The Lost Pibroch and other Sheiling Stories

Excerpt: To the make of a piper go seven years of his own learning and seven generations before. If it is in it will out as the Gaelic old-word says; if not let him take to the net or sword. At the end of his seven years one born to it will stand at the start of knowledge and leaning a fond ear to the drone he may have parley with old folks of old affairs. Playing the tune of the “Fairy Harp� he can hear his forefolks plaided in skins towsy-headed and terrible grunting at the oars and snoring in the caves; he has his whittle and club in the “Desperate Battle� (my own tune my darling!) where the white-haired sea-rovers are on the shore and a stain's on the edge of the tide; or trying his art on Laments he can stand by the cairn of kings ken the colour of Fingal's hair and see the moon-glint on the hook of the Druids!