My fair-haired boy is sore bewitched,
He goes all full of grieving;
The web of gloom upon his brow
Is sure of fairy weaving.
His cheery laugh I never hear,
His voice is rough and chiding;
Upon his path some evil thing
Does watch him from its hiding.
Ahone! Ahone! I bid him tell
If he has trod unknowing
Upon the fairy sleeping grass
Or cut the thorn a-growing.
He only turns his head away,
His words are bitter hearing;
But, ah! he cannot silence so
A mother's heart from fearing.
Last night I made a waxen shape
To bring the witch before me,
So she could take the sullen lad,
And my bright child restore me.
Nine pins I thrust within its side
To pierce her heart to dying,
And laid it on the glowing turf,
So listened for her crying.
Soon pressed a hand upon the latch,
I feared the evil fairy;
But when I raised my frightened eyes
'Twas none but Dwyer's Mary.
I told her of the boy bewitched,
She listened unbelieving;
And said she knew to-morrow's eve
Would free him of his grieving.
She turned her blushing face aside,
Her voice was low and cheering;
But, ah! she cannot silence so
A mother's heart from fearing.
