The Fairies
William Allingham
1824 to 1889
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Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, cap,
And white owl’s feather!
Down along the shore
Some make their home,
They live on 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
old King sits;
He is now so old and
He’s nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with
On cold starry nights
To sup with the
Of the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little
For seven years long;
When she came down
Her friends were all gone.
They took her back,
Between the night and morrow,
They thought she was fast asleep,
But she was dead sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep the lake,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching she wake.
By the craggy hill-side,
Through the bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here there.
If any man so daring
As dig 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
fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!