Irish Fairy and Folk Tales

by Edited

  “ ‘Where is it goin’?’ asked one. ‘My life for you, it’s on its way to Meeting. Three cheers for it if it turns to Carntaul.’ ‘Prod the sowl out of it, if it’s a Prodestan’,’ shouted the others; ‘if it turns to the left, slice it into pancakes. We’ll have no Prodestan’ puddens here.’

  “Begad, by this time the people were on the point of beginnin’ to have a regular fight about it, when, very fortunately, it took a short turn down a little by-lane that led toward the Methodist praichin-house, an’ in an instant all parties were in an uproar against it as a Methodist pudden. ‘It’s a Wesleyan,’ shouted several voices; ‘an’ by this an’ by that, into a Methodist chapel it won’t put a foot to-day, or we’ll lose a fall. Let the wind out of it. Come, boys, where’s your pitchforks?’

  “The divle purshuin to the one of them, however, ever could touch the pudden, an’ jist when they thought they had it up against the gavel of the Methodist chapel, begad it gave them the slip, and hops over to the left, clane into the river, and sails away before all their eyes as light as an egg-shell.

  “Now, it so happened that a little below this place, the demesne-wall of Colonel Bragshaw was built up to the very edge of the river on each side of its banks; and so findin’ there was a stop put to their pursuit of it, they went home again, every man, woman, and child of them, puzzled to think what the pudden was at all, what it meant, or where it was goin’! Had Jack Rafferty an’ his wife been willin’ to let out the opinion they held about Harry Connolly bewitchin’ it, there is no doubt of it but poor Harry might be badly trated by the crowd, when their blood was up. They had sense enough, howandiver, to keep that to themselves, for Harry bein’ an’ ould bachelor, was a kind friend to the Raffertys. So, of coorse, there was all kinds of talk about it—some guessin’ this, and some guessin’ that—one party sayin’ the pudden was of there side, another party denyin’ it, an’ insistin’ it belonged to them, an’ so on.

  “In the manetime, Katty Rafferty, for ’fraid the dinner might come short, went home and made another pudden much about the same size as the one that had escaped, and bringin’ it over to their next neighbor, Paddy Scanlan’s, it was put into a pot and placed on the fire to boil, hopin’ that it might be done in time, espishilly as they were to have the ministher, who loved a warm slice of a good pudden as well as e’er a gintleman in Europe.

  “Anyhow, the day passed; Moll and Gusty were made man an’ wife, an’ no two could be more lovin’. Their friends that had been asked to the weddin’ were saunterin’ about in pleasant little groups till dinner-time, chattin’ an’ laughin’; but, above all things, sthrivin’ to account for the figaries of the pudden; for, to tell the truth, its adventures had now gone through the whole parish.

  “Well, at any rate, dinner-time was dhrawin’ near, and Paddy Scanlan was sittin’ comfortably wid his wife at the fire, the pudden boilen before their eyes, when in walks Harry Connolly, in a flutter, shoutin’—‘Blood an’ blunderbushes, what are yez here for?’

  “ ‘Arra, why, Harry—why, avick?’ said Mrs. Scanlan.

  “ ‘Why,’ said Harry, ‘the sun’s in the suds an’ the moon in the high Horicks! Here’s a clipstick comin’ an, an’ there you sit as unconsarned as if it was about to rain mether! Go out both of you, an’ look at the sun, I say, and ye’ll see the condition he’s in—off!’

  “ ‘Ay, but, Harry, what’s that rowled up in the tail of your cothamore* (big coat)?’

  “ ‘Out wid yez,’ said Harry, ‘an’ pray aginst the clipstick—the sky’s fallin’!’

  “Begad, it was hard to say whether Paddy or the wife got out first, they were so much alarmed by Harry’s wild, thin face an’ piercin’ eyes; so out they went to see what was wondherful in the sky, an’ kep’ lookin’ an’ lookin’ in every direction, but not a thing was to be seen, barrin’ the sun shinin’ down wid great good humor, an’ not a single cloud in the sky.

  “Paddy an’ the wife now came in laughin’, to scould Harry, who, no doubt, was a great wag in his way when he wished. ‘Musha, bad scran to you, Harry—–.’ They had time to say no more, howandiver, for, as they were goin’ into the door, they met him comin’ out of it wid a reek of smoke out of his tail like a lime-kiln.

  “ ‘Harry,’ shouted Bridget, ‘my sowl to glory, but the tail of your cothamore’s a-fire—you’ll be burned. Don’t you see the smoke that’s out of it?’

  “ ‘Cross yourselves three times,’ said Harry, widout stop-pin’, or even lookin’ behind him, ‘for, as the prophecy says—Fill the pot, Eddy—–’ They could hear no more, for Harry appeared to feel like a man that carried something a great deal hotter than he wished, as anyone might see by the liveliness of his motions, and the quare faces he was forced to make as he went along.

  “ ‘What the dickens is he carryin’ in the skirts of his big coat?’ asked Paddy.

  “ ‘My sowl to happiness, but maybe he has stole the pudden,’ said Bridget, ‘for it’s known that many a sthrange thing he does.’

  “They immediately examined the pot, but found that the pudden was there as safe as tuppence, an’ this puzzled them the more, to think what it was he could be carryin’ about wid him in the manner he did. But little they knew what he had done while they were sky-gazin’!

  “Well, anyhow, the day passed and the dinner was ready, an’ no doubt but a fine gatherin’ there was to partake of it. The Prosbytarian ministher met the Methodist praicher—a divilish stretcher of an appetite he had, in throth—on their way to Jack Rafferty’s, an’ as he knew he could take the liberty, why he insisted on his dinin’ wid him; for, afther all, begad, in thim times the clargy of all descriptions lived upon the best footin’ among one another, not all as one as now—but no matther. Well, they had nearly finished their dinner, when Jack Rafferty himself axed Katty for the pudden; but, jist as he spoke, in it came as big as a mess-pot.

  “ ‘Gintlemen,’ said he, ‘I hope none of you will refuse tastin’ a bit of Katty’s pudden; I don’t mane the dancin’ one that tuck to its thravels to-day, but a good solid fellow that she med since.’

  “ ‘To be sure we won’t,’ replied the priest; ‘so, Jack put a thrifle on them three plates at your right hand, and send them over here to the clargy, an’ maybe,’ he said, laughin’—for he was a droll, good-humored man—‘maybe, Jack, we won’t set you a proper example.’

  “ ‘Wid a heart an’ a half, yer reverence an’ gintlemen; in throth, it’s not a bad example ever any of you set us at the likes, or ever will set us, I’ll go bail. An’ sure I only wish it was betther fare I had for you; but we’re humble people, gintlemen, and so you can’t expect to meet here what you would in higher places.’

  “ ‘Betther a male of herbs,’ said the Methodist praicher, ‘where pace is—–.’ He had time to go no farther, however; for much to his amazement, the priest and the minister started up from the table just as he was goin’ to swallow the first spoonful of the pudden, and before you could say Jack Robinson, started away at a lively jig down the floor.

  “At this moment a neighbor’s son came runnin’ in, an’ tould them that the parson was comin’ to see the new-married couple, an’ wish them all happiness; an’ the words were scarcely out of his mouth when he made his appearance. What to think he knew not, when he saw the ministher footing it away at the rate of a weddin’. He had very little time, however, to think; for, before he could sit down, up starts the Methodist praicher, and clappin’ his two fists in his sides chimes in in great style along wid him.

  “ ‘Jack Rafferty,’ says he—and, by the way, Jack was his tenant—‘what the dickens does all this mane?’ says he; ‘I’m amazed!’

  “ ‘The not a particle o’ me can tell you,’ says Jack; ‘but will your reverence jist taste a morsel o’ pudden, merely that the young couple may boast that you ait at their weddin’; for sure if you wouldn’t, who would?’

  “ ‘Well,’ says he, ‘to gratify them I will; so just a morsel. But, Jack, this bates Bannagher,’ says h
e again, puttin’ the spoonful o’ pudden into his mouth; ‘has there been dhrink here?’

  “ ‘Oh, the divle a spudh,’ says Jack, ‘for although there’s plinty in the house, faith, it appears the gintlemen wouldn’t wait for it. Unless they tuck it elsewhere, I can make nothin’ of this.’

  “He had scarcely spoken, when the parson, who was an active man, cut a caper a yard high, an’ before you could bless yourself, the three clargy were hard at work dancin’, as if for a wager. Begad, it would be unpossible for me to tell you the state the whole meetin’ was in when they seen this. Some were hoarse wid laughin’; some turned up their eyes wid wondher; many thought them mad, an’ others thought they had turned up their little fingers a thrifle too often.

  “ ‘Be goxty, it’s a burnin’ shame,’ said one, ‘to see three black-mouth clargy in sich a state at this early hour!’ ‘Thundher an’ ounze, what’s over them at all?’ says others; ‘why, one would think they’re bewitched, Holy Moses, look at the caper the Methodis cuts! An’ as for the Rechter, who would think he could handle his feet at such a rate! Be this an’ be that, he cuts the buckle, and does the threblin’ step aiquil to Paddy Horaghan, the dancin’-masther himself! An’ see! Bad cess to the morsel of the parson that’s not hard at Peace upon a trancher, an’ it of a Sunday too! Whirroo, gintlemen, the fun’s in yez afther all—whish! more power to yez!’

  “The sorra’s own fun they had, an’ no wondher; but judge of what they felt, when all at once they saw ould Jack Rafferty himself bouncin’ in among them, and footing it away like the best o’ them. Bedah, no play could come up to it, an’ nothin’ could be heard but laughin’, shouts of encouragement, and clappin’ of hands like mad. Now the minute Jack Rafferty left the chair where he had been carvin’ the pudden, ould Harry Connolly comes over and claps himself down in his place, in ordher to send it round, of coorse; an’ he was scarcely sated, when who should make his appearance but Barney Hartigan, the piper. Barney, by the way, had been sent for early in the day, but bein’ from home when the message for him went, he couldn’t come any sooner.

  “ ‘Begorra,’ said Barney, ‘you’re airly at the work, gintlemen! but what does this mane? But, divle may care, yez shan’t want the music while there’s a blast in the pipes, anyhow!’ So sayin’ he gave them Jig Polthogue, an’ after that Kiss my Lady, in his best style.

  “In the manetime the fun went on thick an’ threefold, for it must be remimbered that Harry, the ould knave, was at the pudden; an’ maybe he didn’t sarve it about in double quick time too. The first he helped was the bride, and, before you could say chopstick, she was at it hard an’ fast before the Methodist praicher, who gave a jolly spring before her that threw them into convulsions. Harry liked this, and made up his mind soon to find partners for the rest; so he accordianly sent the pudden about like lightnin’; an’ to make a long story short, barrin’ the piper an’ himself, there wasn’t a pair o’ heels in the house but was as busy at the dancin’ as if their lives depinded on it.

  “ ‘Barney,’ says Harry, ‘just taste a morsel o’ this pudden; divle the such a bully of a pudden ever you ett; here, your sowl! thry a snig of it—it’s beautiful.’

  “ ‘To be sure I will,’ says Barney. ‘I’m not the boy to refuse a good thing; but, Harry, be quick, for you know my hands is engaged, an’ it would be a thousand pities not to keep them in music, an’ they so well inclined. Thank you, Harry; begad that is a famous pudden; but blood an’ turnips, what’s this for?’

  “The word was scarcely out of his mouth when he bounced up, pipes an’ all, an’ dashed into the middle of the party. ‘Hur-roo, your sowls, let us make a night of it! The Ballyboulteen boys for ever! Go it, your reverence—turn your partner—heel an’ toe, ministher. Good! Well done again—Whish! Hurroo! Here’s for Ballyboulteen, an’ the sky over it!’

  “Bad luck to the sich a set ever was seen together in this world, or will again, I suppose. The worst, however, wasn’t come yet, for jist as they were in the very heat an’ fury of the dance, what do you think comes hoppin’ in among them but another pudden, as nimble an’ merry as the first! That was enough; they all had heard of—the ministhers among the rest—an’ most o’ them had seen the other pudden, and knew that there must be a fairy in it, sure enough. Well, as I said, in it comes to the thick o’ them; but the very appearance of it was enough. Off the three clargy danced, and off the whole weddiners danced afther them, every one makin’ the best of their way home; but not a sowl of them able to break out of the step, if they were to be hanged for it. Throth it wouldn’t lave a laugh in you to see the parson dancin’ down the road on his way home, and the ministher and Methodist praicher cuttin’ the buckle as they went along in the opposite direction. To make short work of it, they all danced home at last, wid scarce a puff of wind in them; the bride and bridegroom danced away to bed; an’ now, boys, come an’ let us dance the Horo Lheig in the barn ’idout. But you see, boys, before we go, an’ in ordher that I may make everything plain, I had as good tell you that Harry, in crossing the bridge of Ballyboulteen, a couple of miles below Squire Bragshaw’s demesne-wall, saw the pudden floatin’ down the river—the truth is he was waitin’ for it; but be this as it may, he took it out, for the wather had made it as clane as a new pin, and tuckin’ it up in the tail of his big coat, contrived, as you all guess, I suppose, to change it while Paddy Scanlan an’ the wife were examinin’ the sky; an’ for the other, he contrived to bewitch it in the same manner, by gettin’ a fairy to go into it, for, indeed, it was purty well known that the same Harry was hand an’ glove wid the good people. Others will tell you that it was half a pound of quicksilver he put into it; but that doesn’t stand to raison. At any rate, boys, I have tould you the adventures of the Mad Pudden of Ballyboulteen; but I don’t wish to tell you many other things about it that happened—for fraid I’d tell a lie.”*

  * In Connaught called a “mweeal” cow—i.e., a cow without horns. Irish maol, literally, blunt. When the new hammerless breech-loaders came into use two or three years ago, Mr. Douglas Hyde heard a Connaught gentleman speak of them as the “mweeal” guns, because they had no cocks.

  * Dublin University Review, 1839.

  * Dublin University Magazine, 1839.

  † Aghavoe—“the field of kine”—a beautiful and romantic village near Borris-in-Ossory, in the Queen’s County. It was once a place of considerable importance, and for centuries the episcopal seat of the diocese of Ossory, but for ages back it has gone to decay, and is now remarkable for nothing but the magnificent ruins of a priory of the Dominicans, erected here at an early period by St. Canice, the patron saint of Ossory.

  * It was once a common practice in Ireland to nail a piece of horseshoe on the threshold of the door, as a preservative against the influence of the fairies, who, it is thought, dare not enter any house thus guarded. This custom, however, is much on the wane, but still is prevalent in some of the more uncivilized districts of the country.

  * Red-haired people are thought to possess magic power.

  * Ancient Legends of Ireland.

  * Sliábh-na-mban—i.e., mountains of the women.

  * Fictions of the Irish Celts.

  † Irish, Séumus Ruadh. The Celtic vocal organs are unable to pronounce the letter j, hence they make Shon or Shawn of John, or Shamus of James, etc.

  * Ir., Birreud—i.e., a cap.

  * Irish, caipin dearg—i.e., red cap.

  * Bohereen, or bogheen, i.e., a green lane.

  † Berrin, burying.

  † Shamous, James.

  * ’Cute, acute.

  * Inch, low meadow ground near a river.

  * Worse, more.

  * Daoine maithe, i.e., the good people.

  * Perhaps from Irish dilse—i.e., love.

  * Put it under fairy influence.

  * Irish, cóta mór.

  * Some will insist that a fairy-man or fairy-woman has the power to bewitch a pudding by putting a fairy into it; while others maintain that a co
mpetent portion of quicksilver will make it dance over half the parish.

  T’YEER-NA-N-OGE

  There is a country called Tir-na-n-Og, which means the Country of the Young, for age and death have not found it; neither tears nor loud laughter have gone near it. The shadiest boskage covers it perpetually. One man has gone there and returned. The bard, Olsen, who wandered away on a white horse, moving on the surface of the foam with his fairy Niamh, lived there three hundred years, and then returned looking for his comrades. The moment his foot touched the earth his three hundred years fell on him, and he was bowed double, and his beard swept the ground. He described his sojourn in the Land of Youth to Patrick before he died. Since then many have seen it in many places; some in the depths of lakes, and have heard rising there-from a vague sound of bells; more have seen it far off on the horizon, as they peered out from the western cliffs. Not three years ago a fisherman imagined that he saw it. It never appears unless to announce some national trouble.

  There are many kindred beliefs. A Dutch pilot, settled in Dublin, told M. De La Boullage Le Cong, who travelled in Ireland in 1614, that round the poles were many islands; some hard to be approached because of the witches who inhabit them and destroy by storms those who seek to land. He had once, off the coast of Greenland, in sixty-one degrees of latitude, seen and approached such an island only to see it vanish. Sailing in an opposite direction, they met with the same island, and sailing near, were almost destroyed by a furious tempest.

  According to many stories, Tir-na-n-Og is the favorite dwelling of the fairies. Some say it is triple—the island of the living, the island of victories, and an underwater land.]