Irish Folk Tales

by Henry Glassie

  Paudyeen never saw before a gathering like that which was in the Doon. The whole place was full up of little people, men and women, young and old. They all welcomed little Donal—that was the name of the piper—and Paudyeen O’Kelly. The king and queen of the fairies came up to them, and said:

  “We are all going on a visit tonight to Cnoc Matha, to the high king and queen of our people.”

  They all rose up then and went out. There were horses ready for each one of them and the coash-t’ya bower for the king and the queen. The king and queen got into the coach, each man leaped on his own horse, and be certain that Paudyeen was not behind. The piper went out before them and began playing them music, and then off and away with them. It was not long till they came to Cnoc Matha. The hill opened and the king of the fairy host passed in.

  Finvara and Nuala were there, the arch-king and queen of the fairy host of Connacht, and thousands of little persons. Finvara came up and said:

  “We are going to play a hurling match tonight against the fairy host of Munster, and unless we beat them our face is gone forever. The match is to be fought out on Moytura, under Slieve Belgadaun.

  The Connacht host cried out: “We are all ready, and we have no doubt but we’ll beat them.”

  “Out with ye all,” cried the high king. “The men of the Hill of Nephin will be on the ground before us.”

  They all went out, and little Donal and twelve pipers more before them, playing melodious music. When they came to Moytura, the fairy host of Munster and the fairy men of the Hill of Nephin were there before them. Now, it is necessary for the fairy host to have two live men beside them when they are fighting or at a hurling match, and that was the reason that little Donal took Paddy O’Kelly with him. There was a man they called the “Yellow Stongirya,” with the fairy host of Munster, from Ennis, in the County Clare.

  It was not long till the two hosts took sides; the ball was thrown up between them, and the fun began in earnest. They were hurling away, and the pipers playing music, until Paudyeen O’Kelly saw the host of Munster getting the strong hand, and he began helping the fairy host of Connacht. The Stongirya came up and he made at Paudyeen O’Kelly, but Paudyeen turned him head over heels. From hurling the two hosts began at fighting, but it was not long until the host of Connacht beat the other host. Then the host of Munster made flying beetles of themselves, and they began eating every green thing that they came up to. They were destroying the country before them until they came as far as Cong. Then there rose up thousands of doves out of the hole, and they swallowed down the beetles. That hole has no other name until this day but Pull-na-gullam, the Doves’ Hole.

  When the fairy host of Connacht won their battle, they came back to Cnoc Matha joyous enough, and the king Finvara gave Paudyeen O’Kelly a purse of gold, and the little piper brought him home, and put him into bed beside his wife, and left him sleeping there.

  A month went by after that without anything worth mentioning, until one night Paudyeen went down to the cellar, and the little man said to him: “My mother is dead; burn the house over her.”

  “It is true for you,” said Paudyeen. “She told me that she hadn’t but a month to be on the world, and the month was up yesterday.”

  On the morning of the next day Paudyeen went to the hut and he found the hag dead. He put a coal under the hut and burned it. He came home and told the little man that the hut was burnt. The little man gave him a purse and said to him: “This purse will never be empty as long as you are alive. Now, you will never see me more; but have a loving remembrance of the weasel. She was the beginning and the prime cause of your riches.” Then he went away and Paudyeen never saw him again.

  Paudyeen O’Kelly and his wife lived for years after this in the large house, and when he died he left great wealth behind him, and a large family to spend it.

  There now is the story for you, from the first word to the last, as I heard it from my grandmother.

  ONE QUEER EXPERIENCE

  CAPTAIN SHERIDAN MAYO

  CLIFTON JOHNSON 1901

  A good many believe that the fairies will spirit away children. They will carry off a healthy child and leave instead a weazened little dwarf. One day they played that trick on a tailor, and he kept the dwarf several years and it didn’t grow any, and was just the same shriveled little thing it was in the beginning. Finally, the tailor made up his mind what the matter was.

  So he heated his goose red-hot and held it over the dwarf, and said, “Now, get out of here—I know you!”

  But the dwarf never let on it noticed him; and the tailor lowered the goose little by little till it almost touched the dwarf’s face. Then the dwarf spoke and said, “Well, I’ll leave, but first you go to the door and look round the corner.”

  The man knew if he did that the dwarf would get the best of him, and he said he would not. Then the dwarf saw ’twas no use, and it sprang out of the cradle and went roaring and cackling up the chimney, and a good child lay there in its place.

  I had one queer experience myself. It was the time of the Fenian troubles. I was sitting up late—I suppose it must have been after midnight—but I hadn’t taken anything, and was as sober as I am this minute.

  Well, it got to be very late, as I said, and by and by I heard strange noises in the hall. It was like men tramping past, and they kept going and going, hundreds of them, and they were dragging dead bodies and all that. I could hear their breathing, and I could hear their clothing rub along against the walls. Then the ceiling and the sides of the room I was in began to wave. I took a candle and went out in the hall, and there was nothing there, doors all fastened, everything all right.

  Now, what do you make out of that? I never have been able to account for it myself.

  MANY A ONE SAW WHAT WE SAW

  MALACHI HORAN DUBLIN

  GEORGE A. LITTLE 1943

  Aye, God sakes, the things that do be happening! It takes a wise man to understand what he sees and it takes a fool to doubt his own eyes.

  Brian Leavy used to be working for me here and he only a lad. One night after his supper he made his bid to go home. But, troth, he did not get far! He only reached the bawn gate when back he came a-running.

  “What ails ye, man?” says I. “You are as pale as a ghost!”

  “And it is them I am after seeing,” says he, sitting down and trembling on the chair there. Then he told me that he had seen men in the sky and them fighting. I saw he was near losing his life with the fright. I was going to keep him for the night, but it came to my mind that his mother was a widow and alone, so would be wanting him home.

  “Take a hold on yourself, now, and a drink of this water and I will see you home myself,” I said.

  We were hardly clear of the place here when, troth, I began to feel not so comfortable myself. It was the quietness. It would have put you in mind of the room when the clock stops ticking. The sun was setting behind banks of cloud piled mountains on each other, like it was in Wicklow. Not a leaf stirred nor a bird. Over the shoulder of one of these clouds I saw an army marching. They were a great way off when I first saw them. On the opposite slope I saw another troop coming to meet them and they blacks. The Zulu War was on at the time, and I knew it was them—eighteen seventy-eight, was it? Well, no matter. On they came on each other, getting nearer and nearer, bigger and bigger. I could see now horsemen and footmen on the one side, and on the other great blacks with shields and pikes in their hands. Then, all of a sudden, they were at it. I could hear the cries and the men cursing; I could hear the roar of the galloping horses; I could hear the clank and crash of accoutrements. Bugles blowing, there was, and the rattle of arms. Rifles barked; then men falling, and screaming as they fell. And blood—it gushed from them and drenched the cloud.

  The lad beside me was whimpering like a dog closed out in the rain. I think he would have fallen but for my hand on him. Nor did I blame him.

  At last, someway I got Brian Leavy home; bedad, and he took his door like a rabbit its burrow.<
br />
  Putting on the best face I could muster I turned for home. As I walked I tried closing my eyes; I went over a prayer; I tried turning my back on it. But I could not shut it out. The battle roared nearer to me than ever, till I thought they must leave their dead on the slopes of Cruachan. I felt demented with the noise. So close now were the soldiers I could see their uniforms. They were the Scots Greys, I think. I faced them then, for it does be doing a man harm to turn his back to what is frightening him.

  At last, sometime, some way, I made my own door. I went into the kitchen where my sister was cleaning up after the supper.

  “Let you go out,” I told her, “and tell me what you see in the sky.” She went to the corner of the haggard, and I heard her running as she returned. She slammed the door after her and barred it too.

  Troth, we said our prayers better that night than ever before—or perhaps since.

  I heard after that that many a one saw what we saw. There is many an old person still about this country who minds it well. They will not forget it till the day they die.

  STAFFORDSHIRE FIGURE OF KING WILLIAM III, by Robert Gregory

  Lady Gregory, Kiltartan History Book, 1909

  THE OLD TIMES IN IRELAND

  GALWAY

  LADY GREGORY 1926

  The first man ever lived in Ireland was Partholan, and he is buried and his greyhound along with him at some place in Kerry. The Nemidians came after that and stopped for a while and then they all died of some disease. And then the Firbolgs came, the best men that ever were in Ireland, and they had no law but love, and there was never such peace and plenty in Ireland. What religion had they? None at all. And there was a low-sized race came that worked the land of Ireland a long time. They had their time like the others.

  Tommy Niland was sitting beside me one time the same as yourself, and the day warm as this day, and he said, “In the old times you could buy a cow for one and sixpence, and a horse for two shillings. And if you had lived in those days, Padraic, you’d have your cow and your horse.” For there was a man in those times bought a cow for one and sixpence, and when he was driving her home he sat down by the roadside crying, for fear he had given too little. And the man that sold him as he was going home he sat down by the roadside crying, for fear he had taken too much. For the people were very innocent at that time and very kind. But Columcille laid it down in his prophecy that every generation would be getting smaller and more liary; and that was true enough.

  And in the old days if there was a pig killed, it would never be sent to the saltery but everyone that came in would get a bit of it. But now, a pig to be killed, the door of the house would be closed, and no one to get a bit of it at all.

  In the old times the people had no envy, and they would be writing down the stories and the songs for one another. But they are too venomous now to do that. And as to the people in the towns, they don’t care for such things now, they are too corrupted with drink.

  THE BATH OF THE WHITE COWS

  MRS. K. WEXFORD

  PATRICK KENNEDY 1866

  A great many years ago, when this county was so thick with woods that a very light person might walk on the tops of trees from Kilmeashal to the Lady’s Island, a little king, or a great chief, had a fortification on the hillside, from the Duffrey gate in Enniscorthy, down to near the old abbey—but I don’t know if there were any abbeys at the time.

  This chief had three beautiful daughters, and all were married, and themselves and their husbands lived inside of the fort, for the young families in old times were not fond of removing far away from the old stock.

  One fine morning in harvest, the watchman on the big ditch that ran round the fort struck his shield, for down below was the river covered with curraghs, all full of foreigners, and all with spears, swords, shields, and helmets, ready to spring out and attack the dun.

  But my brave chief, and his son, and his son-in-laws had no notion of waiting an attack within their ditches and palisades. Out themselves and their kith, kin, and following, rushed, and attacked the Welshmen, or Woodmen, as they were called. And a bloody fight went on till the sun was near going behind the White Mountain.

  At last the captain of the strangers blew a great blast on his bugle-horn, and asked the Irish chief to lay aside the fight till next morning. He consented, and both sides separated, one party moving up to the great rath, and the other down to the boats that brought them up from the Bay of Wexford, that was called Lough Garman in old times.

  Well, just as they separated, a flight of arrows came from the hill on the far bank, and struck several of the Wexford men. No matter how small a scratch was made, the flesh around it began to itch, and smart, and turn purple, and burn, till the man dropped, crying out for water, and twisting himself in the greatest agony. Those that were untouched hung their shields behind their backs, and carried all that were not yet dead inside the gates.

  The three son-in-laws were dead before they could cross the drawbridges, and in the chief’s family there was nothing but lamentation. One of the married daughters fell on the dead body of her husband in a faint, after striving to pull out an arrowhead that had pierced into his side. But the beard of the arrow scratched her nice white wrist, and she was soon roused from her faint with the purple spreading round the mark, and the pain going to her very heart.

  Well, they were bad enough before, but now they didn’t know which way to turn. The poor father and the mother and brothers and sisters looking on, and no one able to do a single thing. While they were expecting every moment to be her last, three strangers walked in—an old and a young warrior, and a Druid. The young man came at once to the side of the dying princess, took hold of her arm, and fastened his lips to the wound. The Druid cried out to bring a large vessel, and fill it with the milk of a white cow and water from the Slaney; and to get all the milk from all the white cows they could lay hands on, fill vessels with it and Slaney water, and dip every wounded man that still had a breath of life in him. The young man sucked away until the bath was ready, and she was hardly lain in it till the pain left her, and in half an hour she was out of danger. All the still living men recovered just the same. And after a great deal of bustle and trouble, things got a little quieter, and it’s a wonder if they weren’t grateful to the strangers.

  Just as the armies were parting in the evening, these men crossed the river about where the island is now. They left a hundred men at the other side. And when they all sat down in the rath to their supper, you may be sure there was cead mile failthe for these three.

  The chief and his people were eager enough to know something about their welcome visitors, but were too well-bred to ask any questions till supper was over. Then the old man began without asking, and told all that were within hearing that himself and his son, and all their people, were descendants of a tribe that was once driven out of Ireland by enchanters and pirates, and sailed away to Greece, where their own ancestors once ruled. They were badly treated by their relations, and made to carry clay in leather bags to the tops of hills. “And even my own daughter,” said he, “was carried away from her home by the wicked young prince while I was away fighting for his father. My son, at the head of some of our people, overtook and killed him. And when word was brought to me I quitted the army at once. We seized some ships and sailed away, searching for the old island where our forefathers once dwelt. My daughter fell sick on the voyage. But our wise Druid foretold that a draught of water from the Slaney would bring her to health, and that on our reaching its banks we should save hundreds of lives.”

  Well, there was not much sleep in the rath that night. The friendly strangers on the other bank where the chief’s sick daughter still stayed were provided with everything they wanted. Other things were looked to, and a little after sunrise the men of the rath were pouring out of their gates, and the men of the woods landing from their curraghs, and forming their battle ranks.

  Before they met, a shower of darts flew from the woody hill down on the Irish, but pit
s were ready, lined with yellow clay, and filled with milk and Slaney water, and the moment a man found himself struck he made to the bath.

  The ranks were on the point of engaging, when a great shout was heard from the hill, and the Woodmen were seen running down to the bank, pursued by the strange young chief and his men, that were slaughtering them like sheep. They were nearly all killed before they could get to the boats. And into these boats leaped the friendly strangers and rowed across.

  So between themselves and the men of the fort rushing down hill, the Woodmen were killed to a man. No quarter was given to the people that were so wicked as to use poisoned arms, and no keen was made, and no cairn piled over them, and no inscription cut on an upright stone to tell their names or how they perished. Their bodies were burned, and the ashes flung into the river. And the next night, though there was some lamentation in the fort, there was much rejoicing along with it.

  The Druid did not allow his people to remain long there. He said that Scotland was to be their resting-place. Some of them stayed all this time in a little harbor near the place now called River Chapel, and there they set sail again. But the young chief and two friends would not leave without the three widowed princesses, and the only return he made was to leave his sick sister, that was now as well as ever she was, with the son of the chief of Enniscorthy. The lady whose life he saved was not hard to be persuaded to marry him after he risked his life for her, and her sisters did not like to let her go alone among strange people. Maybe that’s the reason that the Irish and the Highlanders like one another still, and can understand one another when they meet and begin a conversation.

  THE BATTLE OF THE FORD OF BISCUITS