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 reaper¹

    Takes the ears that are hoary²，

    But the voice of the weeper

    Wails³ manhood in glory.

    The autumn winds rushing

    Waft⁴ the leaves that are serest，

    But our flower was in flushing

    When blighting⁵ was nearest.

    Fleet foot on the correi，

    Sage⁶ counsel in cumber⁷，

    Red hand in the foray，

    How sound is thy slumber⁸！

    Like the dew on the mountain，

    Like the foam⁹ on the river，

    Like the bubble on the fountain，

    Thou art gone， and for ever！