Part 1

Chapter 13,593 wordsPublic domain

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PUCK IN PASTURE

_VERSE & DECORATIONS BY_

ELIZABETH MACKINSTRY

Published by _Doubleday, Page & Co._, at their _Country Life Press_, GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK MCMXXV

FIRST EDITION

_To Emily Howland Lyman_

CONTENTS

PAGE

PUCK IN PASTURE 1

THE FAIRY RAIDERS 8

THE LEPRECAUN 10

TIR-N’AN-OG 12

THE ELFIN ANGELUS 13

GIRL’S SONG 19

FAWN O’MERA 20

THE ELFIN HILLS 24

THE ELFIN FAIR 28

THE PLAINT OF THE CAPTIVE FIELD MOUSE 31

THE MAN THAT GOT THE CALL 32

THE OLD SHIP 35

TO THE WIND 39

MIDSUMMER’S NIGHT 40

THE CARAVAN 42

THE GYPSY BABY 45

THE WILD GEESE 46

A FAIRY SONG 48

THE NIXIE’S POOL 50

THE BECKONING OUT 52

SONG 56

THE OSPREY FOLK 57

MERLIN 61

THE PRINCESS OF YAN 69

THE SPELL OF COLD 74

THE OLD POET FORETELLS THE MANNER OF HIS DEATH 77

PUCK IN PASTURE

’Twas after a wild and a hedgerow night I woke from my sleep the morn, And I heard a Parson saying his prayers All under a sweet white thorn.

O solemn and lovely the words he said, Each word like a homing dove, Till I grew ashamed of my ill-spent life And the fern-seed manner thereof.

“O I will go down to Farmer Brown His cot in the rushy glen, And ask for work, and I’ll bear my part, A man in the world of men.”

So I routed me up to a mortal size With a voice that I thickened rough, “And could I have bed for milking the cows, And the milk would be board enough?”

“I’m thinking you’ve milked more purses than cows,” Says the Farmer astraddle the lea With his two big boots in a cowslip bed, “So it’s see and believe, for me!”

Well, the first that I tackled was old Brown Bess, And she was a shirker sure, But I shot her stiff with a few cold words On her ways wi’ the Bull o’ the Moor.

And I milked her hard, and I milked her fast, And she dared not flicker one red Square half inch of her old cow hide, And the eyes popped out of his head.

“Well, I milked her boy, and I milked her man, But never in all my days Has the old cow frothered up such a pail!” And the milk sang a roundelays,

Hollow and sweet in the empty pail, Tinkling round the brim, Hushy and soft when the pail was full, And O that was the beat of him.

Once out in the pasture I shunted size And I mounted a mullein stalk, And I gave the cattle (the ill-geered folk!) The a-hem of a Fairy talk.

Then I drove them here, and I drove them there, Wherever the grass was sweet, Till their bellies bulged like a turnip top Set over their rootlet feet.

O I hunted them here, and I hunted them there, With whoop and halloo between, Till little they grew, and nimble and sweet Like the droves of the Fairy Queen.

O the milk came out of those wee brown cows Creamy and rich and great, And white as a wreath of the Fairy foam With the floods of the Hills in spate.

And the milkmaids milked, and the Goodwife milked, And the farmlads milked like mad, And the Goodman buttoned his breeches tight For the wad of a purse he had.

But wow! One night when the moon was full, At the minchiken Hour o’ Mouse, The de’il got into the cattle AND They danced it about the house.

O! the Goodman swore, and the Goodwife swooned And the children were frantic things, But the de’il got into the cattle AND They danced it about in rings.

Wi’ crumplety horns, and twinklety hoofs, They danced to a jigglety tune, While old Brown Bess in the van gave tongue To “The Cow Jumped over the Moon.”

O they sent for the Parson who brought the Book, And he hammered it out wi’ blows, And that was a wonderful, woeful night, And I went under the rose.

O I dared not go, and I dared not stay, And my belly was cold the dawn, But break o’ the day, I was up and away, And over the fern seed gone!

O I’ll not go back, and I daren’t go back, And the mortals may mind their cows, But the Goodman knows that the purse was full With Puck of the Hills to house.

THE FAIRY RAIDERS

“_With hazel wands and singing._”--OLD SONG.

As old as little birds the Fairy babies As old, and wise, and quaint, with tearless eyes Grave with the solemn lore of Fairy splendour, But O, the little human child is tender, And silly soft, and weak, and oft it cries.

The Spinning Spiders tend the Fairy babies, Content to weave them silken cradles hung In lonely moor, or fen, or shadowy heather, But O, the human child is housed from weather In inglenooks, and warm, where songs are sung.

Through dreams of strange dominion, known to Merlin, Or craving for small fingering hands it seems, The Fairy Raiders haunt our cradles, bringing Exquisite pointed faces and soft singing To lure away the child that hears in dreams.

The Fairy Raiders bear away the children, Unseen, to Elfin pasture lands they pass, And deep in nodding daisy nests they place them Where by the low, red, rosy glow you trace them, And rings of singing larks down in the grass.

There they are one with long heart-breaking sunsets In gay, unearthly lands, and radiant dawns, Till good they grow, and great, and have no sorrow-- But O, the mothers’ mortal woe the morrow To find the changeling left, the true child gone!

THE LEPRECAUN

_If you can catch a Leprecaun you are a made man!_

Oho! The Elves of Ireland They dance so hard at night They dance their very shoes away In splendour and delight. God bless their Elemental souls, You cannot see them for the holes!

The only Elf in Ireland That has a trade at all It is the cobbler Leprecaun Who makes and mends them all The shoes they dance away by night In green and moony demi-light.

He is the first of cobblers And best of craftsmen too. For why?--He works at happy things By gaiety worn through. God send us each a Leprecaun To mend the heart of us at dawn!

He’s caught the secret of the Earth, Sun, wind, and Summer rain To better happy things that pass Or build them up again. They’re few of mortal men that look So far into the Great Green Book.

If you can catch a Leprecaun And steal away his cap You’ll maybe get a Pot o’ Gold In an exchange, but hap The Leprecaun has never told His secret--what’s a Pot o’ Gold?

TIR-N’AN-OG[1]

O it may be the path that the sea gull takes Will bring us to Tir-n’an-Og to-night, The sorrowful spell of the sea foam makes Their wings so white.

Or it may be the gold and the crimson proud Of to-morrow’s sunset will see us come Where far from the trouble of wind and cloud The soul finds home.

I’ll be holding you close in a quiet place And may be the trouble will cease That came from wanting your beautiful face, Or turn to peace.

FOOTNOTE

[1] Tir-n’an-Og, Land of the Fay, Land of the Young.

THE ELFIN ANGELUS

Are all the roads to Elfland closed, Are all the gates locked fast? And is there not some Fairy spot, Or deep, remote, and sylvan grot Left open where they passed? Ah! hark to what the twilight tells On silver bells, on silver bells!

Say all the lovely, lonely spells, Swing free the doors again! Lo! from the open Hills we ride Through moss and moonlight, far and wide No rider rides in vain! We fight the old, victorious wars ’Neath silver stars, ’neath silver stars.

Though earth is weary with its scars, King Arthur, as it seems, Lies done to death in Avalon, Yet living eyes shall look upon The mercy of their dreams. Sure is each hope on vision stayed, Though long delayed, though long delayed.

Those airy shapes toward which man prayed In Nature’s holy name, In shapes as light, as cool, as green As dancing leaves high boughs between, They put him not to shame. Sure help in all high wars men win From Fairy kin, from Fairy kin.

For, lo! the veil between is thin And easy cast aside, And when the call of man is heard The heart of all the Hills is stirred And all the doors swing wide. And man is succoured and reprieved, Though sorely grieved, though sorely grieved.

For no man is by hope deceived Though spells may cast their lure, And though the aspect suffer change To things unearthly sweet, or strange, Or dreadful to endure. Each man shall win, unless he tire, His Heart’s Desire, his Heart’s Desire!

Those things toward which good men aspire Although the world condemn, And though they seem to die, apart, Safe hid in Nature’s holy heart, Grow great to comfort them. So peace from earth be with you still, Men of good will, men of good will.

GIRL’S SONG

O Angus Og has four love birds That follow him where-so-ever; And two cry out, “I go, I go,” And two cry out, “Come hither.”

They are plumed like the blue-green water, And the four birds call to me, “I go, I go,” and “Come hither.” I’m thinking they call from the sea.

O maybe I’ll go one sunrise Where the breakers curl and comb, And bare my breast to the four love birds And cry, “Come home, Come home.”

FAWN O’MERA

Had you never, Fawn O’Mera, Never heard the magic bell Tolling from the belfries airy Of the towered land of Fairy Where the Elfin people dwell?

Had you never, Fawn O’Mera, Seen the Laughing People ride, Gold, and green, and rowan, trooping Like a flock of sea gulls swooping Out to sea, by some roadside?

Little bits of sticks, and snatches Tattered too, of roadside straw; Here and there the dead leaves whirling In the wind; the gray dust pearling Over them was all they saw!

They, the New Born souls, that newly Grow to threescore year and ten, Ancient only in the cradle, Crafty with the porridge ladle, Children still as greedy men.

But the lovely, loving, lilting, Laughing Wise Ones who are Old, Whom a thousand years make tender, And whose kind eyes know the splendour Of the Dawn, saw fairy gold!

Hear them singing, Fawn O’Mera! Girlhood guessed the song before. Now, the candles flare and dwindle, And a burden grows the spindle, And the flax falls to the floor.

Leave the young, whose love is asking, Leave the old whose love’s a chain, Ere they strew your head with ashes, Dim the eyes and dew the lashes, Come into your own again.

I will take you, Fawn O’Mera, To the Fairy Glades apart, And where green leaves know no falling, Hush the old unhappy calling, Wake your soul, and still your heart.

THE ELFIN HILLS

O I shall go up to the Elfin Hills, Heather, and heath, and stone, ’Neath the cold red drift of the sunset cloud, For Folk in Housen are hard and proud, And ever I’ll pipe alone.

For O, I went down to the Folk in House, Bold in the russet dawn, Drawn to the bone by the mortal call, The pink, and the white, and the rose, and all Of the sweet flesh they have on.

I met three children wi’ berry pails, Bound for the tangled briars Over the moors, and I piped a tune, Gathered their laughter an afternoon; They fled with the first lit fires:

The wonderful fires the Folk in House Scatter like daffodils, Streaming in light from the ragged thatch, Rosy and warm by the lifted latch, And gay in the long gray hills.

’Twas over the fires I met my love, Piped to her soft and low, Sweet was the glint o’ her milk-white feet, Threading the fields, and the meadow-sweet, Like pearl in the afterglow.

Ever I piped, and ever she came, But when my piping ceased, She fled from me with a startled cry, The little old moon toiled up the sky From out of an empty East.

Empty of heart, and empty of hand, ’Twas only the pipe they heard! Maybe my eyes they are too cold, The Fairy blood may be too old To mix with the blood it stirred.

I will go back to the Elfin Hills, Wander and pipe alone, Answer the call of the peewit’s note Where sunshine wavers, and gray clouds float Past heather and heath and stone.

THE ELFIN FAIR

A gay and a good old woman Once went to an Elfin Fair And all that most fit is for Fairs in the cities And is told of in ditties And sung of in songs, was there _Grown teeny tiny O_.

’Twas down by the red rose bushes (She picking her way between) And the first thing she found was a Merry-go-round To the scarlet top of a tulip bound, In the midst of a Village Green _Grown teeny tiny O_!

There was a Strong Man lifting An acorn up, cup and all; And a peddler, it seems, crying, “Honey of Dreams! Threepence a cup, O brightly it gleams!” And the Gentry were giving a Ball, _Grown teeny tiny O_.

The Photygraph Man was snapping them all (And the Villagers) one by one, Or else in a group; with his waddle and stoop, And his head in a cloth, and his legs like a hoop, By the aid of the laughing Sun _Grown teeny tiny O_.

But the Farmers were down by a Paddock Where of all unusual things, A real Carrot stood, as big as a wood, And rooting around it all pleasant and good, Were wee little Pigs with Wings, _Grown teeny tiny O_!

Right there was her own good Landlord, Though she doubted the thing herself Till to him she ran, and cried, “Mr. McCann! Whatever on earth are you doing, my man, With Wings and a Coat like an Elf-- _Grown teeny tiny O_!”

THE PLAINT OF THE CAPTIVE FIELD MOUSE

(This Field Mouse, by the way, was in the Elfin Fair)

I am the one living Field Mousie In captivity (O pity me!) Ah! why did I leave my warm soft housie Sae easily!

A silver collar, all bent about too, Round my neck is curled. (O pity me!) I am a captive, who went out to See the world!

THE MAN THAT GOT THE CALL

O it’s not for fame and glory And the guns of Trafalgar, Nor to walk with foreign lady In a cypress garden shady, Nor to court to get a star, That he’s going, Captain Spanish; Captain Spanish leaves you all! O he’s careless, careless, careless, He’s the man that got the call!

O it wasn’t in the morning, And it wasn’t by the stream Where the birches’ lovely daughters Dip their tresses in the waters, For they summoned in a dream. Weep your gallant, Dublin ladies, Captain Spanish leaves you all! O he’s careless, careless, careless, He’s the man that got the call!

Pretty Lady Kitty Cooley, Nor your taffeta, nor lace, Nor your gold can bring him nearer; You can look into your mirror, He has seen another face, A White Woman with the Green Blood! Captain Spanish leaves you all, O he’s careless, careless, careless, He’s the man that got the call!

Father Hogan of the hunters Better stay the county sport! Go and tell his mother weeping, That she set his hounds to leaping Round the ancient Fairy fort. Where the sunset turned it emerald Near a bit of rosy wall, Captain Spanish left the ladies ... _He’s the man that got the call._

THE OLD SHIP

When the long, low clouds about the West Are rose, ash-gray, and amethyst, And the sky between pours saffron-gold, And the wind along the dykes runs cold,

A huge old bark with an orange sail, Mellowed and tattered by many a gale, Will slowly come through the estuary, Old, sea-haggard, and strange, and merry.

Where the red, warm moon rounds slowly over The low, flat fields that breathe sweet clover, Through banks of poppies on either hand The dykes run liquidly into the land.

The old, old ship will come up from the sea Farther afield than a ship should be, And sail on softly, softly and still, And dock inland by a wooded hill.

Then will come silently, flocks of sheep Silver as clouds remembered in sleep, Cross to the moonlight and leap the stile; And he who shepherds them all will smile,

Play on his pipes and smile to see The gay old sails lift over a tree. His feet will dance on the grass like foam And he will play “When the ship comes home.”

TO THE WIND

_The lights hung out in the milky way The star belt glittered and wheeled, The heights and the depths of the night were full Of the scent of the new-ploughed field._

Wonderful Elder Brother, the Wind, Why do you rattle the window sill, And drum on the pane with your finger tips, And pipe in the chimney shrill?

And why do you harass the poplar tops, And the pollard willow, his leaves, And why do you winnow with ceaseless wings The crest of the gabled eaves?

From the chin of the moon to the turnpike road (A ribbon and girdle of white) Is room and enough for the wind to blow, With never a cloud in sight!

MIDSUMMER’S NIGHT

“Wally, what’s at the keyhole?” “Whist, Jane, whist! Speak low.” “If someone were outside peering in Would we know?” _What’s that at the keyhole?_ Granny said, “’Tis the wind you hear Wandering to and fro.”

“Whist, Jane! What’s at the window?” “Wally, whistle a tune!” “There’s a gay light goes from the old blue plate To the pewter spoon.” _What’s that at the window?_ Granny said, “’Tis the tree-low light Of an old, old moon.”

“Whist, Jane! What’s by the rose bush?” “Wally, it is fourscore Wee green Riders on snow-white steeds, With the Queen before!” _What’s that by the rose bush?_ Granny said, “There were Good Folk once But they come no more.”

THE CARAVAN

Far off the Fairy Horns are blowing Through the morning, through the dew, The trees of emerald green, the blue, The windy clouds all white and new, _O, come-all-ye--Gypsies!_

There is a rustle in the leaves, a ripple in the grass, A singing in the heart my love, The brook’s as clear as glass, And there the far horizon lies, An invitation to new skies, _O, come-all-ye--Gypsies!_

We’ll pack the green striped caravan, Put yellow shirts on every man, And red cloaks on the lasses, And when the old have wreathed their locks, And packed their fiddles in a box We’ll trundle through the grasses. We’ll carry through this windy morn Hearts fit to meet the Fairy Horn, _O, come-all-ye--Gypsies!_

THE GYPSY BABY

A ring of great red poppies Swayed in the golden corn, And there I lay beside the van And heard the larks at morn.

And like a small, far picture The distant town rose pink, And little streams flowed round it With daisies at their brink.

And little trees grew in it All soft, and round, and bright; A wandering sun sailed in the sky Too brilliant for the sight.

Years and years it sailed the sky And like a ball it set, Near, and big, and sad, and red, And all the grass was wet.

THE WILD GEESE

Low across a crimson sun Setting in a crimson sky, And across a crimson lake The Wild Geese fly.

Hark! the poet on the bank Pipes a reedy tune, Piping to the rising wind And the silver moon.

“I have neither house nor barn, Kith nor kin have I, But I know the Elfin Folk When the Wild Geese fly.

“’Neath another crimson sun On a ruddy strand, I have piped a wilder tune In an eerie land.

“Here, and there, and back again Bid the music ply, When across the crimson lake The Wild Geese fly!”

A FAIRY SONG

We never weep because we see Pale moon flowers on the barren tree; A lovely light that takes the shape Of bud and bloom that is to be.

It glows, a soft and emerald light, Along the branching trees by night; We know it weaves the coming leaves And never grieve when snows are white.

We dance with winds that chill the rose As to her frosty death she goes, Because we see the changeless bloom Towards which she lifts again and grows.

So when the weeping tempest saith “Hush!” to the woodlands with his breath We ride the skeletons of leaves And dare an airy jest with death.

Ah, no! we do not weep because We live in light that without pause Runs sparkling down the sky, the life Of all the world, and all its cause.

Oft when celestial things are near We see new rainbows shining clear, And follow them from glade to glade, And voices in the winds we hear.