The Catholic bulletin. [volume] (St. Paul, Minn.) 1911-1995, 1916-05-20
Continued from page 60
THE LAST SERMON.

is going back" said Margaret Nc
Kenzie to a neighbor, who knelt with |
her at the foot of the bed, going |
back over his read And the neigh
Dor understood, for did not she also |
believe-as was common among their |
race-that when you came to die the |
soul returned over the way it had |
travelled in life, nor could it depart
from the body until it had revisited |
the house Of it's nativity. And the |
whisper passed among them, he is
going back And once more they
began their beads, but this time mol
one led and there was no noise, only
the click OF the beads and the labOred
breathing of the dying. Even the grim
king Death" seemed to stand wait
ing his return. And every soul there,
though the lips moved, and the beads
slipped through the fingers, was with
him in spirit as their Imagination
carried them. They were with him
on the heathery hills OF home, or the
streets of the Eternal City, or the
church where he said his first Mass,
while brother priests guided his
newly-anointed hands in each I'M
accustomed moyement,-of they were
with him as he passed among the
miserable homesick, seasick passen9
gers as the black emigrant ship
plowed her slow way through strange
unfriendly waters.
There was a deeper breath, and a
culver of the sick mans eyelids! He
looked around as one waking from a
dream. His eyes sought the face Of
each OF the kneeling watchers. How
fast and how far the feeblest of them
would have run for a priest or a doc
tor! But alas! there was neither
within the confines of that desolate
| island If his illness had not been
so sudden some OF the strong young
men would have tried to effect a
crossing to the mainland for aid. but
now it was too late.
At the first sign of motion from
the dying priest, all rose to their feet,
the ready sign showed their willing
ness to hear and do,-just as often
| before they rose when he turned to
read the Gospel. Only a murmur
came from his dry lips. Margaret
| brought little water and would have
raised that dear grey head, but just
then came the thought that the last
| woman's hand that rested there was
| his mothers, so she drew back and
gave the cup. to Donald
When Donald mOistened his lips
| Father James spoke in such a clear
| voice that for 4 moment the hope that
he might yet rally made their hearts
leap, but from the threshold of
| eternity, as the door Of life closed
upon his departing soul, he gave his
| last message, Keep the Faith" The
light in his eyes quiyered for a mo-
ment and then went out; the body
relaxed, and the grayness Of death
spread over the face
Then the strongly repressed grief
| Of his people burst out in weeping
| and sobbing until it took the form OF
the c8oine or keen peculiar to the
| Celtic race-the articulation of musi-
| cal expression Of grief which makes
it luxury akin to great joy, as, like
joy, it is a deep, powerful stirring Of
the human heart.
Margaret Mckenzie, a defendant Of
a Scottish minstrel herself, gave the
words which the others followed
This keen, of course in Gaelic, was
common among the people as late as
fifty years ago and possessed con-
siderable merit inasmuch as it ex-
| pressed the feeling of those who We're
present at Father James DEATH
The Priest is dead" was the bur
| den of the song repeated drearily, like
the beating of December rain that falls
without hope of harvest, or the
tears of the aged that drain rather
than relieve an overfilled heart The
following is a rough translation from
the original Gaelic:
The priest is dead. Young men!
away
| Through the frosty mists of the morn
ing grey
On ringing skates to the River Head
And tell the people the priest is
dead"
Let others follow the river down
Until they come to the far-of town.
And in Port La Joie let the word be
said
IN Scotch Fort parish the priest is
dead"
On snowshoes light let others so
Through the plains and forests to
Rustico
| And eer setting sun burns red
Let the Frenchmen know the priest
is dead"
To Lennox Isle speed your lonesome
/ way
Across the ice-ields cold and grey,
| Where the Indians dwell il the forest
deep.
And say the Father is gone to sleep"
oh, toil-worn priest. you are lying
low!
No more YOU battle with rain or
snow;
The trackless wastes no more you'll
tread
For you lie at the end of the journey,
dead.