| The Last Warrior Piper | ||
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by Zoé Alexander Reproduced here with permission of the author There are times when the heart rises proud in the throat, And the Celtic blood stirs ’cross the ages remote - While an ancient wine floods through too-long sober veins, Setting free the wild spirits that lurk in our brains. When the piper breathes life to the chanter and drones, And his fingers step light to the wild, haunting tones, So the voice of the Gael is the only we hear, And our hearts throb somewhere ’twixt elation and fear. We respond in the blood and we hark with our souls - To a chord so primeval it fans up the coals Of our long-dormant instincts and sets them aflame, ’Til we dance to his tune and rejoice that we came. So it was that the piper led brave men to war - Strong men with bright courage who needed no more Than a cause to believe in, a fight that was true, To march out in the tartan, ’neath bonnets so blue. When the warpipe blew West, on a green, virgin wind, When the time of the Gael had drawn close to the end, The swift sons of Alba rode hard in its wake, Their stride on the land like a mighty earthquake. ’Cross a new land they scattered, o’er mountain and plain, A staunch breed of men with the whole world to gain - Spreading their seed in this new, fertile soil, With civilization the fruit of their toil. When a fresh wind blew South, it blew hot with the Gael, As Alba’s bold sons rode again for the Grail Of new lands to conquer, new battles to win - Bluebonnets blazed out o’er the frontier again. To a land some called Friendship, beneath the Lone Star Rode the wild sons of Alba, seeking fortune - or war. Their blood soaked |
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the sands of the bare, northern plains, And washed down the hills in the hard summer rains. But their bones held the soil so that none could erode Of the ground they had won with their last drop of blood. It is that blood which stirs now, Their souls that connect us, For without the Bluebonnets, there’d be likely no Texas. Now, the bluebonnets blow 'cross the prairies of Spring, And the coyote howls where the warpipes once rang, And few who pass by there have reason to know, That more Bluebonnets lie ’neath where bluebonnets grow. On the last wind of winter, ’neath the grey skies of Mars, A republic was born, to be called the Lone Star. It rose up in the dawn, on cold, wobbly knees, And with no reinforcements, left to fend or to freeze. No army stood up, no great host to defend - Just a handful of soldiers, a few ragged men, Some women and children, and not enough guns - And the soldiers of Mexico circled like Huns. In the ballads and legends sprung out of their deeds, Who sings of the Gael, or the Blue-bonnet seeds Buried deep in the Highlands of Texas' green hills, To burst forth in Spring in great blue, rolling spills? Or the Celtic blood shed in that outnumbered fray? Or the brave sons of Alba who died on that day - The braw, bonny Bluebonnets, who honored the name, Who stood for the cause, not for glory or fame? That ’neath Texas bluebonnets, lies many a Scot? That a Child of the Mist saw our freedom was bought? For MacGregor was there to pipe in the new State, And as pipers of old, he went proud to his fate. He stood with his brothers, disdaining to flee, Blowing up the warpipes as he gazed o’er the sea Of the Mexican army, who’d ne’er heard the squall continued . . . |
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