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CAROLAN'S LAMENT OVER THE GRAVE

OF MAC CABE.

BY THOMAS FURLONG.

Oh! what a baffled visit mine hath been,

How long my journey, and how dark my lot ;

And have I toil'd thro' each fatiguing scene,

To meet my friend--and yet to find him not ?

Sight of my eyes !- lost solace of my mind!

To seek—to hear thee-eagerly I sped;

In vain I came-no trace of thee I find

Save the cold flag that shades thy narrow bed.

My voice is low-my mood of mirth is o'er,

I droop in sadness like the widowed dove ;

Talk, talk of tortures !—talk of pain no more

Nought strikes us like the death of those we love.

Marbha chearbhA I LA I H.

A

Shikish!

Mốc 2lb nó chín.

Mo bhrón! mo mhilleadh! mo thinne ́s 's mo bhukidhreamh tráth !

do cheol-chruit mhilis, gan bhinneás, gán suáirceás dan!

Ciá dhéanfás Kiteás do'n ghúsráidh ná ceól go buán, Os fíor, a̸ cháráid, zur leagadh thú á g-cómhrá chruadh ?

Tráth éirzhídhim Kir maidin, A's dheArcKim an tír fa̸óí chikch,

Agus shuidhim áir ná enocáibh, 30 bh-peicim An dubh a n-ár,

A Aén-mheic Mhuire ! furtKigh do 'm chás K's ri«r ! 'I go n-deárnádh loch fola, de Amharc mo shúl a'd

MAC CABE'S ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF

CAROLAN.

BY THOMAS FURLONG.

Woe is my portion! unremitting woe!
Idly and wildly in my grief I rave;

Thy song, my Turlogh, shall be sung no moreThro' festive balls no more thy strains shall flow :

The thrilling music of thy harp is o'er

The hand that wak'd it moulders in the grave.

I start at dawn-I mark the country's gloom

O'er the green hills a heavy cloud appears ;

Aid me, kind Heaven, to bear my bitter doom,

To check my murmurs, and restrain my tears.

Oh! gracious God! how lonely are my days,

At night sleep comes not to these wearied eyes, Nor beams one hope my sinking heart to raise

In Turlogh's grave each hope that cheer'd me lies.

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A rígh ná g-cárád! nách Kisdeách ná cúrsa̸dha é ? Az luidhe dhamh Air mo lea̸badh nách g-codlánn_mo rhúil Kén néull !

Táid pianta deácrach' dul társná tré lár mo chléibh 'YA Thoirdhealbhaich úí Chearbhalláin, 's diombáidh liom tú fínnte g-cré !

Guídhim-ri Komh dominic, Komh Proinsiás, ír Komh Clára,

Y ná h‐iliomad Ya̸óímh, fáóí dhídheán ná cáthrách neamhdha,

Fá fháilte thabháirt d' Anám Thoirdhealbhaich ann a

n-Krur,

'Y A liKcht port sa̸óítheámháil do sheinn sé áir An g-cláirsigh.

Oh! ye blest spirits, dwelling with your God,

Hymning his praise as ages roll along, Receive my Turlogh in your bright abode,

And bid him aid you in your sacred song.

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