Thy lonesome walls are now almost forgot,
Exposed to air to moulder and to rot,
Where music once in solemn notes did roll,
Now the dull mansion of the screaming owl.
An Ivy wreath thy summit binds secure,
The pungent nettles on thy humid floor,
The fox shrill barking in thy ancient Hall,
And weasels purring in thy hallowed wall.
Here the early lark his wonted Matin sung,
And clergy prayed with never ceasing tongue,
No voice is heard to model Nature's laws,
But the loud chatter of the nestling daws.
Extract from: The Melancholy Man's Meditations on seeing the Abbey of Timoleague in 1813
translated from the Irish of Seán Ó Coileáin.
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