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,
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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, -
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The Class Crews.
