| |
| OLD lame Bridget doesn’t hear | |
| Fairy music in the grass | |
| When the gloaming’s on the mere | |
| And the shadow people pass: | |
| Never hears their slow, grey feet | 5 |
| Coming from the village street | |
| Just beyond the parson’s wall, | |
| Where the clover globes are sweet | |
| And the mushroom’s parasol | |
| Opens in the moonlit rain. | 10 |
| Every night I hear them call | |
| From their long and merry train. | |
| Old lame Bridget says to me, | |
| “It’s just your fancy, child.” | |
| She cannot believe I see | 15 |
| Laughing faces in the wild, | |
| Hands that twinkle in the sedge, | |
| Where the finny minnows quiver, | |
| Shaping on a blue wave’s ledge | |
| Bubble foam to sail the river. | 20 |
| And the sunny hands to me | |
| Beckon ever, beckon ever. | |
| Oh! I would be wild and free | |
| And with the shadow people be. | |
| |
