Samildánach

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.

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