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Beside the Fire.


WORKS BY DR. HYDE.

=LEABHAR SGEULAIGHTEACHTA.= Folk Stories in Irish, with Notes by Dr.
Hyde, LL.D. Crown 8vo, viiii. 261 pp. wrapper, 5s.


WORKS BY ALFRED NUTT.

=CELTIC AND MEDIÆVAL ROMANCE.= 1899. 6d. net.

=OSSIAN AND THE OSSIANIC LITERATURE.= 1900. 6d. net.

=THE FAIRY MYTHOLOGY OF SHAKESPEARE.= 1900. 6d. net.

=CUCHULAINN, THE IRISH ACHILLES.= 1900. 6d. net.

=THE LEGENDS OF THE HOLY GRAIL.= 1902. 6d. net.

=WAIFS AND STRAYS OF CELTIC TRADITION.= Series initiated and directed by
Lord ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL. Demy 8vo, cloth.

    Vol. II. Folk and Hero Tales. Collected, edited (in Gaelic),
    and translated by the Rev. D. MAC INNES; with a Study on the
    Development of the Ossianic Saga, and copious Notes by ALFRED
    NUTT. xxiv. 497 pages. Portrait of Campbell of Islay, and Two
    Illustrations by E. GRISET. 1890. 15s.

    _Highland Monthly_—“The most important work on Highland
    Folk-lore and Tales since Campbell’s world-renowned Popular
    Tales.”

    HECTOR MACLEAN—“Never before has the development of the
    Ossianic Saga been so scientifically dealt with.”

    _Scots Observer_—“Mr. Alfred Nutt’s excursus and notes are
    lucid and scholarly. They add immensely to the value of the
    book, and afford abundant evidence of their author’s extensive
    reading and sound erudition.”

    _Oban Telegraph_—“The Gaelic text is colloquial and eminently
    idiomatic.... Mr. Nutt deserves especial mention and much
    credit for the painstaking and careful research evidenced by
    his notes to the tales.”

    _Westmoreland Gazette_—“We cannot refrain from placing on
    record our appreciation for the remarkable mastery of the
    subject which Mr. Alfred Nutt has brought to the execution of
    his task.”




                             BESIDE THE FIRE

                             A COLLECTION OF
                       IRISH GAELIC FOLK STORIES.

                   _EDITED, TRANSLATED, AND ANNOTATED_

                                   BY
                     DOUGLAS HYDE, LL.D., M.R.I.A.,

                        (ANCHRAOIBHÍN AOIBHINN.)

        MEMBER OF THE COUNCIL OF THE GAELIC UNION; MEMBER OF THE
                        PAN-CELTIC SOCIETY, ETC.

                         _WITH ADDITIONAL NOTES_

                                   BY
                              ALFRED NUTT.

    Tá siad mar ċeó air dteaċt na h-oidċe
    Bheirṫear as le gal beag gaoiṫe.—SEAN DAN.

    “They are like a mist on the coming of night
    That is scattered away by a light breath of wind.”—OLD POEM.

                                 LONDON:
                      DAVID NUTT, 57-59 LONG ACRE.
                                  1910.

                               PRINTED BY
                       JAMES DUFFY AND CO., LTD.,
                    AT 61 AND 62 GREAT STRAND STREET,
                          AND 70 JERVIS STREET,
                                 DUBLIN.




DEDICATION.


To the memory of those truly cultured and unselfish men, the poet-scribes
and hedge-schoolmasters of the last century and the beginning of this—men
who may well be called the last of the Milesians—I dedicate this effort
to preserve even a scrap of that native lore which in their day they
loved so passionately, and for the preservation of which they worked so
nobly, but in vain.




CONTENTS.


    PREFACE: Previous collections of Irish folk-lore; ignorance of
        the language on the part of collectors. Relation between Irish
        and Scotch Gaelic tales; the Irish bardic tales; the runs in
        Irish and Scotch. Date of Irish versions. Two classes of Irish
        stories; native myths. Narrators of the stories. Discouragement
        of Irish by schoolmasters, clergy, and politicians. Proper mode
        of collecting. System of translation accepted.          PAGE, ix-l.

    POSTSCRIPT (by Alfred Nutt): Dr. Hyde’s theories discussed;
        folk-lore and romance; necessity for romance to conform to
        convention; characteristics of folk-fancy; classification of
        the products of folk-fancy; myth, saga, Märchen and ballad;
        romance and folk-lore among the Gael; folk-conception of the
        Universe                                            Page, li-lviii.

    TALES.

       I. The Tailor and the Three Beasts                             2-14

      II. Bran                                                       14-18

     III. The King of Ireland’s Son                                  18-46

      IV. The Alp-Luachra                                            46-72

       V. Paudyeen O’Kelly and the Weasel                            72-90

      VI. Leeam O’Rooney’s Burial                                   90-103

     VII. Guleesh na Guss Dhu                                      104-128

    VIII. The Well of D’Yerree-in-Dowan                            129-141

      IX. The Court of Crinnawn                                    142-148

       X. Neil O’Carree                                            148-153

      XI. Trunk-without-Head                                       154-161

     XII. The Hags of the Long Teeth                               161-166

    XIII. William of the Tree                                      167-169

     XIV. The Old Crow and the Young Crow                              169

      XV. Riddles                                                  170-172

    Where the Stories came from                                    173-174

    Notes                                                          175-195

    Notes on the Irish Text                                        197-200

    Index of Incidents                                             201-203




PREFACE.


Irish and Scotch Gaelic folk-stories are, as a living form of literature,
by this time pretty nearly a thing of the past. They have been trampled
in the common ruin under the feet of the Zeitgeist, happily not before
a large harvest has been reaped in Scotland, but, unfortunately, before
anything worth mentioning has been done in Ireland to gather in the
crop which grew luxuriantly a few years ago. Until quite recently there
existed in our midst millions of men and women who, when their day’s work
was over, sought and found mental recreation in a domain to which few
indeed of us who read books are permitted to enter. Man, all the world
over, when he is tired of the actualities of life, seeks to unbend his
mind with the creations of fancy. We who can read betake ourselves to
our favourite novelist, and as we peruse his fictions, we can almost see
our author erasing this, heightening that, and laying on such-and-such a
touch for effect. His book is the product of his individual brain, and
some of us or of our contemporaries have been present at its genesis.

But no one can tell us with certainty of the genesis of the folk-tale, no
one has been consciously present at its inception, and no one has marked
its growth. It is in many ways a mystery, part of the flotsam and jetsam
of the ages, still beating feebly against the shore of the nineteenth
century, swallowed up at last in England by the waves of materialism and
civilization combined; but still surviving unengulfed on the western
coasts of Ireland, where I gathered together some bundles of it, of which
the present volume is one.

The folk-lore of Ireland, like its folk-songs and native literature,
remains practically unexploited and ungathered. Attempts have been made
from time to time during the present century to collect Irish folk-lore,
but these attempts, though interesting from a literary point of view, are
not always successes from a scientific one. Crofton Croker’s delightful
book, “Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland,” first
published anonymously in 1825, led the way. All the other books which
have been published on the subject have but followed in the footsteps
of his; but all have not had the merit of his light style, his pleasant
parallels from classic and foreign literature, and his delightful
annotations, which touch, after a fascinating manner peculiarly his own,
upon all that is of interest in his text. I have written the word “text,”
but that word conveys the idea of an original to be annotated upon; and
Crofton Croker is, alas! too often his own original. There lies his weak
point, and there, too, is the defect of all who have followed him. The
form in which the stories are told is, of course, Croker’s own; but no
one who knows anything of fairy lore will suppose, that his manipulation
of the originals is confined to the form merely. The fact is that he
learned the ground-work of his tales from conversations with the Southern
peasantry, whom he knew well, and then elaborated this over the midnight
oil with great skill and delicacy of touch, in order to give a saleable
book, thus spiced, to the English public.

Setting aside the novelists Carleton and Lover, who only published some
incidental and largely-manipulated Irish stories, the next person to
collect Irish folk-lore in a volume was Patrick Kennedy, a native of the
County Wexford, who published “Legendary Fictions of the Irish Celts,”
and in 1870 a good book, entitled, “The Fireside Stories of Ireland,”
which he had himself heard in Wexford when a boy. Many of the stories
which he gives appear to be the detritus of genuine Gaelic folk-stories,
filtered through an English idiom and much impaired and stunted in the
process. He appears, however, not to have adulterated them very much. Two
of the best stories in the book, “Jack, the Cunning Thief,” and “Shawn
an Omadawn,” I heard myself in the adjoining county Wicklow, and the
versions of them that I heard did not differ very widely from Kennedy’s.
It is interesting to note that these counties, close to the Pale as they
are, and under English influence for so long, nevertheless seem to have
preserved a considerable share of the old Gaelic folk-tales in English
dress, while in Leitrim, Longford, Meath, and those counties where Irish
died out only a generation or two ago, there has been made as clean a
sweep of folk-lore and Gaelic traditions as the most uncompromising “West
Briton” could desire. The reason why some of the folk-stories survive in
the eastern counties is probably because the Irish language was there
exchanged for English at a time when, for want of education and printed
books, folk-stories (the only mental recreation of the people) _had_ to
transfer themselves rightly or wrongly into English. When this first
took place I cannot tell, but I have heard from old people in Waterford,
that when some of their fathers or grandfathers marched north to join
the Wexford Irish in ’98, they were astonished to find English nearly
universally used amongst them. Kennedy says of his stories: “I have
endeavoured to present them in a form suitable for the perusal of both
sexes and of all ages”; and “such as they are, they may be received by
our readers as obtained from local sources.” Unfortunately, the sources
are not given by him any more than by Croker, and we cannot be sure how
much belongs to Kennedy the bookseller, and how much to the Wexford
peasant.

After this come Lady Wilde’s volumes;—her “Ancient Legends,” and her
recently published “Ancient Cures, Charms, and Usages,” in both of which
books she gives us a large amount of narrative matter in a folk-lore
dress; but, like her predecessors, she disdains to quote an authority,
and scorns to give us the least inkling as to where such-and-such a
legend, or cure, or superstition comes from, from whom it was obtained,
who were her informants, whether peasant or other, in what parishes or
counties the superstition or legend obtains, and all the other collateral
information which the modern folk-lorist is sure to expect. Her entire
ignorance of Irish, through the medium of which alone such tales and
superstitions can properly, if at all, be collected, is apparent every
time she introduces an Irish word. She astonishes us Irish speakers
with such striking observations as this—“Peasants in Ireland wishing
you good luck, say in Irish, ‘The blessing of Bel and the blessing of
Samhain be with you,’ that is, of the sun and of the moon.”[1] It would
be interesting to know the locality where so curious a Pagan custom is
still practised, for I confess that though I have spoken Irish in every
county where it is still spoken, I have never been, nor do I expect to
be, so saluted. Lady Wilde’s volumes, are, nevertheless, a wonderful
and copious record of folk-lore and folk customs, which must lay
Irishmen under one more debt of gratitude to the gifted compiler. It is
unfortunate, however, that these volumes are hardly as valuable as they
are interesting, and for the usual reason—that we do not know what is
Lady Wilde’s and what is not.

Almost contemporaneously with Lady Wilde’s last book there appeared this
year yet another important work, a collection of Irish folk-tales taken
from the Gaelic speakers of the south and north-west, by an American
gentleman, Mr. Jeremiah Curtin. He has collected some twenty tales, which
are told very well, and with much less cooking and flavouring than his
predecessors employed. Mr. Curtin tells us that he has taken his tales
from the old Gaelic-speaking men; but he must have done so through the
awkward medium of an interpreter, for his ignorance of the commonest
Irish words is as startling as Lady Wilde’s.[2] He follows Lady Wilde in
this, too, that he keeps us in profound ignorance of his authorities. He
mentions not one name, and except that he speaks in a general way of old
Gaelic speakers in nooks where the language is still spoken, he leaves
us in complete darkness as to where and from whom, and how he collected
these stories. In this he does not do himself justice, for, from my own
knowledge of Irish folk-lore, such as it is, I can easily recognize that
Mr. Curtin has approached the fountain-head more nearly than any other.
Unfortunately, like his predecessors, he has a literary style of his own,
for which, to say the least of it, there is no counterpart in the Gaelic
from which he has translated.[3]

We have as yet had no folk-lorist in Ireland who could compare for a
moment with such a man as Iain Campbell, of Islay, in investigative
powers, thoroughness of treatment, and acquaintance with the people,
combined with a powerful national sentiment, and, above all, a knowledge
of Gaelic. It is on this last rock that all our workers-up of Irish
folk-lore split. In most circles in Ireland it is a disgrace to be known
to talk Irish; and in the capital, if one makes use of an Irish word to
express one’s meaning, as one sometimes does of a French or German word,
one would be looked upon as positively outside the pale of decency; hence
we need not be surprised at the ignorance of Gaelic Ireland displayed by
littérateurs who write for the English public, and foist upon us modes of
speech which we have not got, and idioms which they never learned from us.

This being the case, the chief interest in too many of our folk-tale
writers lies in their individual treatment of the skeletons of the
various Gaelic stories obtained through English mediums, and it is not
devoid of interest to watch the various garbs in which the sophisticated
minds of the ladies and gentlemen who trifled in such matters, clothed
the dry bones. But when the skeletons were thus padded round and clad,
although built upon folk-lore, they were no longer folk-lore themselves,
for folk-lore can only find a fitting garment in the language that comes
from the mouths of those whose minds are so primitive that they retain
with pleasure those tales which the more sophisticated invariably forget.
For this reason folk-lore is presented in an uncertain and unsuitable
medium, whenever the contents of the stories are divorced from their
original expression in language. Seeing how Irish writers have managed
it hitherto, it is hardly to be wondered at that the writer of the
article on folk-lore in the “Encyclopedia Britanica,” though he gives
the names of some fifty authorities on the subject, has not mentioned a
single Irish collection. In the present book, as well as in my Leabhar
Sgeuluigheachta, I have attempted—if nothing else—to be a little more
accurate than my predecessors, and to give the _exact language_ of my
informants, together with their names and various localities—information
which must always be the very first requisite of any work upon which a
future scientist may rely when he proceeds to draw honey (is it always
honey?) from the flowers which we collectors have culled for him.

It is difficult to say whether there still exist in Ireland many stories
of the sort given in this volume. That is a question which cannot be
answered without further investigation. In any other country the great
body of Gaelic folk-lore in the four provinces would have been collected
long ago, but the “Hiberni incuriosi suorum” appear at the present day
to care little for anything that is Gaelic; and so their folk-lore has
remained practically uncollected.

Anyone who reads this volume as a representative one of Irish folk-tales
might, at first sight, imagine that there is a broad difference between
the Gaelic tales of the Highlands and those of Ireland, because very few
of the stories given here have parallels in the volumes of Campbell and
MacInnes. I have, however, particularly chosen the tales in the present
volume on account of their dissimilarity to any published Highland
tales, for, as a general rule, the main body of tales in Ireland and
Scotland bear a very near relation to each other. Most of Mr. Curtin’s
stories, for instance, have Scotch Gaelic parallels. It would be only
natural, however, that many stories should exist in Ireland which are
now forgotten in Scotland, or which possibly were never carried there
by that section of the Irish which colonized it; and some of the most
modern—especially of the kind whose genesis I have called conscious—must
have arisen amongst the Irish since then, while on the other hand some
of the Scotch stories may have been bequeathed to the Gaelic language
by those races who were displaced by the Milesian Conquest in the fifth
century.

Many of the incidents of the Highland stories have parallels in Irish
MSS., even incidents of which I have met no trace in the folk-lore of
the people. This is curious, because these Irish MSS. used to circulate
widely, and be constantly read at the firesides of the peasantry, while
there is no trace of MSS. being in use historical times amongst the
Highland cabins. Of such stories as were most popular, a very imperfect
list of about forty is given in Mr. Standish O’Grady’s excellent preface
to the third volume of the Ossianic Society’s publications. After reading
most of these in MSS. of various dates, and comparing them with such
folk-lore as I had collected orally, I was surprised to find how few
points of contact existed between the two. The men who committed stories
to paper seem to have chiefly confined themselves to the inventions
of the bards or professional story-tellers—often founded, however, on
folk-lore incidents—while the taste of the people was more conservative,
and willingly forgot the bardic inventions to perpetuate their old Aryan
traditions, of which this volume gives some specimens. The discrepancy
in style and contents between the MS. stories and those of the people
leads me to believe that the stories in the MSS. are not so much old
Aryan folk-tales written down by scholars as the inventions of individual
brains, consciously inventing, as modern novelists do. This theory,
however, must be somewhat modified before it can be applied, for, as I
have said, there are incidents in Scotch Gaelic folk-tales which resemble
those of some of the MS. stories rather nearly. Let us glance at a single
instance—one only out of many—where Highland tradition preserves a trait
which, were it not for such preservation, would assuredly be ascribed to
the imaginative brain of an inventive Irish writer.

The extraordinary creature of which Campbell found traces in the
Highlands, the Fáchan, of which he has drawn a whimsical engraving,[4]
is met with in an Irish MS. called Iollann Arm-dearg. Old MacPhie,
Campbell’s informant, called him the “Desert creature of Glen Eite, the
son of Colin,” and described him as having “one hand out of his chest,
one leg out of his haunch, and one eye out of the front of his face;” and
again, “ugly was the make of the Fáchan, there was one hand out of the
ridge of his chest, and one tuft out of the top of his head, and it were
easier to take a mountain from the root than to bend that tuft.” This
one-legged, one-handed, one-eyed creature, unknown, as Campbell remarks,
to German or Norse mythology, is thus described in the Irish manuscript:
“And he (Iollann) was not long at this, until he saw the devilish
misformed element, and the fierce and horrible spectre, and the gloomy
disgusting enemy, and the morose unlovely churl (moga); and this is how
he was: he held a very thick iron flail-club in his skinny hand, and
twenty chains out of it, and fifty apples on each chain of them, and a
venomous spell on each great apple of them, and a girdle of the skins of
deer and roebuck around the thing that was his body, and one eye in the
forehead of his black-faced countenance, and one bare, hard, very hairy
hand coming out of his chest, and one veiny, thick-soled leg supporting
him and a close, firm, dark blue mantle of twisted hard-thick feathers,
protecting his body, and surely he was more like unto devil than to man.”
This creature inhabited a desert, as the Highlander said, and were it
not for this corroborating Scotch tradition, I should not have hesitated
to put down the whole incident as the whimsical invention of some Irish
writer, the more so as I had never heard any accounts of this wonderful
creature in local tradition. This discovery of his counterpart in the
Highlands puts a new complexion on the matter. Is the Highland spectre
derived from the Irish manuscript story, or does the writer of the
Irish story only embody in his tale a piece of folk-lore common at one
time to all branches of the Gaelic race, and now all but extinct. This
last supposition is certainly the true one, for it is borne out by the
fact that the Irish writer ascribes no name to this monster, while the
Highlander calls him a Fáchan,[5] a word, as far as I know, not to be
found elsewhere.

But we have further ground for pausing before we ascribe the Irish
manuscript story to the invention of some single bard or writer. If
we read it closely we shall see that it is largely the embodiment of
other folk-tales. Many of the incidents of which it is composed can be
paralleled from Scotch Gaelic sources, and one of the most remarkable,
that of the prince becoming a journeyman fuller, I have found in a
Connacht folk-tale. This diffusion of incidents in various tales
collected all over the Gaelic-speaking world, would point to the fact
that the story, as far as many of the incidents go, is not the invention
of the writer, but is genuine folk-lore thrown by him into a new form,
with, perhaps, added incidents of his own, and a brand new dress.

But now in tracing this typical story, we come across another remarkable
fact—the fresh start the story took on its being thus recast and made up
new. Once the order and progress of the incidents were thus stereotyped,
as it were, the tale seems to have taken a new lease of its life, and
gone forth to conquer; for while it continued to be constantly copied
in Irish manuscripts, thus proving its popularity as a written tale,
it continued to be recited verbally in Scotland in something like the
same bardic and inflated language made use of by the Irish writer,
and with pretty nearly the same sequence of incidents, the three
adventurers, whose Irish names are Ur, Artuir, and Iollann, having
become transmogrified into Ur, Athairt, and Iullar, in the mouth of the
Highland reciter. I think it highly improbable, however, that at the time
of this story being composed—largely out of folk-tale incidents—it was
also committed to paper. I think it much more likely that the story was
committed to writing by some Irish scribe, only after it had gained so
great a vogue as to spread through both Ireland and Scotland. This would
account for the fact that all the existing MSS. of this story, and of
many others like it, are, as far as I am aware, comparatively modern.[6]
Another argument in favour of this supposition, that bardic tales were
only committed to writing when they had become popular, may be drawn from
the fact that both in Ireland and the Highlands we find in many folk-lore
stories traces of bardic compositions easily known by their poetical,
alliterative, and inflated language, of which no MSS. are found in either
country. It may, of course, be said, that the MSS. have perished; and
we know how grotesquely indifferent the modern Irish are about their
literary and antiquarian remains; yet, had they ever existed, I cannot
help thinking that some trace of them, or allusion to them, would be
found in our surviving literature.

There is also the greatest discrepancy in the poetical passages which
occur in the Highland oral version and the Irish manuscript version of
such tales as in incident are nearly identical. Now, if the story had
been propagated from a manuscript written out once for all, and then
copied, I feel pretty sure that the resemblance between the alliterative
passages in the two would be much closer. The dissimilarity between them
seems to show that the incidents and not the language were the things to
be remembered, and that every wandering bard who picked up a new story
from a colleague, stereotyped the incidents in his mind, but uttered them
whenever he recited the story, in his own language; and whenever he came
to the description of a storm at sea, or a battle, or anything else which
the original poet had seen fit to describe poetically, he did so too, but
not in the same way or the same language, for to remember the language
of his predecessor on these occasions, from merely hearing it, would be
well-nigh impossible. It is likely, then, that each bard or story-teller
observed the places where the poetical runs should come in, but trusted
to his own cultivated eloquence for supplying them. It will be well to
give an example or two from this tale of Iollann. Here is the sea-run, as
given in the Highland oral version, after the three warriors embark in
their vessel:—

  “They gave her prow to sea and her stern to shore,
  They hoisted the speckled flapping bare-topped sails,
  Up against the tall tough splintering masts,
  And they had a pleasant breeze as they might chose themselves,
  Would bring heather from the hill, leaf from grove, willow from its
    roots,
  Would put thatch of the houses in furrows of the ridges,
  The day that neither the son nor the father could do it,
  That same was neither little nor much for them,
  But using it and taking it as it might come.
  The sea plunging and surging,
  The red sea the blue sea lashing,
  And striking hither and thither about her planks,
  The whorled dun whelk that was down on the floor of the ocean,
  Would give a _snag_ on her gunwale and a crack on her floor,
  She would cut a slender oaten straw with the excellence of her going.”

It will be observed how different the corresponding run in the Irish
manuscript is, when thrown into verse, for the language in both versions
is only measured prose:—

  “Then they gave an eager very quick courageous high-spirited flood-leap
  To meet and to face the sea and the great ocean.
  And great was the horror....
  Then there arose before them a fierceness in the sea,
  And they replied patiently stoutly strongly and vigorously,
  To the roar of the green sided high-strong waves,
  Till they made a high quick very-furious rowing
  Till the deep-margined dreadful blue-bordered sea
  Arose in broad-sloping fierce-frothing plains
  And in rushing murmuring flood-quick ever-deep platforms.
  And in gloomy horrible swift great valleys
  Of very terrible green sea, and the beating and the pounding
  Of the strong dangerous waves smiting against the decks
  And against the sides of that full-great full-tight bark.”

It may, however, be objected that the sea-runs are so common and so
numerous, that one might easily usurp the place of another, and that
this alone is no proof that the various story-tellers or professional
bards, contented themselves with remembering the incidents of a story,
but either extemporised their own runs after what flourish their nature
would, or else had a stock of these, of their own composing, always
ready at hand. Let us look, then, at another story of which Campbell has
preserved the Highland version, while I have a good Irish MS. of the
same, written by some northern scribe, in 1762. This story, “The Slender
Grey Kerne,” or “Slim Swarthy Champion,” as Campbell translates it, is
full of alliterative runs, which the Highland reciter has retained
in their proper places, but couched in different language, while he
introduces a run of his own which the Irish has not got, in describing
the swift movement of the kerne. Every time the kerne is asked where he
comes from, the Highlander makes him say—

  “I came from hurry-skurry,
  From the land of endless spring,[7]
  From the loved swanny glen,
  A night in Islay and a night in Man,
  A night on cold watching cairns
  On the face of a mountain.
  In the Scotch king’s town was I born,
  A soiled sorry champion am I
  Though I happened upon this town.”

In the Irish MS. the kerne always says—

  “In Dun Monaidh, in the town of the king of Scotland,
  I slept last night,
  But I be a day in Islay and a day in Cantire,
  A day in Man and a day in Rathlin,
  A day in Fionncharn of the watch
  Upon Slieve Fuaid.
  A little miserable traveller I,
  And in Aileach of the kings was I born.
  And that,” said he, “is my story.”

Again, whenever the kerne plays his harp the Highlander says:—

  “He could play tunes and _oirts_ and _orgain_,
  Trampling things, tightening strings,
  Warriors, heroes, and ghosts on their feet,
  Ghosts and souls and sickness and fever,
  That would set in sound lasting sleep
  The whole great world,
  With the sweetness of the calming[8] tunes
  That the champion would play.”

The Irish run is as follows:—

  “The kerne played music and tunes and instruments of song,
  Wounded men and women with babes,
  And slashed heroes and mangled warriors,
  And all the wounded and all the sick,
  And the bitterly-wounded of the great world,
  They would sleep with the voice of the music,
  Ever efficacious, ever sweet, which the kerne played.”

Again, when the kerne approaches anyone, his gait is thus described
half-rythmically by the Scotch narrator:—“A young chap was seen coming
towards them, his two shoulders through his old coat, his two ears
through his old hat, his two squat kickering tatter-y shoes full of cold
roadway-ish water, three feet of his sword sideways in the side of his
haunch after the scabbard was ended.”

The Irish writer makes him come thus:—“And he beheld the slender grey
kerne approaching him straight, and half his sword bared behind his
haunch, and old shoes full of water sousing about him, and the top of his
ears out through his old mantle, and a short butt-burned javelin of holly
in his hand.”

These few specimens, which could be largely multiplied, may be
sufficient for our purpose, as they show that wherever a run occurs in
the Irish the same occurs in the Gaelic, but couched in quite different
language, though preserving a general similarity of meaning. This can
only be accounted for on the supposition already made, that when a
professional bard had invented a successful story it was not there and
then committed to paper, but circulated _vivâ voce_, until it became the
property of every story-teller, and was made part of the stock-in-trade
of professional _filès_, who neither remembered nor cared to remember the
words in which the story was first told, but only the incidents of which
it was composed, and who (as their professional training enabled them to
do) invented or extemporised glowing alliterative runs for themselves at
every point of the story where, according to the inventor of it, a run
should be.

It may be interesting to note that this particular story cannot—at
least in the form in which we find it disseminated both in Ireland and
Scotland—be older than the year 1362, in which year O’Connor Sligo
marched into Munster and carried off great spoil, for in both the Scotch
and Irish versions the kerne is made to accompany that chieftain, and
to disappear in disgust because O’Connor forgot to offer him the first
drink. This story then, and it is probably typical of a great many
others, had its rise in its present shape—for, of course, the germ of
it may be much older—on Irish ground, not earlier than the end of the
fourteenth or the beginning of the fifteenth century, and was carried by
some Irish bard or professional story-teller to the Gaeldom of Scotland,
where it is told to this day without any great variations, but in a form
very much stunted and shortened. As to the Irish copy, I imagine that it
was not written down for a couple of centuries later, and only after it
had become a stock piece all over the Scotch and Irish Gaeldom; that then
some scribe got hold of a story-teller (one of those professionals who,
according to the Book of Leinster, were obliged to know seven times fifty
stories), and stereotyped in writing the current Irish variation of the
tale, just as Campbell, two, three, or four centuries afterwards, did
with the Scotch Gaelic version.

It may, of course, be alleged that the bombastic and inflated language
of many of the MS. stories is due not to the oral reciter, but to the
scribe, who, in his pride of learning, thought to himself, _nihil quod
tango non orno_; but though it is possible that some scribes threw
in extraneous embellishments, I think the story-teller was the chief
transgressor. Here, for instance, is a verbally collected specimen from
a Connemara story, which contains all the marks of the MS. stories,
and yet it is almost certain that it has been transmitted purely _vivâ
voce_:—“They journeyed to the harbour where there was a vessel waiting
to take them across the sea. They struck into her, and hung up the great
blowing, bellying, equal-long, equal-straight sails, to the tops of the
masts, so that they would not leave a rope without straining, or an oar
without breaking, plowing the seething, surging sea; great whales making
fairy music and service for them, two-thirds going beneath the wave to
the one-third going on the top, sending the smooth sand down below and
the rough sand up above, and the eels in grips with one another, until
they grated on port and harbour in the Eastern world.” This description
is probably nothing to the glowing language which a professional
story-teller, with a trained ear, enormous vocabulary, and complete
command of the language, would have employed a couple of hundred years
ago. When such popular traces of the inflated style even still exist, it
is against all evidence to accredit the invention and propagation of it
to the scribes alone.

The relationship between Ireland and the Scottish Gaeldom, was of the
closest kind, and there must have been something like an identity of
literature, nor was there any break in the continuity of these friendly
relations until the plantation of Ulster cut off the high road between
the two Gaelic families. Even during the fifteenth and sixteenth
centuries it is probable that no sooner did a bardic composition win
fame in Ireland than it was carried over to try its fortune in Scotland
too, just as an English dramatic company will come over from London to
Dublin. A story which throws great light on the dispersion of heroic
tales amongst the Gaelic-speaking peoples, is Conall Gulban, the longest
of all Campbell’s tales. On comparing the Highland version with an Irish
MS., by Father Manus O’Donnell, made in 1708, and another made about the
beginning of this century, by Michael O’Longan, of Carricknavar, I was
surprised to find incident following incident with wonderful regularity
in both versions. Luckily we have proximate data for fixing the date of
this renowned story, a story that, according to Campbell, is “very widely
spread in Scotland, from Beaulay on the east, to Barra on the west, and
Dunoon and Paisley in the south.” Both the Irish and Gaelic stories
relate the exploits of the fifth century chieftain, Conall Gulban, the
son of Niall of the Nine Hostages, and his wars with (amongst others)
the Turks. The Irish story begins with an account of Niall holding his
court, when a herald from the Emperor of Constantinople comes forward
and summons him to join the army of the emperor, and assist in putting
down Christianity, and making the nations of Europe embrace the Turkish
faith. We may fairly surmise that this romance took its rise in the
shock given to Europe by the fall of Constantinople and the career of
Mahomet the Great. This would throw back its date to the latter end of
the fifteenth century at the earliest; but one might almost suppose that
Constantinople had been long enough held by the Turks at the time the
romance was invented to make the inventor suppose that it had always
belonged to them, even in the time of Niall of the Nine Hostages.[9] We
know that romances of this kind continued to be invented at a much later
date, but I fancy none of these ever penetrated to Scotland. One of the
most popular of romantic tales with the scribes of the last century and
the first half of this, was “The Adventures of Torolbh MacStairn,” and
again, the “Adventures of Torolbh MacStairn’s Three Sons,” which most of
the MSS. ascribe to Michael Coiminn, who lived at the beginning of the
eighteenth century,[10] and whose romance was certainly not propagated by
professional story-tellers, as I have tried to prove was the case with
the earlier romances, but by means of numerous manuscript copies; and it
is also certain that Coiminn did not relate this tale as the old bards
did, but wrote it down as modern novelists do their stories. But this
does not invalidate my surmise, or prove that Conall Gulban, and forty
or fifty of the same kind, had their origin in a written manuscript;
it only proves that in the eighteenth century the old order was giving
place to the new, and that the professional bards and story-tellers were
now a thing of the past, they having fallen with the Gaelic nobility
who were their patrons. It would be exceedingly interesting to know
whether any traces of these modern stories that had their rise in written
manuscripts, are to be found amongst the peasantry as folk-lore. I,
certainly, have found no remnant of any such; but this proves nothing.
If Ireland had a few individual workers scattered over the provinces we
would know more on the subject; but, unfortunately, we have hardly any
such people, and what is worse, the present current of political thought,
and the tone of our Irish educational establishments are not likely
to produce them. Until something has been done by us to collect Irish
folk-lore in as thorough a manner as Highland tales have already been
collected, no deductions can be made with certainty upon the subject of
the relationship between Highland and Irish folk-tales, and the relation
of both to the Irish MSS.

Irish folk-stories may roughly be divided into two classes, those which I
believe never had any _conscious_ genesis inside the shores of Ireland,
and those which had. These last we have just been examining. Most of
the _longer_ tales about the Fenians, and all those stories which have
long inflated passages full of alliterative words and poetic epithets,
belong to this class. Under the other head of stories that were never
consciously invented on Irish ground, we may place all such simple
stories as bear a trace of nature myths, and those which appear to belong
to our old Aryan heritage, from the fact of their having parallels
amongst other Aryan-speaking races, such as the story of the man who
wanted to learn to shake with fear, stories of animals and talking
birds, of giants and wizards, and others whose directness and simplicity
show them to have had an unconscious and popular origin, though some
of these may, of course, have arisen on Irish soil. To this second
class belong also that numerous body of traditions rather than tales,
of conversational anecdotes rather than set stories, about appearances
of fairies, or “good people,” or Tuatha De Danann, as they are also
called; of pookas, leprechauns, ghosts, apparitions, water-horses, &c.
These creations of folk-fancy seldom appear, as far as I have observed,
in the folk-tale proper, or at least they only appear as adjuncts, for
in almost all cases the interest of these regular tales centres round a
human hero. Stories about leprechauns, fairies, &c., are very brief, and
generally have local names and scenery attached to them, and are told
conversationally as any other occurrence might be told, whereas there is
a certain solemnity about the repetition of a folk-tale proper.

After spending so much time over the very latest folk-tales, the detritus
of bardic stories, it will be well to cast a glance at some of the most
ancient, such as bear their pre-historic origin upon their face. Some of
these point, beyond all doubt, to rude efforts on the part of primitive
man to realize to himself the phenomena of nature, by personifying them,
and attaching to them explanatory fables. Let us take a specimen from a
story I found in Mayo, not given in this volume—“The Boy who was long on
his Mother.”[11] In this story, which in Von Hahn’s classification would
come under the heading of “the strong man his adventures,” the hero is
a veritable Hercules, whom the king tries to put to death by making him
perform impossible tasks, amongst other things, by sending him down to
hell to drive up the spirits with his club. He is desired by the king to
drain a lake full of water. The lake is very steep on one side like a
reservoir. The hero makes a hole at this side, applies his mouth to it,
and sucks down the water of the lake, with boats, fishes, and everything
else it contained, leaving the lake ċoṁ tirm le bois do láiṁe, “as dry
as the palm of your hand.” Even a sceptic will be likely to confess that
this tale (which has otherwise no meaning) is the remains of a (probably
Aryan) sun-myth, and personifies the action of the warm sun in drying up
a lake and making it a marsh, killing the fishes, and leaving the boats
stranded. But this story, like many others, is suggestive of more than
this, since it would supply an argument for those who, like Professor
Rhys, see in Hercules a sun-god. The descent of our hero into hell, and
his frightening the spirits with his club, the impossible tasks which the
king gives him to perform in the hopes of slaying him, and his successful
accomplishment of them, seem to identify him with the classic Hercules.
But the Irish tradition preserves the incident of drying the lake, which
must have been the work of a sun-god, the very thing that Hercules—but
on much slighter grounds—is supposed to have been.[12] If this story is
not the remains of a nature myth, it is perfectly unintelligible, for no
rational person could hope to impose upon even a child by saying that a
man drank up a lake, ships, and all; and yet this story has been with
strange conservatism repeated from father to son for probably thousands
of years, and must have taken its rise at a time when our ancestors were
in much the same rude and mindless condition as the Australian blacks or
the Indians of California are to-day.

Again, in another story we hear of a boat that sails equally swiftly
over land and sea, and goes straight to its mark. It is so large that if
all the men in the world were to enter it there would remain place for
six hundred more; while it is so small that it folds up into the hand of
the person who has it. But ships do not sail on land, nor grow large and
small, nor go straight to their mark; consequently, it is plain that we
have here another nature myth, vastly old, invented by pre-historic man,
for these ships can be nothing but the clouds which sail over land and
sea, are large enough to hold the largest armies, and small enough to
fold into the hand, and which go straight to their mark. The meaning of
this has been forgotten for countless ages, but the story has survived.

Again, in another tale which I found, called “The Bird of Sweet
Music,”[13] a man follows a sweet singing bird into a cave under the
ground, and finds a country where he wanders for a year and a day, and a
woman who befriends him while there, and enables him to bring back the
bird, which turns out to be a human being. At the end of the tale the
narrator mentions quite casually that it was his mother whom he met down
there. But this touch shows that the land where he wandered was the
Celtic Hades, the country of the dead beneath the ground, and seems to
stamp the tale at once as at least pre-Christian.

Even in such an unpretending-looking story as “The King of Ireland’s
Son” (the third in this volume), there are elements which must be vastly
old. In a short Czech story, “George with the Goat,” we find some of
the prince’s companions figuring, only slightly metamorphosed. We have
the man with one foot over his shoulder, who jumps a hundred miles when
he puts it down; while the gun-man of the Irish story who performs two
parts—that of seeing and shooting—is replaced in the Bohemian tale by two
different men, one of whom has such sight that he must keep a bandage
over his eyes, for if he removed it he could see a hundred miles, and the
other has, instead of a gun, a bottle with his thumb stuck into it for
a stopper, because if he took it out it would squirt a hundred miles.
George hires one after the other, just as the prince does in the Irish
story. George goes to try to win the king’s daughter, as the Irish prince
does, and, amongst other things, is desired to bring a goblet of water
from a well a hundred miles off in a minute. “So,” says the story,[14]
“George said to the man who had the foot on his shoulder, ‘You said that
if you took the foot down you could jump a hundred miles.’ He replied:
‘I’ll easily do that.’ He took the foot down, jumped, and was there; but
after this there was only a very little time to spare, and by this he
ought to have been back. So George said to the second, ‘You said that if
you removed the bandage from your eyes you could see a hundred miles;
peep, and see what is going on.’ ‘Ah, sir, goodness gracious! he’s fallen
asleep.’ ‘That will be a bad job,’ said George; ‘the time will be up.
You third man, you said if you pulled your thumb out you could squirt
a hundred miles. Be quick, and squirt thither, that he may get up; and
you, look whether he is moving, or what.’ ‘Oh, sir, he’s getting up now;
he’s knocking the dust off; he’s drawing the water.’ He then gave a jump,
and was there exactly in time.” Now, this Bohemian story seems also to
bear traces of a nature myth; for, as Mr. Wratislaw has remarked: “the
man who jumps a hundred miles appears to be the rainbow, the man with
bandaged eyes the lightning, and the man with the bottle the cloud.”
The Irish story, while in every other way superior to the Bohemian, has
quite obscured this point; and were it not for the striking Sclavonic
parallel, people might be found to assert that the story was of recent
origin. This discovery of the Czech tale, however, throws it at once
three thousand years back; for the similarity of the Irish and Bohemian
story can hardly be accounted for, except on the supposition, that both
Slavs and Celts carried it from the original home of the Aryan race, in
pre-historic times, or at least from some place where the two races were
in contiguity with one another, and that it, too—little as it appears so
now—was at one time in all probability a nature myth.

Such myth stories as these ought to be preserved, since they are about
the last visible link connecting civilized with pre-historic man; for,
of all the traces that man in his earliest period has left behind him,
there is nothing except a few drilled stones or flint arrow-heads
that approaches the antiquity of these tales, as told to-day by a
half-starving peasant in a smoky Connacht cabin.

It is time to say a word about the narrators of these stories. The
people who can recite them are, as far as my researches have gone, to
be found only amongst the oldest, most neglected, and poorest of the
Irish-speaking population. English-speaking people either do not know
them at all, or else tell them in so bald and condensed a form as to
be useless. Almost all the men from whom I used to hear stories in the
County Roscommon are dead. Ten or fifteen years ago I used to hear a
great many stories, but I did not understand their value. Now when I go
back for them I cannot find them. They have died out, and will never
again be heard on the hillsides, where they probably existed for a
couple of thousand years; they will never be repeated there again, to
use the Irish phrase, while grass grows or water runs. Several of these
stories I got from an old man, one Shawn Cunningham, on the border of
the County Roscommon, where it joins Mayo. He never spoke more than a
few words of English till he was fifteen years old. He was taught by a
hedge schoolmaster from the South of Ireland out of Irish MSS. As far
as I could make out from him the teaching seemed to consist in making
him learn Irish poems by heart. His next schoolmaster, however, tied a
piece of stick round his neck, and when he came to school in the morning
the schoolmaster used to inspect the piece of wood and pretend that it
told him how often he had spoken Irish when at home. In some cases the
schoolmasters made the parents put a notch in the stick every time the
child failed to speak English. He was beaten then, and always beaten
whenever he was heard speaking a word of Irish, even though at this time
he could hardly speak a word of English. His son and daughter now speak
Irish, though not fluently, his grandchildren do not even understand it.
He had at one time, as he expressed it, “the full of a sack of stories,”
but he had forgotten them. His grandchildren stood by his knee while
he told me one or two, but it was evident they did not understand a
word. His son and daughter laughed at them as nonsense. Even in Achill
where, if anywhere, one ought to find folk-stories in their purity, a
fine-looking dark man of about forty-five, who told me a number of them,
and could repeat Ossian’s poems, assured me that now-a-days when he went
into a house in the evening and the old people got him to recite, the
boys would go out; “they wouldn’t understand me,” said he, “and when they
wouldn’t, they’d sooner be listening to géimneaċ na mbó,” “the lowing
of the cows.” This, too, in an island where many people cannot speak
English. I do not know whether the Achill schoolmasters make use of the
notch of wood to-day, but it is hardly wanted now. It is curious that
this was the device universally employed all over Connacht and Munster
to kill the language. This took place under the eye of O’Connell and the
Parliamentarians, and, of course, under the eye and with the sanction of
the Catholic priesthood and prelates, some of whom, according to Father
Keegan, of St. Louis, distinguished themselves by driving the Irish
teachers out of their dioceses and burning their books. At the present
day, such is the irony of fate, if a stranger talks Irish he runs a good
chance of being looked upon as an enemy, this because some attempts were
made to proselytize “natives” by circulating Irish bibles, and sending
some Irish scripture-readers amongst them. Surely nothing so exquisitely
ludicrous ever took place outside of this island of anomalies, as that a
stranger who tries to speak Irish in Ireland runs the serious risk of
being looked upon as a proselytizing Englishman. As matters are still
progressing gaily in this direction, let nobody be surprised if a pure
Aryan language which, at the time of the famine, in ’47, was spoken by at
least four million souls (more than the whole population of Switzerland),
becomes in a few years as extinct as Cornish. Of course, there is not a
shadow of necessity, either social or economical, for this. All the world
knows that bi-linguists are superior to men who know only one language,
yet in Ireland everyone pretends to believe the contrary. A few words
from the influential leaders of the race when next they visit Achill, for
instance, would help to keep Irish alive there in _sæcula sæculorum_, and
with the Irish language, the old Aryan folk-lore, the Ossianic poems,
numberless ballads, folk-songs, and proverbs, and a thousand and one
other interesting things that survive when Irish is spoken, and die when
it dies. But, from a complexity of causes which I am afraid to explain,
the men who for the last sixty years have had the ear of the Irish race
have persistently shown the cold shoulder to everything that was Irish
and racial, and while protesting, or pretending to protest, against West
Britonism, have helped, more than anyone else, by their example, to
assimilate us to England and the English, thus running counter to the
entire voice of modern Europe, which is in favour of extracting the best
from the various races of men who inhabit it, by helping them to develop
themselves on national and racial lines. The people are not the better
for it either, for one would fancy it required little culture to see that
the man who reads Irish MSS., and repeats Ossianic poetry, is a higher
and more interesting type than the man whose mental training is confined
to spelling through an article in _United Ireland_.[15]

I may mention here that it is not as easy a thing as might be imagined
to collect Irish stories. One hears that tales are to be had from such
and such a man, generally, alas! a very old one. With difficulty one
manages to find him out, only to discover, probably, that he has some
work on hand. If it happens to be harvest time it is nearly useless going
to him at all, unless one is prepared to sit up with him all night, for
his mind is sure to be so distraught with harvest operations that he can
tell you nothing. If it is winter time, however, and you fortunately find
him unoccupied, nevertheless it requires some management to get him to
tell his stories. Half a glass of _ishka-baha_, a pipe of tobacco, and a
story of one’s own are the best things to begin with. If, however, you
start to take down the story _verbatim_ with pencil and paper, as an
unwary collector might do, you destroy all, or your shanachie becomes
irritable. He will not wait for you to write down your sentence, and if
you call out, “Stop, stop, wait till I get this down,” he will forget
what he was going to tell you, and you will not get a third of his story,
though you may think you have it all. What you must generally do is to
sit quietly smoking your pipe, without the slightest interruption, not
even when he comes to words and phrases which you do not understand.
He must be allowed his own way to the end, and then after judiciously
praising him and discussing the story, you remark, as if the thought had
suddenly struck you, “buḋ ṁaiṫ liom sin a ḃeiṫ agam air ṗáipeur,” “I’d
like to have that on paper.” Then you can get it from him easily enough,
and when he leaves out whole incidents, as he is sure to do, you who have
just heard the story can put him right, and so get it from him nearly in
its entirety. Still it is not always easy to write down these stories,
for they are full of old or corrupted words, which neither you nor your
narrator understand, and if you press him too much over the meaning of
these he gets confused and irritable.

The present volume consists of about half the stories in the _Leabhar
Sgeuluigheachta_, translated into English, together with some half
dozen other stories given in the original together with a close English
translation. It is not very easy to make a good translation from Irish
into English, for there are no two Aryan languages more opposed to each
other in spirit and idiom. Still, the English spoken by three-fourths of
the people of Ireland is largely influenced by Gaelic idioms, for most of
those expressions which surprise Englishmen are really translations from
that Irish which was the language of the speaker’s father, grandfather,
or great-grandfather—according to the part of the country you may be
in—and there have perpetuated themselves, even in districts where you
will scarce find a trace of an Irish word. There are, however, also
hundreds of Gaelic idioms not reproduced in the English spoken by the
people, and it is difficult to render these fitly. Campbell of Islay has
run into rather an extreme in his translations, for in order to make
them picturesque, he has rendered his Gaelic originals something too
literally. Thus, he invariably translates _bhain se an ceann deth_, by
“he reaped the head off him,” a form of speech which, I notice, a modern
Irish poet and M.P. has adopted from him; but bain, though it certainly
means “reap” amongst other things, is the word used for taking off a hat
as well as a head. Again, he always translates _thu_ by “thou,” which
gives his stories a strange antique air, which is partly artificial, for
the Gaelic “thou” corresponds to the English “you,” the second person
plural not being used except in speaking of more than one. In this way,
Campbell has given his excellent and thoroughly reliable translations
a scarcely legitimate colouring, which I have tried to avoid. For this
reason, I have not always translated the Irish idioms quite literally,
though I have used much unidiomatic English, but only of the kind used
all over Ireland, the kind the people themselves use. I do not translate,
for instance, the Irish for “he died,” by “he got death,” for this,
though the literal translation, is not adopted into Hibernian English;
but I do translate the Irish _ghnidheadh se sin_ by “he used to do that,”
which is the ordinary Anglo-Irish attempt at making—what they have not
got in English—a consuetudinal tense. I have scarcely used the pluperfect
at all. No such tense exists in Irish, and the people who speak English
do not seem to feel the want of it, and make no hesitation in saying,
“I’d speak sooner if I knew that,” where they mean, “if I had known that
I would have spoken sooner.” I do not translate (as Campbell would), “it
rose with me to do it,” but “I succeeded in doing it,” for the first,
though the literal translation of the Irish idiom, has not been adopted
into English; but I do translate “he did it and he drunk,” instead
of, “he did it while he was drunk;” for the first phrase (the literal
translation of the Irish) is universally used throughout English-speaking
Ireland. Where, as sometimes happens, the English language contains no
exact equivalent for an Irish expression, I have rendered the original as
well as I could, as one generally does render for linguistic purposes,
from one language into another.

In conclusion, it only remains for me to thank Mr. Alfred Nutt for
enriching this book as he has done, and for bearing with the dilatoriness
of the Irish printers, who find so much difficulty in setting Irish type,
that many good Irishmen have of late come round to the idea of printing
our language in Roman characters; and to express my gratitude to Father
Eugene O’Growney for the unwearying kindness with which he read and
corrected my Irish proofs, and for the manifold aid which he has afforded
me on this and other occasions.




POSTSCRIPT BY ALFRED NUTT.


I had hoped to accompany these tales with as full a commentary as
that which I have affixed to the Argyllshire _Märchen_, collected and
translated by the Rev. D. MacInnes. Considerations of business and health
prevent me from carrying out this intention, and I have only been able to
notice a passage here and there in the Tales; but I have gladly availed
myself of my friend, Dr. Hyde’s permission, to touch upon a few points in
his Introduction.

Of special interest are Dr. Hyde’s remarks upon the relations which
obtain between the modern folk-tale current among the Gaelic-speaking
populations of Ireland and Scotland, and the Irish mythic, heroic and
romantic literature preserved in MSS., which range in date from the
eleventh century to the present day.

In Ireland, more than elsewhere, the line of demarcation between the
tale whose genesis is conscious, and that of which the reverse is true,
is hard to draw, and students will, for a long while to come, differ
concerning points of detail. I may thus be permitted to disagree at times
with Dr. Hyde, although, as a rule, I am heartily at one with him.

Dr. Hyde distinguishes between an older stratum of folk-tale (the
“old Aryan traditions,” of p. xix.) and the newer stratum of “bardic
inventions.” He also establishes a yet younger class than these latter,
the romances of the professional story-tellers of the eighteenth century,
who “wrote them down as modern novelists do their stories.” Of these
last he remarks (p. xxxiv.), that he has found no remnant of them among
the peasantry of to-day; a valuable bit of evidence, although of course,
subject to the inconclusiveness of all merely negative testimony. To
revert to the second class, he looks upon the tales comprised in it
as being rather the inventions of individual brains than as old Aryan
folk-tales (p. xx.) It must at once be conceded, that a great number of
the tales and ballads current in the Gaelic-speaking lands undoubtedly
received the form under which they are now current, somewhere between the
twelfth and the sixteenth centuries; that the authors of that form were
equally undoubtedly the professional bards and story-tellers attached
to the court of every Gaelic chieftain; and that the method of their
transmission was oral, it being the custom of the story-tellers both
to teach their tales to pupils, and to travel about from district to
district.

The style of these stories and ballads enables us to date them with
sufficient precision. Dr. Hyde also notes historical allusions, such
as the reference to O’Connor Sligo, in the story of the “Slim Swarthy
Champion,” or to the Turks in the story of “Conall Gulban.” I cannot
but think, however, that it is straining the evidence to assert that
the one story was invented after 1362, or the other after the fall of
Constantinople. The fact that “Bony” appears in some versions of the
common English mumming play does not show that it originated in this
century, merely that these particular versions have passed through
the minds of nineteenth century peasants; and in like manner the
Connaught fourteenth century chieftain may easily have taken the place
of an earlier personage, the Turks in “Conall Gulban,” of an earlier
wizard-giant race. If I cannot go as far as Dr. Hyde in this sense,
I must equally demur to the assumption (p. xl.), that community of
incident between an Irish and a Bohemian tale necessarily establishes
the pre-historic antiquity of the incident. I believe that a great many
folk-tales, as well as much else of folk-lore, has been developed _in
situ_, rather than imported from the outside; but I, by no means, deny
importation in principle, and I recognise that its agency has been
clearly demonstrated in not a few cases.

The main interest of Irish folk-literature (if the expression be allowed)
centres in the bardic stories. I think that Dr. Hyde lays too much stress
upon such external secondary matters as the names of heroes, or allusions
to historical events; and, indeed, he himself, in the case of Murachaidh
MacBrian, states what I believe to be the correct theory, namely, that
the Irish bardic story, from which he derives the Scotch Gaelic one, is,
as far as many of its incidents go, not the invention of the writer, but
genuine folk-lore thrown by him into a new form (p. xxii.)

Had we all the materials necessary for forming a judgment, such is,
I believe, the conclusion that would in every case be reached. But I
furthermore hold it likely that in many cases the recast story gradually
reverted to a primitive folk-type in the course of passing down from the
court story-teller to the humbler peasant reciters, that it sloughed
off the embellishments of the _ollamhs_, and reintroduced the older,
wilder conceptions with which the folk remained in fuller sympathy than
the more cultured bard. Compare, for instance, as I compared ten years
ago, “Maghach Colgar,” in Campbell’s version (No. 36), with the “Fairy
Palace of the Quicken Trees.” The one tale has all the incidents in
the wildest and most fantastic form possible; in the other they are
rationalised to the utmost possible extent and made to appear like a
piece of genuine history. I do not think that if this later version was
_invented_ right out by a thirteenth or fourteenth century _ollamh_, it
could have given rise to the former one. Either “Maghach Colgar” descends
from the folk-tale which served as the basis of the Irish story, or, what
is more likely, the folk, whilst appreciating and preserving the new
arrangement of certain well-known incidents, retained the earlier form
of the incidents themselves, as being more consonant with the totality
of its conceptions, both moral and æsthetic. This I hold to be the vital
lesson the folk-lorist may learn from considering the relations of Gaelic
folk-tale and Gaelic romance (using the latter term in the sense of story
with a conscious genesis): that romance, to live and propagate itself
among the folk, must follow certain rules, satisfy certain conceptions of
life, conform to certain conventions. The Irish bards and story-tellers
had little difficulty, I take it, in doing this; they had not outgrown
the creed of their countrymen, they were in substantial touch with
the intellectual and artistic laws that govern their subject-matter.
Re-arrange, rationalise somewhat, deck out with the questionable
adornment of their scanty and ill-digested book-learning—to this extent,
but to this extent only, I believe, reached their influence upon the mass
of folk-conceptions and presentments which they inherited from their
fathers, and which, with these modifications and additions, they handed
on to their children.

But romance must not only conform to the conventions, it must also fit in
with the _ensemble_ of conditions, material, mental and spiritual, which
constitute the culture (taking this much-abused word in its widest sense)
of a race. An example will make this clear.

Of all modern, consciously-invented fairy tales I know but one which
conforms fully to the folk-tale convention—“The Shaving of Shagpat.” It
follows the formula as closely and accurately as the best of Grimm’s
or of Campbell’s tales. To divine the nature of a convention, and to
use its capabilities to the utmost, is a special mark of genius, and in
this, as in other instances, whatever else be absent from Mr. Meredith’s
work, genius is indubitably present. But I do not think that “The Shaving
of Shagpat” could ever be acclimatised as a folk-tale in this country.
Scenery, conduct of story, characterisation of personages, are all too
distinctively Oriental. But let an Eastern admirer of Mr. Meredith
translate his work into Arabic or Hindi, and let the book fall into the
hands of a Cairene or Delhi story-teller (if such still exist), I can
well imagine that, with judicious cuts, it should win praise for its
reciter in market-place or bazaar. Did this happen, it would surely be
due to the fact that the story is strictly constructed upon traditional
lines, rather than to the brilliant invention and fancy displayed on
every page. Strip from it the wit and philosophy of the author, and
there remains a fairy tale to charm the East; but it would need to be
reduced to a skeleton, and reclothed with new flesh before it could charm
the folk of the West.

To bring home yet more clearly to our minds this necessity for romance to
conform to convention, let us ask ourselves, what would have happened if
one of the Irish story-tellers who perambulated the Western Isles as late
as the seventeenth century, had carried with him a volume of Hakluyt or
Purchas, or, supposing one to have lingered enough, Defoe or Gil Blas?
Would he have been welcomed when he substituted the new fare for the old
tales of “Finn and the Fians?” and even if welcomed, would he have gained
currency for it? Would the seed thus planted have thriven, or would it
not rather, fallen upon rocky places, have withered away?

It may, however, be objected that the real difference lies not so much
in the subject-matter as in the mode of transmission; and the objection
may seem to derive some force from what Dr. Hyde notes concerning the
prevalence of folk-tales in Wicklow, and the nearer Pale generally, as
contrasted with Leitrim, Longford, and Meath (p. xii.). It is difficult
to over-estimate the interest and importance of this fact, and there
can hardly be a doubt that Dr. Hyde has explained it correctly. It may,
then, be urged that so long as oral transmission lasts the folk-tale
flourishes; and only when the printed work ousts the story-teller is it
that the folk-tale dies out. But this reasoning will not hold water. It
is absurd to contend that the story-teller had none but a certain class
of materials at his disposal till lately. He had the whole realm of
intellect and fancy to draw upon; but he, and still more his hearers,
knew only one district of that realm; and had it been possible for him
to step outside its limits his hearers could not have followed him. I
grant folk fancy has shared the fortunes of humanity together with every
other manifestation of man’s activity, but always within strictly defined
limits, to transgress which has always been to forfeit the favour of the
folk.

What, then, are the characteristic marks of folk-fancy? The question is
of special interest in connection with Gaelic folk-lore. The latter is
rich in transitional forms, the study of which reveal more clearly than
is otherwise possible the nature and workings of the folk-mind.

The products of folk-fancy (putting aside such examples of folk-wisdom
and folk-wit as proverbs, saws, jests, etc.), may be roughly divided
among two great classes:

Firstly, stories of a quasi-historical or anecdotic nature, accepted as
actual fact (of course with varying degrees of credence) by narrator
and hearer. Stories of this kind are very largely concerned with beings
(supernatural, as we should call them) differing from man, and with
their relations to and dealings with man. Not infrequently, however,
the actors in the stories are wholly human, or human and animal. Gaelic
folk-lore is rich in such stories, owing to the extraordinary tenacity of
the fairy belief. We can hardly doubt that the Gael, like all other races
which have passed through a certain stage of culture, had at one time an
organised hierarchy of divine beings. But we have to piece together the
Gaelic god-saga out of bare names, mere hints, and stories which have
evidently suffered vital change. In the earliest stratum of Gaelic mythic
narrative we find beings who at some former time had occupied divine
rank, but whose relations to man are substantially, as therein presented,
the same as those of the modern fairy to the modern peasant. The chiefs
of the Tuatha de Danann hanker after earthly maidens; the divine damsels
long for and summon to themselves earthly heroes. Though undying, very
strong, and very wise, they may be overpowered or outwitted by the mortal
hero. As if conscious of some source of weakness we cannot detect, they
are anxious, in their internecine struggles, to secure the aid of the
sons of men. Small wonder that this belief, which we can follow for at
least 1,200 years, should furnish so many elements to the folk-fancy of
the Gael.

In stories of the second class the action is relegated to a remote
past—once upon a time—or to a distant undefined region, and the narrative
is not necessarily accepted as a record of actual fact. Stories of this
class, whether in prose or verse, may again be subdivided into—humorous,
optimistic, tragic; and with regard to the third sub-division, it should
be noted that the stories comprised in it are generally told as having
been true once, though not in the immediate tangible sense of stories in
the first class.

These different narrative groups share certain characteristics, though in
varying proportions.

Firstly, the fondness for and adherence to a comparatively small number
of set formulas. This is obviously less marked in stories of the first
class, which, as being in the mind of the folk a record of what has
actually happened, partake of the diversity of actual life. And yet the
most striking similarities occur; such an anecdote, for instance, as that
which tells how a supernatural changeling is baffled by a brewery of
egg-shells being found from Japan to Brittany.

Secondly, on the moral side, the unquestioning acceptance of fatalism,
though not in the sense which the Moslem or the Calvinist would attach
to the word. The event is bound to be of a certain nature, provided
a certain mode of attaining it be chosen. This comes out well in the
large group of stories which tell how a supernatural being helps a
mortal to perform certain tasks, as a rule, with some ulterior benefit
to itself in view. The most disheartening carelessness and stupidity on
the part of the man cannot alter the result; the skill and courage of
the supernatural helper are powerless without the mortal co-operation.
In what I have termed the tragic stories, this fatalism puts on a moral
form, and gives rise to the conception of Nemesis.

Thirdly, on the mental side, animism is prevalent, _i.e._, the acceptance
of a life common to, not alone man and animals, but all manifestations
of force. In so far as a distinction is made between the life of man and
that of nature at large, it is in favour of the latter, to which more
potent energy is ascribed.

Just as stories of the first class are less characterised by adherence
to formula, so stories of the humorous group are less characterised by
fatalism and animism. This is inevitable, as such stories are, as a rule,
concerned solely with the relations of man to his fellows.

The most fascinating and perplexing problems are those connected with
the groups I have termed optimistic and tragic. To the former belong the
almost entirety of such nursery tales as are not humorous in character.
“They were married and lived happily ever afterwards;” such is the almost
invariable end formula. The hero wins the princess, and the villain is
punished.

This feature the nursery tale shares with the god-saga; Zeus confounds
the Titans, Apollo slays the Python, Lug overcomes Balor, Indra
vanquishes Vritra. There are two apparent exceptions to this rule. The
Teutonic god myth is tragic; the Anses are ever under the shadow of the
final conflict. This has been explained by the influence of Christian
ideas; but although this influence must be unreservedly admitted in
certain details of the passing of the gods, yet the fact that the Iranian
god-saga is likewise undecided, instead of having a frankly optimistic
ending, makes me doubt whether the drawn battle between the powers
of good and ill be not a genuine and necessary part of the Teutonic
mythology. As is well known, Rydberg has established some striking points
of contact between the mythic ideas of Scandinavia and those of Iran.

In striking contradiction to this moral, optimistic tendency are the
great heroic sagas. One and all well-nigh are profoundly tragic. The doom
of Troy the great, the passing of Arthur, the slaughter of the Nibelungs,
the death of Sohrab at his father’s hands, Roncevalles, Gabhra, the
fratricidal conflict of Cuchullain and Ferdiad, the woes of the house
of Atreus; such are but a few examples of the prevailing tone of the
hero-tales. Achilles and Siegfried and Cuchullain are slain in the flower
of their youth and prowess. Of them, at least, the saying is true, that
whom the gods love die young. Why is it not equally true of the prince
hero of the fairy tale? Is it that the hero-tale associated in the minds
of hearers and reciters with men who had actually lived and fought,
brought down to earth, so to say, out of the mysterious wonderland in
which god and fairy and old time kings have their being, becomes thereby
liable to the necessities of death and decay inherent in all human
things? Some scholars have a ready answer for this and similar questions.
The heroic epos assumed its shape once for all among one special race,
and was then passed on to the other races who remained faithful to the
main lines whilst altering details. If this explanation were true, it
would still leave unsolved the problem, why the heroic epos, which for
its fashioners and hearers was at once a record of the actual and an
exemplar of the ideal, should, among men differing in blood and culture,
follow one model, and that a tragic one. Granting that Greek and Teuton
and Celt did borrow the tales which they themselves conceived to be very
blood and bone of their race, what force compelled them all to borrow one
special conception of life and fate?

Such exceptions as there are to the tragic nature of the heroic saga
are apparent rather than real. The Odyssey ends happily, like an
old-fashioned novel, but Fénélon long ago recognised in the Odyssey—“un
amas de contes de vieille.”

Perseus again has the luck of a fairy-tale prince, but then the story of
his fortunes is obviously a fairy-tale, with named instead of anonymous
personages.

Whilst the fairy-tale is akin in tone to the god saga, the ballad recalls
the heroic epos. The vast majority of ballads are tragic. Sir Patrick
Spens must drown, and Glasgerion’s leman be cheated by the churl; Clerk
Saunders comes from the other world, like Helge to Sigrun; Douglas dreams
his dreary dream, “I saw a dead man win a fight, and that dead man was
I.” The themes of the ballad are the most dire and deadly of human
passions; love scorned or betrayed, hate, and revenge. Very seldom, too,
do the plots of ballad and märchen cross or overlap. Where this does
happen it will, as a rule, be found that both are common descendants of
some great saga.

We find such an instance in the Fenian saga, episodes of which have lived
on in the Gaelic folk memory in the double form of prose and poetry.
But it should be noted that the poetry accentuates the tragic side—the
battle of Gabhra, the death of Diarmaid—whilst the prose takes rather
some episode of Finn’s youth or manhood, and presents it as a rounded and
complete whole, the issue of which is fortunate.

The relations of myth and epos to folk-lore may thus be likened to that
of trees to the soil from which they spring, and which they enrich
and fertilize by the decay of their leaves and branches which mingle
indistinguishably with the original soil. Of this soil, again, rude
bricks may be made, and a house built; let the house fall into ruins, and
the bricks crumble into dust, it will be hard to discriminate that dust
from the parent earth. But raise a house of iron or stone, and, however
ruined, its fragments can always be recognised. In the case of the Irish
bardic literature the analogy is, I believe, with soil and tree, rather
than with soil and edifice.

Reverting once more to the characteristics of folk-fancy, let us note
that they appear equally in folk-practice and folk-belief. The tough
conservatism of the folk-mind has struck all observers: its adherence to
immemorial formulas; its fatalistic acceptance of the mysteries of nature
and heredity, coupled with its faith in the efficacy of sympathetic
magic; its elaborate system of custom and ritual based upon the idea that
between men and the remainder of the universe there is no difference of
kind.

A conception of the Cosmos is thus arrived at which, more than any
religious creed, fulfils the test of catholicity; literally, and in the
fullest significance of the words, it has been held _semper, ubique et
ab omnibus_. And of this conception of the universe, more universal than
any that has as yet swayed the minds of man, it is possible that men
now living may see the last flickering remains; it is well-nigh certain
that our grandchildren will live in a world out of which it has utterly
vanished.

For the folk-lorist the Gospel saying is thus more pregnant with meaning
than for any other student of man’s history—“the night cometh wherein no
man may work.” Surely, many Irishmen will take to heart the example of
Dr. Hyde, and will go forth to glean what may yet be found of as fair
and bounteous a harvest of myth and romance as ever flourished among any
race.




LE h-AIS NA TEINEAḌ.




AN TAILIUR AGUS NA TRI ḂEIṪIGEAĊ.


Ḃí táiliúr aon uair aṁam i nGailliṁ, agus ḃí sé ag fuaiġeál eudaiġ.
Ċonnairc se dreancuid ag éiriġe amaċ as an eudaċ agus ċaiṫ se an tsnáṫad
léiṫe agus ṁarḃ sé an dreancuid. Duḃairt se ann sin “Naċ breáġ an
gaisgiḋeaċ mise nuair a ḃí mé abalta air an dreancuid sin do ṁarḃaḋ!”

Duḃairt sé ann sin go gcaiṫfeaḋ sé dul go B’l’acliaṫ go cúirt an ríġ, go
ḃfeicfeaḋ sé an dtiucfaḋ leis a deunaṁ. Ḃí an ċúirt sin ’gá ḋeunaṁ le
fada, aċt an méad dí do gníṫiḋe ann san lá do leagaiḋe ann san oiḋċe é,
agus níor ḟeud duine air biṫ a ċur suas mar ġeall air sin. ’S iad tri
ḟáṫaċ a ṫigeaḋ ’san oiḋċe a ḃideaḋ ’gá leagaḋ. D’imṫiġ an táiliúr an lá
air na ṁáraċ agus do ṫug se leis an uirlis, an spád agus an tsluasad.

Níor ḃfada ċuaiḋ sé gur casaḋ capall bán dó, agus ċuir se forán air.
“Go mbeannuiġ Dia ḋuit,” ar san capall, “cá ḃfuil tu dul?” “Tá mé dul
go B’l’acliaṫ,” ar san táiliúr, “le deunaṁ cúirte an ríġ, go ḃfáġ mé
bean-uasal, má ṫig liom a deunaṁ,” mar do ġeall an ríġ go dtiúḃfaḋ sé
a inġean féin agus a lán airgid léiṫe don té sin a ṫiucfaḋ leis an
ċúirt sin do ċur suas. “An ndeunfá poll dam?” ar san sean-ġearrán bán,
“raċainn i ḃfolaċ ann nuair atá na daoine mo ṫaḃairt ċum an ṁuilinn agus
ċum an aṫa i rioċt naċ ḃfeidfiḋ siad mé, óir tá mé cráiḋte aca, ag deunaṁ
oibre ḋóiḃ.” “Deunfaiḋ mé sin go deiṁin,” ar san táiliúr, “agus fáilte.”
Ṫug sé an spád leis agus an tsluasad, agus rinne sé poll, agus duḃairt sé
leis an g-capall bán dul síos ann, go ḃfeicfeaḋ sé an ḃfóirfeaḋ sé ḋó.
Ċuaiḋ an capall bán síos ann san bpoll, aċt nuair d’ḟeuċ sé do ṫeaċt suas
arís as, níor ḟeud sé.

“Deun áit dam anois,” ar san capall bán, “a ṫiucfas mé aníos as an bpoll
so nuair a ḃéiḋeas ocaras orm.” “Ní ḋeunfad,” ar san táiliúr, “fan ann
sin go dtigiḋ mé air m’ais, agus tógfaiḋ mé aníos ṫu.”

D’imṫiġ an táiliúr an lá air na máraċ, agus casaḋ ḋó an sionnaċ, “Go
mbeannuiġ Dia ḋuit,” ar san sionnaċ. “Go mbeannuiġ Dia ’gus Muire ḋuit.”
“Cá ḃfuil tu dul?” “Tá mé dul go B’l’acliaṫ go ḃfeuċaiḋ mé an dtiucfaiḋ
liom cúirt ḋeunaṁ do’n ríġ.” “An ndeunfá áit dam, a raċfainn i ḃfolaċ
innti,” ar san sionnaċ, “tá an ċuid eile de na sionnaiġiḃ do m’ ḃualaḋ
agus ní leigeann siad dam aon niḋ iṫe ’nna g-cuideaċta.” “Deunfaiḋ mé sin
duit,” ar san táiliúr. Ṫug sé leis a ṫuaġ agus a ṡáḃ agus ḃain se slata,
go ndearnaiġ sé, mar ḋeurfá, cliaḃ dó, agus duḃairt sé leis an tsionnaċ
dul síos ann, go ḃfeicfeaḋ se an ḃfóirfeaḋ sé ḋó. Ċuaid an sionnaċ ann,
agus nuair fuair an táiliúr ṡíos é, leag sé a ṫóin air an bpoll a ḃí ann.
Nuair a ḃí an sionnaċ sásta faoi ḋeireaḋ go raiḃ áit ḋeas aige d’iarr sé
air an táiliúr a leigean amaċ, agus d’ḟreagair an táiliúr naċ leigfeaḋ,
“Fan ann sin go dtigiḋ mise air m’ais,” ar sé.

D’imṫiġ an táiliúr an lá air na ṁáraċ, agus ní fada ḃí sé siúḃal gur
casaḋ madr’-alla ḋó, agus ċuir an mádr’-alla forán air, agus dḟiafruiġ sé
ḋé cá raiḃ sé ag triall. “Tá me dul go B’l’acliaṫ go ndeunfaiḋ mé cúirt
do’n ríġ má ṫig liom sin ḋeunaṁ,” ar san táiliúr. “Dá ndeunfá ceuċt dam,”
ar san madr’-alla, “ḃeiḋeaḋ mise agus na madr’-alla eile ag treaḃaḋ agus
ag forsaḋ, go mbeiḋeaḋ greim againn le n-iṫe ann san ḃfóġṁar.” “Deunfaiḋ
mé sin duit,” ar san táiliúr. Ṫug sé leis a ṫuaġ ’s a ṡáḃ, agus rinne sé
ceuċt. Nuair ḃí an ceuċt deunta ċuir sé poll ann san mbéam (sail) agus
duḃairt se leis an madr’-alla dul asteaċ faoi an g-ceuċt go bḟeicfeaḋ sé
an raiḃ treaḃaċ maiṫ ann. Ċuir sé a earball asteaċ ann san bpoll a rinne
sé, agus ċuir sé “peg” ann-sin ann, agus níor ṫáinig leis an madr’-alla
a earball ṫarraing amaċ as arís. “Sgaoil mé anois,” ar ran madr’-alla,
“agus deasóċamaoid féin agus treaḃfamaoid.” Duḃairt an táiliúr naċ
sgaoilfeaḋ sé é no go dtiucfaḋ sé féin air ais. D’ḟág sé ann sin é agus
ċuaiḋ sé go B’l’acliaṫ.

Nuair ṫáinig sé go B’l’acliaṫ ċuir sé páipeur amaċ an méad luċd’ céirde
do ḃí ag tógḃáil na cúirte do teaċt ċuige-sean, agus go n-íocfaḋ seisean
iad——agus ní ḃíḋeaḋ daoine ag fáġail ’san am sin aċt píġin ’san lá. Do
ċruinniġ a lán luċd céirde an lá air na ṁáraċ, agus ṫosaiġ siad ag obair
dó. Ḃí siad ag dul a ḃaile anḋiaiġ an laé nuair duḃairt an tailiúr leó
“an ċloċ ṁór sin do ċur suas air ḃárr na h-oibre a ḃí deunta aige.” Nuair
d’ árduiġeaḋ suas an ċloċ ṁór sin, ċuir an tailiúr sliġe éigin fúiṫi go
leagfaḋ sé anuas í nuair a ṫiucfaḋ an faṫaċ ċoṁ fada léiṫe. D’imṫiġ an
luċd oibre a ḃaile ann sin, agus ċuaiḋ an tailiúr i ḃfolaċ air ċúl na
cloiċe móire. Nuair ṫáinig dorċadas na h-oiḋċe ċonnairc sé na trí faṫaiġ
ag teaċt, agus ṫosuiġ siad ag leagaḋ na cúirte no go dtáinig siad ċoṁ
fada leis an áit a raiḃ an táiliúr ṡuas, agus ḃuail fear aca buille d’á
ord air an áit a raiḃ sé í ḃfolaċ. Leag an tailiúr an ċloċ anuas air,
agus, ṫuit sí air, agus ṁarḃ sí é. D’imṫiġ siad a ḃaile ann sin, agus
d’ḟág siad an méad a ḃí ann gan leagan, ó ḃí fear aca féin marḃ.

Ṫáinig an luċt céirde arís, an lá air na ṁáraċ, agus ḃí siad ag obair go
dtí an oiḋċe, agus nuair a ḃí siad dul aḃaile duḃairt an tailiúr leó an
ċloċ ṁór do ċur suas air ḃárr na h-oibre mar ḃí rí an oiḋċe roiṁe sin.
Rinne siad sin dó, agus d’imṫiġ siad aḃaile, agus cuaiḋ an tailiúr i
ḃfolaċ, mar ḃí sé an traṫnóna roiṁe sin. Nuair ḃí na daoine uile imṫiġṫe
’nna suaiṁneas, ṫáinig an dá ḟaṫaċ, agus ḃí siad ag leagan an ṁéid a ḃí
rompa; agus nuair ṫosuiġ siad, ċuir siad dá ġlaoḋ asta. Ḃí an tailiúr
air siúḃal agus é ag obair no gur leag sé anuas an ċloċ ṁór gur ṫuit
sí air ċloigionn an ḟaṫaiġ a ḃí fúiṫi agus ṁarḃ sí é. Ní raiḃ ann sin
aċt an t-aon ḟaṫaċ aṁáin ann, agus ní ṫáinig seisean go raiḃ an ċúirt
críoċnuiġṫe.

Ċuaiḋ an táiliúr ċum an riġ ann sin, agus duḃairt sé leis, a ḃean agus a
ċuid airgid do ṫaḃairt dó, mar do ḃí an ċúirt déanta aige, aċt duḃairt
an ríġ leis naċ dtiúḃraḋ sé aon ḃean dó, no go marḃfaḋ sé an faṫaċ eile,
agus naċ dtiúḃraḋ sé dadaṁ dó anois no go marḃfaḋ sé an fear deireannaċ.
Duḃairt an táiliúr ann sin go marḃfaḋ sé an faṫaċ eile ḋó, agus fáilte,
naċ raiḃ aon ṁaille air biṫ air sin.

D’imṫiġ an táiliúr ann sin, go dtáinig sé ċum na h-áite a raiḃ an faṫaċ
eile, agus d’ḟiafruiġ ar ṫeastuig buaċaill uaiḋ. Duḃairt an faṫaċ gur
ṫeastuiġ, dá ḃfáġaḋ sé buaċaill a ḋeunfaḋ an rud a deunfaḋ sé féin. “Rud
air biṫ a ḋeunfas tusa, deunfaiḋ mise é,” ar san tailiúr.

Ċuaid siad ċum a ndinéir ann sin, agus nuair ḃí sé iṫte aca duḃairt an
faṫaċ leis an táiliúr an dtiucfaḋ leis an oiread anḃruiṫ ól agus é féin,
aníos as a ḟiucaḋ. “Tiucfaiḋ,” ar san tailiúr, “aċt go dtiúḃraiḋ tu uair
dam sul a ṫosóċamaoid air.” “Ḃéarfaiḋ mé sin duit,” ar san faṫac. Ċuaiḋ
an tailiúr amaċ ann sin, agus fuair se croicionn caoraċ agus d’ḟuaiġ
sé suas é, go ndearnaiġ sé mála ḋé agus ḋeasuiġ sé ṡíos faoi na ċóta
é. Táinig sé asteaċ ann sin, agus duḃairt sé leis an ḃfaṫaċ galún de’n
anḃruiṫ ól i dtosaċ. D’ól an faṫaċ sin aníos as a ḟiuċaḋ.

“Deunfaiḋ mise sin,” ar san táiliúr. Ḃí sé air siúḃal gur ḋóirt sé
asteaċ san g-croicionn é, agus ṡaoil an faṫaċ go raiḃ sé ólta aige. D’ól
an faṫaċ galún eile ann sin, agus leig an táiliúr galún eile síos ’san
g-croicionn, aċt ṡaoil an faṫaċ, go raiḃ sé ’gá ól. “Déanfaiḋ mise rud
anois naċ dtiucfaiḋ leat-sa ḋeunaṁ,” ar san táiliúr. “Ní ḋéanfá,” ar san
faṫaċ, “creud é sin do ḋéanfá?”

“Poll do ḋeunaṁ, agus an t-anḃruiṫ do leigean amaċ arís,” ar san táiliúr.
“Déan ṫu féin i dtosaċ é,” ar san faṫaċ. Ṫug an táiliúr “prad” de’n sgín,
agus leig sé amaċ an t-anḃruiṫ as an g-croicionn. “Déan, ṫusa, sin,” ar
sé leis an ḃfaṫaċ. “Déanfad,” ar san faṫaċ ag taḃairt prad de’n sgín ’nna
ḃuilg féin gur ṁarḃ sé é féin. Sin é an ċaoi a ṁarḃ sé an tríoṁaḋ faṫaċ.

Ċuaiḋ sé do’n ríġ ann sin, agus duḃairt sé leis, an ḃean agus a ċuid
airgid do ċur amaċ ċuige, agus go leagfaḋ se an ċúirt muna ḃfáġaḋ sé an
ḃean. Bí faitċios orra ann sin go leagfaḋ sé an ċúirt arís, agus cuir
siad an ḃean amaċ ċuige.

Nuair ḃí sé lá imṫiġṫe, é féin agus a ḃean, ġlac siad aiṫreaċas agus
lean siad é, go mbainfeaḋ siad an ḃean dé arís. Bí an ṁuinntir do ḃí
’nna ḋiaiġ ’gá leanaṁaint no go dtáinig siad suas do’n áit a raiḃ an
madr’-alla, agus duḃairt an madr’-alla leó. “Ḃí an táiliúr agus a ḃean
ann so andé, ċonnairc mise iad ag dul ṫart, agus má sgaoileann siḃ mise
anois tá mé níos luaiṫe ’ná siḃ-se, agus leanfaiḋ mé iad go mbéarfaiḋ mé
orra.” Nuair ċualaiḋ siad sin sgaoil siad amaċ an madr’alla.

D’imṫig an madr’-alla agus muinntir Ḃ’l’acliaṫ, agus ḃí siad dá
leanaṁaint go dtáinig siad d’on áit a raiḃ an sionnaċ, agus ċuir an
sionnaċ forán orra, agus duḃairt sé leó, “ḃí an táiliúr agus a ḃean ann
so air maidin andiú, agus má sgaoilfiḋ siḃ amaċ mé tá mé níos luaiṫe ’ná
siḃ agus leanfaiḋ mé iad agus béarfaiḋ mé orra.” Sgaoil siad amaċ an
sionnaċ ann sin.

D’imṫiġ an madr’-alla agus an sionnaċ, agus arm Ḃ’l’acliaṫ ann sin, ag
feuċaint an ngaḃaḋ siad an táiliúr, agus táinig siad do’n áit a raiḃ
an sean-ġearrán bán, agus duḃairt an sean-ġearrán bán leó, go raib an
táiliúr, agus a ḃean ann sin air maidin, “agus sgaoiligiḋe amaċ mé,” ar
sé, “tá mé níos luaite ná siḃ-se agus béarfaiḋ mé orra.” Sgaoil siad
amaċ an sean ġearrán bán, agus lean an sean-ġearrán bán, an sionnaċ,
an madr’-alla, agus arm Ḃ’l’acliaṫ an táiliúr ’s a ḃean, i g-cuideaċt
a ċéile, agus níor ḃfada go dtáinig siad suas leis an táiliúr, agus
ċonnairc siad é féin ’s a ḃean amaċ rompa.

Nuair ċonnairc an táiliúr iad ag tíġeaċt ṫáinig sé féin ’s a ḃean amaċ as
an g-cóiste, agus ṡuiḋ sé síos air an talaṁ.

Nuair ċonnairc an sean-ġearrán bán an táiliúr ag suiḋe síos duḃairt sé,
“Sin é an cuma a ḃí sé nuair rinne sé an poll daṁsa, nár ḟeud mé teaċt
amaċ as, nuair ċuaiḋ mé asteaċ ann; ní raċfaiḋ mé níos foigse ḋó.”

“Ní h-eaḋ,” ar san sionnaċ, “aċt is mar sin, do ḃí sé nuair ḃí se déanaṁ
an ruid daṁ-sa, agus ní raċfaiḋ mise níos foigse ḋó.”

“Ní h-eaḋ!” ar san madr’-alla, “aċt is mar sin do ḃí sé nuair ḃí sé
déanaṁ an ċeuċta ’nna raiḃ mise gaḃṫa. Ni raċfaiḋ mise níos foigse ḋó.”

D’imṫiġ siad uile uaiḋ ann sin, agus d’ḟill siad. Ṫáinig an táiliúr agus
a ḃean a ḃaile go Gailliṁ. Ṫug siad dam stocaiḋ páipéir agus bróga bainne
raṁair—ċaill mé iad ó ṡoin. Fuair siad-san an t-áṫ agus mise an loċán,
báiṫeaḋ iad-san agus ṫáinig mise.




THE TAILOR AND THE THREE BEASTS.


There was once a tailor in Galway, and he was sewing cloth. He saw a flea
springing up out of the cloth, and he threw his needle at it and killed
it. Then he said: “Am I not a fine hero when I was able to kill that
flea?”

Then he said that he must go to Blackleea (Dublin), to the king’s court,
to see would he be able to build it. That court was a’building for a long
time; but as much of it as would be made during the day used to be thrown
down again during the night, and for that reason nobody could build it
up. It was three giants who used to come in the night and throw it. The
day on the morrow the tailor went off, and brought with him his tools,
the spade and the shovel.

He had not gone far till he met a white horse, and he saluted him.

“God save you,” said the horse. “Where are you going?”

“I am going to Dublin,” said the tailor, “to build a court for the king,
and to get a lady for a wife, if I am able to do it;” for the king had
promised that he would give his own daughter, and a lot of money with
her, to whoever would be able to build up his court.

“Would you make me a hole,” said the old white garraun (horse), “where I
could go a’hiding whenever the people are for bringing me to the mill or
the kiln, so that they won’t see me, for they have me perished doing work
for them?”

“I’ll do that, indeed,” said the tailor, “and welcome.”

He brought the spade and shovel, and he made a hole, and he said to the
old white horse to go down into it till he would see if it would fit him.
The white horse went down into the hole, but when he tried to come up
again he was not able.

“Make a place for me now,” said the white horse, “by which I’ll come up
out of the hole here, whenever I’ll be hungry.”

“I will not,” said the tailor; “remain where you are until I come back,
and I’ll lift you up.”

The tailor went forward next day, and the fox met him.

“God save you,” said the fox.

“God and Mary save you.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to Dublin, to try will I be able to make a court for the king.”

“Would you make a place for me where I’d go hiding?” said the fox. “The
rest of the foxes do be beating me, and they don’t allow me to eat
anything along with them.”

“I’ll do that for you,” said the tailor.

He took with him his axe and his saw, and he cut rods, until he made, as
you would say, a thing like a cleeve (creel), and he desired the fox to
get into it till he would see whether it would fit him. The fox went into
it, and when the tailor got him down, he clapped his thigh on the hole
that the fox got in by. When the fox was satisfied at last that he had
a nice place of it within, he asked the tailor to let him out, and the
tailor answered that he would not.

“Wait there until I come back again,” says he.

The tailor went forward the next day, and he had not walked very far
until he met a modder-alla (lion?) and the lion greeted him, and asked
him where was he going.

“I’m going to Dublin till I make a court for the king, if I’m able to
make it,” said the tailor.

“If you were to make a plough for me,” said the lion, “I and the other
lions could be ploughing and harrowing until we’d have a bit to eat in
the harvest.”

“I’ll do that for you,” said the tailor.

He brought his axe and his saw, and he made a plough. When the plough was
made, he put a hole in the beam of it, and he said to the lion to go in
under the plough till he’d see was he any good of a ploughman. He placed
the tail in the hole he had made for it, and then clapped in a peg, and
the lion was not able to draw out his tail again.

“Loose me out now,” said the lion, “and we’ll fix ourselves and go
ploughing.”

The tailor said he would not loose him out until he came back himself. He
left him there then, and he came to Dublin.

When he came to Dublin he put forth a paper, desiring all the tradesmen
that were raising the court to come to him, and that he would pay them;
and at that time workmen used only to be getting one penny in the day.
A number of tradesmen gathered the next day, and they began working for
him. They were going home again after their day, when the tailor said to
them “to put up that great stone upon the top of the work that they had
done.” When the great stone was raised up, the tailor put some sort of
contrivance under it, that he might be able to throw it down as soon as
the giant would come as far as it. The work people went home then, and
the tailor went in hiding behind the big stone.

When the darkness of the night was come he saw the three giants arriving,
and they began throwing down the court until they came as far as the
place where the tailor was in hiding up above, and a man of them struck a
blow of his sledge on the place where he was. The tailor threw down the
stone, and it fell on him and killed him. They went home then, and left
all of the court that was remaining without throwing it down, since a man
of themselves was dead.

The tradespeople came again the next day, and they were working until
night, and as they were going home the tailor told them to put up the big
stone on the top of the work, as it had been the night before. They did
that for him, went home, and the tailor went in hiding the same as he did
the evening before.

When the people had all gone to rest, the two giants came, and they were
throwing down all that was before them, and as soon as they began they
put two shouts out of them. The tailor was going on manœuvring until he
threw down the great stone, and it fell upon the skull of the giant that
was under him, and it killed him. There was only the one giant left in it
then, and he never came again until the court was finished.

Then when the work was over he went to the king and told him to give him
his wife and his money, as he had the court finished, and the king said
he would not give him any wife, until he would kill the other giant, for
he said that it was not by his strength he killed the two giants before
that, and that he would give him nothing now until he killed the other
one for him. Then the tailor said that he would kill the other giant for
him, and welcome; that there was no delay at all about that.

The tailor went then, till he came to the place where the other giant
was, and asked did he want a servant-boy. The giant said he did want one,
if he could get one who would do everything that he would do himself.

“Anything that you will do, I will do it,” said the tailor.

They went to their dinner then, and when they had it eaten, the giant
asked the tailor “would it come with him to swallow as much broth as
himself, up out of its boiling.” The tailor said: “It will come with me
to do that, but that you must give me an hour before we begin on it.” The
tailor went out then, and he got a sheepskin, and he sewed it up till he
made a bag of it, and he slipped it down under his coat. He came in then
and said to the giant to drink a gallon of the broth himself first. The
giant drank that, up out of its boiling. “I’ll do that,” said the tailor.
He was going on until he had it all poured into the skin, and the giant
thought he had it drunk. The giant drank another gallon then, and the
tailor let another gallon down into the skin, but the giant thought he
was drinking it.

“I’ll do a thing now that it won’t come with you to do,” said the tailor.

“You will not,” said the giant. “What is it you would do?”

“Make a hole and let out the broth again,” said the tailor.

“Do it yourself first,” said the giant.

The tailor gave a prod of the knife, and he let the broth out of the skin.

“Do that you,” said he.

“I will,” said the giant, giving such a prod of the knife into his own
stomach, that he killed himself. That is the way he killed the third
giant.

He went to the king then, and desired him to send him out his wife and
his money, for that he would throw down the court again, unless he should
get the wife. They were afraid then that he would throw down the court,
and they sent the wife out to him.

When the tailor was a day gone, himself and his wife, they repented and
followed him to take his wife off him again. The people who were after
him were following him till they came to the place where the lion was,
and the lion said to them: “The tailor and his wife were here yesterday.
I saw them going by, and if ye loose me now, I am swifter than ye, and I
will follow them till I overtake them.” When they heard that they loosed
out the lion.

The lion and the people of Dublin went on, and they were pursuing him,
until they came to the place where the fox was, and the fox greeted them,
and said: “The tailor and his wife were here this morning, and if ye will
loose me out, I am swifter than ye, and I will follow them, and overtake
them.” They loosed out the fox then.

The lion and the fox and the army of Dublin went on then, trying would
they catch the tailor, and they were going till they came to the place
where the old white garraun was, and the old white garraun said to them
that the tailor and his wife were there in the morning, and “loose me
out,” said he; “I am swifter than ye, and I’ll overtake them.” They
loosed out the old white garraun then, and the old white garraun, the
fox, the lion, and the army of Dublin pursued the tailor and his wife
together, and it was not long till they came up with him, and saw himself
and the wife out before them.

When the tailor saw them coming he got out of the coach with his wife,
and he sat down on the ground.

When the old white garraun saw the tailor sitting down on the ground, he
said: “That’s the position he had when he made the hole for me, that I
couldn’t come up out of, when I went down into it. I’ll go no nearer to
him.”

“No!” said the fox, “but that’s the way he was when he was making the
thing for me, and I’ll go no nearer to him.”

“No!” says the lion, “but that’s the very way he had, when he was making
the plough that I was caught in. I’ll go no nearer to him.”

They all went from him then and returned. The tailor and his wife came
home to Galway. They gave me paper stockings and shoes of thick milk.
I lost them since. They got the ford, and I the flash;[16] they were
drowned, and I came safe.




BRAN.


Ḃí cú breáġ ag Fionn. Sin Bran. Ċualaiḋ tu caint air Ḃran. Seó an daṫ a
ḃí air.

  Cosa buiḋe a ḃí air Ḃran
  Dá ṫaoiḃ duḃa agus tárr geal,
  Druim uaine air ḋaṫ na seilge
  Dá ċluais cruinne cóiṁ-ḋearga.

Ḃéarfaḋ Bran air na Gaéṫiḃ-fiáḋna ḃí sí ċoṁ luaṫ sin. Nuair ḃí sí ’nna
coileán d’éiriġ imreas no tsoid éigin ameasg na g-con a ḃí ag an ḃFéin,
agus

  Trí fiċe cu agus fiċe coileán
  Ṁarḃ Bran agus í ’nna coileán,
  Dá ġé-fiaḋáin, agus an oireaḋ leó uile.

Sé Fionn féin a ṁarḃ Bran. Ċuaiḋ siad amaċ ag fiaḋaċ agus rínneaḋ eilit
de ṁáṫair Ḟinn. Ḃí Bran dá tóruiġeaċt.

  “Eilit ḃaoṫ fág air sliaḃ,”

ar Fionn. “A ṁic óig,” ar sise, “Cá raċfaiḋ mé as?”

  Má ṫéiḋim ann san ḃfairrge síos
  Coiḋċe ni ḟillfinn air m’ais,
  S má ṫéiḋim ann san aer suas
  Ní ḃeurfaiḋ mo luaṫas air Ḃran.

“Gaḃ amaċ eidir mo ḋá ċois,” ar Fionn. Ċuaiḋ sise amaċ eidir a ḋá ċois,
agus lean Bran í, agus air ngaḃail amaċ dí, d’ḟáisg Fionn a ḋá ġlúin
uirri agus ṁarḃ sé í.

Ḃí inġean ag Bran. Cu duḃ a ḃí ann san g-coileán sin, agus ṫóg na Fianna
í, agus duḃairt siad leis an mnaoi a ḃí taḃairt aire do’n ċoileán, bainne
bó gan aon ḃall do ṫaḃairt do’n ċoileán, agus gaċ aon deór do ṫaḃairt dó,
agus gan aon ḃraon ċongḃail uaiḋ. Ní ḋearnaiḋ an ḃean sin, aċt ċongḃuiġ
cuid de’n ḃainne gan a ṫaḃairt uile do’n ċoileán. An ċeud lá do sgaoil na
Fianna an cu óg amaċ ḃí gleann lán de ġéaḋaiḃ fiaḋáine agus d’ eunaċaiḃ
eile, agus nuair sgaoileaḋ an cú duḃ ’nna measg, do ġaḃ sí iad uile aċt
fíor-ḃeagán aca a ċuaiḋ amaċ air ḃearna a ḃí ann. Agus aċt gur ċongḃuiġ
an ḃean cuid de’n ḃainne uaiṫi do ṁarḃfaḋ sí iad uile.

Ḃí fear de na Fiannaiḃ ’nna ḋall, agus nuair leigeaḋ an cu amaċ
d’ḟiafruiġ sé de na daoiniḃ a ḃí anaice leis, cia an ċaoi a rinne an cú
óg. Duḃairt siad-san leis gur ṁarḃ an cu óg an meud gé fiaḋáin agus eun a
ḃi ann san ngleann, aċt beagán aca a ċuaiḋ amaċ air ḃearna, agus go raiḃ
sí teaċt a ḃaile anois. “Dá ḃfáġaḋ sí an bainne uile a ṫáinig de’n ḃo gan
aon ḃall,” ar san dall, “ni leigfeaḋ sí d’eun air biṫ imṫeaċt uaiḋi,”
agus d’ḟiafruiġ sé, ann sin, cad é an ċaoi a raiḃ sí tíġeaċt a ḃaile. “Tá
sí teaċt anois,” ar siad, “agus, sgáil’ lasta as a muineul agus i air
buile.”

“Taḃair m’impiḋe ḋam anois,” ar san dall, “agus cuir mé ’mo ṡuiḋe ann san
g-cáṫaoir agus cuir gual ann mo láiṁ, óir muna marḃaim í anois marḃfaiḋ
sí muid (sinn) uile.” Ṫáinig an cú, agus ċaiṫ sé an gual léiṫe agus ṁarḃ
sé í, agus é dall.

Aċt dá ḃfágaḋ an coileán sin an bainne uile do ṫiucfaḋ sí agus luiḋfeaḋ
sí síos go socair, mar luiḋeaḋ Bran.




BRAN.


Finn had a splendid hound. That was Bran. You have heard talk of Bran.
This is the colour was on him:

  Yellow feet that were on Bran,
  Two black sides, and belly white,
  Grayish back of hunting colour,
  Two ears, red, round, small, and bright.

Bran would overtake the wild-geese, she was that swift. There arose some
quarrel or fighting between the hounds that the Fenians had, when she was
only a puppy, and

  Three score hounds and twenty puppies
  Bran did kill, and she a puppy,
  Two wild-geese, as much as they all.

It was Finn himself who killed Bran. They went out hunting, and there
was made a fawn of Finn’s mother. (_Who made a fawn of her? Oh, how do I
know? It was with some of their pishtrogues._) Bran was pursuing her.

  “Silly fawn leave on mountain,”

said Finn. “Oh, young son,” said she, “how shall I escape?—

  “If I go in the sea beneath
  I never shall come back again,
  And if I go in the air above
  My swiftness is no match for Bran.”

“Go out between my two legs,” said Finn.

She went between his two legs, and Bran followed her; and as Bran went
out under him, Finn squeezed his two knees on her and killed her.

Bran had a daughter. That pup was a black hound, and the Fenians reared
it; and they told the woman who had a charge of the pup to give it the
milk of a cow without a single spot, and to give it every single drop,
and not to keep back one tint[17] from her. The woman did not do that,
but kept a portion of the milk without giving it to the pup.

The first day that the Fenians loosed out the young hound, there was a
glen full of wild-geese and other birds; and when the black hound was
loosed amongst them, she caught them all except a very few that went
out on a gap that was in it. (_And how could she catch the wild-geese?
Wouldn’t they fly away in the air? She caught them, then. That’s how I
heard it._) And only that the woman kept back some of the milk from her,
she would have killed them all.

There was a man of the Fenians, a blind man, and when the pup was let
out, he asked the people near him how did the young hound do. They told
him that the young hound killed all the wild-geese and birds that were
in the glen, but a few that went out on a gap. “If she had to get all
the milk that came from the cow without spot,” says the blind man, “she
wouldn’t let a bird at all go from her.” And he asked then “how was the
hound coming home?” “She’s coming now,” said they, “and a fiery cloud out
of her neck,” (_How out of her neck? Because she was going so quick._)
“and she coming madly.”

“Grant me my request now,” said the blind man. “Put me sitting in the
chair, and put a coal[18](?) in my hand; for unless I kill her she’ll
kill us.”

The hound came, and he threw the coal at her and killed her, and he blind.

But if that pup had to get all the milk, she’d come and she’d lie down
quietly, the same as Bran used to lie ever.




MAC RIĠ ÉIREANN.


Ḃí mac ríġ i n-Éirinn, fad ó ṡoin, agus ċuaiḋ sé amaċ agus ṫug sé a ġunna
’s a ṁadaḋ leis. Ḃí sneaċta amuiġ. Ṁarḃ sé fiaċ duḃ. Ṫuit an fiaċ duḃ air
an tsneaċta. Ní ḟacaiḋ sé aon rud buḋ ġile ’ná an sneaċta, ná buḋ ḋuiḃe
’ná cloigionn an ḟiaiċ ḋuiḃ, ná buḋ ḋeirge ’ná a ċuid fola ḃí ’gá dórtaḋ
amaċ.

Ċuir sé faoi geasaiḃ agus deimúġ (_sic_) na bliaḋna naċ n-íosaḋ sé ḋá
ḃiaḋ i n-aon ḃord, ná ḋá oiḋċe do ċoḋlaḋ ann aon teaċ, go ḃfáġaḋ sé bean
a raiḃ a cloigionn ċoṁ duḃ leis an ḃfiaċ duḃ, agus a croicionn ċoṁ geal
leis an tsneaċta, agus a ḋá ġruaiḋ ċoṁ dearg le fuil.

Ni raiḃ aon ḃean ann san doṁan mar sin, aċt aon ḃean aṁáin a ḃí ann san
doṁan ṡoir.

Lá air na ṁáraċ ġaḃ sé amaċ, agus ní raiḃ airgiod fairsing, aċt ṫug sé
leis fiċe púnta. Ní fada ċuaiḋ sé gur casaḋ socraoid dó, agus duḃairt
sé go raiḃ sé ċoṁ maiṫ ḋó trí ċoiscéim ḋul leis an g-corpán. Ní raiḃ na
trí ċoiscéim siúḃalta aige go dtáinig fear agus leag sé a reasta air an
g-corp air ċúig ṗúnta. Ḃí dlíġeaḋ i n-Eirinn an t-am sin, duinea ir biṫ a
raiḃ fiaċa aige air ḟear eile, naċ dtiucfaḋ le muinntir an ḟir sin a ċur,
dá mbeiḋeaḋ sé marḃ, gan na fiaċa d’íoc, no gan cead ó’n duine a raiḃ
na fiaċa sin aige air an ḃfear marḃ. Nuair ċonnairc Mac Ríġ Éireann mic
agus inġeana an duine ṁairḃ ag caoineaḋ, agus iad gan an t-airgiod aca le
taḃairt do ’n ḟear, duḃairt sé leis fein, “is mór an ṫruaġ é naċ ḃfuil
an t-airgiod ag na daoiniḃ boċta.” agus ċuir sé a láṁ ann a ṗóca agus
d’íoc sé féin na cúig ṗúnta, air son an ċuirp. Duḃairt sé go raċfaḋ sé
ċum an teampoill ann sin, go ḃfeicfeaḋ sé curṫa é. Ṫáinig fear eile ann
sin, agus leag sé a reasta air an g-corp air son cúig ṗúnta eile. “Mar
ṫug mé na ceud ċúig ṗúnta,” ar Mac Ríġ Éireann leis féin, “tá sé ċoṁ maiṫ
ḋam cúig ṗúnta eile ṫaḃairt anois, agus an fear boċt do leigean dul ’san
uaiġ.” D’íoc sé na cúig ṗúnta eile. Ní raiḃ aige ann sin aċt deiċ bpúnta.

Níor ḃfada ċuaiḋ sé gur casaḋ fear gearr glas dó agus d’ḟiafruiġ sé ḋé cá
raiḃ sé dul. Duḃairt sé go raiḃ sé dul ag iarraiḋ mná ’san doṁan ṡoir.
D’ḟiafruiġ an fear gearr glas dé, an raiḃ buaċaill teastál uaiḋ, agus
duḃairt sé go raiḃ, agus cad é an ṗáiḋe ḃeiḋeaḋ sé ag iarraiḋ. Duḃairt
seisean “an ċeud ṗóg air a ṁnaoi, dá ḃfáġaḋ sé í.” Duḃairt Mac Ríġ
Éireann go g-caiṫfeaḋ sé sin ḟáġail.

Níor ḃfada ċuaiḋ siad gur casaḋ fear eile ḋóiḃ agus a ġunna ann a láiṁ,
agus é ag “leiḃléaraċt” air an londuḃ a ḃí ṫall ’san doṁan ṡoir, go
mbeiḋeaḋ sé aige le n-aġaiḋ a ḋinéir. Duḃairt an fear gearr glas le Mac
Ríġ Éireann gó raiḃ sé ċoṁ maiṫ ḋó an fear sin ġlacaḋ air aimsir, da
raċfaḋ sé air aimsir leis. D’ḟiafruiġ Mac Ríġ Eireann an dtiucfaḋ sé air
aimsir leis.

“Raċfad,” ar san fear, “má ḃfáġ’ mé mo ṫuarastal.”

“Agus cad é an tuarastal ḃéiḋeas tu ’g iarraiḋ?”

“Áit tíġe agus garḋa.”

“Geoḃaiḋ tu sin uaim, má éiriġeann mo ṫuras liom.”

D’imṫiġ Mac Ríġ Eireann leis an ḃfear glas agus leis an ngunnaire, agus
ní fada ċuaiḋ síad gur casaḋ fear dóiḃ, agus a ċluas leagṫa air an talaṁ,
agus é ag éisteaċt leis an ḃfeur ag fás.

“Tá sé ċoṁ maiṫ ḋuit an fear sin ġlacaḋ air aimsir,” ar san fear gearr
glas.

D’ḟiafruiġ Mac Ríġ Eireann de ’n ḟear an dtiucfaḋ sé leis air aimsir.

“Tiucfad má ḃfáġ mé áit tiġe agus garḋa.”

“Geoḃaiḋ tu sin uaim má éiriġeann an rud atá ann mo ċeann liom.”

Ċuaiḋ Mac Riġ Eireann, an fear gearr glas, an gunnaire, agus an
cluasaire, agus ní fada ċuaiḋ siad gur casaḋ fear eile ḋóiḃ agus a
leaṫ-ċos air a ġualainn, agus é ag congḃáil páirce geirrḟiaḋ gan aon
ġeirrḟiaḋ leigean asteaċ ná amaċ. Ḃí iongantas air Ṁac Ríġ Eireann agus
d’ḟiafruiġ sé cad é an ċiall a raiḃ a leaṫ-ċos air a ġualainn mar sin.

“O,” ar seisean, “dá mbeiḋeaḋ mo ḋá ċois agam air an talam ḃeiḋinn ċoṁ
luaṫ sin go raċfainn as aṁarc.”

“An dtiucfaiḋ tu air aimsir liom,” ar san Mac Riġ.

“Tiucfad, má ḃfáġ’ mé áit tiġe agus garḋa.”

“Geoḃaiḋ tu sin uaim,” ar Mac Ríġ Éireann, “má éiriġeann an rud atá ann
mo ċeann, liom.”

Ċuaiḋ Mac Riġ Eireann, an fear gearr glas, an gunnaire, an cluasaire,
agus an coisire air aġaiḋ, agus níor ḃfada go dtáncadar go fear agus é ag
cur muilinn gaoiṫe ṫart le na leaṫṗolláire, agus a ṁeur leagṫa aige air a
ṡrón ag druidim na polláire eile.

“Cad ċuige ḃfuil do ṁeur agad air do ṡrón?” ar Mac Ríġ Eireann leis.

“O,” ar seisean, “dá séidfinn as mo ḋá ṗolláire do sguabfainn an muileann
amaċ as sin suas ’san aer.”

“An dtiucfaiḋ tu air aimsir?”

“Tiucfad, má ḃfáġ’ mé áit tiġe agus garḋa.”

“Geoḃaiḋ tu sin, má éiriġeann an rud atá ann mo ċeann liom.”

Ċuaiḋ Mac Riġ Eireann, an fear gearr glas, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, an
coisire, agus an séidire go dtáncadar go fear a ḃí ’nna ṡuiḋe air ṫaoiḃ
an ḃoṫair, agus é ag briseaḋ cloċ le na leaṫ-ṫóin agus ní raiḃ casúr ná
dadaṁ aige. D’ḟiafruiġ an Mac Ríġ ḋé, cad ċuige a raiḃ sé ag briseaḋ na
g-cloċ le na leaṫ-ṫóin.

“O,” ar seisean, “dá mbualfainn leis an tóin ḋúbalta iad ḋeunfainn púġdar
díoḃ.”

“An dtiucfaiḋ tu air aimsir liom?”

“Tuicfad, má ḃfaġ’ mé áit tíġe agus garḋa.”

D’imṫiġ siad uile ann sin, Mac Ríġ Eireann, an fear gearr glas, an
gunnaire, an cluasaire, an coisire, an séidire, agus fear briste na
g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna agus ḃeurfaḋ siad air an ngaoiṫ Ṁárta a ḃí rompa
agus an ġaoṫ Ṁárta a ḃí ’nna n-diaiġ ní ḃéurfaḋ sí orra-san go dtáinig
traṫnóna agus deireaḋ an laé.

Ḍearc Mac Ríġ Éireann uaiḋ agus ní ḟacaiḋ sé aon teaċ a mbeiḋeaḋ sé ann
an oiḋċe sin. Ḍearc an fear gearr glas uaiḋ agus ċonnairc sé teaċ naċ
raiḃ bonn cleite amaċ air, ná bárr cleite asteaċ air, aċt aon ċleite
aṁáin a ḃí ag congḃáil dídinn agus fasgaiḋ air. Duḃairt mac ríġ Éireann
naċ raiḃ ḟios aige cá ċaiṫfeaḋ siad an oiḋċe sin, agus duḃairt an fear
gearr glas go mbeiḋeaḋ siad i dṫeaċ an ḟaṫaiġ ṫall an oiḋċe sin.

Ṫáinig siad ċum an tiġe, agus ṫarraing an fear gearr glas an cuaille
cóṁraic agus níor ḟág sé leanḃ i mnaoi searraċ i g-capall, pigín i muic,
ná broc i ngleann nár iompuiġ sé ṫart trí uaire iad le méad an torain do
ḃain sé as an g-cuaille cóṁraic. Ṫáinig an faṫaċ amaċ agus duḃairt sé
“moṫuiġim bolaḋ an Éireannaiġ ḃinn ḃreugaiġ faoi m’ḟóidín dúṫaiġ.”

“Ní Éireannaċ binn breugaċ mise,” ar san fear gearr glas, “aċt tá mo
ṁáiġistir amuiġ ann sin ag ceann an ḃóṫair agus má ṫagann sé bainfiḋ
sé an ceann díot.” Ḃí an fear gearr glas ag meuduġaḋ, agus ag meuduġaḋ
go raiḃ sé faoi ḋeireaḋ ċoṁ mór leis an g-caisleán. Ḃí faitċios air an
ḃfaṫaċ agus duḃairt sé, “Ḃfuil do ṁáiġistir ċoṁ mór leat féin?”

“Tá,” ar san fear gearr glas, “agus níos mó.”

“Cuir i ḃfolaċ mé go maidin go n-imṫiġeann do ṁáiġistir,” ar san faṫaċ.

Ċuir sé an faṫaċ faoi ġlas, ann sin, agus ċuaiḋ sé ċum a ṁáiġistir.

Ṫáinig mac ríġ Éireann, an fear gearr glas, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, an
séidire, an coisire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna, asteaċ
’san g-caisleán, agus ċaiṫ siad an oiḋċe sin, trian dí le fiannaiġeaċt
agus trian le sgeuluiġeaċt, agus trian le soirm (_sic_) sáiṁ suain agus
fíor-ċodalta.

Nuair d’ éiriġ an lá air na ṁáraċ ṫug sé leis a ṁáiġistir agus an
gunnaire, agus an cluasaire, agus an coisire, agus an séidire, agus
fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna, agus d’ḟág sé amuiġ ag ceann an
ḃóṫair iad, agus ṫáinig sé féin air ais agus ḃain sé an glas de ’n ḟaṫaċ.
Duḃairt sé leis an ḃfaṫaċ gur ċuir a ṁáiġistir air ais é i g-coinne an
ḃirréid ḋuiḃ a ḃí faoi ċolḃa a leabuiḋ. Duḃairt an faṫaċ go dtiuḃraḋ sé
hata ḋó nár ċaiṫ sé féin ariaṁ, aċt go raiḃ náire air, an sean-ḃirreud do
ṫaḃairt dó. Duḃairt an fear gearr glas muna dtiuḃraḋ sé an birreud dó go
dtiucfaḋ a ṁáiġistir air ais, agus go mbainfeaḋ sé an ceann dé.

“Is fearr dam a ṫaḃairt duit,” ar san faṫaċ, “agus uair air biṫ a
ċuirfeas tu air do ċeann é, feicfiḋ tu uile ḋuine agus ni ḟeicfiḋ duine
air biṫ ṫu.” Ṫug sé ḋó an birreud ann sin, agus ċuaiḋ an fear gearr glas
agus ṫug sé do ṁaċ ríġ Éireann é.

Ḃí siad ag imṫeaċt ann sin. Do ḃéarfaḋ siad air an ngaoiṫ Ṁárta do ḃí
rómpa, agus an ġaoṫ Ṁárta do ḃí ’nna ndiaiġ ní ḃéarfaḋ sí orra-san, ag
dul do’n doṁan ṡoir. Nuair ṫáinig traṫnóna agus deireaḋ an lae ḋearc mac
ríġ Eireann uaiḋ agus ní ḟacaiḋ sé aon áit a mbeiḋeaḋ sé ann an oiḋċe
sin. Ḍearc an fear gearr glas uaiḋ, agus ċonnairc sé caisleán, agus
duḃairt sé, “an faṫaċ atá ann san g-caisleán sin, is dearḃráṫair do’n
ḟaṫaċ a raḃamar aréir aige, agus béiḋmíd ann san g-caisleán sin anoċt.”
Ṫáinig siad, agus d’ḟág sé mac ríġ Eireann agus a ṁuinntir ag ceann
an ḃóṫair agus ċuaiḋ sé ċum an ċaisleáin, agus ṫarraing sé an cuaille
cóṁraic, agus níor ḟág sé leanḃ i mnaoi ná searraċ i g-capall ná pigín i
muic ná broc i ngleann, i ḃfoigse seaċt míle ḋó, nár ḃain sé trí iompóḋ
asta leis an méad torain a ṫug sé as an g-cuaille cóṁraic.

Ṫáinig an faṫaċ amaċ, agus duḃairt sé, “Moṫuiġim bolaḋ an Éireannaiġ ḃinn
ḃreugaiġ faoi m’ḟóidín dúṫaiġ.”

“Ní Eireannaċ binn breugaċ mise,” ar san fear gearr glas, “aċt tá mo
ṁáiġistir amuiġ ann sin ag ceann an ḃóṫair, agus má ṫagann sé bainfiḋ sé
an ceann díot.”

“Is mór líom ḋe ġreim ṫu, agus is beag liom de ḋá ġreim ṫu,” ar san faṫaċ.

“Ní ḃfuiġfiḋ tu mé de ġreim air biṫ,” ar san fear gearr glas, agus ṫoisiġ
sé ag meuduġaḋ go raiḃ sé ċoṁ mór leis an g-caisleán.

Ṫáinig faitċios air an ḃfaṫaċ agus duḃairt sé, “ḃfuil do ṁáiġistir ċoṁ
mór leat-sa?”

“Tá agus níos mó,” ar san fear beag glas.

“Cuir i ḃfolaċ mé go maidin go n-imṫiġeann do ṁáiġistir,” ar san faṫaċ,
“agus rud air biṫ atá tu ag iarraiḋ caiṫfiḋ tu a ḟáġail.”

Ṫug sé an faṫaċ leis, agus ċaiṫ sé faoi ḃeul daḃaiċ é. Ċuaiḋ se amaċ agus
ṫug sé asteaċ mac ríġ Eireann, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, an séidire, an
coisire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna, agus ċaiṫ siad an
oiḋċe ann sin, trian le fiannuiġeaċt trian le sgeulaiġeaċt agus trian le
soirm sáiṁ suain agus fíor-ċodalta, go dti an ṁaidin.

Air maidin, lá air na ṁáraċ, ṫug an fear gearr glas mac ríġ Eireann agus
a ṁuinntir amaċ as an g-caisleán agus d’ḟág sé ag ceann an ḃóṫair iad,
agus ṫáinig sé féin air ais agus d’iarr sé na sean-slipéaraiḋ a ḃi faoi
ċolḃa an leabuiḋ, air an ḃfaṫaċ. Duḃairt an faṫaċ go dtiúḃraḋ sé péire
ḃútais ċoṁ maiṫ agus ċaiṫ sé ariaṁ d’a ṁáiġistir, agus cad é an maiṫ a
ḃí ann sna sean-slipéaraiḃ! Duḃairt an fear gearr glas muna ḃfáġaḋ sé na
slipeuraiḋ go raċfaḋ sé i g-coinne a ṁáiġistir, leis an ceann do ḃaint
dé. Duḃairt an faṫaċ ann sin go dtiúḃraḋ sé ḋó iad, agus ṫug. “Am air
biṫ,” ar seisean, “a ċuirfeas tu na slipeuraiḋ sin ort, agus ’haiġ óiḃir’
do ráḋ, áit air biṫ a ḃfuil súil agad do ḋul ann, béiḋ tu innti.”

D’imṫiġ mac ríġ Eireann agus an fear gearr glas, agus an gunnaire, agus
an cluasaire, agus an coisire, agus an séidire, agus fear briste na
g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna, go dtáinig traṫnóna agus deireaḋ an laé; agus go
raiḃ an capall ag dul faoi sgáṫ na copóige agus ní fanfaḋ an ċopóg leis.
D’ḟiafruiġ mac ríġ Eireann de’n ḟear gearr glas ann sin, cá ḃeiḋeaḋ siad
an oiḋċe sin, agus duḃairt an fear gearr glas go mbeiḋeaḋ siad i dteaċ
dearḃráṫar an ḟaṫaiġ ag a raiḃ siad areir. Ḍearc mac ríġ Eireann uaiḋ
agus ni ḟacaiḋ sé dadaṁ. Ḍearc an fear gearr glas uaiḋ agus ċonnairc sé
caisleán mór. D’ḟágḃaiġ sé mac ríġ Eireann agus a ṁuinntir ann sin agus
ċuaiḋ sé ċum an ċaisleáin leis féin, agus ṫarraing sé an cuaille cóṁraic,
agus níor ḟágḃaiġ sé leanḃ i mnaoi, searraċ i láir, pigín i muic, na broc
i ngleann, nár ṫionntuiġ sé ṫart trí uaire leis an méad torain a ḃain sé
as an g-cuaille cóṁraic. Ṫáinig an faṫaċ amaċ agus duḃairt sé, “moṫuiġim
bolaḋ an Éireannaiġ ḃinn ḃreugaiġ faoi m’ḟóidín dúṫaiġ.”

“Ní Éireannaċ binn breugaċ mise,” ar san fear gearr glas, “aċt tá mo
ṁáiġistir ’nna ṡeasaṁ ann sin, ag ceann an ḃóṫair, agus má ṫagann sé
bainfiḋ sé an ceann díot.”

Agus leis sin ṫosuiġ an fear gearr glas ag méaduġaḋ go raiḃ sé ċoṁ mór
leis an g-caisleán faoi ḋeireaḋ.

Ṫáinig faitċios air an ḃfaṫaċ, agus duḃairt sé, “ḃfuil do ṁáiġistir ċoṁ
mór leat féin?”

“Tá,” ar san fear gearr glas, “agus níos mó.”

“O cuir mé a ḃfolaċ, cuir me i ḃfolaċ,” ar san faṫaċ, “go n-ímṫiġeann do
ṁáiġistir, agus rud air biṫ a ḃéiḋeas tu ag iarraiḋ caiṫfiḋ tu a ḟáġail.”

Ṫug sé an faṫaċ leis agus ċuir sé faoi ḃeul daḃaiċ é, agus glas air.

Ṫáinig sé air ais agus ṫug sé mac ríġ Éireann, an gunnaire, an cluasaire,
an coisire, an séidire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna asteaċ
leis, agus ċaiṫ siad an oiḋċe sin go rúgaċ, trian dí le fiannuiġeaċt,
agus trian dí le sgeuluiġeaċt, agus trian dí le soirm sáiṁ suain agus
fíor ċodalta.

Air maidin, lá air na ṁáraċ, ṫug sé mac ríġ Eireann agus a ṁuinntir amaċ
agus d’ḟágḃuiġ sé ag ceann an ḃóṫair iad agus ṫáinig sé féin air ais,
agus leig sé amaċ an faṫaċ, agus duḃairt se leis an ḃfaṫaċ an cloiḋeaṁ
meirgeaċ a ḃí faoi ċolḃa a leabuiḋ do ṫaḃairt dó. Duḃairt an faṫaċ
naċ dtiúḃraḋ sé an sean-ċloiḋeaṁ sin d’ aon duine, aċt go dtiúḃraḋ sé
ḋó cloiḋeaṁ na trí faoḃar, nár ḟág fuiġeal buille ’nna ḋiaiġ, agus dá
ḃfág-faḋ sé go dtiuḃraḋ sé leis an dara ḃuille é.

“Ní ġlacfaiḋ mé sin,” ar san fear gearr glas, “caiṫfiḋ mé an cloiḋeaṁ
meirgeaċ ḟáġail, agus muna ḃfáġ’ mé é raċfaiḋ me i g-coinne mo ṁáiġistir
agus bainfiḋ sé an ceann díot.”

“Is fearr dam a ṫaḃairt duit,” ar san faṫaċ, “agus cia bé áit a ḃualfeas
tu buille leis an g-cloiḋeaṁ sin raċfaiḋ sé go dtí an gaineaṁ dá mbuḋ
iarann a ḃí roiṁe.” Ṫug sé an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ dó ann sin.

Cuaiḋ mac ríġ Eireann agus an fear gearr glas, agus an gunnaire, agus an
cluasaire, agus an coisire, agus an séidire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ
le taoiḃ a ṫóna ann sin, go dtáinig traṫnóna agus deireaḋ an laé, go raiḃ
an capall ag dul faoi sgáṫ na copóige agus ní ḟanfaḋ an ċopóg leis. Ní
ḃéarfaḋ an ġaoṫ Ṁárta a ḃí rompa orra agus an ġaoṫ Ṁárta a ḃí ’nna ndiaiġ
ní rug sí orra-san, agus ḃí siad an oiḋċe sin ann san doṁan ṡoir, an áit
a raiḃ an ḃean-uasal.

D’ ḟiafruiġ an ḃean de ṁac ríġ Eireann creud do ḃí sé ag iarraiḋ agus
duḃairt seisean go raiḃ sé ag iarraiḋ íféin mar ṁnaoi. “Caiṫfiḋ tu
m’ḟáġail,” ar sise, “má ḟuasglann tu mo ġeasa ḋíom.”

Fuair sé a lóistín le na ċuid buaċaill ann san g-caisleán an oiḋċe sin,
agus ann san oiḋċe táinig sise agus duḃairt leis, “seó siosúr agad, agus
muna ḃfuil an siosúr sin agad air maidin amáraċ bainfiġear an ceann díot.”

Ċuir sí biorán-suain faoi na ċeann, agus ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ, agus ċoṁ
luaṫ a’s ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ rug sí an siosúr uaiḋ agus d’ḟágḃuiġ sí é.
Ṫug sí an siosúr do’n ríġ niṁe, agus duḃairt sí leis an ríġ, an siosúr
do ḃeiṫ aige air maidin dí. D’imṫiġ sí ann sin. Nuair ḃí sí imṫiġṫe ṫuit
an ríġ niṁe ’nna ċodlaḋ agus nuair a ḃí sé ’nna ċodlaḋ ṫáinig an fear
gearr glas agus na sean-slipéaraiḋ air, agus an birreud air a ċeann, agus
an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ ann a láiṁ, agus cia bé áit a d’ḟágḃuiġ an ríġ an
siosúr fuair seisean é. Ṫug sé do ṁac ríġ Eireann é, agus nuair ṫáinig
sise air maidin d’ḟiafruiġ sí, “a ṁic ríġ Eireann ḃfuil an siosúr agad?”

“Tá,” ar seisean.

Ḃí tri fíċe cloigionn na ndaoine a ṫáinig ’gá h-íarraiḋ air spíciḃ
ṫimċioll an ċaisleáin agus ṡaoil sí go mbeiḋeaḋ a ċloigionn air spíce
aici i g-cuideaċt leó.

An oiḋċe, an lá air na ṁáraċ, ṫáinig sí agus ṫug sí cíar dó, agus duḃairt
sí leis muna mbeiḋeaḋ an ċíar aige air maidin nuair a ṫiucfaḋ sí go
mbeiḋeaḋ an ceann bainte ḋé. Ċuir sí biorán-suain faoi na ċeann agus ṫuit
sé ’nna ċodlaḋ mar ṫuit sé an oiḋċe roiṁe, agus ġoid sise an ċíar léiṫe.
Ṫug sí an ċíar do’n ríġ niṁe agus duḃairt sí leis gan an ċiar do ċailleaḋ
mar ċaill sé an siosúr. Ṫáinig an fear gearr glas agus na sean-sléiparaiḋ
air a ċosaiḃ, an sean-ḃirreud air a ċeann agus an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ ann a
láiṁ, agus ní ḟacaiḋ an ríġ é go dtáinig se taoḃ ṡiar dé agus ṫug sé an
ċíar leis uaiḋ.

Nuair ṫáiniġ an ṁaidin, ḋúisiġ mac ríġ Eireann agus ṫosuiġ sé ag caoineaḋ
na ciaire a ḃí imṫiġṫe uaiḋ. “Ná bac leis sin,” ar san fear gearr glas,
“tá sé agam-sa.” Nuair ṫáinig sise ṫug sé an ċíar dí, agus ḃí iongantas
uirri.

Táinig sí an tríoṁaḋ oiḋċe, agus duḃairt sí le mac riġ Eireann an ceann
do cíaraḋ leis an g-cíair sin do ḃeiṫ aige ḋí, air maidin amáraċ. “Nois,”
ar sise, “ní raiḃ baoġal ort go dtí anoċt, agus má ċailleann tu an t-am
so i, tá do ċloigionn imṫiġṫe.”

Ḃí an biorán-suain faoi na ċeann, agus ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ. Ṫáinig sise
agus ġoid sí an ċíar uaiḋ. Ṫug sí do’n ríġ niṁe í, agus duḃairt sí leis
nár ḟeud an ċíar imṫeaċt uaiḋ no go mbainfiḋe an ceann dé. Ṫug an riġ
niṁe an ċiar leis, agus ċuir sé asteaċ í i g-carraig cloiċe, agus trí
fiċe glas uirri, agus ṡuiḋ an ríġ taoiḃ amuiġ de na glasaiḃ uile ag doras
na carraige, ’gá faire. Ṫáinig an fear gearr glas, agus na slipeuraiḋ
agus an birreud air, agus an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ ann a láiṁ, agus ḃuail sé
buille air an g-carraig cloiċe agus d’ḟosgail suas í, agus ḃuail sé an
dara ḃuille air an ríġ niṁe, agus ḃain sé an ceann dé. Ṫug sé leis an
ċiar ċuig (do) mac ríġ Eireann ann sin, agus fuair sé é ann a ḋúiseaċt,
agus é ag caoineaḋ na ciaire. “Súd í do ċíar duit,” ar seisean, “tiucfaiḋ
sise air ball, agus fiafróċaiḋ sí ḋíot an ḃfuil an ċíar agad, agus
abair léiṫe go ḃfuil, agus an ceann do cíaraḋ léiṫe, agus caiṫ ċuici an
cloigionn.”

Nuair ṫáinig sise ag fiafruiġ an raiḃ an ċiar aige, duḃairt sé go raiḃ,
agus an ceann do cíaraḋ léiṫe, agus ċaiṫ sé ceann an ríġ niṁe ċuici.

Nuair ċonnairc sí an cloigionn ḃí fearg ṁór uirri, agus duḃairt sí
leis naċ ḃfuiġfeaḋ sé í le pósaḋ go ḃfáġaḋ sé coisire a ṡiúḃalfaḋ le
na coisire féin i g-coinne trí ḃuideul na h-íoċṡláinte as tobar an
doṁain ṡoir, agus dá mbuḋ luaiṫe a ṫáinig a coisire féin ’ná an coisire
aige-sean, go raiḃ a ċeann imṫiġṫe.

Fuair sí sean-ċailleaċ (ḃuitse éigin) agus ṫug sí trí buideula ḋí.
Duḃairt an fear gearr glas trí ḃuideula do ṫaḃairt do’n ḟear a ḃí ag
congḃáil páirce na ngeirrḟiaḋ, agus tugaḋ ḋó iad. D’imṫiġ an ċailleaċ
agus an fear, agus trí buidéala ag gaċ aon aca, agus ḃí coisire mic ríġ
Éireann ag tíġeaċt leaṫ-ḃealaiġ air ais, sul a ḃí an ċailleaċ imṫiġṫe
leaṫ-ḃealaiġ ag dul ann. “Suiḋ síos,” ar san ċailleaċ leis an g-coisire,
“agus leig do sgíṫ, tá an ḃeirt aca pósta anois, agus ná bí briseaḋ do
ċroiḋe ag riṫ.” Ṫug sí léiṫe cloigionn capaill agus ċuir sí faoi na ċeann
é, agus biorán-suain ann, agus nuair leag sé a ċeann air, ṫuit sé ’nna
ċodlaḋ.

Ḍóirt sise an t-uisge a ḃí aige amaċ, agus d’imṫiġ sí.

B’ḟada leis an ḃfear gearr glas go raiḃ siad ag tíġeaċt, agus duḃairt
sé leis an g-cluasaire, “leag do ċluas air an talaṁ, agus feuċ an ḃfuil
siad ag teaċt.” “Cluinim,” ar seiseann, “an ċailleaċ ag teaċt, agus tá an
coisire ’nna ċodlaḋ, agus é ag srannfartuiġ.”

“Dearc uait,” ar san fear gearr glas leis an ngunnaire “go ḃfeicfiḋ tu ca
ḃfuil an coisire.”

Duḃairt an gunnaire go raiḃ sé ann a leiṫid sin d’áit, agus cloigionn
capaill faoi na ċeann, agus é ’nna ċodlaḋ.

“Cuir do ġunna le do ṡúil,” ar san fear garr glas, “agus cuir an
cloigionn ó na ċeann.”

Ċuir sé an gunna le na ṡúil agus sguaib sé an ċloigionn ó na ċeann.
Ḍúisiġ an coisire, agus fuair sé na buideula a ḃí aige folaṁ, agus
ḃ’éigin dó filleaḋ ċum an tobair arís.

Ḃí an ċailleaċ ag teaċt ann sin agus ní raiḃ an coisire le feiceál
(feicsint). Ar san fear gearr glas ann sin, leis an ḃfear a ḃí ag cur an
ṁuilinn-gaoiṫe ṫart le na ṗolláire, “éiriġ suas agus feuċ an g-cuirfeá
an ċailleaċ air a h-ais.” Ċuir sé a ṁeur air a ṡrón agus nuair ḃí an
ċailleaċ ag teaċt ċuir sé séideóg gaoiṫe fúiṫi a sguaib air a h-ais í.
Ḃí sí teaċt arís agus rinne sé an rud ceudna léiṫe. Gaċ am a ḃíḋeaḋ
sise ag teaċt a ḃfogas dóiḃ do ḃíḋeaḋ seisean dá cur air a h-ais arís
leis an ngaoiṫ do ṡéideaḋ sé as a ṗolláire. Air deireaḋ ṡéid se leis an
dá ṗolláire agus sguaib sé an ċailleaċ ċum an doṁain ṡoir arís. Ṫáinig
coisire mic ríġ Eireann ann sin, agus ḃí an lá sin gnóṫuiġṫe.

Ḃí fearg ṁór air an mnaoi nuair ċonnairc sí naċ dtáinig a coisire féin
air ais i dtosaċ, agus duḃairt sí le mac riġ Eireann, “ní ḃfuiġfiḋ
tu mise anois no go siùḃailfiḋ tu trí ṁíle gan ḃróig gan stoca, air
ṡnáṫaidiḃ cruaiḋe.”

Ḃí bóṫar aici trí ṁíle air fad, agus snáṫaide geura cruaiḋe craiṫte air,
ċoṁ tiuġ leis an ḃfeur. Ar san fear gearr glas le fear-briste na g-cloċ
le na leaṫ-ṫóin, “téiḋ agus maol iad sin.” Ċuaiḋ an fear sin orra le na
leaṫ-ṫóin agus rinne sé stumpaiḋ ḋíoḃ. Duḃairt an fear gearr glas leis
dul orra le na ṫóin ḋúbalta. Ċuaiḋ sé orra ann sin le na ṫóin ḋúbalta,
agus rinne sé púġdar agus praiseaċ díoḃ. Ṫáinig mac ríġ Éireann agus
ṡiúḃail sé na trí ṁíle, agus ḃí a ḃean gnóṫuiġṫe aige.

Pósaḋ an ḃeirt ann sin, agus ḃí an ċéud ṗóg le fáġail ag an ḃfear gearr
glas. Rug an fear gearr glas an ḃean leis féin asteaċ i seomra, agus
ṫosuiġ sé uirri. Ḃí sí lán ḋe naiṫreaċaiḃ niṁe, agus ḃeiḋeaḋ mac ríġ
Éireann marḃ aca, nuair a raċfaḋ sé ’nna ċodlaḋ, aċt gur ṗiuc an fear
gearr glas aisti iad.

Ṫainig sé go mac ríġ Eireann ann sin, agus duḃairt sé leis, “Tig leat
dul le do ṁnaoi anois. Is mise an fear a ḃí ann san g-cóṁra an lá sin,
a d’íoc tu na deiċ bpúnta air a ṡon, agus an ṁuinntir seó a ḃí leat is
seirḃísíġe iad do ċuir Dia ċugad-sa.”

D’imṫiġ an fear gearr glas agus a ṁuinntir ann sin agus ní ḟacaiḋ mac ríġ
Éireann arís é. Rug sé a ḃean aḃaile leis, agus ċaiṫ siad beaṫa ṡona le
ċéile.




THE KING OF IRELAND’S SON.


There was a king’s son in Ireland long ago, and he went out and took with
him his gun and his dog. There was snow out. He killed a raven. The raven
fell on the snow. He never saw anything whiter than the snow, or blacker
than the raven’s skull, or redder than its share of blood,[19] that was
a’pouring out.

He put himself under _gassa_[20] and obligations of the year, that he
would not eat two meals at one table, or sleep two nights in one house,
until he should find a woman whose hair was as black as the raven’s head,
and her skin as white as the snow, and her two cheeks as red as the blood.

There was no woman in the world like that; but one woman only, and she
was in the eastern world.

The day on the morrow he set out, and money was not plenty, but he took
with him twenty pounds. It was not far he went until he met a funeral,
and he said that it was as good for him to go three steps with the
corpse. He had not the three steps walked until there came a man and left
his writ down on the corpse for five pounds. There was a law in Ireland
at that time that any man who had a debt upon another person (_i.e._, to
whom another person owed a debt) that person’s people could not bury him,
should he be dead, without paying his debts, or without the leave of the
person to whom the dead man owed the debts. When the king of Ireland’s
son saw the sons and daughters of the dead crying, and they without money
to give the man, he said to himself: “It’s a great pity that these poor
people have not the money,” and he put his hand in his pocket and paid
the five pounds himself for the corpse. After that, he said he would go
as far as the church to see it buried. Then there came another man, and
left his writ on the body for five pounds more. “As I gave the first
five pounds,” said the king of Erin’s son to himself, “it’s as good for
me to give the other five, and to let the poor man go to the grave.” He
paid the other five pounds. He had only ten pounds then.

Not far did he go until he met a short green man, and he asked him where
was he going. He said that he was going looking for a woman in the
eastern world. The short green man asked him did he want a boy (servant),
and he said he did, and [asked] what would be the wages he would be
looking for? He said: “The first kiss of his wife if he should get her.”
The king of Ireland’s son said that he must get that.

Not far did they go until they met another man and his gun in his hand,
and he a’levelling it at the blackbird that was in the eastern world,
that he might have it for his dinner. The short green man said to him
that it was as good for him to take that man into his service if he would
go on service with him. The son of the king of Ireland asked him if he
would come on service with him.

“I will,” said the man, “if I get my wages.”

“And what is the wages you’ll be looking for?”

“The place of a house and garden.”

“You’ll get that if my journey succeeds with me.”

The king of Ireland’s son went forward with the short green man and the
gunner, and it was not far they went until a man met them, and his ear
left to the ground, and he listening to the grass growing.

“It’s as good for you to take that man into your service,” said the short
green man.

The king’s son asked the man whether he would come with him on service.

“I’ll come if I get the place of a house and garden.”

“You will get that from me if the thing I have in my head succeeds with
me.”

The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, and the
earman, went forward, and it was not far they went until they met another
man, and his one foot on his shoulder, and he keeping a field of hares,
without letting one hare in or out of the field. There was wonder on the
king’s son, and he asked him “What was the sense of his having one foot
on his shoulder like that.”

“Oh,” says he, “if I had my two feet on the ground I should be so swift
that I would go out of sight.”

“Will you come on service with me?” said the king’s son.

“I’ll come if I get the place of a house and garden.”

“You’ll get that if the thing I have in my head succeeds with me.”

The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, the
earman, and the footman, went forward, and it was not far they went till
they came to a man and he turning round a wind-mill with one nostril, and
his finger left on his nose shutting the other nostril.

“Why have you your finger on your nose?” said the king of Ireland’s son.

“Oh,” says he, “if I were to blow with the two nostrils I would sweep the
mill altogether out of that up into the air.”

“Will you come on hire with me?”

“I will if I get the place of a house and garden.”

“You’ll get that if the thing I have in my head succeeds with me.”

The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, the
earman, the footman, and the blowman went forward until they came to a
man who was sitting on the side of the road and he a’breaking stones with
one thigh, and he had no hammer or anything else. The king’s son asked
him why it was he was breaking stones with his half (_i.e._, one) thigh.

“Oh,” says he, “if I were to strike them with the double thigh I’d make
powder of them.”

“Will you hire with me?”

“I will if I get the place of a house and garden.”

“You’ll get that if the thing I have in my head succeeds with me.”

Then they all went forward together—the son of the king of Ireland, the
short green man, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and
the man that broke stones with the side of his thigh, and they would
overtake the March wind that was before them, and the March wind that was
behind them would not overtake them, until the evening came and the end
of the day.

The king of Ireland’s son looked from him, and he did not see any house
in which he might be that night. The short green man looked from him, and
he saw a house, and there was not the top of a quill outside of it, nor
the bottom of a quill inside of it, but only one quill alone, which was
keeping shelter and protection on it. The king’s son said that he did not
know where he should pass that night, and the short green man said that
they would be in the house of the giant over there that night.

They came to the house, and the short green man drew the _coolaya-coric_
(pole of combat), and he did not leave child with woman, foal with mare,
pigeen with pig, or badger in glen, that he did not turn over three times
with the quantity of sound he knocked out of the _coolaya-coric_. The
giant came out, and he said: “I feel the smell of the melodious lying
Irishman under (_i.e._, in) my little sod of country.”

“I’m no melodious lying Irishman,” said the short green man; “but my
master is out there at the head of the avenue, and if he comes he will
whip the head off you.” The short green man was growing big, growing big,
until at last he looked as big as the castle. There came fear on the
giant, and he said: “Is your master as big as you?”

“He is,” says the short green man, “and bigger.”

“Put me in hiding till morning, until your master goes,” said the giant.

Then he put the giant under lock and key, and went out to the king’s
son. Then the king of Ireland’s son, the gunman, the earman, the
footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his
thigh, came into the castle, and they spent that night, a third of it
a’story-telling, a third of it with Fenian tales, and a third of it in
mild enjoyment(?) of slumber and of true sleep.

When the day on the morrow arose, the short green man brought with him
his master, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man
who broke stones with the side of his thigh, and he left them outside at
the head of the avenue, and he came back himself and took the lock off
the giant. He told the giant that his master sent him back for the black
cap that was under the head of his bed. The giant said that he would give
him a hat that he never wore himself, but that he was ashamed to give him
the old cap. The short green man said that unless he gave him the cap his
master would come back and strike the head off him.

“It’s best for me to give it to you,” said the giant; “and any time at
all you will put it on your head you will see everybody and nobody will
see you.” He gave him the cap then, and the short green man came and gave
it to the king of Ireland’s son.

They were a’going then. They would overtake the March wind that was
before them, and the March wind that was behind them would not overtake
them, going to the eastern world. When evening and the end of the day
came, the king of Ireland’s son looked from him, and he did not see any
house in which he might be that night. The short green man looked from
him, and he saw a castle, and he said: “The giant that is in that castle
is the brother of the giant with whom we were last night, and we shall be
in this castle to-night.” They came to the castle, and he left the king’s
son and his people at the head of the avenue, and he went to the door
and pulled the _coolaya-coric_, and he did not leave child with woman,
foal with mare, pigeen with pig, or badger in glen, within seven miles of
him, that he did not knock three turns out of them with all the sound he
knocked out of the _coolaya-coric_.

The giant came out, and he said, “I feel the smell of a melodious lying
Irishman under my sod of country.”

“No melodious lying Irishman am I,” says the short green man; “but my
master is outside at the head of the avenue, and if he comes he will whip
the head off you.”

“I think you large of one mouthful, and I think you small of two
mouthfuls,” said the giant.

“You won’t get me of a mouthful at all,” said the short green man, and he
began swelling until he was as big as the castle. There came fear on the
giant, and he said:

“Is your master as big as you?”

“He is, and bigger.”

“Hide me,” said the giant, “till morning, until your master goes, and
anything you will be wanting you must get it.”

He brought the giant with him, and he put him under the mouth of a
_douac_ (great vessel of some sort). He went out and brought in the son
of the king of Ireland, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman,
and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, and they spent
that night, one-third of it telling Fenian stories, one-third telling
tales, and one-third in the mild enjoyment of slumber and of true sleep
until morning.

In the morning, the day on the morrow, the short green man brought the
king’s son and his people out of the castle, and left them at the head
of the avenue, and he went back himself and asked the giant for the old
slippers that were left under the head of his bed.

The giant said that he would give his master a pair of boots as good as
ever he wore; and what good was there in the old slippers?

The short green man said that unless he got the slippers he would go for
his master to whip the head off him.

Then the giant said that he would give them to him, and he gave them.

“Any time,” said he, “that you will put those slippers on you, and say
‘high-over!’ any place you have a mind to go to, you will be in it.”

The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, the
earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the
side of his thigh, went forward until evening came, and the end of the
day, until the horse would be going under the shade of the docking,
and the docking would not wait for him. The king’s son asked the short
green man where should they be that night, and the short green man said
that they would be in the house of the brother of the giant with whom
they spent the night before. The king’s son looked from him and he saw
nothing. The short green man looked from him and he saw a great castle.
He left the king’s son and his people there, and he went to the castle
by himself, and he drew the _coolaya-coric_, and he did not leave child
with woman, foal with mare, pigeen with pig, or badger in glen, but he
turned them over three times with all the sound he struck out of the
_coolaya-coric_. The giant came out, and he said: “I feel the smell of a
melodious lying Irishman under my sod of country.”

“No melodious lying Irishman am I,” said the short green man; “but my
master is standing at the head of the avenue, and if he comes he shall
strike the head off you.”

And with that the short green man began swelling until he was the size of
the castle at last. There came fear on the giant, and he said: “Is your
master as big as yourself?”

“He is,” said the short green man, “and bigger.”

“Oh! put me in hiding; put me in hiding,” said the giant, “until your
master goes; and anything you will be asking you must get it.”

He took the giant with him, and he put him under the mouth of a _douac_,
and a lock on him. He came back, and he brought the king of Ireland’s
son, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who
broke stones with the side of his thigh, into the castle with him, and
they spent that night merrily—a third of it with Fenian tales, a third
of it with telling stories, and a third of it with the mild enjoyment of
slumber and of true sleep.

In the morning, the day on the morrow, he brought the son of the king of
Ireland out, and his people with him, and left them at the head of the
avenue, and he came back himself and loosed out the giant, and said to
him, that he must give him the rusty sword that was under the corner of
his bed. The giant said that he would not give that old sword to anyone,
but that he would give him the sword of the three edges that never left
the leavings of a blow behind it, or if it did, it would take it with the
second blow.

“I won’t have that,” said the short green man, “I must get the rusty
sword; and if I don’t get that, I must go for my master, and he shall
strike the head off you.”

“It is better for me to give it to you,” said the giant, “and whatever
place you will strike a blow with that sword, it will go to the sand
(_i.e._, cut to the earth) though it were iron were before it.” Then he
gave him the rusty sword.

The son of the king of Ireland, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the
blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, went
forward after that, until evening came, and the end of the day, until the
horse was going under the shade of the docking, and the docking would
not wait for him. The March wind that was behind them would not overtake
them, and they would overtake the wind of March that was before them, and
they were that night (arrived) in the eastern world, where was the lady.

The lady asked the king of Ireland’s son what it was he wanted, and he
said that he was looking for herself as wife.

“You must get me,” said she, “if you loose my geasa[21] off me.”

He got lodging with all his servants in the castle that evening, and in
the night she came and said to him, “Here is a scissors for you, and
unless you have that scissors for me to-morrow morning, the head will be
struck off you.”

She placed a pin of slumber under his head, and he fell into his sleep,
and as soon as he did, she came and took the scissors from him and left
him there. She gave the scissors to the King of Poison,[22] and she
desired the king to have the scissors for her in the morning. Then she
went away. When she was gone the King of Poison fell into his sleep; and
when he was in his sleep the short green man came, and the old slippers
on him, and the cap on his head, and the rusty sword in his hand, and
wherever it was the king had left the scissors out of his hand, he found
it. He gave it to the king of Ireland’s son, and when she (the lady) came
in the morning, she asked; “Son of the king of Ireland, have you the
scissors?”

“I have,” said he.

There were three scores of skulls of the people that went to look for her
set on spikes round about the castle, and she thought that she would have
his head on a spike along with them.

On the night of the next day she came and gave him a comb, and said to
him unless he had that comb for her next morning when she would come,
that the head should be struck off him. She placed a pin of slumber under
his head, and he fell into his sleep as he fell the night before, and she
stole the comb with her. She gave the comb to the King of Poison, and
said to him not to lose the comb as he lost the scissors. The short green
man came with the old slippers on his feet, the old cap on his head, and
the rusty sword in his hand; and the king did not see him until he came
behind him and took away the comb with him.

When the king of Ireland’s son rose up the next morning he began crying
for the comb, which was gone from him. “Don’t mind that,” said the short
green man: “I have it.” When she came he gave her the comb, and there was
wonder on her.

She came the third night, and said to the son of the king of Ireland to
have for her the head of him who was combed with that comb, on the morrow
morning. “Now,” said she, “there was no fear of you until this night; but
if you lose it this time, your head is gone.”

The pin of slumber was under his head, and he fell into his sleep. She
came and stole the comb from him. She gave it to the King of Poison,
and she said to him that he could not lose it unless the head should be
struck off himself. The King of Poison took the comb with him, and he put
it into a rock of stone and three score of locks on it, and the king sat
down himself outside of the locks all, at the door of the rock, guarding
it. The short green man came, and the slippers and the cap on him, and
the rusty sword in his hand, and he struck a stroke on the stone rock and
he opened it up, and he struck the second stroke on the King of Poison,
and he struck the head off him. He brought back with him then the comb
to the king’s son, and he found him awake, and weeping after the comb.
“There is your comb for you,” said he; “she will come this now,[23] and
she will ask you have you the comb, and tell her that you have, and the
head that was combed with it, and throw her the skull.”

When she came asking if he had the comb, he said he had, and the head
that was combed with it, and he threw her the head of the King of Poison.

When she saw the head there was great anger on her, and she told him he
never would get her to marry until he got a footman (runner) to travel
with her runner for three bottles of the healing-balm out of the well of
the western world; and if her own runner should come back more quickly
than his runner, she said his head was gone.

She got an old hag—some witch—and she gave her three bottles. The short
green man bade them give three bottles to the man who was keeping the
field of hares, and they were given to him. The hag and the man started,
and three bottles with each of them; and the runner of the king’s son was
coming back half way on the road home, while the hag had only gone half
way to the well. “Sit down,” said the hag to the foot-runner, when they
met, “and take your rest, for the pair of them are married now, and don’t
be breaking your heart running.” She brought over a horse’s head and a
slumber-pin in it, and laid it under his head, and when he laid down his
head on it he fell asleep. She spilt out the water he had and she went.

The short green man thought it long until they were coming, and he said
to the earman, “Lay your ear to the ground and try are they coming.”

“I hear the hag a’coming,” said he; “but the footman is in his sleep, and
I hear him a’snoring.”

“Look from you,” said the short green man to the gunman, “till you see
where the foot-runner is.”

The gunman looked, and he said that the footman was in such and such a
place, and a horse’s skull under his head, and he in his sleeping.

“Lay your gun to your eye,” said the short green man, “and put the skull
away from under his head.”

He put the gun to his eye and he swept the skull from under his head. The
footman woke up, and he found that the bottles which he had were empty,
and it was necessary for him to return to the well again.

The hag was coming then, and the foot-runner was not to be seen. Says
the short green man to the man who was sending round the windmill with
his nostril: “Rise up and try would you put back that hag.” He put his
finger to his nose, and when the hag was coming he put a blast of wind
under her that swept her back again. She was coming again, and he did the
same thing to her. Every time she used to be coming near them he would be
sending her back with the wind he would blow out of his nostril. At last
he blew with the two nostrils and swept the hag back to the western world
again. Then the foot-runner of the king of Ireland’s son came, and that
day was won.

There was great anger on the woman when she saw that her own foot-runner
did not arrive first, and she said to the king’s son: “You won’t get me
now till you have walked three miles, without shoes or stockings, on
steel needles.” She had a road three miles long, and sharp needles of
steel shaken on it as thick as the grass, and their points up. Said the
short green man to the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh:
“Go and blunt those.” That man went on them with one thigh, and he made
stumps of them. He went on them with the double thigh, and he made powder
and _prashuch_ of them. The king of Ireland’s son came and walked the
three miles, and then he had his wife gained.

The couple were married then, and the short green man was to have the
first kiss. The short green man took the wife with him into a chamber,
and he began on her. She was full up of serpents, and the king’s son
would have been killed with them when he went to sleep, but that the
short green man picked them out of her.

He came then to the son of the king of Ireland, and he told him: “You can
go with your wife now. I am the man who was in the coffin that day, for
whom you paid the ten pounds; and these people who are with you, they are
servants whom God has sent to you.”

The short green man and his people went away then, and the king of
Ireland’s son never saw them again. He brought his wife home with him,
and they spent a happy life with one another.




AN ALP-LUACHRA.


Bhi scológ ṡaiḋḃir a g-Connaċtaiḃ aon uair aṁáin, agus ḃí maoin go
leór aige, agus bean ṁaiṫ agus muiríġin ḃreáġ agus ní raiḃ dadaṁ ag
cur buaiḋreaḋ ná trioblóide air, agus ḋeurfá féin go raiḃ sé ’nna ḟear
compórtaṁail sásta, agus go raiḃ an t-áḋ air, ċoṁ maiṫ agus air ḋuine
air biṫ a ḃí beó. Bhí sé mar sin gan ḃrón gan ḃuaiḋreaḋ air feaḋ móráin
bliaḋain i sláinte ṁaiṫ agus gan tinneas ná aicíd air féin ná air a
ċloinn, no go dtáinig lá breáġ annsan ḃfóġṁar, a raiḃ sé dearcaḋ air a
ċuid daoine ag deunaṁ féir annsan moínḟeur a ḃí a n-aice le na ṫeaċ féin,
agus mar ḃí an lá ro ṫeiṫ d’ól sé deoċ bláṫaiċe agus ṡín sé é féin siar
air an ḃfeur úr bainte, agus mar ḃí sé sáruiġṫe le teas an laé agus leis
an obair a ḃí sé ag deunaṁ, do ṫuit sé gan ṁoill ’nna ċodlaḋ, agus d’ḟan
sé mar sin air feaḋ tri no ceiṫre uair no go raiḃ an feur uile crapṫa
agus go raiḃ a ḋaoine oibre imṫiġṫe as an bpáirc.

Nuair ḋúisiġ sé ann sin, ṡuiḋ sé suas air a ṫóin, agus ní raiḃ ḟios aige
cia an áit a raiḃ sé, no gur ċuiṁniġ sé faoi ḋeire gur annsan ḃpáirc air
ċúl a ṫíge féin do ḃí sé ’nna luiḋe. D’éiriġ sé ann sin agus ċuaiḋ sé air
ais ċum a ṫiġe féin, agus air n-imṫeaċt dó, ṁoṫaiġ sé mar ṗian no mar
ġreim ann a ḃoilg. Níor ċuir sé suim ann, aċt ṡuiḋ sé síos ag an teine
agus ṫosuiġ sé ’gá ṫéiġeaḋ féin.

“Cá raiḃ tu?” ars an inġean leis.

“Bhí mé mo ċodlaḋ,” ar seisean, “air an ḃfeur úr ann sa’ bpáirc ’nna raiḃ
siad ag deunaṁ an ḟéir.”

“Creud a ḃain duit,” ar sise, “ní ḟéuċann tu go maiṫ.”

“Muire! maiseaḋ! ni’l ḟios agam,” ar seisean, “aċt tá faitċios orm go
ḃfuil rud éigin orm, is aisteaċ a ṁoṫaiġim me féin, ní raiḃ mé mar sin
ariaṁ roiṁe seó, aċt béiḋ mé níos fearr nuair a ḃfuiġfiḋ mé codlaḋ maiṫ.”

Chuaiḋ sé d’á leabuiḋ agus luiḋ sé síos agus ṫuit sé ann a ċodlaḋ, agus
níor ḋúisiġ sé go raiḃ an ġrian árd. D’éiriġ sé ann sin agus duḃairt a
ḃean leis, “Creud do ḃí ort nuair rinn’ tu codlaḋ ċoṁ fada sin?”

“Níl ḟios agam,” ar seisean.

Chuaiḋ sé annsan g-cisteanaċ, n’áit a ḃí a inġean ag deunaṁ cáca le
h-aġaiḋ an ḃreác-fast (biaḋ na maidne), agus duḃairt sise leis, “Cia an
ċaoi ḃfuil tu andiú, ḃfuil aon ḃiseaċ ort a aṫair?”

“Fuair mé codlaḋ maiṫ,” ar seisean, “aċt ní’l mé blas níos fearr ’ná ḃí
mé aréir, agus go deiṁin dá g-creidfeá mé, saoilim go ḃfuil rud éigin
astiġ ionnam, ag riṫ anonn ’s anall ann mo ḃoilg o ṫaoiḃ go taoiḃ.”

“Ara ní féidir,” ar s an inġean, “is slaiġdeán a fuair tu ad’ luiġe
amuiġ ané air an ḃfeur úr, agus muna ḃfuil tu níos fearr annsan traṫnóna
cuirfimíd fios air an doċtúir.”

Ṫáinig an traṫnóna, aċt ḃí an duine boċt annsan gcaoi ċeudna, agus
b’éigin dóiḃ fios ċur air an doċtúir. Bhí sé ag ráḋ go raiḃ pian air,
agus naċ raiḃ ḟios aige go ceart cad é an áit ann a raiḃ an ṗian, agus
nuair naċ raiḃ an doċtúir teaċt go luaṫ ḃí sgannruġaḋ mór air. Bhí
muinntir an tiġe ag deunaṁ uile ṡóirt d’ḟeud siad ḋeunaṁ le meisneaċ a
ċur ann.

Ṫáinig an doċtúir faoi ḋeire, agus d’ḟiafruiġ sé ḋé creud do ḃí air, agus
duḃairt seisean arís go raiḃ rud éigin mar éinín ag léimniġ ann a ḃolg.
Noċtuiġ an doċtúir é agus rinne sé ḃreaṫnuġaḋ maiṫ air, aċt ní ḟacaiḋ sé
dadaṁ a ḃí as an m-bealaċ leis. Chuir sé a ċluas le na ṫaoiḃ agus le na
ḋruim, aċt níor ċualaiḋ sé rud air biṫ ciḋ gó raiḃ an duine boċt é féin
ag ráḋ—“Anois! Nois! naċ g-cluinn tu é? Nois! naċ ḃfuil tu ’g éisteaċt
leis, ag léimniġ?” Aċt níor ṫug an doċtúir rud aír biṫ faoi deara, agus
ṡaoil sé faoi ḋeire go raiḃ an fear as a ċéill, agus naċ raiḃ dadaṁ air.

Duḃairt sé le mnaoi an tiġe nuair ṫáinig sé amaċ, naċ raiḃ aon rud
air a fear, aċt gur ċreid sé féin go raiḃ sé tinn, agus go g-cuirfeaḋ
sé druganna ċuige an lá air na ṁáraċ a ḃéarfaḋ codlaḋ maiṫ ḋó, agus a
ṡoċróċaḋ teas a ċuirp. Rinne sé sin, agus ṡluig an duine boċt na druganna
uile agus fuair sé codlaḋ mór arís aċt nuair ḋúisiġ sé air maidin ḃí sé
níos measa ’ná ’riaṁ, aċt duḃairt sé nár ċualaiḋ sé an rud ag léimniġ
taoḃ astiġ ḋé anois.

Chuir siad fios air an doċtúir arís, agus ṫáinig se aċt níor ḟeud sé rud
air biṫ ḋeunaṁ. D’ḟág sé druganna eile leis an ḃfear, agus duḃairt sé go
dtiucfaḋ sé arís i g-ceann seaċtṁuine eile le na ḟeicsint. Ní ḃfuair an
duine boċt fóiriġín air biṫ as ar ḟág an doċtúir leis, agus nuair dáinig
an doċtúir arís fuair sé é níos measa na roiṁe sin; aċt níor ḟeud sé aon
rud ḋéanaṁ agus ní raiḃ ḟios air biṫ aige cad é’n cineál tinnis do ḃí
air. “Ní ḃéiḋ mé ag glacaḋ d’airgid uait feasta,” ar seisean, le mnaoi an
tíġe, “mar naċ dtig liom rud air biṫ ḋéanaṁ annsan g-cúis seó; agus mar
naċ dtuigim creud atá air, ní leigfiḋ mé orm é do ṫuigsint. Tiucfaiḋ mé
le na ḟeicsint ó am go h-am aċt ní ġlacfaiḋ mé aon airgioḋ uait.”

Is air éigin d’ḟeud an ḃean an ḟearg do ḃí uirri do ċongṁáil asteaċ.
Nuair ḃí an doċtúir imṫiġṫe ċruinniġ sí muinntir an tiġe le ċéile agus
ġlac siad cóṁairle, “An doċtúir bradaċ sin,” ar sise, “ní fiú traiṫnín
é. Ḃfuil ḟios aguiḃ creud duḃairt sé? naċ nglacfaḋ sé aon airgiod uainn
feasta, agus duḃairt sé naċ raiḃ eólas air ḃiṫ aige air dadaṁ. ’Suf’ air!
an biṫeaṁnaċ! ní ṫiucfaiḋ sé ṫar an tairseaċ só go bráṫ. Raċfamaoid go
dtí an doċtúir eile, má tá sé níos faide uainn, féin, is cuma liom sin,
caiṫfimíd a ḟáġail.” Bhí uile ḋuine a ḃí annsa teaċ air aon ḟocal léiṫe,
agus ċuir siad fios air an doċtuir eile, agus nuair ṫáinig sé ní raiḃ
aon eólas do ḃ’ ḟearr aige-sean ’ná do ḃí ag an g-ceud-ḋoċtúir aċt aṁáin
go raiḃ eólas go leór aige air a n-airgiod do ġlacaḋ. Ṫáinig sé leis
an duine tinn d’ḟeicsint, go minic, agus gaċ am a ṫáinig se do ḃí ainm
eile aige níos faide ’na a ċéile air a ṫinneas, ainmneaċa (anmanna) nár
ṫuig sé féin, ná duine air biṫ eile, aċt ḃí siad aige le sgannruġaḋ na
n-daoine.

D’ḟan siad mar sin air feaḋ ḋá ṁí, gan ḟios ag duine air ḃiṫ creud do ḃí
air an ḃfear ḃoċt, agus nuair naċ raiḃ an doċtúir sin ag déanaṁ maiṫ air
biṫ ḋó, fuair siad doċtúir eile, agus ann sin doċtúir eile, no go saiḃ
uile ḋoċtúir a ḃí annsa’ g-condaé aca, saoi ḋeire, agus ċaill siad a lán
airgid leó, agus b’éigin dóiḃ cuid d’á n-eallaċ ḋíol le h-airgiod ḟáġail
le na n-íoc.

Bhí siad mar sin le leiṫ-ḃliaḋain ag congṁáil doċtuir leis, agus na
doċtúiriḋ ag taḃairt druganna ḋó, agus an duine boċt a ḃí raṁar beaṫaiġṫe
roiṁe sin, ag éiriġe lom agus tana, go naċ raiḃ unsa feóla air, aċt an
croicion agus na cnáṁa aṁáin.

Bhí sé faoi ḋeire ċoṁ dona sin gur air éigin d’ḟeud sé siúḃal, agus
d’imṫiġ a ġoile uaiḋ, agus buḋ ṁór an ṫriobloíd leis, greim aráin ḃuig,
no deoċ bainne úir do ṡlugaḋ agus ḃí uile ḋuine ag ráḋ go m-b’ḟearr dó
bás ḟáġail, agus buḋ ḃeag an t-iongnaḋ sin, mar naċ raiḃ ann aċt mar
ḃeiḋeaḋ sgáile i mbuideul.

Aon lá aṁáin, nuair ḃí sé ’nna ṡuiḋe air ċáṫaoir ag doras an tiġe, ’gá
ġrianuġaḋ féin ann san teas, agus muinntir an tiġe uile imṫiġṫe amaċ,
agus gan duine ann aċt é féin, ṫáinig seanduine boċt a ḃí ag iarraiḋ
déirce o áit go h-áit suas ċum an dorais, agus d’aiṫniġ sé fear an tiġe
’nna ṡuiḋe annsa’ g-cáṫaoir, aċt ḃí sé ċoṁ h-aṫruiġṫe sin agus ċoṁ caiṫte
sin gur air éigin d’aiṫneóċaḋ duine é. “Tá mé ann só arís ag iarraiḋ
déirce ann ainm Dé,” ars an fear boċt, “aċt glóir do Ḍia a ṁáiġistir
creud do ḃain duit ní tusa an fear céudna a ċonnairc mé leiṫ-ḃliaḋain ó
ṡoin nuair ḃí mé ann só, go ḃfóiriġ Dia ort.”

“Ara a Sheumais,” ar san fear tinn, “is mise naċ ḃfeudfaḋ innsint duit
creud do ḃain dam, aċt tá ḟios agam air aon rud, naċ mḃéiḋ mé ḃfad air an
t-saoġal so.”

“Aċt tá brón orm d’ḟeicsint mar tá tu,” ar san déirceaċ, “naċ dtig leat
innsint dam cia an ċaoi ar ṫosuiġ sé leat? creud a duḃairt na doċtúiriḋ?”

“Na doċtúiriḋ!” ar san fear tinn, “mo ṁallaċt orra! ní’l ḟios air dadaṁ
aca, act ní ċóir dam ḃeiṫ ag eascuine agus mise ċoṁ fogas sin dom’ ḃas,
’súf’ orra, ni’l eólas air biṫ aca.”

“B’éidir,” ar san déirceaċ, “go ḃfeudfainn féin biseaċ ṫaḃairt duit, dá
n-inneósá ḋam creud atá ort. Deir siad go mbíḋim eólaċ air aicídiḃ, agus
air na luiḃeannaiḃ atá maiṫ le na leiġeas.”

Rinne an fear tinn gáire. “Ní’l fear-leiġis ann sa’ g-condaé,” ar sé,
“naċ raiḃ ann só liom; naċ ḃfuil leaṫ an eallaiġ a ḃí agam air an ḃfeilm
díolta le na n-íoc! aċt ní ḃfuair mé fóiriġin dá laġad ó ḋuine air biṫ
aca, aċt inneósaiḋ mé ḋuit-se mar d’éiriġ sé ḋam air dtús.” Agus ann sin
ṫug sé cúntas dó air uile ṗian a ṁoṫuiġ sé, agus air uile rud a d’orduiġ
na doċtúiriḋ.

D’éist an déirceaċ leis go cúramaċ, agus nuair ċríoċnuiġ sé an sgeul
uile, d’ḟiafruiġ sé ḋé, “cad é an sórt páirce í air ar ṫuit tu do ċodlaḋ?”

“Is móinḟeur a ḃí ann,” ar san duine tinn, “aċt ḃí sé go díreaċ bainte,
ann san am sin.”

“Raiḃ sé fliuċ,” ars an déirceaċ.

“Ní raiḃ,” ar seisean.

“Raiḃ sroṫán uisge no caise a’ riṫ ṫríd?” ars an déirceaċ.

“Bhi,” ar seisean.

“An dtig liom an ṗáirc ḟeicsint?”

“Tig go deiṁin, agus taisbéunfaiḋ mé ḋuit anois é.”

D’éiriġ sé as a ċáṫaoir agus ċoṁ dona agus ḃí sé, stráċail sé é féin
air aġaiḋ, no go dtáinig sé ċum na h-áite ann ar luiḋ sé ’nna ċodlaḋ an
traṫnóna sin. Bhreaṫnuiġ fear-na-déirce air an áit, tamall fada, agus ann
sin ċrom sé air an ḃfeur agus ċuaiḋ sé anonn ’s anall agus a ċorp lúbṫa
agus a ċeann cromṫa ag smeurṫaċt ann sna luiḃeannaiḃ, agus ameasg an
luiḃearnaiġ do ḃí ag fás go tiuġ ann.

D’éiriġ sé faoi ḋeire, agus duḃairt sé, “Ta sé mar ṡaoil mé,” agus ċrom
sé é féin síos arís, agus ṫosuiġ ag cuartuġaḋ mar roiṁe sin. Ṫóg sé a
ċeann an dara uair, agus ḃí luiḃ ḃeag ġlas ann a láiṁ. “An ḃfeiceann tu
sin,” ar sé, “áit air biṫ ann Éirínn a ḃfásann an luiḃ seó ann, bíonn
alp-luaċra anaice leis, agus ṡluig tu alp-luaċra.”

“Cad é an ċaoi ḃfuil ḟios agad sin?” ars an duine tinn, “dá mbuḋ mar sin
do ḃí sé, is dóiġ go n-inneósaḋ na doċtúiriḋ ḋam é roiṁe seo.”

“Go dtugaiḋ Dia ciall duit, na bac leis na doċtúiriḃ,” ars an déirceaċ,
“ni’l ionnta aċt eallta amadán. A deirim leat arís, agus creid mise, gur
alp-luaċra a ṡluig tu; naċ duḃairt tu féin gur ṁoṫuiġ tu rud éigin ag
léimniġ ann do ḃolg an ċéad lá ’réis ṫu ḃeiṫ tinn. B’é sin an alp-luaċra,
agus mar do ḃí an áit sin ann do ḃolg strainseuraċ leis i dtosaċ, ḃí
sé mí-ṡuaiṁneaċ innti, ag dul anonn ’s anall, aċt nuair ḃí sé cúpla lá
innti, ṡocruiġ sé é féin, agus fuair sé an áit compórtaṁail agus sin é an
t-áḋḃar fá ḃfuil tu ag congṁáil ċoṁ tana sin; mar uile ġreim d’á ḃfuil tu
ag iṫe bíonn an alp-luaċra sin ag fáġail an ṁaiṫ as. Agus duḃairt tu féin
liom go raiḃ do leaṫ-ṫaoḃ aṫta, is í sin an taoḃ ’n áit a ḃfuil an rud
gránna ’nna ċóṁnuiḋe.”

Níor ċreid an fear é, a dtosaċ, aċt lean an déirceaċ dá ċóṁráḋ leis, ag
cruṫuġaḋ ḋó, gur b’ é an ḟírinne a ḃí sé ag raḋ, agus nuair ṫáiniġ a ḃean
agus a inġean air ais arís do’n teaċ, laḃair sé leó-san an ċaoi ċeudna
agus ḃí siad réiḋ go leór le na ċreideaṁaint.

Níor ċreid an duine tinn, é féin, é, aċt ḃí siad uile ag laḃairt leis, go
ḃfuair siad buaiḋ air, faoí ḋeire; agus ṫug sé cead dóiḃ trí doċtúiriḋe
do ġlaoḋaċ asteaċ le ċéile, go n-inneósaḋ se an sgeul nuaḋ so ḋóiḃ.
Ṫáinig an triúr le ċéile, agus nuair d’éist siad leis an méad a ḃí an
déirceaċ ag rád, agus le cóṁráḋ na mban, rinne siad gáire agus duḃairt
siad naċ raiḃ ionnta aċt amadáin uile go léir, agus gurb’é rud eile amaċ
’s amaċ a ḃí air ḟear-an-tiġe, agus gaċ ainm a ḃí aca air a ṫinneas an
t-am so, ḃí sé dá uair, ’s trí huaire níos faide ’ná roiṁe sin. D’ḟág
siad buidéul no cúpla buideul le n-ól ag an ḃfear boċt, agus d’imṫiġ siad
leó, ag magaḋ faoi an rud a duḃairt na mná gur ṡluig sé an alp-luaċra.

Duḃairt an déirceaċ nuair ḃí siad imṫiġṫe. “Ní’l iongantas air biṫ orm
naċ ḃfuil tu fáġail beisiġ má’s amadáin mar iad sin atá leat. Ní’l aon
doċtúir ná fear-leiġis i n-Éirinn anois a ḋéanfas aon ṁaiṫ ḋuit-se aċt
aon ḟear aṁáin, agus is sé sin Mac Diarmada, Prionnsa Chúl-Ui-Ḃfinn air
ḃruaċ loċa-Ui-Ġeaḋra an doċtúir is fearr i g-Connaċtaiḃ ná ’sna cúig
cúigiḃ.” “Cá ḃfuil loċ-Ui-Ġeaḋra?” ars an duine tinn. “Shíos i g-condaé
Shligíġ; is loċ mór é, agus tá an Prionnsa ’nna ċóṁnuiḋe air a ḃruaċ,”
ar sé, “agus má ġlacann tu mo ċóṁairle-se raċfaiḋ tu ann, mar ’s é an
ċaoi ḋeireannaċ atá agad, agus buḋ ċóir duit-se, a ṁáiġistreas,” ar sé ag
tiontóḋ le mnaoi an tiġe, “do ċur iaċ (d’ḟiaċaiḃ) air, dul ann, má’s maiṫ
leat d’ḟear a ḃeiṫ beó.”

“Maiseaḋ,” ars an ḃean, “ḋeunfainn rud air biṫ a ṡlánóċaḋ é.”

“Mar sin, cuir go dti Prionnsa Chúil-Ui-Ḃfinn é,” ar seisean.

“Dheunfainn féin rud air biṫ le mo ṡlánuġaḋ,” ars an fear tinn, “mar tá’s
agam naċ ḃfuil a ḃfad agam le marṫain air an t-saoġal so, muna ndeuntar
rud éigin dam a ḃéarfas congnaṁ agus fóiríġin dam.”

“Mar sin, téiḋ go dtí an Prionnsa,” ar san déirceaċ.

“Rud air biṫ a ṁeasann tu go ndeunfaiḋ sé maiṫ ḋuit buḋ ċóir ḋuit a
ḋéanaṁ, a aṫair,” ars an inġean.

“Ní’l dadaṁ le déanaṁ maiṫ ḋó aċt dul go dtí an Prionnsa,” ars an
déirceaċ.

Is mar sin ḃí siad ag árgúint agus ag cuiḃlint go dtí an oiḋċe, agus
fuair an déirceaċ leabuiḋ tuiġe annsa’ sgioból agus ṫosuiġ sé ag árgúint
arís air maidin go mbuḋ ċóir dul go dtí an Prionnsa, agus ḃí an ḃean
agus an inġean air aon ḟocal leis, agus fuair siad buaiḋ air an ḃfear
tinn, faoi ḋeire; agus duḃairt sé go raċfaḋ sé, agus duḃairt an inġean go
raċfaḋ sise leis, le taḃairt aire ḋó, agus duḃairt an déirceaċ go raċfaḋ
seisean leó-san le taisbéant an ḃoṫair dóiḃ. “Agus béiḋ mise,” ars an
ḃean, “air ṗonc an ḃáis le h-imniḋe ag fanaṁaint liḃ, go dtiucfaiḋ siḃ
air ais.”

D’úġmuiġ siad an capall agus ċuir siad faoi an gcairt é, agus ġlac siad
lón seaċtṁuine leó, arán agus bagún agus uiḃeaċa, agus d’imṫiġ siad leó.
Níor ḟeud siad dul ró ḟada an ċeud lá, mar ḃí an fear tinn ċoṁ lag sin
nár ḟeud sé an craṫaḋ a ḃí sé fáġail annsa’ g-cairt ṡeasaṁ, aċt ḃí sé
níos fearr an dara lá, agus d’ḟan siad uile i dteaċ feilméara air taoiḃ
an ḃóṫair an oiḋċe sin agus ċuaiḋ siad air aġaiḋ arís air maidin, agus an
troṁaḋ lá annsan traṫnóna ṫáinig siad go h-áit-ċóṁnuiḋe an Phrionnsa. Bhí
teaċ deas aige air ḃruaċ an loċa, le cúṁdaċ tuiġe air, ameasg na g-crann.

D’ḟág siad an capall agus an cairt i mbaile beag a ḃí anaice le háit an
Phrionnsa, agus ṡiúḃail siad uile le ċéile go d-táinig siad ċum an tiġe.
Chuaiḋ siad asteaċ ’san g-cisteanaċ agus d’ḟíaḟruiġ siad, “ar ḟeud siad
an Prionnsa d’ḟeicsint.” Duḃairt an searḃfóġanta go raiḃ sé ag iṫe a
ḃéile aċt go dtiucfaḋ sé, b’éidir, nuair ḃeiḋeaḋ sé réiḋ.

Ṫáinig an Prionnsa féin asteaċ air an móimid sin agus d’ḟiaḟruiġ sé ḋíoḃ
creud do ḃí siad ag iarraiḋ. D’éiriġ an fear tinn agus duḃairt sé leis
gur ag iarraiḋ conġnaṁ ó na onóir do ḃí sé, agus d’innis sé an sgeul
uile dó. “’Nois an dtig le d’onóir aon ḟóiriġín ṫaḃairt dam?” ar sé,
nuair ċríoċnuiġ sé a sgéul.

“Tá súil agam go dtig liom,” ar san Prionnsa, “air ṁóḋ air biṫ déanfaiḋ
mé mo ḋíṫċioll air do ṡon, mar ṫáinig tu ċoṁ fada sin le m’ḟeicsint-se.
B’olc an ceart dam gan mo ḋíṫċioll ḋeunaṁ. Tar suas annsa bpárlúis.
Is fíor an rud a duḃairt an sean duine atá ann sin leat. Shluig tu
alp-luaċra, no rud éigin eile. Tar suas ’sa’ bpárlúis liom.”

Ṫug sé suas leis é, agus is é an béile a ḃí aige an lá sin giota mór de
ṁairtḟeóil ṡaillte. Ghearr sé greim mór agus ċuir sé air ṗláta é, agus
ṫug sé do’n duine boċt le n-íṫe é.

“Óró! Créad atá d’ onóir ag déanaṁ ann sin anois,” ars an duine boċt,
“níor ṡluig mé oiread agus toirt uiḃe d’ḟeóil air biṫ le ráiṫċe, ni’l aon
ġoile agam, ní ṫig liom dadaṁ iṫe.”

“Bí do ṫost a ḋuine,” ars an Prionnsa, “iṫ é sin nuair a deirim leat é.”

D’iṫ an fear boċt an oiread agus d’ḟeud sé, aċt nuair leig sé an sgian
agus an ġaḃlóg as a láiṁ ċuir an Prionnsa iaċ (d’ḟiaċaiḃ) air iad do
ṫógḃáil arís, agus do ṫosuġaḋ as an nuaḋ. Ċongḃuiġ sé ann sin é ag iṫe,
go raiḃ sé réiḋ le pleusgaḋ, agus níor ḟeud sé faoi ḋeire aon ġreim eile
ṡlugaḋ dá ḃfáġaḋ se ceud púnta.

Nuair ċonnairc an Prionnsa naċ dtiucfaḋ leis tuilleaḋ do ṡlugaḋ, ṫug
sé amaċ as an teaċ é, agus duḃairt sé leis an inġin agus leis an
t-sean-déirceaċ iad do leanaṁaint, agus rug sé an fear leis, amaċ go
móinḟéur breáġ glas do ḃí os coinne an tiġe, agus sróṫán beag uisge ag
riṫ tríd an móinḟeur.

Ṫug sé go bruaċ an t-sroṫáin é, agus duḃairt sé leis, luiḋe síos air a
ḃolg agus a ċeann ċongḃáil os cionn an uisge, agus a ḃeul d’ḟosgailt
ċoṁ mór agus d’ḟeudfaḋ sé, agus a ċongḃáil, beag-naċ, ag baint leis an
uisge, “agus fan ann sin go ciúin agus na corruiġ, air d’anam,” ar sé,
“go ḃfeicfiḋ tu creud éireóċas duit.”

Gheall an fear boċt go mbeiḋeaḋ sé socair, agus ṡín sé a ċorp air an
ḃfeur, agus ċongḃuiġ sé a ḃeul fosgailte os cionn an t-sroṫáin uisge,
agus d’ḟan sé ann sin gan corruġaḋ.

Chuaiḋ an Prionnsa timċioll cúig slata air ais, air a ċúl, agus ṫarraing
sé an inġean agus an sean-ḟear leis, agus is é an focal deireannaċ a
duḃairt sé leis an ḃfear tinn, “bí cinnte” ar sé, “agus air d’anam na
cuir cor asad, cia bé air biṫ rud éireóċas duit.”

Ni raiḃ an duine boċt ceaṫraṁaḋ uaire ’nna luiḋe mar sin nuair ṫosuiġ rud
éigin ag corruġaḋ taoḃ astiġ ḋé agus ṁoṫaiġ sé rud éigin ag teaċt suas
ann a sgornaċ, agus ag dul air ais arís. Ṫáinig sé suas, agus ċuaiḋ sé
air ais trí no ceiṫre uaire anḋiaiġ a ċéile. Ṫáinig sé faoi ḋeire go dtí
a ḃeul, agus ṡeas sé air ḃárr a ṫeanga aċt sgannruiġ sé agus ċuaiḋ sé air
ais arís, aċt i gceann tamaill ḃig ṫáinig sé suas an dara uair, agus ṡeas
sé air ḃárr a ṫeanga, agus léim sé síos faoi ḋeire annsan uisge Bhi an
Prionnsa ag breaṫnuġaḋ go geur air, agus ġlaoḋ sé amaċ, “na corruiġ fós,”
mar ḃí an fear dul ag éiriġe.

B’éigin do’n duine boċt a ḃeul ḟosgailt arís agus d’ḟan sé an ċaoi
ċeudna, agus ní raiḃ sé móimid ann, no go dtáinig an dara rud suas ann a
sgornaċ an ċaoi ċeuḋna, agus ċuaiḋ sé air ais arís cúpla uair, aṁail a’s
mar ḃí sé sgannruiġṫe, aċt faoi ḋeire ṫáinig seisean mar an ċeud-ċeann
suas go dti an beul agus ṡeas sé air ḃárr a ṫeanga, agus faoi ḋeire nuair
ṁoṫuiġ sé bolaḋ an uisge faoi, léim sé síos annsan tsroṫán.

Chogair an Prionnsa, agus duḃairt sé “Nois tá ’n tart ag teaċt orra,
d’oibriġ an salann a ḃí ’sa’ mairtḟeóil íad; nois tiucfaiḋ siad amaċ.”
Agus sul do ḃí an focal as a ḃeul ṫuit an tríoṁaḋ ceann le “plap” annsan
uisge, agus mómid ’nna ḋiaiġ sin, léim ceann eile síos ann, agus ann
sin ceann eile, no gur ċóṁairiġ siad, cúiġ, sé, seaċt, oċt, naoi, deiċ
g-cinn, aon ċeann deug, dá ċeann deug.

“Sin duisín aca anois,” ar san Prionnsa, “Sin é an t-ál, níor ṫáinig an
t-sean-ṁáṫair fós.”

Bhí an fear ḃoċt dul ’g eíriġe arís, aċt ġlaoḋ an Prionnsa air. “Fan mar
a ḃfuil tu, níor ṫáinig an ṁáṫair.”

D’ḟan sé mar do ḃí sé, aċt níor ṫáinig aon ċeann eile amaċ, agus d’ḟan sé
níos mó ná ceaṫraṁaḋ uaire. Bhí an Prionnsa féin ag éirige mí-ṡuaimneaċ,
air eagla naċ g-corróċaḋ an sean-Alt-pluaċra ċor air biṫ. Bhí an duine
boċt ċoṁ sáruiġṫe sin agus ċoṁ lag sin go m’ b’ḟearr leis éiriġe ’ná
fanaṁaint mar a raiḃ sé, agus ann ainḋeóin gaċ ruid a duḃairt an Prionnsa
ḃí sé ag seasaṁ suas, nuair rug an Prionnsa air a leaṫ-ċois agus an
déirceaċ air an g-cois eile, agus do ċongḃuiġ siad síos é gan ḃuiḋeaċas
dó.

D’ḟan siad ceaṫraṁaḋ uaire eile, gan ḟocal do ráḋ, agus i g-ceann an ama
sin ṁoṫuiġ an duine boċt rud éigin ag corruġaḋ arís ann a ṫaoiḃ, aċt
seaċt n-uaire níos measa ’na roiṁe seó, agus is air éigin d’ḟeud sé é
féin do ċongḃáil o sgreadaċ. Bhí an rud sin ag corruġaḋ le tamall maiṫ
ann, agus ṡaoil sé go raiḃ a ċorp reubṫa an taoḃ astíġ leis. Ann sin
ṫosuiġ an rud ag teaċt suas, agus ṫáinig sé go dtí a ḃeul agus cuaiḋ sé
air ais arís. Ṫáinig sé faoi ḋeire ċoṁ fada sin gur ċuir an duine boċt a
ḋá ṁeur ann a ḃeul agus ṡaoil sé greim ḟáġail uirri. Aċt má’s obann ċuir
sé a ṁeura ’steaċ is luaiṫe ’ná sin ċuaiḋ an tsean alt-pluaċra air ais.

“’Ór! a ḃiṫeaṁnaiġ!” ar san Prionnsa, “cad ċuige rinn’ tu sin? Naċ
duḃairt mé leat gan cor do ċur asad. Má ṫig sé suas arís fan go
socair.” B’ éigin dóiḃ fanaṁaint le leaṫ-uair mar do ḃí sean-ṁáṫair na
n-alp-luaċra sgannruiġṫe, agus ḃí faitċios urri ṫeaċt amaċ. Aċt ṫáinig sí
suas arís, faoi ḋeire; b’éidir go raiḃ an iomarcuiḋ tart’ urri agus níor
ḟeud sí bolaḋ an uisge a ḃí ag cur caṫuiġṫe uirri ṡeasaṁ, no b’éidir go
raiḃ sí uaigneaċ ’r éis a clainne d’imṫeaċt uaiṫi. Air ṁóḋ air biṫ ṫáinig
sí amaċ go bárr á ḃéil agus ṡeas sí air a ṫeanga ċoṁ fad agus ḃeiṫeá ag
cóṁaireaṁ ceiṫre fiċiḋ, agus ann sin léim sí mar do léim a h-ál roimpi,
asteaċ ’san uisge, agus buḋ ṫruime toran a tuitim’ seaċt n-uaire, ’ná an
plap a rinne a clann.

Bhí an Prionnsa agus an ḃeirt eile ag breaṫnuġaḋ air sin, go h-iomlán,
agus buḋ ḃeag naċ raiḃ faitċios orra, a n-anál do ṫarraing, air eagla go
sgannróċaḋ siad an beiṫiḋeaċ gránna. Ċoṁ luaṫ agus léim sí asteaċ ’san
uisge ṫarraing siad an fear air ais, agus ċuir siad air a ḋá ċois arís é.

Bhí se trí huaire gan ḟocal do laḃairt, aċt an ċeud ḟocal a duḃairt sé,
buḋ h-é “is duine nuaḋ mé.”

Ċongḃuiġ an Prionnsa ann a ṫeaċ féin le coicíḋeas é, agus ṫug se aire ṁór
agus beaṫuġaḋ maiṫ ḋó. Leig sé ḋó imṫeaċt ann sin, agus an inġean agus an
déirceaċ leis, agus ḋiúltuiġ sé oiread agus píġin do ġlacaḋ uaṫa.

“B’ḟearr liom ’ná deiċ bpúnta air mo láiṁ féin,” ar sé, “gur ṫionntuiġ
mo leiġeas amaċ ċoṁ maiṫ sin; nár leigfiḋ. Dia go nglacfainn piġin no
leiṫ-ṗi’n uait. Chaill tu go leór le doċtúiriḃ ċeana.”

Ṫáinig siad a ḃaile go sáḃálta, agus d’éiriġ sé slán arís agus raṁar. Bhí
sé ċoṁ buiḋeaċ de’n deirceaċ boċt gur ċongḃuiġ sé ann a ṫeaċ féin go dtí
a ḃás é. Agus ċoṁ fad a’s ḃí sé féin beó níor luiḋ sé síos air an ḃfeur
glas arís. Agus, rud eile; dá mbeiḋeaḋ tinneas no easláinte air, ní h-iad
na doċtúiriḋ a ġlaoḋaḋ sé asteaċ.

Búḋ ḃeag an t-iongnaḋ sin!




THE ALP-LUACHRA.


There was once a wealthy farmer in Connacht, and he had plenty of
substance and a fine family, and there was nothing putting grief
nor trouble on him, and you would say yourself that it’s he was the
comfortable, satisfied man, and that the luck was on him as well as on
e’er a man alive. He was that way, without mishap or misfortune, for
many years, in good health and without sickness or sorrow on himself or
his children, until there came a fine day in the harvest, when he was
looking at his men making hay in the meadow that was near his own house,
and as the day was very hot he drank a drink of buttermilk, and stretched
himself back on the fresh cut hay, and as he was tired with the heat
of the day and the work that he was doing, he soon fell asleep, and he
remained that way for three or four hours, until the hay was all gathered
in and his workpeople gone away out of the field.

When he awoke then, he sat up, and he did not know at first where he was,
till he remembered at last that it was in the field at the back of his
own house he was lying. He rose up then and returned to his house, and
he felt like a pain or a stitch in his side. He made nothing of it, sat
down at the fire and began warming himself.

“Where were you?” says the daughter to him.

“I was asleep a while,” says he, “on the fresh grass in the field where
they were making hay.”

“What happened to you, then?” says she, “for you don’t look well.”

“Muirya,[24] musha, then,” says he, “I don’t know; but it’s queer the
feeling I have. I never was like it before; but I’ll be better when I get
a good sleep.”

He went to his bed, lay down, and fell asleep, and never awoke until the
sun was high. He rose up then and his wife said to him: “What was on you
that you slept that long?”

“I don’t know,” says he.

He went down to the fire where the daughter was making a cake for the
breakfast, and she said to him:

“How are you to-day, father; are you anything better?”

“I got a good sleep,” said he, “but I’m not a taste better than I was
last night; and indeed, if you’d believe me, I think there’s something
inside of me running back and forwards.”

“Arrah, that can’t be,” says the daughter, “but it’s a cold you got and
you lying out on the fresh grass; and if you’re not better in the evening
we’ll send for the doctor.”

He was saying then that there was a pain on him, but that he did not
know rightly what place the pain was in. He was in the same way in the
evening, and they had to send for the doctor, and when the doctor was not
coming quickly there was great fright on him. The people of the house
were doing all they could to put courage in him.

The doctor came at last, and he asked what was on him, and he said again
that there was something like a _birdeen_ leaping in his stomach. The
doctor stripped him and examined him well, but saw nothing out of the
way with him. He put his ear to his side and to his back, but he heard
nothing, though the poor man himself was calling out: “Now! now! don’t
you hear it? Now, aren’t you listening to it jumping?” But the doctor
could perceive nothing at all, and he thought at last that the man was
out of his senses, and that there was nothing the matter with him.

He said to the woman of the house when he came out, that there was
nothing on her husband, but that he believed himself to be sick, and that
he would send her medicine the next day for him, that would give him a
good sleep and settle the heat of his body. He did that, and the poor
man swallowed all the medicines and got another great sleep, but when he
awoke in the morning he was worse than ever, but he said he did not hear
the thing jumping inside him any longer.

They sent for the doctor again, and he came; but he was able to do
nothing. He left other medicines with them, and said he would come again
at the end of a week to see him. The poor man got no relief from all that
the doctor left with him, and when he came again he found him to be worse
than before; but he was not able to do anything, and he did not know
what sort of sickness was on him. “I won’t be taking your money from you
any more,” says he to the woman of the house, “because I can do nothing
in this case, and as I don’t understand what’s on him, I won’t let on[25]
to be understanding it. I’ll come to see him from time to time, but I’ll
take no money from you.”

The woman of the house could hardly keep in her anger. Scarcely ever was
the doctor gone till she gathered the people of the house round her and
they took counsel. “That doctor _braduch_,” says she, “he’s not worth a
_traneen_; do you know what he said—that he wouldn’t take any money from
me any more, and he said himself he knew nothing about anything; _suf_ on
him, the _behoonuch_, he’ll cross this threshold no more; we’ll go to the
other doctor; if he’s farther from us, itself, I don’t mind that, we must
get him.” Everybody in the house was on one word with her, and they sent
for the other doctor; but when he came he had no better knowledge than
the first one had, only that he had knowledge enough to take their money.
He came often to see the sick man, and every time he would come he would
have every name longer than another to give his sickness; names he did
not understand himself, nor no one else, but he had them to frighten the
people.

They remained that way for two months, without anyone knowing what was on
the poor man; and when that doctor was doing him no good they got another
doctor, and then another doctor, until there was not a doctor in the
county, at last, that they had not got, and they lost a power of money
over them, and they had to sell a portion of their cattle to get money to
pay them.

They were that way for half a year, keeping doctors with him, and the
doctors giving him medicines, and the poor man that was stout and
well-fed before, getting bare and thin, until at last there was not an
ounce of flesh on him, but the skin and the bones only.

He was so bad at last that it was scarcely he was able to walk. His
appetite went from him, and it was a great trouble to him to swallow
a piece of soft bread or to drink a sup of new milk, and everyone was
saying that he was better to die, and that was no wonder, for there was
not in him but like a shadow in a bottle.

One day that he was sitting on a chair in the door of the house, sunning
himself in the heat, and the people of the house all gone out but
himself, there came up to the door a poor old man that used to be asking
alms from place to place, and he recognised the man of the house sitting
in the chair, but he was so changed and so worn that it was hardly he
knew him. “I’m here again, asking alms in the name of God,” said the poor
man; “but, glory be to God, master, what happened to you, for you’re not
the same man I saw when I was here half a year ago; may God relieve you!”

“Arrah, Shamus,” said the sick man, “it’s I that can’t tell you what
happened to me; but I know one thing, that I won’t be long in this world.”

“But I’m grieved to see you how you are,” said the beggarman. “Tell me
how it began with you, and what the doctors say.”

“The doctors, is it?” says the sick man, “my curse on them; but I
oughtn’t to be cursing and I so near the grave; _suf_ on them, they know
nothing.”

“Perhaps,” says the beggarman, “I could find you a relief myself, if you
were to tell me what’s on you. They say that I be knowledgable about
diseases and the herbs to cure them.”

The sick man smiled, and he said: “There isn’t a medicine man in the
county that I hadn’t in this house with me, and isn’t half the cattle
I had on the farm sold to pay them. I never got a relief no matter
how small, from a man of them; but I’ll tell you how it happened to
me first.” Then he gave him an account of everything he felt and of
everything the doctors had ordered.

The beggarman listened to him carefully, and when he had finished all his
story, he asked him: “What sort of field was it you fell asleep in?”

“A meadow that was in it that time,” says the sick man; “but it was just
after being cut.”

“Was it wet,” says the beggarman.

“It was not,” says he.

“Was there a little stream or a brook of water running through it?” said
the beggarman.

“There was,” says he.

“Can I see the field?”

“You can, indeed, and I’ll show it to you.”

He rose off his chair, and as bad as he was, he pulled himself along
until he came to the place where he lay down to sleep that evening.
The beggarman examined the place for a long time, and then he stooped
down over the grass and went backwards and forwards with his body bent,
and his head down, groping among the herbs and weeds that were growing
thickly in it.

He rose at last and said: “It is as I thought,” and he stooped himself
down again and began searching as before. He raised his head a second
time, and he had a little green herb in his hand. “Do you see this?”
said he. “Any place in Ireland that this herb grows, there be’s an
alt-pluachra near it, and you have swallowed an alt-pluachra.”

“How do you know that?” said the sick man. “If that was so, sure the
doctors would tell it to me before now.”

“The doctors!” said the beggarman. “Ah! God give you sense, sure they’re
only a flock of _omadawns_. I tell you again, and believe me, that it’s
an alt-pluachra you swallowed. Didn’t you say yourself that you felt
something leaping in your stomach the first day after you being sick?
That was the alt-pluachra; and as the place he was in was strange to him
at first, he was uneasy in it, moving backwards and forwards, but when he
was a couple of days there, he settled himself, and he found the place
comfortable, and that’s the reason you’re keeping so thin, for every bit
you’re eating the alt-pluachra is getting the good out of it, and you
said yourself that one side of you was swelled; that’s the place where
the nasty thing is living.”

The sick man would not believe him at first, but the beggarman kept on
talking and proving on him that it was the truth he was saying, and when
his wife and daughter came back again to the house, the beggarman told
them the same things, and they were ready enough to believe him.

The sick man put no faith in it himself, but they were all talking
to him about it until they prevailed on him at last to call in three
doctors together until he should tell them this new story. The three came
together, and when they heard all the _boccuch_ (beggarman) was saying,
and all the talk of the women, it is what they laughed, and said they
were fools altogether, and that it was something else entirely that was
the matter with the man of the house, and every name they had on his
sickness this time was twice—three times—as long as ever before. They
left the poor man a bottle or two to drink, and they went away, and they
humbugging the women for saying that he had swallowed an alt-pluachra.

The boccuch said when they were gone away: “I don’t wonder at all that
you’re not getting better, if it’s fools like those you have with you.
There’s not a doctor or a medicine-man in Ireland now that’ll do you any
good, but only one man, and that’s Mac Dermott the Prince of Coolavin,
on the brink of Lough Gara, the best doctor in Connacht or the five
provinces.”

“Where is Lough Gara?” said the poor man.

“Down in the County Sligo,” says he; “it’s a big lake, and the prince is
living on the brink of it; and if you’ll take my advice you’ll go there,
for it’s the last hope you have; and you, Mistress,” said he, turning to
the woman of the house, “ought to make him go, if you wish your man to be
alive.”

“Musha!” says the woman, “I’d do anything that would cure him.”

“If so, send him to the Prince of Coolavin,” says he.

“I’d do anything at all to cure myself,” says the sick man, “for I know I
haven’t long to live on this world if I don’t get some relief, or without
something to be done for me.”

“Then go to the Prince of Coolavin,” says the beggarman.

“Anything that you think would do yourself good, you ought to do it,
father,” says the daughter.

“There’s nothing will do him good but to go to the Prince of Coolavin,”
said the beggarman.

So they were arguing and striving until the night came, and the beggarman
got a bed of straw in the barn, and he began arguing again in the morning
that he ought to go to the prince, and the wife and daughter were on one
word with him; and they prevailed at last on the sick man, and he said
that he would go, and the daughter said that she would go with him to
take care of him, and the boccuch said that he would go with them to show
them the road; “and I’ll be on the pinch of death, for ye, with anxiety,”
said the wife, “until ye come back again.”

They harnessed the horse, and they put him under the cart, and they took
a week’s provision with them—bread, and bacon, and eggs, and they went
off. They could not go very far the first day, for the sick man was so
weak, that he was not able to bear the shaking he was getting in the
cart; but he was better the second day, and they all passed the night in
a farmer’s house on the side of the road, and they went on again in the
morning; but on the third day, in the evening, they came to the dwelling
of the prince. He had a nice house, on the brink of the lake, with a
straw roof, in among the trees.

They left the horse and the cart in a little village near the prince’s
place, and they all walked together, until they came to the house.
They went into the kitchen, and asked, “Couldn’t they see the prince?”
The servant said that he was eating his meal, but that he would come,
perhaps, when he was ready.

The prince himself came in at that moment, and asked what it was they
wanted. The sick man rose up and told him, that it was looking for
assistance from his honour he was, and he told him his whole story. “And
now can your honour help me?” he said, when he had finished it.

“I hope I can,” said the prince; “anyhow, I’ll do my best for you, as you
came so far to see me. I’d have a bad right not to do my best. Come up
into the parlour with me. The thing that old man told you is true. You
swallowed an alt-pluachra, or something else. Come up to the parlour with
me.”

He brought him up to the parlour with him, and it happened that the meal
he had that day was a big piece of salted beef. He cut a large slice off
it, and put it on a plate, and gave it to the poor man to eat.

“Oro! what is your honour doing there?” says the poor man; “I didn’t
swallow as much as the size of an egg of meat this quarter,[26] and I
can’t eat anything.”

“Be silent, man,” says the prince; “eat that, when I tell you.”

The poor man eat as much as he was able, but when he left the knife and
fork out of his hand, the prince made him take them up again, and begin
out of the new (over again). He kept him there eating until he was ready
to burst, and at last he was not able to swallow another bit, if he were
to get a hundred pounds.

When the prince saw that he would not be able to swallow any more, he
brought him out of the house, and he said to the daughter and the old
beggarman to follow them, and he brought the man out with him to a fine
green meadow that was forenent[27] the house, and a little stream of
water running through it.

He brought him to the brink of the stream, and told him to lie down on
his stomach over the stream, and to hold his face over the water, to open
his mouth as wide as he could, and to keep it nearly touching the water,
and “wait there quiet and easy,” says he; “and for your life don’t stir,
till you see what will happen to you.”

The poor man promised that he would be quiet, and he stretched his body
on the grass, and held his mouth open, over the stream of water, and
remained there without stirring.

The prince went backwards, about five yards, and drew the daughter and
the old man with him, and the last word he said to the sick man was: “Be
certain, and for your life, don’t put a stir out of you, whatever thing
at all happens to you.”

The sick man was not lying like that more than a quarter of an hour, when
something began moving inside of him, and he felt something coming up
in his throat, and going back again. It came up and went back three or
four times after other. At last it came to the mouth, stood on the tip of
his tongue, but frightened, and ran back again. However, at the end of a
little space, it rose up a second time, and stood on his tongue, and at
last jumped down into the water. The prince was observing him closely,
and just as the man was going to rise, he called out: “Don’t stir yet.”

The poor man had to open his mouth again, and he waited the same way as
before; and he was not there a minute until the second one came up the
same way as the last, and went back and came up two or three times, as if
it got frightened; but at last, it also, like the first one, came up to
the mouth, stood on the tongue, and when it felt the smell of the water
below it, leaped down into the little stream.

The prince said in a whisper: “Now the thirst’s coming on them; the
salt that was in the beef is working them; now they’ll come out.” And
before the word had left his mouth, the third one fell, with a plop, into
the water; and a moment after that, another one jumped down, and then
another, until he counted five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven,
twelve.

“There’s a dozen of them now,” said the prince; “that’s the clutch; the
old mother didn’t come yet.”

The poor sick man was getting up again, but the prince called to him:
“Stay as you are; the mother didn’t come up.”

He remained as he was, but no other one came out, though he stayed there
more than a quarter of an hour. The prince himself was getting uneasy
for fear the old alt-pluachra might not stir at all. The poor man was
so tired and so weak that he wished to get up; and, in spite of all the
prince told him, he was trying to stand on his feet, when the prince
caught him by one leg, and the boccuch by the other, and they held him
down in spite of him.

They remained another quarter of an hour without speaking a word, or
making a sound, and at the end of that time the poor man felt something
stirring again in his side, but seven times worse than before; and it’s
scarcely he could keep himself from screeching. That thing kept moving
for a good while, and he thought the side was being torn out of himself
with it. Then it began coming up, and it reached the mouth, and went back
again. At last it came up so far that the poor man put the two fingers to
his mouth and thought to catch hold of it. But if he put in his fingers
quick, the old alt-pluachra went back quicker.

“Oh, you _behoonach_!” cried the prince, “what made you do that? Didn’t
I tell you not to let a stir out of you? Remain quiet if she comes up
again.”

They had to remain there for half an hour, because the old mother of the
alt-pluachras was scared, and she was afraid to come out. But she came
up at last, perhaps, because there was too much thirst on her to let her
stand the smell of the water that was tempting her, or perhaps she was
lonesome after her children going from her. Anyhow, she came up to his
mouth, and stood there while you would be counting about four score; and
when she saw nothing, and nothing frightened her, she gave a jump down
into the water, like her clutch before her; and the plop of her into the
water was seven times heavier than theirs.

The prince and the other two had been watching the whole, and they
scarcely dared to breathe, for fear of startling the horrid beast. As
soon as ever she jumped down into the water, they pulled back the man,
and put him standing again on his two feet.

He was for three hours before he could speak a word; but the first thing
he said was: “I’m a new man.”

The prince kept him in his own house for a fortnight, and gave him great
care and good feeding. He allowed him to go then, and the daughter and
the boccuch with him; and he refused to take as much as a penny from them.

“I’m better pleased than ten pounds on my own hand,” said he, “that my
cure turned out so well; and I’d be long sorry to take a farthing from
you; you lost plenty with doctors before.”

They came home safely, and he became healthy and fat. He was so thankful
to the poor boccuch that he kept him in his own house till his death. As
long as he was alive he never lay down on green grass again; and another
thing, if there was any sickness or ill-health on him, it isn’t the
doctors he used to call in to him.

That was small wonder!




PÁIDÍN O’CEALLAIĠ AGUS AN EASÓĠ.


A ḃfad ó ṡoin ḃí fear d’ar’ ḃ’ainm Páidín O’Ceallaiġ ’nna ċóṁnuiḋe i ngar
do Ṫuaim i gcondaé na Gailliṁe. Aon ṁaidin aṁáin d’éiriġ sé go moċ agus
ní raiḃ ḟios aige cia an t-am a ḃi sé, mar ḃí solas breáġ ó’n ngealaiġ.
Ḃí dúil aige le dul go h-aonaċ Ċáṫair-na-mart le storc asail do ḋíol.

Ní raiḃ sé níos mó ’na trí ṁíle air an mbóṫar go dtáinig dorċadas mór
air, agus ṫosuiġ ciṫ trom ag tuitim. Ċonnairc sé teaċ mór ameasg crann
timċioll cúig ċeud slat ó’n mbóṫar agus duḃairt sé leis féin, “raċfaiḋ mé
ċum an tíġe sin, go dtéiḋ an ciṫ ṫart.” Nuair ċuaiḋ sé ċum an tíġe, ḃí
an doras fosgailte, agus asteaċ leis. Ċonnairc sé seomra mór air ṫaoiḃ a
láiṁe ċlé, agus teine ḃreáġ ’san ngráta. Ṡuiḋ sé síos air stol le cois
an ḃalla, agus níor ḃfada gur ṫosuiġ sé ag tuitim ’nna ċodlaḋ, nuair
ċonnairc sé easóg ṁór ag teaċt ċum na teineaḋ agus leag si giniḋ air leic
an teaġlaiġ agus d’imṫiġ. Níor ḃfada go dtáinig sí air ais le giniḋ eile
agus leag air leic an teaġlaiġ é, agus d’imṫiġ. Ḃí sí ag imṫeaċt agus ag
teaċt go raiḃ cárnán mór giniḋ air an teaġlaċ. Aċt faoi ḋeireaḋ nuair
d’imṫiġ sí d’éiriġ Páidín, agus ċuir sé an méad óir a ḃí cruinniġṫe aici
ann a ṗóca, agus amaċ leis.

Ní raiḃ sé a ḃ-fad imṫiġṫe gur ċualaiḋ sé an easóg ag teaċt ’nna ḋiaiġ
agus í ag sgreadaoil ċoṁ h-árd le píobaiḃ. Ċuaiḋ sí roiṁ Páidín air an
mbóṫar agus í ag lubarnuiġ anonn ’s anall agus ag iarraiḋ greim sgornaiġ
d’ḟáġail air. Ḃí maide maiṫ daraċ ag Páidín agus ċongḃuiġ sé í uaiḋ go
dtáinig beirt ḟear suas. Ḃí madaḋ maiṫ ag fear aca, agus ruaig sé asteaċ
i bpoll ’san mballa í.

Cuaiḋ Páidín ċum an aonaiġ, agus ann áit é ḃeiṫ tíġeaċt a ḃaile leis an
airgiod a fuair sé air a ṡean-asal, mar ṡaoil sé air maidin go mbeiḋeaḋ
sé ag deanaṁ, ċeannuiġ sé capall le cuid de’n airgiod a ḃain sé de’n
easóig, agus ṫáinig sé a ḃaile agus é ag marcuiġeaċt. Nuair ṫáinig sé ċoṁ
fada leis an áit ar ċuir an madaḋ an easóg ann san bpoll, ṫáinig sí amaċ
roiṁe, ṫug léim suas, agus fuair greim sgornaiġ air an g-capall. Ṫosuiġ
an capall ag riṫ, agus níor ḟeud Páidín a ċeapaḋ, no go dtug sé léim
asteaċ i g-clais ṁóir a ḃí líonta d’uisge agus de ṁúlaċ. Ḃí sé ’gá ḃáṫaḋ
agus ’gá ṫaċtaḋ go luaṫ, go dtáinig fir suas a ḃí teaċt as Gailliṁ agus
ḋíḃir siad an easóg.

Ṫug Páidín an capall a ḃaile leis, agus ċuir sé asteaċ i dteaċ na mbó é,
agus ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ.

Air maidin, lá air na ṁáraċ, d’éiriġ Páidín go moċ, agus ċuaiḋ sé amaċ
le uisge agus féar ṫaḃairt do’n capall. Nuair ċuaiḋ sé amaċ ċonnairc sé
an easóg ag teaċt amaċ as teaċ na mbó, agus í foluiġṫe le fuil. “Mo
ṡeaċt míle mallaċt ort,” ar Páidín, “tá faitċios orm go ḃfuil anaċain
déanta agad.” Cuaiḋ sé asteaċ, agus fuair sé an capall, péire bó-bainne,
agus dá laoġ marḃ Ṫáinig sé amaċ agus ċuir sé madaḋ a ḃí aige anḋiaiġ na
h-easóige. Fuair an madaḋ greim uirri agus fuair sise greim air an madaḋ.
Buḋ madaḋ maiṫ é, aċt b’éigin dó a ġreim sgaoileaḋ sul ṫáinig Páidín
suas; aċt ċongḃuiġ sé a ṡúil uirri go ḃfacaiḋ sé í ag dul asteaċ i mboṫán
beag a ḃí air ḃruaċ loċa. Ṫáinig Páidín ag riṫ, agus nuair ḃí sé ag an
mboṫáinín beag ṫug sé craṫaḋ do’n ṁadaḋ agus ċuir sé fearg air, agus ċuir
sé asteaċ roiṁe é. Nuair ċuaiḋ an madaḋ asteaċ ṫosuiġ sé ag taṫfant.
Ċuaiḋ Páidín asteaċ agus ċonnairc sé sean-ċailleaċ ann san g-coirnéul.
D’ḟiafruiġ sé ḋí an ḃfacaiḋ sí easóg ag teaċt asteaċ.

“Ní ḟacaiḋ mé,” ar san ċailleaċ, “tá mé breóiḋte le galar millteaċ agus
muna dtéiḋ tu amaċ go tapa glacfaiḋ tu uaim é.”

Coṁ fad agus ḃí Páidín agus an ċailleaċ, ag caint, ḃí an madaḋ ag teannaḋ
asteaċ, no go dtug sé léim suas faoi ḋeireaḋ, agus rug sé greim sgornaiġ
air an g-cailliġ.

Sgreaḋ sise, agus duḃairt, “tóg díom do ṁadaḋ a Páidín Ui Ċeallaiġ, agus
deunfaiḋ mé fear saiḋḃir díot.”

Chuir Páidín iaċ (d’ḟiaċaiḃ) air an madaḋ a ġreim sgaoileaḋ, agus duḃairt
sé, “Innis dam cia ṫu, no cad fáṫ ar ṁarḃ tu mo ċapall agus mo ḃa?”

“Agus cad fáṫ dtug tusa leat an t-ór a raiḃ mé cúig ċeud ḃliaḋain ’gá
ċruinniuġaḋ ameasg cnoc agus gleann an doṁain.”

“Ṡaoil mé gur easóg a ḃí ionnad,” ar Páidín, “no ni ḃainfinn le do ċuid
óir; agus niḋ eile, má tá tu cúig ċeud bliaḋain air an tsaoġal so tá sé i
n-am duit imṫeaċt ċum suaiṁnis.”

“Rinne mé coir ṁór i m’óige, agus táim le ḃeiṫ sgaoilte óm’ ḟulaing má
ṫig leat fiċe púnta íoc air son ceud agus trí fiċid aifrionn dam.”

“Cá ḃfuil an t-airgiod?” ar Páidín.

“Éiriġ agus róṁar faoi sgeiċ atá os cionn tobair ḃig i g-coirneul na
páirce sin amuiġ, agus geoḃaiḋ tu pota líonta d’ór. Íoc an fiċe púnta air
son na n-aifrionn agus ḃéiḋ an ċuid eile agad féin. Nuair a ḃainfeas tu
an leac de’n ṗota feicfiḋ tu madaḋ mór duḃ ag teaċt amaċ, aċt ná bíoḋ aon
ḟaitċios ort; is mac daṁsa é. Nuair a ġeoḃas tu an t-ór, ceannuiġ an teaċ
ann a ḃfacaiḋ tu mise i dtosaċ, geoḃaiḋ tu saor é, mar tá sé faoi ċáil go
ḃfuil taiḋḃse ann. Béiḋ mo ṁac-sa ṡíos ann san tsoiléar, ní ḋéanfaiḋ sé
aon doċar duit, aċt béiḋ sé ’nna ċaraid maiṫ ḋuit. Béiḋ mise marḃ mí ó’n
lá so, agus nuair ġeoḃas tu marḃ mé cuir splanc faoi an mboṫán agus dóiġ
é. Ná h-innis d’aon neaċ beó aon níḋ air biṫ de m’ṫaoiḃ-se, agus béiḋ an
t-áḋ ort.”

“Cad é an t-ainm atá ort?” ar Páidín.

“Máire ni Ciarḃáin,” ar san ċailleaċ.

Ċuaiḋ Páidín a ḃaile agus nuair ṫáinig dorċadas na h-oiḋċe ṫug sé láiḋe
leis agus ċuaiḋ sé ċum na sgeiċe a ḃí i g-coirneul na páirce agus ṫosuiġ
sé ag róṁar. Níor ḃfada go ḃfuair sé an pota agus nuair ḃain sé an leac
dé léim an madaḋ mór duḃ amaċ, agus as go bráṫ leis, agus madaḋ Ṗáidin
’nn a ḋiaiġ.

Ṫug Páidín an t-ór a ḃaile agus ċuir sé i ḃfolaċ i dteaċ na mbó é.
Timċioll mí ’nna ḋiaiġ sin, ċuaiḋ sé go h-aonaċ i nGailliṁ agus ċeannuiġ
sé péire bó, capall agus duisín caora. Ní raiḃ ḟios ag na cóṁarsannaiḃ
cia an áit a ḃfuair sé an t-airgiod. Duḃairt cuid aca go raiḃ roinn aige
leis na daoniḃ maiṫe.

Aon lá aṁáin ġleus Páidín é féin agus ċuaiḋ sé ċum an duine-uasail ar
leis an teaċ mór, agus d’ iarr air, an teaċ agus an talaṁ do ḃí ’nna
ṫimcioll, do ḋíol leis.

“Tig leat an teaċ ḃeiṫ agad gan ċíos, aċt ta taiḋḃse ann, agus níor ṁaiṫ
liom ṫu dul do ċóṁnuiḋe ann, gan a innsint, aċt ní sgarfainn leis an
talaṁ gan ceud púnta níos mó ’ná tá agad-sa le tairgsint dam.”

“B’éidir go ḃfuil an oiread agam-sa ’s atá agad féin,” ar Páidín, “béiḋ
mé ann so amáraċ leis an airgiod má tá tusa réiḋ le seilḃ do ṫaḃairt dam.”

“Béiḋ mé réiḋ,” ar san duine-uasal.

Ċuaiḋ Páidín aḃaile agus d’innis d’á ṁnaoi go raiḃ teaċ mór agus gaḃáltas
talṁan ceannuiġṫe aige.

“Cia an áit a ḃfuair tu an t-airgiod?” ar san ḃean.

“Naċ cuma ḋuit?” ar Páidín.

Lá air na ṁáraċ, ċuaiḋ Páidín ċum an duine-uasail, ṫug ceud púnta ḋó,
agus fuair seilḃ an tiġe agus an talṁan, agus d’ḟág an duine-uasal an
truscán aige asteaċ leis an margaḋ.

D’ḟan Páidín ann san teaċ an oiḋċe sin, agus nuair ṫáinig an dorċadas
ċuaiḋ sé síos ann san tsoiléar, agus ċonnairc sé fear beag le na ḋá ċois
sgarṫa air ḃáirille.

“’Niḋ Dia ḋuit, a ḋuine ċóir,” ar san fear beag.

“Go mbuḋ h-é ḋuit,” ar Páidín.

“Ná bíoḋ aon ḟaitċios ort róṁam-sa,” ar san fear beag, “béid mé mo
ċaraid maiṫ ḋuit-se má tá tu ionnán run do ċongḃáil.”

“Táim go deiṁin. Ċongḃuiġ mé rún do ṁátar, agus congḃóċaiḋ mé do rún-sa
mar an g-ceudna.”

“B’éidir go ḃfuil tart ort,” ar san fear ḃeag.

“Ní’l mé saor uaíḋ,” air Páidín.

Ċuir an fear beag láṁ ann a ḃrollaċ, agus ṫarraing sé corn óir amaċ, agus
ṫug do Páidín é, agus duḃairt leis, “tarraing fíon as an mbáirille sin
fúm.”

Ṫarraing Páidín lán coirn agus ṡeaċaid do’n ḟear beag é. “Ól, ṫu féin, i
dtosaċ,” ar seisean. D’ól Páidín, ṫarraing corn eile agus ṫug dón ḟear
beag é, agus d’ól sé é.

“Líon suas agus ól arís,” ar san fear beag, “is mian liom-sa ḃeiṫ go
súgaċ anoċt.”

Ḃí an ḃeirt ag ól gó raḃadar leaṫ air meisge. Ann sin ṫug an fear beag
léim anuas air an urlár, agus duḃairt le Páidín, “naċ ḃfuil dúil agad i
g-ceól?”

“Tá go deiṁin,” ar Páidín, “agus is maiṫ an daṁsóir mé.”

“Tóg suas an leac ṁór atá ’san g-coirneul úd, agus geoḃaiḋ tu mo ṗíobaiḋ
fúiṫi.”

Ṫóg Páidín an leac, fuair na píobaiḋ, agus ṫug do ’n ḟear beag iad.
D’ḟáisg sé na píobaiḋ air, agus ṫosuiġ sé ag seinm ceóil ḃinn. Ṫosuiġ
Páidín ag daṁsa go raiḃ sé tuirseaċ. Ann sin bí deoċ eile aca, agus
duḃairt an fear beag:

“Deun mar duḃairt mo ṁáṫair leat, agus taisbéanfaiḋ mise saiḋḃreas
mór duit. Tig leat do ḃean ṫaḃairt ann so, aċt ná h-innis dí go ḃfuil
mise ann, agus ní ḟeicfiḋ fí mé. Am air biṫ a ḃéiḋeas lionn nó fíon ag
teastáil uait tar ann so agus tarraing é. Slán leat anois, agus téiḋ ann
do ċodlaḋ, agus tar ċugam-sa an oiḋċe amáraċ.”

Cuaiḋ Páidín ’nna leabuiḋ, agus níor ḃfada go raiḃ sé ’nna ċodlaḋ.

Air maidin, lá air na ṁáraċ, ċuaiḋ Páidín a ḃaile agus ṫug a ḃean agus a
ċlann go dtí an teaċ mór, agus ḃíodar go sona. An oiḋċe sin ċuaiḋ Páidín
síos ann san tsoiléar. Ċuir an fear beag fáilte roiṁe, agus d’iarr air
“raiḃ fonn daṁsa air?”

“Ní’l go ḃfáġ’ mé deoċ,” ar Páidín.

“Ól do ṡaiṫ,” ar san fear beag, “ní ḃéiḋ an ḃáirille sin folaṁ fad do
ḃeaṫa.”

D’ól Páidín lán an ċoirn agus ṫug deoċ do ’n ḟear ḃeag; ann sin duḃairt
an fear beag leis:

“Táim ag dul go Dún-na-síḋ anoċt, le ceól do ṡeinm do na daoiniḃ maiṫe,
agus má ṫagann tu liom feicfiḋ tu greann breáġ. Ḃéarfaiḋ mé capall duit
naċ ḃfacaiḋ tu a leiṫeid asiaṁ roiṁe.”

“Raċfad agus fáilte,” ar Páidín, “aċt cia an leis-sgeul a ḋeunfas mé le
mo ṁnaoi?”

“Téiḋ do ċodlaḋ léiṫe, agus ḃéarfaiḋ mise amaċ ó n-a taoiḃ ṫu, a gan ḟios
dí, agus ḃéarfaiḋ mé air ais ṫu an ċaoi ċeudna,” ar san fear beag.

“Táim úṁal,” ar Páidín, “béiḋ deoċ eile agam sul a dtéiḋ mé as do láṫair.”

D’ól sé deoċ andiaiġ díġe, go raiḃ sé leaṫ air meisge agus ċuaiḋ sé ’nn a
leabuiḋ ann sin le na ṁnaoi.

Nuair ḋúisiġ sé fuair sé é féin ag marcuiġeaċt air sguaib i ngar do
Ḍún-na-síḋ, agus an fear beag ag marcuiġeaċt air sguaib eile le na ṫaoiḃ.
Nuair táinig siad ċoṁ fada le cnoc glas an Dúin, laḃair an fear beag
cúpla focal nár ṫuig Páidín; d’ḟosgail an cnoc glas, agus ċuaiḋ Páidín
asteaċ i seomra breáġ.

Ní ḟacaiḋ Páidín aon ċruinniuġaḋ ariaṁ mar ḃí ann san dún. Ḃí an áit
líonta de ḋaoiniḃ beaga, ḃí fir agus mná ann, sean agus óg. Chuireadar
uile fáilte roiṁ Dóṁnal agus roiṁ Páidín O Ceallaiġ. B’é Dóṁnal ainm an
ṗíoḃaire ḃig. Ṫáinig ríġ agus bainríoġan na síḋ ’nna láṫair agus duḃairt
siad:

“Támaoid uile ag dul go Cnoc Maṫa anoċt, air cuairt go h-árd-riġ agus go
bainríoġain ár ndaoine.”

D’éiriġ an t-iomlán aca, agus ċuaiḋ siad amaċ. Ḃí capaill réiḋ ag gaċ aon
aca, agus an Cóiste Boḋar le h-aġaiḋ an ríġ agus an bainríoġna. Ċuadar
asteaċ ’san g-cóiste. Léim gaċ duine air a ċapall féin, agus bí cinnte
naċ raiḃ Páidín air deireaḋ. Ċuaiḋ an píobaire amaċ rompa, agus ṫosuiġ ag
seinm ceóil dóiḃ, agus as go bráṫ leó. Níor ḃfada go dtángadar go Cnoc
Maṫa. D’ḟosgail an cnoc agus ċuaiḋ an sluaġ síḋ asteaċ.

Ḃí Finḃeara agus Nuala ann sin, árd-ríġ agus bainríoġan Ṡluaiġ-síḋ
Ċonnaċt, agus mílte de ḋaoiniḃ beaga. Ṫáinig Finḃeara a láṫair agus
duḃairt:

“Támaoid dul báire ḃualaḋ ann aġaiḋ sluaiġ-síḋ Ṁúṁan anoċt, agus muna
mbuailfimíd iad tá ár g-clú imṫiġṫe go deó. Tá an báire le ḃeiṫ buailte
air Ṁáiġ-Túra faoi ṡliaḃ Belgadáin.”

“Támaoid uile réiḋ,” ar sluaġ-siḋ Ċonnaċt, “agus ní’l aṁras againn naċ
mbuailfimíd iad.”

“Amaċ liḃ uile,” ar san t-árd-ríġ, “béiḋ fir Ċnuic Néifin air an talaṁ
rómainn.”

D’imṫiġeadar uile amaċ, agus Dóṁnal beag agus dá ’r ḋeug píobaire eile
rómpa ag seinm ceóil ḃinn. Nuair ṫángadar go Máġ-Túra ḃí sluaġ-síḋ Ṁúṁan
agus siḋḟir Ċnuic Néifin rompa. Anois, is éigin do’n tsluaġ-síḋ beirt
ḟear beó do ḃeiṫ i láṫair nuair a ḃíonn siad ag troid no ag bualaḋ báire,
agus sin é an fáṫ rug Ḍóṁnal beag Páidín O Ceallaiġ leis. Ḃí fear dar ab
ainm an Stangaire Buiḋe ó Innis i g-condaé an Chláir le sluaġ-síḋ Ṁúṁan.

Níor ḃfada gur ġlac an dá ṡluaġ taoḃa, caiṫeaḋ suas an liaṫróid agus
ṫosuiġ an greann ná ríriḃ.

Ḃí siad ag bualaḋ báire agus na píobairiḋe ag seinm ceóil, go ḃfacaiḋ
Páidín O Ceallaiġ sluaġ Ṁúṁan ag fáġail na láiṁe láidre, agus ṫosuiġ
sé ag cuideaċtain le sluaġ-siḋ Ċonnaċt. Ṫáinig an Stangaire i láṫair
agus d’ionnsuiġ sé Páidín O Ceallaiġ, aċt níor ḃfada gur ċuir Páidín an
Stangaire Buiḋe air a ṫar-an-áirde. Ó ḃualaḋ-báire, ṫosuiġ an dá ṡluaġ
ag troid, aċt níor ḃfada gur ḃuail sluaġ Ċonnaċt an sluaġ eile. Ann sin
rinne sluaġ Ṁúṁan priompolláin díoḃ féin, agus ṫosuiġ siad ag iṫe uile
níḋ glas d’á dtáinig siad suas leis. Ḃíodar ag sgrios na tíre rompa, go
dtangadar ċoṁ fada le Conga, nuair d’éiriġ na mílte colam as Ṗoll-mór
agus ṡluig siad na priompolláin. Ní’l aon ainm air an bpoll go dtí an lá
so aċt Poll-na-gcolam.

Nuair ġnóṫuiġ sluaġ Ċonnaċt an caṫ, ṫángadar air ais go Cnoc Maṫa,
luṫġáireaċ go leór, agus ṫug an ríġ Finḃeara sporán óir do Ṗáidín O
Ceallaiġ, agus ṫug an píobaire beag a ḃaile é, agus ċuir sé ’nna ċodlaḋ
le na ṁnaoi é.

Ċuaiḋ mí ṫart ann sin, agus ní ṫárla aon niḋ do b’ḟiú a innsint; aċt aon
oiḋċe aṁáin ċuaiḋ Páidín síos ’san tsoiléar agus duḃairt an fear beag
leis, “Tá mo ṁáṫair marḃ, agus dóġ an boṫán os a cionn.”

“Is fíor duit,” ar Páidín, “duḃairt sí naċ raiḃ sí le ḃeiṫ air an
t-saoġal so aċt mí, agus tá an ṁí suas andé.”

Air maidin, an lá air na ṁáraċ, ċuaiḋ Páidín cum an ḃoṫáin agus fuair sé
an ċailleaċ marḃ. Chuirsé splanc faoi an mboṫán agus ḋóiġ sé é Ṫáinig sé
a ḃaile ann sin, agus d’innis sé do’n ḟear beag go raiḃ an boṫán dóiġte.
Ṫug an fear beag sporán dó agus duḃairt, “Ní ḃéiḋ an sporán sin folaṁ ċoṁ
ḟad agus ḃéiḋeas tu beó. Slán leat anois. Ní ḟeicfiḋ tu mé níos mó, aċt
bíoḋ cuiṁne gráḋaċ agad air an easóig. B’ise tosaċ agus príoṁ-áḋḃar do
ṡaiḋḃris.”

Ṁair Páidín agus a ḃean bliaḋanta anḋiaiġ seó, ann san teaċ mór, agus
nuair fuair sé bas d’ḟág sé saiḋḃreas mór ’nna ḋíaiġ, agus muiriġín ṁór
le na ċaṫaḋ.

Sin ċugaiḃ mo sgeul anois ó ṫús go deire, mar ċualaiḋ mise ó mo ṁáṫair
ṁóir é.




PAUDYEEN O’KELLY AND THE WEASEL.

A long time ago there was once a man of the name of Paudyeen O’Kelly,
living near Tuam, in the county Galway. He rose up one morning early, and
he did not know what time of day it was, for there was fine light coming
from the moon. He wanted to go to the fair of Cauher-na-mart to sell a
_sturk_ of an ass that he had.

He had not gone more than three miles of the road when a great darkness
came on, and a shower began falling. He saw a large house among trees
about five hundred yards in from the road, and he said to himself that he
would go to that house till the shower would be over. When he got to the
house he found the door open before him, and in with him. He saw a large
room to his left, and a fine fire in the grate. He sat down on a stool
that was beside the wall, and began falling asleep, when he saw a big
weasel coming to the fire with something yellow in its mouth, which it
dropped on the hearth-stone, and then it went away. She soon came back
again with the same thing in her mouth, and he saw that it was a guinea
she had. She dropped it on the hearth-stone, and went away again. She was
coming and going, until there was a great heap of guineas on the hearth.
But at last, when he got her gone, Paudyeen rose up, thrust all the gold
she had gathered into his pockets, and out with him.

He was not gone far till he heard the weasel coming after him, and she
screeching as loud as a bag-pipes. She went before Paudyeen and got on
the road, and she was twisting herself back and forwards, and trying to
get a hold of his throat. Paudyeen had a good oak stick, and he kept her
from him, until two men came up who were going to the same fair, and one
of them had a good dog, and it routed the weasel into a hole in the wall.

Paudyeen went to the fair, and instead of coming home with the money
he got for his old ass, as he thought would be the way with him in the
morning, he went and bought a horse with some of the money he took from
the weasel, and he came home and he riding. When he came to the place
where the dog had routed the weasel into the hole in the wall, she came
out before him, gave a leap up and caught the horse by the throat. The
horse made off, and Paudyeen could not stop him, till at last he gave a
leap into a big drain that was full up of water and black mud, and he was
drowning and choking as fast as he could, until men who were coming from
Galway came up and banished the weasel.

Paudyeen brought the horse home with him, and put him into the cows’ byre
and fell asleep.

Next morning, the day on the morrow, Paudyeen rose up early and went out
to give his horse hay and oats. When he got to the door he saw the weasel
coming out of the byre and she covered with blood. “My seven thousand
curses on you,” said Paudyeen, “but I’m afraid you’ve harm done.” He
went in and found the horse, a pair of milch cows, and two calves dead.
He came out and set a dog he had after the weasel. The dog got a hold of
her, and she got a hold of the dog. The dog was a good one, but he was
forced to loose his hold of her before Paudyeen could come up. He kept
his eye on her, however, all through, until he saw her creeping into a
little hovel that was on the brink of a lake. Paudyeen came running, and
when he got to the little hut he gave the dog a shake to rouse him up and
put anger on him, and then he sent him in before himself. When the dog
went in he began barking. Paudyeen went in after him, and saw an old hag
(cailleach) in the corner. He asked her if she saw a weasel coming in
there.

“I did not,” said she; “I’m all destroyed with a plague of sickness, and
if you don’t go out quick you’ll catch it from me.”

While Paudyeen and the hag were talking, the dog kept moving in all the
time, till at last he gave a leap up and caught the hag by the throat.
She screeched, and said:

“Paddy Kelly, take off your dog, and I’ll make you a rich man.”

Paudyeen made the dog loose his hold, and said: “Tell me who are you, or
why did you kill my horse and my cows?”

“And why did you bring away my gold that I was for five hundred years
gathering throughout the hills and hollows of the world?”

“I thought you were a weasel,” said Paudyeen, “or I wouldn’t touch your
gold; and another thing,” says he, “if you’re for five hundred years in
this world, it’s time for you to go to rest now.”

“I committed a great crime in my youth,” said the hag, “and now I am to
be released from my sufferings if you can pay twenty pounds for a hundred
and three score masses for me.”

“Where’s the money?” says Paudyeen.

“Go and dig under a bush that’s over a little well in the corner of that
field there without, and you’ll get a pot filled with gold. Pay the
twenty pounds for the masses, and yourself shall have the rest. When
you’ll lift the flag off the pot, you’ll see a big black dog coming out;
but don’t be afraid before him; he is a son of mine. When you get the
gold, buy the house in which you saw me at first. You’ll get it cheap,
for it has the name of there being a ghost in it. My son will be down in
the cellar. He’ll do you no harm, but he’ll be a good friend to you. I
shall be dead a month from this day, and when you get me dead put a coal
under this little hut and burn it. Don’t tell a living soul anything
about me—and the luck will be on you.”

“What is your name?” said Paudyeen.

“Maurya nee Keerwaun” (Mary Kerwan), said the hag.

Paudyeen went home, and when the darkness of the night came on he took
with him a loy,[28] and went to the bush that was in the corner of the
field, and began digging. It was not long till he found the pot, and when
he took the flag off it a big black dog leaped out, and off and away with
him, and Paudyeen’s dog after him.

Paudyeen brought home the gold, and hid it in the cow-house. About a
month after that he went to the fair of Galway, and bought a pair of
cows, a horse, and a dozen sheep. The neighbours did not know where he
was getting all the money; they said that he had a share with the good
people.

One day Paudyeen dressed himself, and went to the gentleman who owned the
large house where he first saw the weasel, and asked to buy the house of
him, and the land that was round about.

“You can have the house without paying any rent at all; but there is
a ghost in it, and I wouldn’t like you to go to live in it without my
telling you, but I couldn’t part with the land without getting a hundred
pounds more than you have to offer me.”

“Perhaps I have as much as you have yourself,” said Paudyeen. “I’ll be
here to-morrow with the money, if you’re ready to give me possession.”

“I’ll be ready,” said the gentleman.

Paudyeen went home and told his wife that he had bought a large house and
a holding of land.

“Where did you get the money?” says the wife.

“Isn’t it all one to you where I got it?” says Paudyeen.

The day on the morrow Paudyeen went to the gentleman, gave him the money,
and got possession of the house and land; and the gentleman left him the
furniture and everything that was in the house, in with the bargain.

Paudyeen remained in the house that night, and when darkness came he went
down to the cellar, and he saw a little man with his two legs spread on a
barrel.

“God save you, honest man,” says he to Paudyeen.

“The same to you,” says Paudyeen.

“Don’t be afraid of me at all,” says the little man. “I’ll be a friend to
you, if you are able to keep a secret.”

“I am able, indeed; I kept your mother’s secret, and I’ll keep yours as
well.”

“May-be you’re thirsty?” says the little man.

“I’m not free from it,” said Paudyeen.

The little man put a hand in his bosom and drew out a gold goblet. He
gave it to Paudyeen, and said: “Draw wine out of that barrel under me.”

Paudyeen drew the full up of the goblet, and handed it to the little man.
“Drink yourself first,” says he. Paudyeen drank, drew another goblet, and
handed it to the little man, and he drank it.

“Fill up and drink again,” said the little man. “I have a mind to be
merry to-night.”

The pair of them sat there drinking until they were half drunk. Then the
little man gave a leap down to the floor, and said to Paudyeen:

“Don’t you like music?”

“I do, surely,” says Paudyeen, “and I’m a good dancer, too.”

“Lift up the big flag over there in the corner, and you’ll get my pipes
under it.”

Paudyeen lifted the flag, got the pipes, and gave them to the little man.
He squeezed the pipes on him, and began playing melodious music. Paudyeen
began dancing till he was tired. Then they had another drink, and the
little man said:

“Do as my mother told you, and I’ll show you great riches. You can bring
your wife in here, but don’t tell her that I’m there, and she won’t see
me. Any time at all that ale or wine are wanting, come here and draw.
Farewell now; go to sleep, and come again to me to-morrow night.”

Paudyeen went to bed, and it wasn’t long till he fell asleep.

On the morning of the day of the morrow, Paudyeen went home, and brought
his wife and children to the big house, and they were comfortable. That
night Paudyeen went down to the cellar; the little man welcomed him and
asked him did he wish to dance?

“Not till I get a drink,” said Paudyeen.

“Drink your ’nough,” said the little man; “that barrel will never be
empty as long as you live.”

Paudyeen drank the full of the goblet, and gave a drink to the little
man. Then the little man said to him:

“I am going to Doon-na-shee (the fortress of the fairies) to-night, to
play music for the good people, and if you come with me you’ll see fine
fun. I’ll give you a horse that you never saw the like of him before.”

“I’ll go with you, and welcome,” said Paudyeen; “but what excuse will I
make to my wife?”

“I’ll bring you away from her side without her knowing it, when you are
both asleep together, and I’ll bring you back to her the same way,” said
the little man.

“I’m obedient,” says Paudyeen; “we’ll have another drink before I leave
you.”

He drank drink after drink, till he was half drunk, and he went to bed
with his wife.

When he awoke he found himself riding on a besom near Doon-na-shee, and
the little man riding on another besom by his side. When they came as
far as the green hill of the Doon, the little man said a couple of words
that Paudyeen did not understand. The green hill opened, and the pair
went into a fine chamber.

Paudyeen never saw before a gathering like that which was in the Doon.
The whole place was full up of little people, men and women, young and
old. They all welcomed little Donal—that was the name of the piper—and
Paudyeen O’Kelly. The king and queen of the fairies came up to them, and
said:

“We are all going on a visit to-night to Cnoc Matha, to the high king and
queen of our people.”

They all rose up then and went out. There were horses ready for each one
of them and the _coash-t’ya bower_ for the king and the queen. The king
and queen got into the coach, each man leaped on his own horse, and be
certain that Paudyeen was not behind. The piper went out before them and
began playing them music, and then off and away with them. It was not
long till they came to Cnoc Matha. The hill opened and the king of the
fairy host passed in.

Finvara and Nuala were there, the arch-king and queen of the fairy host
of Connacht, and thousands of little persons. Finvara came up and said:

“We are going to play a hurling match to-night against the fairy host of
Munster, and unless we beat them our fame is gone for ever. The match is
to be fought out on Moytura, under Slieve Belgadaun.”

The Connacht host cried out: “We are all ready, and we have no doubt but
we’ll beat them.”

“Out with ye all,” cried the high king; “the men of the hill of Nephin
will be on the ground before us.”

They all went out, and little Donal and twelve pipers more before them,
playing melodious music. When they came to Moytura, the fairy host of
Munster and the fairy men of the hill of Nephin were there before them.
Now, it is necessary for the fairy host to have two live men beside them
when they are fighting or at a hurling-match, and that was the reason
that little Donal took Paddy O’Kelly with him. There was a man they
called the “_Yellow Stongirya_,” with the fairy host of Munster, from
Ennis, in the County Clare.

It was not long till the two hosts took sides; the ball was thrown up
between them, and the fun began in earnest. They were hurling away, and
the pipers playing music, until Paudyeen O’Kelly saw the host of Munster
getting the strong hand, and he began helping the fairy host of Connacht.
The _Stongirya_ came up and he made at Paudyeen O’Kelly, but Paudyeen
turned him head over heels. From hurling the two hosts began at fighting,
but it was not long until the host of Connacht beat the other host. Then
the host of Munster made flying beetles of themselves, and they began
eating every green thing that they came up to. They were destroying the
country before them until they came as far as Cong. Then there rose up
thousands of doves out of the hole, and they swallowed down the beetles.
That hole has no other name until this day but Pull-na-gullam, the dove’s
hole.

When the fairy host of Connacht won their battle, they came back to Cnoc
Matha joyous enough, and the king Finvara gave Paudyeen O’Kelly a purse
of gold, and the little piper brought him home, and put him into bed
beside his wife, and left him sleeping there.

A month went by after that without anything worth mentioning, until one
night Paudyeen went down to the cellar, and the little man said to him:
“My mother is dead; burn the house over her.”

“It is true for you,” said Paudyeen. “She told me that she hadn’t but a
month to be on the world, and the month was up yesterday.”

On the morning of the next day Paudyeen went to the hut and he found the
hag dead. He put a coal under the hut and burned it. He came home and
told the little man that the hut was burnt. The little man gave him a
purse and said to him; “This purse will never be empty as long as you are
alive. Now, you will never see me more; but have a loving remembrance of
the weasel. She was the beginning and the prime cause of your riches.”
Then he went away and Paudyeen never saw him again.

Paudyeen O’Kelly and his wife lived for years after this in the large
house, and when he died he left great wealth behind him, and a large
family to spend it.

There now is the story for you, from the first word to the last, as I
heard it from my grandmother.




UILLIAM O RUANAIĠ.


Ann san aimsir i n-allód ḃí fear ann dar ab ainm Uilliam O Ruanaiġ, ’nna
ċóṁnuiḋe i ngar do Ċlár-Gailliṁ. Bí sé ’nna ḟeilméar. Áon lá aṁain ṫáinig
an tiġearna-talṁan ċuige agus duḃairt, “Tá cíos tri bliaḋain agam ort,
agus muna mbéiḋ sé agad dam faoi ċeann seaċtṁaine caiṫfiḋ mé amaċ air
ṫaoiḃ an ḃóṫair ṫu.”

“Táim le dul go Gailliṁ amáraċ le h-ualaċ cruiṫneaċta do ḋíol, agus nuair
a ġeoḃas mé a luaċ íocfaiḋ mé ṫu,” ar Liam.

Air maidin, lá air na ṁáraċ, ċuir sé ualaċ cruiṫneaċta air an g-cairt
agus ḃí sé dul go Gailliṁ leis. Nuair ḃí sé timċioll míle go leiṫ
imṫiġṫe o’n teaċ, ṫáinig duine-uasal ċuige agus d’ḟiafruiġ sé dé “An
cruiṫneaċt atá agad air an g-cairt?”

“Seaḋ,” ar Liam, “tá mé dul ’gá ḋíol le mo ċíos d’íoc.”

“Cia ṁéad atá ann?” ar san duine uasal.

“Tá tonna cneasta ann,” ar Liam.

“Ceannóċaiḋ mé uait é,” ar san duine uasal, “agus ḃéarfaiḋ mé an luaċ is
mó ’sa’ masgaḋ ḋuit. Nuair a raċfas tu ċoṁ fad leis an mbóṫairín cártaċ
atá air do láiṁ ċlé, cas asteaċ agus ḃí ag imṫeaċt go dtagaiḋ tu go teaċ
mór atá i ngleann, agus ḃéiḋ mise ann sin róṁad le d’ airgiod do ṫaḃairt
duit.”

Nuair ṫáinig Liam ċoṁ fada leis an mbóṫairín ċas sé asteaċ, agus ḃí sé ag
imṫeaċt go dtáinig sé ċoṁ fada le teaċ mór. Ḃí iongantas air Liam nuair
ċonnairc sé an teaċ mór, mar rugaḋ agus tógaḋ ann san g-cóṁarsanaċt é,
agus ní ḟacaiḋ sé an teaċ mór ariaṁ roiṁe, cíḋ go raiḃ eólas aige air
uile ṫeaċ i ḃfoiġseaċt cúig ṁíle ḋó.

Nuair ṫáinig Liam i ngar do sgioból a ḃí anaice leis an teaċ mór ṫáinig
buaċaill beag amaċ agus duḃairt, “céad míle fáilte róṁad a Liaim Ui
Ruanaiġ,” ċuir sac air a ḋruim agus ṫug asteaċ é. Ṫáinig buaċaill beag
eile amaċ, ċuir fáilte roiṁ Liam, ċuir sac air a ḋruim, agus d’imṫiġ
asteaċ leis. Ḃí buaċailliḋe ag teaċt, ag cur fáilte roiṁ Liam, agus ag
taḃairt sac leó, go raiḃ an tonna cruiṫneaċta imṫiġṫe. Ann sin ṫáinig
iomlán na mbuaċaill i láṫair agus duḃairt Liam leó. “Tá eólas agaiḃ uile
orm-sa agus ní’l eólas agam-sa orraiḃse.” Ann sin duḃradar leis, “téiḋ
asteaċ, agus iṫ do ḋínnéar, tá an máiġistir ag fanaṁaint leat.”

Ċuaiḋ Liam asteaċ agus ṡuiḋ sé síos ag an mbord. Níor iṫ sé an dara greim
go dtáinig trom-ċodlaḋ air agus ṫuit sé faoi an mbord. Ann sin rinne
an draoiḋ-eadóir fear-bréige cosṁúil le Liam, agus ċuir a ḃaile ċum mná
Liaim é, leis an g-capall, agus leis an g-cairt. Nuair ṫáinig sé go teaċ
Liaim ċuaiḋ sé suas ann san t-seomra, luiḋ air leabuiḋ, agus fuair bás.

Níor ḃfada go ndeacaiḋ an ġáir amaċ go raiḃ Liam O Ruanaiġ marḃ. Ċuir
an ḃean uisge síos agus nuair ḃí sé teiṫ niġ sí an corp agus ċuir os
cionn cláir é. Ṫáinig na cóṁarsanna agus ċaoineadar go ḃrónaċ os cionn
an ċuirp, agus ḃí truaġ ṁór ann do’n ṁnaoi ḃoiċt aċt ní raiḃ mórán bróin
uirri féin, mar ḃí Liam aosta agus í féin óg. An lá air na ṁáraċ cuireaḋ
an corp agus ní raiḃ aon ċuiṁne níos mó air Liam.

Ḃí buaċaill-aimsire ag mnaoi Liaim agus duḃairt sí leis, “buḋ ċóir duit
mé ṗósaḋ, agus áit Liaim ġlacaḋ.”

“Tá sé ró luaṫ fós, anḋiaiġ bás do ḃeiṫ ann san teaċ,” ar san buaċaill,
“fan go mbéiḋ Liam curṫa seaċtṁain.”

Nuair ḃí Liam seaċt lá agus seaċt n-oiḋċe ’nna ċodlaḋ ṫáinig buaċaill
beag agus ḋúisiġ é. Ann sin duḃairt sé leis, “táir seaċtṁain do ċodlaḋ.
Ċuireamar do ċapall agus do ċairt aḃaile. Seó ḋuit do ċuid airgid, agus
imṫiġ.”

Ṫáinig Liam a ḃaile, agus mar ḃí sé mall ’san oiḋċe ní ḟacaiḋ aon duine
é. Air maidin an laé sin ċuaiḋ bean Liaim agus an buaċaill-aimsire ċum an
t-sagairt agus d’iarr siad air iad do ṗósaḋ.

“Ḃfuil an t-airgiod-pósta agaiḃ?” ar san sagart.

“Ní’l,” ar san ḃean, “aċt tá storc muice agam ’sa’ mbaile, agus tig leat
í ḃeiṫ agad i n-áit airgid.”

Ṗós an sagart iad, agus duḃairt, “cuirfead fios air an muic amáraċ.”

Nuair ṫáinig Liam go dtí a ḋoras féin, ḃuail sé buille air. Ḃí an ḃean
agus an buaċaill-aimsire ag dul ċum a leabuiḋ, agus d’ḟiafruiġ siad, “cia
tá ann sin?”

“Mise,” ar Liam, “fosgail an doras dam.”

Nuair ċualadar an guṫ ḃí ḟios aca gur ’bé Liam do ḃí ann, agus duḃairt
a ḃean, “ní ṫig liom do leigean asteaċ, agus is mór an náire ḋuit ḃeiṫ
teaċt air ais anḋiaiġ ṫu ḃeiṫ seaċt lá san uaiġ.”

“An air mire atá tu?” ar Liam.

“Ní’lim air mire,” ar san ḃean, “’tá ḟios ag an uile ḋuine ’sa’ bparáiste
go ḃfuair tu bás agus gur ċuir mé go geanaṁail ṫu. Téiḋ air ais go
d’uaiġ, agus béiḋ aifrionn léiġte agam air son d’anma ḃoiċt amáraċ.”

“Fan go dtagaiḋ solas an laé,” ar Liam, “agus béarfaiḋ mé luaċ do ṁagaiḋ
ḋuit.”

Ann sin ċuaiḋ sé ’san stábla, ’n áit a raiḃ a ċapall agus a ṁuc, ṡín sé
ann san tuiġe, agus ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ.

Air maidin, lá air na ṁáraċ, duḃairt an sagart le buaċaill beag a ḃí
aige, “téiḋ go teaċ Liaim Ui Ruanaiġ agus ḃéarfaiḋ an ḃean a ṗós mé andé
muc duit le taḃairt a ḃaile leat.”

Ṫáinig an buaċaill go doras an tíġe agus ṫosuiġ ’gá ḃualaḋ le maide a ḃí
aige. Ḃí faitċios air an mnaoi an doras ḟosgailt, aċt d’ḟiafruiġ sí, “cia
tá ann sin?”

“Mise,” ar san buaċaill, “ċuir an sagart mé le muc d’ḟáġáil uait.”

“Tá sí amuiġ ’san stábla,” ar san ḃean.

Ċuaiḋ an buaċaill asteaċ ’san stábla agus ṫosuiġ ag tiomáint na muiċe
amaċ, nuair d’éiriġ Liam agus duḃairt, “cá ḃfuil tu ag dul le mo ṁuic?”

Nuair ċonnairc an buaċaill Liam, as go bráṫ leis, agus níor stop go
ndeacaiḋ sé ċum an tsagairt agus a ċroiḋe ag teaċt amaċ air a ḃeul le
faitċios.

“Cad tá ort?” ar san sagart.

D’innis an buaċaill dó go raiḃ Liam O Ruanaiġ ann san stábla, agus naċ
leigfeaḋ sé ḋó an ṁuċ ṫaḃairt leis.

“Bí do ṫost, a ḃreugadóir,” ar ran sagart, “tá Liam O’Ruanaiġ marḃ agus
ann san uaiġ le seaċtṁain.”

“Dá mbeiḋ’ sé marḃ seaċt mbliaḋna connairc mise ann san stábla é ḋá
ṁóimid ó ṡoin, agus muna g-creideann tu, tar, ṫu féin, agus feicfiḋ tu é.”

Ann sin ṫáinig an sagart agus an buaċaill le ċéile go doras an stábla,
agus duḃairt an sagart, “téiḋ asteaċ agus cuir an ṁuc sin amaċ ċugam.”

“Ní raċfainn asteaċ air son an ṁéid is fiú ṫu,” ar san buaċaill.

Ċuaiḋ an sagart asteaċ ann sin agus ḃí sé ag tiomáint na muice amaċ,
nuair d’éiriġ Liam suas as an tuiġe agus duḃairt, “cá ḃfuil tu dul le mo
ṁuic, a aṫair Ṗádraig?”

Nuair a ċonnairc an sagart Liam ag éiriġe, as go bráṫ leis, ag ráḋ: “i
n-ainm Dé orduiġim air ais go dtí an uaiġ ṫu a Uilliaim Ui Ruanaiġ.”

Ṫosuiġ Liam ag riṫ anḋiaiġ an tsagairt, agus ag ráḋ. “A aṫair Ṗádraig
ḃfuil tu air mire? fan agus laḃair Liom.”

Níor ḟan an sagart aċt ċuaiḋ a ḃaile ċoṁ luaṫ agus d’ḟeud a ċosa a
iomċar, agus nuair ṫáinig sé asteaċ ḋún sé an doras. Ḃí Liam ag bualaḋ
an dorais go raiḃ sé sáruiġṫe, aċt ní leigfeaḋ an sagart asteaċ é. Faoi
ḋeireaḋ ċuir sé a ċeann amaċ air ḟuinneóig a ḃí air ḃárr an tíġe agus
duḃairt, “A Uilliam Ui Ruanaiġ téiḋ air ais ċum d’uaiġe.”

“Tá tu air mire a aṫair Ṗádraig, ní’l mé marḃ, agus ní raiḃ mé ann aon
uaiġ ariaṁ ó d’ḟág me bronn mo ṁáṫar,” ar Liam.

“Ċonnairc mise marḃ ṫu,” ar san sagart, “fuair tu bás obann agus ḃí mé
i láṫair nuair cuireaḋ ṫu ’san uaiġ, agus rinne mé seanmóir ḃreáġ os do
ċionn.”

“Diaḃal uaim, go ḃfuil tu air mire ċoṁ cinnte a’s atá mise beó,” ar Liam.

“Imṫiġ as m’aṁarc anois agus léiġfiḋ mé aifrionn duit amáraċ,” ar san
sagart.

Ċuaiḋ Liam a ḃaile agus ḃuail sé a ḋoras féin aċt ní leigfeaḋ an ḃean
asteaċ é. Ann sin duḃairt sé leis féin, “raċfad agus íocfad mo ċíos.”
Uile ḋuine a ċonnairc Liam air a ḃealaċ go teaċ an tiġearna ḃí siad ag
riṫ uaiḋ, mar ṡaoileadar go ḃfuair sé bás. Nuair ċualaiḋ an tiġearna
talṁan go raiḃ Liam O Ruanaiġ ag teaċt ḋún sé na doirse, agus ní leigfeaḋ
sé asteaċ é. Ṫosuiġ Liam ag ḃualaḋ an dorais ṁóir gur ṡaoil an tiġearna
go mbrisfeaḋ sé asteaċ é. Ṫáinig an tiġearna go fuinneóig a ḃí air ḃárr
an tíġe, agus dḟiafruiġ, “cad tá tu ag iarraiḋ?”

“Ṫáinig mé le mo ċíos íoc, mar ḟear cneasta,” ar Liam.

“Téiḋ air ais go dtí d’uaiġ, agus ḃéarfaiḋ mé maiṫeaṁnas duit,” ar san
Tiġearna.

“Ní ḟágfaiḋ mé seó, go ḃfáġ’ mé sgríḃinn uait go ḃfuil mé íocṫa suas
glan, go dtí an Ḃealtaine seó ċugainn.”

Ṫug an Tiġearna an sgríḃinn dó, agus ṫáinig sé aḃaile. Ḃuail sé an doras,
aċt ní leigfeaó an ḃean asteaċ é, ag ráḋ leis go raiḃ Liam O Ruanaiġ marḃ
agus curṫa, agus naċ raiḃ ann san ḃfear ag an doras aċt fealltóir.

“Ní fealltóir mé,” ar Liam, “tá mé anḋiaiġ cíos trí ḃliaḋain d’íoc le mo
ṁáiġistir, agus ḃéiḋ seilḃ mo ṫiġe féin agam, no ḃéiḋ ḟios agam cad fáṫ.”

Ċuaiḋ sé ċum an sgiobóil, agus fuair sé barra mór iarainn agus níor ḃfada
gur ḃris sé asteaċ an doras. Ḃí faitċios mór air an mnaoi agus air an
ḃfear nuaḋ-ṗósta. Ṡaoileadar go raḃadar i n-am an eiseiriġe, agus go raiḃ
deire an doṁain ag teaċt.

“Cad ċuige ar ṡaoil tu go raiḃ mise marḃ?” ar Liam.

“Naċ ḃfuil ḟios ag uile ḋuine ann san ḃparáiste go ḃfuil tu marḃ,” ar san
ḃean.

“Do ċorp ó’n diaḃal,” ar Liam, “tá tu ag magaḋ fada go leór liom. Fáġ ḋam
niḋ le n-iṫe.”

Ḃí eagla ṁór air an mnaoi ḃoiċt agus ġleus sí biaḋ ḋó, agus nuair
ċonnairc sí é ag iṫe agus ag ól duḃairt sí, “tá míorḃúil ann.”

Ann sin d’innis Liam a sgeul dí, o ḃonn go bárr, agus nuair d’innis
sé gaċ niḋ, duḃairt sé, “raċfad ċum na n-uaiġe amáraċ go ḃfeicfead an
biṫeaṁnaċ do ċuir siḃ-se i m’áit-sé.”

Lá air na ṁáraċ ṫug Liam dream daoine leis, agus ċuaiḋ sé ċum na roilige,
agus d’ḟosgail siad an uaiġ, agus ḃíodar dul an ċóṁra d’ḟosgailt, agus
nuair a ḃí siad ’gá tógḃáil suas léim madaḋ mór duḃ amaċ, agus as go ḃráṫ
leis, agus Liam agus na fir eile ’nna ḋiaiġ. Ḃíodar ’gá leanaṁaint go
ḃfacadar é ag dul asteaċ ann san teaċ a raiḃ Liam ’nna ċodlaḋ ann. Ann
sin d’ḟosgail an talaṁ agus ċuaiḋ an teaċ síos, agus ní ḟacaiḋ aon duine
é ó ṡoin, aċt tá an poll mór le feicsint go dtí an lá so.

Nuair d’imṫiġ Liam agus na fir óga aḃaile d’innis síad gaċ niḋ do ṡagart
na paráiste, agus sgaoil sé an pósaḋ a ḃí eidir bean Liaim agus an
buaċaill-aimsire.

Do ṁair Liam bliaḋanta ’nna ḋiaiġ seó, agus d’ḟág sé saiḋḃreas mór ’nna
ḋiaiġ, agus tá cuiṁne air i g-Clár-Gailliṁ fós, agus ḃéiḋ go deó, má
ṫéiḋeann an sgeul so ó na sean-daoiniḃ ċum na ndaoine óg.




LEEAM O’ROONEY’S BURIAL.


In the olden time there was once a man named William O’Rooney, living
near Clare-Galway. He was a farmer. One day the landlord came to him and
said: “I have three years’ rent on you, and unless you have it for me
within a week I’ll throw you out on the side of the road.”

“I’m going to Galway with a load of wheat to-morrow,” said Leeam
(William), “and when I get the price of it I’ll pay you.”

Next morning he put a load of wheat on the cart, and was going to Galway
with it. When he was gone a couple of miles from the house a gentleman
met him and asked him: “Is it wheat you’ve got on the cart?”

“It is,” says Leeam; “I’m going to sell it to pay my rent.”

“How much is there in it?” said the gentleman.

“There’s a ton, honest, in it,” said Leeam.

“I’ll buy it from you,” said the gentleman, “and I’ll give you the
biggest price that’s going in the market. When you’ll go as far as the
cart _boreen_ (little road) that’s on your left hand, turn down, and be
going till you come to a big house in the valley. I’ll be before you
there to give you your money.”

When Leeam came to the _boreen_ he turned in, and was going until he came
as far as the big house. Leeam wondered when he came as far as the big
house, for he was born and raised (_i.e._, reared) in the neighbourhood,
and yet he had never seen the big house before, though he thought he knew
every house within five miles of him.

When Leeam came near the barn that was close to the big house, a little
lad came out and said: “A hundred thousand welcomes to you, William
O’Rooney,” put a sack on his back and went in with it. Another little lad
came out and welcomed Leeam, put a sack on his back, and went in with it.
Lads were coming welcoming Leeam, and putting the sacks on their backs
and carrying them in, until the ton of wheat was all gone. Then the whole
of the lads came round him, and Leeam said; “Ye all know me, and I don’t
know ye!” Then they said to him: “Go in and eat your dinner; the master’s
waiting for you.”

Leeam went in and sat down at table; but he had not the second mouthful
taken till a heavy sleep came on him, and he fell down under the table.
Then the enchanter made a false man like William, and sent him home
to William’s wife with the horse and cart. When the false man came to
Leeam’s house, he went into the room, lay down on the bed and died.

It was not long till the cry went out that Leeam O’Rooney was dead. The
wife put down water, and when it was hot she washed the body and put
it over the board (_i.e._, laid it out). The neighbours came, and they
keened sorrowfully over the body, and there was great pity for the poor
wife, but there was not much grief on herself, for Leeam was old and she
was young. The day on the morrow the body was buried, and there was no
more remembrance of Leeam.

Leeam’s wife had a servant boy, and she said to him: “You ought to marry
me, and to take Leeam’s place.”

“It’s too early yet, after there being a death in the house,” said the
boy; “wait till Leeam is a week buried.”

When Leeam was seven days and seven nights asleep, a little boy came to
him and awoke him, and said: “You’ve been asleep for a week; but we sent
your horse and cart home. Here’s your money, and go.”

Leeam came home, and as it was late at night nobody saw him. On the
morning of that same day Leeam’s wife and the servant lad went to the
priest and asked him to marry them.

“Have you the marriage money?” said the priest.

“No,” said the wife; “but I have a _sturk_ of a pig at home, and you can
have her in place of money.”

The priest married them, and said: “I’ll send for the pig to-morrow.”

When Leeam came to his own door, he struck a blow on it. The wife and the
servant boy were going to bed, and they asked: “Who’s there?”

“It’s I,” said Leeam; “open the door for me.”

When they heard the voice, they knew that it was Leeam who was in it, and
the wife said: “I can’t let you in, and it’s a great shame, you to be
coming back again, after being seven days in your grave.”

“Is it mad you are?” said Leeam.

“I’m not mad,” said the wife; “doesn’t every person in the parish know
that you are dead, and that I buried you decently. Go back to your grave,
and I’ll have a mass read for your poor soul to-morrow.”

“Wait till daylight comes,” said Leeam, “and I’ll give you the price of
your joking!”

Then he went into the stable, where his horse and the pig were, stretched
himself in the straw, and fell asleep.

Early on the morning of the next day, the priest said to a little lad
that he had: “Get up, and go to Leeam O’Rooney’s house, and the woman
that I married yesterday will give you a pig to bring home with you.”

The boy came to the door of the house, and began knocking at it with a
stick. The wife was afraid to open the door, but she asked: “Who’s there?”

“I,” said the boy; “the priest sent me to get a pig from you.”

“She’s out in the stable,” said the wife; “you can get her for yourself,
and drive her back with you.”

The lad went into the stable, and began driving out the pig, when Leeam
rose up and said: “Where are you going with my pig?”

When the boy saw Leeam he never stopped to look again, but out with
him as hard as he could, and he never stopped till he came back to the
priest, and his heart coming out of his mouth with terror.

“What’s on you?” says the priest.

The lad told him that Leeam O’Rooney was in the stable, and would not let
him drive out the pig.

“Hold your tongue, you liar!” said the priest; “Leeam O’Rooney’s dead and
in the grave this week.”

“If he was in the grave this seven years, I saw him in the stable two
moments ago; and if you don’t believe me, come yourself, and you’ll see
him.”

The priest and the boy then went together to the door of the stable, and
the priest said: “Go in and turn me out that pig.”

“I wouldn’t go in for all ever you’re worth,” said the boy.

The priest went in, and began driving out the pig, when Leeam rose up out
of the straw and said: “Where are you going with my pig, Father Patrick?”

When the priest saw Leeam, off and away with him, and he crying out: “In
the name of God, I order you back to your grave, William O’Rooney.”

Leeam began running after the priest, and saying, “Father Patrick, Father
Patrick, are you mad? Wait and speak to me.”

The priest would not wait for him, but made off home as fast as his feet
could carry him, and when he got into the house, he shut the door. Leeam
was knocking at the door till he was tired, but the priest would not let
him in. At last, he put his head out of a window in the top of the house,
and said: “William O’Rooney, go back to your grave.”

“You’re mad, Father Patrick! I’m not dead, and never was in a grave since
I was born,” said Leeam.

“I saw you dead,” said the priest; “you died suddenly, and I was present
when you were put into the grave, and made a fine sermon over you.”

“The devil from me, but, as sure as I’m alive, you’re mad!” said Leeam.

“Go out of my sight now,” said the priest, “and I’ll read a mass for you,
to-morrow.”

Leeam went home then, and knocked at his own door, but his wife would
not let him in. Then he said to himself: “I may as well go and pay my
rent now.” On his way to the landlord’s house every one who saw Leeam
was running before him, for they thought he was dead. When the landlord
heard that Leeam O’Rooney was coming, he shut the doors and would not let
him in. Leeam began knocking at the hall-door till the lord thought he’d
break it in. He came to a window in the top of the house, put out his
head, and asked: “What are you wanting?”

“I’m come to pay my rent like an honest man,” said Leeam.

“Go back to your grave, and I’ll forgive you your rent,” said the lord.

“I won’t leave this,” said Leeam, “till I get a writing from you that I’m
paid up clean till next May.”

The lord gave him the writing, and he came home and knocked at his own
door, but the wife would not let him in. She said that Leeam O’Rooney was
dead and buried, and that the man at the door was only a deceiver.

“I’m no deceiver,” said William; “I’m after paying my master three years’
rent, and I’ll have possession of my own house, or else I’ll know why.”

He went to the barn and got a big bar of iron, and it wasn’t long till
he broke in the door. There was great fear on the wife, and the newly
married husband. They thought they were in the time of the General
Resurrection, and that the end of the world was coming.

“Why did you think I was dead?” said Leeam.

“Doesn’t everybody in the parish know you’re dead?” said the wife.

“Your body from the devil,” said Leeam, “you’re humbugging me long
enough, and get me something to eat.”

The poor woman was greatly afraid, and she dressed him some meat, and
when she saw him eating and drinking, she said: “It’s a miracle.”

Then Leeam told her his story from first to last, and she told him each
thing that happened, and then he said: “I’ll go to the grave to-morrow,
till I see the _behoonuch_ ye buried in my place.”

The day on the morrow Leeam brought a lot of men with him to the
churchyard, and they dug open the grave, and were lifting up the coffin,
when a big black dog jumped out of it, and made off, and Leeam and the
men after it. They were following it till they saw it going into the
house in which Leeam had been asleep, and then the ground opened, and the
house went down, and nobody ever saw it from that out; but the big hole
is to be seen till this day.

When Leeam and the men went home, they told everything to the priest of
the parish, and he dissolved the marriage that was between Leeam’s wife
and the servant boy.

Leeam lived for years after that, and he left great wealth behind him,
and they remember him in Clare-Galway still, and will remember him if
this story goes down from the old people to the young.




GULEESH NA GUSS DHU.


There was once a boy in the County Mayo, and he never washed a foot from
the day he was born. Guleesh was his name; but as nobody could ever
prevail on him to wash his feet, they used to call him Guleesh na guss
dhu, or Guleesh Black-foot. It’s often the father said to him: “Get up,
you _strone-sha_ (lubber), and wash yourself,” but the devil a foot
would he get up, and the devil a foot would he wash. There was no use
in talking to him. Every one used to be humbugging him on account of
his dirty feet, but he paid them no heed nor attention. You might say
anything at all to him, but in spite of it all he would have his own way
afterwards.

One night the whole family were gathered in by the fire, telling stories
and making fun for themselves, and he amongst them. The father said to
him: “Guleesh, you are one and twenty years old to-night, and I believe
you never washed a foot from the day you were born till to-day.”

“You lie,” said Guleesh, “didn’t I go a’swimming on May day last? and I
couldn’t keep my feet out of the water.”

“Well, they were as dirty as ever they were when you came to the shore,”
said the father.

“They were that, surely,” said Guleesh.

“That’s the thing I’m saying,” says the father, “that it wasn’t in you to
wash your feet ever.”

“And I never will wash them till the day of my death,” said Guleesh.

“You miserable _behoonugh_! you clown! you tinker! you good-for-nothing
lubber! what kind of answer is that?” says the father; and with that
he drew the hand and struck him a hard fist on the jaw. “Be off with
yourself,” says he, “I can’t stand you any longer.”

Guleesh got up and put a hand to his jaw, where he got the fist. “Only
that it’s yourself that’s in it, who gave me that blow,” said he,
“another blow you’d never strike till the day of your death.” He went out
of the house then and great anger on him.

There was the finest _lis_, or rath, in Ireland, a little way off from
the gable of the house, and he was often in the habit of seating himself
on the fine grass bank that was running round it. He stood, and he half
leaning against the gable of the house, and looking up into the sky, and
watching the beautiful white moon over his head. After him to be standing
that way for a couple of hours, he said to himself: “My bitter grief that
I am not gone away out of this place altogether. I’d sooner be any place
in the world than here. Och, it’s well for you, white moon,” says he,
“that’s turning round, turning round, as you please yourself, and no man
can put you back. I wish I was the same as you.”

Hardly was the word out of his mouth when he heard a great noise
coming like the sound of many people running together, and talking,
and laughing, and making sport, and the sound went by him like a whirl
of wind, and he was listening to it going into the rath. “Musha, by my
soul,” says he, “but ye’re merry enough, and I’ll follow ye.”

What was in it but the fairy host, though he did not know at first that
it was they who were in it, but he followed them into the rath. It’s
there he heard _the fulparnee, and the folpornee, the rap-lay-hoota,
and the roolya-boolya_.[29] that they had there, and every man of them
crying out as loud as he could: “My horse, and bridle, and saddle! My
horse, and bridle, and saddle!”

“By my hand,” said Guleesh, “my boy, that’s not bad. I’ll imitate ye,”
and he cried out as well as they: “My horse, and bridle, and saddle! My
horse, and bridle, and saddle!” And on the moment there was a fine horse
with a bridle of gold, and a saddle of silver, standing before him. He
leaped up on it, and the moment he was on its back he saw clearly that
the rath was full of horses, and of little people going riding on them.

Said a man of them to him: “Are you coming with us to-night, Guleesh?”

“I am, surely,” said Guleesh.

“If you are, come along,” said the little man, and out with them
altogether, riding like the wind, faster than the fastest horse ever you
saw a’hunting, and faster than the fox and the hounds at his tail.

The cold winter’s wind that was before them, they overtook her, and the
cold winter’s wind that was behind them, she did not overtake them. And
stop nor stay of that full race, did they make none, until they came to
the brink of the sea.

Then every one of them said: “Hie over cap! Hie over cap!” and that
moment they were up in the air, and before Guleesh had time to remember
where he was, they were down on dry land again, and were going like the
wind. At last they stood, and a man of them said to Guleesh: “Guleesh, do
you know where you are now?”

“Not a know,” says Guleesh.

“You’re in Rome, Guleesh,” said he; “but we’re going further than
that. The daughter of the king of France is to be married to-night, the
handsomest woman that the sun ever saw, and we must do our best to bring
her with us, if we’re only able to carry her off; and you must come
with us that we may be able to put the young girl up behind you on the
horse, when we’ll be bringing her away, for it’s not lawful for us to put
her sitting behind ourselves. But you’re flesh and blood, and she can
take a good grip of you, so that she won’t fall off the horse. Are you
satisfied, Guleesh, and will you do what we’re telling you?”

“Why shouldn’t I be satisfied?” said Guleesh. “I’m satisfied, surely, and
anything that ye will tell me to do I’ll do it without doubt; but where
are we now?”

“You’re in Rome now, Guleesh,” said the sheehogue (fairy).

“In Rome, is it?” said Guleesh. “Indeed, and no lie, I’m glad of that.
The parish priest that we had he was broken (suspended) and lost his
parish some time ago; I must go to the Pope till I get a bull from him
that will put him back in his own place again.”

“Oh, Guleesh,” said the sheehogue, “you can’t do that. You won’t be let
into the palace; and, anyhow, we can’t wait for you, for we’re in a
hurry.”

“As much as a foot, I won’t go with ye,” says Guleesh, “till I go to the
Pope; but ye can go forward without me, if ye wish. I won’t stir till I
go and get the pardon of my parish priest.”

“Guleesh, is it out of your senses you are? You can’t go; and there’s
your answer for you now. I tell you, you can’t go.”

“Can’t ye go on, and to leave me here after ye,” said Guleesh, “and when
ye come back can’t ye hoist the girl up behind me?”

“But we want you at the palace of the king of France,” said the
sheehogue, “and you must come with us now.”

“The devil a foot,” said Guleesh, “till I get the priest’s pardon; the
honestest and the pleasantest man that’s in Ireland.”

Another sheehogue spoke then, and said:

“Don’t be so hard on Guleesh. The boy’s a kind boy, and he has a good
heart; and as he doesn’t wish to come without the Pope’s bull, we must do
our best to get it for him. He and I will go in to the Pope, and ye can
wait here.”

“A thousand thanks to you,” said Guleesh. “I’m ready to go with you; for
this priest, he was the sportingest and the pleasantest man in the world.”

“You have too much talk, Guleesh,” said the sheehogue, “but come along
now. Get off your horse and take my hand.”

Guleesh dismounted, and took his hand; and then the little man said a
couple of words he did not understand, and before he knew where he was he
found himself in the room with the Pope.

The Pope was sitting up late that night reading a book that he liked. He
was sitting on a big soft chair, and his two feet on the chimney-board.
There was a fine fire in the grate, and a little table standing at his
elbow, and a drop of ishka-baha (eau-de-vie) and sugar on the little
table_een_; and he never felt till Guleesh came up behind him.

“Now Guleesh,” said the sheehogue, “tell him that unless he gives you
the bull you’ll set the room on fire; and if he refuses it to you, I’ll
spurt fire round about out of my mouth, till he thinks the place is
really in a blaze, and I’ll go bail he’ll be ready enough then to give
you the pardon.”

Guleesh went up to him and put his hand on his shoulder. The Pope turned
round, and when he saw Guleesh standing behind him he frightened up.

“Don’t be afraid,” said Guleesh, “we have a parish priest at home, and
some thief told your honour a lie about him, and he was broken; but he’s
the decentest man ever your honour saw, and there’s not a man, woman, or
child in Ballynatoothach but’s in love with him.”

“Hold your tongue, you _bodach_,” said the Pope. “Where are you from, or
what brought you here? Haven’t I a lock on the door?”

“I came in on the keyhole,” says Guleesh, “and I’d be very much obliged
to your honour if you’d do what I’m asking.”

The Pope cried out: “Where are all my people? Where are my servants?
Shamus! Shawn! I’m killed; I’m robbed.”

Guleesh put his back to the door, the way he could not get out, and he
was afraid to go near Guleesh, so he had no help for it, but had to
listen to Guleesh’s story; and Guleesh could not tell it to him shortly
and plainly, for he was slow and coarse in his speaking, and that angered
the Pope; and when Guleesh finished his story, he vowed that he never
would give the priest his pardon; and he threatened Guleesh himself that
he would put him to death for his shamelessness in coming in upon him in
the night; and he began again crying out for his servants. Whether the
servants heard him or no, there was a lock on the inside of the door, so
that they could not come in to him.

“Unless you give me a bull under your hand and seal, and the priest’s
pardon in it,” said Guleesh; “I’ll burn your house with fire.”

The sheehogue, whom the Pope did not see, began to cast fire and flame
out of his mouth, and the Pope thought that the room was all in a blaze.
He cried out: “Oh, eternal destruction! I’ll give you the pardon; I’ll
give you anything at all, only stop your fire, and don’t burn me in my
own house.”

The sheehogue stopped the fire, and the Pope had to sit down and write a
full pardon for the priest, and give him back his old place again, and
when he had it ready written, he put his name under it on the paper, and
put it into Guleesh’s hand.

“Thank your honour,” said Guleesh; “I never will come here again to you,
and _bannacht lath_ (good-bye).”

“Do not,” said the Pope; “if you do I’ll be ready before you, and you
won’t go from me so easily again. You will be shut up in a prison, and
you won’t get out for ever.”

“Don’t be afraid, I won’t come again,” said Guleesh. And before he could
say any more the sheehogue spoke a couple of words, and caught Guleesh’s
hand again, and out with them. Guleesh found himself amongst the other
sheehogues, and his horse waiting for him.

“Now, Guleesh,” said they, “it’s greatly you stopped us, and we in such
a hurry; but come on now, and don’t think of playing such a trick again,
for we won’t wait for you.”

“I’m satisfied,” said Guleesh, “and I’m thankful to ye; but tell me where
are we going.”

“We’re going to the palace of the king of France,” said they; “and if we
can at all, we’re to carry off his daughter with us.”

Every man of them then said, “Rise up, horse;” and the horses began
leaping, and running, and prancing. The cold wind of winter that was
before them they overtook her, and the cold wind of winter that was
behind them, she did not overtake them, and they never stopped of that
race, till they came as far as the palace of the king of France.

They got off their horses there, and a man of them said a word that
Guleesh did not understand, and on the moment they were lifted up, and
Guleesh found himself and his companions in the palace. There was a great
feast going on there, and there was not a nobleman or a gentleman in
the kingdom but was gathered there, dressed in silk and satin, and gold
and silver, and the night was as bright as the day with all the lamps
and candles that were lit, and Guleesh had to shut his two eyes at the
brightness. When he opened them again and looked from him, he thought
he never saw anything as fine as all he saw there. There were a hundred
tables spread out, and their full of meat and drink on each table of
them, flesh-meat, and cakes and sweetmeats, and wine and ale, and every
drink that ever a man saw. The musicians were at the two ends of the
hall, and they playing the sweetest music that ever a man’s ear heard,
and there were young women and fine youths in the middle of the hall,
dancing and turning, and going round so quickly and so lightly, that it
put a _soorawn_ in Guleesh’s head to be looking at them. There were more
there playing tricks, and more making fun and laughing, for such a feast
as there was that day had not been in France for twenty years, because
the old king had no children alive but only the one daughter, and she was
to be married to the son of another king that night. Three days the feast
was going on, and the third night she was to be married, and that was the
night that Guleesh and the sheehogues came, hoping if they could, to
carry off with them the king’s young daughter.

Guleesh and his companions were standing together at the head of the
hall, where there was a fine altar dressed up, and two bishops behind it
waiting to marry the girl, as soon as the right time should come. Nobody
could see the sheehogues, for they said a word as they came in, that made
them all invisible, as if they had not been in it at all.

“Tell me which of them is the king’s daughter,” said Guleesh, when he was
becoming a little used to the noise and the light.

“Don’t you see her there from you?” said the little man that he was
talking to.

Guleesh looked where the little man was pointing with his finger, and
there he saw the loveliest woman that was, he thought, upon the ridge of
the world. The rose and the lily were fighting together in her face, and
one could not tell which of them got the victory. Her arms and hands were
like the lime, her mouth as red as a strawberry, when it is ripe, her
foot was as small and as light as another one’s hand, her form was smooth
and slender, and her hair was falling down from her head in buckles of
gold. Her garments and dress were woven with gold and silver, and the
bright stone that was in the ring on her hand was as shining as the sun.

Guleesh was nearly blinded with all the loveliness and beauty that was in
her; but when he looked again, he saw that she was crying, and that there
was the trace of tears in her eyes. “It can’t be,” said Guleesh, “that
there’s grief on her, when everybody round her is so full of sport and
merriment.”

“Musha, then, she is grieved,” said the little man; “for it’s against
her own will she’s marrying, and she has no love for the husband she is
to marry. The king was going to give her to him three years ago, when
she was only fifteen, but she said she was too young, and requested him
to leave her as she was yet. The king gave her a year’s grace, and when
that year was up he gave her another year’s grace, and then another; but
a week or a day he would not give her longer, and she is eighteen years
old to-night, and it’s time for her to marry; but, indeed,” says he, and
he crooked his mouth in an ugly way; “indeed, it’s no king’s son she’ll
marry, if I can help it.”

Guleesh pitied the handsome young lady greatly when he heard that, and
he was heart-broken to think that it would be necessary for her to marry
a man she did not like, or what was worse, to take a nasty Sheehogue
for a husband. However, he did not say a word, though he could not help
giving many a curse to the ill-luck that was laid out for himself, and he
helping the people that were to snatch her away from her home and from
her father.

He began thinking, then, what it was he ought to do to save her, but
he could think of nothing. “Oh, if I could only give her some help and
relief,” said he, “I wouldn’t care whether I were alive or dead; but I
see nothing that I can do for her.”

He was looking on when the king’s son came up to her and asked her for
a kiss, but she turned her head away from him. Guleesh had double pity
for her then, when he saw the lad taking her by the soft white hand, and
drawing her out to dance. They went round in the dance near where Guleesh
was, and he could plainly see that there were tears in her eyes.

When the dancing was over, the old king, her father, and her mother, the
queen, came up and said that this was the right time to marry her, that
the bishop was ready and the couch prepared, and it was time to put the
wedding-ring on her and give her to her husband.

The old king put a laugh out of him: “Upon my honour,” he said, “the
night is nearly spent, but my son will make a night for himself. I’ll go
bail he won’t rise early to-morrow.”

“Musha, and maybe he would,” said the Sheehogue in Guleesh’s ear, “or not
go to bed, perhaps, at all. Ha, ha, ha!”

Guleesh gave him no answer, for his two eyes were going out on his head
watching to see what they would do then.

The king took the youth by the hand, and the queen took her daughter,
and they went up together to the altar, with the lords and great people
following them.

When they came near the altar, and were no more than about four yards
from it, the little sheehogue stretched out his foot before the girl,
and she fell. Before she was able to rise again he threw something that
was in his hand upon her, said a couple of words, and upon the moment
the maiden was gone from amongst them. Nobody could see her, for that
word made her invisible. The little man_een_ seized her and raised her up
behind Guleesh, and the king nor no one else saw them, but out with them
through the hall till they came to the door.

Oro! dear Mary! it’s there the pity was, and the trouble, and the crying,
and the wonder, and the searching, and the _rookawn_, when that lady
disappeared from their eyes, and without their seeing what did it. Out
on the door of the palace with them, without being stopped or hindered,
for nobody saw them, and, “My horse, my bridle, and saddle!” says every
man of them. “My horse, my bridle, and saddle!” says Guleesh; and on the
moment the horse was standing ready caparisoned before him. “Now, jump
up, Guleesh,” said the little man, “and put the lady behind you, and we
will be going; the morning is not far off from us now.”

Guleesh raised her up on the horse’s back, and leaped up himself before
her, and, “Rise horse,” said he; and his horse, and the other horses with
him, went in a full race until they came to the sea.

“Highover, cap!” said every man of them.

“Highover, cap!” said Guleesh; and on the moment the horse rose under
him, and cut a leap in the clouds, and came down in Erin.

They did not stop there, but went of a race to the place where was
Guleesh’s house and the rath. And when they came as far as that, Guleesh
turned and caught the young girl in his two arms, and leaped off the
horse.

“I call and cross you to myself, in the name of God!” said he; and on the
spot, before the word was out of his mouth, the horse fell down, and what
was in it but the beam of a plough, of which they had made a horse; and
every other horse they had, it was that way they made it. Some of them
were riding on an old besom, and some on a broken stick, and more on a
_bohalawn_ (rag weed), or a hemlock-stalk.

The good people called out together when they heard what Guleesh said:

“Oh, Guleesh, you clown, you thief, that no good may happen you, why did
you play that trick on us?”

But they had no power at all to carry off the girl, after Guleesh had
consecrated her to himself.

“Oh, Guleesh, isn’t that a nice turn you did us, and we so kind to you?
What good have we now out of our journey to Rome and to France? Never
mind yet, you clown, but you’ll pay us another time for this. Believe us
you’ll repent it.”

“He’ll have no good to get out of the young girl,” said the little man
that was talking to him in the palace before that, and as he said the
word he moved over to her and struck her a slap on the side of the head.
“Now,” says he, “she’ll be without talk any more; now, Guleesh, what good
will she be to you when she’ll be dumb? It’s time for us to go—but you’ll
remember us, Guleesh na Guss Dhu!”

When he said that he stretched out his two hands, and before Guleesh was
able to give an answer, he and the rest of them were gone into the rath
out of his sight, and he saw them no more.

He turned to the young woman and said to her: “Thanks be to God, they’re
gone. Would you not sooner stay with me than with them?” She gave him no
answer. “There’s trouble and grief on her yet,” said Guleesh in his own
mind, and he spoke to her again: “I am afraid that you must spend this
night in my father’s house, lady, and if there is anything that I can do
for you, tell me, and I’ll be your servant.”

The beautiful girl remained silent, but there were tears in her eyes, and
her face was white and red after each other.

“Lady,” said Guleesh, “tell me what you would like me to do now. I never
belonged at all to that lot of sheehogues who carried you away with them.
I am the son of an honest farmer, and I went with them without knowing
it. If I’ll be able to send you back to your father I’ll do it, and I
pray you make any use of me now that you may wish.”

He looked into her face, and he saw the mouth moving as if she was going
to speak, but there came no word from it.

“It cannot be,” said Guleesh, “that you are dumb. Did I not hear you
speaking to the king’s son in the palace to-night? Or has that devil made
you really dumb, when he struck his nasty hand on your jaw?”

The girl raised her white smooth hand, and laid her finger on her tongue,
to show him that she had lost her voice and power of speech, and the
tears ran out of her two eyes like streams, and Guleesh’s own eyes were
not dry, for as rough as he was on the outside he had a soft heart, and
could not stand the sight of the young girl, and she in that unhappy
plight.

He began thinking with himself what he ought to do, and he did not like
to bring her home with himself to his father’s house, for he knew well
that they would not believe him, that he had been in France and brought
back with him the king of France’s daughter, and he was afraid they might
make a mock of the young lady or insult her.

As he was doubting what he ought to do, and hesitating, he chanced to put
his hand in his pocket, and he found a paper in it. He pulled it up, and
the moment he looked at it he remembered it was the Pope’s bull. “Glory
be to God,” said he, “I know now what I’ll do; I’ll bring her to the
priest’s house, and as soon as he sees the pardon I have here, he won’t
refuse me to keep the lady and care her.” He turned to the lady again and
told her that he was loath to take her to his father’s house, but that
there was an excellent priest very friendly to himself, who would take
good care of her, if she wished to remain in his house; but that if there
was any other place she would rather go, he said he would bring her to
it.

She bent her head, to show him she was obliged, and gave him to
understand that she was ready to follow him any place he was going. “We
will go to the priest’s house, then,” said he; “he is under an obligation
to me, and will do anything I ask him.”

They went together accordingly to the priest’s house, and the sun was
just rising when they came to the door. Guleesh beat it hard, and as
early as it was the priest was up, and opened the door himself. He
wondered when he saw Guleesh and the girl, for he was certain that it was
coming wanting to be married they were.

“Guleesh na Guss Dhu, isn’t it the nice boy you are that you can’t wait
till ten o’clock or till twelve, but that you must be coming to me at
this hour, looking for marriage, you and your _girshuch_. You ought to
know that I’m broken, and that I can’t marry you, or at all events, can’t
marry you lawfully. But ubbubboo!” said he, suddenly, as he looked again
at the young girl, “in the name of God, who have you here? Who is she, or
how did you get her?”

“Father,” said Guleesh, “you can marry me, or anybody else, any more, if
you wish; but it’s not looking for marriage I came to you now, but to ask
you, if you please, to give a lodging in your house to this young lady.”
And with that he drew out the Pope’s bull, and gave it to the priest to
read.

The priest took it, and read it, and looked sharply at the writing and
seal, and he had no doubt but it was a right bull, from the hand of the
Pope.

“Where did you get this?” said he to Guleesh, and the hand he held the
paper in, was trembling with wonder and joy.

“Oh, musha!” said Guleesh, airily enough, “I got it last night in Rome;
I remained a couple of hours in the city there, when I was on my way to
bring this young lady, daughter of the king of France, back with me.”

The priest looked at him as though he had ten heads on him; but without
putting any other question to him, he desired him to come in, himself and
the maiden, and when they came in, he shut the door, brought them into
the parlour, and put them sitting.

“Now, Guleesh,” said he, “tell me truly where did you get this bull, and
who is this young lady, and whether you’re out of your senses really, or
are only making a joke of me?”

“I’m not telling a word of lie, nor making a joke of you,” said Guleesh;
“but it was from the Pope himself I got the paper, and it was from the
palace of the king of France I carried off this lady, and she is the
daughter of the king of France.”

He began his story then, and told the whole to the priest, and the priest
was so much surprised that he could not help calling out at times, or
clapping his hands together.

When Guleesh said from what he saw he thought the girl was not satisfied
with the marriage that was going to take place in the palace before he
and the sheehogues broke it up, there came a red blush into the girl’s
cheek, and he was more certain than ever that she had sooner be as she
was—badly as she was—than be the married wife of the man she hated. When
Guleesh said that he would be very thankful to the priest if he would
keep her in his own house, the kind man said he would do that as long as
Guleesh pleased, but that he did not know what they ought to do with her,
because they had no means of sending her back to her father again.

Guleesh answered that he was uneasy about the same thing, and that he saw
nothing to do but to keep quiet until they should find some opportunity
of doing something better. They made it up then between themselves that
the priest should let on that it was his brother’s daughter he had, who
was come on a visit to him from another county, and that he should tell
everybody that she was dumb, and do his best to keep everyone away from
her. They told the young girl what it was they intended to do, and she
showed by her eyes that she was obliged to them.

Guleesh went home then, and when his people asked him where he was, he
said that he was asleep at the foot of the ditch, and passed the night
there.

There was great wonderment on the neighbours when the honest priest
showed them the Pope’s bull, and got his old place again, and everyone
was rejoiced, for, indeed, there was no fault at all in that honest man,
except that now and again he would have too much liking for a drop of
the bottle; but no one could say that he ever saw him in a way that he
could not utter “here’s to your health,” as well as ever a man in the
kingdom. But if they wondered to see the priest back again in his old
place, much more did they wonder at the girl who came so suddenly to his
house without anyone knowing where she was from, or what business she
had there. Some of the people said that everything was not as it ought
to be, and others that it was not possible that the Pope gave back his
place to the priest after taking it from him before, on account of the
complaints about his drinking. And there were more of them, too, who said
that Guleesh na Guss Dhu was not like the same man that was in it before,
and that it was a great story (_i.e._, a thing to wonder at) how he was
drawing every day to the priest’s house, and that the priest had a wish
and a respect for him, a thing they could not clear up at all.

That was true for them, indeed, for it was seldom the day went by but
Guleesh would go to the priest’s house, and have a talk with him, and as
often as he would come he used to hope to find the young lady well again,
and with leave to speak; but, alas! she remained dumb and silent, without
relief or cure. Since she had no other means of talking she carried on
a sort of conversation between herself and himself, by moving her hand
and fingers, winking her eyes, opening and shutting her mouth, laughing
or smiling, and a thousand other signs, so that it was not long until
they understood each other very well. Guleesh was always thinking how
he should send her back to her father; but there was no one to go with
her, and he himself did not know what road to go, for he had never been
out of his own country before the night he brought her away with him.
Nor had the priest any better knowledge than he; but when Guleesh asked
him, he wrote three or four letters to the king of France, and gave them
to buyers and sellers of wares, who used to be going from place to place
across the sea; but they all went astray, and never one came to the
king’s hand.

This was the way they were for many months, and Guleesh was falling
deeper and deeper in love with her every day, and it was plain to himself
and the priest that she liked him. The boy feared greatly at last, lest
the king should really hear where his daughter was, and take her back
from himself, and he besought the priest to write no more, but to leave
the matter to God.

So they passed the time for a year, until there came a day when Guleesh
was lying by himself on the grass, on the last day of the last month
in autumn (_i.e._ October), and he thinking over again in his own mind
of everything that happened to him from the day that he went with the
sheehogues across the sea. He remembered then, suddenly, that it was one
November night that he was standing at the gable of the house, when the
whirlwind came, and the sheehogues in it, and he said to himself: “We
have November night again to-day, and I’ll stand in the same place I was
last year, until I see will the good people come again. Perhaps I might
see or hear something that would be useful to me, and might bring back
her talk again to Mary”—that was the name himself and the priest called
the king’s daughter, for neither of them knew her right name. He told his
intention to the priest, and the priest gave him his blessing.

Guleesh accordingly went to the old rath when the night was darkening,
and he stood with his bent elbow leaning on a gray old flag, waiting
till the middle of the night should come. The moon rose slowly, and it
was like a knob of fire behind him; and there was a white fog which was
raised up over the fields of grass and all damp places, through the
coolness of the night after a great heat in the day. The night was calm
as is a lake when there is not a breath of wind to move a wave on it, and
there was no sound to be heard but the _cronawn_ (hum) of the insects
that would go by from time to time, or the hoarse sudden scream of the
wild-geese, as they passed from lake to lake, half a mile up in the air
over his head; or the sharp whistle of the fadogues and flibeens (golden
and green plover), rising and lying, lying and rising, as they do on a
calm night. There were a thousand thousand bright stars shining over his
head, and there was a little frost out, which left the grass under his
foot white and crisp.

He stood there for an hour, for two hours, for three hours, and the frost
increased greatly, so that he heard the breaking of the _traneens_ under
his foot as often as he moved. He was thinking, in his own mind, at last,
that the sheehogues would not come that night, and that it was as good
for him to return back again, when he heard a sound far away from him,
coming towards him, and he recognised what it was at the first moment.
The sound increased, and at first it was like the beating of waves on a
stony shore, and then it was like the falling of a great waterfall, and
at last it was like a loud storm in the tops of the trees, and then the
whirlwind burst into the rath of one rout, and the sheehogues were in it.

It all went by him so suddenly that he lost his breath with it, but he
came to himself on the spot, and put an ear on himself, listening to what
they would say.

Scarcely had they gathered into the rath till they all began shouting,
and screaming, and talking amongst themselves; and then each one of them
cried out: “My horse, and bridle, and saddle! My horse, and bridle,
and saddle!” and Guleesh took courage, and called out as loudly as any
of them: “My horse, and bridle, and saddle! My horse, and bridle, and
saddle!” But before the word was well out of his mouth, another man cried
out: “Ora! Guleesh, my boy, are you here with us again? How are you
coming on with your woman? There’s no use in your calling for your horse
to-night. I’ll go bail you won’t play on us again. It was a good trick
you played on us last year!”

“It was,” said another man, “he won’t do it again.”

“Isn’t he a prime lad, the same lad! to take a woman with him that never
said as much to him as, ‘how do you do?’ since this time last year!” says
the third man.

“Perhaps he likes to be looking at her,” said another voice.

“And if the _omadawn_ only knew that there’s an herb growing up by his
own door, and to boil it and give it to her and she’d be well,” said
another voice.

“That’s true for you.”

“He is an omadawn.”

“Don’t bother your head with him, we’ll be going.”

“We’ll leave the _bodach_ as he is.”

And with that they rose up into the air, and out with them of one
_roolya-boolya_ the way they came; and they left poor Guleesh standing
where they found him, and the two eyes going out of his head, looking
after them, and wondering.

He did not stand long till he returned back, and he thinking in his own
mind on all he saw and heard, and wondering whether there was really
an herb at his own door that would bring back the talk to the king’s
daughter. “It can’t be,” says he to himself, “that they would tell it
to me, if there was any virtue in it; but perhaps the sheehogue didn’t
observe himself when he let the word slip out of his mouth. I’ll search
well as soon as the sun rises, whether there’s any plant growing beside
the house except thistles and dockings.”

He went home, and as tired as he was he did not sleep a wink until the
sun rose on the morrow. He got up then, and it was the first thing he did
to go out and search well through the grass round about the house, trying
could he get any herb that he did not recognize. And, indeed, he was not
long searching till he observed a large strange herb that was growing up
just by the gable of the house.

He went over to it, and observed it closely, and saw that there were
seven little branches coming out of the stalk, and seven leaves growing
on every branch_een_ of them, and that there was a white sap in the
leaves. “It’s very wonderful,” said he to himself, “that I never noticed
this herb before. If there’s any virtue in an herb at all, it ought to be
in such a strange one as this.”

He drew out his knife, cut the plant, and carried it into his own house;
stripped the leaves off it and cut up the stalk; and there came a thick,
white juice out of it, as there comes out of the sow-thistle when it is
bruised, except that the juice was more like oil.

He put it in a little pot and a little water in it, and laid it on the
fire until the water was boiling, and then he took a cup, filled it half
up with the juice, and put it to his own mouth. It came into his head
then that perhaps it was poison that was in it, and that the good people
were only tempting him that he might kill himself with that trick, or put
the girl to death without meaning it. He put down the cup again, raised
a couple of drops on the top of his finger, and put it to his mouth. It
was not bitter, and, indeed, had a sweet, agreeable taste. He grew bolder
then, and drank the full of a thimble of it, and then as much again, and
he never stopped till he had half the cup drunk. He fell asleep after
that, and did not wake till it was night, and there was great hunger and
great thirst on him.

He had to wait, then, till the day rose; but he determined, as soon as he
should wake in the morning, that he would go to the king’s daughter and
give her a drink of the juice of the herb.

As soon as he got up in the morning, he went over to the priest’s house
with the drink in his hand, and he never felt himself so bold and
valiant, and spirited and light, as he was that day, and he was quite
certain that it was the drink he drank which made him so hearty.

When he came to the house, he found the priest and the young lady within,
and they were wondering greatly why he had not visited them for two days.

He told them all his news, and said that he was certain that there was
great power in that herb, and that it would do the lady no hurt, for he
tried it himself and got good from it, and then he made her taste it, for
he vowed and swore that there was no harm in it.

Guleesh handed her the cup, and she drank half of it, and then fell back
on her bed and a heavy sleep came on her, and she never woke out of that
sleep till the day on the morrow.

Guleesh and the priest sat up the entire night with her, waiting till she
should awake, and they between hope and unhope, between expectation of
saving her and fear of hurting her.

She awoke at last when the sun had gone half its way through the heavens.
She rubbed her eyes and looked like a person who did not know where she
was. She was like one astonished when she saw Guleesh and the priest in
the same room with her, and she sat up doing her best to collect her
thoughts.

The two men were in great anxiety waiting to see would she speak, or
would she not speak, and when they remained silent for a couple of
minutes, the priest said to her: “Did you sleep well, Mary?”

And she answered him: “I slept, thank you.”

No sooner did Guleesh hear her talking than he put a shout of joy out of
him, and ran over to her and fell on his two knees, and said: “A thousand
thanks to God, who has given you back the talk; lady of my heart, speak
again to me.”

The lady answered him that she understood it was he who boiled that
drink for her, and gave it to her; that she was obliged to him from her
heart for all the kindness he showed her since the day she first came to
Ireland, and that he might be certain that she would never forget it.

Guleesh was ready to die with satisfaction and delight. Then they brought
her food, and she eat with a good appetite, and was merry and joyous, and
never left off talking with the priest while she was eating.

After that Guleesh went home to his house, and stretched himself on the
bed and fell asleep again, for the force of the herb was not all spent,
and he passed another day and a night sleeping. When he woke up he went
back to the priest’s house, and found that the young lady was in the same
state, and that she was asleep almost since the time that he left the
house.

He went into her chamber with the priest, and they remained watching
beside her till she awoke the second time, and she had her talk as well
as ever, and Guleesh was greatly rejoiced. The priest put food on the
table again, and they eat together, and Guleesh used after that to come
to the house from day to day, and the friendship that was between him and
the king’s daughter increased, because she had no one to speak to except
Guleesh and the priest, and she liked Guleesh best.

He had to tell her the way he was standing by the rath when the good
people came, and how he went in to the Pope, and how the sheehogue blew
fire out of his mouth, and every other thing that he did till the time
the good people whipt her off with themselves; and when it would be all
told he would have to begin it again out of the new, and she never was
tired listening to him.

When they had been that way for another half year, she said that she
could wait no longer without going back to her father and mother; that
she was certain that they were greatly grieved for her; and that it was
a shame for her to leave them in grief, when it was in her power to go
as far as them. The priest did all he could to keep her with them for
another while, but without effect, and Guleesh spoke every sweet word
that came into his head, trying to get the victory over her, and to
coax her and make her stay as she was, but it was no good for him. She
determined that she would go, and no man alive would make her change her
intention.

She had not much money, but only two rings that were on her hand, when
the sheehogue carried her away, and a gold pin that was in her hair, and
golden buckles that were on her little shoes.

The priest took and sold them and gave her the money, and she said that
she was ready to go.

She left her blessing and farewell with the priest and Guleesh, and
departed. She was not long gone till there came such grief and melancholy
over Guleesh that he knew he would not be long alive unless he were near
her, and he followed her.

    (The next 42 pages in the Leabhar Sgeuluigheachta are taken
    up with the adventures of Guleesh and the princess, on their
    way to the court of France. But this portion of the story is
    partly taken from other tales, and part is too much altered and
    amplified in the writing of it, so that I do not give it here,
    as not being genuine folk-lore, which the story, except for a
    very little embellishment, has been up to this point. The whole
    ends as follows, with the restoration of the princess and her
    marriage with Guleesh.)

It was well, and it was not ill. They married one another, and that was
the fine wedding they had, and if I were to be there then, I would not be
here now; but I heard it from a birdeen that there was neither cark nor
care, sickness nor sorrow, mishap nor misfortune on them till the hour of
their death, and that it may be the same with me, and with us all!




THE WELL OF D’YERREE-IN-DOWAN.


A long time ago—before St. Patrick’s time—there was an old king in
Connacht, and he had three sons. The king had a sore foot for many years,
and he could get no cure. One day he sent for the Dall Glic (wise blind
man) which he had, and said to him:

“I’m giving you wages this twenty years, and you can’t tell me what will
cure my foot.”

“You never asked me that question before,” said the Dall Glic; “but I
tell you now that there is nothing in the world to cure you but a bottle
of water from the Well of D’yerree-in-Dowan” (_i.e._, end of the world).

In the morning, the day on the morrow, the king called his three sons,
and he said to them:

“My foot will never be better until I get a bottle of water from the Well
of D’yerree-in-Dowan, and whichever of you will bring me that, he has my
kingdom to get.”

“We will go in pursuit of it to-morrow,” says the three. The names of the
three were Art, Nart (_i.e._, strength), and Cart[30] (_i.e._, right).

On the morning of the day on the morrow, the king gave to each one of
them a purse of gold, and they went on their way. When they came as far
as the cross-roads, Art said:

“Each one of us ought to go a road for himself, and if one of us is back
before a year and a day, let him wait till the other two come; or else
let him set up a stone as a sign that he has come back safe.”

They parted from one another after that, and Art and Nart went to an inn
and began drinking; but Cart went on by himself. He walked all that day
without knowing where he was going. As the darkness of the night came
on he was entering a great wood, and he was going forwards in the wood,
until he came to a large house. He went in and looked round him, but he
saw nobody, except a large white cat sitting beside the fire. When the
cat saw him she rose up and went into another room. He was tired and sat
beside the fire. It was not long till the door of the chamber opened, and
there came out an old hag.

“One hundred thousand welcomes before you, son of the king of Connacht,”
says the hag.

“How did you know me?” says the king’s son.

“Oh, many’s the good day I spent in your father’s castle in Bwee-sounee,
and I know you since you were born,” said the hag.

Then she prepared him a fine supper, and gave it to him. When he had
eaten and drunk enough, she said to him:

“You made a long journey to-day; come with me until I show you a bed.”
Then she brought him to a fine chamber, showed him a bed, and the king’s
son fell asleep. He did not awake until the sun was coming in on the
windows the next morning.

Then he rose up, dressed himself, and was going out, when the hag asked
him where he was going.

“I don’t know,” said the king’s son. “I left home to find out the Well of
D’yerree-in-Dowan.”

“I’m after walking a good many places,” said the hag, “but I never heard
talk of the Well of D’yerree-in-Dowan before.”

The king’s son went out, and he was travelling till he came to a
cross-roads between two woods. He did not know which road to take. He saw
a seat under the trunk of a great tree. When he went up to it he found
it written: “This is the seat of travellers.”

The king’s son sat down, and after a minute he saw the most lovely woman
in the world coming towards him, and she dressed in red silk, and she
said to him:

“I often heard that it is better to go forward than back.”

Then she went out of his sight as though the ground should swallow her.

The king’s son rose up and went forward. He walked that day till the
darkness of the night was coming on, and he did not know where to get
lodgings. He saw a light in a wood, and he drew towards it. The light was
in a little house. There was not as much as the end of a feather jutting
up on the outside nor jutting down on the inside, but only one single
feather that was keeping up the house. He knocked at the door, and an old
hag opened it.

“God save all here,” says the king’s son.

“A hundred welcomes before you, son of the king of the castle of
Bwee-sounee,” said the hag.

“How do you know me?” said the king’s son.

“It was my sister nursed you,” said the hag, “and sit down till I get
your supper ready.”

When he ate and drank his enough, she put him to sleep till morning. When
he rose up in the morning, he prayed to God to direct him on the road of
his luck.

“How far will you go to-day?” said the hag.

“I don’t know,” said the king’s son. “I’m in search of the Well of
D’yerree-in-Dowan.”

“I’m three hundred years here,” said the hag, “and I never heard of such
a place before; but I have a sister older than myself, and, perhaps, she
may know of it. Here is a ball of silver for you, and when you will go
out upon the road throw it up before you, and follow it till you come to
the house of my sister.”

When he went out on the road he threw down the ball, and he was following
it until the sun was going under the shadow of the hills. Then he went
into a wood, and came to the door of a little house. When he struck the
door, a hag opened it and said:

“A hundred thousand welcomes before you, son of the king of the castle of
Bwee-sounee, who were at my sister’s house last night. You made a long
journey to-day. Sit down; I have a supper ready for you.”

When the king’s son ate and drank his enough, the hag put him to sleep,
and he did not wake up till the morning. Then the hag asked:

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t rightly know,” said the king’s son. “I left home to find out the
Well of D’yerree-in-Dowan.”

“I am over five hundred years of age,” said the hag, “and I never heard
talk of that place before; but I have a brother, and if there is any such
place in the world, he’ll know of it. He is living seven hundred miles
from here.”

“It’s a long journey,” said the king’s son.

“You’ll be there to-night,” said the hag.

Then she gave him a little garraun (nag, gelding) about the size of a
goat.

“That little beast won’t be able to carry me,” said the king’s son.

“Wait till you go riding on it,” said the hag.

The king’s son got on the garraun, and out for ever with him as fast as
lightning.

When the sun was going under, that evening, he came to a little house in
a wood. The king’s son got off the garraun, went in, and it was not long
till an old grey man came out, and said:

“A hundred thousand welcomes to you, son of the king of the castle of
Bwee-sounee. You’re in search of the Well of D’yerree-in-Dowan.”

“I am, indeed,” said the king’s son.

“Many’s the good man went that way before you; but not a man of them came
back alive,” said the old man; “however, I’ll do my best for you. Stop
here to-night, and we’ll have sport to-morrow.”

Then he dressed a supper and gave it to the king’s son, and when he ate
and drank, the old man put him to sleep.

In the morning of the day on the morrow, the old man said:

“I found out where the Well of D’yerree-in-Dowan is; but it is difficult
to go as far as it. We must find out if there’s any good in you with the
tight loop (bow?).”

Then he brought the king’s son out into the wood, gave him the loop, and
put a mark on a tree two score yards from him, and told him to strike it.
He drew the loop and struck the mark.

“You’ll do the business,” said the old man.

They then went in, and spent the day telling stories till the darkness of
the night was come.

When the darkness of the night was come, the old man gave him a loop
(bow?) and a sheaf of sharp stings (darts), and said:

“Come with me now.”

They were going until they came to a great river. Then the old man said:

“Go on my back, and I’ll swim across the river with you; but if you see a
great bird coming, kill him, or we shall be lost.”

Then the king’s son got on the old man’s back, and the old man began
swimming. When they were in the middle of the river the king’s son saw
a great eagle coming, and his gob (beak) open. The king’s son drew the
loop and wounded the eagle.

“Did you strike him?” said the old man.

“I struck him,” said the king’s son; “but here he comes again.”

He drew the loop the second time and the eagle fell dead.

When they came to the land, the old man said:

“We are on the island of the Well of D’yerree-in-Dowan. The queen is
asleep, and she will not waken for a day and a year. She never goes to
sleep but once in seven years. There is a lion and a monster (uillphéist)
watching at the gate of the well, but they go to sleep at the same time
with the queen, and you will have no difficulty in going to the well.
Here are two bottles for you; fill one of them for yourself, and the
other for me, and it will make a young man of me.”

The king’s son went off, and when he came as far as the castle he saw the
lion and the monster sleeping on each side of the gate. Then he saw a
great wheel throwing up water out of the well, and he went and filled the
two bottles, and he was coming back when he saw a shining light in the
castle. He looked in through the window and saw a great table. There was
a loaf of bread, with a knife, a bottle, and a glass on it. He filled the
glass, but he did not diminish the bottle. He observed that there was a
writing on the bottle and on the loaf; and he read on the bottle: “Water
For the World,” and on the loaf: “Bread For the World.” He cut a piece
off the loaf, but it only grew bigger.

“My grief! that we haven’t that loaf and that bottle at home,” said the
king’s son, “and there’d be neither hunger nor thirst on the poor people.”

Then he went into a great chamber, and he saw the queen and eleven
waiting-maids asleep, and a sword of light hung above the head of the
queen. It was it that was giving light to the whole castle.

When he saw the queen, he said to himself: “It’s a pity to leave that
pretty mouth without kissing it.” He kissed the queen, and she never
awoke; and after that he did the same to the eleven maidens. Then he got
the sword, the bottle, and the loaf, and came to the old man, but he
never told him that he had those things.

“How did you get on?” said the old man.

“I got the thing I was in search of,” said the king’s son.

“Did you see any marvel since you left me?” said the old man.

The king’s son told him that he had seen a wonderful loaf, bottle, and
sword.

“You did not touch them?” said the old man; “shun them, for they would
bring trouble on you. Come on my back now till I bring you across the
river.”

When they went to the house of the old man, he put water out of the
bottle on himself, and made a young man of himself. Then he said to the
king’s son:

“My sisters and myself are now free from enchantment, and they are young
women again.”

The king’s son remained there until most part of the year and day were
gone. Then he began the journey home; but, my grief, he had not the
little nag with him. He walked the first day until the darkness of the
night was coming on. He saw a large house. He went to the door, struck
it, and the man of the house came out to him.

“Can you give me lodgings?” said he.

“I can,” said the man of the house, “only I have no light to light you.”

“I have a light myself,” said the king’s son.

He went in then, drew the sword, and gave a fine light to them all, and
to everybody that was in the island. They then gave him a good supper,
and he went to sleep. When he was going away in the morning, the man of
the house asked him for the honour of God, to leave the sword with them.

“Since you asked for it in the honour of God, you must have it,” said the
king’s son.

He walked the second day till the darkness was coming. He went to another
great house, beat the door, and it was not long till the woman of the
house came to him, and he asked lodgings of her. The man of the house
came and said:

“I can give you that; but I have not a drop of water to dress food for
you.”

“I have plenty of water myself,” said the king’s son.

He went in, drew out the bottle, and there was not a vessel in the house
he did not fill, and still the bottle was full. Then a supper was dressed
for him, and when he ate and drank his enough, he went to sleep. In the
morning, when he was going, the woman asked of him, in the honour of God,
to leave them the bottle.

“Since it has chanced that you ask it for the honour of God,” said the
king’s son, “I cannot refuse you, for my mother put me under _gassa_
(mystic obligations), before she died, never, if I could, to refuse
anything that a person would ask of me for the honour of God.”

Then he left the bottle to them.

He walked the third day until darkness was coming, and he reached a great
house on the side of the road. He struck the door; the man of the house
came out, and he asked lodgings of him.

“I can give you that, and welcome,” said the man; “but I’m grieved that
I have not a morsel of bread for you.”

“I have plenty of bread myself,” said the king’s son.

He went in, got a knife, and began cutting the loaf, until the table
was filled with pieces of bread, and yet the loaf was as big as it was
when he began. Then they prepared a supper for him, and when he ate his
enough, he went to sleep. When he was departing in the morning, they
asked of him, for the honour of God, to leave the loaf with them, and he
left it with them.

The three things were now gone from him.

He walked the fourth day until he came to a great river, and he had no
way to get across it. He went upon his knees, and asked of God to send
him help. After half a minute, he saw the beautiful woman he saw the day
he left the house of the first hag. When she came near him, she said:
“Son of the king of the castle of Bwee-sounnee, has it succeeded with
you?”

“I got the thing I went in search of,” said the king’s son; “but I do not
know how I shall pass over this river.”

She drew out a thimble and said: “Bad is the day I would see your
father’s son without a boat.”

Then she threw the thimble into the river, and made a splendid boat of it.

“Get into that boat now,” said she; “and when you will come to the
other side, there will be a steed before you to bring you as far as the
cross-road, where you left your brothers.”

The king’s son stepped into the boat, and it was not long until he was
at the other side, and there he found a white steed before him. He went
riding on it, and it went off as swiftly as the wind. At about twelve
o’clock on that day, he was at the cross-roads. The king’s son looked
round him, and he did not see his brothers, nor any stone set up, and he
said to himself, “perhaps they are at the inn.” He went there, and found
Art and Nart, and they two-thirds drunk.

They asked him how he went on since he left them.

“I have found out the Well of D’yerree-in-Dowan, and I have the bottle of
water,” said Cart.

Nart and Art were filled with jealousy, and they said one to the other:
“It’s a great shame that the youngest son should have the kingdom.”

“We’ll kill him, and bring the bottle of water to my father,” said
Nart; “and we’ll say that it was ourselves who went to the Well of
D’yerree-in-Dowan.”

“I’m not with you there,” said Art; “but we’ll set him drunk, and we’ll
take the bottle of (from) him. My father will believe me and you, before
he’ll believe our brother, because he has an idea that there’s nothing in
him but a half _omadawn_.”

“Then,” he said to Cart, “since it has happened that we have come home
safe and sound we’ll have a drink before we go home.”

They called for a quart of whiskey, and they made Cart drink the most of
it, and he fell drunk. Then they took the bottle of water from him, went
home themselves, and gave it to the king. He put a drop of the water on
his foot, and it made him as well as ever he was.

Then they told him that they had great trouble to get the bottle of
water; that they had to fight giants, and to go through great dangers.

“Did ye see Cart on your road?” said the king.

“He never went farther than the inn, since he left us,” said they; “and
he’s in it now, blind drunk.”

“There never was any good in him,” said the king; “but I cannot leave him
there.”

Then he sent six men to the inn, and they carried Cart home. When he
came to himself, the king made him into a servant to do all the dirty
jobs about the castle.

When a year and a day had gone by, the queen of the Well of
D’yerree-in-Dowan and her waiting-maidens woke up and the queen found a
young son by her side, and the eleven maidens the same.

There was great anger on the queen, and she sent for the lion and the
monster, and asked them what was become of the eagle that she left in
charge of the castle.

“He must be dead, or he’d be here now, when you woke up,” said they.

“I’m destroyed, myself, and the waiting-maidens ruined,” said the queen;
“and I never will stop till I find out the father of my son.”

Then she got ready her enchanted coach, and two fawns under it. She was
going till she came to the first house where the king’s son got lodging,
and she asked was there any stranger there lately. The man of the house
said there was.

“Yes!” said the queen, “and he left the sword of light behind him; it is
mine, and if you do not give it to me quickly I will throw your house
upside down.”

They gave her the sword, and she went on till she came to the second
house, in which he had got lodging, and she asked was there any stranger
there lately. They said that there was. “Yes,” said she, “and he left a
bottle after him. Give it to me quickly, or I’ll throw the house on ye.”

They gave her the bottle, and she went till she came to the third house,
and she asked was there any stranger there lately. They said there was.

“Yes!” said she, “and he left the loaf of lasting bread after him. That
belongs to me, and if ye don’t give it to me quickly I will kill ye all.”

She got the loaf, and she was going, and never stopped till she came
to the castle of Bwee-Sounee. She pulled the _cooalya-coric_, pole of
combat, and the king came out.

“Have you any son?” said the queen.

“I have,” said the king.

“Send him out here till I see him,” said she.

The king sent out Art, and she asked him: “Were you at the Well of
D’yerree-in-Dowan?”

“I was,” said Art.

“And are you the father of my son?” said she.

“I believe I am,” said Art.

“I will know that soon,” said she.

Then she drew two hairs out of her head, flung them against the wall, and
they were made into a ladder that went up to the top of the castle. Then
she said to Art: “If you were at the Well of D’yerree-in-Dowan, you can
go up to the top of that ladder.”

Art went up half way, then he fell, and his thigh was broken.

“You were never at the Well of D’yerree-in-Dowan,” said the queen.

Then she asked the king: “Have you any other son?”

“I have,” said the king.

“Bring him out,” said the queen.

Nart came out, and she asked him: “Were you ever at the Well of
D’yerree-in-Dowan?”

“I was,” said Nart.

“If you were, go up to the top of that ladder,” said the queen.

He began going up, but he had not gone far till he fell and broke his
foot.

“You were not at the Well of D’yerree-in-Dowan,” said the queen.

Then she asked the king if he had any other son, and the king said he
had. “But,” said he, “it’s a half fool he is, that never left home.”

“Bring him here,” said the queen.

When Cart came, she asked him: “Were you at the Well of
D’yerree-in-Dowan?”

“I was,” said Cart, “and I saw you there.”

“Go up to the top of that ladder,” said the queen.

Cart went up like a cat, and when he came down she said: “You are the man
who was at the Well of D’yerree-in-Dowan, and you are the father of my
son.”

Then Cart told the trick his brothers played on him, and the queen was
going to slay them, until Cart asked pardon for them. Then the king said
that Cart must get the kingdom.

Then the father dressed him out and put a chain of gold beneath his neck,
and he got into the coach along with the queen, and they departed to the
Well of D’yerree-in-Dowan.

The waiting-maidens gave a great welcome to the king’s son, and they all
of them came to him, each one asking him to marry herself.

He remained there for one-and-twenty years, until the queen died, and
then he brought back with him his twelve sons, and came home to Galway.
Each of them married a wife, and it is from them that the twelve tribes
of Galway are descended.




THE COURT OF CRINNAWN.


A long time ago there came a lot of gentlemen to a river which is between
the County Mee-òh (Mayo) and Roscommon, and they chose out a nice place
for themselves on the brink of a river, and set up a court on it. Nobody
at all in the little villages round about knew from what place these
gentlemen came. MacDonnell was the name that was on them. The neighbours
were for a long time without making friendship with them, until there
came a great plague, and the people were getting death in their hundreds.

One day there was the only son of a poor widow dying from the destructive
plague, and she had not a drop of milk to wet his tongue. She went to the
court, and they asked her what she was looking for. She told them that
the one son she had was dying of the plague and that she had not a drop
of milk to wet his tongue.

“Hard is your case,” says a lady that was in the court to her. “I will
give you milk and healing, and your son will be as well at the end of an
hour as ever he was.” Then she gave her a tin can, and said: “Go home
now, this can will never be empty as long as you or your son is alive,
if you keep the secret without telling anybody that you got it here.
When you will go home put a morsel of the Mary’s shamrock (four-leaved
shamrock?) in the milk and give it to your son.”

The widow went home. She put a bit of four-leaved shamrock in the milk,
and gave it to her son to drink, and he rose up at the end of an hour as
well as ever he was. Then the woman went through the villages round about
with the can, and there was no one at all to whom she gave a drink that
was not healed at the end of an hour.

It was not long till the fame of Maurya nee Keerachawn (Mary Kerrigan),
that was the name of the widow, went through the country, and it was not
long till she had the full of the bag of gold and silver.

One day Mary went to a _pattern_ at Cultya Bronks, drank too much, fell
on drunkenness, and let out the secret.

There came the heavy sleep of drunkenness on her, and when she awoke the
can was gone. There was so much grief on her that she drowned herself in
a place called Pull Bawn (the White Hole), within a mile of Cultya Bronks.

Everybody thought now that they had the can of healing to get at the
Court of Crinnawn if they would go there. In the morning, the day on the
morrow, there went plenty of people to the court, and they found every
one who was in it dead. The shout went out, and the hundreds of people
gathered together, but no man could go in, for the court was filled with
smoke; and lightning and thunder coming out of it.

They sent a message for the priest, who was in Ballaghadereen, but he
said: “It is not in my parish, and I won’t have anything to do with it.”
That night the people saw a great light in the court, and there was very
great fear on them. The day on the morrow they sent word to the priest of
Lisahull, but he would not come, as the place was not in his parish. Word
was sent to the priest of Kilmovee, then, but he had the same excuse.

There were a lot of poor friars in Cultya Mawn, and when they heard the
story they went to the court without a person with them but themselves.

When they went in they began saying prayers, but they saw no corpse.
After a time the smoke went, the lightning and thunder ceased, a door
opened, and there came out a great man. The friars noticed that he had
only one eye, and that it was in his forehead.

“In the name of God, who are you?” said a man of the friars.

“I am Crinnawn, son of Belore, of the Evil Eye. Let there be no fear on
ye, I shall do ye no damage, for ye are courageous, good men. The people
who were here are gone to eternal rest, body and soul. I know that ye
are poor, and that there are plenty of poor people round about ye. Here
are two purses for ye, one of them for yourselves, and the other one to
divide upon the poor; and when all that will be spent, do ye come again.
Not of this world am I, but I shall do no damage to anyone unless he does
it to me first, and do ye keep from me.”

Then he gave them two purses, and said: “Go now on your good work.” The
friars went home; they gathered the poor people and they divided the
money on them. The people questioned them as to what it was they saw in
the court. “It is a secret each thing we saw in the court, and it is our
advice to ye not to go near the court, and no harm will come upon ye.”

The priests were covetous when they heard that the friars got plenty of
money in the court, and the three of them went there with the hope that
they would get some as the friars got it.

When they went in they began crying aloud: “Is there any person here?
is there any person here?” Crinnawn came out of a chamber and asked:
“What are ye looking for?” “We came to make friendship with you,” said
the priests. “I thought that priests were not given to telling lies,”
said Crinnawn; “ye came with a hope that ye would get money as the poor
friars got. Ye were afraid to come when the people sent for ye, and now
ye will not get a keenogue (mite?) from me, for ye are not worth it.”

“Don’t you know that we have power to banish you out of this place,” said
the priests, “and we will make use of that power unless you will be more
civil than you are.”

“I don’t care for your power,” said Crinnawn, “I have more power myself
than all the priests that are in Ireland.”

“It’s a lie you’re speaking,” said the priests.

“Ye will see a small share of my power to-night,” said Crinnawn; “I will
not leave a wattle over your heads that I will not sweep into yonder
river, and I could kill ye with the sight of my eye, if I chose. Ye will
find the roofs of your houses in the river to-morrow morning. Now put no
other questions on me, and threaten me no more, or it will be worse for
ye.”

There came fear on the priests, and they went home; but they did not
believe that their houses would be without a roof before morning.

About midnight, that night, there came a blast of wind under the roof of
the houses of the priests, and it swept them into the river forenent the
court. There was not a bone of the priests but was shaken with terror,
and they had to get shelter in the houses of the neighbours till morning.

In the morning, the day on the morrow, the priests came to the river
opposite the court, and they saw the roofs that were on all their houses
swimming in the water. They sent for the friars, and asked them to go
to Crinnawn and proclaim a peace, and say to him that they would put no
more trouble on him. The friars went to the court, and Crinnawn welcomed
them, and asked them what they were seeking. “We come from the priests
to proclaim a peace on you, they will trouble you no more.” “That is well
for them,” said Crinnawn, “come with me now until ye see me putting back
the roofs of the houses.” They went with him as far as the river, and
then he blew a blast out of each nostril. The roofs of the houses rose up
as well as they were when they were first put on. There was wonder on the
priests, and they said: “The power of enchantment is not yet dead, nor
banished out of the country yet.” From that day out neither priest nor
anyone else would go near the Court of Crinnawn.

A year after the death of Mary Kerrigan, there was a pattern in Cultya
Bronks. There were plenty of young men gathered in it, and amongst them
was Paudyeen, the son of Mary Kerrigan. They drank whiskey till they
were in madness. When they were going home, Paudyeen O’Kerrigan said:
“There is money in plenty in the court up there, and if ye have courage
we can get it.” As the drink was in them, twelve of them said: “We have
courage, and we will go to the court.” When they came to the door,
Paudyeen O’Kerrigan said: “Open the door, or we will break it.” Crinnawn
came out and said: “Unless ye go home I will put a month’s sleep on ye.”
They thought to get a hold of Crinnawn, but he put a blast of wind out of
his two nostrils that swept the young men to a _lis_ (old circular rath)
called Lisdrumneal, and put a heavy sleep on them, and a big cloud over
them, and there is no name on the place from that out, but Lis-trum-nail
(the fort of the heavy cloud).

On the morning, the day on the morrow, the young men were not to be found
either backwards or forwards, and there was great grief amongst the
people. That day went by without any account from the young men. People
said that it was Crinnawn that killed them, for some saw them going to
the court. The fathers and mothers of the young men went to the friars,
and prayed them to go to Crinnawn and to find out from him where the
young men were, dead or alive.

They went to Crinnawn, and Crinnawn told them the trick the young men
thought to do on him, and the thing he did with them. “If it be your
will, bestow forgiveness on them this time,” said the friars; “they were
mad with whiskey, and they won’t be guilty again.” “On account of ye to
ask it of me, I will loose them this time; but if they come again, I will
put a sleep of seven years on them. Come with me now till you see them.”

“It’s bad walkers, we are,” said the friars, “we would be a long time
going to the place where they are.”

“Ye won’t be two minutes going to it,” said Crinnawn, “and ye will be
back at home in the same time.”

Then he brought them out, and put a blast of wind out of his mouth, and
swept them to Lisdrumneal, and he himself was there as soon as they.

They saw the twelve young men asleep under a cloud in the _lis_, and
there was great wonder on them. “Now,” said Crinnawn, “I will send them
home.” He blew upon them, and they rose up like birds in the air, and it
was not long until each one of them was at home, and the friars as well,
and you may be certain that they did not go to the Court of Crinnawn any
more.

Crinnawn was living in the court years after that. One day the friars
went on a visit to him, but he was not to be found. People say that the
friars got great riches after Crinnawn. At the end of a period of time
the roof fell off the court, as everyone was afraid to go and live in
it. During many years after that, people would go round about a mile,
before they would go near the old court. There is only a portion of the
walls to be found now; but there is no name on the old court from that
day till this day, but Coort a Chrinnawn (Crinnawn’s Court).




NEIL O’CARREE.


There was no nicety about him. He said to his wife that he would go to
the forge to get a doctoring instrument. He went to the forge the next
day. “Where are you going to to-day?” said the smith. “I am going till
you make me an instrument for doctoring.” “What is the instrument I shall
make you?” “Make a _crumskeen_ and a _galskeen_” (crooked knife and white
knife?). The smith made that for him. He came home.

When the day came—the day on the morrow—Neil O’Carree rose up. He made
ready to be going as a doctor. He went. He was walking away. A red lad
met him on the side of the high road. He saluted Neil O’Carree; Neil
saluted him. “Where are you going?” says the red man. “I am going till I
be my (_i.e._, a) doctor.“ ”It’s a good trade,” says the red man, “’twere
best for you to hire me.” “What’s the wages you’ll be looking for?” says
Neil. “Half of what we shall earn till we shall be back again on this
ground.” “I’ll give you that,” says Neil. The couple walked on.

“There’s a king’s daughter,” says the red man, “with the (_i.e._, near
to) death; we will go as far as her, till we see will we heal her.” They
went as far as the gate. The porter came to them. He asked them where
were they going. They said that it was coming to look at the king’s
daughter they were, to see would they do her good. The king desired to
let them in. They went in.

They went to the place where the girl was lying. The red man went and
took hold of her pulse. He said that if his master should get the price
of his labour he would heal her. The king said that he would give his
master whatever he should award himself. He said, “if he had the room to
himself and his master, that it would be better.” The king said he should
have it.

He desired to bring down to him a skillet (little pot) of water. He put
the skillet on the fire. He asked Neil O’Carree: “Where is the doctoring
instrument?” “Here they are,” says Neil, “a crumskeen and a galskeen.”

He put the crumskeen on the neck of the girl. He took the head off her.
He drew a green herb out of his pocket. He rubbed it to the neck. There
did not come one drop of blood. He threw the head into the skillet. He
knocked a boil out of it. He seized hold on the two ears. He took it out
of the skillet. He struck it down on the neck. The head stuck as well
as ever it was. “How do you feel yourself now?” “I am as well as ever I
was,” said the king’s daughter.

The big man shouted. The king came down. There was great joy on him.
He would not let them go away for three days. When they were going he
brought down a bag of money. He poured it out on the table. He asked
of Neil O’Carree had he enough there. Neil said he had, and more than
enough, that they would take but the half. The king desired them not to
spare the money.

“There’s the daughter of another king waiting for us to go and look at
her.” They bade farewell to the king and they went there.

They went looking at her. They went to the place where she was lying,
looking at her in her bed, and it was the same way this one was healed.
The king was grateful, and he said he did not mind how much money Neil
should take of him. He gave him three hundred pounds of money. They went
then, drawing on home. “There’s a king’s son in such and such a place,”
said the red man, “but we won’t go to him, we will go home with what we
have.”

They were drawing on home. The king (had) bestowed half a score of
heifers on them, to bring home with them. They were walking away. When
they were in the place where Neil O’Carree hired the red man, “I think,”
says the red man, “that this is the place I met you the first time.” “I
think it is,” says Neil O’Carree. “Musha, how shall we divide the money?”
“Two halves,” says the red man, “that’s the bargain was in it.” “I think
it a great deal to give you a half,” says Neil O’Carree, “a third is big
enough for you; I have a crumskeen and a galskeen (says Neil) and you
have nothing.” “I won’t take anything,” said the red man, “unless I get
the half.” They fell out about the money. The red man went and he left
him.

Neil O’Carree was drawing home, riding on his beast. He was driving his
share of cattle. The day came hot. The cattle went capering backwards
and forwards. Neil O’Carree was controlling them. When he would have one
or two caught the rest would be off when he used to come back. He tied
his garrawn (gelding) to a bit of a tree. He was a-catching the cattle.
At the last they were all off and away. He did not know where they went.
He returned back to the place where he left his garrawn and his money.
Neither the garrawn nor the money were to be got. He did not know then
what he should do. He thought he would go to the house of the king whose
son was ill.

He went along, drawing towards the house of the king. He went looking on
the lad in the place where he was lying. He took a hold of his pulse.
He said he thought he would heal him. “If you heal him,” said the king,
“I will give you three hundred pounds.” “If I were to get the room to
myself, for a little,” says he. The king said that he should get that.
He called down for a skillet of water. He put the skillet on the fire.
He drew his crumskeen. He went to take the head off him as he saw the
red man a-doing. He was a-sawing at the head, and it did not come with
him to cut it off the neck. The blood was coming. He took the head off
him at last. He threw it into the skillet. He knocked a boil out of it.
When he considered the head to be boiled enough he made an attempt on
the skillet. He got a hold of the two ears. The head fell in _gliggar_
(a gurgling mass?), and the two ears came with him. The blood was coming
greatly. It was going down, and out of the door of the room. When the
king saw it going down he knew that his son was dead. He desired to open
the door. Neil O’Carree would not open the door. They broke the door. The
man was dead. The floor was full of blood. They seized Neil O’Carree.
He was to hang the next day. They gathered a guard till they should
carry him to the place where he was to hang. They went the next day with
him. They were walking away, drawing towards the tree where he should
be hanged. They stopped his screaming. They see a man stripped making a
running race. When they saw him there was a fog of water round him with
all he was running. When he came as far as them (he cried), “what are
ye doing to my master?” “If this man is your master, deny him, or you’ll
get the same treatment.” “It’s I that it’s right should suffer; it’s I
who made the delay. He sent me for medicine, and I did not come in time,
loose my master, perhaps he would heal the king’s son yet.”

They loosed him. They came to the king’s house. The red man went to the
place where the dead man was. He began gathering the bones that were in
the skillet. He gathered them all but only the two ears.

“What did you do with the ears?”

“I don’t know,” said Neil O’Carree, “I was so much frightened.”

The red man got the ears. He put them all together. He drew a green herb
out of his pocket. He rubbed it round on the head. The skin grew on it,
and the hair, as well as ever it was. He put the head in the skillet
then. He knocked a boil out of it. He put the head back on the neck as
well as ever it was. The king’s son rose up in the bed.

“How are you now?” says the red man.

“I am well,” says the king’s son, “but that I’m weak.”

The red man shouted again for the king. There was great joy on the king
when he saw his son alive. They spent that night pleasantly.

The next day when they were going away, the king counted out three
hundred pounds. He gave it to Neil O’Carree. He said to Neil that if he
had not enough he would give him more. Neil O’Carree said he had enough,
and that he would not take a penny more. He bade farewell and left his
blessing, and struck out, drawing towards home.

When they saw that they were come to the place where they fell out with
one another, “I think,” says the red man, “that this is the place where
we differed before.” “It is, exactly,” said Neil O’Carree. They sat down
and they divided the money. He gave a half to the red man, and he kept
another half himself. The red man bade him farewell, and he went. He
was walking away for a while. He returned back. “I am here back again,”
said the red man, “I took another thought, to leave all your share of
money with yourself. You yourself were open-handed. Do you mind the day
you were going by past the churchyard. There were four inside in the
churchyard, and a body with them in a coffin. There were a pair of them
seeking to bury the body. There were debts on the body (_i.e._, it owed
debts). The two men who had the debts on it (_i.e._, to whom it owed the
debts), they were not satisfied for the body to be buried. They were
arguing. You were listening to them. You went in. You asked how much they
had on the body (_i.e._, how were they owed by the body). The two men
said that they had a pound on the body, and that they were not willing
the body to be buried, until the people who were carrying it would
promise to pay a portion of the debts. You said, ‘I have ten shillings,
and I’ll give it to ye, and let the body be buried.’ You gave the ten
shillings, and the corpse was buried. It’s I who was in the coffin that
day. When I saw you going a-doctoring, I knew that you would not do the
business. When I saw you in a hobble, I came to you to save you. I bestow
the money on you all entirely. You shall not see me until the last day,
go home now. Don’t do a single day’s doctoring as long as you’ll be
alive. It’s short you’ll walk until you get your share of cattle and your
garrawn.”

Neil went, drawing towards home. Not far did he walk till his share of
cattle and his nag met him. He went home and the whole with him. There is
not a single day since that himself and his wife are not thriving on it.

I got the ford, they the stepping stones. They were drowned, and I came
safe.




TRUNK-WITHOUT-HEAD.


Long ago there was a widow woman living in the County Galway, and two
sons with her, whose names were Dermod and Donal. Dermod was the eldest
son, and he was the master over the house. They were large farmers, and
they got a summons from the landlord to come and pay him a year’s rent.
They had not much money in the house, and Dermod said to Donal, “bring
a load of oats to Galway, and sell it.” Donal got ready a load, put two
horses under the cart, and went to Galway. He sold the oats, and got a
good price for it. When he was coming home, he stopped at the half-way
house, as was his custom, to have a drink himself, and to give a drink
and oats to the horses.

When he went in to get a drink for himself, he saw two boys playing
cards. He looked at them for a while, and one of them said: “Will you
have a game?” Donal began playing, and he did not stop till he lost every
penny of the price of the oats. “What will I do now?” says Donal to
himself, “Dermod will kill me. Anyhow, I’ll go home and tell the truth.”

When he came home, Dermod asked him: “Did you sell the oats?” “I
sold, and got a good price for it,” says Donal. “Give me the money,”
says Dermod. “I haven’t it,” says Donal; “I lost every penny of it
playing cards at the house half-way.” “My curse, and the curse of the
four-and-twenty men on you,” says Dermod. He went and told the mother
the trick Donal did. “Give him his pardon this time,” says the mother,
“and he won’t do it again.” “You must sell another load to-morrow,” says
Dermod, “and if you lose the price, don’t come here.”

On the morning, the day on the morrow, Donal put another load on the
cart, and he went to Galway. He sold the oats, and got a good price
for it. When he was coming home, and near the half-way house, he said
to himself: “I will shut my eyes till I go past that house, for fear
there should be a temptation on me to go in.” He shut his eyes; but when
the horses came as far as the inn, they stood, and would not go a step
further, for it was their custom to get oats and water in that place
every time they would be coming out of Galway. He opened his eyes, gave
oats and water to the horses, and went in himself to put a coal in his
pipe.

When he went in he saw the boys playing cards. They asked him to play,
and (said) that perhaps he might gain all that he lost the day before.
As there is a temptation on the cards, Donal began playing, and he did
not stop until he lost every penny of all that he had. “There is no good
in my going home now,” says Donal; “I’ll stake the horses and the cart
against all I lost.” He played again, and he lost the horses and the
cart. Then he did not know what he should do, but he thought and said:
“Unless I go home, my poor mother will be anxious. I will go home and
tell the truth to her. They can but banish me.”

When he came home, Dermod asked him: “Did you sell the oats? or where are
the horses and the cart?” “I lost the whole playing cards, and I would
not come back except to leave ye my blessing before I go.” “That you may
not ever come back, or a penny of your price,” said Dermod, “and I don’t
want your blessing.”

He left his blessing with his mother then, and he went travelling,
looking for service. When the darkness of the night was coming, there was
thirst and hunger on him. He saw a poor man coming to him, and a bag on
his back. He recognised Donal, and said: “Donal, what brought you here,
or where are you going?” “I don’t know you,” said Donal.

“It’s many’s the good night I spent in your father’s house, may God have
mercy upon him,” said the poor man; “perhaps there’s hunger on you, and
that you would not be against eating something out of my bag?”

“It’s a friend that would give it to me,” says Donal. Then the poor man
gave him beef and bread, and when he ate his enough, the poor man asked
him: “Where are you going to-night?”

“Musha, then, I don’t know,” says Donal.

“There is a gentleman in the big house up there, and he gives lodging to
anyone who comes to him after the darkness of night, and I’m going to
him,” says the poor man.

“Perhaps I would get lodgings with you,” says Donal. “I have no doubt of
it,” says the poor man.

The pair went to the big house, and the poor man knocked at the door, and
the servant opened it. “I want to see the master of this house,” says
Donal.

The servant went, and the master came. “I am looking for a night’s
lodging,” said Donal.

“I will give ye that, if ye wait. Go up to the castle there above, and I
will be after ye, and if ye wait in it till morning, each man of ye will
get five score ten-penny pieces, and ye will have plenty to eat and drink
as well; and a good bed to sleep on.”

“That’s a good offer,” said they; “we will go there.”

The pair came to the castle, went into a room, and put down a fire. It
was not long till the gentleman came, bringing beef, mutton, and other
things to them. “Come with me now till I show ye the cellar, there’s
plenty of wine and ale in it, and ye can draw your enough.” When he
showed them the cellar, he went out, and he put a lock on the door behind
him.

Then Donal said to the poor man: “Put the things to eat on the table, and
I’ll go for the ale.” Then he got a light, and a cruiskeen (jug), and
went down into the cellar. The first barrel he came to he stooped down
to draw out of it, when a voice said: “Stop, that barrel is mine.” Donal
looked up, and he saw a little man without a head, with his two legs
spread straddle-wise on a barrel.

“If it is yours,” says Donal, “I’ll go to another.” He went to another;
but when he stooped down to draw, Trunk-without-head said: “That barrel
is mine.” “They’re not all yours,” says Donal, “I’ll go to another
one.” He went to another one; but when he began drawing out of it,
Trunk-without-head said: “That’s mine.” “I don’t care,” said Donal, “I’ll
fill my cruiskeen.” He did that, and came up to the poor man; but he did
not tell him that he saw Trunk-without-head. Then they began eating and
drinking till the jug was empty. Then said Donal: “It’s your turn to go
down and fill the jug.” The poor man got the candle and the cruiskeen,
and went down into the cellar. He began drawing out of a barrel, when
he heard a voice saying: “That barrel is mine.” He looked up, and when
he saw Trunk-without-head, he let cruiskeen and candle fall, and off
and away with him to Donal. “Oh! it’s little but I’m dead,” says the
poor man; “I saw a man without a head, and his two legs spread out on
the barrel, and he said it was his.” “He would not do you any harm,”
said Donal, “he was there when I went down; get up and bring me the jug
and the candle.” “Oh, I wouldn’t go down again if I were to get Ireland
without a division,” says the poor man. Donal went down, and he brought
up the jug filled. “Did you see Trunk-without-head?” says the poor man.
“I did,” says Donal; “but he did not do me any harm.”

They were drinking till they were half drunk, then said Donal: “It’s time
for us to be going to sleep, what place would you like best, the outside
of the bed, or next the wall?”

“I’ll go next the wall,” said the poor man. They went to bed leaving the
candle lit.

They were not long in bed till they saw three men coming in, and a
bladder (football) with them. They began beating _bayrees_ (playing at
ball) on the floor; but there were two of them against one. Donal said to
the poor man: “It is not right for two to be against one,” and with that
he leaped out and began helping the weak side, and he without a thread on
him. Then they began laughing, and walked out.

Donal went to bed again, and he was not long there till there came in a
piper playing sweet music. “Rise up,” says Donal, “until we have a dance;
it’s a great pity to let good music go to loss.” “For your life, don’t
stir,” says the poor man.

Donal gave a leap out of the bed, and he fell to dancing till he was
tired. Then the piper began laughing, and walked out.

Donal went to bed again; but he was not long there till there walked in
two men, carrying a coffin. They left it down on the floor, and they
walked out. “I don’t know who’s in the coffin, or whether it’s for us
it’s meant,” said Donal; “I’ll go till I see.” He gave a leap out, raised
the board of the coffin, and found a dead man in it. “By my conscience,
it’s the cold place you have,” says Donal; “if you were able to rise
up, and sit at the fire, you would be better.” The dead man rose up and
warmed himself. Then said Donal, “the bed is wide enough for three.”
Donal went in the middle, the poor man next the wall, and the dead man on
the outside. It was not long until the dead man began bruising Donal, and
Donal bruising in on the poor man, until he was all as one as dead, and
he had to give a leap out through the window, and to leave Donal and the
dead man there. The dead man was crushing Donal then until he nearly put
him out through the wall.

“Destruction on you,” said Donal, then; “it’s you’re the ungrateful man;
I let you out of the coffin; I gave you a heat at the fire, and a share
of my bed; and now you won’t keep quiet; but I’ll put you out of the
bed.” Then the dead man spoke, and said: “You are a valiant man, and it
stood you upon[31] to be so, or you would be dead.” “Who would kill me?”
said Donal. “I,” says the dead man; “there never came any one here this
twenty years back, that I did not kill. Do you know the man who paid you
for remaining here?” “He was a gentleman,” said Donal. “He is my son,”
said the dead man, “and he thinks that you will be dead in the morning;
but come with me now.”

The dead man took him down into the cellar, and showed him a great flag.
“Lift that flag. There are three pots under it, and they filled with
gold. It is on account of the gold they killed me; but they did not get
the gold. Let yourself have a pot, and a pot for my son, and the other
one—divide it on the poor people.” Then he opened a door in the wall, and
drew out a paper, and said to Donal: “Give this to my son, and tell him
that it was the butler who killed me, for my share of gold. I can get no
rest until he’ll be hanged; and if there is a witness wanting I will come
behind you in the court without a head on me, so that everybody can see
me. When he will be hanged, you will marry my son’s daughter, and come to
live in this castle. Let you have no fear about me, for I shall have gone
to eternal rest. Farewell now.”

Donal went to sleep, and he did not awake till the gentleman came in the
morning, and he asked him did he sleep well, or where did the old man
whom he left with him go? “I will tell you that another time; I have
a long story to tell you first.” “Come to my house with me,” says the
gentleman.

When they were going to the house, whom should they see coming out of the
bushes, but the poor man without a thread on him, more than the night
he was born, and he shaking with the cold. The gentleman got him his
clothes, gave him his wages, and off for ever with him.

Donal went to the gentleman’s house, and when he ate and drank his
enough, he said: “I have a story to tell you.” Then he told him
everything that happened to him the night before, until he came as far
as the part about the gold. “Come with me till I see the gold,” said the
gentleman. He went to the castle, he lifted the flag, and when he saw the
gold, he said: “I know now that the story is true.”

When he got the entire information from Donal, he got a warrant against
the butler; but concealed the crime it was for. When the butler was
brought before the judge, Donal was there, and gave witness. Then the
judge read out of his papers, and said: “I cannot find this man guilty
without more evidence.”

“I am here,” said Trunk-without-head, coming behind Donal. When the
butler saw him, he said to the judge: “Go no farther, I am guilty; I
killed the man, and his head is under the hearth-stone in his own room.”
Then the judge gave order to hang the butler, and Trunk-without-head went
away.

The day on the morrow, Donal was married to the gentleman’s daughter, and
got a great fortune with her, and went to live in the castle.

A short time after this, he got ready his coach and went on a visit to
his mother.

When Dermod saw the coach coming, he did not know who the great man was
who was in it. The mother came out and ran to him, saying: “Are you not
my own Donal, the love of my heart you are? I was praying for you since
you went.” Then Dermod asked pardon of him, and got it. Then Donal gave
him a purse of gold, saying at the same time: “There’s the price of the
two loads of oats, of the horses, and of the cart.” Then he said to his
mother: “You ought to come home with me. I have a fine castle without
anybody in it but my wife and the servants.” “I will go with you,” said
the mother; “and I will remain with you till I die.”

Donal took his mother home, and they spent a prosperous life together in
the castle.




THE HAGS OF THE LONG TEETH.


Long ago, in the old time, there came a party of gentlemen from Dublin to
Loch Glynn a-hunting and a-fishing. They put up in the priest’s house, as
there was no inn in the little village.

The first day they went a-hunting, they went into the Wood of Driminuch,
and it was not long till they routed a hare. They fired many a ball
after him, but they could not bring him down. They followed him till they
saw him going into a little house in the wood.

When they came to the door, they saw a great black dog, and he would not
let them in.

“Put a ball through the beggar,” said a man of them. He let fly a ball,
but the dog caught it in his mouth, chewed it, and flung it on the
ground. They fired another ball, and another, but the dog did the same
thing with them. Then he began barking as loud as he could, and it was
not long till there came out a hag, and every tooth in her head as long
as the tongs. “What are you doing to my pup?” says the hag.

“A hare went into your house, and this dog won’t let us in after him,”
says a man of the hunters.

“Lie down, pup,” said the hag. Then she said: “Ye can come in if ye
wish.” The hunters were afraid to go in, but a man of them asked: “Is
there any person in the house with you?”

“There are six sisters,” said the old woman. “We should like to see
them,” said the hunters. No sooner had he said the word than the six old
women came out, and each of them with teeth as long as the other. Such a
sight the hunters had never seen before.

They went through the wood then, and they saw seven vultures on one tree,
and they screeching. The hunters began cracking balls after them, but if
they were in it ever since they would never bring down one of them.

There came a gray old man to them and said: “Those are the hags of the
long tooth that are living in the little house over there. Do ye not know
that they are under enchantment? They are there these hundreds of years,
and they have a dog that never lets in anyone to the little house. They
have a castle under the lake, and it is often the people saw them making
seven swans of themselves, and going into the lake.”

When the hunters came home that evening they told everything they heard
and saw to the priest, but he did not believe the story.

On the day on the morrow, the priest went with the hunters, and when they
came near the little house they saw the big black dog at the door. The
priest put his conveniencies for blessing under his neck, and drew out
a book and began reading prayers. The big dog began barking loudly. The
hags came out, and when they saw the priest they let a screech out of
them that was heard in every part of Ireland. When the priest was a while
reading, the hags made vultures of themselves and flew up into a big tree
that was over the house.

The priest began pressing in on the dog until he was within a couple of
feet of him.

The dog gave a leap up, struck the priest with its four feet, and put him
head over heels.

When the hunters took him up he was deaf and dumb, and the dog did not
move from the door.

They brought the priest home and sent for the bishop. When he came
and heard the story there was great grief on him. The people gathered
together and asked of him to banish the hags of enchantment out of the
wood. There was fright and shame on him, and he did not know what he
would do, but he said to them: “I have no means of banishing them till I
go home, but I will come at the end of a month and banish them.”

The priest was too badly hurt to say anything. The big black dog was
father of the hags, and his name was Dermod O’Muloony. His own son killed
him, because he found him with his wife the day after their marriage, and
killed the sisters for fear they should tell on him.

One night the bishop was in his chamber asleep, when one of the hags of
the long tooth opened the door and came in. When the bishop wakened up he
saw the hag standing by the side of his bed. He was so much afraid he was
not able to speak a word until the hag spoke and said to him: “Let there
be no fear on you; I did not come to do you harm, but to give you advice.
You promised the people of Loch Glynn that you would come to banish the
hags of the long tooth out of the wood of Driminuch. If you come you will
never go back alive.”

His talk came to the bishop, and he said: “I cannot break my word.”

“We have only a year and a day to be in the wood,” said the hag, “and you
can put off the people until then.”

“Why are ye in the woods as ye are?” says the bishop.

“Our brother killed us,” said the hag, “and when we went before the
arch-judge, there was judgment passed on us, we to be as we are two
hundred years. We have a castle under the lake, and be in it every night.
We are suffering for the crime our father did.” Then she told him the
crime the father did.

“Hard is your case,” said the bishop, “but we must put up with the will
of the arch-judge, and I shall not trouble ye.”

“You will get an account, when we are gone from the wood,” said the hag.
Then she went from him.

In the morning, the day on the morrow, the bishop came to Loch Glynn. He
sent out notice and gathered the people. Then he said to them: “It is
the will of the arch-king that the power of enchantment be not banished
for another year and a day, and ye must keep out of the wood until then.
It is a great wonder to me that ye never saw the hags of enchantment till
the hunters came from Dublin.—It’s a pity they did not remain at home.”

About a week after that the priest was one day by himself in his chamber
alone. The day was very fine and the window was open. The robin of the
red breast came in and a little herb in its mouth. The priest stretched
out his hand, and she laid the herb down on it. “Perhaps it was God sent
me this herb,” said the priest to himself, and he ate it. He had not
eaten it one moment till he was as well as ever he was, and he said:
“A thousand thanks to Him who has power stronger than the power of
enchantment.”

Then said the robin: “Do you remember the robin of the broken foot you
had, two years this last winter.”

“I remember her, indeed,” said the priest, “but she went from me when the
summer came.”

“I am the same robin, and but for the good you did me I would not be
alive now, and you would be deaf and dumb throughout your life. Take my
advice now, and do not go near the hags of the long tooth any more, and
do not tell to any person living that I gave you the herb.” Then she flew
from him.

When the house-keeper came she wondered to find that he had both his talk
and his hearing. He sent word to the bishop and he came to Loch Glynn.
He asked the priest how it was that he got better so suddenly. “It is a
secret,” said the priest, “but a certain friend gave me a little herb and
it cured me.”

Nothing else happened worth telling, till the year was gone. One night
after that the bishop was in his chamber when the door opened, and the
hag of the long tooth walked in, and said: “I come to give you notice
that we will be leaving the wood a week from to-day. I have one thing to
ask of you if you will do it for me.”

“If it is in my power, and it not to be against the faith,” said the
bishop.

“A week from to-day,” said the hag, “there will be seven vultures dead at
the door of our house in the wood. Give orders to bury them in the quarry
that is between the wood and Ballyglas; that is all I am asking of you.”

“I shall do that if I am alive,” said the bishop. Then she left him, and
he was not sorry she to go from him.

A week after that day, the bishop came to Loch Glynn, and the day after
he took men with him and went to the hags’ house in the wood of Driminuch.

The big black dog was at the door, and when he saw the bishop he began
running and never stopped until he went into the lake.

He saw the seven vultures dead at the door, and he said to the men: “Take
them with you and follow me.”

They took up the vultures and followed him to the brink of the quarry.
Then he said to them: “Throw them into the quarry: There is an end to the
hags of the enchantment.”

As soon as the men threw them down to the bottom of the quarry, there
rose from it seven swans as white as snow, and flew out of their sight.
It was the opinion of the bishop and of every person who heard the story
that it was up to heaven they flew, and that the big black dog went to
the castle under the lake.

At any rate, nobody saw the hags of the long tooth or the big black dog
from that out, any more.




WILLIAM OF THE TREE.


In the time long ago there was a king in Erin. He was married to a
beautiful queen, and they had but one only daughter. The queen was struck
with sickness, and she knew that she would not be long alive. She put the
king under _gassa_ (mystical injunctions) that he should not marry again
until the grass should be a foot high over her tomb. The daughter was
cunning, and she used to go out every night with a scissors, and she used
to cut the grass down to the ground.

The king had a great desire to have another wife, and he did not know
why the grass was not growing over the grave of the queen. He said to
himself: “There is somebody deceiving me.”

That night he went to the churchyard, and he saw the daughter cutting
the grass that was on the grave. There came great anger on him then, and
he said: “I will marry the first woman I see, let she be old or young.”
When he went out on the road he saw an old hag. He brought her home and
married her, as he would not break his word.

After marrying her, the daughter of the king was under bitter misery at
(the hands of) the hag, and the hag put her under an oath not to tell
anything at all to the king, and not to tell to any person anything she
should see being done, except only to three who were never baptised.

The next morning on the morrow, the king went out a hunting, and when he
was gone, the hag killed a fine hound the king had. When the king came
home he asked the old hag “who killed my hound?”

“Your daughter killed it,” says the old woman.

“Why did you kill my hound?” said the king.

“I did not kill your hound,” says the daughter, “and I cannot tell you
who killed him.”

“I will make you tell me,” says the king.

He took the daughter with him to a great wood, and he hanged her on a
tree, and then he cut off the two hands and the two feet off her, and
left her in a state of death. When he was going out of the wood there
went a thorn into his foot, and the daughter said: “That you may never
get better until I have hands and feet to cure you.”

The king went home, and there grew a tree out of his foot, and it was
necessary for him to open the window, to let the top of the tree out.

There was a gentleman going by near the wood, and he heard the king’s
daughter a-screeching. He went to the tree, and when he saw the state she
was in, he took pity on her, brought her home, and when she got better,
married her.

At the end of three quarters (of a year), the king’s daughter had three
sons at one birth, and when they were born, Granya Öi came and put hands
and feet on the king’s daughter, and told her, “Don’t let your children
be baptised until they are able to walk. There is a tree growing out of
your father’s foot; it was cut often, but it grows again, and it is with
you lies his healing. You are under an oath not to tell the things you
saw your stepmother doing to anyone but to three who were never baptised,
and God has sent you those three. When they will be a year old bring them
to your father’s house, and tell your story before your three sons, and
rub your hand on the stump of the tree, and your father will be as well
as he was the first day.”

There was great wonderment on the gentleman when he saw hands and feet on
the king’s daughter. She told him then every word that Granya Oi said to
her.

When the children were a year old, the mother took them with her, and
went to the king’s house.

There were doctors from every place in Erin attending on the king, but
they were not able to do him any good.

When the daughter came in, the king did not recognise her. She sat down,
and the three sons round her, and she told her story to them from top to
bottom, and the king was listening to her telling it. Then she left her
hand on the sole of the king’s foot and the tree fell off it.

The day on the morrow he hanged the old hag, and he gave his estate to
his daughter and to the gentleman.




THE OLD CROW & THE YOUNG CROW.


There was an old crow teaching a young crow one day, and he said to him,
“Now my son,” says he, “listen to the advice I’m going to give you. If
you see a person coming near you and stooping, mind yourself, and be on
your keeping; he’s stooping for a stone to throw at you.”

“But tell me,” says the young crow, “what should I do if he had a stone
already down in his pocket?”

“Musha, go ’long out of that,” says the old crow, “you’ve learned
enough; the devil another learning I’m able to give you.”




RIDDLES.


  A great great house it is,
  A golden candlestick it is,
  Guess it rightly,
  Let it not go by thee.

Heaven.


  There’s a garden that I ken,
  Full of little gentlemen,
  Little caps of blue they wear,
  And green ribbons very fair.

Flax.


  I went up the boreen, I went down the boreen,
  I brought the boreen with myself on my back.

A Ladder.


  He comes to ye amidst the brine
  The butterfly of the sun,
  The man of the coat so blue and fine,
  With red thread his shirt is done.

Lobster.


  I threw it up as white as snow,
  Like gold on a flag it fell below.

Egg.


  I ran and I got,
  I sat and I searched,
  If could get it I would not bring it with me,
  And as I got it not I brought it.

Thorn in the foot.


  You see it come in on the shoulders of men,
  Like a thread of the silk it will leave us again.

Smoke.


  He comes through the _lis_[32] to me over the sward,
  The man of the foot that is narrow and hard,
  I would he were running the opposite way,
  For o’er all that are living ’tis he who bears sway.

The Death.


  In the garden’s a castle with hundreds within,
  Yet though stripped to my shirt I would never fit in.

Ant-hill.


  From house to house he goes,
  A messenger small and slight,
  And whether it rains or snows,
  He sleeps outside in the night.

Boreen.


  Two feet on the ground,
  And three feet overhead,
  And the head of the living
  In the mouth of the dead.

Girl with (three-legged) pot on her head.


  On the top of the tree
  See the little man red,
  A stone in his belly,
  A cap on his head.

Haw.


  There’s a poor man at rest,
  With a stick beneath his breast,
  And he breaking his heart a-crying.

Lintel on a wet day.


  As white as flour and it is not flour,
  As green as grass and it is not grass,
  As red as blood and it is not blood,
  As black as ink and it is not ink.

Blackberry, from bud to fruit.


  A bottomless barrel,
  It’s shaped like a hive,
  It is filled full of flesh,
  And the flesh is alive.

Tailor’s thimble.




WHERE THE STORIES CAME FROM.


The first three stories, namely, “The Tailor and the Three Beasts,”
“Bran,” and “The King of Ireland’s Son,” I took down verbatim, without
the alteration or addition of more than a word or two, from Seáġan O
Cuinneaġáin (John Cunningham), who lives in the village of Baile-an-ṗuil
(Ballinphuil), in the county of Roscommon, some half mile from Mayo. He
is between seventy and eighty years old, and is, I think, illiterate.

The story of “The Alp-luachra” is written down from notes made at the
time I first heard the story. It was told me by Seamus o h-Airt (James
Hart), a game-keeper, in the barony of Frenchpark, between sixty and
seventy years old, and illiterate. The notes were not full ones, and I
had to eke them out in writing down the story, the reciter, one of the
best I ever met, having unfortunately died in the interval.

The stories of “Paudyeen O’Kelly,” and of “Leeam O’Rooney’s Burial,” I
got from Mr. Lynch Blake, near Ballinrobe, county Mayo, who took the
trouble of writing them down for me in nearly phonetic Irish, for which
I beg to return him my best thanks. I do not think that these particular
stories underwent any additions at his hands while writing them down. I
do not know from whom he heard the first, and cannot now find out, as he
has left the locality. The second he told me he got from a man, eighty
years old, named William Grady, who lived near Clare-Galway, but who for
the last few years has been “carrying a bag.”

The long story of “Guleesh na Guss dhu,” was told by the same Shamus
O’Hart, from whom I got the “Alp-luachra,” but, as in the case of the
“Alp-luachra” story, I had only taken notes of it, and not written down
the whole as it fell from his lips. I have only met one other man since,
Martin Brennan, in the barony of Frenchpark, Roscommon, who knew the
same story, and he told it to me—but in an abridged form—incident for
incident up to the point where my translation leaves off.

There is a great deal more in the Irish version in the Leaḃar
Sgeuluiġeaċta, which I did not translate, not having been able to get
it from Brennan, and having doctored it too much myself to give it as
genuine folk-lore.

The rest of the stories in this volume are literally translated from my
Leaḃar Sgeuluiġeaċta. Neil O’Carree was taken down phonetically, by Mr.
Larminie, from the recitation of a South Donegal peasant.

The Hags of the Long Teeth come from Ballinrobe, as also William of the
Tree, the Court of Crinnawn, and the Well of D’Yerree-in-Dowan. See pages
239-240 of the L. S.




NOTES.

[_Notes in brackets signed A.N., by Alfred Nutt. The references to
Arg. Tales are to “Waifs and Strays of Celtic Tradition; Argyllshire
Series II.; Folk and Hero Tales from Argyllshire” collected, edited, and
translated by the Rev. D. MacInnes, with Notes by the editor and Alfred
Nutt. London, 1889._]


“THE TAILOR AND THE THREE BEASTS.”

Page 1. In another variant of this tale, which I got from one Martin
Brennan—more usually pronounced Brannan; in Irish, O’Braonáin—in
Roscommon, the thing which the tailor kills is a swallow, which flew past
him. He flung his needle at the bird, and it went through its eye and
killed it. This success excites the tailor to further deeds of prowess.
In this variant occurred also the widely-spread incident of the tailor’s
tricking the giant by pretending to squeeze water out of a stone.

Page 2. Garraun (gearrán), is a common Anglicised Irish word in many
parts of Ireland. It means properly a gelding or hack-horse; but in
Donegal, strangely enough, it means a horse, and coppul capáll, the
ordinary word for a horse elsewhere, means there a mare. The old English
seem to have borrowed this word capal from the Irish, _cf._ Percy’s
version of “Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne,” where the latter is thus
represented—

  “A sword and a dagger he wore by his side,
    Of manye a man the bane;
  And he was clad in his capull hyde,
    Topp and tayle and mayne.”

Page 7, line 4. The modder-alla (madra-allta, wild dog), is properly a
wolf, not a lion; but the reciter explained it thus, “madar alla, sin
leó ṁan,” “modder álla, that’s a l’yone,” _i.e._, “a lion,” which I have
accordingly translated it.

Page 9, line 18. The giant’s shouting at night, or at dawn of day, is a
common incident in these tales. In the story of “The Speckled Bull,” not
here given, there are three giants who each utter a shout every morning,
“that the whole country hears them.” The Irish for giant, in all these
stories, is faṫaċ (pronounced fahuch), while the Scotch Gaelic word is
_famhair_, a word which we have not got, but which is evidently the same
as the Fomhor, or sea pirate of Irish mythical history, in whom Professor
Rhys sees a kind of water god. The only place in Campbell’s four volumes
in which the word _fathach_ occurs is in the “Lay of the Great Omadawn,”
which is a distinctly Irish piece, and of which MacLean remarks, “some of
the phraseology is considered Irish.”

Page 11. This incident appears to be a version of that in “Jack the
Giant-Killer.” It seems quite impossible to say whether it was always
told in Ireland, or whether it may not have been borrowed from some
English source. If it does come from an English source it is probably the
only thing in these stories that does.

Page 13, line 6. “To take his wife off (pronounced _ov_) him again.” The
preposition “from” is not often used with take, etc., in Connacht English.

Page 15, line 12. These nonsense-endings are very common in Irish stories
It is remarkable that there seems little trace of them in Campbell. The
only story in his volumes which ends with a piece of nonsense is the
“Slender Grey Kerne,” and it, as I tried to show in my Preface, is Irish.
It ends thus: “I parted with them, and they gave me butter on a coal,
and kail brose in a creel, and paper shoes, and they sent me away with
a cannon-ball on a highroad of glass, till they left me sitting here.”
Why such endings seem to be stereotyped with some stories, and not used
at all with others, I cannot guess. It seems to be the same amongst
Slavonic Märchen, of which perhaps one in twenty has a nonsense-ending;
but the proportion is much larger in Ireland. Why the Highland tales, so
excellent in themselves, and so closely related to the Irish ones, have
lost this distinctive feature I cannot even conjecture, but certain it is
that this is so.

[The incident of the king’s court being destroyed at night is in the
fourteenth-fifteenth century _Agallamh na Senorach_, where it is Finn who
guards Tara against the wizard enemies.

I know nothing like the way in which the hero deals with the animals
he meets, and cannot help thinking that the narrator forgot or mistold
his story. Folk-tales are, as a rule, perfectly logical and sensible if
their conditions be once accepted; but here the conduct of the hero is
inexplicable, or at all events unexplained.—A.N.]


BRAN’S COLOUR.

Page 15. This stanza on Bran’s colour is given by O’Flaherty, in 1808,
in the “Gaelic Miscellany.” The first two lines correspond with those of
my shanachie, and the last two correspond _in sound_, if not in sense.
O’Flaherty gave them thus—

  “Speckled back over the loins,
  Two ears scarlet, equal-red.”

How the change came about is obvious. The old Irish suaiṫne, “speckled,”
is not understood now in Connacht; so the word uaiṫne, “green,” which
exactly rhymes with it, took its place. Though uaiṫne generally means
greenish, it evidently did not do so to the mind of my reciter, for,
pointing to a mangy-looking cub of nondescript greyish colour in a corner
of his cabin, he said, sin uaiṫne, “that’s the colour oonya.” The words
os cionn na leirge, “over the loins,” have, for the same reason—namely,
that learg, “a loin,” is obselete now—been changed to words of the same
sound. airḋaṫ na seilge, “of the colour of hunting,” _i.e._, the colour
of the deer hunted. This, too, the reciter explained briefly by saying,
seilg sin fiaḋ, “hunting, that’s a deer.” From the vivid colouring of
Bran it would appear that she could have borne no resemblance whatever
to the modern so-called Irish wolf-hound, and that she must in all
probability have been short-haired, and not shaggy like them. Most of the
Fenian poems contain words not in general use. I remember an old woman
reciting me two lines of one of these old poems, and having to explain
in current Irish the meaning of no less than five words in the two lines
which were

  Aiṫris dam agus ná can go
  Cionnas rinneaḋ leó an trealg,

which she thus explained conversationally, innis dam agus ná deun breug,
cia an ċaoi a ndearnaḋ siad an fiaḋaċ.

Page 17, line 9. Pistrogue, or pishogue, is a common Anglo-Irish word
for a charm or spell. Archbishop MacHale derived it from two words, fios
siṫeóg, “knowledge of fairies,” which seems hardly probable.

Page 19. “A fiery cloud out of her neck.” Thus, in Dr. Atkinson’s Páis
Partoloin, from the “Leabhar Breac,” the devil appears in the form of an
Ethiopian, and according to the Irish translator, ticed lassar borb ar a
bragait ocus as a shróin amal lassair shuirun tened. “There used to come
a fierce flame out of his _neck_ and nose, like the flame of a furnace of
fire.”

Page 19. According to another version of this story, the blind man was
Ossian (whose name is in Ireland usually pronounced Essheen or Ussheen)
himself, and he got Bran’s pups hung up by their teeth to the skin of a
newly-killed horse, and all the pups let go their hold except this black
one, which clung to the skin and hung out of it. Then Ossian ordered the
others to be drowned and kept this. In this other version, the coal which
he throws at the infuriated pup was tuaġ no rud icéint, “a hatchet or
something.” There must be some confusion in this story, since Ossian was
not blind during Bran’s lifetime, nor during the sway of the Fenians.
The whole thing appears to be a bad version of Campbell’s story, No.
XXXI., Vol. II., p. 103. The story may, however, have some relation to
the incident in that marvellous tale called “The Fort of the little Red
Yeoha” (Bruiġion Eoċaiḋ ḃig ḋeirg), in which we are told how Conan looked
out of the fort, go ḃfacaiḋ sé aon óglaċ ag teaċt ċuige, agus cu ġearr
ḋuḃ air slaḃra iarainn aige, ’na láiṁ, agus is ionga naċ loirġeaḋ si an
bruioġion re gaċ caor teine d’á g-cuirfeaḋ si ṫar a craos agus ṫar a
cúḃan-ḃeul amaċ, _i.e._, “he saw one youth coming to him, and he having a
short black hound on an iron chain in his hand, and it is a wonder that
it would not burn the fort with every ball of fire it would shoot out of
its gullet, and out of its foam-mouth.” This hound is eventually killed
by Bran, but only after Conan had taken off “the shoe of refined silver
that was on Bran’s right paw” (An ḃróg airgid Aiṫ-leigṫhe to ḃí air croiḃ
ḋeis Brain). Bran figures largely in Fenian literature.

[I believe this is the only place in which Finn’s _mother_ is described
as a fawn, though in the prose sequel to the “Lay of the Black Dog”
(Leab. na Feinne, p. 91) it is stated that Bran, by glamour of the
Lochlanners, is made to slay the Fenian women and children in the seeming
of deer. That Finn enjoyed the favours of a princess bespelled as a fawn
is well known; also that Oisin’s mother was a fawn (see the reference in
Arg. Tales, p. 470). The narrator may have jumbled these stories together
in his memory.

The slaying of Bran’s pup seems a variant of Oisin’s “Blackbird Hunt”
(_cf._ Kennedy, Fictions, 240), whilst the story, as a whole, seems to
be mixed up with that of the “Fight of Bran with the Black Dog,”of which
there is a version translated by the Rev. D. Mac Innes—“Waifs and Strays
of Celtic Tradition,” Vol. I., p. 7, _et seq._

It would seem from our text that the Black Dog was Bran’s child, so that
the fight is an animal variant of the father and son combat, as found in
the Cuchullain saga. A good version of “Finn’s Visit to Lochlann” (to be
printed in Vol. III. of “Waifs and Strays of Celtic Tradition”) tells how
Finn took with him Bran’s leash; and how the Lochlanners sentenced him
to be exposed in a desolate valley, where he was attacked by a savage
dog whom he tamed by showing the leash. Vol. XII. of Campbell’s “MSS. of
Gaelic Stories” contains a poem entitled, “Bran’s Colour.” This should be
compared with our text.—A.N.]


THE KING OF IRELAND’S SON.

Page 19. The king of Ireland’s son. This title should properly be, “The
son of a king in Ireland” (Mac riġ i n-Eirinn). As this name for the
prince is rather cumbrous, I took advantage of having once heard him
called the king of Ireland’s son (Mac riġ Eireann), and have so given
it here. In another longer and more humorous version of this story,
which I heard from Shamus O’Hart, but which I did not take down in
writing, the short green man is the “Thin black man” (fear caol duḃ); the
gunman is guinnéar, not gunnaire; the ear-man is cluas-le-h-éisteaċt;
(ear for hearing), not cluasaire; and the blowman is not Séidire, but
polláire-séidte (blowing nostril). This difference is the more curious,
considering that the men lived only a couple of miles apart, and their
families had lived in the same place for generations.

Page 27. This description of a house thatched with feathers is very
common in Irish stories. On the present occasion the house is thatched
with one single feather, so smooth that there was no projecting point or
quill either above or below the feather-roof. For another instance, see
the “Well of D’yerree in Dowan,” page 131. In a poem from “The Dialogue
of the Sages,” the lady Credé’s house is described thus:—

  “Of its sunny chamber the corner stones
  Are all of silver and precious gold,
  In faultless stripes its thatch is spread
  Of wings of brown and crimson red.
  Its portico is covered, too,
  With wings of birds both yellow and blue.”

        See O’Curry’s “Man. Materials,” p. 310.

Page 27. “He drew the cooalya-coric,” _coolaya_ in the text, is a
misprint. The cooalya-coric means “pole of combat.” How it was “drawn” we
have no means of knowing. It was probably a pole meant to be drawn back
and let fall upon some sounding substance. The word tarraing, “draw,”
has, however, in local, if not in literary use, the sense of drawing back
one’s arm to make a blow. A peasant will say, “he drew the blow at me,”
or “he drew the stick,” in English; or “ṫarraing sé an buille,” in Irish,
by which he means, he made the blow and struck with the stick. This may
be the case in the phrase “drawing the cooalya-coric,” which occurs so
often in Irish stories, and it may only mean, “he struck a blow with the
pole of combat,” either against something resonant, or against the door
of the castle. I have come across at least one allusion to it in the
Fenian literature. In the story, called Macaoṁ mór mac riġ na h-Earpáine
(the great man, the king of Spain’s son), the great man and Oscar fight
all day, and when evening comes Oscar grows faint and asks for a truce,
and then takes Finn Mac Cool aside privately and desires him to try to
keep the great man awake all night, while he himself sleeps; because he
feels that if the great man, who had been already three days and nights
without rest, were to get some sleep on this night, he himself would
not be a match for him next morning. This is scarcely agreeable to the
character of Oscar, but the wiles which Finn employs to make the great
man relate to him his whole history, and so keep him from sleeping,
are very much in keeping with the shrewdness which all these stories
attribute to the Fenian king. The great man remains awake all night,
sorely against his will, telling Finn his extraordinary adventures; and
whenever he tries to stop, Finn incites him to begin again, and at last
tells him not to be afraid, because the Fenians never ask combat of any
man until he ask it of them first. At last, as the great man finished
his adventures do ḃí an lá ag éiriġe agus do ġaḃar Osgar agus do ḃuail
an cuaille cóṁpaic. Do ċuala an fear mór sin agus a duḃairt, “A Finn Ṁic
Cúṁail,” ar sé, “d’ḟeallair orm,” etc. _i.e._, the day was rising, and
Oscar goes and struck (the word is not “drew” here) the pole of combat.
The great man heard that, and he said, “Oh, Finn Mac Cool, you have
deceived me,” etc. Considering that they were all inside of Finn’s palace
at Allan (co. Kildare) at this time, Oscar could hardly have struck the
door. It is more probable that the pole of combat stood outside the
house, and it seems to have been a regular institution. In Campbell’s
tale of “The Rider of Grianag,” there is mention made of a _slabhraidh
comhrac_, “Chain of combat,” which answers the same purpose as the pole,
only not so conveniently, since the hero has to give it several hauls
before he can “take a turn out of it.” We find allusion to the same thing
in the tale of Iollan arm Dearg. Illan, the hero, comes to a castle in
a solitude, and surprises a woman going to the well, and she points out
to him the chain, and says, “Gaċ uair ċroiṫfeas tu an slaḃra sin ar an
mbile, do ġeoḃaiḋ tu ceud curaḋ caṫ-armaċ, agus ni iarrfaid ort aċt an
cóṁrac is áil leat, mar atá diar no triúr no ceaṫrar, no ceud,” _i.e._,
“every time that you will shake yon chain (suspended) out of the tree,
you will get (call forth) a hundred champions battle-armed, and they will
only ask of thee the combat thou likest thyself, that is (combat with)
two, or three, or four, or a hundred.” Chains are continually mentioned
in Irish stories. In the “Little Fort of Allan,” a Fenian story, we read,
Ann sin d’éiriġ bollsgaire go bioṫ-urlaṁ agus do ċroiṫ slaḃra éisteaċta
na bruiġne, agus d’éisteadar uile go foirtineaċ, _i.e._, “then there
arose a herald with active readiness, and they shook the fort’s chain of
listening, and they all listened attentively;” and in the tale of “Illan,
the Red-armed,” there are three chains in the palace, one of gold, one of
silver, and one of findrinny (a kind of metal, perhaps bronze), which are
shaken to seat the people at the banquet, and to secure their silence;
but whoever spake after the gold chain had been shaken did it on pain of
his head.

[In the story of Cuchullain’s youthful feats it is related that, on his
first expedition, he came to the court of the three Mac Nechtain, and,
according to O’Curry’s Summary (“Manners and Customs,” II., p. 366),
“sounded a challenge.” The mode of this sounding is thus described by
Prof. Zimmer, in his excellent summary of the _Tain bo Cualgne_ (Zeit,
f. vgl., Sprachforschung, 1887, p. 448): “On the lawn before the court
stood a stone pillar, around which was a closed chain (or ring), upon
which was written in Ogham, that every knight who passed thereby was
bound, upon his knightly honour, to issue a challenge. Cuchullain took
the stone pillar and threw it into a brook hard by.” This is the nearest
analogue I have been able to find to our passage in the old Irish
literature (the _Tain_, it should be mentioned, goes back in its present
form certainly to the tenth, and, probably, to the seventh century). As
many of the Fenian romances assumed a fresh and quasi-definite shape in
the twelfth-fourteenth centuries, it is natural to turn for a parallel to
the mediæval romances of chivalry. In a twelfth century French romance,
the Conte de Graal, which is in some way connected with the body of
Gaelic Märchen (whether the connection be, as I think, due to the fact
that the French poet worked up lays derived from Celtic sources, or,
as Professor Zimmer thinks, that the French romances are the origin of
much in current Gaelic folk-tales), when Perceval comes to the Castle of
Maidens and enters therein, he finds a table of brass, and hanging from
it by a chain of silver, a steel hammer. With this he strikes three
blows on the table, and forces the inmates to come to him. Had they not
done so the castle would have fallen into ruins. Other parallels from
the same romances are less close; thus, when Perceval came to the castle
of his enemy, Partinal, he defies him by throwing down his shield, which
hangs up on a tree outside the castle (v. 44,400, _et seq._). It is well
known that the recognised method of challenging in tournaments was for
the challenger to touch his adversary’s shield with the lance. This may
possibly be the origin of the “shield-clashing” challenge which occurs
several times in Conall Gulban; or, on the other hand, the mediæval
practice may be a knightly transformation of an earlier custom. In the
thirteenth century prose Perceval le Gallois, when the hero comes to the
Turning Castle and finds the door shut, he strikes such a blow with his
sword that it enters three inches deep into a marble pillar (Potvin’s
edition, p. 196). These mediæval instances do not seem sufficient to
explain the incident in our text, and I incline to think that our tale
has preserved a genuine trait of old Irish knightly life. In Kennedy’s
“Jack the Master, and Jack the Servant” (Fictions, p. 32), the hero takes
hold of a “club that hangs by the door ”and uses it as a knocker.—A.N.]

Page 29. They spent the night, &c. This brief run resembles very much
a passage in the story of Iollan Arm-dearg, which runs, do rinneadar
tri treana de ’n oiḋċe, an ċeud trian re h-ól agus re h-imirt, an dara
trian re ceól agus re h-oirfide agus re h-ealaḋan, agus an treas trian
re suan agus re sáṁ-ċodlaḋ, agus do rugadar as an oiḋċe sin _i.e._, they
made three-thirds of the night; the first third with drink and play, the
second third with music and melody and (feats of) science, and the third
third with slumber and gentle sleep, and they passed away that night.

Page 33, line 28. This allusion to the horse and the docking is very
obscure and curious. The old fellow actually blushed at the absurdity of
the passage, yet he went through with it, though apparently unwillingly.
He could throw no light upon it, except to excuse himself by saying that
“that was how he heard it ever.”

Page 37, line 4. The sword of _three_ edges is curious; the third edge
would seem to mean a rounded point, for it can hardly mean triangular
like a bayonet. The sword that “never leaves the leavings of a blow
behind it,” is common in Irish literature. In that affecting story of
Deirdre, Naoise requests to have his head struck off with such a sword,
one that Mananan son of Lir, had long before given to himself.

Page 47. The groundwork or motivating of this story is known to all
European children, through Hans Andersen’s tale of the “Travelling
Companion.”

[I have studied some of the features of this type of stories Arg. Tales,
pp. 443-452.—A.N.]


THE ALP-LUACHRA.

Page 49. This legend of the alp-luachra is widely disseminated, and
I have found traces of it in all parts of Ireland. The alp-luachra
is really a newt, not a lizard, as is generally supposed. He is the
lissotriton punctatus of naturalists, and is the only species of newt
known in Ireland. The male has an orange belly, red-tipped tail, and
olive back. It is in most parts of Ireland a rare reptile enough, and
hence probably the superstitious fear with which it is regarded, on
the principle of _omne ignotum pro terribli_. This reptile goes under
a variety of names in the various counties. In speaking English the
peasantry when they do not use the Irish name, call him a “mankeeper,” a
word which has probably some reference to the superstition related in our
story. He is also called in some counties a “darklooker,” a word which is
probably, a corruption of an Irish name for him which I have heard the
Kildare people use, dochi-luachair (daċuiḋ luaċra), a word not found in
the dictionaries. In Waterford, again, he is called arc-luachra, and the
Irish MSS. call him arc-luachra (earc-luaċra). The alt-pluachra of the
text is a mis-pronunciation of the proper name, alp-luachra. In the Arran
Islands they have another name, ail-ċuaċ. I have frequently heard of
people swallowing one while asleep. The symptoms, they say, are that the
person swells enormously, and is afflicted with a thirst which makes him
drink canfuls and pails of water or buttermilk, or anything else he can
lay his hand on. In the south of Ireland it is believed that if something
savoury is cooked on a pan, and the person’s head held over it, the
mankeeper will come out. A story very like the one here given is related
in Waterford, but of a dar daol, or _daraga dheel_, as he is there
called, a venomous insect, which has even more legends attached to him
than the alp-luachra. In this county, too, they say that if you turn the
alp-luachra over on its back, and lick it, it will cure burns. Keating,
the Irish historian and theologian, alludes quaintly to this reptile in
his Tri Biorġaoiṫe an Bháir, so finely edited in the original the other
day by Dr. Atkinson. “Since,” says Keating, “prosperity or worldly
store is the weapon of the adversary (the devil), what a man ought to
do is to spend it in killing the adversary, that is, by bestowing it
on God’s poor. The thing which we read in Lactantius agrees with this,
that if an airc-luachra were to inflict a wound on anyone, what he ought
to do is to shake a pinchful of the ashes of the airc-luachra upon the
wound, and he will be cured thereby; and so, if worldly prosperity wounds
the conscience, what you ought to do is to put a poultice of the same
prosperity to cure the wound which the covetousness by which you have
amassed it has made in your conscience, by distributing upon the poor of
God all that remains over your own necessity.” The practice which the
fourth-century Latin alludes to, is in Ireland to-day transferred to the
dar-daol, or goevius olens of the naturalists, which is always burnt as
soon as found. I have often heard people say:—“Kill a keerhogue (clock or
little beetle); burn a dar-dael.”

Page 59. Boccuch (bacaċ), literally a lame man, is, or rather was, the
name of a very common class of beggars about the beginning of this
century. Many of these men were wealthy enough, and some used to go about
with horses to collect the “alms” which the people unwillingly gave them.
From all accounts they appear to have been regular black-mailers, and to
have extorted charity partly through inspiring physical and partly moral
terror, for the satire, at least of some of them, was as much dreaded as
their cudgels. Here is a curious specimen of their truculence from a song
called the Bacach Buidhe, now nearly forgotten:—

  Is bacach mé tá air aon chois, siúbhalfaidh mé go spéifeaṁail,
  Ceannóchaidh mé bréidin i g-Cill-Cainnigh do’n bhraois,
  Cuirfead cóta córuiġthe gleusta, a’s búcla buidhe air m’aon chois,
  A’s nach maith mo shlighe bidh a’s eudaigh o chaill mo chosa siúbhal!
  Ni’l bacach ná fear-mála o Ṡligeach go Cinn-tráile
  Agus ó Bheul-an-átha go Baile-buidhe na Midhe,
  Nach bhfuil agam faoi árd-chíos, agus cróin anaghaidh na ráithe,
  No mineóchainn a g-cnámha le bata glas daraigh.

_i.e._,

  I am a boccugh who goes on one foot, I will travel airily,
  I will buy frize in Kilkenny for the breeches(?)
  I will put a well-ordered prepared coat and yellow buckles on my one
    foot,
  And isn’t it good, my way of getting food and clothes since my feet
    lost their walk.
  There is no boccuch or bagman from Sligo to Kinsale
  And from Ballina to Ballybwee (Athboy) in Meath,
  That I have not under high rent to me—a crown every quarter from them—
  Or I’d pound their bones small with a green oak stick.

The memory of these formidable guests is nearly vanished, and the
boccuch in our story is only a feeble old beggarman. I fancy this tale
of evicting the alt-pluachra family from their human abode is fathered
upon a good many people as well as upon the father of the present
MacDermot. [Is the peasant belief in the Alp-Luachra the originating idea
of the well-known Irish Rabelaisian 14th century tale “The Vision of
McConglinny?”—A.N.]


THE WEASEL.

Page 73. The weasel, like the cat, is an animal that has many legends
and superstitions attaching to it. I remember hearing from an old
shanachie, now unfortunately dead, a long and extraordinary story about
the place called Chapelizod, a few miles from Dublin, which he said was
Séipeul-easóg, the “weasel’s chapel,” in Irish, but which is usually
supposed to have received its name from the Princess Iseult of Arthurian
romance. The story was the account of how the place came by this name.
How he, who was a Connachtman, and never left his native county except
to reap the harvest in England, came by this story I do not know; but I
imagine it must have been told him by some one in the neighbourhood, in
whose house he spent the night, whilst walking across the island on his
way to Dublin or Drogheda harbour. The weasel is a comical little animal,
and one might very well think it was animated with a spirit. I have been
assured by an old man, and one whom I have always found fairly veracious,
that when watching for ducks beside a river one evening a kite swooped
down and seized a weasel, with which it rose up again into the air. His
brother fired, and the kite came down, the weasel still in its claws, and
unhurt. The little animal then came up, and stood in front of the two men
where they sat, and nodded and bowed his head to them about twenty times
over; “it was,” said the old man, “thanking us he was.” The weasel is a
desperate fighter, and always makes for the throat. What, however, in
Ireland is called a weazel, is really a stoat, just as what is called a
crow in Ireland is really a rook, and what is called a crane is really a
heron.

Cáuher-na-mart, to which Paudyeen (diminutive of Paddy) was bound, means
the “city of the beeves,” but is now called in English Westport, one of
the largest towns in Mayo. It was _apropos_ of its long and desolate
streets of ruined stores, with nothing in them, that some one remarked
he saw Ireland’s characteristics there in a nutshell—“an itch after
greatness and nothingness;” a remark which was applicable enough to the
squireocracy and bourgeoisie of the last century.

Page 79. The “big black dog” seems a favourite shape for the evil spirit
to take. He appears three times in this volume.

Page 81. The little man, with his legs astride the barrel, appears to be
akin to the south of Ireland spirit, the clooricaun, a being who is not
known, at least by this name, in the north or west of the island. See
Crofton Croker’s “Haunted Cellar.”

Page 87. “The green hill opened,” etc. The fairies are still called
Tuatha de Danann by the older peasantry, and all the early Irish
literature agrees that the home of the Tuatha was in the hills, after the
Milesians had taken to themselves the plains. Thus in the story of the
“Piper and the Pooka,” in the Leabhar Sgeulaigheachta, not translated
here, a door opens in the hill of Croagh Patrick, and the pair walk in
and find women dancing inside. Dónal, the name of the little piper, is
now Anglicised into Daniel, except in one or two Irish families which
retain the old form still. The _coash-t’ya bower_, in which the fairy
consorts ride, means literally “the deaf coach,” perhaps from the
rumbling sound it is supposed to make, and the banshee is sometimes
supposed to ride in it. It is an omen of ill to those who meet it. It
seems rather out of place amongst the fairy population, being, as it
is, a gloomy harbinger of death, which will pass even through a crowded
town. Cnoc Matha, better Magha, the hill of the plain, is near the town
of Tuam, in Galway. Finvara is the well-known king of the fairy host of
Connacht. In Lady Wilde’s “Ethna, the Bride,” Finvara is said to have
carried off a beautiful girl into his hill, whom her lover recovers with
the greatest difficulty. When he gets her back at last, she lies on her
bed for a year and a day as if dead. At the end of that time he hears
voices saying that he may recover her by unloosing her girdle, burning
it, and burying in the earth the enchanted pin that fastened it. This
was, probably, the slumber-pin which we have met so often in the “King of
Ireland’s Son.” Nuala, the name of the fairy queen, was a common female
name amongst us until the last hundred years or so. The sister of the
last O’Donnell, for whom Mac an Bhaird wrote his exquisite elegy, so well
translated by Mangan—

  “Oh, woman of the piercing wail,
  That mournest o’er yon mound of clay”—

was Nuala. I do not think it is ever used now as a Christian name at all,
having shared the unworthy fate of many beautiful Gaelic names of women
common a hundred years ago, such as Mève, Una, Sheelah, Moreen, etc.

Slieve Belgadaun occurs also in another story which I heard, called the
Bird of Enchantment, in which a fairy desires some one to bring a sword
of light “from the King of the Firbolg, at the foot of Slieve Belgadaun.”
Nephin is a high hill near Crossmolina, in North Mayo.

Page 89. Stongirya (stangaire), a word not given in dictionaries, means,
I think, “a mean fellow.” The dove’s hole, near the village of Cong, in
the west of the county Mayo, is a deep cavity in the ground, and when a
stone is thrown down into it you hear it rumbling and crashing from side
to side of the rocky wall, as it descends, until the sound becomes too
faint to hear. It is the very place to be connected with the marvellous.


LEEAM O’ROONEY’S BURIAL.

Page 95. Might not Spenser have come across some Irish legend of an
imitation man made by enchantment, which gave him the idea of Archimago’s
imitation of Una:

  “Who all this time, with charms and hidden artes,
    Had made a lady of that other spright,
  And framed of liquid ayre her tender partes,
    So lively and so like in all men’s sight
    That weaker sence it could have ravished quite,” etc.

I never remember meeting this easy _deus ex machinâ_ for bringing about a
complication before.

Page 101. Leeam imprecates “the devil from me,” thus skilfully turning a
curse into a blessing, as the Irish peasantry invariably do, even when in
a passion. _H’onnam one d’youl_—“my soul _from_ the devil” is an ordinary
exclamation expressive of irritation or wonderment.


GULLEESH.

Page 104. When I first heard this story I thought that the name of the
hero was Goillís, the pronunciation of which in English letters would be
Gul-yeesh; but I have since heard the name pronounced more distinctly,
and am sure that it is Giollaois, g’yulleesh, which is a corruption
of the name Giolla-íosa, a not uncommon Christian name amongst the
seventeenth century Gaels. I was, however, almost certain that the man
(now dead) from whom I first got this story, pronounced the word as
Gulyeesh, anent which my friend Mr. Thomas Flannery furnished me at the
time with the following interesting note:—Ní cosṁúil gur Giolla-íosa atá
’san ainm Goillís, nír ḃ’ ḟeidir “Giolla-íosa” do ḋul i n “Goillis.”
Saoilim gur b’ionann Goillís agus Goill-ġéis no Gaill-ġéis, agus is
ionann “géis” agus “eala.” Is cuiṁne liom “Muirġéis” ’sna h-“Annalalaiḃ,”
agus is iomḋa ainm duine ṫigeas o anmannaiḃ eun ċoṁ maiṫ le ó anmannaiḃ
beaṫaċ, mar ata bran, fiaċ, lon, loinin, seaḃac, ⁊c. ’Sé Goillís na g-cor
duḃ fós. Naċ aiṫne ḋuit gur leas-ainm an eala “cos-duḃ” i mórán d’áitiḃ
i n-Eirinn. Tá neiṫe eile ’san sceul sin do ḃeir orm a ṁeas gur de na
sgeultaiḃ a ḃaineas le h-ealaiḃ no géisiḃ é. Naċ aisteaċ an ni go dtug
bainṗrionnsa taiṫneaṁ do ḃuaċaill cos-duḃ cos-salaċ leisceaṁuil mar é?
Naċ ait an niḋ fós naċ dtugṫar an leas-ainm dó arís, tar éis beagáin
focal air dtús ó sin amaċ go deireaḋ. Dearmadṫar an leas-ainm agus an
fáṫ fá ḃfuair sé é. _i.e._, “It is not likely that the name Goillis is
Giolla-iosa; the one could not be changed into the other. I think that
Goillis is the same as Goill-ghéis, or Gaill-ghéis (_i.e._, foreign
swan). Géis means swan. I remember a name Muirgheis (sea swan) in the
Annals; and there is many a man’s name that comes from the names of birds
as well as from the names of animals, such as Bran (raven), Fiach (scald
crow), Lon and Loinin (blackbird), Seabhac (falcon), etc. Moreover, he
is Goillis _of the black feet_. Do you not know that the black-foot is
a name for the swan in many parts of Ireland. There are other things in
this story which make me believe that it is of those tales which treat of
swans or géises. Is it not a strange thing that the princess should take
a liking to a dirty-footed, black-footed, lazy boy like him? Is it not
curious also that the nickname of black-foot is not given to him, after
a few words at the beginning, from that out to the end? The nickname is
forgotten, and the cause for which he got it.”

This is certainly curious, as Mr. Flannery observes, and is probably due
to the story being imperfectly remembered by the shanachie. In order to
motivate the black feet at all, Guleesh should be made to say that he
would never wash his feet till he made a princess fall in love with him,
or something of that nature. This was probably the case originally, but
these stories must be all greatly impaired during the last half century,
since people ceased to take an interest in things Irish.

There are two stories in Lady Wilde’s book that somewhat resemble this.
“The Midnight Ride,” a short story of four pages, in which the hero
frightens the Pope by pretending to set his palace on fire; but the
story ends thus, as do many of Crofton Croker’s—“And from that hour to
this his wife believed that he dreamt the whole story as he lay under
the hayrick on his way home from a carouse with the boys.” I take this,
however, to be the sarcastic nineteenth century touch of an over-refined
collector, for in all my experience I never knew a shanachie attribute
the adventures of his hero to a dream. The other tale is called the
“Stolen Bride,” and is a story about the “kern of Querin,” who saves a
bride from the fairies on November Eve, but she will neither speak nor
taste food. That day year he hears the fairies say that the way to cure
her is to make her eat food off her father’s table-cloth. She does this,
and is cured. The trick which Gulleesh plays upon the Pope reminds us
of the fifteenth century story of Dr. Faustus and his dealings with his
Holiness.

[Cf. also the story of Michael Scott’s journey to Rome, “Waifs and Strays
of Celtic Tradition,” Vol. I., p. 46. The disrespectful way in which the
Pope is spoken of in these tales does not seem due to Protestantism, as
is the case with the Faustus story, although, as I have pointed out,
there are some curious points of contact between Michael Scott and
Faustus. Guleesh seems to be an early Nationalist who thought more of his
village and friend than of the head of his religion.—A.N.]

The description of the wedding is something like that in Crofton Croker’s
“Master and Man,” only the scene in that story is laid at home.

The story of Gulleesh appears to be a very rare one. I have never been
able to find a trace of it outside the locality (near where the counties
of Sligo, Mayo, and Roscommon meet) in which I first heard it.

[It thus seems to be a very late working-up of certain old incidents with
additions of new and incongruous ones.—A.N.]

Page 112. “The rose and the lily were fighting together in her face.”
This is a very common expression of the Irish bards. In one of Carolan’s
unpublished poems he says of Bridget Cruise, with whom he was in love in
his youth:—“In her countenance there is the lily, the whitest and the
brightest—a combat of the world—madly wrestling with the rose. Behold the
conflict of the pair; the goal—the rose will not lose it of her will;
victory—the lily cannot gain it; oh, God! is it not a hard struggle!” etc.

Page 115. “I call and cross (or consecrate) you to myself,” says
Gulleesh. This is a phrase in constant use with Irish speakers, and
proceeds from an underlying idea that certain phenomena are caused by
fairy agency. If a child falls, if a cow kicks when being milked, if an
animal is restless, I have often heard a woman cry, goirim a’s castraicim
ṫu, “I call and cross you,” often abbreviated into goirim, goirim,
merely, _i.e._, “I call, I call.”


THE WELL OF D’YERREE-IN-DOWAN.

Page 129. There are two other versions of this story, one a rather
evaporated one, filtered through English, told by Kennedy, in which the
Dall Glic is a wise old hermit; and another, and much better one, by
Curtin. The Dall Glic, wise blind man, figures in several stories which I
have got, as the king’s counsellor. I do not remember ever meeting him in
our literature. Bwee-sownee, the name of the king’s castle, is, I think,
a place in Mayo, and probably would be better written Buiḋe-ṫaṁnaiġ.

Page 131. This beautiful lady in red silk, who thus appears to the
prince, and who comes again to him at the end of the story, is a curious
creation of folk fancy. She may personify good fortune. There is nothing
about her in the two parallel stories from Curtin and Kennedy.

Page 133. This “tight-loop” (lúb teann) can hardly be a bow, since the
ordinary word for that is _bógha_; but it may, perhaps, be a name for a
cross-bow.

Page 136. The story is thus invested with a moral, for it is the prince’s
piety in giving what was asked of him in the honour of God which enabled
the queen to find him out, and eventually marry him.

Page 137. In the story of Cailleaċ na fiacaile fada, in my Leabhar
Sgeuluigheachta, not translated in this book, an old hag makes a boat out
of a thimble, which she throws into the water, as the handsome lady does
here.

Page 141. This incident of the ladder is not in Curtin’s story, which
makes the brothers mount the queen’s horse and get thrown. There is a
very curious account of a similar ladder in the story of the “Slender
Grey Kerne,” of which I possess a good MS., made by a northern scribe in
1763. The passage is of interest, because it represents a trick something
almost identical with which I have heard Colonel Olcott, the celebrated
American theosophist lecturer, say he saw Indian jugglers frequently
performing. Colonel Olcott, who came over to examine Irish fairy lore
in the light of theosophic science, was of opinion that these men could
bring a person under their power so as to make him imagine that he saw
whatever the juggler wished him to see. He especially mentioned this
incident of making people see a man going up a ladder. The MS., of which
I may as well give the original, runs thus:—

Iar sin ṫug an ceiṫearnaċ mála amaċ ó na asgoill, agus ṫug ceirtle ṡíoda
amaċ as a ṁála, agus do ṫeilg suas i ḃfriṫing na fiormamuinte í, agas do
rinne drémire ḋí, agus ṫug gearrḟiaḋ amaċ arís agus do leig suas annsa
dréimire é. Ṫug gaḋar cluais-dearg amaċ arís agus do leig suas anḋiaiġ an
ġearrḟiaḋ é. Tug cu faiteaċ foluaimneaċ amaċ agus do leig suas anḋiaiġ an
ġearrḟiaḋ agus an ġaḋair í, agus a duḃairt, is ḃao(ġ)laċ liom, air sé, go
n-íosfaiḋ an gaḋar agus an cú an gearrḟiaḋ, agus ni mór liom anacal do
ċur air an gearrḟiaḋ. Ṫug ann sin ógánaċ deas a n-eideaḋ ró ṁaiṫ amaċ as
an mála agus do leig suas anḋiaiġ an ġearrfiaḋ agus an ġaḋair agus na con
é. Ṫug cailín áluind a n-éidead ró ḋeas amaċ as an mála agus do leig suas
anḋiaiġ an ġearrḟaiḋ an ġaḋair an ógánaiġ agus na con í.

Is dona do éiriġ ḋaṁ anois, ar an Ceiṫearnaċ óir atá an t-óganaċ aig
dul ag pógaḋ mo ṁná agus an cú aig creim an ġearrḟiaḋ. Do ṫarraing an
Ceiṫearnaċ an dréimire anuas, agus do fuair an t-ógánaċ fairre(?) an
mnaoi agus an cu aig creim an ġearrḟiaḋ aṁuil a duḃairt, i.e., after that
the kerne took out a bag from under his arm-pit and he brought out a
ball of silk from the bag, and he threw it up into the expanse(?) of the
firmament, and it became a ladder; and again he took out a hare and let
it up the ladder. Again he took out a red-eared hound and let it up after
the hare. Again he took out a timid frisking dog, and he let her up after
the hare and the hound, and said, “I am afraid,” said he, “the hound and
the dog will eat the hare, and I think I ought to send some relief to the
hare.” Then he took out of the bag a handsome youth in excellent apparel,
and he let him up after the hare and the hound and the dog. He took out
of the bag a lovely girl in beautiful attire, and he let her up after the
hare, the hound, the youth, and the dog.

“It’s badly it happened to me now,” says the kerne, “for the youth is
going kissing my woman, and the dog gnawing the hare.” The kerne drew
down the ladder again and he found the youth “going along with the woman,
and the dog gnawing the hare,” as he said.

The English “Jack and the Beanstalk” is about the best-known ladder story.

Page 141. This story was not invented to explain the existence of the
twelve tribes of Galway, as the absence of any allusion to them in all
the parallel versions proves; but the application of it to them is
evidently the brilliant afterthought of some Galwegian shanachie.


THE COURT OF CRINNAWN.

Page 142. The court of Crinnawn is an old ruin on the river Lung, which
divides the counties of Roscommon and Mayo, about a couple of miles from
the town of Ballaghadereen. I believe, despite the story, that it was
built by one of the Dillon family, and not so long ago either. There is
an Irish prophecy extant in these parts about the various great houses
in Roscommon. Clonalis, the seat of the O’Connor Donn—or Don, as they
perversely insist on spelling it; Dungar, the seat of the De Freynes;
Loughlinn, of the Dillons, etc.; and amongst other verses, there is one
which prophecies that “no roof shall rise on Crinnawn,” which the people
say was fulfilled, the place having never been inhabited or even roofed.
In the face of this, how the story of Crinnawn, son of Belore, sprang
into being is to me quite incomprehensible, and I confess I have been
unable to discover any trace of this particular story on the Roscommon
side of the river, nor do I know from what source the shanachie, Mr.
Lynch Blake, from whom I got it, become possessed of it. Balor of the
evil eye, who figures in the tale of “The Children of Tuireann,” was not
Irish at all, but a “Fomorian.” The _pattern_, accompanied with such
funest results for Mary Kerrigan, is a festival held in honour of the
_patron_ saint. These patterns were common in many places half a century
ago, and were great scenes of revelry and amusement, and often, too,
of hard fighting. But these have been of late years stamped out, like
everything else distinctively Irish and lively.

[This story is a curious mixture of common peasant belief about haunted
raths and houses, with mythical matter probably derived from books. Balor
appears in the well-known tale of MacKineely, taken down by O’Donovan,
in 1855, from Shane O’Dugan of Tory Island (Annals. I. 18, and cf. Rhys,
Hibbert Lect., p. 314), but I doubt whether in either case the appearance
of the name testifies to a genuine folk-belief in this mythological
personage, one of the principal representatives of the powers of darkness
in the Irish god-saga.—A.N.]


NEIL O’CARREE.

Page 148. The abrupt beginning of this story is no less curious than
the short, jerky sentences in which it is continued. Mr. Larminie, who
took down this story phonetically, and word for word, from a native of
Glencolumkille, in Donegal, informed me that all the other stories of
the same narrator were characterized by the same extraordinary style.
I certainly have met nothing like it among any of my shanachies. The
_crumskeen_ and _galskeen_ which Neil orders the smith to make for
him, are instruments of which I never met or heard mention elsewhere.
According to their etymology they appear to mean “stooping-knife” and
“bright-knife,” and were, probably, at one time, well-known names of
Irish surgical instruments, of which no trace exists, unless it be in
some of the mouldering and dust-covered medical MSS. from which Irish
practitioners at one time drew their knowledge. The name of the hero,
if written phonetically, would be more like Nee-al O Corrwy than Neil O
Carree, but it is always difficult to convey Gaelic sounds in English
letters. When Neil takes up the head out of the skillet (a good old
Shaksperian word, by-the-by, old French, _escuellette_, in use all
over Ireland, and adopted into Gaelic), it falls in a _gliggar_ or
_gluggar_. This Gaelic word is onomatopeic, and largely in vogue with the
English-speaking population. Anything rattling or gurgling, like water in
an india-rubber ball, makes a _gligger_; hence, an egg that is no longer
fresh is called a glugger, because it makes a noise when shaken. I came
upon this word the other day, raised proudly aloft from its provincial
obscurity, in O’Donovan Rossa’s paper, the _United Irishman_, every
copy of which is headed with this weighty _spruch_, indicative of his
political faith:

“As soon will a goose sitting upon a glugger hatch goslings, as an
Irishman, sitting in an English Parliament, will hatch an Irish
Parliament.”

This story is motivated like “The King of Ireland’s Son.” It is one of
the many tales based upon an act of compassion shown to the dead.


TRUNK-WITHOUT-HEAD.

Page 157. This description of the decapitated ghost sitting astride the
beer-barrel, reminds one of Crofton Croker’s “Clooricaun,” and of the
hag’s son in the story of “Paudyeen O’Kelly and the Weasel.” In Scotch
Highland tradition, there is a “trunk-without-head,” who infested a
certain ford, and killed people who attempted to pass that way; he is not
the subject, however, of any regular story.

In a variant of this tale the hero’s name is Labhras (Laurence) and the
castle where the ghost appeared is called Baile-an-bhroin (Ballinvrone).
It is also mentioned, that when the ghost appeared in court, he came
in streaming with blood, as he was the day he was killed, and that the
butler, on seeing him, fainted.

It is Donal’s courage which saves him from the ghost, just as happens
in another story which I got, and which is a close Gaelic parallel to
Grimm’s “Man who went out to learn to shake with fear.” The ghost whom
the hero lays explains that he had been for thirty years waiting to meet
some one who would not be afraid of him. There is an evident moral in
this.


THE HAGS OF THE LONG TEETH.

Page 162. Long teeth are a favourite adjunct to horrible personalities
in folk-fancy. There is in my “Leabhar Sgeuluigheachta,” another story
of a hag of the long tooth; and in a story I got in Connacht, called the
“Speckled Bull,” there is a giant whose teeth are long enough to make a
walking-staff for him, and who invites the hero to come to him “until I
draw you under my long, cold teeth.”

Loughlinn is a little village a few miles to the north-west of Castlerea,
in the county Roscommon, not far from Mayo; and Drimnagh wood is a thick
plantation close by. Ballyglas is the adjoining townland. There are two
of the same name, upper and lower, and I do not know to which the story
refers.

[In this very curious tale a family tradition seems to have got mixed up
with the common belief about haunted raths and houses. It is not quite
clear why the daughters should be bespelled for their father’s sin. This
conception could not easily be paralleled, I believe, from folk-belief in
other parts of Ireland. I rather take it that in the original form of the
story the sisters helped, or, at all events, countenanced their father,
or, perhaps, were punished because they countenanced the brother’s
parricide. The discomfiture of the priest is curious.—A.N.]


WILLIAM OF THE TREE.

Page 168. I have no idea who this Granya-Öi was. Her appearance in
this story is very mysterious, for I have never met any trace of her
elsewhere. The name appears to mean Granya the Virgin.

[Our story belongs to the group—the calumniated and exposed daughter
or daughter-in-law. But in a German tale, belonging to the forbidden
chamber series (Grimm’s, No. 3, Marienkind), the Virgin Mary becomes
godmother to a child, whom she takes with her into heaven, forbidding
her merely to open one particular door. The child does this, but denies
it thrice. To punish her the Virgin banishes her from heaven into a
thorny wood. Once, as she is sitting, clothed in her long hair solely,
a king passes, sees her, loves and weds her, in spite of her being
dumb. When she bears her first child, the Virgin appears, and promises
to give her back her speech if she will confess her fault; she refuses,
whereupon the Virgin carries off the child. This happens thrice, and the
queen, accused of devouring her children, is condemned to be burnt. She
repents, the flames are extinguished, and the Virgin appears with the
three children, whom she restores to the mother. Can there have been any
similar form of the forbidden chamber current in Ireland, and can there
have been substitution of Grainne, Finn’s wife, for the Virgin Mary, or,
_vice versa_, can the latter have taken the place of an older heathen
goddess?—A.N.]

Page 169. See Campbell’s “Tales of the Western Highlands,” vol. III.,
page 120, for a fable almost identical with this of the two crows.




NOTES ON THE IRISH TEXT.


Page 2, line 5, abalta air a ḋeunaṁ = able to do it, a word borrowed
from English. There is a great diversity of words used in the various
provinces for “able to,” as abalta air (Mid Connacht); inneaṁuil ċum
(Waterford); ionánn or i ndán, with infinitive (West Galway); ’niniḃ with
infinitive (Donegal).

Page 4, line 18, ni leigeann siad dam = they don’t allow me. Dam is
pronounced in Mid Connacht _dumm_, but daṁ-sa is pronounced _doo-sa_.
Dr. Atkinson has clearly shown, in his fine edition of Keating’s “Three
Shafts of Death,” that the “enclitic” form of the present tense, ending
in (e)ann, should only be used in the singular. This was stringently
observed a couple of hundred years ago, but now the rule seems to be no
longer in force. One reason why the form of the present tense, which
ends in (e)ann, has been substituted for the old present tense, in
other words, why people say buaileann sé, “he strikes,” instead of the
correct buailiḋ sé, is, I think, though Dr. Atkinson has not mentioned
it, obvious to an Irish speaker. The change probably began at the same
time that the f in the future of regular verbs became quiescent, as it
is now, I may say, all over Ireland. Anyone who uses the form buailiḋ
sé would now be understood to say, “he will strike,” not “he strikes,”
for buailfiḋ sé, “he will strike,” is now pronounced, in Connacht, at
least, and I think elsewhere, buailiḋ sé. Some plain differentiation
between the forms of the tenses was wanted, and this is probably the
reason why the enclitic form in (e)ann has usurped the place of the old
independent present, and is now used as an independent present itself.
Line 30, madra or madaḋ alla = a wolf. Cuir forán air = salute him—a word
common in Connacht and the Scotch Highlands, but not understood in the
South. Line 34. Ḃeiḋeaḋ sé = he would be, is pronounced in Connacht as a
monosyllable, like ḃeiṫ (_veh_ or _vugh_).

Page 6, line 8, earball, is pronounced _rubbal_ not _arball_, in
Connacht. Ni and níor are both used before ṫáinig at the present day.

Page 8, line 18. Go marḃfaḋ sé = that he would kill; another and
commoner form is, go maróċaḋ sé, from marḃuiġ, the ḃ being quiescent in
conversation. Line 31, aḃruiṫ = broth, pronounced anṫruiṫ (_anhree_), the
ḃ having the sound of an _h_ only.

Page 12, line 27. An ċuma iraiḃsó is more used, and is better. Sin é an
ċuma a ḃí sé = “That’s the way he was.” It will be observed that this
a before the past tense of a verb is only, as Dr. Atkinson remarks, a
corruption of do, which is the sign of the past tense. The do is hardly
ever used now, except as contracted into d’ before a vowel, and this is
a misfortune, because there is nothing more feeble or more tending to
disintegrate the language than the constant use of this colourless vowel
a. In these folk stories, however, I have kept the language as I found
it. This a has already made much havoc in Scotch Gaelic, inserting itself
into places where it means nothing. Thus, they say _tha’s again air a
sin: Dinner a b fhearr na sin, etc._ Even the preposition de has with
some people degenerated into this a, thus ta sé a ḋiṫ orm, “I want it,”
for de ḋiṫ.

Page 14, line 9. For air read uirri. Line 12. seilg means hunting, but
the reciter said, seilg, sin fiaḋ, “Shellig, that’s a deer,” and thought
that Bran’s back was the same colour as a deer’s. Uaine, which usually
means green, he explained by turning to a mangy-looking cur of a dull
nondescript colour, and saying ta an madaḋ sin uaine.

Page 16, line 30. Bearna and teanga, and some other substantives of
the same kind are losing, or have lost, their inflections throughout
Connacht. Line 31. tiġeaċt is used just as frequently and in the same
breath as teaċt, without any difference of meaning. It is also spelt
tuiḋeaċt, but in Mid-Connacht the t is slender, that is tiġeaċt has the
sound of _t’yee-ught_, not _tee-ught_.

Dr. Atkinson has shown that it is incorrect to decline teanga as an _-n_
stem: correct genitive is teangaḋ. Rearta: see rasta in O’Reilly. Used in
Arran thus: Ní’l sé in rasta duit = you cannot venture to.

Page 18, line 15. Gual means a coal; it must be here a corruption of some
other word. Muid is frequently used for sinn, “we,” both in Nom. and Acc.
all over Connacht, but especially in the West.

Page 20, line 3. Deimuġ (d’yemmo͡o). This word puzzled me for a long time
until I met this verse in a song of Carolan’s

  Níor ṫuill sé diomuġaḋ aon duine.

another MS. of which reads díombuaiḋ, _i.e._, defeat, from di privitive,
and buaiḋ “victory.” Deimuġ or diomuġ must be a slightly corrupt
pronunciation of díombuaiḋ, and the meaning is, that the king’s son put
himself under a wish that he might suffer defeat during the year, if he
ate more than two meals at one table, etc. Line 15. reasta = a “writ,” a
word not in the dictionaries—perhaps, from the English, “arrest.” Cúig
ṗúnta. The numerals tri ceiṫre cúig and sé seem in Connacht to aspirate
as often as not, and _always_ when the noun which follows them is in the
singular, which it very often is. Mr. Charles Bushe, B.L., tells me he
has tested this rule over and over again in West Mayo, and has found it
invariable.

Page 22, line 2. cá = where, pronounced always cé (_kay_) in Central
Connacht. Line 17. má ḃfáġ’ mé = If I get. In Mid-Connacht, má eclipses
fáġ, as ni eclipses fuair.

Page 26, line 18. I dteaċ an ḟaṫaiġ = In the giant’s house. Tiġ, the
proper Dative of teaċ, is not much used now. Line 20. cuaille cóṁraic =
the pole of battle.

Page 28, line 9. Trian dí le Fiannuiġeaċt = one-third of it telling
stories about the Fenians. Line 10. This phrase soirm sáiṁ suain occurs
in a poem I heard from a man in the island of Achill—

  “’Sí is binne meura ag seinm air teudaiḃ,
      Do ċuirfeaḋ na ceudta ’nna g-codlaḋ,
  Le soirm sáiṁ suain, a’s naċ mór é an t-éuċt,
      Gan aon ḟear i n-Eirinn do ḋul i n-eug
        Le gráḋ d’á gruaḋ.”

I have never met this word soirm elsewhere, but it may be another form
of soirḃe, “gentleness.” Line 18. Colḃa, a couch, pronounced colua
(_cullooa_): here it means the head of the bed. Air colḃa means, on the
outside of the bed, when two sleep in it. Leabuiḋ, or leabaiḋ, “a bed,”
is uninflected; but leaba, gen. leapṫan, is another common form.

Page 30, line 30. Daḃaċ, “a great vessel or vat;” used also, like
soiṫeaċ, for ship. The correct genitive is dáiḃċe, but my reciter seemed
not to inflect it at all.

Page 32, line 14. Haiġ-óiḃir—this is only the English word, “Hie-over.”
Line 21. Copóg = a docking, a kind of a weed.

Page 36, line 2. Cloiḋeaṁ na trí faoḃar, “the sword of three edges.” In
the last century both tri and the faoḃar would have been eclipsed. Cf.
the song, “Go réiḋ, a ḃean na dtrí mbo.”

Page 40, line 33. Íocṡláinte = balsam. Line 25. Ḃuitse, the English word
“witch.” The Scotch Gaels have also the word bhuitseachas = witchery.
Gaelic organs of speech find it hard to pronounce the English _tch_, and
make two syllables of it—_it-sha_.

Page 42, line 21. Srannfartaiġ = snoring.

Page 44, line 3, for srón read ṡróin. Line 16. Cruaiḋe = steel, as
opposed to iron.

Page 46, line 21. Crap = to put hay together, or gather up crops.

Page 48, line 1. Greim = a stitch, sudden pain.

Page 52, line 15. “Súf!” a common expression of disgust in central
Connacht, both in Irish and in English. Line 18. Uile ḋuine. This word
uile is pronounced _hulla_ in central Connacht, and it probably gets this
_h_ sound from the final ċ of gaċ, which used to be always put before it.
Father Eugene O’Growney tells me that the guttural sound of this ċ is
still heard before uile in the Western islands, and would prefer to write
the word ’ċ uile. When uile follows the noun, as na daoine uile, “all
the people,” it has the sound of _ellik_ or _ellig_, probably from the
original phrase being uile go léir, contracted into uileg, or even, as in
West Galway, into ’lig.

Page 54, line 9. Goile = “appetite,” properly “stomach.” Line 30. An
ṫrioblóid = the trouble, but better written an trioblóid, since feminine
nouns, whose first letter is d or t, are seldom aspirated after the
article. There is even a tendency to omit the aspiration from adjectives
beginning with the letters d and t. Compare the celebrated song of Bean
duḃ an ġleanna, not Bean ḋuḃ.

Page 56, line 4. Aicíd = a disease. Line 24. D’ḟeiceál and d’innseaċt
are usual Connacht infinitives of feic and innis. Line 21. Caise = a
stream. Line 26. Strácailt = dragging along. Line 32. Luiḃearnaċ, often
pronounced like _leffernugh_ = weeds.

Page 60, line 8. Tá beiseac or biseaċ orm = “I am better;” tá sé fáġail
beisiġ, more rightly, bisiġ = He’s getting better. Line 22. Maiseaḋ,
pronounced _musha_, not _mosha_, as spelt, or often even _mush_ in
Central Connacht. Line 28. Marṫain, infinitive of mair, to live. Cuiḃlint
= striving, running a race with.

Page 64, line 4. Tig liom = “it comes with me,” “I can.” This is a phrase
in constant use in Connacht, but scarcely even known in parts of Munster.
Line 15. Oiread agus toirt uiḃe = as much as the size of an egg. Line 23.
As an nuaḋ = de novo, over again.

Page 66, line 2. Ag baint leis an uisge = touching the water.

Page 66, line 15. Moṫuiġ = “to feel.” It is pronounced in central
Connacht like maoiṫiġ (mweehee), and is often used for “to hear;” ṁaoiṫiġ
mé sin roiṁe seo = I heard that before. Line 20. Sgannruiġ is either
active or passive; it means colloquially either to frighten or to become
frightened.

Page 68, line 12. Fan mar a ḃfuil tu = wait _where_ you are, fan mar tá
tu = remain _as_ you are. Line 17. Ċor air biṫ, short for air ċor air
biṫ, means “at all.” In Munster they say air aon ċor.

Page 70, line 3. cad ċuige = “why;” this is the usual word in Connacht,
often contracted to tuige.

Page 72, line 13. Cáṫair-na-mart = Westport.

Page 74, line 7. Lubarnuiġ, a word not in the dictionaries; it means, I
think, “gambolling.” Line 20. Ceapaḋ = seize, control. Line 22. Múlaċ =
black mud.

Page 76, line 2. Anaċain = “damage,” “harm.” There are a great many
synonyms for this word still in use in Connacht, such as damáiste,
dolaiḋ, urċóid, doċar, etc. Line 16. Breóiḋte = “destroyed.”

Page 78, line 3. Coir, a crime; is pronounced like _quirrh_. Láiḋe = a
loy, or narrow spade.

Page 80, line 5. Ar ḃ leis an teaċ mór = “who owned the big house.” A
raiḃ an teaċ mór aige = who had in his possession the big house. Line
21. Truscán tiġe = house furniture. Line 26. ’Niḋ Dia ḋuit, short for
go mbeannuiġ Dia ḋuit. Line 27. Go mbuḋ h-éḋuit = “the same to you,”
literally, “that it may be to you,” the constant response to a salutation
in Connacht.

Page 84, line 22. A gan ḟios dí = “without her knowing it,” pronounced
like _a gunyis dee_. I do not see what the force of this a is, but it is
always used, and I have met it in MSS. of some antiquity.

Page 86, line 33. Dá’r ḋéug, pronounced dá réug, short for dá ḟear déag,
“twelve men.” Stangaire = a mean fellow.

Page 92, line 10. Bóṫairín cártaċ = a cart road.

Page 94, line 22. Táir = tá tu, an uncommon form in Connacht now-a-days.

Page 66, line 13. Go dtagaiḋ another and very common form of go dtigiḋ.

Page 98, line 22. Níor ḟan an sagart aċt ċuaiḋ a ḃaile, _i.e._, ċuaiḋ sé
aḃaile; the pronoun sé is, as the reader must have noticed, constantly
left out in these stories, where it would be used in colloquial
conversation.

Page 100, line 27. Seilḃ and seilg; are the ordinary forms of sealḃ and
sealg in Connacht.




FOOTNOTES


[1] Had Lady Wilde known Irish she might have quoted from a popular
ballad composed on Patrick Sarsfield, and not yet forgotten:—

  A Pádruig Sáirséul is duine le Dia thu
  ’S beannuighthe an talamh ar siúdhail tu riamh air,
  Go mbeannuigh an ghealach gheal ’s an ghrian duit,
  O thug tu an lá as láimh Righ’liaim leat.
                                            Och ochón.

—_i.e._,

  Patrick Sarsfield, a man with God you are,
  Blessed the country that you walk upon,
  Blessing of sun and shining moon on you,
  Since from William you took the day with you.
                                            Och, och hone.

This would have made her point just as well. Unfortunately, Lady Wilde is
always equally extraordinary or unhappy in her informants where Irish is
concerned. Thus, she informs us that _bo-banna_ (meant for _bo-bainne_,
a milch cow) is a “white cow”; that tobar-na-bo (the cow’s well) is “the
well of the white cow”; that Banshee comes from _van_ “the woman”—(_bean_
means “a woman”); that Leith Brogan—_i.e._, leprechaun—is “the artificer
of the brogue,” while it really means the half or one-shoe, or, according
to Stokes, is merely a corruption of locharpan; that tobar-na-dara
(probably the “oak-well”) is the “well of tears,” etc. Unfortunately, in
Ireland it is no disgrace, but really seems rather a recommendation, to
be ignorant of Irish, even when writing on Ireland.

[2] Thus he over and over again speaks of a slumber-pin as _bar an
suan_, evidently mistaking the _an_ of _bioran_, “a pin,” for _an_
the definite article. So he has _slat an draoiachta_ for _slaitin_,
or _statán draoigheachta_. He says _innis caol_ (narrow island) means
“light island,” and that _gil an og_ means “water of youth!” &c.; but,
strangest of all, he talks in one of his stories of killing and boiling a
stork, though his social researches on Irish soil might have taught him
that that bird was not a Hibernian fowl. He evidently mistakes the very
common word _sturc_, a bullock, or large animal, or, possibly, _torc_,
“a wild boar,” for the bird stork. His interpreter probably led him
astray in the best good faith, for _sturck_ is just as common a word with
English-speaking people as with Gaelic speakers, though it is not to be
found in our wretched dictionaries.

[3] Thus: “Kill Arthur went and killed Ri Fohin and all his people and
beasts—didn’t leave one alive;” or, “But that instant it disappeared—went
away of itself;” or, “It won all the time—wasn’t playing fair,” etc., etc.

[4] Campbell’s “Popular Tales of the West Highlands.” Vol. iv. p. 327.

[5] Father O’Growney has suggested to me that this may be a diminutive
of the Irish word _fathach_, “a giant.” In Scotch Gaelic a giant is
always called “famhair,” which must be the same word as the _fomhor_ or
sea-pirate of mythical Irish history.

[6] The manuscript in which I first read this story is a typical one
of a class very numerous all over the country, until O’Connell and the
Parliamentarians, with the aid of the Catholic prelates, gained the ear
and the leadership of the nation, and by their more than indifference to
things Gaelic put an end to all that was really Irish, and taught the
people to speak English, to look to London, and to read newspapers. This
particular MS. was written by one Seorsa MacEineircineadh, whoever he
was, and it is black with dirt, reeking with turf smoke, and worn away at
the corners by repeated reading. Besides this story it contains a number
of others, such as “The Rearing of Cuchulain,” “The Death of Conlaoch,”
“The King of Spain’s Son,” etc., with many Ossianic and elegiac poems.
The people used to gather in at night to hear these read, and, I am sure,
nobody who understands the contents of these MSS., and the beautiful
alliterative language of the poems, will be likely to agree with the
opinion freely expressed by most of our representative men, that it is
better for the people to read newspapers than study anything so useless.

[7] Campbell has mistranslated this. I think it means “from the bottom of
the well of the deluge.”

[8] Campbell misunderstood this also, as he sometimes does when the word
is Irish. _Siogiadh_ means “fairy.”

[9] In a third MS., however, which I have, made by a modern Clare
scribe, Domhnall Mac Consaidin, I find “the Emperor Constantine,” not
the “Emperor of Constantinople,” written. O’Curry in his “Manuscript
Materials,” p. 319, ascribes “Conall Gulban,” with some other stories,
to a date prior to the year 1000; but the fighting with the Turks (which
motivates the whole story, and which cannot be the addition of an
ignorant Irish scribe, since it is also found in the Highland traditional
version), shows that its date, in its present form, at least, is much
later. There is no mention of Constantinople in the Scotch Gaelic
version, and hence it is possible—though, I think, hardly probable—that
the story had its origin in the Crusades.

[10] I find the date, 1749, attributed to it in a voluminous MS. of some
600 closely written pages, bound in sheepskin, made by Laurence Foran of
Waterford, in 1812, given me by Mr. W. Doherty, C.E.

[11] An buaċaill do bí a ḃfad air a ṁáṫair.

[12] Prof. Rhys identifies Cuchulain with Hercules; and makes them
both sun-gods. There is nothing in our story however, which points to
Cuchulain, and still less to the Celtic Hercules described by Lucian.

[13] An t-éun ceól-ḃinn.

[14] Wratislaw’s Folk-Tales from Slavonic Sources.

[15] It appears, unfortunately, that all classes of our Irish politicians
alike agree in their treatment of the language in which all the past of
their race—until a hundred years ago—is enshrined. The inaction of the
Parliamentarians, though perhaps dimly intelligible, appears, to me at
least, both short-sighted and contradictory, for they are attempting to
create a nationality with one hand and with the other destroying, or
allowing to be destroyed, the very thing that would best differentiate
and define that nationality. It is a making of bricks without straw. But
the non-Parliamentarian Nationalists, in Ireland at least, appear to be
thoroughly in harmony with them on this point. It is strange to find the
man who most commands the respect and admiration of that party advising
the young men of Gaelic Cork, in a printed and widely-circulated lecture
entitled: “What Irishmen should know,” to this effect:—“I begin by a sort
of negative advice. You all know that much has been written in the Irish
language. This is of great importance, especially in connection with our
early history, hence must ever form an important study for scholars. But
you are, most of you, not destined to be scholars, and so I should simply
advise you—especially such of you as do not already know Irish—to leave
all this alone, or rather to be content with what you can easily find
in a translated shape in the columns of Hardiman, Miss Brooke, Mangan,
and Sigerson.” So that the man whose most earnest aspiration in life is
Ireland a nation, begins by advising the youth of Ireland _not_ to study
the language of their fathers, and to read the gorgeous Gaelic poetry in
such pitiful translations as Hardiman and Miss Brooke have given of a few
pieces. The result of this teaching is as might be expected. A well-known
second-hand book-seller in Dublin assured me recently that as many as
200 Irish MSS. had passed through his hand within the last few years.
Dealers had purchased them throughout the country in Cavan, Monaghan, and
many other counties for a few pence, and sold them to him, and he had
dispersed them again to the four winds of heaven, especially to America,
Australia, and New Zealand. Many of these must have contained matter
not to be found elsewhere. All are now practically lost, and nobody in
Ireland either knows or cares. In America, however, of all countries in
the world, they appreciate the situation better, and the fifth resolution
passed at the last great Chicago Congress was one about the Irish
language.

[16] Flash, in Irish, _lochán_, _i.e._, little lake, or pool of water.
Most story-tellers say, not, “I got the _lochán_,” but the “_clochán_,”
or stepping-stones.

[17] Tint, means a drop, or small portion of liquid, amongst English
speaking persons in Connacht and most other parts of Ireland.

[18] Gual.

[19] This is an idiom in constant use in Gaelic and Irish; but to
translate it every time it occurs would be tedious. In Gaelic we say, my
share of money, land, etc., for my money, my land.

[20] In Irish, _geasa_—mystic obligations.

[21] Geasa, pronounced _gassa_, means “enchantment” in this place.

[22] Or “the King of N’yiv.”

[23] An ordinary Connacht expression, like the Scotch “the noo.”

[24] “Oh, Mary,” or “by Mary,” an expression like the French “dame!”

[25] To “let on” is universally used in Connacht, and most parts of
Ireland for to “pretend.” It is a translation of the Irish idiom.

[26] _i.e._, this quarter of a year.

[27] forenent, or forenenst = over against.

[28] Narrow spade used all over Connacht.

[29] Untranslatable onomatopæic words expressive of noises.

[30] These names are not exactly pronounced as written. To pronounce them
properly say _yart_ first, and then _yart_ with an _n_ and a _c_ before
it, _n’yart_ and _c’yart_.

[31] That means “It was well for yourself it was so.” This old
Elizabethan idiom is of frequent occurrence in Connacht English, having
with many other Elizabethanisms, either filtered its way across the
island from the Pale, or else been picked up by the people from the
English peasantry with whom they have to associate when they go over to
England to reap the harvest.

[32] Rath or fort or circular moat.




INDEX OF INCIDENTS.

[I use the word “incident” as equivalent to the German _sagzug_, _i.e._,
as connoting not only the separate parts of an action, but also its
pictorial features.—A.N.]


    Ball, guiding, of silver, 132.

    Belore of the Evil Eye, 144.

    Besom riding, 85.

    Blast of wind from giant’s nostrils, 146.

    Blind wise man, 129.

    Blood drops incident, 19.

    Boat out of thimble, 137.

    Bones gathered up and revivified, 152.

    Bran, colour and swiftness of, 15.
      death of, 17.

    Bran’s daughter, 17;
      catches wild geese, 17-19;
      killed, 19.

    Broth-swallowing match, 11.

    Brother, of welcoming hags, 132.
      helps hero across stream, 133;
      restored to youth by hero, 135.


    Cap of darkness, 29.

    Cat, white, 130. (= old hag?)

    Coach, enchanted, with two fawns, 139.

    Cross-roads, separation at, 129.

    Curse of the 24 men, 154.


    Damsel, encouraging, in red silk, 131.
      gives hero thimble as boat, 137.

    Daughter prevents father re-marrying after first wife’s death, by
      cutting grass on mother’s grave, 167.

    Dead man haunting house, 158.

    Destruction of king’s court by night, 3.

    Doctoring instrument, 148.

    Dog, black, catches bullets in mouth, 162;
      strikes exorcising priest dumb, 163;
      father of hags, 163.

    Dog, big black, son of weasel hag, 79.

    Dumbness caused by fairy blow, 116.


    Eagle guarding stream, 133.
      slain by hero, 134.

    Elder brothers fail, 140.

    Enchanter helps mortal, 93.
      passes him off as dead, 95.


    Fairest maid, description of, 112.

    Fairies baffled by cross, 115.

    Fairies carry off princess, 107, _et seq._
      require a mortal’s help, 89, 107.
      meet annually on November night, 122.

    Fairies turn into flying beetles, 89.

    Fairy help to mortal withdrawn, 142.

    Fairy dwelling filled with smoke and lightning, 143;
      hill opens, 87.

    Fairy horses unspelled, 115.
      host, noise of, 105;
      takes horse, 106.
      king and queen, 87.
      hurling match, 87.

    Fairy spits fire, and frightens Pope, 110.

    Father, cruel, cuts hands and feet off daughter, 168.
      punished, and healed by daughter, 169.

    Fearless hero, 156, _et seq._,
      sleeps with corpse, 158.

    Feather supporting house, 131.

    Finn’s mother a fawn, 17.

    Flea killed by valiant tailor, 2.

    Football players in haunted house, 158.

    Fox, hiding-place for, 5.


    Geasa run, 21.

    Ghost denouncing murderer, 159.

    Ghost laying by fortune distributing, 159.

    Giants, two, crushed by stone, 9, _et seq._

    Giant outwitted by lying reports, 29.

    Giant slits himself up, 11.

    Goblin, headless, in cellar, 81, 157.
      drinks and plays music with hero, 83;
      bagpipes for fairies, 85.

    Grateful dead, 21, 23, 153.
      beggar, 156;
      robin, 165.

    Guarding monsters, 134.


    Hags, enchanted, turn vultures, 163.
      condemned for father’s crime, 164.
      turned into swans at end of enchantment period, 166.

    Hag turned into weasel, 79.
      welcoming, sister to hero’s nurse, 131.

    Hair turns into ladder, 140.

    Hare magic, 162.

    Haunted house, 81.

    Healing well, 129.

    Helping servant, 148.
      saves ungrateful master, 157.

    Herb for blood-stopping, 149.

    Herb of healing, 165.

    Hero, grown rich, visits home, 161.
      joins fairy host, 106.

    Heroine and attendant maidens made pregnant in their sleep, 135.
      seeks father of children, 139.
      recovers magic gifts abandoned by hero, 139, _et seq._
      tests false claimants, 140.
      full up of serpents banished by first embraces, 45.
      under spells, 37.

    Horse, swift as lightning, 132.
      talking, 2.
      hiding-place for, 3.

    Husband, not to re-marry till grass be foot high on dead wife’s
      grave, 167.


    Incurable sore foot, 129.

    Inexhaustible milk-can (fairy gift), 142.
      water and bread, 134.
      purse, 91.


    Kiss, first, from heroine, claimed by helping servant, 45.


    Lion, ploughing, 7;
      guarding, 134.


    Magic gifts abandoned by hero, 139.

    Mary’s shamrock (? four-leaved), 142.

    Murderer revealed by ghost, 160.

    Mutilated (hands and feet) heroine married, 168;
      restored after birth of triplets, 168.


    Night entertainment run, 29.

    Nonsense ending, 15, 128.

    November night for fairy gatherings, 122.


    One-eyed supernatural being, 144.


    Pin of slumber, 39, 43.

    Piper in haunted house, 158.

    Poison, King of, 39.

    Pole of combat, 27, _et seq._
      of combat run, 27.

    Pope compelled to reinstate priest, 110.

    Priest refuses to exorcise, 143;
      exorcises bewitched hags, 163.

    Princess, ill to death, cured by taking head off her, 149.
      promised to task performer, 2.
      released from fairies, 115.

    Purse that empties not, 91.

    Purses bestowed by supernatural being, 91, 144.


    Quest for healing water, 129.


    Recognition of hero by heroine, 141.

    Robin grateful, brings herb of healing, 165.


    Safety token (stone), 129.

    Servant’s wage, 23.

    Silence bespelling removed, 168.

    Skilful companions, gunner, listener, runner, blower, stone-breaker,
      23-27.

    Sleep, magic, 147;
      of enchanted queen over in seven years, 134.

    Slumber pin in horse’s head, 43.

    Smelling giant, 27.

    Speech restored by herb, 125.

    Spikes crowned with skulls, 39.

    Step-mother (hag) accuses step-daughter, 168.

    Stone-breaker crushes sharp stones, 45.

    Swift runner and hag race, 43.

    Swiftness, slippers, 33.

    Sword that leaves leavings of no blow behind it, 37.

    Sword of light, 135.


    Tailor, valiant, 2.

    Taboo on telling about fairy gifts, 142.
      broken and punished by loss, 143.

    Threefold entertaining by hags, 130.

    Three sons start for healing water, 129.

    Travellers’ seat in wood, 131.


    Unwashed feet of hero, 104.


    Wages, half of what is earned, 148.

    Wages of help servant refused, 150.

    Weasel brings money, 73;
      attacks despoiler, 75;
      kills cow, 77;
      turns into hag, 77.

    Well of healing balm, 41.
      of healing water, 129.

    Workmen’s wages, 7.

    Witch released by Masses, 79.

    Witch’s hut to be burnt after death, 79.


    Youngest son succeeds, 138;
      envied by elder brothers, 138, _et seq._;
      made a scullion, 139.

    Youth, restoration to, 135.