Immured in mortal forms to mourn.
Or if, as ancient sages ween,
Departed spirits, half-unseen,
Can mingle with the mortal throng;
'Tis when from heart to heart we roll
The deep-toned music of the soul,
That warbles in our Scottish song.
I hear, I hear, with awful dread,
The plaintive music of the dead;
They leave the amber fields of day: