'Tis he ! - Our noble Chieftain lies
Stretch'd on the turf before our eyes ;
His life-blood on the heathery ground
Drops slowly from the stiff'ning wound.
Tho' the hostile army flieth,
Widely scatter'd o'er the plain,
Icy cold in death he lieth,
Mingling with the lowly slain.
He is gone - our glorious chief-
Lasting be our tears and grief !

Beside him lies his faithful serf,
Bleeding and lifeless, on the turf, -
He, who still near his master kept,
Watch'd o'er him when fatigued he slept-
Sought with him, the hottest battle -
Shielded him he lov'd so well-
Unappall'd heard cannon rattle -
Then with his brave Chieftain fell.
Mac Morven did not die alone ;-
Mourn them both-they both are gone.

We will not bear them to his hall,
Nor lay them 'neath the funeral pall ; -
We will not chant the Coronach,-
It would not call their spirits back.
Lay them both beneath the heather,
Each wrapp'd in his bloody plaid ;-
They will soundly sleep together,
'Neath that weeping birch tree's shade.
Their rest will be as quiet there,
As 'neath piles of marble fair.

Oh strew no flowers upon the grave :-
There will the purple heather wave ;
And summer suns and vernal showers
Refresh its hardy leaves and flowers.
Now the sun's last light diminish'd
Scarcely shows the western hill :-
Now our mournful task is finish'd ;
But we linger near them still.
They are sleeping 'neath the turf-
Farewell, brave Chief, and faithful serf !