by Walter Scott, Sir (1771 - 1832)
Translation © by Salvador Pila

He is gone on the mountain
Language: English 
Available translation(s): CAT
He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,
When our need was the sorest.
The font, re-appearing,
From the rain-drops shall borrow,
But to us comes no cheering,
To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory;
The autumn winds rushing
Waft the leaves that are searest,
But our flower was in flushing,
When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi1,
Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,
How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and for ever!

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View original text (without footnotes)

Confirmed with The Lady of the Lake. A Poem. By Walter Scott, Esq. The fourth edition. Edinburgh: Printed for John Ballantyne and Co. Edinburgh; and Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown, and W. Miller, London. 1810, pages 117-118.

1 Or corri. The hollow side of the hill, where game usually lies. (Scott's own footnote)


Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):

Settings in other languages, adaptations, or excerpts:

Other available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):

  • CAT Catalan (Català) (Salvador Pila) , "Coronach", copyright © 2019, (re)printed on this website with kind permission

Research team for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator] , Peter Rastl [Guest Editor]

This text was added to the website: 2003-11-07
Line count: 24
Word count: 124

Language: Catalan (Català)  after the English 
Ens ha deixat, ha marxat
lluny de les muntanyes i dels boscos,
com una font que s’asseca,
quan la fretura ens oprimia.
La font tornarà a rajar,
nodrida per la pluja,
però, per a nosaltres, no lluirà mai més la joia
i per a Duncan no hi haurà cap més demà.

La mà del segador
aplega les espigues madures,
el nostre cant de dol
plora la florida joventut,
el vent de la tardor arrossega les fulles,
les engroguides, les marcides,
però la nostra flor brostava
quan el verdet la consumia.

Vosaltres, peus lleugers,
tu, consell en el destret,
tu, braç en la batalla,
que profund és el vostre son!
Com la rosada a les muntanyes,
com l’escuma al rierol,
com el bombolleig de la font,
has marxat per sempre.


  • Translation from English to Catalan (Català) copyright © 2019 by Salvador Pila, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.

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This text was added to the website: 2019-02-21
Line count: 24
Word count: 129