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  Dana O’Shee Perfume Oil

  In Irish folklore the Dana O’Shee are a fae, elven people that live in a realm of beauty, their nobility akin to our that own Age of Chivalry, eternally beautiful and eternally young. They surround themselves with the pleasures of the Arts, they live for the hunt, and to this day can be seen riding in procession through the Irish countryside at twilight, led by their King and Queen. However, the Dana O’Shee are not benevolent creatures, despite what their unearthly beauty may imply. They are vengeful and treacherous and possess a streak of mischievous malice, and many have whispered that their true home lies deep in the shadowed groves of the Realm of the Dead. Hearing even a single chord of their otherworldly music leaves one stunned and lost to the mortal realms for ever, finding themselves prey to the Dana O’Shee’s hunt or enslaved in their Court as servants or playthings.

  Offerings of milk, honey and sweet grains were made to placate these creatures, and it is that the basis of the scent created in their name.

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  Are You Digging on my Grave? Perfume Oil

  Ah, are you digging on my grave
  My loved one?–planting rue?”
  –“No; yesterday he went to wed
  One of the brightest wealth has bred.
  ‘It cannot hurt her now,’ he said,
  That I ‘should not be true.'”

  Then who is digging on my grave?
  My nearest dearest kin?”
  –“Ah, no; they sit and think, ‘What use!
  What good will planting flowers produce?
  No tendance of her mound can loose
  Her spirit from Death’s gin.'”

  But someone digs upon my grave?
  My enemy? — prodding sly?”
  –“Nay; when she heard you had passed the Gate
  That shuts on all flesh soon or late,
  She thought you no more worth her hate,
  And cares not where you lie.”

  Then, who is digging on my grave?
  Say — since I have not guessed!”
  — “O it is I, my mistress dear,
  Your little dog, who still lives near,
  And much I hope my movements here
  Have not disturbed your rest?”

  Ah, yes! You dig upon my grave …
  Why flashed it not on me
  That one true heart was left behind!
  What feeling do we ever find
  To equal among humankind
  A dog’s fidelity!”

  Mistress, I dug upon your grave
  To bury a bone, in case
  I should be hungry near this spot
  When passing on my daily trot.
  I am sorry, but I quite forgot
  It was your resting-place.”
  – Thomas Hardy

  Snuggly musk, milky puppy breath, upturned earth, and a gently-gnawed bone.

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  Lambs-Wool Perfume Oil

  According to William Shepard Walsh, the Gentleman’s Magazine for May of 1784 stated, “this is a constant ingredient at merrymaking on Holy Eve.” He also quotes Vallancey’s etymological speculation: “The first day of November was dedicated to the angel presiding over fruits, seeds, etc., and was therefore named La Mas Ubhal, — that is, the day of the apple fruit, — and being pronounced Lamasool, the English have corrupted the name to Lambs-wool.”

  A popular holy day beverage in 18th century Ireland: roasted apples mashed into warmed milk and ale, with nutmeg, sugar, ginger, and clove.

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  Dawn: Maiden Perfume Oil

  Tea roses, honeysuckle, heliotrope, olive blossom, milk, and honey.

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