A lake of finest ale for the King of Kings

We know, we know, it's an unusual title! But we didn't make it up - it comes from early medieval Ireland. The supposed author: Saint Brigid of Kildare. The reason for that line - well, here's Thomas Cahill's telling of it:

"Following [Brigid's] conversion, her father, an extremely wealthy man, was appalled to find his beautiful daughter giving away his stores to beggars. Quite out of control, he threw Brigid into the back of his chariot, screaming 'It is neither out of kindness nor honor that I take you for a ride: I am going to sell you to the King of Leinster to grind corn.' Arriving at the king's enclosure, the father 'unbuckled his sword, leaving it in the chariot beside Brigid, so that - out of respect - he could approach the king unarmed.' No sooner had the father gone off than a leper appeared, begging Brigid for her help. Since the only thing handy was her father's sword, she gave it to him. Meanwhile, the father was making his offer to the king, who must have smelled something fishy, and insisted on meeting the girl before accepting. When king and father came out to the chariot, the father noticed immediately that his sword was missing and demanded to know where it was. When Brigid told him, 'he flew into a wild rage' and began to beat her.

"'Stop,' cried the king, and called Brigid to him. 'Why do you steal your father's property and give it away?'"

"'If I had the power,' answered Brigid, 'I would steal all your royal wealth, and give it to Christ's brothers and sisters.' The king quickly declined the father's kind offer because 'your daughter is too good for me.'"

Cahill goes on to tell us that Brigid's monastery was (not surprisingly) a haven of hospitality.

And here's the grace they said:

I should like a great lake of finest ale
For the King of Kings.
I should like a table of the choicest food
For the family of heaven.
Let the ale be made from the fruits of faith,
And let the food be forgiving love.

I should welcome the poor to my feast,
For they are God's children.
I should welcome the sick to my feast,
For they are God's joy.
Let the poor sit with Jesus at the highest place,
And the sick dance with the angels.

God bless the poor.
God bless the sick.
God bless the human race.
God bless our food,
God bless our drink,
All homes, O God, embrace.

Well, what can we do but agree with Brigid? She knew she was right.

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Look here for a fuller version of Brigid's bio., along with more poetry attributed to her.

Listen to Donal Donnelly read a short passage from Thomas Cahill's book, How The Irish Saved Civilization (Nan A. Talese/Doubleday, 1995).
 
Our sincerest thanks to Thomas Cahill for his writing style and his many books, and to Robert Van de Wyer for his translation of "Brigid's Feast," from his book Celtic Fire (Doubleday, 1990).
 
Last of all, we cribbed "she knew she was right" from novelist Ivy Litvinov, whose story we might tackle in the future.  For now, though, you can read her truth-is-stranger-than-fiction biography here. Our thanks to the late Isaiah Berlin (and Oxford University's archives) for this article.