Guest
(The Fairy Fiddler by Ethel Archer) Away, in the misty moorland glen Where the Elf-Folk dance with the Wee Brown Men, And the rowan-berry burns haughtily As she tells of the wind's inconstancy 'Tis there I am bound by the far faint rune Of the Fairy Fiddler's silver shoon! Where the harebell waves from the tufted grass, There never the foot of a man may pass; For the painted fireflies glance and gleam Like the golden thoughts in a goblin's dream, And the ghostly coppice of oak and
