MARY A ROON.'

BY EDWARD LAWSON.

My sweet apple blossom, dear Mary, beware,

Lest the Munster man's flattery' your heart should ensnare;

His tongue is so oily, so roguish his eyes,

In one hour they would tell you whole hundreds of lies.

Much rather I'd see you for ever a maid,

A pale rose of the wilderness, languish and fade;
Than espous'd to a rover, whose profligate arts,
Seduce simple virgins and break their poor hearts.

How fondly I fancied that blooming in youth,
You'd be led by my voice, and inspired by my truth;
Each fair sunny morn when all nature look'd gay,
You shone the clear gem that illumined my way.

An cuimhneach lekt An oidhche ud, uim fhéile Brighde,

A rabha̸máir shíos Kir An MullKch mór,

Is duit-se, A fhKoíleann, thug me geán le díográis,
Már a bhidh tú Kóíbhinn, deKs, Kluinn, óg ;
Is tú zo cínnte, do mharbh m'intinn,

Agus lea̸gh ná Múmhán ní dhéanfadh mé slán 'Y 30 bh-fuil mo chroídhe stigh ná mhíle Piosá,

' ukir nách bhi-fágháim céad sínte le'm mhúipnín bhán.

A réiltionn mhín táis, ná tréig me chóidhche,
'YK likcht codla oidhche do chKill me lekt,
Tá fuil mo chroidhe stigh, 'ná brádáin chríona,
Le gean do'd zhnKoí, K's do'd cháil, & shea̸re ;
M'uch o'n och! 's mo mhíle brón zhuirt !

Gán an oidhche rómhám 's ine bheith póstá leát! Acht 'nois ó's eól dámh, go bráth nach gea̸bháir liom,

Mo mhíle stóirín, mo bheannacht leát!

With you the wild nut-groves delighted I'd range,
Immersed in soft raptures and fearless of change;
Oh! treasure of treasures, were you my reward,
With the soft hand of love your fair bosom I'd guard.

Last feast of Saint Bridget, ah! can you forget,
When on Mullamore's' summit transported we met;
But now you have plunged me in sorrowful gloom,
And hopeless of healing I sink to the tomb.

Sore, sore is my heart, it is rent to the core,

Beside Murneen Bawn I must never lean more;
Thou star of mild lustre, my prayer do not slight,
By day all my thoughts, all my visions by night.

Admiring, adoring, imploring thy ray,

My heart's blood grows congealed, and I wither away; But alas, you disdain me !—then break, oh my heart! My treasure of treasures for ever to part.

A Hórá an chúil ómpkich,

'Y é mo bhron-sá nách bhféudáim,

Lámh do chur fa̸oïd cheann-sá,

Ho Am-brollach do léine ;

Is tú d'fáig mo cheann-sá

Gán únsa̸ Kir bith céille,

A'r go n-éálócháinn tár tóínn legt,
A rúin-shea̸rc dá bh-féudfkinn.

2 bhkill íntinne mo chroídhe stigh,
Há déan-si liom bréáz,

A's gur gheall tú mo phósádh,

Gán feóirling 's An t-sáoghal,

YhiúbhKilfinn-se áir An n-drúchd leat,

A's ní bhrúighfinn leát An féusi,

A's Hóra án chúil ómraich,

Is deas A phógfinn do bheul.

HONOR OF THE AMBER LOCKS.

BY EDWARD LAWSON.

Sweet Honor of the amber locks,

'Tis to my sorrow, beauty's blossom; My hand can't prop your lovely head,

Nor touch your gently swelling bosom.

"Tis none but you my darling maid,

Of reason that has quite bereft me;

With

you I'd traverse oceans wide,

For you forget all else that's left me.

Most precious treasure of my heart,

With broken vows do not deride me;

How oft you promised to be mine,

Though worldly wealth was still denied me.

With you I'd trip the dewy lawn,

Nor bruise the green luxuriant grasses;

And still more tenderly I'd kiss,

Those pouting lips, my best of lasses.