Coda for the Piper, 1746

They hung him at York in November,

seven months after Culloden,

Jamie who had cheered his

regiment out of Angus

with his pipes.

No muffled coronach for him,

the musician of Strathmore,

though Lord Ogilvy’s son,

remembered him long after

in Bergen with his tears.

His body was a metronome on the gallows,

a slow march no Englishman could understand.

Even the blasted rooks knew better than them.

He who would never see the strath again.

When the British Army called up

the braves most cynically from the glens,

they never were taught of such men

who made music for them before.

I do not know where he remains,

James Reid, or what rest they doubtfully

gave the like of him.

I bequeath him slow beat, the blues,

muffled jazz from another continent,

hard punk and resentful rap,

lest we forget, Celt to Celt,

and others allied to us,

who still labour beneath the lies

and the rule of those like

them who damned him.