There 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, and invited 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. She admired him a little, and then carried it off with, "I won't
have you, Whiskers!"
So all went away, and the king was so vexed, he said to her, "Now to
punish your _impudence_, 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 this?" said she, as they were going through
one. "It belongs to the king you called Whiskers yesterday." He gave
her the same answer about meadows and corn-fields, and at last a fine
city. "Ah, what a fool I was!" said she to herself. "He 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 my house," said he, "and 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 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
the _puddens_ 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.
[Footnote 66: _Fireside Stories of Ireland._]