Sunday Poetry - William Allingham

I was reminded of William Allingham the other day because he was the ODNB life of the day. The Fairies was one of my favourite poems when I was a child. As you can see, it was in my school reader (I must have been bored at some stage because I've coloured in the mountain) & I can still remember phrases & images from it all these years later. The crispy pancakes of yellow tide-foam fascinated me & the fate of little Bridget, stolen away for seven years & dying of sorrow, was a frightening thought at the age of about nine. The third verse below isn't in my school reader version, probably because it wouldn't fit neatly onto two pages.

I've also had Allingham's diaries on the tbr shelves for a few years in this lovely Folio Society edition. He was born in Ireland but lived in London for some years with his wife, Helen, who was a popular watercolour artist. He knew Tennyson, Rossetti & Burne-Jones so I really must get to the Diaries one of these days.

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.   

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 lake,   
On a bed of flag-leaves,   
  Watching till she wake.     

By the craggy hill-side,   
  Through the mosses bare,   
They have planted thorn-trees   
  For pleasure here and there.   
If 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!