Pipes and Drums
Slow, bandaged hammer-beat of drum is tolled, Three booming spondees; pause, and then three more.
Then rattling side-drums chatter out their din Machine-gun rapid as the pipes begin.
Pipe-major Mackie leads his men in march And counter-march; kilts sway and swing; the wild Barbaric voice of triumphs, griefs and fears Floats dreams of banners, plumes and glittering spears.
Scotland the Brave; Hey, Johnny Cope, before A change of tempo for the grave slow march: The Flowers of the Forest are withered away, and then The tunes of glory swagger out again.
The flagrant splendour still contrives to seize The yielding heart; the mind almost believes The tales this pageant tells, almost ignores The excremental horror of all wars.
The pipers' boasts and lamentations fade; Night and silence drape the barrack square. A bugle sounds Lights Out; the last note dies, Its sadness certain truth where all else lies.
Vernon Scannell
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