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! 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 call'd to her bier.

Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud, Her kinsmen they followed but mourned not aloud; Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around; They marched all in silence—they looked to the ground.

In silence they reached 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 displayed.

"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,