call,

But the Clans, when their foes they would

scatter,

The pipes takes to open the ball.

Long, long may fair Scotia flourish,
Rejoicing in Rant and in Lilt:
That day will her liberties perish

She lacketh the Clans and the Kilt.
To keep her proud triumphs still swelling,
Her plan is to stick to them tight,
And honour the patriot feeling

Begot of a gathering night.

Joy then, joy be to all

Ready to hasten their fall

Who would in the Gael's loved homesteads
The deer and the stranger instal.

"STANDS SCOTLAND WHERE IT DID."

LAND of the Bruce! I marvel how,
With scarce a murmur, comest thou
To let it seem

As if thy name

Were off the list of nations now.

Shall a race who ne'er, as foes,

Could their rule on thee impose,
Not in vain

Ceaseless strain

Now thy history's page to close?

Up! or evermore disown

Thy once well-known fair renown! If, of two,

One must do,

Let the Saxon name go down.

Strange how word so brief as "Scot" Sticketh in the Anglo throat

That Maelstrom,

Like a doom,

Gulping down all else we've got!

Is there any noble deed

Told of men born north the Tweed?

Ten to one,

"Times" or "Sun”

'Tis of Englishmen we read!

If a battle has been won

By a Campbell, Gough or Gunn,

Take the blows,

Macs and O's,

England takes the praise alone!

What delusion to conceive

You sometimes your Queen receive!

Teach we, then, those braggarts tall

Theirs alone their own to call,

And, save in drink,

To never think

That England yet is all-in-all,