The pipes vied with the gay Gaelic gale,
She of scarlet locks & skin of opal-milk pale,
Playing by day in a skirt of pretty red plaid,
In the tartan hills where the heather swayed.
Dancing at night under the shy sky-clad moon,
Over Highlands & Lowlands to old Brigadoon,
Where within the shadows of the lilac Ben,
She bathes in dark waters of yon sweet fen.
She belongs to the Coven of the solo witch,
Wending alone by the Loch, without a stitch,
She weaves white spells over cauldron’s brew,
Pungent herbs & roots concocting magic stew.
Paying homage to the East with the rising sun,
All creatures her friends, but the human shuns,
Disappearing in dawn’s sweet lavender wisps,
Left behind, evening chanting on echoing mists.
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