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The Camelot Series,
EDITED BY ERNEST RHYS.

FAIRY AND FOLK TALES.

F

AIRY AND

FOLK

TALES

OF THE IRISH PEASANTRY:

E D I T E D AND S E L E C T E D BY
W. B. YEATS.

LONDON:
WALTER SCOTT, 24 WARWICK LANE.
NEW YORK: 3 EAST 14TH STREET.

392. V

£

y3tf

k~

?U
«$

INSCRIBED

" $

TO MY MYSTICAL FRIEND,

G. R.
S'

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if*

CONTENTS.
THE TROOPING FAIRIES—
The Fairies
Frank Martin and the Fairies
The Priest's Supper
. The Fairy Well of Lagnanay
The O'Kane and the Corpse
Paddy Corcoran's Wife .
Cnsheen Loo
The White Trout; A Legend of Cong
The Fairy Thorn .
The Legend of Knockgrafton
A Donegal Fairy .

3
5
9
13
16
31
33
35
38
40
46

CHANGELINGS—

The Brewery of Egg-shells
The Fairy Nurse .
Jamie Freel and the Young Lady
The Stolen Child

48
51
52
59

THE MERROW—

The Soul Cages .
Flory Cantillon's Funeral.

61
75

THE SOLITARY FAIRIES— ,The Lepracaun ; or, Fairy Shoemaker
Master and Man .
Far Darrig in Donegal
The Piper and the Puca
Daniel O'Rourke .
The Kildare Pooka .
How Thomas Connolly met the Banshee
A Lamentation for the Death of Sir Maurice Fitzgerald
The Banshee of the MacCarthys

95
97
105
108
112
113

GHOSTS—
A Dream .
Grace Connor
A Legend of Tyrone
The Black Lamb .
The Radiant Boy .
The Fate of Frank M'Kenna

129
130
132
134
136
139

81
84
90

CONTENTS.
WITCHES, FAIRY DOCTORS—
Bewitched Butter (Donegal)
.
A Queen's County Witch
.
The Witch Hare
.
.
.
Bewitched Butter (Queen's County)
The Horned Women
.
The Witches' Excursion
.
.
The Confessions of Tom Bourke .
The Pudding Bewitched .
T'YEER-NA-N-OGE—
The Legend of O'Donoghue
Bent-Day
.
.
.
.
Loughleagh (Lake of Healing) .
Hy-Brasail.—The Isle of the Blest.
The Phantom Isle
.
.

.
.

,
;
.

.

.

.

.

.

.
,

.

.

SAINTS, PRIESTS—
The Priest's Soul
.
.
.
.
The Priest of Coloony
.
.
.
The Story of the Little Bird
Conversion of King Laoghaire's Daughters
King O'Toole and his Goose
.
.
THE DEVIL—
The Demon Cat .
The Long Spoon
.
.
.
The Countess Kathleen O'Shea .
The Three Wishes.
.
.
GIANTS—
The Giant's Stairs .
A Legend of Knockmany

.
.

.
.

.
.

.

.

.

.

.
.

.
.

KINGS, QUEENS, PRINCESSES, EARLS, ROBBERS—
The Twelve Wild Geese .
.
. ' .
The Lazy Beauty and her Aunts
The Haughty Princess
.
.
.
.
^The Enchantment of Qearcidh-I?.rla
Munachar and Manachar
.
.
.
.
Donald and his Neighbours
The Jackdaw
The Story of Conn-eda
.
.
.
.
NOTES

INTRODUCTION.

D

R. CORBETT, Bishop of Oxford and Norwich,
lamented long ago the departure of the English
fairies. " I n Queen Mary's time" he wrote—
" When Tom came home from labour,
Or Cis to milking rose,
Then merrily, merrily went their tabor,
And merrily went their toes."

But now, in the times of James, they had all gone, for.
" they were of the old profession," and " their songs were
Ave Maries." In Ireland they are still extant, giving
gifts to the kindly, and plaguing the surly. "Have you
ever seen a fairy or such like ?" I asked an old man in
County Sligo. "Amn't I annoyed with them," was the
answer. " Do the fishermen along here know anything of
the mermaids?" I asked a woman of a village in County
Dublin. " Indeed, they don't like to see them at all," she
answered, " for they always bring bad weather." " Here is
a man who believes in ghosts," said a foreign sea-captain,
pointing to a pilot of my acquaintance. " In every house
over there," said the pilot, pointing to his native village of
Rosses, "there are several." Certainly that now old and
much respected dogmatist, the Spirit of the Age, has in no

X

2NTR0D

UCTION.

manner made his voice heard down there. In a little
while, for he has gotten a consumptive appearance of late,
he will be covered over decently in his grave, and another
will grow, old and much respected, in his place, and
never be heard of down there, and after him another and
another and another. Indeed, it is a question whether any
of these personages will ever be heard of outside the newspaper offices and lecture-rooms and drawing-rooms and eelpie houses of the cities, or if the Spirit of the Age is at any
time more than a froth. At any rate, whole troops of their
like will not change the Celt much. Giraldus Cambrensis
found the people of the western islands a trifle paganish.
" How many gods are there ? " asked a priest, a little while
ago, of a man from the Island of Innistor. " There is one
on Innistor; but this seems a big place," said the man, and
the priest held up his hands in horror, as Giraldus had, just
seven centuries before. Remember, I am not blaming the
man ; it is very much better to believe in a number of gods
than in none at all, or to think there is only one, but that
he is a little sentimental and impracticable, and not constructed for the nineteenth century. The Celt, and his
cromlechs, and his pillar-stones, these will not change much— ,
indeed, it is doubtful if anybody at all changes at any time. •
In spite of hosts of deniers, and asserters, and wise-men, and
professors, the majority still are averse to sitting down to dine I
thirteen at table, or being helped to salt, or walking under
a ladder, or seeing a single magpie flirting his chequered
tail. There are, of course, children of light who have set
their faces against all this, though even a newspaper man, ;
if you entice him into a cemetery at midnight, will believe in *
phantoms, for ever^7 one is a visionary, if you scratch him
deep enough. But the Celt is a visionary without scratching.
Yet, be it noticed, if you are a stranger, you will not readily

INTRODUCTION,

XI

get ghost and fairy legends, even in a western village. You
must go adroitly to work, and make friends with the
children, and the old men, with those who have not felt the
pressure of mere daylight existence, and those with whom
it is growing less, and will have altogether taken itself off
one of these days. The old women are most learned, but
will not so readily be got to talk, for the fairies are very
secretive, and much resent being talked of; and are there
not many stories of old women who were nearly pinched
into their graves or numbed with fairy blasts ?
At sea, when the nets are out and the pipes are lit, then
will some ancient hoarder of tales become loquacious,
telling his histories to the tune of the creaking of the boats.
Holy-eve night, too, is a great time, and in old days many
tales were to be heard at wakes. But the priests have set
faces against wakes.
In the Parochial Survey of Ireland it is recorded how the
story-tellers used to gather together of an evening, and if
any had a different version from the others, they would all
recite theirs and vote, and the man who had varied would
have to abide by their verdict. In this way stories have
been handed down with such accuracy, that the long tale of
Dierdre was, in the earlier decades of this century, told
almost word for word, as in the very ancient MSS. in the
Royal Dublin Society. In one case only it varied, and
then the MS. was obviously wrong—a passage had been
forgotten by the copyist. But this accuracy is rather in the
folk and bardic tales than in the fairy legends, for these vary
widely, being usually adapted to some neighbouring village
or local fairy-seeing celebrity. Each county has usually
some family, or personage, supposed to have been favoured
or plagued, especially by the phantoms, as the Hackets of
Castle Hacket, Galway, who had for their ancestor a fairy,

xii

INTROD

UCTION.

or JohnyoVDaly of Lisadell, Sligo, who wrote "Eilleen
Aroon," the song the Scotch have stolen and called
<c
Robin Adair," and which Handel would sooner have
written than all his oratorios,* and the " O'Donahue of
Kerry." Round these men stories tended to group themselves, sometimes deserting more ancient heroes for the
purpose. Round poets have they gathered especially, for
poetry in Ireland has always been mysteriously connected
with magic.
These folk-tales are full of simplicity and musical
occurrences, for they are the literature of a class for whom
every incident in the old rut of birth, love, pain, and death
has cropped up unchanged for centuries : who have steeped
everything in the heart: to whom everything is a symbol.
They have the spade over which man has leant from the
beginning. The people of the cities have the machine,
which is prose and a parvenu. They have few events.
They can turn over the incidents of a long life as they sit
by the fire. With us nothing has time to gather meaning,
and too many things are occurring for even a big heart to
hold. It is said the most eloquent people in the world are
the Arabs, who have only the bare earth of the desert and
a sky swept bare by the sun. " Wisdom has alighted upon
three things," goes their proverb; " the hand of the Chinese,
the brain of the Frank, and the tongue of the Arab." This,
I take it, is the meaning of that simplicity sought for so
much in these days by all the poets, and not to be had at'
any price.
The most notable and typical story-teller of my acquaintance is one Paddy Flynn, a little, bright-eyed, old man,
living in a leaky one-roomed cottage of the village of
B
, "The most gentle—i\e.> fairy—place in the whole
* J$e lived some time in Dublin, and heard it then.

INTROD

UCTION.,

xiii

of the County Sligo," he says, though others claim that
honour for Drumahair or for Drumcliff. A very pious old
man, too! You may have some time to inspect his strange
figure and ragged hair, if he happen to be in a devout
humour, before he comes to the doings of the gentry. A
strange devotion t Old tales^ of Columkill, and what he
said to his mother. "How are you to-day, mother?"
"Worse!" "May you be worse to-morrow;" and on the
next day, " How are you to-day, mother ? " " Worse !"
"May you be worse to-morrow;" and on the next, " How
are you to-day, mother?" "Better, thank God." "May
you be better to-morrow." In which undutiful manner he
will tell you Columkill inculcated cheerfulness. Then
most likely he will wander off into his favourite theme—
how the Judge smiles alike in rewarding the good and
condemning the lost to unceasing flames. Very consoling
does it appear to Paddy Flynn, this melancholy and
apocalyptic cheerfulness of the Judge. Nor seems his own
cheerfulness quite earthly—though a very palpable cheerfulness. The first time I saw him he was cooking mushrooms for himself; the next time he was asleep under a
hedge, smiling in his sleep. Assuredly some joy not quite
of this steadfast earth lightens in those eyes—swift as the
eyes of a rabbit—among so many wrinkles, for Paddy Flynn
is very old. A melancholy there is in the midst of their
cheerfulness—a melancholy that is almost a portion of
their joy, the visionary melancholy of purely instinctive
natures and of all animals. In the triple solitude of age
and eccentricity and partial deafness he goes about much
pestered by children.
As to the reality of his fairy and spirit-seeing powers,
not all are agreed. One day we were talking of the
Banshee. " I have seen it," he said, " down there by the

xiv

INTROD

UCTION.

water ' batting' the river with its hands." H e it was who
said the fairies annoyed him.
Not that the Sceptic is entirely afar even from these
western villages. I found him one morning as he bound
his corn in a merest pocket-handkerchief of a field. Very
different from Paddy Flynn—Scepticism in every wrinkle
of his face, and a travelled man, too!—a foot-long Mohawk
Indian tatooed on one of his arms to evidence the matter.
" They who travel," says a neighbouring priest, shaking his
head over him, and quoting Thomas A'Kempis, " seldom
come home holy." I had mentioned ghosts to this Sceptic.
" Ghosts," said h e ; "there are no such things at all, at all,
but the gentry, they stand to reason; for the devil, when he
fell out of heaven, took the weak-minded ones with him,
and they were put into the waste places. And that's what
the gentry are. But they are getting scarce now, because
their time's over, ye see, and they're going back. But
ghosts, n o ! And I'll tell ye something more I don't
believe in—the fire of hell; " then, in a low voice, " that's
only invented to give the priests and the parsons something
to do." Thereupon this man, so full of enlightenment,
returned to his corn-binding.
The various collectors of Irish folk-lore have, from our
point of view, one great merit, and from the point of view
of others, one great fault. They have made their work
literature rather than science, and told us of the Irish
peasantry rather than of the primitive religion of mankind, or whatever else the folk-lorists are on the gad
after. To be considered scientists they should have
tabulated all their tales in forms like grocers' bills—
item the fairy king, item the queen. Instead of this they
have caught the very voice of the people, the very pulse of
life, each giving what was most noticed in his day.

INTRODUCTION.

xv

Croker and Lover, full of the ideas of harum-scarum Irish
gentility, saw everything humorised. The impulse of the
Irish literature of their time came from a class that did not
—mainly for political reasons—take the populace seriously,
and imagined the country as a humorist's Arcadia; its
passion, its gloom, its tragedy, they knew nothing of.
What they did was not wholly false; they merely magnified
an irresponsible type, found oftenest among boatmen,
carmen, and gentlemen's servants, into the type of a whole
nation, and created the stage Irishman. The writers of
'Forty-eight, and the famine combined, burst their bubble.
Their work had the dash as well as the shallowness of an
ascendant and idle class, and in Croker is touched everywhere with beauty—a gentle Arcadian beauty. Carleton,
a peasant born, has in many of his stories—I have been
only able to give a few of the slightest—more especially in
his ghost stories, a much more serious way with him, for all
his humour. Kennedy, an old bookseller in Dublin, who
seems to have had a something of genuine belief in the
fairies, came next in time. H e has far less literary faculty,
but is wonderfully accurate, giving often the very words the
stories were told in. But the best book since Croker is
Lady Wilde's Ancient Legends* The humour has all given
way to pathos and tenderness. We have here the innermost heart of the Celt in the moments he has grown to love
through years of persecution, when, cushioning himself
about with dreams, and hearing fairy-songs in the twilight,
he ponders on the soul and on the dead. Here is the Celt,
only it is the Celt dreaming.
Besides these are two writers of importance, who have
published, so far, nothing in book shape—Miss Letitia
Maclintock and Mr. Douglas Hyde.
Miss Maclintock
writes accurately and beautifully the half Scotch dialect of

xvi

INTROD

UCTION.

Ulster; and Mr. Douglas Hyde is now preparing a
volume of folk tales in Gaelic, having taken them down, for
the most part, word for word among the Gaelic speakers of
Roscommon and Galway. He is, perhaps, most to be
trusted of all. He knows the people thoroughly. Others
see a phase of Irish life; he understands all its elements.
His work is neither humorous nor mournful; it is simply
life.. I hope he may put some of his gatherings into
ballads, for he is the last of our ballad-writers of the school
of Walsh and Callanan—men whose work seems fragrant
with turf smoke. And this brings ta mind the chap-books.
They are to be found brown with turf smoke on cottage
shelves, and are, or were, sold on every hand by the pedlars,
but cannot be found in any library of this city of the
Sassanach. "The Royal Fairy Tales," "The Hibernian
Tales," and "The Legends of the Fairies" are the fairy
literature of the people.
Several specimens of our fairy poetry are given. It is
more like the fairy poetry of Scotland than of England.
The personages of English fairy literature are merely, in
most cases, mortals beautifully masquerading/ Nobody
ever believed in such fairies. They are romantic bubbles
from Provence. Nobody ever laid new milk on their
doorstep for them.
As to my own part in this book, I have tried to make
it representative, as far as so few pages would allow, of
every kind of Irish folk-faith. The reader will perhaps
wonder that in all my notes I have not rationalised
a single hobgoblin. I seek for shelter to the words of
Socrates.*
" Phcedrus. I should like to know, Socrates, whether the
* Phadrus.

Jowett's translation.

(Clarendon Press.)

INTRODUCTION.

xvii

place is not somewhere here at which Boreas is said to
have carried off Orithyia from the banks of the Ilissus ?
" Socrates. That is the tradition.
tx
Phcedrus. And is this the exact spot ? The little stream
is : delightfully clear and bright; I can fancy that there
might be maidens playing near.
" Socrates. I believe the spot is not exactly here, but about
a quarter-of-a-mile lower down, where you cross to the temple
of Artemis, and I think that there is some sort of an altar
of Boreas at the place.
" Phadrus. I do not recollect; but I beseech you to tell
me, Socrates, do you believe this tale ?
"Socrates. The wise are doubtful, and I should not be
singular if, like them, I also doubted. I might have a
rational explanation that Orithyia was playing with
Pharmacia, when a northern gust carried her over the
neighbouring rocks; and this being the manner of her
death, she was said to have been carried away by Boreas.
There is a discrepancy, however, about the locality.
According to another version of the story, she was taken
from the Areopagus, and not from this place. Now I quite
acknowledge that these allegories are very nice, but he is
not to be envied who has to invent them; much labour
and ingenuity will be required of him; and when he has
once begun, he must go on and rehabilitate centaurs and
chimeras dire. Gorgons and winged steeds flow in apace,
and numberless other inconceivable and portentous monsters. And if he is sceptical about them, and would fain
reduce them one after another to the rules of probability,
this sort of crude philosophy will take up all his time.
Now, I have certainly not time for such inquiries. Shall I
tell you why ? I must first know myself, as the Delphian
inscription says; to be curious about that which is not my

xviii

JNTROD UCTION.

business, while I am still in ignorance of my own self,
would be ridiculous. And, therefore, I say farewell to all
this j the common opinion is enough for me. For, as I
was saying, I want to know not about this, but about
myself. Am I, indeed, a wonder more complicated and
swollen with passion than the serpent Typho, or a creature
of gentler and simpler sort, to whom nature has given a
diviner and lowlier destiny ? "

I have to thank Messrs Macmillan, and the editors of
Belgravia% All the Year Round, and Monthly Packet^
for leave to quote from Patrick Kennedy's Legendary
Fictions of the Irish Celts, and Miss Maclintock's articles
respectively; Lady Wilde, for leave to give what I would
from her Ancient Legends of Ireland (Ward & Downey))
and Mr. Douglas Hyde, for his three unpublished
stories, and for valuable and valued assistance in several
ways; and also Mr. Allingham, and other copyright
holders, for their poems.
Mr. Allingham's poems are
from Irish Songs and Poems (Reeves and Turner) \ Fergusson's, from Sealey, Bryers, & Walker's shilling reprint; my
own and Miss O'Leary's from Ballads and Poems of
Young Ireland, 1888, a little anthology published by
Gill & Sons, Dublin.
W. B. YEATS.

FAIRY AND FOLK TALES.

FAIRY AND FOLK TALES.

T H E TROOPING FAIRIES.
T H E Irish word for fairy is sheehogue [sidheog], a diminutive of
"shee" in banshee. Fairies are deenee shee [daoine sidhe] (fairy
people).
Who are they ? " Fallen angels who were not good enough
to be saved, nor bad enough to be lost," say the peasantry.
"The gods of the earth," says the Book of Armagh. "The
gods of pagan Ireland," say the Irish antiquarians, "the
Tuatha De Danan^ who, when no longer worshipped and fed
with offerings, dwindled away in the popular imagination, and
now are only a few spans high."
And they will tell you, in proof, that the names of fairy chiefs
are the names of old Danan heroes, and the places where they
especially gather together, Danan burying-pla'ces, and that the
Tuath De Danan used also to be called the slooa-shee \sheagh
szdhe] (the fairy host), or Marcra shee (the fairy cavalcade).
Gn the other hand, there is much evidence to prove them fallen
angels. Witness the nature of the creatures, their caprice, their
way of being good to the good and evil to the evil, having every
•charm but conscience—consistency. Beings so quickly offended
that you must not speak much about them at all, and never call
them anything but the " gentry," or else daoine maithe, which in
English means good people, yet so easily pleased, they will do
their best to keep misfortune away from you, if you leave a

5*6

2

THE TROOPING

FAIRIES.

little milk for them on the window-sill over night. On the
whole, the popular belief tells us most about them, telling us
how they fell, and yet were not lost, because their evil was
wholly without malice.
Are they "the gods oi the earth?" Perhaps ! Many poets,
and all mystic and occult writers, in all ages and countries,
have declared that behind the visible are chains on chains
of conscious beings, who are not of heaven but of the earth,
who have no inherent form but change according to their whim,
or the mind that sees them. You cannot lift your hand without
influencing and being influenced by hoards. The visible,
world is merely their skin. In dreams we go amongst them,
and play with them, and combat with them. They are,
perhaps, human souls in the crucible—these creatures of whim.
Do not think the fairies are always little. Everything is
capricious about them, even their size. They seem to take
what size or shape pleases them. Their chief occupations are
feasting, fighting, and making love, and playing the most
beautiful music. They have only one industrious person
amongst them, the leftra-caun—the shoemaker. Perhaps they
wear their shoes out with dancing. Near the village of Ballisodare is a little woman who lived amongst them seven years.
When she came home she bad no toes—she had danced them off.
They have three great festivals in the year—May Eve, Midsummer Eve, November Eve. On May Eve, every seventh
year,, they fight all round, but mostly on the " Plain-a-Bawn "
(wherever that is), for the harvest, for the best ears of grain
belong to them. An old man told me he saw them fight once;
they tore the thatch off a house in the midst of it all. Had
anyone else been near they would merely have seen a great
wind whirling everything into the air as it passed. When the
wind makes the straws and leaves whirl as it passes, that is the
fairies, and the peasantry take off their hats and say, " God
bless them."
On Midsummer Eve, when the bonfires are lighted on every
hill in honour of St. John, the fairies are at their gayest, and
sometime steal away beautiful mortals to be their brides.

THE

FAIRIES.

3

On November Eve they are at their gloomiest, for, according
to the old Gaelic reckoning, this is the first night of winter.
This night they dance with the ghosts, and the pooka is abroad,
and witches make their spells, and girls set a table with food in
the name of the devil, that the fetch \5i their future lover may
come through the window and eat of the food. After November
Eve the blackberries are no longer wholesome, for the pooka
has spoiled them.
When they are angry they paralyse men and cattle with their
fairy darts.
When they are gay they sing. Many a poor girl has heard
them, and pined away and died, for love of that singing.
Plenty of the old beautiful tunes of Ireland are only their music,
caught up by eavesdroppers. No wise peasant would hum
"The Pretty Girl milking the Cow" near a fairy rath, for they
are jealous, and do not like to hear their songs on clumsy
mortal lips. Carolan, the last of the Irish bards, slept on a
rath, and ever after the fairy tunes ran in his head, and made
him the great man he was.
Do they die ? Blake saw a fairy's funeral; but in Ireland we
say they are immortal.

THE

FAIRIES.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM,

U P the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little m e n ;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather I

4

THE

TROOPING

FAIRIES.

Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.
High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
H e is now so old and gray
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow,
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wake.
By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.

FRANK MARTIN AND THE FAIRIES.

5

Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite,
He shall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather!

FRANK MARTIN AND THE FAIRIES.
WILLIAM CARLETON.

was a thin pale man, when I saw him, of a sickly
look, and a constitution naturally feeble. His hair was a
light auburn, his beard mostly unshaven, and his hands of
a singular delicacy and whiteness, owing, I dare say, as
much to the soft and easy nature of his employment
as to his infirm health. In everything else he was as
sensible, sober, and rational as any other man ; but on the
topic of fairies, the man's mania was peculiarly strong and
immovable. Indeed, I remember that the expression of
his eyes was singularly wild and hollow, and his long
narrow temples sallow and emaciated.
Now, this man did not lead an unhappy life, nor did the
malady he laboured under seem to be productive of either
pain or terror to him, although one might be apt to imagine
otherwise. On the contrary, he and the fairies maintained
the most friendly intimacy, and their dialogues—which I
MARTIN

6

THE TROOPING

FAIRIES.

fear were wofully one-sided ones—must have been a source
of great pleasure to him, for they were conducted with
much mirth and laughter, on his part at least.
" Well, Frank, when did you see the fairies ? "
"Whist! there's two dozen of them in the shop (the
weaving shop) this minute. There's a little ould fellow
sittin' on the top of the sleys, an' all to be rocked while I'm
weavin'. The sorrow's in them, but they're the greatest
little skamers alive, so they are. See, there's another of
them at my dressin' noggin.* Go out o' that, you
shingawn ; or, bad cess to me, if you don't, but I'll lave
you a mark: H a ! cut, you thief you ! "
" Frank, arn't you afeard o' them ? "
" Is it me ! Arra, what ud' I be afeard o' them for ?
Sure they have no power over me,"
" And why haven't they, Frank ? "
" Because I was baptized against them."
" WThat do you mean by that ? "
"Why, the priest that christened me was tould by my
father, to put in the proper prayer against the fairies—an' a
priest can't refuse it when he's asked—an' he did so.
Begorra, it's well for me that he did—(let the tallow alone,
you little glutton—see, there's a weeny thief o' them aitin'
my tallow)—becaise, you see, it was their intention to make
me king o' the fairies."
" Is it possible ? "
"Devil ajie in it. Sure you may ax them, an' they'll tell
you."
" What size are they, Frank ? "
" Oh, little wee fellows, with green coats, an' the purtiest
little shoes ever you seen. There's two of them—both ould
acquaintances o' mine—runnin' along the yarn-beam. That
ould fellow with the bob-wig is called Jim Jam, an' the other
chap, with the three-cocked hat, is called Nickey Nick.
Nickey plays the pipes. Nickey, give us a tune, or I'll
* The dressings are a species of sizy flummery, which is brushed into
the yarn to keep the thread round and even, and to prevent it from
being frayed by the friction of the reed.

FRANK

MARTIN

AND THE FAIRIES.

f

malivogue you—come now, c Lough Erne Shore.' Whist,
now—listen ! "
The poor fellow, though weaving as fast as he could all
the time, yet bestowed every possible mark of attention to
the music, and seemed to enjoy it as much as if it had been
real.
But who can tell whether that which we look upon as a
privation may not after all be a fountain of increased happiness, greater, perhaps, than any which we ourselves enjoy ?
I forget who the poet is who says—
*c Mysterious are thy laws ;
The vision's finer than the view ;
Her landscape Nature never drew
So fair as Fancy draws."

Many a time, when a mere child, not more than six or
seven years of age, have I gone as far as Frank's weavingshop, in order, with a heart divided between curiosity and
fear, to listen to his conversation with the good people.
From morning till night his tongue was going almost as
incessantly as his shuttle; and it was well known that at
night, whenever he awoke out of his sleep, the first thing
he did was to put out his hand, and push them, as it were,
off his bed.
" Go out o' this, you thieves, you—go out o' this now, an'
let me alone. Nickey, is this any time to be playing the
pipes, and me wants to sleep ? Go off, now—troth if yez
do, you'll see what I'll give yez to-morrow. Sure I'll be
makin' new dressin's ; and if yez behave decently, maybe
I'll lave yez the scrapin' o' the pot. There now. Och!
poor things, they're dacent crathurs. Sure they're all gone,
barrm' poor Red-cap, that doesn't like to lave me." And
then the harmless monomaniac would fall back into what
we trust was an innocent slumber.
About this time there was said to have occurred a very
remarkable circumstance, which gave poor Frank a vast
deal of importance among the neighbours. A man named
Frank Thomas, the same in whose house Mickey M'Rorey
held the first dance at which I ever saw him, as detailed in

8

THE

TROOPING

FAIRIES.

a former sketch j this man, I say, had a child sick, but of
what complaint I cannot now remember, nor is it of any
importance.
One of the gables of Thomas's house was
built against, or rather into, a Forth or Rath, called Towny,
or properly Tonagh Forth. It was said to be haunted by
the fairies, and what gave it a character peculiarly wild in
my eyes was, that there were on the southern side of it two
or three little green mounds, which were said to be the
graves of unchristened children, over which it was considered dangerous and unlucky to pass. At all events, the
season was mid-summer; and one evening about dusk,
during the illness of the child, the noise of a hand-saw was
heard upon the Forth. This was considered rather strange,
and, after a little time, a few of those who were assembled
at Frank Thomas's went to see who it could be that was
sawing in such a place, or what they could be sawing at
so late an hour, for every one knew that nobody in the
whole country about them would dare to cut down the few
white-thorns that grew upon the Forth. On going to
examine, however, judge of their surprise, when, after surrounding and searching the whole place, they could
discover no trace of either saw or sawyer. In fact, with
the exception of themselves, there was no one, either
natural or supernatural, visible. They then returned to
the house, and had scarcely sat down, when it was heard
again within ten yards of them. Another examination of
the premises took place, but with equal success. Now,
however, while standing on the Forth, they heard the
sawing in a little hollow, about a hundred and fifty yards
below them, which was completely exposed to their view,
but they could see nobody. A party of them immediately
went down to ascertain, if possible, what this singular noise
and invisible labour could mean; but on arriving at the
spot, they heard the sawing, to which were now added
hammering, and the driving of nails upon the Forth above,
whilst those who stood on the Forth continued to hear it in
the hollow. On comparing notes, they resolved to send
down to Billy Nelson's for Frank Martin, a distance of only

THE PRIEST'S

SUPPE&

9

about eighty or ninety yards. He was soon on the spot,
and without a moment's hesitation solved the enigma.
"Tis the fairies," said he. " I see them, and busy
crathurs they are."
" But what are they sawing, Frank ? "
" They are makin' a child's coffin," he replied; " they
have the body already made, an' they're now nailin' the lid
together."
That night the child died, and the story goes that on the
second evening afterwards, the carpenter who was called
upon to make the coffin brought a table out from Thomas's
house to the Forth, as a temporary bench; and, it is said,
that the sawing and hammering necessary for the completion of his task were precisely the same which had been
heard the evening but one before—neither more nor less.
I remember the death of the child myself, and the making
of its coffin, but I think the story of the supernatural
carpenter was not heard in the village for some months
after its interment.
Frank had every appearance of a hypochondriac about
him. At the time I saw him, he might be about thirty-four
years of age, but I do not think, from the debility of his
frame and infirm health, that he has been alive for several
years. He was an object of considerable interest and
curiosity, and often have I been present when he was
pointed out to strangers as "the man that could see the
good people."

THE PRIEST'S SUPPER.
T. CROFTON CROKER.

IT is said by those who ought to understand such things,
that the good people, or the fairies, are some, of the angels
who were turned out of heaven, and who landed on their
feet in this world, while the rest of their companions, who

io

THE TROOPING

FAIRIES.

had more sin to sink them, went down farther to a worse
place. Be this as it may, there was a merry troop of the
fairies, dancing and playing all manner of wild pranks, on a
bright moonlight evening towards the end of September.
The scene of their merriment was not far distant from
Inchegeela, in the west of the county Cork—a poor village,
although it had a barrack for soldiers; but great mountains,
and barren rocks, like those round about it, are enough to^
strike poverty into any place: however, as the fairies can I
have everything they want for wishing, poverty does not
trouble them much, and all their care is to seek out
unfrequented nooks and places where it is not likely any
one will come to spoil their sport.
On a nice green sod by the river's side were the little
fellows dancing in a ring as gaily as may be, with their red
caps wagging about at every bound in the moonshine, and
so light were these bounds that the lobs of dew, although
they trembled under their feet, were not disturbed by their
capering. Thus did they carry on their gambols, spinning
round and round, and twirling and bobbing and diving, and
going through all manner of figures, until one of them
chirped out,
" Cease, cease, with your drumming,
Here's an end to our mumming;
By my smell
I can tell
A priest this way is coming !"

And away every one of the fairies scampered off as hard as
they could, concealing themselves under the green leaves of
the lusmore, where, if their little red caps should happen to
peep out, they would only look like its crimson bells; and
more hid themselves at the shady side of stones and
brambles, and others under the bank of the river, and in
holes and crannies of one kind or another.
The fairy speaker Was not mistaken; for along the road,
which was within view of the river, came Father Horfigan
on his pony, thinking to himself that as it was so late he
would make an end Of his journey at the first cabin he came

THE

PRIEST'S

SUPPER.

tr

to. According to this determination, he stopped at the
dwelling of Dermod Leary, lifted the latch, and entered
with " My blessing on all here."
I need not say that Father Horrigan was a welcome giiest
wherever he went, for no man was more pious or better
beloved in the country. Now it was a great trouble to
Dermod that he had nothing to offer his reverence for
supper as a relish to the potatoes, which " t h e old woman,"
for so Dermod called his wife, though she was not much
past twenty, had down boiling in a pot over the fire; he
thought of the net which he had set in the river, but as it
had been there only a short time, the chances were against
his finding a fish in it. " N o matter," thought Dermod,
"there can be no harm in stepping down to try; and
maybe, as I want the fish for the priest's supper, that one
will be there before me."
Down to the river-side went Dermod, and he fouhd in the
net as fine a salmon as ever jumped in the bright waters of
"the spreading L e e ; " but as he was going to take it out,
the net was pulled from him, he could not tell how or by
whom, and away got the salmon, and went swimming along
with the current as gaily as if nothing had happened.
Dermod looked sorrowfully at the wake which the fish
had left upon the water, shining like a line of silver in the
moonlight, and then, with an angry motion of his" right hand,
and a stamp of his foot, gave vent to his feelings by
muttering, " May bitter bad luck attend you night and day
for a blackguard schemer of a salmon, wherever you go!
You ought to be ashamed of yourself, if there's any shame
in you, to give me the slip after this fashion! And I'm
clear in my own mind you'll come to no good, for some kind
of evil thing or other helped you—did I not feel it pull the
net against me as strong as the devil himself?"
" That's not true for you," said one of the little fairies who
had scampered off at the approach of the priest, coming up
to Dermod Leary with a whole throng of companions at his
heels; " there was only a dozen and a half of us pullin
against you."

THE TROOPING

FAIRIES.

Dermod gazed on the tiny speaker with wonder, who
continued, " Make yourself noways uneasy about the priest's
supper; for if you will go back and ask him one question
from us, there will be as fine a supper as ever was put on a
table spread out before him in less than no time."
" 111 have nothing at all to do with you," replied Dermod
in a tone of determination; and after a pause he added,
" I'm much obliged to you for your offer, sir, but I know
better than to sell myself to you, or the like of you, for a
supper; and more than that, I know Father Horrigan has
more regard for my soul than to wish me to pledge it for
ever, out of regard to anything you could put before him—
so there's an end of the matter."
The little speaker, with a pertinacity not to be repulsed
by Dermod's manner, continued, " Will you ask the priest
one civil question for us ? "
Dermod considered for some time, and he was right in
doing so, but he thought that no one could come to harm
out of asking a civil question. " I see no objection to do
that same, gentlemen," said Dermod; " b u t I will have
nothing in life to do with your supper—mind that."
" Then," said the little speaking fairy, whilst the rest came
crowding after him from all parts, " g o and ask Father
Horrigan to tell us whether our souls will be saved at the
last day, like the souls of good Christians; and if you wish
us well, bring back word what he says without delay."
Away went Dermod to his cabin, where he found the
potatoes thrown out on the table, and his good woman
handing the biggest of them all, a beautiful laughing red
apple, smoking like a hard-ridden horse on a frosty night,
over to Father Horrigan.
"Please your reverence," said Dermod, after some
hesitation, "may I make bold to ask your honour one
question ? "
" What may that be ? " said Father Horrigan.
"Why, then, begging your reverence's pardon for my
freedom, it is, If the souls of the good people are to be
saved at the last day ? "

THE FAIRY

WELL OF LAG NANA Y.

13

" Who bid you ask me that question, Leary ? " said the
priest, fixing his eyes upon him very sternly, which Dermod
could not stand before at all.
" I'll tell no lies about the matter, and nothing in life but
the truth," said Dermod. " It was the good people themselves who sent me to ask the question, and there they are
in thousands down on the bank of the river, waiting for me
to go back with the answer."
" Go back by all means," said the priest, " and tell them,
if they want to know, to come here to me themselves, and
111 answer that or any other question they are pleased to
ask with the greatest pleasure in life."
Dermod accordingly returned to the fairies, who came
swarming round about him to hear what the priest had said
in reply; and Dermod spoke out among them like a bold
man as he was : but when they heard that they must go to
the priest, away they fled, some here and more there, and
some this way and more that, whisking by poor Dermod so
fast and in such numbers that he was quite bewildered.
When he came to himself, which was not for a long time,
back he went to his cabin, and ate his dry potatoes along
with Father Horrigan, who made quite light of the thing;
but Dermod could not help thinking it a mighty hard case
that his reverence, whose words had the power to banish the
fairies at such a rate, should have no sort of relish to his
supper, and that the fine salmon he had in the net should
have been got away from him in such a manner.

T H E FAIRY WELL O F LAGNANAY.
BY SAMUEL FERGUSON.

MOURNFULLY, sing mournfully—
" O listen, Ellen, sister dear :
Is there no help at all for me,
But only ceaseless sigh and tear ?
Why did not he who left me here,

14

THE TROOPING

FAIRIES.

With stolen hope steal memory ?
0 listen, Ellen, sister dear,
(Mournfully, sing mournfully)—
I'll go away to Sleamish hill,
I'll pluck the fairy hawthorn-tree,
And let the spirits work their will \
1 care not if for good or ill,
So they but lay the memory
Which all my heart is haunting still!
(Mournfully, sing mournfully)—
The Fairies are a silent race,
And pale as lily flowers to see;
I care not for a blanched face,
For wandering in a dreaming place,
So I but banish memory :—
I wish I were with Anna Grace ! n
Mournfully, sing mournfully!
Hearken to my tale of woe—Twas thus to weeping Ellen Con,
Her sister said in accents low,
Her only sister, Una bawn :
'Twas in their bed before the dawn9
And Ellen answered sad and slow,—
" Oh Una, Una, be not drawn
(Hearken to my tale of woe)—
To this unholy grief I pray,
Which makes me sick at heart to know,
And I will help you if I may :
—The Fairy Well of Lagnanay—
Lie nearer me, I tremble so,—Una, Fve heard wise women say
(Hearken to my tale of woe)—
That if before the dews arise,
True maiden in its icy flow
With pure hand bathe her bosom thrice^
Three lady-brackens pluck likewise.

THE FAIRY WELL OF LAGNANAY
And three times round the fountain go,
She straight forgets her tears and sighs."
Hearken to my tale of woe !
All, alas ! and well-away !
" Oh, sister Ellen, sister sweet,
Come with me to the hill I pray,
And I will prove that blessed freet!"
They rose with soft and silent feett
They left their mother where she lay,
Their mother and her care discreet,
(All, alas ! and well-away !)
And soon they reached the Fairy Well,
The mountain's eye, clear, cold, and grey,
Wide open in the dreary fell:
How long they stood 'twere vain to tell,
At last upon the point of day,
Bawn Una bares her bosom's swell,
(All, alas! and well-away !)
Thrice o'er her shrinking breasts she laves
The gliding glance that will not stay
Of subtly-streaming fairy waves :—
And now the charm three brackens craves3
She plucks them in their fring'd array:—
Now round the well her fate she braves,
All, alas! and well-away!
Save us all from Fairy thrall!
Ellen sees her face the rim
Twice and thrice, and that is all™
Fount and hill and maiden swim
AH together melting dim !
" Una! Una!" thou may'st call,
Sister sad I but lith or limb
(Save us all from Fairy thrall!)
Never again of Una bawn,

15

16

THE TROOPING

FAIRIES.

Where now she walks in dreamy hall,
Shall eye of mortal look upon !
Oh ! can it be the guard was gone,
The better guard than shield or wall ?
Who knows on earth save Jurlagh Daune ?
(Save us all from Fairy thrall!)
Behold the banks are green and bare,
No pit is here wherein to fall:
Aye—at the fount you well may stare,
But nought save pebbles smooth is there,
And small straws twirling one and all.
Hie thee home, and be thy pray'r,
Save us all from Fairy thrall.

T E I G O'KANE (TADHG O CATHAN) AND
CORPSE.*

THE

LITERALLY TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH BY DOUGLAS HYDE.

[I FOUND it hard to place Mr. Douglas Hyde's magnificent
story. Among the ghosts or the fairies? It is among the fairies
on the grounds that all these ghosts and bodies were in no
manner ghosts and bodies, but pishogues—-fairy spells. One
often hears of these visions in Ireland.- I have met a man who
had lived a wild life like the man in the story, till a vision came
to him in County
one dark night—in no way so terrible
a vision as this, but sufficient to change his whole character.
He will not go out at night. If you speak to him suddenly he
trembles. He has grown timid and strange. He went to the
bishop and was sprinkled with holy water. " It may have come
as a warning," said the bishop; " yet great theologians are of
opinion that no man ever saw an apparition, for no man would
survive it."—ED.]
* None of Mr. Hyde's stories here given have been published
before. They will be printed in the original Irish in his forthcoming
Leabhar Sgeulaigheachta (Gill, Dublin).

TEIG

O'KANE

AND

THE

CORPSE,

17

T H E R E was once a grown-up lad in the County Leitrim,
and he was strong and lively, and the son of a rich farmer.
His father had plenty of money, and he did not spare it on
the son. Accordingly, when the boy grew up he liked sport
better than work, and, as his father had no other children, he
loved this one so much that he allowed him to do in everything just as it pleased himself. H e was very extravagant,
and he used to scatter the gold money as another person
would scatter the white. H e was seldom to be found at
home, but if there was a fair, or a race, or a gathering
within ten miles of him, you were dead certain to find him
there. And he seldom spent a night in his father's house,
but he used to be always out rambling, and, like Shawn
Bwee long ago, there was
" gradh gach cailin i mbrollach a leine,"

" the love of every girl in the breast of his shirt," and it's
many's the kiss he got and he gave, for he was very handsome, and there wasn't a girl in the country but would fall
in love with him, only for him to fasten his two eyes on her,
and it was for that someone made this rann on him—•
" Feuch an rogaire 'g iarraidh poige,
Ni h-iongantas m6r e a bheith mar ata
Ag leanamhaint a gcomhnuidhe d'drnan na graine&ge
Anuas 's anios 's nna chodladh 'sa' la\"
i.e.— " Look at the rogue, its for kisses he's rambling,
It isn't much wonder, for that was his way ;
He's like an old hedgehog, at night he'll be scrambling
From this place to that, but he'll sleep in the day."

At last he became very wild and unruly. H e wasn't to be
seen day nor night in his father's house, but always rambling
or going on his kailee (night-visit) from place to place and
from house to house, so that the old people used to shake
their heads and say to one another, "it's easy seen what
will happen to the land when the old man dies; his son will
run through it in a year, and it won't stand him that long
itself."
517

18

THE

TROOPING

FAIRIES.

H e used to be always gambling and card-playing and
drinking, but his father never minded his bad habits, and
never punished him. But it happened one day that the old
man was told that the son had ruined the character of 2
girl in the neighbourhood, and he was greatly angry, and h.i
called the son to him, and said to him, quietly and sensibly—
"Avic," says he, "you know I loved you greatly up to this.,
and I never stopped you from doing your choice thingwhatever it was, and I kept plenty of money with you, and
I always hoped to leave you the house and land, and all I
had after myself would be gone; but I heard a story of you
to-day that has disgusted me with you. I cannot tell yoii
the grief that I felt when I heard such a thing of you, and I
tell you now plainly that unless you marry that girl 111 leave!
house and land and everything to my brother's son. I never
could leave it to anyone who would make so bad a use of it
as you do yourself, deceiving women and coaxing girls. Settle
with yourself now whether you'll marry that girl and get my
land as a fortune with her, or refuse to marry her and give
up all that was coming to you; and tell me in the morning
which of the two things you have chosen."
\
" Och ! Domnoo Sheery / father, you wouldn't say that to
me, and I such a good son as I am. Who told you I
wouldn't marry the girl ? " says he.
But his father was gone, and the lad knew well enough
that he would keep his word too \ and he was greatly
troubled in his mind, for as quiet and as kind as the father
was, he never went back of a word that he had once said,
and there wasn't another man in the country who was harder
to bend than he was.
The boy did not know rightly what to do. H e was in
love with the girl indeed, and he hoped to marry her sometime or other, but he would much sooner have remained
another while as he was, and follow on at his old tricks—
drinking, sporting, and playing cards; and, along with that,
he was angry that his father should order him to marry, and
should threaten him if he did not do it,
*
" Isn't my father a great fool," says he to himself, " I

TEIG O'KANE

AND

THE CORPSE.

19

was ready enough, and only too anxious, to marry Mary;
and-now since he threatened me, faith I've a great mind to
let it go another while."
His mind was so much excited that he remained between
two notions as to what he should do. He walked out into
the night at last to cool his heated blood, and went on to
the road. He lit a pipe, and as the night was fine he
walked and walked on, until the quick pace made him begin to
forget his trouble. The night was bright, and the moon half
full.. There was not a breath of wind blowing, and the air
was calm and mild. He walked on for nearly three hours,
when he suddenly remembered that it was late in the night,
and time for him to turn. " Musha! I think I forgot
myself," says he; " it must be near twelve o'clock now."
The word was hardly out of his mouth, when he heard the
sound of many voices, and the trampling of feet on the
road before him. " I don't know who can be out so late at
night as this, and on such a lonely road," said he to
himself.
He stood listening, and he heard the voices of many
people talking through other, but he could not understand
what they were saying. " Oh, wirra!" says he, " I'm afraid*
It's not Irish or English they have; it can't be they're
Frenchmen ! " He went on a couple of yards further, and
he saw well enough by the light of the moon a band of little
people coming towards him, and they were carrying something big and heavy with them* " Oh, murder !" says he to
himself, " sure it can't be that they're the good people that's
in it!" Every rib of hair that was on his head stood up, and
there fell a shaking on his bones, for he saw that they were
coming to him fast.
He looked at them again, and perceived that there were
about twenty little men in it, and there was not a man at all
of them higher than about three feet or three feet and a half,
and some of them were grey, and seemed very old. He
looked again, but he could not make out what was the
heavy thing they were carrying until they came up to him,

and then thsy all stood tound about him. Thsy threw the

20

THE

TROOPING

FAIRIES.

heavy thing down on the road, and he saw on the spot that it
was a dead body.
H e became as cold as the Death, and there was not a
drop of blood running in his veins when an old little grey
maneen came up to him and said, " Isn't it lucky we met
you, Teig O'Kane ? "
Poor Teig could not bring out a word at all, nor open his
lips, if he were to get the world for it, and so he gave no
answer.
" T e i g O'Kane," said the little grey man again, i(isn't it
timely you met us ? "
Teig could not answer him.
" Teig O'Kane," says he, " the third time, isn't it lucky
and timely that we met you ?7*
But Teig remained silent, for he was afraid to return an
answer, and his tongue was as if it was tied to the roof of his
mouth.
The little grey man turned to his 'companions, and there
was joy in his bright little eye. " And now," says he, " Teig
O'Kane hasn't a word, we can do with him what we please.
Teig, Teig," says he, " you're living a bad life, and we can
make a slave of you now, and you cannot withstand us, for
there's no use in trying to go against us. Lift that corpse."
Teig was so frightened that he was only able to utter the
two words, " I won't;" for as frightened as he was, he was
obstinate and stiff, the same as ever.
" Teig O'Kane won't lift the corpse," said the little maneen,
with a wicked little laugh, for all the world like the breaking
of a lock of dry kippeens, and with a little harsh voice like
the striking of a cracked bell. " Teig O'Kane won't lift the
corpse—make him lift i t ; " and before the word was out of
his mouth they had all gathered round poor Teig, and they
all talking and laughing through other.
Teig tried to run from them, but they followed him, and
a man of them stretched out his foot before him as he ran,
so that Teig was thrown in a heap on the road. Then
before he could rise up the fairies caught him, some by
the hands and some by the feet, and they held him tight, in

TEIG O'KANE

AND THE CORPSE.

21

a way that he could not stir, with his face against the ground.
Six or seven of them raised the body then, and pulled it
over to him, and left it down on his back. The breast of the
corpse was squeezed against Teig's back and shoulders, and
the arms of the corpse were thrown around Teig's neck.
Then they stood back from him a couple of yards, and let
him get up. H e rose, foaming at the mouth and cursing,
and he shook himself, thinking to throw the corpse off his
back. But his fear and his wonder were great when he
found that the two arms had a tight hold round his own
neck, and that the two legs were squeezing his hips firmly,
and that, however strongly he tried, he could not throw it
off, any more than a horse can throw off its saddle. H e
was terribly frightened then, and he thought he was lost.
" Ochone ! for ever," said he to himself, " it's the bad life
I'm leading that has given the good people this power over
me. I promise to God and Mary, Peter and Paul, Patrick
and Bridget, that I'll mend my ways for as long as I have to
live, if I come clear out of this danger—and I'll marry the
girl."
The little grey man came up to him again, and said he to
him, "Now, Teig^?z," says he, "you didn't lift the body
when I told you to lift it, and see how you were made to
lift i t ; perhaps when I tell you to bury it you won't bury it
until you're made to bury it! "
"Anything at all that I can do for your honour," said
Teig, " I'll do it," for he was getting sense already, and if it
had not been for the great fear that was on him, he never
would have let that civil word slip out of his mouth.
The little man laughed a sort of laugh again. " You're
getting quiet now, Teig," says he. " I'll go bail but you'll be
quiet enough before I'm done with you. Listen to me now,
Teig O'Kane, and if you don't obey me in all I'm telling
you to do, you'll repent it. You must carry with you this
corpse that is on your back to Teampoll-De'mus, and you
must bring it into the church with you, and make a grave
for it in the very middle of the church, and you must raise
up the flags and put them down again the very same way,

22

THE TROOPING

FAIRIES.

and you must carry the clay out of the church and leave the
place as it was when you came, so that no one could know
that there had been anything changed. But that's not all.
Maybe that the body won't be allowed to be buried in that
church; perhaps some other man has the bed, and, if so, it's
likely he won't share it with this one. If you don't get leave
to bury it in TeampoU-Demus, you must carry it to Carrickfhad-vic-Qrus, and bury it in the churchyard there; and if
you don't get it into that place, take it with you to TeampollRonan ; and if that churchyard is closed on you, take it to
Imlogue-Fada; and if you're not able to bury it there, you've
no more"to do than to take it to Kill-Breedya, and you can
bury it there without hindrance, I cannot tell you what
one of those churches is the one where you will have leave
to bury that corpse under the clay, but I know that it will
be allowed you to bury him at some church or other of
them. If you do this work rightly, we will be thankful to
you, and you will have no cause to grieve; but if you are
slow or lazy, believe me we shall take satisfaction of you."
When the grey little man had done speaking, his comrades
laughed and clapped their hands together. " Glic ! Glic !
Hwee ! Hwee !" they all cried; " go on, go on, you have
eight hours before you till daybreak, and if you haven't this
man buried before the sun rises, you're lost." They struck
a fist and a foot behind on him, and drove him on in the
road. He was obliged to walk, and to walk fast, for they
gave him no rest.
He thought himself that there was not a wet path, or a
dirty boreen, or a crooked contrary road in the whole
county, that he had not walked that night. The night was
at times very dark, and whenever there would come a cloud
across the moon he could see nothing, and then he used
often to fall. Sometimes he was hurt, and sometimes he
escaped, but he was obliged always to rise on the moment
and to hurry on. Sometimes the moon would break out
clearly, and then he would look behind him and see the
little people following at his back. And he heard them
speaking amongst themselves, talking and crying out, and

TEIG O'KANE

AND THE CORPSE.

23

screaming like a flock of sea-gulls; and if he was to save his
soul he never understood as much as one word of what they
were saying.
He did not know how far he had walked, when at last
one of them cried out to him, " Stop here ! " H e stood,
and they all gathered round him.
" Do you see those withered trees over there ?" says the old
boy to him again. " Teampoll Dermis is among those trees,
and you must go in there by yourself, for we cannot follow
you or go with you. We must remain here. Go on
boldly."
Teig looked from him, and he saw a high wall that was in
places half broken down, and an old grey church on the
inside of the wall, and about a dozen withered old trees
scattered here and there round it. There was neither leaf
nor twig on any of them, but their bare crooked branches
were stretched out like the arms of an angry man when he
threatens. He had no help for it, but was obliged to go
forward. H e was a couple of hundred yards from the
church, but he walked on, and never looked, behind him
until he came to the gate of the churchyard. The old gate
was thrown down, and he had no difficulty in entering.
H e turned then to see if any of the little people were
following him, but there came a cloud over the moon, and
the night became so dark that he could see nothing. He.
went into the churchyard, and he walked up the old grassy
pathway leading to the church. When he reached the door,
he found it locked. The door was large and strong, and he
did not know what to do. At last he drew out his knife
with difficulty, and stuck it in the wood to try if it were not
rotten, but it was not.
"Now," said he to himself, " I have no more to d o ; the
door is shut, and I can't open it."
Before the words were rightly shaped in his own mind, a
voice in his ear said to him, " Search for the key on the
top of the door, or on the wall."
H e started. (t Who is that speaking to me ? " he cried,
turning round; but he saw no one. The voice said in his

24

THE TROOPING

FAIRIES.

ear again, " Search for the key on the top of the door, or on
the wall."
" What's that ? " said he, and the sweat running from his
forehead ; " who spoke to m e ? "
" It's I, the corpse, that spoke to you ! " said the voice.
" Can you talk ?" said Teig.
" Now and again," said the corpse.
Teig searched for the key, and he found it on the top of
the wall. H e was too much frightened to say any more,
but he opened the door wide, and as quickly as he could,
and he went in, with the corpse on his back. It was as
dark as pitch inside, and poor Teig began to shake and
tremble.
" Light the candle," said the corpse.
Teig put his hand in his pocket, as well as he was able,
and drew out a flint and steel. H e struck a spark out of it,
and lit a burnt rag he had in his pocket. H e blew it until
it made a flame, and he looked round him. The church
was very ancient, and part of the wall was broken down. The
windows were blown in or cracked, and the timber of the
seats was rotten. There were six or seven old iron candlesticks left there still, and in one of these candlesticks Teig
found the stump of an old candle, and he lit it. H e was still
looking round him on the strange and horrid place in which
he found himself, when the cold corpse whispered in his
ear, " Bury me now, bury me now; there is a spade and
turn the ground." Teig looked from him, and he saw a
spade lying beside the altar. H e took it up, and he placed
the blade under a flag that was in the middle of the aisle,
and leaning all his weight on the handle of the spade, he
raised it. When the first flag was raised it was not hard to
raise the others near it, and he moved three or four of them
out of their places. The clay that was under them was soft
and easy to dig, but he had not thrown up more than three
or four shovelfuls, when he felt the iron touch something
soft like flesh. H e threw up three or four more shovelfuls
from around it, and then he saw that it was another body
that was buried in the same place.

TEIG O'KANE

AND THE CORPSE.

25

" I am afraid I'll never be allowed to bury the two
bodies in the same hole," said Teig, in his own mind.
" Y o u corpse, there on my back," says he, "will you be
satisfied if I bury you down here ? " But the corpse never
answered him a word.
"That's a good sign," said Teig to himself.
"Maybe
he's getting quiet," and he thrust the spade down in the
earth again. Perhaps he hurt the flesh of the other body,
for the dead man that was buried there stood up in the
grave, and shouted an awful shout. " Hoo ! hoo !! hoo !!!
Go! g o ! ! go !! ! or you're a dead, dead, dead man !"
And then he fell back in the grave again. Teig said afterwards, that of all the wonderful things he saw that night,
that was the most awful to him. His hair stood upright on
his head like the bristles of a pig, the cold sweat ran off
his face, and then came a tremour over all his bones, until
he thought that he must fall.
But after a while he became bolder, when he saw that
the second corpse remained lying quietly there, and he
threw in the clay on it again, and he smoothed it overhead,
and he laid down the flags carefully as they had been
before. " It can't be that he'll rise up any more," said he.
H e went down the aisle a little further, and drew near
to the door, and began raising the flags again, looking for
another bed for the corpse on his back. H e took up three
or four flags and put them aside, and then he dug the clay.
H e was not long digging until he laid bare an old woman
without a thread upon her but her shirt. She was more
lively than the first corpse, for he had scarcely taken any of
the clay away from about her, when she sat up and began to
cry, " Ho, you bodach (clown) ! Ha, you bodach 1 Where
has he been that he got no bed ? "
Poor Teig drew back, and when she found that she was
getting no answer, she closed her eyes gently, lost her
vigour, and fell back quietly and slowly under the clay.
Teig did to her as he had done to the man—he threw the
clay back on her, and left the flags down overhead.
H e began digging again near the door, but before he had

26

THE

TROOPING

FAIMIMS.

thrown up more than a couple of shovelfuls, he noticed a
man's hand laid bare by the spade. " By my soul, 111 go
no further, then," said he to himself; " what use is it for
me ? " And he threw the clay in again on it, and settled
the flags as they had been before.
H e left the church then, and his heart was heavy enough,
but he shut the door and locked it, and left the key where
he found it. H e sat down on a tombstone that was near
the door, and began thinking. H e was in great doubt
what he should do. H e laid his face between his two
hands, and cried for grief and fatigue, since he was dead
certain at this time that he never would come home alive.
H e made another attempt to loosen the hands of the corpse
that were squeezed round his neck, but they were as tight
as if they were clamped; and the more he tried to loosen
them, the tighter they squeezed him. H e was going to sit
down once more, when the cold, horrid lips of the dead
man said to him, " Carrick-fhad-vic-Orus," and he remembered the command of the good people to bring the corpse
with him to that place if he should be unable to bury it
where he had been.
H e rose up, and looked about him. " I don't know the
way," he said.
As soon as he had uttered the word, the corpse stretched
out suddenly its left hand that had been tightened round
his neck, and kept it pointing out, showing him the road he
ought to follow.
Teig went in the direction that the
fingers were stretched, and passed out of the churchyard.
H e found himself on an old rutty, stony road, and he stood
still again, not knowing where to turn.
The corpse
stretched out its bony hand a second time, and pointed out to
him another road—not the road by which he had come
when approaching the old church. Teig followed that
road, and whenever he came to a path or road meeting it,
the corpse always stretched out its hand and pointed with
its fingers, showing him the way he was to take.
Many was the cross-road he turned down, and many
was the crooked boreen he walked, until he saw from him

TEIG O'KANE

AND

THE CORPSE.

27

an old burying-ground at last, beside the road, but there
was neither church nor chapel nor any other building
in it. The corpse squeezed him tightly, and he stood.
" Bury me, bury me in the burying-ground," said the voice.
Teig drew over towards the old burying-place, and he
was not more than about twenty yards from it, when,
raising his eyes, he saw hundreds and hundreds of ghosts—
men, women, and children—sitting on the top of the wall
round about, or standing on the inside of it, or running
backwards and forwards, and pointing at him, while he
could- see their mouths opening and shutting as if they
were speaking, though he heard no word, nor any sound
amongst them at all.
H e was afraid to go forward, so he stood where he was,
and the moment he stood, all the ghosts became quiet, and
ceased moving. Then Teig understood that it was trying
to keep him from going in, that they were. H e walked a
couple of yards forwards, and immediately the whole crowd
rushed together towards the spot to which he was moving,
and they stood so thickly together that it seemed to him
that he never could break through them, even though he
had a mind to try, But he had no mind to try it. H e
went back broken and dispirited, and when he had gone a
couple of hundred yards from the burying-ground, he stood
again, for he did not know what way he was to go. He
heard the voice of the corpse in his ear, saying " TeampollRonan," and the skinny hand was stretched out again,
pointing him out the road.
As tired as he was, he had to walk, and the road was
neither short nor even. The night was darker than ever,
and it was difficult to make his way. Many was the toss he
got, and many a bruise they left on his body. At last he
saw Teampoll-Ronan from him in the distance, standing in
the middle of the burying-ground.
H e moved over
towards it, and thought he was all right and safe, when he
saw no ghosts nor anything else on the wall, and he
thought he would never be hindered now from leaving
his load off him at last. He moved over to the gate,

2S

THE

TROOPING

FAIRIES.

but as he was passing in, he tripped on the threshold.
Before he could recover himself, something that he could
not see seized him by the neck, by the hands, and by the
feet, and bruised him, and shook him, and choked him,
until he was nearly dead ; and at last he was lifted up, and
carried more than a hundred yards from that place, and
then thrown down in an old dyke, with the corpse still
clinging to him.
H e rose up, bruised and sore, but feared to go near the
place again, for he had seen nothing the time he was thrown
down and carried away.
" You corpse, up on my back," said he, " shall I go over
again 'to the churchyard ? "—but the corpse never answered
him. " That's a sign you don't wish me to try it again,"
said Teig.
H e was now in great doubt as to what he ought to do,
when the corpse spoke in his ear, and said " ImlogueFada."
" O h , murder !" said Teig, "must I bring you there? If
you keep me long walking like this, I tell you I'll fall under
you."
H e went on, however, in the direction the corpse pointed
out to him. H e could not have told, himself, how long he
had been going, when the dead man behind suddenly
squeezed him, and said, " There !"
Teig looked from him, and he saw a little low wall, that
was so broken down in places that it was no wall at all. It
was in a great wide field, in from the road; and only for
three or four great stones at the corners, that were more
like rocks than stones, there was nothing to show that there
was either graveyard or burying-ground there.
" I s this Imlogue-Fada? Shall I bury you h e r e ? " said
Teig.
"Yes," said the.voice.
" But I see no grave or gravestone, only this pile of
stones," said Teig.
The corpse did not answer, but stretched out its long
fleshless hand, to show Teig the direction in which he was

TEIG O'KANE

AND

THE CORPSE,

29

to go. Teig went on accordingly, but he was greatly terrified, for he remembered what had happened to him at the
last place. He went on, " with his heart in his mouth," as
he said himself afterwards; but when he came to within
fifteen or twenty yards of the little low square wall, there
broke out a flash of lightning, bright yellow and red, with
blue streaks in it, and went round about the wall in one
course, and it swept by as fast as the swallow in the clouds,
and the longer Teig remained looking at it the faster it
went, till at last it became like a bright ring of flame round
the old graveyard, which no one could pass without being
burnt by it. Teig never saw, from the time he was born,
and never saw afterwards, so wonderful or so splendid a
sight as that was. Round went the flame, white and yellow
and blue sparks leaping out from it as it went, and although
at first it had been no more than a thin, narrow line, it
increased slowly until it was at last a great broad band, and
it was continually getting broader and higher, and throwing
out more brilliant sparks, till there was never a colour on
the ridge of the earth that was not to be seen in that fire;
and lightning never shone and flame never flamed that was
so shining and so bright as that.
Teig was amazed; he was half dead with fatigue, and he
had no courage left to approach the wall. There fell a
mist over his eyes, and there came a soorawn in his head,
and he was obliged to sit down upon a great stone to
recover himself. He could see nothing but the light, and
he could hear nothing but the whirr of it as it shot round
the paddock faster than a flash of lightning.
As he sat there on the stone, the voice whispered once
more in his ear, " Kill-Breedya;" and the dead man
squeezed him so tightly that he cried out. He rose again,
sick, tired, and trembling, and went forwards as he was
directed. The wind was cold, and the road was bad, and
the load upon his back was heavy, and the night was dark,
and he himself was nearly worn out, and if he had had
very much farther to go he must have fallen dead under his
burden.

30

THE TROOPING FAIRIES.

At last the corpse stretched out its hand, and said to him,
" Bury me there."
"This is the last burying-place," said Teig in his own
mind; " and the little grey man said Fd be allowed to bury
him in some of them, so it must be this; it can't be but
they'll let him in here."
The first faint streak of the ring of day was appearing in
the east, and the clouds were beginning to catch fire, but it
was darker than ever, for the moon was set, and there were
no stars.
" Make haste, make haste!" said the corpse \ and Teig
hurried forward as well as he could to the graveyard, which
was a little place on a bare hill, with only a few graves in it.
He walked boldly in through the open gate, and nothing
touched him, nor did he either hear or see anything. He
came to the middle of the ground, and then stood up and
looked round him for a spade or shovel to make a grave.
As he was turning round and searching, he suddenly perceived what startled him greatly—a newly-dug grave right
before him. He moved over to it, and looked down, and
there at the bottom he saw a black coffin. He clambered
down into the hole and lifted the lid, and found that (as he
thought it would be) the coffin was empty. He had hardly
mounted up out of the hole, and was standing on the
brink, when the corpse, which had clung to him for more
than eight hours, suddenly relaxed its hold of his neck, and
loosened its shins from round his hips, and sank down with
&filop into the open coffin.
Teig fell down on his two knees at the brink of the
grave, and gave thanks to God. He made no delay then,
but pressed down the coffin lid in its place, and threw in
the clay over it with his two hands; and when the grave
was filled up, he stamped and leaped on it with his feet,
until it was firm and hard, and then he left the place.
The sun was fast rising as he finished his work, and the
first thing he did was to return to the road, and look out
for a house to rest himself in. He found an inn at last,
and lay down upon a bed theres and slept till night, Then

PADDY

CORCORAN'S

WIFE.

31

he rose up and ate a little, and fell asleep again till morning.
When he awoke in the morning he hired a horse and rode
home. He was more than twenty-six miles from home
where he was, and he had come all that way with the dead
body on his back in one night
All the people at his own home thought that he must
have left the country, and they rejoiced greatly when they
saw him come back. Everyone began asking him where he
had been, but he would not tell anyone except his father.
He was a changed man from that day. He never drank
too much; he never lost his money over cards; and especially he would not take the world and be out late by
himself of a dark night.
He was not a fortnight at home until he married Mary,
the girl he had been in love with ; and it's at their wedding
the sport was, and it's he was the happy man from that day
forward, and it's all I wish that we may be as happy as he
was.
GLOSSARY.—Rann, a stanza ; kailee [ceilidhe), a visit in the evening;
wirra [a nthuire), "Oh, Mary !" an exclamation like the French dame ;
rib, a single hair (in Irish, ribe); a lock (glac), a bundle or wisp, or a
little share of anything ; kippeen {cipin), a rod or twig; boreen [boithrtn),
a lane; bodach, a clown; soorawn {suardn), vertigo. Avzc {a Mhii)
= my son, or rather, Oh, son. Mic is the vocative of Mac.

PADDY CORCORAN'S WIFE.
WILLIAM CARLETON.

PADDY CORCORAN'S wife was for several years afflicted
with a kind of complaint which nobody could properly
understand. She was sick, and she was not sick; she
was well, and she was not well; she was as ladies wish to
be who love their lords, and she was not as such ladies wish
to be. In fact nobody could tell what the matter with her
was. She had a gnawing at the heart which came heavily
upon her husband; for, with the help of God, a keener
appetite than the same gnawing amounted to could not be

32

THE

TROOPING

FAIRIES.

met with of a summer's day. The poor woman was delicate
beyond belief, and had no appetite at all, so she hadn't,
barring a little relish for a mutton-chop, or a "staik," or a
bit o' mait, anyway; for sure, God help her! she hadn't the
laist inclination for the dhry pratie, or the dhrop o' sour
buttermilk along wid it, especially as she was so poorly;
and, indeed, for a woman in her condition—for, sick as she
was, poor Paddy always was made to believe her in that
condition—-but God's will be done! she didn't care. A
pratie an* a grain o' salt was a welcome to her—glory be
to his n a m e ! ~ a s the best roast an' boiled that ever was
dressed; and why not ? There was one comfort: she
wouldn't be long wid him—long troublin' him; it matthered
little what she got; but sure she knew herself, that from the
gnawin' at her heart, she could never do good widout the
little bit o' mait now and then; an', sure, if her own husband begridged it to her, who else had she a better right
to expect it from ?
Well, as we have said, she lay a bedridden invalid for
long enough, trying doctors and quacks of all sorts, sexes,
and sizes, and all without a farthing's benefit, until, at the
long run, poor Paddy was nearly brought to the last pass,
in striving to keep her in "the'bit o' mait.7' The seventh
year was now on the point of closing, when, one harvest
day, as she lay bemoaning her hard condition, on her bed
beyond the kitchen fire, a little weeshy woman, dressed in a
neat red cloak, comes in, and, sitting down by the hearth,
says:—
" Well, Kitty Corcoran, you've had a long lair of it there
on the broad o' yer back for seven years, an' you're jist as
far from bein' cured as ever."
" Mavrone, ay," said the other; " in throth that's what I
was this minnit thinkin' ov, and a sorrowful thought it's to
me."
"It's yer own fau't, thin," says the little woman; "an',
indeed, for that matter, it's yer fau't that ever you wor there
at all."
"Arra, how is t h a t ? " asked Kitty; "sure I wouldn't be

CUSHEEN

LOO.

33

here if I could help it ? Do you think it's a comfort or a
pleasure to me to be sick and bedridden ? "
" No," said the other, " I do not; but I'll tell you the
truth: for the last seven years you have been annoying us.
I am one o' the good people; an' as I have a regard for
you, I'm come to let you know the raison why you've been
sick so long as you are. For all the time you've been ill, if
you'll take the thrubble to remimber, your childhre threwn
out yer dirty wather afther dusk an' before sunrise, at the
very time we're passin' yer door, which we pass twice a-day.
Now, if you avoid this, if you throw it out in a different
place, an' at a different time, the complaint you have will
lave you : so will the gnawin' at the heart; an' you'll be as
well as ever you wor. If you don't follow this advice, why,
remain as you are, an' all the art o' man can't cure you."
She then bade her good-bye, and disappeared.
Kitty, who was glad to be cured on such easy terms,
immediately complied with the injunction of the fairy; and
the consequence was, that the next day she found herself in
as good health as ever she enjoyed during her life.

C U S H E E N LOO.
TRANSLATED FROM T H E IRISH BY J. J. CALLANAN.

[THIS song is supposed to have been sung by a young bride,
who was forcibly detained in one of those forts which are so
common in Ireland, and to which the good people are very fond
of resorting. Under pretence of hushing her child to rest, she
retired to the outside margin of the fort, and addressed the
burthen of her song to a young woman whom she saw at a
short distance, and whom she requested to inform her husband
of her condition, and to desire him to bring the steel knife to
dissolve the enchantment]
518

34

THE TROOPING

FAIRIES,

SLEEP, my child! for the rustling trees,
Stirr'd by the breath of summer breeze,
And fairy songs of sweetest note,
Around us gently float.
Sleep ! for the weeping flowers have shed
Their fragrant tears upon thy head,
The voice of love hath sooth'd thy rest,
And thy pillow is a mother's breast.
Sleep, my child!
Weary hath pass'd the time forlorn,
Since to your mansion I was borne,
Tho' bright the feast of its airy halls,
And the voice of mirth resounds from its walls,
Sleep, my child!
Full many a maid and blooming bride
Within that splendid dome abide,—
And many a hoar and shrivell'd sage,
And many a matron bow'd with age.
Sleep, my child!
Oh ! thou who hearest this song of fear,
To the mourner's home these tidings bear.
Bid him bring the knife of the magic blade,
At whose lightning-flash the charm will fade8
Sleep, my child I
Haste ! for to-morrow's sun will see
The hateful spell renewed for me ;
Nor can I from that home depart,
Till life shall leave my withering heart.
Sleep, my child i
Sleep, my child! for the rustling trees,
Stirr'd by the breath of summer breezea
And fairy songs of sweetest note,
Around us gently float,

THE

WHITE

TROUT

35

T H E W H I T E T R O U T ; A L E G E N D O F CQNQ,
BY S. LOVER.

T H E R E was wanst upon a time, long ago, a beautiful lady
that lived in a castle upon the lake beyant, and they say
she was promised to a king's son, and they wor to b§ rnarried,
when all of a sudden he was murthered, the crathur (Lqr4
help us), and threwn into the lake above, and so, of course,
he couldn't keep his promise to the fair lady,—and more's
the pity.
Well, the story goes that she went out iv her mind,
bekase av Joosin' the king's son—for she was tendherhearted, God help her, like the rest iv us I—and pined
away after him, until at last, no one about seen her,
good or bad; and the story wint that the fairies took heraway.
Well, sir, in coorse o' time, the White Throut, God bless
it, was seen in the sthrame beyant, and sure the people
didn't know what to think av the crathur, seein' as how a
white throut was never heard av afor, nor since; and years
upon years the throut was there, just where you seen it this
blessed minit, longer nor I can tell—aye throth, and beyant
the memory o' th' ouldest in the village.
At last the people began to think it must be a fairy; for
what else could it be ?—and no hurt nor harm was iver put
an the white throut, until some wicked sinners of sojers, kem
to these parts, and laughed at all the people* and gibed and
jeered them for thinkin' o' the likes \ and one o' them in
partic'lar (bad luck to him; God forgi' me for saying it J)
swore he'd catch the throut and ate it fe-r his dinner-~tha
blackguard!
Well, what would you think o' the. villainy of thQ sojer ?
Sure enough he cotch the throut, and away wid him home,
and puts an the fryin'-pan, and into it he pitches the purty
little thing. The throut squeeled all as one as a christian
crathur, and, my dear, you'd think the sojer id split his

36

THE

TROOPING

FAIRIES.

sides laughin'—for he was a harden'd villain; and when he
thought one side was done, he turns it over to fry the other;
and, what would you think, but the divil a taste of a burn
was an it at all at all; and sure the sojer thought it was a
quare throut that could not be briled. "But," says he, "I'll
give it another turn by-and-by," little thinkin' what was in
store for him, the hay then.
Well, when he thought that side was done he turns it
agin, and lo and behould you, the divil a taste more done
that side was nor the other. "Bad luck to me," says the
sojer, "but that bates the world," says he; "but I'll thry you
agin, my darlint," says he, "as cunnin' as you think yourself;" and so with that he turns it over and over, but not
a sign of the fire was on the purty throut. "Well," says the
desperate villain—(for sure, sir, only he was a desperate
villain entirely^ he might know he was doing a wrong thing,
seem' that all his endeavours was no good)—"Well," says he,
"my jolly little throut, maybe you're fried enough, though
you don't seem over well dress'd; but you may be better
than you look, like a singed cat, and a tit-bit afther all," says
h e ; and with that he ups with his knife and fork to taste a
piece o' the throut; but, my jew'l, the minit he puts his knife
into the fish, there was a murtherin' screech, that you'd think
the life id lave you if you hurd it, and away jumps the
throut out av the fryin'-pan into the middle o' the flure;
and an the spot where it fell, up riz a lovely lady—the
beautifullest crathur that eyes ever seen, dressed in white,
and a band o' goold in her hair, and a sthrame o' blood
runnm' down her arm.
" Look where you cut me, you villain," says she, and she
held out her arm to him—and, my dear, he thought the
sight id lave his eyes.
" Couldn't you lave me cool and comfortable in the river
where you snared me, and not disturb me in my duty ?"
says she.
Well, he thrimbled like a dog in a wet sack, and at last
he stammered out something and begged for his life, and
ax'd her ladyship's pardin, and said he didn't know she was

THE

WHITE

TROUT

37

on duty, or he was too good a sojer not to know betther nor
to meddle wid her.
" I was on duty, then," says the lady; " I was watchin' for
my true love that is comin' by wather to me," says she, "an'
if he comes while I'm away, an5 that I miss iv him, I'll turn
you into a pinkeen, and I'll hunt you up and down for evermore, while grass grows or wather runs."
Well the sojer thought the life id lave him, at the
thoughts iv his bein' turned into a pinkeen, and begged for
mercy; and with that says the lady—
" Renounce your evil coorses," says she, " you villain, or
you'll repint it too late; be a good man for the futhur, and
go to your duty* reg'lar, and now," says she, "take me back
and put me into the river again, where you found me."
"Oh, my lady," says the sojer, "how could I have the
heart to drownd a beautiful lady like you ? "
But before he could say another word, the lady was
vanished, and there he saw the little throut an the ground.
Well he put it in a clean plate, and away he runs for the
bare life, for fear her lover would come while she was away;
and he run, and he run, even till he came to the cave agin,
and threw the throut into the river. The minit he did, the
wather was as red as blood for a little while, by rayson av
the cut, I suppose, until the sthrame washed the stain away;
and to this day there's a little red mark an the throut's side,
where it was cut.f
Well, sir, from that day out the sojer was an altered
man, and reformed his ways, and went to his duty reg'lar,
and fasted three times a-week—though it was never fish he
tuk an fastin' days, for afther the fright he got, fish id
never rest an his stomach—savin' your presence.
But anyhow, he was an altered man, as I said before, and
in coorse o? time he left the army, and turned hermit at last;
and they say he used to pray evermore for the soul of the
White Throat
* The Irish peasant calls his attendance at the confessional "going
to his duty."
+ The fish has really a red spot on its side.

3S

THE

TROOPING

FAIRIES.

[These trout stories are eoftimon all over Ireland. Many holy
wells are haunted by such blessed trout. There is a trout in a
Well on the border of Lough Gill, Sligo, that some paganish
person put Once on the gridiron. It carries the marks to this
day. Long ago, the saint Who sanctified the well put that trout
there. Nowadays it is billy visible to the pious, who have
done due penance.]

THE

FAIRY

THORN,

An Ulster Ballad.
SIR

SAMUEL

FERGUSON.

" G E T up, our Anna dear, from the weary spinning-wheel;
For your father's on the hill, and your mother is asleep;
Come up above the crags, and we'll dance a highland-reel
Around the fairy thorn on the steep."
At Anna Grace's door 'twas thus the maidens cried,
Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the green ;
And Anna laid the rock and the weary wheel aside,
The fairest of the four, I ween.
They're glancing through the glimmer of the quiet eve,
Aw&y in milky Wavings of neck and ankle bare;
The heavy-sliding stream in its sleepy song they leave,
And the crags in the ghostly air:
And linking hand in hand, and singing as they go,
The maids along the hill-side have ta'en their fearless way,
Till they come to where the rowan trees in lonely beauty
grow
Beside the Fairy Hawthorn grey.

THE FAIRY

THORN.

39

The Hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and slim,
Like matron with her twin grand-daughters at her knee;
The rowan berries cluster o'er her low head grey and dim
In ruddy kisses sweet to see.
The merry maidens four have ranged them in a row.
Between each lovely couple a stately rowan stem,
And away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds they go,
Oh, never caroll'd bird like them!
But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze
That drinks away their voices in echoless repose,
And dreamily the evening has still'd the haunted braes,
And dreamier the gloaming grows.
And sinking one by one, like lark-notes from the sky
When the falcon's shadow saileth across the open shaw,
Are hush'd the maiden's voices, as cowering down they lie
In the flutter of their sudden awe.
For, from the air above, and the grassy ground beneath,
And from the mountain-ashes and the old Whitethorn
between,
A Power of faint enchantment doth through their beings
breathe,
And they sink down together on the green.
They sink together silent, and stealing side by side,
They fling their lovely arms o'er their drooping necks so
fair,
Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide,
For their shrinking necks again are bare.
Thiis clasp'd and prostrate all, With their heads together
bow'd,
Soft o'er their bosom's beating—the only human sound—
They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy crowd,
Like & river in the air, gliding round.

4©

THE

TROOPING

FAIRIES.

No scream can any raise, no prayer can any say,
But wild, wild, the terror of the speechless three—
For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently away,
By whom they dare not look to see.
They feel their tresses twine with her parting locks of gold,
And the curls elastic falling as her head withdraws;
They feel her sliding arms from their tranced arms unfold,
But they may not look to see the cause;
For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment lies
Through all that night of anguish and perilous amaze;
And neither fear nor wonder can ope their quivering eyes,
Or their limbs from the cold ground raise,
Till out of night the earth has roll'd her dewy side,
With every haunted mountain and streamy vale below;
When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morning tide,
The maidens' trance dissolveth so.
Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may,
And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends in vain-~»
They pined away and died within the year and day,
And ne'er was Anna Grace seen again,

T H E L E G E N D OF KNOCKGRAFTON.
T. CROFTON CROKER.

T H E R E was once a poor man who lived in the fertile glen of
Aherlow, at the foot of the gloomy Galtee mountains, and
he had a great hump on his back : he looked just as if his
body had been rolled up and placed upon his shoulders;
and his head was pressed down with the weight so much
that his chin, when he was sitting, used to rest upon his
knees for support. The country people were rather shy of

THE LEGEND

OF KNOCKGRAFTON.

41

meeting him in any lonesome place, for though, poor
creature, he was as harmless and as inoffensive as a newborn infant, yet his deformity was so great that he scarcely
appeared to be a human creature, and some ill-minded
persons had set strange stories about him afloat H e was
said to have a great knowledge of herbs and charms; but
certain it was that he had a mighty skilful hand in plaiting
straws and rushes into hats and baskets, which was the way
he made his livelihood.
Lusmore, for that was the nickname put upon him by
reason of his always wearing a sprig of the fairy cap, or
lusmore (the foxglove), in his little straw hat, would ever
get a higher penny for his plaited work than any one else,
and perhaps that was the reason why some one, out of
envy, had circulated the strange stories about him. Be that
as it may, it happened that he was returning one evening
from the pretty town of Cahir towards Cappagh, and as
little Lusmore walked very slowly, on account of the great
hump upon his back, it was quite dark when he came to
the old moat of Knockgrafton, which stood on the righthand side of his road. Tired and weary was he, and
noways comfortable in his own mind at thinking how much
farther he had to travel, and that he should be walking all
the night; so he sat down under the moat to rest himself,
and began looking mournfully enough upon the moon,
which—
" Rising in clouded majesty, at length
Apparent Queen, unveil'd her peerless light,
And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw."

Presently there rose a wild strain of unearthly melody
upon the ear of little Lusmore ; he listened, and he thought
that he had never heard such ravishing music before. It
was like the sound of many voices, each mingling and
blending with the other so strangely that they seemed to be
one, though all singing different strains, and the words of
the song were these—
Da Lucm, Da Mort, Da Luan, Da Mortt Da Luan, Da Mori ;

THE TROOPING

FAIRIES.

when there would be a moment's pause, and then the round
of melody went on again.
Lusmore listened attentively j scarcely drawing his breath
lest he might lose the slightest note. H e now plainly
perceived that the singing was within the moat; and though
at first it had charmed hini so much, he began to get tired
of hearing the same round sung over and over so often
without any change ; so availing himself of the pause when
Da Luan, Da Mort, had been sung three times, he took up
the tune, and raised it with the words augus Da Dardeen,
and then went on singing with the voices inside of the
moat, Da Luan> Da Mori, finishing the melody, when the
pause again came, with augus Da Dardeen.
The fairies within Knockgrafton, for the song was a fairy
melody, when they heard this addition to the tune, were so
much delighted that, with instant resolve, it was determined
to bring the mortal among them, whose musical skill so far
exceeded theirs, and little Lusmore was conveyed into their
company with the eddying speed of a whirlwind.
Glorious to behold was the sight that burst upon him as
he came down through the moat, twirling round and round,
with the lightness of a straw, to the sweetest music that
kept time to his motion. The greatest honour was then
paid him, for he was put above all the musicians, and he
had servants tending upon him, and everything to his
heart's content, and a hearty welcome to all; and, in short,
he was made as much of as if he had been the first man in
the land.
Presently Lusmore saw a great consultation going forward
among the fairies, and, notwithstanding all their civility, he
felt very much frightened, until one stepping out from the
rest came up to him and said—
il

Lusmore ! Lusmore !
Doubt not, nor deplore,
Epr the hump which you bore
On your back is no more;
Look down on the floor,
And view it, Lusmore ! "

THE LEGEND

OF KNOCKGRAFTON.

43

When these words were said, poor little Lusmore felt
himself so light, and so happy, that he thought he could
have bounded at one jump over the moon, like the cow in
the history of the cat and the fiddle; and he saw, with
inexpressible pleasure* his hump tumble down upon the
ground from his shoulders. He then tried to lift up his
head, and he did so with becoming caution, fearing that he
might knock it against the ceiling of the grand hall, where
he was j he looked found and round again with the greatest
wonder and delight upon everything, which appeared more
and more beautiful; and, overpowered at beholding such a
resplendent scene, his head grew dizzy, and his eyesight
became dim, At last he fell into a sound sleep, and when
he awoke he found that it was broad daylight, the sun
shining brightly, and the birds singing sweetly; and that he
was lying just at the foot of the moat of Knockgrafton, with
the cows and sheep grazing peaceably round about him.
The first thing Lusmore did, after saying his prayers, was to
put his hand behind to feel for his hump, but no sign
of one was there on his back, and he looked at himself
with great pride, for he had now become a well-shaped
dapper little fellow, and more than that, found himself in a
full suit of new clothes, which he concluded the fairies had
made for him.
Towards Cappagh he went, stepping out as lightly, and
springing up at every step as if he had been all his life a
dancing-master. Not a creature who met Lusmore knew
him without his hump, and he had a great work to persuade
every one that he was the same man—in truth he was not,
so far as the outward appearance went.
Of course it was not long before the story of Lusmdfe's
hump got about, and a great wonder was made of it.
Through the country, for miles round, it was the talk of
every one, high and low.
One morning, as Lusmore was sitting contented enough
at his cabin door, up came an old woman to him, and asked
hifri if he could direct her to Cappagh.
" I need give you no directions, my gdtkl woman," said

44

THE

TROOPING

FAIRIES.

Lusmore, " for this is Cappagh ; and whom may you want
here ? "
" I have come," said the woman, "out of Decie's country,
in the county of Waterford, looking after one Lusmore,
who, I have heard tell, had his hump taken off by the
fairies ; for there is a son of a gossip of mine who has got
a hump on him that will be his death; and maybe, if
he could use the same charm as Lusmore, the hump may
be taken off him. And now I have told you the reason of
my coming so far : 'tis to find out about this charm, if
I can."
Lusmore, who was ever a good-natured little fellow, told
the woman all the particulars, how he had raised the tune
for the fairies at Knockgrafton, how his hump had been
removed from his shoulders, and how he had got a new suit
of clothes into the bargain.
The woman thanked him very much, and then went
away quite happy and easy in her own mind. When she
came back to her gossip's house, in the county of Waterford,
she told her everything that Lusmore had said, and they put
the little hump-backed man, who was a peevish and cunning
creature from his birth, upon a car, and took him all the
way across the country. It was a long journey, but they
did not care for that, so the hump was taken from off h i m ;
and they brought him, just at nightfall, and left him under
the old moat of Knockgrafton.
Jack Madden, for that was the humpy man's name, had
not been sitting there long when he heard the tune going
on within the moat much sweeter than before; for the
fairies were singing it the way Lusmore had settled their
music for them, and the song was going on : Da Luan, Da
Mort, Da Luan, Da Mort, Da Luan, Da Mort, augus Da
Dardeen, without ever stopping. Jack Madden, who was in
a great hurry to get quit of his hump, never thought of
waiting until the fairies had done, or watching for a fit
opportunity to raise the tune higher again than Lusmore
h a d ; so having heard them sing it over seven times without
stopping, out he bawls, never minding the time or the humour

THE LEGEND

OF KNOCKGRAFTOK

45

of the tune, or how he could bring his words in properly,
augus Da Dardeen, augus Da Hena> thinking that if one day
was good, two were better; and that if Lusmore had one new
suit of clothes given him, he should have two.
No sooner had the words passed his lips than he was
taken up and whisked into the moat with prodigious force ;
and the fairies came crowding round about him with great
anger, screeching and screaming, and roaring out, " W h o
spoiled our tune ? who spoiled our tune ? " and one stepped
up to him above all the rest, and said—•
"Jack Madden ! Jack Madden !
Your words came so bad in
The tune we felt glad in ;—
This castle you're had in,
That your life we may sadden ;
Here's two humps for Jack Madden !"

And twenty of the strongest fairies brought Lusmore's
hump, and put it down upon poor Jack's back, over his
own, where it became fixed as firmly as if it was nailed on
with twelve-penny nails, by the best carpenter that ever
drove one. Out of their castle they then kicked him ; and
in the morning, when Jack Madden's mother and her gossip
came to look after their little man, they found him half
dead, lying at the foot of the moat, with the other hump
upon his back. Well to be sure, how they did look at each
other! but they were afraid to say anything, lest a hump
might be put upon their own shoulders.
Home they
brought the unlucky Jack Madden with them, as downcast
in their hearts and their looks as ever two gossips were ;
and what through the weight of his other hump, and the
long journey, he died soon after, leaving, they say, his
heavy curse to any one who would go to listen to fairy
tunes again.

46

THE TROOPING

FAIRIES.

A DONEGAL FAIRY.
LETITIA MACLINTOCK.

AY, it's a bad thing to displeasure the gentry, sure enough—
they can be unfriendly if they're angered, an* they can be
the very best o' gude neighbours if they're treated kindly.
My mother's sister was her lone in the house one day, wi'
a' big pot o' water boiling on the fire, and ane o' the wee
folk fell down the chimney, and slipped wi' his leg in the
hot water.
He let a terrible squeal out o' him, an' in a minute the
house was full o' wee crathurs pulling him out o' the pot,
an' carrying him across the floor.
"Did she scald you?" my aunt heard them saying to
him.
"Na, na, it was myseP scalded my ainsel'," quoth the
wee fellow.
" A weel, a weel," says they. "If it was your ainsel
scalded yoursel', we'll say nothing, but if she had scalded
you, we'd ha' made her pay."

THE TROOPING FAIRIES.
CHANGELINGS.
SOMETIMES the fairies fancy mortals, and carry them away
into -their own country, leaving instead some sickly fairy child,
or a log of wood so bewitched that it seems to be a mortal
pining away, and dying, and being buried. Most commonly
they steal children. If you " over look a child," that is look on
it with envy, the fairies have it in their power. Many things
can be done to find out in a child a changeling, but there is one
infallible thing—lay it on the fire with this formula, " Burn,
burn, burn—if of the devil, burn ; but if of God and the saints,
be safe from harm" (given by Lady Wilde). Then if it be a
changeling it will rush up the chimney with a cry, for, according
to Giraldus Cambrensis, " fire is the greatest of enemies to
every sort of phantom, in so much that those who have seen
apparitions fall into a swoon as soon as they are sensible of the
brightness of fire,"
Sometimes the creature is got rid of in a more gentle way.
It is on record that once when a mother was leaning over a
wizened changeling the latch lifted and a fairy came in, carrying
home again the wholesome stolen baby. " It was the others,"
she said, " who stole it." As for her, she wanted her own child.
Those who are carried away are happy, according to some
accounts, having plenty of good living and music and mirth.
Others say, however, that they are continually longing for their
earthly friends. Lady Wilde gives a gloomy tradition that
there are two kinds of fairies—one kind merry and gentle, the
other evil, and sacrificing every year a life to Satan, for which
purpose they steal mortals. No other Irish writer gives this
tradition—if such fairies there be, they must be among the
solitary spirits^Pookas, Fir Darrigs, and the like.

48

CHANGELINGS.
T H E BREWERY OF EGG-SHELLS.
T. CROFTON CROKER.

MRS. SULLIVAN fancied that her youngest child had been
exchanged by "fairies theft," and certainly appearances
warranted such a conclusion ; for in one night her healthy,
blue-eyed boy had become shrivelled up into almost
nothing, and never ceased squalling and crying.
This
naturally made poor Mrs. Sullivan very unhappy; and all
the neighbours, by way of comforting her, said that her own
child was, beyond any kind of doubt, with the good people,
and that one of themselves was put in his place.
Mrs. Sullivan of course could not disbelieve what every
one told her, but she did not wish to hurt the thing; for
although its face was so withered, and its body wasted
away to a mere skeleton, it had still a strong resemblance
to her own boy. She, therefore, could not find it in her
heart to roast it alive on the griddle, or to burn its nose
off with the red-hot tongs, or to throw it out in the snow
on the road-side, notwithstanding these, and several like
proceedings, were strongly recommended to her for the
recovery of her child.
One day who should Mrs. Sullivan meet but a cunning
woman, well known about the country by the name of
Ellen Leah (or Grey Ellen). She had the gift, however
she got it, of telling where the dead were, and what was
good for the rest of their souls; and could charm away
warts and wens, and do a great many wonderful things
of the same nature.
" You're in grief this morning, Mrs. Sullivan," were the
first words of Ellen Leah to her.
"You may say that, Ellen," said Mrs. Sullivan, " a n d
good cause I have to be in grief, for there was my own
fine child whipped of from me out of his cradle, without
as much as ' by your leave' or ' ask your pardon,' and an
ugly dony bit of a shrivelled-up fairy put in his place;
no wonder, then, that you see me in grief, Ellen."

THE BREWERY

OF

EGG-SHELLS.

li
Small blame to you, Mrs. Sullivan," said Ellen Leah,
" but are you sure 'tis a fairy ? "
" S u r e ! " echoed Mrs. Sullivan, "sure enough I am to
my sorrow, and can I doubt my own two eyes? Every
mother's soul must feel for m e ! "
" Will you take an old woman's advice ?" said Ellen
Leah, fixing her wild and mysterious gaze upon the unhappy mother; and, after a pause, she added, " but maybe
you'll call it foolish ? "
" Can you get me back my child, my own child, Ellen ? "
said Mrs. Sullivan with great energy.
" If you do as I bid you," returned Ellen Leah, " you'll
know." Mrs. Sullivan was silent in expectation, and
Ellen continued, " Put down the big pot, full of water, on
the fire, and make it boil like m a d ; then get a dozen newlaid eggs, break them, and keep the shells, but throw
away the rest; when that is done, put the shells in the
pot of boiling water, and you will soon know whether it is
your own boy or a fairy. If you find that it is a fairy in the
cradle, take the red-hot poker and cram it down his ugly
throat, and you will not have much trouble with him after
that, I promise you."
Home went Mrs. Sullivan, and did as Ellen Leah
desired. She put the pot on the fire, and plenty of turf
under it, and set the water boiling at such a rate, that if
ever water was red-hot, it surely was.
The child was lying, for a wonder, quite easy and quiet
in the cradle, every now and then cocking his eye, that
would twinkle as keen as a star in a frosty night, over
at the great fire, and the big pot upon it; and he looked on
with great attention at Mrs. Sullivan breaking the eggs and
putting down the egg-shells to boil. At last he asked, with
the voice of a very old man, "What are you doing, mammy?"
Mrs. Sullivan's heart, as she said herself, was up in her
mouth ready to choke her, at hearing the child speak. But
she contrived to put the poker in the fire, and to answer,
without making any wonder at the words, " I'm brewing, a
vick " (my son).
519

So

CHANGELINGS.

" And what are you brewing, mammy ? " said the little
imp, whose supernatural gift of speech now proved beyond
question that he was a fairy substitute.
" I wish the poker was red," thought Mrs. Sullivan; but
it was a large one, and took a long time heating; so she
determined to keep him in talk until the poker was in a
proper state to thrust down his throat, and therefore
repeated the question.
" I s it what I'm brewing, a vick" said she, "you want to
know ? "
"Yes, mammy: what are you brewing?" returned the
fairy.
" Egg-shells, a vick? said Mrs. Sullivan.
" O h ! " shrieked the imp, starting up in the cradle, and
clapping his hands together, " I'm fifteen hundred years in
the world, and I never saw a brewery of egg-shells before! "
The poker was by this time quite red, and Mrs. Sullivan,
seizing it, ran furiously towards the cradle; but somehow or
other her foot slipped, and she fell flat on the floor, and
the poker flew out of her hand to the other end of the
house. However, she got up without much loss of time and
went to the cradle, intending to pitch the wicked thing that
was in it into the pot of boiling water, when there she saw
her own child in a sweet sleep, one of his soft round arms
rested upon the pillow—his features were as placid as if
their repose had never been disturbed, save the rosy mouth f
which moved with a gentle and regular breathing.

THE FAIRY

NURSE.

Si

T H E FAIRY NURSE.
BY EDWARD WALSH,

SWEET babe! a golden cradle holds thee,
And soft the snow-white fleece enfolds thee;
In airy bower I'll watch thy sleeping,
Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping,
Shuheen, sho, lulo lo !
When mothers languish broken-hearted,
When young wives are from husbands parted,
Ah ! little think the keeners lonely,
They weep some time-worn fairy only.
Shuheen sho, lulo lo !
Within our magic halls of brightness,
Trips many a foot of snowy whiteness j
Stolen maidens, queens of fairy—
And kings and chiefs a sluagh-shee airy.
Shuheen sho, lulo l o !
Rest thee, babe ! I love thee dearly,
And as thy mortal mother nearly ;
Ours is the swiftest steed and proudest,
That moves where the tramp of the host is loudest
Shuheen sho, lulo lo !
Rest thee, babe ! for soon thy slumbers
Shall flee at the magic koelshie's* numbers;
In airy bower I'll watch thy sleeping,
Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping.
Shuheen sho, lulo, lo !
* Cedl-sidhe—i,e.,

fairy music.

5
»

CHANGELINGS.

JAMIE FREEL AND THE YOUNG LADY.
A Donegal Tale.
MISS LETITIA MACLINTOCK.

DOWN in Fannet, in times gone by, lived Jamie Freel and
his mother. Jamie was the widow's sole support; his
strong arm worked for her untiringly, and as each Saturday
night came round, he poured his wages into her lap,
thanking her dutifully for the halfpence which she returned
him for tobacco.
He was extolled by his neighbours as the best son ever
known or heard of. But he had neighbours, of whose
opinion he was ignorant—neighbours who lived pretty close
to him, whom he had never seen, who are, indeed, rarely
seen by mortals, except on May eves and Halloweens.
An old ruined castle, about a quarter of a mile from his
cabin, was said to be the abode of the "wee folk." Every
Halloween were the ancient windows lighted up, and
passers-by saw little figures flitting to and fro inside the
building, while they heard the music of pipes and flutes.
It was well known that fairy revels took place; but
nobody had the courage to intrude on them.
Jamie had often watched the little figures from a distance,
and listened to the charming music, wondering what the
inside of the castle was like; but one Halloween he got up
and took his cap, saying to his mother, " I ' m awa' to the
castle to seek my fortune."
" W h a t ! " cried she, "would you venture there? you
that's the poor widow's one son! Dinna be sae venturesome
an' foolitch, Jamie! They'll kill you, an' then what'll come
o' m e ? "
"Never fear, mother; nae harm 'ill happen me, but I
maun gae."
H e set out, and as he crossed the potato-field, came in
sight of the castle, whose windows were ablaze with light,
that seemed to turn the russet leaves, still clinging to the
crabtree branches, into gold.

JAMIE

FREEL

AND

THE

YOUNG LADY. 53

Halting in the grove at one ;side of the ruin, he listened
to the elfin revelry, and the laughter and singing made him
all the more determined to prbceed.
Numbers of little people, the largest about the size of a
child of five years old, were dancing to the music of flutes
and fiddles, while others drank and feasted.
" Welcome, Jamie Freel! welcome, welcome, Jamie!"
cried the company, perceiving their visitor. The word
" Welcome " was caught up and repeated by every voice in
the,castle.
Time flew, and Jamie was enjoying himself very much,
when his hosts said, " We're going to ride to Dublin
to-night to steal a young lady. Will you come too, Jamie
Freel?"
"Ay, that will I!" cried the rash youth, thirsting for
adventure.
A troop of horses stood at the door. Jamie mounted,
and his steed rose with him into the air. He was presently
flying over his mother's cottage, surrounded by the elfin
troop, and on and on they went, over bold mountains, over
little hills, over the deep Lough Swilley, over towns and
cottages, when people were burning nuts, and eating apples,
and keeping merry Halloween. It seemed to Jamie that
they flew all round Ireland before they got to Dublin.
"This is Deny," said the fairies, flying over the cathedral
spire; and what was said by one voice was repeated by all
the rest, till fifty little voices were crying out, "Deny!
Derry! Derry !"
In like manner was Jamie informed as they passed over
each town on the rout, and at length he heard the silvery
voices cry, "Dublin! Dublin!"
It was no mean dwelling that was to be honoured by the
fairy visit, but one of the finest houses in Stephen's Green.
The troop dismounted near a window, and Jamie saw a
beautiful face, on a pillow in a splendid bed. He saw
the young lady lifted and carried away, while the stick
which was dropped in her place on the bed took her exact
form.

54

CHANGELINGS,

The lady was placed before one rider and carried a short
way, then given another, and the names of the towns were
cried out as before.
They were approaching home. Jamie heard "Rathmullan," "Milford," "Tamney," and then he knew they were
near his own house.
"You've all had your turn at carrying the young lady,'r
said he. "Why wouldn't I get her for a wee piece?"
"Ay, Jamie," replied they, pleasantly, "you may take
your turn at carrying her, to be sure."
Holding his prize very tightly, he dropped down near his
mother's door.
"Jamie Freel, Jamie Freel! is that the way you treat
u s ? " cried they, and they too dropped down near the
door.
Jamie held fast, though he knew not what he was holding,
for the little folk turned the lady into all sorts of strange
shapes. At one moment she was a black dog, barking and
trying to bite; at another, a glowing bar of iron, which yet
had no heat; then, again, a sack of wool.
But still Jamie held her, and the baffled elves were
turning away, when a tiny woman, the smallest of the party,
exclaimed, " Jamie Freel has her awa' frae us, but he sail
hae nae gude o' her, for I'll mak' her deaf and dumb," and
she threw something over the young girl.
While they rode off disappointed, Jamie lifted the latch
and went in.
"Jamie, man!" cried his mother, "you've been awa' all
night; what have they done on y o u ? "
"Naething bad, mother; I ha' the very best of gude luck.
Here's a beautiful young lady I ha' brought you for
company.
" Bless us an' save u s ! " exclaimed the mother, and for
some minutes she was so astonished that she could not
think of anything else to say.
Jamie told his story of the night's adventure, ending by
saying, "Surely you wouldna have allowed me to let her
gang with them to be lost forever?"

JAMIE

FREEL

AND THE

YOUNG LADY. 55

"But a lady^ Jamie! How can a lady eat we'er poor
diet, and live in we'er poor way? I ax you that, you
foolitch fellow ? "
"Weel, mother, sure it's better for her to be here nor
over yonder," and he pointed in the direction of the castle.
Meanwhile, the deaf and dumb girl shivered in her light
clothing, stepping close to the humble turf fire.
" Poor crathur, she's quare and handsome ! Nae wonder
they set their hearts on her," said the old woman, gazing at
her guest with pity and admiration. "We maun dress her
first"; but what, in the name o' fortune, hae I fit for the likes
o' her to wear ? "
She went to her press in " the room," and took out her
Sunday gown of brown drugget; she then opened a drawer,
and drew forth a pair of white stockings, a long snowy
garment of fine linen, and a cap, her "dead dress,'' as --1
called it.
These articles of attire had long been ready for a certain
triste ceremony, in which she would some day fill the chief
part, and only saw the light occasionally, when they were
hung out to air; but she was willing to give even these to
the fair trembling visitor, who was turning in dumb sorrow
and wonder from her to Jamie, and from Jamie back
to her.
The poor girl suffered herself to be dressed, and then sat
down on a "creepie" in the chimney corner, and buried her
face in her hands.
"What'll we do to keep up a lady like thou?" cried the
old woman.
"I'll work for you both, mother," replied the son.
"An' how could a lady live on we'er poor diet?" she
repeated.
"I'll work for her," was all Jamie's answer.
H e kept his word. The young lady was very sad for a
long time, and tears stole down her cheeks many an
evening while the old woman spun by the fire, and Jamie
made salmon nets, an accomplishment lately acquired by
him, in hopes of adding to the comfort of his guest.

56

CHANGELINGS.

But she was always gentle, and tried to smile when she
perceived them looking at her; and by degrees she adapted
herself to their, ways and mode of life. It was not very
long before she began to feed the pig, mash potatoes and
meal for the fowls, and knit blue worsted socks.
So a year passed, and Halloween came round again.
" Mother," said Jamie, taking down his cap, " I'm off to the
ould castle to seek my fortune."
"Are you mad, Jamie?" cried his mother, in terror; "sure
they'll kill you this time for what you done on them last
year."
Jamie made light oi her fears and went his way.
As he reached the crab-tree grove, he saw bright lights in
the castle windows as before, and heard loud talking.
Creeping under the window, he heard the wee folk say,
" That was a poor trick Jamie Freel played us this night
.ctst year, when he stole the nice young lady from us."
"Ay," said the tiny woman, "an* I punished him for it,
for there she sits, a dumb image by his hearth; but he does
na' know that three drops out o' this glass I hold in my
hand wad gie her her hearing. and her speeches back
again."
Jamie's heart beat fast as he entered the hall. Again he
was greeted by a chorus of welcomes from the company—
" Here comes Jamie Freel! welcome, welcome, Jamie !"
As soon as the tumult subsided, the little woman said,
" You be to drink our health, Jamie, out o' this glass in my
hand."
Jamie snatched the glass from her and darted to the
door.
H e never knew how he reached his cabin, but
he arrived there breathless, and sank on a stove by the
fire.
"You're kilt surely this time, my poor boy," said his
mother.
"No, indeed, better luck than ever this time!" and he
gave the lady three drops of the liquid that still remained at
the bottom of the glass, notwithstanding his mad race over
the potato-field.

JAMIE

FREEL

AND THE

YOUNG LADY. 57

The lady began to speak, and her first words were words
of thanks to Jamie.
The three inmates of the cabin had so much to say to
one another, that long after cock-crow, when the fairy music
had quite ceased, they were talking round the fire.
" Jamie," said the lady, " b e pleased to get me paper and
pen and ink, that I may write to my father, and tell him
what has become of me."
She wrote, but weeks passed, and she received no answer.
Again and again she wrote, and still no answer.
At length she said, "You must come with me to Dublin,
Jamie, to find my father."
" I ha' no money to hire a car for you," he replied, "an'
how can you travel to Dublin on your foot ? "
But she implored him so much that he consented to set
out with her, and walk all the way from Fannet to Dublin.
It was not as easy as the fairy journey; but at last they
rang the bell at the door of the house in Stephen's
Green.
"Tell my father that his daughter is here/' said she to
the servant who opened the door.
" The gentleman that lives here has no daughter, my girl
H e had one, but she died better nor a year ago."
" D o you not know me, Sullivan?"
" N o , poor girl, I do not."
" L e t me see the gentleman. I only ask to see him."
"Well, that's not much to ax; we'll see what can be
done."
In a few moments the lady's father came to the door.
"Dear father," said she, "don't you know m e ? "
" H o w dare you call me your father?" cried the old
gentleman, angrily. "You are an impostor. I have no
daughter."
"Look in my face, father, and surely you'll remember
me."
"My daughter is dead and buried. She died a long,
long time ago." The old gentleman's voice changed from
anger to sorrow. "You can go," he concluded.

58

CHANGELINGS.

" Stop, dear father, till you look at this ring on my finger.
Look at your name and mine engraved on it."
" I t certainly is my daughter's ring; but I do not know
how you came by it. I fear in no honest way."
" Call my mother, she will be sure to know me," said the
poor girl, who, by this time, was crying bitterly.
" My poor wife is beginning to forget her sorrow. She
seldom speaks of her daughter now. Why should I renew
her grief by reminding her of her loss ? "
But the young lady persevered, till at last the mother was
sent for.
"Mother," she began, when the old lady came to the
door, "don'tyou know your daughter?"
" I have no daughter; my daughter died and was buried
a long, long time ago."
" Only look in my face, and surely you'll know me."
The old lady shook her head.
"You have all forgotten me; but look at this mole on my
neck. Surely, mother, you know me now ? "
" Yes, yes," said the mother, " my Gracie had a mole on
her neck like that; but then I saw her in her coffin, and
saw the lid shut down upon her."
It became Jamie's turn to speak, and he gave the
history of the fairy journey, of the theft of the young
lady, of the figure he had seen laid in its place, of her
life with his mother in Fannet, of last Halloween, and
of the three drops that had released her from her enchantment.
She took up the story when he paused, and told how
kind the mother and son had been to her.
The parents could not make enough of Jamie. They
treated him with every distinction, and when he expressed
his wish to return to Fannet, said they did not know what
to do to show their gratitude.
But an awkward complication arose.
The daughter
would not let him go without her. " If Jamie goes, Fll go
too," she said. " H e saved me from the fairies, and has
worked for me ever since. If it had not been for him, dear

THE STOLEN

CHILD.

59

father and mother, you would never have seen me again.
If he goes, I'll go too.5'
This being her resolution, the old gentleman said that
Jamie should become his son-in-law. The mother was
brought from Fannet in a coach and four, and there was
a splendid wedding.
They all lived together in the grand Dublin house, and
Jamie was heir to untold wealth at his father-in-law's death.

T H E STOLEN CHILD.
W. B. YEATS.

W H E R E dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats.
There we've hid our fairy vats
Full of berries,
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O, human child !
To the woods and waters wild,
With a fairy hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than
you can understand.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands, and mingling glances,
Till the moon has taken flight;

CHANGELINGS.
To and fro we leap,
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles.
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away ! O, human child !
To the woods and waters wild,
With a fairy hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than
you can understand.
Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes,
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout,
And whispering in their ears \
We give them evil dreams,
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Of dew on the young streams.
Come ! O, human child !
To the woods and waters wild,
With a fairy hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping thai>
you can understand.
Away with us, he's going,
The solemn-eyed;
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hill-side.
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast;
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the woods and waters wild,
With a fairy hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than
he can understand.

THE TROOPING FAIRIES.
THE

MERROW.

The Merrow, or if you write it in the Irish, Moruadh or
Murrughach, from muir, sea, and oighy a maid, is not uncommon, they say, on the wilder coasts. The fishermen do
not like to see them, for it always means coming gales.
The male Merrows (if VQU can use such a phrase—I have
never heard the masculine of Merrow) have green teeth,
green hair, pig's eyes, and red noses; but their women
are beautiful, for all their fish tails and the little duck-like scale
between their fingers. Sometimes they prefer, small blame to
them, good-looking fishermen ta their sea lovers. Near
Bantry, in the last century, there is said to have been a
woman covered all over with scales like a fish, who was
descended from such a marriage. Sometimes they come out of
the sea, and wander about the shore in the shape of little
hornless cows. They have, when in their own shape, a red cap,
called a cohullen druith^ usually covered with feathers. If this
is stolen, they cannot again go down under the waves.
Red is the colour of magic in every country, and has been so
from the very earliest times. The caps of fairies and magicians
are well-nigh always red.
T H E SOUL CAGES.
T. CROFTON CROKER.

JACK DOGHERTY lived on the coast of the county Clare.
Jack was a fisherman, as his father and grandfather before
him had been. Like them, too, he lived all alone (but for

62

THE

MERROW.

the wife), and just in the same spot. People used to
wonder why the Dogherty family were so fond of that wild
situation, so far away from all human kind, and in the
midst of huge shattered rocks, with nothing but the wide
ocean to look upon. But they had their own good reasons
for it.
The place was just the only spot on that part of the coast
where anybody could well live. There was a neat little
creek, where a boat might lie as snug as a puffin in her
nest, and out from this creek a ledge of sunken rocks ran
into the sea. Now when the Atlantic, according to custom,
was raging with a storm, and a good westerly wind was
blowing strong on the coast, many a richly-laden ship went
to pieces on these rocks ; and then the fine bales of cotton
and tobacco, and such like things, and the pipes of wine,
and the puncheons of rum, and the casks of brandy, and
the kegs of Hollands that used to come ashore ! Dunbeg
Bay was just like a little estate to the Doghertys,
Not but they were kind and humane to a distressed
sailor, if ever one had the good luck to get to land; and
many a time indeed did Jack put out in his little corragh
(which, though not quite equal to honest Andrew
Hennessy's canvas life-boat, would breast the billows like
any gannet), to lend a hand towards bringing off the «crew
from a wreck. But when the ship had gone to pieces, and
the crew were all lost, who would blame Jack for picking up
all he could find ?
" And who is the worse of it ? " said he. (C For as to
the king, God bless him! everybody knows he's rich
enough already without getting what's floating in the sea."
Jack, though such a hermit, was a good-natured, jolly
fellow. No other, sure, could ever have coaxed Biddy
Mahony to quit her father's snug and warm house in the
middle of the town of Ennis, and to go so many miles off to
live among the rocks, with the seals and sea-gulls for nextdoor neighbours. But Biddy knew that Jack was the man
for a woman who wished to be comfortable and happy ; for,
to say nothing of the fish, Jack had the supplying of half

THE

SOUL

CAGES.

63

the gentlemen's houses of the country with the Godsends
that came into the bay. And she was right in her choice ;
for no woman ate, drank, or slept better, or made a
prouder appearance at chapel on Sundays, than Mrs.
Dogherty.
Many a strange sight, it may well be supposed, did Jack
see, and many a strange sound did he hear, but nothing
daunted him. So far was he from being afraid of Merrows,
or such beings, that the very first wish of his heart was to
fairly meet with one. Jack had heard that they were
mighty like Christians, and that luck had always come out
of an acquaintance with them. Never, therefore, did he
dimly discern the Merrows moving along the face of the
waters in their robes of mist, but he made direct for them ;
and many a scolding did Biddy, in her own quiet way,
bestow upon Jack for spending his whole day out at sea,
and bringing home no fish. Little did poor Biddy know
the fish Jack was after J
It was rather annoying to Jack that, though living in a place
where the Merrows were as plenty as lobsters, he never could
get a right view of one. What vexed him more was that both
his father and grandfather had often and often seen them ;
and he even remembered hearing, when a child, how his
grandfather, who was the first of the family that had settled
down at the creek, had been so intimate with a Merrow
that, only for fear of vexing the priest, he would have had
him stand for one of his children. This, however, Jack did
not well know how to believe.
Fortune at length began to think that it was only right
that Jack should know as much as his father and grandfather did. Accordingly, one day when he had strolled a
little farther than usual along the coast to the northward,
just as he turned a point, he saw something, like to nothing
he had ever seen before, perched upon a rock at a little
distance out to sea. It looked green in the body, as well as
he could discern at that distance, and he would have sworn,
only the thing was impossible, that it had a cocked hat in
its hand. Jack stood for a good half-hour straining his eye?.

64

THE

MERROW.

and wondering at it, and all the time the thing did not stir
hand or foot. At last Jack's patience was quite worn out,
and he gave a loud whistle and a hail, when the Merrow
(for such it was) started up, put the cocked hat on its head,
and dived down, head foremost, from the rock.
Jack's curiosity was now excited, and he constantly
directed his steps towards the point; still he could never
get a glimpse of the sea-gentleman with the cocked h a t ;
and with thinking and thinking about the matter, he began
at last to fancy he had been only dreaming. One very
rough day, however, when the sea was running mountains
high, Jack Dogherty determined to give a look at the
Merrow's rock (for he had always chosen a fine day before),
and then he saw the strange thing cutting capers upon the
top of the rock, and then diving down, and then coming up,
and then diving down again.
Jack had now only to choose his time (that is, a good
blowing day), and he might see the man of the sea as often
as he pleased. All this, however, did not satisfy him—" much will have more ; " he wished now to get acquainted
with the Merrow, and even in this he succeeded. One
tremendous blustering day, before he got to the point
whence he had a view of the Merrow's rock, the storm
came en so furiously that Jack was obliged to take shelter
in one of the caves which are so numerous along the coast;
and there, to his astonishment, he saw sitting before him a
thing with green hair, long green teeth, a red nose, and pig's
eyes. It had a fish's tail, legs with scales on them, and
short arms like fins. It wore no clothes, but had the cocked
hat under its arm, and seemed engaged thinking very
seriously about something.
Jack, with all his courage, was a little daunted; but now
or never, thought h e ; so up he went boldly to the
cogitating Ashman, took off his hat, and made his best
bow.
" Your servant, sir," said Jack.
"Your servant, kindly, Jack Dogherty," answered the
Merrow.

THE

SOUL

CAGES.

65

" T o be sure, then, how well your honour knows my
name !" said Jack.
" Is it I not know your name, Jack Dogherty ? Why,
man, I knew your grandfather long before he was married
to Judy Regan, your grandmother ! Ah, Jack, Jack, I was
fond of that grandfather of yours ; he was a mighty worthy
man in his time : I never met his match above or below,
before or since, for sucking in a shellful of brandy. I hope,
my boy," said the old fellow, with a merry twinkle in his
eyes, " I hope you're his own grandson ! "
" Never fear me for that," said J a c k ; " if my mother had
only reared me on brandy, 'tis myself that would be a
sucking infant to this hour !"
" Well, I like to hear you talk so manly; you and I must
be better acquainted, if it were only for your grandfather's
sake. But, Jack, that father of yours was not the thing! he
had no head at all."
" I'm sure," said Jack, " since your honour lives down
under the water, you must be obliged to drink a power to
keep any heat in you in such a cruel, damp, could
place. Well, I've often heard of Christians drinking like
fishes; and might I be so bold as ask where you get the
spirits ? "
"Where do .you get them yourself, J a c k ? " said the
Merrow, twitching his red nose between his forefinger and
thumb.
" Hubbubboo," cries Jack, "now I see how it i s ; but I
suppose, sir, your honour has got a fine dry cellar below to
keep them in."
" Let me alone for the cellar," said the Merrow, with a
knowing wink of his left eye.
" I ' m sure," continued Jack, " i t must be mighty well
worth the looking at."
"You may say that, Jack," said the Merrow; "and if
you meet me here next Monday, just at this time of the
day, we will have a little more talk with one another about
the matter."
Jack and the Merrow parted the best friends in the world.
520

66

THE

MERROW.

On Monday they met, and Jack was not a little surprised to
see that the Merrow had two cocked hats with him, one
under each arm.
"Might I take the liberty to ask, sir," said Jack, "why
your honour has brought the two hats with you to day?
You would not, sure, be going to give me one of them,
to keep for the curiosity of the thing ? "
" No, no, Jack," said he, " I don't get my hats so easily,
to part with them that way; but I want you to come down
and dine with me, and I brought you the hat to dine with."
" Lord bless and preserve u s ! " cried Jack, in amazement, " would you want me to go down to the bottom of
the salt sea ocean ? Sure, I'd be smothered and choked up
with the water, to say nothing c:" being drowned ! And what
would poor Biddy do for me, and what would she say ? "
" And what matter what she says, you fiinkeen ? Who
cares for Biddy's squalling? It's long before your grandfather would have talked in that way. Many's the time he
stuck that same hat on his head, and dived down boldly
after m e ; and many's the snug bit of dinner and good
shellful of brandy he and I have had together below, under
the water."
" Is it rea41y, sir, and no joke ? " said Jack; " why, then,
sorrow from me for ever and a day after,.if I'll be a bit
worse man nor my grandfather was ! Here goes—but play
me fair now. Here's neck or nothing! " cried Jack.
" That's your grandfather all over," said the old fellow;
" so come along, then, and do as I do."
They both left the cave, walked into the sea, and then
swam a piece until they got to the rock. The Merrow
climbed to the top of it, and Jack followed him.
On the
far side it was as straight as the wall of a house, and the
sea beneath looked so deep that Jack was almost cowed.
"Now, do you see, Jack," said the Merrow: "just put
this hat on your head, and mind to keep your eyes wide
open. Take hold of my tail, and follow after me, and you'll
see what you'll see."
In he dashed, and in dashed Jack after him boldly.

THE

SOUL

CAGES.

67

They went and they went, and Jack thought they'd never
stop going. Many a time did he wish himself sitting at
home by the fireside with Biddy. Yet where was the useN
of wishing now, when he was so many miles, as he thought,
below the waves of the Atlantic ? Still he held hard by
the Merrow's tail, slippery as it was ; and, at last, to Jack's
great surprise, they got out of the water, and he actually
found himself on dry land at the bottom of the sea. They
landed just in front of a nice house that was slated very
neatly with oyster shells ! and the Merrow, turning about to
Jack, welcomed him down.
Jack could hardly speak, what with wonder, and what
with being out of breath with, travelling so fast through
the water. H e looked about him and could see no living
things, barring crabs and lobsters, of which there were
plenty walking leisurely about on the sand. Overhead was
the sea like a sky, and the fishes like birds swimming about
in it.
" Why don't you speak, man ?" said the Merrow : " I
dare say you had* no notion that I had such a snug little
concern here as this? Are you smothered, or choked, or
drowned, or are you fretting after Biddy, eh ? "
" Oh ! not myself, indeed," said Jack, showing his teeth
with a good-humoured grin ; " but who in the world would
ever have thought of seeing such a thing ? "
" Well, come along, and let's see what they've got for us
to e a t ? "
Jack really was hungry, and it gave him no small pleasure
to perceive a fine column of smoke rising from the chimney,
announcing what was going on within. Into the house he
followed the Merrow, and there he saw a good kitchen,
right well provided with everything. There was a noble
dresser, and plenty of pots and pans, with two young
Merrows cooking. His host then led him into the room,
which was furnished shabbily enough. Not a table or a
chair was there in i t ; nothing but planks and logs of wood
to sit on, and eat off. There was, however, a good fire
blazing upon the hearth—a comfortable sight to Jack.

68

THE

MERROW,

" Come now, and I'll show you where I keep—you know
what," said the Merrow, with a sly look; and opening a
little door, he led Jack into a fine cellar, well filled with
pipes, and kegs, and hogsheads, and barrels.
" What do you say to that, Jack Dogherty ? Eh ! may
be a body can't live snug under the water ? "
" Never the doubt of that," said Jack, with a convincing
smack of his under lip, that he really thought what he said.
They went back to the room, and found dinner laid.
There was no tablecloth, to be sure—but what matter?
It was not always Jack had one at home. The dinner
would have been no discredit to the first house of the
country on a fast day. -The choicest of fish, and no
wonder, was there. Turbots, and sturgeons, and soles,
and lobsters, and oysters, and twenty other kinds, were on
the planks at once, and plenty of the best of foreign
spirits. The wines, the old fellow said, were too cold for
his stomach.
Jack ate and drank till he could eat no more: then,
taking up a shell of brandy, " Here's to your honour's good
health, sir," said h e ; " though, begging you pardon, it's
mighty odd that as long as we've been acquainted I don't
know your name yet."
"That's true, Jack," replied he j " I never thought of it
before, but better late than never. My name's Coomara."
" And a mighty decent name it is," cried Jack, taking
another shellfull: " here's to your good health, Coomara,
and may ye live these fifty years to come ! *
" Fifty years !" repeated Coomara; " I'm obliged to you,
indeed ! If you had said five hundred, it would have been
something worth the wishing."
" By the laws, sir," cries Jack, "youz live to a powerful
age here under the water ! You knew my grandfather, and
he's dead and gone better than these sixty years. I'm sure
it must be a healthy place to live in."
" N o doubt of i t ; but come, Jack, keep the liquor
stirring."
Shell after shell did they empty, and to Jack's exceeding

THE SOUL

CAGES.

69

surprise, he found the drink never got into his head, owing,
I suppose, to the sea being over them, which kept their
noddles cool.
Old Coomara got exceedingly comfortable, and sung
several songs; but Jack, if his life had depended on it, never
could remember more than
" Rum fum boodle boo,
Ripple dipple nitty dob ;
Dumdoo doodle coo,
Raffle taffle chittiboo I"

It was the chorus to one of them; and, to say the truth,
nobody that I know has ever been able to pick any particular meaning out of it; but that, to be sure, is the case
with many a song nowadays.
At length said he to Jack, " Now, my dear boy, if you
follow me, I'll show you my curiosities!"
H e opened a
little door, and led Jack into a large room, where Jack saw
a great many odds and ends that Coomara had picked up at
one time or another. What chiefly took his attention, however, were things like lobster-pots ranged on the ground
along the wall.
" Well, Jack, how do you like my curiosities ?" said old
Coo.
"Upon my sowkins* sir," said Jack, " they're mighty well
worth the looking a t ; but might I make so bold as to ask
what these things like lobster-pots are ? "
" O h I the Soul Cages, is i t ? "
" T h e what? sir!"
" These things here that I keep the souls in."
" A r r a h f what souls, s i r ? " said Jack, in amazement;
" sure the fish have no souls in them ? "
" O h ! no," replied Coo, quite coolly, "that they have not;
but these are the souls of drowned sailors."
" The Lord preserve us from all h a r m ! " muttered Jack,
"how in the world did you get them?"
"Easily enough: I've only, when I see a good storm
* SowkinSy diminutive of souL

JO

THE

MERROW.

coming on, to set a couple of dozen of these, and then,
when the sailors are drowned and the souls get out of them
under the water, the poor things are almost perished to
death, not being used to the cold; so they make into my
pots for shelter, and then I have them snug, and fetch them
home, and keep them here dry and warm; and is it not well
for them, poor souls, to get into such good quarters ? "
Jack was so thunderstruck he did not know what to say,
so he said nothing. They went back into the dining-room,
and had a little more brandy, which was excellent, and then,
as Jack knew that it must be getting late, and as Biddy
might be uneasy, he stood up, and said he thought it was
time for him to be on the road.
1
'Just as you like, Jack," said Coo, " b u t take a due an
durrus* before you g o ; youVe a cold journey before you."
Jack knew better manners than to refuse the parting glass.
" I wonder," said he, "will I be able to make out my way
home ? "
"What should ail you," said Coo, "when Til show you
the way ? "
Out they went before the house, and Coomara took one
of the cocked hats, and put it upon Jack's head the wrong
way, and then lifted him up on his shoulder that he might
launch him up into the water.
"Now," says he, giving him a heave, "you'll come up
just in the same spot you came down i n ; and, Jack, mind
and throw me back the hat."
H e canted Jack off his shoulder, and up he shot like
a bubble—whirr, whirr, whiz—away he went up through the
water, till he came to the very rock he had jumped off,
where he found a landing-place, and then in he threw the
hat, which sunk like a stone.
The sun was just going down in the beautiful sky of a
calm summer's evening. Feascor was seen dimly twinkling
in the cloudless heaven, a solitary star, and the waves of
the Atlantic flashed in a golden flood of light. So Jack,
* Rede, deoch an dorrus—door-drink or stirrup-cup.

THE SOUL

CAGES.

n

perceiving it was late, set off home; but when he got there,
not a word did he say to Biddy of where he had spent
his day.
The state of the poor souls cooped up in the lobster-pots
gave Jack a great deal of trouble, and how to release them
cost him a great deal of thought. H e at first had a mind
to speak to the priest about the matter. But what could
the priest do, and what did Coo care for the priest? Besides, Coo was a good sort of an old fellow, and did not
think he was doing any harm. Jack had a regard for him,
too, "and it also might not be much to his own credit if it
were known that he used to go dine with Merrows. On the
whole, he thought his best plan would be to ask Coo to
dinner, and to make him drunk, if he was able, and then to
take the hat and go down and turn up the pots. It was,
first of all, necessary, however, to get Biddy out of the way;
for Jack was prudent enough, as she was a woman, to wish
to keep the thing secret from her.
Accordingly, Jack grew mighty pious all of a sudden, and
said to Biddy that he thought it would be for the good of
both their souls if she was to go and take her rounds at
Saint John's Well, near Ennis. Biddy thought so too, and
accordingly off she set one fine morning at day-dawn, giving
Jack a strict charge to have an eye to the place. The coast
being clear, away went Jack to the rock to give the appointed signal to Coomara, which was throwing a big stone
into the water. Jack threw, and up sprang Coo !
"Good morning, Jack," said h e ; ''what do you want
with me ? "
" Just nothing at all to speak about, sir," returned Jack,
" only to come and take a bit of dinner with me, if I might
make so free as to ask you, and sure I'm now after doing
so."
" It's quite agreeable, Jack, I assure you; what's your
hour?"
" Any time that's most convenient to you, sir—say one
o'clock, that you may go home, if you wish, with the
daylight."

72

THE

MERROW.

" I'll be with you," said Coo, " never fear me,"
Jack went home, and dressed a noble fish dinner, and
got out plenty of his best foreign spirits, enough, for that
matter, to make twenty men drunk. Just to the minute
came Coo, with his cocked hat under his arm. Dinner was
ready, they sat down, and ate and drank away manfully.
Jack, thinking of the poor souls below in the pots, plied old
Coo well with brandy, and encouraged him to sing, hoping
to put him under the table, but poor Jack forgot that he had
not the sea over his own head to keep it cool. The brandy
got into it, and did his business for him, and Coo reeled off
home, leaving his entertainer as dumb as a haddock on a
Good Friday.
Jack never woke till the next morning, and then he was
in a sad way. " 'Tis to no use for me thinking to make that
old Rapparee drunk," said Jack, "and how in this world can
I help the poor souls out of the lobster-pots ?" After
ruminating nearly the whole day, a thought struck him.
" I have it," says he, slapping his knee; " I'll be sworn that
Coo never saw a drop of poteen^ as old as he is, and that's
the thing to settle h i m ! Oh ! then, is not it well that
Biddy will not be home these two days yet; I can have
another twist at him."
Jack asked Coo again, and Coo laughed at him for having
no better head, telling him he'd never come up to his
grandfather.
" Well, but try me again," said Jack, " and I'll be bail to
drink you drunk and sober, and drunk again."
" Anything in my power," said Coo, " to oblige you."
At this dinner Jack took care to have his own liquor well
watered, and to give the strongest brandy he had to Coo.
At last says he, "Pray, sir, did you ever drink any poteen?
—any real mountain dew ? "
" N o , " says Coo; "what's that, and where does it come
from?"
" O h , that's a secret," said Jack, " b u t it's the right stuff
—never believe me again, if 'tis not fifty times as good as
brandy or rum either. Biddy's brother just sent me a

THE SOUL

CAGES.

n

present of a little drop, in exchange for some brandy, and
as you're an old friend of the family, I kept it to treat
you with."
"Well, let's see what sort of thing it is," said Coomara.
The poteen was the right sort. It was first-rate, and had
the real smack upon it. Coo was delighted: he drank and
he sung Rum bum boodle boo over and over again; and he
laughed and he danced, till he fell on the floor fast asleep.
Then Jack, who had taken good care to keep himself sober,
snapt up the cocked hat—ran off to the rock—leaped in,
and soon arrived at Coo's habitation.
All was as still as a churchyard at midnight—not a
Merrow, old or young, was there. In he went and turned
np the pots, but nothing did he see, only he heard a sort of
a little whistle or chirp as he raised each of them. At this
he was surprised, till he recollected what the priests had
often said, that nobody living could see the soul, no more
than they could see the wind or the air. Having now done
all that he could do for them, he set the pots as they were
before, and sent a blessing after the poor souls to speed
them on their journey wherever they were going. Jack
now began to think of returning; he put the hat on, as was
right, the wrong way; but when he got out he found the
water so high over his head that he had no hopes of ever
getting up into it, now that he had not old Coomara to give
him a lift. H e walked about looking for a ladder, but not
one could he find, and not a rock was there in sight. At
last he saw a spot where the sea hung rather lower than anywhere else, so he resolved to try there. Just as he came to
it, a big cod happened to put down his tail. Jack made a
jump and caught hold of it, and the cod, all in amazement,
gave a bounce and pulled Jack up The minute the hat
touched the water away Jack was whisked, and up he shot
like a cork, dragging the poor cod, that he forgot to let go,
up with him tail foremost.
He got to the rock in no time,
and without a moment's delay hurried home, rejoicing in
the good deed he had done.
But, meanwhile, there was fine work at h o m e ; for our

74

THE

MERROW.

friend Jack had hardly left the house on his soul-freeing
expedition, when back came Biddy from her soul-saving
one to the well. When she entered the house and saw the
things lying thrie-na-helah* on the table before her—" Here's
a pretty job !" said she; " that blackguard of mine—what
ill-luck I had ever to marry him! H e has picked up some
vagabond or other, while I was praying for the good of his
soul, and they've been drinking all the poteen that my own
brother gave him, and all the spirits, to be sure, that he was
to have sold to his honour." Then hearing an outlandish
kind of a grunt, she looked down, and saw Coomara lying
under the table. " T h e blessed Virgin help me," shouted
she, "if he has not made a real beast of himself! Well,
well, I've often heard of a man making a beast of himself
with drink ! Oh hone, oh hone!—Jack, honey, what will
I do with you, or what will I do without you ? How can
any decent woman ever think of living with a beast?"
With such like lamentations Biddy rushed out of the
house, and was going she knew not where, when she heard
the well-known voice of Jack singing a merry tune. Glad
enough was Biddy to find him safe and sound, and not
turned into a thing that was like neither fish nor flesh.
Jack was obliged to tell her all, and Biddy, though she had
half a mind to be angry with him for not telling her before,
owned that he had done a great service to the poor souls.
Back they both went most lovingly to the house, and Jack
wakened up Coomara; and, perceiving the old fellow to be
rather dull, he bid him not to be cast down, for 'twas many
a good man's case; said it all came of his not being used
to the poteen, and recommended him, by way of cure, to
swallow a hair of the dog that bit him. Coo, however,
seemed to think he had had quite enough. H e got up,
quite out of sorts, and without having the manners to say
one word in the way of civility, he sneaked off to cool
himself by a jaunt through the salt water.
Coomara never missed the souls. H e and Jack con* Tri-na-cheile, literacy through other—i.e.* higgledy-piggledy.

FLOR Y CANTILLON'S

FUNERAL,

75

tinued the best friends in the world, and no one, perhaps,
ever equalled Jack for freeing souls from purgatory; for
he contrived fifty excuses for getting into the house below
the sea, unknown to the old fellow, and then turning up the
pots and letting out the souls. It vexed him, to be sure,
that he could never see them; but as he knew the thing to
be impossible, he was obliged to be satisfied.
Their intercourse continued for several years. However,
one.morning, on Jack's throwing in a stone as usual, he got
no answer. H e flung another, and another, still there was
no reply. H e went away, and returned the following morning, but it was to no purpose. As he was without the hat,
he could not go down to see what had become of old Coo,
but his belief was, that the old man, or the old fish, or
whatever he was, had either died, or had removed from that
part of the country.

F L O R Y CANTILLON'S F U N E R A L .
T. CROFTON CROKER.

T H E ancient burial-place of the Cantillon family was on an
island in Ballyheigh Bay. This island was situated at no
great distance from the shore, and at a remote period was
overflowed in one of the encroachments which the Atlantic
has made on that part of the coast of Kerry. The fishermen declare they have often seen the ruined walls of an old
chapel beneath them in the water, as they sailed over the
clear green sea of a sunny afternoon. However this may
be, it is well-known that the Cantillons were, like most
other Irish families, strongly attached to their ancient
burial-place; and this attachment led to the custom, when
any of the family died, of carrying the corpse to the seaside, where the coffin was left on the shore within reach of
the tide. In the morning it had disappeared, being, as

76

THE

MERROW.

was traditionally believed, conveyed away by the ancestors
of the deceased to their family tomb.
Connor Crowe, a county Clare man, was related to the
Cantillons by marriage. " Connor Mac in Cruagh, of the
seven quarters of Breintragh," as he was commonly called,
and a proud man he was of the name. Connor, be it
known, would drink a quart of salt water, for its medicinal
virtues, before breakfast; and for the same reason, I
suppose, double that quantity of raw whiskey between
breakfast and night, which last he did with as little inconvenience to himself as any man in the barony of Moyferta;
and were I to add Clanderalaw and Ibrickan, I don't think
I should say wrong.
On the death of Florence Cantillon, Connor Crowe was
determined to satisfy himself about the truth of this story
of the old church under the sea: so when he heard the
news of the old fellow's death, away with him to Ardfert,
where Flory was laid out in high style, and a beautiful
corpse he made.
Flory had been as jolly and as rollicking a boy in his day
as ever was stretched, and his wake was in every respect
worthy of him. There was all kind of entertainment, and all
sort of diversion at it, and no less than three girls got
husbands there—more luck to them. Everything was as it
should b e ; all that side of the country, from Dingle to
Tarbert, was at the funeral. The Keen was sung long and
bitterly; and, according to the family custom, the coffin was
carried to Ballyheigh strand, where it was laid upon the
shore, with a prayer for the repose of the dead.
The mourners departed, one group after another, and at
last Connor Crowe was left alone. H e then pulled out his
whiskey bottle, his drop of comfort, as he called it, which he
required, being in grief; and down he sat upon a big stone
that was sheltered by a projecting rock, and partly concealed
from view, to await with patience the ^appearance of the
ghostly undertakers.
The evening came on mild and beautiful. H e whistled an
old air which he had heard in his childhood, hoping to keep

FLORY

CANTILLOWS

FUNERAL.

r?

idle fears out of his head; but the wild strain of that melody
brought a thousand recollections with it, which only made
the twilight appear more pensive.
"If 'twas near the gloomy tower of Dunmore, in my own
sweet country, I was," said Connor Crowe, with a sigh, " one
might well believe that the prisoners, who were murdered
long ago there in the vaults under the castle, would be the
hands to carry off the coffin out of envy, for never a one of
them was buried decently, nor had as much as a coffin
amongst them all. Tis often, sure enough, I have heard
lamentations and great mourning coming from the vaults of
Dunmore Castle; but," continued he, after fondly pressing
his lips to the mouth of his companion and silent comforter,
the whiskey bottle, "didn't I know all the time well enough,
'twas the dismal sounding waves working through the cliffs
and hollows of the rocks, and fretting themselves to foam.
Oh, then, Dunmore Castle, it is you that are the gloomylooking tower on a gloomy day, with the gloomy hills behind
you; when one has gloomy thoughts on their heart, and sees
you like a ghost rising out of the smoke made by the kelp
burners on the strand, there is, the Lord save us ! as fearful
a look about you as about the Blue Man's Lake at midnight.
Well, then, anyhow,* said Connor, after a pause, " is it not a
blessed night, though surely the moon looks mighty pale in
the face ? St. Senan himself between us and all kinds of
harm."
It was, in truth, a lovely moonlight night; nothing was to
be seen around but the dark rocks, and the white pebbly
beach, upon which the sea broke with a hoarse and melancholy murmur. Connor, notwithstanding his frequent
draughts, felt rather queerish, and almost began to repent
his curiosity. It was certainly a solemn sight to behold the
black coffin resting upon the-white strand. His imagination
gradually converted the deep moaning of old ocean into a
mournful wail for the dead, and from the shadowy recesses
of the rocks he imaged forth strange and visionary forms.
As the night advanced, Connor became weary with
watching. He caught himself more than once in the act

78

THE

MERROW.

of nodding, when suddenly giving his head a shake, he
would look towards the black coffin.
But the narrow
house of death remained unmoved before him.
It was long past midnight, and the moon was sinking
into the sea, when he heard the sound of many voices,
which gradually became stronger, above the heavy and
monotonous roll of the sea. H e listened, and presently
could distinguish a Keen of exquisite sweetness, the notes
of which rose and fell with the heaving of the waves, whose
deep murmur mingled with and supported the strain !
The Keen grew louder and louder, and seemed to
approach the beach, and then fell into a low, plaintive wail.
As it ended Connor beheld a number of strange and, in the
dim light, mysterious-looking figures emerge from the sea,
and surround the coffin, which they prepared to launch into
the water.
"This comes of marrying with the creatures of earth,"
said one of the figures, in a clear, yet hollow tone.
"True," replied another, with a voice still more fearful,
"our king would never have commanded his gnawing
white-toothed waves to devour the rocky roots of the island
cemetery, had not his daughter, Durfulla, been buried there
by her mortal husband!"
" But the time will come," said a third, bending over the
coffin,
" When mortal eye—our work shall spy,
And mortal ear—our dirge shall hear."

"Then," said a fourth, "our burial of the Cantillons is at
an end for ever!"
As this was spoken the coffin was borne from the beach
by a retiring wave, and the company of sea people prepared
to follow i t ; but at the mome.nt one chanced to discover
Connor Crowe, as fixed with wonder and as motionless with
fear as the stone on which he sat.
" T h e time is come," cried the unearthly being, "the
time is come; a human eye looks on the forms of ocean,
a human ear has heard their voices. Farewell to the

FLOE Y CANTILLON>S

FUNERAL.

79

Cantillons; the sons of the sea are no longer doomed to
bury the dust of the earth!"
One after the other turned slowly round, and regarded
Connor Crowe, who still remained as if bound by a spell.
Again arose their funeral song; and on the next wave they
followed the coffin. The sound of the lamentation died
away, and at length nothing was heard but the rush of
waters. The coffin and the train of sea people sank over
the old churchyard, and never since the funeral of old Flory
Cantillon have any of the family been carried to the strand
of Ballyheigh, for conveyance to their rightful burial-place,
beneath the waves of the Atlantic,

THE SOLITARY FAIRIES.
LEPRACAUN.

w

CLURICAUN.

FAR DARRIG.

T H E name Lepracaun? Mr. Douglas Hyde writes to me,
"is from the Irish leith brog—i.e., the One-shoemaker, since
he is generally seen working at a single shoe. It is spelt in
Irish leith bhrogan, or leith phrogan, and is in some places pronounced Luchryman, as O'Kearney writes it in that very rare
book, the Feis Tigh Chonain."
The Lepracaun, Cluricaun, and Far Darrig, Are these
one spirit in different moods and shapes? Hardly two Irish
writers are agreed. In many things these three fairies, if three,
resemble each other. They are withered, old, and solitary, in
every way unlike the sociable spirits of the first sections. They
dress with all unfairy homeliness, and are, indeed, most sluttish,
slouching, jeering, mischievous phantoms. They are the great
practical jokers among the good people.
The Lepracaun makes shoes continually, and has grown very
rich. Many treasure-crocks, buried of old in war-time, has he
now for his own. In the early part of this century, according
to Croker, in a newspaper office in Tipperary, they used to
show a little shoe forgotten by a Lepracaun.
The Cluricaun, (Clobhair-ceann, in O'Kearney) makes himself
drunk in gentlemen's cellars. Some suppose he is merely the
Lepracaun on a spree. He is almost unknown in Connaught
and the north.
The Far Darrig {fear dearg), which means the Red Man, for
he wears a red cap and coat, busies himself with practical
joking, especially with gruesome joking. This he does, and
nothing else.

THE LEPR AC A UN,

81

The Fear-Gorta (Man of Hunger) is an emaciated phantom
that goes through the land in famine time, begging an alms
and bringing good luck to the giver.
There are other solitary fairies, such as the House-spirit and
the Water-sheerie^ own brother to the English Jack-o'-Lantern ;
the Pooka and the Banshee—concerning these presently ; the
Dallahan, or headless phantom—one used to stand in a Sligo
street on dark nights till lately; the Black Dog, a form, perhaps, of the Pooka, The ships at the Sligo quays are haunted
sometimes by this spirit, who announces his presence by a
sound like the flinging of all "the tin porringers in the world"
down into the hold. He even follows them to sea.
The Leanhaun Shee (fairy mistress), seeks the love of mortals.
If they refuse, she must be their slave; if they consent, they are
hers, and can only escape by finding another to take their place.
The fairy lives on their life, and they waste away. # Death is no
escape from her. She is the Gaelic muse, for she gives inspiration to those she persecutes. The Gaelic poets die young, for
she is restless, and will not let them remain long on earth—this
malignant phantom.
Besides these are divers monsters—the Augh-iska^ the Waterhorse, the Payshtha {piast~destta\ the Lake-dragon, and such
like; but whether these be animals, fairies, or spirits, I know
not.
T H E L E P R A C A U N ; OR, FAIRY SHOEMAKER.
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.
I.

'

LITTLE Cowboy, what have you heard,
Up on the lonely rath's green mound ?
Only the plaintive yellow bird
Sighing in sultry fields around,
Chary, chary, chary, chee-ee !—
Only the grasshopper and the bee ?—
" Yellow bird," the yellow-bunting, oxyorlin,
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THE SOLITARY

FAIRIES,

" Tip tap, rip-rap,
Tick-a-tack-too!
Scarlet leather, sewn together,
This will make a shoe.
Left, right, pull it tight;
Summer days are warm \
Underground in winter,
Laughing at the storm !"
Lay your ear close to the hill.
Do you not catch the tiny clamour,
Busy click of an elfin hammer,
Voice of the Lepracaun singing shrill
As he merrily plies his trade ?
He's a span
And a quarter in height.
Get him in sight, hold him tight,
And you're a made
Man !
II.

You watch your cattle the summer day,
Sup on potatoes, sleep in the hay ;
How would you like to roll in your carriage,
Look for a duchess's daughter in marriage ?
Seize the Shoemaker—then you may !
" Big boots a-hunting,
Sandals in the hall,
White for a wedding-feast3
Pink for a ball.
This way, that way,
So we make a shoe;
Getting rich every stitch,
Tick-tack-too !"
Nine-and-ninety treasure-crocks
This keen miser-fairy hath,
Hid in mountains, woods, and rocks.
Ruin and round-tow'r, cave and rath,
And where the cormorants build ;

THE LEPRA CA UN.
From times of old
Guarded by him;
Each of them fill'd
Full to the brim
With gold!
in.

I caught him at work one day, myself,
In the castle-ditch, where foxglove grows,—•
A wrinkled, wizen'd, and bearded Elf,
Spectacles stuck on his pointed nose,
Silver buckles to his hose,
Leather apron—shoe in his lap—
"Rip-rap, tip-tap,
Tick-tack-too !
(A grasshopper on my cap !
Away the moth new!)
Buskins for a fairy prince,
Brogues for his son,—
Pay me well, pay me well,
When the job is done !9}
The rogue was mine, beyond a doubt.
I stared at him; he stared at me ;
" Servant, Sir ! " " Humph 1" says he,
And pulFd a snuff-box out.
He took a long pinch, look'd better pleased,
The queer little Lepracaun ;
Offer'd the box with a whimsical grace,-—
Pouf! he flung the dust in my face,
And, while I sneezed,
Was gone!

83

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FAIRIES.

MASTER AND MAN.
T, CROFTON CROKER,

BILLY MAC DANIEL was once as likely a young man as
ever shook his brogue at a patron,'55' emptied a quart,-or
handled a shillelagh; fearing for nothing but the want of
drink; caring for nothing but who should pay for i t ; and
thinking of nothing but how to make fun over it; drunk or
sober, a word and a blow was ever the way with Billy
Mac Daniel; and a mighty easy way it is of either getting
into or of ending a dispute. More is the pity that, through
the means of his thinking, and fearing, and caring for
nothing, this same Billy Mac Daniel fell into bad company;
for surely the good people are the worst of all company any
one could come across.
It so happened that Billy was going home one clear frosty
night not long after Christmas; the moon was round and
bright; but although it was as fine a night as heart could
wish for, he felt pinched with cold. " By my word," chattered Billy, " a drop of good liquor would be no bad thing
to keep a man's soul from freezing in him; and I wish I
had a full measure of the best."
"Never wish it twice, Billy," said a little man in a
three-cornered hat, bound all about with gold lace, and
with great silver buckles in his shoes, so big that it was a
wonder how he could carry them, and he held out a glass
as big as himself, filled with as good liquor as ever eye
looked on or lip tasted.
" Success, my little fellow," said Billy Mac Daniel, nothing
daunted, though well he knew the little man to belong to
the good people; "here's your health, anyway, and thank
you kindly; no matter who pays for the d r i n k ; " and he
took the glass and drained it to the very bottom without
ever taking a second breath to it.
* A festival held in honour of some patron saint.

MASTER

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85

"Success," said the little m a n ; " a n d you're heartily
welcome, Billy; but don't think to cheat me as you have
done others,—out with your purse and pay me like a
gentleman."
" Is it I pay you ? " said Billy; " could I not just take
you up and put you in my pocket as easily as a blackberry?"
" Billy Mac Daniel," said the little man, getting very
angry, " you shall be my servant for seven years and a day,
and that is the way I will be paid ; so make ready to follow
me."
When Billy heard this he began to be very sorry for
having used such bold words towards the little m a n ; and
lie felt himself, yet could not tell how, obliged to follow the
little man the live-long night about the country, up and
down, and over hedge and ditch, and through bog and
brake, without any rest.
When morning began to dawn the little man turned
round to him and said, " You may now go home, Billy, but
on your peril don't fail to meet me in the Fort-field to-night;
or if you do it may be the worse for you in the long run.
If I find you a good servant, you will find me an indulgent
master."
Home went Billy Mac Daniel; and though he was tired
and weary enough, never a wink of sleep could he get for
thinking of the little m a n ; but he was afraid not to do his
bidding, so up he got in the evening, and away he went to
the Fort-field. H e was not long there before the little man
came towards him and said, " Billy, I want to go a long
journey to-night; so saddle one of my horses, and you may
saddle another for yourself, as you are to go along with me,
and may be tired after your walk last night."
Billy thought this very considerate of his master, and
thanked him accordingly-: "But," said he, " if I may be so
bold, sir, I would ask which is the way to your stable, for
never a thing do I see but the fort here, and the old thorn
tree in the corner of the field, and the stream running at
the bottom of the hill, with the bit of bog over against us."
" Ask no questions, Billy," said the little man, " but go

86

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FAIRIES.

over to that bit of bog, and bring me two of the strongest
rushes you can find."
Billy did accordingly, wondering what the little man
would be a t ; and he picked two of the stoutest rushes
he could find, with a little bunch of brown blossom stuck
at the side of each, and brought them back to his master.
" Get up, Billy," said the little man, taking one of the
rushes from him and striding across it.
"Where shall I get up, please your honour? 7 ' said
Billy.
"Why, upon horseback, like me, to be sure," said the
little man.
" I s it after making a fool of me you'd be," said Billy,
" bidding me get a horseback upon that bit of a rush ?
May be you want to persuade me that the rush I pulled but
a while ago out of the bog over there is a horse ? "
" U p ! u p ! and no words/' said the little man, looking
very angry; " the best horse you ever rode was but a fool to
it." So Billy, thinking all this was in joke, and fearing to
vex his master, straddled across the rush. " Borram!
Borram! Borram!" cried the little man three times
(which, in English, means to become great), and Billy did
the same after him; presently the rushes swelled up into fine
horses, and away they went full speed; but Billy, who had
put the rush between his legs, without much minding how
he did it, found himself sitting on horseback the wrong way,
which was rather awkward, with his face to the horse's tail;
and so quickly had his steed started off with him that he
had no power to turn round, and there was therefore nothing
for it but to hold on by the tail.
At last they came to their journey's end, and stopped at
the gate of a fine house. " Now, Billy," said the little man,
" do as you see me do, and follow me close; but as you did
not know your horse's head from his tail, mind that your own
head does not spin round until you can't tell whether you
are standing on it or on your heels ; for remember that old
liquor, though able to make a cat speak, can make a man
dumb."

MASTER

AND

MAN.

87

The little man then said some queer kind of words, out of
which Billy could make no meaning; but he contrived to
say them after him for all that; and in they both went
through the key-hole of the door, and through one key-hole
after another, until they got into the wine-cellar, which was
well stored with all kinds of wine.
The little man fell to drinking as hard as he could, and
Billy, noway disliking the example, did the same. " T h e
best of masters are you, surely," said Billy to him ; " n o
matter who is the next; and well pleased will I be with
your service if you continue to give me plenty to drink."
" I have made no bargain with you," said the little man,
" and will make n o n e ; but up and follow me." Away they
went, through key-hole after key-hole; and each mounting
upon the rush which he left at the hall door, scampered off,
kicking the clouds before them like snow-balls, as soon as
the words, " Borram, Borram, Borram," had passed their lips.
When they came back to the Fort-field the little man
dismissed Billy, bidding him to be there the next night at
the same hour. Thus did they go on, night after night*
shaping their course one night here, and another night
there; sometimes north, and sometimes east, and sometimes
south, until there was not a gentleman's wine-cellar in all
Ireland they had not visited, and could tell the flavour
of every wine in it as well, ay, better than the butler
himself.
One night when Billy Mac Daniel met the little man as
usual in the Fort-field, and was going to the bog to fetch
the horses for their journey, his master said to him, " Billy,
I shall want another horse to-night, for may be we may
bring back more company than we take." So Billy, who
now knew better than to question any order given to him by
his master, brought a third rush, much wondering who it
might be that would travel back in their company, and
whether he was about to have a fellow-servant. " If I have,"
thought Billy, " he shall go and fetch the horses from the
bog every night; for I don't see why I am not, every inch
of me, as good a gentleman as my master."

88

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Well, away they went, Billy leading the third horse, and
never stopped until they came to a snug farmer's house, in
the county Limerick, close under the old castle of Carrigogunniel, that was built, they say, by the great Brian Boru.
Within the house there was great carousing going forward,
and the little man stopped outside for some time to listen;
then turning round all of a sudden, said, " Billy, I will be a
thousand years old to-morrow !"
" God bless us, sir," said Billy; " will you ? "
" Don't say these words again, Billy," said the little old
man, " or you will be my ruin for ever. Now Billy, as I
will be a thousand years in the world to-morrow, I think it is
full time for me to get married."
" I think so too, without any kind of doubt at all," said
Billy, " if ever you mean to marry."
"And to that purpose," said the little man, "have I come
all the way to Carrigogunniel; for in this house, this very
night, is young Darby Riley going to be married to Bridget
Rooney; and as she is a tall and comely girl, and has come
of decent people, I think of marrying her myself, and taking
her off with me."
" And what will Darby Riley say to that ? " said Billy.
" Silence!" said the little man, putting on a mighty
severe look; " I did not bring you here with me to ask
questions;" and without holding further argument, he
began saying the queer words which had the power of
passing him through the key-hole as free as air, and which
Billy thought himself mighty clever to be able to say after
him.
In they both went; and for the better viewing the company, the little man perched himself up as nimbly as a
cocksparrow upon one of the big beams which went across
the house over all their heads, and Billy did the same upon
another facing h i m ; but not being much accustomed to
roosting in such a place, his legs hung down as untidy as
may be, and it was quite clear he had not taken pattern
after the way in which the little man had bundled himself
up together. If the little man had been a tailor all his

MASTER

AND

MAN.

89

life he could not have sat more contentedly upon his
haunches.
There they were, both master and man, looking down
upon the fun that was going forward; and under them were
the priest and piper, and the father of Darby Riley, with
Darby's two brothers and his uncle's s o n ; and there were
both the father and the mother of Bridget Rooney, and
proud enough the old couple were that night of their
daughter, as good right they h a d ; and her four sisters, with
bran new ribbons in their caps, and her three brothers all
looking as clean and as clever as any three boys in Munster,
and there were uncles and aunts, and gossips and cousins
enough besides to make a full house of i t ; and plenty was
there to eat and drink on the table for every one of them, if
they had been double the number.
Now it happened, just as Mrs. Rooney had helped his
reverence to the first cut of the pig's head which was placed
before her, beautifully bolstered up with white savoys, that
the bride gave a sneeze, which made every one at table start,
but not a soul said " God bless us." All thinking that the
priest would have done so, as he ought if he had done his
duty, no one wished to take the word out of his mouth,
which, unfortunately, was preoccupied with pig's head and
greens. And after a moment's pause the fun and merriment
of the bridal feast went on without the pious benediction.
Of this circumstance both Billy and his master were no
inattentive spectators from their exalted stations. " H a !"
exclaimed the little man, throwing one leg from under him
with a joyous flourish, and his eye twinkled with a strange
light, whilst his eyebrows became elevated into the curvature
of Gothic arches; " H a !" said he, leering down at the bride,
and then up at Billy, " I have half of her now, surely. Let
her sneeze but twice more, and she is mine, in spite of priest,
mass-book, and Darby Riley."
Again the fair Bridget sneezed \ but it was so gently, and
she blushed so much, that few except the little man took, or
seemed to take, any notice; and no one thought of saying
" God bless us."

go

THE SOLITAR Y

FAIRIES.

Billy all this time regarded the poor girl with a most
rueful expression of countenance; for he could not help
thinking what a terrible thing it was for a nice young girl of
nineteen, with large blue eyes, transparent skin, and dimpled
cheeks, suffused with health and joy, to be obliged to marry
an ugly little bit of a man, who was a thousand years old,
barring a day.
At this critical moment the bride gave a third sneeze, and
Billy roared out with all his might, " God save u s ! "
"Whether this exclamation resulted from his soliloquy, or
from the mere force of habit, he never could tell exactly
himself; but no sooner was it uttered than the little man,
his face glowing with rage and disappointment, sprung from
the beam on which he had perched himself, and shrieking
out in the shrill voice of a cracked bagpipe, " I discharge
you from my service, Billy Mac Daniel—take that for your
wages/' gave poor Billy a most furious kick in the back,
which sent his unfortunate servant sprawling upon his face
and hands right in the middle of the supper-table.
If Billy was astonished, how much more so was every one
of the company into which he was thrown with so little
ceremony. But when they heard his story, Father Cooney
laid down his knife and fork, and married the young couple
out of hand with all speed; and Billy Mac Daniel danced
the Rinka at their wedding, and plenty he did drink at it
too, which was what he thought more of than dancing.

FAR D A R R I G I N DONEGAL.
MISS LETITIA MACLINTOCK.

PAT DIVER, the tinker, was a man well-accustomed to a
wandering life, and to strange shelters; he had shared the
beggar's blanket in smoky cabins; he had crouched beside
the still in many a nook and corner where poteen was made

FAR

DARRIG

IN DONEGAL.

91

on the wild Innishowen mountains; he had even slept on
the bare heather, or on the ditch, with no roof over him
but the vault of heaven; yet were all his nights of adventure
tame and commonplace when compared with one especial
night.
During the day preceding that night, he had mended all
the kettles and saucepans in Moville and Greencastle, and was
on his way to Culdaff, when night overtook him on a lonely
mountain road.
He. knocked at one door after another asking for a
night's lodging, while he jingled the halfpence in his pocket,
but was everywhere refused.
Where was the boasted hospitality of Innishowen, which
he had never before known to fail ? It was of no use to be
able to pay when the people seemed so churlish. Thus
thinking, he made his way towards a light a little further on,
and knocked at another cabin door.
An old man and woman were seated one at each side of
the fire.
"Will you be pleased to give me a night's lodging, sir?"
asked Pat respectfully.
" Can you tell a story ? " returned the old man.
" N o , then, sir, I canna say I'm good at story-telling,"
replied the puzzled tinker.
" Then you maun just gang further, for none but them
that can tell a story will get in here."
This reply was made in so decided a tone that Pat did
not attempt to repeat his appeal, but turned away reluctantly
to resume his weary journey.
" A story, indeed," muttered he. " Auld wives fables to
please the weans ! "
As he took up his bundle of tinkering implements, he
observed a barn standing rather behind the dwelling-house,
and, aided by the rising moon, he made his way towards it.
It was a clean, roomy barn, with a piled-up heap of straw
in one corner. Here was a shelter not to be despised; so
Pat crept under the straw, and was soon asleep.
He could not have slept very long when he was awakened

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by the tramp of feet, and, peeping cautiously through a
crevice in his straw covering, he saw four immensely tall
men enter the barn, dragging a body, which they threw
roughly upon the floor.
They next lighted a fire in the middle of the barn, and
fastened the corpse by the feet with a great rope to a beam
in the roof. One of them then began to turn it slowly
before the fire. " Come on," said he, addressing a gigantic
fellow, the tallest of the four—"I'm tired; you be to talc'
your turn."
"Faix an' troth, I'll no turn him," replied the big man.
"There's Pat Diver in under the straw, why wouldn't he
tak' his t u r n ? "
With hideous clamour the four men called the wretched
Pat, who, seeing there was no escape, thought it was his
wisest plan to come forth as he was bidden.
" Now, Pat," said they, " you'll turn the corpse, but if you
let him burn you'll be tied up there and roasted in his
place."
Pat's hair stood on end, and the cold perspiration poured
from his forehead, but there was nothing for it but to
perform his dreadful task.
Seeing him fairly embarked in it, the tall men went away.
Soon, however, the flames rose so high as to singe the
rope, and the corpse fell with a great thud upon the fire,
scattering the ashes and embers, and extracting a howl of
anguish from the miserable cook, who rushed to the door,
and ran for his life.
H e ran on until he was ready to drop with fatigue, when,
seeing a drain overgrown with tall, rank grass, he thought he
would creep in there and lie hidden till morning.
But he was not many minutes in the drain before he
heard the heavy tramping again, and the four men came up
with their burthen, which they laid down on the edge of the
drain.
" I'm tired," said one, to the giant; " it's your turn to
carry him a piece now."
"Faix and troth, I'll no carry him," replied he, " b u t

FAR DARRIG

IN

DONEGAL.

there's Pat Diver in the drain, why wouldn't he come out
and tak' his turn ? "
" Come out, Pat, come out," roared all the men, and Pat,
almost dead with fright, crept out.
H e staggered on under the weight of the corpse until he
reached Kiltown Abbey, a ruin festooned with ivy, where the
brown owl hooted all night long, and the forgotten dead
slept around the walls under dense, matted tangles of
brambles and ben-weed.
No one ever buried there now, but Pat's tall companions turned into the wild graveyard, and began digging
a grave.
Pat, seeing them thus engaged, thought he might once
more try to escape, and climbed up into a hawthorn tree
in the fence, hoping to be hidden in the boughs.
" I'm tired/' said the man who was digging the grave;
" here, take the spade," addressing the big man, " it's your
turn."
"Faix an' troth, it's no my turn," replied he, as before.
" There's Pat Diver in the tree, why wouldn't he come down
and tak' his turn ? "
Pat came down to take the spade, but just then the cocks
in the little farmyards and cabins round the abbey began to
crow, and the men looked at one another.
" We must go," said they, " and well is it for you, Pat
Diver, that the cocks crowed, for if they had not, you'd just
ha' been bundled into that grave with the corpse."
Two months passed, and Pat had wandered far and wide
over the county Donegal, when he chanced to arrive at
Raphoe during a fair.
Among the crowd that filled the Diamond he came
suddenly on the big man.
" H o w are you, Pat Diver?" said he, bending down to
look into the tinker's face.
"You've the advantage of me, sir, for I havna' the
pleasure of knowing you," faltered Pat.
" Do you not know me, Pat ? " Whisper—<c When you
go back to Innishowen, you'll have a story to tell I"

THE SOLITARY FAIRIES.
T H E POOKA.
T H E Pooka, recti Puca, seems essentially an animal spirit. Some
derive his name from ftoc^ a he-goat; and speculative persons
consider him the forefather of Shakespere's " Puck." On solitary mountains and among old ruins he lives, "grown monstrous
with much solitude," and is of the race of the nightmare. " In the
MS. story, called 'Mac-na-Michomhairle,' of uncertain authorship," writes me Mr. Douglas Hyde, " we read that ' out of a
certain hill in Leinster, there used to emerge as far as his
middle, a plump, sleek, terrible steed, and speak in human voice
to each person about November-day, and he was accustomed to
give intelligent and proper answers to such as consulted him
concerning all that would befall them until the November of
next year. And the people used to leave gifts and presents at
the hill until the coming of Patrick and the holy clergy.' This
tradition appears to be a cognate one with that of the Puca."
Yes ! unless it were merely an augh-ishka \each-uisgS\ or Waterhorse. For these, we are told, were common once, and used to
come out of the water to gallop on the sands and in the fields, and
people would often go between them and the marge and bridle
them, and they would make the finest of horses if only you could
keep them away from sight of the water ; but if once they saw a
glimpse of the water, they would plunge in with their rider, and
tear him to pieces at the bottom. It being a November spirit,
however, tells in favour of the Pooka, for November-day is
sacred to the Pooka. It is hard to realise that wild, staring
phantom grown sleek and civil.
He has many shapes—is now a horse, now an ass, now a
bull, now a goa£ now an eagle. Like all spirits, he is only half
in the world of form.

THE

PIPER

AND

THE

PUCA.

95

T H E P I P E R AND T H E PUCA.
DOUGLAS HYDE.

Translated literally from the Irish of the Leabhar Sgeutaigheachta,

IN the old times, there was a half fool living in Dunmore, in
the county Galway, and although he was excessively fond
of music, he was unable to learn more than one tune, and
that was the " Black Rogue." H e used to get a good deal of
money from the gentlemen, for they used to get sport out of
him. One night the piper was coming home from a house
where there had been a dance, and he half drunk. When
he came to a little bridge that was up by his mother's house,
he squeezed the pipes on, and began playing the " Black
Rogue" (an rogaire dubh). The Plica came behind him,
and flung him up on his own back. There were long horns
on the Plica, and the piper got a good grip of them, and
then he said—
"Destruction on you, you nasty beast, let me home. I
have a ten-penny piece in my pocket for my mother, and
she wants snuff."
" Never mind your mother," said the Plica, " but keep
your hold. If you fall, you will break your neck and your
pipes." Then the Plica said to him, " Play up for me the
* Shan Van Vocht' (an t-seann-bhean bhocht)."
" I don't know it," said the piper.
" Never mind whether you do or you don't," said the
Plica. " Play up, and I'll make you know."
The piper put wind in his bag, and he played such music
as made himself wonder.
" Upon my word, you're a fine music-master," says the
piper then; " b u t tell me where you're for bringing me."
" There's a great feast in the house of the Banshee, on
the top of Croagh Patric to-night," says the Plica, " a n d I'm
for bringing you there to play music, and, take my word,
you'll get the price of your trouble."
" B y my word,you'll save me a journey, then," says the

96

THE

POOKA,

piper, " for Father William put a journey to Croagh Patric
on me, because I stole the white gander from him last
Martinmas."
The Plica rushed him across hills and bogs and rough
places, till he brought him to the top of Croagh Patric.
Then the Plica struck three blows with his foot, and a great
door opened, and they passed in together, into a fine room.
The piper saw a golden table in the middle of the room,
and hundreds of old women (cailleacha) sitting round about
it. The old women rose up, and said, " A hundred
thousand welcomes to you, you Plica of November (na
Samhna). Who is this you have with you ?"
" The best piper in Ireland," says the Puca.
One of the old women struck a blow on the ground, and
a door opened in the side of the wall, and what should the
piper see coming out but the white gander which he had
stolen from Father William.
" By my conscience, then," says the piper, " myself and
my mother ate every taste of that gander, only one wing,
and I gave that to Moy-rua (Red Mary), and it's she told
the priest I stole his gander."
The gander cleaned the table, and carried it away, and
the Plica said, " Play up music for these ladies."
The piper played up, and the old women began dancing,
and they were dancing till they were tired. Then the Plica
said to pay the piper, and every old woman drew out a gold
piece, and gave it to him. *
" By the tooth of Patric," said he, " I'm as rich as the
son of a lord."
" C o m e with me," says the Pdca, "and 111 bring you
home."
They went out then, and just as he was going to ride on
the Plica, the gander came up to him, and gave him a new
set of pipes. The Plica was not long until he brought him
to Dunmore, and he threw the piper off at the little bridge,
and then he told him to go home, and says to him, "You
have two things now that you never had before—you have
sense and music (ciall agus cedl).

DANIEL

O'ROURKE.

97

The piper went home, and he knocked at his mother's
door, saying, " Let me in, Fm as rich as a lord, and I'm
the best piper in Ireland."
" You're drunk," said the mother.
" No, indeed," says the piper, " I haven't drunk a drop."
The mother let him in, and he gave her the gold pieces,
and, " Wait now," says he, (i till you hear the music I'll play."
H e buckled on the pipes, but instead of music, there
came a sound as if all the geese and ganders in Ireland
were screeching together. H e wakened the neighbours,
and they were all mocking him, until he put on the old
pipes, and then he played melodious music for t h e m ; and
after that he told them all he had gone through that night.
The next morning, when his mother went to look at the
gold pieces, there was nothing there but the leaves of a plant.
The piper went to the priest, and told him his story, but
the priest would not believe a word from him, until he put
the pipes on him, and then the screeching of the ganders
and geese began.
" Leave my sight, you thief," says the priest.
But nothing would do the piper till he would put the old
pipes on him to show the priest that his story was true.
H e buckled on the old pipes, and he played melodious
music, and from that day till the day of his death, there
was never a piper in the county Galway was as good as he
was.

DANIEL O'ROURKE.
T. CROFTON CROKER.

PEOPLE may have heard of the renowned adventures of
Daniel O'Rourke, but how few are there who know that the
cause of all his perils, above and below, was neither more
nor less than his having slept under the walls of the Pooka's
522

98

THE

POOKA.

tower. I knew the man well. H e lived at the bottom of
Hungry Hill, just at the right-hand side of the road as you
go towards Bantry. An old man was he, at the time he told
me the story, with grey hair and a red nose; and it was on
the 25th of June 1813 that I heard it from his own lips, as
he sat smoking his pipe under the old poplar tree, on as fine
an evening as ever shone from the sky. I was going to visit
the caves in Dursey Island, having spent the morning at
Glengariff.
" I am often axed to tell it, sir," said he, "so that this is
not the first time. The master's son, you see, had come
from beyond foreign parts in France and Spain, as young
gentlemen used to go before Buonaparte or any such was
heard of; and sure enough there was a dinner given to all
the people on the ground, gentle and simple, high and low,
rich and poor. The ould gentlemen were the gentlemen
after all, saving your honour's presence. They'd swear at a
body a little, to be sure, and, may be, give one a cut of a
whip now and then, but we were no losers by it in the end;
and they were so easy and civil, and kept such rattling
houses, and thousands of welcomes; and there was no
grinding for rent, and there was hardly a tenant on the estate
that did not taste of his landlord's bounty often and often in
a year; but now it's another thing. No matter for that, sir,
for I'd better be telling you my story.
"Well, we had everything of the best, and plenty of it;
and we ate, and we drank, and we danced, and the young
master by the same token danced with Peggy Barry, from
the Bohereen—a lovely young couple they were, though
they are both low enough now. To make a long story
short, I got, as a body may say, the same thing as tipsy
almost, for I can't remember ever at all, no ways, how it was
I left the place; only I did leave it, that's certain. Well, I
thought, for all that, in myself, I'd just step to Molly
Cronohan's, the fairy woman, to speak a word about the
bracket heifer that was bewitched; and so as I was crossing
the stepping-stones of the ford of Ballyashenogh, and was
looking up at the stars and blessing myself—for why ? it was

DANIEL

O'ROURKE.

99

Lady-day—I missed my foot, and souse I fell into the
water. * Death alive !' thought I, ' I'll bq drowned now 18
However, I began swimming, swimming, swimming away
for the dear life, till at last I got ashore, somehow "or others
but never the one of me can tell how, upon a dissolute island
" I wandered and wandered about there, without knowing
where I wandered, until at last I got into a big bog. Th§
moon was shining as bright as day, or your fair lady?s eyes,,
sir (with your pardon for mentioning her), and I looked east
and west, and north and south, and every way, and nothing
did I see but bog, bog, bog—I could never find out how I
got into it; and my heart grew cold with fear, for sure and
certain I was that it would be my berrin place. So I sat
down upon a stone which, as good luck would have it, was
close by me, and I began to scratch my head, and sing the
Ullagone—when all of a sudden the moon grew black, and I
looked up, and saw something for all the world as if it was
moving down between me and it, and I could not tell what it
was. Down it came with a pounce, and looked at me full in
the face; and what was it but an eagle ? as fine a one as ever
flew from the kingdom of Kerry. So he looked at me in the
face, and says he to me, * Daniel 0'B.ourke/ says he, ' how
do you do ?' ' Very well, I thank you, sir,' says I ; ' I hope
you're well;' wondering out of my senses all the time how an
eagle came to speak like a Christian. c What brings you here,
Dan/ says he. * Nothing at all, shy says I ; 'only I wish I
was safe home again.' ' Is it out of the island you want to
go, D a n ? ' says he. "Tis, sir,' says I : so I up and told
him how I had taken a drop too much, and fell into
the water; how I swam to the island; and how I got
into the bog and did not know my way out of it. * Dan,'
says he, after a minute's thought, ' though it is very improper for you to get drunk on Lady-day, yet as you are a
decent sober man, who 'tends mass well, and never fling
stones at me or mine, nor cries out after us in the fields—
my life for yours/ says h e ; * so get up on my back, and grip
me well for fear you'd fall off, and I'll fly you out of the
bog.' ' I am afraid/ says I, ' your honour's making game

TOO

THE

POOKA.

of me ; for who ever heard of riding a horseback on an eagle
before?' ' T o n the honour of a gentleman,' says he,
putting his right foot on his breast, * I am quite in earnest:
and so now either take my offer or starve in the bog—
besides, I see that your weight is sinking the stone.*
" It was true enough as he said, for I found the stone
every minute going from under me. I had no choice; so
thinks I to myself, faint heart never won fair lady, and this is
fair persuadance. ' I thank your honour,' says I, * for the
loan of your civility; and I'll take your kind offer.'
I
therefore mounted upon the back of the eagle, and held him
tight enough by the throat, and up he flew in the air like a
lark. Little I knew the trick he was going to serve me.
Up—up—up, God knows how far up he flew. ' Why then,'
said I to him—thinking he did not know the right road
home—very civilly, because why? I was in his power
entirely; 'sir,' says I, 'please your honour's glory, and with
humble submission to your better judgment, if you'd fly
down a bit, you're now just over my cabin, and I could be
put down there, and many thanks to your worship.'
" * Arrah, Dan,' said he, ' do you think me a fool ? Look
down in the next field, and don't you see two men and a
gun ? By my word it would be no joke to be shot this way,
to oblige a drunken blackguard that I picked up oif of a
could stone in a bog.' ' Bother you,' said I to myself, but I
did not speak out, for where was the use ? Well, sir, up he
kept, flying, flying, and I asking him every minute to fly
down, and all to no use. 'Where in the world are you
going, sir ? ' says I to him. ' Hold your tongue, Dan,' says
h e : ' mind your own business, and don't be interfering with
the business of other people.' 'Faith, this is my business, I
think,' says I. ' Be quiet, Dan/ says he : so I said no more.
" A t last where should we come to, but to the moon
itself. Now you can't see it from this, but there is, or there
was in my time, a reaping-hook sticking out of the side of
the moon, this way (drawing the figure thus O ^ on the
ground with the end of his stick).
" ' D a n / said the eagle, ' I ' m tired with this long fly; I

DANIEL

O'ROURKE.

101

had no notion 'twas so far.' c And my lord, sir,' said I, 'who
in the world axed you to fly so far—was it I ? did not I
beg and pray and beseech you to stop half an hour ago ? '
'There's no use talking, Dan,' said h e ; ' I ' m tired bad
enough, so you must get off, and sit down on the moon
until I rest myself.' ' I s it sit down on the m o o n ? ' said I ;
' is it upon that little round thing, then ? why, then, sure I'd
fall off in a minute, and be kilt and spilt, and smashed all
to bits; you are a vile deceiver—so you are.' * Not at all,
Dan,' said he ; 'you can catch fast hold of the reaping-hook
that's sticking out of the side of the moon, and 'twill keep
you up.' ' I won't then,' said I. ' May be not,' said he,
quite quiet. ' If you don't, my man, I shall just give you a
shake, and one slap of my wing, and send you down to the
ground, where every bone in your body will be smashed as
small as a drop of dew on a cabbage-leaf in the morning.'
' Why, then, I'm in a fine way,' said I to myself, ' ever to
have come along with the likes of y o u ; ' and so giving him a
hearty curse in Irish, for fear he'd know what I said, I got
off his back with a heavy heart, took hold of the reapinghook, and sat down upon the moon, and a mighty cold seat
it was, I can tell you that.
" When he had me there fairly landed, he turned about
on me, and said, ' Good morning to you, Daniel O'Rourke/
said he ; ' I think I've nicked you fairly now. You robbed
my nest last year' ('twas true enough for him, but how he
found it out is hard to say), ' and in return you are freely
welcome to cool your heels dangling upon the moon like a
cockthrow.'
" ' Is that all, and is this the way you leave me, you brute,
you,' says I. ' You ugly unnatural baste, and is this the way
you serve me at last ? Bad luck to yourself, with your hook'd
nose, and to all your breed, you blackguard.' 'Twas all to
no manner of use; he spread out his great big wings, burst
out a laughing, and flew away like lightning. I bawled after
him to stop; but I might have called and bawled for ever,
without his minding me. Away he went, and I never saw
him from that day to this—sorrow fly away with him ! You

102

ZWE

POOKA.

may be sure I was in a disconsolate condition, and kept
roaring out for the bare grief* when all at once a door
opened right in the middle of the moon, creaking on its
hinges as if it had not been opened for a month before, I
suppose they never thought of greasing 'em* and out there
walks—who do you think, but the man in the moon himself?
I knew him by his bush*
" * Good morrow to you, Daniel O'Rourke,' said h e ; 'how
do you do ? ' ' Very well, thank your honour/ said I. ' I
hope your honour's well.' ' What brought you here, Dan ? '
said he* So I told him how I was a little overtaken in
liquor at the master's, and how I was cast oh a dissolute
island* and how I lost my way in the bog* and how the thief
of ah eagle promised to fly me out of it, and how* instead of
that* he had fled me up to the moon.
" ' Dan,' said the man in the moon, taking a pinch of snuff
When I was done, c you must not stay here.' ' Indeed* sir,'
sa^s I* "tis much against my will I'm here at all; but how
am I to go b a c k ? ' 'That's your business,' said he ; 'Dan,
mine is to tell you that here you must hot stay; so be off in
less than ho time.' ' I'm doing no harm,' says I, ' only
holding on hard by the reaping-hook, lest I fall off.' 'That's
what you must not do, Dan,' says he. ' Pray, sir,' says I,
' hlay I ask how many you are in family, that you would not
give a poor traveller lodging : I'm sure 'tis not so often you're
troubled with strangers coming to see you, for 'tis a long
way.' x I'm by myself, Dan,' says he ; ' but you'd better let
go the reaping-hook.' ' Faith, and with your leave,' says I,
'I'll not let go the grip, and the more you bids me, the
more I won't let go;—so I will.' ' You had better, Dan,'
says he again. ' Why, then, my little fellow,' says I, taking
the Whole weight of him with thy eye from head to foot,
* there are two words to that bargain; and I'll not budge, but
you may if you like.' ' We'll see how that is to be,' says h e ;
arid back he went, giving the door such a great bang after
him (for it was plain he was huffed) that I thought the moon
and all would fall down with it.
" Well, I was preparing myself to try strength, with him,

DANIEL

O'ROURKR.

103

when back again he comes, with the kitchen cleaver in his
hand, and, without saying a word, he gives two bangs to the
handle of the reaping-hook that was keeping me up, and
whop ! it came in two. ' Good morning to you, Dan/ says
the spiteful little old blackguard, when he saw me cleanly
falling down with a bit of the handle in my hand; ' I thank
you for your visit, and fair weather after you, Daniel.' I had
not time to make any answer to him, for I was tumbling over
and over, and rolling and rolling, at the rate of a fox-hunt.
' God. help me !' says I, ' but this is a pretty pickle for a
decent man to be seen in at this' time of night: I am now
sold fairly.' The word was not out of my mouth when,
whiz ! what should fly by close to my ear but a flock of wild
geese, all the way from my own bog of Ballyasheenogh, else
how should they know me ? The ould gander> who was
their general, turning about his head, cried out to me, * Is
that you, Dan ? ' * The same/ said I, not a bit daunted now
at what he said, for I was by this time used to all kinds of
bedevilment^ and, besides, I knew him of ould, ' Good morrow to you/ says he, ' Daniel O'Rourke; how are you in
health this morning ? ' ' Very well, sir/ says I, ' I thank you
kindly/ drawing my breath, for I was mightily in want of
some. ' I hope your honour's the same.' ' I think 'tis
falling you are, Daniel,' says he. * You may say that, sir/
says I. i And where are you going all the way so fast ? ; said
the gander. So I told him how I had taken the drop, and
how I came on the island, and how I lost my way in the
bog, and how the thief of an eagle flew me up to the moon,
and how the man in the moon turned me out. ' Dan/ said
he, * I'll save you : put out your hand and catch me by the
leg, and I'll fly you home.' ' Sweet is your hand in a pitcher
of honey, my jewel/ says I, though all the time I thought
within myself that I don't much trust you ; but there was no
help, so I caught the gander by the leg, and away I and the
other geese flew after him as fast as hops.
" We flew, and we flew, and we flew, until we came right
over the wide ocean. I knew it well, for I saw Cape Clear
to my right" hand, sticking up out of the water. * Ah, my

xo4

THE

POOKA.

lord,' said I to the goose, for I thought it best to keep a civil
tongue in my head any way, * fly to land if you please.' ' It
is impossible, you see, Dan,' said he, ' for a while, because
you see we are going to Arabia.' ' To Arabia!' said I ;
' that's surely some place in foreign parts, far away. Oh !
Mr. Goose: why then, to be sure, I'm a man to be pitied
,among you.' ' Whist, whist, you fool,' said he, ' hold your
tongue; I tell you Arabia is a very decent sort of place, as
like West Carbery as one egg is like another, only there is a
little more sand there.'
" J u s t as we were talking, a ship hove in sight, scudding
so beautiful before the wind. ' A h ! then, sir, said I, ' will
you drop me on the ship, if you please ?' ' We are not fair
over it,' said he ; ' if I dropped you now you would go splash
into the sea.' ' I would not,' says I ; ' I know better than
that, for it is just clean under us, so let me drop now at
once.'
" ' I f you must, you must,' said he; 'there, take your own
way;' and he opened his claw, and faith he was right—sure
enough I came down plump into the very bottom of the
salt sea! Down to the very bottom I went, and I gave
myself u]) then for ever, when a whale walked up to me,
scratching himsdf after his night's sleep, and looked me full
in the face, and never the word did he say, but lifting up
his tail, he sp7ashed me all over again with the cold salt
water till tWere wasn't a dry stitch upon my whole carcass!
and I heard somebody saying—'twas a voice I knew, too—
'Get up, yOO drunken brute, off o' t h a t ; ' and with that I
woke up, and there was Judy with a tub full of water, which
she was splashing all over me—for, rest her soul! though
she was a good wife, she never could bear to see me in
drink, and had a bitter hand of her own.
" ' G e t up,' said she again: 'and of all places in the
parish would no place sarve your turn to lie down upon but
under the ould walls of Carrigapooka ? an uneasy resting I
am sure you had of it.' And sure enough I had: for I was
fairly bothered out of my senses with eagles, and men of
the moons, and flying ganders, and whales,- driving me

THE

KILDARE

POOKA.

105

through bogs, and up to the moon, and down to the bottom
of the green ocean. If I was in drink ten times over, long
would it be before I'd lie down in the same spot again, I
know that."

THE

KILDARE

POOKA.*

PATRICK KENNEDY.

MR. H
R
, when he was alive, used to live a good
deal in Dublin, and he was once a great while out of the
country on account of the " ninety-eight" business. But
the servants kept on in the big house at Rath
all the
same as if the family was at home. Well, they used to be
frightened out of their lives after going to their beds with
the banging of the kitchen-door, and the clattering of fireirons, and the pots and plates and dishes. One evening
they sat up ever so long, keeping one another in heart with
telling stories about ghosts and fetches, and that when—what
would you have of it ?—the little scullery boy that used to
be sleeping over the horses, and could not get room at the
fire, crept into the hot hearth, and when he got tired listening to the stories, sorra fear him, but he fell dead asleep.
Well and good, after they were all gone and the kitchen
fire raked up, he was woke with the noise of the kitchen
door opening, and the trampling of an ass on the kitchen
floor. H e peeped out, and what should he see but a big
ass, sure enough, sitting on his curabingo and yawning
before the fire. After a little he looked about him, and
began scratching his ears as if he was quite tired, and says
he, " I may as well begin first as last." The poor boy's
teeth began to chatter in his head, for says he, " N o w he's
goin? to ate m e ; " but the fellow with the long ears and tail
on him had something else to do. H e stirred the fire, and
then he brought in a pail of water from the pump, and filled
* Legendary Fictions of the Irish Celts,—Macmillan.

io6

THE

POOKA.

a big pot that he put on the fire before he went out* He
then put in his hand—foot, I mean-—into the hot hearth, and
pulled out the little boy. H e let a roar out of him with the
fright, but the pooka only looked at him, and thrust out his
lower lip to show how little he valued him, and then he
pitched him into his pew again.
Well, he then lay down before the fire till he heard the
boil coming on the water, and maybe there wasn't a plate,
or a dish, or a spoon on the dresser that he didn't fetch
and put into the pot, and wash and dry the whole bilin' of
'em as well as e'er a kitchen-maid from that to Dublin town.
H e then put all of them up on their places on the shelves;
and if he didn't give a good sweepin' to the kitchen, leave
it till again. Then he comes and sits foment the boy, let
down one of his ears, and cocked up the other, and gave a
grin. The poor fellow strove to roar out, but not a dheeg
?
ud come out of his throat. The last thing the pooka done
was to rake up the fire, and walk out, giving such a slap o'
the door, that the boy thought the house couldn't help
tumbling down.
Well, to be sure if there wasn't a hullabullo next morning
when the poor fellow told his story! They could talk of
nothing else the whole day. One said one thing, another
said another, but a fat, lazy scullery girl said the wittiest
thing of all. " Musha!" says she, " if the pooka does be
cleaning up everything that way when we are asleep, what
should we be slaving ourselves for doing his work?"
" S h u gu dheine"* says another; "them's the wisest words
you ever said, Kauth ; it's meeself won't contradict you."
So said, so done. Not a bit of a plate or dish saw a drop
of water that evening, and not a besom was laid on the
floor, and every one went to bed soon after sundown. Next
morning everything was as fine as fine in the kitchen, and
the lord mayor might eat his dinner off the flags. It was
great ease to the lazy servants, you may depend, and everything went on well till a foolhardy gag of a boy said he
would stay up one night and have a chat with the pooka.
* Meant for seadhgo deimhin—ue.i yes> indeed.

THE

KILDARE

POOKA.

107

H e was a little daunted when the door was thrown open
and the ass marched up to the fire.
" A n then, sir," says he, at last, picking up courage, " i f
it isn't taking a liberty, might I ax who you are, and why
you are so kind as to do half of the day's work for the girls
every night ? " " No liberty at all," says the pooka, says
he : " I'll tell you, and welcome. I was a servant in the
time of Squire R.'s father, and was the laziest rogue that ever
was clothed and fed, and done nothing for it. When my
time came for the other world, this is the punishment was
laid on me—to come here and do all this labour every night,
and then go out in the cold. It isn't so bad in the fine
weather; but if you only knew what it is to stand with your
head between your legs, facing the storm, from midnight to
sunrise, on a bleak winter night." " And could we do anything for your comfort, my poor fellow?" says the boy.
" Musha, I don't know," says the pooka; " b u t I think a
good quilted frieze coat would help to keep the life in me
them long nights." " Why then, in troth, we'd be the
ungratefullest of people if we didn't feel for you."
To make a long story short, the next night but two the
boy was there again ; and if he didn't delight the poor pooka,
holding up a fine warm coat before him, it's no mather!
Betune the pooka and the man, his legs was got into the four
arms of it, and it was buttoned down the breast and the belly,
and he was so pleazed he walked up to the glass to see how
he looked. " Well," says he, " it's a long lane that has no
turning. I am much obliged to you and your fellow-servants.
You have made me happy at last Good-night to you."
So he was walking out, but the other cried, " Och ! sure
your going too soon. What about the washing and
sweeping ? " " Ah, you may tell the girls that they must
now get their turn. My punishment was to last till I was
thought worthy of a reward for the way I done my duty.
You'll see me no more." And no more they did, and right
sorry they were for having been in such a hurry to reward
the ungrateful pooka^

THE SOLITARY FAIRIES.
T H E BANSHEE.
[ T H E banshee (from ban [beari]9 a woman, and slice \sidhe\
a fairy) is an attendant fairy that follows the old families,
and none but them, and wails before a death. Many have
seen her as she goes wailing and clapping her hands. The
keen \caoine\ the funeral cry of the peasantry, is said to be an
imitation of her cry. When more than one banshee is present,
and they wail and sing in chorus, it is for the death of
some holy or great one. An omen that sometimes accompanies the banshee is the coach-a-bower \cdiste-bodhar\—an
immense black coach, mounted by a coffin, and drawn by
headless horses ddven by a Dullahan. It will go rumbling
to your door, and if you open it, according to Croker, a basin
of blood will be thrown in your face. These headless phantoms are found elsewhere than in Ireland. In 1807 two of the
sentries stationed outside St. James's Park died of fright. A
headless woman, the upper part of her body naked, used to
pass at midnight and scale the railings. After a time the
sentries were stationed no longer at the haunted spot. In
Norway the heads of corpses were cut off to make their ghosts
feeble. Thus came into existence the Dullahans, perhaps;
unless, indeed, they are descended from that Irish giant who
swam across the Channel with his head in his teeth.—ED.]
H O W T H O M A S CONNOLLY M E T T H E BANSHEE.
J. TODHUNTER.

Aw, the banshee, sir ? Well,, sir, as I was striving to tell ye,
I was going home from work one day, from Mr. Cassidy's
that I tould ye of, in the dusk o' the evening. I had more

THOMAS

CONNOLLY.

109

nor a mile—aye, it was nearer two mile—to thrack to, where
I was lodgin' with a dacent widdy woman I knew, Biddy
Maguire be name, so as to be near me work.
It was the first week in November, an' a lonesome road
I had to travel, an' dark enough, wid threes above i t ; an'
about half-ways there was a bit of a brudge I had to cross,
over one o' them little sthrames that runs into the Doddher,
I walked on in the middle iv the road, for there was no
toe-path at that time, Misther Harry, nor for many a long
day iifther that; but, as I was sayin', I walked along till I
come nigh upon the brudge, where the road was a bit open,
an' there, right enough, I seen the hog's back o' the ouldfashioned brudge that used to be there till it was pulled
down, an' a white mist steamin' up out o' the wather all
around it.
Well, now, Misther Harry, often as I'd passed by the
place before, that night it seemed sthrange to me, an' like a
place ye might see in a dhrame; an' as I come up to it I
began to feel a could wind blowin' through the hollow o' me
heart. "Musha Thomas," sez I to meself, " i s it yerself
that's in it ? " sez I ; " or, if it is, what's the matter wid ye
at all, at all ? " sez I ; so I put a bould face on it, an' I
made a sthruggle to set one leg afore the other, ontil I came
to the rise o' the brudge. And there, God be good to us !
in a cantle o' the wall I seen an ould woman, as I thought,
sittin' on her hunkers, all crouched together, an' her head
bowed down, seemin'ly in the greatest affliction.
Well, sir, I pitied the ould craythur, an' thought I wasn't
worth a thraneen, for the mortial fright I was in, I up an'
sez to her, " That's a cowld lodgin' for ye, ma'am." Well,
the sorra ha'porth she sez to that, nor tuk no more notice o'
me than if I hadn't let a word out o' me, but kep' rockin' herself to an' fro, as if her heart was breakin'; so I sez to her
again, " Eh, ma'am, is there any thin' the matther wid ye ? "
An' I made for to touch her on the shouldher, on'y somethin' stopt me, for as I looked closer at her I saw she was
no more an ould woman nor she was an ould cat. The
first thing I tuk notice to, Misther Harry, was her hair, that

no

THE

BANSHEE.

was sthreelin' down over his showldhers, an* a good yard on
the ground on aich side of her. O, be the hoky farmer, but
that was the hair ! The likes of it I never seen on mortial
woman, young or ould, before nor sense. It grew as
sthrong out of her as out of e'er a young slip of a girl ye
could see ; but the colour of it was a misthery to describe.
The first squint I got of it I thought it was silvery grey, like
an ould crone's; but when I got up beside her I saw, be
the glance o' the sky> it was a soart iv an Iscariot colour, an'
a shine out of it like floss silk. It ran over her showldhers
and the two shapely arms she was lanin' her head on, for
all the world like Mary Magdalen's in a picther; and then
I persaved that the grey cloak and the green gownd undhernaith it was made of no earthly matarial I ever laid eyes on.
Now, I needn't tell ye, sir, that I seen all this in the twinkle
of a bed-post—long as I take to make the narration of it.
So I made a step back from her, an' " The Lord be betune
us an' harm ! " sez I, out loud, an' wid that I blessed
meself. Well, Misther Harry, the word wasn't out o' me
mouth afore she turned her face on me. Aw, Misther
Harry, but 'twas that was the awfullest apparation ever I
seen, the face of her as she looked up at me ! God forgive
me for sayin' it, but 'twas more like the face di* the " Axy
H o m o " beyand in Marlboro' Sthreet Chapel nor like
any face I could mintion—as pale as a corpse, an' a most o'
freckles on it, like the freckles on a turkey's egg; an' the
two eyes sewn in wid red thread, from the terrible power o'
crying the' had to d o ; an' such a pair iv eyes as the' wor,
Misther Harry, as blue as two forget-me-nots, an' as cowld
as the moon in a bog-hole of a frosty night, an' a dead-an'live look in them that sent a cowld shiver through the
marra o' me bones. Be the mortial! ye could ha5 rung a
tay cupful o' cowld paspiration out o' the hair o' me head
that minute, so ye could. Well, I thought the life 'ud lave
me intirely when she riz up from her hunkers, till, bedad!
she looked mostly as tall as Nelson's Pillar; an' wid the two
eyes gazin' back at me, an' her two arms stretched out
before hor, an' a keine out of her that riz the hair o' me

THOMAS

CONNOLLY.

i n

scalp till it was as stiff as the hog's bristles in a new hearth
broom, away she glides—glides round the angle o' the
brudge, an' down with her into the sthrame that ran
undhernaith it. 'Twas then I began to suspect what she
was. "Wisha, Thomas!" says I to meself, sez I ; an' I
made a great struggle to get me two legs into a throt, in
spite o' the spavin o' fright the pair o' them wor in ; an' how
I brought meself home that same night the Lord in heaven
only knows, for I never could tell; but I must ha' tumbled
agin the door, and shot in head foremost into the middle o'
the flure, where I lay in a dead swoon for mostly an hour;
and the first I knew was Mrs. Maguire stannin' over me
with a jorum o' punch she was pourin' down me throath
(throat), to bring back the life into me, an' me head in a
pool of cowld wather she dashed over me in her first fright.
" Arrah, Mister Connolly," shashee, " what ails ye ?"
shashee, " to put the scare on a lone woman like that ? "
shashee. " Am I in this world or the next ?" sez I.
"Musha! where else would ye be on;y here in my
kitchen ? " shashee. " O, glory be to God ! " sez I, " but I
thought I was in Purgathory at the laste, not to mintion an
uglier place," sez I, " only it's too cowld I find meself, an'
not too hot," sez I. " Faix, an' maybe ye wor more nor
half-ways there, on'y for me," shashee; "but what's come to
you at all, at all ? Is it your fetch ye seen, Mister Connolly?" "Aw, naboclish!"* sez I. "Never mind what I
seen," sez I. So be degrees I began to come to a little;
an' that's the way I met the banshee, Misther Harry !
"But how did you know it really was the banshee after
all, Thomas ? "
" Begor, sir, I knew the apparation of her well enough;
but 'twas confirmed by a sarcumstance that occurred the
same time. There was a Misther O'Nales was come on a
visit, ye must know, to a place in the neighbourhood—one
o' the ould O'Nales iv the county Tyrone, a rale ould Irish
family—an' the banshee was heard keening round the
house that same night, be more then one that was in it:
* Na bac his—t\e.t don't mind it,

112

THE

BANSHEE.

an' sure enough, Misther Harry, he was found dead in his
bed the next mornin'. So if it wasn't the banshee I seen
that time, I'd like to know what else it could a' been."

A LAMENTATION
For the Death of Sir Maurice Fitzgerald, Knight, of Kerry^
who was killed in Flanders, 1642.
FROM THE IRISH, BY CLARENCE MANGAN.

THERE was lifted up one voice of woe,
One lament of more than mortal grief,
Through the wide South to and fro,
For a fallen Chief.
In the dead of night that cry thrilled through me,
I looked out upon the midnight air ?
My own soul was all as gloomy,
As I knelt in prayer.
O'er Loch Gur, that night, once—twice—yea, thricePassed a wail of anguish for the Brave
That half curled into ice
Its moon-mirroring wave.
Then uprose a many-toned wild hymn in
Choral swell from Ogra's dark ravine,
And Mogeely's Phantom Women
Mourned the Geraldine!
Far on Carah Mona's emerald plains
Shrieks and sighs were blended many hours,
And Fermoy in fitful strains
Answered from her towers.
Youghal, Keenalmeaky, Eemokilly,
Mourned in concert, and their piercing keen
Woke to wondering life the stilly
Glens of Inchiqueen,

BANSHEE

OF THE MAC CARTHYS.

113

From Loughmoe to yellow Dunanore
There was fear; the traders of Tralee
Gathered up their golden store,
And prepared to flee;
For, in ship and hall from night till morning,
Showed the first faint beamings of the sun,
All the foreigners heard the warning
Of the Dreaded One !
"This," they spake, "portendeth death to us,
If we fly not swiftly from our fate!"
Self-conceited idiots! thus
Ravingly to prate!
Not for base-born higgling Saxon trucksters
Ring laments like those by shore and sea!
Not for churls with souls like hucksters
Waileth our Banshee!
For the high Milesian race alone
Ever flows the music of her woe!
For slain heir to bygone throne,
And for Chief laid low !
Hark! . . . Again, methinks, I hear her weeping
Yonder ! Is she near me now, as then ?
Or was but the night-wind sweeping
Down the hollow glen ?

T H E BANSHEE O F T H E MAC CARTHYS.
T. CROFTON CROKER.

CHARLES MAC CARTHY was, in the year 1749, the only

surviving son of a very numerous family. His father died
when he was little more than twenty, leaving him the Mac
523

ii4

THE

BANSHEE.

Carthy estate, not much encumbered, considering that it was
an Irish one. Charles was gay, handsome, unfettered either
by poverty, a father, or guardians, and therefore was not, at
the age of one-and-twenty, a pattern of regularity and virtue.
In plain terms, he was an exceedingly dissipated—I fear I
may say debauched, young man. His companions were, as
may be supposed, of the higher classes of the youth in his
neighbourhood, and, in general, of those whose fortunes
were larger than his own, whose dispositions to pleasure
were, therefore, under still less restrictions, and in whose
example he found at once an incentive and an apology for
his irregularities. Besides, Ireland, a place to this day not
very remarkable for the coolness and steadiness of its youth,
was then one of the cheapest countries in the world in most
of those articles which money supplies for the indulgence of
the passions. The odious exciseman,—with his portentous
book in one hand, his unrelenting pen held in the other, or
stuck beneath his hat-band, and the ink-bottle ('black
emblem of the informer') dangling from his waistcoatbutton—went not then from ale-house to ale-house,
denouncing all those patriotic dealers in spirits, who
preferred selling whiskey, which had nothing to do with
English laws (but to elude them), to retailing that poisonous
liquor, which derived its name from the British " Parliament"
that compelled its circulation among a reluctant people.
Or if the gauger—recording angel of the law—wrote down
the peccadillo of a publican, he dropped a tear upon the
word, and blotted it out for ever! For, welcome to the
tables of their hospitable neighbours, the guardians of the
excise, where they existed at all, scrupled to abridge those
luxuries which they freely shared; and thus the competition
in the market between the smuggler, who incurred little
hazard, and the personage ycleped fair trader, who enjoyed
little protection, made Ireland a land flowing, not merely
with milk and honey, but with whiskey and wine. In the
enjoyments supplied by these, and in the many kindred
pleasures to which frail youth is but too prone, Charles Mac
Carthy indulged to such a degree, that just about the time

BANSHEE

OF THE MAC GARTHYS.

115

when he had completed his four-and-twentieth year, after a
week of great excesses, he was seized with a violent fever,
which, from its malignity, and the weakness of his frame,
left scarcely a hope of his recovery. His mother, who had
at first made many efforts to check his vices, and at last had
been obliged to look on-at his rapid progress to ruin in
silent despair, watched day and night at his pillow. The
anguish of parental feeling was blended with that still deeper
misery which those only know who have striven hard to rear in
virtue and piety a beloved and favourite child; have found
him grow up all that their hearts could desire, until he reached
manhood; and then, when their pride was highest, and their
hopes almost ended in the fulfilment of their fondest
expectations, have seen this idol of their affections plunge
headlong into a course of reckless profligacy, and, after a
rapid career of vice, hang upon the verge of eternity, without
the leisure or the power of repentance. Fervently she
prayed that, if his life could not be spared, at least the
delirium, which continued with increasing violence from the
first few hours of his disorder, might vanish before death,
and leave enough of light and of calm for making his peace
with offended Heaven. After several days, however, nature
seemed quite exhausted, and he sunk into a state too like
death to be mistaken for the repose of sleep. His face had
that pale, glossy, marble look, which is in general so sure a
symptom that life has left its tenement of clay. His eyes
were closed and sunk; the lids having that compressed and
stiffened appearance which seemed to indicate that some
friendly hand had done its last office. The lips, half closed
and perfectly ashy, discovered just so much of the teeth as
to give to the features of death their most ghastly, but most
impressive look. H e lay upon his back, with his hands
stretched beside him, quite motionless; and his distracted
mother, after repeated trials, could discover not the least
symptom of animation. The medical man who attended,
having tried the usual modes for ascertaining the presence
of life, declared at last his opinion that it was flown, and
prepared *o depart from the house of mourning. His horse

n6

THE

B4NSHEE.

was seen to come to the door. A crowd of people who
were collected before the windows, or scattered in groups
on the lawn in front, gathered around when the door
opened. These were tenants, fosterers, and poor relations
of the family, with others attracted by affection, or by that
interest which partakes of curiosity, but is something more,
and which collects the lower ranks round a house where a
human being is in his passage to another world. They saw
the professional man come out from the hall door and
approach his horse; and while slowly, and with a melancholy air, he prepared to mount, they clustered round him
with inquiring and wistful looks. Not a word was spoken,
but their meaning could not be misunderstood; and the
physician, when he had got into his saddle, and while the
servant was still holding the bridle as iE to delay him, and
was looking anxiously at his face as if expecting that he
would relieve the general suspense, shook his head, and
said in a low voice, "It's all over, James;" and moved
slowly away. The moment he had spoken, the women
present, who were very numerous, uttered a shrill cry, which,
having been sustained for about half a minute, fell suddenly
into a full, loud, continued, and discordant but plaintive
wailing, j?bove which occasionally were heard the deep
sounds of a lean's voice, sometimes in deep sobs, sometimes
in more distinct exclamations of sorrow. This was Charles's
foster-brother, who moved about the crowd, now clapping
his hands, now oibbing them together in an agony
of grief. The poor fellow had been Charles's playmate and
companion when a boy, and afterwards his servant; had
always been distinguished by his peculiar regard, and
loved his young master as much, at least, as he did his own
life.
When Mrs. Mac Carthy became convinced that the blow
was indeed struck, and that her beloved son was sent to his
last account, even in the blossoms of his sin, she remained
for some time gazing with fixedness upon his cold features;
then, as if something had suddenly touched the string of
her tenderest affections§ tear after tear trickled down her

BANSHEE

OF THE MAC CARTHYS.

ny

cheeks, pale with anxiety and watching. Still she continued
looking at* her son, apparently unconscious that she was
weeping, without once lifting her handkerchief to her eyes,
until reminded of the sad duties which the custom of the
country imposed upon her, by the crowd of females
belonging to the better class of the peasantry, who now,
crying audibly, nearly filled the apartment.
She then
withdrew, to give directions for the ceremony of waking, and
for supplying the numerous visitors of all ranks with the refreshments usual on these melancholy occasions. Though her
voice was scarcely heard, and though no one saw her but
the servants and one or two old followers of the family, who
assisted her in the necessary arrangements, everything was
conducted with the greatest regularity; and though she
made no effort to check her sorrows they never once
suspended her attention, now more than ever required to
preserve order in her household, which, in this season of
calamity, but for her would have been all confusion.
The night was pretty far advanced ; the boisterous
lamentations which had prevailed during part of the day
in and about the house had given place to a solemn and
mournful stillness; and Mrs. Mac Carthy, whose heart,
notwithstanding her long fatigue and watching, was yet too
sore for sleep, was kneeling in fervent prayer in a chamber
adjoining that of her son. Suddenly her devotions were
disturbed by an unusual noise, proceeding from the persons
who were watching round the body. First there was a low
murmur, then all was silent, as if the movements of those in
the chamber were checked by a sudden panic, and then a
loud cry of terror burst from all within. The door of the
chamber was thrown open, and all who were not overturned
in the press rushed wildly into the passage which led to the
stairs, and into which Mrs. Mac Carthy's room opened.
Mrs. Mac Carthy made her way through the crowd into her
son's chamber, where she found him sitting up in the bed,
and looking vacantly around, like one risen from the grave.
The glare thrown upon his sunk features and thin lathy
frame gave an unearthy horror to his whole aspect. Mrs.

n8

THE

BANSHEE.

Mac Carthy was a woman of some firmness; but she was a
woman, and not quite free from the superstitions of her
country. She dropped on her knees, and, clasping her
hands, began to pray aloud. The form before her moved
only its lips, and barely uttered "• Mother"; but though the
pale lips moved, as if there v/as a design to finish the
sentence, the tongue refused i',s office. Mrs. Mac Carthy
sprung forward, and catching the arm of her son, exclaimed,
"Speak! in the name of G o i and His saints, speak! are
you alive?"
H e turned to her slowly, and said, speaking still with
apparent difficulty, "Yes, my mother, alive, and—but sit
down and collect yourself; ]' have that to tell which will
astonish you still more than what you have seen." H e
leaned back upon his pillow, and while his mother remained
kneeling by the bedside, holding one of his hands clasped
in hers, and gazing on him with the look of one who distrusted all her senses, he proceeded : " Do not interrupt me
until I have done. I wish to speak while the excitement of
returning life is upon me, as I know I shall soon need much
repose. Of the commencement of my illness I have only a
confused recollection; but within the last twelve hours I
have been before the judgment-seat of God. Do not stare
incredulously on me—'tis as true as have been my crimes,
and as, I trust, shall be repentance. I saw the awful Judge
arrayed in all the terrors which invest him when mercy
gives place to justice. The dreadful pomp of offended
omnipotence, I saw—I remember.
It is fixed here;
printed on my brain in characters indelible; but it passeth
human language. What I can describe I will—I may
speak it briefly. It is enough to say, I was weighed in the
balance, and found wanting. The irrevocable sentence was
upon the point of being pronounced ; the eye of my
Almighty Judge, which had already glanced upon me, half
spoke my doom; when I observed the guardian saint, to
whom you so often directed my prayers when I was a child,
looking at me with an expression of benevolence and compassion. I stretched forth my hands to him, and besought

BANSHEE

OF THE MAC CARTHYS.

119

his intercession. I implored that one year, one month,
might be given to me on earth to do penance and
atonement for my transgressions.
He threw himself at
the feet of my Judge, and supplicated for mercy. Oh !
never—not if I should pass through ten thousand successive
states of being—never, for eternity, shall I forget the
horrors of that moment, when my fate hung suspended—
when an instant was to decide whether torments unutterable
were to be my portion for endless ages ! But Justice
suspended its decree, and Mercy spoke in accents of firmness, but mildness, ' Return to that world in which thou
hast lived but to outrage the laws of Him who made that
world and thee. Three years are given thee for repentance;
when these are ended, thou shalt again stand here, to be
saved or lost for ever.' I heard no more ; I saw no more,
until I awoke to life, the moment before you entered."
Charles's strength continued just long enough to finish
these last words, and on uttering them he closed his eyes,
and lay quite exhausted. His mother, though, as was
before said, somewhat disposed to give credit to supernatural visitations, yet hesitated whether or not she should
believe that, although awakened from a swoon which might
have been the crisis of his disease, he was still under the
influence of delirium. Repose, however, was at all events
necessary, and she took immediate measures that he should
enjoy it undisturbed. After some hours' sleep, he awoke
refreshed, and thenceforward gradually but steadily recovered.
Still he persisted in his account of the vision, as he had at
first related i t ; and his persuasion of its reality had an
obvious and decided influence on his habits and conduct.
H e did not altogether abandon the society of his former
associates, for his temper was not soured by his reformation ; but he never joined in their excesses, and often
endeavoured to reclaim them. How hi& pious exertions
succeeded, I have never learnt; but of himself it is recorded
that he was religious without ostentation, and temperate
without austerity; giving a practical proof that vice may be

THE

120

BANSHEE.

exchanged for virtue, without the loss of respectability,
popularity, or happiness.
Time rolled on, and long before the three years were
ended the story of his vision was forgotten, or, when spoken
of, was usually mentioned as an instance proving the folly
of believing in such things. Charles's health, from the
temperance and regularity of his habits, became more
robust than ever. His friends, indeed, had often occasion to
rally him upon a seriousness and abstractedness of demeanour,
which grew upon him as he approached the completion of
his seven-and-twentieth year, but for the most part his
manner exhibited the same animation and cheerfulness for
which he had* always been remarkable. In company he,
evaded every endeavour to draw from him a distinct
opinion on the subject of the supposed prediction; but
among his own family it was well known that he still firmly
believed it. However, when the day had nearly arrived
on which the prophecy was, if at all, to be fulfilled, his
whole appearance gave such promise of a long and healthy
life, that he was persuaded by his friends to ask a large
party to an entertainment at Spring House, to celebrate
his birthday. But the occasion of this party, and the
circumstances which attended it, will be best learned from a
perusal of the following letters, which have been carefully
preserved by some relations of his family. The first is
from Mrs. Mac Carthy to a lady, a very near connection
and valued friend of her's, who lived in the county of Cork,
at about fifty miles' distance from Spring House.
lc

TO MRS. BARRY, CASTLE BARRY,

" Spring House^ Tuesday mornings
October i$th, 1752.
" M Y DEAREST MARY,

" I am afraid I am going to put your affection for your
old friend and kinswoman to a severe trial. A two days'
journey at this season, over bad roads and through a
troubled country, it will indeed require friendship such as

BANSHEE

OF THE MAC CARTHYS.

121

yours to persuade a sober woman to encounter. But the
truth is, I have, or fancy I have, more than usual cause for
wishing you near me. You know my son's story. I can't
tell you how it is, but as next Sunday approaches, when
the prediction of his dream, or vision, will be proved false
or true, I feel a sickening of the heart, which I cannot
suppress, but which your presence, my dear Mary, will
soften, as it has done so many of my sorrows. My nephew,
James Ryan, is to be married to Jane Osborne (who, you
know, is my son's ward), and the bridal entertainment will
take place here on Sunday next, though Charles pleaded
hard to have it postponed for a day or two longer. Would
to God—but no more of this till we meet. Do prevail
upon yourself to leave your good man for one week, if his
farming concerns will not admit of his accompanying you;
and come to us, with the girls, as soon before Sunday as
you can.
" Ever my dear Mary's attached cousin and friend,
" A N N MAC CARTHY."

Although this letter reached Castle Barry early on
Wednesday, the messenger having travelled on foot over
bog and moor, by paths impassable to horse or carriage,
Mrs. Barry, who at once determined on going, had so many
arrangements to make for the regulation of her domestic
affairs (which, in Ireland, among the middle orders of the
gentry, fall soon into confusion when the mistress of the
family is away), that she and her two young daughters were
unable to leave until late on the morning of Friday. The
eldest daughter remained to keep her father company, and
superintend the concerns of the household.
As the
travellers were to journey in an open one-horse vehicle,
called a jaunting-car (still used in Ireland), and as the roads,
bad at all times, were rendered still worse by the heavy
rains, it was their design to make two easy stages—to stop
about midway the first night, and reach Spring House early
on Saturday evening. This arrangement was now altered,
as they found that from the lateness of their departure they

THE

122

BANSHEE.

could proceed, at the utmost, no farther than twenty miles
on the first day; and they, therefore, purposed sleeping at
the house of a Mr. Bourke, a friend of theirs, who lived at
somewhat less than that distance from Castle Barry. They
reached Mr. Bourke's in safety after a rather disagreeable
ride. What befell them on their journey the next day to
Spring House, and after their arrival there, is fully recounted
in a letter from the second Miss Barry to her eldest sister.
" Spring House, Sunday evening,
2otk October 1752.
"DEAR

ELLEN,

" A s my mother's letter, which encloses this, will
announce to you briefly the sad intelligence which I shall
here relate more fully, I think it better to go regularly
through the recital of the extraordinary events of the last
two days.
" T h e Bourkes kept us up so late on Friday night that
yesterday was pretty far advanced before we could begin
our journey, and the day closed when we were nearly
fifteen miles distant from this place. The roads were
excessively deep, from the heavy rains of the last week, and
we proceeded so slowly that, at last, my mother resolved on
passing the night at the house of Mr. Bourke's brother (who
lives about a quarter-of-a-mile off the road), and coming
here to breakfast in the morning. The day had been
windy and showery, and the sky looked fitful, gloomy, and
uncertain. The moon was full, and at times shone clear
and bright; at others it was wholly concealed behind the
thick, black, and rugged masses of clouds that rolled rapidly
along, and were every moment becoming larger, and collecting together as if gathering strength for a coming storm.
The wind, which blew in our faces, whistled bleakly along
the low hedges of the narrow road, on which we proceeded
with difficulty from the number of deep sloughs, and which
afforded not the least shelter, no plantation being within
some miles of us. My mother, therefore, asked Leary,
who drove the jaunting-Car, how far we were from Mr.

BANSHEE

OF THE MAC CARTHYS.

123

Bourke's ? * 'Tis about ten spades from this to the cross,
and we have then only to turn to the left into the avenue,
ma'am.' 'Very well, Leary; turn up to Mr. Bourke's as
soon as you reach the cross roads.' My mother had
scarcely spoken these words, when a shriek, that made us
thrill as if our very hearts were pierced by it, burst from the
hedge to the right of our way. If it resembled anything
earthly it seemed the cry of a female, struck by a sudden
and mortal blow, and giving out her life in one long deep
pang of expiring agony. ' Heaven defend u s ! ' exclaimed
my "mother. ' Go you over the hedge, Leary, and save
that woman, if she is not yet dead, while we run back to
the hut we have just passed, and alarm the village near it.'
' Woman!' said Leary, beating the horse violently, while
his voice trembled, ' that's no woman; the sooner we get
oh, ma'am, the better;' and he continued his efforts to
quicken the horse's pace. We saw nothing. The moon
was hid. It was quite dark, and we had been for some
time expecting a heavy fall of rain. But just as Leary
had spoken, and had succeeded in making the horse trot
briskly forward, we distinctly heard a loud clapping of
hands, followed by a succession of screams, that seemed to
denote the last excess of despair and anguish, and to issue
from a person running forward inside the hedge, to keep
pace with our progress. Still we saw nothing ; until, when
we were within about ten yards of the place where an
avenue branched off to Mr. Bourke's to the left, and the
road turned to Spring House on the right, the moon started
suddenly from behind a cloud, and enabled us to see, as
plainly as I now see this paper, the figure of a tall, thin
woman, with uncovered head, and long hair that floated
round her shoulders, attired in something which seemed
either a loose white cloak or a sheet thrown hastily about her.
She stood on the corner hedge, where the road on which we
were met that which leads to Spring House, with her face
towards us, her left hand pointing to this place, and her
right arm waving rapidly and violently as if to draw us
on in that direction. The horse had stopped, apparently

124

THE

BANSHEE.

frightened at the sudden presence of the figure, which stood
in the manner I have described, still uttering the same
piercing cries, for about half a minute. It then leaped upon
the road, disappeared from our view for one instant, and the
next was seen standing upon a high wall a little way up the
avenue on which we purposed going, still pointing towards
the road to Spring House, but in an attitude of defiance
and command, as if prepared to oppose our passage up the
avenue. The figure was now quite silent, and its garments,
which had before flown loosely in the wind, were closely
wrapped around it. l Go on, Leary, to Spring House, in
God's name !' said my mother; * whatever world it belongs
to, we will provoke it no longer.' "Tis the Banshee,
ma'am,' said Leary ; * and I would not,- for what my life is
worth, go anywhere this blessed night but to Spring House.
But I'm afraid there's something bad going forward, or she
would not send us there.' So saying, he drove forward;
and as we turned on the road to the right, the moon
suddenly withdrew its light, and we saw the apparition no
more ; but we heard plainly a prolonged clapping of hands,
gradually dying away, as if it issued from a person rapidly
retreating. We proceeded as quickly as the badness of the
roads and the fatigue of the poor animal that drew us would
allow, and arrived here about eleven o'clock last night.
The scene which awaited us you have learned from my
mother's letter. To explain it fully, I must recount to you
some of the transactions which took place here during the
last week.
" Y o u are aware that Jane Osborne was to have been
married this day to James Ryan; and that they and their
friends have been here for the last week. On Tuesday
last, the very day on the morning of which cousin Mac
Garthy despatched the letter inviting us here, the whole of
the company were walking about the grounds a little before
dinner. It seems that an unfortunate creature, who had
been seduced by James Ryan, was seen prowling in the
neighbourhood in a moody, melancholy state for some days
previous. H e had separated from her for several months,

BANSHEE

OF THE MAC CARTHYS.

125

and, they say, had provided for her rather handsomely; but
she had been seduced by the promise of his marrying her;
and the shame of her unhappy condition, uniting with disappointment and jealousy, had disordered her intellects.
During the whole forenoon of this Tuesday she had been
walking in the plantations near Spring House, with her cloak
folded tight round her, the hood nearly covering her face;
and she had avoided conversing with or even meeting any
of the family.
" Charles Mac Carthy, at the time I mentioned, was
walking between James Ryan and another, at a little
distance from the rest, on a gravel path, skirting a shrubbery. The whole party was thrown into the utmost consternation by the report of a pistol, fired from a thicklyplanted part of the shrubbery which Charles and his comT
panions had just passed. He fell instantly, and it was
found that he had been wounded in the leg. One of the
party was a medical man. His assistance was immediately
given, and, on examining, he declared that the injury was
very slight, that no bone was broken, it was merely a flesh
wound, and that it would certainly be well in a few
days. ' We shall know more by Sunday/ said Charles, as he
was carried to his chamber. His wound was immediately
dressed, and so slight was the inconvenience which it gave
that several of his friends spent a portion of the evening in
his apartment.
"On inquiry, it was found that the unlucky shot was fired
by the poor girl I just mentioned. It was also manifest that
she had aimed, not at Charles, but at the destroyer of her
innocence and happiness, who was walking beside him.
After a fruitless search for her through the grounds, she
walked into the house of her own accord, laughing and
dancing, and singing wildly, and every moment exclaiming
that she had at last killed Mr. Ryan. When she heard that
it was Charles, and not Mr. Ryan, who was shot, she fell
into a violent fit, out of which, after working convulsively
for some time, she sprung to the door, escaped from the
crowd that pursued her, and could never be taken until last

126

THE

BANSHEE.

night, when she was brought here, perfectly frantic, a little
before our arrival.
" Charles's wound was thought of such little consequence
that the preparations went forward, as usuai\ for the wedding
entertainment on Sunday. But on Friday night he grew
restless and feverish, and on Saturday (yesterday) morning
felt so ill that it was deemed necessary to obtain additional medical advice. Two physicians and ,1 surgeon met
in consultation about twelve o'clock in the day, and the
dreadful intelligence was announced, that unless a change,
hardly hoped for, took place before night, de^th must
happen within twenty-four hours after. The wound, it
seems, had been too tightly bandaged, and otherwise
injudiciously treated. The physicians were right in their
anticipations. No favourable symptom appeared, and long
before we reached Spring House every ray of hope had
vanished. The scene we witnessed on our arrival would
have wrung the heart of a demon. We heard briefly at the
gate that Mr. Charles was upon his death-bed. When we
reached the house, the information was confirmed by the
servant who opened the door. But just as we entered we
were horrified by the most appalling screams issuing from
the staircase. My mother thought she heard the voice of
poor Mrs. Mac Carthy, and sprung forward. We followed,
and on ascending a few steps of the stairs, we found a
young woman, in a state of frantic passion, struggling
furiously with two men-servants, whose united strength was
hardly sufficient to prevent her rushing upstairs over the
body of Mrs. Mac Carthy, who was lying in strong hysterics
upon the steps. This, I afterwards discovered, was the
unhappy girl I before described, who was attempting to
gain access to Charles's room, to e get his forgiveness,' as
she said, c before he went away to accuse her for having
killed him.' This wild idea was mingled with another,
which seemed to dispute with the former possession of her
mind. In one sentence she called on Charles to forgive
her, in the next she would denounce James Ryan as the
murderer, both of Charles and her. At length she was torn

BANSHEE

OF THE MAC CARTHYS.

127

away ; and the last words I heard her scream were, l James
Ryan, 'twas you killed him, and not I—'twas you killed
him, and not L'
" Mrs. Mac Carthy, on recovering, fell into the arms of
my mother, whose presence seemed a great relief to her.
She wept—the first tears, I was told, that she had shed
since the fatal accident. She conducted us to Charles's
room, who, she said, had desired to see us the moment of
our arrival, as he found his end approaching, and wished to
devote the last hours of his existence to uninterrupted
prayer and meditation. We found him perfectly calm,
resigned, and even cheerful. He spoke of the awful event
which was at hand with courage and confidence, and treated
it as a doom for which he had been preparing ever since
his former remarkable illness, and which he never once
doubted was truly foretold to him. He bade us farewell
with the air of one who was about to travel a short and
easy journey; and we left him with impressions which,
notwithstanding all their anguish, will, I trust, never entirely
forsake us.
" Poor Mrs. Mac Carthy
but I am just called away.
There seems a slight stir in the family; perhaps
"
The above letter was never finished. The enclosure to
which it more than once alludes told the sequel briefly, and
it is all that I have further learned of the family of
Mac Carthy. Before the sun had gone down upon Charles's
seven-and-twentieth birthday, his soul had gone to render
its last account to its Creator.

GHOSTS.
GHOSTS, or as they are called in Irish, Thevshi or Task
(taidhbhse^ tais), live in a state intermediary between this
life and the next. They are held there by some earthly
longing or affection, or some duty unfulfilled, or anger
against the living. " I will haunt you," is a common
threat; and one hears such phrases as, " She will haunt
him, if she has any good in her." If one is sorrowing greatly
after a dead friend, a neighbour will say, "Be quiet now,
you are keeping him from his rest;" or, in the Western Isles,
according to Lady Wilde, they will tell you, " You are waking
the dog that watches to devour the souls of the dead." Those
who die suddenly, more commonly than others, are believed to
become haunting Ghosts. They go about moving the furniture,
and in every way trying to attract attention.
When the soul has left the body, it is drawn away, sometimes,
by the fairies. I have a story of a peasant who once saw,
sitting in a fairy rath, all who had died for years in his village.
Such souls are considered lost. If a soul eludes the fairies, it
may be snapped up by the evil spirits. The weak souls of
young children are in especial danger. When a very young
child dies, the western peasantry sprinkle the threshold with
the blood of a chicken, that the spirits may be drawn away to
the blood. A Ghost is compelled to obey the commands of the
living. " The stable-boy up at Mrs. G
's there," said an old
countryman, "met the master going round the yards after he
had been two days dead, and told him to be away with him to
the lighthouse, and haunt that; and there he is far out to sea
still, sir. Mrs. G - — was quite wild about it, and dismissed

A

DREAM.

129

the boy." A very desolate lighthouse poor devil of a Ghost!
Lady Wilde considers it is only the spirits who are too bad for
heaven, and too good for hell, who are thus plagued. They are
compelled to obey some one they have wronged.
The souls of the dead sometimes take the shapes of animals.
There is a garden at Sligo where the gardener sees a previous
owner in the shape of a rabbit. They will sometimes take the
forms of insects, especially of butterflies. If you see one
fluttering near a corpse, that is the soul, and is a sign of its
having entered upon immortal happiness. The author of the
Parochial Survey of Ireland, 1814, heard a woman say to a
child who was chasing a butterfly, " How do you know it is not
the soul of your grandfather." On November eve the dead
are abroad, and dance with the fairies.
As in Scotland, the fetch is commonly believed in. If you
see the double, or fetch, of a friend in the morning, no ill
follows ; if at night, he is about to die.

A DREAM.
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

I HEARD the dogs howl in the moonlight night 3
I went to the window to see the sight;
All the Dead that ever I knew
Going one by one and two by two.
On they pass'd, and on they pass'd;
Townsfellows all, from first to last;
Born in the moonlight of the lane,
Quenched in the heavy shadow again.
Schoolmates, marching as when we play'd
At soldiers once—but now more staid;
Those were the strangest sight to me
Who were drown'd, I knew, in the awful sea.
524

130

GHOSTS.
Straight and handsome folk; bent and weak, t o o ;
Some that I loved, and gasp'd to speak t o ;
Some but a day in their churchyard bed ;
Some that I had not known were dead.
A long, long crowd—where each seem'd lonely,
Yet of them all there was one, one only,
Raised a head or look'd my way.
She lingered a moment,—she might not stay.
How long since I saw that fair pale face !
Ah ! Mother dear 1 might I only place
My head on thy breast, a moment to rest,
While thy hand on my tearful cheek were prest 1
On, on, a moving bridge they made
Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade,
Young and old, women and men ;
Many long-forgot, but remember'd then.
And first there came a bitter laughter;
A sound of tears the moment after;
And then a music so lofty and gay,
That every morning, day by day,
I strive to recall it if I may.

GRACE CONNOR.
MISS LETITIA MACLINTOCK.

THADY and Grace Connor lived on the borders of a large
turf bog, in the parish of Clondevaddock, where they could
hear the Atlantic surges thunder in upon the shore, and see
the wild storrns of winter sweep over the Muckish mountain,

GRACE

CONNOR.

*3*

and his rugged neighbours. Even in summer the cabin by
the bog was dull and dreary enough.
Thady Connor worked in the fields, and Grace made a
livelihood as a pedlar, carrying a basket of remnants of
cloth, calico, drugget, and frieze about the country. The
people rarely visited any large town, and found it convenient to buy from Grace, who was welcomed in many a
lonely house, where a table was hastily cleared, that she
might display her wares. Being considered a very honest
woman, she was frequently entrusted with commissions to
the shops in Letterkenny and Ramelton. As she set out
towards home, her basket was generally laden with little
gifts for her children.
" Grace, dear," would one of the kind housewives say,
" here's a farrel* of oaten cake, wi5 a taste o' butter on i t ;
tak' it wi' you for the weans;" or, "Here's half-a-dozen of
eggs; you've a big family to support."
Small Connors of all ages crowded round the weary
mother, to rifle her basket of these gifts. But her thrifty,
hard life came suddenly to an end. She died after an
illness of a few hours, and was waked and buried as handsomely as Thady could afford.
Thady was in bed the night after the funeral, and the fire
still burned brightly, when he saw his departed wife cross
the room and bend over the cradle. Terrified, he muttered
rapid prayers, covered his face with the blanket; and on
looking up again the appearance was gone.
Next night he lifted the infant out of the cradle, and laid
it behind him in the bed, hoping thus to escape his ghostly
visitor; but Grace was presently in the room, and stretching
over him to wrap up her child. Shrinking and shuddering,
the poor man exclaimed, " Grace, woman, what is it
brings you back ? What is it you want wi' me ? "
" I want naething fae you, Thady, but to put thon wean
back in her cradle," replied the spectre, in a tone of scorn.
"You're too feared for me, but my sister Rose willna be
* When a large, round, flat griddle cake is divided into triangular
cuts, each of these cuts is called a farrel, farli, or parli.

132

GHOSTS.

feared for me-—tell her to meet me to-morrow evening, in
the old wallsteads."
Rose lived with her mother, about a mile off, but she
obeyed her sister's summons without the least fear, and kept
the strange tryste in due time.
" Rose, dear," she said, as she appeared before her sister in
the old wallsteads, " my mind's oneasy about them twa' red
shawls that's in the basket. Matty Hunter and Jane
Taggart paid me for them, an' I bought them wi' their
money, Friday was eight days. Gie them the shawls the
morrow. An' old Mosey McCorkell gied me the price o' a
wiley coat; it's in under the other things in the basket.
An' now farewell; I can get to my rest."
"Grace, Grace, bide a wee minute," cried the faithful
sister, as the dear voice grew fainter, and the dear face
began to fade—" Grace, darling ! Thady ? The children ?
One word mair !" but neither cries nor tears could further
detain the spirit hastening to its rest!

A L E G E N D O F TYRONE.
ELLEN O'LEARY.

CROUCHED round a bare hearth in hard, frosty weather.
Three lonely helpless weans cling close together;
Tangled those gold locks, once bonnie and bright—
There's no one to fondle the baby to-night.
" My mammie I want; oh ! my mammie I want!"
The big tears stream down with the low wailing chant.
Sweet Eily's slight arms enfold the gold head:
" Poor weeny Willie, sure mammie is dead—

A LEGEND

OF

TYRONE.

And daddie is crazy from drinking all day—
Come down, holy angels, and take us away !"
Eily and Eddie keep kissing and crying—
Outside, the weird winds are sobbing and sighing.
All in a moment the children are still,
Only a quick coo of gladness from Will.
The sheeling no longer seems empty or bare,
For, clothed in soft raiment, the mother stands there.
They gather around her, they cling to her dress ;
She rains down soft kisses for each shy caress.
Her light, loving touches smooth out tangled locks,
And, pressed to her bosom, the baby she rocks.
H e lies in his cot, there's a fire on the hearth;
To Eily and Eddy 'tis heaven on earth,
For mother's deft fingers have been everywhere;
She lulls them to rest in the low suggaun* chair.
They gaze open-eyed, then the eyes gently close,
As petals fold into the heart of a rose,
But ope soon again in awe, love, but no fear,
And fondly they murmur, " Our mammie is here."
She lays them down softly, she wraps them around;
They lie in sweet slumbers, she starts at a sound,
The cock loudly crows, and the spirit's away—
The drunkard steals in at the dawning of day.
Again and again, 'tween the dark and the dawn,
Glides in the dead mother to nurse Willie Bawn:
Or is it an angel who sits by the hearth ?
An angel in heaven, a mother on earth.
* Chair made of twisted straw ropes,,

m

*34

GHOSTS.
T H E BLACK LAMB.*
LADY WILDE.

I T is a custom amongst the people, when throwing away
water at night, to cry out in a loud voice, " Take care of
the water;" or literally, from the Irish, "Away with yourself
from the water "—for they say that the spirits of the dead
last buried are then wandering about, and it would be
dangerous if the water fell on them.
One dark night a woman suddenly threw out a pail of
boiling water without thinking of the warning words.
Instantly a cry was heard, as of a person in pain, but no one
was seen. However, the next night a black lamb entered
the house, having the back all fresh scalded, and it lay
down moaning by the hearth and died. Then they all
knew that this was the spirit that had been scalded by the
woman, and they carried the dead lamb out reverently, and
buried it deep in the earth. Yet every night at the same
hour it walked again into the house, and lay down, moaned,
and died; and after this had happened many times, the
priest was sent for, and finally, by the strength of his
exorcism, the spirit of the dead was laid to rest; the black
lamb appeared no more. Neither was the body of the
dead lamb found in the grave when they searched for it,
though it had been laid by their own hands deep in the
earth, and covered with clay.

SONG O F T H E GHOST.
ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES.
W H E N all were dreaming

But Pastheen Power,
A light came streaming
Beneath her bower:
* Ancient Legends of Ireland.

SONG OF THE

GHOST

A heavy foot
At her door delayed,
A heavy hand
On the latch was laid.
" Now who dare venture,
At this dark hour,
Unbid to enter
My maiden bower ? "
" Dear Pastheen, open
The door to me,
And your true lover
You'll surely see."
" My own true lover,
So tall and brave,
Lives exiled over
The angry wave."
" Your true love's body
Lies on the bier,
His faithful spirit
Is with you here."
" His look was cheerful,
His voice was gay;
You speech is fearful,
Your face is grey;
And sad and sunken
Your eye of blue,
But Patrick, Patrick,
Alas ! 'tis you !"
Ere dawn was breaking
She heard below
The two cocks shaking
Their wings to crow.

136

GHOSTS.
" Oh, hush you, hush you,
Both red and grey,
Or you will hurry
My love away.
" Oh, hush your crowing^
Both grey and red,
Or he'll be going
To join the dead ;
Or, cease from calling
His ghost to the mould,
And I'll come crowning
Your combs with gold/'
When all were dreaming
But Pastheen Power,
A light went streaming
From out her bower ;
And on the morrow,
When they awoke,
They knew that sorrow
Her heart had broke,

T H E R A D I A N T BOY.
MRS.

CROW.

CAPTAIN STEWART, afterwards Lord Castlereagh, when he
was a young man, happened to be quartered in Ireland. H e
was fond of sport, and one day the pursuit of game carried
him so far that he lost his way. The weather, too, had
become very rough, and in this strait he presented himself
at the door of a gentleman's house, and sending in his card,
requested shelter for the night. The hospitality of the Irish
country gentry is proverbial; the master of the house
received him warmly; said he feared he could not make

THE

RADIANT

BOY.

137

him so comfortable as he could have wished, his house being
full of visitors already, added to which, some strangers,
driven by the inclemency of the night, had sought shelter
before him, but such accommodation as he could give he was
heartily welcome t o ; whereupon he called his butler, and
committing the guest to his good offices, told him he must
put him up somewhere, and do the best he could for him.
There was no lady, the gentleman being a widower.
Captain Stewart found the house crammed, and a very
jolly party it was. His host invited him to stay, and
promised him good shooting if he would prolong his visit
a few days : and, in fine, he thought himself extremely
fortunate to have fallen into such pleasant quarters.
At length, after an agreeable evening, they all retired to
bed, and the butler conducted him to a large room, almost
divested of furniture, but with a blazing turf fire in the
grate, and a shake-down on the floor, composed of cloaks
and other heterogeneous materials.
Nevertheless, to the tired limbs of Captain Stewart, who
had had a hard day's shooting, it looked very inviting; but
before he lay down, he thought it advisable to take off some
of the fire, which was blazing up the chimney in what he
thought an alarming manner. Having done this, he
stretched himself on his couch and soon fell asleep.
H e believed he had slept about a couple of hours when
he awoke suddenly, and was startled by such a vivid light
in the room that he thought it on fire, but on turning to
look at the grate he saw the fire was out, though it was from
the chimney the light proceeded. H e sat up in bed, trying
to discover what it was, when he perceived the form of a
beautiful naked boy, surrounded by a dazzling radiance.
The boy looked at him earnestly, and then the vision faded,
and all was dark. Captain Stewart, so far from supposing
what he had seen to be of a spiritual nature, had no doubt
that the host, or the visitors, had been trying to frighten
him. Accordingly, he felt indignant at the liberty, and on
the following morning, when he appeared at breakfast, he
took care to evince his displeasure by the reserve of his

i38

GffOSTS.

demeanour, and by announcing his intention to depart
immediately. The host expostulated, reminding him of his
promise to stay and shoot. Captain Stewart coldly excused
himself, and, at length, the gentleman seeing something was
wrong, took him aside, and pressed for an explanation;
whereupon Captain Stewart, without entering iiv*;o particulars,
said he had been made the victim of a sort of practical
joking that he thought quite unwarrantable with a stranger.
The gentleman considered this not impossible amongst a
parcel of thoughtless young men, and appealed to them to
make an apology; but one and all, on honour, denied the
impeachment. Suddenly a thought seemed to strike him;
he clapt his hand to his forehead, uttered an exclamation,
and rang the bell.
" Hamilton," said he to the butler; " where did Captain
Stewart sleep last night ? "
"Well, sir," replied the m a n ; "you know every place
was full—the gentlemen were lying on the floor, three or
four in a room—so I gave him the Botfs Room; but I lit a
blazing fire to keep him from coming out."
"You were very wrong," said the host; "you know I
have positively forbidden you to put anyone there, and have
taken the furniture out of the room to ensure its not
being occupied." Then, retiring with Captain Stewart, he
informed him, very gravely, of the nature of the phenomena
he had seen; and at length, being pressed for further
information, he confessed that there existed a tradition in
the family, that whoever the " Radiant boy " appeared to
will rise to the summit of power; and when he has reached
the climax, will die a violent death, and I must say, he
added, that the records that have been kept of his appearance go to confirm this persuasion.

THE

FATE

OF FRANK

M'KENNA,

139

T H E F A T E OF F R A N K M'KENNA.
WILLIAM CARLETON.

T H E R E lived a man named M'Kenna at the hip of one of
the mountainous hills which divide the county of Tyrone
from that of Monaghan. This M'Kenna had two sons,
one of whom was in the habit of tracing hares of a Sunday,
whenever there happened to be a fall of snow. His father,
it seems, had frequently remonstrated with him upon what
he considered to be a violation of the Lord's day, as well as
for his general neglect of mass. The young man, however,
though otherwise harmless and inoffensive, was in this
matter quite insensible to paternal reproof, and continued
to trace whenever the avocations of labour would allow him.
It so happened that upon a Christmas morning, I think in
the year 1814, there was a deep fall of snow, and young
M c Kenna, instead of going to mass, got down his cockstick—which is a staff much thicker and heavier at one end
than at the other—and prepared to set out on his favourite
amusement. His father, seeing this, reproved him seriously,
and insisted that he should attend prayers. His enthusiasm
for the sport, however, was stronger than his love of
religion, and he refused to be guided by his father's advice.
The old man during the altercation got warm; and on
finding that the son obstinately scorned his authority, he
knelt down and prayed that if the boy persisted in following
his own will, he might never return from the mountains
unless as a corpse. The imprecation, which was certainly
as harsh as it was impious and senseless, might have startled
many a mind from a purpose that was, to say the least of it,
at variance with religion and the respect due to a father.
It had no effect, however, upon the son, who is said to have
replied, that whether he ever returned or not, he was determined on going ; and go accordingly he did. H e was not,
however, alone, for it appears that three or four of the
neighbouring young men accompanied him. Whether their

140

GHOSTS.

sport was good or otherwise, is not to the purpose, neither
am I able to say ; but the story goes that towards the latter
part of the day they started a larger and darker hare than
any they had ever seen, and that she kept dodging on
before them bit by bit, leading them to suppose that every
succeeding cast of the cock-stick would bring her down. It
was observed afterwards that she also led them into the
recesses of the mountains, and that although they tried to
turn her course homewards, they could not succeed in doing
so. As evening advanced, the companions of M'Kenna
began to feel the folly of pursuing her farther, and to perceive the danger of losing their way in the mountains should
night or a snow-storm come upon them. They therefore
proposed to give over the chase and return h o m e ; but
M'Kenna would not hear of it. u If you wish to go home,
you may," said h e ; " as for me, I'll never leave the hills
till I have her with me." They begged and entreated ot
him to desist and return, but all to no purpose : he appeared
to be what the Scotch call fey—that is, to act as if he were
moved by some impulse that leads to death, and from the
influence of which a man cannot withdraw himself. At
length, on finding him invincibly obstinate, they left him
pursuing the hare directly into the heart of the mountains,
and returned to their respective homes.
In the meantime one of the most terrible snow-storms
ever remembered in that part of the country came on, and
the consequence was, that the self-willed young man, who
had equally trampled on the sanctities of religion and
parental authority, was given over for lost. As soon as the
tempest became still, the neighbours assembled in a body
and proceeded to look for him. The snow, however, had
fallen so heavily that not a single mark of a footstep could
be seen. Nothing but one wide waste of white undulating
hills met the eye wherever it turned, and of M'Kenna no
trace whatever was visible or could be found. His father,
now remembering the unnatural character of his imprecation, was nearly distracted; for although the body had not
yet been found, still by every one who witnessed the sudden

THE FATE

OF FRANK

M'KENNA.

141

rage of the storm and who knew the mountains, escape or
survival was felt to be impossible. Every day for about
a week large parties were out among the hill-ranges seeking
him, but to no purpose. At length there came a thaw, and
his body was found on a snow-wreath, lying in a supine
posture within a circle which he had drawn around him
with his cock-stick. His prayer-book lay opened upon his
mouth, and his hat was pulled down so as to cover it and
his face. It is unnecessary to say that the rumour of his
death, and of the circumstances under which he left home,
created a most extraordinary sensation in the country—a
sensation that was the greater in proportion to the uncertainty occasioned by his not having been found either alive
or dead. Some affirmed that he had crossed the mountains,
and was seen in Monaghan; others, that he had been seen
in Clones, in Emyvale, in Five-mile-town ; but despite of all
these agreeable reports, the melancholy truth was at length
made clear by the appearance of the body as just stated.
Now, it so happened that the house nearest the spot
where he lay was inhabited by a man named Daly, I think
•—but of the name I am not certain—-who was a herd or
care-taker to Dr. Porter, then Bishop of Clogher. The
situation of this house was the most lonely and desolatelooking that could be imagined. It was at least two miles
distant from any human habitation, being surrounded by
one wide and dreary waste of dark moor. By this house
lay the route of those who had found the corpse, and I
believe the door of it was borrowed for the purpose of conveying it home. Be this as it may, the family witnessed
the melancholy procession as it passed slowly through the
mountains, and when the place and circumstances are all
considered, we may admit that to ignorant and superstitious
people, whose minds, even upon ordinary occasions, were
strongly affected by such matters, it was a sight calculated
to leave behind it a deep, if not a terrible impression.
Time soon proved that it did so.
An incident is said to have occurred at the funeral in fine
keeping with the wild spirit of the whole melancholy event.

142

GHOSTS.

When the procession had advanced to a place called
Mullaghtinny, a large dark-coloured hare, which was
instantly recognised, by those who had been out with him
on the hills, as the identical one that led him to his fate, is
said to have crossed the roads about twenty yards or so
before the coffin. The story goes, that a man struck it on
the side with a stone, and that the blow, which would have
killed any ordinary hare, not only did it no injury, but
occasioned a sound to proceed from the body resembling
the hollow one emitted by an empty barrel when struck.
In the meantime the interment took place, and the
sensation began, like every other, to die away in the natural
progress of time, when, behold, a report ran abroad like
wild-fire that, to use the language of the people, "Frank
M'Kenna was appearing / "
One night, about a fortnight after his funeral, the
daughter of Daly, the herd, a girl about fourteen, while
lying in bed saw what appeared to be the likeness of
M'Kenna, who had been lost. She screamed out, and
covering her head with the bed-clothes, told her father and
mother that Frank M'Kenna was in the house.
This
alarming intelligence naturally produced great terror;
still, Daly, who, notwithstanding his belief in such matters,
possessed a good deal of moral courage, was cool enough
to rise and examine the house, which consisted of only one
apartment. This gave the daughter some courage, who, on
finding that her father could not see him, ventured to look
out, and she then could see nothing of him herself. She
very soon fell asleep, and her father attributed what she
saw to fear, or some accidental combination of shadows
proceeding from the furniture, for it was a clear moonlight
night. The light of the following day dispelled a great
deal of their apprehensions, and comparatively little was
thought of it until evening again advanced, when the fears
of the daughter began to return. They appeared to be
prophetic, for she said when night came that she knew he
would appear again; and accordingly at the same hour he
did so, This was repeated for several successive nights,

THE FATE

OF FRANK

M'KENNA.

143

until the girl, from the very hardihood of terror, began to
become so far familiarised to the spectre as to venture to
address it.
" I n the name of God I" she asked, "what is troubling
you, or why do you appear to me instead of to some of your
own family or relations ? "
The ghost's answer alone might settle the question
involved in the authenticity of its appearance, being, as it
was, an account of one of the most ludicrous missions that
ever a spirit was despatched upon.
" F m not allowed," said he, " t o spake to any of my
friends, for I parted wid them in anger; but I'm come to
tell you that they are quarrelin' about my breeches—a new
pair that I got made for Christmas day; an? as I was comin'
up to thrace in the mountains, I thought the ould one 'ud
do betther, an' of coorse I didn't put the new pair an me.
My raison for appearin'," he added, "is, that you may tell
my friends that none of them is to wear them—they must
be given in charity."
This serious and solemn intimation from the ghost was
duly communicated to the family, and it was found that the
circumstances were exactly as it had represented them.
This, of course, was considered as sufficient proof of the
truth of its mission. Their conversations now became not
only frequent, but quite friendly and familiar. The girl
became a favourite with the spectre, and the spectre, on the
other hand, soon lost all his terrors in her eyes. H e told
her that whilst his friends were bearing home his body, the
handspikes or poles on which they carried him had cut his
back, and occasioned him great pain I The cutting of the
back also was known to be true, and strengthened, of
course, the truth and authenticity of their dialogues. The
whole neighbourhood was now in a commotion with this
story of the apparition, and persons incited by curiosity
began to visit the girl in order to satisfy themselves of the
truth of what they had heard. Everything, however, was
corroborated, and the child herself, without any symptoms of
anxiety or terror, artlessly related her conversations with the

144

GHOSTS.

spirit. Hitherto their interviews had been all nocturnal,
but now that the ghost found his footing made good, he
put a hardy face on, and ventured to appear by daylight.
The girl also fell into states of syncope, and while the fits
lasted, long conversations with him upon the subject of
God, the blessed Virgin, and Heaven, took place between
them. H e was certainly an excellent moralist, and gave
the best advice. Swearing, drunkenness, theft, and every
evil propensity of our nature, were declaimed against with a
degree of spectral eloquence quite surprising. Common
fame had now a topic dear to her heart, and never was a
ghost made more of by his best friends than she made of
him. The whole country was in a tumult, and I well
remember the crowds which flocked to the lonely little
cabin in the mountains, now the scene of matters so
interesting and important. Not a single day passed in
which I should think from ten to twenty, thirty, or fifty
persons, were not present at these singular interviews.
Nothing else was talked of, thought of, and, as I can well
testify, dreamt of. I would myself have gone to Daly's
were it not for a confounded misgiving I had, that perhaps
the ghost might take such a fancy of appearing to me, as he
had taken to cultivate an intimacy with the girl; and it so
happens, that when I see the face of an individual nailed
down in the coffin—chilling and gloomy operation !—I
experience no particular wish to look upon it again.
The spot where the body of M'Kenna was found is now
marked by a little heap of stones, which has been collected
since the melancholy event of his death. Every person
who passes it throws a stone upon the heap; but why this
old custom is practised, or what it means, I do not know,
unless it be simply to mark the spot as a visible means of
preserving the memory of the occurrence.
Daly's house, the scene of the supposed apparition, is
now a shapeless ruin, which could scarcely be seen were it
not for the green spot that once was a garden, and which
now shines at a distance like an emerald, but with no agreeable or pleasing associations. It is a spot which no solitary

THE FATE

OF FRANK

M'KENNA.

145

schoolboy will ever visit, nor indeed would the unflinching
believer in the popular nonsense of ghosts wish to pass it
without a companion. It is, under any circumstances, a
gloomy and barren place; but when looked upon in connection with what we have just recited, it is lonely, desolate,
and awful.

5*5

WITCHES, FAIRY DOCTORS.
WITCHES and fairy doctors receive their power from opposite
dynasties ; the witch from evil spirits and her own malignant
will; the fairy doctor from the fairies, and a something—a
temperament—that is born with him or her. The first is always
feared and hated. The second is gone to for advice, and is
never worse than mischievous. The most celebrated fairy
doctors are sometimes people the fairies loved and carried away,
and kept with them for seven years; not that those' the fairies'
love are always carried off—they may merely grow silent and
strange, and take to lonely wanderings in the " gentle " places.
Such will, in after-times, be great poets or musicians, or fairy
doctors ; they must not be confused with those who have a
Lianhaun shee \leanndn-sidhe\ for the Lianhaun shee lives upon
the vitals of its chosen, and they waste and die. She is of the
dreadful solitary fairies. To her have belonged the greatest of
the Irish poets, from Oisin down to the last century.
Those we speak of have for their friends the trooping fairies
—the gay and sociable populace of raths and caves. Great is
their knowledge of herbs and spells. These doctors, when the
butter will not come on the milk, or the milk will not come
from the cow, will be sent for to find out if the cause be in
the course of common nature or if there has been witchcraft.
Perhaps some old hag in the shape of a hare has been milking
the cattle. Perhaps some user of " the dead hand " has drawn
away the butter to her own churn. Whatever it be, there is the
counter-charm. They will give advice, too, in cases of
suspected changelings, and prescribe for the "fairy blast"
(when the fairy strikes any one a tumour rises, or they become
paralysed, This is called a " fairy blast" or a " fairy stroke ")°

WITCHES,

FAIRY

DOCTORS,

The fairies are, of course, visible to them, and many a new-built
house have they bid the owner pull down because it lay on
the fairies' road. Lady Wilde thus describes one who lived in
Innis Sark :—" He never touched beer, spirits, or meat in all
his life, but has lived entirely on bread, fruit, and vegetables.
A man who knew him thus describes him—* Winter and summer his dress is the same—merely a flannel shirt and coat. He
will pay his share at a feast, but neither eats nor drinks of the
food and drink set before him. He speaks no English, and
never could be made to learn the English tongue, though he
says it might be used with great effect to curse one's enemy.
He holds a burial-ground sacred, and would not carry away so
much as a leaf of ivy from a grave. And he maintains that the
people are right to keep to their ancient usages, such as
never to dig a grave on a Monday, and to carry the coffin
three times round the grave, following the course of the sun,
for then the dead rest in peace. Like the people, also, he holds
suicides as accursed ; for they believe that all its dead turn over
on their faces if a suicide is laid amongst them.
" 'Though well off, he never, even in his youth, thought of
taking a wife ; nor was he ever known to love a woman. He
stands quite apart from life, and by this means holds his power
over the mysteries. No money will tempt him to impart his know
ledge to another, for if he did he would be struck dead—so he
believes. He would not touch a hazel stick, but carries an ash
wand, which he holds in his hand when he prays, laid across his
knees ; and the whole of his life is devoted to works of grace
and charity, and though now an old man, he has never had a
day's sickness. No one has ever seen him in a rage, nor heard
an angry word from his lips but once, and then being under
great irritation, he recited the Lord's Prayer backwards as an
imprecation on his enemy. Before his death he will reveal the
mystery of his power, but not till the hand of death is on him
for certain.'" When he does reveal it, we may be sure it will
be to one person only—his successor. There are several such
doctors in County Sligo, really well up in herbal medicine by
all accounts, and my friends find them in their own counties*

148

WITCHES,

FAIRY

DOCTORS.

All these things go on merrily. The spirit of the age laughs in
vain, and is itself only a ripple to pass, or already passing,
away.
The spells of the witch are altogether different; they smell of
the grave. One of the most powerful is the charm of the dead
hand. With a hand cut from a corpse they, muttering words
of power, will stir a well and skim from its surface a neighbour's
butter.
A candle held between the fingers of the dead hand can
never be blown out. This is useful to robbers, but they appeal
for the suffrage of the lovers likewise, for they can make lovepotions by drying and grinding into powder the liver of a black
cat. Mixed with tea, and poured from a black teapot, it is
infallible. There are many stories of its success in quite recent
years, but, unhappily, the spell must be continually renewed, or
all the love may turn into hate. But the central notion of
witchcraft everywhere is the power to change into some fictitious
form, usually in Ireland a hare or a cat. Long ago a wolf was
the favourite. Before Giraldus Cambrensis came to Ireland,
a monk wandering in a forest at night came upon two wolves,
one of whom was dying. The other entreated him to give the
dying wolf the last sacrament. He said the mass, and paused
when he came to the viaticum. The other, on seeing this, tore
the skin from the breast of the dying wolf, laying bare the form
of an old woman. Thereon the monk gave the sacrament.
Years afterwards he confessed the matter, and when Giraldus
visited the country, was being tried by the synod of the bishops.
To give the sacrament to an animal was a great sin. Was it a
human being or an animal % On the advice of Giraldus they
sent the monk, with papers describing the matter, to the Pope
for his decision. The result is not stated.
Giraldus himself was of opinion that the wolf-form was an
illusion, for, as he argued, only God can change the form. His
opinion coincides with tradition, Irish and otherwise.
It is the notion of many who have written about these things
that magic is mainly the making of such illusions. Patrick
Kennedy tells a story of a girl who, having in her hand a sod of

BE WITCHED

B UTTER.

149

grass containing, unknown to herself, a four-leaved shamrock,
watched a conjurer at a fair. Now, the four-leaved shamrock
guards its owner from all pishogues (spells), and when the
others were staring at a cock carrying along the roof of a
shed a huge beam in its bill, she asked them what they found
to wonder at in a cock with a straw. The conjurer begged
from her the sod of grass, to give to his horse, he said. Immediately she cried out in terror that the beam would fall and kill
somebody.
This^ then, is to be remembered—the form of an enchanted
thing is a fiction and a caprice.

B E W I T C H E D B U T T E R (DONEGAL).
MISS LETITIA MACLINTOCK.

NOT far from Rathmullen lived, last spring, a family called
Hanlon; and in a farm-house, some fields distant, people
named Dogherty. Both families had good cows, but the
Hanlons were fortunate in possessing a Kerry cow that
gave more milk and yellower butter that the others.
Grace Dogherty, a young girl, who was more admired
than loved in the neighbourhood, took much interest in
the Kerry cow, and appeared one night at Mrs. Hanlon's
door with the modest request—
" Will you let me milk your Moiley cow ? "
" A n ' why wad you wish to milk wee Moiley, Grace,
dear ? " inquired Mrs. Hanlon.
" Oh, just becase you're sae throng at the present time."
" Thank you kindly, Grace, but I'm no too throng to do
my ain work. Fll no trouble you to milk."
The girl turned away with a discontented air; but the
next evening, and the next, found her at the cow-house
door with the same request.

WITCHES,

FAIRY

DOCTORS.

At length Mrs. Hanlon, not knowing well how to persist
in her refusal, yielded, and permitted Grace to milk the
Kerry cow.
She soon had reason to regret her want of firmness.
Moiley gave no more milk to her owner.
When this melancholy state of things lasted for three
days, the Hanlons applied to a certain Mark McCarrion,
who lived near Binion.
" T h a t cow has been milked by someone with an evil
eye," said he. " Will she give you a wee drop, do you
think ? The full of a pint measure wad do."
" Oh, ay, Mark, dear; I'll get that much milk frae her,
any way."
"Weel, Mrs. Hanlon, lock the door, an' get nine new
pins that was never used in clothes, an' put them into a
saucepan wi' the pint o' milk. Set them on the fire, an'
let them come to the boil."
The nine pins soon began to simmer in Moiley's* milk.
Rapid steps were heard approaching the door, agitated
knocks followed, and Grace Dogherty's high-toned voice
was raised in eager entreaty.
" L e t me in, Mrs. H a n l o n ! " she cried. " T a k off that
cruel p o t ! Tak out them pins, for they're pricking holes
in my heart, an' I'll never offer to touch milk of yours
again."
[There is hardly a village in Ireland where the milk is not
thus believed to have been stolen times upon times. There are
many counter-charms. Sometimes the coulter of a plough will
be heated red-hot, and the witch will rush in, crying out that
she is burning. A new horse-shoe or donkey-shoe, heated and
put under the churn, with three straws, if possible, stolen at midnight from over the witches' door, is quite infallible.—ED.]
* In Connaught called a "mweeal" cow—*'.<?., a cow without horns.
Irish maol, literally, blunt. When the new hammerless breech-loaders
came into use two or three years ago, Mr. Douglas Hyde heard a
Connaught gentleman speak of them as the "mweeal" guns, because
they had no cocks.

A QUEEN'S

COUNTY

WITCH.

A QUEEN'S COUNTY WITCH*
IT was about eighty years ago, in the month of May, that
a Roman Catholic clergyman, near Rathdowney, in the
Queen's County, was awakened at midnight to attend a
dying man in a distant part of the parish. The priest
obeyed without a murmur, and having performed his duty
to the expiring sinner, saw him depart this world before he
left the cabin. As it was yet dark, the man who had called
on the priest offered to accompany him home, but he
refused, and set forward on his journey alone. The grey
dawn began to appear over the hills. The good priest was
highly enraptured with the beauty of the scene, and rode on,
now gazing intently at every surrounding object, and again
cutting with his whip at the bats and big beautiful night-flies
which flitted ever and anon from hedge to hedge across his
lonely way. Thus engaged, he journeyed on slowly, until
the nearer approach of sunrise began to render objects completely discernible, when he dismounted from his horse, and
slipping his arm out of the rein, and drawing forth his
" Breviary" from his pocket, he commenced reading his
"morning office" as he walked leisurely along.
He had not proceeded very far, when he observed his
horse, a very spirited animal, endeavouring to stop on the
road, and gazing intently into a field on one side of the way
where there were three or four cows grazing. However, he
did not pay any particular attention to this circumstance,
but went on a little farther, when the horse suddenly plunged
with great violence, and endeavoured to break away by force.
The priest with great difficulty succeeded in restraining
him, and, looking at him more closely, observed him shaking
from head to foot, and sweating profusely. He now stood
calmly, and refused to move from where he was, nor could
threats or entreaty induce him to proceed. The father was
greatly astonished, but recollecting to have often heard of
horses labouring under affright being induced to go by
* Dublin University Review, 1839*

J52

WITCHES,

FAIRY

DOCTORS.

blindfolding them, he took out his handkerchief and tied it
across his eyes. H e then mounted, and, striking him gently,
he went forward without reluctance, but still sweating and
trembling violently. They had not gone far, when fhey
arrived opposite a narrow path or bridle-way, flanked at either
side by a tall, thick hedge, which led from the high road to
the field where the cows were grazing. The priest happened
by chance to look into the lane, and saw a spectacle which
made the blood curdle in his veins. It was the legs of a
man from the hips downwards, without head or body, trotting up the avenue at a smart pace. The good father was
very much alarmed, but, being a man of strong nerve,
he resolved, come what might, to stand, and be further
acquainted with this singular spectre. H e accordingly stood,
and so did the headless apparition, as if afraid to approach
him. The priest, observing this, pulled back a little from
the entrance of the avenue, and the phantom again resumed
its progress. It soon arrived on the road, and the priest now
had sufficient opportunity to view it minutely. It wore yellow
buckskin breeches, tightly fastened at the knees with green
ribbon; it had neither shoes nor stockings on, and its legs
were covered with long, red hairs, and all full of wet, blood,
and clay, apparently contracted in its progress through the
thorny hedges. The priest, although very much alarmed,
felt eager to examine the phantom, and for this purpose
summoned all his philosophy to enable him to speak to it.
The ghost was now a little ahead, pursuing its march at its
usual brisk trot, and the priest urged on his horse speedily
until he came up with it, and thus addressed it-—
" Hilloa,. friend! who art thou, or whither art thou going
so early ? "
The hideous spectre made no reply, but uttered a fierce
and superhuman growl; or "Umph."
" A fine morning for ghosts to wander abroad," again said
the priest.
Another " Umph " was the reply
" Why don't you speak ?"
"Umph."

A QUEEN'S

COUNTY

WITCH.

153

" Y o u don't seem disposed to be very loquacious this
morning."
" Umph," again.
The good man began to feel irritated at the obstinate
silence of his unearthly visitor, and said, with some warmth—
" In the name of all that's sacred, I command you to
answer me, Who art thou, or where art thou travelling?"
Another " U m p h , " more loud and more angry than
before, was the only reply.
"Perhaps," said the father," " a taste of whipcord might
render you a little more communicative;" and so saying, he
struck the apparition a heavy blow with his whip on the breech.
The phantom uttered a wild and unearthly yell, and fell
forward on the road, and what was the priest's astonishment when he perceived the whole place running over with
milk. H e was struck dumb with amazement; the prostrate
phantom still continued to eject vast quantities of milk from
every part; the priest's head swam, his eyes got dizzy; a
stupor came all over him for some minutes, and on his
recovering, the frightful spectre had vanished, and in its
stead he found stretched on the road, and half drowned in
milk, the form of Sarah Kennedy, an old woman of the
neighbourhood, who had been long notorious in that district for her witchcraft and superstitious practices, and it
was now discovered that she had, by infernal aid, assumed
that monstrous shape, and was employed that morning in
sucking the cows of the village. Had a volcano burst forth
at his feet, he could not be more astonished; he gazed
awhile in silent amazement—the old woman groaning, and
writhing convulsively.
" Sarah," said he, at length, " I have long admonished
you to repent of your evil ways, but you were deaf to my
entreaties; and now, wretched woman, you are surprised in
the midst of your crimes."
" Oh, father, father," shouted the unfortunate woman,
" can you do nothing to save me ? I am lost; hell is open
for me, and legions of devils surround me this moment,
waiting to carry my soul to perdition."

WITCHES,

FAIRY

DOCTORS.

The priest had not power to reply; the old wretch's pains
increased; her body swelled to an immense size ; her eyes
flashed as if on fire, her face was black as night, her entire
form writhed in a thousand different contortions; her outcries were appalling, her face sunk, her eyes closed, and in
a few minutes she expired in the most exquisite tortures.
The priest departed homewards, and called at the next
cabin to give notice of the strange circumstances. The
remains of Sarah Kennedy were removed to her cabin,
situate at the edge of a small wood at a little distance.
She had long been a resident in that neighbourhood, but
still she was a stranger, and came there no one knew from
whence. She had no relation in that country but one
daughter, now advanced in years, who resided with her.
She kept one cow, but sold more butter, it was said, than
any farmer in the parish, and it was generally suspected
that she acquired it by devilish agency, as she never made
a secret of being intimately acquainted with sorcery and
fairyism. She professed the Roman Catholic religion, but
never complied with the practices enjoined by that church,
and her remains were denied Christian sepulture, and were
buried in a sand-pit near her own cabin.
On the evening of her burial, the villagers assembled and
burned her cabin to the earth. Her daughter made her
escape, and never after returned.

T H E WITCH HARE.
MR. AND MRS. S. C. HALL.

I WAS out thracking hares meeself, and I seen a fine puss of
a thing hopping, hopping in the moonlight, and whacking
her ears about, now up, now down, and winking her great
eyes, and—" Here goes," says I, and the thing was so close
to me that she turned round and looked at me, and then

BEWITCHED

BUTTER.

155

bounced back, as well as to say, do your worst! So I had
the least grain in life of blessed powder left, and I put it in the
gun—and bang at her! My jewel, the scritch she gave
would frighten a rigment, and a mist, like, came betwixt
me and her, and I seen her no more; but when the mist
wint off I saw blood on the spot where she had been,
and I followed its track, and at last it led me—whist,
whisper—right up to Katey MacShane's door ; and when I
was at the thrashold, I heerd a murnin' within, a great
murnin', and a groanin', and I opened the door, and there
she was herself, sittin' quite content in the shape of a woman,
and the black cat that was sittin' by her rose up its back and
spit at m e ; but I went on never heedin', and asked the
ould
how she was and what ailed her.
" Nothing," sis she.
" What's that on the floor ? " sis I.
" Oh," she says, " I was cuttin' a billet of wood," she says,
"wid the reaping hook," she says, " a n ' I've wounded
meself in the leg," she says, " and that's drops of my precious
blood," she says.

B E W I T C H E D B U T T E R (QUEEN'S COUNTY).*
ABOUT the commencement of the last century there lived in
the vicinity of the once famous village of Aghavoet a
wealthy farmer, named Bryan Costigan. This man kept an
extensive dairy and a great many milch cows, and every
* Dublin University Magazine, 1839.
f Aghavoe—" the field of kine "—a beautiful and romantic village
near Borris-in-Ossory, in the Queen's County. It was once a place of
considerable importance, and for centuries the episcopal seat of the
diocese of Ossory, but for ages back it has gone to decay, and is now
remarkable for nothing but the magnificent ruins of a priory of the
Dominicans, erected here' at an early period by St. Canice, the patron
saint of Ossory.

156

WITCHES,

FAIR Y

DOCTORS.

year made considerable sums by the sale of milk and butter.
The luxuriance of the pasture lands in this neighbourhood
has always been proverbial; and, consequently, Bryan's
cows were the finest and most productive in the country,
and his milk and butter the richest and sweetest, and
brought the highest price at every market at which he offered
these articles for sale.
Things continued to go on thus prosperously with Bryan
Costigan, when, one season, all at once, he found his cattle
declining in appearance, and his dairy almost entirely profitless. Bryan, at first, attributed this change to the weather,
or some such cause, but soon found or fancied reasons to
assign it to a far different source. The cows, without any
visible disorder, daily declined, and were scarcely able to
crawl about on their pasture: many of them, instead of milk,
gave nothing but blood; and the scanty quantity of milk
which some of them continued to supply was so bitter that
even the pigs would not drink i t ; whilst the butter which it
produced was of such a bad quality, and stunk so horribly,
that the very dogs would not eat it. Bryan applied for
remedies to all the quacks and "fairy-women" in the
country—but in vain. Many of the impostors declared, that
the mysterious malady in his cattle went beyond their skill:
whilst others, although they found no difficulty in tracing it
to superhuman agency, declared that they had no control in
the matter, as the charm under the influence of which his
property was made away with, was too powerful to be dissolved by anything less than the special interposition of
Divine Providence. The poor farmer became almost distracted ; he saw ruin staring him in the face ; yet what was
he to do? Sell his cattle and purchase others ! N o ; that
was out of the question, as they looked so miserable and
emaciated, that no one would even take them as a present,
whilst it was also impossible to sell to a butcher, as the flesh
of one which he killed for his own family was as black as a
coal, and stunk like any putrid carrion.
The unfortunate man was thus completely bewildered.
He knew not what to d o ; he became moody and stupid;

BEWITCHED

BUTTER.

i57

his sleep forsook him by night, and all day he wandered
about the fields, amongst his " fairy-stricken " cattle like a
maniac.
Affairs continued in this plight, when one very sultry
evening in the latter days of July, Bryan Costigan's wife was
sitting at her own door, spinning at her wheel, in a very
gloomy and agitated state of mind. Happening to look
down the narrow green lane which led from the high road
to her cabin, she espied a little old woman barefoot, and
enveloped in an old scarlet cloak, approaching slowly, with
the aid of a crutch which she carried in one hand, and a
cane or walking-stick in the other. The farmer's wife felt
glad at seeing the odd-looking stranger; she smiled, and
yet she knew not why, as she neared the house. A vague
and indefinable feeling of pleasure crowded on her imagination ; and, as the old woman gained the threshold, she bade
her " welcome " with a warmth which plainly told that her
lips gave utterance but to the genuine feelings of her heart.
"God bless this good house and all belonging to it," said
the stranger as she entered.
" God save you kindly, and you are welcome, whoever
you are," replied Mrs. Costigan.
" Hem, I thought so," said the old woman with a significant grin. " I thought so, or I wouldn't trouble you."
The farmer's wife ran, and placed a chair near the fire for
the stranger; but she refused, and sat on the ground near
where Mrs. C. had been spinning. Mrs. Costigan had now
time to survey the old hag's person minutely. She appeared
of great age; her countenance was extremely ugly and
repulsive; her skin was rough and deeply embrowned as if
from long exposure to the effects of some tropical climate ;
her forehead was low, narrow, and indented with a thousand
wrinkles; her long grey hair fell in matted elf-locks from
beneath a white linen skull-cap; her eyes were bleared,
blood-shotten, and obliquely set in their sockets, and her
voice was croaking, tremulous, and, at times, partially
inarticulate. As she squatted on the floor, she looked round
the house with an inquisitive gaze; she peered pryingly

I5&

WITCHES,

FAIR Y DOCTORS.

from corner to corner, with an earnestness of look, as if she
had the faculty, like the Argonaut of old, to see through the
very depths of the earth, whilst Mrs. C. kept watching her
motions with mingled feelings of curiosity, awe, and pleasure.
" Mrs.," said the old woman, at length breaking silence, "I
am dry with the heat of the day; can you give me a drink ? "
"Alas!" replied the farmer's wife, " I have no drink
to offer you except water, else you would have no occasion
to ask me for it."
"Are you not the owner of the cattle I see yonder? " said
the old hag, with a tone of voice and manner of gesticulation which plainly indicated her foreknowledge of the fact.
Mrs. Costigan replied in the affirmative, and briefly
related to her every circumstance connected with the affair,
whilst the old woman still remained silent, but shook her
grey head repeatedly; and still continued gazing round the
house with an air of importance and self-sufficiency,
When Mrs. C. had ended, the old hag remained a while
as if in a deep reverie : at length she said—
" Have you any of the milk in the house ? "
61
1 have," replied the other.
" Show me some of it."
She filled a jug from a vessel and handed it to the old
sybil, who smelled it, then tasted it, and spat out what she
had taken on the floor.
" Where is your husband ? " she asked.
" Out in the fields," was the reply.
" I must see him."
A messenger was despatched for Bryan, who shortly after
made his appearance.
" Neighbour," said the stranger, " your wife informs me
that your cattle are going against you this season."
" She informs you right," said Bryan.
"And why have you not sought a cure? "
" A cure !" re-echoed the man; " why, woman, I have
sought cures until I was heart-broken, and all in vain; they
get worse every day."
(t
What will you give me if I cure them for; you? "

BEWITCHED

BUTTER.

iS9

"Anything in our power," replied Bryan and his wife,
both speaking joyfully, and with a breath.
"All I will ask from you is a silver sixpence, and that
you will do everything which I will bid you/' said she.
The farmer and his wife seemed astonished at the
moderation of her demand. They offered her a large sum
of money.
"No," said she, " I don't want your money; I am no
cheat, and I would not even take sixpence, but that I can
do nothing till I handle some of your silver."
The sixpence was immediately given her, and the most
implicit obedience promised to her injunctions by both
Bryan and his wife, who already began to regard the old
beldame as their tutelary angel.
The hag pulled off a black silk ribbon or fillet which
encircled her head inside her cap, and gave it to Bryan,
saying—
" Go, now, and the first cow you touch with this ribbon,
turn her into the yard, but be sure don't touch the second,
nor speak a word until you return; be also careful not to
let the ribbon touch the ground, for, if you do, all is over."
Bryan took the talismanic ribbon, and soon returned,
driving a red cow before him.
The old hag went out, and, approaching the cow, commenced pulling hairs out of her tail, at the same time
singing some verses in the Irish language in a low, wild, and
unconnected strain. The cow appeared restive and uneasy,
but the old witch still continued her mysterious chant
until she had the ninth hair extracted. She then ordered
the cow to be drove back to her pasture, and again entered
the house.
" Go, now," said she to the woman, " and bring me some
milk from every cow in your possession."
She went, and soon returned with a large pail filled with
a frightful-looking mixture of milk, blood, and corrupt
matter. The old woman got it into the churn, and made
preparations for churning.
" Now," she said, " you both must churn, make fast the

16o

WITCHES,

FAIR Y

DOCTORS.

door and windows, and let there be no light but from trie
fire; do not open your lips until I desire you, and by
observing my directions, I make no doubt but, ere the sun
goes down, we will find out the infernal villain who is
robbing you."
Bryan secured the doors and windows, and commenced
churning. The old sorceress sat down by a blazing fire
which had been specially lighted for the occasion, and commenced singing the same wild song which she had sung at
the pulling of the cow-hairs, and after a little time she cast
one of the nine hairs into the fire, still singing her mysterious
strain, and watching, with intense interest, the witching
process.
A loud cry, as if from a female in distress, was now heard
approaching the house; the old witch discontinued her
incantations, and listened attentively. The crying voice
approached the door.
" Open the door quickly," shouted the charmer.
Bryan unbarred the door, and all three rushed out in the
yard, when they heard the same cry down the boreheen, but
could see nothing.
" It is all over," shouted the old witch ; ct something has
gone amiss, and our charm for the present is ineffectual."
They now turned back quite crest-fallen, when, as they
were entering the door, the sybil cast her eyes downwards, and perceiving a piece of horse-shoe nailed on the
threshold,* she vociferated—
" Here I have i t ; no wonder our charm was abortive.
The person that was crying abroad is the villain who has
your cattle bewitched; I brought her to the house, but she
was not able to come to the door on account of that horseshoe. Remove it instantly, and we will try our luck again."
Bryan removed the horse-shoe from the doorway, and by
* It was once a common practice in Ireland to nail a piece of horseshoe on the threshold of the door, as a preservative against the influence
of the fairies, who, it is thought, dare not enter any house thus
guarded. This custom, however, is much on the wane, but still it is
prevalent in some of the more uncivilised districts of the country.

BEWITCHED

BUTTER.

161

the hag's directions placed it on the floor under the churn,
having previously reddened it in the fire.
They again resumed their manual operations. Bryan
and his wife began to churn, and the witch again to sing
her strange verses, and casting her cow-hairs into the fire
until she had them all nearly exhausted. Her countenance
now began to exhibit evident traces of vexation and disappointment. She got quite pale, her teeth gnashed, her
hand trembled, and as she cast the ninth and last hair into
the fire, her person exhibited more the appearance of a
female demon than of a human being.
Once more the cry was heard, and an aged red-haired
woman* was seen approaching the house quickly.
" Ho, ho ! " roared the sorceress, " I knew it would be
so ; my charm has succeeded ; my expectations are realised,
and here she comes, the villain who has destroyed you."
" What are we to do now ? " asked Bryan.
" Say nothing to her," said the h a g ; " give her whatever
she demands, and leave the rest to me."
The woman advanced screeching vehemently, and Bryan
went out to meet her. She was a neighbour, and she said
that one of her best cows was drowning in a pool of water—i
that there was no one at home but herself, and she implored
Bryan to go rescue the cow from destruction.
Bryan accompanied her without hesitation; and having
rescued the cow from her perilous situation, was. back again
in a quarter of an hour.
It was now sunset, and Mrs. Costigan set about preparing
supper.
During supper they reverted to the singular transactions
of the day. The old witch uttered many a fiendish laugh
at the success of her incantations, and inquired who was the
woman whom they had so curiously discovered.
Bryan satisfied her in every particular. She was the wife
of a neighbouring farmer; her name was Rachel Higgins ;
and she had been long suspected to be on familiar terms
with the spirit of darkness. She had five or six cows;
* Red-haired people are thought to possess magic power.
526

i62

WITCHES,

FAIR Y

DOCTORS.

but it was observed by her sapient neighbours that she
sold more butter every year than other farmers' wives who
had twenty. Bryan had, from the commencement of the
decline in his cattle, suspected her for being the aggressor,
but as he had no proof, he held his peace.
"Well," said the old beldame, with a grim smile, " i t is
not enough that we have merely discovered the robber; all
is in vain, if we do not take steps to punish her for the past,
as well as to prevent her inroads for the future/'
" A n d how will that be done ?" said Bryan.
" I will tell you; as soon as the hour of twelve o'clock
arrives to-night, do you go to the pasture, and take a couple
of swift-running dogs with you; conceal yourself in some
place convenient to the cattle; watch them carefully; and
if you see anything, whether man or beast, approach the
cows, set on the dogs, and if possible make them draw the
blood of the intruder; then ALL will be accomplished. If
nothing approaches before sunrise, you may return, and we
will try something else."
Convenient there lived the cow-herd of a neighbouring
squire. H e was a hardy, courageous young man, and always
kept a pair of very ferocious bull-dogs. To him Bryan
applied for assistance, and he cheerfully agreed to accompany him, and, moreover, proposed to fetch a couple
of his master's best greyhounds, as his own dogs, although
extremely fierce and bloodthirsty, could not be relied on for
swiftness. H e promised Bryan to be with him before
twelve o'clock, and they parted.
Bryan did not seek sleep that night; he sat up anxiously
awaiting the midnight hour. It arrived at last, and his
friend, the herdsman, true to his promise, came at the time
appointed. After some further admonitions from the
Collough, they departed. Having arrived at the field, they
consulted as to the best position they could chose for concealment. At last they pitched on a small brake of fern,
situated at the extremity of the field, adjacent to the
boundary ditch, which was thickly studded with large, old
white-thorn bushes. Here they crouched themselves, and

BE WITCHED

B UTTER.

163

made the dogs, four in number, lie down beside them,
eagerly expecting the appearance of their as yet unknown
and mysterious visitor.
Here Bryan and his comrade continued a considerable
time in nervous anxiety, still nothing approached, and it
became manifest that morning was at hand; they were
beginning to grow impatient, and were talking of returning
home, when on a sudden they heard a rushing sound behind
them, as if proceeding from something endeavouring to
force a passage through the thick hedge in their rear. They
looked in that direction, and judge of their astonishment,
when they perceived a large hare in the act of springing
from the ditch, and leaping on the ground quite near them.
They were now convinced that this was the object which
they had so impatiently expected, and they were resolved to
watch her motions narrowly.
After arriving to the ground, she remained motionless for
a few moments, looking around her sharply. She then
began to skip and jump in a playful manner; now advancing
at a smart pace towards the cows, and again retreating precipitately, but still drawing nearer and nearer at each sally.
At length she advanced up to the next cow, and sucked her
for a moment \ then on to the next, and so respectively to
every cow on the field—the cows all the time lowing loudly,
and appearing extremely frightened and agitated. Bryan,
from the moment the hare commenced sucking the first, was
with difficulty restrained from attacking her; but his more
sagacious companion suggested to him, that it was better to
wait until she would have done, as she would then be much
heavier, and more unable to effect her escape than at present.
And so the issue proved; for being now done sucking them
all, her belly appeared enormously distended, and she made
her exit slowly and apparently with difficulty. She advanced
towards the hedge where she had entered, and as she arrived
just at the clump of ferns where her foes were couched,
they started up with a fierce yell, and hallooed the dogs
upon her path.
The hare started off at a brisk pace, squirting up the

i64

WITCHES,

FAIRY

DOCTORS.

milk she had sucked from her mouth and nostrils, and the
dogs making after her rapidly. Rachel Higgins's cabin
appeared, through the grey of the morning twilight, at a
little distance; and it was evident that puss seemed bent on
gaining it, although she made a considerable circuit through
the fields in the rear. Bryan and his comrade, however,
had their thoughts, and made towards the cabin by the
shortest route, and had just arrived as the hare came up,
panting and almost exhausted, and the dogs at her very scut.
She ran round the house, evidently confused and disappointed at the presence of the men, but at length made for
the door. In the bottom of the door was a small, semicircular aperture, resembling those cut in fowl-house doors
for the ingress and egress of poultry. To gain this hole,
puss now made a last and desperate effort, and had succeeded in forcing her head and shoulders through it, when
the foremost of the dogs made a spring and seized her
violently by the haunch. She uttered a loud and piercing
scream, and struggled desperately to free herself from his
gripe, and at last succeeded, but not until she left a piece of
her rump in his teeth. The men now burst open the door;
a bright turf fire blazed on the hearth, and the whole floor
was streaming with blood. No hare, however, could be found,
and the men were more than ever convinced that it was old
Rachel, who had, by the assistance of some demon, assumed
the form of the hare, and they now determined to have her if
she were over the earth. They entered the bed-room, and
heard some smothered groaning, as if proceeding from some
one in extreme agony. They went to the corner of the
room from whence the moans proceeded, and there, beneath
a bundle of freshly-cut rushes, found the form of Rachel
Higgins, writhing in the most excruciating agony, and
almost smothered in a pool of blood. The men were
astounded; they addressed the wretched old woman, but she
either could not, or would not answer them. Her wound
still bled copiously; her tortures appeared to increase,
and it was evident that she was dying. The aroused
family thronged around her with cries and lamentations;

THE

HORNED

WOMEN.

165

she did not seem to heed them, she got worse and worse,
and her piercing yells fell awfully on the ears of the
bystanders. At length she expired, and her corpse exhibited
a most appalling spectacle, even before the spirit had well
departed.
Bryan and his friend returned home. The old hag had
been previously aware of the fate of Rachel Higgins, but it
was not known by what means she acquired her supernatural knowledge. She was delighted at the issue of her
mysterious operations. Bryan pressed her much to accept
of some remuneration for her services, but she utterly
rejected such proposals. She remained a few days at his
house, and at length took her leave and departed, no one
knew whither.
Old Rachel's remains were interred that night in the ;
neighbouring churchyard. Her fate soon became generally
known, and her family, ashamed to remain in their native
village, disposed of their property, and quitted the country
for ever. The story, however, is still fresh in the memory
of the surrounding villagers; and often, it is said, amid the
grey haze of a summer twilight, may the ghost of Rachel
Higgins, in the form of a hare, be seen scudding over her
favourite and well-remembered haunts.

T H E H O R N E D WOMEN.*
LADY WILDE.

A RICH woman sat up late one night carding and preparing
wool, while all the family and servants were asleep,
Suddenly a knock was given at the door, and a voice
called—" Open ! open !"
1
' Who is there ? " said the woman of the house.
" I am the Witch of the one Horn," was answered.
The mistress, supposing that one of her neighbours had
called and required assistance, opened the door, and a
* Ancient Legends of Ireland.

i66

WITCHES,

FAIR Y DOCTORS.

woman entered, having in her hand a pair of wool carders,
and bearing a horn on her forehead, as if growing there.
She sat down by the fire in silence, and began to card the
wool with violent haste. Suddenly she paused, and said
aloud : " Where are the women ? they delay too long."
Then a second knock came to the door, and a voice
called as before, " Open ! open ! "
The mistress felt herself constrained to rise and open to
the call, and immediately a second witch entered, having
two horns on her forehead, and in her hand a wheel for
spinning wool.
" Give me place," she said, " I am the Witch of the two
Horns," and she began to spin as quick as lightning.
And so the knocks went on, and the call was heard, and
the witches entered, until at last twelve women sat round
the fire—the first with one horn, the last with twelve horns.
And they carded the thread, and turned their spinningwheels, and wound and wove.
All singing together an ancient rhyme, but no word did
they speak to the mistress of the house. Strange to hear,
and frightful to look upon, were these twelve women, with
their horns and their wheels ; and the mistress felt near to
death, and she tried to rise that she might call for help, but
she could not move, nor could she utter a word or a cry,
for the spell of the witches was upon her.
Then one of them called to her in Irish, and said—
" Rise, woman, and make us a cake." Then the mistress
searched for a vessel to bring water from the well that she
might mix the meal and make the cake, but she could find
none.
And they said to her, "Take a sieve and bring water
in it."
And she took the sieve and went to the well; but the
water poured from it, and she could fetch none for the cake,
and she sat down by the well and wept.
Then a voice came by her and said, " Take yellow clay
and moss, and bind them together, and plaster the sieve so
that it will hold."

THE

HORNED

WOMEN.

167

This she did, and the sieve held the water for the cake;
and the voice said again—
" Return, and when thou comest to the north angle of
the house, cry aloud three times and say, ' The mountain
of the Fenian women and the sky over it is all on fire.? "
And she did so.
When the witches inside heard the call, a great and
terrible cry broke from their lips, and they rushed forth
with wild lamentations and shrieks, and fled away to
Slievenamon,* where was their chief abode. But the Spirit
of the Well bade the mistress of the house to enter and
prepare her home against the enchantments of the witches
if they returned again.
And first, to break their spells, she sprinkled the water
in which she had washed her child's feet (the feet-water)
outside the door on the threshold; secondly, she took the
cake which the witches had made in her absence of meal
mixed with the blood drawn from the sleeping family, and
she broke the cake in bits, and placed a bit in the mouth of
each sleeper, and they were restored; and she took the
cloth they had woven and placed it half in and half out of
the chest with the padlock; and lastly, she secured the door
with a great crossbeam fastened in the jambs, so that they
could not enter, and having done these things she waited.
Not long were the witches in coming back, and they raged
and called for vengeance.
" Open ! open ! " they screamed, " open, feet-water ! "
" I cannot," said the feet-water, " I am scattered on the
ground, and my path is down to the Lough."
" Open, open, wood and trees and beam ! " they cried to
the door.
I cannot," said the door, " for the beam is fixed in the
jambs and I have no power to move."
" Open, open, cake that we have made and mingled with
blood ! " they cried again.
" I cannot/' said the cake, " for I am broken and bruised,
and my blood is on the lips of the sleeping children."
* Slidbh-na-mban—/.*., mountains of the women.

'168

WITCHES,

FAIR Y

DOCTORS.

Then the witches rushed through the air with great cries,
and fled back to Slievenamon, uttering strange curses on
the Spirit of the Well, who had wished their ruin; but the
woman and the house were left in peace, and a mantle
dropped by one of the witches in her flight was kept hung
up by the mistress as a sign of the night's -awful contest;
and this mantle was in possession of the same family from
generation to generation for five hundred years after.

THE WITCHES' EXCURSION.*
PATRICK KENNEDY.

RuAt (Red James) awakened from his sleep one
night by noises in his kitchen. Stealing to the door, he saw
half-a-dozen old women sitting round the fire, jesting and
laughing, his old housekeeper, Madge, quite frisky and gay,
helping her sister crones to cheering glasses of punch. He
began to admire the impudence and imprudence of Madge,
displayed in the invitation and the riot, but recollected on
the instant her officiousness in urging him to take a comfortable posset, which she had brought to his bedside just
before he fell asleep. Had he drunk it, he would have been
just now deaf to the witches' glee. He heard and saw them
drink his health in such a mocking style as nearly to tempt
him to charge them, besom in hand, but he restrained himself.
The jug being emptied, one of them cried out, " I s it
time to be gone ? " and at the same moment, putting on a red
cap, she added—
SHEMUS

" By yarrow and rue,
And my red cap too,
Hie over to England."

Making use of a twig which she held in her hand as a steed,
she gracefully soared up the chimney, and was rapidly
* Fictions of the Irish Celts.
t Irish, Seumus Ruadh. The Celtic vocal organs are unable to
pronounce the letter j , hence they make Shon or Shawn of John, or
Shamus of James, etc.

THE

WITCHES'

EXCURSION.

169

followed by the rest. But when it came to the housekeeper, Shemus interposed.
" By your leave, ma'am,"
said he, snatching twig and cap. " Ah, you desateful ould
crocodile! If I find you here on my return, there'll be wigs
on the green—
' By yarrow and rue,
And my red cap too,
Hie over to England.'"

The words were not out of his mouth when he was soaring
above the ridge pole, and swiftly ploughing the air. H e
was careful to speak no word (being somewhat conversant
with witch-lore), as the result would be a tumble, and the
immediate return of the expedition.
In a very short time they had crossed the Wicklow hills,
the Irish Sea, and the Welsh mountains, and were charging,
at whirlwind speed, the hall door of a castle. Shemus, only
for the company in which he found himself, would have
cried out for pardon, expecting to be mummy against the
hard oak door in a moment; but, all bewildered, he found
himself passing through the keyhole, along a passage, down
a flight of steps, and through a cellar-door key-hole before
he could form any clear idea of his situation.
Waking to the full consciousness of his position, he found
himself sitting on a stillion, plenty of lights glimmering
round, and he and his companions, with full tumblers of
frothing wine in hand, hob-nobbing and drinking healths as
jovially and recklessly as if the liquor was honestly come by,
and they Were sitting in Skemus's own kitchen. The red
birredh* had assimilated Shemus's nature for the time being
to that of his unholy companions. The heady liquors soon got
into their brains, and a period of unconsciousness succeeded
the ecstasy, the head-ache, the turning round of the barrels,
and the " scattered sight" of poor Shemus. H e woke up
under the impression of being roughly seized, and shaken,
and dragged upstairs, and subjected to a disagreeable
examination by the lord of the castle, in his state parlour.
There was much derision among the whole company, gentle
* Ir., Birreud—ue.f a cap.

170

WITCHES,

FAIRY

DOCTORS.

and simple, on hearing Shemus's explanation, and, as the
thing occurred in the dark ages, the unlucky Leinster man
was sentenced to be hung as soon as the gallows could be
prepared for the occasion.
The poor Hibernian was in the cart proceeding on his last
journey, with a label on his back, and another on his breast,
announcing him as the remorseless villain who for the last
month had been draining the casks in my lord's vault every
night. He was surprised to hear himself addressed by his
name, and in his native tongue, by an old woman in the
crowd. "Ach, Shemus, alanna! is it going to die you are
in a strange place without your cafipeen d'yarrag ? "* These
words infused hope and courage into the poor victim's
heart. He turned to the lord and humbly asked leave to
die in his red cap, which he supposed had dropped from his
head in the vault. A servant was sent for the head-piece,
and Shemus felt lively hope warming his heart while placing
it on his head. On the platform he was graciously allowed
to address the spectators, which he proceeded to do in the
usual formula composed for the benefit of flying stationers
—"Good people all, a warning take by m e ; " but when he
had finished the line, " My parents reared me tenderly," he
unexpectedly added—"By yarrow and rue," etc., and the
disappointed spectators saw him shoot up obliquely through
the air in the style of a sky-rocket that had missed its aim.
It is said that the lord took the circumstance much to heart,
and never afterwards hung a man for twenty-four hours after
his offence.
T H E CONFESSIONS O F T O M B O U R K E .
T. CR0FT0N CROKER.

TOM BOURKE lives in a low, long farm-house, resembling in
outward appearance a large barn, placed at the bottom of
the hill, just where the new road strikes off from the old one,
leading from the town of Kilworth to that of Lismore. H e
* Irish, caiptn dearg—ite.> red cap.

THE CONFESSIONS

OF TOM BOURKE.

171

is of a class of persons who are a sort of black swans in
Ireland : he is a wealthy farmer. Tom's father had, in the
good old times, when a hundred pounds were no inconsiderable treasure, either to lend or spend, accommodated
his landlord with that sum, at interest; and obtained as a
return for his civility a long lease, about half-a-dozen times
more valuable than the loan which procured it. The old
man died worth several hundred pounds, the greater part of
which, with his farm, he bequeathed to his son Tom. But
besides all this, Tom received from his father, upon his deathbed, another gift, far more valuable than worldly riches,
greatly as he prized and is still known to prize them. H e
was invested with the privilege, enjoyed by few of the sons
of men, of communicating with those mysterious beings
called " the good people."
Tom Bourke is a little, stout, healthy, active man, about
fifty-five years of age. His hair is perfectly white, short and
bushy behind, but rising in front erect and thick above his
forehead, like a new clothes-brush. His eyes are of that
kind which I have often observed with persons of a quick,
but limited intellect—they are small, grey, and lively. The
large and projecting eyebrows under, or rather within, which
they twinkle, give them an expression of shrewdness and
intelligence, if not of cunning. And this is very much the
character of the man. If you want to make a bargain
with Tom Bourke you must act as if you were a general
besieging a town, and make your advances a long time
before you can hope to obtain possession; if you march
up boldly, and tell him at once your object, you are for the
most part sure to have the gates closed in your teeth. Tom
does not wish to part with what you wish to obtain; or
another person has been speaking to him for the whole of
the last week. Or, it may be, your proposal seems to meet
the most favourable reception. " Very well, sir;" " That's
true, s i r ; " " I ' m very thankful to your honour," and other
expressions of kindness and confidence greet you in reply
to every sentence; and you part from him wondering how
he can have obtained the character which he universally

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bears, of being a man whom no one can make anything of
in a bargain. But when you next meet him the flattering
illusion is dissolved : you find you are a great deal further
from your object than you were when you thought you had
almost succeeded; his eye and his tongue express a total
forgetfulness of what the mind within never lost sight of for
an instant; and you have to begin operations afresh, with
the disadvantage of having put your adversary completely
upon his guard.
Yet, although Tom Bourke is, whether from supernatural
revealings, or (as many will think more probable) from the
tell-truth experience, so distrustful of mankind, and so
close in his dealings with them, he is no misanthrope. No
man loves better the pleasures of the genial board. The
love of money, indeed, which is with him (and who will
blame him ?) a very ruling propensity, and the gratification
which it has received from habits of industry, sustained
throughout a pretty long and successful life, have taught
him the value of sobriety, during those seasons, at least,
when a man's business requires him.to keep possession of
his senses. H e has, therefore, a general rule, never to get
drunk but on Sundays. But in order that it should be a
general one to all intents and purposes, he takes a method
which, according to better logicians than he is, always
proves the rule. H e has many exceptions; among these,
of course, are the evenings of all the fair and market-days
that happen in his neighbourhood; so also all the days
in which funerals, marriages, and christenings take place
among his friends within many miles of him. As to this
last class of exceptions, it may appear at first very singular,
that he is much more punctual in his attendance at the
funerals than at the baptisms or weddings of his friends.
This may be construed as an instance of disinterested
affection for departed worth, very uncommon in this selfish
world. But I am afraid that the motives which lead Tom
Bourke to pay more court to the dead than the living are
precisely those which lead to the opposite conduct in the
generality of mankind—a hope of future benefit and a fear

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of future evil. For the good people, who are a race as
powerful as they are capricious, have their favourites among
those who inhabit this world; often show their affection by
easing the objects of it from the load of this burdensome
life; and frequently reward or punish the living according
to the degree of reverence paid to the obsequies and the
memory of the elected dead.
Some may attribute to the same cause the apparently
humane and charitable actions which Tom, and indeed the
other members of his family, are known frequently to
perform. A beggar has seldom left their farm-yard with an
empty wallet, or without obtaining a night's lodging, it
required, with a sufficiency of potatoes and milk to satisfy
even an Irish beggar's appetite; in appeasing which,
account must usually be taken of the auxiliary jaws of a
hungry dog, and of two or three still more hungry children,
who line themselves well within, to atone for their nakedness without. If one of the neighbouring poor be seized
with a fever, Tom will often supply the sick wretch with
some untenanted hut upon one of his two large farms (for
he has added one to his patrimony), or will send his
labourers to construct a shed at a hedge-side, and supply
straw for a bed while the disorder continues. His wife,
remarkable for the largeness of her dairy, and the goodness
of everything it contains, will furnish milk for whey; and
their good offices are frequently extended to the family of
the patient, who are, perhaps, reduced to the extremity of
wretchedness, by even the temporary suspension of a father's
or a husband's labour.
If much of this arises from the hopes and fears to which
I above alluded, I believe much of it flows from a mingled
sense of compassion and of duty, which is sometimes seen
to break from an Irish peasant's heart, even where it happens
to be enveloped in a habitual covering of avarice and fraud;
and which I once heard speak in terms not to be misunderstood : " W h e n we get a deal, 'tis only fair we should
give back a little of it."
It is not easy to prevail on Tom to speak of those good

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people, with whom he is said to hold frequent and
intimate communications. To the faithful, who believe in
their power, and their occasional delegation of it to him,
he seldom refuses, if properly asked, to exercise his high
prerogative when any unfortunate being is struck in his
neighbourhood. Still he will not be won unsued : he is
at first difficult of persuasion, and must be overcome by
a little gentle violence. On these occasions he is unusually solemn and mysterious, and if one word of reward
be mentioned he at once abandons the unhappy patient,
such a proposition being a direct insult to his supernatural
superiors. It is true that, as the labourer is worthy of his
hire, most persons gifted as he is do not scruple to receive a
token of gratitude from the patients or their friends after
their recovery. It is recorded that a very handsome
gratuity was once given to a female practitioner in this
occult science, who deserves to be mentioned, not only
because she was a neighbour and a rival of Tom's, but fronj
the singularity of a mother deriving her name from her sor>
Her son's name was Owen, and she was always called Owen
sa vauher (Owen's mother). This person was, on the
occasion to which I have alluded, persuaded to give her
assistance to a young girl who had lost the use of her right
leg; Owen sa vauher found the cure a difficult one. A
journey of about eighteen miles was essential for the purpose, probably to visit one of the good people who resided
at that distance ; and this journey could only be performed
by Owen sa vauher travelling upon the back of a white hen.
The visit, however, was accomplished; and at a particular
hour, according to the prediction of this extraordinary
woman> when the hen and her rider were to reach their
journey's end, the patient was seized with an irresistible
desire to dance, which she gratified with the most perfect
freedom of the diseased leg, much to the joy of her anxious
family. The gratuity in this case was, as it surely ought to
have been, unusually large, from the difficulty of procuring a
hen willing to go so long a journey with such a rider.
To do Tom Bourke justice, he is on these occasions, as

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175

I have heard from many competent authorities, perfectly
disinterested. Not many months since he recovered a
young woman (the sister of a tradesman living near him),
who had been struck speechless after returning from a
funeral, and had continued so for several days. H e steadfastly refused receiving any compensation, saying that even
if he had not as much as would buy him his supper, he
could take nothing in this case, because the girl had
offended at the funeral of one of the good people belonging
to his own family, and though he would do her a kindness,
he could take none from her.
About the time this last remarkable affair took place, my
friend Mr. Martin, who is a neighbour of Tom's, had some
business to transact with him, which. it was exceedingly
difficult to bring to a conclusion. At last Mr. Martin,
having tried all quiet means, had recourse to a legal process,
which brought Tom to reason, and the matter was arranged
to their mutual satisfaction, and with perfect good-humour
between the parties. The accommodation took place after
dinner at Mr. Martin's house, and he invited Tom to walk
into the parlour and take a glass of punch, made of some
excellent poteen^ which was on the table: he had long
wished to draw out his highly-endowed neighbour on the
subject of his supernatural powers, and as Mrs. Martin, who
was in the room, was rather a favourite of Tom's, this
seemed a good opportunity.
"Well, Tom," said Mr. Martin, "that was a curious business of Molly Dwyer's, who recovered her speech so suddenly
the other day."
" You may say that, sir," replied Tom Bourke; " but I
had to travel far for i t : no matter for that now. Your
health, ma'am," said he, turning to Mrs. Martin.
" Thank you, Tom. But I am told you had some
trouble once in that way in your own family," said Mrs.
Martin.
" So I had, ma'am; trouble enough : but you were only
a child at that time."
"Come, Tom," said the hospitable Mr. Martin, inter-

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rupting him, " take another tumbler;" and he then added,
" I wish you would tell us something of the manner in
which so many of your children died. I am told they
dropped off, one after another, by the same disorder, and
that your eldest son was cured in a most extraordinary
way, when the physicians had given him over."
"'Tis true for you, sir," returned T o m ; "your father,
the doctor (God be good to him, I won't belie him in his
grave), told me, when my fourth boy was a week sick,
that himself and Dr. Barry did all that man could do
for him; but they could not keep him from going after the
rest. No more they could, if the people that took away the
rest wished to take him too. But they left him; and sorry
to the heart I am I did not know before why they were
taking my boys from m e ; if I did, I would not be left
trusting to two of 'em now."
"And how did you find it out, T o m ? " inquired Mr.
Martin.
"Why, then, HI tell you, sir,", said Bourke. "When
your father said what I told you, I did not know very
well what to do. I walked down the little bohereen* you
know, sir, that goes to the river-side near Dick Heafy's
ground; for 'twas a lonesome place, and I wanted to
think of myself. I was heavy, sir, and my heart got weak
in me, when I thought I was to lose my little boy; and I
did not well know how to face his mother with the news,
for she d.oated down upon him. Besides, she never got the
better of all she cried at his brother's herring the week
before. As I was going down the bohereen I met an old
bocough, that used to come about the place once or twice
a-year, and used always to sleep in our barn while he staid in
the neighbourhood. So he asked me how I was. ' Bad
enough, Shamous,'t says I. ' I'm sorry for your trouble,'
says h e ; 'but you're a foolish man, Mr. Bourke. Your son
would be well enough if you would only do what you ought
with him.' 'What more can I do with him, Shamous?'
* Bohereen, or bogheen, ite,9 a green lane.
t Berririy burying.
% Shamous, James,

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177

says I ; f the doctors give him over.' ' The doctors know
no more what ails him than they do what ails a cow when
she stops her milk/ says Shamous ; ' but go to such a one,'
telling me his name, * and try what he'll say to you.'"
"And who was that, Tom ?" asked Mr. Martin.
" I could not tell you that, sir," said Bourke, with a
mysterious look; " howsomever, you often saw him, and he
does not live far from this. But I had a trial of him
before; and if I went to him at first, maybe I'd have
now some of them that's gone, and so Shamous often told
me. Well, sir, I went to this man, and he came with
me to the house. By course, I did everything as he bid
me. According to his order, I took the little boy out of
the dwelling-house immediately, sick as he was, and made
a bed for him and myself in the cow-house. Well, sir,
I lay down by his side in the bed, between two of
the cows, and he fell asleep. H e got into a perspiration,
saving your presence, as if he was drawn through the
river, and breathed hard, with a great impression on his
chest, and was very bad—very bad entirely through the
night. I thought about twelve o'clock he was going at last,
and I was just getting up to go call the man I told you of;
but there was no occasion. My friends were getting the
better of them that wanted to take him away from me. There
was nobody in the cow-house but the child and myself. There
was only one halfpenny candle lighting it, and that was stuck
in the wall at the far end of the house. I had just enough
of light where we were lying to see a person walking or standing near u s : and there was no more noise than if it was a
churchyard, except the cows chewing the fodder in the stalls.
Just as I was thinking of getting up, as I told you—I
won't belie my father, sir, he was a good father to me—I
saw him standing at the bedside, holding out his right hand
to me, and leaning his other on the stick he used to carry
when he was alive, and looking pleasant and smiling at me, all
as if he was telling me not to be afeard, for I would not lose
the child. * Is that you, father ?' says I. H e said nothing.
* If that's you,' says I again, i for the love of them that gone,
527

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let me catch your hand.' And so he did, sir; and his hand
was as soft as a child's. H e stayed about as long as you'd
be going from this to the gate below at the end of the
avenue, and then went away. In less than a week the child
was as well as if nothing ever ailed h i m ; and there isn't
to-night a healthier boy of nineteen, from this blessed house
to the town of BallyporeeUj across the Kilworth mountains."
" But I think, Tom," said Mr. Martin, " it appears as if
you are more indebted to your father than to the man
recommended to you by Shamous; or do you suppose it
was he who made favour with your enemies among the good
people, and that then your father
"
" I beg your pardon, sir," said Bourke, interrupting him;
" but don't call them my enemies. 'Twould not be wishing
to me for a good deal to sit by when they are called so.
No offence to you, sir. Here's wishing you a good health
and long life."
" I assure you," returned Mr. Martin, " I meant no
offence, T o m ; but was it not as I say ? "
" I can't tell you that, sir," said Bourke; " I ' m bound
down, sir. Howsoever, you may be sure the man I spoke
of and my father, and those they know, settled it between
them."
There was a pause, of which Mrs. Martin took advantage
to inquire of Tom whether something remarkable had not
happened about a goat and a pair of pigeons, at the time of
his son's illness—circumstances often mysteriously hinted at
by Tom.
" See that, now," said he, turning to Mr. Martin, " how
well she remembers it! True for you, ma'am. The goat I
gave the mistress, your mother, when the doctors ordered
her goats' whey ? "
Mrs. Martin nodded assent, and Tom Bourke continued,
" Why, then, I'll tell you how that was. The goat was as
well as e'er goat ever was, for a month after she was sent to
Killaan, to your father's. The morning after the night I
just told you of, before the child woke, his mother was
Standing at the gap leading out of the barn-yard into the

THE CONFESSIONS

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179

road, and she saw two pigeons flying from the town of
Kilworth off the church down towards her. Well, they
never stopped, you see, till they came to the house on the
hill at the other side of the river, facing our farm. They
pitched mpon the chimney of that house, and after looking
about them for a minute or two, they flew straight across
the river, and stopped on the ridge of the cow-house where
the child and I were lying. Do you think they came there
for nothing, sir ? "
''Certainly not, Tom," returned Mr. Martin.
"Well, the woman came in to me, frightened, and told
me. She began to cry. ' Whisht, you fool ?' says I ; ' 'tis
all for the better/ 'Twas true for me. What do you think,
ma'am; the goat that I gave your mother, that was seen
feeding at sunrise that morning by Jack Cronin, as merry as
a bee, dropped down dead without anybody knowing why,
before Jack's face; and at that very moment he saw two
pigeons fly from the top of the house out of the town,
towards the Lismore road. 'Twas at the same time my
woman saw them, as I just told you."
" 'Twas very strange, indeed, Tom," said Mr. Martin; " I
wish you could give us some explanation of it."
" I wish I could, sir," was Tom Bourke's answer; " b u t
I'm bound down. I can't tell but what I'm allowed to tell,
any more than a sentry is let walk more than his rounds."
" I think you said something of having had some former
knowledge of the man that assisted in the cure of your son,"
said Mr. Martin.
" So I had, sir,'' returned Bourke. " I had a trial of that
man. But that's neither here nor there. I can't tell you
anything about that, sir. But would you like to know how
he got his skill ? "
" Oh ! very much, indeed," said Mr. Martin.
" But you can tell us his Christian name, that we may
know him better through the story," added Mrs. Martin.
Tom Bourke paused for a minute to consider this proposition.
" Well, I believe that I may tell you that, anyhow; his

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name is Patrick. H e was always a smart, 'cute* boy, and
would be a great clerk if he stuck to it. The first time I
knew him, sir, was at my mother's wake. I was in great
trouble, for I did not know where to bury her. Her people
and my father's people—I mean their friends, sir, among
the good people—had the greatest battle that was known for
many a year, at Dunmanwaycross, to see to whose churchyard she'd be taken. They fought for three nights, one
after another, without being able to settle it. The neighbours wondered how long I was before I buried my mother;
but I had my reasons, though I could not tell them at that
time. Well, sir, to make my story short, Patrick came on
the fourth morning and told me he settled the business, and
that day we buried her in Kilcrumper churchyard, with my
father's people."
" H e was a valuable friend, Tom," said Mrs. Martin, with
difficulty suppressing a smile. " But you were about to tell
how he became so skilful."
" So I will and welcome," replied Bourke. "Your health,
ma'am. I'm drinking too much of this punch, sir; but
to tell the truth, I never tasted the like of it; it goes down
one's throat like sweet oil. But what was I going to say ?
Yes—well—Patrick, many a long year ago, was coming
home from a berrin late in the evening, and walking by the
side of a river, opposite the big inch,t near Ballyhefaan
ford. H e had taken a drop, to be sure; but he was only a
little merry, as you may say, and knew very well what he
was doing. The moon was shining, for it was in the month
of August, and the river was as smooth and as bright as a
looking-glass. He heard nothing for a long time but the
fall of the water at the mill weir about a mile down the river,
and now and then the crying of the lambs on the other side
of the river. All at once there was a noise of a great
number of people laughing as if they'd break their hearts,
and of a piper playing among them. It came from the inch
at the other side of the ford, and he saw, through the mist
* ' Cute, acutet

f Inch% low meadow ground near a river.

THE CONFESSIONS

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181

that hung over the river, a whole crowd of people dancing
on the inch. Patrick was as fond of a dance, as he was of a
glass, and that's saying enough for h i m ; so he whipped off
his shoes and stockings, and away with him across the ford.
After putting on his shoes and stockings at the other side of
the river he walked over to the crowd, and mixed with them
for some time without being minded. He thought, sir, that
he'd show them better dancing than any of themselves, for
he was proud of his feet, sir, and a good right he had, for
there was not a boy in the same parish could foot a double
or treble with him. But pwah ! his dancing was no more
to theirs than mine would be to the mistress' there. They
did not seem as if they had a bone in their bodies, and they
kept it up as if nothing could tire them. Patiick was
'shamed within himself, for he thought he had not his fellow
in all the country round; and was going away, when a little
old man, that was looking at the company bitterly, as if he
did not like what was going on, came up to him. ' Patrick,'
says he. Patrick started, for he did not think anybody
there knew him. ' Patrick,' says he, ' you're discouraged,
and no wonder for you. But you have a friend near
you. I'm your friend, and your father's friend, and I
think worse* of your little finger than I do of all that are
here, though they think no one is as good as themselves.
Go into the ring and call for a lilt. Don't be afeard. I tell
you the best of them did not do it as well as you shall, if
you will do as I bid you.' Patrick felt something within
him as if he ought not to gainsay the old man. H e went
into the ring, and called the piper to play up the best
double he had. And sure enough, all that the others were
able for was nothing to him ! H e bounded like an eel,
now here and now there, as light as a feather, although the
people could hear the music answered by his steps, that
beat time to every turn of it, like the left foot of the piper.
He first danced a hornpipe on the ground. Then they got
a table, and he danced a treble on it that drew down snouts
from the whole company. At last he called for a trencher;
* Worse, more.

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and when they saw him, all as if he was spinning on it like
a top, they did not know what to make of him. Some
praised him for the best dancer that ever entered a ring;
others hated him because he was better than themselves;
although they had good right to think themselves better
than him or any other man that ever went the long
journey."
" And what was the cause of his great success ? " inquired
Mr. Martin.
" H e could not help it, sir," replied Tom Bourke.
" They that could make him do more than that made him
do it. Howsomever, when he had done, they wanted him
to dance again, but he was tired, and they could not
persuade him. At last he got angry, and swore a big oath,
saving your presence, that he would not dance a step more;
and the word was hardly out of his mouth when he found
himself all alone, with nothing but a white cow grazing-by
his side."
" Did he ever discover why he was gifted with these
extraordinary powers in the dance, T o m ? " said Mr.
Martin.
" Til tell you that too, sir," answered Bourke, " when I
come to it. When he went home, sir, he was taken with a
shivering, and went to b e d ; and the next day they found
he had got the fever, or something like it, for he raved like
as if he was mad. But they couldn't make out what it was
he was saying, though he talked constant. The doctors
gave him over. But it's little they knew what ailed him.
When he was, as you may say, about ten days sick, and
everybody thought he was going, one of the neighbours
came in to him with a man, a friend of his, from Ballinlacken, that was keeping with him some time before. I
can't tell you his name either, only it was Darby. The
minute Darby saw Patrick he took a little bottle, with the
juice of herbs in it, out of his pocket, and gave Patrick a
drink of it. H e did the same every day for three weeks,
and then Patrick was able to walk about, as stout and as
hearty as ever he was in his life. But he was a long time

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183

before he came to himself; and he used to walk the whole
day sometimes by the ditch-side, talking to himself, like as
if there was someone along with him. And so there was,
surely, or he wouldn't be the man he is to-day."
" I suppose it was from some such companion he learned
his skill," said Mr. Martin.
"You have it all now, sir," replied Bourke. "Darby
told him his friends were satisfied with what he did the
night of the dance; and though they couldn't hinder the
fever, they'd bring him over it, and teach him more than
many-knew beside him. And so they did. For you see,
all the people he met on the inch that night were friends of
a different faction; only the old man that spoke to him, he
was a friend of Patrick's family, and it went again his
heart, you see, that the others were so light and active, and
he was bitter in himself to hear 'em boasting how they'd
dance with any set in the whole country round. So he gave
Patrick the gift that night, and afterwards gave him the skill
that makes him the wonder of all that know him. And to
be sure it was only learning he was at that time when he was
wandering in his mind after the fevej;"
" I have heard many strange stories about that inch near
Ballyhefaan ford," said Mr. Martin. " 'Tis a great place for
the good people, isn't it, Tom ? "
" You may say that, sir," returned Bourke. " I could
tell you a great deal about it. Many a time I sat for as
good as two hours by moonlight, at th' other side of the
river, looking at 'em playing goal as if they'd break their
hearts over it; with their coats and waistcoats off, and
white handkerchiefs on the heads of one party,, and red
ones on th' other, just as you'd see on a Sunday in Mr.
Simming's big field. I saw 'em one night play till the moon
set, without one party being able to take the ball from th'
other. I'm sure they were going to fight, only 'twas near
morning. I'm told your grandfather, ma'am, used to see
'em there too," said Bourke, turning to Mrs. Martin.
" So I have been told, Tom," replied Mrs. Martin. " But
don't they say that the churchyard of Kilcrumper is just

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DOCTORS.

as favourite a place with the good people as Ballyhefaan
inch?"
"Why, then, maybe you never heard, ma'am, what
happened to Davy Roche in that same churchyard," said
Bourke ; and turning to Mr. Martin, added, " ; Twas a long
time before he went into your service, sir. H e was walking
home, of an evening, from the fair of Kilcumber, a little
merry, to be sure, after the day, and he came up with a
berrin. So he walked along with it, and thought it very
queer that he did not know a mother's soul in the crowd
but one man, and he was sure that man was dead many
years afore. Howsomever, he went on with the berrin till
they came to Kilcrumper churchyard; and, faith, he went
in and stayed with the rest, to see the corpse buried. As
soon as the grave was covered, what should they do but
gather about a piper that come along with 'em, and fall to
dancing as if it was a wedding. Davy longed to be among
'em (for he hadn't a bad foot of his own, that time, whatever
he may now); but he was loth to begin, because they all
seemed strange to him, only the man I told you that he
thought was dead. Well, at last this man saw what Davy
wanted, and came up to him. ' Davy/ says he, ' take out a
partner, and show what you can do, but take care and don't
offer to kiss her.' ' That I won't/ says Davy, ' although her
lips were made of honey.' And with that he made his bow
to the fiurtiest girl in the ring, and he and she began to
dance. 'Twas a jig they danced, and they did it to th'
admiration, do you see, of all that were there. 'Twas all
very well till the jig was over; but just as they had done,
Davy, for he had a drop in, and was warm with the dancing,
forgot himself, and kissed his partner, according to custom.
The smack was no sooner off of his lips, you see, than he
was left alone in the churchyard, without a creature near
him, and all he could see was the tall tombstones. Davy
said they seemed as if they were dancing too, but I suppose
that was only the wonder that happened him, and he being
a little in drink. Howsomever, he found it was a great
many hours later than he thought i t ; 'twas near morning

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185

when he came h o m e ; but they couldn't get a word out of
him till the next day, when he woke out of a dead sleep
about twelve o'clock."
When Tom had finished the account of Davy Roche and
the berrin, it became quite evident that spirits, of some sort,
were working too strong within him to admit of his telling
many more tales of the good people. Tom seemed
conscious of this. H e muttered for a few minutes broken
sentences concerning churchyards, river-sides, leprechauns,
and dina magh* which were quite unintelligible, perhaps, to
himself, certainly to Mr. Martin and his lady. At length
he made a slight motion of the head upwards, as if he
would say, " I can talk no m o r e ; " stretched his arm on
the table, upon which he placed the empty tumbler slowly,
and with the most knowing and cautious air; and rising
from his chair, walked, or rather rolled, to the parlour door.
Here he turned round to face his host and hostess; but
after various ineffectual attempts to bid them good-night,
the words, as they rose, being always choked by a violent
hiccup, while the door, which he held by the handle, swung
to and fro, carrying his unyielding body along with it, he
was obliged to depart in silence. The cow-boy, sent by
Tom's wife, who knew well what sort of allurement detained
him when he remained out after a certain hour, was in
attendance to conduct his master home. I have no doubt
that he returned without meeting any material injury, as I
know that within the last month he was, to use his own
words, " as stout and hearty a man as any of his age in the
county Cork."

T H E PUDDING BEWITCHED.
WILLIAM CARLETON.

" MOLL R O E RAFFERTY was the son—daughter I mane—of

ould Jack Rafferty, who was remarkable for a habit he had
* Daoine maithe, t,e.t the good people.

186

WITCHES,

FAIR Y

DOCTORS.

of always wearing his head undher his hat; but indeed the
same family was a quare one, as everybody knew that was
acquainted wid them. It was said of them—but whether it
was thrue or not I won't undhertake to say, for 'fraid I'd
tell a lie—that whenever they didn't wear shoes or boots
they always went barefooted; but I heard aftherwards that
this was disputed, so rather than say anything to injure their
character, I'll let that pass. Now, ould Jack RafFerty had
two sons, Paddy and Molly—hut 1 what are you all laughing
at?—I mane a son and daughter, and it was generally
believed among the neighbours that they were brother and
sisther, which you know might be thrue or it might n o t :
but that's a thing that, wid the help o' goodness, we have
nothing to say to. Troth there was many ugly things put
out on them that I don't wish to repate, such as that neither
Jack nor his son Paddy ever walked a perch widout puttin'
one foot afore the other like a salmon; an' I know it was
whispered about, that whinever Moll Roe slep', she had an
out-of-the-way custom of keepin' her eyes shut. If she did,
however, for that matther the loss was her own; for sure we
all know that when one comes to shut their eyes they can't
see as far before them as another.
"Moll Roe was a fine young bouncin' girl, large and
lavish, wid a purty head o' hair on her like scarlet, that bein'
one of the raisons why she was called Roe, or red; her
arms an' cheeks were much the colour of the hair, an' her
saddle nose was the purtiest thing of its kind that ever was
on a face. Her fists—for, thank goodness, she was well
sarved wid them too—had a strong simularity to two
thumpin' turnips, reddened by the sun; an' to keep all
right and tight, she had a temper as fiery as her head—for,
indeed, it was well known that all the Rafferties were warmhearted. Howandiver, it appears that God gives nothing in
vain, and of coorse the same fists, big and red as they were, if
all that is said about them is thrue, were not so much given to
her for ornament as use. At laist, takin' them in connection
wid her lively temper, we have it upon good authority, that
there was no danger of their getting blue-moulded for want of

THE

PUDDING

BEWITCHED.

187

practice. She had a twist, too, in one of her eyes that was
very becomin' in its way, and made her poor husband, when
she got him, take it into his head that she could see round
a corner. She found him out in many quare things, widout
doubt; but whether it was owin' to that or not, I wouldn't
undertake to sayfarfrald I'd tell a lie.
"Well, begad, anyhow it was Moll Roe that was the dilsy*
It happened that there was a nate vagabone in the
neighbourhood, just as much overburdened wid beauty as
herself, and he was named Gusty Gillespie. Gusty, the
Lord guard us, was what they call a black-mouth Prosbytarian, and wouldn't keep Christmas-day, the blagard, except
what they call 'ould style.' Gusty was rather good-lookin'
when seen in the dark, as well as Moll herself; and,
indeed, it was purty well known that—accordin' as the
talk went—it was in nightly meetings that they had an
opportunity of becomin' detached to one another. The
quensequence was, that in due time both families began to
talk very seriously as to what was to be done. Moll's
brother, Pawdien O'Rafferty, gave Gusty the best of two
choices. What they were it's not worth spakin' about; but
at any rate one of them was a poser, an' as Gusty knew his
man, he soon came to his senses. Accordianly everything
was deranged for their marriage, and it was appointed that
they should be spliced by the Rev. Samuel M'Shuttle, the
Prosbytarian parson, on the following Sunday.
"Now this was the first marriage that had happened for a
long time in the neighbourhood betune a black-mouth an' a
Catholic, an' of coorse there was strong objections on both
sides aginst it; an' begad, only for one thing, it would never
'a tuck place at all. At any rate, faix, there was one of the
bride's uncles, ould Harry Connolly, a fairy-man, who could
cure all complaints wid a secret he had, and as he didn't
wish to see his niece married upon sich a fellow, he fought
bittherly against the match. All Moll's friends, however,
stood up for the marriage barrin' him, an' of coorse the
* Perhaps from Irish dilse—i,e.} love0

iB8

WITCHES,

FAIRY

DOCTORS.

Sunday was appointed, as I said, that they were to be
dove-tailed together.
"Well, the day arrived, and Moll, as became her, went
to mass, and Gusty to meeting, afther which they were to
join one another in Jack Rafferty's, where the priest, Father
M'Sorley, was to slip up afther mass to take his dinner wid
them, and to keep Misther M'Shuttle, who was to marry
them, company. Nobody remained at home but ould Jack
Raiferty an' his wife, who stopped to dress the dinner, for,
to tell the truth, it was to be a great let-out entirely.
Maybe, if all was known, too, that Father M'Sorley was to
give them a cast of his office over an' above the ministher,
in regard that Moll's friends were not altogether satisfied
at the kind of marriage which M'Shuttle could give them.
The sorrow may care about that—splice here—splice there—
all I can say is, that when Mrs. Rafferty was goin' to tie up a
big bag pudden, in walks Harry Connolly, the fairy-man, in
a rage, and shouts out,—'Blood and blunderbushes, what
are yez here for ? ;
" ' Arrah why, Harry ? Why, avick ?'
" 'Why, the sun's in the suds and the moon in the high
Horicks; there's a dipstick comin' an, an' there you're both
as unconsarned as if it was about to rain mether. Go out
and cross yourselves three times in the name o' the four
Mandromarvins, for as prophecy says :—Fill the pot, Eddy,
supernaculum—a blazing star's a rare spectaculum. Go out
both of you and look at the sun, I say, an' ye'll see the
condition he's in—off!'
"Begad, sure enough, Jack gave a bounce to the door,
and his wife leaped like a two-year-ould, till they were both
got on a stile beside the house to see what was wrong in the
sky.
"'Arrah, what is it, Jack/ said she; 'can you see
anything ?'
" ' No,' says he, ' sorra the full o' my eye of anything I
can spy, barrin' the sun himself, that's not visible in regard
of the clouds. God guard u s ! I doubt there's something
to happen.'

THE PUDDING

BEWITCHED,

189

" ' If there wasn't, Jack, what 'ud put Harry, that knows
so much, in the state he's in ? '
" c I doubt it's this marriage/ said Jack: * betune ourselves, it's not over an' above religious for Moll to marry a
black-mouth, an' only for
; but it can't be helped now,
though you see not a taste o' the sun is willin' to show his
face upon it.'
" ' As to that/ says the wife, winkin' wid both her eyes,
' if Gusty's satisfied wid Moll, it's enough. I know who'll
carry the whip hand, anyhow; but in the manetime let us
ax Harry 'ithin what ails the sun.'
" Well, they accordianly went in an' put the question to him:
" ' Harry, what's wrong, ahagur ? What is it now, for if
anybody alive knows, 'tis yourself?'
" * Ah !' said Harry, screwin' his mouth wid a kind of a
dhry smile, 'the sun has a hard twist o' the cholic; but
never mind that, I tell you you'll have a merrier weddin'
than you think, that's all;' and havin' said this, he put on
his hat and left the house.
" Now, Harry's answer relieved them very much, and so,
afther calling to him to be back for the dinner, Jack sat
down to take a shough o' the pipe, and the wife lost no time
in tying up the pudden and puttin' it in the pot to be
boiled.
" I n this way things went on well enough for a while,
Jack smokin' away, an' the wife cookin' and dhressin' at the
rate of a hunt. At last, Jack, while sittin', as I said,
contentedly at the fire, thought he could persave an odd
dancin' kind of motion in the pot that puzzled him a good deal.
" ' Katty/ said he, ' what the dickens is in this pot on the
fire?'
" ' Nerra thing but the big pudden. Why do you ax ? ;
says she.
" ' Why/ said he, ' if ever a pot tuck it into its head to
dance a jig, and this did. Thundher and sparbles, look at
it!'
" Begad, it was thrue enough; there was the pot bobbin'
up an' down and from side to side, jiggm' it away as merry

WITCHES,

FAIRY

DOCTORS.

as a grig; an' it was quite aisy to see that it wasn't the pot
itself, but what was inside of it, that brought about the
hornpipe.
" ' Be the hole o' my coat/ shouted Jack, ' there's something alive in it, or it would never cut sich capers !'
" ' B e gorra, there is, Jack; something sthrange entirely
has got into it. Wirra, man alive, what's to be done ?'
" Jist as she spoke, the pot seemed to cut the buckle in
prime style, and afther a spring that ?ud shame a dancin'masther, off flew the lid, and out bounced the pudden
itself, hoppin', as nimble as a pea on a drum-head, about
the floor. Jack blessed himself, and Katty crossed herself.
Jack shouted, and Katty screamed. ' In the name of
goodness, keep your distance; no one here injured you !'
" T h e pudden, however, made a set at him, and Jack
lepped first on a chair and then on the kitchen table to
avoid it. It then danced towards Kitty, who was now
repatin' her prayers at the top of her voice, while the
cunnin' thief of a pudden was hoppin' and jiggin' it round
her, as if it was amused at her distress.
" ' If I could get the pitchfork,' said Jack, ' I'd dale wid it
—by goxty I'd thry its mettle/
" ' No, n o / shouted Katty, thinkin' there was a fairy in it;
' let us spake it fair. Who knows what harm it might do ?
Aisy now/ said she to the pudden, *aisy, dear; don't harm
honest people that never meant to offend you. It wasn't us
—no, in. troth, it was ould Harry Connolly that bewitched
you; pursue him if you wish, but spare a woman like m e ;
for, whisper, dear, I'm not in a condition to be frightenedtroth I'm not.'
" The pudden, bedad, seemed to take her at her word,
and danced away from her towards Jack, who, like the wife,
believin' there was a fairy in it, an' that spakin' it fair was
the best plan, thought he would give it a soft word as well
as her.
" ' Plase your honour/ said Jack, ' she only spaiks the
truth; an', upon my voracity, we both feels much oblaiged
to your honour for your quietness. Faith, it's quite clear

THE PUDDING

BEWITCHED.

191

that if you weren't a gentlemanly pudden all out, you'd act
otherwise. Ould Harry, the rogue, is your mark; he's jist
gone down the road there, and if you go fast you'll overtake
him. Be me song, "your dancin' masther did his duty,
anyhow. Thank your honour! God speed you, an' may
you never meet wid a parson or alderman in your thravels!'
"Jfst as Jack spoke the pudden appeared to take the
hint, for it quietly hopped out, and as the house was directly
on the road-side, turned down towards the bridge, the very
way that ould Harry went. It was very natural, of coorse,
that Jack and Katty should go out to see how it intended
to thravel; and, as the day was Sunday, it was but natural,
too, that a greater number of people than usual were passin'
the road. This was a fact; and when Jack and his wife
were seen followin' the pudden, the whole neighbourhood
was soon up and afther it.
" (Jack Rafferty, what is it ? Katty, ahagur, will you tell
us what it manes ?'
" ' Why,' replied Katty, ' it's my big pudden that's
bewitched, an' it's now hot foot pursuin'
; ' here she
stopped, not wishin' to mention her brother's name— i some
one ox other that surely put fiishrogues an it.'*
" T h i s was enough; Jack, now seem' that he had
assistance, found his courage comin' back to him; so says
he to Katty, ' Go home,' says he, * an' lose no time in makin'
another pudden as good, an' here's Paddy Scanlan's wife,
Bridget, says she'll let you boil it on her fire, as you'll want
our own to dress the rest o' the dinner: and Paddy himself
will lend me a pitchfork, for purshuin to the morsel of that
same pudden will escape till I let the wind out of it, now
that I've the neighbours to back an' support me,' says Jack.
" This was agreed to, and Katty went back to prepare a
fresh pudden, while Jack an' half the townland pursued the
other wid spades, graips, pitchforks, scythes, flails, and all
possible description of instruments. On the pudden went,
however, at the rate of about six Irish miles an hour, an'
sich a chase never was seen. Catholics, Prodestants, an3
* Put it under fairy influence.

WITCHES,

FAIRY

DOCTORS.

Prosbytarians, were all afther it, armed, as I said, an' bad
end to the thing but its own activity could save it. Here it
made a hop, and there a prod was made at i t ; but off it went,
an' some one, as eager to get a slice at it on the other side,
got the prod instead of the pudden. Big Frank Farrell, the
miller of Ballyboulteen, got a prod backwards that brought
a hullabaloo out of him you might hear at the other end of
the parish. One got a slice of a scythe, another a whack
of a flail, a third a rap of a spade that made him look nine
ways at wanst.
" ' Where is it goin' ?' asked one. * My life for you, it's
on it's way to Meeting. Three cheers for it if it turns to
Carntaul.' ' Prod the sowl out of it, if it's a Prodestan','
shouted the others; * if it turns to the left, slice it into
pancakes. We'll have no Prodestan' puddens here.'
" Begad, by this time the people were on the point of
beginnin' to have a regular fight about it, when, very
fortunately, it took a short turn down a little by-lane that
led towards the Methodist praichin-house, an' in an instant
all parties were in an uproar against .it as a Methodist
pudden. * It's a Wesleyan,' shouted several voices; * an' by
this an' by that, into a Methodist chapel it won't put a foot
to-day, or we'll lose a fall. Let the wind out of it. Come,
boys, where's your pitchforks ?'
" The divle purshuin to the one of them, however, ever
could touch the pudden, an' jist when they thought they had
it up against the gavel of the Methodist chapel, begad it gave
them the slip, and hops over to the left, clane into the river,
and sails away before all their eyes as light as an egg-shell.
" Now, it so happened that a little below this place, the
demesne-wall of Colonel Bragshaw was built up to the very
edge of the river on each side of its banks; and so findin'
there was a stop put to their pursuit of it, they went home
again, every man, woman, and child of them, puzzled to
think what the pudden was at all, what it meant, or where
it was goin'! Had Jack Rafferty an' his wife been willin' to
let out the opinion they held about Harry Connolly
bewitchin' it, there is no doubt of it but poor Harry might

THE PUDDING

BEWITCHED.

be badly trated by the crowd, when their blood was up.
They had sense enough, howandiver, to keep that to
themselves, for Harry bein' an' ould bachelor, was a kind
friend to the Raffertys. So, of coorse, there was all kinds
of talk about it—some guessin' this, and some guessin' that
—one party savin' the pudden was of there side, another
party denyin' it, an' insistin' it belonged to them, an' so on.
" In the manetime, Katty Rafferty, for 'fraid the dinner
might come short, went home and made another pudden
much about the same size as the one that had escaped, and
bringin' it over to their next neighbour, Paddy Scanlan's, it
was put into a pot and placed on the fire to boil, hopin' that
it might be done in time, espishilly as they were to have the
ministher, who loved a warm slice of a good pudden as well
as e'er a gintleman in Europe.
" Anyhow, the day passed; Moll and Gusty were made
man an' wife, an' no two could be more lovin'. Their
friends that had been asked to the weddin' were saunterin'
about in pleasant little groups till dinner-time, chattin' an'
laughin'; but, above all things, sthrivin' to account for the
figaries of the pudden; for, to tell the truth, its adventures
had now gone through the whole parish.
"Well, at any rate, dinner-time was dhrawin' near, and
Paddy Scanlan was sittin' comfortably wid his wife at the
fire, the pudden boilen before their eyes, when in walks
Harry Connolly, in a flutter, shoutin'—' Blood an' blunderbushes, what are yez here for ? '
" ' Arra, why, Harry—why, avick ? ' said 'Mrs. Scanlan. «< Why,' said Harry, 'the sun's in the suds an' the moon
in the high Horicks! Here's a dipstick comin' an, an'
there you sit as unconsarned as if it was about to rain
mether! Go out both of you, an' look at the sun, I say,
and ye'll see the condition he's in—off!'
" • Ay, but, Harry, what's that rowled up in the tail of
your cothamore* (big coat) ?'
" ' Out wid yez,' said Harry, ' an' pray aginst the dipstick
—the sky's fallin'!'
* Irish, c6ta mbr*
528

194

WITCHES,

FAIRY

DOCTORS.

" Begad, it was hard to say whether Paddy or the wife
got out first, they were so much alarmed by Harry's wild
thin face an' piercin' eyes; so out they went to see what
was wondherful in the sky, an' kep' lookin' an' lookin' in
every direction, but not a thing was to be seen, barrin' the
sun shinin' down wid great good-humour, an' not a single
cloud in the sky.
" Paddy an? the wife now came in laughin', to scould
Harry, who, no doubt, was a great wag in his way when he
wished. 'Musha, bad scran to you, Harry——.' They
had time to say no more, ho wan diver, for, as they were
goin' into the door, they met him comin' out of it wid a
reek of smoke out of his tail like a lime-kiln.
" ' H a r r y , ' shouted Bridget, ' m y sowl to glory, but the
tail of your cothamore's a-'fire—you'll be burned. Don't
you see the smoke that's out of it ? '
"'Cross yourselves three times,' said Harry, widout
stoppin', or even lookin' behind him, ' for, as the prophecy
says—Fill the pot, Eddy
' They could hear no more,
for Harry appeared to feel like a man that carried something a great deal hotter than he wished, as anyone might
see by the liveliness of his motions, and the quare faces he
was forced to make as he went along.
" * What the dickens is he carry in' in the skirts of his big
coat ? ' asked Paddy.
" ' My sowl to happiness, but maybe he has stole the
pudden,' said Bridget, ' for it's known that many a sthrange
thing he does.' *
" They immediately examined the pot, but found that the
pudden was there as safe as tuppence, an' this puzzled them
the more, to think what it was he could be carryin' about
wid him in the manner he did. But little they knew what
he had done while they were sky-gazin !
"Well, anyhow, the day passed and the dinner was
ready, an' no doubt but a fine gatherin' there was to partake of it. The Prosbytarian ministher met the Methodist
praicher—a divilish stretcher of an appetite he had, in
throth—on their way to Jack Rafferty's, an' as he knew he

THE PUDDING

BEWITCHED.

could take the liberty, why he insisted on his dinm' wid h i m ;
for, afther all, < begad, in thim times the clargy of all
descriptions lived upon the best footin' among one another,
not all as one as now—but no matther. Well, they had
nearly finished their dinner, when Jack RafFerty himself
axed Katty for the pudden; but, jist as he spoke, in it
came as big as a mess-pot.
"'Gintlemen,' said he, ' I hope none of you will refuse
tastin' a bit of Katty's pudden; I don't mane the dancin'
one that tuck to its thravels to-day, but a good solid fellow
that'she med since.'
" ' T o be sure we won't/ replied the priest; 'so, Jack,
put a thrifle on them three plates at your right hand, and
send them over here to the clargy, an' maybe,' he said,
laughin'—for he was a droll good-humoured man—' maybe,
Jack, we won't set you a proper example.'
" ' Wid a heart an' a half, yer reverence an' gintlemen;
in throth, it's not a bad example ever any of you set us at
the likes, or ever will set us, I'll go bail. An' sure I only
wish it was betther fare I had for you; but we're humble
people, gintlemen, and so you can't expect to meet here
what you would in higher places.'
" ' Betther a male of herbs,' said the Methodist praicher,
'where pace is
.' H e had time to go no farther, however ; for much to his amazement, the priest and the
ministher started up from the table jist as he was goin' to
swallow the first spoonful of the pudden, and before you
could say Jack Robinson, started away at a lively jig down
the floor.
" At this moment a neighbour's son came runnin' in, an'
tould them that the parson was comin' to see the newmarried couple, an' wish them all happiness ; an' the words
were scarcely out of his mouth when he made his appearance. What to think he knew not, when he saw the
ministher footing it away a t the rate of a weddin'. He had
very little time, however, to think; for, before he could sit
down, up starts the Methodist praicher, and clappin' his
two fists in his sides, chimes in in great style along wid him,

i96

WITCHES,

FAIRY

DOCTORS,

" ' Jack Rafferty,' says he—and, by the way, Jack was
his tenant—' what the dickens does all this mane ?' says
he \ ' I'm amazed !'
" ' The not a particle o' me can tell you,' says Jack; ' but
will your reverence jist taste a morsel o' pudden, merely that
the young couple may boast that you ait at their weddin';
for sure if you wouldn't, who would ? '
" ' W e l l / says he, ' t o gratify them I will; so just a
morsel. But, Jack, this bates Bannagher,' says he again,
puttin' the spoonful o' pudden into his mouth; ' has there
been dhrink here ? '
" ' Oh, the divle a spudh? says Jack, 'for although there's
plinty in the house, faith, it appears the gintlemen wouldn't
wait for it. Unless they tuck it elsewhere, I can make
nothin' of this.'
" H e had scarcely spoken, when the parson, who was an
active man, cut a caper a yard high, an' before you could
bless yourself, the three clargy were hard at work dancm', as
if for a wager. Begad, it would be unpossible for me to tell
you the state the whole meetin' was in when they seen
this. Some were hoarse wid laughin'; some turned up their
eyes wid wondher; many thought them mad, an' others
thought they had turned up their little fingers a thrifle too
often.
" ' Be goxty, it's a burnin' shame,' said one, * to see three
black-mouth clargy in sich a state at this early hour !'
' Thundher an' ounze, what's over them at all ?' says others;
'why, one would think they're bewitched. Holy Moses,
look at the caper the Methodis cuts! An' as for the
Recther, who would think he could handle his feet at such
a rate ! Be this an' be that, he cuts the buckle, and does
the threblin' step aiquil to Paddy Horaghan, the dancin'masther himself? An' see! Bad cess to the morsel of the
parson that's not hard at Peace upon a tranche^ an' it of a
Sunday too ! Whirroo, gintlemen, the fun's in yez afther
all—whish ! more power to yez !'
" T h e sorra's own fun they had, an' no wondher; but
judge of what they felt, when all at once they saw ould Jack

THE PUDDING

BEWITCHED.

197

Rafferty himself bouncin' in among them, and footing it
away like the best o' them. Bedad, no play could come up
to it, an' nothin' could be heard but laughing shouts of
encouragement, and clappin' of hands like mad. Now the
minute Jack Rafferty left the chair where he had been
carvin' the pudden, ould Harry Connolly comes over and
claps himself down in his place, in ordher to send it round,
of coorse; an' he was scarcely sated, when who should
make his appearance but Barney Hartigan, the piper.
Barney, by the way, had been sent for early in the day, but
bein' from home when the message for him went, he
couldn't come any sooner.
" * Begorra,' said Barney, 'you're airly at the work, gintlemen ! but what does this mane ? But, divle may care, yez
shan't want the music while there's a blast in the pipes,
anyhow !' So sayin' he gave them Jig Polthogue, an' after
that Kiss my Lady, in his best style.
" In the manetime the fun went on thick an' threefold,
for it must be remimbered that Harry, the ould knave, was
at the pudden ; an' maybe he didn't sarve it about in double
quick time too. The first he helped was the bride, and,
before you could say chops tick, she was at it hard an' fast
before the Methodist praicher, who gave a jolly spring before
her that threw them into convulsions. Harry liked this, and
made up his mind soon to find partners for the rest; so he
accordianly sent the pudden about like lightnin'; an' to
make a long story short, barrin' the piper an' himself, there
wasn't a pair o' heels in the house but was as busy at the
dancin' as if their lives depinded on it.
" 'Barney,' says Harry, 'just taste a morsel o' this pudden;
divle the such a bully of a pudden ever you ett; here, your
sowl! thry a snig of it—it's beautiful.'
" ' To be sure I will,' says Barney. ' I'm not the boy to
refuse a good thing; but, Harry, be quick, for you know
my hands is engaged, an' it would be a thousand pities not
to keep them in music, an' they so well inclined. Thank
you, Harry; begad that is a famous pudden; but blood an'
turnips, what's this for ? '

198

WITCHES,

FAIRY

DOCTORS.

" T h e word was scarcely out of his mouth when he
bounced up, pipes an' all, an' dashed into the middle of the
party. ' Hurroo, your sowls, let us make a night of i t !
The Ballyboulteen boys for ever ! Go it, your reverence—
turn your partner—heel an' toe, ministher. Good ! Well
done again—Whish ! Hurroo ! Here's for Ballyboulteen,
an' the sky over i t ! '
" Bad luck to the sich a set ever was seen together in this
world, or will again, I suppose* The worst* however, wasn't
come yet, for jist as they were in the very heat an' fury of
the dance, what do you think comes hoppin' in among them
but another pudden, as nimble an' merry as the first! That
was enough; they all had heard of—the ministhers among
the rest—an' most 6' them had seen the other pudden, and
knew that there must be a fairy in it, sure enough. Well, as I
said, in it comes to the thick o' them; but the very appearance of it was enough. Off the three clargy danced, and of?
the whole weddiners danced afther them, every one makin'
the best of their way home; but not a sowl of them able to
break out of the step* if they were to be hanged for it.
Throth it wouldn't lave a laugh in you to see the parson
dancin' down the road on his way home, and the ministher
and Methodist praicher cuttin' the buckle as they went
along in the opposite direction. To make short work
of it, they all danced home at last, wid scarce a puff of
wind in them; the bride and bridegroom danced away
to b e d ; an' now, boys, come an' let us dance the Horo
Lheig in the barn 'idout. But you see, boys, before we go,
an' in ordher that I may make everything plain, I had as
good tell you that Harry, in crossing the bridge of Ballyboulteen, a couple of miles below Squire Bragshaw's
demense-wall, saw the pudden floatin' down the river—the
truth is he was waitin' for it; but be this as it may, he took
it out, for the wather had made it as clane as a new pin, and
tuckin' it up in the tail of his big coat, contrived, as you all
guess, I suppose, to change it while Paddy Scanlan an' the
wife were examinin' the sky; an' for the other, he contrived
to bewitch it in the same manner, by gettin' a fairy to go

THE PUDDING

BEWITCHED.

into it, for, indeed, it was purty well known that the same
Harry was hand an' glove wid the good people. Others will
tell you that it was half a pound of quicksilver he put into
it; but that doesn't stand to raison. At any rate, boys,
I have tould you the adventures of the Mad Pudden
of Ballyboulteen; but I don't wish to tell you many other
things about it that happened—for fraid Fd tell a lie."*
* Some will insist that a fairy-man or fairy-woman has the power to
bewitch a pudding by putting a fairy into it; whilst others maintain
that a competent portion of quicksilver will make it dance over half the
parish.

TTEER-NA-N-OGE.
[THERE is a country called Tir-na-n-Og, which means the
Country of the Young, for age and death have not found it;
neither tears nor loud laughter have gone near it. The shadiest
boskage covers it perpetually. One man has gone there and
returned. The bard, Oisen, who wandered away on a white
horse, moving on the surface of the foam with his fairy Niamh,
lived there three hundred years, and then returned looking for
his comrades. The moment his foot touched the earth his three
hundred years fell on him, and he was bowed double, and his
beard swept the ground. He described his sojourn in the
Land of Youth to Patrick before he died. Since then many
have seen it in many places ; some in the depths of lakes, and
have heard rising therefrom a vague sound of bells ; more have
seen it far off on the horizon, as they peered out from the western
cliffs. Not three years ago a fisherman imagined that he saw it
It never appears unless to announce some national trouble.
There are many kindred beliefs. A Dutch pilot, settled in
Dublin, told M. De La Boullage Le Cong, who travelled in
Ireland in 1614, that round the poles were many islands ; some
hard to be approached because of the witches who inhabit
them and destroy by storms those who seek to land. He had
once, off the coast of Greenland, in sixty-one degrees of latitude, seen and approached such an island only to see it vanish.
Sailing in an opposite direction, they met with the same
island, and sailing near, were almost destroyed by a furious
tempest.
According to many stones, Tir-na-n-Og is the favourite
dwelling of the fairies. Some say it is triple—the island of the
living, the island of victories, and an underwater land.]

THE

LEGEND

OF O'DONOGHUE.

201

T H E L E G E N D OF O'DONOGHUE.*
T. CROFTON

CROKER.

I N an age so distant that the precise period is unknown, a
chieftain named O'Donoghue ruled over the country which
surrounds the romantic Lough Lean, now called the lake of
Killarney. Wisdom* beneficence, and justice distinguished
his reign, and the prosperity and happiness of his subjects
were their natural results. H e is said to have been as
renowned for his warlike exploits as for his pacific virtues;
and as a proof that his domestic administration was not
the less rigorous because it was mild, a rocky island is
pointed out to strangers, called " O'Donoghue's Prison,"
in which this prince once confined his own son for some act
of disorder and disobedience.
His end—for it cannot correctly be called hls\ death—-was
singular and mysterious. At one of those splendid feasts
for which his court was celebrated, surrounded b v the most
distinguished of his subjects, he was engaged in a iprophetic
relation of the events which were to happen in ages yet to
come. His auditors listened, now wrapt in wonder, now
fired with indignation, burning with shame, or melted into
sorrow, as he faithfully detailed the heroism, the injuries,
the crimes, and the miseries of their descendants. In the
midst of his predictions he rose slowly from his seat, advanced with a solemn, measured, and majestic tread to the
shore of the lake, and walked forward composedly upon its
unyielding surface. When he had nearly reached the centre
he paused for a moment, then, turning slowly round, looked
toward his friends, and waving his arms to them with the
cheerful air of one taking a short farewell, disappeared from
their view.
The memory of the good O'Donoghue has been cherished
by successive generations with affectionate reverence; and
* Fairy Legends of the South of Ireland,

202

TJ

YEER-MA-N-OGE.

it is believed that at sunrise, on.eveiy ivlay-aay moiiimg,
the anniversary of his departure, he revisits his ancient
domains : a favoured few only .are in general permitted to
see him, and this distinction is always an omen of good
fortune to the beholders ; when/ it is granted to many it is a
sure token of an abundant harvest,—a blessing, the want of
which during this prince's reigm was never felt by his people.
Some years have elapsed since the last appearance of
O'Donoghue. The April of ihat year had been remarkably
wild and stormy; but on May-morning the fury of the
elements had altogether subsided. The air was hushed and
still; and the sky, which was reflected in the serene lake,
resembled a beautiful but deceitful countenance, whose
smiles, after the most tempestuous emotions, tempt the
stranger to believe that it belongs to a soul which no
passion has evev ruffled.
The first beams of the rising sun were just gilding the
lofty summit of Glenaa, when the waters near the eastern
shore of the lake became suddenly and violently agitated,
though all the rest of its surface lay smooth and still as a
tomb of polished marble, the next morning a foaming wave
darted forward, and, like a proud high-crested war-horse,
exulting, in his strength, rushed across the lake toward
Toomies mountain. Behind this wave appeared a stately
warrior fully armed, mounted upon a milk-white steed; his
sn/owy plume waved gracefully from a helmet of polished
steel, and at his back fluttered a light blue scarf. The horse,
apparently exulting in his noble burden, sprung after the
wave along the water, which bore him up like firm earth,
while showers of spray that glittered brightly in the morning
sun were dashed up at every bound.
The warrior was O'Donoghue; he was followed by
numberless youths and maidens, who moved lightly and
unconstrained over the watery plain, as the moonlight fairies
glide through the fields of air; they were linked together
by garlands of delicious spring flowers, and they timed
their movements to strains of enchanting melody. When
O'Donoghue had nearly reached the western side of the lake,

RENT-DA K

203

he suddenly turned his steed, and directed his course along
the wood-fringed shore of Glenaa, preceded by the huge
wave that curled and foamed up as high as the horse's neck,
whose fiery nostrils snorted above it. The long train of
attendants followed with playful deviations the track of their
leader, and moved on with unabated fleetness to their
celestial music, till gradually, as they entered the narrow
strait between Glenaa and Dinis, they became involved in
the mists which still partially floated over the lakes, and
faded from the view of the wondering beholders: but the
sound of their music still fell upon the ear, and echo,
catching up the harmonious strains, fondly repeated and
prolonged them in soft and softer tones, till the last faint
repetition died away, and the hearers awoke as from a
dream of bliss.

RENT-DAY.
et

O H , ullagone ! ullagone ! this is a wide world, but what will
we do in it, or where will we go ? " muttered Bill Doody, as
he sat on a rock by the Lake of Killarney. " What will we
do ? To-morrow's rent-day, and Tim the Driver swears if
we don't pay our rent, he'll cant every hdfierth we have;
and then, sure enough, there's Judy and myself, and the
poor grawls* will be turned out to starve on the high-road,
for the never a halfpenny of rent have I!—Oh hone, that
ever I should live to see this day ! "
Thus did Bill Doody bemoan his hard fate, pouring his
sorrows to the reckless waves of the most beautiful of lakes,
which seemed to mock his misery as they rejoiced beneath
the cloudless sky of a May morning. That lake, glittering
in sunshine, sprinkled with fairy isles of rock and verdure,
and bounded by giant hills of ever-varying hues, might,
with its magic beauty, charm all sadness but despair; for
alas,
* Children.

204

T> YEER-NA-N-OGE.
" How ill the scene that offers rest
And heart that cannot rest agree ! "

Yet Bill Doody was not so desolate as he supposed; there
was one listening to him he little thought of, and help was
at hand from a quarter he could not have expected.
"What's the matter with you, my poor man?" said a
tall, portly-looking gentleman, at the same time stepping
out of a furze-brake. Now Bill was seated on a rock that
commanded the view of a large field. Nothing in the field
could be concealed from him, except this furze-brake, which
grew in a hollow near the margin of trie lake. He was,
therefore, not a little surprised at the gentleman's sudden
appearance, and began to question whether the personage
before him belonged to this world or not. He, however,
soon mustered courage sufficient to tell him how his crops
had failed, how some bad member had charmed away his
butter, and how Tirn the Driver threatened to turn him out
of the farm if he didn't pay up every penny of the rent by
twelve o'clock next day.
" A sad story, indeed," said the stranger ; " but surely, if
you represented the case to your landlord's agent, he won't
have the heart to turn you out."
" Heart, your honour; where would an agent get a heart!"
exclaimed Bill. " I see your honour does not know him ;
besides, he has an eye on the farm this long time for a
fosterer of his own ; so I expect no mercy at all at all, only
to be turned out."
" Take this, my poor fellow, take this," said the stranger,
pouring a purse full of gold into Bill's old hat, which in
his grief he had flung on the ground. " Pay the fellow
your rent, but I'll take care it shall do him no good. I
remember the time when things went otherwise in this
country, when I would have hung up such a fellow in the
twinkling of an eye!"
These words were lost upon Bill, who was insensible to
everything but the sight of the gold, and before he could
unfix his gaze, and lift up his head to pour out his hundred
thousand blessings, the stranger was gone. The bewildered

RENT-DA

K

205

peasant looked around in search of his benefactor, and at
last he thought he saw him riding on a white horse a long
way off on the lake.
"O'Donoghue, O'Donoghue!" shouted Bill; "the good,
the blessed O'Donoghue!" and he ran capering like a
madman to show Judy the gold, and to rejoice her heart
with the prospect of wealth and happiness.
The next day Bill proceeded to the agent's; not
sneakingly, with his hat in his hand, his eyes fixed on the
ground, and his knees bending under him; but bold and
upright, like a man conscious of his independence.
44
Why don't you take off your hat, fellow? don't you
know you are speaking to a magistrate ? " said the agent.
" I know I'm not speaking to the king, sir," said Bill ;
"and I never takes off my hat but to them I can respect
and love. The Eye that sees all knows I've no right either
to respect or love an agent!"
" You scoundrel!" retorted the man in office, biting his
lips with rage at such an unusual and unexpected opposition,
" I'll teach you how to be insolent again; I have the power,
remember."
" To the cost of the country, I know you have," said Bill,
who still remained with his head as firmly covered as if he
was the Lord Kingsale himself.
"But, come," said the magistrate; "have you got the
money for me ? this is rent-day. If there's one penny of it
wanting, or the running gale that's due, prepare to turn out
before night, for you shall not remain another "hour in
possession.
"There is your rent," said Bill, with an unmoved
expression of tone and countenance; " you'd better count
it, and give me a receipt in full for the running gale and
all."
The agent gave a look of amazement at the gold; for it
was gold—real guineas ! and not bits of dirty ragged small
notes, that are only fit to light one's pipe with. However
willing the agent may have been to ruin, as he thought, the
unfortunate tenant, he took up the gold, and handed the

2o6

T>

YEER-NA-N-OGE.

receipt to Bill, who strutted oif with it as proud as a cat of
her whiskers.
The agent going to his desk shortly after, was confounded
at beholding a heap of gingerbread cakes instead of the
money he had deposited there. He raved and swore, but
all to no purpose; the gold had become gingerbread cakes,,
just marked like the guineas, with the king's head; and Bill
had the receipt in his pocket; so he saw there was no use
in saying anything about the affair, as he would only get
laughed at for his pains.
From that hour Bill Doody grew rich; all his undertakings prospered; and he often blesses the day that he met
with O'Donoghue, the great prince that lives down under
the lake of Killarney.

L O U G H L E A G H (LAKE O F HEALING).*
" Do you see that bit of a lake," said my companion,
turning his eyes towards the acclivity that overhung Loughleagh. il Troth, and as little as you think of it, and as ugly
as it looks with its weeds and its flags, it is the most
famous one in all Ireland,
Young and ould, rich and
poor, far and near, have come to that lake to get cured of
all kinds of scurvy and sores. The Lord keep us our
limbs whole and sound, for it's a sorrowful thing not to
have the use o9 them. 'Twas but last week we had a great
grand Frenchman here ; and, though he came upon
crutches, faith he went home sound as a bell; and well he
paid Billy Reily for curing him.''
"And, pray, how did Billy Reily cure h i m ? "
"Oh, well enough. H e took his long pole, dipped it
down to the bottom of the lake, and brought up on the top
of it as much plaster as would do for a thousand sores ] "
"What kind of plaster?"
* Dublin and London Magazine\ 1825*

L0UGHLEAG1T.

207

(1
What kind of plaster ? why, black plaster to be sure;
for isn't the bottom of the lake filled with a kind of black
mud which cures all the world ? "
" Then it ought to be a famous lake indeed."
"Famous, and so it is," replied my companion, "but it
isn't for its cures neather that it is famous; for, sure,
doesn't all the world know there is a fine beautiful city at
the bottom of it, where the good people live just like
Christians. Troth, it is the truth I tell you; for Shemusa-sneidh saw it all when he followed his dun cow that was
stolen."
" Who stole her ? "
*' I'll tell you all about it:—Shemus was a poor gossoon,
who lived on the brow of the hill, in a cabin with his ould
mother. They lived by hook and by crook, one way and
another, in the best way they could. They had ~ bit of
a
ground that gave 'em the preaty, and a little dun cow that
gave 'em the drop o' milk \ and, considering how times go,
they weren't badly off, for Shemus was a handy gossoon to
boot; and, while minden the cow, cut heath and made
brooms, which his mother sould on a market-day, and
brought home the bit o' tobaccy, the grain of salt, and other
nic-nackenes, which a poor body can't well do widout.
Once upon a time, however, Shemus went farther than
usual up the mountain, looken for long heath, for townspeople don't like to stoop, and so like long handles to their
brooms. The little dun cow was a'most as cunning as a
Christian sinner, and followed Shemus like a lap-dog everywhere he'd go, so that she required little or no herden. On
this day she found nice picken on a round spot as green as
a leek; and, as poor Shemus was weary, as a body would
be on a fine summer's day, he lay down on the grass to rest
himself, just as we're resten ourselves on the cairn here.
Begad, he hadn't long lain there, sure enough, when, what
should he see but whole loads, of ganconers* dancing about

* Ir. gean-canach—i.e., love-talker, a kind of fairy appearing in
lonesome valleys, a dudeen (tobacco-pipe) in his mouth, making love
to milk-maids, etc.

208

T

YEER-NA-N-OGE.

the place. Some o' them were hurlen, some kicking a
football, and others leaping a kick-step-and-a-lep. They
were so soople and so active that Shemus was highly
delighted with the sport, and a little tanned-skinned chap in
a red cap pleased him better than any o' them, bekase he
used to tumble the other fellows like mushrooms. At one
time he had kept the ball up for as good as half-an-hour,
when Shemus cried out, * Well, done, my hurler !' The
word wasn't well out of his mouth when whap went the ball
on his eye, and flash went the fire. Poor Shemus thought
he was blind, and roared out, ' Mille murdher! '* but the
only thing he heard was a loud laugh. 'Cross o' Christ
about us,' says he to himself, 'what is this for?' and
afther rubbing his eyes they came to a little, and he could
see the sun and the sky, and, by-and-by, he could see
everything but his cow and the mischievous ganconers.
They were gone to their rath or mote; but where was the
little dun cow ? H e looked, and he looked, and he might
have looked from that day to this, bekase she wasn't to be
found, and good reason why—the ganconers took her away
with 'em.
" Shemus-a-sneidh, however, didn't think so, but ran
home to his mother.
" ' Where is the cow, Shemus ?' axed the ould woman.
" ' Och, musha, bad luck to her,' said Shemus, ' I donna
where she i s ! '
" i Is that an answer, you big blaggard, for the likes o' you
to give your poor ould mother ? ? said she.
" ' Och, musha,' said Shemus, * don't kick up saich a
bollhous about nothing. The ould cow is safe enough, I'll
be bail, some place or other, though I could find her if I put
my eyes upon kififieens yf and, speaking of eyes, faith, I had
very good luck o' my side, or I had naver a one to look
after her/
" ' Why, what happened your eyes, agrah ?' axed the ould
woman.
" ' Oh ! didn't the ganconers—the Lord save us from all
* A thousand murders.
f Ir. cipin—i»e,t a stick, a twig.

LOUGHLEAGH.

209

hurt and harm !•—drive their hurlen ball into them both!
and sure I was stone blind for an hour.'
" ' And may b e / said the mother, ' the good people took
our cow?'
" ' No, nor the devil a one of them/ said Shemus, ' for,
by the powers, that same cow is as knowen as a lawyer, and
wouldn't be such a fool as to go with the ganconers while
she could get such grass as I found for her.to-day.'
In this way, continued my informant, they talked
about .the cow all that night, and next mornen both o' them
set off to look for her. After searching every place, high and
low, what should Shemus see sticking out of a bog-hole but
something very like the horns of his little beast!
" Oh, mother, mother," said he, " I've found h e r ! "
" Where, alanna ? " axed the ould woman.
" In the bog-hole, mother," answered Shemus.
At this the poor ould creathure set up such a pullallue
that she brought the seven parishes about h e r ; and the
neighbours soon pulled the cow out of the bog-hole. You'd
swear it was the same, and yet it wasn't, as you shall hear
by-and-by.
Shemus and his mother brought the dead beast home
with them; and, after skinnen her, hung the meat up in the
chimney. The loss of the drop o' milk was a sorrowful
thing, and though they had a good deal of meat, that
couldn't last always; besides, the whole parish faughed upon
them for eating the flesh of a beast that died without
bleeden. But the pretty thing was, they couldn't eat the
meat after all, for when it was boiled it was as tough as
carrion, and as black as a turf. You might as well think of
sinking your teeth in an oak plank as into a piece of it, and
then you'd want to sit a great piece from the wall for fear
of knocking your head against it when pulling it through
your teeth. At last and at long run they were forced to
throw it to the dogs, but the dogs wouldn't smell to it, and
so it was thrown into the ditch, where it rotted. This misfortune cost poor Shemus many a salt tear, for he was now
obliged to work twice as hard as before, and be out cutten
529

2IO

T'

YEER-NA-N-OGE.

heath on the mountain late and early. One day he was
passing by this cairn with a load of brooms on his back,
when what should he see but the little dun cow and two
red-headed fellows herding her.
" That's my mother's cow," said Shemus-a-sneidh.
" No, it is not," said one of the chaps.
" But I say it is," said Shemus, throwing the brooms on
the ground, and seizing the cow by the horns. At that the
red fellows drove her as fast as they could to this steep
place, and with one leap she bounced over, with Shemus
stuck fast to her horns. They made only one splash in the
lough, when the waters closed over 'em, and they sunk to
the bottom. Just as Shemus-a-sneidh thought that all was
over with him, he found himself before a most elegant
palace built with jewels, and all manner of fine stones.
Though his eyes were dazzled with the splendour of the
place, faith he had gomsh* enough not to let go his holt, but
in spite of all they could do, he held his little cow by the
horns. H e was axed into the palace, but wouldn't go.
The hubbub at last grew so great that the door flew open,
and out walked a hundred ladies and gentlemen, as fine as
any in the land.
"What does this boy want?" axed one o* them, who
seemed to be the masther.
" I want my mother's cow," said Shemus.
" That's not your mother's cow," said the gentleman.
" Bethershin! "t cried Shemus-a-sneid; " don't I know her
as well as I know my right hand ? "
" Where did you lose her ? " axed the gentleman. And so
Shemus up and tould him all about i t : how he was on the
mountain—how he saw the good people hurlen—how the
ball was knocked in his eye, and his cow was lost.
" I believe you are right," said the gentleman, pulling out
his purse, " and here is the price of twenty cows for you."
" No, no," said Shemus, " you'll not catch ould birds wid
chaff. I'll have my cow and nothen else."
* Otherwise "gumshun—" i.e., sense, cuteness»
t Ir. BUdir sin—i.e., " that is possible."

LOUGHLEAGH.

211

6C
You're a funny fellow," said the gentleman; "stop
here and live in a palace."
" I'd rather live with my mother."
"Foolish b o y ! " said the gentleman\ "stop here and
live in a palace/
" I'd rather live in my mother's cabin."
" Here you can walk through gardens loaded with fruit
and flowers."
" I ' d rather," said Shemus, " b e cutting heath on the
mountain."
" Here you can eat and drink of the best."
" Since IVe got my cow, I can have milk once more with
the praties."
" Oh !" cried the ladies, gathering round him, " sure you
wouldn't take away the cow that gives us milk for our tea ? "
" Oh ! " said Shemus, " my mother wants milk as bad as
anyone, and she must have i t ; so there is no use in your
palaver—I must have my cow."
At this they all gathered about him and offered him
bushels of gould, but he wouldn't have anything but his
cow. Seeing him as obstinate as a mule, they began to
thump and beat h i m ; but still he held fast by the horns,
till at length a great blast of wind blew him out of the
place, and in a moment he found himself and the cow
standing on the side of the lake, the water of which looked
as if it hadn't been disturbed since Adam was a boy—and
that's a long time since.
Well, Shemus-a-sneidh drove home his cow, and right
glad his mother was to see h e r ; but the moment she said
"God bless the beast," she sunk down like the breesha* of a
turf rick. That was the end of Shemus-a-sneidh's dun cow.
" And, sure," continued my companion, standing up, " it
is now time for me to look after my brown cow, and God
send the ganconers haven't taken her ! "
Of this I assured him there could be no fear; and so we
parted.
* Jr. briseadh—z,e>9 breaking.

212

T YEER-NA~N-OGB>
HY-BRASAIL--THE ISLE OF THE BLEST.
BY GERALD GRIFFIN.

ON the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell,
A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell;
Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest,
And they called it Hy-Brasail^ the isle of the blest.
From year unto year on the ocean's blue rim,
The beautiful spectre showed lovely and dim •
The golden clouds curtained the deep where it lay,
And it looked like an Eden, away, far away!
A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale,
In the breeze of the Orient loosened his sail;
From Ara, the holy, he turned to the west,
For though Ara was holy, Hy-Brasail was blest.
He heard not the voices that called from the shore—
He heard not the rising wind's menacing roar;
Home, kindred, and safety, he left on that day,
And he sped to Hy-Brasail^ away, far away!
Morn rose on the deep, and that shadowy isle,
O'er the faint rim of distance, reflected its smile;
Noon burned on the wave, and that shadowy shore
Seemed lovelily distant, and faint as before;
Lone evening came down on the wanderer's track,
And to Ara again he looked timidly back;
Oh ! far on the verge of the ocean it lay,
Yet the isle of the blest was away, far away!
Rash dreamer, return ! O, ye winds of the mair^
Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again.
Rash fool! for a vision of fanciful bliss,
To barter thy calm life of labour and peace.
The warning of reason was spoken in vain;
He never revisited Ara again !
Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and spray,
And he died on the waters, away, far away!

THE

PHANTOM

ISLE.

213

T H E P H A N T O M ISLE.
GIRALDUS CAMBRENSIS.*

AMONG the other islands is one newly formed, which they
call the Phantom Isle, which had its origin in this manner.
One calm day a large mass of earth rose to the surface of
the sea, where no land had ever been seen before, to the
great amazement of islanders who observed it. Some of them
said that it was a whale, or other immense sea-monster;
others, remarking that it continued motionless, said, " N o ;
it is land." In order, therefore, to reduce their doubts
to certainty, some picked young men of the island determined to approach nearer the spot in a boat. When,
however, they came so near to it that they thought they
should go on shore, the island sank in the water and
entirely vanished from sight. The next day it re-appeared,
and again mocked the same youths with the like delusion.
At length, on their rowing towards it on the third day,
they followed the advice of an older man, and let fly an
arrow, barbed with red-hot steel, against the island; and
then landing, found it stationary and habitable.
This adds one to the many proofs that fire is the greatest
of enemies to every sort of phantom; in so much that
those who have seen apparitions, fall into a swoon as soon as
they are sensible of the brightness of fire. For fire, both
from its position and nature, is the noblest of the elements,
being a witness of the secrets of the heavens.
The sky is fiery; the planets are fiery; the bush burnt
with fire, but was not consumed; the Holy Ghost sat upon
the apostles in tongues of fire.
* " Giraldus Cambrensis" was born in 1146, and wrote a celebrated
account of Ireland.

SAINTS, PRIESTS.
-»..
EVERYWHERE in Ireland are the holy wells. People as they
pray by them make little piles of stones, that will be counted at
the last day and the prayers reckoned up. Sometimes they tell
stories. These following are their stories. They deal with the
old times, whereof King Alfred of Northumberland wrote—
" I found in Innisfail the fair,
In Ireland, while in exile there,
Women of worth, both grave and gay men,
Many clericks and many laymen.
Gold and silver I found, and money,
Plenty of wheat, and plenty of honey 5
I found God's people rich in pity,
Found many a feast, and many a city."

There are no martyrs in the stories. That ancient chronicler
Giraldus taunted the Archbishop of Cashel because no one in
Ireland had received the crown of martyrdom. " Our people
may be barbarous," the prelate answered, " but they have never
lifted their hands against God's saints ; but now that a people
have come amongst us who know how to make them (it was just
after the English invasion), we shall have martyrs plentifully."
The bodies of saints are fastidious things. At a place called
Four-mile-Water, in Wexford, there is an old graveyard full of
saints. Once it was on the other side of the river, but they
buried a rogue there, and the whole graveyard moved across in
the night, leaving the rogue-corpse in solitude. It would have
been easier to move merely the rogue-corpse, but they were
saints, and had to do things in style.

THE

PRIESTS

SOUL

215

T H E PRIEST'S SOUL.*
LADY WILDE.

I N former days there were great schools in Ireland, where
every sort of learning was taught to the people, and even the
poorest had more knowledge at that time than many a
gentleman has now. But as to the priests, their learning was
above all, so that the fame of Ireland went over the whole
world, and many kings from foreign lands used to send their
sons all the way to Ireland to be brought up in the Irish
schools.
Now, at this time there was a little boy learning at one of
them who was a wonder to everyone for his cleverness.
His parents were only labouring people, and of course
poor; but young as he was, and as poor as he was, no
king's or lord's son could come up to him in learning.
Even the masters were put to shame \ for when they were
trying to teach him he would tell them something they
never heard of before, and show them their ignorance.
One of his great triumphs was in argument; and he would
go on till he proved to you that black was white, and then
when you gave in, for no one could beat him in talk, he
would turn round and show you that white was black, or
maybe that there was no colour at all in the world. When
he grew up his poor father and mother were so proud of
him that they resolved to make him a priest, which they did at
last, though they nearly starved themselves to get the money.
Well, such another learned man was not in Ireland, and he
was as great in argument as ever, so that no one could
stand before him. Even the bishops tried to talk to him,
but he showed them at once they knew nothing at all.
Now, there were no schoolmasters in those times, but it
was the priests taught the people; and as this man was
the cleverest in Ireland, all the foreign kings sent their sons
to him, as long as he had house-room to give them. So he
* Ancient Legends of Ireland,

2l6

SAINTS,

miBSTS.

grew very proud, and began to forget how low he had been,
and worst of all, even to forget God, who had made him
what he was. And the pride of arguing got hold of him, so
that from one thing to another he went on to prove that
there was no Purgatory, and then no Hell, and then no
Heaven, and then no G o d ; and at last that men had no
souls, but were no more than a dog or a cow, and when
they died there was an end of them.
"Whoever saw a
soul ?" he would say. " If you can show me one, I will
believe." No one could make any answer to this; and at
last they all came to believe that as there was no other
world, everyone might do what they liked in this; the
priest setting the example, for he took a beautiful young
girl to wife. But as no priest or bishop in the whole land
could be got t a marry them, he was obliged to read the
service over for himself. It was a great scandal, yet no one
dared to say a word, for all the king's sons were on his side,
and would have slaughtered anyone who tried to prevent
his wicked goings-on. Poor boys ; they all believed in him,
and thought every*word he said was the truth. In this way
his notions began to spread about, and the whole world was
going to the bad, when one night an angel came down from
Heaven, and told the priest he had but twenty-four hours to
live. H e began to tremble, and asked for a little more
time.
But the angel was stiff, and told him that could not be.
"What do you want time for, you sinner?" he asked.
"Oh, sir, have pity on my poor soul! " urged the priest.
" O h , n o ! You have a soul, then," said the angel.
"Pray, how did you find that o u t ? "
" It has been fluttering in me ever since you appeared,"
answered the priest. " What a fool I was not to think of it
before."
" A fool, indeed," said the angel. " What good was all
your learning, when it could not tell you that you had a
soul?"
"Ah, my lord," said the priest, " If I am to die, tell me
how soon I may be in Heaven ? "

THE

PRIEST'S

SOUL.

217

" Never," replied the angel. " You denied there was a
Heaven."
" Then, my lord, may I go to Purgatory ? "
"You denied Purgatory also; you must go straight to
Hell," said the angel.
" But, my lord, I denied Hell also," answered the priest,
" so you can't send me there either."
The angel was a little puzzled.
" Well," said he, " I'll tell you what I can do for you. You
may either live now on earth for a hundred years, enjoying
every- pleasure, and then be cast into Hell for ever ; or you
may die in twenty-four hours in the most horrible torments,
and pass through Purgatory, there to remain till the Day of
Judgment, if only you can find s.ome one person that
believes, and through his belief mercy will be vouchsafed to
you, and your soul will be saved."
The priest did not take five minutes to make up his mind.
" I will have death in the twenty-four hours," he said,
" so that my soul may be saved at last."
On this the angel gave him directions as to what he was
to do, and left him.
Then immediately the priest entered the large room
where all the scholars and the kings' sons were seated, and
called out to them—
" Now, tell me the truth, and let none fear to contradict
m e ; tell me what is your belief—have men souls ? "
"Master," they answered, "once we believed that men
had souls; but thanks to your teaching, we believe so no
longer. There is no Hell, and no Heaven, and no God.
This is our belief, for it is thus you taught us."
Then the priest grew pale with fear, and cried out—
" Listen ! I taught you a lie. There is a God, and man
has an immortal soul. I believe now all I denied before."
But the shouts of laughter that rose up drowned the
priest's voice, for they thought he was only trying them for
argument.
" Prove it, master," they cried. " Prove it. Who has
ever seen God ? Who has ever seen the soul ? "

2l8

SAINTS,

PMIESTS.

And the room was stirred with their laughter.
The priest stood up to answer them, but no word
could he utter, All his eloquence, all his powers of
argument had gone from him; and he could do
nothing but wring his hands and cry out, "There is
a God! there is a God! Lord have mercy on my
soul!"
And they all began to mock him ! and repeat his own
words that he had taught them—
" Show him to u s ; show us your God." And he fled
from them, groaning with agony, for he saw that none
believed; and how, then, could his soul be saved?
But he thought next of his wife " She will believe," he
said to himself; " women never give up God."
And he went to her ; but she told him that she believed
only what he taught her, and that a good wife should
believe in her husband first and before and above all
things in Heaven or earth.
Then despair came on him, and he rushed from the
house, and began to ask every one he met if they believed.
But the same answer came from one and all—" We believe
only what you have taught us," for his doctrine had spread
far and wide through the country.
Then he grew half mad with fear, for the hours were
passing, and he flung himself down on the ground in a
lonesome spot, and wept and groaned in terror, for the
time was coming fast when he must die.
Just then a little child came by. " God save you kindly,"
said the child to him.
The priest started up.
" Do you believe in God ? " he asked.
" I have come from a far country to learn about him,"
said the child. " Will your honour direct me to the best
school they have in these parts ? "
" T h e best school and the best teacher is close by," said
the priest, and he named himself.
"Oh, not to that man," answered the child, "for I am
told he denies God, and Heaven, and Hell, and even that

THE PRIEST'S

SOUL.

219

man has a soul, because he cannot see it; but I would soon
put him down."
The priest looked at him earnestly. " How?" he inquired.
" Why," said the child, " I would ask him if he believed
he had life to show me his life.,}
" But he could not do that, my child," said the priest.
" Life cannot be seen ; we have it, but it is invisible."
" Then if we have life, though we cannot see it, we may
also have a soul, though it is invisible," answered the child.
When the priest heard him speak these words, he fell
down on his knees before him, weeping for joy, for now he
knew his soul was safe; he had met one at last that
believed. And he told the child his whole story—all his
wickedness, and pride, and blasphemy against the great
God ; and how the angel had come to him, and told him of
the only way in which he could be saved, through the faith
and prayers of someone that believed.
"Now, then," he said to the child, "take this penknife
and strike it into my breast, and go on stabbing the flesh
until you see the paleness of death on my face. Then
watch—for a living thing will soar up from my body as I
die, and you will then know that my soul has ascended to
the presence of God. And when you see this thing, make
haste and run to my school, and call on all my scholars to
come and see that the soul of their master has left the
body, and that all he taught them was a lie, for that there is
a God who punishes sin, and a Heaven, and a Hell, and
that man has an immortal soul destined for eternal happiness
or misery."
" I will pray," said the child, " t o have courage to do
this work."
And he kneeled down and prayed. Then when he rose
up he took the penknife and struck it into the priest's
heart, and struck and struck again till all the flesh was
lacerated; but still the priest lived, though the agony was
horrible, for he could not dfe until the twenty-four hours
had expired.
At last the agony seemed to cease, and the stillness of

220

SAINTS,

PfilESTS.

death settled on his face. Then the child, who was
watching, saw a beautiful living creature, with four snowwhite wings, mount from the dead man's body into the air
and go fluttering round his head.
So he ran to bring the scholars; and when they saw it,
they all knew it was the soul of their master; and they
watched with wonder and awe until it passed from sight
into the clouds.
And this was the first butterfly that was ever seen in
Ireland; and now all men know that the butterflies are the
souls of the dead, waiting for the moment when they
may enter Purgatory, and so pass through torture to
purification and peace.
But the schools of Ireland were quite deserted after that
time, for people said, What is the use of going so far to
learn, when the wisest man in all Ireland did not know if he
had a soul till he was near losing it, and was only saved at
last through the simple belief of a little child.

T H E P R I E S T O F COLOONY.
W. B. YEATS.

GOOD Father John O'Hart
In penal days rode out
To a shoneen in his freelands,
With his snipe marsh and his trout. •
In trust took he John's lands,
—Sleiveens were all his race—
And he gave them as dowers to his daughters;
And they married beyond their place.
But Father John went up,
And Father John went down;
And he wore small holes in his shoes,
And he wore large holes in his gown.
Shoneen—i.e., upstart.

Sleiveen—i,e.t mean fellow.

THE

PRIEST

OF COLOONY.

221

All loved him, only the shoneen,
Whom the devils have by the hair,
From their wives and their cats and their children,
To the birds in the white of the air.
The birds, for he opened their cages,
As he went up and down;
And he said with a smile, " H a v e peace, now,"
And went his way with a frown.
But if when anyone died,
Came keeners hoarser than rooks,
H e bade them give over their keening,
For he was a man of books.
And these were the works of John }
When weeping score by score,
People came into Coloony,
For he'd died at ninety-four.
There was no human keening;
The birds from Knocknarea,
And the world round Knocknashee,
Came keening in that day,—
Keening from Innismurry,
Nor stayed for bit or sup j
This way were all reproved
Who dig old customs up.
[Coloony is a few miles south of the town of Sligo. Father1
O'Hart lived there in the last century, and was greatly beloved.
These lines accurately record the tradition. No one who has
held the stolen land has prospered. It has changed owners
many times.]

222

SAINTS,

PItlESTS.

T H E STORY OF T H E L I T T L E BIRD.*
T. CROFTON CROKER.

MANY years ago there was a very religious and holy man,
one of the monks of a convent, and he was one day
kneeling at his prayers in the garden of his monastery,
when he heard a little bird singing in one of the rose-trees
of the garden, and there never was anything that he had
heard in the world so sweet as the song of that little bird.
And the holy man rose up from his knees where he was
kneeling at his prayers to listen to its song; for he thought
he never in all his life heard anything so heavenly.
And the little bird, after singing for some time longer on
the rose-tree, flew away to a grove at some distance from
the monastery, and the holy man followed it to listen to its
singing, for he felt as if he would never be tired of listening
to the sweet song it was singing out of its throat.
And the little bird after that went away to another distant
tree, and sung there for a while, and then to another tree,
and so on in the same manner, but ever further and further
away from the monastery, and the holy man still following
it farther, and farther, and farther, still listening delighted to
its enchanting song.
But at last he was obliged to give up, as it was growing
late in the day, and he returned to the convent; and as he
approached it in the evening, the sun was setting in the
west with all the most heavenly colours that were ever seen
in the world, and when he came into the convent, it was
nightfall
And he was quite surprised at everything he saw, for
they were all strange faces about him in the monastery that
he had never seen before, and the very place itself, and
everything about it, seemed to be strangely altered; and,
altogether, it seemed entirely different from what it waas
when he had left in the morning; and the garden was not
* Amulet, 1827. T. C. Croker wrote this, he says, word for word
as he heard it from an old woman at a holy well.

THE STORY

OF THE LITTLE

BIRD.

223

like the garden where he had been kneeling at his devotion
when he first heard the singing of the little bird.
And while he was wondering at all he saw, one of the
monks of the convent came up to him, and the holy man
questioned him, "Brother, what is the cause of all these
strange changes that have taken place here since the
morning ? "
And the monk that he spoke to seemed to wonder
greatly at his question, and asked him what he meant by
the change since morning ? for, sure, there was no change;
that all was just as before. And then he said, " Brother,
why do you ask these strange questions, and what is your
name ? for you wear the habit of our order, though we have
never seen you before."
So upon this the holy man told his name, and said that he
had been at mass in the chapel in the morning before he
had wandered away from the garden listening to the song of
a little bird that was singing among the rose-trees, near
where he was kneeling at his prayers.
And the brother, while he was speaking, gazed at him very
earnestly, and then told him that there was in the convent
a tradition of a brother of his name, who had left it two
hundred years before, but that what was become of him was
never known.
And while he was speaking, the holy man said, " M y
hour of death is come; blessed be the name of the Lord
for all his mercies to me, through the merits of his onlybegotten Son."
And he kneeled down that very moment, and said,
"Brother, take my confession, for my soul is departing."
And he made his confession, and received his absolution,
and was anointed, and before midnight he died.
The little bird, you see, was an angel, one of the cherubims or seraphims; and that was the way the Almighty was
pleased in H13 mercy to take to Himself the soul of that
holy man.

224

SAINTS,

PRIESTS.

CONVERSION OF K I N G LAOGHAIRE'S
DAUGHTERS.
ONCE when Patrick and his clericks were sitting beside a
well in the Rath of Croghan, with books open on their
knees, they saw coming towards them the two young
daughters of the King of Connaught. 'Twas early morning,
and they were going to the well to bathe.
The young girls said to Patrick, " Whence are ye, and
whence come ye ? " and Patrick answered, " It were better
for you to confess to the true God than to inquire concerning our race."
" W h o is G o d ? " said the young girls, " a n d where is
God, and of what nature is God, and where is His dwellingplace?
Has your God sons and daughters, gold and
silver? Is he everlasting? Is he beautiful? Did Mary
foster her son ? Are His daughters dear and beauteous to
men of the world ? Is H e in heaven, or on earth, in the
sea, in rivers, in mountainous places, in valleys ? "
Patrick answered them, and made known who God was,
and they believed and were baptised, and a white garment
put upon their heads; and Patrick asked them would they
live on, or would they die and behold the face of Christ ?
They chose death, and died immediately, and were buried
near the well Clebach.

K I N G O'TOOLE AND H I S GOOSE.
S. LOVER.

" B Y Gor, I thought
King O'Toole—well,
ontellible! Well, sir,
afore, that there was

all the world, far and near, heerd o'
well, but the darkness of mankind is
you must know, as you didn't hear it
a king, called King O'Toole, who was

KING

O'TOOLE AND HIS GOOSE.

225

a fine ould king in the ould ancient times, long ago; and it
was him that owned the churches in the early days. The
king, you see, was the right sort; he was the rale boy, and
loved sport as he loved his life, and huntin' in partic'lar;
and from the risin' o' the sun, up he got, and away he wint
over the mountains beyant afther the deer; and the fine
times them wor.
" Well, it was all mighty good, as long as the king had his
health ; but, you see, in coorse of time the king grew ould,
by raison he was stiff in his limbs, and when he got sthriken
in years, his heart failed him, and he was lost intirely for
want o' divarshin, bekase he couldn't go a huntin' no longer;
and, by dad, the poor king was obleeged at last for to get a
goose to divart him. Oh, you may laugh, if you like,
but it's truth I'm tellin' you; and the way the goose
divarted him was this-a-way: You see, the goose used
for to swim acrass the lake, and go divin' for throut,
and cotch fish on a Friday for the king, and flew every
other day round about the lake, divartin' the poor
king. All went on mighty well, antil, by dad, the goose got
sthriken in years like her master, and couldn't divart him no
longer, and then it was that the poor king was lost complate.
The king was walkin' one mornin' by the edge of the lake,
lamentin' his cruel fate, and thinkin' o' drownin' himself,
that could get no divarshun in life, when all of a suddint,
turnin' round the corner beyant, who should he meet but a
mighty dacent young man comin' up to him.
" ' God save you,' says the king to the young man.
" ' God save you khidly, King 0'To©le/ says the young
man. ' Thrue for you,' says the king. ' I am King Q'Toole/
says he, c prince and plennypennytinchery o' these parts/
says he ; c but how kem ye to know that ? ' says he. { Oh,
never mind/ says St Kavin.
" Y o u see it was Saint Kavin, sure enough—the
saint himself in disguise, and nobody else. ' Oh, never
mind/ says he, ' I know more than that. May I make
bowld to ax how is your goose, King O'Toole ? ' says he.
' Blur-an-agers, how kem ye to know about my goose ?' says
53o

226

SAINTS,

JPRIESTS.

the king. ' Oh, no matther; I was given to understand i t /
says Saint Kavin. After some more talk the king says,
4
What are you ? ' ' I'm an honest man,' says Saint Kavin.
' Well, honest man,' says the king, ' and how is it you make
your money so aisy ? ' ' By makin' ould things as good as
new,' says Saint Kavin. ' Is it a tinker you are ?' says the
king. * N o / says the saint; ' I'm no tinker by thrade, King
O'Toole; I've a betther thrade than a tinker,' says he—
' what would you say,' says he, ' if I made your ould goose
as good as new ?'
" My dear, at the word o' making his goose as good as
new, you'd think the poor ould king's eyes was ready to
jump out iv his head. With that the king whistled, and
down kem the poor goose, all as one as a hound, waddlin'
up to the poor cripple, her masther, and as like him as two
pays. The minute the saint clapt his eyes on the goose,
T i l do the job for you,' says he, * King O'Toole.' ' By
Jaminee I' says King O'Toole, ' if you do, bud I'll say you're
the cleverest fellow in the sivin parishes.' 'Oh, by dad,'
says St. Kavin, 'you must say more nor that—my horn's
not so soft all out,' says he, 'as to repair your ould goose for
nothin'; what'll you gi' me if I do the job for you ?—that's
the chat,' says St. Kavin. ' I'll give you whatever you ax,'
says the king ; ' isn't that fair ? ' ' Divil a fairer,' says the
saint; ' that's the way to do business. Now,' says he, ' this
is the bargain I'll make with you, King O'Toole: will
you gi' me all the ground the goose flies over, the first offer,
afther I make her as good as new?' ' I will,' says the king.
' You won't go back o' your word ? ' says St. Kavin.
c
Honor bright!' says King O'Toole, howldin' out his fist.
' Honor bright!' says St. Kavin, back agin, ' it's a bargain.
Come here !' says he to the poor ould goose—' come here,
you unfort'nate ould cripple, and it's I that'll make you the
sportin' bird.' With that, my dear, he took up the goose by
the two wings—' Criss o' my crass an you,' says he, markin'
her to grace with the blessed sign at the same minute—and
thro win' her up in the air, ' whew,' says he, jist givin' her a
blast to help her; and with that, my jewel, she tuk to her

KING

O'TOOLE

AND

JUS

GOOSE.

227

heels, flyin' like one o' the aigles themselves, and cuttin' as
many capers as a swallow before a shower of rain.
" Well, my dear, it was a beautiful sight to see the king
standin' with his mouth open, lookin' at his poor ould goose
flyin' as light as a lark, and betther nor ever she was : and
when she lit at his fut, patted her an the head, and, 'Ma
vourneen] says he, 'but you are the darlint o' the world/
' A n d what do you say to me,' says Saint Kavin, 'for
makin' her the like?' ' B y gor,' says the king, ' I say
nothin' bates the art o' man, barrin' the bees/
'And do
you say no more nor that ? ' says Saint Kavin.
' And that
I'm behoulden to you,' says the king. ' But will you gi'e
me all the ground the goose flew over ? ' says Saint Kavin.
' I will,' says King OToole, ' and you're welkim to it,'
says he, 'though it's the last acre I have to give.' 'But
you'll keep your word thrue ? ' says the saint.
' As thrue
as the sun,' says the king.
'It's well for you, King
O'Toole, that you said that word,' says h e ; ' for if you
didn't say that word, the devil receave the bit 0 your goose id
ever fly agin!
Whin the king was as good as his word,
Saint Kavin was filazed with him, and thin it was that he
made himself known to the king. ' And,' says he, ' King
O'Toole, you're a decent man, for I only kern here to thry
you. You don't know me," says he, "bekase I'm disguised.' ' Musha ! thin,' says the king, ' who are you ? ' I'm Saint Kavin,' said the saint, blessin' himself. ' Oh,
queen iv heaven!' says the king, makin' the sign 'o the
crass betune his eyes, and fallin' down on his knees before
the saint; 'is it the great Saint Kavin,' says he, 'that
I've been discoorsin' all this time without knowin' it,' says
he, ' all as one as if he was a lump iv a gossoon ?—and so
you're a saint ?' says the king. ' I am,' says Saint Kavin.
' By gor, I thought I was only talking to a dacent boy/
says the king.
' Well, you know the differ now,' says the
saint.
' I'm Saint Kavin,' says he, ' the greatest of all
the saints.' And so the king had his goose as good as
new, to divart him as long as he lived: and the saint supported him afther he kem into his property, as I tould

228

SAINTS,

PRIESTS.

you, until the day iv his death—and that was soon afther;
for the poor goose thought he was ketchin' a throut one
Friday; but, my jewel, it was a mistake he made—and
instead of a throut, it was a thievin' horse-eel; and by gor,
instead iv the goose killin' a throut for the king's supper,—•
by dad, the eel killed the king's goose—and small blame to
him; but] he' didn't ate her, bekase he darn't ate what
Saint Kavin laid his blessed hands on."

THE DEVIL.
THE DEMON CAT.*
LADY WILDE.

THERE was a woman in Connemara, the wife of a fisherman;
as he had always good luck, she had plenty of fish at all
times stored away in the house ready for market. But, to
her great annoyance, she found that a great cat used to
come in at night and devour all the best and finest fish.
So she kept a big stick by her, and determined to watch.
One day, as she and a woman were spinning together,
the house suddenly became quite dark; and the door was
burst open as if by the blast of the tempest, when in walked
a huge black cat, who went straight up to the fire, then
turned round and growled at them.
" Why, surely this is the devil," said a young girl, who
was by, sorting fish.
"I'll teach you how to call me names," said the cat;
and, jumping at her, he scratched her arm till the blood
came. "There, now," he said, "you will be more civil
another time when a gentleman comes to see you." And
with that he walked over to the door and shut it close, to
prevent any of them going out, for the poor young girl,
while crying loudly from fright and pain, had made a
desperate rush to get away.
Just then a man was going by, and hearing the cries, he
pushed open the door and tried to get in; but the cat stood
* Ancient Legends of Ireland,

230

THE

DEVIL.

on the threshold, and would let no one pass. On this the
man attacked him with his stick, and gave him a sound
blow; the cat, however, was more than a match in the
fight, for it flew at him and tore his face and hands so
badly that the man at last took to his heels and ran away
as fast as he could.
" Now, it's time for my dinner," said the cat, going up to
examine the fish that was laid out on the tables. " I hope
the fish is good to-day. Now, don't disturb me, nor make a
fuss; I can help myself." With that he jumped up, and
began to devour all the best fish, while he growled at the
woman.
"Away, out of this, you wicked beast," she cried, giving
it a blow with the tongs that would have broken its back,
only it was a devil; " o u t of this; no fish shall you have
to-day."
But the cat only grinned at her, and went on tearing and
spoiling and devouring the fish, evidently not a bit the
worse for the blow. On this, both the women attacked it
with sticks, and struck hard blows enough to kill it, on
which the cat glared at them, and spit fire; then, making a
leap, it tore their heads and arms till the blood came, and
the frightened women rushed shrieking from the house.
But presently the mistress returned, carrying with her a
bottle of holy water; and, looking in, she saw the cat still
devouring the fish, and not minding. So she crept over
quietly and threw holy water on it without a word. No
sooner was this done than a dense black smoke filled the place,
through which nothing was seen but the two red eyes of the
cat, burning like coals of fire. Then the smoke gradually
cleared away, and she saw the body of the creature burning
slowly till it became shrivelled and black like a cinder, and
finally disappeared. And from that time the fish remained
untouched and safe from harm, for the power of the evil
one was broken, and the demon cat was seen no more.

THE

LONG

SPOON.

231

T H E LONG SPOON.*
PATRICK KENNEDY.

T H E devil and the hearth-money collector for Bantry set
out one summer morning to decide a bet they made the
night before over a jug of punch. They wanted to see
which would have the best load at sunset, and neither was
to pick up anything that wasn't offered with the good-will
of the giver. They passed by a house, and they heard the
poor ban-a-t'yeef cry out to her lazy daughter, " Oh, musha,
•
take you for a lazy sthronsuchf of a girl! do you intend
to get up to-day?" " Oh, oh," says the taxman, " there's a
job for you, Nick." " Ovock," says the other, " it wasn't
from her heart she said i t ; we must pass on." The next
cabin they were passing, the woman was on the bawnditch§ crying out to her husband that was mending one of
his brogues inside : " Oh, tattheration to you, Nick! you
never rung them pigs, and there they are in the potato drills
rootin' away; the
run to Luskwith them." "Another
windfall for you," says the man of the ink-horn, but the old
thief only shook his horns and wagged his tail. So they
went on, and ever so many prizes were offered to the black
fellow without him taking one. Here it was a gorsoon
playing marvels when he should be using his clappers in the
corn-field; and then it was a lazy drone of a servant asleep
with his face to the sod when he ought to be weeding. No
one thought of offering the hearth-money man even a drink
of butter-milk, and at last the sun was within half a foot of
the edge of Cooliagh.
They were just then passing
Monamolin, and a poor woman that was straining her
supper in a skeeoge outside her cabin-door, seeing the two
standing at the bawn gate, bawled out, "Oh, here's the
hearth-money man—run away wid him." " G o t a bite at
* Legendary Fictions of the Irish Celts.
t Woman of the house.
% Ir, sirdinse—i.e., a lazy thing.
§ Ir. bddhun—i.e., enclosure, or wall round a house, From ba, cows,
and ddni & fortress. Properly, cattle-fortress,

Z$2

THE

DEVIL.

last," says Nick.' "Oh, no, n o ! it wasn't from her heart,"
says the collector. "Indeed, an' it was from the very
foundation-stones it came. No help for misfortunes; in
with you," says he, opening the mouth of his big black bag;
and whether the devil was ever after seen taking the same walk
or not, nobody ever laid eyes on his fellow-traveller again.

T H E COUNTESS K A T H L E E N O'SHEA.*
A VERY long time ago, there suddenly appeared in old
Ireland two unknown merchants of whom nobody had ever
heard, and who nevertheless spoke the language of the
country with the greatest perfection.. Their locks were
black, and bound round with gold, and their garments were
of rare magnificence.
* Both seemed of like age ; they appeared to be men oi
fifty, for their foreheads were wrinkled and their beards
tinged with grey.
In the hostelry where the pompous traders alighted it
was sought to penetrate their designsj but in vain—they
led a silent and retired life. And whilst they stopped there,
they did nothing but count over and over again out of their
money-bags pieces of gold, whose yellow brightness could
be seen through the windows of their lodging.
" Gentlemen," said the landlady one day, " how is it that
you are so rich, and that, being able to succour the public
misery, you do no good works ? "
"Fair hostess,'' replied one ot them, "we didn't like to
present alms to the honest poor, in dread we might be
deceived by make-believe paupers. Let want knock at ouf
door, we shall open it."
The following day, when the rumour spread that two rich
strangers had come, ready to lavish their gold, a crowd
besieged their dwelling; but the figures of those who came
* This was quoted in a London-Irish newspaper,
find out the original source.

I am unable to

THE COUNTESS

KATHLEEN

O'SHEA.

233

out were widely different. Some carried pride in their
mien; others were shame-faced.
The two chapmen traded in souls for the demon. The
souls of the aged was worth twenty pieces of gold, not a
penny more; for Satan had had time to make his valuation.
The soul of a matron was valued at fifty, when she was
handsome, and a hundred when she was ugly. The soul of
a young maiden fetched an extravagant s u m ; the freshest
and purest flowers are the dearest.
At that time there lived in the city an angel of beauty,
the Countess Kathleen O'Shea. She was the idol of the
people and the providence of the indigent. As soon as
she learned that these miscreants profited to the public
misery to steal away hearts from God, she called to her
butler.
" Patrick," said she to him, " how many pieces of gold in
my coffers ? "
" A hundred thousand."
" How many jewels ?"
" The money's worth of the gold."
" How much property in castles, forests, and lands ? w
" Double the rest."
" Very well, Patrick; sell all that is not gold ; and bring
me the account. I only wish to keep this mansion and the
demesne that surrounds it."
Two days afterwards the orders of the pious Kathleen
were executed, and the treasure was distributed to the poor
in proportion to their wants. This, says the tradition, did
not suit the purposes of the Evil Spirit, who found no more
souls to purchase. Aided by an infamous servant, they
penetrated into the retreat of the noble dame, and purloined
from her the rest of her treasure. In vain she struggled with
all her strength to save the contents of her coffers; the
diabolical thieves were the stronger. If Kathleen had been
able to make the sign of the Cross, adds the legend, she
would have put them to flight, but her hands were captive.
The larceny was effected.
Then the poor called for aid to the plundered Kathleen,

234

THE DEVIL,

alas, to no good: she was able to succour their misery no
longer; she had to abandon them to the temptation.
Meanwhile, but eight days had to pass before the grain
and provender would arrive in abundance from the western
lands. Eight such days were an age. Eight days required
an immense sum to relieve the exigencies of the dearth, and
the poor should either perish in the agonies of hunger, or,
denying the holy maxims of the Gospel, vend, for base lucre,
their souls, the richest gift from the bounteous hand of the
Almighty. And Kathleen hadn't anything, for she had given
up her mansion to the unhappy. She passed twelve hours
in tears and mourning, rending her sun-tinted hair, and
bruising her breast, of the whiteness of the lily; afterwards
she stood up, resolute, animated by a vivid sentiment of
despair.
She went to the traders in souls.
" What do you want ? " they said.
" You buy souls ? "
" Yes, a few still, in spite of you. Isn't that so, saint, with
the eyes of sapphire?"
" To-day I am come to offer you a bargain," replied she.
"What?"
fl
I have a soul to sell, but it is costly."
" What does that signify if it is precious ? The soul, like
the diamond, is appraised by its transparency."
" It is mine."
The two emissaries of Satan started. Their claws were
clutched under their gloves of leather; their grey eyes
sparkled; the soul, pure, spotless, virginal of Kathleen—it
was a priceless acquisition!
(<
Beauteous lady, how much do you ask ? "
" A hundred and fifty thousand pieces of gold."
" It's at your service," replied the traders, and they
tendered Kathleen a parchment sealed with black, which
she signed with a shudder.
The sum was counted out to her.
As soon as she got home she said to the butler, " Here,

distribute this: with this money that I give you the poor

THE

THREE

WISHES.

235

can tide over the eight days that remain, and not one of
of their souls will be delivered to the demon."
Afterwards she shut herself up in her room, and gave
orders that none should disturb her.
Three days passed; she called nobody, she did not
come out.
When the door was opened, they found her cold and
stiff; she was dead of grief.
But the sale of this soul, so adorable in its charity, was
declared null by the Lord; for she had saved her fellow' citizens from eternal death.
After the eight days had passed, numerous vessels brought
into famished Ireland immense provisions in grain. Hunger
was no longer possible. As to the traders, they disappeared
from their hotel without anyone knowing what became of
them. But the fishermen of the Blackwater pretend that
they are enchained in a subterranean prison by order of
Lucifer, until they shall be able to render up the soul of
Kathleen, which escaped from them.

T H E T H R E E WISHES.
W. CARLETON.

I N ancient times there lived a man called Billy Dawson,
and he was known to be a great rogue. They say he was
descended from the family of the Dawsons, which was the
reason, I suppose, of his carrying their name upon him.
Billy, in his youthful days, was the best hand at doing
nothing in all Europe; devil a mortal could come next or
near him at idleness; and, in consequence of his great
practice that way, you may be sure that if any man could
make a fortune by it he would have done it.
Billy was the only son of his father, barring two
daughters; but they have nothing to do with the story I'm

2$6

THE

DEVIL.

telling you. Indeed it was kind father and grandfather for
Billy to be handy at the knavery as well as at the idleness ;
for it was well known that not one of their blood ever did
an honest act, except with a roguish intention. In short,
they were altogether a dacent connection, and a credit to
the name. As for Billy, all the villainy of the family, both
plain and ornamental, came down to him by way of legacy;
for it so happened that the father, in spite of all his
cleverness, had nothing but his roguery to lave him.
Billy, to do him justice, improved the fortune he got:
every day advanced him farther into dishonesty and
poverty, until, at the long run, he was acknowledged on all
hands to be the completest swindler and the poorest
vagabond in the whole parish.
Billy's father, in his young days, had often been forced
to acknowledge the inconvenience of not having a trade, in
consequence of some nice point in law, called the "Vagrant
Act," that sometimes troubled him. On this account he
made up his mind to give Bill an occupation, and he
accordingly bound him to a blacksmith; but whether Bill
was to live or die by forgery was a puzzle to his father,—
though the neighbours said that both was most likely. At
all events, he was put apprentice to a smith for seven years,
and a hard card his master had to play in managing him.
H e took the proper method, however, for Bill was so lazy
and roguish that it would vex a saint to keep him in order.
" Bill," says his master to him one day that he had been
sunning himself about the ditches, instead of minding his
business, " Bill, my boy, I'm vexed to the heart to see you
in such a bad state of health. You're very ill with that
complaint called an All-overness; however/' says he, " I
think I can cure you. Nothing will bring you about but
three or four sound doses every day of a medicine called
' the oil o' the hazel.' Take the first dose now," says h e ;
and he immediately banged him with a hazel cudgel until
Bill's bones ached for a week afterwards.
" If you were my son," said his master, " I tell you that,
as long as I could get a piece of advice growing convenient

THE

THREE

WISHES.

237

in the hedges, I'd have you a different youth from what you
are. If working was a sin, Bill, not an innocenter boy ever
broke bread than you would be. • Good people's scarce,
you think; but however that may be, I throw it out as a
hint, that you must take you're medicine till you're cured,
whenever you happen to get unwell in the same way."
From this out he kept Bill's nose to the grinding-stone;
and whenever his complaint returned, he never failed to give
him a hearty dose for his improvement.
In the course of time, however, Bill was his own man and
his own master; but it would puzzle a saint to know
whether the master or the man was the more precious youth
in the eyes of the world.
H e immediately married a wife, and devil a doubt of it,
but if he kept her in whiskey and sugar, she kept him in hot
water. Bill drank and she drank; Bill fought and she
fought; Bill was idle and she was idle; Bill whacked her
and she whacked Bill. If Bill gave her one black eye, she
gave him another; just to keep herself in countenance.
Never was there a blessed pair so well met; and a beautiful
sight it was to see them both at breakfast-time, blinking at
each other across the potato-basket, Bill with his right eye
black, and she with her left.
In short, they were the talk of the whole town : and to
see Bill of a morning staggering home drunk, his shirt
sleeves rolled up on his smutted arms, his breast open, and
an old tattered leather apron, with one corner tucked up
under his belt, singing one minute, and fighting with his
wife the next;—she, reeling beside him, with a discoloured
eye, as aforesaid, a dirty ragged cap on one side of her head,
a pair of Bill's old slippers on her feet, a squalling child on
her arm—now cuffing and dragging Bill, and again kissing
and hugging him ! Yes, it was a pleasant picture to see this
loving pair in such a state !
This might do for a while, but it could not last. They
were idle, drunken, and ill-conducted; and it was not to be
supposed that they would get a farthing candle on their
words. They were, of course, dhruv to great straits; and

*3%

THE

DEVIL.

faith, they soon found that their fighting, and drinking, and
idleness made them the laughing-sport of the neighbours \
but neither brought food to their childhre, put a coat upon
their backs, nor satisfied their landlord when he came to look
for his own. Still, the never a one of Bill but was a funny
fellow with strangers, though, as we said, the greatest rogue
unhanged.
One day he was standing against his own anvil, completely in a brown study—being brought to his wit's end
how to make out a breakfast for the family. The wife was
scolding and cursing in the house, and the naked creatures
of childhre squalling about her knees for food. Bill
was fairly at an amplush, and knew not where or how to
turn himself, when a poor withered old beggar came into
the forge, tottering on his staff. A long white beard fell
from his chin, and he looked as thin and hungry that
you might blow him, one would think, over the house. Bill
at this moment had been brought to his senses by distress,
and his heart had a touch of pity towards the old man ; for,
on looking at him a second time, he clearly saw starvation
and sorrow in his face.
" God save you, honest man !" said Bill.
The old man gave a sigh, and raising himself with great
pain, on his staff, he looked at Bill in a very beseeching
way.
" Musha, God save you kindly ! " says he ; " maybe you
could give a poor, hungry, helpless ould man a mouthful of
something to ait ? You see yourself I'm not able to work;
if I was, I'd scorn to be behoulding to anyone."
"Faith, honest man," said Bill, "if you knew who you're
speaking to, you'd as soon ask a monkey for a churn-staff
as me for either mate or money. There's not a blackguard
in the three kingdoms so fairly on the shaughran as I am
for both the one and the other. The wife within is sending
the curses thick and heavy on me, and the childhre's
playing the cat's melody to keep her in comfort. Take my
word for it, poor man, if I had either mate or money I'd
help you, for I know particularly well what it is to want

THE THREE

WISHES.

239

them at the present spaking; an empty sack won't stand,
neighbour."
So far Bill told him truth. The good thought was in his
heart, because he found himself on a footing with the
beggar; and nothing brings down pride, or softens the
heart, like feeling what it is to want.
" Why, you are in a worse state than I am," said the old
m a n ; "you have a family to provide for, and I have only
myself to support."
"You may kiss the book on that, my old worthy,"
replied Bill; " b u t come, what I can do for you I will;
plant yourself up here beside the fire, and I'll give it a blast
or two of my bellows that will warm the old blood in ybur
body. It's a cold, miserable, snowy day, and a good heat
will be of service/7
"Thank you kindly," said the old m a n ; " I am cold, and
a warming at your fire will do me good, sure enough. Oh,
it is a bitter, bitter day\ God bless it! "
He then sat down, and Bill blew a rousing blast that
soon made the stranger edge back from the heat. In a
short time he felt quite comfortable, and when the numbness was taken out of his joints, he buttoned himself up
and prepared to depart.
"Now," says he to Bill, "you hadn't the food to give
me, but what you could you did. Ask any three wishes you
choose, and be they what they may, take my word for it,
they shall be granted."
Now, the truth is, that Bill, though he believed himself a
great man in point of Muteness, wanted, after all, a full
quarter of being square; for there is always a great difference
between a wise man and a knave. Bill was so much of a
rogue that he could not, for the blood of him, ask an honest
wish, but stood scratching his head in a puzzle.
"Three wishes! " said he. "Why, let me see—did you
say three ? "
"Ay," replied the stranger, " three wishes—that was what
I said."
" Well," said Bill, "here goes,—aha I—let me alone, my

240

THE

DEVIL.

old worthy!—faith I'll overreach the parish, if what yon
say is true. I'll cheat them in dozens, rich and poor, old
and young : let me alone, man,—I have it h e r e ; " and
he tapped his forehead with great glee. " Faith, you're the
sort to meet of a frosty morning, when a man wants his
breakfast; and I'm sorry that I have neither money nor
credit to get a bottle of whiskey, that we might take our
morning together."
"Well, but let us hear the wishes," said the old m a n ;
" my time is short, and I cannot stay much longer."
" Do you see this sledge-hammer ? " said Bill; " I wish,
in the first place, that whoever takes it up in their hands
may never be able to lay it down till I give them lave; and
that whoever begins to sledge with it may never stop
sledging till it's my pleasure to release him."
" Secondly—I have an arm-chair, and I wish that
whoever sits down in it may never rise out of it till they
have my consent."
"And, thirdly—that whatever money I put into my
purse, nobody may have power to take it out of it but
myself!"
" You devil's r i p ! " says the old man in a passion,
shaking his staff across Bill's nose, " why did you not ask
something that would sarve you both here and hereafter ?
Sure it's as common as the market-cross, that there's not a
vagabone in his Majesty's dominions stands more in need
of both."
" Oh ! by the elevens," said Bill, " I forgot that
altogether ! Maybe you'd be civil enough to let me change
one of them ? The sorra purtier wish ever was made than
I'll make, if you'll give me another chance."
" Get out, you reprobate," said the old fellow, still in a
passion. " Your day of grace is past. Little you knew
who was speaking to you all this time. I'm St. Moroky,
you blackguard, and I gave you an opportunity of doing
something for yourself and your family; but you neglected
it, and now your fate is cast, you dirty, bog-trotting
profligate. Sure, it's well known what you are i Aren't

THE THREE

WISHES.

241

you a by-word in everybody's mouth, you and your scold
of a wife ? By this and by that, if ever you happen to
come across me again, I'll send you to where you won't
freeze, you villain !"
H e then gave Bill a rap of his cudgel over the head, and
laid him at his length beside the bellows, kicked a broken
coal-scuttle out of his way, and left the forge in a fury.
When Billy recovered himself from the effects of the
blow, and began to think on what had happened, he
could have quartered himself with Vexation for not asking
great wealth as one of the wishes at least; but now the die
was cast on him, and he could only make the most of the
three he pitched upon.
H e now bethought him how he might turn them to the
best account, and here his cunning came to his aid. H e
began by sending for his wealthiest neighbours on pretence
of business; and when he got them under his roof, he
offered them the arm-chair to sit down in. H e now had
them safe, nor could all the art of man relieve them
except worthy Bill was willing. BilPs plan was to make the
best bargain he could before he released his prisoners ; and
let him alone for knowing how to make their purses bleed.
There wasn't a wealthy man in the country he did not
fleece. The parson of the parish bled heavily; so did the
lawyer; and a rich attorney, who had retired from practice,
swore that the Court of Chancery itself was paradise
compared to Bill's chair.
This was all very good for a time. The fame of his chair,
however, soon spread; so did that of his sledge. In a short
time neither man, woman, nor child would darken his
door; all avoided him and his fixtures as they would a
spring-gun or man-trap. Bill, so long as he fleeced his
neighbours, never wrought a hand's turn ; so that when his
money was out, he found himself as badly off as ever. In
addition to all this, his character was fifty times worse than
before; for it was the general belief that he had dealings
with the old boy. Nothing now could exceed his misery,
distress, and ill-temper. The wife and he and their children
53i

242

THE

DEVIL,

all fought among one another. Everybody hated them ?
cursed them, and avoided them. The people thought they
were acquainted with more than Christian people ought to
know. This, of course, came to Bill's ears, and it vexed
him very much.
One day he was walking about the fields, thinking of
how he could raise the wind once more; the day was dark,
and he found himself, before he stopped, in the bottom of
a lonely glen covered by great bushes that grew on each
side. " Well," thought he, when every other means of
raising money failed him, " it's reported that I'm in league
with the old boy, and as it's a folly to have the name of the
connection without the profit, I'm ready to make a bargain
with him any day ;—so," said he, raising his voice, " Nick,
you sinner, if you be convanient and willing, why stand out
here; show your best leg—here's your man."
The words were hardly out of his mouth when a dark,
sober-looking old gentleman, not unlike a lawyer, walked up
to him. Bill looked at the foot and saw the hoof.—
"Morrow, Nick," says Bill.
" Morrow, Bill," says Nick. "Well, Bill, what's the
news ? "
" Devil a much myself hears of late," says Bill; " is there
anything fresh below ? "
" I can't exactly say, Bill; I spend little of my time down
now; the Tories are in office, and my hands are consequently too full of business here to pay much attention to
anything else."
" A fine place this, sir," says Bill, " t o take a constitutional walk i n ; when I want an appetite I often come this
way myself—hem!
High feeding is very bad without
exercise."
" High feeding!
Come, come, Bill, you know you
didn't taste a morsel these four-and-twenty hours."
"You know that's a bounce, Nick. I eat a breakfast
this morning that would put a stone of flesh on you, if you
only smelt at it."
" N o matter] this is not to the purpose. What's that

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you were muttering to yourself awhile ago ? If you want to
come to the brunt, here I'm for you."
" Nick," said Bill, " you're complate; you want nothing
barring a pair of Brian O'Lynn's breeches."
Bill, in fact, was bent on making his companion open the
bargain, because he had often heard that, in that case, with
proper care on his own part, he might defeat him in the
long run. The other, however, was his match.
" What was the nature of Brian's garment," inquired
Nick " Why, you know the song," said Bill—
"

c

Brian O'Lynn had no breeches to wear,
So he got a sheep's skin for to make him a pair }
With the fleshy side out and the woolly side in,
They'll be pleasant and cool, says Brian O'Lynn/

" A cool pare would sarve you, Nick."
"You're mighty waggish to-day, Misther Dawson."
"And good right I have," said Bill; " I ' m a man snug
and well to do in the world; have lots of money, plenty of
good eating and drinking, and what more need a man wish
for?"
" True," said the other; "in the meantime it's rather odd
that so respectable a man should not have six inches of
unbroken cloth in his apparel. You are as naked a tatterdemalion as I ever laid my eyes o n ; in full dress for a
party of scare-crows, William."
" That's my own fancy, Nick; I don't work at my trade
like a gentleman. This is my forge dress, you know."
" Well, but what did you summon me here for ? " said
the other; " you may as well speak out, I tell you; for, my
good friend, unless you do, 1 shan't. Smell that."
" I smell more than that," said Bill; " and by the way,
I'll thank you to give me the windy side of you—curse all
sulphur, I say. There, that's what I call an improvement
in my condition. But as you are so stiff," says Bill, "why,
the short and long of it is—that—hem—you see I'm—tut
•—sure you know I have a thriving trade of my own, and

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that if 1 like I needn't be at a loss; but in the meantime
I'm rather in a kind of a so—so—don't you take ? "
And Bill winked knowingly, hoping to trick him into the
first proposal.
" Y o u must speak above-board, my friend," says the
other. " I'm a man of few words, blunt and honest. If you
have anything to say, be plain. Don't think I can be
losing my time with such a pitiful rascal as you are."
" Well," says Bill, " I want money, then, and am ready
to come into terms. What have you to say to that, Nick ? "
" Let me see—let me look at you," says his companion,
turning him about. " Now, Bill, in the first place, are you
not as finished a scare-crow as ever stood upon two legs ? "
" I play second fiddle to you there again," says Bill.
" There you stand, with the blackguards' coat of arms
quartered under your eye, a n d "
"Don't make little of blackguards" said Bill, " nor spake
disparagingly of your own crest."
"Why, what would you bring, you brazen rascal, if you
were fairly put up at auction ? "
" Faith, I'd bring more bidders than you would," said
Bill, " if you were to go off at auction to-morrow. I tell
you they should bid dotvnwards to come to your value,
Nicholas. We have no coin small enough to purchase
you."
"Well, no matter," said Nick. " If you are willing to be
mine at the expiration of seven years, I will give you more
money than ever the rascally breed of you was worth."
" D o n e ! " said Bill; " b u t no disparagement to my
family, in the meantime; so down with the hard cash, and
don't be a neger"
The money was accordingly paid down! but as nobody
was present, except the giver and receiver, the amount of
what Bill got was never known.
"Won't you give me a luck-penny?" said the old
gentleman.
"Tut," said Billy, "so prosperous an old fellow as you
cannot want it] however, bad luck to you, with all my

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heart! and it's rubbing grease to a fat pig to say so. Be off
now, or I'll commit suicide on you. Your absence is a
cordial to most people, you infernal old profligate. You
have injured my morals even for the short time you have
been with m e ; for I don't find myself so virtuous as I was."
" Is that your gratitude, Billy ? "
" Is it gratitude you speak of, man ? I wonder you don't
blush when you name it. However, when you come again,
if you bring a third eye in your head you will see what I
mane, Nicholas, ahagur."
The old gentleman, as Bill spoke, hopped across the
ditch, on his way to Downing-street, where of late 'tis
thought he possesses much influence.
Bill now began by degrees to show off; but still wrought
a little at his trade to blindfold the neighbours. In a very
short time, however, he became a great man.. So long
indeed as he was a poor rascal, no decent person would
speak to him ; even the proud serving-men at the " Big
House" would turn up their noses at him. And
he well deserved to be made little of by others, because
he was mean enough to make little of himself. But when it
was seen and known that he had oceans of money, it was
wonderful to think, although he was now a greater blackguard than ever, how those who despised him before began
to come round him and court his company. Bill, however,
had neither sense nor spirit to make those sunshiny friends
know their distance; not he—instead of that he was proud
to be seen in decent company, and so long as the money
lasted, it was, "hail fellow, well met," between himself and
every fair-faced spunger who had a horse under him, a
decent coat to his back, and a good appetite to eat his
dinners. With riches and all, Bill was the same man still;
but, somehow or other, there is a great difference between a
rich profligate and a poor one, and Bill found it so to his
cost in both cases.
Before half the seven years was passed, Bill had his
carriage, and his equipages; was hand and glove with my
Lord This, and my Lord T h a t ; kept hounds and hunters;

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was the first sportsman at the Curragh; patronised every
boxing ruffian he could pick u p ; and betted night and day
on cards, dice, and horses. Bill, in short, should be a
blood, and except he did all this, he could not presume to
mingle with the fashionable bloods of his time.
It's an old proverb, however, that " what is got over the
devil's back is sure to go off under i t ; " and in Bill's case
this proved true. In short, the old boy himself could not
supply him with money so fast as he made it fly; it was
"come easy, go easy," with Bill, and so sign was on it,
before he came within two years of his time he found his
purse empty.
And now came the value of his summer friends to be
known. When it was discovered that the cash was no
longer flush with him—that stud, and carriage, and hounds
were going to the hammer—whish! off they went, friends,
relations, pot-companions, dinner-eaters, black-legs, and all,
like a flock of crows that had smelt gunpowder. Down
Bill soon went, week after week, and day after day, until at
last he was obliged to put on the leather apron, and take to
the hammer again ; and not only that, for as no experience
could make him wise, he once more began his tap-room
brawls, his quarrels with Judy, and took to his "high
feeding " at the dry potatoes and salt, Now, too, came the
cutting tongues of all who knew him, like razors upon him.
Those that he scorned because they were poor and himself
rich, now paid him back his own with interest; and those
that he measured himself with, because they were rich, and
who only countenanced him in consequence of his wealth,
gave him the hardest word in their cheeks. The devil
mend him ! H e deserved it all, and more if he had got it.
Bill, however, who was a hardened sinner, never fretted
himself down an ounce of flesh by what was said to him. or
of him. Not h e ; he cursed, and fought, and swore, and
schemed away as usual, taking in every one he could; and
surely none could match him at villainy of all sorts, and sizes.
At last the seven years became expired, and Bill was one
morning sitting in his forge, sober and hungry, the wife

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cursing him, and the childhre squalling, as before; he was
thinking how he might defraud some honest neighbour out
of a breakfast to stop their mouths and his own too, when
who walks in to him but old Nick, to demand his bargain.
"Morrow, Bill!" says he with a sneer.
" The devil welcome you!" says Bill; " but you have &
fresh memory."
" A bargain's a bargain between two honest men, any day,"
says Satan; " when I speak of honest men, I mean yourself
and me, Bill;" and he put his tongue in his cheek to make
game of the unfortunate rogue he had come for.
"Nick, my worthy fellow," said Bill, "have bowels; you
wouldn't do a shabby thing; you wouldn't disgrace your own
character by putting more weight upon a falling man. You
know what it is to get a come down yourself, my worthy; so
just keep your toe in your pump, and walk off with yourself
somewhere else. A cool walk will sarve you better than my
company, Nicholas."
" Bill, it's no use in shirking," said his friend; " your
swindling tricks may enable you to cheat others, but you
won't cheat me, I guess. You want nothing to make you
perfect in your way but to travel; and travel you shall under
my guidance, Billy. No, no—Fm not to be swindled, my
good fellow. I have rather a—a—better opinion of myself,
Mr. D., than to think that you could outwit one Nicholas
Clutie, Esq.—ahem !"
" You may sneer, you sinner," replied Bill; " but I tell
you that I have outwitted men who could buy and sell you
to your face. Despair, you-villain, when I tell you that no
attorney could stand before me."
Satan's countenance got blank when he heard this; he
wriggled and fidgeted about, and appeared to be not quite
comfortable.
" In that case, then," says he, " the sooner I deceive youthe better; so turn out for the Low Countries"
" Is it come to that in earnest ? " said Bill, " and are you
going to act the rascal at the long run ? "
" T o n honour, Bill"

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" Have patience, then, you sinner, till I finish this horseshoe—it's the last of a set I'm finishing for one of your
friend the attorney's horses. And here, Nick, I hate idleness, you know it's the mother of mischief; take this
sledge-hammer, and give a dozen strokes or so, till I get it
out of hands, and then here's with you, since it must be so."
H e then gave the bellows a puff that blew half a peck of
dust in Club-foot's face, whipped out the red-hot iron, and
set Satan sledging away for bare life.
"Faith," says Bill to him, when the shoe was finished,
" it's a thousand pities ever the sledge should be out of your
hand; the great Parra Gow was a child to you at sledging,
you're such an able tyke. Now just exercise yourself till I
bid the wife and childhre good-bye, and then I'm off."
Out went Bill, of course, without the slightest notion of
coming back; no more than Nick had that he could not
give up the sledging, and indeed neither could he, but was
forced to work away as if he was sledging for a wager. This
was just what Bill wanted. H e was now compelled to sledge
on until it was Bill's pleasure to release him; and so we
leave him very industriously employed, while we look after
the worthy who outwitted him.
In the meantime, Bill broke cover, and took to the
country at large; wrought a little journey-work wherever he
could get it, and in this way went from one place to another,
till, in the course of a month, he walked back very coolly
into his own forge, to see how things went on in his absence.
There he found Satan in a rage, the perspiration pouring
from him in torrents, hammering with might and main upon
the naked anvil. Bill calmly leaned his back against the
wall, placed his hat upon the side of his head, put his hands
into his breeches pockets, and began to whistle Shaun. Gowh
hornpipe. At length he says, in a very quiet and goodhumoured way—
" Morrow, Nick ! "
" Oh ! " says Nick, still hammering away—" Oh ! you
double-distilled villain (hech!), may the most refined,
ornamental (hech I), double-rectified, super-extra, and

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249

original (hech !) collection of curses that ever was gathered
(hech !) into a single nosegay of ill-fortune (hech !), shine in
the button-hole of your conscience (hech !) while your name
is Bill Dawson! I denounce you (hech!) as a double-milled
villain, a finished, hot-pressed knave (hech !), in comparison
of whom all the other knaves I ever knew (hech !), attorneys
included, are honest men. I brand you (hech !) as the
pearl of cheats, a tip-top take-in (hech!). I denounce you,
I say again, for the villainous treatment (hech !) I have
received at your hands in this most untoward (hech !) and
unfortunate transaction between us ; for (hech!) unfortunate,
in every sense, is he that has anything to do with (hech!)
such a prime and finished impostor."
"You're very warm, Nicky," says Bill; "what puts you
into a passion, you old sinner ? Sure if it's your own will
and pleasure to take exercise at my anvil, Tm not to be
abused for it. Upon my credit, Nicky, you ought to blush
for using such blackguard language, so unbecoming your
grave character. You cannot say that it was I set you a
hammering at the empty anvil, you profligate. However, as
you are so industrious, I simply say it would be a thousand
pities to take you from it. Nick, I love industry in my
heart, and I always encourage i t ; so work away, it's not
often you spend your time so creditably. I'm afraid if you
weren't at that you'd be worse employed."
"Bill, have bowels," said the operative; "you wouldn't
go to lay more weight on a falling man, you know; you
wouldn't disgrace your character by such a piece of iniquity
as keeping an inoffensive gentleman, advanced in years,
at such an unbecoming and rascally job as this. Generosity's your top virtue, Bill; not but that you have many
other excellent ones, as well as that, among which, as
you say yourself, I reckon industry; but still it is in
generosity you shine.
Come, Bill, honour bright, and
release me."
" Name the terms, you profligate."
" You're above terms, William y a generous fellow like
you never thinks of terms/'

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" Good-bye, old gentleman ! " said Bill, very coolly; " I'll
drop in to see you once a month."
" No, no, Bill, you infern—a—a—- you excellent, worthy,
delightful fellow, not so fast; not so fast. Come, name your
terms, you sland
my dear Bill, name your terms."
" Seven years more."
" I agree; but
"
" A n d the same supply of cash as before, down on the
nail here."
4
'Very good; very good. You're rather simple, Bill;
rather soft, I must confess. Weli, no matter. I shall yet
turn the tab—a—hem ! You are an exceedingly simple
fellow, Bill; still there will come a day, my dear Bill—there
will come"
" D o you grumble, you vagrant? Another word, and I
double the terms."
" Mum, William—mum; face is Latin for a candle."
" Seven years more of grace, and the same measure of
the needful that I got before. Ay or no ? "
" Of grace. Bill! Ay ! ay ! ay ! There's the cash. I
accept the terms. Oh blood! the rascal—-of grace !!
Bill! »
"Well, now drop the hammer, and vanish," says Billy;
" but what would you think to take this sledge, while you
stay, and give me a
eh! why in such a hurry ? " he
added, seeing that Satan withdrew in double-quick time.
" Hollo ! Nicholas ! " he shouted, " come back ; you forgot something!" and when the old gentleman looked
behind him, Billy shook the hammer at him, on which he
vanished altogether.
Billy now got into his old courses; and what shows the
kind of people the world is made of, he also took up with
his old company. When they saw that he had the money
once more, and was sowing it about him in all directions,
they immediately began to find excuses for his former
extravagance.
"Say what you will," said one, "Bill Dawson's a spirited
fellow, and bleeds like a prince."

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251

" He's a hospitable man in his own house, or out of it, as
ever lived," said another.
" H i s only fault is," observed a third, "that he is, if
anything, too generous, and doesn't know the value of
money; his fault's on the right side, however."
" H e has the spunk in him," said a fourth; "keeps a
capital table, prime wines, and a standing welcome for his
friends."
" Why," said a fifth, "if he doesn't enjoy his money while
he lives, he won't when he's dead; so more power to him,
and" a wider throat to his purse."
Indeed, the very persons who were cramming themselves
at his expense despised him at heart. They knew very
well, however, how to take him on the weak side. Praise
his generosity, and he would do anything; call him a man
of spirit, and you might fleece him to his face. Sometimes
he would toss a purse of guineas to this knave, another to
that flatterer, a third to a bully, and a fourth to some
broken-down rake—and all to convince them that he was a
sterling friend—a man of mettle and liberality. But never
was he known to help a virtuous and struggling family—to
assist the widow or the fatherless, or to do any other act that
was truly useful. It is to be supposed the reason of this
was, that as he spent it, as most of the world do, in the
service of the devil, by whose aid he got it, he was prevented
from turning it to a good account. Between you and me,
dear reader, there are more persons acting after Bill's fashion
in the same world than you dream about.
When his money was out again, his friends played him
the same rascally game once more. No sooner did his
poverty become plain, than the knaves began to be troubled
with small fits of modesty, such as an unwillingness to
come to his place when there was no longer anything to be
got there. A kind of virgin bashfulness prevented them
from speaking to him when they saw him getting out on the
wrong side of his clothes. Many of them would turn away
from hint in the -prettiest and most delicate manner when
they thought he wanted to borrow money from them—all

252

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for fear of putting him to the blush by asking it. Others
again, when they saw him coming towards their houses
about dinner hour, would become so confused, from mere
gratitude, as to think themselves in another place; and
their servants, seized, as it were, with the same feeling,
would tell Bill that their masters were " not at home."
At length, after travelling the same villainous round as
before, Bill was compelled to betake himself, as the last
remedy, to the forge; in other words, he found that there
is, after all, nothing in this world that a man can rely on so
firmly and surely as his own industry. Bill, however,
wanted the organ of common sense; for his experience—
and it was sharp enough to leave an impression—ran off
him like water off a duck.
H e took to his employment sorely against his grain ; but
he had now no choice. H e must either work or starve, and
starvation is like a great doctor—nobody tries it till every
other remedy fails them. Bill had been twice rich ; twice a
gentleman among blackguards, but always a blackguard
among gentlemen; for no wealth or acquaintance witlk
decent society could rub the rust of his native vulgarity off
him. H e was now a common blinking sot in his forge ; a
drunken bully in the tap-room, cursing and brow-beating
every one as well as his wife; boasting of how much money
he had spent in his d a y ; swaggering about the high doings
he carried on ; telling stories about himself and Lord This
at the Curragh ; the dinners he gave—how much they cost
him, and attempting to extort credit upon the strength of
his former wealth. H e was too ignorant, however, to know
that he was publishing his own disgrace, and that it was
a mean-spirited thing to be proud of what ought to make
him blush through a deal board nine inches thick.
H e was one morning industriously engaged in a quarrel
with his wife, who, with a three-legged stool in her hand,
appeared to mistake his head for his own anvil; he, in the
meantime, paid his addresses to her with his leather apron,
when who steps in to jog his memory about the little agreement that was between them, but old Nick. The wife, it

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seems, in spite of all her exertions to the contrary, was
getting the worst of it; and Sir Nicholas, willing to appear
a gentleman of great gallantry, thought he could not do less
than take up the lady's quarrel, particularly as Bill had laid
her in a sleeping posture. Now Satan thought this too bad;
and as he felt himself under many obligations to the sex, he
determined to defend one of them on the present occasion ;
so as Judy rose, he turned upon the husband, and floored
him by a clever facer.
" You unmanly villain," said he, " is this the way you
treat your wife ? T o n honour, Bill, I'll chastise you on the
spot. I could not stand by, a spectator of such ungentlemanly conduct without giving up all claim to gallant
"
Whack ! the word was divided in his mouth by the blow of
a churn-staff from Judy, who no sooner saw Bill struck, than
she nailed Satan, who " fell" once more.
"What, you villain ! that's for striking my husband like a
murderer behind his back," said Judy, and she suited the
action to the word, " that's for interfering between man and
wife. Would you murder the poor man before my face ?
eh ? If he bates me, you shabby dog you, who has a better
right ? I'm sure it's nothing out of your pocket. Must you
have your finger in every pie ? "
This was anything but idle talk \ for at every word she
gave him a remembrance, hot and heavy. Nicholas backed,
danced, and hopped ; she advanced, still drubbing him with
great perseverance, till at length he fell into the redoubtable
arm-chair, which stood exactly behind him. Bill, who had
been putting in two blows for Judy's one, seeing that his
enemy was safe, now got between the devil and his wife, a
situation that few will be disposed to envy him.
" Tenderness, Judy," said the husband, " I hate cruelty.
Go put the tongs in the fire, and make them red hot.
Nicholas, you have a nose," said he.
Satan began to rise, but was rather surprised to find that
he could not budge.
"Nicholas/' says Bill, "how is your pulse? you don't
look well; that is to say, you look worse than usual."

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The other attempted to rise, but found it a mistake.
" I'll thank you to come along/' said Bill. " I have a
fancy to travel under your guidance, and we'll take the
Low Countries in our way, won't we ? Get to your legs,
you sinner; you know a bargain's a bargain between two
honest men, Nicholas; meaning yourselfand me. Judy, are
the tongs hot ? "
Satan's face was worth looking at, as he turned his eyes
from the husband to the wife, and then fastened them on
the tongs, now nearly at a furnace heat in the fire, conscious
at the same time that he could not move out of the chair.
" Billy," said he, " you won't forget that I rewarded
your generosity the last time I saw you, in the way of
business." " Faith, Nicholas, it fails me to remember any
generosity I ever showed you. Don't be womanish. I
simply want to see what kind of stuff your nose is made of,
and whether it will stretch like a rogue's conscience. If it
does, we will flatter it up the chimly with red-hot tongs,' and
when this old hat is fixed on the top of it, let us alone for a
weather-cock." " H a v e & fellow-feeling, Mr. Dawson; you
know we ought not to dispute. Drop the matter, and I
give you the next seven years." " We know all that," says
Billy, opening the red-hot tongs very coolly. " Mr. Dawson,"
said Satan, " if you cannot remember my friendship to
yourself, don't forget how often I stood your father's friend,
your grandfather's friend, and the friend of all your relations
up to the tenth generation. I intended, also, to stand by
your children after you, so long as the name of Dawson,
and a respectable one it is, might last." " Don't be blushing, Nick," says Bill, "you are too modest; that was ever
your failing; hould up your bead, there's money bid for
you. I'll give you such a nose, my good friend, that you
will have to keep an outrider before you, to carry the end of
it on his shoulder." " Mr. Dawson, I pledge my honour to
raise your children in the woild.as high as they can g o ; no
matter whether they desire it or not." " That's very kind
of you," says the other, " a n d I'll do as much for your
nose."

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255

H e gripped it as he spoke, and the old boy immediately
sung out; Bill pulled, and the nose went with him like a
piece of warm wax. H e then transferred the tongs to Judy,
•got a ladder, resumed the tongs, ascended the chimney, and
tugged stoutly at the nose until he got it five feet above the
roof. He then fixed the hat upon the top of it, and came
down.
" There's a weather-cock," said Billy; " I defy Ireland to
show such a beauty. Faith, Nick, it would make the
purtiest steeple for a church, in all Europe, and the old hat
fits it to a shaving."
In this state, with his nose twisted up the chimney, Satan
sat for some time, experiencing the novelty of what might
be termed a peculiar sensation. At last the worthy husband
and wife began to relent.
"I think/' said Bill, <'that we have made the most of
the nose, as well as the joke; I believe, Judy, it's long
enough." " What is ? " says Judy.
" Why, the joke," said the husband.
" Faith, and I think so is the nose," said Judy."
" What do you say yourself, Satan ? " said Bill.
" Nothing at all, William," said the other; "but that—ha!
ha !—it's a good joke—an excellent joke, and a goodly
nose, too, as it stands. You were always a gentlemanly
man, Bill, and did things with a grace; still, if I might
give an opinion on such a trifle
"
l(
It's no trifle at all," says Bill, " if you spake of the
nose." " Very well, it is not," says the other ; " still, I am
decidedly of opinion, that if you could shorten both the
joke and the nose without further violence, you would lay
me under very heavy obligations, which I shall be ready to
acknowledge and tefiay as I ought." "Come," said Bill,
"shell out once more, and be off for seven years. As
much as you came down with the last time, and vanish."
The words were scarcely spoken, when the money was at
his feet, and Satan invisible. Nothing could surpass the
mirth of Bill and his wife at the result of this adventure.
They laughed till they fell down on the floor.

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It is useless to go over the same ground again. Bill was
still incorrigible. The money went as the deviFs money
always goes. Bill caroused and squandered, but could never
turn a penny of it to a good purpose. In this way, year after*
year went, till the seventh was closed, and Bill's hour come.
H e was now, and had been for some time past, as miserable
a knave as ever. Not a shilling had he, nor a shilling's
worth, with the exception of his forge, his cabin, and a few
articles of crazy furniture.
In this state he was standing in
his forge as before, straining his ingenuity how to make out
a breakfast, when Satan came to look after him. The old
gentleman was sorely puzzled how to get at him. H e kept
skulking and sneaking about the forge for some time, till he
saw that Bill hadn't a cross to Hess himself with. H e
immediately changed himself into a guinea, and lay in
an open place where he knew Bill would see him. " If,"
said he, " I once get into his possession, I can manage
him." The honest smith took the bait, for it was well
gilded; he clutched the guinea, put it into his purse, and
closed it up. " H o ! h o ! " shouted the devil out of the
purse, "you're caught, Bill; I've secured you at last, you
knave you. Why don't you despair, you villain, when you
think of what's before you ?" " Why, you unlucky ould
dog," said Bill, "is it there you are? Will you always
drive your head into every loop-hole that's set for you ?
Faith, Nick achora, I never had you bagged till now."
Satan then began to tug and struggle with a view of
getting out of the purse, but in vain.
" M r . Dawson," said he, "we understand each other.
I'll give the seven years additional, and the cash on the
nail." " Be aisey, Nicholas. You know the weight of the
hammer, that's enough. It's not a whipping with feathers
you're going to get, anyhow. Just be aisey." " Mr. Dawson, I grant I'm not your match. Release me, and I double
the cash. I was merely trying your temper when I took
the shape of a guinea."
" Faith and I'll try your's before I lave it, I've a notion."
H e immediately commenced with the sledge, and Satan

THE THREE

WISHES.

257

sang out with a considerable want of firmness. " A m I
heavy enough!" said Bill.
" Lighter, lighter, William, if you love me. I haven't
been well latterly, Mr. Dawson—I have been delicate—my
health, in short, is in a very precarious state, Mr. Dawson."
" I can believe that? said Bill, " and it will be more so
before I have done with you. Am I doing it right ? " " Bill,"
said Nick, " i s this gentlemanly treatment in your own
respectable shop ? Do you think, if you dropped into my
little place, that I'd act this rascally part towards you ?
Have you no compunction?" " I know," replied Bill,
sledging away with vehemence, " that you're notorious for
giving your friends a warm welcome. Divil an ould youth
more s o ; but you must be daling in bad coin, must you ?
However, good or bad, you're in for a sweat now, you
sinner. Am I doin' it purty ? "
" Lovely, William—but, if possible, a little more delicate."
" Oh, how delicate you are! Maybe a cup o' tay would
sarve you, or a little small gruel to compose your stomach."
" Mr. Dawson," said the gentleman in the purse, " hold
your hand and let us understand one another. I have a
proposal to make." " Hear the sinner anyhow," said the
wife. " Name your own sum," said Satan, " only set me
free." " No, the sorra may take the toe you'll budge till
you let Bill off," said the wife; "hould him hard, Bill,
barrin' he sets you clear of your engagement. " There it is,
my posy," said -Bill; "that's the condition. If you don't
give me up^ here's at you once more—and you must double
the cash you gave the last time, too. So, if you're of that
opinion, say ay—leave the cash and be off."
The money again appeared in a glittering heap before
Bill, upon which he exclaimed—" The ay has it, you dog.
Take to pour pumps now, and fair weather after you, you
vagrant; but Nicholas—Nick—here, here
" The other
looked back, and saw Bill, with a broad grin upon him,
shaking the purse at him—" Nicholas come back," said he.
IC
I'm short a guinea." Nick shook his fist, and disappeared.
It would be useless to stop now, merely to inform our
532

258

THE

DEVIL.

readers that Bill was beyond improvement. In short, he
once more took to his old habits, and lived on exactly in
the same manner as before. H e had two sons—-one as
great a blackguard as himself, and who was also named
after him ; the other was a well-conducted, virtuous young
man, called James, who left his father, and having relied
upon his Own industry and honest perseverance in life,
arrived afterwards to great wealth, and built the town called
Castle Dawson; which is so called from its founder until
this day.
Bill, at length, in spite of all his wealth, was obliged, as
he himself saidj " t o travel,"—in other words, he fell asleep
one day, and forgot to awaken; or* in still plainer terms,
he died*
Now, it is usual, when a man dies, to close the history of
his life and adventures at once; but with our hero this
cannot be the case. The moment Bill departed, he very
naturally bent his steps towards the residence of S t Moroky,
as being, in his opinion, likely to lead him towards the
snuggest berth he could readily make out. On arriving, he
gave a very humble kind of a knock, and St. Moroky
appeared.
" God save your Reverence!" said Bill, very submissively,
" Be off; there's no admittance here for so poor a youth
as you are," said S t Moroky.
H e was now so cold and fatigued that he cared little
where he went, provided only, as he said himself, " h e could
rest his bones, and get an air of the fire." Accordingly,
after arriving at a large black gate, he knocked* as before,
and was told he would get instant admittance the moment
he gave his name.
" Billy Dawson," he replied*
" Off) instantly/' said the porter to his companions, " and
let his Majesty know that the rascal he dreads so much i$
here at the gate."

Such a racket and tumult were never heard as the very
m^ntign of Billy Dawson created

THK THREE

WISHES.

259

In the meantime, his old acquaintance came running
towards the gate with such haste and consternation, that his
tail was several times nearly tripping up his heels.
"Don't admit that rascal," he shouted; "bar the gate—•
make every chain, and lock and bolt, fast—I won't be safe
—and I won't stay here, nor none of us need stay here, if
he gets in—my bones are sore yet after him. No, no—
begone you villain—you'll get no entrance here—I know
you too well."
Bill could not help giving a broad, malicious grin at
Satan, and, putting his nose through the bars, he exclaimed
— " H a ! you ould dog, I have you afraid of me at last,
have I ? "
H e had scarcely uttered the words, when his foe, who
stood inside, instantly tweaked him by the nose, and Bill
felt as if he had been gripped by the same red-hot tongs
with which he himself had formerly tweaked the nose of
Nicholas.
Bill then departed, but soon found that in consequence of
the inflammable materials which strong drink had thrown
into his nose, that organ immediately took fire, and, indeed,
to tell the truth, kept burning night and day, winter and
summer, without ever once going out, from that hour to
this.
Such was the sad fate of Billy Dawson, who has been
walking without stop or stay, from place to place, ever since ;
and in consequence of the flame on his nose, and his beard
being tangled like a wisp of hay, he has been christened by
the country folk Will-o'-the-Wisp, while, as it were, to show
the mischief of his disposition, the circulating knave$
knowing that he must seek the coldest bogs and quagmires
in order to cool his nose, seizes upon that opportunity of
misleading the unthinking and tipsy night travellers from
their way> just that he may have the satisfaction of still
taking in as many as possible.

GIANTS.
WHEN the pagan gods of Ireland—the Tuath-De-Danan—
robbed of worship and offerings, grew smaller and smaller in
- the popular imagination, until they turned into the fairies, the
pagan heroes grew bigger and bigger, until they turned into the
giants.
T H E GIANT'S STAIRS.*
T. CROFTON CROKER.

O N the road between Passage and Cork there is an old
mansion called Ronayne's Court. It may be easily known
from the stack of chimneys and the gable-ends, which are
to be seen, look at it which way you will. Here it was that
Maurice Ronayne and his wife Margaret Gould kept house,
as may be learned to this day from the great old chimneypiece, on which is carved their arms. They were a mighty
worthy couple, and had but one son, who was called Philip,
after no less a person than the King of Spain.
Immediately on his smelling the cold air of this world
the child sneezed, which was naturally taken to be a good
sign of his having a clear head; and the subsequent
^ rapidity of his learning was truly amazing, for on the very
first day a primer was put into his hands he tore out the
A, B, C page and destroyed it, as a thing quite beneath his
notice. No wonder, then, that both father and mother were
proud of their heir, who gave such indisputable proofs of
genius, or, as they called it in that part of the world,
"genus?
One morning, however, Master Phil, who was then just
* Fairy Legends of the South of Ireland.

THE GIANT'S

STAIRS.

-261

seven years old, was missing, and no one could tell what
had become of him: servants were sent in all directions
to seek him, on horseback and on foot, but they returned
without any tidings of the boy, whose disappearance
altogether was most unaccountable. A large reward was
offered, but it produced them no intelligence, and years
rolled away without Mr. and Mrs. Ronayne having obtained
any satisfactory account of the fate of their lost child.
There lived at this time, near Carrigaline, one Robert
Kelly, a blacksmith by trade. H e was what is termed a
handy man, and his abilities were held in much estimation
by the lads and the lasses of the neighbourhood; for,
independent of shoeing horses, which he did to great
perfection, and making plough-irons, he interpreted dreams
for the young women, sung "Arthur O-Bradley" at their
weddings, and was so good-natured a fellow at a christening,
that he was gossip to half the country round.
Now it happened that Robin had a dream himself, and
young Philip Ronayne appeared to him in it, at the dead
hour of the night. Robin thought he saw the boy mounted
upon a beautiful white horse, and that he told him how he
was made a page to the giant Mahon MacMahon, who had
carried him off, and who held his court in the hard heart of
the rock. " The seven years—my time of service—are clean
out, Robin," said he, " a n d if you release me this night
I will be the making of you for ever after."
" A n d how will I know," said Robin—cunning enough,
even in his sleep—"but this is all a dream?"
" T a k e that," said the boy, "for a token"—and at the
word the white horse struck out with one of his hind legs,
and gave poor Robin such a kick in the, forehead that,
thinking he was a dead man, he roared as loud as he could
after his brains, and woke up, calling a thousand murders.
He found himself in bed, but he had the mark of the blow,
the regular print of a horse-shoe, upon his forehead as red
as blood; and Robin Kelly, who never before found himself puzzled at the dream of any other person, did not know
what to think of his own.

262

GIANTS,

Robin was well acquainted with the Giant's Stairs—as,
indeed, who is not that knows the harbour ? They consist
of great masses of rock, which, piled one above another,
rise like a flight of steps from very deep water, against the
bold cliff of Carrigmahon. Nor are they badly suited for
stairs to those who have legs of sufficient length to stride
over a moderate-sized house, or to enable them to clear the
space of a mile in a hop, step, and jump. Both these feats
the giant MacMahon was said to have performed in the
days of Finnian glory; and the common tradition of the
country placed his dwelling within the cliff up whose side
the stairs led.
Such was the impression which the dream made on
Robin, that he determined to put its truth to the test. It
occurred to him, however, before setting out on this
adventure, that a plough-iron may be no bad companion,
as, from experience, he knew it was an excellent knockdown argument, having on more occasions than one settled
a little disagreement very quietly: so, putting one on his
shoulder, off he marched, in the cool of the evening, through
Glaun a Thowk (the Hawk's Glen) to Monkstown. Here
an old gossip of his (Tom Clancey by name) lived, who, on
hearing Robin's dream, promised him the use of his skiff,
and, moreover, offered to assist in rowing it to the Giant's
Stairs.
After a supper, which was of the best, they embarked. It
was a beautiful still night, and the little boat glided swiftly
along. The regular dip of the oars, the distant song of the
sailor, and sometimes the voice of a belated traveller at the
ferry of Carrigaloe, alone broke the quietness of the land
and sea and sky. The tide was in their favour, and in a
few minutes Robin and his gossip rested on their oars under
the dark shadow of the Giant's Stairs. Robin looked
anxiously for the entrance to the Giant's palace, which, it
was said, may be found by any one seeking it at midnight;
but no such entrance could he see. His impatience had
hurried him there before that time, and after waiting a considerable space in a state of suspense not to be described,

THE

GIANT'S

STAIRS.

263

Robin, with pure vexation, could not help exclaiming to his
companion, " 'Tis a pair of fools we are, Tom Clancey, for
coming here at all on the strength of a dream."
" And whose doing is it," said Tom, " but your own ? ,?
At the moment he spoke they perceived a faint glimmering of light to proceed from the cliff, which gradually
increased until a porch big enough for a king's palace
unfolded itself almost on a level with the water, They
pulled the skiff directly towards the opening, and Robin
Kelly, seizing his plough-iron, boldly entered with a strong
hand and a stout heart. Wild and strange was that entrance,
the whole of which appeared formed of grim and grotesque
faces, blending so strangely each with the 6ther that it was
impossible to define any : the chin of one formed the nose
of another; what appeared to be a fixed and stern eye, if
dwelt upon, changed to a gaping mouth; and the lines of
the lofty forehead grew into a majestic and flowing beard.
The more Robin allowed himself to contemplate the forms
around him, the more terrific they became; and the stoney
expression of this crowd of faces assumed a savage ferocity
as his imagination converted feature after feature into a
different shape and character. Losing the twilight in which
these indefinite forms were visible, he advanced through a
dark and devious passage, whilst a deep and rumbling noise
sounded as if the rock was about to close upon him, and
swallow him up alive for ever. Now, indeed, poor Robin
felt afraid.
" Robin, Robin," said he, " if you were a fool for coming
here, what in the name of fortune are you now ? " But, as
before, he had scarcely spoken, when he saw a small light
twinkling through the darkness of the distance, like a star in
the midnight sky. To retreat was out of the question ; for
so many turnings and windings were in the passage, that he
considered he had but little chance of making his way back.
He, therefore, proceeded towards the bit of light, and came
at last into a spacious chamber, from the roof of which hung
the solitary lamp that had guided him. Emerging from
such profound gloom, the single lamp afforded Robin

264

GIANTS.

abundant light to discover several gigantic figures seated
round a massive stone table, as if in serious deliberation,
but no word disturbed the breathless silence which prevailed. At the head of this table sat Mahon MacMahon
himself, whose majestic beard had taken root, and in the
course of ages grown into the stone slab. H e was the first
who perceived Robin; and instantly starting up, drew his
long beard from out the huge piece of rock in such haste
and with so sudden a jerk that it was shattered into a
thousand pieces.
" What seek you? " he demanded in a voice of thunder.
" I come," answered Robin, with as much boldness as he
could put on, for his heart was almost fainting within him ;
" I come," said he, " to claim Philip Ronayne, whose time
of service is out this night."
" And who sent you here ? " said the giant.
" 'Twas of my own accord I came," said Robin.
" Then you must single him out from among my pages,"
said the giant; " and if you fix on the wrong one, your life
is the forfeit. Follow me." He led Robin into a hall of
vast extent, and filled with lights ; along either side of which
were rows of beautiful children, all apparently'seven years
old, and none beyond that age, dressed in green, and every
one exactly dressed alike.
" Here," said Mahon, " you are free to take Philip
Ronayne, if you will; but, remember, I give but one
choice."
Robin was sadly perplexed; for there were hundreds
upon hundreds of children ; and he had no very clear recollection of the boy he sought. But he walked along the
hall, by the side of Mahon, as if nothing was the matter,
although his great iron dress clanked fearfully at every step,
sounding louder than Robin's own sledge battering on his
anvil.
They had nearly reached the end without speaking, when
Robin, seeing that the only means he had was to make
friends with the giant, determined to try what effect a few
soft words might have.

THE

GIANT'S

STAIRS.

265

"'Tis a fine wholesome appearance the poor children
carry," remarked Robin, " although they have been here so
long shut out from the fresh air and the blessed light of
heaven. ?Tis tenderly your honour must have reared
them!"
" Ay," said the giant, " that is true for you; so give me
your hand; for you are, I believe, a very honest fellow for
a blacksmith."
Robin at the first look did not much like the huge size of
the hand, and, therefore, presented his plough-iron, which
the giant seizing, twisted in his grasp round and round
again as if it had been a potato stalk. On seeing this all the
children set up a shout of laughter. In the midst of their
mirth Robin thought he heard his name called; and all ear
and eye, he put his hand on the boy who he fancied had
spoken, crying out at the same time, " Let me live or die
for it, but this is young Phil Ronayne."
" It is Philip Ronayne—happy Philip Ronayne," said his
young companions; and in an instant the hall became
dark. Crashing noises were heard, and all was in strange
confusion; but Robin held fast his prize, and found himself
lying in the grey dawn of the morning at the head of the
Giant's Stairs with the boy clasped in his arms.
Robin had plenty of gossips to spread the story of his
wonderful adventure: Passage, Monkstown, Carrigaline—
the whole barony of Kerricurrihy rung with it.
" Are you quite sure, Robin, it is young Phil Ronayne
you have brought back with you ?" was the regular question ; for although the boy had been seven years away, his
appearance now was just the same as on the day he was
missed. H e had neither grown taller nor older in look,
and he spoke of things which had happened before he was
carried off as one awakened from sleep, or as if they had
occurred yesterday.
" A m I sure? Well, that's a queer question," was
Robin's reply; "seeing the boy has the blue eye of the
mother, with the foxy hair of the father \ to say nothing of
tkefiurty wart on the right side of his little nose."

266

GIANTS,

However Robin Kelly may have been questioned, the
worthy couple of Ronayne's Court doubted not that he was
the deliverer of their child from the power of the giant MacM a h o n ; and the reward they bestowed on him equalled
their gratitude.
Philip Ronayne lived to be an old m a n ; and he was
remarkable to the day of his death for his skill in working
brass and iron, which it was believed he had learned during
his seven years' apprenticeship to the giant Mahon MacMahon,

A L E G E N D OF KNOCKMANY.
WILLIAM CARLETON.

WHAT Irish man, woman, or child has not heard of our
renowned Hibernian Hercules, the great and glorious Fin
M'Coul ? Not one, from Cape Clear to the Giant's Causeway, nor from that back again to Cape Clear.
And,
by-the-way, speaking of the Giant's Causeway brings me at
once to the beginning of my story. Well, it so happened
that Fin and his gigantic relatives were all working at the
Causeway, in order to make a bridge, or what was still
better, a good stout pad-road, across to Scotland; when
Fin, who was very fond of his wife Oonagh, took it into his
head that he would go home and see how the poor woman
got on in his absence. To be sure, Fin was a true Irishman, and so the sorrow thing in life brought him back, only
to see that she was snug and comfortable, and, above all
things, that she got her rest well at night; for he knew that
the poor woman, when he was with her, used to be subject
to nightly qualms and configurations, that kept him very
anxious, decent man, striving to keep her up to the good
spirits and health that she had when they were first married.

A LEGEND

OF KNOCKMANY.

267

So, accordingly, he pulled up a fir-tree, and, after lopping
off the roots and branches, made a walldng-stick of it, and
set out on his way to Oonagh.
Oonagh, or rather Fin, lived at this time on the very tiptop of Knockmany Hill, which faces a cousin of its own
called Cullamore, that rises up, half-hill, half-mountain, on
the opposite side—east-east by south, as the sailors say,
when they wish to puzzle a landsman.
Now, the truth is, for it must come out, that honest
Fin's affection for his wife, though cordial enough in
itself, was by no manner of means the real cause of
his journey home. There was at that time another giant,
named Cucullin—some say he was Irish, and some say he
was Scotch—but whether Scotch or Irish, sorrow doubt of it
but he was a targer. No other giant of the day could stand
before him; and such was his strength, that, when well
vexed, he could give a stamp that shook the country
about him. The fame and name of him went far and
near; and nothing in the shape of a man, it was said, had
any chance with him in a fight. Whether the story is true
or not, I cannot say, but the report went that, by one blow
of his fists he flattened a thunderbolt, and kept it in his
pocket, in the shape of a pancake, to show to all his
enemies, when they were about to fight him. Undoubtedly
he had given every giant in Ireland a considerable beating,
barring Fin M'Coul himself; and he swore, by the solemn
contents of Moll Kelly's Primer, that he would never rest,
night or day, winter or summer, till he would serve Fin with
the same sauce, if he could catch him. Fin, however, who
no doubt was the cock of the walk on his own dunghill, had
a strong disinclination to meet a giant who could make a
young earthquake, or flatten a thunderbolt when he was
angry; so he accordingly kept dodging about from place to
place, not much to his credit as a Trojan, to be sure, whenever he happened to get the hard word that Cucullin was on
the scent of him. This, then, was the marrow of the whole
movement, although he put it on his anxiety to see Oonagh;
and I am not saying but there was some truth in that too,

268

GIANTS.

However, the short and long of it was, with reverence be it
spoken, that he heard Cucullin was coming to the Causeway
to have a trial of strength with him; and he was naturally
enough seized, in consequence, with a very warm and
sudden sit of affection for his wife, poor woman, who was
delicate in her health, and leading, besides, a very lonely,
uncomfortable life of it (he assured them) in his absence.
H e accordingly pulled up the fir-tree, as I said before, and
having snedded it into a walking-stick, set out on his
affectionate travels to see his darling Oonagh on the top of
Knockmany, by the way.
In truth, to state the suspicions of the country at the time,
the people wondered very much why it was that Fin
selected such a windy spot for his dwelling-house, and they
even went so far as to tell him as much.
"What can you mane, Mr. M'Coul," said they, " b y
pitching your tent upon the top of Knockmany, where you
never are without a breeze, day or night, winter or summer,
and where you're often forced to take your nightcap* without either going to bed or turning up your little finger; ay,
an' where, besides this, there's the sorrow's own want of
water ? "
" Why," said Fin, " ever since I was the height of a round
tower, I was known to be fond of having a good prospect of
my own; and where the dickens, neighbours, could I find
a better spot for a good prospect than the top of Knockmany? As for water, I am sinking a pump,t and, plase
goodness, as soon as the Causeway's made, I intend to
finish it."
Now, this was more of Fin's philosophy \ for the real state
of the case was, that he pitched upon the top of Knockmany
in order that he might be able to see Cucullin coming
towards the house, and, of course, that he himself might go
to look after his distant transactions in other parts of the
* A common name for the cloud or rack that hangs, as a forerunner
of wet weather, about the peak of a mountain.
+ There is upon the top of this hill an opening that bears a very
strong resemblance to the crater of an extinct volcano.

A LEGEND

OE KNOCKMANY.

269

country, rather than—but no matter—we do not wish to be
too hard on Fin. All we have to say is, that if he wanted a
spot from which to keep a sharp look-out—and, between
ourselves, he did want it grievously—barring Slieve Croob,
or Slieve Donard, or its own cousin, Cullamore, he could
not find a neater or more convenient situation for it in the
sweet and sagacious province of Ulster.
" God save all here ! " said Fin, good-humouredly, on
putting his honest face into his own door.
" Musha, Fin, avick, an' you're welcome home to your
own Oonagh, you darlin' bully." Here followed a smack
that is said to have made the waters of the lake at the
bottom of the hill curl, as it were, with kindness and
sympathy.
" Faith," said Fin, " beautiful; an' how are you, Oonagh
—and how did you sport your figure during my absence, my
bilberry ? "
" Never a merrier—as bouncing a grass widow as ever
there was in sweet ' Tyrone among the bushes/ "
Fin gave a short, good-humoured cough, and laughed most
heartily, to show her how much he was delighted that she
made herself happy in his absence.
" An' what brought you home so soon, Fin ?" said
she.
" Why, avourneen," said Fin, putting in his answer in the
proper way, "never the thing but the purest of love and
affection for yourself. Sure you know that's truth, anyhow,
Oonagh."
Fin spent two or three happy days with Oonagh, and felt
himself very comfortable, considering the dread he had of
Cucullin. This, however, grew upon him so much that
his wife could not but perceive something lay on his
mind which he kept altogether to* himself. Let a woman
alone, in the meantime, for ferreting or wheedling a secret
out of her good man, when she wishes. Fin was a proof
of this.
" I t ' s this Cucullin," said he, "that's troubling me.
When the fellow gets angry, and begins to stamp, he'll

270

GIANTS.

shake you a whole townland; and it's well known that he
can stop a thunderbolt, for he always carries one about him
in the shape of a pancake, to show to anyone that might
misdoubt it."
As he spoke, he clapped his thumb in his mouth, which
he always did when he wanted to prophesy, or to know
anything that happened in his absence; and the wife, who
knew what he did it for, said, very sweetly,
" Fin, darling, I hope you don't bite your thumb at me,
dear ? "
" No," said F i n ; " but I bite my thumb, acushla," said
he.
"Yes, jewel; but take care and don't draw blood," said
she. " Ah, Fin ! don't, my bully—don't."
" H e ' s coming," said F i n ; " I see him below Dungannon."
" Thank goodness, dear! an' who is it, avick ? Glory be
to God ! "
" T h a t baste, Cucullin," replied F i n ; " a n d how to
manage I don't know. If I run away, I am disgraced; and
I know that sooner or later I must meet him, for my thumb
tells me so."
" When will he be here ? " said she.
"To-morrow, about two o'clock," replied Fin, with a
groan.
"Well, my bully, don't be cast down," said Oonagh;
" depend on me, and maybe I'll bring you better out of this
scrape than ever you could bring yourself, by your rule o'
thumb."
This quieted Fin's heart very much, for he knew that
Oonagh was hand and glove with the fairies; and, indeed,
to tell the truth, she was supposed to be a fairy herself. If
she was, however, she must have been a kind-hearted one,
for, by all accounts, she never did anything but good in the
neighbourhood.
Now it so happened that Oonagh had a sister named
Granua, living opposite them, on the very top of Cullamore,

which I have mentioned already, and this Granua was quita

A LEGEND

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as powerful as herself. The beautiful valley that lies
between them is not more than about three or four miles
broad, so that of a summer's evening, Granua and Oonagh
were able to hold many an agreeable conversation across it,
from the one hill-top to the other. Upon this occasion
Oonagh resolved to consult her sister as to what was best to
be done in the difficulty that surrounded them.
" Granua," said she, " are you at home ? "
" N o / ' said the other ; " I'm picking bilberries in Althadhawan " {Anglic^ the Devil's Glen).
" Well," said Oonagh, " get up to the top of Cullamore,
look about you, and then tell us what you see*"
" Very well," replied Granua; after a few minutes, " I am
there now."
" What do you see ? " asked the other.
" Goodness be about u s ! " exclaimed Granua, " I see
the biggest giant that ever was known coming up from
Dungannon."
" Ay," said Oonagh, " there's our difficulty* That giant
is the great Cucullin; and he's now commin' up to leather
Fin. What's to be done ? "
" I'll call to him," she replied, " t o come up to Cullamore
and refresh himself, and maybe that will give you and Fin
time to think of some plan to get yourselves out of the
scrape. But," she proceeded, " I'm short of butter, having
in the house only half-a-dozen firkins, and as I'm to have a
few giants and giantesses to spend the evenin' with me, I'd
feel thankful, Oonagh, if you'd throw me up fifteen or
sixteen tubs, or the largest miscaun you have got, and you'll
oblige me very much."
" I'll do that with a heart and a-half," replied Oonagh;
" and, indeed, Granua, I feel myself under great obligations
to you for your kindness in keeping him off of us till we see
what can be done; for what would become of us all if
anything happened Fin, poor man."
She accordingly got the largest miscaun of butter she had
—which might be about the weight of a couple a dozen
mill-stonesj so that you may easily judge of its size—and

272

GIANTS.

calling up to her sister, " Granua," said she, " are you ready ?
I'm going to throw you up a miscaun, so be prepared to
catch it."
" I will," said the other; " a good throw now, and take
care it does not fall short."
Oonagh threw i t ; but, in consequence of her anxiety
about Fin and Cucullin, she forgot to say the charm that
was to send it up, so that, instead of reaching Cullamore, as
she expected, it fell about half-way between the two hills, at
the edge of the Broad Bog near Augher.
" My curse upon you I " she exclaimed; " you've disgraced
me. I now change you into a grey stone. Lie there as a
testimony of what has happened; and may evil betide the
first living man that will ever attempt to remove or injure
you !"
And, sure enough, there it lies to this day, with the mark
of the four fingers and thumb imprinted in it, exactly as it
came out of her hand.
" Never mind," said Granua, " I must only do the best I
can with Cucullin. If all fail, I'll give him a cast of heather
broth to keep the wind out of his stomach, or a panada of
oak-bark to draw it in a b i t ; but, above all things, think of
some plan to get Fin out of the scrape he's in, otherwise
he's a lost man. You know you used to be sharp and
ready-witted; and my own opinion, Oonagh, is, that it will
go hard with you, or you'll outdo Cucullin yet."
She then made a high smoke on the top of the hill, after
which she put her finger in her mouth, and gave three
whistles, and by that Cucullin knew he was invited to Cullamore—for this was the way that the Irish long ago gave a
sign to all strangers and travellers, to let them know they
were welcome to come and take share of whatever was
going.
In the meantime, Fin was very melancholy, and did not
know what to do, or how to act at all. Cucullin was an
ugly customer, no doubt, to meet with; and, moreover, the
idea of the confounded " c a k e " aforesaid flattened the
very heart within him. What chance could he have, strong

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and brave though he was, with a man who could, when put
in a passion, walk the country into earthquakes and knock
thunderbolts into pancakes ? The thing was impossible;
and Fin knew not on what hand to turn him. Right or
left—backward or forward—where to go he could form no
guess whatsoever.
"Oonagh," said he, "can you do nothing for me?
Where's all your invention ? Am I to be skivered like a
rabbit before your eyes, and to have my name disgraced forever in the sight of all my tribe, and me the best man
among them? How am I to fight this man-mountain—•
this huge cross between an earthquake and a thunderbolt ?
—with a pancake in his pocket that was once
"
" B e easy, Fin," replied Oonagh; "troth, I?m ashamed
of you. Keep your toe in your pump, will you ? Talking
of pancakes, maybe we'll give him as good as any he brings
with him—thunderbolt or otherwise. If I don't treat him
to as smart feeding as he's got this many a day, never trust
•Oonagh again. Leave him to me, and do just as I bid
you."
This relieved Fin very much; for, after all, he had great
confidence in his wife, knowing, as he did, that she had got
him out of many a quandary before. The present, however,
was the greatest of all; but still he began to get courage,
and was able to eat his victuals as usual. Oonagh then
drew the nine woollen threads of different colours, which
she always did to find out the best way of succeeding in
anything of importance she went about. She then platted
them into three plats with three colours in each, putting one
on her right arm, one round her heart, and the third round
her right ankle, for then she knew that nothing could fail
with her that she undertook.
Having everything now prepared, she sent round to the
neighbours and borrowed one-and-twenty iron griddles,
which she took and kneaded into the hearts of one-andtwenty cakes of bread, and these she baked on the fire in
the usual way, setting them aside in the cupboard according as they were done. She then put down a large pot of
533

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GIANTS.

new milk, which she made into curds and whey, and gave
Fin due instructions how to use the curds when Cucullin
should come. Having done all this, she sat down quite
contented, waiting for his arrival on the next day about two
o'clock, that being the hour at which he was expected—for
Fin knew as much by the sucking of his thumb. Now, this
was a curious property that Fin's thumb h a d ; but, notwithstanding all the wisdom and logic he used, to suck out of it,
it could never have stood to him here were it not for the
wit of his wife. In this very thing, moreover, he was very
much resembled by his great foe, Cucullin \ for it was well
known that the huge strength he possessed all lay in the
middle finger of his right hand, and that, if he happened by
any mischance to lose it, he was no more, notwithstanding
his bulk, than a common man.
At length, the next day, he was seen coming across the
valley, and Oonagh knew that it was time to commence
operations. She immediately made the cradle, and desired
Fin to lie down in it, and cover himself up with the
clothes.
" You must pass for you own child," said she \ " so just
lie there snug, and say nothing, but be guided by me."
This, to be sure, was wormwood to Fin—I mean* going
into the cradle in such a cowardly manner—but he knew
Oonagh well; and finding that he had nothing else for it,
with a very rueful face he gathered himself into it, and lay
snug, as she had desired him,
About two o'clock, as he had been expected, Cucullin
came in. " God save all here ! " said h e ; " is this where
the great Fin M'Coul lives ? "
" Indeed it is, honest man," replied Oonagh; " God save
you kindly—won't you be sitting ? "
" T h a n k you, ma'am," says he, sitting down; "you're
Mrs. M'Coul, I suppose ? "
" I am," said s h e ; " and I have no reason, I hope, to be
ashamed of my husband."
" N o , " said the other, " h e has the name of being the

strongest and bravest man in Ireland \ but for all that5

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275

there's a man not far from you that's very desirous of taking
a shake with him. Is he at home ? "
" Why, then, no," she replied; " and if ever a man left
his house in a fury, he did. It appears that some one told
him of a big basthoon of a giant called Cucullin being down
at the Causeway to look for him, and so he set out there to
try if he could catch him. Troth, I hope, for the poor
giant's sake, he won't meet with him, for if he does, Fin
will make paste of him at once."
" Well," said the other, " I am Cucullin, and I have been
seeking him these twelve months, but he always kept clear
of m e ; and I will never rest night or day till I lay my hands
on him."
At this Oonagh set up a loud laugh, of great contempt,
by-the-way, and looked at him as if he was only a mere
handful of a man.
" Did you ever see Fin ? " said she, changing her manner
all at once.
" How could I ?" said he ; " h e always took care to keep
his distance."
" I thought so," she replied; " I judged as much; and if
you take my advice, you poor-looking creature, you'll pray
night and day that you may never see him, for I tell you it
will be a black day for you when you do. But, in the meantime, you perceive that the wind's on the door, and as Fin
himself is from home, maybe you'd be civil enough to turn
the house, for it's always what Fin does when he's here."
This was a startler even to Cucullin; but he got up,
however, and after pulling the middle finger of his right
hand until it cracked three times, he went outside, and
getting his arms about the house, completely turned it as
she had wished. When Fin saw this, he felt a certain
description of moisture, which shall be nameless, oozing out
through every pore of his skin; but Oonagh, depending
upon her woman's wit, felt not a whit daunted.
"Arrah, then," said she, " a s you are so civil, maybe
you'd do another obliging turn for us, as Fin's not here to
do it himself.
You see, after this long-stretch of dry

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weather we've had, we feel very badly off for want of water.
Now, Fin says there's a fine spring-well somewhere under
the rocks behind the hill here below, and it was his intention to pull them asunder; but having heard of you, he
left the place in such a fury, that he never thought of it.
Now, if you try to find it, troth I'd feel it a kindness.55
She then brought Cucullin down to see the place, which
was then all one solid rock; and, after looking at it for
some time, he cracked his right middle finger nine times,
and, stooping down, tore a cleft about four hundred feet
deep, and a quarter of a mile in length, which has since
been christened by the name of Lumford's Glen. This feat
nearly threw Oonagh herself off her guard; but what won5t
a woman's sagacity and presence of mind accomplish ?
"You'll now come in," said he, " a n d eat a bit of such
humble fare as we can give you. Fin, even although he
and you are enemies, would scorn not to treat you kindly
in his own house; and, indeed, if I didn't do it even in his
absence, he would not be pleased with me."
She accordingly brought him in, and placing half-a-dozen
of the cakes we spoke of before him, together with a can or
two of butter, a side of boiled bacon, and a stack of
cabbage, she desired him to help himself—for this, be it
known, was long before the invention of potatoes. Cucullin,
who, by the way, was a glutton as well as a hero, put one
of the cakes in his mouth to take a huge whack out of it,
when both Fin and Oonagh were stunned with a noise that
resembled something between a growl and a yell. " Blood
and fury ] " he shouted ; " how is this ? Here are two of
my teeth out! What kind of bread is this you gave me ? "
" What's the matter ? " said Oonagh coolly.
" Matter !" shouted the other again ; "why, here are the
two best teeth in my head gone."
"Why," said she, "that's Fin's bread—the only bread he
ever eats when at h o m e ; but, indeed, I forgot to tell you
that nobody can eat it but himself, and that child in the
cradle there.
I thought, however, that, as you were
reported to be rather a stout little fellow of your size, you

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^77

might be able to manage it, and I did not wish to affront a
man that thinks himself able to fight Fin. Here's another
cake—maybe it's not so hard as that."
Cucullin at the moment was not only hungry, but
ravenous, so he accordingly made a fresh set at the second
cake, and immediately another yell was heard twice as loud
as the first. "Thunder and giblets!" he roared, "take
your bread out of this, or I will not have a tooth in my
head; there's another pair of them gone ! "
" Well, honest man," replied Oonagh, " if you're not able
to eat the bread, say so quietly, and don't be wakening the
child in the cradle there. There, now, he's awake upon
me."
Fin now gave a skirl that startled the giant, as coming
from such a youngster as he was represented to be.
" Mother," said he, " I'm hungry—get me something to eat."
Oonagh went over, and putting into his hand a cake that
had no griddle in it, Fin, whose appetite in the meantime
was sharpened by what he saw going forward, soon made
it disappear.
Cucullin was thunderstruck, and secretly
thanked his stars that he -had the good fortune to miss
meeting Fin, for, as he said to himself, I'd have no
chance with a man who could eat such bread as that, which
even his son that's but in his cradle can munch before my
eyes.
" I'd like to take a glimpse at the lad in the cradle," said
he to Oonagh; "for I can tell you that the infant who can
manage that nutriment is no joke to look at, or to feed of a
scarce summer."
"With all the veins of my heart," replied Oonagh;
"get up, acushla, and show this decent little man something that won't be unworthy of your father, Fin M'Coul."
Fin, who was dressed for the occasion as much like a boy
as possible, got up, and bringing Cucullin out, "Are you
strong ? " said he.
" Thunder an' ounds !" exclaimed the other, " what a
voice in so small a c h a p ! "
" Are you strong ?" said Fin again; " are you able to

2?8

GIANTS.

squeeze water out of that white stone ? " he asked, putting
one into Cucullin's hand. The latter squeezed and squeezed
the stone, but to no purpose; he might pull the rocks of
Lumford's Glen asunder, and flatten a thunderbolt, but to
squeeze water out of a white stone was beyond his strength.
Fin eyed him with great contempt, as he kept straining and
squeezing and squeezing and straining, till he got black in
the face with the efforts.
"Ah, you're a poor creature ! " said Fin. " You a giant!
Give me the stone here, and when I'll show what Fin's
little son can d o ; you may then judge of what my daddy
himself is."
Fin then took the stone, and slyly exchanging it for the
curds, he squeezed the latter until the whey, as clear as
water, oozed out in a little shower from his hand.
"I'll now go in," said he " t o my cradle; for I scorn to
lose my time with any one that's not able to eat my daddy's
bread, or squeeze water out of a stone. Bedad, you had
better be off out of this before he comes back; for if he
catches you, it's in flummery he'd have you in two minutes."
Cucullin, seeing what he had seen, was of the same
opinion himself; his knees knocked together with the
terror of Fin's return, and he accordingly hastened in to bid
Oonagh farewell, and to assure her, that from that day out,
he never wished to hear of, much less to see, her husband.
" I admit fairly that I'm not a match for him," said he,
" strong as I a m ; tell him I will avoid him as I would the
plague, and that I will make myself scarce in this part of
the country while I live."
Fin, in the meantime, had gone into the cradle, where he
lay very quietly, his heart at his mouth with delight that
Cucullin was about to take his departure, without discovering
the tricks that had been played off on him.
" It's well for you," said Oonagh, " that he doesn't happen
to be here, for it's nothing but hawk's meat he'd make of
you."
" I know that," says Cucullin; "divil a thing else he'd
make of me ; but before I go, will you let me feel what kind

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of teeth they are that can eat griddle-bread like that ? "—
and he pointed to it as he spoke.
" With all pleasure in life," said s h e ; " only, as they're
far back in his head, you must put your finger a good way
in."
Cucullin was surprised to find such a powerful set of
grinders in one so young; but he was still much more so
on finding, when he took his hand from Fin's mouth, that
he had left the very finger upon which his whole strength
depended, behind him. H e gave one loud groan, and fell
down at once with terror and weakness. This was all Fin
wanted, who now knew that his most powerful and bitterest
enemy was completely at his mercy. H e instantly started
out of the cradle, and in a few minutes the great Cucullin,
that was for such a length of time the terror of him and all
his followers, lay a corpse before him. Thus did Fin,
through the wit and invention of Oonagh, his wife, succeed
in overcoming his enemy by stratagem, which he never
could have done by force: and thus also is it proved that
the women, if they bring us into many an unpleasant scrape,
can sometimes succeed in getting us out of others that are
as bad.

KINGS, QUEENS, PRINCESSES,
EARLS, ROBBERS.
• •

T H E TWELVE WILD GEESE.*
PATRICK KENNEDY.

T H E R E was once a King and Queen that lived very happily
together, and they had twelve sons and not a single
daughter. We are always wishing for what we haven't, and
don't care for what we have, and so it was with the Queen.
One day in winter, when the bawn was covered with snow,
she was looking out of the parlour window, and saw there a
calf that was just killed by the butcher, and a raven
standing near it. " Oh," says she, " if I had only a daughter
with her skin as white as that snow, her cheeks as red as
that blood, and her hair as black as that raven, I'd give
away every one of my twelve sons for her." The moment
she said the word, she got a great fright, and a shiver went
through her, and in an instant after, a severe-looking old
woman stood before her. " That was a wicked wish you
made," said she, " a n d to punish you it will be granted.
You will have such a daughter as you desire, but the very
day of her birth you will lose your other children." She
vanished the moment she said the words.
And that very way it turned out. When she expected
her delivery, she had her children all in a large room of the
* The Fireside Stories of Ireland (Gill & Son, Dublin).

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palace, with guards all round it, but the very hour her
daughter came into the world, the guards inside and outside
heard a great whirling and whistling, and the twelve princes
were seen flying one after another out through the open
window, and away like so many arrows over the woods.
Well, the king was in great grief for the loss of his sons,
and he would be very enraged with his wife if he only knew
that she was so much to blame for it.
Everyone called the little princess Snow-white-and-Rosered on account of her beautiful complexion. She was the
most loving and lovable child that could be seen anywhere.
When she was twelve years old she began to be very sad
and lonely, and to torment her mother, asking her about her
brothers that she thought were dead, for none up to that
time ever told her the exact thing that happened them.
The secret was weighing very heavy on the Queen's conscience, and as the little girl persevered in her questions, at
last she told her. "Well, mother," said she, " i t was on
my account my poor brothers were changed into wild geese,
and are now suffering all sorts of hardship; before the world
is a day older, 111 be off to seek them, and try to restore
them to their own shapes."
The King and Queen had her well watched, but all was
no use. Next night she was getting through the woods that
surrounded the palace, and she went on and on that night,
and till the evening of next day. She had a few cakes with
her, and she got nuts, and mugoreens (fruit of the sweet
briar), and some sweet crabs, as she went along. At last she
came to a nice wooden house just at sunset. There was a
fine garden round it, full of the handsomest flowers, and a
gate in the hedge. She went in, and saw a table laid out
with twelve plates, and twelve knives and forks, and twelve
spoons, and there were cakes, and cold wild fowl, and fruit
along with the plates, and there was a good fire, and in
another long room there were twelve beds. Well, while she
was looking about her she heard the gate opening, and footsteps along the walk, and in came twelve young men, and
there was great grief and surprise on all their faces when

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they laid eyes on her. " Oh, what misfortune sent you
here?" said the eldest. "For the sake of a girl we were
obliged to leave our father's court, and be in the shape of
wild geese all day. That's twelve years ago, and we took a
solemn oath that we would kill the first young girl that came
into our hands. It's a pity to put such an innocent and
handsome girl as you are out of the world, but we must
keep our oath." "But," said she, "I'm your only sister,
that never knew anything about this till yesterday; and I
stole away from our father's and mother's palace last night
to find you out and relieve you if I can." Every one of
them clasped his hands, and looked down on the floor, and
you could hear a pin fall till the eldest cried out, " A curse
light on our oath ! what shall we do ? " " I'll tell you that,"
said an old woman that appeared at the instant among
them. " Break your wicked oath, which no one should keep.
If you attempted to lay an uncivil finger on her I'd change
you into twelve booliaun buis (stalks of ragweed), but I wish
well to you as well as to her. She is appointed to be your
deliverer in this way. She must spin and knit twelve shirts
for you out of bog-down, to be gathered by her own hands
on the moor just outside of the wood. It will take her five
years to do it, and if she once speaks, or laughs, or cries the
whole time, you will have to remain wild geese by day till
you're called out of the world. So take care of your sister;
it is worth your while." The fairy then vanished, and it was
only a strife with the brothers to see who would be first to
kiss and hug their sister.
So for three long years the poor young princess was
occupied pulling bog-down, spinning it, and knitting it into
shirts, and at the end of the three years she had eight made.
During all that time, she never spoke a word, nor laughed,
nor cried : the last was the hardest to refrain from. One
fine day she was sitting in the garden spinning, when in
sprung a fine greyhound and bounded up to her, and laid
his paws on her shoulder, and licked her forehead and her
hair. The next minute a beautiful young prince rode up to
the little garden gate, took off his hat, and asked for leave

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to come in. She gave him a little nod, and in he walked.
H e made ever so many apologies for intruding, and asked
her ever so many questions, but not a word could he get
out of her. H e loved her so much from the first moment,
that he could not leave her till he told her he was king of a
country just bordering on the forest, and he begged her to
come home with him, and be his wife. She couldn't help
loving him as much as he did her, and though she shook
her head very often, and was very sorry to leave her brothers,
at last she nodded her head, and put her hand in his. She
knew well enough that the good fairy and her brothers
would be able to find her out. Before she went she brought
out a basket holding all her bog-down, and another holding
the eight shirts. The attendants took charge of these, and
the prince placed her before him on his horse. The only
thing that disturbed him while riding along was the displeasure his stepmother would feel at what he had done.
However, he was full master at home, and as soon as he
arrived he sent for the bishop, got his bride nicely dressed,
and the marriage was celebrated, the bride answering by
signs. H e knew by her manners she was of high birth, and
no two could be fonder of each other.
The wicked stepmother did all she could to make mischief, saying she was sure she was only a woodman's
daughter; but nothing could disturb the young king's opinion
of his wife. In good time the young queen was delivered
of a beautiful boy, and the king was so glad he hardly knew
what to do for joy. All the grandeur of the christening and
the happiness of the parents tormented the bad woman
more than I can tell you, and she determined to put a stop
to all their comfort. She got a sleeping posset given to the
young mother, and while she was thinking and thinking how
she could best make away with the child, she saw a wickedlooking wolf in the garden, looking up at her, and licking
his chops. She lost no time, but snatched the child from
the arms of the sleeping woman, and pitched it out. The
beast caught it in his mouth, and was over the garden fence
in a minute. The wicked woman then pricked her own

284

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fingers, and dabbled the blood round the mouth of the
sleeping mother.
Well, the young king was just then coming into the big
bawn from hunting, and as soon as he entered the house,
she beckoned to him, shed a few crocodile tears, began to
cry and wring her hands, and hurried him along the passage
to the bedchamber.
Oh, wasn't the poor king frightened when he saw the
queen's mouth bloody, and missed his child? It would
take two hours to tell you the devilment of the old queen,
the confusion and fright, and grief of the young king and
queen, the bad opinion he began to feel of his wife, and the
struggle she had to keep down her bitter sorrow, and not
give way to it by speaking or lamenting. The young king
would not allow any one to be called, and ordered his stepmother to give out that the child fell from the mother's arms
at the window, and that a wild beast ran off with it. The
wicked woman pretended to do so, but she told underhand
to everybody she spoke to what the king and herself saw in
the bed-chamber.
The young queen was the most unhappy woman in the
three kingdoms for a long time, between sorrow for her
child, and her husband's bad opinion; still she neither spoke
nor cried, and she gathered bog-down and went on with
the shirts. Often the twelve wild geese would be seen lighting on the trees in the park or on the smooth sod, and looking
in at her windows. So she worked on to get the shirts
finished, but another year was at an end, and she had the
twelfth shirt finished except one arm, when she was obliged
to take to her bed, and a beautiful girl was born.
Now the king was on his guard, and he would not let the
mother and child be left alone for a minute; but the wicked
woman bribed some of the attendants, set others asleep,
gave the sleepy posset to the queen, and had a person
watching to snatch the child away, and kill it. But what
should she see but the same wolf in the garden looking up,
and licking his chops again ? Out went the child, and away
with it flew the wolf, and she smeared the sleeping mother's

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mouth and face with blood, and then roared, and bawled,
and cried out to the king and to everybody she met, and the
room was filled, and everyone was sure the young queen had
just devoured her own babe.
The poor mother thought now her life would leave her.
She was in such a state she could neither think nor,pray,
but she sat like a stone, and worked away at the arm of the
twelfth shirt.
The king was for taking her to the house in the wood
where he found her, but the stepmother, and the lords of the
court, and the judges would not hear of it, and she was
condemned to be burned in the big bawn at three o'clock
the same day. When the hour drew near, the king went to
the farthest part of his palace, and there was no moie
unhappy man in his kingdom at that hour.
When the executioners came and led her off, she took the
pile of shirts in her arms. There was still a few stitches
wanted, and while they were tying her to the stakes she
still worked on. At the last stitch she seemed overcome and dropped a tear on her work, but the moment
after she sprang up, and shouted out, u I a r a innocent • call
my husband!" The executioners stayed their hands, except
one wicked-disposed creature, who set fire to the faggot next
him, and while all were struck in amaze, there was a rushing
of wings, and in a moment the twelve wild geese were standing around the pile. Before you could count twelve, she flung
a shirt over each bird, and there in the twinkling of an eye
were twelve of the finest young men that could be collected
out of a thousand. While some were untying their sister, the
eldest, taking a strong stake in his hand, struck the busy
executioner such a blow that he never needed another.
While they were comforting the young queen, and the
king was hurrying to the spot, a fine-looking woman appeared among them holding the babe on one arm and the
little prince by the hand. There was nothing but crying for
joy, and laughing for joy, and hugging and kissing, and
when any one had time to thank the good fairy, who in the
shape of a wolf, carried the child away, she was not to be

286

KINGS,

QUEENS.

found. Never was such happiness enjoyed in any palace
that ever was built, and if the wicked queen and her helpers
were not torn by wild horses, they richly deserved it.

THE LAZY BEAUTY AND HER AUNTS.
PATRICK KENNEDY'S " F I R E S I D E STORIES OF IRELAND."

T H E R E was once a poor widow woman, who had a daughter
that was as handsome as the day, and as lazy as a pig,
saving your presence. The poor mother was the most
industrious person in the townland, and was a particularly
good hand at the spinning-wheel. It was the wish of her
heart that her daughter should be as handy as herself; but
she'd get up late, eat her breakfast before she'd finish her
prayers, and then go about dawdling, and anything she
handled seemed to be burning her fingers. She drawled
her words as if it was a great trouble to her to speak, or as
if her tongue was as lazy as her body. Many a heart-scald
her poor mother got with her, and still she was only
improving like dead fowl in August.
Well, one morning that things were as bad as they could
be, and the poor woman was giving tongue at the rate of a
mill-clapper, who should be riding by but the king's son.
" Oh dear, oh dear, good woman!" said he, " you must
have a very bad child to make you scold so terribly. Sure
it can't be this handsome girl that vexed you !" " Oh,
please your Majesty, not at all," says the old dissembler.
" I was only checking her for working herself too much.
Would your majesty believe it ? She spins three pounds of
flax in a day, weaves it into linen the next, and makes it all
into shirts the day after," " My gracious," says the prince,

" she's the very lady that will just fill my mother's eye, and
herselfs the greatest spinner in the kingdom, Will you put

THE LAZY BE A UTK

287

on your daughter's, bonnet and cloak, if you please, ma'am,
and set her behind me? Why, my mother will be so
delighted with her, that perhaps she'll make her her daughterin-law in a week, that is, if the young woman herself is
agreeable."
Well, between the confusion, and the joy, and the fear
of being found out, the women didn't know what to do,;
and before they could make up their minds, young Anty
(Anastasia) was set behind the prince, and away he and
his attendants went, and a good heavy purse was left
behind with the mother. She pullillued a long time after
all was gone, in dread of something bad happening to the
poor girl.
The prince couldn't judge of the girl's breeding or wit
from the few answers he pulled out of her. The queen
was struck in a heap when she saw a young country girl
sitting behind her son, but when she saw her handsome
face, and heard all she could do, she didn't think she could
make too much of her. The prince took an opportunity of
whispering her that if she didn't object to be his wife she
must strive to please his mother. Well, the evening went
by, and the prince and Anty were getting fonder and fonder
of one another, but the thought of the spinning used to
send the cold to her heart every moment. When bed-time
came, the old queen went along with her to a beautiful
bedroom, and when she was bidding her good-night, she
pointed to a heap of fine flax, and said, " You may begin as
soon as you like to-morrow morning, and I'll expect to see
these three pounds in nice thread the morning after."
Little did the poor girl sleep that night. She kept crying
and lamenting that she didn't mind her mother's advice
better. When she was left alone next morning, she began
with a heavy heart; and though she had a nice mahogany
wheel and the finest flax you ever saw, the thread was
breaking every moment. One while it was as fine as a
cobweb, and the next as coarse as a little boy's whipcord.
At last she pushed her chair back, lot her hands fall in her
lap, and burst out a-crying.

288

KINGS,

QUEENS.

A small, old woman with surprising big feet appeared
before her at the same moment, and said, " What ails you,
you handsome colleen ? " " An' haven't I all that flax to
spin before to-morrow morning, and I'll never be able to
have even five yards of fine thread of it put together.7' " An'
would you think bad to ask poor Colliagh Cushmor (Old
woman Big-foot) to your wedding with the young prince ?
If you promise me that, all your three pounds will be made
into the finest of thread while you're taking your sleep
to-night." " Indeed, you must be there and welcome, and
I'll honour you all the days of your life." " Very well; stay
in your room till tea-time, and tell the queen she may come
in for her thread as early as she likes to-morrow morning."
It was all as she said ; and the thread was finer and evener
than the gut you see with fly-fishers. " My brave girl you
were!" says the queen. " I'll get my own mahogany loom
brought into you, but you needn't do anything more to-day.
Work and rest, work and rest, is my motto. To-morrow
you'll weave all this thread, and who knows what may
happen ? "
The poor girl was more frightened this time than the last,
and she was so afraid to lose the prince. She didn't even
know how to put the warp in the gears, nor how to use the
shuttle, and she was sitting in the greatest grief, when a
little woman, who was mighty well-shouldered about the
hips, all at once appeared to her, told her her name was
Colliach Cromanmor, and made the same bargain with her
as Colliach Cushmor. Great was the queen's pleasure when
she found early in the morning a web as fine and white as
the finest paper you ever saw. " The darling you were !"
says she. " Take your ease with the ladies and gentlemen
to-day, and if your have all this made into nice shirts
to-morrow you may present one of them to my son, and
be married to him out of hand."
Oh, wouldn't you pity poor Anty the next day, she was
now so near the prince, and, maybe, would be soon so far
from him. But she waited as patiently as she could with
scissors, needle, and thread in hand, till a minute after noon.

THE

LAZY

BEA UTY.

289

Then she was rejoiced to see the third old woman appear.
She had a big red nose, and informed Anty that people
called her Shron Mor Rua on that account. She was up
to her as good as the others, for a dozen fine shirts were
lying on the table when the queen paid her an early visit.
. Now there was nothing talked of but the wedding, and I
needn't tell you it was grand. The poor mother was
there along with the rest, and at the dinner the old queen
could talk of nothing but the lovely shirts, and how happy
herself and the bride would be after the honeymoon,
spinning, and weaving, and sewing shirts and shifts without
end. The bridegroom didn't like the discourse, and the
bride liked it less, and he was going to say something, when
the footman came up to the head of the table and said to
the bride, " Your ladyship's aunt, Colliach Cushmor, bade
me ask might she come in." The bride blushed and wished
she was seven miles under the floor, but well became the
prince. "Tell Mrs. Cushmor," said he, "that any relation
of my bride's will be always heartily welcome wherever she
and I are." In came the woman with the big foot, and
got a seat near the prince. The old queen didn't like it
much, and after a few words she asked rather spitefully,
" Dear ma'am, what's the reason your foot is so big ?"
" Musha, faith, your majesty, I was standing almost all my
life at the spinning-wheel, and that's the reason." " I declare
to you, my darling," said the prince, " I'll never allow you
to spend one hour at the same spinning-wheel." The
same footman said again, "Your ladyship's aunt, Colliach
Cromanmor, wishes to come in, if the genteels and yourself
have no objection." Very sharoose (displeased) was Princess Anty, but the prince sent her welcome, and she took
her seat, and drank healths apiece to the company.
" M a y I ask, ma'am ? " says the old queen, " why you're so
wide half-way between the head and the feet ? " " That,
your majesty, is owing to sitting all my life at the loom."
"By my sceptre," says the prince, " m y wife shall never sit
there an hour." The footman again came up. "Your
ladyship's aunt, Colliach Shron Mor Rua, is asking leave to
534

290

KINGS,

QUEENS.

come into the banquet." More blushing on the bride's
face, but the bridegroom spoke out cordially, " Tell Mrs.
Shron Mor Rua she's doing us an honour." In came the
old woman, and great respect she got near the top of the
table, but the people down low put up their tumblers and
glasses to their noses to hide the grins. " Ma'am," says the
old queen, " will you tell us, if you please, why your nose
is so big and red ? " " Throth, your majesty, my head was
bent down over the stitching all my life, and all the blood
in my body rah into my nose." " My darling," said the
prince to Anty, " if ever I see a needle in your hand, I'll
run a hundred miles from you."
"And in troth, girls and boys, though it's a diverting
story, I don't think the moral is good; and if any of you
thuckeens go about imitating Anty in her laziness, you'll
find it won't thrive with you as it did with her. She was
beautiful beyond compare, which none of you are, and she
had three powerful fairies to help her besides. There's no
fairies now, and no prince or lord to ride by, and catch you
idling or working; and maybe, after all, the prince and
hersejf were not so very happy when the cares of the world
or old age came on them."
Thus was the tale ended by poor old Shebale (Sybilla),
Father Murphy's housekeeper, in Coolbawn, Barony of
Bantry, about half a century since.

T H E H A U G H T Y PRINCESS.*
BY PATRICK KENNEDY.

T H E R E was once a very worthy king, whose daughter was
the greatest beauty that could be seen far or near, but she
was as proud as Lucifer, and no king or prince would she
agree to marry. Her father was tired out at last, aud invited
* Fireside Stories of Ireland.

THE HA UGHTY

PRINCESS.

every king, and prince, and duke, and earl that he knew or
didn't know to come to his court to give her one trial more.
They all came, and next day after breakfast they stood in a
row in the lawn, and the princess walked along in the front
of them to make her choice. One was fat, and says she,
" I won't have you, Beer-barrel! " One was tall and thin,
and to him she said, " I won't have you, Ramrod ! " To a
white-faced man she said, " I won't have you, Pale Death;"
and to a red-cheeked man she said, " I won't have you,
Cockscomb!'' She stopped a little before the last of all,
for he was a fine man in face and form. She wanted to
find some defect in him, but he had nothing remarkable
but a ring of brown curling hair under his chin. Shp
admired him a little, and then carried it off with, " I won't
have you, Whiskers I "
So all went away, and the king was so vexed, he said to
her, " Now to punish your impedence^ I'll give you to the
first beggarman or singing sthronshuch that calls;" and, as
sure as the hearth-money, a fellow all over rags, and hair
that came to his shoulders, and a bushy red beard all over
his face, came next morning, and began to sing before the
parlour window.
When the song was over, the hall-door was opened, the
singer asked in, the priest brought, and the princess married
to Beardy. She roared and she bawled, but her father
didn't mind her. " There," says he to the bridegroom, " is
five guineas for you. Take your wife out of my sight, and
never let me lay eyes on you or her again."
Off he led her, and dismal enough she was. The only
thing that gave her relief was the tones of her husband's
voice and his genteel manners. "Whose wood is t h i s ? "
said she, as they were going through one. " I t belongs to
the king you called Whiskers yesterday." He gave her the
same answer about meadows and corn-fields, and at fast a
fine city. "Ah, what a fool I was!" said she to herself.
" H e was a fine man, and I might have him for a husband."
At last they were coming up to a poor cabin. " Why are
you bringing me here?" says the poor lady. "This was

292

KINGS,

QUEENS.

my house," said he, " a n d now it's yours." She began to
cry, but she was tired and hungry, and she went in with
him.
Ovoch! there was neither a table laid out, nor a fire
burning, and she was obliged to help her husband to light
it, and boil their dinner, and clean up the place after; and
next day he made her put on a stuff gown and a cotton
handkerchief. When she had her house readied up, and
no business to keep her employed, he brought home sallies
[willows], peeled them, and showed her how to make baskets.
But the hard twigs bruised her delicate fingers, and she
began to cry. Well, then he asked her to mend their
clothes, but the needle drew blood from her fingers, and
she cried again. He couldn't bear to see her tears, so he
bought a creel of earthenware, and sent her to the market
to sell them. This was the hardest trial of all, but she
looked so handsome and sorrowful, and had such a nice
air about her, that all her pans, and jugs, and plates, and
dishes were gone before noon, and the only mark of her old
pride she showed was a slap she gave a buckeen across the
face when he axed her to go in an' take share of a quart.
Well, her husband was so glad, he sent her with another
creel the next day; but faith! her luck was after deserting
her. A drunken huntsman came up riding, and his beast
got in among her ware, and made brishe of every mother's
son of 'em. She went home cryin', and her husband wasn't
at all pleased. " I see," said he, "you're not fit for business. Come along, I'll get you a kitchen-maid's place in
the palace. I know the cook."
So the poor thing was obliged to stifle her pride once
more. She was kept very busy, and the footman and the
butler would be very impudent about looking for a kiss,
but she let a screech out of her the first attempt was made,
and-the cook gave the fellow such a lambasting with the
besom that he made no second offer. She went home to
her husband every night, and she carried broken victuals
wrapped in papers in her side pockets.
A week after she got service there was great bustle in

THE HA UGHTY

PRINCESS.

the kitchen. The king was going to be married, but no
one knew who the bride was to be. Well, in the evening
the cook filled the princess's pockets with cold meat and
puddings, and, says she, " Before you go, let us have a look
at the great doings in the big parlour." So they came near
the door to get a peep, and who should come out but the
king himself, as handsome as you please, and no other but
King Whiskers himself. "Your handsome helper must
pay for her peeping," said he to the cook, " and dance a
jig with me." Whether she would or no, he held her hand
and brought her into the parlour. The fiddlers struck up,
and away went him with her. But they hadn't danced two
steps when the meat and thepuddens flew out of her pockets.
Every one roared out, and she flew to the door, crying
piteously. But she was soon caught by the king, and taken
into the back parlour. " Don't you know me, my darling ? "
said he. " I ' m both King Whiskers, your husband the
ballad-singer, and the drunken huntsman. Your father
knew me well enough when he gave you to me, and all was
to drive your pride out of you." Well, she didn't know
how she was with fright, and shame, and joy. Love was
uppermost anyhow, for she laid her head on her husband's
breast and cried like a child. The maids-of-honour soon had
her away and dressed her as fine as hands and pins could
do it; and there were her mother and father, too; and while
the company were wondering what end of the handsome
girl and the king, he and his queen, who they didn't know
in her fine clothes, and the other king and queen, came
in, and such rejoicings and fine doings as there was, none
of us will ever see, any way.

294

KINGS,

QUEENS.

T H E E N C H A N T M E N T O F G E A R O I D H IARLA.
BY PATRICK KENNEDY.*

I N old times in Ireland there was a great man of the
Fitzgeralds. The name on him was Gerald, but the Irish,
that always had a great liking for the family, called him
Gearoidh Iarla (Earl Gerald). H e had a great castle or
rath at Mullymast (Mullaghmast)\ and whenever the
English Government were striving to put some wrong on
the country, he was always the man that stood up for it.
Along with being a great leader in a fight, and very skilful
at all weapons, he was deep in the black art, and could
change himself into whatever shape he pleased. His lady
knew that he had this power, and often asked him to let
her into some of his secrets, but he never would gratify her.
She wanted particularly to see him in some strange shape,
but he put her off and off on one pretence or other. But
she wouldn't be a woman if she hadn't perseverance; and
so at last he let her know that if she took the least fright
while he'd be out of his natural form, he would never
recover it till many generations of men would be under the
mould. " O h ! she wouldn't be a fit wife for Gearoidh Iarla
if she could be easily frightened. Let him but gratify her
in this whim, and he'd see what a hero she was !" So one
beautiful summer evening, as they were sitting in their
grand drawing-room, he turned his face away frorri her and
muttered some words, and while you'd wink he was clever
and clean out of sight, and a lovely goldfinch was flying
about the room.
The lady, as courageous as she thought herself, was a
little startled, but she held her own pretty well, especially
when he came and perched on her shoulder, and shook his
wings, and put his little beak to her lips, and whistled the
delightfulest tune you ever heard. Well, he flew in circles
round the room, and played hide and go seek with his lady,
* Legendary Fiction of the Irish Celts,— (Macmillan.)

ENCHANTMENT

OF GEAROIDH

IARLA.

295

and flew out into the garden, and flew back again, and lay
down in her lap as if he was asleep, and jumped up again.
Well, when the thing had lasted long enough to satisfy
both, he took one flight more into* the open air; but by my
word he was soon on his return. H e flew right into his
lady's bosom, and the next moment a fierce hawk was after
him. The wife gave one loud scream, though there was no
need, for the wild bird came in like an arrow, and struck
against a table with such force that the life was dashed out of
him. She turned her eyes from his quivering body to
where she saw the goldfinch an instant before, but neither
goldfinch nor Earl Gerald did she ever lay eyes on again.
Once every seven years the Earl rides round the Curragh
of Kildare on a steed, whose silver shoes were half an inch
thick the time he disappeared; and when these shoes are
worn as thin as a cat's ear, he will be restored to the society
of living men, fight a great battle with the English, and
reign king of Ireland for two-score years.*
Himself and his warriors are now sleeping in a long
cavern under the Rath of Mullaghmast. There is a table
running along through the middle of the cave. The Earl is
sitting at the head* and his troopers down along in complete
armour both sides of the table, and their heads resting on
it. Their horses, saddled and bridled, are standing behind
their masters in their stalls at each side; and when the day
comes, the miller's son that's to be born with six fingers on
each hand, will blow his trumpet, and the horses will stamp
and whinny, and the knights awake and mount their steeds,
and go forth to battle.
Some night that happens once in every seven years, while
the Earl is riding round the Curragh, the entrance may be
seen by any one chancing to pass by. About a hundred
years ago, a horse-dealer that was late abroad and a little
drunk, saw the lighted cavern, and went in. The lights,
and the stillness, and the sight of the men in armour, cowed
him a good deal, and he became sober. His hands began
* The last time Gearoidh larla appeared the horse-shoes weie as thin
as a sixpence.

296

KINGS,

QUEENS.

to tremble, and he let a bridle fall on the pavement. The
sound of the bit echoed through the long cave, and one of
the warriors that was next him lifted his head a little, and
said, in a deep hoarse voice, " Is it time yet ? " H e had the
wit to say, " Not yet, but soon will," and the heavy helmet
sunk down on the table. The horse-dealer made the best
of his way out, and I never heard of any other one having
got the same opportunity.

M U N A C H A R AND MANACHAR.
TRANSLATED LITERALLY FROM THE IRISH BY
DOUGLAS HYDE.

THERE once lived a Munachar and a Manachar, a long
time ago, and it is a long time since it was, and if they
were alive then they would not be alive now. They went
out together to pick raspberries, and as many as Munachar
used to pick Manachar used to eat. Munachar said he
must go look for a rod to make a gad (a withy band) to
hang Manachar, who ate his raspberries every o n e ; and he
came to the rod. " God save you," said the rod. " God
and Mary save you." " How far are you going ? " " Going
looking for a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang
Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one."
"You will not get me," said the rod, "until you get an
axe to cut me." He came to the axe. " God save you,"
said the axe. " God and Mary save you." " How far are
you going ? " " Going looking for an axe, an axe to cut a
rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate
my raspberries every one."
"You will not get me," said the axe, "until you get a
flag to edge me." H e came to the flag. " God save you,"
says the flag." " God and Mary save you." " How far are
you going ?" " Going looking for an axe, axe to cut a rod,

MUNACHAR

AND

MANACHAR,

297

a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my
raspberries every one."
"You will not get me," says the flag, "till you get water
to wet me." He came to the water. " G o d save you,"
says the water. " God and Mary save you." " How far
are you going ? " " Going looking for water, water to wet
flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a
gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one."
"You will not get me," said the water, " until you get a
deer .who will swim me." H e came to the deer. " God
save you," says the deer. " G o d and Mary save you."
" How far are you going ? " " Going looking for a deer,
deer to swim water, water to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe
to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar,
who ate my raspberries every one."
" You will not get me," said the deer, " until you get a
hound who will hunt me." He came to the hound. "God
save you," says the hound. " God and Mary save you."
" How far are you going ? " " Going looking for a hound,
hound to hunt deer, deer to swim water, water to wet flag,
flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a
gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one."
" You will not get me," said the hound, " until you get a
bit of butter to put in my claw." H e came to the butter.
" God save you," says the butter. " God and Mary save
you." " How far are you going ? " " Going looking for
butter, butter to go in claw of hound, hound to hunt deer,
deer to swim water, water to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe
to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar,
who ate my raspberries every one."
"You will not get me," said the butter, "until you get a
cat who shall scrape me." He came to the cat. " God
save you," said the cat. " God and Mary save you."
" How far are you going ? " " Going looking for a cat, cat,
to scrape butter, butter to go in claw of hound, hound to
hunt deer, deer to swim water, water to wet flag, flag to
edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, gad to
hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one."

298

KINGS,

QUEENS.

" You will not get me," said the cat, " until you will get
milk which you will give me." H e came to the cow.
" God save you," said the cow. " God and Mary save you."
" How far are you going ? " " Going looking for a cow, cow
to give me milk, milk I will give to the cat, cat to scrape
butter, butter to go in claw of hound, hound to hunt deer,
deer to swim water, water to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe
to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar,
who ate my raspberries every one."
"You will not get any milk from me," said the cow,
" until you bring me a whisp of straw from those threshers
yonder." H e came to the threshers. " God save you,"
said the threshers. " G o d and Mary save ye." " H o w far
are you going?" "Going looking for a whisp of straw
from ye to give to the cow, the cow to give me milk, milk
I will give to the cat, cat to scrape butter, butter to go in
claw of hound, hound to hunt deer, deer to swim water,
water to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod
to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my
raspberries every one."
"You will not get any whisp of straw from us," said the
threshers, " until you bring us the makings of a cake from
the miller over yonder." H e came to the miller. "God
save you." " God and Mary save you." " How far are you
going? " " Going looking for the makings of a cake, which
I will give to the threshers, the threshers to give me a whisp
of straw, the whisp of straw I will give to the cow, the cow
to give me milk, milk I will give tc the cat, cat to scrape
butter, butter to go in claw of hound, hound to hunt deer,
deer to swim water, water to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe
to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar,
who ate my raspberries every one."
" Y o u will not get any makings of a cake from me," saic
the miller, " till you bring me the full of that sieve of water
from the river over there."
H e took the sieve in his hand and went over to the
river, but as often as ever he would stoop and fill it with
water, the moment he raised it the water would run out of

DONALD

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299

it again, and sure, if he had been there from that day till
this, he never could have filled it. A crow went flying bv
him, over his head. "Daub I daub ! " said the crow. " M\
soul to God, then," said Munachar, "but it's the good advice
you have," and he took the red clay and the daub that was
by the brink, and he rubbed it to the bottom of the sieve,
until all the holes were filled, and then the sieve held the
water, and he brought the water to the miller, and the
miller gave him the makings of a cake, and he gave the
makings of the cake to the threshers, and the threshers
gave him a whisp of straw, and he gave the whisp of straw
to the cow, and the cow gave him milk, the milk he gave to
the cat, the cat scraped the butter, the butter went into the
claw of the hound, the hound hunted the deer, the deer
swam the water, the water wet the flag, the flag sharpened
the axe, the axe cut the rod, and the rod made a gad, and
when he had it ready—Fll go bail that Manachar was far
enough away from him.
There is some tale like this in almost every language.
It resembles
that given in that splendid work of industry and patriotism, Campbell's
Tales of the West Highlands under the name of Moonachug and
Meenachug. " The English House that Jack built," says Campbell,
"has eleven steps, the Scotch Old Woman with the Silver Penny
has twelve, the Novsk Cock and Hen A-nutting has twelve, ten of
which are double. The German story in Grimm has five or six, all
single ideas." This, however, is longer than any of them. It sometimes varies a little in the telling, and the actors' names are sometimes
Suracha and Muracha, and the crow is sometimes a gull, who,
instead of daub ! daub! says cuir cri rua lesh I

DONALD AND H I S N E I G H B O U R S .
From Hibernian Tales*
HUDDEN and Dudden and Donald O'Nery were near
neighbours in the barony of Balinconlig, and ploughed with
three bullocks; but the two former, envying the present
* A chap-book mentioned by Thackeray in his frish Sketch Booh

300

KINGS,

QUEENS.

prosperity of the latter, determined to kill his bullock, to
prevent his farm being properly cultivated and laboured,
that going back in the world he might be induced to sell his
lands, which they meant to get possession of. Poor Donald
finding his bullock killed, immediately skinned it, and
throwing the skin over his shoulder, with the fleshy side out,
set off to the next town with it^ to dispose of it to the best
of his advantage. Going along the road a magpie flew on
the top of the hide, and began picking it, chattering all the
time. The bird had been taught to speak, and imitate the
human voice, and Donald, thinking he understood some
words it was saying, put round his hand and caught hold of
it. Having got possession of it, he put it under his greatcoat, and so went on to town. Having sold the hide, he
went into an inn to take a dram, and following the landlady
into the cellar, he gave the bird a squeeze which made it
chatter some broken accents that surprised her very much.
"What is that I hear?" said she to Donald.
" I think it
is talk, and yet I do not understand." "Indeed," said
Donald, " it is a bird I have that tells me everything, and
I always carry it with me to know when there is any
danger. Faith," says he, "it says you have far better liquor
than you are giving me." "That is strange," said she,
going to another cask of better quality, and asking him if
he would sell the bird. " I will," said Donald, "if I get
enough for it." " I will fill your hat with silver if you leave
it with me." Donald was glad to hear the news, and taking
the silver, set off, rejoicing at his good luck. H e had not
been long at home until he met with Hudden and Dudden.
" Mr.," said he, "you thought you had done me a bad turn,
but you could not .have done me a better; for look here,
what I have got for the hide," showing them a hatful of
silver; "you never saw such a demand for hides in your
life as there is at present." Hudden and Dudden that
very night killed their bullocks, and set out the next
morning to sell their hides. On coming to the place
they went through all the merchants, but could only
get a trifle for them; at last they had to take what they

DONALD

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could get, and came home in a great rage, and vowing
revenge on poor Donald. He had a pretty good guess
how matters would turn out, and he 'being under the
kitchen window, he was afraid they would rob him, or
perhaps kill him when asleep, and on that account when he
was going to bed he left his old mother in his place, and
lay down in her bed, which was in the other side of the
house, and they taking the old woman for Donald, choked
her in her bed, but he making some noise, they had to
retreat, and leave the money behind them, which grieved
them very much. However, by daybreak, Donald got his
mother on his back, and carried her to town. Stopping at
a well, he fixed his mother with her staff, as if she was
stooping for a drink, and then went into a public-house
convenient and called for a dram. " I wish," said he to a
woman that stood near him, " you would tell my mother
to come in; she is at yon well trying to get a drink, and
she is hard of hearing; if she does not observe you, give her
a little shake and tell her that I want her." The woman
called her several times, but she seemed to take no notice;
at length she went to her and shook her by the arm, but
when she let her go again, she tumbled on her head into the
well, and, as the woman thought, was drowned. She, in her
great surprise and fear at the accident, told Donald what
had happened. " O mercy," said he, " what is this ?"
H e ran and pulled her out of the well, weeping and lamenting all the time, and acting in such a manner that you
would imagine that he had lost his senses. The woman,
on the other hand, was far worse than Donald, for his
grief was only feigned, but she imagined herself to be the
cause of the old woman's death. The inhabitants of the
town hearing what had happened, agreed to make Donald
up a good sum of money for his loss, as the accident
happened in their place, and Donald brought a greater
sum home with him than he got for the magpie. They
buried Donald's mother, and as soon as he saw Hudden he
showed them the last purse of money he had got. " You
thought to kill me last night," said he, " but it was good

302

KINGS,

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for me it happened on my mother, for I got all that purse
for her to make gunpowder."
That very night Hudden and Dudden killed their
mothers, and the next morning set off with them to town.
On coming to the town with their burthen on their backs,
they went up and down crying, " Who will buy old wives
for gunpowder," so that everyone laughed at them, and the
boys at last clotted them out of the place. They then saw
the cheat, and vowed revenge on Donald, buried the old
-women, and set off in pursuit of him. Coming to his
house, they found him sitting at his breakfast, and seizing
him, put him in a sack, and went to drown him in a river at
some distance. As they were going along the highway they
raised a hare, which they saw had but three feet, and throwing off the sack, ran after her, thinking by her appearance
she would be easily taken. In their absence there came a
drover that way, and hearing Donald singing in the sack,
wondered greatly what could be the matter. "What
is the reason," said he, "that you are singing, and
you confined ? " " O, I am going to heaven," said Donald,
" a n d in a short time I expect to be free from trouble."
" O dear," said the drover, " what will I give you if you let me
to your place? " "Indeed, I do not know," said he, " it would
take a good sum." " I have not much money," said the
drover, " but I have twenty head of fine cattle, which I will
give you to exchange places with me."
"Well," says
Donald, " I do not care if I should loose the sack, and I
will come out." In a moment the drover liberated him,
and went into the sack himself, and Donald drove home
the fine heifers, and left them in his pasture.
Hudden and Dudden having caught the hare, returned,
and getting the sack on one of their backs, carried Donald,
as they thought, to the river and threw him in, where he
immediately sank. They then [marched home, intending to
take immediate possession of Donald's property, but how
great was their surprise when they found him safe at home
before them, with such a fine herd of cattle, whereas they
knew he had none before. " Donald," said they, " what is

THE

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all this ? We thought you were drowned, and yet you are
here before us." " Ah ! " said he, " if I had but help along
with me when you threw me in, it would have been the best
job ever I met with, for of all the sight of cattle and gold
that ever was seen is there, and no one to own them, but I
was not able to manage more than what you see, and I
could show you the spot where you might get hundreds."
They both swore they would he his friend, and Donald
accordingly led them to a very deep part of the river, and
lifted up a stone. "Now," said he, "watch this," throwing it
into the stream; " there is the very place, and go in, one of
you first, and if you want help, you have nothing to do but
call." Hudden jumping in, and sinking to the bottom, rose
up again, and making a bubbling noise, as those do that
are drowning, attempted to speak, but could not. " What is
that he is saying now ? " says Dudden.
" Faith/' says
Donald, " he is calling for help; don't you hear him ? Stand
about," said he, running back, " till I leap in. I know how
to do it better than any of you." Dudden, to have the
advantage of him, jumped in off the bank, and was drowned
along with Hudden, and this was the end of Hudden and
Dudden.

T H E JACKDAW.
TOM MOOR was a linen draper in Sackville Street. His
father, when he died, left him an affluent fortune, and a
shop of excellent trade.
As he was standing at his door one day a countryman
came up to him with a nest of jackdaws, and accosting him,
says, " Master, will you buy a nest of daws ? " " No, I
don't want any." " Master," replied the man, " I will sell
them all cheap; you shall have the whole nest for ninepence." " I don't want them," answered Tom Moor, " so
go about your business."
As the man was walking away one of the daws popped
out his head, and cried "Mawk, mawk." " Damn it," says

3°4

KINGS,

QUEENS.

Tom Moor, " t h a t bird knows my n a m e ; halloo, countryman, what will you take for the b i r d ? " "Why, you shall
have him for threepence." Tom Moor bought him, had a
cage made, and hung him up in the shop.
The journeymen took much notice of the bird, and would
frequently tap at the bottom of the cage, and say, "Who are
you? Who are you ? Tom Moor of Sackville Street."
In a short time the jackdaw learned these words, and if
he wanted victuals or water, would strike his bill against the
cage, turn up the white of his eyes, cock his head, and cry,
" W h o are you? who are you? Tom Moor of Sackville
Street.55
Tom Moor was fond of gaming, and often lost large sums
of money; finding his business neglected in his absence,
he had a small hazard table set up in one corner of his
dining-room, and invited a party of his friends to play at it.
The jackdaw had by this time become familiar; his
cage was left open, and he hopped into every part of the
house; sometimes he got into the dining-room, where the
gentlemen were at play, and one of them being a constant
winner, the others would say, " Damn it, how he nicks
them." The bird learned these words also, and adding
them to the former, would call, " Who are you ? who are
you ? Tom Moor of Sackville Street. Damn it, how he
nicks them."
Tom Moor, from repeated losses and neglect of business,
failed in trade, and became a prisoner in the Fleet; he took
his bird with him, and lived on the master's side,1 supported
by friends, in a decent manner. They would sometimes
ask what brought you here ? when he used to lift up
his hands and answer, " B a d company, by G—." The
bird learned this likewise, and at the end of the former
words, would say, " What brought you here ? Bad company,
by G—."
Seme of Tom Moor's friends died, others went abroad,
and by degrees he was totally deserted, and removed to the
common side of the prison, where the jail distemper soon
attacked him ; and in the last stage of life, lying on a straw

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JACKDAW.

305

bed ; the poor bird had been for two days without food or
water, came to his feet, and striking his bill on the floor,
calls out, " Who are you ? Tom Moor of Sackville Street;
damn it, how he nicks them, damn it, how he nicks them.
What brought you here? bad company, by G-—, bad
company, by G—."
Tom Moor, who had attended to the bird, was struck
with his words, and reflecting on himself, cried out, " Good
God, to what a situation am I reduced! my father, when he
died, left me a good fortune and an established trade. I
have spent my fortune, ruined my business, and am now
dying in a loathsome jail; and to complete all, keeping that
poor thing confined without support. I will endeavour to
do one piece of justice before I die, by setting him at
liberty."
H e made a struggle to crawl from his straw bed, Opened
the casement, and out flew the bird. A flight of jackdaws
from the Temple were going over the jail, and Tom Moor's
bird mixed among them. The gardener was then laying
the plats of the Temple gardens, and as often as he placed
them in the day the jackdaws pulled them up by night.
They got a gun and attempted to shoot some of them; but,
being cunning birds, they always placed one as a watch in
the stump of a hollow tree; who, as soon as the gun was
levelled cried "Mawk," and away they flew.
The gardeners were advised to get a net, and the first
night it was spread they caught fifteen ; Tom Moor's
bird was amongst them. One of the .men took the net into
a garret of an uninhabited house, fastens the doors and
windows, and turns the birds loose. " Now," said he, " you
black rascals, I will be revenged of you." Taking hold of
the first at hand, he twists her neck, and throwing him
down, cries, " There goes one." Tom Moor's bird, who had
hopped up to a beam at one corner of the room unobserved,
as the man lays hold of the second, calls out, " Damn it,
how he nicks them." The man alarmed, cries, " Sure I
heard a voice, but the house is uninhabited, and the door
is fast; it could only be imagination/' On laying hold of
535

306

KINGS,

QUEENS.

the third, and twisting his neck, Tom's bird again says,
" D a m n it, how he nicks them." The man dropped the
bird in his hand, and turning to where the voice came from,
seeing the other with his mouth open, cries out, " Who are
you ? " to which the bird answered, " Tom Moor of Sackville Street, Tom Moor of Sackville Street."
"The
devil you are; and what brought you here." Tom Moor's
bird, lifting up his pinions, answered, "Bad company, by
G—, bad company, by G—."
The fellow, frightened
almost out of his wits, opened the door, ran down stairs,
and out of the house, followed by all the birds, who by
this means regained their liberty.

T H E STORY OF C O N N - E D A ; OR, T H E GOLDEN
APPLES OF L O U G H ERNE.*
Translated from the original Irish of the Story-teller^
ABRAHAM MCCOY, by NICHOLAS O'KEARNEY.

I T was long before the time the western districts of Innis
Eodhlaf had any settled name, but were indiscriminately
called after the person who took possession of them, and
whose name they retained only as long as his sway lasted,
that a powerful king reigned over this part of the sacred
island. H e was a puissant warrior, and no individual was
found able to compete with him either on land or sea, or
question his right to his conquest. The great king of the
west held uncontrolled sway from the island of Rathlin to
the mouth of the Shannon by sea, and far as the glittering
length by land. The ancient king of the west, whose name
was Conn, was good as well as great, and passionately loved
by his people. His queen was a Breaton (British) princess,
and was equally beloved and esteemed, because she was the
great counterpart of 4he king in every respect; for whatever
* Printed first in the Cambrian Journal, 1855; reprinted and
re-edited in the Folk-Lore Record, vol. ii.
t Innis Fodhla—Island of Destiny, an old name for Ireland,

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307

good, qualification was wanting in the one, the other was
certain to indemnify the omission. It was plainly manifest
that heaven approved of the career in life of the virtuous
couple; for during their reign the earth produced exuberant crops, the trees fruit ninefold commensurate with
their usual bearing, the rivers, lakes, and surrounding
sea teemed with abundance of choice fish, while herds
and flocks were unusually prolific, and kine and sheep
yielded such abundance of rich milk that they shed it in
torrents upon the pastures; and furrows and cavities were
always filled with the pure lacteal produce of the dairy. All
these were blessings heaped by heaven upon the western
districts of Innis Fodhla^ over which the benignant and just
Conn swayed his sceptre, in approbation of the course of
goverment he had marked out for his own guidance. It is
needless to state that the people who owned the authority
of this great and good sovereign were the happiest on the
face of the wide expanse of earth. It was during his reign,
and that of his son and successor, that Ireland acquired the
title of the "happy isle of the west" among foreign nations.
Con Mor and his good Queen Eda reigned in great glory
during many years 3 they were blessed with an only son,
whom they named Conn-eda, after both his parents, because
the Druids foretold at his birth that he would inherit the
good qualities of both. According as the young prince grew
in years, his amiable and benignant qualities of mind, as
well as his great strength of body and manly bearing, became
more manifest. H e was the idol of his parents, and the
boast of his people; he was beloved and respected to that
degree that neither prince, lord, nor plebeian swore an oath
by the sun, moon, stars, or elements, except by the head of
Conn-eda. This career of glory, however, was doomed to
meet a powerful but temporary impediment, for the good
Queen Eda took a sudden and severe illness, of which she
died in a few days, thus plunging her spouse, her son, and
all her people into a depth of grief and sorrow from which
it was found difficult to relieve them.
The good king and his subjects mourned the loss of

3 o8

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QUEENS.

Queen Eda for a year and a day, and at the expiration of
that time Conn Mor reluctantly yielded to the advice of
his Druids and counsellors, and took to wife the daughter
of his Arch-Druid. The new queen appeared to walk in the
footsteps of the good Eda for several years, and gave great
satisfaction to her subjects. But, in course of time, having
had several children, and perceiving that Conn-eda was the
favourite son of the king and the darling of the people, she
clearly foresaw that he would become successor to the
throne after the demise of his father, and that her son would
certainly be excluded.
This excited the hatred and
inflamed the jealousy of the Druid's daughter against her
step-son to such an extent, that she resolved in her own
mind to leave nothing in her power undone to secure his
death, or even exile from the kingdom. She began by
circulating evil reports of the prince; but, as he was above
suspicion, the king only laughed at the weakness of the
queen; and the great princes and chieftains, supported by
the people in general, gave an unqualified contradiction;
while the prince himself bore all his trials with the utmost
patience, and always repaid her bad and malicious acts
towards him with good and benevolent ones. The enmity
of the queen towards Conn-eda knew no bounds when she
saw that the false reports she circulated could not injure
him. As a last resource, to carry out her wicked projects,
she determined to consult her Cailkach-chearc (hen-wife),
who was a reputed enchantress.
Pursuant to her resolution, by the early dawn of morning
she hied to the cabin of the Cailleach-chearc, and divulged
to her the cause of her trouble. " I cannot render you any
help," said the Cailleach, "until you name the duais77
(reward). " What duais do you require ? " asked the queen,
impatiently. " My duais/7 replied the enchantress, " is to
fill the cavity of my arm with wool, and the hole I shall
bore with my distaff with red wheat." "Your duais is
granted, and shall be immediately given you," said the
queen. The enchantress thereupon stood in the door of
her hut, and bending her arm" into a circle with her side,

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directed the royal attendants to thrust the wool into her
house through her arm, and she never permitted them to
cease until all the available space within was filled with
wool. She then got on the roof of her brother's house,
and, having made a hole through it with her distaff, caused
red wheat to be spilled through it, until that was filled up to
the roof with red wheat, so that there was no room for another
grain within. "Now," said the queen, "since you have
received your duais, tell me how I can accomplish my
purpose." "Take this chess-board and chess, and invite
the prince to play with you ; you shall win the first game.
The condition you shall make is, that whoever wins a game
shall be at liberty to impose whatever geasa (conditions)
the winner pleases on the loser. When you win, you must
bid the prince, under the penalty either to go into
ionarbadh (exile), or procure for you, within the space of a
year and a day, the three golden apples that grew in the
garden, the each dubh (black steed), and coileen con na
mbuadh (hound of supernatural powers), called Samer,
which are in the possession of the king of the Firbolg race,
who resides in Lough Erne.* Those two things are so
precious, and so well guarded, that he can never attain
them by his own power; and, if he would rashly attempt to
seek them, he should lose his life."
The queen was> greatly pleased at the advice, and lost no
time in inviting Conn-eda to play a game at chess, under the
conditions she had been instructed to arrange by the enchantress. The queen won the game, as the enchantress foretold,
but so great was her anxiety to have the prince completely
in her power, that she was tempted to challenge him to play
a second game, which Conn-eda, to her astonishment, and
no less mortification, easily won. "Now," said the prince,
" since you won the first game, it is your duty to impose
your gets first." " M y gets" said the queen, "which I
impose upon you, is to procure me the three golden apples
* The Firbolgs believed their elysium to be under water. The
peasantry still believe many lakes to be peopled.—^See section on
T'yeer-na-n-Oge*

3io

KINGS,

QUEENS.

that grow in the garden, the each dubh (black steed), and
cuileen con na mbuadh (hound of supernatural powers), which
are in the keeping of the king of the Firbolgs, in Lough
Erne, within the space of a year and a day; or, in case you
fail, to go into ionarbadh (exile), and never return, except
you surrender yourself to lose your head and comkead
beatha (preservation of life). " Well, then," said the prince,
" the gets which I bind you by, is to sit upon the pinnacle
of yonder tower until my return, and to take neither food
nor nourishment of any description, except what red-wheat
you can pick up with the point of your bodkin ; but if I do
not return, you are at perfect liberty to come down at the
expiration of the year and a day."
In consequence of the severe gets imposed upon him,
Conn-eda was very much troubled in mind; and, well
knowing he had a long journey to make before he would
reach his destination, immediately prepared to set out on
his way, not, however, before he had the satisfaction of
witnessing the ascent of the queen to the place where she
was obliged to remain exposed to the scorching sun of the
summer and the blasting storms of winter, for the space of
one year and a day, at least. Conn-eda being ignorant of
what steps he should take to procure the each dubh and
cuileen con na mbuadh, though he was well aware that
human energy would prove unavailing, thought proper to
consult the great Druid, Fionn Dadhna, of Sleabh Badhna,
who was a friend of his before he ventured to proceed to
Lough Erne. When he arrived at the bruighean of the
Druid, he was received with cordial friendship, and the
failte (welcome), as usual, was poured out before him, and
when he was seated, warm water was fetched, and his feet
bathed, so that the fatigue he felt after his journey was greatly
relieved. The Druid, after he had partaken of refreshments,
consisting of the newest of food and oldest of liquors, asked
him the reason for paying the visit, and more particularly
the cause of his sorrow; for the prince appeared exceedingly depressed in spirit
Conn-eda told his friend
the whole history.of the transaction with his stepmother

THE

STOR Y OF CONN-ED A.

31 r

from the beginning to end. " Can you not assist me ? "
asked the Prince, with downcast countenance. " I cannot,
indeed, assist you at present," replied the Druid; " but I
will retire to my grianan (green place) at sun-rising on the
morrow, and learn by virtue of my Druidism what can be
done to assist you." The Druid, accordingly, as the sun
rose on the following morning, retired to his grianan, and
consulted the god he adored, through the power of his
draoidheacht* When he returned, he called Conn-eda aside
on the plain, and addressed him thus: " My dear son, I
find you have been under a severe—an almost impossible—
gets intended for your destruction; no person on earth
could have advised the queen to impose it except the
Cailleach of Lough Corrib, who is the greatest Druidess now
in Ireland, and sister to the Firbolg, King of Lough Erne.
It is not in my power, nor in that of the Deity I adore, to
interfere in your behalf; but go directly to Sliabh Mis, and
consult EAnchinn-duine (the bird of the human head), and if
there be any possibility of relieving you, that bird can do it,
for there is not a bird in the western world so celebrated as
that bird, because it knows all things that are past, all
things that are present and exist, and all things that shall
hereafter exist.
It is difficult to find access to his place of
concealment, and more difficult still to obtain an answer
from him; but I will endeavour to regulate that matter for
you ; and that is all I can do for you at present."
The Arch-Druid then instructed him thus :—" Take," said
he, " yonder little shaggy steed, and mount him immediately, for in three days the bird will make himself visible^
and the little shaggy steed will conduct you to his place of
abode. But lest the bird should refuse to reply to your
queries, take this precious stone (leag torgmhar)^ and
present it to him, and then little danger and doubt exist but
that he will give you a ready answer." The prince returned
heartfelt thanks to the Druid, and, having saddled and
mounted the little shaggy horse without much delay,
received the precious stone from the Druid, and, after
having taken his leave of him, set out on his journey. H e
* BraaidheacM, i.e., the Druidic worship; magic, sorcery, divination.

St*

KINGS,

QUE3NS.

suffered the reins to fall loose upon the neck of the horse
according as he had been instructed, so that the animal
took whatever road he chose.
It would be tedious to relate the numerous adventures he
had with the little shaggy horse, which had the extraordinary
gift of speech, and was a draoidheacht horse during his
journey.
The Prince having reached the hiding-place of the strange
bird at the appointed time, and having presented him with
the hag lorgmhar, according to Fionn Badhna's instructions, and proposed his questions relative to the manner he
could best arrange for the fulfilment of his gets, the bird
took up in his mouth the jewel from the stone on which it
was placed, and flew to an inaccessible rock at some distance, and, when there perched, he thus addressed the
prince, " Conn-eda, son of the King of Cruachan," said
he, in a loud, croaking human voice, " remove the stone
just under your right foot, and take the ball of iron and
coma (cup) you shall find under i t ; then mount your horse,
cast the ball before you, and having so done, your horse will
tell you all the other things necessary to be done/' The
bird, having said this, immediately flew out of sight.
Conn-eda took great care to do everything according to
the instructions of the bird. H e found the iron ball and
coma in the place which had been pointed out. H e took
them up, mounted his horse, and cast the ball before him.
The ball rolled on at a regular gait, while the little shaggy
horse followed on the way it led until they reached the
margin of Lough Erne. Here the ball rolled in the water
and became invisible. "Alight now," said the draoidheacht
pony, " and put your hand into mine ear; take from thence
the small bottle of ice (all-heal) and the little wicker basket
which you will find there, and remount with speed, for just
now your great dangers and difficulties commence." Conneda, ever faithful to the kind advice of his draoidheacht
pony, did what he had been advised. Having taken the
basket and bottle of ice from the animal's ear, he remounted
and proceeded on his journey, while the water of the lake

THE

STORY

OF CONN-ED A,

313

appeared only like an atmosphere above his head. When
he entered the lake the ball again appeared, and rolled along
until it came to the margin, across which was a causeway,
guarded by three frightful serpents; the hissings of the
monsters was heard at a great distance, while, on a nearer
approach, their yawning mouths and formidable fangs were
quite sufficient to terrify the stoutest heart. " Now," said
the horse, " open the basket and cast a piece of the meat
you find in it into the mouth of each serpent; when you
have done this, secure yourself in your seat in the best
manner you can, so that we may make all due arrangements
to pass those draoidheacht fieists. If you cast the pieces of
meat into the mouth of each fieist unerringly, we shall pass
them safely, otherwise we are lost." Conn-eda flung the pieces
of meat into the jaws of the serpents with unerring aim. "Bare
a benison and victory," said the draoidheacht steed, " for you
are a youth that will win and prosper." And, on saying
these words, he sprang aloft, and cleared in his leap the
river and ford, guarded by the serpents, seven measures
beyond the margin. "Are you still mounted, prince Conneda ? " said the steed. " It has taken only half my exertion
to remain so," replied Conn-eda. " I find," said the pony,
" that you are a young prince that deserves to succeed; one
danger is now over, but two others remain."
They
proceeded onwards after the ball until they came in
view of a great mountain flaming with fire. " H o l d
yourself in readiness for another dangerous leap," said
the horse. The trembling prince had no answer to make,
but seated himself as securely as the magnitude of the
danger before him would permit. The horse in the next
instant sprang from the earth, and flew like an arrow over
the burning mountain. " Are you still alive, Conn-eda, son
of Conn-m6r ? " inquired the faithful horse.
" I'm just
alive, and no more, for I'm greatly scorched," answered the
prince. " Since you are yet alive, I feel assured that you
are a young man destined to meet supernatural success and
benisons," said the Druidic steed. " Our greatest dangers
are over," added he, " and there is hope that we shall over-

314

KINGS,

QUEENS.

come the next and last danger." After they had proceeded
a short distance, his faithful steed, addressing Conn-eda,
said, " Alight, now, and apply a portion of the little bottle of
ice to your wounds." The prince immediately followed
the advice of his monitor, and, as soon as he rubbed
the ice (all-heal) to his wounds, he became as whole and
fresh as ever he had been before. After having done this,
Conn-eda remounted, and following the track of the ball,
soon came in sight of a great city surrounded by high walls.
The only gate that was visible was not defended by armed
men, but by two great towers that emitted flames that could
be seen at a great distance. " Alight on this plain," said
the steed, " and take a small knife from my other ear; and
with this knife you shall kill and flay me. When you have
done this, envelop yourself in my hide, and you can pass
the gate unscathed and unmolested. When you get inside
you can come out at pleasure; because when once you
enter there is no danger, and you can pass and repass
whenever you wish ; and let me tell you that all I have to
ask of you in return is that you, when once inside the gates,
will immediately return and drive away the birds of prey
that may be fluttering round to feed on my carcass; and
more, that you will pour any drop of that powerful ice, if such
still remain in the bottle, upon my flesh, to preserve it from
corruption. When you do this in memory of me, if it be not
too troublesome, dig a pit, and cast my remains into it."
" Well," said Conn-eda, " my noblest steed, because you
have been so faithful to me hitherto, and because you still
would have rendered me further service, I consider such a
proposal insulting to my feelings as a man, and totally in
variance with the spirit which can feel the value of gratitude,
not to speak of my feelings as a prince. But as a prince I
am able to say, Come what may—come death itself in its
most hideous forms and terrors—I never will sacrifice
private friendship to personal interest. Hence, I am, I
swear by my arms of valour, prepared to meet the w o r s t even death itself—sooner than violate the principles of
humanity, honour, and friendship! What a sacrifice do you

THE

STORY

OF CONN-ED A.

315

propose!" " Pshaw, man ! heed not that; do what I advise
you, and prosper." " Never! never! " exclaimed the prince.
" Well, then, son of the great western monarch," said the
horse, with a tone of sorrow, " if you do not follow my
advice on this occasion, I tell you that both you and I shall
perish, and shall never meet again ; but, if you act as I have
instructed you, matters shall assume a happier and more
pleasing aspect than you may imagine. I have not misled
you heretofore, and, if I have not, what need have you to
doubt the most important portion of my counsel? Do
exactly as I have directed you, else you will cause a worse
fate than death to befall me. And, moreover, I can tell
you that, if you persist in your resolution, I have done with
you for ever."
When the prince found that his noble steed could not be
persuaded from his purpose, he took the knife out of his ear
with reluctance, and with a faltering and trembling hand
essayed experimentally to point the weapon at his throat.
Conn-eda's eyes were bathed in tears; but no sooner had he
pointed the Druidic scian to the throat of his good steed,
than the dagger, as if impelled by some Druidic power,
stuck in his neck, and in an instant the work of death was
done, and the noble animal fell dead at his feet. When the
prince saw his noble steed fall dead by his hand, he cast
himself on the ground, and cried aloud until his consciousness was gone. When he recovered, he perceived that the
steed was quite dead; and, as he thought there was no
hope of resuscitating him, he considered it the most prudent
course he could adopt to act according to the advice he had
given him. After many misgivings of mind and abundant
showers of tears, he essayed the task of flaying him, which
was only that of a few minutes. When he found he had
the hide separated from the body, he, in the derangement
of the moment, enveloped himself in it, and proceeding
towards the magnificent city in rather a demented state of
mind, entered it without any molestation or opposition. It
was a surprisingly populous city, and an extremely wealthy
place; but its beauty, magnificence, and wealth had no

316

KINGS,

QUEENS.

charms for Conn-eda, because the thoughts of the loss he
sustained in his dear steed were paramount to those of all
other earthly considerations.
H e had scarcely proceeded more than fifty paces from
the gate, when the last request of his beloved draoidheacht
steed forced itself upon his mind, and compelled him
to return to perform the last solemn injunctions upon
him. When he came to the spot upon which the remains
of his beloved draoidheacht steed lay, an appalling sight
presented itself; ravens and other carnivorous birds of prey
were tearing and devouring the flesh of his dear steed.
It was but short work to put them to flight; and having
uncorked his little jar of ice, he deemed it a labour of love
to embalm the now mangled remains with the precious
ointment. The potent ice had scarcely touched the inanimate flesh, when, to the surprise of Conn-eda, it commenced
to undergo some strange change, and in a few minutes, to
his unspeakable astonishment and joy, it assumed the form
of one of the handsomest and noblest young men imaginable, and in the twinkling of an eye the prince was locked
in his embrace, smothering him with kisses, and drowning
him with tears of joy. When one recovered from his
-ecstasy of joy, the other from his surprise, the strange
youth thus addressed the prince: " Most noble and
puissant prince, you are the best sight I ever saw with my
eyes, and I am the most fortunate being in existence for
having met you! Behold in my person, changed to
the natural shape, your little shaggy draoidheacht steed!
I am brother of the king of the city; and it was the
wicked Druid, Fion Badhna, who kept me so long in
bondage; but he was forced to give me up when you
came to consult him, for my gets was then broken; yet I
could not recover my pristine shape and appearance unless
you had acted as you have kindly done. It was my own
sister that urged the queen, your step-mother, to send you
in quest of the steed and powerful puppy hound, which my
brother has now in keeping. My sister, rest assured, had
no thought of doing you the least injury, but much good, as

THE STORY

OF CONN-ED A.

317

you will find hereafter; because, if she were maliciously
inclined towards you, she could have accomplished her end
without any trouble. In short, she only wanted to free you
from all future danger and disaster, and recover me from my
relentless enemies through your instrumentality. Come with
me, my friend and deliverer, and the steed and the puppyhound of extraordinary powers, and the golden apples, shall
be yours, and a cordial welcome shall greet you in my
brother's abode; for you will deserve all this and much
more."
The exciting joy felt on the occasion was mutual,
and they lost no time in idle congratulations, but proceeded on to the royal residence of the King of Lough
Erne. Here they were both received with demonstrations of joy by the king and his chieftains; and, when the
purpose of Conn-eda?s visit became known to the king, he
gave a free consent to bestow on Conn-eda the black
steed, the coileen con-na-mbuadh, called Samer, and the
three apples of health that were growing in his garden,
under the special condition, however, that he would consent
to remain as his guest until he could set out on his journey
in proper time, to fulfil his gets. Conn-eda, at the earnest
solicitation of his friends, consented, and remained in the
royal residence of the Firbolg, King of Lough Erne, in the
enjoyment of the most delicious and fascinating pleasures
during that period.
When the time of his departure came, the three golden
apples were plucked from the crystal tree in the midst of the
pleasure-garden, and deposited in his bosom; the puppyhound, Samer, was leashed, and the leatsh put into his hand;
and the black steed, richly harnessed, was got in readiness for
him to mount. The king himself helped him on horseback,
and both he and his brother assured him that he might not
fear burning mountains or hissing serpents, because none
would impede him, as his steed was always a passport to and
from his subaqueous kingdom. And both he and his
brother extorted a promise from Conn-eda, that he would
visit them once every year at least.

3

i8

KINGS,

QUEENS.

Conn-eda took leave of his dear friend, and the king his
brother. The parting was a tender one, soured by regret
on both sides. H e proceeded on his way without meeting
anything to obstruct him, and in due time came in sight
of the dim of his father, where the queen had been placed
on the pinnacle of the tower, in full hope that, as it was the
last day of her imprisonment there, the prince would
not make his appearance, and thereby forfeit all pretensions and right to the crown of his father for ever. But her
hopes were doomed to meet a disappointment, for when it
had been announced to her by her couriers, who had been
posted to watch the arrival of the prince, that he approached, she was incredulous; but when she saw him
mounted on a foaming black steed, richly harnessed, and
leading a strange kind of animal by a silver chain, she at
once knew he was returning in triumph, and that her
schemes laid for his destruction were frustrated. In the
excess of grief at her disappointment, she cast herself from
the top of the tower, and was instantly dashed to pieces.
Conn-eda met a welcome reception from his father, who
mourned him as lost to him for ever, during his absence;
and, when the base conduct of the queen became known,
the king and his chieftains ordered her remains to be
consumed to ashes for her perfidy and wickedness.
Conn-eda planted the three golden apples in his garden,
and instantly a great tree, bearing similar fruit, sprang up.
This tree caused all the district to produce an exuberance
of crops and fruits, so that it became as fertile and plentiful
as the dominions of the Firbolgs, in consequence of the
extraordinary powers possessed by the golden fruit. The
hound Samer and the steed were of the utmost utility to
him; and his reign was long and prosperous, and celebrated
among the old people for the great abundance of corn,
fruit, milk, fowl, and fish that prevailed during this happy
reign. It was after the name Conn-eda the province of
Connaucht, or Conneda^ or Connacht^ was so called.

NOTES.
—+—_
G O D S O F T H E E A R T H . — P a r . 2, page 2,

Occultists, from Paracelsus to Elephas Levi, divide the nature
spirits into gnomes, sylphs, salamanders, u n d i n e s ; or earth, air, fire,
and water spirits. Their emperors, according to Elephas, are named
Cob, Paralda, P j i n , Hicks respectively. T h e gnomes are covetous, and
of the melancholic temperament. Their usua-1 height is but two spans,
though they can elongate themselves into giants.
T h e sylphs are
capricious, and of the bilious temperament. T h e y are in size andstrength much greater than men, as becomes the people of the winds.
T h e salamanders are wrathful, and in temperament sanguine. I n
appearance they are long, lean, and dry. T h e undines are soft, cold,
fickle, and phlegmatic.
In appearance they are like man.
The
salamanders and sylphs have no fixed dwellings.
I t has been held by many that somewhere out of the void there is a
perpetual dribble of souls ; that these souls pass through many shapes
before they incarnate as men—hence the nature spirits.
They are
invisible—except at rare moments and times ; they inhabit the interior
elements, while we live upon the outer and the gross. Some float pei>
petually through space, and the motion of the planets drives them
hither and thither in currents. H e n c e some Rosicrucians have thought
astrology may foretell many things ; for a tide of them flowing around
the earth arouses there, emotions and changes, according to its nature.
Besides those of human appearance are many animal and bird-like
shapes. It has been noticed that from these latter entirely come the
familiars seen by Indian braves when they go fasting in the forest,
seeking the instruction of the spirits. Though all at times are friendly
to men—to some m e n — " T h e y h a v e , " says Paracelsus, " a n aversion
t o self-conceited and opinionated persons, such as dogmatists, scientists,
drunkards, and gluttons, and against vulgar and quarrelsome people of
all k i n d s ; but they love natural men, who are simple-minded and
childlike, innocent and sincere, and the less there is of vanity and
hypocrisy in a man, the easier will it be to approach t h e m ; but
otherwise they are as shy as wild animals."

NOTES.

320

S I R SAMUEL FERGUSON.—Pages 13 and

38.

Many in Ireland consider Sir Samuel Ferguson their greatest poet.
The English reader will most likely never have heard his name, for
Anglo-Irish critics, who have found English audience, being more
Anglo than Irish, have been content to follow English opinion instead
of leading it, in all matters concerning Ireland.
CUSHEEN Loo.—Page 33.

Forts, otherwise raths or royalties, are circular ditches enclosing a
little field, where, in most cases, if you dig down you come to stone
chambers, their bee-hive roofs and walls made of unmortared stone. In
these little fields the ancient Celts fortified themselves and their cattle,
in winter retreating into the stone chambers, where also they were
buried. The people call them Dane's forts, from a misunderstanding
of the word Danan (Tuath-de-Danan). The fairies have taken up their
abode therein, guarding them from all disturbance. Whoever roots
them up soon finds his cattle falling sick, or his family or himself. Near
the raths are sometimes found flint arrow-heads; these are called
il
fairy darts," and are supposed to have been flung by the fairies, when
angry, at men or cattle.
LEGEND OF KNOCKGRAFTON.—page 40.

Moat does not mean a place with water, but a tumulus or barrow.
The words La Luan Da Mort agns Da Dardeen are Gaelic for (i Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday too." Da Hena is Thursday. Storytellers, in telling this tale, says Croker, sing these words to the
following music—according to Croker, music of very ancient kind :—
=£=

BESEEM
Da

SI

Lu - an,

da Mort,

da

Lu - an,

da Mort,

m

da

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rfr—

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Jr • 1\
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w
ilf^"^„ ~1* •'_H—--f -^t 5 ~1? Jf* "iftl 1
~~N ~i* ! J * & ZJ |
• -** .- d - , «*>. j
VIA
"
'
£7
s> & &> & & m
D a L u - an, da Mort, d a
L u - an, da Mort, a u - g u s da D a r - d i n e .
• • - * '

!

•

W* 1""" flJ
x^rk "

i
w
m

•

*J!

-51—:5cLu - an, da Mort, da

~N
J

1

Ljg

U5=JS=

,

- ^-h

H_

EEE

~|*~

•

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-L

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&

|C»

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• * • - -

S^—L^_^_J

=ifcz*=

Lu - an, da Mort, au- gus da

-*—T—ml-

Dar • dine.

31m

NOTES.

321

Mr. Douglas Hyde has heard the story in Connaught, with the song
of the fairy given as "Peean Peean daw feean, Peean go leh agus
leffin " [pighin, fiighin, da flAzg/iw, pighin go ieith agus leitk phizhin],
which in English means, " a penny, a penny, twopence, a penny and
a half, and a halfpenny."
STOLEN C H I L D . —Page 59.

The places mentioned are round about Sligo. Further Rosses is a
very noted fairy locality. There is here a little point of rocks where, if
anyone falls asleep, there is danger of their waking silly, the fairies
having carried off their souls.
SOLITARY FAIRIES.—Page 80.

The trooping fairies wear green jackets, the solitary ones red. On
the red jacket of the Lepracaun, according to McAnally, are seven rows
of buttons—seven buttons in each row. On the western coast, he says,
the red jacket is covered by a frieze one, and in Ulster the creature
wears a cocked hat, and when he is up to anything unusually mischievous, leaps on to a wall and spins, balancing himself on the point of
the hat with his heels in the air. McAnally tells how once a peasant
saw a battle between the green jacket fairies and the red. When the
green jackets began to win, so delighted was he to see the green above
the red, he gave a great shout. In a moment all vanished and he was
flung into the ditch.
BANSHEE'S CRY.—Page 108.

Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall give the following notation of the cry •—

OMENS. —Page 108.

We have other omens beside the Banshee and the Dullahan and the
Coach-a-Bower. I know one family where death is announced by the
cracking of a whip. Some families are attended by phantoms of ravens

536

322

NOTES.

or other birds. When McManus, of'48 celebrity, was sitting by his
dying brother, a bird of vulture-like appearance came through the
window and lighted on the breast of the dying man. The two watched
in terror, not daring to drive it off.
It crouched there, bright-eyed,
till the soul left the body. It was considered a most evil omen.
Lefanu worked this into a tale. I have good authority for tracing its
origin to McManus and his brother.
A W I T C H TRIAL.—Page 146.

The last trial for witchcraft in Ireland—there were never very many—
is thus given in MacSkimin's History of Carrickfergus:—" 1711, March
31st, Janet Mean, of Braid-island; Janet Latimer, Irish-quarter,
Carrickfergus; Janet Millar, Scotch-quarter, Carrickfergus; Margaret
Mitchel, Kilroot; Catharine M'Calmond, Janet Liston, alias Seller,
Elizabeth Seller, and Janet Carson, the four last from Island Magee,
were tried here, in the County of Antrim Court, for witchcraft."
Their alleged crime was tormenting a young woman, called Mary
Dunbar, about eighteen years of age, at the house of James Hattridge,
Island Magee, and at other places to which she was removed. The
circumstances sworn on the trial were as follows :—
" T h e afflicted person being, in the month of February, 1711, in the
house of James Hattridge, Island Magee (which had been for some
time believed to be haunted by evil spirits), found an apron on the
parlour floor, that had been missing some time, tied with five strange
hnots, which she loosened.
" On the following day she was suddenly seized with a violent pain in
her thigh, and afterwards fell into fits and ravings ; and, on recovering,
said she was tormented by several women, whose dress and personal
appearance she minutely described. Shortly after, she was again seized
with the like fits, and on recovering she accused five other women of
tormenting her, describing them also. The accused persons being
brought from different parts of the country, she appeared to suffer
extreme fear and additional torture as they approached the house.
" It was also deposed that strange noises, as of whistling, scratching,
etc., were heard in the house, and that a sulphureous smell was observed
in the rooms; that stones, turf, and the like were thrown about the
house, and the coverlets, etc., frequently taken off the beds and made
up in the shape of a corpse; and that a bolster once walked out of a
room into the kitchen with a night-gown about it! It likewise appeared
in evidence that in some of her fits three strong men were scarcely able
to hold her in the bed; that at times she vomited feathers, cotton yarn,
pins, and buttons; and that on one occasion she slid off the bed and
was laid on the floor, as if supported and drawn by an invincible power.
The afflicted person was unable to give any evidence on the trial, being
during that time dumb, but had no violent fit during its continuance."

NOTES.

323

In defence of the accused, it appeared that they were mostly sober,
industrious people, who attended public worship, could repeat the
Lord's Prayer, and had been known to pray both in public and private 5
and that some of them had lately received communion.
Judge Upton charged the jury, and observed on the regular
attendance of accused at public worship; remarking that he thought
it improbable that real witches could so far retain the form of
religion as to frequent the religious worship of God, both publicly
and privately, which had been proved in favour of the accused. He
concluded by giving his opinion '' that the jury could not bring them in
guilty upon the sole testimony of the afflicted person's visionary images."
He was followed by Judge Macarthy, who differed from him in opinion,
" a n d thought the jury might, from the evidence, bring them in guilty,"
which they accordingly did.
This trial lasted from six o'clock in the morning till two in the
afternoon; and the prisoners were sentenced to be imprisoned twelve
months, and to stand four times in the pillory of Carrickfergus.
Tradition says that the people were much exasperated against these
unfortunate persons, who were severely pelted in the pillory with boiled
cabbage stalks and the like, by which one of them had an eye beaten
out.
T'YEER-NA-N-OGE.—Page

200.

" Tir-na-n-Sg" Mr. Douglas Hyde writes, " * The Country of the
Young,' is the place where the Irish peasant will tell you geabhaedh tu
an sonas aer pighin> ' you will get happiness for a penny,' so cheap
and common it will be. It is sometimes, but not often, called Tir-nahoige ; the ' Land of Youth.' Crofton Croker writes it, Thierna-nanoge, which is an unfortunate mistake of his, Thierna meaning a
lord, not a country. This unlucky blunder is, like many others of the
same sort where Irish words are concerned, in danger of becoming
stereotyped, as the name of Iona has been, from mere clerical
carelessness."
T H E GONCONER OR GANCANAGH [GEAN-CANACH].—Page

207.

O'Kearney, a Louthman, deeply versed in Irish lore, writes of the
gean-cdnach (love-talker) that he is "another diminutive being of the
same tribe as the Lepracaun, but, unlike him, he personated love and
idleness, and always appeared with a dudeen in his jaw in lonesome
valleys, and it was his custom to make love to shepherdesses and milkmaids. It was considered very unlucky to meet him, and whoever was
known to have ruined his fortune by devotion to the fair sex was said
to have met a gean-cdnach. The dudeen, or ancient Irish tobacco

3*4

MOTES.

pipe, found in our raths, etc., is still popularly called a gean-candch's
Pipe-"
The word is not to be found in dictionaries, nor does this spirit
appear to be well known, if known at all, in Connacht. The word is
pronounced gdncon&gh.
In the MS. marked R.I.A. ^ - T T i n the Roy' Ir. A c , there is a long
poem describing such a fairy hurling-match as the one in the story,
only the fairies described as the shtagh, or host, wore plaids and bonnets,
like Highlanders. After the hurling the fairies have a hunt, in which
the poet takes part, and they swept with great rapidity through half
Ireland. The poem ends with the line —
'"£> gur shiubhail me na ckig cuig vhige's ganfivm acht buachallan buidhe;"
" a n d I had travelled the five provinces with nothing under me but a
yellow bohalawn (rag-weed)."—[Note by Mr. Douglas Hyde.']
FATHER JOHN O'HART.—Page 220.

Father O'Rorke is the priest of the parishes of Ballysadare and
Kilvarnet, and it is from his learnedly and faithfully and sympathetically
written history of these parishes that I have taken the story of Father
John, who had been priest of these parishes, dying in the year 1739.
Coloony is a village in Kilvarnet.
Some sayings of Father John's have come down. Once when he
was sorrowing greatly for the death of his brother, the people said
to him, " Why do you sorrow so for your brother when you forbid us
to keen? " " Nature," he answered, " forces me, but ye force nature."
His memory and influence survives, in the fact that to the present day
there has been no keening in Coloony.
He was a friend of the celebrated poet and musician, Carolan.
SHONEEN AND SLEIVEEN.—Page 220.

Shoneen is the diminutive of shone [Ir. Sebn\ There are two Irish
names for John—one is Shone, the other is Shawn [Ir. Sedgkari\. Shone
is the "grandest" of the two, and is applied to the gentry. Hence
Shoneen means " a little gentry John," and is applied to upstarts and
" big " farmers, who ape the rank of gentleman.
Sleiveen, not to be found in the dictionaries, is a comical Irish word
(at least in Connaught) for a rogue. It probably comes from sliabh, a
mountain, meaning primarily a mountaineer, and in a secondary sense,
on the principle that mountaineers are worse than anybody else, a
rogue. I am indebted to Mr. Douglas Hyde for these details, as for
many others.

NOTES.

325

DEMON CAT.—Page 229.

In Ireland one hears much of Demon Cats. The father of one of
the present editors of the Fortnightly had such a cat, say county
Dublin peasantry. One day the priest dined with him, and objecting
to see a cat fed before Christians, said something over it that made it
go up the chimney in a flame of fire. " I will have the law on you
for doing such a thing to my cat," said the father of the editor.
" Would you like to see your cat ? " said the priest. " I would," said
he, and the priest brought it up, covered with chains, through the
hearth-rug, straight out of hell. The Irish devil does not object ^ to
these undignified shapes. The Irish devil is not a dignified person.
He has no whiff of sulphureous majesty about him. A centaur of the
ragamuffin, jeering and shaking his tatters, at once the butt and
terror of the saints !
A LEGEND OF KNOCKMANY. —Page 266.

Carleton says—" Of the grey stone mentioned in this legend,
there is a very striking and melancholy anecdote to be told.
Some twelve or thirteen years ago, a gentleman in the vicinity of
the site of it was building a house, and, in defiance of the
legend and curse connected with it, he resolved to break it up
and use it. It was with some difficulty, however, that he could
succeed in getting his labourers to have anything to do with its
mutilation. Two men, however, undertook to blast it, but, somehow, the process of ignition being mismanaged, it exploded prematurely, and one of them was killed. This coincidence was held as a
fulfilment of the curse mentioned in the legend. I have heard that it
remains in that mutilated state to the present day, no other person
being found who had the hardihood to touch it. This stone, before it
was disfigured, exactly resembled that which the country people term a
miscaun of butter, which is precisely the shape of a complete prism, a
circumstance, no doubt, which, in the fertile imagination of the old
Senachies, gave rise to the superstition annexed to it."
SOME AUTHORITIES ON IRISH FOLK-LORE.

Croker's Legends of the South of Ireland, Lady Wilde's Ancient
Legends of Ireland. Sir William Wilde's Irish Popular Superstitions.
McAnally's Irish Wonders. Irish Folk-Lore, by Lageniensis. Lover's
Legends and Stories of the Irish Peasantry. Patrick Kennedy's Legendary Fictions of the Irish Celts, Banks of the Boro, Legends of Mount
Leinster^ and Banks of the Duffrey ; Carlton's Traits and Stories of the
Irish Peasantry ; and the chap-books, Royal Fairy Tales, Hibernian
Tales, and Tales of the Fairies.
Besides these there are many books
on general subjects, containing stray folk-lore, such as Mr. and Mrs,

326

NOTES.

S. C. Hall's Ireland; Lady Chatterton's Rambles in the South of
Ireland; Gerald Griffin's Tales of a Jury-room; and the Leadbeater
Papers. For banshee stories see Barrington's Recollections and Miss
Lefanu's Memoirs of my Grandmother, In O'Donovan's introduction
to the Four Masters are several tales. The principal magazine articles
are in the Dublin and London Magazine for 1825-1828 (Sir William
Wilde calls this the best collection of Irish folk-lore in existence); and in
the Dublin University Magazine for 1839 and 1878, those in '78 being
by Miss Maclintock. The Folk-Lore Journal and the Folk-Lore Record
contain much Irish folk-lore, as also do the Ossianic Society's publications and the proceedings of the Kilkenny Archaeological Society. Old
Irish magazines, such as the Penny Journal, Newry Magazine, and
Duffy's Sixpenny Magazine and Hibernian Magazine, have much
scattered through them. Among the peasantry are immense quantities
of ungathered legends and beliefs.

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