And not a girl in all the town, From Dhua to Glenlur, Could wander through the mountain’s heath Or climb the rocks with her. The Lammas sun was shinin’ on The meadows all so brown; The neighbours gathered far and near To cut the ripe crops down; And pleasant was the mornin’, And dewy was the dawn, And gay and lightsome-hearted To the sunny fields they’re gone. The joke was passing lightly, And the laugh was loud and free; There was neither care nor trouble To disturb their hearty glee; When, says Peggy, resting in among The sweet and scented hay, “I wonder is there one would brave The Fairy well to-day!” She looked up with her laughin’ eyes, So soft at Willy Rhu; Och murdher! that she didn’t need His warnin’ kind and true! But all the boys and girls laughed, And Willy Rhu looked shy; God help you, Willy! sure they saw The throuble in your eye. “Now, by my faith!” young Connell says— “I like your notion well— There’s a power more than gospel In what crazy gossips tell.” Oh, my heavy hatred fall upon Young Connell of Sliabh-Mast! He took the cruel vengeance For his scorned love at last. The jokin’ and the jibin’ And the banterin’ went on, One girl dared another, And they all dared Peggy Bawn. Till, leaping up, away she flew Down to the hollow green— Her bright locks, floating in the wind, Like golden lights were seen. They saw her at the Fairy-well— Their laughin’ died away, They saw her stoop above its brink With heart as cold as clay. Oh! mother, mother, never stand Upon your cabin floor! You heard the cry that through your heart Will ring for evermore; For when she came up from the well, No one could stand her look: Her eye was wild—her cheek was pale— They saw her mind was shook: And the gaze she cast around her Was so ghastly and so sad— “O Christ preserve us!” shouted all, “Poor Peggy Blake’s gone mad!” The moon was up—the stars were out, And shining through the sky, When young and old stood mourning round To see their darling die. Poor Peggy from her death-bed rose— Her face was pale and cold, And down about her shoulders hung The lovely locks of gold. “All you that’s here this night,” she said, “Take warnin’ by my fate, Whoever braves the Fairies’ wrath, Their sorrow comes too late.” The tear was startin’ in her eye, She clasp’d her throbbin’ head, And when the sun next mornin’ rose Poor Peggy Bawn was dead. JAMES TEELING. THE HAUNTED SPRING. [It is said, Fays have the power to assume various shapes for the purpose of luring mortals into Fairyland; hunters seem to have been particularly the objects of the lady fairies’ fancies.]