The Fairies

Описание: Since the Dorian mode is often found in traditional Irish music, I - myself a fan of fairy tales - took the opportunity to dive in my collection of Irish folklore, where I soon found exactly what I needed.
I had already written music to an Irish ballad once, but nothing at this scope; this was a real challenge to make and it didn't help that I accidentally deleted most of the violin parts halfway through the project.
The result: a mini-suite skimming between pompous orchestral marches and melodic, piano-driven moments, all under the spell of the mysterious little dwellers of Ireland's wildest cliffs and forests.

The mode itself, with its heroic solemnity, goes a long way to hide its fundamentally grave and melancholic character. After all, it is the "happiest" among the "saddest" scales.

Recorded between May and December 2025
All music by Pat Rivolta
Lyrics adapted from William Allingham's poem of the same name
Arranged and produced by Pat Rivolta
Vocals by Pat Rivolta
Artwork by Pat Rivolta
All rights reserved

The Fairies:

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We dare not go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!

Down the rocky shoreline
Some will 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 hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and grey now
He’s nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague* to Rosses;
Or going up with 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 flag-leaves,
Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hillside,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn trees
For 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 dare not go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!


*In the song I actually say "Silverleague". That's my bad.
I had never heard of that place before, misspelled it the whole time without realising it and didn't notice until after uploading the finished song. I thought about correcting it, but it occured to me that "Silverleague" actually fits the metric better than "Slieveleague" does.
You can see it this way: perhaps the old king was a big volleyball fan who never missed a final...