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, 'ní griún ós cionn gáirdín,

'Y ná rósa̸ brea̸zhdha d'fása̸s Amách As An g-cra̸óíbh : Már súd a bhídhe ́s mo ghrádh-sa̸, le deise 's le breízhacht,

A chúil thiuigh ná bh-fáinnea̸dha, bh-fuil mo gheán

ont le bliadháin.
орс

Buachaill deás óg me, tá triall chum mo phóstá,

Hí buán a bh-fa̸d beódh me, muná bh-fa̸gh mé mo

mhinn :

A chuirle <'s « stórách! fázh réidh Agus bídh rómhám

Is me-si ta̸ shíos, leis an b-pósáso dhéanadh ;

Hí chodláim an oidhche Acht Az ornáíghioll zo trom;— Ha̸'r fházbháidh me an sa̸ézhal-so, go m-béidhead K's tú, chéad sheare,

Air leaba chluimh éánláith 's mo mh fíóí 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.

dá bh-feicfe-sa̸ Peázhán Glás, is é dul chum Kn Kénkich, A's grádh zách leinbh « m-brollách a léine ;—

A's, « cháilíneadhá An t-sléibh', sin Kgáibh seázhán

3.

'Y é deir beán d'ʼn dheise, d'a̸ b-feiceánn é n-éinfheacht, Gho bh-fa̸gh mé mo mhilleadh! zur b’é súd mo chéile ;

A's, a cháilíneadha An t-sléibh', sin Kzáibh Yea̸ghán

Glas.

Hí úzhdar zan dántáibh, ní cláirseách gán téudkibh,

Yi'l e<snadh Ann A chnámháibh gán beárnádh le

bréagaibh,

Yi'l Ann Keht fámáire fa̸nách, á fázbhádh gán chéile,

Má bhristeár A chnámhá, ni'l fáth dho 'g á shéunadh ;

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 :