O! the fruit is rich and ripe

August 1, 2007 at 6:49 pm (Caledon, celebrations, the Muse sings, the writing of others)

the Lady dances round the bonfire alone, the dancing flames casting warm light over her flushed, rapturous face, and over the the bowls filled to overflowing with fruit. All appears ready to burst forth with sweetness. A berry placed upon the tongue rests for but a moment before the thin silken skin splits, and senses explode with the pleasure of sweet juices.

Her voice rises then in joyous, playful song … eyes closed in bliss as the old tunes tumble forth. Listen, and help yourself to a piece of the fruit, freely offered … come and dance, sing and celebrate…

Two Songs of the Harvest

John Barleycorn Must Die

There were three men come out of the West
Their fortunes for to try,
And these three men made a solemn vow:
John Barleycorn should die!
John Barleycorn should die!

They plowed, they sowed, they harrowed him in,
Threw clods upon his head,
And these three men made a solemn vow:
John Barleycorn was dead!

Fa la la la, it’s a lovely day!
Sing fa la la lay oh!
Fa la la la, it’s a lovely day!
Sing fa la la lay oh!

They let him lie for a very long time
‘Til the rain from Heaven did fall,
Then Little Sir John sprung up his head,
And so amazed them all!

They let him stand ’til Midsummer tide,
‘Til he grew both pale and wan,
Then Little Sir John he grew a long beard,
And so became a man!

They hired men with the scythes so sharp
To cut him off at the knee
They rolled him and tied him about the waist,
And used him barbarously!

They hired men with the sharp pitchforks
To pierce him to the heart,
And the loader he served him worse than that,
For he tied him in a cart!

They wheeled him around and around the field,
‘Til they came to a barn,
And there they made a solemn mow
Of poor John Barleycorn,

They hired men with the crab-tree sticks
To strip him skin from bone
And the Miller he served him worse than that:
For he ground him between two stones!

They have wheeled him here and wheeled him there
And wheeled him to a barn,
And they have served him worse than that
They have bunged him in a vat!

They have worked their will on John Barleycorn
But he lived to tell the tale;
For they pour him out of an old brown jug,
And they call him home-brewed ale!

Here’s Little Sir John in a nut-brown bowl,
And brandy in a glass!
And Little Sir John in the nut-brown bowl
Proved the stronger man at last!

For the huntsman he can’t hunt the fox
Nor loudly blow his horn,
And the tinker can’t mend kettles nor pots
Without John Barleycorn!

Fa la la la, it’s a lovely day!
Sing fa la la lay oh!

Hoof and horn, hoof and horn
All that dies shall be reborn
Corn and grain, corn and grain
All that falls shall rise again

Thank you, friends, for honouring me with such a great harvest! I am blessed by your thoughts and words of support.

May your own harvest be rich and full. May you have all that you need, and most of what you want.

Now pass the ale, and let’s get this party started!



  1. Emilly Orr said,

    And the cycle continues, as all things continue, as all things fail…

    It’s good to remember.

  2. Erasmus Margulis said,

    As the bonfires of Lughnasadh become smoldering embers, a glass is raised to honor the gifts of the earth, the sweet fruits. The storm dragon takes flight, feeling his wings tak command of the air. The power within him makes him feel giddy, but he hides it. A giddy dragon indeed. No, no lightining tonight, no storms to wreck this sacred night. From his aeriel patrol, the dragon sees the remains of celebrations and knows Lugh is well pleased. The dragon lands and resumes his human form, and places a berry on his tongue. The sweetness of the berry fills his mouth. Aye, well pleased indeed.

  3. Eva Bellambi, Duchess Loch Avie said,

    Laying languidly around the bonfires, enjoying the offered fruit, the Duchess savors the sweetness of the juices as they flow in her mouth and allows them the drip deliciously down her chin. Theses voluptuous sensations remind her….remind her of many things. She smiles as secret thoughts travel through her mind. A poem reaches her:

    spilt out into the meadows
    running into every being
    filling us up with spirit
    the pulsing red life of the earth
    in the smoke of the firecircle
    i saw my demons scatter to the skies
    dissolving into the midnight air
    there is nothing but the sun
    the moon
    in perfect equilibrium
    unreal yet grounded
    alone in body, full in spirit

    Written by Lady Lissar

  4. Bloodwing Dragonash said,

    One demon indeed was scattered to the skies and dissolved in the midnight air. The incubus looks up, still shaken from the paradox that sent him back to the Origin. In the bright sun, simple sets of faces stare back at him as the new souls fumble about.

    “Orientation Island? By the Styx! Worse than Hell this is..anywhere but here..”

    His plain features shift like wax..growing, blanching, twisting into horns. He runs his hand over his painted face and over his bare pate.

    “Close enough.”

    He closes his eyes, reaching out with his mystical senses, and chuckles.

    “Lugnasadh..of course..what better time for the Horned Man to be reborn?”

    He takes a deep breath, and leaps through the space between spaces, this time landing on his feet. His eyes focus on the tasteful signs and the waving tartan before him. He breathes in the damp scent of the Tanglewood trees, and slowly walks to the labyrinth in the soil where an old friend dances in celebration. He smiles wide as she breaks her reverie to run to him, banana in hand,

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