And when the pastoral hills are grey And the dim stars are spread, A scamper fills the grass like play Of feet where fairies tread. And many a little whispering thing Is calling to the Shee. The dewy bells of evening ring, And all is melody.
The rushes nod by the river As the winds on the loud waves go, And the things they nod of are many, For it's many the secret they know.
And I think they are wise as the fairies Who lived ere the hills were high, They nod so grave by the river To everyone passing by.
If they would tell me their secrets I would go by a hidden way, To the rath when the moon retiring Dips dim horns into the gray.
And a fairy-girl out of Leinster In a long dance I should meet, My heart to her heart beating, My feet in rhyme with her feet.
All the dead kings came to me At Rosnaree, where I was dreaming. A few stars glimmered through the morn, And down the thorn the dews were streaming.
And every dead king had a story Of ancient glory, sweetly told. It was too early for the lark, But the starry dark had tints of gold.
I listened to the sorrows three Of that Eirë passed into song. A cock crowed near a hazel croft, And up aloft dim larks winged strong.
And I, too, told the kings a story Of later glory, her fourth sorrow: There was a sound like moving shields In high green fields and the lowland furrow.
And one said: "We who yet are kings Have heard these things lamenting inly." Sweet music flowed from many a bill And on the hill the morn stood queenly.
And one said: "Over is the singing, And bell bough ringing, whence we come; With heavy hearts we'll tread the shadows, In honey meadows birds are dumb."
And one said: "Since the poets perished And all they cherished in the way, Their thoughts unsung, like petal showers Inflame the hours of blue and gray."
And one said: "A loud tramp of men We'll hear again at Rosnaree." A bomb burst near me where I lay. I woke, 'twas day in Picardy.
The silence of maternal hills Is round me in my evening dreams; And round me music-making bills And mingling waves of pastoral streams.
Whatever way I turn I find The path is old unto me still. The hills of home are in my mind, And there I wander as I will.
Had I a golden pound to spend, My love should mend and sew no more. And I would buy her a little quern, Easy to turn on the kitchen floor.