I seek not for rest—it is found in the grave—
And my skeleton bleach on the foam it is cast—
A link of the future—a wreck of the past.
But alas! if the doom of my kind must be mine,
If my bones in the land of decay must recline;
Seek me out some lone glen, some wild Highland vale,
Where the tempest's loud shriek shall my coronach wail.
A rude rugged land, with a wild heather sod,
Where the sun never shone, where man's foot never trod;
Where the gleam of the day falls with withering blight,