Albion

sets out eggnog and gingerbread

Spirit of the Ancient Isles
~Much Miller~

Spirit of the ancient isles,
Of Erin and of Albion,
I call to thee,
Please come to us,
Ancient spirit come to me,
I call to thee,
In moorland wind,
And highland glen,
In summer meadow,
By Greenwood tree,
I recall bluebells in spring,
Autumn rains in Irish hills,
Long winter nights by firesides,
The places where the hidden brook glides,
A deer in a forest glade,
The Standing Stones the giants made,
I recall that mystic land
That lies unseen,
So near at hand,
Where ancestral beings,
Weave out time,
And listen to the voice Divine,
I recall the bards of old,
Of endless tales that they told,
Of Bran and Branwynn,
Of Taliesin and of Merlin,
Of beacons burning in the night,
And the forests of the light,
I recall the other folk,
That live inside the hills and mounds,
Enchanting us with magic sounds,
I recall the paths we trod,
To the sacred groves,
Of the great God Lugh,
Of Dagda and the Goddess Danu,
Of Bridey, Herne and Ceredwin,
Gwion Bach and Finn McCool,
Of Beltane, Sawain and of Yule,
And of this and so much more,
That grows inside the Celtic soul,
It rises up inside us now,
Like the young sap in the old tree,
Like a root that grows,
In you and me,
And at last learns to be free,

With these words we do invoke,
The ancient masters of the Oak,
The Ash, the Thorn and every tree,
In our secret ancestry,`
To every soul to be awake,
To rise up and see whats at stake,
The root race that we must save,
The seeds and grains,
The life you gave,
In the isles of Lugh and Math,
Now is time to rise again,
To know the Sun and feel the rain,
To meet again,
The brethren of the Celtic Ray,
To come together come what may,
And never lose our will to be,
Nor the hope that comes through thee,
Through the Earth and through the trees,
Through the balmy air of a summer breeze,
That comes to you in the Sun that ripens the corn,
And harvests the crop of this ray,
And takes you to the ancient way,
So we can dance anew like blossoms in the month of May.

Camelot

It's true, it's true, the crown has made it clear
The climate must be perfect all the year

A law was made a distant moon ago here
July and August cannot be too hot
And there's a legal limit to the snow here in Camelot

The winter is forbidden till December
And exits March the second on the dot
By order, summer lingers through September in Camelot

Camelot: Camelot
I know it sounds a bit bizarre
But in Camelot: Camelot
That's how conditions are

The rain may never fall till after sundown
By eight, the morning fog must disappear
In short, there's simply not a more congenial spot
For happily ever after in than here in Camelot

Camelot: Camelot
I know it gives a person pause
But in Camelot: Camelot
Those are the legal laws

The snow may never slush upon the hillside
By nine p.m. the moonlight must appear
In short, there's simply not a more congenial spot
For happily ever after in than here in Camelot

All That Is Gold Does Not Glitter
~JRR Tolkien~

All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.

Hopefully it'll be the title of Book III of Lord of The Rings: return of the king