"On the eve of the festival of Samhain,
At the plain of Rath Archaill,
Dathi commanded the Druids prophesy;
Thus met we the king of Erinn and Albain"
- Doghra, The Expedition of Dathi
Welcome to wintertime in the Grove!
Beginning in November, with the feast of Samhain, the Celtic winter is the quiet half of the year
The world is cold, and life is dormant; Life is indoors by the hearth during the long, dark days of winter.
Songs of cold and death but with prophesy of greatness to come - these are the songs amongst the winter oaks!
Cold, cold!
Cold to-night is broad Moylurg,
Higher the snow than the mountain-range,
The deer cannot get at their food.
Cold till Doom!
The storm has spread over all,
A river is each furrow upon the slope,
Each ford a full pool.
A great tidal sea is each loch,
A full loch is each pool:
Horses cannot get over the ford of Ross,
No more can two feet get there.
The fish of Ireland are a-roaming,
There is no strand which the wave does not pound,
Not a town there is in the land,
Nor a bell is heard, no crane talks.
The wolves of Cuan-wood get
Neither rest nor sleep in their lair,
The little wren cannot find
Shelter in her nest on the slope of Lon.
Keen wind and cold ice
Have burst upon the little company of birds,
The blackbird cannot get a lee to her liking,
Shelter for its side in Cuan-wood.
Cosy our pot on its hook,
Crazy the hut on the slope of Lon:
The snow has crushed the wood here,
Toilsome to climb up Ben-bo.
Glenn Rye's ancient bird
From the bitter wind gets grief;
Great her misery and her pain,
The ice will get into her mouth.
From flock and from down to rise -
Take it to heart! - were folly for thee:
Ice in heaps on every ford -
That is why I say 'cold'.
From: Early Irish Literature by Myles Dillon (1948) pp161-163
1972 reprint: University of Chicago Press, Chicago and London. Quoting: Kuno Meyer, Four Old-Irish Songs of Summer and Winter (London, 1903) reprinted from his Selections from Ancient Irish Poetry (London, 1911). see also: Selections from Ancient Irish Poetry - Kuno Meyer (1911;2007)return to winter menu
My tidings for you: the stag bells,
Winter snows, summer is gone.
Wind high and cold, low the sun,
Short his course, sea running high.
Deep-red the bracken, its shape all gone,
The wild-goose has raised his wonted cry.
Cold has caught the wings of birds;
Season of ice - these are my tidings
Kuno Meyer, Four Old-Irish Songs of Summer and Winter (London, 1903)
Reprinted in Early Irish Literature by Myles Dillon (1948:1972 reprint) p.161. Uni Chicago Press
using the English version reprinted in Kuno Meyer, Selections from Ancient Irish Poetry (London, 1911). see also: Selections from Ancient Irish Poetry - Kuno Meyer (1911;2007)
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In the Celtic Fire Feasts area, read more on Samhain
The Feis of Tara
1. The Feis of Tara every third year,
For the fulfilment of laws and rules,
Was convened at that time mightily
By the noble kings of Erin.
2. Cathaoir of many alliances assembled
The beauteous Feis of Royal Tara;
There came to him, it was a pleasure,
The men of Ireland to one place.
3. Three days before Samhain, according to custom,
Three days thereafter, good the practice,
Did that high-spirited company
Pass in constant feasting, a week.
4. Robbery, personal wounding,
Were forbidden them all that time;
Assault at arms, cutting,
Proceedings by litigation:
5. Whoever did any of these thing
Was a wicked culprit of much venom
Redeeming gold would not be accepted from him,
But his life was at once forfeit.
Attributed to Eochaidh Eolach.
Presented in The History of Ireland (BOOK I-II), History of Ireland, XXVI, p133. Published by CELT: Corpus of Electronic Texts: a project of University College, Cork
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Summer's End
Wild garlic and primrose
A ferny dale, moist and green
Moonlight dances in shadows
On fine brocade with subtle sheen
In indigo sky, atop the Hill
The embers fly in sunset's chill
Within the Hall, they sit to feast
Fine carvings of roast
Goblets of wine
The cattle are sheltered
The bard sings to his host
'Strong is your kingdom,
Noble your birth,
Great is your wisdom,
Your hospitality praised by all
in kind and in worth!'
Bright days behind
Dark days ahead
The moonlight plays gaily
On the living and the dead
Coldness to endure
Snow and bitter cold
Ahead lean days; the meat is salted
The fires to warm the halls
In the days of the low orbing sun.
by John Bonsing July 2007
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Columns of Light
A shift in the Darkness
It all comes again
Knowing not where it comes
We come into our Light
No clues, nor Dreams
And live as we can
No emptiness
And again, the Darkness comes
No remorse, without regret
We lose naught, but
No memory
Shafts of Darkness in the Light
A shift in the Light
It comes again
Knowing nothing
By S Rhys Jones - 1997
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Summer's gone, the sun is dying;
Winter draws so harsh and cold;
gates of Hell stand wide and open,
forgotten realm of days of old;
hope-fires burn caressing moonlight,
tongues of flame lick the sky
Within the circle of the ancients
the fattened calf prepares to die
The forest sleeps, awaits the Springtime;
Beltaine's fire will bring new life;
await the passing of the Winter;
await the dawning of the new light
You want to know what holds the future;
you want to know of hope or fear?
Beware the swords the gods are speaking,
some things you may not want to hear...
Choose well thy words lest folly be thine
Choose well desire lest suffer in time
Choose well thy thoughts be less fleeting than rain
case the gods to thy bidding when they walk at Samhain.
If fear still thy heart hold close to the fire;
the harvest moon rises and burns as the pyre
Mock not the ancients, invite not their curse;
misfortune or mirth do they hold in their purse
When Summer greets Autumn and green turns to gold,
when the barn is well laden stray not from the fold,
when Morrigen circles, her fortune to bring,
for does death treat the beggar more lightly than king?
by © RAGNAROK (UK) LYRICS: To Mend The Oaken Heart (1997)
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"Grows an oak upon a steep,
The sanctuary of a fair lord;
If I speak not falsely,
Lleu will come into my lap"
- Gwydion, Mabinogi of Math ap Mathonwy
Featuring the works:A Song of Winter
Gaeaf - Winter
Summer is Gone
Saman's Day
The Feis of Tara
Samhain
The Chant of the Fairy Maiden
Clear Winter
Original works:
Summer's End
She
The Fallen
Knowing Nothing
The Acorns
Other places in the Grove:
Welcome to the Grove
Summer in the Grove
Saints in the Grove
Goddesses in the Grove
Rowan Berries in the Grove
For articles on Celtic History and Myth, see the Gorsedd
Gaeaf - Winter
Llym awel, llwm bryn, anodd caffael clyd,
Llygrid rhyd, rhewid llyn,
Rhy saif gwr ar un conyn.
Ton tra thon toid tu tir;
Goruchel gwaeddau rhag bron bannau bre;
Braidd allan oresfir.
Oer lle llwch rhag brythwch gaeaf;
Crin cawn, calaf trwch,
Cedig awel, coed ym mlwch.
Oer gwely pysgawd yng nghysgawd iäen;
Cul hydd, cawn barfawd;
Byr diwedydd, gwýdd gwyrawd.
from: The Black Book of Carmarthen, 13th Century,
in The Celtic Realms by Myles Dillon and Nora Chadwick,
Weidenfeld and Nicholson, London, 1967. Here is the English:
Keen is the wind, bare the hill, it is not
easy to find shelter;
foul is the ford, the lake is frozen;
a man can stand on a single stalk.
Wave over wave covers the shore;
loud wails the wind against the mountain peaks;
one can hardly stand outside.
The lake is a cold place in the winter storm,
dry are the reeds, the stalks are broken,
fierce the wind, there are logs in the chest.
The fish's bed is cold under the ice,
the stag is lean, the reeds are bearded;
the evening is short, trees bend.
[Cairbré:] "O grandson of Con, O Cormac, what are the duties of a prince at a banqueting-house?"
[Cormac:] "A prince on Saman's Day should light his lamps, and welcome his guests with clapping of hands, procure comfortable seats, the cupbearers should be respectable and active in the distribution of meat and drink. Let there be moderation of music, short stories, a welcoming countenance, a welcome for the learned, pleasant conversations, and the like, these are the duties of the prince, and the arrangement of the banqueting-house"
Extract from the Book of Ballymote, where King Cormac instructs his son Cairbré about 'Saman's Day', that is, All Souls Day, from: Literary History of Ireland from Earliest Times to the Present Day. Douglas Hyde 1899 (1967 reprint): Ernest Benn ltd, London, p. 247, "The Bardic Schools: The Instruction of a Prince"
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She
She sits
Cruel summer is at its end
Through springtime's loss
The hearth beats golden
The warmth of winter's ordeal
She sees
But one who sees the many
Aspects of ourselves
The spirit of our strength
The cold of winter's call
She sleeps
As the cycles turn in turn
A reflection of the ice
All prepare for the feast
Of spring's bright return:
She knows that many have come before her
The Pride of all, her closest lost
Her loving eyes, pure love, pure trust, pure faith
She is now here, curling the heart
She is now here, perfect trust
She is now here, to the soul; a Dart
She is now here, a friend - to the last
By S Rhys Jones - 2002
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In Autumn leaves beneath the oak tree
The scattered acorns littered the ground
We collected them by the pocketful
Round brown promises of renewal
Memories of oaks
At the Forest edge
The loss of loved ones
Round brown promises of renewal
Spread onto the earth
Over Winter they lay
Quietly waiting in scattered leaves
Round brown promises of renewal
By John Bonsing - Autumn 2002
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The Fallen
We see the frailty
Of lives no more
And understand little
Of the truth
We see the strength
As it goes adrift
The canoe that speeds
To the Western shore
Our hearts abound
Memories filling the void
Of a life no more
Knowing only the love
The times of pain
And of hurt
Real and imagined
They are all there
We see the tragedy
Of life as we live
Too late we see
The beauty there
We feel the remorse
Of life taken
And learn to know
The love there
Our yearning for that shore
Adrift in the wonder
Must wait for the time
Knowing our truth again
The times of joy
Never truly lost
Only all too real
We embrace our Fallen
S Rhys Jones, October 2005
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From: Old Celtic Romances
Translated from the Gaelic by P.W. Joyce
First published in 1879 and revised in 1894
© 2000 Wordsworth Editions in association with the Folklore Society. p.99 (adapted).
A land of youth, a land of rest,
A land from sorrow free;
It lies far off in the golden west,
On the verge of the azure sea.
A swift canoe of crystal bright,
That never met mortal view -
We shall reach the land ere fall of night,
In that strong and swift canoe.
We shall reach the strand
Of that sunny land:
From pain and sorrow free;
A land of rest in the golden west,
On the verge of the azure sea.
And though far and dim
On the ocean's rim
It seems from mortal view,
We shall reach its halls ere the evening falls,
In my strong and swift canoe.
And ever more
On that verdant shore,
Our happy home shall be:
In the land of rest in the golden west,
On the verge of the azure sea!
Clear Winter
"Think on the beginning of clear winter;
Think on its wonders in their turn -
Think in yourself of what it brings forth:
Its cold,
Its length,
Its want of beauty!
This stupor, it is not good wholesome
sleep;
It is idleness and the fear of battle,
Long sleep is the same as drunkenness!
Weakness is only second to death!"
from: "The only jealousy of Emer" in "Cuchulain of Muirthemne, The Story of the Men of the Red Branch of Ulster, Arranged and Put into English by Lady Gregory. With a Preface by W.B.Yeats." 1902: 1970 reprint: Colin Smythe, Gerrards Cross, UK: pp, 212-215.
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Original work and design © Caer Australis 2011: From Coogee in Sydney's eastern beaches NSW Australia