and plennypennytinchery o' these parts,' says he; 'but how kem ye to
know that?' says he.
"'Oh, never mind,' says Saint Kavin (for 'twas he that was in it). 'And
now, may I make bowld to ax, how is your goose, King O'Toole?' says he.
"'Blur-an-agers, how kem you to know about my goose?' says the King.
"'Oh, no matther; I was given to understand it,' says Saint Kavin.
"'Oh, that's a folly to talk,' says the King, 'bekase myself and my
goose is private friends,' says he, 'and no one could tell you,' says
he, 'barrin' the fairies.'
"'Oh, thin, it wasn't the fairies,' says Saint Kavin; 'for I'd have you
know,' says he, 'that I don't keep the likes o' sich company.'
"'You might do worse, then, my gay fellow,' says the King; 'for it's
_they_ could show you a crock o' money as aisy as kiss hand; and that's
not to be sneezed at,' says the King, 'by a poor man,' says he.
"'Maybe I've a betther way of making money myself,' says the saint.
"'By gor,' says the King, 'barrin' you're a coiner,' says he, 'that's
impossible!'
"'I'd scorn to be the like, my lord!' says Saint Kavin, mighty high,
'I'd scorn to be the like,' says he.
"'Then, what are you?' says the King, 'that makes money so aisy, by your
own account.'
"'I'm an honest man,' says Saint Kavin.
"'Well, honest man,' says the King, 'and how is it you make your money
so aisy?'
"'By makin' ould things as good as new,' says Saint Kavin.
"'Is it a tinker you are?' says the King.
"'No,' says the saint; 'I'm no tinker by thrade, King O'Toole; I've a
betther thrade than a tinker,' says he. 'What would you say,' says he,
'if I made your ould goose as good as new?'
"My dear, at the word o' making his goose as good as new, you'd think
the poor ould King's eyes was ready to jump out iv his head, 'and,' says
he--'throth, thin, I'd give you more money nor you could count,' says
he, 'if you did the like, and I'd be behoulden to you in the bargain.'
"'I scorn your dirty money,' says Saint Kavin.
"'Faith, thin, I'm thinkin' a thrifle o' change would do you no harm,'
says the King, lookin' up sly at the ould _caubeen_ that Saint Kavin had
on him.
"'I have a vow agin it,' says the saint; 'and I am book sworn,' says he,
'never to have goold, silver, or brass in my company.'
"'Barrin' the thrifle you can't help,' says the King, mighty cute, and
looking him straight in the face.
"'You just hot it,' says Saint Kavin; 'but though I can't take money,'
says he, 'I could take a few acres o' land, if you'd give them to me.'
"'With all the veins o' my heart,' says the King, 'if you can do what
you say.'
"'Thry me!' says Saint Kavin. 'Call down your goose here,' says he, 'and
I'll see what I can do for her.'
"With that the King whistled, and down kem the poor goose, all as one as
a hound, waddlin' up to the poor ould cripple, her masther, and as like
him as two pays. The minute the saint clapt his eyes on the goose, 'I'll
do the job for you,' says he, 'King O'Toole!'
"'By _Jaminee_,' says King O'Toole, 'if you do, but I'll say you're the
cleverest fellow in the sivin parishes.'
"'Oh, by dad,' says Saint Kavin, 'you must say more nor that--my horn's
not so soft all out,' says he, 'as to repair your ould goose for
nothin'; what'll you gi' me if I do the job for you?--that's the chat,'
says Saint Kavin.
"'I'll give you whatever you ax,' says the King; 'isn't that fair?'
"'Divil a fairer,' says the saint; 'that's the way to do business. Now,'
says he, 'this is the bargain I'll make with you, King O'Toole: will you
gi' me all the ground the goose flies over, the first offer, afther I
make her as good as new?'
"'I will,' says the King.
"'You won't go back o' your word?' says Saint Kavin.
"'Honor bright!' says King O'Toole, howldin' out his fist.
"'Honor bright,' says Saint Kavin back again, 'it's a bargain,' says he.
'Come here!' says he to the poor ould goose--'come here, you
unfort'nate ould cripple,' says he, 'and it's I that'll make you the
sportin' bird.'
"With that, my dear, he tuk up the goose by the two wings--'criss o' my
crass an you,' says he, markin' her to grace with the blessed sign at
the same minute--and throwin' her up in the air, 'whew!' says he, jist
givin' her a blast to help her; and with that, my jewel, she tuk to her
heels, flyin' like one o' the aigles themselves, and cuttin' as many
capers as a swallow before a shower of rain. Away she wint down there,
right forninst you, along the side o' the clift, and flew over Saint
Kavin's bed (that is, where Saint Kavin's bed is _now_, but was not
_thin_, by raison it wasn't made, but was conthrived afther by Saint
Kavin himself, that the women might lave him alone), and on with her
undher Lugduff, and round the ind av the lake there, far beyant where
you see the watherfall--and on with her thin right over the lead mines
o' Luganure (that is, where the lead mines is _now_, but was not _thin_,
by raison they worn't discovered, _but was all goold in Saint Kavin's
time_). Well, over the ind o' Luganure she flew, stout and studdy, and
round the other ind av the _little_ lake, by the Churches (that is, _av
coorse_, where the Churches is _now_, but was not _thin_, by raison they
wor not built, but aftherwards by Saint Kavin), and over the big hill
here over your head, where you see the big clift--(and that clift in the
mountain was made by _Finn Ma Cool_, where he cut it acrass with a big
swoord that he got made a purpose by a blacksmith out o' Rathdrum, a
cousin av his own, for to fight a joyant (giant) that darr'd him an' the
Curragh o' Kildare; and he thried the swoord first an the mountain, and
cut it down into a gap, as is plain to this day; and faith, sure enough,
it's the same sauce he sarv'd the joyant, soon and suddint, and chopped
him in two like a pratie, for the glory of his sowl and ould
Ireland)--well, down she flew over the clift, and fluttherin' over the
wood there at Poulanass. Well--as I said--afther fluttherin' over the
wood a little bit, to _plaze_ herself, the goose flew down, and bit at
the fut o' the King, as fresh as a daisy, afther flyin' roun' his
dominions, jist as if she hadn't flew three perch.
"Well, my dear, it was a beautiful sight to see the King standin' with
his mouth open, lookin' at his poor ould goose flyin' as light as a
lark, and betther nor ever she was; and when she lit at his fut he
patted her an the head, and '_ma vourneen_,' says he, 'but you are the
_darlint_ o' the world.'
"'And what do you say to me,' says Saint Kavin, 'for makin' her the
like?'
"'By gor,' says the King, 'I say nothin' bates the art o' men, 'barrin'
the bees.'
"'And do you say no more nor that?' says Saint Kavin.
"'And that I'm behoulden to you,' says the King.
"'But will you gi' me all the ground the goose flewn over?' says Saint
Kavin.
"'I will,' says King O'Toole, 'and you're welkim to it,' says he,
'though it's the last acre I have to give.'
"'But you'll keep your word thrue?' says the saint.
"'As thrue as the sun,' says the King.
"'It's well for you,' says Saint Kavin, mighty sharp--'it's well for
you, King O'Toole, that you said that word,' says he; 'for if you didn't
say that word, _the divil receave the bit o' your goose id iver fly
agin_,' says Saint Kavin.
"'Oh, you needn't laugh,' said old Joe, 'for it's thruth I'm telling
you.'
"Well, whin the King was as good as his word, Saint Kavin was _plazed_
with him, and thin it was that he made himself known to the King.
"Well, my dear, that's the way that the place kem, all at wanst, into
the hands of Saint Kavin; for the goose flew round every individyial
acre o' King O'Toole's property, you see, _bein' let into the saycret_
by Saint Kavin, who was mighty _cute_; and so, when he _done_ the ould
King out iv his property for the glory of God, he was _plazed_ with him,
and he and the King was the best o' friends iver more afther (for the
poor ould King was _doatin'_, you see), and the King had his goose as
good as new to divart him as long as he lived; and the saint supported
him afther he kem into his property, as I tould you, until the day iv
his death--and that was soon afther; for the poor goose thought he was
ketchin' a throut one Friday; but, my jewel, it was a mistake he
made--and instead of a throut, it was a thievin' horse-eel! and, by gor,
instead iv the goose killin' a throut for the King's supper--by dad, the
eel killed the King's goose--and small blame to him; but he didn't ate
her, bekase he darn't ate what Saint Kavin laid his blessed hands on."
SAMUEL LOVER.
Lament of the Last Leprechaun
For the red shoon of the Shee,
For the falling o' the leaf,
For the wind among the reeds,
My grief.
For the sorrow of the sea,
For the song's unquickened seeds,
For the sleeping of the Shee,
My grief.
For dishonoured whitethorn-tree,
For the runes that no man reads
Where the grey stones face the sea,
My grief.
Lissakeole, that used to be
Filled with music night and noon,
For their ancient revelry,
My grief.
For the empty fairy shoon,
Hollow rath and yellow leaf,
Hands unkissed to sun or moon,
My grief--my grief!
NORA HOPPER.
The Corpse Watchers
There was once a poor woman that had three daughters, and one day the
eldest said, "Mother, bake my cake and kill my cock till I go seek my
fortune." So she did, and when all was ready, says her mother to her,
"Which will you have--half of these with my blessing, or the whole with
my curse?" "Curse or no curse," says she, "the whole is little enough."
So away she set, and if the mother didn't give her her curse, she didn't
give her her blessing.
She walked, and she walked, till she was tired and hungry, and then she
sat down to take her dinner. While she was eating it a poor woman came
up, and asked for a bit. "The dickens a bit you'll get from me," says
she; "it's all too little for myself." And the poor woman walked away
very sorrowful. At nightfall she got lodging at a farmer's, and the
woman of the house told her that she'd give her a spadeful of gold and a
shovelful of silver if she'd only sit up and watch her son's corpse that
was waking in the next room. She said she'd do that, and so, when the
family were in their bed, she sat by the fire, and cast an eye from time
to time on the corpse that was lying under the table.
All at once the dead man got up in his shroud, and stood before her, and
said, "All alone, fair maid?" She gave him no answer; when he had said
it the third time he struck her with a switch, and she became a grey
flag.
About a week after, the second daughter went to seek her fortune, and
she didn't care for her mother's blessing no more _nor_ her sister, and
the very same thing happened to her. She was left a grey flag by the
side of the other.
At last the youngest went off in search of the other two, and she took
care to carry her mother's blessing with her. She shared her dinner with
the poor woman on the road, and _she_ told her that she would watch over
her.
Well, she got lodging in the same place as the others, and agreed to
mind the corpse. She sat up by the fire, with the dog and cat, and
amused herself with some apples and nuts the mistress had given her. She
thought it a pity that the man under the table was a corpse, he was so
handsome.
But at last he got up, and, says he, "All alone, fair maid?" and she
wasn't long about an answer:
All alone I am not,
I've little dog Douse, and Pussy, my cat;
I've apples to roast and nuts to crack,
And all alone I am not.
"Ho, ho!" says he, "you're a girl of courage, though you wouldn't have
enough to follow me. I am now going to cross the quaking bog, and go
through the burning forest. I must then enter the cave of terror and
climb the hill of glass, and drop from the top of it into the Dead Sea."
"I'll follow you," says she, "for I engaged to mind you." He thought to
prevent her, but she was stiff as he was stout.
Out he sprang through the window, and she followed him, till they came
to the "Green Hills," and then says he:
"Open, open, Green Hills and let the light of the Green Hills through."
"Aye," says the girl, "and let the fair maid too."
They opened, and the man and woman passed through, and there they were
on the edge of a bog.
He trod lightly over the shaky bits of moss and sod; and while she was
thinking of how she'd get across, the old beggar appeared to her, but
much nicer dressed, touched her shoes with a stick, and the soles spread
a foot on each side. So she easily got over the shaky marsh. The burning
wood was at the edge of the bog, and there the good fairy flung a damp,
thick cloak over her, and through the flames she went, and a hair of her
head was not singed. Then they passed through the dark cavern of
horrors, when she'd have heard the most horrible yells, only that the
fairy stopped her ears with wax. She saw frightful things, with blue
vapours round them, and felt the sharp rocks and the slimy backs of
frogs and snakes.
When they got out of the cavern, they were at the mountain of glass; and
then the fairy made her slippers so sticky with a tap of her rod that
she followed the young corpse quite easily to the top. There was the
deep sea a quarter of a mile under them, and so the corpse said to her,
"Go home to my mother, and tell her how far you came to do her bidding.
Farewell!" He sprung head-foremost down into the sea, and after him she
plunged, without stopping a moment to think about it.
She was stupefied at first, but when they reached the waters she
recovered her thoughts. After piercing down a great depth, they saw a
green light towards the bottom. At last they were below the sea, that
seemed a green sky above them; and, sitting in a beautiful meadow, she
half-asleep, and her head resting against his side. She couldn't keep
her eyes open, and she couldn't tell how long she slept; but when she
woke, she was in bed at his house, and he and his mother sitting by her
bedside, and watching her.
It was a witch that had a spite to the young man because he wouldn't
marry her, and so she got power to keep him in a state between life and
death till a young woman would rescue him by doing what she had done.
So, at her request, her sisters got their own shapes again, and were
sent back to their mother, with their spades of gold and shovels of
silver. Maybe they were better after that, but I doubt it much. The
youngest got the young gentleman for her husband. I'm sure she lived
happy, and, if they didn't live happy--_that we may_!
PATRICK KENNEDY.
The Mad Pudding of Ballyboulteen
"Moll Roe Rafferty, the daughter of ould Jack Rafferty, was a fine young
bouncin' girl, large an' lavish, wid a purty head of hair on her like
scarlet, that bein' one of the raisons why she was called _Roe_ or red;
her arms and cheeks were much the colour of the hair, an' her saddle
nose was the purtiest thing of its kind that ever was on a face.
"Well, anyhow, it was Moll Rafferty that was the _dilsy_. It happened
that there was a nate vagabone in the neighbourhood, just as much
overburdened wid beauty as herself, and he was named Gusty Gillespie.
Gusty was what they call a black-mouth Prosbytarian, and wouldn't keep
Christmas day, except what they call 'ould style.' Gusty was rather
good-lookin', when seen in the dark, as well as Moll herself; anyhow,
they got attached to each other, and in the end everything was arranged
for their marriage.
"Now this was the first marriage that had happened for a long time in
the neighbourhood between a Prodestant and a Catholic, and faix, there
was one of the bride's uncles, ould Harry Connolly, a fairyman, who
could cure all complaints wid a secret he had, and as he didn't wish to
see his niece married on sich a fellow, he fought bittherly against the
match. All Moll's friends, however, stood up for the marriage, barrin'
him, and, of coorse, the Sunday was appointed, as I said, that they were
to be dove-tailed together.
"Well, the day arrived, and Moll, as became her, went to mass, and Gusty
to meeting, afther which they were to join one another in Jack
Rafferty's, where the priest, Father Mc. Sorley, was to slip up afther
mass to take his dinner wid them, and to keep Misther Mc. Shuttle, who
was to marry them, company. Nobody remained at home but ould Jack
Rafferty an' his wife, who stopped to dress the dinner, for, to tell the
truth, it was to be a great let-out entirely. Maybe, if all was known,
too, Father Mc. Sorley was to give them a cast of his office over and
above the ministher, in regard that Moll's friends were not altogether
satisfied at the kind of marriage which Mc. Shuttle could give them. The
sorrow may care about that--splice here, splice there--all I can say is
that when Mrs. Rafferty was goin' to tie up a big bag pudden, in walks
Harry Connolly, the fairyman, in a rage, and shouts out, 'Blood and
blunderbushes, what are yez here for?'
"'Arrah, why, Harry? Why, avick?'
"'Why, the sun's in the suds, and the moon in the high Horricks; there's
a clip-stick comin' on, and there you're both as unconsarned as if it
was about to rain mether. Go out, an' cross yourselves three times in
the name o' the four Mandromarvins, for as prophecy says:--"Fill the
pot, Eddy, supernaculum--a blazing star's a rare spectaculum." Go out,
both of you, an' look at the sun, I say, an' ye'll see the condition
he's in--off!'
"Begad, sure enough, Jack gave a bounce to the door, and his wife leaped
like a two-year-ould, till they were both got on a stile beside the
house to see what was wrong in the sky.
"'Arrah, what is it, Jack?' says she, 'can you see anything?'
"'No,' says he, 'sorra the full of my eye of anything I can spy, barrin'
the sun himself, that's not visible, in regard of the clouds. God guard
us! I doubt there's something to happen.'
"'If there wasn't Jack, what'd put Harry, that knows so much, in the
state he's in?'
"'I doubt it's this marriage,' says Jack. 'Betune ourselves, it's not
over an' above religious of Moll to marry a black-mouth, an' only for--;
but, it can't be helped now, though you see it's not a taste o' the sun
is willin' to show his face upon it.'
"'As to that,' says his wife, winkin' with both her eyes, 'if Gusty's
satisfied wid Moll, it's enough. I know who'll carry the whip hand,
anyhow; but in the manetime let us ax Harry within what ails the sun?'
"Well, they accordianly went in, and put this question to him, 'Harry,
what's wrong, ahagur? What is it now, for if anybody alive knows 'tis
yourself?'
"'Ah,' said Harry, screwin' his mouth wid a kind of a dry smile, 'the
sun has a hard twist o' the colic; but never mind that, I tell you,
you'll have a merrier weddin' than you think, that's all'; and havin'
said this, he put on his hat and left the house.
"Now, Harry's answer relieved them very much, and so, afther callin' to
him to be back for dinner, Jack sat down to take a shough o' the pipe,
and the wife lost no time in tying up the pudden, and puttin' it in the
pot to be boiled.
"In this way things went on well enough for a while, Jack smokin' away,
an' the wife cookin' an' dhressin' at the rate of a hunt. At last, Jack,
while sittin', as I said, contentedly at the fire, thought he could
persave an odd dancin' kind of motion in the pot that puzzled him a good
deal.
"'Katty,' says he, 'what the dickens is in this pot on the fire?'
"'Nerra thing but the big pudden. Why do you ax?' says she.
"'Why,' says he, 'if ever a pot tuck it into its head to dance a jig,
and this did. Thundher and sparbles, look at it!'
"Begad, and it was thrue enough; there was the pot bobbin' up an' down,
and from side to side, jiggin' it away as merry as a grig; an' it was
quite aisy to see that it wasn't the pot itself, but what was inside of
it, that brought about the hornpipe.
"'Be the hole o' my coat,' shouted Jack, 'there's somethin' alive in it,
or it would niver cut sich capers!'
"'Begorra, there is, Jack; somethin' sthrange entirely has got into it.
Wirra, man alive, what's to be done?'
"Jist as she spoke the pot seemed to cut the buckle in prime style, and
afther a spring that'd shame a dancin' masther, off flew the lid, and
out bounced the pudden itself, hoppin' as nimble as a pea on a drum-head
about the floor. Jack blessed himself, and Katty crossed herself. Jack
shouted, and Katty screamed. 'In the name of goodness, keep your
distance; no one here injured you!'
"The pudden, however, made a set at him, and Jack lepped first on a
chair, and then on the kitchen table, to avoid it. It then danced
towards Katty, who was repatin' her prayers at the top of her voice,
while the cunnin' thief of a pudden was hoppin' an' jiggin' it around
her as if it was amused at her distress.
"'If I could get the pitchfork,' says Jack, 'I'd dale wid it--by goxty,
I'd thry its mettle.'
"'No, no,' shouted Katty, thinking there was a fairy in it; 'let us
spake it fair. Who knows what harm it might do? Aisy, now,' says she to
the pudden, 'aisy, dear; don't harm honest people that never meant to
offend you. It wasn't us--no, in troth, it was ould Harry Connolly that
bewitched you; pursue _him_, if you wish, but spare a woman like me!'
"The pudden, bedad, seemed to take her at her word, and danced away from
her towards Jack, who, like the wife, believin' there was a fairy in
it, an' that spakin' it fair was the best plan, thought he would give it
a soft word as well as her.
"'Plase your honour,' said Jack, 'she only spaiks the truth, an' upon my
voracity, we both feels much oblaiged to you for your quietness. Faith,
it's quite clear that if you weren't a gentlemanly pudden, all out,
you'd act otherwise. Ould Harry, the rogue, is your mark; he's jist gone
down the road there, and if you go fast you'll overtake him. Be my song,
your dancin'-masther did his duty, anyway. Thank your honour! God speed
you, and may you niver meet wid a parson or alderman in your thravels.'
"Jist as Jack spoke, the pudden appeared to take the hint, for it
quietly hopped out, and as the house was directly on the roadside,
turned down towards the bridge, the very way that ould Harry went. It
was very natural, of coorse, that Jack and Katty should go out to see
how it intended to thravel, and as the day was Sunday, it was but
natural, too, that a greater number of people than usual were passin'
the road. This was a fact; and when Jack and his wife were seen
followin' the pudden, the whole neighbourhood was soon up and afther it.
"'Jack Rafferty, what is it? Katty, ahagur, will you tell us what it
manes?'
"'Why,' replied Katty, 'it's my big pudden that's bewitched, an' it's
out hot foot pursuin''--here she stopped, not wishin' to mention her
brother's name--'_someone_ or other that surely put _pishrogues_[3] an
it.'
"This was enough; Jack, now seein' that he had assistance, found his
courage comin' back to him; so says he to Katty, 'Go home,' says he,
'an' lose no time in makin' another pudden as good, an' here's Paddy
Scanlan's wife, Bridget, says she'll let you boil it on her fire, as
you'll want our own to dress the rest of the dinner; and Paddy himself
will lend me a pitchfork for purshuin' to the morsel of that same pudden
will escape, till I let the wind out of it, now that I've the neighbours
to back an' support me,' says Jack.
"This was agreed to, an' Katty went back to prepare a fresh pudden,
while Jack an' half the townland pursued the other wid spades, graips,
pitchforks, scythes, flails, and all possible description of
instruments. On the pudden went, however, at the rate of about six Irish
miles an hour, an' sich a chase was never seen. Catholics, Prodestants,
and Prosbytarians were all afther it, armed, as I said, an' bad end to
the thing, but its own activity could save it. Here it made a hop, there
a prod was made at it; but off it went, and someone, as eager to get a
slice at it on the other side, got the prod instead of the pudden. Big
Frank Farrell, the miller, of Ballyboulteen, got a prod backwards that
brought a hullabulloo out of him that you might hear at the other end of
the parish. One got a slice of a scythe, another a whack of a flail, a
third a rap of a spade, that made him look nine ways at wanst.
"'Where is it goin'?' asked one. 'My life for you, it's on its way to
Meeting. Three cheers for it, if it turns to Carntaul!' 'Prod the sowl
out of it if it's a Prodestan'' shouted the others; 'if it turns to the
left, slice it into pancakes. We'll have no Prodestan' puddens here.'