"In the grasses and the bracken," said Gilian, singing it to himself as if it were a coronach.
In every house there would be a crying of the death wail—the coronach of sorrow.
After every fight will not some mother be crooning the coronach for her dear son?
And now comes the ghostly music of the coronach: they are burying the dead.
But when they fell there was none to sing ...