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COMBINATION."

My blue-eyed, pearl-teethed, blooming fair,

With heaving breasts and curling hair ;

Whose dusky-flowing wreaths effuse,
Down her white limbs the pearly dews;
I claim for mine, and here defy,
The whole wide world my title to deny.

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A Mháire púin, is tú bláth na n-úbhall,

Ha mealladh Múímhneách thú, & ghrádh, do chuirfeadh se á g-céill duit, le briáthráibh béil, Chuiz cheud bréng a̸nn dhá uáir de la̸ :— b'fearr liom féin tu, bheith choidhche á g-céin,

Már bhídheás ná céudthá bán is fea̸rr,

Ha bheith pósta Ag réic tu, do shiúbhal An sáoghal,
Az déanadh bréag 's Ag mealladh mná.

Do shaoil me stóirín, már do bhídh tu og, deás,
Go n-déanfadh deónádh áir éulózhadh liom,

'Y nách bh-fuil tráthnóná ná oídhche dómhnaich,

Hach tusa an t-seóid, bhiodh Kir An m-bealach rómhám: Thiúbháilfinn bóithre Agus coillte cnódh leát,

Choidhche K's 30 deóigh, ní bhiadh orra̸inn brón, d' m-beidhinn do'm phósadh leát, a mhíle stóirínn, 'Y mo lámh 30 módhmháir A❜d bhrollách bhán.

MARY A ROON,

BY EDWARD LAWSON.

My sweet apple blossom, dear Mary, beware,
Lest the Munster man's flattery' your heart should ensnare;
His tongue is so oily, so roguish bis eyes,

In one hour they would tell you whole hundreds of lies.

Much rather I'd see you for ever a maid,

A pale rose of the wilderness, languish and fade;
Than espous'd to a rover, whose profligate arts,
Seduce simple virgins and break their poor hearts.

How fondly I fancied that blooming in youth,

You'd be led by my voice, and inspired by my truth;
Each fair sunny morn when all nature look'd gay,

You shone the clear gem that illumined my way.

Un cuimhneach leát An oidhche ud, uim fhéile Bríghde,

A rabha̸máir shíos Kir An MullKch mór,

Is duit-se, a fháoílea̸nn, thug me geán le diográis,

K

Már a bhidh tú Kóíbhinn, deKs, Kluinn, óg ;

Is tú zo cínnte, do mharbh m'intinn,

Agus leázh ná Múmhán ní dhéanfadh mé slán

'I go bh-fuil mo chroídhe stigh na mhíle Piosá,

'uáir nách bh-fágháim céad sínte le'm mhuirnín bhún.

A réiltionn mhín táis, ná tréig me chóidhche,
'sa likcht codla oidhche do cháill me lekt,
Tá fuil mo chroidhe stigh, 'ná brádáin chríoná,
Le geán do'd zhnKóí, K's do'd cháil, A sheKre;
M'uch o'n och! 's mo mhíle brón zhuirt!

Gán an oidhche rómhám 's ine bheith póstá leát!
Acht 'nois ó's eól dámh, go bráth nách gea̸bháir liom,

Mo mhíle stóirín, mo bheannacht lekt!

With you the wild nut-groves delighted I'd range,
Immersed in soft raptures and fearless of change;
Oh ! treasure of treasures, were you my reward,

With the soft hand of love your fair bosom I'd guard.

Last feast of Saint Bridget, ah! can you forget,
When on Mullamore's ' summit transported we met;

But now you have plunged me in sorrowful gloom,

And hopeless of healing I sink to the tomb.

Sore, sore is my heart, it is rent to the core,

Beside Murneen Bawn. I must never lean more;

Thou star of mild lustre, my prayer do not slight,

By day all my thoughts, all my visions by night.

Admiring, adoring, imploring thy ray,
My heart's blood grows congealed, and I wither away;
But alas, you disdain me!-then break, oh my heart !

My treasure of treasures for ever to part.

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