Lament written at a time when the Poet was about to leave Scotland

O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone mountain straying, Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave, What woes wring my heart while intently surveying The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave.

Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail, Ere ye toss me afar from my lov'd native shore; Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's green vale, The pride of my bosom, my Mary's no more.

No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll wander, And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave; No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her, For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave.

No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast, I haste with the storm to a far distant shore; Where unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest, And joy shall revisit my bosom no more.