A Celtic Psaltery Being Mainly Renderings in English Verse from Irish & Welsh Poetry

This Psaltery of Celtic Songs To you by bounden right belongs; For ere War's thunder round us broke, To your content its chord I woke, Where Cymru's Prince in fealty pure Knelt...

Author of the _Felire Ængusa_ or Calendar of Church Festivals. He was a Saint, his appellation Culdee [Céile dé] meaning "Servant of God." He lived at the end of the eighth and...

The rudest three of all the sons of earth: A youngster of an old man making mirth; A strong man at a sick man poking fun; A wise man gibing at a foolish one.

"Tis my own son that from me you wring, _I_ deceived not the King. But slay me, even me, And let my boy be. A mother most hapless, My bosom is sapless. Mine eyes one tearful riv...

Who are these whose praises pealing From beyond the Morning Star Earthward solemnly are stealing Down the distance faint and far? These are they, the Ever Living, All in glisten...

And, as if by a meracle, ailments hysterical, Dad, wid one dose of bread pills he can smother, And quench the love sickness wid comical quickness, Prescribin' the right boys and...

Until on the Mount, with the morn they have found Him-- Christ, the long sought--they have found Him at length, With their sick and their stricken, in faith they flock round Him...

Is this the end? The tired little hands Fall by his side, the wild eyes close at last, Breathless he sinks, almost we hear his sands Of being ebbing past; When, O miraculous! he...