But when he heard the eldrich swell

Of giggling laugh and bridle bell,
Or saw the riders troop along,

His orisons were loud and strong.
His household fare he yielded free
To this mysterious company,
The fairest maid his cot within
Resigned with awe and little din;
True he might weep, but nothing say,
For none durst say the fairies nay.

Old David hasted home that night, A wondering and a wearied wight. Seven sons he had, alert and keen, Had all in Border battles been;

Had wielded brand, and bent the bow,

For those who sought their overthrow.

Their hearts were true, their arms were strong,

Their faulchions keen, their arrows long;

The race of fairies they denied

No fairies kept the English side.

Our yeomen on their armour threw, Their brands of steel and bows of yew, Long arrows at their backs they sling, Fledged from the Snowdon eagle's wing, And boun' away brisk as the wind, The sire before, the sons behind.

That evening fell so sweetly still, So mild on lonely moor and hill, The little genii of the fell

Forsook the purple heather-bell,

And all their dripping beds of dew,
In wind-flower, thyme, and violet blue;
Aloft their viewless looms they heave,
And dew-webs round the helmets weave.
The waning moon her lustre threw

Pale round her throne of softened blue;
Her circuit, round the southland sky,
Was languid, low, and quickly bye;
Leaning on cloud so faint and fair,
And cradled on the golden air;

Modest and pale as maiden bride,
She sunk upon the trembling tide.

What late in daylight proved a jest, Was now the doubt of every breast.

That fairies were, was not disputed;

But what they were was greatly doubted.

Each argument was guarded well,

With "if," and "should," and "who can tell.”

"Sure He that made majestic man,
And framed the world's stupendous plan;
Who placed on high the steady pole,
And sowed the stars that round it roll;

And made that sky, so large and blue

Could surely make a fairy too."

The sooth to say, each valiant core
Knew feelings never felt before.

Oft had they darned the midnight brake,
Fearless of aught save bog and lake;

But now the nod of sapling fir,

The heath-cock's loud exulting whirr,

The

cry of hern from sedgy pool,

Or airy bleeter's rolling howl,

Came fraught with more dismaying dread Than warder's horn, or warrior's tread.

Just as the gloom of midnight fell,

They reached the fairies' lonely dell.
O heavens! that dell was dark as death!
Perhaps the pit-fall yawned beneath!
Perhaps that lane that winded low,

Led to a nether world of woe!

But stern necessity's control

Resistless sways the human soul.

The bows are bent, the tinders smoke With fire by sword struck from the rock. Old David held the torch before;

His right hand heaved a dread claymore,

Whose Rippon edge he meant to try

On the first fairy met his eye.

Above his head his brand was raised;

Above his head the taper blazed;

A sterner or a ghastlier sight,

Ne'er entered bower at dead of night.

Below each lifted arm was seen

The barbed point of arrow keen,
Which waited but the twang of bow
To fly like lightning on the foe.
Slow move they on, with steady eye,
Resolved to conquer or to die.

At length they spied a massive door,

Deep in a nook, unseen before;

And by it slept, on wicker chair,

A sprite of dreadful form and air.

His grizly beard flowed round his throat,

Like shaggy hair of mountain goat;

His open jaws and visage grim,

His half-shut

eye so deadly dim,