“For polkas, the waltz, the quadrille, There’s nought with the pipes can compare; An anchorite torpid ’twould thrill, Such glorious sounds in the air. “So tuneful, harmonious, and sweet! The very perfection of art, Lends wings to the tardiest feet, And joy to the sorrowing heart. “Upheaved, the fair dancers would feel Like birds, poising light on the wing, As nimbly they trip in the reel, And roll off the steps of the fling. “No requiems grand I assail, Like Handel’s Dead March, played in ‘Saul,’ But yet I maintain that the Gael In coronachs vanquishes all. “In music, in warfare, in song— With bagpipes and banners unfurled, Like a torrid simoom borne along, The Highlanders lighten the world.” CHAPTER VI. THE “LANGUAGE” OF THE PIPES. “Wild as the desert stream they flow, Wandering along it’s mazy bed; Now scarcely moving, deep and slow, Now in a swifter current led, And now along the level lawn With charming murmurs softly drawn.” Have the pipes a language?—A wild, fanciful notion—How it got a hold— How much of it is true?—The reed actually speaking—A powerful influence—The power of association—Neil Munro—Descriptive Highland airs—_A Cholla mo run_—Military stories—In South Africa—An enthusiastic war correspondent.