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Last on 06/18/99

Home of the Faefolk


Welcome to the Underhills, the enchanted home of the Faefolk.

Here you might happen upon the Nymphs and Naides

frolicking in the streams and rivers. Or you may catch

glimpse of the Sprites and Pixies as they sing and dance

the Faerie Round. Beware of the, sometimes, vendictive

Goblins...take caution not to upset or insult them.





"The land of faery,

Where nobody gets old and godly and grave,

Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise,

Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue."

- William Butler Yeats


Come - gather near to the smoldering
The embers, aflame, will console and
Sit in the glade when the faery muse
comes -
Magick is made with the flick of our

Oh! dance with the Sidhe under silvery
Word woven trance is the light of their
Bear ye the hearts of all mortal men -
Dance with the fey in the boughs of
Green Glen!


artwork by Cicely M. Barker

The Child and the Faeries
Author~ Unknown

The woods are full of faeries!

The trees are all alive;

The river overflows with them,

See how they dip and dive!

What funny little fellows!

What dainty little dears!

They dance and leap, and prance and peep,

And utter fairy cheers!

I'd like to tame a fairy,

To keep it on a shelf,

And dress its little self.

I'd teach it pretty manners,

It always should say "please",

And then you know I'd make it sew,

And curtsey with its knees!

"take a bit of Faerie dust,

and go, now on your way,

For we all know that Faerie dust

Makes us Laugh and play."

Behold the chariot of the Fairy Queen!

Saw but the fairy pageant,

The Fairy's frame was slight--yon fibrous cloud,

As that which, bursting from the Fairy's form,

The Fairy Queen descended,


'I am the Fairy MAB: to me 'tis given

The Fairy and the Soul proceeded;

Within the Fairy's fane.

The Fairy and the Spirit

Percy B Shelley



Come faeries, take me out of this dull world,

for I would ride with you upon the wind

and dance upon the mountains like a flame


Copyright 1996, Mark Ivan Cole

Song of Fairies Robbing an Orchard

Leigh Hunt

We, the Fairies, blithe and antic,
Of dimensions not gigantic,
Though the moonshine mostly keep us,
Oft in orchards frisk and peep us.

Stolen sweets are always sweeter,
Stolen kisses much completer,
Stolen looks are nice in chapels,
Stolen, stolen, be your apples.

When to bed the world are bobbing,
Then's the time for orchard-robbing;
Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling,
Were it not for stealing, stealing.



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