“Mo Chree,” he said, “your bed to-night
Will be both dark and cold,
On what new island will you wake,
Or what strange face behold?
“Asthór,” he said, “lest you should fear
To wander forth alone,
I'll follow through the gates of death
To claim you for my own.”
Into his fond and loving heart
He drove his hunting knife,
And by his bride's chill side he lay,
And soon gave up his life.
••••••
It was the good St. Kevin went.
All bowed and lost in prayer,
And as he paced his lonely path
The young witch met him there.
And in her gown the poison cup
She did most quickly hide.
But spoke the good saint unto her,
And would not be denied.
“What evil thing is this?” he said,
“That you must put away?
It is no gracious act indeed
That fears the light of day.”
“It is but bread,” the witch replied,
“From my small store I take.
To feed a poor deserted babe,
I go for pity sake.”
“Now, be it bread,” the priest replied,
“I pray it multiply;
But if it is an evil thing,
Full heavy may it lie.”
