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Poem	When I played my penny whistle on the braes above Lochgyle The heather bloomed about us, and we heard the peewit call; As you bent above your knitting something fey was in your smile, And fine and soft and slow the rain made silver on your shawl. Your cheeks were pink like painted cheeks, your eyes a pansy blue . . . My heart was in my playing, but my music was for you. And now I play he organ in this lordly London town; I play the lovely organ with a thousand folks in view. They're wearing silk and satin, but I see a woolen gown, And my heart's not in my music, for I'm thinking, lass, of you; When you listened to a barefoot boy, who piped of ancient pain, And your ragged shawl was pearly in the sweet, shy rain. I'll play them mighty music - O I'll make them stamp and cheer; I'll give the best that's in me, but I'll give it all for you. I'll put my whole heart in it, for I feel that you are near, Not yonder, sleeping always, where the peat is white with dew. But I'll never live the rapture of the shepherd boy the while I trilled for you my whistle on the braes above Lochgyle.
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