Will I have any corn to bring
To place on the stone within the ring?
Will I have flesh to cut and burn
And place inside the bubbling urn?
Will I have neeps and spuds and carrots
To fill these wide and simmering pots?
Or shall I send my body’s milk,
Sweet like parsnips, smooth like silk?
Enough to feed a baby small
Enough for summer, more for fall
And more for winter still, my stock
Is never under key and lock.
I am the harvest, am the land
Though Tailtiu never took my hand
I was not cleared; I am not feared
I am the wise and wandering band
I am the morning, fresh and bright
I am the weary, sleepless night
I am the fractious, fretting squall
The wind, the wet, the weathers all
And on Lughnasadh morn, I sigh
I wipe the slouching from my eye
I bend to suckle, stroke and hold
The family, the one; the whole.
My arts to feed the ones I need
To fill my full and brimming soul.