The village watch cried out at night: “Eleven!”
An elfin elf was asleep in the wood just at eleven
And thinks the nightingale was calling him by name from the valley,
Or Silpelit had sent for him.
The elf rubs his eyes,
Steps from his snail-shell home, looking like a drunken man,
Not having slept his fill, and hobbles down, tippety tap,
Through the hazels to the valley, slips right up against the wall,
Where the glow-worm sits, shining bright.
“What bright windows are these? There must be a wedding inside
The little folk are sitting at the feast and skipping round the ballroom;
I’ll take a little peek inside!”
Shame!
He hits his head on hard stone!
Elf, don’t you think you’ve had enough?
Cuckoo! Cuckoo!