When the sun sets on the Mersey bank,
And the clouds have gone to sleep,
When the promenade falls quiet and still,
The Mersey fairies peep,
When the tide has left for fairer shores,
And the boats are at their berth,
When the moon shimmers on the silvery bed,
They appear from the ancient earth,
Like fireflies beneath the dock,
They search through fields of mud,
Finding objects to take back home,
Like bottle tops and wood,
They flutter on the river breeze,
They're carried to the wreck,
They stay and play here for a while,
Throwing pebbles from the deck,
Whisping in and out of trees,
And flying up the street,
They stop outside a cottage door,
And wipe their muddy feet,
They creep in through the broken frame,
Into the cottage mill,
The smell of burning coal is strong,
They settle on the sill,
They warm their fragile bodies,
And shake about their wings,
Their comforts interrupted,
By an angelic voice that sings,
Upstairs there is a little girl,
Who combs her locks so long,
They watch with eyes of gold and green,
As she continues with her song,
The sprites see their reflection,
In the looking glass afoot,
They see their muddy faces,
Their clothing full of soot,
They scarper pretty quickly,
And cause a noisy thud,
They whisp and fly there way back home,
There home beneath the mud.
