The Purple Mountain rises up.
That mighty headland stands abrupt:
Defiant, proud, while far below,
Mysterious shades flit to and fro.

The Gap of Dunloe turns and twists.
Obstructed by dark bluish mists.
Even at noon day, shadows creep.
Along the black ravine, so deep.

One cottage stands there by itself.
Its owner lives alone for pelf.
He is a miser, stingy, close:
A money lender, mean, morose.

Across that pretty grassy dell,
The cot; where Geoffrey Lynch doth dwell.
Stands weirdlike, solitary, prim:
Within a rocky chasm, grim.

There comes a pattering of rain.
Just as the day begins to wane.
A light gleams through the window pane.
The place is free from earthly stain.

Angel of death canst thou unroll,
The fate of Geoffrey Lynch's soul.
Is he in bliss, or does he bake.
Or bubble in the fiery lake?

Oh what is taking place beyond.
The fringe that hides the cancelled bond.
What has the process brought about?
What is the justice meted out?

Saint Peter stands before the portal,
And says, "Begone, thou art immortal.
Oh poor lost soul without a crown.
Thy residence is further down."

The flaming sword on high now flashed.
Poor Geoffrey Lynch slunk off abashed.
He fell through space, ten trillion miles;
And found himself between two stiles.

Old father Abraham stood near.
Athwart one stile he held a spear.
Then pointed to the other stile.
And spoke with goblinistic smile.

"I see you wear no wedding gown.
Thy residence is further down.
Look! see that steep descending path.
Please go and take thy brimstone bath."

Geoffrey obeys, and now too late.
Stands knocking at another gate.
It is the Devil who appears.
With fluted horns and gothic ears.

The Devil said, "This is a treat.
Have I the honour now to greet,
Some client fresh from cooler climes,
Encrusted well with many crimes?"

Now the miser all elated,
Cleared his throat, and simply stated,
"I am Geoffrey Lynch kind Sir.
While on earth I made some stir."

The Devil staggered back, turned green.
His rage was frightful to be seen.
He snorted, foamed; his teeth he ground;
He lashed his tail around and round.

The Devil spake. "You putrid peach!
I know you now, you stingy leech!
You are not worthy of a cell,
In any self-respecting Hell."

At this tirade, old Geoffrey Lynch,
Said to the Devil; "Loose the cinch;
Where shall I go, my debt to pay,
Porter of Limbo, tell me, pray."

The Devil pointed up to earth,
And said, "resume the same old berth.
Thy punishment will be to haunt,
Thy former home. Begone! Avaunt!"

Oh Geoffrey Lynch, oh man of woe!
Not fit to live in Hell below,
Forever and forever twist,
Thy grinding wheel, thy sulphurous grist.

Oh Gap of Dunloe, beauteous spot.
Blurred with one stigma, just one blot.
The self-same house where Geoffrey sold,
His own immortal soul for gold.

Throughout the country everywhere,
The Irish peasantry declare.
The house is haunted by the sprite.
Of Geoffrey Lynch who roams at night.

Lost soul, forever gulp thy pill;
Though yet on earth, condemned to grill.
Forever roast, a glowing faggot.
Oh Geoffrey Lynch, poor rotten maggot.

Mind your business, shun the fight.
Let the lost soul scratch and bite.
Stand firm, be steadfast, firm; don't flinch.
Avoid the house of Geoffrey Lynch.

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