LITMIR.BIZ

      Is it true, my mother?

      Can it really be,

      That the little fairies

      Every day you see?

      Oh! the little fairies,

      Wonderful and wise,

      Have you really seen them

      With your own two eyes?

      Tell me where their home is,

      Dearest mother mine.

      Is it in the garden

      'Neath the clustering vine?

      Is it in the meadow,

      'Mid the grasses tall?

      Is it by the brookside,

      Sweetest place of all?

      Deep within the woodland,

      Shall I find them then, —

      Pretty little maidens,

      Pretty little men;

      Curled among the roseleaves,

      Stretched along the fern,

      Where no wind can shake them,

      And no sunbeams burn?

      Does the little queen live

      In a great red rose,

      Twenty elves to fan her

      When to sleep she goes;

      Coverlet of lilies

      Sprinkled o'er with pearls,

      Golden stars a-twinkling

      In her golden curls?

      Do they paint the flowers?

      Do they teach the birds

      All their lovely music,

      With its strange, sweet words?

      Oh! but tell me, mother!

      Is it really true?

      And when next you seek them,

      Will you take me too?

      True it is, my darling,

      True as true can be,

      That the little fairies

      Every day I see,

      Not within the meadow,

      Not in woodland gloom,

      But in brightest sunshine,

      In this very room.

      Singing like the robin,

      Chirping like the wren,

      Pretty little maidens,

      Pretty little men;

      Leaning o'er my shoulder,

      Swinging on my chair,

      Oh! the little fairies,

      I see them everywhere.

      Peeping at the window,

      Peeping at the door,

      If I bid them scamper,

      Peeping all the more.

      Little sweetest voices

      Laughing merrily,

      Oh! the little fairies,

      They'll never let me be.

      Tugging at my apron,

      Twitching at my gown,

      Climbing up into my lap,

      Rumble-tumbling down.

      Naughty little blue eyes,

      Full of impish glee,

      Oh! the little fairies,

      They'll never let me be!

      All are kings and queens, dear,

      Every smallest one;

      And on mother's knee here

      Is their regal throne.

      Look into the glass, dear!

      One of them you'll see.

      Oh! the little fairies,

      God bless them all for me!

      Oh! the Queen of the Orkney Islands,

      She's travelling over the sea:

      She's bringing a beautiful cuttlefish,

      To play with my baby and me.

      Oh! his head is three miles long, my dear,

      His tail is three miles short.

      And when he goes out he wriggles his snout,

      In a way that no cuttlefish ought.

      Oh! the Queen of the Orkney Islands,

      She rides on a sea-green whale.

      He takes her a mile, with an elegant smile,

      At every flip of his tail.

      He can snuffle and snore like a Highlandman,

      And swear like a Portugee;

      He can amble and prance like a peer of France,

      And lie like a heathen Chinee.

      Oh! the Queen of the Orkney Islands,

      She dresses in wonderful taste.

      The sea-serpent coils, all painted in oils,

      Around her bee-yu-tiful waist.

      Oh! her gown is made of the green sea-kale;

      And though she knows nothing of feet,

      She can manage her train, with an air of disdain,

      In a way that is perfectly sweet.

      Oh! the Queen of the Orkney Islands,

      She's travelling over the main.

      So we'll hire a hack, and we'll take her straight back

      To her beautiful Islands again.

      Toddle, toddle, waddle, waddle,

      On her little pinky toes.

      Stumble, stumble, pitch and tumble,

      That's the way the baby goes.

      Prattle, prattle, rattle, rattle,

      Little

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