The cup was gold, and full of wine,
The waves roll so gayly O,
“Drink,” said the lady, “and I will be thine,”
Love me true!

“Enter my castle, lady fair,”
The waves roll so gayly O,
“You shall be queen of all that’s there,”
Love me true!

A gray old harper sang to me,
The waves roll so gayly O,
“Beware of the Damsel of the Sea!”
Love me true!

In hall he harpeth many a year,
The waves roll so gayly O,
And we will sit his song to hear,
Love me true!

“I love thee deep, I love thee true,”
The waves roll so gayly O,
“But ah!  I know not how to woo,”
Love me true!

Down dashed the cup, with a sudden shock,
The waves roll so gayly O,
The wine like blood ran over the rock,
Love me true!

She said no word, but shrieked aloud,
The waves roll so gayly O,
And vanished away from where she stood,
Love me true!

I locked and barred my castle door,
The waves roll so gayly O,
Three summer days I grieved sore,
Love me true!

For myself a day, a night,
The waves roll so gayly O,
And two to moan that lady bright,
Love me true!

From ‘Ballads and Songs.’

THE FAIRIES

(A CHILD’S SONG)

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 have made 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 Sliveleague 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 lakes,
     On a bed of flag leaves
       Watching till she wakes.

     By the craggy hillside,
       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 feel their sharpest thorns
       In his bed at night.