WILLIAM ALLINGHAM

“The Fairies”

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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