Part 5

“Make a place for me now,” said the white horse, “by which I’ll come up out of the hole here, whenever I’ll be hungry.”

“I will not,” said the tailor; “remain where you are until I come back, and I’ll lift you up.”

The tailor went forward next day, and the fox met him.

“God save you,” said the fox.

“God and Mary save you.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to Dublin, to try will I be able to make a court for the king.”

“Would you make a place for me where I’d go hiding?” said the fox. “The rest of the foxes do be beating me, and they don’t allow me to eat anything along with them.”

“I’ll do that for you,” said the tailor.

He took with him his axe and his saw, and he cut rods, until he made, as you would say, a thing like a cleeve (creel), and he desired the fox to get into it till he would see whether it would fit him. The fox went into it, and when the tailor got him down, he clapped his thigh on the hole that the fox got in by. When the fox was satisfied at last that he had a nice place of it within, he asked the tailor to let him out, and the tailor answered that he would not.

“Wait there until I come back again,” says he.

The tailor went forward the next day, and he had not walked very far until he met a modder-alla (lion?) and the lion greeted him, and asked him where was he going.

“I’m going to Dublin till I make a court for the king, if I’m able to make it,” said the tailor.

“If you were to make a plough for me,” said the lion, “I and the other lions could be ploughing and harrowing until we’d have a bit to eat in the harvest.”

“I’ll do that for you,” said the tailor.

He brought his axe and his saw, and he made a plough. When the plough was made, he put a hole in the beam of it, and he said to the lion to go in under the plough till he’d see was he any good of a ploughman. He placed the tail in the hole he had made for it, and then clapped in a peg, and the lion was not able to draw out his tail again.

“Loose me out now,” said the lion, “and we’ll fix ourselves and go ploughing.”

The tailor said he would not loose him out until he came back himself. He left him there then, and he came to Dublin.

When he came to Dublin he put forth a paper, desiring all the tradesmen that were raising the court to come to him, and that he would pay them; and at that time workmen used only to be getting one penny in the day. A number of tradesmen gathered the next day, and they began working for him. They were going home again after their day, when the tailor said to them “to put up that great stone upon the top of the work that they had done.” When the great stone was raised up, the tailor put some sort of contrivance under it, that he might be able to throw it down as soon as the giant would come as far as it. The work people went home then, and the tailor went in hiding behind the big stone.

When the darkness of the night was come he saw the three giants arriving, and they began throwing down the court until they came as far as the place where the tailor was in hiding up above, and a man of them struck a blow of his sledge on the place where he was. The tailor threw down the stone, and it fell on him and killed him. They went home then, and left all of the court that was remaining without throwing it down, since a man of themselves was dead.

The tradespeople came again the next day, and they were working until night, and as they were going home the tailor told them to put up the big stone on the top of the work, as it had been the night before. They did that for him, went home, and the tailor went in hiding the same as he did the evening before.

When the people had all gone to rest, the two giants came, and they were throwing down all that was before them, and as soon as they began they put two shouts out of them. The tailor was going on manœuvring until he threw down the great stone, and it fell upon the skull of the giant that was under him, and it killed him. There was only the one giant left in it then, and he never came again until the court was finished.

Then when the work was over he went to the king and told him to give him his wife and his money, as he had the court finished, and the king said he would not give him any wife, until he would kill the other giant, for he said that it was not by his strength he killed the two giants before that, and that he would give him nothing now until he killed the other one for him. Then the tailor said that he would kill the other giant for him, and welcome; that there was no delay at all about that.

The tailor went then, till he came to the place where the other giant was, and asked did he want a servant-boy. The giant said he did want one, if he could get one who would do everything that he would do himself.

“Anything that you will do, I will do it,” said the tailor.

They went to their dinner then, and when they had it eaten, the giant asked the tailor “would it come with him to swallow as much broth as himself, up out of its boiling.” The tailor said: “It will come with me to do that, but that you must give me an hour before we begin on it.” The tailor went out then, and he got a sheepskin, and he sewed it up till he made a bag of it, and he slipped it down under his coat. He came in then and said to the giant to drink a gallon of the broth himself first. The giant drank that, up out of its boiling. “I’ll do that,” said the tailor. He was going on until he had it all poured into the skin, and the giant thought he had it drunk. The giant drank another gallon then, and the tailor let another gallon down into the skin, but the giant thought he was drinking it.

“I’ll do a thing now that it won’t come with you to do,” said the tailor.

“You will not,” said the giant. “What is it you would do?”

“Make a hole and let out the broth again,” said the tailor.

“Do it yourself first,” said the giant.

The tailor gave a prod of the knife, and he let the broth out of the skin.

“Do that you,” said he.

“I will,” said the giant, giving such a prod of the knife into his own stomach, that he killed himself. That is the way he killed the third giant.

He went to the king then, and desired him to send him out his wife and his money, for that he would throw down the court again, unless he should get the wife. They were afraid then that he would throw down the court, and they sent the wife out to him.

When the tailor was a day gone, himself and his wife, they repented and followed him to take his wife off him again. The people who were after him were following him till they came to the place where the lion was, and the lion said to them: “The tailor and his wife were here yesterday. I saw them going by, and if ye loose me now, I am swifter than ye, and I will follow them till I overtake them.” When they heard that they loosed out the lion.

The lion and the people of Dublin went on, and they were pursuing him, until they came to the place where the fox was, and the fox greeted them, and said: “The tailor and his wife were here this morning, and if ye will loose me out, I am swifter than ye, and I will follow them, and overtake them.” They loosed out the fox then.

The lion and the fox and the army of Dublin went on then, trying would they catch the tailor, and they were going till they came to the place where the old white garraun was, and the old white garraun said to them that the tailor and his wife were there in the morning, and “loose me out,” said he; “I am swifter than ye, and I’ll overtake them.” They loosed out the old white garraun then, and the old white garraun, the fox, the lion, and the army of Dublin pursued the tailor and his wife together, and it was not long till they came up with him, and saw himself and the wife out before them.

When the tailor saw them coming he got out of the coach with his wife, and he sat down on the ground.

When the old white garraun saw the tailor sitting down on the ground, he said: “That’s the position he had when he made the hole for me, that I couldn’t come up out of, when I went down into it. I’ll go no nearer to him.”

“No!” said the fox, “but that’s the way he was when he was making the thing for me, and I’ll go no nearer to him.”

“No!” says the lion, “but that’s the very way he had, when he was making the plough that I was caught in. I’ll go no nearer to him.”

They all went from him then and returned. The tailor and his wife came home to Galway. They gave me paper stockings and shoes of thick milk. I lost them since. They got the ford, and I the flash;[16] they were drowned, and I came safe.

BRAN.

Ḃí cú breáġ ag Fionn. Sin Bran. Ċualaiḋ tu caint air Ḃran. Seó an daṫ a ḃí air.

Cosa buiḋe a ḃí air Ḃran Dá ṫaoiḃ duḃa agus tárr geal, Druim uaine air ḋaṫ na seilge Dá ċluais cruinne cóiṁ-ḋearga.

Ḃéarfaḋ Bran air na Gaéṫiḃ-fiáḋna ḃí sí ċoṁ luaṫ sin. Nuair ḃí sí ’nna coileán d’éiriġ imreas no tsoid éigin ameasg na g-con a ḃí ag an ḃFéin, agus

Trí fiċe cu agus fiċe coileán Ṁarḃ Bran agus í ’nna coileán, Dá ġé-fiaḋáin, agus an oireaḋ leó uile.

Sé Fionn féin a ṁarḃ Bran. Ċuaiḋ siad amaċ ag fiaḋaċ agus rínneaḋ eilit de ṁáṫair Ḟinn. Ḃí Bran dá tóruiġeaċt.

“Eilit ḃaoṫ fág air sliaḃ,”

ar Fionn. “A ṁic óig,” ar sise, “Cá raċfaiḋ mé as?”

Má ṫéiḋim ann san ḃfairrge síos Coiḋċe ni ḟillfinn air m’ais, S má ṫéiḋim ann san aer suas Ní ḃeurfaiḋ mo luaṫas air Ḃran.

“Gaḃ amaċ eidir mo ḋá ċois,” ar Fionn. Ċuaiḋ sise amaċ eidir a ḋá ċois, agus lean Bran í, agus air ngaḃail amaċ dí, d’ḟáisg Fionn a ḋá ġlúin uirri agus ṁarḃ sé í.

Ḃí inġean ag Bran. Cu duḃ a ḃí ann san g-coileán sin, agus ṫóg na Fianna í, agus duḃairt siad leis an mnaoi a ḃí taḃairt aire do’n ċoileán, bainne bó gan aon ḃall do ṫaḃairt do’n ċoileán, agus gaċ aon deór do ṫaḃairt dó, agus gan aon ḃraon ċongḃail uaiḋ. Ní ḋearnaiḋ an ḃean sin, aċt ċongḃuiġ cuid de’n ḃainne gan a ṫaḃairt uile do’n ċoileán. An ċeud lá do sgaoil na Fianna an cu óg amaċ ḃí gleann lán de ġéaḋaiḃ fiaḋáine agus d’ eunaċaiḃ eile, agus nuair sgaoileaḋ an cú duḃ ’nna measg, do ġaḃ sí iad uile aċt fíor-ḃeagán aca a ċuaiḋ amaċ air ḃearna a ḃí ann. Agus aċt gur ċongḃuiġ an ḃean cuid de’n ḃainne uaiṫi do ṁarḃfaḋ sí iad uile.

Ḃí fear de na Fiannaiḃ ’nna ḋall, agus nuair leigeaḋ an cu amaċ d’ḟiafruiġ sé de na daoiniḃ a ḃí anaice leis, cia an ċaoi a rinne an cú óg. Duḃairt siad-san leis gur ṁarḃ an cu óg an meud gé fiaḋáin agus eun a ḃi ann san ngleann, aċt beagán aca a ċuaiḋ amaċ air ḃearna, agus go raiḃ sí teaċt a ḃaile anois. “Dá ḃfáġaḋ sí an bainne uile a ṫáinig de’n ḃo gan aon ḃall,” ar san dall, “ni leigfeaḋ sí d’eun air biṫ imṫeaċt uaiḋi,” agus d’ḟiafruiġ sé, ann sin, cad é an ċaoi a raiḃ sí tíġeaċt a ḃaile. “Tá sí teaċt anois,” ar siad, “agus, sgáil’ lasta as a muineul agus i air buile.”

“Taḃair m’impiḋe ḋam anois,” ar san dall, “agus cuir mé ’mo ṡuiḋe ann san g-cáṫaoir agus cuir gual ann mo láiṁ, óir muna marḃaim í anois marḃfaiḋ sí muid (sinn) uile.” Ṫáinig an cú, agus ċaiṫ sé an gual léiṫe agus ṁarḃ sé í, agus é dall.

Aċt dá ḃfágaḋ an coileán sin an bainne uile do ṫiucfaḋ sí agus luiḋfeaḋ sí síos go socair, mar luiḋeaḋ Bran.

BRAN.

Finn had a splendid hound. That was Bran. You have heard talk of Bran. This is the colour was on him:

Yellow feet that were on Bran, Two black sides, and belly white, Grayish back of hunting colour, Two ears, red, round, small, and bright.

Bran would overtake the wild-geese, she was that swift. There arose some quarrel or fighting between the hounds that the Fenians had, when she was only a puppy, and

Three score hounds and twenty puppies Bran did kill, and she a puppy, Two wild-geese, as much as they all.

It was Finn himself who killed Bran. They went out hunting, and there was made a fawn of Finn’s mother. (_Who made a fawn of her? Oh, how do I know? It was with some of their pishtrogues._) Bran was pursuing her.

“Silly fawn leave on mountain,”

said Finn. “Oh, young son,” said she, “how shall I escape?—

“If I go in the sea beneath I never shall come back again, And if I go in the air above My swiftness is no match for Bran.”

“Go out between my two legs,” said Finn.

She went between his two legs, and Bran followed her; and as Bran went out under him, Finn squeezed his two knees on her and killed her.

Bran had a daughter. That pup was a black hound, and the Fenians reared it; and they told the woman who had a charge of the pup to give it the milk of a cow without a single spot, and to give it every single drop, and not to keep back one tint[17] from her. The woman did not do that, but kept a portion of the milk without giving it to the pup.

The first day that the Fenians loosed out the young hound, there was a glen full of wild-geese and other birds; and when the black hound was loosed amongst them, she caught them all except a very few that went out on a gap that was in it. (_And how could she catch the wild-geese? Wouldn’t they fly away in the air? She caught them, then. That’s how I heard it._) And only that the woman kept back some of the milk from her, she would have killed them all.

There was a man of the Fenians, a blind man, and when the pup was let out, he asked the people near him how did the young hound do. They told him that the young hound killed all the wild-geese and birds that were in the glen, but a few that went out on a gap. “If she had to get all the milk that came from the cow without spot,” says the blind man, “she wouldn’t let a bird at all go from her.” And he asked then “how was the hound coming home?” “She’s coming now,” said they, “and a fiery cloud out of her neck,” (_How out of her neck? Because she was going so quick._) “and she coming madly.”

“Grant me my request now,” said the blind man. “Put me sitting in the chair, and put a coal[18](?) in my hand; for unless I kill her she’ll kill us.”

The hound came, and he threw the coal at her and killed her, and he blind.

But if that pup had to get all the milk, she’d come and she’d lie down quietly, the same as Bran used to lie ever.

MAC RIĠ ÉIREANN.

Ḃí mac ríġ i n-Éirinn, fad ó ṡoin, agus ċuaiḋ sé amaċ agus ṫug sé a ġunna ’s a ṁadaḋ leis. Ḃí sneaċta amuiġ. Ṁarḃ sé fiaċ duḃ. Ṫuit an fiaċ duḃ air an tsneaċta. Ní ḟacaiḋ sé aon rud buḋ ġile ’ná an sneaċta, ná buḋ ḋuiḃe ’ná cloigionn an ḟiaiċ ḋuiḃ, ná buḋ ḋeirge ’ná a ċuid fola ḃí ’gá dórtaḋ amaċ.

Ċuir sé faoi geasaiḃ agus deimúġ (_sic_) na bliaḋna naċ n-íosaḋ sé ḋá ḃiaḋ i n-aon ḃord, ná ḋá oiḋċe do ċoḋlaḋ ann aon teaċ, go ḃfáġaḋ sé bean a raiḃ a cloigionn ċoṁ duḃ leis an ḃfiaċ duḃ, agus a croicionn ċoṁ geal leis an tsneaċta, agus a ḋá ġruaiḋ ċoṁ dearg le fuil.

Ni raiḃ aon ḃean ann san doṁan mar sin, aċt aon ḃean aṁáin a ḃí ann san doṁan ṡoir.

Lá air na ṁáraċ ġaḃ sé amaċ, agus ní raiḃ airgiod fairsing, aċt ṫug sé leis fiċe púnta. Ní fada ċuaiḋ sé gur casaḋ socraoid dó, agus duḃairt sé go raiḃ sé ċoṁ maiṫ ḋó trí ċoiscéim ḋul leis an g-corpán. Ní raiḃ na trí ċoiscéim siúḃalta aige go dtáinig fear agus leag sé a reasta air an g-corp air ċúig ṗúnta. Ḃí dlíġeaḋ i n-Eirinn an t-am sin, duinea ir biṫ a raiḃ fiaċa aige air ḟear eile, naċ dtiucfaḋ le muinntir an ḟir sin a ċur, dá mbeiḋeaḋ sé marḃ, gan na fiaċa d’íoc, no gan cead ó’n duine a raiḃ na fiaċa sin aige air an ḃfear marḃ. Nuair ċonnairc Mac Ríġ Éireann mic agus inġeana an duine ṁairḃ ag caoineaḋ, agus iad gan an t-airgiod aca le taḃairt do ’n ḟear, duḃairt sé leis fein, “is mór an ṫruaġ é naċ ḃfuil an t-airgiod ag na daoiniḃ boċta.” agus ċuir sé a láṁ ann a ṗóca agus d’íoc sé féin na cúig ṗúnta, air son an ċuirp. Duḃairt sé go raċfaḋ sé ċum an teampoill ann sin, go ḃfeicfeaḋ sé curṫa é. Ṫáinig fear eile ann sin, agus leag sé a reasta air an g-corp air son cúig ṗúnta eile. “Mar ṫug mé na ceud ċúig ṗúnta,” ar Mac Ríġ Éireann leis féin, “tá sé ċoṁ maiṫ ḋam cúig ṗúnta eile ṫaḃairt anois, agus an fear boċt do leigean dul ’san uaiġ.” D’íoc sé na cúig ṗúnta eile. Ní raiḃ aige ann sin aċt deiċ bpúnta.

Níor ḃfada ċuaiḋ sé gur casaḋ fear gearr glas dó agus d’ḟiafruiġ sé ḋé cá raiḃ sé dul. Duḃairt sé go raiḃ sé dul ag iarraiḋ mná ’san doṁan ṡoir. D’ḟiafruiġ an fear gearr glas dé, an raiḃ buaċaill teastál uaiḋ, agus duḃairt sé go raiḃ, agus cad é an ṗáiḋe ḃeiḋeaḋ sé ag iarraiḋ. Duḃairt seisean “an ċeud ṗóg air a ṁnaoi, dá ḃfáġaḋ sé í.” Duḃairt Mac Ríġ Éireann go g-caiṫfeaḋ sé sin ḟáġail.

Níor ḃfada ċuaiḋ siad gur casaḋ fear eile ḋóiḃ agus a ġunna ann a láiṁ, agus é ag “leiḃléaraċt” air an londuḃ a ḃí ṫall ’san doṁan ṡoir, go mbeiḋeaḋ sé aige le n-aġaiḋ a ḋinéir. Duḃairt an fear gearr glas le Mac Ríġ Éireann gó raiḃ sé ċoṁ maiṫ ḋó an fear sin ġlacaḋ air aimsir, da raċfaḋ sé air aimsir leis. D’ḟiafruiġ Mac Ríġ Eireann an dtiucfaḋ sé air aimsir leis.

“Raċfad,” ar san fear, “má ḃfáġ’ mé mo ṫuarastal.”

“Agus cad é an tuarastal ḃéiḋeas tu ’g iarraiḋ?”

“Áit tíġe agus garḋa.”

“Geoḃaiḋ tu sin uaim, má éiriġeann mo ṫuras liom.”

D’imṫiġ Mac Ríġ Eireann leis an ḃfear glas agus leis an ngunnaire, agus ní fada ċuaiḋ síad gur casaḋ fear dóiḃ, agus a ċluas leagṫa air an talaṁ, agus é ag éisteaċt leis an ḃfeur ag fás.

“Tá sé ċoṁ maiṫ ḋuit an fear sin ġlacaḋ air aimsir,” ar san fear gearr glas.

D’ḟiafruiġ Mac Ríġ Eireann de ’n ḟear an dtiucfaḋ sé leis air aimsir.

“Tiucfad má ḃfáġ mé áit tiġe agus garḋa.”

“Geoḃaiḋ tu sin uaim má éiriġeann an rud atá ann mo ċeann liom.”

Ċuaiḋ Mac Riġ Eireann, an fear gearr glas, an gunnaire, agus an cluasaire, agus ní fada ċuaiḋ siad gur casaḋ fear eile ḋóiḃ agus a leaṫ-ċos air a ġualainn, agus é ag congḃáil páirce geirrḟiaḋ gan aon ġeirrḟiaḋ leigean asteaċ ná amaċ. Ḃí iongantas air Ṁac Ríġ Eireann agus d’ḟiafruiġ sé cad é an ċiall a raiḃ a leaṫ-ċos air a ġualainn mar sin.

“O,” ar seisean, “dá mbeiḋeaḋ mo ḋá ċois agam air an talam ḃeiḋinn ċoṁ luaṫ sin go raċfainn as aṁarc.”

“An dtiucfaiḋ tu air aimsir liom,” ar san Mac Riġ.

“Tiucfad, má ḃfáġ’ mé áit tiġe agus garḋa.”

“Geoḃaiḋ tu sin uaim,” ar Mac Ríġ Éireann, “má éiriġeann an rud atá ann mo ċeann, liom.”

Ċuaiḋ Mac Riġ Eireann, an fear gearr glas, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, agus an coisire air aġaiḋ, agus níor ḃfada go dtáncadar go fear agus é ag cur muilinn gaoiṫe ṫart le na leaṫṗolláire, agus a ṁeur leagṫa aige air a ṡrón ag druidim na polláire eile.

“Cad ċuige ḃfuil do ṁeur agad air do ṡrón?” ar Mac Ríġ Eireann leis.

“O,” ar seisean, “dá séidfinn as mo ḋá ṗolláire do sguabfainn an muileann amaċ as sin suas ’san aer.”

“An dtiucfaiḋ tu air aimsir?”

“Tiucfad, má ḃfáġ’ mé áit tiġe agus garḋa.”

“Geoḃaiḋ tu sin, má éiriġeann an rud atá ann mo ċeann liom.”

Ċuaiḋ Mac Riġ Eireann, an fear gearr glas, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, an coisire, agus an séidire go dtáncadar go fear a ḃí ’nna ṡuiḋe air ṫaoiḃ an ḃoṫair, agus é ag briseaḋ cloċ le na leaṫ-ṫóin agus ní raiḃ casúr ná dadaṁ aige. D’ḟiafruiġ an Mac Ríġ ḋé, cad ċuige a raiḃ sé ag briseaḋ na g-cloċ le na leaṫ-ṫóin.

“O,” ar seisean, “dá mbualfainn leis an tóin ḋúbalta iad ḋeunfainn púġdar díoḃ.”

“An dtiucfaiḋ tu air aimsir liom?”

“Tuicfad, má ḃfaġ’ mé áit tíġe agus garḋa.”

D’imṫiġ siad uile ann sin, Mac Ríġ Eireann, an fear gearr glas, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, an coisire, an séidire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna agus ḃeurfaḋ siad air an ngaoiṫ Ṁárta a ḃí rompa agus an ġaoṫ Ṁárta a ḃí ’nna n-diaiġ ní ḃéurfaḋ sí orra-san go dtáinig traṫnóna agus deireaḋ an laé.

Ḍearc Mac Ríġ Éireann uaiḋ agus ní ḟacaiḋ sé aon teaċ a mbeiḋeaḋ sé ann an oiḋċe sin. Ḍearc an fear gearr glas uaiḋ agus ċonnairc sé teaċ naċ raiḃ bonn cleite amaċ air, ná bárr cleite asteaċ air, aċt aon ċleite aṁáin a ḃí ag congḃáil dídinn agus fasgaiḋ air. Duḃairt mac ríġ Éireann naċ raiḃ ḟios aige cá ċaiṫfeaḋ siad an oiḋċe sin, agus duḃairt an fear gearr glas go mbeiḋeaḋ siad i dṫeaċ an ḟaṫaiġ ṫall an oiḋċe sin.

Ṫáinig siad ċum an tiġe, agus ṫarraing an fear gearr glas an cuaille cóṁraic agus níor ḟág sé leanḃ i mnaoi searraċ i g-capall, pigín i muic, ná broc i ngleann nár iompuiġ sé ṫart trí uaire iad le méad an torain do ḃain sé as an g-cuaille cóṁraic. Ṫáinig an faṫaċ amaċ agus duḃairt sé “moṫuiġim bolaḋ an Éireannaiġ ḃinn ḃreugaiġ faoi m’ḟóidín dúṫaiġ.”

“Ní Éireannaċ binn breugaċ mise,” ar san fear gearr glas, “aċt tá mo ṁáiġistir amuiġ ann sin ag ceann an ḃóṫair agus má ṫagann sé bainfiḋ sé an ceann díot.” Ḃí an fear gearr glas ag meuduġaḋ, agus ag meuduġaḋ go raiḃ sé faoi ḋeireaḋ ċoṁ mór leis an g-caisleán. Ḃí faitċios air an ḃfaṫaċ agus duḃairt sé, “Ḃfuil do ṁáiġistir ċoṁ mór leat féin?”

“Tá,” ar san fear gearr glas, “agus níos mó.”

“Cuir i ḃfolaċ mé go maidin go n-imṫiġeann do ṁáiġistir,” ar san faṫaċ.

Ċuir sé an faṫaċ faoi ġlas, ann sin, agus ċuaiḋ sé ċum a ṁáiġistir.

Ṫáinig mac ríġ Éireann, an fear gearr glas, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, an séidire, an coisire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna, asteaċ ’san g-caisleán, agus ċaiṫ siad an oiḋċe sin, trian dí le fiannaiġeaċt agus trian le sgeuluiġeaċt, agus trian le soirm (_sic_) sáiṁ suain agus fíor-ċodalta.

Nuair d’ éiriġ an lá air na ṁáraċ ṫug sé leis a ṁáiġistir agus an gunnaire, agus an cluasaire, agus an coisire, agus an séidire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna, agus d’ḟág sé amuiġ ag ceann an ḃóṫair iad, agus ṫáinig sé féin air ais agus ḃain sé an glas de ’n ḟaṫaċ. Duḃairt sé leis an ḃfaṫaċ gur ċuir a ṁáiġistir air ais é i g-coinne an ḃirréid ḋuiḃ a ḃí faoi ċolḃa a leabuiḋ. Duḃairt an faṫaċ go dtiuḃraḋ sé hata ḋó nár ċaiṫ sé féin ariaṁ, aċt go raiḃ náire air, an sean-ḃirreud do ṫaḃairt dó. Duḃairt an fear gearr glas muna dtiuḃraḋ sé an birreud dó go dtiucfaḋ a ṁáiġistir air ais, agus go mbainfeaḋ sé an ceann dé.

“Is fearr dam a ṫaḃairt duit,” ar san faṫaċ, “agus uair air biṫ a ċuirfeas tu air do ċeann é, feicfiḋ tu uile ḋuine agus ni ḟeicfiḋ duine air biṫ ṫu.” Ṫug sé ḋó an birreud ann sin, agus ċuaiḋ an fear gearr glas agus ṫug sé do ṁaċ ríġ Éireann é.

Ḃí siad ag imṫeaċt ann sin. Do ḃéarfaḋ siad air an ngaoiṫ Ṁárta do ḃí rómpa, agus an ġaoṫ Ṁárta do ḃí ’nna ndiaiġ ní ḃéarfaḋ sí orra-san, ag dul do’n doṁan ṡoir. Nuair ṫáinig traṫnóna agus deireaḋ an lae ḋearc mac ríġ Eireann uaiḋ agus ní ḟacaiḋ sé aon áit a mbeiḋeaḋ sé ann an oiḋċe sin. Ḍearc an fear gearr glas uaiḋ, agus ċonnairc sé caisleán, agus duḃairt sé, “an faṫaċ atá ann san g-caisleán sin, is dearḃráṫair do’n ḟaṫaċ a raḃamar aréir aige, agus béiḋmíd ann san g-caisleán sin anoċt.” Ṫáinig siad, agus d’ḟág sé mac ríġ Eireann agus a ṁuinntir ag ceann an ḃóṫair agus ċuaiḋ sé ċum an ċaisleáin, agus ṫarraing sé an cuaille cóṁraic, agus níor ḟág sé leanḃ i mnaoi ná searraċ i g-capall ná pigín i muic ná broc i ngleann, i ḃfoigse seaċt míle ḋó, nár ḃain sé trí iompóḋ asta leis an méad torain a ṫug sé as an g-cuaille cóṁraic.

Ṫáinig an faṫaċ amaċ, agus duḃairt sé, “Moṫuiġim bolaḋ an Éireannaiġ ḃinn ḃreugaiġ faoi m’ḟóidín dúṫaiġ.”

“Ní Eireannaċ binn breugaċ mise,” ar san fear gearr glas, “aċt tá mo ṁáiġistir amuiġ ann sin ag ceann an ḃóṫair, agus má ṫagann sé bainfiḋ sé an ceann díot.”

“Is mór líom ḋe ġreim ṫu, agus is beag liom de ḋá ġreim ṫu,” ar san faṫaċ.

“Ní ḃfuiġfiḋ tu mé de ġreim air biṫ,” ar san fear gearr glas, agus ṫoisiġ sé ag meuduġaḋ go raiḃ sé ċoṁ mór leis an g-caisleán.

Ṫáinig faitċios air an ḃfaṫaċ agus duḃairt sé, “ḃfuil do ṁáiġistir ċoṁ mór leat-sa?”

“Tá agus níos mó,” ar san fear beag glas.

“Cuir i ḃfolaċ mé go maidin go n-imṫiġeann do ṁáiġistir,” ar san faṫaċ, “agus rud air biṫ atá tu ag iarraiḋ caiṫfiḋ tu a ḟáġail.”

Ṫug sé an faṫaċ leis, agus ċaiṫ sé faoi ḃeul daḃaiċ é. Ċuaiḋ se amaċ agus ṫug sé asteaċ mac ríġ Eireann, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, an séidire, an coisire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna, agus ċaiṫ siad an oiḋċe ann sin, trian le fiannuiġeaċt trian le sgeulaiġeaċt agus trian le soirm sáiṁ suain agus fíor-ċodalta, go dti an ṁaidin.