| The old priest Peter Gilligan |
| Was weary night and day; |
| For half his flock were in their beds, |
| Or under
green sods lay. |
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|
|
| 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.’ |
