whichever ov them could manage it wud be med a great man intirely ov; he
wud get the Prencess Maynish in marriage, an' ov coorse, would be med
king ov Leinster when the ould king, Garry, her father, cocked his toes
an' looked up through the butts ov the daisies at the shky. Well, whin
Fan h'ard this, he was put to a nonplush to know what to do! With his
ould duds on him, he was ashamed ov his life to go out into the open, to
have the eyes ov the whole wurruld on him, an' his heart wint down to
his big toe as he watched the boys makin' their offers at the lep. But
no one of them was soople enough for the job, an' they kep on tumblin',
wan afther the other, into the strame; so that the poor prencess began
to look sorryful whin her favourite, a big hayro wid a colyeen (curls) a
yard long--an' more betoken he was a boy o' the Byrnes from Imayle--jist
tipped the bank forninst her wid his right fut, an' then twistin', like
a crow in the air scratchin' her head with her claw, he spraddled wide
open in the wather, and splashed about like a hake in a mudbank! Well,
me dear, Fan forgot himself, an' gev a screech like an aigle; an' wid
that, the ould king started, the ladies all screamed, an' Fan was
surrounded. In less than a minnit an' a half they dragged me bould Fan
be the collar ov his coat right straight around to the king himself.
"What ould geochagh (beggar) have we now?" sez the king, lookin' very
hard at Fan.
"I'm Fan MaCool!" sez the thief ov the wurruld, as cool as a frog.
"Well, Fan MaCool or not," sez the king, mockin' him, "ye'll have to
jump the sthrame yander for freckenin' the lives clane out ov me
ladies," sez he, "an' for disturbin' our spoort ginerally," sez he.
"An' what'll I get for that same?" sez Fan, lettin' on (pretending) he
was afeered.
"Me daughter, Maynish," sez the king, wid a laugh; for he thought, ye
see, Fan would be drowned.
"Me hand on the bargain," sez Fan; but the owld chap gev him a rap on
the knuckles wid his specktre (sceptre) an' towld him to hurry up, or
he'd get the ollaves (judges) to put him in the Black Dog pres'n or the
Marshals--I forgets which--it's so long gone by!
Well, Fan peeled off his coatamore, an' threw away his bottheen ov a
stick, an' the prencess seein' his big body an' his long arums an' legs
like an oak tree, couldn't help remarkin' to her comrade, the craythur--
"Bedad, Cauth (Kate)," sez she, "but this beggarman is a fine bit of a
bouchal (boy)," sez she; "it's in the arumy (army) he ought to be," sez
she, lookin' at him agen, an' admirin' him, like.
So, Fan, purtendin' to be fixin' his shoes be the bank, jist pulled two
lusmores (fox-gloves) an' put them anunder his heels; for thim wor the
fairies' own flowers that works all soort ov inchantment, an' he, ov
coorse, knew all about it; for he got the wrinkle from an ould lenaun
(fairy guardian) named Cleena, that nursed him when he was a little
stand-a-loney.
Well, me dear, ye'd think it was on'y over a little creepie
(three-legged) stool he was leppin' whin he landed like a thrish jist at
the fut ov the prencess; an' his father's son he was, that put his two
arums around her, an' gev her a kiss--haith, ye'd hear the smack ov it
at the Castle o' Dublin. The ould king groaned like a corncrake, an'
pulled out his hair in hatfuls, an' at last he ordhered the bowld
beggarman off to be kilt; but, begorrah, when they tuck off weskit an'
seen the collar ov goold around Fan's neck the ould chap became
delighted, for he knew thin he had the commandher ov Airyun (Erin) for a
son-in-law.
"Hello!" sez the king, "who have we now?" sez he, seein' the collar.
"Begonny's," sez he, "you're no boccagh (beggar) anyways!"
"I'm Fan MaCool," sez the other, as impident as a cocksparra'; "have you
anything to say agen me?" for his name wasn't up, at that time, like
afther.
"Ay lots to say agen you. How dar' you be comin' round this a-way,
dressed like a playacthor, takin' us in?" sez the king, lettin' on to be
vexed; "an' now," sez he, "to annoy you, you'll have to go an' jump back
agen afore you gets me daughter for puttin' on (deceiving) us in such a
manner."
"Your will is my pleasure," sez Fan; "but I must have a word or two with
the girl first," sez he, an' up he goes an' commences talkin' soft to
her, an' the king got as mad as a hatther at the way the two were
croosheenin' an' colloguin' (whispering and talking), an' not mindin'
him no more than if he was the man in the moon, when who comes up but
the Prence of Imayle, afther dryin' himself, to put his pike in the hay
too.
"Well, avochal (my boy)," sez Fan, "are you dry yet?" an' the Prencess
laughed like a bell round a cat's neck.
"You think yourself a smart lad, I suppose," sez the other; "but there's
one thing you can't do wid all your prate!"
"What's that?" sez Fan. "Maybe not" sez he.
"You couldn't whistle and chaw oatenmale," sez the Prence ov Imayle, in
a pucker. "Are you any good at throwin' a stone?" sez he, then.
"The best!" sez Fan, an' all the coort gother round like to a
cock-fight. "Where'll we throw to?" sez he.
"In to'ards Dublin," sez the Prence ov Imayle; an' be all accounts he
was a great hand at cruistin (throwing).
"Here goes pink," sez he, an' he ups with a stone, as big as a castle,
an' sends it flyin' in the air like a cannon ball, and it never stopped
till it landed on top ov the Three Rock Mountain.
"I'm your masther!" sez Fan, pickin' up another clochaun (stone) an'
sendin' it a few perch beyant the first.
"That you're not," sez the Prence ov Imayle, an' he done his best, an'
managed to send another finger stone beyant Fan's throw; an' sure, the
three stones are to be seen, be all the world, to this very day.
"Well, me lad," says Fan, stoopin' for another as big as a hill, "I'm
sorry I have to bate you; but I can't help it," sez he, lookin' over at
the Prencess Maynish, an' she as mute as a mouse watchin' the two big
men, an' the ould king showin' fair play, as delighted as a child.
"Watch this," sez he, whirlin' his arm like a windmill, "and now put on
your spectacles," sez he; and away he sends the stone, buzzin' through
the air like a peggin'-top, over the other three clochauns, and then
across Dublin Bay, an' scrapin' the nose off ov Howth, it landed with a
swish in the say beyant it. That's the rock they calls Ireland's Eye
now!
"Be the so an' so!" sez the king, "I don't know where that went to, at
all, at all! what direct did you send it?" sez he to Fan. "I had it in
view, till it went over the say," sez he.
"I'm bet!" sez the Prence ov Imayle. "I couldn't pass that, for I can't
see where you put it, even--good-bye to yous," sez he, turnin' on his
heel an' makin' off; "an' may yous two be as happy as I can wish you!"
An' back he went to the butt ov Lugnaquilla, an' took to fret, an I
understand shortly afther he died ov a broken heart; an' they put a
turtle-dove on his tombstone to signify that he died for love; but I
think he overstrained himself, throwin', though that's nayther here nor
there with me story!
"Are you goin' to lep back agen?" sez ould King Garry, wantin' to see
more sport; for he tuk as much delight in seein' the like as if he was a
lad ov twenty.
"To be shure I will!" sez Fan, ready enough, "but I'll have to take the
girl over with me this time!" sez he.
"Oh, no, Fan!" sez Maynish, afeered ov her life he might stumble an'
that he'd fall in with her; an' then she'd have to fall out with
him--"take me father with you," sez she; an' egonnys, the ould king
thought more about himself than any ov them, an' sed he'd take the will
for the deed, like the lawyers. So the weddin' went on; an' maybe that
wasn't the grand blow-out. But I can't stay to tell yous all the fun
they had for a fortnit; on'y, me dear, they all went into kinks ov
laughin', when the ould king, who tuk more than was good for him, stood
up to drink Fan's health, an' forgot himself.
"Here's to'ards your good health, Fan MaCool!" sez he, as grand as you
like--"an' a long life to you, an' a happy wife to you--an' a great many
ov them!" sez he, like he'd forgot somethin'.
Well, me dear, every one was splittin' their sides like the p'yates,
unless the prencess, an' she got as red in the face as if she was
churnin' in the winther an' the frost keepin' the crame from crackin';
but she got over it like the maisles.
But I suppose you can guess the remainder, an' as the evenin's gettin'
forrard I'll stop; so put down the kittle an' make tay, an' if Fan and
the Prencess Maynish didn't live happy together--that we may!
The Kildare Pooka.
_From "Legendary Fictions of the Irish Celts."_
BY PATRICK KENNEDY..
Mr. H---- H----, 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 fire-irons and the
pots and plates and dishes. One evening they sat up ever so long keeping
one another in heart with stories about ghosts and that, when--what
would have 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 raked up, he
was woke with the noise of the kitchen door opening, and the tramping of
an ass in the kitchen floor. He 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, an', says he, "I may as well begin first as
last." The poor boy's teeth began to chatter in his head, for, says he,
"Now he's going to ate me"; but the fellow with the long ears and tail
on him had something else to do. He stirred the fire, and then brought
in a pail of water from the pump, and filled 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. He let a roar out of him
with 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. He 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 fornent 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_ (sound) 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 hullabuloo 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?" "_Sha gu dheine_" (yes,
indeed), 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 everyone went to bed
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. He was a little daunted when the door was
thrown open and the ass marched up to the fire.
"And then, sir," says he, at last, picking up courage, "if it isn't
taking a liberty, might I ax you who you are, and why you are so kind as
to do a half a 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 H----'s father, and was the laziest rogue
that was ever 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 was 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: "but I think a good quilted frieze coat would help me to keep the
life in me them long nights." "Why, then, in truth, we'd be the
ungratefullest of people if we didn't feel for you."
To make a long story short, the next night the boy was there again; and
if he didn't delight the poor pooka, holding a fine, warm coat before
him, it's no matther! Betune the pooka and the man, his legs was got
into the four arms of it, and it was buttoned down the breast and
belly, and he was so pleased 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 you're 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 Piper and the Puca.
_From "An Sgeuluidhe Gaodhalach."_
BY DOUGLAS HYDE (1860--).
In the old times there was a half-fool living in Dunmore, in the County
Galway, and though he was excessively fond of music, he was unable to
learn more than one tune, and that was the "Black Rogue." He used to get
a 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 up to a little bridge that
was by his mother's house, he squeezed the pipes on, and began playing
the "Black Rogue." The Puca came behind him, and flung him on his own
back. There were long horns on the Puca, 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 tenpenny
piece in my pocket for my mother, and she wants snuff."
"Never mind your mother," said the puca, "but keep your hold. If you
fall you will break your neck and your pipes." Then the Puca said to
him, "Play up for me the 'Shan Van Vocht.'"
"I don't know it," said the Piper.
"Never mind whether you do or you don't," said the Puca. "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; "but
tell me where you're bringing me."
"There's a great feast in the house of the Banshee, on the top of Croagh
Patric to-night," says the Puca, "and I'm for bringing you there to play
music, and, take my word, you'll get the price of your trouble."
"By my word, you'll save me a journey, then," says the Piper, "for
Father William put a journey to Croagh Patric on me because I stole the
white gander from him last Martinmas."
The Puca rushed him across hills and bog and rough places, till he
brought him to the top of Croagh Patric.
Then the Puca 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 sitting round about it.
The old woman rose up and said, "A hundred thousand welcomes to you, you
Puca of November. 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 Red Mary,
and it's she told the priest I stole his gander."
The gander cleaned the table, and carried it away, and the Puca said,
"Play up music for these ladies."
The Piper played up, and the old women began dancing, and they danced
till they tired. Then the Puca said to pay the Piper, and every old
woman drew out a gold piece and gave it to him.
"By the tooth of Patric," says he, "I'm as rich as the son of a lord."
"Come with me," says the Puca, "and I'll bring you home."
They went out then, and just as he was going to ride on the Puca, the
gander came up to him and gave him a new set of pipes.
The Puca 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." The Piper went home, and he knocked at his
mother's door, saying, "Let me in, I'm as rich as a lord, and I'm the
best Piper in Ireland."
"You're drunk," says 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, "till you hear the music I play."
He buckled on the pipes, but instead of music there came a sound as if
all the geese and ganders in Ireland were screeching together. He
wakened all the neighbours, and they were all mocking him, until he put
on the old pipes, and then he played melodious music for them; 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 the geese began.
"Leave my sight, you thief," says the priest.
But nothing would do the Piper till he put the old pipes on him to show
the priest that his story was true.
He buckled on his old pipes, and 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.
M'Carthy of Connacht.
_From "Folk Tales of Breffny."_
BY B. HUNT.
There was a fine young gentleman the name of M'Carthy. He had a most
beautiful countenance, and for strength and prowess there was none to
equal him in the baronies of Connacht. But he began to dwine away, and
no person knew what ailed him. He used no food at all and he became
greatly reduced, the way he was not able to rise from his bed and he
letting horrid groans and lamentations out of him. His father sent for
three skilled doctors to come and find out what sort of disease it might
be, and a big reward was promised for the cure.
Three noted doctors came on the one day and they searched every vein in
young M'Carthy's body, but they could put no name on the sickness nor
think of a remedy to relieve it. They came down from the room and
reported that the disease had them baffled entirely.
"Am I to be at the loss of a son who is the finest boy in all Ireland?"
says the father.
Now one of the doctors had a man with him who was a very soft-spoken
person, and he up and says:
"Maybe your honours would be giving me permission to visit the young
gentleman. I have a tongue on me is that sweet I do be drawing the
secrets of the world out of men and women and little children."
Well, they brought him up to the room and they left him alone with
M'Carthy. He sat down beside the bed and began for to flatter him. The
like of such conversation was never heard before.
At long last he says, "Let your Lordship's honour be telling--What is it
ails you at all?"
"You will never let on to a living soul?" asks M'Carthy.
"Is it that I'd be lodging an information against a noble person like
yourself?" says the man.
With that, the young gentleman began telling the secrets of his heart.
"It is no disease is on me," says he, "but a terrible misfortune."
"'Tis heart scalded I am that you have either a sorrow or a sickness,
and you grand to look on and better to listen to," says the other.
"It is in love I am," says M'Carthy.
"And how would that be a misfortune to a fine lad like yourself?" asks
the man.
"Let you never let on!" says M'Carthy. "The way of it is this: I am
lamenting for no lady who is walking the world, nor for one who is dead
that I could be following to the grave. I have a little statue which has
the most beautiful countenance on it that was ever seen, and it is
destroyed with grief I am that it will never be speaking to me at all."
With that he brought the image out from under his pillow, and the
loveliness of it made the man lep off the chair.
"I'd be stealing the wee statue from your honour if I stopped in this
place," says he. "But let you take valour into your heart, for that is
the likeness of a lady who is living in the world, and you will be
finding her surely."
With that he went down to the three doctors and the old man who were
waiting below. For all his promises to young M'Carthy, he told the lot
of them all he was after hearing. The doctors allowed that if the
gentleman's life was to be saved he must be got out of his bed and sent
away on his travels.
"For a time he will be hopeful of finding her," says the oldest doctor.
"Then the whole notion will pass off him, and he seeing strange lands
and great wonders to divert him."
The father was that anxious for the son's recovery that he agreed to
sell the place and give him a big handful of money for the journey.
"It is little I'll be needing for myself from this out, and I an old man
near ripe for the grave," says he.
So they all went up to the room and told young M'Carthy to rise from his
bed and eat a good dinner, for the grandest arrangements out were made
for his future and he'd surely meet the lady. When he seen that no
person was mocking him he got into the best of humour, and he came down
and feasted with them.
Not a long time afterwards he took the big handful of money and set out
on his travels, bringing the statue with him. He went over the provinces
of Ireland, then he took sea to England, and wandered it entirely, away
to France with him next, and from that to every art and part of the
world. He had the strangest adventures, and he seen more wonders than
could ever be told or remembered. At the latter end he came back to the
old country again, with no more nor a coin or two left of the whole
great fortune of money. The whole time he never seen a lady who was the
least like the wee statue; and the words of the old doctor were only a
deceit for he didn't quit thinking of her at all. M'Carthy was a
handsome young gentleman, and if it was small heed he had for any
person he met it was great notice was taken of him. Sure it was a queen,
no less, and five or six princesses were thinking long thoughts on
himself.
The hope was near dead in his heart, and the sickness of grief was on
him again when he came home to Ireland. Soon after he landed from the
ship he chanced to come on a gentleman's place, and it a fine, big house
he never had seen before. He went up and inquired of the servants if he
would get leave to rest there. He was given a most honourable reception,
and the master of the house was well pleased to be entertaining such an
agreeable guest. Now himself happened to be a Jew, and that is the why
he did not ask M'Carthy to eat at his table, but had his dinner set out
for him in a separate room. The servants remarked on the small share of
food he was using, it was scarcely what would keep the life in a young
child; but he asked them not to make any observation of the sort. At
first they obeyed him, yet when he used no meat at all on the third day,
didn't they speak with their master.
"What is the cause of it at all?" he says to M'Carthy. "Is the food in
this place not to your liking? Let you name any dish you have a craving
for, and the cook will prepare it."
"There was never better refreshment set before an emperor," says
M'Carthy.
"It is civility makes you that flattering," answers the Jew. "How would
you be satisfied with the meat which is set before you when you are not
able to use any portion of it at all?"
"I doubt I have a sickness on me will be the means of my death," says
M'Carthy. "I had best be moving on from this place, the way I'll not be
rewarding your kindness with the botheration of a corpse."
With that the master of the house began for to speak in praise of a
doctor who was in those parts.
"I see I must be telling you what is in it," says M'Carthy. "Doctors
have no relief for the sort of tribulation is destroying me."