We folk, good folk, trooping all together,
Green jacket, red cap and a white house feather.
Down along the rocky shores,
We live amongst the mud pores
Eating crispy pancakes made from yellow tide foam.
Up the Airy Mountain,
Down the bushy glen
We daren't go hunting for fear of little men.
High on a hill top and good king sits up
He is now so old and grey he cannot keep his wits up.
There's music for the master, a cold starry night
While he sups with the Queen from the gay northern lights.
And its..
Up the Airy Mountain,
Down the bushy glen
We daren't go hunting for fear of little men.
Near the Creaky Mountain lake, passed the mosses bear,
There lies a fiery dragon without any hair.
He sleeps in the day time and feeds at night,
When we folk, good folk, stay from sight.
Up the Airy Mountain,
Down the bushy glen
We daren't go hunting for fear of little men.