Coronach

    He is gone on the mountain，

    He is lost to the forest，

    Like a summer-dried fountain，

    When our need was the sorest.

    The font reappearing

    From the raindrops shall borrow，

    But to us comes no cheering，

    To Duncan no morrow！

    The hand of the reaper

    Takes the ears that are hoary，

    But the voice of the weeper

    Wails manhood in glory.

    The autumn winds rushing

    Waft the leaves that are serest，

    But our flower was in flushing

    When blighting was nearest.

    Fleet foot on the correi，

    Sage counsel in cumber，

    Red hand in the foray，

    How sound is thy slumber！

    Like the dew on the mountain，

    Like the foam on the river，

    Like the bubble on the fountain，

    Thou art gone， and for ever！