The subject of Scottish national music is one against which ignorance is always breaking its shins. In a recent English novel, for instance, a Highlander is represented as sitting by the roadside singing a Jacobite song and accompanying himself on the bagpipe, while one of the most reputable of London afternoon papers gravely remarked when referring to the letting of Inveraray Castle, after the death of the eighth Duke of Argyll—“Ichabod is the watchword for the Highlands and Islands, and the pibroch may skirl the lament with better cause than if half the clan had fallen before the claymores of an alien tartan.” These are extreme cases, no doubt, but they are only two out of many. It is, of course, vain to expect Scottish feelings from non-Scottish people, and the over- running of our land by imported sportsmen does not improve matters a bit— “Cockneys, Frenchmen, swells, and tourists, Motley-garbed and garish crew; Belted pouches, knickerbockers, Silken hose and patent shoe.” Although these people may cease their scoffing and make themselves as Highland as anyone can be whom nature has not made Highland, their affection for the music and their professions of goodwill are not likely to help to preserve it. It is for real Highlanders to keep alive their own music and show scorners that it is not going to die the death, but live while there are Highlands and a Highland people. If, on the other hand, they are playing the lament for a perishing race and a dying language, it is not much wonder if neighbours chime in with an emphatic Amen. Better far is the spirit of Alexander Fisher, a Glasgow poet, who wrote for _Whistlebinkie_:— “You’ll may spoke o’ ta fittle, you’ll may prag o’ ta flute, An’ ta clafer o’ pynas, pass trums, clairnet an’ lute. Put ta far pestest music you’ll may heard, or will fan, Is ta kreat Hielan’ pagpipe, ta kran Hielan’ pagpipe, ta prite o’ ta lan’. O! tere is no one can knew all her feelin’, her thought, Whan ta soon o’ ta pibroch will langsyne to her prought, An’ her mint whirl rount apout wi’ ta pleasure once fan, When she hears ta kreat pagpipes, ta kran, etc. · · · · · Whan ta clans all pe kather’t, an’ all rety for fought, To ta soon o’ ta fittle, woult tey march tid ye’ll thought? No not a foot woult tey went, not a claymore pe drawn, Till tey heard ta kreat pagpipe, to kran, etc. Whan ta funeral is passin’ slow, slow, through ta klen, Ta hearts all soft wi’ ouskie what prings tears from ta men! ’Tis ta Coronach’s loot wail soonin’ solemn an’ kran, From to kreat Hielan’ pagpipe, ta kran Hielan’, etc. Whan ta wattin tauks place, O! what shoy, frolic an’ fun, An’ ta peoples all meetit, an’ ta proose has been run, Tere’s no music for dancin’, has yet ever been fan, Like ta kreat Hielan’ pagpipe, ta kran Hielan’, etc.