Fairyland. Five Songs

Come away, elves! while the dew is sweet, 
Come to the dingles where fairies meet; 
Know that the lilies have spread their bells 
O'er all the pools in our forest dells; 
Catching the sunshine through leaves that throw 
To their scented bosoms an emerald glow; 
Come away; under boughs we'll float,
Making those urns each a fairy boat;
And we'll send out wild music so sweet and low, 
It shall seem from the bright flower's heart to flow.

I love the sun, I love the moon
  So fair to see;
I love the twinkling stars,
  And they love me;

We hear, in each cool sparry cave,
  Plaint melody
Sung by the mermaids of the wave,
  Aeolianly!

  Now he stops --
  Now he hops --
Now cautiously trips! 
  On tip-toe,
  And slip-toe
He scuttles and skips;

Along the grass gliding, 
Half dancing, half sliding, 
Oft stooping, half hiding -- 
Then bolt upright he walks, 
And whispering talks 
  To himself,
  Pretty elf;

And quaint sounds he utters, 
Till close to the shutters
Of the cot that's still sleeping,
He climbs up close, peeping,
And pokes in each crevice his sharp little nose;
Till one shutter creaks,
And opening squeaks,
And the elfin dances and crows!
And through the cracked pane --
  In he goes!

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!

Rest, thee, babe! for soon thy slumbers 
Shall flee at the magic Koelshie's numbers; 
In airy bower I'll watch thy sleeping,
Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping. 
  Shuheen sho, lulo lo!

From Oberin, in fairye land,
The king of the ghosts and shadows there, 
Mad Robin I, at his command,
Am sent to view the night sports here.

    What revell rout
    Is kept about,
  In every corner where I go, 
    I will o'er-see,
    And merry be,
And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho!

More swift than lightning can I flye 
About this aery welkin soone,
And in a minute's space, descrye 
Each thing that's done below the moone.

    There's not a hag
    Or ghost shall wag
Or cry, "Ware Goblins!" where I go, 
    But Robin I
    Their feates will spy,
And send them home, with ho, ho, ho!