Down along the rocky shore Of the black mountain-lake, High on the hill-top The old King sits; He is now so old and gray 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 lakes, On a bed of flag leaves, Watching till she wakes. By the craggy hillside, Through the mosses bare, As dig one up in spite? Up the airy mountain, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather ! - William Allingham. CASTLES IN THE AIR. THE bonnie, bonnie bairn Who sits with careless grace, Glowring in the fire, With his wee, round face, Ha! the young dreamer His wee, chubby face, And his rough, curly head, Are dancing and nodding To the fire in its bed d; A wee thing makes us think, A small thing makes us stare, There are more folks than him Building castles in the air. Such a night in winter May well make him cold; With his castles in the air! He'll glower at the fire, And he'll glance at the light! But many sparkling stars Are swallowed up in night; Older eyes than his Are dazzled by a glare Hearts are broken - heads are turned With castles in the air. -James Ballantyne. |