Wolfsschanze: The Fairies by William Allingham

This is a poem poem I remember from my single digit years. Its got nice eerie imagery inspired by Alllinham's early memories from the rugged landscapes of his childhood abode.

William Allingham was born on March 19th, 1824 in Ballyshannon, Co. Donegal. His first volume of poems appeared in 1850. In 1870, he moved to London where he became associate editor and then editor of Frazer's Magazine. Unfortunately, although Allingham was Anglo-Irish and known for his literature in Britain he did little to highlight the plight of the Irish people during the worst years of the famine. Allingham did produce social commentaries, but it keeps a wide berth of the problems encountered by the small man and remains somewhat highfalutin.

William Allingham (1824 - 1889)

While he published a great number of poems, The Fairies is regarded as his most well-known work,associated with our schools days.

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.
If 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