None of these are found in the oldest MSS., though not a few are apparently very ancient and beautiful, breathing the intensity of feeling and passion so characteristic of the Gael. Dr. Hyde is perhaps not far off the mark when he says that of the great number of Irish poems attributed to him, only a few—half a dozen at the most—are likely to be even partly genuine. It is very hard to say how much or how little is his. But this authority is inclined to agree with Dr. Healy, author of _Ireland’s Schools and Scholars_, that at least the three considered genuine by Colgan represent substantially poems that were really written by the saint. “They breathe his pious spirit,” says Healy, “his ardent love for nature, and his undying affection for his native land. Although retouched, perhaps, by a later hand, they savour so strongly of the true Columban spirit that we are disposed to reckon them amongst the genuine compositions of the saint.” A few specimens are worth quoting, by way of illustrating Columba’s poetic genius:— Were the tribute of all Alba mine, from its centre to its border, I would prefer the sight of one house in the middle of Derry. The reason I love Derry is for its quietness, for its purity and for the crowds of white angels from the one end to the other.... My Derry, my little oak-grove, my dwelling and my little cell, O eternal God in heaven above, woe be to him who violates it. Ara was a little isle, like Iona, in the west of Ireland, where St. Enda lived, and was visited by the saints. Farewell from me to Ara. It anguishes my heart not to be in the west among her waves, amid groups of the saints of heaven. It is far, alas! it is far, alas! I have been sent from Ara West out towards the population of Mona to visit the Albanachs. Ara Sun, oh Ara Sun, my affection lies buried in her in the west, it is the same to be beneath her pure soil as to be beneath the soil of Paul and Peter. Ara blessed, O Ara blessed, woe to him who is hostile to her, may he be given shortness of life and hell. The next, so characteristic of the saint’s love of nature, is taken from the poem on Cormac’s visit—one of the three considered genuine:— It were delightful, O Son of my God, with a moving train, To glide o’er the waves of the deluge fountain to the land of Erin, O’er Moy-n Eolarg, past Ben-Eigny. O’er Loch Feval, Where we should hear pleasing music from the swans, The host of gulls would make joyful, with eager singing, Should it reach the port of stern rejoicers, the _Dewy Red_, I am filled with wealth without Erin, did I think it sufficient.