The Fairies

William Allingham
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 whtie mist 
Columbkill he crosses, 
On his stately journeys 
From Slieveleague to Rosses; 
Or going up with music 
On cold starrry nights, 
To sup with the Queen 
Of the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little Bridget 
For sever 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 bead of flag-leaves, 
Watching till she wake.
By the craggy hill-side, 
Through the mosses bare, 
They have planted thron-trees 
For pleasure here and there. 
Is there 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!