ebb tide comes to the sea,
old age brings aching bones,
yet for our youth we may grieve,
as others do, when we’re gone.
i am an Old Woman of the Sídhe,
i once wore silken saffron gowns,
today the Poets live in poverty,
and the world is ruled by clowns.
my right eye has been taken from me
in the service of this nation,
i am an Old Woman of the Sídhe,
i envy no man of high station,
you powerful men, you love money,
but you hate the People who labor,
yet in the time of the Sídhe
it was the People that we favored.
may Winter of Age descend upon you,
like the decay of an ancient tree,
may you be haunted by all that you do,
in the name of the Land of the Free.
the day will come when the tide will return
the oil and spilled blood beyond the sea,
then you and yours will pay as you earned,
as it was in the time of the Sídhe.