D.M. (Denis) “Denny” Davidson

THEY PASSED YOUR WAY – THE STORY

My poem, “They Passed Your Way” is one of a trilogy. The poem, in its original form, was written to remind me of a lot of old military friends (I’m pushing 70). As you may have picked up on the reference to pipers (which I’m not), I had come to realize that a large number of my friends, all pipers, and a number of them were starting to depart for the Valhalla (the highlands in the great beyond).

With that in mind, and with the passing of one particular friend, Harry Madden, whom I had known for quite a few years, got me to jotting down phrases. Harry had written well over 200 pipe tunes in his life time. Two of the tunes he wrote in memory of my first wife and my first grandson.

That of itself deserved some response from me, and as I was not a piper, I decided to try and put words to a particular tune that he wrote just before he died. That tune ended up being a great marching tune and is called “Echoes of D Day”.

A word about Harry: first, Harry played both the great highland bagpipes and also the side drum (or any other highland drum – tenor or bass); second he wrote pipe tunes that were considered 3 and 4 star by the experts in Scotland; third he was known across Canada, the United States, and in Scotland (in Highland Piping circles), as the “Three Fingered Piper”; and four, he taught piping and drumming.

Harry served in the Canadian forces in WWII and Korea; he served in the Black Watch, Royal Canadian Navy, Royal Canadian Corps of Signals, a qualified jumper (Para), and worked as a civilian communication tech in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP). Quite an individual; loved his scotch and could be coaxed to play a wee tune for a dram.

Oh, did I mention, he also spoke Gaelic, and Harry was Black – an Afro-Canadian.

I all respects, a good friend and a good man so I started to put words to one of his tunes. He and I had just reviewed the first draft of the song when Harry passed away. As a result of his death, and the death of three more friends (all pipers) about the same time, I started to think about these people, Pipers.

Pipers were always ready to play, and in particular, play for people in the military or ex-military. I believe they actually loved their pipes and they loved playing them.

It was either that or they knew something the rest of us did not know. I think they come to know that when they die they’ll go to Valhalla. They must, they spend their whole lives playing tunes to and about soldiers, battles and places where they have served while in uniform.

That’s what led to the first poem.

He Passed My Way, A Piper

He passed my way a piper, his tunes I’ll not forget.
His pace was slow and steady, the cadence of a Vet.
His fingers stroked the chanter, his drones made mystic sounds;
His tune a tale of soldiers, who fought on foreign ground.
His pace was slow and steady, a metronome to sound.
His tunes he played for soldiers, who died on foreign ground.
His battle now is over; his pipes now make no sound,
No stroking of the chanter, for friends on foreign ground.
His chanter told of soldiers, his drones made mystic sounds.
His tunes still played for soldiers, who died on foreign ground.

I thought the above words expressed my feelings about Harry and pipers in general. Pipers I had had the privilege of knowing.

At about the time I had finished the last draft of the poem four young Canadians of Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry (P.P.C.L.I.), were killed at Kandahar and that bothered me quite a bit; not the fact of how they were killed, but because I had spent 37 years in the Canadian Forces, had served a year in Egypt with the U.N., and my two sons and son-in-law were in the forces (they were P.P.C.L.I. and Navy).

My sons and a son-in-law had all served with the U.N. in places like Cyprus, Bosnia, Kosovo, Germany, the Balkans, the Canadian Arctic, and the Adriatic Sea. All came through fine. One son and my son-in-law are on pension and my oldest boy is in his last five years before he goes on pension. The four Princess Pats that were killed bothered me quite a bit, so I rewrote the poem. I called that version Kandahar.

Kandahar

They passed our way young soldiers, their names we’ll not forget.
They marched to tunes of glory, with the cadence of a vet.
Their pipers stroked their chanters, the drones made mystic sounds;
The tune a tale of soldiers, who’d fight on foreign ground.
Their pace is slow and steady, a metronome to sound.
The tune now played for soldiers, who lie on foreign ground.
The pipers stroke their chanters, and drones make mystic sounds;
The tune an ode to soldiers, who died on foreign ground.
Their battle’s not forgotten, when pipes make mystic sounds;
When tunes tell tales of soldiers, who die on foreign ground.
Now we will all remember when sons are sent afar.
And pipers play a last lament in the hills at KANDAHAR.

That, I thought was the end of rewrites. Then we lost a few more at Kabul, again the rewriting for the third version

They Passed Your Way

They passed your way young soldiers, their names we’ll not forget.
They marched to tunes of glory, with the cadence of a vet.
Their pipers play their chanters, their drones make mystic sounds.
The tune an ode to soldiers, who’d fight on foreign ground;
Their pace was slow and steady, a metronome to sound.
They marched to tunes of glory, they died on foreign ground.
Their battle now is over; they’ll hear our pipes no more.
They are marching to Valhalla, on a far and distant shore.
They’ll rest there in Valhalla, where the sun will always shine;
Where the mist clings to the mountains, until the end of time.
Where pipers play their chanters, and drones make mystic sounds;
Where tunes are played for soldiers, who died on foreign ground.
Now we will all remember, when sons are sent afar,
That pipers played a last lament at Kabul, and Kandahar.

“MAY THEY REST BY THE SIDE OF THEIR GOD”