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 …