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fairies, the fairies, the mischief-loving fairies. Have stolen my loved one, my darling, and my dear; With charms and enchantments they lured and waylaid him. So my love cannot comfort and my presence cannot cheer.

The fairies, the fairies, I'll love no more the fairies; I'll never sweep the hearth for them or care the fairy thorn, I'll skim no more the yellow cream nor leave the perfumed honey; But I'll drive the goats for pasture to their greenest rath each morn.

With Ave, and Ave, and many a Paternoster, Within their magic circle I'll tell my beads for you; My prayers be sharp as arrows to pierce their soulless bosoms Till they come with loud sorrow to tell me that they rue.