your hand into the pail of water, and to thrust it down into the heap
of wheat, and to take away with you all that shall cling to your hand."
She went, and the woman gave her leave to do that. When she came out to
our Saviour, He said to her, "Do not let one grain of that go astray,
for it is worth much and much."
When they had gone a bit from the house they looked back, and saw a
flock of demons coming towards the house, and the Virgin Mary was
frightened lest they might do harm to the woman. "Let there be no
anxiety on you," said Jesus to her; "since it has chanced that she has
given you all that of alms, they shall get no victory over her."
They travelled on, then, until they reached as far as a place where a
man named Martin had a mill. "Go in," said our Saviour to His mother,
"since it has chanced that the mill is working, and ask them to grind
that little grain-_een_ for you."
She went. "O musha, it's not worth while for me," said the boy who was
attending the querns, "to put that little _lockeen_ a-grinding for
you." Martin heard them talking and said to the lout, "Oh, then, do it
for the creature, perhaps she wants it badly," said he. He did it, and
he gave her all the flour that came from it.
They travelled on then, and they were not gone any distance until the
mill was full of flour as white as snow. When Martin perceived this
great miracle he understood well that it was the Son of God and His
Mother who chanced that way. He ran out and followed them, at his best,
and he made across the fields until he came up with them, and there was
that much haste on him in going through a scunce of hawthorns that a
spike of the hawthorn met his breast and wounded him greatly. There was
that much zeal in him that he did not feel the pain, but clapt his hand
over it, and never stopped until he came up with them. When our Saviour
beheld the wound upon poor Martin, He laid His hand upon it, and it was
closed, and healed upon the spot. He said to Martin then that he was a
fitting man in the presence of God; "and go home now," said He, "and
place a fistful of the flour under a dish, and do not stir it until
morning."
When Martin went home he did that, and he put the dish, mouth under,
and the fistful of flour beneath it.
The servant girl was watching him, and thought that maybe it would be a
good thing if she were to set a dish for herself in the same way, and
signs on her, she set it.
On the morning of the next day Martin lifted his dish, and what should
run out from under it but a fine sow and a big litter of bonhams with
her. The girl lifted her own dish, and there ran out a big mouse and a
clutch of young mouselets with her. They ran here and there, and Martin
at once thought that they were not good, and he plucked a big mitten
off his hand and flung it at the young mice, but as soon as it touched
the ground it changed into a cat, and the cat began to kill the young
mice. That was the beginning of cats. Martin was a saint from that time
forward, but I do not know which of the saints he was of all who were
called Martin.
GOD SPARE YOU YOUR HEALTH.
PREFACE.
There is an Anglo-Irish proverb to the effect that "fine words butter
no parsnips," and an Irish one runs "Ní bheathuigheann na briathra na
bráithre," "words don't feed friars." This story is also told in other
parts of the country about a cobbler. I have translated this version of
it from the Lochrann "Márta agus Abrán, 1912," written down by "Giolla
na lice."
THE STORY.
There was a smith in Skibbereen long ago, long before the foreigners
nested there, and people used to be coming to him who did not please
him too well. When he would do some little turn of work for them in the
forge they used only have a "God spare you your health" for him. It's a
very nice prayer, "God spare you your health," but when the smith used
to go out to buy bread he used not to get it without money. Prayers, no
matter how good, would not do the business for him. He used often to be
half mad with them, but he used not to say anything. He was so vexed
with that work one day that he took a hound he had from his house into
his forge, and he tied it there with a wisp of hay under it. "Yes,"
said he, "we will soon see whether the prayers of these poor people
will feed my hound."
The first person who came and had nothing but a "God spare you the
health" in place of payment. "Right," said the smith, "let my hound
have that."
Other people came to the forge, and they without any payment for the
poor smith but that same fine prayer, and according as the smith used
to get the prayers he used to bestow them on the hound. He used to give
it no other food or drink. The prayers were the hound's food, but they
made poor meat for him, for the smith found him dead in the morning
after his being dependent on the feeding of the prayers.
A man came to the forge that day and he had a couple of hinges and a
couple of reaping hooks, that were not too strong, to be fixed. The
smith did the work, and the man was thinking of going, "God spare
you the health," said he. Instead of the answer "Amen! Lord! and you
likewise"; what the smith did was to take the man by the shoulder.
"Look over in the corner," said he; "my hound is dead, and if prayers
could feed it, it ought to be fat and strong. I have given every prayer
I got this while back to that hound there, but they have not done the
business for it. And it's harder to feed a man than a hound. Do you
understand, my good man?"
He did apparently, for he put his hand in his pocket. "What's the
cost?" said he.
It was short until all the neighbours heard talk of the death of that
hound of the smith's, and much oftener from that out used their tune to
be, "What's the cost, Dermot?" than "God spare you your health."
TEIG O'KANE (TADHG O CÁTHÁIN) AND THE CORPSE.
PREFACE.
This story of Teig (in the ballad "Tomaus" O'Cahan or O'Kane) and the
corpse, was told to me nearly thirty years ago by an old man from near
Fenagh in the County Leitrim, whom I met paying his rent to a relative
of mine in the town of Mohill. He must have been one of the last Irish
speakers in that district. There does not appear to be a trace of Irish
left there now. I did not write down the story from his lips, but wrote
it out afterwards from memory. I took down the ballad, however, from
his recitation so far as he had it; and I afterwards came across a
written version of it in the handwriting of Nicholas O'Kearney, of the
County Louth. The ballad as written by him coincides pretty closely
with my version, but breaks off apparently in the middle, as though
O'Kearney had not time to finish the rest of it. The first twenty-three
verses are from O'Kearney's version, the rest are from mine. O'Kearney
remarks in English at the top of the page: "The following fragment
is one of our wild fairy adventures versified ... the fragment is
preserved on account of the singular wildness of the air."
The only other Irish poem nearly in the same metre which I know of is a
poem by Cormac Dall, or Cormac Common, which my friend Dr. Maguire, of
Claremorris, took down the other day from the recitation of an old man.
It is on Halloweve night that one is especially liable to adventures
like those of Tomaus O'Cahan, but it is well known that all gamblers
coming home at night are exposed to such perils.
THE STORY.
There was once a grown-up lad in the County Leitrim, and he was strong
and lively, and the son of a rich farmer. His father had plenty of
money, and he did not spare it on the son. Accordingly, when the boy
grew up he liked sport better than work, and, as his father had no
other children, he loved this one so much that he allowed him to do in
everything just as it pleased himself. He was very extravagant, and
he used to scatter the gold money as another person would scatter the
white. He was seldom to be found at home, but if there was a fair, or a
race, or a gathering within ten miles of him, you were dead certain to
find him there. And he seldom spent a night in his father's house, but
he used to be always out rambling, and, like Shawn Bwee long ago, there
was
"grádh gach cailín i mbrollach a léine,"
"the love of every girl in the breast of his shirt," and it's many's
the kiss he got and he gave, for he was very handsome, and there wasn't
a girl in the country but would fall in love with him, only for him to
fasten his two eyes on her, and it was for that someone made this rann
on him--
"Feuch an rógaire 'g iarraidh póige,
Ni h-iongantas mór é a bheith mar atá
Ag leanamhaint a gcómhnuidhe d'arnán na graineoige
Anuas 's aníos 's nna chodladh 'sa lá."
_i.e._--"Look at the rogue, it's for kisses he's rambling,
It isn't much wonder, for that was his way;
He's like an old hedgehog, at night he'll be scrambling
From this place to that, but he'll sleep in the day."
At last he became very wild and unruly. He wasn't to be seen day nor
night in his father's house, but always rambling or going on his kailee
(night-visit) from place to place and from house to house, so that the
old people used to shake their heads and say to one another, "it's easy
seen what will happen to the land when the old man dies; his son will
run through it in a year, and it won't stand him that long itself."
He used to be always gambling and card-playing and drinking, but his
father never minded his bad habits, and never punished him. But it
happened one day that the old man was told that the son had ruined
the character of a girl in the neighbourhood, and he was greatly
angry, and he called the son to him, and said to him, quietly and
sensibly--"Avic," says he, "you know I loved you greatly up to this,
and I never stopped you from doing your choice thing whatever it was,
and I kept plenty of money with you, and I always hoped to leave you
the house and land and all I had, after myself would be gone; but I
heard a story of you to-day that has disgusted me with you. I cannot
tell you the grief that I felt when I heard such a thing of you, and I
tell you now plainly that unless you marry that girl I'll leave house
and land and everything to my brother's son. I never could leave it to
anyone who would make so bad a use of it as you do yourself, deceiving
women and coaxing girls. Settle with yourself now whether you'll marry
that girl and get my land as a fortune with her, or refuse to marry
her and give up all that was coming to you; and tell me in the morning
which of the two things you have chosen."
"Och! murdher sheery! father, you wouldn't say that to me, and I such
a good son as I am. Who told you I wouldn't marry the girl?" says he.
But the father was gone, and the lad knew well enough that he would
keep his word too; and he was greatly troubled in his mind, for as
quiet and as kind as the father was, he never went back of a word that
he had once said, and there wasn't another man in the country who was
harder to bend that he was.
The boy did not know rightly what to do. He was in love with the girl
indeed, and he hoped to marry her some time or other, but he would much
sooner have remained another while as he was, and follow on at his old
tricks--drinking, sporting, and playing cards; and, along with that, he
was angry that his father should order him to marry and should threaten
him if he did not do it.
"Isn't my father a great fool," says he to himself. "I was ready
enough, and only too anxious, to marry Mary; and now since he
threatened me, faith I've a great mind to let it go another while."
His mind was so much excited that he remained between two notions as
to what he should do. He walked out into the night at last to cool his
heated blood, and went on to the road. He lit a pipe, and as the night
was fine he walked and walked on, until the quick pace made him begin
to forget his trouble. The night was bright and the moon half full.
There was not a breath of wind blowing, and the air was calm and mild.
He walked on for nearly three hours, when he suddenly remembered that
it was late in the night, and time for him to turn. "Musha! I think I
forgot myself," says he; "it must be near twelve o'clock now."
The word was hardly out of his mouth when he heard the sound of many
voices and the trampling of feet on the road before him. "I don't know
who can be out so late at night as this, and on such a lonely road,"
said he to himself.
He stood listening and he heard the voices of many people talking
through other, but he could not understand what they were saying. "Oh,
wirra!" says he, "I'm afraid. It's not Irish or English they have; it
can't be they're Frenchmen!" He went on a couple of yards further, and
he saw well enough by the light of the moon a band of little people
coming towards him, and they were carrying something big and heavy with
them. "Oh, murdher!" says he to himself, "sure it can't be that they're
the good people that's in it!" Every rib of hair that was on his head
stood up, and there fell a shaking on his bones, for he saw that they
were coming to him fast.
He looked at them again, and perceived that there were about twenty
little men in it, and there was not a man at all of them higher than
about three feet or three feet and a half, and some of them were grey,
and seemed very old. He looked again, but he could not make out what
was the heavy thing they were carrying until they came up to him, and
then they all stood round about him. They threw the heavy thing down on
the road, and he saw on the spot that it was a dead body.
He became as cold as the Death, and there was not a drop of blood
running in his veins when an old little grey man_een_ came up to him
and said, "Isn't it lucky we met you, Teig O'Kane?"
Poor Teig could not bring out a word at all, nor open his lips, if he
were to get the world for it, and so he gave no answer.
"Teig O'Kane," said the little grey man again, "isn't it timely you met
us?"
Teig could not answer him.
"Teig O'Kane," says he, "the third time, isn't it lucky and timely that
we met you?"
But Teig remained silent, for he was afraid to return an answer, and
his tongue was as if it was tied to the roof of his mouth.
The little grey man turned to his companions, and there was joy in his
bright little eye. "And now," says he, "Teig O'Kane hasn't a word, we
can do with him what we please. Teig, Teig," says he, "you're living a
bad life, and we can make a slave of you now, and you cannot withstand
us, for there's no use in trying to go against us. Lift that corpse."
Teig was so frightened that he was only able to utter the two words, "I
won't;" for as frightened as he was, he was obstinate and stiff, the
same as ever.
"Teig O'Kane won't lift the corpse," said the little man_een_, with
a wicked little laugh, for all the world like the breaking of a lock
of dry kippeens, and with a little harsh voice like the striking of a
cracked bell. "Teig O'Kane won't lift the corpse--make him lift it;"
and before the word was out of his mouth they had all gathered round
poor Teig, and they all talking and laughing through other.
Teig tried to run from them, but they followed him, and a man of them
stretched out his foot before him as he ran, so that Teig was thrown in
a heap on the road. Then before he could rise up, the fairies caught
him, some by the hands and some by the feet, and they held him tight,
in a way that he could not stir, with his face against the ground. Six
or seven of them raised the body then, and pulled it over to him, and
left it down on his back. The breast of the corpse was squeezed against
Teig's back and shoulders, and the arms of the corpse were thrown
around Teig's neck. Then they stood back from him a couple of yards,
and let him get up. He rose, foaming at the mouth and cursing, and he
shook himself, thinking to throw the corpse off his back. But his fear
and his wonder were great when he found that the two arms had a tight
hold round his own neck, and that the two legs were squeezing his hips
firmly, and that, however strongly he tried, he could not throw it
off, any more than a horse can throw off its saddle. He was terribly
frightened then, and he thought he was lost. "Ochone! for ever," said
he to himself, "it's the bad life I'm leading that has given the good
people this power over me. I promise to God and Mary, Peter and Paul,
Patrick and Bridget, that I'll mend my ways for as long as I have to
live, if I come clear out of this danger--and I'll marry the girl."
The little grey man came up to him again, and said he to him, "Now,
Teig_een_," says he, "you didn't lift the body when I told you to lift
it, and see how you were made to lift it; perhaps when I tell you to
bury it you won't bury it until you're made to bury it!"
"Anything at all that I can do for your honour," said Teig, "I'll do
it," for he was getting sense already, and if it had not been for the
great fear that was on him, he never would have let that civil word
slip out of his mouth.
The little man laughed a sort of laugh again. "You're getting quiet
now, Teig," says he. "I'll go bail but you'll be quiet enough before
I'm done with you. Listen to me now, Teig O'Kane, and if you don't obey
me in all I'm telling you to do, you'll repent it. You must carry with
you this corpse that is on your back to Teampoll-Démuis, and you must
bring it into the church with you, and make a grave for it in the very
middle of the church, and you must raise up the flags and put them down
again the very same way, and you must carry the clay out of the church
and leave the place as it was when you came, so that no one could know
that there had been anything changed. But that's not all. Maybe that
the body won't be allowed to be buried in that church; perhaps some
other man has the bed, and, if so, it's likely he won't share it with
this one. If you don't get leave to bury it in Teampoll-Démuis, you
must carry it to Carrick-fhad-vic-Oruis, and bury it in the churchyard
there; and if you don't get it into that place, take it with you to
Teampoll-Ronáin; and if that churchyard is closed on you, take it to
Imlogue-Fhada; and if you're not able to bury it there, you've no
more to do than to take it to Kill-Breedya, and you can bury it there
without hindrance. I cannot tell you what one of those churches is the
one where you will have leave to bury that corpse under the clay, but I
know that it will be allowed you to bury him at some church or other of
them. If you do this work rightly, we will be thankful to you, and you
will have no cause to grieve; but if you are slow or lazy, believe me
we shall take satisfaction of you."
When the grey little man had done speaking, his comrades laughed and
clapped their hands together. "Glic! Glic! Hwee! Hwee!" they all cried;
"go on, go on, you have eight hours before you till daybreak, and if
you haven't this man buried before the sun rises, you're lost." They
struck a fist and a foot behind on him, and drove him on in the road.
He was obliged to walk, and to walk fast, for they gave him no rest.
He thought himself that there was not a wet path, or a dirty boreen,
or a crooked contrary road in the whole county that he had not walked
that night. The night was at times very dark, and whenever there would
come a cloud across the moon he could see nothing, and then he used
often to fall. Sometimes he was hurt, and sometimes he escaped, but he
was obliged always to rise on the moment and to hurry on. Sometimes the
moon would break out clearly, and then he would look behind him and see
the little people following at his back. And he heard them speaking
amongst themselves, talking and crying out, and screaming like a flock
of sea-gulls; and if he was to save his soul he never understood as
much as one word of what they were saying.
He did not know how far he had walked, when at last one of them cried
out to him, "Stop here!" He stood, and they all gathered round him.
"Do you see those withered trees over there?" says the old boy to him
again. "Teampoll-Démuis is among those trees, and you must go in there
by yourself, for we cannot follow you or go with you. We must remain
here. Go on boldly."
Teig looked from him, and he saw a high wall that was in places half
broken down, and an old grey church on the inside of the wall, and
about a dozen withered old trees scattered here and there round it.
There was neither leaf nor twig on any of them, but their bare crooked
branches were stretched out like the arms of an angry man when he
threatens. He had no help for it, but was obliged to go forward. He
was a couple of hundred yards from the church, but he walked on, and
never looked behind him until he came to the gate of the churchyard.
The old gate was thrown down, and he had no difficulty in entering. He
turned then to see if any of the little people were following him, but
there came a cloud over the moon, and the night became so dark that he
could see nothing. He went into the churchyard, and he walked up the
old grassy pathway leading to the church. When he reached the door, he
found it locked. The door was large and strong, and he did not know
what to do. At last he drew out his knife with difficulty, and stuck it
in the wood to try if it were not rotten, but it was not.
"Now," said he to himself, "I have no more to do; the door is shut, and
I can't open it."
Before the words were rightly shaped in his own mind, a voice in his
ear said to him, "Search for the key on the top of the door, or on the
wall."
He started. "Who is that speaking to me?" he cried, turning round; but
he saw no one. The voice said in his ear again, "Search for the key on
the top of the door, or on the wall."
"What's that?" said he, and the sweat running from his forehead; "who
spoke to me?"
"It's I, the corpse, that spoke to you!" said the voice.
"Can you talk?" said Teig.
"Now and again," said the corpse.
Teig searched for the key, and he found it on the top of the wall. He
was too much frightened to say any more, but he opened the door wide,
and as quickly as he could, and he went in, with the corpse on his
back. It was as dark as pitch inside, and poor Teig began to shake and
tremble.
"Light the candle," said the corpse.
Teig put his hand in his pocket, as well as he was able, and drew out
a flint and steel. He struck a spark out of it, and lit a burnt rag
he had in his pocket. He blew it until it made a flame, and he looked
round him. The church was very ancient, and part of the wall was broken
down. The windows were blown in or cracked, and the timber of the seats
was rotten. There were six or seven old iron candlesticks left there
still, and in one of these candlesticks Teig found the stump of an old
candle, and he lit it. He was still looking round him on the strange
and horrid place in which he found himself, when the cold corpse
whispered in his ear, "Bury me now, bury me now; there is a spade and
turn the ground." Teig looked from him, and he saw a spade lying beside
the altar. He took it up, and he placed the blade under a flag that was
in the middle of the aisle, and leaning all his weight on the handle
of the spade, he raised it. When the first flag was raised it was not
hard to raise the others near it, and he moved three or four of them
out of their places. The clay that was under them was soft and easy to
dig, but he had not thrown up more than three or four shovelfuls, when
he felt the iron touch something soft like flesh. He threw up three
or four more shovelfuls from around it, and then he saw that it was
another body that was buried in the same place.
"I am afraid I'll never be allowed to bury the two bodies in the same
hole," said Teig, in his own mind. "You corpse, there on my back," says
he, "will you be satisfied if I bury you down here?" But the corpse
never answered him a word.
"That's a good sign," said Teig to himself. "Maybe he's getting quiet,"
and he thrust the spade down in the earth again. Perhaps he hurt the
flesh of the other body, for the dead man that was buried there stood
up in the grave, and shouted an awful shout. "Hoo! hoo!! hoo!!! Go!
go!! go!!! or you're a dead, dead, dead man!" And then he fell back in
the grave again. Teig said afterwards, that of all the wonderful things
he saw that night, that was the most awful to him. His hair stood
upright on his head like the bristles of a pig, the cold sweat ran off
his face, and then came a tremor over all his bones, until he thought
that he must fall.
But after a while he became bolder, when he saw that the second corpse
remained lying quietly there, and he threw in the clay on it again, and
he smoothed it overhead, and he laid down the flags carefully as they
had been before. "It can't be that he'll rise up any more," said he.