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THE IRISH FAIRY BOOK
by
ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES
Illustrated by George Denham
London T FisherUnwin
All rights reserved.
A Faery Song
Sung by the people of faery over Diarmuid and Grania, who lay in
their bridal sleep under a Cromlech.
We who are old, old and gay,
O so old!
Thousands of years, thousands of years,
If all were told:
Give to these children, new from the world,
Silence and love;
And the long dew-dropping hours of the night,
And the stars above:
Give to these children, new from the world,
Rest far from men.
Is anything better, anything better?
Tell us it then:
Us who are old, old and gay,
O so old!
Thousands of years, thousands of years,
If all were told.
W. B. YEATS.
Contents
THE COMING OF FINN _Standish James O'Grady_ 1
THE THREE CROWNS _Patrick Kennedy_ 12
THE GRATEFUL BEASTS _Patrick Kennedy_ 25
THE LEPRACAUN _William Allingham_ 31
DANIEL O'ROURKE _T. Crofton Croker_ 35
CUCHULAIN OF MUIRTHEMNE _Lady Gregory_ 45
THE BOYHOOD OF CUCHULAIN _Standish James O'Grady_ 52
THE LEGEND OF KNOCKGRAFTON _T. Crofton Croker_ 60
THE STOLEN CHILD _W. B. Yeats_ 67
THE LAND OF YOUTH _Bryan O'Looney_ 71
Edited by John O'Daly
THE ADVENTURES OF GILLA NA CHRECK _Patrick Kennedy_ 85
THE HILL-MAN AND THE HOUSE-WIFE _Mrs. Ewing_ 96
THE GIANT WALKER _Sir Samuel Ferguson_ 99
THE PURSUIT OF THE GILLA DACKER _Patrick W. Joyce_ 102
JAMIE FREEL AND THE YOUNG LADY _Letitia McClintock_ 123
A LEGEND OF KNOCKMANY _William Carleton_ 133
THE NINEPENNY FIDIL _Joseph Campbell_ 149
FESTIVITIES AT THE HOUSE OF CONAN _Nicholas O'Kearney_ 151
THE WHITE TROUT _Samuel Lover_ 160
THE WONDERFUL CAKE _Patrick Kennedy_ 164
THE LEGEND OF THE LITTLE WEAVER _Samuel Lover_ 167
MOR OF CLOYNE _Alfred Perceval Graves_ 180
LAWN DYARRIG _Jeremiah Curtin_[1] 181
THE HORNED WOMEN _Lady Wilde_ 198
THE QUARE GANDER _Joseph Sheridan Le Fann_ 202
THE FAIRIES' PASSAGE _James Clarence Mangan_ 214
THE KING OF THE BLACK DESERT _Douglas Hyde_ 218
THE PIPER AND THE PUCA _Douglas Hyde_ 236
THE FAIRY CHANGELING _Dora Sigerson_ 241
THE TALKING HEAD OF DONN-BO _Eleanor Hull_ 243
THE BRACKET BULL _Douglas Hyde_ 246
THE DEMON CAT _Lady Wilde_ 262
THE ABBOT OF INISFALEN _William Allingham_ 265
MORRAHA _W. Larminie_ 269
THE KILDARE POOKA _Patrick Kennedy_ 286
THE KING'S SON _Thomas Boyd_ 290
MURTOUGH AND THE WITCH-WOMAN _Eleanor Hull_ 293
THE RED PONY _W. Larminie_ 307
KING O'TOOLE AND ST. KEVIN _Samuel Lover_ 314
LAMENT OF THE LAST LEPRECHAUN _Nora Hopper_ 322
THE CORPSE WATCHERS _Patrick Kennedy_ 324
THE MAD PUDDING _William Carleton_ 329
THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE _Alfred Tennyson_ 346
Preface
Irish Fairy Lore has well been called by Mr. Alfred Nutt, one of the
leading authorities on the subject, "As fair and bounteous a harvest of
myth and romance as ever flourished among any race," and Dr. Joyce, the
well-known Irish scholar and historian, states: "that it is very
probable that the belief in the existence of fairies came in with the
earliest colonists that entered Ireland, and that this belief is
recorded in the oldest of native Irish writings in a way that proves it
to have been, at the time treated of, long established and universally
received."
Colgan himself supplies us with the name and derivation of the Irish
word for fairy, Sidh (shee), still used throughout the country.
"Fantastical spirits," he writes, "are by the Irish called men of the
Sidh, because they are seen, as it were, to come out of the beautiful
hills to infest men, and hence the vulgar belief that they reside in
certain subterranean habitations; and sometimes the hills themselves are
called by the Irish Sidhe or Siodha."
In Colgan's time, then, the fairy superstition had passed from the upper
classes, gradually disenthralled of it by the influence of Christianity
to the common people, among whom it is still rife. But it is clear that
in the time of St. Patrick a belief in a world of fairies existed even
in the King's household, for it is recorded that "when the two daughters
of King Leary of Ireland, Ethnea the fair and Fedelma the ruddy, came
early one morning to the well of Clebach to wash, they found there a
synod of holy bishops with Patrick. And they knew not whence they came,
or in what form, or from what people, or from what country; but they
supposed them to be Duine Sidh, or gods of the earth, or a phantasm."
As suggested, the belief of the Princesses obtains to this very day
amongst the peasantry of remote districts in Ireland, who still maintain
that the fairies inhabit the Sidhe, or hills, and record instances of
relations and friends being transported into their underground palaces.
The truth is that the Gaelic peasant, Scotch and Irish, is a mystic, and
believes not only in this world, and the world to come, but in that
other world which is the world of Faery, and which exercises an
extraordinary influence upon many actions of his life.
We see in the well-known dialogue between Oisin (Ossian) and St.
Patrick, and in other early Irish writers, how potent an influence
Druidism, with its powers of concealing and changing, of paralysing and
cursing, had been held to be in the days when the Irish worshipped no
hideous idols, but adored Beal and Dagdae, the Great or the Good God,
and afterwards Aine, the Moon, Goddess of the Water and of Wisdom, and
when their minor Deities were Mananan Mac Lir, the Irish Neptune, whose
name is still to be found in the Isle of _Man_; Crom, who corresponded
to Ceres; Iphinn, the benevolent, whose relations to the Irish Oirfidh
resembled those of Apollo towards Orpheus. The ancient Irish owed
allegiance also to the Elements, to the Wind, and to the Stars.
Besides these Pagan Divinities, however, and quite apart from them, the
early Irish believed in a hierarchy of fairy beings, closely analagous
to us "humans," supposed to people hill and valley, old road and old
earth-mound, lakes and rivers, and there to exercise a constant, if
occult, influence upon mankind.
Various theories have been advanced to account for their origin. Some
call these fairies angels outcast from heaven for their unworthiness,
yet not evil enough for hell, and who, therefore, occupy intermediate
space.
Others suggest that they are the spirits of that mysterious early Irish
race, the Tuatha da Danann, who were driven by their conquerors, the
Milesians, to become "men of the hills," if not "cave" and "lake
dwellers," in order to avoid the extermination that ultimately awaited
them. Their artistic skill and superior knowledge evidenced to this day
by remarkable sepulchral mounds, stone-inscribed spiral ornamentation,
and beautiful bronze spear-heads, led them to be accounted magicians,
and Mr. Yeats and others of his school favour the idea that the minor
deities of the early Irish above referred to were the earliest members
of the Tuatha da Danann dynasty, and that we here have a form of that
ancestor worship now met with amongst the Chinese and Japanese.
Dr. Joyce does not hold, however, that the subjugation of the Tuatha da
Dananns, with the subsequent belief regarding them, was the origin of
Irish fairy mythology.
"The superstition, no doubt, existed long previously; and this
mysterious race, having undergone a gradual deification, became
confounded and identified with the original local gods, and ultimately
superseded them altogether."
But whatever their origin, supernatural powers evil and beneficent were
supposed to attach to them such as the power of spiriting away young
married women to act as fairy nurses, and their infants to replace fairy
weaklings, or again the power of conferring wealth, health, and
prosperity where a certain ritual due to them had been performed by
their human allies.
The injurious powers of malevolently disposed fairies can only be met,
according to popular belief, by wizards and wise women, who still
exercise their arts in remote districts of Gaelic-speaking Ireland and
Scotland.
These fairies are supposed to be life-sized, but there was another class
of diminutive preternatural beings who came into close touch with man.
Amongst these were the Luchryman (Leith-phrogan) or _brogue_ (shoe)
maker, otherwise known as Lepracaun. He is always found mending or
making a shoe, and if grasped firmly and kept constantly in view will
disclose hid treasure to you or render up his _sporan na sgillinge_ or
purse of the (inexhaustible) shilling. He could only be bound by a
plough chain or woollen thread. He is the type of industry which, if
steadily faced, leads to fortune, but, if lost sight of, is followed by
its forfeiture.
Love in idleness is personified by another pigmy, the _Gean-canach_
(love-talker). He does not appear like the Luchryman, with a purse in
one of his pockets but with his hands in both of them and a DUDEEN
(ancient Irish pipe) in his mouth as he lazily strolls through lonely
valleys making love to the foolish country lasses and "gostering" with
the idle "boys."
To meet him meant bad luck, and whoever was ruined by ill-judged love
was said to have been with the Gean-canach.
Another evil sprite was the _Clobher-ceann_, "a jolly, red-faced drunken
little fellow," always "found astride on a wine-butt" and drinking and
singing from a full tankard in a hard drinker's cellar, and bound by his
appearance to bring its owner to speedy ruin.
Then there were the Leannan-sighe, or native Muses, to be found in every
place of note to inspire the local bard, and the _Beansighes_ (Banshees,
fairy women) attached to each of the old Irish families and giving
warning of the death of one of its members with piteous lamentations.
Black Joanna of the Boyne (_Siubhan Dubh na Boinne_) appeared on
Hallowe'en in the shape of a great black fowl, bringing luck to the
house whose _Vanithee_ (woman of the house) kept it constantly clean and
neat.
The Pooka, who appeared in the shape of a horse, and whom Shakespeare
has adapted as "Puck," was a goblin who combined "horse-play" with
viciousness.
The _dullaghan_ was a churchyard demon whose head was of a movable
kind, and Dr. Joyce writes: "You generally meet him with his head in his
pocket, under his arm, or absent altogether; or if you have the fortune
to light upon a number of _dullaghans_, you may see them amusing
themselves by flinging their heads at one another or kicking them for
footballs."
An even more terrible churchyard demon is the beautiful phantom that
waylays the widower at his wife's very tomb and poisons him by her kiss
when he has yielded to her blandishments.
Of monsters the Irish had, and still believe in, the _Piast_ (Latin
_bestia_), a huge dragon or serpent confined to lakes by St. Patrick
till the day of judgment, but still occasionally seen in their waters.
In Fenian times the days of Finn and his companion knights, the Piast,
however, roamed the country, devouring men and women and cattle in large
numbers, and some of the early heroes are recorded to have been
swallowed alive by them and then to have hewed their way out of their
entrails.
The Merrow, or Mermaid, is also still believed in, and many Folk Tales
exist describing their intermarriage with mortals.
According to Nicholas O'Kearney--"It is the general opinion of many old
persons versed in native traditional lore, that, before the introduction
of Christianity, all animals possessed the faculties of human reason and
speech; and old story-tellers will gravely inform you that every beast
could speak before the arrival of St. Patrick, but that the Saint having
expelled the demons from the land by the sound of his bell, all the
animals that, before that time, had possessed the power of foretelling
future events, such as the Black Steed of Binn-each-labhra, the Royal
Cat of Clough-magh-righ-cat (Clough), and others, became mute; and many
of them fled to Egypt and other foreign countries."
Cats are said to have been appointed to guard hidden treasures; and
there are few who have not heard old Irish peasants tell about a strange
meeting of cats and a violent battle fought by them in his
neighbourhood. "It was believed," adds O'Kearney, "that an evil spirit
in the shape of a cat assumed command over these animals in various
districts, and that when those wicked beings pleased they could compel
all the cats belonging to their division to attack those of some other
district. The same was said of rats; and rat-expellers, when commanding
a colony of those troublesome and destructive animals to emigrate to
some other place, used to address their 'billet' to the infernal rat
supposed to hold command over the rest. In a curious pamphlet on the
power of bardic compositions to charm and expel rats, lately published,
Mr. Eugene Curry states that a degraded priest, who was descended from
an ancient family of hereditary bards, was enabled to expel a colony of
rats by the force of satire!"
Hence, of course, Shakespeare's reference to rhyming Irish rats to
death.
A few words upon the writers in this collection. Of Folk Tale collectors
the palm must be given to Dr. Douglas Hyde, whose great knowledge of
Irish, combined with a fine literary faculty, has enabled him to present
the stories he has generously granted me the use of, in a manner which
combines complete fidelity to his original, with true artistic feeling.
Dr. Joyce has not only granted the use of his fine Heroic Tale of the
Pursuit of the Gilla Dacker, but had the honour of supplying Alfred,
Lord Tennyson, the late Poet Laureate, with the subject of his "Voyage
of Maeldune" in a story of that name, adapted into English in his "Old
Celtic Romances." The Laureate acted on my suggestion that he should
found a poem upon one of the romances in that book; and to that
circumstance I owe the kind permission by his son and Messrs. Macmillan
to republish it at length in this volume.
Besides Dr. Hyde and Dr. Joyce I have been enabled, through the friendly
leave of Messrs. Macmillan and Elliot and Stock, to use Mr. Jeremiah
Curtin's and Mr. Larminie's excellently told Irish Fairy Tales. These
two latter Folk Tale collectors have worked upon Dr. Hyde's plan of
taking down their tales from the lips of the peasants, and reproducing
them, whether from their Irish or Hiberno-Irish, as clearly as they were
able to do so. The recent death of both of these writers is a serious
loss to Irish Folk Lore.
Obligations are due to Miss Hull for two hitherto unpublished and fine
Folk Tales, to Lady Gregory for the use of her "Birth of Cuchulain," to
Standish James O'Grady for his "Boyish Exploits of Cuchulain and The
Coming of Finn," to the late Mrs. Ewing for "The Hill-man and the
House-wife," to Mrs. William Allingham for the use of two of her
husband's poems, to Mr. D. J. Donoghue for a poem by Mr. Thomas Boyd,
and Mr. Chesson for one of his wife's (Nora Hopper), to Mrs. Shorter
(Dora Sigerson) for a poem, and to Mr. Joseph Campbell for another, and
finally to Mr. W. B. Yeats for his two charming Fairy Poems, "The Stolen
Child" and "Faery Song."
ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES.
_Erinfa, Harlech, N. Wales,
July 12, 1909._
The Coming of Finn
It was the Eve of Samhain, which we Christians call All Hallows' Eve.
The King of Ireland, Conn, the Hundred-Fighter, sat at supper in his
palace at Tara. All his chiefs and mighty men were with him. On his
right hand was his only son, Art the Solitary, so called because he had
no brothers. The sons of Morna, who kept the boy Finn out of his rights
and were at the time trying to kill him if they could, were here too.
Chief amongst them was Gaul mac Morna, a huge and strong warrior, and
Captain of all the Fians ever since that battle in which Finn's father
had been killed.
And Gaul's men were with him. The great long table was spread for
supper. A thousand wax candles shed their light through the chamber, and
caused the vessels of gold, silver, and bronze to shine. Yet, though it
was a great feast, none of these warriors seemed to care about eating or
drinking; every face was sad, and there was little conversation, and no
music. It seemed as if they were expecting some calamity. Conn's
sceptre, which was a plain staff of silver, lay beside him on the table,
and there was a canopy of bright bronze over his head. Gaul mac Morna,
Captain of the Fians, sat at the other end of the long table. Every
warrior wore a bright banqueting mantle of silk or satin, scarlet or
crimson, blue, green, or purple, fastened on the breast either with a
great brooch or with a pin of gold or silver. Yet, though their raiment
was bright and gay, and though all the usual instruments of festivity
were there, and a thousand tall candles shed their light over the scene,
no one looked happy.
Then was heard a low sound like thunder, and the earth seemed to
tremble, and after that they distinctly heard a footfall like the slow,
deliberate tread of a giant. These footfalls sent a chill into every
heart, and every face, gloomy before, was now pale.
The King leaned past his son Art the Solitary, and said to a certain
Druid who sat beside Art, "Is this the son of Midna come before his
time?" "It is not," said the Druid, "but it is the man who is to conquer
Midna. One is coming to Tara this night before whose glory all other
glory shall wax dim."
Shortly after that they heard the voices of the doorkeepers raised in
contention, as if they would repel from the hall someone who wished to
enter, then a slight scuffle, and after that a strange figure entered
the chamber. He was dressed in the skins of wild beasts, and wore over
his shoulders a huge thick cloak of wild boars' skins, fastened on the
breast with a white tusk of the same animal. He wore a shield and two
spears. Though of huge stature his face was that of a boy, smooth on the
cheeks and lips. It was white and ruddy, and very handsome. His hair was
like refined gold. A light seemed to go out from him, before which the
candles burned dim. It was Finn.
He stood in the doorway, and cried out in a strong and sonorous, but
musical, voice:
"O Conn the Hundred-Fighter, son of Felimy, the righteous son of Tuthal
the legitimate, O King of the Kings of Erin, a wronged and disinherited
youth, possessing nowhere one rood of his patrimony, a wanderer and an
outlaw, a hunter of the wildernesses and mountains, claims hospitality
of thee, illustrious prince, on the eve of the great festival of
Samhain."
"Thou art welcome whoever thou art," answered the King, "and doubly
welcome because thou art unfortunate. I think, such is thy face and
form, that thou art the son of some mighty king on whom disaster has
fallen undeserved. The high gods of Erin grant thee speedy restoration
and strong vengeance of thy many wrongs. Sit here, O noble youth,
between me and my only son, Art, heir to my kingdom."
An attendant took his weapons from the youth and hung them on the wall
with the rest, and Finn sat down between the King of Ireland and his
only son. Choice food was set before him, which he ate, and old ale,
which he drank. From the moment he entered no one thought of anything
but of him. When Finn had made an end of eating and drinking, he said to
the King:
"O illustrious prince, though it is not right for a guest to even seem
to observe aught that may be awry, or not as it should be, in the hall
of his entertainer, yet the sorrow of a kindly host is a sorrow, too, to
his guest, and sometimes unawares the man of the house finds succour and
help in the stranger. There is sorrow in this chamber of festivity. If
anyone who is dear to thee and thy people happens to be dead, I can do
nothing. But I say it, and it is not a vain boast, that even if a person
is at the point of death, I can restore him to life and health, for
there are marvellous powers of life-giving in my two hands."
Conn the Hundred-Fighter answered, "Our grief is not such as you
suppose; and why should I not tell a cause of shame, which is known far
and wide? This, then, is the reason of our being together, and the gloom
which is over us. There is a mighty enchanter whose dwelling is in the
haunted mountains of Slieve Gullion in the north. His name is Allen, son
of Midna, and his enmity to me is as great as his power. Once every
year, at this season, it is his pleasure to burn Tara. Descending out of
his wizard haunts, he standeth over against the city and shoots balls of
fire out of his mouth against it, till it is consumed. Then he goes away
mocking and triumphant. This annual building of Tara, only to be
annually consumed, is a shame to me, and till this enchanter declared
war against me, I have lived without reproach."
"But," said Finn, "how is it that thy young warriors, valiant and swift,
do not repel him, or kill him?"
"Alas!" said Conn, "all our valour is in vain against this man. Our
hosts encompass Tara on all sides, keeping watch and ward when the fatal
night comes. Then the son of Midna plays on his Druidic instrument of
music, on his magic pipe and his magic lyre, and as the fairy music
falls on our ears, our eyelids grow heavy, and soon all subside upon the
grass in deep slumber. So comes this man against the city and shoots his
fire-balls against it, and utterly consumes it. Nine years he has burnt
Tara in that manner, and this is the tenth. At midnight to-night he will
come and do the same. Last year (though it was a shame to me that I, who
am the high King over all Ireland, should not be able myself to defend
Tara) I summoned Gaul mac Morna and all the Fians to my assistance. They
came, but the pipe and lyre of the son of Midna prevailed over them too,
so that Tara was burned as at other times. Nor have we any reason to
believe that the son of Midna will not burn the city again to-night, as
he did last year. All the women and children have been sent out of Tara
this day. We are only men of war here, waiting for the time. That, O
noble youth, is why we are sad. The 'Pillars of Tara' are broken, and
the might of the Fians is as nought before the power of this man."
"What shall be my reward if I kill this man and save Tara?" asked Finn.
"Thy inheritance," answered the King, "be it great or small, and whether
it lies in Ireland or beyond Ireland; and for securities I give you my
son Art and Gaul mac Morna and the Chief of the Fians."
Gaul and the captains of the Fianna consented to that arrangement,
though reluctantly, for their minds misgave them as to who the great
youth might be.
After that all arose and armed themselves and ringed Tara round with
horse and foot, and thrice Conn the Hundred-Fighter raised his awful
regal voice, enjoining vigilance upon his people, and thrice Gaul mac
Morna did the same, addressing the Fians, and after that they filled
their ears with wax and wool, and kept a stern and fierce watch, and
many of them thrust the points of their swords into their flesh.
Now Finn was alone in the banqueting chamber after the rest had gone
out, and he washed his face and his hands in pure water, and he took
from the bag that was at his girdle the instruments of divination and
magic, which had been his father's, and what use he made of them is not
known; but ere long a man stood before him, holding a spear in one hand
and a blue mantle in the other. There were twenty nails of gold of
Arabia in the spear. The nails glittered like stars, and twinkled with
live light as stars do in a frosty night, and the blade of it quivered
like a tongue of white fire. From haft to blade-point that spear was
alive. There were voices in it too, and the war-tunes of the enchanted
races of Erin, whom they called the Tuatha De Danan, sounded from it.
The mantle, too, was a wonder, for innumerable stars twinkled in the
blue, and the likeness of clouds passed through it. The man gave these
things to Finn, and when he had instructed him in their use, he was not
seen.
Then Finn arose and armed himself, and took the magic spear and mantle
and went out. There was a ring of flame round Tara that night, for the
Fians and the warriors of Conn had torches in their hands, and all the
royal buildings of Tara showed clear in the light, and also the dark
serpentine course of the Boyne, which flowed past Tara on the north; and
there, standing silent and alert, were the innumerable warriors of all
Erin, with spear and shield, keeping watch and ward against the son of
Midna, also the Four Pillars of Tara in four dense divisions around the
high King, even Conn the Hundred-Fighter.
Finn stood with his back to the palace, which was called the
House-of-the-going-round-of-Mead, between the palace and Conn, and he
grasped the magic spear strongly with one hand and the mantle with the
other.
As midnight drew nigh, he heard far away in the north, out of the
mountains of Slieve Gullion, a fairy tune played, soft, low, and slow,
as if on a silver flute; and at the same time the roar of Conn the
Hundred-Fighter, and the voice of Gaul like thunder, and the responsive
shouts of the captains, and the clamour of the host, for the host
shouted all together, and clashed their swords against their shields in
fierce defiance, when in spite of all obstructions the fairy music of
the enchanter began to steal into their souls. That shout was heard all
over Ireland, echoing from sea to sea, and the hollow buildings of Tara
reverberated to the uproar. Yet through it all could be heard the low,
slow, delicious music that came from Slieve Gullion. Finn put the point
of the spear to his forehead. It burned him like fire, yet his stout
heart did not fail. Then the roar of the host slowly faded away as in a
dream, though the captains were still shouting, and two-thirds of the
torches fell to the ground. And now, succeeding the flute music,
sounded the music of a stringed instrument exceedingly sweet. Finn
pressed the cruel spear-head closer to his forehead, and saw every torch
fall, save one which wavered as if held by a drunken man, and beneath it
a giant figure that reeled and tottered and strove in vain to keep its
feet. It was Conn the Hundred-Fighter. As he fell there was a roar as of
many waters; it was the ocean mourning for the high King's fall. Finn
passed through the fallen men and stood alone on the dark hill-side. He
heard the feet of the enchanter splashing through the Boyne, and saw his
huge form ascending the slopes of Tara. When the enchanter saw that all
was silent and dark there he laughed and from his mouth blew a red
fire-ball at the Teck-Midcuarta, which he was accustomed first to set in
flames. Finn caught the fire-ball in the magic mantle. The enchanter
blew a second and a third, and Finn caught them both. The man saw that
his power over Tara was at an end, and that his magic arts had been
defeated. On the third occasion he saw Finn's face, and recognised his
conqueror. He turned to flee, and though slow was his coming, swifter
than the wind was his going, that he might recover the protection of his
enchanted palace before the "fair-faced youth clad in skins" should
overtake him. Finn let fall the mantle as he had been instructed, and
pursued him, but in vain. Soon he perceived that he could not possibly
overtake the swift enchanter. Then he was aware that the magic spear
struggled in his hand like a hound in a leash. "Go, then, if thou wilt,"
he said, and, poising, cast the spear from him. It shot through the dark
night hissing and screaming. There was a track of fire behind it. Finn
followed, and on the threshold of the enchanted palace he found the body
of Midna. He was quite dead, with the blood pouring through a wound in
the middle of his back; but the spear was gone. Finn drew his sword and
cut off the enchanter's head, and returned with it to Tara. When he came
to the spot where he had dropped the mantle it was not seen, but smoke
and flame issued there from a hole in the ground. That hole was twenty
feet deep in the earth, and at the bottom of it there was a fire always
from that night, and it was never extinguished. It was called the fire
of the son of Midna. It was in a depression on the north side of the
hill of Tara, called the Glen of the Mantle, Glen-a-Brat.
Finn, bearing the head, passed through the sleepers into the palace and
spiked the head on his own spear, and drove the spear-end into the
ground at Conn's end of the great hall. Then the sickness and faintness
of death came upon Finn, also a great horror and despair overshadowed
him, so that he was about to give himself up for utterly lost. Yet he
recalled one of his marvellous attributes, and approaching a silver
vessel, into which pure water ever flowed and which was always full, he
made a cup with his two hands and, lifting it to his mouth, drank, and
the blood began to circulate in his veins, and strength returned to his
limbs, and the cheerful hue of rosy health to his cheeks.
Having rested himself sufficiently he went forth and shouted to the
sleeping host, and called the captains by their names, beginning with
Conn. They awoke and rose up, though dazed and stupid, for it was
difficult for any man, no matter how he had stopped his ears, to avoid
hearing Finn when he sent forth his voice of power. They were
astonished to find that Tara was still standing, for though the night
was dark, the palaces and temples, all of hewn timber, were brilliantly
coloured and of many hues, for in those days men delighted in splendid
colours.
When the captains came together Finn said, "I have slain Midna." "Where
is his head?" they asked, not because they disbelieved him, but because
the heads of men slain in battle were always brought away for trophies.
"Come and see," answered Finn. Conn and his only son and Gaul mac Morna
followed the young hero into the Teck-Midcuarta, where the spear-long
waxen candles were still burning, and when they saw the head of Midna
impaled there at the end of the hall, the head of the man whom they
believed to be immortal and not to be wounded or conquered, they were
filled with great joy, and praised their deliverer and paid him many
compliments.
"Who art thou, O brave youth?" said Conn. "Surely thou art the son of
some great king or champion, for heroic feats like thine are not
performed by the sons of inconsiderable and unknown men."
Then Finn flung back his cloak of wild boars' skins, and holding his
father's treasure-bag in his hand before them all, cried in a loud
voice:
"I am Finn, the son of Cool, the son of Trenmor, the son of Basna; I am
he whom the sons of Morna have been seeking to destroy from the time
that I was born; and here to-night, O King of the Kings of Erin, I claim
the fulfilment of thy promise, and the restoration of my inheritance,
which is the Fian leadership of Fail." Thereupon Gaul mac Morna put his
right hand into Finn's, and became his man. Then his brothers and his
sons, and the sons of his brothers, did so in succession, and after that
all the chief men of the Fians did the same, and that night Finn was
solemnly and surely installed in the Fian leadership of Erin, and put in
possession of all the woods and forests and waste places, and all the
hills and mountains and promontories, and all the streams and rivers of
Erin, and the harbours and estuaries and the harbour-dues of the
merchants, and all ships and boats and galleys with their mariners, and
all that pertained of old time to the Fian leadership of Fail.
STANDISH JAMES O'GRADY.
The Three Crowns
(_Told in the Wexford Peasant Dialect._)
There was once a king, some place or other, and he had three daughters.
The two eldest were very proud and uncharitable, but the youngest was as
good as they were bad. Well, three princes came to court them, and two
of them were the _moral_ of the two eldest ladies, and one was just as
lovable as the youngest. They were all walking down to a lake one day
that lay at the bottom of the lawn, just like the one at Castleboro',
and they met a poor beggar. The King wouldn't give him anything, and the
eldest princes wouldn't give him anything, nor their sweethearts; but
the youngest daughter and her true love did give him something, and kind
words along with it, and that was better _nor_ all.
When they got to the edge of the lake, what did they find but the
beautifulest boat you ever saw in your life; and says the eldest, "I'll
take a sail in this fine boat;" and says the second eldest, "I'll take a
sail in this fine boat;" and says the youngest, "I won't take a sail in
that fine boat, for I'm afraid it's an enchanted one." But the others
overpersuaded her to go in, and her father was just going in after her,
when up sprung on the deck a little man only seven inches high, and he
ordered him to stand back. Well, all the men put their hands to their
_soords_; and if the same soords were only thraneens they weren't able
to draw them, for all _sthrenth_ was left their arms. _Seven Inches_
loosened the silver chain that fastened the boat and pushed away; and
after grinning at the four men, says he to them: "Bid your daughters and
your brides farewell for awhile. That wouldn't have happened you three,
only for your want of charity. You," says he to the youngest, "needn't
fear; you'll recover your princess all in good time, and you and she
will be as happy as the day is long. Bad people, if they were rolling
stark naked in gold, would not be rich. _Banacht lath!_" Away they
sailed, and the ladies stretched out their hands, but weren't able to
say a word.
Well, they were crossin' the lake while a cat'd be lickin' her ear, and
the poor men couldn't stir hand nor foot to follow them. They saw _Seven
Inches_ handing the three princesses out of the boat, and letting them
down by a nice basket and _winglas_ into a draw-well that was
convenient, but king nor princes never saw an opening before in the same
place. When the last lady was out of sight the men found the strength in
their arms and legs again. Round the lake they ran, and never drew rein
till they came to the well and windlass, and there was the silk rope
rolled on the axle, and the nice white basket hanging to it. "Let me
down," says the youngest prince; "I'll die or recover them again."
"No," says the second daughter's sweetheart, "I'm entitled to my turn
before you." "And," says the other, "I must get first turn, in right of
my bride." So they gave way to him, and in he got into the basket, and
down they let him. First they lost sight of him, and then, after winding
off a hundred perches of the silk rope, it slackened, and they stopped
turning. They waited two hours, and then they went to dinner, because
there was no chuck made at the rope.
Guards were set till morning, and then down went the second prince, and,
sure enough, the youngest of all got himself let down on the third day.
He went down perches and perches, while it was as dark about him as if
he was in a big pot with the cover on. At last he saw a glimmer far
down, and in a short time he felt the ground. Out he came from the big
lime-kiln, and lo and behold you, there was a wood and green fields, and
a castle in a lawn, and a bright sky over all. "It's in Tir-na-n Oge I
am," says he. "Let's see what sort of people are in the castle." On he
walked across fields and lawn, and no one was there to keep him out or
let him into the castle; but the big hall door was wide open. He went
from one fine room to another that was finer, and at last he reached the
handsomest of all, with a table in the middle; and such a dinner as was
laid upon it! The prince was hungry enough, but he was too mannerly to
go eat without being invited. So he sat by the fire, and he did not wait
long till he heard steps, and in came _Seven Inches_ and the youngest
sister by the hand. Well, prince and princess flew into one another's
arms, and says the little man, says he, "Why aren't you eating?" "I
think, sir," says he, "it was only good manners to wait to be asked."
"The other princes didn't think so," says he. "Each of them fell to
without leave nor license, and only gave me the rough side o' his tongue
when I told them they were making more free than welcome. Well, I don't
think they feel much hunger now. There they are, good _marvel_ instead
of flesh and blood," says he, pointing to two statues, one in one corner
and the other in the other corner of the room. The prince was
frightened, but he was afraid to say anything, and _Seven Inches_ made
him sit down to dinner between himself and his bride, and he'd be as
happy as the day is long, only for the sight of the stone men in the
corner. Well, that day went by, and when the next came, says _Seven
Inches_ to him, "Now, you'll have to set out that way," pointing to the
sun, "and you'll find the second princess in a giant's castle this
evening, when you'll be tired and hungry, and the eldest princess
to-morrow evening; and you may as well bring them here with you. You
need not ask leave of their masters; they're only housekeepers with the
big fellows. I suppose, if they ever get home, they'll look on poor
people as if they were flesh and blood like themselves."
Away went the prince, and bedad it's tired and hungry he was when he
reached the first castle at sunset. Oh, wasn't the second princess glad
to see him! And if she didn't give him a good supper it's a wonder. But
she heard the giant at the gate, and she hid the prince in a closet.
Well, when he came in, he snuffed, and he snuffed, an' says he, "_Be_
(by) the life, I smell fresh mate." "Oh," says the princess, "it's only
the calf I got killed to-day." "Ay, ay," says he, "is supper ready?"
"It is," says she; and before he ruz from the table he hid
three-quarters of the calf and a kag of wine. "I think," says he, when
all was done, "I smell fresh mate still." "It's sleepy you are," says
she; "go to bed." "When will you marry me?" says the giant; "you're
puttin' me off too long." "St. Tibb's Eve," says she. "I wish I knew how
far off that is," says he; and he fell asleep with his head in the dish.
Next day he went out after breakfast, and she sent the prince to the
castle where the eldest sister was. The same thing happened there; but
when the giant was snoring, the princess wakened up the prince, and they
saddled two steeds in the stables, and _magh go bragh_ (the field for
ever) with them. But the horses' heels struck the stones outside the
gate, and up got the giant, and after them he made. He roared, and he
shouted, and the more he shouted the faster ran the horses; and just as
the day was breaking he was only twenty perches behind. But the prince
didn't leave the Castle of _Seven Inches_ without being provided with
something good. He reined in his steed, and flung a short, sharp knife
over his shoulder, and up sprung a thick wood between the giant and
themselves. They caught the wind that blew before them, and the wind
that blew behind them did not catch them. At last they were near the
castle where the other sister lived; and there she was, waiting for them
under a high hedge, and a fine steed under her.
But the giant was now in sight, roaring like a hundred lions, and the
other giant was out in a moment, and the chase kept on. For every two
springs the horses gave the giants gave three, and at last they were
only seventy perches off. Then the prince stopped again and flung the
second skian behind him. Down went all the flat field, till there was a
quarry between them a quarter of a mile deep, and the bottom filled with
black water; and before the giants could get round it the prince and
princesses were inside the domain of the great magician, where the high
thorny hedge opened of itself to everyone that he chose to let in.
Well, to be sure, there was joy enough between the three sisters till
the two eldest saw their lovers turned into stone. But while they were
shedding tears for them _Seven Inches_ came in and touched them with his
rod. So they were flesh and blood and life once more, and there was
great hugging and kissing, and all sat down to a nice breakfast, and
_Seven Inches_ sat at the head of the table.
When breakfast was over he took them into another room, where there was
nothing but heaps of gold and silver and diamonds, and silks and satins;
and on a table there was lying three sets of crowns: a gold crown was in
a silver crown, and that was lying in a copper crown. He took up one set
of crowns and gave it to the eldest princess; and another set, and gave
it to the second princess; and another set, and gave it to the youngest
princess of all; and says he, "Now you may all go to the bottom of the
pit, and you have nothing to do but stir the basket, and the people that
are watching above will draw you up, princesses first, princes after.
But remember, ladies, you are to keep your crowns safe, and be married
in them all the same day. If you be married separately, or if you be
married without your crowns, a curse will follow--mind what I say."
So they took leave of him with great respect, and walked arm-in-arm to
the bottom of the draw-well. There was a sky and a sun over them and a
great high wall, and the bottom of the draw-well was inside the arch.
The youngest pair went last, and says the princess to the prince, "I'm
sure the two princes don't mean any good to you. Keep these crowns under
your cloak, and if you are obliged to stay last, don't get into the
basket, but put a big stone, or any heavy thing, inside, and see what
will happen."
So when they were inside the dark cave they put in the eldest princess
first, and she stirred the basket and up she went, but first she gave a
little scream. Then the basket was let down again, and up went the
second princess, and then up went the youngest; but first she put her
arms round her prince's neck and kissed him, and cried a little. At last
it came to the turn of the youngest prince, and well became him--instead
of going into the basket he put in a big stone. He drew on one side and
listened, and after the basket was drawn up about twenty perch down came
itself and the stone like thunder, and the stone was made _brishe_ of on
the flags.
Well, my poor prince had nothing for it but to walk back to the castle;
and through it and round it he walked, and the finest of eating and
drinking he got, and a bed of bog-down to sleep on, and fine walks he
took through gardens and lawns, but not a sight could he get, high or
low, of _Seven Inches_. Well, I don't think any of _us_ would be tired
of this way of living for ever! Maybe we would. Anyhow, the prince got
tired of it before a week, he was so lonesome for his true love; and at
the end of a month he didn't know what to do with himself.
One morning he went into the treasure room and took notice of a
beautiful snuff-box on the table that he didn't remember seeing there
before. He took it in his hands and opened it, and out _Seven Inches_
walked on the table. "I think, prince," says he, "you're getting a
little tired of my castle?" "Ah!" says the other, "if I had my princess
here, and could see you now and then, I'd never see a dismal day."
"Well, you're long enough here now, and you're wanting there above. Keep
your bride's crowns safe, and whenever you want my help open this
snuff-box. Now take a walk down the garden, and come back when you're
tired."
Well, the prince was going down a gravel walk with a quick-set hedge on
each side and his eyes on the ground, and he thinking on one thing and
another. At last he lifted his eyes, and there he was outside of a
smith's bawn gate that he had often passed before, about a mile away
from the palace of his betrothed princess. The clothes he had on him
were as ragged as you please, but he had his crowns safe under his old
cloak.
So the smith came out, and says he, "It's a shame for a strong big
fellow like you to be on the _sthra_, and so much work to be done. Are
you any good with hammer and tongs? Come in and bear a hand, and I'll
give you diet and lodging and a few thirteens when you earn them." "Never
say't twice," says the prince; "I want nothing but to be employed." So
he took the sledge and pounded away at the red-hot bar that the smith
was turning on the anvil to make into a set of horse-shoes.
Well, they weren't long powdhering away, when a _stronshuch_ (idler) of
a tailor came in; and when the smith asked him what news he had, he got
the handle of the bellows and began to blow to let out all he had heard
for the last two days. There were so many questions and answers at first
that, if I told them all, it would be bed-time before I'd be done. So
here is the substance of the discourse; and before he got far into it
the forge was half filled with women knitting stockings and men smoking.
Yous all heard how the two princesses were unwilling to be married till
the youngest would be ready with her crowns and her sweetheart. But
after the windlass loosened _accidentally_ when they were pulling up her
bridegroom that was to be, there was no more sign of a well or a rope or
a windlass than there is on the palm of your hand. So the buckeens that
were coortin' the eldest ladies wouldn't give peace nor ease to their
lovers nor the King till they got consent to the marriage, and it was to
take place this morning. Myself went down out of curiosity; and to be
sure I was delighted with the grand dresses of the two brides and the
three crowns on their heads--gold, silver, and copper--one inside the
other. The youngest was standing by, mournful enough, in white, and all
was ready. The two bridegrooms came walking in as proud and grand as you
please, and up they were walking to the altar rails when, my dear, the
boards opened two yards wide under their feet, and down they went among
the dead men and the coffins in the vaults. Oh, such screeching as the
ladies gave! and such running and racing and peeping down as there was;
but the clerk soon opened the door of the vault, and up came the two
heroes, and their fine clothes covered an inch thick with cobwebs and
mould.
So the King said they should put off the marriage, "For," says he, "I
see there is no use in thinking of it till my youngest gets her three
crowns and is married along with the others. I'll give my youngest
daughter for a wife to whoever brings three crowns to me like the
others; and if he doesn't care to be married, some other one will, and
I'll make his fortune." "I wish," says the smith, "I could do it; but I
was looking at the crowns after the princesses got home, and I don't
think there's a black or a white smith on the face of the earth could
imitate them." "Faint heart never won fair lady," says the prince. "Go
to the palace, and ask for a quarter of a pound of gold, a quarter of a
pound of silver, and a quarter of a pound of copper. Get one crown for a
pattern, and my head for a pledge, and I'll give you out the very things
that are wanted in the morning." "Ubbabow," says the smith, "are you in
earnest?" "Faith, I am so," says he. "Go! Worse than lose you can't."
To make a long story short, the smith got the quarter of a pound of
gold, and the quarter of a pound of silver, and the quarter of a pound
of copper, and gave them and the pattern crown to the prince. He shut
the forge door at nightfall, and the neighbours all gathered in the
bawn, and they heard him hammering, hammering, hammering, from that to
daybreak, and every now and then he'd pitch out through the window bits
of gold, silver, or copper; and the idlers scrambled for them, and
cursed one another, and prayed for the good luck of the workman.
Well, just as the sun was thinking to rise he opened the door and
brought the three crowns he got from his true love, and such shouting
and huzzaing as there was! The smith asked him to go along with him to
the palace, but he refused; so off set the smith, and the whole townland
with him; and wasn't the King rejoiced when he saw the crowns! "Well,"
says he to the smith, "you're a married man, and what's to be done?"
"Faith, your majesty, I didn't make them crowns at all; it was a big
shuler (vagrant) of a fellow that took employment with me yesterday."
"Well, daughter, will you marry the fellow that made these crowns?" "Let
me see them first, father." So when she examined them she knew them
right well, and guessed it was her true love that had sent them. "I will
marry the man that these crowns came from," says she.