But I hope the time is near, when sweet peace her olive wand To lay the fiend of war shall soon stretch o'er every land, When swords turn'd into ploughshares and pruning-hooks shall be, An' the nations a' live happy in their ain countrie. THE FIDDLER'S WIDOW. There was a musician wha play'd a good stick, He had a sweet wife an' a fiddle, An' in his profession he had right good luck At bridals his elbow to diddle. But ah! the poor fiddler soon chancéd to die, As a' men to dust must return; An' the poor widow cried, wi' the tear in her e'e, That as lang as she lived she wad mourn. Alane by the hearth she disconsolate sat, Lamenting the day that she saw, An' aye as she look'd on the fiddle she grat, That silent now hang on the wa'. Fair shane the red rose on the young widow's cheek, Sae newly weel washen wi' tears, As in came a younker some comfort to speak, Wha whisper'd fond love in her ears. "Dear lassie," he cried, "I am smit wi' your charms, Consent but to marry me now, I 'm as good as ever laid hair upon thairms, An' I 'll cheer baith the fiddle an' you." 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. THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER.