And no one shall know of our beautiful dream

But you and

your own little dearie.

And when I am tired I'll nestle my head

In the bosom that's sooth'd me so often, And the wide-awake stars shall sing in my stead A song which our dreaming shall soften. So Mother-My-Love, let me take your dear hand,

And away through the starlight we'll wander

Away through the mist to the beautiful land

The Dreamland that's waiting out yonder!

EUGENE FIELD.

Fairy-Land

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 grey
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 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

As dig one up in spite,

He shall find their sharpest thorns
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 white owl's feather!

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

Shakespeare's Fairies

(Some of them,—)

Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and

And

groves,

ye

that on the sands with printless foot

Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him When he comes back; you demi-puppets,' that By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime

Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice To hear the solemn curfew.

(They Dance and Play,-)

Come unto these yellow sands,

And then take hands:

Courtsied when you have, and kiss'd,

The wild waves whist,2

Foot it featly3 here and there;

And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear.