Up the airy mountain, br Down the rushy glen, br We daren’t go a-hunting br For fear of little men; br Wee folk, good folk, br Trooping all together; br Green jacket, red cap, br And white owl’s feather! br br Down along the rocky shore br Some make their home, br They live on crispy pancakes br Of yellow tide-foam; br Some in the reeds br Of the black mountain lake, br With frogs for their watch-dogs, br All night awake. br br High on the hill-top br The old King sits; br He is now so old and gray br He’s nigh lost his wits. br With a bridge of white mist br Columbkill he crosses, br On his stately journeys br From Slieveleague to Rosses; br Or going up with music br On cold starry nights br To sup with the Queen br Of the gay Northern Lights. br br They stole little Bridget br For seven years long; br When she came down again br Her friends were all gone. br They took her lightly back, br Between the night and morrow, br They thought that she was fast asleep, br But she was dead with sorrow. br They have kept her ever since br Deep within the lake, br On a bed of flag-leaves, br Watching till she wake. br br By the craggy hill-side, br Through the mosses bare, br They have planted thorn-trees br For pleasure here and there. br If any man so daring br As dig them up in spite, br He shall find their sharpest thorns br In his bed at night.