TO ICOLMCILL.


From the Gaelic of Mac-Intyre.

On Icolmcill may blessings pour!
It is the island blest of yore;
Mull's sister-twin in the wild main,
Owning the sway of high Mac-Lean;
The sacred spot, whose fair renown
To many a distant land has flown,
And which receives in courteous way
All, all who thither chance to stray.

There in the grave are many a King
And duine-wassel {68} slumbering;
And bodies, once of giant strength,
Beneath the earth are stretch'd at length;
It is the fate of mortals all
To ashes fine and dust to fall;
I've hope in Christ, for sins who died,
He has their souls beatified.

Now full twelve hundred years, and more,
On dusky wing have flitted o'er,
Since that high morn when Columb grey
Its wall's foundation-stone did lay;