st,
Where noisy raids have never sullied
The beechen forest's virgin vest.

For here the Angel Host would visit
Of yore with AEngus, Oivlen's son,
As in his cross-ringed cell he lauded
The One in Three, the Three in One.

To death he passed upon a Friday,
The day they slew our Blessed Lord.
Here stands his tomb; unto the Assembly
Of Holy Heaven his soul has soared.

'Twas in Cloneagh he had his rearing;
'Tis in Cloneagh he now lies dead,
'Twas in Cloneagh of many crosses
That first his psalms he read.

THE SHAVING OF MURDOCH

(From the Early Irish)

(By Muiredach O'Daly, late twelfth century, when he and Cathal More of
the Red Hand, King of Connaught, entered the monastic life together.)

Murdoch, whet thy razor's edge,
Our crowns to pledge to Heaven's Ardrigh!
Vow we now our hair fine-tressed
To the Blessed Trinity!

Now my head I shear to Mary;
'Tis a true heart's very due.
Shapely, soft-eyed Chieftain now
Shear thy brow to Mary, too!

Seldom on thy head, fair Chief,
Hath a barbing-knife been plied;
Oft the fairest of Princesses
Combed her tresses at thy side.

Whensoever we did bathe,
We found no scathe, yourself and I,
With Brian of the well-curled locks,
From hidden rocks and currents wry.

And most I mind what once befell
Beside the well of fair Boru--
I swam a race with Ua Chais
The icy flood of Fergus through.

When hand to hand the bank we reached,
Swift foot to foot we stretched again,
Till Duncan Cairbre, Chief of Chiefs,
Gave us three knives--not now in vain.

No other blades such temper have;
Then, Murdoch, shave with easy art!
Whet, Cathal of the Wine Red Hand,
Thy Victor brand, in peaceful part!

Then our shorn heads from weather wild
Shield, Daughter mild of Joachim!
Preserve us from the sun's fierce power,
Mary, soft Flower of Jesse's Stem!

ON THE FLIGHTINESS OF THOUGHT

(A tenth-century poem. See _Eriu_, vol. iii, p. 13)

Shame upon my thoughts, O shame!
How they fly in order broken,
Therefore much I fear for blame
When the Trump of Doom has spoken.

At my psalms, they oft are set
On a path the Fiend must pave them;
Evermore, with fash and fret,
In God's sight they misbehave them.

Through contending crowds they fleet,
Companies of wanton women,
Silent wood or strident s