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. Cearbhallán jó chán. Is miánn leám tráchtádh air bhláith ná finne, 'Y zur b’í rug bárr á 3-cáil 's & d-twigsin Air mhnáibh breázha̸, glice ná g-cúigeadh : Cik b'e bhidh na h-Kice d'óídhche 's de ló, A táébh már Kél, 's A píob már ghéis, 'P A znáóí már zhrúin An t-sámhráidh, Hách tápáidh dho'n t-é d'a̸r gealladh mar spréidh bheith Kici-si, géug ná g-cam-dhlKoídh : Is sukire 's is sámh do ráidhte geánámhuil, Is Kluinn, de ́s do shúil zhlás, 'Y é chluinim zách lá ág cách 'g á Kithris, Gur fáinneách, cás do chúl táis, GRACEY NUGENT.' BY THOMAS FURLONG. Oh! joy to the blossom of white-bosom'd maids, Oh! he that beholds thee by night or day, say, Her neck is like snow-rich and curling her hair, Oh! happy is he who may gaze on the fair, And her varying blush and dimpled smile, With those eyes and tones are entrancing. Súd már a deirim leis an oíz-mhnáóí t-séimh, A lúb ná séud, is dlúith-dheks deúd, A chúil na z-cra̸ébh 's ná bh-fáinnea̸dha, Gidh ionmhuin liom féin thú, stádáim de'n szeúl ;— Achd d'olfáinn 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? 'Tis soothing the song of the birds to hear— |