Punch’s joke—King Charles’s heads—An amusing competition—A Highlander’s Irishism—Wedding experiences—A piper’s fall—A resourceful piper—A Cameron piper and his officer—“Lochaber no more”—An elephant’s objection—Embarked in a tub—Glasgow street scene—Bad player’s strategy—What the wind did—A new kind of tripe—A Pasha and a piper—A Gordon nervous—A jealous piper—Dougal Mac Dougal’s downfall.

Apart from the wilfully sarcastic humour exemplified in the previous chapter, there clings round the pipes a host of innocently laughable stories. Punch, the recognised pioneer of comic journalism, and always the ablest of that class of papers, has in its day had a number of jokes about the pipes, and, to do the writers and artists justice, they have always been enjoyable, even to the perfervid Scot, and not of the kind which does more to show the ignorance of the inventors than create a laugh. Punch’s humour is broad, but hardly ever offensive, and the picture by Charles Keene, reproduced on another page, may be taken as a fair sample. The drawing, which appeared on January 21st, 1871, shows the best art of the caricaturist wedded to the broadest and yet the most enjoyable humour. Charles Keene, by the way, was himself a performer on the pipes, which he studied thoroughly. On one occasion he was some distance from home seeing a sick friend, and, writing afterwards to London, he said: “My only solace was skirling away for an hour on the lonely beach, and I generally chose the most melancholy pibroch I could think of.” So he can hardly be accused of endeavouring to joke at the expense of the instrument.

After Punch I must be permitted to work off several stories which have been King Charles’s Heads unto me since I began to compile this volume. They persisted in cropping up, now in some book which I was consulting, then in a newspaper, and next in conversation with acquaintances. I know all their variations so well now that I recognise them a long way off, and generally manage to avoid them. Four are particularly determined in keeping themselves to the front:—

A wandered Celt found himself laid up in an hospital in America with a disease which fairly puzzled the physicians. They did not know what to do with their patient, for he seemed to be sinking into the grave for no reason whatever. They held a consultation, and decided as a last resource to try music, preferably bagpipe music, as the patient was a Scotsman. So every night for a fortnight a piper played in the lobbies of the hospital, and gradually the Celt began to revive. At the fortnight’s end he was well enough to be discharged, but—and this was the worst feature of the case—all the other patients had died.

Once, I remember, that story hailed from the Crimea and referred to a dying soldier of Sir Colin Campbell’s, who was cured by the pipes in one hour. The music was, however, the death of forty-one of his comrades. The exact number killed varies from time to time, but that is a small matter. The incident is always the same. The last occasion on which it crossed my path was in the spring of 1900, when it appeared in the “London Letter” of a Glasgow evening paper, to which it had been telegraphed the same morning from the “City Notes” of one of the leading London dailies, each of the journalists concerned treating it as a great discovery in the field of humour. And I had been doing all I could to keep out of its way for about a year previously.

The next also shows the wonderful powers of pipe music. Music, apparently, hath charms to soothe the savage beast. A Scotsman, a piper of course, lost his way on an American prairie, and was overtaken by a bear. To appease the brute Sandy threw it his modest lunch, the only food he had to keep him alive until he found shelter. But Bruin was not satisfied, and threatened to dine off Sandy himself, whereupon the piper thought he would play a farewell lament before quitting the world. So he struck up “Lochaber no more.” No sooner, however, did the big drone give its first squeal than the bear stood stock still, then turned and fled precipitously. Then Sandy exclaimed—

“If she had known she was so fond of ta music, she could have had ta pipes before ta supper.”

On its last round that story had reached Siberia, and the Celt, who was hungry, was pursued by a pack of wolves, who “fled with hideous howls” when the slogan of the clan was heard.

The next illustrates the Highlander’s propensity towards whisky drinking, and it rarely varies to any great extent. A Highland laird, being unable to maintain a permanent piper, employed a local musician occasionally when he had a party. Donald was once overlooked as to his usual dram before commencing to play, and in revenge he gave very bad music, which caused the laird to remonstrate with him and ask the cause. “It’s the bag,” said Donald; “she pe ferry, ferry hard.” “And what will soften it?” asked his employer. “Och, just whusky.” Accordingly the butler was sent for a tumblerful of the specific, which Donald quickly drank. “You rascal,” said the laird, “did you not say it was for the bagpipes?” “Och, yess, yess,” said Donald; “but she will pe a ferry peculiar pipes this. She aye likes it blawed in.”

The piper’s story associated with “Boyne Water” is the fourth. The name and the regiment vary, but the story is always the same:—

Sandy Mac-something or other—the surname has not come down to posterity—was an old piper in the 92nd, and when his detachment was located in Ireland an order was given that “Boyne Water” was not to be played. The colonel probably did not wish to hurt the feelings of any of his neighbours. “Boyne Water,” however, was Sandy’s favourite tune, and to the surprise of the colonel, the first time the company marched out after the prohibitory order had been issued, Sandy struck up the forbidden air. “What do you mean?” cried the officer. “Do you not know that you are not allowed to play ‘Boyne Water?’” “It’ll no pe ‘Boyne Water’ at all,” replied Sandy. “It’ll pe quite another tune, but to the same air.” But Sandy had to stop playing it all the same.

An amusing description is given by a writer who travelled in the Highlands about seventy years ago, of a competition which he witnessed between two pipers in Tongue. There was a certain John Mac Donald who had blown before the Emperor of China, having accompanied an embassy to that country, and a Donald Abroch, who traced his descent from some of the hereditary pipers. Both had gained prizes in public, and they were natural rivals:—

“The drone of Donald’s pipes streamed with bonny flags of red and blue, while he made his cheeks as red as crimson, and bobbed around as he blew. Meantime the banner of defiance hoisted on his antagonist’s spirit-stirring engine floated on the troubled air in the radiant yellow of the Celestial Empire. As etiquette demanded that each should be heard in turn, the Imperial piper, having the preference, as of divine right, put forth all his energy on the advent of his rival, as the cock crows a louder defiance should some neighbour chanticleer intrude on his hereditary domain. But John was now seventy, nor had his wind much improved by the quantity of monsoon which he had swallowed in the Indian seas. His breeze being blown, Donald, who knew the weak point in his rival’s lungs, now raised a blast so loud and dread that it reminded one of the roaring of the lion of Rabbi Johosuah Ben Hananiah, at the sound of whose voice all the people’s teeth dropped out of their heads. John turned yellow with despair, as the Imperial ribbons, and thus ended the first act.

“It was not for us to decide between rival pibrochs or rival pipers, but by the aid of some judicious applause and more acceptable whisky a sort of amicable armistice was produced till the next act should begin. It was now necessary that they should play together a duet, composed of different pibrochs in different keys, in which it was the business of each to outscream his neighbour by the united force of lungs and elbows. The north side of the room was in possession of the Emperor’s piper, and he of our clan drew up his force on the south; each strutting and bellowing till, like rival bullfinches, they were ready to burst their lungs and bag, each playing his own tune in harmonious dissonance; and both as they crossed each other at every turn, looking the defiance they would have breathed had their wind not been otherwise employed. The chanters screamed, the drones grunted, and as the battle raged with increasing fury, Donald’s wind seemed ready to burst its cerements, while the steam of the whisky distilling through the bag dropped as from the nozzle of a worm-pipe. Poor John was now nearly blown, but as we were unwilling that he should puff out for our amusement the last of that breath which he had with so much difficulty brought all the way from Pekin, we determined that enough had been done for honour, and put an end to the concert according to the rules of bucolic contest, by allowing equal praise and equal prizes to each swain. That they had both played fort bein could not be doubted, still less according to the French pun that they had played bein fort.”

Pipers, when playing in public, often get into awkward positions. During the performance of the well-known Julien Army Quadrilles, in connection with which local bands represent England, Scotland, and Ireland—the chief performing band being the orchestra—the pipes were once put into a cellar in the lower part of the building and the door closed. Here, on a given signal, they struck up “The Campbells are coming.” Thereupon the doors gradually opened, and the pipers marched up from the lower regions and through the vast hall, which was crowded. On their approach the cheering was so vociferous that it was impossible to hear the sound of the pipes, and it was only by carefully watching the parts of the tune, the step, and the swing of the leading piper (who was endeavouring to reach the platform on which the orchestra was seated) that they were able to play in unison. Having ascended the platform, they placed themselves in a conspicuous position, and when they stopped playing, the well-known imitation fierce battle, for which these quadrilles are famous, began. While rehearsing this performance, it should be added, the door of the lower apartments had been accidentally left open, so that the sounds were distinctly and loudly heard by the bandmaster, who was a German. With lightning rapidity he came tearing downstairs in a furious rage, exclaiming in wild tones—“Mein Got, fat is this. You may be as well up on de stage. Why is de door not closed according to my instructions?” Being thus interrogated, the pipe-major appealed to piper Dougal Mac Donald, who was the last to enter, and who should have closed the door.

“Why did you not shut the door when you came in, Dougal?” he asked.

Dougal’s reply, which was characteristic of the man, was—

“Ach man! What did I know? The door wasn’t shut when I opened it.”

After this matters went on all right and to the satisfaction of the bandmaster.

On another occasion, when taking part in these quadrilles, the same band had to cross a plank arrangement erected above the heads of the audience before they could get to the platform. To get there under such circumstances required tact, in addition to a good nerve.

To relate another awkward experience:—A piper was on one occasion ordered to play at a wedding near Glasgow, at which his colonel was one of the guests. The object was to take the company by surprise. The piper therefore went there secretly. He had three and a half miles to walk, as the ‘bus which plied to and fro at that time (twenty years ago) was full of ladies. The day being exceptionally wet, he got drenched. The first incident took place shortly after leaving the barracks in the Gallowgate, where a fairly well dressed but drunken woman unceremoniously slipped her arm inside his and said—“I am going where you are going.” She vowed she knew him and all the pipers, as well as all the officers, and the colonel in particular—in fact, she knew the whole regiment. While making these declarations she clung tenaciously to the piper, and nothing would shake her off. A motley crowd gathered round them, and, to make matters worse, no policeman was in sight. A gentleman, however, opportunely came to the rescue, and extricated the piper from his predicament by inviting him into a shop and letting him out by a side door into another street. In due course the piper arrived at the mansion house where he was to play. He first made for the kitchen, in order to be out of the way and to have his clothes and appointments dried and replenished. Here he was accosted by a head official, a woman, who wished to know what he was doing there and what he wanted. The piper replied that he was sent there.

“Who sent you, and what for?” she asked.

He replied—“Colonel ——.”

“And who is he?” she next asked.

“He is my colonel.”

“Well,” she replied, snappishly, “I don’t know him, and never heard anything about you.”

The piper, however, entered the kitchen, and made for the fire. It so happened that the head cook—a stout, portly, good-natured woman—was a native of Tobermory. She took the drenched man in hand, and when she discovered that he could speak Gaelic, they became the best of friends. He got himself so much into her favour that she undertook to dry his coat and polish all his accoutrements. In course of time he got brightened up and ready for any call. He had to ignore all the time the repelling looks and nasty hints of the head official referred to, who would have nothing to do with him, and whose dignity was evidently hurt at his presence there without her being consulted. At two in the morning he was sent for by the mistress of the house—a fine specimen of the old Scottish lady—who led him to a door which communicated with the ball-room, and, without more ado, she gave him the following instructions:—

“You’ll just blow up your bags and you will play in there”—pointing to the door—“and John will show you where to go to.”

The piper struck up the “Cock of the North” very suddenly, to the surprise of everyone. When he entered the room he nearly fell, the floor was so smooth. Next, his big drone touched the chandeliers, under which were standing three or four ladies with the usual long trains to their dresses. He naturally became somewhat embarrassed, for he had to watch his tune, to watch his feet, to watch the chandelier, as well as to avoid the ladies’ dresses, and at the same time to watch “John,” who ultimately led him into the recesses of a window, where he played the “Highland Scottische” and “Reel of Tulloch.” This done, it was part of his programme to play “The Campbells are coming,” and make his exit by the door through which he entered. There were, unfortunately for him, too many doors, and, as “John” had left, he was again perplexed. He, however, made for, as he thought, the proper door, under the same difficulties as he experienced on his entrance; but, instead of getting out, he was landed in a pantry where there were two young women busily engaged cutting up sandwiches. Here he was kept prisoner for about half an hour. Any pipers who have had the same experience will admit that it requires no little confidence and caution to discharge satisfactorily such duties under similar circumstances.

There is a story told of another piper, which does not terminate quite so happily. Piper Hugh Mac L—— was engaged to play at an Irish wedding. Now, Irish people are generally very kind, and on such occasions are possessed of a good supply of “the mercies.” The room in which the wedding was held was rather small for dancing purposes, considering the number of guests. They therefore placed a table in the corner of the room, on the top of it a chair, and on the top of that a small flat stool, on which sat the piper. Here he blew with might and main till three o’clock in the morning, when down fell piper, pipes, and all on the floor. There were, luckily, no bones broken. Legs were broken, but they were wooden ones. After this somewhat amusing catastrophe the music ceased for the night.

Pipers were a resourceful race, if the following story is to be considered a typical one. A well-known piper, whose name is withheld because some of his people are still with us, was very often hard put to it for money, and many and various were the means he took to raise the wind. One day, more than usually dead-broke, he found an old mahogany leg of a table lying at the Clydeside, near Glasgow Green. He picked it up, and going to a joiner’s shop in the Briggate, he hired a turning lathe for an hour or two. Being an expert maker as well as player, he soon had an imitation set of drones and a chanter turned out of the mahogany. Then he got a piece of old skin and made a bag which would not have kept in small stones, not to speak of wind, and by means of borrowing pence from acquaintances, he raised some green velvet and ribbons. After he had carefully covered and adorned his “pipes,” he bored holes about an inch down the “drones,” stained the “virls” black, and gravely offered the lot to a pawnbroker. He, poor man, did not know much about pipes, for he gave the piper £1 on them. Then the dead-broke man repaid all his loans and went off a richer man by some seventeen or eighteen shillings. What the pawnbroker said when he attempted to sell the “pipes” has not come down to posterity.

The best of the bagpipe stories, however, come from the regimental piper. Army pipers were, and perhaps still are, treated a little more leniently than their fellows. A piper of the 79th Cameron Highlanders was brought before the officer in command for being drunk. The officer was a bit of a wag, and on the delinquent being marched in he, looking very severe, said, “Are you the piper that played before Moses?” “Yes, sir,” said the piper, taking advantage of the familiarity. The officer was a bit nonplussed, and shouted, “Get out of here, you scoundrel, and never come before me again.” A day or so after the piper was again brought up for being drunk, and the officer, annoyed at seeing him back so soon, said, “I don’t wish to punish you, but if you continue coming before me I must treat you like any other delinquent.” Quoting from the defaulters’ sheet, he continued, “Drunk, drunk, drunk; why, sir, you’re always drunk. Look here, just put yourself in my position and see what you would do.” On the officer vacating the chair the piper, nothing daunted, took his place, and proceeding to scan his own defaulter sheet, said in grave tones, “Drunk, drunk, drunk. Why sir, you’re always drunk; I’ll give you seven days’ cells and twenty-eight days confined to barracks.” The officer was too amazed at the piper’s impudence to do more than shout at the top of his voice—“Sergeant-major, take this man out of here,” and as we have no record of any future infliction of punishment, we may infer that the piper’s game of bluff succeeded in getting him off scathless.

Another story of a piper who “took more than was good for him” is associated with “Lochaber no more.” It was the duty of a piper of the 93rd Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders to play the officers’ mess. Feeling somewhat unsteady, he chose “Lochaber no more” as being an easy tune and suited for hiding his condition. His eccentric performance, however, did not escape the colonel, who was in quarters close by dressing for dinner, and, in passing to the mess room he called out “Piper Mac Donald.” “Yes, sir,” replied the piper, approaching the colonel with his best salute and under the impression that he was to be complimented for serenading the commanding officer by his rendering of such a beautiful air. “What tune was that you played?” growled the colonel. “Hic! ‘Lochubu no more,’ sir.” “Then,” said the colonel severely, “you’ll be piper no more, sir,” and Piper Mac Donald forthwith returned to the ranks.

It is a well-known fact that pipers in Highland regiments are posted to companies, and follow them wherever they go. On one occasion a company of the Gordons were marching from a place called Jullunder to Fort Kangra, situated on one of the lower ranges of the Himalayas. Accompanying them was an elephant, on which were placed sick and exhausted men. After a few days’ march they were deprived of music on account of the piper’s feet becoming blistered, and he was relegated to the back of the elephant. On the last day’s march, before entering their new station, some one suggested that in order to brighten them up the piper might be requested to play on the elephant’s back at the head of the company. To this the officer assented, and accordingly the piper was handed his pipes. When he began to tune them up it was evident that the elephant had no appreciation of such sounds, for he shook his head, flapped his big ears menacingly, raised his trunk, with which he embraced the piper round the waist, and violently threw him and his pipes into a ditch as a mark of his disapproval of such music.

A camp of exercise some three miles out of Delhi was visited at night by a terrible storm of rain and wind. Tents were blown over, and much wreckage and damage done. The pipe-major and drum-major, who, of course, were both staff-sergeants, occupied a small tent by themselves, situated in a hollow. Towards morning, just as daylight appeared, it was observed from the sergeants’ mess that the pipe-major had got all his valuables—silver, pipes, banner, dirk, sporran, etc.—placed in a tub in which he himself was sitting. All round outside his tent, for a considerable distance, was a sea of water, so hard had it rained during the night. Being very anxious to save his valuables, uniform, and appointments he embarked in the tub and paddled shorewards, and while doing so his comrades began to shout and jeer at him. This roused the pipe-major’s temper to boiling pitch, and caused him to become rather unsteady in his precarious craft. Veering a little too much to one side, over it went, and piper and cargo were thrown into the water, to the evident delight of his comrades.

The playing of the Lords of Session from the hotel to the Court House in Glasgow was an old custom. After having performed this duty, the captain usually marched the band and escort to Gallowgate Barracks by way of Saltmarket, which was at one time a very rough locality. While playing through the street, the pipe-major of a gallant corps suddenly found himself in a very unpleasant fix. A decrepit, drunken fish-wife pounced upon him, lovingly caught him round the neck, and insisted on hugging and kissing him. To make things worse the band kept marching on through the large crowd, and no amount of struggling and swearing would make this enthusiastic follower relinquish her hold of the pipe-major. At last by a supreme effort he managed to extricate himself from her dirty clutches. It is needless to say that the escort and pipers enjoyed a fine laugh at the pipe-major’s predicament.

To show how good may sometimes come of evil, one of our gallant pipers, who had evidently been enjoying himself rather freely the night before, on returning to barracks found himself detailed for the duties of orderly piper, the first of which is to play the men’s breakfast pipes. The piper’s condition not being what it might have been, and the morning being cold and raw, he was not making a very good tune. This attracted the notice of the orderly officer, who belonged to the piper’s company, and forthwith he had the piper brought before him and rebuked for his bad playing. The piper, quick as thought, ingeniously turned matters into quite a different channel by putting all the blame on his chanter. He impudently pointed out to the young officer the lowest hole, which is the largest on the chanter.

“Just look at the size of that hole, sir,” said he. “It is far too large, sir, and while I was birling with my little finger it went into the hole, sir, and when I was getting it out it caused that nasty screeching, sir.”

“Oh,” replied the officer, “is that the cause of it? Then you require a new chanter.”

“Yes, very badly, sir,” replied the piper.

The officer, being a man of means, said, “Very well, I will give you a present of one.”

This is obviously a case where the piper gulled the young officer into presenting him with a new chanter, whereas he should have been severely reprimanded for his unfitness to perform his duty.

A novel accident once happened to the pipers of the Cameronians while playing in the Botanic Gardens in Glasgow. At that time they wore a Tam o’ Shanter or blue bonnet, slightly cocked to one side. The day was stormy, and the wind came in gusts. Eight of the pipers were marching jauntily along in line when a gust of wind suddenly came and blew off the eight Tam o’ Shanters, as if by word of command, starting with the pipe-major, who was on the right. The scramble for bonnets which followed can be more easily imagined than described.

Piper Donald Menzies, of the Breadalbane Fencibles, was one of the resourceful kind. The men were in the habit of receiving money in place of a certain quantity of rations, and on one occasion instead of buying food in the usual way many of them bought whisky. This came to the colonel’s ears, and he at once ordered the adjutant to go round at a certain hour and report to him what the men were cooking for dinner. The order got wind and the Fencibles were on the alert. When the adjutant came to where Piper Menzies was doing his cooking he asked “What have you got here, Donald?” “Tripe, sir,” said Donald. “Tripe,” said the adjutant, “now just let me see,” and he lifted the lid off the pot. “Well, Donald,” he said, walking away and smiling, “I never saw tripe before with buttons and holes in it.” Donald had cut up a pair of white moleskin trousers and put pieces of them into the pot to make believe he was to have a dinner.

Shortly after the occupation of Cairo by the British troops, the late Nubar Pasha took a prodigious fancy to the music of the Black Watch, and had the idea of having a servant taught the use of the bagpipes. Nubar despatched a French friend, who spoke English, to interview a piper on the subject. Donald replied—“Weel, he micht learn or he micht no’. But, let me tell you, it needs wind an’ mickle strength to fill the bag o’ the pipes an’ keep blawin’. Sae if yin o’ thae Egyptian chaps took the job on he’d need to be bandaged a’ ow’re like yin o’ thae old mummies, or maybe he’d burst himsel’!” This conversation was reported to Nubar, who took the remarks seriously. So he gave up the idea of having a piper attached to his household, as the use of the bagpipe was attended with the prospect of such danger to the performer.

Soldiers are not nervous men as a rule, but a pipe-major of the Gordons was. While the regiment was being inspected, he noticed while standing behind the band that the colonel’s helmet was reversed. The officer seemed perturbed about something, strutting backward and forward, every now and then digging his sword into the ground. This made the pipe-major, who was anxious to call the colonel’s attention to the mistake in connection with his headgear, more nervous than before. At last by a supreme effort he mustered up courage, and stepping out of the ranks he approached the colonel, and after saluting said, “I beg your pardon, sir, but your helmet is upside down, sir.” “What!” roared the officer, evidently thinking the man had become insane. The pipe-major became more nervous than ever, and stammered out, “I beg your pardon, sir, but I mean to say, sir, that your helmet is outside in, sir.” “The devil it is, sir,” roared the colonel, and the pipe-major as a last resource got out, “Well, I mean to say, sir, that your hat is backside foremost, sir.” The colonel instantly calmed down, and took the incident in good part, put his “hat” right and thanked the pipe-major, who did not forget his nervousness or his mistakes for many days.

Yet another instance of how the piper made free with his superiors. A Highland officer having in obedience to orders added a drum to his pipe band, a spirit of jealousy soon afterwards arose between the piper and the drummer respecting their title to precedence. This gradually increased until it became personal animosity. At length the subject of the quarrel was submitted to the officer, who decided in favour of the drummer, whereupon the piper exclaimed, “Ads wunds, sir (whatever that may mean), and shall a little rascal that beats upon a sheep’s skin tak’ the right hand of me that am a musician?” A musician, no less!

The last item to be given under this heading is meant to illustrate the high opinion Highlanders have of the pipes, but I do not vouch for its authenticity. It is from a book of Scottish Life and Character:—

“Dougal Mac Dougal, he left his native fastnesses for the great city of Glasgow, where he joined the police, as many a better man has done since. But Dougal was not content with being a policeman, he must needs join the police band. By-and-by another native of the fastnesses came to Glasgow, and meeting Dougal, he said-‘And wad it be true Tougal that her is a member of the polis prass pand?’

“‘Yus, Alastair, her was.’

“‘And what instrument was she play, Tougal?’

“‘Ta trombone.’

“Ta trombone! Her as draws and draws and plaws and plaws? Och, Tougal, wad she tempt Providence by leaving ta pipes for that?’”

After which we had better adjourn.