The old tale wandered cross the Fearnóg moss green
The faint songs of the ancient’s druids sing
Woven spells round the faeries rings
Brian Boruma mac Cennetig might hold the throne
On golden scarred brow bore the crown of High King
Tuatha Dé Danann shimmering robed in white Bogbean
Gloved in moss sewn fine with buttercups
Coltsfoot garlands round their heads
Whitlow grass soft neath their feet
And heather pink droplets of drifting fog
Children shivered in anticipation round smoking peat fires
Awaiting long told stories of battle
Against the fierce black-haired Fir bolg
Rose the legend Hy-Brasil from the waves
Come the count of seven years
In the dreamland of the Irish
Tír na nÓg
This was written for my Family the Irish
All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M. Darby March 22, 2019.
All Material Stored in Author Base
Mar 23, 2019
Mar 23, 2019 at 12:32 AM UTC
The old tale wandered cross the Fearnóg moss green
The faint songs of the ancient’s druids sing
Woven spells round the faeries rings
Brian Boruma mac Cennetig might hold the throne
On golden scarred brow bore the crown of High King
Tuatha Dé Danann shimmering robed in white Bogbean
Gloved in moss sewn fine with buttercups
Coltsfoot garlands round their heads
Whitlow grass soft neath their feet
And heather pink droplets of drifting fog
Children shivered in anticipation round smoking peat fires
Awaiting long told stories of battle
Against the fierce black-haired Fir bolg
Rose the legend Hy-Brasil from the waves
Come the count of seven years
In the dreamland of the Irish
Tír na nÓg
This was written for my Family the Irish
All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M. Darby March 22, 2019.
All Material Stored in Author Base
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