THE THREE MONKS.
“It was with the good monks of old that sterling hospitality was to be found.”—Hansbrove’s Irish Gazetteer.
Three monks sat by a bogwood fire!
Shaven their crowns, and their garments grey;
Close they sat to that bogwood fire,
Watching the wicket till break of day—
Such was ever the rule at Kilcrea;[2]
For whoever passed, be he baron or squire,
Was free to call at that abbey, and stay,
Nor guerdon or hire for his lodging pay,
Though he tarried a week with the Holy Quire!
Three monks sat by a bogwood fire!
Dark look’d the night from the window-pane!
They who sat by that bogwood fire
Were Eustace, Alleyn, and Giles by name:
Long they gazed at the cheerful flame,
Till each from his neighbour began to inquire
The tale of his life, before he came
To Saint Bridget’s shrine, and the cowl had ta’en:
So they piled on more wood, and drew their seats nigher!
Three monks sat by a bogwood fire!
Loud wailed the wind through cloister and nave!
With penitent air by that bogwood fire
The first that spake it was Eustace grave,
And told, “He had been a soldier brave
In his youth, till a comrade he slew in ire;
Since then he forswore helmet and glaive,
And, leaving his home, had crossed the wave,
And taken the cross and cowl at Saint Finbar’s spire!”
Three monks sat by a bogwood fire!
Swift through the glen ran the river Lee!
And Alleyn next, by that bogwood fire,
Told his tale—a woeful man was he:
Alas, he had loved unlawfullie
The wife of his brother, Sir Hugh Maguire!
And he fled to the cloister to free
His soul from sin: and ’twas sad to see
How sorrow had worn the youthful friar!
Three monks sat by a bogwood fire!
And red the light on the rafters shone,
And the last who spoke by that bogwood fire
Was Giles, of the three the only one
Whom care or grief had not lit upon;
But rosy and round, throughout city and shire
His mate for frolic and glee was none;
And soon he told how “A peasant’s son,
He was reared to the church by their former Prior!”
Three monks sat by a bogwood fire!
The moon look’d o’er all with clouded ray;
And there they sat by that bogwood fire,
Watching the wicket till break of day;
And many that night did call, and stay,
Whose names—if, gentles, ye do not tire—
In next strain shall the bard essay—
(Many and motley I ween were they)—
Till then, pardon he craves for his humble lyre!
And to each and all,
Benedicite!
[2] Kilcrea Abbey, near Cork, was dedicated to Saint Bridget, and founded, A. D. 1494, by Cormac Lord Muskerry. Its monks belonged to the Franciscan order commonly called “the Grey Friars.”