THE LIFE AND DEATH
OF THE
PYPER OF KILBARCHAN.
OR
The Epitaph of Habbie Simpson,
Who on his drone bare bony Flags:
He made his Cheeks as red as Crimson,
And babbed when he blew the Bags.
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Kilbarchan now may say, alace!
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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 remead?
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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-town cause,
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stand us in stead:
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On Bagpipes (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 speer?
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but (now) he's dead.
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So kindly to his neighbours neast,
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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 arriest,
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for Habbi's dead.
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[At F]airs he play'd before the spear-men
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[All] gayly graithed in their ear-men.
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[S]teel-bonnets, jacks & sword so clear then
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like any Bead.
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Now who shal play before such weir men
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sen Habbi's 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 Reid.
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Now all our pipers may sing dumb,
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sen Habbi's dead.
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And at Hors-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 Habbi's dead.
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He counted was a wil'd wight man,
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And fierily 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 than:
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but now he's dead.
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And then, besides his valiant acts,
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At Bridels 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 Habbi's dead.
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He was convoyer of the Bride,
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With Kittock hinging 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 Habbi's dead.
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So well's he keeped his Decorum,
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And all the stots of Whip-meg-morum,
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He slew a man, and wo's me for him,
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and bare the fead,
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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 teugh
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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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Alace! for him my heart is sair.
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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 pyping mair,
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sen Habbi's dead.
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