The pipes are piping in the moor
crying for those gone before
a mournful echoes through the thick mist
the old ones beat upon their chest
and the widows wail into the night.
Through the bogs a chill is felt
the piper pays his dues no doubt
the bones are laid to rest
in kilt and tartan all the best.
In Spring the warming of the earth
fills the bogs with brackish water
still the pipes sound is heard
flowing on the West ward winds
a mellow sound known to the Scots
for a hundred thousand years.
Battle scared and war worn weary
the pipers lay down the pipes
until the wrath is laid down
and marching through the bogs again.
Soaring Feather 12.21.06