Up the airy mountain

Down the rushy glen, We dare n’t go a-hunting,

For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk,

Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap,

And white owl’s feather. Down along the rocky shore

Some make their home, They live on crispy pancakes

Of yellow tide-foam; Some in the reeds

Of the black mountain-lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs,

All night awake.

High on the hill-top

The old King sits; He is now so old and gray

He’s nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mist

Columbkill he crosses, On his stately journeys

From Slieveleague to Rosses; Or going up with music,

On cold starry nights, To sup with the Queen,

Of the gay Northern Lights.