Happy Harvest!

I’ve been doing a fair amount of research on the Iron Age Celts (for a creative writing project I have going) and, in doing so, learned that one of the four holidays they celebrated was Lughnasadh. This is the harvest holiday in honor of the god Lugh and it just happens to fall on August 1. I am a couple of days late, but I still wanted to share. The Celts celebrated with festivals and ceremonies. Modern pagans, such as myself, celebrate this as the bread holiday called Lammas (meaning loaf mass). We’ll be celebrating tonight by getting together to eat and talk about bad habits we need to get rid of while planning some new things for the future.

One of the themes of this holiday is that things must fall in order to be reborn. The harvest must be cut so it can grown again next year. I would like to share the traditional folksong, The Ballad of John Barleycorn, which talks about the cyclic nature of planting, growing, harvesting, and then death.

There was three kings into the east,  corn_king_by_charles_vess
three kings both great and high,
and they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn must die.

They took a plough and plough’d him down,
put clods upon his head,
and they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful Spring came kindly on’
and show’rs began to fall.
John Barleycorn got up again,
and sore surprised them all.

The sultry suns of Summer came,
and he grew thick and strong;
his head well arm’d wi’ pointed spears,
that no one should him wrong.

The sober Autumn enter’d mild,
when he grew wan and pale;
his bendin’ joints and drooping head
show’d he began to fail.

His colour sicken’d more and more,
and he faded into age;
and then his enemies began
to show their deadly rage.

They took a weapon, long and sharp,
and cut him by the knee;
they ty’d him fast upon a cart,
like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back,
and cudgell’d him full sore.
they hung him up before the storm,
and turn’d him o’er and o’er.

They filled up a darksome pit
with water to the brim,
they heav’d in John Barleycorn.
There, let him sink or swim!

They laid him upon the floor,
to work him farther woe;
and still, as signs of life appear’d,
they toss’d him to and fro.

They wasted o’er a scorching flame
the marrow of his bones;
but a miller us’d him worst of all,
for he crush’d him between two stones.

And they hae taen his very hero blood
and drank it round and round;
and still the more and more they drank,
their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
of noble enterprise;
for if you do but taste his blood,
’twill make your courage rise.

‘Twill make a man forget his woe;
’twill heighten all his joy;
’twill make the widow’s heart to sing,
tho the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
each man a glass in hand;
and may his great posterity
ne’er fail in old Scotland!

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