I am the gilly of Christ,
The mate of Mary's Son;
I run the roads at seeding time,
And when the harvest's done.
I sleep among the hills,
The heather is my bed;
I dip the termon-well for drink,
And pull the sloe for bread.
No eye has ever seen me,
But shepherds hear me pass,
Singing at fall of even
Along the shadowed grass.
The beetle is my bellman,
The meadow-fire my guide,
The bee and bat my ambling nags
When I have need to ride.
All know me only the Stranger,
Who sits on the Saxon's height;
He burned the bacach's little house
On last Saint Brigid's Night.
He sups off silver dishes,
And drinks in a golden horn,
But he will wake a wiser man
Upon the Judgment Morn!
I am the gilly of Christ,
The mate of Mary's Son;
I run the roads at seeding time,
And when the harvest's done.
The seed I sow is lucky,
The corn I reap is red,
And whoso sings the Gilly's Rann
Will never cry for bread.