Not often - well, only once every seven years - do we get to talk about Halloween's Celtic origins on a Celtic Sojourn on the day itself. So, this segment of A Celtic Sojourn explores Halloween's history and development from its pagan origins to its commercialization in present-day America and the exporting of some of those traditions - like Trick or Treating, back to the home countries.

Aine Minogue, the harpist, singer, and writer, visits us and talks about the holiday and its place within the Celtic calendar. And we will listen to some music we associate with this time of year, mostly of the ghostly kind and atmospheric. Aine herself, Loreena McKennit, and Sting are included. We finish the piece with a reading of the Fairies by William Allingham. I have included that poem below.

And here are the two versions of Tam Lin I played on todays program (October 30, 2021.)
Remember, you need to have a basic (free) account on Spotify to listen to full tracks.

The Fairies

William Allingham

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!

Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watchdogs,
All night awake.

High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and grey
He’s nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with the music
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow,
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of fig-leaves,
Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hillside,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn trees
For my pleasure, here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite,
He shall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!