Irish Fairy and Folk Tales

by Edited

  To the birds in the white of the air.

  The birds, for he opened their cages,

  As he went up and down;

  And he said with a smile, “Have peace now,”

  And went his way with a frown.

  But if when anyone died,

  Came keeners hoarser than rooks,

  He bade them give over their keening,

  For he was a man of books.

  And these were the works of John,

  When weeping score by score,

  People came into Coloony,

  For he’d died at ninety-four.

  There was no human keening;

  The birds from Knocknarea,

  And the world round Knocknashee,

  Came keening in that day,—

  Keening from Innismurry,

  Nor stayed for bit or sup;

  This way were all reproved

  Who dig old customs up.

  [Coloony is a few miles south of the town of Sligo. Father O’Hart lived there in the last century, and was greatly beloved. These lines accurately record the tradition. No one who has held the stolen land has prospered. It has changed owners many times.]

  THE STORY OF THE LITTLE BIRD*

  T. CROFTON CROKER

  Many years ago there was a very religious and holy man, one of the monks of a convent, and he was one day kneeling at his prayers in the garden of his monastery, when he heard a little bird singing in one of the rose trees of the garden, and there never was anything that he had heard in the world so sweet as the song of that little bird.

  And the holy man rose up from his knees where he was kneeling at his prayers to listen to its song; for he thought he never in all his life heard anything so heavenly.

  And the little bird, after singing for some time longer on the rose tree, flew away to a grove at some distance from the monastery, and the holy man followed it to listen to its singing, for he felt as if he would never be tired of listening to the sweet song it was singing out of its throat.

  And the little bird after that went away to another distant tree, and sang there for a while, and then to another tree, and so on in the same manner, but ever further and further away from the monastery, and the holy man still following it farther and farther and farther, still listening delighted to its enchanting song.

  But at last he was obliged to give up, as it was growing late in the day, and he returned to the convent; and as he approached it in the evening, the sun was setting in the west with all the most heavenly colors that were ever seen in the world, and when he came into the convent, it was nightfall.

  And he was quite surprised at everything he saw, for they were all strange faces about him in the monastery that he had never seen before, and the very place itself, and everything about it, seemed to be strangely altered; and, altogether, it seemed entirely different from what it was when he had left in the morning; and the garden was not like the garden where he had been kneeling at his devotion when he first heard the singing of the little bird.

  And while he was wondering at all he saw, one of the monks of the convent came up to him, and the holy man questioned him, “Brother, what is the cause of all these strange changes that have taken place here since the morning?”

  And the monk that he spoke to seemed to wonder greatly at his question, and asked him what he meant by the change since morning; for, sure, there was no change; that all was just as before. And then he said, “Brother, why do you ask these strange questions, and what is your name? For you wear the habit of our order, though we have never seen you before.”

  So upon this the holy man told his name, and said that he had been at mass in the chapel in the morning before he had wandered away from the garden listening to the song of a little bird that was singing among the rose trees, near where he was kneeling at his prayers.

  And the brother, while he was speaking, gazed at him very earnestly, and then told him that there was in the convent a tradition of a brother of his name, who had left it two hundred years before, but that what was become of him was never known.

  And while he was speaking, the holy man said, “My hour of death is come; blessed be the name of the Lord for all his mercies to me, through the merits of his only begotten Son.”

  And he kneeled down that very moment, and said, “Brother, take my confession, for my soul is departing.”

  And he made his confession, and received his absolution, and was anointed, and before midnight he died.

  The little bird, you see, was an angel, one of the cherubim or seraphim; and that was the way the Almighty was pleased in His mercy to take to Himself the soul of that holy man.

  CONVERSION OF KING LAOGHAIRE’S DAUGHTERS

  Once when Patrick and his clerics were sitting beside a well in the Rath of Croghan, with books open on their knees, they saw coming toward them the two only daughters of the King of Connaught. ’Twas early morning, and they were going to the well to bathe.

  The young girls said to Patrick, “Whence are ye, and whence come ye?” and Patrick answered, “It were better for you to confess to the true God than to inquire concerning our race.”

  “Who is God,” said the young girls, “and where is God, and of what nature is God, and where is His dwelling place? Has your God sons and daughters, gold and silver? Is He everlasting? Is He beautiful? Did Mary foster her son? Are His daughters dear and beauteous to men of the world? Is He in heaven or on earth, in the sea, in rivers, in mountainous places, in valleys?”

  Patrick answered them, and made known who God was, and they believed and were baptized, and a white garment put upon their heads; and Patrick asked them would they live on, or would they die and behold the face of Christ? They chose death, and died immediately, and were buried near the well Clebach.

  KING O’TOOLE AND HIS GOOSE

  S. LOVER

  “By Gor, I thought all the world, far and near, heerd o’ King O’Toole—well, well, but the darkness of mankind is ontellible! Well, sir, you must know, as you didn’t hear it afore, that there was a king called King O’Toole, who was a fine ould king in the ould ancient times, long ago; and it was him that owned the churches in the early days. The king, you see, was the right sort; he was the rale boy, and loved sport as he loved his life, and huntin’ in partic’lar; and from the risin’ o’ the sun, up he got, and away he wint over the mountains beyant afther the deer; and the fine times them woor.

  “Well, it was all mighty good, as long as the king had his health; but, you see, in coorse of time the king grew ould, by raison he was stiff in his limbs, and when he got sthriken in years, his heart failed him, and he was lost intirely for want o’ divarshin, bekase he couldn’t go a huntin’ no longer; and, by dad, the poor king was obleeged at last for to get a goose to divart him. Oh, you may laugh, if you like, but it’s truth I’m tellin’ you; and the way the goose divarted him was this-a-way: You see, the goose used for to swim across the lake, and go divin’ for throut, and cotch fish on a Friday for the king, and flew every other day round about the lake, divartin’ the poor king. All went on mighty well, antil, by dad, the goose got sthriken in years like her master, and couldn’t divart him no longer, and then it was that the poor king was lost complate. The king was walkin’ one mornin’ by the edge of the lake, lamentin’ his cruel fate, and thinkin’ o’ drownin’ himself, that could get no divarshun in life, when all of a suddint, turnin’ round the corner beyant, who should he meet but a mighty dacent young man comin’ up to him.

  “ ‘God save you,’ says the king to the young man.

  “ ‘God save you kindly, King O’Toole,’ says the young man. ‘Thrue for you,’ says the king. “I am King O’Toole,’ says he, ‘prince and plennypennytinchery o’ these parts,’ says he; ‘but how kem ye to know that?’ says he. ‘Oh, never mind,’ says Saint Kavin.

  “You see it was Saint Kavin, sure enough—the saint himself in disguise, and nobody else. ‘Oh, never mind,’ says he, ‘I know more than that. May I make bowld to ax how is your
goose, King O’Toole?’ says he. ‘Blur-an-agers, how kem ye to know about my goose?’ says the king. ‘Oh, no matther; I was given to understand it,’ says Saint Kavin. After some more talk the king says, ‘What are you?’ ‘I’m an honest man,’ says Saint Kavin. ‘Well, honest man,’ says the king, ‘and how is it you make your money so aisy?’ ‘By makin’ ould things as good as new,’ says Saint Kavin. ‘Is it a tinker you are?’ says the king. ‘No,’ says the saint; ‘I’m no tinker by thrade, King O’Toole; I’ve a better thrade than a tinker,’ says he—‘what would you say,’ says he, ‘if I made your ould goose as good as new?’

  “My dear, at the word o’ making his goose as good as new, you’d think the poor ould king’s eyes was ready to jump out iv his head. With that the king whistled, and down kem the poor goose, all as one as a hound, waddlin’ up to the poor cripple, her masther, and as like him as two pays. The minute the saint clapt his eyes on the goose, ‘I’ll do the job for you,’ says he, ‘King O’Toole.’ ‘By Jaminee!’ says King O’Toole, ‘if you do, bud I’ll say you’re the cleverest fellow in the sivin parishes.’ ‘Oh, by dad,’ says Saint Kavin, ‘you must say more nor that—my horn’s not so soft all out,’ says he, ‘as to repair your ould goose for nothin’; what’ll you gi’ me if I do the job for you?—that’s the chat,’ says Saint Kavin. ‘I’ll give you whatever you ax,’ says the king; ‘isn’t that fair?’ ‘Divil a fairer,’ says the saint; ‘that’s the way to do business. Now,’ says he, ‘this is the bargain I’ll make with you, King O’Toole: Will you gi’ me all the ground the goose flies over, the first offer, afther I make her as good as new?’ ‘I will,’ says the king. ‘You won’t go back on your word?’ says Saint Kavin. ‘Honor bright!’ says King O’Toole, howldin’ out his fist, ‘Honor bright,’ says Saint Kavin, back again, ‘it’s a bargain. Come here!’ says he to the poor ould goose—‘come here, you unfort’nate ould cripple, and it’s I that’ll make you the sportin’ bird.’ With that, my dear, he took up the goose by the two wings—‘Criss o’ my crass an you,’ says he, markin’ her to grace with the blessed sign at the same minute—and throwin’ her up in the air, ‘whew,’ says he, just givin’ her a blast to help her; and with that, my jewel, she tuk to her heels, flyin’ like one o’ the aigles themselves, and cuttin’ as many capers as a swallow before a shower of rain.

  “Well, my dear, it was a beautiful sight to see the king standin’ with his mouth open, lookin’ at his poor ould goose flyin’ as light as a lark, and betther nor ever she was: and when she lit at his fut, patted her an the head, and, ‘Ma vourneen,’ says he, ‘but you are the darlint o’ the world.’ ‘And what do you say to me,’ says Saint Kavin, ‘for makin’ her the like?’ ‘By gor,’ says the king, ‘I say nothin’ bates the art o’ man, barrin’ the bees.’ ‘And do you say no more nor that?’ says Saint Kavin. ‘And that I’m behoulden to you,’ says the king. ‘But will you gi’e me all the ground the goose flew over?’ says Saint Kavin. ‘I will,’ says King O’Toole, ‘and you’re welkim to it,’ says he, ‘though it’s the last acre I have to give.’ ‘But you’ll keep your word thrue?’ says the saint. ‘As thrue as the sun,’ says the king. ‘It’s well for you, King O’Toole, that you said that word,’ says he; ‘for if you didn’t say that word, the devil receave the bit o’ your goose id ever fly agin.’ When the king was as good as his word, Saint Kavin was plazed with him, and thin it was that he made himself known to the king. ‘And,’ says he, ‘King O’Toole, you’re a decent man, for I only kem here to thry you. You don’t know me,’ says he, ‘bekase I’m disguised.’ ‘Musha! thin,’ says the king, ‘who are you?’ ‘I’m Saint Kavin,’ said the skint, blessin’ himself. ‘Oh, queen iv heaven!’ says the king, makin’ the sign o’ the crass betune his eyes, and fallin’ down on his knees before the saint; ‘is it the great Saint Kavin,’ says he, ‘that I’ve been discoorsin’ all this time without knowin’ it,’ says he, ‘all as one as if he was a lump iv a gossoon?—and so you’re a saint?’ says the king. ‘I am,’ says Saint Kavin. ‘By gor, I thought I was only talking to a dacent boy,’ says the king. ‘Well, you know the differ now,’ says the saint. ‘I’m Saint Kavin,’ says he, ‘the greatest of all the saints.’ And so the king had his goose as good as new, to divart him as long as he lived: and the saint supported him afther he kem into his property, as I tould you, until the day iv his death—and that was soon afther; for the poor goose thought he was ketchin’ a throut one Friday; but, my jewel, it was a mistake he made—and instead of a throut, it was a thievin’ horse-eel; and by gor, instead iv the goose killin’ a throut for the king’s supper—by dad, the eel killed the king’s goose—and small blame to him; but he didn’t ate her, bekase he darn’t ate what Saint Kavin laid his blessed hands on.”

  * Ancient Legends of Ireland.

  * Shoneen—i.e., upstart.

  † Sleiveen—i.e., mean fellow.

  * Amulet, 1827. T. C. Croker wrote this, he says, word for word as he heard it from an old woman at a holy well.

  THE DEVIL

  THE DEMON CAT*

  LADY WILDE

  There was a woman in Connemara, the wife of a fisherman; as he had always good luck, she had plenty of fish at all times stored away in the house ready for market. But, to her great annoyance, she found that a great cat used to come in at night and devour all the best and finest fish. So she kept a big stick by her, and determined to watch.

  One day, as she and a woman were spinning together, the house suddenly became quite dark; and the door was burst open as if by the blast of the tempest, when in walked a huge black cat, who went straight up to the fire, then turned round and growled at them.

  “Why, surely this is the devil,” said a young girl, who was by, sorting fish.

  “I’ll teach you how to call me names,” said the cat; and, jumping at her, he scratched her arm till the blood came. “There, now,” he said, “you will be more civil another time when a gentleman comes to see you.” And with that he walked over to the door and shut it close, to prevent any of them going out, for the poor young girl, while crying loudly from fright and pain, had made a desperate rush to get away.

  Just then a man was going by, and hearing the cries, he pushed open the door and tried to get in; but the cat stood on the threshold, and would let no one pass. On this the man attacked him with his stick, and gave him a sound blow; the cat, however, was more than a match in the fight, for it flew at him and tore his face and hands so badly that the man at last took to his heels and ran away as fast as he could.

  “Now, it’s time for my dinner,” said the cat, going up to examine the fish that was laid out on the tables. “I hope the fish is good to-day. Now, don’t disturb me, nor make a fuss; I can help myself.” With that he jumped up, and began to devour all the best fish, while he growled at the woman.

  “Away, out of this, you wicked beast,” she cried, giving it a blow with the tongs that would have broken its back, only it was a devil; “out of this; no fish shall you have to-day.”

  But the cat only grinned at her, and went on tearing and spoiling and devouring the fish, evidently not a bit the worse for the blow. On this, both the women attacked it with sticks, and struck hard blows enough to kill it, on which the cat glared at them, and spit fire; then, making a leap, it tore their heads and arms till the blood came, and the frightened women rushed shrieking from the house.

  But presently the mistress returned, carrying with her a bottle of holy water; and, looking in, she saw the cat still devouring the fish, and not minding. So she crept over quietly and threw holy water on it without a word. No sooner was this done than a dense black smoke filled the place, through which nothing was seen but the two red eyes of the cat, burning like coals of fire. Then the smoke gradually cleared away, and she saw the body of the creature burning slowly till it became shrivelled and black like a cinder, and finally disappeared. And from that time the fish remained untouched and safe from harm, for the power of the evil one was broken, and the demon cat was seen no mor
e.

  THE LONG SPOON*

  PATRICK KENNEDY

  The devil and the hearth-money collector for Bantry set out one summer morning to decide a bet they made the night before over a jug of punch. They wanted to see which would have the best load at sunset, and neither was to pick up anything that wasn’t offered with the good-will of the giver. They passed by a house, and they heard the poor ban-a-t’yee† cry out to her lazy daughter, “Oh, musha,——–take you for a lazy sthronsuch† of a girl! do you intend to get up today?” “Oh, oh,” says the taxman, “there’s a job for you, Nick.” “Ovock,” says the other, “it wasn’t from her heart she said it; we must pass on.” The next cabin they were passing, the woman was on the bawnditch§ crying out to her husband that was mending one of his brogues inside: “Oh, tattheration to you, Nick! you never rung them pigs, and there they are in the potato drills rootin’ away; the——–run to Lusk with them.” “Another windfall for you,” says the man of the inkhorn, but the old thief only shook his horns and wagged his tail. So they went on, and ever so many prizes were offered to the black fellow without him taking one. Here it was a gorsoon playing marvels when he should be using his clappers in the cornfield; and then it was a lazy drone of a servant asleep with his face to the sod when he ought to be weeding. No one thought of offering the hearth-money man even a drink of buttermilk, and at last the sun was within half a foot of the edge of Cooliagh. They were just then passing Monamolin, and a poor woman that was straining her supper in a skeeoge outside her cabin-door, seeing the two standing at the bawn gate, bawled out, “Oh, here’s the hearth-money man—run away wid him.” “Got a bite at last,” says Nick. “Oh, no, no! it wasn’t from her heart,” says the collector. “Indeed, an’ it was from the very foundation-stones it came. No help for misfortunes; in with you,” says he, opening the mouth of his big black bag; and whether the devil was ever after seen taking the same walk or not, nobody ever laid eyes on his fellow-traveller again.