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.
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow;
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lakes,
On a bed of flag leaves,
Watching till she wakes.
By the craggy hillside,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig one up in spite?
He shall find the thornies set
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren'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.
SHED no tear! O shed no tear!
The flower will bloom another year.
Weep no more! O weep no more!
Young buds sleep in the roots' white core.
Dry your eyes! O dry your eyes!
For I was taught in Paradise
To ease my breast of melodies-
Overhead! look overhead!
'Mong the blossoms white and red
Look up, look up! I flutter now
On this fresh pomegranate bough.
See me! 'tis this silvery bill
Ever cures the good man's ill.
Shed no tear! O shed no tear!
The flower will bloom another year.
Adieu, adieu — I fly — adieu!
I vanish in the heaven's blue
A FAIRY was mending a daisy
Which some one had torn in half;
Her sisters all thought her crazy,
And only looked on to laugh.
They showed her scores in the hedges,
And scores that grew by the tarn,
And scores on the green field-edges,
But she went on with her darn.
Then round they cluster, and chatterHow each had a flower more fine; One shook buttercups at her,
And one brought briony-twine, Strong red poppies to vex her,
Tiny bright-eyes to beguile,
Tall green flags to perplex her;
But she worked on all the while.
She work'd and she sang this ditty,
While insects wondered and heard;
(They knew by the tone of pity
The song was not from a bird):
Daisy, somebody hurt you!
Are you afraid of me?
Patient hope is a virtue,
Wait and you shall see!
"Was it a careless mower
Cut your blossom in twain?
I hope his hand will be slower
When he sees you again.
Was it a step unheeding?
Or was it a stormy gale?
Or was it (how you are bleeding!)
A dark, malicious snail?
They did not know you would suffer,
I think they had never seen ;
Slugs and snails may be rougher,
Perhaps, than they always mean.
Do I not hear one sobbing,
Down just there at my foot?
Or is it only the throbbing
Down in your poor little root?
"Ah, you tremble a little!
Have I hurt you at last?
If you were not so brittle,
I could mend you so fast.
No; there's nothing distressful,
Only a quiver of bliss,
Daisy, I've been successful!
Grow, and give me a kiss!
"Now I've mended you neatly,
All the fairies can see;
Now you look at me sweetly,
Are you grateful to me?
I'll go hiding behind you,
Then in a day or two,
Perhaps a baby will find you,
And I shall hear it coo.
"Yes, your cheeks may be whiter
Than the rest of your race;
Other eyes may be brighter,
Others fairer in face;
But no flower that uncloses
Can be precious as you,
Not an army of roses
Fighting all the year through!"
Then the fairies confess it,
As that daisy revives;
All come round and caress it,
All so glad that it lives.
No one ventures to doubt it,
Hosts of penitent fays
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