Irish and Other Celtic Pagan Songs
by
Isaac Bonewits
“Ireland un-Pagan shall never be free!”
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Songs on this page: Be Pagan Once Again!, Bring
Back the Snakes, Cú Chulainn
Wept, The Druid Moon, Four
Green Fields, The Gods of the West,
A Hymn to Bridget, A
Hymn to the Dagda, A Hymn to
the Morrigan, Pagans All Are We,
A Prayer for the Preachers,
There Were Three Sisters, and Will Ye No Come Back Again? |
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Typographical notes: A tilde (~) is used to indicate
ornamentation throughout, with double tildes indicating more
of the same. Either a slash (/) or an “incorrect” comma
may be used to indicate phrasing. Foreign language text (usually
Irish) is set in a “plain” typeface, since diacriticals
(accent marks) in italics are too hard to read. Lines in italics
usually indicate a chorus or refrain, but sometimes just word
changes by I.B.
Be warned that singing many of these songs in Ireland may
get you in serious trouble with non-Pagan locals, and some Pagan
ones as well. Stepping away from the mental and social bogs produced
by fifteen centuries of Christian Dualism, aided and abetted
by tyrants and fools, can be far more difficult — especially
for those who think themselves “free” — than escaping
from physical bogs. Unpopular opinions can get you beaten or
worse anywhere in Ireland, not just in East Ulster.
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Be Pagan Once Again!
© 1972, 2001 c.e.
words by Isaac Bonewits
music Irish trad. ("A Nation Once Again")
Key of F
When childhild's fire was in my blood, I dreamed
of ancient dreemen,
Against the Church who boldly stood, as Pagans and as Heathen.
And then I prayed I yet might see, the Druids in the glen,
And Ireland long the churches' toy, be Pagan once again!
Be Pagan once again, be Pagan once again,
And Ireland long the churches' toy, be Pagan once again!
The Old Gods only sleep you know, although
betrayed and slandered.
They guarded us from every woe, and blessed each crop and fine
herd.
Then Patrick, he drove the snakes away, and brought the churches
in.
'Twas a bloody poor bargain, I would say -- let's be Pagan once
again!
Be Pagan once again, be Pagan once again,
'Twas a bloody poor bargain, I would say -- let's be Pagan once
again!
And ever since that wretched day, when first
Ireland went Christian,
We've suffered woe in every way, with our freedom made the worst
"sin".
They set us at each other's throats, to murder kith and kin.
Too long we've been their starving goats -- let's be Pagan once
again!
Be Pagan once again, be Pagan once again,
Too long we've been their starving goats -- let's be Pagan once
again!
Both Catholic and Protestant, led us round
by our noses,
Distracting from the deadly scent, of England's bleedin' roses!
Kick every preacher 'cross the sea, burn out their golden dens.
It's the only way we'll ever be free -- let's be Pagan once again!
Be Pagan once again, be Pagan once again,
It's the only way we'll ever be free -- let's be Pagan once again!
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| This was one of the very first Pagan songs I
ever wrote. The tune is Ireland's unoffical national anthem.
I was enormously proud a few years ago to find out that a pirate
radio station in the Irish Sea had been broadcasting this song
into Ireland for "St. Patrick's Day." |
Bring Back the Snakes
© 1997, 2001 c.e.
words by Isaac Bonewits
music trad. ("My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean")
'Twas on a bright Midsummer's evening,
An old woman I chanced for to see.
She grabbed both my shoulders and shook 'em,
Saying, "Bring back the snakes to me!"
Bring back, bring back, bring back the
snakes to me, to me;
Bring back, bring back, O bring back the snakes to me!
"My land was a jewel most blessed,
My people both happy and free,
Till the preachers came in with their crosses,
And drove all the snakes out to sea."
Bring back, bring back, bring back the
snakes to me, to me;
Bring back, bring back, O bring back the snakes to me!
"Yes, 'snakes' was the word that they
used then,
For the masters of all druidry,
Whom they murdered, converted or banished,
As threats to their new tyranny."
Bring back, bring back, bring back the
snakes to me, to me;
Bring back, bring back, O bring back the snakes to me!
"Now it's past fifteen centuries later,
The results now are clear for to see;
Ireland was better off Pagan,
So bring back the snakes to me!"
Bring back, bring back, bring back the
snakes to me, to me;
Bring back, bring back, O bring back the snakes to me!
Then the old woman's face started changing,
Every country and race I could see.
She said, "All lands are better off Pagan,
So bring back the snakes to me!"
Bring back, bring back, bring back the
snakes to me, to me;
Bring back, bring back, O bring back the snakes to me!
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| This seemed like such an obvious song, once the
chorus occured to me... It's now the official anthem for All Snakes Day!Back to Top of Page |
Cú Chulainn Wept
© 1994, 2001 c.e.
words by Isaac Bonewits
music Irish Trad. ("Mary From Dungloe")
'Twas at the great feast of Samhain we called
him
To join in our ancestral rite.
In the smoke of the thrice-blessed bonfire, a vision
Of Cú Chulainn appeared to our sight.
He was huge, he was mighty, this greatest of warriors,
As his gaze upon us it did fall.
Full of beauty his face, and of courage his bearing,
His smile bestowed blessings on all.
"Too long has it been, since the people
have called me."
"How fares my dear Ireland today?"
"Oh my Lord," I replied, in a voice full of sorrow,
"Tis beyond all my powers to say."
"I shall see for myself then," Cú Chulainn responded;
Through the Gates unto Tara he passed.
We stood 'round the fire as the vision unfolded.
What we saw held us firm to the last.
Through the smoke and the flames of the bonfire
we watched him
Turn around for to spy out some foe.
A look of confusion soon spread o're his visage,
As Cú Chulainn saw Ireland below.
"Where are all Her trees?" he cried out, "I can't
see them."
"Every holy well's vanished or fouled.
"Her sweet air, once so pure, now is fetid and stinking
--
"Who has raped my dear Mother?" he howled.
Then he wept, how he wept, the brave Lion
of Ulster.
At the fate of his Erin, he wept.
Then he saw far below, those women of Ireland,
Enslaved by their men and reviled,
By husbands who beat their wives near to dying,
And brutes who their daughters defiled.
The shock on his face, it was graven forever,
As he saw far too many to save.
"What has happened?" he whispered, "to the women
of Ireland?"
"Know they nothing of Macha or Maeve?"
Then he wept, how he wept, the brave Lion
of Ulster.
For the women of Ireland, he wept.
Then he turned his eyes north to the land
of his birthing.
What he saw made him scream in despair.
He saw cowards and monsters, strike poses so noble,
Whilst they murdered and robbed without care.
He saw children and babies blown all to small pieces;
Old people shot down in blood cold,
And the villians a-bragging, how "brave" were their
actions,
How "like" to their ancestors bold.
Then he raged, how he raged, the brave Lion
of Ulster.
For the shame and dishonor, he raged.
"This geas I now lay on the men of all
Ireland:
"May the sidhe destroy your every sleep.
"May the ghosts of your victims, the fruits of your evil,
"Make you wail, make you sob, make you weep!"
"May the curse that dark Macha once laid on my province
"Descend on all men of this isle
"Who have scattered the victims of 'manhood' around them,
"Who have killed with a cross and a smile."
"May the wrath of Morrigan afflict all
wife beaters,
"And defend all the children in Eire.
"May those who've polluted the Mother's bright body
"Fall screaming into Bridget's fire!"
"This geas, it shall last, 'till Erú and Her daughters
"Are honored by you as of old.
"And your demons of manhood perverted are vanquished
"By the love of all Erin ye hold."
Then he wept, how he wept, the brave Lion
of Ireland.
As he vanished, Cú Chulainn still wept.
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I had always wondered what an ancient Celtic warrior would
really think of modern Ireland. This song, done in the classic
mode of a “vision song,” is what finally occured to
me. Now I wonder what would happen if Pagan men all over Ireland
were to sing this song at Samhain, invoking Cú Chulainn
on the hilltops and enchanting the geas at the end with
full power, while Pagan women in the valleys invoked the Morrigan
to arouse their sisters...
Cú Chulainn's name, by the way, is prononced “Coo-Hoo-linn.”
Back to Top of Page
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The Druid Moon
© 1973, 2001 c.e.
words by Isaac Bonewits & Robert Pennell (50/50)
music Irish trad. ("Rising of the Moon")
"Oh, now tell me Taliesin, tell me why
you hurry so?"
"Hush good Druid, hush and listen," and his cheeks
were all aglow.
"I bear news from the Archdruid, get you ready quick and
soon,
For we all must be together, by the rising of the moon!
By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon,
For we all must be together, by the rising of the moon!"
"Oh, then tell me Taliesin, where the
gathering is to be?"
"At the oak grove by the river, quite well known to you
and me.
"One more word, for signal token, whistle out the Dagda's
tune,
"With your sickle on your shoulder, by the rising of the
moon!
By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon,
With your sickle on your shoulder, by the rising of the moon!"
Yes, in many a magic circle, white robes gathered
in the night.
Many a sacred grove was throbbing, with that blessed Druid light.
And the Heathen sang across the land, to the Bansidhe's eerie
tune;
And a thousand spells were chanted, by the rising of the moon!
By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon,
And a thousand spells were chanted, by the rising of the moon!
Now, throughout that pulsing Pagan night,
the Faerie folk all swarmed.
High above the singing Druids soon, a wrathful Goddess formed.
"Confusion to our enemies! Druids carve the final rune --
"Cast all our spells together now -- 'tis the rising of
the moon!
'Tis the rising of the moon, 'tis the rising of the moon.
Cast all our spells together now -- 'tis the rising of the moon!"
The Goddess headed for the East, across the
sea's bright foam;
And what glorious havok She did wreak, in London and in Rome!
So the Archdruid, he spoke to us, upon the following noon,
"I think we got our point across, at the rising of the moon!
At the rising of the moon, at the rising of the moon,
I think we got our point across at the rising of the moon!"
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| This is another of my old "Pagan I.R.A."
songs -- that's "Irish Revelationary Activists," of
course! Back to Top of Page |
Four Green Fields
Words and music (c) by Tommy Makem
Word changes in verse 3 by Isaac Bonewits 2000 c.e.
Key of G
"What did I have?" said the fine
old woman,
"What did I have?" this proud old woman did say,
"I had four green fields, and each one was a jewel.
"But strangers came, and tried to take them from me.
"I had fine strong sons, and they fought to save my jewels.
"They fought and they died, and that was my grief!"
said she.
"Long time ago," said the fine old
woman,
"Long time ago," this proud old woman did say,
"There was war and death, plundering and pillage
"My children starved, by mountain, valley and sea.
"And their wailing cries, they shook the very heavens.
"My four green fields, ran red with their blood." said
she.
"What have I now?" said the fine
old woman,
"What have I now?" this proud old woman did say,
"I have four green fields, all of them in bondage,
"To hate and fear, bigotry and murder.
"But my druids return, wiser than their forebears.
"My four green fields, will bloom once again!"
said she.
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Alternate rewrite to penultimate line:
"But my sons have daughters, wiser than their fathers."
This was how I sung it in Ireland, in homage to the Irish
Women’s Peace Movement, and got myself thoroughly ostracised
by the (non-Pagan) locals — yes, even the women — for
the crime. Of course, I was in a Donegal pub at the time, and
Erú only knows how they would have reacted to any overtly
Pagan songs…
Makem’s original (?) last four lines:
"I have four green fields, and one of them's in bondage,
"In strangers hands, who tried to take it from me.
"But my sons have sons, as brave as were their fathers.
"My four green fields*, will bloom once again!" said
she.
*Some printed (and many sung) versions have this as "My
fourth green field," singular, assuming that East Ulster
is the only one that's not blooming. Back to Top
of Page
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The Gods of the West
© 1972, 2001 c.e.
words by Isaac Bonewits
music Irish trad. ("The Men of the West")
Key of C
When you honor in song and in story,
The Gods of our old Pagan kin,
Whose blessings have covered with glory,
Full many a mountain and glen;
Forget not the Gods of our ancestors,
Who'll rally our bravest and best,
When Ireland is Christian and bleeding,
And looks for its hope to the West.
So here's to the Gods of our ancestors,
Who'll rally our bravest and best,
When Ireland is Christian and bleeding --
Hurrah! for the Gods of the West.
O the Sidhe hills with glory will shine then,
On the eve of our bright freedom day,
When the Gods we've been wearily waiting,
Sail back from the land of the Fey!
And over Ireland sing the Druids,
Awakening in every breast,
A fire that can never be quenched friends,
Among the true Celts of the West.
The land will be ours 'e're the midnight,
And high over every town,
Our Pagan prayers then will be floating,
Before the next sun has gone down.
We'll gather to speed the good work, our kin,
The Heathen back unto their home;
And history will watch as we send back,
The preachers to London and Rome.
So pledge us the Old Gods of Ireland,
The Dagda and Lugh and Danu;
Whose return, with the trumpet of battle,
Will bring hope to Their children anew.
As the Old Gods have brought to Their feasting halls,
From many a valley and hill,
The Pagans who fell, so They're here friends,
To lead us to victory still!
Though all the bright beauty we cherished,
Went down 'neath the churches and woe;
The spirits of old still are with us,
Who never will bend to the foe.
And the Old Gods are ready whenever,
Whe loud rolling tuck of the drum,
Rings out to awaken the Pagans,
And tell us our morning has come!
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| This is another of my old "Pagan I.R.A."
songs. Back to Top of Page |
A Hymn to Bridget
© 1983, 2001 c.e.
words by Isaac Bonewits
music Irish trad. ("Roving Galway Boy/Spancil Hill,"
mutated)
Key of C
A Bhrid, ár gcroí, an-gheal
Bheanríon;
lo de thoil é beannachta sinn.
Is sinn bhur leanaí, is tu ár mamaí;
bí ag isteacht dúinn mar sin.
Is tu an coire, anois inár doire*;
a Bhean-Feasa tinfím orainn.
A thine ghrá, a thine bheatha;
lo de thoil é ag teacht Bhrid dúinn!
O Bridget, our heart, o brightest Queen;
cast your blessings unto us.
We are your children, you are our mother;
so hearken unto us.
You are the cauldron, now in our grove*;
Wise Woman inspire us.
O fire of love, o fire of life;
please Bridget, come to us!
A Bhrid, ár gcroí, an-gheal
Bheanríon;
lo de thoil é beannachta sinn.
Is sinn bhur leanaí, is tu ár mamaí;
bí ag isteacht dúinn mar sin.
Is tu an coire, anois inár doire*;
a Bhean-Feasa tinfím orainn.
A thine ghrá, a thine bheatha;
lo de thoil é ag teacht Bhrid dúinn!
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As a Bard, I honor Bridget (or Brid) as my special Matron
Goddess. This was one of the first bilingual songs I wrote, and
shows my childlike Irish vocabulary. "Mamaí,"
for example, is closer to "mommy" than to "mother".
However, for a Goddess of Mothers (as well as fire/sun/inspiration,
etc.), the phrasing seems appropriate.
* alternate Irish wording for ritual use: "fane"
= circle, "seomra" = room -- neither of which rhymes
with "coire" (which is an Irish pun on the words for
"sheep" and "cauldron," both of which are
appropriate for Bride), but then classical Old Irish songs didn't
rhyme either!
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A Hymn to the Dagda
© 1993, 2001 c.e.
words by Isaac Bonewits
music Irish trad. ("Ta Na La")
Key of G
Hear us Dag- / da, All Father
Answer us / O Supreme Knower
Sing now the poets / to praise your name
Return again / unto your people.
[Chorus:]
Éist a Dhag- / da, Ollathair
Freagairt orainn / a Ruad Rofheasa
Canann anois filí / chun do ainm molann
Tar ais arís / chugainn do chlann.
You are the flame / that burns within
The royal hearth, / or an outcast's hovel;
The sacrifi- / cial fire as well,
The giver and / the gift that's given.
You are the heat / of a warrior bold
When fighting for / the tribe's survival;
The firey pas- / sion of our loins,
The holy spark / of live renewing.
Éist a Dhag- / da...
A royal scep- / ter is your club,
A druid's wand / to weild your power;
A weapon strong, / Outsiders' bane,
A phallus proud, / to please the Ladies.
We praise you for / your mighty mirth,
As you roar in- / to bed or battle;
Your harp that plays / the seasons round,
Your cauldron filled / with gifts unending.
Éist a Dhag- / da...
The people call / you once again
From many tribes / we give you honor.
Earth Mother needs / your potent joy,
Burn bright within / us, God of Fire!
Éist a Dhag- / da...
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| As a Druid, I honor the Dagda as my special Patron
God. This song incorporates the "omnifunctional" role
that the Dagda played in ancient Irish myth, as well as references
to the classes and worlds of Celtic cosmology, as interpreted
by us Dumezilians anyways. |
A Hymn to the Morrigan
© 1986, 2001 c.e.
words by Isaac Bonewits
music Irish trad. ("Lagan Lad/Quiet Joys")
Key of A
O Morrigan, we call your name
Across the dusty years.
You speak to us, of blood and lust.
You show us all our fears.
You are a goddess, old and wise.
Of holy power you have no dearth.
Beneath your wings, black, red and white,
We learn of death and birth.
You walk about, this ancient land,
Your hungers raw and clear.
You make the crops, grow rich and strong,
As well your geese and deer.
A flirting maid, a lusty hag,
A mother of great girth:
Without the touch, of your black wings,
We cannot heal the earth.
You float upon, a blood red wave,
Of swords and spears and knives.
Your voice inspires, fear and dread,
That you'll cut short our lives.
You try the warriors', courage sore,
Our inner souls unearth.
Without the touch, of your red wings,
We cannot know our worth.
You fly above, the silver clouds,
To Avalon's shining gate.
You lead the dead, along that path,
To meet our final fate.
The joke's on us, we find within,
A land of laughter and of mirth.
Without the touch, of your white wings,
We cannot have rebirth.
O Morrigan, we call your name
Across the dusty years...
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| As an occasional Warrior, I honor the Morrigan
as my protector and inspiration. This was another song I was
compelled to write for a deity who is usually misunderstood.
The Morrigan is nearly as omnifunctioal as Her sometime consort,
the Dagda. The pattern again reflects the Indo-European tripartate
division (of three major social classes), with a verse for fertility,
one for combat, and one for wisdom. The original recording of
this happened during a sudden thunderstorm, so we put a microphone
out the window and gave an album credit to Taranis, the Celtic
God of Thunder! |
Pagans All Are We
© 1972, 2001 c.e.
words by Isaac Bonewits
music Irish trad. ("Soldiers All Are We")
Pagans all are we, whose lives are pledged
to this our land.
Some have come, from the Land Beyond the Waves.
Sworn to the Sidhe, no more our ancient Pagan land,
Shall shelter the preachers or their slaves.
Tonight we guard the fairy hill,
In the Old Gods' cause, come woe or weal.
Mid pukka's howl, and bansidhe's wail...
We'll chant a Pagan song!
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| This one's to the official Irish National
Anthem, so it may get you into even more trouble if you sing
it in Ireland than these other songs will! Back
to Top of Page |
A Prayer for
the Preachers
© 1973, 2001 c.e.
words by Isaac Bonewits
music Irish trad. ("God Bless England")
I'll sing you a tale of wrath and woe --
Wack for the diddle, diddle-di-do-day.
For the men who laid our freedom low --
Wack for the diddle, diddle-di-do-day.
May fear and famine be their share,
Who've kept our land in want and care.
May the Sidhe keep the preachers [spoken: far from
us!] is our prayer.
Wack for the diddle, diddle-di-do-day.
Wack for the diddle, diddle-di-do-day!
Hip hooray! So we say!
Come and listen while we pray.
Wack for the diddle, diddle-di-do-day!
Now when we were Pagan, strong and free --
Wack for the diddle, diddle-di-do-day.
The preachers went on a bloody spree --
Wack for the diddle, diddle-di-do-day.
Harshly raised us in their slime,
And kept our hands from "heathen crime";
And sent us early to their Heaven, time after time!
Wack for the diddle, diddle-di-do-day.
Now Pagans oft' are naughty folk --
Wack for the diddle, diddle-di-do-day.
For swords and spears can sometimes poke --
Wack for the diddle, diddle-di-do-day.
At New Grange and at Tara Hill,
We made the preachers cry their fill;
But -- oh the saints! -- they "love" us still!
Wack for the diddle, diddle-di-do-day.
Now Pagans all, forget the past --
Wack for the diddle, diddle-di-do-day.
And think of the day that's coming fast --
Wack for the diddle, diddle-di-do-day.
When the Druids are reorganized,
And all the Heathen mobilized --
O won't the preachers be surprised?!
Wack for the diddle, diddle-di-do-day.
|
| Who says we Pagans won't pray for our enemies?
This is another "bloodthirsty" song from my misspent
youth (and, yes, I spent most of it on misses). Back
to Top of Page |
There Were Three Sisters
© 1987, 2001 c.e.
words by Isaac Bonewits
music English trad. ("Henry Martin")
There were three Sisters in our ancient land,
In our ancient land there were three.
And they did dispute which of them
Should be, should be, should be,
Greatest of all in the hearts of the free.
Oh, first spoke Danu, the Mother of All,
Her voice was as rich as the earth:
"I give them my cattle, my grain,
And mirth, and mirth, and mirth.
Freedom without joy is of little worth."
And then spoke Macha, the Goddess of War,
Her voice was the roar of the wave:
"I give but courage, for fear will
Enslave, enslave, enslave.
Freedom's a gift given but to the brave."
Now third spoke Rion, the Light of the Moon,
Her voice was as vast as the sky:
"I give to their thoughts great wings
To fly, to fly, to fly.
Freedom means naught if you never ask why."
[Repeat first verse. Instrumental break.]
But then came Bridget, the Queen of All Arts,
Her voice was a flickering flame:
"My sisters I fear your gifts miss
Their aim, their aim, their aim.
None but through me can their true freedom claim."
"For pleasure and riches are fleeting
at best,
And a warrior's strength is quite brief.
And knowledge alone brings them naught
Save grief, save grief, save grief.
Without beauty's fire within their belief."
"My healers restore hope to those who
despair.
My smiths forge them weapons so grand.
My bards cause all those who kneel
To stand, to stand, to stand.
The fires of Freedom are lit by my hand!"
There were four Sisters in our ancient land...
|
| This is yet another song based on the Dumezilian
analysis of Indo-European cultures as shown by the Celts. Danu,
Macha and Rion represent the Producers, Warriors and Druids,
respectively. But Bridget covers all of these classes and more.
|
Will Ye No Come Back Again?
© 1973, 2001 c.e.
words by Isaac Bonewits,
music Scots trad. ("Bonnie Charlie's Now Awa'")
Key of C
In exile live our Olden Gods,
Vanished o'er the foaming main,
To lands no mortal ever trods.
Will They e're come back again?
Will Ye no come back again?
Will Ye no come back again?
Better loved Ye cannot be.
Will Ye no come back again?
Hills They walked were all Their own,
Blest the land from sea to sea,
Till the folk with tortured moan,
Abandoned all the noble Shee.
Many a gallant Pagan fought,
Many a gallant Witch did burn.
Priest and priestess, all have sought,
To sing the prayers Ye cannot spurn!
Now with eagle and with dove,
Sing we hear our heartfelt plea:
Come with thunder, or with love,
But come! Good Gods, we so need Thee!
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| This is one of my most popular songs, perhaps
because of the yearning quality it has. It's based on a Scottish
nationalist song that expressed even more yearning for the return
of "Bonnie Prince Charlie." |
|
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