Page:Selections from Ancient Irish Poetry - Meyer.djvu/121

 THE SCRIBE

A hedge of trees surrounds me, A blackbird's lay sings to me; Above my lined booklet The trilling birds chant to me.

In a grey mantle from the top of bushes The cuckoo sings: Verily—may the Lord shield me!— Well do I write under the greenwood. ON A DEAD SCHOLAR

Dead is Lon Of Kilgarrow, O great hurt! To Ireland and beyond her border It is ruin of study and of schools. THE CRUCIFIXION

At the cry of the first bird They began to crucify Thee, O cheek like a swan! It were not right ever to cease lamenting— It was like the parting of day from night.

Ah! though sore the suffering Put upon the body of Mary's Son— Sorer to Him was the grief That was upon her for His sake.