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Pixieland Verse

Pixieland Verse

As summer approaches and the nights grow longer it is approaching the time when in the secluded combes of Dartmoor the nightly Piskie Revels take place. There amongst the purple heather and the crackling gorse the little folk dance and prance the night away. Often, as the evening breeze floats across the moorland valleys you can hear the feint sound of harps and pipes plucking and a blowing a merry tune. If you quietly creep towards the sound you just might be lucky enough to see …

Pixieland Verse

PIXY – LAND

E CAPERN – 1881

Sungleams and Shadows

The Pixies are a happy band,

And live right merrily,

And only in a pleasant land

Are they content to be.

Hence, oft their footprints may be seen

Amongst the heather tall;-

For there the little folk in green

Will hold their festival.

And those familiar with they ways,

And pretty elfin tricks,

In June may see the merry fays

With fiddlers fifty six,

And often find their parasols

Left on the fairy green,

Brought there from sunny primrose knolls

In Pixy copses seen.

Down in yon meadow by the stream,

The dapper folk resort;

And while we weary mortals dream

They hold their royal court.

Blithe Killdare the pixy king;

Fair Brighteye is his Queen;

And round them on a mushroom ring

The aristoes are seen.

Some quaffing from sweet lily bells

Deep draughts of honey dew;

And others working mischief spells

In evil hood o’ blue.

And one on a bright dragonfly

Is riding, the bold knight

Of little Goldenwing, the shy

His love and sole delight.

 

Now tripping o’er the shaven green,

A host of ladies go,

Attending on the pixy Queen,

A right brave royal show,-

Safe guarded by a thousand fays,

All bearing thistle-spears,

With plumes of kingfishers and jays,

And moorhens, on the meres,

To deck their helmets, which are made

Of golden beetle’s wings;

And, for a dirk, each has a blade

Of swordgrass from the springs.

And now the herald blows amain

His honeysuckle horn,

To summon all the fairy train

To feast before the morn:

When to an islet upon the wave

The merry elves repair;

King, Queen, bold knight and baron brave,

And lonely ladies fair.

Where by a glowworm’s tiny light,

Upon a mossy floor,

For table, stand a mushroom white

Midst pixy stools, a store;

With silvery lichens for their plate,

And golden ones also,

And daisy dishes laid in state

With mint and minnow’s roe.

There, having feasted full and well

Within their fairy bower,

They sip rose-nectar from a shell

Until the dawning hour;

When Robin Goodfellow drops in,

And Puck with his halloo,

And Plague o’ Dreams, as owls begin

To hoot their weird tuwhoo.

At which the merry fiddlers play

Their last tune for the night,

And dancing merrily away

All vanish out of sight.

When soon is heard the cuckoo’s rote,

And then the blackbirds song,

And then the skylark’s merry note,

And next the thrush’s tongue;

But maids out ere the sun doth rise

That morn are pixy-led,

While many a little changling lies

A stranger to its bed.

About Tim Sandles

Tim Sandles is the founder of Legendary Dartmoor

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