Brids in the trees! sweet carols sing;
Winds in the woods! more softly play;
Here comes the herald of the spring –
St. Brigids Day.

From heaven’s blue window panes, winds! Seep
Cloud curtains, May the sun’s smile turn
Away all tears from eyes that weep,
And hearts that mourn.

Skylarks! You sunny stairways climb,
Broadcasting hymns to God above.
Say “Brigid’s Day is Eireann’s time
Of joy and love”.

May Brigid’s Cross above each door
Of every Irish home be set;
And may all love her more and more,.
And ne’eer forget.

Why is our Patroness, St. Bride
Still Ireland’s joy and Ireland’s pride?
Why is her feast so dear to all
True Gaels from Cork to Donegal?
With loving hands why do we plait
Her cross to crown her festal date?
Why does her Cross in fanlights show
Guarding our doors from every woe?
Defending with its outstretched arms
Our Irish homes, our Irish farms?
Why is St. Bride still Ireland’s boast
From Irelands core, to Ireland’s coast?

Because with soul aflame with love
She gave her life to God above.
For God and Gael she toiled and planned
To make this land a saintly land.
A nun in thought and word and deed
She robbed herself the poor to feed.
To succour all in want or woe –
And that is why we love her so.

This is the ancient graveyard of my people,
And here the plot wherein my kindred sleep –
Just in the shadow of the church’s steeple
Whose bell no more shall stir their slumber deep.

Far have I travelled, far I yet may travel,
Along the pathways of this earthly home;
But here, beneath a load of clay and gravel,
My lifelong journey to an end shall come.

Ah, solemn thought! ‘neath these luxuriant grasses
That flourish on the ashes of the dead,
And sigh and nod to every wind that passes,
‘Tis chill, ‘tis dark – but it shall be my bed.

When the cold clay is in my eyes, and heavy
The load of earth is pressing on my breast
Haply some friends may kneel and say an Ave
Above my ashes, for my spirit’s rest.

And then I hope my little friend, the robin.
Will sit and sing upon my lonely grave;
While melancholy winds, round headstones sobbin,
Will stoop to whisper where the grasses wave.