WILLIAM ALLINGHAM

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 that 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. If any man so daring

As dig them up in spite, He shall find their sharpest thorns

In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,

Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men ;

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