Up the airy mountain, <br /> Down the rushy glen, <br />We daren’t go a-hunting <br /> For fear of little men; <br />Wee folk, good folk, <br /> Trooping all together; <br />Green jacket, red cap, <br /> And white owl’s feather! <br /> <br />Down along the rocky shore <br /> Some make their home, <br />They live on crispy pancakes <br /> Of yellow tide-foam; <br />Some in the reeds <br /> Of the black mountain lake, <br />With frogs for their watch-dogs, <br /> All night awake. <br /> <br />High on the hill-top <br /> The old King sits; <br />He is now so old and gray <br /> He’s nigh lost his wits. <br />With a bridge of white mist <br /> Columbkill he crosses, <br />On his stately journeys <br /> From Slieveleague to Rosses; <br />Or going up with music <br /> On cold starry nights <br />To sup with the Queen <br /> Of the gay Northern Lights. <br /> <br />They stole little Bridget <br /> For seven years long; <br />When she came down again <br /> Her friends were all gone. <br />They took her lightly back, <br /> Between the night and morrow, <br />They thought that she was fast asleep, <br /> But she was dead with sorrow. <br />They have kept her ever since <br /> Deep within the lake, <br />On a bed of flag-leaves, <br /> Watching till she wake. <br /> <br />By the craggy hill-side, <br /> Through the mosses bare, <br />They have planted thorn-trees <br /> For pleasure here and there. <br />If any man so daring <br /> As dig them up in spite, <br />He shall find their sharpest thorns <br /> In his bed at night. <br /> <br />Up the airy mountain, <br /> Down the rushy glen, <br />We daren’t go a-hunting <br /> For fear of little men; <br />Wee folk, good folk, <br /> Trooping all together; <br />Green jacket, red cap, <br /> And white owl’s feather!<br /><br />William Allingham<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-fairies/
