Would’st thou on good terms with friars live,
Ever be humble and admiring;
All they ask of thee freely give,
And in return be nought requiring.

On a surly Butler,
who had refused him admission to the cellar

O Dermod Flynn it grieveth me
Thou keepest not Hell’s portal;
As long as thou should’st porter be,
Thou would’st admit no mortal.

Lines

How deadly the blow I received
When of thee, O my darling, bereaved!
No more up the hill I shall bound,
No strength in my poor foot is found;
No joy o’er my visage shall break
’Till from out the cold earth I awake.
Of the corn like the very top grain,
Or the pine ’mongst the shrubs of the plain,
Or the moon ’mongst the starlets above,
Went thou amongst women, my love!

* * * * *

London:
Printed for Thomas J. Wise, Hampstead, N.W.
Edition limited to Thirty Copies