THE POPE OF THE HILLS by THOMAS WALSH

NEVER a word will you hear at Maynooth
Of the pope they have lost; 'tis a bit of the truth
That is whispered at noontide by dingle and glen
Mid the tangle of daisies when lasses and men
Sit down from the harvest with stories of war
And of wonderment strange to the cities afar.
'Tis a secret avoided at wake and at feast
That is under the ban of the bishop and priest,
But is hinted at slyly as sudden winds sigh
In the chimney when blustery nights fill the sky,—
The story how Patsey the lad became pope
And was crowned with the crown and was coped with the cope,
How he wore the great ring on the back of his fist.
And held the white shoes on his feet to be kissed;
But one morning when springtime was burgeoning gay
To the notes of the lark he was gathered away
And over the mountains of Erin was gone
Through the gates of the morning and mists of the dawn.
Then a heavier loneliness fell over Rome
And a holier light lit the hillsides of home,
For it seemed in the spring that the smile of the lad
Down the blossomy trellises was to be had;
That the birds felt a stirring and sang in their nest
When the meads and sheep-pastures his light footing pressed;
That the violet glanced with his sparkle of blue,
That the light of his hyssop shone out in the dew,
That over the lover on tryst waiting there
Came touch of his blessing on lips and on hair.
There's many a tinker and fiddler could say
Strange things of the tapers that lighted their way;
Many a crone as she drowsed at her prayers
Heard him chanting and blessing the still vesper airs;
But never could any one answer and tell
A word that could lead to his haunt in the dell,
When the purple processions at twilight drew near
And the cardinals hunted and bishops would hear
Where the young pope was lurking; none ever could give
The track where he wandered, the place where he'd live,
Save over the mountains to beckon them on
To the gates of the morning and mists of the dawn.

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