Skilled-folk tend, your patron’s call
Magicians, warriors, craftsmen all.
The Tailtin Fair of skill and game
Of strength, endurance and honoured fame.
For the foster mother who took me in
As though I were her own blood-kin.
Who died while clearing wood and fen
Forging fields for farming men.
The season’s come, the days are warm
Your time is nigh, John Barleycorn!
For Winter nears, on wings of grey
And fruits of harvest be stored away.
The Sun and Earth, in love we wed
To give man means to make his bread.
There’s honest work that must be done
So bend your backs, bake in the Sun.
Rejoice in warmth of August day
And know my joy in fields that sway.
What’s this? A murmur in the air
Ten thousand wings with but one care.
Bees know harvest like none seen
Loyal to their work and Queen.
Their honey flows in golden streams
Brewed in frenzied nectar dreams.
And in their tended fields of ochre, his spirit lies
Awaits the reaper’s harvest scythe.
John Barleycorn, Greenman to some
Lays down his life so man goes on.
And from his earthen-bound remains
Of corn and wheat and barley grain
Bread and beer and whisky’s made.
Then from the final stand of corn, a doll
A woman formed of woven gold.
Then merry making, feast and dancing
A wreath of flowers to mark his passing.
The days are waning, the nights draw in
Autumn wears her auburn grin.
And before the harvest season’s done
Gather herbs fragrant with Sun.
And hang them, dry them, bind them tight
A smudge to burn on long rough nights.
But still, my reaching arms embrace the land
And in their circle, truth be found.
So, mother dear, accept this gift
In celebration for all you did.
For you and all who know my star
The Tailteann Games
And lughnasadh.
R.J. Ren 