The King of the Fairies
Up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-huntin' for fear of little men.
Wee folk, good folk, troopin' all together,
Green jacket, red cap and white owl's feather.
By the craggy hillside, thru' the mosses fair,
They've planted thorn trees for pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring as to cut them down in spite.
He'll find the sharpest thorns in his bed at night.
High upon the hilltop the old kings sits
He's now so old and gray he's nearly lost his wits.
Rising with the music on a calm and starry night
To sup with the queen of the gay north lights.
Repeat first verse.
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