PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU

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, 10

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 ! 20

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

PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU
PIBROCH of Donuil Dhu,
Pibroch of Donuil,
Wake thy wild voice anew,
* Summon Clan-ConuiL
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