Upon the cliffs of Loop Head wild,
Where Atlantic tempests roar,
Stands wee Kilbaha's humble church
Beside the stony shore.
Its walls are stout, its windows plain,
No beauty to declare—
But there a relic whispers faith
That conquered old despair.
For once the landlords ruled the land,
And hunger stalked the bay,
When Marcus Keane with bread in hand
Would buy men's souls away.
Yet Michael Meehan, priest of God,
With donkey, hut, and prayer,
Defied the storm, the lash, the rod,
And brought the Mass to Clare.
He set his altar on the sand,
Between the tides of sea,
Where no man's law nor landlord's hand
Could touch the Deity.
The people knelt on shingle cold,
They raised their eyes above;
While in the Ark, both poor and bold,
He preached the faith of love.
And once when storms had wrecked the fleet,
The faithful all returned;
Save those who bartered creed for meat—
Whose fate the village learned.
The years rolled on; the Ark grew worn,
Its wheels were rust and dust;
Yet Kilbaha keeps it still with care,
A witness firm and just.
Not gold, nor gems, nor sculptured art
Could hold such grace, or mark
The faith that bound each Irish heart
Around the Little Ark.
ref: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gtD85dZ8_C4
No comments:
Post a Comment