Down at the cross the neighbours all waited,
The cold wet air anointing the sacred
Tradition that comes but once a year,
When brooms are danced over and music rings clear,
The biddies are here to honor St. Brigid,
With hats tall of straw and white silhouetted.
They stand on the bridge ready to begin,
The day light impatient and starting to dim,
When a voice calls out "Nora's not here",
A lawful impediment to St. Brigid's day cheer.
So out come the phones to track her down,
And the Queen of the Village is quickly found.
The sacrifice for attending, she is willing to make,
Sunday dinner abandoned, cold on the plate.
Now the wind calms and the cattle stop lowing,
As beyond the bridge a car starts showing,
And the sea of white biddies part in the middle,
To let her through, they’ll play second fiddle,
To the Queen of the Village,
Our Village elder,
For like Brigid, she, we will always remember.