Simkin, a Fairy Tale

In days of yore, when elves were seen,
By moon-light dancing on the green,
Leading in mystic steps their train,
O'er marshy mead or flow'ry plain;
A maiden with her milking pail,
Trip'd morn and eve across the vale;
Patty, the sweetest temper'd lass
That e'er beat dew-drop from the grass:
But nature, half unkind, had shed
Ill-natur'd influence on her head;
For oh! the cause of many a care!
Deep-tinted red the virgin's hair.
For sister nymphs she liv'd a jest,
And ne'er was kiss'd among the rest.
Now so it chanc'd that by the mead
Where Patty's cows were us'd to feed,
There stood a mount, on verdant ground,
With daisies strew'd, and violets crown'd;
Round which had many a tim'rous swain,
Seen fairies sporting on the plain:
For under, as the story's told,
They dwelt in palaces of gold;
Safe in the bosom of the hill,
Where they convey'd themselves at will;
Or, when they pleas'd from thence could rise,
Invisible to mortal eyes.
By these the nymph was often seen,
With clear-starch'd coif so neat and clean,
Devoid of all that negligence,
That give the fairies just offence;
Who trace the house with critic eye,
Nor pass an unwash'd trencher by;
But pinch severe the careless maid,
For room unswept, or spoon mislaid.
They view in pity Patty's hair,
And take the virgin to their care.

Now as at dusky eve the maid
Sat milking Mully in the shade,
Simkin, a sprite of neither sex,
That us'd old peevish maids to vex
In flowing azure loosely drest,
A thin transparent gauze its vest;
Like that which now to us convey'd,
The modern females term a shade;
Astride a vapour dancing came;
A Will o'th' Wisp its mortal name.
The same which boys so often ken,
From distant lake or foggy fen;
A cloud of light that leads astray
Trav'llers, benighted on their way.

Thus over hill and dale, the maid
The well-designing Simkin led;
'Till twelve a clock, a solemn sound,
Rung, from a neighbouring village, round;
What time the nimble fairies tread
The maiden daisies of the mead,
Which scarcely bend beneath their weight,
So lightly trip their nimble feet.

How blest the plain! thrice fertile soil,
On which the fairies deign to smile!
No barren spot can here be found,
No weed nor thistle curse the ground;
Nor here is heard the screech-owl's note,
Nor omen from the raven's throat;
But thrush and black-bird sweetly sing,
And the glad cuckoo hails the spring.
Here too, the scented sweet-briar grows,
The woodbine wild, and wild the rose;
The king-cup smiles with brighter bloom,
Aud violets breathe more sweet perfume.
To such a spot, enchanted mead!
The sprightly elve doth Patty lead,
Now from his bounding steed alights,
And mixes 'mong his fellow sprights;
His bounding steed no more his care,
Directly vanish'd into air.

Now, gentle Patty, in surprize,
Around her turns her wand'ring eyes.
Here some she saw, with mighty care,
New moulding fancies for the fair;
Here rose a head, and there was seen.
Improvements on a capuchin;
(For all the milliner imparts
Is the result of fairy arts.)
Here stood a crowd in warm dispute,
About to form a birth-day suit;
And there in consultation sat
As many, modelling a hat;
Fast by, inspir'd by female love,
The spreading petticoat t' improve;
They met, and in debate were high,
Or is? —or is it not—a fly?
Others, to greater deeds inclin'd,
Were drawing morals for, the mind;
And lo! to this important end,
The fairy histories are penn'd,
The sprites, to all invention new,
Their slender fingers, dip in dew,
And fill with deeds unknown before,
Their tomes, the leaves of sycamore.
Hence are the lov'd of fairies taught,
And blest with ev'ry brilliant thought;
Who here peruse at early dawn,
Th' impressions on the dewy lawn,
Ere yet an inauspicious wind,
Leaves not a single tome behind,
Or the refulgent sun exhales,
On one bright beam a thousand tales!
From hence each intellectual vapour,
They scrawl on mortal ink and paper.
So wretches, vulgar things their care,
For mushrooms at the morn repair,
Ere yet th' expanding warmth of day,
Dries their contracted sweets away.

A number more, at different toil,
Patty with terror view'd a-while;
When now a train approach'd the maid,
With sprightly Simkin at their head;
Who, smiling, tript before the rest,
And thus the trembling fair addrest:

Fear not, sweetest maid, but see
What the gift we bring to thee.
This the queen of fairies sent,
In a phial nicely pent,
Drops, by moon-ey'd elves distill'd
From the wild buds of the field;
Mix'd with liquids nicely caught;
Which in acorn cups are brought;
Fill'd before the peep of morn,
From the prickly point of thorn,
Or the furz-bush in the dell,
Or the yellow cowslip bell,
(Suck'd from thence with slender pipe)
Or the hip, at christmas ripe;
Join'd with these, a chemic rare,
Earth extract from purest air.
Nymph, with this bedew thine head,
No more shall glow thy locks with red,
Of lovely brown shall be thy hair,
And thou the brightest of the sair.

This said, the ken of rising day,
Summon'd each spright in haste away.
Now Patty to the phial flies,
And strait the remedy applies.
She sighs, neglected, now no more,
The swains admire that jeer'd before;
The nymphs from former pity turn,
And now with hate and envy burn.