Chapter II

Once out in the pasture I shunted size
And I mounted a mullein stalk,
And I gave the cattle (the ill-geered folk!)
The a-hem of a Fairy talk.

Then I drove them here, and I drove them there,
Wherever the grass was sweet,
Till their bellies bulged like a turnip top
Set over their rootlet feet.

O I hunted them here, and I hunted them there,
With whoop and halloo between,
Till little they grew, and nimble and sweet
Like the droves of the Fairy Queen.

O the milk came out of those wee brown cows
Creamy and rich and great,
And white as a wreath of the Fairy foam
With the floods of the Hills in spate.

And the milkmaids milked, and the Goodwife milked,
And the farmlads milked like mad,
And the Goodman buttoned his breeches tight
For the wad of a purse he had.

But wow! One night when the moon was full,
At the minchiken Hour o’ Mouse,
The de’il got into the cattle AND
They danced it about the house.

O! the Goodman swore, and the Goodwife swooned
And the children were frantic things,
But the de’il got into the cattle AND
They danced it about in rings.

Wi’ crumplety horns, and twinklety hoofs,
They danced to a jigglety tune,
While old Brown Bess in the van gave tongue
To “The Cow Jumped over the Moon.”

O they sent for the Parson who brought the Book,
And he hammered it out wi’ blows,
And that was a wonderful, woeful night,
And I went under the rose.

O I dared not go, and I dared not stay,
And my belly was cold the dawn,
But break o’ the day, I was up and away,
And over the fern seed gone!

O I’ll not go back, and I daren’t go back,
And the mortals may mind their cows,
But the Goodman knows that the purse was full
With Puck of the Hills to house.

THE FAIRY RAIDERS

“_With hazel wands and singing._”--OLD SONG.

As old as little birds the Fairy babies
As old, and wise, and quaint, with tearless eyes
Grave with the solemn lore of Fairy splendour,
But O, the little human child is tender,
And silly soft, and weak, and oft it cries.

The Spinning Spiders tend the Fairy babies,
Content to weave them silken cradles hung
In lonely moor, or fen, or shadowy heather,
But O, the human child is housed from weather
In inglenooks, and warm, where songs are sung.

Through dreams of strange dominion, known to Merlin,
Or craving for small fingering hands it seems,
The Fairy Raiders haunt our cradles, bringing
Exquisite pointed faces and soft singing
To lure away the child that hears in dreams.

The Fairy Raiders bear away the children,
Unseen, to Elfin pasture lands they pass,
And deep in nodding daisy nests they place them
Where by the low, red, rosy glow you trace them,
And rings of singing larks down in the grass.

There they are one with long heart-breaking sunsets
In gay, unearthly lands, and radiant dawns,
Till good they grow, and great, and have no sorrow--
But O, the mothers’ mortal woe the morrow
To find the changeling left, the true child gone!

THE LEPRECAUN

_If you can catch a Leprecaun you are a made man!_

Oho! The Elves of Ireland
They dance so hard at night
They dance their very shoes away
In splendour and delight.
God bless their Elemental souls,
You cannot see them for the holes!

The only Elf in Ireland
That has a trade at all
It is the cobbler Leprecaun
Who makes and mends them all
The shoes they dance away by night
In green and moony demi-light.

He is the first of cobblers
And best of craftsmen too.
For why?--He works at happy things
By gaiety worn through.
God send us each a Leprecaun
To mend the heart of us at dawn!

He’s caught the secret of the Earth,
Sun, wind, and Summer rain
To better happy things that pass
Or build them up again.
They’re few of mortal men that look
So far into the Great Green Book.

If you can catch a Leprecaun
And steal away his cap
You’ll maybe get a Pot o’ Gold
In an exchange, but hap
The Leprecaun has never told
His secret--what’s a Pot o’ Gold?

TIR-N’AN-OG[1]

O it may be the path that the sea gull takes
Will bring us to Tir-n’an-Og to-night,
The sorrowful spell of the sea foam makes
Their wings so white.

Or it may be the gold and the crimson proud
Of to-morrow’s sunset will see us come
Where far from the trouble of wind and cloud
The soul finds home.

I’ll be holding you close in a quiet place
And may be the trouble will cease
That came from wanting your beautiful face,
Or turn to peace.

FOOTNOTE

[1] Tir-n’an-Og, Land of the Fay, Land of the Young.

THE ELFIN ANGELUS

Are all the roads to Elfland closed,
Are all the gates locked fast?
And is there not some Fairy spot,
Or deep, remote, and sylvan grot
Left open where they passed?
Ah! hark to what the twilight tells
On silver bells, on silver bells!

Say all the lovely, lonely spells,
Swing free the doors again!
Lo! from the open Hills we ride
Through moss and moonlight, far and wide
No rider rides in vain!
We fight the old, victorious wars
’Neath silver stars, ’neath silver stars.

Though earth is weary with its scars,
King Arthur, as it seems,
Lies done to death in Avalon,
Yet living eyes shall look upon
The mercy of their dreams.
Sure is each hope on vision stayed,
Though long delayed, though long delayed.

Those airy shapes toward which man prayed
In Nature’s holy name,
In shapes as light, as cool, as green
As dancing leaves high boughs between,
They put him not to shame.
Sure help in all high wars men win
From Fairy kin, from Fairy kin.

For, lo! the veil between is thin
And easy cast aside,
And when the call of man is heard
The heart of all the Hills is stirred
And all the doors swing wide.
And man is succoured and reprieved,
Though sorely grieved, though sorely grieved.

For no man is by hope deceived
Though spells may cast their lure,
And though the aspect suffer change
To things unearthly sweet, or strange,
Or dreadful to endure.
Each man shall win, unless he tire,
His Heart’s Desire, his Heart’s Desire!

Those things toward which good men aspire
Although the world condemn,
And though they seem to die, apart,
Safe hid in Nature’s holy heart,
Grow great to comfort them.
So peace from earth be with you still,
Men of good will, men of good will.

GIRL’S SONG

O Angus Og has four love birds
That follow him where-so-ever;
And two cry out, “I go, I go,”
And two cry out, “Come hither.”

They are plumed like the blue-green water,
And the four birds call to me,
“I go, I go,” and “Come hither.”
I’m thinking they call from the sea.

O maybe I’ll go one sunrise
Where the breakers curl and comb,
And bare my breast to the four love birds
And cry, “Come home, Come home.”

FAWN O’MERA

Had you never, Fawn O’Mera,
Never heard the magic bell
Tolling from the belfries airy
Of the towered land of Fairy
Where the Elfin people dwell?

Had you never, Fawn O’Mera,
Seen the Laughing People ride,
Gold, and green, and rowan, trooping
Like a flock of sea gulls swooping
Out to sea, by some roadside?

Little bits of sticks, and snatches
Tattered too, of roadside straw;
Here and there the dead leaves whirling
In the wind; the gray dust pearling
Over them was all they saw!

They, the New Born souls, that newly
Grow to threescore year and ten,
Ancient only in the cradle,
Crafty with the porridge ladle,
Children still as greedy men.

But the lovely, loving, lilting,
Laughing Wise Ones who are Old,
Whom a thousand years make tender,
And whose kind eyes know the splendour
Of the Dawn, saw fairy gold!

Hear them singing, Fawn O’Mera!
Girlhood guessed the song before.
Now, the candles flare and dwindle,
And a burden grows the spindle,
And the flax falls to the floor.

Leave the young, whose love is asking,
Leave the old whose love’s a chain,
Ere they strew your head with ashes,
Dim the eyes and dew the lashes,
Come into your own again.

I will take you, Fawn O’Mera,
To the Fairy Glades apart,
And where green leaves know no falling,
Hush the old unhappy calling,
Wake your soul, and still your heart.

THE ELFIN HILLS

O I shall go up to the Elfin Hills,
Heather, and heath, and stone,
’Neath the cold red drift of the sunset cloud,
For Folk in Housen are hard and proud,
And ever I’ll pipe alone.

For O, I went down to the Folk in House,
Bold in the russet dawn,
Drawn to the bone by the mortal call,
The pink, and the white, and the rose, and all
Of the sweet flesh they have on.

I met three children wi’ berry pails,
Bound for the tangled briars
Over the moors, and I piped a tune,
Gathered their laughter an afternoon;
They fled with the first lit fires:

The wonderful fires the Folk in House
Scatter like daffodils,
Streaming in light from the ragged thatch,
Rosy and warm by the lifted latch,
And gay in the long gray hills.

’Twas over the fires I met my love,
Piped to her soft and low,
Sweet was the glint o’ her milk-white feet,
Threading the fields, and the meadow-sweet,
Like pearl in the afterglow.

Ever I piped, and ever she came,
But when my piping ceased,
She fled from me with a startled cry,
The little old moon toiled up the sky
From out of an empty East.

Empty of heart, and empty of hand,
’Twas only the pipe they heard!
Maybe my eyes they are too cold,
The Fairy blood may be too old
To mix with the blood it stirred.

I will go back to the Elfin Hills,
Wander and pipe alone,
Answer the call of the peewit’s note
Where sunshine wavers, and gray clouds float
Past heather and heath and stone.

THE ELFIN FAIR

A gay and a good old woman
Once went to an Elfin Fair
And all that most fit is for Fairs in the cities
And is told of in ditties
And sung of in songs, was there
_Grown teeny tiny O_.

’Twas down by the red rose bushes
(She picking her way between)
And the first thing she found was a Merry-go-round
To the scarlet top of a tulip bound,
In the midst of a Village Green
_Grown teeny tiny O_!

There was a Strong Man lifting
An acorn up, cup and all;
And a peddler, it seems, crying, “Honey of Dreams!
Threepence a cup, O brightly it gleams!”
And the Gentry were giving a Ball,
_Grown teeny tiny O_.

The Photygraph Man was snapping them all
(And the Villagers) one by one,
Or else in a group; with his waddle and stoop,
And his head in a cloth, and his legs like a hoop,
By the aid of the laughing Sun
_Grown teeny tiny O_.

But the Farmers were down by a Paddock
Where of all unusual things,
A real Carrot stood, as big as a wood,
And rooting around it all pleasant and good,
Were wee little Pigs with Wings,
_Grown teeny tiny O_!

Right there was her own good Landlord,
Though she doubted the thing herself
Till to him she ran, and cried, “Mr. McCann!
Whatever on earth are you doing, my man,
With Wings and a Coat like an Elf--
_Grown teeny tiny O_!”

THE PLAINT OF THE CAPTIVE FIELD MOUSE

(This Field Mouse, by the way, was in the Elfin Fair)

I am the one living Field Mousie
In captivity
(O pity me!)
Ah! why did I leave my warm soft housie
Sae easily!

A silver collar, all bent about too,
Round my neck is curled.
(O pity me!)
I am a captive, who went out to
See the world!

THE MAN THAT GOT THE CALL

O it’s not for fame and glory
And the guns of Trafalgar,
Nor to walk with foreign lady
In a cypress garden shady,
Nor to court to get a star,
That he’s going, Captain Spanish;
Captain Spanish leaves you all!
O he’s careless, careless, careless,
He’s the man that got the call!

O it wasn’t in the morning,
And it wasn’t by the stream
Where the birches’ lovely daughters
Dip their tresses in the waters,
For they summoned in a dream.
Weep your gallant, Dublin ladies,
Captain Spanish leaves you all!
O he’s careless, careless, careless,
He’s the man that got the call!

Pretty Lady Kitty Cooley,
Nor your taffeta, nor lace,
Nor your gold can bring him nearer;
You can look into your mirror,
He has seen another face,
A White Woman with the Green Blood!
Captain Spanish leaves you all,
O he’s careless, careless, careless,
He’s the man that got the call!

Father Hogan of the hunters
Better stay the county sport!
Go and tell his mother weeping,
That she set his hounds to leaping
Round the ancient Fairy fort.
Where the sunset turned it emerald
Near a bit of rosy wall,
Captain Spanish left the ladies ...
_He’s the man that got the call._

THE OLD SHIP

When the long, low clouds about the West
Are rose, ash-gray, and amethyst,
And the sky between pours saffron-gold,
And the wind along the dykes runs cold,

A huge old bark with an orange sail,
Mellowed and tattered by many a gale,
Will slowly come through the estuary,
Old, sea-haggard, and strange, and merry.

Where the red, warm moon rounds slowly over
The low, flat fields that breathe sweet clover,
Through banks of poppies on either hand
The dykes run liquidly into the land.

The old, old ship will come up from the sea
Farther afield than a ship should be,
And sail on softly, softly and still,
And dock inland by a wooded hill.

Then will come silently, flocks of sheep
Silver as clouds remembered in sleep,
Cross to the moonlight and leap the stile;
And he who shepherds them all will smile,

Play on his pipes and smile to see
The gay old sails lift over a tree.
His feet will dance on the grass like foam
And he will play “When the ship comes home.”

TO THE WIND

_The lights hung out in the milky way
The star belt glittered and wheeled,
The heights and the depths of the night were full
Of the scent of the new-ploughed field._

Wonderful Elder Brother, the Wind,
Why do you rattle the window sill,
And drum on the pane with your finger tips,
And pipe in the chimney shrill?

And why do you harass the poplar tops,
And the pollard willow, his leaves,
And why do you winnow with ceaseless wings
The crest of the gabled eaves?

From the chin of the moon to the turnpike road
(A ribbon and girdle of white)
Is room and enough for the wind to blow,
With never a cloud in sight!

MIDSUMMER’S NIGHT

“Wally, what’s at the keyhole?”
“Whist, Jane, whist! Speak low.”
“If someone were outside peering in
Would we know?”
_What’s that at the keyhole?_
Granny said, “’Tis the wind you hear
Wandering to and fro.”

“Whist, Jane! What’s at the window?”
“Wally, whistle a tune!”
“There’s a gay light goes from the old blue plate
To the pewter spoon.”
_What’s that at the window?_
Granny said, “’Tis the tree-low light
Of an old, old moon.”

“Whist, Jane! What’s by the rose bush?”
“Wally, it is fourscore
Wee green Riders on snow-white steeds,
With the Queen before!”
_What’s that by the rose bush?_
Granny said, “There were Good Folk once
But they come no more.”

THE CARAVAN

Far off the Fairy Horns are blowing
Through the morning, through the dew,
The trees of emerald green, the blue,
The windy clouds all white and new,
_O, come-all-ye--Gypsies!_

There is a rustle in the leaves, a ripple in the grass,
A singing in the heart my love,
The brook’s as clear as glass,
And there the far horizon lies,
An invitation to new skies,
_O, come-all-ye--Gypsies!_

We’ll pack the green striped caravan,
Put yellow shirts on every man,
And red cloaks on the lasses,
And when the old have wreathed their locks,
And packed their fiddles in a box
We’ll trundle through the grasses.
We’ll carry through this windy morn
Hearts fit to meet the Fairy Horn,
_O, come-all-ye--Gypsies!_

THE GYPSY BABY

A ring of great red poppies
Swayed in the golden corn,
And there I lay beside the van
And heard the larks at morn.

And like a small, far picture
The distant town rose pink,
And little streams flowed round it
With daisies at their brink.

And little trees grew in it
All soft, and round, and bright;
A wandering sun sailed in the sky
Too brilliant for the sight.

Years and years it sailed the sky
And like a ball it set,
Near, and big, and sad, and red,
And all the grass was wet.

THE WILD GEESE

Low across a crimson sun
Setting in a crimson sky,
And across a crimson lake
The Wild Geese fly.

Hark! the poet on the bank
Pipes a reedy tune,
Piping to the rising wind
And the silver moon.

“I have neither house nor barn,
Kith nor kin have I,
But I know the Elfin Folk
When the Wild Geese fly.

“’Neath another crimson sun
On a ruddy strand,
I have piped a wilder tune
In an eerie land.

“Here, and there, and back again
Bid the music ply,
When across the crimson lake
The Wild Geese fly!”

A FAIRY SONG

We never weep because we see
Pale moon flowers on the barren tree;
A lovely light that takes the shape
Of bud and bloom that is to be.

It glows, a soft and emerald light,
Along the branching trees by night;
We know it weaves the coming leaves
And never grieve when snows are white.

We dance with winds that chill the rose
As to her frosty death she goes,
Because we see the changeless bloom
Towards which she lifts again and grows.

So when the weeping tempest saith
“Hush!” to the woodlands with his breath
We ride the skeletons of leaves
And dare an airy jest with death.

Ah, no! we do not weep because
We live in light that without pause
Runs sparkling down the sky, the life
Of all the world, and all its cause.

Oft when celestial things are near
We see new rainbows shining clear,
And follow them from glade to glade,
And voices in the winds we hear.

THE NIXIE’S POOL

Coming through the green-gold beech woods
Where the great, gray tree boles are,
Where the fallen leaves are bronze,
He found, like a star
The little pool,
Leaf patterned, dark and cool.

Not by his hound,
Nor by his unhappy lady
Will he be found.
The horn has not yet wound
Reveille through the shady
Or barren mountain pass
Which can recall him from that pool of glass.

Ice to the barren twigs will come
And winter. It will not befall
Him in that green-gold gloom.

He will not change at all
Though armour melt like ice, and castles be
Eaten by mothy Time like tapestry.
And Time grow so staggering, gay, and old
That all of his pulses manifold
Run together and stop. Still will he
Kneel, stern, and young, and cool,
Wooing that Nixie in that pool.

THE BECKONING OUT

The coppers were gone from the old brown teapot,
Gaunt sorrow and care were crowned kings of the spot,
And the little old woman who knelt on the floor
To blow up the ashes, was hoping no more.

O the door was blown open and into the place
A Winged Stranger came with a gay, handsome face
And with two laughing eyes that looked out of his head
Like some fair woman’s son, and, “Give over,” he said.

“Whist, Mother! give over. Come out in the light
While the throstle’s astir, and the dawn is as bright
As when, come forty years, you were up and away,
With the dew to your feet, on the first morn o’ May.

“Is it children you grieve for? I’ll be as your son
For I’m old as the hills, yet a mother I’ve none.
Is it shelter you wish for? I’ll find you a home
like a cot in green valleys where no winters come.

“Do you grieve for the good things went out by the door?
Now cross but the threshold, you’ll miss them no more,
Or it may be the winds that run laughing with God
Have but kept them awhile, or the sweet smelling sod.

“Is it lonely you were? There’s a bird in your breast
Was but spreading his wings; lone delight is his nest.
There is never a tie could have kept him for long,
I could lure him aloft with the lilt of a song!

“You have dreamed overmuch, as the old do alone
When the fire is low, and the children have gone.
But have done with the dreams, for to youth is the day;
You are young again, Colleen! Come out in the May!”

SONG

Ding-a-ding! The sun is high.
Ding-a-ding! The dragon-fly
Wakes to dart about the stream.
Now is mortal morning come;
Let us find a bluebell dome
And sleep and dream.

Belfries bluer than the sky
Shall intone a lullaby.
Ring, ah! ring a drowsy song!
From this azure hollowed gloam,
Fays, why should we farther roam?
Ding-a-ding, ding-dong.
Ding-dong!

THE OSPREY FOLK

_Alas! for the child that the Osprey Folk
Circle around at birth;
Never for him are the good green fields
And the lap of the old brown earth
And the whet of the scythe in the afternoon
And the joy of the homespun mirth._

But all day long at the turn of the tide
At morn, at noon, or even,
He hears in his ears that whistle of winds
(And the winds of the seas are seven).
And each one brings him the smack of the fogs
And the salt in the sea winds driven.

He has never a mate like the common folk
But out of the whir and wheel
Of the Osprey wings is a voice that calls
With the strength of a mate’s appeal.
And the darkness putteth its lips to his lips
When the rims of the sky line reel.

O, I was born where the Osprey Folk
Cross to the Finnish rocks,
And the caw and the call of their throats are more
Than the power of ban or locks;
So never for me will the uplands be
Gray with the feeding flocks.

Shrilling of wind in the cordage taut
And churn of the flying spume,
The pound of the waves like a cannon shot
And the air like a drumming loom,
And I shall go back to the Osprey Folk
For this is the Osprey Doom.

MERLIN

“_But Nemuë imprisoned him in a tower built of air,
and like to glass._”
--MERLIN.

When Nemuë built for Merlin
A tower of the air,
She wove the blue of Heaven
In azure fabrics fair,
Aërial, ethereal,
Clear, crystalline, and rare.

She lapped him in it deeper,
With rod, and bell, and book,
Than ever fly in spider’s web
Beside the inglenook,
Or cocoon in his cradle hung
Above a running brook.

Aërial, ethereal
And crystal clear as glass,
Or mirrored surface of the pool
Before the storm clouds pass,
The elfin charm drave up the air
And scarcely stirred the grass.

The elfin charm drave up, and up,
As swallows wheel and poise,
And ever as the charm went up
It made a small sweet noise,
As if the winds were whispering
Like children to their toys.

When, looking in the wizard globe
You see the magic scene
So small, so bright, thus Merlin lay
The elfin walls between,
His hair and beard o’erflowed his book,
His mantle was bright green.