Buideach, but he gave him another fist at the butt of the ear and threw
him out again under the feet of the Black Donkey.
The donkey began to bray pitifully, and when the Buideach went out to
see [why], the Tinker was dead. "You have killed my master," said the
Black Donkey, "and indeed I am not sorry for it, he often gave me a
heavy beating without cause."
The Buideach was astonished when he heard the Black Donkey speaking,
and he said, "You are not a proper donkey."
"Indeed, I have only been an ass for seven years. My story is a pitiful
one. I was the son of a gentleman."
"Musha, then, I would like to hear your story," said the Buideach.
"Come in, then, to the end of the house. Cover up the Tinker in the
dunghill, and I will tell you my story."
The Buideach drew the dead man over to the dunghill and covered him
up. The Black Donkey walked into the house and said, "I was the son of
a gentleman, but I was a bad son, and I died under a heavy load of
deadly sins on my poor soul; and I would be burning in hell now were
it not for the Virgin Mary. I used to say a little prayer in honour of
her every night, and when I went into the presence of the Great Judge
I was sentenced to hell until His mother spoke to the Judge and He
changed his sentence, and there was made of me a Black Donkey, and I
was given to the Tinker for the space of seven years, until he should
die a worldly [or corporeal] death. The Tinker was a limb of the devil,
and it was I who gave you strength to kill him; but you are not done
with him yet. He will come to life again at the end of seven days, and
if you are there before him he will kill you as sure as you are alive."
"I never left this townland since I was born," said the Buideach, "and
I would not like to desert my mother."
"Would it not be better for you to leave your mother than to lose your
life in a state of mortal sin and be for ever burning in hell?"
"I don't know any place where I could go into hiding," said the
Buideach; "but since it has turned out that it was you who put strength
into my hand to kill the Tinker, perhaps you would direct me to some
place where I could be safe from him."
"Did you ever hear talk of Lough Derg?"
"Indeed, I did," said the Buideach; "my grandmother was once on a
pilgrimage there, but I don't know where it is."
"I will bring you there to-morrow night. There is a monastery
underground on the island, and an old friar in it who sees the Virgin
Mary every Saturday. Tell him your case and take his advice in every
single thing. He will put you to penance, but penance on this world
is better than the pains of hell for ever. You know where the little
dún[83] is, which is at the back of the old castle. If you are in the
dún about three hours after nightfall I shall be there before you and
bring you to Lough Derg."
[83] Literally, "fort," pronounced like "dhoon." Usually a
half-levelled earthen rampart.
"I shall be there if I'm alive," said the Buideach; "but is there any
fear of me that the Tinker will get up before that time?"
"There is no fear," said the Black Donkey, "unless you tell somebody
that you killed him. If you tell anything about him he will get up and
he will slay yourself and your mother."
"By my soul, then, I'll be silent about him," said the Buideach.
That evening when the Buideach's mother came home she asked him did
anybody come to the house since she went away.
"I did not see anyone," said he, "but an old pedlar with a bag, and he
got nothing from me."
"I see the track of the shoe of a horse or a donkey outside the door,
and it was not there in the morning when I was going out," said she.
"It was Páidin Éamoinn the fool, who was riding Big Mary O'Brien's
ass," said the Buideach.
The Buideach never slept a wink all that night but thinking of the
Tinker and the Black Donkey. The next day he was in great anxiety. His
mother observed that and asked him what was on him.
"There's not a feather on me," says he.
That night when the mother was asleep the Buideach stole out and never
stopped until he came to the little dún; the Black Donkey was there
before him and said, "Are you ready?"
"I am," said the Buideach, "but I am grieved that I did not get my
mother's blessing; she will be very anxious until I come back again."
"Indeed she will not be anxious at all, because there is another
Buideach at your mother's side at home, so like you that she won't know
that it is not yourself that's in it; but I'll bring him away with me
before you come back."
"I am very much obliged to you and I am ready to go with you now," said
he.
"Leap up on my back; there is a long journey before us," said the
Donkey.
The Buideach leapt on his back, and the moment he did so he heard
thunder and saw great lightning. There came down a big cloud which
closed around the black ass and its rider. The Buideach lost the sight
of his eyes, and a heavy sleep fell upon him, and when he awoke he was
on an island in Lough Derg, standing in the presence of the ancient
friar.
The friar began to talk to him, and said, "What brought you here, my
son?"
"Well, then, indeed, I don't rightly know," said the Buideach.
"I will know soon," said the friar; "come with me."
He followed the old friar down under the earth, until they came to a
little chamber that was cut in the rock. "Now," said the friar, "go
down on your knees and make your confession and do not conceal any
crime."
The Buideach went down on his knees and told everything that happened
to him concerning the Tinker and the Black Donkey.
The friar then put him under penance for seven days and seven nights,
without food or drink, walking on his bare knees amongst the rocks
and sharp stones. He went through the penance, and by the seventh day
there was not a morsel of skin or flesh on his knees, and he was like a
shadow with the hunger. When he had the penance finished the old friar
came and said, "It's time for you to be going home."
"I have no knowledge of the way or of how to go back," said the
Buideach.
"Your friend the Black Donkey will bring you back," said the friar. "He
will be here to-night; and when you go home spend your life piously and
do not tell to anyone except to your father-confessor that you were
here."
"Tell me, father, is there any danger of me from the Tinker?"
"There is not," said the friar; "he is an ass [himself now] with a
tinker from the province of Munster, and he will be in that shape for
one and twenty years, and after that he will go to eternal rest. Depart
now to your chamber. You will hear a little bell after the darkness of
night [has fallen], and as soon as you shall hear it, go up on to the
island, and the Black Donkey will be there before you, and he will
bring you home; my blessing with you."
The Buideach went to his room, and as soon as he heard the bell he went
up to the island and his friend the Black Donkey was waiting for him.
"Jump up on my back, Buideach, I have not a moment to lose," said the
donkey.
He did so, and on the spot he heard the thunder and saw the lightning.
A great cloud came down and enveloped the Black Donkey and its rider.
Heavy sleep fell upon the Buideach, and when he awoke he found himself
in the little dún at home standing in the presence of the Black Donkey.
"Go home now to your mother. The other Buideach is gone from her side;
she is in deep sleep and she won't feel you going in."
"Is there any fear of me from the Tinker?" said he.
"Did not the blessed friar tell you that there is not," said the Black
Donkey. "I will protect you. Put your hand in my left ear, and you will
get there a purse which will never be empty during your life. Be good
to poor people and to widows and to orphans, and you will have a long
life and a happy death, and heaven at the end."
The Buideach went home and went to sleep, and the mother never had had
a notion that the other Buideach was not her own son.
* * * * *
At the end of a week after this the Buideach said to his mother, "Is
not this a fair day in Castlebar?"
"Yes, indeed," said she.
"Well then, you ought to go there and buy a cow," says he.
"Don't be humbugging your mother or you'll have no luck," says she.
"Upon my word I am not humbugging," said he. "God sent a purse my way,
and there is more than the price of a cow in it."
"Perhaps you did not get it honestly; tell me where did you find it?"
"I'll tell you nothing about it, except that I found it honestly, and
if you have any doubt about my word, let the thing be."
Women are nearly always given to covetousness, and she was not free
from it.
"Give me the price of the cow."
He handed her twenty pieces of gold. "You'll get a good cow for all
that money," said he.
"I will," said she, "but I'd like to have the price of a pig."
"Do not be greedy, mother," said he; "you won't get any more this time."
The mother went to the fair and she bought a milch cow, and some
clothes for the Buideach, and when he got her gone he went to the
parish priest and said that he would like to make confession. He told
the priest then everything that happened to him from the time he met
the Tinker and the Black Donkey.
"Indeed, you are a good boy," said the priest, "give me some of the
gold."
The Buideach gave him twenty pieces, but he was not satisfied with
that, and he asked for the price of a horse.
"I did not think that a priest would be covetous," said he, "but I see
now that they are as covetous as women. Here are twenty more pieces for
you; are you satisfied now?"
"I am, and I am not," said the priest. "Since you have a purse which
will never be empty as long as you live, you should be able to give me
as much as would set up a fine church in place of the miserable one
which we have in the parish now."
"Get workmen and masons, and begin the church, and I'll give you the
workmen's wages from week to week," said the Buideach.
"I'd sooner have it now," said the priest. "A thousand pieces will do
the work, and if you give them to me now I'll put up the church."
The Buideach gave him one thousand pieces of gold out of the purse, and
the purse was none the lighter for it.
The Buideach came home and his mother was there before him, with a fine
milch cow and new clothes for himself. "Indeed, that's a good cow,"
said he; "we can give the poor people some milk every morning."
"Indeed they must wait until I churn, and I'll give them the
buttermilk--until I buy a pig."
"It's the new milk you'll give the poor people," said the Buideach, "we
can buy butter."
"I think you have lost your senses," says the mother. "You'll want the
little share of riches which God sent you before I'm a year in the
grave."
"How do you know but that I might not be in the grave before you?" said
he; "but at all events God will send me my enough."
When they were talking there came a poor woman, and three children to
the door and asked for alms in the honour of God and Mary.
"I have nothing for ye this time," said the widow.
"Don't say that, mother," said the Buideach. "I have alms to give in
the name of God and His mother Mary." With that he went out and gave a
gold piece to the poor woman, and said to his mother, "Milk the cow and
give those poor children a drink."
"I will not," said the mother.
"Then I'll do it myself," said he.
He got the vessel, milked the cow, and gave lots of new milk to the
poor children and to the woman. When they were gone away the mother
said to him, "Your purse will be soon empty."
"I have no fear of that," said he; "it's God who sent it to me, and
I'll make a good use of it," says he.
"Have your own way,"[84] said she; "but you'll be sorry for it yet."
[84] Literally, "do you our will."
The next day lots of people came to the Buideach asking for alms, and
he never let them go away from him empty-[handed]. The name and fame of
the Buideach went through the country like lightning and men said that
he was in partnership with the good people [_i.e._ fairies]. But others
said that it was the devil who was giving him the gold, and they made
a complaint against him to the parish priest. But the priest said that
the Buideach was a decent good boy, and that it was God who gave him
the means, and that he was making good use of them.
The Buideach went on well now, and he began growing until he was almost
six feet high.
His mother died and he fell in love with a pretty girl, and he was not
long until they were married.
* * * * *
He had not a day's luck from that time forward. His wife got to know
that he had a wonderful purse and nothing could satisfy her but she
must get it. He refused her often, but she was giving him no rest, day
or night, until she got the purse from him at last. Then, when she got
it, she had no respect for it. She went to Castlebar to buy silks and
satins, but when she opened the purse in place of gold pieces being in
it there was nothing but pieces of pebbles. She came back and great
anger on her; and said, "Isn't it a nice fool you made of me giving me
a purse filled with little stones instead of the purse with the gold in
it."
"I gave you the right purse," said he; "I have no second one."
He seized the purse and opened it, and as sure as I'm telling it to
you, there was nothing in it but little bits of pebbles.
There was an awful grief upon the Buideach, and it was not long until
he was mad, tearing his hair, and beating his head against the wall.
The priest was sent for but he could get neither sense nor reason out
of the Buideach. He tore off his clothes and went naked and mad through
the country.
About a week after that the neighbours found the poor Buideach dead at
the foot of a bush in the little dún.
That old bush is growing in the dún yet, and the people call it the
"Buideach's Bush," but [as for himself] it is certain that he went to
heaven.
THE GREAT WORM OF THE SHANNON
PREFACE.
This curious conception of the greatest river in Ireland owing its
origin to the struggles of a great worm or serpent is new to me. I got
it from Pronisias O'Conor, who was in the workhouse in Athlone at the
time, and he got it himself from a man called George Curtin from near
Urlaur[85] on the borders of Mayo and Roscommon, who had also been in
the workhouse. Unfortunately, after writing it down, I lost the first
half of the story, which was the most interesting, and I have had to
supply a brief summary of it in brackets, so far as my very imperfect
recollection of it goes. I have quite forgotten the incidents which led
up to the druids' prophecy and the Worm's hearing about it.
[85] For this place, see the story of the "Friars of Urlaur."
THE STORY.
[The druid foretold that a man was coming to Ireland who would banish
all the snakes, dragons and serpents. The great Ollpheist, or worm, or
serpent, was at this time in the pool near the Arigna mountains, from
which the Shannon partly takes its rise. It heard of this prophecy and
was greatly concerned about its future. It determined to leave Ireland
and make his way to the sea before the man came who should have the
power to kill or banish serpents. The man the druid had prophesied
about was Saint Patrick.]
The story describes the desperate efforts of the great worm to make a
waterway for itself by cutting away the hole in which it was enclosed.
It was its efforts to escape which made the river Shannon. At every
prominent part of the Shannon its adventures are related. As it went on
its way, working a channel for itself by which to swim out to the sea,
it used to commit the most terrible depredations on cattle and sheep,
and destroy the country wherever it happened to be. The adventures of
the worm at Jamestown, Athleague, Lanesborough and other places are
described. Near Athleague the people, led by a drunken piper called
O'Rourke, made head against it, but it swallowed the piper at one gulp.
The noise of the pipes was too much for it and it threw him up again,
after a time, but it lost several days work at the river. After getting
rid of the piper who had so troubled its inside it began to work hard
to make up for the time it had lost[86] for it was greatly afraid of
the good and powerful man who was to come.
[86] Here begins the half which I did not lose.
After a week or so O'Rourke was blind drunk again, and he faced for the
place where the Great Worm had been before, but by this time it had
worked its passage far away from that place. The piper, however, walked
into the river, and everyone thought that he was drowned, but one of
the enchanted eels was left in the hole and the eel put O'Rourke under
enchantment too, and it was not long until they heard him playing music
in the hole. But he never came up on land since. Only every morning and
evening they used to be listening to him playing music in the hole, and
from that day to this there is no other name on that same spot but the
Piper's Hole. And everybody in Athlone knows the Piper's Hole as well
to-day as the people who were alive a thousand years ago knew it.
The Great Worm went on very well until it came to the place which is
now Lough Ree. There was a great tribe of venemous serpents there and
they attacked it. Some went in front of it, others came behind it,
others came on each side of it. They fought for seven nights [87] and
seven days; they made the hard ground soft and the soft ground hard.
They sent stones and great rocks flying more than half a mile up in the
air. Floods of blood were running as plentiful as the water itself, and
indeed people thought that it was the end of the world that was in it.
The battle went on for a month without any signs of victory on one side
or the other, and the people of the villages round about were in great
fear; but as the old saying puts it, every battle has an end. When the
most of the serpents were dead they asked the Great Worm for peace. He
granted that and both sides were rejoiced. The Great Worm was wounded
and bruised and in much pain.
[87] The night is usually put before the day in Irish.
After that great battle, the Worm had to take a rest, and that gave
great ease to the people of the villages, because it ate neither cow
nor sheep nor pig for the space of three months, but it ate up all the
serpents that it had killed in the fighting. It never left so much as
a bit of bone behind it, and the people began to think that it would
never claim its food off them any more. But so soon as it set to work
again they had to supply it with cows, sheep, and pigs once more,
because it thought that this was its [lawful] wages for cutting out the
river for them. And everyone knows that the river did much good for the
country on each side of it; and only for the Great Worm there would
have been no river.
The Worm worked hard and went on well until it came to the place which
is now Lough Derg. The venemous serpents were collected before it in
that place and they gave it battle. If hundreds attacked it in Lough
Ree thousands attacked it in Lough Derg, and the first battle was only
sport in comparison to this one. They attacked before, behind, and on
every side, and some of them made holes under its belly so that they
might be able to thrust it through in that place, and such a cutting
and scalping and tearing and killing there had never been in the world
before, and it's likely that there won't be again. They made the dry
earth wet, the wet earth dry, and they sent stones and great rocks
flying into the air quick as lightning, and God help the man one of
them would fall on, it was a warrant of death for him. They fought for
a month without appearance of victory on either side, and during all
that time the lake was red (dearg) with blood, and the old people say
that this is the reason it was called Loch Dearg or Derg. After a month
of fighting the Worm gained the battle. It rose of one leap in the air,
and came down on top of the serpents, making a mash of them, and those
that were not killed went off over the country.
The Worm was torn and wounded and in great pain after this hard battle,
and had to take a long rest. But it never went in pursuit of food from
the people of the villages, because it ate its enough of the serpents
every day until the last of them was eaten by it.
As soon as its wounds were closed and it had rested, it began working
again, and nothing wonderful happened to it until it came to the place
where the city of Limerick is to-day. In that place there was a great
troop of enchanted heroes near the spot where the Treaty Stone is now.
The warriors threatened it and told it not to come any further, but it
challenged them to battle. They attacked it with battle-axes and great
clubs, and they were cutting it and beating it throughout the day until
they thought it was dead. Then they went away. But as soon as the sun
went down it came to itself again and it was as strong as it was at the
commencement of the battle. It came up on land and went to the castle
of the enchanted warriors. They were asleep, and it threw down the
castle on top of them and killed every mother's son of them. Then it
returned to go in face of its work.
It went on well after leaving Limerick, for there was nothing to hinder
it. For that reason it made the river wider in that place than in any
other. But as soon as it got out into the sea a great whale met it and
it had to fight a hard battle, and was nearly beaten, when a sea-maiden
came and helped it and they killed the whale.
The sea-maiden and the Great Worm went on side by side until they came
to a village on the coast, where there were about three score of men in
boats fishing. The Great Worm was very hungry and began swallowing them
down greedily, men and boats and all, until the sea-maiden spoke and
said that it was a shame. That angered it and it attacked her, but she
was too clever for it. She drew out a golden comb with venom in it,
and thrust it into the Worm's eye and blinded it out and out. Then said
the Worm to her, "I would sooner be dead than alive; put a hole in my
stomach with your scissors." She did that and it died in a moment.
The water was ebbing, and when it had gone out the Great Worm was left
dead on the sand. The people of the villages round about came; they
opened the worm, and every mother's son that he had swallowed they
found alive and in a heavy sleep at the bottom of their boats. The
bones of the Great Worm remained on the shore of Bantry Bay until the
fishermen made oars out of them. If my story is not true, there is no
water in the sea and no river Shannon in Ireland.
THE POOR WIDOW AND GRANIA OÏ.
PREFACE.
This story I got from Pronisias O'Conor when he was in the workhouse
in Athlone, and he had it from one Rose Grennan or in Irish, Róise nic
Ghrianain, from a parish near Athlone.
This story is chiefly remarkable for the introduction of Grainne Oigh,
which seems to mean Grania the virgin. But who was Grainne? My narrator
could tell me nothing about her. She occurs in the story of "William of
the Tree" in my "Beside the Fire," and Alfred Nutt has an interesting
note on her at p. 194, but it throws no light upon the subject. There,
as here, she appears as a beneficent being, very pious, powerful and
mysterious, and able to work miracles. The town of Moate, in Co.
Westmeath, is called in Irish the Moat of Grainne Óg, who is said to
have been a Munster princess, very good and very wise, and there seems
to have been some body of legend connected with her, alluded to by
Caesar Otway in his "Tour in Connaught," p. 55. See also Joyce's "Names
of Places," vol. I, p. 270. Whether Grainne Óg and Grainne Oigh are the
same person seems doubtful, but I should think it very probable, and
the appellation of "Oigh" may have tended to some confusion with Muire
Oigh. Except in these two stories, one from O'Conor and the other from
a man named Blake, near Ballinrobe, I have never met or heard or read
of any allusion to this being. But the town of Athlone, being half in
Westmeath, the county with which Grainne Óg is associated, and the very
old woman who told this story being from the borders of that county,
would suggest that there was some connection between the mysterious
being and the princess from whom Moate is said to have got its name.
THE STORY.
Long, long ago there was a poor Widow living in the County Clare, and
she had seven children, and the eldest was only ten years old. It was a
Christmas night that was in it, and she had not a morsel to give them
to eat, and since she hadn't, she prayed God to take them to Himself.
It was not long after her prayer until the door opened and Grania Oï[88]
walked in and two young women after her, carrying a big dish filled
with fine food. They were all clad in raiment as white as mountain
snow. The Widow welcomed the ladies, and she said, "Perhaps ye would
give some relief to a poor family that is fasting all the day."
[88] In Irish "Grainne Oigh," pronounced like "Grania O-ee."
"God has sent us in answer to your prayer to give you relief at the
present time, and to ask if you are ready and submissive to part with
the whole of your family."
"I am not," said the Widow.