Oh ， from the
  rock on the hill， from the top of the windy steep， speak， ye ghosts
  of the dead ！ Speak， I will not be afraid ！ Whither are ye gone to
  rest？ In what cave of the hill shall I find the departed ？ No feeble
  voice is on the gale： no answer half drowned in the storm！
  "I sit in my grief： I wait for morning in my tears ！ Rear the tomb，
  ye friends of the dead. Close it not till Colma come. My life flies away
  like a dream. Why should I stay behind？ Here shall I rest with my friends，
  by the stream of the sounding rock. When night comes on the hill when
  the loud winds arise my ghost shall stand in the blast， and mourn the
  death of my friends. The hunter shall hear from his booth ； he shall
  fear， but love my voice！ For sweet shall my voice be for my friends
  ： pleasant were her friends to Colma.
  "Such was thy song， Minona ， softly blushing daughter of Torman.
  Our tears descended for Colma ， and our souls were sad ！ Ullin came
  with his harp ； he gave the song of Alpin. The voice of Alpin was pleasant，
  the soul of Ryno was a beam of fire ！ But they had rested in the narrow
  house ： their voice had ceased in Selma！ Ullin had returned one day
  from the chase before the heroes fell. He heard their strife on the hill
  ： their song was soft， but sad！ They mourned the fall of Morar ， first
  of mortal men ！ His soul was like the soul of Fingal ： his sword like
  the sword of Oscar. But he fell ， and his father mourned ： his sister's
  eyes were full of tears. Minona's eyes were full of tears ， the sister
  of car-borne Morar. She retired from the song of Ullin， like the moon
  in the west ， when she foresees the shower ， and hides her fair head
  in a cloud. I touched the harp with Ullin ： the song of morning rose ！
  "Ryno. The wind and the rain are past ， calm is the noon of day.
  The clouds are divided in heaven. Over the green hills flies the inconstant
  sun. Red through the stony vale comes down the stream of the hill. Sweet
  are thy murmurs ， O stream ！ but more sweet is the voice I hear. It
  is the voice of Alpin ， the son of song， mourning for the dead！ Bent
  is his head of age： red his tearful eye. Alpin ， thou son of song ，
  why alone on the silent hill？ why complainest thou ， as a blast in the
  wood as a wave on the lonely shore？
  "Alpin. My tears， O Ryno ！ are for the dead my voice for those that
  have passed away. Tall thou art on the hill ； fair among the sons of
  the vale. But thou shalt fall like Morar： the mourner shall sit on thy
  tomb. The hills shall know thee no more ： thy bow shall lie in thy hall
  unstrung！
  "Thou wert swift， O Morar！ as a roe on the desert ： terrible as
  a meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as the storm. Thy sword in battle as lightning
  in the field. Thy voice was as a stream after rain， like thunder on distant
  hills. Many fell by thy arm ： they were consumed in the flames of thy
  wrath. But when thou didst return from war， how peaceful was thy brow.
  Thy face was like the sun after rain： like the moon in the silence of
  night ： calm as the breast of the lake when the loud wind is laid.
  "Narrow is thy dwelling now ！ dark the place of thine abode！ With
  three steps I compass thy grave ， O thou who wast so great before！ Four
  stones， with their heads of moss ， are the only memorial of thee. A
  tree with scarce a leaf ， long grass which whistles in the wind， mark
  to the hunter's eye the grave of the mighty Morar. Morar！ thou art low
  indeed. Thou hast no mother to mourn thee ， no maid with her tears of
  love. Dead is she that brought thee forth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglan.
  "Who on his staff is this ？