FYTTE I. THREE monks sat by a bogwood fire; | |
| Bare were their crowns, and their garments gray. | |
| Close sat they to that bogwood fire, | |
| Watching the wicket till break of day; | |
| Such was ever the rule at Kilcrea. | 5 |
| For whoever past, be he Baron or Squire, | |
| Was free to call at that abbey, and stay, | |
| Nor guerdon or hire for his lodging pay, | |
| Though he tarried a week with its holy choir! | |
| |
| Three monks sat by a bogwood fire; | 10 |
| Dark looked the night from the window-pane. | |
| They who sat by that bogwood fire | |
| Were Eustace, Alleyn, and Thade by name; | |
| And long they gazed at the cheerful flame, | |
| Till each from his neighbor began to inquire | 15 |
| The tale of his life, before he came | |
| To Saint Brigid’s shrine, and the cowl had ta’en; | |
| So they piled on more wood, and drew their seats nigher. | |
| |
| Three monks sat by a bogwood fire, | |
| Loud wailed the wind through cloister and nave, | 20 |
| And with mournful air, by that bogwood fire, | |
| The first who spake it was Eustace grave, | |
| And told he had been a gallant brave, | |
| In his youth, till a comrade he slew in ire, | |
| And then forswore bastnet and glaive, | 25 |
| And, leaving his home, had crost the wave, | |
| And taken the cross and cowl at Saint Finbar’s Spire. | |
| |
| Three monks sat by a bogwood fire, | |
| Swift through the glen rushed the river Lee, | |
| And Alleyn next by that bogwood fire | 30 |
| Told his tale: a woful man was he; | |
| Alas! he had loved unlawfully | |
| The wife of his brother, Sir Hugh Maguire, | |
| And he fled to the cloister to free | |
| His soul from sin; and ’t was sad to see | 35 |
| How much sorrow had wasted the youthful friar. | |
| |
| Three monks sat by a bogwood fire, | |
| And red its light on the rafters shone, | |
| The last who spake by that bogwood fire | |
| Was Thade, of the three the only one | 40 |
| Whom care or grief had not lit upon; | |
| But rosy and round, through city and shire, | |
| His mate for innocent glee was none, | |
| And soon he told how, a peasant’s son, | |
| He was reared for the Church by their former Prior. | 45 |
| |
| Three monks sat by a bogwood fire, | |
| The moon looked o’er all with clouded ray, | |
| And there they sat by that bogwood fire | |
| Watching the wicket till break of day; | |
| And many that night did call and stay, | 50 |
| Whose names, if, gentles, ye do not tire, | |
| In his next strain shall the Bard essay, | |
| For here ends the first fytte of the monks of Kilcrea. | |
| |
FYTTE II. The bell of the abbey had numbered ten, | |
| O’er tower and roof rolled its sullen chime; | 55 |
| Yet still by the fire sat those holy men, | |
| Keeping their vigil until morning’s prime; | |
| And much did they marvel that ere that time | |
| No traveller called, as ’t was common then | |
| For pilgrims to flock to Saint Brigid’s shrine; | 60 |
| So they placed on the board the pitchers of wine, | |
| Game from the mountain, and meat from the pen, | |
| And red trout that was caught close by in Dripsey Glen. | |
| |
| On the table was flagon and pasty good, | |
| On the hearth clean-swept blazed a bogwood fire, | 65 |
| Around were settles of the dark oak wood, | |
| And all that a weary guest could require. | |
| There was water in pans, to wash off the mire, | |
| Garment to don, and hose, and doeskin shoon; | |
| In never a hostel throughout the shire | 70 |
| Could you purchase for gold or borrow for hire | |
| Such comforts, as freely for all, as boon, | |
| The monks of Kilcrea strewed around that cheerful room. | |
| |
| There came a loud knock to the abbey gate, | |
| And a voice in the storm was heard outside, | 75 |
| And Eustace arose from where sad he sate, | |
| Went to the wicket, and opened it wide, | |
| And crost the threshold, with a heavy stride, | |
| A Saxon stranger; he was sore destrait, | |
| And told how he lost both his way and guide, | 80 |
| That his horse was drowned in fording the Bride, 1 | |
| Then took off his cloak, a dripping weight, | |
| And looked like a man who for life had struggled late. | |
| |
| Again came a knock to the abbey gate, | |
| While sad the wind moaned through bower and tree, | 85 |
| And Alleyn arose and opened the gate, | |
| And entered the room a Rapparee. | |
| And haggard and pale and begrimed was he, | |
| As he leant on a spear in drooping state; | |
| His scanty garments scarcely reached his knee, | 90 |
| Yet, though feeble and worn was his mien and gait, | |
| Still he glared on the Saxon with a look of hate. | |
| |
| Again came a knock to the abbey gate, | |
| And a voice outside made a rueful din, | |
| And Thade uprose and opened the gate; | 95 |
| And lo! he ushered a Gleeman in. | |
| Threadbare his cloak, he was wet to the skin; | |
| Yet the leer of his eye told a roguish mate, | |
| And he winked around with a cunning grin, | |
| As deep in the flagon he stuck his chin, | 100 |
| And scarce would the loon for a blessing wait, | |
| When his kind host heaped the food on his plate. | |
| |
| And there long they sat by that bogwood fire, | |
| The monks of Kilcrea and those travellers three, | |
| And each as they sat by that bogwood fire | 105 |
| Told by turns their name and their history,— | |
| The Saxon, the Gleeman, the Rapparee,— | |
| And, gentles, once more, if ye do not tire, | |
| I ’ll sing to you each in their due degree, | |
| As of old a sennachie taught the lay to me. | 110 |
