27472 OCdt (III) Eliza Bruce: The Silence That Awards the Dead
The Silence That Awards the Dead
It blew in soft, the wind that heard
The piper’s chant, the warbling bird
Which, perched upon a wooden rung,
Charmed the stillness as it sung
Chilling sweet, its gentle strains
Melded with the wild refrains.
A ripple of kilt, splash of green
And red upon the tartan scene
Over the field of battle cries
Where fought his comrades, there they died
His the song that piped along
Their footsteps to the tread of null.
The piper, lone and hushed he stood
His music had its own device
And, dancing passed the straggling trees,
Never met the same ears twice.
It drifted calm and sad in tune
But merry, smiles and hearts in one
Lift to guide it safe to its tomb
The piper at rest, that pipes alone.