4
'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!
On the Death of Sir John Moore.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse o'er the ramparts we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,
O'er the grave where our hero was buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
