The Fairy Changeling

Dermod OByrne of Omah town
In his garden strode up and down;
He pulled his beard, and he beat his breast;
And this is his trouble and woe confessed:

The good-folk came in the night, and they
Have stolen my bonny wean away;
Have put in his place a changeling,
A weashy, weakly, wizen thing!

From the speckled hen nine eggs I stole,
And lighting a fire of a glowing coal,
I fried the shells, and I spilt the yolk;
But never a word the stranger spoke:

A bar of metal I heated red
To frighten the fairy from its bed,
To put in the place of this fretting wean
My own bright beautiful boy again.

But my wife had hidden it in her arms,
And cried For shame! on my fairy charms;
She sobs, with the strange child on her breast:
I love the weak, wee babe the best!

To Dermod OByrnes, the tale to hear,
The neighbours came from far and near:
Outside his gate, in the long boreen,
They crossed themselves, and said between

Their muttered prayers, He has no luck!
For sure the woman is fairy-struck,
To leave her child a fairy guest,
And love the weak, wee wean the best!

Dora Sigerson Shorter

Dora Sigerson Shorter was an Irish poet and sculptor born in Dublin in 1866. She was one of the leading figures of the Irish Literary Revival, a movement that aimed to promote Irish literature and culture in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. She was also a close friend of W.B. Yeats and married the writer and journalist Clement King Shorter. Dora's work often dealt with themes of Irish nationalism and folklore, and she published several volumes of poetry before her untimely death in 1918.

Dora Sigerson Shorter

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English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Changeling.

I

There were Faëries two or three,
And a high moon white as wool,
Or a bloom in Faëry,
Where the star-thick blossoms be
Star-like beautiful.


II

There were Faëries two or three,
And a wind as fragrant as
Spicy wafts from Arcady
Rocked the sleeping honey bee
In the clover grass.


III

There were Faëries two or three,
Wee white caps and red wee shoon,
Buckles at each dainty knee,
"We are come to comfort thee,
With the silver moon."


IV

There were Faëries two or three,
Buttercups brimmed up with dew,
Winning faces sweet to see,
Then mine eyes closed heavily:
"Faëries, what would you?"


V

There were Faëries two or three,
And my babe was dreami...

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The Fair Little Maiden

There is one at the door, Wolfe ODriscoll,
        At the door, who is bidding you come!
Who is he that wakes me in the darkness,
        Calling when all the worlds dumb?

Six horses has he to his carriage,
        Six horses blacker than the night,
And their twelve red eyes in the shadows
        Twelve lamps he carries for his light;

And his coach is a coffin black and mouldy,
        A huge black coffin open wide:
He asks for your soul, Wolfe ODriscoll,
        Who is calling at the door outside.

Who let him thro the gates of my gardens,
        Where stronger bolts have never been?
Twas the father of the fair little maiden
        You drove to her grave so green.

And who let him pass through the courtyard,
    ...

Dora Sigerson Shorter

The Three Beggars

'Twas autumn daybreak gold and wild,
    While past St. Ann's grey tower they shuffled,
Three beggars spied a fairy-child
    In crimson mantle muffled.

The daybreak lighted up her face
    All pink, and sharp, and emerald-eyed;
She looked on them a little space,
    And shrill as hautboy cried: -

"O three tall footsore men of rags
    Which walking this gold morn I see,
What will ye give me from your bags
    For fairy kisses three?"

The first, that was a reddish man,
    Out of his bundle takes a crust:
"La, by the tombstones of St. Ann,
    There's fee, if fee ye must!"

The second, that was a chestnut man,
    Out of his bundle draws a bone:
"Lo, by the belfry of St. Ann,
    And all my breakfast gone!"

The ...

Walter De La Mare

The Kine Of My Father

The kine of my rather, they are straying from my keeping;
        The young goats at mischief, but little can I do:
For all through the night did I hear the Banshee keening;
        O youth of my loving, and is it well with you?

All through the night sat my mother with my sorrow;
        Whisht, it is the wind, O one childeen of my heart!
My hair with the wind, and my two hands clasped in anguish;
        Black head of my darling! too long are we apart.

Were your grave at my feet, I would think it half a blessing;
        I could herd then the cattle, and drive the goats away;
Many a Paternoster I would say for your safe keeping;
        I could sleep above your heart, until the dawn of day.

I see you on the prairie, hot with thirst and faint with hunger;

Dora Sigerson Shorter

The Ballad Of The Fairy Thorn-Tree

This is an evil night to go, my sister,
        To the fairy-tree across the fairy rath,
Will you not wait till Hallow Eve is over?
        For many are the dangers in your path!

I may not wait till Hallow Eve is over,
        I shall be there before the night is fled,
For, brother, I am weary for my lover,
        And I must see him once, alive or dead.

Ive prayed to heaven, but it would not listen,
        Ill call thrice in the devils name to-night,
Be it a live man that shall come to hear me,
        Or but a corpse, all clad in snowy white.

* * * * *

She had drawn on her silken hose and garter,
        Her crimson petticoat was kilted high,
She trod her way amid the bog and brambles,
        Until the fairy-tree she stood near-b...

Dora Sigerson Shorter

Preface To Diarmid's Story

Best beloved of ancient stories
Are our Diarmid's woes to me.
Like a mist, by breezes broken,
So this tale of olden glories
Floats in fragments, as a token
Of the song of Ireland's sea.

Through long centuries repeated
Lived the legend told in Erse,
But a change comes swift or slowly
Fades the language, and defeated
Flies the faith, once counted holy,
Old-world ways, and oral verse.

Not from men of note or learning
May we gather now these tales,
Heard beneath the cotter's rafter,
Or where smithy sparks are burning,
Or at sea, when hushed the laughter
Of the breeze on hull and sails.

Then with Ossian's rhythmic Measure
Comes upon the fancy's sight,
One with golden locks; resplendent,
Great and strong with eyes of azure,...

John Campbell