Seize the Shoemaker—­then you may! 
      ’Big boots a-hunting,
      Sandals in the hall,
      White for a wedding-feast,
      Pink for a ball. 
      This way, that way,
      So we make a shoe;
      Getting rich every stitch,
      Tick-tack-too!’
    Nine-and-ninety treasure-crocks
    This keen miser-fairy hath,
    Hid in mountains, woods, and rocks,
    Ruin and round-tow’r, cave and rath,
    And where the cormorants build;
      From times of old
      Guarded by him;
    Each of them fill’d
      Full to the brim
        With gold!

    I caught him at work one day, myself,
    In the castle-ditch where foxglove grows,—­
    A wrinkled, wizen’d, and bearded Elf,
    Spectacles stuck on his pointed nose,
    Silver buckles to his hose,
    Leather apron—­shoe in his lap—­
      ’Rip-rap, tip-tap,
      Tick-tack-too! 
      (A grasshopper on my cap! 
      Away the moth flew!)
      Buskins for a fairy prince,
      Brogues for his son,—­
      Pay me well, pay me well,
      When the job is done!’
    The rogue was mine, beyond a doubt. 
    I stared at him; he stared at me;
    ‘Servant, Sir!’ ‘Humph!’ says he,
    And pull’d a snuff-box out. 
    He took a long pinch, look’d better pleased,
    The queer little Lepracaun;
    Offer’d the box with a whimsical grace,—­
    Pouf! he flung the dust in my face,
    And while I sneezed,
        Was gone!

THE GIRL’S LAMENTATION

    With grief and mourning I sit to spin;
    My Love passed by, and he didn’t come in;
    He passes by me, both day and night,
    And carries off my poor heart’s delight.

    There is a tavern in yonder town,
    My Love goes there and he spends a crown;
    He takes a strange girl upon his knee,
    And never more gives a thought to me.

    Says he, ’We’ll wed without loss of time,
    And sure our love’s but a little crime;’—­
    My apron-string now it’s wearing short,
    And my Love he seeks other girls to court.

    O with him I’d go if I had my will,
    I’d follow him barefoot o’er rock and hill;
    I’d never once speak of all my grief
    If he’d give me a smile for my heart’s relief.

    In our wee garden the rose unfolds,
    With bachelor’s-buttons and marigolds;
    I’ll tie no posies for dance or fair,
    A willow-twig is for me to wear.

    For a maid again I can never be,
    Till the red rose blooms on the willow tree. 
    Of such a trouble I’ve heard them tell,
    And now I know what it means full well.

    As through the long lonesome night I lie,
    I’d give the world if I might but cry;
    But I mus’n’t moan there or raise my voice,
    And the tears run down without any noise.