336 WINTER. THE CORONACH. 



When the morning's breath 

 Blows across the heath, 



And the fern waves wide 

 On the mountain's side, 



'T is gladness to ride 



At the peep of dawn o'er the dewy moors ! 

 For the sportsmen have mounted the topmost crags, 

 And the fleet dogs bound o'er the mossy hags, 

 And the mist clears off, as the lagging sun 

 With his first ray gleams on the glancing gun, 

 And the startled grouse, and the black cock spring 

 At the well-known report on whirring wing. 

 Or wander we north, where the dun deer go 

 Unrestrained o'er the summits of huge Ben-y-gloe ; 

 And Glen Tilt, and Glen Bruar re-echo the sound 

 Of the hart held to bay by the deep-mouthed bloodhound, 

 And the eagle stoops down from Schehallien to claim, 

 With the fox and the raven, his share of the game. 

 But a cloud hath o'ershadowed the forest and waste, 

 And the Angel of Death on the whirlwind hath pass'd, 

 And the coronach rings on the mountains of Blair, 

 For the Lord of the woods and the moorlands bare. 



The moors ! the moors ! the desolate moors ! 

 When the mist thickens round, and the tempest roars ! 

 When the monarch of storm 



Bears his giant form 

 On some rock-built throne 

 That he claims for his own, 

 To survey the wild war on the desolate moors ! 



