LIFE and DEATH
OF THE
Piper of Kilbarchan
OR,
The Epitaph of Habbie Simpson,
He made his Cheeks as red as Crimson,
Who on his Dron bore bonny Flags,
And babed when he blew the Bags,
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KIlbarchan now my say alas!
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For she hath lost her game & grace
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Both Trixie and the Maiden-trace
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But what remeed?
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For no Man can supply his place,
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Hab Simphon's dead,
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Now who shall play the day it daws
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Or hunts up when the Cock he craws
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Or who can for our Kirk Town Cause,
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stand us in stead?
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On Bag-pipes now no body blaws,
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Sen Habbie's dead,
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Or who shall cause our Shearers shear
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Who will bend up the Brags of Weir?
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Bring in the Bells or good play Meir,
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In time of need,
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Hab Simpson could what needs you spear
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But now he's dead.
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So kindly to his Neighbour neist,
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At Beltan and Saint Barchans Feast
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He blew and then held up his Breast,
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as he were weid,
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But now we need not him arrest?
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For Habbie's dead,
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At Fairs he play'd before the Spear-men
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All gayly graithed in their Geer-men,
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Steel Bonners, Jacts and Swords so cleat then
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Like any Bead.
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Now who will play before such Weirmen
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Sen Habbie's dead,
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At Clark playes when he wont to come
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His Pipe play'd trimly to the Drum:
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Like Bikes of bees he gart it bum
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And turn his Reed:
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Now all our Pipers my sing dum
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Sen Habbie's dead,
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And at Horse-races many a day,
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Before the Black, the Brown and Gray
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He gart his Pipe when he did play,
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Both Skirl and Skried:
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Now all such pastime's quite away
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Sen Habbie's dead,
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He counted was a wall'd wight Man,
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And fiercely at Foot-ball he ran;
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At every Game the gree he wan,
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For pith and speed
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The like of Habbie was not then,
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But now he's dead,
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And then beside his valiant Acts,
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At Brydels he wan many placks.
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He babbed ay behind Folks backs,
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And shook his Head,
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Now we want many merry Cracks
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Sen Habbie's dead.
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He was convoyer of the bride,
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With Kittock hanging at his side,
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About the Kirk he thought a pride
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the Ring to Lead
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But now she may go but a Guide
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For Habbie's dead.
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So well's he keeped his Decorum.
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And all the steps of Whip-meg morum,
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He slew a man and wae's me for him
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And bare the feed.
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But yet the man wan Hame before him
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and was not dead,
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Ay when he play'd the Lasses leugh,
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To see him toothless, old and teuch
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He wan his Pipes beside Barcleugh
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withoutten dread,
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Which after wan him Gear enough
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But now he's dead.
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Alas for him my heart is fare,
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For of his Springs I got a Share,
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At every play, Race, Feast and Fair,
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But Guile or Greed
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We need not look for piping mair,
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Sen Habbie's dead,
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