The Fairies

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 hill-top   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

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 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 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!