The fairies, the fairies, the mischief-loving fairies.
⁠Have stolen my loved one, my darling, and my dear;
With charms and enchantments they lured and waylaid him.
⁠So my love cannot comfort and my presence cannot cheer.

The fairies, the fairies, I'll love no more the fairies;
⁠I'll never sweep the hearth for them or care the fairy thorn,
I'll skim no more the yellow cream nor leave the perfumed honey;
⁠But I'll drive the goats for pasture to their greenest rath each morn.

With Ave, and Ave, and many a Paternoster,
⁠Within their magic circle I'll tell my beads for you;
My prayers be sharp as arrows to pierce their soulless bosoms
⁠Till they come with loud sorrow to tell me that they rue.