The Cornflower, and Other Poems. Jean Blewett

      And I saw, too, the soldiers blithe and brave

      Their flag to the breeze unfurling,

      As they marched away on a morning fair

      To the bagpipes' merry skirling.

      My brother was one. As he kissed my cheek,

      I could hear him proudly saying:

      "Ho! you'll know when we come marching home,

      For you'll hear our pipers playing."

      Oh, the bonniest lads in kilt and hose —

      Braver men, you cannot find them —

      And few, so few, came marching home

      To the loved ones left behind them.

      'Twas a loyal heart, and a strong right arm,

      With a stubborn foe before them;

      A soldier's grave in a far off land,

      And God's blue sky bending o'er them.

      As I hearkened to sweet old martial airs

      I could hear my brother saying:

      "Ho! you'll know when we come marching home,

      For you'll hear our pipers playing."

      There are only harps in heaven, I'm told,

      And maybe I shouldn't say it,

      For a harp of gold's a wondrous thing

      In a hand that's skilled to play it.

      But those highland lads, 'twas the pibroch's call

      They heard morning, noon, and even,

      And the pibroch's call, I believe in my heart,

      They will hear in the streets of heaven.

      They marched to the old belovèd airs

      'Mid the bullets' hail and rattle;

      'Twas the last sweet sound that fell on their ears

      'Mid the clamor and clang of battle.

      O a harp when an angel strikes the strings

      Is softer and sweeter, but try

      As I will, I cannot fancy a harp

      In the hands of, say, Peter MacKay.

      And were an angel to proffer him one,

      Methinks I can hear him saying:

      "'Twas not on an instrument like the same

      That Pete MacKay will be playing,

      "For she neffer set eyes on it before,

      Isn't quick to learn, or cleffer;

      She'd break the strings if she took it in hand,

      She couldn't do it, whateffer.

      "So please be excusing old Pete MacKay —

      But hark! bring the chanter to me,

      I'll play the 'March o' the Cameron Men,'

      And afterward 'Bonnie Dundee.'"

      I told this to Donald late that night;

      He said, as he sipped his toddy,

      "Do ye ken ye shocked the elder the night?

      Yersel' is the doited body.

      "And are ye speaking o' bagpipes in Heaven?

      Ah, Christy, I'm that astoonded

      I'll hae the guid meenister speak tae ye,

      For, Christy, ye're no weel groonded."

      Well, if it is heresy to believe

      In the promise of the Father,

      "Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard,"

      I am heretical, rather.

      I believe when the last loud trump shall sound,

      The old flag again unfurling,

      My highland lads will come marching home

      To the bagpipes grandly skirling.