Adieu to evening dances, when merry neighbours meet, And the fiddle says to boys and girls, 'Get up and shake your feet!' To _shanachus_ and wise old talk of Erin's days gone by-- Who trench'd the rath on such a hill, and where the bones may lie Of saint, or king, or warrior chief; with tales of fairy power, And tender ditties sweetly sung to pass the twilight hour. The mournful song of exile is now for me to learn-- Adieu, my dear companions on the winding banks of Erne! Now measure from the Commons down to each end of the Purt, Round the Abbey, Moy, and Knather,--I wish no one any hurt; The Main Street, Back Street, College Lane, the Mall, and Portnasun, If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one. I hope that man and womankind will do the same by me; For my heart is sore and heavy at voyaging the sea. My loving friends I'll bear in mind, and often fondly turn To think of Ballyshanny and the winding banks of Erne! If ever I'm a money'd man, I mean, please God, to cast My golden anchor in the place where youthful years were past; Though heads that now are black and brown must meanwhile gather gray, New faces rise by every hearth, and old ones drop away-- Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world beside; It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, through lands and waters wide. And if the Lord allows me, I surely will return To my native Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne. _William Allingham_ 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 bleak 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 Sleeveleague 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.