 | From the Hills of Dream |  |
84
The Faring of the Tide.
“O father, Son, and Holy Spirit,
Be the Three-in-one with us day and night,
On the crested wave, when waves run high!”
Be the Three-in-one with us day and night,
On the crested wave, when waves run high!”
Out of the place in the West
Where Tir-na'n-Òg, the Land of Youth
Is, the Land of Youth everlasting,
Send the great tide that carries the sea-weed
And brings the birds, out of the North:
And bid it wind as a snake through the bracken,
As a great snake through the heather of the sea,
The fair blooming heather of the sunlit sea.
And may it bring the fish to our nets,
And the great fish to our lines:
And may it sweep away the sea-hounds
That devour the herring:
And may it drown the heavy pollack
That respect not our nets
But fall into and tear them and ruin them wholly.
And may I, or any that is of my blood,
Behold not the Wave-Haunter who comes in with the Tide;
Or the Maighdeann-màra who broods in the shallows,
Where the sea-caves are, in the ebb.
And fair may my fishing be, and the fishing of those near to me,
And good may this Tide be, and good may it bring:
And may there be no calling in the Flow, this Srùth-màra,
And may there be no burden in the ebb! ochone!
Where Tir-na'n-Òg, the Land of Youth
Is, the Land of Youth everlasting,
Send the great tide that carries the sea-weed
And brings the birds, out of the North:
And bid it wind as a snake through the bracken,
As a great snake through the heather of the sea,
The fair blooming heather of the sunlit sea.
And may it bring the fish to our nets,
And the great fish to our lines:
And may it sweep away the sea-hounds
That devour the herring:
And may it drown the heavy pollack
That respect not our nets
But fall into and tear them and ruin them wholly.
And may I, or any that is of my blood,
Behold not the Wave-Haunter who comes in with the Tide;
Or the Maighdeann-màra who broods in the shallows,
Where the sea-caves are, in the ebb.
And fair may my fishing be, and the fishing of those near to me,
And good may this Tide be, and good may it bring:
And may there be no calling in the Flow, this Srùth-màra,
And may there be no burden in the ebb! ochone!
| From the Hills of Dream | |