Raising the wind, or, Habbie Sympson & his wife baith deid/Lyfe & deeth of Habbie Sympson

by Robert Sempill

Lyfe & Deeth of Habbie Sympson,

THE FAMOUS PIPER OF KILBARCHAN.

Written by Robert Semple, of Belltress, in the year 1598.

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Kilbarchan now may say Alace!
For seho hes lost hir game and grace,
Baith "Trixie"and the "Maiden-trace."
But quhat remeid?
For nae man can supply his place,
Hab Simpson's deid.

Now quha sall play " The day it dawis,"
Or, "Hunt up quhen the Cock he craws,"
Or, quha ean for Kirk-townies caus,
Stan us in steid?
On bagpypis now nae body blawis,
Sen Habbie's deid.

Or, quha will cause our seheirers seheir,
Quha will hang up the braigs of weir,
Bring in the bellis or gude play Meir,
In tyme of neid?
Hab Simpson coud. Quhat neid ze speir?
But now he's deid.

Sa kyndlie to his nychbour neist,
At Beltano and Saet Barchan's feast,
He blew and then hald up his breist
As he war weid, [wud]
But now we neid not him arreist
For Habbie's deid.

At fairis he playit befoír the spoir-men;
All gaillie graithit in thair geir, puhen
Steil Bonetis, Jackis and Swordis sale clear then,
Like ony beid;
Now quha sall play befoir sic weir-men,
Sen Habbie's deid?

At Clark-playis quhen he wont to cum,
His pype playit trimlie to the drum,
Lyke bikes of beis he gart it bum,
And tuneit his reed;
But now onr pypis may a sing dum,
Sen Habbie's deid?

And at hors races mony a day
Befoir the black, the brown, and gray,
He gart his pypis quhen he did play
Baith skirl and scried,
Now all sic pastýmis quite away,
Sen Habbie's deid.

He countit was, a weild wicht man,
And ferslie at fute-ball he ran,
At every game the grie he wan,
For pith and speid,
The lyke of Habbie washa than,
But now he's deid.

And then besyde his valziant actis,
At bridalis he wan mony plackis,
He bobbit aye behint fowks bakis,
And schuke his heid,
Now we want mony merrie crakis,
Sen Habbie's deid:

He was convoyer o' the bryde,
Wi' kittock (dirk] hingane at his syde,
About the Kirk he thocht a pryde,
The ring to lead,
Now we maun gae bet ony guyde,
For Habbie's deid.

Sa weill's be keipit his docorum,
And all the stotis of Quhip Meg Morum;
He slew a man, and waes me for him,
And bare the fuid;
And zit the man wan hame befoire him,
And wasna deid.

Aye quhan he playit the lassis leuch,
To sie him teithless, auld and teuch,
He wan his pypis besyde Bar-cleuch,
Without in dreid,
Quhilk efter wan him geir eneuch,
But now he's deid.

Aye quhan he playit the gaitlings gedderit,
And quhan he spak the carill bledderit,
On Sabbath-dayis his cape was fedderit,
A seimlie weid!
In the kirk yeard his meir stude tedderit,
Quhar be lyis dead.

A lace! for him my heart is sair,
For of his springis. I got a skair,
At everie play, race, feist and fair,
Bot gyle or greid,
We neid not leuk for pyping mair.
Sen Habbie's deid.