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In ither lands, by Ganges' banks,
Columbia's fields—Batavia's stanks,
The pipe has led the Scotish ranks
Victorious on;
It weel deserves a nation's thanks,
Tho' ca'd a drone.
Aft ha'e I seen the Highlan' crew,
Wi plaid an' kilt o' tartan hue,
Duneiden's streets parradin' thro'
To cheerfu' drumin',
While "O the bonny white and blue,"
The bagpipes humin'.
The squeakin' fife, the trumpet's blaw,
Ne'er charm'd a Highlan' lad at a';
Let "Owre the hills an' far awa'"
On bagpipes rairin',
An' than he'll lay down ony twa,
As dead as herrin'.
Returnin' frae the battle keen,
Lads wi' their lasses wad convene,
An' lilt it owre the gowany green,
To pipes sae clear;
Their fathers frae their cluds wad lean,
To see and hear.
Oh-on-o-ri! the chanter fails,
Whase music bum'd upo' the gales,
