We leave a gracious golden land that blossoms like the rose.
Far defter hands may now adorn the work we laboured at,
But granite base and buttressed wall were built by Father Pat.
Well may his arms drop idly down at eighty years of age;
His story goes behind him with no stain upon its page.
I’ll bet he played the innings through and carried out his bat,
And none dare hint “retiring hurt” in front of Father Pat.
And with him goes the little band that sailed in sixty-five;
A dreamer by his lamp to-night is all that’s left alive.
Poor Father James, and Father Ned, and jovial Father Mat