Irish Fairy and Folk Tales

by Edited

  “I’d rather live with my mother.”

  “Foolish boy!” said the gentleman; “stop here and live in a palace.”

  “I’d rather live in my mother’s cabin.”

  “Here you can walk through gardens loaded with fruit and flowers.”

  “I’d rather,” said Shemus, “be cutting heath on the mountain.”

  “Here you can eat and drink of the best.”

  “Since I’ve got my cow, I can have milk once more with the praties.”

  “Oh!” cried the ladies, gathering round him, “sure you wouldn’t take away the cow that gives us milk for our tea?”

  “Oh!” said Shemus, “my mother wants milk as bad as anyone, and she must have it; so there is no use in your palaver—I must have my cow.”

  At this they all gathered about him and offered him bushels of gould, but he wouldn’t have anything but his cow. Seeing him as obstinate as a mule, they began to thump and beat him; but still he held fast by the horns, till at length a great blast of wind blew him out of the place, and in a moment he found himself and the cow standing on the side of the lake, the water of which looked as if it hadn’t been disturbed since Adam was a boy—and that’s a long time since.

  Well, Shemus-a-sneidh drove home his cow, and right glad his mother was to see her; but the moment she said “God bless the beast,” she sunk down like the breesha* of a turf rick. That was the end of Shemus-a-sneidh’s dun cow.

  “And, sure,” continued my companion, standing up, “it is now time for me to look after my brown cow, and God send the ganconers haven’t taken her!”

  Of this I assured him there could be no fear; and so we parted.

  HY-BRASAIL—THE ISLE OF THE BLEST

  GERALD GRIFFIN

  On the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell,

  A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell;

  Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest,

  And thy called it Hy-Brasail, the isle of the blest.

  From year unto year on the ocean’s blue rim,

  The beautiful specter showed lovely and dim;

  The golden clouds curtained the deep where it lay,

  And it looked like an Eden, away, far away!

  A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale,

  In the breeze of the Orient loosened his sail;

  From Ara, the holy, he turned to the west,

  For though Ara was holy, Hy-Brasail was blest.

  He heard not the voices that called from the shore—

  He heard not the rising wind’s menacing roar;

  Home, kindred, and safety, he left on that day,

  And he sped to Hy-Brasail, away, far away!

  Morn rose on the deep, and that shadowy isle,

  O’er the faint rim of distance, reflected its smile;

  Noon burned on the wave, and that shadowy shore

  Seemed lovelily distant, and faint as before;

  Lone evening came down on the wanderer’s track,

  And to Ara again he looked timidly back;

  Oh! far on the verge of the ocean it lay,

  Yet the isle of the blest was away, far away!

  Rash dreamer, return! O, ye winds of the main,

  Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again.

  Rash fool! for a vision of fanciful bliss,

  To barter thy calm life of labor and peace.

  The warning of reason was spoken in vain;

  He never revisited Ara again!

  Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and spray,

  And he died on the waters, away, far away!

  THE PHANTOM ISLE

  GIRALDUS CAMBRENSIS*

  Among the other islands is one newly formed, which they call the Phantom Isle, which had its origin in this manner. One calm day a large mass of earth rose to the surface of the sea, where no land had ever been seen before, to the great amazement of islanders who observed it. Some of them said that it was a whale or other immense sea monster; others, remarking that it continued motionless, said, “No; it is land.” In order, therefore, to reduce their doubts to certainty, some picked young men of the island determined to approach nearer the spot in a boat. When, however, they came so near to it that they thought they should go on shore, the island sank in the water and entirely vanished from sight. The next day it reappeared, and again mocked the same youths with the like delusion. At length, on their rowing toward it on the third day, they followed the advice of an older man, and let fly an arrow, barbed with red-hot steel, against the island; and then landing, found it stationary and habitable.

  This adds one to the many proofs that fire is the greatest of enemies to every sort of phantom; in so much that those who have seen apparitions, fall into a swoon as soon as they are sensible of the brightness of fire. For fire, both from its position and nature, is the noblest of the elements, being a witness of the secrets of the heavens.

  The sky is fiery; the planets are fiery; the bush burnt with fire, but was not consumed; the Holy Ghost sat upon the apostles in tongues of fire.

  * Fairy Legends of the South of Ireland.

  * Children.

  * Dublin and London Magazine, 1825.

  * Ir. gean-canach—i.e., love-talker, a kind of fairy appearing in lonesome valleys, a dudeen (tobacco-pipe) in his mouth, making love to milkmaids, etc.

  † A thousand murders.

  * Ir. cipin—i.e., a stick, a twig.

  * Otherwise “gumshun—” i.e., sense, cuteness.

  † Ir. B’éidir sin—i.e., “that is possible.”

  * Ir. briseadh—i.e., breaking.

  * “Giraldus Cambrensis” was born in 1146, and wrote a celebrated account of Ireland.

  SAINTS, PRIESTS

  Everywhere in Ireland are the holy wells. People as they pray by them make little piles of stones, that will be counted at the last day and the prayers reckoned up. Sometimes they tell stories. These following are their stories. They deal with the old times, whereof King Alfred of Northumberland wrote:

  “I found in Innisfail the fair,

  In Ireland, while in exile there,

  Women of worth, both grave and gay men,

  Many clericks and many laymen.

  Gold and silver I found, and money,

  Plenty of wheat, and plenty of honey;

  I found God’s people rich in pity,

  Found many a feast, and many a city.”

  There are no martyrs in the stories. That ancient chronicler Giraldus taunted the Archbishop of Cashel because no one in Ireland had received the crown of martyrdom. “Our people may be barbarous,” the prelate answered, “but they have never lifted their hands against God’s saints; but now that a people have come among us who know how to make them (it was just after the English invasion), we shall have martyrs plentifully.”

  The bodies of saints are fastidious things. At a place called Four-mile-Water, in Wexford, there is an old graveyard full of saints. Once it was on the other side of the river, but they buried a rogue there, and the whole graveyard moved across in the night, leaving the rogue-corpse in solitude. It would have been easier to move merely the rogue-corpse, but they were saints, and had to do things in style.

  THE PRIEST’S SOUL*

  LADY WILDE

  In former days there were great schools in Ireland, where every sort of learning was taught to the people, and even the poorest had more knowledge at that time than many a gentleman has now. But as to the priests, their learning was above all, so that the fame of Ireland went over the whole world, and many kings from foreign lands used to send their sons all the way to Ireland to be brought up in the Irish schools.

  Now, at this time there was a little boy learning at one of them who was a wonder to everyone for his cleverness. His parents were only laboring people, and of course poor; but young as he was, and as poor as he was, no king’s or lord’s son could come up to him in learning. Even the masters were put to shame; for when they were trying to teach him he would tell them somethi
ng they never heard of before, and show them their ignorance. One of his great triumphs was in argument; and he would go on till he proved to you that black was white, and then when you gave in, for no one could beat him in talk, he would turn round and show you that white was black, or maybe that there was no color at all in the world. When he grew up his poor father and mother were so proud of him that they resolved to make him a priest, which they did at last, though they nearly starved themselves to get the money. Well, such another learned man was not in Ireland, and he was as great in argument as ever, so that no one could stand before him. Even the bishops tried to talk to him, but he showed them at once they knew nothing at all.

  Now, there were no schoolmasters in those times, but it was the priests taught the people; and as this man was the cleverest in Ireland, all the foreign kings sent their sons to him, as long as he had house room to give them. So he grew very proud, and began to forget how low he had been, and worst of all, even to forget God, who had made him what he was. And the pride of arguing got hold of him, so that from one thing to another he went on to prove that there was no Purgatory, and then no Hell, and then no Heaven, and then no God; and at last that men had no souls, but were no more than a dog or a cow, and when they died there was an end of them. “Whoever saw a soul?” he would say. “If you can show me one, I will believe.” No one could make any answer to this; and at last they all came to believe that as there was no other world, everyone might do what they liked in this; the priest setting the example, for he took a beautiful young girl to wife. But as no priest or bishop in the whole land could be got to marry them, he was obliged to read the service over for himself. It was a great scandal, yet no one dared to say a word, for all the kings’ sons were on his side, and would have slaughtered anyone who tried to prevent his wicked goings-on. Poor boys; they all believed in him, and thought every word he said was the truth. In this way his notions began to spread about, and the whole world was going to the bad, when one night an angel came down from Heaven, and told the priest he had but twenty-four hours to live. He began to tremble, and asked for a little more time.

  But the angel was stiff, and told him that could not be.

  “What do you want time for, you sinner?” he asked.

  “Oh, sir, have pity on my poor soul!” urged the priest.

  “Oh, no! You have a soul, then,” said the angel. “Pray, how did you find that out?”

  “It has been fluttering in me ever since you appeared,” answered the priest. “What a fool I was not to think of it before.”

  “A fool, indeed,” said the angel. “What good was all your learning, when it could not tell you that you had a soul?”

  “Ah, my lord,” said the priest, “if I am to die, tell me how soon I may be in Heaven?”

  “Never,” replied the angel. “You denied there was a Heaven.”

  “Then, my lord, may I go to Purgatory?”

  “You denied Purgatory also; you must go straight to Hell,” said the angel.

  “But, my lord, I denied Hell also,” answered the priest, “so you can’t send me there either.”

  The angel was a little puzzled.

  “Well,” said he, “I’ll tell you what I can do for you. You may either live now on earth for a hundred years, enjoying every pleasure, and then be cast into Hell for ever; or you may die in twenty-four hours in the most horrible torments, and pass through Purgatory, there to remain till the Day of Judgment, if only you can find some one person that believes, and through his belief mercy will be vouchsafed to you, and your soul will be saved.”

  The priest did not take five minutes to make up his mind.

  “I will have death in the twenty-four hours,” he said, “so that my soul may be saved at last.”

  On this the angel gave him directions as to what he was to do, and left him.

  Then immediately the priest entered the large room where all the scholars and the kings’ sons were seated, and called out to them:

  “Now, tell me the truth, and let none fear to contradict me; tell me what is your belief—have men souls?”

  “Master,” they answered, “once we believed that men had souls; but thanks to your teaching, we believe so no longer. There is no Hell, and no Heaven, and no God. This is our belief, for it is thus you taught us.”

  Then the priest grew pale with fear, and cried out: “Listen! I taught you a lie. There is a God, and man has an immortal soul. I believe now all I denied before.”

  But the shouts of laughter that rose up drowned the priest’s voice, for they thought he was only trying them for argument.

  “Prove it, master,” they cried. “Prove it. Who has ever seen God? Who has ever seen the soul?”

  And the room was stirred with their laughter.

  The priest stood up to answer them, but no word could he utter. All his eloquence, all his powers of argument had gone from him; and he could do nothing but wring his hands and cry out, “There is a God! there is a God! Lord have mercy on my soul!”

  And they all began to mock him and repeat his own words that he had taught them:

  “Show him to us; show us your God.” And he fled from them groaning with agony, for he saw that none believed; and how, then, could his soul be saved?

  But he thought next of his wife. “She will believe,” he said to himself; “women never give up God.”

  And he went to her; but she told him that she believed only what he had taught her, and that a good wife should believe in her husband first and before and above all things in Heaven or earth.

  Then despair came on him, and he rushed from the house, and began to ask every one he met if they believed. But the same answer came from one and all: “We believe only what you have taught us,” for his doctrine had spread far and wide through the country.

  Then he grew half mad with fear, for the hours were passing, and he flung himself down on the ground in a lonesome spot, and wept and groaned in terror, for the time was coming fast when he must die.

  Just then a little child came by. “God save you kindly,” said the child to him.

  The priest started up.

  “Do you believe in God?” he asked.

  “I have come from a far country to learn about him,” said the child. “Will your honor direct me to the best school they have in these parts?”

  “The best school and the best teacher is close by,” said the priest, and he named himself.

  “Oh, not to that man,” answered the child, “for I am told he denies God, and Heaven, and Hell, and even that man has a soul, because he cannot see it; but I would soon put him down.”

  The priest looked at him earnestly. “How?” he inquired.

  “Why,” said the child, “I would ask him if he believed he had life to show me his life.”

  “But he could not do that, my child,” said the priest. “Life cannot be seen; we have it, but it is invisible.”

  “Then if we have life, though we cannot see it, we may also have a soul, though it is invisible,” answered the child.

  When the priest heard him speak these words, he fell down on his knees before him, weeping for joy, for now he knew his soul was safe; he had met one at last that believed. And he told the child his whole story—all his wickedness, and pride, and blasphemy against the great God; and how the angel had come to him, and told him of the only way in which he could be saved, through the faith and prayers of someone that believed.

  “Now, then,” he said to the child, “take this penknife and strike it into my breast, and go on stabbing the flesh until you see the paleness of death on my face. Then watch—for a living thing will soar up from my body as I die, and you will then know that my soul has ascended to the presence of God. And when you see this thing, make haste and run to my school, and call on all my scholars to come and see that the soul of their master has left the body, and that all he taught them was a lie, for that there is a God who punishes sin, and a Heaven, and a Hell, and that man has an immortal soul destined for eternal hap
piness or misery.”

  “I will pray,” said the child, “to have courage to do this work.” And he kneeled down and prayed. Then he rose and took the penknife and struck it into the priest’s heart, and struck and struck again till all the flesh was lacerated; but still the priest lived, though the agony was horrible, for he could not die until the twenty-four hours had expired.

  At last the agony seemed to cease, and the stillness of death settled on his face. Then the child, who was watching, saw a beautiful living creature, with four snow-white wings, mount from the dead man’s body into the air and go fluttering round his head.

  So he ran to bring the scholars; and when they saw it, they all knew it was the soul of their master; and they watched with wonder and awe until it passed from sight into the clouds.

  And this was the first butterfly that was ever seen in Ireland; and now all men know that the butterflies are the souls of the dead, waiting for the moment when they may enter Purgatory, and so pass through torture to purification and peace.

  But the schools of Ireland were quite deserted after that time, for people said, What is the use of going so far to learn, when the wisest man in all Ireland did not know if he had a soul till he was near losing it, and was only saved at last through the simple belief of a little child?

  THE PRIEST OF COLOONY

  W. B. YEATS

  Good Father John O’Hart

  In penal days rode out

  To a shoneen* in his freelands,

  With his snipe marsh and his trout.

  In trust took he John’s lands,

  —Sleiveens† were all his race—

  And he gave them as dowers to his daughters,

  And they married beyond their place.

  But Father John went up,

  And Father John went down;

  And he wore small holes in his shoes,

  And he wore large holes in his gown.

  All loved him, only the shoneen,

  Whom the devils have by the hair,

  From their wives and their cats and their children