Irish Folk Tales

by Henry Glassie

  “Aw,” says Bobby, “I think I could.”

  There was four solicitors carrying him.

  So Bobby started off:

  “One rogue,” says he, “above,

  Four in under.

  His body’s to earth.

  His soul’s on its journey.

  And the Devil’s at law

  And he wants an attorney.”

  He was a rogue, and the four that was carrying him was rogues: “One rogue above,” says he, “four in under. His body’s to earth; his soul’s on its journey. And the Devil’s at law and he wants an attorney.”

  Well, he went to see this man, Bobby Burns, and he seen that he was in great pain, and that he was of a huge size, you see.

  And he came to the conclusion he had led a bad life, and well, he pretended that the Devil was coming for him, you see.

  It was the Devil was coming for him.

  But the Devil wouldn’t take him, he was such a burden, you see. He was such a burden; he was that weighty.

  When the Devil entered the room where Richard was in his last stage, says Bobby, he says:

  “When he entered the room where poor Richard was moaning,

  And saw the four bedposts with its burden a-groaning,

  He vowed to himself that he’d take to the road

  Before he would carry such a damnable load.”

  He was Richard Lawton, this man; Lawton was his name. And Bobby made out that he had died from the effects of cutting his corns, you see.

  Bobby went to the grave and looked round and he says:

  “Here lie the bones,” says he, “of Richard Lawton.

  Alas, his death was strangely brought on.

  One day when trying his corns to mow off,

  The razor slipped and cut his toe off.

  The toe from that to which it grew

  To inflammation quickly flew.

  Then it turned to mortifying,

  And that was the cause of Richard dying.”

  It turned to mortifying, you see: gangrened the flesh. It’s a very dangerous disease.

  And there was another one. Aye. He was a wee small man, and he was cranky with Bobby one day.

  Well, Bobby went in for a drink. And he says to Bobby, “I’m as good a poet as you.”

  “Go on ahead,” says Bobby.

  So, I don’t know now really the verse that he made. But then Bobby in revenge took a notion he’d make little of him. Andrew Horn was his name. So he started off:

  “In eighteen hundred and seventy-nine,” says he,

  The Devil thought of making swine.

  Next again,” said he, “he changed his plan,

  And made it something like a man,

  And called it Andrew Horn.”

  “Then,” says he, “Andrew, would you beat me?” says he.

  The Devil made swine and he turned the swine into a man called Andrew Horn.

  I think he was convinced he couldn’t make anything better than Bobby anyway.

  Well, I could listen to yarns like that. I could sit for a whole night.

  TERRY THE GRUNTER

  SLIGO

  SÉAMAS Ó CATHÁIN 1931

  There was, at one time, an old tramp called Terry the Grunter who used to wander round these parts often times. He lived principally on his wits and he composed satires about people who did not please him. He happened to be in Sligo when a certain solicitor died and he asked some of this man’s brother solicitors for help. They refused him. When the funeral was starting, four solicitors carried the coffin part of the way to the cemetery. Terry the Grunter gave the following description of the affair:

  There’s a knave overhead and four underneath,

  The body is dead and the soul on a journey,

  The Devil is at law and he wants an attorney.

  When the Protestant church at Riverstown was being built, the bishop of Elphin came to consecrate it. He met our hero who, as usual, was on the lookout for money. The bishop refused him and the tramp wrote the following:

  An English bishop came from Elphin,

  To consecrate the church at Cooper Hill;

  But if the Devil himself came up from Hell,

  He would do it fully as well!

  THOMAS MOORE AND THE TRAMP

  PETER FLANAGAN FERMANAGH

  HENRY GLASSIE 1972

  Thomas Moore was lying looking, him and this other, his companion, looking at the Meeting of the Waters and bragging: it was such beautiful scenery, gorgeous, never saw anything like it.

  And this poor tramp came up.

  And badly dressed, in rags, and bad boots on him with his toes sticking out through his shoes.

  And he asked help of Thomas Moore.

  And Thomas didn’t recognize him atall; he ignored him asking for help. And he stood for a few minutes and he started his wee poem as follows:

  “If Moore was a man without place of abode,

  Without clothes on his back, and him walking the road,

  Without bit in his belly or shoes on his feet,

  He wouldn’t give a damn where the bright waters meet.”

  This Moore told him, “Repeat that,” he says, “again.”

  So the tramp repeated it again.

  And he put his hand in his pocket, and he gave him half a sovereign. He says, “That’s as good as I ever heard,” he says, “I couldn’t do it better meself.”

  That was that.

  It was a great piece of composition. It was me father told me that one; it was him that I heard at it. Surely.

  JOHN BRODISON AND THE POLICEMAN

  MICHAEL BOYLE FERMANAGH

  HENRY GLASSIE 1972

  There was a famous character in our country. He lived at Bellanaleck, he was the name of John Brodison.

  He was a famous liar.

  Aye, he was a famous liar. I knew him. I was often talking to him. He was a kind of a smart old boy, you know: quick-witted.

  He was coming out of Enniskillen one night with the ass and cart. And the law was: ye had to have a light after a certain time on a cart, do you see, when it was dark. Ye had to have a light.

  So the policeman was standing at Bellanaleck Cross, and Brodison knew that the police would be there at the time.

  So he got out of the cart.

  And he took the donkey out of the cart, and he tied it behind.

  And he got into the shafts, and he started to pull the cart, and the donkey walking behind him anyway.

  And when he came to the Cross, the policeman says, “Brodison,” he says, “Ye have no light.”

  “Where’s your light, Brodison?”

  “Ask the driver,” he says.

  Aye. “Ask the driver.”

  Well, that was the sort of a boy he was.

  Ah, he had great bids in him.

  A BIG POTATO

  HUGH NOLAN FERMANAGH

  HENRY GLASSIE 1972

  John Brodison tells this story that one season, some years ago, he had a field of potatoes convenient to the Sligo and Leitrim Railway Line.

  And it was a very steep hill that he had the potatoes planted in.

  And they done remarkably well, and when it came to the time for to dig them, they turned out a powerful fine crop of potatoes.

  And he was digging, he tells us, one day, and he came to a spot on the ridge and he found out that there was a potato from one broo to the other.

  So, he got behind, as he thought, this potato for to roll it out.

  But he found out that it had grew across the furrow in through a ridge on both sides of the ridge that it was planted on.

  So he had to go to both these ridges and dig all the mold that was around the potato.

  So then when he had it properly uncovered, he found out that it was a very deep distance in the ground.

  And he had to start for to rise it with a spade out of the ground.

  And he was a very long time a-digging the mold from round it, for to get it, to get the spade in under it.

  B
ut finally the mold all cleared and he started with the spade, rising it up,

  and rising it up,

  and rising it up,

  till finally he got it to the top of the ground.

  And it joined to roll.

  So, he was that much fatigued and tired after the job that he had it; he never bothered looking where it went to.

  And he started again, and he heared a cart coming along the road from the direction of Enniskillen. And the next thing he heard was a terrible bang.

  So he looked round, and he seen where this cart had tumbled.

  So he stuck the spade. He run down to it. He found that the pratie had rolled onto the road, and in trying to get by it, the man hadn’t enough room between the pratie and the other hedge for to get by clear, and the wheel of the cart went up onto the potato, and it tumbled.

  So there it was: there was nothing only sacks of meal and sacks of flour lying here and in all directions. And the horse was lying on its side in the road.

  But then, in them days there was a lot of people traveling on horses’ carts and donkeys’ carts, and it wasn’t very long till there came a go of men making for home.

  So, them all got down and they got the horse released from the cart. And they got the horse up on his feet again.

  So, they had to take and they had to move every sack that was lying along the hedge away from about the cart still they got the cart back on its wheels again and got it pulled alongside the potato.

  So then they had to help this man again put on his load again.

  So, it was getting very near night, and he tells us that he didn’t like for to leave it on the road all night for fear of more capsizers or more accidents.

  So he went home.

  And he had a talk with the wife.

  So they came to the conclusion—they had a new crosscut—so they came to the conclusion that they’d put the donkey in the cart, and that they’d start away with the crosscut, and that they’d cut it into shares and draw it to the house.

  So they started anyway, and at a very late hour they had it all cut at the house.

  So, that was a terrible hard night, he said, one of the hardest nights of his life, between the way he had to labor for to get the potato up out of the earth, and then the hardship that he had that night, him and the wife after.

  Oh, John used to tell that story.

  Oh, many a good story John told.

  THE FOX AND THE RANGER

  PADDY THE SPORT WICKLOW

  SAMUEL LOVER 1831

  The fox is the cunningest beast in the world, barring the wren.

  All birds build their nest with one hole to it only, excepting the wren. But the wren builds two holes to the nest, and so that if any enemy comes to disturb it upon one door, it can go out on the other. But the fox is cute to that degree, that there’s many a mortal a fool to him—and, by dad, the fox could buy and sell many a Christian, as you’ll soon see by and by, when I tell you what happened to a wood ranger that I knew once, and a decent man he was, and wouldn’t say the thing in a lie.

  Well, you see, he came home one night, mighty tired—for he was out with a party in the domain, cock-shooting that day. And when he got back to his lodge, he threw a few logs of wood on the fire to make himself comfortable, and he took whatever little matter he had for his supper. And, after that, he felt himself so tired that he went to bed. But you’re to understand that, though he went to bed, it was more for to rest himself like, than to sleep, for it was early. And so he just went into bed, and there he diverted himself looking at the fire, that was blazing as merry as a bonfire on the hearth.

  Well, as he was lying that-a-way, just thinking of nothing at all, what should come into the place but a fox. But I must tell you, what I forgot to tell you before, that the ranger’s was on the borders of the wood, and he had no one to live with him but himself, barring the dogs that he had the care of, that was his only companions, and he had a hole cut on the door, with a swinging board to it, that the dogs might go in or out according as it pleased them. And, by dad, the fox came in, as I told you, through the hole in the door, as bold as a ram, and walked over to the fire, and sat down forenenst it.

  Now, it was mighty provoking that all the dogs was out—they were roving about the wood, you see, looking for to catch rabbits to eat, or some other mischief, and so it happened that there wasn’t as much as one individual dog in the place. And, by gor, I’ll go bail the fox knew that right well, before he put his nose inside the ranger’s lodge.

  Well, the ranger was in hopes some of the dogs would come home and catch the chap, and he was loath to stir hand or foot himself, afeared of frightening away the fox. But, by gor, he could hardly keep his temper at all at all, when he seen the fox take his pipe off of the hob, where he left it afore he went to bed, and putting the bowl of the pipe into the fire to kindle it (it’s as true as I’m here), he began to smoke forenenst the fire, as natural as any other man you ever seen.

  “Musha, bad luck to your impudence, you long-tailed blackguard,” says the ranger, “and is it smoking my pipe you are? Oh, then, by this and by that, if I had my gun convenient to me, it’s fire and smoke of another sort, and what you wouldn’t bargain for, I’d give you,” says he. But still he was loath to stir, hoping the dogs would come home. And, “By gor, my fine fellow,” says he to the fox, “if one of the dogs comes home, saltpeter wouldn’t save you, and that’s a strong pickle.”

  So, with that, he watched until the fox wasn’t minding him, but was busy shaking the cinders out of the pipe, when he was done with it, and so the ranger thought he was going to go immediately after getting an air of the fire and a shough of the pipe. And so, says he, “Faix, my lad, I won’t let you go so easy as all that, as cunning as you think yourself.”

  And with that he made a dart out of bed, and run over to the door, and got between it and the fox. And, “Now,” says he, “your bread’s baked, my buck, and maybe my lord won’t have a fine run out of you, and the dogs at your brush every yard, you marauding thief, and the Divil pity you,” says he, “for your impudence—for sure, if you hadn’t the impudence of a highwayman’s horse, it’s not into my very house, under my nose, you’d dare for to come.”

  And with that, he began to whistle for the dogs. And the fox, that stood eyeing him all the time while he was speaking, began to think it was time to be jogging when he heard the whistle—and says the fox to himself, “Troth, indeed, you think yourself a mighty great ranger now,” says he, “and you think you’re very cute, but upon my tail, and that’s a big oath, I’d be long sorry to let such a mallet-headed bog-trotter as yourself take a dirty advantage of me, and I’ll engage,” says the fox, “I’ll make you leave the door soon and sudden.”

  And with that, he turned to where the ranger’s brogues was lying hard by beside the fire, and, what would you think, but the fox took up one of the brogues, and went over to the fire and threw it into it.

  “I think that’ll make you start,” says the fox.

  “Divil receive the start,” says the ranger. “That won’t do, my buck,” says he. “The brogue may burn to cinders,” says he, “but out of this I won’t stir.” And then, putting his fingers into his mouth, he gave a blast of a whistle you’d hear a mile off, and shouted for the dogs.

  “So that won’t do,” says the fox. “Well, I must try another offer,” says he. And, with that, he took up the other brogue, and threw it into the fire too.

  “There, now,” says he, “you may keep the other company,” says he. “And there’s a pair of ye now, as the Divil said to his knee-buckles.”

  “Oh, you thieving varmint,” says the ranger. “You won’t leave me a tack to my feet. But no matter,” says he, “your head’s worth more nor a pair of brogues to me, any day. And, by the Piper of Blessingtown, you’re money in my pocket this minute,” says he.

  And with that, the fingers was in his mouth again, and he was going to whistle, when, what would you think, but up sits the fox on his hunke
rs, and puts his two forepaws into his mouth, making game of the ranger. (Bad luck to the lie I tell you.)

  Well, the ranger, and no wonder, although in a rage he was, couldn’t help laughing at the thought of the fox mocking him, and, by dad, he took such a fit of laughing, that he couldn’t whistle, and that was the cuteness of the fox to gain time. But when his first laugh was over, the ranger recovered himself, and gave another whistle. And so says the fox, “By my soul,” says he, “I think it wouldn’t be good for my health to stay here much longer, and I mustn’t be trifling with that blackguard ranger any more,” says he, “and I must make him sensible that it is time to let me go. And though he hasn’t understanding to be sorry for his brogues, I’ll go bail I’ll make him leave that,” says he, “before he’d say sparables.”

  And, with that, what do you think the fox done? By all that’s good—and the ranger himself told me out of his own mouth, and said he would never have believed it, only he seen it—the fox took a lighted piece of a log out of the blazing fire, and run over with it to the ranger’s bed, and was going to throw it into the straw, and burn him out of house and home. So when the ranger seen that, he gave a shout out of him:

  “Hilloo! hilloo! you murdering villain,” says he. “You’re worse nor Captain Rock. Is it going to burn me out you are, you red rogue of a Ribbonman?” And he made a dart between him and the bed, to save the house from being burned. But, my jewel, that was all the fox wanted. And as soon as the ranger quitted the hole in the door that he was standing forenenst, the fox let go the blazing faggot, and made one jump through the door, and escaped.

  But before he went, the ranger gave me his oath, that the fox turned round and gave him the most contemptible look he ever got in his life, and showed every tooth in his head with laughing. And at last he put out his tongue at him, as much as to say, “You’ve missed me, like your mammy’s blessing,” and off with him!—like a flash of lightning.