Spring’s Fairest Gift
In the trees the birds make their nests and sing. From the sky you send rain on the hills, and the earth is filled with your blessings. Psalm 104: 12, 13
Maytime is the fairest season
With its loud bird song and green trees
When the plough is in the furrow
And the oxen under the yoke
When the sea is green
And the land many colours.
But when cuckoos sing on the tops
Of the lovely trees, my sadness deepens
The smoke stings and my grief is clear
Since my brothers have passed away.
On the hill and in the valley
On the islands of the sea
Whichever path you take
You shall not hide from blessed Christ.
It was our wish, our Brother, our way,
To go to the land of your exile.
Seven saints and seven score and seven hundred
Went to the one court with blessed Christ
And were without fear.
The gift I ask, may it not be denied me
Is peace between myself and God.
May I find the way to the gate of glory
May I not be sad, O Christ, in your court.
Early Middle Welsh
May the road rise to meet you
May the wind be always at your back
May the sun shine warm upon your face
The rain fall soft upon your fields
And until we meet again
May God hold you
In the hollow of his hand
Traditional Irish Blessing