"And what are you brewing, mammy?" said the little imp, whose supernatural gift of speech now proved beyond question that he was a fairy substitute.
"I wish the poker was red," thought Mrs. Sullivan; but it was a large one, and took a long time heating; so she determined to keep him in talk until the poker was in a proper state to thrust down his throat, and therefore repeated the question.
"Is it what I'm brewing, _a vick_," said she, "you want to know?"
"Yes, mammy: what are you brewing?" returned the fairy.
"Egg-shells, _a vick_," said Mrs. Sullivan.
"Oh!" shrieked the imp, starting up in the cradle, and clapping his hands together, "I'm fifteen hundred years in the world, and I never saw a brewery of egg-shells before!" The poker was by this time quite red, and Mrs. Sullivan, seizing it, ran furiously towards the cradle; but somehow or other her foot slipped, and she fell flat on the floor, and the poker flew out of her hand to the other end of the house. However, she got up without much loss of time and went to the cradle, intending to pitch the wicked thing that was in it into the pot of boiling water, when there she saw her own child in a sweet sleep, one of his soft round arms rested upon the pillow--his features were as placid as if their repose had never been disturbed, save the rosy mouth, which moved with a gentle and regular breathing.
Sweet babe! a golden cradle holds thee, And soft the snow-white fleece enfolds thee; In airy bower I'll watch thy sleeping, Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping. Shuheen, sho, lulo lo!
When mothers languish broken-hearted, When young wives are from husbands parted, Ah! little think the keeners lonely, They weep some time-worn fairy only. Shuheen sho, lulo lo!
Within our magic halls of brightness, Trips many a foot of snowy whiteness; Stolen maidens, queens of fairy-- And kings and chiefs a sluagh-shee airy, Shuheen sho, lulo lo!
Rest thee, babe! I love thee dearly, And as thy mortal mother nearly; Ours is the swiftest steed and proudest, That moves where the tramp of the host is loudest. Shuheen sho, lulo lo!
Rest thee, babe! for soon thy slumbers Shall flee at the magic koelshie's[7] numbers; In airy bower I'll watch thy sleeping, Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping. Shuheen sho, lulo, lo!