Classic Poem

Sad and heart-sore my weeping, for I find myself tonight without rest, without peace, without cheer;
With no will for aught that profiteth, without hope to be well; my joy is vanished for ever more.
My substance hath waxed listless, cause of my grief each day, as ever I recount the ways of my dear one;
My grief for Roderick's son of galleys, his a hand to lavish wealth, who esteemed the minstrel's lay.
It is thinking of thee that hath tortured my body, and wasted the lashes from mine eyes;
Thinking sadly and sorrowfully, and ever vainly recalling thee, and longing for thee as well thou didst deserve;
Longing for my dear MacLeod, as he lies wrapped in his thin shroud of satin, with no cover at his side save boards.
Since the day thy mouth was sealed, minstrels have gone in want, whenas thou thyself wouldst have scattered riches.
The bards have spread a report of thee, far as their steps have led, that a countenance more liberal they never saw.
There was beauty in thine aspect, and thou hadst a presence among hundreds, such as I never heard that three possessed among them.
This MacLeod who is over us is grieved, and that deeply; no marvel, for he hath lost his helm;
He hath lost the choice of his flock, who had the foresight of hundreds, and the choicest of rare pilots.
Rare hunter in a forest, without guile to the royal house, and a loyal servant of the crown;
Thy kindred are in gloom, and those of every name around, since thy tomb was made ready in the vault,
For the prime warrior agile and strong in the battle of hundreds; in that onset thou wert not sluggish;
Thine a hand heroic and hardy in contest and in every victory; thy nobility, dear one, is no longer my support.
Thy mansion is in gloom, without mirth, without pomp, where often we have received a feast.