It is not strength of hosts, not loss of food,
    Not the horsemen of the Gall coming from Britain,
    Nor want of power, nor want of calling to war,
    That has put defeat upon the armies of Ireland,
    And has filled the cities with a sad multitude,
    Alas! alas! but the greatness of our sins.

      See, we are now put in the crucible
    In which every worthless metal is tried,
    In which gold is cleansed from every tarnish;
    The Scripture is true in everything it says;
    It says we must suffer before we can be cured;
    It is through repentance we shall find forgiveness,
    And the restoring of all that we have lost.

      Let us put down the sum of our sins;
    Oppression of the poor, thieving, robbery,
    Great vows held in light esteem;
    Giving our soul to the man that is the worst;
    The strength of our pride was greater than our life,
    The strength of our debts was more than we could pay.

      It was with treachery Ireland was lost,
    And the ill-will of men one to another. 
    There was no judge that would give a hearing
    To the oppressed people whose life was under hardship. 
    Outcasts and widows crying aloud
    Without right judgment to be had or punishment.

      We were never agreed together,
    But as one ox bound and one free from the yoke;
    No right humility to be found. 
    All trying for the headship of Ireland
    At the time when her enemies were doing their work. 
    No settlement to be made of any quarrel,
    The share of the wheat-ear for the man that was strongest;
    It is long that this has been the hurt of Ireland;
    It is thus that the battle ended with the Gael.

      Let us turn now and change our manners,
    Let us make repentance of our sins together—­
    It is thus that the Israelites came out of Egypt;
    Nineveh was given pardon for all its sins,
    And even Peter for denying Christ.

      O saints of Ireland, arise now together;
    O Patrick, who hast care of us, bless this flock;
    We who are exiled, we who are forsaken,
    This sod is gone out unless thou blow upon it;
    Is thy sleep heavy or is thy hearing slow
    That thou dost not give an answer to us? 
    Awake quickly; let it not be as a tale with thee
    That there is no help for the fate of the Gael.

      This, Patrick, is my own quarrel with thee
    That every enemy of thy flock is saying
    That thy ears are not ears that listen,
    That thou art not troubled by the sight of thy people,
    That if they did trouble thee thou wouldst not deny them. 
    Be with us nevertheless with thy strong power. 
    Make our enemies to quit Ireland for ever.

1900.

MOUNTAIN THEOLOGY