The Old College

Of the Irish, Paris THE Lombards having gone back to their land, We, who might never flock to native land Except like birds that fly like fugitives, Desperately, in a wind across the sea, We drew our brood to their forsaken nest. The Lombards’ halls became the Irelanders', And charity was craved for us 'twas given In names of Almantza and Namur, Cremona, Barcelona, Charleroi Fields that our soldiers bled on for a cause Not ours, under command not ours. Our order broken, they who were our brood Knew not themselves the heirs of noted masters, Of Columbanus and Erigena: We strove towards no high reach of speculation, Towards no delivery of gestated dogma, No resolution of age-long dispute. Only to have a priest beside the hedges, Baptizing, marrying, Offering Mass within some clod-built chapel, And to the dying the last sacrament Conveying, no more we strove to do We, all bare exiles, soldiers, scholars, priests.