I invoke, upon my path
      To the King of Ireland’s rath,
        The Almighty Power of the Trinity;
      Through belief in the Threeness,
      Through confession of the Oneness
        Of the Maker’s Eternal Divinity.

ST. PATRICK’S EVENSONG

  Christ, Thou Son of God most High,
    May thy Holy Angels keep
  Watch around us as we lie
    In our shining beds asleep.

  Time’s hid veil with truth to pierce
    Let them teach our dreaming eyes,
  Arch-King of the Universe,
    High-Priest of the Mysteries.

  May no demon of the air,
    May no malice of our foes,
  Evil dream or haunting care
    Mar our willing, prompt repose!

  May our vigils hallowed be
    By the tasks we undertake! 
  May our sleep be fresh and free,
    Without let and without break.

ST. COLUMBA’S GREETING TO IRELAND

(An old Irish poem recounting the Saint’s voyage from Erin to Alba
(Scotland), from which he but once returned)

  Delightful to stand on the brow of Ben Edar,
    Before being a speeder on the white-haired sea! 
  The dashing of the wave in wild disorder
    On its desolate border delightful to me!

  Delightful to stand on the brow of Ben Edar,
    After being a speeder o’er the white-bosomed sea,
  After rowing and rowing in my little curragh! 
    To the loud shore thorough, O, Och, Ochonee!

  Great is the speed of my little wherry,
    As afar from Derry its path it ploughs;
  Heavy my heart out of Erin steering
    And nearing Alba of the beetling brows.

  My foot is fast in my chiming curragh,
    Tears of sorrow my sad heart fill. 
  Who lean not on God are but feeble-minded,
    Without His Love we go blinded still.

  There is a grey eye that tears are thronging,
    Fixed with longing on Erin’s shore,
  It shall never see o’er the waste of waters
    The sons and daughters of Erin more.

  Its glance goes forth o’er the brine wave-broken,
    Far off from the firm-set, oaken seat;
  Many the tears from that grey eye streaming,
    The faint, far gleaming of Erin to meet.

  For indeed my soul is set upon Erin,
    And all joys therein from Linnhe to Lene,
  On each pleasant prospect of proud Ultonia,
    Mild Momonia and Meath the green.

  In Alba eastward the lean Scot increases,
    Frequent the diseases and murrain in her parts,
  Many in her mountains the scanty-skirted fellows,
    Many are the hard and the jealous hearts.

  Many in the West are our Kings and Princes noble,
    Orchards bend double beneath their fruitage vast;
  Sloes upon the thorn-bush shine in blue abundance,
    Oaks in redundance drop the royal mast.