HUMOUR SERIES

Edited by W. H. DIRCKS

THE HUMOUR OF IRELAND

ALREADY ISSUED

FRENCH HUMOUR
GERMAN HUMOUR
ITALIAN HUMOUR
AMERICAN HUMOUR
DUTCH HUMOUR
IRISH HUMOUR
SPANISH HUMOUR
RUSSIAN HUMOUR

“AND EACH GIRL HE PASSED BID ‘GOD BLESS HIM’ AND SIGHED.”—P. [276].

THE
HUMOUR OF IRELAND

SELECTED, WITH INTRODUCTION,
BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX AND NOTES, BY
D. J. O’DONOGHUE:
THE
ILLUSTRATIONS BY OLIVER PAQUE

THE WALTER SCOTT PUBLISHING CO., LTD.,
PATERNOSTER SQUARE, LONDON, E.C.
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS,
153–157 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
1908.

CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION.

That the Irish people have a wide reputation for wit and humour is a fact which will not be disputed. Irish humour is no recent growth, as may be seen by the folk-lore, the proverbs, and the other traditional matter of the country. It is one of Ireland’s ancient characteristics, as some of its untranslated early literature would conclusively prove. The curious twelfth-century story of “The Vision of McConglinne” is a sample of this early Celtic humour. As the melancholy side of older Celtic literature has been more often emphasised and referred to, it is usually thought that the most striking features of that literature is its sadness. The proverbs, some of which are very ancient, are characteristic enough to show that the early Irish were of a naturally joyous turn, as a primitive people should be, for sadness generally comes with civilisation and knowledge; and the fragments of folk-lore that have so far been rescued impress us with the idea that its originators were homely, cheerful, and mirthful. The proverbs are so numerous and excellent that a good collection of them would be very valuable—yet to judge by Ray’s large volume, devoted to those of many nations, Ireland lacks wise sayings of this kind. He only quotes seven, some of which are wretched local phrases, and not Irish at all. The early humour of the Irish Celts is amusing in conception and in expression, and, when it is soured into satire, frequently of marvellous power and efficacy.

Those who possessed the gift of saying galling things were much dreaded, and it is not absolutely surprising that Aengus O’Daly and other satirists met with a retribution from those whom they had rendered wild with rage. In the early native literature the Saxon of course came in for his share of ridicule and scorn; but there is much less of it than might have been fairly expected, and if the bards railed at the invader, they quite as often assailed their own countrymen. One reason for the undoubted existence of a belief that the old Celts had little or no humour is that the reading of Irish history suggests it, and people may perhaps be forgiven for presuming it to be impossible to preserve humour under the doleful circumstances recorded by historians. And indeed if there was little to laugh at even before the English invasion, there was assuredly less after it. Life suddenly became tragic for the bards and the jesters. In place of the primitive amusements, the elementary pranks of the first ages, more serious matters were forced upon their attention, but appearances notwithstanding, the humorist thrived, and probably improved in the gloom overcasting the country; at any rate the innate good humour of the Irish refused to be completely stifled or restricted. Personalities were not the most popular subjects for ridicule, and the most detested characters, though often attacked in real earnest, were not the favourite themes with the wits. Cromwell’s name suggested a curse rather than a joke, and it is only your moderns—your Downeys and Frenches—who make a jest of him.

It being impossible to define humour or wit exactly, it is hardly wise to add another to the many failures attached to the attempt. But Irish humour, properly speaking, is, one may venture to say, more imaginative than any other. And it is probably less ill-natured than that of any other nation, though the Irish have a special aptness in the saying of things that wound, and the most illiterate of Irish peasants can put more scorn into a retort than the most highly educated of another race. There is sometimes a half-pathetic strain in the best Irish humorous writers, and just as in their saddest moments the people are inclined to joke, so in many writings where pathos predominates, the native humour gleams. If true Irish humour is not easily defined with precision, it is at least easily recognisable, there is so much buoyancy and movement in it, and usually so much expansion of heart. An eminent French writer described humour as a fusion of smiles and tears, but clearly that defines only one kind, and there are many varieties, almost as many, one might say, as there are humorists. The distinguishing between wit and humour is not so simple a matter as it looks, but one might hazard the opinion that while the one expresses indifference and irreverence, the other is redolent of feeling and sincerity. Humour and satire are extremes—the more barbed and keen a shaft, the more malicious and likely to hurt, whereas the genuine quality of humour partakes of tenderness and gentleness. Sheridan is an admirable example of a wit, while Lover represents humour in its most confiding aspect. There are intermediate kinds, however, and the malice of Curran’s repartees is not altogether akin to the rasping personalities of “Father Prout.” Irish humour is mainly a store of merriment pure and simple, without much personal taint, and does not profess to be philosophical. Human follies or deformities are rarely touched upon, and luckily Irish humorous writers do not attempt the didactic. In political warfare, however, many bitter taunts are heard, and it is somewhat regrettable that Irish politics should have absorbed so great a part of Irish wit, and turned what might have been pleasant reading into a succession of biting sarcasms. The Irish political satirists of the last and present centuries have often put themselves out of court by the ephemeral nature of their gibes no less than by the extra-ferocious tone they adopted. There is no denying the verve and point in the writings of Watty Cox, Dr. Brenan, William Norcott, and so on, but who can read them to-day with pleasure? Eaton Stannard Barrett’s “All the Talents,” after giving a nickname to a ministry, destroyed it; it served its purpose, and would be out of place if resurrected and placed in a popular collection, where the student of political history—to whom alone it is interesting and amusing—will hardly meet with it. Consequently political satire finds no place in this work, and even T. D. Sullivan, who particularly excels in personal and political squibs in verse, is shown only as the author of a prose sketch of more general application. Besides what has been wasted in this way, from a literary point of view, a good deal of the native element of wit has been dissipated as soon as uttered. After fulfilling its mission in enlivening a journey or in circling the festive board, it is forgotten and never appears in print. How many of Lysaght’s and Curran’s best quips are passed beyond recall? It cannot be that men like these obtained their great fame as wits on the few sample witticisms that have been preserved for us. Their literary remains are so scanty and inconsiderable, and their reputation so universal, that one can only suppose them to have been continuously coining jokes and squandering them in every direction.

Irish humour has been and is so prevalent, however, that in spite of many losses, there is abundant material for many volumes. It is imported into almost every incident and detail of Irish life—it overflows in the discussions of the local boards, is bandied about by carmen (who have gained much undeserved repute among tourists), comes down from the theatre galleries, is rife in the law courts, and chronic in the clubs, at the bar-dinners, and wherever there is dulness to be exorcised. Jokes being really as plentiful as blackberries, no one cares to hoard so common a product. A proof of the contempt into which the possession of wit or humour has fallen may be observed in the fact that no professedly comic paper has been able to survive for long the indifference of the Irish public. There have been some good ones in Dublin—notably, Zoz, Zozimus, Pat, and The Jarvey—but they have pined away in a comparatively short space of time, the only note of pathos about their brief existence being the invariable obituary announcement in the library catalogues—“No more published.” But their lives, if short, were merry ones. It was not their fault if the people did not require such aids to vivacity, being in general able to strike wit off the corners of any topic, no matter how unpromising it might appear. Naturally enough, the chief themes of the Irish humorist have been courting and drinking, with the occasional relief of a fight. The amativeness of the poets is little short of marvellous. Men like Lover (who has never been surpassed perhaps as a humorous love-poet) usually confined their humour in that groove; others, like Maginn, kept religiously to the tradition that liquor is the chief attraction in life, and the only possible theme for a wit after exhausting his pleasantries about persons. Maginn, however, was very much in earnest and did not respect the tradition simply because it was one, but solely on account of his belief in its wisdom. There can be no question, it seems to me, of Ireland’s supremacy in the literature devoted to Bacchus. It is another affair, of course, whether any credit attaches to the distinction. All the bards were not so fierce as Maginn in their likes and dislikes when the liquor was on the table. It may indeed be said of them in justice that their enthusiasm for the god of wine was often enough mere boastfulness. It is difficult to believe Tom Moore in his raptures about the joys of the bowl. He was no roysterer, and there is wanting in his Bacchanalian effusions, as in others of his light and graceful school, that reckless abandon of the more bibulous school. A glance at the lives of the Irish poets shows that a goodly number of them lived up to their professions. The glorification of the joys of the bottle by so many of our poets, their implication that from no other source is genius to be drawn, suggests that the Irish inclination to wit was induced by drinking long and deep. Sallies flowed therefrom, and the taciturn man without an idea developed under the genial influence into a delightful conversationalist. Yet as the professional humorist is often pictured as a very gloomy personage, gnawed by care and tortured by remorse, his pleasantries probably strike more in consequence of their vivid contrast to his dismal appearance. But to return to the bards’ love of liquor. One and all declare of the brown jug that “there’s inspiration in its foaming brim,” and what more natural than that they should devote the result to eulogy of the source. It may be somewhat consoling to reflect that often they were less reckless than they would have us believe. Something else besides poetic inspiration comes from the bowl, which, after all, only brings out the natural qualities.

As a rule, Irish poets have not extracted a pessimistic philosophy from liquor; they are “elevated,” not depressed, and do not deem it essential to the production of a poem that its author should be a cynic or an evil prophet. One of the best attributes of Irish poetry is its constant expression of the natural emotions. Previous to the close of the seventeenth century, it is said, drunkenness was not suggested by the poets as common in Ireland—the popularity of Bacchanalian songs since that date seems to prove that the vice soon became a virtue. Maginn is the noisiest of modern revellers, and easily roars the others down.

Not a small portion of the humour of Ireland is the unconscious variety in the half-educated local poets. Sometimes real wit struggles for adequate expression in English with ludicrous and unlooked-for results. A goodly number of the street ballads are very comic in description, phraseology, or vituperation, and “Nell Flaherty’s Drake” may be taken as a fair specimen of the latter class. Occasionally there is coarseness, usually absent from genuine Irish songs; sometimes a ghastly sort of grotesquerie, as in “The Night before Larry was Stretched.” Only a few examples of such are necessary to form an idea of the whole. Maginn’s great service in exposing the true character of the wretched rubbish often palmed off on the English public as Irish songs deserves to be noticed here. He proved most conclusively that the stuff thus styled Irish, with its unutterable refrains of the “Whack Bubbaboo” kind, was of undoubted English origin, topography, phraseology, rhymes, and everything else being utterly un-Irish. The internal evidence alone convicts their authors. No Irishman rhymes O’Reilly to bailie, for instance, and certainly he would never introduce a priest named “Father Quipes” into a song, even if driven to desperation for rhymes to “swipes.” Any compiler who gives a place in a collection of Irish songs to such trash as “Looney Mac*-twolter,” “Dennis Bulgruddery,” or any other of the rather numerous effusions of their kind, with their Gulliverian nomenclature and their burlesque of Irish manners, is an accomplice in the crime of their authors. In this connection it may be pointed out that not only in songs, but in many stories and other writings purporting to be Irish, the phraseology is anything but Irish. Irishmen do not, and never did, speak of their spiritual guardian as the praste. The Irishman never mispronounces the sound of ie, and if he says tay for tea and mate for meat he is simply conforming to the old and correct English pronunciation, as may be seen by consulting the older English poets, who always rhymed sea with day, etc. To this hour, the original sound is preserved by English people in great and break.

To leave the anonymous, the hybrid, and the spurious, it will be well to consider the continuity of the humour of Ireland. The long line of humorous writers who have appeared in our literary history has never been broken, despite many intervals of tribulation. In Anglo-Irish literature they commence practically with Farquhar, whose method of treating the follies of fine ladies and “men of honour” is anticipatory of that of the Spectator. Swift’s irony, unsurpassable as it is, is cruel to excess, and has little that is Irish about it. A contemporary and countryman, Dean Smedley, said he was “always in jest, but most so in prayer,” but that is an exaggeration, for Swift was mostly in grim earnest. The charge implies that many of his contemporaries, like several moderns, had a difficulty in satisfying themselves as to when he joked and when he did not. Smedley is also responsible for another poem directed against Swift, which was posted upon the door of St. Patrick’s, Dublin, when the great writer was appointed its Dean, and of which the following is the best stanza:—

“This place he got by wit and rhyme,

And many ways most odd,

And might a bishop be in time,

Did he believe in God.”

The impassive and matter-of-fact way in which Swift, using the deadliest of weapons, ridicule, reformed the abuses of his time, deceived a good many. He never moved a muscle, and his wit shone by contrast with his moody exterior as a lightning-flash illuminates a gloomy sky. It has that element of unexpectedness which goes far to define the nature of wit.

Real drollery in Anglo-Irish literature seems to have begun with Steele. In the case of Steele there is rarely anything to offend modern taste. His tenderness is akin to Goldsmith’s, and the natural man is clearly visible in his writings. A direct contrast is seen in Sterne, who was more malicious and sly, full of unreality and misplaced sentiment, and depending chiefly upon his constant supply of doubles entendres and the morbid tastes of his readers. Writers like Derrick and Bickerstaffe were hardly witty in the modern sense, but rather in the original literal meaning of the term. There are many wits, highly popular in their own day, who are no longer readable with any marked degree of pleasure. Wit depends so largely upon the manner of its delivery for the effect produced that the dramatists are not so numerously represented in this collection as might be expected from the special fecundity and excellence of the Irish in that branch of literature. To extract the wit or humour from some of the eighteenth-century plays is no easy task. In men like Sheridan, it is superabundant, over-luxuriant, and easily detachable; but others, like Kane O’Hara, Hugh Kelly, William O’Brien, James Kenney, and so on, whose plays were famous at one time and are not yet forgotten, find no place in this work on account of the difficulty of bringing the wit of their plays to a focus.

There never was a writer, perhaps, concerning whose merits there has been less dispute than Goldsmith. Sheridan, with all his brilliance, has not been so fortunate. Lysaght and Millikin were and are both greatly overrated as poets and wits, if we are to judge by the fragments they have left. Lysaght, however, must have been considered a genuine wit, for we find a number of once popular songs wrongly attributed to him. He most unquestionably did not write “The Sprig of Shillelagh,” “Donnybrook Fair,” “The Rakes of Mallow,” or “Kitty of Coleraine,” though they have all been put down as his. The first two were written by H. B. Code and Charles O’Flaherty respectively. Millikin’s fame is due to one of those literary accidents which now and then occur. Henry Luttrell in his verse had something of the sprightliness and point of Moore.

Very few specimens of parody have been included in this collection. Two extracts are here given from Eaton Stannard Barrett’s burlesque romance, which ridiculed a school of writers whose mannerisms were once very prevalent. Maginn was a much better parodist. He was a great humorist in every way, and may be claimed as the earliest writer who showed genuine rollicking Irish humour. “Daniel O’Rourke” is here given to him for the first time, probably, in a collection; though it appeared in Crofton Croker’s “Fairy Legends” it was known to their contemporaries as Maginn’s. He could be both coarse and refined; his boisterous praise of the bottle was not a sham, but his occasional apparent delight in savage personal criticism was really quite foreign to his character, as he was a most amiable man, much loved by those who knew him. It was different with “Father Prout,” who was one of the venomous order of wits, and certainly not a personal favourite with his colleagues. His frequent and senseless attacks on O’Connell and other men, dragged into all his essays, are blots on his work. His wit is too often merely abusive, like that of Dr. Kenealy, who, almost as learned as “Prout,” was quite as unnecessarily bitter. It is from Lover that we get the cream, not the curds of Irish humour. He is the Irish arch-humorist, and it is difficult to exaggerate the excellence of his lovesongs. Others may be more classical, more polished, more subtle, but there is no writer more irresistible. Among his earlier contemporaries Ettingsall was his nearest counterpart in one notable story. It must not be forgotten, either, that “Darby Doyle’s Voyage to Quebec” appeared in print before Lover’s “Barney O’Reirdon.” Carleton and Lever were admirable humorists, but only incidentally so, whereas Lover was nothing if not a humorist before all. There are many excellent comic passages in the novels of both, as also in one or two of Lefanu’s works, and if it should be thought that proportionately they are under-represented, it need only be pointed out that though a large volume might easily be made up of examples of their humour alone, other writers also have a good claim to a considerable amount of space. It has been thought preferable to restrict the selections from such famous novelists in order to give a place to no less admirable but much less familiar work.

O’Leary and the other Bacchanalians who came after Maginn were worthy followers of the school which devoted all its lyrical enthusiasm to the praise of drink, while Marmion Savage showed rather the acid wit of Moore. Ferguson and Wade are better known by their verse than as humorous storytellers. We find true Irish humour again in Kickham and Halpine. The Irish humorists of the present day hardly need any introduction to the reader.

The treatment of sacred subjects by Irish wits is similar to that in most Catholic countries. St. Patrick is hardly regarded as a conventional saint by Irish humorists, and it is curious that St. Peter is accepted by the wits of all nationalities as a legitimate object of pleasantry. If, however, Irish writers occasionally seem to lack reverence for things which in their eyes are holy, “it is only their fun,” as Lamb would say. Only those who are in the closest intimacy with sacred objects venture to treat them familiarly, and the Irish peasant often speaks in an offhand manner of that which is dearest to him. Few nations could have produced such a harvest of humour under such depressing and unfavourable influences as Ireland has experienced. And it may be asserted with truth that many countries with far more reason for uninterrupted good-humour, with much less cause for sadness, would be hard put to it to show an equally valuable contribution to the world’s lighter literature.

Though it has been sought to make this volume as comprehensive as possible, some familiar names will be missed; it is believed, however, that it contains a thoroughly representative collection of humorous extracts. There are some undoubted humorists whose wit will not bear transferring or transplanting, and it is as hard to convey their humour in an extract as it is to bottle a sunbeam. In others, the humour is beaten out too thin, and spread over too wide an area, to make selection satisfactory. The absence from this collection of any example of Mr. Oscar Wilde’s characteristic wit is not the fault of the present writer or the publishers. I have to thank nearly all the living authors represented in this collection for permission to use their writings, the one or two exceptions being those whose writings are uncollected, and whom I could not reach; and I have also to express my indebtedness to Mr. Alfred Nutt for allowing me to quote from “The Vision of McConglinne” and Dr. Hyde’s “Beside the Fire”; to Messrs. Ward & Downey for the extract from Edmund Downey; to Messrs. James Duffy & Son for the extract from Kickham; to Messrs. Routledge for poems by Lover; etc. I am also, deeply obliged to Dr. Douglas Hyde, the eminent Irish scholar and folk-lorist, for copies of some of the earlier extracts, and to Messrs. F. A. Fahy and P. J. McCall for some later pieces. For the proverbs I am chiefly indebted to Dr. Hyde, Mr. Fahy, Mr. T. J. Flannery, and Mr. Patrick O’Leary.

D. J. O’DONOGHUE.

THE HUMOUR OF IRELAND.

EXORCISING THE DEMON OF VORACITY.

[Cathal MacFinguine, King of Munster, is possessed by a demon of gluttony that “used to devour his rations with him to the ruin of the men of Munster during three half-years; and it is likely he would have ruined Ireland during another half-year.” Anier MacConglinne, “a famous scholar” and satirist, undertakes to banish the demon, whom he entices out of Cathal by marvellous stories of food and feasting, etc., meanwhile keeping him fasting.]

And he called for juicy old bacon, and tender corned-beef, and full-fleshed wether, and honey in the comb, and English salt on a beautiful polished dish of white silver, along with four perfectly straight white hazel spits to support the joints. The viands which he enumerated were procured for him, and he fixed unspeakable huge pieces on the spits. Then putting a linen apron about him below, and placing a flat linen cap on the crown of his head, he lighted a fair four-ridged, four-apertured, four-cleft fire of ash-wood, without smoke, without fume, without sparks. He stuck a spit into each of the portions, and as quick was he about the spits and fire as a hind about her first fawn, or as a roe, or a swallow, or a bare spring wind in the flank of March. He rubbed the honey and the salt into one piece after another. And big as the pieces were that were before the fire, there dropped not to the ground out of theses four pieces as much as would quench a spark of a candle; but what there was of relish in them went into their very centre.

It had been explained to Pichán that the reason why the scholar had come was to save Cathal. Now, when the pieces were ready, MacConglinne cried out, “Ropes and cords here!” “What is wanted with them?” asked Pichán. Now that was a “question beyond discretion” for him, since it had been explained to him before; and hence is the old saying, “a question beyond discretion.” Ropes and cords were given to MacConglinne, and to those that were strongest of the warriors. They laid hands upon Cathal, who was tied in this manner to the side of the palace. Then MacConglinne came, and was a long time securing the ropes with hooks and staples. And when this was ended, he came into the house, with his four spits raised high on his back, and his white wide-spread cloak hanging behind, its two peaks round his neck, to the place where Cathal was. And he stuck the spits into the bed before Cathal’s eyes, and sat himself down in his seat, with his two legs crossed. Then taking his knife out of his girdle, he cut a bit off the piece that was nearest to him, and dipped it in the honey that was on the aforesaid dish of white silver. “Here’s the first for a male beast,” said MacConglinne, putting the bit into his own mouth. (And from that day to this the old saying has remained.) He cut a morsel from the next piece, and dipping it in the honey, put it past Cathal’s mouth into his own. “Carve the food for us, son of learning!” exclaimed Cathal. “I will do so,” answered MacConglinne and cutting another bit of the nearest piece, and dipping it as before, he put it past Cathal’s mouth into his own. “How long wilt thou carry this on, student?” asked Cathal. “No more henceforth,” answered MacConglinne, “for, indeed, thou hast consumed such a quantity and variety of agreeable morsels, that I shall eat the little that is there myself, and this will be ‘food from mouth’ for thee.” (And that has been a proverb since.) Then Cathal roared and bellowed, and commanded the killing of the scholar. But that was not done for him. “Well, Cathal,” said MacConglinne, “a vision has appeared to me, and I have heard that thou art good at interpreting a dream.” “By my God’s doom!” exclaimed Cathal, “though I should interpret the dreams of the men of the world, I would not interpret thine.” “I vow,” said MacConglinne, “even though thou dost not interpret it, it shall be related in thy presence.” He then began his vision, and the way he related it was, whilst putting two morsels or three at a time past Cathal’s mouth into his own—

“A vision I beheld last night:

I sallied forth with two or three,

When I saw a fair and well-filled house,

In which there was great store of food.

A lake of new milk I beheld

In the midst of a fair plain.

I saw a well-appointed house

Thatched with butter.

As I went all around it

To view its arrangement:

Puddings fresh-boiled,

They were its thatch-rods.

Its two soft door-posts of custard,

Its daïs of curd and butter,

Beds of glorious lard,

Many shields of thin-pressed cheese.

Under the straps of these shields

Were men of soft sweet-smooth cheese,

Men who knew not to wound a Gael,

Spears of old butter had each of them.

A huge caldron full of luabin—

(Methought I’d try to tackle it)

Boiled leafy kale, browny-white,

A brimming vessel full of milk.

A bacon-house of two-score ribs,

A wattling of tripe—support of clans—

Of every food pleasant to man,

Meseemed the whole was gathered there.”

(MacConglinne then narrates a fable concerning the land of O’Early-Eating, etc.)

Then in the harbour of the lake before me I saw a juicy little coracle of beef-fat, with its coating of tallow, with its thwarts of curds, with its prow of lard, with its stern of butter, with its thole-pins of marrow, with its oars of flitches of old boar in it. Indeed she was a sound craft in which we embarked. Then we rowed across the wide expanse of New-Milk Lake, through seas of broth, past river-mouths of mead, over swelling boisterous waves of butter-milk, by perpetual pools of gravy, past woods dewy with meat-juice, past springs of savoury lard, by islands of cheeses, by hard rocks of rich tallow, by headlands of old curds, along strands of dry-cheese, until we reached the firm level beach between Butter-Mount and Milk-Lake and Curd-Point, at the mouth of the pass to the country of O’Early-Eating, in front of the hermitage of the Wizard Doctor. Every oar we plied in New-Milk Lake would send its sea-sand of cheese-curds to the surface.... Marvellous, indeed, was the hermitage in which I then found myself. Around it were seven score hundred smooth stakes of old bacon, and instead of the thorns above the top of every long stake was fried juicy lard of choice well-fed boar, in expectation of a battle against the tribes of Butter-fat and Cheese that were on New-Milk Lake, warring against the Wizard Doctor. There was a gate of tallow to it, whereon was a bolt of sausage.

Let an active, white-handed, sensible, joyous woman wait upon thee, who must be of good repute.... Let this maiden give thee thy thrice nine morsels, O MacConglinne, each morsel of which shall be as big as a heathfowl’s egg. Those morsels then must be put in thy mouth with a swinging jerk, and thine eyes must whirl about in thy skull whilst thou art eating them. The eight kinds of grain thou must not spare, O MacConglinne, wheresoever they are offered thee—viz., rye, wild-oats, beare, buckwheat, wheat, barley, fidbach, oats. Take eight cakes of each fair grain of these, and eight condiments with every cake, and eight sauces with each condiment; and let each morsel thou puttest in thy mouth be as big as a heron’s egg. Away now to the smooth panikins of cheese-curds, O MacConglinne:

• to fresh pigs,
• to loins of fat,
• to boiled mutton,
• to the choice easily-discussed thing for which the hosts contend—the gullet of salted beef;
• to the dainty of the nobles, to mead;
• to the cure of chest-disease—old bacon;
• to the appetite of pottage—stale curds;
• to the fancy of an unmarried woman—new milk;
• to a queen’s mash—carrots;
• to the danger awaiting a guest—ale;
• to a broken head—butter roll;
• to hand-upon-all—dry bread;
• to the pregnant thing of a hearth—cheese;
• to the bubble-burster—new ale;
• to the priest’s fancy—juicy kale;
• to the treasure that is smoothest and sweetest of all food—white porridge;
• to the anchor—broth;
• to the double-looped twins—sheep’s tripe;
• to the dues of a wall—sides (of bacon);
• to the bird of a cross—salt;
• to the entry of a gathering—sweet apples;
• to the pearls of a household—hen’s eggs;
• to the glance of nakedness—kernels.

When he had reckoned me up those many viands, he ordered me my drop of drink. “A tiny little measure for thee, MacConglinne, not too large, only as much as twenty men will drink, on the top of those viands: of very thick milk, of milk not too thick, of milk of long thickness, of milk of medium thickness, of yellow bubbling milk, the swallowing of which needs chewing, of the milk the snoring bleat of a ram as it rushes down the gorge, so that the first draught says to the last draught, ‘I vow, thou mangy cur, before the Creator, if thou comest down I’ll go up, for there is no room for the doghood of the pair of us in this treasure-house.’ ...”

At the pleasure of the recital and the recounting of those many pleasant viands in the king’s presence, the lawless beast that abode in the inner bowels of Cathal MacFinguine came forth, until it was licking its lips outside his head. The scholar had a large fire beside him in the house. Each of the pieces was put in order to the fire, and then one after the other to the lips of the king. One time, when one of the pieces was put to the king’s mouth, the son of malediction darted forth, fixed his two claws in the piece that was in the student’s hand, and, taking it with him across the hearth to the other side, bore it below the caldron that was on the other side of the fire. And the caldron was overturned on him.

From an Irish manuscript of the 12th century,

translated by Kuno Meyer.

THE ROMAN EARL.

No man’s trust let woman claim,

Not the same as men are they;

Let the wife withdraw her face

When ye place the man in clay.

Once there was in Rome an earl,

Cups of pearl held his ale.

Of this wealthy earl’s mate

Men relate a famous tale.

For it chanced that of a day,

As they lay at ease reclined,

He in jest pretends to die,

Thus to try her secret mind.

“Och, ochone! if you should die,

Never I should be myself,

To the poor of God I’d give

All my living, lands and pelf.

“Then in satin stiff with gold

I should fold thy fair limbs still,

Laying thee in gorgeous tomb”—

Said the woman bent on ill.

Soon the earl as if in death

Yielded up his breath to try her;

Not one promise kept his spouse

Of the vows made glibly by her.

Jerked into a coffin hard

With a yard of canvas coarse,—

To his hips it did not come—

To the tomb they drove the corse.

Bravely dressed was she that day,

On her way to mass and grave—

To God’s church and needy men

Not one penny piece she gave.

Up he starts, the coffined man,

Calls upon his wife aloud,

“Why am I thus thrust away

Almost naked, with no shroud?”

Then as women will when caught

In a fault, with ready wit,

Answered she upon the wing—

Not one thing would she admit.

“Winding sheets are out of date,

All men state it—clad like this,

When the judgment trump shall sound

You can bound to God and bliss.

“When in shrouds they trip and stumble,

You’ll be nimble then as erst,

Hence I shaped thee this short vest;

You’ll run best and come in first.”

Trust not to a woman’s faith,

’Tis a breath, a broken stem,

Few whom they do not deceive;

Let him grieve who trusts to them.

Though full her house of linen web,

And sheets of thread spun full and fair—

A warning let it be to us—

She left her husband naked there.

Spake the prudent earl: “In sooth,

Woman’s truth you here behold,

Now let each his coffin buy

Ere his wife shall get his gold.

“When Death wrestles for his life,

Let his wife not hear him moan,

Great though be his pain and fear,

Let her hear nor sigh nor groan.”

Translated by Dr. Douglas Hyde from an
old Irish manuscript.

THE FELLOW IN THE GOAT-SKIN.

There was a poor widow living down there near the Iron Forge when the country was all covered with forests, and you might walk on the tops of trees from Carnew to the Lady’s Island, and she had one boy. She was very poor, as I said before, and was not able to buy clothes for her son. So when she was going out she fixed him snug and combustible in the ash-pit, and piled the warm ashes about him. The boy knew no better, and was as happy as the day was long; and he was happier still when a neighbour gave his mother a kid to keep him company when herself was abroad. The kid and the lad played like two may-boys; and when she was old enough to give milk, wasn’t it a godsend to the little family? You won’t prevent the boy from growing up into a young man, but not a screed of clothes had he then no more than when he was a gorsoon.

One day as he was sitting comfortably in his pew he heard poor Jin bleating outside so dismally. It was only one step for him to the door, another to the middle of the road, and another to the gap going into the wood; and there he saw a pack of deer hounds tearing the life out of his poor goat. He snatched a rampike out of the gap, was up with the dogs while a cat would be licking her ear, and in two shakes he made smithereens of the whole bilin’ of them. The hunters spurred their horses to ride him down, but he ran at them with the terrible club, roaring with rage and grief; and horses and men were out of sight before he could wink. He then went back, crying, to the poor goat. Her tongue was hanging out and her legs quivering, and after she strove to lift her head and lick his hand, she lay down cold and dead. He lifted the body and carried it into the cabin, and pullilued over it till he fell asleep out of weariness; and then a butcher, that came in with other neighbours to pity him, took away the body and dressed the skin so smooth, so soft, and fastened two thongs to two of the corners. When the boy’s grief was a little mollified, the neighbour stepped in and fastened the nice skin round his body. It fell to his knees, and the head skin was in front like a Highlander’s pocket. He was so proud of his new dress that he walked out with his head touching the sky, and up and down the town with him two or three times. “Oh, dear!” says the people, standing at their doors and admiring the great big boy, “look at the Gilla na Chreckan Gour” (Giolla na Chroiceann Gobhair—the fellow in the goat-skin), and that name remained on him till he went into his coffin. But pride and fine dress won’t make the pot boil. So his mother says to him next morning, “Tom,” says she, for that was his real name, “you’re idle long enough; so now that you are well clad, and needn’t be ashamed to appear before the neighbours, take that rope and bring in a special good bresna (fagot) of rotten boughs from the forest.” “Never say it twice,” says Gilla, and off he set into the heart of the wood. He broke off and gathered up a great big fagot, and was tying it, when he heard a roar that was enough to split an oak, and up walks a giant a foot taller than himself; and he was a foot taller than the tallest man you’d see in a fair.

“What brings you here, you vagabone,” says the giant, says he, “threspassin’ in my demesne and stealin’ my fire-wood?” “I’m doin’ no harm,” says Gilla, “but clearin’ your wood, if it is your wood, of rotten boughs.” “I’ll let you see the harm you’re doin’,” says the giant, and with that he made a blow at Gilla that would have felled an ox. “Is that the way you show civility to your neighbours?” says the other, leaping out of the way of the club; “here’s at you,” and he leaped in and caught the giant by the body, and gave him such a heave that his head came within an inch of the ground. But he was as strong as Goliath, and worked up, and gave Gilla another heave equal to the one he got himself. So they held at it, tripping, squeezing, and twisting, and the hard ground became a bog under their feet, and the bog became like the hard road. At last Gilla gave the giant a great twist, got his right leg behind his right leg, and flung him headlong again the root of an oak tree. He caught up the club from where the giant let it fall at the beginning of the scrimmage, and said to him, “I am goin’ to knock out your brains; what have you to say again it?” “Oh, nothin’ at all! But if you spare my life, I’ll give you a flute that, whenever you play on it, will set your greatest enemies a-dancing, and they won’t have power to lay their hands on you, if they were as mad as march hares to kill you.” “Let us have it,” says Gilla, “and take yourself out of that.” So the giant handed him the flute out of his oxter-pocket, and home went Gilla as proud as a paycock, with his fagot on his back and his flute stuck in it.

“THE GIANT HANDED HIM THE FLUTE.”

In three days’ time he went to get another fagot; and this day he was attacked by a brother of the same giant; and whatever trouble he had with the other he had it twice with this one. He levelled him at last, and only gave him his life on being offered a bottle of soft green wax of a wonderful nature. If a person only rubbed it on the size of a crown-piece on his body, fire, nor iron, nor any sharp thing could do him the least harm for a year and a day after. Home went Gilla with his bottle, and never stirred out for three days, for he was a little tired and bruised after his wrestling. The next fagot he went to gather he met with the third brother, and if they hadn’t the dreadful struggle, leave it till again! They held at it from noon till night, and then the giant was forced to give in. What he gave for his life was a club that he took away once from a hermit, and any one fighting with that club in a just cause would never be conquered. If Gilla stayed at home three days after the last struggle, he didn’t stir for a week after this. It was on a Monday morning he got up, and he heard a blowing of bugles and a terrible hullabulloo in the street. Himself and his mother ran to the door, and there was a fine fat man on horseback, with a jockey’s cap on his head, and a quilt with six times the colours of the rainbow on it hanging over his shoulders. “Hear, all you good people,” says he, after another pull at his bugle-horn, “the King of Dublin’s daughter has not laughed for three years and a half, and her father promises her in marriage, and his crown after his death, to whoever makes her laugh three times.” “And here’s the boy,” says Gilla, “will make her do that, or know the reason why.” If one was to count all the threads in a coat, it would never come into the tailor’s hands; and if I was to reckon all that Gilla’s mother and her neighbours said to him before he set out, and all the steps he took after he set out, I’d never have him as far as the gates of Dublin; but to Dublin he got at last, as sure as fate. They were going to stop him at the gates, but he gave a curl of his club round his shoulder, and said he was coming to make the princess laugh. So they laughed and let him pass; and maybe the doors and windows were not crowded with women and children gazing after the good-natured-looking young giant, with his long black hair falling on his shoulders, and his goat-skin hanging from his waist to his knee. There was a great crowd in the palace yard when he reached there, and ever so many of them playing all sorts of tricks to get a laugh from the princess; but not a smile, even, could be got from her. “What is your business?” said the king, “and where do you come from?” “I come, my liege,” said Gilla, “from the country of the ‘Yellow Bellies,’[1] and my business is to make the princess, God bless her! give three hearty laughs.” “God enable you!” said the king. But an ugly, cantankerous fellow near the king, with a white face and red hair on him, put in his spoon, and says he to Gilla, “My fine fellow, before any one is allowed to strive for the princess, he is expected to show himself a man at all sorts of matches with the champions of the court.” “Nothing will give me greater pleasure,” says Gilla. So he laid his club and spit in his fists, and a brave sturdy Galloglach came up and took him by the shoulder and elbow. If he did, he didn’t keep his hold long; Gilla levelled him while you’d wink, and then came another and another till two score were pitched on their heads.

Well, no one gripped him the second time; but at last all were so mad that they stopped rubbing their heads and hips and shoulders, and made at Gilla in a body. The princess was looking very much pleased at Gilla all the time, but now she cried out to her father to stop the attack. The white-faced fellow said something in the king’s ear and not a budge did he make. But Gilla didn’t let himself be flurried. He took up his kippeen (cudgel or club), and gave this fellow a tap on his left ear, and that fellow a tap on his right ear, and the other a crack on the ridge pole of his head; and maybe it wasn’t a purty spectacle to see every soul of two score of them tumbling over and hether, their heads in the dust and their heels in the air, and they roaring “Murdher” at the ling of their life. But the best of it was that the princess, when she saw the confusion, gave a laugh like the ring of silver on a stone, so sweet and so loud that all the court heard it; and Gilla struck his club butt-end on the ground, and says he, “King of Dublin, I have won half of your daughter.” The face of Red-head turned from white to yellow, but no one minded him, and the king invited Gilla to dine with himself and the princess and all the royal family. So that day passed, and while they were at breakfast next morning Red-head reminded the king that he had nothing to do now but to send the new champion to kill the wild beast that was murdering every one that attempted to go a hen’s race beyond the walls. The king did not say a word one way or the other; but the princess said it was not right nor kind to send a stranger out to his certain death, for no one ever escaped the wild beast if it could get near them. “I’ll make the trial,” says Gilla; “I’d face twenty wild beasts to do any service to yourself or your subjects.” So he inquired where the beast was to be found, and White-face was only too ready to give him his directions. The princess was sorrowful enough when she saw him setting out, but go he must and would. After he was gone a mile beyond the gates he heard a terrible roar in the wood and a great cracking of boughs, and out pounced a terrible beast on him, with great long claws, and a big mouth open to swallow him, club and all.

When he was at the very last spring Gilla gave him a stroke on the nose; and crack! he was sprawling on his back in two seconds. Well, that did not daunt him; he was up, and springing again at Gilla, and this time the blow came on him between the two eyes. Down and up he was again and again till his right ear, his left ear, his right shoulder, and left shoulder were black and blue. Then he sat on his hindquarters and looked very surprised at Gilla and his club. “Now, my tight fellow,” says Gilla, “follow your nose to Dublin gates. Do no harm to any one, and I’ll do no harm to you.” “Waw! waw! waw!” says the beast, with his long teeth all stripped, and sparks flashing from his eyes; but when he saw the club coming down on him he put his tail between his legs and walked on. Now and then he’d turn about and give a growl, but a flourish of the club would soon set him on the straight road again. Oh! if there wasn’t racing and tearing through the streets, and roaring and bawling; but Gilla nor the beast ever drew rein till they came to the palace yard. Well, if the people in the streets were frightened, the people in the court were terrified. The king and his daughter were in a balcony, or something that way, and so were out of danger; but lord and gentleman, and officer, and soldier, as soon as they laid eye on the beast, began to run into passages and halls; but those that got in first shut the doors in their fright; and they that were left out did not know what to do, and the king cried out to Gilla to take away the frightful thing. Gilla at once took his flute out of his goat-skin pocket and began to play, and every one in the court—beast and body—began to dance. There was the unfortunate beast obliged to stand on his hind legs and play heel and toe, while he shovelled about after those that were next him, and he growling fearfully all the time. The people, striving to keep out of his way, were still obliged to mind their steps, but that didn’t prevent them from roaring out to Gilla to free them from their tormentor. The beast kept a steady eye on Red-head, and was always sliding after him as well as the figures of the dance would let him; and you may be sure the poor fellow’s teeth were not strong enough to keep his tongue quiet. Well, it was all a fearful thing to look at, but it was very comical, too; and as soon as the princess saw that Gilla’s power over the beast was strong enough to prevent him doing any hurt, and especially when she heard the roars of Red-head and looked at his dancing, she burst out laughing the second time. “Now, King of Dublin,” said Gilla, “I have won two halves of the princess, and I hope it won’t be long till the third half will fall to me.” “Oh! for goodness’ sake,” said the king, “never mind halves or quarters—banish this vagabone beast to Bandon, or Halifax, or Lusk, or the Red Say, and we’ll see what is to come next.” Gilla took his flute out of his mouth and the dancing stopped like shot The poor beast was thrown off his balance and fell on his side, and a good many of the dancers had a tumble at the same moment. Then said Gilla to the beast, “You see that street leading straight to the mountain; down that street with you; don’t let a hare catch you; and if you fall, don’t wait to get up. And if I hear of you coming within a mile of castle or cabin within the four seas of Ireland I’ll make an example of you; remember the club.” He had no need to give his orders twice. Before he was done speaking the beast was half-way down the street like a frightened dog with a kettle tied to his tail. He was once after seen in the Devil’s Glen, in Wicklow, picking a bone, and that’s all was ever heard of him.

Well, that was work enough for one day, and the potatoes were just done in the big kitchen of the palace. I don’t know what great people take instead of stirabout and milk before they go to bed. Indeed, people do be saying that some of them never leave the table from dinner to bedtime, but I don’t believe it. Anyhow, they took dinner and supper and went to bed, everything in its own time, and rose in the morning when the sun was as high as the trees. So when they were at breakfast, Red-head, who wasn’t at all agreeable to the match, says to the king, in Gilla’s hearing: “The Danes, ill-luck be in their road! will be near the city in a day or two; and it is said in an old prophecy book, that if you could get the flail that’s hanging on the couple under the ridge pole of Hell, you could drive every enemy you have into the sea—Dane or divil. I’m sure, sir, Gilla wouldn’t have too much trouble in getting that flail; nothing seems too hot or too heavy for him!” “If he goes,” said the princess, “it is against my wish and will.” “If he goes,” said the king, “it is not by my order.” “Go I will,” said Gilla, “if any one shows me the way.” There was an old gentleman with a red nose on him sitting at the table, and says he, “Oh! I’ll show you the way; it lies down Cut Purse Row. You will know it by the sign of the ‘Cat and Bagpipes’ on one side, and the ‘Ace of Spades’ stuck in the window opposite.” “I’m off,” says Gilla; “pray all of you for my safe return.” He easily found the “Cat and Bagpipes” and the “Ace of Spades,” and nothing further is said of him till he was knocking at Hell’s Gate. It was opened by an old fellow with horns on him seven feet long, and says he to Gilla, mighty politely, “What is it you want here, sir?” “I am a great traveller,” said Gilla, “and wish to see every place worth seeing, inside and outside.” “Oh! if that’s the case,” says the porter, “walk in. Here, brothers, show this gentleman-traveller all the curiosities of the place.” With that they all, big and little, locked and bolted every window and door, and stuffed every hole, till a midge itself couldn’t find its way out; and then they surrounded Gilla with their spits, and pitchforks, and sprongs; and if they didn’t whack and prod him, it’s a wonder. “Gentlemen,” says Gilla, “these are the tricks of clowns. Fairplay is bonny play; show yourselves gentlemen, if you have a good drop in you. Hand me a weapon, and let us fight fair. There’s an old flail on that couple, it will do as well as another.” “Oh, yes! the flail! the flail!” cried they all; and some little imps climbed up the rafters, pulled down the flail and handed it to Gilla, expecting to see his hands burned through the moment it touched them. They knew nothing of the giant’s balsam that Gilla rubbed on his hands as he was coming along, but they soon knew and felt the strength of his arm, when he was knocking them down like nine-pins, and thrashing them, arms, legs, and bodies, like so much oaten straw. “Oh! murdher! murdher!” says the big divil of all at last. “Stop your hand, and we’ll give you anything in our power.” “Well,” says Gilla, “I’ve seen all I want in your habitation. I don’t like the welcome I’ve got, and will thank you to open the gate.” Oh! wasn’t there twenty pair of legs tearing in a moment to let Gilla out. “You don’t mean, I hope, to carry off the flail?” says the big fellow; “it’s very useful to us in winter.” “It was the very thing that brought me here,” says Gilla, “to get it, and I won’t leave without it; but if you look in the black pool of the Liffey at noon to-morrow, you’ll find it there.” Well, they were very down in the mouth for the loss of the flail, but a second rib-roasting wasn’t to be thought of. When they had him fairly locked out they put out their tongues at him through the bars, and shouted, “Ah! Gilla na Chreckan Gour! wait till you’re let in here so easy again,” but he only answered, “You’ll let me in when I ask you.” There was both joy and terror at court when they saw Gilla coming back with the terrible flail in his hand. “Now,” says every one, “we care little for the Danes and all kith and kin. But how did you coax the fellows down below to give up the implement?” So he told them as much as he chose, and was very glad to see the welcome that was on the princess’s face. Red-head thought it would be a fine thing to have the flail in his power. So he crept over to where Gilla laid it aside after charging no one to touch it; but his hand did not come within a foot of it, when he thought he was burned to the bone. He danced about, shook his arm, put his fist to his mouth, and roared out for water. “Couldn’t you mind what I said?” says Gilla, “and that wouldn’t have happened.” However, he took Red-head’s hand within his own two that had the ointment, and he was freed from the burning at once. Well, the poor rogue looked so relieved, and so ashamed, and so impudent at the same time, that the princess joined in the laughing of all about. “Three halves at last,” said Gilla; “now, my liege,” said he, “I hope that after I give a good throuncing to the Danes, you will fulfil your promise.” “There are no two ways about that,” said the king; “Danes or no Danes, you may marry my daughter to-morrow, if she makes no objection herself.” Red-head, seeing by the princess’s face that she wasn’t a bit vexed at what her father said, ran up to his room, thrust his head into a cupboard, and nearly roared his arm off, but the company downstairs did not seem to miss him.

Early in the forenoon of next day a soldier came running in all haste from the bridge that crossed the Liffey, and said the Danes were coming in thousands from the north, all in brass armour, brass pots on their heads, and brass pot-lids on their arms, and that the yellow blaze coming from their ranks was enough to blind a body. Out marched the king’s troops with the king at their head, to hinder the Danes from getting into the town over the bridge. First went Gilla, with his flail in one hand and his club in the other. He crossed the bridge, and when the enemy were about ten perch away from him, he shouted out, “This flail belongs to the divil, and who has a better right to it than his children?” So saying, he swung it round his head, and flung it with all his power at the front rank. It mowed down every man it met in its course, and when it cut through the whole column, and the space was clear before it, it sunk down, and flame and smoke flew up from the breach it made in the ground. The soldiers at each side of the lane of dead men ran forward on Gilla, but as every one came within the sweep of his club he was dashed down on the bridge or into the river. On they rushed like a snowstorm, but they melted like the same snow falling into a furnace. Gilla kept before the pile of the dead soldiers, but at last his arms began to tire. Then the king and his men came over, and the rest of the Danes were frightened and fled. Often was Gilla tired in his past life, but that was the greatest and tiresomest exploit he ever done. He lay on a settle-bed for three days; but if he did, hadn’t he the princess and all her maids of honour to wait on him, and pity him, and give him gruel, and toast, and tay of all the colours under the sun? Red-head did his best to stop the marriage, but once when he was speaking to the king, one of the body-guard swore he’d open his skull with his battle-axe if he dared open his mouth again about it. So married they were, and as strong as Gilla was, if ever his princess and himself had a scruting (dispute), I know who got the upper hand.

Kennedy’s Fireside Stories of Ireland.

OFTEN-WHO-CAME.

There was once a man, and he had a handsome daughter, and every one was in love with her. There used to be two youths constantly coming to her, courting her. One of them pleased her and the other did not. The man she did not care for used often to come to her father’s house to get a sight of herself, and to be in her company, while the man she liked used not come but seldom. The father preferred she should marry the boy who was constantly coming, and he made one day a big dinner and sent every one an invitation. When every one was gathered he said to his daughter, “Drink a drink now,” says he, “on the man you like best in this company,” for he thought she would drink to the man he liked best himself. She lifted the glass in her hand and stood up and looked round her, and then said this rann:—

“I drink the good health of Often-Who-Came,

Who often comes not I also must name,

Who often comes not I often must blame

That he comes not as often as Often-Who-Came!”

She sat down when she had spoken this quatrain, and said no other word that evening; but the youth Often-Who-Came did not come as far as her again, for he understood he was not wanted, and she married the man of her own choice with her father’s consent.

I heard no more of them since.

Translated by Dr. Douglas Hyde.

THE OLD CROW AND THE YOUNG CROW.

There was an old crow teaching a young crow one day, and he said to him, “Now, my son,” says he, “listen to the advice I’m going to give you. If you see a person coming near you and stooping, mind yourself, and be on your keeping; he’s stooping for a stone to throw at you.”

“But tell me,” says the young crow, “what should I do if he had a stone already down in his pocket?”

“Musha, go ’long out of that,” says the old crow, “you’ve learned enough; the devil another learning I’m able to give you.”

Translated by Dr. Douglas Hyde.

ROGER AND THE GREY MARE.

Roger the miller came coorting of late

A rich farmer’s daughter called Katty by name.

She has to her fortune goold, dimins, and rings;

She has to her fortune fifty fine things;

She has to her fortune a large plot of ground;

She has to her fortune five hundred pounds.

When dinner was over and all things laid down,

It was a nice sight to see five hundred pounds.

The sight of the money and beauty likewise

Tickled his fancy and dazzled his eyes.

“And now, as your daughter is comely and fair,

It’s I that won’t take her,

It’s I that won’t take her,

Without the grey mare.”

Instantly the money was out of his sight,

And so was Miss Katty, his own heart’s delight.

Roger the miller was kicked out the doore,

And Roger was tould not to come there no more.

Roger pulled down his long yalla hair,

Saying, “wishing I never,”

And “wishing I never

Spoke of the grey mare.”

It was in twelve months after, as happened about,

That Roger the miller saw his own true love.

“Good morrow, fair maid, or do you know me?”

“Good morrow, kind sir, I do well,” says she;

“A man of your complexion with long yalla hair,

That wance came a-coorting,

That wance came a-coorting

Me father’s grey mare.”

“It was not to coort the grey mare I came,

But a nice handsome girl called Katty by name.

“I thought that her father would never dispute,

In giving his daughter, the grey mare for boot,

“Before he would lose such a beautiful son;

It’s then I was sorry,

It’s now I am sorry

For what I have done.”

“As for your sorrow, I do value not,

There is men in this town enough to be got.

“If you had the grey mare you would marry me,

But now you have nayther the grey mare nor me.

“The price of the grey mare was never so great,

So fare you well, Roger,

So fare you well, Roger,

Go murn[2] for Kate.”

Traditional (taken down from a peasant by
Dr. Douglas Hyde).

WILL O’ THE WISP.

In old times there was one Will Cooper, a blacksmith who lived in the parish of Loughile; he was a great lover of the bottle, and all that he could make by his trade went to that use, so that his family was often in a starving condition. One day as he was musing in his shop alone after a fit of drunkenness, there came to him a little old man, almost naked and trembling with cold. “My good fellow,” said he to Will, “put on some coals and make a fire, that I may get myself warmed.” Will, pitying the poor creature, did so, and likewise brought him something to eat, and told him, if he thought proper, he was welcome to stay all night. The old man thanked him kindly, and said he had farther to go; “but,” says he, “as you have been so kind to me, it is in my power to make you a recompense; make three wishes,” says he, “for anything you desire most, and let it be what it will you shall obtain it immediately.” “Well,” says Will, “since that is the case, I wish that any person who takes my sledge into their hand may never get free of it till I please to take it from them. Secondly, I have an armed chair, and I wish that any person sitting down on the same may never have power to rise until I please to take them off it. I likewise wish for the last,” says Will, “that whatever money or gold I happen to put into my purse, no person may have power to take it out again but myself.” “Ah! unfortunate Will!” cries the old man, “why did not you wish for Heaven?” With that he went away from the shop, as Will thought, very pensive and melancholy, and never was heard of more. The old man’s words opened Will’s eyes; he saw it was in his power to do well had he made a good use of the opportunity, and when he considered that the wishes were not of the least use to him, he became worse every day, both in soul and body, and in a short time he was reduced to great poverty and distress.

One idle day as he was walking along through the fields he met the devil in the appearance of a gentleman, who told him if he would go along with him at the end of seven years, he should have anything he desired during that time. Will, thinking that it was as bad with him as it could be, although he suspected it was the devil, for the love of rising in the world, made bargain to go with him at the end of the seven years, and requested that he would supply him with plenty of money for the present. Accordingly, Will had his desire, and dreading to be observed by his neighbours to get rich on a sudden, he removed to a distance from where he was then living. However, there was nobody in distress or in want of money but Will was always ready to relieve, insomuch that in a short time he became noted, and went in that country by the name of Bill Money, in regard of the great sums he could always command. He then began to build houses, and before the seven years were expired he had built a town, which, in imitation of the name he then had, was called Ballymoney, and is to this day. However, to disguise the business, and that nobody might suspect him having any dealings with Satan, he still did something now and then at his trade. The seven years being expired, he was making some article for a friend, when the devil came into the shop in his former appearance. “Well, Will,” says he, “are you ready to go with me now?” “I am,” says Will, “if I had the job finished; take that sledge,” says he, “and give me a blow or two, for it is a friend that is to get it, and then I will go with you where you please.” The devil took the sledge, and they soon finished the job. “Now,” says Will, “stay you here till I run to my friend with this, and I will not stay a minute.” Will then went out and the devil stopped in the shop till it was near night, but there was no sign of Will coming near him, nor could he by any means get the sledge out of his hands. He thought if he was once in his old abode, perhaps there might be some of the smith trade in it who would disengage him of the sledge, but all that were in hell could not get it out of his hand, so he had to retain the shape he was then in as long as the iron remained in his hand. The devil, seeing he could get nobody to do anything for him, went in search of Will once more, but somehow or other he could not get near him for a month. At length he met him coming out of a tavern, pretty drunk. “Well, Will,” says he, “that was a pretty trick you put on me!” “Faith, no,” says Will, “it was you that tricked me, for when I came back to the shop you were away, and stole my sledge with you, so that I could not get a job done ever since.” “Well, Will,” says Satan, “I could not help taking the sledge, for I cannot get it out of my hand; but if you take it from me I will give you seven years more before I ask you with me.” Will readily took the sledge, and the devil parted from him well pleased that he had got rid of it. Will having now seven years to play upon, roved about through the town of Ballymoney, drinking and sporting, and sometimes doing a little at his trade to blindfold the people; yet there was many suspected he had dealings with Satan, or he could not do half of what he had done.

At length the seven years were expired, and the devil came for him and found him sitting at the fire smoking, in his own house, where he kept his wonderful chair. “Come, Will,” says he, “are you ready to go with me now?” “I am,” says Will, “if you sit down a little till I make my will and settle everything among my family, and then I will go with you wherever you please.” So, setting the arm-chair to Satan, he sat down, and Will went into the chamber as if to settle his affairs; after a little he came up again, bidding the devil come along, for he had all things completed to his mind, and would ask to stay no longer. When Will went out the devil made an attempt to rise, but in vain; he could not stir from the chair, nor even make the least motion one way or other, so he was as much confounded to think what was the matter, as when he was first cast into utter darkness. Will, knowing what would occur to Satan, stayed away a month, during which time he never became visible in the chair to any of the family, nor do we hear that any one else ever observed him at any time but Will himself. However, at the month’s end Will, returning, pretended to be very much surprised that the devil did not follow him. “What,” says Will, “kept you here all this time? I believe you are making a fool of me; but if you do not come immediately I will have the bargain broken, and never go with you again.” “I cannot help it,” says Satan, “for all I can do I cannot stir from my seat, but if you could liberate me I will give you seven years more before I call on you again.” “Well,” says Will, “I will do what I can.” He then went to Satan and took him by the arm, and with the greatest ease lifted him out of the chair and set him at liberty once more. No sooner was Satan gone than Will was ready for his old trade again; he sported and played, and drank of the best, his purse never failing, although he sunk all the property and income he had in and about Ballymoney long before; but he did not care, for he knew he could have recourse to the purse that never would fail, as I told you before. However, an accident happened the same purse, that a penny would never stay in it afterwards, and Will became one of the poorest men to be found. This was at the end of the seven years of his last bargain, when Satan came in quest of him again, but was so fearful of a new trick put upon him by Will that he durst not come near the house. At length he met him in the fields, and would not give him time to bid as much as farewell to his wife and children, he was so much afraid of being imposed upon. Will had at last to go, and travelling along the road he came to an inn, where many a good glass he had taken in his time. “Here’s a set of the best rogues,” says Will, “in Ireland; they cheated me many a time, and I will give all I possess could I put a trick upon them.” ... “Well,” says Satan, “I do not care if we stop.” “But,” says Will, “I have no money, and I cannot manage my scheme without it; but I will tell you what you can do-you can change yourself into a piece of gold; I will put you in my purse, and then you will see what a hand I will make for you and me both, before we are at our journey’s end.” Satan, ever willing to promote evil, consented to change himself into gold, and when he had done so, Will put the piece into his purse and returned home. Satan, understanding that Will did not do as he pretended, strove to deliver himself from confinement, but by the power of the purse he could never change himself from gold, as long as Will pleased to keep him in it, and no other person, as I have told you before, had power to take anything out of it but himself. Will would go to drink from one ale-house to another, and would pretend to be drunk when he was not, where he would lay down his purse and bid the waiters take what they pleased for the reckoning. Every person saw he had money plenty, yet all they could do they could never get one penny out of the purse, and he would get so drunk when they would give it back to him that he would not seem to understand anything, and so would sneak away. In this manner he cheated both town and country round, until Satan, weary of confinement, had recourse to a stratagem of his own, and changed himself from pieces of gold into a solid bar or ingot of the same metal, but could not get out of the purse.

This, however, put a great damp upon Will’s trade, for when he had no coin to show he could get nothing from anybody, and how to behave he did not know. He took a notion that he would perhaps force him into coin again, and accordingly brought him to an iron forge, where he had the ingot battered, for the length of an hour, at a fearful rate; but all they could do they never changed it in the least, neither could they injure the purse, for the quality of it became miraculous after his wish, and the people swore the devil was surely in the purse, for they never saw anything like it. They were compelled at last to give over, and Will returned home and went to bed, putting the purse under his head. His wife was asleep, and the devil kept such a hissing, puffing, and blowing under the bolster that he soon awakened her, and she, almost frightened out of her wits, awakened Will, telling him that the devil was under his head. “Well, if he be,” says Will, “I will take him to the forge, where I assure you he will get a sound battering.” “Oh, no,” says Satan, “I would rather be in hell than stay here confined in this manner, and if you let me go I will never trouble you again.” “With all my heart,” says Will; “on that head you shall have your freedom,” and opening the purse, gave Satan his liberty.

Will was now free from all dread or fear of anything, and cared not what he did. But I forgot to mention that at the time Will wished nobody might take anything out of the purse, he wished he might never put his hand in it himself but he would find money—but after Satan being in it he found it empty ever after. By this unlucky accident, he that had seen so much of the world for such a length of time was reduced to the most indigent state, and at length forced to beg his bread. In this miserable condition he spent many years until his glass was run, and he had to pay that debt to nature which all creatures have since the fall of Adam. However, his life was so ill-spent and his actions so bad that it is recorded he could get no entrance to any place of good after his decease, so that he was destined to follow his own master. Coming to the gates of hell, he made a horrible noise to get in; then Satan bid the porter ask who it was that made such a din, and not to admit him till he would let him know. The porter did so, and he bade him tell his master that he was his old friend, Will Cooper, wanting to come to him once more. When Satan had heard who it was he ordered the gates to be strongly guarded; “for if that villain gets in,” says he, “we are all undone.” Will pleaded the distress he was in, that he could not get backward nor forward with the darkness he was surrounded with, and having lost his guide, if Satan would not let him in; and being loath to listen to the noise and confusion he was making at the gate, Satan sent one of his servants to conduct him back to earth again, and particularly not to quit him until he left him in Ireland. “Now,” says Satan to Will when he was going away, “you were a trusty servant to me a long time; now you are going to earth again, let me see you be busy, and gain all to me that you can; but remember how you served me when in the purse, and you shall never be out of darkness. I will give you a light in your hand to allure and deceive the weary traveller, so that he may become a prey to us.” So lighting a wisp, he gave it to Will, and he was conducted to earth, where he wanders from that day to this, under the title of Will o’ the Wisp.

Hibernian Tales (a chap-book).

EPIGRAMS.

The Churl and his Wine.

To thirst he’ll never own,

His wife’s a stingy crone,

A little bottle, half-filled, mavrone,

He keeps locked tight in a corner lone!

On a Surly Porter.

What a pity Hell’s gates are not kept by O’Flinn—

The surly old dog would let nobody in.

RIDDLES.

There’s a garden that I ken

Full of little gentlemen,

Little caps of blue they wear,

And green ribbons very fair.

(Flax.)

I threw it up as white as snow,

Like gold on a flag it fell below.

(Egg.)

I ran and I got,

I sat and I searched,

If I could get it I would not bring it with me,

As I got it not I brought it.

(A thorn in the foot.)

From house to house he goes,

A messenger small and slight,

And whether it rains or snows

He sleeps outside in the night.

(Boreen—lane or path.)

On the top of the tree

See the little man red,

A stone in his belly,

A cap on his head.

(Haw.)

A bottomless barrel,

It’s shaped like a hive,

It is filled full of flesh,

And the flesh is alive.

(Tailor’s thimble.)

As I went through the garden

I met my uncle Thady,

I cut his head from off his neck

And left his body “aisy.”

(A head of cabbage.)

Out in the field my daddy grows,

Wearing two hundred suits of clothes.

(Ditto.)

Snug in the corner I saw the lad lie,

Fire in his heart and a cork in his eye.

(Bottle of whisky.)

’Tis round as dish was ever known,

And white as snow the look of it,

’Tis food and life of all mankind,

Yet no man e’er partook of it.

(Breast-milk.)

My daddy on the warm shelf

Talking, talking to himself.

(Pot on the hob, simmering.)

Up in the loft the round man lies,

Looking through two hundred eyes.

(A sieve.)

Out she goes and the priest’s dinner with her.

(Hen with an egg.)

Translated by Dr. Hyde and F. A. Fahy.

DONALD AND HIS NEIGHBOURS.

Hudden and Dudden and Donald O’Nery were near neighbours in the barony of Balinconlig, and ploughed with three bullocks; but the two former, envying the present prosperity of the latter, determined to kill his bullock, to prevent his farm being properly cultivated and laboured, that going back in the world he might be induced to sell his lands, which they meant to get possession of. Poor Donald, finding his bullock killed, immediately skinned it, and throwing the skin over his shoulder, with the fleshy side out, set off to the next town with it, to dispose of it to the best of his advantage. Going along the road a magpie flew on the top of the hide and began picking it, chattering all the time. The bird had been taught to speak and imitate the human voice, and Donald, thinking he understood some words it was saying, put round his hand and caught hold of it. Having got possession of it, he put it under his great-coat, and so went on to the town. Having sold the hide, he went into an inn to take a dram, and following the landlady into the cellar, he gave the bird a squeeze which made it chatter some broken accents that surprised her very much. “What is that I hear?” said she to Donald; “I think it is talk, and yet I do not understand.” “Indeed,” said Donald, “it is a bird I have that tells me everything, and I always carry it with me to know when there is any danger. Faith,” says he, “it says you have far better liquor than you are giving me.” “That is strange,” said she, going to another cask of better quality, and asking him if he would sell the bird. “I will,” said Donald, “if I get enough for it.” “I will fill your hat with silver if you leave it with me.” Donald was glad to hear the news, and taking the silver, set off, rejoicing at his good luck. He had not been long at home until he met with Hudden and Dudden. “Mr.,” said he, “you thought you did me a bad turn, but you could not have done me a better, for look here what I have got for the hide,” showing them the hatful of silver; “you never saw such a demand for hides in your life as there is at present.” Hudden and Dudden that very night killed their bullocks, and set out the next morning to sell their hides. On coming to the place they went through all the merchants, but could only get a trifle for them. At last they had to take what they could get, and came home in a great rage, and vowing revenge on poor Donald. He had a pretty good guess how matters would turn out, and he being under the kitchen window, he was afraid they would rob him, or perhaps kill him when asleep, and on that account, when he was going to bed he left his old mother in his place and lay down in her bed, which was on the other side of the house; and taking the old woman for Donald, they choked her in her bed, but he making some noise they had to retreat and leave the money behind them, which grieved them very much. However, by daybreak Donald got his mother on his back and carried her to town. Stopping at a well, he fixed his mother with her staff, as if she was stooping for a drink, and then went into a public-house convenient and called for a dram. “I wish,” said he to a woman that stood near him, “you would tell my mother to come in; she is at yon well trying to get a drink, and she is hard of hearing. If she does not observe you, give her a little shake and tell her that I want her.” The woman called her several times, but she seemed to take no notice; at length she went to her and shook her by the arm, but when she let her go again, she tumbled on her head into the well, and, as the woman thought, was drowned. She, in great surprise and fear at the accident, told Donald what had happened. “Oh, mercy,” said he, “what is this?” He ran and pulled her out of the well, weeping and lamenting all the time, and acting in such a manner that you would imagine he had lost his senses. The woman, on the other hand, was far worse than Donald, for his grief was only feigned, but she imagined herself to be the cause of the old woman’s death. The inhabitants of the town, hearing what had happened, agreed to make Donald up a good sum of money for his loss, as the accident happened in their place; and Donald brought a greater sum home with him than he got for the magpie. They buried Donald’s mother, and as soon as he saw Hudden and Dudden he showed them the last purse of money he had got. “You thought to kill me last night,” said he, “but it was good for me it happened on my mother, for I got all that purse for her to make gunpowder.”

That very night Hudden and Dudden killed their mothers, and the next morning set off with them to town. On coming to the town with their burthen on their backs, they went up and down crying, “Who will buy old wives for gunpowder?” so that every one laughed at them, and the boys at last clodded them out of the place. They then saw the cheat, and vowing revenge on Donald, buried the old women, and set off in pursuit of him. Coming to his house, they found him sitting at his breakfast, and seizing him, put him in a sack, and went to drown him in a river at some distance. As they were going along the highway they raised a hare, which they saw had but three feet, and throwing off the sack, ran after her, thinking by appearance she would be easily taken. In their absence there came a drover that way, and hearing Donald singing in the sack, wondered greatly what could be the matter. “What is the reason,” said he, “that you are singing, and you confined?” “Oh, I am going to heaven,” said Donald, “and in a short time I expect to be free from trouble.” “Oh, dear,” said the drover, “what will I give you if you let me to your place?” “Indeed, I do not know,” said he; “it would take a good sum.” “I have not much money,” said the drover, “but I have twenty head of fine cattle, which I will give you to exchange places with me.” “Well,” says Donald, “I do not care if I should; loose the sack, and I will come out.” In a moment the drover liberated him and went into the sack himself, and Donald drove home the fine heifers, and left them in his pasture.

Hudden and Dudden having caught the hare, returned, and getting the sack on one of their backs, carried Donald, as they thought, to the river, and threw him in, where he immediately sank. They then marched home, intending to take immediate possession of Donald’s property; but how great was their surprise when they found him safe at home before them, with such a fine herd of cattle, whereas they knew he had none before. “Donald,” said they, “what is all this? We thought you were drowned, and yet you are here before us.” “Ah,” said he, “if I had but help along with me when you threw me in, it would have been the best job ever I met with, for of all the sight of cattle and gold that ever was seen is there, and no one to own them; but I was not able to manage more than what you see, and I could show you the spot where you might get hundreds.” They both swore they would be his friend, and Donald accordingly led them to a very deep part of the river, and lifted up a stone. “Now,” said he, “watch this,” throwing it into the stream; “there is the very place, and go in one of you first, and if you want help you have nothing to do but call.” Hudden, jumping in and sinking to the bottom, rose up again, and making a bubbling noise, as those do that are drowning, attempted to speak, but could not. “What is that he is saying now?” says Dudden. “Faith,” says Donald, “he is calling for help; don’t you hear him? Stand about,” said he, running back, “till I leap in. I know how to do better than any of you.” Dudden, to have the advantage of him, jumped in off the bank, and was drowned along with Hudden. And this was the end of Hudden and Dudden.

Hibernian Tales (a chap-book).

THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS.

O Woman of Three Cows, agragh! don’t let your tongue thus rattle!

Oh, don’t be saucy, don’t be stiff, because you may have cattle.

I have seen—and here’s my hand to you, I only say what’s true—

A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you.

Good luck to you, don’t scorn the poor, and don’t be their despiser;

For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser: