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IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 107 |
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This priest was of the family
That own the name Mic Giollamhuire;
In rebel days at Baile-Daithi
His faith was banned by Saxon law.
And so, all sick at sight of blood, He hied him to the holy wood Where Mali's presbyters of old Preached God's-spell to the Gaelic fold
And there in spite of hue and cry The tonsured one found sanctuary; And, moving featly like a bird, Among his folk he ministered.
And, as our northern legends tell, He came with candle, book and bell To chaunt his Mass each Sabbath morn Beneath Srath-milis' trysting-thorn.
This thorn grew green upon a hill Above Srath-milis' straits, and still Grows there for every soul to see That honours hoar antiquity.
The folk who deemed their fathers' faith More dear than life, and laughed at death, Came thither every Sabbath morn To worship God beneath the thorn.
And, sailing up by Loch-an-laegh Betwixt the shores of Clann-Aedha-buidhe, The holy priest would meet them there To lead their hearts in fragrant prayer. |
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