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WHISK! down the chimney into the room
Where the red ashes lighten the gloom,
Come tripping foot-falls, soft as a cat, -
Well do I know what the duine are at!
Home from the harvest, over the fen,
Into the kitchen gather the men;
Silent and eager with listening ear,
Only the fairy bagpipe they hear.
Softly the wailings breathed from its throat,
In strange unearthly echoings float,
Charming the listeners' memories away,
Turning a century into a day.
Only the fairy-man safe from its thrall,
Loud through the keyhole utters his call,
Heats a red shovel for sheeoge, -
Throws lussmore - liquor picked on the lea.
Quickly the duine slacken the dance,
Up through the smoky chimney they prance.
Green is the flash of their gowns as they go,
Leaving all peaceful and quiet below.
*The Irish for "Fairy Folk."
- A changeling.
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