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BRIDGET O'MALLEY.'

BY THOMAS FURLONG.

Dear maid, thou hast left me in anguish to smart,

And pangs, worse than death, pierce my love-stricken

heart;

Thou flower of Tirerell, still, still, must I pine,

Oh! where my O'Malley blooms beauty like thine.

On a mild dewy morn in the autumn I rov'd,
I stray'd o'er the pathway where stray'd my belov’d.
Oh! why should I dwell on the bliss that is past ?
But the kiss I had there, I must prize to the last.

The sunbeams are beauteous when on flower beds they

play, And sweet seem young roses as they bloom on the

spray; The white-bosom'd lilies thrice lovely we call, But my true love is brighter, far brighter than all.

Hi'l read Kir bith is Kilne, 'ná grián ós cionn gáirdín,

'Y ná rósa̸ breázhdhá d'fása̸s Amách As An g-cra̸óíbh : Mar rúd a bhídheás mo ghrádh-rá, le deise 's le brexzhacht,

A chúil chimigh ná bh-fáinnea̸dha, bh-fuil mo gheán ont le bliadhain.

Buachaill deas óg me, tá triall chum mo phóstá,

Hí buán a bh-pad beadh me, muná bh-xa̸gh mé mo

mhiánn :

A chuisle <'s « stórách! fázh réidh Agus bídh rómhamrk,

Go déigheanach diú dómhnaich Air bhóithribh sáchLikmh.

Is me-si tá shíos, leis An b-pósAso dhéanadh ;

Hí chodláim an oidhche Acht Kg osnKizhioll go trom ;— Ya̸'r fházbháidh me An sa̸éghal-so, go m-béidhead K's tú, chéad sheare,

Air leaba chlúimh éánláith 's mo lámh faoi do cheann.

I'm young, and a bridegroom soon destin'd to be,
But short is my course, love! if bless'd not with thee:
On Sunday, at dusk, by Rath-leave shall I stray,
May I meet thee, my sweetest, by chance on the way.

In gloom, and in sorrow, my days must go by,

At night on my pillow in anguish I sigh;

Hope springs not-peace comes not-sleep flees from

me there

Oh! when comes my lov'd one, that pillow to share.

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Dá bh-feicfeá-s« Peázhán Glás, is é dul chum An Kénkich,

A's grádh zách leinbh « m-brollKch A léine ;

A's, A cháilíneadhK An t-sléibh', sin Kgáibh Seázhán 5.

'Y é deir beán d'ʼn dheise, d'a̸ b-feiceánn é n-éinfheácht, Gho bh-righ mé mo mhilleadh! zur b'é súd mo chéile; A's, « cháilínea̸dha An t-sléibh', sin Kgáibh Yeághán 3lr.

Hí úzhdár gán dántáibh, ní cláirseách zán téudkibh, i'l easnadh ann a chnámháibh gán beárnádh le bréa̸gáibh,

Yi'l Ann Acht fámáire fa̸nách, á fázbhadh gán chéile, Má bhristeár A chnámha̸, ni'l fáth dho 'z á shéunádh ; chailíneádhá An t-sleibh', sin KgKibh

A's,

Yeázhán Glas.

SHANE GLAS.

BY THOMAS FURLONG.

Have you gaz'd at Shane Glas as he went to the fair,

How lively his step, and how careless his air,

With his breast full of favours from many a lass;

Oh! there's not a sweet girl that appears on the green,

But simpers and blushes wherever he's seen;
They cry he's the boy, our darling and joy,

Still ready to sport, or to court, or to toy,

Then maids of the mountain there's for you Shane

Glas.

Without verses, no poet can boast of the name;

Without music, no harper the title can claim

No lover, thro' life, without quarrels can pass ;

The gallant whose head is not smash'd for the fair,

Is a boaster unworthy their favours to share :

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