By the craggy hillside Through the mosses bare, They have planted thorn-trees For pleasure here and there. If any man so daring As dig them up in spite, He shall find their sharpest thorns In his bed at night. Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather! _William Allingham_ THE ABBOT OF INISFALEN _A Killarney Legend_ The Abbot of Inisfalen awoke ere dawn of day; Under the dewy green leaves went he forth to pray. The lake around his island lay smooth and dark and deep, And wrapped in a misty stillness the mountains were all asleep. Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac when the dawn was dim and gray, The prayers of his holy office he faithfully 'gan say. Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac while the dawn was waxing red; And for his sins' forgiveness a solemn prayer he said: Low kneel'd that holy Abbot while the dawn was waking clear, And he prayed with loving-kindness for his convent-brethren dear. Low kneel'd the blessed Abbot while the dawn was waxing bright; He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland, he pray'd with all his might. Low kneel'd that good old Father while the sun began to dart; He pray'd a prayer for all men, he pray'd it from his heart. His blissful soul was in Heaven, tho' a breathing man was he; He was out of time's dominion, so far as the living may be. The Abbot of Inisfalen arose upon his feet; He heard a small bird singing, and O but it sung sweet! It sung upon a holly-bush, this little snow-white bird; A song so full of gladness he never before had heard, It sung upon a hazel, it sung upon a thorn; He had never heard such music since the hour that he was born. It sung upon a sycamore, it sung upon a briar; To follow the song and hearken the Abbot would never tire. Till at last he well bethought him, he might no longer stay; So he bless'd the little white singing-bird, and gladly went his way. But, when he came to his Abbey, he found a wondrous wondrous change; He saw no friendly faces there, for every face was strange. The strange men spoke unto him; and he heard from all and each The foreign tongue of the Sassenach, not wholesome Irish speech. Then the oldest monk came forward, in Irish tongue spake he: 'Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress, and who hath given it to thee?' 'I wear the holy Augustine's dress, and Cormac is my name, The Abbot of this good Abbey by grace of God I am.