St. Brigid, of blessed memory,
once wished for a great lake of beer
in the hereafter,
where all could come
and drink to their heart’s content
in the splendor of heaven.
Ah, here I sit,
with the taste of malt and hops
still on my lips,
and the warmth of the brew
coursing through me,
and think that not a bad wish at all.
Ah, Blessed St. Brigid,
pray for me,
and all who struggle here below
with the coldness of life,
and self-righteous sanctimoniousness,
and the feeling that joy is not holy.
And perhaps, as you greet those by the lake of beer,
you might remember a special blessing
for those who brew a superior brew.