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 harmony:
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'corcrai H.

Cearbhallán ró chán.

Hach é Eadbhart O'Corcráín An furránách zlégheál, An leómhán brea̸gh, soinea̸ndá, soilbhir, céillídhe ? De'n n-uaisle ghrinne do zeineadh ó gha̸édhláibh ;

A's nách sa̸óíthe<mhuil,cuideáchtámhuil, oineKchámhuil tréidheach é?

Air A chukirt chum na h-áite beidh báire Kir zách

machaire,

Olam A shláinte, grádh mo chroídhe An prea̸báire ; Cá bh-fuil feár A bha̸rrtha̸ ó'n n-Gráinsigh zo Zkileng ? béurfás gleóidh do ná páistídhibh Agus Krus do sheán

daoinibh-hóm bó!

Beidh KgKinn spóirt, feóil Kgus beáthK-uisge,
Airgiod, ór Kgus dódráchá ceápáirídhe,

Zin, rum, fíon, pórter Agus cósz Ar n-Kicidídhe ;

Beidh téuda d'a̸ n-dóighthea̸dh, 's ní bheidh brón choídh

che feasda opra̸inn:

'Y nách é Eadbhárt An tréán-fhear budh tréidhíche bhidh

Luimneach;

Ceannfuirt zách réidhtich, sé d'’féuchfádh A 3-cómhrác

A shámhuil ni'l K’n-Erinn, K's dá n-déuppa̸inn-si « Pa̸esán, Agus coimhdeachán de leis an deagh-mhác n Hannruídhe,

O, 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;

3

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!

seoy hart.

Cearbhallán ró chán.

Nachfaidh me-si sua̸s An uáir so gán bhréig, ́

Már a bh-fuil An sa̸gáirt geanamhuil, bárrámhuil de

uaislibh gáodhal,

Fear le 3-claoidhteár tárt, feár le sgáóíltear gasra̸ídhe, A's Air Sheázhán O’Háirt uadh cheárt do labhraim

fém:

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

Agus ráínnfeadh é go frás le mác án cheóil 's an

Léighinn ;

da m-beidhinn 's án Nóimh már b’a̸it liom, 's go m-biádh

mo bhótá inghlactha,

Is fíor go n-déanfainn Ea̸sbog mór dhíor féin.

Ytíobhard ceart do mhae ná zlóire é féin,

30 m-budh buán é bh-fád, is máe de'n n-órd é go léir;

DOCTOR HARTE.1

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 high in the conclave thy name should appear,

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