Matheson Collection > Folk tales and fairy lore in Gaelic and English

i
I
FAIRY SONG.
[My child, smooth-shining, my own one pale.
Smiting the horses with hand of mail,
The horses shod, and the horses fleeting,
My little sweeting.
'Tis sad that I could not see thy fold,
High, high up on the slope of the wold,
A garment slender, napped, o' the green,
Round thy fair shoulders, and a smock's sheen,
My little child.
'Tis sad that I could not see thy team,
And the men tend it, at evening beam,
The women of Conall homeward going.
And the Catanaich sowing.
O thousandfold soft, O thousandfold blest.
Whom my womb bore, who sucked at my breast,
And my knees who pressed.
O 'tis my child, my armful of yew,
Lusty and fat, my soft rush true.
My hope in my talk, my own flesh and blood,
Last year 'neath my girdle, a fruit in the bud,
Thou wilt be this year, fair and neat.
On my shoulder through the township street,
Mv little child.