Green Book Of Meditations Volume 6 The Books of Songs - Student ...

Is dubh am bail ud thall,
Is dubh daoine th’ann;
Is mis an eala bhan,
Banruinn os an ceann.
Falbhaidh mi an ainme Dhe,
An riochd feidh, an riochd each,
An riochd nathrach, an riochd righ:
Is treasa lion fin na le gach neach.
I will wash my face
In the nine rays of the sun,
As Mary washed her Son*
In the rich fermented milk.
Love be in my countenance,
Benevolence in my mind,
Dew of honey in my tongue,
My breath as the incense.
Black is yonder town,
Black are those therein,
I am the white swan,
Queen above them.
I will travel in the name of God,
In likeness of deer, in likeness of horse,
In likeness of serpent, in likeness of king:
Stronger will it be with me than with all persons.
*A later introjection which does not rhyme. Yule 1985
Deidre Remembers a Scottish Glen
Glen of fruit and fish and pools,
Its peaked hills of loveliest wheat,
It is distressful for me to think of it—
Glen of bees, of long-horned wild oxen.
Precious is its cover to every fox;
Glen of wild garlic and watercress,
Of woods, of shamrock and flowers, leafy and twisting-crested.
Sweet are the cries of the brown-backed dappled deer
Under the oakwood above the bare hill-tops,
Gentle hinds that are timid,
Lying hidden in the great-treed glen.
Glen of the rowans with scarlet berries,
With fruit fit for every flock of birds;
A slumberous paradise for the badgers
In their quiet burrows with their young.
Glen of the blue-eyed vigorous hawks,
Glen abounding in every harvest,
Glen of the ridged and pointed peaks,
Glen of blackberries and sloes and apples.
Glen of the sleek brown round-faced otters
That are pleasant and active in fishing;
Many are the white-winged stately swans,
And salmon breeding a long the rocky brink.
Glen of the tangled branching yews,
Dewy glen with level lawn of kine;
Chalk-white starry sunny glen,
Glen of graceful pearl-like high-bred women.
-A Druid Missal-any Oimelc 1986
360
May-Time
May-time, fair season, perfect is thy aspect then; blackbirds sing a
full song, if there be a scanty beam of day.
The hardy, bushy cuckoo calls, welcome noble summer! It calms
the bitterness of bad weather, the branching wood is a
prickly hedge.
Summer brings low the little stream, the swift herd makes for the
water, the long hair of the heather spreads out, the weak
white cotton-grass flourishes.
...The smooth sea flows, season when the ocean falls asleep;
flowers cover the world.
Bees, whose strength is small, carry with their feet a load reaped
from the flowers; the mountain allures the cattle, the ant
makes a rich meal.
The harp of the wood plays melody, its music brings perfect
peace; colour has settled on every hill, haze on the lake of
full water.
The corncrake clacks, a strenuous bard; the high pure waterfall
sings a greeting to the warm pool; rustling of rushes has
come.
Light swallows dart on high, brisk music encircles the hill, tender
rich fruits bud...
...The hardy cuckoo sings, the speckled fish leaps, mighty is the
swift warrior.
The vigour of men flourishes, the glory of great hills is unspoiled;
every wood is fair from crest to ground, fair each great
goodly field.
Delightful is the season's splendour, winter's rough wind has
gone; bright is every fertile wood, a joyful peace is summer.
A flock of birds settles...; the green field re-echoes, where there is
a brisk bright stream.
A mad ardour upon you to race horses, where the serried host is
ranged around; very splendid is the bounty of the cattlepond,
the iris is gold because of it.
A timid persistent frail creature sings at the top of his voice, the
lark chants a clear tale - excellent May-time of calm aspect!
Irish, author unknown, ninth-tenth century
Beltaine 1986
Suibhne Wild Man In The Forest
Little antlered one, little belling one, melodious little bleater,
sweet I think the lowing you make in the glen.
Home sickness for my little dwelling has come upon my mind,
the calves in the plain, the deer on the moor.
Oak, bushy, leafy, you are high above trees; hazel, little branchy
one, wisdom of hazel nuts.
Alder, you are not spiteful, lovely is your colour, you are not
prickly where you are in the gap.
Blackthorn, little thorny one, black little sloe bush; water-cress,
little green-topped one, on the brink of the blackbird’s well.
Saxifrage of the pathway, you are the sweetest of herbs; cress,
very green one; plant where the strawberry grows.
Apple tree, little apple tree, violently everyone shakes you; rowan,
little berried one, lovely is your bloom.
Bramble, little humped vine, you do not grant fair terms; you do
not cease tearing me till you are sated with blood.
Yew, little yew, you are conspicuous in graveyards; ivy, little ivy,
you are familiar in the dark wood.
Holly, little protector, door against the wind; ash-tree, baneful,
weapon in the hand of the warrior.
Birch, smooth, blessed, proud, melodious, lovely is each
entangled branch at the top of your crest.
Aspen, as it trembles from time to time I hear its leaves rustle and
think it is the foray…