"It was the cutest sight alive. There was a place for thim to shtand on, an’ a wondherful big fiddle av the size ye cud slape in it, that was played be a monsthrous frog, an’ two little fiddles, that two kittens fiddled on, an’ two big drums, baten be cats, an’ two trumpets, played be fat pigs. All round the fairies were dancin’ like angels, the fireflies givin’ thim light to see by, an’ the moonbames shinin’ on the lake, for it was be the shore it was, an’ if ye don’t belave it, the glen’s still there, that they call the fairy glen to this blessed day."
The fairies do much singing, seldom, however, save in chorus, and their songs were formerly more frequently heard than at present. Even now a belated peasant, who has been at a wake, or is coming home from a fair, in passing a rath will sometimes hear the soft strains of their voices in the distance, and will hurry away lest they discover his presence and be angry at the intrusion on their privacy. When in unusually good spirits they will sometimes admit a mortal to their revels, but if he speaks, the scene at once vanishes, he becomes insensible, and generally finds himself by the roadside the next morning, "wid that degray av pains in his arrums an’ legs an’ back, that if sixteen thousand divils were afther him, he cudn’t stir a toe to save the sowl av him, that’s phat the fairies do be pinchin’ an’ punchin’ him for comin’ on them an’ shpakin’ out loud."
Kindly disposed fairies often take great pleasure in assisting those who treat them with proper respect, and as the favors always take a practical form, there is sometimes a business value in the show of reverence for them. There was Barney Noonan, of the County Leitrim, for instance, "An’ sorra a betther boy was in the county than Barney. He’d work as reg’lar as a pump, an’ liked a bit av divarshun as well as annybody when he’d time for it, that wasn’t aften, to be sure, but small blame to him, for he wasn’t rich be no manner o’ manes. He’d a power av ragârd av the good people, an’ when he wint be the rath beyant his field, he’d pull aff his caubeen an’ take the dudheen out av his mouth, as p’lite as a dancin’ masther, an’ say, ’God save ye, ladies an’ gintlemen,’ that the good people always heard though they niver showed thimselves to him. He’d a bit o’ bog, that the hay was on, an’ afther cuttin’ it, he left it for to dhry, an’ the sun come out beautiful an’ in a day or so the hay was as dhry as powdher an’ ready to put away.