I dreamt that I heard in the clouds of the night time,
A song, a lament of the long, long ago,
Of folk who had vanished from the green glens and hillside,
The glens of Sperrins which most of you know.
O, where are the Murphys and the Deaneys and Converys,
The McCanns and O’Hagans and the brave McNamees,
And all who inhabited the tumble-down houses,
Which some of you know and could name at your ease.
Their living had vanished at both spinning and weaving,
At beckling and carding, and all sorts of trades,
At scutching and cloving and work amongst the leather,
And planting potatoes with their big weighty spades.
They could make their own songs, aye, and sing them correctly,
And their own melodies, both mellow and true,
They could dance too with pleasure, they were happy by nature,
They were gifted and clever, light-hearted and true.
I thought of the stories about wee folk and fairies,
They seemed to be fables which none could believe,
But who would believe the true tales I’m telling,
Though I know they are true and not meant to deceive.
This story has proved that there always were fairies,
For the strong beat the weak, and to the wall they were driven
Their homesteads collapsed, as their living did vanish,
For a curse or a blight seems to hang over all.
So the fairies have vanished across the wild oceans,
Away to the strange lands which lie over there,
Where the Mississippi rises in the back lands over yonder
Where their music still rings, for they never despair
3rd June, 1958
George Barnett 