[p 11]
]Only when the night grows denser
March the bent monks one by one,
Singing to the sway of censer,
Kyrie—Kyrie Eleison!
So, amid thy thickets thorny,
All thy state and glory seem,
Abbeydorney, Abbeydorney,
Like a dim and fleeting dream!
[p 12]
]A SONG FOR JOYCE’S COUNTRY
O a song for Joyce’s Country, where the grim wild mountains be,