I sing of those bright little creatures
Not made of terrestrial mould,
Who play hide and seek in the moonbeams,
On wings all of emerald and gold-
Who pull the red beard of the comet,
And mimic the stars when they wink-
Or watch the old owl to the fountain,
And huddle him over the brink.

But these are the naughty young fairies,
Who won't take their parents' advice-
In summer will bathe in the water,
In winter will slide on the ice;
So some of the them perish by drowning,
And some break their legs when they slip;
And some are snapt up by the night-hawk,
And never get out of his grip.