Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry. Various

For your father's on the hill, and your mother is asleep;

       Come up above the crags, and we'll dance a highland-reel

       Around the fairy thorn on the steep."

      At Anna Grace's door 'twas thus the maidens cried,

       Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the green;

       And Anna laid the rock and the weary wheel aside,

       The fairest of the four, I ween.

      They're glancing through the glimmer of the quiet eve,

       Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle bare;

       The heavy-sliding stream in its sleepy song they leave,

       And the crags in the ghostly air:

      And linking hand in hand, and singing as they go,

       The maids along the hill-side have ta'en their fearless way,

       Till they come to where the rowan trees in lonely beauty grow

       Beside the Fairy Hawthorn grey.

       The Hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and slim,

       Like matron with her twin grand-daughters at her knee;

       The rowan berries cluster o'er her low head grey and dim

       In ruddy kisses sweet to see.

      The merry maidens four have ranged them in a row,

       Between each lovely couple a stately rowan stem,

       And away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds they go,

       Oh, never caroll'd bird like them!

      But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze

       That drinks away their voices in echoless repose,

       And dreamily the evening has still'd the haunted braes,

       And dreamier the gloaming grows.

      And sinking one by one, like lark-notes from the sky

       When the falcon's shadow saileth across the open shaw,

       Are hush'd the maiden's voices, as cowering down they lie

       In the flutter of their sudden awe.

      For, from the air above, and the grassy ground beneath,

       And from the mountain-ashes and the old Whitethorn between,

       A Power of faint enchantment doth through their beings breathe,

       And they sink down together on the green.

      They sink together silent, and stealing side by side,

       They fling their lovely arms o'er their drooping necks so fair,

       Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide,

       For their shrinking necks again are bare.

      Thus clasp'd and prostrate all, with their heads together bow'd,

       Soft o'er their bosom's beating—the only human sound—

       They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy crowd,

       Like a river in the air, gliding round.

       No scream can any raise, no prayer can any say, But wild, wild, the terror of the speechless three— For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently away, By whom they dare not look to see.

      They feel their tresses twine with her parting locks of gold,

       And the curls elastic falling as her head withdraws;

       They feel her sliding arms from their tranced arms unfold,

       But they may not look to see the cause:

      For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment lies

       Through all that night of anguish and perilous amaze;

       And neither fear nor wonder can ope their quivering eyes,

       Or their limbs from the cold ground raise,

      Till out of night the earth has roll'd her dewy side,

       With every haunted mountain and streamy vale below;

       When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morning tide,

       The maidens' trance dissolveth so.

      Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may,

       And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends in vain—

       They pined away and died within the year and day,

       And ne'er was Anna Grace seen again.

THE LEGEND OF KNOCKGRAFTON.

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T. CROFTON CROCKER.

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      There was once a poor man who lived in the fertile glen of Aherlow, at the foot of the gloomy Galtee mountains, and he had a great hump on his back: he looked just as if his body had been rolled up and placed upon his shoulders; and his head was pressed down with the weight so much that his chin, when he was sitting, used to rest upon his knees for support. The country people were rather shy of meeting him in any lonesome place, for though, poor creature, he was as harmless and as inoffensive as a newborn infant, yet his deformity was so great that he scarcely appeared to be a human creature, and some ill-minded persons had set strange stories about him afloat. He was said to have a great knowledge of herbs and charms; but certain it was that he had a mighty skilful hand in plaiting straws and rushes into hats and baskets, which was the way he made his livelihood.

      Lusmore, for that was the nickname put upon him by reason of his always wearing a sprig of the fairy cap, or lusmore (the foxglove), in his little straw hat, would ever get a higher penny for his plaited work than any one else, and perhaps that was the reason why some one, out of envy, had circulated the strange stories about him. Be that as it may, it happened that he was returning one evening from the pretty town of Cahir towards Cappagh, and as little Lusmore walked very slowly, on account of the great hump upon his back, it was quite dark when he came to the old moat of Knockgrafton, which stood on the right-hand side of his road. Tired and weary was he, and noways comfortable in his own mind at thinking how much farther he had to travel, and that he should be walking all the night; so he sat down under the moat to rest himself, and began looking mournfully enough upon the moon, which—

      "Rising in clouded majesty, at length

       Apparent Queen, unveil'd her peerless light,

       And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw."

      Presently there rose a wild strain of unearthly melody upon the ear of little Lusmore; he listened, and he thought that he had never heard such ravishing music before. It was like the sound of many voices, each mingling and blending with the other so strangely that they seemed to be one, though all singing different strains, and the words of the song were these—

       Da Luan, Da Mort, Da Luan, Da Mort, Da Luan, Da Mort;

       when there would be a moment's pause, and then the round of melody went on again.

      Lusmore listened attentively, scarcely drawing his breath lest he might lose the slightest note. He now plainly perceived that the singing was within the moat; and though at first it had charmed him so much, he began to get tired of hearing the same round sung over and over so often without any change; so availing himself of the pause when Da Luan, Da Mort, had been sung three times, he took up the tune, and raised it with the words augus Da Dardeen, and then went on singing with the voices inside of the moat, Da Luan, Da Mort, finishing the melody, when the pause again came, with augus Da Dardeen.

      The