Irish Folk Tales

by Henry Glassie

  “I have no knowledge of the way or of how to go back,” said the Buideach.

  “Your friend the Black Donkey will bring you back,” said the friar. “He will be here tonight; and when you go home spend your life piously and do not tell to anyone except to your father confessor that you were here.”

  “Tell me, Father, is there any danger of me from the Tinker?”

  “There is not,” said the friar; “he is an ass himself now with a tinker from the province of Munster, and he will be in that shape for one-and-twenty years, and after that he will go to eternal rest. Depart now to your chamber. You will hear a little bell after the darkness of night, and as soon as you shall hear it, go up onto the island, and the Black Donkey will be there before you, and he will bring you home; my blessing with you.”

  The Buideach went to his room, and as soon as he heard the bell he went up to the island and his friend the Black Donkey was waiting for him.

  “Jump up on my back, Buideach, I have not a moment to lose,” said the donkey.

  He did so, and on the spot he heard the thunder and saw the lightning. A great cloud came down and enveloped the Black Donkey and its rider. Heavy sleep fell upon the Buideach, and when he awoke he found himself in the little dun at home, standing in the presence of the Black Donkey.

  “Go home now to your mother. The other Buideach is gone from her side. She is in deep sleep and she won’t feel you going in.”

  “Is there any fear of me from the Tinker?” said he.

  “Did not the blessed friar tell you that there is not,” said the Black Donkey. “I will protect you. Put your hand in my left ear, and you will get there a purse which will never be empty during your life. Be good to poor people and to widows and to orphans, and you will have a long life and a happy death, and Heaven at the end.”

  The Buideach went home and went to sleep, and the mother never had had a notion that the other Buideach was not her own son.

  At the end of a week after this the Buideach said to his mother, “Is not this a fair day in Castlebar?”

  “Yes, indeed,” said she.

  “Well then, you ought to go there and buy a cow,” says he.

  “Don’t be humbugging your mother or you’ll have no luck,” says she.

  “Upon my word I am not humbugging,” said he. “God sent a purse my way, and there is more than the price of a cow in it.”

  “Perhaps you did not get it honestly. Tell me, where did you find it?”

  “I’ll tell you nothing about it, except that I found it honestly, and if you have any doubt about my word, let the thing be.”

  Women are nearly always given to covetousness, and she was not free from it.

  “Give me the price of the cow.”

  He handed her twenty pieces of gold. “You’ll get a good cow for all that money,” said he.

  “I will,” said she, “but I’d like to have the price of a pig.”

  “Do not be greedy, Mother,” said he. “You won’t get any more this time.”

  The mother went to the fair and she bought a milch cow, and some clothes for the Buideach, and when he got her gone he went to the parish priest and said that he would like to make confession. He told the priest then everything that happened to him from the time he met the Tinker and the Black Donkey.

  “Indeed, you are a good boy,” said the priest. “Give me some of the gold.”

  The Buideach gave him twenty pieces, but he was not satisfied with that, and he asked for the price of a horse.

  “I did not think that a priest would be covetous,” said he, “but I see now that they are as covetous as women. Here are twenty more pieces for you. Are you satisfied now?”

  “I am, and I am not,” said the priest. “Since you have a purse which will never be empty as long as you live, you should be able to give me as much as would set up a fine church in place of the miserable one which we have in the parish now.”

  “Get workmen and masons, and begin the church, and I’ll give you the workmen’s wages from week to week,” said the Buideach.

  “I’d sooner have it now,” said the priest. “A thousand pieces will do the work, and if you give them to me now I’ll put up the church.”

  The Buideach gave him one thousand pieces of gold out of the purse, and the purse was none the lighter for it.

  The Buideach came home and his mother was there before him, with a fine milch cow and new clothes for himself. “Indeed, that’s a good cow,” said he. “We can give the poor people some milk every morning.”

  “Indeed they must wait until I churn, and I’ll give them the buttermilk—until I buy a pig.”

  “It’s the new milk you’ll give the poor people,” said the Buideach. “We can buy butter.”

  “I think you have lost your senses,” says the mother. “You’ll want the little share of riches which God sent you before I’m a year in the grave.”

  “How do you know but that I might not be in the grave before you?” said he. “But at all events God will send me my enough.”

  When they were talking there came a poor woman, and three children to the door and asked for alms in the honor of God and Mary.

  “I have nothing for ye this time,” said the widow.

  “Don’t say that, Mother,” said the Buideach. “I have alms to give in the name of God and His mother Mary.” With that he went out and gave a gold piece to the poor woman, and said to his mother, “Milk the cow and give those poor children a drink.”

  “I will not,” said the mother.

  “Then I’ll do it myself,” said he.

  He got the vessel, milked the cow, and gave lots of new milk to the poor children and to the woman. When they were gone away the mother said to him, “Your purse will be soon empty.”

  “I have no fear of that,” said he. “It’s God who sent it to me, and I’ll make a good use of it,” says he.

  “Have your own way,” said she. “But you’ll be sorry for it yet.”

  The next day lots of people came to the Buideach asking for alms, and he never let them go away from him empty-handed. The name and fame of the Buideach went through the country like lightning, and men said that he was in partnership with the Good People. But others said that it was the Devil who was giving him the gold, and they made a complaint against him to the parish priest. But the priest said that the Buideach was a decent good boy, and that it was God who gave him the means, and that he was making good use of them.

  The Buideach went on well now, and he began growing until he was almost six feet high.

  His mother died and he fell in love with a pretty girl, and he was not long until they were married.

  He had not a day’s luck from that time forward. His wife got to know that he had a wonderful purse and nothing could satisfy her but she must get it. He refused her often, but she was giving him no rest, day or night, until she got the purse from him at last. Then, when she got it, she had no respect for it. She went to Castlebar to buy silks and satins, but when she opened the purse, in place of gold pieces being in it there was nothing but pieces of pebbles. She came back and great anger on her, and said, “Isn’t it a nice fool you made of me giving me a purse filled with little stones instead of the purse with the gold in it.”

  “I gave you the right purse,” said he. “I have no second one.”

  He seized the purse and opened it, and as sure as I’m telling it to you, there was nothing in it but little bits of pebbles.

  There was an awful grief upon the Buideach, and it was not long until he was mad, tearing his hair, and beating his head against the wall.

  The priest was sent for but he could get neither sense nor reason out of the Buideach. He tore off his clothes and went naked and mad through the country.

  About a week after that the neighbors found the poor Buideach dead at the foot of a bush in the little dun.

  That old bush is growing in the dun yet, and the people call it the “Buideach’s Bush,” but as for himself it is certain that h
e went to Heaven.

  THE MAN WHO HAD NO STORY

  MICHAEL JAMES TIMONEY DONEGAL

  SÉAMAS Ó CATHÁIN 1965

  Well, there was a man down here in Barr an Ghaoith a long time ago and his name was Brian Ó Braonacháin. The trade that he had was cutting rods, making baskets of them, and selling them in Glenties and in Dunloe and in Fintown and everywhere he could get them sold.

  But one year he was down here and there wasn’t a single rod in the whole of Barr an Ghaoith that he hadn’t cut, made baskets of, sold, and then spent the money.

  Those were bad times—the English were in power and they wouldn’t let the Irish earn a single penny in any way. And Brian didn’t know what to do.

  But in those days there was a little glen outside of Barr an Ghaoith that they called Alt an Torr and there were remarkably fine rods growing there. But nobody dared cut any rods there, for everyone made out that it was a fairy glen.

  But one morning Brian said to his wife that if she made him up a little lunch he would go out and cut the makings of a couple of baskets and perhaps no harm would come to him.

  The wife got up and made up a lunch for him. He put it in his pocket and he took a hook and a rope under his arm.

  He went out to the glen and he wasn’t long in the glen until he had cut two fine bundles of rods.

  When he was tying them together so that he could carry them with the rope on his back, a terrible fog started to gather around him. He decided that he would sit down and eat his lunch and perhaps that the fog would clear. He sat down and he ate the lunch he had with him and when he had finished eating it was so dark that he could not see his finger in front of him.

  He stood up and he got terribly scared. He looked to the east and he looked to the west and he saw a light. Where there is light there must be people, he thought, and he headed for the light. And he tripped and fell the whole time, but in the end he came up to the light. There was a big long house there. The door was open and there was a fine light coming out of the window and the door.

  He put his head in the door and an old woman was sitting in the corner and an old man on the other side of the fire. Both of them saluted Brian Ó Braonacháin from Barr an Ghaoith and wished him welcome, and they asked him to come up and sit in at the fire.

  Brian came up and he sat in at the fire between the pair of them. They talked for a while. But he had not been sitting there long when the old man asked him to tell a fairy tale.

  “That is something that I never did in all my life,” said Brian, “tell a story of any kind. I can’t tell Fenian tales or fairy tales of any kind.”

  “Well,” said the old woman, said she, “take that bucket and go down to the well below the house and fetch a bucket of water and do something for your keep.”

  “I’ll do anything,” said Brian, “except tell a story.”

  He took the bucket, went down to the well and filled it with water from the well. He left it standing on the flagstone beside the well, so that the water would run off it, before he brought it in. But a big blast of wind came and he was swept off up into the sky. He was blown east and he was blown west and when he fell to the ground he could see neither the bucket nor the well nor anything at all.

  He looked around and he saw a light and he made out that where there was light there must be people and he headed for the light. He tripped and fell the whole time, it was so dark. But at last he came to the light. There was a big long house there, far bigger than the first house, two lights in it and a fine light out of the door.

  He put his head in the door, and what was it but a wake-house. There was a row of men sitting by the back wall of the house and a row of men sitting by the front wall of the house and up at the fire there was a girl with curly black hair sitting on a chair. She saluted and welcomed Brian Ó Braonacháin from Barr an Ghaoith and she asked him to come up and sit beside her on the chair.

  Brian came up and he sat beside her on the chair and very shy he was, too. But he had not been sitting long when a big man who was in the company stood up.

  “It is a very lonely wake we are having here tonight,” said he, “a couple of us must go to get a fiddler, so that we can start dancing.”

  “Oh,” said the girl with the curly black hair, “you don’t need to go for any fiddler tonight,” said she, “you have the best fiddler in Ireland among you here tonight,” said she, “Brian Ó Braonacháin from Barr an Ghaoith.”

  “Oh, that is something I never did in my life,” said Brian, “play a tune on a fiddle, and there is no music or singing or fiddling of any kind in my head.”

  “Oh,” said she, “don’t make me a liar, you are the very man who can fiddle.”

  Before Brian knew he had the bow and the fiddle in his hand and he played away and they danced away, and they all said that they had never heard any fiddler playing a tune on a fiddle better than Brian Ó Braonacháin from Barr an Ghaoith.

  The big man who was in the company stood up and said that the dancing must stop now. “A couple of us must go for the priest, so that we can say Mass,” said he, “for this corpse must go out of here before daybreak.”

  “Oh,” said the girl with the curly dark hair, “there is no need to go for any priest tonight, the best priest in Ireland is sitting here beside me on the chair, Brian Ó Braonacháin from Barr an Ghaoith.”

  “Oh, I have nothing of a priest’s power or holiness,” said Brian, “and I do not know anything about a priest’s work in any way.”

  “Come, come,” said she, “you will do that just as well as you did the rest.”

  Before Brian knew he was standing at the altar with two clerks and with the vestments on him.

  He started to say Mass and he gave out the prayers after Mass. And the whole congregation that was listening said that they never heard any priest in Ireland giving out prayers better than Brian Ó Braonacháin.

  Then the corpse was placed in a coffin outside the door and four men put the coffin on their shoulders. They were three fairly short men and one big tall man and the coffin was terribly shaky.

  “One or two of us,” said the big man who was in the company, said he, “must go for a doctor so that we can cut a piece off the legs of that big man to make him level with the other three.”

  “Oh,” said the girl with the curly black hair, “you don’t need to go for any doctor tonight, the best doctor in Ireland is here among you tonight, Brian Ó Braonacháin from Barr an Ghaoith.”

  “Oh, that is something I never did in my life,” said Brian, “doctoring of any sort. I never got any doctor’s schooling at all.”

  “You’ll do that just as well as you did the rest,” said she.

  The lances were given to Brian and he cut a piece off the big man’s legs, under his knees, and he stuck the legs back on, and he made him level with the other three men.

  Then they put the coffin on their shoulders and they walked gently and carefully west, until they came to the graveyard. There was a big stone wall around the graveyard, ten feet high, or maybe twelve. And they had to lift one man up on the wall first and they were going up one by one and going down into the graveyard on the other side. And the last man on top of the wall ready to go down into the graveyard was Brian Ó Braonacháin.

  But a big blast of wind came and he was swept off up into the sky. He was blown to the east and he was blown to the west. When he fell down to the ground, he could see neither the graveyard nor the coffin nor the funeral. But where did he fall? He fell down on the flagstone beside the well where he had been at the beginning of the night. He looked at the bucket and the water was hardly dry on the outside of it.

  He took the bucket and up he went into the house. And the old man and the old woman were sitting where he had left them at nightfall. He left the bucket by the dresser and he came up and sat in between the pair of them again.

  “Now, Brian,” said the old man, “can you tell a fairy tale?”

  “I can,” said he, “I am the man who has got a
story to tell.”

  He began to tell the old woman and the old man what he had gone through since nightfall.

  “Well, Brian,” said the old man, “wherever you are from now on,” said he, “and whenever anybody asks you to tell a story, tell them that story, and you are the man who will have a story to tell.”

  The old woman got up and made Brian a good supper. And when he had had his supper she made up a feather bed for him and he went to bed. And he wasn’t in bed long before he fell asleep, for he was tired after all he had gone through since nightfall.

  But when he woke in the morning, where was he? He was lying in Alt an Torr outside Barr an Ghaoith with his head on the two bundles of rods. He got up and went home and he never cut a rod from that day to this.

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  This list includes the books and articles from which I drew this book’s tales. Specific sources for each of the tales follow. The list also contains works I found especially helpful in constructing the Preface and Introduction. Then I added a few more works so that this list can serve you as an introductory bibliography of the Irish tradition.

  Aalen, F. H. A. Man and the Landscape in Ireland. London: Academic Press, 1978.

  Aarne, Antti, and Stith Thompson. The Types of the Folktale: A Classification and Bibliography. Folklore Fellows’ Communications 184. Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedeakatemia, 1961.

  Anderson, Alan Orr, and Marjorie Ogilvie Anderson. Adomnan’s Life of Columba. London: Thomas Nelson, 1961.

  Arensberg, Conrad. The Irish Countryman. Garden City, N.Y.: Natural History Press, 1968; first pub. 1937.

  Bayne, Samuel G. On an Irish Jaunting-Car Through Donegal and Connemara. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1902.