Tam Lin
Please visit Tam-Lin.org, a site dedicated entirely to this particular ballad.
O I forbid you, maidens a’,
That wear gowd on your hair,
To come or gae by Carterhaugh,
For young Tam Lin is there.
There’s nane that gaes by Carterhaugh
But they leave him a wad,
Either their rings, or green mantles,
Or else their maidenhead.
The Hosting of the Sidhe
The host is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare;
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away:
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam,
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the deed of his hand,
We come between him and the hope of his heart.
The host is rushing ‘twixt night and day,
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away.
Filed under Poetry & Prose | Comment (0)~ W.B. Yeats
Fairy Bread by Robert Louis Stevenson
Come up here, O dusty feet!
Here is fairy bread to eat.
Here in my retiring room,
Children, you may dine
On the golden smell of broom
And the shade of pine;
And when you have eaten well,
Fairy stories hear and tell.
Filed under Poetry & Prose | Comment (0)Robert Louis Stevenson (1850 - 1894)
from A Child’s Garden of Verses
The Endicott Studio – Journal of Mythic Arts
The Endicott Studio is ‘an interdisciplinary organisation dedicated to the creation and support of mythic art’. Founded in 1987 it is directed by Terri Windling and Midori Snyder and features contributions from an international circle of mythic artists and scholars. While the scope goes beyond the realms of faerie the online Journal of Mythic Art contains many articles of interest to faerie lovers. Each quarterly issue explores a different theme in myth and folklore and it is well worth taking the time to delve into the extensive archives.
Filed under Art & Illustration, Faerylore, Poetry & Prose | Comment (0)The Stolen Child
Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats;
There we’ve hid our faery vats,
Full of berries
And of the reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping
than you can understand.
