The Book of Scottish Song/He is gone on the mountain

He is gone on the mountain.

[Sir Walter Scott.—From "The Lady of the Lake."]

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, re-appearing,
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
Walls 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 correl,
Sage counsel in cumber,
Hed band 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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