THE FAIRY FOLK.

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 rock 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.

232

Child-Song.

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 lakes,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wakes.

By the craggy hillside,

Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring

As to dig one up in spite,
He shall find the thornies set
In his bed at night.

Child-Song.

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!

233

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

SOMETHING NEW.

THERE'S Something new at s'prised you didn't know it;

our home-I'm

It makes papa feel awful proud, although he hates to show it.

The thing is not so very big, but money couldn't buy it;

If

any fellow thinks it could, I'd like to see him try

it.

It's half-a-dozen things at once-a dove, a love, a flower;

Mamma calls it a hundred names, and new ones every hour;

It is a little music-box, with tunes for every

minute;

You haven't got one at your house, and so you are not in it.

It puckers up its wee, wee mouth, as if it meant to

whistle;

A gold mine weighed against it then were lighter than a thistle;

Child-Song.

235

Papa said so the other night-I thought it sounded

splendid,

And said it to myself until I fell asleep, and ended.

Of course you've guessed it by this time-our gift that came from heaven;

Mamma declares the darling thing was by the angels given.

But then some folks are very slow, and some are stupid; maybe

I ought to say, right straight and plain, come home and see our baby.

MARGARET E, SANGSTER.