FAREWELL! FAREWELL! DEAR FAIRIES
Oh! where do Fairies hide their heads,
When snow lies on the hills—
When frost has spoiled their mossy beds,
And crystallized their rills?
Beneath the moon they cannot trip
In circles o’er the plain;
And draughts of dew they cannot sip,
Till green leaves come again.
When they return there will be mirth,
And music in the air,
And Fairy wings upon the earth,
And mischief everywhere.
The maids, to keep the Elves aloof,
Will bar the doors in vain;
No keyhole will be Fairy-proof,
When green leaves come again.
Thomas Haynes Bayly
THE FAIRIES’ PASSAGE
I
Tap, tap, tap, rap! “Get up, Gaffer Ferryman.”
“Eh! who is there?” The clock strikes three.
“Get up, do, Gaffer! You are the very man
We have been long—long—longing to see.”
The Ferryman rises, growling and grumbling,
And goes fum-fumbling, and stumbling, and tumbling,
Over the wares in his way to the door.
But he sees no more
Than he saw before,
Till a voice is heard—“O Ferryman, dear!
Here we are waiting, all of us here!
We are a wee, wee colony, we;
Some two hundred in all, or three.
Ferry us over the river Lee
Ere dawn of day,
And we will pay
The most we may,
In our own wee way!”
II
“Who are you? Whence came you? What place are you going to?”
“Oh, we have dwelt over-long in this land;
The people get cross, and are growing so knowing, too!
Nothing at all but they now understand;
We are daily vanishing under the thunder
Of some huge engine or iron wonder;
That iron, ah!—it has entered our souls!”
“——Your souls? O gholes,
You queer little drolls!
Do you mean——?” “Good Gaffer, do aid us with speed,
For our time, like our stature, is short indeed!
And a very long way we have to go,
Eight or ten thousand miles or so,
Hither and thither, and to and fro;
With our pots and pans,
And little gold cans;
But our light caravans
Run swifter than man’s!”
III
“Well, well, you may come!” said the Ferryman, affably;
“Patrick, turn out, and get ready the barge!”
Then again to the Little Folk—“Though you seem laughably
Small, I don’t mind, if your coppers be large.”
Oh, dear! what a rushing, what pushing, what crushing
(The watermen making vain efforts at hushing
The hubbub the while) there followed these words!
What clapping of boards!
What strapping of cords!
What stowing away of children and wives,
And platters, and mugs, and spoons, and knives!
Till all had safely got into the boat,
And the Ferryman, clad in his tip-top coat,
And his wee little Fairies were safely afloat!
Then ding! ding! ding!
And kling! kling! kling!
How the coppers did ring
In the tin pitcherling!
IV
Off, then, went the boat, at first very pleasantly,
Smoothly, and so forth; but after a while
It swayed and it swagged this and that way, and presently
Chest after chest, and pile after pile,
Of the Little Folks’ goods began tossing and rolling,
And pitching like fun, beyond Fairy controlling!
O Mab! if the hubbub were great before,
It was now some two or three million times more;
Crash! went the wee crocks, and the clocks, and the locks
Of each little wee box were stove in by hard knocks;
And then there were oaths, and prayers, and cries—
“Take care!”—“See there!”—“Oh, dear! my eyes!”
“I am killed!”—“I am drowned!”—with groans and sighs;
Till to land they drew;
“Yeo-ho! Pull to!
Tiller-rope, thro’ and thro’!”
And all’s right anew.
V
“Now, jump upon shore, ye queer little oddities,
Eh! what is this?—Where are they, at all?
Where are they, and where are their tiny commodities?
Well! as I live!” He looks blank as a wall,
Poor Ferryman! Round him, and round him he gazes,
But only gets deeplier lost in the mazes
Of utter bewilderment! All, all are gone—
And he stands alone,
Like a statue of stone,
In a doldrum of wonder. He turns to steer,
And a tinkling laugh salutes his ear
With other odd sounds—“Ha! ha! ha! ha!
Fol, lol; zidziddel—quee, quee-bah! bah!
Fizzigig—giggidy! phsee! sha! sha!”
“O ye thieves, ye thieves! ye rascally thieves!”
The good man cries. He turns to his pitcher,
And there, alas! to his horror perceives,
That the Little Folks’ mode of making him richer
Has been to pay him with—withered leaves.
James Clarence Mangan
OLD WINTER’S FAIRYLAND
TO WINTER
Sooth ’tis, old Friend,
Thou banishest
The golden rest
Of the hours;
Dost cruelly send
The birds off, and
The twinkling band
Of the flowers;
Dost lash the shadows out of the woods,
And kill the souls in the plunging floods.
Thou chillest the green,
And it departs
Into the hearts
Of the meas,
And dreams of sheen,
Grasses and leaves,
Blossoms and sheaves,
And of trees;
Thou foldest all colours up in mould,
And touchest the aching light with cold.
There is no gloom
Of vanished wold,
Inlaid with gold,
And heights in bloom,
And shadowing woods,
And tumbling floods,
And plains,
Of Summer in the core of the world,
And golden skies are there unfurled.
The Fairies keep
A revel there,
And banish care
With mirth;
When snows are deep,
And woods are cross,
Enjoy our loss
In the Earth;
The leaves and grass and water-springs,
The glorious world with its living things,
Each happy thought that goes on wings,
And sings,
Or thinks itself in blossomings
Of red and gold,
All bless the cold,
That ruleth with an iron hand
To build in the Earth a Fairyland.
At Christmas tide,
On country farms
In games and charms
By deep hearth side,
When tales are told
And songs are trolled,
As through the mould
Thou drivest
The shuddering flowers, thou dost begin
To gather us up, and drive us in.
For all, whom care
Or labour drew
From old to new
In the year,
Thou dost prepare
The roaring hearth,
And garrulous mirth,
And beer
In massy cans, to season it,
Nut-brown and livelier than thy wit.
The Yule log sends
Its light abroad
O’er roof and board;
And cheerily
In shade ascends
The cricket’s song;
The winds are strong,
And drearily
Shrill past the rattling window panes, and down
The wide-mouthed chimney shriek and moan.
From fold and pen,
And graver men
From labours;
And maids who spin
And catch perchance
With smile and glance
Their neighbours;
The dame is there, and reverend sire,
And children clustering round the fire.
They quaff their ale,
Their pipes they fill,
And he, who has skill
In numbers,
Prolongs the tale;
The wheel goes round
With a drowsy sound
And slumbers.
The humming stoup goes round and round,
Till their heads go round, as the wheel goes round;
And sleep and silence go their round.
And the Fairy Summer underground
Blooms all night long in
Sleep till morning,
Buds and blossoms, without a sound.
Anonymous
THE END