Part 4

It may, however, be objected that the real difference lies not so much in the subject-matter as in the mode of transmission; and the objection may seem to derive some force from what Dr. Hyde notes concerning the prevalence of folk-tales in Wicklow, and the nearer Pale generally, as contrasted with Leitrim, Longford, and Meath (p. xii.). It is difficult to over-estimate the interest and importance of this fact, and there can hardly be a doubt that Dr. Hyde has explained it correctly. It may, then, be urged that so long as oral transmission lasts the folk-tale flourishes; and only when the printed work ousts the story-teller is it that the folk-tale dies out. But this reasoning will not hold water. It is absurd to contend that the story-teller had none but a certain class of materials at his disposal till lately. He had the whole realm of intellect and fancy to draw upon; but he, and still more his hearers, knew only one district of that realm; and had it been possible for him to step outside its limits his hearers could not have followed him. I grant folk fancy has shared the fortunes of humanity together with every other manifestation of man’s activity, but always within strictly defined limits, to transgress which has always been to forfeit the favour of the folk.

What, then, are the characteristic marks of folk-fancy? The question is of special interest in connection with Gaelic folk-lore. The latter is rich in transitional forms, the study of which reveal more clearly than is otherwise possible the nature and workings of the folk-mind.

The products of folk-fancy (putting aside such examples of folk-wisdom and folk-wit as proverbs, saws, jests, etc.), may be roughly divided among two great classes:

Firstly, stories of a quasi-historical or anecdotic nature, accepted as actual fact (of course with varying degrees of credence) by narrator and hearer. Stories of this kind are very largely concerned with beings (supernatural, as we should call them) differing from man, and with their relations to and dealings with man. Not infrequently, however, the actors in the stories are wholly human, or human and animal. Gaelic folk-lore is rich in such stories, owing to the extraordinary tenacity of the fairy belief. We can hardly doubt that the Gael, like all other races which have passed through a certain stage of culture, had at one time an organised hierarchy of divine beings. But we have to piece together the Gaelic god-saga out of bare names, mere hints, and stories which have evidently suffered vital change. In the earliest stratum of Gaelic mythic narrative we find beings who at some former time had occupied divine rank, but whose relations to man are substantially, as therein presented, the same as those of the modern fairy to the modern peasant. The chiefs of the Tuatha de Danann hanker after earthly maidens; the divine damsels long for and summon to themselves earthly heroes. Though undying, very strong, and very wise, they may be overpowered or outwitted by the mortal hero. As if conscious of some source of weakness we cannot detect, they are anxious, in their internecine struggles, to secure the aid of the sons of men. Small wonder that this belief, which we can follow for at least 1,200 years, should furnish so many elements to the folk-fancy of the Gael.

In stories of the second class the action is relegated to a remote past—once upon a time—or to a distant undefined region, and the narrative is not necessarily accepted as a record of actual fact. Stories of this class, whether in prose or verse, may again be subdivided into—humorous, optimistic, tragic; and with regard to the third sub-division, it should be noted that the stories comprised in it are generally told as having been true once, though not in the immediate tangible sense of stories in the first class.

These different narrative groups share certain characteristics, though in varying proportions.

Firstly, the fondness for and adherence to a comparatively small number of set formulas. This is obviously less marked in stories of the first class, which, as being in the mind of the folk a record of what has actually happened, partake of the diversity of actual life. And yet the most striking similarities occur; such an anecdote, for instance, as that which tells how a supernatural changeling is baffled by a brewery of egg-shells being found from Japan to Brittany.

Secondly, on the moral side, the unquestioning acceptance of fatalism, though not in the sense which the Moslem or the Calvinist would attach to the word. The event is bound to be of a certain nature, provided a certain mode of attaining it be chosen. This comes out well in the large group of stories which tell how a supernatural being helps a mortal to perform certain tasks, as a rule, with some ulterior benefit to itself in view. The most disheartening carelessness and stupidity on the part of the man cannot alter the result; the skill and courage of the supernatural helper are powerless without the mortal co-operation. In what I have termed the tragic stories, this fatalism puts on a moral form, and gives rise to the conception of Nemesis.

Thirdly, on the mental side, animism is prevalent, _i.e._, the acceptance of a life common to, not alone man and animals, but all manifestations of force. In so far as a distinction is made between the life of man and that of nature at large, it is in favour of the latter, to which more potent energy is ascribed.

Just as stories of the first class are less characterised by adherence to formula, so stories of the humorous group are less characterised by fatalism and animism. This is inevitable, as such stories are, as a rule, concerned solely with the relations of man to his fellows.

The most fascinating and perplexing problems are those connected with the groups I have termed optimistic and tragic. To the former belong the almost entirety of such nursery tales as are not humorous in character. “They were married and lived happily ever afterwards;” such is the almost invariable end formula. The hero wins the princess, and the villain is punished.

This feature the nursery tale shares with the god-saga; Zeus confounds the Titans, Apollo slays the Python, Lug overcomes Balor, Indra vanquishes Vritra. There are two apparent exceptions to this rule. The Teutonic god myth is tragic; the Anses are ever under the shadow of the final conflict. This has been explained by the influence of Christian ideas; but although this influence must be unreservedly admitted in certain details of the passing of the gods, yet the fact that the Iranian god-saga is likewise undecided, instead of having a frankly optimistic ending, makes me doubt whether the drawn battle between the powers of good and ill be not a genuine and necessary part of the Teutonic mythology. As is well known, Rydberg has established some striking points of contact between the mythic ideas of Scandinavia and those of Iran.

In striking contradiction to this moral, optimistic tendency are the great heroic sagas. One and all well-nigh are profoundly tragic. The doom of Troy the great, the passing of Arthur, the slaughter of the Nibelungs, the death of Sohrab at his father’s hands, Roncevalles, Gabhra, the fratricidal conflict of Cuchullain and Ferdiad, the woes of the house of Atreus; such are but a few examples of the prevailing tone of the hero-tales. Achilles and Siegfried and Cuchullain are slain in the flower of their youth and prowess. Of them, at least, the saying is true, that whom the gods love die young. Why is it not equally true of the prince hero of the fairy tale? Is it that the hero-tale associated in the minds of hearers and reciters with men who had actually lived and fought, brought down to earth, so to say, out of the mysterious wonderland in which god and fairy and old time kings have their being, becomes thereby liable to the necessities of death and decay inherent in all human things? Some scholars have a ready answer for this and similar questions. The heroic epos assumed its shape once for all among one special race, and was then passed on to the other races who remained faithful to the main lines whilst altering details. If this explanation were true, it would still leave unsolved the problem, why the heroic epos, which for its fashioners and hearers was at once a record of the actual and an exemplar of the ideal, should, among men differing in blood and culture, follow one model, and that a tragic one. Granting that Greek and Teuton and Celt did borrow the tales which they themselves conceived to be very blood and bone of their race, what force compelled them all to borrow one special conception of life and fate?

Such exceptions as there are to the tragic nature of the heroic saga are apparent rather than real. The Odyssey ends happily, like an old-fashioned novel, but Fénélon long ago recognised in the Odyssey—“un amas de contes de vieille.”

Perseus again has the luck of a fairy-tale prince, but then the story of his fortunes is obviously a fairy-tale, with named instead of anonymous personages.

Whilst the fairy-tale is akin in tone to the god saga, the ballad recalls the heroic epos. The vast majority of ballads are tragic. Sir Patrick Spens must drown, and Glasgerion’s leman be cheated by the churl; Clerk Saunders comes from the other world, like Helge to Sigrun; Douglas dreams his dreary dream, “I saw a dead man win a fight, and that dead man was I.” The themes of the ballad are the most dire and deadly of human passions; love scorned or betrayed, hate, and revenge. Very seldom, too, do the plots of ballad and märchen cross or overlap. Where this does happen it will, as a rule, be found that both are common descendants of some great saga.

We find such an instance in the Fenian saga, episodes of which have lived on in the Gaelic folk memory in the double form of prose and poetry. But it should be noted that the poetry accentuates the tragic side—the battle of Gabhra, the death of Diarmaid—whilst the prose takes rather some episode of Finn’s youth or manhood, and presents it as a rounded and complete whole, the issue of which is fortunate.

The relations of myth and epos to folk-lore may thus be likened to that of trees to the soil from which they spring, and which they enrich and fertilize by the decay of their leaves and branches which mingle indistinguishably with the original soil. Of this soil, again, rude bricks may be made, and a house built; let the house fall into ruins, and the bricks crumble into dust, it will be hard to discriminate that dust from the parent earth. But raise a house of iron or stone, and, however ruined, its fragments can always be recognised. In the case of the Irish bardic literature the analogy is, I believe, with soil and tree, rather than with soil and edifice.

Reverting once more to the characteristics of folk-fancy, let us note that they appear equally in folk-practice and folk-belief. The tough conservatism of the folk-mind has struck all observers: its adherence to immemorial formulas; its fatalistic acceptance of the mysteries of nature and heredity, coupled with its faith in the efficacy of sympathetic magic; its elaborate system of custom and ritual based upon the idea that between men and the remainder of the universe there is no difference of kind.

A conception of the Cosmos is thus arrived at which, more than any religious creed, fulfils the test of catholicity; literally, and in the fullest significance of the words, it has been held _semper, ubique et ab omnibus_. And of this conception of the universe, more universal than any that has as yet swayed the minds of man, it is possible that men now living may see the last flickering remains; it is well-nigh certain that our grandchildren will live in a world out of which it has utterly vanished.

For the folk-lorist the Gospel saying is thus more pregnant with meaning than for any other student of man’s history—“the night cometh wherein no man may work.” Surely, many Irishmen will take to heart the example of Dr. Hyde, and will go forth to glean what may yet be found of as fair and bounteous a harvest of myth and romance as ever flourished among any race.

LE h-AIS NA TEINEAḌ.

AN TAILIUR AGUS NA TRI ḂEIṪIGEAĊ.

Ḃí táiliúr aon uair aṁam i nGailliṁ, agus ḃí sé ag fuaiġeál eudaiġ. Ċonnairc se dreancuid ag éiriġe amaċ as an eudaċ agus ċaiṫ se an tsnáṫad léiṫe agus ṁarḃ sé an dreancuid. Duḃairt se ann sin “Naċ breáġ an gaisgiḋeaċ mise nuair a ḃí mé abalta air an dreancuid sin do ṁarḃaḋ!”

Duḃairt sé ann sin go gcaiṫfeaḋ sé dul go B’l’acliaṫ go cúirt an ríġ, go ḃfeicfeaḋ sé an dtiucfaḋ leis a deunaṁ. Ḃí an ċúirt sin ’gá ḋeunaṁ le fada, aċt an méad dí do gníṫiḋe ann san lá do leagaiḋe ann san oiḋċe é, agus níor ḟeud duine air biṫ a ċur suas mar ġeall air sin. ’S iad tri ḟáṫaċ a ṫigeaḋ ’san oiḋċe a ḃideaḋ ’gá leagaḋ. D’imṫiġ an táiliúr an lá air na ṁáraċ agus do ṫug se leis an uirlis, an spád agus an tsluasad.

Níor ḃfada ċuaiḋ sé gur casaḋ capall bán dó, agus ċuir se forán air. “Go mbeannuiġ Dia ḋuit,” ar san capall, “cá ḃfuil tu dul?” “Tá mé dul go B’l’acliaṫ,” ar san táiliúr, “le deunaṁ cúirte an ríġ, go ḃfáġ mé bean-uasal, má ṫig liom a deunaṁ,” mar do ġeall an ríġ go dtiúḃfaḋ sé a inġean féin agus a lán airgid léiṫe don té sin a ṫiucfaḋ leis an ċúirt sin do ċur suas. “An ndeunfá poll dam?” ar san sean-ġearrán bán, “raċainn i ḃfolaċ ann nuair atá na daoine mo ṫaḃairt ċum an ṁuilinn agus ċum an aṫa i rioċt naċ ḃfeidfiḋ siad mé, óir tá mé cráiḋte aca, ag deunaṁ oibre ḋóiḃ.” “Deunfaiḋ mé sin go deiṁin,” ar san táiliúr, “agus fáilte.” Ṫug sé an spád leis agus an tsluasad, agus rinne sé poll, agus duḃairt sé leis an g-capall bán dul síos ann, go ḃfeicfeaḋ sé an ḃfóirfeaḋ sé ḋó. Ċuaiḋ an capall bán síos ann san bpoll, aċt nuair d’ḟeuċ sé do ṫeaċt suas arís as, níor ḟeud sé.

“Deun áit dam anois,” ar san capall bán, “a ṫiucfas mé aníos as an bpoll so nuair a ḃéiḋeas ocaras orm.” “Ní ḋeunfad,” ar san táiliúr, “fan ann sin go dtigiḋ mé air m’ais, agus tógfaiḋ mé aníos ṫu.”

D’imṫiġ an táiliúr an lá air na máraċ, agus casaḋ ḋó an sionnaċ, “Go mbeannuiġ Dia ḋuit,” ar san sionnaċ. “Go mbeannuiġ Dia ’gus Muire ḋuit.” “Cá ḃfuil tu dul?” “Tá mé dul go B’l’acliaṫ go ḃfeuċaiḋ mé an dtiucfaiḋ liom cúirt ḋeunaṁ do’n ríġ.” “An ndeunfá áit dam, a raċfainn i ḃfolaċ innti,” ar san sionnaċ, “tá an ċuid eile de na sionnaiġiḃ do m’ ḃualaḋ agus ní leigeann siad dam aon niḋ iṫe ’nna g-cuideaċta.” “Deunfaiḋ mé sin duit,” ar san táiliúr. Ṫug sé leis a ṫuaġ agus a ṡáḃ agus ḃain se slata, go ndearnaiġ sé, mar ḋeurfá, cliaḃ dó, agus duḃairt sé leis an tsionnaċ dul síos ann, go ḃfeicfeaḋ se an ḃfóirfeaḋ sé ḋó. Ċuaid an sionnaċ ann, agus nuair fuair an táiliúr ṡíos é, leag sé a ṫóin air an bpoll a ḃí ann. Nuair a ḃí an sionnaċ sásta faoi ḋeireaḋ go raiḃ áit ḋeas aige d’iarr sé air an táiliúr a leigean amaċ, agus d’ḟreagair an táiliúr naċ leigfeaḋ, “Fan ann sin go dtigiḋ mise air m’ais,” ar sé.

D’imṫiġ an táiliúr an lá air na ṁáraċ, agus ní fada ḃí sé siúḃal gur casaḋ madr’-alla ḋó, agus ċuir an mádr’-alla forán air, agus dḟiafruiġ sé ḋé cá raiḃ sé ag triall. “Tá me dul go B’l’acliaṫ go ndeunfaiḋ mé cúirt do’n ríġ má ṫig liom sin ḋeunaṁ,” ar san táiliúr. “Dá ndeunfá ceuċt dam,” ar san madr’-alla, “ḃeiḋeaḋ mise agus na madr’-alla eile ag treaḃaḋ agus ag forsaḋ, go mbeiḋeaḋ greim againn le n-iṫe ann san ḃfóġṁar.” “Deunfaiḋ mé sin duit,” ar san táiliúr. Ṫug sé leis a ṫuaġ ’s a ṡáḃ, agus rinne sé ceuċt. Nuair ḃí an ceuċt deunta ċuir sé poll ann san mbéam (sail) agus duḃairt se leis an madr’-alla dul asteaċ faoi an g-ceuċt go bḟeicfeaḋ sé an raiḃ treaḃaċ maiṫ ann. Ċuir sé a earball asteaċ ann san bpoll a rinne sé, agus ċuir sé “peg” ann-sin ann, agus níor ṫáinig leis an madr’-alla a earball ṫarraing amaċ as arís. “Sgaoil mé anois,” ar ran madr’-alla, “agus deasóċamaoid féin agus treaḃfamaoid.” Duḃairt an táiliúr naċ sgaoilfeaḋ sé é no go dtiucfaḋ sé féin air ais. D’ḟág sé ann sin é agus ċuaiḋ sé go B’l’acliaṫ.

Nuair ṫáinig sé go B’l’acliaṫ ċuir sé páipeur amaċ an méad luċd’ céirde do ḃí ag tógḃáil na cúirte do teaċt ċuige-sean, agus go n-íocfaḋ seisean iad——agus ní ḃíḋeaḋ daoine ag fáġail ’san am sin aċt píġin ’san lá. Do ċruinniġ a lán luċd céirde an lá air na ṁáraċ, agus ṫosaiġ siad ag obair dó. Ḃí siad ag dul a ḃaile anḋiaiġ an laé nuair duḃairt an tailiúr leó “an ċloċ ṁór sin do ċur suas air ḃárr na h-oibre a ḃí deunta aige.” Nuair d’ árduiġeaḋ suas an ċloċ ṁór sin, ċuir an tailiúr sliġe éigin fúiṫi go leagfaḋ sé anuas í nuair a ṫiucfaḋ an faṫaċ ċoṁ fada léiṫe. D’imṫiġ an luċd oibre a ḃaile ann sin, agus ċuaiḋ an tailiúr i ḃfolaċ air ċúl na cloiċe móire. Nuair ṫáinig dorċadas na h-oiḋċe ċonnairc sé na trí faṫaiġ ag teaċt, agus ṫosuiġ siad ag leagaḋ na cúirte no go dtáinig siad ċoṁ fada leis an áit a raiḃ an táiliúr ṡuas, agus ḃuail fear aca buille d’á ord air an áit a raiḃ sé í ḃfolaċ. Leag an tailiúr an ċloċ anuas air, agus, ṫuit sí air, agus ṁarḃ sí é. D’imṫiġ siad a ḃaile ann sin, agus d’ḟág siad an méad a ḃí ann gan leagan, ó ḃí fear aca féin marḃ.

Ṫáinig an luċt céirde arís, an lá air na ṁáraċ, agus ḃí siad ag obair go dtí an oiḋċe, agus nuair a ḃí siad dul aḃaile duḃairt an tailiúr leó an ċloċ ṁór do ċur suas air ḃárr na h-oibre mar ḃí rí an oiḋċe roiṁe sin. Rinne siad sin dó, agus d’imṫiġ siad aḃaile, agus cuaiḋ an tailiúr i ḃfolaċ, mar ḃí sé an traṫnóna roiṁe sin. Nuair ḃí na daoine uile imṫiġṫe ’nna suaiṁneas, ṫáinig an dá ḟaṫaċ, agus ḃí siad ag leagan an ṁéid a ḃí rompa; agus nuair ṫosuiġ siad, ċuir siad dá ġlaoḋ asta. Ḃí an tailiúr air siúḃal agus é ag obair no gur leag sé anuas an ċloċ ṁór gur ṫuit sí air ċloigionn an ḟaṫaiġ a ḃí fúiṫi agus ṁarḃ sí é. Ní raiḃ ann sin aċt an t-aon ḟaṫaċ aṁáin ann, agus ní ṫáinig seisean go raiḃ an ċúirt críoċnuiġṫe.

Ċuaiḋ an táiliúr ċum an riġ ann sin, agus duḃairt sé leis, a ḃean agus a ċuid airgid do ṫaḃairt dó, mar do ḃí an ċúirt déanta aige, aċt duḃairt an ríġ leis naċ dtiúḃraḋ sé aon ḃean dó, no go marḃfaḋ sé an faṫaċ eile, agus naċ dtiúḃraḋ sé dadaṁ dó anois no go marḃfaḋ sé an fear deireannaċ. Duḃairt an táiliúr ann sin go marḃfaḋ sé an faṫaċ eile ḋó, agus fáilte, naċ raiḃ aon ṁaille air biṫ air sin.

D’imṫiġ an táiliúr ann sin, go dtáinig sé ċum na h-áite a raiḃ an faṫaċ eile, agus d’ḟiafruiġ ar ṫeastuig buaċaill uaiḋ. Duḃairt an faṫaċ gur ṫeastuiġ, dá ḃfáġaḋ sé buaċaill a ḋeunfaḋ an rud a deunfaḋ sé féin. “Rud air biṫ a ḋeunfas tusa, deunfaiḋ mise é,” ar san tailiúr.

Ċuaid siad ċum a ndinéir ann sin, agus nuair ḃí sé iṫte aca duḃairt an faṫaċ leis an táiliúr an dtiucfaḋ leis an oiread anḃruiṫ ól agus é féin, aníos as a ḟiucaḋ. “Tiucfaiḋ,” ar san tailiúr, “aċt go dtiúḃraiḋ tu uair dam sul a ṫosóċamaoid air.” “Ḃéarfaiḋ mé sin duit,” ar san faṫac. Ċuaiḋ an tailiúr amaċ ann sin, agus fuair se croicionn caoraċ agus d’ḟuaiġ sé suas é, go ndearnaiġ sé mála ḋé agus ḋeasuiġ sé ṡíos faoi na ċóta é. Táinig sé asteaċ ann sin, agus duḃairt sé leis an ḃfaṫaċ galún de’n anḃruiṫ ól i dtosaċ. D’ól an faṫaċ sin aníos as a ḟiuċaḋ.

“Deunfaiḋ mise sin,” ar san táiliúr. Ḃí sé air siúḃal gur ḋóirt sé asteaċ san g-croicionn é, agus ṡaoil an faṫaċ go raiḃ sé ólta aige. D’ól an faṫaċ galún eile ann sin, agus leig an táiliúr galún eile síos ’san g-croicionn, aċt ṡaoil an faṫaċ, go raiḃ sé ’gá ól. “Déanfaiḋ mise rud anois naċ dtiucfaiḋ leat-sa ḋeunaṁ,” ar san táiliúr. “Ní ḋéanfá,” ar san faṫaċ, “creud é sin do ḋéanfá?”

“Poll do ḋeunaṁ, agus an t-anḃruiṫ do leigean amaċ arís,” ar san táiliúr. “Déan ṫu féin i dtosaċ é,” ar san faṫaċ. Ṫug an táiliúr “prad” de’n sgín, agus leig sé amaċ an t-anḃruiṫ as an g-croicionn. “Déan, ṫusa, sin,” ar sé leis an ḃfaṫaċ. “Déanfad,” ar san faṫaċ ag taḃairt prad de’n sgín ’nna ḃuilg féin gur ṁarḃ sé é féin. Sin é an ċaoi a ṁarḃ sé an tríoṁaḋ faṫaċ.

Ċuaiḋ sé do’n ríġ ann sin, agus duḃairt sé leis, an ḃean agus a ċuid airgid do ċur amaċ ċuige, agus go leagfaḋ se an ċúirt muna ḃfáġaḋ sé an ḃean. Bí faitċios orra ann sin go leagfaḋ sé an ċúirt arís, agus cuir siad an ḃean amaċ ċuige.

Nuair ḃí sé lá imṫiġṫe, é féin agus a ḃean, ġlac siad aiṫreaċas agus lean siad é, go mbainfeaḋ siad an ḃean dé arís. Bí an ṁuinntir do ḃí ’nna ḋiaiġ ’gá leanaṁaint no go dtáinig siad suas do’n áit a raiḃ an madr’-alla, agus duḃairt an madr’-alla leó. “Ḃí an táiliúr agus a ḃean ann so andé, ċonnairc mise iad ag dul ṫart, agus má sgaoileann siḃ mise anois tá mé níos luaiṫe ’ná siḃ-se, agus leanfaiḋ mé iad go mbéarfaiḋ mé orra.” Nuair ċualaiḋ siad sin sgaoil siad amaċ an madr’alla.

D’imṫig an madr’-alla agus muinntir Ḃ’l’acliaṫ, agus ḃí siad dá leanaṁaint go dtáinig siad d’on áit a raiḃ an sionnaċ, agus ċuir an sionnaċ forán orra, agus duḃairt sé leó, “ḃí an táiliúr agus a ḃean ann so air maidin andiú, agus má sgaoilfiḋ siḃ amaċ mé tá mé níos luaiṫe ’ná siḃ agus leanfaiḋ mé iad agus béarfaiḋ mé orra.” Sgaoil siad amaċ an sionnaċ ann sin.

D’imṫiġ an madr’-alla agus an sionnaċ, agus arm Ḃ’l’acliaṫ ann sin, ag feuċaint an ngaḃaḋ siad an táiliúr, agus táinig siad do’n áit a raiḃ an sean-ġearrán bán, agus duḃairt an sean-ġearrán bán leó, go raib an táiliúr, agus a ḃean ann sin air maidin, “agus sgaoiligiḋe amaċ mé,” ar sé, “tá mé níos luaite ná siḃ-se agus béarfaiḋ mé orra.” Sgaoil siad amaċ an sean ġearrán bán, agus lean an sean-ġearrán bán, an sionnaċ, an madr’-alla, agus arm Ḃ’l’acliaṫ an táiliúr ’s a ḃean, i g-cuideaċt a ċéile, agus níor ḃfada go dtáinig siad suas leis an táiliúr, agus ċonnairc siad é féin ’s a ḃean amaċ rompa.

Nuair ċonnairc an táiliúr iad ag tíġeaċt ṫáinig sé féin ’s a ḃean amaċ as an g-cóiste, agus ṡuiḋ sé síos air an talaṁ.

Nuair ċonnairc an sean-ġearrán bán an táiliúr ag suiḋe síos duḃairt sé, “Sin é an cuma a ḃí sé nuair rinne sé an poll daṁsa, nár ḟeud mé teaċt amaċ as, nuair ċuaiḋ mé asteaċ ann; ní raċfaiḋ mé níos foigse ḋó.”

“Ní h-eaḋ,” ar san sionnaċ, “aċt is mar sin, do ḃí sé nuair ḃí se déanaṁ an ruid daṁ-sa, agus ní raċfaiḋ mise níos foigse ḋó.”

“Ní h-eaḋ!” ar san madr’-alla, “aċt is mar sin do ḃí sé nuair ḃí sé déanaṁ an ċeuċta ’nna raiḃ mise gaḃṫa. Ni raċfaiḋ mise níos foigse ḋó.”

D’imṫiġ siad uile uaiḋ ann sin, agus d’ḟill siad. Ṫáinig an táiliúr agus a ḃean a ḃaile go Gailliṁ. Ṫug siad dam stocaiḋ páipéir agus bróga bainne raṁair—ċaill mé iad ó ṡoin. Fuair siad-san an t-áṫ agus mise an loċán, báiṫeaḋ iad-san agus ṫáinig mise.

THE TAILOR AND THE THREE BEASTS.

There was once a tailor in Galway, and he was sewing cloth. He saw a flea springing up out of the cloth, and he threw his needle at it and killed it. Then he said: “Am I not a fine hero when I was able to kill that flea?”

Then he said that he must go to Blackleea (Dublin), to the king’s court, to see would he be able to build it. That court was a’building for a long time; but as much of it as would be made during the day used to be thrown down again during the night, and for that reason nobody could build it up. It was three giants who used to come in the night and throw it. The day on the morrow the tailor went off, and brought with him his tools, the spade and the shovel.

He had not gone far till he met a white horse, and he saluted him.

“God save you,” said the horse. “Where are you going?”

“I am going to Dublin,” said the tailor, “to build a court for the king, and to get a lady for a wife, if I am able to do it;” for the king had promised that he would give his own daughter, and a lot of money with her, to whoever would be able to build up his court.

“Would you make me a hole,” said the old white garraun (horse), “where I could go a’hiding whenever the people are for bringing me to the mill or the kiln, so that they won’t see me, for they have me perished doing work for them?”

“I’ll do that, indeed,” said the tailor, “and welcome.”

He brought the spade and shovel, and he made a hole, and he said to the old white horse to go down into it till he would see if it would fit him. The white horse went down into the hole, but when he tried to come up again he was not able.