BRIDGET CRUISE,'

BY THOMAS FURLONG.

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

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 na céuda̸ feár cliste, An-éclips Air meisge.
Ygéul é nách z-ceilea̸nn fíigh ní druídhe,
Méud úd gan eásbáidh, ag éágnách A legth-troim,

A ghéág óg ná m-báchall m-bán Agus m-buídhe: 'Yí géágán ná m-bán í, bréa̸gán ná bh-fea̸r í,

Géug Kg K m-bídheann táithneamh, cáil Agus gnKoídh, Mhéuduigh «r smál, Kgus do luígheKduigh Ar n-gean, A'd dhikizh-si le seal, ó d'fág tu-sa̸ An tír,

TK m'intinn Kir mea̸rbhAll, Kgus m'íntleKcht d'ʼn dAlladh, le trom-chiách le fádá, ló Agus d'oidhche,

'-dikigh do bhínn-bhria̸thár m-blásdá, ná g-crúínnchíocha nzeala,*

K 3-craébh-fholt m-brea̸gh, n-da̸ithte, is brea̸ghdha̸

Air bith píob;

Do zhrís-lea̸cá tháná, bhéurfádh fhoíseámh do lucht

galar,

D’fázbháis pián mór a̸ir fhea̸ráibh, tráth de do dhíth ; MK's bínn libh le n’Kithris, 's í Kn féijúín A chánkim,

Kch Koibhinn do'n d-talamh 'n Ar thárla̸igh, 's í
Brizhitt.

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 remain,
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.

leighios gach GALAR AH
T-uiscidhe.

Yul fá n'éirzhídh tú úir máidin biodh do dheár-lámh uáit rínte,

Már a bh-fa̸gh tu do bhuidéal de'n bhiotáile bhríoghmh«r; Yul fá n-déknáidh tú do choisreázádh cuir gráideóg fá do chroídhe dhe,

MK's maith leat 's K' t-sáoghal-so bheith buán, fulla̸in,

beódh,

Eirzhidh go tápáidh Agus fáisg ort do bhrístidh,

Já fán le do bhea̸rradh, do zhlánádh nó do chíoradh,
Nó go g-cuiridh tú bog-tha̸rra̸ing fá do sgáirtea̸ch' 's do
phíobán

De❜n n-Uiscídhe már Hectár, do choisgeás zách íotá,
A's ó mháidin zo h-óidhche cuirfeas ceileabhár A'd zhlór.

Is 10cshláinte An t-uiscídhe léigheásás Agus shlánúígheás Zách tinneas Agus Kicíd d'a̸ lea̸nánn síol Adhkimh ;

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 shall spread: 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: