Low kneel'd that blessed Abbot,
When the dawn was waxing bright;
He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland,
He pray'd with all his might.
Low kneel'd that good old father,
While the sun began to dart;
He pray'd a prayer for all mankind,
He pray'd it from his heart.
II
The Abbot of Inisfalen
Arose upon his feet;
He heard a small bird singing,
And, oh, but it sung sweet!
He heard a white bird singing well
Within a holly-tree;
A song so sweet and happy
Never before heard he.
It sung upon a hazel,
It sung upon a thorn;
He had never heard such music
Since the hour that he was born.
It sung upon a sycamore,
It sung upon a briar;
To follow the song and hearken
This Abbot could never tire.
Till at last he well bethought him
He might no longer stay;
So he bless'd the little white singing-bird,
And gladly went his way.
III
But when he came to his Abbey walls,
He found a wondrous change;
He saw no friendly faces there,
For every face was strange.