The piper stands so very tall, kilt and pipes at first light, on the battle field he leads soldiers lines. He pipes them ahead, wailing bagpipes scream a tune warning armies the Scots are coming soon. Guardsmen in a platoon fight and charge to his tune, played into battle from first light to noon. The mighty brave piper marches across the battle field his pipes his only weapon, no sword, gun or shield.
As they near the enemy, the pipes quicken time, almost daring to rhyme. Then the piper is cut down in a hale of fire, dropped still piping in all his attire, brave hero leading men across the mire. As the piper hits the ground shouts go out from all around a Scottish army rises up, heads for the enemy as they have taken their cup. Wild savages, ravage the kaki clad enemy.
No soldier feeling fear, never wondering why he is here, charging up the hill very austere, enough anger for the piper who fell, who has no tale to tell. On top of that hill where men will kill, will forever be the resting place of the hero with no face, who piped the pace with courage and grace that lonely soldier in a shallow grave, still playing Scotland the brave.
Rhythm of the Ink 