When His Court of Doom is keeping.

One and forty on a hundred
And a thousand, without lying,
Was their number, joined to virtue,
Put upon each bird-flock flying.

Who these faultless birds should hearken,
Thus their strains of rapture linking,
For the very transport of it,
Unto death would straight be sinking.

Pray for us, O mighty Mary!
When earth's bonds no more are binding,
That these birds our souls may solace,
In the Land of Philip's finding.

[Footnote A: A fair, or open-air assembly.]




Lays of Monk and Hermit




THE SCRIBE

(From the Early Irish)