THE FAERIES
by
William Allingham
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a hunting
For fear of little men;
We folk, good folk
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather!
Down along the rocky shore,
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide- foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain lake,
With frogs for their watch - dogs,
All night awake.
HIgh on the hill
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge ogf white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay Northern Lights
They stole little Bridget
For seven long years;
When she game down again
Her friends were gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow,
They thought she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag leaves,
Watching till she wakes.
By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.
If any man so daring
As dig them up in spite,
He shall find there sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather!
