Not one from Loch-Erne to Galway around,

But longs for my hero! my swain so renown'd;

Thy groves, Buninedin, are shady and fair,

They are bless'd and belov'd-for my Plunkett is there.

HAHrich cooper.

Cearbhallán ró chán,

'Y mín, máiseách, mánlá, sockir, milis, cráibhtheach,

Gán zhruKim K's Adhnáirea̸ch do ghnúis bhreígh, & rúin ! Súil zhlás Kg gáireadh, d'úr-lea̸ca is Kilne,

Súd lekt ná táinte, « zhra̸dh dhil, Kg tnúth ;

'I fíor-dheás do ghnáóí zhlán, is leabhair do phíob ghea̸l,

'Y cuireadh na mílte lekt fínte Ann sa̸n n-úir !

'Y tú szánnradh gach béithe, A chúil chúis ná g-cra̸ébh

fholt,

'Y dlúith-dheas do dhéud chKoíl, K's do cheannsa̸cht

bhreágh, chiúin.

'Y follusách 's is léur, osn«dh A g-croídhe zách Kén,

bhidheann ag Amharc scéimhe gheál-réiltionn nú m-bán;

NANCY COOPER.'

BY THOMAS FURLONG.

Oh! lov'd one how temptingly fair is that face,
On which thousands have gaz'd but to sigh;

How winningly smooth seems each motion of grace,
When thy shape of soft brightness glides by:

Tho' some in thy absence a throb may excite,

When near thee their triumph is o'er,

They shrink in thy presence-they fade in thy light,

They droop and look lovely no more.

Those brilliant grey eyes with these tresses all curl'd

That bosom where love holds his throne;

Dear! these are thy dowry for what were a world

To him who could call them his own.

'I deas do chos 's do lámh, is geál do bhrollách bán,

Och! 'r tú lot 's do chrádh, ná céuda láéch meár !

A phéurla shlad scéimh mhná deásá2 An t-sa̸égháil,

'Y tá tú tláith táis á ’d mhéinn,—Acht 's éigean dAmh-sa stad;

'Hoir, a chuid 's « zhrídh, mo bheannacht leát do ghnáth,

A Hansidh Cooper bhrea̸gh ná m-bán-chíoch n-deks.

Of millions the beauty seems blended in thee

But why on this theme should I dwell?

Thro' life there's but sadness and silence for me

Farewell! Nancy Cooper! farewell!