| Share page | Visit Us On FB |
|
The Song Book 293
Now, dead to the honour and pride I inherit,
Not the blow of a vassal could rouse my sad spirit!
Tho' insult or injury now should oppress me,
My protector is gone, and nought else can distress me.
Deaf to my loud sorrow, and blind to my weeping,
My aid, my support, in yon chapel lies sleeping;
In that cold narrow bed he shall slumber for ever,
Yet nought from my fancy his image can sever.
He that sharM the kind breast which my infancy nourish'd, Now, hid in the earth, leaves no trace where he flourish'd. No obsequies fitting his pale corse adorning, No funeral honours to soothe our long mourning, No virgins high-born, with their tears to bedew thee, To deck out thy grave, or with flow'rets to strew thee. My sorrow, deep sorrow, incessant returning, Time still as it flies adds increase to my mourning.
Words (translated from the original Gaelic) by Mrs. Grant. Tune Macgregor of Ruara's Lament. |
||