The old priest Peter Gilligan     Was weary night and day;     For half his flock were in their beds,     Or under green sods lay.     Once while he nodded on a chair,     At the moth-hour of eve,     Another poor man sent for him,     And he began to grieve.     'I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace,     For people die and die';     And after cried he, 'God forgive!     My body spake, not I!'     He knelt, and leaning on the chair     He prayed and fell asleep;     And the moth-hour went from the fields,     And stars began to peep.     'Mavrone, mavrone! The man has died  ... Show more

The old priest Peter Gilligan    
Was weary night and day;    
For half his flock were in their beds,    
Or under green sods lay.    
Once while he nodded on a chair,    
At the moth-hour of eve,    
Another poor man sent for him,    
And he began to grieve.    
'I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace,    
For people die and die';    
And after cried he, 'God forgive!    
My body spake, not I!'    
He knelt, and leaning on the chair    
He prayed and fell asleep;    
And the moth-hour went from the fields,    
And stars began to peep.    
'Mavrone, mavrone! The man has died    
While I slept on the chair';    
He roused his horse out of its sleep,    
And rode with little care.    
He rode now as he never rode,    
By rocky lane and fern;    
The sick man's wife opened the door :    
'Father! You come again!'    
'And is the poor man dead?' he cried.    
'He died an hour ago.'    
The old priest Peter Gilligan    
In grief swayed to and fro.    
'When you were gone, he turned and died    
As merry as a bird.'    
The old priest Peter Gilligan    
He knelt at that word.    
— W.B. Yeats    

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