Good Fillan the Abbot ruled supreme—
Such was the custom of Pittenweem.
IV.
The night was long, the weather cold;
A Minstrel, neither young nor old,
Whose ragged coat and shoes in holes
Wrung pity from those monkish souls,
Entered the Abbey’s lower hall,
Whence, duteous to the Abbot’s call,
He brought himself and harp upstairs