The Hosting of the Sidhe~ Cusheen Loo
The Fairy Thorn~ The Fairy Nurse
A Lamentation~ Song of the Ghost
Hy Brasail - The Isle of the Blest~ The Household Faery
The Little People~ Evidence
Page 1~Page 2~Page 3~Page 5
The Hosting of the Sidhe
by W.B. Yeats
The host is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare;
Caolite tossing his burning hair
And Niamh calling Away, come away:
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam,
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the deed of his hand,
We come between him and the hope of his heart.
The host is rushing 'twixt night and day,
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caolite tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away.
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Cusheen Loo
by Anonymous
This is a song that was sung by a young bride, who
was held captive by the good people. Pretending to
hush her child to sleep, she walked to the outer edge
of her prison, and sang this song to a young woman
standing nearby, asking her to tell her husband of
her predicament, and to ask him to bring a steel knife
to break the enchantment...
Sleep, my child! for the rustling trees,
Stirr'd by the brath of summer breeze,
And fairy songs of sweetest note,
Around us gently float.
Sleep! for the weeping flowers have shed
Their fragrant tears upon thy head,
The voice of love hath sooth'd thy rest,
And thy pillow is a mmother's breast.
Sleep, my child!
Weary hath pass'd the time forlorn,
Since to your mansion I was borne,
Tho' bright the feast of its airy halls,
And the voice of mirth resounds from its walls.
Sleep, my child!
Full many a maid and blooming bride
Within that splendid dome abide, -
And many a hoar and shrivell'd sage,
And many a matron bow'd with age.
Sleep, my child!
Oh! thou who hearest this song of fear,
To the mourners home these tidings bear.
Bid him brign the knife of the magic blade,
At whose lightning-flash the charm will fade.
Sleep, my child!
Haste! for tomorrow's sun will see
The hateful spell renewed for me;
Nor can I from that home depart,
Till life shall leave my withering heart.
Sleep, my child!
Sleep, my child! for the rustling trees,
Stirr'd by the breath of summer breeze,
And fairy songs of sweetest note,
Around us gently float.
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The Fairy Thorn
by Sir Samuel Ferguson
"Get up, our Anna dear, from the weary spinning-wheel;
For your father's on the hill, and your mother is asleep;
Come up above the crags, and we'll dance a highland-reel
Around the fairy thorn on the steep."
At Anna Grace's door 'twas thus the maidens cried,
Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the green;
And Anna laid the rock and the weary wheel aside,
The fairest of the four I ween.
They're glancing through the glimmer of the quiet eve,
Away in the milky wavings of the neck and ankle bare;
The heavy-sliding stream in its sleepy song they leave,
And the crags in the ghostly air:
And linking hand in hand, and singing as they go,
The maids along the hill-side have ta'en their fearless way,
Till they come to where the rowan trees in lonely beauty grow
Beside the Fairy Hawthorn gray.
The hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and slim,
Like matron with her twin grand-daughters at her knee;
The rowan berries cluster o'er her low head gray and dim
In ruddy kisses sweet to see.
The merry maidens four have rangedd them in a row,
Between each lovely couple a stately rowan stem,
And away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds they go,
Oh, never caroll'd bird like them!
But the solemn is the silence of the silvery haze
That drinks away their voices in echoless repose,
And dreamily the evening has still'd the haunted braes,
And dreamier the gloaming grows.
And sinking one by one, like lark-notes from the sky
When the falcon's shadow saileth across the open shaw,
Are hush'd the maidens voices, as cowering down they lie
In the flutter of their sudden awe.
For, from the air above, the grassy ground beneath,
And from the mountain-ashes and the old Whitehorn between,
A Power of faint enchantment doth through their beings breath,
And they sink down together on the green.
They sink together silent, and stealing side by side,
they fling their lovely arms o'er their drooping necks so fair,
Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide,
For their shrinking necks again are bare.
Thus clasp'd and prostrate all, with their heads together bow'd,
Soft o'er their bosoms beating - the only human sound -
They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy crowd,
Like a river in the air, gliding round.
No scream can any raise, no prayer can any say,
But wild, wild, the terror of the speechless three -
For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently away,
By whom they dare not look to see.
They feel their tresses twine with her parting locks of gold
And the curls elastic falling as her head withdraws;
They feel her sliding arms from their tranced arms unfold,
But they may not look to see the cause;
For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment lies
Through all that night of anguish and perilous amaze;
And neither fear nor wonder can ope their quivering eyes,
Or their limbs from the cold ground raise,
Till out of night the earth has roll'd her dewy side,
With every haunted mountain and streamy vale below;
When, as the mist disolves in the yellow morning tide,
The maidens' trance dissolueth so.
Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as thy may,
And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends in vain -
They pined away and died within the year and day,
And ne'er was Anna Grace seen again.
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The Fairy Nurse
by Edward Walsh
Keolshie, Ceol-sidhe, i.e., fairy music
Sweet babe! a golden cradle holds thee,
And soft the snow-white fleece enfolds thee;
In airy bower I'll watch thy sleeping,
Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping.
Shuhee, sho, lulo, lo!
When mothers languish broken-hearted,
When young wives are from husbands parted,
Ah! litttle think the keeners lonely,
They weep some time-worn fairy only.
Shuheen, sho, lulo, lo!
Within our magic halls of brightnes,
Trips many a foot of snowy whiteness;
Stolen maidens, queens fo fairy -
And kings and chiefs a slaugh-shee airy,
Shuheen, sho, lulo, lo!
Rest thee, bbabe! I love thee dearly,
And as thy mortal mother nearly;
Ours is the swiftest steed and proudest,
That moves where the tramp of the host is loudest.
Shuheen, sho, lulo, lo!
Rest thee, babe! for soon thy slumbers
Shall flee at the magic koelshie's numbers;
In airy bower I'll watch thy sleeping,
Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping.
Shuheen, sho, lulo, lo!
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A Lamentation
by Clarence Mongan
For the death of Sir Maurice Fitzgerald,
Knight of Kerry, who was killed in Flanders, 1642
There was lifted up one voice of woe,
One lament of more than mortal grief,
Through the wide South to and fro,
For a fallen Chief.
In the dead of night that cry thrilled through me,
I looked out upon the midnight air?
My own soul was all as gloomy,
As I knelt in prayer.
O'er Loch Gur, that night, once-twice-yea, thrice-
Passed a wail of anguish for the Brave
That half curled into ice
Its moon-mirroring wave.
Then uprose a many-toned wild hymn in
Choral swell from Ogra's dark ravine,
And Mogeely's Phantom Women
Mourned the Graldine!
Far on Carah Mona's emerald plains
Shrieks and sighs were blended many hours,
And Fermoy in fitful strains
Answered from her towers.
Youghal, Keenalmeaky, Eemokilly,
Mourned in concert, and their piercing keen
Woke wondering life the stilly
Glens of Inchiqueen.
From Loughmoe to yellow Dunanore
There was fea; teh traders fo Tralee
Gathered up their goldenstore,
And prepared to flee;
For, in ship and hall from night till morning,
Showed the first faint beamings of the sun,
All the foeigners heard the warning
Of the Dreaded One!
"This," they spake, "portendeth death to us,
If we fly not swiftly from our fate!
Self-conceited idiots! thus
Ravingly to prate!
Not for base-born higgling Saxon trucksters
Ring laments like those by shore and sea!
Not for churls with souls like hucksters
Waileth our Banshee!
For the high Milesian race alone
Ever flows the music of her woe!
For slain heir to bygone throne,
And for Chief laid low!
Hark! ...Again, methinks, I hear her weeping
Yonder! is she near me now as then?
Or was but the night-wind sweeping
Down the hollow glen?
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Song of the Ghost
by Alfred Percival Graves
When all were dreaming
But Pastheen Power,
A light came streaming
Beneath her bower:
A heavy foot
At her door delayed,
A heavy hand
On the latch was laid.
"Now who dare venture,
At this dark hour,
Unbid to enter
My maiden bower?"
"Dear Pastheen, open
The door to me,
And your true lover
You'll surely see."
"My own true lover,
So tall and brave,
Lives exiled over
The angry wave."
"Your true love's body
Lies on the bier,
His faithful spirit
Is with you here."
"His look was cheerful,
His voice was gay;
Your speech is feaful,
Your face is gray;
And sad and sunken
Your eye of blue,
But Patrick, Patrick,
Alas! 'tis you!"
Ere dawn was breaking
She heard below
The two cocks shaking
Their wings to crow.
"Oh, hush you, hush you,
Both red and grey,
Or will you hurry
My love away.
"Oh, hush your crowing,
Both grey and red,
Or he'll be going
To join the dead;
Or, cease from calling
His ghost to the mould,
And I'll come crowning
Your combs with gold."
When all were dreaming
But Pastheen Power,
A light went streaming
From out her bower;
And on the morrow,
When they awoke,
They knew that sorrow
Her heart had broke.
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Hy-Brassail-The Isle of the Blest
by Gerald Griffon
On the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell,
A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell;
Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest,
And they called it Hy-Brasail, the isle of the blest.
From year unto year on the ocean's blue rim,
The beautiful spectre showed lovely and dim;
The golden clouds curtained the deep where it lay,
And it looked like an Eden, away, far away!
A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale,
In the breeze of the orient loosened his sail;
From Ara, the holy, he turned to the west,
For though Ara was holy, Hy-Brasail was blest.
He herd not the voices that called from the shore -
He heard not the rising wind's menacing roar;
Home, kindred, and safety, he let on that day,
And he sped to Hy-Brasail, away, far away!
Morn rose on the deep, and that shadowy isle,
O'er the faint rim of distance, reflected its smile;
Noon burned on the wave, and that shadowy shore
Seemed lovelily distant, and faint as before;
Lone evening came down on the wanderer's track,
And to Ara again he looked timidly back;
Oh! far on the verge of the ocean it lay,
Yet the isle of the blest was away, far away!
Rash dreamer, return! O, ye winds of the main,
Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again.
Rash fool! for a vision of fanciful bliss,
To barter thy calm life of labour and peace.
The warning of reason was spoken in vain;
He never revisited Ara again!
Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and spray,
And he died on the waters, away, far away!
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The Household Fairy
by Unknown
Have you heard of the household fairy sweet
Who keeps the home so bright and neat?
Who enters the rooms of boys and girls
And finds lost marbles, or smoothes out curls
Who mends the rent in a girlie's frock
Or darns that hole in tomboy's sock?
If you don't believe it is true, I say
You may search and find her this very day
In your home.
You must look for a maiden fair
With starry eyes and golden hair.
Her hair may be threaded with silvery gray
But one glace of her eyes drives care away.
And the touch of her hand is so soft and light
When it smoothes out a place for your head at night
If you know of someone just like this
My household fairy you cannot miss.
"It's Mother."
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The Little People
by Dilys Evans
Just because
You can't see me -
Doesn't mean that I'm not there!
Actually I'm right beside you.
Faery folk
Are everywhere...
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Evidence
by Susan Katz
Who says there aren't Little People?
Everywhere I've looked, I've found
Lots of stuff they left lying around.
Under the arbor, this folded blue rag
Must be a leprechaun's sleeeping bag.
And the tiny red feather I spied in a crack?
It surely fell off a pixie's cap.
The mossy scraps on the garden stair?
A leshy was trimming his green beard there.
The raspberry lying on top of a wall?
An elf kid's soccer team lost their ball.
On our fence a clump of doe's hair?
A spriggan's blanket hung out to air.
And the greyish cobweb under the oak?
A scrap torn off a banshee's cloak.
Who says there aren't little people?
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Hafapea's Universe
BACK~*~ HOME~*~ NEXT
Fae Magic
My Adopted Fair Folk
Plant a Faery Garden
Faery Trees
Teas to Aid in Astral Travel
Incense to Facilitate Faery Contact
Protective Talismans for Astral Travel
Celtic Gods, Goddesses, Kings and Queens
Faery Links and Rings
This set was made by SwtMelode
using the Fairy art of Myrea of Fairies World©
