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Pipes of the misty moorlands Voice of the gl

Pipes of the misty moorlands
Voice of the glens and hills
The droning of the torrents
The treble of the rills!
Not the braes of bloom and heather
Nor the mountains dark with rain
Nor maiden bower nor border tower
Have heard your sweetest strain!
Dear to the Lowland reaper
And plaided mountaineer
To the cottage and the castle
The Scottish pipes are dear
Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch
O'er mountain loch and glade
But the sweetest of all music
The pipes at Lucknow played.
Day by day the Indian tiger
Louder yelled and nearer crept
Round and round the jungle serpent
Near and nearer circles swept.
'Pray for rescue wives and mothers
Pray to day!' the soldier said
'To morrow death's between us
And the wrong and shame we dread.'
Oh they listened looked and waited
Till their hope became despair
And the sobs of low bewailing
Filled the pauses of their prayer.
Then up spake a Scottish maiden.
With her ear unto the ground
'Dinna ye hear it? dinna ye hear it?
The pipes o' Havelock sound!'
Hushed the wounded man his groaning
Hushed the wife her little ones
Alone they heard the drum roll
And the roar of Sepoy guns.
But to sounds of home and childhood
The Highland ear was true
As her mother's cradle crooning
The mountain pipes she knew.
Like the march of soundless music
Through the vision of the seer
More of feeling than of hearing
Of the heart than of the ear
She knew the droning pibroch
She knew the Campbell's call
'Hark! hear ye no MacGregor's
The grandest o' them all!'
Oh they listened dumb and breathless
And they caught the sound at last
Faint and far beyond the Goomtee
Rose and fell the piper's blast!
Then a burst of wild thanksgiving
Mingled woman's voice and man's
'God be praised! the march of Havelock!
The piping of the clans!'
Louder nearer fierce as vengeance
Sharp and shrill as swords at strife
Came the wild MacGregor's clan call
Stinging all the air to life.
But when the far off dust cloud
To plaided legions grew
Full tenderly and blithesomely
The pipes of rescue blew!
Round the silver domes of Lucknow.
Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine
Breathed the air to Britons dearest
The air of Auld Lang Syne.
O'er the cruel roll of war drums
Rose that sweet and homelike strain
And the tartan clove the turban
As the Goomtee cleaves the plain.
Dear to the corn land reaper
And plaided mountaineer
To the cottage and the castle
The piper's song is dear.
Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch
O'er mountain glen and glade
But the sweetest of all music
The pipes at Lucknow played!.

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