Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/947

 But she neither turn'd her head Nor 'Whistly, whistly,' said she. Her hands were folded as in grace, We laid her with her ancient race And all the village wept.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM

1824-1889

769. The Fairies

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!

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.