Part 10

“Where did you get the money?” says the wife.

“Isn’t it all one to you where I got it?” says Paudyeen.

The day on the morrow Paudyeen went to the gentleman, gave him the money, and got possession of the house and land; and the gentleman left him the furniture and everything that was in the house, in with the bargain.

Paudyeen remained in the house that night, and when darkness came he went down to the cellar, and he saw a little man with his two legs spread on a barrel.

“God save you, honest man,” says he to Paudyeen.

“The same to you,” says Paudyeen.

“Don’t be afraid of me at all,” says the little man. “I’ll be a friend to you, if you are able to keep a secret.”

“I am able, indeed; I kept your mother’s secret, and I’ll keep yours as well.”

“May-be you’re thirsty?” says the little man.

“I’m not free from it,” said Paudyeen.

The little man put a hand in his bosom and drew out a gold goblet. He gave it to Paudyeen, and said: “Draw wine out of that barrel under me.”

Paudyeen drew the full up of the goblet, and handed it to the little man. “Drink yourself first,” says he. Paudyeen drank, drew another goblet, and handed it to the little man, and he drank it.

“Fill up and drink again,” said the little man. “I have a mind to be merry to-night.”

The pair of them sat there drinking until they were half drunk. Then the little man gave a leap down to the floor, and said to Paudyeen:

“Don’t you like music?”

“I do, surely,” says Paudyeen, “and I’m a good dancer, too.”

“Lift up the big flag over there in the corner, and you’ll get my pipes under it.”

Paudyeen lifted the flag, got the pipes, and gave them to the little man. He squeezed the pipes on him, and began playing melodious music. Paudyeen began dancing till he was tired. Then they had another drink, and the little man said:

“Do as my mother told you, and I’ll show you great riches. You can bring your wife in here, but don’t tell her that I’m there, and she won’t see me. Any time at all that ale or wine are wanting, come here and draw. Farewell now; go to sleep, and come again to me to-morrow night.”

Paudyeen went to bed, and it wasn’t long till he fell asleep.

On the morning of the day of the morrow, Paudyeen went home, and brought his wife and children to the big house, and they were comfortable. That night Paudyeen went down to the cellar; the little man welcomed him and asked him did he wish to dance?

“Not till I get a drink,” said Paudyeen.

“Drink your ’nough,” said the little man; “that barrel will never be empty as long as you live.”

Paudyeen drank the full of the goblet, and gave a drink to the little man. Then the little man said to him:

“I am going to Doon-na-shee (the fortress of the fairies) to-night, to play music for the good people, and if you come with me you’ll see fine fun. I’ll give you a horse that you never saw the like of him before.”

“I’ll go with you, and welcome,” said Paudyeen; “but what excuse will I make to my wife?”

“I’ll bring you away from her side without her knowing it, when you are both asleep together, and I’ll bring you back to her the same way,” said the little man.

“I’m obedient,” says Paudyeen; “we’ll have another drink before I leave you.”

He drank drink after drink, till he was half drunk, and he went to bed with his wife.

When he awoke he found himself riding on a besom near Doon-na-shee, and the little man riding on another besom by his side. When they came as far as the green hill of the Doon, the little man said a couple of words that Paudyeen did not understand. The green hill opened, and the pair went into a fine chamber.

Paudyeen never saw before a gathering like that which was in the Doon. The whole place was full up of little people, men and women, young and old. They all welcomed little Donal—that was the name of the piper—and Paudyeen O’Kelly. The king and queen of the fairies came up to them, and said:

“We are all going on a visit to-night to Cnoc Matha, to the high king and queen of our people.”

They all rose up then and went out. There were horses ready for each one of them and the _coash-t’ya bower_ for the king and the queen. The king and queen got into the coach, each man leaped on his own horse, and be certain that Paudyeen was not behind. The piper went out before them and began playing them music, and then off and away with them. It was not long till they came to Cnoc Matha. The hill opened and the king of the fairy host passed in.

Finvara and Nuala were there, the arch-king and queen of the fairy host of Connacht, and thousands of little persons. Finvara came up and said:

“We are going to play a hurling match to-night against the fairy host of Munster, and unless we beat them our fame is gone for ever. The match is to be fought out on Moytura, under Slieve Belgadaun.”

The Connacht host cried out: “We are all ready, and we have no doubt but we’ll beat them.”

“Out with ye all,” cried the high king; “the men of the hill of Nephin will be on the ground before us.”

They all went out, and little Donal and twelve pipers more before them, playing melodious music. When they came to Moytura, the fairy host of Munster and the fairy men of the hill of Nephin were there before them. Now, it is necessary for the fairy host to have two live men beside them when they are fighting or at a hurling-match, and that was the reason that little Donal took Paddy O’Kelly with him. There was a man they called the “_Yellow Stongirya_,” with the fairy host of Munster, from Ennis, in the County Clare.

It was not long till the two hosts took sides; the ball was thrown up between them, and the fun began in earnest. They were hurling away, and the pipers playing music, until Paudyeen O’Kelly saw the host of Munster getting the strong hand, and he began helping the fairy host of Connacht. The _Stongirya_ came up and he made at Paudyeen O’Kelly, but Paudyeen turned him head over heels. From hurling the two hosts began at fighting, but it was not long until the host of Connacht beat the other host. Then the host of Munster made flying beetles of themselves, and they began eating every green thing that they came up to. They were destroying the country before them until they came as far as Cong. Then there rose up thousands of doves out of the hole, and they swallowed down the beetles. That hole has no other name until this day but Pull-na-gullam, the dove’s hole.

When the fairy host of Connacht won their battle, they came back to Cnoc Matha joyous enough, and the king Finvara gave Paudyeen O’Kelly a purse of gold, and the little piper brought him home, and put him into bed beside his wife, and left him sleeping there.

A month went by after that without anything worth mentioning, until one night Paudyeen went down to the cellar, and the little man said to him: “My mother is dead; burn the house over her.”

“It is true for you,” said Paudyeen. “She told me that she hadn’t but a month to be on the world, and the month was up yesterday.”

On the morning of the next day Paudyeen went to the hut and he found the hag dead. He put a coal under the hut and burned it. He came home and told the little man that the hut was burnt. The little man gave him a purse and said to him; “This purse will never be empty as long as you are alive. Now, you will never see me more; but have a loving remembrance of the weasel. She was the beginning and the prime cause of your riches.” Then he went away and Paudyeen never saw him again.

Paudyeen O’Kelly and his wife lived for years after this in the large house, and when he died he left great wealth behind him, and a large family to spend it.

There now is the story for you, from the first word to the last, as I heard it from my grandmother.

UILLIAM O RUANAIĠ.

Ann san aimsir i n-allód ḃí fear ann dar ab ainm Uilliam O Ruanaiġ, ’nna ċóṁnuiḋe i ngar do Ċlár-Gailliṁ. Bí sé ’nna ḟeilméar. Áon lá aṁain ṫáinig an tiġearna-talṁan ċuige agus duḃairt, “Tá cíos tri bliaḋain agam ort, agus muna mbéiḋ sé agad dam faoi ċeann seaċtṁaine caiṫfiḋ mé amaċ air ṫaoiḃ an ḃóṫair ṫu.”

“Táim le dul go Gailliṁ amáraċ le h-ualaċ cruiṫneaċta do ḋíol, agus nuair a ġeoḃas mé a luaċ íocfaiḋ mé ṫu,” ar Liam.

Air maidin, lá air na ṁáraċ, ċuir sé ualaċ cruiṫneaċta air an g-cairt agus ḃí sé dul go Gailliṁ leis. Nuair ḃí sé timċioll míle go leiṫ imṫiġṫe o’n teaċ, ṫáinig duine-uasal ċuige agus d’ḟiafruiġ sé dé “An cruiṫneaċt atá agad air an g-cairt?”

“Seaḋ,” ar Liam, “tá mé dul ’gá ḋíol le mo ċíos d’íoc.”

“Cia ṁéad atá ann?” ar san duine uasal.

“Tá tonna cneasta ann,” ar Liam.

“Ceannóċaiḋ mé uait é,” ar san duine uasal, “agus ḃéarfaiḋ mé an luaċ is mó ’sa’ masgaḋ ḋuit. Nuair a raċfas tu ċoṁ fad leis an mbóṫairín cártaċ atá air do láiṁ ċlé, cas asteaċ agus ḃí ag imṫeaċt go dtagaiḋ tu go teaċ mór atá i ngleann, agus ḃéiḋ mise ann sin róṁad le d’ airgiod do ṫaḃairt duit.”

Nuair ṫáinig Liam ċoṁ fada leis an mbóṫairín ċas sé asteaċ, agus ḃí sé ag imṫeaċt go dtáinig sé ċoṁ fada le teaċ mór. Ḃí iongantas air Liam nuair ċonnairc sé an teaċ mór, mar rugaḋ agus tógaḋ ann san g-cóṁarsanaċt é, agus ní ḟacaiḋ sé an teaċ mór ariaṁ roiṁe, cíḋ go raiḃ eólas aige air uile ṫeaċ i ḃfoiġseaċt cúig ṁíle ḋó.

Nuair ṫáinig Liam i ngar do sgioból a ḃí anaice leis an teaċ mór ṫáinig buaċaill beag amaċ agus duḃairt, “céad míle fáilte róṁad a Liaim Ui Ruanaiġ,” ċuir sac air a ḋruim agus ṫug asteaċ é. Ṫáinig buaċaill beag eile amaċ, ċuir fáilte roiṁ Liam, ċuir sac air a ḋruim, agus d’imṫiġ asteaċ leis. Ḃí buaċailliḋe ag teaċt, ag cur fáilte roiṁ Liam, agus ag taḃairt sac leó, go raiḃ an tonna cruiṫneaċta imṫiġṫe. Ann sin ṫáinig iomlán na mbuaċaill i láṫair agus duḃairt Liam leó. “Tá eólas agaiḃ uile orm-sa agus ní’l eólas agam-sa orraiḃse.” Ann sin duḃradar leis, “téiḋ asteaċ, agus iṫ do ḋínnéar, tá an máiġistir ag fanaṁaint leat.”

Ċuaiḋ Liam asteaċ agus ṡuiḋ sé síos ag an mbord. Níor iṫ sé an dara greim go dtáinig trom-ċodlaḋ air agus ṫuit sé faoi an mbord. Ann sin rinne an draoiḋ-eadóir fear-bréige cosṁúil le Liam, agus ċuir a ḃaile ċum mná Liaim é, leis an g-capall, agus leis an g-cairt. Nuair ṫáinig sé go teaċ Liaim ċuaiḋ sé suas ann san t-seomra, luiḋ air leabuiḋ, agus fuair bás.

Níor ḃfada go ndeacaiḋ an ġáir amaċ go raiḃ Liam O Ruanaiġ marḃ. Ċuir an ḃean uisge síos agus nuair ḃí sé teiṫ niġ sí an corp agus ċuir os cionn cláir é. Ṫáinig na cóṁarsanna agus ċaoineadar go ḃrónaċ os cionn an ċuirp, agus ḃí truaġ ṁór ann do’n ṁnaoi ḃoiċt aċt ní raiḃ mórán bróin uirri féin, mar ḃí Liam aosta agus í féin óg. An lá air na ṁáraċ cuireaḋ an corp agus ní raiḃ aon ċuiṁne níos mó air Liam.

Ḃí buaċaill-aimsire ag mnaoi Liaim agus duḃairt sí leis, “buḋ ċóir duit mé ṗósaḋ, agus áit Liaim ġlacaḋ.”

“Tá sé ró luaṫ fós, anḋiaiġ bás do ḃeiṫ ann san teaċ,” ar san buaċaill, “fan go mbéiḋ Liam curṫa seaċtṁain.”

Nuair ḃí Liam seaċt lá agus seaċt n-oiḋċe ’nna ċodlaḋ ṫáinig buaċaill beag agus ḋúisiġ é. Ann sin duḃairt sé leis, “táir seaċtṁain do ċodlaḋ. Ċuireamar do ċapall agus do ċairt aḃaile. Seó ḋuit do ċuid airgid, agus imṫiġ.”

Ṫáinig Liam a ḃaile, agus mar ḃí sé mall ’san oiḋċe ní ḟacaiḋ aon duine é. Air maidin an laé sin ċuaiḋ bean Liaim agus an buaċaill-aimsire ċum an t-sagairt agus d’iarr siad air iad do ṗósaḋ.

“Ḃfuil an t-airgiod-pósta agaiḃ?” ar san sagart.

“Ní’l,” ar san ḃean, “aċt tá storc muice agam ’sa’ mbaile, agus tig leat í ḃeiṫ agad i n-áit airgid.”

Ṗós an sagart iad, agus duḃairt, “cuirfead fios air an muic amáraċ.”

Nuair ṫáinig Liam go dtí a ḋoras féin, ḃuail sé buille air. Ḃí an ḃean agus an buaċaill-aimsire ag dul ċum a leabuiḋ, agus d’ḟiafruiġ siad, “cia tá ann sin?”

“Mise,” ar Liam, “fosgail an doras dam.”

Nuair ċualadar an guṫ ḃí ḟios aca gur ’bé Liam do ḃí ann, agus duḃairt a ḃean, “ní ṫig liom do leigean asteaċ, agus is mór an náire ḋuit ḃeiṫ teaċt air ais anḋiaiġ ṫu ḃeiṫ seaċt lá san uaiġ.”

“An air mire atá tu?” ar Liam.

“Ní’lim air mire,” ar san ḃean, “’tá ḟios ag an uile ḋuine ’sa’ bparáiste go ḃfuair tu bás agus gur ċuir mé go geanaṁail ṫu. Téiḋ air ais go d’uaiġ, agus béiḋ aifrionn léiġte agam air son d’anma ḃoiċt amáraċ.”

“Fan go dtagaiḋ solas an laé,” ar Liam, “agus béarfaiḋ mé luaċ do ṁagaiḋ ḋuit.”

Ann sin ċuaiḋ sé ’san stábla, ’n áit a raiḃ a ċapall agus a ṁuc, ṡín sé ann san tuiġe, agus ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ.

Air maidin, lá air na ṁáraċ, duḃairt an sagart le buaċaill beag a ḃí aige, “téiḋ go teaċ Liaim Ui Ruanaiġ agus ḃéarfaiḋ an ḃean a ṗós mé andé muc duit le taḃairt a ḃaile leat.”

Ṫáinig an buaċaill go doras an tíġe agus ṫosuiġ ’gá ḃualaḋ le maide a ḃí aige. Ḃí faitċios air an mnaoi an doras ḟosgailt, aċt d’ḟiafruiġ sí, “cia tá ann sin?”

“Mise,” ar san buaċaill, “ċuir an sagart mé le muc d’ḟáġáil uait.”

“Tá sí amuiġ ’san stábla,” ar san ḃean.

Ċuaiḋ an buaċaill asteaċ ’san stábla agus ṫosuiġ ag tiomáint na muiċe amaċ, nuair d’éiriġ Liam agus duḃairt, “cá ḃfuil tu ag dul le mo ṁuic?”

Nuair ċonnairc an buaċaill Liam, as go bráṫ leis, agus níor stop go ndeacaiḋ sé ċum an tsagairt agus a ċroiḋe ag teaċt amaċ air a ḃeul le faitċios.

“Cad tá ort?” ar san sagart.

D’innis an buaċaill dó go raiḃ Liam O Ruanaiġ ann san stábla, agus naċ leigfeaḋ sé ḋó an ṁuċ ṫaḃairt leis.

“Bí do ṫost, a ḃreugadóir,” ar ran sagart, “tá Liam O’Ruanaiġ marḃ agus ann san uaiġ le seaċtṁain.”

“Dá mbeiḋ’ sé marḃ seaċt mbliaḋna connairc mise ann san stábla é ḋá ṁóimid ó ṡoin, agus muna g-creideann tu, tar, ṫu féin, agus feicfiḋ tu é.”

Ann sin ṫáinig an sagart agus an buaċaill le ċéile go doras an stábla, agus duḃairt an sagart, “téiḋ asteaċ agus cuir an ṁuc sin amaċ ċugam.”

“Ní raċfainn asteaċ air son an ṁéid is fiú ṫu,” ar san buaċaill.

Ċuaiḋ an sagart asteaċ ann sin agus ḃí sé ag tiomáint na muice amaċ, nuair d’éiriġ Liam suas as an tuiġe agus duḃairt, “cá ḃfuil tu dul le mo ṁuic, a aṫair Ṗádraig?”

Nuair a ċonnairc an sagart Liam ag éiriġe, as go bráṫ leis, ag ráḋ: “i n-ainm Dé orduiġim air ais go dtí an uaiġ ṫu a Uilliaim Ui Ruanaiġ.”

Ṫosuiġ Liam ag riṫ anḋiaiġ an tsagairt, agus ag ráḋ. “A aṫair Ṗádraig ḃfuil tu air mire? fan agus laḃair Liom.”

Níor ḟan an sagart aċt ċuaiḋ a ḃaile ċoṁ luaṫ agus d’ḟeud a ċosa a iomċar, agus nuair ṫáinig sé asteaċ ḋún sé an doras. Ḃí Liam ag bualaḋ an dorais go raiḃ sé sáruiġṫe, aċt ní leigfeaḋ an sagart asteaċ é. Faoi ḋeireaḋ ċuir sé a ċeann amaċ air ḟuinneóig a ḃí air ḃárr an tíġe agus duḃairt, “A Uilliam Ui Ruanaiġ téiḋ air ais ċum d’uaiġe.”

“Tá tu air mire a aṫair Ṗádraig, ní’l mé marḃ, agus ní raiḃ mé ann aon uaiġ ariaṁ ó d’ḟág me bronn mo ṁáṫar,” ar Liam.

“Ċonnairc mise marḃ ṫu,” ar san sagart, “fuair tu bás obann agus ḃí mé i láṫair nuair cuireaḋ ṫu ’san uaiġ, agus rinne mé seanmóir ḃreáġ os do ċionn.”

“Diaḃal uaim, go ḃfuil tu air mire ċoṁ cinnte a’s atá mise beó,” ar Liam.

“Imṫiġ as m’aṁarc anois agus léiġfiḋ mé aifrionn duit amáraċ,” ar san sagart.

Ċuaiḋ Liam a ḃaile agus ḃuail sé a ḋoras féin aċt ní leigfeaḋ an ḃean asteaċ é. Ann sin duḃairt sé leis féin, “raċfad agus íocfad mo ċíos.” Uile ḋuine a ċonnairc Liam air a ḃealaċ go teaċ an tiġearna ḃí siad ag riṫ uaiḋ, mar ṡaoileadar go ḃfuair sé bás. Nuair ċualaiḋ an tiġearna talṁan go raiḃ Liam O Ruanaiġ ag teaċt ḋún sé na doirse, agus ní leigfeaḋ sé asteaċ é. Ṫosuiġ Liam ag ḃualaḋ an dorais ṁóir gur ṡaoil an tiġearna go mbrisfeaḋ sé asteaċ é. Ṫáinig an tiġearna go fuinneóig a ḃí air ḃárr an tíġe, agus dḟiafruiġ, “cad tá tu ag iarraiḋ?”

“Ṫáinig mé le mo ċíos íoc, mar ḟear cneasta,” ar Liam.

“Téiḋ air ais go dtí d’uaiġ, agus ḃéarfaiḋ mé maiṫeaṁnas duit,” ar san Tiġearna.

“Ní ḟágfaiḋ mé seó, go ḃfáġ’ mé sgríḃinn uait go ḃfuil mé íocṫa suas glan, go dtí an Ḃealtaine seó ċugainn.”

Ṫug an Tiġearna an sgríḃinn dó, agus ṫáinig sé aḃaile. Ḃuail sé an doras, aċt ní leigfeaó an ḃean asteaċ é, ag ráḋ leis go raiḃ Liam O Ruanaiġ marḃ agus curṫa, agus naċ raiḃ ann san ḃfear ag an doras aċt fealltóir.

“Ní fealltóir mé,” ar Liam, “tá mé anḋiaiġ cíos trí ḃliaḋain d’íoc le mo ṁáiġistir, agus ḃéiḋ seilḃ mo ṫiġe féin agam, no ḃéiḋ ḟios agam cad fáṫ.”

Ċuaiḋ sé ċum an sgiobóil, agus fuair sé barra mór iarainn agus níor ḃfada gur ḃris sé asteaċ an doras. Ḃí faitċios mór air an mnaoi agus air an ḃfear nuaḋ-ṗósta. Ṡaoileadar go raḃadar i n-am an eiseiriġe, agus go raiḃ deire an doṁain ag teaċt.

“Cad ċuige ar ṡaoil tu go raiḃ mise marḃ?” ar Liam.

“Naċ ḃfuil ḟios ag uile ḋuine ann san ḃparáiste go ḃfuil tu marḃ,” ar san ḃean.

“Do ċorp ó’n diaḃal,” ar Liam, “tá tu ag magaḋ fada go leór liom. Fáġ ḋam niḋ le n-iṫe.”

Ḃí eagla ṁór air an mnaoi ḃoiċt agus ġleus sí biaḋ ḋó, agus nuair ċonnairc sí é ag iṫe agus ag ól duḃairt sí, “tá míorḃúil ann.”

Ann sin d’innis Liam a sgeul dí, o ḃonn go bárr, agus nuair d’innis sé gaċ niḋ, duḃairt sé, “raċfad ċum na n-uaiġe amáraċ go ḃfeicfead an biṫeaṁnaċ do ċuir siḃ-se i m’áit-sé.”

Lá air na ṁáraċ ṫug Liam dream daoine leis, agus ċuaiḋ sé ċum na roilige, agus d’ḟosgail siad an uaiġ, agus ḃíodar dul an ċóṁra d’ḟosgailt, agus nuair a ḃí siad ’gá tógḃáil suas léim madaḋ mór duḃ amaċ, agus as go ḃráṫ leis, agus Liam agus na fir eile ’nna ḋiaiġ. Ḃíodar ’gá leanaṁaint go ḃfacadar é ag dul asteaċ ann san teaċ a raiḃ Liam ’nna ċodlaḋ ann. Ann sin d’ḟosgail an talaṁ agus ċuaiḋ an teaċ síos, agus ní ḟacaiḋ aon duine é ó ṡoin, aċt tá an poll mór le feicsint go dtí an lá so.

Nuair d’imṫiġ Liam agus na fir óga aḃaile d’innis síad gaċ niḋ do ṡagart na paráiste, agus sgaoil sé an pósaḋ a ḃí eidir bean Liaim agus an buaċaill-aimsire.

Do ṁair Liam bliaḋanta ’nna ḋiaiġ seó, agus d’ḟág sé saiḋḃreas mór ’nna ḋiaiġ, agus tá cuiṁne air i g-Clár-Gailliṁ fós, agus ḃéiḋ go deó, má ṫéiḋeann an sgeul so ó na sean-daoiniḃ ċum na ndaoine óg.

LEEAM O’ROONEY’S BURIAL.

In the olden time there was once a man named William O’Rooney, living near Clare-Galway. He was a farmer. One day the landlord came to him and said: “I have three years’ rent on you, and unless you have it for me within a week I’ll throw you out on the side of the road.”

“I’m going to Galway with a load of wheat to-morrow,” said Leeam (William), “and when I get the price of it I’ll pay you.”

Next morning he put a load of wheat on the cart, and was going to Galway with it. When he was gone a couple of miles from the house a gentleman met him and asked him: “Is it wheat you’ve got on the cart?”

“It is,” says Leeam; “I’m going to sell it to pay my rent.”

“How much is there in it?” said the gentleman.

“There’s a ton, honest, in it,” said Leeam.

“I’ll buy it from you,” said the gentleman, “and I’ll give you the biggest price that’s going in the market. When you’ll go as far as the cart _boreen_ (little road) that’s on your left hand, turn down, and be going till you come to a big house in the valley. I’ll be before you there to give you your money.”

When Leeam came to the _boreen_ he turned in, and was going until he came as far as the big house. Leeam wondered when he came as far as the big house, for he was born and raised (_i.e._, reared) in the neighbourhood, and yet he had never seen the big house before, though he thought he knew every house within five miles of him.

When Leeam came near the barn that was close to the big house, a little lad came out and said: “A hundred thousand welcomes to you, William O’Rooney,” put a sack on his back and went in with it. Another little lad came out and welcomed Leeam, put a sack on his back, and went in with it. Lads were coming welcoming Leeam, and putting the sacks on their backs and carrying them in, until the ton of wheat was all gone. Then the whole of the lads came round him, and Leeam said; “Ye all know me, and I don’t know ye!” Then they said to him: “Go in and eat your dinner; the master’s waiting for you.”

Leeam went in and sat down at table; but he had not the second mouthful taken till a heavy sleep came on him, and he fell down under the table. Then the enchanter made a false man like William, and sent him home to William’s wife with the horse and cart. When the false man came to Leeam’s house, he went into the room, lay down on the bed and died.

It was not long till the cry went out that Leeam O’Rooney was dead. The wife put down water, and when it was hot she washed the body and put it over the board (_i.e._, laid it out). The neighbours came, and they keened sorrowfully over the body, and there was great pity for the poor wife, but there was not much grief on herself, for Leeam was old and she was young. The day on the morrow the body was buried, and there was no more remembrance of Leeam.

Leeam’s wife had a servant boy, and she said to him: “You ought to marry me, and to take Leeam’s place.”

“It’s too early yet, after there being a death in the house,” said the boy; “wait till Leeam is a week buried.”

When Leeam was seven days and seven nights asleep, a little boy came to him and awoke him, and said: “You’ve been asleep for a week; but we sent your horse and cart home. Here’s your money, and go.”

Leeam came home, and as it was late at night nobody saw him. On the morning of that same day Leeam’s wife and the servant lad went to the priest and asked him to marry them.

“Have you the marriage money?” said the priest.

“No,” said the wife; “but I have a _sturk_ of a pig at home, and you can have her in place of money.”

The priest married them, and said: “I’ll send for the pig to-morrow.”

When Leeam came to his own door, he struck a blow on it. The wife and the servant boy were going to bed, and they asked: “Who’s there?”

“It’s I,” said Leeam; “open the door for me.”

When they heard the voice, they knew that it was Leeam who was in it, and the wife said: “I can’t let you in, and it’s a great shame, you to be coming back again, after being seven days in your grave.”

“Is it mad you are?” said Leeam.

“I’m not mad,” said the wife; “doesn’t every person in the parish know that you are dead, and that I buried you decently. Go back to your grave, and I’ll have a mass read for your poor soul to-morrow.”

“Wait till daylight comes,” said Leeam, “and I’ll give you the price of your joking!”

Then he went into the stable, where his horse and the pig were, stretched himself in the straw, and fell asleep.

Early on the morning of the next day, the priest said to a little lad that he had: “Get up, and go to Leeam O’Rooney’s house, and the woman that I married yesterday will give you a pig to bring home with you.”

The boy came to the door of the house, and began knocking at it with a stick. The wife was afraid to open the door, but she asked: “Who’s there?”

“I,” said the boy; “the priest sent me to get a pig from you.”

“She’s out in the stable,” said the wife; “you can get her for yourself, and drive her back with you.”

The lad went into the stable, and began driving out the pig, when Leeam rose up and said: “Where are you going with my pig?”

When the boy saw Leeam he never stopped to look again, but out with him as hard as he could, and he never stopped till he came back to the priest, and his heart coming out of his mouth with terror.

“What’s on you?” says the priest.

The lad told him that Leeam O’Rooney was in the stable, and would not let him drive out the pig.

“Hold your tongue, you liar!” said the priest; “Leeam O’Rooney’s dead and in the grave this week.”

“If he was in the grave this seven years, I saw him in the stable two moments ago; and if you don’t believe me, come yourself, and you’ll see him.”

The priest and the boy then went together to the door of the stable, and the priest said: “Go in and turn me out that pig.”

“I wouldn’t go in for all ever you’re worth,” said the boy.

The priest went in, and began driving out the pig, when Leeam rose up out of the straw and said: “Where are you going with my pig, Father Patrick?”

When the priest saw Leeam, off and away with him, and he crying out: “In the name of God, I order you back to your grave, William O’Rooney.”

Leeam began running after the priest, and saying, “Father Patrick, Father Patrick, are you mad? Wait and speak to me.”