Classic Poem

The speech that John spoke he said it wrong; we must needs have a denial and a repayment for it; he left MacCrimmon, Condullie, and Charles, and dragged little Donald Ban to the fore. I dislike much ridiculous and flattering talk; that thou shouldst have said so much and couldst not prove it, but didst return tamely where thou didst vehemently begin.
Didst ever hear who was most honoured this side of London? — Of all pipers MacCrimmon was king, with beautiful notes of most melodious acclaim — their liveliness would restore a sickly man to health. Sweet-sounding march, brisk and impetuous, that chases away faint-heartedness and fear; valour and hardihood are a virtue of the Idiot, the noble foster-mother of the MacLeods inciting them with vigour.
The gay sportive one that Charles had and used to kiss, the musical pretty one of sweetest head voice; the Gaels are so fond of listening to her blandishments, and all the English-speaking folk in Edinburgh dote on her; (?) engraved with devices, strong-sounding, impetuous in pursuit of an enemy, to whom the whistling of Spanish blades was (sweet) rending music, so that the red-coated ones should be injured and in desperate plight.
If it were heard in Mull how thou didst pass over Condullie, they would deem it but fitting that thy blood should be on the top of thy head; she was the most vehemently zealous on the right hand of the battle front, beating out the wild airs most vengeful in the charge. 'Tis no small loss that you are without a head under George's oppressive bondage; the wry-mouthed ones tormenting and banishing you, they did by violence deprive you of your rights.
Thou gavest no thanks at all to the twittering of Charles, except that the Goodman of Vallay was his constant admirer; thou didst praise the contemptible ramshackle which should receive no better fee than a pickle of grain or a handful of bad seed; thou didst seal up a treasure without imperfection, the tree of musical excellences, that would inspire the rocks with melody by the dancing of fingers, and would not suffer odrochan to raise its head.
That laughing-stock will not get a hall wherein is merrymaking but a kiln choked up with straw cinders and soot; Donald has no chair, and he will not stand up straight, but sits on the furnace with a bundle of straw at his back; a plaguy scrap of a tune, noise of a bad drone, smell of a decaying body: music as loathsome as screeching of rooks or young birds pained by lack of food.
Is it not a fine laughing-stock to splutter away at a theme without playing of variation or lovely grace notes, ramming odroochan in the tail of odrochan , ramming odrochan in the rear of odrovi ; a narrow crooked bag, half-full of slavers, a wind like the chill of frost through the squint holes that the fingers cannot cover, only ohon and ohi can be understood aright.
Worst of wooden instruments that Tubal-cain had when he played Gaelic airs and originated the pipes; she was some time under water when the Ark was closed up, it was her fate to decay under rain and wind; there came slime and dust into the rotting drones, many a bridge being thrust into her gullet, she made odrochan pithless with her groaning.
She was for a time with Malrooney O Dornan, who would clumsily put the tunes all awry; she was for a while with MacVetrish who would sing the songs, when the harp became disused and liking for it waned; Balaam blew into her bag a sigh that rotted and decayed her; she withered with her yelping the seven battalions of the Fian, 'tis she who first weakened the strength of Diarmaid and Goll.
Melancholy rumbling — Iain Og had a spell of her, she wasted as many straw reeds as would be a godsend to cattle; for more than seven years Hector's son had her, an apology for a mouthpiece, ill-using her on the slopes of Cnoc-an-Lin; the old timber-piece that awakes not mirth, the face not clean of covering; woe to him who had the miserable wreck for a sweetheart, barley grain could be winnowed with all the wind she requires.
Before the bawling, light-headed slut can be put in working order, what she needs of thread would finish a web; no small cause of disgust it is to listen to her din, she would make cold the side which was warm; murder of tunes, screeching of drones of the ill-employed fellow, she gives the first cry when her mouthpiece is blown into, like the rattle of a lean cow nearing death.
The ramshackle instrument is enclosed in a skin, she will not stay in joint without hoops to keep her together; more bitter than henbane is the bark of her quick measure, a trumpet that would waken every Judas that ever died; like a body tortured with flux that was blown full of wind; a rumbling the like of which I can compare only to the screech of rats or the squeal of a young calf.
The wasted body of the heron with a choking in her throat, stiff fingers unfacile making confusion of the tune, that would play rigmaroles by the light of the oil (cruise), a disorderly reel continually on the floor. The cold bare one, wind through hole, din without martial note, that would soften hardihood and incite to cowardice, unerringly and without hope round the kiln where the rabble frequent.
The wind of the rotting bag puts a thrill in the drones, she is ever in haste to prop up odra ; the slender hanging chanter is under attack from eight fingers, a stream of spittle choking it, reducing bad music to silence; a noise like a gong for frightening horses, a chant that would put out a heath fire: I shall say no more in dispraise of pipes, but to let it be heard that I've routed MacPhail.