Modern reciter/Glenara

Oh! heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,
Where a band cometh slowly it weeping and wail?
'Tis the Chief of Glenara laments for his dear;
And her sire and her people are called to her bier.

Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud;
Her kinsmen they follow'd but mourned not aloud;
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;
They march'd all in silence—they look'd to 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 gray-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 dream'd of my lady, I dreamed 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!'

Oh! pale grew the cheek of the chieftain I ween;
When the shroud was unclosed, and no body was seen;
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!