Part 1 (2/2)

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.

(THE REMNANT BANNOCK.)

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 sh.o.r.e 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 ...

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