ran from my eyes. O Patrick! thou wouldst have pitied her tearing the
hair off the golden head. She put me under strict injunctions to go and
come without touching the lea, and said to me, by virtue of their power,
if I broke them that I'd never return safe. I promised her each thing,
without a lie, that I would fulfil what she said to me. I went on the
back of the white steed and bade farewell to the people of the fortress.
I kissed my gentle consort, and sorrowful was I in parting from her; my
two sons and my young daughter were under grief, shedding tears. I
prepared myself for travelling, and I turned my back on the "Land of
Youth." The steed ran swiftly under me, as he had done with me and
"Golden-headed Niamh."
On my coming, then, into the country, I looked closely in every
direction. I thought then, in truth, that the tidings of Fionn were not
to be found. 'Twas not long for me, nor tedious, till I saw from the
west approaching me a great troop of mounted men and women, and they
came into my presence. They saluted me kindly and courteously, and
surprise seized every one of them on seeing the bulk of my own person,
my form, my appearance, and my countenance. I myself asked then of them,
did they hear if Fionn was alive, or did anyone else of the Fianna live,
or what disaster had swept them away?
"We have heard tell of Fionn, for strength, for activity, and for
prowess, that there never was an equal for him in person, in character,
and in mien. There is many a book written down by the melodious sweet
sages of the Gaels which we, in truth, are unable to relate to thee, of
the deeds of Fionn and of the Fianna. We heard that Fionn had a son of
brightest beauty and form; that there came a young maiden for him, and
that he went with her to the 'Land of Youth.'"
When I myself heard that announcement that Fionn did not live, or any of
the Fianna, I was seized with weariness and great sorrow, and I was full
of melancholy after them! I did not stop on my course, quick and smart
without any delay, till I set my face straightforward to Almhuin of
great exploits in broad Leinster. Great was my surprise there that I did
not see the court of Fionn of the hosts; there was not in its place, in
truth, but weeds, chick-weeds, and nettles. Alas, O Patrick! and alas,
my grief! A miserable journey it was to me, without the tidings of Fionn
or the Fianna; it left me through life under pain. After I left Almhuin
of Leinster, there was not a residence where the Fianna had been, but I
searched accurately without any delay. On my passing through the Glen of
the Thrushes I saw a great assembly there, three hundred men and more
were before me in the glen. One of the assembly spoke, and he said with
a loud voice, "Come to our relief, O kingly champion, and deliver us
from difficulty!"
I then came forward, and the host had a large flag of marble; the weight
of the flag was down on them, and to uphold it they were unable! Those
that were under the flag below were being oppressed, weakly; by the
weight of the great load many of them lost their senses. One of the
stewards spoke and said, "O princely young hero, forthwith relieve my
host, or not one of them will be alive!" 'Tis a shameful deed that it
should now be said, and the number of men that is there, that the
strength of the host is unable to lift the flag with great power. If
Oscur, the son of Oisin, lived, he would take this flag in his right
hand; he would fling it in a throw over the host. It is not my custom to
speak falsehood.
I lay upon my right breast and I took the flag in my hand; with the
strength and activity of my limbs I sent it seven perches from its
place! With the force of the very large flag the golden girth broke on
the white steed; I came down full suddenly on the soles of my two feet
on the lea. No sooner did I come down than the white steed took fright.
He went then on his way, and I stood in sorrow, both weak and feeble. I
lost the sight of my eyes, my form, my countenance, and my vigour; I was
an old man, poor and blind, without strength, understanding, or esteem.
Patrick! there is to thee my story, as it occurred to myself, without a
lie, my going and my adventures in certain, and my returning from the
"Land of Youth."
_From "Ossianic Poems."_
_Edited by_ JOHN O'DALY.
Adventures of Gilla na Chreck an Gour
_(Told in the Wexford Peasant Dialect.)_
Long ago a poor widow woman lived down by the iron forge near
Enniscorthy, and she was so poor, she had no clothes to put on her son;
so she used to fix him in the ash-hole, near the fire, and pile the warm
ashes about him; and, accordingly, as he grew up, she sunk the pit
deeper. At last, by hook or by crook, she got a goat-skin, and fastened
it round his waist, and he felt quite grand, and took a walk down the
street. So says she to him next morning, "Tom, you thief, you never done
any good yet, and six-foot high, and past nineteen: take that rope and
bring me a _bresna_ from the wood." "Never say't twice, mother," says
Tom; "here goes."
When he had it gathered and tied, what should come up but a big
_joiant_, nine-foot high, and made a lick of a club at him. Well become
Tom, he jumped a-one side and picked up a ram-pike; and the first crack
he gave the big fellow he made him kiss the clod. "If you have e'er a
prayer," says Tom, "now's the time to say it, before I make _brishe_ of
you." "I have no prayers," says the giant, "but if you spare my life
I'll give you that club; and as long as you keep from sin you'll win
every battle you ever fight with it."
Tom made no bones about letting him off; and as soon as he got the club
in his hands he sat down on the bresna and gave it a tap with the
kippeen, and says, "Bresna, I had a great trouble gathering you, and run
the risk of my life for you; the least you can do is to carry me home."
And, sure enough, the wind of the word was all it wanted. It went off
through the wood, groaning and cracking till it came to the widow's
door.
Well, when the sticks were all burned Tom was sent off again to pick
more; and this time he had to fight with a giant with two heads on him.
Tom had a little more trouble with him--that's all; and the prayers _he_
said was to give Tom a fife that nobody could help dancing when he was
playing it. _Begonies_, he made the big faggot dance home, with himself
sitting on it. Well, if you were to count all the steps from this to
Dublin, dickens a bit you'd ever arrive there. The next giant was a
beautiful boy with three heads on him. He had neither prayers nor
catechism no more _nor_ the others; and so he gave Tom a bottle of green
ointment that wouldn't let you be burned, nor scalded, nor wounded. "And
now," says he, "there's no more of us. You may come and gather sticks
here till little _Lunacy Day_ in harvest without giant or fairy man to
disturb you."
Well, now, Tom was prouder nor ten paycocks, and used to take a walk
down street in the heel of the evening; but some of the little boys had
no more manners nor if they were Dublin jackeens, and put out their
tongues at Tom's club and Tom's goat-skin. He didn't like that at all,
and it would be mean to give one of them a clout. At last, what should
come through the town but a kind of bellman, only it's a big bugle he
had, and a huntsman's cap on his head, and a kind of painted shirt. So
this--he wasn't a bellman, and I don't know what to call him--bugleman,
maybe--proclaimed that the King of Dublin's daughter was so melancholy
that she didn't give a laugh for seven years, and that her father would
grant her in marriage to whoever would make her laugh three times.
"That's the very thing for me to try," says Tom; and so, without burning
any more daylight, he kissed his mother, curled his club at the little
boys, and he set off along the yalla highroad to the town of Dublin.
At last Tom came to one of the city gates, and the guards laughed and
cursed at him instead of letting him through. Tom stood it all for a
little time, but at last one of them--out of fun, as he said--drove his
_bagnet_ half an inch or so into his side. Tom did nothing but take the
fellow by the scruff of his neck and the waistband of his corduroys and
fling him into the canal. Some ran to pull the fellow out, and others to
let manners into the vulgarian with their swords and daggers; but a tap
from his club sent them headlong into the moat or down on the stones,
and they were soon begging him to stay his hands.
So at last one of them was glad enough to show Tom the way to the palace
yard; and there was the King and the Queen, and the princess in a
gallery, looking at all sorts of wrestling and sword-playing, and
_rinka-fadhas_ (long dances) and mumming, all to please the princess;
but not a smile came over her handsome face.
Well, they all stopped when they seen the young giant, with his boy's
face and long black hair, and his short curly beard--for his poor mother
couldn't afford to buy _razhurs_--and his great strong arms and bare
legs, and no covering but the goat-skin that reached from his waist to
his knees. But an envious wizened _basthard_ of a fellow, with a red
head, that wished to be married to the princess, and didn't like how she
opened her eyes at Tom, came forward, and asked his business very
snappishly. "My business," says Tom, says he, "is to make the beautiful
princess, God bless her, laugh three times." "Do you see all them merry
fellows and skilful swordsmen," says the other, "that could eat you up
with a grain of salt, and not a mother's soul of 'em ever got a laugh
from her these seven years?" So the fellows gathered round Tom, and the
bad man aggravated him till he told them he didn't care a pinch of snuff
for the whole bilin' of 'em; let 'em come on, six at a time, and try
what they could do. The King, that was too far off to hear what they
were saying, asked what did the stranger want. "He wants," says the
red-headed fellow, "to make hares of your best men." "Oh!" says the
King, "if that's the way, let one of 'em turn out and try his mettle."
So one stood forward, with _soord_ and pot-lid, and made a cut at Tom.
He struck the fellow's elbow with the club, and up over their heads flew
the sword, and down went the owner of it on the gravel from a thump he
got on the helmet. Another took his place, and another, and another, and
then half a dozen at once, and Tom sent swords, helmets, shields, and
bodies rolling over and over, and themselves bawling out that they were
kilt, and disabled, and damaged, and rubbing their poor elbows and hips,
and limping away. Tom contrived not to kill anyone; and the princess was
so amused that she let a great sweet laugh out of her that was heard all
over the yard. "King of Dublin," says Tom, "I've quarter of your
daughter." And the King didn't know whether he was glad or sorry, and
all the blood in the princess's heart run into her cheeks.
So there was no more fighting that day, and Tom was invited to dine with
the royal family. Next day Redhead told Tom of a wolf, the size of a
yearling heifer, that used to be _serenading_ (sauntering) about the
walls, and eating people and cattle; and said what a pleasure it would
give the King to have it killed. "With all my heart," says Tom. "Send a
jackeen to show me where he lives, and we'll see how he behaves to a
stranger." The princess was not well pleased, for Tom looked a different
person with fine clothes and a nice green _birredh_ over his long, curly
hair; and besides, he'd got one laugh out of her. However, the King gave
his consent; and in an hour and a half the horrible wolf was walking in
the palace yard, and Tom a step or two behind, with his club on his
shoulder, just as a shepherd would be walking after a pet lamb. The King
and Queen and princess were safe up in their gallery, but the officers
and people of the court that were _padrowling_ about the great bawn,
when they saw the big baste coming in gave themselves up, and began to
make for doors and gates; and the wolf licked his chops, as if he was
saying, "Wouldn't I enjoy a breakfast off a couple of yez!" The King
shouted out, "O Gilla na Chreck an Gour, take away that terrible wolf,
and you must have all my daughter." But Tom didn't mind him a bit. He
pulled out his flute and began to play like vengeance; and dickens a man
or boy in the yard but began shovelling away heel and toe, and the wolf
himself was obliged to get on his hind legs and dance _Tatther Jack
Walsh_ along with the rest. A good deal of the people got inside and
shut the doors, the way the hairy fellow wouldn't pin them; but Tom kept
playing, and the outsiders kept shouting and dancing, and the wolf kept
dancing and roaring with the pain his legs were giving him: and all the
time he had his eyes on Redhead, who was shut out along with the rest.
Wherever Redhead went the wolf followed, and kept one eye on him and the
other on Tom, to see if he would give him leave to eat him. But Tom
shook his head, and never stopped the tune, and Redhead never stopped
dancing and bawling and the wolf dancing and roaring, one leg up and the
other down, and he ready to drop out of his standing from fair
tiresomeness.
When the princess seen that there was no fear of anyone being kilt she
was so divarted by the stew that Redhead was in that she gave another
great laugh; and well become Tom, out he cried, "King of Dublin, I have
two quarters of your daughter." "Oh, quarters or alls," says the King,
"put away that divel of a wolf and we'll see about it." So Gilla put his
flute in his pocket, and says he to the baste that was sittin' on his
currabingo ready to faint, "Walk off to your mountains, my fine
fellow, and live like a respectable baste; and if ever I find you come
within seven miles of any town----" He said no more, but spit in his
fist, and gave a flourish of his club. It was all the poor divel wanted:
he put his tail between his legs and took to his pumps without looking
at man nor mortial, and neither sun, moon, nor stars ever saw him in
sight of Dublin again.
At dinner everyone laughed but the foxy fellow; and, sure enough, he was
laying out how he'd settle poor Tom next day. "Well, to be sure!" says
he, "King of Dublin, you are in luck. There's the Danes moidhering us to
no end. D---- run to Lusk wid 'em! and if anyone can save us from 'em it
is this gentleman with the goat-skin. There is a flail hangin' on the
collar-beam in Hell, and neither Dane nor Devil can stand before it."
"So," says Tom to the King, "will you let me have the other half of the
princess if I bring you the flail?" "No, no," says the princess, "I'd
rather never be your wife than see you in that danger."
But Redhead whispered and nudged Tom about how shabby it would look to
reneague the adventure. So he asked him which way he was to go, and
Redhead directed him through a street where a great many bad women
lived, and a great many shibbeen houses were open, and away he set.
Well, he travelled and travelled till he came in sight of the walls of
Hell; and, bedad, before he knocked at the gates, he rubbed himself over
with the greenish ointment. When he knocked a hundred little imps popped
their heads out through the bars, and axed him what he wanted. "I want
to speak to the big divel of all," says Tom: "open the gate."
It wasn't long till the gate was _thrune_ open, and the Ould Boy
received Tom with bows and scrapes, and axed his business. "My business
isn't much," says Tom. "I only came for the loan of that flail that I
see hanging on the collar-beam for the King of Dublin to give a
thrashing to the Danes." "Well," says the other, "the Danes is much
better customers to me; but, since you walked so far, I won't refuse.
Hand that flail," says he to a young imp; and he winked the far-off eye
at the same time. So while some were barring the gates, the young devil
climbed up and took down the iron flail that had the handstaff and
booltheen both made out of red-hot iron. The little vagabond was
grinning to think how it would burn the hands off of Tom, but the
dickens a burn it made on him, no more nor if it was a good oak sapling.
"Thankee," says Tom; "now would you open the gate for a body and I'll
give you no more trouble." "Oh, tramp!" says Ould Nick, "is that the way?
It is easier getting inside them gates than getting out again. Take that
tool from him, and give him a dose of the oil of stirrup." So one fellow
put out his claws to seize on the flail, but Tom gave him such a welt of
it on the side of his head that he broke off one of his horns, and made
him roar like a divel as he was. Well, they rushed at Tom, but he gave
them, little and big, such a thrashing as they didn't forget for a
while. At last says the ould thief of all, rubbing his elbows, "Let the
fool out; and woe to whoever lets him in again, great or small."
So out marched Tom and away with him, without minding the shouting and
cursing they kept up at him from the tops of the walls. And when he got
home to the big bawn of the palace, there never was such running and
racing as to see himself and the flail. When he had his story told he
laid down the flail on the stone steps, and bid no one for their lives
to touch it. If the King and Queen and princess made much of him before
they made ten times as much of him now; but Redhead, the mean
scruff-hound, stole over, and thought to catch hold of the flail to make
an end of him. His fingers hardly touched it, when he let a roar out of
him as if heaven and earth were coming together, and kept flinging his
arms about and dancing that it was pitiful to look at him. Tom run at
him as soon as he could rise, caught his hands in his own two, and
rubbed them this way and that, and the burning pain left them before you
could reckon one. Well, the poor fellow, between the pain that was only
just gone, and the comfort he was in, had the comicalest face that ever
you see; it was such a mixerum-gatherum of laughing and crying. Everyone
burst out a laughing--the princess could not stop no more than the
rest--and then says Gilla, or Tom, "Now, ma'am, if there were fifty
halves of you I hope you'll give me them all." Well, the princess had no
mock modesty about her. She looked at her father, and, by my word, she
came over to Gilla and put her two delicate hands into his two rough
ones, and I wish it was myself was in his shoes that day!
Tom would not bring the flail into the palace. You may be sure no other
body went near it; and when the early risers were passing next morning
they found two long clefts in the stone where it was, after burning
itself an opening downwards, nobody could tell how far. But a messenger
came in at noon and said that the Danes were so frightened when they
heard of the flail coming into Dublin that they got into their ships and
sailed away.
Well, I suppose before they were married Gilla got some man like Pat
Mara of Tomenine to larn him the "principles of politeness," fluxions,
gunnery, and fortifications, decimal fractions, practice, and the
rule-of-three direct, the way he'd be able to keep up a conversation
with the royal family. Whether he ever lost his time larning them
sciences, I'm not sure, but it's as sure as fate that his mother never
more saw any want till the end of her days.
PATRICK KENNEDY.
The Hill-man and the House-wife
It is well known that the good people cannot stand mean ways. Now, there
once lived a house-wife who had a sharp eye to her own good in this
world, and gave alms of what she had no use, for the good of her soul.
One day a hill-man knocked at her door. "Can you lend us a saucepan,
good mother?" said he. "There's a wedding in the hill, and all the pots
are in use." "Is he to have one?" asked the servant girl who opened the
door. "Ay, to be sure," said the house-wife.
But when the maid was taking a saucepan from the shelf, she pinched her
arm and whispered sharply, "Not that, you stupid; get the old one out of
the cupboard. It leaks, and the hill-men are so neat and such nimble
workers that they are sure to mend it before they send it home. So one
does a good turn to the good people and saves sixpence from the tinker."
The maid fetched the saucepan, which had been laid by till the tinker's
next visit, and gave it to the dwarf, who thanked her and went away.
The saucepan was soon returned neatly mended and ready for use. At
supper time the maid filled the pan with milk and set it on the fire for
the children's supper, but in a few minutes the milk was so burnt and
smoked that no one could touch it, and even the pigs would not drink the
wash into which it was thrown.
"Ah, you good-for-nothing slut!" cried the house-wife, as she this time
filled the pan herself. "You would ruin the richest, with your careless
ways; there's a whole quart of good milk spoilt at once." "And that's
twopence," cried a voice from the chimney, a queer whining voice like
some old body who was always grumbling over something.
The house-wife had not left the saucepan for two minutes when the milk
boiled over, and it was all burnt and smoked as before. "The pan must be
dirty," cried the house-wife in a rage; "and there are two full quarts
of milk as good as thrown to the dogs." "_And that's fourpence_," said
the voice in the chimney.
After a long scrubbing the saucepan was once more filled and set on the
fire, but it was not the least use, the milk was burnt and smoked again,
and the house-wife burst into tears at the waste, crying out, "Never
before did such a thing happen to me since I kept house! Three quarts of
milk burnt for one meal!" "_And that's sixpence,_" cried the voice from
the chimney. "You didn't save the tinker after all," with which the
hill-man himself came tumbling down the chimney, and went off laughing
through the door. But from that time the saucepan was as good as any
other.
JULIANA HORATIA EWING.
The Giant Walker
Now, all the night around their echoing camp
Was heard continuous from the hills a sound as of the tramp
Of giant footsteps; but, so thick the white mist lay around,
None saw the Walker, save the King. He, starting at the sound,
Called to his foot his fierce red hound; athwart his shoulders cast
A shaggy mantle, grasped his spear, and through the moonlight passed
Alone up dark Ben-Boli's heights, towards which, above the woods,
With sound as when at close of eve the noise of falling floods
Is borne to shepherd's ear remote on stilly upland lawn,
The steps along the mountain-side with hollow fall came on.
Fast beat the hero's heart; and close down-crouching by his knee
Trembled the hound, while, through the haze, huge as through mists at
sea,
The week-long sleepless mariner descries some mountain cape,
Wreck-infamous, rise on his lee, appeared a monstrous Shape,
Striding impatient, like a man much grieved, who walks alone,
Considering of a cruel wrong; down from his shoulders thrown
A mantle, skirted stiff with soil splashed from the miry ground,
At every stride against his calves struck with as loud rebound
As makes the main-sail of a ship brought up along the blast,
When with the coil of all its ropes it beats the sounding mast.
So, striding vast, the giant passed; the King held fast his breath--
Motionless, save his throbbing heart; and chill and still as death
Stood listening while, a second time, the giant took the round
Of all the camp; but, when at length, for the third time, the sound
Came up, and through the parting haze a third time huge and dim
Rose out the Shape, the valiant hound sprang forth and challenged him.
And forth, disdaining that a dog should put him so to shame,
Sprang Congal, and essayed to speak: "Dread Shadow, stand! Proclaim
What wouldst thou that thou thus all night around my camp shouldst keep
Thy troublous vigil banishing the wholesome gift of sleep
From all our eyes, who, though inured to dreadful sounds and sights
By land and sea, have never yet, in all our perilous nights,
Lain in the ward of such a guard."
The Shape made answer none,
But with stern wafture of its hand went angrier striding on,
Shaking the earth with heavier steps. Then Congal on his track
Sprang fearless.
"Answer me, thou churl!" he cried, "I bid thee back!"
But while he spoke, the giant's cloak around his shoulders grew
Like to a black-bulged thunder-cloud, and sudden, out there flew
From all its angry swelling folds, with uproar unconfined,
Direct against the King's pursuit, a mighty blast of wind.
Loud flapped the mantle, tempest-lined, while, fluttering down the gale,
As leaves in autumn, man and hound were swept into the vale;
And, heard o'er all the huge uproar, through startled Dalaray
The giant went, with stamp and clash, departing south away.
SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON.
The Pursuit of the Gilla Dacker