The fairies, the fairies, the mischief-loving fairies,
Have stolen my loved one, my darling, and my dear;
With charms and enchantments they lured and waylaid him,
So my love cannot comfort and my presence cannot cheer.
The fairies, the fairies, I'll love no more the fairies;
I'll never sweep the hearth for them or care the fairy thorn,
I'll skim no more the yellow cream nor leave the perfumed honey;
But I'll drive the goats for pasture to their greenest rath each morn.
With Ave, and Ave, and many a Paternoster,
Within their magic circle I'll tell my beads for you;
My prayers be sharp as arrows to pierce their soulless bosoms
Till they come with loud sorrow to tell me that they rue.
My darling, my darling, what glamour is upon you
That you find for your gaze satisfaction and content
In the charms of that colleen, with her black snaky ringlets,
Her red lips contemptuous, and her gloomy brows so bent?

The fairies, the fairies, from her blue eyes were peeping;
They blew her hair about you so you were lost, my dear.
With their charms and enchantments they lured and waylaid you,
So my love cannot comfort and my presence cannot cheer.