Four Irish Songs

Twilight fallen white and cold, 
Child in cradle, lamb in fold ; 
Glimmering thro' the ghostly trees, 
Arcturus and Pleiades. 
 
Wounds of Eloim, 
Weep on me ! 
 
Black-winged vampires flitting by, 
Curlews crying in the sky ; 
Grey mists wreathing from the ground, 
Wrapping rath and burial-mound. 
 
Wounds of Eloim, 
Weep on me ! 
 
Heard, like some sad Gaelic strain, 
Ocean's ancient voice in pain ; 
Darkness folding hill and wood, 
Sorrow drinking at my blood. 
 
Wounds of Eloim, 
Weep on me !

Pray for me, Seachnal,
Pray for me, Mel:
Save me from sin
And the cold stone of hell!

Brigid and Ita
And Eithne the Red,
Spread out your mantles
And cover my bed!

For rann and gospel
Have gone from my mind,
And devils are walking
Abroad in the wind!

Every shuiler is Christ
Then be not hard or cold : 
The bit that goes for Christ 
Will come a hundred-fold. 

The ear upon your corn 
Will burst before its time ; 
Your roots will yield a crop 
Without manure or lime. 

And every sup you give 
To crutch him on his way 
Will fill your churn with milk, 
And choke your barn with hay. 

Then when the shuiler begs, 
Be neither hard nor cold : 
The share that goes for Christ 
Will come a hundred-fold.

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