The light fades away, the darkness grows The leaves are dying, the days are cooling 'Tis the harvest, the ground gives us love, The roots, the herbs that heal are waiting.
The fire burns all the day and into the night My master teaches me the way of the wise, To know them by heart so that I get the right, Is what I should know, is what is expected of me.
The Romans called it eighth, they tired to defeat, They called us wild as do the English lords. They sent the Scots to tame us, under their feet. Keeping the old ways is the way that we live.
On cold harvest night in the month called eighth, A gathering in the fields, we light the fires We move and sway to gods of old and ancient faith, The wisdom of the old ones is honored here.
Speaking the old words, remembering the cross roads, Marked by a circle, so that we may safely pass, We light the fires, we say the words, we burn the loads, We are the wild ones, we cannot be tamed.
On the month called eighth, the old voices call To the wise ones who know the way The memory of the healing, the way of fall, In hearts the fires burn, on the air is the way of old.