Never was father ever prouder of his daughter.
Not just a worthy woman;
enough skills has she for three women
–doctor, smith, poet–
and paramount, without peer, is she at all three.
Gentle are the hands of the healer,
setting broken bones,
massaging away pain from muscles with oils and ointments.
Strong are the hands of the smith,
lifting the hammer to bring it down,
turning the hot metal with tongs,
shaping it with careful blows,
quenching it in cool spring water.
Deft are the hands of the poet,
trimming the quill pen,
stretching and cleaning the parchment,
letting the fire in the blood
kindle verses for the bard and insults for the satirist.
What skills does she bring to a battle?
weapons keen and cruel to let the blood of the foe;
words and wit sharp as steel to lacerate an enemy’s courage;
bindings and medicaments to once more make whole the flesh of our own.
None there is like her,
My daughter Brigid,
Brigid daughter of the Dagda,
Dagda the son of Danu,
Danu leader of her people.