[Footnote 52: _Ancient Legends of Ireland._]
Good Father John O'Hart In penal days rode out To a _shoneen_[53] in his freelands, With his snipe marsh and his trout.
In trust took he John's lands, --_Sleiveens_[54] were all his race-- And he gave them as dowers to his daughters, And they married beyond their place.
But Father John went up, And Father John went down; And he wore small holes in his shoes, And he wore large holes in his gown.
All loved him, only the _shoneen_, Whom the devils have by the hair, From their wives and their cats and their children, To the birds in the white of the air.
The birds, for he opened their cages, As he went up and down; And he said with a smile, "Have peace, now," And went his way with a frown.
But if when anyone died, Came keeners hoarser than rooks, He bade them give over their keening, For he was a man of books.
And these were the works of John, When weeping score by score, People came into Coloony, For he'd died at ninety-four.
There was no human keening; The birds from Knocknarea, And the world round Knocknashee, Came keening in that day,--
Keening from Innismurry, Nor stayed for bit or sup; This way were all reproved Who dig old customs up.
[Coloony is a few miles south of the town of Sligo. Father O'Hart lived there in the last century, and was greatly beloved. These lines accurately record the tradition. No one who has held the stolen land has prospered. It has changed owners many times.]
[Footnote 53: _Shoneen_--_i.e._, upstart.]
[Footnote 54: _Sleiveen_--_i.e._, mean fellow.]
Many years ago there was a very religious and holy man, one of the monks of a convent, and he was one day kneeling at his prayers in the garden of his monastery, when he heard a little bird singing in one of the rose-trees of the garden, and there never was anything that he had heard in the world so sweet as the song of that little bird.
And the holy man rose up from his knees where he was kneeling at his prayers to listen to its song; for he thought he never in all his life heard anything so heavenly.
And the little bird, after singing for some time longer on the rose-tree, flew away to a grove at some distance from the monastery, and the holy man followed it to listen to its singing, for he felt as if he would never be tired of listening to the sweet song it was singing out of its throat.