forward,
      in Irish tongue spake he: 
    ’Thou wearest the holy Augustine’s dress,
      and who hath given it to thee?’
    ’I wear the Augustine’s dress,
      and Cormac is my name,
    The Abbot of this good Abbey
      by grace of God I am. 
    I went forth to pray, at the dawn of day;
      and when my prayers were said,
    I hearken’d awhile to a little bird,
      that sung above my head.’ 
    The monks to him made answer,
      ’Two hundred years have gone o’er,
    Since our Abbot Cormac went through the gate,
      and never was heard of more. 
    Matthias now is our Abbot,
      and twenty have pass’d away. 
    The stranger is lord of Ireland;
      we live in an evil day.’ 
    ‘Days will come and go,’ he said,
      ’and the world will pass away,
    In Heaven a day is a thousand years,
      a thousand years are a day.’ 
    ’Now give me absolution;
      for my time is come,’ said he. 
    And they gave him absolution,
      as speedily as might be. 
    Then, close outside the window,
      the sweetest song they heard
    That ever yet since the world began
      was utter’d by any bird. 
    The monks look’d out and saw the bird,
      its feathers all white and clean;
    And there in a moment, beside it,
      another white bird was seen. 
    Those two they sang together,
      waved their white wings, and fled;
    Flew aloft, and vanish’d;
      but the good old man was dead. 
    They buried his blessed body
      where lake and green-sward meet;
    A carven cross above his head,
      a holly-bush at his feet;
    Where spreads the beautiful water
      to gay or cloudy skies,
    And the purple peaks of Killarney
      from ancient woods arise.

THE RUINED CHAPEL

    By the shore, a plot of ground
    Clips a ruin’d chapel round,
    Buttress’d with a grassy mound;
    Where Day and Night and Day go by,
    And bring no touch of human sound.

    Washing of the lonely seas,
    Shaking of the guardian trees,
    Piping of the salted breeze;
    Day and Night and Day go by
    To the endless tune of these.

    Or when, as winds and waters keep
    A hush more dead than any sleep,
    Still morns to stiller evenings creep,
    And Day and Night and Day go by;
    Here the silence is most deep.

    The empty ruins, lapsed again
    Into Nature’s wide domain,
    Sow themselves with seed and grain
    As Day and Night and Day go by;
    And hoard June’s sun and April’s rain.

    Here fresh funeral tears were shed;
    Now the graves are also dead;
    And suckers from the ash-tree spread,
    While Day and Night and Day go by;
    And stars move calmly overhead.

Here end sixteen poems, written by William Allingham, and selected for re-printing by William Butler Yeats.  Printed upon paper made in Ireland, and published by Elizabeth Corbet Yeats at the Dun Emer Press, in the house of Evelyn Gleeson at Dundrum, in the county of Dublin, Ireland, finished on the fifteenth day of September, in the year 1905.