WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
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
I>eep 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 thall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, daren't go a-hunting For fear of little menj
�� �
