Gathering the Mistletoe On the Sixth day after the new moon A procession of village folk. Gathered to seek a special boon Underneath the ancient oak. They spied a clump of mistletoe High in the oaken canopy The berries gave a milky glow Against bare limbs of the winter tree. A white robed Druid climbed the boughs With his golden sickle blade A green circlet of ivy ‘round his brow His long dark hair caught up in a braid.
Extending his body along a stout limb He could just reach the holy plant Anxiously below they waited for him And began their sacred chant. Uil-ioc! Draoidh-lus! Sùgh an Daraich! Stretched beneath the gnarled wood A sheet of white linen was spread For the herb to touch the ground would Be an ominous omen of dread. Deftly the Druid cut the stem And the herb fell upon the sheet A cheer rose from within the glen And the deed was declared complete. A white bull was sacrificed that night And a midwinter feast was held for all The herb was preserved for a holy rite A gift from the venerable Druids of Gaul.