The Ballad Of Father Gilligan

The old priest Peter Gilligan

 Was weary night and day

 For half his flock were in their beds

 Or under green sods lay.

 Once, while he nodded in a chair

 At the moth-hour of the eve

 Another poor man sent for him,

 And he began to grieve.

 'I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace,

 For people die and die;

 And after cried he, 'God forgive!

 My body spake not I!'

 He knelt, and leaning on the chair

 He prayed and fell asleep;

 And the moth-hour went from the fields,

 And stars began to peep.

 They slowly into millions grew,

 And leaves shook in the wind

 And God covered the world with shade

 And whispered to mankind.

 Upon the time of sparrow chirp

 When the moths came once more,

 The old priest Peter Gilligan

 Stood upright on the floor.

 'Mavrone, mavrone! The man has died

 While I slept in the chair.'

 He roused his horse out of its sleep

 And rode with little care.

 He rode now as he never rode,

 By rocky lane and fen;

 The sick man's wife opened the door,

 'Father! you come again!'

 'And is the poor man dead?' he cried

 'He died an hour ago.'

 The old priest Peter Gilligan

 In grief swayed to and fro.

 'When you were gone, he turned and died,

 As merry as a bird.'

 The old priest Peter Gilligan

 He knelt him at that word.

 'He Who hath made the night of stars

 For souls who tire and bleed,

 Sent one of this great angels down,

 To help me in my need.

 'He Who is wrapped in purple robes,

 With planets in His care

 Had pity on the least of things

 Asleep upon a chair.'