There was once a boy in the County Mayo, and he never washed a foot from
the day he was born. Guleesh was his name; but as nobody could ever
prevail on him to wash his feet, they used to call him Guleesh na guss
dhu, or Guleesh Black-foot. It’s often the father said to him: “Get up,
you _strone-sha_ (lubber), and wash yourself,” but the devil a foot
would he get up, and the devil a foot would he wash. There was no use
in talking to him. Every one used to be humbugging him on account of
his dirty feet, but he paid them no heed nor attention. You might say
anything at all to him, but in spite of it all he would have his own way
afterwards.
One night the whole family were gathered in by the fire, telling stories
and making fun for themselves, and he amongst them. The father said to
him: “Guleesh, you are one and twenty years old to-night, and I believe
you never washed a foot from the day you were born till to-day.”
“You lie,” said Guleesh, “didn’t I go a’swimming on May day last? and I
couldn’t keep my feet out of the water.”
“Well, they were as dirty as ever they were when you came to the shore,”
said the father.
“They were that, surely,” said Guleesh.
“That’s the thing I’m saying,” says the father, “that it wasn’t in you to
wash your feet ever.”
“And I never will wash them till the day of my death,” said Guleesh.
“You miserable _behoonugh_! you clown! you tinker! you good-for-nothing
lubber! what kind of answer is that?” says the father; and with that
he drew the hand and struck him a hard fist on the jaw. “Be off with
yourself,” says he, “I can’t stand you any longer.”
Guleesh got up and put a hand to his jaw, where he got the fist. “Only
that it’s yourself that’s in it, who gave me that blow,” said he,
“another blow you’d never strike till the day of your death.” He went out
of the house then and great anger on him.
There was the finest _lis_, or rath, in Ireland, a little way off from
the gable of the house, and he was often in the habit of seating himself
on the fine grass bank that was running round it. He stood, and he half
leaning against the gable of the house, and looking up into the sky, and
watching the beautiful white moon over his head. After him to be standing
that way for a couple of hours, he said to himself: “My bitter grief that
I am not gone away out of this place altogether. I’d sooner be any place
in the world than here. Och, it’s well for you, white moon,” says he,
“that’s turning round, turning round, as you please yourself, and no man
can put you back. I wish I was the same as you.”
Hardly was the word out of his mouth when he heard a great noise
coming like the sound of many people running together, and talking,
and laughing, and making sport, and the sound went by him like a whirl
of wind, and he was listening to it going into the rath. “Musha, by my
soul,” says he, “but ye’re merry enough, and I’ll follow ye.”
What was in it but the fairy host, though he did not know at first that
it was they who were in it, but he followed them into the rath. It’s
there he heard _the fulparnee, and the folpornee, the rap-lay-hoota,
and the roolya-boolya_.[29] that they had there, and every man of them
crying out as loud as he could: “My horse, and bridle, and saddle! My
horse, and bridle, and saddle!”
“By my hand,” said Guleesh, “my boy, that’s not bad. I’ll imitate ye,”
and he cried out as well as they: “My horse, and bridle, and saddle! My
horse, and bridle, and saddle!” And on the moment there was a fine horse
with a bridle of gold, and a saddle of silver, standing before him. He
leaped up on it, and the moment he was on its back he saw clearly that
the rath was full of horses, and of little people going riding on them.
Said a man of them to him: “Are you coming with us to-night, Guleesh?”
“I am, surely,” said Guleesh.
“If you are, come along,” said the little man, and out with them
altogether, riding like the wind, faster than the fastest horse ever you
saw a’hunting, and faster than the fox and the hounds at his tail.
The cold winter’s wind that was before them, they overtook her, and the
cold winter’s wind that was behind them, she did not overtake them. And
stop nor stay of that full race, did they make none, until they came to
the brink of the sea.
Then every one of them said: “Hie over cap! Hie over cap!” and that
moment they were up in the air, and before Guleesh had time to remember
where he was, they were down on dry land again, and were going like the
wind. At last they stood, and a man of them said to Guleesh: “Guleesh, do
you know where you are now?”
“Not a know,” says Guleesh.
“You’re in Rome, Guleesh,” said he; “but we’re going further than
that. The daughter of the king of France is to be married to-night, the
handsomest woman that the sun ever saw, and we must do our best to bring
her with us, if we’re only able to carry her off; and you must come
with us that we may be able to put the young girl up behind you on the
horse, when we’ll be bringing her away, for it’s not lawful for us to put
her sitting behind ourselves. But you’re flesh and blood, and she can
take a good grip of you, so that she won’t fall off the horse. Are you
satisfied, Guleesh, and will you do what we’re telling you?”
“Why shouldn’t I be satisfied?” said Guleesh. “I’m satisfied, surely, and
anything that ye will tell me to do I’ll do it without doubt; but where
are we now?”
“You’re in Rome now, Guleesh,” said the sheehogue (fairy).
“In Rome, is it?” said Guleesh. “Indeed, and no lie, I’m glad of that.
The parish priest that we had he was broken (suspended) and lost his
parish some time ago; I must go to the Pope till I get a bull from him
that will put him back in his own place again.”
“Oh, Guleesh,” said the sheehogue, “you can’t do that. You won’t be let
into the palace; and, anyhow, we can’t wait for you, for we’re in a
hurry.”
“As much as a foot, I won’t go with ye,” says Guleesh, “till I go to the
Pope; but ye can go forward without me, if ye wish. I won’t stir till I
go and get the pardon of my parish priest.”
“Guleesh, is it out of your senses you are? You can’t go; and there’s
your answer for you now. I tell you, you can’t go.”
“Can’t ye go on, and to leave me here after ye,” said Guleesh, “and when
ye come back can’t ye hoist the girl up behind me?”
“But we want you at the palace of the king of France,” said the
sheehogue, “and you must come with us now.”
“The devil a foot,” said Guleesh, “till I get the priest’s pardon; the
honestest and the pleasantest man that’s in Ireland.”
Another sheehogue spoke then, and said:
“Don’t be so hard on Guleesh. The boy’s a kind boy, and he has a good
heart; and as he doesn’t wish to come without the Pope’s bull, we must do
our best to get it for him. He and I will go in to the Pope, and ye can
wait here.”
“A thousand thanks to you,” said Guleesh. “I’m ready to go with you; for
this priest, he was the sportingest and the pleasantest man in the world.”
“You have too much talk, Guleesh,” said the sheehogue, “but come along
now. Get off your horse and take my hand.”
Guleesh dismounted, and took his hand; and then the little man said a
couple of words he did not understand, and before he knew where he was he
found himself in the room with the Pope.
The Pope was sitting up late that night reading a book that he liked. He
was sitting on a big soft chair, and his two feet on the chimney-board.
There was a fine fire in the grate, and a little table standing at his
elbow, and a drop of ishka-baha (eau-de-vie) and sugar on the little
table_een_; and he never felt till Guleesh came up behind him.
“Now Guleesh,” said the sheehogue, “tell him that unless he gives you
the bull you’ll set the room on fire; and if he refuses it to you, I’ll
spurt fire round about out of my mouth, till he thinks the place is
really in a blaze, and I’ll go bail he’ll be ready enough then to give
you the pardon.”
Guleesh went up to him and put his hand on his shoulder. The Pope turned
round, and when he saw Guleesh standing behind him he frightened up.
“Don’t be afraid,” said Guleesh, “we have a parish priest at home, and
some thief told your honour a lie about him, and he was broken; but he’s
the decentest man ever your honour saw, and there’s not a man, woman, or
child in Ballynatoothach but’s in love with him.”
“Hold your tongue, you _bodach_,” said the Pope. “Where are you from, or
what brought you here? Haven’t I a lock on the door?”
“I came in on the keyhole,” says Guleesh, “and I’d be very much obliged
to your honour if you’d do what I’m asking.”
The Pope cried out: “Where are all my people? Where are my servants?
Shamus! Shawn! I’m killed; I’m robbed.”
Guleesh put his back to the door, the way he could not get out, and he
was afraid to go near Guleesh, so he had no help for it, but had to
listen to Guleesh’s story; and Guleesh could not tell it to him shortly
and plainly, for he was slow and coarse in his speaking, and that angered
the Pope; and when Guleesh finished his story, he vowed that he never
would give the priest his pardon; and he threatened Guleesh himself that
he would put him to death for his shamelessness in coming in upon him in
the night; and he began again crying out for his servants. Whether the
servants heard him or no, there was a lock on the inside of the door, so
that they could not come in to him.
“Unless you give me a bull under your hand and seal, and the priest’s
pardon in it,” said Guleesh; “I’ll burn your house with fire.”
The sheehogue, whom the Pope did not see, began to cast fire and flame
out of his mouth, and the Pope thought that the room was all in a blaze.
He cried out: “Oh, eternal destruction! I’ll give you the pardon; I’ll
give you anything at all, only stop your fire, and don’t burn me in my
own house.”
The sheehogue stopped the fire, and the Pope had to sit down and write a
full pardon for the priest, and give him back his old place again, and
when he had it ready written, he put his name under it on the paper, and
put it into Guleesh’s hand.
“Thank your honour,” said Guleesh; “I never will come here again to you,
and _bannacht lath_ (good-bye).”
“Do not,” said the Pope; “if you do I’ll be ready before you, and you
won’t go from me so easily again. You will be shut up in a prison, and
you won’t get out for ever.”
“Don’t be afraid, I won’t come again,” said Guleesh. And before he could
say any more the sheehogue spoke a couple of words, and caught Guleesh’s
hand again, and out with them. Guleesh found himself amongst the other
sheehogues, and his horse waiting for him.
“Now, Guleesh,” said they, “it’s greatly you stopped us, and we in such
a hurry; but come on now, and don’t think of playing such a trick again,
for we won’t wait for you.”
“I’m satisfied,” said Guleesh, “and I’m thankful to ye; but tell me where
are we going.”
“We’re going to the palace of the king of France,” said they; “and if we
can at all, we’re to carry off his daughter with us.”
Every man of them then said, “Rise up, horse;” and the horses began
leaping, and running, and prancing. The cold wind of winter that was
before them they overtook her, and the cold wind of winter that was
behind them, she did not overtake them, and they never stopped of that
race, till they came as far as the palace of the king of France.
They got off their horses there, and a man of them said a word that
Guleesh did not understand, and on the moment they were lifted up, and
Guleesh found himself and his companions in the palace. There was a great
feast going on there, and there was not a nobleman or a gentleman in
the kingdom but was gathered there, dressed in silk and satin, and gold
and silver, and the night was as bright as the day with all the lamps
and candles that were lit, and Guleesh had to shut his two eyes at the
brightness. When he opened them again and looked from him, he thought
he never saw anything as fine as all he saw there. There were a hundred
tables spread out, and their full of meat and drink on each table of
them, flesh-meat, and cakes and sweetmeats, and wine and ale, and every
drink that ever a man saw. The musicians were at the two ends of the
hall, and they playing the sweetest music that ever a man’s ear heard,
and there were young women and fine youths in the middle of the hall,
dancing and turning, and going round so quickly and so lightly, that it
put a _soorawn_ in Guleesh’s head to be looking at them. There were more
there playing tricks, and more making fun and laughing, for such a feast
as there was that day had not been in France for twenty years, because
the old king had no children alive but only the one daughter, and she was
to be married to the son of another king that night. Three days the feast
was going on, and the third night she was to be married, and that was the
night that Guleesh and the sheehogues came, hoping if they could, to
carry off with them the king’s young daughter.
Guleesh and his companions were standing together at the head of the
hall, where there was a fine altar dressed up, and two bishops behind it
waiting to marry the girl, as soon as the right time should come. Nobody
could see the sheehogues, for they said a word as they came in, that made
them all invisible, as if they had not been in it at all.
“Tell me which of them is the king’s daughter,” said Guleesh, when he was
becoming a little used to the noise and the light.
“Don’t you see her there from you?” said the little man that he was
talking to.
Guleesh looked where the little man was pointing with his finger, and
there he saw the loveliest woman that was, he thought, upon the ridge of
the world. The rose and the lily were fighting together in her face, and
one could not tell which of them got the victory. Her arms and hands were
like the lime, her mouth as red as a strawberry, when it is ripe, her
foot was as small and as light as another one’s hand, her form was smooth
and slender, and her hair was falling down from her head in buckles of
gold. Her garments and dress were woven with gold and silver, and the
bright stone that was in the ring on her hand was as shining as the sun.
Guleesh was nearly blinded with all the loveliness and beauty that was in
her; but when he looked again, he saw that she was crying, and that there
was the trace of tears in her eyes. “It can’t be,” said Guleesh, “that
there’s grief on her, when everybody round her is so full of sport and
merriment.”
“Musha, then, she is grieved,” said the little man; “for it’s against
her own will she’s marrying, and she has no love for the husband she is
to marry. The king was going to give her to him three years ago, when
she was only fifteen, but she said she was too young, and requested him
to leave her as she was yet. The king gave her a year’s grace, and when
that year was up he gave her another year’s grace, and then another; but
a week or a day he would not give her longer, and she is eighteen years
old to-night, and it’s time for her to marry; but, indeed,” says he, and
he crooked his mouth in an ugly way; “indeed, it’s no king’s son she’ll
marry, if I can help it.”
Guleesh pitied the handsome young lady greatly when he heard that, and
he was heart-broken to think that it would be necessary for her to marry
a man she did not like, or what was worse, to take a nasty Sheehogue
for a husband. However, he did not say a word, though he could not help
giving many a curse to the ill-luck that was laid out for himself, and he
helping the people that were to snatch her away from her home and from
her father.
He began thinking, then, what it was he ought to do to save her, but
he could think of nothing. “Oh, if I could only give her some help and
relief,” said he, “I wouldn’t care whether I were alive or dead; but I
see nothing that I can do for her.”
He was looking on when the king’s son came up to her and asked her for
a kiss, but she turned her head away from him. Guleesh had double pity
for her then, when he saw the lad taking her by the soft white hand, and
drawing her out to dance. They went round in the dance near where Guleesh
was, and he could plainly see that there were tears in her eyes.
When the dancing was over, the old king, her father, and her mother, the
queen, came up and said that this was the right time to marry her, that
the bishop was ready and the couch prepared, and it was time to put the
wedding-ring on her and give her to her husband.
The old king put a laugh out of him: “Upon my honour,” he said, “the
night is nearly spent, but my son will make a night for himself. I’ll go
bail he won’t rise early to-morrow.”
“Musha, and maybe he would,” said the Sheehogue in Guleesh’s ear, “or not
go to bed, perhaps, at all. Ha, ha, ha!”
Guleesh gave him no answer, for his two eyes were going out on his head
watching to see what they would do then.
The king took the youth by the hand, and the queen took her daughter,
and they went up together to the altar, with the lords and great people
following them.
When they came near the altar, and were no more than about four yards
from it, the little sheehogue stretched out his foot before the girl,
and she fell. Before she was able to rise again he threw something that
was in his hand upon her, said a couple of words, and upon the moment
the maiden was gone from amongst them. Nobody could see her, for that
word made her invisible. The little man_een_ seized her and raised her up
behind Guleesh, and the king nor no one else saw them, but out with them
through the hall till they came to the door.
Oro! dear Mary! it’s there the pity was, and the trouble, and the crying,
and the wonder, and the searching, and the _rookawn_, when that lady
disappeared from their eyes, and without their seeing what did it. Out
on the door of the palace with them, without being stopped or hindered,
for nobody saw them, and, “My horse, my bridle, and saddle!” says every
man of them. “My horse, my bridle, and saddle!” says Guleesh; and on the
moment the horse was standing ready caparisoned before him. “Now, jump
up, Guleesh,” said the little man, “and put the lady behind you, and we
will be going; the morning is not far off from us now.”
Guleesh raised her up on the horse’s back, and leaped up himself before
her, and, “Rise horse,” said he; and his horse, and the other horses with
him, went in a full race until they came to the sea.
“Highover, cap!” said every man of them.
“Highover, cap!” said Guleesh; and on the moment the horse rose under
him, and cut a leap in the clouds, and came down in Erin.
They did not stop there, but went of a race to the place where was
Guleesh’s house and the rath. And when they came as far as that, Guleesh
turned and caught the young girl in his two arms, and leaped off the
horse.
“I call and cross you to myself, in the name of God!” said he; and on the
spot, before the word was out of his mouth, the horse fell down, and what
was in it but the beam of a plough, of which they had made a horse; and
every other horse they had, it was that way they made it. Some of them
were riding on an old besom, and some on a broken stick, and more on a
_bohalawn_ (rag weed), or a hemlock-stalk.
The good people called out together when they heard what Guleesh said:
“Oh, Guleesh, you clown, you thief, that no good may happen you, why did
you play that trick on us?”
But they had no power at all to carry off the girl, after Guleesh had
consecrated her to himself.
“Oh, Guleesh, isn’t that a nice turn you did us, and we so kind to you?
What good have we now out of our journey to Rome and to France? Never
mind yet, you clown, but you’ll pay us another time for this. Believe us
you’ll repent it.”
“He’ll have no good to get out of the young girl,” said the little man
that was talking to him in the palace before that, and as he said the
word he moved over to her and struck her a slap on the side of the head.
“Now,” says he, “she’ll be without talk any more; now, Guleesh, what good
will she be to you when she’ll be dumb? It’s time for us to go—but you’ll
remember us, Guleesh na Guss Dhu!”
When he said that he stretched out his two hands, and before Guleesh was
able to give an answer, he and the rest of them were gone into the rath
out of his sight, and he saw them no more.
He turned to the young woman and said to her: “Thanks be to God, they’re
gone. Would you not sooner stay with me than with them?” She gave him no
answer. “There’s trouble and grief on her yet,” said Guleesh in his own
mind, and he spoke to her again: “I am afraid that you must spend this
night in my father’s house, lady, and if there is anything that I can do
for you, tell me, and I’ll be your servant.”
The beautiful girl remained silent, but there were tears in her eyes, and
her face was white and red after each other.
“Lady,” said Guleesh, “tell me what you would like me to do now. I never
belonged at all to that lot of sheehogues who carried you away with them.
I am the son of an honest farmer, and I went with them without knowing
it. If I’ll be able to send you back to your father I’ll do it, and I
pray you make any use of me now that you may wish.”
He looked into her face, and he saw the mouth moving as if she was going
to speak, but there came no word from it.
“It cannot be,” said Guleesh, “that you are dumb. Did I not hear you
speaking to the king’s son in the palace to-night? Or has that devil made
you really dumb, when he struck his nasty hand on your jaw?”
The girl raised her white smooth hand, and laid her finger on her tongue,
to show him that she had lost her voice and power of speech, and the
tears ran out of her two eyes like streams, and Guleesh’s own eyes were
not dry, for as rough as he was on the outside he had a soft heart, and
could not stand the sight of the young girl, and she in that unhappy
plight.
He began thinking with himself what he ought to do, and he did not like
to bring her home with himself to his father’s house, for he knew well
that they would not believe him, that he had been in France and brought
back with him the king of France’s daughter, and he was afraid they might
make a mock of the young lady or insult her.
As he was doubting what he ought to do, and hesitating, he chanced to put
his hand in his pocket, and he found a paper in it. He pulled it up, and
the moment he looked at it he remembered it was the Pope’s bull. “Glory
be to God,” said he, “I know now what I’ll do; I’ll bring her to the
priest’s house, and as soon as he sees the pardon I have here, he won’t
refuse me to keep the lady and care her.” He turned to the lady again and
told her that he was loath to take her to his father’s house, but that
there was an excellent priest very friendly to himself, who would take
good care of her, if she wished to remain in his house; but that if there
was any other place she would rather go, he said he would bring her to
it.
She bent her head, to show him she was obliged, and gave him to
understand that she was ready to follow him any place he was going. “We
will go to the priest’s house, then,” said he; “he is under an obligation
to me, and will do anything I ask him.”
They went together accordingly to the priest’s house, and the sun was
just rising when they came to the door. Guleesh beat it hard, and as
early as it was the priest was up, and opened the door himself. He
wondered when he saw Guleesh and the girl, for he was certain that it was
coming wanting to be married they were.
“Guleesh na Guss Dhu, isn’t it the nice boy you are that you can’t wait
till ten o’clock or till twelve, but that you must be coming to me at
this hour, looking for marriage, you and your _girshuch_. You ought to
know that I’m broken, and that I can’t marry you, or at all events, can’t
marry you lawfully. But ubbubboo!” said he, suddenly, as he looked again
at the young girl, “in the name of God, who have you here? Who is she, or
how did you get her?”
“Father,” said Guleesh, “you can marry me, or anybody else, any more, if
you wish; but it’s not looking for marriage I came to you now, but to ask
you, if you please, to give a lodging in your house to this young lady.”
And with that he drew out the Pope’s bull, and gave it to the priest to
read.
The priest took it, and read it, and looked sharply at the writing and
seal, and he had no doubt but it was a right bull, from the hand of the
Pope.
“Where did you get this?” said he to Guleesh, and the hand he held the
paper in, was trembling with wonder and joy.
“Oh, musha!” said Guleesh, airily enough, “I got it last night in Rome;
I remained a couple of hours in the city there, when I was on my way to
bring this young lady, daughter of the king of France, back with me.”
The priest looked at him as though he had ten heads on him; but without
putting any other question to him, he desired him to come in, himself and
the maiden, and when they came in, he shut the door, brought them into
the parlour, and put them sitting.
“Now, Guleesh,” said he, “tell me truly where did you get this bull, and
who is this young lady, and whether you’re out of your senses really, or
are only making a joke of me?”
“I’m not telling a word of lie, nor making a joke of you,” said Guleesh;
“but it was from the Pope himself I got the paper, and it was from the
palace of the king of France I carried off this lady, and she is the
daughter of the king of France.”
He began his story then, and told the whole to the priest, and the priest
was so much surprised that he could not help calling out at times, or
clapping his hands together.
When Guleesh said from what he saw he thought the girl was not satisfied
with the marriage that was going to take place in the palace before he
and the sheehogues broke it up, there came a red blush into the girl’s
cheek, and he was more certain than ever that she had sooner be as she
was—badly as she was—than be the married wife of the man she hated. When
Guleesh said that he would be very thankful to the priest if he would
keep her in his own house, the kind man said he would do that as long as
Guleesh pleased, but that he did not know what they ought to do with her,
because they had no means of sending her back to her father again.
Guleesh answered that he was uneasy about the same thing, and that he saw
nothing to do but to keep quiet until they should find some opportunity
of doing something better. They made it up then between themselves that
the priest should let on that it was his brother’s daughter he had, who
was come on a visit to him from another county, and that he should tell
everybody that she was dumb, and do his best to keep everyone away from
her. They told the young girl what it was they intended to do, and she
showed by her eyes that she was obliged to them.
Guleesh went home then, and when his people asked him where he was, he
said that he was asleep at the foot of the ditch, and passed the night
there.
There was great wonderment on the neighbours when the honest priest
showed them the Pope’s bull, and got his old place again, and everyone
was rejoiced, for, indeed, there was no fault at all in that honest man,
except that now and again he would have too much liking for a drop of
the bottle; but no one could say that he ever saw him in a way that he
could not utter “here’s to your health,” as well as ever a man in the
kingdom. But if they wondered to see the priest back again in his old
place, much more did they wonder at the girl who came so suddenly to his
house without anyone knowing where she was from, or what business she
had there. Some of the people said that everything was not as it ought
to be, and others that it was not possible that the Pope gave back his
place to the priest after taking it from him before, on account of the
complaints about his drinking. And there were more of them, too, who said
that Guleesh na Guss Dhu was not like the same man that was in it before,
and that it was a great story (_i.e._, a thing to wonder at) how he was
drawing every day to the priest’s house, and that the priest had a wish
and a respect for him, a thing they could not clear up at all.
That was true for them, indeed, for it was seldom the day went by but
Guleesh would go to the priest’s house, and have a talk with him, and as
often as he would come he used to hope to find the young lady well again,
and with leave to speak; but, alas! she remained dumb and silent, without
relief or cure. Since she had no other means of talking she carried on
a sort of conversation between herself and himself, by moving her hand
and fingers, winking her eyes, opening and shutting her mouth, laughing
or smiling, and a thousand other signs, so that it was not long until
they understood each other very well. Guleesh was always thinking how
he should send her back to her father; but there was no one to go with
her, and he himself did not know what road to go, for he had never been
out of his own country before the night he brought her away with him.
Nor had the priest any better knowledge than he; but when Guleesh asked
him, he wrote three or four letters to the king of France, and gave them
to buyers and sellers of wares, who used to be going from place to place
across the sea; but they all went astray, and never one came to the
king’s hand.
This was the way they were for many months, and Guleesh was falling
deeper and deeper in love with her every day, and it was plain to himself
and the priest that she liked him. The boy feared greatly at last, lest
the king should really hear where his daughter was, and take her back
from himself, and he besought the priest to write no more, but to leave
the matter to God.
So they passed the time for a year, until there came a day when Guleesh
was lying by himself on the grass, on the last day of the last month
in autumn (_i.e._ October), and he thinking over again in his own mind
of everything that happened to him from the day that he went with the
sheehogues across the sea. He remembered then, suddenly, that it was one
November night that he was standing at the gable of the house, when the
whirlwind came, and the sheehogues in it, and he said to himself: “We
have November night again to-day, and I’ll stand in the same place I was
last year, until I see will the good people come again. Perhaps I might
see or hear something that would be useful to me, and might bring back
her talk again to Mary”—that was the name himself and the priest called
the king’s daughter, for neither of them knew her right name. He told his
intention to the priest, and the priest gave him his blessing.
Guleesh accordingly went to the old rath when the night was darkening,
and he stood with his bent elbow leaning on a gray old flag, waiting
till the middle of the night should come. The moon rose slowly, and it
was like a knob of fire behind him; and there was a white fog which was
raised up over the fields of grass and all damp places, through the
coolness of the night after a great heat in the day. The night was calm
as is a lake when there is not a breath of wind to move a wave on it, and
there was no sound to be heard but the _cronawn_ (hum) of the insects
that would go by from time to time, or the hoarse sudden scream of the
wild-geese, as they passed from lake to lake, half a mile up in the air
over his head; or the sharp whistle of the fadogues and flibeens (golden
and green plover), rising and lying, lying and rising, as they do on a
calm night. There were a thousand thousand bright stars shining over his
head, and there was a little frost out, which left the grass under his
foot white and crisp.
He stood there for an hour, for two hours, for three hours, and the frost
increased greatly, so that he heard the breaking of the _traneens_ under
his foot as often as he moved. He was thinking, in his own mind, at last,
that the sheehogues would not come that night, and that it was as good
for him to return back again, when he heard a sound far away from him,
coming towards him, and he recognised what it was at the first moment.
The sound increased, and at first it was like the beating of waves on a
stony shore, and then it was like the falling of a great waterfall, and
at last it was like a loud storm in the tops of the trees, and then the
whirlwind burst into the rath of one rout, and the sheehogues were in it.
It all went by him so suddenly that he lost his breath with it, but he
came to himself on the spot, and put an ear on himself, listening to what
they would say.
Scarcely had they gathered into the rath till they all began shouting,
and screaming, and talking amongst themselves; and then each one of them
cried out: “My horse, and bridle, and saddle! My horse, and bridle,
and saddle!” and Guleesh took courage, and called out as loudly as any
of them: “My horse, and bridle, and saddle! My horse, and bridle, and
saddle!” But before the word was well out of his mouth, another man cried
out: “Ora! Guleesh, my boy, are you here with us again? How are you
coming on with your woman? There’s no use in your calling for your horse
to-night. I’ll go bail you won’t play on us again. It was a good trick
you played on us last year!”
“It was,” said another man, “he won’t do it again.”
“Isn’t he a prime lad, the same lad! to take a woman with him that never
said as much to him as, ‘how do you do?’ since this time last year!” says
the third man.
“Perhaps he likes to be looking at her,” said another voice.
“And if the _omadawn_ only knew that there’s an herb growing up by his
own door, and to boil it and give it to her and she’d be well,” said
another voice.
“That’s true for you.”
“He is an omadawn.”
“Don’t bother your head with him, we’ll be going.”
“We’ll leave the _bodach_ as he is.”
And with that they rose up into the air, and out with them of one
_roolya-boolya_ the way they came; and they left poor Guleesh standing
where they found him, and the two eyes going out of his head, looking
after them, and wondering.
He did not stand long till he returned back, and he thinking in his own
mind on all he saw and heard, and wondering whether there was really
an herb at his own door that would bring back the talk to the king’s
daughter. “It can’t be,” says he to himself, “that they would tell it
to me, if there was any virtue in it; but perhaps the sheehogue didn’t
observe himself when he let the word slip out of his mouth. I’ll search
well as soon as the sun rises, whether there’s any plant growing beside
the house except thistles and dockings.”
He went home, and as tired as he was he did not sleep a wink until the
sun rose on the morrow. He got up then, and it was the first thing he did
to go out and search well through the grass round about the house, trying
could he get any herb that he did not recognize. And, indeed, he was not
long searching till he observed a large strange herb that was growing up
just by the gable of the house.
He went over to it, and observed it closely, and saw that there were
seven little branches coming out of the stalk, and seven leaves growing
on every branch_een_ of them, and that there was a white sap in the
leaves. “It’s very wonderful,” said he to himself, “that I never noticed
this herb before. If there’s any virtue in an herb at all, it ought to be
in such a strange one as this.”
He drew out his knife, cut the plant, and carried it into his own house;
stripped the leaves off it and cut up the stalk; and there came a thick,
white juice out of it, as there comes out of the sow-thistle when it is
bruised, except that the juice was more like oil.
He put it in a little pot and a little water in it, and laid it on the
fire until the water was boiling, and then he took a cup, filled it half
up with the juice, and put it to his own mouth. It came into his head
then that perhaps it was poison that was in it, and that the good people
were only tempting him that he might kill himself with that trick, or put
the girl to death without meaning it. He put down the cup again, raised
a couple of drops on the top of his finger, and put it to his mouth. It
was not bitter, and, indeed, had a sweet, agreeable taste. He grew bolder
then, and drank the full of a thimble of it, and then as much again, and
he never stopped till he had half the cup drunk. He fell asleep after
that, and did not wake till it was night, and there was great hunger and
great thirst on him.
He had to wait, then, till the day rose; but he determined, as soon as he
should wake in the morning, that he would go to the king’s daughter and
give her a drink of the juice of the herb.
As soon as he got up in the morning, he went over to the priest’s house
with the drink in his hand, and he never felt himself so bold and
valiant, and spirited and light, as he was that day, and he was quite
certain that it was the drink he drank which made him so hearty.
When he came to the house, he found the priest and the young lady within,
and they were wondering greatly why he had not visited them for two days.
He told them all his news, and said that he was certain that there was
great power in that herb, and that it would do the lady no hurt, for he
tried it himself and got good from it, and then he made her taste it, for
he vowed and swore that there was no harm in it.
Guleesh handed her the cup, and she drank half of it, and then fell back
on her bed and a heavy sleep came on her, and she never woke out of that
sleep till the day on the morrow.
Guleesh and the priest sat up the entire night with her, waiting till she
should awake, and they between hope and unhope, between expectation of
saving her and fear of hurting her.
She awoke at last when the sun had gone half its way through the heavens.
She rubbed her eyes and looked like a person who did not know where she
was. She was like one astonished when she saw Guleesh and the priest in
the same room with her, and she sat up doing her best to collect her
thoughts.
The two men were in great anxiety waiting to see would she speak, or
would she not speak, and when they remained silent for a couple of
minutes, the priest said to her: “Did you sleep well, Mary?”
And she answered him: “I slept, thank you.”
No sooner did Guleesh hear her talking than he put a shout of joy out of
him, and ran over to her and fell on his two knees, and said: “A thousand
thanks to God, who has given you back the talk; lady of my heart, speak
again to me.”
The lady answered him that she understood it was he who boiled that
drink for her, and gave it to her; that she was obliged to him from her
heart for all the kindness he showed her since the day she first came to
Ireland, and that he might be certain that she would never forget it.
Guleesh was ready to die with satisfaction and delight. Then they brought
her food, and she eat with a good appetite, and was merry and joyous, and
never left off talking with the priest while she was eating.
After that Guleesh went home to his house, and stretched himself on the
bed and fell asleep again, for the force of the herb was not all spent,
and he passed another day and a night sleeping. When he woke up he went
back to the priest’s house, and found that the young lady was in the same
state, and that she was asleep almost since the time that he left the
house.
He went into her chamber with the priest, and they remained watching
beside her till she awoke the second time, and she had her talk as well
as ever, and Guleesh was greatly rejoiced. The priest put food on the
table again, and they eat together, and Guleesh used after that to come
to the house from day to day, and the friendship that was between him and
the king’s daughter increased, because she had no one to speak to except
Guleesh and the priest, and she liked Guleesh best.
He had to tell her the way he was standing by the rath when the good
people came, and how he went in to the Pope, and how the sheehogue blew
fire out of his mouth, and every other thing that he did till the time
the good people whipt her off with themselves; and when it would be all
told he would have to begin it again out of the new, and she never was
tired listening to him.
When they had been that way for another half year, she said that she
could wait no longer without going back to her father and mother; that
she was certain that they were greatly grieved for her; and that it was
a shame for her to leave them in grief, when it was in her power to go
as far as them. The priest did all he could to keep her with them for
another while, but without effect, and Guleesh spoke every sweet word
that came into his head, trying to get the victory over her, and to
coax her and make her stay as she was, but it was no good for him. She
determined that she would go, and no man alive would make her change her
intention.
She had not much money, but only two rings that were on her hand, when
the sheehogue carried her away, and a gold pin that was in her hair, and
golden buckles that were on her little shoes.
The priest took and sold them and gave her the money, and she said that
she was ready to go.
She left her blessing and farewell with the priest and Guleesh, and
departed. She was not long gone till there came such grief and melancholy
over Guleesh that he knew he would not be long alive unless he were near
her, and he followed her.
(The next 42 pages in the Leabhar Sgeuluigheachta are taken
up with the adventures of Guleesh and the princess, on their
way to the court of France. But this portion of the story is
partly taken from other tales, and part is too much altered and
amplified in the writing of it, so that I do not give it here,
as not being genuine folk-lore, which the story, except for a
very little embellishment, has been up to this point. The whole
ends as follows, with the restoration of the princess and her
marriage with Guleesh.)
It was well, and it was not ill. They married one another, and that was
the fine wedding they had, and if I were to be there then, I would not be
here now; but I heard it from a birdeen that there was neither cark nor
care, sickness nor sorrow, mishap nor misfortune on them till the hour of
their death, and that it may be the same with me, and with us all!