Aμd pj Ulad do ¿reigios
2p élo, do grad Naoje;
Geapp mo jaeġul na ndjajġ,
O fearfad a cclnie caojnte.

Go majpfjnn a ndjajā Naoje,
Na faojli neać ajn talman,
No andjaj Ajndle agus Ardajn
Anmun nj bja jonmun.

Na nojajġ mi bu beo misi,
If as leor ljom fad mo beaża,
O cuajo mo leannan uajmsj
Do Dean ajr uajġe ċeaża.

A fir a ċoċlaf an jeaptan,
Na Dean an uajṁ go docnać,
bjadfa a bxocajp na huajġe,
Deanad τruajġe & očajn.

A ttri sgjaża, sa ttri fleaŝa,
fa leabajo Dojb go minic;
Cuir na tri clajóme cruajde
Of a cejonn fan uajġ, a ġjolla.

A ttri ccojn, fa ttri feabajc,
bjaż xeafta gan luċt fealga,
Trjar con gabla caża,
Tnjan Dalta conajl ceapnajġ.

Trj hjalla na dtri ccojn sin,
Do buajn ofna af mo crojde,
If agum do bjod a dtajsge,
A bfejcfin If xa caoj e.

King of Ulla, I left thy love for Naesa. My days are few after him. His funeral honors are performed.

Think not that I will survive my love. Ainli and Ardan, I desire not life when you are gone.

Life has no charms now for me. My days are already too many. Delight of my soul, a shower of tears shall fall upon your grave.

Ye men that dig their grave, prepare it wide and deep. I will rest on the bosom of my love. My sighs and groans will go with me to the tomb.

Often were the shields and spears their bed. Lay their strong swords by their heads in the

grave.

Their dogs, their hawks,-who will attend. them now? The hunters are no more on their hills; the valiant youths of Connal Cairni.

My heart groans to see the collars of their hounds; often did I feed them, but now I weep when they draw near.

Ni pabas apjaṁ um aonas,
Aét la deanta bur nuajġe;
Gi minic do bi fibre
Agus misi san Uajgnjof.

Do cuajo mo padarc uajm̃f),
Ajn bejern huajse a Naofe
If gearr go byngre manam me,
Nj majrjonn mo luċt caojnte.

Though many times we traversed the solitary waste, I knew no solitude, until the day that your grave was prepared.

My sight begins to fail, when I see thy grave, my Naesa. My life will soon depart, and the voice of my mourners be heard no more,

As she concluded her lamentations, she sprung into the grave, and, on the breast of Naesa, expired.

Thus ends one of the finest wrought tales, founded on original history, that is to be met with in any language. Should these short extracts excite attention, or awaken curiosity, the whole will soon be published; and a succession of similar pieces, from ancient Irish manuscripts, will be prepared, with translations, to come forward from the unmerited oblivion, in which they are now fast mouldering to decay.

2N2