Irish Folk Tales

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Irish Folk Tales Page 20

by Henry Glassie


  And the two had met together again, and they come out to the road, and he went home, and this other man went home to Derryinch.

  So then the next day, he went to the owner of this land round the forth.

  And he told him what he had heared the night afore. There seemed to be that many horses that the whole field round the forth would be all tracks.

  So this man went and he examined, and there wasn’t the least track of a horse.

  So. Of course, that might never have happened, you know. It could be all fiction, do you know.

  But it used to be great pastime listening to tales like that.

  LANTY’S NEW HOUSE

  TYRONE

  WILLIAM CARLETON 1846

  Lanty M’Cluskey had married a wife, and, of course, it was necessary to have a house in which to keep her. Now, Lanty had taken a bit of a farm, about six acres; but as there was no house on it, he resolved to build one; and that it might be as comfortable as possible, he selected for the site of it one of those beautiful green circles that are supposed to be the playground of the fairies.

  Lanty was warned against this. But as he was a headstrong man, and not much given to fear, he said he would not change such a pleasant situation for his house, to oblige all the fairies in Europe. He accordingly proceeded with the building, which he finished off very neatly. And, as it is usual on these occasions to give one’s neighbors and friends a housewarming, so, in compliance with this good and pleasant old custom, Lanty, having brought home the wife in the course of the day, got a fiddler, and a lot of whiskey, and gave those who had come to see him a dance in the evening.

  This was all very well, and the fun and hilarity were proceeding briskly, when a noise was heard after night had set in, like a crushing and straining of ribs and rafters on the top of the house. The folks assembled all listened, and without doubt there was nothing heard but crushing, and heaving, and pushing, and groaning, and panting, as if a thousand little men were engaged in pulling down the roof.

  “Come,” said a voice, which spoke in a tone of command, “work hard: you know we must have Lanty’s house down before midnight.”

  This was an unwelcome piece of intelligence to Lanty, who, finding that his enemies were such as he could not cope with, walked out, and addressed them as follows:

  “Gentlemen, I humbly ask your pardon for building on any place belonging to you, but if you’ll have the civilitude to let me alone this night, I’ll begin to pull down and remove the house tomorrow morning.”

  This was followed by a noise like the slapping of a thousand tiny little hands, and a shout of “Bravo, Lanty! Build halfway between the two whitethorns above the boreen.” And after another hearty little shout of exultation, there was a brisk rushing noise, and they were heard no more.

  The story, however, does not end here, for Lanty, when digging the foundation of his new house, found the full of a kam of gold, so that in leaving to the fairies their playground, he became a richer man than ever he otherwise would have been, had he never come in contact with them at all.

  JACK AND THE CLURICAUNE

  A COMFORTABLE FARMER WEXFORD

  MR. AND MRS. S. C. HALL 1841

  A man by the name of Jack Cassidy was the only one I ever knew, who, out and out, had a hold of a Cluricaune. And this was the way of it:

  Jack was a frolicsome, gay sort of fellow, full of spirit and fun and diversion of all kinds, a gay boy entirely, and one that had no more care for the world than the world for him. And Jack had been making fierce love to a very pretty slip of a girl, with a good penny of money, but Peggy’s father wouldn’t listen to any reason that wasn’t set to the tune of “guinea gold.” And this almost drove Jack beside himself.

  And he had often heard tell of a Cluricaune that used to be below the battered farmhouse of Eddyconner. And, bedad, Jack let his uncle’s plowing and sowing take care of itself, and set to watch the little old chap day and night, hearing him, sometimes in one corner, and sometimes in another, until after creeping, creeping along the hedge, he fixes his eye on him, and he sitting as sly as murder, hammering away at the old brogue.

  Well, in course he knew that as long as ever he kept his eye on the little rogue he couldn’t stir. And the cute nagur turns round, and says, “Good morrow, Jack.”

  “Good evening to you, kindly,” answers Jack.

  “Evening and morning is the same to a lazy man,” says the Cluricaune.

  “Who said you was lazy?” answers Jack. And he catches up the little brogue-mender in his fist. “Take it easy,” says the chap, “and give me my hammer.”

  “Do ye see any dust in my eye?” says Jack, who knew every trick the likes of them are up to, to get off with themselves.

  “The dickens a grain,” says the Cluricaune, “and no wonder the pretty Peggy’s so taken with them fine eyes of yours. It’s a pity her father doesn’t see their beauty as well as the daughter.”

  “Never fear, my jewel,” replies Jack, “he’ll discern a wonderful improvement in my features when you find me the crock of gold.”

  “Well, you’re a fine sporting fellow,” answers the Cluricaune, “and if you’ll carry me fair and easy, without pinching my toes off as if I was a bird, into the middle of the nine-acre field, I’ll show you something worth looking for.”

  Well, to get at the nine-acre at all, Jack had to cross as deep and as dirty a bit of bog as was on the countryside, and he had on his Sunday clothes, so that he had no fancy at all for tramping through a slob. But this was not all. He had just got into the very middle of it, when a sudden blast of wind whirled off his brand-new hat. Still he was up to the tricks of his prisoner, for he kept his eyes steady upon old Devilskin.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Jack,” grins the lying imp, as fair and smooth as if it was the truth he told.

  “Thank ye for nothing,” says the poor fellow, “but ye’ll not get off for either sorrow or sympathy. I’m quite up to your tricks. Sure if I’d gone the way over the bog you told me, it’s drowned I’d be in it long ago.”

  “Look ye, Jack Cassidy,” croaks out the little scamp, though it was the truth he told then anyhow, “if you kept your thoughts as steadily fixed on your work as you have kept your eyes on me, you’d have money enough without hunting for Cluricaunes. But keep on to that bouchlawn there, in the very middle of the nine-acre. Bedad, you put me in mind of the girl who set one eye to watch her father and the other to watch her sweetheart, for you see everything without looking.”

  “Ah!” laughs Jack, “I’d go blindfold through the country.”

  “A bad sign,” observed the old fellow, shaking his daushy head. “A roving blade gathers no more gold than a rolling stone does moss.” And Jack had the sense to think to himself that, even if he got no money out of the Cluricaune, he got good advice.

  “Now let me go, Jack,” shouts the little fellow. “Dig up that bouchlawn, and you’ll find a pot of gold.” “Dig it for me yourself this instant,” shouts Jack, shaking him almost into smithereens.

  “Sorra a spade I have,” answers the other, “or I would with all the veins.”

  “If you don’t, I’ll strangle you,” exclaimed Jack again.

  “Oh, Jack! save me, save me!” cries Peggy’s voice at his elbow.

  Poor Jack turned. There was no Peggy, and the Cluricaune was gone, with a laugh and a shout that made the bog shake again.

  Well, Jack took off his garter, and tied it three times round the bouchlawn, and cut a slip of witch-hazel off a tree that grew convenient, and making a ring of it, dropped on his knees, saying an Ave over it, and then let it fall over the bouchlawn, so that he might preserve it from harm, and then went home. And by break of day he was back again at the nine-acre, and as true as that you are standing there, there were above nine hundred bouchlawns sprung up in the night, with nine hundred garters tied to them, and in the midst of as many hazel rings!

  His heart was splitting into halves, and he sat down in the beams of the rising sun, and c
ried just like a babby that had lost its mother. And all of a sudden the words of the Cluricaune came into his head—“If you kept your thoughts as steadily fixed on your work as you have kept your eyes on me, you’d have money enough without hunting for Cluricaunes.” From that day out Jack was a new man. He took the little brogue-maker’s hint, and in five years told down two guineas for Peggy’s one, all through the fortune. And maybe they haven’t thirteen to the dozen of children this blessed day.

  BRIDGET AND THE LURIKEEN

  KILDARE

  PATRICK KENNEDY 1866

  A young girl that lived in sight of Castle Carberry, near Edenderry, was going for a pitcher of water to the neighboring well one summer morning, when who should she see sitting in a sheltery nook under an old thorn, but the Lurikeen, working like vengeance at a little old brogue only fit for the foot of a fairy like himself.

  There he was, boring his holes, and jerking his waxed ends, with his little three-cornered hat with gold lace, his knee breeches, his jug of beer by his side, and his pipe in his mouth. He was so busy at his work, and so taken up with an old ballad he was singing in Irish, that he did not mind Breedheen till she had him by the scruff of the neck, as if he was in a vise.

  “Ah, what are you doing?” says he, turning his head round as well as he could. “Dear, dear! to think of such a pretty colleen catching a body, as if he was after robbing a hen roost. What did I do to be treated in such a undecent manner? The very vulgarest young ruffin in the townland could do no worse. Come, come, Miss Bridget, take your hands off, sit down, and let us have a chat, like two respectable people.”

  “Ah, Mr. Lurikeen, I don’t care a wisp of borrach for your politeness. It’s your money I want, and I won’t take hand or eye from you till you put me in possession of a fine lob of it.”

  “Money, indeed! Ah! where would a poor cobbler like me get it? Anyhow there’s no money hereabouts, and if you’ll only let go my arms, I’ll turn my pockets inside out, and open the drawer of my seat, and give you leave to keep every halfpenny you’ll find.”

  “That won’t do. My eyes’ll keep going through you like darning needles till I have the gold. Begonies, if you don’t make haste, I’ll carry you, head and pluck, into the village, and there you’ll have thirty pair of eyes on you instead of one.”

  “Well, well, was ever a poor cobbler so circumvented. And if it was an ignorant, ugly bosthoon that done it, I would not wonder. But a decent, comely girl, that can read her ‘Poor Man’s Manual’ at the chapel, and—”

  “You may throw your compliments on the stream there. They won’t do for me, I tell you. The gold, the gold, the gold! Don’t take up my time with your blarney.”

  “Well, if there’s any to be got, it’s under the old castle it is. We must have a walk for it. Just put me down, and we’ll get on.”

  “Put you down indeed! I know a trick worth two of that. I’ll carry you.”

  “Well, how suspicious we are! Do you see the castle from this?” Bridget was about turning her eyes from the little man to where she knew the castle stood, but she bethought herself in time.

  They went up a little hillside, and the Lurikeen was quite reconciled, and laughed and joked. But just as they got to the brow, he looked up over the ditch, gave a great screech, and shouted just as if a bugle horn was blew at her ears: “Oh, murder! Castle Carberry is afire.” Poor Biddy gave a great start, and looked up towards the castle. The same moment she missed the weight of the Lurikeen, and when her eyes fell where he was a moment before, there was no more sign of him than if everything that passed was a dream.

  FAIRY TALES

  PETER FLANAGAN FERMANAGH

  HENRY GLASSIE 1977

  Well, I think all the fairy tales has been rehearsed over and over again. I don’t think there’s any sacred fairy tales at the moment. I’d have that belief.

  I heard that many fairy tales from me father and from other people, and I got a kind of disgusted with them.

  The fairy tales were a matter of entertainment. And I think again it was really to scare young people. Naturally enough, a young person would like to get out. The same as your daughter—and she was living here, she’d like to get out at night, you know. Nature takes its course. That’s the way it is.

  And I think it was principally told on that account—to take fear and to keep them in, and to keep them under the safekeeping of their parents. I have that imagination.

  Fairy tales were handed down from one to the other who really believed it, really believed it. Then the world advanced. I mind in my day when I was about the age of your daughter there, I used to be afraid to go out, and I used to bring a lamp with me—what they called a hand lamp, the same as the battery lamp now; it was a candle used in them days—and maybe I wouldn’t have the second match with me, and maybe the wind blows me lamp out, and there I was in the dark and I was in an awful mess.

  I remember coming across what they called a footstick; that would be a wee plank across a drain.

  And I seen the two eyes shining at me on the other side. And it was the reflection of the lamp shining in the dog’s eyes.

  And man, I nearly fainted.

  He let a bark.

  And I let a shout.

  And I nearly collapsed into a drain. And from that night to this I never was one bit afraid.

  That fright was the best thing ever happened. It came to make me nerves strong and staunch that I wasn’t afraid of anything. And I never carried a lamp after that. I just walked away, and if I found a noise or a rattle or a flicker of the leaves, I never was one bit afraid.

  And that was the way.

  So that cut out the whole fairy tales. Me father was great for fairy tales; he’d tell you about seeing the fairies.

  The only thing ever I heard him saying was that he seen a last that a man run and got of the fairy when he was making a wee shoe. That was above Swanlinbar.

  He saw him making a wee shoe, and he run and he got it, and the last—did you ever see a foot-last?—he got the last and the last was in the house right beside where I was born. I never saw it meself, but it was there during his time.

  And I’m not saying me father was a liar, and I wouldn’t excuse him any more than any other, but the old people had that way of going on in them days. And he maintained that it was there.

  There was some house, but I don’t remember the name of it now. It was in it for years and years and years: the fairy last.

  I heard another man saying he seen one of the fairies too. And he’s not all that long dead.

  He said he was walking this day and the fairy just stepped out. He even said that he caught him.

  He told me that: that he was only a very small little mite of a wee urchin of a thing.

  And he said he caught him; he lifted him up in his hand.

  And the fairy told him, he says, “If you let me out, I’ll tell you,” he says, “where there’s a good crock of gold.”

  “Well,” he says, “you’ll have to tell me,” he says, “before I’ll let you go.” He says, “No, I’ll not let you go,” he says, “till you tell me.”

  “I cannot,” he says. The fairy spoke, as he maintained, in proper English language. “I cannot tell you, until you let me go,” he says.

  “Release me.”

  So he let him go, just like that. Left him on the ground just beside him, and he disappeared out of sight, and that was that.

  Well, I didn’t believe him. But he was a very old man. He was eighty years of age.

  Well, another man told me—I had been working in the place, and he says, “Do you see that spot there?”

  “I do,” says I, “see it, surely.”

  “And what,” he says, “do you remark about it?”

  “Well,” says I, “I remark there’s no grass on it.”

  And the rest of the field was fully fledged in grass. Says I, “There’s no grass on it.” And he said, “Do you know the reason why?”

  “Ah, no,” says I. I was only young at th
e time.

  “Well,” he says, “that was a boy that was taken away,” he says, “about a hundred and fifty years ago,” he says, “from the house I live in and that you sleep in.”

  “Taken away by who?” says I.

  He says, “Taken away by the fairies.” The Good People they called them sometimes.

  And he says, “He came to the window this night, and he tapped at the window and the people inside answered the call or the tap at the window.”

  And so he mentioned who he was.

  “And what’s wrong with ye?”

  “I can’t,” he says, “come back. I’m with the fairies,” he says. “But I’m coming by on such a night”—mentioning the night, let it be Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, or some night in the week. He says, “At the hour of two o’clock, I’ll be coming by then, coming by the house, and I’ll get released,” he says, “if yous are fit to take me off the horse. I’ll be the second man on the second horse.”

  He says, “I’ll be riding the second horse, and if yous are fit to pull me off with iron or anything steel, or throw a hoop around me,” he says, “like a barrel hoop, or anything like that, I’ll get released.”

  So they certified to him that they’d do their best.

  Well, the time came and they heard the click click of the horses coming, and there was a person selected to throw the hoop round.

  “But,” he says, “if yous miss me, well, I’m done.” He says, “I’ll never get back.”

  So they made the attempt, but it wasn’t successful.

  And they made the attempt with this steel circle or hoop, just in this spot where he was going through a gap.

  And they missed him, and he just fell like that off the horse and disappeared.

  And where he fell down,

  the shape of him is on the ground,

  all the time.

  And that was the last of him.

 

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