Dreaming of lads for her lovers, and twirling her bracelets and rings;
Combing and coiling and curling her hair that was black as the sloes,
Painting her lips and her cheeks that were ruddy and fresh as the rose.
Ah, ’twasn’t Brigid would waste all her days in such follies as these—
Christ was the Lover she worshipped for hour after hour on her knees;
Christ and His Church and His poor,—and ’twas many a mile that she trod
Serving the loathsomest lepers that ever were stricken by God.
Brigid, the daughter of Duffy, she sold all her jewels and gems,
Sold all her finely-spun robes that were braided with gold to the hems;
Kept to her back but one garment, one dress that was faded and old,