  Abbeydorney, Abbeydorney, Long ago thy race was run, Prone thou art ’mid thickets thorny, Shrine of Kyrie Eleison! Scarcely now a wild rose petal The neglected cloister owns, And the flaunting dock and nettle Wave above the chancel stones. Once through Kerry twilights tender Vesper bells their anthems tolled, And ’mid chants, in churchly splendor, Princely abbots were enrolled. Tall Fitz Maurice with his crozier, O’Clonarchy of Lismore, They are less now than the osier Swaying by the Cashen’s shore! Only when the moon is hidden, Only when the moor-winds rave, Eerily arise unbidden Ghostly transept, ghostly nave. March the bent monks one by one, Singing to the sway of censer, Kyrie—Kyrie Eleison! So, amid thy thickets thorny, All thy state and glory seem, Abbeydorney, Abbeydorney, Like a dim and fleeting dream! |
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