Autumn is dark on the mountains, grey mist rests on the hills. The whirlwind is heard on the heath. Dark rolls the river through the narrow plain. A tree stands alone on the hill, and marks the grave of Connal. The leaves whirl round with the wind, and strew the grave of the dead. The soul of Connal is on his way to the isles of the ever-blue. There he walks with the heroes of old, on the resplendent walks of the clouds. But when shall we behold the host of the south? When shall they come with their sounds and their fire? Till they come, the steps of Connal will be near to the steps of his friends. Dear to his friends is the steps of the hero through the mournful vale. |