She lived beside the edge of a sweep of heather
In a lone cot by the rill,
Where the wold and the fertile farmland came together,
And the winds ne'er are still:
Her hair was like ripening corn with the sunlight in it;
Her feet were swift as the deer;
And her voice was glad and sweet as the song of a linnet,
And her laugh was crystal-clear.

But once on a day the air was filled with wailing,
And grief long and sore,
For she came not home when the evening light was failing,
And they ne'er saw her more;
Forth in the early morn she had hastened fleetly
Over the leaping rill,
At the sound of a fairy's laughter ringing sweetly,
And a call from the hill.

Gone, she was gone thro' the close-barr'd gates of Faerie,
That magic eve in June;
But still, when the winds are loose and the moor is eerie,
In the light of a fitful moon,
On the edge of the moor she wanders calling, calling,
She more than mortals fair,
And she dries the tears that will keep falling, falling,
With her long, streaming hair;
And mothers shudder and clasp their children nearer,
When the wind's sounding shrill,
Lest they hear the voice of the lost one ringing clearer,
And the call from the hill.