While the Cross, with a bright burning light round its edges, beside it did lie.
And the maid grasped the Cross, which devoutly she kissed,
And hid it again in the snow of her breast;
Homewards she turned her with pensive steps slowly,
But her heart was at peace—meek, submissive, and lowly,
As maid and as mother (the Cross at her breast) she passed a life holy.
Often still wake the echoes of Coirre-na-Sheen,
At the blast of thy bugle, O Hunter in Green!
Go get thee a mate from the green fairy knowe—