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<blockquote data-quote="John Q. Mayhem" data-source="post: 3485673" data-attributes="member: 13525">Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And grey cock's feather!Down along the rocky shore,Some make their home,They live on crispy pancakesOf yellow tide-foam;Some in the reedsOf the black mountain-lake,With frogs for their watch-dogs,All night awake.High on the hill-topThe old king sits;He is now so old and greyHe's nigh lost his wits.With a bridge of white mistColumbkille he crosses,On his stately journeysFrom Slieve League to Rosses;Or going up with musicOn cold starry nights,To sup with the QueenOf the gay Northern LightsThey stole little BridgetFor seven years long.When she came down againHer 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 sinceDeep within the lakes,On a bed of flag-leaves,Watching till she wakes.By the craggy hill-side,Through the mosses bareThey have planted thorn treesFor pleasure here and there.Is any man so daringTo dig up one in spite,He shall find the thornies setIn his bed at night.Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And grey cock's feather!&nbsp;<img src="http://www.enworld.org/forum/images/smilies/paranoid.png"&nbsp; class="smilie" loading="lazy" alt=":uhoh:" title="Paranoid&nbsp; &nbsp; :uhoh:" data-shortname=":uhoh:" /></blockquote>

[QUOTE="John Q. Mayhem, post: 3485673, member: 13525"] 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 grey cock'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 grey He's nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mist Columbkille he crosses, On his stately journeys From Slieve League 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 lakes, On a bed of flag-leaves, Watching till she wakes. By the craggy hill-side, Through the mosses bare They have planted thorn trees For pleasure here and there. Is any man so daring To dig up one in spite, He shall find the thornies set In his bed at night. 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 grey cock's feather! :uhoh: [/QUOTE]

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