The Book of Irish Ballads


THE FAIRIES' PASSAGE.

BY CLARENCE MANGAN.

- Proofing in Progress -

Tapp, tapp!  Rapp, rapp!  "Get up, Gaffer Ferryman."
  "Eh?  who is there?"  The clock strikes Three.
"Get up--do, Gaffer!  you are the very man,
  We have been long--long, longing to see."
The ferryman rises, growling and grumbling,
And goes fum-fumbling, and stumbling, and tumbling,
  Over the wares in his way to the door.
              But he sees no more
              Than he saw before,
    Till a voice is heard--"O Ferryman, dear!
    Here we are waiting, all of us here!
    We are a wee, wee colony, we;
    Some two hundred in all, or three.
    Ferry us over the river Lee
              Ere dawn of day,
              And we will pay
              The most we may,
              In our own wee way!"

"Who are you?  Whence came you?  What place are you going to?"
  "O, we have dwelt over long in this land.
The people get cross, and are growing so knowing, too;
  Nothing at all but they now understand;
    We are daily vanishing under the thunder
    Of some huge engine of iron wonder;
    That iron--O, it has entered our souls!"
    ---- "Your souls?  O, Goles!
    You queer little drolls!
Do you mean ----?"  "Good Gaffer, do aid us with speed,
For our time, like our stature, is short indeed!
    And a very long way we have to go,
    Eight or ten thousand miles or so,
    Hither and thither, and to and fro.
              With our pots and pans,
              And our little gold cans;
              But our light caravans
              Run swifter than Man's!"

"Well, well, you may come!"  said the Ferryman, affably;
  "Patrick!  turn out, and get ready the barge!"
Then again to the little folk:  "Though you seem laughably
  Small, I don't mind, if you coppers be large."
    O, dear!  what a rushing, what pushing, what crushing
    (The waterman making vain efforts at hushing
      The hubbub the while) there followed these words!
              What clapping of boards!
              What strapping of cords!
    What stowing away of children and wives,
    And platters, and mugs, and spoons, and knives!
    Till all had safely got into the boat,
    And the Ferryman clad in his tip-top coat,
    And his wee little farers were fairly afloat!
              Then ding!  ding!  ding!
              And kling!  kling!  kling!
              How the coppers did ring
              In the tin pitcherling?

Off then went the boat, at first very pleasantly,
  Smoothly, and soforth, but after a while
It swayed and it swagged this way and that way, and presently
  Chest after chest, and pile after pile,
    Of the little folk's goods began tossing and rolling,
    And pitching like fun, beyond fairy controlling!
    O, Mab!  if the bubbub was great before,
    It was now some two or three million times more;
    Crash went the wee crocks, and the clocks, and the locks
    Of each little wee box were stove in by hard knocks:
      And then there were oaths, and prayers, and cries--
      "Take care!"--"see there"--"oh, dear!  my eyes!"
      "I am killed"--"I am drowned"--with groans and sighs;
              Till to land they drew;
              "Yeo heo!  Pull to!
              Tiller-rope, thro' and thro!"
              And all's right anew.

"Now, jump upon shore, ye queer little oddities!
  ...Eh!  what is this?  Where are they at all?
Where are they, and where are their tiny commodities?
  Well!  as I live!"  He looks blank as a wall,
    The poor Ferryman!  Round him, and round him he gazes,
    But only gets deeplier lost in the mazes
    Of utter bewilderment!  All, all are gone--
              And he stands alone,
              Like a statue of stone,
    In a doldrum of wonder.  He turns to steer,
    And a tinkling laugh salutes his ear
    With other odd sounds:  "Ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!
    Tol, lol; zid, ziddle--quee, quee--bah!  bah!
    Fizzigigiggidy!  psha!  sha!  sha!
    "O, ye thieves!  ye thieves, ye rascally thieves!"
      The good man cries.  He turns to his pitcher,
    And there, alas!  to his horror perceives,
      That the little folk's mode of making him richer,
    Has been to pay him with--withered leaves!

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MacCarthy, Denis Florence (1817-1882), ed. The Book of Irish Ballads. Dublin: James Duffy, 1869.

The above published source is public domain under the terms of
Title 17, United States Code, Section 304(b).
The transcriber does not claim to know the copyright status of this publication outside of the United States.

Published in 1999 by Dennis McCarthy
No Rights Reserved! I release this file to the public domain.
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