The Piper's Tree Poem by Alexander Anderson

Come in, gudeman, to your ain fireside,
There's a cauld, cauld grup in the air,
An' the win' blaws snell frae Corsencon,
For the winter's snaw is there.


It sughs down Glenmuckloch Dryfestane glens
Wi' an eerie, eerie soun',
It whussles an' roars in the muckle tree
That stan's afore Nethertoon.


Come in, come in to the weans an' me,
The fire is lowin' bricht;
If ye stan' ony langer there, ye'll get
Your death o' cauld this nicht.


Do you hear me speak? What can mak' him turn
His back on his ain dear wife,
Wha has stood by him through mony a faucht
For fifty years o' her life?


Is he coontin' his purse? Oh, waes me noo,
Oh, wae for my bairns an' me;
The curse that my grannie tauld me has come—
He has sat on the Piper's Tree!


For after she tauld me, when I was a wean,
That, whaever sat by nicht
On the Piper's Tree, took a lust for gowd,
And made it their hale delicht.


An' the sign o' the Piper's curse was this:
That, whaever it micht be,
They wad coont their purse at pleuch or cairt,
Wi' a greedy look in their ee.


Come in, gudeman, for my heart is sair,
Come in to the lowin' licht,
An' I'll tell ye the doom o' the Piper's Tree,
For the gude o' us a' this nicht.


Langsyne, afore my grannie was born,
On a nicht o' win' an' rain,
Auld Eadie Buchan, the miser, was faun',
Lyin' dead on his ain hearthstane.


He was killed for the sake o' the siller he had,
For he made it his only pride,
But, whaever it was that had dune the deed,
They fled frae the kintra side.


An' years an' years gaed by, until
The tale took anither turn,
An' they said that his gowd was aneath a tree
By the side o' the Laggeray Burn.


But a curse wad be sure to fa' on him
Wha wad try to howk for it there,
For ilk' coin was red wi' bluid, and still
The miser's ghaist was there.


But lang Tam Cringan lauched an' lauched,
An' said, wi' a lood guffaw,
'It's an auld wife's story to fricht the bairns,
As a bogle frichts a craw.'


But aye after that he was seen to stan'
By himsel' an' coont his purse,
While the look in his ee was the look that comes
At the back o' the Piper's curse.


In a week after that what a change took place,
For white, white grew his hair;
He never lookit ye straucht in the face,
An' he jokit an' leuch nae mair.


He dwined and dwined on his feet, until
He took to his bed an' lay,
But the neebors whispered, 'Afore he dees
He has something yet to say.'


So ae drear nicht, as they sat by his bed,
He said, wi' mony a mane,
'Since the nicht that I socht for the miser's gowd
My peace o' mind has been gane.


'An' I canna rest wi' this wecht on my breast,
Sae, afore I steek my ee,
I maun tell ye sichts that I saw, an' the soun's
That I heard by the Piper's Tree.


'For days an' days, like ane in a dream,
I daun'ered oot an' in;
For my heart was set on the miser's wealth,
Though I kenned fu' weel 'twas a sin.


'I coontit my purse ilk' hour o' the day,
An' whenever I heard the clink
O' the siller I faun' my heart grow hard,
An' closer an' closer shrink,


'Till at length, with an aith, I said to mysel',
In the heicht o' greed an' despair,
'I will venture the lastin' gude o' my saul,
For the sake o' the siller there.'


'Sae I slippit oot on a munelicht nicht,
Took a gude stoot pick an' shule,
Stood aneath the Piper's Tree an' heard
The Laggeray Burn sing dule.


'I wrocht, an' I wrocht, as ane will work
Wha works for life an' death,
Till the black sweat fell in draps frae my brow,
An' I scarce could draw my breath.


'But, aye the deeper I howkit, my heart
Grew harder an' harder still;
An' every thocht that cam' into my heid
Was a thocht o' sin an' ill.


'I faun' that if even a brither o' mine
Had come to help me there,
The sin o' his bluid wad been on my heid,
For the sake o' gettin' his share.


'But a' at ance, an' abune my heid,
I heard the bagpipes play,
An' at the soun' the munelicht fled
Frae hill, an' glen, an' brae.


'An' I saw the glint o' an eerie licht,
That seemed like a ghaist to rise
Frae the breckaned heicht o' the steep Knowe Hill,
Where gude Saint Connel lies.


'An' doon it cam' like a wauf o' the win',
Wi' the sugh o' the Laggeray Burn,
An' aye the bagpipes skirled an' played,
But my heid I couldna turn.


'I faun' the sweat rin cauld doon my back,
An' trickle into my shune,
But I hadna the power to lift my heid,
To see wha played abune.


'But, just as that licht gaed flauffin' by,
I saw what made me grue,
A lang, thin shape, wi' its heid bent doon,
An' a red, red mark on its broo.


'An' I saw its han's gang up an' doon,
What they did I couldna tell,
But I thocht they were coontin' the ghaists o' coin,
As I used to do mysel'.


'It glided doon to the side o' the Nith,
Then turned as if to come back,
But the win' took it doon till it sank frae my sicht
On the lang green howms o' the Rack.


'An' aye the bagpipes skirled an' played,
An' looder an' looder grew;
An' aye the hair stood up on my heid,
An' the cauld sweat fell frae my broo.


'Then a' at ance the bagpipes ceased,
While an eerie, ghaistly cry
Rang oot on the nicht, an' took to the air
To dee on the hills ootbye.


''Howk on,' it said, 'an' gang deeper yet,
It wants but an hour o' twal';
I wuss ye may licht on the miser's gowd,
For I want to be sure o' yer saul.'


'Then I lookit up, an' abune my heid
(Oh, whatna sicht did I see
In the mirk, mirk nicht by the deein' mune,
On the tap o' the Piper's Tree!)


'I saw twa een that werena like een,
They were red as a lowin' peat;
A pair o' horns that were three feet lang,
An' feet that werena like feet.


'But I saw nae mair, for, wi' ae lood cry
That took the last o' my breath,
I lap frae the hole that was like my grave,
An' I ran for life an' death.'


Oh, ye needna lauch at me, gudeman,
For grannie wadna lee,
An' said there was mair than fowk wad own
O' truth in the Piper's Tree.


That nicht Tam Cringan dee'd, an' juist
As they laid him oot in his shrood,
They heard a soun' like the bagpipes skirl,
An' it cam' frae the Laggeray Wood.


Fu' weel did they ken wha was playin' there;
The thocht sent the bluid frae their cheek,
An' siccan a fear was on ane an' a'
That name o' them daur to speak.


The soun' cam' up like a risin' win'
When the winter nichts are lang,
They heard it skirl at the chimla tap,
Till a voice was heard in the thrang—


'Howk on,' it cried, 'for the miser's gowd,
Howk on wi' a' your micht;
Had the deid ye watch got my wuss, I ken
Where his saul wad ha'e been the nicht.'


The win' fell doon, an' the eerie soun'
Creepit up to the hills ootbye,
An' there they sat wi' the deid at their side
Till the licht cam' into the sky.


It's an auld wife's havers, ye say, gudeman!
But still, to this very day,
When the mune draps owre the Kirkland Hills
Ye can hear the bagpipes play.


But nane daur venture up the burn
To see wha is playin' there,
For they ken o' the curse that is sure to fa'
Wi' its weird baith lang an' sair.


Sae ye needna lauch at me, gudeman,
For my grannie wadna lee,
An' said there was mair than fowk wad own
O' truth in the Piper's Tree.