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
or pleasure her and there.
Is 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!