The King was on his throne, 
The Satraps throng'd the hall; 
A thousand bright lamps shone 
O'er that high festival. 
A thousand cups of gold, 
In Judah deem'd divine — 
Jehovah's vessels hold 
The godless Heathen's wine! 

In that same hour and hall, 
The fingers of a hand 
Came forth against the wall, 
And wrote as if on sand: 
The fingers of a man; — 
A solitary hand 
Along the letters ran, 
And traced them like a wand. 

The monarch saw, and shook, 
And bade no more rejoice; 
All bloodless wax'd his look, 
And tremulous his voice. 
"Let the men of lore appear, 
The wisest of the earth 
And expound the words of fear 
Which mar our royal mirth." 

Chaldea's seers are good, 
But here they have no skill; 
And the unknown letters stood 
Untold and awful still. 
And Babel's men of age 
Are wise and deep in lore; 
But now they were not sage, 
They saw — but knew no more. 

A captive in the land, 
A stranger and a youth, 
He heard the king's command, 
He saw that writing's truth. 
The lamps around were bright, 
The prophecy in view; 
He read it on that night, — 
The morrow proved it true. 

"Belshazzar's grave is made, 
His kingdom pass'd away, 
He, in the balance weigh'd, 
Is light and worthless clay. 
The shroud, his robe of state, 
His canopy the stone; 
The Mede is at his gate! 
The Persian on his throne!" 

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!