‘God save you,’ says the king to the young man.
‘God save you kindly, King O’Toole,’ says the young man.
‘True for you,’ says the king. ‘I am King O’Toole,’ says he, ‘prince and plennypennytinchery of these parts,’ says he; ‘but how came ye to know that?’ says he.
‘Oh, never mind,’ says Saint Kavin.
You see it was Saint Kavin, sure enough – the saint himself in disguise, and nobody else. ‘Oh, never mind,’ says he, ‘I know more than that. May I make bold to ask how is your goose, King O’Toole?’ says he.
‘Blur-an-agers, how came ye to know about my goose?’ says the king.
‘Oh, no matter; I was given to understand it,’ says Saint Kavin.
After some more talk the king says, ‘What are you?’
‘I’m an honest man,’ says Saint Kavin.
‘Well, honest man,’ says the king, ‘and how is it you make your money so aisy?’
‘By makin’ old things as good as new,’ says Saint Kavin.
‘Is it a tinker you are?’ says the king.
‘No,’ says the saint; ‘I’m no tinker by trade, King O’Toole; I’ve a better trade than a tinker,’ says he – ‘what would you say,’ says he, ‘if I made your old goose as good as new?’
My dear, at the word of making his goose as good as new, you’d think the poor old king’s eyes were ready to jump out of his head. With that the king whistled, and down came the poor goose, just like a hound, waddling up to the poor cripple, her master, and as like him as two peas. The minute the saint clapped his eyes on the goose, ‘I’ll do the job for you,’ says he, ‘King O’Toole.’
‘By Jaminee!’ says King O’Toole, ‘if you do, I’ll say you’re the cleverest fellow in the seven parishes.’
‘Oh, by dad,’ says Saint Kavin, ‘you must say more nor that – I’m not as soft-headed,’ says he, ‘as to repair your old goose for nothing; what’ll you gi’ me if I do the job for you? – that’s the chat,’ says Saint Kavin.
‘I’ll give you whatever you ask,’ says the king; ‘isn’t that fair?’
‘Divil a fairer,’ says the saint; ‘that’s the way to do business. Now,’ says he, ‘this is the bargain I’ll make with you, King O’Toole: will you gi’ me all the ground the goose flies over, the first offer, after I make her as good as new?’
‘I will,’ says the king.
‘You won’t go back o’ your word?’ says Saint Kavin.
‘Honour bright!’ says King O’Toole, holding out his fist.
‘Honour bright!’ says Saint Kavin, back again, ‘it’s a bargain. Come here!’ says he to the poor old goose – ‘come here, you unfortunate ould cripple, and it’s I that’ll make you the sporting bird.’ With that, my dear, he took up the goose by the two wings – ‘Criss o’ my cross an you,’ says he, markin’ her to grace with the blessed sign at the same minute – and throwing her up in the air, ‘whew,’ says he, just givin’ her a blast to help her; and with that, my jewel, she took to her heels, flyin’ like one o’ the eagles themselves, and cutting as many capers as a swallow before a shower of rain.
Well, my dear, it was a beautiful sight to see the king standing with his mouth open, looking at his poor old goose flying as light as a lark, and better than ever she was: and when she lit at his feet, patted her on the head, and, ‘Ma vourneen,’ says he, ‘but you are the darlint o’ the world.’
‘And what do you say to me,’ says Saint Kavin, ‘for making her the like?’
‘By Jabers,’ says the king, ‘I say nothing beats the art o’ man, barring the bees.’
‘And do you say no more nor that?’ says Saint Kavin.
‘And that I’m beholden to you,’ says the king.
‘But will you gi’e me all the ground the goose flew over?’ says Saint Kavin.
‘I will,’ says King O’Toole, ‘and you’re welcome to it,’ says he, ‘though it’s the last acre I have to give.’
‘But you’ll keep your word true?’ says the saint.
‘As true as the sun,’ says the king.
‘It’s well for you, King O’Toole, that you said that word,’ says he; ‘for if you didn’t say that word, the devil the bit o’ your goose would ever fly agin.’
When the king was as good as his word, Saint Kavin was pleased with him, and then it was that he made himself known to the king. ‘And,’ says he, ‘King O’Toole, you’re a decent man, for I only came here to try you. You don’t know me,’ says he, ‘because I’m disguised.’
‘Musha! then,’ says the king, ‘who are you?’
‘I’m Saint Kavin,’ said the saint, blessing himself.
‘Oh, queen of heaven!’ says the king, making the sign of the cross between his eyes, and falling down on his knees before the saint; ‘is it the great Saint Kavin,’ says he, ‘that I’ve been discoursing all this time without knowing it,’ says he, ‘all as one as if he was a lump of a gossoon? – and so you’re a saint?’ says the king.
‘I am,’ says Saint Kavin.
‘By Jabers, I thought I was only talking to a dacent boy,’ says the king.
‘Well, you know the difference now,’ says the saint. ‘I’m Saint Kavin,’ says he, ‘the greatest of all the saints.’
And so the king had his goose as good as new, to divert him until the day of his death – and that was soon after; for the poor goose thought he was catching a trout one Friday; but, my jewel, it was a mistake he made – and instead of a trout, it was a thieving horse-eel; and instead of the goose killing a trout for the king’s supper – by dad, the eel killed the king’s goose – and small blame to him; but he didn’t ate her, because he darn’t ate what Saint Kavin had laid his blessed hands on.
‘The Story of the Little Bird’ by Thomas Crofton Croker
Many years ago there was a very religious and holy man, one of the monks of a convent, and he was one day kneeling at his prayers in the garden of his monastery, when he heard a little bird singing in one of the rose-trees of the garden, and there never was anything that he had heard in the world so sweet as the song of that little bird.
And the holy man rose up from his knees where he was kneeling at his prayers to listen to its song; for he thought he never in all his life heard anything so heavenly.
And the little bird, after singing for some time longer on the rose-tree, flew away to a grove at some distance from the monastery, and the holy man followed it to listen to its singing, for he felt as if he would never be tired of listening to the sweet song it was singing out of its throat.
And the little bird after that went away to another distant tree, and sung there for a while, and then to another tree, and so on in the same manner, but ever farther and farther away from the monastery, and the holy man still following it farther, and farther, and farther still listening delighted to its enchanting song.
But at last he was obliged to give up, as it was growing late in the day, and he returned to the convent; and as he approached it in the evening, the sun was setting in the west with all the most heavenly colours that were ever seen in the world, and when he came into the convent, it was nightfall.
And he was quite surprised at everything he saw, for they were all strange faces about him in the monastery that he had never seen before, and the very place itself, and everything about it, seemed to be strangely altered; and, altogether, it seemed entirely different from what it was when he had left in the morning; and the garden was not like the garden where he had been kneeling at his devotion when he first heard the singing of the little bird.
And while he was wondering at all he saw, one of the monks of the convent came up to him, and the holy man questioned him, ‘Brother, what is the cause of all these strange changes that have taken place here since the morning?’
And the monk that he spoke to seemed to wonder greatly at his question, and asked him what he meant by the change since morning? for, sure, there was no change; that all was just as before. And then he said, ‘Brother, why do
you ask these strange questions, and what is your name? for you wear the habit of our order, though we have never seen you before.’
So upon this the holy man told his name, and said that he had been at Mass in the chapel in the morning before he had wandered away from the garden listening to the song of a little bird that was singing among the rose-trees, near where he was kneeling at his prayers.
And the brother, while he was speaking, gazed at him very earnestly, and then told him that there was in the convent a tradition of a brother of his name, who had left it two hundred years before, but that what was become of him was never known.
And while he was speaking, the holy man said, ‘My hour of death is come; blessed be the name of the Lord for all his mercies to me, through the merits of his only-begotten Son.’
And he kneeled down that very moment, and said, ‘Brother, take my confession, for my soul is departing.’
And he made his confession, and received his absolution, and was anointed, and before midnight he died.
The little bird, you see, was an angel, one of the cherubims or seraphims; and that was the way the Almighty was pleased in His mercy to take to Himself the soul of that holy man.
‘St Brigid’s Cloak’ by Patrick Kennedy
The King of Leinster at that time was not particularly generous, and St Brigid found it not easy to make him contribute in a respectable fashion to her many charities. One day when he proved more than usually niggardly, she at last said, as it were in jest: ‘Well, at least grant me as much land as I can cover with my cloak.’ And, to get rid of her importunity, he consented.
They were at the time standing on the highest point of ground of the Curragh, and she directed four of her sisters to spread out the cloak preparatory to her taking possession. They accordingly took up the garment, but instead of laying it flat on the turf, each virgin, with face turned to a different point of the compass, began to run swiftly, the cloth expanding at their wish in all directions. Other pious ladies, as the border enlarged, seized portions of it to preserve something of a circular shape, and the elastic extension continued till the breadth was a mile at least.
‘Oh, St Brigid,’ said the frighted King, ‘what are you about?’
‘I am – or rather my cloak is – about to cover your whole province to punish you for your stinginess to the poor.’
‘Oh! Come! Come! This won’t do. Call your maidens back. I will give you a decent plot of ground, and be more liberal for the future.’
The saint was easily persuaded. She obtained some acres, and if the King held his purse-strings tight on any future occasion, she had only to allude to her cloak’s miraculous qualities to bring him to reason.
‘A Legend of St Brigid’ after Maud Joynt
St Brigid of Kildare once founded a convent and she wished the Rule of Peter and Paul to be observed in it. But because it was not the will of God that she should go to Rome herself to learn the Rule, she sent seven of her people thither to learn it on her behalf. But when they came back to her from Rome, not one of the seven could remember a word of it.
‘The Son of God knows it, people make little profit if they can only manage to make a small effort,’ said Brigid to them with a sigh.
So she sent another seven of her people on the long and difficult pilgrimage to Rome to learn the Rule; and months later, they too came back having forgotten it. A third time she sent seven of her people, and this time she sent with them a blind boy whom she trusted completely, for he never forgot anything he had once heard. When this party were sailing from Ireland to France, a gale battered their ship and they had to anchor just off the Isle of Wight and ride out the storm. And when the storm had passed, they tried to raise their anchor and sail on, but they could not. The ship’s anchor was caught fast in the roof of a flooded church beneath the sea, and it would not budge. So they cast lots to see which of their number should dive down to try and free the anchor; the lot fell on the blind boy, and he climbed down the rope into the sea and freed the anchor, but he did not come up again; so the boat sailed on its way to France without him, and St Brigid’s six remaining pilgrims completed their journey to Rome. When they were returning home to Ireland a year later, a storm overtook their ship on the very same spot, and again they had to anchor and ride out the gale. And lo! after the storm had gone down, the blind boy came clambering up the anchor-rope out of the cold sea, carrying in his arm a bell; and he had with him also the Rule of Peter and Paul, for he had learnt it by heart in the church below the waves.
When they reached Ireland, none but the blind boy was able to give Brigid the Rule, which was henceforth observed in her convent. And the bell which the blind boy had brought back was ever after the bell of her community. Then it was that Brigid made these verses:
’Tis effort great and profit small
To merely go to Rome;
You cannot find Our Lord at all
Unless you find him first at home.
Since Death for all mankind is sure
And swift the moments onward run,
Is it not folly clear and pure
To risk the wrath of God’s own Son?
‘How the Shannon Acquired its Name’ by Patrick Kennedy
A long time ago there was a well in Ossory, shaded by a rowan tree. When the berries became ripe they would drop into the water, and be eaten by the salmon that had their residence in the well. Red spots would then appear on the fish, and they received the name of ‘Salmon of Knowledge’. It was not so easy to take these salmon, for there were shelving banks, and they could also retreat into the cavern from which the waters issued that supplied the well.
However, one was occasionally caught, and the captor, as soon as he had made his repast on it, found himself gifted with extraordinary knowledge, even as Finn, son of Cool, when he had tasted of the broiled salmon of the Boyne.
It was understood that no woman could taste of this delicacy and live. Yet Sionan, a lady cursed with an extraordinary desire of knowledge, braved the danger, suspecting the report to be spread abroad and maintained by the male sex from merely selfish motives. So, in order to lose no time, she had a fire ready by the side of the well, and the unfortunate fish was scarcely flung out on the grass when he was frying on the coals.
Who can describe the rapture she felt from the burst of light that filled her mind on swallowing the first morsel! Alas – the next moment she was enveloped by the furious waters, which, bursting forth, swept westwards, and carried the unfortunate lady with them till they were lost in the great river which ever after bore her name.
‘Fior Usga’ by Thomas Crofton Croker
A little way beyond the Gallows Green of Cork, and just outside the town, there is a great lough of water, where people in the winter go and skate for the sake of diversion. But the sport above the water is nothing to what is under it, because at the very bottom of this lough there are buildings and gardens far more beautiful than any now to be seen. And how they came there was in this manner.
Long before Saxon foot pressed Irish ground there was a great King, called Core, whose palace stood where the lough is now, in a round green valley that was just a mile about. In the middle of the courtyard was a spring of fair water, so pure and so clear that it was the wonder of all the world. Much did the King rejoice at having so great a curiosity within his palace, but as people came in crowds from far and near to draw the precious water of this spring, he was sorely afraid that in time it might become dry.
So he caused a high wall to be built up around it, and would allow nobody to have the water, which was a very great loss to the poor people living about the palace. Whenever he wanted any for himself he would send his daughter to get it, not liking to trust his servants with the key of the well-door, fearing they might give some of the water away.
One night the King gave a grand entertainment, and there were many great princes present, and lords and nobles without end. There were wonderful doings throughout the palace: there were bonfires, whose blaze
reached up to the very sky; and dancing was there, to such sweet music that it ought to have waked up the dead out of their graves; and feasting was there in the greatest of plenty for all who came; nor was anyone turned away from the palace gates, but ‘you’re welcome – you’re welcome heartily,’ was the porter’s salute for all.
Now it happened at this grand entertainment there was one young prince above all the rest mighty comely to behold, and as tall and as straight as ever eye would wish to look on. Right merrily did he dance that night with the old King’s daughter, wheeling there, as light as a feather, and footing it away to the admiration of everyone. The musicians played the better for seeing their dancing; and they danced as if their lives depended upon it.
After all this dancing came the supper, and the young prince was seated at table by the side of his beautiful partner, who smiled upon him as often as he wished, for he had constantly to turn to the company and thank them for the many compliments passed upon his fair partner and himself.
In the midst of this banquet one of the great lords said to King Core, ‘May it please your Majesty, here is everything in abundance that heart can wish for, both to eat and drink, except water.’
‘Water!’ said the King, mightily pleased at someone calling for that of which purposely there was a want. ‘Water shall you have, my lord, speedily, and that of such a delicious kind that I challenge all the world to equal it. Daughter,’ said he, ‘go and fetch some in the golden vessel which I caused to be made for the purpose.’
Irish Folk and Fairy Tales Page 20