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.

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 dare n't go a-hunting,

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

Trooping all together;

And he'll glance at the light!

But many sparkling stars

Are swallowed up in night;

Older eyes than his

Are dazzled by a glare

Hearts are broken-heads are turned

With castles in the air.

-James Ballantyne.

Over the sea.

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?
All that love me.

Are you not tired with rolling, and never
Resting to sleep?

Why look so pale and so sad, as forever
Wishing to weep?