GRACEY NUGENT.1

BY THOMAS FURLONG.

Oh! joy to the blossom of white-bosom'd maids,
To the girl whose young glance is endearing,
Whose smile, like enchantment, each circle pervades,
She who makes even loneliness cheering.

Oh! he that beholds thee by night or day,

He who sees thee in beauty before him,
Tho' stricken and spell-bound may smile and say,
That he blesses the charm that's o'er him

Her neck is like snow-rich and curling her hair,
Her looks like the sun when declining;

Oh! happy is he who may gaze on the fair,
While her white arms round him are twining :
Her words are all joyous-and mildly the while
Her soft blue eyes seem glancing;

And her varying blush and dimpled smile,

With those eyes and tones are entrancing.

Súd már A deirim leis Kn óíg-mhníóí t-séimh,
bh-fuil glór ní 's binne 'ní ceól ná n-éun,
Hí’l siáns ná grea̸nn da̸r smuu̸ínigh ceann,
Hách bh-fághthár go cínnte Kg GrKesi.

A lúb ná séud, is dlúith-dheás deúd,

A chúil na z-cráébh 's ná bh-fáinnea̸dha,

Gidh ionmhuin liom féin thú, stádkim deʼn szeúl;—

Achd d'ólfáinn gán bhréig do shláinte.

Then joy to young Gracey, the gentle dame, "Tis bliss on one's pathway to meet her;

Where ! where's the proud spirit her voice cannot tame?
Oh! where is the sound can be sweeter?

'Tis soothing the song of the birds to hear-
But her tones are yet more thrilling ;
But where's the bowl ?-let the bowl be near,
And I'll finish the theme while filling.

Maible theiмh 4-1 CHEALLAICH.

Cearbhallán ró chán.

Cik b'e bh-fuil sé á n-dán do,

A lámh-dhe ́s bheith fíóí ná ceann,

Is deimhin nach eagal bás do,

Go brách ná 'n bheidh bheith tinn,

A chúil dheir ná m-bácháll bh-fáinneach, bh-fionn,

A chuim már An EAllA Kg snámhadh Air An d-tóinn, Grádh 'gus spéis gách gásrKidh, Máible shéimh n-í Cheallaigh,

Déud is deise leagadh Ann Arus A céinn.

i'l ceol d' bhinne fór d'ar seinneadh,

'n bh'eolzhach dhi-si thuigsin 's A rádh Ann zách cém A grua̸dh már rós Ag drithleadh, is buán 'n A 3-cómhársá

An lile,

A rosz is míne, glúise 'ná bláith ná g-cráébh :

'Sé deir olldhamh molltá chláir shíl Héill,

Go g-cuirfeadh na corpádhá chodlá le sa̸r-zhwith A beíl,

Hi'l Amhrus Ann A súil bhrea̸gh, lonnách,

Acht óltár linn go grínn do shláinte mháith féin.

MILD MABLE KELLY.'

BY THOMAS FURLONG.

Oh! blest is the youth by kind fortune selected,
Who clasps to his bosom my own blushing maid,
By him may the warnings of fate be neglected,
Nor sickness nor sorrow his joys shall invade.
How richly, how softly thy young tresses fall,—

Thy shape seems more light than the swan's on the

wave,

The love, the delight, the gay idol of all,

The spur for the sluggard-the spell for the brave;

Oh! mild Mable Kelly, how lovely art thou,

Thy skill in each strain let the minstrels avow—
Thy soft cheeks disclose

The mix'd lily and rose,

And thy breath comes like blossoms just plucked from

the bough.

The bard of the chieftain-the bard of O'Neill

Will say that thy song seems more sweet to his ear, Than the murmur of waterfalls heard thro' the vale,

When the heart-parching heats of the summer are near.