The Fairies
Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting,
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather.
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 watch-dogs,
All night awake.
High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music,
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen,
Of the gay Northern Lights.
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 she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag leaves,
Watching till she wake.
By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite?
He shall find the thornies set
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting,
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather.
Commentary
Viewed against the Blytonised, Disneyfied and generally “made to sound all soft and sappy / just to keep the children happy” version of fairies and elves that is currently prevalent, today’s poem strikes a rather discordant note. Where, after all, does the “fear of little men” come in? What could one possibly have to fear from little, gauzy-winged creatures resplendent in primary colours?
The following, somewhat tangentially related quote from Pratchett comes to mind…
Elves are wonderful. They provoke wonder.
Elves are marvellous. They cause marvels.
Elves are fantastic. They create fantasies.
Elves are glamourous. They project glamour.
Elves are enchanting. They weave enchantment.
Elves are terrific. They beget terror.
The thing about words is that meanings can twist just like a snake, and if you want to find snakes look for them behind words that have changed their meaning.
–Terry Pratchett, “Lords and Ladies”
However, in Irish folklore, the primary characteristic of the sidhe is not that they are evil, per se, but that they are powerful and capricious, and have ways of thought and action not altogether human.
Who are they? “Fallen angels who were not good enough to be saved, nor bad enough to be lost,” say the peasantry. “The gods of the earth,” says the Book of Armagh. “ The gods of pagan Ireland,” say the Irish antiquarians, “the Tuatha De Danan, who, when no longer worshipped and fed with offerings, dwindled away in the popular imagination, and now are only a few spans high.”
– William Butler Yeats, “Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry”
The third verse of today’s poem is an excellent illustration; the almost casual playfulness of the wee folk - “they took her lightly back” contrasts starkly with the plight of the hapless child, who is, unbeknownst to her captors, “dead with sorrow”.
In almost dissonant contrast to the “fear of little men” note is the light, tripping metre of the poem; a reminder that the wee folk are indeed wondrous and magical, and a harbinger, in its nursery-rhyme sing-song, of a time when they would dwindle in significance to “fairy tales”.
Biography
Born in Ballyshannon, Co.Donegal, where he was in the Customs Service, Allingham published his first book of poems in 1850. He visited London in 1847, and in 1851 began a lifelong friendship with Tennyson, the star of the Diary Tennyson talking and walking, airing his prejudices, reading his poems. Browning and Carlyle in London feature prominently, and Leigh Hunt, Thackeray, Emerson, George Eliot, William Morris, the Rossettis, Patmore, William Barnes, Froude, Palgrave, Burne-Jones, Turgenev are other dramatis personae of a diary covering nearly half a century.
Allingham’s poem The Fairies Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen… continues to be widely known and loved, whilst his verse-novel Laurence Bloomfield in Ireland was admired, not least by Turgenev.
He died in Hampstead, London, in 1889; his urn lies buried in the churchyard at Ballyshannon.
– “William Allingham’s Diary 1847-1889”
http://www.opengate.demon.co.uk/frame31177.html
Links
‘Fairies’ was set to music by Sir Arnold Bax:
http://www.recmusic.org/lieder/b/bax.html
An excellent collection of Celtic folklore and mythology
[broken link] http://www.belinus.co.uk/folklore/Homeextra.htm
See, especially, Yeats on the Trooping Fairies:
[broken link] http://www.belinus.co.uk/folklore/Files8/WBYTroopingFairies.htm
“Some Disturbing Thoughts About Fairies” - long, but interesting essay
http://www.whitedragon.org.uk/articles/darkgreen.htm
— Martin
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From the Wondering Minstrels mailing list, 1999–2008.
Kay Clover · 17 March 2004
My mother would read me this strange and scary poem when I was a child.(taken from an old 1918 4th grade primer from when she was a child). I was fascinated! In 2nd grade, we had to recite a memorized poem for a class project; so, among all the simple Mother Goose rhymes offered by my classmates, I recited this long and darkling tale of Irish elves and changling children. Needless to say, my teacher was taken aback at first, but later, finding out that I could also read the entire old primer, she became my mentor and tutor. To this day, I can recite this poem. It is strange getting old…childhood things are still so fresh, while last week becomes foggy. The brain plays tricks, sort of like the ‘little people’ in this poem.
DAVID IRESON · 28 July 2006
Like another correspondent i can remember my Mother reciting this poem, and I think I once saw it printed in a book- o 45 years ago. Why it popped into my head after all thes years i don’t know, but I’m glad to be reunited with it
Tim Mckinstry · 2 November 2006
I once heard the first verse of this poem as a child and was immediatly enchanted by the words although I did not much understand it. Many years later I came upon the rest of the poem and was surprised to discover from my mother that we are related to William Allingham. My family name is Mckinstry, my mother’s maiden name was Richardson and her mother’s maiden name was Allingham. I can see his artistic touch still runs in the family to this day.
Thank you for researching and uploading this poem to the web, saved me alot of time looking for it.
morgan · 18 January 2007
Hello,
When I was a little girl back in the very early 1930’s, this poem was a favourite, but it always sent a frisson running up my spine. I’ve come across it every few decades and love it over and over again. The rhythm made it so easy to memorize. I’ve apparently given away a book that had this poem in it, and have been searching all over the place…couldn’t even remember the title let alone the author. And here it is. I’m glad to see it is still read and loved.
annie morgan