The Good God’s Burden: Tale of Dagda, Protector of Ireland’s People

The Dagda “The Good God” of the Tuatha Dé Danan, was the great father of Ireland’s divine people. ☘️
He ruled not with tyranny but with laughter, love, and unshakable strength. 💚
His cauldron never emptied, his club could give or take life, and his harp could summon joy, grief, or peaceful sleep. He fed the hungry, healed the soil, and carried the weight of his people’s pain without pride.
Yet even gods knew humiliation, the Dagda was forced by his enemies to eat endlessly, mocked as they laughed at his burden. He could have destroyed them with a thought, yet he chose to endure in silence, knowing that power without mercy is no power at all. Through that act of patience, he turned shame into strength and proved that compassion is the truest weapon of the divine.
His love for Boann, the river goddess, defied time itself, and his heart broke with hers. 💔🌊
When the age of gods ended, the Dagda sank beneath the hills, but his spirit still burns in every dawn and every field of green Éire. 🌅🍀
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Lyrics
The Feast and the Field
They called him good, but not for grace,
He earned it through the fire’s face.
Fed the hungry, healed the ground,
With earth and blood his heart was bound.
A cauldron deep, a giver’s pain
He bore their hunger like a chain.

The Lover and the River
He stopped the sun for secret love,
While ravens circled high above.
From Boann’s well the waters fled,
And took her life, and left him red.
He learned that joy can break the brave,
And bent his knees beside her grave.

The War and the Shame
They mocked him, chained him, made him crawl,
To eat their spite and stomach all.
Yet he rose slow, with quiet might,
And turned their darkness into light.
The Good God wept, but never kneeled,
His mercy was his sword and shield.

The Harp and the Heart
He sang three songs of grief, of cheer,
Of sleep to end the hate and fear.
The harp obeyed, the battle ceased,
The dead were mourned, the living blessed.
He learned that peace costs more than pride,
And still he held his hand open wide.

The Earth Remembers
Now under stone his spirit dreams,
Where roots entwine with buried streams.
His fire still burns in every dawn,
In fields of green, his soul lives on.
Not perfect, no but pure in will,
The Dagda guards our people still.


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