The young widow blush'd, but sweet smiling she said,
"Dear sir, to dissemble I hate,
If we twa thegither are doom'd to be wed,
Folks needna contend against fate."
He took down the fiddle as dowie it hung,
An' put a' the thairms in tune,
The young widow dighted her cheeks an' she sung,
For her heart lap her sorrows aboon.
Now sound sleep the dead in his cauld bed o' clay,
For death still the dearest maun sever;
For now he 's forgot, an' his widow's fu' gay,
An' his fiddle 's as merry as ever.
LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF AN IRISH CHIEF.
He 's no more on the green hill, he has left the wide forest,
Whom, sad by the lone rill, thou, loved dame, deplorest:
We saw in his dim eye the beam of life quiver,
Its bright orb to light again no more for ever.
Loud twang'd thy bow, mighty youth, in the foray,
Dread gleam'd thy brand in the proud field of glory;
And when heroes sat round in the Psalter of Tara,
His counsel was sage as was fatal his arrow.
When in war's loud commotion the hostile Dane landed,
Or seen on the ocean with white sail expanded,
Like thee, swoll'n stream, down our steep vale that roarest,
Fierce was the chieftain that harass'd them sorest.
Proud stem of our ancient line, nipt while in budding,
Like sweet flowers' too early gem spring-fields bestudding,
Our noble pine 's fall'n, that waved on our mountain,—
Our mighty rock dash'd from the brink of our fountain.
Our lady is lonely, our halls are deserted—
The mighty is fallen, our hope is departed—
Loud wail for the fate from our clan that did sever,
Whom we shall behold again no more for ever.