Today, the Free for All is celebrating the birthday of Irish poet and diarist William Allingham!

Allingham was born on 19 March 1824 in Ballyshannon, County Donegal.  His father was a bank manager, and though he made his career in Irish, and later, English customs-houses, he published several books of poetry over the course of his lifetime, as well.  After retiring from customs service in April 1870, Allingham  became sub-editor of well well-known Fraser’s Magazine.  On 22 August 1874 he married the illustrator, Helen Paterson, a well-known illustrator who was twenty-four years his junior.  Though Helen gave up her job as an illustrator upon her marriage, she became a well-respected watercolor painter under her married name–you can see an example of her work below this paragraph.  The couple settled in London to be near their friend Thomas Carlyle.  Though they relocated to Surrey after Carlyle’s death in 1881, they returned to London in 1888 due to William’s declining health.  He died on November 18, 1889.

Allingham’s work may not have been as profound as some of his contemporaries, but his lyrical verses were deeply rooted in Irish folklore and tradition, and as such, served as powerful inspiration to poets like W.B. Yeats and John Hewitt.  Perhaps his most well-known, and oft-quoted poem is “The Fairies”.  Anyone who has seen the 1973 film Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory will no doubt remember the genuinely odd exchange between Charlie and the ‘tinker’, who recites this poem.  It’s also provided inspiration for works as diverse as Hell Boy and Terry Pratchett’s The Wee Free Men.  We provide it here as a way to keep your St. Patrick’s Day cheer flowing, and in honor of Allingham’s 194th birthday!

The Fairies
by William Allingham

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!

Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.

High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He’s nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music
On cold starry nights
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow,
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.
If any man so daring
As dig them up in spite,
He shall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!