The rune of Lady Day, O bright Goddess,
Truth above the strength of arms always.
On Lady Day Lugh was conceived,
Sun Child of golden yellow hair,
On Lady Day Lugh was conceived
As a blessing to the world.
Lady Day, the fourth feast day,
The Goddess ordained to make merry,
To create life everlasting,
Without making use of work or travail,
Or of any chore but that which is desired,
Without spinning thread of silk or of satin,
Without sewing, without embroidery either,
Without sowing, without harrowing, without reaping,
Without rowing, without snaring, without fishing,
Without going out to the hunting hill,
Without trimming arrows on Lady Day,
Without cleaning byre, without threshing corn,
Without kiln, without mill on Lady Day.
If you would keep Lady Day,
Even would it be to you and lasting,
From setting of sun on Lady Day Eve
Till rising of sun on Lady Day’s morrow.
You would obtain blessings therefrom,
Produce after the ploughs,
Fish on the pure salt-water stream,
Fish excelling in every river confluence.
The water of Lady Day mild as honey,
If you would partake of it as drink
You would obtain health in consequence
From every disease afflicting you.
Weeping on Lady Day is out of place,
Doing so is untimely;
Let you weep betimes on Samhain,
But not weep once on Lady Day.
The wood of Lady Day is too soon.
In the pool it is pitiful,
Though its head should fall in char,
It would till the morrow be dormant.
About noon on the morrow,
The wood will arise very quickly,
And by the great flood without
Hasten the story of my trouble.
Without any searching for lamb, sheep, kid or goat
That would not belong to the King in the cause.
It is now it ought to be burnt,
Without listening to the clamour of the stranger,
Nor to the blind babbling of the public.
To keep corn on a high hillock,
To bring physician to a violent disease,
To send a cow to the potent bull of the herd,
To go with a beast to a cattle-fold,
Far or near be the distance,
Every creature needs attention.
To allow a boat under her sail from land,
From land to the country of her unacquaintance.
If you would meditate my lay,
And say it every Lady Day,
The luck of faery will be on your head,
And blessed each night you’ll take your bed.
[ALTERNATIVE VERSIONS — Welsh]
Hill river is very palatable,
Ever meandering to the Menai,
Right well it retained its tribute
On Lady Day though great its flood.
No drop, though pure be its water,
Shall run in the channel of the Sinking Lands.
The wood of Lady Day now, alas!
In the channel of the Cynvael,
Though the red head should fall off
It would be till the morrow asleep.
Let me not leave aught behind,
To talk of Nature’s rebirth.
