I caught him at work one day, myself,

In the castle-ditch, where foxglove grows,—

A wrinkled, wizen'd, and bearded Elf,

Spectacles stuck on his pointed nose,

Silver buckles to his hose,

Leather apron—shoe in his lap—

"Rip-rap, tip-tap,

Tick-tack-too!

(A grasshopper on my cap!

Away the moth flew!)

Buskins for a fairy prince,

Brogues for his son,—

Pay me well, pay me well,

When the job is done!"

The rogue was mine, beyond a doubt.

I stared at him; he stared at me;

"Servant, Sir!" "Humph!" says he,

And pull'd a snuff-box out.

He took a long pinch, look'd better pleased,

The queer little Lepracaun;

Offer'd the box with a whimsical grace,—

Pouf! he flung the dust in my face,

And, while I sneezed,

Was gone!