Here Sleeps The Bard. (Highland Air.)

Here sleeps the Bard who knew so well All the sweet windings of Apollo's shell; Whether its music rolled like torrents near. Or died, like distant streamlets, on the ear. Sleep, sleep, mute bard; alike unheeded now The storm and zephyr sweep thy lifeless brow;— That storm, whose rush is like thy martial lay; That breeze which, like thy love-song, dies away!