On Uisneach Hill, the bale-fires are alight,
and old gods dance upon the wind,
as sparks soar in the night.
The scent of springtime fills the air
on the eve of summer’s rise,
Rich with rowan and hawthorn flowers
and life that never dies.
You can hear the druid’s distant call,
resounding through the years,
that stirs the folk of hollow hills
as celebration nears,
and the fairies of the May Day dawn
charge their cups with morning dew,
to toast your health at Beltane’s feast
in fields of meadow-rue.
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
19 April 2015, revised 30 June 2025
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