There are fairies at the bottom of our garden!
It's not so very, very far away;
You pass the gardener's shed and you just keep straight ahead -
I do so hope they've really come to stay.
There's a little wood, with moss in it and beetles,
And a little stream that quietly runs through;
You wouldn't think they'd dare to come merry-making there -
Well, they do.

There are fairies at the bottom of our garden!
They often have a dance on summer nights;
The butterflies and bees make a lovely little breeze,
And the rabbits stand about and hold the lights.
Did you know that they could sit upon the moonbeams
And pick a little star to make a far,
And dance away up there in the middle of the air?
Well, they can.

There are fairies at the bottom of our garden!
You cannot think how beautiful they are;
They all stand up and sing when the Fairy Queen and King
Come gently floating down upon their car.
The King is very proud and very handsome;
The Queen - now can you guess who that could be
(She's a little girl all day, but at night she steals away)?
Well - it's ME!

by Rose Fyleman

When I go down the gully green
Among the moss and wee ferns,
I try to keep myself unseen
Beneath the musks and tree ferns.
I crouch among the maidenhair
No bigger than a bunny:
And how the Fairies see me there
Is really very funny.

I never make the littlest sound,
I never sing or coo-ee,
Nor touch the Fairies' dancing ground
Among the grasses dewy;
I never whistle, "Sweet, sweet, sweet!"
To hear the wild birds answer,
Nor stir the bracken with my feet
To fright a Fairy dancer.

Yet, when I come, the Fairies fly
On rainbow-winged rosellas,
And all the treeferns standing by
Put up their green umbrellas;
The toadstools, blue and fawn and rose
And yellow as canaries,
Their little parasols unclose
to screen the hidden Fairies.

I often see the Fairy rings
with dew drops all aglisten,
And hear the noise of Fairy wings,
So tiny, - if I listen;
The little leaping creek runs past
And bubbles o'er with laughter,
To think the Fairies fly too fast
For me to follow after.

When I go down the gully green,
As quiet as a possum,
I keep my yellow head unseen
In golden wattle blossom.
No Fairy on the maidenhair
More light than I could hover;
And, how the Fairies know I'm there,
I cannot discover.

- Annie R. Rentoul