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!
|
Sir Walter
Scott | Classic
Poems |
|
[ Coronach ] [ Gathering Song of Donald the Black ] [ Lochinvar ] [ The Rover ] |