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Stephen Dunford: The Journey of The IrIsh
Never a word said Conal, but his face was set and gray,
As he strode to the lonely cabin where the dying Druid lay,
He knelt by the humble pallet, and the air was thick with death,
But the lips of the stricken father smiled with his dying breath,
And his feeble hand was lifted to bless with the Christian’s sign
The wayward son of his bosom — the last of the Druid line.
Then the sinful wrath of Conal passed like a mist away,
And he kissed the hem of the garment of the man he had sworn to slay.
St Patrick’s Grave, Downpatrick
