A Piper's Night Before Christmas

In this festive episode, Jim and Andrew present another AI-penned Christmas poem: 'A Piper's Night Before Christmas,' featuring Jolly St Blow, the mythical Highland Loon, and an oddly defensive AI author... Enjoy, happy piping and Merry Christmas from all of us here at the Piper's Dojo!

Here's the uninterrupted masterpiece in all its glory.

A Piper's Night Before Christmas

By Elliot AI (aka ChatGPT)

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the hall 

Not a bag was deflating, no drones droned at all.  

The chanters were set by the fire with care

In hopes that fine reeds soon would be there. 

The pipers were nestled all snug in their beds. 

While visions of strathspeys danced in their heads.  

And I in my bonnet, kilt pleaded just right,  

Had just tuned my drones for a long winter's night. 

When out on the lawn there arose such a skirl, 

I sprang from my bed my tartan in a whirl.  

Away to the window I flew like a reel, 

Tore open the shutters and spun on my heel.

The moon on the pipes of the freshly tuned drones. 

Gave a luster like silver to bass reeds and tones.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear, 

but a miniature sleigh and eight pipers in gear.

With a sprightly old driver, his sporran aglow, 

I knew at a moment it must be St. Blow! 

More rapid than jigs his pipers they came, 

And he whistled and shouted and called them by name. 

Now strathspey, now reel, now march and air, 

On piobaireachd, on hornpipe, on jig, flare, beware.

To the top of the ceilidh, to the top of the ceil

Now play away, play away, highlanders with  zeal.

As reeds that before wild gusts must endure, 

They harmonized boldly, their pitch was pure. 

So up to the rooftop, the pipers they flew, 

With a sleigh full of reeds. And St. Blow, too.

And then, in a flurry, I heard on the roof 

The droning and tapping of each nimble hoof. 

As I drew in my breath, and was turning around, 

Down the chimney St. Blow came with a bound.

He was dressed in fine tartan, from his head to his foot, 

And his kilt was all tarnished with ashes and soot. 

A bagpipe he carried, so noble, so grand. 

The drones were of silver, the blowpipe in hand.

His eyes how they twinkled, his chanter so merry. 

His cheeks were like rosewood, his nose like a cherry. 

His smiling mouth held a reed ever tight  

And his beard seemed to sway with the highland delight.

The bag under his arm was plump and well tied, 

And he played a fine reel that filled me with pride. 

He had a round face and a belly to match, 

That shook as he tuned, like a lively quick march.

He was jolly and kind, a true piper to know, 

And I laughed when I saw him, the great Saint Blow. 

A wink of his eye, and a nod of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. 

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, 

Filled each piper's chanter, and turned with a smirk,  

And laying his blowstick aside of his nose,  

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. 

He sprang to his sleigh. To his team gave a tune, 

And away they all flew, like a fast highland loon. 

But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he scurrled out of sight, 

“Happy piping to all, and to all a good night!”