SYDNEY DOBELL

But she neither tiirn'd her head Nor 'Whistly, whistly/ said she. Her hands were folded as in grace, We laid her with her ancient race And all the village wept.

��WILLIAM ALLINGHAM

1824-188.) 769- The Fames

IP 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.

�� �