Borderpipe Personality Disorder

Notes on the Songs and Tunes

Album cover of Borderpipe Personality Disorder

Recorded by Domhnall Ó h-Eachainn at Moving Target Studios, Edinburgh, Scotland; Sunderland and Marshfield, Vermont

Mixed and Mastered by Joe Egan, EMP Studios, Colchester, Vermont

Mischief Records 2020

 Drink Debauchery & €200  (D. Houghton)
Teigeis agus Dealg Innte, The Haggis with a Pin in Her  (Trad.)
Traditional Reel (Trad.)
Willie Murray's (Trad.)
The Fourth Floor (G. Duncan)

I composed Drink, Debauchery and €200 after an evening on which exactly that was the arrangement between the owner of a pub in Kemper, on the one hand and my friend, and colleague, Niall, and me, on the other. He [said publican] provided the former and the latter and we provided the middle bit and the musical accompaniment thereunto.

Teigeis agus Dealg Innte, Haggis with a Pin in Her, or, more anglophonically,  just The Haggis, can be found on page fifteen of Captn. Simon Fraser’s 1816 collection Airs and Melodies peculiar to the Highlands and The Isles from 1715 to 1745. I feel like I have known it since time immoral and I suspect that the graceful strokes of Ali Fraser’s bow may have been what first conveyed unto me its mellifluous strains.

A Wounded Haggis

A herniated haggis awaiting surgery.

I have no idea what the next tune in this set is called. I got it from Brendan Carey–Block and Eric MacDonald one night at the intermission of a gig in order that we might insert it into a song it into a song about sailors, in the second half.

A Man Shouting at a Haggis

A man shouting angrily at a haggis.

I learned Willie Murray’s from Iain MacInnes during a weekly borderpipe session that we used to have at the Edinburgh University Folk Society room and The Fourth Floor, f.k.a. Where’s Ma Mace, is yet another master piece by Gordon Duncan.

Tristan HendersonJaw Harp

Dan HoughtonHighland Pipes, Smallpipes, Whistle, Guitar & Bouzouki

Emerald Rae Fiddle

Alba Bheadarach Is Mise ’Gad Fhàgail, Beloved Scotland and I Leaving You (Trad.)

The Battle of Sheriffmuir (R. Burns)

Thèid Mi Dhachaigh Chrò Chinn t-Sàile, I Will Go Home to the Cattle Folds of Kintail (Trad.)

Alba Bheadarach is Mise ’gad Fhàgail, Beloved Scotland and I Leaving You, is alleged to be the air to which DonaldMacdonald of Sleat, better known in his native language as Domhnall a’ Chogaidh, Donald of the Battles, marched to the Battle of Sheriffmuir. It seemed appropriate to velcro it to the following song.

The Battle of Sheriffmuir, called in the Gaelic, Blàr Sliabh an t-Siorram, was fought on 13th November 1715 between the Hanoverian forces under John Campbell, 2nd Duke of Argyll and the Jacobite forces under John Erskine, 6th Earl of Mar. The latter having earned himself the appellation of "Bobbin' John" on account of his apparent inability to remain in amy one political camp for more than three days at a time. The battle was, at one and the same time, a victory and a defeat for both sides. Argyll’s right flank inflicted heavy casualties on the Jacobites’ left

Painting of the Battle of Sheriffmuir

Figure. 1 The Battle of Sheriffmuir as seen from a top floor hotel window

whilst Mar’s dexteral flank–composed mostly of MacDonalds and Macleans–all but routed Argyll’s sinister side (see Figure 1 for clarification). Communication and news media not being then what they are today, both armies retired from the field believing themselves victorious.

At that moment, had Mar, with his numerical superiority, pressed Argyll rather than havering and retreating back to Perth, "The Fifteen" might have at least lasted longer than

Present day photograph of Sheriffmuir

Figure 2. Sheriffmuir as seen from the aforementioned hotel window 300 years later

two and a half months and might possibly have restored James Edward Stuart to the Thrones of England and Scotland. Ultimately Erskine succeeded in simultaneously allowing Argyll to thwart his advance to northern England and in demoralising his own army, which dispersed soon after the battle. Mar subsequently took an extended holiday to France after squealing on several of his former brothers–in–arms.

Because of the contradictory accounts of the battle and both sides declarations of victory thereafter, Robert Burns composed this song as a conversation between two observers of the scene. It serves as a stark reminder that no two observers of the same set of facts, or events, will see the same thing or interpret them in the same way. Therefore, the ‘truths’, or conclusions drawn by any two or more observers about any given situation are utterly and completely subjective... sleep tight.

A Painting of John Campbell, second Duke of Argyll
An etching of John Erskine, sixth Earl of Mar

 

John Campbell 2nd Duke of Argyll (left and in colour) and "Smiley" John Erskine, 6th Earl of Mar a.k.a. Bobbin' John (right and in black & white)

O cam ye here the fight tae shun
Or herd the sheep wi’ me, man,
Or were ye at the Sherra-moor,
And did the battle see man.
I saw the battle sair and teugh,
And reekin-red ran mony a sheugh,
My heart for ay gaed sough for sough
Tae hear the thuds, and view the cluds
O’ clans frae woods, in tartan duds,
Wha glaum’d the kingdoms three, man

The red-coat lads wi’ black cockauds
Tae meet them were na slaw, man
They rush’d and push’d and blud outgush’d
And mony a bouk did fa’, man:
Great Argyle led on his files,
I wot they glanc’d for twenty miles,
The hough’d the Clans like nine-pin kyles,
They hack’d and hash’d while broadswords clash’d,
Thro’ they dash’d and hew’d and smash’d,
Till fey men died awa, man.

But had ye seen the philibegs
And skyrin tartan trews, man,
Whaur in the teeth they dar’d our Whigs,
And covenant Trueblues, man;
In lines extended lang and large,
When baiginets oppos’d the targe,
And thousands hasten’d tae the charge;
Wi’ Hielan wrath they frae the sheath
Drew blades o’ death, till out of breath
They fled like frightened dows, man.

Now, how the de’il can that be true,

The chace gaed frae the north, man,

I saw myself they did pursue

The horse-men back tae Forth, man;

And at Dunblane in my ain sight

They took the brig wi’ a’ their might,

And straught tae Stirling wing’d their flight,

But, cursed the lot the gates were shut

And mony a huntit, puir Red-coat

For fear amaist did swarf, man.

My sister Kate cam up the gate

Wi’ crowdie untae me, man;

She swore she saw some rebels run

Tae Perth and tae Dundee, man:

Their left-hand General had nae skill;

The Angus lads had nae gude will,

That day their neebours blude tae spill;

For fear by foes that they should lose

Their cogs o’ brose, they scar’d at blows

And so it goes ye see, man.

They’ve lost some gallant gentlemen

Amang the Heilan Clans, man;

I fear my Laird Panmuir is slain,

Or fa’n in whiggish hands, man

So, would ye sing this double flight,

Some fell for wrang and some for right,

And mony bid the warld gudenight;

So ye may tell how pell and mell,

Wi’ red claymore and muskets knell

Wi’ dyin’ yell the Tories fell,

And Whigs tae Hell did flee, man.

Théid Mi Dhachaigh Chrò Chinn t-Sàile, of which only two verses could be fit onto this CD, is thought to have been composed by a Highland soldier, mortally wounded at the afforementioned Battle of Sherrifmuir. He describes how he will return to Kintail, his body stretched out dead and his spirit arriving home before his earthly remains. As he puts it in a later verse, not included here; "Gabhaidh mi'n rathad mòr Chinn t-Sàile", I will take the High Road to Kintail, wherein one might detect the vaguest whiff of "Ye'll tak the High Road and I'll tak...blah, blah, blah...och Lo-o-o-o-mand" drifting in on the breeze.

Figure 1. shows the road and the miles from Sheriffmuir to Kintail. One of the potential foot trails, of the kind that a living soldier might take to get home, is shown in yellow. The more direct, or "High", road is shown in black. One can see how a spirit might get from point S to point K significantly faster travelling along geodesics such as these.

A map of Scotland showing the distance from Sheriffmuir to Kintail

Figure 1 Various routes across the west Highlands given as a function of the means of travel

Théid mi dhachaigh, hò rò dhachaigh,
Théid mi dhachaigh Chrodh Chinn t-Sàile.
Théid mi dhachaigh, hò rò dhachaigh,
Théid mi dhachaigh Chrodh Chinn t-Sàile.

I will go home, I will go home

to the cattlefolds of Kintail.

Théidh mi nam shineadh, nam shineadh, nam shineadh.

Théidh mi nam shineadh gan dàil ann.

Théidh mi nam shineadh, nam shineadh, nam shineadh.

Théid mi dhachaigh Chrodh Chinn t-Sàile.

I will go stretched out (on a bier).

I will go stretched out without delay.

Dan Houghton – Highland Pipes, Whistle, Guitar & Bouzouki

Boc Liath Nan Gobhar Is E Ag Iarraidh Mnà, The Shaggy Grey Buck Goat and he looking for Women [Does] (Trad.)
Leutenant MacGuire (Trad.)
Freya's Diplomacy (D. Houghton)
The Old Woman's Dance (D. Macleod)

Boc Liath Nan Gobhar is E ag Iarraidh Mnà, The Grey Buck Goat and He Looking for Women [Does], is a title which suggests that there is a very interesting story behind it though I cannot find lyrics to it anywhere. Those of you who have experienced the horrors of a buck goat on rut can fill in the blanks by means of your imaginations.

Goats knocking heads

Two goats in rut time

I composed Freya’s Diplomacy in honour of my daughter and her attitude toward life, her sense of independence and singularity of purpose when she gets what she wants in the cross hairs.  Lieutenant MacGuire and The Old Woman’s Dance, by Donald Macleod, are a pair of cracking old tunes that most likely crept into my head during the halcyon, Alan MacLeod days of the Tannahill Weavers.

Dan Houghton – Highland Pipes, Whistle, Guitar & Bouzouki

Emerald Rae – Fiddle

Braighe Bhanbha, The Braes of Banff  (Trad.)
Ho! 'Se Mo Rùn an t-Oighfhearr, Oh! My Love is a Young Man (Trad.)
Maggie Cameron (Trad.)
Am Monadh Mosg, Monymusk (Trad.)

I stole the idea of playing a set of tunes consisting entirely of Strathspeys from the band OBT, of which my dear friend and colleague, Jon Bews, is a member. In retrospect this format is not too dissimilar to that of a Scottish Country Dance Strathspey; the very same context in which I first heard and fell in love with Bràighe Bhanbha, The Braes of Banff

I used to labour under the assumption that the key of a tune made little to no difference and that it was the mode was the all important factor. The melody felt quite bagpipish so I tried

A photograph of The Braes of Banff

One of the braes of Banff. Isn't it nice?

playing it on the Borderpipes, in the key of A Mixolydian. To my surprise and astonishment, played like this it did nothing for me emotionally or otherwise. As soon as I repatriated it to its native key of F Mixolydian, however, it touched me in all the right places.

Ho! Se Mo Rùn An t-Oighfhear, Hurrah! My Love is a Young Man, comes from the Donald Macdonald MS (not the same Donald Macdonald mentioned hereinabove) and Maggie Cameron, a tune that I used to compete with before I became an actual musician.

House_of_Monymusk.jpg

Archie Grant's House

I threw in Am Monadh Mosg, The Fetted, or Stinking, Moor, (a.k.a. Sir Archibald Grant of Moneymusk) at the end, in Bb-mix, in part because it is an arse kicking tune, and because it afforded me the opportunity to have my wicked way with every bagpipe that I own in the space of one set.

Monymusk, the village, is located at 51º 13' 30" N, 2º 31' 23" W in deepest, darkest Mar and was the site of an Augustinian priory as early as A.D. 1200. The the aforementioned Sir Archibald Grant of Monymusk commissioned the construc–

tion of the modern village, in 1712, as housing for labourers on his estate/compound.

Dan Houghton – Highland Pipes,  Smallpipes, Whistle, Guitar & Bouzouki

Emerald Rae – Fiddle

Blackbird (J. Goodenough)
An Londubh, The Blackbird (Trad.)

I first heard Blackbird executed by Gordon Bok and it very quickly became an earworm, which has lasted for decades in spite of any of the medications that I have tried for it. Fortunately, according to impartial observers, I am the only one who can actually hear it out

loud when out in public. In my memory it will be forever associated with a night-time (mare) car trip from Manchester, Vermont, to New York with a burned out headlight fuse and I with a broken arm. This initial experience, coupled with subsequent incidents of sleeping under petrol station awnings or, indeed, in bushes during my travels, have created a deep sense of identification with the protagonist of this oration. Whilst I have turned several floating boats into submarines I have not, as yet, stolen a terminally ill horse; I’ll have to get to work on that one.

A Black Bird

A Black Bird

Blackbird, blackbird flying late,
Grease in the pot and ash in the grate,
They bar the door and shut the gate,
They’ve got no place for me.
The bottle’s empty and my head is sore,
I don’t know where I’ve been before,
Bar your gate and shut your door,
The Blackbird’s flying free.

Where’ve I been to? I don’t know
Broken fiddle and crooked bow
Holes in my boots and I’m walking slow,
As the last long shadows fall.
The boat I sailed lay down in the tide,
The horse I stole got lame and died,
I don’t need a friend, I don’t want a bride
The blackbird knows it all.

What’s this song the blackbird hears,

I sewed my days and I reaped my years,

Wi’ a basket of sins and a bucket of tears,

And I can’t come in to stay.

My life’s a tale that I don’t tell,

I did my worst and I did it well,

I never got to heaven but I stayed out of hell,

And still I’m on my way.

Where’m I going to sleep tonight,
I can’t turn left and I won’t turn right,
Where the road goes on in the cold moonlight
And the lonely blackbird cries.
I’m going to sleep in a lonely bed,
With white and whiter linen spread
A cold grey stone at my foot and head,
And pennies on my eyes.

Dan Houghton – Highland Pipes, Whistle, Guitar & Bouzouki

Emerald Rae – Fiddle

Fuaim nan Tonn Ri Chaisteil Dùn t-Sròin, The Sound of the Waves Against Duntroon Castle (Trad.)
Pipe Major Calum Campbell's Caprice (J.Wilson)
Duntroon Castle (Trad.)

Fuaim nan Tonn Ri Chaisteil Dùn t-Sròin, The Sound of the Waves Against Duntroon Castle, is the Ceòl Mór version of the final reel in this set, Duntroon Castle. Joe Wilson composed Pipe Major Calum Campbell’s Caprice for Calum Campbell who was said to be the only piper who could beat the mighty Donald Macleod in the competitions. Colonel Macleod was, well, a colonel in the army sometime in the past.

Duntroon Castle

Duntroon Castle. Note the absence of waves, though

Dan Houghton – Highland Pipes, Whistles, Bouzouki & Guitar

Dark Eyed Molly (A. Fisher)
Findlay MacRae (
P. Cunningham)

Though it was Archie Fisher who composed and first recorded Dark Eyed Molly way back in the day, the seminal version, to me, is that recorded by Stan Rogers. I have been thinking about recording it for years and now seemed as good, and as fitting a time as any particularly since my voice has finally changed and dropped into a range where it sounds half decent.
In conversation, Archie said that the words came from a Gaelic song translated by his mother, which he then set to a Basque melody.

Deep and dark are my true love’s eyes,
Blacker still is the winter's turning,
As the sadness of parting proves.
And brighter now is the lantern burning
That lightens my path to love.

No fiddle tune will take the air,
But I will see her swift feet advancing
And the swirl of her long black hair,
Her smiling face and her dark eyes glancing
As we stepped out Blinkbonny Fair.

And if my waiting prove in vain,
Then I will pack and track ever take me.
The long road will ease my pain.
No gem of womankind will make me
E’er whisper love's words again.

For in drink I’ll keep good company,
My ears will ring with the tavern's laughter,
And I’ll hear not her last sweet sighs.
Then who’s to know in the morning after
That I long for her dear dark eyes?

Phil Cunningham composed Findlay MacRae for his father-in-law who bizarrely enough has exactly the same name.

Dan Houghton – Whistle, Guitar, Bouzouki & Vocals

Miss Johnstone's Reel (D. Houghton)

The Miss Johnstone in question here was a schoolmate of mine long ago, in another lifetime.

Dan Houghton – Whistle, Guitar, Bouzouki & Smallpipes

Fear nan Casan Caola, The Man with the Skinny Legs (Trad.)
Jenny's Picking Cockles (Trad.)
The Swallow's Tail (Tr
ad.)

Fear nan Casan Caola, The Man With the Skinny Legs, was introduced to me almost half a lifetime ago by Gavin Marwick. It would appear to be an older and more melifluos version of the Rejected Suitor, whose strains, trills and heedrum–hodrums may so oft be heard emanating from the scenes of piping competitions. The two are the same, however, and Casan Caola may be found in Keith Norman Macdonald’s Skye Collection. It would appear that the Suitor in question was rejected on account of these skinny legs.
Jenny’s Picking Cockles and The Swallow’s Tail are two lovely wee Irish reels. I learned the second of these from the playing of Denis Ryan, of Ryan's Fancy, whilst falling asleep on my dad's lap at a gig in The Wise Owl in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia.

A photo of a random ma, in a kilt, with very skinny legs

A man with very skinny legs, indeed

Dan Houghton – Smallpipes, Whistles, Highland Pipes, Bouzouki & Guitar

Mad Tam of Bedlam (Trad.)
La Danse des Condamnés, The Dance of the Condemned (D. Houghton)
Burning of the Piper's Hut (D. Houghton)

In all the years that I have been breathing I have heard Mad Tam of Bedlam performed in a bouncy, jovial manner, which, to me, never quite fit the subject matter; the darkness, despair and alienation that mental illness can and usually did bring on, in times past, seemed to warrant a more macabre musical treatment.
The Bedlam Royal Hospital for the mentally ill was originally founded as the Priory of Ste. Mary of Bethlehem in 1247 near Bishopsgate in London and was the first facility in Europe to “treat” the mentally ill. Most of the song is thought to date from around 1620 by which time, the name Bethlehem, had been syncopated to Bethlam or Bedlam. Likewise, the Maudlin mentioned herein probably refers to the Magdalene Asylum, founded in Whitechapel (wherein occurred the Jack the Ripper murders) in 1758. The name later collapsed to Maudlin, according to the linguistic quirks of the region and it served as the model for the Magdalene Laundries, later made famous, and highly profitable, by the most holy Roman Catholic Church.

Inmate being hosed down in Bedlam

Bath time at Bedlam

Treatment of patients in the Bethlem Royal Hospital was notoriously horrific; so much so that the name Bedlam is now synonymous with chaos and pandemonium. Even more sinister is that the wealthy and bourgeois of London and its surrounds could pay a penny to visit the facility and observe inmates and their treatment/torture.The imagery in the lyrics is curious and Robert Graves, in The White Goddess, draws connections between the content of this song and that of several medieval tales and poems concerning sacred madness or the sacred fool, not least among them being the Irish tale, The Madness of King Suibhne. This song also continues the avian theme of the album.

For to see Mad Tam of Bedlam


Ten thousand miles I travelled


Mad Maudlin goes on dirty toes


For to save her shoes from gravel.

Ref
Yet well I sing bonny boys, bonny mad boys,
Bedlam Boys are bonny,
For they all go bare and they live in the air
And they want no drink nor money.

I went to Pluto's kitchen


To break my fast one morning


And there I got souls piping hot


That on the spit were turning.

There I took a cauldron


Where boiled ten thousand harlots


Though full of flame I drank the same


To the health of all such varlets.

My staff has murdered giants


My pack a long knife carries


To cut mince pies from children's thighs


With which to feed the fairies.

No gypsy, slut or doxy


Will take my mad Tam from me


I'll dance all night, with stars I'll fight


But the fray shall well become me.

Female inmate in Bedlam

Photograph of a female inmate of Bedlam

Torture devices in Bedlam

Sketch of a "treatment" apparatus used at Bedlam

From the hag and hungry goblin


That into rags would rend ye,


All the sprites that stand by the naked man


In the book of moons, defend ye.

The moon's my constant mistress, 


And the lonely owl my marrow; 


The flaming drake and the night crow make 
me

Music to my sorrow.

The spirits hot as lightening


Would on the journey guide me


The stars would shake and pale moon would quake


Whene’er they did espy me.

For to see Mad Tam of Bedlam


Ten thousand miles I travelled


Mad Maudlin goes on dirty toes


For to save her shoes from gravel.

I composed the first part of La Dance des Condamnés, The Dance of the Condemned, about ten years ago as an instrumental break to put  between verses of Mad Tam when first mocking it up. It feels to melike it is loosely based on a nameless An Dro dance tune which, despite its anonymity, was very popular in the pubs in the Finisterre back in the early two thousands. I added the second part during the Great Covid Quarantine of 2019.

There is some speculation that The Burning of the Piper’s Hut may be a reference to the Killing Times in the Highlands, following the Jacobite defeat at Culloden. My own hypothesis is that the title refers to the general, though affectionate, dislike of the people of the Village of the Indomitable Gauls for their bard Cacophonix.

Cacophonix the Bard

Cacophonix the Bard

Dan Houghton – Highland Pipes, Guitar, Mandolin, Vocals

Dan Frank – Bass Guitar

the end of which has been lost. It bears a striking resemblance to the Orpheus in the Underworld theme or, indeed, to what Joseph Campbell has termed, The Hero’s Journey just with a one way ticket. Don’t quote me on this; I have not researched it well enough at all. Versions of the first and second verse appear in Margaret Fay Shaw’s compendium, Folksongs & Folklore of South Uist, as separate songs.

Uaimh an Òir, The Cave of Gold (Trad.)

The song Uaimh an Òir, The Cave of Gold, comes from a folk tale that is found in various forms throughout the British Isles. The Skye version, at any rate, tells of a cave, believed, by the locals, to have been inhabited by a sort of monster guarding a treasure. The village piper who had no time for such nonsense tried to prove his point by walking into the cave playing his pipes accompanied by his dog (on guitar), just to show ‘em. Some minutes later the villagers who had assembled at the mouth of the cave to witness this spectacle, saw the dog come running out yelping with all the hair singed off its body. The piper never reemerged.

Many years later, a woman fetching water from a well, a mile or two away heard the voice of the piper coming up from the depths of the well. He was heard to sing about how he was trap-ped and menaced by something menacing, about how everything familiar to him would change before he would see his home again and how had left a light on in his house and was worried about the electric bill that he would have to contend with upon his return.

Conjecture though it may be, I suspect that this tale is but the beginning of the full story

The Cave

The Cave of Caer Bannog, complete with grafiti

Is truagh mi Rìgh gun trì làmhan,

Dà làimh ‘sa phìob, da làimh ‘sa phìob.

Is truagh mi Righ gun trì làmhan,

Dà laimh sa’ phìob is làmh sa’ chlaidheamh

It is a pity, oh God, that I do not have three hands,

Two for the pipes, two for the pipes.

It is a pity, oh God, that I do not have three hands,

Two for the pipes and one for the sword.

Seisd

Eadarainn a’ chruit, a’ chruit, a’ chruit

Eadarainn a’ chruit, mo chuideachd air m’fhàgail

Eadarainn a’ luaidh, a’ luaidh, a’ luaidh

Eadarainn a’ luaidh ‘s i ghall’ uain a shàraich mi

Refrain

Between us the harp, the harp
Between us the harp my companions have deserted me
Between us, my love, my love, my love
Between us my love, this pale bitch who is harassing me.

Mo thaobh fodham m’fheòl air bhreàthadh

Daol am shùil, daol am shùil

Dà bhior iarrainn gu sìor fhiaradh

Ann am ghlùin, ann am ghlùin

The flesh of my underside is putrefying.

There is a beetle in my eye, a beetle in my eye.

Two iron spikes are continually stabbing

Into my knee, into my knee

Bidh na minn mheigeach nan gobhar chreagach

Mun tig mise, mun till mis’ à

Uaimh an Òir, Uaimh an Òir

‘S na lothan cliata nan eich dhialta

Mun tig mise, mun till mis’ à

Uaimh an Òir, Uaimh an Òir

The bleating kids will be goats of the crags

Before I return, before I come back from the

Cave of Gold

The pastured colts will be saddled horses

Before I return, before I come back from the

Cave of Gold

Bidh na laoigh bheaga nan crodh eadraidh
Mun tig mise, mun till mis’ à

Uaimh an Òir, Uaimh an Òir

‘S na mic uchda nam fir fheachda
Mun tig mise, mun till mis’ à

Uaimh an Òir, Uaimh an Òir

The wee calves will be milking cows
Before I return, before I come back from the

Cave of Gold

And the boys on the lap will be armed men
Before I return, before I come back from the

Cave of Gold

‘S iomadh maighdeann òg fo ceud bhàrr

Théid a-null, théid a null

Mun tig mise, mun till mis’ à

Uaimh an Òir, Uaimh an Òir

Many’s the adolescent type of female in her first bloom

Will have passed beyond

Before I return, before I come back from the

Cave of Gold

Dan Houghton – Smallpipes, Vocals

Rachel Clemente – Clàrsach

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