The Faeries book

Do any of you remember the poem by William Allingham entitled The Faeries? My favourite uncle used to sing the chorus to me when I was very young and the poem has been in my mind recently so I made a book to fit with the words.

Up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen,

We dare n'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 grey 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 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 the thornies set in his bed at night.

 

 

Up the airy mountain down the rushy glen,

We dare n'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. 

 

 

The words aren't all very comforting are they? and I can't quite decide whether I entirely like the faerie folk ... but I have certainly enjoyed making the book.