As we came down the old boreen, Rose and I – Rose and I, At vesper time on Sunday e’en, We heard a banshee cry! Beyond the churchyard dim and dark, ‘Neath whispering elms, and yew-trees stark, Where our star shone-a corpse-like spark- Against the wintry sky.
We heard and shuddered sick with dread, Rose and I- Rose and I, As the shrill keening rang o’erhead Where cloud-wrack floated high. Our two young hearts long, sorely tried, By poverty and love denied Still waiting for some favouring tide, And now! Death come so nigh.
‘Which of us two is called away You or I-You or I?” I heard my patient poor love say, With bitter plaintive sigh. ‘Neither, dear girl,” I bravely said, ‘To Mary Mother bow your head, And cry for help to Her instead, Nor heed the Banshee’s cry’.
We raised our hearts in fervent prayer, Rose and I-Rose and I, Nor knew our troubles ended there, Our happiness came nigh. For ‘twas the grim old farmer, he- My only kin, rich, miserly, Who, dying left his wealth to me- For whom the banshee cried.
I'm a woman, a Witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth. Hecate appears in the
Homeric Ode to Demeter, which tells of Hades who caught Persophone
"up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. . . . But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave . . . ."