Queen Mab

A

LITTLE fairy comes at night,

Her eyes are blue, her hair is brown,

With silver spots upon her wings,

And from the moon she flutters down.

She has a little silver wand,

And when a good child goes to bed She waves her hand from right to left, And makes a circle round its head.

And then it dreams of pleasant things,
Of fountains filled with fairy fish,
And trees that bear delicious fruit,
And bow their branches at a wish:

Of arbours filled with dainty scents

From lovely flowers that never fade; Bright flies that glitter in the sun,

And glow-worms shining in the shade.

And talking birds with gifted tongues,
For singing songs and telling tales,
And pretty dwarfs to show the way
Through fairy hills and fairy dales.

But when a bad child goes to bed,

From left to right she weaves her rings, And then it dreams all through the night Of only ugly horrid things!

Then lions come with glaring eyes,
And tigers growl, a dreadful noise,
And ogres draw their cruel knives,

To shed the blood of girls and boys.

Then stormy waves rush on to drown,
Or raging flames come scorching round,
Fierce dragons hover in the air,

And serpents crawl along the ground.

Then wicked children wake and weep,
And wish the long black gloom away;
But good ones love the dark, and find
The night as pleasant as the day.

Thomas Hood.

A Fairy Song

'OME, follow, follow me,

Co

Ye fairy elves that be,

Light tripping o'er the green,
Come follow Mab your queen;
Hand in hand we'll dance around,
For this place is fairy ground.

When mortals are at rest,
And snoring in their nest,
Unheard and unespied,

Through the keyholes we do glide;
Over tables, stools, and shelves,

We trip it with our fairy elves.

And, if the house be foul
With platter, dish, or bowl,
Upstairs we nimbly creep
And find the sluts asleep:
Then we pinch their arms and thighs,

None us hears, nor none espies.

But if the house be swept,
And from uncleanness kept,
We praise the household maid,
And duly she is paid:
Every night before we go

We drop a tester in her shoe.

Then o'er a mushroom's head,
Our tablecloth we spread;
A grain of rye or wheat,

The diet that we eat;

Pearly drops of dew we drink,
In acorn cups filled to the brink.

The brains of nightingales,
With unctuous fat of snails,
Between two cockles stewed,

Is meat that's easy chewed;

Tails of worms and marrow of mice

Do make a dish that's wondrous nice.

The grasshopper, gnat, and fly,

Serve for our minstrelsy,

Grace said, we dance awhile,

And so the time beguile;

And if the moon doth hide her head,

The glow-worm lights us home to bed.

O'er tops of dewy grass

So nimbly do we pass,

The young and tender stalk

Ne'er bends where we do walk ;

Yet in the morning may be seen

Where we the night before have been.

Old Song.

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.

Is any man so daring

As dig them up in spite,

He shall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.

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!

William Allingham.