CORONACH br br br He is gone on the mountain, br He is lost to the forest, br Like a summer-dried fountain, br When our need was the sorest. br The font, reappearing, br From the rain-drops shall borrow, br But to us comes no cheering, br To Duncan no morrow! br br The hand of the reaper br Takes the ears that are hoary, br But the voice of the weeper br Wails manhood in glory. br The autumn winds rushing br Waft the leaves that are searest, br But our flower was in flushing, br When blighting was nearest.