THE FAIRIES

: Stories To Tell Children

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!



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 hilltop

The old King sits;

He is now so old and gray,

He's nigh lost his wits.

With a bridge of 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 years long;

When she came down again

Her friends were all gone.

They took her lightly back,

Between the night and morrow;

They thought that 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 wake.



By the craggy hillside,

Through the mosses bare,

They have planted thorn-trees,

For pleasure here and there.

Is any man so daring

As dig them up in spite,

He shall find their 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!



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