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| Lusmore's Tale (part 1) | |
| By MarjoryBanks | ||||||||||
| 20 October 2006 | ||||||||||
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From the Celtic fairytale. The people call me Lusmore, From the foxglove in my hat, Pray, linger not at my door, Come in, and swift at that. What brings you here to Aherlow, ‘neath Galtee’s lofty peaks, Where often rests the Winter snow, Till after Holy Week? Come rest ye by my fireside, And warm your weary feet, In spirit true of Christmastide, Come share my ale and meat. This tale I’ll tell is honest, Fantastical forsooth, A fairies curse upon us, If every word’s not truth. I used to weave with straw and rush, Fine hats and baskets strong, One day from Cahir market, I homewards stumbled on. Back then sore humphybackit, I hirpled firth and feth, My body’s weight was on my back, I faltered, close to death. Then by Knockgrafton’s ancient mote, I crumpled to the ground, ‘twas then I heard the fairies’ notes, A strange and lovely sound. Da Luan, Da Mort, Da Luan, Da Mort", So went their strange refrain, I lay bewitched beneath the mote, Attending to the strain. Then as if from nowhere, These words came to my mind, “Da Mort Augus Da Cadine” I sang in perfect time. This seemed to please the fairies, For up my body whirled, And by the Son of Mary, Inside the mote was hurled. “Lusmore, Lusmore! We thee adore, You’ll carry round, That hump no more! Look hither, Tis lying on the floor! Brave Lusmore, Good Lusmore! I rose as light as summer air, And floated from the mote, No longer with my hump to bear, As fleet as mountain goat. I skipped the road next morning, In less than no time flat, But this tale carries warning, And soon I’ll come to that. Oli (20/10/06)
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