There is no word "skellig" in the OED; however, it does provide a definition of skell. Equally interesting is some information on what's called the "Kerry Skellig Region" (also this link) in Ireland. And here's one more site: http://www.dioceseofkerry.ie/pages/heritage/scelig.htm. About the footprints: http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/A1049951.
The School Boy
I love to rise in a summer morn,
When the birds sing on every tree;
The distant huntsman winds his horn,
And the sky-lark sings with me.
O! what sweet company.
But to go to school in a summer morn,
O! it drives all joy away;
Under a cruel eye outworn,
The little ones spend the day,
In sighing and dismay.
Ah! then at times I drooping sit,
And spend many an anxious hour,
Nor in my book can I take delight,
Nor sit in learnings bower,
Worn thro' with the dreary shower.
How can the bird that is born for joy,
Sit in a cage and sing,
How can a child when fears annoy.
But droop his tender wing.
And forget his youthful spring.
O! father & mother, if buds are nip'd,
And blossoms blown away,
And if the tender plants are strip'd
Of their joy in the springing day,
By sorrow and cares dismay.
How shall the summer arise in joy.
Or the summer fruits appear,
Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy
Or bless the mellowing year.
When the blasts of winter appear.
English Encouragement of Art
Cromeks opinions put into Rhyme
(From Satiric Verses and Epigrams)
The lines that Mina quotes are in red
If you mean to Please Every body you will
Menny wouver both Bunglishness & skill
For a great Conquest are Bunglery
And Jenous looks to ham like mad Rantery
Like displaying oil & water into a lamp
Twill hold forth a huge splutter with smoke
For its all sheer loss as it seems to me
Of displaying up a light when we want not to see
When you look at a picture you always can see
If a Man of Sense has Painted he
Then never flinch but keep up a Jaw
About freedom & jenny suck awa'
And when it smells of the Lamp we can
Say all was owing to the Skilful Man
For the smell of water is but small
So een let Ignorance do it all
The Cunning sures & the Aim at yours
All Pictures thats Panted with Sense &
Are Painted by Madmen as sure as a Groat
For the Greater the Fool in the Pencil more blest
And when they are drunk they always pant best
Thy never can Rafael it Fuseli it nor Blake it
If they cant see an outline pray how can
they make it
When Men will draw outlines begin you to jaw them
Madmen see outlines & therefore they draw them
You say their Pictures well Painted be
And yet they are Blockheads you all agree
Thank God I never was sent to school
To be Flogd into following the Style of a Fool
The Errors of a Wise Man make your Rule
Rather than the Perfections of a Fool
Great things are done when Men & Mountains
This is not Done by jostling in the Street
If you play a Game of Chance know before
If you are benevolent you will never win
No real Style of Colouring ever appears
But advertising in the News Papers
Look there youll see Sr Joshuas Colouring
Look at his Pictures All has taken Wing
Can there be any thing more mean
More Malice in disguise
Than Praise a Man for doing what
That Man does most despise
Reynolds Lectures Exactly so
When he praises Michael Angelo
Sir Joshua Praises Michael Angelo
Tis Christian Mildness when Knaves Praise a Foe
But Twould be Madness all the World would say
Should Michael Angelo praise Sir Joshua
Christ usd the Pharisees in a rougher way
Sir Jo[s]hua praised Rubens with a Smile
By Calling his the ornamental Style
And yet his praise of Flaxman was the smartest
When he calld him the Ornamental Artist
But sure such ornaments we well may spare
As Crooked limbs & louzy heads of hair
I dreamt a dream! What can it mean?
And that I was a maiden queen
Guarded by an angel mild:
Witless woe was ne'er beguiled!
And I wept both night and day
And he wiped my tears away,
And I wept both day and night,
And hid from him my heart's delight.
So he took his wings and fled,
Then the morn blushed rosy red;
I dried my tears and armed my fears
With ten thousand shields and spears.
Soon my angel came again:
I was armed, he came in vain
For the time of youth was fled,
And grey hairs were on my head.
From Wordsworth's The Prelude
At evening, when the earliest stars began
To move along the edges of the hills,
Rising or setting, would he stand alone,
Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake;
And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands
Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,
Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls (V.11. 366-373)
I have no name
I am but two days old.--
What shall I call thee?
I happy am
Joy is my name,--
Sweet joy befall thee!
Sweet joy but two days old,
Sweet joy I call thee;
Thou dost smile.
I sing the while
Sweet joy befall thee.