"And you shall hear how this poor Babe
Was lifted from its grievous plight,
And, by the faith of two poor men,
Set free to reach the blessed Light."
* * * * * *
From Niarbyl Point to Bradda Head
The great Bay Mooar lies broad and deep,
And here the fishers cast their nets,
While landward folk are lost in sleep.
With steady sweep of heavy oars,
From Dalby strand they make their way,
Before the lingering light has left
The crags of Cronk-ny-Iree Lhaa.
Sometimes the night is loud with storm,
Sometimes the creeping fog comes round,
And sometimes all the moonlit hours
Are holy with a peace profound.
Sometimes between the dusk and dark
The fishers see a glancing spark,
A tiny riding-light;
Now here—now there—
And now a pair,
And now a score,
And everywhere
Around them dancing bright.
And straightway all about them ride
The fairy nickeys on the tide;
And all the air is full of din,
And elfish voices, shrewd and thin,
And creak of spar,
And smell of tar,
And water washing up the side;
While here and there,
And everywhere,
The gentle folk
Are well bespoke,
And room is left for them to ride
In safety on the gleaming tide.
And then a puff
Of wind comes by,
"Oie-vie, oie-vie!" the fairies cry.
And all around the sea is bare,
And not a boat is anywhere!
And that's the time the men would find
Good luck with all the nets they cast,
And rowing slow with loaded store,
Be home before the night was past.
But other times the fish was scarce,
And some would stay and some would go,
About the Sloe or further out
Or back to sleeping Dalby, row.
And sometimes only one alone
Would drift along the shadowy land,
And in the darkness quake to hear
The Babe at Earey-Cushlin strand.