The
Fairies
A poem by 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
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.
Posted 09:06
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