Samildánach     Will I have any grain to bring To place on the stone within the ring? Will I have flesh to cut and burn And place inside the bubbling urn? Will I have neeps and spuds and carrots To fill these wide and simmering pots? Or shall I send my body’s milk, Sweet like parsnips, smooth like silk? Enough to feed a baby small Enough for summer, more for fall And more for winter still, my stock Is never under key and lock.   I am the harvest, am the land Though Tailtiu never took my hand I was not cleared; I am not feared I am the…