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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 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 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!
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