“Alpin.  My tears, O Ryno! are for the dead my voice for those that have passed away.  Tall thou art on the hill; fair among the sons of the vale.  But thou shalt fall like Morar:  the mourner shall sit on thy tomb.  The hills shall know thee no more:  thy bow shall lie in thy hall unstrung!

“Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a roe on the desert:  terrible as a meteor of fire.  Thy wrath was as the storm.  Thy sword in battle as lightning in the field.  Thy voice was as a stream after rain, like thunder on distant hills.  Many fell by thy arm:  they were consumed in the flames of thy wrath.  But when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was thy brow.  Thy face was like the sun after rain:  like the moon in the silence of night:  calm as the breast of the lake when the loud wind is laid.

“Narrow is thy dwelling now! dark the place of thine abode!  With three steps I compass thy grave, O thou who wast so great before!  Four stones, with their heads of moss, are the only memorial of thee.  A tree with scarce a leaf, long grass which whistles in the wind, mark to the hunter’s eye the grave of the mighty Morar.  Morar! thou art low indeed.  Thou hast no mother to mourn thee, no maid with her tears of love.  Dead is she that brought thee forth.  Fallen is the daughter of Morglan.

“Who on his staff is this?  Who is this whose head is white with age, whose eyes are red with tears, who quakes at every step?  It is thy father, O Morar! the father of no son but thee.  He heard of thy fame in war, he heard of foes dispersed.  He heard of Morar’s renown, why did he not hear of his wound?  Weep, thou father of Morar!  Weep, but thy son heareth thee not.  Deep is the sleep of the dead, low their pillow of dust.  No more shall he hear thy voice, no more awake at thy call.  When shall it be morn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake?  Farewell, thou bravest of men! thou conqueror in the field! but the field shall see thee no more, nor the dark wood be lightened with the splendour of thy steel.  Thou has left no son.  The song shall preserve thy name.  Future times shall hear of thee they shall hear of the fallen Morar!

“The grief of all arose, but most the bursting sigh of Armin.  He remembers the death of his son, who fell in the days of his youth.  Carmor was near the hero, the chief of the echoing Galmal.  Why burst the sigh of Armin? he said.  Is there a cause to mourn?  The song comes with its music to melt and please the soul.  It is like soft mist that, rising from a lake, pours on the silent vale; the green flowers are filled with dew, but the sun returns in his strength, and the mist is gone.  Why art thou sad, O Armin, chief of sea-surrounded Gorma?

“Sad I am! nor small is my cause of woe!  Carmor, thou hast lost no son; thou hast lost no daughter of beauty.  Colgar the valiant lives, and Annira, fairest maid.  The boughs of thy house ascend, O Carmor! but Armin is the last of his race.  Dark is thy bed, O Daura! deep thy sleep in the tomb!  When shalt thou wake with thy songs? with all thy voice of music?