wedding. Lawn Dyarrig put what dinner was on the first table into the
weaver's bag, and sent the old man home with it. The food of the second
table he put in the eldest son's bag, filled the second son's bag from
the third table, and sent the two home.
The complaint went to Ur that an impudent stranger was taking all the
food.
"It is not right to turn any man away," said the bridegroom, "but if
that stranger does not mind he will be thrown out of the castle."
"Let me look at the face of the disturber," said the bride.
"Go and bring the fellow who is troubling the guests," said Ur to the
servants.
Lawn Dyarrig was brought right away, and stood before the bride, who
filled a glass with wine and gave it to him. Lawn Dyarrig drank half the
wine, and dropped in the ring which the lady had given him in Terrible
Valley.
When the bride took the glass again the ring went of itself with one
leap on to her finger. She knew then who was standing before her.
"This is the man who conquered the Green Knight and saved me from
Terrible Valley," said she to the King of Erin; "this is Lawn Dyarrig,
your son."
Lawn Dyarrig took out the three teeth and put them in his father's
mouth. They fitted there perfectly, and grew into their old place. The
King was satisfied, and as the lady would marry no man but Lawn Dyarrig,
he was the bridegroom.
"I must give you a present," said the bride to the Queen. "Here is a
beautiful scarf which you are to wear as a girdle this evening."
The Queen put the scarf round her waist.
"Tell me now," said the bride to the Queen, "who was Ur's father."
"What father could he have but his own father, the King of Erin?"
"Tighten, scarf," said the bride.
That moment the Queen thought that her head was in the sky and the lower
half of her body down deep in the earth.
"Oh, my grief and my woe!" cried the Queen.
"Answer my question in truth, and the scarf will stop squeezing you. Who
was Ur's father?"
"The gardener," said the Queen.
"Whose son is Arthur?"
"The King's son."
"Tighten, scarf," said the bride.
If the Queen suffered before, she suffered twice as much this time, and
screamed for help.
"Answer me truly, and you'll be without pain; if not, death will be on
you this minute. Whose son is Arthur?"
"The swineherd's."
"Who is the King's son?"
"The King has no son but Lawn Dyarrig."
"Tighten, scarf."
The scarf did not tighten, and if the Queen had been commanding it a day
and a year it would not have tightened, for the Queen told the truth
that time. When the wedding was over, the King gave Lawn Dyarrig half
his kingdom, and made Ur and Arthur his servants.
JEREMIAH CURTIN.
The Horned Women
A rich woman sat up late one night carding and preparing wool while all
the family and servants were asleep. Suddenly a knock was given at the
door, and a voice called out, "Open! Open!"
"Who is there?" said the woman of the house.
"I am the Witch of the One Horn," was answered.
The mistress, supposing that one of her neighbours had called and
required assistance, opened the door, and a woman entered, having in her
hand a pair of wool carders, and bearing a horn on her forehead, as if
growing there. She sat down by the fire in silence, and began to card
the wool with violent haste. Suddenly she paused, and said aloud, "Where
are the women; they delay too long?"
Then a second knock came to the door, and a voice called as before,
"Open! Open!"
The mistress felt herself constrained to rise and open to the call, and
immediately a second witch entered, having two horns on her forehead,
and in her hand a wheel for spinning wool.
"Give me place," she said; "I am the Witch of the Two Horns"; and she
began to spin as quick as lightning.
And so the knocks went on, and the call was heard and the witches
entered, until at last twelve women sat round the fire--the first with
one horn, the last with twelve horns.
And they carded the thread and turned their spinning-wheels, and wound
and wove.
All singing together an ancient rhyme, but no word did they speak to the
mistress of the house. Strange to hear and frightful to look upon were
these twelve women, with their horns and their wheels; and the mistress
felt near to death, and she tried to rise that she might call for help,
but she could not move, nor could she utter a word or a cry, for the
spell of the witches was upon her.
Then one of them called to her in Irish, and said, "Rise, woman, and
make us a cake." Then the mistress searched for a vessel to bring water
from the well that she might mix the meal and make the cake, but she
could find none.
And they said to her, "Take a sieve, and bring water in it." And she
took the sieve, and went to the well; but the water poured from it, and
she could fetch none for the cake, and she sat down by the well and
wept.
Then came a voice by her, and said, "Take yellow clay and moss and bind
them together, and plaster the sieve so that it will hold."
This she did, and the sieve held the water for the cake; and the voice
said again:
"Return, and when thou comest to the north angle of the house cry aloud
three times, and say, 'The mountain of the Fenian women and the sky over
it is all on fire.'"
And she did so.
When the witches inside heard the call, a great and terrible cry broke
from their lips, and they rushed forth with wild lamentations and
shrieks, and fled away to Slievenamon, where was their chief abode. But
the Spirit of the Well bade the mistress of the house to enter and
prepare her home against the enchantments of the witches, if they
returned again.
And first, to break their spells, she sprinkled the water in which she
had washed her child's feet (the feet-water) outside the door on the
threshold; secondly, she took the cake which the witches had made in her
absence, of meal mixed with the blood drawn from the sleeping family,
and she broke the cake in bits, and placed a bit in the mouth of each
sleeper, and they were restored; and she took the cloth they had woven,
and placed it half in and half out of the chest with the padlock; and,
lastly, she secured the door with a great crossbeam fastened in the
jambs, so that they could not enter, and having done these things she
waited.
Not long were the witches in coming, and they raged and called for
vengeance.
"Open! Open!" they screamed. "Open, feet-water!"
"I cannot," said the feet-water; "I am scattered on the ground, and my
path is down to the Lough."
"Open, open, wood and trees and beam!" they cried to the door.
"I cannot," said the door, "for the beam is fixed in the jambs, and I
have no power to move."
"Open, open, cake that we have made and mingled with blood!" they cried
again.
"I cannot," said the cake, "for I am broken and bruised, and my blood is
on the lips of the sleeping children."
Then the witches rushed through the air with great cries, and fled back
to Slievenamon, uttering strange curses on the Spirit of the Well, who
had wished their ruin. But the woman and the house were left in peace,
and a mantle dropped by one of the witches was kept hung up by the
mistress as a sign of the night's awful contest; and this mantle was in
possession of the same family from generation to generation for five
hundred years after.
LADY WILDE.
The Quare Gander
"Terence Mooney was an honest boy and well to do; an' he rinted the
biggest farm on this side iv the Galties; an' bein' mighty cute an' a
sevare worker, it was small wonder he turned a good penny every harvest.
But, unluckily, he was blessed with an ilegant large family iv
daughters, an' iv coorse, his heart was allamost bruck, striving to make
up fortunes for the whole of them. An' there wasn't a conthrivance iv
any soart or description for makin' money out iv the farm but he was up
to.
"Well, among the other ways he had iv gettin' up in the world he always
kep a power iv turkeys, and all soarts iv poultrey; an' he was out iv
all rason partial to geese--an' small blame to him for that same--for
twice't a year you can pluck them as bare as my hand--an' get a fine
price for the feathers, an' plenty of rale sizable eggs--an' when they
are too ould to lay any more, you can kill them, an' sell them to the
gintlemen for goslings, d'ye see, let alone that a goose is the most
manly bird that is out.
"Well, it happened in the coorse iv time that one ould gandher tuck a
wondherful likin' to Terence, an' divil a place he could go serenadin'
about the farm, or lookin' afther the men, but the gandher id be at his
heels, an' rubbin' himself agin his legs, an' lookin' up in his face
jist like any other Christian id do; an', begorra, the likes iv it was
never seen--Terence Mooney an' the gandher wor so great.
"An' at last the bird was so engagin' that Terence would not allow it to
be plucked any more, an' kep it from that time out for love an'
affection--just all as one like one iv his childer.
"But happiness in perfection never lasts long, an' the neighbours
begin'd to suspect the nathur an' intentions iv the gandher, an' some iv
them said it was the divil, an' more iv them that it was a fairy.
"Well, Terence could not but hear something of what was sayin', an' you
may be sure he was not altogether asy in his mind about it, an' from one
day to another he was gettin' more ancomfortable in himself, until he
detarmined to sind for Jer Garvan, the fairy docthor, in Garryowen, an'
it's he was the illigant hand at the business, an' divil a sperit id say
a crass word to him, no more nor a priest. An', moreover, he was very
great wid ould Terence Mooney--this man's father that was.
"So without more about it he was sint for, an', sure enough, the divil a
long he was about it, for he kem back that very evenin' along wid the
boy that was sint for him, an' as soon as he was there, an' tuck his
supper, an' was done talkin' for a while, he begin'd, of coorse, to look
into the gandher.
"Well, he turned it this away an' that away, to the right an' to the
left, an' straight-ways an' upside-down, an' when he was tired handlin'
it, says he to Terence Mooney:
"'Terence,' says he, 'you must remove the bird into the next room,' says
he, 'an' put a petticoat,' says he, 'or anny other convaynience round
his head,' says he.
"'An' why so?' says Terence.
"'Becase,' says Jer, says he.
"'Becase what?' says Terence.
"'Becase,' says Jer, 'if it isn't done you'll never be asy agin,' says
he, 'or pusillanimous in your mind,' says he; 'so ax no more questions,
but do my biddin',' says he.
"'Well,' says Terence, 'have your own way,' says he.
"An' wid that he tuck the ould gandher an' giv' it to one iv the
gossoons.
"'An' take care,' says he, 'don't smother the crathur,' says he.
"Well, as soon as the bird was gone, says Jer Garvan, says he:
"'Do you know what that old gandher _is_, Terence Mooney?'
"'Divil a taste,' says Terence.
"'Well, then,' says Jer, 'the gandher is your own father,' says he.
"'It's jokin' you are,' says Terence, turnin' mighty pale; 'how can an
ould gandher be my father?' says he.
"'I'm not funnin' you at all,' says Jer; 'it's thrue what I tell you,
it's your father's wandhrin' sowl,' says he, 'that's naturally tuck
pissession iv the ould gandher's body,' says he. 'I know him many ways,
and I wondher,' says he, 'you do not know the cock iv his eye yourself,'
says he.
"'Oh, blur an' ages!' says Terence, 'what the divil will I ever do at
all at all,' says he; 'it's all over wid me, for I plucked him twelve
times at the laste,' says he.
"'That can't be helped now,' says Jer; 'it was a sevare act, surely,'
says he, 'but it's too late to lamint for it now,' says he; 'the only
way to prevint what's past,' says he, 'is to put a stop to it before it
happens,' says he.
"'Thrue for you,' says Terence, 'but how the divil did you come to the
knowledge iv my father's sowl,' says he, 'bein' in the ould gandher,'
says he.
"'If I tould you,' says Jer, 'you would not undherstand me,' says he,
'without book-larnin' an' gasthronomy,' says he; 'so ax me no
questions,' says he, 'an' I'll tell you no lies. But b'lieve me in this
much,' says he, 'it's your father that's in it,' says he; 'an' if I
don't make him spake to-morrow mornin',' says he, 'I'll give you lave to
call me a fool,' says he.
"'Say no more,' says Terence; 'that settles the business,' says he; 'an'
oh, blur and ages! is it not a quare thing,' says he, 'for a dacent,
respictable man,' says he, 'to be walkin' about the counthry in the
shape iv an ould gandher,' says he; 'and oh, murdher, murdher! is not
it often I plucked him,' says he, 'an' tundher and ouns! might not I
have ate him?' says he; and wid that he fell into a could parspiration,
savin' your prisince, an' on the pint iv faintin' wid the bare notions
iv it.
"Well, whin he was come to himself agin, says Jerry to him, quite an'
asy:
"'Terence,' says he, 'don't be aggravatin' yourself,' says he; 'for I
have a plan composed that 'ill make him spake out,' says he, 'an' tell
what it is in the world he's wantin',' says he; 'an' mind an' don't be
comin' in wid your gosther, an' to say agin anything I tell you,' says
he, 'but jist purtind, as soon as the bird is brought back,' says he,
'how that we're goin' to sind him to-morrow mornin' to market,' says he.
'An' if he don't spake to-night,' says he, 'or gother himself out iv the
place,' says he, 'put him into the hamper airly, and sind him in the
cart,' says he, 'straight to Tipperary, to be sould for ating,' says he,
'along wid the two gossoons,' says he, 'an' my name isn't Jer Garvan,'
says he, 'if he doesn't spake out before he's half-way,' says he. 'An'
mind,' says he, 'as soon as iver he says the first word,' says he, 'that
very minute bring him aff to Father Crotty,' says he; 'an' if his
raverince doesn't make him ratire,' says he, 'like the rest iv his
parishioners, glory be to God,' says he, 'into the siclusion iv the
flames iv purgathory,' says he, 'there's no vartue in my charums,' says
he.
"Well, wid that the ould gandher was let into the room agin, an' they
all begin'd to talk iv sindin' him the nixt mornin' to be sould for
roastin' in Tipperary, jist as if it was a thing andoubtingly settled.
But divil a notice the gandher tuck, no more nor if they wor spaking iv
the Lord-Liftinant; an' Terence desired the boys to get ready the kish
for the poulthry, an' to 'settle it out wid hay soft an' shnug,' says
he, 'for it's the last jauntin' the poor ould gandher 'ill get in this
world,' says he.
"Well, as the night was gettin' late, Terence was growin' mighty
sorrowful an' down-hearted in himself entirely wid the notions iv what
was goin' to happen. An' as soon as the wife an' the crathurs wor fairly
in bed, he brought out some illigint potteen, an' himself an' Jer Garvan
sot down to it; an', begorra, the more anasy Terence got, the more he
dhrank, and himself and Jer Garvan finished a quart betune them. It
wasn't an imparial, though, an' more's the pity, for them wasn't
anvinted antil short since; but divil a much matther it signifies any
longer if a pint could hould two quarts, let alone what it does, sinst
Father Mathew--the Lord purloin his raverince--begin'd to give the
pledge, an' wid the blessin' iv timperance to deginerate Ireland.
"An', begorra, I have the medle myself; an' it's proud I am iv that
same, for abstamiousness is a fine thing, although it's mighty dhry.
"Well, whin Terence finished his pint, he thought he might as well stop;
'for enough is as good as a faste,' says he; 'an' I pity the vagabond,'
says he, 'that is not able to conthroul his licquor,' says he, 'an' to
keep constantly inside iv a pint measure,' says he; an' wid that he
wished Jer Garvan a good night an' walked out iv the room.
"But he wint out the wrong door, bein' a thrifle hearty in himself an'
not rightly knowin' whether he was standin' on his head or his heels,
or both iv them at the same time, an' in place iv gettin' into bed,
where did he thrun himself but into the poulthry hamper that the boys
had settled out ready for the gandher in the mornin'. An', sure enough,
he sunk down soft an' complate through the hay to the bottom; an' wid
the turnin' and roulin' about in the night, the divil a bit iv him but
was covered up as shnug as a lumper in a pittaty furrow before mornin'.
"So wid the first light, up gets the two boys that wor to take the
sperit, as they consaved, to Tipperary; an' they cotched the ould
gandher an' put him in the hamper, an' clapped a good wisp iv hay an the
top iv him, an' tied it down sthrong wid a bit iv a coard, an' med the
sign iv the crass over him, in dhread iv any harum, an' put the hamper
up an the car, wontherin' all the while what in the world was makin' the
ould bird so surprisin' heavy.
"Well, they wint along quite anasy towards Tipperary, wishin' every
minute that some iv the neighbours bound the same way id happen to fall
in with them, for they didn't half like the notions iv havin' no company
but the bewitched gandher, an' small blame to them for that same.
"But although they wor shaking in their skhins in dhread iv the ould
bird beginnin' to convarse them every minute, they did not let an to one
another, but kep singin' an' whistlin' like mad to keep the dread out iv
their hearts.
"Well, afther they wor on the road betther nor half an hour, they kem to
the bad bit close by Father Crotty's, an' there was one divil of a rut
three feet deep at the laste; an' the car got sich a wondherful chuck
goin' through it that it wakened Terence widin in the basket.
"'Bad luck to ye,' says he, 'my bones is bruck wid yer thricks; what the
divil are ye doin' wid me?'
"'Did ye hear anything quare, Thady?' says the boy that was next to the
car, turnin' as white as the top iv a mushroom; 'did ye hear anything
quare soundin' out iv the hamper?' says he.
"'No, nor you,' says Thady, turnin' as pale as himself. 'It's the ould
gandher that's gruntin' wid the shakin' he's gettin',' says he.
"'Where the divil have ye put me into?' says Terence inside. 'Bad luck
to your sowls,' says he; 'let me out, or I'll be smothered this minute,'
says he.
"'There's no use in purtending,' says the boy; 'the gandher's spakin',
glory be to God,' says he.
"'Let me out, you murdherers,' says Terence.
"'In the name iv the blessed Vargin,' says Thady, 'an' iv all the holy
saints, hould yer tongue, you unnatheral gandher,' says he.
"'Who's that, that dar to call me nicknames?' says Terence inside,
roaring wid the fair passion. 'Let me out, you blasphamious infiddles,'
says he, 'or by this crass I'll stretch ye,' says he.
"'In the name iv all the blessed saints in heaven,' says Thady, 'who the
divil are ye?'
"'Who the divil would I be, but Terence Mooney,' says he. 'It's myself
that's in it, you unmerciful bliggards,' says he. 'Let me out, or, by
the holy, I'll get out in spite iv yes,' says he, 'an', by jaburs, I'll
wallop yes in arnest,' says he.
"'It's ould Terence, sure enough,' says Thady. 'Isn't it cute the fairy
docthor found him out?' says he.
"'I'm an the pint of snuffication,' says Terence. 'Let me out, I tell
you, an' wait till I get at ye,' says he, 'for, begorra, the divil a
bone in your body but I'll powdher,' says he.
"An' wid that he beginned kickin' and flingin' inside in the hamper, and
dhrivin' his legs agin the sides iv it, that it was a wonder he did not
knock it to pieces.
"Well, as soon as the boys seen that they skelped the ould horse into a
gallop as hard as he could peg towards the priest's house, through the
ruts, an' over the stones; an' you'd see the hamper fairly flyin' three
feet up in the air with the joultin'; glory be to God.
"So it was small wondher, by the time they got to his raverince's door,
the breath was fairly knocked out of poor Terence, so that he was lyin'
speechless in the bottom iv the hamper.
"Well, whin his raverince kem down, they up an' they tould him all that
happened, an' how they put the gandher in the hamper, an' how he
beginned to spake, an' how he confissed that he was ould Terence Mooney;
an' they axed his honour to advise them how to get rid iv the sperit for
good an' all.
"So says his raverince, says he:
"'I'll take my booke,' says he, 'an' I'll read some rale sthrong holy
bits out iv it,' says he, 'an' do you get a rope and put it round the
hamper,' says he, 'an' let it swing over the runnin' wather at the
bridge,' says he, 'an' it's no matther if I don't make the sperit come
out iv it,' says he.
"Well, wid that the priest got his horse, and tuck his booke in undher
his arm, an' the boys follied his raverince, ladin' the horse down to
the bridge, an' divil a word out iv Terence all the way, for he seen it
was no use spakin', an' he was afeard if he med any noise they might
thrait him to another gallop an' finish him intirely.
"Well, as soon as they wor all come to the bridge, the boys tuck the
rope they had wid them an' med it fast to the top iv the hamper, an'
swung it fairly over the bridge, lettin' it hang in the air about twelve
feet out iv the wather.
"And his raverince rode down to the bank of the river close by, an'
beginned to read mighty loud and bould intirely.
"An' whin he was goin' on about five minutes, all at onst the bottom iv
the hamper kem out, an' down wint Terence, falling splash into the
wather, an' the ould gandher a-top iv him. Down they both wint to the
bottom, wid a souse you'd hear half a mile off.
"An' before they had time to rise agin, his raverince, wid the fair
astonishment, giv his horse one dig iv the spurs, an' before he knew
where he was, in he wint, horse an' all, a-top iv them, an' down to the
bottom.
"Up they all kem agin together, gaspin' and puffin', an' off down wid
the current wid them, like shot in under the arch iv the bridge till
they kem to the shallow wather.
"The ould gandher was the first out, and the priest and Terence kem
next, pantin' an' blowin' an' more than half dhrounded, an' his
raverince was so freckened wid the dhroundin' he got and wid the sight
iv the sperit, as he consaved, that he wasn't the better of it for a
month.
"An' as soon as Terence could spake he swore he'd have the life of the
two gossoons; but Father Crotty would not give him his will. An' as soon
as he was got quiter they all endivoured to explain it; but Terence
consaved he went raly to bed the night before, an' his wife said the
same to shilter him from the suspision for havin' th' dhrop taken. An'
his raverince said it was a mysthery, an' swore if he cotched anyone
laughin' at the accident he'd lay the horsewhip across their shoulders.
"An' Terence grew fonder an' fonder iv the gandher every day, until at
last he died in a wondherful old age, lavin' the gandher afther him an'
a large family iv childher.
"An' to this day the farm is rinted by one iv Terence Mooney's lenial
and legitimate postariors."
JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANN.
The Fairies' Passage
Tap, tap, rap, rap! "Get up, gaffer Ferryman."
"Eh! Who is there?" The clock strikes three.
"Get up, do, gaffer! You are the very man
We have been long, long, longing to see."
The ferryman rises, growling and grumbling,
And goes fum-fumbling, and stumbling, and tumbling
Over the wares on his way to the door.
But he sees no more
Than he saw before,
Till a voice is heard: "O Ferryman, dear!
Here we are waiting, all of us, here.
We are a wee, wee colony, we;
Some two hundred in all, or three.
Ferry us over the River Lee
Ere dawn of day,
And we will pay
The most we may
In our own wee way!"
"Who are you? Whence came you?
What place are you going to?"
"Oh, we have dwelt over-long in this land:
The people get cross, and are growing so knowing, too!
Nothing at all but they now understand.
We are daily vanishing under the thunder
Of some huge engine or iron wonder;
That iron--ah! it has entered our souls."
"Your souls? O gholes!
You queer little drolls,
Do you mean ----?" "Good gaffer, do aid us with speed,
For our time, like our stature, is short indeed!
And a very long way we have to go:
Eight or ten thousand miles or so,
Hither and thither, and to and fro,
With our pots and pans
And little gold cans;
But our light caravans
Run swifter than man's."
"Well, well, you may come," said the ferryman affably;
"Patrick, turn out, and get ready the barge."
Then again to the little folk: "Tho' you seem laughably
Small, I don't mind, if your coppers be large."
Oh, dear! what a rushing, what pushing, what crushing
(The watermen making vain efforts at hushing
The hubbub the while), there followed these words!
What clapping of boards,
What strapping of cords,
What stowing away of children and wives,
And platters, and mugs, and spoons, and knives!
Till all had safely got into the boat,
And the ferryman, clad in his tip-top coat,
And his wee little fairies were safely afloat;
Then ding, ding, ding,
And kling, kling, kling,
How the coppers did ring
In the tin pitcherling!