Saint Nectan

SAINT NECTAN

Saint Nectan was the eldest

Of a twenty-four-child brood.

He fast became a hermit,

Lived his life under the rood.

For pigs, two cows was Nectan willed

And roamed bucolic lands,

Till sly purloiners dark one night

Removed them from his hands.

By turn of fate the men he found;

He preached to them God’s bread,

But lacking in propriety

They dethroned his holy head.

Off went the thieves to do more ill

While Nectan’s neck did bleed,

And were miracles never done, good friend,

His end would have been this deed.

But God’s old ways were far from dull

And so the good saint—he rose!

In hand he held the mane of his head

To carry wherever he chose.

Where did he choose, this grisly sight,

To lay himself to rest?

Back to the well where he once said

His prayers at God’s behest.

As drops of blood fell to the ground

Foxglove in poison grew.

Each step he took made flowery path,

And followers came, who knew.

Let’s not forget those wicked men

Who thought they’d done him in;

The one went mad, the other atoned

By burying good Nectan within.