COLUM CILLE THE SCRIBE

My hand is weary with writing, My sharp quill is not steady, My slender-beaked pen juts forth A black draught of shining dark-blue ink. A stream of the wisdom of blessed God Springs from my fair-brown shapely hand: On the page it squirts its draught Of ink of the green-skinned holly. My little dripping pen travels Across the plain of shining books, Without ceasing for the wealth of the great— Whence my hand is weary with writing.