Is robbing me still and doing me ill—I shall never be rich.”
“My son,” the mother mild replied,
“See that you pay the fairies their due;
A tribute due should ne’er be denied—
Others don’t grudge it, and why should you?
Nor thrive their flocks nor kine, I ween,
Who scorn or neglect the shian green.”
“But, mother, the witch that lives down i’ the glen?”
“A widow, my son, with a fatherless oe,
Who has seen much sorrow and years of woe;