Medb, the one who intoxicates,
Her name entwined with honey mead,
A Celtic Goddess, fierce and great,
Her body is the Earth, indeed.
With rushing waters, windswept peaks,
And fertile plains that flourish wide,
She’s death and life, the force that speaks,
In every ebb and flow, she’s tied.
In myth, Medb sets the kingship's test,
No king could reign without her hand,
The Cup of Sovereignty she blessed,
Their fate she holds, like shifting sand.
A triune Goddess, warrior queen,
She roamed the world in human guise,
With flowing hair and cloak of red,
A spear, a raven, and squirrel by.
In tales of old, she stands alone,
The Táin Bó Cúailnge sings her might,
With armies vast, her power shown,
She gathers strength, prepares for fight.
With King Aillil, she does compare,
Their riches matched, save one, a bull,
To Cooley’s lands, she does repair,
To claim her prize, her will is full.
Through battles fierce, her armies ride,
In chariots grand, her robes unmarred,
Men fall in thrall, desire their guide,
Her fierce resolve leaves lands scarred.
Ulster’s men with curse succumb,
Save Cúchulainn, brave and bold,
Her handmaiden, her heroes, none,
Could stand against his warrior’s hold.
She wields her power, thighs unbound,
In battle, even blood can cease,
Yet in the end, her bulls are found,
In death's embrace, they find release.
Her life of violence, death the same,
Her sister’s blood her downfall brought,
A son avenged, Furbaide’s aim,
With cheese, her end he deftly wrought.
In later years, her bath she took,
On Lough Ree’s isle, her fate was sealed,
A practiced aim, a single look,
Her death by cheese, her doom revealed.
Medb’s resting place, a cairn high,
On Knocknarea, she stands in stone,
In Rathcroghan, her spirit nigh,
The warrior queen, forever known.
