I played as they gorged on fowl and flesh.
Hoped there would be a morsel left for me.
When they had had their fill and
were drowsy with ale and mead,
I went outside to the courtyard where
folks were gathering for the dance.
Settled on a low wall, I fill the bag with air.
My fingers rest on the chanter and
start their gallop on the smooth familiar wood.
I play a cheery tune and the clogs sound the beat on the cobbles
as girls and boys start their merry dance.
Now here comes the groom wearing his best cap,
his bride’s hand in his, she in her best apron and coiffe.
As the crowd makes way for them, he leads her
into a fast branle and then into an almain.
He is a good dancer and keeps well to the music.
She follows as best she can, breathless and blushing.
So will their marriage be? He leading, her following.
They danced and danced until the moon rose,
and I played and played, stopping for a jug of ale
as and when the dancers allowed.
They danced and danced until the dawn
paled the skies behind the trees.
Now I play a slow lander to ease them
into thoughts of bed, love and sleep.
The bag is flat; I take out the chanter
and rest the drone on my shoulder
for the journey home.
Marie-Paule Sheard
Inspired by Bruegel’s painting, The Peasant Dance