"'Oh! the miller, how he will laugh,

When he sees the mill-dam rise!
The jolly old miller, how he will laugh,
Till the tears fill both his eyes!'

"And some they seized the little winds,
That sounded over the hill,

And each put a horn into his mouth,
And blew both loud and shrill:

" "And there,' said they, 'the merry winds go
Away from every horn;

And they shall clear the mildew dank
From the blind old widow's corn:

'Oh, the poor blind widow—

Though she has been blind so long,

She'll be merry enough when the mildew's gone, And the corn stands tall and strong!'

"And some they brought the brown linseed

And flung it down the Low:

'And this,' said they, ' by the sunrise In the weaver's croft shall grow!

"Oh, the poor lame weaver!

How will he laugh outright

When he sees his dwindling flax-field
All full of flowers by night!'

"And then outspoke a brownie,

With a long beard on his chin: 'I have spun up all the tow,' said he, 'And I want some more to spin.

" "I've spun a piece of hempen cloth And I want to spin another

A little sheet for Mary's bed,

And an apron for her mother!'

The Fairies

"With that I could not help but laugh,
And I laughed out loud and free;
And then on the top of the Caldon-Low
There was no one left but me.

"And all on the top of the Caldon-Low
The mists were cold and gray,

And nothing I saw but the mossy stones
That round about me lay.

"But, coming down from the hill-top, I heard, afar below,

How busy the jolly miller was,

And how merry the wheel did go!

"And I peeped into the widow's field,
And, sure enough, was seen
The yellow ears of the mildewed corn
All standing stout and green.

"And down the weaver's croft I stole, To see if the flax were sprung; And I met the weaver at his gate

With the good news on his tongue!

"Now, this is all I heard, mother, And all that I did see;

So, prithee, make my bed, mother,

For I'm tired as I can be!"

233

Mary Howitt [1799-1888]

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.
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 lake,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.

THE FAIRY THRALL

ON gossamer nights when the moon is low,
And stars in the mist are hiding,
Over the hill where the foxgloves grow

You may see the fairies riding.

Kling! Klang! Kling!

Their stirrups and their bridles ring,

And their horns are loud and their bugles blow,
When the moon is low.

They sweep through the night like a whistling wind,
They pass and have left no traces;
But one of them lingers far behind
The flight of the fairy faces.

She makes no moan,

She sorrows in the dark alone,

She wails for the love of human kind,
Like a whistling wind.

"Ah! why did I roam where the elfins ride,
Their glimmering steps to follow?

They bore me far from my loved one's side,
To wander o'er hill and hollow.

Kling! Klang! Kling!

Their stirrups and their bridles ring, But my heart is cold in the cold night-tide, Where the elfins ride."

Mary C. G. Byron [1861

FAREWELL TO THE FAIRIES

FAREWELL, rewards and fairies!

Good housewives now may say,

For now foul sluts in dairies

Do fare as well as they.

And though they sweep their hearths no less Than maids were wont to do,

Yet who of late, for cleanliness,

Finds sixpence in her shoe?

Lament, lament, old abbeys,

The fairies' lost command!

They did but change priests' babies,

But some have changed your land;
And all your children sprung from thence,
Are now grown Puritanes;
Who live as changelings ever since,

For love of your demains.

At morning and at evening both

You merry were and glad; So little care of sleep or sloth

These pretty ladies had;

When Tom came home from labor,

Or Ciss to milking rose,

Then merrily merrily went their tabor
And nimbly went their toes.

Witness those rings and roundelays
Of theirs, which yet remain,
Were footed in Queen Mary's days
On many a grassy plain;