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The Pipes At Lucknow

An incident of the Sepoy

Pipes of the misty moorlands,

Voice of the glens and hills;

The droning of the torrents,

The treble of the rills!

Not the braes of bloom and heather,

Nor the mountains dark with rain,

Nor maiden bower, nor border tower,

Have heard your sweetest strain!

Dear to the Lowland reaper,

And plaided mountaineer, -To the cottage and the

The Scottish pipes are dear; -Sweet sounds the ancient pibrochO'er mountain, loch, and glade;

But the sweetest of all

The pipes at Lucknow played.

Day by day the Indian

Louder yelled, and nearer crept;

Round and round the

Near and nearer circles swept.'Pray for rescue, wives and mothers, -Pray to-day!' the soldier said;'To-morrow, death's between

And the wrong and shame we dread.'Oh, they listened, looked, and waited,

Till their hope became despair;

And the sobs of low

Filled the pauses of their prayer.

Then up spake a Scottish maiden.

With her ear unto the ground:'Dinna ye hear it? - dinna ye hear it?

The pipes o' Havelock sound!'Hushed the wounded man his groaning;

Hushed the wife her little ones;

Alone they heard the

And the roar of Sepoy guns.

But to sounds of home and

The Highland ear was true; -As her mother's

The mountain pipes she knew.

Like the march of soundless

Through the vision of the seer,

More of feeling than of hearing,

Of the heart than of the ear,

She knew the droning pibroch,

She knew the Campbell's call:'Hark! hear ye no

Gregor's,

The grandest o' them all!'Oh, they listened, dumb and breathless,

And they caught the sound at last;

Faint and far beyond the

Rose and fell the piper's blast!

Then a burst of wild

Mingled woman's voice and man's;'God be praised! - the march of Havelock!

The piping of the clans!'Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance,

Sharp and shrill as swords at strife,

Came the wild

Gregor's clan-call,

Stinging all the air to life.

But when the far-off

To plaided legions grew,

Full tenderly and

The pipes of rescue blew!

Round the silver domes of Lucknow.

Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine,

Breathed the air to Britons dearest,

The air of Auld Lang Syne.

O'er the cruel roll of

Rose that sweet and homelike strain;

And the tartan clove the turban,

As the Goomtee cleaves the plain.

Dear to the corn-land

And plaided mountaineer, -To the cottage and the

The piper's song is dear.

Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibrochO'er mountain, glen, and glade;

But the sweetest of all

The pipes at Lucknow played!

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John Greenleaf Whittier

John Greenleaf Whittier (December 17, 1807 – September 7, 1892) was an American Quaker poet and advocate of the abolition of slavery in the Unit…
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