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WEST IRISH FOLK-TALES.
[Illustration]
The Camden Library.
EDITED BY G. LAURENCE GOMME, F.S.A. AND T. FAIRMAN ORDISH, F.S.A.
_THE CAMDEN LIBRARY._
WEST IRISH FOLK-TALES
AND
ROMANCES
Collected and Translated
BY
WILLIAM LARMINIE.
_WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES, AND APPENDIX
CONTAINING SPECIMENS OF THE GAELIC
ORIGINALS PHONETICALLY SPELT._
LONDON
ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW.
1893.
[Illustration]
_INTRODUCTION._
Whatever profit might, from the scientific point of view, be considered
likely to spring from a study of Gaelic folk-lore, it would probably be
considered beforehand that it would come from the study of the material
as a single body, uniform throughout, and, as such, to be brought into
comparison with the folk-lore of other countries. When, however, we
come to an actual survey of the material, certain appearances present
themselves which lead us to expect that, possibly, a large part of
our gain will accrue from the observation of the differences which
characterise different parts of the material within itself. Ireland,
though an island of moderate extent, is yet sufficiently large to contain
districts far enough apart to isolate in some degree their respective
peasant populations; while it is also admitted that the homogeneity of
the Gaelic tongue does not indicate a corresponding homogeneity of race.
It may turn out, in fact, ultimately, that we have in Ireland, not one,
but several bodies of folk-lore placed in relations most favourable for
aiding in the solution of certain problems; while, finally, we shall, by
a comparison with the Gaelic folk-lore of Scotland, obtain a still wider
field for similar observations and inferences.
It is true, unfortunately, that our Irish material is not by any means
what it might have been, either in quantity or quality; its defects being
such that any conclusions arrived at through the line of investigation
here to be suggested must at present be considered of a very provisional
nature. Of the folk-lore of the large province of Munster we know next
to nothing. I have myself hitherto been able to make no attempt at
collection in the southern counties. Some of Mr. Curtin’s stories were
probably obtained in Kerry; but he has not told us which. We have,
therefore, nothing to fall back upon but the somewhat sophisticated
little fairy tales of Crofton Croker. For Leinster, we are better off, as
we have the Wexford tales of Kennedy. For the inland parts of Connaught
we have Dr. Hyde’s volume; for the coast of Connaught and Donegal, the
tales included in this book, and many others in my possession not yet
published.
With regard to Crofton Croker’s tales, it needs but a small acquaintance
with Ireland to be assured that they are not peculiar to Munster. The
cluricaun still pursues his trade of boot-making by the shores of Achill
Sound in Mayo. Donegal knows all that the south ever knew on the subject,
and has perhaps even a greater wealth of information. It is admitted that
in the city of Dublin the tribe does not now exist; but such is not the
case even in this highly-civilised watering-place of Bray, only twelve
miles distant from the metropolis. In a word, this minor mythology was,
may we not say still is, common to the whole island.
The fairies, however, do not very often form the subjects of the longer
detailed narratives. Let me now turn to these. Among the Connaught
stories I have found a good many parallels on the coast to those of
the inland districts, though I have not included any in this volume.
In Donegal, on the other hand, while I have obtained only two partial
variants of the inland Connaught tales, I have found several close
parallels to the Connaught coast tales—a fact, however, which may be
accounted for by the partially Donegalese descent of the Achill people.
If we now bring the Wexford tales into comparison, it will be found that
they do not contain many parallels to those of the other districts. I
know of only five from Connaught, and two from the more distant Donegal,
both variants of two of the Connaught tales, one of them, perhaps
the best known of all such stories—no other, indeed, than Mr. Lang’s
“far-travelled tale”—that of “The Three Tasks”; the other, of which
I obtained complete versions in Galway and in Mayo, and which I know
to exist in Donegal, is represented in this volume by “Morraha Brian
More,” and in Kennedy by the “Fis fá an aon Sgeul.” Now this latter does
not appear to be much known except in Ireland; but it will hardly be
contended that it was independently invented in the four Irish counties
in which it has been discovered. Still less would this be maintained
regarding the other. The tale, which has proved its popularity by
flourishing in three quarters of the globe, shows the same quality on a
smaller scale by flourishing in at least three provinces of Ireland.
And perhaps this is the best place to note that the theory of independent
origin is contrary to one of the closest analogies to be observed
in nature. When animals and plants of the same species are found in
wide-distant regions, no naturalist assumes for a moment that they
originated separately. However puzzling the problem may be, the student
of nature seeks to solve it by explanations of a very different kind;
and already many of the most difficult cases have yielded their secret
to patient investigation. It will assuredly turn out to be the same with
folk-tales. As regards Ireland we see that there is a presumption, which
will scarcely be contested, in favour of the view that certain entire
tales were dispersed from a common centre, thus showing on a small scale
the working of the whole process. When, however, we come to parts of
tales, such as special phrases, rhymes, etc., the evidence of a common
origin is beyond question. There are plenty of minor examples in this
volume; but here I would direct special attention to the three sea-runs
which occur in “Bioultach,” “King Mananaun,” and “The Champion of the
Red Belt,” found in Galway, Mayo, and Donegal respectively (see _Note_,
pp. 253-4). I think it difficult for any one who reads these and notes
their likenesses and their differences, not to believe that they were
originally composed by one person. The variations are easily accounted
for by imperfect recollection, substitutions for forgotten phrases, and
all the gradual alterations sure to arise in the case of irregular oral
transmission among peasant narrators.
The evidence, then, seems so far to show that the fairy belief is common
to all Ireland; that of the more elaborate traditional narratives, a
certain small proportion seems to be widely diffused, while the larger
portion separates into divisions peculiar to certain districts, the
greatest divergence between one locality and another occurring when the
localities are most widely separated.
Now, that there should be any considerable divergence seems surprising
when the facts are fully taken into account. Ireland is not a large
country. For centuries—we do not know how many—before the Norman
invasion, the inhabitants had spoken Gaelic. The absence of political
unity, the ceaseless wars and forays, must all have tended to fuse the
population and obliterate original differences much more than a settled
state of society. Yet they exist. The differences in folk-lore are not
greater than other differences. Ethnologists know that the so-called
Gaelic race is really a compound one, containing in addition to the
true Celtic (Aryan) element probably two that are not Aryan—a Mongolian
or Finnish element, and an Iberian element. Very little attempt has
hitherto been made to settle in what parts of the country these elements
respectively preponderate; but that there must be some preponderance of
different races in different localities is shown clearly enough by the
varying physical types. It is beyond question that Donegal differs from
Connaught, and that both differ from Munster; and when we find that, in
spite of a coexistence of at least two thousand years in the same island,
and the possession of a common language, different districts have a
different folk-lore, is it extravagant to surmise that these different
bodies are due to varying racial deposits?
Let us now compare Ireland as a whole with the Scotch Highlands. The
language of both is still, as for fifteen hundred years, practically the
same. The inhabitants are of closely-allied race, in part identical,
and for many centuries a constant communication was kept up between
both countries. The folk-lore is partly alike, partly unlike. The
similarity is occasionally very great. There are entire tales which are
all but identical as told on both sides of the sea. There is identity
of phrases and sentences. In Campbell’s version of the “far-travelled
tale,” “The Battle of the Birds,” occurs a striking phrase, in which the
raven is said to have carried a man “over seven benns and seven glens
and seven mountain moors.” Nearly the same phrase occurs in Kennedy’s
version—“seven mountains (benns), seven glens and seven moors,” which
is the more surprising, as this story had passed, one does not know how
long before, from its Gaelic into its English dress. Compare the phrase
from “Morraha” in the present volume—“he sat down and gave a groan and
the chair broke in pieces”—with Campbell’s “The King of Assaroe”—“his
heart was so heavy the chair broke under him.” Many other examples could
be given. We have before our eyes, so far as Irish and Scotch folk-lore
are similar, an example of how two branches of a race originally so
closely united as almost to form one, have for some hundreds of years
drifted or been forced apart, the process being thus unfolded to us in
the full light of history by which a body of folk-lore, originally one,
has separated into divisions showing distinct characteristics, while it
retains the strongest tokens of its original unity.
But it seems as if there was a large amount of folk-literature in each
country which the other never possessed. To this I shall come presently,
after I have first brought forward a comparison with German folk-lore.
But before attempting that, it is desirable first to offer a few remarks
on the style of the stories in this volume.
It will, I hope, be observed that the style is not uniform, but that
it differs considerably from one story to another, and not so much in
accordance with the narrator as with what he narrates. I must of course
partially except the case of P. Minahan, whose individuality is stamped
on everything that comes from him; but this is not so with the other
narrators. If “The Gloss Gavlen” be compared with the only other tale
of M’Ginty’s, “The King who had Twelve Sons,” it will be seen that the
style of the two is quite distinct, the first being noticeable for a
certain archaic simplicity of which there is no trace in the other.
Again, the style of “Bioultach” is surely quite different from that of
T. Davis’s other contribution, “The Story,” in “Morraha,” while the
opening of the latter from M’Grale is easily distinguishable from that
of “The Little Girl who got the better of the Gentleman,” or “Gilla of
the Enchantments.” Even Minahan varies with his subject, as will appear
from a comparison of “The Woman who went to Hell” with “The Champion of
the Red Belt.” It seems from this as if some of the tales had a certain
indestructibility of style, an original colour which passed unaltered
through the minds of perhaps generations of reciters, this colour being
determined at first by the character of the subject. In general, the
tales of fierce fighting champions, of the more terrible monsters,
sorcerers and the like, have a certain fierceness, if one may use the
word, of style; while those of more domestic incident are told with
quietness and tenderness.
Let me now briefly compare the folk-tales of Germany with those of the
Scotch Highlands.
It cannot, I think, escape notice in reading Grimm’s collection,
that a very large number of the tales bear a strong impress of quiet
domesticity. They are very properly named “household” in more senses
than one. And this is a matter not merely of style but of substance.
The incidents are, to a vast extent, domestic in character. There is
no occasion to give a long list of the tales I refer to. I may mention
as types “The Three Spinners,” which turns entirely on the results of
domestic drudgery to the female figure; and “Thrush-Beard,” a tale
analogous to “The Taming of the Shrew” legend. But this domestic stamp
becomes more fully apparent when we bring into contrast the Highland
stories. Among these there are indeed parallels to Grimm; but they are
relatively few, and there is a whole class of incidents and stories
of which little trace is found in the German collection. The domestic
incident all but disappears. The tales are more romantic, picturesque,
extravagant. The giants and monsters are more frequent and fearful. The
stories of helping animals—and this is very characteristic—though not
entirely absent, are far less numerous than in Grimm.
Now, turning to Ireland, we find that both classes of story meet upon
Irish soil. Without making any allowance for the imperfect collection of
our folk-lore, and the quantity that must have been lost owing to the
lateness of our attempts to rescue it, it must be admitted that we have
the domestic story fairly well developed. The two tales from Grimm that I
have named, as well as many others, have the closest possible parallels
in Kennedy, and I have myself met with additional examples on the coast
of Connaught. The romantic and extravagant class of tales which flourish
in the Highlands have also good representatives in our oral literature.
Some specimens may be read in this volume. In one story, “Gilla of the
Enchantments,” is found a striking combination of the two. The story
is, in part, a close variant of Kennedy’s “Twelve Wild Geese,” but it
also contains, in addition to other matter, the wild incident of the
daily cutting off of the brothers’ heads by the sister, which is equally
wanting in the variant to be found in Grimm.
The question now arises, How are these contrasts and similarities to be
accounted for? Must we suppose them to be due to mere accident? If not,
what law has been at work? Why have different kinds of tales drifted in
different directions? What current of distribution has carried one set
of tales to Scotland, part of the same and part of a different set to
Ireland, while Germany has received a much larger share of the latter
than Ireland, though in the other she has been left poor? It is clearly
not commercial intercourse that has been at work, nor exogamy, nor
slavery. Some other agency has to be sought for.
In the case of ancient Greece we have an instance in which an
exceptionally rich body of legend has been proved to consist of elements
brought from divers nations and races. The birthplace of many of the
most considerable personages in Greek mythology has been found in Asian
lands. The Centaurs, Perseus, Dionysus and Semele, Artemis, Adonis and
Aphrodite herself, are believed to be all Asiatic in origin. Nay, more.
These Orientals are shown to belong to two distinct races commingled in
Babylonia: the Semites, who may have had distant affinities with the
Iberians of the West; and the Accadians, whose connections were Mongol.
It is true that the Greeks are held to have received these additions
to their own store by means of commercial intercourse. The Phœnicians,
those restless honey-gatherers of the old Mediterranean world, went
about everywhere fertilising Western flowers with Eastern pollen; but in
the case of the wild and barbarous north-west a similar agency cannot
be found; and while we are justified in taking the hint supplied by the
discovery of the compound racial nature of Greek myth, we are compelled
by circumstances to seek for a different solution of the problem.
I have already adverted to the differences of race which exist in
Ireland, more or less masked by the long predominance of the Aryan Gael.
Such differences are not confined to Ireland. It is now admitted that
the apparent predominance of the Aryan over most of Europe is, to a
great extent, one of language merely. Furthermore, the elements which
make up our population are found everywhere; the differences, mental
and physical, which characterise different nations, being mainly due,
first, to the minor variations which mark the branches of the great
stocks, such as Celt, Teuton, and Slav among the Aryans, and secondly,
to the continually varying proportions in which the different elements
are blended. The principal fact is, that far the larger part of the Old
World, excluding Africa, is occupied by three or four varieties of man,
such as the Aryan, the Mongol, and the Iberian; the others, even when
as important as the Semitic, holding very limited areas, and subject to
continual contact with those more predominant. Of these again, it is
worthy of remark that the most widely spread is not the Aryan, but the
Mongol. The latter, in addition to the vast regions which are his openly,
such as Japan, China, Central Asia, and his outlying posts in Europe,
Finland, Hungary, and Turkey, is recognised by the type as leading a
masked existence in the most western portions of our quarter of the
globe. “Scratch the Russian and you will find the Tartar” is a saying
which may be applied, _mutatis mutandis_, to many a nation much more
remote from Central Asia; nor can we be surprised that such should be
the case when we call to mind that this powerful branch of mankind has
actually, within recent historical times, run the Aryan a neck-and-neck
race for outward supremacy, while to the Semites he has scarcely left
even their deserts.
With regard to the Iberian race, it has only to be noted that its
distribution in the south and west of Europe is very extensive. It is
still almost wholly predominant in Spain and Portugal. It probably
constituted in old times, as now, the main non-Aryan element in
Mediterranean Europe. North-westward it has had a wide extension into
France, Britain, and Ireland, and probably into Scandinavia and other
countries; while it is not impossible that to it also belong in part the
non-Aryan inhabitants of Hindustan.
Applying these facts to Germany, the Scotch Highlands, and Ireland, do
we not obtain a hint as to the phenomenon of folk-lore distribution? One
race, let us say mainly Aryan, in Germany; another race, much less Aryan,
in the Scotch Highlands; a third, a more even blend of the two—of Aryan
and non-Aryan—in Ireland.
This theory seems to me to be only such a modification of a theory
which originally prevailed as is now required by the facts. It was at
first believed, apparently is still believed by some, that all these
tales originally belonged to the Aryans alone. As soon, however, as it
was found that many of them were the possession of races far removed
from Aryan contact, it was at once seen that a modification of view was
imperative. Then came the independent origin theory; and, amongst others
of later birth, one which has recently attracted much attention—the
Indian theory. This seems to me to involve the truth of several
propositions which are surely a little hard to accept. We must hold,
first, that the Aryans, when they entered India, had no folk-tales,
because, according to the hypothesis, they carried none elsewhere; next,
that the tales were either invented by the Aryans after they entered
India, or were learned by them from the earlier peoples of that country.
But that tales of one country, or one race, should have had a peculiar
ability to diffuse themselves, wanting to all others, is a proposition
that tries one’s faith. Reverting again to the analogy already used, we
know that there are animals common to India and Ireland whose original
home was in neither country. There are men of the same Aryan descent by
the Shannon and by the Indus whose ancestors had not their first common
habitation by either river. And the folk-tales, so far as they are Aryan,
did not originate south of the Himalayas, or west of the Irish Sea. But
they cannot all be Aryan. Nothing could antecedently be more improbable
than the suggestion that they were; and we might fairly regard it as
refuted even if we had nothing to go on but the literary character of
the tales. They bear the stamp of the genius of more than one race. The
pure and placid but often cold imagination of the Aryan has been at work
on some. In others we trace the more picturesque fancy, the fierceness
and sensuality, the greater sense of artistic elegance belonging to
races whom the Aryan, in spite of his occasional faults of hardness
and coarseness, has, on the whole, left behind him. But as the greatest
results in the realm of the highest art have always been achieved in
the case of certain blends of Aryan with other blood, I should hardly
deem it extravagant if it were asserted that in the humbler regions of
the folk-tale we might trace the working of the same law. The process
which has gone on may in part have been as follows:—Every race which
has acquired very definite characteristics must have been for a long
time isolated. The Aryans, during their period of isolation, probably
developed many of their folk-germs into their larger myths, owing to the
greater constructiveness of their imagination, and thus, in a way, they
used up part of their material. Afterwards, when they became blended with
other races less advanced, they acquired fresh material to work on. We
have in Ireland an instance to hand, of which a brief discussion may help
to illustrate the whole race theory.
The larger Irish legendary literature divides itself into three
cycles—the divine, the heroic, the Fenian. Of these three the last is
so well known orally in Scotland that it has been a matter of dispute
to which country it really belongs. It belongs, in fact, to both. Here,
however, comes in a strange contrast with the other cycles. The first
is, so far as I am aware, wholly unknown in Scotland, the second
comparatively unknown. What is the explanation? Professor Zimmer not
having established his late-historical view as regards Fionn, and the
general opinion among scholars having tended of recent years towards
the mythical view, we want to know why there is so much more community
in one case than in the other. Mr. O’Grady long since seeing this
difficulty, and then believing Fionn to be historical, was induced to
place the latter in point of time before Cuchullin and his compeers.
But this view is, of course, inadmissible when Fionn is seen not to
be historical at all. There remains but one explanation. The various
bodies of legend in question are, so far as Ireland is concerned, only
earlier or later as they came into the island with the various races to
which they belonged. The wider prevalence, then, of the Fionn Saga would
indicate that it belonged to an early race occupying both Ireland and
Scotland. Then entered the Aryan Gael, and for him, henceforth, as the
ruler of the island, his own gods and heroes were sung by his own bards.
His legends became the subject of what I may call the court poetry, the
aristocratic literature. When he conquered Scotland, he took with him his
own gods and heroes; but in the latter country the bardic system never
became established, and hence we find but feeble echoes of the heroic
cycle among the mountains of the North. That this is the explanation
is shown by what took place in Ireland. Here the heroic cycle has been
handed down in remembrance almost solely by the bardic literature. The
popular memory retains but few traces of it. Its essentially aristocratic
character is shown by the fact that the people have all but forgotten
it if they ever knew it. But the Fenian cycle has not been forgotten.
Prevailing everywhere, still cherished by the conquered peoples, it held
its ground in Scotland and Ireland alike, forcing its way in the latter
country even into the written literature, and so securing a twofold lease
of existence. That it did not deserve this wider popularity is evident
enough. Interesting though it be, it is not equal in interest to the
heroic cycle. The tales of the latter, though fewer in number, less bulky
in amount, have upon them the impress of the larger constructive sweep
of the Aryan imagination. Their characters are nobler; the events are
more significant. They form a much more closely compacted epic whole.
The Fenian tales, in some respects more picturesque, are less organised.
It would be difficult to construct out of them a coherent epic plot;
and what is, perhaps, not the least in significance, they have far more
numerous, more extended, more intimate connections with the folk-tale.
The Fenian cycle, in a word, is non-Aryan folk-literature partially
subjected to Aryan treatment. It occupies accordingly a middle position.
Above the rank of the folk-tale it has been elevated; but to the dignity
of the heroic legend it has not attained.
* * * * *
The tales included in the present volume form part of a large collection,
which I began to make as far back as the year 1884. All have been taken
down in the same way—that is to say, word for word from the dictation
of the peasant narrators, all by myself, with the exception of two
taken down by Mr. Lecky in precisely similar fashion; difficult and
doubtful parts being gone over again and again. Sometimes the narrators
can explain difficulties. Sometimes other natives of the place can help
you. But after every resource of this kind has been exhausted, a certain
number of doubtful words and phrases remain, with regard to which—well,
one can only do one’s best.
The districts from which the tales were obtained are three in number,
each represented by two narrators. Renvyle, the most southern of the
three, is situated in Connemara. It is a narrow peninsula, forming the
extreme north-western point of the county of Galway, jutting out opposite
Mayo. Terence Davis is a labourer pure and simple, a man of about
forty-five years of age, and blind of one eye. Some of his tales he got
from his mother. Michael Faherty was, when I first made his acquaintance,
a lad of about seventeen. He was recommended, as the best pupil in the
National School, to Mr. Lecky, who, finding him intelligent, selected him
as the best person from whom, on account of his youth, the very latest
development of the language could be learnt. He lived with his uncle, who
had, or has still, a small holding on the Blake property, and who was
also a pilot and repairer of boats. Both his tales were taken down by Mr.
Lecky. Next in order, going northward, comes Achill Island, distant some
twenty-five miles from Renvyle by sea, more than sixty miles by land.[1]
Two narrators from that locality are also represented in the book. One
of them, Pat. M’Grale, is a man of middle age, a cottier with a small
holding, and besides, a Jack-of-all-trades, something of a boatman and
fisherman, “a botch of a tailor,” to use his own words, and ready for any
odd job. He can read Irish, but had very little literature on which to
exercise his accomplishment. He knows some long poems by heart, and is
possessed of various odds and ends of learning, accurate and not. John
M’Ginty, a man of Donegal descent and name, has also some land; but his
holding is so small that he is to a great extent a labourer for others,
and was engaged on relief works when I first came to know him. He, also,
is a middle-aged man. He knows many Ossianic poems by heart, which, he
told me, his father taught him, verse by verse.
Glencolumkill is the extreme south-west corner of Donegal, remote, like
Achill and Renvyle. It is chiefly represented by the tales of Pat.
Minahan, from whom I obtained more stories than from any other one
man. He said he was eighty years of age; but he was in full possession
of all his faculties. He also had a holding on which he still worked
industriously. He had no children; but his nephew, who lived with
him, made up for all deficiencies of that nature. His style, with its
short, abrupt sentences, is always remarkable, and at its best I think
excellent. Jack Gillespie, known as Jack-Anne—the latter his mother’s
name—to distinguish him from other Jack Gillespies, was a man of sixty or
over, also a cottier.
The tales were written down in places sufficiently varied;—from the
Renvyle library to the neat little farmhouse parlour at Malinmore, where
I spent so many a winter’s evening, solitary but for the occasional
visits of some one or other of my story-tellers;—from little smoky
cabins, with inquisitive hens hopping on the table, to the unroofed
freedom of rock or brae, under summer skies, by those thrice-lovely
shores of Renvyle; by the scarcely less beautiful, though far more
rugged, crags and cliffs of Achill; by “the wild sea-banks” of what has
been described as the “grandest coast in Europe”—that of Glencolumkill.
The beauty of Scotch scenery has been discovered by one critic to be
reflected in the picturesqueness of the Scotch tales. I am not without
hope that a like influence has contributed something of a like quality to
those now submitted to the reader.
WILLIAM LARMINIE.
[1] The Sound, very narrow, is now bridged over.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE GLOSS GAVLEN 1
_Narrator, JOHN M’GINTY, Valley, Achill Island, co. Mayo._
MORRAHA 10
_Narrator, P. M’GRALE, Dugort, Achill Island, co. Mayo._
THE GHOST AND HIS WIVES 31
_Narrator, MICHAEL FAHERTY, Renvyle, co. Galway._
THE STORY OF BIOULTACH 35
_Narrator, TERENCE DAVIS, Renvyle, co. Galway._
KING MANANAUN 64
_Narrator, P. M’GRALE, Achill._
THE CHAMPION OF THE RED BELT 85
_Narrator, P. MINAHAN, Malinmore, Glencolumkille, co. Donegal._
JACK 106
_Narrator, P. MINAHAN, Malinmore, Glencolumkille, co. Donegal._
THE SERVANT OF POVERTY 115
_Narrator, P. MINAHAN, Malinmore, Glencolumkille, co. Donegal._
SIMON AND MARGARET 130
_Narrator, MICHAEL FAHERTY, Renvyle, co. Galway._
THE SON OF THE KING OF PRUSSIA 139
_Narrator, P. M’GRALE, Achill, co. Mayo._
BEAUTY OF THE WORLD 155
_Narrator, P. MINAHAN, Malinmore, Glencolumkille, co. Donegal._
GRIG 168
_Narrator, JACK GILLESPIE, Glen, Glencolumkille, co. Donegal._
THE LITTLE GIRL WHO GOT THE BETTER OF THE GENTLEMAN 174
_Narrator, P. M’GRALE, Achill, co. Mayo._
GILLA OF THE ENCHANTMENTS 179
_Narrator, P. M’GRALE, Dugort, Achill, co. Mayo._
THE WOMAN WHO WENT TO HELL 188
_Narrator, P. MINAHAN, Malinmore, Glencolumkille, co. Donegal._
THE KING WHO HAD TWELVE SONS 196
_Narrator, JOHN M’GINTY, Valley, Achill Island._
THE RED PONY 211
_Narrator, P. MINAHAN, Malinmore, co. Donegal._
THE NINE-LEGGED STEED 219
_Narrator, P. MINAHAN, Malinmore, co. Donegal._
THE PHONETIC TEXT 232
SPECIMENS OF THE TALES IN (PHONETIC) IRISH 239
NOTES 251
[Illustration]
_THE GLOSS GAVLEN._
_Narrator, JOHN MCGINTY, Valley, Achill Island, co. Mayo._
The Gobaun Seer and his son went eastward to the eastern world to Balar
Beimann to make for him a palace. “Shorten the road, my son,” said the
father. The son ran out before him on the road, and the father returned
home on that day. The second day they went travelling, and the father
told his son to shorten the road. He ran out in front of his father the
second day, and the father returned home.
“What’s the cause of your returning home like that?” said the wife of the
young Gobaun.
“My father asks me to shorten the road. I run out on the road before him,
and he returns.”
“Do you begin to-morrow at a story he has never heard, and I’ll go bail
he will not return. And do you never be in any place that the women are
not on your side.”
They went travelling the third day, and the young Gobaun began at a
story his father never heard, and he returned no more till they came to
the eastern world. Then they made the palace for Balar Beimann, and he
did not wish to let them go back, for fear they should make for another
man a palace as good as his.
“Take away the scaffolding” (said he); for he wanted to let them die on
the top of the building. Balar Beimann had a girl, who went by under the
building in the morning.
“Young Gobaun,” said she, “go on thy wisdom. I think it is easier to
throw seven stones down than to put one up as far as you.”
“That’s true for you,” said young Gobaun.
They began to let down the work. When Balar Beimann heard that they were
throwing down the works, he ordered back the scaffolding till they were
down on the ground.
“Now,” said the old Gobaun Seer, “there is a crookedness in your work,
and if I had three tools I left after me at home, I would straighten
the work, and there would not be any work in the world to compare with
it. The names of the tools are—Crooked against Crooked, Corner against
Corner, and Engine against deceit;[2] and there is not a man to get them
but your own son. You will find,” said he, “a woman with one hand, and a
child with one eye, in the house, and a stack of corn at the door.”
The father then gave him a ship and sent him over to Erin. He was
travelling ever till he found out the house; and he went into it. He
asked if that was the house of young Gobaun. The woman said it was.
“He said to me there was a woman with one hand, and a child with one eye
in the house, and a stack of corn at the door.”
“Don’t you see,” said she, “that I have only one hand, and don’t you see
this stick in the hand of the child? I don’t know what moment he won’t
put it in his eye and take the eye out of himself; and don’t you see the
stack of corn outside at the door?”
He asked then for the three tools.
“What three tools?” said she.
“They are Corner against Corner, Crooked against Crooked, and Engine
against deceit.”
She understood then that they (_i.e._ her husband and his father) would
never come home, if she did not understand these words.
“The three tools that are called Crooked against Crooked, Corner against
Corner, and Engine against deceit, they are down in this chest.”
She went then and opened the chest, and told him to stoop down to the
bottom, that she was not tall enough. He stooped, and when she got him
bent down, she threw him into the chest and closed it, and told him he
should stay there till young Gobaun and old Gobaun came home and their
pay for their service with them.
She sent word to Balar Beimann that she had his son in confinement, till
young Gobaun and old Gobaun came home. He gave them a ship and sent them
home with their pay; and she let Balar Beimann’s son back to him again.
When they were going home, Balar asked Gobaun what smith would he get to
put irons on his palace.
“There is no smith in Erin better than Gavidjeen Go.”
When the old Gobaun came home he told Gavidjeen Go to take no pay from
him for putting the irons on his palace, except the Gloss:
“If twenty barrels were put under her, she would fill the twenty barrels.”
Balar Beimann then wrote to the Gavidjeen Go that he would give him the
Gloss if he would make irons for his palace. But when he sent the Gloss,
he did not give the byre-rope, and he knew that when he did not give
that, she would go from him.
This is the bargain that Gavidjeen Go made then with every champion that
came to him:—to mind the cow and bring her safe home to him at evening;
he would make a sword for every champion who would mind her. She would
pasture in the daytime at Cruahawn, of Connaught, and drink at Loch
Ayachir-a-Guigalu, in Ulster, in the evening.
Kian, the son of Contje, came to him to have a sword made. He told him he
would make it, but that the bargain would be to mind the Gloss that day.
“If she is not home with you to me in the evening, you must lay down your
head on the anvil, that I may cut it off with your own sword.”
Kian, the son of Contje, went then and took hold of her by the tail. When
he came home in the evening, “Here is the Gloss outside,” said he to
Gavidjeen Go. There was a champion inside in the forge, whose name was
the Laughing Knight. He ran out and said to Kian:
“The smith is about to put tempering on your sword, and unless you have
hold of it, there will be no power in it when you wield it.”
When Kian, the son of Contje, went in, he forgot to drive in the Gloss.
Gavidjeen Go asked him, “Where is the Gloss?”
“There she is, outside the door.”
“Put her in,” said he.
When he went out she was gone.
“Lay down your head upon the anvil, that I may cut it off you.”
“I am asking of you the favour of three days, to go and seek her.”
“I will give you that,” said he.
He went with himself then, and was following her tracks till he came to
the sea. He was up and down on the shore, plucking his hair from his
head, in trouble after the Gloss. There was a man out on the sea in a
currach. He rowed in to him. It was the tawny Mananaun, the son of Lir.
He asked him—
“What is the matter with you to-day?”
He told him.
“How much will you give to any one who will leave you in the place where
the Gloss is?”
“I have nothing to give him.”
“I will ask nothing of you, but the half of all you gain till you come
back.”
“I will give you that,” said Kian, son of Contje.
“Be into the currach.”
In the winking of an eye he left him over in the kingdoms of the cold;
nor on that island was a morsel cooked ever, but they ate every kind of
food raw. Kian, son of Contje, made a fire, and began to cook his food.
When Balar Beimann heard the like was there, he took him to be his cook,
his story-teller, and his fireman. Well, Balar Beimann had one daughter,
and a prediction was made that she would have a son, who would kill
his grandfather. He then put her into prison for fear a man would come
near her; and it was he himself who would go to her with food, and the
companion with her was a dummy woman. Mananaun left this enchantment with
Kian, son of Contje, that any lock he laid his hand on would open and
shut after him. He was looking at Balar Beimann going to this house, to
his daughter, with food for her, and he went himself after him to the
house, and he laid his hand on the lock and opened the door, and found
none but the two women there. He made a fire for them. He was coming
there ever, till a child happened to her. He was then going to depart,
when the boy was born. He went to the king and told him he must depart.
“Why are you going?” said he.
“It is because accidents have happened to me since I came into this
island. I must go.”
“What is the accident?” said he.
“A child has happened to me.”
Balar had two sons on another island learning druidism. They came home to
the palace to their father.
“Father,” said a man of them, “your story-teller, your cook, and your
fireman will give you your sufficiency of trouble.”
Kian, son of Contje, was listening to them speaking. He went to the
daughter of Balar Beimann, and told her what her brother said.
“Well,” said she, “it is now time for you to be going. That is the
byre-rope of the Gloss, hanging on the wall. She will be as quick as you;
and take with you the boy.”
He went then till he came to the place where Mananaun put him out.
Mananaun told him, when he was in difficulty, to think of him and he
would come. He now came on the instant.
“Be in the currach,” said Mananaun, “and make haste, or Balar Beimann
will drown us, if he can. But greater is my druidism than his,” said the
tawny Mananaun, the son of Lir.
He jumped into the currach, and the Gloss jumped in as soon as he. Balar
Beimann followed them, and raised the sea in a storm before them and
behind them, nor did Mananaun aught but stretch out his hand and make the
sea calm. Balar then set fire to the sea before them in hopes of burning
them, but Mananaun threw out a stone, and extinguished the sea.
“Now, Kian, son of Contje, you are safe and sound home, and what will you
give me for it?”
“I have nothing but the boy, and we will not go to make two halves of
him, but I will give him to you entirely.”
“I am thankful to you. That is what I was wanting. There will be no
champion in the world as good as he,” said Mananaun.
This is the name that Mananaun baptized him with—the Dul Dauna. He
brought him up with feats of activity and championship. He and Mananaun
were out one day on the sea, and they saw the fleet of Balar Beimann
sailing. The Dul Dauna put a ring to his eye, and he saw his grandfather
on the deck walking, but he did not know it was his grandfather. He
(took) a dart from his pocket and flung it at him and killed him. The
prophecy was then fulfilled.
[2] Or, perhaps, “trick against treachery.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_MORRAHA, BRIAN MORE, SON OF THE HIGH-KING OF ERIN FROM THE WELL OF
ENCHANTMENTS OF BINN EDIN._
_Narrator, P. MCGRALE, Dugort, Achill Island, co. Mayo._
Morraha rose in the morning and washed his hands and face, and said his
prayers, and ate his food; and he asked God to prosper the day for him;
and he went down to the brink of the sea, and he saw a currach, short and
green, coming towards him; and in it there was but one youthful champion,
and he playing hurly from prow to stern of the currach. He had a hurl of
gold and a ball of silver; and he stopped not till the currach was in
on the shore; and he drew her up on the green grass, and put fastening
on her for a day and a year, whether he should be there all that time
or should only be on land for an hour by the clock. And Morraha saluted
the young man in words intelligent, intelligible, such as (were spoken)
at that time; and the other saluted him in the same fashion, and asked
him would he play a game of cards with him; and Morraha said that he had
not the wherewithal; and the other answered that he was never without a
candle or the making of it; and he put his hand in his pocket and drew
out a table and two chairs and a pack of cards, and they sat down on the
chairs and went to the card-playing. The first game Morraha won, and the
slender red champion bade him make his claim; and he said that the land
above him should be filled with stock of sheep in the morning. It was
well; and he played no second game, but home he went.
The next day Morraha went to the brink of the sea, and the young man came
in the currach and asked him would he play cards; and they played; and
Morraha won. And the young man bade him make his claim; and he said that
the land above should be filled with cattle in the morning. It was well;
and he played no other game, but went home.
And on the third morning Morraha went to the brink of the sea, and he saw
the young man coming. And he drew up his boat on the shore and asked him
would he play cards. And they played, and Morraha won the game; and the
young man bade him give his claim. And he said he should have a castle
and of women the finest and the fairest; and they were his. It was well;
and the young man went away.
On the fourth day the woman asked him how he had found himself, and he
told her. “And I am going out” (said he) “to play again to-day.”
“I cross” (forbid) “you to go again to him. If you have won so much, you
will lose more; and have no more to do with him.”
But he went against her will, and he saw the currach coming; and the
young man was driving his balls from end to end of the currach; he had
balls of silver and a hurl of gold, and he stopped not till he drew his
boat on the shore, and made her fast for a year and a day. And Morraha
and he saluted each other; and he asked Morraha if he would play a game
of cards, and they played, and he won. And Morraha said to him, “Give
your claim now.”
Said he, “You will hear it too soon. I lay on you the bonds of the art of
the druid, not to sleep two nights in one house, nor finish a second meal
at the one table, till you bring me the sword of light and news of the
death of Anshgayliacht.”
He went home to his wife and sat down in a chair, and gave a groan, and
the chair broke in pieces.
“It is the son of a king under spells you are,” said his wife; “and you
had better have taken my counsel than that the spells should be on you.”
He said to her to bring news of the death of Anshgayliacht and the sword
of light to the slender red champion.
“Go out,” said she, “in the morning of the morrow, and take the bridle
in the window, and shake it; and whatever beast, handsome or ugly, puts
the head in it, take that one with you. Do not speak a word to her till
she speaks to you; and take with you three pint bottles of ale and three
sixpenny loaves, and do the thing she tells you; and when she runs to
my father’s land, on a height above the court, she will shake herself,
and the bells will ring, and my father will say Brown Allree is in the
land. And if the son of a king or queen is there, bring him to me on your
shoulders; but if it is the son of a poor man, let him come no further.”
He rose in the morning, and took the bridle that was in the window, and
went out and shook it; and Brown Allree came and put her head in it. And
he took the three loaves and three bottles of ale, and went riding; and
when he was riding she bent her head down to take hold of her feet with
her mouth, in hopes he would speak in ignorance; but he spoke not a word
during the time, and the mare at last spoke to him, and said to him to
dismount and give her her dinner. He gave her the sixpenny loaf toasted,
and a bottle of ale to drink. “Sit up now riding, and take good heed of
yourself: there are three miles of fire I have to clear at a leap.”
She cleared the three miles of fire at a leap, and asked if he were
riding, and he said he was. They went on then, and she told him to
dismount and give her a meal; and he did so, and gave her a sixpenny loaf
and a bottle; and she consumed them, and said to him there were before
them three miles of hill covered with steel thistles, and that she must
clear it. And she cleared the hill with a leap, and she asked him if he
were still riding, and he said he was. They went on, and she went not far
before she told him to give her a meal, and he gave her the bread and
the bottleful. And she went over three miles of sea with a leap, and she
came then to the land of the King of France; and she went up on a height
above the castle, and she shook herself and neighed, and the bells rang;
and the king said that it was Brown Allree was in the land. “Go out,”
said he, “and if it is the son of a king or queen, carry him in on your
shoulders; if it is not, leave him there.”
They went out; and the stars of the son of a king were on his breast; and
they lifted him high on their shoulders and bore him in to the king. And
they passed the night cheerfully, with playing and with drinking, with
sport and with diversion, till the whiteness of the day came upon the
morrow morning.
Then the young king told the cause of his journey, and he asked of the
queen her counsel and consent, and to give him counsel and good luck, and
the woman told him everything she advised him to do. “Go now,” said she,
“and take with you the best mare in the stable, and go to the door of
Rough Niall of the speckled rock, and knock, and call on him to give you
news of the death of Anshgayliacht and the sword of light; and let the
horse’s back be to the door, and apply the spurs, and away with you.”
And in the morning he did so, and he took the best horse from the stable
and rode to the door of Niall, and turned the horse’s back to the door,
and demanded news of the death of Anshgayliacht and the sword of light;
and he applied the spurs, and away with him. And Niall followed him, and,
as he was passing the gate, cut the horse in two. And the mother was
there with a dish of puddings and flesh, and she threw it in his eyes and
blinded him, and said, “Fool, whatever kind of man it is that’s mocking
you, isn’t that a fine condition you have got on your father’s horse?”
On the morning of the next day, Morraha rose, and took another horse
from the stable, and went again to the door of Niall, and knocked and
demanded news of the death of Anshgayliacht and the sword of light, and
applied the spurs to the horse and away with him. And Niall followed, and
as he was passing the gate, cut the horse in two and took half the saddle
with him; and his mother met him and threw the flesh in his eyes and
blinded him.
And on the third day, Morraha went also to the door of Niall; and Niall
followed him, and as he was passing the gate, cut away the saddle from
under him and the clothes from his back. Then his mother said to Niall,—
“Whatever fool it is that’s mocking you, he is out yonder in the little
currach, going home; and take good heed to yourself, and don’t sleep one
wink for three days.”
And for three days the little currach was there before him, and then his
mother came to him and said,—
“Sleep as much as you want now. He is gone.”