The Fairies Magic Hands

Hello.

Come on, everybody, take a seat.

-Hello.

-Hello.

-Hello.

-Hello.

Wiggle your fingers and cross your feet.

Are you ready?

Watch me.

I've got some tricks.

It's almost time.

# Magic hands... #

WHISTLING

# Just look at my magic... #

WHISTLING

# My magic hands

# Wiggle your fingers Super-duper. #

WHISTLING

-Hello.

-Hello.

My name is...

And my name is...

Look at what my hands can do.

Huh?

It's a beautiful fairy.

I don't believe in fairies.

Grr!

Ooh!

Humph.

Oh, don't say that, you'll hurt her feelings.

-Do you know where fairies live?

-No idea. Do you know?

-They live at the bottom of your garden.

-Mm-hmm.

And they drink dew from the bluebells

and eat honey from the bees.

Amazing.

I'll have to go and pay them a visit to say hello.

Pfft!

That reminds me of a poem and it's all about fairies

and what they do and where they live.

And they're not all good fairies either.

It's by William Allingham. And it's called The Fairies.

Are you ready?

Up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen,

we daren't go a-hunting for fear of little men.

Wee folk, good folk, trouping all together.

Green jacket, red cap and white owl's feather.

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 watchdogs, all night awake.

High on the hilltop the old king sits.

He is now so old and grey, he's nigh lost his wits.

With a bridge of white mist, Columnkill he crosses...

..on his stately journeys from Slieveleague to Rosses.

Or going up with the 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 that she was fast asleep but she was dead with sorrow.

They have kept her ever since, deep within the lake...

..on a bed of fig leaves, watching till she wake.

By the craggy hillside, through the mosses bare,

they have planted thorn trees, for my pleasure, here and there.

Is any man so daring

as dig them up in spite...

..he shall find their sharpest thorns 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, trouping all together.

Green jacket, red cap and white owl's feather.

I like fairies but I definitely wouldn't want to follow those

-little men into their magical world.

-Me neither.

I'd really miss my family and my friends.

Would you like to meet some more magical people?

Now, we have another poem by William Allingham

and this one's called The Elf Singing.

Are you ready?

An elf sat on a twig.

He was not very big.

He sang a little song, he did not think it wrong.

But he was on a wizard's ground,

who hated all sweet sound.

Elf, Elf, take care of yourself.

He's coming behind you to seize you and bind you

and stifle your song.

The wizard, the wizard, he changes his shape

in crawling along - an ugly old ape,

a poisonous lizard,

a spotted spider,

a wormy glider.

The wizard, the wizard,

he's up on the bough.

He'll bite through your gizzard,

he's close to you now.

WIZARD GIGGLES

The elf went on with his song, it grew more clear and strong.

It lifted him into air,

he floated, singing away,

with rainbows in his hair.

While the wizard-worm, from his creep

made a sudden leap...

..fell down into a hole

and ere his magic words he could say...

..was eaten up by a mole.

I'd love to have rainbows in my hair and to fly around on musical notes.

Flying around on musical notes would definitely be quicker than the bus.

-Bye-bye.

-Bye-bye.

# Magic hands... #

WHISTLING # Just look at my magic... #

WHISTLING

# My magic hands

# Wiggle your fingers Super-duper... #

WHISTLING

# Magic Hands. #