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 a 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 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 hill-side,
        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 a white owl's feather!