Rory the Robber
RORY was the greatest robber in that whole country, and there was a great gentleman lived there who owned a great estate in a distant part of the country. But he never got any good of the estate, for whoever he sent to lift the rents was always sure to be robbed by Rory in the mountains coming home again, and maybe killed into the bargain. So the gentleman found it was no use trying to lift the rents, and for the past five years he gave up lifting them altogether. Then there was a boy named Billy come to the gentleman looking to be hired, and the gentleman axed what he could do; and Billy said he could do anything, and then the gentleman engaged him. And when that time of year came, says Billy, says he, to his masther, “Masther,” says he, “are ye sendin’ no one to lift your rents this year?” “No, Billy,” says the masther, “for it is no use. Rory would only rob them, and maybe murder them into the bargain on the way back.” Says Billy, says he, “I’ll try.” Well and good the master consinted, and told Billy to harness the best horse in the stable, so that he might have a chance of escaping from Rory. “No,” says Billy, “but give me the very worst horse.” And the worst horse Billy saddled, and went off. And when he was going through the mountains he enquired for Rory, and finding him out, he told him, says he, “I’m Billy, the masther’s boy, and I’m going to such a place” (mentioning the name of where the estate was), says he, “to collect his rents; and if you’re here when I’m coming back, I’ll hand the money over to you.” Rory thanked him for nothing, and said he would be there right enough to take the rents from him. So, when Billy got to the estate and collected the rents in gold and notes, he had it all sewed into the lining of his coat, all except ten pounds that he changed into coppers and tied up in a bag, and put on the saddle before him. And when he reached the mountains on his way back, there he met Rory waiting for him. Then, says Billy, “I want to purtend to my masther that I made a hard fight before I gev up the money, so do you,” says he, holding out his coat, “shoot your pistols through that coat, that I can be able to show him the marks.” Then Rory shot all his pistols through Billy’s coat, making a number of holes in it. Then Billy threw the bag of coppers on the road, and says he, “There’s the rints,” and when Rory got down off his horse to lift the bag, Billy jumped up on it, and away off, and it was one of the swiftest horses in the country, so that Rory couldn’t overtake him, and he couldn’t fire after him, because Billy was so cute as to make him empty all his pistols into his coat.
When Billy got home to his masther, and gev him up the rints, and told him the whole story of how he had tricked Rory, his masther was proud of him, and couldn’t make too much of him. “But then,” says the masther, “it was a bad thing to take his horse, for he’ll never rest contented now till he’s revenged on me.” They agreed it was best to leave back the horse with Rory, and so Billy started, and when he fell in with the robber and gev him up his horse, Rory said he was a clever fellow and no mistake, and he would like Billy would join his band. Billy said well and good, he would. Off they went, then, to the cave in the mountains where the robbers had their den, and when they came there Rory introduced Billy to his brother robbers, and they proposed to welcome him with a big supper. So one of their cleverest hands was sent away to steal a sheep that they might make a fine roast. He was a long time away and they begun to chat about what was keeping him. “I’ll bet you fifty pounds,” says Billy to Rory, “that I steal the sheep from him.” “Done,” says Rory. Then Billy started away, and taking off a pair of splendid big top boots he had on him, he dropped one of them about a mile from the cave in the path the robber would take coming home with the sheep, and then travelling on about half a mile further he dropped the other, after rubbing it well with soft mud to make it right dirty. Then, when, not long afther, the robber comes along with the sheep, and comes up to this boot, he looks at it and says “It’s a fine top-boot, but, bad luck to it,” says he, “it’s too dirty entirely to carry, and where’s the use of it anyhow when I haven’t its fellow?” On he went then himself and the sheep till he come to the next boot, and when he seen it “Bad scran to me,” says he, “but there is its fellow, and I was unlucky I didn’t take it.” So he took and tied the sheep to a stump of a bush that was bye, and started away back to get the other top-boot. In the meantime Billy loosed the sheep and took it to the cave, and got his bet from Rory. Soon the robber come then to the cave with the pair of top-boots in his hand, and told how he tied the sheep to the stump of a bush till he’d go back and look for the other top-boot, and how, when he come back, the sheep was broke away, and he couldn’t get her. Then Rory ordered him to go back and steal another sheep; “And now,” says he to Billy, when he was gone, “I’ll hold ye a hundred pound ye don’t steal this sheep from him.” “Done,” says Billy, and started off after him. When Billy got to the place he had stole the first sheep he hid close by, and waited till the robber come up with the next; and when he come up Billy commenced bleatin’ like a sheep and “Bad luck be off me,” says the robber, says he, “but there’s the sheep I lost.” And with that he tied the sheep he had with him now to the very same tree stump, and went over the ditches looking for the other sheep. Billy stole round, and loosed the sheep, and away to the cave with it, and won that hundred pounds too. Rory had to confess that Billy was by far the cleverest thief he ever met, and even cleverer than himself. “I’ll tell you what,” says he to Billy, “there’s one thing I want stolen, and I have been after it for the last five years and couldn’t succeed—but maybe you’d come better speed than me; it’s the King of Connaught’s black mare, the grandest and swiftest in the world, that never was beaten yet, or never will be beaten; if I only had her, I would defy the whole country, for none could catch me. I’ll give you, Billy,” says he, “four hundred pounds in goold if ye can succeed in stealing her for me. But it’s a very difficult job,” says he, “for there’s always a guard of soldiers on the stable, and a man sitting on the back of the black mare, night and day, for fear of me stealing her.” “Well,” says Billy, “if I had only a good harper to come with me I’d steal her.” “Well,” says Rory, “you have that here, for I’m reckoned a first-class player on the harp, and my father before me was harper to the Chieftain of Knockree.” Well and good, then, Billy made him disguise as a blind harper, and they both of them set off, and the harp with them, for the King of Connaught’s castle, and Billy put Rory to play the harp before the castle windows where there was a lot of high-up folk being entertained. And when the King of Connaught saw the blind harper he made him be brought in to amuse the company, and then, of course, a dance was started, and every one was taken up with the fun, the captain of the guards along with every one else. Then, when Billy found the spree at its height, he went and got a jar of whiskey and drugged it with sleeping drops, and then went into the courtyard and lay down close by the stables, like a drunken man fallen asleep, with the drugged jar beside him. The guards soon saw the jar, and smelled it, and saying to themselves that there was no watch over them this night, when everybody was too taken on with the fun, and that it would be no harm to taste just a little of it, they passed the jar round, and every man of them fell fast asleep; and the man that was on the horse’s back dropped off it, asleep with the drink, too; and Billy got up and went into the stable, and taking out the black mare, started off with her to the mountains. And when Rory arrived he was a proud man to find the King of Connaught’s black mare there before him. He counted down to Billy four hundred yellow, shining sovereigns, and Billy went home with his five hundred and fifty pounds, and lived an honest and happy man ever after.
Myles McGarry and Donal McGarry
ONCE on a time there was two brothers, Myles McGarry and Donal McGarry, and they had only a weeshy wee bit of a sod of land that they called a farm, but it was that small that a daicent crow with any self-respect would be ashamed to live on it; and, though Myles and Donal was two hard workin’, industhrus boys close on to forty-five years of age, and worked early and late, in fair weathe
r and foul, the dickens a bit of them could make as much out of the wee sparrow park as would keep body and sowl together, so sez Myles to Donal, sez he, one mornin’ in the latther end o’ harwust, sez he: “Now’ Donal, asthore, as we’ve got in the wee crop safe and sound, and there’s nothing more to do again’ the winther, it wouldn’t hould me,” sez Myles, sez he, “to sthart away and hire till the Wareday comes round again, when I’ll maybe find something to do helping you to put in a wee bit of crop. In the mane-time, keep you a tight grip on the farm and don’t let it blow away when the wind rises.” So, spitting on his staff, and wishing Donal “God prosper him,” off he stharted, and away he travelled afore him for long an’ long, till at length he come into a strange country, where he fell in with a gentleman-looking man; and this lad asked him where was he going, or what was a trouble to him.
“I’m looking for a masther,” sez Myles.
“Well, by the powdhers,” sez the gentleman-looking man, sez he, “but I’m looking for a sarvant.”
“Well and good,” sez Myles, sez he, “I think we could do worse nor strike up. What’s your tarms?” sez Myles.
“Well, my tarms,” sez the gentleman-looking man, “my tarms,” sez he, “is a wee bit out of the ornery. The pay,” sez he, “is purty good; I’ll give fifty pounds for a good sarvant, from now till the cuckoo has called three times—only this: any boy hires with me must never confess himself out of timper, or displaised with me; at the same time that I’ll agree never to confess myself out of timper or displaised with him; and if aither of us breaks this undherstanding he’s to allow his two ears to be clipped off with the woolshears, by the other. Do you consint to them tarms?” sez he.
“Well,” sez Myles, sez he, “the tarms is what I call a bit quare; but, still and ever, considhering that I favour the look of ye—and I think your’e a jintleman—and as I know that I have a fairishly good timper meself, and as the wages is nate—why, I say all things considered, I’m inclined to be of opinion that I might go further and fare worse. So considher me hired.”
Very good, Myles went home with his masther and had nothing to do that night, but got a good supper, and went to his bed, and in the morning when he got up the masther was with him immediately and sez:—
“Go out,” sez he, “to the barn, and start thrashin’ that wee grain of corn. There’s not much in it,” sez he, “and ye’ll not get your breakwist till you have done.”
Well and good. Off Myles started, whistling, to the barn. But when he got there and looked in of the door, my faix, his tune was soon changed, for there was as good as six ton of corn piled and panged up to the roof.
“Phew-ew-ew!” sez Myles, “there’s some mistake here, surely. There’s siveral days’ thrashin’ of corn there, and he can’t expect one to have that done by breakwist time. But I’ll do what I can, anyhow, and thrash away till they call me in.”
But Myles, unfortunate christian that he was, he thrashed and thrashed away, and if he’d been thrashin’ since there wouldn’t one of them have come out to call him in to his breakwist. So my poor Myles thrashed away, and pegged away, till he had a heap of corn as big as a wee hill, and a pile of straw as big as a mountain before and behind him, and by that time it was falling night, and no one having come to call him, he pitched the flail from him as far as he could throw it and pushed for the house. There he met the masther.
“Well, Myles,” sez the masther, “it can’t be that it’s only now ye’re finishin’ that wee grain of corn?” sez he.
“Finishin’ it!” sez Myles, scornfully, that way after him—“Finishin’ it, in troth! No, nor it’s not well begun. Nice thrashers,” sez he, “ye must have in this part of the country if they do the like of that afore breakwist.”
“Oh!” sez the masther, “so it’s what ye haven’t done yet, then? Very well, ye get no breakfast till it’s finished—but I won’t refuse you sleep. You can go to bed for the night, and go at it fresh in the morning.”
Myles listened to him for a while, and then he flew out in a passion.
“And is that the way ye’re goin’ to thrate me, a daicent woman’s son, to send me to bed breakwistless, dinnerless, and supperless, and go out to thrash the morra mornin’ again fresh and fastin’ on the bare-footed stomach—is that the way, ye onnatural brute, ye, is that the way—”
“Aisy, aisy,” sez the masther. “Are ye angry with me, Myles?”
Then Myles minded his bargain, and he got down in the mouth, and,
“Oh, no, no,” sez he, “I’m not angry with ye at all, at all.”
And with that he went to his bed, and next morning he was up and out early to his work, and there the poor fellow worked and sweated, and thrashed and thrashed, till he was fairly falling down with the hunger and waikness, and he seen that at this rate it’s dead he’d be afore he got half through with the corn. And at this time, who looks in of the barn door with a snicker of a laugh in his throat but the masther.
“Well, Myles,” sez he, “not breakwist time yet I see?”
This was too much for flesh and blood to stand. He draws the flail one polthogue at the lad in the door, and just barely missed him by a hair’s breadth.
“What, Myles, Myles,” sez he, “sure it’s not angry with me you are?”
“Is it not, though?” sez Myles, “I wish,” sez he, “the ould divel had ye, for ye’re the most onnatural brute I ever come across,—bad scran to ye!”
“All right, all right,” sez he, “down on your knees with ye,” and taking hold of the wool-shears he left poor Myles’ head in a couple of minutes as bare of ears as the head of a herrin’. And off poor Myles started for home, and reached Donal and the farm in a woful plight. And he starts and rehearses to Donal the whole norration of all happened to him.
“Never mind,” sez Donal, sez he, when he finished—“Never mind,” sez he, “if I don’t get even with him. Just you stop at home, now, Myles,” sez he, “and keep the farm from blowing away, till I go and see how him and me can agree.”
So spitting on his stick, and in the same way, wishing Myles, “God prosper him,” he started off, and travelled away afore him for days and nights till he come to the same strange country and fell in with the very same man that Myles did. And the man said he was looking for a good sarvant, and Donal said he was looking for a good masther; so the long and the short of it was that Donal engaged on the very same tarms Myles did.
In Chimney Corners Page 8