eye blind,Is 'mid the lonely mountains
By the red deer hind;
Not one will wait to greet me,
For they have naught to say—
The hill folk, the still folk, the folk that flit away.
When the golden moon is glinting
In the deep, dim wood,
There's a fairy piper playing
To the elfin brood;
They dance and shout and turn about,
And laugh and swing and sway—
The droll folk, the knoll folk, the folk that dance alway.
O we that bless the wee folk
Have naught to fear,
And ne'er an elfin arrow
Will come us near;
For they'll give skill in music,
And every wish obey—
The wise folk, the peace folk, the folk that work and play.
They'll hasten here at harvest,
They will shear and bind;
They'll come with elfin music
On a western wind;
All night they'll sit among the sheaves,
Or herd the kine that stray—
The quick folk, the fine folk, the folk that ask no pay.
Betimes they will be spinning
The while we sleep,
They'll clamber down the chimney,
Or through keyholes creep;
And when they come to borrow meal
We'll ne'er them send away—
The good folk, the honest folk, the folk that work alway.
O never wrong the wee folk—
The red folk and green,
Nor name them on the Fridays,
Or at Hallowe'en;
The helpless and unwary then
And bairns they lure away—
The fierce folk, the angry folk, the folk that steal and slay.
BONNACH FALLAIDH
O, the good-wife will be singing
When her meal is all but done—
Now all my bannocks have I baked,
I've baked them all but one;
And I'll dust the board to bake it,
I'll bake it with a spell—
O, it's Finlay's little bannock
For going to the well.
The bannock on the brander
Smells sweet for your desire—
O my crisp ones I will count not
On two sides of the fire;
And not a farl has fallen
Some evil to foretell!—
O it's Finlay's little bannock
For going to the well.
The bread would not be lasting,
'Twould crumble in your hand;
When fairies would be coming here
To turn the meal to sand—
But what will keep them dancing
In their own green dell?
O it's Finlay's little bannock
For going to the well.
Now, not a fairy finger
Will do my baking harm—
The little bannock with the hole,
O it will be the charm.
I knead it, I knead it, 'twixt my palms,
And all the bairns I tell—
O it's Finlay's little bannock
For going to the well.
THE BANSHEE
Knee-deep she waded in the pool—
The Banshee robed in green—
She sang yon song the whole night long,
And washed the linen clean;
The linen that would wrap the dead
She beetled on a stone,
She stood with dripping hands, blood-red,
Low singing all alone—
His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night!
'Twas Fergus More rode o'er the hill,
Come back from foreign wars,
His horse's feet were clattering sweet
Below the pitiless stars;
And in his heart he would repeat—
"O never again I'll roam;
All weary is the going forth,
But sweet the coming home!"
His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night!
He saw the blaze upon his hearth
Come gleaming down the glen;
For he was fain for home again,
And rode before his men—
"'Tis many a weary day," he'd sigh,
"Since I would leave her side;
I'll never more leave Scotland's shore
And yon, my dark-eyed bride."
His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night!
So dreaming of her tender love,
Soft tears his eyes would blind—
When up there crept and swiftly leapt
A man who stabbed behind—
"'Tis you," he cried, "who stole my bride,
This night shall be your last!" …
When Fergus fell, the warm, red tide
Of life came ebbing fast …
His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night!
CONN, SON OF THE RED
The Fians sojourned by the shore
Of comely Cromarty, and o'er
The wooded hill pursued the chase
With ardour. 'Twas a full moon's space
Ere Beltane1 rites would be begun
With homage to the rising sun—
Ere to the spirits of the dead
Would sacrificial blood be shed
In yon green grove
May Day.
