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,
GrKesi An Kinnfhir is súga̸íche,

'Y zur b’í rug bárr á 3-cáil 's & d-twigsin
ཀ sum

Air mhnáibh breázha̸, glice ná g-cúigeadh :

Cik b'e bhidh na h-Kice d'óídhche 's de ló,
Yí baézhal do f«d-thuirse chóídhche ná brón,
Az An ríozhan t-séimh is Kóíbhne méinn,
'Yí cúl ná g-cráébh 's ná bh-fáinneadha.

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

say,

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.

Súd már a deirim leis an oíz-mhnáóí t-séimh,
bh-fuil A glór ní 's binne 'ná ceól ná n-éun,
Hí'l siáns ná grea̸nn d'a̸r smukínigh ceann,
Hach bh-fazhthár zo cínnte ág GrKeri.

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?
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.