Elves and Heroes. Donald Alexander Mackenzie. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: Donald Alexander Mackenzie
Издательство: Public Domain
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the golden moon is glinting

        In the deep, dim wood,

      There's a fairy piper playing

        To the elfin brood;

      They dance and shout and turn about,

        And laugh and swing and sway—

      The droll folk, the knoll folk, the folk that dance alway.

      O we that bless the wee folk

        Have naught to fear,

      And ne'er an elfin arrow

        Will come us near;

      For they'll give skill in music,

        And every wish obey—

      The wise folk, the peace folk, the folk that work and play.

      They'll hasten here at harvest,

        They will shear and bind;

      They'll come with elfin music

        On a western wind;

      All night they'll sit among the sheaves,

        Or herd the kine that stray—

      The quick folk, the fine folk, the folk that ask no pay.

      Betimes they will be spinning

        The while we sleep,

      They'll clamber down the chimney,

        Or through keyholes creep;

      And when they come to borrow meal

        We'll ne'er them send away—

      The good folk, the honest folk, the folk that work alway.

      O never wrong the wee folk—

        The red folk and green,

      Nor name them on the Fridays,

        Or at Hallowe'en;

      The helpless and unwary then

        And bairns they lure away—

      The fierce folk, the angry folk, the folk that steal and slay.

      BONNACH FALLAIDH

(THE REMNANT BANNOCK.)

      O, the good-wife will be singing

        When her meal is all but done—

      Now all my bannocks have I baked,

        I've baked them all but one;

      And I'll dust the board to bake it,

        I'll bake it with a spell—

      O, it's Finlay's little bannock

        For going to the well.

      The bannock on the brander

        Smells sweet for your desire—

      O my crisp ones I will count not

        On two sides of the fire;

      And not a farl has fallen

        Some evil to foretell!—

      O it's Finlay's little bannock

        For going to the well.

      The bread would not be lasting,

        'Twould crumble in your hand;

      When fairies would be coming here

        To turn the meal to sand—

      But what will keep them dancing

        In their own green dell?

      O it's Finlay's little bannock

        For going to the well.

      Now, not a fairy finger

        Will do my baking harm—

      The little bannock with the hole,

        O it will be the charm.

      I knead it, I knead it, 'twixt my palms,

        And all the bairns I tell—

      O it's Finlay's little bannock

        For going to the well.

      THE BANSHEE

      Knee-deep she waded in the pool—

        The Banshee robed in green—

      She sang yon song the whole night long,

        And washed the linen clean;

      The linen that would wrap the dead

        She beetled on a stone,

      She stood with dripping hands, blood-red,

        Low singing all alone—

      His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night!

      'Twas Fergus More rode o'er the hill,

        Come back from foreign wars,

      His horse's feet were clattering sweet

        Below the pitiless stars;

      And in his heart he would repeat—

        "O never again I'll roam;

      All weary is the going forth,

        But sweet the coming home!"

      His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night!

      He saw the blaze upon his hearth

        Come gleaming down the glen;

      For he was fain for home again,

        And rode before his men—

      "'Tis many a weary day," he'd sigh,

        "Since I would leave her side;

      I'll never more leave Scotland's shore

        And yon, my dark-eyed bride."

      His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night!

      So dreaming of her tender love,

        Soft tears his eyes would blind—

      When up there crept and swiftly leapt

        A man who stabbed behind—

      "'Tis you," he cried, "who stole my bride,

        This night shall be your last!" …

      When Fergus fell, the warm, red tide

        Of life came ebbing fast …

      His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night!

      CONN, SON OF THE RED

      The Fians sojourned by the shore

      Of comely Cromarty, and o'er

      The wooded hill pursued the chase

      With ardour. 'Twas a full moon's space

      Ere Beltane1 rites would be begun

      With homage to the rising sun—

      Ere to the spirits of the dead

      Would sacrificial blood be shed

      In yon green grove of Navity—2

      When Conn came over the Eastern Sea,

      His heart aflame with vengeful ire,

      To seek for Goll, who slew his sire

      When he was seven years old.

                                   Finn saw

      In


<p>1</p>

May Day.

<p>2</p>

Traditional Holy Hill