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.

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—
Thro' festive halls 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.

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.

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.