Here I sit beneath starry skies
a-sloped on my childhood dreams.
I measure the distance to the past that is to be
A futile gesture in the god's great scheme.
For this place, this land so loved
shall soon be the fodder of memory
as the concrete creeps and crawls
into the gladdest part of my soul.
No longer shall we see the traditions kept
or the costumes made
or the song of Samhain sung,
for progress has progressed beyond tradition
and values that were once sacred and beloved
shall lose themselves in the winds of time.
Where will tradition go when memory dies?
To the earths deepest bowels
where forgotten secrets are kept?
Questions for the Gods to answer.
Tonight, memories bastion is intact and
again we few will sit round the reddening glow
we'll listen and make merry till the dawn
and shiver and chill at the rumbles all around
For tonight the gate is open wide,
For tonight the gate is open wide.
Archways, carved caverns
towering rock and twisting road
slope steeply to the sandy floor.
This fortress of dizzying height
swirls a proud cauldron
encircling its Atlantean foe.
Here stands the tall defender
of the isle where mother earth sleeps,
her heartbeat proud, in
the fold of her emerald breast
This place of power unconquered.
Here, the land of Sidhe rises,
here, Cuchulainn fights the sea.
Here, the final stand is made,
mighty, Slea Head.
Cold as death are these windy moors
Did you see that lady pass?
Alone I think on her walking tours
She's old Master Earnshaw's lass.
I see her parade on every night-fall
down the moors to the grange,
she returns when November's moon is tall
to the heights and all that is strange.
Never does she enter the family home
but raps aloud on her window pane,
no answer comes but an awful drone
from Heathcliff who has gone insane.
She leaves the heights and returns
to the Kirk where her soul never sleeps,
"It's me, I'm Cathy" she still yearns
still in death's binding shackle she weeps.
Around the blue black velvet night
The call of carols drifts far and wide
Cottage lights dot the darkened glen
A time of peace goodwill to men.
Outside the distant summits aglow
Moonbeams reflect on silver snow
And in the mist of the mountain lake
Lies Finbarr's church, lightened, awake.
Here the sidhe glide forth to spy
They whisper to the wind and sigh,
the time of Mabon and Lugh is nigh
Tis the time when man forgets to lie.
Their Christ child story is dear to us
For we inspired their thoughts thus
It was we who lit the Holy star
Led Sheppard's to the manger afar.
Within the church the carolers sing
Our Sidhe host dance on a sparrow's wing
And call and cry in the distant night
Midwinter's message the return of light...
Hark the herald angels sing,
Glory to the New born King!