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On the feast day of Tailtiu the bountiful,
Foster-mother of Lugh of the fields,
I cut me a handful of the new corn,
I dried it gently in the sun,
I rubbed it sharply from the husk
With mine own palms.
I ground it in a quern on Friday,
I baked it on a fan of sheepskin,
I toasted it to a fire of rowan,
And I shared it round my people.
I went deosil round my dwelling,
Calling upon the Great Mother,
Who promised abundance in my need,
In peace, in honour,
In lightness of heart,
In labour, in love,
In wisdom, in passion,
In mirth, in reverence,
For the sake of thy love.
Thou Mother of blessings,
Who will ever be about me,
Who will ever be within me,
Until the end of desire.
So mote it be.
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