The sun, with fiery gleam,
Scattered the feath'ry clouds, as in a dream
The spirits of the dead are softly swept
From severed visions sweet. A low wind crept
Around with falt'ring steps, and, pausing, sighed--
Then fled to murmur from the mountain side
Amid the pine-tree shade; while all aglow
Ben-Wyvis bared a crest of shining snow
In barren splendour o'er the slumbering strath;
While some sat trembling, fearing Garry's wrath,
Some feared the coming of the foe, and some
Had vague forebodings, and were brooding dumb,
And longed to greet the huntsmen. Mothers laid
Their babes to sleep, and many a gentle maid
Sighed for her lover in that lone stockade;
And one who sat apart, with pensive eye,
Thus sang to hear the peewee's plaintive cry--

_Peewee, peewee, crying sweet,
Crying early, crying late--
Will your voice be never weary
Crying for your mate?
Other hearts than thine are lonely,
Other hearts must wait.

Peewee, peewee, I'd be flying
O'er the hills and o'er the sea,
Till I found the love I long for
Whereso'er he'd be--