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 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.

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!