High ships go sailing past it;

the sturdy clank of oars

Brings in the salmon-boat to haul

a net upon the shores;

And this way to his home-creek,

when the summer day is done,

Slow sculls the weary fisherman

across the setting sun;

While green with corn is Sheegus Hill,

his cottage white below;

But gray at every season

is Abbey Asaroe.

There stood one day a poor old man

above its broken bridge;

[9]

He heard no running rivulet,

he saw no mountain-ridge;

He turn'd his back on Sheegus Hill,

and view'd with misty sight

The Abbey walls, the burial-ground

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