THE
LIFE and DEATH
OF THE
Piper of Kilbarchan,
OR
The Epitaph of Habbie Simpson
Who on his Dron bore bonny Flags
He made his Cheeks as red as Crimson,
And babbed when he blew his Bags,
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KIlbarchan now may say alas!
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For she hath lost her game and 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 Simpson's dead,
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Now who shal 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-towns Cause
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stand us instead?
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On Bag-pipes now nobody blaws,
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Sen Habbi'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 need you speir,
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But now he's dead.
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So kindly to his Neighbours 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 arreist?
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For Habbies dead.
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At Fairs he play'd before the Spear-men
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All gayly graithed in their Gear-men
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Steel Bonnets, Jacts and Swords so clear then
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Like any Bead,
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Now who will play before such weir-men
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Sen Habbies dead.
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At Clark-plays 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 tun'd his Reed:
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Now all our pipers may sing dumb
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Sen Habbies 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 pastim's quite away
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Sen Habbbies dead.
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He counted was a wail'd wighr Man,
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And fiercely at Foot-baill 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 than 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 Ctacks,
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Sen Habbies 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 Habbies dead.
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So well's he keeped his Decorum,
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And all the steps of Whip meg moru[m,]
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He slew a Man, and wo's me for him,
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and bare the feed.
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But yet the man wan Hame before hi[m]
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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 pipe beside Barheugh
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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 sare,
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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 Habbies dead.
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