Dad’s fun but spooky poem….

My dad loved his daughters…..didn’t matter he longed for a son to carry on the family name…..he welcomed us all equally.
(He did eventually get a son – 4 years to the day our ‘little sister’ was born)
Everywhere we went he was up for fun – hauling us up onto the big gun for a photo in Ward Park Bangor had mum complaining we’d get dirty. Doesn’t matter he said, they’d had a bit of fun and would remember it

I think I’ve mentioned before he was an Irishman who loved to sing….I’ve never met one who doesn’t – I wonder if the breed exists??
We grew up in a house full of music
Never knowing when Dad would burst into song
or what would come out when he did

He could croon like Bing Crosby and Mum would pretend to swoon
There’d be the fun Irish songs
and then some days he’d come out with something by one of his favourite singers
Josef Locke
*********

Now not only did he sing but he was a dab hand at recitation
And what I was going to tell you about is what we used to call his spooky poem
One he performed with just the right amount of emotion and flair…..one we loved yet had us curled up together, retreating into the chair, anticipating what would come next

It began like this…..
Up the hairy mountain
Down the rusty glen……
Oh no, that’s not quite the way it goes but to very young ears that’s the way it sounded🤭

The Fairies – 1850
William Allingham 1824 – 1889

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!

The first verse is what we usually heard but now and again we were treated to the full poem. Which didn’t please mum as she said it upset us. Not quite true, we loved it – even if it is a little confronting for some children……..dad had fun reciting it and seeing our reactions to the words. It’s just right for Halloween!

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 watchdogs,
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 lake,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hillside
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn trees
For pleasure, here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them 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!

Irish poet William Allingham ~ https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Allingham

Published in book form by Thomas de La Rue. Illustrated by Emily Gertrude Thomson
Fabulous photographs and text from the book can be found HERE

The book can be found HERE at Internet Archive (https://archive.org)