CAROLAN'S LAMENT OVER THE GRAVE OF MAC CABE.' BY THOMAS FURLONG. Oh! what a baffled visit mine hath been, To meet my friend—and yet to find him not? Sight of my eyes !-lost solace of my mind! In vain I came-no trace of thee I find- 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. MArbh¶A cheArbH ALLA IH. Mốc 2lb nó chín. Mo bhrón! mo mhilleadh! mo thinneks 's mo bhukidhreámh tráth ! So cheol-chruit mhilis, gán bhinneús, gán su«irceKs dan! Ciá dhéanfas Kiteás do'n ghúsráidh ná ceól go buán, Os fíor, a̸ chúráid, gur leagadh thú á g-cómhrá chruadh ? Tráth éirghídhim Kir maidin, K's dhea̸rcKim an tír fa̸óí chikch, Agus shuidhim a̸ir ná enocáibh, go bh-feicim An dubh A n-iár, A Aén-mheic Mhuire ! furtKigh do 'm chás K's ri«r ! 'I go n-deárnádh loch folá, de Amháre mo shúỤ K'd Shikidh! 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 more— I start at dawn-I mark the country's gloom- Oh! gracious God! how lonely are my days, At night sleep comes not to these wearied eyes, A rígh ná g-cárád! nách a̸isdeách ná cúrsa̸dhá é ? Az luidhe dhamh air mo leábadh nách z-codlánn mo rhúil Kén néull! Táid piúnta deKcrách' dul társná tré lár mo chléibh 'Y A Thoirdhealbháich úí Chea̸rbhálláin, 's diombáidh liom tú fínnte 3-cré ! Guídhim-ri Komh dominic, Komh Proinsiás, a's Komh Clára, Y ná h‐iliomád Yaoímh, faóí dhídheán ná cáthrách neάmhdha, Fá fháilte thabháirt d' Anám Thoirdhealbhaich ann a n-Krus, 'Y A likcht port sa̸óítheámháil do shéinn sé Kip An g-cláirsigh. |