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16 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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There stood one day a poor old man above its broken
bridge; He heard no running rivulet, he saw no mountain
ridge; He turned his back on Sheegus Hill, and viewed with
misty sight The abbey walls, the burial-ground with crosses
ghostly white; Under a weary weight of years he bowed upon his
staff, Perusing in the present time the former's epitaph; For, gray and wasted like the walls, a figure full of
woe, This man was of the blood of them who founded
Asaroe. |
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From' Derry to Dundrowas Tower, Tirconnell broad
was theirs; Spearmen and plunder, bards and wine, and holy
abbot's prayers; With chanting always in the house which they had
builded high To God and to Saint Bernard,—whereto they came to
die. At worst, no workhouse grave for him ! the ruins of
his race Shall rest among the ruined stones of this their saintly
place. The fond old man was weeping; and tremulous and
slow Along the rough and crooked lane he crept from
Asaroe. |
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