How one who played the pipes to please his love,
Was by a jealous water-sprite drawn in :
And when the river buzzes through his reeds,
They say 'tis he that still would pipe to her,
But that the fairy has his chanter hid,
And left him but the drone. An idle tale.
DEIRDRE.
Nay, nought is idle that records true love.
From Neagh's lake, methinks, that river runs ?
ILLAN.
Yea truly
DEIRDRE.
And they tell another tale
How that was once dry champaign, do they not ?
ILLAN.
Yes ; 'twas young Liban's task to watch the well.
And duly close its covering-lid at eve.
Lest something evil there inhabiting
Should issue forth : but, on an afternoon,
Walking with her true lover, with a mind
That thought of nothing evil, she forgot
Well and well-lid ; and so the under-sea
Burst through and drowned the valley : but the Gods,
Who favour constant lovers, spared their lives ;
And there, beneath a glassy dome they dwell,
Still pleased in one another's company.
The lake lies yonder : we shall see it soon.
DEIRDRE.
Mark how the simple country people deck
Each natural scene with graceful tales of love.
While the strong castles and the towns of men
