Irish poet and lyricist. His first volume was Poems (1850) which contain one of his best poems, 'The Fairies'. Another notable poem was 'Laurence Bloomfield in Ireland: a Modern Poem' (1864). He wrote several collections of verse for children. He also edited The Ballad Book (1864) and Fifty Modern Poems (1865). His use of Irish themes in his lyrics set a precedent for greater poets like Yeats. |
The FairiesUP the airy mountainDown 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. |
| Featured Works 'The Fairies', 'The Winding Banks of Erne', 'The Pale Image', 'Aeolian Harp', 'To the Nightingales', 'Lovely Mary Donnelly', Half Waking. Allingham was born to an old Anglo-Irish family at Ballyshannon in Donegal. He worked as a customs officer in Ireland and later in England where he settled in 1863. He was a member of the Pre-Raphaelite circle whose ideas influenced him as a poet. |
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. |
| He contributed to many periodicals and made many friends, notably Tennyson and Dante Gabriel Rossetti who illustrated some of his work. Though his collected Poems (1888) was popular for a short time, none of his writings made a lasting impression. | 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 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. Is any man so daring As dig them up in spite? He shall find the thornies set 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. |