W. B. Yeats, ed. & sel., Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry (1888) [12]

[See Contents, supra.]

 

{280}
 
KINGS, QUEENS, PRINCESSES,
EARLS, ROBBERS
 
The Twelve Wild Geese 65
Patrick Kennedy
There was once a King and Queen that lived very happily together, and they had twelve sons and not a single daughter. We are always wishing for what we haven’t, and don’t care for what we have, and so it was with the Queen. One day in winter, when the bawn was covered with snow, she was looking out of the parlour window, and saw there a calf that was just killed by the butcher, and a raven standing near it. “Oh,” says she, “if I had only a daughter with her skin as white as that snow, her cheeks as red as that blood, and her hair as black as that raven, I’d give away every one of my twelve sons for her.” The moment she said the word, she got a great fright, and a shiver went through her, and in an instant after, a severe-looking old woman stood before her. “That was a wicked wish you made,” said she, “and to punish you it will be granted. You will have such a daughter as you desire, but the very day of her birth you will lose your other children.” She vanished the moment she said the words.
 And that very way it turned out. When she expected her delivery, she had her children all in a large room of the {281} palace, with guards all round it, but the very hour her daughter came into the world, the guards inside and outside heard a great whirling and whistling, and the twelve princes were seen flying one after another out through the open window, and away like so many arrows over the woods. Well, the king was in great grief for the loss of his sons, and he would be very enraged with his wife if he only knew that she was so much to blame for it.
 Everyone called the little princess Snow-white-and-Rose-red on account of her beautiful complexion. She was the most loving and lovable child that could be seen anywhere. When she was twelve years old she began to be very sad and lonely, and to torment her mother, asking her about her brothers that she thought were dead, for none up to that time ever told her the exact thing that happened them. The secret was weighing very heavy on the Queen’s conscience, and as the little girl persevered in her questions, at last she told her. “Well, mother,” said she, “it was on my account my poor brothers were changed into wild geese, and are now suffering all sorts of hardship; before the world is a day older, I’ll be off to seek them, and try to restore them to their own shapes.”
 The King and Queen had her well watched, but all was no use. Next night she was getting through the woods that surrounded the palace, and she went on and on that night, and till the evening of next day. She had a few cakes with her, and she got nuts, and mugoreens (fruit of the sweet briar), and some sweet crabs, as she went along. At last she came to a nice wooden house just at sunset. There was a fine garden round it, full of the handsomest flowers, and a gate in the hedge. She went in, and saw a table laid out with twelve plates, and twelve knives and forks, and twelve spoons, and there were cakes, and cold wild fowl, and fruit along with the plates, and there was a good fire, and in another long room there were twelve beds. Well, while she was looking about her she heard the gate opening, and footsteps along the walk, and in came twelve young men, and there was great grief and surprise on all their faces when {282} they laid eyes on her. “Oh, what misfortune sent you here?” said the eldest. “For the sake of a girl we were obliged to leave our father’s court, and be in the shape of wild geese all day. That’s twelve years ago, and we took a solemn oath that we would kill the first young girl that came into our hands. It’s a pity to put such an innocent and handsome girl as you are out of the world, but we must keep our oath.”
 “But,” said she, “I’m your only sister, that never knew anything about this till yesterday; and I stole away from our father’s and mother’s palace last night to find you out and relieve you if I can.” Every one of them clasped his hands, and looked down on the floor, and you could hear a pin fall till the eldest cried out, “A curse light on our oath! what shall we do?”
 “I’ll tell you that,” said an old woman that appeared at the instant among them. “Break your wicked oath, which no one should keep. If you attempted to lay an uncivil finger on her I’d change you into twelve booliaun buis (stalks of ragweed), but I wish well to you as well as to her. She is appointed to be your deliverer in this way. She must spin and knit twelve shirts for you out of bog-down, to be gathered by her own hands on the moor just outside of the wood. It will take her five years to do it, and if she once speaks, or laughs, or cries the whole time, you will have to remain wild geese by day till you’re called out of the world. So take care of your sister; it is worth your while.” The fairy then vanished, and it was only a strife with the brothers to see who would be first to kiss and hug their sister.
 So for three long years the poor young princess was occupied pulling bog-down, spinning it, and knitting it into shirts, and at the end of the three years she had eight made. During all that time, she never spoke a word, nor laughed, nor cried: the last was the hardest to refrain from. One fine day she was sitting in the garden spinning, when in sprung a fine greyhound and bounded up to her, and laid his paws on her shoulder, and licked her forehead and her hair. The next minute a beautiful young prince rode up to the little garden gate, took off his hat, and asked for leave {283} to come in. She gave him a little nod, and in he walked. He made ever so many apologies for intruding, and asked her ever so many questions, but not a word could he get out of her. He loved her so much from the first moment, that he could not leave her till he told her he was king of a country just bordering on the forest, and he begged her to come home with him, and be his wife. She couldn’t help loving him as much as he did her, and though she shook her head very often, and was very sorry to leave her brothers, at last she nodded her head, and put her hand in his. She knew well enough that the good fairy and her brothers would be able to find her out. Before she went she brought out a basket holding all her bog-down, and another holding the eight shirts. The attendants took charge of these, and the prince placed her before him on his horse. The only thing that disturbed him while riding along was the displeasure his stepmother would feel at what he had done. However, he was full master at home, and as soon as he arrived he sent for the bishop, got his bride nicely dressed, and the marriage was celebrated, the bride answering by signs. He knew by her manners she was of high birth, and no two could be fonder of each other.
 The wicked stepmother did all she could to make mischief, saying she was sure she was only a woodman’s daughter; but nothing could disturb the young king’s opinion of his wife. In good time the young queen was delivered of a beautiful boy, and the king was so glad he hardly knew what to do for joy. All the grandeur of the christening and the happiness of the parents tormented the bad woman more than I can tell you, and she determined to put a stop to all their comfort. She got a sleeping posset given to the young mother, and while she was thinking and thinking how she could best make away with the child, she saw a wicked-looking wolf in the garden, looking up at her, and licking his chops. She lost no time, but snatched the child from the arms of the sleeping woman, and pitched it out The beast caught it in his mouth, and was over the garden fence in a minute. The wicked woman then pricked her own {284} fingers, and dabbled the blood round the mouth of the sleeping mother.
 Well, the young king was just then coming into the big bawn from hunting, and as soon as he entered the house, she beckoned to him, shed a few crocodile tears, began to cry and wring her hands, and hurried him along the passage to the bedchamber.
 Oh, wasn’t the poor king frightened when he saw the queen’s mouth bloody, and missed his child? It would take two hours to tell you the devilment of the old queen, the confusion and fright, and grief of the young king and queen, the bad opinion he began to feel of his wife, and the struggle she had to keep down her bitter sorrow, and not give way to it by speaking or lamenting. The young king would not allow any one to be called, and ordered his stepmother to give out that the child fell from the mother’s arms at the window, and that a wild beast ran off with it. The wicked woman pretended to do so, but she told underhand to everybody she spoke to what the king and herself saw in the bedchamber.
 The young queen was the most unhappy woman in the three kingdoms for a long time, between sorrow for her child, and her husband’s bad opinion; still she neither spoke nor cried, and she gathered bog-down and went on with the shirts. Often the twelve wild geese would be seen lighting on the trees in the park or on the smooth sod, and looking in at her windows. So she worked on to get the shirts finished, but another year was at an end, and she had the twelfth shirt finished except one arm, when she was obliged to take to her bed, and a beautiful girl was born.
 Now the king was on his guard, and he would not let the mother and child be left alone for a minute; but the wicked woman bribed some of the attendants, set others asleep, gave the sleepy posset to the queen, and had a person watching to snatch the child away, and kill it. But what should she see but the same wolf in the garden looking up and licking his chops again? Out went the child, and away with it flew the wolf, and she smeared the sleeping mother’s {285} mouth and face with blood, and then roared, and bawled, and cried out to the king and to everybody she met, and the room was filled, and everyone was sure the young queen had just devoured her own babe.
 The poor mother thought now her life would leave her. She was in such a state she could neither think nor pray, but she sat like a stone, and worked away at the arm of the twelfth shirt.
 The king was for taking her to the house in the wood where he found her, but the stepmother, and the lords of the court, and the judges would not hear of it, and she was condemned to be burned in the big bawn at three o’clock the same day. When the hour drew near, the king went to the farthest part of his palace, and there was no more unhappy man in his kingdom at that hour.
 When the executioners came and led her off, she took the pile of shirts in her arms. There was still a few stitches wanted, and while they were tying her to the stakes she still worked on. At the last stitch she seemed overcome and dropped a tear on her work, but the moment after she sprang up, and shouted out, “I am innocent; call my husband!” The executioners stayed their hands, except one wicked-disposed creature, who set fire to the faggot next him, and while all were struck in amaze, there was a rushing of wings, and in a moment the twelve wild geese were standing around the pile. Before you could count twelve, she flung a shirt over each bird, and there in the twinkling of an eye were twelve of the finest young men that could be collected out of a thousand. While some were untying their sister, the eldest, taking a strong stake in his hand, struck the busy executioner such a blow that he never needed another.
 While they were comforting the young queen, and the king was hurrying to the spot, a fine-looking woman appeared among them holding the babe on one arm and the little prince by the hand. There was nothing but crying for joy, and laughing for joy, and hugging and kissing, and when any one had time to thank the good fairy, who in the shape of a wolf, carried the child away, she was not to be {286} found. Never was such happiness enjoyed in any palace that ever was built, and if the wicked queen and her helpers were not torn by wild horses, they richly deserved it.

§

The Lazy Beauty and Her Aunts
Patrick Kennedy’s “Fireside Stories of Ireland.”
There was once a poor widow woman, who had a daughter that was as handsome as the day, and as lazy as a pig, saving your presence. The poor mother was the most industrious person in the townland, and was a particularly good hand at the spinning-wheel. It was the wish of her heart that her daughter should be as handy as herself; but she’d get up late, eat her breakfast before she’d finish her prayers, and then go about dawdling, and anything she handled seemed to be burning her fingers. She drawled her words as if it was a great trouble to her to speak, or as if her tongue was as lazy as her body. Many a heart-scald her poor mother got with her, and still she was only improving like dead fowl in August.
 Well, one morning that things were as bad as they could be, and the poor woman was giving tongue at the rate of a mill-clapper, who should be riding by but the king’s son. “Oh dear, oh dear, good woman!” said he, “you must have a very bad child to make you scold so terribly. Sure it can’t be this handsome girl that vexed you!”
 “Oh, please your Majesty, not at all,” says the old dissembler. “I was only checking her for working herself too much. Would your majesty believe it? She spins three pounds of flax in a day, weaves it into linen the next, and makes it all into shirts the day after.”
 “My gracious,” says the prince, “she’s the very lady that will just fill my mother’s eye, and herself’s the greatest spinner in the kingdom. Will you put {287} on your daughter’s bonnet and cloak, if you please, ma’am, and set her behind me? Why, my mother will be so delighted with her, that perhaps she’ll make her her daughter-in-law in a week, that is, if the young woman herself is agreeable.”
 Well, between the confusion, and the joy, and the fear of being found out, the women didn’t know what to do; and before they could make up their minds, young Anty (Anastasia) was set behind the prince, and away he and his attendants went, and a good heavy purse was left behind with the mother. She pullillued a long time after all was gone, in dread of something bad happening to the poor girl.
 The prince couldn’t judge of the girl’s breeding or wit from the few answers he pulled out of her. The queen was struck in a heap when she saw a young country girl sitting behind her son, but when she saw her handsome face, and heard all she could do, she didn’t think she could make too much of her. The prince took an opportunity of whispering her that if she didn’t object to be his wife she must strive to please his mother. Well, the evening went by, and the prince and Anty were getting fonder and fonder of one another, but the thought of the spinning used toe send the cold to her heart every moment. When bed-time came, the old queen went along with her to a beautiful bedroom, and when she was bidding her good-night, she pointed to a heap of fine flax, and said, “You may begin as soon as you like to-morrow morning, and I’ll expect to see these three pounds in nice thread the morning after.” Little did the poor girl sleep that night. She kept crying and lamenting that she didn’t mind her mother’s advice better. When she was left alone next morning, she began with a heavy heart; and though she had a nice mahogany wheel and the finest flax you ever saw, the thread was breaking every moment. One while it was as fine as a cobweb, and the next as coarse as a little boy’s whipcord. At last she pushed her chair back, let her hands fall in her lap, and burst out a-crying. {288}
  A small, old woman with surprising big feet appeared before her at the same moment, and said, “What ails you, you handsome colleen?”
 “An’ haven’t I all that flax to spin before to-morrow morning, and I’ll never be able to have even five yards of fine thread of it put together.”
 “An’ would you think bad to ask poor Colliagh Cushmór (Old woman Big-foot) to your wedding with the young prince? If you promise me that, all your three pounds will be made into the finest of thread while you’re taking your sleep to-night.”
 “Indeed, you must be there and welcome, and I’ll honour you all the days of your life.”
 “Very well; stay in your room till tea-time, and tell the queen she may come in for her thread as early as she likes to-morrow morning.” It was all as she said; and the thread was finer and evener than the gut you see with fly-fishers. “My brave girl you were!” says the queen. “I’ll get my own mahogany loom brought into you, but you needn’t do anything more to-day. Work and rest, work and rest, is my motto. To-morrow you’ll weave all this thread, and who knows what may happen?”
 The poor girl was more frightened this time than the last, and she was so afraid to lose the prince. She didn’t even know how to put the warp in the gears, nor how to use the shuttle, and she was sitting in the greatest grief, when a little woman, who was mighty well-shouldered about the hips, all at once appeared to her, told her her name was Colliach Cromanmór, and made the same bargain with her as Colliach Cushmór. Great was the queen’s pleasure when she found early in the morning a web as fine and white as the finest paper you ever saw. “The darling you were!” says she. “Take your ease with the ladies and gentlemen to-day, and if your have all this made into nice shirts to-morrow you may present one of them to my son, and be married to him out of hand.”
 Oh, wouldn’t you pity poor Anty the next day, she was now so near the prince, and, maybe, would be soon so far from him. But she waited as patiently as she could with scissors, needle, and thread in hand, till a minute after noon. {289} Then she was rejoiced to see the third old woman appear. She had a big red nose, and informed Anty that people called her Shron Mor Rua on that account. She was up to her as good as the others, for a dozen fine shirts were lying on the table when the queen paid her an early visit.
 Now there was nothing talked of but the wedding, and I needn’t tell you it was grand. The poor mother was there along with the rest, and at the dinner the old queen could talk of nothing but the lovely shirts, and how happy herself and the bride would be after the honeymoon, spinning, and weaving, and sewing shirts and shifts without end. The bridegroom didn’t like the discourse, and the bride liked it less, and he was going to say something, when the footman came up to the head of the table and said to the bride, “Your ladyship’s aunt, Colliach Cushmór, bade me ask might she come in.” The bride blushed and wished she was seven miles under the floor, but well became the prince. “Tell Mrs. Cushmór,” said he, “that any relation of my bride’s will be always heartily welcome wherever she and I are.” In came the woman with the big foot, and got a seat near the prince. The old queen didn’t like it much, and after a few words she asked rather spitefully, “Dear ma’am, what’s the reason your foot is so big?”
 “Musha, faith, your majesty, I was standing almost all my life at the spinning-wheel, and that’s the reason.”
 “I declare to you, my darling,” said the prince, “I’ll never allow you to spend one hour at the same spinning-wheel.” The same footman said again, “Your ladyship’s aunt, Colliach Cromanmór, wishes to come in, if the genteels and yourself have no objection.” Very sharoose (displeased) was Princess Anty, but the prince sent her welcome, and she took her seat, and drank healths apiece to the company. “May I ask, ma’am?” says the old queen, “why you’re so wide half-way between the head and the feet?”
 “That, your majesty, is owing to sitting all my life at the loom.”
 “By my sceptre,” says the prince, “my wife shall never sit there an hour.” The footman again came up. “Your ladyship’s aunt, Colliach Shron Mor Rua, is asking leave to {290} come into the banquet.” More blushing on the bride’s face, but the bridegroom spoke out cordially, “Tell Mrs. Shron Mor Rua she’s doing us an honour.” In came the old woman, and great respect she got near the top of the table, but the people down low put up their tumblers and glasses to their noses to hide the grins. “Ma’am,” says the old queen, “will you tell us, if you please, why your nose is so big and red?”
 “Throth, your majesty, my head was bent down over the stitching all my life, and all the blood in my body ran into my nose.”
 “My darling,” said the prince to Anty, “if ever I see a needle in your hand, I’ll run a hundred miles from you.”
 “And in troth, girls and boys, though it’s a diverting story, I don’t think the moral is good; and if any of you thuckeens go about imitating Anty in her laziness, you’ll find it won’t thrive with you as it did with her. She was beautiful beyond compare, which none of you are, and she had three powerful fairies to help her besides. There’s no fairies now, and no prince or lord to ride by, and catch you idling or working; and maybe, after all, the prince and herself were not so very happy when the cares of the world or old age came on them.”
 Thus was the tale ended by poor old Shebale (Sybilla), Father Murphy’s housekeeper, in Coolbawn, Barony of Bantry, about half a century since.

§

The Haughty Princess 66
by Patrick Kennedy
There was once a very worthy king, whose daughter was the greatest beauty that could be seen far or near, but she was as proud as Lucifer, and no king or prince would she agree to marry. Her father was tired out at last, and invited {291} every king, and prince, and duke, and earl that he knew or didn’t know to come to his court to give her one trial more. They all came, and next day after breakfast they stood in a row in the lawn, and the princess walked along in the front of them to make her choice. One was fat, and says she, “I won’t have you, Beer-barrel!” One was tall and thin, and to him she said, “I won’t have you, Ramrod!” To a white-faced man she said, “I won’t have you, Pale Death;” and to a red-cheeked man she said, “I won’t have you, Cockscomb!” She stopped a little before the last of all, for he was a fine man in face and form. She wanted to find some defect in him, but he had nothing remarkable but a ring of brown curling hair under his chin. She admired him a little, and then carried it off with, “I won’t have you, Whiskers!”
 So all went away, and the king was so vexed, he said to her, “Now to punish your impudence, I’ll give you to the first beggarman or singing sthronshuch that calls;” and, as sure as the hearth-money, a fellow all over-rags, and hair that came to his shoulders, and a bushy red beard all over his face, came next morning, and began to sing before the parlour window.
 When the song was over, the hall-door was opened, the singer asked in, the priest brought, and the princess married to Beardy. She roared and she bawled, but her father didn’t mind her. “There,” says he to the bridegroom, “is five guineas for you. Take your wife out of my sight, and never let me lay eyes on you or her again.”
 Off he led her, and dismal enough she was. The only thing that gave her relief was the tones of her husband’s voice and his genteel manners. “Whose wood is this?” said she, as they were going through one. “It belongs to the king you called Whiskers yesterday.” He gave her the same answer about meadows and corn-fields, and at last a fine city. “Ah, what a fool I was!” said she to herself. “He was a fine man, and I might have him for a husband.” At last they were coming up to a poor cabin. “Why are you bringing me here?” says the poor lady. “This was {292} my house,” said he, “and now it’s yours.” She began to cry, but she was tired and hungry, and she went in with him.
 Ovoch! there was neither a table laid out, nor a fire burning, and she was obliged to help her husband to light it, and boil their dinner, and clean up the place after; and next day he made her put on a stuff gown and a cotton handkerchief. When she had her house readied up, and no business to keep her employed, he brought home sallies [willows], peeled them, and showed her how to make baskets. But the hard twigs bruised her delicate fingers, and she began to cry. Well, then he asked her to mend their clothes, but the needle drew blood from her fingers, and she cried again. He couldn’t bear to see her tears, so he bought a creel of earthenware, and sent her to the market to sell them. This was the hardest trial of all, but she looked so handsome and sorrowful, and had such a nice air about her, that all her pans, and jugs, and plates, and dishes were gone before noon, and the only mark of her old pride she showed was a slap she gave a buckeen across the face when he axed her to go in an’ take share of a quart.
 Well, her husband was so glad, he sent her with another creel the next day; but faith! her luck was after deserting her. A drunken huntsman came up riding, and his beast got in among her ware, and made brishe of every mother’s son of ’em. She went home cryin’, and her husband wasn’t at all pleased. “I see,” said he, “you’re not fit for business. Come along, I’ll get you a kitchen-maid’s place in the palace. I know the cook.”
 So the poor thing was obliged to stifle her pride once more. She was kept very busy, and the footman and the butler would be very impudent about looking for a kiss, but she let a screech out of her the first attempt was made, and the cook gave the fellow such a lambasting with the besom that he made no second offer. She went home to her husband every night, and she carried broken victuals wrapped in papers in her side pockets.
 A week after she got service there was great bustle in {293} the kitchen. The king was going to be married, but no one knew who the bride was to be. Well, in the evening the cook filled the princess’s pockets with cold meat and puddings, and, says she, “Before you go, let us have a look at the great doings in the big parlour.” So they came near the door to get a peep, and who should come out but the king himself, as handsome as you please, and no other but King Whiskers himself. “Your handsome helper must pay for her peeping,” said he to the cook, “and dance a jig with me.” Whether she would or no, he held her hand and brought her into the parlour. The fiddlers struck up, and away went him with her. But they hadn’t danced two steps when the meat and the puddens flew out of her pockets. Every one roared out, and she flew to the door, crying piteously. But she was soon caught by the king, and taken into the back parlour. “Don’t you know me, my darling?” said he. “I’m both King Whiskers, your husband the ballad-singer, and the drunken huntsman. Your father knew me well enough when he gave you to me, and all was to drive your pride out of you.” Well, she didn’t know how she was with fright, and shame, and joy. Love was uppermost anyhow, for she laid her head on her husband’s breast and cried like a child. The maids-of-honour soon had her away and dressed her as fine as hands and pins could do it; and there were her mother and father, too; and while the company were wondering what end of the handsome girl and the king, he and his queen, who they didn’t know in her fine clothes, and the other king and queen, came in, and such rejoicings and fine doings as there was, none of us will ever see, any way.

§

 {294}
The Enchantment of Gearoidh Iarla 67
by Patrick Kennedy
In old times in Ireland there was a great man of the Fitzgeralds. The name on him was Gerald, but the Irish, that always had a great liking for the family, called him Gearoidh Iarla (Earl Gerald). He had a great castle or rath at Mullymast (Mullaghmast); and whenever the English Government were striving to put some wrong on the country, he was always the man that stood up for it. Along with being a great leader in a fight, and very skilful at all weapons, he was deep in the black art, and could change himself into whatever shape he pleased. His lady knew that he had this power, and often asked him to let her into some of his secrets, but he never would gratify her.
 She wanted particularly to see him in some strange shape, but he put her off and off on one pretence or other. But she wouldn’t be a woman if she hadn’t perseverance; and so at last he let her know that if she took the least fright while he’d be out of his natural form, he would never recover it till many generations of men would be under the mould. “Oh! she wouldn’t be a fit wife for Gearoidh Iarla if she could be easily frightened. Let him but gratify her in this whim, and he’d see what a hero she was!” So one beautiful summer evening, as they were sitting in their grand drawing-room, he turned his face away from her and muttered some words, and while you’d wink he was clever and clean out of sight, and a lovely goldfinch was flying about the room.
 The lady, as courageous as she thought herself, was a little startled, but she held her own pretty well, especially when he came and perched on her shoulder, and shook his wings, and put his little beak to her lips, and whistled the delightfulest tune you ever heard. Well, he flew in circles round the room, and played hide and go seek with his lady, {295} and flew out into the garden, and flew back again, and lay down in her lap as if he was asleep, and jumped up again.
 Well, when the thing had lasted long enough to satisfy both, he took one flight more into the open air; but by my word he was soon on his return. He flew right into his lady’s bosom, and the next moment a fierce hawk was after him. The wife gave one loud scream, though there was no need, for the wild bird came in like an arrow, and struck against a table with such force that the life was dashed out of him. She turned her eyes from his quivering body to where she saw the goldfinch an instant before, but neither goldfinch nor Earl Gerald did she ever lay eyes on again.
 Once every seven years the Earl rides round the Curragh of Kildare on a steed, whose silver shoes were half an inch thick the time he disappeared; and when these shoes are worn as thin as a cat’s ear, he will be restored to the society of living men, fight a great battle with the English, and reign king of Ireland for two-score years. [68]
 Himself and his warriors are now sleeping in a long cavern under the Rath of Mullaghmast. There is a table running along through the middle of the cave. The Earl is sitting at the head, and his troopers down along in complete armour both sides of the table, and their heads resting on it. Their horses, saddled and bridled, are standing behind their masters in their stalls at each side; and when the day comes, the miller’s son that’s to be born with six fingers on each hand, will blow his trumpet, and the horses will stamp and whinny, and the knights awake and mount their steeds, and go forth to battle.
 Some night that happens once in every seven years, while the Earl is riding round the Curragh, the entrance may be seen by any one chancing to pass by. About a hundred years ago, a horse-dealer that was late abroad and a little drunk, saw the lighted cavern, and went in. The lights, and the stillness, and the sight of the men in armour, cowed him a good deal, and he became sober. His hands began {296} to tremble, and he let a bridle fall on the pavement. The sound of the bit echoed through the long cave, and one of the warriors that was next him lifted his head a little, and said, in a deep hoarse voice, “Is it time yet?” He had the wit to say, “Not yet, but soon will,” and the heavy helmet sunk down on the table. The horse-dealer made the best of his way out, and I never heard of any other one having got the same opportunity.

§

Munachar and Manachar
Translated literarlly from the Irish by Douglas Hyde
There once lived a Munachar and a Manachar, a long time ago, and it is a long time since it was, and if they were alive then they would not be alive now. They went out together to pick raspberries, and as many as Munachar used to pick Manachar used to eat. Munachar said he must go look for a rod to make a gad (a withy band) to hang Manachar, who ate his raspberries every one; and he came to the rod. “God save you,” said the rod. “God and Mary save you.”
 “How far are you going?”
 “Going looking for a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.”
 “You will not get me,” said the rod, “until you get an axe to cut me.” He came to the axe. “God save you,” said the axe. “God and Mary save you.”
 “How far are you going?”
 “Going looking for an axe, an axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.”
 “You will not get me,” said the axe, “until you get a flag to edge me.” He came to the flag. “God save you,” says the flag. “God and Mary save you.”
 “How far are you going?”
 “Going looking for an axe, axe to cut a rod, {297} a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.”
 “You will not get me,” says the flag, “till you get water to wet me.” He came to the water. “God save you,” says the water. “God and Mary save you.”
 “How far are you going?”
 “Going looking for water, water to wet flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.”
 “You will not get me,” said the water, “until you get a deer who will swim me.” He came to the deer. “God save you,” says the deer. “God and Mary save you.”
 “How far are you going?”
 “Going looking for a deer, deer to swim water, water to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.”
 “You will not get me,” said the deer, “until you get a hound who will hunt me.” He came to the hound. “God save you,” says the hound. “God and Mary save you.”
 “How far are you going?”
 “Going looking for a hound, hound to hunt deer, deer to swim water, water to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.”
 “You will not get me,” said the hound, “until you get a bit of butter to put in my claw.” He came to the butter. “God save you,” says the butter. “God and Mary save you.”
 “How far are you going?”
 “Going looking for butter, butter to go in claw of hound, hound to hunt deer, deer to swim water, water to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.”
 “You will not get me,” said the butter, “until you get a cat who shall scrape me.” He came to the cat. “God save you,” said the cat. “God and Mary save you.”
 “How far are you going?”
 “Going looking for a cat, cat to scrape butter, butter to go in claw of hound, hound to hunt deer, deer to swim water, water to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.” {298}
 “You will not get me,” said the cat, “until you will get milk which you will give me.” He came to the cow. “God save you,” said the cow. “God and Mary save you.”
 “How far are you going?”
 “Going looking for a cow, cow to give me milk, milk I will give to the cat, cat to scrape butter, butter to go in claw of hound, hound to hunt deer, deer to swim water, water to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.”
 “You will not get any milk from me,” said the cow, “until you bring me a whisp of straw from those threshers yonder.” He came to the threshers. “God save you,” said the threshers. “God and Mary save ye.”
 “How far are you going?”
 “Going looking for a whisp of straw from ye to give to the cow, the cow to give me milk, milk I will give to the cat, cat to scrape butter, butter to go in claw of hound, hound to hunt deer, deer to swim water, water to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.”
 “You will not get any whisp of straw from us,” said the threshers, “until you bring us the makings of a cake from the miller over yonder.” He came to the miller. “God save you.”
 “God and Mary save you.”
 “How far are you going?”
 “Going looking for the makings of a cake, which I will give to the threshers, the threshers to give me a whisp of straw, the whisp of straw I will give to the cow, the cow to give me milk, milk I will give to the cat, cat to scrape butter, butter to go in claw of hound, hound to hunt deer, deer to swim water, water to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.”
 “You will not get any makings of a cake from me,” said the miller, “till you bring me the full of that sieve of water from the river over there.”
 He took the sieve in his hand and went over to the river, but as often as ever he would stoop and fill it with water, the moment he raised it the water would run out of {299} it again, and sure, if he had been there from that day till this, he never could have filled it. A crow went flying by him, over his head. “Daub! daub!” said the crow. “My soul to God, then,” said Munachar, “but it’s the good advice you have,” and he took the red clay and the daub that was by the brink, and he rubbed it to the bottom of the sieve, until all the holes were filled, and then the sieve held the water, and he brought the water to the miller, and the miller gave him the makings of a cake, and he gave the makings of the cake to the threshers, and the threshers gave him a whisp of straw, and he gave the whisp of straw to the cow, and the cow gave him milk, the milk he gave to the cat, the cat scraped the butter, the butter went into the claw of the hound, the hound hunted the deer, the deer swam the water, the water wet the flag, the flag sharpened the axe, the axe cut the rod, and the rod made a gad, and when he had it ready-I’ll go bail that Manachar was far enough away from him.

 There is some tale like this in almost every language. It resembles that given in that splendid work of industry and patriotism, Campbell’s Tales of the West Highlands under the name of Moonachug and Meenachug. “The English House that Jack built,” says Campbell, “has eleven steps, the Scotch Old Woman with the Silver Penny has twelve, the Novsk Cock and Hen A-nutting has twelve, ten of which are double. The German story in Grimm has five or six, all single ideas.” This, however, is longer than any of them. It sometimes varies a little in the telling, and the actors’ names are sometimes Suracha and Muracha, and the crow is sometimes a gull, who, instead of daub! daub! says cuir cré rua lesh!

§

Donald and His Neighbours
From Hibernian Tales. 69
Hudden and Dudden and Donald O’Nery were near neighbours in the barony of Balinconlig, and ploughed with three bullocks; but the two former, envying the present {300} prosperity of the latter, determined to kill his bullock, to prevent his farm being properly cultivated and laboured, that going back in the world he might be induced to sell his lands, which they meant to get possession of. Poor Donald finding his bullock killed, immediately skinned it, and throwing the skin over his shoulder, with the fleshy side out, set off to the next town with it, to dispose of it to the best of his advantage. Going along the road a magpie flew on the top of the hide, and began picking it, chattering all the time. The bird had been taught to speak, and imitate the human voice, and Donald, thinking he understood some words it was saying, put round his hand and caught hold of it. Having got possession of it, he put it under his greatcoat, and so went on to town. Having sold the hide, he went into an inn to take a dram, and following the landlady into the cellar, he gave the bird a squeeze which made it chatter some broken accents that surprised her very much. “What is that I hear?” said she to Donald. “I think it is talk, and yet I do not understand.”
 “Indeed,” said Donald, “it is a bird I have that tells me everything, and I always carry it with me to know when there is any danger. Faith,” says he, “it says you have far better liquor than you are giving me.”
 “That is strange,” said she, going to another cask of better quality, and asking him if he would sell the bird. “I will,” said Donald, “if I get enough for it.”
 “I will fill your hat with silver if you leave it with me.” Donald was glad to hear the news, and taking the silver, set off, rejoicing at his good luck. He had not been long at home until he met with Hudden and Dudden. “Mr.,” said he, “you thought you had done me a bad turn, but you could not have done me a better; for look here, what I have got for the hide,” showing them a hatful of silver; “you never saw such a demand for hides in your life as there is at present.” Hudden and Dudden that very night killed their bullocks, and set out the next morning to sell their hides. On coming to the place they went through all the merchants, but could only get a trifle for them; at last they had to take what they {301} could get, and came home in a great rage, and vowing revenge on poor Donald. He had a pretty good guess how matters would turn out, and he being under the kitchen window, he was afraid they would rob him, or perhaps kill him when asleep, and on that account when he was going to bed he left his old mother in his place, and lay down in her bed, which was in the other side of the house, and they taking the old woman for Donald, choked her in her bed, but he making some noise, they had to retreat, and leave the money behind them, which grieved them very much. However, by daybreak, Donald got his mother on his back, and carried her to town. Stopping at a well, he fixed his mother with her staff, as if she was stooping for a drink, and then went into a public-house convenient and called for a dram. “I wish,” said he to a woman that stood near him, “you would tell my mother to come in; she is at yon well trying to get a drink, and she is hard of hearing; if she does not observe you, give her a little shake and tell her that I want her.” The woman called her several times, but she seemed to take no notice; at length she went to her and shook her by the arm, but when she let her go again, she tumbled on her head into the well, and, as the woman thought, was drowned. She, in her great surprise and fear at the accident, told Donald what had happened. “O mercy,” said he, “what is this?” He ran and pulled her out of the well, weeping and lamenting all the time, and acting in such a manner that you would imagine that he had lost his senses. The woman, on the other hand, was far worse than Donald, for his grief was only feigned, but she imagined herself to be the cause of the old woman’s death. The inhabitants of the town hearing what had happened, agreed to make Donald up a good sum of money for his loss, as the accident happened in their place, and Donald brought a greater sum home with him than he got for the magpie. They buried Donald’s mother, and as soon as he saw Hudden he showed them the last purse of money he had got. “You thought to kill me last night,” said he, “but it was good {302} for me it happened on my mother, for I got all that purse for her to make gunpowder.”
 That very night Hudden and Dudden killed their mothers, and the next morning set off with them to town. On coming to the town with their burthen on their backs, they went up and down crying, “Who will buy old wives for gunpowder,” so that everyone laughed at them, and the boys at last clotted them out of the place. They then saw the cheat, and vowed revenge on Donald, buried the old women, and set off in pursuit of him. Coming to his house, they found him sitting at his breakfast, and seizing him, put him in a sack, and went to drown him in a river at some distance. As they were going along the highway they raised a hare, which they saw had but three feet, and throwing off the sack, ran after her, thinking by her appearance she would be easily taken. In their absence there came a drover that way, and hearing Donald singing in the sack, wondered greatly what could be the matter. “What is the reason,” said he, “that you are singing, and you confined?”
 “O, I am going to heaven,” said Donald, “and in a short time I expect to be free from trouble.”
 “O dear,” said the drover, “what will I give you if you let me to your place?”
 “Indeed, I do not know,” said he, “it would take a good sum.”
 “I have not much money,” said the drover, “but I have twenty head of fine cattle, which I will give you to exchange places with me.”
 “Well,” says Donald, “I do not care if I should loose the sack, and I will come out.” In a moment the drover liberated him, and went into the sack himself, and Donald drove home the fine heifers, and left them in his pasture.
 Hudden and Dudden having caught the hare, returned, and getting the sack on one of their backs, carried Donald, as they thought, to the river and threw him in, where he immediately sank. They then marched home, intending to take immediate possession of Donald’s property, but how great was their surprise when they found him safe at home before them, with such a fine herd of cattle, whereas they knew he had none before. “Donald,” said they, “what is {303} all this? We thought you were drowned, and yet you are here before us.”
 “Ah!” said he, “if I had but help along with me when you threw me in, it would have been the best job ever I met with, for of all the sight of cattle and gold that ever was seen is there, and no one to own them, but I was not able to manage more than what you see, and I could show you the spot where you might get hundreds.” They both swore they would be his friend, and Donald accordingly led them to a very deep part of the river, and lifted up a stone. “Now,” said he, “watch this,” throwing it into the stream; “there is the very place, and go in, one of you first, and if you want help, you have nothing to do but call.” Hudden jumping in, and sinking to the bottom, rose up again, and making a bubbling noise, as those do that are drowning, attempted to speak, but could not. “What is that he is saying now?” says Dudden. “Faith,” says Donald, “he is calling for help; don’t you hear him? Stand about,” said he, running back, “till I leap in. I know how to do it better than any of you.” Dudden, to have the advantage of him, jumped in off the bank, and was drowned along with Hudden, and this was the end of Hudden and Dudden.

§

The Jackdaw
Tom Moor was a linen draper in Sackville Street. His father, when he died, left him an affluent fortune, and a shop of excellent trade.
 As he was standing at his door one day a countryman came up to him with a nest of jackdaws, and accosting him, says, “Master, will you buy a nest of daws?”
 “No, I don’t want any.”
 “Master,” replied the man, “I will sell them all cheap; you shall have the whole nest for nine-pence.”
 “I don’t want them,” answered Tom Moor, “so go about your business.”
 As the man was walking away one of the daws popped out his head, and cried “Mawk, mawk.”
 “Damn it,” says {304} Tom Moor, “that bird knows my name; halloo, countryman, what will you take for the bird?”
 “Why, you shall have him for threepence.” Tom Moor bought him, had a cage made, and hung him up in the shop.
 The journeymen took much notice of the bird, and would frequently tap at the bottom of the cage, and say, “Who are you? Who are you? Tom Moor of Sackville Street.”
 In a short time the jackdaw learned these words, and if he wanted victuals or water, would strike his bill against the cage, turn up the white of his eyes, cock his head, and cry, “Who are you? who are you? Tom Moor of Sackville Street.”
 Tom Moor was fond of gaming, and often lost large sums of money; finding his business neglected in his absence, he had a small hazard table set up in one corner of his dining-room, and invited a party of his friends to play at it.
 The jackdaw had by this time become familiar; his cage was left open, and he hopped into every part of the house; sometimes he got into the dining-room, where the gentlemen were at play, and one of them being a constant winner, the others would say, “Damn it, how he nicks them.” The bird learned these words also, and adding them to the former, would call, “Who are you? who are you? Tom Moor of Sackville Street. Damn it, how he nicks them.”
 Tom Moor, from repeated losses and neglect of business, failed in trade, and became a prisoner in the Fleet; he took his bird with him, and lived on the master’s side, supported by friends, in a decent manner. They would sometimes ask what brought you here? when he used to lift up his hands and answer, “Bad company, by G—.” The bird learned this likewise, and at the end of the former words, would say, “What brought you here? Bad company, by G—.”
 Some of Tom Moor’s friends died, others went abroad, and by degrees he was totally deserted, and removed to the common side of the prison, where the jail distemper soon attacked him; and in the last stage of life, lying on a straw {305} bed; the poor bird had been for two days without food or water, came to his feet, and striking his bill on the floor, calls out, “Who are you? Tom Moor of Sackville Street; damn it, how he nicks them, damn it, how he nicks them. What brought you here? bad company, by G —, bad company, by G—.”
 Tom Moor, who had attended to the bird, was struck with his words, and reflecting on himself, cried out, “Good God, to what a situation am I reduced! my father, when he died, left me a good fortune and an established trade. I have spent my fortune, ruined my business, and am now dying in a loathsome jail; and to complete all, keeping that poor thing confined without support. I will endeavour to do one piece of justice before I die, by setting him at liberty.”
 He made a struggle to crawl from his straw bed, opened the casement, and out flew the bird. A flight of jackdaws from the Temple were going over the jail, and Tom Moor’s bird mixed among them. The gardener was then laying the plats of the Temple gardens, and as often as he placed them in the day the jackdaws pulled them up by night. They got a gun and attempted to shoot some of them; but, being cunning birds, they always placed one as a watch in the stump of a hollow tree; who, as soon as the gun was levelled cried “Mawk,” and away they flew.
 The gardeners were advised to get a net, and the first night it was spread they caught fifteen; Tom Moor’s bird was amongst them. One of the men took the net into a garret of an uninhabited house, fastens the doors and windows, and turns the birds loose. “Now,” said he, “you black rascals, I will be revenged of you.” Taking hold of the first at hand, he twists her neck, and throwing him down, cries, “There goes one.” Tom Moor’s bird, who had hopped up to a beam at one corner of the room unobserved, as the man lays hold of the second, calls out, “Damn it, how he nicks them.” The man alarmed, cries, “Sure I heard a voice, but the house is uninhabited, and the door is fast; it could only be imagination.” On laying hold of {306} the third, and twisting his neck, Tom’s bird again says, “Damn it, how he nicks them.” The man dropped the bird in his hand, and turning to where the voice came from, seeing the other with his mouth open, cries out, “Who are you?” to which the bird answered, “Tom Moor of Sackville Street, Tom Moor of Sackville Street.”
 “The devil you are; and what brought you here.” Tom Moor’s bird, lifting up his pinions, answered, “Bad company, by G—, bad company, by G.” The fellow, frightened almost out of his wits, opened the door, ran down stairs, and out of the house, followed by all the birds, who by this means regained their liberty.

§

The Story of Conn-Eda; or, the Golden Apples of Lough Erne 70

Translated from the original Irish of the Story-teller
Abraham McCoy, by Nicholas O’Kearney.

It was long before the time the western districts of Innis Fodhla [71] had any settled name, but were indiscriminately called after the person who took possession of them, and whose name they retained only as long as his sway lasted, that a powerful king reigned over this part of the sacred island. He was a puissant warrior, and no individual was found able to compete with him either on land or sea, or question his right to his conquest. The great king of the west held uncontrolled sway from the island of Rathlin to the mouth of the Shannon by sea, and far as the glittering length by land. The ancient king of the west, whose name was Conn, was good as well as great, and passionately loved by his people. His queen was a Breaton (British) princess, and was equally beloved and esteemed, because she was the great counterpart of the king in every respect; for whatever {307} good qualification was wanting in the one, the other was certain to indemnify the omission. It was plainly manifest that heaven approved of the career in life of the virtuous couple; for during their reign the earth produced exuberant crops, the trees fruit ninefold commensurate with their usual bearing, the rivers, lakes, and surrounding sea teemed with abundance of choice fish, while herds and flocks were unusually prolific, and kine and sheep yielded such abundance of rich milk that they shed it in torrents upon the pastures; and furrows and cavities were always filled with the pure lacteal produce of the dairy. All these were blessings heaped by heaven upon the western districts of Innis Fodhla, over which the benignant and just Conn swayed his sceptre, in approbation of the course of government he had marked out for his own guidance. It is needless to state that the people who owned the authority of this great and good sovereign were the happiest on the face of the wide expanse of earth. It was during his reign, and that of his son and successor, that Ireland acquired the title of the “happy isle of the west” among foreign nations. Con Mór and his good Queen Eda reigned in great glory during many years; they were blessed with an only son, whom they named Conn-eda, after both his parents, because the Druids foretold at his birth that he would inherit the good qualities of both. According as the young prince grew in years, his amiable and benignant qualities of mind, as well as his great strength of body and manly bearing, became more manifest. He was the idol of his parents, and the boast of his people; he was beloved and respected to that degree that neither prince, lord, nor plebeian swore an oath by the sun, moon, stars, or elements, except by the head of Conn-eda. This career of glory, however, was doomed to meet a powerful but temporary impediment, for the good Queen Eda took a sudden and severe illness, of which she died in a few days, thus plunging her spouse, her son, and all her people into a depth of grief and sorrow from which it was found difficult to relieve them.
 The good king and his subjects mourned the loss of {308} Queen Eda for a year and a day, and at the expiration of that time Conn Mór reluctantly yielded to the advice of his Druids and counsellors, and took to wife the daughter of his Arch-Druid. The new queen appeared to walk in the footsteps of the good Eda for several years, and gave great satisfaction to her subjects. But, in course of time, having had several children, and perceiving that Conn-eda was the favourite son of the king and the darling of the people, she clearly foresaw that he would become successor to the throne after the demise of his father, and that her son would certainly be excluded. This excited the hatred and inflamed the jealousy of the Druid’s daughter against her step-son to such an extent, that she resolved in her own mind to leave nothing in her power undone to secure his death, or even exile from the kingdom. She began by circulating evil reports of the prince; but, as he was above suspicion, the king only laughed at the weakness of the queen; and the great princes and chieftains, supported by the people in general, gave an unqualified contradiction; while the prince himself bore all his trials with the utmost patience, and always repaid her bad and malicious acts towards him with good and benevolent ones. The enmity of the queen towards Conn-eda knew no bounds when she saw that the false reports she circulated could not injure him. As a last resource, to carry out her wicked projects, she determined to consult her Cailleach-chearc (hen-wife), who was a reputed enchantress.
 Pursuant to her resolution, by the early dawn of morning she hied to the cabin of the Cailleach-chearc, and divulged to her the cause of her trouble. “I cannot render you any help,” said the Cailleach, “until you name the duais” (reward). “What duais do you require?” asked the queen, impatiently. “My duais,” replied the enchantress, “is to fill the cavity of my arm with wool, and the hole I shall bore with my distaff with red wheat.”
 “Your duais is granted, and shall be immediately given you,” said the queen. The enchantress thereupon stood in the door of her hut, and bending her arm into a circle with her side, {309} directed the royal attendants to thrust the wool into her house through her arm, and she never permitted them to cease until all the available space within was filled with wool. She then got on the roof of her brother’s house, and, having made a hole through it with her distaff, caused red wheat to be spilled through it, until that was filled up to the roof with red wheat, so that there was no room for another grain within. “Now,” said the queen, “since you have received your duais, tell me how I can accomplish my purpose.”
 “Take this chess-board and chess, and invite the prince to play with you; you shall win the first game. The condition you shall make is, that whoever wins a game shall be at liberty to impose whatever geasa (conditions) the winner pleases on the loser. When you win, you must bid the prince, under the penalty either to go into ionarbadh (exile), or procure for you, within the space of a year and a day, the three golden apples that grew in the garden, the each dubh (black steed), and coileen con na mbuadh (hound of supernatural powers), called Samer, which are in the possession of the king of the Firbolg race, who resides in Lough Erne. [72] Those two things are so precious, and so well guarded, that he can never attain them by his own power; and, if he would rashly attempt to seek them, he should lose his life.”
 The queen was greatly pleased at the advice, and lost no time in inviting Conn-eda to play a game at chess, under the conditions she had been instructed to arrange by the enchantress. The queen won the game, as the enchantress foretold, but so great was her anxiety to have the prince completely in her power, that she was tempted to challenge him to play a second game, which Conn-eda, to her astonishment, and no less mortification, easily won. “Now,” said the prince, “since you won the first game, it is your duty to impose your geis first.”
 “My geis” said the queen, “which I impose upon you, is to procure me the three golden apples {310} that grow in the garden, the each dubh (black steed), and cuileen con na mbuadh (hound of supernatural powers), which are in the keeping of the king of the Firbolgs, in Lough Erne, within the space of a year and a day; or, in case you fail, to go into ionarbadh (exile), and never return, except you surrender yourself to lose your head and comhead beatha (preservation of life).”
 “Well, then,” said the prince, “the geis which I bind you by, is to sit upon the pinnacle of yonder tower until my return, and to take neither food nor nourishment of any description, except what red-wheat you can pick up with the point of your bodkin; but if I do not return, you are at perfect liberty to come down at the expiration of the year and a day.”
 In consequence of the severe geis imposed upon him, Conn-eda was very much troubled in mind; and, well knowing he had a long journey to make before he would reach his destination, immediately prepared to set out on his way, not, however, before he had the satisfaction of witnessing the ascent of the queen to the place where she was obliged to remain exposed to the scorching sun of the summer and the blasting storms of winter, for the space of one year and a day, at least. Conn-eda being ignorant of what steps he should take to procure the each dubh and cuileen con na mbuadh, though he was well aware that human energy would prove unavailing, thought proper to consult the great Druid, Fionn Dadhna, of Sleabh Badhna, who was a friend of his before he ventured to proceed to Lough Erne. When he arrived at the bruighean of the Druid, he was received with cordial friendship, and the failte (welcome), as usual, was poured out before him, and when he was seated, warm water was fetched, and his feet bathed, so that the fatigue he felt after his journey was greatly relieved. The Druid, after he had partaken of refreshments, consisting of the newest of food and oldest of liquors, asked him the reason for paying the visit, and more particularly the cause of his sorrow; for the prince appeared exceedingly depressed in spirit. Conn-eda told his friend the whole history of the transaction with his stepmother {311} from the beginning to end. “Can you not assist me?” asked the Prince, with downcast countenance. “I cannot, indeed, assist you at present,” replied the Druid; “but I will retire to my grianan (green place) at sun-rising on the morrow, and learn by virtue of my Druidism what can be done to assist you.” The Druid, accordingly, as the sun rose on the following morning, retired to his grianan, and consulted the god he adored, through the power of his draoidheacht. [73] When he returned, he called Conn-eda aside on the plain, and addressed him thus: “My dear son, I find you have been under a severe — an almost impossible — geis intended for your destruction; no person on earth could have advised the queen to impose it except the Cailleach of Lough Corrib, who is the greatest Druidess now in Ireland, and sister to the Firbolg, King of Lough Erne. It is not in my power, nor in that of the Deity I adore, to interfere in your behalf; but go directly to Sliabh Mis, and consult Eánchinn-duine (the bird of the human head), and if there be any possibility of relieving you, that bird can do it, for there is not a bird in the western world so celebrated as that bird, because it knows all things that are past, all things that are present and exist, and all things that shall hereafter exist. It is difficult to find access to his place of concealment, and more difficult still to obtain an answer from him; but I will endeavour to regulate that matter for you; and that is all I can do for you at present.”
 The Arch-Druid then instructed him thus: “Take,” said he, “yonder little shaggy steed, and mount him immediately, for in three days the bird will make himself visible, and the little shaggy steed will conduct you to his place of abode. But lest the bird should refuse to reply to your queries, take this precious stone (leag lorgmhar), and present it to him, and then little danger and doubt exist but that he will give you a ready answer.” The prince returned heartfelt thanks to the Druid, and, having saddled and mounted the little shaggy horse without much delay, received the precious stone from the Druid, and, after having taken his leave of him, set out on his journey. He {312} suffered the reins to fall loose upon the neck of the horse according as he had been instructed, so that the animal took whatever road he chose.
 It would be tedious to relate the numerous adventures he had with the little shaggy horse, which had the extraordinary gift of speech, and was a draoidheacht horse during his journey.
 The Prince having reached the hiding-place of the strange bird at the appointed time, and having presented him with the leag lorgmhar, according to Fionn Badhna’s instructions, and proposed his questions relative to the manner he could best arrange for the fulfilment of his geis, the bird took up in his mouth the jewel from the stone on which it was placed, and flew to an inaccessible rock at some distance, and, when there perched, he thus addressed the prince, “Conn-eda, son of the King of Cruachan,” said he, in a loud, croaking human voice, “remove the stone just under your right foot, and take the ball of iron and corna (cup) you shall find under it; then mount your horse, cast the ball before you, and having so done, your horse will tell you all the other things necessary to be done.” The bird, having said this, immediately flew out of sight.
 Conn-eda took great care to do everything according to the instructions of the bird. He found the iron ball and corna in the place which had been pointed out. He took them up, mounted his horse, and cast the ball before him. The ball rolled on at a regular gait, while the little shaggy horse followed on the way it led until they reached the margin of Lough Erne. Here the ball rolled in the water and became invisible. “Alight now,” said the draoidheacht pony, “and put your hand into mine ear; take from thence the small bottle of íce (all-heal) and the little wicker basket which you will find there, and remount with speed, for just now your great dangers and difficulties commence.” Conn-eda, ever faithful to the kind advice of his draoidheacht pony, did what he had been advised. Having taken the basket and bottle of íce from the animal’s ear, he remounted and proceeded on his journey, while the water of the lake {313} appeared only like an atmosphere above his head. When he entered the lake the ball again appeared, and rolled along until it came to the margin, across which was a causeway, guarded by three frightful serpents; the hissings of the monsters was heard at a great distance, while, on a nearer approach, their yawning mouths and formidable fangs were quite sufficient to terrify the stoutest heart. “Now,” said the horse, “open the basket and cast a piece of the meat you find in it into the mouth of each serpent; when you have done this, secure yourself in your seat in the best manner you can, so that we may make all due arrangements to pass those draoidheacht peists. If you cast the pieces of meat into the mouth of each peist unerringly, we shall pass them safely, otherwise we are lost.” Conn-eda flung the pieces of meat into the jaws of the serpents with unerring aim. “Bare a benison and victory,” said the draoidheacht steed, “for you are a youth that will win and prosper.” And, on saying these words, he sprang aloft, and cleared in his leap the river and ford, guarded by the serpents, seven measures beyond the margin. “Are you still mounted, prince Conn-eda?” said the steed. “It has taken only half my exertion to remain so,” replied Conn-eda. “I find,” said the pony, “that you are a young prince that deserves to succeed; one danger is now over, but two others remain.” They proceeded onwards after the ball until they came in view of a great mountain flaming with fire. “Hold yourself in readiness for another dangerous leap,” said the horse. The trembling prince had no answer to make, but seated himself as securely as the magnitude of the danger before him would permit. The horse in the next instant sprang from the earth, and flew like an arrow over the burning mountain. “Are you still alive, Conn-eda, son of Conn-mór?” inquired the faithful horse. “I’m just alive, and no more, for I’m greatly scorched,” answered the prince. “Since you are yet alive, I feel assured that you are a young man destined to meet supernatural success and benisons,” said the Druidic steed. “Our greatest dangers are over,” added he, “and there is hope that we shall overcome {314} the next and last danger.” After they had proceeded a short distance, his faithful steed, addressing Conn-eda, said, “Alight, now, and apply a portion of the little bottle of íce to your wounds.” The prince immediately followed the advice of his monitor, and, as soon as he rubbed the íce (all-heal) to his wounds, he became as whole and fresh as ever he had been before. After having done this, Conn-eda remounted, and following the track of the ball, soon came in sight of a great city surrounded by high walls. The only gate that was visible was not defended by armed men, but by two great towers that emitted flames that could be seen at a great distance. “Alight on this plain,” said the steed, “and take a small knife from my other ear; and with this knife you shall kill and flay me. When you have done this, envelop yourself in my hide, and you can pass the gate unscathed and unmolested. When you get inside you can come out at pleasure; because when once you enter there is no danger, and you can pass and repass whenever you wish; and let me tell you that all I have to ask of you in return is that you, when once inside the gates, will immediately return and drive away the birds of prey that may be fluttering round to feed on my carcass; and more, that you will pour any drop of that powerful íce, if such still remain in the bottle, upon my flesh, to preserve it from corruption. When you do this in memory of me, if it be not too troublesome, dig a pit, and cast my remains into it.”
 “Well,” said Conn-eda, “my noblest steed, because you have been so faithful to me hitherto, and because you still would have rendered me further service, I consider such a proposal insulting to my feelings as a man, and totally in variance with the spirit which can feel the value of gratitude, not to speak of my feelings as a prince. But as a prince I am able to say, Come what may — come death itself in its most hideous forms and terrors — I never will sacrifice private friendship to personal interest. Hence, I am, I swear by my arms of valour, prepared to meet the worst — even death itself — sooner than violate the principles of humanity, honour, and friendship! What a sacrifice do you {315} propose!”
 “Pshaw, man! heed not that; do what I advise you, and prosper.”
 “Never! never!” exclaimed the prince. “Well, then, son of the great western monarch,” said the horse, with a tone of sorrow, “if you do not follow my advice on this occasion, I tell you that both you and I shall perish, and shall never meet again; but, if you act as I have instructed you, matters shall assume a happier and more pleasing aspect than you may imagine. I have not misled you heretofore, and, if I have not, what need have you to doubt the most important portion of my counsel? Do exactly as I have directed you, else you will cause a worse fate than death to befall me. And, moreover, I can tell you that, if you persist in your resolution, I have done with you for ever.”
 When the prince found that his noble steed could not be persuaded from his purpose, he took the knife out of his ear with reluctance, and with a faltering and trembling hand essayed experimentally to point the weapon at his throat. Conn-eda’s eyes were bathed in tears; but no sooner had he pointed the Druidic scian to the throat of his good steed, than the dagger, as if impelled by some Druidic power, stuck in his neck, and in an instant the work of death was done, and the noble animal fell dead at his feet. When the prince saw his noble steed fall dead by his hand, he cast himself on the ground, and cried aloud until his consciousness was gone. When he recovered, he perceived that the steed was quite dead; and, as he thought there was no hope of resuscitating him, he considered it the most prudent course he could adopt to act according to the advice he had given him. After many misgivings of mind and abundant showers of tears, he essayed the task of flaying him, which was only that of a few minutes. When he found he had the hide separated from the body, he, in the derangement of the moment, enveloped himself in it, and proceeding towards the magnificent city in rather a demented state of mind, entered it without any molestation or opposition. It was a surprisingly populous city, and an extremely wealthy place; but its beauty, magnificence, and wealth had no {316} charms for Conn-eda, because the thoughts of the loss he sustained in his dear steed were paramount to those of all other earthly considerations.
 He had scarcely proceeded more than fifty paces from the gate, when the last request of his beloved draoidheacht steed forced itself upon his mind, and compelled him to return to perform the last solemn injunctions upon him. When he came to the spot upon which the remains of his beloved draoidheacht steed lay, an appalling sight presented itself; ravens and other carnivorous birds of prey were tearing and devouring the flesh of his dear steed. It was but short work to put them to flight; and having uncorked his little jar of íce, he deemed it a labour of love to embalm the now mangled remains with the precious ointment. The potent íce had scarcely touched the inanimate flesh, when, to the surprise of Conn-eda, it commenced to undergo some strange change, and in a few minutes, to his unspeakable astonishment and joy, it assumed the form of one of the handsomest and noblest young men imaginable, and in the twinkling of an eye the prince was locked in his embrace, smothering him with kisses, and drowning him with tears of joy. When one recovered from his ecstasy of joy, the other from his surprise, the strange youth thus addressed the prince: “Most noble and puissant prince, you are the best sight I ever saw with my eyes, and I am the most fortunate being in existence for having met you! Behold in my person, changed to the natural shape, your little shaggy draoidheacht steed! I am brother of the king of the city; and it was the wicked Druid, Fionn Badhna, who kept me so long in bondage; but he was forced to give me up when you came to consult him, for my geis was then broken; yet I could not recover my pristine shape and appearance unless you had acted as you have kindly done. It was my own sister that urged the queen, your stepmother, to send you in quest of the steed and powerful puppy hound, which my brother has now in keeping. My sister, rest assured, had no thought of doing you the least injury, but much good, as {317} you will find hereafter; because, if she were maliciously inclined towards you, she could have accomplished her end without any trouble. In short, she only wanted to free you from all future danger and disaster, and recover me from my relentless enemies through your instrumentality. Come with me, my friend and deliverer, and the steed and the puppy-hound of extraordinary powers, and the golden apples, shall be yours, and a cordial welcome shall greet you in my brother’s abode; for you will deserve all this and much more.”
 The exciting joy felt on the occasion was mutual, and they lost no time in idle congratulations, but proceeded on to the royal residence of the King of Lough Erne. Here they were both received with demonstrations of joy by the king and his chieftains; and, when the purpose of Conn-eda’s visit became known to the king, he gave a free consent to bestow on Conn-eda the black steed, the coileen con-na-mbuadh, called Samer, and the three apples of health that were growing in his garden, under the special condition, however, that he would consent to remain as his guest until he could set out on his journey in proper time, to fulfil his geis. Conn-eda, at the earnest solicitation of his friends, consented, and remained in the royal residence of the Firbolg, King of Lough Erne, in the enjoyment of the most delicious and fascinating pleasures during that period.
 When the time of his departure came, the three golden apples were plucked from the crystal tree in the midst of the pleasure-garden, and deposited in his bosom; the puppy-hound, Samer, was leashed, and the leash put into his hand; and the black steed, richly harnessed, was got in readiness for him to mount. The king himself helped him on horseback, and both he and his brother assured him that he might not fear burning mountains or hissing serpents, because none would impede him, as his steed was always a passport to and from his subaqueous kingdom. And both he and his brother extorted a promise from Conn-eda, that he would visit them once every year at least. {318}
 Conn-eda took leave of his dear friend, and the king his brother. The parting was a tender one, soured by regret on both sides. He proceeded on his way without meeting anything to obstruct him, and in due time came in sight of the dún of his father, where the queen had been placed on the pinnacle of the tower, in full hope that, as it was the last day of her imprisonment there, the prince would not make his appearance, and thereby forfeit all pretensions and right to the crown of his father for ever. But her hopes were doomed to meet a disappointment, for when it had been announced to her by her couriers, who had been posted to watch the arrival of the prince, that he approached, she was incredulous; but when she saw him mounted on a foaming black steed, richly harnessed, and leading a strange kind of animal by a silver chain, she at once knew he was returning in triumph, and that her schemes laid for his destruction were frustrated. In the excess of grief at her disappointment, she cast herself from the top of the tower, and was instantly dashed to pieces. Conn-eda met a welcome reception from his father, who mourned him as lost to him for ever, during his absence; and, when the base conduct of the queen became known, the king and his chieftains ordered her remains to be consumed to ashes for her perfidy and wickedness.
 Conn-eda planted the three golden apples in his garden, and instantly a great tree, bearing similar fruit, sprang up. This tree caused all the district to produce an exuberance of crops and fruits, so that it became as fertile and plentiful as the dominions of the Firbolgs, in consequence of the extraordinary powers possessed by the golden fruit. The hound Samer and the steed were of the utmost utility to him; and his reign was long and prosperous, and celebrated among the old people for the great abundance of corn, fruit, milk, fowl, and fish that prevailed during this happy reign. It was after the name Conn-eda the province of Connaucht, or Conneda, or Connacht, was so called.

Notes
65. The Fireside Stories of Ireland (Gill & Son, Dublin).
66. The Fireside Stories of Ireland.
67. Legendary Fiction of the Irish Celts. (Macmillan).
68. The last time Gearoidh Iarla appeared the horse-shoes were as thin as a sixpence.
69. A chap-book mentioned by Thackeray in his Irish Sketch Book.
70. Printed first in the Cambrian Journal, 1855; reprinted and re-edited in the Folk-Lore Record, vol. II.
71. Innis Fodhla — Island of Destiny, an old name for Ireland.
72. The Firbolgs believed their elysium to be under water. The peasantry still believe many lakes to be peopled. — See section on T’yeer na n-Oge.
73. Draoidheacht, i.e., the Druidic worship; magic, sorcery, divination.

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