In a tiny shop at the alley door, amidst the shadows deep.
A craftsman works a magic spell, a history to repeat.
With darkened wood and elephant tooth and skin and reed and twine.
He carves and turns and binds and sews, with stitches strong and fine.
Each drone is turned and combed and smoothed, and checked for proper height.
The chanter carved of finest wood, and trimmed with silver, bright.
When all is done, the pipes are one, but one task left, is all.
He places in the bagpipe's heart, a piece of his own soul.
When the pipes then call, to a widow's heart, the tears give rise, then fall.
When the pipes give call, to the clansmen swords, with honor, they give all.
When the pipes give wail, at their maker's pall, his breath has rattled last.
His soul still lives in the piper's call, alive, and safe, and fast.