O the weird and waesome music,
And the never-faltering feet!
O their fast and strong embraces,
And their kisses hot and sweet!
There's a lost and languished lover
With a fierce and jealous eye,
As merrily flit the Nimble Folk across the Northern Sky.
So now the dance is over,
And the dancers sink to rest—
There's a maid that has two lovers,
And there's one she loves the best;
He will cast him down before her,
She will raise him with a sigh—
Her love so bright who danced to-night across the Northern Sky.
Then up will leap the other,
And up will leap his clan—
O the lover and his company
Will fight them man to man—
All shrieking from the conflict
The merry maidens fly—
There's a Battle Royal raging now across the Northern Sky.
Through all the hours of darkness
The fearsome fight will last;
They are leaping white with anger,
And the blows are falling fast—
And where the slain have tumbled
A pool of blood will lie—
O it's dripping on the dark green stones from out the Northern Sky.
When yon lady seeks her lover
In the cold and pearly morn,
She will find that he has fallen
By the hand that she would scorn,—
She will clasp her arms about him,
And in her anguish die!—
O never again will trip the twain across the Northern Sky.
MY GUNNA.
When my kine are on the hill,
Who will charm them from all ill?
While I'll sleep at ease until
All the cocks are crowing clear.
Who'll be herding them for me?
It's the elf I fain would see—
For they're safe as safe can be
When the Gunna will be near.
He will watch the long weird night,
When the stars will shake with fright,
Or the ghostly moon leaps bright
O'er the ben like Beltane fire.
If my kine would seek the corn,
He will turn them by the horn—
And I'll find them all at morn
Lowing sweet beside the byre.
Croumba's bard has second-sight,
And he'll moan the Gunna's plight,
When the frosts are flickering white,
And the kine are housed till day;
For he'll see him perched alone
On a chilly old grey stone,
Nibbling, nibbling at a bone
That we'll maybe throw away.
He's so hungry, he's so thin,
If he'd come we'd let him in,
For a rag of fox's skin
Is the only thing he'll wear.
He'll be chittering in the cold
As he hovers round the fold,
With his locks of glimmering gold
Twined about his shoulders bare.