Teacher. We will do it now; come over here. (The children stand together in a row.)
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 Dé 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 Dé, 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.