Softly, softly let us tread,
upon the ground’s dewy bed
o’er the hill and down the stream
is something like from a dream.
Three winged maids are washing there,
water gems cling to bright hair.
Their sweet voices sound of bells
as they sing what must be spells.
Words harmonize, clear, and rise
until we hear their advice:
“Foolish, mortal men can be,
spying upon a fairy.
Their bards have warned many times
the punishment for such crimes:
a hundred years for a day,
maybe take his mind away.
Such a pity, men so fine
(one that I long to be mine)
would stand still and do not flee
as we sing we wish them free.”
Up to our feet and we spin;
run to the arms of our kin.
We utter not of our morn,
no matter our fathers’ scorn.
Our mothers watch us, concerned,
unaware of what we’ve learned.
We do chores and dare not stray
knowing we are easy prey.
Ne’er again we’ll try that stunt
‘lest the fae have cause to hunt.