Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp. The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse. 1922.
The Fairy LoughMoira O’Neill (1864–1955)
L
Lies so high among the heather;
A little lough, a dark lough,
The wather ’s black an’ deep.
Ould herons go a-fishin’ there,
An’ seagulls all together
Float roun’ the one green island
On the fairy lough asleep.
When the sun goes down at seven,
When the hills are dark an’ airy,
’Tis a curlew whistles sweet!
Then somethin’ rustles all the reeds
That stand so thick and even;
A little wave runs up the shore
An’ flees as if on feet.
Stars come out, an’ stars are hidin’;
The wather whispers on the stones,
The flittherin’ moths are free.
One’st before the mornin’ light
The Horsemen will come ridin’
Roun’ and roun’ the fairy lough,
An’ no one there to see!