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The fierce wee folk of Merlin Crag

Beneath the boggy earth did drag

And humble him who dared to brag

That twas his right

To cut the roof, the peaty slag,

Of fearsome sprite.

Poor cutter heeded well the plea

But master would not let them be

And so became their enemy

And captive too

A jester bound unhappily

To heather brew.

The wee folk’s turf grew back again

And thus twas time for them to send

Their prisoner up to meet his end

Alone, displaced

As lord, fate-snatched and made to spend

His days disgraced

Upon the bog, a poor peat-cutter

And eke his meager bread and butter

From moor’s edge. Hark and hear him mutter

“Tis years not days

That passed. Cursed am I to suffer

The wee folks’ ways.”