Celticsprite’s Blog


Celtic Poems: My Heart’s In The Highlands
August 26, 2013, 5:24 pm
Filed under: Celtic Poems

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go.

Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go. 

(c) Robert Burns (1759-1796)


Celtic Poems: A Lover’s Quarrel Among the Fairies
February 25, 2013, 6:07 pm
Filed under: Celtic Poems, Faerie Lore

A moonlight moor. Fairies leading a child.

Male Fairies: Do not fear us, earthly maid!
We will lead you hand in hand
By the willows in the glade,
By the gorse on the high land,

By the pasture where the lambs
Shall awake with lonely bleat,
Shivering closer to their dams
From the rustling of our feet.

You will with the banshee chat,
And will find her good at heart,
Sitting on a warm smooth mat
In the green hill’s inmost part.

We will bring a crown of gold
Bending humbly every knee,
Now thy great white doll to hold —
Oh, so happy would we be!

Ah it is so very big,
And we are so very small!
So we dance a fairy jig
To the fiddle’s rise and fall.

Yonder see the fairy girls
All their jealousy display,
Lift their chins and toss their curls,
Lift their chins and turn away.

See you, brother, Cranberry Fruit —
He! ho! ho! the merry blade! —
Hugs and pets and pats yon newt,
Teasing every wilful maid.

Girl Fairies: Lead they one with foolish care,
Deafening us with idle sound —
One whose breathing shakes the air,
One whose footfall shakes the ground.

Come you, Coltsfoot, Mousetail, come!
Come I know where, far away,
Owls there be whom age makes numb;
Come and tease them till the day.

Puffed like puff-balls on a tree,
Scoff they at the modern earth —
Ah! how large mice used to be
In their days of youthful mirth!

Come, beside a sandy lake,
Feed a fire with stems of grass;
Roasting berries steam and shake —
Talking hours swiftly pass!

Long before the morning fire
Wake the larks upon the green.
Yonder foolish ones will tire
Of their tall, new-fangled queen.

They will lead her home again
To the orchard-circled farm;
At the house of weary men
Raise the door-pin with alarm,

And come kneeling on one knee,
While we shake our heads and scold
This their wanton treachery,
And our slaves be as of old.

(c) William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)


Celtic Poems: Sweet Spirit of the Woods
January 3, 2013, 12:32 pm
Filed under: Celtic Poems

Sweet spirit of the woods

Sweet spirit of the woods
Come along with cloak of gold
Pass me your cup or dew
Filled with secrets never  told

Carry me to your mound
Let me slip into your lair
Where harps sound profound
And food and mead is so fair.

You that tend the colourful bed of Mabon,
with tempting romance and beating heart.
Keep on painting tapestries of tinsel and red,
till mild Autumn comes with leaves and bark.

You are the pulse of my blood
The colour of the rose bud
Bare feet young and cold
Warm lips, ruby and bold.

Cast your magic spell on me
Let me taste the essence of life
Teach me how the trees grow
On each fruit, on each nut

You know why birds sing so sweet,
The brook flows so pure on spring,
The grass on summer stays green,
And fountains on winter stay asleep.

Wild flowers await for your smile
You paint their colours and glam disguise
Wild animals await for your touch
That cuddles with rhymes their fluffy hearts

I am your passionate mortal
Many full moons have passed
Show me the way to the path
That leads me to your palace

If our love is not meant to be
I would rather stay lonely
Like a stranded boat on the sea
Like a song with no melody

 Eliseo Mauas Pinto
(c) 2011 



As featured on my book “The Butterfly Book of Celtic Poems” available from Amazon both on Kindle and Paperback formats. 

“The Butterfly Book of Celtic Poems” is a special collection of poems I began to write from the very first time I felt the magical upbeat of my Celtic heart, with the aim to invite all of you to discover a common tradition, a living identity which should not be alien to those who are partakers and lovers of the Celtic legacy, and the many aspects of bardic poetry in a contemporary society.


Celtic Poems: "The Butterfly Book Of Celtic Poems" [Paperback Edition]
December 3, 2012, 12:38 am
Filed under: Celtic Poems


I am glad to let you know that a Paperback Edition of my work “The Butterfly Book Of Celtic Poems” has recently been launched. For this occasion I have featured a cute extended version of the original Kindle format, embelished now withsome  related digital artworks of my own, which makes the edition more interesting and attractive!…

List Price: $9.99
6″ x 9″ (15.24 x 22.86 cm) 
Full Color on White paper
60 pages
ISBN-13: 978-1478390190 (CreateSpace-Assigned)
ISBN-10: 1478390190
BISAC: Poetry / English, Irish, Scottish, Welsh

“The Butterfly Book Of Celtic Poems” Paperback Edition is a cute extended version of the original Kindle format, embelished now with assorted digital artworks created by the author.

Butteflies have always been associated to the Goddess, Mother Nature,and particularly conceived as Messengers of the Otherworld. 


While reading the poems collected on this book we experience the same symbolism, enhancing our reading with an enjoyable Celtic voyage. We transport ourselves to the very same places described in them and it is then that we perceive vivid visual and auditory images.


As we read these poems we can taste the spirit of the Celtic heritage.

And we can feel the passion of a man, a poet, a bard, whose knowledge on the subject is so broad and who helps to keep this glorious past alive.


And we can hear the music of harps, of bagpipes, whistles and drums;the cries for freedom, the thundering waves in the sea, the roaring of the mighty boars.

We can even enjoy the bonfires as they light up the sky.Each verse echoes with legends of old, bringing that past into our present. We can almost hear words uttered in the old language.



Available from 






Celtic Poems: Five "Hallowe’en" Poems
October 31, 2012, 1:41 pm
Filed under: Celtic Poems, Celtic Symbolism, Halloween

HALLOWE’EN

Bring forth the raisins and the nuts–
To-night All Hallows’ Spectre struts
Along the moonlit way.
No time is this for tear or sob,
Or other woes our joys to rob,
But time for Pippin and for Bob,
And Jack-o’-lantern gay.
Come forth, ye lass and trousered kid,
From prisoned mischief raise the lid,
And lift it good and high.
Leave grave old Wisdom in the lurch,
Set Folly on a lofty perch,
Nor fear the awesome rod of birch
When dawn illumes the sky.
‘Tis night for revel, set apart
To reillume the darkened heart,
And rout the hosts of Dole.
‘Tis night when Goblin, Elf, and Fay,
Come dancing in their best array
To prank and royster on the way,
And ease the troubled soul.
The ghosts of all things, past parade,
Emerging from the mist and shade
That hid them from our gaze,
And full of song and ringing mirth,
In one glad moment of rebirth,
Again they walk the ways of earth,
As in the ancient days.
The beason light shines on the hill,
The will-o’-wisps the forests fill
With flashes filched from noon;
And witches on thier broomsticks spry
Speed here and yonder in the sky,
And lift their strident voices high
Unto the Hunter’s moon.
The air resounds with tuneful notes
From myriads of straining throats,
All hailing Folly Queen;
So join the swelling choral throng,
Forget your sorrow and your wrong,
In one glad hour of joyous song
To honor Hallowe’en.
–J.K. BANGS in Harper’s Weekly, Nov. 5, 1910.

HALLOWE’EN FAILURE

Who’s dat peekin’ in de do’?
Set mah heart a-beatin’!
Thought I see’ a spook for sho
On mah way to meetin’.
Heerd a rustlin’ all aroun’,
Trees all sort o’ jiggled;
An’ along de frosty groun’
Funny shadders wriggled.
Who’s dat by de winder-sill?
Gittin’ sort o’ skeery;
Feets is feelin’ kind o’ chill,
Eyes is sort o’ teary.
‘Most as nervous as a coon
When de dawgs is barkin’,
Er a widder when some spoon
Comes along a-sparkin’.
Whass dat creepin’ up de road,
Quiet like a ferret,
Hoppin’ sof’ly as a toad?
Maybe hit’s a sperrit!
Lordy! hope dey ain’t no ghos’
Come to tell me howdy.
I ain’t got no use for those
Fantoms damp an’ cloudy.
Whass dat standin’ by de fence
Wid its eyes a-yearnin’,
Drivin’ out mah common-sense
Wid its glances burnin’?
Don’t dass skeercely go to bed
Wid dem spookses roun’ me.
Ain’t no res’ fo’ dis yere head
When dem folks surroun’ me.
Whass dat groanin’ soun’ I hear
Off dar by de gyardin?
Lordy! Lordy! Lordy dear,
Grant dis sinner pardon!
I won’t nebber–I declar’
Ef it ain’t my Sammy!
Sambo, what yo’ doin’ dar?
Yo’ can’t skeer yo’ mammy!
–CARLYLE SMITH in Harper’s Weekly, Oct. 29, 1910.

HALLOWE’EN

Pixie, kobold, elf, and sprite
All are on their rounds to-night,–
In the wan moon’s silver ray
Thrives their helter-skelter play.
Fond of cellar, barn, or stack
True unto the almanac,
They present to credulous eyes
Strange hobgoblin mysteries.
Cabbage-stumps–straws wet with dew–
Apple-skins, and chestnuts too,
And a mirror for some lass
Show what wonders come to pass.
Doors they move, and gates they hide
Mischiefs that on moonbeams ride
Are their deeds,–and, by their spells,
Love records its oracles.
Don’t we all, of long ago
By the ruddy fireplace glow,
In the kitchen and the hall,
Those queer, coof-like pranks recall?
Eery shadows were they then–
But to-night they come again;
Were we once more but sixteen
Precious would be Hallowe’en.
–JOEL BENTON in Harper’s Weekly, Oct. 31, 1896.

HALLOWE’EN

A gypsy flame in on the hearth,
Sign of this carnival of mirth.
Through the dun fields and from the glade
Flash merry folk in masquerade–
It is the witching Hallowe’en.
Pale tapers glimmer in the sky,
The dead and dying leaves go by;
Dimly across the faded green
Strange shadows, stranger shades, are seen,–
It is the mystic Hallowe’en.
Soft gusts of love and memory
Beat at the heart reproachfully;
The lights that burn for those who die
Were flickering low, let them flare high–
It is the haunting Hallowe’en.
–A.F. MURRAY in Harper’s Weekly, Oct. 30, 1909.

          JINNIE THE WITCH
Hop-tu-naa! put in the pot
Hop-tu-naa! put in the pan
Hop-tu-naa! I burnt me throt (throat)
Hop-tu-naa! guess where I ran ?
Hop-tu-naa! I ran to the well
Hop-tu-naa! and drank my fill
Hop-tu-naa! and on the way back
Hop-tu-naa! I met a witch cat
Hop-tu-naa! the cat began to grin
Hop-tu-naa! and I began to run
Hop-tu-naa! I ran to Ronague
Hop-tu-naa! guess what I saw there ?
Hop-tu-naa! I saw an old woman
Hop-tu-naa! baking bonnags
Hop-tu-naa! roasting sconnags
Hop-tu-naa! I asked her for a bit
Hop-tu-naa! she gave me a bit
as big as me big toe
Hop-tu-naa! she dipped it in milk
Hop-tu-naa! she wrapped it in silk
Hop-tu-naa! Traa la lay!
Are you going to give us anything
before we run away with the light of the moon ?
This version dates from the 1930s – a similar version is recorded in A.W. Moore’s “A Vocabulary of the Anglo-Manx Dialect” (1924) 
 Related Source:
“The Book of Hallowe’en” by Ruth Edna Kelley [1919] A.M. Lynn Public Library – Boston – Lothrop, Lee and Shepard CO. Published, August, 1919


Celtic Poems: The Withering Of The Boughs
October 22, 2012, 4:53 pm
Filed under: Celtic Poems
I CRIED when the moon was mutmuring to the birds:
‘Let peewit call and curlew cry where they will,
I long for your merry and tender and pitiful words,
For the roads are unending, and there is no place to my mind.’
The honey-pale moon lay low on the sleepy hill,
And I fell asleep upon lonely Echtge of streams.

No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind;
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.

I know of the leafy paths that the witches take
Who come with their crowns of pearl and their spindles of wool,
And their secret smile, out of the depths of the lake;
I know where a dim moon drifts, where the Danaan kind
Wind and unwind their dances when the light grows cool
On the island lawns, their feet where the pale foam gleams.

No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind;
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.

I know of the sleepy country, where swans fly round
Coupled with golden chains, and sing as they fly.
A king and a queen are wandering there, and the sound
Has made them so happy and hopeless, so deaf and so blind
With wisdom, they wander till all the years have gone by;
I know, and the curlew and peewit on Echtge of streams.

No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind;
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.

(c) William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)


Celtic Poems: Under the Moon
August 28, 2012, 4:40 pm
Filed under: Celtic Poems

I have no happiness in dreaming of Brycelinde,
Nor Avalon the grass-green hollow, nor Joyous Isle,
Where one found Lancelot crazed and hid him for a while;
Nor Uladh, when Naoise had thrown a sail upon the wind;
Nor lands that seem too dim to be burdens on the heart:
Land-under-Wave, where out of the moon’s light and the sun’s
Seven old sisters wind the threads of the long-lived ones,
Land-of-the-Tower, where Aengus has thrown the gates apart,
And Wood-of-Wonders, where one kills an ox at dawn,
To find it when night falls laid on a golden bier.
Therein are many queens like Branwen and Guinevere;
And Niamh and Laban and Fand, who could change to an otter or fawn,
And the wood-woman, whose lover was changed to a blue-eyed hawk;
And whether I go in my dreams by woodland, or dun, or shore,
Or on the unpeopled waves with kings to pull at the oar,
I hear the harp-string praise them, or hear their mournful talk.
Because of something told under the famished horn
Of the hunter’s moon, that hung between the night and the day,
To dream of women whose beauty was folded in dismay,
Even in an old story, is a burden not to be borne.

(c) William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)