He stands in his tartan and looks quite forlorn
And he tells them he’s really the Marquis of Lorne
And he winks at the tourists and he’s all set to go
In a busy lay-by on the road to Glencoe

He picked up his gear in a second-hand store
Down in the Grassmarket a twelvemonth before
And he says that the kilt he wears next to his skin
Is a sort of Mac Donald with some Stewart thrown in

At a pound for a minute he’ll play them a tune
And he says that he calls it "The Hills o’ Dunoon"
And he’s not really bothered, long as he gets his fee
Cause they can’t tell the difference, and neither can he

He’ll pose for their cameras for a few dollars more
To give them the edge on the people next door
He’s a real Highland piper for all that they know
Who comes from a lay-by on the road to Glencoe

Part two

He stands in the shadows by the road to Glencoe
And he’s seen them all come and he’s seen them all go
He cares nothing for the tourists who pass in their cars
His world is the heather, the hills and the stars

With the coming of evening he steps to the fore
And he sounds out the pibroch by glen and by moor
And all those who hear him will answer his call
For his name is McCrimmon, the flower o’ them all

His line is unbroken through age upon age
And his deeds they are written on history’s page
He’s marched with Montrose and with Bonnie Dundee
And he’s fallen at Culloden where the butchers ran free

He remembers those times when the land was unchanged
‘Ere the ways of the Gael were exploited and shamed
Though he knows that those times had their evils as well
The new ways are bringing their own kind of Hell

So he stands by the roadside on a high summer’s day
And he sees his traditions being bartered away
By a whole generation that he’ll never know
Till the only road left is the road to Glencoe