Part 6

Air maidin, lá air na ṁáraċ, ṫug an fear gearr glas mac ríġ Eireann agus a ṁuinntir amaċ as an g-caisleán agus d’ḟág sé ag ceann an ḃóṫair iad, agus ṫáinig sé féin air ais agus d’iarr sé na sean-slipéaraiḋ a ḃi faoi ċolḃa an leabuiḋ, air an ḃfaṫaċ. Duḃairt an faṫaċ go dtiúḃraḋ sé péire ḃútais ċoṁ maiṫ agus ċaiṫ sé ariaṁ d’a ṁáiġistir, agus cad é an maiṫ a ḃí ann sna sean-slipéaraiḃ! Duḃairt an fear gearr glas muna ḃfáġaḋ sé na slipeuraiḋ go raċfaḋ sé i g-coinne a ṁáiġistir, leis an ceann do ḃaint dé. Duḃairt an faṫaċ ann sin go dtiúḃraḋ sé ḋó iad, agus ṫug. “Am air biṫ,” ar seisean, “a ċuirfeas tu na slipeuraiḋ sin ort, agus ’haiġ óiḃir’ do ráḋ, áit air biṫ a ḃfuil súil agad do ḋul ann, béiḋ tu innti.”

D’imṫiġ mac ríġ Eireann agus an fear gearr glas, agus an gunnaire, agus an cluasaire, agus an coisire, agus an séidire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna, go dtáinig traṫnóna agus deireaḋ an laé; agus go raiḃ an capall ag dul faoi sgáṫ na copóige agus ní fanfaḋ an ċopóg leis. D’ḟiafruiġ mac ríġ Eireann de’n ḟear gearr glas ann sin, cá ḃeiḋeaḋ siad an oiḋċe sin, agus duḃairt an fear gearr glas go mbeiḋeaḋ siad i dteaċ dearḃráṫar an ḟaṫaiġ ag a raiḃ siad areir. Ḍearc mac ríġ Eireann uaiḋ agus ni ḟacaiḋ sé dadaṁ. Ḍearc an fear gearr glas uaiḋ agus ċonnairc sé caisleán mór. D’ḟágḃaiġ sé mac ríġ Eireann agus a ṁuinntir ann sin agus ċuaiḋ sé ċum an ċaisleáin leis féin, agus ṫarraing sé an cuaille cóṁraic, agus níor ḟágḃaiġ sé leanḃ i mnaoi, searraċ i láir, pigín i muic, na broc i ngleann, nár ṫionntuiġ sé ṫart trí uaire leis an méad torain a 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 ’nna ṡeasaṁ ann sin, ag ceann an ḃóṫair, agus má ṫagann sé bainfiḋ sé an ceann díot.”

Agus leis sin ṫosuiġ an fear gearr glas ag méaduġaḋ go raiḃ sé ċoṁ mór leis an g-caisleán faoi ḋeireaḋ.

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

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

“O cuir mé a ḃfolaċ, cuir me i ḃfolaċ,” ar san faṫaċ, “go n-ímṫiġeann do ṁáiġistir, agus rud air biṫ a ḃéiḋeas tu ag iarraiḋ caiṫfiḋ tu a ḟáġail.”

Ṫug sé an faṫaċ leis agus ċuir sé faoi ḃeul daḃaiċ é, agus glas air.

Ṫáinig sé air ais agus ṫug sé mac ríġ Éireann, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, an coisire, an séidire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna asteaċ leis, agus ċaiṫ siad an oiḋċe sin go rúgaċ, trian dí le fiannuiġeaċt, agus trian dí le sgeuluiġeaċt, agus trian dí le soirm sáiṁ suain agus fíor ċodalta.

Air maidin, lá air na ṁáraċ, ṫug sé mac ríġ Eireann agus a ṁuinntir amaċ agus d’ḟágḃuiġ sé ag ceann an ḃóṫair iad agus ṫáinig sé féin air ais, agus leig sé amaċ an faṫaċ, agus duḃairt se leis an ḃfaṫaċ an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ a ḃí faoi ċolḃa a leabuiḋ do ṫaḃairt dó. Duḃairt an faṫaċ naċ dtiúḃraḋ sé an sean-ċloiḋeaṁ sin d’ aon duine, aċt go dtiúḃraḋ sé ḋó cloiḋeaṁ na trí faoḃar, nár ḟág fuiġeal buille ’nna ḋiaiġ, agus dá ḃfág-faḋ sé go dtiuḃraḋ sé leis an dara ḃuille é.

“Ní ġlacfaiḋ mé sin,” ar san fear gearr glas, “caiṫfiḋ mé an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ ḟáġail, agus muna ḃfáġ’ mé é raċfaiḋ me i g-coinne mo ṁáiġistir agus bainfiḋ sé an ceann díot.”

“Is fearr dam a ṫaḃairt duit,” ar san faṫaċ, “agus cia bé áit a ḃualfeas tu buille leis an g-cloiḋeaṁ sin raċfaiḋ sé go dtí an gaineaṁ dá mbuḋ iarann a ḃí roiṁe.” Ṫug sé an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ dó ann sin.

Cuaiḋ mac ríġ Eireann agus an fear gearr glas, agus an gunnaire, agus an cluasaire, agus an coisire, agus an séidire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna ann sin, go dtáinig traṫnóna agus deireaḋ an laé, go raiḃ an capall ag dul faoi sgáṫ na copóige agus ní ḟanfaḋ an ċopóg leis. Ní ḃéarfaḋ an ġaoṫ Ṁárta a ḃí rompa orra agus an ġaoṫ Ṁárta a ḃí ’nna ndiaiġ ní rug sí orra-san, agus ḃí siad an oiḋċe sin ann san doṁan ṡoir, an áit a raiḃ an ḃean-uasal.

D’ ḟiafruiġ an ḃean de ṁac ríġ Eireann creud do ḃí sé ag iarraiḋ agus duḃairt seisean go raiḃ sé ag iarraiḋ íféin mar ṁnaoi. “Caiṫfiḋ tu m’ḟáġail,” ar sise, “má ḟuasglann tu mo ġeasa ḋíom.”

Fuair sé a lóistín le na ċuid buaċaill ann san g-caisleán an oiḋċe sin, agus ann san oiḋċe táinig sise agus duḃairt leis, “seó siosúr agad, agus muna ḃfuil an siosúr sin agad air maidin amáraċ bainfiġear an ceann díot.”

Ċuir sí biorán-suain faoi na ċeann, agus ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ, agus ċoṁ luaṫ a’s ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ rug sí an siosúr uaiḋ agus d’ḟágḃuiġ sí é. Ṫug sí an siosúr do’n ríġ niṁe, agus duḃairt sí leis an ríġ, an siosúr do ḃeiṫ aige air maidin dí. D’imṫiġ sí ann sin. Nuair ḃí sí imṫiġṫe ṫuit an ríġ niṁe ’nna ċodlaḋ agus nuair a ḃí sé ’nna ċodlaḋ ṫáinig an fear gearr glas agus na sean-slipéaraiḋ air, agus an birreud air a ċeann, agus an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ ann a láiṁ, agus cia bé áit a d’ḟágḃuiġ an ríġ an siosúr fuair seisean é. Ṫug sé do ṁac ríġ Eireann é, agus nuair ṫáinig sise air maidin d’ḟiafruiġ sí, “a ṁic ríġ Eireann ḃfuil an siosúr agad?”

“Tá,” ar seisean.

Ḃí tri fíċe cloigionn na ndaoine a ṫáinig ’gá h-íarraiḋ air spíciḃ ṫimċioll an ċaisleáin agus ṡaoil sí go mbeiḋeaḋ a ċloigionn air spíce aici i g-cuideaċt leó.

An oiḋċe, an lá air na ṁáraċ, ṫáinig sí agus ṫug sí cíar dó, agus duḃairt sí leis muna mbeiḋeaḋ an ċíar aige air maidin nuair a ṫiucfaḋ sí go mbeiḋeaḋ an ceann bainte ḋé. Ċuir sí biorán-suain faoi na ċeann agus ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ mar ṫuit sé an oiḋċe roiṁe, agus ġoid sise an ċíar léiṫe. Ṫug sí an ċíar do’n ríġ niṁe agus duḃairt sí leis gan an ċiar do ċailleaḋ mar ċaill sé an siosúr. Ṫáinig an fear gearr glas agus na sean-sléiparaiḋ air a ċosaiḃ, an sean-ḃirreud air a ċeann agus an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ ann a láiṁ, agus ní ḟacaiḋ an ríġ é go dtáinig se taoḃ ṡiar dé agus ṫug sé an ċíar leis uaiḋ.

Nuair ṫáiniġ an ṁaidin, ḋúisiġ mac ríġ Eireann agus ṫosuiġ sé ag caoineaḋ na ciaire a ḃí imṫiġṫe uaiḋ. “Ná bac leis sin,” ar san fear gearr glas, “tá sé agam-sa.” Nuair ṫáinig sise ṫug sé an ċíar dí, agus ḃí iongantas uirri.

Táinig sí an tríoṁaḋ oiḋċe, agus duḃairt sí le mac riġ Eireann an ceann do cíaraḋ leis an g-cíair sin do ḃeiṫ aige ḋí, air maidin amáraċ. “Nois,” ar sise, “ní raiḃ baoġal ort go dtí anoċt, agus má ċailleann tu an t-am so i, tá do ċloigionn imṫiġṫe.”

Ḃí an biorán-suain faoi na ċeann, agus ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ. Ṫáinig sise agus ġoid sí an ċíar uaiḋ. Ṫug sí do’n ríġ niṁe í, agus duḃairt sí leis nár ḟeud an ċíar imṫeaċt uaiḋ no go mbainfiḋe an ceann dé. Ṫug an riġ niṁe an ċiar leis, agus ċuir sé asteaċ í i g-carraig cloiċe, agus trí fiċe glas uirri, agus ṡuiḋ an ríġ taoiḃ amuiġ de na glasaiḃ uile ag doras na carraige, ’gá faire. Ṫáinig an fear gearr glas, agus na slipeuraiḋ agus an birreud air, agus an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ ann a láiṁ, agus ḃuail sé buille air an g-carraig cloiċe agus d’ḟosgail suas í, agus ḃuail sé an dara ḃuille air an ríġ niṁe, agus ḃain sé an ceann dé. Ṫug sé leis an ċiar ċuig (do) mac ríġ Eireann ann sin, agus fuair sé é ann a ḋúiseaċt, agus é ag caoineaḋ na ciaire. “Súd í do ċíar duit,” ar seisean, “tiucfaiḋ sise air ball, agus fiafróċaiḋ sí ḋíot an ḃfuil an ċíar agad, agus abair léiṫe go ḃfuil, agus an ceann do cíaraḋ léiṫe, agus caiṫ ċuici an cloigionn.”

Nuair ṫáinig sise ag fiafruiġ an raiḃ an ċiar aige, duḃairt sé go raiḃ, agus an ceann do cíaraḋ léiṫe, agus ċaiṫ sé ceann an ríġ niṁe ċuici.

Nuair ċonnairc sí an cloigionn ḃí fearg ṁór uirri, agus duḃairt sí leis naċ ḃfuiġfeaḋ sé í le pósaḋ go ḃfáġaḋ sé coisire a ṡiúḃalfaḋ le na coisire féin i g-coinne trí ḃuideul na h-íoċṡláinte as tobar an doṁain ṡoir, agus dá mbuḋ luaiṫe a ṫáinig a coisire féin ’ná an coisire aige-sean, go raiḃ a ċeann imṫiġṫe.

Fuair sí sean-ċailleaċ (ḃuitse éigin) agus ṫug sí trí buideula ḋí. Duḃairt an fear gearr glas trí ḃuideula do ṫaḃairt do’n ḟear a ḃí ag congḃáil páirce na ngeirrḟiaḋ, agus tugaḋ ḋó iad. D’imṫiġ an ċailleaċ agus an fear, agus trí buidéala ag gaċ aon aca, agus ḃí coisire mic ríġ Éireann ag tíġeaċt leaṫ-ḃealaiġ air ais, sul a ḃí an ċailleaċ imṫiġṫe leaṫ-ḃealaiġ ag dul ann. “Suiḋ síos,” ar san ċailleaċ leis an g-coisire, “agus leig do sgíṫ, tá an ḃeirt aca pósta anois, agus ná bí briseaḋ do ċroiḋe ag riṫ.” Ṫug sí léiṫe cloigionn capaill agus ċuir sí faoi na ċeann é, agus biorán-suain ann, agus nuair leag sé a ċeann air, ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ.

Ḍóirt sise an t-uisge a ḃí aige amaċ, agus d’imṫiġ sí.

B’ḟada leis an ḃfear gearr glas go raiḃ siad ag tíġeaċt, agus duḃairt sé leis an g-cluasaire, “leag do ċluas air an talaṁ, agus feuċ an ḃfuil siad ag teaċt.” “Cluinim,” ar seiseann, “an ċailleaċ ag teaċt, agus tá an coisire ’nna ċodlaḋ, agus é ag srannfartuiġ.”

“Dearc uait,” ar san fear gearr glas leis an ngunnaire “go ḃfeicfiḋ tu ca ḃfuil an coisire.”

Duḃairt an gunnaire go raiḃ sé ann a leiṫid sin d’áit, agus cloigionn capaill faoi na ċeann, agus é ’nna ċodlaḋ.

“Cuir do ġunna le do ṡúil,” ar san fear garr glas, “agus cuir an cloigionn ó na ċeann.”

Ċuir sé an gunna le na ṡúil agus sguaib sé an ċloigionn ó na ċeann. Ḍúisiġ an coisire, agus fuair sé na buideula a ḃí aige folaṁ, agus ḃ’éigin dó filleaḋ ċum an tobair arís.

Ḃí an ċailleaċ ag teaċt ann sin agus ní raiḃ an coisire le feiceál (feicsint). Ar san fear gearr glas ann sin, leis an ḃfear a ḃí ag cur an ṁuilinn-gaoiṫe ṫart le na ṗolláire, “éiriġ suas agus feuċ an g-cuirfeá an ċailleaċ air a h-ais.” Ċuir sé a ṁeur air a ṡrón agus nuair ḃí an ċailleaċ ag teaċt ċuir sé séideóg gaoiṫe fúiṫi a sguaib air a h-ais í. Ḃí sí teaċt arís agus rinne sé an rud ceudna léiṫe. Gaċ am a ḃíḋeaḋ sise ag teaċt a ḃfogas dóiḃ do ḃíḋeaḋ seisean dá cur air a h-ais arís leis an ngaoiṫ do ṡéideaḋ sé as a ṗolláire. Air deireaḋ ṡéid se leis an dá ṗolláire agus sguaib sé an ċailleaċ ċum an doṁain ṡoir arís. Ṫáinig coisire mic ríġ Eireann ann sin, agus ḃí an lá sin gnóṫuiġṫe.

Ḃí fearg ṁór air an mnaoi nuair ċonnairc sí naċ dtáinig a coisire féin air ais i dtosaċ, agus duḃairt sí le mac riġ Eireann, “ní ḃfuiġfiḋ tu mise anois no go siùḃailfiḋ tu trí ṁíle gan ḃróig gan stoca, air ṡnáṫaidiḃ cruaiḋe.”

Ḃí bóṫar aici trí ṁíle air fad, agus snáṫaide geura cruaiḋe craiṫte air, ċoṁ tiuġ leis an ḃfeur. Ar san fear gearr glas le fear-briste na g-cloċ le na leaṫ-ṫóin, “téiḋ agus maol iad sin.” Ċuaiḋ an fear sin orra le na leaṫ-ṫóin agus rinne sé stumpaiḋ ḋíoḃ. Duḃairt an fear gearr glas leis dul orra le na ṫóin ḋúbalta. Ċuaiḋ sé orra ann sin le na ṫóin ḋúbalta, agus rinne sé púġdar agus praiseaċ díoḃ. Ṫáinig mac ríġ Éireann agus ṡiúḃail sé na trí ṁíle, agus ḃí a ḃean gnóṫuiġṫe aige.

Pósaḋ an ḃeirt ann sin, agus ḃí an ċéud ṗóg le fáġail ag an ḃfear gearr glas. Rug an fear gearr glas an ḃean leis féin asteaċ i seomra, agus ṫosuiġ sé uirri. Ḃí sí lán ḋe naiṫreaċaiḃ niṁe, agus ḃeiḋeaḋ mac ríġ Éireann marḃ aca, nuair a raċfaḋ sé ’nna ċodlaḋ, aċt gur ṗiuc an fear gearr glas aisti iad.

Ṫainig sé go mac ríġ Eireann ann sin, agus duḃairt sé leis, “Tig leat dul le do ṁnaoi anois. Is mise an fear a ḃí ann san g-cóṁra an lá sin, a d’íoc tu na deiċ bpúnta air a ṡon, agus an ṁuinntir seó a ḃí leat is seirḃísíġe iad do ċuir Dia ċugad-sa.”

D’imṫiġ an fear gearr glas agus a ṁuinntir ann sin agus ní ḟacaiḋ mac ríġ Éireann arís é. Rug sé a ḃean aḃaile leis, agus ċaiṫ siad beaṫa ṡona le ċéile.

THE KING OF IRELAND’S SON.

There was a king’s son in Ireland long ago, and he went out and took with him his gun and his dog. There was snow out. He killed a raven. The raven fell on the snow. He never saw anything whiter than the snow, or blacker than the raven’s skull, or redder than its share of blood,[19] that was a’pouring out.

He put himself under _gassa_[20] and obligations of the year, that he would not eat two meals at one table, or sleep two nights in one house, until he should find a woman whose hair was as black as the raven’s head, and her skin as white as the snow, and her two cheeks as red as the blood.

There was no woman in the world like that; but one woman only, and she was in the eastern world.

The day on the morrow he set out, and money was not plenty, but he took with him twenty pounds. It was not far he went until he met a funeral, and he said that it was as good for him to go three steps with the corpse. He had not the three steps walked until there came a man and left his writ down on the corpse for five pounds. There was a law in Ireland at that time that any man who had a debt upon another person (_i.e._, to whom another person owed a debt) that person’s people could not bury him, should he be dead, without paying his debts, or without the leave of the person to whom the dead man owed the debts. When the king of Ireland’s son saw the sons and daughters of the dead crying, and they without money to give the man, he said to himself: “It’s a great pity that these poor people have not the money,” and he put his hand in his pocket and paid the five pounds himself for the corpse. After that, he said he would go as far as the church to see it buried. Then there came another man, and left his writ on the body for five pounds more. “As I gave the first five pounds,” said the king of Erin’s son to himself, “it’s as good for me to give the other five, and to let the poor man go to the grave.” He paid the other five pounds. He had only ten pounds then.

Not far did he go until he met a short green man, and he asked him where was he going. He said that he was going looking for a woman in the eastern world. The short green man asked him did he want a boy (servant), and he said he did, and [asked] what would be the wages he would be looking for? He said: “The first kiss of his wife if he should get her.” The king of Ireland’s son said that he must get that.

Not far did they go until they met another man and his gun in his hand, and he a’levelling it at the blackbird that was in the eastern world, that he might have it for his dinner. The short green man said to him that it was as good for him to take that man into his service if he would go on service with him. The son of the king of Ireland asked him if he would come on service with him.

“I will,” said the man, “if I get my wages.”

“And what is the wages you’ll be looking for?”

“The place of a house and garden.”

“You’ll get that if my journey succeeds with me.”

The king of Ireland’s son went forward with the short green man and the gunner, and it was not far they went until a man met them, and his ear left to the ground, and he listening to the grass growing.

“It’s as good for you to take that man into your service,” said the short green man.

The king’s son asked the man whether he would come with him on service.

“I’ll come if I get the place of a house and garden.”

“You will get that from me if the thing I have in my head succeeds with me.”

The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, and the earman, went forward, and it was not far they went until they met another man, and his one foot on his shoulder, and he keeping a field of hares, without letting one hare in or out of the field. There was wonder on the king’s son, and he asked him “What was the sense of his having one foot on his shoulder like that.”

“Oh,” says he, “if I had my two feet on the ground I should be so swift that I would go out of sight.”

“Will you come on service with me?” said the king’s son.

“I’ll come if I get the place of a house and garden.”

“You’ll get that if the thing I have in my head succeeds with me.”

The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, the earman, and the footman, went forward, and it was not far they went till they came to a man and he turning round a wind-mill with one nostril, and his finger left on his nose shutting the other nostril.

“Why have you your finger on your nose?” said the king of Ireland’s son.

“Oh,” says he, “if I were to blow with the two nostrils I would sweep the mill altogether out of that up into the air.”

“Will you come on hire with me?”

“I will if I get the place of a house and garden.”

“You’ll get that if the thing I have in my head succeeds with me.”

The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, the earman, the footman, and the blowman went forward until they came to a man who was sitting on the side of the road and he a’breaking stones with one thigh, and he had no hammer or anything else. The king’s son asked him why it was he was breaking stones with his half (_i.e._, one) thigh.

“Oh,” says he, “if I were to strike them with the double thigh I’d make powder of them.”

“Will you hire with me?”

“I will if I get the place of a house and garden.”

“You’ll get that if the thing I have in my head succeeds with me.”

Then they all went forward together—the son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man that broke stones with the side of his thigh, and they would overtake the March wind that was before them, and the March wind that was behind them would not overtake them, until the evening came and the end of the day.

The king of Ireland’s son looked from him, and he did not see any house in which he might be that night. The short green man looked from him, and he saw a house, and there was not the top of a quill outside of it, nor the bottom of a quill inside of it, but only one quill alone, which was keeping shelter and protection on it. The king’s son said that he did not know where he should pass that night, and the short green man said that they would be in the house of the giant over there that night.

They came to the house, and the short green man drew the _coolaya-coric_ (pole of combat), and he did not leave child with woman, foal with mare, pigeen with pig, or badger in glen, that he did not turn over three times with the quantity of sound he knocked out of the _coolaya-coric_. The giant came out, and he said: “I feel the smell of the melodious lying Irishman under (_i.e._, in) my little sod of country.”

“I’m no melodious lying Irishman,” said the short green man; “but my master is out there at the head of the avenue, and if he comes he will whip the head off you.” The short green man was growing big, growing big, until at last he looked as big as the castle. There came fear on the giant, and he said: “Is your master as big as you?”

“He is,” says the short green man, “and bigger.”

“Put me in hiding till morning, until your master goes,” said the giant.

Then he put the giant under lock and key, and went out to the king’s son. Then the king of Ireland’s son, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, came into the castle, and they spent that night, a third of it a’story-telling, a third of it with Fenian tales, and a third of it in mild enjoyment(?) of slumber and of true sleep.

When the day on the morrow arose, the short green man brought with him his master, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, and he left them outside at the head of the avenue, and he came back himself and took the lock off the giant. He told the giant that his master sent him back for the black cap that was under the head of his bed. The giant said that he would give him a hat that he never wore himself, but that he was ashamed to give him the old cap. The short green man said that unless he gave him the cap his master would come back and strike the head off him.

“It’s best for me to give it to you,” said the giant; “and any time at all you will put it on your head you will see everybody and nobody will see you.” He gave him the cap then, and the short green man came and gave it to the king of Ireland’s son.

They were a’going then. They would overtake the March wind that was before them, and the March wind that was behind them would not overtake them, going to the eastern world. When evening and the end of the day came, the king of Ireland’s son looked from him, and he did not see any house in which he might be that night. The short green man looked from him, and he saw a castle, and he said: “The giant that is in that castle is the brother of the giant with whom we were last night, and we shall be in this castle to-night.” They came to the castle, and he left the king’s son and his people at the head of the avenue, and he went to the door and pulled the _coolaya-coric_, and he did not leave child with woman, foal with mare, pigeen with pig, or badger in glen, within seven miles of him, that he did not knock three turns out of them with all the sound he knocked out of the _coolaya-coric_.

The giant came out, and he said, “I feel the smell of a melodious lying Irishman under my sod of country.”

“No melodious lying Irishman am I,” says the short green man; “but my master is outside at the head of the avenue, and if he comes he will whip the head off you.”

“I think you large of one mouthful, and I think you small of two mouthfuls,” said the giant.

“You won’t get me of a mouthful at all,” said the short green man, and he began swelling until he was as big as the castle. There came fear on the giant, and he said:

“Is your master as big as you?”

“He is, and bigger.”

“Hide me,” said the giant, “till morning, until your master goes, and anything you will be wanting you must get it.”

He brought the giant with him, and he put him under the mouth of a _douac_ (great vessel of some sort). He went out and brought in the son of the king of Ireland, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, and they spent that night, one-third of it telling Fenian stories, one-third telling tales, and one-third in the mild enjoyment of slumber and of true sleep until morning.

In the morning, the day on the morrow, the short green man brought the king’s son and his people out of the castle, and left them at the head of the avenue, and he went back himself and asked the giant for the old slippers that were left under the head of his bed.

The giant said that he would give his master a pair of boots as good as ever he wore; and what good was there in the old slippers?

The short green man said that unless he got the slippers he would go for his master to whip the head off him.

Then the giant said that he would give them to him, and he gave them.

“Any time,” said he, “that you will put those slippers on you, and say ‘high-over!’ any place you have a mind to go to, you will be in it.”

The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, went forward until evening came, and the end of the day, until the horse would be going under the shade of the docking, and the docking would not wait for him. The king’s son asked the short green man where should they be that night, and the short green man said that they would be in the house of the brother of the giant with whom they spent the night before. The king’s son looked from him and he saw nothing. The short green man looked from him and he saw a great castle. He left the king’s son and his people there, and he went to the castle by himself, and he drew the _coolaya-coric_, and he did not leave child with woman, foal with mare, pigeen with pig, or badger in glen, but he turned them over three times with all the sound he struck out of the _coolaya-coric_. The giant came out, and he said: “I feel the smell of a melodious lying Irishman under my sod of country.”

“No melodious lying Irishman am I,” said the short green man; “but my master is standing at the head of the avenue, and if he comes he shall strike the head off you.”

And with that the short green man began swelling until he was the size of the castle at last. There came fear on the giant, and he said: “Is your master as big as yourself?”

“He is,” said the short green man, “and bigger.”

“Oh! put me in hiding; put me in hiding,” said the giant, “until your master goes; and anything you will be asking you must get it.”