Part 1

FOLK TALES OF BREFFNY

BY

B. HUNT

MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON 1912

INTRODUCTION

Many of the stories in this volume were told by an old man who said he had more and better learning nor the scholars. "The like of them," he declared, "do be filled with conceit out of books, and the most of it only nonsense; 'tis myself has the real old knowledge was handed down from the ancient times." The spread of education and cheap literature robbed him of audience: the boys read of adventure by land and sea, the girls interested themselves in the fate of heroes with marble-white complexion and coal-black moustache. But it happened that the old man took a contract to break stones for lime, and a child with an insatiable desire for information came to watch him at work. "I promise you will walk the world, like a Queen of ancient days, renowned for learning and wit," he assured her, delighted to find a listener at last. The child was only seven years old, and could not remember all she heard, so most of his lore died with him.

"The King's Daughter of France," "The Dark Oath," and "Nallagh's Child" were told by other friends.

The Folk Tale is essentially dramatic and loses much when it is written down; moreover it is often put into a form unsuited to the spirit of naïve philosophy from whence it springs. The peasant of ancient race is more akin to the aristocratic type than the bourgeois can ever be--and the story told from generation to generation bears greater resemblance to the work of a poet than to that of the popular novelist, who is the bourgeois of literature. Superstition in a race is merely the proof of imagination, the people lacking fairy lore must also lack intelligence and wit.

B. HUNT.

CONTENTS

PAGE

I. The King's Daughter of France 1 II. The Cow of a Widow of Breffny 13 III. Kate Ellen's Wake 21 IV. The Dark Oath 29 V. Fairy Gold 37 VI. M'Carthy of Connacht 45 VII. Nallagh's Child 65 VIII. The Enchanted Hare 73 IX. The Bridge of the Kist 81 X. The Child and the Fiddle 89 XI. The Cutting of the Tree 97 XII. The Little Settlement 105 XIII. The Tillage in the Fort 115 XIV. The New Deck of Cards 121 XV. The Lifting of a Child 127 XVI. The Voice at the Door 135 XVII. The Earl's Son of the Sea 143 XVIII. The Girl and the Fairies 153 XIX. Good-night, my Brave Michael 159 XX. The Lad and the Old Lassie's Song 165 XXI. The Basket of Eggs 169 XXII. The Broken Branch 175 XXIII. Digging for Gold 179 XXIV. Story of a Churn 183 XXV. The Gankeynogue in the Oak Chest 187 XXVI. The Maker of Brogues 193

Glossary 197

I

THE KING'S DAUGHTER OF FRANCE

There was once an old man of Ireland who was terrible poor, and he lived by his lone in a small wee house by the roadside. At the morning of the day he would go for to gather sticks in a wood was convenient to that place, the way he'd have a clear fire to be sitting at of an evening.

It fell out one time, of a cold night, that Paddy heard a knock at the door. He went over, and when he opened it he seen a little boy in a red cap standing without.

"Let you come in and take an air to the fire," says he, for he always had a good reception for every person.

The boy with the red cap walked in, and he stopped for a good while conversing. He was the best of company, and the old man didn't find the time passing until he rose for to go.

"Let you come in and rest yourself here any evening you are out in these parts," says he.

The very next night the little fellow was in it again, and the night after that, warming himself at the clear fire and talking away.

"Paddy," says he, the evening he was in it for the third time, "Paddy, I do be thinking it is bitter poor you are!"

"I am, surely," says the old man.

"Well, let you pay attention to me, it is the truth I'm speaking, you'll have more gold than ever you'll contrive for to spend."

"I could go through a fair share of gold," says Paddy.

"I am determined for to make a rich man of you," the little boy goes on. "There is a lady at the point of death, and she is the King's daughter of France. I have a bottle here in my pocket, and that is the cure for the disease is on her. I'll be giving it to you, and let you set out for France at the morning of the day. When you come to the King's palace the servants will bid you be gone for an ignorant beggar, but let you not be heeding them at all. Don't quit asking to see the King, and in the latter end they'll give in to you. It is with himself the most difficulty will be, for that man will think it hard to believe the likes of a poor old Irishman could have a better cure nor all the doctors in the world. A power of them allowed they'd have her right well in no time, and it is worse they left her. The King is after giving out that the next person coming with a false cure be to lose their life. Let you not be scared at that decree, for you are the man shall succeed. You may promise to have the lady fit to ride out hunting in nine days. Three drops from the bottle is all you have to give her, and that for three mornings after other."

Paddy paid great heed to all the boy in the red cap was telling him. He took the wee bottle that was to make him a rich man, and he made ready for to set out at the morning of the day.

He was a long time travelling the world before he came to the palace where the King's daughter of France was lying at the point of death. The servants made a great mock of the poor old Irishman, but he paid no attention to their words at all. In the latter end he got seeing the King, and that gentleman allowed the likes of Paddy could never succeed when the doctors of the world were after failing.

"I'd only be having the head cut off you, my poor old man!" says he.

"I'm not the least bit in dread, your honour," says Paddy. "The lady is bound to be ready to ride out hunting in nine days, if she uses my medicine."

His perseverance and courage won over the King of France, and permission was given for a trial of the cure.

The first morning, after taking the three drops from the bottle, the lady turned in her bed. The second morning, after the treatment, she sat up and ate her food.

The third morning, when she had taken the three drops, the King's daughter of France rose from her bed. And in nine days she was ready to ride out hunting.

They could not do enough for Paddy, there was great gratitude in them. Well, the reward he accepted was a big sack of gold, and that was the load he brought home to his cabin in Ireland.

The first evening he was sitting by his clear fire, the little boy came in at the door.

"Didn't I do well for you, Paddy?" says he.

"You did surely. I have more gold in that sack than ever I'll contrive for to spend."

"Ah, not at all! It is twice as much I'll be getting for you."

"Is it another King's daughter has need of a cure?" asks Paddy.

"No, but a different business entirely. There is a great bully to be fought in the City of Dublin, and yourself is the man shall win it."

"Do you tell me so!" says Paddy.

"In troth I do. The man you have to fight is a big, fierce fellow no one can get the better of. He has the youth of the world battered to pieces, the way no person comes forward against him any more. There is a fine purse of money put up for to entice a champion to face him; and there will be great laughter when yourself puts in an appearance. They will ask if you are wishful to fight with gloves on your hands, but it is your bare fists are the best. Let you say you'll toss for which it is to be, but toss with the half-crown I give you, and you are certain to win. Myself is coming to that place for to second you, and it's bound to be the grandest bully was seen in the City of Dublin."

With that the little fellow went away out of the house. And at the morning of the day my brave old Paddy started for Dublin. He wasn't too long on the road, for he got a lift from a man was driving there to see the bully. Well, there was odious laughing and cheering when the crowd saw the champion was come to accept the challenge. The big man was after battering the youth of the world, allowed he had no notion of striving against the likes of Paddy. But when no person else came forward they were bound for to accept him, and they asked would he wear gloves on his fists.

"We'll be tossing for that," says he, bringing out the half-crown he had from the little boy in the red cap.

He won the toss, sure enough, and he allowed it was bare-handed he'd strive. All the time he was looking round, anxious like, but he could see no sign of the one that was to second him. He went into the ring in odious dread; but then the little fellow came and stood beside him. My brave Paddy let out and he struck the champion one blow, and didn't he lay him dead at his feet.

It was then there was roaring and cheering for the old man. And in all the confusion the little lad got away; Paddy never seen where he went. The whole crowd took up a terrible great collection of money for the champion was after destroying the man with a single blow. That lot of gold, along with the purse was promised for the fight, filled a sack as full as it could hold. So Paddy went home well rewarded, and not a bit the worse of his jaunt to the City of Dublin.

The first evening he was sitting by his own fireside, the little boy in the red cap came in at the door.

"Didn't I do well for you, Paddy?" says he.

"You did, surely. It is rich for life I am owing to your contrivances."

"Then will you be doing me a service in return for all?" asks the little fellow.

"Indeed then, I will," says Paddy.

"We have all arranged for to cross over to France this night. We intend for to bring away the lady you cured, the King's daughter of that country," says the boy. "But we cannot contrive for to accomplish the like unless we have flesh and blood along with us. Will you come?"

"Aye, surely!" says Paddy.

With that the two went out at the door and across the road into a field. It was thronged with regiments of the Good People, past belief or counting. They were running every way through the field, calling out:

"Get me a horse, get me a horse!"

And what were they doing only cutting down the bohlans and riding away on them.

"Get me a horse, get me a horse!" says old Paddy, calling out along with them.

But the fellow in the red cap came over to him looking terrible vexed.

"Don't let another word out of you," says he, "except one of ourselves speaks first. Mind what I'm telling you or it will be a cause of misfortune."

"I'll say no more except in answer to a question," says Paddy.

With that they brought him a white yearling calf, and put him up for to ride upon it. He thought it was a queer sort of a horse, but he passed no remarks. And away they rode at a great pace, the Good People on the bohlans and Paddy on the yearling calf.

They made grand going, and it wasn't long before they came to a big lake had an island in the middle of it. With one spring the whole party landed on the island and with another they were safe on the far shore.

"Dam, but that was a great lep for a yearling calf," says Paddy.

With that one of the Good People struck him a blow on the head, the way the sense was knocked out of him and he fell on the field.

At daylight the old man came to himself, and he lying on the field by the big lake. He was a long journey from home, and he was weary travelling round the water and over the hills to his own place. But the worst of all was the sacks of gold: didn't every bit of the fortune melt away and leave him poor, the way he was before he came in with the Good People.

II

THE COW OF A WIDOW OF BREFFNY

In the ancient times a man the name of M'Gauran ruled in these parts. He was a cruel tyrant surely and prouder than the High King of Ireland or O'Rourke was a Prince in Breffny. He conceited for to build a house would stand to the end of time, a stronghold past the art of man to overthrow or the fury of the wind to batter down. He gave out that all the bullocks in his dominions were to be slaughtered and mortar wet with the blood of them. Evenly the cows were not spared at the latter end, the way a powerful lamentation went up from the poor of the world were looking on the lonesome fields.

You that are young will be thinking the blackness of his spirit and the cruelty of his heart brought a curse on him to rot the flesh off his living bones. You will be expectant of the story of a king, and he walking the provinces of Ireland a skeleton and a warning to the eyes of man. But the aged and wise have understanding to know of the tribulation laid out for the good and the just, they putting their sorrows over them in this world where the evil have prosperity. The like will be enduring for a short space only, and a queer fate waits the wicked in the age-long hours of eternity. Proud is the tyrant and wealthy till they set him in the clay: humbled with fear is his spirit at the journey's end.

There was a widow woman had her little dwelling convenient to where M'Gauran was building his castle. Gold she had none, nor evenly a coin was of silver, one cow only was her riches on the earth. (And surely them that had heart to molest her like would be robbing the dead of the raiment is with them in the grave.) Herself was more nor horrid lonesome the day she seen the creature driven from her by a man of the chiefs, he having a lengthy knife in his hand.

At the fall of night a traveller came to the poor woman's cabin door. He was a bent, aged man with a sorrowful countenance on him, and the garments did cover him were rags. She invited him within, giving him the kindly welcome, and she set out what food was in the place for his refreshment.

"It is destroyed I am with a parching drouth is splitting my gullet," says he, "and I walking the mountainy ways since the screech of dawn. The sun was splitting the bushes at the noon of day, and the fury of it was eating into my skin. But no person took compassion on me at all."

With that the widow set a mug of milk before him, and it the last drop was in the countryside. He drank it down, middling speedy, and he held out the cup to be filled again.

"'Tis a heart scald surely," says herself, "that I be to refuse the request of a man is weary walking the territory of Ireland, since the rising sun brought light on his path. There is a king in these parts, stranger, and he has the cattle destroyed on the poor of the world, the way he will have a lasting mortar to his house."

"Isn't yourself after giving me the loveliest mug of sweet milk?" says he, like one was doubtful of the honesty of her words.

"The last drop was in this townland, stranger, and it is heart glad I am that it refreshed you. I had but the one cow only, the grandest milker in the land, and she was driven from me this day--up yonder to the masons are working with their shovels dripping red."

"I am thinking it is four strong walls in the pit of Hell are building for that chieftain's soul. Maybe it's red hot they'll be, and he imprisoned within them for a thousand years and more," says the traveller.

"Let there be what masonry there will in the next world, the wealth of the people cements his castle there beyond. For the cow and the milk and the butter are the gold of the dwellers on the land," says the widow. "But let you be resting a while in this place: what haste is on you to depart?" For she seen he was rising to be gone.

He raised his hand in benediction, and the voice of him speaking was that sweet it charmed the birds off the bushes, the way they flew round him in the darkening night. "May the blessing of the King of Heaven be upon you. May He send you a cow will never run dry, and you milking her at all seasons of the year to the day of your departure from the world."

With that the place was bare of his presence. He was gone the like of a spirit has power to travel the land unseen.

At the morning of the day following the poor woman stood at her cottage door, facing out to the mountains are a long journey from that place. Didn't she see a great wonder:--A piece fell clean from the hillside and from it came a cow, white as the driven snow, she travelling faster nor the wind. The widow seen all as clear as we do be regarding the rising of the sun in the Eastern sky. Whatever power was laid on her eyes the distance was no obstruction to her vision that day. But it was not until the creature came and stood by herself that she bethought her of the benediction of the traveller, and the cow would never run dry.

That was the beast had the great renown on her: people came from every art and part to be looking on her. The milk she gave was richer nor the best of cream, and the butter off it was the best in Ireland.

The day the widow died, a young child seen the white cow travelling away to the mountains. And no man beheld her more, nor evenly heard tell of the like. But the Gap of Glan confronts us to this day, and that is where the creature rose to the light of the world.

III

KATE ELLEN'S WAKE

Kate Ellen lived by her lone for her husband was employed overseas. She was a strange sort of a creature, pale and scared looking, with one blue eye in her head and the other one grey. She had some kind of disease that came at her with a fluttering in her heart. Sometimes she would die of it for a couple of hours, and all the while she was dead she'd be dreaming she was drowning.

There was a fort not a many perches distant from my poor Kate Ellen's house, and that was a noted place for the Good People to be out diverting themselves. Moreover it was well known to the neighbours that herself used to be away with them, but she allowed there was no truth in the report. Now it happened of a May eve that a young child seen her, and she milking the cushogues along with a score of the fairies. Another night a man on his way from a distant fair found her on the road before him riding with the little horseman.

One day Kate Ellen came into the kitchen of a friend's house, and she stopped there chatting for an hour's time. She allowed that she'd surely die in a short space for the disease was making great ravages and the doctors could take no hold of it at all.

"No person can give me the least relief in the world," says she. "And I'll be making but the one request of my friends and neighbours, let there be no whiskey at the wake."

"Sure the like was never heard tell of before," says the woman of the house. "What use would there be in a dry wake?"

"Maybe no use at all, as you are after saying," answers Kate Ellen. "But let you pay heed to my words or there's like to be a queer story told at the end of time."

"'Tis the raving of death is on you, my poor creature," says the woman of the house. "Sure you'll be the beautiful corpse and every one of us paying our best respects to the same."

Not a long after Kate Ellen was found in her own house and she lying dead on the floor. All the friends and neighbours gathered in for the wake, and what had they along with them only a beautiful jar of the best whiskey. They could not think to give in to the arrangement herself set out, that they'd remain in the place with a parching drouth for company.

The whole party were sitting round, and the jar of itself was in the middle of the floor. There came a noise and shouting on the street, like as if there was a powerful assembly of people without; and then a great battering on the windows. The door opened wide and the disturbance came into the kitchen, yet no person sitting there seen a heth that was not in it from the start. It was a queer gathering surely, for the friends and neighbours of the dead were silent and still, and the crying went round them on the air.

After a while didn't the jar of whiskey let a lep out of it and begin for to roll on the floor. It was turned again and every drop teemed from it before the watching eyes. Yet no person seen the Good People were handling the drink and roving through the house. Then the disturbance passed from the kitchen, and away down the field, whatever was last for to go closed the door behind all.

A man stood up and he says: "This is no right gathering surely, and we would do well to be gone."

With that another opens the door, and all made ready to depart. But when they looked out and seen the fort all thronged with lights they grew fearful to quit the house.

There was the powerfullest laughter and cheering down among the thorn trees of the circle, and there came a blast of the loveliest music--fiddles and pipes and voices singing.

"It is the Good People are having the whole beautiful wake down there beyond," says a man. "Sure it is well known Kate Ellen was in league with themselves."

"By the powers, it is more like a wedding they are conducting this hour," says another.

"Come on away home," says a third, "what enticement is on us stop when the drink is gone from us to the fairies are fiddling with joy!"

But they bid him depart by his lone, for the rest were in dread of passing the fort before day. He was a bold, daring sort of a man, and it's likely he'd have gone only for his brother taking a hold of his coat.

"You'll be taken by the Good People," says he, "and they in great humour after whipping off with the whiskey before our eyes."

Sure it was more nor horrid wonderful that Kate Ellen had understanding for to know what might be taking place on the night of her departure from home. Maybe it's in agreement she was to be going for good with the fairies and not to her grave at all.

IV

THE DARK OATH

In the ancient times there was a young lad, and he gifted with a temper was a fright to the world of man. He never controlled his speech but took delight in letting great oaths and curses out of him, they rising continually in his heart like water in a spring well.

There were few of the neighbours had a mind to make free with himself, sure it was an odious dread came upon them and they regarding the villainy of his heart lepping out at his mouth with the words speaking. All the time he was middling great with another gosoon of the one age who would not be warned from his company.

The two would be travelling the roads and roaming the fields of Connacht from the screech of dawn to dark. But for all their diversions together they fell out on a summer's day, and it was blows they gave one another until a strong perspiration ran down from them and the air moved before their eyes like the stars of heaven on a frosty night. Neither could gain the mastery, and at long last they be to quit striving for they were bone weary and feeble as an infant child.

The one was hasty in his speech let a dark oath that he would be the death of his companion, evenly if the power of the lonesome grave itself was set between them to hold him from the fulfilment of his vow.

In three days from the time the words were spoken he died of a strange, sudden sickness.