The Priest Rediscovers His Psalm-Book .

This exquisite poem gave rise to a two-volume work by George Moore
called A Storyteller’s Holiday, which celebrates the Virgines
subintroductae of the early Irish church. The virgines subintroductae
were the women who accompanied early saints, but if there were any in
Ireland, Crinog, the heroine of this poem was not one of them. Her
name, which means “Old~Young,” is merely a typical donnish joke as a
modern scholar, Mr. Carney, has shown.

How good to hear your voice again,
  Old love, no longer young, but true,
As when in Ulster I grew up
  And we were bedmates, I and you.

When first they put us twain to bed,
  My love who speaks the tongue of Heaven,
I was a toy with no bad thoughts,
  A modest youth, and barely seven.

We wandered Ireland over then,
  Our souls and bodies free of blame,
My foolish face aglow with love,
  An idiot without fear of blame.

Yours was the counsel that I sought
  Wherever we went wandering;
Better I found your subtle thought
  Than idle converse with some king.

You slept with four men after that,
  Yet never sinned in leaving me,
And now a virgin you return
  I say but what all men can see.

For safe within my arms again,
  Weary of wandering many ways,
The face I love is shadowed now
  Though lust attends not its last days.

Faultless my old love seeks me out;
  I welcome her with joyous heart——
My dear, you would not have me lost,
  With you I’ll learn that holy art.

Since all the world your praises sings,
  And all acclaim your wanderings past
I have but to heed your counsel sweet
  To find myself with God at last.

You are a token and a sign
  To men of what all men must heed;
Each day your lovers learn anew
  God’s praise is all the skill they need.

So may He grant me by your grace
  A quiet end, an easy mind,
And light my pathway with His face
  When the dead flesh is left behind.


Source: O'Connor, Frank (tr); Kings, Lords, & Commons: An Anthology
from the Irish; 1962; London; Macmillan & Co; p.12