 | Shamrocks |  |
95
THE SECOND SIGHT.
In Belgard Orchard, old and grey,
You said the fairies danced at their play
When all the world is lovely with May,
And the apple-boughs are in rose and pearl:
The borned moon hangs in the willow tree,
And the owl is hooting so eerily,
But fairy revels were blithe to see,
With shimmer of satin and glint of curl.
You said the fairies danced at their play
When all the world is lovely with May,
And the apple-boughs are in rose and pearl:
The borned moon hangs in the willow tree,
And the owl is hooting so eerily,
But fairy revels were blithe to see,
With shimmer of satin and glint of curl.
There are no fairies, sister dear;
Only the white moon shining here
On last year's mosses, yellow and sere,
And a donkey sleeps by the lichened wall.
But now with your lour-leafed shamrock's might,
And your velvety fingers, cold and white,
Touch mine eyes that I see aright
The fairies holding their fairy ball.
Only the white moon shining here
On last year's mosses, yellow and sere,
And a donkey sleeps by the lichened wall.
But now with your lour-leafed shamrock's might,
And your velvety fingers, cold and white,
Touch mine eyes that I see aright
The fairies holding their fairy ball.
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Oh, there's a lady tall as a span,
With the fairest face since the world began,
And she smiles on the daintiest gentleman
With a velvet coat and a sword by his side;
His ruffles are all of jewels and lace,
And he kisses her hand with the courtliest grace,
And even he looks to her winsome face:
I think the pair be bridegroom and bride.
With the fairest face since the world began,
And she smiles on the daintiest gentleman
With a velvet coat and a sword by his side;
His ruffles are all of jewels and lace,
And he kisses her hand with the courtliest grace,
And even he looks to her winsome face:
I think the pair be bridegroom and bride.
On a purple toadstool she's thronèd high,
With a beetle's back for her footstool nigh,
O'erhead is a scarlet butterfly
With wings spread wide for her canopy;
Her bridal robe of the diamond dew,
Where opal and amber and rose look through,
Shimmers down to her sapphire shoe;
Her hair is lighted by fireflies three.
With a beetle's back for her footstool nigh,
O'erhead is a scarlet butterfly
With wings spread wide for her canopy;
Her bridal robe of the diamond dew,
Where opal and amber and rose look through,
Shimmers down to her sapphire shoe;
Her hair is lighted by fireflies three.
On greater toadstools, yellow and red,
I ween is a dainty banquet spread,
With wine of cowslips and beechen bread
And honey-dew from the honey-bee;
And fairies clad in the gold and rose,
With light wings hued like the silver snows,
And long-lashed eyes where the violet blows,
Dance out in a ring from the apple tree.
I ween is a dainty banquet spread,
With wine of cowslips and beechen bread
And honey-dew from the honey-bee;
And fairies clad in the gold and rose,
With light wings hued like the silver snows,
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Dance out in a ring from the apple tree.
Sister learned in the fairy lore,
Tell me the story you told before,
Of the fairy Queen and Prince Miraflore,
Whose loves went wrong as a mortal's will.
Over your cradle so long ago
A fairy sang in the white moon's flow,
And kissed your eyes and your brows that know,
And touched your lips with their elfin skill.
Tell me the story you told before,
Of the fairy Queen and Prince Miraflore,
Whose loves went wrong as a mortal's will.
Over your cradle so long ago
A fairy sang in the white moon's flow,
And kissed your eyes and your brows that know,
And touched your lips with their elfin skill.
Sister dear, is the pain set right;
And is this the feast of their wedding-night?
Your face is pale, and your eyes burn bright:
Oh, leave not us for your fairy kin!
The dancers dance, and the violins soar;
But hear you not from our cottage door
Our father calling your name, Asthore,
And our mother sing as her fingers spin?
And is this the feast of their wedding-night?
Your face is pale, and your eyes burn bright:
Oh, leave not us for your fairy kin!
The dancers dance, and the violins soar;
But hear you not from our cottage door
Our father calling your name, Asthore,
And our mother sing as her fingers spin?
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