They gather when the fields are green,
beneath the golden sun,
they gather in the meadow,
ready for some fun

They run amongst the grass,
waving above their heads,
they skip into a circle,
and gladly, catching hands:

they hop to the left and spin to the right,
they sing their happy tunes,
while others play the fiddle and fife
upon a gray mushroom

In and out they weave around,
threading through the daisies,
Up and down they dance around
to the skies music is raising

The little feet lift off the ground
as they go twirling madly,
and often one falls dizzily down
and gets up again gladly

The wondrous sight in field of green,
That which no human eye has seen
except for young children that have
always believed in the fairy dance