Print This Page#01163 Print This Page
There's a piper in the valley playing old familiar tunes,
He marches there below the hill every Sunday afternoon;
And the people driving by would always stop to hear the sound,
Of a piper marching there upon the ground.
Well, his name it was MacArthur and known by one and all,
As he sang and played at cielhies all around;
He was never short of stories and he'd tell you like it was,
Just close your eyes and you were Scotland bound.
Looking on MacArthur's Island as many a time before,
Brings back so many memories of home;
I remember Grandpa telling us of Scotland far away,
And praying to God he'd make it there some day.
He could almost smell the heather rolling from the gentle breeze,
As his mother told him stories of her home;
She was born and raised in Scotland, then moved to Newfoundland,
To live the rest of her life no more to roam.
Now the purple heather's growing over on MacArthur's Isle,
And the house is standing empty on the hill;
But if you stop and listen carefully, you can almost hear the sound,
Of a piper marching there upon the ground.
Looking on MacArthur's Island as many a time before,
Brings back so many memories of home;
I remember Grandpa telling us of Scotland far away,
And praying to God he'd make it there some day.
