William Allingham

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!   

1850