Little green shoots from little white roots,
The snowdrop shakes the valley;
Bearing the chill, the ewe on the hill
Knows stirrings in her belly.

Lowering skies, the Gráinneog lies
Though winter stores be dwindling;
Glorious day, the Cailleach will stray
To gather winter kindling.

Brighid! Oh, Brighid! Oh, come to me
To satisfy this yearning;
Rushes are scattered with welcome prayer,
The Imbolc fire is burning.

Brighid! Oh, Brighid! Oh, welcome day,
The winter storms abating;
Jewels are fastened upon her breast;
Your Brídeóg doll is waiting.

Deep in the gloom, the sloe is in bloom,
And all the world rejoices;
Sealing the fest, the bannock is blest
With grateful hearts and voices.

Circle the well and, under the spell,
The guardian Sidhe are waking;
Turn to the right, as day follows night,
The earrach dawn is breaking.