High on the castle battlements a lonely piper stands
In kilt and full regalia, the bagpipes in his hands.

Behind him glows the dying sun which fires him up with light
With streaks of purple, gold and red, a bold, majestic sight.

He primes the bagpipes, mouthpiece in, and then the magic starts,
An eerie other-worldly sound that captivates our hearts.

The melancholy mourning surrounds the castle walls;
The crowd is spellbound, in his thrall, as music flows and falls.

The sound is all-encompassing, with many moved to tears,
A haunting cry of yearning and searching fills our ears.

And then the final dying notes, the music is in flight;
He takes the mouthpiece from his lips,

The sunset turns to night.

© Mary Stewart