Thy head is crowned with stars, thy radiant hair
Shines like a river thro’ the twilight air;
Thou walkest by trodden ways and trackless seas,
Immaculate of man’s infirmities.
[CORONACH]
Come, pipes, sound
A crooning coronach round,
Till hill and hollow glen and shadowed lake o’erflow
With welling music of our woe.
Beat, beat, ye muffled drums, ye drones and chanters wail,