King of the Faeries Up the airy mountain, through 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. By the craggy hillside, through the mosses bare They've planted thorn trees for pleasure here and there. Is any man so daring as to dig them up in spite He'll find the sharpest thorns in his bed at night. High up on the hill top the old king sits He's now so old and grey he's nearly lost his wits He's rising with the music on the cold starry night To sup with the queen of the gay north light. Trad. Irish CH
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