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 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 pleaseure here and there.
	Is any man so daring
	  As to dig one 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!

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