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Oscar Wilde…

The Field of Boliauns

Poetry: The Fae…

Art: John Millais


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Oscar Wilde…


The Field of Boliauns

One fine day in harvest–it was indeed Lady-day in harvest, that everybody knows to be one of the greatest holidays in the year–Tom Fitzpatrick was taking a ramble through the ground, and went along the sunny side of a hedge; when all of a sudden he heard a clacking sort of noise a little before him in the hedge. “Dear me,” said Tom, “but isn’t it surprising to hear the stonechatters singing so late in the season?” So Tom stole on, going on the tops of his toes to try if he could get a sight of what was making the noise, to see if he was right in his guess. The noise stopped; but as Tom looked sharply through the bushes, what should he see in a nook of the hedge but a brown pitcher, that might hold about a gallon and a half of liquor; and by-and-by a little wee teeny tiny bit of an old man, with a little motty of a cocked hat stuck upon the top of his head, a deeshy daushy leather apron hanging before him, pulled out a little wooden stool, and stood up upon it, and dipped a little piggin into the pitcher, and took out the full of it, and put it beside the stool, and then sat down under the pitcher, and began to work at putting a heel-piece on a bit of a brogue just fit for himself. “Well, by the powers,” said Tom to himself, “I often heard tell of the Lepracauns, and, to tell God’s truth, I never rightly believed in them–but here’s one of them in real earnest. If I go knowingly to work, I’m a made man. They say a body must never take their eyes off them, or they’ll escape.

Tom now stole on a little further, with his eye fixed on the little man just as a cat does with a mouse. So when he got up quite close to him, “God bless your work, neighbour,” said Tom.

The little man raised up his head, and “Thank you kindly,” said he.

“I wonder you’d be working on the holiday!” said Tom.

“That’s my own business, not yours,” was the reply.

“Well, may be you’d be civil enough to tell us what you’ve got in the pitcher there?” said Tom.

“That I will, with pleasure,” said he; ”it’s good beer.”

“Beer!” said Tom. “Thunder and fire! where did you get it?”

“Where did I get it, is it? Why, I made it. And what do you think I made it of?”

“Devil a one of me knows,” said Tom; but of malt, I suppose, what else?”

“There you’re out. I made it of heath.”

“Of heath!” said Tom, bursting out laughing; “sure you don’t think me to be such a fool as to believe that?”

“Do as you please,” said he, “but what I tell you is the truth. Did you never hear tell of the Danes.”

“Well, what about them?” said Tom.

“Why, all the about them there is, is that when they were here they taught us to make beer out of the heath, and the secret’s in my family ever since.”

“Will you give a body a taste of your beer?” said Tom.

“I’ll tell you what it is, young man, it would be fitter for you to be looking after your father’s property than to be bothering decent quiet people with your foolish questions. There now, while you’re idling away your time here, there’s the cows have broke into the oats, and are knocking the corn all about.”

Tom was taken so by surprise with this that he was just on the very point of turning round when he recollected himself; so, afraid that the like might happen again, he made a grab at the Lepracaun, and caught him up in his hand; but in his hurry he overset the pitcher, and spilt all the beer, so that he could not get a taste of it to tell what sort it was. He then swore that he would kill him if he did not show him where his money was. Tom looked so wicked and so bloody-minded that the little man was quite frightened; so says he, “Come along with me a couple of fields off, and I’ll show you a crock of gold.”

So they went, and Tom held the Lepracaun fast in his hand, and never took his eyes from off him, though they had to cross hedges and ditches, and a crooked bit of bog, till at last they came to a great field all full of boliauns, and the Lepracaun pointed to a big boliaun, and says he, “Dig under that boliaun, and you’ll get the great crock all full of guineas.”

Tom in his hurry had never thought of bringing a spade with him, so he made up his mind to run home and fetch one; and that he might know the place again he took off one of his red garters, and tied it round the boliaun.

Then he said to the Lepracaun, “Swear ye’ll not take that garter away from that boliaun.” And the Lepracaun swore right away not to touch it.

“I suppose,” said the Lepracaun, very civilly, “you have no further occasion for me?”

“No,” says Tom; “you may go away now, if you please, and God speed you, and may good luck attend you wherever you go.”

“Well, good-bye to you, Tom Fitzpatrick,” said the Lepracaun; “and much good may it do you when you get it.”

So Tom ran for dear life, till he came home and got a spade, and then away with him, as hard as he could go, back to the field of boliauns; but when he got there, lo and behold! not a boliaun in the field but had a red garter, the very model of his own, tied about it; and as to digging up the whole field, that was all nonsense, for there were more than forty good Irish acres in it. So Tom came home again with his spade on his shoulder, a little cooler than he went, and many’s the hearty curse he gave the Lepracaun every time he thought of the neat turn he had served him.


Poetry: The Fae…

The Elve’s Dance


Round about, round about,

In a fair ring-a,

Thus we dance, thus we dance,

And thus we sing-a,

Trip and go, to and fro

Over this green-a,

All about, in and out,

For our brave Queen-a.

Invocation to the Fairies

By F.D. Browne-Hemans

Fays and fairies haste away!

This is Harriet’s holiday:

Bring the lyre, and bring the lute,

Bring the sweetly-breathing flute;

Wreaths of cowslips hither bring,

All the honours of the spring;

Adorn the grot with all that’s gai,

Fays and fairies haste away

Bring the vine to Bacchus dear,

Bring the purple lilac here,

Festoons of roses, sweetest flower,

The yellow primrose of the bower,

Blue-ey’d violets wet with dew,

Bring the clustering woodbine too

Bring the baskets made of rush,

The cherry with it’s ripen’d blush,

The downy peach, so soft so fair,

The luscious grap, the mellow pear:

These to Harriet hither bring,

And sweetly in return she’ll sing

Be the brilliant grotto scene

The palace of the Fairy Queen

Form the sprightly circling dance,

Fairies here your steps advance;

To harp’s soft dulcet sound

Let your footsteps lightly bound

Unveil your forms to mortal eye;

Let Harriet view your revelry

Faery Song

By John Keats

Ah ! Woe is me ! poor silver-wing !

That I must chant they lady’s dirge,

And death to this fair haunt of spring,

Of melody, and streams of flowery verge –

Poor silver-wing ! ah ! woe is me !

That I must see

These blossoms snow upon thy lady’s pall !

Go, pretty page ! and in her ear

Whisper that the hour is near !

Softly tell her not to fear

Such calm Favonian burial !

Go, pretty page ! and softly tell –

The blossoms hang by a melting spell,

And fall they must, ere a star wink thrice

Upon her closed eyes,

That now in vain are weeping in their last tears,

At sweet life leaving, and these arbors green –

Rich dowry from the spirit of the spheres

alas ! poor queen !

Green Rain

by Mary Webb

Into the scented woods we’ll go,

And see the blackthorn swim in snow.

High above, in the budding leaves,

A brooding dove awakes and grieves;

The glades with mingled music stir,

And wildly laughs the woodpecker.

When blackthorn petals pearl the breeze,

There are the twisted hawthorne trees

Thick-set with buds, as clear and pale

As golden water or green hail–

As if a storm of rain had stood

Enchanted in the thorny wood,

And, hearing fairy voices call,

Hung poised, forgetting how to fall.

Here We Come A-Piping


Here we come a-piping,

In springtime and in May;

Green fruit a-ripening,

And Winter fled away.

The Queen she sits upon the strand,

Fair as lily, white as wand;

Seven billows on the sea,

Horses riding fast and free,

And bells beyond the sand.

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