And the angels answered, "Holy
Clerk, these old fighting men do not remember more than a third of
their tales by reason of the forgetfulness of age, but whatever they
tell write it down on the boards of the poets and in the words of the
poets, for it will be a diversion to the companies and the high people
of the latter times to listen to them."[8] So spoke the angels, and
Patrick did as he bade them, and the stories are in the world to this
day.
[8] This is quoted with a few omissions, from Lady Gregory's
delightful version, in her _Book of Saints and Wonders_, of an
episode in _The Colloquy of the Ancients_ (Silva Gadelica).
STOPFORD A. BROOKE
ST PATRICK'S DAY, 1910
COIS NA TEINEADH
(_By the Fireside._)
Where glows the Irish hearth with peat
There lives a subtle spell--
The faint blue smoke, the gentle heat,
The moorland odours, tell
Of long roads running through a red
Untamed unfurrowed land,
With curlews keening overhead,
And streams on either hand;
Black turf-banks crowned with whispering sedge,
And black bog-pools below;
While dry stone wall or ragged hedge
Leads on, to meet the glow
From cottage doors, that lure us in
From rainy Western skies,
To seek the friendly warmth within,
The simple talk and wise;
Or tales of magic, love and arms
From days when princes met
To listen to the lay that charms
The Connacht peasant yet.
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