Ceol Sidhe

When May is here, and every morn Is dappled with pied bells, And dewdrops glance along the thorn And wings flash in the dells, I take my pipe and play a tune Of dreams, a whispered melody, For feet that dance beneath the moon In fairy jollity.

And when the pastoral hills are grey And the dim stars are spread, A scamper fills the grass like play Of feet where fairies tread. And many a little whispering thing Is calling to the Shee. The dewy bells of evening ring, And all is melody.