Down along the rocky shoreSome make their home,They live on crispy pancakesOf yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reedsOf the black mountain-lake,With frogs for their watch-dogs,All night awake.
High on the hill-topThe old King sits;He is now so old and grayHe's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mistColumbkill he crossesOn his stately journeysFrom Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with musicOn cold starry nights,To sup with the QueenOf the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little BridgetFor seven years long;When she came down againHer 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 sinceDeep within the lake,On a bed of flag-leaves,Watching till she wake.
By the craggy hillside,Through the mosses bare,They have planted thorn-treesFor pleasure here and there.
If any man so daringAs to dig one up in spite,He shall find their sharpest thornsIn his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl's feather!
- William Allingham -