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diff --git a/old/60782-0.txt b/old/60782-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index c484830..0000000 --- a/old/60782-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9037 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Beside the Fire, by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Beside the Fire - A collection of Irish Gaelic folk stories - -Author: Various - -Contributor: Alfred Nutt - -Editor: Douglas Hyde - -Release Date: November 25, 2019 [EBook #60782] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BESIDE THE FIRE *** - - - - -Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -book was produced from images made available by the -HathiTrust Digital Library.) - - - - - - - - - - -Beside the Fire. - - -WORKS BY DR. HYDE. - -=LEABHAR SGEULAIGHTEACHTA.= Folk Stories in Irish, with Notes by Dr. -Hyde, LL.D. Crown 8vo, viiii. 261 pp. wrapper, 5s. - - -WORKS BY ALFRED NUTT. - -=CELTIC AND MEDIÆVAL ROMANCE.= 1899. 6d. net. - -=OSSIAN AND THE OSSIANIC LITERATURE.= 1900. 6d. net. - -=THE FAIRY MYTHOLOGY OF SHAKESPEARE.= 1900. 6d. net. - -=CUCHULAINN, THE IRISH ACHILLES.= 1900. 6d. net. - -=THE LEGENDS OF THE HOLY GRAIL.= 1902. 6d. net. - -=WAIFS AND STRAYS OF CELTIC TRADITION.= Series initiated and directed by -Lord ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL. Demy 8vo, cloth. - - Vol. II. Folk and Hero Tales. Collected, edited (in Gaelic), - and translated by the Rev. D. MAC INNES; with a Study on the - Development of the Ossianic Saga, and copious Notes by ALFRED - NUTT. xxiv. 497 pages. Portrait of Campbell of Islay, and Two - Illustrations by E. GRISET. 1890. 15s. - - _Highland Monthly_—“The most important work on Highland - Folk-lore and Tales since Campbell’s world-renowned Popular - Tales.” - - HECTOR MACLEAN—“Never before has the development of the - Ossianic Saga been so scientifically dealt with.” - - _Scots Observer_—“Mr. Alfred Nutt’s excursus and notes are - lucid and scholarly. They add immensely to the value of the - book, and afford abundant evidence of their author’s extensive - reading and sound erudition.” - - _Oban Telegraph_—“The Gaelic text is colloquial and eminently - idiomatic.... Mr. Nutt deserves especial mention and much - credit for the painstaking and careful research evidenced by - his notes to the tales.” - - _Westmoreland Gazette_—“We cannot refrain from placing on - record our appreciation for the remarkable mastery of the - subject which Mr. Alfred Nutt has brought to the execution of - his task.” - - - - - BESIDE THE FIRE - - A COLLECTION OF - IRISH GAELIC FOLK STORIES. - - _EDITED, TRANSLATED, AND ANNOTATED_ - - BY - DOUGLAS HYDE, LL.D., M.R.I.A., - - (ANCHRAOIBHÍN AOIBHINN.) - - MEMBER OF THE COUNCIL OF THE GAELIC UNION; MEMBER OF THE - PAN-CELTIC SOCIETY, ETC. - - _WITH ADDITIONAL NOTES_ - - BY - ALFRED NUTT. - - Tá siad mar ċeó air dteaċt na h-oidċe - Bheirṫear as le gal beag gaoiṫe.—SEAN DAN. - - “They are like a mist on the coming of night - That is scattered away by a light breath of wind.”—OLD POEM. - - LONDON: - DAVID NUTT, 57-59 LONG ACRE. - 1910. - - PRINTED BY - JAMES DUFFY AND CO., LTD., - AT 61 AND 62 GREAT STRAND STREET, - AND 70 JERVIS STREET, - DUBLIN. - - - - -DEDICATION. - - -To the memory of those truly cultured and unselfish men, the poet-scribes -and hedge-schoolmasters of the last century and the beginning of this—men -who may well be called the last of the Milesians—I dedicate this effort -to preserve even a scrap of that native lore which in their day they -loved so passionately, and for the preservation of which they worked so -nobly, but in vain. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - PREFACE: Previous collections of Irish folk-lore; ignorance of - the language on the part of collectors. Relation between Irish - and Scotch Gaelic tales; the Irish bardic tales; the runs in - Irish and Scotch. Date of Irish versions. Two classes of Irish - stories; native myths. Narrators of the stories. Discouragement - of Irish by schoolmasters, clergy, and politicians. Proper mode - of collecting. System of translation accepted. PAGE, ix-l. - - POSTSCRIPT (by Alfred Nutt): Dr. Hyde’s theories discussed; - folk-lore and romance; necessity for romance to conform to - convention; characteristics of folk-fancy; classification of - the products of folk-fancy; myth, saga, Märchen and ballad; - romance and folk-lore among the Gael; folk-conception of the - Universe Page, li-lviii. - - TALES. - - I. The Tailor and the Three Beasts 2-14 - - II. Bran 14-18 - - III. The King of Ireland’s Son 18-46 - - IV. The Alp-Luachra 46-72 - - V. Paudyeen O’Kelly and the Weasel 72-90 - - VI. Leeam O’Rooney’s Burial 90-103 - - VII. Guleesh na Guss Dhu 104-128 - - VIII. The Well of D’Yerree-in-Dowan 129-141 - - IX. The Court of Crinnawn 142-148 - - X. Neil O’Carree 148-153 - - XI. Trunk-without-Head 154-161 - - XII. The Hags of the Long Teeth 161-166 - - XIII. William of the Tree 167-169 - - XIV. The Old Crow and the Young Crow 169 - - XV. Riddles 170-172 - - Where the Stories came from 173-174 - - Notes 175-195 - - Notes on the Irish Text 197-200 - - Index of Incidents 201-203 - - - - -PREFACE. - - -Irish and Scotch Gaelic folk-stories are, as a living form of literature, -by this time pretty nearly a thing of the past. They have been trampled -in the common ruin under the feet of the Zeitgeist, happily not before -a large harvest has been reaped in Scotland, but, unfortunately, before -anything worth mentioning has been done in Ireland to gather in the -crop which grew luxuriantly a few years ago. Until quite recently there -existed in our midst millions of men and women who, when their day’s work -was over, sought and found mental recreation in a domain to which few -indeed of us who read books are permitted to enter. Man, all the world -over, when he is tired of the actualities of life, seeks to unbend his -mind with the creations of fancy. We who can read betake ourselves to -our favourite novelist, and as we peruse his fictions, we can almost see -our author erasing this, heightening that, and laying on such-and-such a -touch for effect. His book is the product of his individual brain, and -some of us or of our contemporaries have been present at its genesis. - -But no one can tell us with certainty of the genesis of the folk-tale, no -one has been consciously present at its inception, and no one has marked -its growth. It is in many ways a mystery, part of the flotsam and jetsam -of the ages, still beating feebly against the shore of the nineteenth -century, swallowed up at last in England by the waves of materialism and -civilization combined; but still surviving unengulfed on the western -coasts of Ireland, where I gathered together some bundles of it, of which -the present volume is one. - -The folk-lore of Ireland, like its folk-songs and native literature, -remains practically unexploited and ungathered. Attempts have been made -from time to time during the present century to collect Irish folk-lore, -but these attempts, though interesting from a literary point of view, are -not always successes from a scientific one. Crofton Croker’s delightful -book, “Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland,” first -published anonymously in 1825, led the way. All the other books which -have been published on the subject have but followed in the footsteps -of his; but all have not had the merit of his light style, his pleasant -parallels from classic and foreign literature, and his delightful -annotations, which touch, after a fascinating manner peculiarly his own, -upon all that is of interest in his text. I have written the word “text,” -but that word conveys the idea of an original to be annotated upon; and -Crofton Croker is, alas! too often his own original. There lies his weak -point, and there, too, is the defect of all who have followed him. The -form in which the stories are told is, of course, Croker’s own; but no -one who knows anything of fairy lore will suppose, that his manipulation -of the originals is confined to the form merely. The fact is that he -learned the ground-work of his tales from conversations with the Southern -peasantry, whom he knew well, and then elaborated this over the midnight -oil with great skill and delicacy of touch, in order to give a saleable -book, thus spiced, to the English public. - -Setting aside the novelists Carleton and Lover, who only published some -incidental and largely-manipulated Irish stories, the next person to -collect Irish folk-lore in a volume was Patrick Kennedy, a native of the -County Wexford, who published “Legendary Fictions of the Irish Celts,” -and in 1870 a good book, entitled, “The Fireside Stories of Ireland,” -which he had himself heard in Wexford when a boy. Many of the stories -which he gives appear to be the detritus of genuine Gaelic folk-stories, -filtered through an English idiom and much impaired and stunted in the -process. He appears, however, not to have adulterated them very much. Two -of the best stories in the book, “Jack, the Cunning Thief,” and “Shawn -an Omadawn,” I heard myself in the adjoining county Wicklow, and the -versions of them that I heard did not differ very widely from Kennedy’s. -It is interesting to note that these counties, close to the Pale as they -are, and under English influence for so long, nevertheless seem to have -preserved a considerable share of the old Gaelic folk-tales in English -dress, while in Leitrim, Longford, Meath, and those counties where Irish -died out only a generation or two ago, there has been made as clean a -sweep of folk-lore and Gaelic traditions as the most uncompromising “West -Briton” could desire. The reason why some of the folk-stories survive in -the eastern counties is probably because the Irish language was there -exchanged for English at a time when, for want of education and printed -books, folk-stories (the only mental recreation of the people) _had_ to -transfer themselves rightly or wrongly into English. When this first -took place I cannot tell, but I have heard from old people in Waterford, -that when some of their fathers or grandfathers marched north to join -the Wexford Irish in ’98, they were astonished to find English nearly -universally used amongst them. Kennedy says of his stories: “I have -endeavoured to present them in a form suitable for the perusal of both -sexes and of all ages”; and “such as they are, they may be received by -our readers as obtained from local sources.” Unfortunately, the sources -are not given by him any more than by Croker, and we cannot be sure how -much belongs to Kennedy the bookseller, and how much to the Wexford -peasant. - -After this come Lady Wilde’s volumes;—her “Ancient Legends,” and her -recently published “Ancient Cures, Charms, and Usages,” in both of which -books she gives us a large amount of narrative matter in a folk-lore -dress; but, like her predecessors, she disdains to quote an authority, -and scorns to give us the least inkling as to where such-and-such a -legend, or cure, or superstition comes from, from whom it was obtained, -who were her informants, whether peasant or other, in what parishes or -counties the superstition or legend obtains, and all the other collateral -information which the modern folk-lorist is sure to expect. Her entire -ignorance of Irish, through the medium of which alone such tales and -superstitions can properly, if at all, be collected, is apparent every -time she introduces an Irish word. She astonishes us Irish speakers -with such striking observations as this—“Peasants in Ireland wishing -you good luck, say in Irish, ‘The blessing of Bel and the blessing of -Samhain be with you,’ that is, of the sun and of the moon.”[1] It would -be interesting to know the locality where so curious a Pagan custom is -still practised, for I confess that though I have spoken Irish in every -county where it is still spoken, I have never been, nor do I expect to -be, so saluted. Lady Wilde’s volumes, are, nevertheless, a wonderful -and copious record of folk-lore and folk customs, which must lay -Irishmen under one more debt of gratitude to the gifted compiler. It is -unfortunate, however, that these volumes are hardly as valuable as they -are interesting, and for the usual reason—that we do not know what is -Lady Wilde’s and what is not. - -Almost contemporaneously with Lady Wilde’s last book there appeared this -year yet another important work, a collection of Irish folk-tales taken -from the Gaelic speakers of the south and north-west, by an American -gentleman, Mr. Jeremiah Curtin. He has collected some twenty tales, which -are told very well, and with much less cooking and flavouring than his -predecessors employed. Mr. Curtin tells us that he has taken his tales -from the old Gaelic-speaking men; but he must have done so through the -awkward medium of an interpreter, for his ignorance of the commonest -Irish words is as startling as Lady Wilde’s.[2] He follows Lady Wilde in -this, too, that he keeps us in profound ignorance of his authorities. He -mentions not one name, and except that he speaks in a general way of old -Gaelic speakers in nooks where the language is still spoken, he leaves -us in complete darkness as to where and from whom, and how he collected -these stories. In this he does not do himself justice, for, from my own -knowledge of Irish folk-lore, such as it is, I can easily recognize that -Mr. Curtin has approached the fountain-head more nearly than any other. -Unfortunately, like his predecessors, he has a literary style of his own, -for which, to say the least of it, there is no counterpart in the Gaelic -from which he has translated.[3] - -We have as yet had no folk-lorist in Ireland who could compare for a -moment with such a man as Iain Campbell, of Islay, in investigative -powers, thoroughness of treatment, and acquaintance with the people, -combined with a powerful national sentiment, and, above all, a knowledge -of Gaelic. It is on this last rock that all our workers-up of Irish -folk-lore split. In most circles in Ireland it is a disgrace to be known -to talk Irish; and in the capital, if one makes use of an Irish word to -express one’s meaning, as one sometimes does of a French or German word, -one would be looked upon as positively outside the pale of decency; hence -we need not be surprised at the ignorance of Gaelic Ireland displayed by -littérateurs who write for the English public, and foist upon us modes of -speech which we have not got, and idioms which they never learned from us. - -This being the case, the chief interest in too many of our folk-tale -writers lies in their individual treatment of the skeletons of the -various Gaelic stories obtained through English mediums, and it is not -devoid of interest to watch the various garbs in which the sophisticated -minds of the ladies and gentlemen who trifled in such matters, clothed -the dry bones. But when the skeletons were thus padded round and clad, -although built upon folk-lore, they were no longer folk-lore themselves, -for folk-lore can only find a fitting garment in the language that comes -from the mouths of those whose minds are so primitive that they retain -with pleasure those tales which the more sophisticated invariably forget. -For this reason folk-lore is presented in an uncertain and unsuitable -medium, whenever the contents of the stories are divorced from their -original expression in language. Seeing how Irish writers have managed -it hitherto, it is hardly to be wondered at that the writer of the -article on folk-lore in the “Encyclopedia Britanica,” though he gives -the names of some fifty authorities on the subject, has not mentioned a -single Irish collection. In the present book, as well as in my Leabhar -Sgeuluigheachta, I have attempted—if nothing else—to be a little more -accurate than my predecessors, and to give the _exact language_ of my -informants, together with their names and various localities—information -which must always be the very first requisite of any work upon which a -future scientist may rely when he proceeds to draw honey (is it always -honey?) from the flowers which we collectors have culled for him. - -It is difficult to say whether there still exist in Ireland many stories -of the sort given in this volume. That is a question which cannot be -answered without further investigation. In any other country the great -body of Gaelic folk-lore in the four provinces would have been collected -long ago, but the “Hiberni incuriosi suorum” appear at the present day -to care little for anything that is Gaelic; and so their folk-lore has -remained practically uncollected. - -Anyone who reads this volume as a representative one of Irish folk-tales -might, at first sight, imagine that there is a broad difference between -the Gaelic tales of the Highlands and those of Ireland, because very few -of the stories given here have parallels in the volumes of Campbell and -MacInnes. I have, however, particularly chosen the tales in the present -volume on account of their dissimilarity to any published Highland -tales, for, as a general rule, the main body of tales in Ireland and -Scotland bear a very near relation to each other. Most of Mr. Curtin’s -stories, for instance, have Scotch Gaelic parallels. It would be only -natural, however, that many stories should exist in Ireland which are -now forgotten in Scotland, or which possibly were never carried there -by that section of the Irish which colonized it; and some of the most -modern—especially of the kind whose genesis I have called conscious—must -have arisen amongst the Irish since then, while on the other hand some -of the Scotch stories may have been bequeathed to the Gaelic language -by those races who were displaced by the Milesian Conquest in the fifth -century. - -Many of the incidents of the Highland stories have parallels in Irish -MSS., even incidents of which I have met no trace in the folk-lore of -the people. This is curious, because these Irish MSS. used to circulate -widely, and be constantly read at the firesides of the peasantry, while -there is no trace of MSS. being in use historical times amongst the -Highland cabins. Of such stories as were most popular, a very imperfect -list of about forty is given in Mr. Standish O’Grady’s excellent preface -to the third volume of the Ossianic Society’s publications. After reading -most of these in MSS. of various dates, and comparing them with such -folk-lore as I had collected orally, I was surprised to find how few -points of contact existed between the two. The men who committed stories -to paper seem to have chiefly confined themselves to the inventions -of the bards or professional story-tellers—often founded, however, on -folk-lore incidents—while the taste of the people was more conservative, -and willingly forgot the bardic inventions to perpetuate their old Aryan -traditions, of which this volume gives some specimens. The discrepancy -in style and contents between the MS. stories and those of the people -leads me to believe that the stories in the MSS. are not so much old -Aryan folk-tales written down by scholars as the inventions of individual -brains, consciously inventing, as modern novelists do. This theory, -however, must be somewhat modified before it can be applied, for, as I -have said, there are incidents in Scotch Gaelic folk-tales which resemble -those of some of the MS. stories rather nearly. Let us glance at a single -instance—one only out of many—where Highland tradition preserves a trait -which, were it not for such preservation, would assuredly be ascribed to -the imaginative brain of an inventive Irish writer. - -The extraordinary creature of which Campbell found traces in the -Highlands, the Fáchan, of which he has drawn a whimsical engraving,[4] -is met with in an Irish MS. called Iollann Arm-dearg. Old MacPhie, -Campbell’s informant, called him the “Desert creature of Glen Eite, the -son of Colin,” and described him as having “one hand out of his chest, -one leg out of his haunch, and one eye out of the front of his face;” and -again, “ugly was the make of the Fáchan, there was one hand out of the -ridge of his chest, and one tuft out of the top of his head, and it were -easier to take a mountain from the root than to bend that tuft.” This -one-legged, one-handed, one-eyed creature, unknown, as Campbell remarks, -to German or Norse mythology, is thus described in the Irish manuscript: -“And he (Iollann) was not long at this, until he saw the devilish -misformed element, and the fierce and horrible spectre, and the gloomy -disgusting enemy, and the morose unlovely churl (moga); and this is how -he was: he held a very thick iron flail-club in his skinny hand, and -twenty chains out of it, and fifty apples on each chain of them, and a -venomous spell on each great apple of them, and a girdle of the skins of -deer and roebuck around the thing that was his body, and one eye in the -forehead of his black-faced countenance, and one bare, hard, very hairy -hand coming out of his chest, and one veiny, thick-soled leg supporting -him and a close, firm, dark blue mantle of twisted hard-thick feathers, -protecting his body, and surely he was more like unto devil than to man.” -This creature inhabited a desert, as the Highlander said, and were it -not for this corroborating Scotch tradition, I should not have hesitated -to put down the whole incident as the whimsical invention of some Irish -writer, the more so as I had never heard any accounts of this wonderful -creature in local tradition. This discovery of his counterpart in the -Highlands puts a new complexion on the matter. Is the Highland spectre -derived from the Irish manuscript story, or does the writer of the -Irish story only embody in his tale a piece of folk-lore common at one -time to all branches of the Gaelic race, and now all but extinct. This -last supposition is certainly the true one, for it is borne out by the -fact that the Irish writer ascribes no name to this monster, while the -Highlander calls him a Fáchan,[5] a word, as far as I know, not to be -found elsewhere. - -But we have further ground for pausing before we ascribe the Irish -manuscript story to the invention of some single bard or writer. If -we read it closely we shall see that it is largely the embodiment of -other folk-tales. Many of the incidents of which it is composed can be -paralleled from Scotch Gaelic sources, and one of the most remarkable, -that of the prince becoming a journeyman fuller, I have found in a -Connacht folk-tale. This diffusion of incidents in various tales -collected all over the Gaelic-speaking world, would point to the fact -that the story, as far as many of the incidents go, is not the invention -of the writer, but is genuine folk-lore thrown by him into a new form, -with, perhaps, added incidents of his own, and a brand new dress. - -But now in tracing this typical story, we come across another remarkable -fact—the fresh start the story took on its being thus recast and made up -new. Once the order and progress of the incidents were thus stereotyped, -as it were, the tale seems to have taken a new lease of its life, and -gone forth to conquer; for while it continued to be constantly copied -in Irish manuscripts, thus proving its popularity as a written tale, -it continued to be recited verbally in Scotland in something like the -same bardic and inflated language made use of by the Irish writer, -and with pretty nearly the same sequence of incidents, the three -adventurers, whose Irish names are Ur, Artuir, and Iollann, having -become transmogrified into Ur, Athairt, and Iullar, in the mouth of the -Highland reciter. I think it highly improbable, however, that at the time -of this story being composed—largely out of folk-tale incidents—it was -also committed to paper. I think it much more likely that the story was -committed to writing by some Irish scribe, only after it had gained so -great a vogue as to spread through both Ireland and Scotland. This would -account for the fact that all the existing MSS. of this story, and of -many others like it, are, as far as I am aware, comparatively modern.[6] -Another argument in favour of this supposition, that bardic tales were -only committed to writing when they had become popular, may be drawn from -the fact that both in Ireland and the Highlands we find in many folk-lore -stories traces of bardic compositions easily known by their poetical, -alliterative, and inflated language, of which no MSS. are found in either -country. It may, of course, be said, that the MSS. have perished; and -we know how grotesquely indifferent the modern Irish are about their -literary and antiquarian remains; yet, had they ever existed, I cannot -help thinking that some trace of them, or allusion to them, would be -found in our surviving literature. - -There is also the greatest discrepancy in the poetical passages which -occur in the Highland oral version and the Irish manuscript version of -such tales as in incident are nearly identical. Now, if the story had -been propagated from a manuscript written out once for all, and then -copied, I feel pretty sure that the resemblance between the alliterative -passages in the two would be much closer. The dissimilarity between them -seems to show that the incidents and not the language were the things to -be remembered, and that every wandering bard who picked up a new story -from a colleague, stereotyped the incidents in his mind, but uttered them -whenever he recited the story, in his own language; and whenever he came -to the description of a storm at sea, or a battle, or anything else which -the original poet had seen fit to describe poetically, he did so too, but -not in the same way or the same language, for to remember the language -of his predecessor on these occasions, from merely hearing it, would be -well-nigh impossible. It is likely, then, that each bard or story-teller -observed the places where the poetical runs should come in, but trusted -to his own cultivated eloquence for supplying them. It will be well to -give an example or two from this tale of Iollann. Here is the sea-run, as -given in the Highland oral version, after the three warriors embark in -their vessel:— - - “They gave her prow to sea and her stern to shore, - They hoisted the speckled flapping bare-topped sails, - Up against the tall tough splintering masts, - And they had a pleasant breeze as they might chose themselves, - Would bring heather from the hill, leaf from grove, willow from its - roots, - Would put thatch of the houses in furrows of the ridges, - The day that neither the son nor the father could do it, - That same was neither little nor much for them, - But using it and taking it as it might come. - The sea plunging and surging, - The red sea the blue sea lashing, - And striking hither and thither about her planks, - The whorled dun whelk that was down on the floor of the ocean, - Would give a _snag_ on her gunwale and a crack on her floor, - She would cut a slender oaten straw with the excellence of her going.” - -It will be observed how different the corresponding run in the Irish -manuscript is, when thrown into verse, for the language in both versions -is only measured prose:— - - “Then they gave an eager very quick courageous high-spirited flood-leap - To meet and to face the sea and the great ocean. - And great was the horror.... - Then there arose before them a fierceness in the sea, - And they replied patiently stoutly strongly and vigorously, - To the roar of the green sided high-strong waves, - Till they made a high quick very-furious rowing - Till the deep-margined dreadful blue-bordered sea - Arose in broad-sloping fierce-frothing plains - And in rushing murmuring flood-quick ever-deep platforms. - And in gloomy horrible swift great valleys - Of very terrible green sea, and the beating and the pounding - Of the strong dangerous waves smiting against the decks - And against the sides of that full-great full-tight bark.” - -It may, however, be objected that the sea-runs are so common and so -numerous, that one might easily usurp the place of another, and that -this alone is no proof that the various story-tellers or professional -bards, contented themselves with remembering the incidents of a story, -but either extemporised their own runs after what flourish their nature -would, or else had a stock of these, of their own composing, always -ready at hand. Let us look, then, at another story of which Campbell has -preserved the Highland version, while I have a good Irish MS. of the -same, written by some northern scribe, in 1762. This story, “The Slender -Grey Kerne,” or “Slim Swarthy Champion,” as Campbell translates it, is -full of alliterative runs, which the Highland reciter has retained -in their proper places, but couched in different language, while he -introduces a run of his own which the Irish has not got, in describing -the swift movement of the kerne. Every time the kerne is asked where he -comes from, the Highlander makes him say— - - “I came from hurry-skurry, - From the land of endless spring,[7] - From the loved swanny glen, - A night in Islay and a night in Man, - A night on cold watching cairns - On the face of a mountain. - In the Scotch king’s town was I born, - A soiled sorry champion am I - Though I happened upon this town.” - -In the Irish MS. the kerne always says— - - “In Dun Monaidh, in the town of the king of Scotland, - I slept last night, - But I be a day in Islay and a day in Cantire, - A day in Man and a day in Rathlin, - A day in Fionncharn of the watch - Upon Slieve Fuaid. - A little miserable traveller I, - And in Aileach of the kings was I born. - And that,” said he, “is my story.” - -Again, whenever the kerne plays his harp the Highlander says:— - - “He could play tunes and _oirts_ and _orgain_, - Trampling things, tightening strings, - Warriors, heroes, and ghosts on their feet, - Ghosts and souls and sickness and fever, - That would set in sound lasting sleep - The whole great world, - With the sweetness of the calming[8] tunes - That the champion would play.” - -The Irish run is as follows:— - - “The kerne played music and tunes and instruments of song, - Wounded men and women with babes, - And slashed heroes and mangled warriors, - And all the wounded and all the sick, - And the bitterly-wounded of the great world, - They would sleep with the voice of the music, - Ever efficacious, ever sweet, which the kerne played.” - -Again, when the kerne approaches anyone, his gait is thus described -half-rythmically by the Scotch narrator:—“A young chap was seen coming -towards them, his two shoulders through his old coat, his two ears -through his old hat, his two squat kickering tatter-y shoes full of cold -roadway-ish water, three feet of his sword sideways in the side of his -haunch after the scabbard was ended.” - -The Irish writer makes him come thus:—“And he beheld the slender grey -kerne approaching him straight, and half his sword bared behind his -haunch, and old shoes full of water sousing about him, and the top of his -ears out through his old mantle, and a short butt-burned javelin of holly -in his hand.” - -These few specimens, which could be largely multiplied, may be -sufficient for our purpose, as they show that wherever a run occurs in -the Irish the same occurs in the Gaelic, but couched in quite different -language, though preserving a general similarity of meaning. This can -only be accounted for on the supposition already made, that when a -professional bard had invented a successful story it was not there and -then committed to paper, but circulated _vivâ voce_, until it became the -property of every story-teller, and was made part of the stock-in-trade -of professional _filès_, who neither remembered nor cared to remember the -words in which the story was first told, but only the incidents of which -it was composed, and who (as their professional training enabled them to -do) invented or extemporised glowing alliterative runs for themselves at -every point of the story where, according to the inventor of it, a run -should be. - -It may be interesting to note that this particular story cannot—at -least in the form in which we find it disseminated both in Ireland and -Scotland—be older than the year 1362, in which year O’Connor Sligo -marched into Munster and carried off great spoil, for in both the Scotch -and Irish versions the kerne is made to accompany that chieftain, and -to disappear in disgust because O’Connor forgot to offer him the first -drink. This story then, and it is probably typical of a great many -others, had its rise in its present shape—for, of course, the germ of -it may be much older—on Irish ground, not earlier than the end of the -fourteenth or the beginning of the fifteenth century, and was carried by -some Irish bard or professional story-teller to the Gaeldom of Scotland, -where it is told to this day without any great variations, but in a form -very much stunted and shortened. As to the Irish copy, I imagine that it -was not written down for a couple of centuries later, and only after it -had become a stock piece all over the Scotch and Irish Gaeldom; that then -some scribe got hold of a story-teller (one of those professionals who, -according to the Book of Leinster, were obliged to know seven times fifty -stories), and stereotyped in writing the current Irish variation of the -tale, just as Campbell, two, three, or four centuries afterwards, did -with the Scotch Gaelic version. - -It may, of course, be alleged that the bombastic and inflated language -of many of the MS. stories is due not to the oral reciter, but to the -scribe, who, in his pride of learning, thought to himself, _nihil quod -tango non orno_; but though it is possible that some scribes threw -in extraneous embellishments, I think the story-teller was the chief -transgressor. Here, for instance, is a verbally collected specimen from -a Connemara story, which contains all the marks of the MS. stories, -and yet it is almost certain that it has been transmitted purely _vivâ -voce_:—“They journeyed to the harbour where there was a vessel waiting -to take them across the sea. They struck into her, and hung up the great -blowing, bellying, equal-long, equal-straight sails, to the tops of the -masts, so that they would not leave a rope without straining, or an oar -without breaking, plowing the seething, surging sea; great whales making -fairy music and service for them, two-thirds going beneath the wave to -the one-third going on the top, sending the smooth sand down below and -the rough sand up above, and the eels in grips with one another, until -they grated on port and harbour in the Eastern world.” This description -is probably nothing to the glowing language which a professional -story-teller, with a trained ear, enormous vocabulary, and complete -command of the language, would have employed a couple of hundred years -ago. When such popular traces of the inflated style even still exist, it -is against all evidence to accredit the invention and propagation of it -to the scribes alone. - -The relationship between Ireland and the Scottish Gaeldom, was of the -closest kind, and there must have been something like an identity of -literature, nor was there any break in the continuity of these friendly -relations until the plantation of Ulster cut off the high road between -the two Gaelic families. Even during the fifteenth and sixteenth -centuries it is probable that no sooner did a bardic composition win -fame in Ireland than it was carried over to try its fortune in Scotland -too, just as an English dramatic company will come over from London to -Dublin. A story which throws great light on the dispersion of heroic -tales amongst the Gaelic-speaking peoples, is Conall Gulban, the longest -of all Campbell’s tales. On comparing the Highland version with an Irish -MS., by Father Manus O’Donnell, made in 1708, and another made about the -beginning of this century, by Michael O’Longan, of Carricknavar, I was -surprised to find incident following incident with wonderful regularity -in both versions. Luckily we have proximate data for fixing the date of -this renowned story, a story that, according to Campbell, is “very widely -spread in Scotland, from Beaulay on the east, to Barra on the west, and -Dunoon and Paisley in the south.” Both the Irish and Gaelic stories -relate the exploits of the fifth century chieftain, Conall Gulban, the -son of Niall of the Nine Hostages, and his wars with (amongst others) -the Turks. The Irish story begins with an account of Niall holding his -court, when a herald from the Emperor of Constantinople comes forward -and summons him to join the army of the emperor, and assist in putting -down Christianity, and making the nations of Europe embrace the Turkish -faith. We may fairly surmise that this romance took its rise in the -shock given to Europe by the fall of Constantinople and the career of -Mahomet the Great. This would throw back its date to the latter end of -the fifteenth century at the earliest; but one might almost suppose that -Constantinople had been long enough held by the Turks at the time the -romance was invented to make the inventor suppose that it had always -belonged to them, even in the time of Niall of the Nine Hostages.[9] We -know that romances of this kind continued to be invented at a much later -date, but I fancy none of these ever penetrated to Scotland. One of the -most popular of romantic tales with the scribes of the last century and -the first half of this, was “The Adventures of Torolbh MacStairn,” and -again, the “Adventures of Torolbh MacStairn’s Three Sons,” which most of -the MSS. ascribe to Michael Coiminn, who lived at the beginning of the -eighteenth century,[10] and whose romance was certainly not propagated by -professional story-tellers, as I have tried to prove was the case with -the earlier romances, but by means of numerous manuscript copies; and it -is also certain that Coiminn did not relate this tale as the old bards -did, but wrote it down as modern novelists do their stories. But this -does not invalidate my surmise, or prove that Conall Gulban, and forty -or fifty of the same kind, had their origin in a written manuscript; -it only proves that in the eighteenth century the old order was giving -place to the new, and that the professional bards and story-tellers were -now a thing of the past, they having fallen with the Gaelic nobility -who were their patrons. It would be exceedingly interesting to know -whether any traces of these modern stories that had their rise in written -manuscripts, are to be found amongst the peasantry as folk-lore. I, -certainly, have found no remnant of any such; but this proves nothing. -If Ireland had a few individual workers scattered over the provinces we -would know more on the subject; but, unfortunately, we have hardly any -such people, and what is worse, the present current of political thought, -and the tone of our Irish educational establishments are not likely -to produce them. Until something has been done by us to collect Irish -folk-lore in as thorough a manner as Highland tales have already been -collected, no deductions can be made with certainty upon the subject of -the relationship between Highland and Irish folk-tales, and the relation -of both to the Irish MSS. - -Irish folk-stories may roughly be divided into two classes, those which I -believe never had any _conscious_ genesis inside the shores of Ireland, -and those which had. These last we have just been examining. Most of -the _longer_ tales about the Fenians, and all those stories which have -long inflated passages full of alliterative words and poetic epithets, -belong to this class. Under the other head of stories that were never -consciously invented on Irish ground, we may place all such simple -stories as bear a trace of nature myths, and those which appear to belong -to our old Aryan heritage, from the fact of their having parallels -amongst other Aryan-speaking races, such as the story of the man who -wanted to learn to shake with fear, stories of animals and talking -birds, of giants and wizards, and others whose directness and simplicity -show them to have had an unconscious and popular origin, though some -of these may, of course, have arisen on Irish soil. To this second -class belong also that numerous body of traditions rather than tales, -of conversational anecdotes rather than set stories, about appearances -of fairies, or “good people,” or Tuatha De Danann, as they are also -called; of pookas, leprechauns, ghosts, apparitions, water-horses, &c. -These creations of folk-fancy seldom appear, as far as I have observed, -in the folk-tale proper, or at least they only appear as adjuncts, for -in almost all cases the interest of these regular tales centres round a -human hero. Stories about leprechauns, fairies, &c., are very brief, and -generally have local names and scenery attached to them, and are told -conversationally as any other occurrence might be told, whereas there is -a certain solemnity about the repetition of a folk-tale proper. - -After spending so much time over the very latest folk-tales, the detritus -of bardic stories, it will be well to cast a glance at some of the most -ancient, such as bear their pre-historic origin upon their face. Some of -these point, beyond all doubt, to rude efforts on the part of primitive -man to realize to himself the phenomena of nature, by personifying them, -and attaching to them explanatory fables. Let us take a specimen from a -story I found in Mayo, not given in this volume—“The Boy who was long on -his Mother.”[11] In this story, which in Von Hahn’s classification would -come under the heading of “the strong man his adventures,” the hero is -a veritable Hercules, whom the king tries to put to death by making him -perform impossible tasks, amongst other things, by sending him down to -hell to drive up the spirits with his club. He is desired by the king to -drain a lake full of water. The lake is very steep on one side like a -reservoir. The hero makes a hole at this side, applies his mouth to it, -and sucks down the water of the lake, with boats, fishes, and everything -else it contained, leaving the lake ċoṁ tirm le bois do láiṁe, “as dry -as the palm of your hand.” Even a sceptic will be likely to confess that -this tale (which has otherwise no meaning) is the remains of a (probably -Aryan) sun-myth, and personifies the action of the warm sun in drying up -a lake and making it a marsh, killing the fishes, and leaving the boats -stranded. But this story, like many others, is suggestive of more than -this, since it would supply an argument for those who, like Professor -Rhys, see in Hercules a sun-god. The descent of our hero into hell, and -his frightening the spirits with his club, the impossible tasks which the -king gives him to perform in the hopes of slaying him, and his successful -accomplishment of them, seem to identify him with the classic Hercules. -But the Irish tradition preserves the incident of drying the lake, which -must have been the work of a sun-god, the very thing that Hercules—but -on much slighter grounds—is supposed to have been.[12] If this story is -not the remains of a nature myth, it is perfectly unintelligible, for no -rational person could hope to impose upon even a child by saying that a -man drank up a lake, ships, and all; and yet this story has been with -strange conservatism repeated from father to son for probably thousands -of years, and must have taken its rise at a time when our ancestors were -in much the same rude and mindless condition as the Australian blacks or -the Indians of California are to-day. - -Again, in another story we hear of a boat that sails equally swiftly -over land and sea, and goes straight to its mark. It is so large that if -all the men in the world were to enter it there would remain place for -six hundred more; while it is so small that it folds up into the hand of -the person who has it. But ships do not sail on land, nor grow large and -small, nor go straight to their mark; consequently, it is plain that we -have here another nature myth, vastly old, invented by pre-historic man, -for these ships can be nothing but the clouds which sail over land and -sea, are large enough to hold the largest armies, and small enough to -fold into the hand, and which go straight to their mark. The meaning of -this has been forgotten for countless ages, but the story has survived. - -Again, in another tale which I found, called “The Bird of Sweet -Music,”[13] a man follows a sweet singing bird into a cave under the -ground, and finds a country where he wanders for a year and a day, and a -woman who befriends him while there, and enables him to bring back the -bird, which turns out to be a human being. At the end of the tale the -narrator mentions quite casually that it was his mother whom he met down -there. But this touch shows that the land where he wandered was the -Celtic Hades, the country of the dead beneath the ground, and seems to -stamp the tale at once as at least pre-Christian. - -Even in such an unpretending-looking story as “The King of Ireland’s -Son” (the third in this volume), there are elements which must be vastly -old. In a short Czech story, “George with the Goat,” we find some of -the prince’s companions figuring, only slightly metamorphosed. We have -the man with one foot over his shoulder, who jumps a hundred miles when -he puts it down; while the gun-man of the Irish story who performs two -parts—that of seeing and shooting—is replaced in the Bohemian tale by two -different men, one of whom has such sight that he must keep a bandage -over his eyes, for if he removed it he could see a hundred miles, and the -other has, instead of a gun, a bottle with his thumb stuck into it for -a stopper, because if he took it out it would squirt a hundred miles. -George hires one after the other, just as the prince does in the Irish -story. George goes to try to win the king’s daughter, as the Irish prince -does, and, amongst other things, is desired to bring a goblet of water -from a well a hundred miles off in a minute. “So,” says the story,[14] -“George said to the man who had the foot on his shoulder, ‘You said that -if you took the foot down you could jump a hundred miles.’ He replied: -‘I’ll easily do that.’ He took the foot down, jumped, and was there; but -after this there was only a very little time to spare, and by this he -ought to have been back. So George said to the second, ‘You said that if -you removed the bandage from your eyes you could see a hundred miles; -peep, and see what is going on.’ ‘Ah, sir, goodness gracious! he’s fallen -asleep.’ ‘That will be a bad job,’ said George; ‘the time will be up. -You third man, you said if you pulled your thumb out you could squirt -a hundred miles. Be quick, and squirt thither, that he may get up; and -you, look whether he is moving, or what.’ ‘Oh, sir, he’s getting up now; -he’s knocking the dust off; he’s drawing the water.’ He then gave a jump, -and was there exactly in time.” Now, this Bohemian story seems also to -bear traces of a nature myth; for, as Mr. Wratislaw has remarked: “the -man who jumps a hundred miles appears to be the rainbow, the man with -bandaged eyes the lightning, and the man with the bottle the cloud.” -The Irish story, while in every other way superior to the Bohemian, has -quite obscured this point; and were it not for the striking Sclavonic -parallel, people might be found to assert that the story was of recent -origin. This discovery of the Czech tale, however, throws it at once -three thousand years back; for the similarity of the Irish and Bohemian -story can hardly be accounted for, except on the supposition, that both -Slavs and Celts carried it from the original home of the Aryan race, in -pre-historic times, or at least from some place where the two races were -in contiguity with one another, and that it, too—little as it appears so -now—was at one time in all probability a nature myth. - -Such myth stories as these ought to be preserved, since they are about -the last visible link connecting civilized with pre-historic man; for, -of all the traces that man in his earliest period has left behind him, -there is nothing except a few drilled stones or flint arrow-heads -that approaches the antiquity of these tales, as told to-day by a -half-starving peasant in a smoky Connacht cabin. - -It is time to say a word about the narrators of these stories. The -people who can recite them are, as far as my researches have gone, to -be found only amongst the oldest, most neglected, and poorest of the -Irish-speaking population. English-speaking people either do not know -them at all, or else tell them in so bald and condensed a form as to -be useless. Almost all the men from whom I used to hear stories in the -County Roscommon are dead. Ten or fifteen years ago I used to hear a -great many stories, but I did not understand their value. Now when I go -back for them I cannot find them. They have died out, and will never -again be heard on the hillsides, where they probably existed for a -couple of thousand years; they will never be repeated there again, to -use the Irish phrase, while grass grows or water runs. Several of these -stories I got from an old man, one Shawn Cunningham, on the border of -the County Roscommon, where it joins Mayo. He never spoke more than a -few words of English till he was fifteen years old. He was taught by a -hedge schoolmaster from the South of Ireland out of Irish MSS. As far -as I could make out from him the teaching seemed to consist in making -him learn Irish poems by heart. His next schoolmaster, however, tied a -piece of stick round his neck, and when he came to school in the morning -the schoolmaster used to inspect the piece of wood and pretend that it -told him how often he had spoken Irish when at home. In some cases the -schoolmasters made the parents put a notch in the stick every time the -child failed to speak English. He was beaten then, and always beaten -whenever he was heard speaking a word of Irish, even though at this time -he could hardly speak a word of English. His son and daughter now speak -Irish, though not fluently, his grandchildren do not even understand it. -He had at one time, as he expressed it, “the full of a sack of stories,” -but he had forgotten them. His grandchildren stood by his knee while -he told me one or two, but it was evident they did not understand a -word. His son and daughter laughed at them as nonsense. Even in Achill -where, if anywhere, one ought to find folk-stories in their purity, a -fine-looking dark man of about forty-five, who told me a number of them, -and could repeat Ossian’s poems, assured me that now-a-days when he went -into a house in the evening and the old people got him to recite, the -boys would go out; “they wouldn’t understand me,” said he, “and when they -wouldn’t, they’d sooner be listening to géimneaċ na mbó,” “the lowing -of the cows.” This, too, in an island where many people cannot speak -English. I do not know whether the Achill schoolmasters make use of the -notch of wood to-day, but it is hardly wanted now. It is curious that -this was the device universally employed all over Connacht and Munster -to kill the language. This took place under the eye of O’Connell and the -Parliamentarians, and, of course, under the eye and with the sanction of -the Catholic priesthood and prelates, some of whom, according to Father -Keegan, of St. Louis, distinguished themselves by driving the Irish -teachers out of their dioceses and burning their books. At the present -day, such is the irony of fate, if a stranger talks Irish he runs a good -chance of being looked upon as an enemy, this because some attempts were -made to proselytize “natives” by circulating Irish bibles, and sending -some Irish scripture-readers amongst them. Surely nothing so exquisitely -ludicrous ever took place outside of this island of anomalies, as that a -stranger who tries to speak Irish in Ireland runs the serious risk of -being looked upon as a proselytizing Englishman. As matters are still -progressing gaily in this direction, let nobody be surprised if a pure -Aryan language which, at the time of the famine, in ’47, was spoken by at -least four million souls (more than the whole population of Switzerland), -becomes in a few years as extinct as Cornish. Of course, there is not a -shadow of necessity, either social or economical, for this. All the world -knows that bi-linguists are superior to men who know only one language, -yet in Ireland everyone pretends to believe the contrary. A few words -from the influential leaders of the race when next they visit Achill, for -instance, would help to keep Irish alive there in _sæcula sæculorum_, and -with the Irish language, the old Aryan folk-lore, the Ossianic poems, -numberless ballads, folk-songs, and proverbs, and a thousand and one -other interesting things that survive when Irish is spoken, and die when -it dies. But, from a complexity of causes which I am afraid to explain, -the men who for the last sixty years have had the ear of the Irish race -have persistently shown the cold shoulder to everything that was Irish -and racial, and while protesting, or pretending to protest, against West -Britonism, have helped, more than anyone else, by their example, to -assimilate us to England and the English, thus running counter to the -entire voice of modern Europe, which is in favour of extracting the best -from the various races of men who inhabit it, by helping them to develop -themselves on national and racial lines. The people are not the better -for it either, for one would fancy it required little culture to see that -the man who reads Irish MSS., and repeats Ossianic poetry, is a higher -and more interesting type than the man whose mental training is confined -to spelling through an article in _United Ireland_.[15] - -I may mention here that it is not as easy a thing as might be imagined -to collect Irish stories. One hears that tales are to be had from such -and such a man, generally, alas! a very old one. With difficulty one -manages to find him out, only to discover, probably, that he has some -work on hand. If it happens to be harvest time it is nearly useless going -to him at all, unless one is prepared to sit up with him all night, for -his mind is sure to be so distraught with harvest operations that he can -tell you nothing. If it is winter time, however, and you fortunately find -him unoccupied, nevertheless it requires some management to get him to -tell his stories. Half a glass of _ishka-baha_, a pipe of tobacco, and a -story of one’s own are the best things to begin with. If, however, you -start to take down the story _verbatim_ with pencil and paper, as an -unwary collector might do, you destroy all, or your shanachie becomes -irritable. He will not wait for you to write down your sentence, and if -you call out, “Stop, stop, wait till I get this down,” he will forget -what he was going to tell you, and you will not get a third of his story, -though you may think you have it all. What you must generally do is to -sit quietly smoking your pipe, without the slightest interruption, not -even when he comes to words and phrases which you do not understand. -He must be allowed his own way to the end, and then after judiciously -praising him and discussing the story, you remark, as if the thought had -suddenly struck you, “buḋ ṁaiṫ liom sin a ḃeiṫ agam air ṗáipeur,” “I’d -like to have that on paper.” Then you can get it from him easily enough, -and when he leaves out whole incidents, as he is sure to do, you who have -just heard the story can put him right, and so get it from him nearly in -its entirety. Still it is not always easy to write down these stories, -for they are full of old or corrupted words, which neither you nor your -narrator understand, and if you press him too much over the meaning of -these he gets confused and irritable. - -The present volume consists of about half the stories in the _Leabhar -Sgeuluigheachta_, translated into English, together with some half -dozen other stories given in the original together with a close English -translation. It is not very easy to make a good translation from Irish -into English, for there are no two Aryan languages more opposed to each -other in spirit and idiom. Still, the English spoken by three-fourths of -the people of Ireland is largely influenced by Gaelic idioms, for most of -those expressions which surprise Englishmen are really translations from -that Irish which was the language of the speaker’s father, grandfather, -or great-grandfather—according to the part of the country you may be -in—and there have perpetuated themselves, even in districts where you -will scarce find a trace of an Irish word. There are, however, also -hundreds of Gaelic idioms not reproduced in the English spoken by the -people, and it is difficult to render these fitly. Campbell of Islay has -run into rather an extreme in his translations, for in order to make -them picturesque, he has rendered his Gaelic originals something too -literally. Thus, he invariably translates _bhain se an ceann deth_, by -“he reaped the head off him,” a form of speech which, I notice, a modern -Irish poet and M.P. has adopted from him; but bain, though it certainly -means “reap” amongst other things, is the word used for taking off a hat -as well as a head. Again, he always translates _thu_ by “thou,” which -gives his stories a strange antique air, which is partly artificial, for -the Gaelic “thou” corresponds to the English “you,” the second person -plural not being used except in speaking of more than one. In this way, -Campbell has given his excellent and thoroughly reliable translations -a scarcely legitimate colouring, which I have tried to avoid. For this -reason, I have not always translated the Irish idioms quite literally, -though I have used much unidiomatic English, but only of the kind used -all over Ireland, the kind the people themselves use. I do not translate, -for instance, the Irish for “he died,” by “he got death,” for this, -though the literal translation, is not adopted into Hibernian English; -but I do translate the Irish _ghnidheadh se sin_ by “he used to do that,” -which is the ordinary Anglo-Irish attempt at making—what they have not -got in English—a consuetudinal tense. I have scarcely used the pluperfect -at all. No such tense exists in Irish, and the people who speak English -do not seem to feel the want of it, and make no hesitation in saying, -“I’d speak sooner if I knew that,” where they mean, “if I had known that -I would have spoken sooner.” I do not translate (as Campbell would), “it -rose with me to do it,” but “I succeeded in doing it,” for the first, -though the literal translation of the Irish idiom, has not been adopted -into English; but I do translate “he did it and he drunk,” instead -of, “he did it while he was drunk;” for the first phrase (the literal -translation of the Irish) is universally used throughout English-speaking -Ireland. Where, as sometimes happens, the English language contains no -exact equivalent for an Irish expression, I have rendered the original as -well as I could, as one generally does render for linguistic purposes, -from one language into another. - -In conclusion, it only remains for me to thank Mr. Alfred Nutt for -enriching this book as he has done, and for bearing with the dilatoriness -of the Irish printers, who find so much difficulty in setting Irish type, -that many good Irishmen have of late come round to the idea of printing -our language in Roman characters; and to express my gratitude to Father -Eugene O’Growney for the unwearying kindness with which he read and -corrected my Irish proofs, and for the manifold aid which he has afforded -me on this and other occasions. - - - - -POSTSCRIPT BY ALFRED NUTT. - - -I had hoped to accompany these tales with as full a commentary as -that which I have affixed to the Argyllshire _Märchen_, collected and -translated by the Rev. D. MacInnes. Considerations of business and health -prevent me from carrying out this intention, and I have only been able to -notice a passage here and there in the Tales; but I have gladly availed -myself of my friend, Dr. Hyde’s permission, to touch upon a few points in -his Introduction. - -Of special interest are Dr. Hyde’s remarks upon the relations which -obtain between the modern folk-tale current among the Gaelic-speaking -populations of Ireland and Scotland, and the Irish mythic, heroic and -romantic literature preserved in MSS., which range in date from the -eleventh century to the present day. - -In Ireland, more than elsewhere, the line of demarcation between the -tale whose genesis is conscious, and that of which the reverse is true, -is hard to draw, and students will, for a long while to come, differ -concerning points of detail. I may thus be permitted to disagree at times -with Dr. Hyde, although, as a rule, I am heartily at one with him. - -Dr. Hyde distinguishes between an older stratum of folk-tale (the -“old Aryan traditions,” of p. xix.) and the newer stratum of “bardic -inventions.” He also establishes a yet younger class than these latter, -the romances of the professional story-tellers of the eighteenth century, -who “wrote them down as modern novelists do their stories.” Of these -last he remarks (p. xxxiv.), that he has found no remnant of them among -the peasantry of to-day; a valuable bit of evidence, although of course, -subject to the inconclusiveness of all merely negative testimony. To -revert to the second class, he looks upon the tales comprised in it -as being rather the inventions of individual brains than as old Aryan -folk-tales (p. xx.) It must at once be conceded, that a great number of -the tales and ballads current in the Gaelic-speaking lands undoubtedly -received the form under which they are now current, somewhere between the -twelfth and the sixteenth centuries; that the authors of that form were -equally undoubtedly the professional bards and story-tellers attached -to the court of every Gaelic chieftain; and that the method of their -transmission was oral, it being the custom of the story-tellers both -to teach their tales to pupils, and to travel about from district to -district. - -The style of these stories and ballads enables us to date them with -sufficient precision. Dr. Hyde also notes historical allusions, such -as the reference to O’Connor Sligo, in the story of the “Slim Swarthy -Champion,” or to the Turks in the story of “Conall Gulban.” I cannot -but think, however, that it is straining the evidence to assert that -the one story was invented after 1362, or the other after the fall of -Constantinople. The fact that “Bony” appears in some versions of the -common English mumming play does not show that it originated in this -century, merely that these particular versions have passed through -the minds of nineteenth century peasants; and in like manner the -Connaught fourteenth century chieftain may easily have taken the place -of an earlier personage, the Turks in “Conall Gulban,” of an earlier -wizard-giant race. If I cannot go as far as Dr. Hyde in this sense, -I must equally demur to the assumption (p. xl.), that community of -incident between an Irish and a Bohemian tale necessarily establishes -the pre-historic antiquity of the incident. I believe that a great many -folk-tales, as well as much else of folk-lore, has been developed _in -situ_, rather than imported from the outside; but I, by no means, deny -importation in principle, and I recognise that its agency has been -clearly demonstrated in not a few cases. - -The main interest of Irish folk-literature (if the expression be allowed) -centres in the bardic stories. I think that Dr. Hyde lays too much stress -upon such external secondary matters as the names of heroes, or allusions -to historical events; and, indeed, he himself, in the case of Murachaidh -MacBrian, states what I believe to be the correct theory, namely, that -the Irish bardic story, from which he derives the Scotch Gaelic one, is, -as far as many of its incidents go, not the invention of the writer, but -genuine folk-lore thrown by him into a new form (p. xxii.) - -Had we all the materials necessary for forming a judgment, such is, -I believe, the conclusion that would in every case be reached. But I -furthermore hold it likely that in many cases the recast story gradually -reverted to a primitive folk-type in the course of passing down from the -court story-teller to the humbler peasant reciters, that it sloughed -off the embellishments of the _ollamhs_, and reintroduced the older, -wilder conceptions with which the folk remained in fuller sympathy than -the more cultured bard. Compare, for instance, as I compared ten years -ago, “Maghach Colgar,” in Campbell’s version (No. 36), with the “Fairy -Palace of the Quicken Trees.” The one tale has all the incidents in -the wildest and most fantastic form possible; in the other they are -rationalised to the utmost possible extent and made to appear like a -piece of genuine history. I do not think that if this later version was -_invented_ right out by a thirteenth or fourteenth century _ollamh_, it -could have given rise to the former one. Either “Maghach Colgar” descends -from the folk-tale which served as the basis of the Irish story, or, what -is more likely, the folk, whilst appreciating and preserving the new -arrangement of certain well-known incidents, retained the earlier form -of the incidents themselves, as being more consonant with the totality -of its conceptions, both moral and æsthetic. This I hold to be the vital -lesson the folk-lorist may learn from considering the relations of Gaelic -folk-tale and Gaelic romance (using the latter term in the sense of story -with a conscious genesis): that romance, to live and propagate itself -among the folk, must follow certain rules, satisfy certain conceptions of -life, conform to certain conventions. The Irish bards and story-tellers -had little difficulty, I take it, in doing this; they had not outgrown -the creed of their countrymen, they were in substantial touch with -the intellectual and artistic laws that govern their subject-matter. -Re-arrange, rationalise somewhat, deck out with the questionable -adornment of their scanty and ill-digested book-learning—to this extent, -but to this extent only, I believe, reached their influence upon the mass -of folk-conceptions and presentments which they inherited from their -fathers, and which, with these modifications and additions, they handed -on to their children. - -But romance must not only conform to the conventions, it must also fit in -with the _ensemble_ of conditions, material, mental and spiritual, which -constitute the culture (taking this much-abused word in its widest sense) -of a race. An example will make this clear. - -Of all modern, consciously-invented fairy tales I know but one which -conforms fully to the folk-tale convention—“The Shaving of Shagpat.” It -follows the formula as closely and accurately as the best of Grimm’s -or of Campbell’s tales. To divine the nature of a convention, and to -use its capabilities to the utmost, is a special mark of genius, and in -this, as in other instances, whatever else be absent from Mr. Meredith’s -work, genius is indubitably present. But I do not think that “The Shaving -of Shagpat” could ever be acclimatised as a folk-tale in this country. -Scenery, conduct of story, characterisation of personages, are all too -distinctively Oriental. But let an Eastern admirer of Mr. Meredith -translate his work into Arabic or Hindi, and let the book fall into the -hands of a Cairene or Delhi story-teller (if such still exist), I can -well imagine that, with judicious cuts, it should win praise for its -reciter in market-place or bazaar. Did this happen, it would surely be -due to the fact that the story is strictly constructed upon traditional -lines, rather than to the brilliant invention and fancy displayed on -every page. Strip from it the wit and philosophy of the author, and -there remains a fairy tale to charm the East; but it would need to be -reduced to a skeleton, and reclothed with new flesh before it could charm -the folk of the West. - -To bring home yet more clearly to our minds this necessity for romance to -conform to convention, let us ask ourselves, what would have happened if -one of the Irish story-tellers who perambulated the Western Isles as late -as the seventeenth century, had carried with him a volume of Hakluyt or -Purchas, or, supposing one to have lingered enough, Defoe or Gil Blas? -Would he have been welcomed when he substituted the new fare for the old -tales of “Finn and the Fians?” and even if welcomed, would he have gained -currency for it? Would the seed thus planted have thriven, or would it -not rather, fallen upon rocky places, have withered away? - -It may, however, be objected that the real difference lies not so much -in the subject-matter as in the mode of transmission; and the objection -may seem to derive some force from what Dr. Hyde notes concerning the -prevalence of folk-tales in Wicklow, and the nearer Pale generally, as -contrasted with Leitrim, Longford, and Meath (p. xii.). It is difficult -to over-estimate the interest and importance of this fact, and there -can hardly be a doubt that Dr. Hyde has explained it correctly. It may, -then, be urged that so long as oral transmission lasts the folk-tale -flourishes; and only when the printed work ousts the story-teller is it -that the folk-tale dies out. But this reasoning will not hold water. It -is absurd to contend that the story-teller had none but a certain class -of materials at his disposal till lately. He had the whole realm of -intellect and fancy to draw upon; but he, and still more his hearers, -knew only one district of that realm; and had it been possible for him -to step outside its limits his hearers could not have followed him. I -grant folk fancy has shared the fortunes of humanity together with every -other manifestation of man’s activity, but always within strictly defined -limits, to transgress which has always been to forfeit the favour of the -folk. - -What, then, are the characteristic marks of folk-fancy? The question is -of special interest in connection with Gaelic folk-lore. The latter is -rich in transitional forms, the study of which reveal more clearly than -is otherwise possible the nature and workings of the folk-mind. - -The products of folk-fancy (putting aside such examples of folk-wisdom -and folk-wit as proverbs, saws, jests, etc.), may be roughly divided -among two great classes: - -Firstly, stories of a quasi-historical or anecdotic nature, accepted as -actual fact (of course with varying degrees of credence) by narrator -and hearer. Stories of this kind are very largely concerned with beings -(supernatural, as we should call them) differing from man, and with -their relations to and dealings with man. Not infrequently, however, -the actors in the stories are wholly human, or human and animal. Gaelic -folk-lore is rich in such stories, owing to the extraordinary tenacity of -the fairy belief. We can hardly doubt that the Gael, like all other races -which have passed through a certain stage of culture, had at one time an -organised hierarchy of divine beings. But we have to piece together the -Gaelic god-saga out of bare names, mere hints, and stories which have -evidently suffered vital change. In the earliest stratum of Gaelic mythic -narrative we find beings who at some former time had occupied divine -rank, but whose relations to man are substantially, as therein presented, -the same as those of the modern fairy to the modern peasant. The chiefs -of the Tuatha de Danann hanker after earthly maidens; the divine damsels -long for and summon to themselves earthly heroes. Though undying, very -strong, and very wise, they may be overpowered or outwitted by the mortal -hero. As if conscious of some source of weakness we cannot detect, they -are anxious, in their internecine struggles, to secure the aid of the -sons of men. Small wonder that this belief, which we can follow for at -least 1,200 years, should furnish so many elements to the folk-fancy of -the Gael. - -In stories of the second class the action is relegated to a remote -past—once upon a time—or to a distant undefined region, and the narrative -is not necessarily accepted as a record of actual fact. Stories of this -class, whether in prose or verse, may again be subdivided into—humorous, -optimistic, tragic; and with regard to the third sub-division, it should -be noted that the stories comprised in it are generally told as having -been true once, though not in the immediate tangible sense of stories in -the first class. - -These different narrative groups share certain characteristics, though in -varying proportions. - -Firstly, the fondness for and adherence to a comparatively small number -of set formulas. This is obviously less marked in stories of the first -class, which, as being in the mind of the folk a record of what has -actually happened, partake of the diversity of actual life. And yet the -most striking similarities occur; such an anecdote, for instance, as that -which tells how a supernatural changeling is baffled by a brewery of -egg-shells being found from Japan to Brittany. - -Secondly, on the moral side, the unquestioning acceptance of fatalism, -though not in the sense which the Moslem or the Calvinist would attach -to the word. The event is bound to be of a certain nature, provided -a certain mode of attaining it be chosen. This comes out well in the -large group of stories which tell how a supernatural being helps a -mortal to perform certain tasks, as a rule, with some ulterior benefit -to itself in view. The most disheartening carelessness and stupidity on -the part of the man cannot alter the result; the skill and courage of -the supernatural helper are powerless without the mortal co-operation. -In what I have termed the tragic stories, this fatalism puts on a moral -form, and gives rise to the conception of Nemesis. - -Thirdly, on the mental side, animism is prevalent, _i.e._, the acceptance -of a life common to, not alone man and animals, but all manifestations -of force. In so far as a distinction is made between the life of man and -that of nature at large, it is in favour of the latter, to which more -potent energy is ascribed. - -Just as stories of the first class are less characterised by adherence -to formula, so stories of the humorous group are less characterised by -fatalism and animism. This is inevitable, as such stories are, as a rule, -concerned solely with the relations of man to his fellows. - -The most fascinating and perplexing problems are those connected with -the groups I have termed optimistic and tragic. To the former belong the -almost entirety of such nursery tales as are not humorous in character. -“They were married and lived happily ever afterwards;” such is the almost -invariable end formula. The hero wins the princess, and the villain is -punished. - -This feature the nursery tale shares with the god-saga; Zeus confounds -the Titans, Apollo slays the Python, Lug overcomes Balor, Indra -vanquishes Vritra. There are two apparent exceptions to this rule. The -Teutonic god myth is tragic; the Anses are ever under the shadow of the -final conflict. This has been explained by the influence of Christian -ideas; but although this influence must be unreservedly admitted in -certain details of the passing of the gods, yet the fact that the Iranian -god-saga is likewise undecided, instead of having a frankly optimistic -ending, makes me doubt whether the drawn battle between the powers -of good and ill be not a genuine and necessary part of the Teutonic -mythology. As is well known, Rydberg has established some striking points -of contact between the mythic ideas of Scandinavia and those of Iran. - -In striking contradiction to this moral, optimistic tendency are the -great heroic sagas. One and all well-nigh are profoundly tragic. The doom -of Troy the great, the passing of Arthur, the slaughter of the Nibelungs, -the death of Sohrab at his father’s hands, Roncevalles, Gabhra, the -fratricidal conflict of Cuchullain and Ferdiad, the woes of the house -of Atreus; such are but a few examples of the prevailing tone of the -hero-tales. Achilles and Siegfried and Cuchullain are slain in the flower -of their youth and prowess. Of them, at least, the saying is true, that -whom the gods love die young. Why is it not equally true of the prince -hero of the fairy tale? Is it that the hero-tale associated in the minds -of hearers and reciters with men who had actually lived and fought, -brought down to earth, so to say, out of the mysterious wonderland in -which god and fairy and old time kings have their being, becomes thereby -liable to the necessities of death and decay inherent in all human -things? Some scholars have a ready answer for this and similar questions. -The heroic epos assumed its shape once for all among one special race, -and was then passed on to the other races who remained faithful to the -main lines whilst altering details. If this explanation were true, it -would still leave unsolved the problem, why the heroic epos, which for -its fashioners and hearers was at once a record of the actual and an -exemplar of the ideal, should, among men differing in blood and culture, -follow one model, and that a tragic one. Granting that Greek and Teuton -and Celt did borrow the tales which they themselves conceived to be very -blood and bone of their race, what force compelled them all to borrow one -special conception of life and fate? - -Such exceptions as there are to the tragic nature of the heroic saga -are apparent rather than real. The Odyssey ends happily, like an -old-fashioned novel, but Fénélon long ago recognised in the Odyssey—“un -amas de contes de vieille.” - -Perseus again has the luck of a fairy-tale prince, but then the story of -his fortunes is obviously a fairy-tale, with named instead of anonymous -personages. - -Whilst the fairy-tale is akin in tone to the god saga, the ballad recalls -the heroic epos. The vast majority of ballads are tragic. Sir Patrick -Spens must drown, and Glasgerion’s leman be cheated by the churl; Clerk -Saunders comes from the other world, like Helge to Sigrun; Douglas dreams -his dreary dream, “I saw a dead man win a fight, and that dead man was -I.” The themes of the ballad are the most dire and deadly of human -passions; love scorned or betrayed, hate, and revenge. Very seldom, too, -do the plots of ballad and märchen cross or overlap. Where this does -happen it will, as a rule, be found that both are common descendants of -some great saga. - -We find such an instance in the Fenian saga, episodes of which have lived -on in the Gaelic folk memory in the double form of prose and poetry. -But it should be noted that the poetry accentuates the tragic side—the -battle of Gabhra, the death of Diarmaid—whilst the prose takes rather -some episode of Finn’s youth or manhood, and presents it as a rounded and -complete whole, the issue of which is fortunate. - -The relations of myth and epos to folk-lore may thus be likened to that -of trees to the soil from which they spring, and which they enrich -and fertilize by the decay of their leaves and branches which mingle -indistinguishably with the original soil. Of this soil, again, rude -bricks may be made, and a house built; let the house fall into ruins, and -the bricks crumble into dust, it will be hard to discriminate that dust -from the parent earth. But raise a house of iron or stone, and, however -ruined, its fragments can always be recognised. In the case of the Irish -bardic literature the analogy is, I believe, with soil and tree, rather -than with soil and edifice. - -Reverting once more to the characteristics of folk-fancy, let us note -that they appear equally in folk-practice and folk-belief. The tough -conservatism of the folk-mind has struck all observers: its adherence to -immemorial formulas; its fatalistic acceptance of the mysteries of nature -and heredity, coupled with its faith in the efficacy of sympathetic -magic; its elaborate system of custom and ritual based upon the idea that -between men and the remainder of the universe there is no difference of -kind. - -A conception of the Cosmos is thus arrived at which, more than any -religious creed, fulfils the test of catholicity; literally, and in the -fullest significance of the words, it has been held _semper, ubique et -ab omnibus_. And of this conception of the universe, more universal than -any that has as yet swayed the minds of man, it is possible that men -now living may see the last flickering remains; it is well-nigh certain -that our grandchildren will live in a world out of which it has utterly -vanished. - -For the folk-lorist the Gospel saying is thus more pregnant with meaning -than for any other student of man’s history—“the night cometh wherein no -man may work.” Surely, many Irishmen will take to heart the example of -Dr. Hyde, and will go forth to glean what may yet be found of as fair -and bounteous a harvest of myth and romance as ever flourished among any -race. - - - - -LE h-AIS NA TEINEAḌ. - - - - -AN TAILIUR AGUS NA TRI ḂEIṪIGEAĊ. - - -Ḃí táiliúr aon uair aṁam i nGailliṁ, agus ḃí sé ag fuaiġeál eudaiġ. -Ċonnairc se dreancuid ag éiriġe amaċ as an eudaċ agus ċaiṫ se an tsnáṫad -léiṫe agus ṁarḃ sé an dreancuid. Duḃairt se ann sin “Naċ breáġ an -gaisgiḋeaċ mise nuair a ḃí mé abalta air an dreancuid sin do ṁarḃaḋ!” - -Duḃairt sé ann sin go gcaiṫfeaḋ sé dul go B’l’acliaṫ go cúirt an ríġ, go -ḃfeicfeaḋ sé an dtiucfaḋ leis a deunaṁ. Ḃí an ċúirt sin ’gá ḋeunaṁ le -fada, aċt an méad dí do gníṫiḋe ann san lá do leagaiḋe ann san oiḋċe é, -agus níor ḟeud duine air biṫ a ċur suas mar ġeall air sin. ’S iad tri -ḟáṫaċ a ṫigeaḋ ’san oiḋċe a ḃideaḋ ’gá leagaḋ. D’imṫiġ an táiliúr an lá -air na ṁáraċ agus do ṫug se leis an uirlis, an spád agus an tsluasad. - -Níor ḃfada ċuaiḋ sé gur casaḋ capall bán dó, agus ċuir se forán air. -“Go mbeannuiġ Dia ḋuit,” ar san capall, “cá ḃfuil tu dul?” “Tá mé dul -go B’l’acliaṫ,” ar san táiliúr, “le deunaṁ cúirte an ríġ, go ḃfáġ mé -bean-uasal, má ṫig liom a deunaṁ,” mar do ġeall an ríġ go dtiúḃfaḋ sé -a inġean féin agus a lán airgid léiṫe don té sin a ṫiucfaḋ leis an -ċúirt sin do ċur suas. “An ndeunfá poll dam?” ar san sean-ġearrán bán, -“raċainn i ḃfolaċ ann nuair atá na daoine mo ṫaḃairt ċum an ṁuilinn agus -ċum an aṫa i rioċt naċ ḃfeidfiḋ siad mé, óir tá mé cráiḋte aca, ag deunaṁ -oibre ḋóiḃ.” “Deunfaiḋ mé sin go deiṁin,” ar san táiliúr, “agus fáilte.” -Ṫug sé an spád leis agus an tsluasad, agus rinne sé poll, agus duḃairt sé -leis an g-capall bán dul síos ann, go ḃfeicfeaḋ sé an ḃfóirfeaḋ sé ḋó. -Ċuaiḋ an capall bán síos ann san bpoll, aċt nuair d’ḟeuċ sé do ṫeaċt suas -arís as, níor ḟeud sé. - -“Deun áit dam anois,” ar san capall bán, “a ṫiucfas mé aníos as an bpoll -so nuair a ḃéiḋeas ocaras orm.” “Ní ḋeunfad,” ar san táiliúr, “fan ann -sin go dtigiḋ mé air m’ais, agus tógfaiḋ mé aníos ṫu.” - -D’imṫiġ an táiliúr an lá air na máraċ, agus casaḋ ḋó an sionnaċ, “Go -mbeannuiġ Dia ḋuit,” ar san sionnaċ. “Go mbeannuiġ Dia ’gus Muire ḋuit.” -“Cá ḃfuil tu dul?” “Tá mé dul go B’l’acliaṫ go ḃfeuċaiḋ mé an dtiucfaiḋ -liom cúirt ḋeunaṁ do’n ríġ.” “An ndeunfá áit dam, a raċfainn i ḃfolaċ -innti,” ar san sionnaċ, “tá an ċuid eile de na sionnaiġiḃ do m’ ḃualaḋ -agus ní leigeann siad dam aon niḋ iṫe ’nna g-cuideaċta.” “Deunfaiḋ mé sin -duit,” ar san táiliúr. Ṫug sé leis a ṫuaġ agus a ṡáḃ agus ḃain se slata, -go ndearnaiġ sé, mar ḋeurfá, cliaḃ dó, agus duḃairt sé leis an tsionnaċ -dul síos ann, go ḃfeicfeaḋ se an ḃfóirfeaḋ sé ḋó. Ċuaid an sionnaċ ann, -agus nuair fuair an táiliúr ṡíos é, leag sé a ṫóin air an bpoll a ḃí ann. -Nuair a ḃí an sionnaċ sásta faoi ḋeireaḋ go raiḃ áit ḋeas aige d’iarr sé -air an táiliúr a leigean amaċ, agus d’ḟreagair an táiliúr naċ leigfeaḋ, -“Fan ann sin go dtigiḋ mise air m’ais,” ar sé. - -D’imṫiġ an táiliúr an lá air na ṁáraċ, agus ní fada ḃí sé siúḃal gur -casaḋ madr’-alla ḋó, agus ċuir an mádr’-alla forán air, agus dḟiafruiġ sé -ḋé cá raiḃ sé ag triall. “Tá me dul go B’l’acliaṫ go ndeunfaiḋ mé cúirt -do’n ríġ má ṫig liom sin ḋeunaṁ,” ar san táiliúr. “Dá ndeunfá ceuċt dam,” -ar san madr’-alla, “ḃeiḋeaḋ mise agus na madr’-alla eile ag treaḃaḋ agus -ag forsaḋ, go mbeiḋeaḋ greim againn le n-iṫe ann san ḃfóġṁar.” “Deunfaiḋ -mé sin duit,” ar san táiliúr. Ṫug sé leis a ṫuaġ ’s a ṡáḃ, agus rinne sé -ceuċt. Nuair ḃí an ceuċt deunta ċuir sé poll ann san mbéam (sail) agus -duḃairt se leis an madr’-alla dul asteaċ faoi an g-ceuċt go bḟeicfeaḋ sé -an raiḃ treaḃaċ maiṫ ann. Ċuir sé a earball asteaċ ann san bpoll a rinne -sé, agus ċuir sé “peg” ann-sin ann, agus níor ṫáinig leis an madr’-alla -a earball ṫarraing amaċ as arís. “Sgaoil mé anois,” ar ran madr’-alla, -“agus deasóċamaoid féin agus treaḃfamaoid.” Duḃairt an táiliúr naċ -sgaoilfeaḋ sé é no go dtiucfaḋ sé féin air ais. D’ḟág sé ann sin é agus -ċuaiḋ sé go B’l’acliaṫ. - -Nuair ṫáinig sé go B’l’acliaṫ ċuir sé páipeur amaċ an méad luċd’ céirde -do ḃí ag tógḃáil na cúirte do teaċt ċuige-sean, agus go n-íocfaḋ seisean -iad——agus ní ḃíḋeaḋ daoine ag fáġail ’san am sin aċt píġin ’san lá. Do -ċruinniġ a lán luċd céirde an lá air na ṁáraċ, agus ṫosaiġ siad ag obair -dó. Ḃí siad ag dul a ḃaile anḋiaiġ an laé nuair duḃairt an tailiúr leó -“an ċloċ ṁór sin do ċur suas air ḃárr na h-oibre a ḃí deunta aige.” Nuair -d’ árduiġeaḋ suas an ċloċ ṁór sin, ċuir an tailiúr sliġe éigin fúiṫi go -leagfaḋ sé anuas í nuair a ṫiucfaḋ an faṫaċ ċoṁ fada léiṫe. D’imṫiġ an -luċd oibre a ḃaile ann sin, agus ċuaiḋ an tailiúr i ḃfolaċ air ċúl na -cloiċe móire. Nuair ṫáinig dorċadas na h-oiḋċe ċonnairc sé na trí faṫaiġ -ag teaċt, agus ṫosuiġ siad ag leagaḋ na cúirte no go dtáinig siad ċoṁ -fada leis an áit a raiḃ an táiliúr ṡuas, agus ḃuail fear aca buille d’á -ord air an áit a raiḃ sé í ḃfolaċ. Leag an tailiúr an ċloċ anuas air, -agus, ṫuit sí air, agus ṁarḃ sí é. D’imṫiġ siad a ḃaile ann sin, agus -d’ḟág siad an méad a ḃí ann gan leagan, ó ḃí fear aca féin marḃ. - -Ṫáinig an luċt céirde arís, an lá air na ṁáraċ, agus ḃí siad ag obair go -dtí an oiḋċe, agus nuair a ḃí siad dul aḃaile duḃairt an tailiúr leó an -ċloċ ṁór do ċur suas air ḃárr na h-oibre mar ḃí rí an oiḋċe roiṁe sin. -Rinne siad sin dó, agus d’imṫiġ siad aḃaile, agus cuaiḋ an tailiúr i -ḃfolaċ, mar ḃí sé an traṫnóna roiṁe sin. Nuair ḃí na daoine uile imṫiġṫe -’nna suaiṁneas, ṫáinig an dá ḟaṫaċ, agus ḃí siad ag leagan an ṁéid a ḃí -rompa; agus nuair ṫosuiġ siad, ċuir siad dá ġlaoḋ asta. Ḃí an tailiúr -air siúḃal agus é ag obair no gur leag sé anuas an ċloċ ṁór gur ṫuit -sí air ċloigionn an ḟaṫaiġ a ḃí fúiṫi agus ṁarḃ sí é. Ní raiḃ ann sin -aċt an t-aon ḟaṫaċ aṁáin ann, agus ní ṫáinig seisean go raiḃ an ċúirt -críoċnuiġṫe. - -Ċuaiḋ an táiliúr ċum an riġ ann sin, agus duḃairt sé leis, a ḃean agus a -ċuid airgid do ṫaḃairt dó, mar do ḃí an ċúirt déanta aige, aċt duḃairt -an ríġ leis naċ dtiúḃraḋ sé aon ḃean dó, no go marḃfaḋ sé an faṫaċ eile, -agus naċ dtiúḃraḋ sé dadaṁ dó anois no go marḃfaḋ sé an fear deireannaċ. -Duḃairt an táiliúr ann sin go marḃfaḋ sé an faṫaċ eile ḋó, agus fáilte, -naċ raiḃ aon ṁaille air biṫ air sin. - -D’imṫiġ an táiliúr ann sin, go dtáinig sé ċum na h-áite a raiḃ an faṫaċ -eile, agus d’ḟiafruiġ ar ṫeastuig buaċaill uaiḋ. Duḃairt an faṫaċ gur -ṫeastuiġ, dá ḃfáġaḋ sé buaċaill a ḋeunfaḋ an rud a deunfaḋ sé féin. “Rud -air biṫ a ḋeunfas tusa, deunfaiḋ mise é,” ar san tailiúr. - -Ċuaid siad ċum a ndinéir ann sin, agus nuair ḃí sé iṫte aca duḃairt an -faṫaċ leis an táiliúr an dtiucfaḋ leis an oiread anḃruiṫ ól agus é féin, -aníos as a ḟiucaḋ. “Tiucfaiḋ,” ar san tailiúr, “aċt go dtiúḃraiḋ tu uair -dam sul a ṫosóċamaoid air.” “Ḃéarfaiḋ mé sin duit,” ar san faṫac. Ċuaiḋ -an tailiúr amaċ ann sin, agus fuair se croicionn caoraċ agus d’ḟuaiġ -sé suas é, go ndearnaiġ sé mála ḋé agus ḋeasuiġ sé ṡíos faoi na ċóta -é. Táinig sé asteaċ ann sin, agus duḃairt sé leis an ḃfaṫaċ galún de’n -anḃruiṫ ól i dtosaċ. D’ól an faṫaċ sin aníos as a ḟiuċaḋ. - -“Deunfaiḋ mise sin,” ar san táiliúr. Ḃí sé air siúḃal gur ḋóirt sé -asteaċ san g-croicionn é, agus ṡaoil an faṫaċ go raiḃ sé ólta aige. D’ól -an faṫaċ galún eile ann sin, agus leig an táiliúr galún eile síos ’san -g-croicionn, aċt ṡaoil an faṫaċ, go raiḃ sé ’gá ól. “Déanfaiḋ mise rud -anois naċ dtiucfaiḋ leat-sa ḋeunaṁ,” ar san táiliúr. “Ní ḋéanfá,” ar san -faṫaċ, “creud é sin do ḋéanfá?” - -“Poll do ḋeunaṁ, agus an t-anḃruiṫ do leigean amaċ arís,” ar san táiliúr. -“Déan ṫu féin i dtosaċ é,” ar san faṫaċ. Ṫug an táiliúr “prad” de’n sgín, -agus leig sé amaċ an t-anḃruiṫ as an g-croicionn. “Déan, ṫusa, sin,” ar -sé leis an ḃfaṫaċ. “Déanfad,” ar san faṫaċ ag taḃairt prad de’n sgín ’nna -ḃuilg féin gur ṁarḃ sé é féin. Sin é an ċaoi a ṁarḃ sé an tríoṁaḋ faṫaċ. - -Ċuaiḋ sé do’n ríġ ann sin, agus duḃairt sé leis, an ḃean agus a ċuid -airgid do ċur amaċ ċuige, agus go leagfaḋ se an ċúirt muna ḃfáġaḋ sé an -ḃean. Bí faitċios orra ann sin go leagfaḋ sé an ċúirt arís, agus cuir -siad an ḃean amaċ ċuige. - -Nuair ḃí sé lá imṫiġṫe, é féin agus a ḃean, ġlac siad aiṫreaċas agus -lean siad é, go mbainfeaḋ siad an ḃean dé arís. Bí an ṁuinntir do ḃí -’nna ḋiaiġ ’gá leanaṁaint no go dtáinig siad suas do’n áit a raiḃ an -madr’-alla, agus duḃairt an madr’-alla leó. “Ḃí an táiliúr agus a ḃean -ann so andé, ċonnairc mise iad ag dul ṫart, agus má sgaoileann siḃ mise -anois tá mé níos luaiṫe ’ná siḃ-se, agus leanfaiḋ mé iad go mbéarfaiḋ mé -orra.” Nuair ċualaiḋ siad sin sgaoil siad amaċ an madr’alla. - -D’imṫig an madr’-alla agus muinntir Ḃ’l’acliaṫ, agus ḃí siad dá -leanaṁaint go dtáinig siad d’on áit a raiḃ an sionnaċ, agus ċuir an -sionnaċ forán orra, agus duḃairt sé leó, “ḃí an táiliúr agus a ḃean ann -so air maidin andiú, agus má sgaoilfiḋ siḃ amaċ mé tá mé níos luaiṫe ’ná -siḃ agus leanfaiḋ mé iad agus béarfaiḋ mé orra.” Sgaoil siad amaċ an -sionnaċ ann sin. - -D’imṫiġ an madr’-alla agus an sionnaċ, agus arm Ḃ’l’acliaṫ ann sin, ag -feuċaint an ngaḃaḋ siad an táiliúr, agus táinig siad do’n áit a raiḃ -an sean-ġearrán bán, agus duḃairt an sean-ġearrán bán leó, go raib an -táiliúr, agus a ḃean ann sin air maidin, “agus sgaoiligiḋe amaċ mé,” ar -sé, “tá mé níos luaite ná siḃ-se agus béarfaiḋ mé orra.” Sgaoil siad -amaċ an sean ġearrán bán, agus lean an sean-ġearrán bán, an sionnaċ, -an madr’-alla, agus arm Ḃ’l’acliaṫ an táiliúr ’s a ḃean, i g-cuideaċt -a ċéile, agus níor ḃfada go dtáinig siad suas leis an táiliúr, agus -ċonnairc siad é féin ’s a ḃean amaċ rompa. - -Nuair ċonnairc an táiliúr iad ag tíġeaċt ṫáinig sé féin ’s a ḃean amaċ as -an g-cóiste, agus ṡuiḋ sé síos air an talaṁ. - -Nuair ċonnairc an sean-ġearrán bán an táiliúr ag suiḋe síos duḃairt sé, -“Sin é an cuma a ḃí sé nuair rinne sé an poll daṁsa, nár ḟeud mé teaċt -amaċ as, nuair ċuaiḋ mé asteaċ ann; ní raċfaiḋ mé níos foigse ḋó.” - -“Ní h-eaḋ,” ar san sionnaċ, “aċt is mar sin, do ḃí sé nuair ḃí se déanaṁ -an ruid daṁ-sa, agus ní raċfaiḋ mise níos foigse ḋó.” - -“Ní h-eaḋ!” ar san madr’-alla, “aċt is mar sin do ḃí sé nuair ḃí sé -déanaṁ an ċeuċta ’nna raiḃ mise gaḃṫa. Ni raċfaiḋ mise níos foigse ḋó.” - -D’imṫiġ siad uile uaiḋ ann sin, agus d’ḟill siad. Ṫáinig an táiliúr agus -a ḃean a ḃaile go Gailliṁ. Ṫug siad dam stocaiḋ páipéir agus bróga bainne -raṁair—ċaill mé iad ó ṡoin. Fuair siad-san an t-áṫ agus mise an loċán, -báiṫeaḋ iad-san agus ṫáinig mise. - - - - -THE TAILOR AND THE THREE BEASTS. - - -There was once a tailor in Galway, and he was sewing cloth. He saw a flea -springing up out of the cloth, and he threw his needle at it and killed -it. Then he said: “Am I not a fine hero when I was able to kill that -flea?” - -Then he said that he must go to Blackleea (Dublin), to the king’s court, -to see would he be able to build it. That court was a’building for a long -time; but as much of it as would be made during the day used to be thrown -down again during the night, and for that reason nobody could build it -up. It was three giants who used to come in the night and throw it. The -day on the morrow the tailor went off, and brought with him his tools, -the spade and the shovel. - -He had not gone far till he met a white horse, and he saluted him. - -“God save you,” said the horse. “Where are you going?” - -“I am going to Dublin,” said the tailor, “to build a court for the king, -and to get a lady for a wife, if I am able to do it;” for the king had -promised that he would give his own daughter, and a lot of money with -her, to whoever would be able to build up his court. - -“Would you make me a hole,” said the old white garraun (horse), “where I -could go a’hiding whenever the people are for bringing me to the mill or -the kiln, so that they won’t see me, for they have me perished doing work -for them?” - -“I’ll do that, indeed,” said the tailor, “and welcome.” - -He brought the spade and shovel, and he made a hole, and he said to the -old white horse to go down into it till he would see if it would fit him. -The white horse went down into the hole, but when he tried to come up -again he was not able. - -“Make a place for me now,” said the white horse, “by which I’ll come up -out of the hole here, whenever I’ll be hungry.” - -“I will not,” said the tailor; “remain where you are until I come back, -and I’ll lift you up.” - -The tailor went forward next day, and the fox met him. - -“God save you,” said the fox. - -“God and Mary save you.” - -“Where are you going?” - -“I’m going to Dublin, to try will I be able to make a court for the king.” - -“Would you make a place for me where I’d go hiding?” said the fox. “The -rest of the foxes do be beating me, and they don’t allow me to eat -anything along with them.” - -“I’ll do that for you,” said the tailor. - -He took with him his axe and his saw, and he cut rods, until he made, as -you would say, a thing like a cleeve (creel), and he desired the fox to -get into it till he would see whether it would fit him. The fox went into -it, and when the tailor got him down, he clapped his thigh on the hole -that the fox got in by. When the fox was satisfied at last that he had -a nice place of it within, he asked the tailor to let him out, and the -tailor answered that he would not. - -“Wait there until I come back again,” says he. - -The tailor went forward the next day, and he had not walked very far -until he met a modder-alla (lion?) and the lion greeted him, and asked -him where was he going. - -“I’m going to Dublin till I make a court for the king, if I’m able to -make it,” said the tailor. - -“If you were to make a plough for me,” said the lion, “I and the other -lions could be ploughing and harrowing until we’d have a bit to eat in -the harvest.” - -“I’ll do that for you,” said the tailor. - -He brought his axe and his saw, and he made a plough. When the plough was -made, he put a hole in the beam of it, and he said to the lion to go in -under the plough till he’d see was he any good of a ploughman. He placed -the tail in the hole he had made for it, and then clapped in a peg, and -the lion was not able to draw out his tail again. - -“Loose me out now,” said the lion, “and we’ll fix ourselves and go -ploughing.” - -The tailor said he would not loose him out until he came back himself. He -left him there then, and he came to Dublin. - -When he came to Dublin he put forth a paper, desiring all the tradesmen -that were raising the court to come to him, and that he would pay them; -and at that time workmen used only to be getting one penny in the day. -A number of tradesmen gathered the next day, and they began working for -him. They were going home again after their day, when the tailor said to -them “to put up that great stone upon the top of the work that they had -done.” When the great stone was raised up, the tailor put some sort of -contrivance under it, that he might be able to throw it down as soon as -the giant would come as far as it. The work people went home then, and -the tailor went in hiding behind the big stone. - -When the darkness of the night was come he saw the three giants arriving, -and they began throwing down the court until they came as far as the -place where the tailor was in hiding up above, and a man of them struck a -blow of his sledge on the place where he was. The tailor threw down the -stone, and it fell on him and killed him. They went home then, and left -all of the court that was remaining without throwing it down, since a man -of themselves was dead. - -The tradespeople came again the next day, and they were working until -night, and as they were going home the tailor told them to put up the big -stone on the top of the work, as it had been the night before. They did -that for him, went home, and the tailor went in hiding the same as he did -the evening before. - -When the people had all gone to rest, the two giants came, and they were -throwing down all that was before them, and as soon as they began they -put two shouts out of them. The tailor was going on manœuvring until he -threw down the great stone, and it fell upon the skull of the giant that -was under him, and it killed him. There was only the one giant left in it -then, and he never came again until the court was finished. - -Then when the work was over he went to the king and told him to give him -his wife and his money, as he had the court finished, and the king said -he would not give him any wife, until he would kill the other giant, for -he said that it was not by his strength he killed the two giants before -that, and that he would give him nothing now until he killed the other -one for him. Then the tailor said that he would kill the other giant for -him, and welcome; that there was no delay at all about that. - -The tailor went then, till he came to the place where the other giant -was, and asked did he want a servant-boy. The giant said he did want one, -if he could get one who would do everything that he would do himself. - -“Anything that you will do, I will do it,” said the tailor. - -They went to their dinner then, and when they had it eaten, the giant -asked the tailor “would it come with him to swallow as much broth as -himself, up out of its boiling.” The tailor said: “It will come with me -to do that, but that you must give me an hour before we begin on it.” The -tailor went out then, and he got a sheepskin, and he sewed it up till he -made a bag of it, and he slipped it down under his coat. He came in then -and said to the giant to drink a gallon of the broth himself first. The -giant drank that, up out of its boiling. “I’ll do that,” said the tailor. -He was going on until he had it all poured into the skin, and the giant -thought he had it drunk. The giant drank another gallon then, and the -tailor let another gallon down into the skin, but the giant thought he -was drinking it. - -“I’ll do a thing now that it won’t come with you to do,” said the tailor. - -“You will not,” said the giant. “What is it you would do?” - -“Make a hole and let out the broth again,” said the tailor. - -“Do it yourself first,” said the giant. - -The tailor gave a prod of the knife, and he let the broth out of the skin. - -“Do that you,” said he. - -“I will,” said the giant, giving such a prod of the knife into his own -stomach, that he killed himself. That is the way he killed the third -giant. - -He went to the king then, and desired him to send him out his wife and -his money, for that he would throw down the court again, unless he should -get the wife. They were afraid then that he would throw down the court, -and they sent the wife out to him. - -When the tailor was a day gone, himself and his wife, they repented and -followed him to take his wife off him again. The people who were after -him were following him till they came to the place where the lion was, -and the lion said to them: “The tailor and his wife were here yesterday. -I saw them going by, and if ye loose me now, I am swifter than ye, and I -will follow them till I overtake them.” When they heard that they loosed -out the lion. - -The lion and the people of Dublin went on, and they were pursuing him, -until they came to the place where the fox was, and the fox greeted them, -and said: “The tailor and his wife were here this morning, and if ye will -loose me out, I am swifter than ye, and I will follow them, and overtake -them.” They loosed out the fox then. - -The lion and the fox and the army of Dublin went on then, trying would -they catch the tailor, and they were going till they came to the place -where the old white garraun was, and the old white garraun said to them -that the tailor and his wife were there in the morning, and “loose me -out,” said he; “I am swifter than ye, and I’ll overtake them.” They -loosed out the old white garraun then, and the old white garraun, the -fox, the lion, and the army of Dublin pursued the tailor and his wife -together, and it was not long till they came up with him, and saw himself -and the wife out before them. - -When the tailor saw them coming he got out of the coach with his wife, -and he sat down on the ground. - -When the old white garraun saw the tailor sitting down on the ground, he -said: “That’s the position he had when he made the hole for me, that I -couldn’t come up out of, when I went down into it. I’ll go no nearer to -him.” - -“No!” said the fox, “but that’s the way he was when he was making the -thing for me, and I’ll go no nearer to him.” - -“No!” says the lion, “but that’s the very way he had, when he was making -the plough that I was caught in. I’ll go no nearer to him.” - -They all went from him then and returned. The tailor and his wife came -home to Galway. They gave me paper stockings and shoes of thick milk. -I lost them since. They got the ford, and I the flash;[16] they were -drowned, and I came safe. - - - - -BRAN. - - -Ḃí cú breáġ ag Fionn. Sin Bran. Ċualaiḋ tu caint air Ḃran. Seó an daṫ a -ḃí air. - - Cosa buiḋe a ḃí air Ḃran - Dá ṫaoiḃ duḃa agus tárr geal, - Druim uaine air ḋaṫ na seilge - Dá ċluais cruinne cóiṁ-ḋearga. - -Ḃéarfaḋ Bran air na Gaéṫiḃ-fiáḋna ḃí sí ċoṁ luaṫ sin. Nuair ḃí sí ’nna -coileán d’éiriġ imreas no tsoid éigin ameasg na g-con a ḃí ag an ḃFéin, -agus - - Trí fiċe cu agus fiċe coileán - Ṁarḃ Bran agus í ’nna coileán, - Dá ġé-fiaḋáin, agus an oireaḋ leó uile. - -Sé Fionn féin a ṁarḃ Bran. Ċuaiḋ siad amaċ ag fiaḋaċ agus rínneaḋ eilit -de ṁáṫair Ḟinn. Ḃí Bran dá tóruiġeaċt. - - “Eilit ḃaoṫ fág air sliaḃ,” - -ar Fionn. “A ṁic óig,” ar sise, “Cá raċfaiḋ mé as?” - - Má ṫéiḋim ann san ḃfairrge síos - Coiḋċe ni ḟillfinn air m’ais, - S má ṫéiḋim ann san aer suas - Ní ḃeurfaiḋ mo luaṫas air Ḃran. - -“Gaḃ amaċ eidir mo ḋá ċois,” ar Fionn. Ċuaiḋ sise amaċ eidir a ḋá ċois, -agus lean Bran í, agus air ngaḃail amaċ dí, d’ḟáisg Fionn a ḋá ġlúin -uirri agus ṁarḃ sé í. - -Ḃí inġean ag Bran. Cu duḃ a ḃí ann san g-coileán sin, agus ṫóg na Fianna -í, agus duḃairt siad leis an mnaoi a ḃí taḃairt aire do’n ċoileán, bainne -bó gan aon ḃall do ṫaḃairt do’n ċoileán, agus gaċ aon deór do ṫaḃairt dó, -agus gan aon ḃraon ċongḃail uaiḋ. Ní ḋearnaiḋ an ḃean sin, aċt ċongḃuiġ -cuid de’n ḃainne gan a ṫaḃairt uile do’n ċoileán. An ċeud lá do sgaoil na -Fianna an cu óg amaċ ḃí gleann lán de ġéaḋaiḃ fiaḋáine agus d’ eunaċaiḃ -eile, agus nuair sgaoileaḋ an cú duḃ ’nna measg, do ġaḃ sí iad uile aċt -fíor-ḃeagán aca a ċuaiḋ amaċ air ḃearna a ḃí ann. Agus aċt gur ċongḃuiġ -an ḃean cuid de’n ḃainne uaiṫi do ṁarḃfaḋ sí iad uile. - -Ḃí fear de na Fiannaiḃ ’nna ḋall, agus nuair leigeaḋ an cu amaċ -d’ḟiafruiġ sé de na daoiniḃ a ḃí anaice leis, cia an ċaoi a rinne an cú -óg. Duḃairt siad-san leis gur ṁarḃ an cu óg an meud gé fiaḋáin agus eun a -ḃi ann san ngleann, aċt beagán aca a ċuaiḋ amaċ air ḃearna, agus go raiḃ -sí teaċt a ḃaile anois. “Dá ḃfáġaḋ sí an bainne uile a ṫáinig de’n ḃo gan -aon ḃall,” ar san dall, “ni leigfeaḋ sí d’eun air biṫ imṫeaċt uaiḋi,” -agus d’ḟiafruiġ sé, ann sin, cad é an ċaoi a raiḃ sí tíġeaċt a ḃaile. “Tá -sí teaċt anois,” ar siad, “agus, sgáil’ lasta as a muineul agus i air -buile.” - -“Taḃair m’impiḋe ḋam anois,” ar san dall, “agus cuir mé ’mo ṡuiḋe ann san -g-cáṫaoir agus cuir gual ann mo láiṁ, óir muna marḃaim í anois marḃfaiḋ -sí muid (sinn) uile.” Ṫáinig an cú, agus ċaiṫ sé an gual léiṫe agus ṁarḃ -sé í, agus é dall. - -Aċt dá ḃfágaḋ an coileán sin an bainne uile do ṫiucfaḋ sí agus luiḋfeaḋ -sí síos go socair, mar luiḋeaḋ Bran. - - - - -BRAN. - - -Finn had a splendid hound. That was Bran. You have heard talk of Bran. -This is the colour was on him: - - Yellow feet that were on Bran, - Two black sides, and belly white, - Grayish back of hunting colour, - Two ears, red, round, small, and bright. - -Bran would overtake the wild-geese, she was that swift. There arose some -quarrel or fighting between the hounds that the Fenians had, when she was -only a puppy, and - - Three score hounds and twenty puppies - Bran did kill, and she a puppy, - Two wild-geese, as much as they all. - -It was Finn himself who killed Bran. They went out hunting, and there -was made a fawn of Finn’s mother. (_Who made a fawn of her? Oh, how do I -know? It was with some of their pishtrogues._) Bran was pursuing her. - - “Silly fawn leave on mountain,” - -said Finn. “Oh, young son,” said she, “how shall I escape?— - - “If I go in the sea beneath - I never shall come back again, - And if I go in the air above - My swiftness is no match for Bran.” - -“Go out between my two legs,” said Finn. - -She went between his two legs, and Bran followed her; and as Bran went -out under him, Finn squeezed his two knees on her and killed her. - -Bran had a daughter. That pup was a black hound, and the Fenians reared -it; and they told the woman who had a charge of the pup to give it the -milk of a cow without a single spot, and to give it every single drop, -and not to keep back one tint[17] from her. The woman did not do that, -but kept a portion of the milk without giving it to the pup. - -The first day that the Fenians loosed out the young hound, there was a -glen full of wild-geese and other birds; and when the black hound was -loosed amongst them, she caught them all except a very few that went -out on a gap that was in it. (_And how could she catch the wild-geese? -Wouldn’t they fly away in the air? She caught them, then. That’s how I -heard it._) And only that the woman kept back some of the milk from her, -she would have killed them all. - -There was a man of the Fenians, a blind man, and when the pup was let -out, he asked the people near him how did the young hound do. They told -him that the young hound killed all the wild-geese and birds that were -in the glen, but a few that went out on a gap. “If she had to get all -the milk that came from the cow without spot,” says the blind man, “she -wouldn’t let a bird at all go from her.” And he asked then “how was the -hound coming home?” “She’s coming now,” said they, “and a fiery cloud out -of her neck,” (_How out of her neck? Because she was going so quick._) -“and she coming madly.” - -“Grant me my request now,” said the blind man. “Put me sitting in the -chair, and put a coal[18](?) in my hand; for unless I kill her she’ll -kill us.” - -The hound came, and he threw the coal at her and killed her, and he blind. - -But if that pup had to get all the milk, she’d come and she’d lie down -quietly, the same as Bran used to lie ever. - - - - -MAC RIĠ ÉIREANN. - - -Ḃí mac ríġ i n-Éirinn, fad ó ṡoin, agus ċuaiḋ sé amaċ agus ṫug sé a ġunna -’s a ṁadaḋ leis. Ḃí sneaċta amuiġ. Ṁarḃ sé fiaċ duḃ. Ṫuit an fiaċ duḃ air -an tsneaċta. Ní ḟacaiḋ sé aon rud buḋ ġile ’ná an sneaċta, ná buḋ ḋuiḃe -’ná cloigionn an ḟiaiċ ḋuiḃ, ná buḋ ḋeirge ’ná a ċuid fola ḃí ’gá dórtaḋ -amaċ. - -Ċuir sé faoi geasaiḃ agus deimúġ (_sic_) na bliaḋna naċ n-íosaḋ sé ḋá -ḃiaḋ i n-aon ḃord, ná ḋá oiḋċe do ċoḋlaḋ ann aon teaċ, go ḃfáġaḋ sé bean -a raiḃ a cloigionn ċoṁ duḃ leis an ḃfiaċ duḃ, agus a croicionn ċoṁ geal -leis an tsneaċta, agus a ḋá ġruaiḋ ċoṁ dearg le fuil. - -Ni raiḃ aon ḃean ann san doṁan mar sin, aċt aon ḃean aṁáin a ḃí ann san -doṁan ṡoir. - -Lá air na ṁáraċ ġaḃ sé amaċ, agus ní raiḃ airgiod fairsing, aċt ṫug sé -leis fiċe púnta. Ní fada ċuaiḋ sé gur casaḋ socraoid dó, agus duḃairt -sé go raiḃ sé ċoṁ maiṫ ḋó trí ċoiscéim ḋul leis an g-corpán. Ní raiḃ na -trí ċoiscéim siúḃalta aige go dtáinig fear agus leag sé a reasta air an -g-corp air ċúig ṗúnta. Ḃí dlíġeaḋ i n-Eirinn an t-am sin, duinea ir biṫ a -raiḃ fiaċa aige air ḟear eile, naċ dtiucfaḋ le muinntir an ḟir sin a ċur, -dá mbeiḋeaḋ sé marḃ, gan na fiaċa d’íoc, no gan cead ó’n duine a raiḃ -na fiaċa sin aige air an ḃfear marḃ. Nuair ċonnairc Mac Ríġ Éireann mic -agus inġeana an duine ṁairḃ ag caoineaḋ, agus iad gan an t-airgiod aca le -taḃairt do ’n ḟear, duḃairt sé leis fein, “is mór an ṫruaġ é naċ ḃfuil -an t-airgiod ag na daoiniḃ boċta.” agus ċuir sé a láṁ ann a ṗóca agus -d’íoc sé féin na cúig ṗúnta, air son an ċuirp. Duḃairt sé go raċfaḋ sé -ċum an teampoill ann sin, go ḃfeicfeaḋ sé curṫa é. Ṫáinig fear eile ann -sin, agus leag sé a reasta air an g-corp air son cúig ṗúnta eile. “Mar -ṫug mé na ceud ċúig ṗúnta,” ar Mac Ríġ Éireann leis féin, “tá sé ċoṁ maiṫ -ḋam cúig ṗúnta eile ṫaḃairt anois, agus an fear boċt do leigean dul ’san -uaiġ.” D’íoc sé na cúig ṗúnta eile. Ní raiḃ aige ann sin aċt deiċ bpúnta. - -Níor ḃfada ċuaiḋ sé gur casaḋ fear gearr glas dó agus d’ḟiafruiġ sé ḋé cá -raiḃ sé dul. Duḃairt sé go raiḃ sé dul ag iarraiḋ mná ’san doṁan ṡoir. -D’ḟiafruiġ an fear gearr glas dé, an raiḃ buaċaill teastál uaiḋ, agus -duḃairt sé go raiḃ, agus cad é an ṗáiḋe ḃeiḋeaḋ sé ag iarraiḋ. Duḃairt -seisean “an ċeud ṗóg air a ṁnaoi, dá ḃfáġaḋ sé í.” Duḃairt Mac Ríġ -Éireann go g-caiṫfeaḋ sé sin ḟáġail. - -Níor ḃfada ċuaiḋ siad gur casaḋ fear eile ḋóiḃ agus a ġunna ann a láiṁ, -agus é ag “leiḃléaraċt” air an londuḃ a ḃí ṫall ’san doṁan ṡoir, go -mbeiḋeaḋ sé aige le n-aġaiḋ a ḋinéir. Duḃairt an fear gearr glas le Mac -Ríġ Éireann gó raiḃ sé ċoṁ maiṫ ḋó an fear sin ġlacaḋ air aimsir, da -raċfaḋ sé air aimsir leis. D’ḟiafruiġ Mac Ríġ Eireann an dtiucfaḋ sé air -aimsir leis. - -“Raċfad,” ar san fear, “má ḃfáġ’ mé mo ṫuarastal.” - -“Agus cad é an tuarastal ḃéiḋeas tu ’g iarraiḋ?” - -“Áit tíġe agus garḋa.” - -“Geoḃaiḋ tu sin uaim, má éiriġeann mo ṫuras liom.” - -D’imṫiġ Mac Ríġ Eireann leis an ḃfear glas agus leis an ngunnaire, agus -ní fada ċuaiḋ síad gur casaḋ fear dóiḃ, agus a ċluas leagṫa air an talaṁ, -agus é ag éisteaċt leis an ḃfeur ag fás. - -“Tá sé ċoṁ maiṫ ḋuit an fear sin ġlacaḋ air aimsir,” ar san fear gearr -glas. - -D’ḟiafruiġ Mac Ríġ Eireann de ’n ḟear an dtiucfaḋ sé leis air aimsir. - -“Tiucfad má ḃfáġ mé áit tiġe agus garḋa.” - -“Geoḃaiḋ tu sin uaim má éiriġeann an rud atá ann mo ċeann liom.” - -Ċuaiḋ Mac Riġ Eireann, an fear gearr glas, an gunnaire, agus an -cluasaire, agus ní fada ċuaiḋ siad gur casaḋ fear eile ḋóiḃ agus a -leaṫ-ċos air a ġualainn, agus é ag congḃáil páirce geirrḟiaḋ gan aon -ġeirrḟiaḋ leigean asteaċ ná amaċ. Ḃí iongantas air Ṁac Ríġ Eireann agus -d’ḟiafruiġ sé cad é an ċiall a raiḃ a leaṫ-ċos air a ġualainn mar sin. - -“O,” ar seisean, “dá mbeiḋeaḋ mo ḋá ċois agam air an talam ḃeiḋinn ċoṁ -luaṫ sin go raċfainn as aṁarc.” - -“An dtiucfaiḋ tu air aimsir liom,” ar san Mac Riġ. - -“Tiucfad, má ḃfáġ’ mé áit tiġe agus garḋa.” - -“Geoḃaiḋ tu sin uaim,” ar Mac Ríġ Éireann, “má éiriġeann an rud atá ann -mo ċeann, liom.” - -Ċuaiḋ Mac Riġ Eireann, an fear gearr glas, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, -agus an coisire air aġaiḋ, agus níor ḃfada go dtáncadar go fear agus é ag -cur muilinn gaoiṫe ṫart le na leaṫṗolláire, agus a ṁeur leagṫa aige air a -ṡrón ag druidim na polláire eile. - -“Cad ċuige ḃfuil do ṁeur agad air do ṡrón?” ar Mac Ríġ Eireann leis. - -“O,” ar seisean, “dá séidfinn as mo ḋá ṗolláire do sguabfainn an muileann -amaċ as sin suas ’san aer.” - -“An dtiucfaiḋ tu air aimsir?” - -“Tiucfad, má ḃfáġ’ mé áit tiġe agus garḋa.” - -“Geoḃaiḋ tu sin, má éiriġeann an rud atá ann mo ċeann liom.” - -Ċuaiḋ Mac Riġ Eireann, an fear gearr glas, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, an -coisire, agus an séidire go dtáncadar go fear a ḃí ’nna ṡuiḋe air ṫaoiḃ -an ḃoṫair, agus é ag briseaḋ cloċ le na leaṫ-ṫóin agus ní raiḃ casúr ná -dadaṁ aige. D’ḟiafruiġ an Mac Ríġ ḋé, cad ċuige a raiḃ sé ag briseaḋ na -g-cloċ le na leaṫ-ṫóin. - -“O,” ar seisean, “dá mbualfainn leis an tóin ḋúbalta iad ḋeunfainn púġdar -díoḃ.” - -“An dtiucfaiḋ tu air aimsir liom?” - -“Tuicfad, má ḃfaġ’ mé áit tíġe agus garḋa.” - -D’imṫiġ siad uile ann sin, Mac Ríġ Eireann, an fear gearr glas, an -gunnaire, an cluasaire, an coisire, an séidire, agus fear briste na -g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna agus ḃeurfaḋ siad air an ngaoiṫ Ṁárta a ḃí rompa -agus an ġaoṫ Ṁárta a ḃí ’nna n-diaiġ ní ḃéurfaḋ sí orra-san go dtáinig -traṫnóna agus deireaḋ an laé. - -Ḍearc Mac Ríġ Éireann uaiḋ agus ní ḟacaiḋ sé aon teaċ a mbeiḋeaḋ sé ann -an oiḋċe sin. Ḍearc an fear gearr glas uaiḋ agus ċonnairc sé teaċ naċ -raiḃ bonn cleite amaċ air, ná bárr cleite asteaċ air, aċt aon ċleite -aṁáin a ḃí ag congḃáil dídinn agus fasgaiḋ air. Duḃairt mac ríġ Éireann -naċ raiḃ ḟios aige cá ċaiṫfeaḋ siad an oiḋċe sin, agus duḃairt an fear -gearr glas go mbeiḋeaḋ siad i dṫeaċ an ḟaṫaiġ ṫall an oiḋċe sin. - -Ṫáinig siad ċum an tiġe, agus ṫarraing an fear gearr glas an cuaille -cóṁraic agus níor ḟág sé leanḃ i mnaoi searraċ i g-capall, pigín i muic, -ná broc i ngleann nár iompuiġ sé ṫart trí uaire iad le méad an torain do -ḃain sé as an g-cuaille cóṁraic. Ṫáinig an faṫaċ amaċ agus duḃairt sé -“moṫuiġim bolaḋ an Éireannaiġ ḃinn ḃreugaiġ faoi m’ḟóidín dúṫaiġ.” - -“Ní Éireannaċ binn breugaċ mise,” ar san fear gearr glas, “aċt tá mo -ṁáiġistir amuiġ ann sin ag ceann an ḃóṫair agus má ṫagann sé bainfiḋ -sé an ceann díot.” Ḃí an fear gearr glas ag meuduġaḋ, agus ag meuduġaḋ -go raiḃ sé faoi ḋeireaḋ ċoṁ mór leis an g-caisleán. Ḃí faitċios air an -ḃfaṫaċ agus duḃairt sé, “Ḃfuil do ṁáiġistir ċoṁ mór leat féin?” - -“Tá,” ar san fear gearr glas, “agus níos mó.” - -“Cuir i ḃfolaċ mé go maidin go n-imṫiġeann do ṁáiġistir,” ar san faṫaċ. - -Ċuir sé an faṫaċ faoi ġlas, ann sin, agus ċuaiḋ sé ċum a ṁáiġistir. - -Ṫáinig mac ríġ Éireann, an fear gearr glas, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, an -séidire, an coisire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna, asteaċ -’san g-caisleán, agus ċaiṫ siad an oiḋċe sin, trian dí le fiannaiġeaċt -agus trian le sgeuluiġeaċt, agus trian le soirm (_sic_) sáiṁ suain agus -fíor-ċodalta. - -Nuair d’ éiriġ an lá air na ṁáraċ ṫug sé leis a ṁáiġistir agus an -gunnaire, agus an cluasaire, agus an coisire, agus an séidire, agus -fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna, agus d’ḟág sé amuiġ ag ceann an -ḃóṫair iad, agus ṫáinig sé féin air ais agus ḃain sé an glas de ’n ḟaṫaċ. -Duḃairt sé leis an ḃfaṫaċ gur ċuir a ṁáiġistir air ais é i g-coinne an -ḃirréid ḋuiḃ a ḃí faoi ċolḃa a leabuiḋ. Duḃairt an faṫaċ go dtiuḃraḋ sé -hata ḋó nár ċaiṫ sé féin ariaṁ, aċt go raiḃ náire air, an sean-ḃirreud do -ṫaḃairt dó. Duḃairt an fear gearr glas muna dtiuḃraḋ sé an birreud dó go -dtiucfaḋ a ṁáiġistir air ais, agus go mbainfeaḋ sé an ceann dé. - -“Is fearr dam a ṫaḃairt duit,” ar san faṫaċ, “agus uair air biṫ a -ċuirfeas tu air do ċeann é, feicfiḋ tu uile ḋuine agus ni ḟeicfiḋ duine -air biṫ ṫu.” Ṫug sé ḋó an birreud ann sin, agus ċuaiḋ an fear gearr glas -agus ṫug sé do ṁaċ ríġ Éireann é. - -Ḃí siad ag imṫeaċt ann sin. Do ḃéarfaḋ siad air an ngaoiṫ Ṁárta do ḃí -rómpa, agus an ġaoṫ Ṁárta do ḃí ’nna ndiaiġ ní ḃéarfaḋ sí orra-san, ag -dul do’n doṁan ṡoir. Nuair ṫáinig traṫnóna agus deireaḋ an lae ḋearc mac -ríġ Eireann uaiḋ agus ní ḟacaiḋ sé aon áit a mbeiḋeaḋ sé ann an oiḋċe -sin. Ḍearc an fear gearr glas uaiḋ, agus ċonnairc sé caisleán, agus -duḃairt sé, “an faṫaċ atá ann san g-caisleán sin, is dearḃráṫair do’n -ḟaṫaċ a raḃamar aréir aige, agus béiḋmíd ann san g-caisleán sin anoċt.” -Ṫáinig siad, agus d’ḟág sé mac ríġ Eireann agus a ṁuinntir ag ceann -an ḃóṫair agus ċuaiḋ sé ċum an ċaisleáin, agus ṫarraing sé an cuaille -cóṁraic, agus níor ḟág sé leanḃ i mnaoi ná searraċ i g-capall ná pigín i -muic ná broc i ngleann, i ḃfoigse seaċt míle ḋó, nár ḃain sé trí iompóḋ -asta leis an méad torain a ṫug sé as an g-cuaille cóṁraic. - -Ṫáinig an faṫaċ amaċ, agus duḃairt sé, “Moṫuiġim bolaḋ an Éireannaiġ ḃinn -ḃreugaiġ faoi m’ḟóidín dúṫaiġ.” - -“Ní Eireannaċ binn breugaċ mise,” ar san fear gearr glas, “aċt tá mo -ṁáiġistir amuiġ ann sin ag ceann an ḃóṫair, agus má ṫagann sé bainfiḋ sé -an ceann díot.” - -“Is mór líom ḋe ġreim ṫu, agus is beag liom de ḋá ġreim ṫu,” ar san faṫaċ. - -“Ní ḃfuiġfiḋ tu mé de ġreim air biṫ,” ar san fear gearr glas, agus ṫoisiġ -sé ag meuduġaḋ go raiḃ sé ċoṁ mór leis an g-caisleán. - -Ṫáinig faitċios air an ḃfaṫaċ agus duḃairt sé, “ḃfuil do ṁáiġistir ċoṁ -mór leat-sa?” - -“Tá agus níos mó,” ar san fear beag glas. - -“Cuir i ḃfolaċ mé go maidin go n-imṫiġeann do ṁáiġistir,” ar san faṫaċ, -“agus rud air biṫ atá tu ag iarraiḋ caiṫfiḋ tu a ḟáġail.” - -Ṫug sé an faṫaċ leis, agus ċaiṫ sé faoi ḃeul daḃaiċ é. Ċuaiḋ se amaċ agus -ṫug sé asteaċ mac ríġ Eireann, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, an séidire, an -coisire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna, agus ċaiṫ siad an -oiḋċe ann sin, trian le fiannuiġeaċt trian le sgeulaiġeaċt agus trian le -soirm sáiṁ suain agus fíor-ċodalta, go dti an ṁaidin. - -Air maidin, lá air na ṁáraċ, ṫug an fear gearr glas mac ríġ Eireann agus -a ṁuinntir amaċ as an g-caisleán agus d’ḟág sé ag ceann an ḃóṫair iad, -agus ṫáinig sé féin air ais agus d’iarr sé na sean-slipéaraiḋ a ḃi faoi -ċolḃa an leabuiḋ, air an ḃfaṫaċ. Duḃairt an faṫaċ go dtiúḃraḋ sé péire -ḃútais ċoṁ maiṫ agus ċaiṫ sé ariaṁ d’a ṁáiġistir, agus cad é an maiṫ a -ḃí ann sna sean-slipéaraiḃ! Duḃairt an fear gearr glas muna ḃfáġaḋ sé na -slipeuraiḋ go raċfaḋ sé i g-coinne a ṁáiġistir, leis an ceann do ḃaint -dé. Duḃairt an faṫaċ ann sin go dtiúḃraḋ sé ḋó iad, agus ṫug. “Am air -biṫ,” ar seisean, “a ċuirfeas tu na slipeuraiḋ sin ort, agus ’haiġ óiḃir’ -do ráḋ, áit air biṫ a ḃfuil súil agad do ḋul ann, béiḋ tu innti.” - -D’imṫiġ mac ríġ Eireann agus an fear gearr glas, agus an gunnaire, agus -an cluasaire, agus an coisire, agus an séidire, agus fear briste na -g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna, go dtáinig traṫnóna agus deireaḋ an laé; agus go -raiḃ an capall ag dul faoi sgáṫ na copóige agus ní fanfaḋ an ċopóg leis. -D’ḟiafruiġ mac ríġ Eireann de’n ḟear gearr glas ann sin, cá ḃeiḋeaḋ siad -an oiḋċe sin, agus duḃairt an fear gearr glas go mbeiḋeaḋ siad i dteaċ -dearḃráṫar an ḟaṫaiġ ag a raiḃ siad areir. Ḍearc mac ríġ Eireann uaiḋ -agus ni ḟacaiḋ sé dadaṁ. Ḍearc an fear gearr glas uaiḋ agus ċonnairc sé -caisleán mór. D’ḟágḃaiġ sé mac ríġ Eireann agus a ṁuinntir ann sin agus -ċuaiḋ sé ċum an ċaisleáin leis féin, agus ṫarraing sé an cuaille cóṁraic, -agus níor ḟágḃaiġ sé leanḃ i mnaoi, searraċ i láir, pigín i muic, na broc -i ngleann, nár ṫionntuiġ sé ṫart trí uaire leis an méad torain a ḃain sé -as an g-cuaille cóṁraic. Ṫáinig an faṫaċ amaċ agus duḃairt sé, “moṫuiġim -bolaḋ an Éireannaiġ ḃinn ḃreugaiġ faoi m’ḟóidín dúṫaiġ.” - -“Ní Éireannaċ binn breugaċ mise,” ar san fear gearr glas, “aċt tá mo -ṁáiġistir ’nna ṡeasaṁ ann sin, ag ceann an ḃóṫair, agus má ṫagann sé -bainfiḋ sé an ceann díot.” - -Agus leis sin ṫosuiġ an fear gearr glas ag méaduġaḋ go raiḃ sé ċoṁ mór -leis an g-caisleán faoi ḋeireaḋ. - -Ṫáinig faitċios air an ḃfaṫaċ, agus duḃairt sé, “ḃfuil do ṁáiġistir ċoṁ -mór leat féin?” - -“Tá,” ar san fear gearr glas, “agus níos mó.” - -“O cuir mé a ḃfolaċ, cuir me i ḃfolaċ,” ar san faṫaċ, “go n-ímṫiġeann do -ṁáiġistir, agus rud air biṫ a ḃéiḋeas tu ag iarraiḋ caiṫfiḋ tu a ḟáġail.” - -Ṫug sé an faṫaċ leis agus ċuir sé faoi ḃeul daḃaiċ é, agus glas air. - -Ṫáinig sé air ais agus ṫug sé mac ríġ Éireann, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, -an coisire, an séidire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna asteaċ -leis, agus ċaiṫ siad an oiḋċe sin go rúgaċ, trian dí le fiannuiġeaċt, -agus trian dí le sgeuluiġeaċt, agus trian dí le soirm sáiṁ suain agus -fíor ċodalta. - -Air maidin, lá air na ṁáraċ, ṫug sé mac ríġ Eireann agus a ṁuinntir amaċ -agus d’ḟágḃuiġ sé ag ceann an ḃóṫair iad agus ṫáinig sé féin air ais, -agus leig sé amaċ an faṫaċ, agus duḃairt se leis an ḃfaṫaċ an cloiḋeaṁ -meirgeaċ a ḃí faoi ċolḃa a leabuiḋ do ṫaḃairt dó. Duḃairt an faṫaċ -naċ dtiúḃraḋ sé an sean-ċloiḋeaṁ sin d’ aon duine, aċt go dtiúḃraḋ sé -ḋó cloiḋeaṁ na trí faoḃar, nár ḟág fuiġeal buille ’nna ḋiaiġ, agus dá -ḃfág-faḋ sé go dtiuḃraḋ sé leis an dara ḃuille é. - -“Ní ġlacfaiḋ mé sin,” ar san fear gearr glas, “caiṫfiḋ mé an cloiḋeaṁ -meirgeaċ ḟáġail, agus muna ḃfáġ’ mé é raċfaiḋ me i g-coinne mo ṁáiġistir -agus bainfiḋ sé an ceann díot.” - -“Is fearr dam a ṫaḃairt duit,” ar san faṫaċ, “agus cia bé áit a ḃualfeas -tu buille leis an g-cloiḋeaṁ sin raċfaiḋ sé go dtí an gaineaṁ dá mbuḋ -iarann a ḃí roiṁe.” Ṫug sé an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ dó ann sin. - -Cuaiḋ mac ríġ Eireann agus an fear gearr glas, agus an gunnaire, agus an -cluasaire, agus an coisire, agus an séidire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ -le taoiḃ a ṫóna ann sin, go dtáinig traṫnóna agus deireaḋ an laé, go raiḃ -an capall ag dul faoi sgáṫ na copóige agus ní ḟanfaḋ an ċopóg leis. Ní -ḃéarfaḋ an ġaoṫ Ṁárta a ḃí rompa orra agus an ġaoṫ Ṁárta a ḃí ’nna ndiaiġ -ní rug sí orra-san, agus ḃí siad an oiḋċe sin ann san doṁan ṡoir, an áit -a raiḃ an ḃean-uasal. - -D’ ḟiafruiġ an ḃean de ṁac ríġ Eireann creud do ḃí sé ag iarraiḋ agus -duḃairt seisean go raiḃ sé ag iarraiḋ íféin mar ṁnaoi. “Caiṫfiḋ tu -m’ḟáġail,” ar sise, “má ḟuasglann tu mo ġeasa ḋíom.” - -Fuair sé a lóistín le na ċuid buaċaill ann san g-caisleán an oiḋċe sin, -agus ann san oiḋċe táinig sise agus duḃairt leis, “seó siosúr agad, agus -muna ḃfuil an siosúr sin agad air maidin amáraċ bainfiġear an ceann díot.” - -Ċuir sí biorán-suain faoi na ċeann, agus ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ, agus ċoṁ -luaṫ a’s ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ rug sí an siosúr uaiḋ agus d’ḟágḃuiġ sí é. -Ṫug sí an siosúr do’n ríġ niṁe, agus duḃairt sí leis an ríġ, an siosúr -do ḃeiṫ aige air maidin dí. D’imṫiġ sí ann sin. Nuair ḃí sí imṫiġṫe ṫuit -an ríġ niṁe ’nna ċodlaḋ agus nuair a ḃí sé ’nna ċodlaḋ ṫáinig an fear -gearr glas agus na sean-slipéaraiḋ air, agus an birreud air a ċeann, agus -an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ ann a láiṁ, agus cia bé áit a d’ḟágḃuiġ an ríġ an -siosúr fuair seisean é. Ṫug sé do ṁac ríġ Eireann é, agus nuair ṫáinig -sise air maidin d’ḟiafruiġ sí, “a ṁic ríġ Eireann ḃfuil an siosúr agad?” - -“Tá,” ar seisean. - -Ḃí tri fíċe cloigionn na ndaoine a ṫáinig ’gá h-íarraiḋ air spíciḃ -ṫimċioll an ċaisleáin agus ṡaoil sí go mbeiḋeaḋ a ċloigionn air spíce -aici i g-cuideaċt leó. - -An oiḋċe, an lá air na ṁáraċ, ṫáinig sí agus ṫug sí cíar dó, agus duḃairt -sí leis muna mbeiḋeaḋ an ċíar aige air maidin nuair a ṫiucfaḋ sí go -mbeiḋeaḋ an ceann bainte ḋé. Ċuir sí biorán-suain faoi na ċeann agus ṫuit -sé ’nna ċodlaḋ mar ṫuit sé an oiḋċe roiṁe, agus ġoid sise an ċíar léiṫe. -Ṫug sí an ċíar do’n ríġ niṁe agus duḃairt sí leis gan an ċiar do ċailleaḋ -mar ċaill sé an siosúr. Ṫáinig an fear gearr glas agus na sean-sléiparaiḋ -air a ċosaiḃ, an sean-ḃirreud air a ċeann agus an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ ann a -láiṁ, agus ní ḟacaiḋ an ríġ é go dtáinig se taoḃ ṡiar dé agus ṫug sé an -ċíar leis uaiḋ. - -Nuair ṫáiniġ an ṁaidin, ḋúisiġ mac ríġ Eireann agus ṫosuiġ sé ag caoineaḋ -na ciaire a ḃí imṫiġṫe uaiḋ. “Ná bac leis sin,” ar san fear gearr glas, -“tá sé agam-sa.” Nuair ṫáinig sise ṫug sé an ċíar dí, agus ḃí iongantas -uirri. - -Táinig sí an tríoṁaḋ oiḋċe, agus duḃairt sí le mac riġ Eireann an ceann -do cíaraḋ leis an g-cíair sin do ḃeiṫ aige ḋí, air maidin amáraċ. “Nois,” -ar sise, “ní raiḃ baoġal ort go dtí anoċt, agus má ċailleann tu an t-am -so i, tá do ċloigionn imṫiġṫe.” - -Ḃí an biorán-suain faoi na ċeann, agus ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ. Ṫáinig sise -agus ġoid sí an ċíar uaiḋ. Ṫug sí do’n ríġ niṁe í, agus duḃairt sí leis -nár ḟeud an ċíar imṫeaċt uaiḋ no go mbainfiḋe an ceann dé. Ṫug an riġ -niṁe an ċiar leis, agus ċuir sé asteaċ í i g-carraig cloiċe, agus trí -fiċe glas uirri, agus ṡuiḋ an ríġ taoiḃ amuiġ de na glasaiḃ uile ag doras -na carraige, ’gá faire. Ṫáinig an fear gearr glas, agus na slipeuraiḋ -agus an birreud air, agus an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ ann a láiṁ, agus ḃuail sé -buille air an g-carraig cloiċe agus d’ḟosgail suas í, agus ḃuail sé an -dara ḃuille air an ríġ niṁe, agus ḃain sé an ceann dé. Ṫug sé leis an -ċiar ċuig (do) mac ríġ Eireann ann sin, agus fuair sé é ann a ḋúiseaċt, -agus é ag caoineaḋ na ciaire. “Súd í do ċíar duit,” ar seisean, “tiucfaiḋ -sise air ball, agus fiafróċaiḋ sí ḋíot an ḃfuil an ċíar agad, agus -abair léiṫe go ḃfuil, agus an ceann do cíaraḋ léiṫe, agus caiṫ ċuici an -cloigionn.” - -Nuair ṫáinig sise ag fiafruiġ an raiḃ an ċiar aige, duḃairt sé go raiḃ, -agus an ceann do cíaraḋ léiṫe, agus ċaiṫ sé ceann an ríġ niṁe ċuici. - -Nuair ċonnairc sí an cloigionn ḃí fearg ṁór uirri, agus duḃairt sí -leis naċ ḃfuiġfeaḋ sé í le pósaḋ go ḃfáġaḋ sé coisire a ṡiúḃalfaḋ le -na coisire féin i g-coinne trí ḃuideul na h-íoċṡláinte as tobar an -doṁain ṡoir, agus dá mbuḋ luaiṫe a ṫáinig a coisire féin ’ná an coisire -aige-sean, go raiḃ a ċeann imṫiġṫe. - -Fuair sí sean-ċailleaċ (ḃuitse éigin) agus ṫug sí trí buideula ḋí. -Duḃairt an fear gearr glas trí ḃuideula do ṫaḃairt do’n ḟear a ḃí ag -congḃáil páirce na ngeirrḟiaḋ, agus tugaḋ ḋó iad. D’imṫiġ an ċailleaċ -agus an fear, agus trí buidéala ag gaċ aon aca, agus ḃí coisire mic ríġ -Éireann ag tíġeaċt leaṫ-ḃealaiġ air ais, sul a ḃí an ċailleaċ imṫiġṫe -leaṫ-ḃealaiġ ag dul ann. “Suiḋ síos,” ar san ċailleaċ leis an g-coisire, -“agus leig do sgíṫ, tá an ḃeirt aca pósta anois, agus ná bí briseaḋ do -ċroiḋe ag riṫ.” Ṫug sí léiṫe cloigionn capaill agus ċuir sí faoi na ċeann -é, agus biorán-suain ann, agus nuair leag sé a ċeann air, ṫuit sé ’nna -ċodlaḋ. - -Ḍóirt sise an t-uisge a ḃí aige amaċ, agus d’imṫiġ sí. - -B’ḟada leis an ḃfear gearr glas go raiḃ siad ag tíġeaċt, agus duḃairt -sé leis an g-cluasaire, “leag do ċluas air an talaṁ, agus feuċ an ḃfuil -siad ag teaċt.” “Cluinim,” ar seiseann, “an ċailleaċ ag teaċt, agus tá an -coisire ’nna ċodlaḋ, agus é ag srannfartuiġ.” - -“Dearc uait,” ar san fear gearr glas leis an ngunnaire “go ḃfeicfiḋ tu ca -ḃfuil an coisire.” - -Duḃairt an gunnaire go raiḃ sé ann a leiṫid sin d’áit, agus cloigionn -capaill faoi na ċeann, agus é ’nna ċodlaḋ. - -“Cuir do ġunna le do ṡúil,” ar san fear garr glas, “agus cuir an -cloigionn ó na ċeann.” - -Ċuir sé an gunna le na ṡúil agus sguaib sé an ċloigionn ó na ċeann. -Ḍúisiġ an coisire, agus fuair sé na buideula a ḃí aige folaṁ, agus -ḃ’éigin dó filleaḋ ċum an tobair arís. - -Ḃí an ċailleaċ ag teaċt ann sin agus ní raiḃ an coisire le feiceál -(feicsint). Ar san fear gearr glas ann sin, leis an ḃfear a ḃí ag cur an -ṁuilinn-gaoiṫe ṫart le na ṗolláire, “éiriġ suas agus feuċ an g-cuirfeá -an ċailleaċ air a h-ais.” Ċuir sé a ṁeur air a ṡrón agus nuair ḃí an -ċailleaċ ag teaċt ċuir sé séideóg gaoiṫe fúiṫi a sguaib air a h-ais í. -Ḃí sí teaċt arís agus rinne sé an rud ceudna léiṫe. Gaċ am a ḃíḋeaḋ -sise ag teaċt a ḃfogas dóiḃ do ḃíḋeaḋ seisean dá cur air a h-ais arís -leis an ngaoiṫ do ṡéideaḋ sé as a ṗolláire. Air deireaḋ ṡéid se leis an -dá ṗolláire agus sguaib sé an ċailleaċ ċum an doṁain ṡoir arís. Ṫáinig -coisire mic ríġ Eireann ann sin, agus ḃí an lá sin gnóṫuiġṫe. - -Ḃí fearg ṁór air an mnaoi nuair ċonnairc sí naċ dtáinig a coisire féin -air ais i dtosaċ, agus duḃairt sí le mac riġ Eireann, “ní ḃfuiġfiḋ -tu mise anois no go siùḃailfiḋ tu trí ṁíle gan ḃróig gan stoca, air -ṡnáṫaidiḃ cruaiḋe.” - -Ḃí bóṫar aici trí ṁíle air fad, agus snáṫaide geura cruaiḋe craiṫte air, -ċoṁ tiuġ leis an ḃfeur. Ar san fear gearr glas le fear-briste na g-cloċ -le na leaṫ-ṫóin, “téiḋ agus maol iad sin.” Ċuaiḋ an fear sin orra le na -leaṫ-ṫóin agus rinne sé stumpaiḋ ḋíoḃ. Duḃairt an fear gearr glas leis -dul orra le na ṫóin ḋúbalta. Ċuaiḋ sé orra ann sin le na ṫóin ḋúbalta, -agus rinne sé púġdar agus praiseaċ díoḃ. Ṫáinig mac ríġ Éireann agus -ṡiúḃail sé na trí ṁíle, agus ḃí a ḃean gnóṫuiġṫe aige. - -Pósaḋ an ḃeirt ann sin, agus ḃí an ċéud ṗóg le fáġail ag an ḃfear gearr -glas. Rug an fear gearr glas an ḃean leis féin asteaċ i seomra, agus -ṫosuiġ sé uirri. Ḃí sí lán ḋe naiṫreaċaiḃ niṁe, agus ḃeiḋeaḋ mac ríġ -Éireann marḃ aca, nuair a raċfaḋ sé ’nna ċodlaḋ, aċt gur ṗiuc an fear -gearr glas aisti iad. - -Ṫainig sé go mac ríġ Eireann ann sin, agus duḃairt sé leis, “Tig leat -dul le do ṁnaoi anois. Is mise an fear a ḃí ann san g-cóṁra an lá sin, -a d’íoc tu na deiċ bpúnta air a ṡon, agus an ṁuinntir seó a ḃí leat is -seirḃísíġe iad do ċuir Dia ċugad-sa.” - -D’imṫiġ an fear gearr glas agus a ṁuinntir ann sin agus ní ḟacaiḋ mac ríġ -Éireann arís é. Rug sé a ḃean aḃaile leis, agus ċaiṫ siad beaṫa ṡona le -ċéile. - - - - -THE KING OF IRELAND’S SON. - - -There was a king’s son in Ireland long ago, and he went out and took with -him his gun and his dog. There was snow out. He killed a raven. The raven -fell on the snow. He never saw anything whiter than the snow, or blacker -than the raven’s skull, or redder than its share of blood,[19] that was -a’pouring out. - -He put himself under _gassa_[20] and obligations of the year, that he -would not eat two meals at one table, or sleep two nights in one house, -until he should find a woman whose hair was as black as the raven’s head, -and her skin as white as the snow, and her two cheeks as red as the blood. - -There was no woman in the world like that; but one woman only, and she -was in the eastern world. - -The day on the morrow he set out, and money was not plenty, but he took -with him twenty pounds. It was not far he went until he met a funeral, -and he said that it was as good for him to go three steps with the -corpse. He had not the three steps walked until there came a man and left -his writ down on the corpse for five pounds. There was a law in Ireland -at that time that any man who had a debt upon another person (_i.e._, to -whom another person owed a debt) that person’s people could not bury him, -should he be dead, without paying his debts, or without the leave of the -person to whom the dead man owed the debts. When the king of Ireland’s -son saw the sons and daughters of the dead crying, and they without money -to give the man, he said to himself: “It’s a great pity that these poor -people have not the money,” and he put his hand in his pocket and paid -the five pounds himself for the corpse. After that, he said he would go -as far as the church to see it buried. Then there came another man, and -left his writ on the body for five pounds more. “As I gave the first -five pounds,” said the king of Erin’s son to himself, “it’s as good for -me to give the other five, and to let the poor man go to the grave.” He -paid the other five pounds. He had only ten pounds then. - -Not far did he go until he met a short green man, and he asked him where -was he going. He said that he was going looking for a woman in the -eastern world. The short green man asked him did he want a boy (servant), -and he said he did, and [asked] what would be the wages he would be -looking for? He said: “The first kiss of his wife if he should get her.” -The king of Ireland’s son said that he must get that. - -Not far did they go until they met another man and his gun in his hand, -and he a’levelling it at the blackbird that was in the eastern world, -that he might have it for his dinner. The short green man said to him -that it was as good for him to take that man into his service if he would -go on service with him. The son of the king of Ireland asked him if he -would come on service with him. - -“I will,” said the man, “if I get my wages.” - -“And what is the wages you’ll be looking for?” - -“The place of a house and garden.” - -“You’ll get that if my journey succeeds with me.” - -The king of Ireland’s son went forward with the short green man and the -gunner, and it was not far they went until a man met them, and his ear -left to the ground, and he listening to the grass growing. - -“It’s as good for you to take that man into your service,” said the short -green man. - -The king’s son asked the man whether he would come with him on service. - -“I’ll come if I get the place of a house and garden.” - -“You will get that from me if the thing I have in my head succeeds with -me.” - -The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, and the -earman, went forward, and it was not far they went until they met another -man, and his one foot on his shoulder, and he keeping a field of hares, -without letting one hare in or out of the field. There was wonder on the -king’s son, and he asked him “What was the sense of his having one foot -on his shoulder like that.” - -“Oh,” says he, “if I had my two feet on the ground I should be so swift -that I would go out of sight.” - -“Will you come on service with me?” said the king’s son. - -“I’ll come if I get the place of a house and garden.” - -“You’ll get that if the thing I have in my head succeeds with me.” - -The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, the -earman, and the footman, went forward, and it was not far they went till -they came to a man and he turning round a wind-mill with one nostril, and -his finger left on his nose shutting the other nostril. - -“Why have you your finger on your nose?” said the king of Ireland’s son. - -“Oh,” says he, “if I were to blow with the two nostrils I would sweep the -mill altogether out of that up into the air.” - -“Will you come on hire with me?” - -“I will if I get the place of a house and garden.” - -“You’ll get that if the thing I have in my head succeeds with me.” - -The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, the -earman, the footman, and the blowman went forward until they came to a -man who was sitting on the side of the road and he a’breaking stones with -one thigh, and he had no hammer or anything else. The king’s son asked -him why it was he was breaking stones with his half (_i.e._, one) thigh. - -“Oh,” says he, “if I were to strike them with the double thigh I’d make -powder of them.” - -“Will you hire with me?” - -“I will if I get the place of a house and garden.” - -“You’ll get that if the thing I have in my head succeeds with me.” - -Then they all went forward together—the son of the king of Ireland, the -short green man, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and -the man that broke stones with the side of his thigh, and they would -overtake the March wind that was before them, and the March wind that was -behind them would not overtake them, until the evening came and the end -of the day. - -The king of Ireland’s son looked from him, and he did not see any house -in which he might be that night. The short green man looked from him, and -he saw a house, and there was not the top of a quill outside of it, nor -the bottom of a quill inside of it, but only one quill alone, which was -keeping shelter and protection on it. The king’s son said that he did not -know where he should pass that night, and the short green man said that -they would be in the house of the giant over there that night. - -They came to the house, and the short green man drew the _coolaya-coric_ -(pole of combat), and he did not leave child with woman, foal with mare, -pigeen with pig, or badger in glen, that he did not turn over three times -with the quantity of sound he knocked out of the _coolaya-coric_. The -giant came out, and he said: “I feel the smell of the melodious lying -Irishman under (_i.e._, in) my little sod of country.” - -“I’m no melodious lying Irishman,” said the short green man; “but my -master is out there at the head of the avenue, and if he comes he will -whip the head off you.” The short green man was growing big, growing big, -until at last he looked as big as the castle. There came fear on the -giant, and he said: “Is your master as big as you?” - -“He is,” says the short green man, “and bigger.” - -“Put me in hiding till morning, until your master goes,” said the giant. - -Then he put the giant under lock and key, and went out to the king’s -son. Then the king of Ireland’s son, the gunman, the earman, the -footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his -thigh, came into the castle, and they spent that night, a third of it -a’story-telling, a third of it with Fenian tales, and a third of it in -mild enjoyment(?) of slumber and of true sleep. - -When the day on the morrow arose, the short green man brought with him -his master, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man -who broke stones with the side of his thigh, and he left them outside at -the head of the avenue, and he came back himself and took the lock off -the giant. He told the giant that his master sent him back for the black -cap that was under the head of his bed. The giant said that he would give -him a hat that he never wore himself, but that he was ashamed to give him -the old cap. The short green man said that unless he gave him the cap his -master would come back and strike the head off him. - -“It’s best for me to give it to you,” said the giant; “and any time at -all you will put it on your head you will see everybody and nobody will -see you.” He gave him the cap then, and the short green man came and gave -it to the king of Ireland’s son. - -They were a’going then. They would overtake the March wind that was -before them, and the March wind that was behind them would not overtake -them, going to the eastern world. When evening and the end of the day -came, the king of Ireland’s son looked from him, and he did not see any -house in which he might be that night. The short green man looked from -him, and he saw a castle, and he said: “The giant that is in that castle -is the brother of the giant with whom we were last night, and we shall be -in this castle to-night.” They came to the castle, and he left the king’s -son and his people at the head of the avenue, and he went to the door -and pulled the _coolaya-coric_, and he did not leave child with woman, -foal with mare, pigeen with pig, or badger in glen, within seven miles of -him, that he did not knock three turns out of them with all the sound he -knocked out of the _coolaya-coric_. - -The giant came out, and he said, “I feel the smell of a melodious lying -Irishman under my sod of country.” - -“No melodious lying Irishman am I,” says the short green man; “but my -master is outside at the head of the avenue, and if he comes he will whip -the head off you.” - -“I think you large of one mouthful, and I think you small of two -mouthfuls,” said the giant. - -“You won’t get me of a mouthful at all,” said the short green man, and he -began swelling until he was as big as the castle. There came fear on the -giant, and he said: - -“Is your master as big as you?” - -“He is, and bigger.” - -“Hide me,” said the giant, “till morning, until your master goes, and -anything you will be wanting you must get it.” - -He brought the giant with him, and he put him under the mouth of a -_douac_ (great vessel of some sort). He went out and brought in the son -of the king of Ireland, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, -and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, and they spent -that night, one-third of it telling Fenian stories, one-third telling -tales, and one-third in the mild enjoyment of slumber and of true sleep -until morning. - -In the morning, the day on the morrow, the short green man brought the -king’s son and his people out of the castle, and left them at the head -of the avenue, and he went back himself and asked the giant for the old -slippers that were left under the head of his bed. - -The giant said that he would give his master a pair of boots as good as -ever he wore; and what good was there in the old slippers? - -The short green man said that unless he got the slippers he would go for -his master to whip the head off him. - -Then the giant said that he would give them to him, and he gave them. - -“Any time,” said he, “that you will put those slippers on you, and say -‘high-over!’ any place you have a mind to go to, you will be in it.” - -The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, the -earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the -side of his thigh, went forward until evening came, and the end of the -day, until the horse would be going under the shade of the docking, -and the docking would not wait for him. The king’s son asked the short -green man where should they be that night, and the short green man said -that they would be in the house of the brother of the giant with whom -they spent the night before. The king’s son looked from him and he saw -nothing. The short green man looked from him and he saw a great castle. -He left the king’s son and his people there, and he went to the castle -by himself, and he drew the _coolaya-coric_, and he did not leave child -with woman, foal with mare, pigeen with pig, or badger in glen, but he -turned them over three times with all the sound he struck out of the -_coolaya-coric_. The giant came out, and he said: “I feel the smell of a -melodious lying Irishman under my sod of country.” - -“No melodious lying Irishman am I,” said the short green man; “but my -master is standing at the head of the avenue, and if he comes he shall -strike the head off you.” - -And with that the short green man began swelling until he was the size of -the castle at last. There came fear on the giant, and he said: “Is your -master as big as yourself?” - -“He is,” said the short green man, “and bigger.” - -“Oh! put me in hiding; put me in hiding,” said the giant, “until your -master goes; and anything you will be asking you must get it.” - -He took the giant with him, and he put him under the mouth of a _douac_, -and a lock on him. He came back, and he brought the king of Ireland’s -son, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who -broke stones with the side of his thigh, into the castle with him, and -they spent that night merrily—a third of it with Fenian tales, a third -of it with telling stories, and a third of it with the mild enjoyment of -slumber and of true sleep. - -In the morning, the day on the morrow, he brought the son of the king of -Ireland out, and his people with him, and left them at the head of the -avenue, and he came back himself and loosed out the giant, and said to -him, that he must give him the rusty sword that was under the corner of -his bed. The giant said that he would not give that old sword to anyone, -but that he would give him the sword of the three edges that never left -the leavings of a blow behind it, or if it did, it would take it with the -second blow. - -“I won’t have that,” said the short green man, “I must get the rusty -sword; and if I don’t get that, I must go for my master, and he shall -strike the head off you.” - -“It is better for me to give it to you,” said the giant, “and whatever -place you will strike a blow with that sword, it will go to the sand -(_i.e._, cut to the earth) though it were iron were before it.” Then he -gave him the rusty sword. - -The son of the king of Ireland, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the -blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, went -forward after that, until evening came, and the end of the day, until the -horse was going under the shade of the docking, and the docking would -not wait for him. The March wind that was behind them would not overtake -them, and they would overtake the wind of March that was before them, and -they were that night (arrived) in the eastern world, where was the lady. - -The lady asked the king of Ireland’s son what it was he wanted, and he -said that he was looking for herself as wife. - -“You must get me,” said she, “if you loose my geasa[21] off me.” - -He got lodging with all his servants in the castle that evening, and in -the night she came and said to him, “Here is a scissors for you, and -unless you have that scissors for me to-morrow morning, the head will be -struck off you.” - -She placed a pin of slumber under his head, and he fell into his sleep, -and as soon as he did, she came and took the scissors from him and left -him there. She gave the scissors to the King of Poison,[22] and she -desired the king to have the scissors for her in the morning. Then she -went away. When she was gone the King of Poison fell into his sleep; and -when he was in his sleep the short green man came, and the old slippers -on him, and the cap on his head, and the rusty sword in his hand, and -wherever it was the king had left the scissors out of his hand, he found -it. He gave it to the king of Ireland’s son, and when she (the lady) came -in the morning, she asked; “Son of the king of Ireland, have you the -scissors?” - -“I have,” said he. - -There were three scores of skulls of the people that went to look for her -set on spikes round about the castle, and she thought that she would have -his head on a spike along with them. - -On the night of the next day she came and gave him a comb, and said to -him unless he had that comb for her next morning when she would come, -that the head should be struck off him. She placed a pin of slumber under -his head, and he fell into his sleep as he fell the night before, and she -stole the comb with her. She gave the comb to the King of Poison, and -said to him not to lose the comb as he lost the scissors. The short green -man came with the old slippers on his feet, the old cap on his head, and -the rusty sword in his hand; and the king did not see him until he came -behind him and took away the comb with him. - -When the king of Ireland’s son rose up the next morning he began crying -for the comb, which was gone from him. “Don’t mind that,” said the short -green man: “I have it.” When she came he gave her the comb, and there was -wonder on her. - -She came the third night, and said to the son of the king of Ireland to -have for her the head of him who was combed with that comb, on the morrow -morning. “Now,” said she, “there was no fear of you until this night; but -if you lose it this time, your head is gone.” - -The pin of slumber was under his head, and he fell into his sleep. She -came and stole the comb from him. She gave it to the King of Poison, -and she said to him that he could not lose it unless the head should be -struck off himself. The King of Poison took the comb with him, and he put -it into a rock of stone and three score of locks on it, and the king sat -down himself outside of the locks all, at the door of the rock, guarding -it. The short green man came, and the slippers and the cap on him, and -the rusty sword in his hand, and he struck a stroke on the stone rock and -he opened it up, and he struck the second stroke on the King of Poison, -and he struck the head off him. He brought back with him then the comb -to the king’s son, and he found him awake, and weeping after the comb. -“There is your comb for you,” said he; “she will come this now,[23] and -she will ask you have you the comb, and tell her that you have, and the -head that was combed with it, and throw her the skull.” - -When she came asking if he had the comb, he said he had, and the head -that was combed with it, and he threw her the head of the King of Poison. - -When she saw the head there was great anger on her, and she told him he -never would get her to marry until he got a footman (runner) to travel -with her runner for three bottles of the healing-balm out of the well of -the western world; and if her own runner should come back more quickly -than his runner, she said his head was gone. - -She got an old hag—some witch—and she gave her three bottles. The short -green man bade them give three bottles to the man who was keeping the -field of hares, and they were given to him. The hag and the man started, -and three bottles with each of them; and the runner of the king’s son was -coming back half way on the road home, while the hag had only gone half -way to the well. “Sit down,” said the hag to the foot-runner, when they -met, “and take your rest, for the pair of them are married now, and don’t -be breaking your heart running.” She brought over a horse’s head and a -slumber-pin in it, and laid it under his head, and when he laid down his -head on it he fell asleep. She spilt out the water he had and she went. - -The short green man thought it long until they were coming, and he said -to the earman, “Lay your ear to the ground and try are they coming.” - -“I hear the hag a’coming,” said he; “but the footman is in his sleep, and -I hear him a’snoring.” - -“Look from you,” said the short green man to the gunman, “till you see -where the foot-runner is.” - -The gunman looked, and he said that the footman was in such and such a -place, and a horse’s skull under his head, and he in his sleeping. - -“Lay your gun to your eye,” said the short green man, “and put the skull -away from under his head.” - -He put the gun to his eye and he swept the skull from under his head. The -footman woke up, and he found that the bottles which he had were empty, -and it was necessary for him to return to the well again. - -The hag was coming then, and the foot-runner was not to be seen. Says -the short green man to the man who was sending round the windmill with -his nostril: “Rise up and try would you put back that hag.” He put his -finger to his nose, and when the hag was coming he put a blast of wind -under her that swept her back again. She was coming again, and he did the -same thing to her. Every time she used to be coming near them he would be -sending her back with the wind he would blow out of his nostril. At last -he blew with the two nostrils and swept the hag back to the western world -again. Then the foot-runner of the king of Ireland’s son came, and that -day was won. - -There was great anger on the woman when she saw that her own foot-runner -did not arrive first, and she said to the king’s son: “You won’t get me -now till you have walked three miles, without shoes or stockings, on -steel needles.” She had a road three miles long, and sharp needles of -steel shaken on it as thick as the grass, and their points up. Said the -short green man to the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh: -“Go and blunt those.” That man went on them with one thigh, and he made -stumps of them. He went on them with the double thigh, and he made powder -and _prashuch_ of them. The king of Ireland’s son came and walked the -three miles, and then he had his wife gained. - -The couple were married then, and the short green man was to have the -first kiss. The short green man took the wife with him into a chamber, -and he began on her. She was full up of serpents, and the king’s son -would have been killed with them when he went to sleep, but that the -short green man picked them out of her. - -He came then to the son of the king of Ireland, and he told him: “You can -go with your wife now. I am the man who was in the coffin that day, for -whom you paid the ten pounds; and these people who are with you, they are -servants whom God has sent to you.” - -The short green man and his people went away then, and the king of -Ireland’s son never saw them again. He brought his wife home with him, -and they spent a happy life with one another. - - - - -AN ALP-LUACHRA. - - -Bhi scológ ṡaiḋḃir a g-Connaċtaiḃ aon uair aṁáin, agus ḃí maoin go -leór aige, agus bean ṁaiṫ agus muiríġin ḃreáġ agus ní raiḃ dadaṁ ag -cur buaiḋreaḋ ná trioblóide air, agus ḋeurfá féin go raiḃ sé ’nna ḟear -compórtaṁail sásta, agus go raiḃ an t-áḋ air, ċoṁ maiṫ agus air ḋuine -air biṫ a ḃí beó. Bhí sé mar sin gan ḃrón gan ḃuaiḋreaḋ air feaḋ móráin -bliaḋain i sláinte ṁaiṫ agus gan tinneas ná aicíd air féin ná air a -ċloinn, no go dtáinig lá breáġ annsan ḃfóġṁar, a raiḃ sé dearcaḋ air a -ċuid daoine ag deunaṁ féir annsan moínḟeur a ḃí a n-aice le na ṫeaċ féin, -agus mar ḃí an lá ro ṫeiṫ d’ól sé deoċ bláṫaiċe agus ṡín sé é féin siar -air an ḃfeur úr bainte, agus mar ḃí sé sáruiġṫe le teas an laé agus leis -an obair a ḃí sé ag deunaṁ, do ṫuit sé gan ṁoill ’nna ċodlaḋ, agus d’ḟan -sé mar sin air feaḋ tri no ceiṫre uair no go raiḃ an feur uile crapṫa -agus go raiḃ a ḋaoine oibre imṫiġṫe as an bpáirc. - -Nuair ḋúisiġ sé ann sin, ṡuiḋ sé suas air a ṫóin, agus ní raiḃ ḟios aige -cia an áit a raiḃ sé, no gur ċuiṁniġ sé faoi ḋeire gur annsan ḃpáirc air -ċúl a ṫíge féin do ḃí sé ’nna luiḋe. D’éiriġ sé ann sin agus ċuaiḋ sé air -ais ċum a ṫiġe féin, agus air n-imṫeaċt dó, ṁoṫaiġ sé mar ṗian no mar -ġreim ann a ḃoilg. Níor ċuir sé suim ann, aċt ṡuiḋ sé síos ag an teine -agus ṫosuiġ sé ’gá ṫéiġeaḋ féin. - -“Cá raiḃ tu?” ars an inġean leis. - -“Bhí mé mo ċodlaḋ,” ar seisean, “air an ḃfeur úr ann sa’ bpáirc ’nna raiḃ -siad ag deunaṁ an ḟéir.” - -“Creud a ḃain duit,” ar sise, “ní ḟéuċann tu go maiṫ.” - -“Muire! maiseaḋ! ni’l ḟios agam,” ar seisean, “aċt tá faitċios orm go -ḃfuil rud éigin orm, is aisteaċ a ṁoṫaiġim me féin, ní raiḃ mé mar sin -ariaṁ roiṁe seó, aċt béiḋ mé níos fearr nuair a ḃfuiġfiḋ mé codlaḋ maiṫ.” - -Chuaiḋ sé d’á leabuiḋ agus luiḋ sé síos agus ṫuit sé ann a ċodlaḋ, agus -níor ḋúisiġ sé go raiḃ an ġrian árd. D’éiriġ sé ann sin agus duḃairt a -ḃean leis, “Creud do ḃí ort nuair rinn’ tu codlaḋ ċoṁ fada sin?” - -“Níl ḟios agam,” ar seisean. - -Chuaiḋ sé annsan g-cisteanaċ, n’áit a ḃí a inġean ag deunaṁ cáca le -h-aġaiḋ an ḃreác-fast (biaḋ na maidne), agus duḃairt sise leis, “Cia an -ċaoi ḃfuil tu andiú, ḃfuil aon ḃiseaċ ort a aṫair?” - -“Fuair mé codlaḋ maiṫ,” ar seisean, “aċt ní’l mé blas níos fearr ’ná ḃí -mé aréir, agus go deiṁin dá g-creidfeá mé, saoilim go ḃfuil rud éigin -astiġ ionnam, ag riṫ anonn ’s anall ann mo ḃoilg o ṫaoiḃ go taoiḃ.” - -“Ara ní féidir,” ar s an inġean, “is slaiġdeán a fuair tu ad’ luiġe -amuiġ ané air an ḃfeur úr, agus muna ḃfuil tu níos fearr annsan traṫnóna -cuirfimíd fios air an doċtúir.” - -Ṫáinig an traṫnóna, aċt ḃí an duine boċt annsan gcaoi ċeudna, agus -b’éigin dóiḃ fios ċur air an doċtúir. Bhí sé ag ráḋ go raiḃ pian air, -agus naċ raiḃ ḟios aige go ceart cad é an áit ann a raiḃ an ṗian, agus -nuair naċ raiḃ an doċtúir teaċt go luaṫ ḃí sgannruġaḋ mór air. Bhí -muinntir an tiġe ag deunaṁ uile ṡóirt d’ḟeud siad ḋeunaṁ le meisneaċ a -ċur ann. - -Ṫáinig an doċtúir faoi ḋeire, agus d’ḟiafruiġ sé ḋé creud do ḃí air, agus -duḃairt seisean arís go raiḃ rud éigin mar éinín ag léimniġ ann a ḃolg. -Noċtuiġ an doċtúir é agus rinne sé ḃreaṫnuġaḋ maiṫ air, aċt ní ḟacaiḋ sé -dadaṁ a ḃí as an m-bealaċ leis. Chuir sé a ċluas le na ṫaoiḃ agus le na -ḋruim, aċt níor ċualaiḋ sé rud air biṫ ciḋ gó raiḃ an duine boċt é féin -ag ráḋ—“Anois! Nois! naċ g-cluinn tu é? Nois! naċ ḃfuil tu ’g éisteaċt -leis, ag léimniġ?” Aċt níor ṫug an doċtúir rud aír biṫ faoi deara, agus -ṡaoil sé faoi ḋeire go raiḃ an fear as a ċéill, agus naċ raiḃ dadaṁ air. - -Duḃairt sé le mnaoi an tiġe nuair ṫáinig sé amaċ, naċ raiḃ aon rud -air a fear, aċt gur ċreid sé féin go raiḃ sé tinn, agus go g-cuirfeaḋ -sé druganna ċuige an lá air na ṁáraċ a ḃéarfaḋ codlaḋ maiṫ ḋó, agus a -ṡoċróċaḋ teas a ċuirp. Rinne sé sin, agus ṡluig an duine boċt na druganna -uile agus fuair sé codlaḋ mór arís aċt nuair ḋúisiġ sé air maidin ḃí sé -níos measa ’ná ’riaṁ, aċt duḃairt sé nár ċualaiḋ sé an rud ag léimniġ -taoḃ astiġ ḋé anois. - -Chuir siad fios air an doċtúir arís, agus ṫáinig se aċt níor ḟeud sé rud -air biṫ ḋeunaṁ. D’ḟág sé druganna eile leis an ḃfear, agus duḃairt sé go -dtiucfaḋ sé arís i g-ceann seaċtṁuine eile le na ḟeicsint. Ní ḃfuair an -duine boċt fóiriġín air biṫ as ar ḟág an doċtúir leis, agus nuair dáinig -an doċtúir arís fuair sé é níos measa na roiṁe sin; aċt níor ḟeud sé aon -rud ḋéanaṁ agus ní raiḃ ḟios air biṫ aige cad é’n cineál tinnis do ḃí -air. “Ní ḃéiḋ mé ag glacaḋ d’airgid uait feasta,” ar seisean, le mnaoi an -tíġe, “mar naċ dtig liom rud air biṫ ḋéanaṁ annsan g-cúis seó; agus mar -naċ dtuigim creud atá air, ní leigfiḋ mé orm é do ṫuigsint. Tiucfaiḋ mé -le na ḟeicsint ó am go h-am aċt ní ġlacfaiḋ mé aon airgioḋ uait.” - -Is air éigin d’ḟeud an ḃean an ḟearg do ḃí uirri do ċongṁáil asteaċ. -Nuair ḃí an doċtúir imṫiġṫe ċruinniġ sí muinntir an tiġe le ċéile agus -ġlac siad cóṁairle, “An doċtúir bradaċ sin,” ar sise, “ní fiú traiṫnín -é. Ḃfuil ḟios aguiḃ creud duḃairt sé? naċ nglacfaḋ sé aon airgiod uainn -feasta, agus duḃairt sé naċ raiḃ eólas air ḃiṫ aige air dadaṁ. ’Suf’ air! -an biṫeaṁnaċ! ní ṫiucfaiḋ sé ṫar an tairseaċ só go bráṫ. Raċfamaoid go -dtí an doċtúir eile, má tá sé níos faide uainn, féin, is cuma liom sin, -caiṫfimíd a ḟáġail.” Bhí uile ḋuine a ḃí annsa teaċ air aon ḟocal léiṫe, -agus ċuir siad fios air an doċtuir eile, agus nuair ṫáinig sé ní raiḃ -aon eólas do ḃ’ ḟearr aige-sean ’ná do ḃí ag an g-ceud-ḋoċtúir aċt aṁáin -go raiḃ eólas go leór aige air a n-airgiod do ġlacaḋ. Ṫáinig sé leis -an duine tinn d’ḟeicsint, go minic, agus gaċ am a ṫáinig se do ḃí ainm -eile aige níos faide ’na a ċéile air a ṫinneas, ainmneaċa (anmanna) nár -ṫuig sé féin, ná duine air biṫ eile, aċt ḃí siad aige le sgannruġaḋ na -n-daoine. - -D’ḟan siad mar sin air feaḋ ḋá ṁí, gan ḟios ag duine air ḃiṫ creud do ḃí -air an ḃfear ḃoċt, agus nuair naċ raiḃ an doċtúir sin ag déanaṁ maiṫ air -biṫ ḋó, fuair siad doċtúir eile, agus ann sin doċtúir eile, no go saiḃ -uile ḋoċtúir a ḃí annsa’ g-condaé aca, saoi ḋeire, agus ċaill siad a lán -airgid leó, agus b’éigin dóiḃ cuid d’á n-eallaċ ḋíol le h-airgiod ḟáġail -le na n-íoc. - -Bhí siad mar sin le leiṫ-ḃliaḋain ag congṁáil doċtuir leis, agus na -doċtúiriḋ ag taḃairt druganna ḋó, agus an duine boċt a ḃí raṁar beaṫaiġṫe -roiṁe sin, ag éiriġe lom agus tana, go naċ raiḃ unsa feóla air, aċt an -croicion agus na cnáṁa aṁáin. - -Bhí sé faoi ḋeire ċoṁ dona sin gur air éigin d’ḟeud sé siúḃal, agus -d’imṫiġ a ġoile uaiḋ, agus buḋ ṁór an ṫriobloíd leis, greim aráin ḃuig, -no deoċ bainne úir do ṡlugaḋ agus ḃí uile ḋuine ag ráḋ go m-b’ḟearr dó -bás ḟáġail, agus buḋ ḃeag an t-iongnaḋ sin, mar naċ raiḃ ann aċt mar -ḃeiḋeaḋ sgáile i mbuideul. - -Aon lá aṁáin, nuair ḃí sé ’nna ṡuiḋe air ċáṫaoir ag doras an tiġe, ’gá -ġrianuġaḋ féin ann san teas, agus muinntir an tiġe uile imṫiġṫe amaċ, -agus gan duine ann aċt é féin, ṫáinig seanduine boċt a ḃí ag iarraiḋ -déirce o áit go h-áit suas ċum an dorais, agus d’aiṫniġ sé fear an tiġe -’nna ṡuiḋe annsa’ g-cáṫaoir, aċt ḃí sé ċoṁ h-aṫruiġṫe sin agus ċoṁ caiṫte -sin gur air éigin d’aiṫneóċaḋ duine é. “Tá mé ann só arís ag iarraiḋ -déirce ann ainm Dé,” ars an fear boċt, “aċt glóir do Ḍia a ṁáiġistir -creud do ḃain duit ní tusa an fear céudna a ċonnairc mé leiṫ-ḃliaḋain ó -ṡoin nuair ḃí mé ann só, go ḃfóiriġ Dia ort.” - -“Ara a Sheumais,” ar san fear tinn, “is mise naċ ḃfeudfaḋ innsint duit -creud do ḃain dam, aċt tá ḟios agam air aon rud, naċ mḃéiḋ mé ḃfad air an -t-saoġal so.” - -“Aċt tá brón orm d’ḟeicsint mar tá tu,” ar san déirceaċ, “naċ dtig leat -innsint dam cia an ċaoi ar ṫosuiġ sé leat? creud a duḃairt na doċtúiriḋ?” - -“Na doċtúiriḋ!” ar san fear tinn, “mo ṁallaċt orra! ní’l ḟios air dadaṁ -aca, act ní ċóir dam ḃeiṫ ag eascuine agus mise ċoṁ fogas sin dom’ ḃas, -’súf’ orra, ni’l eólas air biṫ aca.” - -“B’éidir,” ar san déirceaċ, “go ḃfeudfainn féin biseaċ ṫaḃairt duit, dá -n-inneósá ḋam creud atá ort. Deir siad go mbíḋim eólaċ air aicídiḃ, agus -air na luiḃeannaiḃ atá maiṫ le na leiġeas.” - -Rinne an fear tinn gáire. “Ní’l fear-leiġis ann sa’ g-condaé,” ar sé, -“naċ raiḃ ann só liom; naċ ḃfuil leaṫ an eallaiġ a ḃí agam air an ḃfeilm -díolta le na n-íoc! aċt ní ḃfuair mé fóiriġin dá laġad ó ḋuine air biṫ -aca, aċt inneósaiḋ mé ḋuit-se mar d’éiriġ sé ḋam air dtús.” Agus ann sin -ṫug sé cúntas dó air uile ṗian a ṁoṫuiġ sé, agus air uile rud a d’orduiġ -na doċtúiriḋ. - -D’éist an déirceaċ leis go cúramaċ, agus nuair ċríoċnuiġ sé an sgeul -uile, d’ḟiafruiġ sé ḋé, “cad é an sórt páirce í air ar ṫuit tu do ċodlaḋ?” - -“Is móinḟeur a ḃí ann,” ar san duine tinn, “aċt ḃí sé go díreaċ bainte, -ann san am sin.” - -“Raiḃ sé fliuċ,” ars an déirceaċ. - -“Ní raiḃ,” ar seisean. - -“Raiḃ sroṫán uisge no caise a’ riṫ ṫríd?” ars an déirceaċ. - -“Bhi,” ar seisean. - -“An dtig liom an ṗáirc ḟeicsint?” - -“Tig go deiṁin, agus taisbéunfaiḋ mé ḋuit anois é.” - -D’éiriġ sé as a ċáṫaoir agus ċoṁ dona agus ḃí sé, stráċail sé é féin -air aġaiḋ, no go dtáinig sé ċum na h-áite ann ar luiḋ sé ’nna ċodlaḋ an -traṫnóna sin. Bhreaṫnuiġ fear-na-déirce air an áit, tamall fada, agus ann -sin ċrom sé air an ḃfeur agus ċuaiḋ sé anonn ’s anall agus a ċorp lúbṫa -agus a ċeann cromṫa ag smeurṫaċt ann sna luiḃeannaiḃ, agus ameasg an -luiḃearnaiġ do ḃí ag fás go tiuġ ann. - -D’éiriġ sé faoi ḋeire, agus duḃairt sé, “Ta sé mar ṡaoil mé,” agus ċrom -sé é féin síos arís, agus ṫosuiġ ag cuartuġaḋ mar roiṁe sin. Ṫóg sé a -ċeann an dara uair, agus ḃí luiḃ ḃeag ġlas ann a láiṁ. “An ḃfeiceann tu -sin,” ar sé, “áit air biṫ ann Éirínn a ḃfásann an luiḃ seó ann, bíonn -alp-luaċra anaice leis, agus ṡluig tu alp-luaċra.” - -“Cad é an ċaoi ḃfuil ḟios agad sin?” ars an duine tinn, “dá mbuḋ mar sin -do ḃí sé, is dóiġ go n-inneósaḋ na doċtúiriḋ ḋam é roiṁe seo.” - -“Go dtugaiḋ Dia ciall duit, na bac leis na doċtúiriḃ,” ars an déirceaċ, -“ni’l ionnta aċt eallta amadán. A deirim leat arís, agus creid mise, gur -alp-luaċra a ṡluig tu; naċ duḃairt tu féin gur ṁoṫuiġ tu rud éigin ag -léimniġ ann do ḃolg an ċéad lá ’réis ṫu ḃeiṫ tinn. B’é sin an alp-luaċra, -agus mar do ḃí an áit sin ann do ḃolg strainseuraċ leis i dtosaċ, ḃí -sé mí-ṡuaiṁneaċ innti, ag dul anonn ’s anall, aċt nuair ḃí sé cúpla lá -innti, ṡocruiġ sé é féin, agus fuair sé an áit compórtaṁail agus sin é an -t-áḋḃar fá ḃfuil tu ag congṁáil ċoṁ tana sin; mar uile ġreim d’á ḃfuil tu -ag iṫe bíonn an alp-luaċra sin ag fáġail an ṁaiṫ as. Agus duḃairt tu féin -liom go raiḃ do leaṫ-ṫaoḃ aṫta, is í sin an taoḃ ’n áit a ḃfuil an rud -gránna ’nna ċóṁnuiḋe.” - -Níor ċreid an fear é, a dtosaċ, aċt lean an déirceaċ dá ċóṁráḋ leis, ag -cruṫuġaḋ ḋó, gur b’ é an ḟírinne a ḃí sé ag raḋ, agus nuair ṫáiniġ a ḃean -agus a inġean air ais arís do’n teaċ, laḃair sé leó-san an ċaoi ċeudna -agus ḃí siad réiḋ go leór le na ċreideaṁaint. - -Níor ċreid an duine tinn, é féin, é, aċt ḃí siad uile ag laḃairt leis, go -ḃfuair siad buaiḋ air, faoí ḋeire; agus ṫug sé cead dóiḃ trí doċtúiriḋe -do ġlaoḋaċ asteaċ le ċéile, go n-inneósaḋ se an sgeul nuaḋ so ḋóiḃ. -Ṫáinig an triúr le ċéile, agus nuair d’éist siad leis an méad a ḃí an -déirceaċ ag rád, agus le cóṁráḋ na mban, rinne siad gáire agus duḃairt -siad naċ raiḃ ionnta aċt amadáin uile go léir, agus gurb’é rud eile amaċ -’s amaċ a ḃí air ḟear-an-tiġe, agus gaċ ainm a ḃí aca air a ṫinneas an -t-am so, ḃí sé dá uair, ’s trí huaire níos faide ’ná roiṁe sin. D’ḟág -siad buidéul no cúpla buideul le n-ól ag an ḃfear boċt, agus d’imṫiġ siad -leó, ag magaḋ faoi an rud a duḃairt na mná gur ṡluig sé an alp-luaċra. - -Duḃairt an déirceaċ nuair ḃí siad imṫiġṫe. “Ní’l iongantas air biṫ orm -naċ ḃfuil tu fáġail beisiġ má’s amadáin mar iad sin atá leat. Ní’l aon -doċtúir ná fear-leiġis i n-Éirinn anois a ḋéanfas aon ṁaiṫ ḋuit-se aċt -aon ḟear aṁáin, agus is sé sin Mac Diarmada, Prionnsa Chúl-Ui-Ḃfinn air -ḃruaċ loċa-Ui-Ġeaḋra an doċtúir is fearr i g-Connaċtaiḃ ná ’sna cúig -cúigiḃ.” “Cá ḃfuil loċ-Ui-Ġeaḋra?” ars an duine tinn. “Shíos i g-condaé -Shligíġ; is loċ mór é, agus tá an Prionnsa ’nna ċóṁnuiḋe air a ḃruaċ,” -ar sé, “agus má ġlacann tu mo ċóṁairle-se raċfaiḋ tu ann, mar ’s é an -ċaoi ḋeireannaċ atá agad, agus buḋ ċóir duit-se, a ṁáiġistreas,” ar sé ag -tiontóḋ le mnaoi an tiġe, “do ċur iaċ (d’ḟiaċaiḃ) air, dul ann, má’s maiṫ -leat d’ḟear a ḃeiṫ beó.” - -“Maiseaḋ,” ars an ḃean, “ḋeunfainn rud air biṫ a ṡlánóċaḋ é.” - -“Mar sin, cuir go dti Prionnsa Chúil-Ui-Ḃfinn é,” ar seisean. - -“Dheunfainn féin rud air biṫ le mo ṡlánuġaḋ,” ars an fear tinn, “mar tá’s -agam naċ ḃfuil a ḃfad agam le marṫain air an t-saoġal so, muna ndeuntar -rud éigin dam a ḃéarfas congnaṁ agus fóiríġin dam.” - -“Mar sin, téiḋ go dtí an Prionnsa,” ar san déirceaċ. - -“Rud air biṫ a ṁeasann tu go ndeunfaiḋ sé maiṫ ḋuit buḋ ċóir ḋuit a -ḋéanaṁ, a aṫair,” ars an inġean. - -“Ní’l dadaṁ le déanaṁ maiṫ ḋó aċt dul go dtí an Prionnsa,” ars an -déirceaċ. - -Is mar sin ḃí siad ag árgúint agus ag cuiḃlint go dtí an oiḋċe, agus -fuair an déirceaċ leabuiḋ tuiġe annsa’ sgioból agus ṫosuiġ sé ag árgúint -arís air maidin go mbuḋ ċóir dul go dtí an Prionnsa, agus ḃí an ḃean -agus an inġean air aon ḟocal leis, agus fuair siad buaiḋ air an ḃfear -tinn, faoi ḋeire; agus duḃairt sé go raċfaḋ sé, agus duḃairt an inġean go -raċfaḋ sise leis, le taḃairt aire ḋó, agus duḃairt an déirceaċ go raċfaḋ -seisean leó-san le taisbéant an ḃoṫair dóiḃ. “Agus béiḋ mise,” ars an -ḃean, “air ṗonc an ḃáis le h-imniḋe ag fanaṁaint liḃ, go dtiucfaiḋ siḃ -air ais.” - -D’úġmuiġ siad an capall agus ċuir siad faoi an gcairt é, agus ġlac siad -lón seaċtṁuine leó, arán agus bagún agus uiḃeaċa, agus d’imṫiġ siad leó. -Níor ḟeud siad dul ró ḟada an ċeud lá, mar ḃí an fear tinn ċoṁ lag sin -nár ḟeud sé an craṫaḋ a ḃí sé fáġail annsa’ g-cairt ṡeasaṁ, aċt ḃí sé -níos fearr an dara lá, agus d’ḟan siad uile i dteaċ feilméara air taoiḃ -an ḃóṫair an oiḋċe sin agus ċuaiḋ siad air aġaiḋ arís air maidin, agus an -troṁaḋ lá annsan traṫnóna ṫáinig siad go h-áit-ċóṁnuiḋe an Phrionnsa. Bhí -teaċ deas aige air ḃruaċ an loċa, le cúṁdaċ tuiġe air, ameasg na g-crann. - -D’ḟág siad an capall agus an cairt i mbaile beag a ḃí anaice le háit an -Phrionnsa, agus ṡiúḃail siad uile le ċéile go d-táinig siad ċum an tiġe. -Chuaiḋ siad asteaċ ’san g-cisteanaċ agus d’ḟíaḟruiġ siad, “ar ḟeud siad -an Prionnsa d’ḟeicsint.” Duḃairt an searḃfóġanta go raiḃ sé ag iṫe a -ḃéile aċt go dtiucfaḋ sé, b’éidir, nuair ḃeiḋeaḋ sé réiḋ. - -Ṫáinig an Prionnsa féin asteaċ air an móimid sin agus d’ḟiaḟruiġ sé ḋíoḃ -creud do ḃí siad ag iarraiḋ. D’éiriġ an fear tinn agus duḃairt sé leis -gur ag iarraiḋ conġnaṁ ó na onóir do ḃí sé, agus d’innis sé an sgeul -uile dó. “’Nois an dtig le d’onóir aon ḟóiriġín ṫaḃairt dam?” ar sé, -nuair ċríoċnuiġ sé a sgéul. - -“Tá súil agam go dtig liom,” ar san Prionnsa, “air ṁóḋ air biṫ déanfaiḋ -mé mo ḋíṫċioll air do ṡon, mar ṫáinig tu ċoṁ fada sin le m’ḟeicsint-se. -B’olc an ceart dam gan mo ḋíṫċioll ḋeunaṁ. Tar suas annsa bpárlúis. -Is fíor an rud a duḃairt an sean duine atá ann sin leat. Shluig tu -alp-luaċra, no rud éigin eile. Tar suas ’sa’ bpárlúis liom.” - -Ṫug sé suas leis é, agus is é an béile a ḃí aige an lá sin giota mór de -ṁairtḟeóil ṡaillte. Ghearr sé greim mór agus ċuir sé air ṗláta é, agus -ṫug sé do’n duine boċt le n-íṫe é. - -“Óró! Créad atá d’ onóir ag déanaṁ ann sin anois,” ars an duine boċt, -“níor ṡluig mé oiread agus toirt uiḃe d’ḟeóil air biṫ le ráiṫċe, ni’l aon -ġoile agam, ní ṫig liom dadaṁ iṫe.” - -“Bí do ṫost a ḋuine,” ars an Prionnsa, “iṫ é sin nuair a deirim leat é.” - -D’iṫ an fear boċt an oiread agus d’ḟeud sé, aċt nuair leig sé an sgian -agus an ġaḃlóg as a láiṁ ċuir an Prionnsa iaċ (d’ḟiaċaiḃ) air iad do -ṫógḃáil arís, agus do ṫosuġaḋ as an nuaḋ. Ċongḃuiġ sé ann sin é ag iṫe, -go raiḃ sé réiḋ le pleusgaḋ, agus níor ḟeud sé faoi ḋeire aon ġreim eile -ṡlugaḋ dá ḃfáġaḋ se ceud púnta. - -Nuair ċonnairc an Prionnsa naċ dtiucfaḋ leis tuilleaḋ do ṡlugaḋ, ṫug -sé amaċ as an teaċ é, agus duḃairt sé leis an inġin agus leis an -t-sean-déirceaċ iad do leanaṁaint, agus rug sé an fear leis, amaċ go -móinḟéur breáġ glas do ḃí os coinne an tiġe, agus sróṫán beag uisge ag -riṫ tríd an móinḟeur. - -Ṫug sé go bruaċ an t-sroṫáin é, agus duḃairt sé leis, luiḋe síos air a -ḃolg agus a ċeann ċongḃáil os cionn an uisge, agus a ḃeul d’ḟosgailt -ċoṁ mór agus d’ḟeudfaḋ sé, agus a ċongḃáil, beag-naċ, ag baint leis an -uisge, “agus fan ann sin go ciúin agus na corruiġ, air d’anam,” ar sé, -“go ḃfeicfiḋ tu creud éireóċas duit.” - -Gheall an fear boċt go mbeiḋeaḋ sé socair, agus ṡín sé a ċorp air an -ḃfeur, agus ċongḃuiġ sé a ḃeul fosgailte os cionn an t-sroṫáin uisge, -agus d’ḟan sé ann sin gan corruġaḋ. - -Chuaiḋ an Prionnsa timċioll cúig slata air ais, air a ċúl, agus ṫarraing -sé an inġean agus an sean-ḟear leis, agus is é an focal deireannaċ a -duḃairt sé leis an ḃfear tinn, “bí cinnte” ar sé, “agus air d’anam na -cuir cor asad, cia bé air biṫ rud éireóċas duit.” - -Ni raiḃ an duine boċt ceaṫraṁaḋ uaire ’nna luiḋe mar sin nuair ṫosuiġ rud -éigin ag corruġaḋ taoḃ astiġ ḋé agus ṁoṫaiġ sé rud éigin ag teaċt suas -ann a sgornaċ, agus ag dul air ais arís. Ṫáinig sé suas, agus ċuaiḋ sé -air ais trí no ceiṫre uaire anḋiaiġ a ċéile. Ṫáinig sé faoi ḋeire go dtí -a ḃeul, agus ṡeas sé air ḃárr a ṫeanga aċt sgannruiġ sé agus ċuaiḋ sé air -ais arís, aċt i gceann tamaill ḃig ṫáinig sé suas an dara uair, agus ṡeas -sé air ḃárr a ṫeanga, agus léim sé síos faoi ḋeire annsan uisge Bhi an -Prionnsa ag breaṫnuġaḋ go geur air, agus ġlaoḋ sé amaċ, “na corruiġ fós,” -mar ḃí an fear dul ag éiriġe. - -B’éigin do’n duine boċt a ḃeul ḟosgailt arís agus d’ḟan sé an ċaoi -ċeudna, agus ní raiḃ sé móimid ann, no go dtáinig an dara rud suas ann a -sgornaċ an ċaoi ċeuḋna, agus ċuaiḋ sé air ais arís cúpla uair, aṁail a’s -mar ḃí sé sgannruiġṫe, aċt faoi ḋeire ṫáinig seisean mar an ċeud-ċeann -suas go dti an beul agus ṡeas sé air ḃárr a ṫeanga, agus faoi ḋeire nuair -ṁoṫuiġ sé bolaḋ an uisge faoi, léim sé síos annsan tsroṫán. - -Chogair an Prionnsa, agus duḃairt sé “Nois tá ’n tart ag teaċt orra, -d’oibriġ an salann a ḃí ’sa’ mairtḟeóil íad; nois tiucfaiḋ siad amaċ.” -Agus sul do ḃí an focal as a ḃeul ṫuit an tríoṁaḋ ceann le “plap” annsan -uisge, agus mómid ’nna ḋiaiġ sin, léim ceann eile síos ann, agus ann -sin ceann eile, no gur ċóṁairiġ siad, cúiġ, sé, seaċt, oċt, naoi, deiċ -g-cinn, aon ċeann deug, dá ċeann deug. - -“Sin duisín aca anois,” ar san Prionnsa, “Sin é an t-ál, níor ṫáinig an -t-sean-ṁáṫair fós.” - -Bhí an fear ḃoċt dul ’g eíriġe arís, aċt ġlaoḋ an Prionnsa air. “Fan mar -a ḃfuil tu, níor ṫáinig an ṁáṫair.” - -D’ḟan sé mar do ḃí sé, aċt níor ṫáinig aon ċeann eile amaċ, agus d’ḟan sé -níos mó ná ceaṫraṁaḋ uaire. Bhí an Prionnsa féin ag éirige mí-ṡuaimneaċ, -air eagla naċ g-corróċaḋ an sean-Alt-pluaċra ċor air biṫ. Bhí an duine -boċt ċoṁ sáruiġṫe sin agus ċoṁ lag sin go m’ b’ḟearr leis éiriġe ’ná -fanaṁaint mar a raiḃ sé, agus ann ainḋeóin gaċ ruid a duḃairt an Prionnsa -ḃí sé ag seasaṁ suas, nuair rug an Prionnsa air a leaṫ-ċois agus an -déirceaċ air an g-cois eile, agus do ċongḃuiġ siad síos é gan ḃuiḋeaċas -dó. - -D’ḟan siad ceaṫraṁaḋ uaire eile, gan ḟocal do ráḋ, agus i g-ceann an ama -sin ṁoṫuiġ an duine boċt rud éigin ag corruġaḋ arís ann a ṫaoiḃ, aċt -seaċt n-uaire níos measa ’na roiṁe seó, agus is air éigin d’ḟeud sé é -féin do ċongḃáil o sgreadaċ. Bhí an rud sin ag corruġaḋ le tamall maiṫ -ann, agus ṡaoil sé go raiḃ a ċorp reubṫa an taoḃ astíġ leis. Ann sin -ṫosuiġ an rud ag teaċt suas, agus ṫáinig sé go dtí a ḃeul agus cuaiḋ sé -air ais arís. Ṫáinig sé faoi ḋeire ċoṁ fada sin gur ċuir an duine boċt a -ḋá ṁeur ann a ḃeul agus ṡaoil sé greim ḟáġail uirri. Aċt má’s obann ċuir -sé a ṁeura ’steaċ is luaiṫe ’ná sin ċuaiḋ an tsean alt-pluaċra air ais. - -“’Ór! a ḃiṫeaṁnaiġ!” ar san Prionnsa, “cad ċuige rinn’ tu sin? Naċ -duḃairt mé leat gan cor do ċur asad. Má ṫig sé suas arís fan go -socair.” B’ éigin dóiḃ fanaṁaint le leaṫ-uair mar do ḃí sean-ṁáṫair na -n-alp-luaċra sgannruiġṫe, agus ḃí faitċios urri ṫeaċt amaċ. Aċt ṫáinig sí -suas arís, faoi ḋeire; b’éidir go raiḃ an iomarcuiḋ tart’ urri agus níor -ḟeud sí bolaḋ an uisge a ḃí ag cur caṫuiġṫe uirri ṡeasaṁ, no b’éidir go -raiḃ sí uaigneaċ ’r éis a clainne d’imṫeaċt uaiṫi. Air ṁóḋ air biṫ ṫáinig -sí amaċ go bárr á ḃéil agus ṡeas sí air a ṫeanga ċoṁ fad agus ḃeiṫeá ag -cóṁaireaṁ ceiṫre fiċiḋ, agus ann sin léim sí mar do léim a h-ál roimpi, -asteaċ ’san uisge, agus buḋ ṫruime toran a tuitim’ seaċt n-uaire, ’ná an -plap a rinne a clann. - -Bhí an Prionnsa agus an ḃeirt eile ag breaṫnuġaḋ air sin, go h-iomlán, -agus buḋ ḃeag naċ raiḃ faitċios orra, a n-anál do ṫarraing, air eagla go -sgannróċaḋ siad an beiṫiḋeaċ gránna. Ċoṁ luaṫ agus léim sí asteaċ ’san -uisge ṫarraing siad an fear air ais, agus ċuir siad air a ḋá ċois arís é. - -Bhí se trí huaire gan ḟocal do laḃairt, aċt an ċeud ḟocal a duḃairt sé, -buḋ h-é “is duine nuaḋ mé.” - -Ċongḃuiġ an Prionnsa ann a ṫeaċ féin le coicíḋeas é, agus ṫug se aire ṁór -agus beaṫuġaḋ maiṫ ḋó. Leig sé ḋó imṫeaċt ann sin, agus an inġean agus an -déirceaċ leis, agus ḋiúltuiġ sé oiread agus píġin do ġlacaḋ uaṫa. - -“B’ḟearr liom ’ná deiċ bpúnta air mo láiṁ féin,” ar sé, “gur ṫionntuiġ -mo leiġeas amaċ ċoṁ maiṫ sin; nár leigfiḋ. Dia go nglacfainn piġin no -leiṫ-ṗi’n uait. Chaill tu go leór le doċtúiriḃ ċeana.” - -Ṫáinig siad a ḃaile go sáḃálta, agus d’éiriġ sé slán arís agus raṁar. Bhí -sé ċoṁ buiḋeaċ de’n deirceaċ boċt gur ċongḃuiġ sé ann a ṫeaċ féin go dtí -a ḃás é. Agus ċoṁ fad a’s ḃí sé féin beó níor luiḋ sé síos air an ḃfeur -glas arís. Agus, rud eile; dá mbeiḋeaḋ tinneas no easláinte air, ní h-iad -na doċtúiriḋ a ġlaoḋaḋ sé asteaċ. - -Búḋ ḃeag an t-iongnaḋ sin! - - - - -THE ALP-LUACHRA. - - -There was once a wealthy farmer in Connacht, and he had plenty of -substance and a fine family, and there was nothing putting grief -nor trouble on him, and you would say yourself that it’s he was the -comfortable, satisfied man, and that the luck was on him as well as on -e’er a man alive. He was that way, without mishap or misfortune, for -many years, in good health and without sickness or sorrow on himself or -his children, until there came a fine day in the harvest, when he was -looking at his men making hay in the meadow that was near his own house, -and as the day was very hot he drank a drink of buttermilk, and stretched -himself back on the fresh cut hay, and as he was tired with the heat -of the day and the work that he was doing, he soon fell asleep, and he -remained that way for three or four hours, until the hay was all gathered -in and his workpeople gone away out of the field. - -When he awoke then, he sat up, and he did not know at first where he was, -till he remembered at last that it was in the field at the back of his -own house he was lying. He rose up then and returned to his house, and -he felt like a pain or a stitch in his side. He made nothing of it, sat -down at the fire and began warming himself. - -“Where were you?” says the daughter to him. - -“I was asleep a while,” says he, “on the fresh grass in the field where -they were making hay.” - -“What happened to you, then?” says she, “for you don’t look well.” - -“Muirya,[24] musha, then,” says he, “I don’t know; but it’s queer the -feeling I have. I never was like it before; but I’ll be better when I get -a good sleep.” - -He went to his bed, lay down, and fell asleep, and never awoke until the -sun was high. He rose up then and his wife said to him: “What was on you -that you slept that long?” - -“I don’t know,” says he. - -He went down to the fire where the daughter was making a cake for the -breakfast, and she said to him: - -“How are you to-day, father; are you anything better?” - -“I got a good sleep,” said he, “but I’m not a taste better than I was -last night; and indeed, if you’d believe me, I think there’s something -inside of me running back and forwards.” - -“Arrah, that can’t be,” says the daughter, “but it’s a cold you got and -you lying out on the fresh grass; and if you’re not better in the evening -we’ll send for the doctor.” - -He was saying then that there was a pain on him, but that he did not -know rightly what place the pain was in. He was in the same way in the -evening, and they had to send for the doctor, and when the doctor was not -coming quickly there was great fright on him. The people of the house -were doing all they could to put courage in him. - -The doctor came at last, and he asked what was on him, and he said again -that there was something like a _birdeen_ leaping in his stomach. The -doctor stripped him and examined him well, but saw nothing out of the -way with him. He put his ear to his side and to his back, but he heard -nothing, though the poor man himself was calling out: “Now! now! don’t -you hear it? Now, aren’t you listening to it jumping?” But the doctor -could perceive nothing at all, and he thought at last that the man was -out of his senses, and that there was nothing the matter with him. - -He said to the woman of the house when he came out, that there was -nothing on her husband, but that he believed himself to be sick, and that -he would send her medicine the next day for him, that would give him a -good sleep and settle the heat of his body. He did that, and the poor -man swallowed all the medicines and got another great sleep, but when he -awoke in the morning he was worse than ever, but he said he did not hear -the thing jumping inside him any longer. - -They sent for the doctor again, and he came; but he was able to do -nothing. He left other medicines with them, and said he would come again -at the end of a week to see him. The poor man got no relief from all that -the doctor left with him, and when he came again he found him to be worse -than before; but he was not able to do anything, and he did not know -what sort of sickness was on him. “I won’t be taking your money from you -any more,” says he to the woman of the house, “because I can do nothing -in this case, and as I don’t understand what’s on him, I won’t let on[25] -to be understanding it. I’ll come to see him from time to time, but I’ll -take no money from you.” - -The woman of the house could hardly keep in her anger. Scarcely ever was -the doctor gone till she gathered the people of the house round her and -they took counsel. “That doctor _braduch_,” says she, “he’s not worth a -_traneen_; do you know what he said—that he wouldn’t take any money from -me any more, and he said himself he knew nothing about anything; _suf_ on -him, the _behoonuch_, he’ll cross this threshold no more; we’ll go to the -other doctor; if he’s farther from us, itself, I don’t mind that, we must -get him.” Everybody in the house was on one word with her, and they sent -for the other doctor; but when he came he had no better knowledge than -the first one had, only that he had knowledge enough to take their money. -He came often to see the sick man, and every time he would come he would -have every name longer than another to give his sickness; names he did -not understand himself, nor no one else, but he had them to frighten the -people. - -They remained that way for two months, without anyone knowing what was on -the poor man; and when that doctor was doing him no good they got another -doctor, and then another doctor, until there was not a doctor in the -county, at last, that they had not got, and they lost a power of money -over them, and they had to sell a portion of their cattle to get money to -pay them. - -They were that way for half a year, keeping doctors with him, and the -doctors giving him medicines, and the poor man that was stout and -well-fed before, getting bare and thin, until at last there was not an -ounce of flesh on him, but the skin and the bones only. - -He was so bad at last that it was scarcely he was able to walk. His -appetite went from him, and it was a great trouble to him to swallow -a piece of soft bread or to drink a sup of new milk, and everyone was -saying that he was better to die, and that was no wonder, for there was -not in him but like a shadow in a bottle. - -One day that he was sitting on a chair in the door of the house, sunning -himself in the heat, and the people of the house all gone out but -himself, there came up to the door a poor old man that used to be asking -alms from place to place, and he recognised the man of the house sitting -in the chair, but he was so changed and so worn that it was hardly he -knew him. “I’m here again, asking alms in the name of God,” said the poor -man; “but, glory be to God, master, what happened to you, for you’re not -the same man I saw when I was here half a year ago; may God relieve you!” - -“Arrah, Shamus,” said the sick man, “it’s I that can’t tell you what -happened to me; but I know one thing, that I won’t be long in this world.” - -“But I’m grieved to see you how you are,” said the beggarman. “Tell me -how it began with you, and what the doctors say.” - -“The doctors, is it?” says the sick man, “my curse on them; but I -oughtn’t to be cursing and I so near the grave; _suf_ on them, they know -nothing.” - -“Perhaps,” says the beggarman, “I could find you a relief myself, if you -were to tell me what’s on you. They say that I be knowledgable about -diseases and the herbs to cure them.” - -The sick man smiled, and he said: “There isn’t a medicine man in the -county that I hadn’t in this house with me, and isn’t half the cattle -I had on the farm sold to pay them. I never got a relief no matter -how small, from a man of them; but I’ll tell you how it happened to -me first.” Then he gave him an account of everything he felt and of -everything the doctors had ordered. - -The beggarman listened to him carefully, and when he had finished all his -story, he asked him: “What sort of field was it you fell asleep in?” - -“A meadow that was in it that time,” says the sick man; “but it was just -after being cut.” - -“Was it wet,” says the beggarman. - -“It was not,” says he. - -“Was there a little stream or a brook of water running through it?” said -the beggarman. - -“There was,” says he. - -“Can I see the field?” - -“You can, indeed, and I’ll show it to you.” - -He rose off his chair, and as bad as he was, he pulled himself along -until he came to the place where he lay down to sleep that evening. -The beggarman examined the place for a long time, and then he stooped -down over the grass and went backwards and forwards with his body bent, -and his head down, groping among the herbs and weeds that were growing -thickly in it. - -He rose at last and said: “It is as I thought,” and he stooped himself -down again and began searching as before. He raised his head a second -time, and he had a little green herb in his hand. “Do you see this?” -said he. “Any place in Ireland that this herb grows, there be’s an -alt-pluachra near it, and you have swallowed an alt-pluachra.” - -“How do you know that?” said the sick man. “If that was so, sure the -doctors would tell it to me before now.” - -“The doctors!” said the beggarman. “Ah! God give you sense, sure they’re -only a flock of _omadawns_. I tell you again, and believe me, that it’s -an alt-pluachra you swallowed. Didn’t you say yourself that you felt -something leaping in your stomach the first day after you being sick? -That was the alt-pluachra; and as the place he was in was strange to him -at first, he was uneasy in it, moving backwards and forwards, but when he -was a couple of days there, he settled himself, and he found the place -comfortable, and that’s the reason you’re keeping so thin, for every bit -you’re eating the alt-pluachra is getting the good out of it, and you -said yourself that one side of you was swelled; that’s the place where -the nasty thing is living.” - -The sick man would not believe him at first, but the beggarman kept on -talking and proving on him that it was the truth he was saying, and when -his wife and daughter came back again to the house, the beggarman told -them the same things, and they were ready enough to believe him. - -The sick man put no faith in it himself, but they were all talking -to him about it until they prevailed on him at last to call in three -doctors together until he should tell them this new story. The three came -together, and when they heard all the _boccuch_ (beggarman) was saying, -and all the talk of the women, it is what they laughed, and said they -were fools altogether, and that it was something else entirely that was -the matter with the man of the house, and every name they had on his -sickness this time was twice—three times—as long as ever before. They -left the poor man a bottle or two to drink, and they went away, and they -humbugging the women for saying that he had swallowed an alt-pluachra. - -The boccuch said when they were gone away: “I don’t wonder at all that -you’re not getting better, if it’s fools like those you have with you. -There’s not a doctor or a medicine-man in Ireland now that’ll do you any -good, but only one man, and that’s Mac Dermott the Prince of Coolavin, -on the brink of Lough Gara, the best doctor in Connacht or the five -provinces.” - -“Where is Lough Gara?” said the poor man. - -“Down in the County Sligo,” says he; “it’s a big lake, and the prince is -living on the brink of it; and if you’ll take my advice you’ll go there, -for it’s the last hope you have; and you, Mistress,” said he, turning to -the woman of the house, “ought to make him go, if you wish your man to be -alive.” - -“Musha!” says the woman, “I’d do anything that would cure him.” - -“If so, send him to the Prince of Coolavin,” says he. - -“I’d do anything at all to cure myself,” says the sick man, “for I know I -haven’t long to live on this world if I don’t get some relief, or without -something to be done for me.” - -“Then go to the Prince of Coolavin,” says the beggarman. - -“Anything that you think would do yourself good, you ought to do it, -father,” says the daughter. - -“There’s nothing will do him good but to go to the Prince of Coolavin,” -said the beggarman. - -So they were arguing and striving until the night came, and the beggarman -got a bed of straw in the barn, and he began arguing again in the morning -that he ought to go to the prince, and the wife and daughter were on one -word with him; and they prevailed at last on the sick man, and he said -that he would go, and the daughter said that she would go with him to -take care of him, and the boccuch said that he would go with them to show -them the road; “and I’ll be on the pinch of death, for ye, with anxiety,” -said the wife, “until ye come back again.” - -They harnessed the horse, and they put him under the cart, and they took -a week’s provision with them—bread, and bacon, and eggs, and they went -off. They could not go very far the first day, for the sick man was so -weak, that he was not able to bear the shaking he was getting in the -cart; but he was better the second day, and they all passed the night in -a farmer’s house on the side of the road, and they went on again in the -morning; but on the third day, in the evening, they came to the dwelling -of the prince. He had a nice house, on the brink of the lake, with a -straw roof, in among the trees. - -They left the horse and the cart in a little village near the prince’s -place, and they all walked together, until they came to the house. -They went into the kitchen, and asked, “Couldn’t they see the prince?” -The servant said that he was eating his meal, but that he would come, -perhaps, when he was ready. - -The prince himself came in at that moment, and asked what it was they -wanted. The sick man rose up and told him, that it was looking for -assistance from his honour he was, and he told him his whole story. “And -now can your honour help me?” he said, when he had finished it. - -“I hope I can,” said the prince; “anyhow, I’ll do my best for you, as you -came so far to see me. I’d have a bad right not to do my best. Come up -into the parlour with me. The thing that old man told you is true. You -swallowed an alt-pluachra, or something else. Come up to the parlour with -me.” - -He brought him up to the parlour with him, and it happened that the meal -he had that day was a big piece of salted beef. He cut a large slice off -it, and put it on a plate, and gave it to the poor man to eat. - -“Oro! what is your honour doing there?” says the poor man; “I didn’t -swallow as much as the size of an egg of meat this quarter,[26] and I -can’t eat anything.” - -“Be silent, man,” says the prince; “eat that, when I tell you.” - -The poor man eat as much as he was able, but when he left the knife and -fork out of his hand, the prince made him take them up again, and begin -out of the new (over again). He kept him there eating until he was ready -to burst, and at last he was not able to swallow another bit, if he were -to get a hundred pounds. - -When the prince saw that he would not be able to swallow any more, he -brought him out of the house, and he said to the daughter and the old -beggarman to follow them, and he brought the man out with him to a fine -green meadow that was forenent[27] the house, and a little stream of -water running through it. - -He brought him to the brink of the stream, and told him to lie down on -his stomach over the stream, and to hold his face over the water, to open -his mouth as wide as he could, and to keep it nearly touching the water, -and “wait there quiet and easy,” says he; “and for your life don’t stir, -till you see what will happen to you.” - -The poor man promised that he would be quiet, and he stretched his body -on the grass, and held his mouth open, over the stream of water, and -remained there without stirring. - -The prince went backwards, about five yards, and drew the daughter and -the old man with him, and the last word he said to the sick man was: “Be -certain, and for your life, don’t put a stir out of you, whatever thing -at all happens to you.” - -The sick man was not lying like that more than a quarter of an hour, when -something began moving inside of him, and he felt something coming up -in his throat, and going back again. It came up and went back three or -four times after other. At last it came to the mouth, stood on the tip of -his tongue, but frightened, and ran back again. However, at the end of a -little space, it rose up a second time, and stood on his tongue, and at -last jumped down into the water. The prince was observing him closely, -and just as the man was going to rise, he called out: “Don’t stir yet.” - -The poor man had to open his mouth again, and he waited the same way as -before; and he was not there a minute until the second one came up the -same way as the last, and went back and came up two or three times, as if -it got frightened; but at last, it also, like the first one, came up to -the mouth, stood on the tongue, and when it felt the smell of the water -below it, leaped down into the little stream. - -The prince said in a whisper: “Now the thirst’s coming on them; the -salt that was in the beef is working them; now they’ll come out.” And -before the word had left his mouth, the third one fell, with a plop, into -the water; and a moment after that, another one jumped down, and then -another, until he counted five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, -twelve. - -“There’s a dozen of them now,” said the prince; “that’s the clutch; the -old mother didn’t come yet.” - -The poor sick man was getting up again, but the prince called to him: -“Stay as you are; the mother didn’t come up.” - -He remained as he was, but no other one came out, though he stayed there -more than a quarter of an hour. The prince himself was getting uneasy -for fear the old alt-pluachra might not stir at all. The poor man was -so tired and so weak that he wished to get up; and, in spite of all the -prince told him, he was trying to stand on his feet, when the prince -caught him by one leg, and the boccuch by the other, and they held him -down in spite of him. - -They remained another quarter of an hour without speaking a word, or -making a sound, and at the end of that time the poor man felt something -stirring again in his side, but seven times worse than before; and it’s -scarcely he could keep himself from screeching. That thing kept moving -for a good while, and he thought the side was being torn out of himself -with it. Then it began coming up, and it reached the mouth, and went back -again. At last it came up so far that the poor man put the two fingers to -his mouth and thought to catch hold of it. But if he put in his fingers -quick, the old alt-pluachra went back quicker. - -“Oh, you _behoonach_!” cried the prince, “what made you do that? Didn’t -I tell you not to let a stir out of you? Remain quiet if she comes up -again.” - -They had to remain there for half an hour, because the old mother of the -alt-pluachras was scared, and she was afraid to come out. But she came -up at last, perhaps, because there was too much thirst on her to let her -stand the smell of the water that was tempting her, or perhaps she was -lonesome after her children going from her. Anyhow, she came up to his -mouth, and stood there while you would be counting about four score; and -when she saw nothing, and nothing frightened her, she gave a jump down -into the water, like her clutch before her; and the plop of her into the -water was seven times heavier than theirs. - -The prince and the other two had been watching the whole, and they -scarcely dared to breathe, for fear of startling the horrid beast. As -soon as ever she jumped down into the water, they pulled back the man, -and put him standing again on his two feet. - -He was for three hours before he could speak a word; but the first thing -he said was: “I’m a new man.” - -The prince kept him in his own house for a fortnight, and gave him great -care and good feeding. He allowed him to go then, and the daughter and -the boccuch with him; and he refused to take as much as a penny from them. - -“I’m better pleased than ten pounds on my own hand,” said he, “that my -cure turned out so well; and I’d be long sorry to take a farthing from -you; you lost plenty with doctors before.” - -They came home safely, and he became healthy and fat. He was so thankful -to the poor boccuch that he kept him in his own house till his death. As -long as he was alive he never lay down on green grass again; and another -thing, if there was any sickness or ill-health on him, it isn’t the -doctors he used to call in to him. - -That was small wonder! - - - - -PÁIDÍN O’CEALLAIĠ AGUS AN EASÓĠ. - - -A ḃfad ó ṡoin ḃí fear d’ar’ ḃ’ainm Páidín O’Ceallaiġ ’nna ċóṁnuiḋe i ngar -do Ṫuaim i gcondaé na Gailliṁe. Aon ṁaidin aṁáin d’éiriġ sé go moċ agus -ní raiḃ ḟios aige cia an t-am a ḃi sé, mar ḃí solas breáġ ó’n ngealaiġ. -Ḃí dúil aige le dul go h-aonaċ Ċáṫair-na-mart le storc asail do ḋíol. - -Ní raiḃ sé níos mó ’na trí ṁíle air an mbóṫar go dtáinig dorċadas mór -air, agus ṫosuiġ ciṫ trom ag tuitim. Ċonnairc sé teaċ mór ameasg crann -timċioll cúig ċeud slat ó’n mbóṫar agus duḃairt sé leis féin, “raċfaiḋ mé -ċum an tíġe sin, go dtéiḋ an ciṫ ṫart.” Nuair ċuaiḋ sé ċum an tíġe, ḃí -an doras fosgailte, agus asteaċ leis. Ċonnairc sé seomra mór air ṫaoiḃ a -láiṁe ċlé, agus teine ḃreáġ ’san ngráta. Ṡuiḋ sé síos air stol le cois -an ḃalla, agus níor ḃfada gur ṫosuiġ sé ag tuitim ’nna ċodlaḋ, nuair -ċonnairc sé easóg ṁór ag teaċt ċum na teineaḋ agus leag si giniḋ air leic -an teaġlaiġ agus d’imṫiġ. Níor ḃfada go dtáinig sí air ais le giniḋ eile -agus leag air leic an teaġlaiġ é, agus d’imṫiġ. Ḃí sí ag imṫeaċt agus ag -teaċt go raiḃ cárnán mór giniḋ air an teaġlaċ. Aċt faoi ḋeireaḋ nuair -d’imṫiġ sí d’éiriġ Páidín, agus ċuir sé an méad óir a ḃí cruinniġṫe aici -ann a ṗóca, agus amaċ leis. - -Ní raiḃ sé a ḃ-fad imṫiġṫe gur ċualaiḋ sé an easóg ag teaċt ’nna ḋiaiġ -agus í ag sgreadaoil ċoṁ h-árd le píobaiḃ. Ċuaiḋ sí roiṁ Páidín air an -mbóṫar agus í ag lubarnuiġ anonn ’s anall agus ag iarraiḋ greim sgornaiġ -d’ḟáġail air. Ḃí maide maiṫ daraċ ag Páidín agus ċongḃuiġ sé í uaiḋ go -dtáinig beirt ḟear suas. Ḃí madaḋ maiṫ ag fear aca, agus ruaig sé asteaċ -i bpoll ’san mballa í. - -Cuaiḋ Páidín ċum an aonaiġ, agus ann áit é ḃeiṫ tíġeaċt a ḃaile leis an -airgiod a fuair sé air a ṡean-asal, mar ṡaoil sé air maidin go mbeiḋeaḋ -sé ag deanaṁ, ċeannuiġ sé capall le cuid de’n airgiod a ḃain sé de’n -easóig, agus ṫáinig sé a ḃaile agus é ag marcuiġeaċt. Nuair ṫáinig sé ċoṁ -fada leis an áit ar ċuir an madaḋ an easóg ann san bpoll, ṫáinig sí amaċ -roiṁe, ṫug léim suas, agus fuair greim sgornaiġ air an g-capall. Ṫosuiġ -an capall ag riṫ, agus níor ḟeud Páidín a ċeapaḋ, no go dtug sé léim -asteaċ i g-clais ṁóir a ḃí líonta d’uisge agus de ṁúlaċ. Ḃí sé ’gá ḃáṫaḋ -agus ’gá ṫaċtaḋ go luaṫ, go dtáinig fir suas a ḃí teaċt as Gailliṁ agus -ḋíḃir siad an easóg. - -Ṫug Páidín an capall a ḃaile leis, agus ċuir sé asteaċ i dteaċ na mbó é, -agus ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ. - -Air maidin, lá air na ṁáraċ, d’éiriġ Páidín go moċ, agus ċuaiḋ sé amaċ -le uisge agus féar ṫaḃairt do’n capall. Nuair ċuaiḋ sé amaċ ċonnairc sé -an easóg ag teaċt amaċ as teaċ na mbó, agus í foluiġṫe le fuil. “Mo -ṡeaċt míle mallaċt ort,” ar Páidín, “tá faitċios orm go ḃfuil anaċain -déanta agad.” Cuaiḋ sé asteaċ, agus fuair sé an capall, péire bó-bainne, -agus dá laoġ marḃ Ṫáinig sé amaċ agus ċuir sé madaḋ a ḃí aige anḋiaiġ na -h-easóige. Fuair an madaḋ greim uirri agus fuair sise greim air an madaḋ. -Buḋ madaḋ maiṫ é, aċt b’éigin dó a ġreim sgaoileaḋ sul ṫáinig Páidín -suas; aċt ċongḃuiġ sé a ṡúil uirri go ḃfacaiḋ sé í ag dul asteaċ i mboṫán -beag a ḃí air ḃruaċ loċa. Ṫáinig Páidín ag riṫ, agus nuair ḃí sé ag an -mboṫáinín beag ṫug sé craṫaḋ do’n ṁadaḋ agus ċuir sé fearg air, agus ċuir -sé asteaċ roiṁe é. Nuair ċuaiḋ an madaḋ asteaċ ṫosuiġ sé ag taṫfant. -Ċuaiḋ Páidín asteaċ agus ċonnairc sé sean-ċailleaċ ann san g-coirnéul. -D’ḟiafruiġ sé ḋí an ḃfacaiḋ sí easóg ag teaċt asteaċ. - -“Ní ḟacaiḋ mé,” ar san ċailleaċ, “tá mé breóiḋte le galar millteaċ agus -muna dtéiḋ tu amaċ go tapa glacfaiḋ tu uaim é.” - -Coṁ fad agus ḃí Páidín agus an ċailleaċ, ag caint, ḃí an madaḋ ag teannaḋ -asteaċ, no go dtug sé léim suas faoi ḋeireaḋ, agus rug sé greim sgornaiġ -air an g-cailliġ. - -Sgreaḋ sise, agus duḃairt, “tóg díom do ṁadaḋ a Páidín Ui Ċeallaiġ, agus -deunfaiḋ mé fear saiḋḃir díot.” - -Chuir Páidín iaċ (d’ḟiaċaiḃ) air an madaḋ a ġreim sgaoileaḋ, agus duḃairt -sé, “Innis dam cia ṫu, no cad fáṫ ar ṁarḃ tu mo ċapall agus mo ḃa?” - -“Agus cad fáṫ dtug tusa leat an t-ór a raiḃ mé cúig ċeud ḃliaḋain ’gá -ċruinniuġaḋ ameasg cnoc agus gleann an doṁain.” - -“Ṡaoil mé gur easóg a ḃí ionnad,” ar Páidín, “no ni ḃainfinn le do ċuid -óir; agus niḋ eile, má tá tu cúig ċeud bliaḋain air an tsaoġal so tá sé i -n-am duit imṫeaċt ċum suaiṁnis.” - -“Rinne mé coir ṁór i m’óige, agus táim le ḃeiṫ sgaoilte óm’ ḟulaing má -ṫig leat fiċe púnta íoc air son ceud agus trí fiċid aifrionn dam.” - -“Cá ḃfuil an t-airgiod?” ar Páidín. - -“Éiriġ agus róṁar faoi sgeiċ atá os cionn tobair ḃig i g-coirneul na -páirce sin amuiġ, agus geoḃaiḋ tu pota líonta d’ór. Íoc an fiċe púnta air -son na n-aifrionn agus ḃéiḋ an ċuid eile agad féin. Nuair a ḃainfeas tu -an leac de’n ṗota feicfiḋ tu madaḋ mór duḃ ag teaċt amaċ, aċt ná bíoḋ aon -ḟaitċios ort; is mac daṁsa é. Nuair a ġeoḃas tu an t-ór, ceannuiġ an teaċ -ann a ḃfacaiḋ tu mise i dtosaċ, geoḃaiḋ tu saor é, mar tá sé faoi ċáil go -ḃfuil taiḋḃse ann. Béiḋ mo ṁac-sa ṡíos ann san tsoiléar, ní ḋéanfaiḋ sé -aon doċar duit, aċt béiḋ sé ’nna ċaraid maiṫ ḋuit. Béiḋ mise marḃ mí ó’n -lá so, agus nuair ġeoḃas tu marḃ mé cuir splanc faoi an mboṫán agus dóiġ -é. Ná h-innis d’aon neaċ beó aon níḋ air biṫ de m’ṫaoiḃ-se, agus béiḋ an -t-áḋ ort.” - -“Cad é an t-ainm atá ort?” ar Páidín. - -“Máire ni Ciarḃáin,” ar san ċailleaċ. - -Ċuaiḋ Páidín a ḃaile agus nuair ṫáinig dorċadas na h-oiḋċe ṫug sé láiḋe -leis agus ċuaiḋ sé ċum na sgeiċe a ḃí i g-coirneul na páirce agus ṫosuiġ -sé ag róṁar. Níor ḃfada go ḃfuair sé an pota agus nuair ḃain sé an leac -dé léim an madaḋ mór duḃ amaċ, agus as go bráṫ leis, agus madaḋ Ṗáidin -’nn a ḋiaiġ. - -Ṫug Páidín an t-ór a ḃaile agus ċuir sé i ḃfolaċ i dteaċ na mbó é. -Timċioll mí ’nna ḋiaiġ sin, ċuaiḋ sé go h-aonaċ i nGailliṁ agus ċeannuiġ -sé péire bó, capall agus duisín caora. Ní raiḃ ḟios ag na cóṁarsannaiḃ -cia an áit a ḃfuair sé an t-airgiod. Duḃairt cuid aca go raiḃ roinn aige -leis na daoniḃ maiṫe. - -Aon lá aṁáin ġleus Páidín é féin agus ċuaiḋ sé ċum an duine-uasail ar -leis an teaċ mór, agus d’ iarr air, an teaċ agus an talaṁ do ḃí ’nna -ṫimcioll, do ḋíol leis. - -“Tig leat an teaċ ḃeiṫ agad gan ċíos, aċt ta taiḋḃse ann, agus níor ṁaiṫ -liom ṫu dul do ċóṁnuiḋe ann, gan a innsint, aċt ní sgarfainn leis an -talaṁ gan ceud púnta níos mó ’ná tá agad-sa le tairgsint dam.” - -“B’éidir go ḃfuil an oiread agam-sa ’s atá agad féin,” ar Páidín, “béiḋ -mé ann so amáraċ leis an airgiod má tá tusa réiḋ le seilḃ do ṫaḃairt dam.” - -“Béiḋ mé réiḋ,” ar san duine-uasal. - -Ċuaiḋ Páidín aḃaile agus d’innis d’á ṁnaoi go raiḃ teaċ mór agus gaḃáltas -talṁan ceannuiġṫe aige. - -“Cia an áit a ḃfuair tu an t-airgiod?” ar san ḃean. - -“Naċ cuma ḋuit?” ar Páidín. - -Lá air na ṁáraċ, ċuaiḋ Páidín ċum an duine-uasail, ṫug ceud púnta ḋó, -agus fuair seilḃ an tiġe agus an talṁan, agus d’ḟág an duine-uasal an -truscán aige asteaċ leis an margaḋ. - -D’ḟan Páidín ann san teaċ an oiḋċe sin, agus nuair ṫáinig an dorċadas -ċuaiḋ sé síos ann san tsoiléar, agus ċonnairc sé fear beag le na ḋá ċois -sgarṫa air ḃáirille. - -“’Niḋ Dia ḋuit, a ḋuine ċóir,” ar san fear beag. - -“Go mbuḋ h-é ḋuit,” ar Páidín. - -“Ná bíoḋ aon ḟaitċios ort róṁam-sa,” ar san fear beag, “béid mé mo -ċaraid maiṫ ḋuit-se má tá tu ionnán run do ċongḃáil.” - -“Táim go deiṁin. Ċongḃuiġ mé rún do ṁátar, agus congḃóċaiḋ mé do rún-sa -mar an g-ceudna.” - -“B’éidir go ḃfuil tart ort,” ar san fear ḃeag. - -“Ní’l mé saor uaíḋ,” air Páidín. - -Ċuir an fear beag láṁ ann a ḃrollaċ, agus ṫarraing sé corn óir amaċ, agus -ṫug do Páidín é, agus duḃairt leis, “tarraing fíon as an mbáirille sin -fúm.” - -Ṫarraing Páidín lán coirn agus ṡeaċaid do’n ḟear beag é. “Ól, ṫu féin, i -dtosaċ,” ar seisean. D’ól Páidín, ṫarraing corn eile agus ṫug dón ḟear -beag é, agus d’ól sé é. - -“Líon suas agus ól arís,” ar san fear beag, “is mian liom-sa ḃeiṫ go -súgaċ anoċt.” - -Ḃí an ḃeirt ag ól gó raḃadar leaṫ air meisge. Ann sin ṫug an fear beag -léim anuas air an urlár, agus duḃairt le Páidín, “naċ ḃfuil dúil agad i -g-ceól?” - -“Tá go deiṁin,” ar Páidín, “agus is maiṫ an daṁsóir mé.” - -“Tóg suas an leac ṁór atá ’san g-coirneul úd, agus geoḃaiḋ tu mo ṗíobaiḋ -fúiṫi.” - -Ṫóg Páidín an leac, fuair na píobaiḋ, agus ṫug do ’n ḟear beag iad. -D’ḟáisg sé na píobaiḋ air, agus ṫosuiġ sé ag seinm ceóil ḃinn. Ṫosuiġ -Páidín ag daṁsa go raiḃ sé tuirseaċ. Ann sin bí deoċ eile aca, agus -duḃairt an fear beag: - -“Deun mar duḃairt mo ṁáṫair leat, agus taisbéanfaiḋ mise saiḋḃreas -mór duit. Tig leat do ḃean ṫaḃairt ann so, aċt ná h-innis dí go ḃfuil -mise ann, agus ní ḟeicfiḋ fí mé. Am air biṫ a ḃéiḋeas lionn nó fíon ag -teastáil uait tar ann so agus tarraing é. Slán leat anois, agus téiḋ ann -do ċodlaḋ, agus tar ċugam-sa an oiḋċe amáraċ.” - -Cuaiḋ Páidín ’nna leabuiḋ, agus níor ḃfada go raiḃ sé ’nna ċodlaḋ. - -Air maidin, lá air na ṁáraċ, ċuaiḋ Páidín a ḃaile agus ṫug a ḃean agus a -ċlann go dtí an teaċ mór, agus ḃíodar go sona. An oiḋċe sin ċuaiḋ Páidín -síos ann san tsoiléar. Ċuir an fear beag fáilte roiṁe, agus d’iarr air -“raiḃ fonn daṁsa air?” - -“Ní’l go ḃfáġ’ mé deoċ,” ar Páidín. - -“Ól do ṡaiṫ,” ar san fear beag, “ní ḃéiḋ an ḃáirille sin folaṁ fad do -ḃeaṫa.” - -D’ól Páidín lán an ċoirn agus ṫug deoċ do ’n ḟear ḃeag; ann sin duḃairt -an fear beag leis: - -“Táim ag dul go Dún-na-síḋ anoċt, le ceól do ṡeinm do na daoiniḃ maiṫe, -agus má ṫagann tu liom feicfiḋ tu greann breáġ. Ḃéarfaiḋ mé capall duit -naċ ḃfacaiḋ tu a leiṫeid asiaṁ roiṁe.” - -“Raċfad agus fáilte,” ar Páidín, “aċt cia an leis-sgeul a ḋeunfas mé le -mo ṁnaoi?” - -“Téiḋ do ċodlaḋ léiṫe, agus ḃéarfaiḋ mise amaċ ó n-a taoiḃ ṫu, a gan ḟios -dí, agus ḃéarfaiḋ mé air ais ṫu an ċaoi ċeudna,” ar san fear beag. - -“Táim úṁal,” ar Páidín, “béiḋ deoċ eile agam sul a dtéiḋ mé as do láṫair.” - -D’ól sé deoċ andiaiġ díġe, go raiḃ sé leaṫ air meisge agus ċuaiḋ sé ’nn a -leabuiḋ ann sin le na ṁnaoi. - -Nuair ḋúisiġ sé fuair sé é féin ag marcuiġeaċt air sguaib i ngar do -Ḍún-na-síḋ, agus an fear beag ag marcuiġeaċt air sguaib eile le na ṫaoiḃ. -Nuair táinig siad ċoṁ fada le cnoc glas an Dúin, laḃair an fear beag -cúpla focal nár ṫuig Páidín; d’ḟosgail an cnoc glas, agus ċuaiḋ Páidín -asteaċ i seomra breáġ. - -Ní ḟacaiḋ Páidín aon ċruinniuġaḋ ariaṁ mar ḃí ann san dún. Ḃí an áit -líonta de ḋaoiniḃ beaga, ḃí fir agus mná ann, sean agus óg. Chuireadar -uile fáilte roiṁ Dóṁnal agus roiṁ Páidín O Ceallaiġ. B’é Dóṁnal ainm an -ṗíoḃaire ḃig. Ṫáinig ríġ agus bainríoġan na síḋ ’nna láṫair agus duḃairt -siad: - -“Támaoid uile ag dul go Cnoc Maṫa anoċt, air cuairt go h-árd-riġ agus go -bainríoġain ár ndaoine.” - -D’éiriġ an t-iomlán aca, agus ċuaiḋ siad amaċ. Ḃí capaill réiḋ ag gaċ aon -aca, agus an Cóiste Boḋar le h-aġaiḋ an ríġ agus an bainríoġna. Ċuadar -asteaċ ’san g-cóiste. Léim gaċ duine air a ċapall féin, agus bí cinnte -naċ raiḃ Páidín air deireaḋ. Ċuaiḋ an píobaire amaċ rompa, agus ṫosuiġ ag -seinm ceóil dóiḃ, agus as go bráṫ leó. Níor ḃfada go dtángadar go Cnoc -Maṫa. D’ḟosgail an cnoc agus ċuaiḋ an sluaġ síḋ asteaċ. - -Ḃí Finḃeara agus Nuala ann sin, árd-ríġ agus bainríoġan Ṡluaiġ-síḋ -Ċonnaċt, agus mílte de ḋaoiniḃ beaga. Ṫáinig Finḃeara a láṫair agus -duḃairt: - -“Támaoid dul báire ḃualaḋ ann aġaiḋ sluaiġ-síḋ Ṁúṁan anoċt, agus muna -mbuailfimíd iad tá ár g-clú imṫiġṫe go deó. Tá an báire le ḃeiṫ buailte -air Ṁáiġ-Túra faoi ṡliaḃ Belgadáin.” - -“Támaoid uile réiḋ,” ar sluaġ-siḋ Ċonnaċt, “agus ní’l aṁras againn naċ -mbuailfimíd iad.” - -“Amaċ liḃ uile,” ar san t-árd-ríġ, “béiḋ fir Ċnuic Néifin air an talaṁ -rómainn.” - -D’imṫiġeadar uile amaċ, agus Dóṁnal beag agus dá ’r ḋeug píobaire eile -rómpa ag seinm ceóil ḃinn. Nuair ṫángadar go Máġ-Túra ḃí sluaġ-síḋ Ṁúṁan -agus siḋḟir Ċnuic Néifin rompa. Anois, is éigin do’n tsluaġ-síḋ beirt -ḟear beó do ḃeiṫ i láṫair nuair a ḃíonn siad ag troid no ag bualaḋ báire, -agus sin é an fáṫ rug Ḍóṁnal beag Páidín O Ceallaiġ leis. Ḃí fear dar ab -ainm an Stangaire Buiḋe ó Innis i g-condaé an Chláir le sluaġ-síḋ Ṁúṁan. - -Níor ḃfada gur ġlac an dá ṡluaġ taoḃa, caiṫeaḋ suas an liaṫróid agus -ṫosuiġ an greann ná ríriḃ. - -Ḃí siad ag bualaḋ báire agus na píobairiḋe ag seinm ceóil, go ḃfacaiḋ -Páidín O Ceallaiġ sluaġ Ṁúṁan ag fáġail na láiṁe láidre, agus ṫosuiġ -sé ag cuideaċtain le sluaġ-siḋ Ċonnaċt. Ṫáinig an Stangaire i láṫair -agus d’ionnsuiġ sé Páidín O Ceallaiġ, aċt níor ḃfada gur ċuir Páidín an -Stangaire Buiḋe air a ṫar-an-áirde. Ó ḃualaḋ-báire, ṫosuiġ an dá ṡluaġ -ag troid, aċt níor ḃfada gur ḃuail sluaġ Ċonnaċt an sluaġ eile. Ann sin -rinne sluaġ Ṁúṁan priompolláin díoḃ féin, agus ṫosuiġ siad ag iṫe uile -níḋ glas d’á dtáinig siad suas leis. Ḃíodar ag sgrios na tíre rompa, go -dtangadar ċoṁ fada le Conga, nuair d’éiriġ na mílte colam as Ṗoll-mór -agus ṡluig siad na priompolláin. Ní’l aon ainm air an bpoll go dtí an lá -so aċt Poll-na-gcolam. - -Nuair ġnóṫuiġ sluaġ Ċonnaċt an caṫ, ṫángadar air ais go Cnoc Maṫa, -luṫġáireaċ go leór, agus ṫug an ríġ Finḃeara sporán óir do Ṗáidín O -Ceallaiġ, agus ṫug an píobaire beag a ḃaile é, agus ċuir sé ’nna ċodlaḋ -le na ṁnaoi é. - -Ċuaiḋ mí ṫart ann sin, agus ní ṫárla aon niḋ do b’ḟiú a innsint; aċt aon -oiḋċe aṁáin ċuaiḋ Páidín síos ’san tsoiléar agus duḃairt an fear beag -leis, “Tá mo ṁáṫair marḃ, agus dóġ an boṫán os a cionn.” - -“Is fíor duit,” ar Páidín, “duḃairt sí naċ raiḃ sí le ḃeiṫ air an -t-saoġal so aċt mí, agus tá an ṁí suas andé.” - -Air maidin, an lá air na ṁáraċ, ċuaiḋ Páidín cum an ḃoṫáin agus fuair sé -an ċailleaċ marḃ. Chuirsé splanc faoi an mboṫán agus ḋóiġ sé é Ṫáinig sé -a ḃaile ann sin, agus d’innis sé do’n ḟear beag go raiḃ an boṫán dóiġte. -Ṫug an fear beag sporán dó agus duḃairt, “Ní ḃéiḋ an sporán sin folaṁ ċoṁ -ḟad agus ḃéiḋeas tu beó. Slán leat anois. Ní ḟeicfiḋ tu mé níos mó, aċt -bíoḋ cuiṁne gráḋaċ agad air an easóig. B’ise tosaċ agus príoṁ-áḋḃar do -ṡaiḋḃris.” - -Ṁair Páidín agus a ḃean bliaḋanta anḋiaiġ seó, ann san teaċ mór, agus -nuair fuair sé bas d’ḟág sé saiḋḃreas mór ’nna ḋíaiġ, agus muiriġín ṁór -le na ċaṫaḋ. - -Sin ċugaiḃ mo sgeul anois ó ṫús go deire, mar ċualaiḋ mise ó mo ṁáṫair -ṁóir é. - - - - -PAUDYEEN O’KELLY AND THE WEASEL. - -A long time ago there was once a man of the name of Paudyeen O’Kelly, -living near Tuam, in the county Galway. He rose up one morning early, and -he did not know what time of day it was, for there was fine light coming -from the moon. He wanted to go to the fair of Cauher-na-mart to sell a -_sturk_ of an ass that he had. - -He had not gone more than three miles of the road when a great darkness -came on, and a shower began falling. He saw a large house among trees -about five hundred yards in from the road, and he said to himself that he -would go to that house till the shower would be over. When he got to the -house he found the door open before him, and in with him. He saw a large -room to his left, and a fine fire in the grate. He sat down on a stool -that was beside the wall, and began falling asleep, when he saw a big -weasel coming to the fire with something yellow in its mouth, which it -dropped on the hearth-stone, and then it went away. She soon came back -again with the same thing in her mouth, and he saw that it was a guinea -she had. She dropped it on the hearth-stone, and went away again. She was -coming and going, until there was a great heap of guineas on the hearth. -But at last, when he got her gone, Paudyeen rose up, thrust all the gold -she had gathered into his pockets, and out with him. - -He was not gone far till he heard the weasel coming after him, and she -screeching as loud as a bag-pipes. She went before Paudyeen and got on -the road, and she was twisting herself back and forwards, and trying to -get a hold of his throat. Paudyeen had a good oak stick, and he kept her -from him, until two men came up who were going to the same fair, and one -of them had a good dog, and it routed the weasel into a hole in the wall. - -Paudyeen went to the fair, and instead of coming home with the money -he got for his old ass, as he thought would be the way with him in the -morning, he went and bought a horse with some of the money he took from -the weasel, and he came home and he riding. When he came to the place -where the dog had routed the weasel into the hole in the wall, she came -out before him, gave a leap up and caught the horse by the throat. The -horse made off, and Paudyeen could not stop him, till at last he gave a -leap into a big drain that was full up of water and black mud, and he was -drowning and choking as fast as he could, until men who were coming from -Galway came up and banished the weasel. - -Paudyeen brought the horse home with him, and put him into the cows’ byre -and fell asleep. - -Next morning, the day on the morrow, Paudyeen rose up early and went out -to give his horse hay and oats. When he got to the door he saw the weasel -coming out of the byre and she covered with blood. “My seven thousand -curses on you,” said Paudyeen, “but I’m afraid you’ve harm done.” He -went in and found the horse, a pair of milch cows, and two calves dead. -He came out and set a dog he had after the weasel. The dog got a hold of -her, and she got a hold of the dog. The dog was a good one, but he was -forced to loose his hold of her before Paudyeen could come up. He kept -his eye on her, however, all through, until he saw her creeping into a -little hovel that was on the brink of a lake. Paudyeen came running, and -when he got to the little hut he gave the dog a shake to rouse him up and -put anger on him, and then he sent him in before himself. When the dog -went in he began barking. Paudyeen went in after him, and saw an old hag -(cailleach) in the corner. He asked her if she saw a weasel coming in -there. - -“I did not,” said she; “I’m all destroyed with a plague of sickness, and -if you don’t go out quick you’ll catch it from me.” - -While Paudyeen and the hag were talking, the dog kept moving in all the -time, till at last he gave a leap up and caught the hag by the throat. -She screeched, and said: - -“Paddy Kelly, take off your dog, and I’ll make you a rich man.” - -Paudyeen made the dog loose his hold, and said: “Tell me who are you, or -why did you kill my horse and my cows?” - -“And why did you bring away my gold that I was for five hundred years -gathering throughout the hills and hollows of the world?” - -“I thought you were a weasel,” said Paudyeen, “or I wouldn’t touch your -gold; and another thing,” says he, “if you’re for five hundred years in -this world, it’s time for you to go to rest now.” - -“I committed a great crime in my youth,” said the hag, “and now I am to -be released from my sufferings if you can pay twenty pounds for a hundred -and three score masses for me.” - -“Where’s the money?” says Paudyeen. - -“Go and dig under a bush that’s over a little well in the corner of that -field there without, and you’ll get a pot filled with gold. Pay the -twenty pounds for the masses, and yourself shall have the rest. When -you’ll lift the flag off the pot, you’ll see a big black dog coming out; -but don’t be afraid before him; he is a son of mine. When you get the -gold, buy the house in which you saw me at first. You’ll get it cheap, -for it has the name of there being a ghost in it. My son will be down in -the cellar. He’ll do you no harm, but he’ll be a good friend to you. I -shall be dead a month from this day, and when you get me dead put a coal -under this little hut and burn it. Don’t tell a living soul anything -about me—and the luck will be on you.” - -“What is your name?” said Paudyeen. - -“Maurya nee Keerwaun” (Mary Kerwan), said the hag. - -Paudyeen went home, and when the darkness of the night came on he took -with him a loy,[28] and went to the bush that was in the corner of the -field, and began digging. It was not long till he found the pot, and when -he took the flag off it a big black dog leaped out, and off and away with -him, and Paudyeen’s dog after him. - -Paudyeen brought home the gold, and hid it in the cow-house. About a -month after that he went to the fair of Galway, and bought a pair of -cows, a horse, and a dozen sheep. The neighbours did not know where he -was getting all the money; they said that he had a share with the good -people. - -One day Paudyeen dressed himself, and went to the gentleman who owned the -large house where he first saw the weasel, and asked to buy the house of -him, and the land that was round about. - -“You can have the house without paying any rent at all; but there is -a ghost in it, and I wouldn’t like you to go to live in it without my -telling you, but I couldn’t part with the land without getting a hundred -pounds more than you have to offer me.” - -“Perhaps I have as much as you have yourself,” said Paudyeen. “I’ll be -here to-morrow with the money, if you’re ready to give me possession.” - -“I’ll be ready,” said the gentleman. - -Paudyeen went home and told his wife that he had bought a large house and -a holding of land. - -“Where did you get the money?” says the wife. - -“Isn’t it all one to you where I got it?” says Paudyeen. - -The day on the morrow Paudyeen went to the gentleman, gave him the money, -and got possession of the house and land; and the gentleman left him the -furniture and everything that was in the house, in with the bargain. - -Paudyeen remained in the house that night, and when darkness came he went -down to the cellar, and he saw a little man with his two legs spread on a -barrel. - -“God save you, honest man,” says he to Paudyeen. - -“The same to you,” says Paudyeen. - -“Don’t be afraid of me at all,” says the little man. “I’ll be a friend to -you, if you are able to keep a secret.” - -“I am able, indeed; I kept your mother’s secret, and I’ll keep yours as -well.” - -“May-be you’re thirsty?” says the little man. - -“I’m not free from it,” said Paudyeen. - -The little man put a hand in his bosom and drew out a gold goblet. He -gave it to Paudyeen, and said: “Draw wine out of that barrel under me.” - -Paudyeen drew the full up of the goblet, and handed it to the little man. -“Drink yourself first,” says he. Paudyeen drank, drew another goblet, and -handed it to the little man, and he drank it. - -“Fill up and drink again,” said the little man. “I have a mind to be -merry to-night.” - -The pair of them sat there drinking until they were half drunk. Then the -little man gave a leap down to the floor, and said to Paudyeen: - -“Don’t you like music?” - -“I do, surely,” says Paudyeen, “and I’m a good dancer, too.” - -“Lift up the big flag over there in the corner, and you’ll get my pipes -under it.” - -Paudyeen lifted the flag, got the pipes, and gave them to the little man. -He squeezed the pipes on him, and began playing melodious music. Paudyeen -began dancing till he was tired. Then they had another drink, and the -little man said: - -“Do as my mother told you, and I’ll show you great riches. You can bring -your wife in here, but don’t tell her that I’m there, and she won’t see -me. Any time at all that ale or wine are wanting, come here and draw. -Farewell now; go to sleep, and come again to me to-morrow night.” - -Paudyeen went to bed, and it wasn’t long till he fell asleep. - -On the morning of the day of the morrow, Paudyeen went home, and brought -his wife and children to the big house, and they were comfortable. That -night Paudyeen went down to the cellar; the little man welcomed him and -asked him did he wish to dance? - -“Not till I get a drink,” said Paudyeen. - -“Drink your ’nough,” said the little man; “that barrel will never be -empty as long as you live.” - -Paudyeen drank the full of the goblet, and gave a drink to the little -man. Then the little man said to him: - -“I am going to Doon-na-shee (the fortress of the fairies) to-night, to -play music for the good people, and if you come with me you’ll see fine -fun. I’ll give you a horse that you never saw the like of him before.” - -“I’ll go with you, and welcome,” said Paudyeen; “but what excuse will I -make to my wife?” - -“I’ll bring you away from her side without her knowing it, when you are -both asleep together, and I’ll bring you back to her the same way,” said -the little man. - -“I’m obedient,” says Paudyeen; “we’ll have another drink before I leave -you.” - -He drank drink after drink, till he was half drunk, and he went to bed -with his wife. - -When he awoke he found himself riding on a besom near Doon-na-shee, and -the little man riding on another besom by his side. When they came as -far as the green hill of the Doon, the little man said a couple of words -that Paudyeen did not understand. The green hill opened, and the pair -went into a fine chamber. - -Paudyeen never saw before a gathering like that which was in the Doon. -The whole place was full up of little people, men and women, young and -old. They all welcomed little Donal—that was the name of the piper—and -Paudyeen O’Kelly. The king and queen of the fairies came up to them, and -said: - -“We are all going on a visit to-night to Cnoc Matha, to the high king and -queen of our people.” - -They all rose up then and went out. There were horses ready for each one -of them and the _coash-t’ya bower_ for the king and the queen. The king -and queen got into the coach, each man leaped on his own horse, and be -certain that Paudyeen was not behind. The piper went out before them and -began playing them music, and then off and away with them. It was not -long till they came to Cnoc Matha. The hill opened and the king of the -fairy host passed in. - -Finvara and Nuala were there, the arch-king and queen of the fairy host -of Connacht, and thousands of little persons. Finvara came up and said: - -“We are going to play a hurling match to-night against the fairy host of -Munster, and unless we beat them our fame is gone for ever. The match is -to be fought out on Moytura, under Slieve Belgadaun.” - -The Connacht host cried out: “We are all ready, and we have no doubt but -we’ll beat them.” - -“Out with ye all,” cried the high king; “the men of the hill of Nephin -will be on the ground before us.” - -They all went out, and little Donal and twelve pipers more before them, -playing melodious music. When they came to Moytura, the fairy host of -Munster and the fairy men of the hill of Nephin were there before them. -Now, it is necessary for the fairy host to have two live men beside them -when they are fighting or at a hurling-match, and that was the reason -that little Donal took Paddy O’Kelly with him. There was a man they -called the “_Yellow Stongirya_,” with the fairy host of Munster, from -Ennis, in the County Clare. - -It was not long till the two hosts took sides; the ball was thrown up -between them, and the fun began in earnest. They were hurling away, and -the pipers playing music, until Paudyeen O’Kelly saw the host of Munster -getting the strong hand, and he began helping the fairy host of Connacht. -The _Stongirya_ came up and he made at Paudyeen O’Kelly, but Paudyeen -turned him head over heels. From hurling the two hosts began at fighting, -but it was not long until the host of Connacht beat the other host. Then -the host of Munster made flying beetles of themselves, and they began -eating every green thing that they came up to. They were destroying the -country before them until they came as far as Cong. Then there rose up -thousands of doves out of the hole, and they swallowed down the beetles. -That hole has no other name until this day but Pull-na-gullam, the dove’s -hole. - -When the fairy host of Connacht won their battle, they came back to Cnoc -Matha joyous enough, and the king Finvara gave Paudyeen O’Kelly a purse -of gold, and the little piper brought him home, and put him into bed -beside his wife, and left him sleeping there. - -A month went by after that without anything worth mentioning, until one -night Paudyeen went down to the cellar, and the little man said to him: -“My mother is dead; burn the house over her.” - -“It is true for you,” said Paudyeen. “She told me that she hadn’t but a -month to be on the world, and the month was up yesterday.” - -On the morning of the next day Paudyeen went to the hut and he found the -hag dead. He put a coal under the hut and burned it. He came home and -told the little man that the hut was burnt. The little man gave him a -purse and said to him; “This purse will never be empty as long as you are -alive. Now, you will never see me more; but have a loving remembrance of -the weasel. She was the beginning and the prime cause of your riches.” -Then he went away and Paudyeen never saw him again. - -Paudyeen O’Kelly and his wife lived for years after this in the large -house, and when he died he left great wealth behind him, and a large -family to spend it. - -There now is the story for you, from the first word to the last, as I -heard it from my grandmother. - - - - -UILLIAM O RUANAIĠ. - - -Ann san aimsir i n-allód ḃí fear ann dar ab ainm Uilliam O Ruanaiġ, ’nna -ċóṁnuiḋe i ngar do Ċlár-Gailliṁ. Bí sé ’nna ḟeilméar. Áon lá aṁain ṫáinig -an tiġearna-talṁan ċuige agus duḃairt, “Tá cíos tri bliaḋain agam ort, -agus muna mbéiḋ sé agad dam faoi ċeann seaċtṁaine caiṫfiḋ mé amaċ air -ṫaoiḃ an ḃóṫair ṫu.” - -“Táim le dul go Gailliṁ amáraċ le h-ualaċ cruiṫneaċta do ḋíol, agus nuair -a ġeoḃas mé a luaċ íocfaiḋ mé ṫu,” ar Liam. - -Air maidin, lá air na ṁáraċ, ċuir sé ualaċ cruiṫneaċta air an g-cairt -agus ḃí sé dul go Gailliṁ leis. Nuair ḃí sé timċioll míle go leiṫ -imṫiġṫe o’n teaċ, ṫáinig duine-uasal ċuige agus d’ḟiafruiġ sé dé “An -cruiṫneaċt atá agad air an g-cairt?” - -“Seaḋ,” ar Liam, “tá mé dul ’gá ḋíol le mo ċíos d’íoc.” - -“Cia ṁéad atá ann?” ar san duine uasal. - -“Tá tonna cneasta ann,” ar Liam. - -“Ceannóċaiḋ mé uait é,” ar san duine uasal, “agus ḃéarfaiḋ mé an luaċ is -mó ’sa’ masgaḋ ḋuit. Nuair a raċfas tu ċoṁ fad leis an mbóṫairín cártaċ -atá air do láiṁ ċlé, cas asteaċ agus ḃí ag imṫeaċt go dtagaiḋ tu go teaċ -mór atá i ngleann, agus ḃéiḋ mise ann sin róṁad le d’ airgiod do ṫaḃairt -duit.” - -Nuair ṫáinig Liam ċoṁ fada leis an mbóṫairín ċas sé asteaċ, agus ḃí sé ag -imṫeaċt go dtáinig sé ċoṁ fada le teaċ mór. Ḃí iongantas air Liam nuair -ċonnairc sé an teaċ mór, mar rugaḋ agus tógaḋ ann san g-cóṁarsanaċt é, -agus ní ḟacaiḋ sé an teaċ mór ariaṁ roiṁe, cíḋ go raiḃ eólas aige air -uile ṫeaċ i ḃfoiġseaċt cúig ṁíle ḋó. - -Nuair ṫáinig Liam i ngar do sgioból a ḃí anaice leis an teaċ mór ṫáinig -buaċaill beag amaċ agus duḃairt, “céad míle fáilte róṁad a Liaim Ui -Ruanaiġ,” ċuir sac air a ḋruim agus ṫug asteaċ é. Ṫáinig buaċaill beag -eile amaċ, ċuir fáilte roiṁ Liam, ċuir sac air a ḋruim, agus d’imṫiġ -asteaċ leis. Ḃí buaċailliḋe ag teaċt, ag cur fáilte roiṁ Liam, agus ag -taḃairt sac leó, go raiḃ an tonna cruiṫneaċta imṫiġṫe. Ann sin ṫáinig -iomlán na mbuaċaill i láṫair agus duḃairt Liam leó. “Tá eólas agaiḃ uile -orm-sa agus ní’l eólas agam-sa orraiḃse.” Ann sin duḃradar leis, “téiḋ -asteaċ, agus iṫ do ḋínnéar, tá an máiġistir ag fanaṁaint leat.” - -Ċuaiḋ Liam asteaċ agus ṡuiḋ sé síos ag an mbord. Níor iṫ sé an dara greim -go dtáinig trom-ċodlaḋ air agus ṫuit sé faoi an mbord. Ann sin rinne -an draoiḋ-eadóir fear-bréige cosṁúil le Liam, agus ċuir a ḃaile ċum mná -Liaim é, leis an g-capall, agus leis an g-cairt. Nuair ṫáinig sé go teaċ -Liaim ċuaiḋ sé suas ann san t-seomra, luiḋ air leabuiḋ, agus fuair bás. - -Níor ḃfada go ndeacaiḋ an ġáir amaċ go raiḃ Liam O Ruanaiġ marḃ. Ċuir -an ḃean uisge síos agus nuair ḃí sé teiṫ niġ sí an corp agus ċuir os -cionn cláir é. Ṫáinig na cóṁarsanna agus ċaoineadar go ḃrónaċ os cionn -an ċuirp, agus ḃí truaġ ṁór ann do’n ṁnaoi ḃoiċt aċt ní raiḃ mórán bróin -uirri féin, mar ḃí Liam aosta agus í féin óg. An lá air na ṁáraċ cuireaḋ -an corp agus ní raiḃ aon ċuiṁne níos mó air Liam. - -Ḃí buaċaill-aimsire ag mnaoi Liaim agus duḃairt sí leis, “buḋ ċóir duit -mé ṗósaḋ, agus áit Liaim ġlacaḋ.” - -“Tá sé ró luaṫ fós, anḋiaiġ bás do ḃeiṫ ann san teaċ,” ar san buaċaill, -“fan go mbéiḋ Liam curṫa seaċtṁain.” - -Nuair ḃí Liam seaċt lá agus seaċt n-oiḋċe ’nna ċodlaḋ ṫáinig buaċaill -beag agus ḋúisiġ é. Ann sin duḃairt sé leis, “táir seaċtṁain do ċodlaḋ. -Ċuireamar do ċapall agus do ċairt aḃaile. Seó ḋuit do ċuid airgid, agus -imṫiġ.” - -Ṫáinig Liam a ḃaile, agus mar ḃí sé mall ’san oiḋċe ní ḟacaiḋ aon duine -é. Air maidin an laé sin ċuaiḋ bean Liaim agus an buaċaill-aimsire ċum an -t-sagairt agus d’iarr siad air iad do ṗósaḋ. - -“Ḃfuil an t-airgiod-pósta agaiḃ?” ar san sagart. - -“Ní’l,” ar san ḃean, “aċt tá storc muice agam ’sa’ mbaile, agus tig leat -í ḃeiṫ agad i n-áit airgid.” - -Ṗós an sagart iad, agus duḃairt, “cuirfead fios air an muic amáraċ.” - -Nuair ṫáinig Liam go dtí a ḋoras féin, ḃuail sé buille air. Ḃí an ḃean -agus an buaċaill-aimsire ag dul ċum a leabuiḋ, agus d’ḟiafruiġ siad, “cia -tá ann sin?” - -“Mise,” ar Liam, “fosgail an doras dam.” - -Nuair ċualadar an guṫ ḃí ḟios aca gur ’bé Liam do ḃí ann, agus duḃairt -a ḃean, “ní ṫig liom do leigean asteaċ, agus is mór an náire ḋuit ḃeiṫ -teaċt air ais anḋiaiġ ṫu ḃeiṫ seaċt lá san uaiġ.” - -“An air mire atá tu?” ar Liam. - -“Ní’lim air mire,” ar san ḃean, “’tá ḟios ag an uile ḋuine ’sa’ bparáiste -go ḃfuair tu bás agus gur ċuir mé go geanaṁail ṫu. Téiḋ air ais go -d’uaiġ, agus béiḋ aifrionn léiġte agam air son d’anma ḃoiċt amáraċ.” - -“Fan go dtagaiḋ solas an laé,” ar Liam, “agus béarfaiḋ mé luaċ do ṁagaiḋ -ḋuit.” - -Ann sin ċuaiḋ sé ’san stábla, ’n áit a raiḃ a ċapall agus a ṁuc, ṡín sé -ann san tuiġe, agus ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ. - -Air maidin, lá air na ṁáraċ, duḃairt an sagart le buaċaill beag a ḃí -aige, “téiḋ go teaċ Liaim Ui Ruanaiġ agus ḃéarfaiḋ an ḃean a ṗós mé andé -muc duit le taḃairt a ḃaile leat.” - -Ṫáinig an buaċaill go doras an tíġe agus ṫosuiġ ’gá ḃualaḋ le maide a ḃí -aige. Ḃí faitċios air an mnaoi an doras ḟosgailt, aċt d’ḟiafruiġ sí, “cia -tá ann sin?” - -“Mise,” ar san buaċaill, “ċuir an sagart mé le muc d’ḟáġáil uait.” - -“Tá sí amuiġ ’san stábla,” ar san ḃean. - -Ċuaiḋ an buaċaill asteaċ ’san stábla agus ṫosuiġ ag tiomáint na muiċe -amaċ, nuair d’éiriġ Liam agus duḃairt, “cá ḃfuil tu ag dul le mo ṁuic?” - -Nuair ċonnairc an buaċaill Liam, as go bráṫ leis, agus níor stop go -ndeacaiḋ sé ċum an tsagairt agus a ċroiḋe ag teaċt amaċ air a ḃeul le -faitċios. - -“Cad tá ort?” ar san sagart. - -D’innis an buaċaill dó go raiḃ Liam O Ruanaiġ ann san stábla, agus naċ -leigfeaḋ sé ḋó an ṁuċ ṫaḃairt leis. - -“Bí do ṫost, a ḃreugadóir,” ar ran sagart, “tá Liam O’Ruanaiġ marḃ agus -ann san uaiġ le seaċtṁain.” - -“Dá mbeiḋ’ sé marḃ seaċt mbliaḋna connairc mise ann san stábla é ḋá -ṁóimid ó ṡoin, agus muna g-creideann tu, tar, ṫu féin, agus feicfiḋ tu é.” - -Ann sin ṫáinig an sagart agus an buaċaill le ċéile go doras an stábla, -agus duḃairt an sagart, “téiḋ asteaċ agus cuir an ṁuc sin amaċ ċugam.” - -“Ní raċfainn asteaċ air son an ṁéid is fiú ṫu,” ar san buaċaill. - -Ċuaiḋ an sagart asteaċ ann sin agus ḃí sé ag tiomáint na muice amaċ, -nuair d’éiriġ Liam suas as an tuiġe agus duḃairt, “cá ḃfuil tu dul le mo -ṁuic, a aṫair Ṗádraig?” - -Nuair a ċonnairc an sagart Liam ag éiriġe, as go bráṫ leis, ag ráḋ: “i -n-ainm Dé orduiġim air ais go dtí an uaiġ ṫu a Uilliaim Ui Ruanaiġ.” - -Ṫosuiġ Liam ag riṫ anḋiaiġ an tsagairt, agus ag ráḋ. “A aṫair Ṗádraig -ḃfuil tu air mire? fan agus laḃair Liom.” - -Níor ḟan an sagart aċt ċuaiḋ a ḃaile ċoṁ luaṫ agus d’ḟeud a ċosa a -iomċar, agus nuair ṫáinig sé asteaċ ḋún sé an doras. Ḃí Liam ag bualaḋ -an dorais go raiḃ sé sáruiġṫe, aċt ní leigfeaḋ an sagart asteaċ é. Faoi -ḋeireaḋ ċuir sé a ċeann amaċ air ḟuinneóig a ḃí air ḃárr an tíġe agus -duḃairt, “A Uilliam Ui Ruanaiġ téiḋ air ais ċum d’uaiġe.” - -“Tá tu air mire a aṫair Ṗádraig, ní’l mé marḃ, agus ní raiḃ mé ann aon -uaiġ ariaṁ ó d’ḟág me bronn mo ṁáṫar,” ar Liam. - -“Ċonnairc mise marḃ ṫu,” ar san sagart, “fuair tu bás obann agus ḃí mé -i láṫair nuair cuireaḋ ṫu ’san uaiġ, agus rinne mé seanmóir ḃreáġ os do -ċionn.” - -“Diaḃal uaim, go ḃfuil tu air mire ċoṁ cinnte a’s atá mise beó,” ar Liam. - -“Imṫiġ as m’aṁarc anois agus léiġfiḋ mé aifrionn duit amáraċ,” ar san -sagart. - -Ċuaiḋ Liam a ḃaile agus ḃuail sé a ḋoras féin aċt ní leigfeaḋ an ḃean -asteaċ é. Ann sin duḃairt sé leis féin, “raċfad agus íocfad mo ċíos.” -Uile ḋuine a ċonnairc Liam air a ḃealaċ go teaċ an tiġearna ḃí siad ag -riṫ uaiḋ, mar ṡaoileadar go ḃfuair sé bás. Nuair ċualaiḋ an tiġearna -talṁan go raiḃ Liam O Ruanaiġ ag teaċt ḋún sé na doirse, agus ní leigfeaḋ -sé asteaċ é. Ṫosuiġ Liam ag ḃualaḋ an dorais ṁóir gur ṡaoil an tiġearna -go mbrisfeaḋ sé asteaċ é. Ṫáinig an tiġearna go fuinneóig a ḃí air ḃárr -an tíġe, agus dḟiafruiġ, “cad tá tu ag iarraiḋ?” - -“Ṫáinig mé le mo ċíos íoc, mar ḟear cneasta,” ar Liam. - -“Téiḋ air ais go dtí d’uaiġ, agus ḃéarfaiḋ mé maiṫeaṁnas duit,” ar san -Tiġearna. - -“Ní ḟágfaiḋ mé seó, go ḃfáġ’ mé sgríḃinn uait go ḃfuil mé íocṫa suas -glan, go dtí an Ḃealtaine seó ċugainn.” - -Ṫug an Tiġearna an sgríḃinn dó, agus ṫáinig sé aḃaile. Ḃuail sé an doras, -aċt ní leigfeaó an ḃean asteaċ é, ag ráḋ leis go raiḃ Liam O Ruanaiġ marḃ -agus curṫa, agus naċ raiḃ ann san ḃfear ag an doras aċt fealltóir. - -“Ní fealltóir mé,” ar Liam, “tá mé anḋiaiġ cíos trí ḃliaḋain d’íoc le mo -ṁáiġistir, agus ḃéiḋ seilḃ mo ṫiġe féin agam, no ḃéiḋ ḟios agam cad fáṫ.” - -Ċuaiḋ sé ċum an sgiobóil, agus fuair sé barra mór iarainn agus níor ḃfada -gur ḃris sé asteaċ an doras. Ḃí faitċios mór air an mnaoi agus air an -ḃfear nuaḋ-ṗósta. Ṡaoileadar go raḃadar i n-am an eiseiriġe, agus go raiḃ -deire an doṁain ag teaċt. - -“Cad ċuige ar ṡaoil tu go raiḃ mise marḃ?” ar Liam. - -“Naċ ḃfuil ḟios ag uile ḋuine ann san ḃparáiste go ḃfuil tu marḃ,” ar san -ḃean. - -“Do ċorp ó’n diaḃal,” ar Liam, “tá tu ag magaḋ fada go leór liom. Fáġ ḋam -niḋ le n-iṫe.” - -Ḃí eagla ṁór air an mnaoi ḃoiċt agus ġleus sí biaḋ ḋó, agus nuair -ċonnairc sí é ag iṫe agus ag ól duḃairt sí, “tá míorḃúil ann.” - -Ann sin d’innis Liam a sgeul dí, o ḃonn go bárr, agus nuair d’innis -sé gaċ niḋ, duḃairt sé, “raċfad ċum na n-uaiġe amáraċ go ḃfeicfead an -biṫeaṁnaċ do ċuir siḃ-se i m’áit-sé.” - -Lá air na ṁáraċ ṫug Liam dream daoine leis, agus ċuaiḋ sé ċum na roilige, -agus d’ḟosgail siad an uaiġ, agus ḃíodar dul an ċóṁra d’ḟosgailt, agus -nuair a ḃí siad ’gá tógḃáil suas léim madaḋ mór duḃ amaċ, agus as go ḃráṫ -leis, agus Liam agus na fir eile ’nna ḋiaiġ. Ḃíodar ’gá leanaṁaint go -ḃfacadar é ag dul asteaċ ann san teaċ a raiḃ Liam ’nna ċodlaḋ ann. Ann -sin d’ḟosgail an talaṁ agus ċuaiḋ an teaċ síos, agus ní ḟacaiḋ aon duine -é ó ṡoin, aċt tá an poll mór le feicsint go dtí an lá so. - -Nuair d’imṫiġ Liam agus na fir óga aḃaile d’innis síad gaċ niḋ do ṡagart -na paráiste, agus sgaoil sé an pósaḋ a ḃí eidir bean Liaim agus an -buaċaill-aimsire. - -Do ṁair Liam bliaḋanta ’nna ḋiaiġ seó, agus d’ḟág sé saiḋḃreas mór ’nna -ḋiaiġ, agus tá cuiṁne air i g-Clár-Gailliṁ fós, agus ḃéiḋ go deó, má -ṫéiḋeann an sgeul so ó na sean-daoiniḃ ċum na ndaoine óg. - - - - -LEEAM O’ROONEY’S BURIAL. - - -In the olden time there was once a man named William O’Rooney, living -near Clare-Galway. He was a farmer. One day the landlord came to him and -said: “I have three years’ rent on you, and unless you have it for me -within a week I’ll throw you out on the side of the road.” - -“I’m going to Galway with a load of wheat to-morrow,” said Leeam -(William), “and when I get the price of it I’ll pay you.” - -Next morning he put a load of wheat on the cart, and was going to Galway -with it. When he was gone a couple of miles from the house a gentleman -met him and asked him: “Is it wheat you’ve got on the cart?” - -“It is,” says Leeam; “I’m going to sell it to pay my rent.” - -“How much is there in it?” said the gentleman. - -“There’s a ton, honest, in it,” said Leeam. - -“I’ll buy it from you,” said the gentleman, “and I’ll give you the -biggest price that’s going in the market. When you’ll go as far as the -cart _boreen_ (little road) that’s on your left hand, turn down, and be -going till you come to a big house in the valley. I’ll be before you -there to give you your money.” - -When Leeam came to the _boreen_ he turned in, and was going until he came -as far as the big house. Leeam wondered when he came as far as the big -house, for he was born and raised (_i.e._, reared) in the neighbourhood, -and yet he had never seen the big house before, though he thought he knew -every house within five miles of him. - -When Leeam came near the barn that was close to the big house, a little -lad came out and said: “A hundred thousand welcomes to you, William -O’Rooney,” put a sack on his back and went in with it. Another little lad -came out and welcomed Leeam, put a sack on his back, and went in with it. -Lads were coming welcoming Leeam, and putting the sacks on their backs -and carrying them in, until the ton of wheat was all gone. Then the whole -of the lads came round him, and Leeam said; “Ye all know me, and I don’t -know ye!” Then they said to him: “Go in and eat your dinner; the master’s -waiting for you.” - -Leeam went in and sat down at table; but he had not the second mouthful -taken till a heavy sleep came on him, and he fell down under the table. -Then the enchanter made a false man like William, and sent him home -to William’s wife with the horse and cart. When the false man came to -Leeam’s house, he went into the room, lay down on the bed and died. - -It was not long till the cry went out that Leeam O’Rooney was dead. The -wife put down water, and when it was hot she washed the body and put -it over the board (_i.e._, laid it out). The neighbours came, and they -keened sorrowfully over the body, and there was great pity for the poor -wife, but there was not much grief on herself, for Leeam was old and she -was young. The day on the morrow the body was buried, and there was no -more remembrance of Leeam. - -Leeam’s wife had a servant boy, and she said to him: “You ought to marry -me, and to take Leeam’s place.” - -“It’s too early yet, after there being a death in the house,” said the -boy; “wait till Leeam is a week buried.” - -When Leeam was seven days and seven nights asleep, a little boy came to -him and awoke him, and said: “You’ve been asleep for a week; but we sent -your horse and cart home. Here’s your money, and go.” - -Leeam came home, and as it was late at night nobody saw him. On the -morning of that same day Leeam’s wife and the servant lad went to the -priest and asked him to marry them. - -“Have you the marriage money?” said the priest. - -“No,” said the wife; “but I have a _sturk_ of a pig at home, and you can -have her in place of money.” - -The priest married them, and said: “I’ll send for the pig to-morrow.” - -When Leeam came to his own door, he struck a blow on it. The wife and the -servant boy were going to bed, and they asked: “Who’s there?” - -“It’s I,” said Leeam; “open the door for me.” - -When they heard the voice, they knew that it was Leeam who was in it, and -the wife said: “I can’t let you in, and it’s a great shame, you to be -coming back again, after being seven days in your grave.” - -“Is it mad you are?” said Leeam. - -“I’m not mad,” said the wife; “doesn’t every person in the parish know -that you are dead, and that I buried you decently. Go back to your grave, -and I’ll have a mass read for your poor soul to-morrow.” - -“Wait till daylight comes,” said Leeam, “and I’ll give you the price of -your joking!” - -Then he went into the stable, where his horse and the pig were, stretched -himself in the straw, and fell asleep. - -Early on the morning of the next day, the priest said to a little lad -that he had: “Get up, and go to Leeam O’Rooney’s house, and the woman -that I married yesterday will give you a pig to bring home with you.” - -The boy came to the door of the house, and began knocking at it with a -stick. The wife was afraid to open the door, but she asked: “Who’s there?” - -“I,” said the boy; “the priest sent me to get a pig from you.” - -“She’s out in the stable,” said the wife; “you can get her for yourself, -and drive her back with you.” - -The lad went into the stable, and began driving out the pig, when Leeam -rose up and said: “Where are you going with my pig?” - -When the boy saw Leeam he never stopped to look again, but out with -him as hard as he could, and he never stopped till he came back to the -priest, and his heart coming out of his mouth with terror. - -“What’s on you?” says the priest. - -The lad told him that Leeam O’Rooney was in the stable, and would not let -him drive out the pig. - -“Hold your tongue, you liar!” said the priest; “Leeam O’Rooney’s dead and -in the grave this week.” - -“If he was in the grave this seven years, I saw him in the stable two -moments ago; and if you don’t believe me, come yourself, and you’ll see -him.” - -The priest and the boy then went together to the door of the stable, and -the priest said: “Go in and turn me out that pig.” - -“I wouldn’t go in for all ever you’re worth,” said the boy. - -The priest went in, and began driving out the pig, when Leeam rose up out -of the straw and said: “Where are you going with my pig, Father Patrick?” - -When the priest saw Leeam, off and away with him, and he crying out: “In -the name of God, I order you back to your grave, William O’Rooney.” - -Leeam began running after the priest, and saying, “Father Patrick, Father -Patrick, are you mad? Wait and speak to me.” - -The priest would not wait for him, but made off home as fast as his feet -could carry him, and when he got into the house, he shut the door. Leeam -was knocking at the door till he was tired, but the priest would not let -him in. At last, he put his head out of a window in the top of the house, -and said: “William O’Rooney, go back to your grave.” - -“You’re mad, Father Patrick! I’m not dead, and never was in a grave since -I was born,” said Leeam. - -“I saw you dead,” said the priest; “you died suddenly, and I was present -when you were put into the grave, and made a fine sermon over you.” - -“The devil from me, but, as sure as I’m alive, you’re mad!” said Leeam. - -“Go out of my sight now,” said the priest, “and I’ll read a mass for you, -to-morrow.” - -Leeam went home then, and knocked at his own door, but his wife would -not let him in. Then he said to himself: “I may as well go and pay my -rent now.” On his way to the landlord’s house every one who saw Leeam -was running before him, for they thought he was dead. When the landlord -heard that Leeam O’Rooney was coming, he shut the doors and would not let -him in. Leeam began knocking at the hall-door till the lord thought he’d -break it in. He came to a window in the top of the house, put out his -head, and asked: “What are you wanting?” - -“I’m come to pay my rent like an honest man,” said Leeam. - -“Go back to your grave, and I’ll forgive you your rent,” said the lord. - -“I won’t leave this,” said Leeam, “till I get a writing from you that I’m -paid up clean till next May.” - -The lord gave him the writing, and he came home and knocked at his own -door, but the wife would not let him in. She said that Leeam O’Rooney was -dead and buried, and that the man at the door was only a deceiver. - -“I’m no deceiver,” said William; “I’m after paying my master three years’ -rent, and I’ll have possession of my own house, or else I’ll know why.” - -He went to the barn and got a big bar of iron, and it wasn’t long till -he broke in the door. There was great fear on the wife, and the newly -married husband. They thought they were in the time of the General -Resurrection, and that the end of the world was coming. - -“Why did you think I was dead?” said Leeam. - -“Doesn’t everybody in the parish know you’re dead?” said the wife. - -“Your body from the devil,” said Leeam, “you’re humbugging me long -enough, and get me something to eat.” - -The poor woman was greatly afraid, and she dressed him some meat, and -when she saw him eating and drinking, she said: “It’s a miracle.” - -Then Leeam told her his story from first to last, and she told him each -thing that happened, and then he said: “I’ll go to the grave to-morrow, -till I see the _behoonuch_ ye buried in my place.” - -The day on the morrow Leeam brought a lot of men with him to the -churchyard, and they dug open the grave, and were lifting up the coffin, -when a big black dog jumped out of it, and made off, and Leeam and the -men after it. They were following it till they saw it going into the -house in which Leeam had been asleep, and then the ground opened, and the -house went down, and nobody ever saw it from that out; but the big hole -is to be seen till this day. - -When Leeam and the men went home, they told everything to the priest of -the parish, and he dissolved the marriage that was between Leeam’s wife -and the servant boy. - -Leeam lived for years after that, and he left great wealth behind him, -and they remember him in Clare-Galway still, and will remember him if -this story goes down from the old people to the young. - - - - -GULEESH NA GUSS DHU. - - -There was once a boy in the County Mayo, and he never washed a foot from -the day he was born. Guleesh was his name; but as nobody could ever -prevail on him to wash his feet, they used to call him Guleesh na guss -dhu, or Guleesh Black-foot. It’s often the father said to him: “Get up, -you _strone-sha_ (lubber), and wash yourself,” but the devil a foot -would he get up, and the devil a foot would he wash. There was no use -in talking to him. Every one used to be humbugging him on account of -his dirty feet, but he paid them no heed nor attention. You might say -anything at all to him, but in spite of it all he would have his own way -afterwards. - -One night the whole family were gathered in by the fire, telling stories -and making fun for themselves, and he amongst them. The father said to -him: “Guleesh, you are one and twenty years old to-night, and I believe -you never washed a foot from the day you were born till to-day.” - -“You lie,” said Guleesh, “didn’t I go a’swimming on May day last? and I -couldn’t keep my feet out of the water.” - -“Well, they were as dirty as ever they were when you came to the shore,” -said the father. - -“They were that, surely,” said Guleesh. - -“That’s the thing I’m saying,” says the father, “that it wasn’t in you to -wash your feet ever.” - -“And I never will wash them till the day of my death,” said Guleesh. - -“You miserable _behoonugh_! you clown! you tinker! you good-for-nothing -lubber! what kind of answer is that?” says the father; and with that -he drew the hand and struck him a hard fist on the jaw. “Be off with -yourself,” says he, “I can’t stand you any longer.” - -Guleesh got up and put a hand to his jaw, where he got the fist. “Only -that it’s yourself that’s in it, who gave me that blow,” said he, -“another blow you’d never strike till the day of your death.” He went out -of the house then and great anger on him. - -There was the finest _lis_, or rath, in Ireland, a little way off from -the gable of the house, and he was often in the habit of seating himself -on the fine grass bank that was running round it. He stood, and he half -leaning against the gable of the house, and looking up into the sky, and -watching the beautiful white moon over his head. After him to be standing -that way for a couple of hours, he said to himself: “My bitter grief that -I am not gone away out of this place altogether. I’d sooner be any place -in the world than here. Och, it’s well for you, white moon,” says he, -“that’s turning round, turning round, as you please yourself, and no man -can put you back. I wish I was the same as you.” - -Hardly was the word out of his mouth when he heard a great noise -coming like the sound of many people running together, and talking, -and laughing, and making sport, and the sound went by him like a whirl -of wind, and he was listening to it going into the rath. “Musha, by my -soul,” says he, “but ye’re merry enough, and I’ll follow ye.” - -What was in it but the fairy host, though he did not know at first that -it was they who were in it, but he followed them into the rath. It’s -there he heard _the fulparnee, and the folpornee, the rap-lay-hoota, -and the roolya-boolya_.[29] that they had there, and every man of them -crying out as loud as he could: “My horse, and bridle, and saddle! My -horse, and bridle, and saddle!” - -“By my hand,” said Guleesh, “my boy, that’s not bad. I’ll imitate ye,” -and he cried out as well as they: “My horse, and bridle, and saddle! My -horse, and bridle, and saddle!” And on the moment there was a fine horse -with a bridle of gold, and a saddle of silver, standing before him. He -leaped up on it, and the moment he was on its back he saw clearly that -the rath was full of horses, and of little people going riding on them. - -Said a man of them to him: “Are you coming with us to-night, Guleesh?” - -“I am, surely,” said Guleesh. - -“If you are, come along,” said the little man, and out with them -altogether, riding like the wind, faster than the fastest horse ever you -saw a’hunting, and faster than the fox and the hounds at his tail. - -The cold winter’s wind that was before them, they overtook her, and the -cold winter’s wind that was behind them, she did not overtake them. And -stop nor stay of that full race, did they make none, until they came to -the brink of the sea. - -Then every one of them said: “Hie over cap! Hie over cap!” and that -moment they were up in the air, and before Guleesh had time to remember -where he was, they were down on dry land again, and were going like the -wind. At last they stood, and a man of them said to Guleesh: “Guleesh, do -you know where you are now?” - -“Not a know,” says Guleesh. - -“You’re in Rome, Guleesh,” said he; “but we’re going further than -that. The daughter of the king of France is to be married to-night, the -handsomest woman that the sun ever saw, and we must do our best to bring -her with us, if we’re only able to carry her off; and you must come -with us that we may be able to put the young girl up behind you on the -horse, when we’ll be bringing her away, for it’s not lawful for us to put -her sitting behind ourselves. But you’re flesh and blood, and she can -take a good grip of you, so that she won’t fall off the horse. Are you -satisfied, Guleesh, and will you do what we’re telling you?” - -“Why shouldn’t I be satisfied?” said Guleesh. “I’m satisfied, surely, and -anything that ye will tell me to do I’ll do it without doubt; but where -are we now?” - -“You’re in Rome now, Guleesh,” said the sheehogue (fairy). - -“In Rome, is it?” said Guleesh. “Indeed, and no lie, I’m glad of that. -The parish priest that we had he was broken (suspended) and lost his -parish some time ago; I must go to the Pope till I get a bull from him -that will put him back in his own place again.” - -“Oh, Guleesh,” said the sheehogue, “you can’t do that. You won’t be let -into the palace; and, anyhow, we can’t wait for you, for we’re in a -hurry.” - -“As much as a foot, I won’t go with ye,” says Guleesh, “till I go to the -Pope; but ye can go forward without me, if ye wish. I won’t stir till I -go and get the pardon of my parish priest.” - -“Guleesh, is it out of your senses you are? You can’t go; and there’s -your answer for you now. I tell you, you can’t go.” - -“Can’t ye go on, and to leave me here after ye,” said Guleesh, “and when -ye come back can’t ye hoist the girl up behind me?” - -“But we want you at the palace of the king of France,” said the -sheehogue, “and you must come with us now.” - -“The devil a foot,” said Guleesh, “till I get the priest’s pardon; the -honestest and the pleasantest man that’s in Ireland.” - -Another sheehogue spoke then, and said: - -“Don’t be so hard on Guleesh. The boy’s a kind boy, and he has a good -heart; and as he doesn’t wish to come without the Pope’s bull, we must do -our best to get it for him. He and I will go in to the Pope, and ye can -wait here.” - -“A thousand thanks to you,” said Guleesh. “I’m ready to go with you; for -this priest, he was the sportingest and the pleasantest man in the world.” - -“You have too much talk, Guleesh,” said the sheehogue, “but come along -now. Get off your horse and take my hand.” - -Guleesh dismounted, and took his hand; and then the little man said a -couple of words he did not understand, and before he knew where he was he -found himself in the room with the Pope. - -The Pope was sitting up late that night reading a book that he liked. He -was sitting on a big soft chair, and his two feet on the chimney-board. -There was a fine fire in the grate, and a little table standing at his -elbow, and a drop of ishka-baha (eau-de-vie) and sugar on the little -table_een_; and he never felt till Guleesh came up behind him. - -“Now Guleesh,” said the sheehogue, “tell him that unless he gives you -the bull you’ll set the room on fire; and if he refuses it to you, I’ll -spurt fire round about out of my mouth, till he thinks the place is -really in a blaze, and I’ll go bail he’ll be ready enough then to give -you the pardon.” - -Guleesh went up to him and put his hand on his shoulder. The Pope turned -round, and when he saw Guleesh standing behind him he frightened up. - -“Don’t be afraid,” said Guleesh, “we have a parish priest at home, and -some thief told your honour a lie about him, and he was broken; but he’s -the decentest man ever your honour saw, and there’s not a man, woman, or -child in Ballynatoothach but’s in love with him.” - -“Hold your tongue, you _bodach_,” said the Pope. “Where are you from, or -what brought you here? Haven’t I a lock on the door?” - -“I came in on the keyhole,” says Guleesh, “and I’d be very much obliged -to your honour if you’d do what I’m asking.” - -The Pope cried out: “Where are all my people? Where are my servants? -Shamus! Shawn! I’m killed; I’m robbed.” - -Guleesh put his back to the door, the way he could not get out, and he -was afraid to go near Guleesh, so he had no help for it, but had to -listen to Guleesh’s story; and Guleesh could not tell it to him shortly -and plainly, for he was slow and coarse in his speaking, and that angered -the Pope; and when Guleesh finished his story, he vowed that he never -would give the priest his pardon; and he threatened Guleesh himself that -he would put him to death for his shamelessness in coming in upon him in -the night; and he began again crying out for his servants. Whether the -servants heard him or no, there was a lock on the inside of the door, so -that they could not come in to him. - -“Unless you give me a bull under your hand and seal, and the priest’s -pardon in it,” said Guleesh; “I’ll burn your house with fire.” - -The sheehogue, whom the Pope did not see, began to cast fire and flame -out of his mouth, and the Pope thought that the room was all in a blaze. -He cried out: “Oh, eternal destruction! I’ll give you the pardon; I’ll -give you anything at all, only stop your fire, and don’t burn me in my -own house.” - -The sheehogue stopped the fire, and the Pope had to sit down and write a -full pardon for the priest, and give him back his old place again, and -when he had it ready written, he put his name under it on the paper, and -put it into Guleesh’s hand. - -“Thank your honour,” said Guleesh; “I never will come here again to you, -and _bannacht lath_ (good-bye).” - -“Do not,” said the Pope; “if you do I’ll be ready before you, and you -won’t go from me so easily again. You will be shut up in a prison, and -you won’t get out for ever.” - -“Don’t be afraid, I won’t come again,” said Guleesh. And before he could -say any more the sheehogue spoke a couple of words, and caught Guleesh’s -hand again, and out with them. Guleesh found himself amongst the other -sheehogues, and his horse waiting for him. - -“Now, Guleesh,” said they, “it’s greatly you stopped us, and we in such -a hurry; but come on now, and don’t think of playing such a trick again, -for we won’t wait for you.” - -“I’m satisfied,” said Guleesh, “and I’m thankful to ye; but tell me where -are we going.” - -“We’re going to the palace of the king of France,” said they; “and if we -can at all, we’re to carry off his daughter with us.” - -Every man of them then said, “Rise up, horse;” and the horses began -leaping, and running, and prancing. The cold wind of winter that was -before them they overtook her, and the cold wind of winter that was -behind them, she did not overtake them, and they never stopped of that -race, till they came as far as the palace of the king of France. - -They got off their horses there, and a man of them said a word that -Guleesh did not understand, and on the moment they were lifted up, and -Guleesh found himself and his companions in the palace. There was a great -feast going on there, and there was not a nobleman or a gentleman in -the kingdom but was gathered there, dressed in silk and satin, and gold -and silver, and the night was as bright as the day with all the lamps -and candles that were lit, and Guleesh had to shut his two eyes at the -brightness. When he opened them again and looked from him, he thought -he never saw anything as fine as all he saw there. There were a hundred -tables spread out, and their full of meat and drink on each table of -them, flesh-meat, and cakes and sweetmeats, and wine and ale, and every -drink that ever a man saw. The musicians were at the two ends of the -hall, and they playing the sweetest music that ever a man’s ear heard, -and there were young women and fine youths in the middle of the hall, -dancing and turning, and going round so quickly and so lightly, that it -put a _soorawn_ in Guleesh’s head to be looking at them. There were more -there playing tricks, and more making fun and laughing, for such a feast -as there was that day had not been in France for twenty years, because -the old king had no children alive but only the one daughter, and she was -to be married to the son of another king that night. Three days the feast -was going on, and the third night she was to be married, and that was the -night that Guleesh and the sheehogues came, hoping if they could, to -carry off with them the king’s young daughter. - -Guleesh and his companions were standing together at the head of the -hall, where there was a fine altar dressed up, and two bishops behind it -waiting to marry the girl, as soon as the right time should come. Nobody -could see the sheehogues, for they said a word as they came in, that made -them all invisible, as if they had not been in it at all. - -“Tell me which of them is the king’s daughter,” said Guleesh, when he was -becoming a little used to the noise and the light. - -“Don’t you see her there from you?” said the little man that he was -talking to. - -Guleesh looked where the little man was pointing with his finger, and -there he saw the loveliest woman that was, he thought, upon the ridge of -the world. The rose and the lily were fighting together in her face, and -one could not tell which of them got the victory. Her arms and hands were -like the lime, her mouth as red as a strawberry, when it is ripe, her -foot was as small and as light as another one’s hand, her form was smooth -and slender, and her hair was falling down from her head in buckles of -gold. Her garments and dress were woven with gold and silver, and the -bright stone that was in the ring on her hand was as shining as the sun. - -Guleesh was nearly blinded with all the loveliness and beauty that was in -her; but when he looked again, he saw that she was crying, and that there -was the trace of tears in her eyes. “It can’t be,” said Guleesh, “that -there’s grief on her, when everybody round her is so full of sport and -merriment.” - -“Musha, then, she is grieved,” said the little man; “for it’s against -her own will she’s marrying, and she has no love for the husband she is -to marry. The king was going to give her to him three years ago, when -she was only fifteen, but she said she was too young, and requested him -to leave her as she was yet. The king gave her a year’s grace, and when -that year was up he gave her another year’s grace, and then another; but -a week or a day he would not give her longer, and she is eighteen years -old to-night, and it’s time for her to marry; but, indeed,” says he, and -he crooked his mouth in an ugly way; “indeed, it’s no king’s son she’ll -marry, if I can help it.” - -Guleesh pitied the handsome young lady greatly when he heard that, and -he was heart-broken to think that it would be necessary for her to marry -a man she did not like, or what was worse, to take a nasty Sheehogue -for a husband. However, he did not say a word, though he could not help -giving many a curse to the ill-luck that was laid out for himself, and he -helping the people that were to snatch her away from her home and from -her father. - -He began thinking, then, what it was he ought to do to save her, but -he could think of nothing. “Oh, if I could only give her some help and -relief,” said he, “I wouldn’t care whether I were alive or dead; but I -see nothing that I can do for her.” - -He was looking on when the king’s son came up to her and asked her for -a kiss, but she turned her head away from him. Guleesh had double pity -for her then, when he saw the lad taking her by the soft white hand, and -drawing her out to dance. They went round in the dance near where Guleesh -was, and he could plainly see that there were tears in her eyes. - -When the dancing was over, the old king, her father, and her mother, the -queen, came up and said that this was the right time to marry her, that -the bishop was ready and the couch prepared, and it was time to put the -wedding-ring on her and give her to her husband. - -The old king put a laugh out of him: “Upon my honour,” he said, “the -night is nearly spent, but my son will make a night for himself. I’ll go -bail he won’t rise early to-morrow.” - -“Musha, and maybe he would,” said the Sheehogue in Guleesh’s ear, “or not -go to bed, perhaps, at all. Ha, ha, ha!” - -Guleesh gave him no answer, for his two eyes were going out on his head -watching to see what they would do then. - -The king took the youth by the hand, and the queen took her daughter, -and they went up together to the altar, with the lords and great people -following them. - -When they came near the altar, and were no more than about four yards -from it, the little sheehogue stretched out his foot before the girl, -and she fell. Before she was able to rise again he threw something that -was in his hand upon her, said a couple of words, and upon the moment -the maiden was gone from amongst them. Nobody could see her, for that -word made her invisible. The little man_een_ seized her and raised her up -behind Guleesh, and the king nor no one else saw them, but out with them -through the hall till they came to the door. - -Oro! dear Mary! it’s there the pity was, and the trouble, and the crying, -and the wonder, and the searching, and the _rookawn_, when that lady -disappeared from their eyes, and without their seeing what did it. Out -on the door of the palace with them, without being stopped or hindered, -for nobody saw them, and, “My horse, my bridle, and saddle!” says every -man of them. “My horse, my bridle, and saddle!” says Guleesh; and on the -moment the horse was standing ready caparisoned before him. “Now, jump -up, Guleesh,” said the little man, “and put the lady behind you, and we -will be going; the morning is not far off from us now.” - -Guleesh raised her up on the horse’s back, and leaped up himself before -her, and, “Rise horse,” said he; and his horse, and the other horses with -him, went in a full race until they came to the sea. - -“Highover, cap!” said every man of them. - -“Highover, cap!” said Guleesh; and on the moment the horse rose under -him, and cut a leap in the clouds, and came down in Erin. - -They did not stop there, but went of a race to the place where was -Guleesh’s house and the rath. And when they came as far as that, Guleesh -turned and caught the young girl in his two arms, and leaped off the -horse. - -“I call and cross you to myself, in the name of God!” said he; and on the -spot, before the word was out of his mouth, the horse fell down, and what -was in it but the beam of a plough, of which they had made a horse; and -every other horse they had, it was that way they made it. Some of them -were riding on an old besom, and some on a broken stick, and more on a -_bohalawn_ (rag weed), or a hemlock-stalk. - -The good people called out together when they heard what Guleesh said: - -“Oh, Guleesh, you clown, you thief, that no good may happen you, why did -you play that trick on us?” - -But they had no power at all to carry off the girl, after Guleesh had -consecrated her to himself. - -“Oh, Guleesh, isn’t that a nice turn you did us, and we so kind to you? -What good have we now out of our journey to Rome and to France? Never -mind yet, you clown, but you’ll pay us another time for this. Believe us -you’ll repent it.” - -“He’ll have no good to get out of the young girl,” said the little man -that was talking to him in the palace before that, and as he said the -word he moved over to her and struck her a slap on the side of the head. -“Now,” says he, “she’ll be without talk any more; now, Guleesh, what good -will she be to you when she’ll be dumb? It’s time for us to go—but you’ll -remember us, Guleesh na Guss Dhu!” - -When he said that he stretched out his two hands, and before Guleesh was -able to give an answer, he and the rest of them were gone into the rath -out of his sight, and he saw them no more. - -He turned to the young woman and said to her: “Thanks be to God, they’re -gone. Would you not sooner stay with me than with them?” She gave him no -answer. “There’s trouble and grief on her yet,” said Guleesh in his own -mind, and he spoke to her again: “I am afraid that you must spend this -night in my father’s house, lady, and if there is anything that I can do -for you, tell me, and I’ll be your servant.” - -The beautiful girl remained silent, but there were tears in her eyes, and -her face was white and red after each other. - -“Lady,” said Guleesh, “tell me what you would like me to do now. I never -belonged at all to that lot of sheehogues who carried you away with them. -I am the son of an honest farmer, and I went with them without knowing -it. If I’ll be able to send you back to your father I’ll do it, and I -pray you make any use of me now that you may wish.” - -He looked into her face, and he saw the mouth moving as if she was going -to speak, but there came no word from it. - -“It cannot be,” said Guleesh, “that you are dumb. Did I not hear you -speaking to the king’s son in the palace to-night? Or has that devil made -you really dumb, when he struck his nasty hand on your jaw?” - -The girl raised her white smooth hand, and laid her finger on her tongue, -to show him that she had lost her voice and power of speech, and the -tears ran out of her two eyes like streams, and Guleesh’s own eyes were -not dry, for as rough as he was on the outside he had a soft heart, and -could not stand the sight of the young girl, and she in that unhappy -plight. - -He began thinking with himself what he ought to do, and he did not like -to bring her home with himself to his father’s house, for he knew well -that they would not believe him, that he had been in France and brought -back with him the king of France’s daughter, and he was afraid they might -make a mock of the young lady or insult her. - -As he was doubting what he ought to do, and hesitating, he chanced to put -his hand in his pocket, and he found a paper in it. He pulled it up, and -the moment he looked at it he remembered it was the Pope’s bull. “Glory -be to God,” said he, “I know now what I’ll do; I’ll bring her to the -priest’s house, and as soon as he sees the pardon I have here, he won’t -refuse me to keep the lady and care her.” He turned to the lady again and -told her that he was loath to take her to his father’s house, but that -there was an excellent priest very friendly to himself, who would take -good care of her, if she wished to remain in his house; but that if there -was any other place she would rather go, he said he would bring her to -it. - -She bent her head, to show him she was obliged, and gave him to -understand that she was ready to follow him any place he was going. “We -will go to the priest’s house, then,” said he; “he is under an obligation -to me, and will do anything I ask him.” - -They went together accordingly to the priest’s house, and the sun was -just rising when they came to the door. Guleesh beat it hard, and as -early as it was the priest was up, and opened the door himself. He -wondered when he saw Guleesh and the girl, for he was certain that it was -coming wanting to be married they were. - -“Guleesh na Guss Dhu, isn’t it the nice boy you are that you can’t wait -till ten o’clock or till twelve, but that you must be coming to me at -this hour, looking for marriage, you and your _girshuch_. You ought to -know that I’m broken, and that I can’t marry you, or at all events, can’t -marry you lawfully. But ubbubboo!” said he, suddenly, as he looked again -at the young girl, “in the name of God, who have you here? Who is she, or -how did you get her?” - -“Father,” said Guleesh, “you can marry me, or anybody else, any more, if -you wish; but it’s not looking for marriage I came to you now, but to ask -you, if you please, to give a lodging in your house to this young lady.” -And with that he drew out the Pope’s bull, and gave it to the priest to -read. - -The priest took it, and read it, and looked sharply at the writing and -seal, and he had no doubt but it was a right bull, from the hand of the -Pope. - -“Where did you get this?” said he to Guleesh, and the hand he held the -paper in, was trembling with wonder and joy. - -“Oh, musha!” said Guleesh, airily enough, “I got it last night in Rome; -I remained a couple of hours in the city there, when I was on my way to -bring this young lady, daughter of the king of France, back with me.” - -The priest looked at him as though he had ten heads on him; but without -putting any other question to him, he desired him to come in, himself and -the maiden, and when they came in, he shut the door, brought them into -the parlour, and put them sitting. - -“Now, Guleesh,” said he, “tell me truly where did you get this bull, and -who is this young lady, and whether you’re out of your senses really, or -are only making a joke of me?” - -“I’m not telling a word of lie, nor making a joke of you,” said Guleesh; -“but it was from the Pope himself I got the paper, and it was from the -palace of the king of France I carried off this lady, and she is the -daughter of the king of France.” - -He began his story then, and told the whole to the priest, and the priest -was so much surprised that he could not help calling out at times, or -clapping his hands together. - -When Guleesh said from what he saw he thought the girl was not satisfied -with the marriage that was going to take place in the palace before he -and the sheehogues broke it up, there came a red blush into the girl’s -cheek, and he was more certain than ever that she had sooner be as she -was—badly as she was—than be the married wife of the man she hated. When -Guleesh said that he would be very thankful to the priest if he would -keep her in his own house, the kind man said he would do that as long as -Guleesh pleased, but that he did not know what they ought to do with her, -because they had no means of sending her back to her father again. - -Guleesh answered that he was uneasy about the same thing, and that he saw -nothing to do but to keep quiet until they should find some opportunity -of doing something better. They made it up then between themselves that -the priest should let on that it was his brother’s daughter he had, who -was come on a visit to him from another county, and that he should tell -everybody that she was dumb, and do his best to keep everyone away from -her. They told the young girl what it was they intended to do, and she -showed by her eyes that she was obliged to them. - -Guleesh went home then, and when his people asked him where he was, he -said that he was asleep at the foot of the ditch, and passed the night -there. - -There was great wonderment on the neighbours when the honest priest -showed them the Pope’s bull, and got his old place again, and everyone -was rejoiced, for, indeed, there was no fault at all in that honest man, -except that now and again he would have too much liking for a drop of -the bottle; but no one could say that he ever saw him in a way that he -could not utter “here’s to your health,” as well as ever a man in the -kingdom. But if they wondered to see the priest back again in his old -place, much more did they wonder at the girl who came so suddenly to his -house without anyone knowing where she was from, or what business she -had there. Some of the people said that everything was not as it ought -to be, and others that it was not possible that the Pope gave back his -place to the priest after taking it from him before, on account of the -complaints about his drinking. And there were more of them, too, who said -that Guleesh na Guss Dhu was not like the same man that was in it before, -and that it was a great story (_i.e._, a thing to wonder at) how he was -drawing every day to the priest’s house, and that the priest had a wish -and a respect for him, a thing they could not clear up at all. - -That was true for them, indeed, for it was seldom the day went by but -Guleesh would go to the priest’s house, and have a talk with him, and as -often as he would come he used to hope to find the young lady well again, -and with leave to speak; but, alas! she remained dumb and silent, without -relief or cure. Since she had no other means of talking she carried on -a sort of conversation between herself and himself, by moving her hand -and fingers, winking her eyes, opening and shutting her mouth, laughing -or smiling, and a thousand other signs, so that it was not long until -they understood each other very well. Guleesh was always thinking how -he should send her back to her father; but there was no one to go with -her, and he himself did not know what road to go, for he had never been -out of his own country before the night he brought her away with him. -Nor had the priest any better knowledge than he; but when Guleesh asked -him, he wrote three or four letters to the king of France, and gave them -to buyers and sellers of wares, who used to be going from place to place -across the sea; but they all went astray, and never one came to the -king’s hand. - -This was the way they were for many months, and Guleesh was falling -deeper and deeper in love with her every day, and it was plain to himself -and the priest that she liked him. The boy feared greatly at last, lest -the king should really hear where his daughter was, and take her back -from himself, and he besought the priest to write no more, but to leave -the matter to God. - -So they passed the time for a year, until there came a day when Guleesh -was lying by himself on the grass, on the last day of the last month -in autumn (_i.e._ October), and he thinking over again in his own mind -of everything that happened to him from the day that he went with the -sheehogues across the sea. He remembered then, suddenly, that it was one -November night that he was standing at the gable of the house, when the -whirlwind came, and the sheehogues in it, and he said to himself: “We -have November night again to-day, and I’ll stand in the same place I was -last year, until I see will the good people come again. Perhaps I might -see or hear something that would be useful to me, and might bring back -her talk again to Mary”—that was the name himself and the priest called -the king’s daughter, for neither of them knew her right name. He told his -intention to the priest, and the priest gave him his blessing. - -Guleesh accordingly went to the old rath when the night was darkening, -and he stood with his bent elbow leaning on a gray old flag, waiting -till the middle of the night should come. The moon rose slowly, and it -was like a knob of fire behind him; and there was a white fog which was -raised up over the fields of grass and all damp places, through the -coolness of the night after a great heat in the day. The night was calm -as is a lake when there is not a breath of wind to move a wave on it, and -there was no sound to be heard but the _cronawn_ (hum) of the insects -that would go by from time to time, or the hoarse sudden scream of the -wild-geese, as they passed from lake to lake, half a mile up in the air -over his head; or the sharp whistle of the fadogues and flibeens (golden -and green plover), rising and lying, lying and rising, as they do on a -calm night. There were a thousand thousand bright stars shining over his -head, and there was a little frost out, which left the grass under his -foot white and crisp. - -He stood there for an hour, for two hours, for three hours, and the frost -increased greatly, so that he heard the breaking of the _traneens_ under -his foot as often as he moved. He was thinking, in his own mind, at last, -that the sheehogues would not come that night, and that it was as good -for him to return back again, when he heard a sound far away from him, -coming towards him, and he recognised what it was at the first moment. -The sound increased, and at first it was like the beating of waves on a -stony shore, and then it was like the falling of a great waterfall, and -at last it was like a loud storm in the tops of the trees, and then the -whirlwind burst into the rath of one rout, and the sheehogues were in it. - -It all went by him so suddenly that he lost his breath with it, but he -came to himself on the spot, and put an ear on himself, listening to what -they would say. - -Scarcely had they gathered into the rath till they all began shouting, -and screaming, and talking amongst themselves; and then each one of them -cried out: “My horse, and bridle, and saddle! My horse, and bridle, -and saddle!” and Guleesh took courage, and called out as loudly as any -of them: “My horse, and bridle, and saddle! My horse, and bridle, and -saddle!” But before the word was well out of his mouth, another man cried -out: “Ora! Guleesh, my boy, are you here with us again? How are you -coming on with your woman? There’s no use in your calling for your horse -to-night. I’ll go bail you won’t play on us again. It was a good trick -you played on us last year!” - -“It was,” said another man, “he won’t do it again.” - -“Isn’t he a prime lad, the same lad! to take a woman with him that never -said as much to him as, ‘how do you do?’ since this time last year!” says -the third man. - -“Perhaps he likes to be looking at her,” said another voice. - -“And if the _omadawn_ only knew that there’s an herb growing up by his -own door, and to boil it and give it to her and she’d be well,” said -another voice. - -“That’s true for you.” - -“He is an omadawn.” - -“Don’t bother your head with him, we’ll be going.” - -“We’ll leave the _bodach_ as he is.” - -And with that they rose up into the air, and out with them of one -_roolya-boolya_ the way they came; and they left poor Guleesh standing -where they found him, and the two eyes going out of his head, looking -after them, and wondering. - -He did not stand long till he returned back, and he thinking in his own -mind on all he saw and heard, and wondering whether there was really -an herb at his own door that would bring back the talk to the king’s -daughter. “It can’t be,” says he to himself, “that they would tell it -to me, if there was any virtue in it; but perhaps the sheehogue didn’t -observe himself when he let the word slip out of his mouth. I’ll search -well as soon as the sun rises, whether there’s any plant growing beside -the house except thistles and dockings.” - -He went home, and as tired as he was he did not sleep a wink until the -sun rose on the morrow. He got up then, and it was the first thing he did -to go out and search well through the grass round about the house, trying -could he get any herb that he did not recognize. And, indeed, he was not -long searching till he observed a large strange herb that was growing up -just by the gable of the house. - -He went over to it, and observed it closely, and saw that there were -seven little branches coming out of the stalk, and seven leaves growing -on every branch_een_ of them, and that there was a white sap in the -leaves. “It’s very wonderful,” said he to himself, “that I never noticed -this herb before. If there’s any virtue in an herb at all, it ought to be -in such a strange one as this.” - -He drew out his knife, cut the plant, and carried it into his own house; -stripped the leaves off it and cut up the stalk; and there came a thick, -white juice out of it, as there comes out of the sow-thistle when it is -bruised, except that the juice was more like oil. - -He put it in a little pot and a little water in it, and laid it on the -fire until the water was boiling, and then he took a cup, filled it half -up with the juice, and put it to his own mouth. It came into his head -then that perhaps it was poison that was in it, and that the good people -were only tempting him that he might kill himself with that trick, or put -the girl to death without meaning it. He put down the cup again, raised -a couple of drops on the top of his finger, and put it to his mouth. It -was not bitter, and, indeed, had a sweet, agreeable taste. He grew bolder -then, and drank the full of a thimble of it, and then as much again, and -he never stopped till he had half the cup drunk. He fell asleep after -that, and did not wake till it was night, and there was great hunger and -great thirst on him. - -He had to wait, then, till the day rose; but he determined, as soon as he -should wake in the morning, that he would go to the king’s daughter and -give her a drink of the juice of the herb. - -As soon as he got up in the morning, he went over to the priest’s house -with the drink in his hand, and he never felt himself so bold and -valiant, and spirited and light, as he was that day, and he was quite -certain that it was the drink he drank which made him so hearty. - -When he came to the house, he found the priest and the young lady within, -and they were wondering greatly why he had not visited them for two days. - -He told them all his news, and said that he was certain that there was -great power in that herb, and that it would do the lady no hurt, for he -tried it himself and got good from it, and then he made her taste it, for -he vowed and swore that there was no harm in it. - -Guleesh handed her the cup, and she drank half of it, and then fell back -on her bed and a heavy sleep came on her, and she never woke out of that -sleep till the day on the morrow. - -Guleesh and the priest sat up the entire night with her, waiting till she -should awake, and they between hope and unhope, between expectation of -saving her and fear of hurting her. - -She awoke at last when the sun had gone half its way through the heavens. -She rubbed her eyes and looked like a person who did not know where she -was. She was like one astonished when she saw Guleesh and the priest in -the same room with her, and she sat up doing her best to collect her -thoughts. - -The two men were in great anxiety waiting to see would she speak, or -would she not speak, and when they remained silent for a couple of -minutes, the priest said to her: “Did you sleep well, Mary?” - -And she answered him: “I slept, thank you.” - -No sooner did Guleesh hear her talking than he put a shout of joy out of -him, and ran over to her and fell on his two knees, and said: “A thousand -thanks to God, who has given you back the talk; lady of my heart, speak -again to me.” - -The lady answered him that she understood it was he who boiled that -drink for her, and gave it to her; that she was obliged to him from her -heart for all the kindness he showed her since the day she first came to -Ireland, and that he might be certain that she would never forget it. - -Guleesh was ready to die with satisfaction and delight. Then they brought -her food, and she eat with a good appetite, and was merry and joyous, and -never left off talking with the priest while she was eating. - -After that Guleesh went home to his house, and stretched himself on the -bed and fell asleep again, for the force of the herb was not all spent, -and he passed another day and a night sleeping. When he woke up he went -back to the priest’s house, and found that the young lady was in the same -state, and that she was asleep almost since the time that he left the -house. - -He went into her chamber with the priest, and they remained watching -beside her till she awoke the second time, and she had her talk as well -as ever, and Guleesh was greatly rejoiced. The priest put food on the -table again, and they eat together, and Guleesh used after that to come -to the house from day to day, and the friendship that was between him and -the king’s daughter increased, because she had no one to speak to except -Guleesh and the priest, and she liked Guleesh best. - -He had to tell her the way he was standing by the rath when the good -people came, and how he went in to the Pope, and how the sheehogue blew -fire out of his mouth, and every other thing that he did till the time -the good people whipt her off with themselves; and when it would be all -told he would have to begin it again out of the new, and she never was -tired listening to him. - -When they had been that way for another half year, she said that she -could wait no longer without going back to her father and mother; that -she was certain that they were greatly grieved for her; and that it was -a shame for her to leave them in grief, when it was in her power to go -as far as them. The priest did all he could to keep her with them for -another while, but without effect, and Guleesh spoke every sweet word -that came into his head, trying to get the victory over her, and to -coax her and make her stay as she was, but it was no good for him. She -determined that she would go, and no man alive would make her change her -intention. - -She had not much money, but only two rings that were on her hand, when -the sheehogue carried her away, and a gold pin that was in her hair, and -golden buckles that were on her little shoes. - -The priest took and sold them and gave her the money, and she said that -she was ready to go. - -She left her blessing and farewell with the priest and Guleesh, and -departed. She was not long gone till there came such grief and melancholy -over Guleesh that he knew he would not be long alive unless he were near -her, and he followed her. - - (The next 42 pages in the Leabhar Sgeuluigheachta are taken - up with the adventures of Guleesh and the princess, on their - way to the court of France. But this portion of the story is - partly taken from other tales, and part is too much altered and - amplified in the writing of it, so that I do not give it here, - as not being genuine folk-lore, which the story, except for a - very little embellishment, has been up to this point. The whole - ends as follows, with the restoration of the princess and her - marriage with Guleesh.) - -It was well, and it was not ill. They married one another, and that was -the fine wedding they had, and if I were to be there then, I would not be -here now; but I heard it from a birdeen that there was neither cark nor -care, sickness nor sorrow, mishap nor misfortune on them till the hour of -their death, and that it may be the same with me, and with us all! - - - - -THE WELL OF D’YERREE-IN-DOWAN. - - -A long time ago—before St. Patrick’s time—there was an old king in -Connacht, and he had three sons. The king had a sore foot for many years, -and he could get no cure. One day he sent for the Dall Glic (wise blind -man) which he had, and said to him: - -“I’m giving you wages this twenty years, and you can’t tell me what will -cure my foot.” - -“You never asked me that question before,” said the Dall Glic; “but I -tell you now that there is nothing in the world to cure you but a bottle -of water from the Well of D’yerree-in-Dowan” (_i.e._, end of the world). - -In the morning, the day on the morrow, the king called his three sons, -and he said to them: - -“My foot will never be better until I get a bottle of water from the Well -of D’yerree-in-Dowan, and whichever of you will bring me that, he has my -kingdom to get.” - -“We will go in pursuit of it to-morrow,” says the three. The names of the -three were Art, Nart (_i.e._, strength), and Cart[30] (_i.e._, right). - -On the morning of the day on the morrow, the king gave to each one of -them a purse of gold, and they went on their way. When they came as far -as the cross-roads, Art said: - -“Each one of us ought to go a road for himself, and if one of us is back -before a year and a day, let him wait till the other two come; or else -let him set up a stone as a sign that he has come back safe.” - -They parted from one another after that, and Art and Nart went to an inn -and began drinking; but Cart went on by himself. He walked all that day -without knowing where he was going. As the darkness of the night came -on he was entering a great wood, and he was going forwards in the wood, -until he came to a large house. He went in and looked round him, but he -saw nobody, except a large white cat sitting beside the fire. When the -cat saw him she rose up and went into another room. He was tired and sat -beside the fire. It was not long till the door of the chamber opened, and -there came out an old hag. - -“One hundred thousand welcomes before you, son of the king of Connacht,” -says the hag. - -“How did you know me?” says the king’s son. - -“Oh, many’s the good day I spent in your father’s castle in Bwee-sounee, -and I know you since you were born,” said the hag. - -Then she prepared him a fine supper, and gave it to him. When he had -eaten and drunk enough, she said to him: - -“You made a long journey to-day; come with me until I show you a bed.” -Then she brought him to a fine chamber, showed him a bed, and the king’s -son fell asleep. He did not awake until the sun was coming in on the -windows the next morning. - -Then he rose up, dressed himself, and was going out, when the hag asked -him where he was going. - -“I don’t know,” said the king’s son. “I left home to find out the Well of -D’yerree-in-Dowan.” - -“I’m after walking a good many places,” said the hag, “but I never heard -talk of the Well of D’yerree-in-Dowan before.” - -The king’s son went out, and he was travelling till he came to a -cross-roads between two woods. He did not know which road to take. He saw -a seat under the trunk of a great tree. When he went up to it he found -it written: “This is the seat of travellers.” - -The king’s son sat down, and after a minute he saw the most lovely woman -in the world coming towards him, and she dressed in red silk, and she -said to him: - -“I often heard that it is better to go forward than back.” - -Then she went out of his sight as though the ground should swallow her. - -The king’s son rose up and went forward. He walked that day till the -darkness of the night was coming on, and he did not know where to get -lodgings. He saw a light in a wood, and he drew towards it. The light was -in a little house. There was not as much as the end of a feather jutting -up on the outside nor jutting down on the inside, but only one single -feather that was keeping up the house. He knocked at the door, and an old -hag opened it. - -“God save all here,” says the king’s son. - -“A hundred welcomes before you, son of the king of the castle of -Bwee-sounee,” said the hag. - -“How do you know me?” said the king’s son. - -“It was my sister nursed you,” said the hag, “and sit down till I get -your supper ready.” - -When he ate and drank his enough, she put him to sleep till morning. When -he rose up in the morning, he prayed to God to direct him on the road of -his luck. - -“How far will you go to-day?” said the hag. - -“I don’t know,” said the king’s son. “I’m in search of the Well of -D’yerree-in-Dowan.” - -“I’m three hundred years here,” said the hag, “and I never heard of such -a place before; but I have a sister older than myself, and, perhaps, she -may know of it. Here is a ball of silver for you, and when you will go -out upon the road throw it up before you, and follow it till you come to -the house of my sister.” - -When he went out on the road he threw down the ball, and he was following -it until the sun was going under the shadow of the hills. Then he went -into a wood, and came to the door of a little house. When he struck the -door, a hag opened it and said: - -“A hundred thousand welcomes before you, son of the king of the castle of -Bwee-sounee, who were at my sister’s house last night. You made a long -journey to-day. Sit down; I have a supper ready for you.” - -When the king’s son ate and drank his enough, the hag put him to sleep, -and he did not wake up till the morning. Then the hag asked: - -“Where are you going?” - -“I don’t rightly know,” said the king’s son. “I left home to find out the -Well of D’yerree-in-Dowan.” - -“I am over five hundred years of age,” said the hag, “and I never heard -talk of that place before; but I have a brother, and if there is any such -place in the world, he’ll know of it. He is living seven hundred miles -from here.” - -“It’s a long journey,” said the king’s son. - -“You’ll be there to-night,” said the hag. - -Then she gave him a little garraun (nag, gelding) about the size of a -goat. - -“That little beast won’t be able to carry me,” said the king’s son. - -“Wait till you go riding on it,” said the hag. - -The king’s son got on the garraun, and out for ever with him as fast as -lightning. - -When the sun was going under, that evening, he came to a little house in -a wood. The king’s son got off the garraun, went in, and it was not long -till an old grey man came out, and said: - -“A hundred thousand welcomes to you, son of the king of the castle of -Bwee-sounee. You’re in search of the Well of D’yerree-in-Dowan.” - -“I am, indeed,” said the king’s son. - -“Many’s the good man went that way before you; but not a man of them came -back alive,” said the old man; “however, I’ll do my best for you. Stop -here to-night, and we’ll have sport to-morrow.” - -Then he dressed a supper and gave it to the king’s son, and when he ate -and drank, the old man put him to sleep. - -In the morning of the day on the morrow, the old man said: - -“I found out where the Well of D’yerree-in-Dowan is; but it is difficult -to go as far as it. We must find out if there’s any good in you with the -tight loop (bow?).” - -Then he brought the king’s son out into the wood, gave him the loop, and -put a mark on a tree two score yards from him, and told him to strike it. -He drew the loop and struck the mark. - -“You’ll do the business,” said the old man. - -They then went in, and spent the day telling stories till the darkness of -the night was come. - -When the darkness of the night was come, the old man gave him a loop -(bow?) and a sheaf of sharp stings (darts), and said: - -“Come with me now.” - -They were going until they came to a great river. Then the old man said: - -“Go on my back, and I’ll swim across the river with you; but if you see a -great bird coming, kill him, or we shall be lost.” - -Then the king’s son got on the old man’s back, and the old man began -swimming. When they were in the middle of the river the king’s son saw -a great eagle coming, and his gob (beak) open. The king’s son drew the -loop and wounded the eagle. - -“Did you strike him?” said the old man. - -“I struck him,” said the king’s son; “but here he comes again.” - -He drew the loop the second time and the eagle fell dead. - -When they came to the land, the old man said: - -“We are on the island of the Well of D’yerree-in-Dowan. The queen is -asleep, and she will not waken for a day and a year. She never goes to -sleep but once in seven years. There is a lion and a monster (uillphéist) -watching at the gate of the well, but they go to sleep at the same time -with the queen, and you will have no difficulty in going to the well. -Here are two bottles for you; fill one of them for yourself, and the -other for me, and it will make a young man of me.” - -The king’s son went off, and when he came as far as the castle he saw the -lion and the monster sleeping on each side of the gate. Then he saw a -great wheel throwing up water out of the well, and he went and filled the -two bottles, and he was coming back when he saw a shining light in the -castle. He looked in through the window and saw a great table. There was -a loaf of bread, with a knife, a bottle, and a glass on it. He filled the -glass, but he did not diminish the bottle. He observed that there was a -writing on the bottle and on the loaf; and he read on the bottle: “Water -For the World,” and on the loaf: “Bread For the World.” He cut a piece -off the loaf, but it only grew bigger. - -“My grief! that we haven’t that loaf and that bottle at home,” said the -king’s son, “and there’d be neither hunger nor thirst on the poor people.” - -Then he went into a great chamber, and he saw the queen and eleven -waiting-maids asleep, and a sword of light hung above the head of the -queen. It was it that was giving light to the whole castle. - -When he saw the queen, he said to himself: “It’s a pity to leave that -pretty mouth without kissing it.” He kissed the queen, and she never -awoke; and after that he did the same to the eleven maidens. Then he got -the sword, the bottle, and the loaf, and came to the old man, but he -never told him that he had those things. - -“How did you get on?” said the old man. - -“I got the thing I was in search of,” said the king’s son. - -“Did you see any marvel since you left me?” said the old man. - -The king’s son told him that he had seen a wonderful loaf, bottle, and -sword. - -“You did not touch them?” said the old man; “shun them, for they would -bring trouble on you. Come on my back now till I bring you across the -river.” - -When they went to the house of the old man, he put water out of the -bottle on himself, and made a young man of himself. Then he said to the -king’s son: - -“My sisters and myself are now free from enchantment, and they are young -women again.” - -The king’s son remained there until most part of the year and day were -gone. Then he began the journey home; but, my grief, he had not the -little nag with him. He walked the first day until the darkness of the -night was coming on. He saw a large house. He went to the door, struck -it, and the man of the house came out to him. - -“Can you give me lodgings?” said he. - -“I can,” said the man of the house, “only I have no light to light you.” - -“I have a light myself,” said the king’s son. - -He went in then, drew the sword, and gave a fine light to them all, and -to everybody that was in the island. They then gave him a good supper, -and he went to sleep. When he was going away in the morning, the man of -the house asked him for the honour of God, to leave the sword with them. - -“Since you asked for it in the honour of God, you must have it,” said the -king’s son. - -He walked the second day till the darkness was coming. He went to another -great house, beat the door, and it was not long till the woman of the -house came to him, and he asked lodgings of her. The man of the house -came and said: - -“I can give you that; but I have not a drop of water to dress food for -you.” - -“I have plenty of water myself,” said the king’s son. - -He went in, drew out the bottle, and there was not a vessel in the house -he did not fill, and still the bottle was full. Then a supper was dressed -for him, and when he ate and drank his enough, he went to sleep. In the -morning, when he was going, the woman asked of him, in the honour of God, -to leave them the bottle. - -“Since it has chanced that you ask it for the honour of God,” said the -king’s son, “I cannot refuse you, for my mother put me under _gassa_ -(mystic obligations), before she died, never, if I could, to refuse -anything that a person would ask of me for the honour of God.” - -Then he left the bottle to them. - -He walked the third day until darkness was coming, and he reached a great -house on the side of the road. He struck the door; the man of the house -came out, and he asked lodgings of him. - -“I can give you that, and welcome,” said the man; “but I’m grieved that -I have not a morsel of bread for you.” - -“I have plenty of bread myself,” said the king’s son. - -He went in, got a knife, and began cutting the loaf, until the table -was filled with pieces of bread, and yet the loaf was as big as it was -when he began. Then they prepared a supper for him, and when he ate his -enough, he went to sleep. When he was departing in the morning, they -asked of him, for the honour of God, to leave the loaf with them, and he -left it with them. - -The three things were now gone from him. - -He walked the fourth day until he came to a great river, and he had no -way to get across it. He went upon his knees, and asked of God to send -him help. After half a minute, he saw the beautiful woman he saw the day -he left the house of the first hag. When she came near him, she said: -“Son of the king of the castle of Bwee-sounnee, has it succeeded with -you?” - -“I got the thing I went in search of,” said the king’s son; “but I do not -know how I shall pass over this river.” - -She drew out a thimble and said: “Bad is the day I would see your -father’s son without a boat.” - -Then she threw the thimble into the river, and made a splendid boat of it. - -“Get into that boat now,” said she; “and when you will come to the -other side, there will be a steed before you to bring you as far as the -cross-road, where you left your brothers.” - -The king’s son stepped into the boat, and it was not long until he was -at the other side, and there he found a white steed before him. He went -riding on it, and it went off as swiftly as the wind. At about twelve -o’clock on that day, he was at the cross-roads. The king’s son looked -round him, and he did not see his brothers, nor any stone set up, and he -said to himself, “perhaps they are at the inn.” He went there, and found -Art and Nart, and they two-thirds drunk. - -They asked him how he went on since he left them. - -“I have found out the Well of D’yerree-in-Dowan, and I have the bottle of -water,” said Cart. - -Nart and Art were filled with jealousy, and they said one to the other: -“It’s a great shame that the youngest son should have the kingdom.” - -“We’ll kill him, and bring the bottle of water to my father,” said -Nart; “and we’ll say that it was ourselves who went to the Well of -D’yerree-in-Dowan.” - -“I’m not with you there,” said Art; “but we’ll set him drunk, and we’ll -take the bottle of (from) him. My father will believe me and you, before -he’ll believe our brother, because he has an idea that there’s nothing in -him but a half _omadawn_.” - -“Then,” he said to Cart, “since it has happened that we have come home -safe and sound we’ll have a drink before we go home.” - -They called for a quart of whiskey, and they made Cart drink the most of -it, and he fell drunk. Then they took the bottle of water from him, went -home themselves, and gave it to the king. He put a drop of the water on -his foot, and it made him as well as ever he was. - -Then they told him that they had great trouble to get the bottle of -water; that they had to fight giants, and to go through great dangers. - -“Did ye see Cart on your road?” said the king. - -“He never went farther than the inn, since he left us,” said they; “and -he’s in it now, blind drunk.” - -“There never was any good in him,” said the king; “but I cannot leave him -there.” - -Then he sent six men to the inn, and they carried Cart home. When he -came to himself, the king made him into a servant to do all the dirty -jobs about the castle. - -When a year and a day had gone by, the queen of the Well of -D’yerree-in-Dowan and her waiting-maidens woke up and the queen found a -young son by her side, and the eleven maidens the same. - -There was great anger on the queen, and she sent for the lion and the -monster, and asked them what was become of the eagle that she left in -charge of the castle. - -“He must be dead, or he’d be here now, when you woke up,” said they. - -“I’m destroyed, myself, and the waiting-maidens ruined,” said the queen; -“and I never will stop till I find out the father of my son.” - -Then she got ready her enchanted coach, and two fawns under it. She was -going till she came to the first house where the king’s son got lodging, -and she asked was there any stranger there lately. The man of the house -said there was. - -“Yes!” said the queen, “and he left the sword of light behind him; it is -mine, and if you do not give it to me quickly I will throw your house -upside down.” - -They gave her the sword, and she went on till she came to the second -house, in which he had got lodging, and she asked was there any stranger -there lately. They said that there was. “Yes,” said she, “and he left a -bottle after him. Give it to me quickly, or I’ll throw the house on ye.” - -They gave her the bottle, and she went till she came to the third house, -and she asked was there any stranger there lately. They said there was. - -“Yes!” said she, “and he left the loaf of lasting bread after him. That -belongs to me, and if ye don’t give it to me quickly I will kill ye all.” - -She got the loaf, and she was going, and never stopped till she came -to the castle of Bwee-Sounee. She pulled the _cooalya-coric_, pole of -combat, and the king came out. - -“Have you any son?” said the queen. - -“I have,” said the king. - -“Send him out here till I see him,” said she. - -The king sent out Art, and she asked him: “Were you at the Well of -D’yerree-in-Dowan?” - -“I was,” said Art. - -“And are you the father of my son?” said she. - -“I believe I am,” said Art. - -“I will know that soon,” said she. - -Then she drew two hairs out of her head, flung them against the wall, and -they were made into a ladder that went up to the top of the castle. Then -she said to Art: “If you were at the Well of D’yerree-in-Dowan, you can -go up to the top of that ladder.” - -Art went up half way, then he fell, and his thigh was broken. - -“You were never at the Well of D’yerree-in-Dowan,” said the queen. - -Then she asked the king: “Have you any other son?” - -“I have,” said the king. - -“Bring him out,” said the queen. - -Nart came out, and she asked him: “Were you ever at the Well of -D’yerree-in-Dowan?” - -“I was,” said Nart. - -“If you were, go up to the top of that ladder,” said the queen. - -He began going up, but he had not gone far till he fell and broke his -foot. - -“You were not at the Well of D’yerree-in-Dowan,” said the queen. - -Then she asked the king if he had any other son, and the king said he -had. “But,” said he, “it’s a half fool he is, that never left home.” - -“Bring him here,” said the queen. - -When Cart came, she asked him: “Were you at the Well of -D’yerree-in-Dowan?” - -“I was,” said Cart, “and I saw you there.” - -“Go up to the top of that ladder,” said the queen. - -Cart went up like a cat, and when he came down she said: “You are the man -who was at the Well of D’yerree-in-Dowan, and you are the father of my -son.” - -Then Cart told the trick his brothers played on him, and the queen was -going to slay them, until Cart asked pardon for them. Then the king said -that Cart must get the kingdom. - -Then the father dressed him out and put a chain of gold beneath his neck, -and he got into the coach along with the queen, and they departed to the -Well of D’yerree-in-Dowan. - -The waiting-maidens gave a great welcome to the king’s son, and they all -of them came to him, each one asking him to marry herself. - -He remained there for one-and-twenty years, until the queen died, and -then he brought back with him his twelve sons, and came home to Galway. -Each of them married a wife, and it is from them that the twelve tribes -of Galway are descended. - - - - -THE COURT OF CRINNAWN. - - -A long time ago there came a lot of gentlemen to a river which is between -the County Mee-òh (Mayo) and Roscommon, and they chose out a nice place -for themselves on the brink of a river, and set up a court on it. Nobody -at all in the little villages round about knew from what place these -gentlemen came. MacDonnell was the name that was on them. The neighbours -were for a long time without making friendship with them, until there -came a great plague, and the people were getting death in their hundreds. - -One day there was the only son of a poor widow dying from the destructive -plague, and she had not a drop of milk to wet his tongue. She went to the -court, and they asked her what she was looking for. She told them that -the one son she had was dying of the plague and that she had not a drop -of milk to wet his tongue. - -“Hard is your case,” says a lady that was in the court to her. “I will -give you milk and healing, and your son will be as well at the end of an -hour as ever he was.” Then she gave her a tin can, and said: “Go home -now, this can will never be empty as long as you or your son is alive, -if you keep the secret without telling anybody that you got it here. -When you will go home put a morsel of the Mary’s shamrock (four-leaved -shamrock?) in the milk and give it to your son.” - -The widow went home. She put a bit of four-leaved shamrock in the milk, -and gave it to her son to drink, and he rose up at the end of an hour as -well as ever he was. Then the woman went through the villages round about -with the can, and there was no one at all to whom she gave a drink that -was not healed at the end of an hour. - -It was not long till the fame of Maurya nee Keerachawn (Mary Kerrigan), -that was the name of the widow, went through the country, and it was not -long till she had the full of the bag of gold and silver. - -One day Mary went to a _pattern_ at Cultya Bronks, drank too much, fell -on drunkenness, and let out the secret. - -There came the heavy sleep of drunkenness on her, and when she awoke the -can was gone. There was so much grief on her that she drowned herself in -a place called Pull Bawn (the White Hole), within a mile of Cultya Bronks. - -Everybody thought now that they had the can of healing to get at the -Court of Crinnawn if they would go there. In the morning, the day on the -morrow, there went plenty of people to the court, and they found every -one who was in it dead. The shout went out, and the hundreds of people -gathered together, but no man could go in, for the court was filled with -smoke; and lightning and thunder coming out of it. - -They sent a message for the priest, who was in Ballaghadereen, but he -said: “It is not in my parish, and I won’t have anything to do with it.” -That night the people saw a great light in the court, and there was very -great fear on them. The day on the morrow they sent word to the priest of -Lisahull, but he would not come, as the place was not in his parish. Word -was sent to the priest of Kilmovee, then, but he had the same excuse. - -There were a lot of poor friars in Cultya Mawn, and when they heard the -story they went to the court without a person with them but themselves. - -When they went in they began saying prayers, but they saw no corpse. -After a time the smoke went, the lightning and thunder ceased, a door -opened, and there came out a great man. The friars noticed that he had -only one eye, and that it was in his forehead. - -“In the name of God, who are you?” said a man of the friars. - -“I am Crinnawn, son of Belore, of the Evil Eye. Let there be no fear on -ye, I shall do ye no damage, for ye are courageous, good men. The people -who were here are gone to eternal rest, body and soul. I know that ye -are poor, and that there are plenty of poor people round about ye. Here -are two purses for ye, one of them for yourselves, and the other one to -divide upon the poor; and when all that will be spent, do ye come again. -Not of this world am I, but I shall do no damage to anyone unless he does -it to me first, and do ye keep from me.” - -Then he gave them two purses, and said: “Go now on your good work.” The -friars went home; they gathered the poor people and they divided the -money on them. The people questioned them as to what it was they saw in -the court. “It is a secret each thing we saw in the court, and it is our -advice to ye not to go near the court, and no harm will come upon ye.” - -The priests were covetous when they heard that the friars got plenty of -money in the court, and the three of them went there with the hope that -they would get some as the friars got it. - -When they went in they began crying aloud: “Is there any person here? -is there any person here?” Crinnawn came out of a chamber and asked: -“What are ye looking for?” “We came to make friendship with you,” said -the priests. “I thought that priests were not given to telling lies,” -said Crinnawn; “ye came with a hope that ye would get money as the poor -friars got. Ye were afraid to come when the people sent for ye, and now -ye will not get a keenogue (mite?) from me, for ye are not worth it.” - -“Don’t you know that we have power to banish you out of this place,” said -the priests, “and we will make use of that power unless you will be more -civil than you are.” - -“I don’t care for your power,” said Crinnawn, “I have more power myself -than all the priests that are in Ireland.” - -“It’s a lie you’re speaking,” said the priests. - -“Ye will see a small share of my power to-night,” said Crinnawn; “I will -not leave a wattle over your heads that I will not sweep into yonder -river, and I could kill ye with the sight of my eye, if I chose. Ye will -find the roofs of your houses in the river to-morrow morning. Now put no -other questions on me, and threaten me no more, or it will be worse for -ye.” - -There came fear on the priests, and they went home; but they did not -believe that their houses would be without a roof before morning. - -About midnight, that night, there came a blast of wind under the roof of -the houses of the priests, and it swept them into the river forenent the -court. There was not a bone of the priests but was shaken with terror, -and they had to get shelter in the houses of the neighbours till morning. - -In the morning, the day on the morrow, the priests came to the river -opposite the court, and they saw the roofs that were on all their houses -swimming in the water. They sent for the friars, and asked them to go -to Crinnawn and proclaim a peace, and say to him that they would put no -more trouble on him. The friars went to the court, and Crinnawn welcomed -them, and asked them what they were seeking. “We come from the priests -to proclaim a peace on you, they will trouble you no more.” “That is well -for them,” said Crinnawn, “come with me now until ye see me putting back -the roofs of the houses.” They went with him as far as the river, and -then he blew a blast out of each nostril. The roofs of the houses rose up -as well as they were when they were first put on. There was wonder on the -priests, and they said: “The power of enchantment is not yet dead, nor -banished out of the country yet.” From that day out neither priest nor -anyone else would go near the Court of Crinnawn. - -A year after the death of Mary Kerrigan, there was a pattern in Cultya -Bronks. There were plenty of young men gathered in it, and amongst them -was Paudyeen, the son of Mary Kerrigan. They drank whiskey till they -were in madness. When they were going home, Paudyeen O’Kerrigan said: -“There is money in plenty in the court up there, and if ye have courage -we can get it.” As the drink was in them, twelve of them said: “We have -courage, and we will go to the court.” When they came to the door, -Paudyeen O’Kerrigan said: “Open the door, or we will break it.” Crinnawn -came out and said: “Unless ye go home I will put a month’s sleep on ye.” -They thought to get a hold of Crinnawn, but he put a blast of wind out of -his two nostrils that swept the young men to a _lis_ (old circular rath) -called Lisdrumneal, and put a heavy sleep on them, and a big cloud over -them, and there is no name on the place from that out, but Lis-trum-nail -(the fort of the heavy cloud). - -On the morning, the day on the morrow, the young men were not to be found -either backwards or forwards, and there was great grief amongst the -people. That day went by without any account from the young men. People -said that it was Crinnawn that killed them, for some saw them going to -the court. The fathers and mothers of the young men went to the friars, -and prayed them to go to Crinnawn and to find out from him where the -young men were, dead or alive. - -They went to Crinnawn, and Crinnawn told them the trick the young men -thought to do on him, and the thing he did with them. “If it be your -will, bestow forgiveness on them this time,” said the friars; “they were -mad with whiskey, and they won’t be guilty again.” “On account of ye to -ask it of me, I will loose them this time; but if they come again, I will -put a sleep of seven years on them. Come with me now till you see them.” - -“It’s bad walkers, we are,” said the friars, “we would be a long time -going to the place where they are.” - -“Ye won’t be two minutes going to it,” said Crinnawn, “and ye will be -back at home in the same time.” - -Then he brought them out, and put a blast of wind out of his mouth, and -swept them to Lisdrumneal, and he himself was there as soon as they. - -They saw the twelve young men asleep under a cloud in the _lis_, and -there was great wonder on them. “Now,” said Crinnawn, “I will send them -home.” He blew upon them, and they rose up like birds in the air, and it -was not long until each one of them was at home, and the friars as well, -and you may be certain that they did not go to the Court of Crinnawn any -more. - -Crinnawn was living in the court years after that. One day the friars -went on a visit to him, but he was not to be found. People say that the -friars got great riches after Crinnawn. At the end of a period of time -the roof fell off the court, as everyone was afraid to go and live in -it. During many years after that, people would go round about a mile, -before they would go near the old court. There is only a portion of the -walls to be found now; but there is no name on the old court from that -day till this day, but Coort a Chrinnawn (Crinnawn’s Court). - - - - -NEIL O’CARREE. - - -There was no nicety about him. He said to his wife that he would go to -the forge to get a doctoring instrument. He went to the forge the next -day. “Where are you going to to-day?” said the smith. “I am going till -you make me an instrument for doctoring.” “What is the instrument I shall -make you?” “Make a _crumskeen_ and a _galskeen_” (crooked knife and white -knife?). The smith made that for him. He came home. - -When the day came—the day on the morrow—Neil O’Carree rose up. He made -ready to be going as a doctor. He went. He was walking away. A red lad -met him on the side of the high road. He saluted Neil O’Carree; Neil -saluted him. “Where are you going?” says the red man. “I am going till I -be my (_i.e._, a) doctor.“ ”It’s a good trade,” says the red man, “’twere -best for you to hire me.” “What’s the wages you’ll be looking for?” says -Neil. “Half of what we shall earn till we shall be back again on this -ground.” “I’ll give you that,” says Neil. The couple walked on. - -“There’s a king’s daughter,” says the red man, “with the (_i.e._, near -to) death; we will go as far as her, till we see will we heal her.” They -went as far as the gate. The porter came to them. He asked them where -were they going. They said that it was coming to look at the king’s -daughter they were, to see would they do her good. The king desired to -let them in. They went in. - -They went to the place where the girl was lying. The red man went and -took hold of her pulse. He said that if his master should get the price -of his labour he would heal her. The king said that he would give his -master whatever he should award himself. He said, “if he had the room to -himself and his master, that it would be better.” The king said he should -have it. - -He desired to bring down to him a skillet (little pot) of water. He put -the skillet on the fire. He asked Neil O’Carree: “Where is the doctoring -instrument?” “Here they are,” says Neil, “a crumskeen and a galskeen.” - -He put the crumskeen on the neck of the girl. He took the head off her. -He drew a green herb out of his pocket. He rubbed it to the neck. There -did not come one drop of blood. He threw the head into the skillet. He -knocked a boil out of it. He seized hold on the two ears. He took it out -of the skillet. He struck it down on the neck. The head stuck as well -as ever it was. “How do you feel yourself now?” “I am as well as ever I -was,” said the king’s daughter. - -The big man shouted. The king came down. There was great joy on him. -He would not let them go away for three days. When they were going he -brought down a bag of money. He poured it out on the table. He asked -of Neil O’Carree had he enough there. Neil said he had, and more than -enough, that they would take but the half. The king desired them not to -spare the money. - -“There’s the daughter of another king waiting for us to go and look at -her.” They bade farewell to the king and they went there. - -They went looking at her. They went to the place where she was lying, -looking at her in her bed, and it was the same way this one was healed. -The king was grateful, and he said he did not mind how much money Neil -should take of him. He gave him three hundred pounds of money. They went -then, drawing on home. “There’s a king’s son in such and such a place,” -said the red man, “but we won’t go to him, we will go home with what we -have.” - -They were drawing on home. The king (had) bestowed half a score of -heifers on them, to bring home with them. They were walking away. When -they were in the place where Neil O’Carree hired the red man, “I think,” -says the red man, “that this is the place I met you the first time.” “I -think it is,” says Neil O’Carree. “Musha, how shall we divide the money?” -“Two halves,” says the red man, “that’s the bargain was in it.” “I think -it a great deal to give you a half,” says Neil O’Carree, “a third is big -enough for you; I have a crumskeen and a galskeen (says Neil) and you -have nothing.” “I won’t take anything,” said the red man, “unless I get -the half.” They fell out about the money. The red man went and he left -him. - -Neil O’Carree was drawing home, riding on his beast. He was driving his -share of cattle. The day came hot. The cattle went capering backwards -and forwards. Neil O’Carree was controlling them. When he would have one -or two caught the rest would be off when he used to come back. He tied -his garrawn (gelding) to a bit of a tree. He was a-catching the cattle. -At the last they were all off and away. He did not know where they went. -He returned back to the place where he left his garrawn and his money. -Neither the garrawn nor the money were to be got. He did not know then -what he should do. He thought he would go to the house of the king whose -son was ill. - -He went along, drawing towards the house of the king. He went looking on -the lad in the place where he was lying. He took a hold of his pulse. -He said he thought he would heal him. “If you heal him,” said the king, -“I will give you three hundred pounds.” “If I were to get the room to -myself, for a little,” says he. The king said that he should get that. -He called down for a skillet of water. He put the skillet on the fire. -He drew his crumskeen. He went to take the head off him as he saw the -red man a-doing. He was a-sawing at the head, and it did not come with -him to cut it off the neck. The blood was coming. He took the head off -him at last. He threw it into the skillet. He knocked a boil out of it. -When he considered the head to be boiled enough he made an attempt on -the skillet. He got a hold of the two ears. The head fell in _gliggar_ -(a gurgling mass?), and the two ears came with him. The blood was coming -greatly. It was going down, and out of the door of the room. When the -king saw it going down he knew that his son was dead. He desired to open -the door. Neil O’Carree would not open the door. They broke the door. The -man was dead. The floor was full of blood. They seized Neil O’Carree. -He was to hang the next day. They gathered a guard till they should -carry him to the place where he was to hang. They went the next day with -him. They were walking away, drawing towards the tree where he should -be hanged. They stopped his screaming. They see a man stripped making a -running race. When they saw him there was a fog of water round him with -all he was running. When he came as far as them (he cried), “what are -ye doing to my master?” “If this man is your master, deny him, or you’ll -get the same treatment.” “It’s I that it’s right should suffer; it’s I -who made the delay. He sent me for medicine, and I did not come in time, -loose my master, perhaps he would heal the king’s son yet.” - -They loosed him. They came to the king’s house. The red man went to the -place where the dead man was. He began gathering the bones that were in -the skillet. He gathered them all but only the two ears. - -“What did you do with the ears?” - -“I don’t know,” said Neil O’Carree, “I was so much frightened.” - -The red man got the ears. He put them all together. He drew a green herb -out of his pocket. He rubbed it round on the head. The skin grew on it, -and the hair, as well as ever it was. He put the head in the skillet -then. He knocked a boil out of it. He put the head back on the neck as -well as ever it was. The king’s son rose up in the bed. - -“How are you now?” says the red man. - -“I am well,” says the king’s son, “but that I’m weak.” - -The red man shouted again for the king. There was great joy on the king -when he saw his son alive. They spent that night pleasantly. - -The next day when they were going away, the king counted out three -hundred pounds. He gave it to Neil O’Carree. He said to Neil that if he -had not enough he would give him more. Neil O’Carree said he had enough, -and that he would not take a penny more. He bade farewell and left his -blessing, and struck out, drawing towards home. - -When they saw that they were come to the place where they fell out with -one another, “I think,” says the red man, “that this is the place where -we differed before.” “It is, exactly,” said Neil O’Carree. They sat down -and they divided the money. He gave a half to the red man, and he kept -another half himself. The red man bade him farewell, and he went. He -was walking away for a while. He returned back. “I am here back again,” -said the red man, “I took another thought, to leave all your share of -money with yourself. You yourself were open-handed. Do you mind the day -you were going by past the churchyard. There were four inside in the -churchyard, and a body with them in a coffin. There were a pair of them -seeking to bury the body. There were debts on the body (_i.e._, it owed -debts). The two men who had the debts on it (_i.e._, to whom it owed the -debts), they were not satisfied for the body to be buried. They were -arguing. You were listening to them. You went in. You asked how much they -had on the body (_i.e._, how were they owed by the body). The two men -said that they had a pound on the body, and that they were not willing -the body to be buried, until the people who were carrying it would -promise to pay a portion of the debts. You said, ‘I have ten shillings, -and I’ll give it to ye, and let the body be buried.’ You gave the ten -shillings, and the corpse was buried. It’s I who was in the coffin that -day. When I saw you going a-doctoring, I knew that you would not do the -business. When I saw you in a hobble, I came to you to save you. I bestow -the money on you all entirely. You shall not see me until the last day, -go home now. Don’t do a single day’s doctoring as long as you’ll be -alive. It’s short you’ll walk until you get your share of cattle and your -garrawn.” - -Neil went, drawing towards home. Not far did he walk till his share of -cattle and his nag met him. He went home and the whole with him. There is -not a single day since that himself and his wife are not thriving on it. - -I got the ford, they the stepping stones. They were drowned, and I came -safe. - - - - -TRUNK-WITHOUT-HEAD. - - -Long ago there was a widow woman living in the County Galway, and two -sons with her, whose names were Dermod and Donal. Dermod was the eldest -son, and he was the master over the house. They were large farmers, and -they got a summons from the landlord to come and pay him a year’s rent. -They had not much money in the house, and Dermod said to Donal, “bring -a load of oats to Galway, and sell it.” Donal got ready a load, put two -horses under the cart, and went to Galway. He sold the oats, and got a -good price for it. When he was coming home, he stopped at the half-way -house, as was his custom, to have a drink himself, and to give a drink -and oats to the horses. - -When he went in to get a drink for himself, he saw two boys playing -cards. He looked at them for a while, and one of them said: “Will you -have a game?” Donal began playing, and he did not stop till he lost every -penny of the price of the oats. “What will I do now?” says Donal to -himself, “Dermod will kill me. Anyhow, I’ll go home and tell the truth.” - -When he came home, Dermod asked him: “Did you sell the oats?” “I -sold, and got a good price for it,” says Donal. “Give me the money,” -says Dermod. “I haven’t it,” says Donal; “I lost every penny of it -playing cards at the house half-way.” “My curse, and the curse of the -four-and-twenty men on you,” says Dermod. He went and told the mother -the trick Donal did. “Give him his pardon this time,” says the mother, -“and he won’t do it again.” “You must sell another load to-morrow,” says -Dermod, “and if you lose the price, don’t come here.” - -On the morning, the day on the morrow, Donal put another load on the -cart, and he went to Galway. He sold the oats, and got a good price -for it. When he was coming home, and near the half-way house, he said -to himself: “I will shut my eyes till I go past that house, for fear -there should be a temptation on me to go in.” He shut his eyes; but when -the horses came as far as the inn, they stood, and would not go a step -further, for it was their custom to get oats and water in that place -every time they would be coming out of Galway. He opened his eyes, gave -oats and water to the horses, and went in himself to put a coal in his -pipe. - -When he went in he saw the boys playing cards. They asked him to play, -and (said) that perhaps he might gain all that he lost the day before. -As there is a temptation on the cards, Donal began playing, and he did -not stop until he lost every penny of all that he had. “There is no good -in my going home now,” says Donal; “I’ll stake the horses and the cart -against all I lost.” He played again, and he lost the horses and the -cart. Then he did not know what he should do, but he thought and said: -“Unless I go home, my poor mother will be anxious. I will go home and -tell the truth to her. They can but banish me.” - -When he came home, Dermod asked him: “Did you sell the oats? or where are -the horses and the cart?” “I lost the whole playing cards, and I would -not come back except to leave ye my blessing before I go.” “That you may -not ever come back, or a penny of your price,” said Dermod, “and I don’t -want your blessing.” - -He left his blessing with his mother then, and he went travelling, -looking for service. When the darkness of the night was coming, there was -thirst and hunger on him. He saw a poor man coming to him, and a bag on -his back. He recognised Donal, and said: “Donal, what brought you here, -or where are you going?” “I don’t know you,” said Donal. - -“It’s many’s the good night I spent in your father’s house, may God have -mercy upon him,” said the poor man; “perhaps there’s hunger on you, and -that you would not be against eating something out of my bag?” - -“It’s a friend that would give it to me,” says Donal. Then the poor man -gave him beef and bread, and when he ate his enough, the poor man asked -him: “Where are you going to-night?” - -“Musha, then, I don’t know,” says Donal. - -“There is a gentleman in the big house up there, and he gives lodging to -anyone who comes to him after the darkness of night, and I’m going to -him,” says the poor man. - -“Perhaps I would get lodgings with you,” says Donal. “I have no doubt of -it,” says the poor man. - -The pair went to the big house, and the poor man knocked at the door, and -the servant opened it. “I want to see the master of this house,” says -Donal. - -The servant went, and the master came. “I am looking for a night’s -lodging,” said Donal. - -“I will give ye that, if ye wait. Go up to the castle there above, and I -will be after ye, and if ye wait in it till morning, each man of ye will -get five score ten-penny pieces, and ye will have plenty to eat and drink -as well; and a good bed to sleep on.” - -“That’s a good offer,” said they; “we will go there.” - -The pair came to the castle, went into a room, and put down a fire. It -was not long till the gentleman came, bringing beef, mutton, and other -things to them. “Come with me now till I show ye the cellar, there’s -plenty of wine and ale in it, and ye can draw your enough.” When he -showed them the cellar, he went out, and he put a lock on the door behind -him. - -Then Donal said to the poor man: “Put the things to eat on the table, and -I’ll go for the ale.” Then he got a light, and a cruiskeen (jug), and -went down into the cellar. The first barrel he came to he stooped down -to draw out of it, when a voice said: “Stop, that barrel is mine.” Donal -looked up, and he saw a little man without a head, with his two legs -spread straddle-wise on a barrel. - -“If it is yours,” says Donal, “I’ll go to another.” He went to another; -but when he stooped down to draw, Trunk-without-head said: “That barrel -is mine.” “They’re not all yours,” says Donal, “I’ll go to another -one.” He went to another one; but when he began drawing out of it, -Trunk-without-head said: “That’s mine.” “I don’t care,” said Donal, “I’ll -fill my cruiskeen.” He did that, and came up to the poor man; but he did -not tell him that he saw Trunk-without-head. Then they began eating and -drinking till the jug was empty. Then said Donal: “It’s your turn to go -down and fill the jug.” The poor man got the candle and the cruiskeen, -and went down into the cellar. He began drawing out of a barrel, when -he heard a voice saying: “That barrel is mine.” He looked up, and when -he saw Trunk-without-head, he let cruiskeen and candle fall, and off -and away with him to Donal. “Oh! it’s little but I’m dead,” says the -poor man; “I saw a man without a head, and his two legs spread out on -the barrel, and he said it was his.” “He would not do you any harm,” -said Donal, “he was there when I went down; get up and bring me the jug -and the candle.” “Oh, I wouldn’t go down again if I were to get Ireland -without a division,” says the poor man. Donal went down, and he brought -up the jug filled. “Did you see Trunk-without-head?” says the poor man. -“I did,” says Donal; “but he did not do me any harm.” - -They were drinking till they were half drunk, then said Donal: “It’s time -for us to be going to sleep, what place would you like best, the outside -of the bed, or next the wall?” - -“I’ll go next the wall,” said the poor man. They went to bed leaving the -candle lit. - -They were not long in bed till they saw three men coming in, and a -bladder (football) with them. They began beating _bayrees_ (playing at -ball) on the floor; but there were two of them against one. Donal said to -the poor man: “It is not right for two to be against one,” and with that -he leaped out and began helping the weak side, and he without a thread on -him. Then they began laughing, and walked out. - -Donal went to bed again, and he was not long there till there came in a -piper playing sweet music. “Rise up,” says Donal, “until we have a dance; -it’s a great pity to let good music go to loss.” “For your life, don’t -stir,” says the poor man. - -Donal gave a leap out of the bed, and he fell to dancing till he was -tired. Then the piper began laughing, and walked out. - -Donal went to bed again; but he was not long there till there walked in -two men, carrying a coffin. They left it down on the floor, and they -walked out. “I don’t know who’s in the coffin, or whether it’s for us -it’s meant,” said Donal; “I’ll go till I see.” He gave a leap out, raised -the board of the coffin, and found a dead man in it. “By my conscience, -it’s the cold place you have,” says Donal; “if you were able to rise -up, and sit at the fire, you would be better.” The dead man rose up and -warmed himself. Then said Donal, “the bed is wide enough for three.” -Donal went in the middle, the poor man next the wall, and the dead man on -the outside. It was not long until the dead man began bruising Donal, and -Donal bruising in on the poor man, until he was all as one as dead, and -he had to give a leap out through the window, and to leave Donal and the -dead man there. The dead man was crushing Donal then until he nearly put -him out through the wall. - -“Destruction on you,” said Donal, then; “it’s you’re the ungrateful man; -I let you out of the coffin; I gave you a heat at the fire, and a share -of my bed; and now you won’t keep quiet; but I’ll put you out of the -bed.” Then the dead man spoke, and said: “You are a valiant man, and it -stood you upon[31] to be so, or you would be dead.” “Who would kill me?” -said Donal. “I,” says the dead man; “there never came any one here this -twenty years back, that I did not kill. Do you know the man who paid you -for remaining here?” “He was a gentleman,” said Donal. “He is my son,” -said the dead man, “and he thinks that you will be dead in the morning; -but come with me now.” - -The dead man took him down into the cellar, and showed him a great flag. -“Lift that flag. There are three pots under it, and they filled with -gold. It is on account of the gold they killed me; but they did not get -the gold. Let yourself have a pot, and a pot for my son, and the other -one—divide it on the poor people.” Then he opened a door in the wall, and -drew out a paper, and said to Donal: “Give this to my son, and tell him -that it was the butler who killed me, for my share of gold. I can get no -rest until he’ll be hanged; and if there is a witness wanting I will come -behind you in the court without a head on me, so that everybody can see -me. When he will be hanged, you will marry my son’s daughter, and come to -live in this castle. Let you have no fear about me, for I shall have gone -to eternal rest. Farewell now.” - -Donal went to sleep, and he did not awake till the gentleman came in the -morning, and he asked him did he sleep well, or where did the old man -whom he left with him go? “I will tell you that another time; I have -a long story to tell you first.” “Come to my house with me,” says the -gentleman. - -When they were going to the house, whom should they see coming out of the -bushes, but the poor man without a thread on him, more than the night -he was born, and he shaking with the cold. The gentleman got him his -clothes, gave him his wages, and off for ever with him. - -Donal went to the gentleman’s house, and when he ate and drank his -enough, he said: “I have a story to tell you.” Then he told him -everything that happened to him the night before, until he came as far -as the part about the gold. “Come with me till I see the gold,” said the -gentleman. He went to the castle, he lifted the flag, and when he saw the -gold, he said: “I know now that the story is true.” - -When he got the entire information from Donal, he got a warrant against -the butler; but concealed the crime it was for. When the butler was -brought before the judge, Donal was there, and gave witness. Then the -judge read out of his papers, and said: “I cannot find this man guilty -without more evidence.” - -“I am here,” said Trunk-without-head, coming behind Donal. When the -butler saw him, he said to the judge: “Go no farther, I am guilty; I -killed the man, and his head is under the hearth-stone in his own room.” -Then the judge gave order to hang the butler, and Trunk-without-head went -away. - -The day on the morrow, Donal was married to the gentleman’s daughter, and -got a great fortune with her, and went to live in the castle. - -A short time after this, he got ready his coach and went on a visit to -his mother. - -When Dermod saw the coach coming, he did not know who the great man was -who was in it. The mother came out and ran to him, saying: “Are you not -my own Donal, the love of my heart you are? I was praying for you since -you went.” Then Dermod asked pardon of him, and got it. Then Donal gave -him a purse of gold, saying at the same time: “There’s the price of the -two loads of oats, of the horses, and of the cart.” Then he said to his -mother: “You ought to come home with me. I have a fine castle without -anybody in it but my wife and the servants.” “I will go with you,” said -the mother; “and I will remain with you till I die.” - -Donal took his mother home, and they spent a prosperous life together in -the castle. - - - - -THE HAGS OF THE LONG TEETH. - - -Long ago, in the old time, there came a party of gentlemen from Dublin to -Loch Glynn a-hunting and a-fishing. They put up in the priest’s house, as -there was no inn in the little village. - -The first day they went a-hunting, they went into the Wood of Driminuch, -and it was not long till they routed a hare. They fired many a ball -after him, but they could not bring him down. They followed him till they -saw him going into a little house in the wood. - -When they came to the door, they saw a great black dog, and he would not -let them in. - -“Put a ball through the beggar,” said a man of them. He let fly a ball, -but the dog caught it in his mouth, chewed it, and flung it on the -ground. They fired another ball, and another, but the dog did the same -thing with them. Then he began barking as loud as he could, and it was -not long till there came out a hag, and every tooth in her head as long -as the tongs. “What are you doing to my pup?” says the hag. - -“A hare went into your house, and this dog won’t let us in after him,” -says a man of the hunters. - -“Lie down, pup,” said the hag. Then she said: “Ye can come in if ye -wish.” The hunters were afraid to go in, but a man of them asked: “Is -there any person in the house with you?” - -“There are six sisters,” said the old woman. “We should like to see -them,” said the hunters. No sooner had he said the word than the six old -women came out, and each of them with teeth as long as the other. Such a -sight the hunters had never seen before. - -They went through the wood then, and they saw seven vultures on one tree, -and they screeching. The hunters began cracking balls after them, but if -they were in it ever since they would never bring down one of them. - -There came a gray old man to them and said: “Those are the hags of the -long tooth that are living in the little house over there. Do ye not know -that they are under enchantment? They are there these hundreds of years, -and they have a dog that never lets in anyone to the little house. They -have a castle under the lake, and it is often the people saw them making -seven swans of themselves, and going into the lake.” - -When the hunters came home that evening they told everything they heard -and saw to the priest, but he did not believe the story. - -On the day on the morrow, the priest went with the hunters, and when they -came near the little house they saw the big black dog at the door. The -priest put his conveniencies for blessing under his neck, and drew out -a book and began reading prayers. The big dog began barking loudly. The -hags came out, and when they saw the priest they let a screech out of -them that was heard in every part of Ireland. When the priest was a while -reading, the hags made vultures of themselves and flew up into a big tree -that was over the house. - -The priest began pressing in on the dog until he was within a couple of -feet of him. - -The dog gave a leap up, struck the priest with its four feet, and put him -head over heels. - -When the hunters took him up he was deaf and dumb, and the dog did not -move from the door. - -They brought the priest home and sent for the bishop. When he came -and heard the story there was great grief on him. The people gathered -together and asked of him to banish the hags of enchantment out of the -wood. There was fright and shame on him, and he did not know what he -would do, but he said to them: “I have no means of banishing them till I -go home, but I will come at the end of a month and banish them.” - -The priest was too badly hurt to say anything. The big black dog was -father of the hags, and his name was Dermod O’Muloony. His own son killed -him, because he found him with his wife the day after their marriage, and -killed the sisters for fear they should tell on him. - -One night the bishop was in his chamber asleep, when one of the hags of -the long tooth opened the door and came in. When the bishop wakened up he -saw the hag standing by the side of his bed. He was so much afraid he was -not able to speak a word until the hag spoke and said to him: “Let there -be no fear on you; I did not come to do you harm, but to give you advice. -You promised the people of Loch Glynn that you would come to banish the -hags of the long tooth out of the wood of Driminuch. If you come you will -never go back alive.” - -His talk came to the bishop, and he said: “I cannot break my word.” - -“We have only a year and a day to be in the wood,” said the hag, “and you -can put off the people until then.” - -“Why are ye in the woods as ye are?” says the bishop. - -“Our brother killed us,” said the hag, “and when we went before the -arch-judge, there was judgment passed on us, we to be as we are two -hundred years. We have a castle under the lake, and be in it every night. -We are suffering for the crime our father did.” Then she told him the -crime the father did. - -“Hard is your case,” said the bishop, “but we must put up with the will -of the arch-judge, and I shall not trouble ye.” - -“You will get an account, when we are gone from the wood,” said the hag. -Then she went from him. - -In the morning, the day on the morrow, the bishop came to Loch Glynn. He -sent out notice and gathered the people. Then he said to them: “It is -the will of the arch-king that the power of enchantment be not banished -for another year and a day, and ye must keep out of the wood until then. -It is a great wonder to me that ye never saw the hags of enchantment till -the hunters came from Dublin.—It’s a pity they did not remain at home.” - -About a week after that the priest was one day by himself in his chamber -alone. The day was very fine and the window was open. The robin of the -red breast came in and a little herb in its mouth. The priest stretched -out his hand, and she laid the herb down on it. “Perhaps it was God sent -me this herb,” said the priest to himself, and he ate it. He had not -eaten it one moment till he was as well as ever he was, and he said: -“A thousand thanks to Him who has power stronger than the power of -enchantment.” - -Then said the robin: “Do you remember the robin of the broken foot you -had, two years this last winter.” - -“I remember her, indeed,” said the priest, “but she went from me when the -summer came.” - -“I am the same robin, and but for the good you did me I would not be -alive now, and you would be deaf and dumb throughout your life. Take my -advice now, and do not go near the hags of the long tooth any more, and -do not tell to any person living that I gave you the herb.” Then she flew -from him. - -When the house-keeper came she wondered to find that he had both his talk -and his hearing. He sent word to the bishop and he came to Loch Glynn. -He asked the priest how it was that he got better so suddenly. “It is a -secret,” said the priest, “but a certain friend gave me a little herb and -it cured me.” - -Nothing else happened worth telling, till the year was gone. One night -after that the bishop was in his chamber when the door opened, and the -hag of the long tooth walked in, and said: “I come to give you notice -that we will be leaving the wood a week from to-day. I have one thing to -ask of you if you will do it for me.” - -“If it is in my power, and it not to be against the faith,” said the -bishop. - -“A week from to-day,” said the hag, “there will be seven vultures dead at -the door of our house in the wood. Give orders to bury them in the quarry -that is between the wood and Ballyglas; that is all I am asking of you.” - -“I shall do that if I am alive,” said the bishop. Then she left him, and -he was not sorry she to go from him. - -A week after that day, the bishop came to Loch Glynn, and the day after -he took men with him and went to the hags’ house in the wood of Driminuch. - -The big black dog was at the door, and when he saw the bishop he began -running and never stopped until he went into the lake. - -He saw the seven vultures dead at the door, and he said to the men: “Take -them with you and follow me.” - -They took up the vultures and followed him to the brink of the quarry. -Then he said to them: “Throw them into the quarry: There is an end to the -hags of the enchantment.” - -As soon as the men threw them down to the bottom of the quarry, there -rose from it seven swans as white as snow, and flew out of their sight. -It was the opinion of the bishop and of every person who heard the story -that it was up to heaven they flew, and that the big black dog went to -the castle under the lake. - -At any rate, nobody saw the hags of the long tooth or the big black dog -from that out, any more. - - - - -WILLIAM OF THE TREE. - - -In the time long ago there was a king in Erin. He was married to a -beautiful queen, and they had but one only daughter. The queen was struck -with sickness, and she knew that she would not be long alive. She put the -king under _gassa_ (mystical injunctions) that he should not marry again -until the grass should be a foot high over her tomb. The daughter was -cunning, and she used to go out every night with a scissors, and she used -to cut the grass down to the ground. - -The king had a great desire to have another wife, and he did not know -why the grass was not growing over the grave of the queen. He said to -himself: “There is somebody deceiving me.” - -That night he went to the churchyard, and he saw the daughter cutting -the grass that was on the grave. There came great anger on him then, and -he said: “I will marry the first woman I see, let she be old or young.” -When he went out on the road he saw an old hag. He brought her home and -married her, as he would not break his word. - -After marrying her, the daughter of the king was under bitter misery at -(the hands of) the hag, and the hag put her under an oath not to tell -anything at all to the king, and not to tell to any person anything she -should see being done, except only to three who were never baptised. - -The next morning on the morrow, the king went out a hunting, and when he -was gone, the hag killed a fine hound the king had. When the king came -home he asked the old hag “who killed my hound?” - -“Your daughter killed it,” says the old woman. - -“Why did you kill my hound?” said the king. - -“I did not kill your hound,” says the daughter, “and I cannot tell you -who killed him.” - -“I will make you tell me,” says the king. - -He took the daughter with him to a great wood, and he hanged her on a -tree, and then he cut off the two hands and the two feet off her, and -left her in a state of death. When he was going out of the wood there -went a thorn into his foot, and the daughter said: “That you may never -get better until I have hands and feet to cure you.” - -The king went home, and there grew a tree out of his foot, and it was -necessary for him to open the window, to let the top of the tree out. - -There was a gentleman going by near the wood, and he heard the king’s -daughter a-screeching. He went to the tree, and when he saw the state she -was in, he took pity on her, brought her home, and when she got better, -married her. - -At the end of three quarters (of a year), the king’s daughter had three -sons at one birth, and when they were born, Granya Öi came and put hands -and feet on the king’s daughter, and told her, “Don’t let your children -be baptised until they are able to walk. There is a tree growing out of -your father’s foot; it was cut often, but it grows again, and it is with -you lies his healing. You are under an oath not to tell the things you -saw your stepmother doing to anyone but to three who were never baptised, -and God has sent you those three. When they will be a year old bring them -to your father’s house, and tell your story before your three sons, and -rub your hand on the stump of the tree, and your father will be as well -as he was the first day.” - -There was great wonderment on the gentleman when he saw hands and feet on -the king’s daughter. She told him then every word that Granya Oi said to -her. - -When the children were a year old, the mother took them with her, and -went to the king’s house. - -There were doctors from every place in Erin attending on the king, but -they were not able to do him any good. - -When the daughter came in, the king did not recognise her. She sat down, -and the three sons round her, and she told her story to them from top to -bottom, and the king was listening to her telling it. Then she left her -hand on the sole of the king’s foot and the tree fell off it. - -The day on the morrow he hanged the old hag, and he gave his estate to -his daughter and to the gentleman. - - - - -THE OLD CROW & THE YOUNG CROW. - - -There was an old crow teaching a young crow one day, and he said to him, -“Now my son,” says he, “listen to the advice I’m going to give you. If -you see a person coming near you and stooping, mind yourself, and be on -your keeping; he’s stooping for a stone to throw at you.” - -“But tell me,” says the young crow, “what should I do if he had a stone -already down in his pocket?” - -“Musha, go ’long out of that,” says the old crow, “you’ve learned -enough; the devil another learning I’m able to give you.” - - - - -RIDDLES. - - - A great great house it is, - A golden candlestick it is, - Guess it rightly, - Let it not go by thee. - -Heaven. - - - There’s a garden that I ken, - Full of little gentlemen, - Little caps of blue they wear, - And green ribbons very fair. - -Flax. - - - I went up the boreen, I went down the boreen, - I brought the boreen with myself on my back. - -A Ladder. - - - He comes to ye amidst the brine - The butterfly of the sun, - The man of the coat so blue and fine, - With red thread his shirt is done. - -Lobster. - - - I threw it up as white as snow, - Like gold on a flag it fell below. - -Egg. - - - I ran and I got, - I sat and I searched, - If could get it I would not bring it with me, - And as I got it not I brought it. - -Thorn in the foot. - - - You see it come in on the shoulders of men, - Like a thread of the silk it will leave us again. - -Smoke. - - - He comes through the _lis_[32] to me over the sward, - The man of the foot that is narrow and hard, - I would he were running the opposite way, - For o’er all that are living ’tis he who bears sway. - -The Death. - - - In the garden’s a castle with hundreds within, - Yet though stripped to my shirt I would never fit in. - -Ant-hill. - - - From house to house he goes, - A messenger small and slight, - And whether it rains or snows, - He sleeps outside in the night. - -Boreen. - - - Two feet on the ground, - And three feet overhead, - And the head of the living - In the mouth of the dead. - -Girl with (three-legged) pot on her head. - - - On the top of the tree - See the little man red, - A stone in his belly, - A cap on his head. - -Haw. - - - There’s a poor man at rest, - With a stick beneath his breast, - And he breaking his heart a-crying. - -Lintel on a wet day. - - - As white as flour and it is not flour, - As green as grass and it is not grass, - As red as blood and it is not blood, - As black as ink and it is not ink. - -Blackberry, from bud to fruit. - - - A bottomless barrel, - It’s shaped like a hive, - It is filled full of flesh, - And the flesh is alive. - -Tailor’s thimble. - - - - -WHERE THE STORIES CAME FROM. - - -The first three stories, namely, “The Tailor and the Three Beasts,” -“Bran,” and “The King of Ireland’s Son,” I took down verbatim, without -the alteration or addition of more than a word or two, from Seáġan O -Cuinneaġáin (John Cunningham), who lives in the village of Baile-an-ṗuil -(Ballinphuil), in the county of Roscommon, some half mile from Mayo. He -is between seventy and eighty years old, and is, I think, illiterate. - -The story of “The Alp-luachra” is written down from notes made at the -time I first heard the story. It was told me by Seamus o h-Airt (James -Hart), a game-keeper, in the barony of Frenchpark, between sixty and -seventy years old, and illiterate. The notes were not full ones, and I -had to eke them out in writing down the story, the reciter, one of the -best I ever met, having unfortunately died in the interval. - -The stories of “Paudyeen O’Kelly,” and of “Leeam O’Rooney’s Burial,” I -got from Mr. Lynch Blake, near Ballinrobe, county Mayo, who took the -trouble of writing them down for me in nearly phonetic Irish, for which -I beg to return him my best thanks. I do not think that these particular -stories underwent any additions at his hands while writing them down. I -do not know from whom he heard the first, and cannot now find out, as he -has left the locality. The second he told me he got from a man, eighty -years old, named William Grady, who lived near Clare-Galway, but who for -the last few years has been “carrying a bag.” - -The long story of “Guleesh na Guss dhu,” was told by the same Shamus -O’Hart, from whom I got the “Alp-luachra,” but, as in the case of the -“Alp-luachra” story, I had only taken notes of it, and not written down -the whole as it fell from his lips. I have only met one other man since, -Martin Brennan, in the barony of Frenchpark, Roscommon, who knew the -same story, and he told it to me—but in an abridged form—incident for -incident up to the point where my translation leaves off. - -There is a great deal more in the Irish version in the Leaḃar -Sgeuluiġeaċta, which I did not translate, not having been able to get -it from Brennan, and having doctored it too much myself to give it as -genuine folk-lore. - -The rest of the stories in this volume are literally translated from my -Leaḃar Sgeuluiġeaċta. Neil O’Carree was taken down phonetically, by Mr. -Larminie, from the recitation of a South Donegal peasant. - -The Hags of the Long Teeth come from Ballinrobe, as also William of the -Tree, the Court of Crinnawn, and the Well of D’Yerree-in-Dowan. See pages -239-240 of the L. S. - - - - -NOTES. - -[_Notes in brackets signed A.N., by Alfred Nutt. The references to -Arg. Tales are to “Waifs and Strays of Celtic Tradition; Argyllshire -Series II.; Folk and Hero Tales from Argyllshire” collected, edited, and -translated by the Rev. D. MacInnes, with Notes by the editor and Alfred -Nutt. London, 1889._] - - -“THE TAILOR AND THE THREE BEASTS.” - -Page 1. In another variant of this tale, which I got from one Martin -Brennan—more usually pronounced Brannan; in Irish, O’Braonáin—in -Roscommon, the thing which the tailor kills is a swallow, which flew past -him. He flung his needle at the bird, and it went through its eye and -killed it. This success excites the tailor to further deeds of prowess. -In this variant occurred also the widely-spread incident of the tailor’s -tricking the giant by pretending to squeeze water out of a stone. - -Page 2. Garraun (gearrán), is a common Anglicised Irish word in many -parts of Ireland. It means properly a gelding or hack-horse; but in -Donegal, strangely enough, it means a horse, and coppul capáll, the -ordinary word for a horse elsewhere, means there a mare. The old English -seem to have borrowed this word capal from the Irish, _cf._ Percy’s -version of “Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne,” where the latter is thus -represented— - - “A sword and a dagger he wore by his side, - Of manye a man the bane; - And he was clad in his capull hyde, - Topp and tayle and mayne.” - -Page 7, line 4. The modder-alla (madra-allta, wild dog), is properly a -wolf, not a lion; but the reciter explained it thus, “madar alla, sin -leó ṁan,” “modder álla, that’s a l’yone,” _i.e._, “a lion,” which I have -accordingly translated it. - -Page 9, line 18. The giant’s shouting at night, or at dawn of day, is a -common incident in these tales. In the story of “The Speckled Bull,” not -here given, there are three giants who each utter a shout every morning, -“that the whole country hears them.” The Irish for giant, in all these -stories, is faṫaċ (pronounced fahuch), while the Scotch Gaelic word is -_famhair_, a word which we have not got, but which is evidently the same -as the Fomhor, or sea pirate of Irish mythical history, in whom Professor -Rhys sees a kind of water god. The only place in Campbell’s four volumes -in which the word _fathach_ occurs is in the “Lay of the Great Omadawn,” -which is a distinctly Irish piece, and of which MacLean remarks, “some of -the phraseology is considered Irish.” - -Page 11. This incident appears to be a version of that in “Jack the -Giant-Killer.” It seems quite impossible to say whether it was always -told in Ireland, or whether it may not have been borrowed from some -English source. If it does come from an English source it is probably the -only thing in these stories that does. - -Page 13, line 6. “To take his wife off (pronounced _ov_) him again.” The -preposition “from” is not often used with take, etc., in Connacht English. - -Page 15, line 12. These nonsense-endings are very common in Irish stories -It is remarkable that there seems little trace of them in Campbell. The -only story in his volumes which ends with a piece of nonsense is the -“Slender Grey Kerne,” and it, as I tried to show in my Preface, is Irish. -It ends thus: “I parted with them, and they gave me butter on a coal, -and kail brose in a creel, and paper shoes, and they sent me away with -a cannon-ball on a highroad of glass, till they left me sitting here.” -Why such endings seem to be stereotyped with some stories, and not used -at all with others, I cannot guess. It seems to be the same amongst -Slavonic Märchen, of which perhaps one in twenty has a nonsense-ending; -but the proportion is much larger in Ireland. Why the Highland tales, so -excellent in themselves, and so closely related to the Irish ones, have -lost this distinctive feature I cannot even conjecture, but certain it is -that this is so. - -[The incident of the king’s court being destroyed at night is in the -fourteenth-fifteenth century _Agallamh na Senorach_, where it is Finn who -guards Tara against the wizard enemies. - -I know nothing like the way in which the hero deals with the animals -he meets, and cannot help thinking that the narrator forgot or mistold -his story. Folk-tales are, as a rule, perfectly logical and sensible if -their conditions be once accepted; but here the conduct of the hero is -inexplicable, or at all events unexplained.—A.N.] - - -BRAN’S COLOUR. - -Page 15. This stanza on Bran’s colour is given by O’Flaherty, in 1808, -in the “Gaelic Miscellany.” The first two lines correspond with those of -my shanachie, and the last two correspond _in sound_, if not in sense. -O’Flaherty gave them thus— - - “Speckled back over the loins, - Two ears scarlet, equal-red.” - -How the change came about is obvious. The old Irish suaiṫne, “speckled,” -is not understood now in Connacht; so the word uaiṫne, “green,” which -exactly rhymes with it, took its place. Though uaiṫne generally means -greenish, it evidently did not do so to the mind of my reciter, for, -pointing to a mangy-looking cub of nondescript greyish colour in a corner -of his cabin, he said, sin uaiṫne, “that’s the colour oonya.” The words -os cionn na leirge, “over the loins,” have, for the same reason—namely, -that learg, “a loin,” is obselete now—been changed to words of the same -sound. airḋaṫ na seilge, “of the colour of hunting,” _i.e._, the colour -of the deer hunted. This, too, the reciter explained briefly by saying, -seilg sin fiaḋ, “hunting, that’s a deer.” From the vivid colouring of -Bran it would appear that she could have borne no resemblance whatever -to the modern so-called Irish wolf-hound, and that she must in all -probability have been short-haired, and not shaggy like them. Most of the -Fenian poems contain words not in general use. I remember an old woman -reciting me two lines of one of these old poems, and having to explain -in current Irish the meaning of no less than five words in the two lines -which were - - Aiṫris dam agus ná can go - Cionnas rinneaḋ leó an trealg, - -which she thus explained conversationally, innis dam agus ná deun breug, -cia an ċaoi a ndearnaḋ siad an fiaḋaċ. - -Page 17, line 9. Pistrogue, or pishogue, is a common Anglo-Irish word -for a charm or spell. Archbishop MacHale derived it from two words, fios -siṫeóg, “knowledge of fairies,” which seems hardly probable. - -Page 19. “A fiery cloud out of her neck.” Thus, in Dr. Atkinson’s Páis -Partoloin, from the “Leabhar Breac,” the devil appears in the form of an -Ethiopian, and according to the Irish translator, ticed lassar borb ar a -bragait ocus as a shróin amal lassair shuirun tened. “There used to come -a fierce flame out of his _neck_ and nose, like the flame of a furnace of -fire.” - -Page 19. According to another version of this story, the blind man was -Ossian (whose name is in Ireland usually pronounced Essheen or Ussheen) -himself, and he got Bran’s pups hung up by their teeth to the skin of a -newly-killed horse, and all the pups let go their hold except this black -one, which clung to the skin and hung out of it. Then Ossian ordered the -others to be drowned and kept this. In this other version, the coal which -he throws at the infuriated pup was tuaġ no rud icéint, “a hatchet or -something.” There must be some confusion in this story, since Ossian was -not blind during Bran’s lifetime, nor during the sway of the Fenians. -The whole thing appears to be a bad version of Campbell’s story, No. -XXXI., Vol. II., p. 103. The story may, however, have some relation to -the incident in that marvellous tale called “The Fort of the little Red -Yeoha” (Bruiġion Eoċaiḋ ḃig ḋeirg), in which we are told how Conan looked -out of the fort, go ḃfacaiḋ sé aon óglaċ ag teaċt ċuige, agus cu ġearr -ḋuḃ air slaḃra iarainn aige, ’na láiṁ, agus is ionga naċ loirġeaḋ si an -bruioġion re gaċ caor teine d’á g-cuirfeaḋ si ṫar a craos agus ṫar a -cúḃan-ḃeul amaċ, _i.e._, “he saw one youth coming to him, and he having a -short black hound on an iron chain in his hand, and it is a wonder that -it would not burn the fort with every ball of fire it would shoot out of -its gullet, and out of its foam-mouth.” This hound is eventually killed -by Bran, but only after Conan had taken off “the shoe of refined silver -that was on Bran’s right paw” (An ḃróg airgid Aiṫ-leigṫhe to ḃí air croiḃ -ḋeis Brain). Bran figures largely in Fenian literature. - -[I believe this is the only place in which Finn’s _mother_ is described -as a fawn, though in the prose sequel to the “Lay of the Black Dog” -(Leab. na Feinne, p. 91) it is stated that Bran, by glamour of the -Lochlanners, is made to slay the Fenian women and children in the seeming -of deer. That Finn enjoyed the favours of a princess bespelled as a fawn -is well known; also that Oisin’s mother was a fawn (see the reference in -Arg. Tales, p. 470). The narrator may have jumbled these stories together -in his memory. - -The slaying of Bran’s pup seems a variant of Oisin’s “Blackbird Hunt” -(_cf._ Kennedy, Fictions, 240), whilst the story, as a whole, seems to -be mixed up with that of the “Fight of Bran with the Black Dog,”of which -there is a version translated by the Rev. D. Mac Innes—“Waifs and Strays -of Celtic Tradition,” Vol. I., p. 7, _et seq._ - -It would seem from our text that the Black Dog was Bran’s child, so that -the fight is an animal variant of the father and son combat, as found in -the Cuchullain saga. A good version of “Finn’s Visit to Lochlann” (to be -printed in Vol. III. of “Waifs and Strays of Celtic Tradition”) tells how -Finn took with him Bran’s leash; and how the Lochlanners sentenced him -to be exposed in a desolate valley, where he was attacked by a savage -dog whom he tamed by showing the leash. Vol. XII. of Campbell’s “MSS. of -Gaelic Stories” contains a poem entitled, “Bran’s Colour.” This should be -compared with our text.—A.N.] - - -THE KING OF IRELAND’S SON. - -Page 19. The king of Ireland’s son. This title should properly be, “The -son of a king in Ireland” (Mac riġ i n-Eirinn). As this name for the -prince is rather cumbrous, I took advantage of having once heard him -called the king of Ireland’s son (Mac riġ Eireann), and have so given -it here. In another longer and more humorous version of this story, -which I heard from Shamus O’Hart, but which I did not take down in -writing, the short green man is the “Thin black man” (fear caol duḃ); the -gunman is guinnéar, not gunnaire; the ear-man is cluas-le-h-éisteaċt; -(ear for hearing), not cluasaire; and the blowman is not Séidire, but -polláire-séidte (blowing nostril). This difference is the more curious, -considering that the men lived only a couple of miles apart, and their -families had lived in the same place for generations. - -Page 27. This description of a house thatched with feathers is very -common in Irish stories. On the present occasion the house is thatched -with one single feather, so smooth that there was no projecting point or -quill either above or below the feather-roof. For another instance, see -the “Well of D’yerree in Dowan,” page 131. In a poem from “The Dialogue -of the Sages,” the lady Credé’s house is described thus:— - - “Of its sunny chamber the corner stones - Are all of silver and precious gold, - In faultless stripes its thatch is spread - Of wings of brown and crimson red. - Its portico is covered, too, - With wings of birds both yellow and blue.” - - See O’Curry’s “Man. Materials,” p. 310. - -Page 27. “He drew the cooalya-coric,” _coolaya_ in the text, is a -misprint. The cooalya-coric means “pole of combat.” How it was “drawn” we -have no means of knowing. It was probably a pole meant to be drawn back -and let fall upon some sounding substance. The word tarraing, “draw,” -has, however, in local, if not in literary use, the sense of drawing back -one’s arm to make a blow. A peasant will say, “he drew the blow at me,” -or “he drew the stick,” in English; or “ṫarraing sé an buille,” in Irish, -by which he means, he made the blow and struck with the stick. This may -be the case in the phrase “drawing the cooalya-coric,” which occurs so -often in Irish stories, and it may only mean, “he struck a blow with the -pole of combat,” either against something resonant, or against the door -of the castle. I have come across at least one allusion to it in the -Fenian literature. In the story, called Macaoṁ mór mac riġ na h-Earpáine -(the great man, the king of Spain’s son), the great man and Oscar fight -all day, and when evening comes Oscar grows faint and asks for a truce, -and then takes Finn Mac Cool aside privately and desires him to try to -keep the great man awake all night, while he himself sleeps; because he -feels that if the great man, who had been already three days and nights -without rest, were to get some sleep on this night, he himself would -not be a match for him next morning. This is scarcely agreeable to the -character of Oscar, but the wiles which Finn employs to make the great -man relate to him his whole history, and so keep him from sleeping, -are very much in keeping with the shrewdness which all these stories -attribute to the Fenian king. The great man remains awake all night, -sorely against his will, telling Finn his extraordinary adventures; and -whenever he tries to stop, Finn incites him to begin again, and at last -tells him not to be afraid, because the Fenians never ask combat of any -man until he ask it of them first. At last, as the great man finished -his adventures do ḃí an lá ag éiriġe agus do ġaḃar Osgar agus do ḃuail -an cuaille cóṁpaic. Do ċuala an fear mór sin agus a duḃairt, “A Finn Ṁic -Cúṁail,” ar sé, “d’ḟeallair orm,” etc. _i.e._, the day was rising, and -Oscar goes and struck (the word is not “drew” here) the pole of combat. -The great man heard that, and he said, “Oh, Finn Mac Cool, you have -deceived me,” etc. Considering that they were all inside of Finn’s palace -at Allan (co. Kildare) at this time, Oscar could hardly have struck the -door. It is more probable that the pole of combat stood outside the -house, and it seems to have been a regular institution. In Campbell’s -tale of “The Rider of Grianag,” there is mention made of a _slabhraidh -comhrac_, “Chain of combat,” which answers the same purpose as the pole, -only not so conveniently, since the hero has to give it several hauls -before he can “take a turn out of it.” We find allusion to the same thing -in the tale of Iollan arm Dearg. Illan, the hero, comes to a castle in -a solitude, and surprises a woman going to the well, and she points out -to him the chain, and says, “Gaċ uair ċroiṫfeas tu an slaḃra sin ar an -mbile, do ġeoḃaiḋ tu ceud curaḋ caṫ-armaċ, agus ni iarrfaid ort aċt an -cóṁrac is áil leat, mar atá diar no triúr no ceaṫrar, no ceud,” _i.e._, -“every time that you will shake yon chain (suspended) out of the tree, -you will get (call forth) a hundred champions battle-armed, and they will -only ask of thee the combat thou likest thyself, that is (combat with) -two, or three, or four, or a hundred.” Chains are continually mentioned -in Irish stories. In the “Little Fort of Allan,” a Fenian story, we read, -Ann sin d’éiriġ bollsgaire go bioṫ-urlaṁ agus do ċroiṫ slaḃra éisteaċta -na bruiġne, agus d’éisteadar uile go foirtineaċ, _i.e._, “then there -arose a herald with active readiness, and they shook the fort’s chain of -listening, and they all listened attentively;” and in the tale of “Illan, -the Red-armed,” there are three chains in the palace, one of gold, one of -silver, and one of findrinny (a kind of metal, perhaps bronze), which are -shaken to seat the people at the banquet, and to secure their silence; -but whoever spake after the gold chain had been shaken did it on pain of -his head. - -[In the story of Cuchullain’s youthful feats it is related that, on his -first expedition, he came to the court of the three Mac Nechtain, and, -according to O’Curry’s Summary (“Manners and Customs,” II., p. 366), -“sounded a challenge.” The mode of this sounding is thus described by -Prof. Zimmer, in his excellent summary of the _Tain bo Cualgne_ (Zeit, -f. vgl., Sprachforschung, 1887, p. 448): “On the lawn before the court -stood a stone pillar, around which was a closed chain (or ring), upon -which was written in Ogham, that every knight who passed thereby was -bound, upon his knightly honour, to issue a challenge. Cuchullain took -the stone pillar and threw it into a brook hard by.” This is the nearest -analogue I have been able to find to our passage in the old Irish -literature (the _Tain_, it should be mentioned, goes back in its present -form certainly to the tenth, and, probably, to the seventh century). As -many of the Fenian romances assumed a fresh and quasi-definite shape in -the twelfth-fourteenth centuries, it is natural to turn for a parallel to -the mediæval romances of chivalry. In a twelfth century French romance, -the Conte de Graal, which is in some way connected with the body of -Gaelic Märchen (whether the connection be, as I think, due to the fact -that the French poet worked up lays derived from Celtic sources, or, -as Professor Zimmer thinks, that the French romances are the origin of -much in current Gaelic folk-tales), when Perceval comes to the Castle of -Maidens and enters therein, he finds a table of brass, and hanging from -it by a chain of silver, a steel hammer. With this he strikes three -blows on the table, and forces the inmates to come to him. Had they not -done so the castle would have fallen into ruins. Other parallels from -the same romances are less close; thus, when Perceval came to the castle -of his enemy, Partinal, he defies him by throwing down his shield, which -hangs up on a tree outside the castle (v. 44,400, _et seq._). It is well -known that the recognised method of challenging in tournaments was for -the challenger to touch his adversary’s shield with the lance. This may -possibly be the origin of the “shield-clashing” challenge which occurs -several times in Conall Gulban; or, on the other hand, the mediæval -practice may be a knightly transformation of an earlier custom. In the -thirteenth century prose Perceval le Gallois, when the hero comes to the -Turning Castle and finds the door shut, he strikes such a blow with his -sword that it enters three inches deep into a marble pillar (Potvin’s -edition, p. 196). These mediæval instances do not seem sufficient to -explain the incident in our text, and I incline to think that our tale -has preserved a genuine trait of old Irish knightly life. In Kennedy’s -“Jack the Master, and Jack the Servant” (Fictions, p. 32), the hero takes -hold of a “club that hangs by the door ”and uses it as a knocker.—A.N.] - -Page 29. They spent the night, &c. This brief run resembles very much -a passage in the story of Iollan Arm-dearg, which runs, do rinneadar -tri treana de ’n oiḋċe, an ċeud trian re h-ól agus re h-imirt, an dara -trian re ceól agus re h-oirfide agus re h-ealaḋan, agus an treas trian -re suan agus re sáṁ-ċodlaḋ, agus do rugadar as an oiḋċe sin _i.e._, they -made three-thirds of the night; the first third with drink and play, the -second third with music and melody and (feats of) science, and the third -third with slumber and gentle sleep, and they passed away that night. - -Page 33, line 28. This allusion to the horse and the docking is very -obscure and curious. The old fellow actually blushed at the absurdity of -the passage, yet he went through with it, though apparently unwillingly. -He could throw no light upon it, except to excuse himself by saying that -“that was how he heard it ever.” - -Page 37, line 4. The sword of _three_ edges is curious; the third edge -would seem to mean a rounded point, for it can hardly mean triangular -like a bayonet. The sword that “never leaves the leavings of a blow -behind it,” is common in Irish literature. In that affecting story of -Deirdre, Naoise requests to have his head struck off with such a sword, -one that Mananan son of Lir, had long before given to himself. - -Page 47. The groundwork or motivating of this story is known to all -European children, through Hans Andersen’s tale of the “Travelling -Companion.” - -[I have studied some of the features of this type of stories Arg. Tales, -pp. 443-452.—A.N.] - - -THE ALP-LUACHRA. - -Page 49. This legend of the alp-luachra is widely disseminated, and -I have found traces of it in all parts of Ireland. The alp-luachra -is really a newt, not a lizard, as is generally supposed. He is the -lissotriton punctatus of naturalists, and is the only species of newt -known in Ireland. The male has an orange belly, red-tipped tail, and -olive back. It is in most parts of Ireland a rare reptile enough, and -hence probably the superstitious fear with which it is regarded, on -the principle of _omne ignotum pro terribli_. This reptile goes under -a variety of names in the various counties. In speaking English the -peasantry when they do not use the Irish name, call him a “mankeeper,” a -word which has probably some reference to the superstition related in our -story. He is also called in some counties a “darklooker,” a word which is -probably, a corruption of an Irish name for him which I have heard the -Kildare people use, dochi-luachair (daċuiḋ luaċra), a word not found in -the dictionaries. In Waterford, again, he is called arc-luachra, and the -Irish MSS. call him arc-luachra (earc-luaċra). The alt-pluachra of the -text is a mis-pronunciation of the proper name, alp-luachra. In the Arran -Islands they have another name, ail-ċuaċ. I have frequently heard of -people swallowing one while asleep. The symptoms, they say, are that the -person swells enormously, and is afflicted with a thirst which makes him -drink canfuls and pails of water or buttermilk, or anything else he can -lay his hand on. In the south of Ireland it is believed that if something -savoury is cooked on a pan, and the person’s head held over it, the -mankeeper will come out. A story very like the one here given is related -in Waterford, but of a dar daol, or _daraga dheel_, as he is there -called, a venomous insect, which has even more legends attached to him -than the alp-luachra. In this county, too, they say that if you turn the -alp-luachra over on its back, and lick it, it will cure burns. Keating, -the Irish historian and theologian, alludes quaintly to this reptile in -his Tri Biorġaoiṫe an Bháir, so finely edited in the original the other -day by Dr. Atkinson. “Since,” says Keating, “prosperity or worldly -store is the weapon of the adversary (the devil), what a man ought to -do is to spend it in killing the adversary, that is, by bestowing it -on God’s poor. The thing which we read in Lactantius agrees with this, -that if an airc-luachra were to inflict a wound on anyone, what he ought -to do is to shake a pinchful of the ashes of the airc-luachra upon the -wound, and he will be cured thereby; and so, if worldly prosperity wounds -the conscience, what you ought to do is to put a poultice of the same -prosperity to cure the wound which the covetousness by which you have -amassed it has made in your conscience, by distributing upon the poor of -God all that remains over your own necessity.” The practice which the -fourth-century Latin alludes to, is in Ireland to-day transferred to the -dar-daol, or goevius olens of the naturalists, which is always burnt as -soon as found. I have often heard people say:—“Kill a keerhogue (clock or -little beetle); burn a dar-dael.” - -Page 59. Boccuch (bacaċ), literally a lame man, is, or rather was, the -name of a very common class of beggars about the beginning of this -century. Many of these men were wealthy enough, and some used to go about -with horses to collect the “alms” which the people unwillingly gave them. -From all accounts they appear to have been regular black-mailers, and to -have extorted charity partly through inspiring physical and partly moral -terror, for the satire, at least of some of them, was as much dreaded as -their cudgels. Here is a curious specimen of their truculence from a song -called the Bacach Buidhe, now nearly forgotten:— - - Is bacach mé tá air aon chois, siúbhalfaidh mé go spéifeaṁail, - Ceannóchaidh mé bréidin i g-Cill-Cainnigh do’n bhraois, - Cuirfead cóta córuiġthe gleusta, a’s búcla buidhe air m’aon chois, - A’s nach maith mo shlighe bidh a’s eudaigh o chaill mo chosa siúbhal! - Ni’l bacach ná fear-mála o Ṡligeach go Cinn-tráile - Agus ó Bheul-an-átha go Baile-buidhe na Midhe, - Nach bhfuil agam faoi árd-chíos, agus cróin anaghaidh na ráithe, - No mineóchainn a g-cnámha le bata glas daraigh. - -_i.e._, - - I am a boccugh who goes on one foot, I will travel airily, - I will buy frize in Kilkenny for the breeches(?) - I will put a well-ordered prepared coat and yellow buckles on my one - foot, - And isn’t it good, my way of getting food and clothes since my feet - lost their walk. - There is no boccuch or bagman from Sligo to Kinsale - And from Ballina to Ballybwee (Athboy) in Meath, - That I have not under high rent to me—a crown every quarter from them— - Or I’d pound their bones small with a green oak stick. - -The memory of these formidable guests is nearly vanished, and the -boccuch in our story is only a feeble old beggarman. I fancy this tale -of evicting the alt-pluachra family from their human abode is fathered -upon a good many people as well as upon the father of the present -MacDermot. [Is the peasant belief in the Alp-Luachra the originating idea -of the well-known Irish Rabelaisian 14th century tale “The Vision of -McConglinny?”—A.N.] - - -THE WEASEL. - -Page 73. The weasel, like the cat, is an animal that has many legends -and superstitions attaching to it. I remember hearing from an old -shanachie, now unfortunately dead, a long and extraordinary story about -the place called Chapelizod, a few miles from Dublin, which he said was -Séipeul-easóg, the “weasel’s chapel,” in Irish, but which is usually -supposed to have received its name from the Princess Iseult of Arthurian -romance. The story was the account of how the place came by this name. -How he, who was a Connachtman, and never left his native county except -to reap the harvest in England, came by this story I do not know; but I -imagine it must have been told him by some one in the neighbourhood, in -whose house he spent the night, whilst walking across the island on his -way to Dublin or Drogheda harbour. The weasel is a comical little animal, -and one might very well think it was animated with a spirit. I have been -assured by an old man, and one whom I have always found fairly veracious, -that when watching for ducks beside a river one evening a kite swooped -down and seized a weasel, with which it rose up again into the air. His -brother fired, and the kite came down, the weasel still in its claws, and -unhurt. The little animal then came up, and stood in front of the two men -where they sat, and nodded and bowed his head to them about twenty times -over; “it was,” said the old man, “thanking us he was.” The weasel is a -desperate fighter, and always makes for the throat. What, however, in -Ireland is called a weazel, is really a stoat, just as what is called a -crow in Ireland is really a rook, and what is called a crane is really a -heron. - -Cáuher-na-mart, to which Paudyeen (diminutive of Paddy) was bound, means -the “city of the beeves,” but is now called in English Westport, one of -the largest towns in Mayo. It was _apropos_ of its long and desolate -streets of ruined stores, with nothing in them, that some one remarked -he saw Ireland’s characteristics there in a nutshell—“an itch after -greatness and nothingness;” a remark which was applicable enough to the -squireocracy and bourgeoisie of the last century. - -Page 79. The “big black dog” seems a favourite shape for the evil spirit -to take. He appears three times in this volume. - -Page 81. The little man, with his legs astride the barrel, appears to be -akin to the south of Ireland spirit, the clooricaun, a being who is not -known, at least by this name, in the north or west of the island. See -Crofton Croker’s “Haunted Cellar.” - -Page 87. “The green hill opened,” etc. The fairies are still called -Tuatha de Danann by the older peasantry, and all the early Irish -literature agrees that the home of the Tuatha was in the hills, after the -Milesians had taken to themselves the plains. Thus in the story of the -“Piper and the Pooka,” in the Leabhar Sgeulaigheachta, not translated -here, a door opens in the hill of Croagh Patrick, and the pair walk in -and find women dancing inside. Dónal, the name of the little piper, is -now Anglicised into Daniel, except in one or two Irish families which -retain the old form still. The _coash-t’ya bower_, in which the fairy -consorts ride, means literally “the deaf coach,” perhaps from the -rumbling sound it is supposed to make, and the banshee is sometimes -supposed to ride in it. It is an omen of ill to those who meet it. It -seems rather out of place amongst the fairy population, being, as it -is, a gloomy harbinger of death, which will pass even through a crowded -town. Cnoc Matha, better Magha, the hill of the plain, is near the town -of Tuam, in Galway. Finvara is the well-known king of the fairy host of -Connacht. In Lady Wilde’s “Ethna, the Bride,” Finvara is said to have -carried off a beautiful girl into his hill, whom her lover recovers with -the greatest difficulty. When he gets her back at last, she lies on her -bed for a year and a day as if dead. At the end of that time he hears -voices saying that he may recover her by unloosing her girdle, burning -it, and burying in the earth the enchanted pin that fastened it. This -was, probably, the slumber-pin which we have met so often in the “King of -Ireland’s Son.” Nuala, the name of the fairy queen, was a common female -name amongst us until the last hundred years or so. The sister of the -last O’Donnell, for whom Mac an Bhaird wrote his exquisite elegy, so well -translated by Mangan— - - “Oh, woman of the piercing wail, - That mournest o’er yon mound of clay”— - -was Nuala. I do not think it is ever used now as a Christian name at all, -having shared the unworthy fate of many beautiful Gaelic names of women -common a hundred years ago, such as Mève, Una, Sheelah, Moreen, etc. - -Slieve Belgadaun occurs also in another story which I heard, called the -Bird of Enchantment, in which a fairy desires some one to bring a sword -of light “from the King of the Firbolg, at the foot of Slieve Belgadaun.” -Nephin is a high hill near Crossmolina, in North Mayo. - -Page 89. Stongirya (stangaire), a word not given in dictionaries, means, -I think, “a mean fellow.” The dove’s hole, near the village of Cong, in -the west of the county Mayo, is a deep cavity in the ground, and when a -stone is thrown down into it you hear it rumbling and crashing from side -to side of the rocky wall, as it descends, until the sound becomes too -faint to hear. It is the very place to be connected with the marvellous. - - -LEEAM O’ROONEY’S BURIAL. - -Page 95. Might not Spenser have come across some Irish legend of an -imitation man made by enchantment, which gave him the idea of Archimago’s -imitation of Una: - - “Who all this time, with charms and hidden artes, - Had made a lady of that other spright, - And framed of liquid ayre her tender partes, - So lively and so like in all men’s sight - That weaker sence it could have ravished quite,” etc. - -I never remember meeting this easy _deus ex machinâ_ for bringing about a -complication before. - -Page 101. Leeam imprecates “the devil from me,” thus skilfully turning a -curse into a blessing, as the Irish peasantry invariably do, even when in -a passion. _H’onnam one d’youl_—“my soul _from_ the devil” is an ordinary -exclamation expressive of irritation or wonderment. - - -GULLEESH. - -Page 104. When I first heard this story I thought that the name of the -hero was Goillís, the pronunciation of which in English letters would be -Gul-yeesh; but I have since heard the name pronounced more distinctly, -and am sure that it is Giollaois, g’yulleesh, which is a corruption -of the name Giolla-íosa, a not uncommon Christian name amongst the -seventeenth century Gaels. I was, however, almost certain that the man -(now dead) from whom I first got this story, pronounced the word as -Gulyeesh, anent which my friend Mr. Thomas Flannery furnished me at the -time with the following interesting note:—Ní cosṁúil gur Giolla-íosa atá -’san ainm Goillís, nír ḃ’ ḟeidir “Giolla-íosa” do ḋul i n “Goillis.” -Saoilim gur b’ionann Goillís agus Goill-ġéis no Gaill-ġéis, agus is -ionann “géis” agus “eala.” Is cuiṁne liom “Muirġéis” ’sna h-“Annalalaiḃ,” -agus is iomḋa ainm duine ṫigeas o anmannaiḃ eun ċoṁ maiṫ le ó anmannaiḃ -beaṫaċ, mar ata bran, fiaċ, lon, loinin, seaḃac, ⁊c. ’Sé Goillís na g-cor -duḃ fós. Naċ aiṫne ḋuit gur leas-ainm an eala “cos-duḃ” i mórán d’áitiḃ -i n-Eirinn. Tá neiṫe eile ’san sceul sin do ḃeir orm a ṁeas gur de na -sgeultaiḃ a ḃaineas le h-ealaiḃ no géisiḃ é. Naċ aisteaċ an ni go dtug -bainṗrionnsa taiṫneaṁ do ḃuaċaill cos-duḃ cos-salaċ leisceaṁuil mar é? -Naċ ait an niḋ fós naċ dtugṫar an leas-ainm dó arís, tar éis beagáin -focal air dtús ó sin amaċ go deireaḋ. Dearmadṫar an leas-ainm agus an -fáṫ fá ḃfuair sé é. _i.e._, “It is not likely that the name Goillis is -Giolla-iosa; the one could not be changed into the other. I think that -Goillis is the same as Goill-ghéis, or Gaill-ghéis (_i.e._, foreign -swan). Géis means swan. I remember a name Muirgheis (sea swan) in the -Annals; and there is many a man’s name that comes from the names of birds -as well as from the names of animals, such as Bran (raven), Fiach (scald -crow), Lon and Loinin (blackbird), Seabhac (falcon), etc. Moreover, he -is Goillis _of the black feet_. Do you not know that the black-foot is -a name for the swan in many parts of Ireland. There are other things in -this story which make me believe that it is of those tales which treat of -swans or géises. Is it not a strange thing that the princess should take -a liking to a dirty-footed, black-footed, lazy boy like him? Is it not -curious also that the nickname of black-foot is not given to him, after -a few words at the beginning, from that out to the end? The nickname is -forgotten, and the cause for which he got it.” - -This is certainly curious, as Mr. Flannery observes, and is probably due -to the story being imperfectly remembered by the shanachie. In order to -motivate the black feet at all, Guleesh should be made to say that he -would never wash his feet till he made a princess fall in love with him, -or something of that nature. This was probably the case originally, but -these stories must be all greatly impaired during the last half century, -since people ceased to take an interest in things Irish. - -There are two stories in Lady Wilde’s book that somewhat resemble this. -“The Midnight Ride,” a short story of four pages, in which the hero -frightens the Pope by pretending to set his palace on fire; but the -story ends thus, as do many of Crofton Croker’s—“And from that hour to -this his wife believed that he dreamt the whole story as he lay under -the hayrick on his way home from a carouse with the boys.” I take this, -however, to be the sarcastic nineteenth century touch of an over-refined -collector, for in all my experience I never knew a shanachie attribute -the adventures of his hero to a dream. The other tale is called the -“Stolen Bride,” and is a story about the “kern of Querin,” who saves a -bride from the fairies on November Eve, but she will neither speak nor -taste food. That day year he hears the fairies say that the way to cure -her is to make her eat food off her father’s table-cloth. She does this, -and is cured. The trick which Gulleesh plays upon the Pope reminds us -of the fifteenth century story of Dr. Faustus and his dealings with his -Holiness. - -[Cf. also the story of Michael Scott’s journey to Rome, “Waifs and Strays -of Celtic Tradition,” Vol. I., p. 46. The disrespectful way in which the -Pope is spoken of in these tales does not seem due to Protestantism, as -is the case with the Faustus story, although, as I have pointed out, -there are some curious points of contact between Michael Scott and -Faustus. Guleesh seems to be an early Nationalist who thought more of his -village and friend than of the head of his religion.—A.N.] - -The description of the wedding is something like that in Crofton Croker’s -“Master and Man,” only the scene in that story is laid at home. - -The story of Gulleesh appears to be a very rare one. I have never been -able to find a trace of it outside the locality (near where the counties -of Sligo, Mayo, and Roscommon meet) in which I first heard it. - -[It thus seems to be a very late working-up of certain old incidents with -additions of new and incongruous ones.—A.N.] - -Page 112. “The rose and the lily were fighting together in her face.” -This is a very common expression of the Irish bards. In one of Carolan’s -unpublished poems he says of Bridget Cruise, with whom he was in love in -his youth:—“In her countenance there is the lily, the whitest and the -brightest—a combat of the world—madly wrestling with the rose. Behold the -conflict of the pair; the goal—the rose will not lose it of her will; -victory—the lily cannot gain it; oh, God! is it not a hard struggle!” etc. - -Page 115. “I call and cross (or consecrate) you to myself,” says -Gulleesh. This is a phrase in constant use with Irish speakers, and -proceeds from an underlying idea that certain phenomena are caused by -fairy agency. If a child falls, if a cow kicks when being milked, if an -animal is restless, I have often heard a woman cry, goirim a’s castraicim -ṫu, “I call and cross you,” often abbreviated into goirim, goirim, -merely, _i.e._, “I call, I call.” - - -THE WELL OF D’YERREE-IN-DOWAN. - -Page 129. There are two other versions of this story, one a rather -evaporated one, filtered through English, told by Kennedy, in which the -Dall Glic is a wise old hermit; and another, and much better one, by -Curtin. The Dall Glic, wise blind man, figures in several stories which I -have got, as the king’s counsellor. I do not remember ever meeting him in -our literature. Bwee-sownee, the name of the king’s castle, is, I think, -a place in Mayo, and probably would be better written Buiḋe-ṫaṁnaiġ. - -Page 131. This beautiful lady in red silk, who thus appears to the -prince, and who comes again to him at the end of the story, is a curious -creation of folk fancy. She may personify good fortune. There is nothing -about her in the two parallel stories from Curtin and Kennedy. - -Page 133. This “tight-loop” (lúb teann) can hardly be a bow, since the -ordinary word for that is _bógha_; but it may, perhaps, be a name for a -cross-bow. - -Page 136. The story is thus invested with a moral, for it is the prince’s -piety in giving what was asked of him in the honour of God which enabled -the queen to find him out, and eventually marry him. - -Page 137. In the story of Cailleaċ na fiacaile fada, in my Leabhar -Sgeuluigheachta, not translated in this book, an old hag makes a boat out -of a thimble, which she throws into the water, as the handsome lady does -here. - -Page 141. This incident of the ladder is not in Curtin’s story, which -makes the brothers mount the queen’s horse and get thrown. There is a -very curious account of a similar ladder in the story of the “Slender -Grey Kerne,” of which I possess a good MS., made by a northern scribe in -1763. The passage is of interest, because it represents a trick something -almost identical with which I have heard Colonel Olcott, the celebrated -American theosophist lecturer, say he saw Indian jugglers frequently -performing. Colonel Olcott, who came over to examine Irish fairy lore -in the light of theosophic science, was of opinion that these men could -bring a person under their power so as to make him imagine that he saw -whatever the juggler wished him to see. He especially mentioned this -incident of making people see a man going up a ladder. The MS., of which -I may as well give the original, runs thus:— - -Iar sin ṫug an ceiṫearnaċ mála amaċ ó na asgoill, agus ṫug ceirtle ṡíoda -amaċ as a ṁála, agus do ṫeilg suas i ḃfriṫing na fiormamuinte í, agas do -rinne drémire ḋí, agus ṫug gearrḟiaḋ amaċ arís agus do leig suas annsa -dréimire é. Ṫug gaḋar cluais-dearg amaċ arís agus do leig suas anḋiaiġ an -ġearrḟiaḋ é. Tug cu faiteaċ foluaimneaċ amaċ agus do leig suas anḋiaiġ an -ġearrḟiaḋ agus an ġaḋair í, agus a duḃairt, is ḃao(ġ)laċ liom, air sé, go -n-íosfaiḋ an gaḋar agus an cú an gearrḟiaḋ, agus ni mór liom anacal do -ċur air an gearrḟiaḋ. Ṫug ann sin ógánaċ deas a n-eideaḋ ró ṁaiṫ amaċ as -an mála agus do leig suas anḋiaiġ an ġearrfiaḋ agus an ġaḋair agus na con -é. Ṫug cailín áluind a n-éidead ró ḋeas amaċ as an mála agus do leig suas -anḋiaiġ an ġearrḟaiḋ an ġaḋair an ógánaiġ agus na con í. - -Is dona do éiriġ ḋaṁ anois, ar an Ceiṫearnaċ óir atá an t-óganaċ aig -dul ag pógaḋ mo ṁná agus an cú aig creim an ġearrḟiaḋ. Do ṫarraing an -Ceiṫearnaċ an dréimire anuas, agus do fuair an t-ógánaċ fairre(?) an -mnaoi agus an cu aig creim an ġearrḟiaḋ aṁuil a duḃairt, i.e., after that -the kerne took out a bag from under his arm-pit and he brought out a -ball of silk from the bag, and he threw it up into the expanse(?) of the -firmament, and it became a ladder; and again he took out a hare and let -it up the ladder. Again he took out a red-eared hound and let it up after -the hare. Again he took out a timid frisking dog, and he let her up after -the hare and the hound, and said, “I am afraid,” said he, “the hound and -the dog will eat the hare, and I think I ought to send some relief to the -hare.” Then he took out of the bag a handsome youth in excellent apparel, -and he let him up after the hare and the hound and the dog. He took out -of the bag a lovely girl in beautiful attire, and he let her up after the -hare, the hound, the youth, and the dog. - -“It’s badly it happened to me now,” says the kerne, “for the youth is -going kissing my woman, and the dog gnawing the hare.” The kerne drew -down the ladder again and he found the youth “going along with the woman, -and the dog gnawing the hare,” as he said. - -The English “Jack and the Beanstalk” is about the best-known ladder story. - -Page 141. This story was not invented to explain the existence of the -twelve tribes of Galway, as the absence of any allusion to them in all -the parallel versions proves; but the application of it to them is -evidently the brilliant afterthought of some Galwegian shanachie. - - -THE COURT OF CRINNAWN. - -Page 142. The court of Crinnawn is an old ruin on the river Lung, which -divides the counties of Roscommon and Mayo, about a couple of miles from -the town of Ballaghadereen. I believe, despite the story, that it was -built by one of the Dillon family, and not so long ago either. There is -an Irish prophecy extant in these parts about the various great houses -in Roscommon. Clonalis, the seat of the O’Connor Donn—or Don, as they -perversely insist on spelling it; Dungar, the seat of the De Freynes; -Loughlinn, of the Dillons, etc.; and amongst other verses, there is one -which prophecies that “no roof shall rise on Crinnawn,” which the people -say was fulfilled, the place having never been inhabited or even roofed. -In the face of this, how the story of Crinnawn, son of Belore, sprang -into being is to me quite incomprehensible, and I confess I have been -unable to discover any trace of this particular story on the Roscommon -side of the river, nor do I know from what source the shanachie, Mr. -Lynch Blake, from whom I got it, become possessed of it. Balor of the -evil eye, who figures in the tale of “The Children of Tuireann,” was not -Irish at all, but a “Fomorian.” The _pattern_, accompanied with such -funest results for Mary Kerrigan, is a festival held in honour of the -_patron_ saint. These patterns were common in many places half a century -ago, and were great scenes of revelry and amusement, and often, too, -of hard fighting. But these have been of late years stamped out, like -everything else distinctively Irish and lively. - -[This story is a curious mixture of common peasant belief about haunted -raths and houses, with mythical matter probably derived from books. Balor -appears in the well-known tale of MacKineely, taken down by O’Donovan, -in 1855, from Shane O’Dugan of Tory Island (Annals. I. 18, and cf. Rhys, -Hibbert Lect., p. 314), but I doubt whether in either case the appearance -of the name testifies to a genuine folk-belief in this mythological -personage, one of the principal representatives of the powers of darkness -in the Irish god-saga.—A.N.] - - -NEIL O’CARREE. - -Page 148. The abrupt beginning of this story is no less curious than -the short, jerky sentences in which it is continued. Mr. Larminie, who -took down this story phonetically, and word for word, from a native of -Glencolumkille, in Donegal, informed me that all the other stories of -the same narrator were characterized by the same extraordinary style. -I certainly have met nothing like it among any of my shanachies. The -_crumskeen_ and _galskeen_ which Neil orders the smith to make for -him, are instruments of which I never met or heard mention elsewhere. -According to their etymology they appear to mean “stooping-knife” and -“bright-knife,” and were, probably, at one time, well-known names of -Irish surgical instruments, of which no trace exists, unless it be in -some of the mouldering and dust-covered medical MSS. from which Irish -practitioners at one time drew their knowledge. The name of the hero, -if written phonetically, would be more like Nee-al O Corrwy than Neil O -Carree, but it is always difficult to convey Gaelic sounds in English -letters. When Neil takes up the head out of the skillet (a good old -Shaksperian word, by-the-by, old French, _escuellette_, in use all -over Ireland, and adopted into Gaelic), it falls in a _gliggar_ or -_gluggar_. This Gaelic word is onomatopeic, and largely in vogue with the -English-speaking population. Anything rattling or gurgling, like water in -an india-rubber ball, makes a _gligger_; hence, an egg that is no longer -fresh is called a glugger, because it makes a noise when shaken. I came -upon this word the other day, raised proudly aloft from its provincial -obscurity, in O’Donovan Rossa’s paper, the _United Irishman_, every -copy of which is headed with this weighty _spruch_, indicative of his -political faith: - -“As soon will a goose sitting upon a glugger hatch goslings, as an -Irishman, sitting in an English Parliament, will hatch an Irish -Parliament.” - -This story is motivated like “The King of Ireland’s Son.” It is one of -the many tales based upon an act of compassion shown to the dead. - - -TRUNK-WITHOUT-HEAD. - -Page 157. This description of the decapitated ghost sitting astride the -beer-barrel, reminds one of Crofton Croker’s “Clooricaun,” and of the -hag’s son in the story of “Paudyeen O’Kelly and the Weasel.” In Scotch -Highland tradition, there is a “trunk-without-head,” who infested a -certain ford, and killed people who attempted to pass that way; he is not -the subject, however, of any regular story. - -In a variant of this tale the hero’s name is Labhras (Laurence) and the -castle where the ghost appeared is called Baile-an-bhroin (Ballinvrone). -It is also mentioned, that when the ghost appeared in court, he came -in streaming with blood, as he was the day he was killed, and that the -butler, on seeing him, fainted. - -It is Donal’s courage which saves him from the ghost, just as happens -in another story which I got, and which is a close Gaelic parallel to -Grimm’s “Man who went out to learn to shake with fear.” The ghost whom -the hero lays explains that he had been for thirty years waiting to meet -some one who would not be afraid of him. There is an evident moral in -this. - - -THE HAGS OF THE LONG TEETH. - -Page 162. Long teeth are a favourite adjunct to horrible personalities -in folk-fancy. There is in my “Leabhar Sgeuluigheachta,” another story -of a hag of the long tooth; and in a story I got in Connacht, called the -“Speckled Bull,” there is a giant whose teeth are long enough to make a -walking-staff for him, and who invites the hero to come to him “until I -draw you under my long, cold teeth.” - -Loughlinn is a little village a few miles to the north-west of Castlerea, -in the county Roscommon, not far from Mayo; and Drimnagh wood is a thick -plantation close by. Ballyglas is the adjoining townland. There are two -of the same name, upper and lower, and I do not know to which the story -refers. - -[In this very curious tale a family tradition seems to have got mixed up -with the common belief about haunted raths and houses. It is not quite -clear why the daughters should be bespelled for their father’s sin. This -conception could not easily be paralleled, I believe, from folk-belief in -other parts of Ireland. I rather take it that in the original form of the -story the sisters helped, or, at all events, countenanced their father, -or, perhaps, were punished because they countenanced the brother’s -parricide. The discomfiture of the priest is curious.—A.N.] - - -WILLIAM OF THE TREE. - -Page 168. I have no idea who this Granya-Öi was. Her appearance in -this story is very mysterious, for I have never met any trace of her -elsewhere. The name appears to mean Granya the Virgin. - -[Our story belongs to the group—the calumniated and exposed daughter -or daughter-in-law. But in a German tale, belonging to the forbidden -chamber series (Grimm’s, No. 3, Marienkind), the Virgin Mary becomes -godmother to a child, whom she takes with her into heaven, forbidding -her merely to open one particular door. The child does this, but denies -it thrice. To punish her the Virgin banishes her from heaven into a -thorny wood. Once, as she is sitting, clothed in her long hair solely, -a king passes, sees her, loves and weds her, in spite of her being -dumb. When she bears her first child, the Virgin appears, and promises -to give her back her speech if she will confess her fault; she refuses, -whereupon the Virgin carries off the child. This happens thrice, and the -queen, accused of devouring her children, is condemned to be burnt. She -repents, the flames are extinguished, and the Virgin appears with the -three children, whom she restores to the mother. Can there have been any -similar form of the forbidden chamber current in Ireland, and can there -have been substitution of Grainne, Finn’s wife, for the Virgin Mary, or, -_vice versa_, can the latter have taken the place of an older heathen -goddess?—A.N.] - -Page 169. See Campbell’s “Tales of the Western Highlands,” vol. III., -page 120, for a fable almost identical with this of the two crows. - - - - -NOTES ON THE IRISH TEXT. - - -Page 2, line 5, abalta air a ḋeunaṁ = able to do it, a word borrowed -from English. There is a great diversity of words used in the various -provinces for “able to,” as abalta air (Mid Connacht); inneaṁuil ċum -(Waterford); ionánn or i ndán, with infinitive (West Galway); ’niniḃ with -infinitive (Donegal). - -Page 4, line 18, ni leigeann siad dam = they don’t allow me. Dam is -pronounced in Mid Connacht _dumm_, but daṁ-sa is pronounced _doo-sa_. -Dr. Atkinson has clearly shown, in his fine edition of Keating’s “Three -Shafts of Death,” that the “enclitic” form of the present tense, ending -in (e)ann, should only be used in the singular. This was stringently -observed a couple of hundred years ago, but now the rule seems to be no -longer in force. One reason why the form of the present tense, which -ends in (e)ann, has been substituted for the old present tense, in -other words, why people say buaileann sé, “he strikes,” instead of the -correct buailiḋ sé, is, I think, though Dr. Atkinson has not mentioned -it, obvious to an Irish speaker. The change probably began at the same -time that the f in the future of regular verbs became quiescent, as it -is now, I may say, all over Ireland. Anyone who uses the form buailiḋ -sé would now be understood to say, “he will strike,” not “he strikes,” -for buailfiḋ sé, “he will strike,” is now pronounced, in Connacht, at -least, and I think elsewhere, buailiḋ sé. Some plain differentiation -between the forms of the tenses was wanted, and this is probably the -reason why the enclitic form in (e)ann has usurped the place of the old -independent present, and is now used as an independent present itself. -Line 30, madra or madaḋ alla = a wolf. Cuir forán air = salute him—a word -common in Connacht and the Scotch Highlands, but not understood in the -South. Line 34. Ḃeiḋeaḋ sé = he would be, is pronounced in Connacht as a -monosyllable, like ḃeiṫ (_veh_ or _vugh_). - -Page 6, line 8, earball, is pronounced _rubbal_ not _arball_, in -Connacht. Ni and níor are both used before ṫáinig at the present day. - -Page 8, line 18. Go marḃfaḋ sé = that he would kill; another and -commoner form is, go maróċaḋ sé, from marḃuiġ, the ḃ being quiescent in -conversation. Line 31, aḃruiṫ = broth, pronounced anṫruiṫ (_anhree_), the -ḃ having the sound of an _h_ only. - -Page 12, line 27. An ċuma iraiḃsó is more used, and is better. Sin é an -ċuma a ḃí sé = “That’s the way he was.” It will be observed that this -a before the past tense of a verb is only, as Dr. Atkinson remarks, a -corruption of do, which is the sign of the past tense. The do is hardly -ever used now, except as contracted into d’ before a vowel, and this is -a misfortune, because there is nothing more feeble or more tending to -disintegrate the language than the constant use of this colourless vowel -a. In these folk stories, however, I have kept the language as I found -it. This a has already made much havoc in Scotch Gaelic, inserting itself -into places where it means nothing. Thus, they say _tha’s again air a -sin: Dinner a b fhearr na sin, etc._ Even the preposition de has with -some people degenerated into this a, thus ta sé a ḋiṫ orm, “I want it,” -for de ḋiṫ. - -Page 14, line 9. For air read uirri. Line 12. seilg means hunting, but -the reciter said, seilg, sin fiaḋ, “Shellig, that’s a deer,” and thought -that Bran’s back was the same colour as a deer’s. Uaine, which usually -means green, he explained by turning to a mangy-looking cur of a dull -nondescript colour, and saying ta an madaḋ sin uaine. - -Page 16, line 30. Bearna and teanga, and some other substantives of -the same kind are losing, or have lost, their inflections throughout -Connacht. Line 31. tiġeaċt is used just as frequently and in the same -breath as teaċt, without any difference of meaning. It is also spelt -tuiḋeaċt, but in Mid-Connacht the t is slender, that is tiġeaċt has the -sound of _t’yee-ught_, not _tee-ught_. - -Dr. Atkinson has shown that it is incorrect to decline teanga as an _-n_ -stem: correct genitive is teangaḋ. Rearta: see rasta in O’Reilly. Used in -Arran thus: Ní’l sé in rasta duit = you cannot venture to. - -Page 18, line 15. Gual means a coal; it must be here a corruption of some -other word. Muid is frequently used for sinn, “we,” both in Nom. and Acc. -all over Connacht, but especially in the West. - -Page 20, line 3. Deimuġ (d’yemmo͡o). This word puzzled me for a long time -until I met this verse in a song of Carolan’s - - Níor ṫuill sé diomuġaḋ aon duine. - -another MS. of which reads díombuaiḋ, _i.e._, defeat, from di privitive, -and buaiḋ “victory.” Deimuġ or diomuġ must be a slightly corrupt -pronunciation of díombuaiḋ, and the meaning is, that the king’s son put -himself under a wish that he might suffer defeat during the year, if he -ate more than two meals at one table, etc. Line 15. reasta = a “writ,” a -word not in the dictionaries—perhaps, from the English, “arrest.” Cúig -ṗúnta. The numerals tri ceiṫre cúig and sé seem in Connacht to aspirate -as often as not, and _always_ when the noun which follows them is in the -singular, which it very often is. Mr. Charles Bushe, B.L., tells me he -has tested this rule over and over again in West Mayo, and has found it -invariable. - -Page 22, line 2. cá = where, pronounced always cé (_kay_) in Central -Connacht. Line 17. má ḃfáġ’ mé = If I get. In Mid-Connacht, má eclipses -fáġ, as ni eclipses fuair. - -Page 26, line 18. I dteaċ an ḟaṫaiġ = In the giant’s house. Tiġ, the -proper Dative of teaċ, is not much used now. Line 20. cuaille cóṁraic = -the pole of battle. - -Page 28, line 9. Trian dí le Fiannuiġeaċt = one-third of it telling -stories about the Fenians. Line 10. This phrase soirm sáiṁ suain occurs -in a poem I heard from a man in the island of Achill— - - “’Sí is binne meura ag seinm air teudaiḃ, - Do ċuirfeaḋ na ceudta ’nna g-codlaḋ, - Le soirm sáiṁ suain, a’s naċ mór é an t-éuċt, - Gan aon ḟear i n-Eirinn do ḋul i n-eug - Le gráḋ d’á gruaḋ.” - -I have never met this word soirm elsewhere, but it may be another form -of soirḃe, “gentleness.” Line 18. Colḃa, a couch, pronounced colua -(_cullooa_): here it means the head of the bed. Air colḃa means, on the -outside of the bed, when two sleep in it. Leabuiḋ, or leabaiḋ, “a bed,” -is uninflected; but leaba, gen. leapṫan, is another common form. - -Page 30, line 30. Daḃaċ, “a great vessel or vat;” used also, like -soiṫeaċ, for ship. The correct genitive is dáiḃċe, but my reciter seemed -not to inflect it at all. - -Page 32, line 14. Haiġ-óiḃir—this is only the English word, “Hie-over.” -Line 21. Copóg = a docking, a kind of a weed. - -Page 36, line 2. Cloiḋeaṁ na trí faoḃar, “the sword of three edges.” In -the last century both tri and the faoḃar would have been eclipsed. Cf. -the song, “Go réiḋ, a ḃean na dtrí mbo.” - -Page 40, line 33. Íocṡláinte = balsam. Line 25. Ḃuitse, the English word -“witch.” The Scotch Gaels have also the word bhuitseachas = witchery. -Gaelic organs of speech find it hard to pronounce the English _tch_, and -make two syllables of it—_it-sha_. - -Page 42, line 21. Srannfartaiġ = snoring. - -Page 44, line 3, for srón read ṡróin. Line 16. Cruaiḋe = steel, as -opposed to iron. - -Page 46, line 21. Crap = to put hay together, or gather up crops. - -Page 48, line 1. Greim = a stitch, sudden pain. - -Page 52, line 15. “Súf!” a common expression of disgust in central -Connacht, both in Irish and in English. Line 18. Uile ḋuine. This word -uile is pronounced _hulla_ in central Connacht, and it probably gets this -_h_ sound from the final ċ of gaċ, which used to be always put before it. -Father Eugene O’Growney tells me that the guttural sound of this ċ is -still heard before uile in the Western islands, and would prefer to write -the word ’ċ uile. When uile follows the noun, as na daoine uile, “all -the people,” it has the sound of _ellik_ or _ellig_, probably from the -original phrase being uile go léir, contracted into uileg, or even, as in -West Galway, into ’lig. - -Page 54, line 9. Goile = “appetite,” properly “stomach.” Line 30. An -ṫrioblóid = the trouble, but better written an trioblóid, since feminine -nouns, whose first letter is d or t, are seldom aspirated after the -article. There is even a tendency to omit the aspiration from adjectives -beginning with the letters d and t. Compare the celebrated song of Bean -duḃ an ġleanna, not Bean ḋuḃ. - -Page 56, line 4. Aicíd = a disease. Line 24. D’ḟeiceál and d’innseaċt -are usual Connacht infinitives of feic and innis. Line 21. Caise = a -stream. Line 26. Strácailt = dragging along. Line 32. Luiḃearnaċ, often -pronounced like _leffernugh_ = weeds. - -Page 60, line 8. Tá beiseac or biseaċ orm = “I am better;” tá sé fáġail -beisiġ, more rightly, bisiġ = He’s getting better. Line 22. Maiseaḋ, -pronounced _musha_, not _mosha_, as spelt, or often even _mush_ in -Central Connacht. Line 28. Marṫain, infinitive of mair, to live. Cuiḃlint -= striving, running a race with. - -Page 64, line 4. Tig liom = “it comes with me,” “I can.” This is a phrase -in constant use in Connacht, but scarcely even known in parts of Munster. -Line 15. Oiread agus toirt uiḃe = as much as the size of an egg. Line 23. -As an nuaḋ = de novo, over again. - -Page 66, line 2. Ag baint leis an uisge = touching the water. - -Page 66, line 15. Moṫuiġ = “to feel.” It is pronounced in central -Connacht like maoiṫiġ (mweehee), and is often used for “to hear;” ṁaoiṫiġ -mé sin roiṁe seo = I heard that before. Line 20. Sgannruiġ is either -active or passive; it means colloquially either to frighten or to become -frightened. - -Page 68, line 12. Fan mar a ḃfuil tu = wait _where_ you are, fan mar tá -tu = remain _as_ you are. Line 17. Ċor air biṫ, short for air ċor air -biṫ, means “at all.” In Munster they say air aon ċor. - -Page 70, line 3. cad ċuige = “why;” this is the usual word in Connacht, -often contracted to tuige. - -Page 72, line 13. Cáṫair-na-mart = Westport. - -Page 74, line 7. Lubarnuiġ, a word not in the dictionaries; it means, I -think, “gambolling.” Line 20. Ceapaḋ = seize, control. Line 22. Múlaċ = -black mud. - -Page 76, line 2. Anaċain = “damage,” “harm.” There are a great many -synonyms for this word still in use in Connacht, such as damáiste, -dolaiḋ, urċóid, doċar, etc. Line 16. Breóiḋte = “destroyed.” - -Page 78, line 3. Coir, a crime; is pronounced like _quirrh_. Láiḋe = a -loy, or narrow spade. - -Page 80, line 5. Ar ḃ leis an teaċ mór = “who owned the big house.” A -raiḃ an teaċ mór aige = who had in his possession the big house. Line -21. Truscán tiġe = house furniture. Line 26. ’Niḋ Dia ḋuit, short for -go mbeannuiġ Dia ḋuit. Line 27. Go mbuḋ h-éḋuit = “the same to you,” -literally, “that it may be to you,” the constant response to a salutation -in Connacht. - -Page 84, line 22. A gan ḟios dí = “without her knowing it,” pronounced -like _a gunyis dee_. I do not see what the force of this a is, but it is -always used, and I have met it in MSS. of some antiquity. - -Page 86, line 33. Dá’r ḋéug, pronounced dá réug, short for dá ḟear déag, -“twelve men.” Stangaire = a mean fellow. - -Page 92, line 10. Bóṫairín cártaċ = a cart road. - -Page 94, line 22. Táir = tá tu, an uncommon form in Connacht now-a-days. - -Page 66, line 13. Go dtagaiḋ another and very common form of go dtigiḋ. - -Page 98, line 22. Níor ḟan an sagart aċt ċuaiḋ a ḃaile, _i.e._, ċuaiḋ sé -aḃaile; the pronoun sé is, as the reader must have noticed, constantly -left out in these stories, where it would be used in colloquial -conversation. - -Page 100, line 27. Seilḃ and seilg; are the ordinary forms of sealḃ and -sealg in Connacht. - - - - -FOOTNOTES - - -[1] Had Lady Wilde known Irish she might have quoted from a popular -ballad composed on Patrick Sarsfield, and not yet forgotten:— - - A Pádruig Sáirséul is duine le Dia thu - ’S beannuighthe an talamh ar siúdhail tu riamh air, - Go mbeannuigh an ghealach gheal ’s an ghrian duit, - O thug tu an lá as láimh Righ’liaim leat. - Och ochón. - -—_i.e._, - - Patrick Sarsfield, a man with God you are, - Blessed the country that you walk upon, - Blessing of sun and shining moon on you, - Since from William you took the day with you. - Och, och hone. - -This would have made her point just as well. Unfortunately, Lady Wilde is -always equally extraordinary or unhappy in her informants where Irish is -concerned. Thus, she informs us that _bo-banna_ (meant for _bo-bainne_, -a milch cow) is a “white cow”; that tobar-na-bo (the cow’s well) is “the -well of the white cow”; that Banshee comes from _van_ “the woman”—(_bean_ -means “a woman”); that Leith Brogan—_i.e._, leprechaun—is “the artificer -of the brogue,” while it really means the half or one-shoe, or, according -to Stokes, is merely a corruption of locharpan; that tobar-na-dara -(probably the “oak-well”) is the “well of tears,” etc. Unfortunately, in -Ireland it is no disgrace, but really seems rather a recommendation, to -be ignorant of Irish, even when writing on Ireland. - -[2] Thus he over and over again speaks of a slumber-pin as _bar an -suan_, evidently mistaking the _an_ of _bioran_, “a pin,” for _an_ -the definite article. So he has _slat an draoiachta_ for _slaitin_, -or _statán draoigheachta_. He says _innis caol_ (narrow island) means -“light island,” and that _gil an og_ means “water of youth!” &c.; but, -strangest of all, he talks in one of his stories of killing and boiling a -stork, though his social researches on Irish soil might have taught him -that that bird was not a Hibernian fowl. He evidently mistakes the very -common word _sturc_, a bullock, or large animal, or, possibly, _torc_, -“a wild boar,” for the bird stork. His interpreter probably led him -astray in the best good faith, for _sturck_ is just as common a word with -English-speaking people as with Gaelic speakers, though it is not to be -found in our wretched dictionaries. - -[3] Thus: “Kill Arthur went and killed Ri Fohin and all his people and -beasts—didn’t leave one alive;” or, “But that instant it disappeared—went -away of itself;” or, “It won all the time—wasn’t playing fair,” etc., etc. - -[4] Campbell’s “Popular Tales of the West Highlands.” Vol. iv. p. 327. - -[5] Father O’Growney has suggested to me that this may be a diminutive -of the Irish word _fathach_, “a giant.” In Scotch Gaelic a giant is -always called “famhair,” which must be the same word as the _fomhor_ or -sea-pirate of mythical Irish history. - -[6] The manuscript in which I first read this story is a typical one -of a class very numerous all over the country, until O’Connell and the -Parliamentarians, with the aid of the Catholic prelates, gained the ear -and the leadership of the nation, and by their more than indifference to -things Gaelic put an end to all that was really Irish, and taught the -people to speak English, to look to London, and to read newspapers. This -particular MS. was written by one Seorsa MacEineircineadh, whoever he -was, and it is black with dirt, reeking with turf smoke, and worn away at -the corners by repeated reading. Besides this story it contains a number -of others, such as “The Rearing of Cuchulain,” “The Death of Conlaoch,” -“The King of Spain’s Son,” etc., with many Ossianic and elegiac poems. -The people used to gather in at night to hear these read, and, I am sure, -nobody who understands the contents of these MSS., and the beautiful -alliterative language of the poems, will be likely to agree with the -opinion freely expressed by most of our representative men, that it is -better for the people to read newspapers than study anything so useless. - -[7] Campbell has mistranslated this. I think it means “from the bottom of -the well of the deluge.” - -[8] Campbell misunderstood this also, as he sometimes does when the word -is Irish. _Siogiadh_ means “fairy.” - -[9] In a third MS., however, which I have, made by a modern Clare -scribe, Domhnall Mac Consaidin, I find “the Emperor Constantine,” not -the “Emperor of Constantinople,” written. O’Curry in his “Manuscript -Materials,” p. 319, ascribes “Conall Gulban,” with some other stories, -to a date prior to the year 1000; but the fighting with the Turks (which -motivates the whole story, and which cannot be the addition of an -ignorant Irish scribe, since it is also found in the Highland traditional -version), shows that its date, in its present form, at least, is much -later. There is no mention of Constantinople in the Scotch Gaelic -version, and hence it is possible—though, I think, hardly probable—that -the story had its origin in the Crusades. - -[10] I find the date, 1749, attributed to it in a voluminous MS. of some -600 closely written pages, bound in sheepskin, made by Laurence Foran of -Waterford, in 1812, given me by Mr. W. Doherty, C.E. - -[11] An buaċaill do bí a ḃfad air a ṁáṫair. - -[12] Prof. Rhys identifies Cuchulain with Hercules; and makes them -both sun-gods. There is nothing in our story however, which points to -Cuchulain, and still less to the Celtic Hercules described by Lucian. - -[13] An t-éun ceól-ḃinn. - -[14] Wratislaw’s Folk-Tales from Slavonic Sources. - -[15] It appears, unfortunately, that all classes of our Irish politicians -alike agree in their treatment of the language in which all the past of -their race—until a hundred years ago—is enshrined. The inaction of the -Parliamentarians, though perhaps dimly intelligible, appears, to me at -least, both short-sighted and contradictory, for they are attempting to -create a nationality with one hand and with the other destroying, or -allowing to be destroyed, the very thing that would best differentiate -and define that nationality. It is a making of bricks without straw. But -the non-Parliamentarian Nationalists, in Ireland at least, appear to be -thoroughly in harmony with them on this point. It is strange to find the -man who most commands the respect and admiration of that party advising -the young men of Gaelic Cork, in a printed and widely-circulated lecture -entitled: “What Irishmen should know,” to this effect:—“I begin by a sort -of negative advice. You all know that much has been written in the Irish -language. This is of great importance, especially in connection with our -early history, hence must ever form an important study for scholars. But -you are, most of you, not destined to be scholars, and so I should simply -advise you—especially such of you as do not already know Irish—to leave -all this alone, or rather to be content with what you can easily find -in a translated shape in the columns of Hardiman, Miss Brooke, Mangan, -and Sigerson.” So that the man whose most earnest aspiration in life is -Ireland a nation, begins by advising the youth of Ireland _not_ to study -the language of their fathers, and to read the gorgeous Gaelic poetry in -such pitiful translations as Hardiman and Miss Brooke have given of a few -pieces. The result of this teaching is as might be expected. A well-known -second-hand book-seller in Dublin assured me recently that as many as -200 Irish MSS. had passed through his hand within the last few years. -Dealers had purchased them throughout the country in Cavan, Monaghan, and -many other counties for a few pence, and sold them to him, and he had -dispersed them again to the four winds of heaven, especially to America, -Australia, and New Zealand. Many of these must have contained matter -not to be found elsewhere. All are now practically lost, and nobody in -Ireland either knows or cares. In America, however, of all countries in -the world, they appreciate the situation better, and the fifth resolution -passed at the last great Chicago Congress was one about the Irish -language. - -[16] Flash, in Irish, _lochán_, _i.e._, little lake, or pool of water. -Most story-tellers say, not, “I got the _lochán_,” but the “_clochán_,” -or stepping-stones. - -[17] Tint, means a drop, or small portion of liquid, amongst English -speaking persons in Connacht and most other parts of Ireland. - -[18] Gual. - -[19] This is an idiom in constant use in Gaelic and Irish; but to -translate it every time it occurs would be tedious. In Gaelic we say, my -share of money, land, etc., for my money, my land. - -[20] In Irish, _geasa_—mystic obligations. - -[21] Geasa, pronounced _gassa_, means “enchantment” in this place. - -[22] Or “the King of N’yiv.” - -[23] An ordinary Connacht expression, like the Scotch “the noo.” - -[24] “Oh, Mary,” or “by Mary,” an expression like the French “dame!” - -[25] To “let on” is universally used in Connacht, and most parts of -Ireland for to “pretend.” It is a translation of the Irish idiom. - -[26] _i.e._, this quarter of a year. - -[27] forenent, or forenenst = over against. - -[28] Narrow spade used all over Connacht. - -[29] Untranslatable onomatopæic words expressive of noises. - -[30] These names are not exactly pronounced as written. To pronounce them -properly say _yart_ first, and then _yart_ with an _n_ and a _c_ before -it, _n’yart_ and _c’yart_. - -[31] That means “It was well for yourself it was so.” This old -Elizabethan idiom is of frequent occurrence in Connacht English, having -with many other Elizabethanisms, either filtered its way across the -island from the Pale, or else been picked up by the people from the -English peasantry with whom they have to associate when they go over to -England to reap the harvest. - -[32] Rath or fort or circular moat. - - - - -INDEX OF INCIDENTS. - -[I use the word “incident” as equivalent to the German _sagzug_, _i.e._, -as connoting not only the separate parts of an action, but also its -pictorial features.—A.N.] - - - Ball, guiding, of silver, 132. - - Belore of the Evil Eye, 144. - - Besom riding, 85. - - Blast of wind from giant’s nostrils, 146. - - Blind wise man, 129. - - Blood drops incident, 19. - - Boat out of thimble, 137. - - Bones gathered up and revivified, 152. - - Bran, colour and swiftness of, 15. - death of, 17. - - Bran’s daughter, 17; - catches wild geese, 17-19; - killed, 19. - - Broth-swallowing match, 11. - - Brother, of welcoming hags, 132. - helps hero across stream, 133; - restored to youth by hero, 135. - - - Cap of darkness, 29. - - Cat, white, 130. (= old hag?) - - Coach, enchanted, with two fawns, 139. - - Cross-roads, separation at, 129. - - Curse of the 24 men, 154. - - - Damsel, encouraging, in red silk, 131. - gives hero thimble as boat, 137. - - Daughter prevents father re-marrying after first wife’s death, by - cutting grass on mother’s grave, 167. - - Dead man haunting house, 158. - - Destruction of king’s court by night, 3. - - Doctoring instrument, 148. - - Dog, black, catches bullets in mouth, 162; - strikes exorcising priest dumb, 163; - father of hags, 163. - - Dog, big black, son of weasel hag, 79. - - Dumbness caused by fairy blow, 116. - - - Eagle guarding stream, 133. - slain by hero, 134. - - Elder brothers fail, 140. - - Enchanter helps mortal, 93. - passes him off as dead, 95. - - - Fairest maid, description of, 112. - - Fairies baffled by cross, 115. - - Fairies carry off princess, 107, _et seq._ - require a mortal’s help, 89, 107. - meet annually on November night, 122. - - Fairies turn into flying beetles, 89. - - Fairy help to mortal withdrawn, 142. - - Fairy dwelling filled with smoke and lightning, 143; - hill opens, 87. - - Fairy horses unspelled, 115. - host, noise of, 105; - takes horse, 106. - king and queen, 87. - hurling match, 87. - - Fairy spits fire, and frightens Pope, 110. - - Father, cruel, cuts hands and feet off daughter, 168. - punished, and healed by daughter, 169. - - Fearless hero, 156, _et seq._, - sleeps with corpse, 158. - - Feather supporting house, 131. - - Finn’s mother a fawn, 17. - - Flea killed by valiant tailor, 2. - - Football players in haunted house, 158. - - Fox, hiding-place for, 5. - - - Geasa run, 21. - - Ghost denouncing murderer, 159. - - Ghost laying by fortune distributing, 159. - - Giants, two, crushed by stone, 9, _et seq._ - - Giant outwitted by lying reports, 29. - - Giant slits himself up, 11. - - Goblin, headless, in cellar, 81, 157. - drinks and plays music with hero, 83; - bagpipes for fairies, 85. - - Grateful dead, 21, 23, 153. - beggar, 156; - robin, 165. - - Guarding monsters, 134. - - - Hags, enchanted, turn vultures, 163. - condemned for father’s crime, 164. - turned into swans at end of enchantment period, 166. - - Hag turned into weasel, 79. - welcoming, sister to hero’s nurse, 131. - - Hair turns into ladder, 140. - - Hare magic, 162. - - Haunted house, 81. - - Healing well, 129. - - Helping servant, 148. - saves ungrateful master, 157. - - Herb for blood-stopping, 149. - - Herb of healing, 165. - - Hero, grown rich, visits home, 161. - joins fairy host, 106. - - Heroine and attendant maidens made pregnant in their sleep, 135. - seeks father of children, 139. - recovers magic gifts abandoned by hero, 139, _et seq._ - tests false claimants, 140. - full up of serpents banished by first embraces, 45. - under spells, 37. - - Horse, swift as lightning, 132. - talking, 2. - hiding-place for, 3. - - Husband, not to re-marry till grass be foot high on dead wife’s - grave, 167. - - - Incurable sore foot, 129. - - Inexhaustible milk-can (fairy gift), 142. - water and bread, 134. - purse, 91. - - - Kiss, first, from heroine, claimed by helping servant, 45. - - - Lion, ploughing, 7; - guarding, 134. - - - Magic gifts abandoned by hero, 139. - - Mary’s shamrock (? four-leaved), 142. - - Murderer revealed by ghost, 160. - - Mutilated (hands and feet) heroine married, 168; - restored after birth of triplets, 168. - - - Night entertainment run, 29. - - Nonsense ending, 15, 128. - - November night for fairy gatherings, 122. - - - One-eyed supernatural being, 144. - - - Pin of slumber, 39, 43. - - Piper in haunted house, 158. - - Poison, King of, 39. - - Pole of combat, 27, _et seq._ - of combat run, 27. - - Pope compelled to reinstate priest, 110. - - Priest refuses to exorcise, 143; - exorcises bewitched hags, 163. - - Princess, ill to death, cured by taking head off her, 149. - promised to task performer, 2. - released from fairies, 115. - - Purse that empties not, 91. - - Purses bestowed by supernatural being, 91, 144. - - - Quest for healing water, 129. - - - Recognition of hero by heroine, 141. - - Robin grateful, brings herb of healing, 165. - - - Safety token (stone), 129. - - Servant’s wage, 23. - - Silence bespelling removed, 168. - - Skilful companions, gunner, listener, runner, blower, stone-breaker, - 23-27. - - Sleep, magic, 147; - of enchanted queen over in seven years, 134. - - Slumber pin in horse’s head, 43. - - Smelling giant, 27. - - Speech restored by herb, 125. - - Spikes crowned with skulls, 39. - - Step-mother (hag) accuses step-daughter, 168. - - Stone-breaker crushes sharp stones, 45. - - Swift runner and hag race, 43. - - Swiftness, slippers, 33. - - Sword that leaves leavings of no blow behind it, 37. - - Sword of light, 135. - - - Tailor, valiant, 2. - - Taboo on telling about fairy gifts, 142. - broken and punished by loss, 143. - - Threefold entertaining by hags, 130. - - Three sons start for healing water, 129. - - Travellers’ seat in wood, 131. - - - Unwashed feet of hero, 104. - - - Wages, half of what is earned, 148. - - Wages of help servant refused, 150. - - Weasel brings money, 73; - attacks despoiler, 75; - kills cow, 77; - turns into hag, 77. - - Well of healing balm, 41. - of healing water, 129. - - Workmen’s wages, 7. - - Witch released by Masses, 79. - - Witch’s hut to be burnt after death, 79. - - - Youngest son succeeds, 138; - envied by elder brothers, 138, _et seq._; - made a scullion, 139. - - Youth, restoration to, 135. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Beside the Fire, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BESIDE THE FIRE *** - -***** This file should be named 60782-0.txt or 60782-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/7/8/60782/ - -Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -book was produced from images made available by the -HathiTrust Digital Library.) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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