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Thy charms, the charms of all others outshine,

They might touch the proud bosoms of kings on their

thrones :

Oh ! lov'd one, the world of beauty is thine,

Thou hast humbled and broken the heart of John Jones.

Yet fairest depart not, I still shall pursue thee,

Like echo attending the voice whence it grows;

At dawn, and at dusk, I will watch thee and woo thee,

Nor rest in the moment that brings thee repose.

In crowds and in loneliness still I'll be near thee,

For still this fond heart thy supremacy owns;

In silence and absence I'll think that I hear thee,

Then dearest come, come, to thy lover John Jones.

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Is miánn leám tráchtádh Air bhláith ná finne,

GriKesi An Kinnfhir is súga̸íche,

'S gur b’í rug bárr & z-cáil 's & d-twigsin
A
Air mhnáibh breázhá, zlice ná z-cúigeadh :

Ci b'e bhiadh na h-Kice d'óídhche 's de ló,
Hí baézhal do fád-thuipfe chóidhche ná brón,
Az An júíozhán t-séimh is Koibhne méinn,
'Ïí cúl ná g-cráébh 's ná bh-fáinneadha.

A táébh már Kél, 's A píob mári ghéis,

'Y A znáóí már zhrúin An t-sámhraidh,

Ach tápáidh dho'n t-é d'ár gealladh már spréidh

bheith Kici-si, géug ná g-cam-dhla̸oídh :

Is sukire 's is sámh do ráidhte geánámhuil,

Is Kluinn, de ́s do shúil ghlás,

'Yé chluinim zách lá ág cách 'g K Kithris,

Gur fáinneách, cás do chúl táis,

GRACEY NUGEN T.'

BY THOMAS FURLONG.

Ob ! joy to the blossom of white-bosom’d maids,

To the girl whose young glance is endearing, Whose smile, like enchantment, each circle pervades,

She who makes even loneliness cheering. Oh! he that beholds thee by night or day,

He who sees thee in beauty before him, Tho’stricken and spell-bound may smile and say,

That he blesses the charm that's o'er him

Her neck is like snow-rich and curling her hair,

Her looks like the sun when declining ; Oh ! happy is he who may gaze on the fair,

While her white arms round him are twining :
Her words are all joyous—and mildly the while

Her soft blue eyes seem glancing ;
And her varying blush and dimpled smile,

With those eyes and tones are entrancing.

Yúd már a deirim leis «n óíg-mhnáóí t-séimh,
bh-fuil A glór ní 's binne 'ná ceól ná n-éun,
Hi'l siáns ná greúnn d'a̸r smua̸ínigh ceann,
Hach bh-fázhthár zo cínnte áz GrKesi.

A lúb ná séud, is dlúith-dheks deúd,

A chúil na z-cráébh 's ná bh-fáinneadha,

Gidh ionmhuin liom féin thú, stádáim de'n sgeúl ;—

Achd d'olfainn gán bhréig do shláinte.

Then joy to young Gracey, the gentle dame,

'Tis bliss on one's pathway to meet her; Where ! where's the proud spirit her voice cannot tame?

Oh! where is the sound can be sweeter ?
'Tis soothing the song of the birds to hear-

But her tones are yet more thrilling ;
But where's the bowl ?-let the bowl be near,

And I'll finish the theme while filling,

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