‘Tis Beltane, where the boastful sun does go
ta battle wi’ the shady twinklin’ frost.
So gather ye ta kneel an’ quiver so,
Lest grasses thin an’ herd grows gaunt an’ lost.
Show they all, in shortened sleeves an’ looks,
Ta meadows come, beholden ta the sun.
They’s essence bulges out as tiny brooks,
An’ onward ta the salted cradle run.
See a lass, wi’ yellow flowered hair –
She will draw like waxing sun the men,
To light they’s fires an’ place they’s maypole there.
With risin’ heat, ah… raise that trunk again,
And we can twist an’ twirl our ribbon dance.
A few sips of a sweetened mushroom brew,
An’ ‘ere Queen Passion reigns our fiery prance…
Protected by a veil o’ honeyed dew.
And he who gentle cups a warmin’ hand,
To give heat to a long-preparin’ tree…
Shall see small petals, on ‘is thumb unfanned…
The fragrant blossom opens ta the bee.
Come we all ta revel, fear, an’ lust:
‘Tis Beltane, an’ we hopes the fates be just.