The Ramblings and Wanderings

Archive for the ‘Bardic Circle’ Category

Some Photos I Took

Blessings for Samhain everyone! I will be out of town for the celebrations for a few days. Take care and have a happy Celtic new year. Since I am doing a workshop on shamanic rattles and the Silver Branch for Samhain:

The Dedication To A Book Of Stories
by William Butler Yeats

There was a green branch hung with many a bell
When her own people ruled this wave-worn and tragic Eire;
And from its murmuring greenness, calm of Faery,
A Druid kindness, on all hearers fell.

It charmed away the merchant from his guile,
And turned the farmer’s memory from his cattle,
And hushed in sleep the roaring ranks of battle:
And all grew friendly for a little while.
For all who heard it dreamed a little while.

Ah, Exiles wandering over lands and seas,
And planning, plotting always that on some morrow
May set a stone upon ancestral Sorrow!

I also bear a bell-branch full of ease.
I tore it from green boughs winds tore and tossed
Until the sap of summer had grown weary!
I tore it from the barren boughs of Eire,
The willow of the many-sorrowed world.
That country where a man can be so crossed;
Can be so battered, badgered and destroyed

Ah, Exiles, wandering over many lands!
My bell branch murmurs: the gay bells bring laughter,
Leaping to shake a cobweb from the rafter

The sad bells bow the forehead on the hands.
And yet the saddest chimes are best enjoyed.
Gay bells or sad, they bring you memories
Of half-forgotten innocent old places:
We and our bitterness have left no traces
On Munster grass and Connemara skies.

A honeyed ringing: under the new skies
They bring you memories of old village faces,
Cabins gone now, old well-sides, old dear places;
And men who loved the cause that never dies.
On Munster grass and Connemara skies.

(there are a few versions of this floating around, I guess he had to do a couple of re-writes, this is the longest one)

There Peggy was dancing with Dan
While Maureen the lead was melting,
To prove how their fortunes ran
With the Cards ould Nancy dealt in;
There was Kate, and her sweet-heart Will,
In nuts their true-love burning,
And poor Norah, though smiling still
She’d missed the snap-apple turning.
On the Festival of Hallow Eve.

Snap-Apple Night, by Irish artist Daniel Maclise in 1833

An ancient Elder stands alone
With dark-leafed ivy overgrown:
Thick perfume, and the milky white
Flowers in the growing night.
Here in the bark your eye may trace
The outline of a wizened face,
But few are those who’ve lived to see
Who lives within the Elder tree.

A Danish king with men four score
Came to England to make war;
They fought their way up to the wolds,
Pillaging and stealing gold,
Until at last one summers night
He came to camp in old Rollright.
He came there shouting, Stick, stock, stone!
As England’s King shall I be known!

Three of his men were less than sure
That he was right to thus wage war;
A wee way off they stopped to stoop,
And huddle, in a little group.
But up the hillside forged the king,
His other men stood in a ring;
They stood there chanting, Stick, stock, stone!
As England’s King shall he be known!

But as the King climbed up the hill,
All down his back he felt a chill;
He turned around: naught could he see
But a gnarled old elder tree.
He shrugged his shoulders and he grinned,
Why, it was nothing but the wind!
He climbed on, laughing, Stick, stock, stone!
As England’s King shall I be known!

And yet it seemed the air grew colder;
He felt a hard hand grasp his shoulder.
He whirled about, and who was there
But the Elder Witch! She gave a glare,
And as she spoke, the King did shake:
Seven long strides shalt thou take,
And if Long Compton thou canst see,
King of England thou shalt be!

The King looked up the gentle slope,
He laughed, Why, Witch! You have no hope
Of stopping me! In seven strides
I’ll see around me on all sides:
In six I’ll be atop this hill,
And you’ll be forced to grant my will!
He strode on, snickering, Stick, stock, stone!
As England’s King shall I be known!

But as the King began to stride
Before him rose a barrow wide;
It hid Long Compton from his view.
His sword upon the ground he threw,
You Witch! You hag! That isn’t fair!
Curse you and your tangled hair!
He grabbed her wrist, cried, Stick, stock, stone!
As England’s King shall I be known!

The Elder Witch laughed hard and long,
And at last she sung her song:
Long Compton town thou canst not see,
So England’s King thou shalt not be.
Rise up stick, and stand still stone,
For England’s King thou shalt be none.
Thou and thy men hoar stones shall be,
And I shall be an Elder tree!

An ancient Elder, now a hedge
Blooms along the pathways edge:
And beyond, a ring of stones,
With moss and lichens overgrown.
And higher up the gentle slope
Stands the King, bereft of hope,
And another, huddled group of three:
Rollright stones, and Elder Tree.

Traditional Folktale about the Rollright Stones (I am unsure of the author, if you know, please share)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rollright_Stones

http://www.rollrightstones.co.uk/

The War of the Ring

Shadows strange and cold are growing,

the darkness is slowly deeping

Dreams of a great wave crashing

over green fields drowning

Where were you when the Westfold fell?

Courage hewn in the heart of Helm’s Deep

Ride with speed my horse lord brother

let us fight and die together

In a forest deep and groaning

an ancient force no longer sleeping

The filthy fires of war and evil

drowned in nature’s roaring fury

Do not despair when all hope is lost

and the white city is burning

ride in wrath at the world’s ending

Face evil in a charge of fearless frenzy

Death, death, death, death!

blows the mighty horn

Against and enemy so great

today the world of Men decides it fate

And when the Nazgul are screaming

a shield-maiden finds her valour

Did Denithor see the Witch King fall

while he burned of his own making?

Slake my thirst in Mordor

Heavy burden around my neck

Carry me up the mountain Sam

There is no going home again

The White Rider is coming,

will he keep faith knowing

the world’s hope is resting

in the hands of a little half-ling?

Be strong standing at the Black Gate

Lies spoken by Mouth under hood

The smallest can also be bravest

Fight for all that is green and good

Destiny dances on Smeagol’s shoulder

Did you see it when the great Eye failed?

Once the last white ship has sailed

go tell Rosie you’re home forever

Juniper

I will be out of town for Canadian Thanksgiving folks, so if I’m not around for a few days, that would be why. Have a great Turkey Day my fellow Canucks!

In the mean time, here is a piece if some beautiful literature for you to enjoy:

An excerpt from Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame

Chapter Seven: the Piper at the Gates of Dawn

… Then suddenly the Mole felt a great Awe fall upon him, an awe that turned his muscles to water, bowed his head, and rooted his feet to the ground. It was no panic terror- indeed he felt wonderfully at peace and happy- but it was an awe that smote and held him and, without seeing, he knew it could only mean that some august Presence was very, very near. With difficulty he turned to look for his friend. And saw him at his side cowed, stricken, and trembling violently. And still there was utter silence in the populous bird-haunted branches around them; and still the light grew and grew.

Perhaps he would never have dared to raise his eyes, but that, though the piping was now hushed, the call and the summons seemed still dominant and imperious. He might not refuse, were Death himself waiting to strike him instantly, once he had looked with mortal eye on things rightly kept hidden. Trembling he obeyed, and raised his humble head; and then, in that utter clearness of the imminent dawn, while Nature, flushed with fullness of incredible colour, seemed to hold her breath for the event, he looked in the very eyes of the Friend and Helper; saw the backward sweep of the curved horns, gleaming in the growing daylight; saw the stern, hooked nose between the kindly eyes that were looking down on them humorously, while the bearded mouth broke into a half-smile at the corners; saw the rippling muscles on the arm that lay across the broad chest, the long supple hand still holding the pan-pipes only just fallen away from the parted lips; saw the splendid curves of the shaggy limbs disposed in majestic ease on the sward; saw, last of all, nestling between his very hooves, sleeping soundly in entire peace and contentment, the little, round, podgy, childish form of the baby otter. All this he saw, for one moment breathless and intense, vivid on the morning sky; and still, as he looked, he lived; and still, as he lived, he wondered.

‘Rat!’ he found breath to whisper, shaking. ‘Are you afraid?’

‘Afraid?’ murmured the Rat, his eyes shining with unutterable love. ‘Afraid! Of Him? O, never, never! And yet- and yet- O, Mole, I am afraid!’

Then the two animals, crouching to the earth, bowed their heads and did worship.

Sudden and magnificent, the sun’s broad golden disc showed itself over the horizon facing them; and the first rays, shooting across the level water-meadows, took the animals full in the eyes and dazzled them. When they were able to look once more, the Vision had vanished, and the air was full of the carol of birds that hailed the dawn…