The piper stands feet firm on the ground

his heart points towards the north.

Strong gales reach down childless lochs

while huddled elders whisper Gaelic tales.

Many a tale spun while nations fought.

Some say ghosts lay along this road

souls of clansmen drenched in blood.

Tartan cloth and skin become bone,

hands clenched tight with metal, grinding

the strength of our borders foe.

Draped in this flag, dark blue and white;

a cross that bears the scar of repression.

Some say we dance to a southerner’s tune.

But the Piper stands alone

held strong by the fire of injustice.

How long to wait for the rallying call?

Remaining servants to distant cousins.

Some say that we fear to go it alone,

to tread without sisters and brothers.

For what is a home without its heart.

Soon one day the piper will play his tune,

Through hills and lochs and valleys.

And the notes and reels will carry for miles

Across a world of unions, nations, and

independant states.