How long He leaves me--the great God--here! Have I sinned some sin, or has God forgotten? This year, I think, is my hundredth year; I am like a bad apple unripe and rotten! They shall lift me ere long, they shall lay me--the clan,-- By the strength of men on Mount Cruachan! God has much to think of! How much He hath seen, And how much is gone by that once hath been! On sandy hills where the rabbits burrow, Are Raths of Kings' men, named not now; On mountain-tops I have tracked the furrow, And found in forests the buried plough. For one now living the strong land then Gave kindly food and raiment to ten. No doubt they waxed proud and their God defied: So their harvest He blighted and burned their hoard; Or He sent them plagues, or He sent the sword, Or He sent them lightning and so they died, Like Dathi the King on the dark Alp's side. Ah me! that man who is made of dust, Should have pride towards God! 'Tis a demon's spleen! I have often feared lest God the All-just, Should bend from heaven and sweep earth clean: Should sweep us all into corners and holes, Like dust of the house-floor both bodies and souls! I have often feared He would send some wind In wrath; and the nation wake up stone blind. In age or in youth we have all wrought ill: I say not our great King Nial did well, Although he was Lord of the Pledges Nine, Where besides subduing this land of Eire, He raised in Armorica banner and sign, And wasted the British coast with fire. Perhaps in His mercy the Lord will say, 'These men, God's help, 'twas a rough boy-play!' He is certain, that young Franciscan Priest-- God sees great sin where men see least; Yet this were to give unto God the eye-- Unmeet the thought, of the humming fly! I trust there are small things He scorns to see In the lowly who cry to Him piteously. Our hope is Christ: I have wept full oft, He came not to Eire in Oisin's time; Though love and those new monks would make men soft, If they were not hardened by war and rhyme. I have done my part: my end draws nigh: I shall leave old Eire with a smile and sigh, She will miss me not as I missed my son, Yet for her and her praise were my best deeds done. Man's deeds! Man's deeds! they are shades that fleet, Or ripples like those that break at my feet. The deeds of my chief and the deeds of my king Grow hazy, far seen, in the hills in spring. Nothing is great save the death on the cross! But Pilate and Herod I hate, and know Had Fionn lived then he had laid them low, Though the world thereby had sustained great loss. My blindness and deafness and aching back With meekness I bear for that suffering's sake; And the Lent-fast for Mary's sake I love, And the honour of Him, the Man Above!