The harp of Scotia dear,
   That oft in joy was strung;
Alas! 'tis silent now,
   And on the willows hung.
The balmy breath of morn
   A wakes no more the strain,
And to the gloamin' gale
   It kindles not again!

The minstrels famed in song,
   Who gave to song its fame-
Ah! whither have they fled,
   The high of note and name?
Alas! not to the bowers
   Of song, and summer fair,
But in the tuneless grave,
   We mark the mighty there!

The cloud that gathering comes
   Across the evening sky,
Obscures in heavy gloom
   The fair stars clust'ring high;
So came the cloud of death,
   While yet we thought it day,
And in the gloom of night
   Took all our stars away.

The groves may yet be green,
   The valleys still be gay,
And down the sunny glen
   The blackbird pour his lay;
But Scotia's harp no more
   Swells in the vocal throng,
Nor heard the minstrel's voice
In rapture and in song!

	Robert Gilfillan

	Tune - "Hame, hame, to my ain countrie"