“I’ve an empty stomach,
you’ve an empty purse.
You feel your fingers freezing?
Outside it’s ten times worse,
so listen to my story.
Forget the wind and rain.
It’s time for bed,” the tinker said,
“but pass the cup again.
“I sing of Biddy Early,
the wise woman of Clare.
Many’s the man admires her
carrot-colored hair,
and many those that come to her
on horseback or by cart,
for she can heal a broken leg
or a broken heart.
“She keeps a magic bottle
in whose majestic eye
a tiny coffin twinkles
and if it sinks, you die.
It rises, you grow better
and slip out of your pain.
It’s time for bed,” the tinker said,
“but pass the cup again.
“She covers the great bottle
and runs to fetch the small,
filled with a bright elixir,
honey and sage and gall.
She’ll take no gold or silver
but maybe a speckled hen.
It’s time for bed,” the tinker said.
“Let’s pass the cup again.
“Follow the stream, she told me.
Go where the salmon goes.
Avoid mischievous bridges
for even water knows
if you should drop this bottle—”
He turned and spoke no more.
Biddy Early’s shadow
was listening at the door.