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ía-íwmM ¥. f % tíéM iUi;s. 





t^iit Uít ii-xt. 


Irish, with Notes by Dr. Hyde, LL.D. Crown Svo, viiii. 261 pp. 
wrapper, 5s. 



with Especial Reference to the Hypothesis of its Celtic Origin. Demy 
Svo. XV., 281 pages. Cloth, los. 6d. nett. 

Alons. Gaston Paris in '■^ Romania r — " Une des contributions les plus 
précieuses et les plus méritoires qu'on ait encore apportées a l'éclaircissement 
de ces questions difficiles et compliquées." 

The Athenaiini. — "These charming studies of the Grail legend." 
Tlie Scots Observer. — " An achievement of jjrofound erudition and masterly 
argument to be hailed as redeeming English scholarship from a long- 
standing reproach." 

initiated and directed by Lord Archibald Campbell, Demy Svo, 

Vol. II. Folk and Hero Tales. Collected, edited (in Gaelic), and 
translated by the Rev. D. JNIac Innes ; with a Study on the Develop- 
ment of the Ossianic Saga, and copious Notes by Alfred Nutt. xxiv. 
497 pages. Portrait of Campbell of Islay, and Two Illustrations by E. 
Griset. 1890. 15s. 

Highland Monthly — "The most important work on Highland Folk-lore 
and Tales since Campbell's world-renowned Popular Tales." 

Hecior Maclean — " Never before has the development of the Ossianic 
Saga been so scientifically dealt with." 

Scots Obsei-ver. — " ^Ir. Alfred Nutt's excursus and notes are lucid and 
scholarly. They add immensely to the value of the book, and afford abun- 
dant evidence of their author's extensive reading and sound erudition." 

Ohan Telegraph. — The Gaelic text is colloquial and eminently idiomatic. 
. . . ^Ir. Nutt desei^ves especial mention and much credit for the pains- 
taking and careful research evidenced by his notes to the tales." 

JP'cstmoreland Gazette. — " We cannot refrain from placing on record our 
a])preciation for the remarkable masteiy of the subject which Mr. Alfred Nutt 
lias brought to the execution of his task. 










bliei-pceAjA Af le j;aL be.vj; jAOiro.— SeAII 'OAn. 

'They are like a mist on the coming of night 
That is scattered away l)y a light breath of wind." — Oi.n Foe.m. 

L N D X : 

DAVID :XUTT, 270, 271 STRAND. 


K E M A N S J O V R S 
NTi:<U S; E.>OKBlNI)l 

I. I M IT E 

1-30 ^oiv'' 


To the memory of those truly cultured and unselfish 
men, the poet-scribes and hedge-schoolmasters of the 
last century and the beginning of this — men who may 
well be called the last of the Milesians— I dedicate this 
effort to preserve even a scrap of that native lore which 
in their day they loved so passionately, and for the 
preservation of which they worked so nobly, but in vain 


Preface : Previous collections of Irish folk-lore ; ignorance of the language 
on the part of collectors. Relation between Irish and Scotch Gaelic 
tales ; the Irish bardic tales ; the runs in Irish and Scotch. Date of 
Irish versions. Two classes of Irish stories ; native myths. Narrators of 
the stories. Discouragement of Irish by schoolmasters, clergy, and 
politicians. Proper mode of collecting. System of translation ac- 
cepted. Page, ix-1 

Postscript (by Alfred Nutt) : Dr. Hyde's theories discussed ; folk-lore and 
romance ; necessity for romance to conform to convention ; characteristics 
of folk-fancy ; classification of the products of folk-fancy ; myth, saga, 
Miirchen and ballad ; romance and folk-lore among the Gael ; folli-con- 
ception of the Universe ... ... ... Page, li-lviii 


I. The Tailor and the Three Beasts 

II. Bran 

III. The King of Ireland's Son, 

IV. The Alp-Luachra 

V. Paudyeen O'Kelly and the Weasel 

VI. Leeam O'Rooney's Burial 
VII. Guleesh na Guss Dhu 

VIII. The Well of D'Yerree-in-Dowan 
IX. The Court of Crinnawn 
X. Neil O'Carre 
XI. Trunk-without-Head ... 
XII. The Hags of the Long Teeth ... 

XIII. William of the Tree ... 

XIV. The Old Crow and the Young Crow 
XV. Riddles 

Where the Stories came from 


Notes on the Irish Text 

Index of Incidents 





















"yRISH and Scotch Gaelic folk-stories are, as a living 
form of literature, by this time pretty nearly a thing 
of the past. They have been trampled in the common 
ruin under the feet of the Zeitgeist, happily not before a 
large harvest has been reaped in Scotland, but, unfor- 
tunately, before anything worth mentioning has been 
done in Ireland to gather in the crop which grew luxu- 
riantly a few years ago. Until quite recently there 
existed in our midst millions of men and women who, 
when their day's work was over, sought and found 
mental recreation in a domain to which few indeed of 
us who read books are permitted to enter. Man, all the 
world over, when he is tired of the actualities of life, 
seeks to unbend his mind with the creations of fancy. 
We who can read betake ourselves to our favourite 
novelist, and as we peruse his fictions, we can almost 
see our author erasing this, heightening that, and laying 
on such-and-such a touch for effect. His book is the 
product of his individual brain, and some of us or of our 
contemporaries have been present at its genesis. 



But no one can tell us with certainty of the genesis 
of the folk-tale, no one has been consciously present at 
its inception, and no one has marked its growth. It is 
in many ways a mystery, part of the flotsam and jetsam 
of the ages, still beating feebly against the shore of the 
nineteenth century, swallowed up at last in England by 
the waves of materialism and civilization combined ; but 
still surviving unengulfed on the western coasts of Ire- 
land, where I gathered together some bundles of it, of 
which the present volume is one. 

The folk-lore of Ireland, like its folk-songs and native 
literature, remains practically unexploited and un- 
gathered. Attempts have been made from time to time 
during the present century to collect Irish folk-lore, but 
these attempts, though interesting from a literary point 
of view, are not always successes from a scientific one. 
Crofton Croker's delightful book, "Fairy Legends and 
Traditions of the South of Ireland," first published 
anonymously in 1825, led the way. All the other books 
which have been published on the subject have but fol- 
lowed in the footsteps of his ; but all have not had the 
merit of his light style, his pleasant parallels from classic 
and foreign literature, and his delightful annotations, 
which touch, after a fascinating manner peculiarly his 
own, upon all that is of interest in his text. I have 
written the word " text," but that word conveys the idea 
of an original to be annotated upon ; and Crofton Croker 


is, alas ! too often his own original. There lies his weak 
point, and there, too, is the defect of all who have fol- 
lowed him. The form in which the stories are told is, 
of course, Croker's own; but no one who knows any- 
thing of fairy lore will suppose that his manipulation of 
the originals is confined to the form merely. The fact 
is that he learned the ground-work of his tales from con- 
versations with the Southern peasantry, whom he knew 
well, and then elaborated this over the midnight oil 
with great skill and delicacy of touch, in order to give a 
saleable book, thus spiced, to the English public. 

Setting aside the novelists Carleton and Lover, who 
only published some incidental and largely-manipulated 
Irish stories, the next person to collect Irish folk-lore in 
a volume was Patrick Kennedy, a native of the County 
Wexford, who published " Legendary Fictions of the 
Irish Celts," and in 1870 a good book, entitled, "The 
Fireside Stories of Ireland," which he had himself heard 
in Wexford when a boy. Many of the stories which he 
gives appear to be the detritus of genuine Gaelic folk- 
stories, filtered through an English idiom and much im- 
paired and stunted in the process. He appears, how- 
ever, not to have adulterated them very much. Two of 
the best stories in the book, '* Jack, the Cunning Thief 
and " Shawn an Omadawn," I heard myself in the ad- 
joining county Wicklow, and the versions of them that 
I heard did not differ very widely from Kennedy's. It 


is interesting to note that these counties, close to the 
Pale as they are, and under English influence for so 
long, nevertheless seem to have preserved a consider- 
able share of the old Gaelic folk-tales in English dress, 
while in Leitrim, Longford, Meath, and those counties 
where Irish died out only a generation or two ago, there 
has been made as clean a sweep of folk-lore and Gaelic 
traditions as the most uncompromising " West Briton " 
could desire. Thereason why some of thefolk-stories sur- 
vive in the eastern counties is probably because the Irish 
language was there exchanged for English at a time 
when, ior want of education and printed books, folk- 
stories (the only mental recreation of the people) had to 
transfer themselves rightly or wrongly into English. 
When this first took place I cannot tell, but I have heard 
from old people in Waterford, that when some of their 
fathers or grandfathers marched north to join the AVex- 
ford Irish in 'g8, they were astonished to find English 
nearly universally used amongst them. Kennedy says 
of his stories : " I have endeavoured to present them in 
a form suitable for the perusal of both sexes and of all 
ages " ; and " such as they are, they may be received by 
our readers as obtained from local sources." Unfortu- 
nately, the sources are not given by him any more than 
by Croker, and we cannot be sure how much belongs to 
Kennedy the bookseller, and how much to the Wexford 


After this come Lady Wilde's volumes — her "Ancient 
Legends," and her recently published " Ancient Cures, 
Charms, and Usages," in both of which books she gives 
us a large amount of narrative matter in a folk-lore dress ; 
but, likelier predecessors, she disdains to quote an autho- 
rity, and scorns to give us the least inkling as to where 
such-and-such a legend, or cure, or superstition comes 
from, from whom it was obtained, who were her infor- 
mants, whether peasant or other, in what parishes or 
counties the superstition or legend obtains, and all tbe 
other collateral information which the modern folk-lorist 
is sure to expect. Her entire ignorance of Irish, through 
the medium of which alone such tales and superstitions 
can properly, if at all, be collected, is apparent every 
time she introduces an Irish word. She astonishes us 
Irish speakers with such striking observations as this — 
"Peasants in Ireland wishing you good luck, say in 
Irish, 'The blessing of Bel and the blessing of Samhain 
be with you,' that is, of the sun and of the moon."* It 

* Had Lady Wilde known Irish she might have quoted from a popular 
ballad composed on Patricl< Sarsfield, and not yet forgotten : — 

A pA-opuij SÁipféut If T)uine Le tHA cii, 

'S beAimuijce An CAbAiii a]\ f-iúbAiL cu ^MAiii ai]a, 

50 mbeAniiuij An jeAl-AC jeAb Y A^i El^i^n •omc, 

O cug cu An La Af lÁini R15 'LiAirn LeAC. 

Oc ocón. 

Patrick Sarsfield, a man with C4od you are, 
Blessed the country that you walk upon, 
Blessing of sun and shining moon on you, 
vSince from William you took the day with you. 

Och, och hone. 


would be interesting to know the locality where so 
curious a Pagan custom is still practised, for I confess 
that though I have spoken Irish in every county where it 
is still spoken, I have never been, nor do I expect to be, 
so saluted. Lady Wilde's volumes are, nevertheless, a 
wonderful and copious record of folk-lore and folk cus- 
toms, which must lay Irishmen under one more debt of 
gratitude to the gifted compiler. It is unfortunate, how- 
ever, that these volumes are hardly as valuable as they 
are interesting, and for the usual reason — that we do not 
know what is Lady Wilde's and what is not. 

Almost contemporaneously with Lady Wilde's last 
book there appeared this year yet another important 
work, a collection of Irish folk-tales taken from the 
Gaelic speakers of the south and north-west, by an 
American gentleman, Mr. Jeremiah Curtin. He has 
collected some twenty tales, which are told very well, 
and with much less cooking and flavouring than 

This would have made her point just as well. Unfortunately, Lady 
Wilde is always equally extraordinary or unhappy in her informants 
where Irish is concerned. Thus, she informs us that ho-lan7ia (meant 
for bo-hainne, a milch cow) is a " white cow " ; that tobar-na-bo (the 
cow's well) is " the well of the white cow " ; that Banshee comes 
from van " the woman " — {bean means " a woman ") ; that Leith 
Brogan — i.e., leprechaun — is "the artificer of the brogue," while it 
really means the half or one-shoe, or, according to Stokes, is merely a 
corruption of locharpan ; that tobar-na-dara (probably the " oak-well ') is, 
the " well of tears," etc. Unfortunately, in Ireland it is no disgrace, but really 
seems rather a recommendation, to be ignorant of Irish, even when writing on 


his predecessors employed. Mr. Curtin tells us that he 
has taken his tales from the old Gaelic-speaking men ; 
but he must have done so through the awkward medium 
of an interpreter, for his ignorance of the commonest 
Irish words is as startling as Lady Wilde's.* He follows 
Lady Wilde in this, too, that he keeps us in profound 
ignorance of his authorities. He mentions not one 
name, and except that he speaks in a general way of 
old Gaelic speakers in nooks where the language is still 
spoken, he leaves us in complete darkness as to where 
and from whom, and how he collected these stories. In 
this he does not do himself justice, for, from my own 
knowledge of Irish folk-lore, such as it is, I can easily 
recognize that Mr. Curtin has approached the fountain- 
head more nearly than any other. Unfortunately, like 
his predecessors, he has a literary style of his own, for 

* Thus he over and over again speaks of a slumber-pin as bar an suan^ 
evidently mistaking the an oibioran, [" a pin," for an the definite article. So 
he has slat an dmoiachia for slaitin, or statán draoigheachta. He says innis 
caol (narrow island) means " light island," and that gil an og means " water 
of youth ! " &c. ; but, strangest of all, he talks in one of his stories of killing and 
boihng a stork, though his social researches on Irish soil might have taught 
him that that bird was not a Hibernian fowl. He evidently mistakes the very 
common word rf/irc, a bullock, or large animal, or, possibly, tore, "a wild 
boar," for the bird stork. His interpreter probably led him astray in the best 
good faith, for sturck is just as common a word with English-speaking people 
as with Gaelic speakers, though it is not to be found in our wretched dic- 


which, to say the least of it, there is no counterpart in 
the Gaelic from which he has translated.* 

We have as yet had no] folk-lorist in Ireland who 
could compare for a moment with such a man as Iain 
Campbell, of Islay, in investigative powers, thorough- 
ness of treatment, and acquaintance with the people, 
combined with a powerful national sentiment, and, 
above all, a knowledge of Gaelic. It is on this last rock 
that all our workers-up of Irish folk-lore split. In most 
circles in Ireland it is a disgrace to be known to talk 
Irish ; and in the capital, if one makes use of an Irish 
word to express one's meaning, as one sometimes does 
of a French or German word, one would be looked upon 
as positively outside the pale of decency ; hence we 
need not be surprised at the ignorance of Gaelic Ireland 
displayed by litterateurs who write for the English 
public, and foist upon us modes of speech which we 
have not got, and idioms which they never learned 
from us. 

This being the case, the chief interest in too many of 
our folk-tale writers lies in their individual treatment 
of the skeletons of the various Gaelic stories obtained 
through English mediums, and it is not devoid of in- 

* Thus : " Kill Arthur went and killed Ri Fohin and all his people and 
beasts— didn't leave one alive ;" or, " But that instant it disappeared— went 
away of itself;" or, " It won all the time— wasn't playing fair," etc., etc. 


terest to watch the various garbs in which the sophis- 
ticated minds of the ladies and gentlemen who trifled 
in such matters, clothed the dry bones. But when the 
skeletons were thus padded round and clad, although 
built upon folk-lore, they were no longer folk-lore them- 
selves, ior folk-lore can only find a fitting garment in 
the language that comes from the mouths of those whose 
minds are so primitive that they retain with pleasure 
those tales which the more sophisticated invariably 
forget. For this reason folk-lore is presented in an un- 
certain and unsuitable medium, whenever the contents 
of the stories are divorced from their original expression 
in language. Seeing how Irish writers have managed it 
hitherto, it is hardly to be wondered at that the writer 
of the article on folk-lore in the *' Encyclopedia Bri- 
tanica," though he gives the names of some fifty autho- 
rities on the subject, has not mentioned a single Irish 
collection. In the present book, as well as in my 
"LeAb^p Sjeuluije^cc^, I have attempted — if nothing 
else — to be a little more accurate than my predecessors, 
and to give the exaci la?i£2iage oi my iniorma.nts, together 
with their names and various localities — information 
which must always be the very first requisite of any 
work upon which a future scientist may rely when he 
proceeds to draw honey (is it always honey r) from the 
flowers which we collectors have culled for him. 


It is difficult to say whether there still exist in Ire- 
land many stories of the sort given in this volume. That 
is a question which cannot be answered without further 
investigation. In any other country the great body of 
Gaelic folk-lore in the four provinces would have been 
collected long ago, but the " Hiberni incuriosi suorum" 
appear at the present day to care little for anything 
that is Gaelic ; and so their folk-lore has remained prac- 
tically uncollected. 

Anyone who reads this volume as a representative 
one of Irish folk-tales might, at first sight, imagine that 
there is a broad difference between the Gaelic tales of 
the Highlands and those of Ireland, because very few 
of the stories given here have parallels in the volumes 
of Campbell and Maclnnes. I have, however, particu- 
larly chosen the tales in the present volume on account 
of their dissimilarity to any published Highland tales, 
for, as a general rule, the main body of tales in Ireland 
and Scotland bear a very near relation to each other. 
Most of Mr. Curtin's stories, for instance, have Scotch 
Gaelic parallels. It would be only natural, however, 
that many stories should exist in Ireland which are now 
forgotten in Scotland, or v/hich possibly were never 
carried there by that section of the Irish which colonized 
it ; and some of the most modern — especially of the 
kind whose genesis I have called conscious— must have 
arisen amongst the Irish since then, while on the other 


hand some of the Scotch stories may have been be- 
queathed to the Gaelic language by those races who 
were displaced by the Milesian Conquest in the fifth 

]\Iany of the incidents of the Highland stories have 
parallels in Irish MSS., even incidents of which I have 
met no trace in the folk-lore of the people. This is 
curious, because these Irish ]\ISS. used to circulate 
widely, and be constantly read at the firesides of the 
peasantry, while there is no trace of MSS. being in use 
in historical times amongst the Highland cabins. Of 
such stories as were most popular, a very imperfect list 
of about forty is given in Mr. Standish O'Grady's excel- 
lent preface to the third volume of the Ossianic Society's 
publications. After reading most of these in MSS. of 
various dates, and comparing them with such folk-lore 
as I had collected orally, I was surprised to find how 
few points of contact existed between the two. The 
men who committed stories to paper seem to have 
chiefly confined themselves to the inventions of the 
bards or professional story-tellers — often founded, how- 
ever, on folk-lore incidents — while the taste of the people 
was more conservative, and willingly forgot the bardic 
inventions to perpetuate their old Aryan traditions, of 
which this volume gives some specimens. The dis- 
crepancy in style and contents between the j\IS. stories 
and those of the people leads me to believe that the 


Stories in the MSS. are not so much old Aryan folk-tales 
written down by scholars as the inventions of individual 
brains, consciously inventing, as modern novelists do. 
This theory, however, must be somewhat modified before 
it can be applied, for, as I have said, there are incidents 
in Scotch Gaelic folk-tales which resemble those of some 
of the ]\IS. stories rather nearly. Let us glance at a 
single instance — one only out of many — where High- 
land tradition preserves a trait which, were it not for 
such preservation, would assuredly be ascribed to the 
imaginative brain of an inventive Irish writer. 

The extraordinary creature ot which Campbell found 
traces in the Highlands, the Fáchan, of which he has 
drawn a whimsical engraving,'^' is met with in an Irish 
MS. called lollAnn -<\]\iii--oeAH5. ^^^ MacPhie, Camp- 
bell's informant, called him the "Desert creature of Glen 
Eite, the son of Colin," and described him as having 
" one hand out of his chest, one leg out of his haunch, 
and one eye out of the front of his face ;" and again, 
** ugly was the make of the Fáchan, there was one hand 
out of the ridge of his chest, and one tuft out of the top 
of his head, and it were easier to take a mountain from 
the root than to bend that tuft." This one-legged, one- 
handed, one-eyed creature, unknown, as Campbell re- 
marks, to German or Norse mythology, is thus described 

* Campbell's " Popular Tales of the West Highlands.'" Vol. iv. p. 327. 


in the Irish manuscript : " And he (lollann) was not long 
at this, until he saw the devilish misformed element, and 
the fierce and horrible spectre, and the gloomy disgust- 
ing enemy, and the morose unlovely churl (11105^) ; and 
this is how he was : he held a very thick iron flail-club 
in his skinny hand, and twenty chains out of it, and fifty 
apples on each chain of them, and a venomous spell on 
each great apple of them, and a girdle of the skins of 
deer and roebuck around the thing that was his body, 
aiid one eye in the forehead of his black-faced coun- 
tenance, and one bare, hard, very hairy hand coming out 
of his chest, and one veiny, thick-soled leg supporting him 
and a close, firm, dark blue mantle of twisted hard-thick 
feathers, protecting his body, and surely he was more 
like unto devil than to man." This creature inhabited 
a desert, as the Highlander said, and were it not for this 
corroborating Scotch tradition, I should not have hesi- 
tated to put down the whole incident as the whimsical 
invention of some Irish writer, the more so as I had 
never heard any accounts of this wonderful creature in 
local tradition. This discovery of his counterpart in the 
ixighlands puts a new complexion on the matter. Is 
the Highland spectre derived from the Irish manuscript 
story, or does the writer of the Irish story only embody 
in his tale a piece of folk-lore common at one time to 
all branches of the Gaelic race, and now all but extinct. 
This last supposition is certainly the true one, for it is 


borne out by the fact that the Irish writer ascribes no 
name to this monster, while the Highlander calls him a 
Fáchan,* a word, as far as I know, not to be found 

But we have further ground for pausing before we 
ascribe the Irish manuscript story to the invention of 
some single bard or writer. If we read it closely we shall 
see that it is largely the embodiment of other folk-tales. 
Many of the incidents of which it is composed can be 
paralleled from Scotch Gaelic sources, and one of the 
most remarkable, that of the prince becoming a journey- 
man fuller, I have found in a Connacht folk-tale. This 
diffusion of incidents in various tales collected all over 
the Gaelic-speaking world, would point to the fact that 
the story, as far as many of the incidents go, is not the 
invention of the writer, but is genuine folk-lore thrown 
by him into a new form, with, perhaps, added incidents 
of his own, and a brand new dress. 

But now in tracing this typical story, we come across 
another remarkable fact — the fresh start the story took 
on its being thus recast and made up new. Once the 
order and progress of the incidents were thus stereo- 
typed, as it were, the tale seems to have taken a new 

* Father O'Growney has suggested to me that this may be a diminutive 
of the Irish word fathach, "a giant." In Scotch Gaelic a giant is always 
called " famhair," which must be the same word as \\\q. foinhor or sea-pirate of 
mythical Irish history. 


lease of its life, and gone forth to conquer ; for while it 
continued to be constantly copied in Irish manuscripts, 
thus proving its popularity as a written tale, it continued 
to be recited verbally in Scotland in something like the 
same bardic and inflated language made use of by the 
Irish writer, and with pretty nearly the same sequence 
of incidents, the three adventurers, whose Irish names 
are Ur, Artuir, and lollann, having become transmog- 
rified into Ur, Athairt, and lullar, in the mouth of the 
Highland reciter. I think it highly improbable, however, 
that at the time of this story being composed — largely 
out of folk-tale incidents — it was also committed to 
paper. I think it much more likely that the story was 
committed to writing by some Irish scribe, only after 
it had gained so great a vogue as to spread through 
both Ireland and Scotland. This would account for the 
fact that all the existing MSS. of this story, and of 
many others like it, are, as far as I am aware, compara- 
tively modern.* Another argument in favour of this 

* The manuscript in which I first read this story is a typical one of a class 
very numerous all over the country, until O'Connell and the Parliamentarians, 
with the aid of the Catholic prelates, gained the ear and the leadership of the 
nation, and by their more than indifference to things Gaelic put an end to all 
that was really Irish, and taught the people to speak English, to look to London, 
and to read newspapers. This particular MS, was written by one Seorsa 
MacEineircineadh, whoever he was, and it is black with dirt, reeking with turf 
smoke, and worn away at the corners by repeated reading. Besides this story it 
contains a number of others, such as " The Rearing of Cuchulain," " The Death 
of Conlaoch," "The King of Spain's Son," etc., with many Ossianic and elegiac 
poems. The people used to gather in at night to hear these read, and, I am 
sure, nobody who understands the contents of these MSS., and the beautiful 


supposition, that bardic tales were only committed to 
writing when they had become popular, may be drawn 
from the fact that both in Ireland and the Highlands we 
findin manyfolk-lore stories traces of bardiccompositions 
easily known by their poetical, alliterative, and inflated 
language, of which no MSS. are found in either country. 
It may, of course, be said, that the MSS. have perished ; 
and we know how grotesquely indifferent the modern 
Irish are about their literary and antiquarian remains ; 
yet, had they ever existed, I cannot help thinking that 
some trace of them, or allusion to them, would be found 
in our surviving literature. 

There is also the greatest discrepancy in the poetical 
passages which occur in the Highland oral version and 
the Irish manuscript version of such tales as in incident 
are nearly identical. Now, if the story had been propa- 
gated from a manuscript written out once for all, and then 
copied, I feel pretty sure that the resemblance between the 
alliterative passages in the two would be much closer. The 
dissimilarity between them seems to show that the inci- 
dents and not the language were the things to be re- 
membered, and that every wandering bard who picked 
up a new story from a colleague, stereotyped the inci- 
dents in his mind, but uttered them whenever he recited 

alliterative language of the poems, will be likely to agree with the opinion 
freely expressed by most of our representative men, that it is better for the 
people to read newspapers than study anything so useless. 


the story, in his own language ; and whenever he came 
to the description of a storm at sea, or a battle, or 
anything else which the original poet had seen fit to 
describe poetically, he did so too, but not in the same 
way or the same language, for to remember the lan- 
guage of his predecessor on these occasions, from merely 
hearing it, would be well-nigh impossible. It is likely, 
then, that each bard or story-teller observed the places 
where the poetical runs should come in, but trusted to 
his own cultivated eloquence for supplying them. It 
will be well to give an example or two from this tale of 
lollann. Here is the sea-run, as given in the Highland 
oral version, after the three warriors embark in their 
vessel : — 

"They gave her prow to sea and her stern to shore, 
They hoisted the speckled flapping bare-topped sails. 
Up against the tall tough splintering masts, 
And they had a pleasant bieeze as they might chose themselves, 
Would bring heather from the hill, leaf from grove, willow from 's roots. 
Would put thatch of the houses in furrows of the ridges, 
The day that neither the son nor the father could do it, 
That same was neither little nor much for them, 
But using it and taking it as it might come. 
The sea plunging and surging, 
The red sea the blue sea lashing. 
And striking hither and thither about her planks. 
The whorled dun whelk that was down on the floor of the ocean, 
Would give a snag on her gunwale and a crack on her floor. 
She would cut a slender oaten straw with the excellence of her going. 

It will be observed how different the corresponding 
run in the Irish manuscript is, when thrown into verse. 


for the language in both versions is only measured 
prose : — 

" Then they gave an eager very quick courageous high-spirited flood-leap 
To meet and to face the sea and the great ocean. 
And great was the horror ***** 
Then there arose before them a fierceness in the sea, 
And they replied patiently stoutly strongly and vigorously, 
To the roar of the green sided high-strong waves, 
Till they made a high quick very-furious rowing 
Till the deep-margined dreadful blue-bordered sea 
Arose in broad-sloping fierce-frothing plains 
And in rushing murmuring flood-quick ever-deep platforms. 
And in gloomy horrible swift great valleys 
Of very terrible green sea, and the beating and the pounding 
Of the strong dangerous waves smiting against the decks 
And against the sides of that full-great full-tight bark." 

It may, however, be objected that sea-runs are so 
common and so numerous, that one might easily usurp 
the place of another, and that this alone is no proof that 
the various story-tellers or professional bards, contented 
themselves with remembering the incidents of a story, 
but either extemporised their own runs after what 
flourish their nature would, or else had a stock of these, 
of their own composing, always ready at hand. Let us 
look, then, at another story of which Campbell has pre- 
served the Highland version, while I have a good Irish 
MS. of the same, written by some northern scribe, in 
1762. This story, "The Slender Grey Kerne,'' or "Slim 
Swarthy Champion," as Campbell translates it, is full of 
alliterative runs, which the Highland reciter has re- 


tained in their proper places, but couched in different 
language, while he introduces a run of his own which 
the Irish has not got, in describing the swift movement 
of the kerne. Every time the kerne is asked where he 
comes from, the Highlander makes him say — 

" I came from hurr}'-skurry. 
From the land of endless spring,* 
From the loved swanny glen, 
A night in Islay and a night in Man, 
A night on cold watching cairns 
On the face of a mountain. 
In the Scotch king's town was I born, 
A soiled sorry champion am I 
Though I happened upon this town." 

In the Irish ISIS, the kerne always says — 

•' In Dun Monaidh, in the town of the king of Scotland, 
I slept last night. 

But I be a day in Islay and a day in Cantire, 
A day in Man and a day in Rathlin, 
A day in Fionncharn of the watch 
Upon Slieve Fuaid, 
A little miserable traveller I, 
And in Aileach of the kings was I born. 
And that," said he, " is my stor)-." 

Again, whenever the kerne plays his hr.rp the High- 
lander says : — 

"He could play tunes and oirts and orgain. 
Trampling things, tightening strings. 
Warriors, heroes, and ghosts on their feet, 
Ghosts and souls and sickness and fever, 

* Campbell has mistranslated this. I think it means "from the bottom of 
the well of the deluge.'' 


That would set in sound lasting sleep 
The whole great world, 
With the sweetness of the calming* tunes 
That the champion would play." 

The Irish run is as follows : — 

" The kerne played music and tunes and instruments of song, 
Wounded men and women with babes, 
And slashed heroes and mangled warriors, 
And all the wounded and all the sick, 
And the bitterly-wounded of the great world, 
They would sleep with the voice of the music, 
Ever efficacious, ever sweet, which the kerne played." 

Again, when the kerne approaches anyone, his gait 
is thus described half-rythmically by the Scotch narra- 
tor : — "A young chap was seen coming towards them, 
his two shoulders through his old coat, his two ears 
through his old hat, his two squat kickering tatter-y shoes 
full of cold roadway-ish water, three feet of his sword 
sideways in the side of his haunch after the scabbard 
was ended." 

The Irish writer makes him come thus : — " And he 
beheld the slender grey kerne approaching him straight, 
and half his sword bared behind his haunch, and old shoes 
full of water sousing about him, and the top of his ears 
out through his old mantle, and a short butt-burned 
javelin of holly in his hand." 

These few specimens, which could be largely multi- 

* Campbell misunderstood this also, as he sometimes does when the word 
is Irish. Sio^atdh means " lairy." 

PREFACE. xxix 

plied, may be sufficient for our purpose, as they show that 
wherever a run occurs in the Irish the same occurs in 
the Gaelic, but couched in quite different language, 
though preserving a general similarity of meaning. This 
can only be accounted for on the supposition already 
made, that when a professional bard had invented a 
successful story it was not there and then committed to 
paper, but circulated znvd voce^ until it became the pro- 
perty of every story-teller, and was made part of the 
stock-in-trade of professional fJes, who neither remem- 
bered nor cared to remember the words in which the 
story was first told, but only the incidents of which it 
was composed, and who (as their professional training 
enabled them to do) invented or extemporised glowing 
alliterative runs for themselves at every point of the 
story where, according to the inventor of it, a run 
should be. 

It may be interesting to note that this particular story 
cannot — at least in the form in which we find it disse- 
minated both in Ireland and Scotland — ^be older than 
the year 1362, in which year O'Connor Sligo marched 
into Munster and carried off great spoil, for in both the 
Scotch and Irish versions the kerne is made to accom- 
pany that chieftain, and to disappear in disgust because 
O'Connor forgot to offer him the first drink. This story 
then, and it is probably typical of a great many others, 
had its rise in its present shape — for, of course, the germ 


of it may be much older — on Irish ground, not earlier 
than the end of the fourteenth or the beginning of the 
fifteenth century, and was carried by some Irish bard or 
professional story-teller to the Gaeldom of Scotland, 
where it is told to this day without any great variations, 
. but in a form very much stunted and shortened. As to 
the Irish copy, I imagine that it was not written down 
for a couple of centuries later, and only after it had 
become a stock piece all over the Scotch and Irish 
Gaeldom ; that then some scribe got hold of a story-teller 
(one of those professionals who, according to the Book 
of Leinster, were obliged to know seven times fifty sto- 
ries), and stereotyped in writing the current Irish varia- 
tion of the tale, just as Campbell, two, three, or four cen- 
turies afterwards, did with the Scotch Gaelic version. 

It may, of course, be alleged that the bombastic and 
inflated language of many of the MS. stories is due not 
to the oral reciter, but to the scribe, who, in his pride of 
learning, thought to himself, yiihil quod tango non orno ; 
out though it is possible that some scribes threw in ex- 
traneous embellishments, I think the story-teller was 
the chief transgressor. Here, for instance, is a verbally 
collected specimen from a Connemara story, which con- 
tains all the marks of the MS. stories, and yet it is 
almost certain that it has been transmitted purely viva 
voce:—'' They journeyed to the harbour where there was 
a vessel waiting to take them across the sea. They 


struck into her, and hungup the great blowing, bellying, 
equal-long, equal-straight sails, to the tops of the masts, 
so that they would not leave a rope without straining, 
or an oar without breaking, plowing the seething, surg- 
ing sea ; great whales making fairy music and service for 
them, two-thirds going beneath the wave to the one-third 
going on the top, sending the smooth sand down below 
and the rough sand up above, and the eels in grips with 
one another, until they grated on port and harbour in 
the Eastern world." This description is probably no- 
thing to the glowing language which a professional 
story-teller, with a trained ear, enormous vocabulary, 
and complete command of the language, would have 
employed a couple of hundred years ago. When such 
popular traces of the inflated style even still exist, it is 
against all evidence to accredit the invention and pro- 
pagation of it to the scribes alone. 

The relationship between Ireland and the Scottish 
Gaeldom was of the closest kind, and there must have been 
something like an identity of literature, nor was there 
any break in the continuity of these friendly relations 
until the plantation of Ulster cut off the high road be- 
tween the two Gaelic families. Even during the fifteenth 
and sixteenth centuries it is probable that no sooner did 
a bardic composition win fame in Ireland than it was 
carried over to try its fortune in Scotland too, just as an 
English dramatic company will come over from London 


to Dublin. A story which throws great light on the dis- 
persion of heroic tales amongst the Gaelic-speaking 
peoples, is Conall Gulban, the longest of all Campbell's 
tales. On comparing the Highland version with an Irish 
MS., by Father Manus O'Donnell, made in 1708, and 
another made about the beginning of this century, by 
Michael O'Longan, of Carricknavar, I was surprised to 
find incident following incident with wonderful regularity 
in both versions. Luckily we have proximate data for 
fixing the date of this renowned story, a story that, 
according to Campbell, is " very widely spread in Scot- 
land, from Beaulay on the east, to Barra on the west, 
and Dunoon and Paisley in the south." Both the Irish 
and Gaelic stories relate the exploits of the fifth century 
chieftain, Conall Gulban, the son of Niall of the Nine 
Hostages, and his wars with (amongst others) the Turks. 
The Irish story begins with an account of Niall holding 
his court, when a herald from the Emperor of Constan- 
tinople comes forward and summons him to join the 
army of the emperor, and assist in putting down Chris- 
tianity, and making the nations of Europe embrace the 
Turkish faith. We may fairly surmise that this romance 
took its rise in the shock given to Europe by the fall of 
Constantinople and the career of Mahomet the Great. 
This would throw back its date to the latter end of the 
fifteenth century at the earliest ; but one might almost 
suppose that Constantinople had been long enough held 


by the Turks at the time the romance was invented to 
make the inventor suppose that it had always belonged to 
them, even in the time of Niall of the Nine Hostages.* 
We know that romances of this kind continued to be 
invented at a much later date, but I fancy none of these 
ever penetrated to Scotland. One of the most popular 
of romantic tales with the scribes of the last century and 
the first half of this, w^as " The Adventures of Torolbh Mac 
Stairn, and again, the " Adventures of Torolbh IMacStairn's 
Three Sons," which most of the AISS. ascribe to Michael 
Coiminn, who lived at the beginning of the eighteenth 
century,! and whose romance was certainly not propa- 
gated by professional story-tellers, as I have tried to prove 
was the case with the earlier romances, but by means of 
numerous manuscript copies ; and it is also certain that 
Coiminn did not relate this tale as the old bards did, but 

• In a third MS., however, which I have, made by a modern Clare 
scribe, Domhnall Mac Consaidin, I find " the Emperor Constantine," not 
the "Emperor of Constantinople," written. O'Curry in his "Manuscript 
Materials," p. 319, ascribes "ConallGulban'" with some other stories, to a date 
prior to the year 1000 ; but the fighting with the Turks (which motivates the 
whole story, and which cannot be the addition of an ignorant Irish scribe, since 
it is also found in the Highland traditional version), shows that its date, in its 
present form, at least, is much later. There is no mention of Constantinople in 
the Scotch Gaelic version, and hence it is possible — though, I think, hardly 
probable — that the story had its origin in the Crusades. 

+ I find the date, 1749, attributed to it in a voluminous MS. of some 600 
closely written pages, bound in sheepskin, made by Laurence Foran of Water- 
ford, in 1812, given me by Mr. W. Doherty, C.E. 


wrote it down as modern novelists do their stories. But 
this does not invalidate my surmise, or prove that Conall 
Gulban, and forty or fifty of the same kind, had their 
origin in a written manuscript ; it only proves that in the 
eighteenth century the old order was giving place to the 
new, and that the professional bards and story-tellers 
were now a thing of the past, they having fallen with the 
Gaelic nobility who were their patrons. It would be 
exceedingly interesting to know whether any traces of 
these modern stories that had their rise in written manu- 
scripts, are to be found amongst the peasantry as folk- 
lore. I, certainly, have found no remnant of any such ; 
but this proves nothing. If Ireland had a few individual 
workers scattered over the provinces we would know more 
on the subject; but, unfortunately, we have hardly any such 
people, and what is worse, the present current of political 
thought, and the tone of our Irish educational establish- 
ments are not likely to produce them. Until something 
has been done by us to collect Irish folk-lore in as tho- 
rough a manner as Highland tales have already been 
collected, no deductions can be made with certainty 
upon the subject of the relationship between High- 
land and Irish folk-tales, and the relation of both to the 
Irish MSS. 

Irish folk-stories may roughly be divided into two 
classes, those which I believe never had any conscious 
genesis inside the shores of Ireland, and those which 


had. These last we have just been examining. Most of 
the longer tales about the Fenians, and all those stories 
which have long inflated passages full of alliterative 
words and poetic epithets, belong to this class. Under 
the other head of stories that were never consciously- 
invented on Irish ground, we may place all such simple 
stories as bear a trace of nature myths, and those which 
appear to belong to our old Aryan heritage, from the fact 
of their having parallels amongst other Aryan-speaking 
races, such as the story of the man who wanted to learn to 
shake with fear, stories of animals and talking birds, of 
giants and wizards, and others whose directness and 
simplicity show them to have had an unconscious and 
popular origin, though some of these may, of course, 
have arisen on Irish soil. To this second class belong 
also that numerous body of traditions rather than tales, 
of conversational anecdotes rather than set stories, about 
appearances of fairies, or " good people," or Tuatha De 
Danann, as they are also called ; of pookas, leprechauns, 
ghosts, apparitions, water-horses, &c. These creations 
of folk-fancy seldom appear, as far as I have observed, 
in the folktale proper, or at least they only appear as 
adjuncts, for in almost all cases the interest of these 
regular tales centres round a human hero. Stories about 
leprechauns, fairies, &c., are very brief, and generally 
have local names and scenery attached to them, and are 
told conversationally as any other occurrence might be 


told, whereas there is a certain solemnity about the repe- 
tition of a folk-tale proper. 

After spending so much time over the very latest 
folk-tales, the detritus of bardic stories, it will be well to 
cast a glance at some of the most ancient, such as bear 
their pre-historic origin upon their face. Some of these 
point, beyond all doubt, to rude efforts on the part of 
primitive man to realize to himself the phenomena of 
nature, by personifying them, and attaching to them 
explanatory fables. Let us take a specimen from a story 
I found in Mayo, not given in this volume — " The Boy 
who was long on his Mother." * In this story, which in 
Von Hahn's classification would come under the heading 
of "the strong man his adventures," the hero is a 
veritable Hercules, whom the king tries to put to death 
by making him perform impossible tasks, amongst other 
things, by sending him down to hell to drive up the 
spirits with his club. He is desired by the king to drain 
a lake full of water. The lake is very steep on one side 
like a reservoir. The hero makes a hole at this side, 
applies his mouth to it, and sucks down the water of the 
lake, with boats, fishes, and everything else it contained, 
leaving the lake coiii ci]\ni le boi^^ -00 lÁitiie, " as dry as 
the palm of your hand." Even a sceptic will be likely to 
confess that this tale (which has otherwise no meaning) 

* An buACAiLL t)0 bi a b]rAT)|Aip a iiiÁrAi|\. 


is the remains of a (probably Aryan) sun-myth, and 
personifies the action of the warm sun in drying- up a 
lake and makingit a marsh, killing the fishes, and leaving 
the boats stranded. But this story, like many others, is 
suggestive of more than this, since it would supply an 
argument for those who, like Professor Rhys, see in 
Hercules a sun-god. The descent of our hero into hell, 
and his frightening the spirits with his club, the impos- 
sible tasks which the king gives him to perform in the 
hopes of slaying him, and his successful accomplishment 
of them, seem to identify him with the classic Hercules. 
But the Irish tradition preserves the incident of drying 
the lake, which must have been the work of a sun-god, the 
very thing that Hercules — but on much slighter grounds — 
is supposed to have been.* If this story is not the remains 
of a nature myth, it is perfectly unintelligible, for no 
rational person could hope to impose upon even a child 
by saying that a man drank up a lake, ships, and all ; 
and yet this story has been with strange conservatism 
repeated from father to son for probably thousands of 
years, and must have taken its rise at a time when our 
ancestors were in much the same rude and mindless 

• Prof. Rhys identifies Cuchulain with Hercules, and makes them both 
sun-gods. There is nothing in our story, however, which points to Cuchulain, 
and still less to the Celtic Hercules described by Lucian. 


condition as the Australian blacks or the Indians of 
California are to-day. 

Again, in another story we hear of a boat that sails 
equally swiftly over land and sea, and goes straight to 
its mark. It is so large that if all the men in the world 
were to enter it there would remain place for six hundred 
more ; while it is so small that it folds up into the hand 
of the person who has it. But ships do not sail on land, 
nor grow large and small, nor go straight to their mark ; 
consequently, it is plain that we have here another 
nature myth, vastly old, invented by pre-historic man, 
for these ships can be nothing but the clouds which sail 
over land and sea, are large enough to hold the largest 
armies, and small enough to fold into the hand, and 
which go straight to their mark. The meaning of this 
has been forgotten for countless ages, but the story has 

Again, in another tale which I found, called '* The 
Bird of Sweet Music," '•' a man follows a sweet singing 
bird into a cave under the ground, and finds a country 
where he wanders for a year and a day, and a woman 
who befriends him while there, and enables him to bring 
back the bird, which turns out to be a human being.. 
At the end of the tale the narrator mentions quite 
casually that it was his mother whom he met down there. 

* A»i c éuti ceól-binii. 


But this touch shows that the land where he wandered 
was the Celtic Hades, the country of the dead beneath 
the ground, and seems to stamp the tale at once as at 
least pre-Christian. 

Even in such an unpretending-looking story as "The 
King of Ireland's Son" (the third in this volume), there 
are elements which must be vastly old. In a short 
Czech story, " George with the Goat," we find some of 
the prince's companions figuring, only slightly metamor- 
phosed. We have the man with one foot over his 
shoulder, who jumps a hundred miles when he puts it 
down ; while the gun-man of the Irish story who per- 
forms two parts — that of seeing and shooting — is replaced 
in the Bohemian tale by two different men, one of whom 
has such sight that he must keep a bandage over his 
eyes, for it he removed it he could see a hundred miles, 
and the other has, instead of a gun, a bottle with 
his thumb stuck into it for a stopper, because if he 
took it out it would squirt a hundred miles. George 
hires one after the other, just as the prince does 
in the Irish story. George goes to try to win the king's 
daughter, as the Irish prince does, and, amongst other 
things, is desired to bring a goblet of water from a well 
a hundred miles off in a minute. " So," says the story,* 
" George said to the man who had the foot on his 

* Wratislaw's Folk-Tales from Slavonic Sources. 


shoulder, ' You said that if you took the foot down you 
could jump a hundred miles.' He replied : 'I'll easily 
do that.' He took the foot down, jumped, and was there ; 
but after this there was only a very little time to spare, 
and by this he ought to have been back. So George 
said to the second. ' You said that if you removed the 
bandage from your eyes you could see a hundred miles ; 
peep, and see what is going on.' ' Ah, sir, goodness 
gracious ! he's fallen asleep.' ' That will be a bad job,' 
5aid George ; ' the time will be up. You third man, you 
said if you pulled your thumb out you could squirt a 
hundred miles. Be quick, and squirt thither, that he 
may get up ; and you, look whether he is moving, or 
what.' ' Oh, sir, he's getting up now ; he's knocking 
the dust off; he's drawing the water.' He then gave a 
jump, and was there exactly in time." Now, this Bohe- 
mian story seems also to bear traces of a nature myth ; 
for, as Mr. Wratislaw has remarked: "the man who 
jumps a hundred miles appears to be the rainbow, the 
man with bandaged eyes the lightning, and the man 
with the bottle the cloud." The Irish story, while in 
every other way superior to the Bohemian, has quite 
obscured this point; and were it not for the striking 
Sclavonic parallel, people might be found to assert that 
the story was of recent origin. This discovery of the 
the Czech tale, however, throws it at once three thousand 
years back; for the similarity of the Irish and Bohemian 


Story can hardly be accounted for, except on the suppo- 
sition, that both Slavs and Celts carried it from the 
original home of the Aryan race, in pre-historic times, 
or at least from some place where the two races were in 
contiguity with one another, and that it, too — little as it 
appears so now — was at one time in all probability a 
nature myth. 

Such myth stories as these ought to be preserved, 
since they are about the last visible link connecting 
civilized with pre-historic man ; for, of all the traces 
that man in his earliest period has left behind him, there 
is nothing except a few drilled stones or flint arrow- 
heads that approaches the antiquity of these tales, as 
told to-day by a half-starving peasant in a smoky 
Connacht cabin. 

It is time to say a word about the narrators of these 
stories. The people who can recite them are, as far as 
my researches have gone, to be found only amongst the 
oldest, most neglected, and poorest of the Irish-speaking 
population. English-speaking people either do not 
know them at all, or else tell them in so bald and con- 
densed a form as to be useless. Almost all the men 
from whom I used to hear stories in the County Ros- 
common are dead. Ten or fifteen years ago I used to 
hear a great many stories, but I did not understand their 
value. Now when I go back for them I cannot find 
them. They have died out, and will never again be 

xlil PREFACE. 

heard on the hillsides, where they probably existed for a 
couple of thousand years ; they will never be repeated 
there again, to use the Irish phrase, while grass grows 
or water runs. Several of these stories I got from an old 
man, one Shawn Cunningham, on the border of the 
County Roscommon, where it joins ]\Iayo. He never 
spoke more than a few words of English till he was fif- 
teen years old. He was taught by a hedge schoolmaster 
from the South of Ireland out of Irish MSS. As far as I 
could make out from him the teaching seemed to consist 
in making him learn Irish poems by heart. His next 
schoolmaster, however, tied a piece of stick round his 
neck, and when he came to school in the morning the 
schoolmaster used to inspect the piece of wood and pre- 
tend that it told him how often he had spoken Irish 
when at home. In some cases the schoolmasters made 
the parents put a notch in the stick every time the child 
failed to speak English. He was beaten then, and always 
beaten whenever he was heard speaking a word of Irish, 
even though at this time he could hardly speak a word of 
English. His son and daughter now speak Irish, though 
not fluently, his grandchildren do not even understand 
it. He had at one time, as he expressed it, " the full of 
a sack of stories," but he had forgotten them. His 
grandchildren stood by his knee while he told me one 
or two, but it was evident they did not understand a 
word. His son and daughter laughed at them as non- 


sense. Even in Achill where, if anywhere, one ought to 
find folk-stories in their purity, a fine-looking dark man 
of about forty-five, who told me a number of them, and 
could repeat Ossian's poems, assured me that now-a- 
days when he went into a house in the evening and the 
old people got him to recite, the boys would go out; 
"they wouldn't understand me," said he, " and when they 
wouldn't, they'd sooner be listening to 5éimneA.c n<^ mbó," 
" the lowing of the cows." This, too, in an island where 
many people cannot speak English. I do not know 
whether the Achill schoolmasters make use of the notch 
of wood to-day, but it is hardly wanted now. It is 
curious that this was the device universally employed 
all over Connacht and :\Iunster to kill the language. 
This took place under the eye of O'Connell and the Par- 
liamentarians, and, of course, under the eye and with 
the sanction of the Catholic priesthood and prelates, 
some of whom, according to Father Keegan, of 
St. Louis, distinguished themselves by driving the 
Irish teachers out of their dioceses and burning their 
books. At the present day, such is the irony of fate, if 
a stranger talks Irish he runs a good chance of being 
looked upon as an enemy, this because some attempts 
were made to proselytize " natives '' by circulating Irish 
bibles, and sending some Irish scripture-readers amongst 
them. Surely nothing so exquisitely ludicrous ever 
took place outside of this island of anomalies, as that a 


Stranger who tries to speak Irish in Ireland runs the 
serious risk of being looked upon a proselytizing Eng- 
lishman. As matters are still progressing gaily in this 
direction, let nobody be surprised if a pure Aryan lan- 
guage which, at the time of the famine, in '47, was spoken 
at least four million souls (more than the whole popu- 
lation of Switzerland), becomes in a few years as extinct 
as Cornish, Of course, there is not a shadow of necessity, 
either social or economical, for this. All the world 
knows that bi-linguists are superior to men who know 
only one language, yet in Ireland everyone pretends to 
believe the contrary, A few words from the influential 
leaders of the race when next they visit Achill, for in- 
stance, would help to keep Irish alive there in smcula 
s(BCuloriim, and with the Irish language, the old Aryan 
folk-lore, the Ossianic poems, numberless ballads, folk- 
songs, and proverbs, and a thousand and one other in- 
teresting things that survive when Irish is spoken, and 
die when it dies. But, from a complexity of causes which 
I am afraid to explain, the men who for the last sixty 
years have had the ear of the Irish race have persistently 
shown the cold shoulder to everything that was Irish and 
racial, and while protesting, or pretending to protest, 
against West Britonism, have helped, more than anyone 
else, by their example, to assimilate us to England and 
the English, thus running counter to the entire voice of 
modern Europe, which is in favour of extracting the best 


from the various races of men who inhabit it, by helping 
them to develop themselves on national and racial 
lines. The people are not the better for it either, for one 
would fancy it required little culture to see that the man 
who reads Irish MSS., and repeats Ossianic poetry, is a 
higher and more interesting type than the man whose 
mental training is confined to spelling through an 
article in Uiiited Ireland* 

I may mention here that it is not as easy a thing as 
might be imagined to collect Irish stories. One hears 
that tales are to be had from such and such a man, 
generally, alas ! a very old one. With difficulty one 
manages to find him out, only to discover, probably, that 
he has some work on hand. If it happens to be harvest 
time it is nearly useless going to him at all, unless one 

* It appears, unfortunately, that all classes of our Irish politicians alike 
agree in their treatment of the language in which all the past of their race— 
until a hundred years ago — is enshrined. The inaction of the Parliamentarians, 
though perhaps dimly intelligible, appears, to me at least, both short-sighted 
and contradictory, for they are attempting to create a nationality with one hand 
and with the other destroying, or allowing to be destroyed, the very thing 
that would best differentiate and define that nationality. It is a making of 
bricks without straw. But the non-Parliamentarian Nationalists, in Ireland at 
least, appear to be thoroughly in harmony with them on this point. It is 
strange to find the man who most commands the respect and admiration of that 
party advising the young men of Gaelic Cork, in a printed and widely-circu- 
lated lecture entitled : " What Irishmen should know," to this effect : — " I 
begin by a sort of negative advice. You all know that much has been written 
in the Irish language. This is of great importance, especially in connection 
with our early history, hence must ever form an important study for scholars 
But you are, most of you, not destined to be scholars,and so I should simply 

xlvi PREFACE. 

is prepared to sit up with him all night, for his mind is sure 
to be so distraught with harvest operations that he can tell 
you nothing. If it is winter time, however, and you fortu- 
nately find him unoccupied, nevertheless it requires some 
management to get him to tell his stories. Half a glass of 
ishka-baha, a pipe of tobacco, and a story of one's own 
are the best things to begin with. If, however, you 
start to take down the story verbatim with pencil and 
paper, as an unwary collector might do, you destroy all, 
or your shanachie becomes irritable. He will not wait 
for you to write down your sentence, and if you call out, 
" Stop, stop, wait till I get this down," he will forget 
what he was going to tell you, and you will not get a 
third of his story, though you may think you have it all. 
What you m.ust generally do is to sit quietly smoking 

advise you — especially such of you as do not already know Irish — to leave all 
this alone, or rather to be content with what you can easily find in a translated 
shape in the columns of Hardiman, Miss Brooke, Mangan, and Sigerson." So 
that the man whose most earnest aspiration in life is Ireland a nation, begins by 
advising the youth of Ireland 7iot to study the language of their fathers, and to 
read the gorgeous Gaelic poetry in such pitiful translations as Hardiman a.nd 
Miss Brooke have given of a few pieces. The result of this teaching is as 
might be expected. A well-known second-hand book seller in Dublin assured 
me recently that as many as 200 Irish MSS. had passed through his hand 
within the last few years. Dealers had purchased them throughout the 
country in Cavan, Monaghan, and many other counties for a few pence, and 
sold them to him, and he had dispersed them again to the four winds of heaven, 
especially to America, Australia, and New Zealand. Many of these must have 
contained matter not to be found elsewhere. All are now practically lost, and 
nobody in Ireland either knows or cares. In America, however, of all coun- 
tries in the world, they appreciate the situation better, and the fifth resolution 
passed at the last great Chicago Congress was one about the Irish language. 


your pipe, without the slightest interruption, not even 
when he comes to words and phrases which you do not 
understand. He must be allowed his own way to the 
end, and then after judiciously praising him and dis- 
cussing the story, you remark, as if the thought had 
suddenly struck you, "but) liiMc liom pn a beic A.5M11 m]\ 
pÁipeti]\," " I'd like to have that on paper." Then you 
can get it from him easily enough, and when he leaves 
out whole incidents, as he is sure to do, you who have 
just heard the story can put him right, and so get it 
from him nearly in its entirety. Still it is not always 
easy to write down these stories, for they are full of 
old or corrupted words, which neither you nor your nar- 
rator understand, and if you press him too much 
over the meaning of these he gets confused and irri- 

The present volume consists of about half the stories in 
the Leabhar Sgeuluigheachta, translated into English, 
together with some half dozen other stories given in the 
original together with a close English translation. It is 
not very easy to make a good translation from Irish into 
English, for there are no two Aryan languages more 
opposed to each other in spirit and idiom. Still, the 
English spoken by three-fourths of the people of Ireland 
is largely influenced by Gaelic idioms, for most of those 
expressions which surprise Englishmen are really trans- 
lations from that Irish which was the language of the 

xlviii PREFACE. 

speaker's father, grandfather, or great-grandfather — 
according to the part of the country you may be in — and 
there have perpetuated themselves, even in districts 
where you will scarce find a trace of an Irish word. 
There are, however, also hundreds of Gaelic idioms not 
reproduced in the English spoken by the people, and it 
is difficult to render these fitly. Campbell of Islay has 
run into rather an extreme in his translations, for in 
order to make them picturesque, he has rendered his 
Gaelic originals something too literally. Thus, he in- 
variably translates bhain se an ceann deth, by " he reaped 
the head off him," a form of speech which, I notice, a 
modern Irish poet and M.P. has adopted from him ; but 
bain, though it certainly means " reap " amongst other 
things, is the word used for taking off a hat as well as a 
head. Again, he always translates thu by " thou," 
which gives his stories a strange antique air, which is 
partly artificial, for the Gaelic " thou " corresponds to 
the English " you," the second person plural not being 
used except in speaking of more than one. In this way, 
Campbell has given his excellent and thoroughly reliable 
translations a scarcely legitimate colouring, which I have 
tried to avoid. For this reason, I have not always trans- 
lated the Irish idioms quite literally, though I have used 
much unidiomatic English, but only of the kind used all 
over Ireland, the kind the people themselves use. I do 
not translate, for instance, the Irish for "he died," by 


" he got death," for this, though the literal translation, 
is not adopted into Hibernian English ; but I do trans- 
late the Irish ghnidheadh se sin by "he used to do that," 
which is the ordinary Anglo-Irish attempt at making — 
what they have not got in English — a consuetudinal 
tense. I have scarcely used the pluperfect at all. No 
such tense exists in Irish, and the people who speak 
English do not seem to feel the want of it, and make no 
hesitation in saying, " I'd speak sooner if I knew that," 
where they mean, " if I had known that I would have 
spoken sooner." I do not translate (as Campbell would), 
" it rose with me to do it," but " I succeeded in doing 
it ; " for the first, though the literal translation of the 
Irish idiom, has not been adopted into English ; but I do 
translate " he did it and he drunk," instead of, "he did 
it while he was drunk ; " for the first phrase (the literal 
translation of the Irish) is universally used throughout 
English-speakinglreland. Where, as sometimeshappens, 
the English language contains no exact equivalent for an 
Irish expression, I have rendered the original as well 
as I could, as one generally does render for linguistic 
purposes, from one language into another. 

In conclusion, it only remains for me to thank Mr. 
Alfred Nutt for enriching this book as he has done, and 
for bearing with the dilatoriness of the Irish printers, 
who find so much difficulty in setting Irish type, that 


many good Irishmen have of late come round to the 
idea of printing our language in Roman characters ; and 
to express my gratitude to Father Eugene O'Grovvney 
for the unwearying kindness with which he read and 
corrected my Irish proofs, and for the manifold aid 
which he has afforded me on this and other occasions. 


I HAD hoped to accompany these tales with as full a commentary as that which 
I have affixed to the Arg}'llshire Mdrchen, collected and translated by the 
Rev. D. Maclnues. Considerations of business and health prevent me from 
carrying out this intention, and I have only been able to notice a passage here 
and there in the Tales ; but I have gladly availed myself of my friend, Dr. 
Hyde's permission, to touch upon a few points in his Introduction. 

Of special interest are Dr. Hyde's remarks upon the relations which obtain 
between the modern folk-tale current among the Gaelic-speaking populations 
of Ireland and Scotland, and the Irish mythic, heroic, and romantic literature 
preserved' in MSS., which range in date from the eleventh century to the pre- 
sent day. 

In Ireland, more than elsewhere, the line of demarcation between the tale 
whose genesis is conscious, and that of which the reverse is true, is hard to 
draw, and students will, for a long while to come, differ concerning points of 
detail. I may thus be permitted to disagree at times with Dr. Hyde, although, 
as a rule, I am heartily at one with him. 

Dr. Hyde distinguishes between an older stratum of folk-tale (the "old 
Aryan traditions," of p. xix.) and the newer stratum of " bardic inventions." 
He also establishes a yet younger class than these latter, the romances of the 
professional story-tellers of the eighteenth century, who " wrote them down as 
modern novelists do their stories." Of these last he remarks (p. xxxiv.), that 
he has found no remnant of them among the peasantry of to-day ; a valuable 
bit of evidences, although, of course, subject to the inconclusiveness of all merely 
negative testimony. To revert to the second class, he looks upon the tales 
comprised in it as being rather the inventions of individual brains than as old 
Aryan folk-tales (p. xx.) It must at once be conceded, that a great number 
of the tales and ballads current in the Gaelic-speaking lands undoubtedly re- 
ceived the form under which they are now current, somewhere between the 
twelfth and the sixteenth centuries ; that the authors of that form were equally 


undoubtedly the professional bards and story-tellers attached to the court of 
every Gaelic chieftain ; and that the method of their transmission was oral, 
it being the custom of the story-tellers both to teach their tales to pupils, and 
to travel about from district to district. 

The style of these stories and ballads enables us to date them with sufficient 
precision. Dr. Hyde also notes historical allusions, such as the reference to 
O'Connor Sligo, in the story of the " Slim Swarthy Champion," or to the Turks 
in the story of " Conall Gulban." I cannot but think, however, that it is strain- 
ing the evidence to assert that the one story was invented after 1362, or the other 
after the fall of Constantinople. The fact that " Bony " appears in some ver- 
sions of the common English mumming play does not show that it originated 
in this century, merely that these particular versions have passed through the 
minds of nineteenth century peasants ; and in like manner the Connaught 
fourteenth century chieftain may easily have taken the place of an earlier per- 
sonage, the Turks in " Conall Gulban," of an earlier wizard-giant race. If I 
cannot go as far as Dr. Hyde in this sense, I must equally demur to the as- 
sumption (p. xl.), that community of incident between an Irish and a 
Bohemian tale necessarily establishes the pre-historic antiquity of the incident. 
I believe that a great many folk-tales, as well as much else of folk-lore, has 
been developed in situ, rather imported from the outside ; but I, by no means, 
deny importation in principle, and I recognise that its agency has been clearly 
demonstrated in not a few cases. 

The main interest of Irish folk-literature (if the expression be allowed) 
centres in the bardic stories. I think that Dr. Hyde lays too much stress 
upon such external secondary matters as the names of heroes, or allusions 
to historical events; and, indeed, he himself, in the case of Murachaidh Mac- 
Brian, states what I believe to be the correct theory, namely, that the Irish 
bardic story, from which he derives the Scotch Gaelic one, is, as far as 
many of its incidents go, not the invention of the writer, but genuine folk- 
lore thrown by him into a new form (p. xxii.) 

Had we all the materials necessary for forming a judgment, such is, I 
believe, the conclusion that would in every case be reached. But I further- 
more hold it likely that in many cases the recast story gradually reverted 
to a primitive folk-type in the course of passing down from the court story- 
teller to the humbler peasant reciters, that it sloughed off the embellishments 
of the ollamhs, and reintroduced the older, wilder conceptions with which 
the folk remained in fuller sympathy than the more cultured bard. Com- 
pare, for instance, as I compared ten years ago, " Maghach Colgar," in 
Campbell's version (No. 36), with the " Fairy Palace of the Quicken 
Trees." The one tale has all the incidents in the wildest and most fantastic 
form possible ; in the other they are rationalised to the utmost possible extent 


and made to appear like a piece of genuine history. I do not think that if 
this later version was invented right out by a thirteenth or fourteenth century 
ollamh, it could have given rise to the former one. Either " Maghach Col- 
gar " descends from the folk-tale which served as the basis of the Irish story, 
or, what s more likely, the folk, whilst appreciating and preserving the new 
arrangement of certain well-known incidents, retained the earlier form of the 
incidents themselves, as being more consonant with the totality of its concep- 
tions, both moral and esthetic. This I hold to be the vital lesson the folk- 
lorist may learn from considering the relations of Gaelic folk-tale and Gaelic 
romance (using the latter term in the sense of story with a conscious genesis): 
that romance, to live and propagate itself among the folk, must follow certain 
rules, satisfy certain conceptions of life, conform to certain conventions. The 
Irish bards and story-tellers had little difficulty, I take it, in doing this ; 
they had not outgrown the creed of their countrymen, they were in sub- 
stantial touch with the intellectual and artistic laws that govern their subject- 
matter. Re-arrange, rationalise somewhat, deck out with the questionable 
adornment o( their scanty and ill-digested book-learning — to this extent, 
but to this extent only, I believe, reached their influence upon the mass of 
folk-conceptions and presentments which they inherited from their fathers, 
and which, with these modifications and additions, they handed on to their 

But romance must not only conform to the conventions, it must also fit in 
with the e7isemble of conditions, material, mental and spiritual, which con- 
stitute the culture (taking this much-abused word in its widest sense) of a 
race. An example will make this clear. 

Of all modern, consciously-invented fairy tales I know but one which con- 
forms fully to the folk-tale convention — "The Shaving of Shagpat." It 
follows the formula as closely and accurately as the best of Grimm's or of 
Campbell's tales. To divine the nature of a convention, and to use its 
capabilities to the utmost, is a special mark of genius, and in this, as in other 
instances, whatever else be absent from Mr. Meredith's work, genius is 
indubitably present. But I do not think that " The Shaving of Shagpat" 
could ever be acclimatised as a folk-tale in this country. Scenery, conduct 
of story, characterisation of personages, are all too distinctively Oriental. 
But let an Eastern admirer of Mr. Meredith translate his work into 
Arabic or Hindi, and let the book fall into the hands of a Cairene or 
Delhi story-teller (if such still exist), I can well imagine that, with judicious 
cuts, it should win praise for its reciter in market-place or bazaar. Did this 
happen, it would surely be due to the fact that the story is strictly constructed 
upon traditional lines, rather than to the brilliant invention and fancy dis- 
played on every page. Strip from it the wit and philosophy of the author, 


and there remains a fairy tale to charm the East ; but it would need to be 
reduced to a skeleton, and reclothed with new flesh before it could charm 
the folk of the West. 

To bring home yet more clearly to our minds this necessity for romance to 
conform to convention, let us ask ourselves, what would have happened if one 
of the Irish story-tellers who perambulated the Western Isles as late as the 
seventeenth century, had carried with him a volume of Hakluyt or Purchas, or, 
supposing one to have lingered enough, Defoe or Gil Bias ? Would he have 
been welcomed when he substituted the new fare for the old tales of " Finn and 
the Fians ? " and even if welcomed, would he have gained currency for it ? 
Would the seed thus planted have thriven, or would it not rather, fallen upon 
rocky places, have withered away ? 

It may, however, be objected that the real difference hes not so much in 
the subject-matter as in the mode of transmission ; and the objection may 
seem to derive some force from what Dr. Hyde notes concerning the preva- 
lence of folk-tales in Wicklow, and the nearer Pale generally, as con- 
trasted with Leitrim, Longford, and Meath (p. xii.). It is difficult to 
over-estimate the interest and importance of this fact, and there can 
hardly be a doubt that Dr. Hyde has explained it correctly. It may, 
then, be urged that so long as oral transmission lasts the folk-tale 
flourishes ; and only when the printed work ousts the story-teller is it that 
the folk-tale dies out. But this reasoning will not hold water. It is absurd 
to contend that the story-teller had none but a certain class of materials at 
his disposal till lately. He had the whole realm of intellect and fancy to draw 
upon ; but he, and still more his hearers, knew only one district of that 
realm ; and had it been possible for him to step outside its limits his hearers 
could not have followed him. I grant folk fancy has shared the fortunes of 
humanity together with every other manifestation of man's activity, but always 
within strictly defined limits, to transgress which has always been to forfeit 
the favour of the folk. 

What, then, are the characteristic marks of folk-fancy ? The question is 
of special interest in connection with Gaelic folk-lore. The latter is rich in 
transitional forms, the study of which reveal more clearly than is othenvise 
possible the nature and workings of the folk-mind. 

The products of folk-fancy (putting aside such examples of folk-wisdom 
and folk-wit as proverbs, saws, jests, etc.), may be roughly divided among 
two great classes : 

Firstly, stories of a quasi-historical or anecdotic nature, accepted as actual 
fact (of course with varying degrees of credence) by narrator and hearer. 
Stories of this kind are very largely concerned with beings (supernatural, as 
we should call them) differing from man, and with their relations to and deal- 


ings with man. Not infrequently, however, the actors in the stories are 
wholly human, or human and animal. GaeHc folk-lore is rich in such stories, 
owmg to the extraordinary tenacity of the fairy belief. We can hardly doubt 
that the Gael, like all other races which have passed through a certain stage of 
culture, had at one time an organised hierarchy of divine beings. But %ve 
have to piece together the Gaelic god-saga out of bare names, mere hints, and 
stories which have evidently suffered vital change. In the earliest stratum of 
GaeUc mytliic narrative we find beings who at some former time had occupied 
divine rank, but whose relations to man are substantially, as therein presented, 
the same as those of the modem fair}' to the modem peasant. The chiefs of 
the Tuatha de Danann hanker after earthly maidens ; the di\'ine damsels long 
for and summon to themselves earthly heroes. Though undpng, verj' strong, 
and very wise, they may be overpowered or outwitted by the mortal hero. 
As if conscious of some source of weakness we cannot detect, they are 
anxious, in their internecine stmggles, to secure the aid of the sons of men. 
Small wonder that this belief, which we can follow for at least 1,200 
years, should furnish so many elements to the folk-fancy of the Gael, 

In stories of the second class the action is relegated to a remote past — 
once upon a time — or to a distant undefined region, and the narrative is not 
necessarily accepted as a record of actual fact. Stories of this class, whethei 
in prose or verse, may again be subdivided into — humorous, optimistic, 
tragic ; and ^vith regard to the third sub-division, it should be noted that the 
stories comprised in it are generally told as ha%ing been tme once, though not 
in the immediate tangible sense of stories in the first class. 

These different narrative groups share certain characteristics, though in 
varjing proportions. 

Firstly, the fondness for and adherence to a comparatively small number 
of set formulas. This is obviously less marked in stories of the first class, 
which, as being in the mind of the folk a record of what has actually hap- 
pened, partake of the diversity of actual life. And yet the most striking 
similarities occur ; such an anecdote, for instance, as that which tells how a 
supernatural changeling is baíBed by a brewery of egg-shells being found 
from Japan to Brittany. 

Secondly, on the moral side, the unquestioning acceptance of fatalism, 
though not in the sense which the Moslem or the Calvinist would attach to the 
word. The event is bound to be of a certain nature, provided a certain mode 
of attaining it be chosen. This comes out well in the large group of stories which 
tell how a supernatural being helps a mortal to perform certain tasks, as a rule, 
■with some ulterior benefit to itself in view. The most disheartening careless- 
ness and stupidity on the part of the man cannot alter the result ; the skill and 
courage of the supernatural helper are powerless without the mortal co-opera- 


tion. In what I have termed the tragic stories, this fatalism puts on a moral 
form, and gives rise to the conception of Nemesis. 

Thirdly, on the mental side, animism is prevalent, i.e., the acceptance of a 
life common to, not alone man and animals, but all manifestations of force. 
In so far as a distinction is made between the life of man and that of 
nature at large, it is in favour of the latter, to which more potent energy is 

Just as stories of the first class are less characterised by adherence to for- 
mula, so stories of the humorous group are less characteristed by fatalism and 
animism. This is inevitable, as such stories are, as a rule, concerned solely 
with the relations of man to his fellows. 

The most fascinating and perplexing problems are those connected with 
the groups I have termed optimistic and tragic. To the former belong the 
almost entirety of such nursery tales as are not humorous in character. 
" They were married and lived happily ever afterwards ;" such is the almost 
invariable end formula. The hero Avins the princess, and the villain is 

This feature the nursery tale shares with the god-saga ; Zeus confounds 
the Titans, Apollo slays the Python, Lug overcomes Balor, Indra vanquishes 
Vritra. There are two apparent exceptions to this rule. The Teutonic god 
myth is tragic ; the Anses are ever under the shadow of the final conflict. 
This has been explained by the influence of Christian ideas ; but although this 
influence must be unreservedly admitted in certain details of the passing of 
the gods, yet the fact that the Iranian god-saga is likewise undecided, instead 
of havinCT a frankly optimistic ending, makes me doubt whether the drawn 
battle between the powers of good and ill be not a genuine and necessary part 
of the Teutonic mythology. As is well knov.-n, Rydberg has established 
some strildng points of contact between the mythic ideas of Scandinavia 
and those of Iran. 

In striking contradiction to this moral, optimistic tendency are the great 
heroic sagas. One and all well-nigh are profoundly tragic. The doom of Troy 
the great, the passing of Arthur, the slaughter of the Nibelungs, the death of 
Sohrab at his father's hands, Roncevalles, Gabhra, the fratricidal conflict of 
Cuchullain and Ferdiad, the woes of the house of Atreus ; such are but a few 
examples of the prevailing tone of the hero-tales. Achilles and Siegfried and 
Cuchullain are slain in the flower of their youth and prowess. Of them, at 
least, the saying is true, that whom the gods love die young. Why is it not 
equally true of the prince hero of the fairy tale .? Is it that the hero tale asso- 
ciated in the minds of hearers and reciters with men who had actually lived 
and fought, brought down to earth, so to say, out of the mysterious wonder- 
land in which god and fairy and old time kings have their being, becomes 


thereby liable to the necessities of death and decay inherent in all human 
things ? Some scholars have a ready answer for this and similar questions. 
The heroic epos assumed its shape once for all among one special race, and 
was then passed on to other races who remained faithful to the main lines 
whilst altering details. If this explanation were true, it would still leave 
unsolved the problem, why the heroic epos, which for its fashioners and hearers 
was at once a record of the actual and an exemplar of the ideal, should, 
among men differing in blood and culture, follow one model, and that a tragic 
one. Granting that Greek and Teuton and Celt did borrow the tales which 
they themselves conceived to be very blood and bone of their race, what 
force compelled them all to borrow one special conception of life and fate ? 

Such exceptions as there are to the tragic nature of the heroic saga are 
apparent rather than real. The Odyssey ends happily, like an old-fashioned 
novel, but Fénélon long ago recognised in the Odyssey — " un amas de 
contes de ^-ieille. 

Perseus again has the luck of a fairy-tale prince, but then the story of his 
fortunes is obviously a fairy-tale, with named instead of anonymous per- 

Whilst the fairy-tale is akin in tone to the god saga, the ballad recalls the 
heroic epos. The vast majority of ballads are tragic. Sir Patrick Spens 
must drown, and Glasgerion's leman be cheated by the churl ; Clerk Saunders 
comes from the other world, like Helge to Sigrun ; Douglas dreams his dreary 
dream, " I saw a dead man win a fight, and that dead man was I." The 
themes of the ballad are the most dire and deadly of human passions ; 
love scorned or betrayed, hate, and revenge. Very seldom, too, do the 
plots of ballad and marchen cross or overlap. Where this does happen it 
will, as a rule, be found that both are common descendants of some great 

We find such an instance in the Fenian saga, episodes of which have lived 
on in the Gaelic folk memory in the double form of prose and poetry. But it 
should be noted that the poetry accentuates the tragic side — the battle of 
Gabhra, the death of Diarmaid — whilst the prose takes rather some episode 
of Finn's youth or manhood, and presents it as a rounded and complete whole, 
the issue ol which is fortunate. 

The relations of myth and epos to folk-lore may thus be likened to that of 
trees to the soil from which they spring, and which they enrich and fertilise 
by the decay of their leaves and branches which mingle indistinguishably with 
the original soil. Of this soil, again, rude bricks may be made, and a house 
built ; let the house fall into ruins, and the bricki crumble into dust, it will be 
hard to discriminate that dust from the parent earth. But raise a house of 
iron or stone, and, however ruined, its fragments can always be recognised. 



In the case of the Irish bardic literature the analogy is, I believe, with soil 
and tree, rather than with soil and edifice. 

Reverting once more to the characteristics of folk-fancy, let us note that 
they appear equally in folk-practice and folk-belief. The tough conservatism 
of the folk-mind has struck all obser\'ers : its adherence to immemorial for- 
mulas ; its fatalistic acceptance of the mysteries of nature and heredity, cou- 
pled with its faith in the efficacy of sympathetic magic ; its elaborate system 
of custom and ritual based upon the idea that between men and the remain- 
der of the universe there is no difference of kind. 

A conception of the Cosmos is thus arrived at which, more than any reli- 
gious creed, fulfils the test of catholicity ; literally, and in the fullest signifi- 
cance of the words, it has been held semper, uiique et ah omnibus. And of this 
conception of the universe, more universal than any that has as yet swayed the 
minds of man, it is possible that men now living may see the last flickering 
remains ; it is well-nigh certain that our grandchildren will live in a world out 
of which it has utterly vanished. 

For the folk-lorist the Gospel saying is thus more pnignant with meaning 
than for any other student of man's history — " the night cometh wherein no 
man may work. " Surely, many Irishman \vill take to heart the example of 
Dr. Hyde, and will go forth to glean what may yet be found of as fair and 
bounteous a harvest of myth and romance as ever flourished among any race. 

he h-ai 8 NQ ueiNeao 

an uaiLiUR a^us na tri beitiseac. 

pMJeÁl eu-oMJ. ConnM|ic ye vyetyincwx) 6.5 éijiije 
Amí>.c ^y A.n eutJA-c, a^u]' ca.ic -j^e £>~n cfnAc^T) léice ^5«^ 
rn&.yh ye ^.n '0|ieAncuit). "OubAipc i^e i>.mi pn "ll^c bpeÁj 
^n 5M|^5TÓeA.c mij^e nuA.i|\ ív bí me ^b^lcív Mp ^n -oiAe^n- 
cui-o pn -00 niii.|Ab6.t)!" 

"OubMi^c ye Ann pn 50 jCAiCfeAt) |'é "out 50 b'l'AcliAC 
50 cúi|ic An |iij;, 50 bpeicpeA-o ye An x)ciuc}:At) leif a 
"oeunArii. t)i An cúi]\c pn '5Á •oeunAiii te ]:At)A, acc An 
méAt) "oí 'DO gnicwe Ann i^An tÁ "oo teA^Ai-oe Ann ^-An oi-oce 
é, Agu]' nio|\ yexiv T)uine ai|a biú a cup ^^UAf mA|A geAlt 
Ai|A pn. 'S lAt) vy^ frACAC a cijeAX) '|'An oi-óce a bi-óeAt) 
'5ÁleA5A'ó. "O'lmcij An cÁibúp An lÁ ai]í nA liiÁpAc, 
Aguj' -00 CU5 i^e lei]' An uiplip An poÁt) t>-^uy An 


tlion bpA-OA CUAIt) 1'é 5U]A CA]'A-Ó CApAll bÁn '0Ó, AJUj' 

cuip i^e |:opÁn Ai|A. *' 5° mbeAnnuij "Oia "óuic," aji |'An 
CApAÍl, " CÁ bpuil cu -out?" " UÁ me ■oul 50 b'l'AcllAC," 
A|i pAn cÁiliújA, "le*oeunAm cutyze An |\Í5, 50 bjrÁj' me 
beAn-UApAÍ, mÁ C15 liom a X)eunAiri," mA]A "oo jgaII An 
IAÍ5 50 "ociubpAt) ye a ingeAn yein Agup a lÁn Aipgit) 
léice "oon cé pn a ciucpAt) te^y An cmyz pn -oo cup I'lUAp 
"An nt)eun|:Á poll x)Am ?" Ap pAn peAn-jeAjiiA^n bÁn 
" pACAinn 1 bpolAc Ann nuAip acá nA -oAoine mo CAbAipc 
cum An muilinn Agup cum An aca 1 piocc nAC bpeicpu piA"o 
me, óip CÁ me cpÁnóce aca, Ag 'oeunAm oibpe -óóib." 


There was once a tailor in Galway, and he was sewing 
cloth. He saw a flea springing up out of the cloth, and 
he threw his needle at it and killed it. Then he said : 
" Am I not a fine hero when I was able to kill that 

Then he said that he must go to Blackleea (Dublin), to 
the king's court, to see would he be able to build it. 
That court was a' building fora long time ; but as much of 
it as would be made during the day used to be thrown 
down again during the night, and for that reason nobody 
could build it up. It was three giants who used to come 
in the night and throw it. The day on the morrow the 
tailor went off, and brought with him his tools, the 
spade and the shovel. 

He had not gone far till he met a white horse, and he 
saluted him. 

" God save you," said the horse. " Where are you 
going ? " 

"I am going to Dublin," said the tailor, " to build a 
court for the king, and to get a lady for a wife, if I am 
able to do it ; " for the king had promised that he would 
give his own daughter, and a lot of money with her, to 
whoever would be able to build up his court. 

" Would you make me a hole," said the old white 
garraun (horse) "where I could go a' hiding whenever the 

4 An UÁilu'ip ^gu]^ n^ C|\i beici^e^c. 

*'T)eun] mé i'in 50 -061111111," cs]\ yi^^^ cÁilnin, " A-juf 
yAitce." Úu^ i'é All i'pÁt) teif •^^u]' ■mi ci'Uiai'a-o, ajuj' 
innne yé poll, A-jup 'ou'bA.i]^r pé teip An 5-CApAll bÁn "out 
yioy Ann, 50 "b^reici-eAt) pé An "biroipireA-o pé -óó. Cuató An 
CApAtL bÁn píop Ann pAn bpott, acc ntiAi]\ 'o']peuc pé -oo 
ceAcc puAf A]AÍf Af, níop peut) pé, 

'"Oeiin ÁiCDAin Anoi]-," a]a pAn cApAll bÁn, "a ciuc|:Af 
mé Anío]^ Ap An bpoll po nuAip a béi-óeAf ocA|iAp 0]\m." 
"tlí •oeun^TAt)," A]A pAn cáiIiÚ]a, "]:An Ann pin 50 •oui^it) 
me Ai]A m'Aip, A^up cÓ5]:ató me Aniop cu." 

"O'lmci^ An cÁitiúp An lÁ Aip riA mÁpAc, A^up cApAt) 
"6Ó An pionnAc, ""So mbeAnnui^ TDia •oinc," Ap pAn 
■pionnAC. " 50 mbeAnnui^ tDiA '511]' lllinpe •ouic." '* CÁ 
bpiit cii 'oiíl?" "UÁ nié -0111 50 b'tVcLiAC 50 b]:eucAi-ó 
me An ■ocnic].-ATÓ biom cúipc "oeunAiii •oo'n pí^." "An 
troeunpA Áic -OAin, a pAcpAÍnn 1 bpoÍAC innci," Ap pon 
ponnAC, " CÁ An cuto eile -oe nA ]'ionnAi5ib'oom' buAlA-o 
A^up ni leijeAnn piAt)"OAin Aon ni-ó ice'nnA ^-cuToeAccA." 
'"OeunjTAit) me pn •ouic," " Ap pAn cÁiln'iji. Úug pé leip 
A cuAJ ^^up A pÁb, A^uf bAin pe pÍACA, 50 n-oeA]AnAi5 
pé, mAp -óeuiípÁ, cliAb -oó, Ajup -oubAi^ic pe leip An cpion- 
riAC •oiil piop Ann, 50 b]:eic|.-eA-ó pe An bpóipireA-ó pé &ó. 
CiiAit) An piomiAc Aim, a^u]' nuAijA puAip An cAibn'ip piop 
é, leAg pe A com ai]\ An bjDolb a bi Ann. IIuai]! a bi An 
pionnAC pÁpcA pAoi •óei]\eAt) 50 pAib Áic "oeAp Aije "o'lAjip 
pe Aip An cÁiluí]A A leigeAn aiiiac, Agup TD'pjAeAjAip An 
cAituii^ nAC lei5]:eA"ó ; " "pAn Ann pin 50 -ocigit) mipe Aip 
m'Aip," A]\ pe. 

"O'lmcij An rÁibi)]A An lÁ ai]í nA iíiÁ]iac, Agup ní pA"OA 

bi pe pÚbAl 5Up CApA-Ó mA"0]A'-AllA "óó, A^up CU1]\ An 

mÁ'op'-AllA pojiÁn Aip, Ajup "o'piApiui^ pe •óé cÁ pAib pé 
A5 cpiAbl. " UÁ me T)ub 50 b'l'AcliAC 50 iroeun^TAit) me 
ciii]ic "oo'n ]\Í5 niÁ cig lioin pu -oeunAm," Ap pAn cÁiliú]\." 
*"OÁ iToeim).-Á cencc ■oaiii," a]\ pAn mA-oii'-AllA, " bei-óeAX) 


people are for bringing me to the mill or the kiln, so that 
they won't see me, for they have me perished doing work 
for them ?" 

" I'll do that, indeed," said the tailor, " and welcome." 

He brought the spade and shovel, and he made a hole, 
and he said to the old white horse to go down into it till 
he would see if it would fit him. The white horse went 
down into the hole, but when he tried to come up again 
he was not able. 

" Make a place for me now," said the white horse, 
" by which I'll come up out of the hole here, whenever 
I'll be hungry." 

" I will not," said the tailor ; " remain where you are 
until I come back, and I'll lift you up." 

The tailor went forward next day, and the fox met him. 

" God save you," said the fox. 

" God and Mary save you." 

" Where are you going ? " 

" I'm going to Dublin, to try will I be able to make a 
court for the king." 

" Would you make a 'place for me where I'd go hid- 
ing ? " said the fox. " The rest of the foxes do be beating 
me, and they don't allow me to eat anything along with 

" I'll do that for you," said the tailor. 

He took with him his axe and his saw, and he cut 
rods, until he made, as you would say, a thing like a 
cleeve (creel), and he desired the fox to get into it till he 
would see whether it would fit him. The fox went into 
it, and when the tailor got him down, he clapped his 
thigh on the hole that the fox got in by. When the fox 
was satisfied at last that he had a nice place of it within, 
he asked the tailor to let him out, and the tailor answered 
that he would not. 

6 An UÁiliúp ^5"r ^^ ^P^ beicijeA^c. 

niife A-juf no. TnA.T)]\'-A.llA. eile /^5 cpeii-lDAt) ^jiif A.5 
piij-At), 50 mbei-oe^-o 5|Aeim ^jMnn le n-ice ^nn y^-n 
"bpógm^ii." *"Oeun|rM-ó tné pn 'otiic," 6.)\ ^^^n cÁiln'í|\. 
Úuj -pé leif ^ cuA-j Y *> f'*^^» ^5"r t^i^^e i'é ceucc. nuó.i]í 
"bí ^n ceucc -oeuncA. cui]a -pé poll A-nn -p^-n mbé^m (^'mI) 
t>.-^viy X)\i'b6.^]\z ye leif A-n mA.-0]A'-A.llA. -oul A.]xeAC ^aoi ^n 
5-ceucc 50 bpeic^reA-x) ^"é A-n \\c>.th ryety-hiy-c niMC ^nn. Cui]a 
fé A. eA.]Abó.ll Afce^c ó.nn ^^^.n bpoll a> ]Mnne ]'é, A-guf cui|i 
|"é "peg" isnn-pn Ann, A^uf niop cÁinij lei]" ^n m^t)];'- 
A-lló^ A. e^iAb^ll CAiA]Aí>.in5 Amívc ^.y a]\Í]\ " S^a-oiI mé 
^noii^" £>.]\ pó-n nA-ojA'-A-llA., ^jn]^ •oeA.póc-Nm^oTo yé^r^ aju^ 
CjAe^bp^mAoi'D." 'OubM]\c ^n cÁiliú]\ ní»c ■["gó.oiljreA.t) fé 
é no 50 'ociticyA.t) pé ].-éin ai]\ ai)\ ■O'f.-Áj^^é í>>nn -|^in é ^gu]' 
cuM-ó i^é 50 b'l'ó-lciAt:. 

lluAiiícÁmij fé ^ob'lVcliAC cm]\ fé pÁipeu]\ iym£>.c ^n 
méAt) luc-o' céi]\-oe x)o bí -6.5 có^bÁil r\i>. cúijAce "oo ce^cc 

cuige-fe^n, aju]' 50 n-ioc^TA-'o peife^n iatd ■^S^r ^^ 

'bí'óeA'6 •OAOine A.5 pA5A.1l 'yi^n ^m ]'in a-cc pígm 'p^^ ^^* 
"Oo c]AUinni5 a. lÁn luc-o céi]\X)e A^n lÁ ai]\ n^. riiÁ]AAC, -ft-^up 
copA.15 piA.-o A.5 obA.i]\ "oó. tDí i'i^t) ^5 ■oul A bí>.ile An-ói- 
M5 An l^e nuAip "oubMjic An CAiliúp leó "An cloc tiióp 
pm "oo cup puAp Aip bÁ]\n nA b-oib]\e a bí "oeuncA Aige." 
lIuAip -0' Áp-oui^eAX) yuAp An clociiió]\ pn, cuip An CAiLiúp 
plije éijin yú^t^ 50 leAji-At) pé AnuAp í nuAip a ciucyAX) 
An pACAC coiii iTA-OA léice. "O'lincij An luct) oib]\e a bAile 
Ann pn, aju]^ cuatd An caiIiuja 1 bpolAC aija cúl nA cloice 
Tnói]Ae. TluAi]; cÁinig ■oo]\CAt)Ap nA h-OToce connAi]Acpé nA 
cpi PACA15 A5 ceAcc, A^up copi5 pi At) A5 leAjA-o nA 
cúipce no 50 -ocÁinig piA-o com p^tJA leip An Áic a pAib An 
cÁiln'ijA fuA]% •^5"f buAil ycAp ACA buille "o'Á opx) Aip 
An Á1C A pAib ye í bpolAc. l^eAg An CAiliúp An cloc 

AnUAp A1]l, AJUp, CU1C 1'i Aip, AJVip ITbApb pí é. "O'llTICIg 

piAt» A bAile Ann pn, a^ui^ "o'f^S piAt) An inéA-o a bi Ann 
^An leAjAn, ó bi yeAp aca péin niApb. 


" Wait there until I come back again," says he. 

The tailor went forward the next day, and he had not 
walked very far until he met a modder-alla (lion ?) and 
the lion greeted him, and asked him where was he going. 

" I'm going to Dublin till I make a court for the king 
if I'm able to make it," said the tailor. 

" If you were to make a plough for me," said the lion, 
" I and the other lions could be ploughing and harrowing 
until we'd have a bit to eat in the harvest." 

" I'll do that for you," said the tailor. 

He brought his axe and his saw, and he made a plough. 
When the plough was made, he put a hole in the beam of 
it, and he said to the lion to go in under the plough till 
he'd see was he any good of a ploughman. He placed the 
tail in the hole he had made for it, and then clapped in 
a peg, and the lion was not able to draw out his tail again. 

" Loose me out now," said the lion, " and we'll fix our- 
selves and go ploughing." 

- The tailor said he would not loose him out, until he 
came back himself. He left him there then, and he came 
to Dublin. 

When he came to Dublin he put forth a paper, desiring 
all the tradesmen that were raising the court to come 
to him, and that he would pay them ; and at that time 
workmen used only to be getting one penny in the day. 
A number of tradesmen gathered the next day, and 
they began working for him. They were going home 
again after their day, when the tailor said to them " to 
put up that great stone upon the top of the work that they 
had done." When the great stone was raised up, the 
tailor put some sort of contrivance under it, that he might 
be able to throw it down as soon as the giant would come 
as far as it. The work people v;ent home then, and the 
tailor went in hiding behind the big stone. 

8 An UÁiliú|A ^"S^T "^ ^r^ beici^e^c. 

ÚÁinij e>.r) luce ceiiA-oe a|íí]% £>-n lÁ a-ija vmk lii^n^c, A-juf 
bi pi>.'o £..5 obMp 50 T)ri A-n onoce, A-Juf nuAi]\ i>> bi pAT) 
■out A^b^ibe "oubi>-i]ic a-ti caiIiuja beó An cloc tiióp -oo cup 
^'UAf 6.ip bÁpp ne>. b-oib]ie m^p bf p ^r\ oitce poiirie pn. 
"Rinne pe>.x> pn -oo, ivjuj^ tj'nncij pA."o ^b^ile, ajuj" cua-to 
An CAiliúp 1 b):olAc, tnA|i bi i'é An c|iAcnónA ^AOiriie pn, 
tluAin bi nA -DAOine uibe imcigce 'nnA ^^UAinineA]', cÁinij 
An T)Á jpACAC, A511]' bi pAT) Ag leAjAn An liiéix) a bi 

|AOmpA ; AJUf nUA1|A C0|"U15 pA-O, CUip pAt) "OA ^l-AOt) A]'CA. 

DÍ An CAilnip Aip púbAt aju]' é A5 obAij^ no 511^ t-CA^ fé 
AnuAy An cloc tíió]a gup cuicp ai]a cloijionn An frACAij a 
bi ^'úici A^u]' iiiA|\b p é. tli -pAib Ann pn acc An c-Aon 
■^'ACAC AiiiÁin Ann, a^u]' ni cÁinij yeijXAn 50 -[AAib An 
cúipc cptocnuijce. 

CuAit) An CÁ1I1ÚH cum An ]\^■^ Ann ]^in, aju]" "oubAijAC fé 
teif, A beAn ajuj" a cui-o ai]\51'o "oo CAbAi]\c "oó, m&.y. vo 
bi' An cúi]AC •oéAncA Aige, acc t)ubAi]ic An 1^15 lei]" nAC 
•ociúbpA-ó ■pé Aon beAn vó, no 50 inA]Ab]:A*ó ]"é An ^tacac 
eile, A5U]" nAC "ociúbpAt) i^é "oa-oaiii "oo Anoi]' no 50 
niA]ib]:At) i'é An ]:eA]A "oeipeAnnAC. 'OubAi]AC An cÁiliúp 
Ann pn 50 niAnb]:At) i^é An ^tacac eile "oo, ajuj" ]:Áilce, 
nAC i^Aib Aon riiAille Aip bic ai]\ pn. 

'O'lmcij An cÁiliúp Ann pn, 50 "ocÁini^ -pé cum nA 
1i-Áice A ]iAib An |?ACAC eile, Agu]" 'o'pApAui5 a]\ ceAf- 
CU15 buACAill UAit). 'OubAipc An |:acac gu^i ceA'pcuig, 
x)Á bj-'AgAt) i'é buACAill A •óeun^TAt) An i^u-o a 'oeun|:A-ó -pé 
l'éin. " Hut) Ai|A bic a •oeun^rAf cuj'a, 'oeun]:Aix; mife é,'* 

A]1 i^An CAlllÚp. 

CuAiTD pAt) cum A n'oinéi]A Ann ym, a^uj- nuAip bi ye 
icce ACA -oubAipc An ]:acac lei|" An cáiIiúja au -ociuciTAt) 
lei]" An oi]teA'o Anb]iuic ól aju]" é féin, Anio]" a]" a pucAt). 

" UlUC].'A1t),". A]l ]"An CAlllÚ]l, "acc 50 'OClÚb]1A1t) CU UA1|\ 

•OAm ]'ul A co]"ócAmAoix) A1]A." " t)éA]A]:Ait) me pn ■ouic," 
^V r^" fACAC. (JuAit) An CAiliujA AmAc Ann pn, Aguf 


When the darkness of the night was come he saw the 
three giants arriving, and they began throwing down the 
court until they came as far as the place where the tailor 
was in hiding up above, and a man of them struck a blow 
of his sledge on the place where he was. The tailor threw 
down the stone, and it fell on him and killed him. They 
went home then, and left all of the court that was re- 
maining without throwing it down, since a man of them- 
selves was dead. 

The tradespeople came again the next day, and they 
were working until night, and as they were going home 
the tailor told them to put up the big stone on the top of 
the work, as it had been the night before. They did 
that for him, went home, and the tailor went in hiding 
the same as he did the evening before. 

When the people had all gone to rest, the two giants 
came, and they were throwing down all that was before 
them, and as soon as they began they put two shouts out 
of them. The tailor was going on manoeuvring until he 
threw doyvn the great stone, and it fell upon the skull of 
the giant that was under him, and it killed him. There was 
only the one giant left in it then, and he never came 
again until the court was finished. 

Then when the work was over he went to the king 
and told him to give him his wife and his money, as 
he had the court finished, and the king said he would 
not give him any wife, until he would kill the other 
giant, for he said that it was not by his strength he 
killed the two giants before that, and that he would 
give him nothing now until he killed the other one 
for him. Then the tailor said that he would kill the 
other giant for him, and welcome ; that there was no 
delay at all about that. 

The tailor went then, till he came to the place where 

lo An UÁiliú|\ /s^uj' riA. cpi beicijeA-c. 

^UA.i]i -pe cpoicionn c^op^c ^ju]" -o'fUMJ fé fUi^]' é, 50 
nt)eA]\nM j ^-é tnÁl^ "óé £>-^uf veo^yw^ yé fiof f^oi n^ cóca> 

'bfACA.c ^ó-lún -oe'ri ^nbpuic ól 1 •ocof a.c. 'O'óL A>n ]:^ca>c 

" "OeunpAi-ó mi]'e pn," A>p f mic áiIiúja. DÍ fé a^i^a 
púbA.1 jujA -ooijAC ]"é ^■pce^c f A-n 5-cpoicionn é, ^JU]" f-Aoil^ 

eile A-nn pn, ii-jtif lei^ A-n cÁibú]i 5^t.ún eile po-p 'f^^ 
5-c|ioicionn, f aoiI A.n ]:a.có.c, 50 ]\i>~^'b yé '5Á ól. " "Oei^n- 
]:mx) nii|'e put) A.noi]" dac 'ociuc]:^tó leA.c-f a> -oeunMri," e>.]\ 
y^n rÁiliú|u "Hí "óé^nirÁ," £>^]\ yi^u yó~t6>.c, " cpeut) é pn 
■00 -oeA-niTA ?" 

"Poll ■00 "óeunMÍi, A-5U]' e>-n c-A>nb|iuic "oo leijeA-n 
ívm^c A.]\í]%" A]i i^ó-n cÁiliúji. ""OéATi cu yéw 1 -oco^^ó^c é," 
^p T'A.n ]rACó.c. Úuj ^n cÁiliiJ]\ "ppA.'o" 'oe'n fgín, 0.5U]' 
lei5 -pé ó.mA.c ^n c-Anbpuic e^y ^.n ^-c^Aoicionn. "*OéAii, 
cu|^A., pn," ^|A i'é leif e>.n bp/^co-c, " 'OéAn]rík"o," -ft.]! ye>-r\ 
ye>.ti>.c 6.^ CA.bA.i]AC p]Aí>.t> -oe'ri -pjin 'nnA. builj ]:éin v^uy 
rni),yh yé é pém. Sin é ^n c^oi £>, mi^yh yé isu zy\omi>.x} 

CuMt) yé -oo'n y\^ ^nn pn, í»-^^!" x)ubí>.ipu i^é lei]', ^n 
beA.n A.5U]' A. cuit) iviji^it) -oo cuy Amí>.c cui^e, •^5Uf 50 
le^5]ró.-ó i^e An cúi]\c mun^ bpÁ^^-ó yé Aiibe^n. t)í ]:mc- 
ciof 0]A]iA> Ann pn 50 lei^giTA.!) -pé ^n cúipc A-píf, ^5"]' 
cuip po-t) A.n beAti A-m^c cuije. 

HuAi^A bí yé lÁ imri^ce, é ):éin ^jti]' a be^-n, jl^c pe>~n 
A.ic|ieA.CAi' ■'^S^r ^&^^ pívo é, 50 rtibAin]:eó.-ó pA."© A-n be^n 
■oé A|iíp Dí í),n riiuinncijA "00 bí 'nn^ -010-15 '5Á leAnMÍiAinc 
no 50 •DcÁinij pA-t) yuiyy "oo'n Áic ík p^ib £>.n mA-"0]A'-í>.llA, 
Ajui' t) 4>.n niA.'op'-ó.llA leó. "bi ^n cÁiliúp ^»-5«]' 
^ be^n ^nn -po ^n-oé, connA-i]\c mi]'e i^t) -c».^ "oul CA.pc, 
^S^r ^^ l^gA-oile^nn pb mi]^e ^noif cÁ me níop lu/^ice 'nÁ 
pb-fe, ty^vy teA.nfA.1t) mé ia."o 50 mbeAppATO tné op|iA.." 


the other giant was, and asked did he want a servant- 
boy. The giant said he did want one, if he could get one 
who would do everything that he would do himself. 

" Anything that you will do, I will do it," said the 

They went to their dinner then, and when they had it 
eaten, the giant asked the tailor " would it come with him 
to swallow as much broth as himself, up out of its boil- 
ing.' The tailor said : *' It will come with me to do that, 
but that you must give me an hour before we begin on 
it." The tailor went out then, and he got a sheepskin, 
and he sewed it up till he made a bag of it, and he 
slipped it down under his coat. He came in then and 
said to the giant to drink a gallon of the broth him- 
self first. The giant drank that, up out of its boiling. 
" I'll do that," said the tailor. He was going on until 
he had it all poured into the skin, and the giant thought 
he had it drunk. The giant drank another gallon then, 
and the tailor let another gallon down into the skin, but 
the giant thought he was drinking it. 

" I'll do a thing now that it won't come with you to 
do," said the tailor. 

"You will not," said the giant. "What is it you 
would do ?" 

" Make a hole and let out the broth again," said the 

*' Do it yourself first," said the giant. 

The tailor gave a prod of the knife, and he let the 
brcth out of the skin. 

"Do that you," said he. 

" I will," said the giant, giving such a prod of the knife 
into his own stomach, that he killed himself. That is the 
way he killed the third giant. 

He went to the king then, and desired him to send 

12 An UÁiliú]' í>-'^UY ti^ cm beicijcA-c. 

■nuó.1]! cu^Imu ^'iA-t) pn ]'56.oil ]')-^t) AniA.c ^n m4>.x)p' 

'O'imcij An iiiA.x)|\'-A.ll^ ^5^r "lumncip tD'LVcbA.c, 
0.5U1' "bí po-TD "OÁ Leó.n/MÍiAinc 50 -ocAinij pó-t) "oo'n Áic í». 
^Aó-ib ó.n ponnA-c, -^ju]' cuip ^n ponn^c |:opÁn 0]íp6., í>''^m\' 
■oubM]\c yé leó, " bí ^n cÁibú|A ^S^T ■í^ "bei^n £.nn -po 
Ai]\ míxioin Anx)iú, a-ju^^ inÁ i^gA-oilyix) pb Atni^c mé CÁ 
mé nío]" buA-ice 'nÁ ph aju]" leA-nir^TO mé lA-t) £>-'^v\' 
béA]\pA.TÓ mé 0]^]^A.." S^ó-oit pAt) í>.mó.c /sn ponn^c 
A-nn pn. 

'O'imci^ A-n nió.'0]\'-Atlív ^S^M' ■^" i'ionn^c, ii-^uf A.]\m 
tD'L'AcliAC í>.nn i^m, ^5 yeucisinc An n5AbA.'ó ptyX) An cÁi- 
tiúp, Ajup cÁinig ]'iA-o -oo'n Áic a ]AAib An ]'eAn-5eA]\]\Án 
bÁn, A5U]' x)ubAiiic An yeAn-5eA]i]AÁn bÁn leó, 50 ^iAib An 
cÁibúp, Aju]' A beAn Ann pn ai]a niATOin, " a5iij' -pgAoili- 
ji-óe Am AC iné," ^]\ yé, " cÁ nié nío)' luAice 'nÁ pb-fe 
A5U]" béAiA]:Ai-ó mé o]1]aa." SgAoit pAX) AniAC An feAti 
5eA]í]AÁn bÁn, aju]" leAn An i^eAn-jeAppÁn bÁn, An pon- 
nAC, An mA-on'-AllA, a^u^' A]\ni D'L'acIiac An cáiIiú]a Y^ 
beAn, 1 j-cuToeAcc a céile, Agu]' nío|A bpA-OA 50 ■ocÁinig 
pAD l'UA]' leif An cÁitiú]!, Aju]" connAijic pAt> é jréin ']' a 
be An Am AC ^ompA. 

lluAip connAi]\c An cáiIiú]a iatj aj cigeAcc cÁini^ yé 
yéin Y '^ beAn Am6.c a^^ An 5-cóifce, Agu]- fuiu ye po]' Aip 

An CAbAlil. 

lluAijA connM]\c An i^eAn-geAj^iAAn bÁn An cAiliup A5 
I'UToe po]' -oubAinc i'é, <' Sin é An cumA a bi ]"é nuAi]i 
pinne i'é An polb -OAmj^A, nÁ|i yeut) me ceAcc AmAc Ap 
nuAiji cuAi"ó me a^'cbac Ann ; ni ^lAcpAit) me nio]" jroigfe 

" T1Í li-eA-ó," A^\ I'An I'lonnAC, *' acc i]^ mA]A ]'in, t)o bi fé 
nuAi]A bi ye TDéAnAiii An ]\uit) -OAiii-i^A, A5U]' ni pac]:atd mi]'e 
nio]' ]:oi5fe -óó." 

"Hi h-eATÍ) ! " A]A yAn mA-op'-AllA, "acc ^y mA)\ pn -oo 


him out his wife and his money, for that he would throw- 
down the court again, unless he should get the wife. 
They were afraid then that he would throw down the 
court, and they sent the wife out to him. 

When the tailor was a day gone, himself and his wife, 
they repented and followed him to take his wife off him 
again. The people who were after him were following 
him till they came to the place where the lion was, and 
the lion said to them : " The tailor and his wife were 
here yesterday. I saw them going by, and if ye loose 
me nos\', I am swifter than ye, and I will follow them 
till I overtake them." When they heard that they 
loosed out the lion. 

The lion and the people of Dublin went on, and they 
were pursuing him, until they came to the place where 
the fox was, and the fox greeted them, and said : " The 
tailor and his wife were here this morning, and if ye 
will loose me out, I am swifter than ye, and I will 
follow them, and overtake them." They loosed out the 
fox then. 

The lion and the fox and the army of Dublin w^ent on 
then, trying would they catch the tailor, and they were 
going till they came to the place where the old white 
garraun was, and the old white garraun said to them that 
the tailor and his wife were there in the morning, and 
" loose me out," said he ; "I am swifter than ye, and Fll 
overtake them." They loosed out the old white garraun 
then, and the old white garraun, the fox, the lion, and 
the army of Dublin pursued the tailor and his wife toge- 
ther, and it was not long till they came up with him, 
and saw himself and the wife out before them. 

When the tailor saw them coming he got out of the 
coach with his wife, and he sat down on the ground. 

When the old white garraun saw the tailor sitting 

14 bpí>.n. 

bí ^é nuiM|A "bí fé "oeA-riMTi <eyn ceuccA^ 'nriA. ^iMb mij^e 
■^t^ht£>.. Ill ]AA.cpA.i'6 tnii-e níof foig-pe -oo," 

'O'itncij pe>-x> uile tiA>i"ó A.nn pn, 6.5111' •o'ptlpA>t). CÁimj 

•OA-m i^cocA-tt) pÁipéijA ^5«r ^rój^A bMnne ]ia.itiai|i — cc^.^\X 
mé M>.x> ó foin. 'Ptií>.i]\ p4\"o-pAn ^n c-Ác]' mii^e í>.n 
locÁn, bAiceA-t) lA.'o-f A.n A-^up cÁimg mife. 


"bí cú h\\ei^ -6.5 ponr. Sin bjiAn. Cuí.' cu c^inc 
A-i^ "bpA-n. Seó ^n "o^c e>. h\ -m^. 

Coj^A. buTÓe A bí Ai]A DpA.n 
iDA CA-oib "oub^ ^5^r ^^rr 5®^^» 
'Opuim uó-ine e>.\\\ "óac rií^ feil5e 
"OA cluMj' cpuinne cónTi-t)eí>.|\5ó>. 

"beA^Ay^t) b]\A.n 6.ip rií). 5^écib-pÁt)n4x bí p com lu^c pn. 

BRAN. 15 

down on the ground, he said : " That's the position he 
had when he made the hole for me, that I couldn't come 
up out of, when I went down into it. I'll go no nearer 
to him." 

" No ! " said the fox, " but that's the way he was 
when he was making the thing for me, and I'll go no 
nearer to him." 

" No ! " says the lion, " but that's the very way he had, 
when he was making the plough that I was caught in. 
I'll go no nearer to him." 

They all went from him then and returned. The 
tailor and his wife came home to Galway. They gave 
me paper stockings and shoes of thick milk. I lost 
them since. They got the ford, and I the flash ; * they 
were drowned, and I came safe. 


Finn had a splendid hound. That was Bran. You 
have heard talk of Bran. This is the colour was on him : 

Yellow feet that were on Bran, 
Two black sides, and belly white, 
Grayish back of hunting colour, 
Two ears, red, round, small, and bright. 

Bran would overtake the wild-geese, she was that swift, 

* Flash, in Irish, lochdn, i.e., little lake, or pool of water. Most story- 
tellers say, not, "I got the lochán," but the '■'' clochán," 01 stepping-stones. 

i6 bjiAn. 

nuAi]\ "bi ]-\ 'nn/s coileÁn -o'eiiiig ini]\eA]' no c]\oit) ei^in 
Miieísf^ r\ty 5-con ^ bi A5 An bpeni, i^^uf 

U]AÍ pee cu Aguj^ yice coiteÁn 

TÍIajaIí) D]\An Aguj' Í 'nnó. coiteÁn, 

X>i< ^é-pA.'DÁin, A^ni" A.n oineA.x) leó mle. 

Sé ponn -jrem a> liiAjvl!) Dp^n. Cuí>.i-d pcsX) aiiiac aj 
pA"ÓA.c Aju]' ]AinneA>t) eiLic -oe liiÁCAip "Pmn. D] 0)\An ■oÁ 

" Gitic bAoc yAg AijA I'tiAb 

A]i ponn. 
"A rinc Ó15," Ai\ ]'ife, " CÁ ]íAC}:Ait) me Af ?" 

1T1Á céit)iiii Ann ]'An byAijAnge poy 
Coit)ce ni pllpnn ai]i m'Aif, 
S mÁ ceiumi Ann ]'An Ae]i -pUAf 

Hi beUpjTATÓ niO lUACAf A1]i tJpAn. 


5^b AniAC eit)i]) mo -óÁ coip" A]i fionn. Óuató pye 
ei^oi-p A 'óÁ coip i>-5i-if teAn DpAn i, a^u]" ai]! 
n^AbAit AmAc -oi, -o'^'Áifg ponn a -óá ^Uíin uippi aju]' 
mA|Ab -pé Í. 

bi m^cAn A5 b]\An. Cu "oub a bi Ann i^An 5-coileÁn 
pn, Aju]' CÓ5 nA pAnnA i, Á^U]^ •oubAi]\c pAX» teif An 
mnAoi A bi CAbAi]AC Ai]ie -oo'n coileÁn, bAinne bo jAn Aon 
hiAX no CAbAijAC -oo'n coiteÁn, a^u]^ jac Aon -oeó]\ "oo 
CAbAi]\c ■0Ó, •i>-5U]' ^An Aon b]^Aon congbÁil- uató. Tlí 
•óeApnATÓ An beAn pn, acc con^bmj cuto "oe'n bAinne ^An 
A t;AbAi|\c uile "oo'n coiteÁn. An ceu'o tÁ "oo j'^aoiI nA 
pAnnA An cu 05 AmAC bí ^loAnn lÁn -oe jéA'ÓAib pA-óÁine 
Aju]' X)' eunACAib eile, aju]' nuAi]\ -p^AoiteAX) An cú -oub 
'nuA meA]'5, -oo JAb p iat) uile acc ^íojA-beAjÁn aca a 
cuAit) AmAc Ai]\ beA]\nA a bi Ann. A5U]' acc jup cong- 

BRAN. 17 

There arose some quarrel or fighting between the hounds 
that the Fenians had, when she was only a puppy, and 
Three score hounds and twenty puppies 
Bran did kill, and she a puppy, 
Two wild-geese, as much as they all. 
It was Finn himself who killed Bran. They went out 
hunting, and there was made a fawn of Finn's mother. 
W/io tnade a fawn of her ? Oh, how do I know ? It was 
with some of their pishtrogues.) Bran was pursuing her. 

" Silly fawn leave on mountain," 
said Finn. " Oh, young son,'' said she, "how shall I 
escape ? — 

" If I go in the sea beneath 
I never shall come back again. 
And if I go in the air above 
My swiftness is no match for Bran. 
*' Go out between my two legs," said Finn. 
She went between his two legs, and Bran followed 
her ; and as Bran went out under him, Finn squeezed 
his two knees on her and killed her. 

Bran had a daughter. That pup was a black hound, 
and the Fenians reared it ; and they told the woman 
who had a charge of the pup to give it the milk of a cow 
without a single spot, and to give it every single drop, 
and not to keep back one tint* from her. The woman 
did not do that, but kept a portion of the milk without 
giving it to the pup. 

The first day that the Fenians loosed out the young 
hound, there was a glen full of wild-geese and other 
birds ; and when the black hound was loosed amongst 
them, she caught them all except a very few that went 

t Tint, means a drop, or small portion of liquid, amongst English speaking 
persons in Connacht and most other parts of Ireland. 

i8 tTli^c Kij 6i|Aei>>nn. 

buig An beA.n cuit) X)e'n bMnne ui^ici "oo niA]\t)]:A'ó p ia-o 

An cu ATTiAc -D'yiAi-'niJi^ fé "oe n^ -OAoinib a bi An^ice tei]', 
CIA An CAOi A ]Mnne An cu 05. *OubAi]AC pA-o-f An leif jup 
tT)Apb An cu Ó5 An meu-o 5épAX)Áin A^iif eun a bi Ann ]'An 
n^leAnn, acc beA^Án aca a cuató AtriAc ai]i beAjinA, ajui^ 
50 |iAib fi ceAcc A bAile Anoip '"OÁ bj-'AJAt) p An 
bAinne uile a cÁim^XJe'n bo jAn Aon bAÍl/' a]^ I'An x)aII, 
"ni lei5]:eAX) p "o'eun ai|a bic imceAcc uai-ói," ^JU]" 
■o'pApíui^ ]-é, Ann pn, cAt) é An caoi a ^^Aib p cígeACC a 
bAile. "UÁ p ceAcc Anoif," a]\ pAt) "Ajuf, fSÁil' Ia^ca 
Af A mumeub a^u]" 1 ai|a buile." 

" UAbAi|A ni'impiue •ÓAm Anoi]"," a|a ^^An 'oaII, " ^S^r 
cu:]\ mé 'mo f-ui-oe Ann -pAn ^-cacaoija aju]" cui]i ^uaI Ann 
mo tÁitri, óip munA mA|AbAim í AnoTp mA|\b|:ATÓ p muit» 
(pnn) uiíe. ÚÁmig An cú, Agti]' caic ]'é An juaI léice 
Agu]' iTiApb •pé í, Aguj' é -oaII. 

Acc ■oÁ b}'Á5A'o An coileÁn pn An bAinne uile -oo ciuc- 
fAt) fí Aguj' luTÓ]:eA"6 p ■pío]" 50 ]"ocAip, iTiA|i lui-óeAt) 

mac R15 emeaNN. 

Dí niAC \\\^ 1 n-G,]\inn, ^ax) ó fom, Ajiif ciiató i^é aiiiac 
Aguf cug i^é A ^unnA 'f a tiiA'OA'ó leip V)\ pieAccA 
Amuij. tÍlA^b fé pAc -oub. tuic An pAC "oub aija ati 
C]'neACCA. Hí yACAit) )'é Aon ]\u'obu-ó ^ile 'nÁ An i'neACCA, 


out on a gap that was in it. (And how could she catch 
the wild-geese ? Wouldn' t they fiy azvay in the air ? She 
caught them, then. That's how I heard it.) And only that 
the woman kept back some of the milk from her, she 
would have killed them all. 

There was a man of the Fenians, a blind man, and 
when the pup was let out, he asked the people near him 
how did the ; young hound do. They told him that the 
young hound killed all the wild-geese and birds that 
were in the glen, but a few that went out on a gap. " If 
she had to get all the milk that came from the cow with- 
out spot," says the blind man, " she wouldn't let a bird 
at all go from her." And he asked then *' how was the 
hound coming home ?" " She's coming now," said they, 
"and a fiery cloud out of her neck," {How out of her 
neck? Because she was going so quick^ "and she coming 

" Grant me my request now," said the blind man. "Put 
me sitting in the chair, and put a coal* (?) in my hand; 
for unless I kill her she'll kill us." 

The hound came, and he threw the coal at her and 
killed her, and he blind. 

But if that pup had to get all the milk, she'd come and 
she'd lie down quietly, the same as Bran used to lie 


There was a king's son in Ireland long ago, and he 
went out and took with him his gun and his dog. There 
was snow out. He killed a raven. The raven fell on 
the snow. He never saw anything whiter than the snow, 

* Gual. 

20 m^c 1115 eijie/ynn. 

nÁ bu-ó 'óiii'be 'nÁ ct-oigionn A-n pMc -ouib, nÁ but) "oeiiAge 

'nÁ £s CUlt) ^olív bí '5Á "OOjAC^X) /MTIAC. 

Cui|i •pé fA-oi jeís^'Mb 6.5UI" "oeitnú^ (ízV) ník bliAT)nA. n^c 
n-íof A-ó ]'é "óÁ bió.t) 1 ri-A.or> boiAt), tiÁ "oA oit)ce -oo cot)lA-ó 
/Min A.on ceAc, 50 b]:Á5^'ó -pé be^^n 0. ^Aib a cloijionn coni 
Toub leiy í>.n bpí>.c "oub, ■^5Uf ■^ c|\oicionn coiii jeAllei]' ó-n 
Cfne^ccA., A-Jui' a> -óá 5| coiii -06^1)5 le ]:uil. 

Ill ^Aísib í>.on beA.n Ann fAn "ooriiAn mA.]A pti, c>.ct: cson 
he£>.r\ A.iiiÁin a bí Ann fAn "oonio-n foi]^. 

"Lá M]\ r\í>. iiiÁ]ií>.c ^A^b fé Ani6.c, aju^^ ní pMb Aipgiot) 
jrM]Apn5, 4SCC cu^ i^é lei]- ince púncA.. Ilí |A-t)A cuík1"ó yé 
^u\\ CA]'í>.t) yoc]Aó.oi-o 'oó, A^u]' X)ubAi]AC i^é 50 ]iA.ib ]"é coni 
mi>.^t "óó c]AÍ coifcéim 'óul bei]' An j-co^^pÁn. 11í ^\Aib n^ 
cpí coifcéiiTi púbA-lcA Aige 50 •ocÁinij ]:eAn '(>-'S^T be^g |^é 
A ]AeAycA M^A A.n 5-co|Ap, Aip CÚ15 fDÚncA. Dí -oli^eAt) 1 
n-Gi|nnn An c-Am pn, "ouineAip bic a i^Aib pACA Aige aijí 
Í:eA|^ eile, nAC "ociucita-o be muinnci]A An p\\ pn a cu|i, 
"OÁ mbeToeAt) -pé TnA]\b, ^An nA pACA -o'íoc, no ^An ceAt) 
ó'n "ouine A |AAib nA pACA pn Aige ai]i ah bpeA]A niA]ib. 
HtiAip connAi]\c ITIac UÍ5 éi]ieAnn inic aju)^ in^eAnA An 
"ouine TTiAi^ib aj CAomeAt), a^uj^ ia-o jAn An c-Aijigio-o aca 
be CAbAi]íC "00 'n f-eA^i, -oubAiiic ]"é leip -jrein, "if móp An 
cpuAJ é nAC bfuib An c-Aip^iot) aj nA •OAOinib boccA,'' 
Aguf cuip ye A bÁiri Ann a pócA Agii^ -o'íoc pé féin nA CÚ15 
■púncA, A1]A pon An cuipp. 'OubAijic pé 50 ^AAcpAt) -pé cum 
An ceAtnpoilb Ann pn, 50 bpeic]:eAt) ]'é ciipcA é. ÚÁiniz^ 
i:eA|A eile Ann pn, aju]' beAg fé a ]ieAfrA ai]i An ^-copp 
Ai|A ]"on cijn5 púncA eibe. "TnA|i cug mé nA ceut» CÚ15 
púncA," A]\ TnAc1\Í5 éipeAnn beip féin, " cÁ pé cotti niAic 
"óAm CÚ15 púncA eiLe CAbAipc Anoip Agu]" An yeA]\ bocc 
"oo beijeAn -oub 'i'An tiAi5," 'O'íoc yé nA CÚ15 púncA 
eile. tlí ]\Aib Aige Ann pr\ acc t)eic bpúncA. 


or blacker than the raven's skull, or redder than its share 
of blood,* that was a'pouring out. 

He put himself under gassaf and obligations of the 
year, that he would not eat two meals at one table, or 
sleep two nights in one house, until he should find a 
woman whose hair was as black as the raven's head, and 
her skin as white as the snow, and her two cheeks as 
red as the blood. 

There was no woman in the world like that ; but one 
woman only, and she was in the eastern world. 

The day on the morrow he set out, and money 
was not plenty, but he took with him twenty 
pounds. It was not far he went until he met a 
funeral, and he said that it was as good for him to 
go three steps with the corpse. He had not the three 
steps walked until there came a man and left his writ 
down on the corpse for five pounds. There was a law in 
Ireland at that time that any man who had a debt upon 
another person {i.e., to whom another person owed a 
debt) that person's people could not bury him, should he 
be dead, without paying his debts, or without the leave 
of the person to whom the dead man owed the debts. 
When the king of Ireland's son saw the sons and daugh- 
ters of the dead crying, and they without money to 
give the man, he said to himself: "It's a great pity that 
these poor people have not the money," and he put his 
hand in his pocket and paid the five pounds himself for 
the corpse. After that, he said he would go as far as 
the church to see it buried. Then there came another 
man, and left his writ on the body for five pounds more. 

* This is an idiom in constant use in Gaelic and Irish ; but to translate it 
every time it occurs would be tedious. In Gaelic we say, my share of money, 
land, etc., for my money, my land. 

In Irish, geasa — mystic obligations. 

22 IDó-c 1115 6i^\e4><nn. 

11ío]\ 'bjrd.'OA. cuM-ó i'é ^\i\\ ce>.]-ó.X) ]^ee>-]\ ^e£>.]\Y gl^r "oó 
iy-^My ■o'pA.]:^AUi j yé té cÁ ]\í>.^'b ye -oul. "OubAipc yé 50 

ívgu^" ' i^é 50 11Mb, ■^5Uf ca-o é í>.n fDÁTÓe beTóeA-ó 
yé ^5 iA]A]\ó.i-ó. 'OubM]\c feifeMi " A.n ceut) pój £>.^]\ í». 
iTinA.01, -oÁ bjTÁj^t) ]'é í." "OubA-ijAC 111 íkC IIÍ5 6i]AeAnn 50 
^-cif^ytyeo^x) yé pn í'ÁjmI. 

tlio^p bfo.'Oó. cuA^ix) yMyV ^v]\ C£>.y&.x) yec>~\\ eile "oóib Aguf 
ii. gunriA. A.nn a. lÁnh, ^gu]' é ívj " ieibléA^n^cc " ^1)1 aii 
loTTOub^^ bí caII 'i'í>.n ■ooiiiA.n yo^]\, 50 nibeTÓeí>."D yé Mge 
le ii-^5í>.TÓ ^ -óinéiii. "Oubii-iiic í>>n ye&^y ge^p^i 5^0.^ le 
tní>.c ÍIÍ5 éi]\eí>-nn 50 ]\A.ib i^é coth m^>.^t -óó /^n ye^^ yw 


" UA-cp^-o," e>.\\ y£>-u yec^y, " inÁ b}rÁ5' rtié mo cua.]\així>-1." 
" Ajuf CA^t) é ^n cuíx]AA.]"CA.l béit)eíK]' cu '5 iA]A]iíi>it) ? " 

" S^o^^'^o cu pn u/Mtn, niÁ éiiMJCMin nio cu]aa]" lioni." 

"O'imcij ITIac "Ríj ei]\eí>.nn lei]' a.ti bye^^^n S^^f ^S^T 
leif £>.r> tijunriAipe, '^5Uf rií j.-ó.'Oó. cu£>.tó y\ó.x) -^wy c£syt)^x) 
yec>.y "oóib, a-^uj* ^6. cluA.f leo-jcik ai]\ A-n caImíi, ^gi-if é 
^5 éi|" leif ^.n bfeuji A.5 yi^y. 

"UÁ -pé corii rriMc "óuic ati veA]\ pn jl^Civt) ík1)\ 
£»impp," 6.]\ f í).n i:eix]A 5eAi\]\ -^lt>-y. 

'O'pt.yyw-^ triAC 1115 eipei^nn -oe '11 ye£>.y aii •ociucy^-o 
^'é \.e\y My Aimpp. 

"Umcfív-o mÁ b}:Á5 mé Áic ci^e £>-'^^iy 5í>-pt)í>>." 

*' 5eobATÓ cu pn (^uí^im mi. éiiMJe^nn ^n y\iv ^cÁ 6.nii 
mo ced-nn liotn." 


" As I gave the first five pounds," said the king of Erin's 
son to himself, ** it's as good for me to give the other 
five, and to let the poor man go to the grave." He paid 
the other five pounds. He had only ten pounds then. 

Not far did he go until he met a short green man, and 
he asked him where was he going. He said that he was 
going looking for a woman in the eastern world. The 
short green man asked him did he want a boy (servant), 
and he said he did, and [asked] what would be the 
wages he would be looking for ? He said : " The first 
kiss of his wife if he should get her.'' The king of Ire- 
land's son said that he must get that. 

Not far did they go until they met another man and 
his gun in his hand, and he a' levelling it at the black- 
bird that was in the eastern world, that he might have it 
for his dinner. The short green man said to him that 
it was as good for him to take that man into his service if 
he would go on service with him. The son of the king of 
Ireland asked him if he would come on service with him. 
"I will," said the man, "if I get my wages." 
"And what is the wages you'll be looking for?" 
" The place of a house and garden." 
*' You'll get that if my journey succeeds with me." 
The king of Ireland's son went forward with the short 
green man and the gunner, and it was not far they went 
until a man met them, and his ear left to the ground, 
and he listening to the grass growing. 

** It's as good for you to take that man into your ser- 
vice," said the short green man. 

The king's son asked the man whether he would come 
with him on service. 

" I'll come if I get the place of a house and garden." 
" You will get that from me if the thing I have in my 
head succeeds with me." 

24 \Y\6.c 1115 6i]\e4>.tin. 

Cu6.1t) ÍY\{>.c 1115 6i]íeA.nn, A.n ^e^-p jeApji 5^^r, ^^i 5^"- 
riMpe, Agti)" An clu 6-^0.1 jie, ^^viy ni jta-oa cua-to p^-o gup 
C6.|"A.t) yeA]i eile -ooib a^u^ a leAC-coj' ai^a a juaIaitiii, 
e>.^\if é Ag congbAit pÁi|Ace 5ei|\]ApAX) jau Aon 5ei]\]AyiA"ó 
leigeAti A]xeAC nÁ aitiac. Di longAncAj" m]\ TTIac Uij 
6i]\eAnn Ajuf -o'lAf^puij fé cax) é An ciaII a |AAib a leAC- 
cof Ai]i A gUAÍAinn mA]í pn. 

*' O," Ap i"eifeAn, "x)Á tiibeTÓeAt) mo -óÁ coij' AgAm ai]a 
An caIatti bei-ómn cotii tuAC pn 50 ]iAC]:Ainn Af aiíia]ac." 

" -dn ■ociuc|:ai'o cu Aip AnTip|A tiom," a]a fAn TTIac tlij. 

"Uiuc^TAX), 1T1Á bpÁj' me Á1C cige aju]" 5A]\t)A." 

" ^eobAit) cu ]"in UAim," a]a llló-c "Rig eijieAnn, "mÁ 
éipigeAnn An put) acá Ann mo ceAnn, liom." 

CuATO TDac 1115 CipeAnn, An ^caja geAiiji gl-^f, i^n jun- 
nAi|Ae, An ctuA-|'Aipe, a^U]" An coipjie Aip a^ató, ■^5U]" níop 
■b|.-A-oA 50 "ocAncAtDAii 50 ye£>~\\ Agu]" é A5 cup muilinn gAoice 
CAiAC le nA leAcpollÁijAe, ajuj' a meuji Ioa^ca Aige ai|v 
A f|\ón A5 -ojAUTOim nA pollÁi]ie eile. 

" Ca-o cuige hywl -oo meu]i aja-o ai]i tdo pión ? " a^i ITIac 
TIÍ5 CijieAnn lei|\ 

" O," A|i feij^eAn, "tda yei-opnn Af mo -oA pollÁiiie -oo 
pjUAb^'Ainn An muileAnn aiiiac A]'pn fUAf 'p^^ Aep." 

** An -ociucpAit) cu Ai]i Aimpji ?" 

" UiucfAt), mÁ bj-'Aj' me Áic cije a^u]' jaji-oa." 

" ^^obAit) cu pn, mÁ ei^ngeAnn An ]\vv acá Ann mo 
ceAnn liom." 

CuAit) niAC flig 6ipeAnn, An yeA-p seApii^glAp An gun- 
nAipe, An cluA^Aipe, An coippe, Agup An péi-oipe 50 "ocÁn- 
CA-OAp 50 peAp A bi 'nnA fui-óe ai]i CAOib An bócAi]i, a^ui* 
é A5 bpipeAX) cloc le nA leAC-cóin Agup ni |iAib CAfú]\ nÁ 
■OA-OAiTi Aige. "O'pApiuig An TIIac Tlij "óé, cax) cuige a 
pAib fé A5 bjiipeAX) nA 5-cloc le nA leAC-cóm. 


The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, 
the gunman, and the earman, went forward, and it 
was not far they went until they met another man, and 
his one foot on his shoulder, and he keeping a field of 
hares, without letting one hare in or out of the field. 
There was wonder on the king's son, and he asked him 
"What was the sense of his having one foot on his 
shoulder like that" 

" Oh," says he, " if I had my two feet on the ground 
I should be so swift that I would go out of sight." 

" Will you come on service with me?" says the king'5 

" I'll come if I get the place of a house and garden." 

" You'll get that if the thing I have in my head suc- 
ceeds with me." 

The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, 
the gunman, the earman, and the footman, went for- 
ward, and it was not far they went till they came to a 
man and he turning round a wind-mill with one nostril, 
and his finger left on his nose shutting the other nostril. 

" Why have you your finger on your nose ?" said the 
king of Ireland's son. 

" Oh," says he, " if I were to blow with the two nos- 
trils I would sweep the mill altogether out of that up 
into the air." 

"Will you come on hire with me ?" 

" I will if I get the place of a house and garden." 

" You'll get that if the thing I have in my head succeeds 
with me." 

The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, 
the gunman, the earman, the footman, and the blow- 
man went forward until they came to a man who was 
sitting on the side of the road and he a' breaking stones 
with one thigh, and he had no hammer or anything else. 

26 trií-c U15 eijAe^nn. 

" O," A|A -peii'eAii, " -oÁ mbu AlyAinn lei]^ mi coin "óúb^lc^ 
i<s"o •óeun^rAinn pajti^p "oíob." 

"An "ociucfiS^i-ó cu ó•^\\ ^impp liom?" 
" Uuic^A.-o, mÁ bp^s mé Áic cí^e A.-^uy ^í^\\va^" 
'O'imcij pAt» uile A.nn pn, triAC UÍ5 ei]AeAnn, A>n ^-eA^jA 
S^^IM^ 5^^r» ^" junnAi^Ae, ^n cbuAi^Ai|ie, ^n coii^ipe, ^n 
yéToi]\e, AjU]' ]:e{>-]\ bpifce n^. 5-cboc te CAOib íy cón^ 
^5«!^ beu^if^s-ó pA-t) -M|\ A.n n^o^oic rnÁpc^ a. bí ^iompí». 
A5UI' A^n JAvot tÍ1Á]AC/i> A. bi 'nn^. n-ioiAi^ ní béiin|:^-ó -pí 
op]iA>-'pAn 50 'ocÁinij cpA>cnónA ^5^T "oeiiíeAt) An- Laó. 

'ÓeA]\c ITIívc íxíj éi]\eA.nn uató A.511^' ní y^c^i-o pé A.on 
ceAc í>. mbeTóeA-ó ye A-nn A-n oTÓce pn. *ÓeA]Ac /^n yeA|i 
^CA^I^ 5^^r ^^i'ó ^B^V connA.i]AC pe reó-c n^c |id.ib bonn 
cteice 4»^niA.c m\\, nÁ bÁ]^■[\ cbeice ApceA.c {>.^'\\, x^cc Aon 
cbeice A.tiiÁin A.bí ^5 conjbÁil "oí-omn Aju-p pAj^jAit) A-ip. 
'OubA.ii\c m^c 11Í5 6i]\ei:>.nn nAc |AA>ib po]" ^15© cÁ cAicpeíivt) 
pA-o A-n 01-oce pn, ^^.gu]^ -oub/Mpc An peA]\ 5eA]\p ^Iaj^ 50 
mbeTOCA-o pAt) 1 x)ceAC ^n pACAij caII ^n oitce pn. 

CÁini5 pA-o cuin An ci^e, aju]' cApiAAinj An yeA^A 5eA]A]\ 
jIa^ An cuAille córii]\Aic Agup nío]\ ^Áj pé leAnb 1 mnAOi 
■peA^ijiAC 1 5-CApAtl, pijín 1 muic, nÁ b]\oc 1 njleAnn nÁp 
lompui^ pé CA]\c z\\'^ UAi^e iad Le méA-o An ropAin -oo bAin 
pé A-p An ^-cuAible cónijiAic. ÚÁinig An pACAC ahiac 
A^uj' 'oubAi]\c pé "mocui^im boÍA-ó An Ci^ieAnnAig binn 
b]\evi5Ai5 ]:aoi ni'^ói-oín •0ÚCA15." 

" tlí éi|\eAnnAC binn bjAeujAc nii]'e,'' a]i yAn ]:eA|i 5eA]\]\ 
5IAP, *'acc cá mo liiÁijifciiA AiTiuij Ann pin A5 ceAnn An 
bócAi|\ Ajup niÁ CAjAnn pé bAinpt) fé An ceAnn •oíoc." 
Dí An ]:eA]A ^eApp 5IA]' aj meu-ou^At), ■6>5U|' A5 meu'ouJA'ó 
50 ]iAib pé pAoi -óeineAt) coiti mó\\ teip An 5-cAifleÁn. t)í 
pAicciop Ai]\ An bjTACAC Ajup 'oubAipc pé, *• tjjruit "00 
TTiÁi^ii^ci]! com tnopbeACfein ?" 


The king's son asked him why it was he was breaking 
stones with his half (i.e., one) thigh, 

"Oh," says he, "if I were to strike them with the 
double thigh I'd make powder of them." 

" Will you hire with me ?" 

" I will if I get the place of a house and garden." 

" You'll get that if the thing I have in my head suc- 
ceeds with me." 

Then they all went forward together — the son of the 
king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, the 
earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man that 
broke stones with the side of his thigh, and they would 
overtake the ^larch wind that was before them, and the 
March wind that was behind them would not overtake 
them, until the evening came and the end of the day. 

The king of Ireland's son looked from him, and he 
did not see any house in which he might be that night. 
The short green man looked from him, and he saw a 
house, and there was not the top of a quill outside of it, 
nor the bottom of a quill inside of it, but only one quill 
alone, which was keeping shelter and protection on it. 
The king's son said that he did not know where he should 
pass that night, and the short green man said that they 
would be in the house of the giant over there that night. 

They came to the house, and the short green man 
drew the coolaya-coric (pole of combat) , and he did not leave 
child with woman, foal with mare, pigeen with pig, or 
badger in glen, that he did not turn over three times with 
the quantity of sound he knocked out of the coolaya-coric. 
The giant came out, and he said : " I feel the smell of the 
melodious l}iihg Irishman under {i.e., in) my little sod of 

"I'm no melodious lying Irishman," said the short 
green man ;" but my master is out there at the head of 

28 1Tl6>c TI15 6i]Ae6.nn. 

" UÁ," í>.\\ yen fe^p 5e/i.p|i B^^f, " ^S^f "^^f ^°-" 

" Cuip 1 b|:olA.c tile 50 mó.i'oin 50 n-inici5e/ynn "oo mÁi- 

cum A liiÁijii^cip 

ÚÁinij m Acpíj éipe^nn, mi yee^^x se^jip Z^^V> ^" 5«nnM|ie 
AD cluo-i^Aii^e, An yeToipe, An coippe, aju^^ feA|\ bpifce nA 

5-cloC te CAOlb A CÓnA, AjXeAC Y^^ 5-CAIfleÁn, AJUf CA1C 

pA"o An oiToce pn, c|iiAn t)ile pAnnAijeACC aju]" cpiAn te 
I'geutm^eAcc, aju]' cpiAn le •poi]ini (sic.) yé\m ^^UAin <y^\iy 


tluAiji "o' éijMJ An lÁ AijA nA niÁ|AAC CU5 fé leif a 
tiiÁiji^xip Aju]^ An 5unnAi|Ae, aju]^ An cluAf Aipe, Ajuf An 
coip]\e, A5UI" An i^ei-oipe, aju]" ^reAp biMi-ce nA 5-cloc le 
CAoib A cónA, Ajuj" "o'jpÁg ^é Aniuig A5 ceAnn An bóf:Ai]A 
lA-o, Agu]' cÁini^ ]'é yéin ai|a £y^y a^uj' bAin |'é An jIaj" "oe 
'n ^ACAC. "OubAiiic i'é leif An bfACAc 5U|\ cui]\ a liiÁijif- 
cip Aip Aif é 1 5-coinne An bipnéit) "ouib a bi ]:aoi colbA 

A leAbuit).'0ubA1|AC An ^ACAC JO-OCIubpAt) féVlACA -óó nÁ|A 

CA1C ^"é ]:éin ApiAiii, acc 50 |iAib nÁi^ie ai]i, An ^-eAn-bi^ipeut) 
x>o cAbAijAC -oó. 'OubAijAC An ycAp 5eAn|A 5lí>-r munA 
-ociubpAt) ^^é An bi|A|Aeu-o -oo 50 'ociuc):a-ó a liiÁi^i^xip Aip 
A1|', A^u]' 50 mbAin|:eAX) ]"é An ceAnn "oé. 

'*1|" l-'eAIAjA "OAm A CAbAipC •OUIC," Ap fAn ]:ACAC, " AJUf 

UAi]A Ai|A bic A cui]\|:eA|' cu Aip "00 ceAnn é, i-eicp-ó cu uile 
•óuine Aguj' ni f-eicp-ó "ouine ai|a bic tu." lÚuj fé •óó An 
biiApeut) Ann pn, a^uj^ cuaix) An yet^y 5eA|A]A jÍAf A^uj'cug 
■pé -00 niAC jAÍj éijieAnn é, 

Dí pAX) A5 imceACC Ann pn. 'Oo béA^ApAt) pAt) Aip 
An ngAoic itlAjACA 'OO bí ^AÓmpA, aju]" An JAOC TT1Á]aca 
-00 bí 'nnA n-oiAig ní béA]í|rAt) p op]íA-|'An, A5 x)uL 


the avenue, and if he comes he will whip the head off 
you." The short green man was growing big, growing 
big, until at last he looked as big as the castle. There 
came fear on the giant, and he said : " Is your master as 
big as you ?" 

" He is," says the short green man, " and bigger." 

*' Put me in hiding till morning, until your master 
goes," said the giant. 

Then he put the giant under lock and key, and 
went out to the king's son. Then the king of Ireland's 
son, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blow- 
man, and the man who broke stones with the side 
of his thigh, came into the castle, and they spent that 
night, a third of it a' story-telling, a third of it with 
Fenian tales, and a third of it in mild enjoyment (?) 
of slumber and of true sleep. 

When the day on the morrow arose, the short green 
man brought with him his master, the gunman, the 
earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who 
broke stones with the side of his thigh, and he left them 
outside at the head of the avenue, and he came back 
himself and took the lock off the giant. He told the 
giant that his master sent him back for the black cap 
that was under the head of his bed. The giant said that 
he would give him a hat that he never wore himself, but 
that he was ashamed to give him the old cap. The short 
green man said that unless he gave him the cap his 
master would comeback and strike the head off him. 

" It's best for me to give it to you,'' said the giant ; " and 
any time at all you will put it on your head you will see 
everybody and nobody will see you." He gave him the 
cap then, and the short green man came and gave it to 
the king of Ireland's son. 

" They were a'going then. They would overtake the 

30 tnó.c tlíj eipe4>.nn. 

x)o'n lootTiAn foi]\. IIum^a cÁinix^ c]\í>.cnónA. iy"^^]" "oeipe^t) 
A.n lA-e •óeí.]\c triA-c -pij 61]^eA.nn uai-o Aguf ní ]p^]'é A-on 
Á1C A. nibei-óeó.'ó i'é t>.^^^^ A.n OTÓce pn. "OeA^^ic Ati ):e^|A 
5eó.]\|\ gt^f UAit), ^5u^" connM]\c i'é CAi]'leÁn, ^»-5«]' tsuId- 
í>.i]AC fé, " A.ri ]:a.có.c 4).cá Ann yc>.n g-cAij'leAn pn, if -oeA.]!- 
L)pÁc<M]i -oo'n y6.t(>.c ^ ]\í..'bó.iTií>.]A t>.]\é^\ -Mge, ^^50^ béi-ónií-o 
A>nn fó-n j-cí^ifleÁn pn í^nocc." CÁini^ pAt), ^^uf "o'F^S 
l^é mí>.c ]\Í5 Cipeísnn ^juf a TÍiuinncijA ^5 ce^nn An bócAi]!, 
A^u^p cuAit) i^é cum An cAifleÁin, A5111" CA|\]\Ain5 ye An 
cuAille cótTi]AAic, Aguj^ nío|i ^Á5 -pé leAnb 1 ninAoi nÁ 
•peA|A]\Ac 1 5-cApAll nÁ pijín 1 muic nÁ b]\oc i n^leAnn, 1 
"biroiji^e -|'eAcc míLe óó, nÁ|A bAin ye C]\í lompóx) a]xa te^y 
An meA-o cojíAin a cu^ -pé Ap An 5-cuAille cóm]\Aic. 

ÚÁinig An ^^ACAc AiiiAC, A^nf •oii'bAi]\c i^é, "ITlocuijiin 
bolA-ó An éineAnnAi5 binn bj^eu^Aij j-aoi in'if-oi-oin •oúcai j." 

" tlí 6i-|AeAnnAc binn b]\eu5AC inipe," a]\ i^An yecs]\ ^e£>.]\\\ 
^ÍAf, " Acc cÁ 1110 tViÁijipci^A Aiinn j Ann pn A5 ceAnn An 
bócAip, A^up mÁ CAjAnn pé bAinpt) yé An ceAnn "oíoc." 

" If inó|\ tioni "óe ^^eini cu, a^ui^ i]' beAj bioni "oe "OÁ 
j]ieini cu "a]\ f An yACAc. 

"tlí biruigp-ó cu iTié 'oejjAeim m]\ bic," a]a ^'An yeA^ S^ajih 
5IAP Aru]" ^oifé r^ ^5 ineu'ouJA'o 50 ^Aib i'é cotii mó\\ 
tei]" An 5-CAifleÁn. 

UÁinig yAlCCIO]" A1]A An b|.'ACAC A^u-)' "OubAipc 1'é, 
" b]:uil -oo tiiÁi5i]xi]A corii mó\\ Icac-i^a r " 

"UÁ Agu]^ níof mó," A|A i'An yeA|i beAg gÍAp 

" Cm]\ 1 bplAc nié 50 niAi-oin 50 n-imcijeAnn -oo 
niÁijifcip," A|i i^An |:acac, " Agu^^ ]\ux) Aip bic acá cu A5 

1A]A]AA1t) CAICp-Ó CU A yAJAll." 

ÚU5 fé An ):acac leip, Ajup caic ]^é ^aoi beul "OAbAic 
é. CuAi-ó i^e AinAC A^up CU5 fé AfceAc^mAC jAíg OijAeAnn, 
An 5unnAi]Ae, An clnApAi|ie, An i^ef-oipe, An coip|\e, a^u^^ 
ye£^]\ b]n|xe nA 5-cloc le CAOib a cónA, ajuj- caic pAt) 
Au oit)ce Ann pn, cjdAn le pAnnui^eAcc c]\iAn le fjeu- 


March wind that was before them, and t he March wind 
that was behind them would not overtake them, going to 
the eastern world. When evening and the end of the 
day came, the king of Ireland's son looked from him, 
and he did not see any house in which he might be 
that night. The short green man looked from him, and 
he saw a castle, and he said : " The giant that is in 
that castle is the brother of the giant with whom we 
were last night, and we shall be in this castle to-night." 
They came to the castle, and he left the king's son 
and his people at the head of the avenue, and he went 
to the door and pulled the coolaya-coric, and he did not 
leave child with woman, foal with mare, pigeen with 
pig, or badger in glen, within seven miles of him, that 
he did not knock three turns out of them with all the 
sound he knocked out of the coolaya-coric. 

The giant came out, and he said, *' I feel the smell of 
a melodious lying Irishman under my sod of country. " 

" No melodious lying Irishman am I," says the short 
green man ; " but my master is outside at the head of 
the avenue, and if he comes he will whip the head off 

" I think you large of one mouthful, and I think you 
small of two mouthfuls," said the giant. 

" You won't get me of a mouthful at all," said the 
short green man, and he began swelling until he was 
as big as the castle. There came fear on the giant, and 
he said : 

" Is your master as big as you ?" 

" He is, and bigger." 

" Hide me," said the giant, " till morning, until your 
master goes, and anything you will be wanting you 
must get it." 

He brought the giant with him, and he put him under 

32 tn^c TI15 Cijieiivnn. 

iMge^cr, Aju]" cjiiivn te I'oipni ^-Ánii ]^UMn c>.-^uy po]\- 
co-oo-tco., j^o "oci An rhi^TOin. 

A^]\ mó>it)in, lÁ íMja n^ itiÁ^A^c, C115 An ]reA]\ 5eA]i]i jIai^ 
rriAC ^AÍj GijieAnn aju]' a liiumnci]! ArriAC Af An ^-CAij^leÁn 
A^uj" "o^Áj fé A5 ceAnn An bocAiiA iatd, aju*' cÁini^ |é 
):éin Ai|A Aif Ajuf -o'lAjip -pé nA feAn-'pbpéA^iAit) a bi f aoi 
colbA An leAbuit), ai]a An biTACAc. "OuIdaijac An ]:acac 50 
•ociúbpAt) yé pé\]\e IbucAi]" coiii rriAic a^u^ caic fé A]\iATh 
"o'a TÍiÁijifCip, Ajuj' CAt) é An rtiAic A bí Ann ^nA i^eAn- 
flipéA|iAib ! "OubAi^AC An ^eA]\ 5eA]A]\ JÍA^ miinA bpÁ^At) 
■pé nA 'pbpeti]iAi'ó 5c» ]aac]:a'ó -pé 1 5-coinne a liiÁtji]^!]!, 
leip An ceAnn "oo bAinc -oe. 'OubAi]AC An ^acac Ann pn 
50 -ociubjiA-o ^'é "óó lAt), A5tip cug, "Am ai]\ bic," a|a -pei- 
fCAn, " A cui]A].-eA]' cu nA i"Lipeii]\Ai"ó pin o]\c, A511]' " li^ij 
óibip " "oo -jAAt), Á1C Ai]A bic A bpuit •púit A^At) "oo vvl Ann, 
belt) cu innci." 

"O'imCI^ ITIAC ]\\-^ eijAGAnn AJUp An feA^A jeA]!]! jlAp, 

Agup An 5tinnAi]\e, Agup An ctuApAipe, a^U]^ An coippe 
Ajup An péix)ipe, Ajup peAp bpipce nA j-cloc le CAOib a 
con A, 50 'ocAmij cpAcnónA Ajup -oeipeA-o An^Ae; aju]' 
50 pAib AncApAtb A5 "out •jTAOi pjÁc nA copóige A^tip ni 
pAn]:At) An copóg teif. "CpiAir^Miij mAcpí^ ^ípeAnn "oe'n 
peAp 5eA]A]A jt^Ap Ann pin, cÁ bei-óeAt) pAt) An oi"óce pin, 
A^up -oubAipc An ye£>.\\ 5eA]ip S^-^f 5° mbeiteA-o piA-o 1 

"OCeAC -OeApbjlÁCAp An pACAIg A5 a pAlb pAt) A]iei]A. 

"OeA^AC mAC pig Ci]ieAnn uató a^u^ ni pACATO ye •oatdatti. 
"ÓeAjic An feAp jeAjip J^Ap UAit) aju^" connAijAc pé 
CAipleÁn tnóp. "O'yA^bAij pé mAC píj CipeAnn Ajuf a 
TTiumncip Ann pn aju]" cuAit) pé cum An cAipleÁin leip 
péin, Ajup CAjApAing pé An cuAitle cómpAic, Aguj' nio|i 
pÁjbAij pé leAnb 1 mnAOi, ]^eAp]iAC 1 LÁip, pigín 1 muic, nA 
bpoc 1 ngleAnn, nÁ]i cionncuij pé CApc cpi UAipe lei|" 
An méAt) copAin a bAin ye Ap An 5-cuAitle cómpAic. 
CÁinig An iTACAC AmAC a^u)' "OubAiiAC pé. "mocuijim 


the mouth or a douac (great vessel of some sort). He 
went out and brought in the son of the king of Ireland, 
the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, 
and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, 
and they spent that night, one-third of it telling Fenian 
stories, one-third telling tales, and one-third in the mild 
enjoyment of slumber and of true sleep until morning. 

In the morning, the day on the morrow, the short 
green man brought the king's son and his people out of 
the castle, and left them at the head of the avenue, and 
he went back himself and asked the giant for the d\A 
slippers that were left under the head of his bed. 

The giant said that he would give his master a pair of 
boots as good as ever he wore ; and what good was there 
in the old slippers r 

The short green man said thatunless he got the slippers 
he would go for his master to whip the head off him. 

Then the giant said that he would give them to him, 
and he gave them. 

" Any time," said he, " that you will put those slippers 
on you, and say ' high-over !' any place you have a mind 
to go to, you will be in it." 

The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, 
the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, 
and the man who broke stones with the side of his 
thigh, went forward until evening came, and the end 
of the day, until the horse would be going under the 
shade of the docking, and the docking would not wait 
for him. The king's son asked the short green man 
where should they be that night, and the short green 
man said that they would be in the house of the brother 
of the giant with whom they spent the night before. 
The king's son looked from him and he saw nothing. 
The short green man looked from him and he saw a 


34 1Tló.c II15 6ii\e6.nn. 

bol^t) 0.11 éi]\e0knnAi5 "bmn 'b]\eu5M5 y^oi ni'^rOToin -oú- 

■^ei>.\\]\ ^t^l', " ■^cc cÁ ino liiAi^ii'd-jA 'nnó. j'e^i'Aiii 6.r\\^ pn, 

ce^nn "oioc." 

A5U]' beij' pn coj^uij A.n ^e^.]! 5eA]\]\ S^^T ^5 TnéA.'OU- 
5A.t) 50 ]\£>.\h ]'é coiii tnó]A beif A.n 5-CMfleÁn yA.01 -oei^AeA-t). 

C«í.ini5 jTAiccio]' ^.1]^ í).n b|.'A.có.c, a^u]" ■oubA.i]\c i'é, "byuib 
t3o TTiÁi5i]xi]A coiii tnón leA.c yém ?" 

" Ua," a]í 1'A.n yeív]i 5eA.]í|i 'S^^y, " ^S^T ^""^^r ''"ó." 

" O cuijí mé A. bpot^-c, cui]\ nie 1 b).-oló.c," £>.]\ ]-£)^n ], 
"50 n-ínici5eA.nn -oo 111^.151 ]xi]\, /^5U|"-|\ut) -M]\bic a. béi-óeA.]' 
cu Ag iA.]\HA.Tó CA.ióp'ó cu A. yA5A.1t." 

Útij ]'é A.n i'A.CAc lei]^ ■^B^T ^"^P 1'^ F'^°' beul -oA-bAic é, 

CÁinig i^é M]\ í>.^\' A.5U]" CU5 i'é niA-c jiíj Gi]ieA.nn, A.n 
5unnA.i)\e, A.n cluA.|"A.i|ie, A.n coippe, A.n -j^eToiiie, a-^U]" 
yeA.]A bpijxe nA. 5-cLoc te CA.oib a. cónA. A.fceA.c \.e^y, 
A.5U]" CA1C I'lAvt) A.n oTÓce i'in 50 i'Ú5a.c, cpiA.n -oi be, A5Uf r]\iA.n x)í be ■i', A.5U]'C]nA.n 
t)í be i'oipm yAiiii 1' A.5UI" pop cox)A.bcA.. 

Ai]-v iiiA.ix)in, bÁ A.i]\ nA. ihÁpAC, cug yé inA.c 1115 GipeA^nn 
^.guf A. liiuinncip A.111A.C A.5tif -o'i^Asbuig -pé A.5 ceA.nn A.n 
bóCA.ip 1A.-0 A.5UI' cÁini5 yé yé^n £>.^\ A.ip A.5U1' bei5 yé 
ATDA-c A.n yA.CA.c, A5iJ|^ "OubA-ipc ye \.e\y A.n b]:A.CA.c A.n cloi- 
•ooMh niei]\5eACA. bí yi>.o^ colbA. a» teA.bui-ó vo 'oó. 


great castle. He left the king's son and his people 
there, and he went to the castle by himself, and he drew 
the coolaya-coric, and he did not leave child with woman, 
foal with mare, pigeen with pig, or badger in glen, but 
he turned them over three times with all the sound he 
struck out of the coolaya-coric. The giant came out, and 
he said : " I feel the smell of a melodious lying Irishman 
under my sod of country." 

'' No melodious lying Irishman am I," said the short 
green man; "but my master is standing at the head of 
the avenue, and if he comes he shall strike the head 
off you." 

And with that the short green man began swelling 
until he was the size of the castle at last. There came 
fear on the giant, and he said : " Is your master as big 
as yourself? " 

" He is," said the short green man, "and bigger." 

" Oh ! put me in hiding ; put me in hiding, " said the 
giant, " until your master goes ; and anything you will 
be asking you must get it." 

He took the giant with him, and he put him under the 
mouth of a douac, and a lock on him. He came back, 
and he brought the king of Ireland's son, the gunman, 
the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man 
who broke stones with the side of his thigh, into the 
castle with him, and they spent that night merrily — a 
third of it with Fenian tales, a third of it with telling 
stories, and a third of it with the mild enjoyment of 
slumber and of true sleep. 

In the morning, the day on the morrow, he brougiit 
the son of the king of Ireland out, and his people with 
him, and left them at the head of the avenue, and he 
came back himself and loosed out the giant, and said 
to him, that he must give him the rusty sword that was 

30 niivc TI15 eijieí>>nn. 

"OuIdmiac /sn yc>~t{^c r\c>.cvc^ú'b\\c>~^6 ye ^n j'eA.n-cloTÓeMÍi pn 
t)' A^on •ouine, 50 -ocuíbp^-ó -pé -óó cloTÓeMÍi n^ r]\í 

f A-D fé 50 -ocuibp^t) -pé leij' A11 V6~]\ó. binlle é. 

" lli 5l^c|:Ai-6 nié pn," í..|i I'^n ye:^]\ ^e^p^í B^-^Tj " CMÚp-6 
mé ^n ctoit)eó>iÍT meip^eo^c ^á^^mI, '^5l1f iiuin4>. ^K^é' "^^ 
é ^\ó.cpM-ó ms 1 5-coiniie 1110 iiii^i5i]'ci]\ ■^51^1]' bMnpt) yi^ ah 
ce/Min "oíoc." 

" 1]' fe^]i]\ -OMii A CA-bAi^ic ■ouic," {s]\ yisu ycstisc, " :s^uy 
CM>. bé Á1C í. buAlye^^'cu biiible beij' ^n ^-cloibeArii ]'ni 
l^-^c^ATo 1'é 50 "ocí An jMneMÍi -oA nibuT) iA]\Min a bí 
jioitiie." Cug ]"é ATI cloi-óeAiii meinjeAC t)ó Ann y\n. 

CuATÓ niAC ]iÍ5 6i]íeAnn A511]' An ]:eAi\ 5eA]\]A 5l^l^ ^5"]' 
An 5unnAi]\e, a-^U]^ An cUiAi'Aipe, ^juf '^n coi]'i]ie, Aguj'An 
)^éit)i]ie, A5U]'].-eA]\ bnij^ce nA 5-cloc le CAOib a cónA Ann 
pn, 50 TDCÁinig cnAcnónA £>-'^^y X)e)yeiyX) An Iaó, 50 |AAib 
An CApAll A5 vwl jTAOi -j'j^Ác nA copói^e A^iq- ní yAn]:A-6 
An copó^ tei]\ lli béA]i|:AT) An JAOC 1Í1Á]-ica a bí ]\oinpA 
ojAjiA ^5U]' An 5A0C lllÁ]\CA A bí 'nnA n^oiAi^ ní y\i^ y\ 
o|i|\A-pAn, A511]' bi piAt) An oibce y}u Ann ^An ■ooiiiAn ]"oi]\. 
An Á1U A ]\Aib An beAn-UAf aI. 

T)' i'iApAUig An bcAn -oe iíiac píj CipeAnn cpeut) -oo 
bí fé A5 iAH]\Ai-ó Agii]' ■oubAi]\c i'ei]'eAn 50 ]\Aib pé A5 
iAp|\Ai-ó \yé\u mA|\ liinAoi. " CAicpú cu m'^A^Ail," a]\ pye, 
"mÁ piAj'glAnn cu ino 5eA]'A -oioni." 

■puAi]! ]'é A bói^xín be tiA cmt) bitACAill Ann ]'An 
5-CAipbeÁn An oit)ce pn, í>^5Uf mivi ^'An oiuce cÁmi^ pye 
Ajup -oubAiiAC leip "^'eópoj'ún j^-^ó-X), í>-'^xiy niunA bpnl 
An pofúp pn AjjAt) Aip mAix)in AmÁ|\Ac bAinpgeAn An 
ceAnn ■oíoc." 


under the corner of his bed. The giant said that he 
would not give that old sword to anyone, but that he 
would give him the sword of the three edges that never 
left the leavings of a blow behind it, or if it did, it would 
take it with the second blow. 

" I won't have that," said the short green man, " I 
must get the rusty sword ; and if I don't get that, I must 
go for my master, and he shall strike the head off you." 

" It is better for me to give it to you," said the giant, 
" and whatever place you will strike a blow with that 
sword, it will go to the sand {i.e., cut to the earth) 
though it were iron were before it." Then he gave him 
the rusty sword. 

The son of the king of Ireland, the gunman, the ear- 
man, the footman, the blowman, and^the man who broke 
stones with the side of his thigh, went forward after 
that, until evening came, and the end of the day, until 
the horse was going under the shade of the docking, 
and the docking would not wait for him. The March 
wind that was behind them would not overtake them, 
and they would overtake the wind of March tiidt was 
before them, and they were that night (arrivedj in the 
eastern world, where was the lady. 

The lady asked the king of Ireland's son what it was he 
wanted, and he said that he was looking for herself as 

"You must get me," said she, "if you loose my 
geasa * off me." 

He got lodging with all his servants in the castle 
that evening, and in the night she came and said to him, 
" Here is a scissors for you, and unless you have that 
scissors for me to-morrow morning, the head will be 
struck off you." 

* Geasa, pronounced ^aji«, means "enchantment ' in this place. 

38 ni^c 1115 6i]\e^nn. 

'nuc). co'oló.t), ís^ti]' coiii tuA>c a^'i' ciiic i'é nnA. co-oLax) 
^Mig yi í).n -|'io]nin UMt) ^511]' 'o'j^-Áj'bin^ y\ é. Úuj i~í ^n 
1'io]n')]\ Too'n ]\Í5 nniie, A-gti]^ •oubcsijic i'í lei)' csu ]\'-\t^. 
All ]'io]ni]\ "oo he^t Ai^e m]\ tiiA-i-oiii -oi. "O'iiiici^ -j-i íviin pn. 
11ti6.i]A bí i^í imci^ce cvnc tsn ]\if^ iiniie 'niií). co-ol^x) 
Agu]' inií).in A "bí yé 'nno. co-olo-t) c^mi^ mi yet>.]\ ^ets]\]\ 

Aijí ^ ceAnn, a^u]^ aii cloi-óeMÍi inei]\5e^c ^nn i). lÁiiii, 
A^ii]' cmk hé Á1C A. •o'i'Ájj'bui^ All -nig -mi I'loi'i'i]; i-nicsiiv 
1'ei]'eAn é. Cu^ i'é -oo iíiac i\Í5 e-i]\ei>.r,n é, A51-I]' iui«m]a 
cÁinig yi]'e Ai]\ iiiATom •o'pí>>|:]\ui5 yí " ^ liiic ]\Si^ Gi]\eMin 
"byinl All yio]-ú)\ A^At) ?" 

"UÁ," A]\ i'eii'eAii. 

Dí C]\1 -píce cLoi^ionii iia iTOAome a cÁm^ '^Á li-ÍA]\]\Ait) 
Aip'i'pícib cnnciotiAn cAi^'teÁin A5U]']'AoiLp 50 inbei'óeAt) 
A cloigionn Ai]\ ppíce aici 1 j-cuixDeACC teó. 

All oi-óce, All lÁ Ai]; iia iík\]\ac, cÁini^ pí a^u]- cu^ ]'t 
CÍA]\ -oo, A511]' -ohIkmiiu y'^ lei]' nniiiA nibei-óeA-ó aii cía]\ 
Aije Ai]\ niAToin iiuai]\ a cuiciTAi) -j'i 50 nibei'óeA'ó An ceAiin 
bAince -óé. Cui]\ p bio]\Án--iniAin pAoi iia ceAiiii A511]' cuic 
yé 'iiiiA co-oIa-o iiia]\ cinc yé aii oi-óce iioiiiie, a^u]' joix) 
]'ipe All cÍA]\ béice. C115 yi aii cía]\ x)o'ii ]\Í5 iiiiiie a^u]- 
•oubAi^ic pí tei]' j^Aii An cia]i -oo CAilleA-ó iiia]\ caiII yé An 
pio]"ú]\. CÁinij An yeA]\ 5eA]\]\ jlAp Ajup nA peAn-pléipA- 
1\ATÓ Ai]i A coi'Aib, An pe An-bi]\]\eu-o ai]\ a ceAnn A511]' An 
cloroeAiii inei-n^eAC Ann a lÁiiii, A^np ní -[.'acato An jiíg é 
50 •ocÁinig ye CAob pA]\ •oé aju]' C115 yó aii cía]\ leip 


nuAi]\ cÁini^ All iiiAit)in, Tu'njn^ niAC y\i^ G-i]\cAnn Ajup 

C0]'U15 pé A^ CAOllU'AÍ) IIA ClAl]\e A bi ltllC15ée UAITJ. "IIÁ 


She placed a pin of slumber under his head, and he 
fell into his sleep, and as soon as he did, she came and 
took the scissors from him and left him there. She 
gave the scissors to the King of Poison,* and she desired 
the king to have the scissors for her in the morning. 
Then she went away. When she was gone the King of 
Poison fell into his sleep ; and when he was in his sleep 
the short green man came, and the old slippers on him, 
and the cap on his head, and the rusty sword in his 
hand, and wherever it was the king had left the scissors 
out of his hand, he found it. He gave it to the king of 
Ireland's son, and when she (the lady) came in the 
morning, she asked : " Son of the king of Ireland, have 
you the scissors ? " 

" I have," said he. 

There were three scores of skulls of the people that 
went to look for her set on spikes round about the castle, 
and she thought that she would have his head on a spike 
along with them. 

On the night of the next day she came and gave him 
a comb, and said to him unless he had that comb for her 
next morning when she would come, that the head 
should be struck off him. She placed a pin of slumber 
under his head, and he fell into his sleep as he fell the 
night before, and she stole the comb with her. She gave 
the comb to the King of Poison, and said to him not to 
lose the comb as he lost the scissors. The short green 
man came with the old slippers on his feet, the old cap 
on his head, and the rusty sword in his hand ; and the 
king did not see him until he came behind him and took 
away the comb with him. 

When the king of Ireland's son rose up the next 
morning he began crying for the comb, which was gone 

* Or " the King of N'yiv. 

40 tn^c TI15 6i]\eíi-t-in. 

b^c lei]' pn," c>.]\ -|'mi ]^e^]\ 5eA]\]\ ^l^f, " có^ -j^é Aj^m-i^^." 
11uAi]A cÁinij pye cu^ ]'é ^mi cía]\ xdí, a^u^^ Ijí lonjísncAi^ 

UÁim^ ]'í M^ c|\íoTÍi^-6 oTÓce, a^U]- "oiibAijic yí le m^c 1115 
ei]ieAnn ^n ceMin x)0 cio-i^i^-o lei]' ah 5-cím]i ]'in -oo beic 
A-ije •óí, Ai]\ m^i'om ^iiiÁ]iac. Iloi]'," a]i ]'i]'e, "ní ]iAib 
bAOJ^l 0]\c 50 -ocí /M10CC, A^u]' 111 Á CMlle^nn cu <mi c-^tii 
]'o 1, cÁ -oo cloijionn iméi^ce." 

Dí t>.n bio]\c\n-]nií>.in ]:aoi n-i. cexMin, a^u]- cuic ]'é 
'uTiA co-olAt). ÚÁini^ ]'i]'e A511]' 50113 ]'í ^n cí^]i u-m-ó. 
Cu^ ]^í x)o'n ]\Í5 niiiie í, A^ti]' •oijb^i]ic ]i lei]' i"iÁ]i yeuv 
í^n cí<^]1 imceACC umx) no 50 mb^Mnp-óe ati ceAnn 'oé." 
Úuj All ]iij niriie ^n ciA^p lei]', A51.1]' cui]i ]'é A]'reAC í 1 
5-cA]\]\Ai5 cloice, A^ii]' c]\í pce ^Ia]' '^11^111, ^S^f f'-'i'ó 
A-n ]AÍ5 CAOib Ainui^ -oe n-i. 5lí>.]'Mb nile aj •oo]ia]' iia 
CA]\]iAi5e, '5Á ]:-M]\e. UÁinij M^ yei,~]\ 5eA]i]i ^Ia]', a^u]' 
TiA ]'li]Deu]iAit) Aju]' Ati bi]i]ieu'o xM]i, a^u]' An cloi-óeA.iii 
nle1]\5e-^c Ann a lÁnh, Agu]' buAil ]'é binlle ai]\ An 
5-cA]iiiAi5 cloice A511]' 'o']:o]'5Ail ]'via]' í, a^u]' buAil ]'é 
A.n •OA]iA bvnlle ai]i ^n ]\i^ nniie, a^vi]' b^in yé ^n ce^nn 
■oé. Cug ]'é lei]' An cia]a ci.115 (x)o) niAC ]\Í5 6i]ieAnn Ann 
pn, Aj^u]' ]:uAi]\ ]'é é Ann a •óúi]'eAcc, a^u]' é a^ cAOineAt) 
nA ciAipe. " Súx) í x)0 cía]i "ouic," a]i ]'ei]'eAn, "cuic].-ai'ó 
p]'e Ai]\ bAll, Ajii]' ]:iAp\ócAi-ó ]'í -oioc An bpiil An cía]i 
A^ct), Aju]' AbAi]\ léice 50 b]:uil, aju]' An ceAnn 'oo 
cÍA]iA-ó léiúe, Aju]- CA1C CUIC1 An cloi^ionn. 

t1uAi]i cÁinig ]'i]'e A^ pApAuig An ]iAib An cia]\ Aije, 
•oubAi]AC ]'é 50 ]iAib, A^U]' An ceAnn "oo ciAjiAt) léice, a^u]" 
CA1C fé ccAnn An ]\\é^ nniie cuici. 

T1uAi]i connAi]ic yí An cloi^ionn bí ]:eA]A5TÍió]\ ui]i]n, a^u]- 
'oubAi]AC p lei]" nAC b|:ui5]:eA'6 yé í le pó]'A'ó 50 birÁJAt) 
■pé coip]ie A ■púbAl]:A'ó le nA coi]'i]ie ].'éin 1 5-coinne c]ú 
buToeul nA h-tocflÁince a]' cobA]i An "ooriiAin foi]i, a^u]' 


from him. " Don't mind that," said the short green 
man: " I have it." When she came he gave her the 
comb, and there was wonder on her. 

She came the third night, and said to the son of the 
king of Ireland to have for her the head of him who was 
combed with that comb, on the morrow morning. 
"Now," said she, "there was no fear of you until this 
night ; but if you lose it this time, your head is gone." 

The pin of slumber was under his head, and he fell into 
his sleep. She came and stole the comb from him. She 
gave it to the King of Poison, and she said to him that he 
could not lose it unless the head should be struck off 
himself. The King of Poison took the comb with him, 
and he put it into a rock of stone and three score of locks 
on it, and the king sat down himself outside of the locks 
all, at the door of the rock, guarding it. The short 
green man came, and the slippers and the cap on him, 
and the rusty sword in his hand, and he struck a stroke 
on the stone rock and he opened it up, and he struck the 
second stroke on the King of Poison, and he struck the 
head off him. He brought back with him then the 
comb to the king's son, and he found him awake, and 
weeping after the comb. " There is your comb for you," 
said he ; " she will come this now,* and she will ask you 
have you the comb, and tell her that you have, and the 
head that was combed with it, and throw her the skull." 

When she came asking if he had the comb, he said he 
had, and the head that was combed with it, and he 
threw her the head of the King of Poison. 

When she saw the head there was great anger on her, 
and she told him he never would get her to marry until 
he got a footman (runner) to travel with her runner for 
three bottles of the healing-balm out of the well of the 

* An ordinary Connacht expression, like the Scotch " the noo." 

42 lllísc II15 d)\e<>.nn. 

■oÁ inbuT) lu^ice í». cÁinij 0. co^y^^e yéin 'n^ ^.n coip]\e 
M5e-]'e6.n, 50 ]\c>^^'b ó^ ceA-nn imcijce. 

■piiAin p i'eAn-CiMlleAC Cbincfe éijin), £>-'^uy cuj -pi cpí 
buToeiil4>. -oi. 'Ou'bM]\c í>.]\ ]:e6.]\ '^eí>.\\]\ gtA-i' Z]ú buioeuld. 
■00 c^bAi]AC -oo'ii yeiy]\ a bí ^5 conjbÁil pÁipce u&. r^^e^\\\\- 
pAt), ^jiif cu^ív-ó -óó lA-o. "O'lmcij Ml CMlleó-c A511]' í>.n 
ye:>.\\, ^5Uf c|\í buToéí).!.^. A5 50.C ívon ívcí.., í>-5"1' bí coip^Ae 
inic 11Í5 6i]Aeí>.nn ^5 ci^e^cc le^r- goImj /siii í>.i]% fiib a 
bí Ml c^ibteAC imci^celeA.c-be^'Lísij ^5 "out ívnn. " Sum 
1^0]%" c>.]\ y{>.^^ ct>.^\Xee>^c beif /b.n 5-coip]\e, " A5U]'lei5 -oo 
rgíc, cÁ An bei]\c acív pó]XA /mioi]% A^uf nÁ bí bpi]'eA.'ó 
•00 cpoTÓe A5 iMC." Cuj pí téice cloijionn cA.pAill ^.^up 
cuiji pí |:a.oi nó. ce^nn é, aju]' bio]\ÁTi-fUMn Ann, -ft-^wv 
ni:Ai]\ beAg ye a ce^nn ai]a, cuic yé 'nn^ co-oIax). 

*Óói]\c pipe An c-ui]"5e a bí ^ije AniAc, aju]' -o'im- 
C15 pí. 

b'^-A-OA leip An b]:eAp 5eA]\]\ 5b'^p 50 pAib fiAt» A5 
cíjeACc, Agiif 'oubAi]\c i^é tei]' An ^-ctuA^'Ai^ie, " LeA^ "oo 
cbviAp Aip An CAbAiii, ^gup peuc An b]:uit pAt) aj ceAcc." 
" CLumnn,'' a]a i'ei]'eAnn, " An CAilleAC Ag ceACC, aju]' cÁ 
An coi]'i]\e 'nnA cotdLa-d, A5U]' é aj^ pjVAnnyAjicuig." 

" X)eA]\c UA1C," A]\ ]'An yeAji 5eA]\i\ gÍAf lei]' An njun- 
nAi]\e " 50 bpeicpt) cn ca b].niit An coi]'i]\e." 

*OubAi]AC An 5unnAi]\e50 ]\Aib pé Ann Abeiciopin ■o'Áic, 
Agii]" cl-oi^ionn CApAilt |:aoi nA ceAnn, '^^^]" ^ 'nnA 

" Cui|\ -oo gimnA le -oo fúil," a]\ p^n ye(s\\ 5eA]\n glAp, 
" A 3^11]' cui]\ An cboi^ionn ó nA ceAnn." 

Cui|\ i^é An junnAle nApúil Ajuf f5viAib pé An cloijionn 
ónA ceAnn. *Óúip5 An coipipe, A511]' yiiAip pé nA bui-oenlA 
A bí Aige ]:oIaiíi, aju]^ b'éi^in -oo plleA-ó cum An cobAi]t 

Di An CAilbeAC A5 ceAcc Ann p■^^ ajui^ ní pAib An coi- 
pipe le ^reiceÁL (yeicfjnc). At\ fAn yeA]\ jeAjvp gl^p ^tir 


western world; and if her own runner should comeback 
more quickly than his runner, she said his head was 

She got an old hag — some witch— and she gave her 
three bottles. The short green man bade them give three 
bottles to the man who was keeping the field of hares, 
and they were given to him. The hag and the man 
started, and three bottles with each of them ; and the 
runner of the king's son was coming back halfway on 
the road home, while the hag had only gone half way to the 
well. " Sit down," said the hag to the foot- runner, when 
they met, " and take your rest, for the pair of them, are 
married now, and don't be breaking your heart running." 
She brought over a horse's head and a slumber-pin in 
it, and laid it under his head, and when he laid down his 
head on it he fell asleep. She spilt out the water he had 
and she went. 

The short green man thought it long until they were 
coming, and he said to the earman, " Lay your ear to 
the ground and try are they coming." 

'T hear the hag a' coming," said he; "but the foot- 
man is in his sleep, and I hear him a' snoring." 

" Look from you," said the short green man to the 
gunman, " till you see where the foot-runner is." 

The gunman looked, and he said that the footman 
was in such and such a place, and a horse's skull under 
his head, and he in his sleeping. 

" Lay your gun to your eye," said the short green man, 
" and put the skull away from under his head." 

He put the gun to his eye and he swept the skull 
from under his head. The footman woke up, and he 
found that the bottles which he had were empty, and it 
was necessary for him to return to the well again. 

The hag was coming then, and the foot-runner was 

44 1TIA.C Tlij Gi|AeAr)n. 

yu^, leif ^.n b|:eó.-|A ^ bi ^5 cup ad liiuilnin-^^oice ca]íc 
le 11^ ]bollÁi]ie, "éi]M5 ^-UAf a^u]- yeuc An 5-cuii\yeÁ £>.n 
CAille^sC Aiji A.1i-i>.i]\" Cuip ye £>. liieup o.ip a- f]\ó\^ a^u;- 
nuA.i|i "bi A-n c-MlleAC A5 ce^cc cuip ]'é i-eixDeog ^^oice 
yuici A i^juAib £>.^\\ £s h-ó.^y i. Idí r^ ceAcc ixpif Ajuf iMnne 
fé xMi ]\u-o ceu-on^ léice. 5^c i>.ni a bi-oeAX) p]'e ^5 cei^cc 
A byo5-^]' -oóib "oo bi-oe^-D -|'ei]^e4).n x)Á cu]\ iyi]\ iv h-^if A]\íf 
lei]' M^ ^^^Cs0^t -oo feiTDe^X) i'é Ap a. pollÁi]\e. Ai]\ •oei]\eA."6 
yé^V) ye leif ^n -oÁ pollÁi]\e ^511^ p^UAib ye i^n c^illeisC 
cum ^n -ooiiiivin foi]\ ^]\\y. CÁimg coi]'i]Ae mic ]\i5 Ci]\e4).nn 
£>.u^^ pin, isjup bi ah lÁ pni jnócin^ce. 

tDi )-'e<i.>]\5 iiió]\ 6.^\ 4sii 111116.01 iiuMjA coiinM]ic pi ni^cx)cÁi- 
1115 Í. coipipe yéu^ m]\ í>.^y 1 -ocoj^ac, ív^u]' -oubAinc pi le 
niAC pij 6i]\e-Miii, " 111 bpn^pt) cu nii^'e i^noip no 50 
pnibi>.ilyi-6 cu C]\i liiiLe^-^-n b)\ói5 50.11 pcoc^, Mji pnÁCí>.it)ib 

t)i bóú^p AIC1 cpí liiíLe e>.^]\ yi>-x), A5up pnÁC6.ix)e 5eupA> 
cpuAiÓe c|\A.icce íxip, coiii C1U5 leip An b].-eun. Ay p^n yei.\\ 
SeA]ip 'S^^" ^^ peAp-b]\i]xe nA 5-cloc le ha leAC-cóm, 
" céix) Agup iiiAot iA"o pm." ÓuATÓ An peA]i pin o]\pA le 
nA leAC-cóm Agup pinne ye pcunipATÓ -óíob. TDubAijic An 
peAp 5eA]i]\ 5IAP leip x)ul ojijia le ha com -óúbAlcA. CuAit) 
pé oii]\A Aim pm le ha com "oúbAlcA, Aj^up pmne pé 
pút-OAp ^'S'^'^y ppAipeAC -uiob. tÁini^ nu\c pig GipeAnn 
Agu]^ piubAil pé nA cpi liiile, Agu]' bi a beAn gnócuigce 

pópAt) All beipc Ann ym, Agup bt An céut) póg le pÁ^Ail 
A5 An bpcAp 5eAp]\ ^Ia]', Rug An peAp gCApp glAp An 
beAii leip pém ApceAC 1 peonijiA, Agup copui 5 ye ui]ipi. 
t)i pi lÁn "óe nAic]\eACAib niiiie, a^u]^ beibeA'ó rtiAC pig 
GipoAnn iriApb aca, nuAi]i a pAcpAX) ye 'nnA co-olAt), acc 

gup piUC An peA]\ gOApp glA]^ A1]X1 lAt). 

CAinig -|"é go 111 AC pig GijicAim Aim pm, Agup •oubAi]\c ye 
leip, *' Uig leAC -Qul le no lim^oi Anoip. Ip mipe An peAp 


not to be seen. Says the short green man to the man 
who was sending round the windmill with his nostril : 
" Rise up and try would you put back that hag." He 
put his finger to his nose, and when the hag was coming 
he put a blast of wind under her that swept her back 
again. She was coming again, and he did the same 
thing to her. Every time she used to be coming near 
them he would be sending her back with the wind he 
would blow out of his nostril. At last he blew with the 
two nostrils and swept the hag back to the western world 
again. Then the foot-runner of the king of Ireland's 
son came, and that day was won. 

There was great anger on the woman when she saw 
that her own foot-runner did not arrive first, and she 
said to the king's son : " You won't get me now till you 
have walked three miles, without shoes or stockings, on 
steel needles." She had a road three miles long, and 
sharp needles of steel shaken on it as thick as the grass, 
and their points up. Said the short green man to the 
man who broke stones with the side of his thigh : " Go 
and blunt those." That man went on them with one 
thigh, and he made stumps of them. He went on them 
with the double thigh, and he made i^owaer a.ná pr as hue h 
of them. The king of Ireland's son came and walked 
the three miles, and then he had his wife gained. 

The couple were married then, and the short green 
man was to have the first kiss. The short green man 
took the wife with him into a chamber, and he began on 
her. She was full up of serpents, and the king's son 
would have been killed with them when he went to sleep, 
but that the short green man picked them out of her. 

He came then to the son of the king of Ireland, and 
he told him, " You can go with your wife now. I am the 
man who was in the coffin that day, for whom you paid 

46 <Vn Alp-liiA.cli]\<i. 

ó. t)í 4M"in yi>.n 5-cóni]\6. £>.u lÁ pn, 0. 'o'íoc cii nA> 'oeic 

peijibi-pi je líi.'o •00 cin]\ X)m>. cu^b-v>-y£>.." 

"O'linci^ <Mi yec>.\\ ^e^]\\\ 5t^f '^b^T ^ iiuiinnci]\ A.nn ^^in 
^^u]' ní y^cisit) niAC]M5 ei]\eí>.nn 6.]\íy é. Ilu^ ]^é a. "beo-n 
ii-bikile lei]% i^S^Y c-^ic i^ia-tí be^^cA. fotiA» le céile. 

QH alp-LuachRa. 

bill i'colój j'Mt)bi]\ A ^-Conn^ccMlJ 6.on uíki]\ a.iíiáiti, ^J^^if 
bi in^oni 50 \,eó\\ ^»-156, ^jup beMi liiMÍ A511]' nnn|\í^in 
bpeÁj ^51-M' "' l^^i^'' -o^-OíMÍi ^5 cu]A buA^it)|ieí>.x) nÁ cpiob- 
tóiTje A.i|i, 6-5«]" -oeLipyA yéin 50 i\ó.ib yé 'nn^ pe^-p compó]\- 
CA.tTiAit fÁfC4>., ^jup 50 )A 6.1b A-n c-Á-ó Aiji, coiii niAic aju]' 
ó.i|i -óuine cs^]\ bic ^ bí beó. bhí pé m6.]\ pin 50.11 bjión 56.11 
bu6.ix)]\e6'ó M]\ ■j.-eA-'ó mópÁin bliA.bó.iii 1 I'l^ince iíimc ís^v\y 
^A-n cinne/sf 110. Máx) <m|i ).'éin nÁ -m]i a. cloinn, no 50 
■ocÁinij lÁ. bjieiv^ Ann]'Mi byojiii^]!, 6. pó-ib yé •oe6]ic6iJ 
Ai]A A> cuiT) -OA^oine 6.5 "oeun^-iii ]:éi]\ A-nnf^-n inoínyeu)\ a. bí 
A> n-A-ice be n^. ce^-c yém, Ajuf mo^y bí A-n lÁ yo ceic -o'ól 
fé "oeoc blÁ A^ui^fin ]'é é yé^\^ pió.)\ 6.^y 6.11 bpeuji ú]\ 
bAince, 6.5U]' ni^]\ bí ye p^nuigóe le ze\y ó.n lívé aju]' 
leip -Ml obMp 6. bí i'é A.5 -oeun^iii, "oo cuic yé jmi liioill 
'nriA. co-01-i.-ó, ^^^y n'yt>.ri yé niA.]A i'in <m]i |:e6.t) cpi no 
ceic]\e UMjA no 50 ]-\6.ib A-n yeuy uile c]ió.pcA. ^-jup 50 ]\ó.ib 
A -UA-oine oib]\e imci^ce a]' e>.\^ b]:)<.\i|\c. 

lliiMjA "óúii'i^ yé 6.nn pin, fuit) pe fu^f a-ii^ í>- cóm, -n^u]- 
ní p^ib po|' 6.150 CI6. 6.n Á1C 6.]\6.ib ]'é,no 511)1 cuiiiini5 ]-e |.-6vOi 
t)ei]\e 51111 6.nn]'6.n bpÁijic 6-1]^ cúl 6. €156 yéMn -oobife 'nn^ 
lui-oe. '0'éi]ii5 yé 6.nn fin 6-5«]' cu6.1t) ]'é 6.ip 6.1]^ cum 6. 
ci5e yéin, 6.5UI" 6.ip n-imce6cc -oo, TT10C6.15 ^'é m6.]i pi6.n no 


the ten pounds ; and these people who are with you, 
they are servants whom God has sent to you." 

The short green man and his people went away then, 
and the king of Ireland's son never saw them again. 
He brought his wife home with him, and they spent a 
happy life with one another. 


There was once a wealthy farmer in Connacht, and he 
had plenty of substance and a fine family, and there was 
nothing putting grief nor trouble on him, and you would 
say yourself that it's he was the comfortable, satisfied 
man, and that the luck was on him as well as on e'er a 
man alive. He was that way, without mishap or mis- 
fortune, for many years, in good health and without sick- 
ness or sorrow on himself or his children, until there 
came a fine day in the harvest, when he was looking at 
his men making hay in the meadow that was near his 
own house, and as the day was very hot he drank a 
drink of buttermilk, and stretched himself back on the 
fresh cut hay, and as he was tired with the heat of the 
day and the work that he was doing, he soon fell asleep, 
and he remained that way for three or four hours, until 
the hay was all gathered in and his workpeople gone 
away out of the field. 

When he awoke then, he sat up, and he did not know 
at first where he was, till he remembered at last that it 
was in the field at the back of his own house he was 
lying. He rose up then and returned to his house, 
and he felt like a pain or a stitch in his side. He made 

48 An Al)D-lu^ch]\^, 

m^]) 5peim A>rin ^ boilg. tliop cuip ]'é ]'uim ó.rin, ^cc j-iiit) 
ye ywy 0.5 ii.n ceine a^u]' coj-ui^ ]'é '5Ó. céi^e^-ó yém. 

" CÁ ]AA>ib cu ?" A]\i' ATI ingeMi leif. 

** uVií tné mo co-oló.t)," ^|a -peii^e^n, " Aip Jati "bpeii]A ú\\ 
A.nn •pA.* bpÁipc 'rin<s *|\6.ib i'ia-T) ^5 ■oounAni ati f.'éip." 

'* C)\eiit) /s IbAin ■ouir," a]\ i'ife, " ní yéucí).nn cii 50 

cÁ f^iccio]' opm 50 bj.-uil -[wjv éigin opm, i]- £ki]'ceí>.c a 
iTiocM^im mé ].-éin, ní ^mId nié m6.]\ pn A]Uí>.tii ^ioiiiie yeo, 
Acc belt) nié nío]' ye^)i)\ nuM]\ /^ bfui^yi-o iné cox)ld.t) 

Clni£si-ó ]-é t)'Á le-^buTO ^guj^ linb ^'é po]', ^jiif cmc ]'é 
íi-nn A. cox>tiKX), aju]' níojA -oúip^ yé 50 ]iA.ib ^ti ^jMA^n Á|\"o. 
'O'éipig ]^é ^nn pn í>^5U]' ■Dubí>.ipc /s beí>.n lei]% " CpeuD too 
bi o]iu tniAip ]Ainn' cu co"ol^"ó coiii |:a"oa. pn ?" 


pof^5^m, ^]^ye^y 

CliUMt) ]'é A.nn^'A.n ^-cij^ceMi^c, n'Áic 0. bí «.ingeA-n ^«5 
tieiiriism cisct>. be Ii-a^m-o ^..n b|AeÁc-]rí..^'c (bi^-ón/s rriM-one), 
íi^^u^' ■oubA.i]Acp]"elei]% *'Ci6. ^n caoi b|:uil cu ^n-oní, bpiul 
^on bii'e^c opc a aca.i]\ ?" 

" ■puAi^t mé co-oIa.'ó ttimc," í>.]\ ye\yec>.\^y " ívcc ní'L mé 
hltsy moy yei>-y\\ 'nÁ bí tné í>>iAéi|i, í>-5Uf 50 •oeuriin -oA 
^-cpeTO^'eA me, I'^-oitim 50 bpnL yuv éi^in í>-]X15 lonnAtn, 
6-5 ]MC Anonn 'y A-n^kll Ann mo boilg o c^oib 50 CA^oib. 

" A]\ó. ní }:éiT)ip," c^y y ^n injeívn, "i]'1'Im j-oeÁn í^ |:uí».i]i 
cu At)' tuije Amui^ Aíié Aip An b]:eu]A ú]i, a^U]' munA 
b]:uil cu nío]' yeA^Ajv Ann]'An cpAcnónA cin)\pmío po]' Aip 
An -ooccúi]!." 


nothing of it, sat down at the fire and began warm- 
ing himself. 

*' Where were you ?" says the daughter to him. 

*• I was asleep a while," says he, " on the fresh 
grass in the field where they were making hay." 

"What happened to you, then?" says she, "for you 
don't look well." 

" Aluirya,* musha, then," says he, " I don't know ; 
but it's queer the feeling I have, I never was like it be- 
fore ; but I'll be better when I get a good sleep." 

He went to his bed, lay down, and fell asleep, and 
never awoke until the sun was high. He rose up then 
and his wife said to him: "What was on you that you 
slept that long?" 

" I don't know," says he. 

He went down to the fire where the daughter was 
making a cake for the breakfast, and she said to him : 

" How are you to-day, father ; are you anything 
better ? " 

"I got a good sleep," said he, "but I'm not a taste 
better than I was last night ; and indeed, if you'd believe 
me, I think there's something inside of me running back 
and forwards." 

" Arrah, that can't be," says the daughter, "but it's a 
cold you got and you lying out on the fresh grass ; and 
if you're not better in the evening we'll send for the 

* " Oh, Mary," or " by Mary," an expression like the French " dame !" 


50 An Alp-tuA^cpo.. 

ÚÁinij A.n r^AAcnón/s, Accbí í^n -ouinebocc AnnfA^n gc^oi 
cevit)n^, -^gvi]' b'éijni •oói'b po]' cu]a ai]a 6.n "ooccúi]!. \)h\ 

ceAiAC c^t) é Mi Á1C A-nn í>. i^Aib A-ti piAn, Ajuf nuA.i]i iia^c 
]\£>.^'b A.n •ooccúii\ 50 Ui^c "bí pgovntiiMij^t) n^ó\\ (>.^\\. 
bhí iTHJinnci|\ /sn cige A.5 •oeunMÍi uile fói]ic -o'yeua i'i6-o 
•óeun^iii le meipieA.c a cii^a ^nn. 

ÚÁinij 6.n •ooccúijA pó.oi •5ei]\e, ajii]' *o'p^|r)\ui5-i'é "óé 
q\eu-o "00 "bí aiji, •^ju]" •ou1í)A.i]\c i'ei]^e-Mi £s\úy 50 ^ió.ib ]\ii-o 
éijin m{>.]\ éiiiíii aj 1611111115 /snii -^ bol^. Hoccuij ími 
•ooccúi]\ é A511]" innne yé b]\e4scnu5A,t) 111 aic ai]i, a^cc ní 
i'ACMt) ^'é 'OA.'OA.iii /^- bí A~y M^ in-beA-l^c bei]\ Cliui]\ ^'é 6. 
cliiA.f leiiA. cx\oib Ajii^^ be iió> 'ó]uiiin, e>.cx: nío]i cu^Im'ó 
l^é ]\ux) A.i]\ bic cit) 5Ó ]iA.ib All "ouine bocc é ^réin a^ 
]\&.-ó — "Anoif! noi]M iiAC 5-cliiinn cii é? Hoi]^! iiac 
nAC b]:uib cu '5 éi]xeAcc tei]', ^5 téiming?" Acc iiío^i 
CU5 An ■ooccúiji ]\u-o Aí]i bic ):aoi -oeAiiA, a^uj' j-aoiI 
^^é ^TAOi -óei^ie 50 ^iAib An ]:eA]\ A]" a céill, A^uf nAC ^iAib 

■OATDAm A1]\. 

'OubAi^ic 1'é be nmAOi An cijo nuAiji cÁinig ^'é aiiiac, nAC 
liAib Aon ^uit» Ai]i A ^"eA]i, acc 511)1 cpei-o yé yé^n 50 ]iAib yé 
cmn, Ajii]^ 50 ^-cnijipeAt) yé "oiui^AiinA cvnge An bÁ 

A1]A nA 1Í1Á]\AC A béA)\]:At) CO-olAt) IIIAIC 'ÓÓ, AgU]" A foc- 

pócAt) ceA-j" A cui]ip. Ilinne ye pn, Agu]' V^^'^Z ■^^ "oume 
bocc iiA "OjUigAnnA uibe aju]" -|:uai|i yé co-obAX) mó|\ A]iíp 
Acc nUAi)i •óúipj i'é Ai]! iiiAi-oin bí i^é nío]' iiieA^'A 'nÁ'jiiAtii, 
Acc "oubAijic yé nÁ]\ cuAbAit) yé An ^iu-o A5 béinimj CAob 
Af C15 'óé Anoip 

Chuiji pAT) po]' Aip An •ooccúi]! Ajiíp, Ajup cÁinig ye 
Acc niop yexix) yé put) Aip bic óeunAiii. 'O'f'Ág yé "Ojiug- 
AnnA eibe beif An byeAji, Aguj^ "oubAiiic ]'é 50 "ociucitax) 
1'é A]iíf 1 5-ceAnn ]'éAccniuine eibe be nA ireicpnc. 11í 
b-puAi]! An -ouine bocc ^róijiigín ai]i bic a]" a]i yi.-^ An *ooc- 
cúi]i beip (s^^y ntiAi|i •oÁini^ An -ooccuiji á.y]y pAip )'é é 


He was saying then that there was a pain on him, but 
that he did not know rightly what place the pain was in. 
He was in the same way in the evening, and they had 
to send for the doctor, and when the doctor was not 
coming quickly there was great fright on him. The 
people of the house were doing all they could to put 
courage in him. 

The doctor came at last, and he asked what was on 
him, and he said again that there was something like a 
birdeen leaping in his stomach. The doctor stripped 
him and examined him well, but saw nothing out of the 
way with him. He put his ear to his side and to his 
back, but he heard nothing, though the poor man him- 
self was calling out : "Now! now! don't you hear it? 
Now, aren't you listening to it jumping?" But the doc- 
tor could perceive nothing at all, and he thought at last 
that the man was out of his senses, and that there was 
nothing the mattter with him. 

He said to the woman of the house when he came out, 
that there was nothing on her husband, but that he be- 
lieved himself to be sick, and that he would send her 
medicine the next day for him, that would give him a 
good sleep and settle the heat of his body. He did that, 
and the poor man swallowed all the medicines and got 
another great sleep, but when he awoke in the morning 
he was worse than ever, but he said he did not hear the 
thing jumping inside him any longer. 

They sent for the doctor again, and he came ; but he 
was able to do nothing. He left other medicines with 
them, and said he would come again at the end of a 
week to see him. The poor man got no relief from all 
that the doctor left with him, and when he came again 
he found him to be worse than before : but he was not 

52 An -dlp-luAC]\A. 

moy me^-p^ n^ ^loiiiie pn ; a-cc riio|i yeuo -pé £>-on -pu-o véi^- 
ri^tTi Ajuj' ni ]iMb poy m]\ biú ^.ige cA.t) é'n cineÁl cinnif 
•DO bi i>.^\\. " tli Ibéi-ó iné A5 ^l^civt) "d'ai^ajto ua^ic ]:eA]'CA," 
£)^]\ -peifeA^n, le mnA.oi ^n cige, "inA|A n^c 'OC15 bom ^lut) 
Aiji bic "oe^nAni Atin^^An 5-CÚ1]' f eó ; aju]" mi^]\ n^c 
■ocuigim qieux) acá a>i|i, ni leijp-ó mé o^im é -oo cinjpnc. 
UiucpAit) -me be n^ yeicpnc ó md 50 b-A-m acc ni jb^c):Mx> 
iiié csou i).i]\5iot) iiisic." 

1]" Ai]i éijin "o'yeu-o An be^n ^.n f"eA]\5 -oo bi w]\]\^ vo 
conjniÁib A.-pceA.c. TIumia bi An "ooccúin itncijce c]\uinni j 
-pi iiniinnci]A An ci^e be céile Ajuf jbAC y)6.x) cóiiiAi]Ale, 
"An "oocctiin biAA-OAc i^n," a]a fife, " ni pú c]AAicnín é. 
t)puib po-p Ajuib c\\evtx) •oubAi]\c ye"? nAC njlAcpAt) ^-é 
Aon AiiAgio-o UAinn -peA-pcA, A^np "otibAipu i'é nAc ]AAib 
eóbAp Aip bic Aije Aipi 'OA'OAtii. " Sup" ai]\ ! An biceAiim ac ! 
ni ciucpAi"ó i"é CA|i An CAi^ApeAC -pó 50 b]\Ác. TlAcpAinAoio 
50 'ocí An "ooccuin eibe, niÁ uÁ péníop p-AToe tiAinn, pém, i]^ 
cuniA bioit"! pn, cAicpiini"o a p-Á^Ait." Dbi iiile -ouine a bí 
AnnpA ceAc Aip Aon pocAb béice, Ajtip cinp piA-o piop ai]\ 
An "ooccuiiA eibe, Ajuf niiAi]\ cÁini^ pé ni pAib Aon eóbAp 
•00 b' peAppi Aije-peAn 'nÁ-oo bi A5 An 5-ceu'o-X)occúi]-\ acc 
AiiiÁin 50 i\Aib eólAi' 50 beó]\ Aije Aip a n-Aipjiot) t)o 
jbACAt). ÚÁini^ pé beip An -onine mnn 'o'peic]'inc, 50 
tninic, Ajnp jac aiii a cÁinij pe "oo bí Ainni eile Aige nío]^ 
•pAiTje 'nA A céibe ai|i a cinneAp AinmneACA (AnniAnnA) 
nÁn CU15 pé péin, nÁ •otnne ai^í bic eile, acu bí p ax) Aije be 
l'^AnniMi^A-ó nA n-'OAOine. 

'O'pAn piA-o inAi\ pin ai]a yeA-ó "óÁ liii, jAn pop aj •ouine 
A1]\ bic cpeu-o -00 bí aii\ An bpeA]i bocu, Ajup nuAip nAc 
|iAib An -ooccuiix pn aj •oéAnAih itiaic ai^ bic -óó, puAip 
pA-o •ooccui^i eibe, o-^uy Ann pn -ooccúip eibe, no 50 pAib 
uibe •óoccvnp a bi Ann^V ^-con-OAé aca, ]:aoi -oeipe, a^u]' 


able to do anything, and he did not know what sort of 
sickness was on him. " I won't be taking your money 
from you any more," says he to the woman of the house, 
"because I can do nothing in this case, and as I don't 
understand what's on him, I won't let on * to be under- 
standing it. I'll come to see him from time to time, but 
I'll take no money from you." 

The woman of the house could hardly keep in her 
anger. Scarcely ever was the doctor gone till she 
gathered the people of the house round her and they 
took counsel. " That doctor braduch,^' says she, " he's 
not worth a traneen ; do you know what he said — that 
he wouldn't take any money from me any more, and he 
said himself he knew nothing about anything; suf on 
him, the behoonuch, he'll cross this threshold no more ; 
we'll'go to the other doctor ; if he's farther from us, itself, 
I don't mind that, we must get him." Everybody in the 
house was on one word with her, and they sent for the 
other doctor ; but when he came he had no better know- 
ledge than the first one had, only that he had knowledge 
enough to take their money. He came often to see the 
sick man, and every time he would come he would have 
every name longer than another to give his sickness ; 
names he did not understand himself, nor no one else 
but he had them to frighten the people. 

They remained that way for two months, without any- 
one knowing what was on the poor man ; and when that 
doctor was doing him no good they got another doctor, 
and then another doctor, until there was not a doctor 
in the county, at last, that they had not got, and they 

* To " let on " is universally used in Connacht, and most parts of Ireland 
for to " pretend." It is a translation of the Irish idiom. 

54 An Alp-luAC]\4i>. 

cmII pAT) A> lÁn ivijijitD tea, ^juf b'éi^in •oói'b cui-o -d'a 
n-eA^llA^c -óíol te h-ii.i^i^io'o ^ájmI le r>A. n-ioc. 

Dili pe>~x> m4v]i pn te teiú-l!)b/^t)Ain -^5 conjtiiÁit 'doccuii\ 
leif, A5U]' n^ •00CUÚ11M-Ó ^5 có.'bí>.i]\c •o|iii5í>^nnó. -óó, ^»-5«]' 
i^n -ouine bocc a. "bi 'p^iTiA.i\ be^CAijce ]\oiiiie pn, /^5 
éi]ii5e lom £>~'^m\' CA.nA, 50 n^c ]\es:h un]'^ ]:eólA. M]i, ^cu 
AT) qioicion ■^Jtif nA. cnÁiiiA ^iiiÁm. 

bhí i^é f^oi -oei^^e coiii X)on&. ym ■^\i]\ m\\ éigni 'o'peii'o fé 
pub^l, ■^5^1]' "o'liTici^ 6. ^oile 11A.1-Ó, Ajuf but) liióiA ^n 
Cjtiobtoí-o Leip 5]ieim A-|iÁin bui^, no "oeoc b^inne úii^ vo 
fi.v^is'ó Agu]' bí iiile 'óuine A-5 ■]aÁ'ó 50 m-b'yeA.]!]! "oó bÁ]' 
pÁ^MÍ, ■cs^u]" but) beA.5 An c-ion^nAt) i'in; mts\\ n^c ^Ms^h 
Ann Acu iiiAji beit)eAt) -p^ÁiLe 1 iiibuit)eul. 

Aon iÁ AiiiÁin, nuAi]\ bí i'é 'nr.A pnt)e ai]a cácaoi]\ a^ 
•oo]AA]' An ci^e, '5Á ^piAnu JAt) ^rém Ann ]^An ueAi', aju]' 
mt)innci|\ An cige uile nnci^ce AtnAC, aju]" ^An t)uine Ann 
Acc é yéin, cÁinic^ ]'eAnt)uine bocc a bí aj iA]\]\Ait) t)éipce 
o Á1C 50 I1-Á1C ]'UAf cum An t)oi\Ai]% a^u^ t)'Aicni5 ]-é ye6.\\ 
An ci^e 'nnA fuTÓe Ann^^A' j-cáúaoi^í, acc bí yé coni 
Vi-AC]\ui jce pn aju]' coiii CAicce pn gu^ ai^a éijin xi'aic- 
neócAt) t)uine é. " UÁ mé Ann ]"ó a]ií|' a^ iA]\]\Ait) t)éi]ice 
Ann Ainm X)é," {>.]\y An ye-i>.]\ bocc, " acc '^'ió^]\ X)0 "Oia 
A lirÁigi]^!]! c]Aeut) t)o bAin t)uiu ní cu]'a An -peAjA céut)nA 
A connAipc mé leic-btiA'ÓAin ó j'oni nuAi]\ bí iiié Ann ^^ó, 
50 b|:ói]Ai5 XiiA 0]\x:." 

" A]AA A SheumAi]^" a]i i^An yeA]\ cinn, "1]' mife nAC 
b].-eut)):At) innpnc 'ouic q\eut) -oo bAin t)Ain, acc cá pof 
AgAm Ai]A Aon ]\uv, nAc iiibéit) mé bpA-o ai]\ An c-i'aojaI 


"Acc cÁ b]\ón o]\vn -D'yeicpnu mA]i cÁ cu," a]a -pAn "oeijA- 
ceAc, "nAc t)ci5 leAC innpnc 'oatti cia An caoi a]\ cofui^ 
yé leAC ? cpeut) a "oubAiiic nA •ooccúipit) ? " 

"tlA t)occúinit) ! " A.\\ ]'An ]:eA]A cmn, "mo iíiaIIacc 
op]\A ! ní'l po]" Ai]\ t)AX)Arii aca, acc ní coi]! t)Ani beic A5 


lost a power of money over them, and they had to sell a 
portion of their cattle to get money to pay them. 

They were that way for half a year, keeping doctors 
with him, and the doctors giving him medicines, and the 
poor man that was stout and well-fed before, getting 
bare and thin, until at last there was not an ounce of 
flesh on him, but the skin and the bones only. 

He was so bad at last that it was scarcely he was able 
to walk. His appetite went from him, and it was a 
great trouble to him to swallow a piece of soft bread or 
to drink a sup of new milk, and everyone was saying 
that he was better to die, and that was no wonder, for 
there was not in him but like a shadow in a bottle. 

One day that he was sitting on a chair in the door of 
the house, sunning himself in the heat, and the people 
of the house all gone out but himself, there came up to 
the door a poor old man that used to be asking alms 
from place to place, and he recognised the man of the 
house sitting in the chair, but he was so changed and so 
worn that it was hardly he knew him. *' I'm here again, 
asking alms in the name of God," said the poor man ; 
" but, glory be to God, master, what happened to you, 
for you're not the same man I saw when I was here half 
a year ago ; may God relieve you !" 

" Arrah, Shamus," said the sick man, " it's I that can't 
tell you what happened to me ; but I know one thing, 
that I won't be long in this world." 

" But I'm grieved to see you how you are," said the 
beggarman. " Tell me how it began with you, and what 
the doctors say." 

" The doctors, is it r " says the sick man, " my curse on 
them ; but I oughtn't to be cursing and I so near the grave ; 
su/ on them, they know nothing." 

56 An ALp-ttiA-ciio.. 

e^-fcuine Aguf mi)^e com ^.-oj^^i' pn -oom' bÁf, "i^ú]:" o\\]\cy 
ni'l eól^i" A-ip bic ac^." 

"b'éi-oi]!," i>.]\ -pA-n -DeiiiceAC, "50 bpeuDirAinn féin 
bifeA^c c^biviiAC -ouic, -oA n-inneó|"Á iómti qieiit) ^cÁ o]\c. 
*Oei]\ p^t) 50 mbí'óim eólísc ai]\ A.icí"oib, •^JUf a.i]a riA^ 
tuibeAnnAib acá iridic le ha. Lei je^i'." 

Uinne A-n Tfe£>.'\\ cinn 5Ái]\e. "1lí'l jreA^A-lei^if Ann i^a.' 
5-cont)Aé," A]A -pé, "nAc^AMb Ann yo tiom ; nAc bpuit teAC 
An gaIIaij a bi AjAm ai|i An bpeilm -oiolcA te nA n-ioc ! 
Acc ni bpiAiji me |-ói]n5in -oA Iajax) ó "óuine aija bic aca, 
Acc inneó]^Ait) me "óuic-i'e mA]A -o'éinij i^é -oAm ai]\ -ocvi]'." 
A^tif Ann pn cuj -|^é cúncA-p -oo ai]a uile foiAn a liioéui^ 
1'é, A^tip AijA tube ]\xiv a "o'oja-ouij nA 'ooccúi]m-ó. 

*0'éi)'c An "oéiiiceAC leif 50 cupAmAC, a^u]" nuAi^i c]\ioc- 
nui^ -pé An fgeul tnle, -a'pApAUi^ -j^e "óé, " CAt) é An fóiAC 

pÁl]lCe í A1]A A-)! CU1C CU "OO CO"otA"Ó ? " 

" \y móin]peu]A a bi Ann," a^i f An -ouine cmn, " acc bi i^e 
50 -oipeAc bAince, Ann f An Am pn." 

"TlAib -pé -ptitic," A]\f An 'oéinceAC. 

'* Tlí ^AAib," A]A -peifeAn. 

"flAib pAocÁn tiifge no CAipe a* \ut t\\'ivT' A]\p An 

" bill," A]i f eifeAn. 

"An 'ocigbiom An f3Ái]AC ^eicpnc?" 

"U15 50 "oeimm, aju]- CAij^beun^Ait) me ■ouic Anoif é." 

'O'ei^nj^ ye isy a cáúaoi]\ aju]' com "oon a Agii]^ bi f é, i^c]iÁc- 
Ait i"é é -jrein Aip ajato, no 50 "ocÁinij i'é cum nA h-Áice 
Ann A]A lint) i^é 'nnA co-olAt) An c]\AcnónA i^in, blijieAC- 
nuij ]:eAi\-nA-'oéi]\ce ai]a An Áic, CAmAbt ^rA-oA, Agu]" Ann 
l^in c)\om i^é ai]i An bpeujA aju]" cuaiu ye Anonn 'y ahaII 
A^u]' A co]ip lúbcA Ajuf A coAnn cjAomCA A5 -pmeupeAcc 
Ann i^nA luibcAnnAib, Ajup AmeApg An luibeAiniAig x>o bf 

"O'éiiMJ yé fAoi -óeiiAe, Ajup "oubAiiAC yé, ""Ci yé m£>-y 
fAOil mé," Ajuf c]Aom yé é féin yíop ■'^l^íf, '«'■5^^ coj^uig 


"Perhaps," says the beggerman, ''I could find you a 
relief myself, if you were to tell me what's on you. They 
say that I be knowledgable about diseases and the herbs 
to cure them." 

The sick man smiled, and he said: "There isn't a 
medicine man in the county that I hadn't in this house 
with me, and isn't half the cattle I had on the farm sold 
to pay them. I never got a relief no matter how small, 
from a man of them ; but I'll tell you how it happened to 
me first." Then he gave him an account of everything 
he felt and of everything the doctors had ordered. 

The beggarman listened to him carefully, and when he 
had finished all his story, he asked him : " What sort of 
field was it you fell asleep in ? " 

"A m.eadow that was in it that time," says the sick 
man ; " but it was just after being cut." 

" Was it wet,'" says the beggarman. 

" It was not," said he. 

" Was there a little stream or a brook of water running 
through it?" said the beggarman. 

" There was," says he. 

"Can I see the field ?" 

" You can, indeed, and Til show it to you." 

He rose off his chair, and as bad as he was, he pulled 
himself along until he came to the place where he lay 
■down to sleep that evening. The beggarman examined 
the place for a long time, and then he stooped down 
over the grass and went backwards and forwards with his 
body bent, and his head down, groping among the herbs 
and weeds that were growing thickly in it. 

He rose at last and said : " It is as I thought," and he 
stooped himself down again and began searching as be- 

58 An Alp-luAC|\A. 

^5 cuA.|icii5At) mA]\ ]ioiiiie pn. C05 yb i>. ce^nn M^ v£y\\iy 
UAi|i, Ajuj^ "bi luib "be^-^ 5^.^!^ Ann a lÁnii. "An bpeice^nn 
cu fin," A^i fé, " AiCAi)! bicAnn éi]\ínn a "bpA-i'^nn An liiib 
]-eó Ann, bionn Alp-luAC]\A AnAice lei]', aju]' f^^^5 ^^ 


" Ca"o é An CA01 bjrtnl po|' aja-o pn r" A^if An •ouine 
cinn, " -oA mbut) iiia]\ i^ni x)o bi ye, ^y "oói^ 50 n-mneó]'At> 
nA 'ooccúi]\i-ó "ÓAiii 6 11011116 I'eo." 

" 50 "ocu^Ai-ó 'O1A ciaII -ouic, iiAbAC lei]MiA -oocnúijnb,'* 
A^Aj" An t)éi]iceAC, " ni'l lonncA acc eAÍlcA AniA-oAn. A 
•oeiiAim LeAC A-p -p, Ajup cjieit) mife, ^ny Atp-tuAciiA a 
fltiij ru; nAc "otibAinc en ].'éin ^uy liioctn^ cu fti-o éipn 
A^ téimni5 Ann -oo bolj An có^-o lÁ 'yé^y cii beic cinn. 
D'é pn All A'Lp-'LiiAC]iA, A^np iiiAp "oo bi An Áic pin Ann 
tDo bot^ pcpAinpeupAC leip 1 x)copAc, bi ye ini-puAiiTineAC 
innci, Ag-oul Anonn 'y An aII, acc nu ai|\ bi pé cúplA lÁ innni, 
pocpin^ pé é p'éin, Ajiip ptiAi]\ pé An Áic compópcAiiiAit 
A^iip pin é An c-A-obAii pÁ bp'uil cu aj congiiiÁil coiii CAnA 
pin : iiiAp iiile ^peini -d'a bptiil cu a^ ice bíonn An Alp- 
tnAC]\A pn A5 pÁ^Ail An iíiaic Ap, A^tip -oubAiiir: cu p'éin 
tioni 50 i\Aib "ooleAC-cAob aóca, ip í pm An CAob 'n Áic a 
bpuil An yvix> j^AAnnA 'nnA cóiiiniiit)e." 

lliop cyetx) An peA|A é, a 'ocopAC, acc leAn An 'oéipceAC 
•oÁ cóni]\Á-ó teip, Ag c]\iicu JA-ó -óó, ^uy b' é An pipinne a 
bi yé A^^AA-o, Aju]" nuAi]A cÁinij a beAn Ajnp a injeAn ai]\ 
Aip A|Aip tjo'n ceAc, lAbAi]A yé leó-pAn aii caoi ceut)nA 
Ajnp bí pAT) péit) 50 teójA te iia cpei-oeAiiiAinc. 

niojA cpei-o An -ouine cinn, é péin, é, acc bi piAt) tnle A5 
lAbAi]Ac teip, 50 bpuAi]\ piAt) bnATÓ Aip, pAoí ■óei]Ae; Ajup 
cug yé ceA"o "oóib c]aí "oocciiipi-oe -oo ^Iao-óac ApceAc le 
céile, 50 n-inneópA-ó pe An pgeul nuAt) po *óóib. CÁini^ 
An cpiAjp te céile, Agup ntiAi]A x>'é^yz pA*o teip An meAT) 
A bí An "oeiiAceAC A5 yi.x>, Ajup te coiiiiAAX) tiA mbAn, 
^nnne pA-o 5Ái]\e A^iip -oubAiiic ]'ia-o nAc ]\Aib lonncA acc 


fore. He raised his head a second time, and he had a 
little green herb in his hand. " Do you see this? " said 
he. " Any place in Ireland that this herb grows, there 
he's an alt-pluachra near it, and you have swallowed an 

" How do you know that r " said the sick man. " If that 
was so, sure the doctors would tell it to me before 

"The doctors ! "said the beggarman. "Ah I God give 
you sense, sure they're only a flock of omadawns. I tell 
you again, and believe me, that it's an alt-pluachra you 
swallowed. Didn't you say yourself that you felt some- 
thing leaping in your stomach the first day after you 
being sick ? That was the alt-pluachra ; and as the place 
he was in was strange to him at first, he was uneasy in 
it, moving backwards and forwards, but when he was a 
couple of days there, he settled himself, and he found the 
place comfortable, and that's the reason you're keeping 
so thin, for every bit you're eating the alt-pluachra is 
getting the good out of it, and you said yourself that one 
side of you was swelled ; that's the place where the nasty 
thing is living." 

The sick man would not believe him at first, but the 
beggarman kept on talking and proving on him that 
it was the truth he was saying, and when his wife and 
daughter came back again to the house, the beggarman 
told them the same things, and they were ready enough 
to believe him. 

The sick man put no faith in it himself, but they were 
all talking to him about it until they prevailed on him 
at last to call in three doctors together until he should tell 
them this new story. The three came together, and when 
they heard all the boccuch (beggarman) was saying, and 
all the talk of the women, it is what they laughed, and 

6o An Alp-UiA.c]Aíi.. 

Ani-i.'oÁin uile 50 léi]\, Ajuf 5U]\b'é ]\u-o eile Ainí..c 'y Anií»>c 
A bi M]\ yeivp-Mi-cije, aju]^ g^c -cinm ^ "bi /b^cA. 6>ip ^ cin- 
neA]"A.Ti c-ATTi ^"o, bi fé-oÁ 11A.1]!, Y C]\i liiii>.i]\e niof ]:íi.Toe'nÁ 
lAoniie pn. *0'-pÁ5 I'lAt) bui-oeul no ciiplA buToeul ie n-ól 
^5 ^n b}:eA]\ bocc, ■isji-il' "o'lmci^ y^(>.V) teó, ^^5 inA^g^t) vo-oi 
^n |iu-o 4). •oubó.ijic nA> innA 5U]\ fltiij "pé A>n i>.lp-lux^c]AA.. 

'OubM]AC An "oeijiceAc niiAi]; bi y^tsx> imcijce. "tli'l 
lon^AncAp Ai]\ bic o|\m nAC byuil cii ^-ÁJAil beipij inÁ'-p 
Ain<^x)Áin iiiA]\ lA-o I'ln acá beAC. tli't Aon "ooccuiji iiÁ 
yeA^A-Lei^if 1 n-éi]Mnn Anoip a -oeAnpAy Aon liiAic -ouic-i-e 
Acc Aon ye^n AiiiÁin, a^U]' 1^ i^é pin 111 ac 'OiApniA'OA, 
PjMonnpA Chub-Ui-Dpnn ai]\ b]\UAc t/0CA-tli-5eA"ónA 
An "ooccúi^A ip pe^]i]i 1 t^-ConnAccAib nÁ ^y},M>. CÚ15 ciiijib. 
" C^ bpuil "Loc-tli-^eA-onA r" is]\y An -ouine cinn. " Sbio]' 
1 5-cont)Aé Shlijíj; ip loc mó\\ é, Ajup cÁ An P|\ionn]^^ 
'nnA cotimui-oe Aip a bpuAC," Ap pé, " aju]' mÁ ^ÍACAnn 
cu mo cóiiiAiple-pe pAC}:Ai"ó cu Ann, iiia]a 'p é An caoi 
•óeipeAnnAc acá ajax), aju]" bu'o cói]\ "oinc-pe, a liiÁi^ip 
C]\eAp,'' Ap i'é A5 cioncót) be mnAoi An cije, "-oo cu]\ iac 
(x)'pACAib) Ai]i, "oub Ann, in^Y niAic bcAC "o'^-eAp a beic 

" llliM^-eA-o," A^i]' An beAn, ** -oetinyAinn pu-o Aip bic a 
plÁnócA-ó é." 

"IllAp pn, cw]\ 50 -oci P]\ionn^'^ Cluiib-tli-'bpnn é," 
A]i feifeAn. 

" X)lieun):Ainn yein put) ai]a bic be mo j'bÁnu^At)," isyy An 
peAp cinn "mA]\ caY AjAm nAC bpuib a bpAt) AjAm be 
mApcAin Aip An c-pAO^Ab po, munA mDeuncAp pu-o éigin 
•QAm A béA]A|:Ap con^nAiii A511]' yoijAigin ■OAm." 

" niA]\ pn, celt) 50 t)ci An Ppionnf A," Ap pAn t)éi]AceAC. 

" 1liit) Aijibic A liieAj'Ann cu 50 nt)eun|:ATÓpé m aic -óuic 
but) cóip t)Uic A "oeAnAm, a acai^i," £>-yy An in^eAn. 

"llrb t)At)Am be t)éAnAm mAic "óó acc t)ub 50 "oci ah 
Ppionn]'A," AjAp An t)éiiiceAc. 


said they were fools altogether, and that it was some- 
thing else entirely that was the matter with the man of 
the house, and every name they had on his sickness this 
time was twice — three times — as long as ever before. 
They left the poor man a bottle or two to drink, and they 
went away, and they humbugging the women for saying 
that he had swallowed an alt-pluachra. 

The boccuch said when they were gone away : " I 
don't wonder at all that you're not getting better, if 
it's fools like those you have with you. There's not a 
doctor or a medicine-man in Ireland now that'll do you 
any good, but only one man, and that's Mac Dermott 
the Prince of Coolavin, on the brink of Lough Gara, the 
best doctor in Connacht or the five provinces." 

" Where is Lough Gara r " said the poor man. 

" Down in the County Sligo," says he ; " it's a big 
lake, and the prince is living on the brink of it ; and if 
you'll take my advice you'll go there, for it's the last hope 
you have ; and you, Mistress," said he, turning to the 
woman of the house, "ought to make him go, if you 
wish your man to be alive." 

" Musha ! " says the woman, " I'd do anything that 
would cure him." 

" If so, send him to the Prince of Coolavin," says he. 

" I'd do anything at all to cure myself," says the sick 
man, " for I know I haven't long to live on this world 
if I don't get some relief, or without something to be 
done for me." 

" Then go to the Prince of Coolavin," says the beggar- 

"Anything that you think would do yourself good, 
you ought to do it father," says the daughter. 

" There's nothing will do him good but to go to the 
Prince of Coolavin," said the beggarman. 

62 An Al]A-ltiAC)ió.. 

1]' mí».]i pn "bi p^t) ^».5 Á]\5Úmc ■ívJu^ A.5 cuibbnu 50 'orí 
All 01-óce, •6'5U]" ]:UM]A Ati •oéipceAC le^bui-o €11150 ahiij^a' 
^^cioból ^51-if coftiij i^é A5 Á^Ajúinc A]\íf m]\ niAi-oin 50 
nibu-ó cói]A -out 50 "ocí An P]nonn^^A, Agu]- "bí An "bcAn aju]' 
An injeAn ai^a Aon ^ocaI lei]', Ajtii^ ]:uai]\ pAt) buATÓ m\\ 
An "bireA^t cinn, -jtaoi "oei^Ae ; -^gui' -oubAiiAC i^é 50 lAAcpAX) 
]'é, ■^5"]" "oubAiiAC An in^eAn 50 iiAcpAX) p]'e leip be 
CAbAi]\n Ai]\e "óó, a-^U]' •oubAi]\u An •oéi]iceAc 50 i\AcpAt) 
1'ei^^eAn leó-i'An le CAi]'béAnc An bocAi]\ •oóib, "Agu]" 
belt) mif e " A]\f An beAn, " ai]\ faonc An bÁi]' be 1i-imnit)e 
A5 yAnAiiiAinc lib, 50 •ocuic]:ai-6 pb ai]\ Aip" 

'O'vignnilj pA-O An CApAbl AJUf Clll]^ pA-o^AOi An jcaijac 
é, Ajuf ^Iac pAt) bón i^eACCiiiume beó, AjiÁn ajuj" bAjún 
Ajtif inbeACA, Ajuf 'o'iincij pAt) teó. llío]! i-eut) pA-o 
"oub i\ó yA"OA An cent) bÁ, itiaia bí An i:eA]\ cmn coiii Laj pn 
nÁi\ yeuT) yé An ciiaca-o a bí i'é -jrA^Aib Ann]'A' j-cai^ac 
reArí>iii, Acc bí yé nío]' freAii]; An "daiia bÁ, A51.1]" "o'yAn I'lAt) 
tube 1 "oueAC i.-eibinéA]iA ai]i C60ib An bócAi]A An OTÓce I'ln 

A^U]" CUA1-Ó pAT) Al^l A^AIX) A]lí|" A1]l ITIAI-Om, AgU]' An 

r-|ioiiiA'o bÁ Ann^^An r]iAcnónA cÁinij pA-o 50 h-Áic-cóiii- 
nuToe An plT|uonn-|"A. Ohi ceAC ■oeA-]" •^''5® '^''1^ b]iUAC An 
bocA, be cniiix)AC cmje Ai]!, AmeA]'^ nA g-ciiAnn. 

ID'yA^ yiA-o All CApAbb Agn]' An CAijAC 1 mbAibe béA^ a 
bi AnAicebe bÁic An ph]\ionn]'A, -ft-JUf púbAibpAt) tube be 
céibe 50 "o-cÁimj pA"o ctnn An cije. ChtiAix) pAX) AfceAC 

'yis\^ 5-ciixeAnAc Ajti]^ "o'pAyntii^ piAt), " a]i petix) piAX) An 
p^nonn^^A -o'lreici'inc." 'OubAi]AC An i^eAjAb^róJAncA 50 
^'vAib pé A5 ice A béibe acc 50 -ociucitat) ye, h'éwi]\, ntiAijt 
bei-óeAt) yé ]\éTÓ. 

CÁinig An P]\ionn]'A ]:éin ApceAc ai]i An moiniTO pn 
AjU]" 'o'pAÍ:]uii5 yé -oiob c|\eu-o tDO bí piAt) A5 iA]i]\Ait). 
TD'éiinj An yets\\ cmn A^uf "oubAi^AC^^ébeip jtiji A5iA]i|\Ait> 
congnAiii ó nA onói|\ -00 bí yéj í>-5U|' "o'innip ]-é An ^geul 


So they were arguing and striving until the night 
came, and the beggarman got a bed of straw in the 
barn, and he began arguing again in the morning that 
he ought to go to the prince, and the wife and daughter 
were on one word with him ; and they prevailed at last 
on the sick man, and he said that he would go, and the 
daughter said that she would go with him to take care 
of him, and the boccuch said that he would go with them 
to show them the road ; " and I'll be on rhe pinch 
of death, for ye, with anxiety,'' said the wife, " until ye 
come back again." 

They harnessed the horse, and they put him under the 
cart, and they took a week's provision with them — bread, 
and bacon, and eggs, and they went oif. They could 
not go very far the first day, for the sick man was so 
weak, that he was not able to bear the shaking he was 
getting in the cart ; but he was better the second day, 
and they all passed the night in a farmer's house on 
the side of the road, and they went on again in the 
morning; but on the third day, in the evening, they 
came to the dwelling of the prince. He had a nice 
house, on the brink of the lake, with a straw root, in 
among the trees. 

They left the horse and the cart in a little village near 
the prince's place, and they all walked together, until 
they came to the house. They went into the kitchen, 
and asked, "Couldn't they see the prince?" The ser- 
vant said that he was eating his meal, but that he 
would come, perhaps, when he was ready. 

The prince himself came in at that moment, and asked 
what it was they wanted. The sick man rose up and 
told him, that it was looking for assistance from his 
honour he was, and he told him his whole story. " And 

64 An ALp-tu<^c]\ó>. 

uile -oo. *' 'Hoif 6n "ocij le "o'onóiii ^on i^óipijín c^b4>.i]AU 
"o^ni ? '' &.]\ ye, inii).i]A ciAíocnuig ]"é a. i^jéu'L. 

"UÁ -púit Ajo-m 50 "ocij tioni," i,.]\ yí^n P|Monn|'^, " 6.^\ 
tTiót) Ai]i bic "oe-MiiTM-o mé mo "óícciolt a.i]a -oo yon, m^jt 
cÁimg cu coiTi •pó.'OA^ pn le m']f-eicpnc-fe. "b'olc 6>~r\ cei>^]\v 
•OMD 5A>n mo •óícciott "óenní).!!!. Ua^h fu-^]" í).nn-]'xs bpÁiAtiíi]'* 
1f po]\ ^n ]iu-o A^ ■oii'bAi]\c An peii-n "oume /i-cÁ ^nn i'in 
leAC, ShUiij cii 4vtp-ltiA.c]\A>, no ]\ux) éi^in eile. Ua.]\ 
rtiAf 'fA^' bpÁ]\Unp tioni." 

Cug pé puAp tei)' é, Ajnp ip é An béile a bí Aije A.n lÁ 
pin 510CA mó\\ "oe iiiAi]Acpeóil pAillce. 5^"'s^T*l^ V^ 51ieiin 
móp Ajup cuiji i'é Ai]\ plÁUA é, Ajiip cug pé "oo'n 'ouine 
bocc be n-íce é. 

" Ó\\ó ! CnéA-o ACÁt)* onói]A A^-oéAnAiii Ann pn Anoip," 
A^A]' An 'otiine bocc, " nío]\ flttij mé oijaca-o Ajup coijac uibe 
■o'-peóib A1]A bic le ^\Áicce, ni'l Aon goite AjAm, ní C15 I10111 
•OA"OAiTi ice." 

"bí "oo toyx: a -ouine," A]Ap An Pnionn]'A, " ic é pni 
niiAijA A -oei^Aim leAC é." 

"O'ic An i:eA]\ bocc An oiiAeA-o a^u]' "o'pen-o pé, AccniiAi|\ 
bei5 i"é An f^iAn A^up An JAblóg Ap a tAiiii cui^a An 
PpiOnnpA 1AC ("o'pACAib) aija 1A"0 -oo CÓ5bÁl'L A]AÍp, A^up 
•00 copn^A-ó Ap An niiAt). Conjbtn^ pé Ann ^'in é A5 
ice, 50 ^Aib pe ]\é)X) le pleni'^A-ó, Agnp nío]\ yeu-o pé 
-(TAOi *óei]:e Aon ^iieini eile pUi^A-ó "OÁ bi'Á^AX) pe ceut» 

1"luAi]\ connAi]\c An P]\ionn]'A nAC 'ocnic|:At) tei]' cint- 
beA'ó "00 pLiijA-o, ctij pé A111AC Ap An ccac é, Ajiip "otibAiiAC 
-pé leip An m^in A^up lei]^ An 7:-peAn-'oéi]\ceAC iax) "oo 
beAnAiiiAinc, a^ii]- -jmi^ pé An ye(>-]\ leip, aiiiac 50 inóin):éu)\ 
bjAeÁj 5IAP -oo bí o]^ coinne An ci^e, A^up p]\ocÁn boAj 
tn^'ge A^ ]\i Z]\\x) An niómpeuiA. 

Cu5 pé 50 bjAUAC An c-p]A0CÁin é, aju]^ "otibAiiAC yé leip, 
buTóe pop Ai^ A bolg ^jup A ceAnn conjbÁil op cionn 


now can your honour help me ? " he said, when he had 
finished it. 

" I hope I can," said the prince ; " anyhow, I'll do 
my best for you, as you came so far to see me. I'd 
have a bad right not to do my best. Come up into the 
parlour with me. The thing that old man told you is 
true. You swallowed an alt-pluachra, or something else. 
Come up to the parlour with me." 

He brought him up to the parlour with him, and it 
happened that the meal he had that day was a big piece 
of salted beef. He cut a large slice off it, and put it on 
a plate, and gave it to the poor man to eat. 

" Oro ! what is your honour doing there ? " says the 
poor man ; " I didn't swallow as much as the size of an 
egg of meat this quarter,* and I can't eat anything." 

"Be silent, man," says the prince; "eat that, when I 
tell you." 

The poor man eat as much as he was able, but when 
he left the knife and fork out of his hand, the Prince 
made him take them up again, and begin out of the new 
(over again). He kept him there eating until he was 
ready to burst, and at last he was not able to swallow 
another bit, if he were to get a hundred pounds. 

When the Prince saw that he would not be able to 
swallow any more, he brought him out of the house, and 
he said to the daughter and the old beggarman to follow 
them, and he brought the man out with him to a fine 
green meadow that was forenent t the house, and a 
little stream of water running through it. 

He brought him to the brink of the stream, and told 
him to lie down on his stomach over the stream, and to 
hold his face over the water, to open his mouth as wide 

* i.e., this quarter of a year. 

t forenent, or forenenst = over aeainst. 

66 An Alp-'Luí>^c|A^. 

An vnfje, aju]' /s beul •o'f.'Of^A.ilc coiii mó]i ^ju]' 'o'yeu'0]:4>>t) 
]^é, Agu]' A con^b^Nil, beA-j-nA^c, Ag b^inr lei]' An uifge, 
" '^5"r K^^"" ^^""^ P^"" 5° ciúin A5U]'nAco]\]\ui5, Ain-o'AnAm," 
A]A •pé, "50 bj-'eicpu cu cjtevit) éineócAf -ouic." 

^lieAÍt An yeA]^ bocc 50 inbei-oeAt) ^^e focAiji, aju^^ pn 
ye A cojip Ai]A An bpeuji, A^up conjbuij ye a beul pof- 
jAilce Of cionn An c-ppocAin uifge, aju]- -o'yAn ye Ann 
pn jAn co|A]Mi5At). 

ChuAit) An P]Monn]'A cimcioll C1115 i'Iaca ai]\ Aip, ai]a a 
cúl, Ajup cA]\]\Ain5 ye An in^eAn aju]' An peAn-f-eA|A leip, 
A^tip If é An yocAl -oeij^eAnnAC a •onbAi]\t: ye leip An 
bpeA]! cmn, "bi cinnce" a]\ ye, " Aguf ai]i -o'AnAm nA 
cuif co]^ Af AtD, CIA be Aijt bic f u-o éi]\eócAf •ouin." 

Hi f Alb An •ouineboccceAC]AAiiiAX)UAi]Ae'nnAlui'óemA]\fin 
niiAi]ACOfui j]\u-o éijin AjcopiMiJA-ócAob AfClg-Óé AgUflilO- 
CA1 j fé put) éi^in A5 ceAcc puAf Ann a fjojinAC, Agup aj 

•OUI Al]! Aip A]\i)\ ÚÁini^ pé I'U A]', AgUj' CU AID 1'é A1]A Alf Z\Ú 

no ceicpe UAipe An-óiAij a céile. CÁinij pé pAoi -oeipe 50 
x»cí A beul, Ajup j-eA]' i'é ai^a bÁ]\]\ a ceAngA acc p^Ann- 
]\ui5 ye Agup cuAit) pé Aip Aif A^iif, acc 1 jceAnn caitiaiII 
bi5 cÁinij pé puA-p An 'oa]\a uai]i, Agup feA]' ye ai]\ bÁ|Ap 
A ceAn^A, A5U1" léiin ye yioy yAOi •óei]\e Ann^An uipje. 
bin An P]AionnpA A5 bj^eAcnu^At) 50 5eu]\ Aip, Agup 
jlAOt) fé AinAc, *' nA coppuij yoy," mts]\ bi An ye^-y "oul 
A5 eij^ige. 

b'éijm 'oo'n •oume bocc a beul yofjAilc Apfp Ajup 
x)'];An i'é An caoi ceu-onA, '^51■lf ni j^Aib i^é niónnix) Ann, no 
50 -ocAmig An 'OA]iA put) y^i^y ^nn a i^jopnAc An caoi 
ceu-ónA, ^Jtif éuAit) -pé Aip Aip A]úp cúplA UAi|\, AiiiAil aY 
111 A]A bí i'éi'jAnn^vuijce, acc ^aoi •óeii\e cÁim^peipeAn niA]A 
An ceu"o-ceAnn fuí^p 50 •oci An beul aju]' fcA]' i^é ai^ bÁjiji 
A ceAn^AjAjuj' f A01 •óenAe nu ai]\ 1Í10CU15 yé bolA"ó An ui^^ge 
■jTAOi, léim yé y\oy AnnpAn C]']\ocÁn. 


as he could, and to keep it nearly touching the water, 
and " wait there quiet and easy," says he ; " and for 
your life don't stir, till you see what will happen to 

The poor man promised that he would be quiet, and 
he stretched his body on the grass^ and held his mouth 
open, over the stream of water, and remained there 
without stirring. 

The prince went backwards, about five yards, and 
drew the daughter and the old man with him, and the 
last word he said to the sick man was : " Be certain, and 
for your life, don't put a stir out of you, whatever thing 
at all happens to you." 

The sick man was not lying like that more than a 
quarter of an hour, when something began moving 
inside of him, and he felt something coming up in his 
throat, and going back again. It came up and went 
back three or four times after other. At last it came to 
the mouth, stood on the tip of his tongue, but frightened, 
and ran back again. However, at the end of a little 
space, it rose up a second time, and stood on his tongue, 
and at last jumped down into the water. The prince 
was observing him closely, and just as the man was 
going to rise, he called out : " Don't stir yet." 

The poor man had to open his mouth again, and he 
waited the same way as before ; and he was not there a 
minute until the second one came up the same way as 
the last, and went back and came] up two or three 
times, as if it got frightened ; but at last, it also, like 
the first one, came up to the mouth, stood on the tongue, 
and when it felt the smell of the water below it, leaped 
down into the little stream. 

68 An -dlp-Ui/schiid». 

Cho^MjA All P]Monn]'A, t>■'^v^y vtuhM^w: ye *'V\o^y cÁ 'n 
CA]\c A>5 ceAcc 0]\iA/s, 'o'oib]M5 An -pAl^nn a bi 'f*^' ni Ai]Acyeóit 
ÍAt); noif cinc^TAit) yiA-t) AniAC." Agui^-put. "oo bi An focAt 
Af A beul CU1C An cpioiiiAt) ceAnn le "plAp" Anni^An 
ui^'ge, Agup mótinxj 'nnA -óiai^ pm, téim ceAnn eile piop 
Ann, Agiif Ann pn ceAnn eite, no -^uy cóiíiai|ai5 fiAt), cúig, 
fé, -peAcc, occ, nAoi, 'oeic 5-cinn, Aon ceAnn "oeuj, -oA 
ceAnn •oeug- 

" Sm •oui]in ACA Anoip" Aji 1^ An p^MonnfA, *' Sin é An 
c-Ál, nío]\ cÁini^ An r-^^eAn-iiiÁcAiií V"ó]\" 

bhí An yei^\\ bocc "out '5 eí]\i5e a]\íi% acc jIao-ó au 
PjAionn^'A Ai|i. " "PAn itiaia a byuit cti, nio]! cÁinij au 


'"O'^An pémA]\ -00 "bí i'é, acc nío]\ cÁini^ Aon ceAnn eile 
A111AC, A^iif "o'yAn i'é níop mó ''Á ceAciiAiiiAt) iiAi]\e. bhí 
An P]\ionn]"A pém Ag éijuje iní-fuAimneAc, ai]\ cajIa nAC 
5-coniAÓCAt) An -peAn-Alc-pluAqiA co]í ai]a bir. bhí An 
"onine bocc com pÁiAUigce pin Ajup coiii Ia^ pn 50 tn' 
b'yeA^i]^ leip éipije 'nÁ pAnAiiiAinc mA-p a ^iAib pé, Ajup 
Ann Ain-óeóm 5AC ■puit) a '0iibAi]it: An P]Aionn]"A bí -pé A5 
peA-j^Ani puAp, niiAi|A -pug An P]\ionn]'A ai]a a beAC-coip Ajup 
An 'oéi]\ceAC ai]\ An 5-coip eile, Ajup "oo conjbuigpA-o 
pío]^ é jAn btii-óeACAp -oo. 

"O'yAn piAT) ceAqíAiiiA-ó iiAi]\e eile, jAn yocAl "oo ]iÁ"ó, 
Agup 1 5-ceAnn An AiiiA pin 1Í10CU15 An T)tiine bocc ]\vx> 
éigin A5 coiijiuJAt) Apíf Ann a CAoib, acc peAcr n-UAijAe 
nío]' meApA 'nA ]\oiiiie peó, Ajiip ip ai]\ éigin 'o'i.'eu'o pé é 
péin "00 con^bÁil o ]'5]\eA'0AC. blií An ■put) pin A5 cojipii- 
JA-o le CAniAlb niAic Ann, Ajup pAoib pé 50 pAib a copp 
]\eubcA An CAob A^xij lei]\ Ann I'ln coping An \\\iv Ag ccacc 
puAp, Ajnp cÁinig pé 50 -ocí a beul aju]" cuaiu pé Aip 
Aip Apip. ÚÁinig pé pAOi 'óeipe com pA^OA pin guji ciii]\ 
An X)Uine bocc a •óá irieiip Ann a beul Agup pAoil pé 
5peim pÁgAil tnppi. Acc mÁ'p obAnn ctnp pé a meupA 


The prince said in a whisper : " Now the thirst's 
coming on them ; the salt that was in the beef is 
working them ; now they'll come out." And before the 
word had left his mouth, the third one fell, with a plop, 
into the water ; and a moment after that, another one 
jumped down, and then another, until he counted five, 
six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve. 

" There's a dozen of them now,'' said the prince ; 
"that's the clutch; the old mother didn't come yet." 

The poor sick man was getting up again, but the 
prince called to him : " Stay as you are ; the mother 
didn't come up." 

He remained as he was, but no other one came out, 
though he stayed there more than a quarter of an hour. 
The prince himself was getting uneasy for fear the old 
alt-pluachra might not stir at all. The poor man was so 
tired and so weak that he wished to get up ; and, in 
spite of all the prince told him, he was trying to stand 
on his feet, when the Prince caught him by one leg, 
and the boccuch by the other, and they held him down 
in spite of him. 

They remained another quarter of an hour without 
speaking a word, or making a sound, and at the end of 
that time the poor man felt something stirring again in 
his side, but seven times worse than before ; and it 's 
scarcely he could keep himself from screeching. That 
thing kept moving for a good while, and he thought the 
side was being torn out of himself with it. Then it began 
coming up, and it reached the mouth, and went back 
again. At last it came up so far that the poor man 
put the two fingers to his mouth and thought to catch 

70 An Alp-l,u^c|ií>>. 

'^xeAc ^y lu^ice 'nÁ pn ctiMt) A.n cfed-ii ^lr-ptu^c]\^ ^i|\ 

"'0]\ ! A> biced-tiiriAig!" a]\ yAn P]Monn]'A, " c^•o cui^e 
innn' ru pni ? H^c -oubMi^c mé le^c gAti coji "oo 

"b' éi^in "oói'b f^nMiiMnc le le^c-UAiiA m6.]\ vo h't 
■peMi-iriÁCAin n^ n-^lp-Ui^c]ió. pgívnniMn^ce, í>-5t.ip ^í 
pxsicciop ti]\]n ce^cc aiviac. Acc cÁinij pí pl.l-^p ^l^if, V'^oi 
■Dei|\e ; b'éi"oi]A 50 ]\Mh A-n loniA.'HCUTÓ CA]\c' u]\]ii ^^i-'l' 
nío]! peu-o pí bolA.t) ^n «1^50 a. bí 6.5 cii]\ cA-cui^ce iii]\|\i 
feApo-iii, no b'éi"oi]A 50 |iMb p u-M^neAC ']\ éip a ct^inne 
■o'itnceA-cc u^ici. A^]\ liiót) ai^a bic cÁimjpí /sinAC jobA^A^x 
Á belt Av^tip peAf pi /Sip A. ce^njA. coiii pA^T) ^^^gtip beiceÁ 
A.5 córiií) ceicpe pcit), A^up ■^nn pn téim pi rriA-p 
■oolémi Ab-Át poinipi, í)-pce'^c'pA.n tnpje, A^upbu-ó úpiiinie 
copAn ^ cuicini' peAcc n-iiAsipe, 'nÁ M^ pl^^p ^ pmne a- 

Dhi An P)\ionnpxN ■ft-jup An beijic eite Ag bpeAcnu^A-x) 
'^^1^ r'"j S° ^-lomlÁn, A^np but) beAg nAC pAib pAicciop 
o]i]\A, A n-AnÁl -oo CAppAinj, Aip bajIa 50 p5Ann]\ócó.'ó 
pAt> An beicTÓeAc gjiAnnA. Com Iuac Ajtip téim pi ApceAC 
'pAn «ipge cAppAin5 p^-o ^n peAp Aip Aip, Ajup cuip pAt) 
Aip A "ÓÁ coip A]Úp é. 

Dhí pe C]\í 1uiAi]ie g^-n pocAt "00 l,AbAipc, acc An ceim 
pocAÍ A -oubAipc pe, but) 1i-é "ip t)uine nuA.t) iné." 

Conj^buig ^n P]\ionnpA Ann a> cgac péin le coicí-óeAp é, 
Agup cug pe Aipe tiiop A5up beACU^^^t) m^ic t)ó. t-eij |'é 
•óó imceAcc Ann pn, Ajup An mj^e^-n Agu]' au t)éii\ceAC 
tei]', Agup "ónitcuij pé oipeAt» Ajup pijm t)o ^Iacax) uaca. 

" D'yeApp bom 'nÁ loeic bpúnuA Aip mo bAiiii pein," Ap 
pe, "5U]\ cionncui^ mo lei^e^p aiiiac coiii m^ic I'ln ; nÁp 
teigp-ó'OiA 50 njl^ci-'Mnn pijin no leic-prn u^ic. CliAill 
cu 51.' Leó)\ le t)occúi]ub ceAnA." 


hold of it. But if he put in his fingers quick, the old 
alt-pluachra went back quicker. 

" Oh, you behoonach ! '' cried the prince, " what made 
you do that? Didn't I tell you not to let a stir out 
of you ? Remain quiet if she comes up again." 

They had to remain there for half an hour, because 
the old mother of the alt-pluachras was scared, and she 
was afraid to come out. But she came up at last, per- 
haps, because there was too much thirst on her to let her 
stand the smell of the water that was tempting her, or 
perhaps she was lonesome after her children going from 
her. Anyhow, she came up to his mouth, and stood there 
while you would be counting about four score ; and 
when she saw nothing, and nothing frightened her, she 
gave a jump down into the water, like her clutch before 
her ; and the plop of her into the water was seven times 
heavier than theirs. 

The prince and the other two had been watching the 
whole, and they scarcely dared to breathe, for fear of 
startling the horrid beast. As soon as ever she jumped 
down into the water, they pulled back the man, and put 
him standing again on his two feet. 

He was for three hours before he could speak a word ; 
but the first thing he said was : " I'm a new man." 

The prince kept him in his own house for a forthight, 
and gave him great care and good feeding. He allowed 
him to go then, and the daughter and the boccuch with 
him ; and he refused to take as much as a penny from 

" I'm better pleased than ten pounds on my own hand," 
said he, "that my cure turned out so well; and I'd be 
long sorry to take a farthing from you ; you lost plenty 
with doctors before." 

Idocc 5U|a conjljuij i^é í^nn i>. ce^c yém 50 'ocí ^ bó^^' é. 

A5UI' corii iTd-t) ^Y ^^ r^ v^^" ^®^ ^^°r ^^^''^ v^ p°r •^^i^ ^^^ 

bpeup ^t^f ^l^íf* '^S^n 1^""° ^^^^ ; "o^ mbei-óeíw'ó cinne6>f 
no eAflÁinre a.i]i, ní h-i6.t) nó> "ooccuiiMt) /s j'L^o-ó&-ó ye 

bu-D be^5 e>.x\ c-ionjn^i.t) ym ! 

pdioiN o'ceaLLais a^us qn easog. 

A bp^t) ó foin bí ye^]! ■o'^]\' bVinm pÁioín O'Ce^llMg 
'niiA cóniiuiTÓe 1 115^^-^ "oo Úu^sitn 1 gcoiTOAé nA. ^^^^^iiii^- 
Aon tiií>.TOin AiiiÁm 'o'éi]\i5 i'é 50 inoc is'^viy ní ■|\^ib po]' •^'S^ 
cií^ An c-ó-m A bí yé, in^^t bi^ i'ol-Af ^l^e-^S ó'n nge^lA^ig 
Dí -ouil Mje te •out 50 li-Aon^^c CÁcíi.i]\-nA.-iTiA]\c te ycojic 
A]^í>.il -oo "oioL. 

tlí ]iAib ]'é nío|" mó 'n a C]\í liiíle ai]\ ^n mbócA^A 50 •ocÁini^ 
'oo]\CA'OA]Mnó]\ Ai|i, ^JU]' co^ui^ C1C c]\om Agcuicim. Con- 
nAi]\c yé ceAC mó\\ AmeA^'j^ q\Ann cimcioll CÚ15 ceu-o ^Iac 
ó'n inbócA]\ Agu]^ 'oubAi]\c ]^é tei]' yéw, ^' ]\£>.cyMX) mé cuni 
An cÍ5e pn, 50 •océit) An cic ca]\c." 11uai]\ cuató i'é cuni 
An ríge, bí An "oojaa]' foi^gAilce, Agvij^ A]xeAC lei]\ Con- 
nAi]\c -|'é yeoin]iA iiiója ai]a CAOib a lÁniie clé, Agu]" cenie 
^l^^^S 'V^" njnÁCA. Suit) yé y1oy ai]i fcol Le coi]' An 
bAllA, Agu]' níop bfA-OA 5U]A cofuij IX A5 cuicim 'nn;^ 
co-oIa-ó, nuAip connAi]Ac yé eAj'óg ihó]\ aj ceAcc cum nA 
ceineAt) aju]- Icaj p jinm ai]i leic An ccajIaij ^5")' 
•o'inicij. nío]i bjTA-OA 50 T)cÁini5 ]'í ai]a ai|^ le ^ini-ó eile 
Aguj' leAg Aiji leic An ceA5lAi5 é, aju^ •o'mici^. bí -[i 
A5 imceAcc Agu]" A5 ceAcc 50 ]AAib cÁ]AnÁn mó)i 511116 ai)\ 


They came home safely, and he became healthy and 
fat. He was so thankful to the poor boccuch that he 
kept him in his own house till his death. As long as he 
was alive he never lay down on green grass again ; and 
another thing, if there was any sickness or ill-health on 
him, it isn't the doctors he used to call in to him. 

That was small wonder ! 


A LONG time ago there was once a man of the name of 
Paudyeen O'Kelly, living near Tuam, in the county 
Galway. He rose up one morning early, and he did not 
know what time of day it was, for there was fine light 
coming from the moon. He wanted to go to the fair 
of Cauher-na-mart to sell a sttirk of an ass that he 

He had not gone more than three miles of the road 
when a great darkness came on, and a shower began 
falling. He saw a large house among trees about five 
hundred yards in from the road, and he said to himself 
that he would go to that house till the shower would be 
over. When he got to the house he found the door 
open before him, and in with him. He saw a large 
room to his left, and a fine fire in the grate. He sat 
down on a stool that was beside the wall, and began 
falling asleep, when he saw a big weasel coming to the 
fire with something yellow in its mouth, which it dropped 
on the hearth-stone, and then it went away. She soon 

74 PÁTOÍn O'Ce^i-llivij ^^u]- íMi e^-pÓ5. 

All zeey^liyc. Ace ■jr^oi "oeiiieAt) iiumja •o'imcij p 'o'éi^iij 
PÁi-oín, A^uf cui]A -pé ^n tne^t) óip a. bí cjwiinnijce ^ici ísiin 
AfDÓCA, Ajuf Ain^c leif. 

Ag ce^cc 'nn^ •óiA.15 ■c^gu]' í /^5 ]^5];eAT)ó.oiL com li-AjiT) te 
píobAil!). CuAit) p i\oini pÁToín a.i]\ ^n iiibócA.]A A5111' í ^5 

riM^ 'o'yAJA.i'L >^.1|l. t)í iiiAi-oe m-Mc -o^iaac aj pÁi-oín a^ju]' 
congbuij i'é í UA.1t) 50 'ocÁinij bei^tc yei>.]\ yuc>~y. t3í m^-oA-o 
niMc Ag ye^\ 6-có., Agiif IHIA15 i^é ^^'ceAc 1 bpobl 'i'^n 
mb^lb/s í. 

Cu^it) pÁToín cum An aohai^, A^iip Aim Áic é beic cíj- 
eACC A bAile bei]' An aiiijiot) a ]:uai]\ ye ai]\ a feAn-A]'Al, 
mA]i f'AOit ye ai]\ mAi-om 50 mbei-oeAX) ye Ag -oeAnAiii, 
ccAnnui^ ye CApAll le cuit) "oe'n ai]\5io-o a bAin fé X)e'n 
eAfói^, Ajuf cÁinij pé a bAile A^uf é A5 iiiAjicuijeACC. 
ilu Ai|i cÁinij ]"é com jtaxja lei]" An Áic a]i cuiji An m A-OAt) An 
CApóg Ann pAn bpoll, cÁinij pi aiiiac ]\oime, cujleim puAp, 
A^u]" yuAin 5peim p5opnAi5 ai]\ An 5-cApAll. Uoj^ui^ An 
CApAbb A5 pic, Agu]" nio]\ peu-Q pÁit)ín a ceApAt), no 50 
"ocug ye léim a^'Ccac 1 5-clAip liióip A bi lioncA 'o'uip^e 
A^iip ve iíiúIac. Di ye '5Á bÁCAX) Ajup '5Á caccax) 50 
buAC, 50 -ocAinig y\]\ yui>~y a bi ccacc a]^ ^'^i^^i"^ ^S^T 
•óíbi]! piAt) An eA^'ó^. 

ÚU5 pÁi-QÍn An CApAll A bAile leip, aju^^ cuh^ ye Af- 
ceAc 1 -oceAc nA mbó é, aju]- cuic yb 'nnA codIa-o. 

Aip mAit)in, lÁ Aip nA liiÁpAc, •o'éijiijpÁi'oín 50 moc, aju]' 
cuAit) pé Am AC le ni^-ge aju]' péA]\ CAbAipc "oo'n ca]3aII. 
tluAip cuAit) ye AmAC connAijic ye An eA^^ój A5 ccacc 
ATTiAc Ap CBAC flA mbó, Agup Í ^Toluigce le puil. "tllo 


came back again with the same thing in her mouth, and 
he saw that it was a guinea she had. She dropped it on 
the hearth-stone, and went away again. She was coming 
and going, until there was a great heap of guineas on the 
hearth. But at last, when he got her gone, Paudyeen 
rose up, thrust all the gold she had gathered into his 
pockets, and out with him. 

He was not gone far till he heard the weasel coming 
after him, and she screeching as loud as a bag-pipes. 
She went before Paudyeen and got on the road, and she 
was twisting herself back and forwards, and trying 
to get a hold of his throat. Paudyeen had a good oak 
stick, and he kept her from him, until two men came up 
who were going to the same fair, and one of them had a 
good dog, and it routed the weasel into a hole in the 

Paudyeen went to the fair, and instead of coming home 
with the money he got for his old ass, as he thought 
would be the way with him in the morning, he went and 
bought a horse with some of the money he took from the 
weasel, and he came home and he riding. When he 
came to the place where the dog had routed the weasel 
into the hole in the wall, she came out before him, gave 
a leap up and caught the horse by the throat. The horse 
made off, and Paudyeen could not stop him, till at last he 
gave a leap into a big drain that was full up of water 
and black mud, and he was drowning and choking as fast 
as he could, until men who were coming from Galway 
came up and banished the weasel. 

Paudyeen brought the horse home with him, and put 
him into the cows' byre and fell asleep. 

Next morning, the day on the morrow, Paudyeen rose 
up early and went out to give his horse hay and oats. 
When he got to the door he saw the weasel coming out 

fe^cc iiiíLe m^llívcc o]\v," 4>.]\ pÁix)íii, ** cÁ |:»:>.iccio]' o)\m 
50 bpil Mi^cAin -oe/sncA a^ív-o." Cu^Tói'é ^^xe^c, ^^uf 
yvM]\ yé ^11 c^pA.ll, ■]oéi]\e bó-bMnne, '^5ll]" "OÁ lí^-oj m^^Ab. 
ÚÁinij i'é Ji.m£yc -6.5"]' cuija yé mi^vt>-v a bí ívige íMTói/í^ij ti^ 
h-e^^^óige. ■p'^.M^A Ml iiió.t)^t) 5i^eim v\y]u £>-'S^y -puA^ip 
y^y^ 5]ieim Ai|A í>>n m^-oivt). but) m^'o/i.'ó 111-MC é, ^cu 
b'éijin -oó £y él^eini i'jAoileA-ó i'ul c^inigPÁi-oín fu^f ; acc 
congbuij i'é /^ full utyyi 50 bjrACMt) ^'é í aj "out ^sixeó^c 1 
tnbocÁn be^j 0, bí ó.^\ bpu-NC Ioca>. CÁinig p^TOÍn A.5 
y^ty A.511]' nuM]\ bí yé ^^.5 í^n mbocÁinín be^g cti^ -pé cpA^- 
cívt) -oo'ti liiii.D^'ó Ajuf cuip i'é ve6]A5 Cs-i\\, £s-^uy cw]\ yé 
A]'ce^c ]\oniie é. nviM]\ cu^i-ó ^11 mey.x>c>.x) iC^-pce^c coi^uij 
1'é ^5 CACjTAnc. CuATÓ pÁi-oín A.]xe^c aju]' coniiMnc yé 
yeis^^-c£>.■[\Xe£,^c Aiin i'A.ri g-coijuiéul. 'O'p^i^AUij yé -óí -mi 
bj-'^CATO y'i e^i^óg aj ceó-cc A^xe^c. 

" tlí f ACMt) iiié," A]\ i'A^ii cA-ille^c, " cÁ tnéb]\eóit)ce te 
■^í]\ inilbceAc aju]' munA. "océnó cu ^m^cjo cí>.pA ^l^c- 
]:<M-ó cu UAI111 é." 

Coiii yó-v '^5tI]" bí pÁi-oín a^u^ í>.n CAibleA.c, ^5 c^inu, bí 
4>.n m^'Od^ó A.5 ce-^^nriíi.'ó -^]xeí>.c, no 50 'ouuj i'é léim^'Uó.f 
y£yO^ 'óei)Ae4»t), ^»-511^ luij ^'é 5]íeim ^50^11^15 £>^^\\ mi g-ci^il,- 

Sg^ie^t) pfe, A^u^" 'oubo.i]íc, '* CÓ5 ■oíoni "oo iiiAt)c>.-ó 0. 
pÁi-oín Hi CeAllí>.ij, Aju]' •oeun):Ait) tné ye^\\ i'|i 

Chui]\ pÁi-oín lAc (tj'pA-có-ib) £>.^y ^.n ttia'oa.'ó a St^eim 
l'jísOileA'ó, Agti]" 'DubMjAC i^é, "1iini|' •OA.iii ci^. cu, no c^t) 
yi^t Aji iiiA]\b cu ino CAp^ll £>-^xiy mo bí>. ?" 

" Aguf c^-o ^Ac-ocug zuyis le^c ^n c-oj; -^ ]iAib mé CÚ15 
ceut) bliA>t)/:>.in '5Ó. c]\iiinniU5A-ó í>>nieA]^5 cnoc -c^^ju]' jbe^nn 
ísn ■DotiiAin." 

" Saoií mé 5ii]\ eA]^Ó5 4>> bí lonn^j.'o," ^y pÁit)ín, "no ni 
b-Mnpnn le -oo cuit) ói)\ ; i>-'^víy mt eite, niÁ cÁ cu cúig 


of the byre and she covered with blood. "^ly seven 
thousand curses on you," said Paudyeen, " but I'm afraid 
you've harm done." He went in and found the horse, a 
pair of milch cows, and two calves dead. He came out 
and set a dog he had after the weasel. The dog got a 
hold of her, and she got a hold of the dog. The dog was 
a good one, but he was forced to loose his hold of her 
before Paudyeen could come up. He kept his eye on 
her, however, all through, until he saw her creeping into 
a little hovel that was on the brink of a lake. Paudyeen 
came running, and when he got to the little hut he gave 
the dog a shake to rouse him up and put anger on him, 
and then he sent him in before himself. When the dog 
went in he began barking. Paudyeen went in after him, 
and saw an old hag (cailleach) in the corner. He asked 
her if she saw a weasel coming in there. 

" I did not," said she ; " I'm all destroyed with a plague 
of sickness, and if you don't go out quick you'll catch 
it from me." 

While Paudyeen and the hag were talking, the dog kept 
moving in all the time, till at last he gave a leap up and 
caught the hag by the throat. She screeched, and said : 

" Paddy Kelly take off your dog, and I'll make you a 
rich man." 

Paudyeen made the dog loose his hold, and said : 
" Tell me who are you, or why did you kill my horse and 
my cows ? " 

"And why did you bring away my gold that I was for 
five hundred years gathering throughout the hills and 
hollows of the world r " 

" I thought you were a weasel," said Paudyeen, " or 
I wouldn't touch your gold ; and another thing," says 

ceut) bliA-OMii M]\ An c^'aojaí yo cÁ ^'é i ii-Mn louic im- 
ceAcc cuiTi i^uAinini]'." 

" llmne iiié coijt thóp i m'óije, aju^' cÁini le beic fgó-oilce 
óni' yulAinj mÁ Cij leAC pce púncA íoc m]\ yon ceut) a^u)" 
C]\í pcit) Ai]:]Monn "oaiti." 

" CÁ bj-nnt All c-Ai]\5iot)?" a^a pÁix)ír). 

" éipig Aju]" 1\ÓTÍiAi|\ yAOi i'jeic AUÁ o]' cionn cobAi]) 
1315 1 ^-coijMieul riA pÁi]\ce pn Amuig, Ajiip ^eobAit) cu 
pocA líoncA "o'ó]!. íoc An pee púnuA ai]i pon nA n-Ai^:- 
^nonn aju^' béi-ó An cwv eile aja-o yéin. nuAi]t a bAin- 
l-eA]" cu An leAc -oe'n pocA, ireicpt) cu itia"oa-o iiió]\'oub A5 
ceACC ATTiAC, Acc nÁ bío-ó Aon ■pAicciof 0]AC ; i^" m^c "OAiii- 
yis é. lltiAip A jeobAf cu An c-ó]a, ceAnnuij An ceAc Ann 
A b|'ACAit) cu mi]"e 1 'ocoi'ac, ^eobATÓ cu yisoy é, itia-h cá 
yé ]:aoi cÁil ^o bpiil CATóbfe Ann. béit) 1110 iíiac-]^a fío^' 
Ann fAn CfoiléA]i," ní •óéAnjrAit) yé Aon -oocaia 'ouic, acc 
belt) pé 'nnA ca]iai"o itiaic 'óuic. Déi-ó nii|"e mA]Ab iní ó'n 
bÁ i'O, A^up nuAi]\ jeobA]" cu TnA]\b mécui]\ ^^pbAnc |'aoi 
An mbocÁn Agu^" "ooij é. TIÁ h-inni]' -D'Aon neAC beó Aon 
nít) Ai]\ bic -oe ni'cAoib-]'e, a^u]' béi-ó An c-Át) o]\c." 

" Cat) é An c-Ainni acá oyz ?" a]í pÁit)ín. 

"1TIÁi]\e ní CiA]\bÁin," a]\ pAn cAilleAc. 

CiiAit) pÁiDÍn A bAile Aju]" nuAi]\ cÁini^ 'oo]ACA'OAp nA 
h-OTÓce tu-r yé tÁi'óe bei]^ ■^5^^^ cuai-ó yé cum nA pgeice a 
bí 1 5-coi]\neul nApÁi]Ace A^up co^nnj pé a5]\óiíia]u tlíop 
bj-'A-OA 50 b):uAi]\ yé An pocA Agiip nuAijA bAm ^'é An beAC 
•oé béim An triA-OAX) 1110^ t)ub aiiiac, aju]" a^ 50 bnÁc leip, 
Aju^' mATDAÚ pÁTOin 'nn a-óiaij. 

Úu5 pÁToín An c-ó]\ a bAile Agnp cuija yé 1 b]:olAc 1 
"oceAc nA nibó é. Unnciott nií 'nnA "óiAig pm, cuató yé 50 
li-AonAc 1 ng'^'iUiiii Ajui' ceAnnui5 i^é péipe bó, CApAll 


he, *' if you're for five hundred years in this world, it's 
time for you to go to rest now," 

" I committed a great crime in my youth," said the 
hag, "and now I am to be released from my sufferings 
if you can pay twenty pounds for a hundred and three 
score masses for me." 

" Where's the money ? " says Paudyeen. 

" Go and dig under a bush that's over a little well 
in the corner of that field there without, and you'll get 
a pot filled with gold. Pay the twenty pounds for the 
masses, and yourself shall have the rest. When you'll 
lift the flag off the pot, you'll see a big black dog coming 
out ; but don't be afraid before him ; he is a son oi mine. 
When you get the gold, buy the house in which you saw 
me at first. You'll get it cheap, for it has the name of there 
being a ghost in it. My son will be down in the cellar. 
He'll do you no harm, but he'll be a good friend to you. 
I shall be dead a month from this day, and when you get 
me dead put a coal under this little hut and burn it. 
Don't tell a living soul anything about me — and the luck 
will be on you." 

" What is your name ? " said Paudyeen. 

" Maurya nee Keerwaun " (Mary Kerwan), said the 

Paudyeen went home, and when the darkness of the 
night came on he took with him a loy,* and went to the 
bush that was in the corner of the field, and began 
digging. It was not long till he found the pot, and 
when he took the flag off it a big black dog leaped out, 
and off and away with him, and Paudyeen's dog after 

Paudyeen brought home the gold, and hid it in the 

* Narrow spade used all over Connacht, 

8o pA>i'oín O'Ce^llAij i^su]- ^n e^fó^. 

CIA An Á1C A iDpiiAiiA fé All c-Ainjiot). 'Ou'bAi]AC cuit) aca 
50 lAAib iioinn Aije lei]' riA 'OAonib niAice. 

Aon tÁ ATTiÁin jleuj' pÁix)in é yein aju^' cuait) i'é cum 
An •omne-tiA'pAi'L a]\ leii' An ceAC mó]\, aju]' t)' ia]\]a ai]\, 
An reAc aju]' An cAÍAni "oo "bi 'nnA cimciotL, "oo 'óío'L 1e)y. 

"U15 LeAC An ceAclbeic ajat) jAn cio]', acc cá CAitjlDfe 
Ann, A^iii" nio]i liiAicliom cii "oul -oo cóiiinui-óe Ann, jAn a 
inn]'inc ; acc ni I'gAiipAinn tei]' An rAlAih jAn cent) púncA 
nioi" mo 'nÁ cÁ a^atd-^'a le CAii\j;pnc ■OAin." 

" D'éiDi]! 50 "bpuil An oi|AeA-o A^Am-fA 'y auá aj^a-o 
yein/' A1A pÁTOín, "béi-óiiié Ann ]'o AmÁ]AAc lei]' An ai]a- 
510-0 111Á CÁ cii]'A ]\éi'ó le i^eilb -oo c-i.'bAiiiC •OAni." 

"belt) me ]\éi-o," A]i ]'An 'ouine-UA]^Al. 

CuAit) pÁiDín A^Aile Aju]' -o'lnni]" "o'Á itinAoi 50 ]iAib 
ceAC mó]A Ajii]' ^AbÁlcA]" CAliiiAn ceAnnin^ce Aije. 

"CiA An Á1C A b]:uAi]\ cu An c-Ai]\j^iot) r" a]\ ]'An beAn. 

"tlAc cumA "ouin?" a]i pÁTOÍn. 

1/Á Ai]A nA mÁ]\Ac, cuAit) pÁix)ín cum An 'otiine-tiA]'Ail, cuj 
ceu"0 ]oúncA "óó, A5VI]' ];uai]\ ]'eilb An rije aju]' nA CAliiiAn, 
Aju]' "o'f'Á^ An "ouine-UAi'Al An c]\ii]'cÁn Aige A]xeAc lei]' 
An mA]í5At). 

'0']['An pÁit)ín Ann ]'An ccac An oi-óce ]'in, A511]' nuAi]\ 
cÁinig An •oo]\cA"OA]' cuató ]'é yloy Ann ]'An c]'oiléA]\, A5U]' 
connAi]\c ]'é veA]A beAj le nA -óÁ coi]' ]'5A]aca ai]\ bÁi]\ille. 

" 'Hi-o 'OiA •oinc, A -Dume cói]\," a]\ ]-An yecs]\ bcAj. 

" 50 inbub h-é "ouic," A]\ pÁi-oín. 

**nÁ bíub Aon ^Aiccio-p o]\c ]\óiiiAm-]'A," a]i ]'An ]:eA]i 
bcA^, " belt) memo CA]\Ait) mAic •óuic-]'e niÁ cÁ cu lonnÁn 
]\un t)o con^bÁil." 


cow-house. About a month after that he went to the 
fair of Galway, and bought a pair of cows, a horse, and 
a dozen sheep. The neighbours did not know where he 
was getting all the money; they said that he had a share 
with the good people. 

One day Paudyeen dressed himself, and went to the 
gentleman who owned the large house where he first 
saw the weasel, and asked to buy the house of him, and 
the land that was round about. 

" You can have the house without paying any rent at 
all; but there is a ghost in it, and I wouldn't like you to 
go to live in it without my telling you, but I couldn't 
part with the land without getting a hundred pounds 
more than you have to offer me." 

" Perhaps I have as much as you have yourself," said 
Paudyeen. " I'll be here to-morrow with the money, if 
you're ready to give me possession." 

" I'll be ready," said the gentleman. 

Paudyeen went home and told his wife that he had 
bought a large house and a holding of land. 

"Where did you get the money ?' says the wife. 
. " Isn't it all one to you where I got it ?" says 

The day on the morrow Paudyeen went to the gentle- 
man, gave him the money, and got possession of the 
house and land ; and the gentleman left him the furni- 
ture and everything that was in the house, in with the 

Paudyeen remained in the house that night, and when 
darkness came he went down to the cellar, and he saw 
a little man with his two legs spread on a barrel. 

"God save you, honest man," says he to Paudyeen. 

"The same to you,'' says Paudyeen. 


82 pÁiT)in O Ce^tlMJ ^.^u]' í>.n e-^i'óg. 

" TTÁini 50 -oeiiTiin. Con^buit; mé]AÚn -oo irió.CA.p, ^S^-T 
con5"bócAit) Ttié "oo -pun-i^A. in6.-|-\ A-n ^-ceutDnA." 

" b'éTOi|A 50 li^ruit CA.pc o]ic," A.]\ 1'ó.n fe^jA beA.5. 
"tlí'lmé fAO]\ UMt)," Mp pÁit)ín. 

tei]% " CA|i]iAin5 pon ^i^ í>.n mbÁinille pn púm." 

CA.-p]AMn5 pÁTOÍn iÁn coijati A.5U]" ■j^eó.c^ix) "oo'n yeis\\ 
hei).^ é. " Ot, cu i^ein, 1 •oco]'ac," 6.]\ \•e^yeA.r^. 'O'ól 
PÁit)ín, CA^i-pA-in^ copn eite -ívji-i]' cu^ x)ón yei>.]\ beó-j é, 
Ajuf x)'ól fé é. 

bioni-i'A- beic 50 fúj^Ac A.nocr." 

"bi An bei]ic A5 ót 50 pA.bA.-06.]\ te^r; a-ija meif5e. Ann 
1'in cug An -peAH beAj tenn AnuA]" ai]i An upbAii, ^"S^y 
-onbAi^AC le pÁi-oín, "nAc hyuil -oúil a-ja-o 1 5-ceól ?" 

" UÁ 50 "oeinini," Ap pÁix)in, " a^u]' i]' iiiaic au ■daui- 
1'ói]\ me." 

" UÓ5 fUAf An teAc Tiióp ACÁ 'i"^" j-coijAneut út), aju^' 
jeobATÓ en mo píobAit) -púici." 

Cój^ pÁix)ín An leAc, yuAi]\ nA píobAi-ó, Ajuf cuj "oo 'n 
ycAU bcAj lAt). '0'f'Ái]^5 -pé nA píobAi-ó Aip, A.5UI" COftllg 
1'é A5 i'einm ceóiL binn. Cofui j pÁToín A5 x)Amf a 50 |AAib 
■pé cui]\-peAC. Ann i'in bí x)eoc eile aca, aju]' lonbAipc An 
yeis]\ beAj : 

" tDeun mA)\ x)tibAi]\c mo mAéAi|\ teAC, aju]^ CAij^béAn- 
l'ATÓ mi]"e -pATóbneA]" mói\ x)uir. U15 beAr "oo beAn cAb- 
Aijir Ann yo, acc nÁ b-inni]' -oi 50 b^-uit mi^'e Ann, ^»•511''' 
ní i-eic|.'i-ó p mé, Am ai)\ bic a béi-óeA]' lionn r,ó |:íon a^ 
reApcÁil UA1C CAn Ann ]'o aju]' rAi^iAAinj é. SlÁn le^c 


"Don't be afraid of me at all," says the little man. 
I'll be a friend to you, if you are able to keep a secret." 

" I am able, indeed ; I kept your mother's secret, and 
I'll keep yours as well." 

" May-be you're thirsty ?" says the little man. 

" I'm not free from it," said Paudyeen. 

The little man put a hand in his bosom and drew out 
a gold goblet. He gave it to Paudyeen, and said : 
''Draw wine out of that barrel under me." 

Paudyeen drew the full up of the goblet, and handed 
it to the little man, " Drink yourself first," says he. 
Paudyeen drank, drew another goblet, and handed it 
to the little man, and he drank it. 

"Fill up and drink again," said the little man. "I 
have a mind to be merry to-night." 

The pair of them sat there drinking until they were 
half drunk. Then the little man gave a leap down to 
the floor, and said to Paudyeen : 

" Don't you like music ?'* 

"I do, surely," says Paudyeen, "and I'm a good 
dancer, too." 

" Lift up the big flag over there in the corner, and 
you'll get my pipes under it." 

Paudyeen lifted the flag, got the pipes, and gave them 
to the little man. He squeezed the pipes on hirn, and 
began playing melodious music. Paudyeen began 
dancing till he was tired. Then they had another drink, 
and the little man said : 

" Do as my mother told you, and I'll show you great 
riches. You can bring your wife in here, but don't tell 
her that I'm there, and she won't see me. Any time 

Anoij', Aju]' céit) <>.nn -oo cot)ló.X), i^^M]" c^p cu^^m-^'A. ó-n 
oiúce AmÁ]i<sc." 

CuAit) pÁi"oín 'nn^ lecxbinx), ^JU]' nío]\ 'b|.-^-Oó> 50 ]iMb 
^'é 'nn^ cot)lAt). 

CU5 A t)e6.n Aju]- A. cl^nn go-ocí An ceó.cTnó|s 0.5111' bíot>A]A 
^o^'onív. An onóce ]'in cua.i'ó pÁi-oín ]^ío]' A-nn |'o.n cfoité£>.i[\. 
Ciu]\ ^n jre^p be^^ pó^ilce |\oinie, ^511]- -o'l^iin Mp " jiA.i'b 
]?onn •oMTii'A Ai^i ?" 

" tlí'l 50 bpÁj' mé -oeoc," i>.]\ pÁTOÍn. 

" ÓL t)o f MC," A.]i f /sn ]:eA]í beísj, " ní béiú 6.n bÁ-ipille 
pn ]:obMÍi y6.v x)o be'^é^." 

"D'ol pÁTOín lÁn ^n coipn ts'^uy cug -oeoc -oo 'n yeó.|A 
bed.5 ; A-nn pn "oubMiAC ^n ]:eAp be^v^ lei]\ 

"UÁiin 6>5 'oub 50 *Oún-nó>-]i-ó A.nocc, le ceól -oo feinm 
•00 nA -o^oinib, ^jui' ttiá cAjó-nn cu liom ):eicpt) cu 
r]\eí>.nn bpeÁj. t)éí>.|A]:Ai-ó mé c^p^i^ll X)uic nó^c b]:ó.c^ió 
cu ó^ leiceit) A]MArii ]\oinie." 

"Ró.cpA.t) A.5V1I' |:Áibce," ^p pÁi-oín, "A-ccciA^n lei)-- 
^'^eul ív -Deuniriv]' mé le mo riinA.oi r*' 

" Uéix) ■00 co-oIa-6 tcice, A-gU]' béó.]A|:M-ó mi|'e A.mí».c ó n-6. 
cí>.oib cu, ó. 5ó.n po]' -oi, A-JUf béó.pi-ó.it) mé a>i]a Mp cu <sn 
C0.01 ceu-onA," ó.]\ fó^n feó^i beA.5. 

" UÁim útTi£».l," A.|i pÁToín, "béi-ó "oeoc eile Ajó^m j-uL d. 
t)céi"ó mé Ayoo tÁCA>ip." 

"D'oL ]'é •oeoc íknt)iiM5 v\i^e, 50 ]ió.ib ]-6 le^c Aip inei|'5e 
A^ur cuAit) fé 'nn a. le^buit) A.nn ]'in le n. 

lA mn^sot. 

l'^uó-ib 1 n5&]\ X)o 'Óún.n-\-]i-ó, AgU]^ í^n ]:eA.]i becvg d-5 niAp- 
cuiteó-cc 0.1)1 i'juó-ib eile lenó. c^oib. lIuMp cÁinig p^-t) 
coiii y^'OA. le cnoc sld-f ^n "Oúin, l^bo^iji ^n j-e^p ^e-í^S 


at all that ale or wine are wanting, come here and 
draw. Farewell now ; go to sleep, and come again to 
me to-morrow night." 

Paudyeen went to bed, and it wasn't long till he fell 

On the morning of the day on the morrow, Paudyeen 
went home, and brought his wife and children to the big 
house, and they were comfortable. That night Paudyeen 
went down to the cellar ; the little man welcomed him 
and asked him did he wish to dance r" 

" Not till I get a drink," said Paudyeen. 

" Drink your 'nough," said the little man : " that barrel 
will never be empty as long as you live." 

Paudyeen drank the full of the goblet, and gave a 
drink to the little man. Then the little man said to 
him : 

" I am going to Doon-na-shee (the fortress of the 
fairies) to-night, to play music for the good-people, and 
if you come with me you'll see fine fun. I'll give you 
a horse that you never saw the like of him before." 

" I'll go with you, and welcome," said Paudyeen ; 
" but what excuse will I make to my wife V 

" I'll bring you away from her side without her kn ow- 
ing it, when you are both asleep together, and I'll bring 
you back to her the same way," said the little man. 

'• I'm obedient," says Paudyeen ; ♦' we'll have another 
drink before I leave you." 

He drank drink after drink, till he was half drunk, and 
he went to bed with his wife. 

When he awoke he found himself riding on u besom 
near Doon-na-shee, and the little man riding on another 

86 pÁit»ín O Ce^lLí..15 ^5«f o-ri eó-fót^. 

ci'iptd. |.'ocíivt nÁjt CU15 pÁmín ; 'o'yo]^5Ml i>^^^ cnoc 5^^]% 
♦.gup cuMt) pÁi-oín ^]xeó.c 1 i'eom]A6. bpeÁj. 

tlí yACA-To pÁit)ín ^on C]\uinnui56.t) a]\iaiíi m{s\\ bí ívtin 
]^Aii "oún. t)í Alt Áic líoiiro. -oe ■ói^oini'b beA.^^, bí p\\ ^5^1^ 
TnnÁ A-nn, 'peA.n aju]' 05. ChuipeA'OA-]^ uibe ^rÁibce ^Aoim 
"OOTTin^l ^5^1' ]\oirii pÁTOín O CeA^llM^. b'é "Ooiiini».!, 
A-inm «.n piobMpe bi^. U^ini^ iM'g '^5tJ]' bA-iTTjAÍo^^n nA> 

"UAmAOit) inle A.5 ■oul 50 Ciioc in^có- Anocr, M]\ 
cuAijic 50 li-Á]\t)-]\i5 ^5».i|' 50]\ío5Mn Á]\ iTO/soine." 

"O'éiiAi^ ^n c-iomlÁn acó-, «^giil' cuAit) y\6.v Am^c. Dí 
c^pMtt lAéix) ^5 ^AvC Aon íi-cA, ^5uf ^ti Cói]xe Uo"óó.]a be 
h-As^xMT) An jug ■í>'5'-il' 11^ bA^inpio^n.^. Cua.'oó.]\ ^^ce^c 
Y^-n 5-cci]xe. téim 5A.C -ouine ai]\ a. CAp^lb ^réin, a-ju]' 
bí cinnce n^sc ^^^ib pÁi-oín ai)a •oei]Aeí>.x), Cuaix) aii pío- 
bovi^Ae Amó-c ^onipA., Ajup cofui5 ^5 ]'einm ceóibt)óib, '^5up 
^V 5° b|\Ác beó. tlío]A bpA-Do. 50 •ocÁrTgó-'OA]^ 50 Cnoc 
ll?ó.cA. 'O'l'Ofí^ó.il A.n cnoc A-^up cumx) aii pbu^g fí"ó 

t)í pinbeA-p^ Agup llu^ld. A.nn pn, A^A-o-iii^ ív^u^ bA-in- 
]\ío56.n SluAi^-pt) ConriA-cc, ajuj' míbce "oe -ÓAOinibbeAjA.. 
ÚÁinig pnbeA.^\A a lÁCAip ^511]' tub6.i]\T; : 

"UÁm6>oiT> ■oiib bÁi|\e biiísb6.t) M^■\^ iy^^t>.^^6 -pbuAi^-pít) 
llhíiiiA.n 6.nocc, Agup nninís mbuMÍpmí-o iA.t) cÁ Á^i 5-cbú 
nncigce 50 -oeó. UÁ An bÁi]\c le beic buAilce ai]\ IÍIÁ15- 
Uú]AA i'Aoi f-liAb belgA-oÁin." 

" UÁmAoix) uile ]\éi'D," a|a pbiiA^-pt) ConriAcr, " ^Si'r '•"'^'^ 
ATÍi]\Ap AjAinn riAc rtibuAilpmí-o ia"o." 

"AniAc lib uibe," a.]\ pATi c-Á]\'o-]\Í5 "béi-ó p]í Cnuic 
I1éi}.-in Aip An caIaiíi ]\ómAinn." 

"O'uTicijeA'OAii uile AmAc, A5up "OotiinAl beAj Ajup ■oÁ 
'j\ •óeu^ píobAi]ie eile ]\ÓTnpA A5 -peinni ceóib binn. tluAi]^ 


besom by his side. When they came as far as the green 
hill of the Doon, the little man said a couple of words 
that Paudyeen did not understand. The green hill 
opened, and the pair went into a fine chamber. 

Paudyeen never saw before a gathering like that which 
was in the Doon. The whole place was full up of little 
people, men and women, young and old. They all wel- 
comed little Donal — that was the name of the piper— and 
Paudyeen O'Kelly. The king and queen of the fairies 
came up to them, and said : 

" We are all going on a visit to-night to Cnoc Matha, 
to the high king and queen of our people." 

They all rose up then and went out. There were 
horses ready for each one of them and the coasli-fya 
bower for the king and the queen. The king and queen 
got into the coach, each man leaped on his own horse, 
and be certain that Paudyeen was not behind. The 
piper went out before them and began playing them 
music, and then off and away with them. It was not 
long till they came to Cnoc Matha. The hill opened 
and the king of the fairy host passed in. 

Finvara and Nuala were there, the arch-king and 
queen of the fairy host of Connacht, and thousands of 
little persons. Finvara came up and said : 

" We are going to play a hurling match to-night 
against the fairy host of Munster, and unless we beat 
them our fame is gone for ever. The match is to be 
fought out on Moytura, under Slieve Belgadaun. 

The Connacht host cried out : " We are all ready, 
and we have no doubt but we'll beat them." 

" Out with ye all," cried the high king; " the men of 
the hill of Nephin will be on the ground before us." 

They all went out, and little Donal and twelve pipers 
more before them, playing melodious music. When 

(CÁnjív'OA.p 50 inA^-Uuiii». bí ■pLuA.^-pt) lÍlúiTiívn 6.5«]^ p-ó- 
p]\ Cntiic tléipn jiompó.. -Anoif, if éigin "oo'n c]'luc^5-p"o 
bei|AC feí>.\\ heó x>o beic 1 Iác-mi^ nuA^ip a "bíonn p^x) 6.5 
c^oit) no A5 buAtí»t) bÁipe, ^guf pn é An ^Ác pu^'OómnAl 
"beA.^ pÁToín O Ce^ltM^ teip t3í |:eA.p -da]! í>h A-inm A.n 
ScA-ngAipe buiióe ó Innif 1 5-con'Oí>>é í».n ChWij^ te -pluA-j- 
p-ó lÍlúniA.n. 

Tlion biTA'OA 5ti]A jtí^c ó.n -oÁ fluA-j t:A.obA, CA-iceó^x) fUA.]' 
An liAC)\óit) A^uj^ co^'ui^ An ^jieAnn -oÁ ní]\ib. 

Di pAt) Ag buAÍA"ó bAii^e AjvijMiA píobAipi"óe Aj i'einni 
ceóit, 50 bpACAix) pÁTOÍn O CeAblAi j i^buAg itlútTiAn a^ 
^Á^Aib nA bÁime lÁi-ojie, AJti]' copuig ]^é A5 cuToeAccAin 
be -i'buA^-p-ó ConnAcc. ÚÁinij An ScAnjAipe 1 bÁCAin 
^Z^V "o'lonni^uij yé pÁi-oin O CeAllAij, acc nío]A b^TA-oA 
5U]\ cuijA pÁinín An ScAngAipebui-óe Aip a CAIA-An-Aipioe, 
O buAbA-o-bAijie, copuig An -oÁ fbuAJ Ag c|^01■o, acc nío|\ 
b^AOA juji buAit ]'LuA5 ConnACC An ]'Iua5 eibe. Ann pn 
pinne i'ltiAg ttlutiiAn p]iioTnpotlÁin x)íob féin, Ajup copuig 
]-M>.x> Ag ice uibe ní-ó jbAp "o'Á 'ocÁinij pAt) l'UAp bei]\ 
Oíot)A|i A5 f5]iio-p nA cí|\e ]AoinpA, 50 -ocAn^A-OA^A coni 
]:a"oa le CongA, nuAiji t)'éi]iij nAmíbce cobAm ApPobb-mop 
A^u]" ftui^ yiAt) riA p|\iom|AobbÁin. Tlí'L Aon Ainm Aip An 
bpolb 50 "ocí An bÁ po Acc pobb-nA-^colAin. 

tluAip jnócuij pbiíAJ ConnACC An cac, cÁnjA-OAp ai|\ 
Ai]" 50 Cnoc TMaca, buc^ÁipeAC 50 beó|A, a^u)" cug An ^ií^ 
pnbeAi^A ppopÁn ói|\ x)0 pÁTOin O CeAllAij, Ajup cug An 
piobAii^e bcAj A bAile é, A5up cui]\ pé 'nnA co-obA-ó be nA 
ThnAOi é. 

CuATÓ mi CA|ic Ann pm, a^U]- ní cÁ]\bA Aon nix) -00 
b'pú A innpnc ; acc Aon oit)ce AiiiAin cuaix) pÁTOín píop 
'pAn C]^oibéA^\ ^5^r '0ubA1]^c An l'eAp bcAg leij', " UÁ nio 
)riÁCAi]A TiiA]\b, Agu]' ■DÓ5 An bocÁn op a cionn." 


they came to Moytura, the fairy host of Munster and 
the fairy men of the hill of Nephin were there before 
them. Now, it is necessary for the fairy host to have 
two live men beside them when they are fighting or at 
a hurling-match, and that was the reason that little 
Donal took Paddy O'Kelly with him. There was a man 
they called the " Yellow StongiryOy" with the fairy host 
of Munster, from Ennis, in the County Clare. 

It was not long till the two hosts took sides ; the ball 
was thrown up between them, and the fun began in 
earnest. They were hurling away, and the pipers play- 
ing music, until Paudyeen O'Kelly saw the host of Mun- 
ster getting the strong hand, and he began helping the 
fairy host of Connacht. The Stotigirya came up and 
he made at Paudyeen O'Kelly, but Paudyeen turned him 
head over heels. From hurling the two hosts began at 
iighiing, but it was not long until the host of Connacht 
beat the other host. Then the host of Munster made 
flying beetles of themselves, and they began eating every 
green thing that they came up to. They were destroy- 
ing the country before them until they came as far as 
Cong. Then there rose up thousands of doves out of the 
hole, and they swallowed down the beetles. That hole 
has no other name until this day but Pull-na-gullam, 
the dove's hole. 

When the fairy host of Connacht won their battle, they 
came back to Cnoc Matha joyous enough, and the king 
Finvara gave Paudyeen O'Kelly a purse of gold, and 
the little piper brought him home, and put him into bed 
beside his wife, and left him sleeping there. 

A month went by after that without anything worth 
mentioning, until one night Paudyeen went down to the 
cellar, and the little man said to him : " My mother is 
dead ; burn the house over her." 

90 Uilli^tn O tluMiMJ. 

" Ip yio]\ ■OU1C," i>.]\ pÁTOÍti, "■otib<M];c ]'i tií>.c i^ii^ib p le 
t)eic Ai]\ An c-i'ao^aI ]'o acc mi, ^5«]' có> ad tiii yuo-y 

Aip mAit)in, csvt LÁ A1]^ n^ iíiájaac, cuaix) pÁTOÍn cum aii 
bocÁin A5uj'piAi]x fé ad CAiLle^c mA]\b. CViuipi^e^-plAnc 
yo^o) All mbocÁn Aguj^ "oó'S T^ ^- ^^11115 -j'é a bAile Ann 
l^in, cy'^uy -o'lnni]' yé •oo'n yecs]\ beAg 50 |\Aib An bocÁn 
X)ói5ce. Cu5 An j:eA|i beA5 ]'po|iÁn vó aju]^ x^ubAijic, 
''Tlí béi-ó An i^popAn pn yolcym com í'ax) A511]' béi-óeA)" cu 
beó. StÁn beAC Anoi]". Tli ]peicpi"ó cu mé nio]" mó, acc 
bío-ó cuimne 5pÁt)Ac a^a^d ai]\ ah CAfói^. b'i]'e cofAC 
Agu]' ppíom-Áx)bAp -oo -pATóbpif." 

Tí1ai|a pÁi'oín ^5^1' A bcAn bbAt)AncA Anx)iAi5 ]'eó, 
Ann ^'An ceAC mó]\, a^U]- nuAi)\ yuAin ■pé bÁ]' t)']pÁ5 ]'é 
l'Ai'óbpeAi' fmó]\ 'nnA "óÍAig, Aguj- niuiiM^ín ítió]\ te iia 


Sin cu5Aib mo fgeul Anoi]- ó tuy 50 •oeijAe, mA|\ cuaIaix) 
mij'e ó mo mÁCAi]i tíiói]\ é. 

uicLiam opuQNaig 

Ann -pAn Aimpp 1 n-Albót) bi ye^-y Ann X)A|a Ab Ainm 
llilliAm O TluAnAi^, 'nnA comnui-oe 1 rigAi^ "oo CtÁ]í- 
5'MIIitti. bí yé 'nnA ]^'eilméA]\. -Áon lÁ Am^m cÁinij An 
ci5eA]AnA-CAbiiAn cuije £>-^uy -oubAiixc. " UÁ cío]' c|\i 
bLiAX)Ain A^Atn o]\z, a^u]- munA mbéit) yé AgAt) "OAm yAOi 
ceAnn j-eACcmAine CAicpx) mé AmAc aija CAoib An bócAi]\ 


" UÁitn le tDul 50 5^i^^i"i AmÁ^Ac le Ii-uaIac cjauic- 
neAccA X)0 "óíot, ^gup nuAip a ^eobAf vné a íuac íocpAit) 
mé cu," £>y l/iAm. 

Aip mATOin, lÁ Aiji riA ttiáhac, cui|\ yé uaIac cpuic- 
ncAccA Ai]i An 5-CAi|AC Aguf bí yé -out 50 5^i^^i"i leii\ 


" It is true for you," said Paudyeen. " She told me that 
she hadn't but a month to be on the world, and the 
month was up yesterday." 

On the morning of the next day Paudyeen went to the 
hut and he found the hag dead. He put a coal under 
the hut and burned it. He came home and told the little 
man that the hut was burnt. The little man gave him a 
purse and said to him : " This purse will never be empty 
as long as you are alive. Now, you will never see me 
more ; but have a loving remembrance of the weasel. 
She was the beginning and the prime cause of your 
riches." Then he went away and Paudyeen never saw 
him again. 

Paudyeen O'Kelly and his wife lived for years after 
this in the large house, and when he died he left great 
wealth behind him, and a large family to spend it. 

There now is the story for you, from the first word to 
the last, as I heard it from my grandmother. 


In the olden time there was once a man named William 
O'Rooney, living near Clare-Galway. He was a farmer. 
One day the landlord came to him and said : "I have 
three years' rent on you, and unless you have it for me 
within a week I'll throw you out on the side of the 

" I'm going to Galway with a load of wheat to-mor- 
row," said Leeam (William), " and when I get the price 
of it I'll pay you." 

Next morning he put a load of wheat on the cart, and 
was going to Galway with it. When he was gone a 

92 tlilliA-m OiluAriMg. 

Hu/MiA bí yé citncioll mile 50 leic itncigceo'n ceA.c, cÁim^ 
•ouine-iiíi.|'í>.t cuije A^tif X)'pA].''|itiií; fé •óé ** An c| 

A-CÁ ^^i^-T) 6.1]A £i>n J-CAI^C ?" 

*' SeAt)/' 6|A l^iMTi, " cÁ mé "oul '5Á "oiol le mo cíoj" 

" CiA. meA-t) ACÁ A.nn ?" a.]-\ ■pAti "ouine ti-si*A.t. 

"UÁconnA. cnei^i^CA Ann,'' a]\ Li^m. 

" CeAnnócAit) mé uaic é/' a]» -p^n tDUine uA-p^l, a-ju^ 
béAHpMt) me A-n tti<5.c if mó 'f'^' mí>']^5í>-"ó •ouic. nuAiji a 
f ACfAf cu com ■pAt) teif An mbócAi|iín cÁf cac acá ai^ 

"DO Lc^llil cté, CAf AfCeAC A^tlf bi A5 imceACC 50 •OCAgAlX) 

cu 50 ceAC mó]\ acá 1 ngbcAnn, Ajtif béix) mi^e Ann fin 

f OlilA-O be -o' AipglOX) "CO CAbA1^\C "OUIC. 

tluAi]! cÁini^ LiAm com -[ta-oa beif An mbócAi]\ín CAfpé 
AfceAC, Agu-p bi ye Ag imceAcc 50 'orÁinij ye com irAtJA 
be ceAC mó]i. Dí lon^AncA]^ ■^^]\ LiAm nuAijA connAipc fé 
An ccAc mó]i, mA|i ftujAX) a^U]' cógAt) Ann p An j-comAi^-j'An- 
Acc é, Ajuf ni ■pACATo ye An ceAc mopi A^nAiii ^\oime, cix) 
50 pAib eóÍAf Aije Aip tiiLe ce^c 1 bpoijpeAcu CÚ15 mile 

lIuAi]! cÁinij LiAm 1 ^^^6>■]\ -oo fgiobol a bi AnAice leip 
An ceAC mó)i cÁinig buACAitt boA^ AmAC A^u-p 'oubAi]\c, 
" ceAX) mibe fÁibce ]ióniAX) a LiAim tJiKuAnAi^," cui]a fAc 
Ai]i A 'opuim Ajuf cug AfceAC é. CÁinig buACAibb beAj^ 
eile AmAC, cui]\ -pÁilce pvoim tiAm, cuip f ac ai]a a "ópuim, 
Ajup-o'imcig AfceAc lei]\ bi buACAiblibe A5 ceAcc, Ag 
cup fÁibce \\o^ú^ LiAm, A^Uf A5 CAbAi]\c yi^c leó, 50 f Aib 
An connA c]AuicneAccA imcigce. Ann pn cÁinig lomlÁn 
nA mbuACAilb 1 bÁCAijA Ajuf 'oubAHic biAm leó : " UÁ 
eólAf AgAib uile oj\m-f a A^up ni'l eólAf AjAni-pA 0)^]lA1b- 
1'e," Ann pn x)ubnAt)A]\ beir, " céit) ApccAc, Ajup ic t)o 
■óinnéAp», CÁ An mÁi^ipcip a^ pAnAlil^n1c te6.c." 

CuAi-ó tiAm AfceAc A^up yiux) ye y\oy A5 An mbopt). 
11io)i 16 pé An t>A)AA J5]*eim 50 -ocÁinig c]\om-coTDlAt) Aip 


couple of miles from the house a gentleman met him and 
asked him : " Is it wheat you've got on the cart r" 

" It is," says Leeam ; " I'm going to sell it to pay my 

'' How much is there in it r" said the gentleman. 

"There's a ton, honest, in it," said Leeam. 

"I'll buy it from you," said the gentleman, "and I'll 
give you the biggest price that's going in the market. 
When you'll go as far as the cart boreen (little road). 
that's on your left hand, turn down, and be going till you 
come to a big house in the valley. I'll be before you 
there to give you your money." 

When Leeam came to the boreen he turned in, and 
was going until he came as far as the big house. Leeam 
wondered when he came as far as the big house, for he 
was born and raised {i.e., reared) in the neighbourhood, 
and yet he had never seen the big house before, though 
he thought he knew every house within five miles of 

When Leeam came near the barn that was close to 
the big house, a little lad came out and said : " A hun- 
dred thousand welcomes to you William O'Rooney," put 
a sack on his back and went in with it. Another little 
lad came out and welcomed Leeam, put a sack on his 
back, and went in with it. Lads were coming welcom- 
ing Leeam, and putting the sacks on their backs and 
carrying them in, until the ton of wheat was all gone. 
Then the whole of the lads came round him, and Leeam 
said: "Ye all know me, and I don't know ye !" Then 
they said to him : '' Go in and eat your dinner : the mas- 
ter's waiting for you." 

Leeam went in and sat down at table ; but he had 
not the second mouthful taken till a heavy sleep came 
on him, and he fell down under the table. Then the 

g4 llilLiAm O Ru^riMJ. 

it-guj" CU1C i^é yiyot 6.U nibojiT). Ann pn ]iinne An 'onA.oi'ó- 
eA"OÓiii ■peAji-bjiei^e co]'múit te Limti, Aguf cui]\ a "b^ile 
cum mnÁ l^iMtii é, tei]' An 5-cApAll, aju]- tei]' An g-CAipc. 
11uAi]i cÁini^ fé 50 ceAc t/iAitn cuató yé fUAf Ann -pAn 
c-yeom]AA, Uiit) Aip leAbuit), i>-^vy yuAi]\ bÁ]\ 

tlíOIA bpATDA J^O n-OeACAIt) Ail jÁip All! AC JO ]\ Alb Ll ATTl 

O RuAnAij mA]Ab, Cui]a An bcAn^e ]-'^0Y aju]^ nuAi]i 
hi -pé ceic nij p An co]\p aju]' cuip o]" cionn cbÁi]^ é. 
éÁinij nA cóiTiA]if AnnA aju]- cAomeA-oA^A 50 bnónAC of 
cionn An cui|\p, Ajuf bi cpuAJ itioja Ann x)o'n irinAoi boicc, 
Acc ni ]AAib iiió]AÁn b]\óin ui|A]\i -pein, niAp bi Liatti AOfCA 
Ajiif Í féin Ó5. -iAn lÁ Aip nA liiA-jiAc cui|\eA"6 An cojip 
Ajrif ni |VAib Aon cuiriine niop mo ai]a tiAm, 

bi buACAitb-Aimp]\e A5 mnAoi "LiAiin aju]' -oubAinc p 
teir, "but) cói]A x)Uic me pó]"AX), '^J^Jf Áic uiAim jIaca"ó." 

" UÁ fé pó buAC -pop An-óiAij bÁp -oo beic Ann pAn 
ceAC," cs\\ fAn buACAill, " pAn 50 mbeiu LiAm cupcA 

tluAi^t bi LiAm -peAcc lÁ Ajupi'eAcc n-oToce 'nnA co-qIa-o 
cÁinij buACAilt beAg Ajup -óúipij é. Ann pu x)ubAi]ic pé 
beip, " cÁi]A peAcctriAin "OO ccobAt). Cui]\eAmAp 'oo CApAbt 

AJUp -DO CA1]\C AbAlle. SeÓ -OUIC X>0 CU1-0 AllAJIt), Agup 


CÁinij l/iAm A bAile, AjupmA]! bi pémAll 'y^sn oixjce ni 
i'ACAit) Aon "ouine é. Aija mATOin An Iac pn cuató bcAn 
LiAim Ajup An buACAill-Aimpipe cum An c-]'A5ai]\c Ajup 

'o'lAp]\ piA-Q A1]\ 1A-0 -OO pÓ]'A-Ó. 

" "bpUll An C-A11\510X)-pÓpCA A5Alb?"A]\ pAn pAJAjiC. 

•Mill," A^\ fAn bcAn, "acc cá fcopc muice AjAm 'pA' 
mbAile, Ajup C15 leAC i beic aja-o 1 n-Áic Aipjit). 

pó]- An fí>-J^í>-pc i^"», ^S^r "oubAiixr, " cuippcAt) pop ai]i 
An nunc AmÁ]VAC." 

lluAip cÁim5 t/iAm 50 x)ci a x)opAp p-ein, buAil, pé builte 


enchanter made a false man like William, and sent him 
home to William's wife with the horse and cart. When 
the false man came to Leeam's house, he went into the 
room lay down on the bed and died. 

It was not long till the cry went out that Leeam 
O'Rooney was dead. The wife put down water, and 
when it was hot she washed the body and put it over the 
board {i.e., laid it out). The neighbours came, and they 
keened sorrowfully over the body, and there was great 
pity for the poor wife, but there was not much grief on 
herself, for Leeam was old and she was young. The 
day on the morrow the body was buried, and there was 
no more remembrance of Leeam. 

Leeam's wife had a servant boy, and she said to him : 
" You ought to marry me, and to take Leeam's place." 

" It's too early yet, after there being a death in the 
house," said the boy ; " wait till Leeam is a week 

When Leeam was seven days and seven nights asleep, 
a little boy came to him and awoke him, and said : 
" You've been asleep for a week ; but we sent your horse 
and cart home. Here's your money, and go." 

Leeam came home, and as it was late at night nobody 
saw him. On the morning of that same day Leeam's 
wife and the servant lad went to the priest and asked 
him to marry them. 

" Have you the marriage money ? " said the priest. 

"No," said the wife; " but I have a sturk of a pig at 
home, and you can have her in place of money." 

The priest married them, and said : " I'll send for the 
pig to-morrow." 

When Leeam came to his own door, he struck a blow 
on it. The wife and the servant boy were going to bed, 
and they asked : " Who's there ?" 

go Uilli^m O HuMiiMg. 

*i)A. bi A.n beA-n 6.511]' ^.n bu4SCó.ill-Mm|'i)\e 0.5 -out cum 
ck leA-buit), Aguf ■o'p-^pjAUi^ pA.'o, " ci^ CÁ Min pn ?" 

tluiKip cUAl^t)^n ó.n ^uc h\ poy 0.C0. gup 'be Li^ni -oo 
bi A.nn, ^5^1' ■oubó>i]ic a. be^n, "nicig liom t)o leigeA^n 
ó>]xe^c, Av^u]' 1]" nió]\ &.U n^Nipe -ouic beic a^iji ívij- ^^n- 
■Ó10.15 cvi beic ■ lÁ f<Mi u^i^." 

" <Xn iM|A Tm|Ae acá cu ?" a|i Li6.m. 

" tlt'lim A.ip tiii]\e," A-n pA.n be^-n, "'cÁ. pof A.5 ah uile 
■óuine 'ycs' bpí>.pÁifce 50 bpiió.i]A cu hi-y aju]' juja cuip me 
50 5eísní>.tTiAil cu. Uéit) a-ija A-if 50 •o'uA.15, ^gu]" béno 
Ai^Aionn léijce 0-50.111 a-ij; fon •o'A.nnió. boicc 4).mÁ|iíkC." 

" "PA-n 50 •ocó.5Ait) foló.]" A-n tcse," 6.\\ t^iA-m, " ^5up 
béo.iA]:«M"o me luA-c "OO ttií..5m-6 -óuic." 

Ann pn cum"ó fé 'f ^n ixAbl^, 'n Áic 0. i^o-ib a c^p^Vl 
A.5Uf 6. muc, fin |-é Ann fA.n cui^e, ^sup ,cuic ]-é 'nn^ 


Ai]\ mM-oin, lÁ £>.i|i n^ mÁ|iAC, "oubAiiic ^n |'xS5Apc le 
bu6.cí>.illbe6.5 xi. bi ^1.156, " céit) 50 ce^-c t>iAim Ui TluAnM5 
A.5UI' béí>-iA]:Ai"ó ívn beA.n ^ poy me Ant)é muc "ouic te CA.b- 
A.i]AC e>. b4>.ile tei>.c." 

ÚÁini5 An buACAill 50 -oopAf au ci5e A5Uf copii5 '5A 
buAÍAX) 1-e iTiAi-oe A bi Ai5e. Di pAiccioj' Aip An mnAoi 
An ■oo|AA]' fop5«.ilc, Acc ■o'pA]:pui5 -pi, " cia cá Ann pn ?" 

" TYlife," A|i fAU buACAill, " cui]\ An i^a5A]ic me le muc 
t)'Í:Á5Aib UA1C." 

" UÁ fi Amui5 Y ^" i'cÁbLA," Ap f An beAn. 

CuAit) An buACAill AfceAC 'fAn i'cÁblA A5UJ' co|'Ui5 A5 
ciomÁinc nA muice aiuac, nuAip ■o'éi]\i5 Li Am A5U]' "oubAiiic, 
" cÁbfUil cu A5 -out le mo liiuic ?" 

riuAip conuAipc An buACAill LiAm, a]' 50 bpÁc lei]-, 
i^^u]- niop i^op 50 n-oeACAit) -j-e cum An cpA5Aij\c a5U)- a 
ci\oi-oe A5 ceACC AmAC Aip a beul te pAiccio]\ 

''Cat) CÁ ope?" Ap pAn fA5Apc. 



" It's I,'' said Leeam ; " open the door for me." 
When they heard the voice, they knew that it was 
Leeam who was in it, and the wife said : " I can't let 
you in, and it's a great shame, you to be coming back 
again, after being seven days in your grave." 
" Is it mad you are ? " said Leeam. 
" I'm not mad," said the wife ; " doesn't every person 
in the parish know that you are dead, and that I buried 
you decently. Go back to your grave, and I'll have a 
mass read for your poor soul to-morrow." 

" Wait till daylight comes," said Leeam, " and I'll 
give you the price of your joking ! " 

Then he went into the stable, where his horse and 
the pig were, stretched himself in the straw, and fell 

Early on the morning of the next day, the priest said 
to a little lad that" he had : " Get up, and go to Leeam 
O'Rooney's house, and the woman that I married yester- 
day will give you a pig to bring home with you." 

The boy came to the door of the house, and began 
knocking at it with a stick. The wife was afraid to open 
the door, but she asked : " Who's there ? " 

"I," said the boy; "the priest sent me to get a pig- 
from you." 

" She's out in the stable," said the wife ; " you can get 
her for yourself, and drive her back w^ith you." 

The lad went into the stable, and began driving out 
the pig, when Leeam rose up and said : " Where are you 
going with my pig ? " 

When the boy saw Leeam he never stopped to look 
again, but out with him as hard as he could, and he 
never stopped till he came back to the priest, and his 
heart coming out on his mouth with terror. 
" What's on you ? " says the priest. 

^8 tlilli^m O RuA^nAij. 

1X-^bl^, A-juf n^c leijvei»-'© ye -óó A>n muc c^bA-ijic lei]\ 
*'bi -oo toyz, ^ bpeugó.'oóip," ó~\\ f6.n i^aja-jac, " cá Iimii 

""OA mbeit)' i'é iTi^|\b ^'ei\cc mbUo^-on^ conriMjic mi]'e 
i^nn i^A^n -j^cAbl^ é -óÁ móimi-o ó fom, Agti]' mun^ 5-cpei- 
-oe/snn cu, CA.p, cii |réin, £>.^\iy peicpt) cu é." 

Ann pn cÁimj ó-n i'-^ja^ac ^jiif -^n buo-cMlble íéile 50 
•oojA^f An ixAbliK, ó-guf TOubAijic ó.n f A^is^c, *' céió AfueA>c 
c^-^uy cw\\ A^n iriuc pn iyme>.c cugMii." 

"Tlí |iAC|:Mnn ^i^ce^c M|a fon ^n liiéix) i]^pú cu," A-^A^^^n 

ÓuM-ó An i'A5A]AC AfceACAnn pn Ajui'biye AjciomAinc 
nA muice awac, nuMp "o'eijAij ti^m yui^y £>^y An cuije aju]' 
•oubAi^Ar, " cÁ hyuil cu ■oul le mo liiuic, a acai^ pÁiopAig?" 

riuAiiA A connAi^Ac An f a^ajac tiAm A5 éipige, Af 50 
bjAÁcLei]', AjjiÁ-ó : "1 n-Ainm "Oé op-ouijiiTi Aip ai|^ 50 -oci 
An 1JA15 cu A tlilliAim 111 fluAnAig." 

Úo]nn5 tiAtn aj ^nc An-oiAig An cj-a^aijac, a^U]- aj yi-b 
" -d ACA1H pÁ-opAij b]ruil cu Ai]A m^ye ? yAn ajuj" lAbAi^ 

11iop yAn An fAgAyc acc cuató a bAile cotri Iuac Ajuy 
•o'^eut) A coyA A loincAy, Ajuy nuAi]\ cÁmij yé AyceAc túu 
yé An -oojAAy. li)í tiAni aj buAlAt) An -ooiAAif 50 pAib ye 
yAjAUijce, Acc ni leijyeAt) An ^a^aiac a^ccac é. 'Paoi 
•oeipeA-o cui]\ yé a ceAnn aitiac aija yuinneoig a bi AipbÁp]\ 
An cí5e A^uf -oubAiyc, *'A UiUiAin tJi nuAnAi^ceno ai]i 
Aiy cum "o'uAige." 

"UÁ cu Ai]\ ^mye a acai]a pÁt)i\Ai5, ní'l me mA]\b, A^uy 
nf ]AAib me Ann Aon UA15 A^MAm ó "o'yAS me b]\onn mo 
mÁCA|\," AjA "tiAm. 

" ConuAiiAC miye niA^b cu," Ay yAn yA^Ayc, "yuAiy cu 
bAy obAnn Ajuy bi me 1 lAcAiy nuAiy cuiyeAt) cu 'ye>.^^ 
UA15, Ajuy yinne me yeAnmoiy byeAj oy x)o cionn." 


The lad told him that Leeam O'Rooney was in the 
stable, and would not let him drive out the pig. 

" Hold your tongue, you liar ! " said the priest ; 
"Leeam O'Rooney 's dead and in the grave this 

" If he was in the grave this seven years, I saw him 
in the stable two moments ago ; and if you don't believe 
me, come yourself, and you'll see him." 

The priest and the boy then went together to the door 
of the stable, and the priest said : " Go in and turn me 
out that pig." 

" I wouldn't go in for all ever you're worth," said the 

The priest went in, and began driving out the pig, 
when Leeam rose up out of the straw and said : " Where 
are you going with my pig, Father Patrick ? " 

When the priest saw Leeam, off and away with him, 
and he crying out : " In the name of God, I order you 
back to your grave, William O'Rooney." 

Leeam began running after the priest, and saying, 
*' Father Patrick, Father Patrick, are you mad ? Wait 
and speak to me." 

The priest would not wait for him, but made off home 
as fast as his feet could carry him, and when he got 
into the house, he shut the door. Leeam was knocking 
at the door till he was tired, but the priest would not let 
him in. At last, he put his head out of a window in the 
top of the house, and said : " William O'Rooney, go back 
to your grave." 

" You re mad. Father Patrick ! I'm not dead, and never 
was in a grave since I was born," said Leeam. 

"I saw you dead," said the priest; "you died sud- 
denly, and I was present when you were put into the 
grave, and made a fine sermon over you." 

loo "Uilli^m O tluA.tid.15. 

*"OiA.bA.t, 50 "bfuil cu Ai|A iTii]ie corii cinnce ^'f 
ACÁ tnipe beó," £>.]\ tiA^m. 

"Imuij Af mVniii.]AC ó.noif ■^juf léijpt) me Aipt^'onn 

"DUIC í>.mÁ|A^C," 6.]\ f ATI -['^JA-HC 

CuMt) tiAm i>. bi».ile aju]^ ' fé A.'ooii^f féin ^cc nV 
leijireA.'o £>.r\ be^n ^•pce^c é. Ann pn 'ou'bM|in -pé lei|' 
^éin, " |i6.c|:/i."o ^"^^y iocp^.t) mo cio)"." tlile "ouine ^ con- 
nA.i]ic LiA-m iM]A £>. teiy.lo^c 50 cei>.c ii>n cige^-i^nA. Ibi p^-'o £y^ 
Hie UMt), m£>.|i f^o 1 le-5.t)A.ii 50 "biruA-iji fé b^f. Tlu^ip cua.- 
Imo A.n d^je^-pnii. c^bm/>>n 50 ]i^ib Lii>.m O flu^n/M j ^5 'óún -pé n^. 'ooijife, ^.^uf ní leig-ped.-ó fé í>.ixeí>.c 
é. éofuij LiA.m A.5 buA.t^t) 6>.r\ ■oo|iA.if mói^i gup -f^Aoii £>.n 
cijeA-jmo. 50 mb]Ai^jeA.t) i^é í>.]'ceA.c é, ÓÁinig í>.n ci^eo-^tn^ 
50 irumneoi^ a. bí m]\ bó.|ip A.n cíge, A.^uf'o'pA.pitii^, "ca-o 

CÁ CU ii.5 1í».]ipM"Ó ?" 

" CÁinij; mé le mo cíof íoc, m£>^]\ fe6^]\ cneA.f ca.," A.p tió.m. 

" Uéi-ó A.i|i Ai]" 50 -oci ■o'uA.ij, A.^Uj' béA.jipA.i'ó mé m^-ic- 
eMiinA.f "ouic,'' A|i f4>.n UijeA^pnA. 

" tlí yo.5yA.1-o mé feó, 50 bpÁ.5' mé fjjitbmn umc 50 
byuit me íoccA. fu^f S^^^i» 50 "ocí A.n tDedlc-Mne yeo 

Cuj A.n Ui5eA.]inA. A.n -pgyibmn -oo, ^.^uf cA1n15feA.bA.1le. 
tDuA.ib ]-é A.n "oonAf, ní lei5]:eA.'ó A.n beA.n A.fceA.c é, A.5 
]\ckX> leif 50 HA.ib tiA.m^O TluA.nA.15 iTiA.]ib ^511^ cujica., A.5Uf 
nA.c |iA.ib A.nn fA.n byeA.^ A.5 A.n •oopA.f ]?eA.llcói|i. 

"llí yeA.llcói]i mé," íy\\ 'LiA.m, •* cÁ mé A.n'óiA.15 cíof cpí 
bliA.' To'toc le mo mÁ.i5ifCip, A.5Uf béit) feilb mo ci5e 
yéin A.5A.m, no béno poy A.5Am ca."o yÁc." 

CuA.1t) -pé cum A.n 'p5iobóil, A.5Uf ]-é bA.|i|iA. mó]i 
iA.iiA.inn A.5Uf níoji bpA.X)Aw 5«^ ,b|ii-p ]-é A.fceA.c A.n -oojiA-p 
l3ífA.icciof móp A.ip -6.n mnA.01 A.5UI' A.111 A.n [byeA.]! nuA.-ó- 
■pófCA.. SA.oileA.'OA.]! 50 |iA.bA.'OA.|i 1 n-A.m A.n eifei|ii5e, A.5Uf 
50 ]iA.ib "oeipe A.n • A.5 ceAcc. 

" Ca.X) cui5e A.]i yA.oiL cu 50 ]iA.ib mife mA.|ib ?" A.ntiA.m. 


" The devil from me, but, as sure as I'm alive, you're 
mad ! " said Leeam. 

" Go out of my sight now," said the priest, " and I'll 
read a mass for you, to-morrow." 

Leeam went home then, and knocked at his own door, 
but his wife would not let him in. Then he said to him- 
self: " I may as well go and pay my rent now." On his 
way to the landlord's house every one who saw Leeam 
was running before him, for they thought he was dead. 
When the landlord heard that Leeam O'Rooney was 
coming, he shut the doors and would not let him in. 
Leeam began knocking at the hall-door till the lord 
thought he'd break it in. He came to a window in the 
top of the house, put out his head, and asked : " What 
are you wanting ? " 

" I'm come to pay my rent like an honest man," said 

" Go back to your grave, and I'll forgive you your 
rent," said the lord. 

"I won't leave this," said Leeam, "till I get a writing 
from you that I'm paid up clean till next May." 

The lord gave him the writing, and he came home 
and knocked at his own door, but the wife would not 
let him in. She said that Leeam O'Rooney was dead 
and buried, and that the man at the door was only a 

" I'm no deceiver," said William ; " I'm after paying 
my master three years' rent, and I'll have possession 
of my own house, or else I'll know why." 

He went to the barn and got a big bar of iron, and it 
wasn't long till he broke in the door. There was great 
fear on the wife, and the newly married husband. They 
thought they were in the time of the General Resurrec- 
tion, and that the end of the world was coming. 

102 UilliMni O UuA.n^i5, 

" *Oo co]Ap ó'n 'oiA.'bAl," ^]i l/i/Mn, "cÁ cu Ag m^5i>.-6 
■jT^-o^ 50 leó|\ liom. "PÁg -ÓAm nit) le n-ice.'' 

X)\ GA-^l/s 1T1ÓH ^i]\ '^n mni>.oi "boicc ^juj' jleu-p p biA-6 
•ÓÓ, -ft-gu^' ntiA.i|A connMiic p é iKg ice aju]- ^5 ól "ouIjxmjic 
•pi, " CÁ iiiioivbuil Ann." 

Ann pn x)'innif t/iAtn a pjent •of, o bonn 50 bÁ|i]i, Agup 
nti^i]i -o'lnnip ye jac nit), t)ubAi]ic i"é, "]VAC]:At) cum nA 
n-UAi^e AniÁ]iAC 50 byeicyeAt) An biceAiiinAC tDo cui]\ pb- 
■pe 1 in'Áic-pé." 

"Lá ai|\ n^ TTiÁi\Ac CU5 t/iAtn 'o^ieAin t)Aoine leip a^u^^ 
cuAit) ye cum nA iioilige, A^up t)'pop5AilpAt) An uiAJ, e>-^uy 
biooAji t)ub An cóm|iA t)'i:o]'5Ailc, Ajup nuAi^t a bi piAt) 
'5Á cójbÁilpuAi" léim mAt)At) mó]\ t)ub AmAC, AgupAp 50 
bjAÁc teip, Ajup Li Am A^up nApi]i eile'nnA "oiAij. l3iot>Ap 
'5Á leAnAiiiAinc 50 bpACAt)A]i é A5 t)ul ApceAC Ann pAn 
ceAc A ^lAib LiAin 'nnA cot)lAt) Aim. -Ann pn o'popgAil 

An CaLaITI AJUp CUATÓ An CeAC pop, AJUI" ni pACAlt) Aon 

•oume é ó pom, acc cá An poll mó]i le peicpmc 50 t)ci An 
lÁ f o. 

HuAi]i t)'imci5 Li Am Ajuf nA pip\ Ó5A AbAile o'innif pÍAt) 
5AC nit) t)o pA5'5.]ic nA pAjiÁi-pce, Agup pjAOil ye An pópAt) 
A bi eit>i|i beAn LiAim Agup ó.r\ buíKCAill-Aimpi|Ae. 

'Oo liiAiii LiAm bliA-ó^ncA 'nnA •01A15 i^eó, A5up t)'pÁ5 
1'é fATobpeAp mó]\ 'nnA "óiAij, Ajup zi. cuniine ai)\ i 
^-ClAp-jAillnii pó)', Ajup belt) 50 t)eó, mÁcéit)eAnn An 
I'jeul po Ó nA peAn-t)Aomib cum nA nt)Aome 05. 


" Why did you think I was dead ? " said Leeam. 

** Doesn't everybody in the parish know you're dead r " 
said the wife. 

"Your body from the devil," said Leeam, "you're 
humbugging me long enough, and get me something 
to eat." 

The poor woman was greatly afraid, and she dressed 
him some meat, and when she saw him eating and 
drinking, she said : " It's a miracle," 

Then Leeam told her his story from first to last, and 
she told him each thing that happened, and then he said : 
" I'll go to the grave to-morrow, till I see the behoonuch 
ye buried in my place." 

The day on the morrow Leeam brought a lot of men 
with him to the churchyard, and they dug open the 
grave, and were lifting up the coffin, when a big black 
dog jumped out of it, and made off, and Leeam and the 
men after it. They were following it till they saw it 
going into the house in which Leeam had been asleep, 
and then the ground opened, and the house went down, 
and nobody ever saw it from that out ; but the big hole 
is to be seen till this day. 

When Leeam and the men went home, they told every- 
thing to the priest of the parish, and he dissolved the 
marriage that was between Leeam's wife and the servant 

Leeam lived for years after that, and he left great 
wealth behind him, and they remember him in Clare- 
Galway still, and will remember him if this story goes 
down from the old people to the young. 

( 104 ) 


There was once a boy in the County Mayo, and he never 
washed a foot from the day he was born, Guleesh 
was his name ; but as nobody could ever prevail on him to 
wash his feet, they used to call him Guleesh na guss 
dhu, or Guleesh Black-foot. It's often the father said to 
him : " Get up, you stronc-sha (lubber), and wash your- 
self," but the devil a foot would he get up, and the devil 
a foot would he wash. There was no use in talking to 
him. Every one used to be humbugging him on account 
of his dirty feet, but he paid them no heed nor attention. 
You might say anything at all to him, but in spite of it 
all he would have his own way afterwards. 

One night the whole family were gathered in by the 
fire, telling stories and making fun for themselves, and 
he amongst them. The father said to him : " Guleesh, 
)'ou are one and twenty years old to-night, and I believe 
you never washed a foot from the day you were born till 

" You lie," said Guleesh, " didn't I go a' swimming on 
May day last? and I couldn't keep my feet out of the 

" Well, they were as dirty as ever they were when 
you came to the shore," said the father. 

" They were that, surely," said Guleesh. 

" That's the thing I'm saying," says the father, " that 
it wasn't in you to wash your feet ever." 

"And I never will wash them till the day of my 
death," said Guleesh. 

"You miserable behoo7iugh! you clown ! you tinker ! 
you good-for-nothing lubber ! what kind of answer is 
that ? " says the father ; " and with that he drew the hand 


and struck him a hard fist on the jaw. " Be off with your- 
self," says he, " I can't stand you any longer." 

Guleesh got up and put a hand to his jaw, where he 
got the fist. " Only that it's yourself that's in it, who gave 
me that blow," said he, " another blow you'd never 
strike till the day of your death." He went out of the 
house then and great anger on him. 

There was the finest /z>, or rath, in Ireland, a little way 
off from the gable of the house, and he was often in the 
habit of seating himself on the fine grass bank that was 
running round it. He stood, and he half leaning against 
the gable of the house, and looking up into the sky, and 
watching the beautiful white moon over his head. After 
him to be standing that way for a couple of hours, he said 
to himself: "My bitter grief that I am not gone away 
out of this place altogether. I'd sooner be any place in 
the world than here. Och, it's well for you, white moon," 
says he, "that's turning round, turning round, as you 
please yourself, and no man can put you back. I wish 
I was the same as you." 

Hardly was the word out of his mouth when he heard 
a great noise coming like the sound of many people 
running together, and talking, and laughing, and making 
sport, and the sound went by him like a whirl of wind, 
and he was listening to it going into the rath. 
" Musha, by my soul, says he, " but ye're merry 
enough, and I'll follow ye. 

What was in it but the fairy host, though he did not 
know at first that it was they who were in it, but he 
followed them into the rath. It's there he heard ihe 
fulfarnee, and the /olpomee, the rap-lay-hoota, and the 
roolya-hoolya* that they had there, and every man of 

* Untranslatable onomatopsic words expressive of noises. 


them crying out as loud as he could : " My horse, 
and bridle and saddle I My horse, and bridle, and 
saddle ! " 

"By my hand," said Guleesh, " my^ boy, that's not 
bad. I'll imitate ye," and he cried out as well as they : 
" My horse, and bridle, and saddle ! My horse, and 
bridle, and saddle ! " And on the moment there was a 
fine horse with a bridle of gold, and a saddle of silver 
standing before him. He leaped up on it, and the 
moment he was on its back he saw clearly that the rath 
was full of horses, and of little people going riding on 

Said a man of them to him : " Are you coming with 
us to-night, Guleesh r " 

" I am surely," said Guleesh. 

" If you are, come along," said the little man, and out 
with them altogether, riding like the wind, faster than 
the fastest horse ever you saw a' hunting, and faster 
than the fox and the hounds at his tail. 

The cold winter's wind that was before them, they 
overtook her, and the cold winter's wind that was behind 
them, she did not overtake them. And stop nor stay of 
that full race, did they make none, until they came to 
the brink of the sea. 

Then every one of them said : *' Hie over cap ! Hie 
over cap !" and that moment they were up in the air, 
and before Guleesh had time to remember where he 
was, they were down on dry land again, and were going 
like the wind. At last they stood, and a man of them 
said to Guleesh : " Guleesh, do you know where you 
are now r" 

" Not a know," says Guleesh. 

" You're in Rome, Guleesh," said he ; " but we're going 
further than that. The daughter of the king of France 


is to be married to-night, the handsomest woman that 
the sun ever saw, and we must do our best to bring her 
with us, if we're only able to carry her off; and you 
must come with us that we may be able to put the young 
girl up behind you on the horse, when we'll be bringing 
her away, for it's not lawful for us to put her sitting be- 
hind ourselves. But you're flesh and blood, and she can 
take a good grip of you, so that she won't fall off the 
horse. Are you satisfied, Guleesh, and will you do what 
we're telling you ?" 

" Why shouldn't I be satisfied?" said Guleesh. "Im 
satisfied, surely, and anything that ye will tell me to do 
111 do it without doubt ; but where are we now ?" 

You're in Rome now, Guleesh," said the sheehogue 

'• In Rome, is it ?" said Guleesh. " Indeed, and no lie, 
I'm glad of that. The parish priest that we had he was 
broken (suspended) and lost his parish some time ago ; 
I must go to the Pope till I get a bull from him that will 
put him back in his own place again." 

" Oh, Guleesh," said the sheehogue, " you can't do 
that. You won't be let into the palace ; and, anyhow, 
we can't wait for you, for we're in a hurry." 

*' As much as a foot, I won't go with ye," says Guleesh, 
" till I go to the Pope ; but ye can go forward without 
me, if ye wish. I won't stir till I go and get the pardon 
of my parish priest." 

" Guleesh, is it out of your senses you are r You can't 
go; and there's your answer foe you now. I tell you, 
you can't go." 

" Can't ye go on, and to leave me here after ye," said 
Guleesh, "and when ye ccme back can't ye hoist the 
girl up behind me:" 

" But we want you at the palace of the king of 


France," said the sheehogue, " and you must come with 
us now." 

"The devil a foot," said .Guleesh, "till I get the 
priest's pardon ; the honestest and the pleasantest man 
that's in Ireland." 

Another sheehogue spoke then, and said : 

" Don't be so hard on Guleesh. The boy's a kind boy, 
and he has a good heart ; and as he doesn't wish to come 
without the Pope's bull, we must do our best to get it 
for him. He and I will go in to the Pope, and ye can 
wait here." 

" A thousand thanks to you," said Guleesh. " I'm 
ready to go with you ; for this priest, he was the sport- 
ingest and the pleasantest man in the world." 

" You have too much talk, Guleesh,'' said the shee- 
hogue, " but come along now. Get off your horse and 
take my hand." 

Guleesh dismounted, and took his hand; and then 
the little man said a couple of words he did not under- 
stand, and before he knew where he was he found him- 
self in the room with the Pope. 

The Pope was sitting up late that night reading a 
cook that he liked. He was sitting on a big soft chair, 
and his two feet on the chimney-board. There was a 
fine fire in the grate, and a little table standing at his 
elbow, and a drop of ishka-baha (eau-de-vie) and sugar 
on the little tcthleeen; and he never felt till Guleesh 
came up behind him. 

" Now Guleesh," said the sheehogue, " tell him that 
unless he gives you the bull you'll set the room on fire ; 
and if he refuses it to you, I'll spurt fire round about out 
of my mouth, till he thinks the place is really in a blaze, 
and I'll go bail he'll be ready enough then to give you 
the pardon." 


Guleesh went up to him and put his hand on his 
shoulder. The Pope turned round, and when he saw 
Guleesh standing behind him he frightened up. 

"Don't be afraid," said Guleesh, "we have a parish 
priest at home, and some thief told your honour a 
lie about him, and he was broken ; but he's the decentest 
man ever your honour saw, and there's not a man, 
woman, or child in Ballynatoothach but's in love with 
him . 

"Hold your tongue, you bodach,'" said the Pope. 
"Where are you from, or what brought you here? 
Haven't I a lock on the door ? " 

"I came in on the keyhole," says Guleesh, "and I'd 
be very much obliged to your honour if you'd do what 
I'm asking." 

The Pope cried out : " Where are all my people ? 
Where are my servants ? Shamus ! Shawn ! I'm 
killed ; I'm robbed." 

Guleesh put his back to the door, the way he could not 
get out, and he was afraid to go near Guleesh, so he had 
no help for it, but had to listen to Guleesh's story ; and 
Guleesh could not tell it to him shortly and plainly, for 
he was slow and coarse in his speaking, and that angered 
the Pope ; and when Guleesh finished his story, he vowed 
that he never would give the priest his pardon ; and he 
threatened Guleesh himself that he would put him to 
death for his shamelessness in coming in upon him in 
the night ; and he began again crying out for his ser- 
vants. Whether the servants heard him or no, there 
was a lock on the inside of the door, so that they could 
not come in to him. 

" Unless you give me a bull under your hand and seal, 
and the priest's pardon in it," said Guleesh ; " I'll burn 
your house with fire." 


The sheehogue, whom the Pope did not see, began to 
cast fire and flame out of his mouth, and the Pope thought 
that the room was all in ablaze. He cried out : "Oh, 
eternal destruction ! I'll give you the pardon ; I'll give 
you anything at all, only stop your fire, and don't burn 
me in my own house." 

The sheehogue stopped the fire, and the Pope had to 
sit down and write a full pardon for the priest, and give 
him back his old place again, and when he had it ready 
written, he put his name under it on the paper, and put 
it into Guleesh's hand. 

" Thank your honour," said Guleesh ; " I never 
will come here again to you, and batitiacht lath (good- 

" Do not," said the Pope ; " if you do I'll be ready 
before you, and you won't go from me so easily again. 
You will be shut up in a prison, and you won't get out 
for ever." 

" Don't be afraid, I won't come again," said Guleesh. 
And before he could say any more the sheehogue spoke 
a couple of words, and caught Guleesh's hand again, and 
out with them. Guleesh found himself amongst the other 
sheehogues, and his horse waiting for him." 

" Now, Guleesh," said they, "it's greatly you stopped 
us, and we in such a hurry ; but come on now, and don't 
think of playing such a trick again, for we won't wait 
for you. 

"I'm satisfied," said Guleesh, "and I'm thankful to 
ye ; but tell me where are we going." 

" We're to go to the palace of the king of France," 
said they ; " and if we can at all, we're to carry off his 
daughter with us." 

Every man of them then said, " Rise up, horse ; " and 
the horses began leaping, and running, and prancing. 


The cold wind of winter that was before them they over- 
took her, and the cold wind of winter that was behind 
them, she did not overtake them, and they never stopped 
of that race, till they came as far as the palace of the 
king of France. 

They got off their horses there, and a man of them 
said a word that Guleesh did not understand, and on 
the moment they were lifted up, and Guleesh found him- 
self and his companions in the palace. There was a 
great feast going on there, and there was not a noble- 
man or a gentleman in the kingdom but was gathered 
there, dressed in silk and satin, and gold and silver, and 
the night was as bright as the day with all the lamps 
and candles that were lit, and Guleesh had to shut his 
two eyes at the brightness. When he opened them 
again and looked from him, he thought he never saw 
anything as fine as all he saw there. There were a hun- 
dred tables spread out, and their full of meat and drink 
on each table of them, flesh-meat, and cakes and sweet- 
meats, and wine and ale, and every drink that ever a 
man saw. The musicians were at the two ends of the 
hall, and they playing the sweetest music that ever a 
man's ear heard, and there were young women and fine 
youths in the middle of the hall, dancing and turning, 
and going round so quickly and so lightly, that it put a 
soorawn in Guleesh's head to be looking at them. There 
were more there playing tricks, and more making fun 
and laughing, for such a feast as there was that day had 
not been in France for twenty years, because the old 
king had no children alive but only the one daughter, 
and she was to be married to the son of another king 
that night. Three days the feast was going on, and the 
third night she was to be married, and that was the 
night that Guleesh and the sheehogues came, hoping if 


they could, to carry off with them the king's young- 

Guleesh and his companions were standing together 
at the head of the hall, where there was a fine altar 
dressed up, and two bishops behind it waiting to marry 
the girl, as soon as the right time should come. Nobody 
could see the sheehogues, for they said a word as they 
came in, that made them all invisible, as if they had not 
been in it at all. 

" Tell me which of them is the king's daughter," said 
Guleesh, when he was becoming a little used to the noise 
and the light. 

" Don't you see her there from you ? " said the little 
man that he was talking to. 

Guleesh looked where the little man was pointing with 
his finger, and there he saw the loveliest woman that 
was, he thought, upon the ridge of the world. The rose 
and the lily were fighting together in her face, and one 
could not tell which of them got the victory. Her arms 
and hands were like the lime, her mouth as red as a 
strawberry, when it is ripe, her foot was as small and as 
light as another one's hand, her form was smooth and 
slender, and her hair was falling down from her head in 
buckles of gold. Her garments and dress were woven 
with gold and silver, and the bright stone that was in 
the ring on her hand was as shining as the sun. 

Guleesh was nearly blinded with all the loveliness and 
beauty that was in her ; but when he looked again, he 
saw that she was crying, and that there was the trace of 
tears in her eyes. " It can't be," said Guleesh, " that 
there's grief on her, when everybody round her is so full 
of sport and merriment." 

"Musha, then, she is grieved," said the little man; 
" for it's against her own will she's marrying, and she 


has no love for the husband she is to marry. The king 
was going to give her to him three years ago, when she 
was only fifteen, but she said she was too young, and 
requested him to leave her as she was yet. The king gave 
her a year's grace, and when that year was up he gave 
her another year's grace, and then another ; but a week 
or a day he would not give her longer, and she is 
eighteen years old to-night, and it's time for her to 
marry ; but, indeed," says he, and he crooked his mouth 
in an ugly way ; " indeed, it's no king's son she'll marry, 
if I can help it." 

Guleesh pitied the handsome young lady greatly when 
he heard that, and he was heart-broken to think that it 
would be necessary for her to marry a man she did not 
like, or what was worse, to take a nasty Sheehogue for 
a husband. However, he did not say a word, though 
he could not help giving many a curse to the ill-luck 
that was laid out for himself, and he helping the people 
that were to snatch her away from her home and from 
her father. 

He began thinking, then, what it was he ought to do 
to save her, but he could think of nothing. " Oh, if I 
could only give her some help and relief," said he, " I 
wouldn't care whether I were alive or dead; but I see 
nothing that I can do for her." 

He was looking on when the king's son came up to 
her and asked her for a kiss, but she turned her head 
away from him. Guleesh had double pity for her then, 
when he saw the lad taking her by the soft white hand, 
and drawing her out to dance. They went round in 
the dance near where Guleesh was, and he could plainly 
see that there were tears in her eyes. 

When the dancing was over, the old king, her father, 
and her mother the queen, came up and said that this 



was the right time to marry her, that the bishop was 

ready and the couch prepared, and it was time to put 

the wedding-ring on her and give her to her husband. 
The old king put a laugh out of him : " Upon my 

honour," he said, " the night is nearly spent, but my 

son will make a night for himself. I'll go bail he won't 

rise early to-morrow." 

" Musha, and maybe he would," said the Sheehogue 

in Guleesh's ear, *' or not go to bed, perhaps, at all. 

Ha, ha, ha ! " 

Guleesh gave him no answer, for his two eyes were 

going out on his head watching to see what they would 

do then. 

The king took the youth by the hand, and the queen 
took her daughter, and they went up together to the 
altar, with the lords and great people following them. 

When they came near the altar, and were no more 
than about four yards from it, the little sheehogue 
stretched out his foot before the girl, and she fell. Be- 
fore she was able to rise again he threw something that 
was in his hand upon her, said a couple of words, and 
upon the moment the maiden was gone from amongst 
them. Nobody could see her, for that word made her 
invisible. The little manavz seized her and raised her 
up behind Guleesh, and the king nor no one else saw 
them, but out with them through the hall till they came 
to the door. 

Oro ! dear Mary ! it's there the pity was, and the 
trouble, and the crying, and the wonder, and the search- 
ing, and the rookazim^ when that lady disappeared from 
their eyes, and without their seeing what did it. Out 
on the door of the palace with them, without being 
stopped or hindered, for nobody saw them, and, " My 
horse, my bridle, and saddle ! " says every man of them. 


" My horse, my bridle, and saddle !" says Guleesh ; 
and on the moment the horse was standing ready 
caparisoned before him, " Now, jump up, Guleesh," 
said the little man, " and put the lady behind you, 
and we will be going; the morning is not far off from us 

Guleesh raised her up on the horse's back, and leaped 
up himself before her, and, " Rise horse," said he ; and 
his horse, and the other horses with him, went in a full 
race until they came to the sea. 

" Highover, cap !" said every man of them. 

" Highover, cap!" said Guleesh; and on the moment 
the horse rose under him, and cut a leap in the clouds, 
and came down in Erin. 

They did not stop there, but went of a race to the 
place where was Guleesh's house and the rath. And 
when they came as far as that, Guleesh turned and caught 
the young girl in his two arms, and leaped off the horse. 

" I call and cross you to myself, in the name of God !" 
said he ; and on the spot, before the word was'out of his 
mouth, the horse fell down, and what was in it but the 
beam of a plough, of which they had made^a^horse ; and 
every other horse they had, it was that way they made 
it. Some of them were riding on an old besom, and 
some on a broken stick, and more on a bohalau-n (rag 
weed), or a hemlock-stalk. 

The good people called out together when they heard 
what Guleesh said : 

" Oh, Guleesh, you clown, you thief, that no good 
may happen you, why did you play that trick on us ? " 

But they had no power at all to carry off the girl, after 
Guleesh had consecrated her to himself. 

" Oh, Guleesh, isn't that a nice turn you did us, and 
we so kind to you?. What good have we now out of 


our journey to Rome and to France ?. Never mind yet, 
you clown, but you 11 pay us another time for this. Be- 
lieve us you'll repent it." 

" He'll have no good to get out of the young girl," said 
the little man that was t alking to him in the palace be- 
fore that, and as he said the word he moved over to her 
and struck her a slap on the side of the head. " Now,'' 
says he, " she'll be without talk any more ; now, Guleesh, 
what good will she be to you when she'll be dumb ? It's 
time for us to go — but you'll remember us, Guleesh na 
Guss Dhu ! " 

When he said that he stretched out his two hands, 
and before Guleesh was able to give an answer, he and 
the rest of them were gone into the rath out of his sight, 
and he saw them no more. 

He turned to the young woman and said to her : 
" Thanks be to God, they're gone. Would you not 
sooner stay with me than with them ?". She gave him 
no answer. "There's trouble and grief on her yet, said 
Guleesh in his own mind, and he spoke to her again : 
'I am afraid that you must spend this night in my 
father's house, lady, and if there is anything that I can 
do for you, tell me, and I'll be your servant." 

The beautiful girl remained silent, but there were 
tears in her eyes, and her face was white and red after 
each other. 

" Lady," said Guleesh, " tell me what you would like 
me to do now. I never belonged at all to that lot of 
sheehogues who carried you away with them. I am 
the son of an honest farmer, and I went with them with- 
out knowing it. If I'll be able to send you back to your 
father I'll do it, and I pray you make any use of me 
now that you may wish.'' 

He looked into her face, and he saw the mouth 


moving as if she was going to speak, but there came 
no word from it. 

" It cannot be," said Guleesh, " that you are dumb. 
Did I not hear you speaking to the king's son in the 
palace to-night?. Or has that devil made you really 
dumb, when he struck his nasty hand on your jaw ?". 

The girl raised her white smooth hand, and laid her 
finger on her tongue, to show him that she had lost her 
voice and power of speech, and the tears ran out of her 
two eyes like streams, and Guleesh's own eyes were not 
dr>', for as rough as he was on the outside he had a soft 
heart, and could not stand the sight of the young girl, 
and she in that unhappy plight. 

He began thinking with himself what he ought to do, 
and he did not like to bring her home with himself to his 
father's house, for he knew well that they would not be- 
lieve him, that he had been in France and brought back 
with him the king of France's daughter, and he was afraid 
they might make a mock of the young lady or insult 

As he was doubting what he ought to do, and 
hesitating, he chanced to put his hand in his pocket, 
and he found a paper in it. He pulled it up, and the 
moment he looked at it he remembered it was the 
Pope's bull. " Glory be to God," said he, " I know 
now what I'll do ; I'll bring her to the priest's house, 
and as soon as he sees the pardon I have here, he won't 
refuse me to keep the lady and care her." He turned 
to the lady again and told her that he was loath to take 
her to his father's house, but that there was an excellent 
priest very friendly to himself, who would take good 
care of her, if she wished to remain in his house ; but that 
if there was any other place she would rather go, he 
said he would bring her to it. 


She bent her head, to show him she was obliged, and 
gave him to understand that she was ready to follow him 
any place he was going. " We will go to the priest's 
house, then," said he ; " he is under an obligation to me, 
and will do anything I ask him," 

They went together accordingly to the priest's house, 
and the sun was just rising when they came to the door. 
Guleesh beat it hard, and as early as it was the priest was 
up, and opened the door himself. He wondered when 
he saw Guleesh and the girl, for he was certain that it 
was coming wanting to be married they were. 

" Guleesh na Guss Dhu, isn't it the nice boy you are 
that you can't wait till ten o'clock or till twelve, but that 
you must be coming to me at this hour, looking for 
marriage, you and your girshuch. You ought to know 
that I'm broken, and that I can't marry you, or at all 
events, can't marry you lawfully. But ubbubboo ! " said 
he, suddenly, as he looked again at the young girl, " in 
the name of God, who have you here ?. Who is she, or 
how did you get her ? ". 

" Father," said Guleesh, " you can marry me, or any- 
body else, any more, if you wish ; but it's not looking for 
marriage I came to you now, but to ask you, if you 
please, to give a lodging in your house to this young 
lady." And with that he drew out the Pope's bull, and 
gave it to the priest to read. 

The priest took it, and read it, and looked sharply at 
the writing and seal, and he had no doubt but it was a 
right bull, from the hand of the Pope. 

" Where did you get this r " said he to Guleesh, and the 
hand he held the paper in, was trembling with wonder 
and joy. 

" Oh, musha ! " said Guleesh, airily enough, "I got it 
last night in Rome; I remained a couple of hours in the 


city there, when I was on my way to bring this young- 
lady, daughter of the king of France, back with me." 

The priest looked at him as though he had ten heads 
on him ; but without putting any other question to him, 
he desired him to come in, himself and the maiden, and 
when they came in, he shut the door, brought them into 
the parlour, and put them sitting. 

" Now, Guleesh," said he, " tell me truly where did you 
get this bull, and who is this young lady, and whether 
you're out of your senses really, or are only making a 
joke of me r ". 

" I'm not telling a word of lie, nor making a joke of 
you," said Guleesh ; " but it was from the Pope himself 
I got the paper, and it was from the palace of the king 
of France I carried off this lady, and she is the daughter 
of the king of France." 

He began his story then, and told the whole to the 
priest, and the priest was so much surprised that he 
could not help calling out at times, or clapping his 
hands together. 

When Guleesh said from what he saw he thought the 
girl was not satisfied with the marriage that was going 
to take place in the palace before he and the sheehogues 
broke it up, there came a red blush into the girl's cheek, 
and he was more certain than ever that she had sooner be 
as she was — badly as she was — than be the married wife 
of the man she hated. When Guleesh said that hewould 
be very thankful to the priest if he would keep her in his 
own house, the kind man said he would do that as long 
as Guleesh pleased, but that he did not know what they 
ought to do with her, because they had no means of 
sending her back to her father again. 

Guleesh answered that he was uneasy about the same 
thing, ana that he saw nothing to do but to keep quiet 


until they should find some opportunity of doing some- 
thing better. They made it up then between themselves 
that the priest should let on that It was his brother's 
daughter he had, who was come on a visit to him from 
another county, and that he should tell everybody that 
she was dumb, and do his best to keep everyone away 
from her. They told the young girl what it was they in- 
tended to do, and she showed by/her eyes that she was 
obliged to them. 

Guleesh went home then, and^when his people asked 
him where he was, he said that he was asleep at the foot 
of the ditch, and passed the night there. 

There was great wonderment on the neighbours when 
the honest priest showed them the Pope's bull, and got his 
old place again, and everyone was rejoiced, for, indeed, 
there was no fault at all in that honest man, except that 
now and again he would have too much liking for a drop 
of the bottle; but no one could say that he ever saw him 
in a way that he could not utter "here's to your health,"' as 
well as ever a man in the kingdom. But if theywondered 
to see the priest back again in his old place, much more 
did they wonder at the girl who came so suddenly to his 
house without anyone knowing where she was from, or 
what business she had there. Some of the people said that 
everything was not as it ought to be, and others that it 
was not possible that the Pope gave back his place to the 
priest after taking it from him before, on account of the 
complaints about his drinking. And there were more of 
them, too, who said that Guleesh na Guss Dhu was not like 
the same man that was in it before, and that it was a great 
story {i.e., a thing to wonder at) how he was drawing every 
day to the priest's house, and that the priest had a wish 
and a respect for him, a thing they could not clear up at 


That was true for them, indeed, for it was seldom the 
day went by but Guleesh would go to the priest's house, 
and have a talk with him, and as often as he would come 
he used to hope to find the young lady well again, and 
with leave to speak ; but, alas ! she remained dumb and 
silent, without relief or cure. Since she had no other 
means of talking she carried on a sort of conversation 
between herself and himself, by moving her hand and 
fingers, winking her eyes, opening and shutting her 
mouth, laughing or smiling, and a thousand other 
signs, so that it was not long until they understood each 
other very well. Guleesh was always thinking how he 
should send her back to her father; butthere was no one 
to go with her, and he himself did not know what road 
to go, for he had never been out of his own country be- 
fore the night he brought her away with him. Nor had 
the priest any better knowledge than he; but when 
Guleesh asked him, he wrote three or four letters to the 
king of France, and gave them to buyers and sellers of 
wares, who used to be going from place to place across 
the sea; but they all went astray, and never one came to 
the king's hand. 

This was the way they were for many months, and 
Guleesh was falling deeper and deeper in love with her 
every day, and it was plain to himself and the priest that 
she liked him. The boy feared greatly at last, lest the 
king should really hear where his daughter was, and take 
her back from h imself, and he besought the priest to write 
no more, but to leave the matter to God. 

So they passed the time for a year, until there came a 
day when Guleesh was lying by himself on the grass^ 
on the last day of the last month in autumn [i.e., Octo- 
ber), and he thinking over again in his own mind of 
everything that happened to him from the day that he 


went with the sheehogues across the sea. He remem- 
bered then, suddenly, that it was one November night 
that he was standing at the gable of the house, when the 
whirlwind came, and the sheehogues in it, and he said 
to himself: "We have November night again to-day, 
and I'll stand in the same place I was last year, until I see 
will the good people come again. Perhaps I might see 
or hear something that would be useful to me, and might 
bring back her talk again to Mary" — that was the name 
himself and the priest called the king's daughter, for 
neither of them knew her right name. He told his 
intention to the priest, and the priest gave him his 

Guleesh accordingly went to the old rath when the 
night was darkening, and he stood with his bent elbow 
leaning on a gray old flag, waiting till the middle of the 
night should come. The moon rose slowly, and it was 
like a knob of fire behind him ; and there was a white 
fog which was raised up over the fields of grass and all 
damp places, through the coolness of the night after a 
great heat in the day. The night was calm as is a lake 
when there is not a breath of wind to move a wave on 
it, and there was no sound to be heard but the cronawn 
(hum) of the insects that would go by from time to time, 
or the hoarse sudden scream of the wild-geese, as they 
passed from lake to lake, half a mile up in the air over 
his head ; or the sharp whistle of the fadogues and 
flibeens (golden and green plover), rising and lying, 
lying and rising, as they do on a calm night. There were 
a thousand thousand bright stars shining over his head, 
and there was a little frost out, which left the grass 
under his foot white and crisp. 

He stood there for an hour, for two hours, for three 
hours, and the frost increased greatly, so that he heard 


the breaking of the traneeyis under his foot as often as he 
moved. He was thinking, in his own mind, at last, that 
the sheehogues would not come that night, and that it 
was as good for him to return back again, when he heard 
a sound far away from him, coming towards him, and he 
recognised what it was at the first moment. The sound 
increased, and at first it was like the beating of waves on 
a stony shore, and then it was like the falling of a great 
waterfall, and at last it was like a loud storm in the tops 
of the trees, and then the whirlwind burst into the rath 
of one rout, and the sheeogues were in it. 

It all went by him so suddenly that he lost his breath 
with it, but he came to himself on the spot, and put an 
ear on himself, listening to what they would say. 

Scarcely had they gathered into the rath till they all 
began shouting, and screaming, and talking amongst 
themselves ; and then each one of them cried out : " My 
horse, and bridle, and saddle ! Aly horse, and bridle, and 
saddle !" and Guleesh took courage, and called out as 
loudly as any of them : "My horse, and bridle and 
saddle ! ]\Iy horse, and bridle and saddle." But be- 
fore the word was well out of his mouth, anotber man 
cried out ; " Ora ! Guleesh, my boy, are you here with us 
again?. How are you coming on with your woman .^* 
There's no use in your calling for your horse to-nighf 
I'll go bail you won't play on us again. It was a good 
trick you played on us last year!". 

" It was," said another man, " he won't do it again." 

" Isn't he a prime lad, the same lad! to take a woman 
with him that never said as much to him as, ' how do you 
do ?' since this time last year !" says the third man. 

" Perhaps he likes to be looking at her," said another 

" And if the omadawn only knew that there's an herb 


growing up by his own door, and to boil it and give it 
to her and she'd be well," said another voice. 

"That's true for you." 

" He is an omadawn.'' 

" Don't bother your head with him, we'll be going." 

" We'll leave the bodach as he is." 

And with that they rose up into the air, and out with 
them of one roolya-hoolya the way they came; and they 
left poor Guleesh standing where they found him, and 
the two eyes going out of his head, looking after them 
and wondering. 

He did not stand long till he returned back, and he 
thinking in his own mind on all he saw and heard, and 
wondering whether there was really an herb at his own 
door that would bring back the talk to the king's daugh- 
ter. " It can't be," says he to himself, " that they would 
tell it to me, if there was any virtue in it ; but perhaps 
the sheehogue didn't observe himself when he let the 
word slip out of his mouth. I'll search well as soon as 
the sun rises, whether there's any plant growing beside 
the house except thistles and dockings." 

He went home, and as tired as he was he did not sleep 
a wink until the sun rose on the morrow. He got up 
then, and it was the first thing he did to go out and search 
well through the grass round about the house, trying 
could he get any herb that he did not recognize. And, 
indeed, he was not long searching till he observed a 
large strange herb that was growing up just by the 
gable of the house. 

He went over to it, and observed it closely, and saw 
that there were seven little branches coming out of 
the stalk, and seven leaves growing on every branche-i?;; 
of them, and that there was a white sap in the leaves. 
" It's very wonderful,'' said he to himself, " that I never 


noticed this herb before. If there's any virtue in an herb 
at all, it ought to be in such a strange one as this." 

He drew out his knife, cut the plant, and carried it 
into his own house ; stripped the leaves off it and cut 
up the stalk ; and there came a thick, white juice out of 
it, as there comes out of the sow-thistle when it is 
bruised, except that the juice was more like oil. 

He put it in a little pot and a little water in it, and 
laid it on the fire until the water was boiling, and then 
he took a cup, filled it half up with the juice, and put it 
to his own mouth. It came into his head then that 
perhaps it was poison that was in it, and that the good 
people were only tempting him that he might kill him- 
self with that trick, or put the girl to death without 
meaning it. He put down the cup again, raised a couple 
of drops on the top of his finger, and put it to his mouth. 
It was nrt bitter, and, indeed, had a sweet, agreeable 
taste. He grew bolder then, and drank the full of a 
thimble of it, and then as much again, and he never 
stopped till he had half the cup drunk. He fell asleep 
after that, and did not wake till it was night, and there 
was great hunger and great thirst on him. 

He had to wait, then, till the day rose; but he deter- 
mined^ as soon as he should wake in the morning, that 
he would go to the king's daughter and give her a drink 
of the juice of the herb. 

As soon as he got up in the morning, he went over to 
the priest's house with the drink in his hand, and he 
never felt himself so bold and valiant, and spirited and 
light, as he was that day, and he was quite certain that it 
was the drink he drank which made him so hearty. 

When he came^to the house, he found the priest and 
the young lady within, and they were wondering greatly 
why he had net visited them for two days. 


He told them all his news, and said that he was cer- 
tain that there was great power in that herb, and that it 
would do the lady no hurt, for he tried it himself and got 
good from it, and then he made her taste it, for he vowed 
and swore that there was no harm in it. 

Guleesh handed her the cup, and she drank half of it, 
and then fell back on her bed and a heavy sleep came 
on her, and she never woke out of that sleep till the day 
on the morrow. 

Guleesh and the priest sat up the entire night with her, 
waiting till she should awake, and they between hope and 
unhope, between expectation of saving her and fear of 
hurting her. 

She awoke at last when the sun had gone half its 
way through the heavens. She rubbed her eyes and 
looked like a person who did not know where she was. 
She was like one astonished when she saw Guleesh and 
the priest in the same room with her, and she sat up 
doing her best to collect her thoughts. 

The two men were in great anxiety waiting to see 
would she speak, or would she not speak, and when they 
remained silent for a couple of minutes, the priest said 
to her : " Did you sleep well, Mary ? ". 

And she answered him : " I slept, thank you." 
No sooner did Guleesh hear her talking than he put a 
shout of joy out of him, and ran over to her and fell on 
his two knees, and said : " A thousand thanks to God, 
who has given you back the talk ; lady of my heart, speak 
again to me." 

The lady answered him that she understood it was he 
who boiled that drink for her, and gave it to her ; that she 
was obliged to him from her heart for all the kindness he 
showed her since the day she first came to Ireland, and 
that he might be certain that she never would forget it. 


Guleesh was ready to die with satisfaction and delight. 
Then they brought her food, and she eat with a good 
appetite, and was merry and joyous, and never left oft 
talking with the priest while she was eating. 

After that Guleesh went home to his house, and 
stretched himself on the bed and fell asleep again, for 
the force of the herb was not all spent, and he passed 
another day and a night sleeping. When he woke up 
he went back to the priest's house, and found that the 
young lady was in the same state, and that she was 
asleep almost since the time that he left the house. 

He went into her chamber with the priest, and they 
remained watching beside her till she awoke the second 
time, and she had her talk as well as ever, and Guleesh 
was greatly rejoiced. The priest put food on the table 
again, and they eat together, and Guleesh used after 
that to come to the house irom day to day, and the friend- 
ship that was between him and the king's daughter in- 
creased, because she had no one to speak to except 
Guleesh and the priest, and she liked Guleesh best. 

He had to tell her the way he was standing by the 
rath when the good people came, and how he went in to 
the Pope, and how the sheehogue blew fire out of his 
mouth, and every other thing that he did till the time 
the good people whipt her off with themselves ; and 
when it would be all told he would have to begin it 
again out of the new, and she never was tired listening 
to him. 

When they had been that way for another half year, 
she said that she could wait no longer without going 
back to her father and mother ; that she was certain 
that they were greatly grieved for her ; and that it was 
a shame for her to leave them in grief, when it was in 
her power to go as far as them. The priest did all he 


could to keep her with them for another while, but with- 
out effect, and Guleesh spoke every sweet word that came 
into his head, trying to get the victory over her, and to 
coax her and make her stay as she was, but it was no 
good for him. She determined that she would go, and 
no man alive would make her change her intention. 

She had not much money, but only two rings that were 
on her hand, when the sheehogue carried her away, and a 
gold pin that was in her hair, and golden bluckles that 
were on her little shoes. 

The priest took and sold them and gave her the money, 
and she said that she was ready to go. 

She left her blessing and farewell with the priest and 
Guleesh, and departed. She was not long gone till there 
came such grief and melancholy over Guleesh that he 
knew he would not be long alive unless he were near 
her, and he followed her. 

• (The next 42 pages in the Leabhar Sgeuluiiiheachta are taken up with the 
adventures of Guleesh and the princess, on their way to the court of France. 
But this portion of the story is partly taken from other tales, and part is too 
much altered and amphfied in the writing of it, so that I do not give it here, as 
not being genuine folk-lore, which the story, except for a very little embellish- 
ment, has been up to this point. The whole ends as follows, with the 
restoration of the princess and her marriage with Guleesh.) 

It was well, and it was not ill. They married one 
another, and that was the fine wedding they had, and if 
I were to be there then, I would not be here now ; but I 
iieard it from a birdeen that there was neither cark nor 
care, sickness nor sorrow, mishap nor misfortune on them 
till the hour of their death, and that it may be the same 
with me, and with us all ! 


A LONG time ago — before St. Patrick's time— there was 
an old king in Connacht, and he had three sons. The 
king had a sore foot for many years, and he could get 
no cure. One day he sent for the Dall Glic (wise blind 
man) which he had, and said to him : 

" I'm giving you wages this twenty years, and you 
can't tell me what will cure my foot." 

" You never asked me that question before," said the 
Dall Glic ; "but I tell you now that there is nothing in the 
world to cure you but a bottle of water from the Well of 
D'yerree-in-Dowan " [i.e., end of the world). 

In the morning, the day on the morrow, the king 
called his three sons, and he said to them : 

" My foot will never be better until I get a bottle 
of water from the Well of D'yerree-in-Dowan, and 
whichever of you will bring me that, he has my king- 
dom to get." 

" We will go in pursuit of it to-morrow," says the 
three. The names of the three were Art, Nart {i.e., 
strength), and Cart* {i.e., right). 

On the morning of the day on the morrow, the king 
gave to each one of them a purse of gold, and they went 
on their way. When they came as far as the cross-roads, 
Art said : 

" Each one of us ought to go a road for himself, and if 
one of us is back before a year and a day, let him wait 
till the other two come ; or else let him set up a stone as 
a sign that he has come back safe." 

They parted from one another after that, and Art and 
Nart went to an inn and began drinking; but Cart 

* These names are not exactly pronounced as written. To pronounce them 
properly say yart first, and then yart with an n and a c beiore it, nyart and 



went on by himself. He walked all that day without 
knowing where he was going. As the darkness of the 
night came on he was entering a great wood, and he was 
going forwards in the wood, until he came to a large 
house. He went in and looked round him, but he saw 
nobody, except a large white cat sitting beside the fire. 
When the cat saw him she rose up and went into another 
room. He was tired and sat beside the fire. It was 
not long till the door of the chamber opened, and there 
came out an old hag. 

" One hundred thousand welcomes before you, son of 
the king of Connacht," says the hag. 

" How did you know me r " says the king's son. 
" Oh, many's the good day I spent in your father's 
castle in Bwee-sounee, and I know you since you were 
born," said the hag. 

Then she prepared him a fine supper, and gave it to 
him. When he had eaten and drunk enough, she said 
to him : 

"You made a long journey to-day; come with me 
until I show you a bed. Then she brought him to a fine 
chamber, showed him a bed, and the king's son fell 
asleep. He did not awake until the sun was coming in 
on the windows the next morning. 

Then he rose up, dressed himself, and was going out, 
when the hag asked him where he was going. 

" I don't know," said the king's son. " I left home to 
find out the Well of Dyerree-in-Dowan." 

'' I'm after walking a good many places," said the hag, 
" but I never heard talk of the Well of D'yerree-in-Dowan 

The king's son went out, and he was travelling till he 
came to a cross-roads between two woods. He did not 
know which road to take. He saw a seat under the 


trunk of a great tree. When he went up to it he found it 
written : " This is the seat of travellers." 

The king's son sat down, and after a minute he saw 
the most lovely woman in the world coming toward him' 
and she dressed in red silk, and she said to him : 

" I often heard that it is better to go forward than 

Then she went out of his sight as though the ground 
should swallow her. 

The king's son rose up and went forward. He walked 
that day till the darkness of the night was coming on, 
and he did not know where to get lodgings. He saw a 
light in a wood, and he drew towards it. The light was 
in a little house. There was not as much as the end of 
a feather jutting up on the outside nor jutting down on 
the inside, but only one single feather that was keeping 
up the house. He knocked at the door, and an old hag 
opened it. 

" God save all here," says the king's son. 

" A hundred welcomes before you, son of the king of 
the castle of Bwee-sounee," said the hag. 

" How did you know me ?" said the king's son. 

" It was my sister nursed you," said the hag, " and sit 
down till I get your supper ready.'' 

When he ate and drank his enough, she put him to 
sleep till morning. When he rose up in the morning, he 
prayed to God to direct him on the road of his luck. 

" How far will you go to-day?"' said the hag. 

" I don't know," said the king's son, " I'm in search 
of the Well of D'yerree-in-Dowan. 

•' I'm three hundred years here," said the hag, and I 
never heard of such a place before ; but I have a sister 
older than myself, and, perhaps, she may know of it. 
Here is a ball of silver for you, and when you will go out 


upon the road throw it up before you, and follow it till 
you come to the house of my sister." 

When he went out on the road he threw down the 
ball, and he was following it until the sun was going 
under the shadow of the hills. Then he went into a 
wood, and came to the door of a little house. When he 
struck the door, a hag opened it, and said : 

" A hundred thousand welcomes before you, son of the 
king of the castle of Bwee-sounee, who were at my 
sister's house last night. You made a long journey to- 
day. Sit down ; I have a supper ready for you." 

When the king's son ate and drank his enough, the 
hag put him to sleep, and he did not wake up till the 
morning. Then the hag asked : 

" Where are you going ?". 

" I don't rightly know," said the king's son. "I left 
home to find out the Wellof D'yerree-in-Dowan." 

" I am over five hundred years of age," said the hag, 
" and I never heard talk of that place before ; but I have 
a brother, and if there is any such place in the world, he'll 
know of it. He is living seven hundred miles from here." 

"It's a long journey," said the king's son. 

"You'll be there to-night," said the hag. 

Then she gave him a little garraun (nag, gelding) 
about the size of a goat. 

" That little beast won't be able to carry me,'' said the 
kings' son. 

"Wait till you go riding on it," said the hag. 

The king's son got on the garraun, and out for ever 
with him as fast as lightning. 

When the sun was going under, that evening, he came 
to a little house in a wood. The king's son got off the 
garraun, went in, and it was not long till an old grey 
man came out, and said : 

" A hundred thousand welcomes to you, son of the 


king of the castle of Bwee-sounee. You're in search of 
the Well of D'yerree-in-Dowan." 

" I am, indeed," said the king's son. 

" Many's the good man went that way before you ; but 
not a man of them came back alive," said the old man ; 
" however, I'll do my best for you. Stop here to-night, 
and we'll have sport to-morrow." 

Then he dressed a supper and gave it to the king's 
son, and when he ate and drank, the old man put him 
to sleep. 

In the morning of the day on the morrow, the old man 
said : 

" I found out where the Well of D'yerree-in-Do\van is ; 
but it is difficult to go as far as it. We must find out if 
there's any good in you with the tight loop (bow ?)." 

Then he brought the king's son out into the wood, 
gave him the loop, and put a mark on a tree two score 
yards from him, and told him to strike it. He drew the 
loop and struck the mark. 

" You'll do the business," said the old man. 

They then went in, and spent the day telling stories 
till the darkness of the night was come. 

When the darkness of the night was come, the old 
man gave him a loop (bow ?) and a sheaf of sharp stings 
(darts), and said : 

" Come with me now." 

They were going until they came to a great river. 
Then the old man said : 

" Go on my back, and I'll swim across the river with 
you ; but if you see a great bird coming, kill him, or we 
shall be lost." 

Then the king's son got on the old man's back, and 
the old man began swimming. When they were in the 
middle of the river the king's son saw a great eagle 


coming, and his gob (beak) open. The king's son drew 
the loop and wounded the eagle. 

" Did you strike him ? " said the old man. 

" I struck him," said the king's son ; " but here he 
comes again." 

He drew the loop the second time and the eagle fell 

When they came to the land, the old man said : 

" We are on the island of the Well of D'yerree-in- 
Dowan. The queen is asleep, and she will not waken 
for a day and a year. She never goes to sleep but once 
in seven years. There is a lion and a monster (uillphéist) 
watching at the gate of the well, but they go to sleep 
at the same time with the queen, and you will have no 
difficulty in going to the well. Here are two bottles for 
you ; fill one of them for yourself, and the other for me, 
and it will make a young man of me." 

The king's son went off, and when he came as far as 
the castle he saw the lion and the monster sleeping on 
each side of the gate. Then he saw a great wheel 
throwing up water out of the well, and he went and 
filled the two bottles, and he was coming back when he 
saw a shining light in the castle. He looked in through 
the window and saw a great table. There was a loaf of 
bread, with a knife, a bottle, and a glass on it. He filled 
the glass, but he did not diminish the bottle. He ob- 
served that there was a writing on the bottle and on the 
loaf; and he read on the bottle : "Water For the World," 
and on the loaf: " Bread For the World." He cut a 
piece off the loaf, but it only grew bigger. 

"My grief! that we haven't that loaf and that bottle 
at home," said the king's son, " and there'd be neither 
hunger nor thirst on the poor people." 

Then he went into a great chamber, and he saw the 


queen and eleven waiting-maids asleep, and a sword of 
light hung above the head of the queen. It was it that 
was giving light to the whole castle. 

When he saw the queen, he said to himself: " It's a 
pity to leave that pretty mouth without kissing it. He 
kissed the queen, and she never awoke ; and after that 
he did the same to the eleven maidens. Then he got 
the sword, the bottle, and the loaf, and came to the old 
man, but he never told him that he had those things. 

" How did you get on r " said the old man. 

" I got the thing I was in search of," said the king's son. 

" Did you see any marvel since you left me r " said the 
old man. 

The king's son told him that he had seen a wonderful 
loaf, bottle, and sword. 

" You did not touch them ? " said the old man ; shun 
them, for they would bring trouble on you. Come on 
my back now till I bring you across the river." 

When they went to the house of the old man, he put 
water out of the bottle on himself, and made a young 
man of himself. Then he said to the king's son : 

*• My sisters and myself are now free from enchant- 
ment, and they are young women again." 

The king's son remained there until most part of the 
year and day were gone. Then he began the journey 
home ; but, my grief, he had not the little nag with him. 
He walked the first day until the darkness of the night 
was coming on. He saw a large house. He went to 
the door, struck it, and the man of the house came out 
to him. 

" Can you give me lodgings ?" said he. 

" I can," said the man of the house, " only I have no 
light to light you." 

"I have a light myself," said the king's son. 


He went in then, drew the sword, and gave a fine 
light to them all, and to everybody that was in the 
island. They then gave him a good supper, and he 
went to sleep. When he was going away in the morn- 
ing, the man of the house asked him for the honour of 
God, to leave the sword with them. 

" Since you asked for it in the honour of God; you 
must have it," said the king's son. 

He walked the second day till the darkness was 
coming. He went to another great house, beat the 
door, and it was not long till the woman of the house 
came to him, and he asked lodgings of her. The man 
of the house came and said : 

"I can give you that; but I have not a drop of water 
to dress food for you." 

"I have plenty of water myself," said the king's son. 

He went in, drew out the bottle, and there was not a 
vessel in the house he did not fill, and still the bottle was 
full. Then a supper was dressed for him, and when he 
ate and drank his enough, he went to sleep. In the 
morning, when he was going, the woman asked of him, in 
the honour of God, to leave them the bottle. 

"Since it has chanced that you ask it for the honour 
of God," said the king's son, " I cannot refuse you, for my 
mother put me under gassa (mystic obligations), before 
she died, never, if I could, to refuse anything that a 
person would ask of me for the honour of God." 

Then he left the bottle to them. 

He walked the third day until darkness was coming, 
and he reached a great house on the side of the road. 
He struck the door; the man of the house came out, and 
he asked lodgings of him. 

" I can give you that, and welcome," said the man ; 
"but I'm grieved that I have nota morsel of bread for you.'* 


" I have plenty of bread myself/' said the king's son. 

He went in, got a knife, and began cutting the loaf, 
until the table was filled with pieces of bread, and yet 
the loaf was as big as it was when he began. Then 
they prepared a supper for him, and when he ate his 
enough, he went to sleep. When he was departing in 
the morning, they asked of him, for the honour of God, 
to leave the loaf with them, and he left it with them. 

The three things were now gone from him. 

He walked the fourth day until he came to a great 
river, and he had no way to get across it. He went 
upon his knees, and asked of God to send him help. 
After half a minute, he saw the beautiful woman he saw 
the day he left the house of the first hag. When she 
came near him, she said ; " Son of the king of the castle 
of Bwee-sounnee^ has it succeeded with you?'' 

" I got the thing I went in search of," said the king's 
son; "but I do not know how I shall pass over this 

She drew out a thimble and said : " Bad is the day I 
would see your father's son without a boat." 

Then she threw the thimble into the river, and made 
a splendid boat of it. 

" Get into that boat now," said she ; "and when you 
will come to the other side, there will be a steed before 
you to bring you as far as the cross-road, where you left 
your brothers." 

The king's son stepped into the boat, and it was not 
long until he was at the other side, and there he found 
a white steed before him. He went riding on it, and it 
went off as swiftly as the wind. At about twelve o'clock 
on that day, he was at the cross-roads. The king's son 
looked round him, and he did not see his brothers, nor 
any stone set up, and he said to himself, " perhaps they 


are at the inn." He went there, and found Art and 
Nart, and they two-thirds drunk. 

They asked him how he went on since he left them. 

" I have found out the Well of D'yerree-in-Dowan, and 
I have the bottle of water," said Cart. 

Nart and Art were filled with jealousy, and they said 
one to the other : " It's a great shame that the youngest 
son should have the kingdom." 

" We'll kill him, and bring the bottle of water to my 
father," said Nart ; " and we'll say that it was ourselves 
who went to the Well of D'yerree-in-Dowan." 

"I'm not with you there," said Art; "but we'll set 
him drunk, and we'll take the bottlelof (from) him. My 
father will believe me and you, before he'll believe our 
brother, because he has an idea that there's nothing in 
him but a half omadawny 

" Then," he said to Cart, " since it has happened that 
we have come home safe and sound we'll have a drink 
before we go home." 

They called for a quart of whiskey, and they made 
Cart drink the most of it, and he fell drunk. Then 
they took the bottle of water from him, went home them- 
selves, and gave it to the king. He put a drop of the 
water on his foot, and it made him as well as ever he 

Then they told him that they had great trouble to get 
the bottle of water ; that they had to fight giants, and 
to go through great dangers. 

" Did ye see Cart on your road ? " said the king. 

"He never went farther than the inn, since he left 
us,"' said they; "and he's in it now, blind drunk." 

" There never was any good in him," said the king ; 
but I cannot leave him there." 

Then he sent six men to the inn, and they carried 


Cart home. When he came to himself, the king made 
him into a servant to do all the dirty jobs about the castle. 

When a year and a day had gone by, the aueen of the 
Well of D'yerree-in-Dowan and her waiting-maidens 
woke up and the queen found a young son by her side, 
and the eleven maidens the same. 

There was great anger on the queen, and she sent for 
the lion and the monster, and asked them what was 
become of the eagle that she left in charge of the castle. 

*' He must be dead, or he'd be here now, when you 
woke up," said they. 

*' I'm destroyed, myself, and the waiting-maidens 
ruined," said the queen; ''and I never will stop till I find 
out the father of my son," 

Then she got ready her enchanted coach, and two 
fawns under it. She was going till she came to the first 
house where the king's son got lodging, and she asked 
was there any stranger there lately. The man of the 
house said there was. 

"Yes !" said the queen, *• and he left the sword of light 
behind him ; it is mine, and if you do not give it to me 
quickly I will throv/ your house upside down." 

They gave her the sword, and she went on till she 
came to the second house, in which he had got lodging, 
and she asked was there any stranger there lately. They 
said that there was. " Yes," said she, " and he left a 
bottle after him. Give it to me quickly, or I'll throw the 
house on ye." 

They gave her the bottle, and she went till she came 
to the third house, and she asked was there any stranger 
there lately. They said there was. 

"Yes!" said she, "and he left the loaf of lasting 


bread after him. That belongs to me, and if ye don't 
give it to me quickly I will kill ye all." 

She got the loaf, and she was going, and never 
stopped till she came to the castle of Bwee-Sounee. She 
pulled the cooalya-con'c, pole of combat and the king came 

" Have you any son,'' said the queen. 

" I have," said the king. 

" Send him out here till I see him," said she. 

The king sent out Art, and she asked him : " Were you 
at the Well of D'yerree-an-Dowan r" 

" I was," said Art. 

"And are you the father of my son r" said she. 

" I believe I am," said Art. 

" I will know that soon," said she. 

Then she drew two hairs out of her head, flung them 
against the wall, and they were made into a ladder that 
went up to the top of the castle. Then she said to Art : 
" If you were at the Well of Dyerree-in-Dowan, you can 
go up to the top of that ladder." 

Art went up half way, then he fell, and his thigh was 

"You were never at the Well of D'yerree-in-Dowan," 
said the queen. 

Then she asked the king : " Have you any other son." 

"I have," said the king. 

"Bring him out," said the queen. 

Nart came out, and she asked him : " Were you ever 
at the Well of D'yerree-in-Dowan?" 

" I was," said Nart. 

"If you were, go up to the top of that ladder," said 
the queen. 

He began going up, but he had not gone far till he 
fell and broke his foot. 


" You were not at the Well of D'yerree-in-Dowan," said 
the queen. 

Then she asked the king if he had any other son, and 
the king said he had. " But," said he, " it's a half fool 
he is, that never left home." 

" Bring him here," said the queen. 

When Cart came, she asked him : " Were you at the 
Well of D'yerree-in-Dowan ?". 

" I was," said Cart, " and I saw you there." 

" Go up to the top of that ladder," said the queen. 

Cart went up like a cat, and when he came down she 
said : " You are the man who was at the Well of D'yerree- 
in-Dowan, and you are the father of my son." 

Then Cart told the trick his brothers played on him, 
and the queen was going to slay them, until Cart 
asked pardon for them. Then the king said that Cart 
must get the kingdom. 

Then the father dressed him out and put a chain of 
gold beneath his neck, and he got into the coach along 
with the queen, and they departed to the Well of 

The waiting-maidens gave a great welcome to the 
king's son, and they all of them came to him, each one 
asking him to marry herself. 

He remained there for one-and-twenty years, until the 
queen died, and then he brought back with him his 
twelve sons, and came home to Galway. Each of them 
married a wife, and it is from them that the twelve tribes 
of Galway are descended. 

( 142 ) 


A LONG time ago there came a lot of gentlemen to a 
river which is between the County Mee-oh (Mayo) 
and Roscommon, and they chose out a nice place 
for themselves on the brink of a river, and set up a 
court on it. Nobody at all in the little villages round 
about knew from what place these gentlemen came. 
MacDonnell was the name that was on them. The 
neighbours were for a long time without making friend- 
ship with them, until there came a great plague, and 
the people were getting death in their hundreds. 

One day there was the only son of a poor widow 
dying from the destructive plague, and she had 
not a drop of milk to wet his tongue. She went to the 
court, and they asked her what she was looking for. 
She told them that the one son she had was dying of 
the plague, and that she had not a drop of milk to wet 
his tongue. 

" Hard is your case," says a lady that was in the court 
to her. " I vv'ill give you milk and healing, and your 
son will be as well at the end of an hour as ever he 
was." Then she gave her a tin can, and said: " Go home 
now, this can will never be empty as long as you or 
your son is alive, if you keep the secret without telling 
anybody that you got it here. When you will go home 
put a morsel of the Mary's shamrock (four-leaved 
shamrock?) in the milk and give it to your son." 

The widow went home. She put a bit of four-leaved 
shamrock in the milk, and gave it to her son to drink, and 
he rose up at the end of an hour as well as ever he was. 
Then the woman went through the villages round about 
with the can, and there was no one at all to whom she 
gave a drink that was not healed at the end of an hour. 


It Was not long till the fame of Maurya nee Keerachawn 
(Mary Kerrigan), that was the name of the widow, went 
through the country, and it was not long till she had the 
full of the bag of gold and silver. 

One day ]\Iary went to a pattern at Cultya Bronks, 
drank too much, fell on drunkenness, and let out the 

There came the heavy sleep of drunkenness on her, 
and when she awoke the can was gone. There was so 
much grief on her that she drowned herself in a place 
called Pull Bawn (the White Hole), within a mile of 
Cultya Bronks. 

Everybody thought now that they had the can of 
healing to get at the Court of Crinnawn if they would go 
there. In the morning, the day on the morrow, there 
went plenty of people to the court, and they found every 
one who was in it dead. The shout went out, and the 
hundreds of people gathered together, but no man could 
go in, for the court was filled with smoke ; and lightning 
and thunder coming out of it. 

They sent a message for the priest, who was in 
Ballaghadereen, but he said : " It is not in my parish, 
and I won't have anything to do with it." That night 
the people saw a great light in the court, and there was 
very great fear on them. The day on the morrow they 
sent word to the priest of Lisahull, but he would not 
come, as the place was not in his parish. Word was sent 
to the priest of Kilmovee, then, but he had the same 

There were a lot of poor friars in Cultya Mawn, and 
when they heard the story they went to the court without 
a person with them but themselves. 

When they went in they began saying prayers, but 
they saw no corpse. After a time the smoke went, 


the lightning and thunder ceased, a door opened, and 
there came out a great man. The friars noticed that 
he had only one eye, and that it was in his forehead. 

" In the name of God, who are you ?" said a man of 
the friars. 

"I am Crinnawn, son of Belore, of the Evil 
Eye. Let there be no fear on ye, I shall do ye no 
damage, for ye are courageous, good men. The people 
who were here are gone to eternal rest, body and soul. 
I know that ye are poor, and that there are plenty of 
poor people round about ye. Here are two purses for 
ye, one of them for yourselves, and the other one to 
divide upon the poor ; and when all that will be spent, 
do ye come again. Not of this world am I, but I shall do 
no damage to anyone unless he does it to me first, and 
do ye keep from me." 

Then he gave them two purses, and said : " Go now on 
your good work." The friars went home ; they gathered 
the poor people and they divided the money on them. 
The people questioned them as to what it was they saw in 
the court. " It is a secret each thing we saw in the court, 
and it is our advice to ye not to go near the court, and 
no harm will come upon ye." 

The priests were covetous when they heard that the 
friars got plenty of money in the court, and the three of 
them went there with the hope that they would get 
some as the friars got it. 

When they went in they began crying aloud : "Is there 
any person here ? is there any person here ?". Crinnawn 
came out of a chamber and asked : " What are ye looking 
for?". "We came to make friendship with you," said 
the priests. " I thought that priests were not given to 
telling lies," said Crinnawn; "ye came with a hope 
that ye would get money as the poor friars got. .Ye 


were afraid to come when the people sent tor ye, and 
now ye will not get a keenogue (mite ?) from me, 
for ye are not worth it." 

*' Don't you know that we have power to banish you 
out of this place," said the priests, "and we will make 
use of that power unless you will be more civil than you 

" I don't care for your power," said Crinnawn, " I have 
more power myself than all the priests that are in 

" It's a lie you're speaking," said the priests. 

"Ye will see a small share of my power to-night," said 
Crinnawn ; " I will not leave a wattle over your heads 
that I will not sweep into yonder river, and I could kill 
ye with the sight of my eye, if I chose. Ye will find the 
roofs of your houses in the river to-morrow morning. Now 
put no other questions on me, and threaten me no more, 
or it will be worse for ye." 

There came fear on the priests, and they went home ; 
but they did not believe that their houses would 
be without a roof before morning. 

About midnight, that night, there came a blast of wind 
under the roof of the houses of the priests, and it swept 
them into the river forenent the court. There was not a 
bone of the priests but was shaken with terror, and they 
had to get shelter in the houses of the neighbours till 

In the morning, the day on the morrow, the priests 
came to the river opposite the court, and they saw the 
roofs that were on all their houses swimming in the 
water. They sent for the friars, and asked them to go 
to Crinnawn and proclaim a peace, and say to him that 
they would put no more trouble on him. The friars 

went to che court, and Crinnawn welcomed them, and 



asked them what they were seeking. " We come from the 
priests to proclaim a peace on you, they will trouble you 
no more." "That is well for them," said Crinnawn, 
" come with me now until ye see me putting back the 
roofs of the houses." They went with him as far as the 
river, and then he blew a blast out of each nostril. The 
roofs of the houses rose up as well as they were when 
they were first put on. There was wonder on the priests, 
and they said : *' The power of enchantment is not yet 
dead, nor banished out of the country yet." From that 
day out neither priest nor anyone else would go near the 
Court of Crinnawn. 

A year after the death of Mary Kerrigan, there was a 
pattern in Cultya Bronks. There were plenty of young 
men gathered in it, and amongst them was Paudyeen, 
the son of Mary Kerrigan. They drank whiskey till they 
were in madness. When they were going home, 
Paudyeen O'Kerrigan said : " There is money in plenty 
in the court up there, and if ye have courage we can get 
it." As the drink was in them, twelve of them said : 
"We have courage, and we will go to the court." When 
they came to the door, Paudyeen O'Kerrigan said: 
" Open the door, or we will break it." Crinnawn came 
out and said: " Unless ye go home I will put a month's 
sleep on ye." They thought to get a hold of Crinnawn, 
but he put a blast of wind out of his two nostrils that 
swept the young men to a lis (old circular rath) called 
Lisdrumneal, and put a heavy sleep on them, and a big 
cloud over them, and there is no name on the place from 
that out, but Lis-trum-nail (the fort of the heavy 

On the morning, the day on the morrow, the young 
men were not to be iound either backwards or forwards, 
and there was great grief amongst the people. That 


day went by without any account from the young- men. 
People said that it was Crinnawn that killed them, fo 
some saw them going to the court. The fathers and 
mothers of the young men went to the friars, and prayed 
them to go to Crinnawn and to find out from him where 
the young men were, dead or alive. 

They went to Crinnawn, and Crinnawn told them the 
trick the young men thought to do on him, and the thing 
he did with them. " If it be your will, bestow forgive- 
ness on them this time," said the friars ; " they were mad 
with whiskey, and they won't be guilty again." " On 
account of ye to ask it of me, I will loose them this time ; 
but if they come again, I will put a sleep of seven years 
on them. Come with me now till you see them." 

" It's bad walkers, we are," said the friars, " we would 
be a long time going to the place where they are." 

" Ye won't be two minutes going to it," said 
Crinnawn, " and ye will be back at home in the same 

Then he brought them out, and put a blast of wind out 
of his mouth, and swept them to Lisdrumneal, and he 
himself was there as soon as they. 

They saw the twelve young men asleep under a cloud 
in the /w, and there was great wonder on them. " Now," 
said Crinnawn, " I will send them home." He blew 
upon them, and they rose up like birds in the air, and it 
was not long until each one of them was at home, and the 
friars as well, and you may be certain that they did not 
go to the Court of Crinnawn any more. 

Crinnawn was living in the court years after that. 
One day the friars went on a visit to him, but he was 
not to be found. People say that the friars got great 
riches after Crinnawn. At the end of a period of time 
the roof fell off the court, as everyone was afraid 


to go and live in it. During many years after that, 
people would go round about a mile, before they would 
go near the old court. There is only a portion of the 
walls to be found now ; but there is no name on the old 
court from that day till this day, but Coort a Chrinnawn 
(Crinnawn's Court). 


There was no nicety about him. He said to his wife 
that he would go to the forge to get a doctoring instru- 
ment. He went to the forge the next day. " Where are 
you going to to-da}'' ? " said the smith. " I am going 
till you make me an instrument for doctoring." " What 
is the instrument I shall make you ? " " Make a 
crumskeen and Sigalskeen (crooked knife and white knife ?) 
The smith made that for him. He came home. 

When the day came — the day on the morrow — Neil 
OCarree rose up. He made ready to be going as a 
doctor. He went. He was walking away. A red lad 
met him on the side of the high road. He saluted 
Neil O'Carree; Neil saluted him. "Where are you 
going ? " says the red man. " I am going till I be my 
[i.e., a.) doctor. " It's a good trade," says the red man, 
" 'twere best for you to hire me." " What's the wages 
you'll be looking for ? " says Neil. " Half of what we 
shall earn till we shall be back again on this ground." 
"I'll give you that," says Neil. The couple walked on. 
"There's a king's daughter," says the red man, with 
the [i.e., near to) death ; we will go as far as her, till we 
see will we heal her." They went as far as the gate. 
The porter came to them. He asked them where were 
they going. They said that it was coming to look at 


the king's daughter they were, to see would they do her 
good. The king desired to let them in. They went in. 

They went to the place where the girl was lying. The 
red man went and took hold of her pulse. He said that 
if his master should get the price of his labour he would 
heal her. The king said that he would give his master 
whatever he should award himself. He said, " if he had 
the room to himself and his master, that it would be 
better." The king said he should have it. 

He desired to bring down to him a skillet (little pot) of 
water. He put the skillet on the fire. He asked Neil 
O'Carree: "Where is the doctoring instrument ? " " Here 
they are," says Xeil, " a crumskeen and a galskeen." 

He put the crumskeen on the neck of the girl. He 
took the head off her. He drev/ a green herb out of his 
pocket. He rubbed it to the neck. There did not come 
one drop of blood. He threw the head into the skillet. 
He knocked a boil out of it. He seized hold on the 
two ears. He took it out of the skillet. He struck it 
down on the neck. The head stuck as well as ever it 
was. " How do you feel yourself now." " I am as well 
as ever I was," said the king's daughter. 

The big man shouted. The king came down. There 
was great joy on him. He would not let them go away 
for three days. When they were going he brought down 
a bag of money. He poured it out on the table. He 
asked of Neil O'Carree had he enough there. Xeil said 
he had, and more than enough, that they would take but 
the half. The king desired them not to spare the money. 

" There's the daughter of another king waiting for us 
to go and look at her." They bade farewell to the king 
and they went there. 

They went looking at her. They went to the place 
where she was lying, looking at her in her bed, and it 


was the same way this one was healed. The king was 
grateful, and he said he did not mind how much money 
Neil should take of him. He gave him three hundred 
pounds of money. They went then, drawing on home. 
" There's a king's son in such and such a place," said the 
red man, " but we won't go to him, we will go home with 
what we have." 

They were drawing on home. The king (had) 
bestowed half a score of heifers on them, to bring home 
with them. They were walking away. When they 
were in the place where Neil O'Carree hired the red 
man, " I think," says the red man, *' that this is the place 
I met you the first time." " I think it is," says Neil 
O'Carree. " Musha, how shall we divide the money r " 
" Two halves," says the red man, " that's the bargain was 
in it." " I think it a great deal to give you a half," says 
Neil O'Carree, " a third is big enough for you ; I have a 
crumskeen and a galskeen (says Neil) and you have no- 
thing." " I won't take anything," said the red man, 
" unless I get the half." They fell out about the money. 
The red man went and he left him. 

Neil O'Carree was drawing home, riding on his beast. 
He was driving his share of cattle. The day came hot. 
The cattle went capering backwards and forwards. Neil 
O'Carree was controlling them. When he would have 
one or two caught the rest would be off when he used to 
come back. He tied his garrawn (gelding) to a bit of a 
tree. He was a-catching the cattle. At the last they 
were all off and away. He did not know where they 
went. He returned back to the place where he left his 
garrawn and his money. Neither the garrawn nor the 
money were to be got. He did not know then what he 
should do. He thought he- would go to the house of the 
king whose son was ill. 


He went along, drawing towards the house of the king. 
He went looking on the lad in the place where he was 
lying. He took a hold of his pulse. He said he thought 
he would heal him. "If you heal him," said the king» 
" I will give you three hundred pounds." " If I were to 
get the room to myself, for a little," says he. The king 
said that he should get that. He called down for a skillet 
of water. He put the skillet on the fire. He drew his 
crumskeen. He went to take the head off him as he 
saw the red man a-doing. He was a-sawing at the 
head, and it did not come with him to cut it off the neck. 
The blood was coming. He took the head off him at 
last. He threw it into the skillet. He knocked a boil 
out of it. When he considered the head to be boiled 
enough he made an attempt on the skillet. He got a 
hold of the two ears. The head fell in gltggar (a gurgling 
mass ?), and the two ears came with him. The blood 
was coming greatly. It was going down, and out of the 
door of the room. When the king saw it going down 
he knew that his son was dead. He desired to open the 
door. Neil O'Carree would not open the door. They 
broke the door. The man was dead. The floor was 
full of blood. They seized Neil O'Carree. He was to 
hang the next day. They gathered a guard till they 
should carry him to the place where he was to hang. 
They went the next day with him. They were walking 
away, drawing towards the tree where he should be 
hanged. They stopped his screaming. They see a man 
stripped making a running race. When they saw him 
there was a fog of water round him with all he was run- 
ning. When he came as far as them (he cried), "what 
are ye doing to my master ? " " If this man is your 
master, deny him, or you'll get the same treatment." 
" It's I that it's right should suffer ; it's I who made the 


delay. He sent me for medicine, and I did not come in 
time, loose my master, perhaps we would heal the king's 
son yet." 

They loosed him. They came to the king's house. 
The red man went to the place where the dead man was. 
He began gathering the bones that were in the skillet. 
He gathered them all but only the two ears. 

" What did you do with the ears ? " 

" I don't know," said Neil O'Carree, " I was so much 

The red man got the ears. He put them all together. 
He drew a green herb out of his pocket. He rubbed 
it round on the head. The skin grew on it, and the 
hair, as well as ever it was. He put the head in the 
skillet then. He knocked a boil out of it. He put the 
head back on the neck as well as ever it was. The 
king's son rose up in the bed. 

" How are you now ? " says the red man. 

" I am well," says the king's son, " but that I'm weak." 

The red man shouted again for the king. There was 
great joy on the king when he saw his son alive. They 
spent that night pleasantly. 

The next day when they were going away, the king 
counted out three hundred pounds. He gave it to Neil 
O'Carree. He said to Neil that if he had not enough 
he would give him more. Neil O'Carree said he had 
enough, and that he would not take a penny more. He 
bade farewell and left his blessing, and struck out, draw- 
ing towards home. 

When they saw that they were come to the place 
where they fell out with one another, " I think," says 
the red man, " that this is the place where we differed 
before." " It is, exactly," said Neil O'Carree. They 
sat down and they divided the money. He gave a half 


to the red man, and he kept another half himself. The 
red man bade him farewell, and he went. He was walk- 
ing away for a while. He returned back. " I am here 
back again," said the red man, " I took another thought, 
to leave all your share of money with yourself. You 
yourself were open-handed. Do you mind the day you 
were going by past the churchyard. There were four 
inside in the churchyard, and a body with them in a 
coffin. There were a pair of them seeking to bury the 
body. There were debts on the body {i.e., it owed debts). 
The two men who had the debts on it {i.e., to whom it 
owed the debts), they were not satisfied for the body to 
be buried. They were arguing. You were listening to 
them. You went in. You asked how much they had on 
the body (z>., how were they owed by the body). The 
two men said that they had a pound on the body, and 
that they were not willing the body to be buried, until 
the people who were carrying it would promise to pay 
a portion of the debts. You said, "I have ten shillings, 
and I'll give it to ye, and let the body be buried." You 
gave the ten shillings, and the corpse was buried. "It's 
I who was in the cofiin that day. When I s aw you 
going a-doctoring, I knew that you would not do the 
business. When I saw you in a hobble, I came to you to 
save you. I bestow the money on you all entirely. You 
shall not see me until the last day, go home now. Don't 
do a single day's doctoring as long as you'll be alive. 
It's short you'll walk until you get your share of cattle 
and your garrawn." 

Neil went, drawing towards home. Not far did he walk 
till his share of cattle and his nag met him. He went home 
and the whole with him. There is not a single day since 
that himself and his Avife are not thriving on it. 

I got the ford, they the stepping stones. They were 
drowned, and I came safe. 

( 154 ) 


Long ago there was a widow woman living in the County 
Galway, and two sons with her, whose names were 
Dermod and Donal. Dermod was the eldest son, and 
he was the master over the house. They were large 
farmers, and they got a summons from the landlord to 
come and pay him a years rent. They had not much 
money in the house, and Dermod said to Donal, " bring 
a load of oats to Galway, and sell it." Donal got ready 
a load, put two horses under the cart, and went to 
Galway. He sold the oats, and got a good price for it. 
When he was coming home, he stopped at the half-way 
house, as was his custom, to have a drink himself, and to 
give a drink and oats to the horses. 

When he went in to get a drink for himself, he saw 
two boys playing cards. He looked at them for a while, 
and one of them said : "Will you have a game."? Donal 
began playing, and he did not stop till he lost every 
penny of the price of the oats. " What will I do now ?," 
says Donal to himself, " Dermod will kill me. Anyhow, 
I'll go home and tell the truth." 

When he came home, Dermod asked him : '• Did you 
sell the oats ?." " I sold, and got a good price for it," 
says Donal. "Give me the money," says Dermod. " I 
haven't it," says Donal ; " I lost every penny of it playing 
cards at the house half-way." " My curse, and the curse 
of the four-and-twenty men on you," says Dermod. He 
went and told the mother the trick Donal did. •' Give 
him his pardon this time," says the mother, "and he won't 
do it again." "You must sell another load to-morrow," 
says Dermod, "and if you lose the price, don't come 


On the morning, the day on the morrow, Donal put 
another load on the cart, and he went to Galvvay. He 
sold the oats, and got a good price for it. When he was 
coming home, and near the half-way house, he said to 
himself: "I will shut my eyes till I go past that house, 
for fear there should be a temptation on me to go in." 
He shut his eyes ; but when the horses came as far as 
the inn, they stood, and would not go a step further, for 
it was their custom to get oats and water in that place 
every time they would be coming out of Galway. He 
opened his eyes, gave oats and water to the horses, and 
went in himself to put a coal in his pipe. 

When he went in he saw the boys playing cards. They 
asked him to play, and (said) that perhaps he might gain 
all that he lost the day before. As there is a temptation 
on the cards, Donal began playing, and he did not stop 
until he lost every penny of all that he had. *' There is 
no good in my going home now," says Donal; ''I'll 
stake the horses and the cart against all I lost." He 
played again, and he lost the horses and the cart. Then 
he did not know what he should do, but he thought and 
said : " Unless I go home, my poor mother will be 
anxious. I will go home and tell the truth to her. They 
can but banish me." 

When he came home, Dermod asked him : " Did you 
sell the oats ? or where are the horses and the cart ?." 
" I lost the whole playing cards, and I would not come 
back except to leave ye my blessing before I go." "That 
you may not ever come back, or a penny of your price," 
said Dermod, " and I don't want your blessing." 

He left his blessing with his mother then, and he went 
travelling, looking for service. When the darkness of 
the night was coming, there was thirst and hunger on 
him. He saw a poor man coming to him, and a bag on 


his back. He recognised Donal, and said : *' Donal, 
what brought you here, or where are you going ?." " I 
don't know you," said Donal. 

" It's many's the good night I spent in your father's 
house, may God have mercy upon him," said the poor 
man; "perhaps there's hunger on you, and that you 
would not be against eating something out of my bag?." 

" It's a friend that would give it to me," says Donal. 
Then the poor man gave him beef and bread, and when 
he ate his enough, the poor man asked him : " Where 
are you going to-night ?." 

"Musha, then, I don't know," says Donal. 

" There is a gentleman in the big house up there, and 
he gives lodging to anyone who comes to him after the 
darkness of night, and I'm going to him," says the poor 

" Perhaps I would get lodgings with you," says Donal. 
" I have no doubt of it," says the poor man. 

The pair went to the big house, and the poor man 
knocked at the door, and the servant opened it. " I want 
to see the master of this house," says Donal, 

The servant went, and the master came. "I am 
looking for a night's lodging," said Donal. 

" I will give ye that, if ye wait. Go up to the castle 
there above, and I will be after ye, and if ye wait in it till 
morning, each man of ye will get five score ten-penny 
pieces, and ye will have plenty to eat and drink as well ; 
and a good bed to sleep on." 

" That's a good offer," said they ; " we will go there." 

The pair came to the castle, went into a room, and put 
down a fire. It was not long till the gentleman came, 
bringing beef, mutton, and other things to them. " Come 
with me now till I show ye the cellar, there's plenty of 
wine and ale in it, and ye can draw your enough." When 


he showed them the cellar, he went out, and he put a 
lock on the door behind him. 

Then Donal said to the poor man: " Put the things to 
eat on the table, and I'll go for the ale." Then he got a 
light, and a cruiskeen (jug), and went down into the cellar. 
The first barrel he came to he stooped down to draw out 
of it, when a voice said : " Stop, that barrel is mine." 
Donal looked up, and he saw a little man without a head, 
with his two legs spread straddle-wise on a barrel. 

" If it is yours," says Donal, " I'll go to another." He 
went to another ; but when he stooped down to draw, 
Trunk-without-head said : " That barrel is mine." 
"They're not all yours," says Donal, "Til go to another 
one." He went to another one ; but when be began 
drawing out of it. Trunk-without-head said : " That's 
mine." "I don't care," said Dona3, "I'll fill my 
cruiskeen." He did that, and came up to the poor man ; 
but he did not tell him that he saw Trunk-without-head. 
Then they began eating and drinking till the jug was 
empty. Then said Donal : " It's your turn to go down 
and fill the jug. The poor man got the candle and the 
cruiskeen, and went down into the cellar. He began 
drawing out of a barrel, when he heard a voice saying : 
" That barrel is mine." He looked up, and when he saw 
Trunk- without-head, he let cruiskeen and candle fall, and 
off and away with him to Donal. "Oh ! it's little but I'm 
dead," says the poor man ; " I saw a man without a head, 
and his two legs spread out on the barrel, and he said it 
was his." " He would not do you any harm," said Donal, 
" he was there when I went down ; get up and bring me 
the jug and the candle." " Oh, I wouldn't go down again 
if I were to get Ireland without a division," says the poor 
man. Donal went down, and he brought up the jug filled. 
" Did you see Trunk-without-head ?," says the poor man. 


" I did," says Donal ; " but he did not do me any 

They were drinking till they were half drunk, then said 
Donal : " It's time for us to be going to sleep, what place 
would you like best, the outside of the bed, or next the 
wall ?." 

" I'll go next the wall," said the poor man. They went 
to bed leaving the candle lit. 

They were not long in bed till they saw three men 
coming in, and a bladder (football) with them. They 
began beating bayrees (playing at ball) on the floor ; but 
there were two of them against one. Donal said to the 
poor man : " It is not right for two to be against one," 
and with that he leaped out and began helping the weak 
side, and he without a thread on him. Then they began 
laughing, and walked out. 

Donal went to bed again, and he was not long there till 
there came in a piper playing sweet music. " Rise up," 
says Donal, " until we have a dance ; it's a great pity to 
let good music go to loss." " For your life, don't stir," 
says the poor man. 

Donal gave a leap out of the bed, and he fell to dancing 
till he was tired. Then the piper began laughing, and 
walked out. 

Donal went to bed again ; but he was not long there 
till there walked in two men, carrying a coffin. They 
left it down on the floor, and they walked out. " I don't 
know who's in the coffin, or whether it's for us it's meant," 
said Donal ; " I'll go till I see." He gave a leap out, 
raised the board of the coffin, and found a dead man in 
it. " By my conscience, it's the cold place you have," 
says Donal ; " if you were able to rise up, and sit at the 
lire, you would be better." The dead man rose up and 
warmed himself Then said Donal, " the bed is wide 


enough for three." Donal went in the middle, the poor 
man next the wall, and the dead man on the outside. It 
was not long until the dead man began bruising Donal, 
and Donal bruising in on the poor man, until he was al! 
as one as dead, and he had to give a leap out through 
the window, and to leave Donal and the dead man there. 
The dead man was crushing Donal then until he nearly- 
put him out through the wall. 

" Destruction on you," said Donal, then ; " it's you're 
the ungrateful man ; I let you out of the coffin ; I gave you 
a heat at the fire, and a share of my bed ; and now you 
won't keep quiet ; but I'll put you out of the bed." 
Then the dead man spoke, and said : " You are a valiant 
man, and it stood you upon * to be so, or you would be 
dead." " Who would kill me ? " said Donal. " I," says 
the dead man ; " there never came any one here this 
twenty years back, that I did not kill. Do you know the 
man who paid you for remaining here ?." He was a 
gentleman," said Donal. " He is my son," said the dead 
man, " and he thinks that you will be dead in the 
morning; but come with me now." 

The dead man took him down into the cellar, and 
showed him a great flag. " Lift that flag. There are 
three pots under it, and they filled with gold. It is on 
account ot the gold they killed me ; but they did not get 
the gold. Let yourself have a pot, and a pot for my son, 
and the other one— divide it on the poor people. Then 
he opened a door in the wall, and drew out a paper, and 
said to Donal : " Give this to my son, and tell him that 
it was the butler who killed me, for my share of gold. I 

* That means "It was well foryourself it was so. This old Elizabethan idiom 
is of frequent occu) rence in Connacht Enghsh, having with many other Eliza- 
bethanisms, either filtered its way across the island from the Pale, or. else 
been picked up by the people from the English peasantry with whom <Íiey 
have to associate when the.y go over to England to reap the harvest. " 


can get no rest until he'll be hanged ; and if there is a 
witness wanting I will come behind you in the court 
without a head on me, so that everybody can see me. 
When he will be hanged, you will marry my son's 
daughter, and come to live in this castle. Let you have 
no fear about me, for I shall have gone to eternal rest. 
Farewell now." 

Donal went to sleep, and he did not awake till the 
gentleman came in the morning, and he asked him 
did he sleep well, or where did the old man whom he 
left with him go ?. " I will tell you that another time ; 
I have a long story to tell you first." " Come to my 
house with me," says the gentleman. 

When they were going to the house, whom should they 
see coming out of the bushes, but the poor man without 
a thread on him, more than the night he was born, 
and he shaking with the cold. The gentleman got him 
his clothes, gave him his wages, and off for ever with him. 

Donal went to the gentleman's house, and when he ate 
and drank his enough, he said : " I have a story to tell 
you." Then he told him everything that happened to 
him the night before, until he came as far as the part 
about the gold. " Come with me till I see the gold," 
said the gentleman. He went to the castle, he lifted the 
flag, and when he saw the gold, he said : " I know now 
that the story is true." 

When he got the entire information from Donal, he 
got a warrant against the butler ; but concealed the crime 
it was for. When the butler was brought before the 
judge, Donal was there, and gave witness. Then the 
judge read out of his papers, and said : ** I cannot find 
this man guilty without more evidence." 

"I am here," said Trunk-without-head, coming behind 
Donal. When the butler saw him, he said to the judge : 


" Go no farther, I am guilty ; I killed the man, and his 
head is under the hearth-stone in his own room." Then 
the judge gave order to hang the butler, and 
Trunk-without-head went away. 

The day on the morrow, Donal was married to the 
gentleman's daughter, and got a great fortune with her, 
and went to live in the castle. 

A short time after this, he got ready his coach and 
went on a visit to his mother. 

When Dermod saw the coach coming, he did not know 
who the great man was who was in it. The mother 
came out and ran to him, saying : "Are not you my own 
Donal, the love of my heart you are ? I was praying for 
you since you went." Then Dermod asked pardon of 
him, and got it. Then Donal gave him a purse of gold, 
saying at the same time : " There's the price of the two 
loads of oats, of the horses, and of the cart." Then he 
said to his mother : " You ought to come home with me. 
I have a fine castle without anybody in it but my wife 
and the servants." "I will go with you," said the 
mother ; " and I will remain with you till I die." 

Donal took his mother home, and they spent a 
prosperous life together in the castle. 


Long ago, in the old time, there came a party of 
gentlemen from Dublin to Loch Glynn a-hunting and a- 
fishing. They put up in the priest's house, as there was 
no inn in the little village. 

The first day they went a-hunting, they went into the 
Wood of Driminuch, and it was not long till they routed 



a hare. They fired many a ball after him, but they could 
not bring him down. They followed him till they saw 
him going into a little house in the wood. 

When they came to the door, they saw a great black 
dog, and he would not let them in. 

" Put a ball through the beggar," said a man of them. 
He let fly a ballj but the dog caught it in his mouth, 
chewed it, and flung it on the ground. They fired 
another ball, and another, but the dog did the same 
thing with them. Then he began barking as loud as 
he could, and it was not long till there came out a hag, 
and every tooth in her head as long as the tongs. 
"What are you doing to my pup?" says the hag. 

" A hare went into your house, and this dog won't let 
us in after him," says a man of the hunters. 

" Lie down, pup," said the hag. Then she said : " Ye 
can come in if ye wish." The hunters were afraid to go 
in, but a man of them asked : " Is there any person in 
the house with you ?." 

" There are six sisters," said the old woman. " We 
should like to see them," said the hunters. No sooner 
had he said the word than the six old women came out, 
and each of them with teeth as long as the other. Such 
a sight the hunters had never seen before. 

They went through the wood then, and they saw seven 
vultures on one tree, and they screeching. The hunters 
began cracking balls after them, but if they were in it 
ever since they would never bring down one of them. 

There came a gray old man to them and said : "Those 
are the hags of the long tooth that are living in the little 
house over there. Do ye not know that they are under 
enchantment ?. They are there these hundreds of years, 
and they have a dog that never lets in anyone to the 
little house. They have a castle under the lake, and it 


is often the people saw them making seven swans of 
themselves, and going into the lake." 

When the hunters came home that evening they told 
everything they heard and saw to the priest, but he did 
not believe the story. 

On the day on the morrow, the priest went with the 
hunters, and when they came near the little house they 
saw the big black dog at the door. The priest put his 
conveniencies for blessing under his neck, and drew out 
a book and began reading prayers. The big dog began 
barking loudly. The hags came out, and when they saw 
the priest they let a screech out of them that was heard 
in every part of Ireland. When the priest was a while 
reading, the hags made vultures of themselves and flew 
up into a big tree that was over the house. 

The priest began pressing in on the dog until he was 
within a couple of feet of him. 

The dog gave a leap up, struck the priest with its four 
feet, and put him head over heels. 

When the hunters took him up he was deaf and dumb, 
and the dog did not move from the door. 

They brought the priest home and sent for the bishop. 
When he came and heard the story there was great 
grief on him. The people gathered together and asked 
of him to banish the hags of enchantment out of the 
wood. There was fright and shame on him, and he did 
not know what he would do, but he said to them : " I 
have no means of banishing them till I go home, but I 
will come at the end of a month and banish them." 

The priest was too badly hurt to say anything. The 
big black dog was father of the hags, and his name was 
Dermod O'Muloony. His own son killed him, because 
he found him with his wife the day after their marriage, 
and killed the sisters for fear they should tell on him. 


One night the bishop was in his chamber asleep, when 
one of the hags of the long tooth opened the door and 
came in. When the bishop wakened up he saw the hag 
standing by the side of his bed. He was so much afraid 
he was not able to speak a word until the hag spoke and 
said to him : " Let there be no fear on you ; I did not come 
to do you harm, but to give you advice. You promised 
the people of Loch Glynn that you would come to banish 
the hags of the long tooth out of the wood of Driminuch. 
If you come you will never go back alive." 

His talk came to the bishop, and he said : " I cannot 
break my word." 

" We have only a year and a day to be in the wood," 
said the hag, " and you can put off the people until 

" Why are ye in the woods as ye are?" says the bishop. 
" Our brother killed us," said the hag, " and when we 
wentbefore the arch-judge, there was judgment passed on 
us, we to be as we are two hundred years. We have a 
castle under the lake, and be in it every night. We are 
suffering for the crime our father did.'' Then she told 
him the crime the father did, 

" Hard is your case," said the bishop, " but we must 
put up with the will of the arch -judge, and I shall not 
trouble ye." 

" You will get an account, when we are gone from the 
wood,'' said the hag. Then she went from him. 

In the morning, the day on the morrow, the bishop 
came to Loch Glynn. He sent out notice and gathered 
the people. Then he said to them : " It is the will of 
the arch-king that the power of enchantment be not 
banished for another year and a day, and ye must keep 
out of the wood until then. It is a great wonder to me 
that ye never saw the hags of enchantment till the 


hunters came from Dublin.— It's a pity they did not 
remain at home." 

About a week after that the priest was one day by 
himself in his chamber alone. The day was very fine 
and the window was open. The robin of the red breast 
came in and a little herb in its mouth. The priest 
stretched out his hand, and she laid the herb down on it. 
" Perhaps it was God sent me this herb," said the priest 
to himself, and he ate it. He had not eaten it one 
moment till he was as well as ever he was, and he said : 
" A thousand thanks to Him who has power stronger 
than the power of enchantment." 

Then said the robin : " Do you remember the robin of 
the broken foot you had, two years this last winter." 

" I remember her, indeed," said the priest, " but she 
went from me when the summer came." 

" I am the same robin, and but for the good you did 
me I would not be alive now, and you would be deaf and 
dumb throughout your life. Take my advice now, and 
do not go near the hags of the long tooth any more, and 
do not tell to any person living that I gave you the herb." 
Then she flew from him. 

When the house-keeper came she wondered to find 
that he had both his talk and his hearing. He sent word 
to the bishop and he came to Loch Glynn. He asked 
the priest how it was that he got better so suddenly. 
" It is a secret," said the priest, " but a certain friend 
gave me a little herb and it cured me." 

Nothing else happened worth telling, till the year was 
gone. One night after that the bishop was in his chamber 
when the door opened, and the hag of the long tooth 
walked in, and said : " I come to give you notice that we 
will be leaving the wood a week from to-day. I have 
one thing to ask of you if you will do it for me.'' 


" If it is in my power, and it not to be against the 
faith," said the bishop. 

" A week from to-day," said the hag, " there will be 
seven vultures dead at the door of our house in the wood. 
Give orders to bury them in the quarry that is between 
the wood and Ballyglas ; that is all I am asking of you." 

" I shall do that if I am alive," said the bishop. Then 
she left him, and he was not sorry she to go from him. 

A week after that day, the bishop came to Loch 
Glynn, and the day after he took men with him and 
went to the hags' house in the wood of Driminuch. 

The big black dog was at the door, and when he saw 
the bishop he began running and never stoped until he 
went into the lake. 

He saw the seven vultures dead at the door, and he 
said to the men : " Take them with you and follow me." 

They took up the vultures and followed him to the 
brink of the quarry. Then he said to them: "Throw 
them into the quarry : There is an end to the hags of the 

As soon as the men threw them down to the bottom 
of the quarry, there rose from it seven swans as white as 
snow, and flew out of their sight. It was the opinion of 
the bishop and of every person who heard the story that 
it was up to heaven they flew, and that the big black 
dog went to the castle under the lake. 

At any rate, nobody saw the hags of the long tooth or 
the big black dog from that out, any more. 

( 107 ) 


In the time long ago there was a king in Erin. He was 
married to a beautiful queen, and they had but one only- 
daughter. The queen was struck with sickness, and she 
knew that she would not be long alive. She put the king 
under gassa (mystical injunctions) that he should not 
marry again until the grass should be a foot high over her 
tomb. The daughter was cunning, and she used to go out 
every night with a scissors, and she used to cut the grass 
down to the ground. 

The king had a great desire to have another wife, and 
he did not know why the grass was not growing over the 
grave of the queen. He said to himself: " There is some- 
body deceiving me." 

That night he went to the churchyard, and he saw the 
daughter cutting the grass that was on the grave. There 
came great anger on him then, and he said : " I will m.arry 
the first woman I see, let she be old or young." When 
he went out on the road he saw an old hag. He brought 
her home and married her, as he would not break his 

After marrying her, the daughter of the king was under 
bitter misery at (the hands of) the hag, and the hag put 
her under an oath not to tell anything at all to the king, 
and not to tell to any person anything she should see 
being done, except only to three who were never baptised. 

The next morning on the morrow, the king went out 
a hunting, and when he was gone, the hag killed a fine 
hound the king had. When the king came home he 
asked the old hag " who killed my hound 1 " 

" Your daughter killed it," says the old woman. 

"Why did you kill my hound?" said the king. 


" I did not kill your hound," says the daughter, " and 
I cannot tell you who killed him." 

" I will make you tell me," says the king. 

He took the daughter with him to a great wood, and he 
hanged her on a tree, and then he cut off the two hands 
and the two feet off her, and left her in a state of death. 
When he was going out of the wood there went a thorn 
into his foot, and the daughter said: "That you may never 
get better until I have hands and feet to cure you." 

The king went home, and there grew a tree out of his 
foot, and it was necessary for him to open the window, 
to let the top of the tree out. 

There was a gentleman going by near the wood, and 
he heard the king's daughter a-screeching. He went to 
the tree, and when he saw the state she was in, he took 
pity on her, brought her home, and when she got better, 
married her. 

At the end of three quarters (of a year), the king's 
daughter had three sons at one birth, and when they were 
born, Granya Oi came and put hands and feet on the 
king's daughter, and told her, " Don't let your children be 
baptised until they are able to walk. There is a tree 
growing out of your father's foot ; it was cut often, but 
it grows again, and it is with you lies his healing. You 
are under an oath not to tell the things you saw your 
stepmother doing to anyone but to three who were never 
baptised, and God has sent you those three. When they 
will be a year old bring them to your father's house, and 
tell your story before your three sons, and rub your hand 
on the stump of the tree, and your father will be as well 
as he was the first day." 

There was great wonderment on the gentleman when 
he saw hands and feet on the king's daughter. She told 
him then every word that Granya Oi said to her. 


When the children were a year old, the mother took 
them with her, and went to the king's house. 

There were doctors from everyplace in Erin attending- 
on the king, but they were not able to do him any good. 

When the daughter came in, the king did not recognise 
her. She sat down, and the three sons round her, and 
she told her story to them from top to bottom, and the 
king was listening to her telling it. Then she left her 
hand on the sole of the king's foot and the tree fell off it- 

The day on the morrow he hanged the old hag, and 
he gave his estate to his daughter and to the gentleman. 


There was an old crow teaching a young crow one 
day, and he said to him, " Now my son," says he, "listen 
to the advice I'm going to give you. If you see a person 
coming near you and stooping, mind yourself, and be on 
your keeping ; he's stooping for a stone to throw at you." 

" But tell me, says the young crow, " what should I do 
if he had a stone already down in his pocket?" 

" Musha, go 'long out of that," says the old crow, 
"you've learned enough ; the devil another learning I'm 
able to give you." 


( 170 ) 


A great great house it is, 
A golden candlestick it is, 
Guess it rightly, 
Let it not go by thee. 

There's a garden that I ken, 
Full of little gentlemen, 
Little caps of blue they wear, 
And green ribbons very fair. 

I went up the boreen, I went down the boreen, 
I brought the boreen with myself on my back, 

A Ladder. 
He comes to ye amidst the brine 
The butterfly of the sun, 
The man of the coat so blue and fine. 
With red thread his shirt is done. 

I threw it up as white as snow, 
Like gold on a flag it fell below. 

I ran and I got, 
I sat and I searched, 

If could get it I would not bring it with me. 
And as I got it not I brought it. 

Thorn in the foot. 
You see it come in on the shoulders of men, 
Like a thread of th e silk it will leave us again. 



He comes though the lis* to me over the sward, 
The man of the foot that is narrow and hard, 
I would he were running the opposite way, 
For o'er all that are living 'tis he who bears sway. 

The Death. 

In the garden's a castle with hundreds within, 
Yet though stripped to my shirt I would never 
fit in. 


From house to house he goes, 
A messenger small and slight, 
And whether it rains or snows, 
He sleeps outside in the night. 


Two ieet on the ground, 
And three feet overhead. 
And the head of the living 
In the mouth of the dead. 

Girl with (three-legged) pot on her head. 

On the top of the tree 
See the little man red, 
A stone in his belly, 
A cap on his head. 


There's a poor man at rest. 
With a stick beneath his breast, 
And he breaking his heart a-crying. 

Lintel on a wet day. 

*Rath or fort or circular moat. 


As white as flour and it is not flour, 
As green as grass and it is not grass, 
As red as blood and it is not blood, 
As black as ink and it is not ink. 

Blackberry, from bud to fruit. 

A bottomless barrel, 
It's shaped like a hive, 
It is filled full of flesh, 
And the flesh is alive. 

Tailor's thimble. 


The first three stories, namely, the "Tailor and the Three Beasts,'' "Bran," 
and "The King of Ireland's Son," I took down verbatim, without the altera- 
tion or addition of more than a word or two, from SeÁ JAn O CuinneA^Ain 
(John Cunningham), who lives in the village of bAiLe-An-puilt (Ballinphuil), 
in the county Roscommon, some half mile from Mayo. He is between 
seventy and eighty years old, and is, I think, illiterate. 

The story of " The Alp-luachra " is written down from notes made at the 
time I first heard the story. It was told me by SeumAf o Ti-Aipc (fames 
Hart), a game-keeper, in the barony of Frenchpark, between sixty and seventy 
years old, and illiterate. The notes were not full ones, and I had to eke them 
out in writing down the story, the reciter, one of the best I ever met, havino- 
unfortunately died in the interval. 

The stories of " Paudyeen O'Kelly," and of " Leeam O'Rooney's Burial," 
I got from Mr. Lynch Blake, near Ballinrobe, county Mayo, who took the 
trouble of writing them down for me in nearly phonetic Irish, for which I he<r 
to return him my best thanks. I do not think that these particular stories 
underwent any additions at his hands while writing them down. I do not know 
from whom he heard the first, and cannot now find out, as he has left the locality.. 
The second he told me he got from a man, eighty years old, named William 
Grady, who lived near Clare-Galway, but who for the last few years has been. 
" carrying a bag." 

The long story of " Guleesh na Guss dhu," was told by the same Shamus 
O'Hart, from whom I got the " Alp-luachra," but, as in the case of the " Alp- 
luachra " story, I had only taken notes of it, and not written down the whole 
as it fell from his lips. I have only met one other man since, Martin Brennan^ 



the barony of Frenchpark, Roscommon, who knew the same story, and he 
told it to me — but in an abridged form — incident for incident up to the point 
where my translation leaves off. 

There is a great deal more in the Irish version in the beAbA^A Sjeubui- 
jeAccA, which I did not translate, not having been able to get it from Bren- 
nan, and having doctored it too much myself to give it as genuine folk-lore. 

The rest of the stories in this volume are literally translated from my 
teAbA|\ SjeuiuijeACCA. Neil O'Carre was taken down phonetically, by Mr. 
Larminie, from the recitation of a Scuth Donegal peasant. 

The Hags of the Long Teeth come from Ballinrobe, as also William of the 
Tree, tlie Court of Crinawn, and the Well of D'Yerree-in-Dowan. See pages 
239-240 of the L. S. 


[iVb/'í'J in brackets signed A.N., by Alfred Nutt. TTie references to Arg. 
Tales are to " Waifs and Strays of Celtic Tradition ; Argyllshire 
Series II, ; Folk and Hero Tales from Argyllshire,^'' collected, edited, 
and translated by the Rev. D. Maclnnes^ with Notes by the editor and 
Alfred Nutt. London, i88q.'\ 


"The Tailor and the Three Beasts." 

Page I. In another variant of this tale, which I got from one Martin 
Brennan — more usually pronounced Brannan ; in Irish, O'Braonáin — in Ros- 
common, the thing which the tailor kills is a swallow, which flew past him. 
He flung his needle at the bird, and it went through its eye and killed it. This 
success excites the tailor to further deeds of prowess. In this variant occurred 
also the widely-spread incident of the tailor's tricking the giant by pretending 
to squeeze water out of a stone. 

Page 2. Garraun (jeAiAiAÁn), is a common Anglicised Irish word in many 
parts of Ireland. It means properly a gelding or hack-horse ; but in Donegal, 
strangely enough, it means ahorse, and coppul (cApAll), the ordinary word 
for a horse elsewhere, means there a mare. The old English seem to have 
borrowed this word capal from the Irish, r/. Percy's version of " Robin Hood 
and Guy of Gisborne," where the latter is thus represented — 

" A sword and a dagger he wore by his side, 
Of manye a man the bane ; 
And he was clad in his capull hyde, 
Topp and tayle and mayne." 

Page 7, line 4. The modder-alla (mAt)pA-AbtcA, wild dog), is properly a 

176 NOTES. 

wolf, not a lion; but the reciter explained it thus, "iha'daia aLIa, pii leó 
liiAti," " modder alia, that's a Tyone," i.e., "alien," which I have accord- 
ingly translated it. 

Page 9, line 18. The giant's shouting at night, or at dawn of day, is a com- 
mon incident in these tales. In the story of "The Speckled Bull," not here 
given, there are three giants who each utter a shout every morning, " that 
the whole country hears them." The Irish for giant, in all these stories, is 
I^ACAc (pronounced fahuch), while the Scotch Gaelic word is famhair, a word 
which we have not got, but which is evidently the same as the Fomhor, or sea 
pirate of Irish mythical history, in whom Professor Rhys sees a kind of water 
god. The only place in Campbell's four volumes in which the ■word/athach 
occurs is in the " Lay of the Great Omadawn," which is a distinctly Irish 
piece, and of which MacLean remarks, "some of the phraseology is consi- 
dered Irish. 

Page II. This incident appears to be a version of that in "Jack the Giant- 
Killer." It seems quite impossible to say whether it was always told in Ire- 
land, or whether it may not have been borrowed from some English source. 
If it does come from an English source it is probably the only thing in these 
stories that does. 

Page 13, line 6. " To take his wife off (pronounced ov) him again." The 
preposition " from " is not often used with take, etc., in Connacht English. 

Page 15, line 12. These nonsense-endings are very common in Irish sto- 
ries. It is remarkable that there seems little trace of them in Campbell. The 
only story in his volumes which ends with a piece of nonsense is the " Slender 
Grey Kerne," and it, as I tried to show in my Preface, is Irish. It ends thus : 
" I parted with them, and they gave me butter on a coal, and kail brose in a 
creel, and paper shoes, and they sent me away with a cannon-ball on a high- 
road of glass, till they left me sitting here." Why such endings seem to be 
stereotyped with some stories, and not used at all with others, I cannot guess. 
It seems to be the same amongst Slavonic Miirchen, of which perhaps one in 
twenty has a nonsense-ending ; but the proportion is much larger in Ireland. 
Why the Highland tales, so excellent in themselves, and so closely related to 
the Irish ones, have lost this distinctive feature I cannot even conjecture, but 
certain it is that this is so. 

NOTES. 177 

[The incident of the king's court being destroyed at night is in the four- 
teenth-fifteenth century Agallamh na Senorach, where it is Finn who guards 
Tara against the wizard enemies. 

I know nothing Uke the way in which the hero deals with the animals he 
meets, and cannot help thinking that the narrator forgot or mistold his story. 
Folk-tales are, as a rule, perfectly logical and sensible if their conditions be once 
accepted ; but here the conduct of the hero is inexplicable, or at all events un- 
explained. — A. N.] 

Bran's Colour. 

Page 15. This stanza on Bran's colour is given by O'Flaherty, in 1808, in 
the "Gaelic Miscellany." The first two lines correspond with those of 
my shanachie, and the last two correspond in soimd, if not in sense. 
O'Flaherty gave them thus — 

" Speckled back over the loins, 
Two ears scarlet, equal-red." 

How the change came about is obvious. The old Irish fUAicne, 
"speckled," is not understood now in Connacht ; so the word UAictie, 
■•'green," which exactly rhymes with it, took its place. Though UAicne 
generally means greenish, it evidently did not do so to the mind of my reciter, for, 
pointing to a mangy-looking cub of nondescript greyish colour in a corner of his 
cabin, he said, pn UAicr,e, "that's the colour oonya." The words of cionn 
11 A lei]A5e, "over the loins," have, for the same reason — namely, that leApg, 
" a loin," is obsolete now — been changed to word of the same sound. Ai]\6 AC 
iiA i-eil^e, " of the colour of hunting," i.e., the colour of the deer hunted. This, 
too, the reciter explained briefly by saying, feilj pii fiAti, " hunting, that's a 
deer." From the vivid colouring of Bran it would appear that she could have 
borne no resemblance whatever to the modern so-called Irish wolf-hound, and 
that she must in all probability have been short-haired, and not shaggy like 
them. Most of the Fenian poems contain words not in general use. I remember 
an old woman reciting me two lines of one of these old poems, and having to 
explain in current Irish the meaning of no less than five words in the two lines 
which were 

Aicpif TDAm Aju]' nÁ CAii 50 
CionriAr t^inneAÚ beó aa cfeAlg, 

which she thus explained conversationally, itinifOAtn Ajuf nÁ 'oeun bi^euj, 

CIA All CAOI A ITOeApriAlX) pAX) AW pAt)AC, 

178 NOTES. 

Page 17, line 9. Pistrogue, or pishogue, is a common Anglo-Irish word for 
a charm or spell. Archbishop MacHale derived it from two words, pof 
•pceój, "knowledge of fairies," which seems hardly probable. 

Page 19. "A fiery cloud out of her neck." Thus, in Dr. Atkinson's, P^if 
Pa|\coIoiii, from the " Leabhar Breac," the devil appears in the form of an 
Ethiopian, and according to the Irish translator, cicet) ■La'JYai\ boj^b Af a 
bjAAjAic ocuf Af A fliiAÓin AtiiAb 'La|yaii\ ]"liui|\un cetiet). "There used to 
come a fierce flame out of his neck and nose, like the flame of a furnace of 

Page 19. According to another version of this story, the blind man was 
Ossian (whose name is in Ireland usually pronounced Essheen or Ussheen) 
himself, and he got Bran's pups hung up by their teeth to the skin of a 
newly-killed horse, and all the pups let go their hold except this black one, which 
clung to the skin and hung out of it. Then Ossian ordered the others to be 
drowned and kept this. In this other version, the coal which he throws at the 
infuriated pup wascuAg no |\ut) icéinn, "a hatchet or something." There must 
be some confusion in this story, since Ossian was not blind during Bran's life- 
time, nor during the sway of the Fenians. The whole thing appears to be a 
bad version of Campbell's story. No. XXXI., Vol. II., p. 103. The story may, 
however, have some relation to the incident in that marvellous tale called 
"The Fort of Httle Red Yeoha " (■b|\ui5ion eocAit) big ■óeipj), in which 
we are told how Conan looked out of the fort, 50 b]:-ACAit) fé AOti ójtAc aj 
ceAcc cuije, Agui" cu 5eA|\]\ ■oub ai|v ]'LAb|\A iA]\AinTi Aije, '11A bÁirii, aju^ 
H' longnA tiAc LoifgeAt) -pi ah b)\ui5ioii -pe ^ac cao]a ceme -d'a j-cuiix^eAO 
■p CA|V A c]\AOi' Ajuj' CA|\ A cúbA]\-beul/ A1T1AC, i.e., "he saw one youth com- 
ing to him, and he having a short black hound on an iron chain in his hand, 
and it is a wonder that it would not burn the fort with every ball of fire it 
would shoot out of its gullet, and out of its foam-mouth." This hound is even- 
tually killed by Bran, but only after Conan had taken off " the shoe of refined 
silver that was on^Bran's right paw" (ah bixóg Aipjm Aic-lei^ce co bi ah\ 
cpoibtiei]' b]\Aiii). Bran figures largely in Fenian literature. 

[I believe this is the only place in which Finn's mother is described as a 
fawn, though in the prose sequel to the "Lay of the Black Dog" (Leab. na 
Feinne, p. 91) it is stated that Bran, by glamour of the Lochlanners, is made 
to slay the Fenian women and children in the seeming of deer. That Finn en- 
oyed the favours of a princess bespelled as a fawn is well known ; also that 
Oisin's mother was a fawn (see the reference in Arg. Tales, p. 470). The 
narrator may have jumbled these^stories together in his memory. 

NOTES. 179* 

The slaying of Bran's pup seems a variant of Oisin's " Blackbird Hunt " 
{cf. Kennedy, Fictions, 240), whilst the story, as a whole, seems to be mLxed 
up with that of the " Fight of Bran with the Black Dog," of which there is a 
version translated by the Rev. D. Mac Innes— " Waifs and Strays of Celtic 
Tradition," Vol. I., p. 7, et seq. 

It would seem from our text that the Black Dog was Bran's child, so that the 
fight is an animal variant of the father and son combat, as found in the 
Cuchullain saga. A good version of "Finn's Visit to Lochlann'"' (to be 
printed in Vol. III. of "Waifs and Strays of Celtic Tradition ") tells how 
Finn took with him Bran's leash ; and how the Lochlanners sentened him, 
to be exposed in a desolate valley, where he was attacked by a savage dog 
whom he tamed by showing the leash. Vol. XII. of Campbell's " MSS. of 
GaeUc Stories " contains a poem entitled, " Bran's Colour." This should be 
compared with our text, — A. N.] 

The King of Ireland's Son. 

Page 19. The king of Ireland's son. This title should properly be, "The 
son of a king in Ireland " (tTlAC -pij 1 n-ei]Mnii). As this name for the prince 
is rather cumbrous, I took advantage of having once heard him called the king 
of Ireland's son (tn AC -pij eijAeAnn), and have so given it here. In another 
longer and more humorous version of this story, which I heard from Shamus 
O'Hart, but which I did not take down in writing, the short green man is the 
" Thin black man " (feA]\ caoL ■oub) ; the gunman is 5un1néA]^, not gun- 
nA^]^e ; the ear-man is cLuAf-Le-li-éifceAcc (ear for hearing), not ctuAf Ai^Ae ; 
and the blowman is not SéToi|\e, but potLÁiiAe-féToce (blowing nostril). This 
difference is the more curious, considering that the men lived only a couple of 
miles apart, and their families had lived in the same place for generations. 

Page 27. This description of a house thatched with feathers is very common 
in Irish stories. On the present occasion the house is thatched with one single 
feather, so smooth that there was no projecting point or quill either above or 
below the feather-roof. For another instance, seethe " Well of D'yerree in. 
Dowan," page 131. In a poem from "The Dialogue of the Sages,"' the lady 
Credé's house is described thus : — 

" Of its sunny chamber the corner stones 
Are all of silver and precious gold. 
In faultless stripes its thatch is spread 
Of wings of brown and crimson red. 
* * % í'í 

l80 NOTES. 

Its portico is covered, luo, 

With wings of birds both yellow and blue. 

See O'Curry's " Man, Materials," p. 310. 

Page 27. " He drew the cooalya-coric," coolaya in the text, is a misprint. 
The cooalya-coric means " pole of combat." How it was "drawn" we have 
no means of knowing. It was probably a pole meant to be drawn back and 
let fall upon some sounding substance. The word cai\|\aiii5, "draw," has, 
however, in local, if not in literary use, the sense of drawing back one's arm 
to make a blow. A peasant will say, " he drew the blow at me," or " he 
drew the stick," in English ; or " CA-pnAing ^e ah buille," in Irish, by which 
he means, he made the blow and struck with the stick. This may be the case 
in the phrase " drawing the cooalya-coric," which occurs so often in Irish 
stories, and it may only mean, " he struck a blow with the pole of combat," 
either against something resonant, or against the door of the castle. I have come 
across at least one allusion to it in the Fenian literature. In the story, called 
íTlACAOtfi inójA iriAC fvig 11A h-eAi'pÁine (the great man, the king of Spain's 
son), the great man and Oscar fight all day, and when evening comes Oscar 
grows faint and asks for a truce, and then takes Finn Mac Cool aside privately 
and desires him to try to keep the great man awake all night, while he him 
self sleeps ; because he feels that if the great man, who had been already 
three days and nights without rest, were to get some sleep on this night, 
he himself would not be a match for him next morning. This is scarcely 
agreeable to the character of Oscar, but the wiles which Finn employs to make 
the great man relate to him his whole history, and so keep him from sleeping, 
are very much in keeping with the shrewdness which all these stories attribute 
to the Fenian kmg. The great man remains awake all night, sorely against 
his will, telling Finn his extraordinary adventures ; and whenever he tries 
to stop, Finn incites him to begin again, and at last tells him not to be 
afraid, because the Fenians never ask combat of any man until he 
ask it of them first. At last, as the great man finished his adventures 

■00 bl AII IÁ A5 éljMJe AJU]' -00 JAbAf 0]'5A|\ AgUf •OO buAlb All 

cuAilte cóiiijAAic. 1)0 cuAtAAii |:eA|\ mó|\ pn Agu]" a •oubAipc, "Apinn 
lllic CiniiAib," A^A j-é, " •o'f-eA'LlAif oi\in,"etc., «'.if., the day was rising, and 
Oscar goes and struck (the word is not "drew" here) the pole of combat. 
The great man heard that, and he said, " Oh, Finn Mac Cool, you have de- 
ceived me," etc. Considering that they were all inside of Finn's palace at 
Allan (co. Kildare) at this time, Oscar could hardly have struck the door. 
It is more probable that the pole of combat stood outside the house, and it 
seems to have been a regular institution. In Campbell's tale of " The Rider 
of Grianag," there is mention made of a slabhraidh comhrac, "Chain of com- 

NOTLS. l8l 

bat,'' which answers the same purpose as the pole, only not so conveniently, 
since the hero has to give it several hauls before he can "take a turn out of 
it." We find allusion to the same thing in the tale of IoLLaii A]\Tn TJeA^Ag 
Ulan, the hero, comes to a castle in a solitude, and surprises a woman going to 
the well, and she points out to him the chain, and says, " Jac ua1|\ c]\oic]:eAf 
cu An fÍAbpA fin Af An mbibe, -oo jeobAit) ru ceuTJ cu|va-6 CAC-A|\mAc, 
A^uf m 1 Apff ATO o]Ac Acc An cóih]\AC If ÁiL leAC, niAf ACÁ ■oiAf no Cfiúp no 
ceACfAf, no ceut)," i.e., " every time that you will shake yon chain (sus- 
pended) out of the tree, you will get (call forth) a hundred champions battle- 
armed, and they will only ask of thee the combat thou likest thyself, that is 
(combat with) two, or three, or four, or a hundred." Chains are continually 
mentioned in Irish stories. In the "Little Fort of Allan," a Fenian story, 
we read, Ann fin ■o'éif ij bobbfjAif e 50 bioc-Uf bAtri Aguf ■do cf oic flAb^AA 
éifceAccA nA bfuijne, Aguf ■o'éifueA'OAf uile 50 fOifaneAc, i.e., "then 
there arose a herald with active readiness, and they shook the fort's chain of 
listening, and they all listened attentively ;" and in the tale of " Ulan, the Red- 
armed,' there are three chains in the palace, one of gold, one of silver, and 
one of findrinny (a kind of metal, perhaps bronze), which are shaken to seat 
the people at the banquet, and to secure their silence ; but whoever spake after 
the gold chain had been shaken did it on pain of his head. 

[In the stor}' of CuchuHain's youthful feats it is related that, on his first ex- 
pedition, he came to the court of the three Mac Nechtain, and, according to 
O'Curry's Summary (" Manners and Customs," II., p. 366', " sounded a chal- 
lenge." The mode of this sounding is thus described by Prof. Zimmer, in his 
excellent summary of the Tain bo Cualgne (Zeit, f. vgl., Sprachforschung, 
1887, p. 448). " On the lawn before the court stood a stone pillar, around 
which was a closed chain (or ring), upon which was written in Ogham, that 
every knight who passed thereby was bound, upon his knightly honour, to 
issue a challenge. Cuchullain took the stone pillar and threw it into a brook 
hard by." This is the nearest analogue I have been able to find to our pas- 
sage in the old Irish literature (the Tain, it should be mentioned, goes back 
in its present form certainly to the tenth, and, probably, to the seventh 
century). As many of the Fenian romances assumed a fresh and quasi-definite 
shape in the twelfth-fourteenth centuries, it is natural to turn for a parallel to 
the mediaeval romances of chivalry. In a twelfth century French romance, 
the Conte de Graal, which is in some way connected with the body of Gaelic 
Marchen (whether the connection be, as I think, due to the fact that the 
French poet worked up lays derived from Celtic sources, or, as Professor 
Zimmer thinks, that the French romances are the origin of mucn in current 
Gaehc folk-tales), when Perceval comes to the Castle of Maidens and enters 
therein, he finds a table of brass, and hanging from it by a chain of silver, a steel 

l82 NOTES. 

hammer. With this he strikes three blows on the table, and forces the inmates 
to come to him. Had they not done so the castle would have fallen into 
ruins. Other parallels from the same romances are less close ; thus, when Per- 
ceval came to the castle of his enemy, Partinal, he defies him by throwing 
down his shield, which hangs up on a tree outside the castle (v. 44,400, 
et seg.). It is well known that the recognised method of challenging in 
tournaments was for the challenger to touch his adversary's shield with the 
lance. This may possibly be the origin of the "shield-clashing" challenge 
which occurs several times in Conall Gulban ; or, on the other hand, the 
mediaeval practice may be a knightly transformation of an earlier custom* 
In the thirteenth century prose Perceval le Gallois, when the hero comes 
to the Turning Castle and finds the door shut, he strikes such a blow with 
his sword that it enters three inches deep into a marble pillar (Potvin's edition, 
p. 196). These mediseval instances do not seem sufficient to explain the 
incident in our text, and I incline to thinlc that our tale has preserved a geruine 
trait of old Irish knightly life. la Kennedy's "Jack the Master, and Jack 
the Servant " (Fictions, p. 32), the hero takes hold of a " club that hangs by 
the door " and uses it as a knocker. — A.N.] 

Page 29. They spent the night, &c. This brief run resembles very much 
a passage in the story of loUan Arm-dearg, which runs, -oo i\iiiiieAT)Aj\ €i[\y 
CjAeAriA ■oe 'n oitce, An ceu-o cimaii |\eh-ób Agvif i\e li-iiiii]\c, ah •OApA 
C]\iAii -pe ceób A5Uf \\e h-oi^p'oe Aguf )\e h-eALAXJAn, Ajuf av. cpeAf 
C]MAii -pe I'UAn Ajuf -jAe j'Áni-co'oLAD, aju]" 1)0 pujatdajx Af An oióce pn 
i.e., they made three-thirds of the night; the first third with drink and 
play, the second third with music and melody and (feats of) science, and 
the third third with slumber and gentle sleep, and they passed away that 

Page 2,'}>'> line 28. This allusion to the horse and the docking is very ob- 
scure and curious. The old fellow actually blushed at the absurdity of the 
passage, yet he went through with it, though apparently unwillingly. He 
could throw no light upon it, except to excuse himself by saying that " that 
was how he heard it ever." 

Page 37, line 4. The sword of three edges is curious ; the third edge would 
seem to mean a rounded point, for it can hardly mean triangular like a bayo- 
net. The sword that "never leaves the leavings of a blow behind it," is 
common in Irish literature. In that affecting story of Deirdre, Naoise requests 
to have his head struck off with such a swor J, one that Mananan son of Lir, 
had long before given to himself. 

NOTES. 183 

Page 47. The groundwork or motivating of this story is known to all 
European children, through Hans Andersen's tale of the " Travelhng Com- 

[I have studied "some of the features of this type of stories Arg. Tales, 
pp. 443-452.— A. N.] 

The Alp-luachra. 

Page 49. This legend of the alp-luachra is widely disseminated, and I 
have found traces of it in all parts of Ireland. The alp-luachra is really a newt, 
not a lizard, as is usually supposed. He is the lissotriton punctatus of natural- 
ists, and is the only species of newt known in Ireland. The male has an 
orange belly, red-tipped tail, and olive back. It is in most parts of Ireland a 
rare reptile enough, and hence probably the superstitious fear with which it 
is regarded, on the principle oi omne ignottim pro terrihli. This reptile goes 
under a variety of names in the various counties. In speaking English the 
peasantry when they do not use the Irish name, call him a " mankeeper," a 
word which has probably some reference to the superstition related in our 
story. He is also called in some counties a "darklooker," a word which is 
probably, a corruption of an Irish name for him which I have heard the Kil- 
dare people use, dochi-luachair ('oacutó buAcpA), a word not found in the 
dictionaries. In Waterford, again, he is called art-luachra, and the Irish MSS. 
call him arc-luachra (eAiAC-LriAcpA). The alt-pluachra of the text is a mispro- 
nunciation of the proper name, alp-luachra. In the Arran Islands they 
have another name, aiL-cuac. I have frequently heard of people swal- 
lowing one while asleep. The symptoms, they say, are that the person swells' 
enormously, and is afflicted with a thirst which makes him drink canfuls and 
pails of water or buttermilk, or anything else he can lay his hand on. In the 
south of Ireland it is believed that if something savoury is cooked on a pan, and 
the person's head held over it, the mankeeper will come out. A story very 
like the one here given is related in Waterford, but of a ■oa|\ ■oaoI-, or daraga 
dheel, as he is there called, a venomous insect, which has even more legends 
attached to him than the alp-luachra. In this county, too, they say that if you 
turn the alp-luachra over on its back, and lick it, it will cure burns. Keating, the 
Irish historian and theologian, alludes quaintly to this reptile in his Ciai biojx- 
JAOice A11 bhÁif , so finely edited in the original the other day by Dr. Atkinson. 
"Since," says Keating, "prosperity or worldly store is the weapon of the 
adversary (the devil), what a man ought to do is to spend it in killing the 
adversary, that is, by bestowing it on God's poor. The thing which we read 
in Lactantius agrees with this, that if an airc-luachra were to inflict a wound on 

1 84 NOTES. 

anyone, what he ought to do is to shake a pinchful of the ashes of the airc- 
luachra upon the wound, and he will be cured thereby ; and so, if worldly 
prosperity wounds the conscience, what you ought to do is to put a poultice 
of the same prosperity to cure the wound which the covetousness by which 
you have amassed it has made in your conscience, by distributing upon the 
poor of God all that remains over your own necessity." The practice which 
the fourth-centurj' Latin alludes to, is in Ireland to-day transferred to the dar- 
daol, or góévius olens of the naturalists, which is always burnt as soon as 
found. I have often heard people say : — *' Kill a keerhogue (clock or little 
beetle) ; burn a dar-dael." 

Page 59. Boccuch (bACAc), literally a lame man, is, or rather was, the 
name of a very common class of beggars about the beginning of this century. 
Many of these men were wealthy enough, and some used to go about with 
horses to collect the " alms " which the people unwillingly gave them. From all 
accounts they appear to have been regular black-mailers, and to have extorted 
charity partly through inspiring physical and partly moral terror, for the satire, 
at least of some of them, was as much dreaded as their cudgels. Here is a 
curious specimen of their truculence from a song called the bACAch burohe, 
now nearly forgotten : — 

IfbACAch me cÁ am(\ aoii choif, pubhAlpAibh me 50 fpéiiAeAiiiAiL, 
CeAnnócliAibh me biAeioin i ^-CifL-CAinnigh bo'n bh|\Aoif, 
CuippeAt) COCA có|\ui5uhe jbeufCA, A'f búcbA buinlie Aip m'Aon choif, 
A'f TiAch iTiAich 1T10 i'hbjlie hmh A'f euiDAijh o chAiLL mo chofA 

ni'lbACAch 11Á |-eA|A-inÁlA o SligeAch 50 Ciiiii-q-Aibe 
Ajuf Ó bheub-Ati-AdiA 50 bAibe-tuixihe ha miblie, 
tlAch bh].niil, AgAm ttaoi Áp-o-cln'o]', A^uf c|\óiii AiiAgliAitth ha ]\Áiche, 
no iniiieóchAinn a g-ciiAniliA le bACA ^lAf •OAtVAijh. 

I am a boceugh who goes on one foot, I will travel airily, 

I will buy frize in Kilkenny for the breeches (?) 

I will put a well-ordered prepared coat and yellow buckles on my one foot 

And isn't it good, my way of getting food and clothes since my feet lost their 

There is no boccuch or bagman from Sligo to Kinsale 
And from Ballina to Ballybwee(Athboy) in Meath, 

That I have not under high rent to me — a crown every quarter from them — 
Or I'd pound their bones small with a green oak stick. 

NOTES. 185 

The memory of these formidable guests is nearly vanished, and the boccuch in 
our story is only a feeble old beggarman. I fancy this tale of evicting the 
alt-pluachra family from their human abode is fathered upon a good many 
people as -well as upon the father of the present MacDermot. [Is the peasant 
belief in the Alp-Luachra the originating idea of the well-known Irish 
Rabelaisian 14th century tale " The Vision of McConglinny ? " — A.N.] 

Tjie Weasel. 

Page 73. The weasel, like the cat, is an animal that has many legends and 
superstitions attaching to it. I remember hearing from an old shanachie, now 
unfortunately dead, a long and extraordinary story about the place called 
Chapelizod, a few miles from Dublin, which he said was Séipeub-eAfój, the 
"weasel's chapel,'' in Irish, but which is usually supposed to have received 
its name from the Princess Iseult of Arthurian romance. The story was the 
account of how the place came by this name. How he, who was a Con- 
nachtman, and never left his native county except to reap the harvest in 
England, came by this story I do not know ; but I imagine it must have 
been told him by some one in the neighbourhood, in whose house he 
spent the night, whilst walking across the island on his way to Dublin 
or Drogheda harbour. The weasel is a comical little animal, and one 
might very well think it was animated with a spirit. I have been assured 
by an old man, and one whom I have always found fairly veracious, that 
when watching for ducks beside a river one evening a kite swooped down 
and seized a weasel, with which it rose up again into the air. His 
brother fired, and the kite came down, the weasel still in its claws, and un- 
hurt. The little animal then came up, and stood in front of the two men 
where they sat, and nodded and bowed his head to them about twenty times 
oyer; "it was," said the old man, "thanking us he was." The weasel is a 
desperate fighter, and always makes for the throat. What, however, in Ire- 
land is called a weazel, is really a stoat, just as what is called a crow in Ireland 
's really a rook, and what is called a crane is really a heron. 

Cáuher-na-mart, to which Paudyeen (diminutive of Paddy) was bound, means 
the " city of the beeves," but is now called in English Westport, one of the 
largest towns in Mayo. It was apropos of its long and desolate streets of ruined 
stores, with nothing in them, that some one remarked he saw Ireland's charac- 
teristics therein a nutshell — "an itch after greatness and nothingness;" a 
remark which was applicable enough to the squireocracy and bourgeoisie of 
the last century. 

1 86 NOTES. 

Page 79. The "big black dog" seems a favourite shape for the evil spirit 
to take. He appears three times in this volume. 

Page Si. The little man, with his legs astride the barrel, appears to be akin 
to the south of Ireland spirit, the clooricaun, a being who is not known, at 
least by this name, in the north or west of the island. See Crofton Croker's 
" Haunted Cellar." 

Page 87. " The green hill opened," etc. The fairies are still called UuacIia 
be ■Oaiiaiih by the older peasantry, and all the early Irish literature agrees that 
the home of the CuAch a was in the hills, after the Milesians had taken to them- 
selves the plains. Thus in the story of the "Piperand the Pooka," in the teAbliAfv 
SjeiibAijIieAchcA, not translated here, a door opens in the hill of Croagh 
Patrick, and the pair walk in and find women dancing inside. Donal, the 
name of the little piper, is now Anglicised into Daniel, except in one or two 
Irish families which retain the old form still. The coash-fya bower, in which 
the fairy consorts ride, means literally "the deaf coach," perhaps from the 
rumbling sound it is supposed to make, and the banshee is sometimes supposed 
to ride in it. It is an omen of ill to those who meet it. It seems rather out of 
place amongst the fairy population, being, as it is, a gloomy harbinger of death, 
which will pass even through a crowded town. Cnoc Matha, better Magha, 
the hill of the plain, is near the town of Tuam, in Gal way. Finvara 
is the well-known king of the fairy host of Connacht. In Lady Wilde's 
" Ethna, the Bride," Finvara is said to have carried off a beautiful girl into 
his hill, whom her lover recovers with the greatest difficulty. When he gets 
her back at last, she lies on her bed for a year and a day as if dend. At the 
end of that time he hears voices saying that he may recover her by unloosing 
her girdle, burning it, and burying in the earth the enchanted pin that fastened 
it. This was, probably, the slumber-pin which we have met so often in the 
"King of Ireland's Son." Nuala, the name of the fairy queen, was a 
common female name amongst us until the last hundred years or so. The 
sister of the last O'Donnell, for whom Mac an Bhaird wrote his exquisite elegy, 
so well translated by Mangan — 

" Oh, woman of the piercing wail, 
That mournest o'er yon mound of clay " — 

was Nuala. I do not think it is ever used now as a Christian name at all, 
having shared the unworthy fate of many beautiful Gaelic names of women 
common a hundred years ago, such as Meve, Una, Sheelah, Moreen, etc. 

NOTES. 187 

Slieve Belgadaun occurs also in another story which I heard, called the Bird 
of Enchantment, in which a fairy desires some one to bring a sword of light 
''from the King of the Firbolg, at the foot of Slieve Belgadaun." Nephin 
is a high hill near Crossmolina, in North Mayo. 

Page 89. StongiryaCTCAii5Aii\e), a word not given in dictionaries, means, I 
think, a " mean fellow." The dove's hole, near the village of Cong, in the 
west of the county Mayo, is a deep cavity in the ground, and when a stone 
is thrown down into it you hear it rumbling and crashing from side to side of 
the rocky wall, as it descends, until the sound becomes too faint to hear. It 
is the very place to be connected with the marvellous. 

Leeam O'Rooneys Burial. 

Page 95. Might not Spenser have come across some Irish legend of an imi- 
tation man made by enchantment, which gave him the idea of Archimago's imi- 
tation of Una : 

" Who all this time, with charms and hidden artes, 
Had made a lady of that other spright, 
And framed of liquid ayre her tender partes, 
So lively and so like in all men's sight 
That weaker sence it could have ravished quite," etc. 

I never remember meeting this easy deus ex machiiid for bringing about a 
complication before. 

Page loi. Leeam imprecates "the devil from me," thus skilfully turn- 
ing a curse into a blessing, as the Irish peasantry invariably do, even when in 
a passion. ITonnam one d''youl — " my soul />w« the devil " is an ordinary 
exclamation expressive of irritation or wonderment. 


Page 104. When I first heard this story I thought that the name of the hero 
wasSoitbif, the pronunciation of which in English letters would be Gul-yeesh ; 
but I have since heard the name pronounced more distinctly, and am sure that 
it isÍSioLÍAOif, g'yulleesh, which is a corruption of the name 5iollA-iofA, 
a not uncommon Christian name amongst the seventeenth century Gaels. I 
was, however, almost certam that the man (now dead) from whom I first got this 

l88 NOTES. 

story, pronounced the word as Gulyeesh, anent which my friend Mr. Thomas 
Flannery furnished me at the time with the following interesting note : — )1i 
copiiúiL 5U]A 5iotLA-iofA ACÁ 'fAn Ainm Joitlif, nip b' fcTOip ''SioLLa- 
íoj^a" •oo •out, 1 n "5oilLif." SAOilun guj^ b' loiiAnn Soibbíf Aguf ^oitl- 
jéi)' no SAibb-geif, Aguf 1]' ion Aim " ^é^\•" Aguf " eAÍA." 1f cuiiiineLiom 
*' niui|A5éif " 'pM^ I1-" AnnAbAib,'' Agtif if lonTOA Ainm ■ouine cigeAf o 
AnniAnnAib enn coiii niAic be ó AnmAnnAib beACAc, mAp aca bjAAn, fiAc, 
Ion, lomln, ■peAbAC, <\c. 'Sé JoibbY nA 5-cor "Oub ]:óf. TlAc Aicne ■owiG 
5U|\ beAf-Ainm An caIa " cof-T)ub " 1 niópÁn t)'Áicib i n-ei|Mnn. CÁ neice 
eibe Y^n ■pceub -pin ■00 bei|\ ojAni a nieA]'5tij\ ne nA pjeubcAib a bAineAf 
be h-eAb&ib no géipb é. IIac aij-ccac An ni gobcug bAinpiMonni-A caic- 
neAiii t)0 buACAibb cof-'oub cop-j^AbAC beii'ceAtnuib m&\\ é? tiAc aic An 
niT) fóf nAc -ocuscAU An beA^-Ainm t)ó A]\íf , UA-p éif beAjÁin ^rocAb ai|\ 
•ocúp ó pn AtnAc 50 •oeijAeAT). 'OeA]AmA'ocA-|\ An beAj'-Ainm Agup An ^Ác 
ipÁ bjruAip fé é. i.e., " It is not likely that the name Goillis is Giolla-iosa ; the 
one could not be changed into the other. I think that Goillis is the same as 
GoiU-ghéis, or GaiU-ghéis (i.e., foreign swan). Geis means swan. I remember 
a name Muirgheis (sea swan) in the Annals ; and there is many a man's name 
that comes from the names of birds as well as from the names of animals, such 
as Bran (raven), Fiach (scald crow), Lon and Loinin (blackbird), Seabhac (falcon), 
etc. Moreover, he is Goillis 0/ the black feet. Do you not know that the 
black-foot is a name for the swan in many parts of Ireland. There are other 
things in this story which make me believe that it is of those tales which treat 
of swans or géises. Is it not a strange thing that the princess should take a 
liking to a dirty-footed, black-footed, lazy boy like him ? Is it not curious also 
that the nickname of black-foot is not given to him, after a few words at the 
beginning, from that out to the end ? The nickname is forgotten, and the cause 
for which he got it." 

This is certainly curious, as Mr. Flannery observes, and is probably due to 
the story being imperfectly remembered by the shanachie. In order to motivate 
the black feet at all, Guleesh should be made to say that he would never wash 
his feet till he made a princess fall in love with him, or something of that 
nature. This was probably the case originally, but these stories must be all 
greatly impaired during the last half century, since people ceased to take an 
interest in things Irish. 

There are two stories in Lady Wilde's book that somewhat resemble this. 
"The Midnight Ride," a short story of four pages, in which the hero frightens 
the Pope by pretending to set his palace on fire ; but the story ends thus, as 
do many of Crofton Croker's — "And from that hour to this his wife believed 
that he dreamt the whole story as he lay under the hayrick on his way home 
from a carouse with the boys." I take this, however, to be the sarcastic nine- 

NOTES. 189 

teenth century touch of an over-refined collector, for in all my experience I 
never knew a shanachie attribute the adventures of his hero to a dream. The 
other tale is called the "Stolen Bride," and is a story about the "kern of 
Querin," who saves a bride from the fairies on November Eve, but she will 
neither speak nor taste food. That day year he hears the fairies say that the 
way to cure her is to make her eat food off her father's table-cloth. She does 
this, and is cured. The trick which GuUeesh plays upon the Pope reminds us 
of the fifteenth century story of Dr. Faustus and his dealings with his Holiness. 

[Cf. also the story of IMichael Scott's journey to Rome, " ^Yai■'s and Strays of 
Celtic Tradition," Vol. I., p. 46. The disrespectful way in which the Pope is 
spoken of in these tales does not seem due to Protestantism, as is the case with 
the Faustus story, although, as I have pointed out, there are some curious 
points of contact between Michael Scott and Faustus. Guleesh seems to be 
an early Nationalist who thought more of his village and friend than of the 
head of his religion. — A.N.] 

The description of the wedding is something like that in Crofton Croker's 
" Master and Man," only the scene in that story is laid at home. 

The story of GuUeesh appears to be a very rare one. I have never been able 
to find a trace of it outside the locality (near where the counties of Sligo, Mayo, 
and Roscommon meet) in which I first heard it. 

[It thus seems to be a very late working-up of certain old incidents with 
additions of new and incongruous ones. — A.X.] 

Page 112. " The rose and the lily were fighting together in her face." This 
is a very common expression of the Irish bards. In one of Carolan's unpub- 
lished poems he says of Bridget Cruise, with whom he was in love in his 
youth : — " In her countenance there is the lily, the whitest and the brightest — 
a combat of the world — madly wrestling with the rose. Behold the conflict of 
the pair ; the goal — the rose will not lose it of her will ; victory — the lily 
cannot gain it ; oh, God I is it not a hard struggle ! " etc. 

Page 115. " I call and cross (or consecrate) you to myself," says GuUeesh. 
This is a phrase in constant use with Irish speakers, and proceeds from au un- 
derlying idea that certain phenomena are caused by fairy agency. If a child 
falls, if a cow kicks when being milked, if an animal is restless, I have often 
heard a woman cry, 5oi|Min ^'y CA-pr|AAicim ru. "I call and cross you," often 
abbreviated into joi-pnn, ^oijMm, merely, i.e., " I call, I call." 


I go NOTES. 

The Well of D'Yerree-in-Do\vax. 

Page 129. There are two other versions of this story, one a rather evapo- 
rated one, filtered through English, told by Kennedy, in which the Dall Glic is 
a wise old hermit ; and another, and much better one, by Curtin. The Dall 
Glic, wise blind man, figures in several stories which I have got, as the king's 
counsellor. I do not remember ever meeting him in our literature. Bwee- 
sownee, the name of the king's castle, is, I think, a place in Mayo, and 
probably would be better written buTOe-CAiiiiiAij. 

Page 131. This beautiful lady in red silk, who thus appears to the prince, 
and who comes again to him at the end of the story, is a curious creation of folk 
fancy. She may personify good fortune. There is nothing about her in the two 
parallel stories from Curtin and Kennedy. 

Page 133. This " tight loop " ^Uib ccAiin) can hardly be a bow, since the 
ordinary word for tliat is bógha ; but it may, perhaps, be a name for a 

Page 136. The story is thus invested with a moral, for it is the prince's piety 
in giving what was asked of him in the honour of God which enabled the queen 
to find him out, and eventually marry him. 

Page 137. In the story of CAilleAC ik\ pACAile yAT)A, in my icAbliAiA 
SgeuUiijheAchcA, not translated in this book, an old hag makes a boat out 
of a thimble, which she throws into the water, as the handsome lady does here. 

Page 141. This incident of the ladder is not in Curtin's story, which makes 
the brothers mount the queen's horse and get thrown. There is a very curÍDus 
account of a similar ladder in the story of the " Slender Grey Kerne, "of which 
I possess a good MS., made by a northern scribe in 1763. The passage is of 
interest, because it represents a trick something almost identical with which 
I have heard Colonel Olcott, the celebrated American theosophist lecturer, 
say he saw Indian jugglers frequently performing. Colonel Olcott, who came 
over to examine Irish fairy lore in the light of theosophic science, was of 
opinion that these men could bring a person under their power so as to make him 
imagine that he saw whatever the juggler wished him to see. He especially 

NOTES. 191 

mentioned this incident of making people see a man going up a ladder. The 
MS., of which I may as well give the original, runs thus : — 

1a]a pit cuj All ceiceA|\tiAc iiiáLa atiiac ó iia a^joiLL, Ajuf C115 ceipcte 
ffo'OA A111AC Af A ifiÁtA, Ajuf "oo ceiLg fUAf 1 bf^^iciiig tiA po]\tnArtiuiiice 
Í, AjAf -oo |Miine •o|\émipe ■6Í, AgU]' cu^ geAjippAt) AtriAc A|AÍf Agufoo 
Leig pjAf AiiiifA •o|\éiiTii]Ae é. Cuj 5At)AT\ cLuAif-'oeAivg atiiac A-pff aju^ 
no 1/615 fUAf An'oiAij An jeA-p-pfiAU é. Cug cu -pAiceAc ■poLuAimneAc 

AmAC ASUl-OO lei5 pi&f AtltlAlj An jeA-ppflAt AgUf An 5At)A1]\ Í, AgUf A 

t»ubAiiAC, If 1jao(5)Lac Liom, Aip fé, 5o n-ioffAiO ah 5At)Afv Ajuf An cu 
An jeATApf-iAT), Aguf ni mó]\ Liom AnACAL -00 cu|\ aii\ An 5eA]\]Af'iAt). C«5 
Ann fin ógÁnAc -oeAf a n-ei-oeAX) ^ao itiaic AtnAc Af An mAl^A Ajuf -oo Leij 
fUAf AntiiAij An jeAfpfiAt) Aguf An 5a6ai]\ A^uf nA con é. Úug CAiLín 
Áluin-o A n-éi-oeAt) f ó •óoAf attiac Af An mÁLA A^uf bo Leij fUAf Ant>iAi j 
An geAf f f Alt) An 5AT)Aif An ójÁnAij Ajiif nA con í. 

1f -oonA TDO éifig -OAiii Anoif, Af An CeiceAfnAc ói|\ acÁ An c-ógAnAC 
A15 •oub Aj pójAT) nio limÁ Ajiif All cii A15 Cf eitn aii jeAfffiAt). 
■Qo CAf]\Aiii5 All CeiceA-pnAc aii ■Oféiinife AnuAf, Ajuf •oo fUAip ah 
c-ójÁnAC f Aii\i\e (.') All nmAOi Aguf An cn A15 cpeini An jeAfffiAÍ) 
Aiiniil A -oubAifr, i.e., after that the kerne took out a bag from under his 
arm-pit and he brought out a ball of silk from the bag, and he threw it up into 
the expanse (?) of the firmament, and it became a ladder ; and again he took 
out a hare and let it up the ladder. Again he took out a red-eared hound and 
let it up after the hare. Again he took out a timid frisking dog, and he let her 
up after the hare and the hound, and said, "I am afraid," said he, "the 
hound and the dog will eat the hare, and I think I ought to send some relief 
to the hare." Then he took out of the bag a handsome youth in excellent 
apparel, and he let him up after the hare and the hound and the dog. He 
took out of the bag a lovely girl in beautiful attire, and he let her up after the 
hare the hound the youth and the dog. 

" It's badly it happened to me now," says the kerne, "for the youth is 
going kissing my woman, and the dog gnawing the hare." The kerne drew 
down the ladder again and he found the youth "going along with the woman, 
and the dog gnawing the hare," as he said. 

The English "Jack and the Beanstalk" is about the best-known ladder 

Page 141. This story was not invented to explain the existence of the 
twelve tribes of Galway, as the absence of any allusion to them in all the 

192 NOTES. 

parallel versions proves ; but the application of it to them is evidently the bril- 
liant afterthought of some Galwegian shanachie. 

The Court of Crinnawn. 

Page 142. The court of Crinnawn is an old ruin on the river Lung, which 
divides the counties of Roscommon and Mayo, about a couple of miles from 
the town of Ballaghadereen. I believe, despite the story, that it was built by 
one of the Dillon family, and not so long ago either. There is an Irish pro- 
phecy extant in these parts about the various great houses in Roscommon. 
Clonalis, the seat of the O'Connor Donn — or Don, as they perversely insist on 
spelling it ; Dungar, the seat of the De Freynes ; Loughlinn, of the Dillons, 
etc. ; and amongst other verses, there is one which prophecies that "no roof 
shall rise on Crinnawn," which the people say was fulfilled, the place having 
never been inhabited or even roofed. In the face of this, how the story of 
Crinnawn, son of Belore, sprang into being is to me quite incomprehensible, and 
I confess I have been unable to discover any trace of this particular story on 
the Roscommon side of the river, nor do I know from what source the shana- 
chie, Mr. Lynch Blake, from whom I got it, became possessed of it. Balor of 
the evil eye, who figures in the tale of " The Children of Tuireann," was not 
Irish at all, but a "Fomorian." The pattern, accompanied with such funest 
results for Mary Kerrigan, is a festival held in honour of the fation saint. 
These patterns were common in many places half a century ago, and were 
great scenes of revelry and amusement, and often, too, of hard lighting. But 
these have been of late years stamped out, like everything else distinctively 
Irish and lively. 

[This story is a curious mixture of common peasant belief about haunted 
raths and houses, with mythical matter probably derived from books. Balor 
appears in the well-known tale of MacKineely, taken down by O'Donovan, in 
1855, from Shane O'Dugan of Tory Island (Annals. I. 18, and cf. Rhys, Hibbert 
Lect., p. 314), but I doubt whether in either case the appearance of the name 
testifies to a genuine folk-belief in this mythological personage, one of the 
principal representatives of the powers of darkness in the Irish god-saga. — 

Neil O'Carree. 

Page 148. The abrupt beginning of this story is no less curious than the short, 
jerky sentences in which it is continued. Air. Larminie, who took down this 

NOTES. 193 

story phonetically, and word for word, from a native of Glencolumkille, in 
Donegal, informed me that all the other stories of the same narrator were 
characterized by the same extraordinary style. I certainly have met nothing 
like it among any of my shanachies. The crumskeen and galskeen which Neil 
orders the smith to make for him. are instruments of which I never met or 
heard mention elsewhere. According to their etymology they appear to mean 
"stooping-knife" and " bright-knife," and were, probably, at one time, well- 
known names of Irish surgical instruments, of which no trace exists, unless it 
be in some of the mouldering and dust-covered medical MSS. from which Irish 
practitioners at one time drew their knowledge. The name of the hero, if 
written phonetically, would be more likeNee-al O Corrwy than Neil O Carree, 
but it is always difficult to convey Gaelic sounds in English letters. When 
Neil takes up the head out of the skillet (a good old Shaksperian word; by-the- 
by, old French, esaiellette, in use all over Ireland, and adopted into Gaelic), it 
falls in a gUggar or glitgoar. This Gaelic word is onomatopeic, and largely 
in vogue with the English-speaking population. Anything rattling or gurgling, 
like water in an india-rubber ball, makes a gligger ; hence, an egg that is no 
longer fresh is called a glugger, because it makes a noise when shaken. I 
came upon this word the other day, raised proudly aloft from its provincial 
obscurity, in O'Donovan Rossa's paper, the United Irishman, every copy of 
which is headed with this weighty sprtich, indicative of his political faith : 

" As soon will a goose sitting upon a glugger hatch goslings, as an Irishman, 
sitting in an English Parliament, will hatch an Irish Parliament." 

This story is motivated like "The King of Ireland's Son." It is one of 
the many tales based upon an act of compassion shown to the dead. 


Page 157. This description of the decapitated ghost sitting astride the 
beer-barrel, reminds one of Crofton Croker's " Clooricaun," and of the hag's 
son in the story of " Paudyeen O'Kelly and the Weasel." In Scotch Highland 
tradition, there is a " trunk-without-hcad,'' who infested a certain ford, and 
killed people who attempted to pass that way ; he is not the subject, however, 
of any regular story. 

In a variant of this tale the hero's name is Labhras (Laurence) and the 
castle where the ghost appeared is called Baile-an-bhroin (Ballinvrone). It is 
also mentioned, that when the ghost appeared in court, he came in streaming 
with blood, as he was the day he was killed, and that the butler, on seeing him, 

194 NOTES. 

It is Donal's courage which saves him from the ghost, just as happens in 
another story which I got, and which is a close Gaelic parallel to Grimm's 
" Man who went out to learn to shake with fear." The ghost whom the hero 
lays explains that he had been for thirty years waiting to meet some one who 
would not be afraid of him. There is an evident moral in this. 

The Hags of the Long Teeth. 

Page 162. Long teeth are a favourite adjunct to horrible personalities in 
folk-fancy. There is in my "Leabhar Sgeuluigheachta," another story of a 
hag of the long tooth ; and in a story I got in Connacht, called the " Speckled 
Bull," there is a giant whose teeth are long enough to make a walking-staff 
for him, and who invites the hero to come to him " until I draw you under 
my long, cold teeth. " 

Loughlinn is a little village a few miles to the north-west of Castlerea, in the 
county Roscommon, not far from Mayo ; and Drimnagh wood is a thick 
plantation close by. Ballyglas is the adjoining townland. There are two of 
the same name, upper and lower, and I do not know to which the story refers. 

[In this very curious tale a family tradition seems to have got mixed up with 
the common belief about haunted raths and houses. It is not quite clear why 
the daughters should be bespelled for their father's sin. This conception could 
not easily be paralleled, I beheve, from folk-belief in other parts of Ireland. 
I rather take it that in the original form of the story the sisters helped, or, at 
at all events, countenanced their father, or, perhaps, were punished because 
they countenanced the brothers parricide. The discomfiture of the priest is 
curious. — A.N.J 

William of the Tree. 

Page 168. I have no idea who this Granya-Oi was. Her appearance in 
this story is very mysterious, for I have never met any trace of her elsewhere. 
The name appears to mean Granya the Virgin. 

[Our story belongs to the group — the calumniated and exposed daughter 
or daughter-in-law. But in a Gemian tale, belonging to the forbidden cham- 
ber series (Grimm's, No. 3, Marienkind), the Virgin Mary becomes god- 
mother to a child, whom she takes with her into heaven, forbidding her merely 
to open one particular door. The child does this, but denies it thrice. To 
punish her the Virgin banishes her from heaven into a thorny wood. Once, 
as she is sitting, clothed in her long hair solely, a king passes, sees her, loves 

NOTES. 195 

and weds her, in spite of her being dumb. "When she bears her first child, the 
Virgin appears, and promises to give her back her speech if she will confess 
her fault ; she refuses, whereupon the Virgin carries off the child. This 
happens thrice, and the queen, accused of devouring her children, is con- 
demned to be burnt. She repents, the flames are extinguished, and the Virgin 
appears with the three children, whom she restores to the mother. Can there 
have been any similar form of the forbidden chamber current in Ireland, and 
can there have been substitution of Grainne, Finn's wife, for the Virgin Mary, 
or, vice versa, can the latter have taken the place of an older heathen god 
dess.?— A. N.] 

Page 169. See Campbells "Tales of the Western Highlands, vol. III., page 
[20, for a fable almost identical with this of the two crows. 


Page 2, line 5, AbAtcA Ai't\ a t>eunAni = able to do it, a word borrowed 
from English. There is a great diversity of words used in the various 
pro\'inces for "able to," as AbAbcA aija (Mid Connacht) ; iniieAiiiuib cum 
(Waterford) ; lonÁnn or 1 itoáii, with infinitive (West Galway) ; 'iiimb with 
infinitive (Donegal). 

Page 4. line 18, 111 LeijeAiin i'iatj tJAm = they don't allow me. TÍAni is 
pronounced in Mid Connacht duMiiii, but ■daiíi--)-a is pronounced doo-sa. Dr. 
Atkinson has clearly shown, in his fine edition of Keating's " Three Shafts of 
Death," that the "enclitic" form of the present tense, ending in (e)Anii, 
should only be used in the singular. This was stringently observed a couple 
of hundred years ago, but now the rule seems to be no longer in force. One 
reason why the form of the present tense, which ends in (e)Aiiii, has been sub- 
stituted for the old present tense, in other words, why people say buAiLe.\Tiii 
Xé, "he strikes," instead of the correct buAibit) fé, is, Ithink, though Dr Atkin- 
son has not mentioned it, obvious to an Irish speaker. The change probably 
began at the same time that the f in the future of regular verbs became 
quiescent, as it is now, I may say, all over Ireland. Anyone who uses the 
form buAiLit) fé would now be understood to say, "he will strike," not "he 
strikes," for buAibpii) -pé, " he will strike," is now pronounced, in Con- 
nacht, at least, and I think elsewhere, buAili-5 -pé. Some plain differentia- 
tion between the forms of the tenses was wanted, and this is probably the 
reason why the enclitic form in {e)Anii has usurped the place of the old 
independent present, and is now used as an independent present itself. Line 
30, inATDiAA or U1A-0A& AllA^a wolf. Cui|\ -(.-opÁn ai]\ = salute him — a 
word common in Connacht and the Scotch Highlands, but not understood in 
the South. Line 34. ÓeróeAT) fé = he would be, is pronounced in Connacht 
as a monosyllable, like beic {veh or vuglt). 

Page 6, line 8, eA]AbALl is pronounced ruhhal not arball, in Connacht. t1i 
and iiiojA are both used before cAmij at the present day. 

Page 8, line 18. 50 "lAiAbpAt) ye = that he would kill ; another and com- 
moner form is. 50 niA|\ócAT) fé, from riiA]\bui j, the b being quiescent in con- 
versation. Line 31, AtibjAUic = broth, pronounced aiic]\uic {anhree), the b 
having the sound of an h only. 

Page 12, line 27. An curnA i^AAibpó is more used, and is better. Sin 
é An cum A a bf f é = "That's the way he was." It will be observed 
that this A before the past tense of a verb is only, as Dr. Atkinson 
remarks, a corruption of -oo, which is the sign of the past tense. The 150 
is hardly ever used now, except as contracted into ■o' before a vowel, and this 
is a misfortune, because there is nothing more feeble or more tending to disin- 
tegrate the language than the constant use of this colourless vowel a. In 
these folk stories, however. I have kept the language as I found it. This a has 
already made much havoc in Scotch Gaehc, inserting itself into places where it 
means nothing. Thus, they say thci 's again air a sin: Dinner a b fhearr na 



sin, etc. Even the preposition ■oe has with some people degenerated into this 
A, thus Co. ye A 6ic opm, " I want it," for ■oe -oic. 

Page 14, line 9. For ai^ read uipiM. Line 12. feilj means hunting, but the 
reciter said, feiig, fin y^'^^b, " Shellig, that's a deer," and thought that Bran's 
back was the same colour as a deer's. llAiiie. which usually means green, he 
explained by turning to a mangy-looking cur of a dull nondescript colour, and 
saying ca ah niA'OAt) fiii UAiiie. 

Page 16, line 30. beAjMiA and ceAnjA, and some other substantives of the 
same kind are losing, or have lost, their inflections throughout Connacht. 
Line 31. djcAcc is used just as frequently and in the same breath as ceAcc, 
without any difference of meaning. It is also spelt cuToeAcc, but in Mid- 
Connacht the c is slender, that is cijeAcc has the sound of fyee-iujht, not 

Dr. Atkinson has shown that it is incorrect to decline ceAujA as an -n 
stem : correct genitive is ceAii5At). lleAfCA : see i\AfUA in O'Reilly. Used 
in Arran thus : ni'L ye in -pAfCA ■ouic =you cannot venture to. 

Page 18, line 15. JuaL means a coal ; it must be here a corruption of some 
other word. IIUiitd is frequently used for pnn, " we," both in Nom. and Ace. 
all over Connacht, but especially in the West. 

Page 20, line 3. 'Oeinnij (d'yemmoo). This word puzzled me for a long 
time until I met this verse in a song of Carolan's 

lliop cuibL ye ■oionni JAÍ) Aon -ouine. 
another MS. of which reads -oionibuAit), i.e., defeat, from -oi privitive, and 
buAiÓ " victory." 'Oeinnij or ■oionnij must be a slightly corrupt pronuncia- 
tion of 'DÍonibuAit), and the meaning is, that the king's son put himself under 
a wish that he might suffer defeat during the year, if he ate more than two 
meals at one table, etc. Line 15. i^eAfCA = a "writ," a word not in the 
dictionaries — perhaps, from the English, "arrest." Cúij; piinCA. The nume- 
rals ci\i ceicfe CÚ15 and fé seem in Connacht to aspirate as often as not, and 
always when the noun which follows them is in the singular, which it very 
often is. Mr. Charles Bushe, B.L. , tells me he has tested this rule over and 
over again in West Mayo, and has found it invariable. 

Page 22, line 2. ca = where, pronounced always cé (Jcay) in Central Con- 
nacht. Line 17, rtiÁ bjrÁj' me = If I get. In Mid-Connacht, niÁ eclipses 
fÁj, as ni eclipses fUAi|\. 

Page 26, line 18. 1 ■oceAC An fACAij = In the giant's house. Cig, the 
proper Dative of ceAc, is not much used now. Line 20. cuAiLLe cóiíijaaic = 
the pole of battle. 

Page 28, line 9. CfiAn bi ie ViAunuigeAcc = one-third of it telling stories 
about the Fenians. Line 10. This phrase i'oi]\ni fÁitii fUAin occurs in a poem 
I heard from a man in the island of Achilla 

" 'si if bmne meujAA aj femni Aif ceu-OAib, 
■Qo ctniAfeAT) nA ceu-ocA 'nuA g-cobÍAT), 
be foi|\ni f Anil piAin , a']' uac mó]A é An c-éiicr, 
5An Aon i'eA|\ 1 n-ei|Mnn t)0-óuL 1 n-euj 
be 5l\Á-ó -d'a gjAUAi)." 

I have never met this word foif m elsewhere, but it may be another form of 
]'oi|\be, "gentleness." Line 18. ColbA a couch, pronounced coltiA {ciil- 
looa) ; here it means the head of the bed. Aip cobbA means, on the outside 
of the bed, when two sleep in it. leAbuii), or LeAbAit), "a bed," is unin- 
flected ; but LeAbA, gen. beA-|JCAn, is another common form. 

Page 30, line 30. 'OAbAC, " a great vessel or vat ;" used also, likcfoiueAc, 
for shij). The correct genitive is x)Áibce, but my reciter seemed not to inflect 
it at all. 


Page 32, line 14. llAig-óibip — this is only the English word, "Hie-over.' 
Line 21. Copój = a docking, a kind of a weed. 

Page 36, line 2. CloToeAiri ha z]\^ i-AobA-p, " the sword of three edges." 
In the last century both C|\i and the ^TAobAfv would have been eclipsed. Cf. 
the song, " 50 \\ém, a boAii ha -or^i nibo." 

Page 40, line 33. íocflÁiiice = balsam. Line 25. buicfe, the English 
word " witch." The Scotch Gaels have also the word bhuitseachas =: 
witchery. Gaelic organs of speech find it hard to pronounce the English tcJi, 
and make two syllables of it — it-sha. 

Page 42, line 21. SpAiiiiyA-pcAij = snoring. 

Page 44, line 3, for ]'póii read f-jAOiii. Line 16. C]\iiAi-6e = steel, as op- 
posed to iron. 

Page 46, line 21. C|\aid = to put hay together, or gather up crops. 

Page 48, line i, S'Pei"! = a stitch, sudden pain. 

Page 52, line 15. " Sú]: !" a common expression of disgust in central Con- 
nacht, both in Irish and in Enghsh. Line iS. tlile -ouiiie. This word uiLe is 
pronounced hulla in central Connacht, and it probably gets this /t sound from 
the tinal c of Jac, which used to be always put before it. Father Eugene 
O'Growney tells me that the guttural sound of this c is still heard before tiile 
in the Western islands, and would prefer to write the word 'c mbe. \Mien 
mbe follows the noun, as 11 a ■OAome uiLe, "all the people," it has the sound 
of ellik or dUg, probably from the original phrase being mle 50 téip, con- 
tracted into tiiiej, or even, as in West Gahvay, into 'bij. 

Page 54, line 9. 5oiLe= " appetite," properly "stomach." Line 30. An 
ciMoblói-o ^ the trouble, but better written ah C]MobiÓTo, since feminine 
nouns, whose first letter is •o or c, are seldom aspirated after the article. 
There is even a tendency to omit the aspiration from adjectives beginning with 
the letters x) and c. Compare the celebrated song of bcAii -oiii) ah jbeAiniA, 
not bcAn -oub. 

Page 56, line 4. Aicir)=a disease. Line 24. ■0'i:eiceÁLandt)'iini]-eAccare 
usual Connacht infinitives of -1.-610 and iiini]-. Line 21. CAife=: a stream. Line 
26. ScpÁCAiLc=: dragging along. Line 32. iuibeA]\iiAc, often pronounced 
like kffennujh = weeds. 

Page 60, line 8. CÁ beifeAc or bij-eAc opm =. " I am better;" cÁ fé 
■pÁJAil beifij, more rightly, bipg := He's getting better. Line 22.rHAifeAT), 
pronounced musha, not mosha, as spelt, or often even mush in central Con- 
nacht. Line 28. mA|ACAin, infinitive of mAip, to live. Cuibbinc := striv- 
ing, running a race with. 

Page 64, line 4. Cig bom = " it comes with me," "I can." This is a 
phrase in constant use in Connacht, but scarcely even known in parts of 
Munster. Line 15. OipcA-o Ajuf coipc tube =: as much as the size of an 
egg. Line 23. Ap ah nuA-o^de novo, over again. 

Page 66, line 2. A5 bAiiiu leip ah uifje = touching the water. 

Page 66, line 15. mocuij = " to feel." It is pronounced in central Con- 
nacht like niAOiri j (mweehee), and is often used for " to hear ;" mAOiúig me 
•pm ]Aoniie peo = I ' heard that before. Line 20. SjAiin]^!!! j is either active or 
passive ; it means colloquially either to frighten or to_become frightened. 

Page 68, line 12. Pah niAi\ a = wait ichere you are, jtah 111 A|t cÁ 
cu = remain as you are. Line 17. Co|\ ai|\ bir, short for Aip cop Aip bic, 
means " at all." In ^Munster they say ai]\ aoh cop 

Page 70, line 3. cat) 011150= " why ;" this is the usual word in Connacht, 
often contracted to cuije. 

Page 72, line 13. CÁCAip-HA-niApc = Westport. 

Page 74, line 7. bubApnuig, a word not in the dictionaries ; it means, I 
think, " gambolling. " Line 20. CeApAX) = seize, control. Line 22. ■niúLAc= 
black mud. 

Page 76, line 2. Ahacaih = " d;image," " harm." There are a great many 


synonyms for this word still in use in Connacht, such as ■OAmÁifce, ■ooIait), 
iipcói-o, •oocA|\, etc. Line 1 6. bpeóiúce^ "destroyed." 

Page 78, line 3. Coija, a crime; is pronounced hke quirrh. ■LÁit)e = a 
ley, or narrow spade. 

Page 80, line 5. Aia b lei|" ah ceAc mó]\ .= '• who owned the big house." 
A ]AAib A11 ceAc mó]\ Ai5e=who had in his possession the big house. 
Line 21. C]Mi)-cÁn cige ^ house furniture. Line 26. 'Hit) Oia •omc, short 
for 50 mbeAnnmg 'OiA ■oinc. Line 27. 50 nibuo I1- ét)iiic ^ " the same 
to you," literally, '' that it may be to you," the constant response to a salutation 
in Connacht. 

Page 84, line 22. A j;aii pofoi = " without her knowing it," pronounced 
like a gunyis dee. I do not see what the force of this a is, but it is always 
used, and I have met it in MSS. of some antiquity. 

Page 86, line33. "O*^ 't^ "oeuj, pronounced -oÁ l^év15, short for nA V'^a^a ■oéA^, 
" twelve men." ScAnjAipe = a mean fellow. 

Page 92, line 10. bócAii\íii cÁi\CAc=a cart road. 

Page 94, line 22. UÁip = cÁ cu, an uncommon form in Connacht now-a- 

Page 66, line 13. Jo-ocajato another and very common form of 50 ■ocijit). 

Page 98, line 22. niop f-An ah f aja^vc acc cuato a bAiLe, i.e., cuAii> fé 
AbAile ; the pronoun t'é is, as the reader must have noticed, constantly left out 
in these stories, where it would be used in colloquial conversation. 

Page 100, line 27. SeiLb and feiLg are the ordinary forms of i'eAÍb and 
fCAlg in Connacht. 


[I use the word " incident " as equivalent to the German s«o-;?(^, i.e., as con- 
noting not only the separate parts of an action, but also its pictorial 
features. — A.N.] 

Ball, guiding, of silver, 132. 

Beloreof the Evil Eye, 144. 

Besom riding, 85. 

Blast of wind from giant's nostrils, 146. 

Blind wise man, 129. 

Blood drops incident, 19. 

Boat out of thimble, 137, 

Bones gathered up and revivified, 152. 

Bran, colour and swiftness of, 15. 

death of, 17. 
Bran's daughter, 17 ; catches wild 

geese, 17-19 ; killed, 19. 
Broth-swallowing match, 11. 
Brother, of welcoming hags, 132. 

helps hero across stream, 133 ; 

restored to youth by hero, 135. 

Cap of darkness, 29. 

Cat, white, 130. (^old hag?) 

Coach, enchanted, with two fawns, 139. 

Cross-roads, separation at, 129. 

Curse of the 24 men, 154. 

Damsel, encouraging, in red silk, 131. 
gives hero thimble as boat, 137. 

Daughter prevents father re-marrj'ing 
after first wife's death, by 
cutting grass on mother's 
grave, 167. 

Dead man haunting house, 158. 

Destruction of king's court by night, 3. 

Doctoring instrument, 148. 

Dog, black, catches bullets in mouth, 
162 ; strikes exorcising priest 
dumb, 163; father of hags, 163. 

Dog, big black, son of weasel hag, 79- 

Dumbness caused by fairy blow, 116. 

Eagle guarding stream, 133. 

slain by hero, 134. 
Elder brothers fail, 140. 
Enchanter helps mortal, 93. 

passes him off as dead, 95. 

Fairest maid, description of, 112, 
Fairies baffled by cross, 115. 
Fairies carry off princess, 107, et seq. 

require a mortal's help, 89, 107. 

meet annually on November 

night, 122. 


Fairies turn into fljing beetles, 89. 1 

Fairy help to mortal withdrawn, 142. 
Fairy dwelling filled with smoke and 

lightning, 143 ; hill opens, 87. 
Fairy horses unspelled, 1 1 5. 

host, noise of, 105 ; takes 

horse, 106. 
king and queen, 87. 
hurhng match, 87. 
Fairy spits fire, and frightens Pope, no 
Father, cruel, cuts hands and feet off 
daughter, 168. 
punished, and healed by daugh- 
ter, 169. 
Fearless hero, 156, et seq., sleeps with 

corpse, 158. 
Feather supporting house, 131. 
Finn-s mother a fawn, 17. 
Flea killed by valiant tailor, 2. 
Football pliiyers in haunted house, 15S. 
Fox, hiding-place for, 5. 

Geasa run, 21. 

Ghost denouncing murderer, 159. 

Ghost laying by fortune distributing, 

Giants, two, crushed by stone, 9, et seq. 
Giant outwitted by lying reports, 29. 
Giant slits himself up, 1 1. 
Goblin, headless, in cellar, 81, 157. 

drinks and plays music with hero, 

83; bagpipes for fairies, 85. 
Grateful dead, 21, 23, 153. 

beggar, 156 ; robin, 165. 
Guarding monsters, 134. 

Hags, enchanted, turn vultures, 163. 

condemned for father's crime, 164. 
turned into swans at end of en- 
chantment period, 166. 
Hag turned into weasel, 79. 

welcoming, sister to hero's 
nurse, 131. 

Hair turns into ladder, 14c. 
Hare magic, 162. 
Haunted house, 81. 
Healing well, 129. 
Helping servant, 148. 

saves ungrateful master, 157. 
Herb for blood-stopping, 149. 
Herb of heahng, 165. 
Hero, grown rich, visits home, 161. 

joins fairy host, 106, 
Heroine and attendant maidens made 
pregnant in their sleep, 135. 
seeks father of children, 139. 
recovers magic g'fts aban- 
doned by hero, 139, et seq. 
tests false claimants, 140. 
full up of serpents banished by 

first embraces, 45. 
under spells, 37. 
Horse, swift as lightning, 132, 
talking, 2. 
hiding-place for, 5, 
Husband, not to remarry till grass be 
foot high on dead wife's 
grave, 167. 

Incurable sore foot, 129. 
Inexhaustible milk-can (fairy gift), 142. 

water and bread, 134. 

purse, 91. 

Kiss, first, from heroine, claimed by 
helping servant, 45. 

Lion, ploughing, 7 ; guarding, 134. 

jNIagic gifts abandoned by hero, 139. 

Mary's shamrock (? four-leaved), 142. 

Murderer revealed by ghost, 160. 

Mutilated (hands and (eet)heroinemar- 
ried, 168 ; restored after 
birth of triplets, 168. 



Night entertainment run, 29. 

Nonsense ending, 15, 128. 

November night for fairy gatherings, 

One-eyed supernatural being, 144. 

Pin of slumber, 39, 43. 
Piper in haunted house, 15S. 
Poison, King of, 39. 
Pole of combat, 27, et seq. 

of combat run, 27. 
Pope compelled to reinstate priest, no. 
Priest refuses to exorcise, 143 ; exor- 
cises bewitched hags, 163. 
Princess, ill to death, cured by taking 

head off her, 149. 

promised to task jier- 
former, 2. 

released from fairies, 115. 
Purse that empties not, 91. 
Purses bestowed by supernatural being, 

91, 144. 

Quest for healing water, 129. 

Recognition of hero by heroine, 141. 
Robin grateful, brings herb of healing, 

Safety token (stone). 129. 
Servant's wage, 23. 
Silence bespelling removed, 168. 
Skilful companions, gunner, listener, 

runner, blower, stone breaker, 

Sleep, magic, 147 ; of enchanted queen 
over in seven years, 134. 

Slumber pin in horse's head, 43 

Smelling giant, 27. 

Speech restored by herb, 125. 

Spikes crowned with skulls, 39. 

Step-mother (hag) accuses step-daugh- 
ter, 168. 

Stone-breaker crushes sharp stones, 45. 

Swift runner and hag race, 43. 

Swiftness, slippers, 33. 

Sword that leaves leavings of no blow 
behind it, 37. 

Sword of light, 135. 

Tailor, valiant, 2. 

Taboo on telling about fairy gifts, 142. 
broken and punished by loss, 143. 
Threefold entertaining by hags, 130. 
Three sons start for healing water, 129. 
Travellers' seat in wood, 131. 

Unwashed feet of hero, 104. 

Wages, half of what is earned, 148. 
Wages of helping servant refused, 150. 
Weasel brings money, 73 ; attacks de- 
spoiler, 75 ; kills cow, 77 ; 
turns into hag, 77. 
Well of healing balm, 41. 

of healing water, 129. 
Workmen's wages, 7. 
Witch released by Masses, 79. 
Witch's hut to be burnt after death, 


Youngest son succeeds, 138 ; envied by 
elder brothers, 138, et seq. ; 
made a scullion, 139. 

Youth, restoration to, 135.