Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth

In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.

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Summer's Oldest Song

It's the oldest song in a European vernacular language to which both words and tune survive, dating from circa 1250.* You can hear it here.

The original Irish Samhradh, Samhradh (“Summer, Summer”) references Bealtaine—it refers to the traditional gathering and bearing-back of wild greens with which to deck the home—but around here we sing it at Midsummer's, the Bealtaine of the North.

I initially learned the song from my friend singer-songwriter (and Dianic priestess) Ruth Barrett; it was released, with original Midsummer verses, on her 1994 album, The Heart is the Only Nation.

I love Ruth's new verses, but thought I'd try my hand at rendering the original Irish words into singable English. Here they are, just as we'll be singing them on Midsummer's Eve on the highest hill in Paganistan, a-conjuring Summer in.

 Summer, Summer

 

Summer, Summer, milk of the heifer

We have brought the Summer in

Yellow Summer, brilliant daisies

We have brought the Summer in

 

This is the Summer that shall come joyful

We have brought the Summer in

Yellow Summer from the Sun's bed

We have brought the Summer in

 

Summer, Summer, milk of the heifer

We have brought the Summer in

Yellow Summer, brilliant daisies

We have brought the Summer in

 

Holly, hazel, elder, rowan

We have brought the Summer in

Shining ash from Bhéal an-Átha

We have brought the Summer in

 

Summer, Summer, milk of the heifer

We have brought the Summer in

Yellow Summer, brilliant daisies

We have brought the Summer in

 

Bhéal an-Átha: vyawl an-AWE-ha

 

*Interestingly, the oldest song in English to which we have both words and tune—the raucous, rowdy Sumer is Icumen In—is also a song about summer. I suspect that there's a reason for this. Here in the First World, with our cars, supermarkets, and central heating, we've forgotten just how truly miserable Winter can really be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Poet, scholar and storyteller Steven Posch was raised in the hardwood forests of western Pennsylvania by white-tailed deer. (That's the story, anyway.) He emigrated to Paganistan in 1979 and by sheer dint of personality has become one of Lake Country's foremost men-in-black. He is current keeper of the Minnesota Ooser.

Comments

  • Aline "Macha" O'Brien
    Aline "Macha" O'Brien Monday, 24 August 2015

    Just a point of information -- the translation from the Gaelic that Ruth Barrett uses in her version of this song, which I love, was done by our pal Jim Duran (Séamas Ó Direáin), who has a Ph.D. in linguistics from Stanford.

    On a homier note, Corby and I sang this song as a spell to a friend who was having trouble with getting her newborn to suckle. It worked.

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