Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian

T I G H M R A.
DUAN III.
Who is he by blue-flowing Lubar,
'Neath the curving slant hill of deer,
Tall, leaning his back to a tree
Which the dark mountain blast has riven ?
Who is it but Cumhal's great son, 5
Kindling 'mid the last of his battles,
With grey locks on the mountain wind,
While he draws dreadful Luno's sword ?
His fierce eye is on Moilen's field,
On brave foes that are darkly moving. 10
Dost thou not hear the king's voice rising,
Like the rushing streams of the hills,
When sounding they come from the knolls
On fields 'neath the withering sun ?
" Strongly flanked, the foe is descending. 15
Race of wooded Selma, be up ;
Be ye like the rocks of our land,
Around whose dark sides wind the streams.