Irish Fairy and Folk Tales

by Edited

  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*

  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 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 impedence, 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 parlor 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 cornfields, 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 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 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 parlor.” 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 parlor. 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 parlor. “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-honor 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.

  THE ENCHANTMENT OF GEAROIDH IARLA

  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 h
eld 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, 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.*

  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 armor 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 armor, cowed him a good deal, and he became sober. His hands began 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 LITERALLY 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, 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,” 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, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.”

  “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 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-nuting 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 eré rua lesh.