The Irish Fairy Book
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Title: The Irish Fairy Book
Editor: Alfred Perceval Graves
Illustrator: George Denham
Release date: May 1, 2010 [eBook #32202]
Language: English
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THE IRISH FAIRY BOOK
by
ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES
Illustrated by George Denham
London·T·FisherUnwin·
All rights reserved.
A Faery Song
Sung by the people of faery over Diarmuid and Grania, who lay in
their bridal sleep under a Cromlech.
We who are old, old and gay,
O so old!
Thousands of years, thousands of years,
If all were told:
Give to these children, new from the world,
Silence and love;
And the long dew-dropping hours of the night,
And the stars above:
Give to these children, new from the world,
Rest far from men.
Is anything better, anything better?
Tell us it then:
Us who are old, old and gay,
O so old!
Thousands of years, thousands of years,
If all were told.
W. B. YEATS.
Contents
THE COMING OF FINN _Standish James O'Grady_ 1
THE THREE CROWNS _Patrick Kennedy_ 12
THE GRATEFUL BEASTS _Patrick Kennedy_ 25
THE LEPRACAUN _William Allingham_ 31
DANIEL O'ROURKE _T. Crofton Croker_ 35
CUCHULAIN OF MUIRTHEMNE _Lady Gregory_ 45
THE BOYHOOD OF CUCHULAIN _Standish James O'Grady_ 52
THE LEGEND OF KNOCKGRAFTON _T. Crofton Croker_ 60
THE STOLEN CHILD _W. B. Yeats_ 67
THE LAND OF YOUTH _Bryan O'Looney_ 71
Edited by John O'Daly
THE ADVENTURES OF GILLA NA CHRECK _Patrick Kennedy_ 85
THE HILL-MAN AND THE HOUSE-WIFE _Mrs. Ewing_ 96
THE GIANT WALKER _Sir Samuel Ferguson_ 99
THE PURSUIT OF THE GILLA DACKER _Patrick W. Joyce_ 102
JAMIE FREEL AND THE YOUNG LADY _Letitia McClintock_ 123
A LEGEND OF KNOCKMANY _William Carleton_ 133
THE NINEPENNY FIDIL _Joseph Campbell_ 149
FESTIVITIES AT THE HOUSE OF CONAN _Nicholas O'Kearney_ 151
THE WHITE TROUT _Samuel Lover_ 160
THE WONDERFUL CAKE _Patrick Kennedy_ 164
THE LEGEND OF THE LITTLE WEAVER _Samuel Lover_ 167
MOR OF CLOYNE _Alfred Perceval Graves_ 180
LAWN DYARRIG _Jeremiah Curtin_[1] 181
THE HORNED WOMEN _Lady Wilde_ 198
THE QUARE GANDER _Joseph Sheridan Le Fann_ 202
THE FAIRIES' PASSAGE _James Clarence Mangan_ 214
THE KING OF THE BLACK DESERT _Douglas Hyde_ 218
THE PIPER AND THE PUCA _Douglas Hyde_ 236
THE FAIRY CHANGELING _Dora Sigerson_ 241
THE TALKING HEAD OF DONN-BO _Eleanor Hull_ 243
THE BRACKET BULL _Douglas Hyde_ 246
THE DEMON CAT _Lady Wilde_ 262
THE ABBOT OF INISFALEN _William Allingham_ 265
MORRAHA _W. Larminie_ 269
THE KILDARE POOKA _Patrick Kennedy_ 286
THE KING'S SON _Thomas Boyd_ 290
MURTOUGH AND THE WITCH-WOMAN _Eleanor Hull_ 293
THE RED PONY _W. Larminie_ 307
KING O'TOOLE AND ST. KEVIN _Samuel Lover_ 314
LAMENT OF THE LAST LEPRECHAUN _Nora Hopper_ 322
THE CORPSE WATCHERS _Patrick Kennedy_ 324
THE MAD PUDDING _William Carleton_ 329
THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE _Alfred Tennyson_ 346
Preface
Irish Fairy Lore has well been called by Mr. Alfred Nutt, one of the
leading authorities on the subject, "As fair and bounteous a harvest of
myth and romance as ever flourished among any race," and Dr. Joyce, the
well-known Irish scholar and historian, states: "that it is very
probable that the belief in the existence of fairies came in with the
earliest colonists that entered Ireland, and that this belief is
recorded in the oldest of native Irish writings in a way that proves it
to have been, at the time treated of, long established and universally
received."
Colgan himself supplies us with the name and derivation of the Irish
word for fairy, Sidh (shee), still used throughout the country.
"Fantastical spirits," he writes, "are by the Irish called men of the
Sidh, because they are seen, as it were, to come out of the beautiful
hills to infest men, and hence the vulgar belief that they reside in
certain subterranean habitations; and sometimes the hills themselves are
called by the Irish Sidhe or Siodha."
In Colgan's time, then, the fairy superstition had passed from the upper
classes, gradually disenthralled of it by the influence of Christianity
to the common people, among whom it is still rife. But it is clear that
in the time of St. Patrick a belief in a world of fairies existed even
in the King's household, for it is recorded that "when the two daughters
of King Leary of Ireland, Ethnea the fair and Fedelma the ruddy, came
early one morning to the well of Clebach to wash, they found there a
synod of holy bishops with Patrick. And they knew not whence they came,
or in what form, or from what people, or from what country; but they
supposed them to be Duine Sidh, or gods of the earth, or a phantasm."
As suggested, the belief of the Princesses obtains to this very day
amongst the peasantry of remote districts in Ireland, who still maintain
that the fairies inhabit the Sidhe, or hills, and record instances of
relations and friends being transported into their underground palaces.
The truth is that the Gaelic peasant, Scotch and Irish, is a mystic, and
believes not only in this world, and the world to come, but in that
other world which is the world of Faery, and which exercises an
extraordinary influence upon many actions of his life.
We see in the well-known dialogue between Oisin (Ossian) and St.
Patrick, and in other early Irish writers, how potent an influence
Druidism, with its powers of concealing and changing, of paralysing and
cursing, had been held to be in the days when the Irish worshipped no
hideous idols, but adored Beal and Dagdae, the Great or the Good God,
and afterwards Aine, the Moon, Goddess of the Water and of Wisdom, and
when their minor Deities were Mananan Mac Lir, the Irish Neptune, whose
name is still to be found in the Isle of _Man_; Crom, who corresponded
to Ceres; Iphinn, the benevolent, whose relations to the Irish Oirfidh
resembled those of Apollo towards Orpheus. The ancient Irish owed
allegiance also to the Elements, to the Wind, and to the Stars.
Besides these Pagan Divinities, however, and quite apart from them, the
early Irish believed in a hierarchy of fairy beings, closely analagous
to us "humans," supposed to people hill and valley, old road and old
earth-mound, lakes and rivers, and there to exercise a constant, if
occult, influence upon mankind.
Various theories have been advanced to account for their origin. Some
call these fairies angels outcast from heaven for their unworthiness,
yet not evil enough for hell, and who, therefore, occupy intermediate
space.
Others suggest that they are the spirits of that mysterious early Irish
race, the Tuatha da Danann, who were driven by their conquerors, the
Milesians, to become "men of the hills," if not "cave" and "lake
dwellers," in order to avoid the extermination that ultimately awaited
them. Their artistic skill and superior knowledge evidenced to this day
by remarkable sepulchral mounds, stone-inscribed spiral ornamentation,
and beautiful bronze spear-heads, led them to be accounted magicians,
and Mr. Yeats and others of his school favour the idea that the minor
deities of the early Irish above referred to were the earliest members
of the Tuatha da Danann dynasty, and that we here have a form of that
ancestor worship now met with amongst the Chinese and Japanese.
Dr. Joyce does not hold, however, that the subjugation of the Tuatha da
Dananns, with the subsequent belief regarding them, was the origin of
Irish fairy mythology.
"The superstition, no doubt, existed long previously; and this
mysterious race, having undergone a gradual deification, became
confounded and identified with the original local gods, and ultimately
superseded them altogether."
But whatever their origin, supernatural powers evil and beneficent were
supposed to attach to them such as the power of spiriting away young
married women to act as fairy nurses, and their infants to replace fairy
weaklings, or again the power of conferring wealth, health, and
prosperity where a certain ritual due to them had been performed by
their human allies.
The injurious powers of malevolently disposed fairies can only be met,
according to popular belief, by wizards and wise women, who still
exercise their arts in remote districts of Gaelic-speaking Ireland and
Scotland.
These fairies are supposed to be life-sized, but there was another class
of diminutive preternatural beings who came into close touch with man.
Amongst these were the Luchryman (Leith-phrogan) or _brogue_ (shoe)
maker, otherwise known as Lepracaun. He is always found mending or
making a shoe, and if grasped firmly and kept constantly in view will
disclose hid treasure to you or render up his _sporan na sgillinge_ or
purse of the (inexhaustible) shilling. He could only be bound by a
plough chain or woollen thread. He is the type of industry which, if
steadily faced, leads to fortune, but, if lost sight of, is followed by
its forfeiture.
Love in idleness is personified by another pigmy, the _Gean-canach_
(love-talker). He does not appear like the Luchryman, with a purse in
one of his pockets but with his hands in both of them and a DUDEEN
(ancient Irish pipe) in his mouth as he lazily strolls through lonely
valleys making love to the foolish country lasses and "gostering" with
the idle "boys."
To meet him meant bad luck, and whoever was ruined by ill-judged love
was said to have been with the Gean-canach.
Another evil sprite was the _Clobher-ceann_, "a jolly, red-faced drunken
little fellow," always "found astride on a wine-butt" and drinking and
singing from a full tankard in a hard drinker's cellar, and bound by his
appearance to bring its owner to speedy ruin.
Then there were the Leannan-sighe, or native Muses, to be found in every
place of note to inspire the local bard, and the _Beansighes_ (Banshees,
fairy women) attached to each of the old Irish families and giving
warning of the death of one of its members with piteous lamentations.
Black Joanna of the Boyne (_Siubhan Dubh na Boinne_) appeared on
Hallowe'en in the shape of a great black fowl, bringing luck to the
house whose _Vanithee_ (woman of the house) kept it constantly clean and
neat.
The Pooka, who appeared in the shape of a horse, and whom Shakespeare
has adapted as "Puck," was a goblin who combined "horse-play" with
viciousness.
The _dullaghan_ was a churchyard demon whose head was of a movable
kind, and Dr. Joyce writes: "You generally meet him with his head in his
pocket, under his arm, or absent altogether; or if you have the fortune
to light upon a number of _dullaghans_, you may see them amusing
themselves by flinging their heads at one another or kicking them for
footballs."
An even more terrible churchyard demon is the beautiful phantom that
waylays the widower at his wife's very tomb and poisons him by her kiss
when he has yielded to her blandishments.
Of monsters the Irish had, and still believe in, the _Piast_ (Latin
_bestia_), a huge dragon or serpent confined to lakes by St. Patrick
till the day of judgment, but still occasionally seen in their waters.
In Fenian times the days of Finn and his companion knights, the Piast,
however, roamed the country, devouring men and women and cattle in large
numbers, and some of the early heroes are recorded to have been
swallowed alive by them and then to have hewed their way out of their
entrails.
The Merrow, or Mermaid, is also still believed in, and many Folk Tales
exist describing their intermarriage with mortals.
According to Nicholas O'Kearney--"It is the general opinion of many old
persons versed in native traditional lore, that, before the introduction
of Christianity, all animals possessed the faculties of human reason and
speech; and old story-tellers will gravely inform you that every beast
could speak before the arrival of St. Patrick, but that the Saint having
expelled the demons from the land by the sound of his bell, all the
animals that, before that time, had possessed the power of foretelling
future events, such as the Black Steed of Binn-each-labhra, the Royal
Cat of Clough-magh-righ-cat (Clough), and others, became mute; and many
of them fled to Egypt and other foreign countries."
Cats are said to have been appointed to guard hidden treasures; and
there are few who have not heard old Irish peasants tell about a strange
meeting of cats and a violent battle fought by them in his
neighbourhood. "It was believed," adds O'Kearney, "that an evil spirit
in the shape of a cat assumed command over these animals in various
districts, and that when those wicked beings pleased they could compel
all the cats belonging to their division to attack those of some other
district. The same was said of rats; and rat-expellers, when commanding
a colony of those troublesome and destructive animals to emigrate to
some other place, used to address their 'billet' to the infernal rat
supposed to hold command over the rest. In a curious pamphlet on the
power of bardic compositions to charm and expel rats, lately published,
Mr. Eugene Curry states that a degraded priest, who was descended from
an ancient family of hereditary bards, was enabled to expel a colony of
rats by the force of satire!"
Hence, of course, Shakespeare's reference to rhyming Irish rats to
death.
A few words upon the writers in this collection. Of Folk Tale collectors
the palm must be given to Dr. Douglas Hyde, whose great knowledge of
Irish, combined with a fine literary faculty, has enabled him to present
the stories he has generously granted me the use of, in a manner which
combines complete fidelity to his original, with true artistic feeling.
Dr. Joyce has not only granted the use of his fine Heroic Tale of the
Pursuit of the Gilla Dacker, but had the honour of supplying Alfred,
Lord Tennyson, the late Poet Laureate, with the subject of his "Voyage
of Maeldune" in a story of that name, adapted into English in his "Old
Celtic Romances." The Laureate acted on my suggestion that he should
found a poem upon one of the romances in that book; and to that
circumstance I owe the kind permission by his son and Messrs. Macmillan
to republish it at length in this volume.
Besides Dr. Hyde and Dr. Joyce I have been enabled, through the friendly
leave of Messrs. Macmillan and Elliot and Stock, to use Mr. Jeremiah
Curtin's and Mr. Larminie's excellently told Irish Fairy Tales. These
two latter Folk Tale collectors have worked upon Dr. Hyde's plan of
taking down their tales from the lips of the peasants, and reproducing
them, whether from their Irish or Hiberno-Irish, as clearly as they were
able to do so. The recent death of both of these writers is a serious
loss to Irish Folk Lore.
Obligations are due to Miss Hull for two hitherto unpublished and fine
Folk Tales, to Lady Gregory for the use of her "Birth of Cuchulain," to
Standish James O'Grady for his "Boyish Exploits of Cuchulain and The
Coming of Finn," to the late Mrs. Ewing for "The Hill-man and the
House-wife," to Mrs. William Allingham for the use of two of her
husband's poems, to Mr. D. J. Donoghue for a poem by Mr. Thomas Boyd,
and Mr. Chesson for one of his wife's (Nora Hopper), to Mrs. Shorter
(Dora Sigerson) for a poem, and to Mr. Joseph Campbell for another, and
finally to Mr. W. B. Yeats for his two charming Fairy Poems, "The Stolen
Child" and "Faery Song."
ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES.
_Erinfa, Harlech, N. Wales,
July 12, 1909._
The Coming of Finn
It was the Eve of Samhain, which we Christians call All Hallows' Eve.
The King of Ireland, Conn, the Hundred-Fighter, sat at supper in his
palace at Tara. All his chiefs and mighty men were with him. On his
right hand was his only son, Art the Solitary, so called because he had
no brothers. The sons of Morna, who kept the boy Finn out of his rights
and were at the time trying to kill him if they could, were here too.
Chief amongst them was Gaul mac Morna, a huge and strong warrior, and
Captain of all the Fians ever since that battle in which Finn's father
had been killed.
And Gaul's men were with him. The great long table was spread for
supper. A thousand wax candles shed their light through the chamber, and
caused the vessels of gold, silver, and bronze to shine. Yet, though it
was a great feast, none of these warriors seemed to care about eating or
drinking; every face was sad, and there was little conversation, and no
music. It seemed as if they were expecting some calamity. Conn's
sceptre, which was a plain staff of silver, lay beside him on the table,
and there was a canopy of bright bronze over his head. Gaul mac Morna,
Captain of the Fians, sat at the other end of the long table. Every
warrior wore a bright banqueting mantle of silk or satin, scarlet or
crimson, blue, green, or purple, fastened on the breast either with a
great brooch or with a pin of gold or silver. Yet, though their raiment
was bright and gay, and though all the usual instruments of festivity
were there, and a thousand tall candles shed their light over the scene,
no one looked happy.
Then was heard a low sound like thunder, and the earth seemed to
tremble, and after that they distinctly heard a footfall like the slow,
deliberate tread of a giant. These footfalls sent a chill into every
heart, and every face, gloomy before, was now pale.
The King leaned past his son Art the Solitary, and said to a certain
Druid who sat beside Art, "Is this the son of Midna come before his
time?" "It is not," said the Druid, "but it is the man who is to conquer
Midna. One is coming to Tara this night before whose glory all other
glory shall wax dim."
Shortly after that they heard the voices of the doorkeepers raised in
contention, as if they would repel from the hall someone who wished to
enter, then a slight scuffle, and after that a strange figure entered
the chamber. He was dressed in the skins of wild beasts, and wore over
his shoulders a huge thick cloak of wild boars' skins, fastened on the
breast with a white tusk of the same animal. He wore a shield and two
spears. Though of huge stature his face was that of a boy, smooth on the
cheeks and lips. It was white and ruddy, and very handsome. His hair was
like refined gold. A light seemed to go out from him, before which the
candles burned dim. It was Finn.
He stood in the doorway, and cried out in a strong and sonorous, but
musical, voice:
"O Conn the Hundred-Fighter, son of Felimy, the righteous son of Tuthal
the legitimate, O King of the Kings of Erin, a wronged and disinherited
youth, possessing nowhere one rood of his patrimony, a wanderer and an
outlaw, a hunter of the wildernesses and mountains, claims hospitality
of thee, illustrious prince, on the eve of the great festival of
Samhain."
"Thou art welcome whoever thou art," answered the King, "and doubly
welcome because thou art unfortunate. I think, such is thy face and
form, that thou art the son of some mighty king on whom disaster has
fallen undeserved. The high gods of Erin grant thee speedy restoration
and strong vengeance of thy many wrongs. Sit here, O noble youth,
between me and my only son, Art, heir to my kingdom."
An attendant took his weapons from the youth and hung them on the wall
with the rest, and Finn sat down between the King of Ireland and his
only son. Choice food was set before him, which he ate, and old ale,
which he drank. From the moment he entered no one thought of anything
but of him. When Finn had made an end of eating and drinking, he said to
the King:
"O illustrious prince, though it is not right for a guest to even seem
to observe aught that may be awry, or not as it should be, in the hall
of his entertainer, yet the sorrow of a kindly host is a sorrow, too, to
his guest, and sometimes unawares the man of the house finds succour and
help in the stranger. There is sorrow in this chamber of festivity. If
anyone who is dear to thee and thy people happens to be dead, I can do
nothing. But I say it, and it is not a vain boast, that even if a person
is at the point of death, I can restore him to life and health, for
there are marvellous powers of life-giving in my two hands."
Conn the Hundred-Fighter answered, "Our grief is not such as you
suppose; and why should I not tell a cause of shame, which is known far
and wide? This, then, is the reason of our being together, and the gloom
which is over us. There is a mighty enchanter whose dwelling is in the
haunted mountains of Slieve Gullion in the north. His name is Allen, son
of Midna, and his enmity to me is as great as his power. Once every
year, at this season, it is his pleasure to burn Tara. Descending out of
his wizard haunts, he standeth over against the city and shoots balls of
fire out of his mouth against it, till it is consumed. Then he goes away
mocking and triumphant. This annual building of Tara, only to be
annually consumed, is a shame to me, and till this enchanter declared
war against me, I have lived without reproach."
"But," said Finn, "how is it that thy young warriors, valiant and swift,
do not repel him, or kill him?"
"Alas!" said Conn, "all our valour is in vain against this man. Our
hosts encompass Tara on all sides, keeping watch and ward when the fatal
night comes. Then the son of Midna plays on his Druidic instrument of
music, on his magic pipe and his magic lyre, and as the fairy music
falls on our ears, our eyelids grow heavy, and soon all subside upon the
grass in deep slumber. So comes this man against the city and shoots his
fire-balls against it, and utterly consumes it. Nine years he has burnt
Tara in that manner, and this is the tenth. At midnight to-night he will
come and do the same. Last year (though it was a shame to me that I, who
am the high King over all Ireland, should not be able myself to defend
Tara) I summoned Gaul mac Morna and all the Fians to my assistance. They
came, but the pipe and lyre of the son of Midna prevailed over them too,
so that Tara was burned as at other times. Nor have we any reason to
believe that the son of Midna will not burn the city again to-night, as
he did last year. All the women and children have been sent out of Tara
this day. We are only men of war here, waiting for the time. That, O
noble youth, is why we are sad. The 'Pillars of Tara' are broken, and
the might of the Fians is as nought before the power of this man."
"What shall be my reward if I kill this man and save Tara?" asked Finn.
"Thy inheritance," answered the King, "be it great or small, and whether
it lies in Ireland or beyond Ireland; and for securities I give you my
son Art and Gaul mac Morna and the Chief of the Fians."
Gaul and the captains of the Fianna consented to that arrangement,
though reluctantly, for their minds misgave them as to who the great
youth might be.
After that all arose and armed themselves and ringed Tara round with
horse and foot, and thrice Conn the Hundred-Fighter raised his awful
regal voice, enjoining vigilance upon his people, and thrice Gaul mac
Morna did the same, addressing the Fians, and after that they filled
their ears with wax and wool, and kept a stern and fierce watch, and
many of them thrust the points of their swords into their flesh.
Now Finn was alone in the banqueting chamber after the rest had gone
out, and he washed his face and his hands in pure water, and he took
from the bag that was at his girdle the instruments of divination and
magic, which had been his father's, and what use he made of them is not
known; but ere long a man stood before him, holding a spear in one hand
and a blue mantle in the other. There were twenty nails of gold of
Arabia in the spear. The nails glittered like stars, and twinkled with
live light as stars do in a frosty night, and the blade of it quivered
like a tongue of white fire. From haft to blade-point that spear was
alive. There were voices in it too, and the war-tunes of the enchanted
races of Erin, whom they called the Tuatha De Danan, sounded from it.
The mantle, too, was a wonder, for innumerable stars twinkled in the
blue, and the likeness of clouds passed through it. The man gave these
things to Finn, and when he had instructed him in their use, he was not
seen.
Then Finn arose and armed himself, and took the magic spear and mantle
and went out. There was a ring of flame round Tara that night, for the
Fians and the warriors of Conn had torches in their hands, and all the
royal buildings of Tara showed clear in the light, and also the dark
serpentine course of the Boyne, which flowed past Tara on the north; and
there, standing silent and alert, were the innumerable warriors of all
Erin, with spear and shield, keeping watch and ward against the son of
Midna, also the Four Pillars of Tara in four dense divisions around the
high King, even Conn the Hundred-Fighter.
Finn stood with his back to the palace, which was called the
House-of-the-going-round-of-Mead, between the palace and Conn, and he
grasped the magic spear strongly with one hand and the mantle with the
other.
As midnight drew nigh, he heard far away in the north, out of the
mountains of Slieve Gullion, a fairy tune played, soft, low, and slow,
as if on a silver flute; and at the same time the roar of Conn the
Hundred-Fighter, and the voice of Gaul like thunder, and the responsive
shouts of the captains, and the clamour of the host, for the host
shouted all together, and clashed their swords against their shields in
fierce defiance, when in spite of all obstructions the fairy music of
the enchanter began to steal into their souls. That shout was heard all
over Ireland, echoing from sea to sea, and the hollow buildings of Tara
reverberated to the uproar. Yet through it all could be heard the low,
slow, delicious music that came from Slieve Gullion. Finn put the point
of the spear to his forehead. It burned him like fire, yet his stout
heart did not fail. Then the roar of the host slowly faded away as in a
dream, though the captains were still shouting, and two-thirds of the
torches fell to the ground. And now, succeeding the flute music,
sounded the music of a stringed instrument exceedingly sweet. Finn
pressed the cruel spear-head closer to his forehead, and saw every torch
fall, save one which wavered as if held by a drunken man, and beneath it
a giant figure that reeled and tottered and strove in vain to keep its
feet. It was Conn the Hundred-Fighter. As he fell there was a roar as of
many waters; it was the ocean mourning for the high King's fall. Finn
passed through the fallen men and stood alone on the dark hill-side. He
heard the feet of the enchanter splashing through the Boyne, and saw his
huge form ascending the slopes of Tara. When the enchanter saw that all
was silent and dark there he laughed and from his mouth blew a red
fire-ball at the Teck-Midcuarta, which he was accustomed first to set in
flames. Finn caught the fire-ball in the magic mantle. The enchanter
blew a second and a third, and Finn caught them both. The man saw that
his power over Tara was at an end, and that his magic arts had been
defeated. On the third occasion he saw Finn's face, and recognised his
conqueror. He turned to flee, and though slow was his coming, swifter
than the wind was his going, that he might recover the protection of his
enchanted palace before the "fair-faced youth clad in skins" should
overtake him. Finn let fall the mantle as he had been instructed, and
pursued him, but in vain. Soon he perceived that he could not possibly
overtake the swift enchanter. Then he was aware that the magic spear
struggled in his hand like a hound in a leash. "Go, then, if thou wilt,"
he said, and, poising, cast the spear from him. It shot through the dark
night hissing and screaming. There was a track of fire behind it. Finn
followed, and on the threshold of the enchanted palace he found the body
of Midna. He was quite dead, with the blood pouring through a wound in
the middle of his back; but the spear was gone. Finn drew his sword and
cut off the enchanter's head, and returned with it to Tara. When he came
to the spot where he had dropped the mantle it was not seen, but smoke
and flame issued there from a hole in the ground. That hole was twenty
feet deep in the earth, and at the bottom of it there was a fire always
from that night, and it was never extinguished. It was called the fire
of the son of Midna. It was in a depression on the north side of the
hill of Tara, called the Glen of the Mantle, Glen-a-Brat.
Finn, bearing the head, passed through the sleepers into the palace and
spiked the head on his own spear, and drove the spear-end into the
ground at Conn's end of the great hall. Then the sickness and faintness
of death came upon Finn, also a great horror and despair overshadowed
him, so that he was about to give himself up for utterly lost. Yet he
recalled one of his marvellous attributes, and approaching a silver
vessel, into which pure water ever flowed and which was always full, he
made a cup with his two hands and, lifting it to his mouth, drank, and
the blood began to circulate in his veins, and strength returned to his
limbs, and the cheerful hue of rosy health to his cheeks.
Having rested himself sufficiently he went forth and shouted to the
sleeping host, and called the captains by their names, beginning with
Conn. They awoke and rose up, though dazed and stupid, for it was
difficult for any man, no matter how he had stopped his ears, to avoid
hearing Finn when he sent forth his voice of power. They were
astonished to find that Tara was still standing, for though the night
was dark, the palaces and temples, all of hewn timber, were brilliantly
coloured and of many hues, for in those days men delighted in splendid
colours.
When the captains came together Finn said, "I have slain Midna." "Where
is his head?" they asked, not because they disbelieved him, but because
the heads of men slain in battle were always brought away for trophies.
"Come and see," answered Finn. Conn and his only son and Gaul mac Morna
followed the young hero into the Teck-Midcuarta, where the spear-long
waxen candles were still burning, and when they saw the head of Midna
impaled there at the end of the hall, the head of the man whom they
believed to be immortal and not to be wounded or conquered, they were
filled with great joy, and praised their deliverer and paid him many
compliments.
"Who art thou, O brave youth?" said Conn. "Surely thou art the son of
some great king or champion, for heroic feats like thine are not
performed by the sons of inconsiderable and unknown men."
Then Finn flung back his cloak of wild boars' skins, and holding his
father's treasure-bag in his hand before them all, cried in a loud
voice:
"I am Finn, the son of Cool, the son of Trenmor, the son of Basna; I am
he whom the sons of Morna have been seeking to destroy from the time
that I was born; and here to-night, O King of the Kings of Erin, I claim
the fulfilment of thy promise, and the restoration of my inheritance,
which is the Fian leadership of Fail." Thereupon Gaul mac Morna put his
right hand into Finn's, and became his man. Then his brothers and his
sons, and the sons of his brothers, did so in succession, and after that
all the chief men of the Fians did the same, and that night Finn was
solemnly and surely installed in the Fian leadership of Erin, and put in
possession of all the woods and forests and waste places, and all the
hills and mountains and promontories, and all the streams and rivers of
Erin, and the harbours and estuaries and the harbour-dues of the
merchants, and all ships and boats and galleys with their mariners, and
all that pertained of old time to the Fian leadership of Fail.
STANDISH JAMES O'GRADY.
The Three Crowns
(_Told in the Wexford Peasant Dialect._)
There was once a king, some place or other, and he had three daughters.
The two eldest were very proud and uncharitable, but the youngest was as
good as they were bad. Well, three princes came to court them, and two
of them were the _moral_ of the two eldest ladies, and one was just as
lovable as the youngest. They were all walking down to a lake one day
that lay at the bottom of the lawn, just like the one at Castleboro',
and they met a poor beggar. The King wouldn't give him anything, and the
eldest princes wouldn't give him anything, nor their sweethearts; but
the youngest daughter and her true love did give him something, and kind
words along with it, and that was better _nor_ all.
When they got to the edge of the lake, what did they find but the
beautifulest boat you ever saw in your life; and says the eldest, "I'll
take a sail in this fine boat;" and says the second eldest, "I'll take a
sail in this fine boat;" and says the youngest, "I won't take a sail in
that fine boat, for I'm afraid it's an enchanted one." But the others
overpersuaded her to go in, and her father was just going in after her,
when up sprung on the deck a little man only seven inches high, and he
ordered him to stand back. Well, all the men put their hands to their
_soords_; and if the same soords were only thraneens they weren't able
to draw them, for all _sthrenth_ was left their arms. _Seven Inches_
loosened the silver chain that fastened the boat and pushed away; and
after grinning at the four men, says he to them: "Bid your daughters and
your brides farewell for awhile. That wouldn't have happened you three,
only for your want of charity. You," says he to the youngest, "needn't
fear; you'll recover your princess all in good time, and you and she
will be as happy as the day is long. Bad people, if they were rolling
stark naked in gold, would not be rich. _Banacht lath!_" Away they
sailed, and the ladies stretched out their hands, but weren't able to
say a word.
Well, they were crossin' the lake while a cat'd be lickin' her ear, and
the poor men couldn't stir hand nor foot to follow them. They saw _Seven
Inches_ handing the three princesses out of the boat, and letting them
down by a nice basket and _winglas_ into a draw-well that was
convenient, but king nor princes never saw an opening before in the same
place. When the last lady was out of sight the men found the strength in
their arms and legs again. Round the lake they ran, and never drew rein
till they came to the well and windlass, and there was the silk rope
rolled on the axle, and the nice white basket hanging to it. "Let me
down," says the youngest prince; "I'll die or recover them again."
"No," says the second daughter's sweetheart, "I'm entitled to my turn
before you." "And," says the other, "I must get first turn, in right of
my bride." So they gave way to him, and in he got into the basket, and
down they let him. First they lost sight of him, and then, after winding
off a hundred perches of the silk rope, it slackened, and they stopped
turning. They waited two hours, and then they went to dinner, because
there was no chuck made at the rope.
Guards were set till morning, and then down went the second prince, and,
sure enough, the youngest of all got himself let down on the third day.
He went down perches and perches, while it was as dark about him as if
he was in a big pot with the cover on. At last he saw a glimmer far
down, and in a short time he felt the ground. Out he came from the big
lime-kiln, and lo and behold you, there was a wood and green fields, and
a castle in a lawn, and a bright sky over all. "It's in Tir-na-n Oge I
am," says he. "Let's see what sort of people are in the castle." On he
walked across fields and lawn, and no one was there to keep him out or
let him into the castle; but the big hall door was wide open. He went
from one fine room to another that was finer, and at last he reached the
handsomest of all, with a table in the middle; and such a dinner as was
laid upon it! The prince was hungry enough, but he was too mannerly to
go eat without being invited. So he sat by the fire, and he did not wait
long till he heard steps, and in came _Seven Inches_ and the youngest
sister by the hand. Well, prince and princess flew into one another's
arms, and says the little man, says he, "Why aren't you eating?" "I
think, sir," says he, "it was only good manners to wait to be asked."
"The other princes didn't think so," says he. "Each of them fell to
without leave nor license, and only gave me the rough side o' his tongue
when I told them they were making more free than welcome. Well, I don't
think they feel much hunger now. There they are, good _marvel_ instead
of flesh and blood," says he, pointing to two statues, one in one corner
and the other in the other corner of the room. The prince was
frightened, but he was afraid to say anything, and _Seven Inches_ made
him sit down to dinner between himself and his bride, and he'd be as
happy as the day is long, only for the sight of the stone men in the
corner. Well, that day went by, and when the next came, says _Seven
Inches_ to him, "Now, you'll have to set out that way," pointing to the
sun, "and you'll find the second princess in a giant's castle this
evening, when you'll be tired and hungry, and the eldest princess
to-morrow evening; and you may as well bring them here with you. You
need not ask leave of their masters; they're only housekeepers with the
big fellows. I suppose, if they ever get home, they'll look on poor
people as if they were flesh and blood like themselves."
Away went the prince, and bedad it's tired and hungry he was when he
reached the first castle at sunset. Oh, wasn't the second princess glad
to see him! And if she didn't give him a good supper it's a wonder. But
she heard the giant at the gate, and she hid the prince in a closet.
Well, when he came in, he snuffed, and he snuffed, an' says he, "_Be_
(by) the life, I smell fresh mate." "Oh," says the princess, "it's only
the calf I got killed to-day." "Ay, ay," says he, "is supper ready?"
"It is," says she; and before he ruz from the table he hid
three-quarters of the calf and a kag of wine. "I think," says he, when
all was done, "I smell fresh mate still." "It's sleepy you are," says
she; "go to bed." "When will you marry me?" says the giant; "you're
puttin' me off too long." "St. Tibb's Eve," says she. "I wish I knew how
far off that is," says he; and he fell asleep with his head in the dish.
Next day he went out after breakfast, and she sent the prince to the
castle where the eldest sister was. The same thing happened there; but
when the giant was snoring, the princess wakened up the prince, and they
saddled two steeds in the stables, and _magh go bragh_ (the field for
ever) with them. But the horses' heels struck the stones outside the
gate, and up got the giant, and after them he made. He roared, and he
shouted, and the more he shouted the faster ran the horses; and just as
the day was breaking he was only twenty perches behind. But the prince
didn't leave the Castle of _Seven Inches_ without being provided with
something good. He reined in his steed, and flung a short, sharp knife
over his shoulder, and up sprung a thick wood between the giant and
themselves. They caught the wind that blew before them, and the wind
that blew behind them did not catch them. At last they were near the
castle where the other sister lived; and there she was, waiting for them
under a high hedge, and a fine steed under her.
But the giant was now in sight, roaring like a hundred lions, and the
other giant was out in a moment, and the chase kept on. For every two
springs the horses gave the giants gave three, and at last they were
only seventy perches off. Then the prince stopped again and flung the
second skian behind him. Down went all the flat field, till there was a
quarry between them a quarter of a mile deep, and the bottom filled with
black water; and before the giants could get round it the prince and
princesses were inside the domain of the great magician, where the high
thorny hedge opened of itself to everyone that he chose to let in.
Well, to be sure, there was joy enough between the three sisters till
the two eldest saw their lovers turned into stone. But while they were
shedding tears for them _Seven Inches_ came in and touched them with his
rod. So they were flesh and blood and life once more, and there was
great hugging and kissing, and all sat down to a nice breakfast, and
_Seven Inches_ sat at the head of the table.
When breakfast was over he took them into another room, where there was
nothing but heaps of gold and silver and diamonds, and silks and satins;
and on a table there was lying three sets of crowns: a gold crown was in
a silver crown, and that was lying in a copper crown. He took up one set
of crowns and gave it to the eldest princess; and another set, and gave
it to the second princess; and another set, and gave it to the youngest
princess of all; and says he, "Now you may all go to the bottom of the
pit, and you have nothing to do but stir the basket, and the people that
are watching above will draw you up, princesses first, princes after.
But remember, ladies, you are to keep your crowns safe, and be married
in them all the same day. If you be married separately, or if you be
married without your crowns, a curse will follow--mind what I say."
So they took leave of him with great respect, and walked arm-in-arm to
the bottom of the draw-well. There was a sky and a sun over them and a
great high wall, and the bottom of the draw-well was inside the arch.
The youngest pair went last, and says the princess to the prince, "I'm
sure the two princes don't mean any good to you. Keep these crowns under
your cloak, and if you are obliged to stay last, don't get into the
basket, but put a big stone, or any heavy thing, inside, and see what
will happen."
So when they were inside the dark cave they put in the eldest princess
first, and she stirred the basket and up she went, but first she gave a
little scream. Then the basket was let down again, and up went the
second princess, and then up went the youngest; but first she put her
arms round her prince's neck and kissed him, and cried a little. At last
it came to the turn of the youngest prince, and well became him--instead
of going into the basket he put in a big stone. He drew on one side and
listened, and after the basket was drawn up about twenty perch down came
itself and the stone like thunder, and the stone was made _brishe_ of on
the flags.
Well, my poor prince had nothing for it but to walk back to the castle;
and through it and round it he walked, and the finest of eating and
drinking he got, and a bed of bog-down to sleep on, and fine walks he
took through gardens and lawns, but not a sight could he get, high or
low, of _Seven Inches_. Well, I don't think any of _us_ would be tired
of this way of living for ever! Maybe we would. Anyhow, the prince got
tired of it before a week, he was so lonesome for his true love; and at
the end of a month he didn't know what to do with himself.
One morning he went into the treasure room and took notice of a
beautiful snuff-box on the table that he didn't remember seeing there
before. He took it in his hands and opened it, and out _Seven Inches_
walked on the table. "I think, prince," says he, "you're getting a
little tired of my castle?" "Ah!" says the other, "if I had my princess
here, and could see you now and then, I'd never see a dismal day."
"Well, you're long enough here now, and you're wanting there above. Keep
your bride's crowns safe, and whenever you want my help open this
snuff-box. Now take a walk down the garden, and come back when you're
tired."
Well, the prince was going down a gravel walk with a quick-set hedge on
each side and his eyes on the ground, and he thinking on one thing and
another. At last he lifted his eyes, and there he was outside of a
smith's bawn gate that he had often passed before, about a mile away
from the palace of his betrothed princess. The clothes he had on him
were as ragged as you please, but he had his crowns safe under his old
cloak.
So the smith came out, and says he, "It's a shame for a strong big
fellow like you to be on the _sthra_, and so much work to be done. Are
you any good with hammer and tongs? Come in and bear a hand, and I'll
give you diet and lodging and a few thirteens when you earn them." "Never
say't twice," says the prince; "I want nothing but to be employed." So
he took the sledge and pounded away at the red-hot bar that the smith
was turning on the anvil to make into a set of horse-shoes.
Well, they weren't long powdhering away, when a _stronshuch_ (idler) of
a tailor came in; and when the smith asked him what news he had, he got
the handle of the bellows and began to blow to let out all he had heard
for the last two days. There were so many questions and answers at first
that, if I told them all, it would be bed-time before I'd be done. So
here is the substance of the discourse; and before he got far into it
the forge was half filled with women knitting stockings and men smoking.
Yous all heard how the two princesses were unwilling to be married till
the youngest would be ready with her crowns and her sweetheart. But
after the windlass loosened _accidentally_ when they were pulling up her
bridegroom that was to be, there was no more sign of a well or a rope or
a windlass than there is on the palm of your hand. So the buckeens that
were coortin' the eldest ladies wouldn't give peace nor ease to their
lovers nor the King till they got consent to the marriage, and it was to
take place this morning. Myself went down out of curiosity; and to be
sure I was delighted with the grand dresses of the two brides and the
three crowns on their heads--gold, silver, and copper--one inside the
other. The youngest was standing by, mournful enough, in white, and all
was ready. The two bridegrooms came walking in as proud and grand as you
please, and up they were walking to the altar rails when, my dear, the
boards opened two yards wide under their feet, and down they went among
the dead men and the coffins in the vaults. Oh, such screeching as the
ladies gave! and such running and racing and peeping down as there was;
but the clerk soon opened the door of the vault, and up came the two
heroes, and their fine clothes covered an inch thick with cobwebs and
mould.
So the King said they should put off the marriage, "For," says he, "I
see there is no use in thinking of it till my youngest gets her three
crowns and is married along with the others. I'll give my youngest
daughter for a wife to whoever brings three crowns to me like the
others; and if he doesn't care to be married, some other one will, and
I'll make his fortune." "I wish," says the smith, "I could do it; but I
was looking at the crowns after the princesses got home, and I don't
think there's a black or a white smith on the face of the earth could
imitate them." "Faint heart never won fair lady," says the prince. "Go
to the palace, and ask for a quarter of a pound of gold, a quarter of a
pound of silver, and a quarter of a pound of copper. Get one crown for a
pattern, and my head for a pledge, and I'll give you out the very things
that are wanted in the morning." "Ubbabow," says the smith, "are you in
earnest?" "Faith, I am so," says he. "Go! Worse than lose you can't."
To make a long story short, the smith got the quarter of a pound of
gold, and the quarter of a pound of silver, and the quarter of a pound
of copper, and gave them and the pattern crown to the prince. He shut
the forge door at nightfall, and the neighbours all gathered in the
bawn, and they heard him hammering, hammering, hammering, from that to
daybreak, and every now and then he'd pitch out through the window bits
of gold, silver, or copper; and the idlers scrambled for them, and
cursed one another, and prayed for the good luck of the workman.
Well, just as the sun was thinking to rise he opened the door and
brought the three crowns he got from his true love, and such shouting
and huzzaing as there was! The smith asked him to go along with him to
the palace, but he refused; so off set the smith, and the whole townland
with him; and wasn't the King rejoiced when he saw the crowns! "Well,"
says he to the smith, "you're a married man, and what's to be done?"
"Faith, your majesty, I didn't make them crowns at all; it was a big
shuler (vagrant) of a fellow that took employment with me yesterday."
"Well, daughter, will you marry the fellow that made these crowns?" "Let
me see them first, father." So when she examined them she knew them
right well, and guessed it was her true love that had sent them. "I will
marry the man that these crowns came from," says she.
"Well," said the King to the eldest of the two princes, "go up to the
smith's forge, take my best coach, and bring home the bridegroom." He
was very unwilling to do this, he was so proud, but he did not wish to
refuse. When he came to the forge he saw the prince standing at the
door, and beckoned him over to the coach. "Are you the fellow," says he,
"that made them crowns?" "Yes," says the other. "Then," says he, "maybe
you'd give yourself a brushing, and get into that coach; the King wants
to see you. I pity the princess." The young prince got into the
carriage, and while they were on the way he opened the snuff-box, and
out walked _Seven Inches_, and stood on his thigh. "Well," says he,
"what trouble is on you now?" "Master," says the other, "please to let
me back in my forge, and let this carriage be filled with
paving-stones." No sooner said than done. The prince was sitting in his
forge, and the horses wondered what was after happening to the carriage.
When they came to the palace yard the King himself opened the carriage
door to pay respect to the new son-in-law. As soon as he turned the
handle a shower of stones fell on his powdered wig and his silk coat,
and down he fell under them. There was great fright, and some tittering,
and the King, after he wiped the blood from his forehead, looked very
cross at the eldest prince. "My liege," says he, "I'm very sorry for
this _accidence_, but I'm not to blame. I saw the young smith get into
the carriage, and we never stopped a minute since." "It's uncivil you
were to him. Go," says he to the other prince, "and bring the young
prince here, and be polite." "Never fear," says he.
But there's some people that couldn't be good-natured if they were to be
made heirs of Damer's estate. Not a bit civiller was the new messenger
than the old, and when the King opened the carriage door a second time
it's a shower of mud that came down on him; and if he didn't fume and
splutter and shake himself it's no matter. "There's no use," says he,
"going on this way. The fox never got a better messenger than himself."
So he changed his clothes and washed himself, and out he set to the
smith's forge. Maybe he wasn't polite to the young prince, and asked him
to sit along with himself. The prince begged to be allowed to sit in the
other carriage, and when they were half-way he opened his snuff-box.
"Master," says he, "I'd wished to be dressed now according to my rank."
"You shall be that," says _Seven Inches_. "And now I'll bid you
farewell. Continue as good and kind as you always were; love your wife,
and that's all the advice I'll give you." So _Seven Inches_ vanished;
and when the carriage door was opened in the yard, out walks the prince,
as fine as hands and pins could make him, and the first thing he did was
to run over to his bride and embrace her very heartily.
Everyone had great joy but the two other princes. There was not much
delay about the marriages that were all celebrated on the same day, and
the youngest prince and princess were the happiest married couple you
ever heard of in a story.
PATRICK KENNEDY.
The Grateful Beasts
There was once a young man on his way to a fair with five shillings in
his pocket. As he went he saw some little boys beating a poor mouse they
had just caught.
"Come, boys," says he, "do not be so cruel. Sell me your mouse for
sixpence, and go off and buy some sweets."
They gave him the mouse, and he let the poor little beast go. He had not
gone far when he met a fresh set of boys teasing the life out of a poor
weasel.
Well, he bought him off for a shilling and let him go. The third
creature he saved, from a crowd of cruel young men, was an ass, but he
had to give a whole half-crown to get him off. "Now," says poor Neddy,
"you may as well take me with you. I'll be of some use, I think, for
when you are tired you can get up on my back." "With all my heart," said
Jack, for that was the young man's name.
The day was very hot, and the boy sat under a tree to enjoy the shade.
As soon as he did he fell asleep, but he was soon awakened by a
wicked-looking giant and his two servants. "How dare you let your ass
trespass in my field," cried he, "and do such mischief." "I had no
notion that he had done anything of the kind." "No notion? I'll notion
you, then. Bring out that chest," said he to one of his servants, and
before you could wink they had tied the poor boy, hand and foot, with a
stout rope, thrown him into the chest, and tossed the chest into the
river. Then they all went away but poor Neddy, till who should come up
but the weasel and the mouse, and they asked him what was the matter. So
the ass told them his story.
"Oh," said the weasel, "he must be the same boy that saved the mouse and
myself. Had he a brown patch in the arm of his coat?" "The very same."
"Come, then," said the weasel, "and let us try and get him out of the
river." "By all means," said the others. So the weasel got on the ass's
back and the mouse got into his ear, and away they went. They had not
gone far when they saw the chest, which had been stopped among the
rushes at the end of a little island.
In they went, and the weasel and the mouse gnawed the rope till they had
set their master free.
Well, they were all very glad, and were having a great talk about the
giant and his men, when what should the weasel spy but an egg, with the
most lovely colours on the shell, lying down in the shallow water. It
was not long before he had fished it out, and Jack kept turning it round
and round and praising it.
"Oh, my dear friends," said he to the ass, the mouse, and the weasel,
"how I wish it was in my power to thank you as I should like. How I wish
I had a fine house and grounds to take you to where you could live in
peace and plenty."
The words were hardly out of his mouth when he and the beasts found
themselves standing on the steps of a grand castle, with the finest lawn
before it that you ever saw. There was no one inside or outside it to
keep it from them, so in they went, and there they lived as happy as
kings.
Jack was standing at his gate one day as three merchants were passing by
with their goods packed on the backs of horses and mules.
"Bless our eyes," cried they, "what does this mean? There was no castle
or lawn here when we went by last time."
"That is true," cried Jack, "but you shall not be the worse for it. Take
your beasts into the yard at the back of the house and give them a good
feed, and if you can spare the time stay and take a bit of dinner with
me."
They were only too glad to do so; but after dinner Jack was so foolish
as to show them his painted egg, and to tell them that you had only to
wish for a thing when you had it in your hand and your wish was granted.
He proved it to be so. Then one of his guests put a powder into Jack's
next glass of wine, and when he awoke he found himself in the island
again, with his patched coat on him, and his three friends in front of
him, all looking very downhearted. "Ah, Master," said the weasel, "you
will never be wise enough for the tricky people that are in the world."
"Where did these thieves say they lived, and what names did they say
they were called by?" Jack scratched his head, and after a while was
able to tell them.
"Come, Neddy," says the weasel, "let us be jogging. It would not be safe
for the master to go with us; but if we have luck we will bring him the
egg back after all."
So the weasel got on the ass's back and the mouse got into his ear, and
away they went till they reached the house of the head rogue. The mouse
went in, and the ass and the weasel hid themselves in a copse outside.
The mouse soon came back to them.
"Well, what news?" said they.
"Dull news enough; he has the egg in a low chest in his bedroom, and the
door is strongly locked and bolted, and a pair of cats with fiery eyes
are chained to the chest watching it night and day."
"Let us go back," said the ass; "we can do nothing." "Wait!" said the
weasel.
When bedtime came, said the weasel to the mouse: "Go in at the keyhole
and get behind the rogue's head, and stay there two or three hours
sucking his hair."
"What good would there be in that?" asked the ass. "Wait, and you'll
know!" said the weasel.
Next morning the merchant was quite mad to find the state his hair was
in.
"But I'll be a match for you to-night, my fine mouse," said he. So he
unchained the cats next night and made them sit by his bedside and
watch.
Just as he was dropping asleep the weasel and the mouse were outside the
door, and gnawing away till they had scooped out a hole in the bottom of
it. In went the mouse, and it was not long before he had the egg quite
safe.
They were soon on the road again; the mouse in the ass's ear, the weasel
on his back, and the egg in the weasel's mouth.
When they came to the river, and were swimming across, the ass began to
bray. "Hee-haw, hee-haw," cried he. "Is there anyone like me in all the
world? I am carrying the mouse and the weasel and the great enchanted
egg that can do anything. Why do you not praise me?"
But the mouse was asleep, and the weasel dared not open his mouth for
fear of dropping the egg. "I'll shake you all off, you thankless pack,
if you won't praise me," cried the ass, and the poor weasel forgot the
egg, and cried out: "Oh, don't, don't!" when down went the egg into the
deepest pool in the river. "Now you have done it," said the weasel, and
you may be sure the ass looked very foolish.
"Oh, what are we to do?" groaned he. "Keep a good heart," said the
weasel. Then looking down into the deep water, he cried: "Hear! all you
frogs and fish. There is a great army of storks and cranes coming to
take you all out and eat you up red-raw. Make haste! Make haste!" "Oh,
and what can we do?" cried they, coming up to the top. "Gather up the
stones from below and hand them to us, and we'll build a big wall on the
bank to defend you." So the fish and frogs fell to work like mad, and
were at it hard and fast, reaching up all the stones and pebbles they
found at the bottom of the pool.
At last a big frog came up with the egg in his mouth, and when the
weasel had hold of it he climbed into a tree and cried out, "That will
do; the army has got a great fright at our walls, and they are all
running away." So the poor things were greatly relieved.
You may be sure that Jack jumped for joy to see his friends and the egg
again. They were soon back in their castle, and when Jack began to feel
lonely he did not find it hard to find a pretty lady to marry him, and
then they two and the three grateful beasts were as happy as the days
were long.
PATRICK KENNEDY.
The Lepracaun or Fairy Shoemaker
I.
Little Cowboy, what have you heard,
Up on the lonely rath's green mound?
Only the plaintive yellow bird
Sighing in sultry fields around,
Chary, chary, chary, chee-ee!--
Only the grasshopper and the bee?--
"Tip-tap, rip-rap,
Tick-a-tack-too!
Scarlet leather, sewn together,
This will make a shoe.
Left, right, pull it tight;
Summer days are warm;
Underground in winter,
Laughing at the storm!"
Lay your ear close to the hill.
Do you not catch the tiny clamour,
Busy click of an elfin hammer,
Voice of the Lepracaun singing shrill
As he merrily plies his trade?
He's a span
And a quarter in height.
Get him in sight, hold him tight,
And you're a made
Man!
II.
You watch your cattle the summer day,
Sup on potatoes, sleep in the hay;
How would you like to roll in your carriage,
Look for a Duchess's daughter in marriage?
Seize the Shoemaker--then you may!
"Big boots a-hunting,
Sandals in the hall,
White for a wedding-feast,
Pink for a ball.
This way, that way,
So we make a shoe;
Getting rich every stitch,
Tick-tack-too!"
Nine-and-ninety treasure-crocks
This keen miser-fairy hath,
Hid in mountains, woods, and rocks,
Ruin and round-tow'r, cave and rath,
And where the cormorants build;
From times of old
Guarded by him;
Each of them fill'd
Full to the brim
With gold!
III.
I caught him at work one day, myself,
In the castle-ditch, where foxglove grows--
A wrinkled, wizen'd, and bearded Elf,
Spectacles stuck on his pointed nose,
Silver buckles to his hose,
Leather apron--shoe in his lap--
"Rip-rap, tip-tap,
Tick-tack-too!
(A grasshopper on my cap!
Away the moth flew!)
Buskins for a fairy prince,
Brogues for his son--
Pay me well, pay me well,
When the job is done!"
The rogue was mine, beyond a doubt.
I stared at him; he stared at me;
"Servant, Sir!" "Humph!" says he,
And pulled a snuff-box out.
He took a long pinch, look'd better pleased,
The queer little Lepracaun;
Offer'd the box with a whimsical grace--
Pouf! he flung the dust in my face,
And, while I sneezed,
Was gone!
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.
Daniel O'Rourke
People may have heard of the renowned adventures of Daniel O'Rourke, but
how few are there who know that the cause of all his perils, above and
below, was neither more nor less than his having slept under the walls
of the Pooka's Tower. I knew the man well. He lived at the bottom of
Hungry Hill, just at the right-hand side of the road as you go towards
Bantry. An old man was he at the time he told me the story, with grey
hair and a red nose; and it was on the 25th of June, 1813, that I heard
it from his own lips, as he sat smoking his pipe under the old poplar
tree, on as fine an evening as ever shone from the sky. I was going to
visit the caves in Dursey Island, having spent the morning at
Glengariff.
"I am often axed to tell it, sir," said he, "so that this is not the
first time. The master's son, you see, had come from beyond foreign
parts in France and Spain, as young gentlemen used to go before
Buonaparte or any such was heard of; and, sure enough, there was a
dinner given to all the people on the ground, gentle and simple, high
and low, rich and poor. The _ould_ gentlemen were the gentlemen, after
all, saving your honour's presence. They'd swear at a body a little, to
be sure, and, maybe, give one a cut of a whip now and then, but we were
no losers by it in the end; and they were so easy and civil, and kept
such rattling houses, and thousands of welcomes; and there was no
grinding for rent, and there was hardly a tenant on the estate that did
not taste of his landlord's bounty often and often in a year; but now
it's another thing. No matter for that, sir, for I'd better be telling
you my story.
"Well, we had everything of the best, and plenty of it; and we ate, and
we drank, and we danced, and the young master, by the same token, danced
with Peggy Barry, from the Bohereen--a lovely young couple they were,
though they are both low enough now. To make a long story short, I got,
as a body may say, the same thing as tipsy almost, for I can't remember,
ever at all, no ways, how it was I left the place; only I did leave it,
that's certain. Well, I thought, for all that, in myself, I'd just step
to Molly Cronohan's, the fairy woman, to speak a word about the bracket
heifer that was bewitched; and so, as I was crossing the stepping-stones
of the ford of Ballyashenogh, and was looking up at the stars, and
blessing myself--for why? it was Lady-day--I missed my foot, and souse I
fell into the water. 'Death alive!' thought I, 'I'll be drowned now!'
However, I began swimming, swimming, swimming away for dear life, till
at last I got ashore, somehow or other, but never the one of me can tell
how, upon a _dissolute_ island.
"I wandered and wandered about there, without knowing where I wandered,
until at last I got into a big bog. The moon was shining as bright as
day, or your fair lady's eyes, sir (with your pardon for mentioning
her), and I looked east and west, north and south, and every way, and
nothing did I see but bog, bog, bog. I could never find out how I got
into it; and my heart grew cold with fear, for sure and certain I was
that it would be my _berrin'_ place. So I sat upon a stone, which, as
good luck would have it, was close by me, and I began to scratch my
head, and sing the ULLAGONE--when all of a sudden the moon grew black,
and I looked up and saw something for all the world as if it was moving
down between me and it, and I could not tell what it was. Down it came
with a pounce, and looked at me full in the face; and what was it but an
eagle?--as fine a one as ever flew from the kingdom of Kerry! So he
looked at me in the face, and says he to me, 'Daniel O'Rourke,' says he,
'how do you do?' 'Very well, I thank you, sir,' says I; 'I hope you're
well'; wondering out of my senses all the time how an eagle came to
speak like a Christian. 'What brings you here, Dan?' says he. 'Nothing
at all, sir,' says I, 'only I wish I was safe home again.' 'Is it out of
the island you want to go, Dan?' says he. ''Tis, sir,' says I; so I up
and told him how I had taken a drop too much, and fell into the water;
how I swam to the island; and how I got into the bog and did not know my
way out of it. 'Dan,' says he, after a minute's thought, 'though it is
very improper of you to get drunk on a Lady-day, yet, as you are a
decent sober man, who 'tends mass well, and never fling stones at me or
mine, nor cries out after one in the field, my life for yours,' says he;
'so get up on my back, and grip me well for fear you'd fall off, and
I'll fly you out of the bog.' 'I am afraid,' says I, 'your honour's
making game of me; for whoever heard of riding a-horseback on an eagle
before?' ''Pon the honour of a gentleman,' says he, putting his right
foot on his breast, 'I am quite in earnest; and so now either take my
offer or starve in the bog--besides I see that your weight is sinking
the stone.'
"It was true enough, as he said, for I found the stone every minute
going from under me. I had no choice; so, thinks I to myself, faint
heart never won fair lady, and this is fair persuadance. 'I thank your
honour,' says I, 'for the loan of your civility; and I'll take your kind
offer.' I therefore mounted on the back of the eagle, and held him tight
enough by the throat, and up he flew in the air like a lark. Little I
knew the trick he was going to serve me. Up, up, up--God knows how far
he flew. 'Why, then,' said I to him--thinking he did not know the right
road home--very civilly, because why? I was in his power entirely;
'sir,' says I, 'please your honour's glory, and with humble submission
to your better judgment, if you'd fly down a bit, you're now just over
my cabin, and I could be put down there, and many thanks to your
worship.'
"'_Arrah_, Dan,' says he, 'do you think me a fool? Look down in the next
field, and don't you see two men and a gun? By my word, it would be no
joke to shoot this way, to oblige a drunken blackguard that I picked up
off a _could_ stone in a bog.' 'Bother you,' says I to myself, but I
did not speak out, for where was the use? Well, sir, up he kept flying,
flying, and I asking him every minute to fly down, and all to no use.
'Where in the world are you going, sir?' says I to him. 'Hold your
tongue, Dan,' says he, 'and mind your own business, and don't be
interfering with the business of other people.' 'Faith, this is my
business, I think,' says I. 'Be quiet, Dan!' says he: so I said no more.
"At last, where should we come to but to the moon itself. Now, you can't
see it from this, but there is, or there was in my time, a reaping-hook
sticking out of the side of the moon, this way (drawing the figure thus
on the ground with the end of his stick).
"'Dan,' says the eagle, 'I'm tired with this long fly; I had no notion
'twas so far.' 'And my lord, sir,' says I, 'who in the world _axed_ you
to fly so far--was it I? Did not I beg and pray and beseech you to stop
half an hour ago?' 'There's no use talking, Dan,' said he; 'I'm tired
bad enough, so you must get off, and sit down on the moon until I rest
myself.' 'Is it sit down on the moon?' said I; 'is it upon that little
round thing, then? Why, then, sure, I'd fall off in a minute, and be
_kilt_ and spilt, and smashed all to bits; you are a vile deceiver--so
you are.' 'Not at all, Dan,' says he; 'you can catch fast hold of the
reaping-hook that's sticking out of the side of the moon, and 'twill
keep you up.' 'I won't, then,' said I. 'Maybe not,' said he, quite
quiet. 'If you don't, my man, I shall just give you a shake, and one
slap of my wing, and send you down to the ground, where every bone in
your body will be smashed as small as a drop of dew on a cabbage-leaf
in the morning.' 'Why, then, I'm in a fine way,' said I to myself, 'ever
to have come along with the likes of you'; and so, giving him a hearty
curse in Irish, for fear he'd know what I said, I got off his back with
a heavy heart, took hold of the reaping-hook and sat down upon the moon,
and a mighty cold seat it was, I can tell you that.
"When he had me there fairly landed, he turned about on me, and said,
'Good morning to you, Daniel O'Rourke,' said he; 'I think I've nicked
you fairly now. You robbed my nest last year' ('twas true enough for
him, but how he found it out is hard enough to say), 'and in return you
are freely welcome to cool your heels dangling upon the moon like a
cockthrow.'
"'Is that all, and is this how you leave me, you brute, you,' says I.
'You ugly unnatural _baste_, and is this the way you serve me at last?
Bad luck to yourself, with your hook'd nose, and to all your breed, you
blackguard.' 'Twas all to no manner of use; he spread out his great big
wings, burst out a laughing, and flew away like lightning. I bawled
after him to stop; but I might have called and bawled for ever, without
his minding me. Away he went, and I never saw him from that day to
this--sorrow fly away with him! You may be sure I was in a disconsolate
condition, and kept roaring out for the bare grief, when all at once a
door opened right in the middle of the moon, creaking on its hinges as
if it had not been opened for a month before--I suppose they never
thought of greasing them--and out there walks--who do you think but the
man in the moon himself? I knew him by his bush.
"'Good morrow to you, Daniel O'Rourke,' says he, 'how do you do?' 'Very
well, thank your honour,' says I. 'I hope your honour's well.' 'What
brought you here, Dan?' said he. So I told him how I was a little
overtaken in liquor at the master's, and how I was cast on a _dissolute_
island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and the thief of an eagle
promised to fly me out of it, and how, instead of that, he had fled me
up to the moon.
"'Dan,' said the man in the moon, taking a pinch of snuff, when I was
done, 'you must not stay here.' 'Indeed, sir,' says I, ''tis much
against my will that I'm here at all; but how am I to go back?' 'That's
your business,' said he; 'Dan, mine is to tell you that you must not
stay, so be off in less than no time.' 'I'm doing no harm,' said I,
'only holding on hard by the reaping-hook lest I fall off.' 'That's what
you must not do, Dan,' says he. 'Pray, sir,' says I, 'may I ask how many
you are in family that you would not give a poor traveller lodging? I'm
sure 'tis not often you're troubled with strangers coming to see you,
for 'tis a long way.' 'I'm by myself, Dan,' says he, 'but you'd better
let go the reaping-hook.' 'Faith, and with your leave,' says I, 'I'll
not let go the grip, and the more you bids me the more I won't let
go--so I will.' 'You had better, Dan,' says he again. 'Why, then, my
little fellow,' says I, taking the whole weight of him with my eye from
head to foot, 'there are two words to that bargain; and I'll not
budge--you may, if you like.' 'We'll see how that is to be,' says he;
and back he went, giving the door such a great bang after him (for it
was plain he was huffed), that I thought the moon and all would fall
down with it.
"Well, I was preparing myself to try strength with him, when back he
comes, with the kitchen cleaver in his hand, and without saying a word
he gives two bangs to the handle of the reaping-hook that was holding me
up, and _whap_ it came in two. 'Good morning to you, Dan,' says the
spiteful little blackguard, when he saw me cleanly falling down with a
bit of the handle in my hand; 'I thank you for your visit, and fair
weather after you, Daniel.' I had no time to make any answer to him, for
I was tumbling over and over, and rolling and rolling, at the rate of a
fox-hunt. 'God help me!' says I, 'but this is a pretty pickle for a
decent man to be seen in at this time of the night. I am now sold
fairly.' The word was not out of my mouth, when, whiz! what should fly
by close to my ear but a flock of wild geese, all the way from my own
bog of Ballyasheenagh, else how should they know _me_? The _ould_
gander, who was their general, turning about his head, cried out to me,
'Is that you, Dan?' 'The same,' said I, not a bit daunted now at what he
said, for I was by this time used to all kinds of _bedivilment_, and,
besides, I knew him of _ould_. 'Good morrow to you,' says he, 'Daniel
O'Rourke; how are you in health this morning?' 'Very well, sir,' says I,
'thank you kindly,' drawing my breath, for I was mightily in want of
some, 'I hope your honour's the same.' 'I think 'tis falling you are,
Daniel,' says he. 'You may say that, sir,' says I. 'And where are you
going all the way so fast?' said the gander. So I told him how I had
taken the drop, and how I came on the island, and how I lost my way in
the bog, and how the thief of an eagle flew me up to the moon, and how
the man in the moon turned me out. 'Dan,' said he, 'I'll save you; put
out your hand and catch me by the leg, and I'll fly you home.' 'Sweet is
your hand in a pitcher of honey, my jewel,' says I, though all the time
I thought within myself that I don't much trust you; but there was no
help, so I caught the gander by the leg, and away I and the other geese
flew after him as fast as hops.
"We flew, and we flew, and we flew, until we came right over the wide
ocean. I knew it well, for I saw Cape Clear to my right hand, sticking
up out of the water. 'Ah, my lord,' said I to the goose, for I thought
it best to keep a civil tongue in my head anyway, 'fly to land, if you
please.' 'It is impossible, you see, Dan,' said he, 'for a while,
because, you see, we are going to Arabia.' 'To Arabia!' said I, 'that's
surely some place in foreign parts, far away. Oh! Mr. Goose, why, then,
to be sure, I'm a man to be pitied among you.'
"'Whist, whist, you fool,' said he, 'hold your tongue; I tell you Arabia
is a very decent sort of place, as like West Carbery as one egg is like
another, only there is a little more sand there.'
"Just as we were talking a ship hove in sight, sailing so beautiful
before the wind. 'Ah, then, sir,' said I, 'will you drop me on the ship,
if you please?' 'We are not fair over it,' said he; 'if I dropped you
now you would go splash into the sea.' 'I would not,' says I, 'I know
better than that, for it is just clean under us, so let me drop now at
once.'
"'If you must, you must,' said he; 'there, take your own way'; and he
opened his claw, and, faith, he was right--sure enough, I came down
plump into the very bottom of the salt sea! Down to the very bottom I
went, and I gave myself up, then, for ever, when a whale walked up to
me, scratching himself after his night's sleep, and looked me full in
the face, and never the word did he say, but, lifting up his tail, he
splashed me all over again with the cold salt water till there wasn't a
dry stitch upon my whole carcass! And I heard somebody saying--'twas a
voice I knew too--'Get up, you drunken brute, off o' that'; and with
that I woke up, and there was Judy with a tub full of water, which she
was splashing all over me--for, rest her soul, though she was a good
wife, she could never bear to see me in drink, and had a bitter hand of
her own.
"'Get up,' said she again; 'and of all places in the parish, would no
place _sarve_ your turn to lie down upon but under the _ould_ walls of
Carrigapooka? An uneasy resting I am sure you had of it.' And, sure
enough, I had, for I was fairly bothered out of my senses with eagles,
and men of the moons, and flying ganders, and whales, driving me through
bogs and up to the moon, and down to the bottom of the green ocean. If I
was in drink ten times over, long would it be before I'd lie down in the
same spot again, I know that!"
T. CROFTON CROKER.
Cuchulain of Muirthemne
(The Birth of Cuchulain.)
In the long time ago, Conchubar, son of Ness, was King of Ulster, and he
held his court in the palace of Emain Macha. And this is the way he came
to be King. He was but a young lad, and his father was not living, and
Fergus, son of Rogh, who was at that time King of Ulster, asked his
mother Ness in marriage.
Now Ness, that was at one time the quietest and kindest of the women of
Ireland, had got to be unkind and treacherous because of an unkindness
that had been done to her, and she planned to get the kingdom away from
Fergus for her own son. So she said to Fergus, "Let Conchubar hold the
kingdom for a year, so that his children after him may be called the
children of a king; and that is the marriage portion I will ask of you."
"You may do that," the men of Ulster said to him; "for even though
Conchubar gets the name of being king, it is yourself that will be our
King all the time." So Fergus agreed to it, and he took Ness as his
wife, and her son Conchubar was made King in his place.
But all through the year Ness was working to keep the kingdom for him,
and she gave great presents to the chief men of Ulster to get them on
her side. And though Conchubar was but a young lad at the time, he was
wise in his judgments and brave in battle, and good in shape and in
form, and they liked him well. And at the end of the year, when Fergus
asked to have the kingship back again, they consulted together; and it
is what they agreed, that Conchubar was to keep it. And they said, "It
is little Fergus thinks about us, when he was so ready to give up his
rule over us for a year; and let Conchubar keep the kingship," they
said, "and let Fergus keep the wife he has got."
Now, it happened one day that Conchubar was making a feast at Emain
Macha for the marriage of his sister Dechtire with Sualtim, son of Roig.
And at the feast Dechtire was thirsty, and they gave her a cup of wine,
and as she was drinking it a mayfly flew into the cup, and she drank it
down with the wine. And presently she went into her sunny parlour, and
her fifty maidens along with her, and she fell into a deep sleep. And in
her sleep Lugh of the Long Hand appeared to her, and he said, "It is I
myself was the mayfly that came to you in the cup, and it is with me you
must come away now, and your fifty maidens along with you." And he put
on them the appearance of a flock of birds, and they went with him
southward till they came to Brugh na Boinne, the dwelling-place of the
Sidhe. And no one at Emain Macha could get tale or tidings of them, or
know where they had gone, or what had happened them.
It was about a year after that time there was another feast in Emain,
and Conchubar and his chief men were sitting at the feast. And suddenly
they saw from the window a great flock of birds, that lit on the ground
and began to eat up everything before them, so that not so much as a
blade of grass was left.
The men of Ulster were vexed when they saw the birds destroying all
before them, and they yoked nine of their chariots to follow after them.
Conchubar was in his own chariot, and there were following with him
Fergus, son of Rogh, and Laegaire Buadach the Battle-Winner, and
Celthair, son of Uithecar, and many others, and Bricriu of the bitter
tongue was along with them.
They followed after the birds across the whole country southward, across
Slieve Fuad, by Ath Lethan, by Ath Garach and Magh Gossa, between Fir
Rois and Fir Ardae; and the birds before them always. They were the most
beautiful that had ever been seen; nine flocks of them there were,
linked together two-and-two with a chain of silver, and at the head of
every flock there were two birds of different colours, linked together
with a chain of gold; and there were three birds that flew by
themselves, and they all went before the chariots to the far end of the
country, until the fall of night, and then there was no more seen of
them.
And when the dark night was coming on, Conchubar said to his people, "It
is best for us to unyoke the chariots now, and to look for some place
where we can spend the night."
Then Fergus went forward to look for some place, and what he came to was
a very small poor-looking house. A man and a woman were in it, and when
they saw him they said, "Bring your companions here along with you, and
they will be welcome." Fergus went back to his companions and told them
what he had seen. But Bricriu said: "Where is the use of going into a
house like that, with neither room nor provisions nor coverings in it;
it is not worth our while to be going there."
Then Bricriu went on himself to the place where the house was. But when
he came to it, what he saw was a grand, new, well-lighted house; and at
the door there was a young man wearing armour, very tall and handsome
and shining. And he said, "Come into the house, Bricriu; why are you
looking about you?" And there was a young woman beside him, fine and
noble, and with curled hair, and she said, "Surely there is a welcome
before you from me." "Why does she welcome me?" said Bricriu. "It is on
account of her that I myself welcome you," said the young man. "And is
there no one missing from you at Emain?" he said. "There is, surely,"
said Bricriu. "We are missing fifty young girls for the length of a
year." "Would you know them again if you saw them?" said the young man.
"If I would not know them," said Bricriu, "it is because a year might
make a change in them, so that I would not be sure." "Try and know them
again," said the man, "for the fifty young girls are in this house, and
this woman beside me is their mistress, Dechtire. It was they
themselves, changed into birds, that went to Emain Macha to bring you
here." Then Dechtire gave Bricriu a purple cloak with gold fringes; and
he went back to find his companions. But while he was going he thought
to himself, "Conchubar would give great treasure to find these fifty
young girls again, and his sister along with them. I will not tell him I
have found them. I will only say I have found a house with beautiful
women in it, and no more than that."
When Conchubar saw Bricriu he asked news of him.
"What news do you bring back with you, Bricriu?" he said. "I came to a
fine well-lighted house," said Bricriu; "I saw a queen, noble, kind,
with royal looks, with curled hair; I saw a troop of women, beautiful,
well dressed; I saw the man of the house, tall and open-handed and
shining." "Let us go there for the night," said Conchubar. So they
brought their chariots and their horses and their arms; and they were
hardly in the house when every sort of food and of drink, some they knew
and some they did not know, was put before them, so that they never
spent a better night. And when they had eaten and drunk and began to be
satisfied, Conchubar said to the young man, "Where is the mistress of
the house that she does not come to bid us welcome?" "You cannot see her
to-night," said he, "for she is in the pains of childbirth."
So they rested there that night, and in the morning Conchubar was the
first to rise up; but he saw no more of the man of the house, and what
he heard was the cry of a child. And he went to the room it came from,
and there he saw Dechtire, and her maidens about her, and a young child
beside her. And she bade Conchubar welcome, and she told him all that
had happened her, and that she had called him there to bring herself and
the child back to Emain Macha. And Conchubar said, "It is well you have
done by me, Dechtire; you gave shelter to me and to my chariots; you
kept the cold from my horses; you gave food to me and my people, and now
you have given us this good gift. And let our sister, Finchoem, bring up
the child," he said. "No, it is not for her to bring him up, it is for
me," said Sencha, son of Ailell, chief judge and chief poet of Ulster.
"For I am skilled; I am good in disputes; I am not forgetful; I speak
before anyone at all in the presence of the King; I watch over what he
says; I give judgment in the quarrels of kings; I am judge of the men of
Ulster; no one has a right to dispute my claim, but only Conchubar."
"If the child is given to me to bring up," said Blai, the distributor,
"he will not suffer from want of care or from forgetfulness. It is my
messages that do the will of Conchubar; I call up the fighting men from
all Ireland; I am well able to provide for them for a week, or even for
ten days; I settle their business and their disputes; I support their
honour; I get satisfaction for their insults."
"You think too much of yourself," said Fergus. "It is I that will bring
up the child; I am strong; I have knowledge; I am the King's messenger;
no one can stand up against me in honour or riches; I am hardened to war
and battles; I am a good craftsman; I am worthy to bring up the child. I
am the protector of all the unhappy; the strong are afraid of me; I am
the helper of the weak."
"If you will listen to me at last, now you are quiet," said Amergin, "I
am able to bring up a child like a king. The people praise my honour, my
bravery, my courage, my wisdom; they praise my good luck, my age, my
speaking, my name, my courage, and my race. Though I am a fighter, I am
a poet; I am worthy of the King's favour; I overcome all the men who
fight from their chariots; I owe thanks to no one except Conchubar; I
obey no one but the King."
Then Sencha said, "Let Finchoem keep the child until we come to Emain,
and Morann, the judge, will settle the question when we are there."
So the men of Ulster set out for Emain, Finchoem having the child with
her. And when they came there Morann gave his judgment. "It is for
Conchubar," he said, "to help the child to a good name, for he is next
of kin to him; let Sencha teach him words and speaking; let Fergus hold
him on his knees; let Amergin be his tutor." And he said, "This child
will be praised by all, by chariot drivers and fighters, by kings and by
wise men; he shall be loved by many men; he will avenge all your wrongs;
he will defend your fords; he will fight all your battles."
And so it was settled. And the child was left until he should come to
sensible years with his mother Dechtire and with her husband Sualtim.
And they brought him up upon the plain of Muirthemne, and the name he
was known by was Setanta, son of Sualtim.
The Boyhood of Cuchulain
Dectera, one of the sisters of Conchubar Mac Nessa, married a prince
whose patrimony lay along the shores of the Muirnict, and whose capital
was Dun Dalgan. They had one child, a boy, whom they named Setanta.
As soon as Setanta was able to understand the stories and conversation
of those around him, he evinced a passion for arms and the martial life,
which was so premature and violent as to surprise all who knew him. His
thoughts for ever ran on the wars and achievements of the Red Branch. He
knew all the knights by name, the appearance and bearing of each, and
what deeds of valour they had severally performed. Emain Macha, the
capital of the Clanna Rury, was never out of his mind. He saw for ever
before his mind its moats and ramparts, its gates and bridges, its
streets filled with martial men, its high-raised Duns and Raths, its
branching roads, over which came the tributes of wide Ulla to the High
King. He had seen his father's tribute driven thither, and had even
longed to be one of the four-footed beasts that he beheld wending their
way to the wondrous city. But, above all, he delighted to be told of the
great school where the young nobles of Ulster were taught martial
exercises and the military art, under the superintendence of chosen
knights and of the High King himself. Of the several knights he had his
own opinion, and had already resolved to accept no one as his instructor
save Fergus Mac Roy, tanist of Ulster.
Of his father he saw little. His mind had become impaired, and he was
confined in a secluded part of the Dun. But whenever he spoke to Dectera
of what was nearest his heart, and his desire to enter the military
school at Emain Macha, she laughed, and said that he was not yet old
enough to endure that rough life. But secretly she was alarmed, and
formed plans to detain him at home altogether. Then Setanta concealed
his desire, but enquired narrowly concerning the partings of the roads
on the way to Emania.
At last, when he was ten years old, selecting a favourable night,
Setanta stole away from his father's Dun, and before morning had crossed
the frontier. He then lay down to rest and sleep in a wood. After this
he set out again, travelling quickly, lest he should be met by any of
his father's people. On his back was strapped his little wooden shield,
and by his side hung a sword of lath. He had brought his ball and hurle
of red-bronze with him, and ran swiftly along the road, driving the ball
before him, or throwing up his javelin into the air, and running to meet
it ere it fell.
In the afternoon of that day Fergus Mac Roy and the King sat together in
the part that surrounded the King's palace. A chessboard was between
them, and their attention was fixed on the game.
At a distance the young nobles were at their sports, and the shouts of
the boys and the clash of the metal hurles resounded in the evening air.
Suddenly, the noise ceased, and Fergus and the King looked up. They saw
a strange boy rushing backwards and forwards through the crowd of young
nobles, urging the ball in any direction that he pleased, as if in
mockery, till none but the very best players attempted to stop him,
while the rest stood about the ground in groups. Fergus and the King
looked at each other for a moment in silence.
After this the boys came together into a group and held a council. Then
commenced what seemed to be an attempt to force him out of the ground,
followed by a furious fight. The strange boy seemed to be a very demon
of war; with his little hurle grasped, like a war-mace, in both hands,
he laid about him on every side, and the boys were tumbling fast. He
sprang at tall youths, like a hound at a stag's throat. He rushed
through crowds of his enemies like a hawk through a flock of birds. The
boys, seized with a panic, cried out that it was one of the Tuatha from
the fairy hills of the Boyne, and fled right and left to gain the
shelter of the trees. Some of them, pursued by the stranger, ran round
Conchubar Mac Nessa and his knight. The boy, however, running straight,
sprang over the chess table; but Conchubar seized him deftly by the
wrist and brought him to a stand, but with dilated eyes and panting.
"Why are you so enraged, my boy?" said the King, "and why do you so
maltreat my nobles?"
"Because they have not treated me with the respect due to a stranger,"
replied the boy.
"Who are you yourself?" said Conchubar.
"I am Setanta, the son of Sualtim, and Dectera, your own sister, is my
mother; and it is not before my uncle's palace that I should be insulted
and dishonoured."
This was the début and first martial exploit of the great Cuculain, type
of Irish chivalry and courage, in the bardic firmament a bright and
particular star of strength, daring, and glory, that will not set nor
suffer aught but transient obscuration till the extinction of the Irish
race; Cuculain, bravest of the brave, whose glory affected even the
temperate-minded Tierna, so that his sober pen has inscribed, in the
annals of ancient Erin, this testimony: "_Cuculain, filius Sualtam
fortissimus heros Scotorum_."
After this Setanta was regularly received into the military school,
where, ere long, he became a favourite both with old and young. He
placed himself under the tuition of Fergus Mac Roy, who, each day, grew
more and more proud of his pupil, for while still a boy his fame was
extending over Ulla.
It was not long after this that Setanta received the name by which he is
more generally known. Culain was chief of the black country of Ulla, and
of a people altogether given up to the making of weapons and armour,
where the sound of the hammer and husky bellows were for ever heard. One
day Conchubar and some of his knights, passing through the park to
partake of an entertainment at the house of the armourer, paused awhile,
looking at the boys at play. Then, as all were praising his little
nephew, Conchubar called to him, and the boy came up, flushed and shy,
for there were with the King the chief warriors of the Red Branch. But
Conchubar bade him come with them to the feast, and the knights around
him laughed, and enumerated the good things which Culain had prepared
for them. But when Setanta's brow fell, Conchubar bade him finish his
game, and after that proceed to Culain's house, which was to the west of
Emain Macha, and more than a mile distant from the city. Then the King
and his knights went on to the feast, and Setanta returned joyfully to
his game.
Now, when they were seen afar upon the plain the smith left his workshop
and put by his implements, and having washed from him the sweat and
smoke, made himself ready to receive his guests; but the evening fell as
they were coming into the liss, and all his people came in also, and sat
at the lower table, and the bridge was drawn up and the door was shut
for the night, and the candles were lit in the high chamber.
Then said Culain, "Have all thy retinue come in, O Conchubar?" And when
the King said that they were all there, Culain bade one of his
apprentices go out and let loose the great mastiff that guarded the
house. Now, this mastiff was as large as a calf and exceedingly fierce,
and he guarded all the smith's property outside the house, and if anyone
approached the house without beating on the gong, which was outside the
foss and in front of the drawbridge, he was accustomed to rend him. Then
the mastiff, having been let loose, careered three times round the liss,
baying dreadfully, and after that remained quiet outside his kennel,
guarding his master's property. But, inside, they devoted themselves to
feasting and merriment, and there were many jests made concerning
Culain, for he was wont to cause laughter to Conchubar Mac Nessa and his
knights, yet he was good to his own people and faithful to the Crave
Rue, and very ardent and skilful in the practice of his art. But as they
were amusing themselves in this manner, eating and drinking, a deep
growl came from without, as it were a note of warning, and after that
one yet more savage; but where he sat in the champion's seat, Fergus Mac
Roy struck the table with his hand and rose straightway, crying out, "It
is Setanta." But ere the door could be opened they heard the boy's voice
raised in anger and the fierce yelling of the dog, and a scuffling in
the bawn of the liss. Then they rushed to the door in great fear, for
they said that the boy was torn in pieces; but when the bolts were drawn
back and they sprang forth, eager to save the boy's life, they found the
dog dead, and Setanta standing over him with his hurle, for he had
sprung over the foss, not fearing the dog. Forthwith, then, his tutor,
Fergus Mac Roy, snatched him up on his shoulder, and returned with great
joy into the banquet hall, where all were well pleased at the
preservation of the boy, except Culain himself, who began to lament over
the death of his dog and to enumerate all the services which he rendered
to him.
"Do not grieve for thy dog, O Culain," said Setanta, from the shoulder
of Fergus, "for I will perform those services for you myself until a dog
equally good is procured to take the place of him I slew."
Then one jesting, said, "Cu-culain!" (Hound of Culain) and thenceforward
he went by this name.
STANDISH O'GRADY.
The Legend of Knockgrafton
There was once a poor man who lived in the fertile glen of Aherlow, at
the foot of the gloomy Galtee mountains, and he had a great hump on his
back; he looked just as if his body had been rolled up and placed upon
his shoulders; and his head was pressed down with the weight so much
that his chin, when he was sitting, used to rest upon his knees for
support. The country people were rather shy of meeting him in any
lonesome place, for though, poor creature, he was as harmless and as
inoffensive as a new-born infant, yet his deformity was so great that he
scarcely appeared to be a human creature, and some ill-minded persons
had set strange stories about him afloat. He was said to have a great
knowledge of herbs and charms; but certain it was that he had a mighty
skilful hand in plaiting straws and rushes into hats and baskets, which
was the way he made his livelihood.
Lusmore, for that was the nickname put upon him, by reason of his
always wearing a sprig of the fairy cap, or lusmore (the foxglove), in
his little straw hat, would ever get a higher penny for his plaited work
than anyone else, and perhaps that was the reason why someone, out of
envy, had circulated the strange stories about him. Be that as it may,
it happened that he was returning one evening from the pretty town of
Cahir towards Cappagh, and as little Lusmore walked very slowly, on
account of the great hump upon his back, it was quite dark when he came
to the old moat of Knockgrafton, which stood on the right-hand side of
the road. Tired and weary was he, and no ways comfortable in his own
mind at thinking how much farther he had to travel, and that he should
be walking all the night; so he sat down under the moat to rest himself,
and began looking mournfully enough upon the moon, which--
Rising in clouded majesty at length
Apparent Queen, unveil'd her peerless light,
And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.
Presently there arose a wild strain of unearthly melody upon the ear of
little Lusmore. He listened, and he thought that he had never heard such
ravishing music before. It was like the sound of many voices, each
mingling and blending with the others so strangely that they seemed to
be one, though all singing different strains, and the words of the songs
were these:
Da Luan, Da Mort, Da Luan, Da Mort, Da Luan, Da Mort,
Da Luan, Da Mort;
when there would be a moment's pause, and then the round of melody went
on again.
Lusmore listened attentively, scarcely drawing his breath, lest he
might lose the slightest note. He now plainly perceived that the singing
was within the moat; and though at first it had charmed him much, he
began to get tired of hearing the same round sung over and over so often
without any change; so, availing himself of the pause when Da Luan, Da
Mort, had been sung three times, he took up the tune, and raised it with
the words augus Da Dardeen, and then went on singing with the voices
inside of the moat, Da Luan, Da Mort, finishing the melody, when the
pause came again, with augus Da Dardeen.
The fairies within Knockgrafton, for the song was a fairy melody, when
they heard this addition to the tune, were so much delighted that with
instant resolve it was determined to bring the mortal among them whose
musical skill so far exceeded theirs, and little Lusmore was conveyed
into their company with the eddying speed of a whirlwind.
Glorious to behold was the sight that burst upon him as he came down
through the moat, twirling round and round, with the lightness of a
straw, to the sweetest music, that kept time to his motion. The greatest
honour was then paid him, for he was put above all the musicians, and he
had servants tending upon him and everything to his heart's content, and
a hearty welcome to all; and, in short, he was made as much of as if he
had been the first man in the land.
Presently Lusmore saw a great consultation going on among the fairies,
and, notwithstanding all their civility, he felt very much frightened,
until one, stepping out from the rest, came up to him and said:
Lusmore! Lusmore!
Doubt not, nor deplore,
For the hump which you bore
On your back is no more;
Look down on the floor,
And view it, Lusmore!
When these words were said, poor little Lusmore felt himself so light
and so happy that he thought he could have bounded at one jump over the
moon, like the cow in the history of the cat and the fiddle; and he saw,
with inexpressible pleasure, his hump tumble down upon the ground from
his shoulders. He then tried to lift up his head, and did so with
becoming caution, fearing that he might knock it against the ceiling of
the great hall where he was. He looked round and round again with the
greatest wonder and delight upon everything, which appeared more and
more beautiful; and, overpowered at beholding such a resplendent scene,
his head grew dizzy and his eyesight grew dim. At last he fell into a
sound sleep, and when he awoke he found that it was broad daylight, the
sun shining brightly, and the birds singing sweetly, and that he was
lying just at the foot of Knockgrafton, with the cows and sheep grazing
peaceably about him. The first thing Lusmore did, after saying his
prayers, was to put his hand behind to feel for his hump, but no sign of
one was there on his back, and he looked at himself with great pride,
for he had now become a well-shaped, dapper little fellow, and, more
than that, found himself in a full suit of new clothes, which he
concluded the fairies had made for him.
Towards Cappagh he went, stepping out as lightly and springing up at
every step as if he had been all his life a dancing-master. Not a
creature who met Lusmore knew him without his hump, and he had a great
work to persuade everyone that he was the same man--in truth he was not
as far as the outward appearance went.
Of course it was not long before the story of Lusmore's hump got about,
and a great wonder was made of it. Through the country for miles round
it was the talk of everyone, high and low.
One morning, as Lusmore was sitting, contented enough, at his cabin
door, up came an old woman to him, and asked him if he could direct her
to Cappagh.
"I need give you no directions, my good woman," said Lusmore, "for this
is Cappagh. And whom may you want here?"
"I have come," said the woman, "out of Decies country, in the county of
Waterford, looking after one Lusmore, who, I have heard tell, had his
hump taken off by the fairies; for there is a son of a gossip of mine
who has got a hump on him that will be his death; and, maybe, if he
could use the same charm as Lusmore the hump may be taken off him. And
now I have told you the reason of my coming so far; 'tis to find out
about this charm if I can."
Lusmore, who was ever a good-natured little fellow, told the woman all
the particulars, how he had raised the tune for the fairies at
Knockgrafton, how his hump had been removed from his shoulders, and how
he had got a new suit of clothes into the bargain.
The woman thanked him very much and then went away, quite happy and
easy in her own mind. When she came back to her gossip's house, in the
county of Waterford, she told her everything that Lusmore had said, and
they put the little hump-backed man, who was a peevish and cunning
creature from his birth, upon a car, and took him all the way across the
country. It was a long journey, but they did not care for that, so the
hump was taken from off him; so they brought him just at nightfall, and
left him under the old moat of Knockgrafton.
Jack Madden, for that was the humpy man's name, had not been sitting
there long when he heard the tune going on within the moat much sweeter
than before; for the fairies were singing it the way Lusmore had settled
their music for them, and the song was going on, Da Luan, Da Mort, Da
Luan, Da Mort, Da Luan, Da Mort, augus Da Dardeen, without ever
stopping. Jack Madden, who was in a great hurry to get quit of his hump,
never thought of waiting till the fairies had done, or watching for a
fit opportunity to raise the tune higher than Lusmore had; so, having
heard them sing it over seven times without stopping, out he bawls,
never minding the time or the humour of the tune, or how he could bring
his words in properly, augus Da Dardeen, augus Da Hena, thinking that if
one day was good two were better, and that, if Lusmore had one suit of
clothes given him, he should have two.
No sooner had the words passed his lips than he was taken up and whisked
into the moat with prodigious force, and the fairies came crowding round
about him with great anger, screeching and screaming, and roaring out,
"Who spoiled our tune? Who spoiled our tune?" And one stepped up to him
above all the rest and said:
Jack Madden! Jack Madden!
Your words came so bad in
The tune we felt glad in;--
This castle you're had in,
That your life we may sadden;
Here's two humps for Jack Madden!
And twenty of the strongest fairies brought Lusmore's hump and put it
down upon poor Jack's back, over his own, where it became fixed as
firmly as if it was nailed on with twelvepenny nails by the best
carpenter that ever drove one. Out of their castle they then kicked him;
and in the morning, when Jack Madden's mother and her gossip came to
look after their little man, they found him half dead, lying at the foot
of the moat, with the other hump upon his back. Well, to be sure, how
they did look at each other, but they were afraid to say anything lest a
hump might be put upon their shoulders. Home they brought the unlucky
Jack Madden with them, as downcast in their hearts and their looks as
ever two gossips were; and what through the weight of his other hump and
the long journey he died soon after, leaving, they say, his heavy curse
to anyone who would go to listen to fairy tunes again.
T. CROFTON CROKER.
The Stolen Child
There dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island,
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berries,
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than
you can understand.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances,
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than
you can understand.
Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout,
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than
you can understand.
Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside;
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest.
For he comes, the human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
From a world more full of weeping than
he can understand.
W. B. YEATS.
Lay of Oisin on the Land of Youth
One day we, the Fianna, were all assembled, generous Fionn and all of us
that lived were there; we were hunting on a misty morning nigh the
bordering shores of Loch Lein, where through fragrant trees of sweetest
blossoms, and the mellow music of birds at all times, we aroused the
hornless deer of the best bounding, course, and agility; our hounds and
all our dogs were close after in full chase.
'Twas not long till we saw, westwards, a fleet rider advancing towards
us, a young maiden of most beautiful appearance, on a slender white
steed of swiftest power. We all ceased from the chase on seeing the form
of the royal maid; 'twas a surprise to Fionn and the Fianns, they never
beheld a woman equal in beauty. A royal crown was on her head, and a
brown mantle of precious silk, spangled with stars of red gold, covering
her shoes down to the grass. A gold ring was hanging down from each
yellow curl of her golden hair; her eyes were blue, clear, and
cloudless, like a dewdrop on the top of the grass. Redder were her
cheeks than the rose, fairer was her visage than the swan upon the wave,
and more sweet was the taste of her balsam lips than honey mingled
through red wine. A garment, wide, long, and smooth, covered the white
steed; there was a comely saddle of red gold, and her right hand held a
bridle with a golden bit. Four shoes, well shaped, were under him, of
the yellow gold of the purest quality; a silver wreath was on the back
of his head, and there was not in the world a steed better.
She came to the presence of Fionn, and spoke with a voice sweet and
gentle, and she said, "O King of the Fianna, long and distant is my
journey now."
"Who art thou thyself, O youthful princess! of fairest form, beauty, and
countenance? Relate to us the cause of thy story, thine own name and thy
country."
"Golden-headed Niamh is my name, O sage Fionn of the great hosts. Beyond
the women of the world I have won esteem; I am the fair daughter of the
King of Youth."
"Relate to us, O amiable princess, what caused thee to come afar across
the sea--is it thy consort has forsaken thee, or what is the affliction
that is on thyself?"
"'Tis not my husband that went from me; and as yet I have not been
spoken of with any man, O King of the Fianna of highest repute; but
affection and love I have given to thy son."
"Which of my children is he, O blooming daughter, to whom thou hast
given love, or yet affection? Do not conceal from us now the cause, and
relate to us thy case, O woman."
"I will tell thee that, O Fionn! Thy noble son of the well-tempered
arms, high-spirited Oisin of the powerful hands, is the champion that I
am now speaking of."
"What is the reason that thou gavest love, O beautiful daughter of the
glossy hair, to my own son beyond all, and multitudes of high lords
under the sun?"
"'Tis not without cause, O King of the Fianna! I came afar for him--but
reports I heard of his prowess, the goodness of his person and his mien.
"Many a son of a king and a high chief gave me affection and perpetual
love; I never consented to any man till I gave love to noble Oisin."
"By that hand on thee, O Patrick, though it is not shameful to me as a
story, there was not a limb of me but was in love with the beautiful
daughter of the glossy hair."
I, Oisin, took her hand in mine, and said in speech of sweetest tone, "A
true, gentle welcome before thee, O young princess, to this country!
'Tis thou art the brightest and the fairest of form, 'tis thee I prefer
as wife, thou art my choice beyond the women of the world, O mild star
of loveliest countenance!"
"Obligations unresisted by true heroes, O generous Oisin, I put upon
thee to come with myself now upon my steed till we arrive at the 'Land
of Youth.' It is the most delightful country to be found, of greatest
repute under the sun, trees drooping with fruit, and blossom and foliage
growing on the tops of boughs. Abundant, there, are honey and wine and
everything that eye has beheld; there will not come decline on thee with
lapse of time; death or decay thou wilt not see. Thou wilt get feasts,
playing, and drink; thou wilt get melodious music on the harp strings;
thou wilt get silver and gold; thou wilt get also many jewels. Thou wilt
get the royal diadem of the 'King of Youth,' which he never yet gave to
any person under the sun; 'twill protect thee both night and day, in
battle, in tumult, and in rough conflict. Thou wilt get a fitting coat
of protecting mail, and a gold-headed sword apt for strokes, from which
no person ever escaped alive who once saw the sharp weapon. Thou wilt
get everything I promised thee, and delights, also, which I may not
mention; thou wilt get beauty, strength, and power, and I myself will be
thy wife."
"No refusal will I give from me," said I, "O charming queen of the
golden curls! Thou art my choice above the women of the world, and I
will go with willingness to the 'Land of Youth.'"
On the back of the steed we went together. Before me sat the virgin; she
said, "Oisin, let us remain quiet till we reach the mouth of the great
sea."
Then arose the steed swiftly; when we arrived on the borders of the
strand he shook himself then to pace forward, and neighed three times
aloud.
When Fionn and the Fianna saw the steed travelling swiftly, facing the
great tide, they raised three shouts of mourning and grief.
"O Oisin!" said Fionn slowly and sorrowfully, "woe it is to me that thou
art going from me; I have not a hope that thou wilt ever again come back
to me victorious."
His form and beauty changed, and showers of tears flowed down, till they
wet his breast and his bright visage, and he said, "My woe art thou, O
Oisin, in going from me!"
O Patrick, 'twas a melancholy story our parting from each other in that
place, the parting of the father from his own son--'tis mournful, weak,
and faint to be relating it! I kissed my father sweetly and gently, and
the same affection I got from him. I bade adieu to all the Fianna, and
the tears flowed down my cheeks. We turned our backs to the land and our
faces directly due west; the smooth sea ebbed before us and filled in
billows after us. We saw wonders in our travels, cities, courts, and
castles, lime-white mansions and fortresses, brilliant summer-houses and
palaces. We also saw, by our sides, a hornless fawn leaping nimbly, and
a red-eared white dog, urging it boldly in the chase. We beheld also,
without fiction, a young maid on a brown steed, a golden apple in her
right hand, and she going on the top of the waves. We saw after her a
young rider on a white steed, under a purple, crimson mantle of satin,
and a gold-headed sword in his right hand.
"Who are yon two whom I see, O gentle princess? Tell me the meaning, of
that woman of most beautiful countenance and the comely rider of the
white steed."
"Heed not what thou wilt see, O gentle Oisin, nor what thou hast yet
seen; there is in them but nothing, till we reach the land of the 'King
of Youth.'"
We saw from us afar a sunny palace of beautiful front; its form and
appearance were the most beauteous that were to be found in the world.
"What exceeding fine royal mansion, and also the best that eye hath
seen, is this that we are travelling near to, or who is high chief of
that place?"
"The daughter of the King of the 'Land of Life' is Queen, yet in that
fortress she was taken by Fomhor Builleach, of Dromloghach, with violent
strength of arms and activity. Obligation she put upon the brave never
to make her a wife till she got a champion or true hero to stand battle
with him hand to hand."
"Take success and blessings, O golden-headed Niamh. I have never heard
better music than the gentle voice of thy sweet mouth; great grief to us
is a woman of her condition. I will go now to visit her to the fortress,
and it may be for us it is fated that that great hero should fall by me,
in feats of activity as is wont to me."
We went then into the fortress. To us came the youthful Queen. Equal in
splendour was she to the sun, and she bade us a hundred welcomes.
There was apparel of yellow silk on the Queen of excellent beauty. Her
chalk-white skin was like the swan on the wave, and her cheeks were of
the colour of the rose. Her hair was of a golden hue, her blue eyes
clear and cloudless; her honey lips of the colour of the berries, and
her slender brows of loveliest form.
Then we there sat down, each of us on a chair of gold. There was laid
out for us abundance of food and drinking-horns filled with beer. When
we had taken a sufficiency of food and much sweet drinking wines, then
spoke the mild young princess, and thus said she, "Hearken to me
awhile." She told us the knowledge and cause of her tale, and the tears
flowed down her cheeks. She said, "My return is not to my own country
whilst the great giant shall be alive."
"Be silent, O young princess! Give o'er thy grief and do not mourn, and
I give to thee my hand that the giant of slaughter shall fall by me!"
"There's not a champion now to be found of greatest repute under the sun
to give battle hand to hand to the bold giant of the hard blows."
"I tell to thee, O gentle queen, I am not daunted at his coming to meet
me. Unless he fall by me, by the strength of my arms, I will fall myself
in thy defence."
'Twas not long till we saw approaching the powerful giant that was most
repulsive. A load was on him of the skins of deer, and an iron bar in
his hand. He did not salute or bow to us, but looked into the
countenance of the young maiden, proclaimed battle and great conflict,
and I myself went to meet him. During three nights and three days we
were in the great contest; though powerful was he, the valiant giant, I
beheaded him without delay.
When the two young maidens saw the great giant lying motionless, weak
and low, they uttered three joyful cries, with great boasting and
merriment.
We then went to the fortress, and I was bruised, weak, and feeble,
shedding blood in great abundance coming closely out of my wounds. The
daughter of the "King of the Living" came in truth to relieve myself.
She put balm and balsam in my wounds, and I was whole after her.
We consumed our feast with pleasure, and then we were merry after. In
the fortress were prepared for us warm beds of the down of birds. We
buried the great man in a deep sod-grave, wide and clear. I raised his
flag and monument, and I wrote his name in Ogham Craobh.
On the morrow, at the appearance of day, we awoke out of our slumbers.
"It is time for us," said the daughter of the King, "to go without delay
to our own land."
We prepared ourselves without a stay, and we took our leave of the
virgin. We were sorrowful and sad after her, and not less after us was
the refulgent maid.
We turned our backs on the fortress, and our horse under us in full
speed, and swifter was the white steed than March wind on the mountain
summit. Ere long the sky darkened and the wind arose in every point, the
great sea lit up strongly, and sight of the sun was not to be found. We
gazed awhile on the clouds and on the stars that were under gloom. The
tempest abated and the wind, and Phoebus brightened o'er our heads.
We beheld by our side a most delightful country, under full bloom, and
plains, beautiful, smooth, and fine, and a royal fortress of surpassing
beauty. Not a colour that eye has beheld of rich blue, green, and white,
or purple, crimson, and of yellow, but was in this royal mansion that I
am describing. There were at the other side of the fortress radiant
summer-houses and palaces made, all of precious stones, by the hands of
skilful men and great artists.
Ere long we saw approaching from the fortress to meet us three fifties
of champions of best agility, appearance, fame, and of highest repute.
"What beauteous country is that, O gentle daughter of the golden locks?
Of best aspect that the eye has seen; or is it the 'Land of Youth'?"
"It is, truly, O generous Oisin! I have not told you a lie concerning
it; there is nothing I promised thyself but is manifest to thee for
ever."
To us came after that a hundred maids of exquisite beauty,
under-garments of silk filled with gold, welcoming me to their own
country. We saw again approaching a multitude of glittering bright
hosts, and a noble, great, and powerful King of matchless grace, form,
and countenance. There was a yellow shirt of silken satin and a bright
golden garment over it; there was a sparkling crown of gold, radiant and
shining, upon his head. We saw coming after him the young Queen of
highest repute, and fifty virgins sweet and mild, of most beautiful
form, in her company. When all arrived in one spot, then courteously
spoke the "King of Youth," and said, "This is Oisin, the son of Fionn,
the gentle consort of 'Golden-headed Niamh'!"
He took me then by the hand and said aloud to the hearing of the host,
"O brave Oisin! O son of the King! A hundred thousand welcomes to you!
This country into which thou comest, I'll not conceal its tidings from
you, in truth, long and durable is your life, and thou thyself shalt be
ever young. There's not a delight on which the heart hath mused but is
in this land awaiting thee. O Oisin! believe me in truth, for I am King
of the 'Land of Youth'! This is the gentle Queen and my own daughter,
the Golden-headed Niamh, who went over the smooth seas for thee to be
her consort for ever."
I gave thanks to the King and I bowed down to the gentle Queen; nor
stayed we there, but proceeded soon, till we reached the royal mansion
of the "King of Youth." There came the nobles of the fine fortress, both
men and women, to meet us; there was a feast and banquet continuously
there for ten nights and ten days.
I espoused "Golden-headed Niamh," O Patrick from Rome of white croziers!
That is how I went to the "Land of Youth," tho' woeful and grievous to
me to relate. I had, by Golden-headed Niamh, of children of surpassing
beauty and bloom, of best form, shape, and countenance, two young sons
and a gentle daughter. I spent a time protracted in length, three
hundred years and more, until I thought 'twould be my desire to see
Fionn and the Fianna alive. I asked leave of the King and of my kind
spouse, Golden-headed Niamh, to go to Erin back again to see Fionn and
his great host.
"Thou wilt get leave from me," said the gentle daughter, "though 'tis a
sorrowful tale to me to hear you mention it, lest thou mayest not come
again in your life to my own land, O victorious Oisin!"
"What do we dread, O blooming Queen? Whilst the white steed is at my
service he will teach me the way with ease, and will return safe back to
thyself."
"Remember, O Oisin! what I am saying. If thou layest foot on level
ground thou shalt not come again for ever to this fine land in which I
am myself. I say to thee again without guile, if thou alightest once off
the white steed thou wilt never more come to the 'Land of Youth,' O
golden Oisin of the warlike arms! I say to thee for the third time, if
thou alightest off the steed thyself thou wilt be an old man, withered
and blind, without activity, without pleasure, without run, without
leap. 'Tis a woe to me, O loving Oisin, that thou ever goest to green
Erin; 'tis not now as it has been; and thou never shalt see Fionn of the
hosts. There is not now in all Erin but a father of orders and hosts of
saints. O loving Oisin, here is my kiss; thou wilt never return to the
'Land of Youth'!"
I looked up into her countenance with compassion, and streams of tears
ran from my eyes. O Patrick! thou wouldst have pitied her tearing the
hair off the golden head. She put me under strict injunctions to go and
come without touching the lea, and said to me, by virtue of their power,
if I broke them that I'd never return safe. I promised her each thing,
without a lie, that I would fulfil what she said to me. I went on the
back of the white steed and bade farewell to the people of the fortress.
I kissed my gentle consort, and sorrowful was I in parting from her; my
two sons and my young daughter were under grief, shedding tears. I
prepared myself for travelling, and I turned my back on the "Land of
Youth." The steed ran swiftly under me, as he had done with me and
"Golden-headed Niamh."
On my coming, then, into the country, I looked closely in every
direction. I thought then, in truth, that the tidings of Fionn were not
to be found. 'Twas not long for me, nor tedious, till I saw from the
west approaching me a great troop of mounted men and women, and they
came into my presence. They saluted me kindly and courteously, and
surprise seized every one of them on seeing the bulk of my own person,
my form, my appearance, and my countenance. I myself asked then of them,
did they hear if Fionn was alive, or did anyone else of the Fianna live,
or what disaster had swept them away?
"We have heard tell of Fionn, for strength, for activity, and for
prowess, that there never was an equal for him in person, in character,
and in mien. There is many a book written down by the melodious sweet
sages of the Gaels which we, in truth, are unable to relate to thee, of
the deeds of Fionn and of the Fianna. We heard that Fionn had a son of
brightest beauty and form; that there came a young maiden for him, and
that he went with her to the 'Land of Youth.'"
When I myself heard that announcement that Fionn did not live, or any of
the Fianna, I was seized with weariness and great sorrow, and I was full
of melancholy after them! I did not stop on my course, quick and smart
without any delay, till I set my face straightforward to Almhuin of
great exploits in broad Leinster. Great was my surprise there that I did
not see the court of Fionn of the hosts; there was not in its place, in
truth, but weeds, chick-weeds, and nettles. Alas, O Patrick! and alas,
my grief! A miserable journey it was to me, without the tidings of Fionn
or the Fianna; it left me through life under pain. After I left Almhuin
of Leinster, there was not a residence where the Fianna had been, but I
searched accurately without any delay. On my passing through the Glen of
the Thrushes I saw a great assembly there, three hundred men and more
were before me in the glen. One of the assembly spoke, and he said with
a loud voice, "Come to our relief, O kingly champion, and deliver us
from difficulty!"
I then came forward, and the host had a large flag of marble; the weight
of the flag was down on them, and to uphold it they were unable! Those
that were under the flag below were being oppressed, weakly; by the
weight of the great load many of them lost their senses. One of the
stewards spoke and said, "O princely young hero, forthwith relieve my
host, or not one of them will be alive!" 'Tis a shameful deed that it
should now be said, and the number of men that is there, that the
strength of the host is unable to lift the flag with great power. If
Oscur, the son of Oisin, lived, he would take this flag in his right
hand; he would fling it in a throw over the host. It is not my custom to
speak falsehood.
I lay upon my right breast and I took the flag in my hand; with the
strength and activity of my limbs I sent it seven perches from its
place! With the force of the very large flag the golden girth broke on
the white steed; I came down full suddenly on the soles of my two feet
on the lea. No sooner did I come down than the white steed took fright.
He went then on his way, and I stood in sorrow, both weak and feeble. I
lost the sight of my eyes, my form, my countenance, and my vigour; I was
an old man, poor and blind, without strength, understanding, or esteem.
Patrick! there is to thee my story, as it occurred to myself, without a
lie, my going and my adventures in certain, and my returning from the
"Land of Youth."
_From "Ossianic Poems."_
_Edited by_ JOHN O'DALY.
Adventures of Gilla na Chreck an Gour
_(Told in the Wexford Peasant Dialect.)_
Long ago a poor widow woman lived down by the iron forge near
Enniscorthy, and she was so poor, she had no clothes to put on her son;
so she used to fix him in the ash-hole, near the fire, and pile the warm
ashes about him; and, accordingly, as he grew up, she sunk the pit
deeper. At last, by hook or by crook, she got a goat-skin, and fastened
it round his waist, and he felt quite grand, and took a walk down the
street. So says she to him next morning, "Tom, you thief, you never done
any good yet, and six-foot high, and past nineteen: take that rope and
bring me a _bresna_ from the wood." "Never say't twice, mother," says
Tom; "here goes."
When he had it gathered and tied, what should come up but a big
_joiant_, nine-foot high, and made a lick of a club at him. Well become
Tom, he jumped a-one side and picked up a ram-pike; and the first crack
he gave the big fellow he made him kiss the clod. "If you have e'er a
prayer," says Tom, "now's the time to say it, before I make _brishe_ of
you." "I have no prayers," says the giant, "but if you spare my life
I'll give you that club; and as long as you keep from sin you'll win
every battle you ever fight with it."
Tom made no bones about letting him off; and as soon as he got the club
in his hands he sat down on the bresna and gave it a tap with the
kippeen, and says, "Bresna, I had a great trouble gathering you, and run
the risk of my life for you; the least you can do is to carry me home."
And, sure enough, the wind of the word was all it wanted. It went off
through the wood, groaning and cracking till it came to the widow's
door.
Well, when the sticks were all burned Tom was sent off again to pick
more; and this time he had to fight with a giant with two heads on him.
Tom had a little more trouble with him--that's all; and the prayers _he_
said was to give Tom a fife that nobody could help dancing when he was
playing it. _Begonies_, he made the big faggot dance home, with himself
sitting on it. Well, if you were to count all the steps from this to
Dublin, dickens a bit you'd ever arrive there. The next giant was a
beautiful boy with three heads on him. He had neither prayers nor
catechism no more _nor_ the others; and so he gave Tom a bottle of green
ointment that wouldn't let you be burned, nor scalded, nor wounded. "And
now," says he, "there's no more of us. You may come and gather sticks
here till little _Lunacy Day_ in harvest without giant or fairy man to
disturb you."
Well, now, Tom was prouder nor ten paycocks, and used to take a walk
down street in the heel of the evening; but some of the little boys had
no more manners nor if they were Dublin jackeens, and put out their
tongues at Tom's club and Tom's goat-skin. He didn't like that at all,
and it would be mean to give one of them a clout. At last, what should
come through the town but a kind of bellman, only it's a big bugle he
had, and a huntsman's cap on his head, and a kind of painted shirt. So
this--he wasn't a bellman, and I don't know what to call him--bugleman,
maybe--proclaimed that the King of Dublin's daughter was so melancholy
that she didn't give a laugh for seven years, and that her father would
grant her in marriage to whoever would make her laugh three times.
"That's the very thing for me to try," says Tom; and so, without burning
any more daylight, he kissed his mother, curled his club at the little
boys, and he set off along the yalla highroad to the town of Dublin.
At last Tom came to one of the city gates, and the guards laughed and
cursed at him instead of letting him through. Tom stood it all for a
little time, but at last one of them--out of fun, as he said--drove his
_bagnet_ half an inch or so into his side. Tom did nothing but take the
fellow by the scruff of his neck and the waistband of his corduroys and
fling him into the canal. Some ran to pull the fellow out, and others to
let manners into the vulgarian with their swords and daggers; but a tap
from his club sent them headlong into the moat or down on the stones,
and they were soon begging him to stay his hands.
So at last one of them was glad enough to show Tom the way to the palace
yard; and there was the King and the Queen, and the princess in a
gallery, looking at all sorts of wrestling and sword-playing, and
_rinka-fadhas_ (long dances) and mumming, all to please the princess;
but not a smile came over her handsome face.
Well, they all stopped when they seen the young giant, with his boy's
face and long black hair, and his short curly beard--for his poor mother
couldn't afford to buy _razhurs_--and his great strong arms and bare
legs, and no covering but the goat-skin that reached from his waist to
his knees. But an envious wizened _basthard_ of a fellow, with a red
head, that wished to be married to the princess, and didn't like how she
opened her eyes at Tom, came forward, and asked his business very
snappishly. "My business," says Tom, says he, "is to make the beautiful
princess, God bless her, laugh three times." "Do you see all them merry
fellows and skilful swordsmen," says the other, "that could eat you up
with a grain of salt, and not a mother's soul of 'em ever got a laugh
from her these seven years?" So the fellows gathered round Tom, and the
bad man aggravated him till he told them he didn't care a pinch of snuff
for the whole bilin' of 'em; let 'em come on, six at a time, and try
what they could do. The King, that was too far off to hear what they
were saying, asked what did the stranger want. "He wants," says the
red-headed fellow, "to make hares of your best men." "Oh!" says the
King, "if that's the way, let one of 'em turn out and try his mettle."
So one stood forward, with _soord_ and pot-lid, and made a cut at Tom.
He struck the fellow's elbow with the club, and up over their heads flew
the sword, and down went the owner of it on the gravel from a thump he
got on the helmet. Another took his place, and another, and another, and
then half a dozen at once, and Tom sent swords, helmets, shields, and
bodies rolling over and over, and themselves bawling out that they were
kilt, and disabled, and damaged, and rubbing their poor elbows and hips,
and limping away. Tom contrived not to kill anyone; and the princess was
so amused that she let a great sweet laugh out of her that was heard all
over the yard. "King of Dublin," says Tom, "I've quarter of your
daughter." And the King didn't know whether he was glad or sorry, and
all the blood in the princess's heart run into her cheeks.
So there was no more fighting that day, and Tom was invited to dine with
the royal family. Next day Redhead told Tom of a wolf, the size of a
yearling heifer, that used to be _serenading_ (sauntering) about the
walls, and eating people and cattle; and said what a pleasure it would
give the King to have it killed. "With all my heart," says Tom. "Send a
jackeen to show me where he lives, and we'll see how he behaves to a
stranger." The princess was not well pleased, for Tom looked a different
person with fine clothes and a nice green _birredh_ over his long, curly
hair; and besides, he'd got one laugh out of her. However, the King gave
his consent; and in an hour and a half the horrible wolf was walking in
the palace yard, and Tom a step or two behind, with his club on his
shoulder, just as a shepherd would be walking after a pet lamb. The King
and Queen and princess were safe up in their gallery, but the officers
and people of the court that were _padrowling_ about the great bawn,
when they saw the big baste coming in gave themselves up, and began to
make for doors and gates; and the wolf licked his chops, as if he was
saying, "Wouldn't I enjoy a breakfast off a couple of yez!" The King
shouted out, "O Gilla na Chreck an Gour, take away that terrible wolf,
and you must have all my daughter." But Tom didn't mind him a bit. He
pulled out his flute and began to play like vengeance; and dickens a man
or boy in the yard but began shovelling away heel and toe, and the wolf
himself was obliged to get on his hind legs and dance _Tatther Jack
Walsh_ along with the rest. A good deal of the people got inside and
shut the doors, the way the hairy fellow wouldn't pin them; but Tom kept
playing, and the outsiders kept shouting and dancing, and the wolf kept
dancing and roaring with the pain his legs were giving him: and all the
time he had his eyes on Redhead, who was shut out along with the rest.
Wherever Redhead went the wolf followed, and kept one eye on him and the
other on Tom, to see if he would give him leave to eat him. But Tom
shook his head, and never stopped the tune, and Redhead never stopped
dancing and bawling and the wolf dancing and roaring, one leg up and the
other down, and he ready to drop out of his standing from fair
tiresomeness.
When the princess seen that there was no fear of anyone being kilt she
was so divarted by the stew that Redhead was in that she gave another
great laugh; and well become Tom, out he cried, "King of Dublin, I have
two quarters of your daughter." "Oh, quarters or alls," says the King,
"put away that divel of a wolf and we'll see about it." So Gilla put his
flute in his pocket, and says he to the baste that was sittin' on his
currabingo ready to faint, "Walk off to your mountains, my fine
fellow, and live like a respectable baste; and if ever I find you come
within seven miles of any town----" He said no more, but spit in his
fist, and gave a flourish of his club. It was all the poor divel wanted:
he put his tail between his legs and took to his pumps without looking
at man nor mortial, and neither sun, moon, nor stars ever saw him in
sight of Dublin again.
At dinner everyone laughed but the foxy fellow; and, sure enough, he was
laying out how he'd settle poor Tom next day. "Well, to be sure!" says
he, "King of Dublin, you are in luck. There's the Danes moidhering us to
no end. D---- run to Lusk wid 'em! and if anyone can save us from 'em it
is this gentleman with the goat-skin. There is a flail hangin' on the
collar-beam in Hell, and neither Dane nor Devil can stand before it."
"So," says Tom to the King, "will you let me have the other half of the
princess if I bring you the flail?" "No, no," says the princess, "I'd
rather never be your wife than see you in that danger."
But Redhead whispered and nudged Tom about how shabby it would look to
reneague the adventure. So he asked him which way he was to go, and
Redhead directed him through a street where a great many bad women
lived, and a great many shibbeen houses were open, and away he set.
Well, he travelled and travelled till he came in sight of the walls of
Hell; and, bedad, before he knocked at the gates, he rubbed himself over
with the greenish ointment. When he knocked a hundred little imps popped
their heads out through the bars, and axed him what he wanted. "I want
to speak to the big divel of all," says Tom: "open the gate."
It wasn't long till the gate was _thrune_ open, and the Ould Boy
received Tom with bows and scrapes, and axed his business. "My business
isn't much," says Tom. "I only came for the loan of that flail that I
see hanging on the collar-beam for the King of Dublin to give a
thrashing to the Danes." "Well," says the other, "the Danes is much
better customers to me; but, since you walked so far, I won't refuse.
Hand that flail," says he to a young imp; and he winked the far-off eye
at the same time. So while some were barring the gates, the young devil
climbed up and took down the iron flail that had the handstaff and
booltheen both made out of red-hot iron. The little vagabond was
grinning to think how it would burn the hands off of Tom, but the
dickens a burn it made on him, no more nor if it was a good oak sapling.
"Thankee," says Tom; "now would you open the gate for a body and I'll
give you no more trouble." "Oh, tramp!" says Ould Nick, "is that the way?
It is easier getting inside them gates than getting out again. Take that
tool from him, and give him a dose of the oil of stirrup." So one fellow
put out his claws to seize on the flail, but Tom gave him such a welt of
it on the side of his head that he broke off one of his horns, and made
him roar like a divel as he was. Well, they rushed at Tom, but he gave
them, little and big, such a thrashing as they didn't forget for a
while. At last says the ould thief of all, rubbing his elbows, "Let the
fool out; and woe to whoever lets him in again, great or small."
So out marched Tom and away with him, without minding the shouting and
cursing they kept up at him from the tops of the walls. And when he got
home to the big bawn of the palace, there never was such running and
racing as to see himself and the flail. When he had his story told he
laid down the flail on the stone steps, and bid no one for their lives
to touch it. If the King and Queen and princess made much of him before
they made ten times as much of him now; but Redhead, the mean
scruff-hound, stole over, and thought to catch hold of the flail to make
an end of him. His fingers hardly touched it, when he let a roar out of
him as if heaven and earth were coming together, and kept flinging his
arms about and dancing that it was pitiful to look at him. Tom run at
him as soon as he could rise, caught his hands in his own two, and
rubbed them this way and that, and the burning pain left them before you
could reckon one. Well, the poor fellow, between the pain that was only
just gone, and the comfort he was in, had the comicalest face that ever
you see; it was such a mixerum-gatherum of laughing and crying. Everyone
burst out a laughing--the princess could not stop no more than the
rest--and then says Gilla, or Tom, "Now, ma'am, if there were fifty
halves of you I hope you'll give me them all." Well, the princess had no
mock modesty about her. She looked at her father, and, by my word, she
came over to Gilla and put her two delicate hands into his two rough
ones, and I wish it was myself was in his shoes that day!
Tom would not bring the flail into the palace. You may be sure no other
body went near it; and when the early risers were passing next morning
they found two long clefts in the stone where it was, after burning
itself an opening downwards, nobody could tell how far. But a messenger
came in at noon and said that the Danes were so frightened when they
heard of the flail coming into Dublin that they got into their ships and
sailed away.
Well, I suppose before they were married Gilla got some man like Pat
Mara of Tomenine to larn him the "principles of politeness," fluxions,
gunnery, and fortifications, decimal fractions, practice, and the
rule-of-three direct, the way he'd be able to keep up a conversation
with the royal family. Whether he ever lost his time larning them
sciences, I'm not sure, but it's as sure as fate that his mother never
more saw any want till the end of her days.
PATRICK KENNEDY.
The Hill-man and the House-wife
It is well known that the good people cannot stand mean ways. Now, there
once lived a house-wife who had a sharp eye to her own good in this
world, and gave alms of what she had no use, for the good of her soul.
One day a hill-man knocked at her door. "Can you lend us a saucepan,
good mother?" said he. "There's a wedding in the hill, and all the pots
are in use." "Is he to have one?" asked the servant girl who opened the
door. "Ay, to be sure," said the house-wife.
But when the maid was taking a saucepan from the shelf, she pinched her
arm and whispered sharply, "Not that, you stupid; get the old one out of
the cupboard. It leaks, and the hill-men are so neat and such nimble
workers that they are sure to mend it before they send it home. So one
does a good turn to the good people and saves sixpence from the tinker."
The maid fetched the saucepan, which had been laid by till the tinker's
next visit, and gave it to the dwarf, who thanked her and went away.
The saucepan was soon returned neatly mended and ready for use. At
supper time the maid filled the pan with milk and set it on the fire for
the children's supper, but in a few minutes the milk was so burnt and
smoked that no one could touch it, and even the pigs would not drink the
wash into which it was thrown.
"Ah, you good-for-nothing slut!" cried the house-wife, as she this time
filled the pan herself. "You would ruin the richest, with your careless
ways; there's a whole quart of good milk spoilt at once." "And that's
twopence," cried a voice from the chimney, a queer whining voice like
some old body who was always grumbling over something.
The house-wife had not left the saucepan for two minutes when the milk
boiled over, and it was all burnt and smoked as before. "The pan must be
dirty," cried the house-wife in a rage; "and there are two full quarts
of milk as good as thrown to the dogs." "_And that's fourpence_," said
the voice in the chimney.
After a long scrubbing the saucepan was once more filled and set on the
fire, but it was not the least use, the milk was burnt and smoked again,
and the house-wife burst into tears at the waste, crying out, "Never
before did such a thing happen to me since I kept house! Three quarts of
milk burnt for one meal!" "_And that's sixpence,_" cried the voice from
the chimney. "You didn't save the tinker after all," with which the
hill-man himself came tumbling down the chimney, and went off laughing
through the door. But from that time the saucepan was as good as any
other.
JULIANA HORATIA EWING.
The Giant Walker
Now, all the night around their echoing camp
Was heard continuous from the hills a sound as of the tramp
Of giant footsteps; but, so thick the white mist lay around,
None saw the Walker, save the King. He, starting at the sound,
Called to his foot his fierce red hound; athwart his shoulders cast
A shaggy mantle, grasped his spear, and through the moonlight passed
Alone up dark Ben-Boli's heights, towards which, above the woods,
With sound as when at close of eve the noise of falling floods
Is borne to shepherd's ear remote on stilly upland lawn,
The steps along the mountain-side with hollow fall came on.
Fast beat the hero's heart; and close down-crouching by his knee
Trembled the hound, while, through the haze, huge as through mists at
sea,
The week-long sleepless mariner descries some mountain cape,
Wreck-infamous, rise on his lee, appeared a monstrous Shape,
Striding impatient, like a man much grieved, who walks alone,
Considering of a cruel wrong; down from his shoulders thrown
A mantle, skirted stiff with soil splashed from the miry ground,
At every stride against his calves struck with as loud rebound
As makes the main-sail of a ship brought up along the blast,
When with the coil of all its ropes it beats the sounding mast.
So, striding vast, the giant passed; the King held fast his breath--
Motionless, save his throbbing heart; and chill and still as death
Stood listening while, a second time, the giant took the round
Of all the camp; but, when at length, for the third time, the sound
Came up, and through the parting haze a third time huge and dim
Rose out the Shape, the valiant hound sprang forth and challenged him.
And forth, disdaining that a dog should put him so to shame,
Sprang Congal, and essayed to speak: "Dread Shadow, stand! Proclaim
What wouldst thou that thou thus all night around my camp shouldst keep
Thy troublous vigil banishing the wholesome gift of sleep
From all our eyes, who, though inured to dreadful sounds and sights
By land and sea, have never yet, in all our perilous nights,
Lain in the ward of such a guard."
The Shape made answer none,
But with stern wafture of its hand went angrier striding on,
Shaking the earth with heavier steps. Then Congal on his track
Sprang fearless.
"Answer me, thou churl!" he cried, "I bid thee back!"
But while he spoke, the giant's cloak around his shoulders grew
Like to a black-bulged thunder-cloud, and sudden, out there flew
From all its angry swelling folds, with uproar unconfined,
Direct against the King's pursuit, a mighty blast of wind.
Loud flapped the mantle, tempest-lined, while, fluttering down the gale,
As leaves in autumn, man and hound were swept into the vale;
And, heard o'er all the huge uproar, through startled Dalaray
The giant went, with stamp and clash, departing south away.
SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON.
The Pursuit of the Gilla Dacker
Now, it chanced at one time during the chase, while they were hunting
over the plain of Cliach, that Finn went to rest on the hill of
Collkilla, which is now called Knockainy; and he had his hunting-tents
pitched on a level spot near the summit, and some of his chief heroes
tarried with him.
When the King and his companions had taken their places on the hill, the
Feni unleashed their gracefully shaped, sweet-voiced hounds through the
woods and sloping glens. And it was sweet music to Finn's ear, the cry
of the long-snouted dogs, as they routed the deer from their covers and
the badgers from their dens; the pleasant, emulating shouts of the
youths; the whistling and signalling of the huntsmen; and the
encouraging cheers of the mighty heroes, as they spread themselves
through the glens and woods, and over the broad green plain of Cliach.
Then did Finn ask who of all his companions would go to the highest
point of the hill directly over them to keep watch and ward and to
report how the chase went on. For, he said, the Dedannans were ever on
the watch to work the Feni mischief by their druidical spells, and more
so during the chase than at other times.
Finn Ban Mac Bresal stood forward and offered to go; and, grasping his
broad spears, he went to the top, and sat viewing the plain to the four
points of the sky. And the King and his companions brought forth the
chess-board and chess-men and sat them down to a game.
Finn Ban Mac Bresal had been watching only a little time when he saw on
a plain to the east a Fomor of vast size coming towards the hill,
leading a horse. As he came nearer Finn Ban observed that he was the
ugliest-looking giant his eyes ever lighted on. He had a large, thick
body, bloated and swollen out to a great size; clumsy, crooked legs; and
broad, flat feet turned inwards. His hands and arms and shoulders were
bony and thick and very strong-looking; his neck was long and thin; and
while his head was poked forward, his face was turned up, as he stared
straight at Finn Mac Bresal. He had thick lips, and long, crooked teeth;
and his face was covered all over with bushy hair.
He was fully armed; but all his weapons were rusty and soiled and
slovenly looking. A broad shield of a dirty, sooty colour, rough and
battered, hung over his back; he had a long, heavy, straight sword at
his left hip; and he held in his left hand two thick-handled,
broad-headed spears, old and rusty, and seeming as if they had not been
handled for years. In his right hand he held an iron club, which he
dragged after him with its end on the ground; and, as it trailed along,
it tore up a track as deep as the furrow a farmer ploughs with a team of
oxen.
The horse he led was even larger in proportion than the giant himself,
and quite as ugly. His great carcass was covered all over with tangled
scraggy hair, of a sooty black; you could count his ribs and all the
points of his big bones through his hide; his legs were crooked and
knotty; his neck was twisted; and as for his jaws, they were so long and
heavy that they made his head look twice too large for his body.
The giant held him by a thick halter, and seemed to be dragging him
forward by main force, the animal was so lazy and so hard to move. Every
now and then, when the beast tried to stand still, the giant would give
him a blow on the ribs with his big iron club, which sounded as loud as
the thundering of a great billow against the rough-headed rocks of the
coast. When he gave him a pull forward by the halter, the wonder was
that he did not drag the animal's head away from his body; and, on the
other hand, the horse often gave the halter such a tremendous tug
backwards that it was equally wonderful how the arm of the giant was not
torn away from his shoulder.
When at last he had come up he bowed his head and bended his knee, and
saluted the King with great respect.
Finn addressed him; and after having given him leave to speak he asked
him who he was, and what was his name, and whether he belonged to one of
the noble or ignoble races; also what was his profession or craft, and
why he had no servant to attend to his horse.
The big man made answer and said, "King of the Feni, whether I come of a
noble or of an ignoble race, that, indeed, I cannot tell, for I know not
who my father and mother were. As to where I came from, I am a Fomor of
Lochlann in the north; but I have no particular dwelling-place, for I am
continually travelling about from one country to another, serving the
great lords and nobles of the world, and receiving wages for my service.
"In the course of my wanderings I have often heard of you, O King, and
of your greatness and splendour and royal bounty; and I have come now to
ask you to take me into your service for one year; and at the end of
that time I shall fix my own wages, according to my custom.
"You ask me also why I have no servant for this great horse of mine. The
reason of that is this: at every meal I eat my master must give me as
much food and drink as would be enough for a hundred men; and whosoever
the lord or chief may be that takes me into his service, it is quite
enough for him to have to provide for me, without having also to feed my
servant.
"Moreover, I am so very heavy and lazy that I should never be able to
keep up with a company on march if I had to walk; and this is my reason
for keeping a horse at all.
"My name is the Gilla Dacker, and it is not without good reason that I
am so called. For there never was a lazier or worse servant than I am,
or one that grumbles more at doing a day's work for his master. And I am
the hardest person in the world to deal with; for, no matter how good or
noble I may think my master, or how kindly he may treat me, it is hard
words and foul reproaches I am likely to give him for thanks in the end.
"This, O Finn, is the account I have to give of myself, and these are my
answers to your questions."
"Well," answered Finn, "according to your own account you are not a very
pleasant fellow to have anything to do with; and of a truth there is not
much to praise in your appearance. But things may not be so bad as you
say; and, anyhow, as I have never yet refused any man service and wages,
I will not now refuse you."
Whereupon Finn and the Gilla Dacker made covenants, and the Gilla Dacker
was taken into service for a year.
"And now," said the Gilla Dacker, "as to this same horse of mine, I find
I must attend to him myself, as I see no one here worthy of putting a
hand near him. So I will lead him to the nearest stud, as I am wont to
do, and let him graze among your horses. I value him greatly, however,
and it would grieve me very much if any harm were to befall him; so,"
continued he, turning to the King, "I put him under your protection, O
King, and under the protection of all the Feni that are here present."
At this speech the Feni all burst out laughing to see the Gilla Dacker
showing such concern for his miserable, worthless old skeleton of a
horse.
Howbeit, the big man, giving not the least heed to their merriment, took
the halter off the horse's head and turned him loose among the horses of
the Feni.
But now, this same wretched-looking old animal, instead of beginning to
graze, as everyone thought he would, ran in among the horses of the
Feni, and began straightway to work all sorts of mischief. He cocked his
long, hard, switchy tail straight out like a rod, and, throwing up his
hind legs, he kicked about on this side and on that, maiming and
disabling several of the horses. Sometimes he went tearing through the
thickest of the herd, butting at them with his hard, bony forehead; and
he opened out his lips with a vicious grin and tore all he could lay
hold on with his sharp, crooked teeth, so that none were safe that came
in his way either before or behind.
At last he left them, and was making straight across to a small field
where Conan Mail's horses were grazing by themselves, intending to play
the same tricks among them. But Conan, seeing this, shouted in great
alarm to the Gilla Dacker to bring away his horse, and not let him work
any more mischief; and threatening, if he did not do so at once, to go
himself and knock the brains out of the vicious old brute on the spot.
But the Gilla Dacker told Conan that he saw no way of preventing his
horse from joining the others, except someone put the halter on him.
"And," said he to Conan, "there is the halter; and if you are in any
fear for your own animals, you may go yourself and bring him away from
the field."
Conan was in a mighty rage when he heard this; and as he saw the big
horse just about to cross the fence, he snatched up the halter, and,
running forward with long strides, he threw it over the animal's head
and thought to lead him back. But in a moment the horse stood stock
still, and his body and legs became as stiff as if they were made of
wood; and though Conan pulled and tugged with might and main, he was not
able to stir him an inch from his place.
At last Fergus Finnvel, the poet, spoke to Conan and said, "I never
would have believed, Conan Mail, that you could be brought to do
horse-service for any knight or noble in the whole world; but now,
indeed, I see that you have made yourself a horse-boy to an ugly foreign
giant, so hateful-looking and low-born that not a man of the Feni would
have anything to say to him. As you have, however, to mind this old
horse in order to save your own, would it not be better for you to mount
him and revenge yourself for all the trouble he is giving you, by riding
him across the country, over the hill-tops, and down into the deep glens
and valleys, and through stones and bogs and all sorts of rough places,
till you have broken the heart in his big ugly body?"
Conan, stung by the cutting words of the poet and by the jeers of his
companions, jumped upon the horse's back, and began to beat him mightily
with his heels and with his two big heavy fists to make him go; but the
horse seemed not to take the least notice, and never stirred.
"I know the reason he does not go," said Fergus Finnvel; "he has been
accustomed to carry a horseman far heavier than you--that is to say, the
Gilla Dacker; and he will not move till he has the same weight on his
back."
At this Conan Mail called out to his companions, and asked which of them
would mount with him and help to avenge the damage done to their horses.
"I will go," said Coil Croda the Battle Victor, son of Criffan; and up
he went. But the horse never moved.
Dara Donn Mac Morna next offered to go, and mounted behind the others;
and after him Angus Mac Art Mac Morna. And the end of it was that
fourteen men of the Clann Baskin and Clann Morna got up along with
Conan; and all began to thrash the horse together with might and main.
But they were none the better for it, for he remained standing stiff and
immovable as before. They found, moreover, that their seat was not at
all an easy one--the animal's back was so sharp and bony.
When the Gilla Dacker saw the Feni beating his horse at such a rate he
seemed very angry, and addressed the King in these words:
"King of the Feni, I now see plainly that all the fine accounts I heard
about you and the Feni are false, and I will not stay in your
service--no, not another hour. You can see for yourself the ill usage
these men are giving my horse without cause; and I leave you to judge
whether anyone could put up with it--anyone who had the least regard for
his horse. The time is, indeed, short since I entered your service, but
I now think it a great deal too long; so pay me my wages and let me go
my ways."
But Finn said, "I do not wish you to go; stay on till the end of your
year, and then I will pay you all I promised you."
"I swear," answered the Gilla Dacker, "that if this were the very last
day of my year, I would not wait till morning for my wages after this
insult. So, wages or no wages, I will now seek another master; but from
this time forth I shall know what to think of Finn Mac Cumal and his
Feni!"
With that the Gilla Dacker stood up as straight as a pillar, and,
turning his face towards the south-west, he walked slowly away.
When the horse saw his master leaving the hill he stirred himself at
once and walked quietly after him, bringing the fifteen men away on his
back. And when the Feni saw this they raised a loud shout of laughter,
mocking them.
The Gilla Dacker, after he had walked some little way, looked back, and,
seeing that his horse was following, he stood for a moment to tuck up
his skirts. Then, all at once changing his pace, he set out with long,
active strides; and if you know what the speed of a swallow is flying
across a mountain-side, or the dry fairy wind of a March day sweeping
over the plains, then you can understand the swiftness of the Gilla
Dacker as he ran down the hill-side towards the south-west.
Neither was the horse behindhand in the race; for though he carried a
heavy load, he galloped like the wind after his master, plunging and
bounding forward with as much freedom as if he had nothing at all on his
back.
The men now tried to throw themselves off; but this, indeed, they were
not able to do, for the good reason that they found themselves fastened
firmly, hands and feet and all, to the horse's back.
And now Conan, looking round, raised his big voice and shouted to Finn
and the Feni, asking them were they content to let their friends be
carried off in that manner by such a horrible, foul-looking old spectre
of a horse.
Finn and the others, hearing this, seized their arms and started off in
pursuit. Now, the way the Gilla Dacker and his horse took was first
through Fermore, which is at the present day called Hy Conall Gavra;
next over the wide, heathy summit of Slieve Lougher; from that to Corca
Divna; and they ran along by Slieve Mish till they reached Cloghan
Kincat, near the deep green sea.
And so the great horse continued his course without stop or stay,
bringing the sixteen Feni with him through the sea. Now, this is how
they fared in the sea while the horse was rushing farther and farther to
the west: they had always a dry, firm strand under them, for the waters
retired before the horse; while behind them was a wild, raging sea,
which followed close after and seemed ready every moment to topple over
their heads. But, though the billows were tumbling and roaring all
round, neither horse nor riders were wetted by as much as a drop of
brine or a dash of spray.
Then Finn spoke and asked the chiefs what they thought best to be done;
and they told him they would follow whatsoever counsel he and Fergus
Finnvel, the poet, gave them. Then Finn told Fergus to speak his mind;
and Fergus said:
"My counsel is that we go straightway to Ben Edar, where we shall find a
ship ready to sail. For our forefathers, when they wrested the land from
the gifted, bright-complexioned Dedannans, bound them by covenant to
maintain this ship for ever, fitted with all things needful for a
voyage, even to the smallest article, as one of the privileges of Ben
Edar; so that if at any time one of the noble sons of Gael Glas wished
to sail to distant lands from Erin, he should have a ship lying at hand
in the harbour ready to begin his voyage."
They agreed to this counsel, and turned their steps without delay
northwards towards Ben Edar. They had not gone far when they met two
noble-looking youths, fully armed, and wearing over their armour
beautiful mantles of scarlet silk, fastened by brooches of gold. The
strangers saluted the King with much respect; and the King saluted them
in return. Then, having given them leave to converse, he asked them who
they were, whither they had come, and who the prince or chief was that
they served. And the elder answered:
"My name is Feradach, and my brother's name is Foltlebar; and we are the
two sons of the King of Innia. Each of us professes an art; and it has
long been a point of dispute between us which art is the better, my
brother's or mine. Hearing that there is not in the world a wiser or
more far-seeing man than thou art, O King, we have come to ask thee to
take us into thy service among thy household troops for a year, and at
the end of that time to give judgment between us in this matter."
Finn asked them what were the two arts they professed.
"My art," answered Feradach, "is this. If at any time a company of
warriors need a ship, give me only my joiner's axe and my crann-tavall,
and I am able to provide a ship for them without delay. The only think I
ask them to do is this--to cover their heads close, and keep them
covered, while I give the crann-tavall three blows of my axe. Then I
tell them to uncover their heads; and lo, there lies the ship in harbour
ready to sail!"
Then Foltlebar spoke and said, "This, O King, is the art I profess. On
land I can track the wild duck over nine ridges and nine glens, and
follow her without being once thrown out till I drop upon her in her
nest. And I can follow up a track on sea quite as well as on land if I
have a good ship and crew."
Finn replied, "You are the very men I want; and I now take you both into
my service. At this moment I need a good ship and a skilful pilot more
than any two things in the whole world."
Whereupon Finn told them the whole story of the Gilla Dacker's doings
from beginning to end. "And we are now," said he, "on our way to Ben
Edar to seek a ship that we may follow this giant and his horse and
rescue our companions."
Then Feradach said, "I will get you a ship--a ship that will sail as
swiftly as a swallow can fly!"
And Foltlebar said, "I will guide your ship in the track of the Gilla
Dacker till ye lay hands on him, in whatsoever quarter of the world he
may have hidden himself!"
And so they turned back to Cloghan Kincat. And when they had come to the
beach Feradach told them to cover their heads, and they did so. Then he
struck three blows of his axe on the crann-tavall; after which he made
them look. And lo, they saw a ship fully fitted out with oars and sails
and with all things needed for a long voyage riding before them in the
harbour!
Then they went on board and launched their ship on the cold, bright sea;
and Foltlebar was their pilot and steersman. And they set their sail and
plied their slender oars, and the ship moved swiftly westward till they
lost sight of the shores of Erin; and they saw nothing all round them
but a wide girdle of sea. After some days' sailing a great storm came
from the west, and the black waves rose up against them so that they had
much ado to keep their vessel from sinking. But through all the roaring
of the tempest, through the rain and blinding spray, Foltlebar never
stirred from the helm or changed his course, but still kept close on the
track of the Gilla Dacker.
At length the storm abated and the sea grew calm. And when the darkness
had cleared away they saw to the west, a little way off, a vast rocky
cliff towering over their heads to such a height that its head seemed
hidden among the clouds. It rose up sheer from the very water, and
looked at that distance as smooth as glass, so that at first sight
there seemed no way to reach the top.
Foltlebar, after examining to the four points of the sky, found the
track of the Gilla Dacker as far as the cliff, but no farther. And he
accordingly told the heroes that he thought it was on the top of that
rock the giant lived; and that, anyhow, the horse must have made his way
up the face of the cliff with their companions.
When the heroes heard this they were greatly cast down and puzzled what
to do; for they saw no way of reaching the top of the rock; and they
feared they should have to give up the quest and return without their
companions. And they sat down and looked up at the cliff with sorrow and
vexation in their hearts.
Fergus Finnvel, the poet, then challenged the hero Dermat O'Dyna to
climb the rock in pursuit of the Gilla Dacker, and he did so, and on
reaching the summit found himself in a beautiful fairy plain. He fared
across it and came to a great tree laden with fruit beside a well as
clear as crystal. Hard by, on the brink of the well, stood a tall pillar
stone, and on its top lay a golden-chased drinking horn. He filled the
horn from the well and drank, but had scarcely taken it from his lips
when he saw a fully armed wizard champion advancing to meet him with
looks and gestures of angry menace. The wizard upbraided him for
entering his territory without leave and for drinking out of his well
from his drinking horn, and thereupon challenged him to fight. For four
days long they fought, the wizard escaping from Dermat every even-fall
by leaping into the well and disappearing down through it. But on the
fourth evening Dermat closed with the wizard when about to spring into
the water, and fell with him into the well.
On reaching the bottom the wizard wrested himself away and started
running, and Dermat found himself in a strangely beautiful country with
a royal palace hard by, in front of which armed knights were engaged in
warlike exercises. Through them the wizard ran, but, when Dermat
attempted to follow, his way was barred by their threatening weapons.
Nothing daunted, he fell upon them in all his battle fury, and routed
them so entirely that they fled and shut themselves up in the castle or
took refuge in distant woods.
Overcome with his battle toil (and smarting all over with wounds) Dermat
fell into a dead sleep, from which he was wakened by a friendly blow
from the flat of a sword held by a young, golden-haired hero, who proved
to be the brother of the Knight of Valour, King of that country of
Tir-fa-tonn, whom in the guise of the Knight of the Fountain, Dermat had
fought and chased away.
A part of the kingdom belonging to him had been seized by his wizard
brother, and he now seeks and obtains Dermat's aid to win it back for
him.
When Dermat at last meets Finn and the other Feni who had gone in
pursuit of him into the Kingdom of Sorca, at the summit of the great
rock, he is able to relate how he headed the men of the Knight of Valour
against the Wizard King, and slew him and defeated his army.
"And now," continued he, bringing forth the Knight of Valour from among
the strange host, "this is he who was formerly called the Knight of
Valour, but who is now the King of Tir-fa-tonn. Moreover, this King has
told me, having himself found it out by his druidical art, that it was
Avarta the Dedannan (the son of Illahan of the Many-coloured Raiment)
who took the form of the Gilla Dacker, and who brought the sixteen Feni
away to the Land of Promise, where he now holds them in bondage."
Then Foltlebar at once found the tracks of the Gilla Dacker and his
horse. He traced them from the very edge of the rock across the plain to
the sea at the other side; and they brought round their ship and began
their voyage. But this time Foltlebar found it very hard to keep on the
track; for the Gilla Dacker, knowing that there were not in the world
men more skilled in following up a quest than the Feni, took great pains
to hide all traces of the flight of himself and his horse; so that
Foltlebar was often thrown out; but he always recovered the track after
a little time.
And so they sailed from island to island and from bay to bay, over many
seas and by many shores, ever following the track, till at length they
arrived at the Land of Promise. And when they had made the land, and
knew for a certainty that this was indeed the Land of Promise, they
rejoiced greatly; for in this land Dermat O'Dyna had been nurtured by
Mannanan Mac Lir of the Yellow Hair.
Then they held council as to what was best to be done; and Finn's advice
was that they should burn and spoil the country in revenge of the
outrage that had been done to his people. Dermat, however, would not
hear of this. And he said:
"Not so, O King. The people of this land are of all men the most skilled
in druidic art; and it is not well that they should be at feud with us.
Let us rather send to Avarta a trusty herald to demand that he should
set our companions at liberty. If he does so, then we shall be at peace;
if he refuse, then shall we proclaim war against him and his people, and
waste this land with fire and sword till he be forced, even by his own
people, to give us back our friends."
This advice was approved by all. And then Finn said:
"But how shall heralds reach the dwelling of this enchanter; for the
ways are not open and straight, as in other lands, but crooked and made
for concealment, and the valleys and plains are dim and shadowy and hard
to be traversed?"
But Foltlebar, nothing daunted by the dangers and the obscurity of the
way, offered to go with a single trusty companion; and they took up the
track and followed it without being once thrown out, till they reached
the mansion of Avarta. There they found their friends amusing themselves
on the green outside the palace walls; for, though kept captive in the
island, yet were they in no wise restrained, but were treated by Avarta
with much kindness. When they saw the heralds coming towards them their
joy knew no bounds; they crowded round to embrace them, and asked them
many questions regarding their home and their friends.
At last Avarta himself came forth and asked who these strangers were;
and Foltlebar replied:
"We are of the people of Finn Mac Cumal, who has sent us as heralds to
thee. He and his heroes have landed on this island guided hither by me;
and he bade us tell thee that he has come to wage war and to waste this
land with fire and sword as a punishment for that thou hast brought away
his people by foul spells, and even now keepest them in bondage."
When Avarta heard this he made no reply, but called a council of his
chief men to consider whether they should send back to Finn an answer of
war or of peace. And they, having much fear of the Feni, were minded to
restore Finn's people and to give him his own award in satisfaction for
the injury done to him; and to invite Finn himself and those who had
come with him to a feast of joy and friendship in the house of Avarta.
Avarta himself went with Foltlebar to give this message. And after he
and Finn had exchanged friendly greetings, he told them what the council
had resolved; and Finn and Dermat and the others were glad at heart. And
Finn and Avarta put hand in hand and made a league of friendship.
So they went with Avarta to his house, where they found their lost
friends; and, being full of gladness, they saluted and embraced each
other. Then a feast was prepared; and they were feasted for three days,
and they ate and drank and made merry.
On the fourth day a meeting was called on the green to hear the award.
Now, it was resolved to make amends on the one hand to Finn, as King of
the Feni, and on the other to those who had been brought away by the
Gilla Dacker. And when all were gathered together Finn was first asked
to name his award; and this is what he said:
"I shall not name an award, O Avarta; neither shall I accept an eric
from thee. But the wages I promised thee when we made our covenant at
Knockainy, that I will give thee. For I am thankful for the welcome thou
hast given us here; and I wish that there should be peace and friendship
between us for ever."
But Conan, on his part, was not so easily satisfied; and he said to
Finn:
"Little hast thou endured, O Finn, in this matter; and thou mayst well
waive thy award. But hadst thou, like us, suffered from the sharp bones
and the rough carcass of the Gilla Dacker's monstrous horse in a long
journey from Erin to the Land of Promise, across wide seas, through
tangled woods, and over rough-headed rocks, thou wouldst then, methinks,
name an award."
At this, Avarta and the others who had seen Conan and his companions
carried off on the back of the big horse could scarce keep from
laughing; and Avarta said to Conan:
"Name thy award, and I will fulfil it every jot; for I have heard of
thee, Conan, and I dread to bring the gibes and taunts of thy foul
tongue on myself and my people."
"Well, then," said Conan, "my award is this: that you choose fifteen of
the best and noblest men in the Land of Promise, among whom are to be
your own best beloved friends; and that you cause them to mount on the
back of the big horse, and that you yourself take hold of his tail. In
this manner you shall fare to Erin, back again by the self-same track
the horse took when he brought us hither--through the same surging seas,
through the same thick thorny woods, and over the same islands and
rough rocks and dark glens. And this, Avarta, is my award," said Conan.
Now, Finn and his people were rejoiced exceedingly when they heard
Conan's award--that he asked from Avarta nothing more than like for
like. For they feared much that he might claim treasure of gold and
silver, and thus bring reproach on the Feni.
Avarta promised that everything required by Conan should be done,
binding himself in solemn pledges. Then the heroes took their leave; and
having launched their ship on the broad, green sea, they sailed back by
the same course to Erin. And they marched to their camping-place at
Knockainy, where they rested in their tents.
Avarta then chose his men. And he placed them on the horse's back, and
he himself caught hold of the tail; and it is not told how they fared
till they made harbour and landing-place at Cloghan Kincat. They delayed
not, but straightway journeyed over the self-same track as before till
they reached Knockainy.
Finn and his people saw them afar off coming towards the hill with great
speed; the Gilla Dacker, quite as large and as ugly as ever, running
before the horse; for he had let go the tail at Cloghan Kincat. And the
Feni could not help laughing heartily when they saw the plight of the
fifteen chiefs on the great horse's back; and they said with one voice
that Conan had made a good award that time.
When the horse reached the spot from which he had at first set out the
men began to dismount. Then the Gilla Dacker, suddenly stepping forward,
held up his arm and pointed earnestly over the heads of the Feni
towards the field where the horses were standing; so that the heroes
were startled, and turned round every man to look. But nothing was to be
seen except the horses grazing quietly inside the fence.
Finn and the others now turned round again with intent to speak to the
Gilla Dacker and bring him and his people into the tents; but much did
they marvel to find them all gone. The Gilla Dacker and his great horse
and fifteen nobles of the Land of Promise had disappeared in an instant;
and neither Finn himself nor any of his chiefs ever saw them afterwards.
PATRICK WESTON JOYCE.
Jamie Freel and the Young Lady
(_Ulster Irish._)
Down in Fannet, in times gone by, lived Jamie Freel and his mother.
Jamie was the widow's sole support; his strong arm worked for her
untiringly, and as each Saturday night came round he poured his wages
into her lap, thanking her dutifully for the halfpence which she
returned him for tobacco.
He was extolled by his neighbours as the best son ever known or heard
of. But he had neighbours of whose opinions he was ignorant--neighbours
who lived pretty close to him, whom he had never seen, who are, indeed,
rarely seen by mortals, except on May Eves or Halloweens.
An old ruined castle, about a quarter of a mile from his cabin, was said
to be the abode of the "wee folk." Every Halloween were the ancient
windows lighted up, and passersby saw little figures flitting to and
fro inside the building, while they heard the music of flutes and pipes.
It was well known that fairy revels took place; but nobody had the
courage to intrude on them.
Jamie had often watched the little figures from a distance, and listened
to the charming music, wondering what the inside of the castle was like;
but one Halloween he got up, and took his cap, saying to his mother,
"I'm awa to the castle to seek my fortune."
"What!" cried she. "Would you venture there--you that's the widow's only
son? Dinna be sae venturesome and foolitch, Jamie! They'll kill you, an'
then what'll come o' me?"
"Never fear, mother; nae harm'll happen me, but I maun gae."
He set out, and, as he crossed the potato field, came in sight of the
castle, whose windows were ablaze with light that seemed to turn the
russet leaves, still clinging to the crab-tree branches, into gold.
Halting in the grove at one side of the ruin, he listened to the elfin
revelry, and the laughter and singing made him all the more determined
to proceed.
Numbers of little people, the largest about the size of a child of five
years old, were dancing to the music of flutes and fiddles, while others
drank and feasted.
"Welcome, Jamie Freel! Welcome, welcome, Jamie!" cried the company,
perceiving their visitor. The word "Welcome" was caught up and repeated
by every voice in the castle.
Time flew, and Jamie was enjoying himself very much, when his hosts
said, "We're going to ride to Dublin to-night to steal a young lady.
Will you come, too, Jamie Freel?"
"Ay, that I will," cried the rash youth, thirsting for adventure.
A troop of horses stood at the door. Jamie mounted, and his steed rose
with him into the air. He was presently flying over his mother's
cottage, surrounded by the elfin troop, and on and on they went, over
bold mountains, over little hills, over the deep Lough Swilley, over
towns and cottages, where people were burning nuts and eating apples and
keeping merry Halloween. It seemed to Jamie that they flew all round
Ireland before they got to Dublin.
"This is Derry," said the fairies, flying over the cathedral spire; and
what was said by one voice was repeated by all the rest, till fifty
little voices were crying out, "Derry! Derry! Derry!"
In like manner was Jamie informed as they passed over each town on the
route, and at length he heard the silvery voices cry, "Dublin! Dublin!"
It was no mean dwelling that was to be honoured by the fairy visit, but
one of the finest houses in Stephen's Green.
The troop dismounted near a window, and Jamie saw a beautiful face on a
pillow in a splendid bed. He saw the young lady lifted and carried away,
while the stick which was dropped in her place on the bed took her exact
form.
The lady was placed before one rider and carried a short way, then given
another, and the names of the towns were cried as before.
They were approaching home. Jamie heard "Rathmullan," "Milford,"
"Tamney," and then he knew they were near his own house.
"You've all had your turn at carrying the young lady," said he. "Why
wouldn't I get her for a wee piece?"
"Ay, Jamie," replied they pleasantly, "you may take your turn at
carrying her, to be sure."
Holding his prize very tightly he dropped down near his mother's door.
"Jamie Freel! Jamie Freel! is that the way you treat us?" cried they,
and they, too, dropped down near the door.
Jamie held fast, though he knew not what he was holding, for the little
folk turned the lady into all sorts of strange shapes. At one moment she
was a black dog, barking and trying to bite; at another a glowing bar of
iron, which yet had no heat; then again a sack of wool.
But still Jamie held her, and the baffled elves were turning away when a
tiny woman, the smallest of the party, exclaimed, "Jamie Freel has her
awa frae us, but he sall nae hae gude of her, for I'll mak' her deaf and
dumb," and she threw something over the young girl.
While they rode off, disappointed, Jamie Freel lifted the latch and went
in.
"Jamie man!" cried his mother, "you've been awa all night. What have
they done on you?"
"Naething bad, mother; I hae the very best o' gude luck. Here's a
beautiful young lady I hae brought you for company."
"Bless us and save us!" exclaimed his mother; and for some minutes she
was so astonished she could not think of anything else to say.
Jamie told the story of the night's adventure, ending by saying, "Surely
you wouldna have allowed me to let her gang with them to be lost for
ever?"
"But a _lady_, Jamie! How can a lady eat we'er (our) poor diet and live
in we'er poor way? I ax you that, you foolitch fellow!"
"Well, mother, sure it's better for her to be over here nor yonder," and
he pointed in the direction of the castle.
Meanwhile the deaf and dumb girl shivered in her light clothing,
stepping close to the humble turf fire.
"Poor crathur, she's quare and handsome! Nae wonder they set their
hearts on her," said the old woman, gazing at their guest with pity and
admiration. "We maun dress her first; but what in the name o' fortune
hae I fit for the likes of her to wear?"
She went to her press in "the room" and took out her Sunday gown of
brown drugget. She then opened a drawer and drew forth a pair of white
stockings, a long snowy garment of fine linen, and a cap, her "dead
dress," as she called it.
These articles of attire had long been ready for a certain triste
ceremony, in which she would some day fill the chief part, and only saw
the light occasionally when they were hung out to air; but she was
willing to give even these to the fair trembling visitor, who was
turning in dumb sorrow and wonder from her to Jamie, and from Jamie back
to her.
The poor girl suffered herself to be dressed, and then sat down on a
"creepie" in the chimney corner and buried her face in her hands.
"What'll we do to keep up a lady like thou?" cried the old woman.
"I'll work for you both, mother," replied the son.
"An' how could a lady live on we'er poor diet?" she repeated.
"I'll work for her," was all Jamie's answer.
He kept his word. The young lady was very sad for a long time, and tears
stole down her cheeks many an evening, while the old woman span by the
fire and Jamie made salmon nets, an accomplishment acquired by him in
hopes of adding to the comfort of their guest.
But she was always gentle, and tried to smile when she perceived them
looking at her; and by degrees she adapted herself to their ways and
mode of life. It was not very long before she began to feed the pig,
mash potatoes and meal for the fowls, and knit blue worsted socks.
So a year passed and Halloween came round again. "Mother," said Jamie,
taking down his cap, "I'm off to the ould castle to seek my fortune."
"Are you mad, Jamie?" cried his mother in terror; "sure they'll kill you
this time for what you done on them last year."
Jamie made light of her fears and went his way.
As he reached the crab-tree grove he saw bright lights in the castle
windows as before, and heard loud talking. Creeping under the window he
heard the wee folk say, "That was a poor trick Jamie Freel played us
this night last year, when he stole the young lady from us."
"Ay," said the tiny woman, "an' I punished him for it, for there she
sits a dumb image by the hearth, but he does na' know that three drops
out o' this glass that I hold in my hand wad gie her her hearing and
speech back again."
Jamie's heart beat fast as he entered the hall. Again he was greeted by
a chorus of welcomes from the company--"Here comes Jamie Freel! Welcome,
welcome, Jamie!"
As soon as the tumult subsided the little woman said, "You be to drink
our health, Jamie, out o' this glass in my hand."
Jamie snatched the glass from her and darted to the door. He never knew
how he reached his cabin, but he arrived there breathless and sank on a
stove by the fire.
"You're kilt, surely, this time, my poor boy," said his mother.
"No, indeed, better luck than ever this time!" and he gave the lady
three drops of the liquid that still remained at the bottom of the
glass, notwithstanding his mad race over the potato field.
The lady began to speak, and her first words were words of thanks to
Jamie.
The three inmates of the cabin had so much to say to one another that,
long after cock-crow, when the fairy music had quite ceased, they were
talking round the fire.
"Jamie," said the lady, "be pleased to get me paper and pen and ink
that I may write to my father and tell him what has become of me."
She wrote, but weeks passed and she received no answer. Again and again
she wrote, and still no answer.
At length she said, "You must come with me to Dublin, Jamie, to find my
father."
"I hae no money to hire a car for you," he answered; "an' how can you
travel to Dublin on your foot?"
But she implored him so much that he consented to set out with her and
walk all the way from Fannet to Dublin. It was not as easy as the fairy
journey; but at last they rang the bell at the door of the house in
Stephen's Green.
"Tell my father that his daughter is here," said she to the servant who
opened the door.
"The gentleman that lives here has no daughter, my girl. He had one, but
she died better nor a year ago."
"Do you not know me, Sullivan?"
"No, poor girl, I do not."
"Let me see the gentleman. I only ask to see him."
"Well, that's not much to ax. We'll see what can be done."
In a few moments the lady's father came to the door.
"How dare you call me your father?" cried the old gentleman angrily.
"You are an impostor. I have no daughter."
"Look in my face, father, and surely you'll remember me."
"My daughter is dead and buried. She died a long, long time ago." The
old gentleman's voice changed from anger to sorrow. "You can go," he
concluded.
"Stop, dear father, till you look at this ring on my finger. Look at
your name and mine engraved on it."
"It certainly is my daughter's ring, but I do not know how you came by
it. I fear in no honest way."
"Call my mother--_she_ will be sure to know me," said the poor girl, who
by this time was weeping bitterly.
"My poor wife is beginning to forget her sorrow. She seldom speaks of
her daughter now. Why should I renew her grief by reminding her of her
loss?"
But the young lady persevered till at last the mother was sent for.
"Mother," she began, when the old lady came to the door, "don't _you_
know your daughter?"
"I have no daughter. My daughter died, and was buried a long, long time
ago."
"Only look in my face and surely you'll know me."
The old lady shook her head.
"You have all forgotten me; but look at this mole on my neck. Surely,
mother, you know me now?"
"Yes, yes," said her mother, "my Gracie had a mole on her neck like
that; but then I saw her in the coffin, and saw the lid shut down upon
her."
It became Jamie's turn to speak, and he gave the history of the fairy
journey, of the theft of the young lady, of the figure he had seen laid
in its place, of her life with his mother in Fannet, of last Halloween,
and of the three drops that had released her from her enchantments.
She took up the story when he paused and told how kind the mother and
son had been to her.
The parents could not make enough of Jamie. They treated him with every
distinction, and when he expressed his wish to return to Fannet, said
they did not know what to do to express their gratitude.
But an awkward complication arose. The daughter would not let him go
without her. "If Jamie goes, I'll go, too," she said. "He saved me from
the fairies, and has worked for me ever since. If it had not been for
him, dear father and mother, you would never have seen me again. If he
goes, I'll go, too."
This being her resolution, the old gentleman said that Jamie should
become his son-in-law. The mother was brought from Fannet in a
coach-and-four, and there was a splendid wedding.
They all lived together in the grand Dublin house, and Jamie was heir to
untold wealth at his father-in-law's death.
LETITIA MACLINTOCK.
A Legend of Knockmany
It so happened that Finn and his gigantic relatives were all working at
the Giant's Causeway in order to make a bridge, or, what was still
better, a good stout pad-road across to Scotland, when Finn, who was
very fond of his wife, Oonagh, took it into his head that he would go
home and see how the poor woman got on in his absence. So accordingly he
pulled up a fir-tree, and after lopping off the roots and branches, made
a walking-stick of it and set out on his way to Oonagh.
Finn lived at this time on Knockmany Hill, which faces Cullamore, that
rises up, half hill, half mountain, on the opposite side.
The truth is that honest Finn's affection for his wife was by no manner
of means the whole cause of his journey home. There was at that time
another giant, named Far Rua--some say he was Irish and some say he was
Scotch--but whether Scotch or Irish, sorrow doubt of it but he was a
_targer_. No other giant of the day could stand before him; and such
was his strength that, when well vexed, he could give a stamp that shook
the country about him. The fame and name of him went far and near, and
nothing in the shape of a man, it was said, had any chance with him in a
fight. Whether the story is true or not I cannot say, but the report
went that by one blow of his fist he flattened a thunderbolt, and kept
it in his pocket in the shape of a pancake to show to all his enemies
when they were about to fight him. Undoubtedly he had given every giant
in Ireland a considerable beating, barring Finn M'Coul himself; and he
swore that he would never rest night or day, winter or summer, till he
could serve Finn with the same sauce, if he could catch him. Finn,
however, had a strong disinclination to meet a giant who could make a
young earthquake or flatten a thunderbolt when he was angry, so
accordingly he kept dodging about from place to place--not much to his
credit as a Trojan, to be sure--whenever he happened to get the hard
word that Far Rua was on the scent of him. And the long and the short of
it was that he heard Far Rua was coming to the Causeway to have a trial
of strength with him; and he was, naturally enough, seized in
consequence with a very warm and sudden fit of affection for his wife,
who was delicate in her health, poor woman, and leading, besides, a very
lonely, uncomfortable life of it in his absence.
"God save all here," said Finn good-humouredly, putting his honest face
into his own door.
"Musha, Finn, avick, an' you're welcome to your own Oonagh, you darlin'
bully." Here followed a smack that it is said to have made the waters of
the lake curl, as it were, with kindness and sympathy.
"Faith," said Finn, "beautiful; and how are you, Oonagh--and how did
you sport your figure during my absence, my bilberry?"
"Never a merrier--as bouncing a grass widow as ever there was in sweet
'Tyrone among the bushes.'"
Finn gave a short, good-humoured cough, and laughed most heartily to
show her how much he was delighted that she made herself happy in his
absence.
"An' what brought you home so soon, Finn?" said she.
"Why, avourneen," said Finn, putting in his answer in the proper way,
"never the thing but the purest of love and affection for yourself.
Sure, you know that's truth, anyhow, Oonagh."
Finn spent two or three happy days with Oonagh, and felt himself very
comfortable considering the dread he had of Far Rua. This, however, grew
upon him so much that his wife could not but perceive something lay on
his mind which he kept altogether to himself. Let a woman alone in the
meantime for ferreting or wheedling a secret out of her good man when
she wishes. Finn was a proof of this.
"It's this Far Rua," said he, "that's troublin' me. When the fellow gets
angry and begins to stamp he'll shake you a whole townland, and it's
well known that he can stop a thunderbolt, for he always carries one
about with him in the shape of a pancake to show to anyone that might
misdoubt it."
As he spoke he clapped his thumb in his mouth, as he always did when he
wanted to prophesy or to know anything.
"He's coming," said Finn; "I see him below at Dungannon."
"An' who is it, avick?"
"Far Rua," replied Finn, "and how to manage I don't know. If I run away
I am disgraced, and I know that sooner or later I must meet him, for my
thumb tells me so."
"When will he be here?" says she.
"To-morrow, about two o'clock," replied Finn with a groan.
"Don't be cast down," said Oonagh; "depend on me, and, maybe, I'll bring
you out of this scrape better than ever you could bring yourself."
This quieted Finn's heart very much, for he knew that Oonagh was
hand-and-glove with the fairies; and, indeed, to tell the truth, she was
supposed to be a fairy herself. If she was, however, she must have been
a kind-hearted one, for by all accounts she never did anything but good
in the neighbourhood.
Now, it so happened that Oonagh had a sister named Granua living
opposite to them, on the very top of Cullamore, which
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