A Ghradh agus a ruiq dhil.

A zhrádh Agus A rúin dhil, An tinn nó An dúbhách lekt, Me-si bheith ag súil leát K’m Konár ?

Is cráidhte me chúilphionn, K'm chodlá Kgus K'm dhúiseacht,

Ag machtnadh Kir do ghnúis bhreázh, ghléigheál ;—

Is mór An t-iongnádh liom-sá, tu bheith bun-ós-cionri

damh,

'Y mé lán de fhonn á bheith réidh leát,

Eirghidh, « zhréin-zhil, tábháir solus An LKé lekt

Agus schip-si go léir mo néulltá.

M' uch o'n och! ré mo chroídhe tá márbh,
Is truagh már rugádh riamh mé !
M'intinn Kédhrách Kg gealadh leat-sa,
A rúin Kzus A chuid ná tréig mé !

MARY OF MEELICK.'

BY HENRY GRATTAN CURRAN, ESQ.

Long in lonely despair have I worship'd the dream, That brightens my heart with the glow of thy form; Let my slumber's vision, my day's hallowed beam,

Let it shine, my soul's treasure, to brighten and warm. How can thy bosom be cold to the swell,

Of the faith, the devotion, that's nurtured in mine; Nay, my own love, let thy kindness dispel

The clouds, and bid morning around me to shine.

In the sorrow, the anguish, that tortures my breast,

I weep for the hour that endued it with life;

In thy sight alone, I have rapture and rest,

Look down, my soul's love, on my spirits dark strife.

Fly from the world, from its coldness, its guile,

Oh fly to the breast, whose rich promise thou art; Let not distrust ever shadow the smile,

Chill the love that united us once heart to heart.

312

seacháin feástá, ná bekla̸ich cámá,

Agus fill A bhkile Kir mo chómhKirle,

Milleann an míochománn, An grádh bua̸n da̸ingean, Och! is sé bhidh ea̸dráinn a ccómhnuidhe !

Air An leácht-so shiúr sóíllsíghea̸nn án zhrián

Maidin Koibhinn t-sa̸mhr« ;

TK An t-iKse Air linn, K’s é teácht Ann sán tóínn, 'Y ná coinínea̸dhá Ann sná zlea̸nntKibh ;

TK An chnodh Kir An t-sláit, 's An t-éán Kir A nekd,

'Y é seinneadh ceóil Kir An Am sin,

Y an t-é dhéanfadh A leás, do ráchádh sé áir dheks,

Go Mileach Kz déanadh cleamhnáis.

A❜m chroídhe stigh tá sámháil, Koibhinn mo chápá,

Tá a Cúilín cástá, críobhách,

A béilín mekla, K's A gruKdh Kir la̸sadh,

'Y A píob már shneáchtá séideách ;—

A chomáinn mo chroídhe! ná'r shoná dho'n t-í
Do cháithreádh An oidhche d'á bréagadh,

're a grádh do chlaoidh me, 's chrádh sí m'íntinn
Agus d'fhág mé Kir díth mór céille.

O'er the monument brightens the midsummer dawn, Where it looks from the west on the gush of the morn; Through the wave bright forms wanton radiantly on, And the warren's grey flock the green valley's adorn. The nuts thickly cluster; the bird to the day

His shrill matin pours while it streams thro' his bower; Blest is his lot, doomed in Meelick to stray,

And to call thee his own, the bright vale's brightest

flower.

Deeply shrined in my soul is thy image, dear maid,
Thy lip's honied store-and thy cheeks summer glow;
And the tendril play of thy brow's sunny braid,

And the sheen of thy neck like the sparkling of snow. Light of my soul! what a transport for him,

Through whose bosom can tremble each motion of

thine;

My soul is enslaved-and my sight becomes dim,

As I gaze on the riches my love must resign.

In yon bright distant isle,' with my Mary to rove,
To gaze on the amber of each glowing tress;

Mo chreach ghéur bhrónách! gán me A's mo stóirín,

'Y An oileán shiúr, Kédhrách, Koibhinn !

Máire an chúil ómráich Agus Aodh bán á bheith pósda, 'Y gán cúis dici A cómhairle do chaoineadh :

Hi'l d'ar n-doich, Agus ní bheidh go deóigh,

Munk bh-fóirfidh orm An óig-bheán mhíonla̸, 'Y ó táim-se gán fóghnadh, déántár mo chómhra̸, Agus fáigtheár mé « 3-Ceillmhúin fínte.