The Tartan Piper

Dinnae yi listen tae any o’ that blether aboot the Pied Piper o’ Hamlyn, for he wuznae Pied at aw.

Naw, he wuz wearin’ the McPiper tartan and the pipes he wuz playin’ were guid Scoatish bagpipes.

How do I ken? Because, it was I, Angus McPiper who drove the wee sleekit, coowerin’, timrous beasties oot o’ Hamlyn, that’s how.

I recall it as if it wuz only yesterday. I wuz travellin’ tae see a Scotland V Germany fitba’ match in Hamburg when my car
broke doon in a wee German village called Hamlyn that had a serious rat infestation problem.

Och! There were wee hairy beasties all o’er the place. Rats all o’er the road, rats on aw the rooftops and even rats crawlin’ oot o’ the chimney’s. There were even rats all o’er my car , in the engine, in the boot and there wuz even a big fat, hairy rat stuck in my exhaust pipe, the reason, I surmised that my car had broken doon.

And there wuz even rats crawlin aw o’er me; rats under my bunnet; rats in my big red beard and I thought I even felt one or two of those wee scunners run up inside my kilt.

“Och!”, I thought, “I’ll need tae do something aboot this”.

That’s when I remembered my trusty bagpipes that I always carry around wi’ me wherever I go, as does any true Scotsman.

“Nae creature can resist a guid Scoatish tune on the bagpipes”, I thought as I seized up my pipes and, pressing them to my mooth, began to play a highland jig.

As I had predicted, my music had the power to sooth the savage beasties who immediately started to dance upon their toes like wee hairy highlanders with their tiny rat paws o’er their heads.

“Hee hee!”, I laughed, “The wee beasties are mesmerized”.

But what was I tae do wi’ all the rats noo that I had them aw in my power? , I wondered.

It was then that I saw a wee German pub and it came tae me lik’ a flash and, dancing intae the pub, followed by a long line of dancing rodents, I said tae the barman,

“Barman! A wee dram for me and aw my wee hairy pals please!”.

“Vot is ein dram?”, asked the German landlord, unfamiliar wi’ the noble Scottish tongue.

“Guid Scoats whiskey”, I demanded, thumping my fist on the bar, “And be quick aboot it!”

As luck would have it, the German barman had a big bottle of Glenfiddich behind the bar and proceeded to pour out whisky for me and aw the wee beasties.

One by one, the wee rodents gulped doon their whiskey and, had they been guid Scoatish rats it may have taken atleast two or three drams tae knock them oot but they were german rats and so one by one they fell doon, absolutely blootered
oot o’ their wee rat skulls.

Och, well, when the locals saw whit I had done they aw threw me up on their shoulders and called me a hero
but I didnae have any time for aw that, “I’ve goat a fitba match tae get tae”, I told them, making a quick getaway.

And let me tell you, it was a fitba’ match that I shall never forget. Scoatland beat Germany 5-0. It’s the God’s honest truth!