Oh ! turn thee to me my only love,

Let not despair confound me,
Turn! and may blessings from above

In life and death surround thee.
This fond heart throbs for thee alone,

Oh ! leave me not to languish,
Look on those eyes whence sleep hath flown,

Bethink thee of my anguish;
My hopes—my thoughts-my destiny-
All dwell, all rest, sweet girl, on thee.

Young bud of beauty for ever bright,

The proudest must bow before thee; Source of my sorrow and my delight

Oh! must I in vain adore thee? Where, where, through earth's extended round, Where may such loveliness be found? Talk not of fair ones known of

yore ; Speak not of Deirdre the renown’d, 3

She whose gay glance each minstrel hail'd; Nor she whom the daring Dardan bore From her fond husband's longing arms; Name not the dame whose fatal charms

When weigh'd against a world prevail'd :

Tá ná céudá feár cliste, An-éclips Kir meisge.
Ygéul é nách z-ceilea̸nn fáigh ní druídhe,
Méud úd zan easbaidh, ág éágnách a leáth-troim,
A ghéa̸g óg ná m-báchall m-bán Agus m-buídhe :
'Yí géágán ná m-bán í, bréa̸gán ná bh-fea̸r í,

Géuz Kg K m-bídheann táithneamh, cáil Kgus gnKoídh,
Mhéuduigh Ar smál, Agus do lúízheKduigh Ar n-gean,
A’d dhikigh-si le sekl, ó d'fág tu-sa̸ An tír,

TK m'intinn Kir mea̸rbha̸ll, Kgus m'íntleKcht d'a̸ DALLASH, le trom-chikch le fádá, ló Agus d'óídhche,

'-dikizh do bhínn-bhriáthár m-blásdá, ná g-crúínnchíocha nzealaA,*

YK 3-cráébh-fholt m-brea̸gh, n-dáithte, is breázhdhá Kir bith píob;

do zhrís-leaca tháná, bhéurfádh fa̸óíseámh do lucht galap,

d'fázbháis pián mór a̸ir fheáráibh, tráth de do dhíth ; MK's binn libh le n’Kithris, 's í An féiríín á chándim,

Kch Koíbhinn do'n d-talamh 'n Ar thárla̸igh, 's í
Bríghitt.

To each some fleeting beauty might fall,

Lovely! thrice lovely, might they be; But the gifts and graces of each and all

Are mingled sweet maid in thee!

How the entranc'd ear all fondly lingers,

On the turns of thy thrilling song;
How brightens each eye as thy fair white fingers

O'er the chords fly lightly along:
The noble, the learn'd, the ag'd, the vain,
Gaze on the songstress and bless the strain,
How winning, dear girl, is thine air,
How glossy thy golden hair :
Oh ! lov'd one come back again,

With thy train of adorers about thee,-
Oh! come, for in grief and in gloom we remais,

Life is not life without thee.

My memory wanders ! my thoughts have stray'd

My gath’ring sorrows oppress me;
Oh ! look on thy victim, bright peerless maid,

Say one kind word to bless me.
Why! why on thy beauty must I dwell,
When each tortur'd heart knows its power too well;
Or why will I say that favor'd and bless'd

Must be the proud land that bore thee?Oh! dull is the eye! and cold is the breast

That remains unmov'd before thee.

VOL. I.

Leighior GACH GALAP AH
T-uifcidhe.

Yul fá n'éirzhídh tú Kir múidin bíodh do dheks-lámh ukit

rínte,

Már a bh-fa̸gh tu do bhuidéal de'n bhiotáile bhríoghmhar; Yul fá n-déanaidh tú do choirreázádh cuir gráideóg fá do chroídhe dhe,

Ma's maith leat 's a' t-saoghal-so bheith buán, fulláin, beódh,

Eirzhidh go tápáidh Agus fáisg ort do bhrístidh,

Há fán le do bhea̸rradh, do zhlánádh nó do chíoradh,

43 30 3-cuiridh tú bog-thárráing fá do sgáirteach' 's do phíobán

de'n n-Uircídhe már Hectár, do choisgeás zách íotá,

A's ó mhidin 30 h-oidhche cuippeás ceileabhár á'd zhlór.

Is iocshláinte An t-uiscídhe léigheásás Agus shlánuígheKs
Zách tinneas Agus Kicíd d’á legnánn síol Adháimh ;

WHISKEY IS THE POTION THAT CAN

CURE EVERY ILL,

BY THOMAS FURLONG.

At the dawning of the morn, ere you start from the bed, Try and clear away the vapours which the night has shed,

If drowsy or if dull,

At the bottle take a pull, And comfort thro’your bosom the gay draught shallspread:

Moist’ning, cheering, life-endearing,

Humour-lending, mirth-extending-
Be the whiskey ever near thee thro' the day and the night;

'Tis the cordial for all ages,
Each evil it assuages
And to bards, and saints, and sages

Gives joy, life, and light.

Oh! whiskey is the potion that can cure every ill, "Tis the charm that can work beyond the doctor's skill;

If sad, or sick, or sore,

Take a bumper brimming o'er,
And sprightliness and jollity shall bless thee still :