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Oh! many joyous years may my friend still see,
This—this my fond pray'r to the last must be ;

Let the country all around

With my Stafford's praise resound,
As the lover of wild merriment and harınony:

Filling, quaffing,
Joking, laughing,
Ever pleasing,

Never teazing,
Still plying the gay bard with the song-fraught wine;

Oh! Stafford dear thou art,
To this old but honest heart,
Aye! its fondest, warmest part

Throbs for thee and thine.

eAdbhart o'coreraiH.
Cearbhallán ró chán.

9|ách é €«Sbhápt ở Copeptin án ru«nách jlégheal, An leómhán breágh, someándá, soilbhir, céillídhe ? de'n n-uaisle ghrinne do zeineadh ó ghKédhláibh ;

A's nách sa̸óítheámhuil,cuideachtámhuil, oineáchámhuil tréidheach é?

Air chukirt chum na h-áite beidh báire Air zách machaire,

Olam A shláinte, grádh mo chróidhe an prea̸ba̸ire ;

Cá bh-fuil feár A bha̸rrtha̸ ó'n n-Gráinsigh zo Záileng ? Béurfás gleóidh do ná páistídhibh Agus Krus do sheándaoinibh-hóm bó!

Beidh Agáinn spóirt, feóil Kgus beKth-uisge,
Airgiod, ór Kgus dódrácha̸ ceápáiríídhe,

Gin, rum, fíon, pórter Agus cósg Ar n-Kicidídhe;

Beidh teuda d'á n-dóightheadh, 's ní bheidh brón choídhche feásdá opra̸inn:

'S nách é Eadbha̸rt An tréa̸n-fheúr budh tréidhíche bhidh

Luimneach;

Ceannfuirt gách réidhtich, sé d’féuchfádh A 3-cómhrác 160 ;

A shámhuil ní'l K’n-Erinn, K's dá n-déupfa̸inn-si « Pa̸csán, Agus coimhdeachán de leis an deagh-mhác sin Hannruidhe.

EDWARD O'CORCORAN.

BY THOMAS FURLONG.

0, Corcoran, thy fame be it mine to proclaim,

All meet thee, all see thee delighted !
As the bards tell the tale, thou hast sprung from the Gael, 2

A race that should never be slighted :
On thy dear native plain we behold thee again,

And thy coming is cheering to many;
For from Gallen to Grange,tho’we turn and we range,

We will find thee unequalled by any.

What crowds shall resort, to our feasts and our sport,

The silver and gold shall be flowing,
And the heart-cheering wine, that liquor divine,

In bumpers around shall be going ;
Our harps they shall ring, and our minstrels shall sing,

For the hero of Limerick is near us,Search the nations around, and his like won't be found,

Heaven bless him and spare him to cheer us!

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reon har t.

Cearbhallán nó chán.

Nachfaidh me-si sua̸s An uáir so zán bhréig,

Már a bh-fuil An sázáirt geanamhuil, bárrámhuil de ukislibh gKodhal,

Fear le 3-claoidhteár tárt, feár le száóílteár gásra̸ídhe, A's Air Sheázhán O'háirt uadh cheart do labhráim réin :

Fear de'n n-Kicme sclipeadh fíon go réidh,

Agus ráínnfeadh é go frás le mác an cheoil 's An Léighinn ;

da m-beidhinn 'r án Jóimh már b’áit liom, 's 30 m-bidh mo bhótá inzhlaetha,

Is fíor go n-déanfainn Ea̸sbog mór dhíot féin.

Ytíobhard ceart do mhae ná zlóire é féin,

Go m-budh buán é bh-fa̸d, is mac deʼn n-órd é go léir;

DOCTOR HARTE.

BY THOMAS FURLONG.

In this hour of my joy let me turn to the road,

To the pious one's home let me steer ;
Aye! my steps shall instinctively seek that abode,

Where plenty and pleasure appear.
Dear Harte with the learned thou art gentle and kind,

With the bard thou art open and free,
And the smiling and sad in each mood of the mind,

Find a brother's fond spirit in thee.

To the lords of the land we can trace back thy name.

But a title all bright is thine own,
No lives have been lavish'd to prop up thy fame,

For it rests on calm goodness alone.
Could they deign in old Rome my fond suffrage to hear,

To that spot for thy sake should I roam ;
And bigh in the conclave thy name should appear,

Known, honour'd, and lov'd as at home.

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