Lone and weary as I wander’d by the bleak shore of the sea,
Meditating and reflecting on the world’s hard destiny,
Forth the moon and stars ‘gan glimmer, in the quiet tide beneath,
For on slumbering spring and blossom breathed not out of heaven a breath.

On I went in sad dejection, careless where my footsteps bore,
Till a ruined church before me opened wide its ancient door,
Till I stood before the portals, where of old were wont to be,
For the blind, the halt, and leper, alms and hospitality.

Still the ancient seat was standing, built against the buttress grey,
Where the clergy used to welcome weary trav’llers on their way;
There I sat me down in sadness, ‘neath my cheek I placed my hand,
Till the tears fell hot and briny down upon the grassy land.

There, I said in woful sorrow, weeping bitterly the while,
Was a time when joy and gladness reigned within this ruined pile;
Was a time when bells were tinkling, clergy preaching peace abroad,
Psalms a-singing, music ringing praises to the mighty God.

Empty aisle, deserted chancel, tower tottering to your fall,
Many a storm since then has beaten on the grey head of your wall!
Many a bitter storm and tempest has your roof-tree turned away,
Since you first were formed a temple to the Lord of night and day.

Holy house of ivied gables, that were once the country’s boast,
Houseless now in weary wandering are you scattered, saintly host;
Lone you are to-day, and dismal,— joyful psalms no more are heard,
Where, within your choir, her vesper screeches the cat-headed bird.

Ivy from your eaves is growing, nettles round your green hearth-stone,
Foxes howl, where, in your corners, dropping waters make their moan.
Where the lark to early matins used your clergy forth to call,
There, alas! no tongue is stirring, save the daw’s upon the wall.

Refectory cold and empty, dormitory bleak and bare,
Where are now your pious uses, simple bed and frugal fare?
Gone your abbot, rule and order, broken down your altar stones;
Nought see I beneath your shelter, save a heap of clayey bones.

O! the hardship, O! the hatred, tyranny, and cruel war,
Persecution and oppression, that have left you as you are!
I myself once also prosper’d; — mine is, too, an alter’d plight;
Trouble, care, and age have left me good for nought but grief to-night.

Gone my motion and my vigour — gone the use of eye and ear,
At my feet lie friends and children, powerless and corrupting here;
Woe is written on my visage, in a nut my heart could lie —
Death’s deliverance were welcome — Father, let the old man die.

Translation by Sir Samuel Ferguson of the Irish poem Machtnamh an Duine Dhoilghíosaigh (‘The Melancholy Mortal’s Reflections’) or, Caoineadh ar Mhainistir Thigh Molaige (‘Lament Over the Monastery House of Molaga’) by Seághan Ó CoileáinPictures of the 15th century Franciscan friary known as Moor Abbey, County Tipperary.