on this strange road will pass,
Filled full of ancient cheer.’
His eyelids droop, his head falls low,
His old eyes cloud with dreams;
The sun upon all things that grow
Pours round in sleepy streams.
Brown Dermot treads upon the lawn,
And to the armchair goes,
And now the old man’s dreams are gone,
He smooths the long brown nose.
And now moves many a pleasant tongue
Upon his wasted hands,
For leading aged hounds and young
The huntsman near him stands.
‘My huntsman, Rody, blow the horn,
And make the hills reply.’
The huntsman loosens on the morn
A gay and wandering cry.
A fire is in the old man’s eyes,
His fingers move and sway,
And when the wandering music dies
They hear him feebly say,
‘My huntsman, Rody, blow the horn,
And make the hills reply.’
‘I cannot blow upon my horn,
I can but weep and sigh.’
The servants round his cushioned place
Are with new sorrow wrung;
And hounds are gazing on his face,
Both aged hounds and young.
One blind hound only lies apart
On the sun-smitten grass;
He holds deep commune with his heart:
The moments pass and pass;
The blind hound with a mournful din
Lifts slow his wintry head;
The servants bear the body in;
The hounds wail for the dead.
THE BALLAD OF FATHER GILLIGAN
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,
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’;
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,
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.
Upon the time of sparrow chirp
When the moths came once more,
The old priest Peter Gilligan
Stood upright on the floor.
‘Mavrone, mavrone! the man has died,
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;
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
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.
‘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,
With planets in His care,
Had pity on the least of things
Asleep upon a chair.’
THE LAMENTATION OF THE OLD PENSIONER
I had a chair at every hearth,
When no one turned to see,
With ‘Look at that old fellow there,
And
