E-text prepared by Sankar Viswanathan, David Edwards, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from
page images generously made available by Internet Archive
(http://www.archive.org)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 31763-h.htm or 31763-h.zip:
(https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/31763/pg31763-images.html)
or
(https://www.gutenberg.org/files/31763/31763-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
http://www.archive.org/details/fairytalesirish00yeatrich
IRISH FAIRY TALES
Edited
With an Introduction
by
W. B. YEATS
Author of 'The Wanderings of Oisin,' Etc.
Illustrated by Jack B. Yeats
[Illustration: "PLAYING AWAY ON THE PIPES AS MERRILY AS IF NOTHING HAD
HAPPENED." (_Page_ 48.)]
London
T. Fisher Unwin
1892
_WHERE MY BOOKS GO._
_All the words that I gather,
And all the words that I write,
Must spread out their wings untiring,
And never rest in their flight,
Till they come where your sad, sad heart is,
And sing to you in the night,
Beyond where the waters are moving,
Storm darkened or starry bright._
_W. B. YEATS._
LONDON, _January 1892_.
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION 1
LAND AND WATER FAIRIES
THE FAIRIES' DANCING-PLACE 13
THE RIVAL KEMPERS 17
THE YOUNG PIPER 32
A FAIRY ENCHANTMENT 49
TEIGUE OF THE LEE 53
THE FAIRY GREYHOUND 69
THE LADY OF GOLLERUS 77
EVIL SPIRITS
THE DEVIL'S MILL 95
FERGUS O'MARA AND THE AIR-DEMONS 112
THE MAN WHO NEVER KNEW FEAR 123
CATS
SEANCHAN THE BARD AND THE KING OF THE CATS 141
OWNEY AND OWNEY-NA-PEAK 151
KINGS AND WARRIORS
THE KNIGHTING OF CUCULAIN 185
THE LITTLE WEAVER OF DULEEK GATE 195
APPENDIX
CLASSIFICATION OF IRISH FAIRIES 223
AUTHORITIES ON IRISH FOLKLORE 234
INTRODUCTION
AN IRISH STORY-TELLER
I am often doubted when I say that the Irish peasantry still believe
in fairies. People think I am merely trying to bring back a little of
the old dead beautiful world of romance into this century of great
engines and spinning-jinnies. Surely the hum of wheels and clatter of
printing presses, to let alone the lecturers with their black coats
and tumblers of water, have driven away the goblin kingdom and made
silent the feet of the little dancers.
Old Biddy Hart at any rate does not think so. Our bran-new opinions
have never been heard of under her brown-thatched roof tufted with
yellow stone-crop. It is not so long since I sat by the turf fire
eating her griddle cake in her cottage on the slope of Benbulben and
asking after her friends, the fairies, who inhabit the green
thorn-covered hill up there behind her house. How firmly she believed
in them! How greatly she feared offending them! For a long time she
would give me no answer but 'I always mind my own affairs and they
always mind theirs.' A little talk about my great-grandfather who
lived all his life in the valley below, and a few words to remind her
how I myself was often under her roof when but seven or eight years
old loosened her tongue, however. It would be less dangerous at any
rate to talk to me of the fairies than it would be to tell some
'Towrow' of them, as she contemptuously called English tourists, for I
had lived under the shadow of their own hillsides. She did not
forget, however, to remind me to say after we had finished, 'God bless
them, Thursday' (that being the day), and so ward off their
displeasure, in case they were angry at our notice, for they love to
live and dance unknown of men.
Once started, she talked on freely enough, her face glowing in the
firelight as she bent over the griddle or stirred the turf, and told
how such a one was stolen away from near Coloney village and made to
live seven years among 'the gentry,' as she calls the fairies for
politeness' sake, and how when she came home she had no toes, for she
had danced them off; and how such another was taken from the
neighbouring village of Grange and compelled to nurse the child of the
queen of the fairies a few months before I came. Her news about the
creatures is always quite matter-of-fact and detailed, just as if she
dealt with any common occurrence: the late fair, or the dance at
Rosses last year, when a bottle of whisky was given to the best man,
and a cake tied up in ribbons to the best woman dancer. They are, to
her, people not so different from herself, only grander and finer in
every way. They have the most beautiful parlours and drawing-rooms,
she would tell you, as an old man told me once. She has endowed them
with all she knows of splendour, although that is not such a great
deal, for her imagination is easily pleased. What does not seem to us
so very wonderful is wonderful to her, there, where all is so homely
under her wood rafters and her thatched ceiling covered with
whitewashed canvas. We have pictures and books to help us imagine a
splendid fairy world of gold and silver, of crowns and marvellous
draperies; but she has only that little picture of St. Patrick over
the fireplace, the bright-coloured crockery on the dresser, and the
sheet of ballads stuffed by her young daughter behind the stone dog
on the mantelpiece. Is it strange, then, if her fairies have not the
fantastic glories of the fairies you and I are wont to see in
picture-books and read of in stories? She will tell you of peasants
who met the fairy cavalcade and thought it but a troop of peasants
like themselves until it vanished into shadow and night, and of great
fairy palaces that were mistaken, until they melted away, for the
country seats of rich gentlemen.
Her views of heaven itself have the same homeliness, and she would be
quite as naive about its personages if the chance offered as was the
pious Clondalkin laundress who told a friend of mine that she had seen
a vision of St. Joseph, and that he had 'a lovely shining hat upon him
and a shirt-buzzom that was never starched in this world.' She would
have mixed some quaint poetry with it, however; for there is a world
of difference between Benbulben and Dublinised Clondalkin.
Heaven and Fairyland--to these has Biddy Hart given all she dreams of
magnificence, and to them her soul goes out--to the one in love and
hope, to the other in love and fear--day after day and season after
season; saints and angels, fairies and witches, haunted thorn-trees
and holy wells, are to her what books, and plays, and pictures are to
you and me. Indeed they are far more; for too many among us grow
prosaic and commonplace, but she keeps ever a heart full of music. 'I
stand here in the doorway,' she said once to me on a fine day, 'and
look at the mountain and think of the goodness of God'; and when she
talks of the fairies I have noticed a touch of tenderness in her
voice. She loves them because they are always young, always making
festival, always far off from the old age that is coming upon her and
filling her bones with aches, and because, too, they are so like
little children.
Do you think the Irish peasant would be so full of poetry if he had
not his fairies? Do you think the peasant girls of Donegal, when they
are going to service inland, would kneel down as they do and kiss the
sea with their lips if both sea and land were not made lovable to them
by beautiful legends and wild sad stories? Do you think the old men
would take life so cheerily and mutter their proverb, 'The lake is not
burdened by its swan, the steed by its bridle, or a man by the soul
that is in him,' if the multitude of spirits were not near them?
W. B. YEATS.
CLONDALKIN,
_July 1891_.
NOTE
I have to thank Lady Wilde for leave to give 'Seanchan the Bard' from
her _Ancient Legends of Ireland_ (Ward and Downey), the most poetical
and ample collection of Irish folklore yet published; Mr. Standish
O'Grady for leave to give 'The Knighting of Cuculain' from that prose
epic he has curiously named _History of Ireland, Heroic Period_;
Professor Joyce for his 'Fergus O'Mara and the Air Demons'; and Mr.
Douglas Hyde for his unpublished story, 'The Man who never knew
Fear.'
I have included no story that has already appeared in my _Fairy and
Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry_ (Camelot Series).
The two volumes make, I believe, a fairly representative collection of
Irish folk tales.
LAND AND WATER FAIRIES
THE FAIRIES' DANCING-PLACE
BY WILLIAM CARLETON
Lanty M'Clusky had married a wife, and, of course, it was necessary to
have a house in which to keep her. Now, Lanty had taken a bit of a
farm, about six acres; but as there was no house on it, he resolved to
build one; and that it might be as comfortable as possible, he
selected for the site of it one of those beautiful green circles that
are supposed to be the play-ground of the fairies. Lanty was warned
against this; but as he was a headstrong man, and not much given to
fear, he said he would not change such a pleasant situation for his
house to oblige all the fairies in Europe. He accordingly proceeded
with the building, which he finished off very neatly; and, as it is
usual on these occasions to give one's neighbours and friends a
house-warming, so, in compliance with this good and pleasant old
custom, Lanty having brought home the wife in the course of the day,
got a fiddler and a lot of whisky, and gave those who had come to see
him a dance in the evening. This was all very well, and the fun and
hilarity were proceeding briskly, when a noise was heard after night
had set in, like a crushing and straining of ribs and rafters on the
top of the house. The folks assembled all listened, and, without
doubt, there was nothing heard but crushing, and heaving, and pushing,
and groaning, and panting, as if a thousand little men were engaged
in pulling down the roof.
'Come,' said a voice which spoke in a tone of command, 'work hard: you
know we must have Lanty's house down before midnight.'
This was an unwelcome piece of intelligence to Lanty, who, finding
that his enemies were such as he could not cope with, walked out, and
addressed them as follows:
'Gintlemen, I humbly ax yer pardon for buildin' on any place belongin'
to you; but if you'll have the civilitude to let me alone this night,
I'll begin to pull down and remove the house to-morrow morning.'
This was followed by a noise like the clapping of a thousand tiny
little hands, and a shout of 'Bravo, Lanty! build half-way between the
two White-thorns above the boreen'; and after another hearty little
shout of exultation, there was a brisk rushing noise, and they were
heard no more.
The story, however, does not end here; for Lanty, when digging the
foundation of his new house, found the full of a _kam_[1] of gold: so
that in leaving to the fairies their play-ground, he became a richer
man than ever he otherwise would have been, had he never come in
contact with them at all.
[Footnote 1: _Kam_--a metal vessel in which the peasantry dip
rushlights.]
THE RIVAL KEMPERS
BY WILLIAM CARLETON
In the north of Ireland there are spinning meetings of unmarried
females frequently held at the houses of farmers, called _kemps_.
Every young woman who has got the reputation of being a quick and
expert spinner attends where the kemp is to be held, at an hour
usually before daylight, and on these occasions she is accompanied by
her sweetheart or some male relative, who carries her wheel, and
conducts her safely across the fields or along the road, as the case
may be. A kemp is, indeed, an animated and joyous scene, and one,
besides, which is calculated to promote industry and decent pride.
Scarcely anything can be more cheering and agreeable than to hear at a
distance, breaking the silence of morning, the light-hearted voices of
many girls either in mirth or song, the humming sound of the busy
wheels--jarred upon a little, it is true, by the stridulous noise and
checkings of the reels, and the voices of the reelers, as they call
aloud the checks, together with the name of the girl and the quantity
she has spun up to that period; for the contest is generally commenced
two or three hours before daybreak. This mirthful spirit is also
sustained by the prospect of a dance--with which, by the way, every
kemp closes; and when the fair victor is declared, she is to be looked
upon as the queen of the meeting, and treated with the necessary
respect.
But to our tale. Every one knew Shaun Buie M'Gaveran to be the
cleanest, best-conducted boy, and the most industrious too, in the
whole parish of Faugh-a-ballagh. Hard was it to find a young fellow
who could handle a flail, spade, or reaping-hook in better style, or
who could go through his day's work in a more creditable or
workmanlike manner. In addition to this, he was a fine, well-built,
handsome young man as you could meet in a fair; and so, sign was on
it, maybe the pretty girls weren't likely to pull each other's caps
about him. Shaun, however, was as prudent as he was good-looking; and
although he wanted a wife, yet the sorrow one of him but preferred
taking a well-handed, smart girl, who was known to be well-behaved and
industrious, like himself. Here, however, was where the puzzle lay on
him; for instead of one girl of that kind, there were in the
neighbourhood no less than a dozen of them--all equally fit and
willing to become his wife, and all equally good-looking. There were
two, however, whom he thought a trifle above the rest; but so nicely
balanced were Biddy Corrigan and Sally Gorman, that for the life of
him he could not make up his mind to decide between them. Each of them
had won her kemp; and it was currently said by them who ought to know,
that neither of them could over-match the other. No two girls in the
parish were better respected, or deserved to be so; and the
consequence was, they had every one's good word and good wish. Now it
so happened that Shaun had been pulling a cord with each; and as he
knew not how to decide between, he thought he would allow them to do
that themselves if they could. He accordingly gave out to the
neighbours that he would hold a kemp on that day week, and he told
Biddy and Sally especially that he had made up his mind to marry
whichever of them won the kemp, for he knew right well, as did all
the parish, that one of them must. The girls agreed to this very
good-humouredly, Biddy telling Sally that she (Sally) would surely win
it; and Sally, not to be outdone in civility, telling the same thing
to her.
Well, the week was nearly past, there being but two days till that of
the kemp, when, about three o'clock, there walks into the house of old
Paddy Corrigan a little woman dressed in high-heeled shoes and a short
red cloak. There was no one in the house but Biddy at the time, who
rose up and placed a chair near the fire, and asked the little red
woman to sit down and rest herself. She accordingly did so, and in a
short time a lively chat commenced between them.
'So,' said the strange woman, 'there's to be a great kemp in Shaun
Buie M'Gaveran's?'
'Indeed there is that, good woman,' replied Biddy, smiling and
blushing to back of that again, because she knew her own fate
depended on it.
'And,' continued the little woman, 'whoever wins the kemp wins a
husband?'
'Ay, so it seems.'
'Well, whoever gets Shaun will be a happy woman, for he's the moral of
a good boy.'
'That's nothing but the truth, anyhow,' replied Biddy, sighing, for
fear, you may be sure, that she herself might lose him; and indeed a
young woman might sigh from many a worse reason. 'But,' said she,
changing the subject, 'you appear to be tired, honest woman, an' I
think you had better eat a bit, an' take a good drink of _buinnhe
ramwher_ (thick milk) to help you on your journey.'
'Thank you kindly, a colleen,' said the woman; 'I'll take a bit, if
you plase, hopin', at the same time, that you won't be the poorer of
it this day twelve months.'
'Sure,' said the girl, 'you know that what we give from kindness ever
an' always leaves a blessing behind it.'
'Yes, acushla, when it _is_ given from kindness.'
She accordingly helped herself to the food that Biddy placed before
her, and appeared, after eating, to be very much refreshed.
'Now,' said she, rising up, 'you're a very good girl, an' if you are
able to find out my name before Tuesday morning, the kemp-day, I tell
you that you'll win it, and gain the husband.'
'Why,' said Biddy, 'I never saw you before. I don't know who you are,
nor where you live; how then can I ever find out your name?'
'You never saw me before, sure enough,' said the old woman, 'an' I
tell you that you never will see me again but once; an' yet if you
have not my name for me at the close of the kemp, you'll lose all, an'
that will leave you a sore heart, for well I know you love Shaun
Buie.'
So saying, she went away, and left poor Biddy quite cast down at what
she had said, for, to tell the truth, she loved Shaun very much, and
had no hopes of being able to find out the name of the little woman,
on which, it appeared, so much to her depended.
It was very near the same hour of the same day that Sally Gorman was
sitting alone in her father's house, thinking of the kemp, when who
should walk in to her but our friend the little red woman.
'God save you, honest woman,' said Sally, 'this is a fine day that's
in it, the Lord be praised!'
'It is,' said the woman, 'as fine a day as one could wish for: indeed
it is.'
'Have you no news on your travels?' asked Sally.
'The only news in the neighbourhood,' replied the other, 'is this
great kemp that's to take place at Shaun Buie M'Gaveran's. They say
you're either to win him or lose him then,' she added, looking
closely at Sally as she spoke.
'I'm not very much afraid of that,' said Sally, with confidence; 'but
even if I do lose him, I may get as good.'
'It's not easy gettin' as good,' rejoined the old woman, 'an' you
ought to be very glad to win him, if you can.'
'Let me alone for that,' said Sally. 'Biddy's a good girl, I allow;
but as for spinnin', she never saw the day she could leave me behind
her. Won't you sit an' rest you?' she added; 'maybe you're tired.'
'It's time for you to think of it,' _thought_ the woman, but she spoke
nothing: 'but,' she added to herself on reflection, 'it's better late
than never--I'll sit awhile, till I see a little closer what she's
made of.'
She accordingly sat down and chatted upon several subjects, such as
young women like to talk about, for about half an hour; after which
she arose, and taking her little staff in hand, she bade Sally
good-bye, and went her way. After passing a little from the house she
looked back, and could not help speaking to herself as follows:
'She's smooth and smart,
But she wants the heart;
She's tight and neat,
But she gave no meat.'
Poor Biddy now made all possible inquiries about the old woman, but to
no purpose. Not a soul she spoke to about her had ever seen or heard
of such a woman. She felt very dispirited, and began to lose heart,
for there is no doubt that if she missed Shaun it would have cost her
many a sorrowful day. She knew she would never get his equal, or at
least any one that she loved so well. At last the kemp day came, and
with it all the pretty girls of the neighbourhood to Shaun Buie's.
Among the rest, the two that were to decide their right to him were
doubtless the handsomest pair by far, and every one admired them. To
be sure, it was a blythe and merry place, and many a light laugh and
sweet song rang out from pretty lips that day. Biddy and Sally, as
every one expected, were far ahead of the rest, but so even in their
spinning that the reelers could not for the life of them declare which
was the better. It was neck-and-neck and head-and-head between the
pretty creatures, and all who were at the kemp felt themselves wound
up to the highest pitch of interest and curiosity to know which of
them would be successful.
The day was now more than half gone, and no difference was between
them, when, to the surprise and sorrow of every one present, Biddy
Corrigan's _heck_ broke in two, and so to all appearance ended the
contest in favour of her rival; and what added to her mortification,
she was as ignorant of the red little woman's name as ever. What was
to be done? All that could be done was done. Her brother, a boy of
about fourteen years of age, happened to be present when the accident
took place, having been sent by his father and mother to bring them
word how the match went on between the rival spinsters. Johnny
Corrigan was accordingly despatched with all speed to Donnel
M'Cusker's, the wheelwright, in order to get the heck mended, that
being Biddy's last but hopeless chance. Johnny's anxiety that his
sister should win was of course very great, and in order to lose as
little time as possible he struck across the country, passing through,
or rather close by, Kilrudden forth, a place celebrated as a resort of
the fairies. What was his astonishment, however, as he passed a
White-thorn tree, to hear a female voice singing, in accompaniment to
the sound of a spinning-wheel, the following words:
'There's a girl in this town doesn't know my name;
But my name's Even Trot--Even Trot.'
'There's a girl in this town,' said the lad, 'who's in great distress,
for she has broken her heck, and lost a husband. I'm now goin' to
Donnel M'Cusker's to get it mended.'
'What's her name?' said the little red woman.
'Biddy Corrigan.'
The little woman immediately whipped out the heck from her own wheel,
and giving it to the boy, desired him to take it to his sister, and
never mind Donnel M'Cusker.
'You have little time to lose,' she added, 'so go back and give her
this; but don't tell her how you got it, nor, above all things, that
it was Even Trot that gave it to you.'
The lad returned, and after giving the heck to his sister, as a matter
of course told her that it was a little red woman called Even Trot
that sent it to her, a circumstance which made tears of delight start
to Biddy's eyes, for she knew now that Even Trot was the name of the
old woman, and having known that, she felt that something good would
happen to her. She now resumed her spinning, and never did human
fingers let down the thread so rapidly. The whole kemp were amazed at
the quantity which from time to time filled her pirn. The hearts of
her friends began to rise, and those of Sally's party to sink, as hour
after hour she was fast approaching her rival, who now spun if
possible with double speed on finding Biddy coming up with her. At
length they were again even, and just at that moment in came her
friend the little red woman, and asked aloud, 'Is there any one in
this kemp that knows my name?' This question she asked three times
before Biddy could pluck up courage to answer her. She at last said,
'There's a girl in this town does know your name--
Your name is Even Trot--Even Trot.'
'Ay,' said the old woman, 'and so it is; and let that name be your
guide and your husband's through life. Go steadily along, but let your
step be even; stop little; keep always advancing; and you'll never
have cause to rue the day that you first saw Even Trot.'
We need scarcely add that Biddy won the kemp and the husband, and that
she and Shaun lived long and happily together; and I have only now to
wish, kind reader, that you and I may live longer and more happily
still.
THE YOUNG PIPER
BY CROFTON CROKER
There lived not long since, on the borders of the county Tipperary, a
decent honest couple, whose names were Mick Flannigan and Judy
Muldoon. These poor people were blessed, as the saying is, with four
children, all boys: three of them were as fine, stout, healthy,
good-looking children as ever the sun shone upon; and it was enough to
make any Irishman proud of the breed of his countrymen to see them
about one o'clock on a fine summer's day standing at their father's
cabin door, with their beautiful flaxen hair hanging in curls about
their head, and their cheeks like two rosy apples, and a big laughing
potato smoking in their hand. A proud man was Mick of these fine
children, and a proud woman, too, was Judy; and reason enough they had
to be so. But it was far otherwise with the remaining one, which was
the third eldest: he was the most miserable, ugly, ill-conditioned
brat that ever God put life into; he was so ill-thriven that he never
was able to stand alone, or to leave his cradle; he had long, shaggy,
matted, curled hair, as black as the soot; his face was of a
greenish-yellow colour; his eyes were like two burning coals, and were
for ever moving in his head, as if they had the perpetual motion.
Before he was a twelvemonth old he had a mouth full of great teeth;
his hands were like kites' claws, and his legs were no thicker than
the handle of a whip, and about as straight as a reaping-hook: to
make the matter worse, he had the appetite of a cormorant, and the
whinge, and the yelp, and the screech, and the yowl, was never out of
his mouth.
The neighbours all suspected that he was something not right,
particularly as it was observed, when people, as they do in the
country, got about the fire, and began to talk of religion and good
things, the brat, as he lay in the cradle, which his mother generally
put near the fireplace that he might be snug, used to sit up, as they
were in the middle of their talk, and begin to bellow as if the devil
was in him in right earnest; this, as I said, led the neighbours to
think that all was not right, and there was a general consultation
held one day about what would be best to do with him. Some advised to
put him out on the shovel, but Judy's pride was up at that. A pretty
thing indeed, that a child of hers should be put on a shovel and
flung out on the dunghill just like a dead kitten or a poisoned rat;
no, no, she would not hear to that at all. One old woman, who was
considered very skilful and knowing in fairy matters, strongly
recommended her to put the tongs in the fire, and heat them red hot,
and to take his nose in them, and that would beyond all manner of
doubt make him tell what he was and where he came from (for the
general suspicion was, that he had been changed by the good people);
but Judy was too softhearted, and too fond of the imp, so she would
not give in to this plan, though everybody said she was wrong, and
maybe she was, but it's hard to blame a mother. Well, some advised one
thing, and some another; at last one spoke of sending for the priest,
who was a very holy and a very learned man, to see it. To this Judy of
course had no objection; but one thing or other always prevented her
doing so, and the upshot of the business was that the priest never
saw him.
Things went on in the old way for some time longer. The brat continued
yelping and yowling, and eating more than his three brothers put
together, and playing all sorts of unlucky tricks, for he was mighty
mischievously inclined, till it happened one day that Tim Carrol, the
blind piper, going his rounds, called in and sat down by the fire to
have a bit of chat with the woman of the house. So after some time
Tim, who was no churl of his music, yoked on the pipes, and began to
bellows away in high style; when the instant he began, the young
fellow, who had been lying as still as a mouse in his cradle, sat up,
began to grin and twist his ugly face, to swing about his long tawny
arms, and to kick out his crooked legs, and to show signs of great
glee at the music. At last nothing would serve him but he should get
the pipes into his own hands, and to humour him his mother asked Tim
to lend them to the child for a minute. Tim, who was kind to children,
readily consented; and as Tim had not his sight, Judy herself brought
them to the cradle, and went to put them on him; but she had no
occasion, for the youth seemed quite up to the business. He buckled on
the pipes, set the bellows under one arm, and the bag under the other,
worked them both as knowingly as if he had been twenty years at the
business, and lilted up 'Sheela na guira' in the finest style
imaginable.
All were in astonishment: the poor woman crossed herself. Tim, who, as
I said before, was _dark_, and did not well know who was playing, was
in great delight; and when he heard that it was a little _prechan_ not
five years old, that had never seen a set of pipes in his life, he
wished the mother joy of her son; offered to take him off her hands if
she would part with him, swore he was a _born_ piper, a natural
_genus_, and declared that in a little time more, with the help of a
little good instruction from himself, there would not be his match in
the whole country. The poor woman was greatly delighted to hear all
this, particularly as what Tim said about natural _genus_ quieted some
misgivings that were rising in her mind, lest what the neighbours said
about his not being right might be too true; and it gratified her
moreover to think that her dear child (for she really loved the whelp)
would not be forced to turn out and beg, but might earn decent bread
for himself. So when Mick came home in the evening from his work, she
up and told him all that had happened, and all that Tim Carrol had
said; and Mick, as was natural, was very glad to hear it, for the
helpless condition of the poor creature was a great trouble to him. So
next day he took the pig to the fair, and with what it brought set
off to Clonmel, and bespoke a bran-new set of pipes, of the proper
size for him.
In about a fortnight the pipes came home, and the moment the chap in
his cradle laid eyes on them he squealed with delight and threw up his
pretty legs, and bumped himself in his cradle, and went on with a
great many comical tricks; till at last, to quiet him, they gave him
the pipes, and he immediately set to and pulled away at 'Jig Polthog,'
to the admiration of all who heard him.
The fame of his skill on the pipes soon spread far and near, for there
was not a piper in the six next counties could come at all near him,
in 'Old Moderagh rue,' or 'The Hare in the Corn,' or 'The Fox-hunter's
Jig,' or 'The Rakes of Cashel,' or 'The Piper's Maggot,' or any of the
fine Irish jigs which make people dance whether they will or no: and
it was surprising to hear him rattle away 'The Fox-hunt'; you'd really
think you heard the hounds giving tongue, and the terriers yelping
always behind, and the huntsman and the whippers-in cheering or
correcting the dogs; it was, in short, the very next thing to seeing
the hunt itself.
The best of him was, he was noways stingy of his music, and many a
merry dance the boys and girls of the neighbourhood used to have in
his father's cabin; and he would play up music for them, that they
said used as it were to put quicksilver in their feet; and they all
declared they never moved so light and so airy to any piper's playing
that ever they danced to.
But besides all his fine Irish music, he had one queer tune of his
own, the oddest that ever was heard; for the moment he began to play
it everything in the house seemed disposed to dance; the plates and
porringers used to jingle on the dresser, the pots and pot-hooks used
to rattle in the chimney, and people used even to fancy they felt the
stools moving from under them; but, however it might be with the
stools, it is certain that no one could keep long sitting on them, for
both old and young always fell to capering as hard as ever they could.
The girls complained that when he began this tune it always threw them
out in their dancing, and that they never could handle their feet
rightly, for they felt the floor like ice under them, and themselves
every moment ready to come sprawling on their backs or their faces.
The young bachelors who wished to show off their dancing and their new
pumps, and their bright red or green and yellow garters, swore that it
confused them so that they never could go rightly through the _heel
and toe_ or _cover the buckle_, or any of their best steps, but felt
themselves always all bedizzied and bewildered, and then old and young
would go jostling and knocking together in a frightful manner; and
when the unlucky brat had them all in this way, whirligigging about
the floor, he'd grin and chuckle and chatter, for all the world like
Jacko the monkey when he has played off some of his roguery.
The older he grew the worse he grew, and by the time he was six years
old there was no standing the house for him; he was always making his
brothers burn or scald themselves, or break their shins over the pots
and stools. One time, in harvest, he was left at home by himself, and
when his mother came in she found the cat a-horseback on the dog, with
her face to the tail, and her legs tied round him, and the urchin
playing his queer tune to them; so that the dog went barking and
jumping about, and puss was mewing for the dear life, and slapping her
tail backwards and forwards, which, as it would hit against the dog's
chaps, he'd snap at and bite, and then there was the philliloo.
Another time, the farmer with whom Mick worked, a very decent,
respectable man, happened to call in, and Judy wiped a stool with her
apron, and invited him to sit down and rest himself after his walk. He
was sitting with his back to the cradle, and behind him was a pan of
blood, for Judy was making pig's puddings. The lad lay quite still in
his nest, and watched his opportunity till he got ready a hook at the
end of a piece of twine, which he contrived to fling so handily that
it caught in the bob of the man's nice new wig, and soused it in the
pan of blood. Another time his mother was coming in from milking the
cow, with the pail on her head: the minute he saw her he lilted up his
infernal tune, and the poor woman, letting go the pail, clapped her
hands aside, and began to dance a jig, and tumbled the milk all a-top
of her husband, who was bringing in some turf to boil the supper. In
short, there would be no end to telling all his pranks, and all the
mischievous tricks he played.
Soon after, some mischances began to happen to the farmer's cattle. A
horse took the staggers, a fine veal calf died of the black-leg, and
some of his sheep of the red-water; the cows began to grow vicious,
and to kick down the milk-pails, and the roof of one end of the barn
fell in; and the farmer took it into his head that Mick Flannigan's
unlucky child was the cause of all the mischief. So one day he called
Mick aside, and said to him, 'Mick, you see things are not going on
with me as they ought, and to be plain with you, Mick, I think that
child of yours is the cause of it. I am really falling away to nothing
with fretting, and I can hardly sleep on my bed at night for thinking
of what may happen before the morning. So I'd be glad if you'd look
out for work somewhere else; you're as good a man as any in the
country, and there's no fear but you'll have your choice of work.' To
this Mick replied, 'that he was sorry for his losses, and still
sorrier that he or his should be thought to be the cause of them; that
for his own part he was not quite easy in his mind about that child,
but he had him and so must keep him'; and he promised to look out for
another place immediately.
Accordingly, next Sunday at chapel Mick gave out that he was about
leaving the work at John Riordan's, and immediately a farmer who lived
a couple of miles off, and who wanted a ploughman (the last one having
just left him), came up to Mick, and offered him a house and garden,
and work all the year round. Mick, who knew him to be a good employer,
immediately closed with him; so it was agreed that the farmer should
send a car[2] to take his little bit of furniture, and that he should
remove on the following Thursday.
[Footnote 2: Car, a cart.]
When Thursday came, the car came according to promise, and Mick loaded
it, and put the cradle with the child and his pipes on the top, and
Judy sat beside it to take care of him, lest he should tumble out and
be killed. They drove the cow before them, the dog followed, but the
cat was of course left behind; and the other three children went along
the road picking skeehories (haws) and blackberries, for it was a fine
day towards the latter end of harvest.
They had to cross a river, but as it ran through a bottom between two
high banks, you did not see it till you were close on it. The young
fellow was lying pretty quiet in the bottom of the cradle, till they
came to the head of the bridge, when hearing the roaring of the water
(for there was a great flood in the river, as it had rained heavily
for the last two or three days), he sat up in his cradle and looked
about him; and the instant he got a sight of the water, and found they
were going to take him across it, oh, how he did bellow and how he did
squeal! no rat caught in a snap-trap ever sang out equal to him.
'Whist! A lanna,' said Judy, 'there's no fear of you; sure it's only
over the stone bridge we're going.'--'Bad luck to you, you old rip!'
cried he, 'what a pretty trick you've played me to bring me here!' and
still went on yelling, and the farther they got on the bridge the
louder he yelled; till at last Mick could hold out no longer, so
giving him a great skelp of the whip he had in his hand, 'Devil choke
you, you brat!' said he, 'will you never stop bawling? a body can't
hear their ears for you.' The moment he felt the thong of the whip he
leaped up in the cradle, clapped the pipes under his arm, gave a most
wicked grin at Mick, and jumped clean over the battlements of the
bridge down into the water. 'Oh, my child, my child!' shouted Judy,
'he's gone for ever from me.' Mick and the rest of the children ran to
the other side of the bridge, and looking over, they saw him coming
out from under the arch of the bridge, sitting cross-legged on the top
of a white-headed wave, and playing away on the pipes as merrily as if
nothing had happened. The river was running very rapidly, so he was
whirled away at a great rate; but he played as fast, ay, and faster,
than the river ran; and though they set off as hard as they could
along the bank, yet, as the river made a sudden turn round the hill,
about a hundred yards below the bridge, by the time they got there he
was out of sight, and no one ever laid eyes on him more; but the
general opinion was that he went home with the pipes to his own
relations, the good people, to make music for them.
A FAIRY ENCHANTMENT
_Story-teller_--MICHAEL HART
_Recorder_--W. B. YEATS
In the times when we used to travel by canal I was coming down from
Dublin. When we came to Mullingar the canal ended, and I began to
walk, and stiff and fatigued I was after the slowness. I had some
friends with me, and now and then we walked, now and then we rode in a
cart. So on till we saw some girls milking a cow, and stopped to joke
with them. After a while we asked them for a drink of milk. 'We have
nothing to put it in here,' they said, 'but come to the house with
us.' We went home with them and sat round the fire talking. After a
while the others went, and left me, loath to stir from the good fire.
I asked the girls for something to eat. There was a pot on the fire,
and they took the meat out and put it on a plate and told me to eat
only the meat that came from the head. When I had eaten, the girls
went out and I did not see them again.
It grew darker and darker, and there I still sat, loath as ever to
leave the good fire; and after a while two men came in, carrying
between them a corpse. When I saw them I hid behind the door. Says one
to the other, 'Who'll turn the spit?' Says the other, 'Michael Hart,
come out of that and turn the meat!' I came out in a tremble and began
turning the spit. 'Michael Hart,' says the one who spoke first, 'if
you let it burn we will have to put you on the spit instead,' and on
that they went out. I sat there trembling and turning the corpse until
midnight. The men came again, and the one said it was burnt, and the
other said it was done right, but having fallen out over it, they both
said they would do me no harm that time; and sitting by the fire one
of them cried out, 'Michael Hart, can you tell a story?' 'Never a
one,' said I. On that he caught me by the shoulders and put me out
like a shot.
It was a wild, blowing night; never in all my born days did I see such
a night--the darkest night that ever came out of the heavens. I did
not know where I was for the life of me. So when one of the men came
after me and touched me on the shoulder with a 'Michael Hart, can you
tell a story now?'--'I can,' says I. In he brought me, and, putting me
by the fire, says 'Begin.' 'I have no story but the one,' says I,
'that I was sitting here, and that you two men brought in a corpse
and put it on the spit and set me turning it.' 'That will do,' says
he; 'you may go in there and lie down on the bed.' And in I went,
nothing loath, and in the morning where was I but in the middle of a
green field.
TEIGUE OF THE LEE
BY CROFTON CROKER
I can't stop in the house--I won't stop in it for all the money that
is buried in the old castle of Carrigrohan. If ever there was such a
thing in the world!--to be abused to my face night and day, and nobody
to the fore doing it! and then, if I'm angry, to be laughed at with a
great roaring ho, ho, ho! I won't stay in the house after to-night, if
there was not another place in the country to put my head under.' This
angry soliloquy was pronounced in the hall of the old manor-house of
Carrigrohan by John Sheehan. John was a new servant; he had been only
three days in the house, which had the character of being haunted, and
in that short space of time he had been abused and laughed at by a
voice which sounded as if a man spoke with his head in a cask; nor
could he discover who was the speaker, or from whence the voice came.
'I'll not stop here,' said John; 'and that ends the matter.'
'Ho, ho, ho! be quiet, John Sheehan, or else worse will happen to
you.'
John instantly ran to the hall window, as the words were evidently
spoken by a person immediately outside, but no one was visible. He had
scarcely placed his face at the pane of glass when he heard another
loud 'Ho, ho, ho!' as if behind him in the hall; as quick as lightning
he turned his head, but no living thing was to be seen.
'Ho, ho, ho, John!' shouted a voice that appeared to come from the
lawn before the house: 'do you think you'll see Teigue?--oh, never! as
long as you live! so leave alone looking after him, and mind your
business; there's plenty of company to dinner from Cork to be here
to-day, and 'tis time you had the cloth laid.'
'Lord bless us! there's more of it!--I'll never stay another day
here,' repeated John.
'Hold your tongue, and stay where you are quietly, and play no tricks
on Mr. Pratt, as you did on Mr. Jervois about the spoons.'
John Sheehan was confounded by this address from his invisible
persecutor, but nevertheless he mustered courage enough to say, 'Who
are you? come here, and let me see you, if you are a man'; but he
received in reply only a laugh of unearthly derision, which was
followed by a 'Good-bye--I'll watch you at dinner, John!'
'Lord between us and harm! this beats all! I'll watch you at dinner!
maybe you will! 'tis the broad daylight, so 'tis no ghost; but this is
a terrible place, and this is the last day I'll stay in it. How does
he know about the spoons? if he tells it I'm a ruined man! there was
no living soul could tell it to him but Tim Barrett, and he's far
enough off in the wilds of Botany Bay now, so how could he know it? I
can't tell for the world! But what's that I see there at the corner of
the wall! 'tis not a man! oh, what a fool I am! 'tis only the old
stump of a tree! But this is a shocking place--I'll never stop in it,
for I'll leave the house to-morrow; the very look of it is enough to
frighten any one.'
The mansion had certainly an air of desolation; it was situated in a
lawn, which had nothing to break its uniform level save a few tufts of
narcissuses and a couple of old trees coeval with the building. The
house stood at a short distance from the road, it was upwards of a
century old, and Time was doing his work upon it; its walls were
weather-stained in all colours, its roof showed various white patches,
it had no look of comfort; all was dim and dingy without, and within
there was an air of gloom, of departed and departing greatness, which
harmonised well with the exterior. It required all the exuberance of
youth and of gaiety to remove the impression, almost amounting to awe,
with which you trod the huge square hall, paced along the gallery
which surrounded the hall, or explored the long rambling passages
below stairs. The ballroom, as the large drawing-room was called, and
several other apartments, were in a state of decay; the walls were
stained with damp, and I remember well the sensation of awe which I
felt creeping over me when, boy as I was, and full of boyish life and
wild and ardent spirits, I descended to the vaults; all without and
within me became chilled beneath their dampness and gloom--their
extent, too, terrified me; nor could the merriment of my two
schoolfellows, whose father, a respectable clergyman, rented the
dwelling for a time, dispel the feelings of a romantic imagination
until I once again ascended to the upper regions.
John had pretty well recovered himself as the dinner-hour approached,
and several guests arrived. They were all seated at the table, and had
begun to enjoy the excellent repast, when a voice was heard in the
lawn.
'Ho, ho, ho! Mr. Pratt, won't you give poor Teigue some dinner? ho,
ho! a fine company you have there, and plenty of everything that's
good; sure you won't forget poor Teigue?'
John dropped the glass he had in his hand.
'Who is that?' said Mr. Pratt's brother, an officer of the artillery.
'That is Teigue,' said Mr. Pratt, laughing, 'whom you must often have
heard me mention.'
'And pray, Mr. Pratt,' inquired another gentleman, 'who _is_ Teigue?'
'That,' he replied, 'is more than I can tell. No one has ever been
able to catch even a glimpse of him. I have been on the watch for a
whole evening with three of my sons, yet, although his voice sometimes
sounded almost in my ear, I could not see him. I fancied, indeed, that
I saw a man in a white frieze jacket pass into the door from the
garden to the lawn, but it could be only fancy, for I found the door
locked, while the fellow, whoever he is, was laughing at our trouble.
He visits us occasionally, and sometimes a long interval passes
between his visits, as in the present case; it is now nearly two years
since we heard that hollow voice outside the window. He has never done
any injury that we know of, and once when he broke a plate, he
brought one back exactly like it.'
'It is very extraordinary,' exclaimed several of the company.
'But,' remarked a gentleman to young Mr. Pratt, 'your father said he
broke a plate; how did he get it without your seeing him?'
'When he asks for some dinner we put it outside the window and go
away; whilst we watch he will not take it, but no sooner have we
withdrawn than it is gone.'
'How does he know that you are watching?'
'That's more than I can tell, but he either knows or suspects. One day
my brothers Robert and James with myself were in our back parlour,
which has a window into the garden, when he came outside and said,
"Ho, ho, ho! Master James and Robert and Henry, give poor Teigue a
glass of whisky." James went out of the room, filled a glass with
whisky, vinegar, and salt, and brought it to him. "Here, Teigue,"
said he, "come for it now."--"Well, put it down, then, on the step
outside the window." This was done, and we stood looking at it.
"There, now, go away," he shouted. We retired, but still watched it.
"Ho, ho! you are watching Teigue! go out of the room, now, or I won't
take it." We went outside the door and returned, the glass was gone,
and a moment after we heard him roaring and cursing frightfully. He
took away the glass, but the next day it was on the stone step under
the window, and there were crumbs of bread in the inside, as if he had
put it in his pocket; from that time he has not been heard till
to-day.'
'Oh,' said the colonel, 'I'll get a sight of him; you are not used to
these things; an old soldier has the best chance, and as I shall
finish my dinner with this wing, I'll be ready for him when he speaks
next--Mr. Bell, will you take a glass of wine with me?'
'Ho, ho! Mr. Bell,' shouted Teigue. 'Ho, ho! Mr. Bell, you were a
Quaker long ago. Ho, ho! Mr. Bell, you're a pretty boy! a pretty
Quaker you were; and now you're no Quaker, nor anything else: ho, ho!
Mr. Bell. And there's Mr. Parkes: to be sure, Mr. Parkes looks mighty
fine to-day, with his powdered head, and his grand silk stockings and
his bran-new rakish-red waistcoat. And there's Mr. Cole: did you ever
see such a fellow? A pretty company you've brought together, Mr.
Pratt: kiln-dried Quakers, butter-buying buckeens from Mallow Lane,
and a drinking exciseman from the Coal Quay, to meet the great
thundering artillery general that is come out of the Indies, and is
the biggest dust of them all.'