Oban

A
Hundred
Pipers
Climb
The
Hill,
Every
Highland
Trill
A
Thrill.
The
Stately
Walk,
On
Parade,
In
An
Ancient
Cascade
Of
Sound,
Marching
Over
Scottish
Ground.
At
Home,
Triumphant
In
The
Sun,
Done
With
Battles
Of
The
Clan,
And
To
A
Man,
Scotland
Blessed,
In
The
Finest
Tartan
Dress.