The Death of Lig Na Basate
Lig Na Basate was a dragon of Celtic lore.
Lig Na Bastate travels the breadth,
Of Ireland for his meal.
Beware the brimstone of his breath,
Your fear you must conceal.
To stand and claim your victory,
Against this Devil’s tool,
To send him into history
A true heart must be cruel.
Grasp ye the handle of your pike,
Sleep with it in your clutch.
Care for the sharpness of its spikes
The coldness of its touch.
The lance that this hero carries,
Can kill from either end.
Whether he must dodge or parry,
The thrust of death he’ll send.
Beware ye weepy little man,
The beastie wants your bones.
He cares not of your hearth nor clan,
He cares not of your homes.
He only wants to eat you down,
To fill his empty gut.
Be quiet now don’t make a sound,
Lay flat inside the rut.
Lig Na Bastate sniffs at the air,
Trying to catch a scent.
Deciding if anyone’s there,
‘Till asleep and again content.
Now wee small man the time is right,
To curse the beastie’s birth,
Strike against him with all your might,
Return him to the earth.
But the head of the lance was broke,
Striking against a scale.
With rage the dragon soon awoke,
Smiting man with his tail.
Then turned he to gobble his prize,
But froze as in a trance.
For there before his flaming eyes,
The man stood with his lance.
The dragon blinked to clear his sight,
The man hurled with God’s speed.
He pierced the monster in the fight,
The beast was left to bleed.
The warrior’s bride took the scales,
From off the dragon’s hide.
She made a hero’s suit of mail,
And a shield for his side.
Remember this my little child,
When howling winds do blow.
He will protect you from the wild,
Of this you need to know.
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