I found the lyrics to another of the songs here.

The song title on my cd is In Praise of Pipers; the title at that site is The Irish Piper.


You grand connoisseurs of fine reels and slow airs,
A few moments you'll spare to give ear to my croon;
Till without inhibition I praise a musician
Adept and proficient at all kinds of tunes.
For a sound that's heart-stopping, a rhythm that's topping,
For cranning and popping with flair and with style,
From east of the Khyber to the banks of the Tiber
You won't beat the piper from Erin's green isle.

This piper contrives with his elbow to drive
Some fresh air which arrives in a bag 'neath his arm;
He fingers the chanter as lithe as a panther,
No sound could be grander for beauty and charm.
When the air it is blown through the finely-tuned drones
It produces a tone that amazes the ear:
Regulators get going as a musical bonus,
With notes so harmonious, perfection is near.

I sing no encomium for pipes Caledonian
Which cannot be blown on inside in the house,
For your bagpiper Scottish must leave his own cottage,
His unhappy lot is to play for the cows.
As he stands in the rain with his lungs under strain,
All his work is in vain, as the Gael hoists his kilt.
He can blow till he's crocked, but his way will be blocked,
For to play a high octave his pipes aren't built.

Some people declare that all pipers are quare
With a manner that scares timid people and weans.
Their behaviour so strange and their wits half-deranged,
As if some sort of mange infiltrated their brains.
Playing those pipes problematic takes skills acrobatic
Which turns them fanatic, obsessive and grim:
So those cynics deride all his properties vital,
To slander our idol's their purpose and whim.

For howe'er they may slight him, our hero's a Titan,
A brave gallant knight and a champion supreme;
Though he's often attacked as being thorny as cactus
He's not half as cracked as he sometimes may seem.
He's bright and flamboyant, his heart's full of joy and
He's almost clairvoyant, with wisdom endowed;
He's keen as a razor when he starts Colonel Fraser
And he drives women crazier by playing Miss McLeod.

I could write an epistle on screechy tin whistles
Or the germ-filled drizzle that drips from the flute;
The tone-deaf accompanist happily thumpin' his
Strings, causing grumpiness, rows and disputes.
Those musical rookies who torture bouzoukis
Make noises so spooky, for mercy you'll plead;
Forget all those villains, your píobaire uilleann
Is famed for his brilliance at handling a reed.

So if your life is like slime and your verses won't rhyme
And the days of your prime are a memory frail,
Avoid treatments quixotic like drink or narcotics,
Just hear the hypnotic bagpipes of the Gael.
'Twould take Archimedes a hundred and three days
To grasp how that reed is created from cane.
But my powers they grow scanty, I'd need the poet Dante
Or the Spaniard Cervantes to sing this refrain.