by Clarissa Thomasson

Way down below the hills so green

In a valley tucked away

There lived a lovely, winsome lass

Whose name was Erin O’Shea.

Her fiery hair and emerald eyes

Lured lads from far and wide.

Each dreamed one day that he would take

Sweet Erin for his bride.

On mornings "soft" throughout the croft

You’d hear her sweet voice sing

As over all the rocks and rills

Her plaintive song would ring.

"Where are ye bound, my handsome son?"

The anguished mother sighed.

"To find the song that calls to me,"

Young Ian Kelly cried.

"O’er rocks and rills I’ll journey far

To seek the maiden fair

Whose voice it is that calls to me

On the early morning air."

"Take care, my son," his mother warned.

"Take care ye do not stray

Into the woods beyond the town–

For there the wee folks play.

They’ll welcome you and lure you on

With heady mead and song.

They’ll show you lasses far more fair

Than the one for whom you long."

"I’ve heard the stories, Mother dear.

They’re only for the weak.

No fairy lass can lure me

From the maiden that I seek."

He tossed a dark lock from his brow

And winked an azure eye

"Now dinna worry, Mother dear.

I’ll be home with my bride."

With pack on back, he journeyed off

With n’er a backward glance

To find the song that called to him

And set his soul to dance.

The day was warm. The sun was high.

He whistled down the glen.

He climbed the heather-covered hills–

The happiest of men.

The day grew short. The wind blew cold

And whistled down the dale.

In vain he sought a sheltered spot

To hide him from the gale.

He smelled the meat. It drew him on

Until he heard the lyre.

He watched the revelers unite

Around the Beltane fire.

What better place to warm chill hands

And beg to share a bite.

He wandered in; they welcomed him.

He asked to spend the night.

Around the fire he chanced to meet

Three lads who’d lost their way.

Now well into their cups they were–

Their voices loud and gay.

"Come, Ian Kelly, by the fire

And hear our tales of woe.

For we’ve all sought the same fair lass

O’er hills both high and low.

"The lark at dawning can’t compare

Nor fairy’s music play

A tune that’s even half so sweet

As the voice of Erin O’ Shea.

"Her fiery hair and emerald eyes

Lured us from far and wide.

Each dreamed one day that he would take

Sweet Erin for his bride.

"With packs on back we journeyed off

With n’er a backward glance

To find the song that called to us

And set our souls to dance.

"We smelled the meat. We journeyed on.

And then we heard the lyre.

We joined the revelers gathered ’round

The blazing Beltane fire.

"And now we’re all content to sit

And tip another glass.

We’ve savory meat and mead so sweet

And many a comely lass."

Then Ian Kelly started up.

His mother’s voice rang clear.

He’d wandered to the very spot

Of which his mother feared.

He grabbed his pack. His eyes were wild.

He had to get away.

He had to find the fiery lass

Whose name was Erin O’ Shea.

"Oh, stay awhile," the lasses called.

"Come jump the Beltane fire."

Their voices dripped with honey sweet.

Their loosened hair flew wild.

As ’round and ’round the fire they danced

Their soft arms bade him stay.

And for a moment he forgot

The lass called Erin O’Shea.

He woke within a forest glade.

The morn was bright and fair.

He heard again that plaintiff song

That filled the morning air.

The day was soft. He found the croft

And hurried to the door.

’Twas no mistake–he’d found the lass

Who he’d been searching for.

With trembling hand he dared to knock.

The song soon ceased within.

A white-haired crone–all bent of bone–

Bade him to come right in.

"I’m Ian Kelly, Ma’am," he said.

"I’ve traveled far and wide.

Your granddaughter, Erin O’Shea,

I want her for my bride."

"There’s some mistake," the crone replied.

"No other lass lives here.

For I’m the only Erin O’Shea.

I’ve been here eighty years!"