TEACHER.  Now I will tell you who made the poem you are going to say to me:  There was a holy, saintly man in Ireland some years ago.  Aongus Ceile De was the name he had.  There was no man in Ireland had greater humility than he.  He did not like the people to be giving honour to him, or to be saying he was a great saint, or that he made fine poems.  It was because of his humility he stole away one night, and put a disguise on himself; and he went like a poor man through the country, working for his own living without anyone knowing him.  He is gone away out of knowledge now, without anyone at all knowing where he is.  Maybe he is feeding pigs or grinding meal now like any other poor person.

A CHILD.  Grinding meal like old Cormacin here.

TEACHER.  Exactly.  But before he went away, it is many fine sweet poems he made in the praise of God and the angels; and it was one of those I was teaching you to-day.

A CHILD.  What is the name you said he had?

TEACHER.  Aongus Ceile De, the servant of God.  They gave him that name because he was so holy.  Now, Felim, say the first two lines you; and Art will say the two next lines; and Aodh the two lines after that, and so on to the end.

FELIM.

    Up in the kingdom of God, there are
    Archangels for every single day.

ART.

    And it is they certainly
    That steer the entire week.

AODH.

    The first day is holy;
    Sunday belongs to God.

FERGUS.

    Gabriel watches constantly
    Every week over Monday.

CONALL.

    Gabriel watches constantly—­

TEACHER.  That’s not it, Conall; Fergus said that.

CONALL.  It is to God Sunday belongs——­

TEACHER.  That’s not it; that was said before.  It is at Tuesday we are now.  Who is it has Tuesday? (The little boy does not answer.) Who is it has Tuesday?  Don’t be a fool, now.

CONALL (putting the joint of his finger in his eye).  I don’t know.

TEACHER.  Oh, my shame you are!  Look now; go in the place
Fearall is, and he will go in your place.  Now, Fearall.

FEARALL.

    It is true that Tuesday is kept
    By Michael in his full strength.

TEACHER.  That’s it.  Now, Conall, say who has Monday.

CONALL.  I can’t.

TEACHER.  Say the two lines before that and I will be satisfied. 
Who has Monday?

CONALL (crying).  I don’t know.

TEACHER.  Oh, aren’t you the little amadan!  I will never put anything at all in your head.  I will not let you go out till you know that poem.  Now, boys, run out with you; and we will leave Conall Amadan here. (The TEACHER and all the other scholars go out.)

THE OLD MAN.  Don’t be crying, avourneen; I will teach the poem to you; I know it myself.

CONALL.  Aurah, Cormacin, I cannot learn it.  I am not clever or quick like the other boys.  I can’t put anything in my head (bursts into crying again).  I have no memory for anything.