Near Chuckling Stream, in Wooded Vale,
The Fairy Princes dwell.
In houses cleverly disguised
As trees, and rocks, and such.
It’s said, the Stream, youth can renew,
If one were to partake:
And that the Princes lavish Gold
On everything they touch.
When Twilight falls on Wooded Vale,
Small fire lights be seen.
And voices joined in merriment
Are heard upon the air.
And wine is drunk ... a Magic wine,
No Mortal ’er should taste,
For old’s the tale of ruinment
Of those who took the dare.
They sing the songs of ages past,
And dance the Piper’s tune.
They tell the tales of Magic,
And of Heros, fine and bold,
The silver threads of fire light
Send lacy shadows hence ...
And over all, the burnished sheen,
Of hoarded Fairy Gold.
Oh, fine were they who danced till Dawn,
Who tricked us Mortals fair!
Such Magic in the music
That drifted through the trees.
For ages, Mortals n’er have seen,
These Princely, Fairy Sprites ...
Yet, still we hear their laughter,
On the warm midsummer’s breeze.
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