A little north of the town of Sligo, on the southern side of Ben Bulben, some hundreds of feet above the plain, is a small white square in the limestone. No mortal has ever touched it with his hand; no sheep oat has ever browsed grass beside it. There is no more inaccessible place upon the earth, and few more encircled by awe to the deep sidering. It is the door of faery-land. In the middle of night it swings open, and the uhly troop rushes out. All night the gay rabble sweep to and fro across the land, invisible to all, unless perhaps where, in some more than only “gentle”
place—Drumcliff or Drum-a-hair—the nightcapped heads of faery-doay be thrust from their doors to see what mischief the “gentry” are doing. To their trained eyes and ears the fields are covered by red-hatted riders, and the air is full of shrill voices—a sound like whistling, as an a Scottish seer has recorded, and wholly different from the talk of the angels, who “speak mu th……（内容加载失败！）
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