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                          BLESSED BE AGAIN!      
                                    -Joe Bethancourt
                (c) copyright 1992 W.J. Bethancourt III
               (Tune: "One Misty Moisty Morning" (Trad.) 
                                        
                                        
Upon a dark and windy hill,            As I walked out one May morning,
On Samhain's eldritch night            T'was on the blooming heather   
I saw the Crone with withered hands    I saw a Maiden dancing there,   
By balefire's burning light            In fair and sunny weather       
Her eyes were full of wisdom,          The Beltane fires were burning high,
The threads of life she span           The dancers round did spin  
And sang "Blessed Be! And Blessed Be!  They sang "Blessed Be! And Blessed Be!
And Blessed Be again!"                 And Blessed Be again!"      
                                                                        
As I walked out on Yuletide,              Upon Midsummer's heady day,
The winter winds blew cold                I saw John Barleycorn      
I saw the Winter King a-standing,         Walking proud and tall there
Grey and grim and old                     In the sunny shining morn   
His cloak was pulled around him,          His beard was long and golden,
A Child was in his hand                   He looked at me and then      
And he sang "Blessed Be! And Blessed Be!  He sang "Blessed Be! And Blessed Be!
And Blessed Be again!"                    And Blessed Be again!"
                                                                        
Upon the morn of Brigit's Day,         Upon a singing Summer day,
I saw a lovely sight                   At dawn on Lammastide     
The Goddess standing by me,            I saw the Craftsman smiling,
All crowned in starry light            On sunbeams he did ride     
The crescent Moon beneath her feet,    He brings us light and knowledge,
The stars were in her hand             To help our fellow men           
She sang "Blessed Be! And Blessed Be!  He sang "Blessed Be! And Blessed Be!
And Blessed Be again!"                 And Blessed Be again!"     
                                                                        
Upon the first of April,              Upon a chilly autumn day,  
I saw the Holy Fool                   All sheltered from the storm 
He was a merry prankster,             I saw the Harvest safe at home,
The Lord of all Misrule!              The families snug and warm     
He looked at me, and winked an eye,   They sat and gave their thanks,
And danced and sang and then          And they laughed and smiled and then 
He sang "Blessed Be! And Blessed Be!  They sang "Blessed Be! And Blessed Be!
And Blessed Be again!"                And Blessed Be again!"      
                                                                     
Ostara came with blossoms,             The Spiral Dance goes on and on,
Life flourished everywhere             The King and Youth and Child    
I saw the Mother smiling,              The Gentle Mother, Aged Crone,  
With flowers in Her hair               And Maiden meek and mild        
She stood among the growing fields,    And so the Yearly Circle        
In heather and in glen                 Turns in eternal spin           
And sang "Blessed Be! And Blessed Be!  So sing "Blessed Be! And Blessed Be!
And Blessed Be again!"                 And Blessed Be again!"              
                                                                             
                  And "Merry Meet! And Merry Part!                       
                  And Merry Meet Again!"                                 
                                                
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             HARP SONG OF THE DANE WOMEN
                        -Rudyard Kipling
                                        
  What is a woman that you forsake her? 
  and the hearth fire, and the home-acre?
  to go with the old, grey Widow-Maker? 
                                        
  She has no house to lay a guest in    
  but one chill bed for all to rest in  
  that the pale suns and the stray bergs nest in
                                        
  She has no strong white arms to fold you
  but the ten times fingering weeds to hold you
  out on the rocks where the tide has rolled you
                                        
  Yet, when the signs of Summer thicken 
  and the ice breaks and the birch-buds quicken
  yearly you turn from our side and sicken
                                        
  Sicken again for the shouts and the slaughters
  you steal away to the lapping waters  
  and look at your ship in her winter quarters
                                        
  You forget our mirth, and talk at the tables
  the kine in the shed and the horse in the stables
  to pitch her sides and go over her cables...
                                        
  Then you drive out where the storm clouds swallow
  and the sound of your oar-blades, falling hollow
  is all we have left through the months to follow
                                        
  Ah...but what is a woman that you forsake her?
  and the hearth fire, and the home-acre?
  to go with the old, grey Widow-maker? 
                                        
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