Cuil Of The Daione Sidhe

The wonderful tale of the fairies of Ireland.

A wistful and wonderful tale sways,
By the shoal of clachans in Ireland,
And a tale the kinsfolk chunter at will, 
From the byres onto a lush grassland.

Hitherto a kept and hidden freet nigh, 
That elders amid strangers do not tell,
When speaking of the beings that wend, 
Onto the whirling wind within the dell.

Beyond drums winding paths are found, 
Along the forgotten drises and shamrocks, 
Where the goblins roam with such dread, 
Beyond forlorn carricks of the hummocks. 

Thither by a mire of the weary gurteens, 
Lies a gate to a world of an amazing lore, 
Where dryads hover abreast straightway, 
Within the high boughs of trees galore.

Gremlins scare with glower and fright, 
In a skulking depth of the drifting fogs,
Where bally bogs dwell upon frolicking, 
In the swarthiness of drasty peat bogs. 

Dwarfs drudge with wisdom and will, 
Within the steep heaps of cold straths, 
As wizen trolls stalk with cron guises, 
Within the darkl'd boreens and paths.

Elves prance freely within the lilt of a glee, 
With the soothing ease of sheltering coves,
Whilst gnomes are prying with keen eyes, 
Within the midst of the manifold groves. 

Whistling cries of the banshee waft adrift, 
In the brerds of bustling waters of a firth, 
Where the thurses in the highlands thump, 
As ogres in the lowlands wield the earth. 

A world where the culchie ramble at once, 
Before the birds rising at the brink of dawn,
As the seeming of the light of orbs is seen, 
Within the leaves upon the back of a fawn.

Nymphs open a gate as doors open wide, 
To the pretty baile behind the beinnsidhe,
As mothers of Ireland share with children, 
The old tale of the cuil of the daione sidhe.