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！
