published on
When a baby was sick or cranky, it was often thought that the human child had been abducted by fairies and one of their own was put in the cradle. This song is about a changeling and the remedy his human mother took to get her human baby back.
The lyrics are taken from a poem, "Romance of the Fairy Cure", written by James Clarence Mangan (1803-1849).
The Changeling Remedy
Nellie Phelan's child is ailing,
Hour by hour, the babe is failing
Squealing, kicking, biting, whining,
To an *atomy is pining.
Once he was a fine wee fel low,
Now he's wrinkled, thin and yel low.
Playful then he was and civil,
Now he's cross-grained as the devil.
Oh, her babe, her poor, poor baby.
To a wise man Nell is walking,
Long time they're in secret talking,
First she heard all Nell's description,
Then she wrote out a prescription.
"Take this cure, although a strange one;
It is needed when they change one;
By it you'll the fairies bother,
Get your child and choke the other.
"You must make the fairy speak out,
Ere your child from them you take out,
If you follow what's been written,
You shall find the biter bitten.
Five hundred eggshells Nelly chooses;
In a pot, the shells she *bruises;
In spring water now they're boiling,
Stirring round the pot she's toiling.
Oh her babe, her poor poor baby.
Red hot now the poker's ready,
While Nell stirs the pot so steady;
From the child, in cradle lying,
Nell now hears a strange voice crying,
“Mammy, Mammy, What's that boiling?
Why with pot stick are you toiling?"
Nell, to drop with fright, was ready.
Yet she answered cool and steady.
Oh, her babe, her poor, poor baby.
"Eggshells, deary, I am brewing.
Cock's broth for my babe I'm stewing.
When I skim off all the dripping,
Then it will be fit for sipping,
"Though five-hundred years I'm chewing,
Eggshells never saw I brewing.
Though five centuries I'm cheating,
Ne'er have I seen cock's broth eaten."
Oh her babe, her poor, poor baby.
Quick the poker Nellie seizes,
To the cradle now she races.
Red hot down its throat she crams it;
With her might and main she rams it.
Oh her babe, her poor, poor baby!
Gone like lightning is the fairy;
In its stead there lies her deary---
Her brave boy--- Her darling Terry!
With his lip and cheek of cherry.
Oh, her babe, her own sweet baby.
- Genre
- Folk & Singer-Songwriter