Rough Irish seas encircle land, their charcoal waves spray white beneath the rocky, craggy coast that glistens in the night. The milky stars blink through the mist, which spreads wide as a fan; that’s where the lonely maiden lives, upon the Isle of Man. Her hours are spent down by the stream that trickles through Glen May, beneath the arched green willow trees, which grow right near the bay. When dusk comes in, the breeze picks up, and she hides in the caves; she falls asleep, each chilly night, beside the rolling waves. Small fairies live upon the rocks and guard her from all harm; The maiden stitches all their clothes to keep them snug and warm. Then winter clouds rolled in above, in thousand shades of grey, and when dark shadows filled the glen, each fairy flew away. So, when the maid awoke from sleep and found she was alone, she ran clear to the Calf of Man, to see where they had flown. And on days, when the air is clear, perhaps about midday-- you’ll see the little maid appear and sit down near the bay. Still pining for her fairy friends and living on her own-- down on the beach, she calls each night, “O, Fairies, please come home!" |