Samhain

The Laird has gone by the underworld, to take Him there his rest,
in countless seasons, countless years, has always stood the test.
Here the winter comes again, the world grows cold and pale,
the sky in cloud is overthrown, and the dying sunsets fail.
Death is the newborn. The Mother holds his hand,
as ever the pallid shroud of fate, descends upon the land.
So faith betroth the circle, Her undying ever round.
Let faith betroth the love and light, that in our hearts be bound,
until the spring time comes again, when the season all has run
and the eerie time is over, then we'll hail again the sun.
So in the midst o' summer, be He bronze on dappled green,
and pledged again, His life again,
to His dark and shimering Queen.