St. Aubrey’s Way

Down along the rocky shore, some make their home
They live on crispy pancakes of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watchdogs, all night awake.

High on the hill-top, the old King sits;
He’s now so old and grey he’s nigh lost his wits.
On a bridge of white mist Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys, from Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with the music, on cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen of the shimmering Northern Lights.

Caught between the Celtic rays
And the dying sunlight, and Autumn days
Fairies dance, and children play
In the soft Golden glow of St. Aubrey’s way

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’ve kept her ever since, deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag-leaves, watching and waiting until she wakes.

Caught between the Celtic rays
And the dying sunlight, and Autumn days
Fairies dance, and children play
In the soft Golden glow of St. Aubrey’s way

Through the craggy hillside, through the mosses bare,
They’ve planted thorn trees, for pleasure, here and there.
Is any man so daring, as dig them up in spite,
He’ll find their sharpest thorns In his bed at night.

Caught between the Celtic rays
And the dying sunlight, and Autumn days
Fairies dance, and children play
In the soft Golden glow of St. Aubrey’s way