When the sheep on the brae are lying still
And the lone lake waters weep,
When the pale-faced moon comes over the hill
And my brothers and sisters sleep,
I wander out by the brooklet's edge
Where moon-limned waters run,
And see the fays from the trailing sedge
Come silently one by one—

Come silently out to fish for trout
With a hook of silver fine,
A rye-grass stalk for a fishing-rod,
And a gossamer thread for line.

But there is n't a fish in all the brook,
And it 's me that ought to know,
For I caught the little minnows and took
Them with me long ago—
I lifted them up from the golden sand
Into my pannikin small,
Yet the fairies stay till the dawn of day
And never catch one at all.

I took the little minnows myself
And left them down in the well,
As nobody saw me place them there,
Sure no one at all can tell
The fairy fishers where they are gone,
The pretty wee fish inside
The well that is marked by St. Colum's cross
And the cross of good Saint Bride!