A long time had passed. When asked
the King could only thus reply,
“Brigid? Oh yes! I knew her well.
She was, she was, let me tell you,
some woman. Oh yes, some woman!”
He thought again, remembering.
“When she asked, I promised.
‘The ground beneath my cloak’, she said.
Her cloak that grew to the grazing
of even twice two hundred cows!”
The folk of whom I am bred
of her still say
as always they said
This is her well
on her Holy Day
This is the bush
where she knelt
Here we hang cloths of red
that the young may return
whence they have fled
These are dark green rushes
we gather together
from wet wasteful lands
These we weave in the shape
of her cross
with prayerful hands
Over the door they hang
that safe from fire
our house may last
Outside over the byre
they protect the beasts
from sickness and harm
Always and ever, above the rest
we will seek
we will take
waters of the well
that she has blessed.
Born of slaves, yet blessed at birth,
in turn she blessed so many,
always seeing their inner worth.
Babies, young infants, the troubled
children from suffering homes,
for these her prayers were doubled.
Blacksmiths, mariners, fugitives,
chicken farmers, dairy workers,
to all these her prayer she gives.
Workers at our printing presses,
along with midwives and dairy maids
are but some she daily blesses.
Boatmen, watermen, travellers
as they go their various ways,
these she protects, they too are hers.
For scholars turning learned books,
for poets she had such loving time,
her hands hold the hands of my friends,
and when moved to write, of mine.