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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=342182" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Murtagh The Cobbler</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The harvest moon was shinin’<br>As Murtagh came from the fair,<br>And Oh! The scent of the new-mown hay<br>And the gorsebloom in the air.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The night wind lifted his shock of hair<br>With whisperings weird and low,<br>And sang in his lonely, aching heart<br>Till he could not choose but go.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Aside from the dusky highway<br>Down a haunted old boreen<br>To where a strange light flickered<br>In under the hollies green--</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All night he spent in that fairy dell,<br>Till the red dawn stained the sky;<br>And he sold his soul to the fairy folk<br>For the gift of the seeing eye.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now he dwells in the mountain cabin,<br>Silent and unafraid,<br>The cabin his Father left him,<br>With the tools of his cobbler’s trade.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He has no hope of Heaven,<br>He has no fear of Hell,<br>But he shrinks with a passing shiver<br>At the sound of the chapel bell.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Th stern young priest came storming,<br>Ah! ‘tis bitter and cross was he,<br>But Murtagh gazed with clouded eyes<br>At the far-off shining sea.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And the wise old priest came pleading<br>With his understanding eyes;<br>Ah! Non can know the heart of a man<br>Like a priest grown old and wise.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But the bitter word and the kind word<br>Went by on the whispering wind,<br>For Murtagh’s eyes were seeing<br>Things hid from all human kind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Below at the village fireside<br>By the flickering turf-fires flame,<br>Prays a little blue-eyes girsha<br>Sickly and frail and lame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Till the smoky air around her<br>Is vibrant with angels’ wings,<br>For the heart of the child is near to God<br>And akin to holy things.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She prays and prays for Murtagh,<br>Who has been her friend for so long,<br>Who fashioned her crutch of mountain ash<br>And cheered her with smile and song.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And I know that the Lord of Mercy<br>Will hark to her cry of pain;<br>And turn his steps from the erring path<br>And give Murtagh his soul again.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Alice+Guerin+Crist">Alice Guerin Crist</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=342182" data-title="Murtagh The Cobbler de Alice Guerin Crist" data-description="The harvest moon was shinin’
As Murtagh came from the fair,
And Oh! The scent of the new-mown hay
And the gorsebloom in the air.

The night wind lifted his shock of hair
With whisperings weird and low,
And sang in his lonely, aching heart
Till h..."></div>
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