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MAC CABE'S ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF

CAROLAN.

BY THOMAS FURLONG.

Woe is my portion! unremitting woe!

Idly and wildly in my grief I rave ;

Thy song, my Turlogh, shall be sung no more-
Thro' festive halls no more thy strains shall flow:
The thrilling music of thy harp is o'er-
The hand that wak'd it moulders in the grave.

I start at dawn-I mark the country's gloom—

O'er the green hills a heavy cloud appears ;Aid me, kind Heaven, to bear my bitter doom, To check my murmurs, and restrain my tears.

Oh! gracious God! how lonely are my days,

At night sleep comes not to these wearied eyes, Nor beams one hope my sinking heart to raiseIn Turlogh's grave each hope that cheer'd me lies.

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A rígh ná g-cárád! nách Kisdeách ná cúrsa̸dha é ?

Az luidhe dhamh air mo leábadh nách z-codlánn me

shúil Kén néull !

Táid pianta delerách' dul társná tré lár mo chléibh ;— 'YA Thoirdhealbhaich úí Cheapbhálláin, 's diombáidh liom tú fínnte 3-cré !

Zuídhim-s Komh dominic, Komh Proinsiás, Ar Komh Clárú,

Y na h-iliomad Yaoimh, fáóí dhídheán ná cáthrách

nexmhdha,

Fa fháilte thabhairt d' Anám Thoirdhealbhaich ann á

n-Krus,

'Y A likcht port sa̸óítheámháil do shéinn sé áir án

g-clKipsigh.

Oh! ye blest spirits, dwelling with your God,
Hymning his praise as ages roll along,
Receive my Turlogh in your bright abode,
And bid him aid you in your sacred song.

NOTES.

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