]> The Elf-Child An electronic edition Patrick Augustine Sheehan Electronic edition compiled by Benjamin Hazard School of History, University College, Cork Private donation First draft 660 CELT: Corpus of Electronic Texts: a project of University College, Cork
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 Manuscript [Details to follow]. Canon Sheehan on the Internet http://www.canonsheehanremembered.com. Edition Canon P.A. Sheehan, 'The Elf-Child,' The Irish Monthly, 26/296 (February 1898) 72. Literature Herman Joseph Heuser, Canon Sheehan of Doneraile: the story of an Irish parish priest as told chiefly by himself in books, personal memoirs, and letters (New York 1917). Arthur Coussens. P. A. Sheehan, zijn leven en zijn werken (Brugge/Bruges 1923). Michael P. Linehan, Canon Sheehan of Doneraile: Priest, Novelist, Man of Letters (Dublin 1952). James O'Brien (ed.), The Collected Letters of Canon Sheehan of Doneraile, 1883–1913 (Wells 2013). James O'Brien, Canon Sheehan of Doneraile 1852–1913: Outlines for a Literary Biography (Wells 2013). [Bibliographical references 205-11.] The edition used in the digital edition The Elf-Child The Irish Monthly: A Magazine of General Literature Matthew Russell SJ Dublin Irish Jesuit Province February 1898 72

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 By Patrick Augustine Sheehan (1852–1913) 1898 The text is in English. poetry 19c religious 2014-02-10 Beatrix Färber ed. File parsed and validated; wordcount made; SGML and HTML versions created. 2014-01-31 Benjamin Hazard ed. Header created; structural mark-up added; file proofed. 2014-01-24 Benjamin Hazard file capture Text scanned. The Elf-Child 'Mother! is this the storm-fiend, swooping down to seize me? He bath slain all my autumn leaves with his lightning sword.' Nay, nay, my little one, 'tis angels' fingers straying In some wild midnight voluntary on the organ of the Lord! 'Mother! stars are hidden, and the great cloud-billows Pile their big battalions o'er the flying moon; Will she be o'erwhelmed, and rise no more to cheer us? Nay, nay, my little one, 'tis moon-dance to storm-rune. 'Mother, list! the death-watch, tapping, tapping, tapping; Is this my little coffin that they're nailing, plank to plank?' Mother's tears are falling, pitifully falling; Mother's heart is sinking in the midnight, drear and blank. But she whispered: Nay, my child 'tis angels' fingers swaying The woodbine's long, lithe tendrils against the window pane; Sleep, my child, thy little couch is canopied and fringed By the locked wings of angels against the storm and rain. Slept the weary elf-child; slept the mother weary; Angels folded ermine wings, like cope of kneeling priest; Then upwards through the storm-blast, on their white breasts cradled, Passed the sleeping elf-child to the Child-God's natal Feast. P.A. SHEEHAN