WELCOME TO CAROLAN.

AN ODE, BY JAMES COURTNEY,

TRANSLATED BY THOMAS FURLONG, ESQ.

Oh ! millions of welcomes for thee,
Chosen bard of the fair and free,
From the mansion of Meavè? thou comest in pride
To wbere Orgial's flow'ry fields spread wide.
Dear to Cuchullin, that dreaded name,
Bright and high in the rolls of fame.

If Connor still in Emania reign'd

Brilliant would be thy cheer,
Long would the sacred gem be retain'd,

High priz'd and precious, and dear.
All Ulster upon its beauty might gaze,
And the land be bless’d by its scattering rays.'

The four Nials* of Tarah's embattled pile,

Con and Cormac6 of regal birth, Would not give up the prize, the pride of the Isle,

To the proudest foe upon earth. Oh! glorious and great in the tented field Must the monarch be who might make them yield.

Carbuncil Teamhrá ná d-triáth ;

Maigneis Ulaidh ná n-dea̸rg-sciáth ;
Oppheus chláinne Chátháóír ó dheas,

A's mea̸dha̸ir ná h-Corpá zán chómhmeás.

Geall ceóil ó'n n-Asia̸ n-oir

Go Toidhealbhách Anois do ráinic ;
Prionnsa̸ ná náóí Músá fá mheks
do shealbhuigh áir d-tús Párnássus.

3ach duine rheineás fá á luídheann grián,
Is dá n-áirmhinn zo muir d-Torrian ;

◊ Thoirdhealbhách do gheibh 'ná láimh,
A n-Koibhner, a̸ n-ór 's « n-a̸rán.

An t-Abhrán,

TA An t-árán ʼn « láimh zo bás má sheinnid le céill,

Zach siolla d'á d-tug Ktháir ná n-grás d'Oldhamh ná

d-réud;

An cumadóir Krd-so sha̸ruigh An chruinne le céim,

'y ba chubháidh dho fáilte bhárr Air dhá mhiliún déucc.

Rich jewel art thou of old Temor, of kings,

Darling of Ulster of red red shields—? Where's he who like thee can strike the strings ?

Where is the voice that such music yields ? Bard of Clan Cahir,8 the race renown'd, Light of our isle, and the isles around.

The prize of harmony's sent from afar,

My Turlogh that prize is thine,
It comes from Apollo, the old world's star,

The guide of the sacred Nine :
And each bard that wanders o'er earth and sea,
Seems proud to learn new lays from thee.

Oh! yes ! from thee, thou son of the song,

Full many a strain may they borrow, 'Tis thine in their mirth to entrance the throng,

Or to sooth the lone heart of sorrow : Then welcome to Orgials flowery fields, Thou darling of Ulster of red red shields.

Maire Maguidhir.
Cearbhallán ró chán.

Mo leun 's mo chrádh gán mé 's mo ghrádh,

A n-zlea̸nntán Kluinn sléibhe ;

Gán neách d'a̸r g-cáirde bheith le fágháil, 'Kit Kir bith ʼn ár n-ga̸obhár Ann : Pígh na n-grás, cá nídh dhamh tráchtádh ort, 2 chiúin-bhen náirea̸ch, bhéusách ?

'S gur b'é do ghrádh-sa̸ tá tré mo lár

ཀ

Oh! that my love and I

From life's crowded haunts could fly To some deep shady vale by the mountain,

Where no sound might make its way,

Save the thrush's lively lay, And the murmur of the clear-flowing fountain ;

Where no stranger should intrude

On our hallow'd solitude, Where no kinsman's cold glance could annoy us;

Where peace and joy might shed

Blended blessings o'er our bed, Aud love! love! alone still employ us.

Still sweet maiden may

I

see, That I vainly talk of thee, In vain in lost love I lie pining,

I may worship from afar,

The beauty-beaming star,
That o'er my dull pathway keeps shining;