May my kye come home at even, 

 None be fallin', none be leaving 

 Dusky even, breath-sweet even, 

 Here, as there, where O 



St. Bride thou 



Keepest tryst with God in heav'n, 

 Seest the angels bow 

 And souls be shriven 

 Here, as there, 'tis breath-sweet even 



Far and wide 

 Singeth thy little maid 

 Safe in thy shade 



Bridget, Bride ! " 



When the first lambs appear, many are the 

 invocations among the Irish and Hebridean 

 Gaels to good St. Bride. At the hearth-side, 

 too, the women, carding wool, knitting, telling 

 tales, singing songs, dreaming these know 

 her whether they name her in thought, or 

 have forgotten what was dear wisdom to their 

 mothers of old. She leans over cradles, and 

 when babies smile they have seen her face. 

 When the crathull swings in the twilight, the 

 slow rhythm, which is music in the mother's 

 ear, is the quiet clapping of her hushing hands. 

 St Bride, too, loves the byres or the pastures 

 when the kye are milked, though now she is 

 no longer 'the Woman of February,' but 

 simply * good St. Bride of the yellow hair.' 



86 



