“‘Sole in her breast the fav’rite youth shall reign Whose hand shall wake the sweetest warbled strain, And if to me the ill-fated piper yield, As sure I trust this well-contested field, High in the sacred dome his pipes I’ll raise, The trophy of my fame in after days; That all may know as they the pipes survey The fiddler’s deed and this the signal day. But if the Fates, his wishes to fulfil, Shall give the triumph to his happier skill, My fiddle his, to him be praises paid, And join with those the long-contested maid.’ All Gallowshiels the daring challenge heard, Full blank they stood, and for their piper fear’d; Fearless alone, he rose in open view, And in the midst his sounding bagpipe threw.” Then the poem tells the history of the competitions, the piper deducing his origin from Colin of Gallowshiels, who bore the identical bagpipe at the battle of Harlaw with which he himself was resolved to maintain the glory of the piper race. The second book commences with the following exquisite description of the instrument:— “Now in his artful hand the bagpipe held, Elate the piper wide surveys the field; O’er all he throws his quick, discerning eyes, And views their hopes and fears alternate rise. Old Glenderule, in Gallowshiels long fam’d For works of skill, the perfect wonder fram’d; His shining steel first lop’d with dex’trous toil, From a tall spreading elm, the branchy spoil. The clouded wood he next divides in twain, And smooths them equal to an oval plane. Six leather folds in still connected rows, To either plank conformed, the sides compose; The wimble perforates the base with care, A destined passage op’ning to the air; But once inclos’d within the narrow space, The opposing valve forbids the backward race. Fast to the swelling bag, two reeds combin’d Receive the blasts of the melodious wind. Round from the turning loom, with skill divine, Embossed, the joints in silver circles shine; In secret prison pent, the accents lie Until his arm the lab’ring artist ply; Then, duteous, they forsake their dark abode, Fellows no more, and wing a separate road. These upwards thro’ the narrow channel glide, In ways unseen, a solemn murmuring tide; Those through the narrow path their journey bend Of sweeter sort, and to the earth descend. O’er the small pipe, at equal distance, lie Eight shining holes, o’er which his fingers fly. From side to side the aerial spirit bounds; The flying fingers form the passing sounds,