Among the hills lives John McCrae,
An honest man so all do say;
John and his wife live together
’Mong the hills and blooming heather.
On their small faim they do keep
A cow and a few goats and sheep;
They own a little Highland horse,
Which ploughs and draws the peats from moss.
For they never saw a coal fire,
And peats give heat all they require;
Peat fire makes best Highland whisky,
Which doth make a man so frisky.
John is a crofter in Skye,
May better days on him draw nigh;
Yet John he did not inherit
Any discontented spirit.
But happy with his humble lot,
His little croft and poor turf cot;
He always to the Lord gives praise,
Though but a poor crop he doth raise.
He never travelled far abroad,
And worships still his father’s God;
From modern thoughts he is quite free,
And newspapers doth seldom see.
He believes the tales his Granny told
To him long since in days of old,
And his wife, kind-hearted Mary,
Believes in both witch and fairy.
She sweeps her hearth so clean each night,
For fairies in bright fire delight;
And they love to see all things neat,
Those pretty little creatures sweet.
So to the cot of John McCrae
They every night do wend their way
For to view the peat fire burn,
And to help his wife to churn.
Neighbors great jealousy display,
They can’t make butter like McCrae,
For the fairies have the power
Of making all the milk turn sour.
One moonlight night old John McCrae,
He in the glen saw fairies play;
The prettiest sight he ever seen,
While they did dance upon the green.
And John doth solemn pass his word
They were as small as humming bird;
When he these charmers did behold,
They were clad in green and gold.
The most charming one upon the green,
She was just crowned the fairy queen,
She told John she loved his wife
Because her home it knew no strife.
But she asked John for a reward,
She said Mary’s bannocks were too hard,
And that the fairies loved to eat
Little nibs of softer meat.
So fully John he told Mary
Of the strange request of fairy,
So now each day she doth bake
A little tiny griddle cake,
In morning fairies they have flown,
And the little cake too is gone;
But wicked people full of vice
Say that the cake is eat by mice.
But this John’s heart it snd doth grieve
That people should themselves deceive;
It hath been so since Adam’s fall,
Some believe much, some not at all.
So now farewell to John McCrae,
May we meet him some other day,
For to our heart it is relief
To find a man with old belief.
Some folks to beauty they are blind,
So full of selfishness the mind;
And others happy to catch gleam
Of the green field or hill or stream.