O HEARD ye yon pibrach sound sad in the gale,
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?
’Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear;
And her sire, and the people, are call’d to her bier.

Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud;
Her kinsmen they follow’d, but mourn’d not aloud:
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around:
They march’d all in silence—they look d on the ground.

In silence they reach’d over mountain and moor,
To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar;
Now here let us place the grey stone of her cairn:
‘Why speak ye no word!’—said Glenara the stern.

‘And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouse,
‘Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?’
So spake the rude chieftain:—no answer is made,
But each mantle unfolding a dagger display’d.

‘I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud,’
Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud;
‘And empty that shroud, and that coffin did seem:
‘Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!’

O! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween,
When the shroud was unclos’d, and no lady was seen;
When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn,
’Twas the youth who had lov’d the fair Ellen of Lorn:

‘I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,
‘I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief;
‘On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem;
‘Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!’

In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
And the desert reveal’d where his lady was found;
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne,
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!