| |
| THE old priest, Peter Gilligan, | |
| Was weary night and day; | |
| For half his flock were in their beds, | |
| Or under green sods lay. | |
| |
| Once, while he nodded on a chair, | 5 |
| At the moth-hour of eve, | |
| Another poor man sent for him, | |
| And he began to grieve. | |
| |
| “I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace, | |
| For people die and die”; | 10 |
| And after cried he, “God forgive! | |
| My body spake, not I!” | |
| |
| He knelt, and leaning on the chair | |
| He prayed and fell asleep, | |
| And the moth-hour went from the fields, | 15 |
| And stars began to peep. | |
| |
| They slowly into millions grew, | |
| And leaves shook in the wind, | |
| And God covered the world with shade, | |
| And whispered to mankind. | 20 |
| |
| Upon the time of sparrow chirp | |
| When the moths come once more, | |
| The old priest, Peter Gilligan, | |
| Stood upright on the floor. | |
| |
| “Mavrone, mavrone! the man has died, | 25 |
| While I slept on the chair.” | |
| He roused his horse out of its sleep, | |
| And rode with little care. | |
| |
| He rode now as he never rode, | |
| By rocky lane and fen; | 30 |
| The sick man’s wife opened the door: | |
| “Father! you come again.” | |
| |
| “And is the poor man dead?” he cried. | |
| “He died an hour ago.” | |
| The old priest, Peter Gilligan, | 35 |
| In grief swayed to and fro. | |
| |
| “When you were gone, he turned and died | |
| As merry as a bird.” | |
| The old priest, Peter Gilligan, | |
| He knelt him at that word. | 40 |
| |
| “He who hath made the night of stars | |
| For souls who tire and bleed, | |
| Sent one of His great angels down | |
| To help me in my need. | |
| |
| “He who is wrapped in purple robes, | 45 |
| With planets in His care, | |
| Had pity on the least of things | |
| Asleep upon a chair.” | |
| |
