By that lake, whose gloomy shore

By that lake whose gloomy shore Skylark never warbles o’er, Where the cliff hangs high and steep, Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep. “Here, at least,” he calmly said, “Woman ne’er shall find my bed.” Ah! the good Saint little knew What that wily sex can do. ’Twas from Kathleen’s eyes he flew, Eyes of most unholy blue! She had loved him well and long, Wished him hers, nor thought it wrong. Wheresoe’er the saint would fly, Still he heard her light foot nigh; East or west, where’er he turned, Still her eyes before him burned. On the bold cliff’s bosom cast, Tranquil now he sleeps at last; Dreams of heaven, nor thinks that e’er Woman’s smile can haunt him there.