Morag was wild, young, free & so very
pretty,
She lived in deep woods far away from the
city,
Gaelic lass in her heart, soul & her
ancient name,
Danced through lilac heather, never to be
tamed.
In her long free life she loved only four
lucky men,
One for each season & with whom to roll
in fens,
They´d lift their tartan kilts & she
her scarlet skirts,
Together they´d run in gorse & with the
seasons flirt.
Off to glens they´d run, to nature´s mating
grounds,
Upon wings of butterflies, to calls of hunting
hounds,
And they´d romp from spring, until the frost
was hard,
Morag & her men, Ovate, Druid, Og &
the musing Bard.
Bard she loved in spring, with his odes of dulcet
words,
Ovate in summer, with his love potions of gathered
herbs,
Druid in autumn, with wisdom upon his wise old
breath,
But Og´s the one who claims her, on the day
of her death.
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