 | Shamrocks |  |
120
BIRTH TO BURIAL.
Oh, when was the King Christ born,
And where might it be?
Between the midnight and the morn,
When ghostly shadows flee.
His palace a stable was,
His throne His mother's knee,
And cradled in the sweet dry grass
Of a manger was He.
And where might it be?
Between the midnight and the morn,
When ghostly shadows flee.
His palace a stable was,
His throne His mother's knee,
And cradled in the sweet dry grass
Of a manger was He.
But come to manhood's fair estate,
What crown might He wear?
What courtiers on His footsteps wait,
On some high palace stair?
What throne? The Cross was stark and base;
Grey thorns were on His hair;
His courtiers smote Him on the face,
The piteous face and fair.
What crown might He wear?
What courtiers on His footsteps wait,
On some high palace stair?
What throne? The Cross was stark and base;
Grey thorns were on His hair;
His courtiers smote Him on the face,
The piteous face and fair.
121
Now take the dead King from His throne,
In state He shall lie;
His garden tomb is chill and lone
Below an ashen sky:
His mother's face hid in His hair,
There's never a moan or cry;
Only a tall white angel there
Will wring his hands and sigh.
In state He shall lie;
His garden tomb is chill and lone
Below an ashen sky:
His mother's face hid in His hair,
There's never a moan or cry;
Only a tall white angel there
Will wring his hands and sigh.
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