THE ROAD TO ELFLAND

And see ye not yon bonny road
That winds about the ferny brae?
That is the road to fair Elfland
Where you and I this night maun gae.

Aus alten Märchen winkt es

Hervor mit weisser Hand,

Da singt es und da klingt es
Von einem Zauberland.

Wo alle Bäume sprechen,

Old Ballad

Und singen wie ein Chor,
Und laute Quellen brechen
Wie Tanzmusik hervor.

Heine

THE ROAD TO ELFLAND

THE HORNS OF ELFLAND

HE splendor falls on castle walls

TH

And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying!

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying!

O love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,

And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying! Alfred, Lord Tennyson

FROM THE HILLS OF DREAM

A

CROSS the silent stream

Where the slumber-shadows go,
From the dim blue Hills of Dream
I have heard the west wind blow.

Who hath seen that fragrant land,
Who hath seen that unscanned west?
Only the listless hand

And the unpulsing breast.

But when the west wind blows
I see moon-lances gleam
Where the Host of Faerie flows
Athwart the Hills of Dream.

And a strange song I have heard

By a shadowy stream,

And the singing of a snow-white bird On the Hills of Dream.

Fiona Macleod.

THE FAIRIES

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 pleasure here and there.

If any man so daring

As dig them up in spite,

He shall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,