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MAGGY LAIDIR.'

BY THOMAS FURLONG.

Here's first the toast, the pride and boast,

Our darling Maggy Laidir;

Let old and young, with ready tongue,
And open heart applaud her;

Again prepare-here's to the fair,

Whose smiles with joy have crown'd us; Then drain the bowl-for each gay soul, That's drinking here around us.

Come friends dont fail-to toast O'Neill,
Whose race our rights defended;
Maguire the true-O'Donnell too,
From eastern sires descended;

Gách A bh-fuil A d-talamh kicme Mháine,
Plán tre sheárc do'n d-tKóíbh-sin.
'SA la̸ízheán na lánn, bá búíoghmhár, teann
A máóín, A z-clánn, sa̸ n-díoghladh.

Líon an mheadhir do'n n-a̸rd-ea̸sbog,
Grádh a's sea̸re na n-daoine;

Líon an mheádáir do'n n-átháir Peáttár,

so an teázász fire :

Cá chukch, trí curáin do'n n-átháir Tomás,

Is bínn A chómhrádh díleKs;

Stiall K's canna do'n n-átháir Ceallaich,
Dia d'a̸ thea̸gásg choidhche,

Líon an sgala, so dha̸óíbh sláinte,

Ulltkich dána 'r Muimhnich!

Sláinte la̸ízhnich, An luchd meádhrách,

A's Chonnacht' ná máíghdeán szíámhách !

Líon An chátá leis an sgála̸';

A m-breall zo h-Krd Air dhKóíthibh, Le'r mhiann Cire chlaoidh 30 h-éigceart, Al Dhik, bidh tréun le Záédhláibh!

Up! up again-the tribe of Maine,
In danger never fail❜d us ;

With Leinster's spear for ever near,
When foemen have assail'd us.

The madder fill with right good will,

There's sure no joy like drinking

Our bishop's name-this draught must claim, Come let us have no shrinking;

His name is dear-and with him hère,

We'll join old Father Peter;

And as he steers thro' life's long years,
May life to him seem sweeter.

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Come mark the call-and drink to all
Old Ireland's tribes so glorious,
Who still have stood-in fields of blood,
Unbroken and victorious :

Long as of old, may Connaught hold

Her boast of peerless beauty;' And Leinster shew to friend and foe, Her sons all prompt for duty.

Zách neách nách ólfadh, cla̸óídh 'gus brón Air,

Yláinte chóip na h-Eireán !

Míle gráin Kir, sgián 'ná zhárradh,

Pián K's plágha̸ Eigipt !

'Y gach neach nách iárrfa̸dh An Aisc chéadna,

Go raibh na pia̸sda Kz créim Kir !

A's é Kir misge ó cháol-uisge,

A n-dolás broide A's péine!

Muc, ím, buleán, ró5h sách rolá,
Oig-fhir 10mlána, Záédhlach,

Peustá fire chlanná Míle,

A's féurda chroídhe ná féile;
Fleadh do shkruigh, flea̸dh na n-ársa̸idh,
A's uile dháimh na n-Deithe;

Fleadh na n-uásál, 'sa̸ mol-chualachd,
Feurta buan Mhilésius.

Déanám gáirdeas, cosa̸ 'n-Kirde,

dár n-domhnách, táim-si Kir meisge! Damhar Múimhneách, fá g-cuáirt thríð linn !

So An t-Koibhneás clisde ;

A curse for those, who dare oppose

Our country's claim for freedom ;

May none appear-the knaves to hear,

Or none who hear 'em heed 'em :

May famine fall upon them all,

, May pests and plagues confound then, And heartfelt care and black despair,

Till life's last hour surround them.

May lasting joys attend the boys

Who love the land that bore us;

Still may they share such friendly fare,

As this that spreads before us.

May social cheer like what we've here,

For ever stand to greet them;

And hearts as sound as those around,

Be ready still to meet them.

Come raise the voice! rejoice, rejoice,

Fast, fast, the dawn's advancing; My eyes grow dim-but every limb

Seems quite agog for dancing:

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