PICCANINNIES BY ISABEL MAUD PEACOCKE
If your heart is pure, and your eyes are clear, And you come the one right day of the year, And eat of the fruit of the Magic Tree The wee Bush Folk you will surely see.
In the green and woody places, Thickets shady, sunlit spaces, Have you never heard us calling, When the golden eve is falling— When the noon-day sun is beaming— When the silver moon is gleaming? Have you never seen us dancing— Through the mossy tree-boles glancing? Have you never caught us gliding Through the tall ferns? laughing—hiding? We are here, we are there— We are everywhere; Swinging on the tree tops, floating in the air; Hush! Hush! Hush! Creep into the Bush, You will find us everywhere.
f you would see, First bathe your eyes, In dew that lies On the bracken tree.
If you would hear Our elfin mirth To Mother Earth Lay down your ear.
A-many have come with their bright eyes clear, And their young hearts pure, but—alas! Oh dear! They’ve made a mistake in the day of the year.
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