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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 rain-drops 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 searest,
But our flower was in
flushing,
When blighting was nearest.
Fleet
foot on the corrie,
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!
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