THE little son was dead Ere he was born, alas! Never upon his hapless head The saving water was. In Crios-na-Lanna drear They laid the precious clay That will not rise in any year, Nor on the Judgment Day. As she went to and fro, Her tears fell down like rain For the small son she might not know, Whom she had borne in pain. As she went out about, Her tears they burned like fire For the small wandering soul cast out That was Our Lord's desire. As she went to the well, Past Crios-na-Lanna dark, She heard the sheep and the sheep-bell And many a happy lark. O'er churchyard grave and moss The sheep cropped, well content; The little grave without a cross Cried to her as she went. She never raised her eyes, But drew the water clear. Is it a new-born babe that cries, Or straying lambkin near? Oh, is it lamb or child That leaves the churchyard sod? A little lamb all undefiled And like the Lamb of God; That seeks its mother mild With tender soft alarms; Oh, is it lamb or is it child That bleats within her arms? Oh, is it child or lamb That pushes at her breast? A lamb that sought its straying dam And has come home to rest. On Crios-na-Lanna's rock The sheep browse safe from harms: One little lamb has left the flock And leaped into her arms. By Crios-na-Lanna lone At morning-tide and even, The hungry heart has found its own, The mother is in Heaven. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...VICTOR GALBRAITH by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW DAMON THE MOWER by ANDREW MARVELL THE MEETING OF THE WATERS by THOMAS MOORE LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE by ALFRED TENNYSON TO MYRTILLA OF NEW YORK by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS THE LOVE SONNETS OF PROTEUS: 68. THE THREE AGES OF WOMAN: 3 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |