BRAN.Finn had a splendid hound. That was Bran. You have heard talk of Bran. This is the colour was on him:Yellow feet that were on Bran,Two black sides, and belly white,Grayish back of hunting colour,Two ears, red, round, small, and bright.Bran would overtake the wild-geese, she was that swift.There arose some quarrel or fighting between the hounds that the Fenians had, when she was only a puppy, andThree score hounds and twenty puppiesBran did kill, and she a puppy,Two wild-geese, as much as they all.It was Finn himself who killed Bran. They went out hunting, and there was made a fawn of Finn’s mother. (Who made a fawn of her? Oh, how do I know? It was with some of their pishtrogues.) Bran was pursuing her.“Silly fawn leave on mountain,”said Finn. “Oh, young son,” said she, “how shall I escape?—“If I go in the sea beneathI never shall come back again,And if I go in the air aboveMy swiftness is no match for Bran.”“Go out between my two legs,” said Finn.She went between his two legs, and Bran followed her; and as Bran went out under him, Finn squeezed his two knees on her and killed her.Bran had a daughter. That pup was a black hound, and the Fenians reared it; and they told the woman who had a charge of the pup to give it the milk of a cow without a single spot, and to give it every single drop, and not to keep back one tint[17]from her. The woman did not do that, but kept a portion of the milk without giving it to the pup.The first day that the Fenians loosed out the young hound, there was a glen full of wild-geese and other birds; and when the black hound was loosed amongst them, she caught them all except a very few that wentout on a gap that was in it. (And how could she catch the wild-geese? Wouldn’t they fly away in the air? She caught them, then. That’s how I heard it.) And only that the woman kept back some of the milk from her, she would have killed them all.There was a man of the Fenians, a blind man, and when the pup was let out, he asked the people near him how did the young hound do. They told him that the young hound killed all the wild-geese and birds that were in the glen, but a few that went out on a gap. “If she had to get all the milk that came from the cow without spot,” says the blind man, “she wouldn’t let a bird at all go from her.” And he asked then “how was the hound coming home?” “She’s coming now,” said they, “and a fiery cloud out of her neck,” (How out of her neck? Because she was going so quick.) “and she coming madly.”“Grant me my request now,” said the blind man. “Put me sitting in the chair, and put a coal[18](?) in my hand; for unless I kill her she’ll kill us.”The hound came, and he threw the coal at her and killed her, and he blind.But if that pup had to get all the milk, she’d come and she’d lie down quietly, the same as Bran used to lie ever.
Finn had a splendid hound. That was Bran. You have heard talk of Bran. This is the colour was on him:
Yellow feet that were on Bran,Two black sides, and belly white,Grayish back of hunting colour,Two ears, red, round, small, and bright.
Yellow feet that were on Bran,Two black sides, and belly white,Grayish back of hunting colour,Two ears, red, round, small, and bright.
Yellow feet that were on Bran,
Two black sides, and belly white,
Grayish back of hunting colour,
Two ears, red, round, small, and bright.
Bran would overtake the wild-geese, she was that swift.There arose some quarrel or fighting between the hounds that the Fenians had, when she was only a puppy, and
Three score hounds and twenty puppiesBran did kill, and she a puppy,Two wild-geese, as much as they all.
Three score hounds and twenty puppiesBran did kill, and she a puppy,Two wild-geese, as much as they all.
Three score hounds and twenty puppies
Bran did kill, and she a puppy,
Two wild-geese, as much as they all.
It was Finn himself who killed Bran. They went out hunting, and there was made a fawn of Finn’s mother. (Who made a fawn of her? Oh, how do I know? It was with some of their pishtrogues.) Bran was pursuing her.
“Silly fawn leave on mountain,”
“Silly fawn leave on mountain,”
“Silly fawn leave on mountain,”
said Finn. “Oh, young son,” said she, “how shall I escape?—
“If I go in the sea beneathI never shall come back again,And if I go in the air aboveMy swiftness is no match for Bran.”
“If I go in the sea beneathI never shall come back again,And if I go in the air aboveMy swiftness is no match for Bran.”
“If I go in the sea beneath
I never shall come back again,
And if I go in the air above
My swiftness is no match for Bran.”
“Go out between my two legs,” said Finn.
She went between his two legs, and Bran followed her; and as Bran went out under him, Finn squeezed his two knees on her and killed her.
Bran had a daughter. That pup was a black hound, and the Fenians reared it; and they told the woman who had a charge of the pup to give it the milk of a cow without a single spot, and to give it every single drop, and not to keep back one tint[17]from her. The woman did not do that, but kept a portion of the milk without giving it to the pup.
The first day that the Fenians loosed out the young hound, there was a glen full of wild-geese and other birds; and when the black hound was loosed amongst them, she caught them all except a very few that wentout on a gap that was in it. (And how could she catch the wild-geese? Wouldn’t they fly away in the air? She caught them, then. That’s how I heard it.) And only that the woman kept back some of the milk from her, she would have killed them all.
There was a man of the Fenians, a blind man, and when the pup was let out, he asked the people near him how did the young hound do. They told him that the young hound killed all the wild-geese and birds that were in the glen, but a few that went out on a gap. “If she had to get all the milk that came from the cow without spot,” says the blind man, “she wouldn’t let a bird at all go from her.” And he asked then “how was the hound coming home?” “She’s coming now,” said they, “and a fiery cloud out of her neck,” (How out of her neck? Because she was going so quick.) “and she coming madly.”
“Grant me my request now,” said the blind man. “Put me sitting in the chair, and put a coal[18](?) in my hand; for unless I kill her she’ll kill us.”
The hound came, and he threw the coal at her and killed her, and he blind.
But if that pup had to get all the milk, she’d come and she’d lie down quietly, the same as Bran used to lie ever.
MAC RIĠ ÉIREANN.Ḃí mac ríġ i n-Éirinn, fad ó ṡoin, agus ċuaiḋ sé amaċ agus ṫug sé a ġunna ’s a ṁadaḋ leis. Ḃí sneaċta amuiġ. Ṁarḃ sé fiaċ duḃ. Ṫuit an fiaċ duḃ air an tsneaċta. Ní ḟacaiḋ sé aon rud buḋ ġile ’ná an sneaċta,ná buḋ ḋuiḃe ’ná cloigionn an ḟiaiċ ḋuiḃ, ná buḋ ḋeirge ’ná a ċuid fola ḃí ’gá dórtaḋ amaċ.Ċuir sé faoi geasaiḃ agus deimúġ(sic)na bliaḋna naċ n-íosaḋ sé ḋá ḃiaḋ i n-aon ḃord, ná ḋá oiḋċe do ċoḋlaḋ ann aon teaċ, go ḃfáġaḋ sé bean a raiḃ a cloigionn ċoṁ duḃ leis an ḃfiaċ duḃ, agus a croicionn ċoṁ geal leis an tsneaċta, agus a ḋá ġruaiḋ ċoṁ dearg le fuil.Ni raiḃ aon ḃean ann san doṁan mar sin, aċt aon ḃean aṁáin a ḃí ann san doṁan ṡoir.Lá air na ṁáraċ ġaḃ sé amaċ, agus ní raiḃ airgiod fairsing, aċt ṫug sé leis fiċe púnta. Ní fada ċuaiḋ sé gur casaḋ socraoid dó, agus duḃairt sé go raiḃ sé ċoṁ maiṫ ḋó trí ċoiscéim ḋul leis an g-corpán. Ní raiḃ na trí ċoiscéim siúḃalta aige go dtáinig fear agus leag sé a reasta air an g-corp air ċúig ṗúnta. Ḃí dlíġeaḋ i n-Eirinn an t-am sin, duinea ir biṫ a raiḃ fiaċa aige air ḟear eile, naċ dtiucfaḋ le muinntir an ḟir sin a ċur, dá mbeiḋeaḋ sé marḃ, gan na fiaċa d’íoc, no gan cead ó’n duine a raiḃ na fiaċa sin aige air an ḃfear marḃ. Nuair ċonnairc Mac Ríġ Éireann mic agus inġeana an duine ṁairḃ ag caoineaḋ, agus iad gan an t-airgiod aca le taḃairt do ’n ḟear, duḃairt sé leis fein, “is mór an ṫruaġ é naċ ḃfuil an t-airgiod ag na daoiniḃ boċta.” agus ċuir sé a láṁ ann a ṗóca agus d’íoc sé féin na cúig ṗúnta, air son an ċuirp. Duḃairt sé go raċfaḋ sé ċum an teampoill ann sin, go ḃfeicfeaḋ sé curṫa é. Ṫáinig fear eile ann sin, agus leag sé a reasta air an g-corp air son cúig ṗúnta eile. “Mar ṫug mé na ceud ċúig ṗúnta,” ar Mac Ríġ Éireann leis féin, “tá sé ċoṁ maiṫ ḋam cúig ṗúnta eile ṫaḃairt anois, agus an fear boċt do leigean dul ’san uaiġ.” D’íoc sé na cúig ṗúnta eile. Ní raiḃ aige ann sin aċt deiċ bpúnta.Níor ḃfada ċuaiḋ sé gur casaḋ fear gearr glas dó agus d’ḟiafruiġ sé ḋé cá raiḃ sé dul. Duḃairt sé go raiḃ sé dul ag iarraiḋ mná ’san doṁan ṡoir. D’ḟiafruiġ an fear gearr glas dé, an raiḃ buaċaill teastál uaiḋ, agus duḃairt sé go raiḃ, agus cad é an ṗáiḋe ḃeiḋeaḋ sé ag iarraiḋ. Duḃairt seisean “an ċeud ṗóg air a ṁnaoi, dá ḃfáġaḋ sé í.” Duḃairt Mac Ríġ Éireann go g-caiṫfeaḋ sé sin ḟáġail.Níor ḃfada ċuaiḋ siad gur casaḋ fear eile ḋóiḃ agus a ġunna ann a láiṁ, agus é ag “leiḃléaraċt” air an londuḃ a ḃí ṫall ’san doṁan ṡoir, go mbeiḋeaḋ sé aige le n-aġaiḋ a ḋinéir. Duḃairt an fear gearr glas le Mac Ríġ Éireann gó raiḃ sé ċoṁ maiṫ ḋó an fear sin ġlacaḋ air aimsir, da raċfaḋ sé air aimsir leis. D’ḟiafruiġ Mac Ríġ Eireann an dtiucfaḋ sé air aimsir leis.“Raċfad,” ar san fear, “má ḃfáġ’ mé mo ṫuarastal.”“Agus cad é an tuarastal ḃéiḋeas tu ’g iarraiḋ?”“Áit tíġe agus garḋa.”“Geoḃaiḋ tu sin uaim, má éiriġeann mo ṫuras liom.”D’imṫiġ Mac Ríġ Eireann leis an ḃfear glas agus leis an ngunnaire, agus ní fada ċuaiḋ síad gur casaḋ fear dóiḃ, agus a ċluas leagṫa air an talaṁ, agus é ag éisteaċt leis an ḃfeur ag fás.“Tá sé ċoṁ maiṫ ḋuit an fear sin ġlacaḋ air aimsir,” ar san fear gearr glas.D’ḟiafruiġ Mac Ríġ Eireann de ’n ḟear an dtiucfaḋ sé leis air aimsir.“Tiucfad má ḃfáġ mé áit tiġe agus garḋa.”“Geoḃaiḋ tu sin uaim má éiriġeann an rud atá ann mo ċeann liom.”Ċuaiḋ Mac Riġ Eireann, an fear gearr glas, an gunnaire, agus an cluasaire, agus ní fada ċuaiḋ siad gur casaḋ fear eile ḋóiḃ agus a leaṫ-ċos air a ġualainn, agus é ag congḃáil páirce geirrḟiaḋ gan aon ġeirrḟiaḋ leigean asteaċ ná amaċ. Ḃí iongantas air Ṁac Ríġ Eireann agus d’ḟiafruiġ sé cad é an ċiall a raiḃ a leaṫ-ċos air a ġualainn mar sin.“O,” ar seisean, “dá mbeiḋeaḋ mo ḋá ċois agam air an talam ḃeiḋinn ċoṁ luaṫ sin go raċfainn as aṁarc.”“An dtiucfaiḋ tu air aimsir liom,” ar san Mac Riġ.“Tiucfad, má ḃfáġ’ mé áit tiġe agus garḋa.”“Geoḃaiḋ tu sin uaim,” ar Mac Ríġ Éireann, “má éiriġeann an rud atá ann mo ċeann, liom.”Ċuaiḋ Mac Riġ Eireann, an fear gearr glas, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, agus an coisire air aġaiḋ, agus níor ḃfada go dtáncadar go fear agus é ag cur muilinn gaoiṫe ṫart le na leaṫṗolláire, agus a ṁeur leagṫa aige air a ṡrón ag druidim na polláire eile.“Cad ċuige ḃfuil do ṁeur agad air do ṡrón?” ar Mac Ríġ Eireann leis.“O,” ar seisean, “dá séidfinn as mo ḋá ṗolláire do sguabfainn an muileann amaċ as sin suas ’san aer.”“An dtiucfaiḋ tu air aimsir?”“Tiucfad, má ḃfáġ’ mé áit tiġe agus garḋa.”“Geoḃaiḋ tu sin, má éiriġeann an rud atá ann mo ċeann liom.”Ċuaiḋ Mac Riġ Eireann, an fear gearr glas, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, an coisire, agus an séidire go dtáncadar go fear a ḃí ’nna ṡuiḋe air ṫaoiḃ an ḃoṫair, agus é ag briseaḋ cloċ le na leaṫ-ṫóin agus ní raiḃ casúr ná dadaṁ aige. D’ḟiafruiġ an Mac Ríġ ḋé, cad ċuige a raiḃ sé ag briseaḋ na g-cloċ le na leaṫ-ṫóin.“O,” ar seisean, “dá mbualfainn leis an tóin ḋúbalta iad ḋeunfainn púġdar díoḃ.”“An dtiucfaiḋ tu air aimsir liom?”“Tuicfad, má ḃfaġ’ mé áit tíġe agus garḋa.”D’imṫiġ siad uile ann sin, Mac Ríġ Eireann, an fear gearr glas, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, an coisire, an séidire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna agus ḃeurfaḋ siad air an ngaoiṫ Ṁárta a ḃí rompa agus an ġaoṫ Ṁárta a ḃí ’nna n-diaiġ ní ḃéurfaḋ sí orra-san go dtáinig traṫnóna agus deireaḋ an laé.Ḍearc Mac Ríġ Éireann uaiḋ agus ní ḟacaiḋ sé aon teaċ a mbeiḋeaḋ sé ann an oiḋċe sin. Ḍearc an fear gearr glas uaiḋ agus ċonnairc sé teaċ naċ raiḃ bonn cleite amaċ air, ná bárr cleite asteaċ air, aċt aon ċleite aṁáin a ḃí ag congḃáil dídinn agus fasgaiḋ air. Duḃairt mac ríġ Éireann naċ raiḃ ḟios aige cá ċaiṫfeaḋ siad an oiḋċe sin, agus duḃairt an fear gearr glas go mbeiḋeaḋ siad i dṫeaċ an ḟaṫaiġ ṫall an oiḋċe sin.Ṫáinig siad ċum an tiġe, agus ṫarraing an fear gearr glas an cuaille cóṁraic agus níor ḟág sé leanḃ i mnaoi searraċ i g-capall, pigín i muic, ná broc i ngleann nár iompuiġ sé ṫart trí uaire iad le méad an torain do ḃain sé as an g-cuaille cóṁraic. Ṫáinig an faṫaċ amaċ agus duḃairt sé “moṫuiġim bolaḋ an Éireannaiġ ḃinn ḃreugaiġ faoi m’ḟóidín dúṫaiġ.”“Ní Éireannaċ binn breugaċ mise,” ar san fear gearr glas, “aċt tá mo ṁáiġistir amuiġ ann sin ag ceann an ḃóṫair agus má ṫagann sé bainfiḋ sé an ceann díot.” Ḃí an fear gearr glas ag meuduġaḋ, agus ag meuduġaḋ go raiḃ sé faoi ḋeireaḋ ċoṁ mór leis an g-caisleán. Ḃí faitċios air an ḃfaṫaċ agus duḃairt sé,“Ḃfuil do ṁáiġistir ċoṁ mór leat féin?”“Tá,” ar san fear gearr glas, “agus níos mó.”“Cuir i ḃfolaċ mé go maidin go n-imṫiġeann do ṁáiġistir,” ar san faṫaċ.Ċuir sé an faṫaċ faoi ġlas, ann sin, agus ċuaiḋ sé ċum a ṁáiġistir.Ṫáinig mac ríġ Éireann, an fear gearr glas, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, an séidire, an coisire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna, asteaċ ’san g-caisleán, agus ċaiṫ siad an oiḋċe sin, trian dí le fiannaiġeaċt agus trian le sgeuluiġeaċt, agus trian le soirm(sic)sáiṁ suain agus fíor-ċodalta.Nuair d’ éiriġ an lá air na ṁáraċ ṫug sé leis a ṁáiġistir agus an gunnaire, agus an cluasaire, agus an coisire, agus an séidire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna, agus d’ḟág sé amuiġ ag ceann an ḃóṫair iad, agus ṫáinig sé féin air ais agus ḃain sé an glas de ’n ḟaṫaċ. Duḃairt sé leis an ḃfaṫaċ gur ċuir a ṁáiġistir air ais é i g-coinne an ḃirréid ḋuiḃ a ḃí faoi ċolḃa a leabuiḋ. Duḃairt an faṫaċ go dtiuḃraḋ sé hata ḋó nár ċaiṫ sé féin ariaṁ, aċt go raiḃ náire air, an sean-ḃirreud do ṫaḃairt dó. Duḃairt an fear gearr glas muna dtiuḃraḋ sé an birreud dó go dtiucfaḋ a ṁáiġistir air ais, agus go mbainfeaḋ sé an ceann dé.“Is fearr dam a ṫaḃairt duit,” ar san faṫaċ, “agus uair air biṫ a ċuirfeas tu air do ċeann é, feicfiḋ tu uile ḋuine agus ni ḟeicfiḋ duine air biṫ ṫu.” Ṫug sé ḋó an birreud ann sin, agus ċuaiḋ an fear gearr glas agus ṫug sé do ṁaċ ríġ Éireann é.Ḃí siad ag imṫeaċt ann sin. Do ḃéarfaḋ siad air an ngaoiṫ Ṁárta do ḃí rómpa, agus an ġaoṫ Ṁárta do ḃí ’nna ndiaiġ ní ḃéarfaḋ sí orra-san, ag duldo’n doṁan ṡoir. Nuair ṫáinig traṫnóna agus deireaḋ an lae ḋearc mac ríġ Eireann uaiḋ agus ní ḟacaiḋ sé aon áit a mbeiḋeaḋ sé ann an oiḋċe sin. Ḍearc an fear gearr glas uaiḋ, agus ċonnairc sé caisleán, agus duḃairt sé, “an faṫaċ atá ann san g-caisleán sin, is dearḃráṫair do’n ḟaṫaċ a raḃamar aréir aige, agus béiḋmíd ann san g-caisleán sin anoċt.” Ṫáinig siad, agus d’ḟág sé mac ríġ Eireann agus a ṁuinntir ag ceann an ḃóṫair agus ċuaiḋ sé ċum an ċaisleáin, agus ṫarraing sé an cuaille cóṁraic, agus níor ḟág sé leanḃ i mnaoi ná searraċ i g-capall ná pigín i muic ná broc i ngleann, i ḃfoigse seaċt míle ḋó, nár ḃain sé trí iompóḋ asta leis an méad torain a ṫug sé as an g-cuaille cóṁraic.Ṫáinig an faṫaċ amaċ, agus duḃairt sé, “Moṫuiġim bolaḋ an Éireannaiġ ḃinn ḃreugaiġ faoi m’ḟóidín dúṫaiġ.”“Ní Eireannaċ binn breugaċ mise,” ar san fear gearr glas, “aċt tá mo ṁáiġistir amuiġ ann sin ag ceann an ḃóṫair, agus má ṫagann sé bainfiḋ sé an ceann díot.”“Is mór líom ḋe ġreim ṫu, agus is beag liom de ḋá ġreim ṫu,” ar san faṫaċ.“Ní ḃfuiġfiḋ tu mé de ġreim air biṫ,” ar san fear gearr glas, agus ṫoisiġ sé ag meuduġaḋ go raiḃ sé ċoṁ mór leis an g-caisleán.Ṫáinig faitċios air an ḃfaṫaċ agus duḃairt sé, “ḃfuil do ṁáiġistir ċoṁ mór leat-sa?”“Tá agus níos mó,” ar san fear beag glas.“Cuir i ḃfolaċ mé go maidin go n-imṫiġeann do ṁáiġistir,” ar san faṫaċ, “agus rud air biṫ atá tu ag iarraiḋ caiṫfiḋ tu a ḟáġail.”Ṫug sé an faṫaċ leis, agus ċaiṫ sé faoi ḃeul daḃaiċ é. Ċuaiḋ se amaċ agus ṫug sé asteaċ mac ríġ Eireann, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, an séidire, an coisire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna, agus ċaiṫ siad an oiḋċe ann sin, trian le fiannuiġeaċt trian le sgeulaiġeaċtagus trian le soirm sáiṁ suain agus fíor-ċodalta, go dti an ṁaidin.Air maidin, lá air na ṁáraċ, ṫug an fear gearr glas mac ríġ Eireann agus a ṁuinntir amaċ as an g-caisleán agus d’ḟág sé ag ceann an ḃóṫair iad, agus ṫáinig sé féin air ais agus d’iarr sé na sean-slipéaraiḋ a ḃi faoi ċolḃa an leabuiḋ, air an ḃfaṫaċ. Duḃairt an faṫaċ go dtiúḃraḋ sé péire ḃútais ċoṁ maiṫ agus ċaiṫ sé ariaṁ d’a ṁáiġistir, agus cad é an maiṫ a ḃí ann sna sean-slipéaraiḃ! Duḃairt an fear gearr glas muna ḃfáġaḋ sé na slipeuraiḋ go raċfaḋ sé i g-coinne a ṁáiġistir, leis an ceann do ḃaint dé. Duḃairt an faṫaċ ann sin go dtiúḃraḋ sé ḋó iad, agus ṫug. “Am air biṫ,” ar seisean, “a ċuirfeas tu na slipeuraiḋ sin ort, agus ’haiġ óiḃir’ do ráḋ, áit air biṫ a ḃfuil súil agad do ḋul ann, béiḋ tu innti.”D’imṫiġ mac ríġ Eireann agus an fear gearr glas, agus an gunnaire, agus an cluasaire, agus an coisire, agus an séidire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna, go dtáinig traṫnóna agus deireaḋ an laé; agus go raiḃ an capall ag dul faoi sgáṫ na copóige agus ní fanfaḋ an ċopóg leis. D’ḟiafruiġ mac ríġ Eireann de’n ḟear gearr glas ann sin, cá ḃeiḋeaḋ siad an oiḋċe sin, agus duḃairt an fear gearr glas go mbeiḋeaḋ siad i dteaċ dearḃráṫar an ḟaṫaiġ ag a raiḃ siad areir. Ḍearc mac ríġ Eireann uaiḋ agus ni ḟacaiḋ sé dadaṁ. Ḍearc an fear gearr glas uaiḋ agus ċonnairc sé caisleán mór. D’ḟágḃaiġ sé mac ríġ Eireann agus a ṁuinntir ann sin agus ċuaiḋ sé ċum an ċaisleáin leis féin, agus ṫarraing sé an cuaille cóṁraic, agus níor ḟágḃaiġ sé leanḃ i mnaoi, searraċ i láir, pigín i muic, na broc i ngleann, nár ṫionntuiġ sé ṫart trí uaire leis an méad torain a ḃain sé as an g-cuaille cóṁraic. Ṫáinig an faṫaċ amaċ agus duḃairt sé,“moṫuiġim bolaḋ an Éireannaiġ ḃinn ḃreugaiġ faoi m’ḟóidín dúṫaiġ.”“Ní Éireannaċ binn breugaċ mise,” ar san fear gearr glas, “aċt tá mo ṁáiġistir ’nna ṡeasaṁ ann sin, ag ceann an ḃóṫair, agus má ṫagann sé bainfiḋ sé an ceann díot.”Agus leis sin ṫosuiġ an fear gearr glas ag méaduġaḋ go raiḃ sé ċoṁ mór leis an g-caisleán faoi ḋeireaḋ.Ṫáinig faitċios air an ḃfaṫaċ, agus duḃairt sé, “ḃfuil do ṁáiġistir ċoṁ mór leat féin?”“Tá,” ar san fear gearr glas, “agus níos mó.”“O cuir mé a ḃfolaċ, cuir me i ḃfolaċ,” ar san faṫaċ, “go n-ímṫiġeann do ṁáiġistir, agus rud air biṫ a ḃéiḋeas tu ag iarraiḋ caiṫfiḋ tu a ḟáġail.”Ṫug sé an faṫaċ leis agus ċuir sé faoi ḃeul daḃaiċ é, agus glas air.Ṫáinig sé air ais agus ṫug sé mac ríġ Éireann, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, an coisire, an séidire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna asteaċ leis, agus ċaiṫ siad an oiḋċe sin go rúgaċ, trian dí le fiannuiġeaċt, agus trian dí le sgeuluiġeaċt, agus trian dí le soirm sáiṁ suain agus fíor ċodalta.Air maidin, lá air na ṁáraċ, ṫug sé mac ríġ Eireann agus a ṁuinntir amaċ agus d’ḟágḃuiġ sé ag ceann an ḃóṫair iad agus ṫáinig sé féin air ais, agus leig sé amaċ an faṫaċ, agus duḃairt se leis an ḃfaṫaċ an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ a ḃí faoi ċolḃa a leabuiḋ do ṫaḃairt dó.Duḃairt an faṫaċ naċ dtiúḃraḋ sé an sean-ċloiḋeaṁ sin d’ aon duine, aċt go dtiúḃraḋ sé ḋó cloiḋeaṁ na trí faoḃar, nár ḟág fuiġeal buille ’nna ḋiaiġ, agus dá ḃfág-faḋ sé go dtiuḃraḋ sé leis an dara ḃuille é.“Ní ġlacfaiḋ mé sin,” ar san fear gearr glas, “caiṫfiḋ mé an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ ḟáġail, agus muna ḃfáġ’ mé é raċfaiḋ me i g-coinne mo ṁáiġistir agus bainfiḋ sé an ceann díot.”“Is fearr dam a ṫaḃairt duit,” ar san faṫaċ, “agus cia bé áit a ḃualfeas tu buille leis an g-cloiḋeaṁ sin raċfaiḋ sé go dtí an gaineaṁ dá mbuḋ iarann a ḃí roiṁe.” Ṫug sé an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ dó ann sin.Cuaiḋ mac ríġ Eireann agus an fear gearr glas, agus an gunnaire, agus an cluasaire, agus an coisire, agus an séidire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna ann sin, go dtáinig traṫnóna agus deireaḋ an laé, go raiḃ an capall ag dul faoi sgáṫ na copóige agus ní ḟanfaḋ an ċopóg leis. Ní ḃéarfaḋ an ġaoṫ Ṁárta a ḃí rompa orra agus an ġaoṫ Ṁárta a ḃí ’nna ndiaiġ ní rug sí orra-san, agus ḃí siad an oiḋċe sin ann san doṁan ṡoir, an áit a raiḃ an ḃean-uasal.D’ ḟiafruiġ an ḃean de ṁac ríġ Eireann creud do ḃí sé ag iarraiḋ agus duḃairt seisean go raiḃ sé ag iarraiḋ íféin mar ṁnaoi. “Caiṫfiḋ tu m’ḟáġail,” ar sise, “má ḟuasglann tu mo ġeasa ḋíom.”Fuair sé a lóistín le na ċuid buaċaill ann san g-caisleán an oiḋċe sin, agus ann san oiḋċe táinig sise agus duḃairt leis,“seó siosúr agad, agus muna ḃfuil an siosúr sin agad air maidin amáraċ bainfiġear an ceann díot.”Ċuir sí biorán-suain faoi na ċeann, agus ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ, agus ċoṁ luaṫ a’s ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ rug sí an siosúr uaiḋ agus d’ḟágḃuiġ sí é. Ṫug sí an siosúr do’n ríġ niṁe, agus duḃairt sí leis an ríġ, an siosúr do ḃeiṫ aige air maidin dí. D’imṫiġ sí ann sin. Nuair ḃí sí imṫiġṫe ṫuit an ríġ niṁe ’nna ċodlaḋ agus nuair a ḃí sé ’nna ċodlaḋ ṫáinig an fear gearr glas agus na sean-slipéaraiḋ air, agus an birreud air a ċeann, agus an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ ann a láiṁ, agus cia bé áit a d’ḟágḃuiġ an ríġ an siosúr fuair seisean é. Ṫug sé do ṁac ríġ Eireann é, agus nuair ṫáinig sise air maidin d’ḟiafruiġ sí, “a ṁic ríġ Eireann ḃfuil an siosúr agad?”“Tá,” ar seisean.Ḃí tri fíċe cloigionn na ndaoine a ṫáinig ’gá h-íarraiḋ air spíciḃ ṫimċioll an ċaisleáin agus ṡaoil sí go mbeiḋeaḋ a ċloigionn air spíce aici i g-cuideaċt leó.An oiḋċe, an lá air na ṁáraċ, ṫáinig sí agus ṫug sí cíar dó, agus duḃairt sí leis muna mbeiḋeaḋ an ċíar aige air maidin nuair a ṫiucfaḋ sí go mbeiḋeaḋ an ceann bainte ḋé. Ċuir sí biorán-suain faoi na ċeann agus ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ mar ṫuit sé an oiḋċe roiṁe, agus ġoid sise an ċíar léiṫe. Ṫug sí an ċíar do’n ríġ niṁe agus duḃairt sí leis gan an ċiar do ċailleaḋ mar ċaill sé an siosúr. Ṫáinig an fear gearr glas agus na sean-sléiparaiḋ air a ċosaiḃ, an sean-ḃirreud air a ċeann agus an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ ann a láiṁ, agus ní ḟacaiḋ an ríġ é go dtáinig se taoḃ ṡiar dé agus ṫug sé an ċíar leis uaiḋ.Nuair ṫáiniġ an ṁaidin, ḋúisiġ mac ríġ Eireann agus ṫosuiġ sé ag caoineaḋ na ciaire a ḃí imṫiġṫe uaiḋ.“Ná bac leis sin,” ar san fear gearr glas, “tá sé agam-sa.” Nuair ṫáinig sise ṫug sé an ċíar dí, agus ḃí iongantas uirri.Táinig sí an tríoṁaḋ oiḋċe, agus duḃairt sí le mac riġ Eireann an ceann do cíaraḋ leis an g-cíair sin do ḃeiṫ aige ḋí, air maidin amáraċ. “Nois,” ar sise, “ní raiḃ baoġal ort go dtí anoċt, agus má ċailleann tu an t-am so i, tá do ċloigionn imṫiġṫe.”Ḃí an biorán-suain faoi na ċeann, agus ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ. Ṫáinig sise agus ġoid sí an ċíar uaiḋ. Ṫug sí do’n ríġ niṁe í, agus duḃairt sí leis nár ḟeud an ċíar imṫeaċt uaiḋ no go mbainfiḋe an ceann dé. Ṫug an riġ niṁe an ċiar leis, agus ċuir sé asteaċ í i g-carraig cloiċe, agus trí fiċe glas uirri, agus ṡuiḋ an ríġ taoiḃ amuiġ de na glasaiḃ uile ag doras na carraige, ’gá faire. Ṫáinig an fear gearr glas, agus na slipeuraiḋ agus an birreud air, agus an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ ann a láiṁ, agus ḃuail sé buille air an g-carraig cloiċe agus d’ḟosgail suas í, agus ḃuail sé an dara ḃuille air an ríġ niṁe, agus ḃain sé an ceann dé. Ṫug sé leis an ċiar ċuig (do) mac ríġ Eireann ann sin, agus fuair sé é ann a ḋúiseaċt, agus é ag caoineaḋ na ciaire. “Súd í do ċíar duit,” ar seisean, “tiucfaiḋ sise air ball, agus fiafróċaiḋ sí ḋíot an ḃfuil an ċíar agad, agus abair léiṫe go ḃfuil, agus an ceann do cíaraḋ léiṫe, agus caiṫ ċuici an cloigionn.”Nuair ṫáinig sise ag fiafruiġ an raiḃ an ċiar aige, duḃairt sé go raiḃ, agus an ceann do cíaraḋ léiṫe, agus ċaiṫ sé ceann an ríġ niṁe ċuici.Nuair ċonnairc sí an cloigionn ḃí fearg ṁór uirri, agus duḃairt sí leis naċ ḃfuiġfeaḋ sé í le pósaḋ go ḃfáġaḋ sé coisire a ṡiúḃalfaḋ le na coisire féin i g-coinne trí ḃuideul na h-íoċṡláinte as tobar an doṁain ṡoir, agusdá mbuḋ luaiṫe a ṫáinig a coisire féin ’ná an coisire aige-sean, go raiḃ a ċeann imṫiġṫe.Fuair sí sean-ċailleaċ (ḃuitse éigin) agus ṫug sí trí buideula ḋí. Duḃairt an fear gearr glas trí ḃuideula do ṫaḃairt do’n ḟear a ḃí ag congḃáil páirce na ngeirrḟiaḋ, agus tugaḋ ḋó iad. D’imṫiġ an ċailleaċ agus an fear, agus trí buidéala ag gaċ aon aca, agus ḃí coisire mic ríġ Éireann ag tíġeaċt leaṫ-ḃealaiġ air ais, sul a ḃí an ċailleaċ imṫiġṫe leaṫ-ḃealaiġ ag dul ann. “Suiḋ síos,” ar san ċailleaċ leis an g-coisire, “agus leig do sgíṫ, tá an ḃeirt aca pósta anois, agus ná bí briseaḋ do ċroiḋe ag riṫ.” Ṫug sí léiṫe cloigionn capaill agus ċuir sí faoi na ċeann é, agus biorán-suain ann, agus nuair leag sé a ċeann air, ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ.Ḍóirt sise an t-uisge a ḃí aige amaċ, agus d’imṫiġ sí.B’ḟada leis an ḃfear gearr glas go raiḃ siad ag tíġeaċt, agus duḃairt sé leis an g-cluasaire, “leag do ċluas air an talaṁ, agus feuċ an ḃfuil siad ag teaċt.” “Cluinim,” ar seiseann, “an ċailleaċ ag teaċt, agus tá an coisire ’nna ċodlaḋ, agus é ag srannfartuiġ.”“Dearc uait,” ar san fear gearr glas leis an ngunnaire “go ḃfeicfiḋ tu ca ḃfuil an coisire.”Duḃairt an gunnaire go raiḃ sé ann a leiṫid sin d’áit, agus cloigionn capaill faoi na ċeann, agus é ’nna ċodlaḋ.“Cuir do ġunna le do ṡúil,” ar san fear garr glas, “agus cuir an cloigionn ó na ċeann.”Ċuir sé an gunna le na ṡúil agus sguaib sé an ċloigionn ó na ċeann. Ḍúisiġ an coisire, agus fuair sé na buideula a ḃí aige folaṁ, agus ḃ’éigin dó filleaḋ ċum an tobair arís.Ḃí an ċailleaċ ag teaċt ann sin agus ní raiḃ an coisire le feiceál (feicsint). Ar san fear gearr glas annsin, leis an ḃfear a ḃí ag cur an ṁuilinn-gaoiṫe ṫart le na ṗolláire, “éiriġ suas agus feuċ an g-cuirfeá an ċailleaċ air a h-ais.” Ċuir sé a ṁeur air a ṡrón agus nuair ḃí an ċailleaċ ag teaċt ċuir sé séideóg gaoiṫe fúiṫi a sguaib air a h-ais í. Ḃí sí teaċt arís agus rinne sé an rud ceudna léiṫe. Gaċ am a ḃíḋeaḋ sise ag teaċt a ḃfogas dóiḃ do ḃíḋeaḋ seisean dá cur air a h-ais arís leis an ngaoiṫ do ṡéideaḋ sé as a ṗolláire. Air deireaḋ ṡéid se leis an dá ṗolláire agus sguaib sé an ċailleaċ ċum an doṁain ṡoir arís. Ṫáinig coisire mic ríġ Eireann ann sin, agus ḃí an lá sin gnóṫuiġṫe.Ḃí fearg ṁór air an mnaoi nuair ċonnairc sí naċ dtáinig a coisire féin air ais i dtosaċ, agus duḃairt sí le mac riġ Eireann, “ní ḃfuiġfiḋ tu mise anois no go siùḃailfiḋ tu trí ṁíle gan ḃróig gan stoca, air ṡnáṫaidiḃ cruaiḋe.”Ḃí bóṫar aici trí ṁíle air fad, agus snáṫaide geura cruaiḋe craiṫte air, ċoṁ tiuġ leis an ḃfeur. Ar san fear gearr glas le fear-briste na g-cloċ le na leaṫ-ṫóin, “téiḋ agus maol iad sin.” Ċuaiḋ an fear sin orra le na leaṫ-ṫóin agus rinne sé stumpaiḋ ḋíoḃ. Duḃairt an fear gearr glas leis dul orra le na ṫóin ḋúbalta. Ċuaiḋ sé orra ann sin le na ṫóin ḋúbalta, agus rinne sé púġdar agus praiseaċ díoḃ. Ṫáinig mac ríġ Éireann agus ṡiúḃail sé na trí ṁíle, agus ḃí a ḃean gnóṫuiġṫe aige.Pósaḋ an ḃeirt ann sin, agus ḃí an ċéud ṗóg le fáġail ag an ḃfear gearr glas. Rug an fear gearr glas an ḃean leis féin asteaċ i seomra, agus ṫosuiġ sé uirri. Ḃí sí lán ḋe naiṫreaċaiḃ niṁe, agus ḃeiḋeaḋ mac ríġ Éireann marḃ aca, nuair a raċfaḋ sé ’nna ċodlaḋ, aċt gur ṗiuc an fear gearr glas aisti iad.Ṫainig sé go mac ríġ Eireann ann sin, agus duḃairt sé leis,“Tig leat dul le do ṁnaoi anois. Is mise an fear a ḃí ann san g-cóṁra an lá sin, a d’íoc tu na deiċ bpúnta air a ṡon, agus an ṁuinntir seó a ḃí leat is seirḃísíġe iad do ċuir Dia ċugad-sa.”D’imṫiġ an fear gearr glas agus a ṁuinntir ann sin agus ní ḟacaiḋ mac ríġ Éireann arís é. Rug sé a ḃean aḃaile leis, agus ċaiṫ siad beaṫa ṡona le ċéile.
Ḃí mac ríġ i n-Éirinn, fad ó ṡoin, agus ċuaiḋ sé amaċ agus ṫug sé a ġunna ’s a ṁadaḋ leis. Ḃí sneaċta amuiġ. Ṁarḃ sé fiaċ duḃ. Ṫuit an fiaċ duḃ air an tsneaċta. Ní ḟacaiḋ sé aon rud buḋ ġile ’ná an sneaċta,ná buḋ ḋuiḃe ’ná cloigionn an ḟiaiċ ḋuiḃ, ná buḋ ḋeirge ’ná a ċuid fola ḃí ’gá dórtaḋ amaċ.
Ċuir sé faoi geasaiḃ agus deimúġ(sic)na bliaḋna naċ n-íosaḋ sé ḋá ḃiaḋ i n-aon ḃord, ná ḋá oiḋċe do ċoḋlaḋ ann aon teaċ, go ḃfáġaḋ sé bean a raiḃ a cloigionn ċoṁ duḃ leis an ḃfiaċ duḃ, agus a croicionn ċoṁ geal leis an tsneaċta, agus a ḋá ġruaiḋ ċoṁ dearg le fuil.
Ni raiḃ aon ḃean ann san doṁan mar sin, aċt aon ḃean aṁáin a ḃí ann san doṁan ṡoir.
Lá air na ṁáraċ ġaḃ sé amaċ, agus ní raiḃ airgiod fairsing, aċt ṫug sé leis fiċe púnta. Ní fada ċuaiḋ sé gur casaḋ socraoid dó, agus duḃairt sé go raiḃ sé ċoṁ maiṫ ḋó trí ċoiscéim ḋul leis an g-corpán. Ní raiḃ na trí ċoiscéim siúḃalta aige go dtáinig fear agus leag sé a reasta air an g-corp air ċúig ṗúnta. Ḃí dlíġeaḋ i n-Eirinn an t-am sin, duinea ir biṫ a raiḃ fiaċa aige air ḟear eile, naċ dtiucfaḋ le muinntir an ḟir sin a ċur, dá mbeiḋeaḋ sé marḃ, gan na fiaċa d’íoc, no gan cead ó’n duine a raiḃ na fiaċa sin aige air an ḃfear marḃ. Nuair ċonnairc Mac Ríġ Éireann mic agus inġeana an duine ṁairḃ ag caoineaḋ, agus iad gan an t-airgiod aca le taḃairt do ’n ḟear, duḃairt sé leis fein, “is mór an ṫruaġ é naċ ḃfuil an t-airgiod ag na daoiniḃ boċta.” agus ċuir sé a láṁ ann a ṗóca agus d’íoc sé féin na cúig ṗúnta, air son an ċuirp. Duḃairt sé go raċfaḋ sé ċum an teampoill ann sin, go ḃfeicfeaḋ sé curṫa é. Ṫáinig fear eile ann sin, agus leag sé a reasta air an g-corp air son cúig ṗúnta eile. “Mar ṫug mé na ceud ċúig ṗúnta,” ar Mac Ríġ Éireann leis féin, “tá sé ċoṁ maiṫ ḋam cúig ṗúnta eile ṫaḃairt anois, agus an fear boċt do leigean dul ’san uaiġ.” D’íoc sé na cúig ṗúnta eile. Ní raiḃ aige ann sin aċt deiċ bpúnta.
Níor ḃfada ċuaiḋ sé gur casaḋ fear gearr glas dó agus d’ḟiafruiġ sé ḋé cá raiḃ sé dul. Duḃairt sé go raiḃ sé dul ag iarraiḋ mná ’san doṁan ṡoir. D’ḟiafruiġ an fear gearr glas dé, an raiḃ buaċaill teastál uaiḋ, agus duḃairt sé go raiḃ, agus cad é an ṗáiḋe ḃeiḋeaḋ sé ag iarraiḋ. Duḃairt seisean “an ċeud ṗóg air a ṁnaoi, dá ḃfáġaḋ sé í.” Duḃairt Mac Ríġ Éireann go g-caiṫfeaḋ sé sin ḟáġail.
Níor ḃfada ċuaiḋ siad gur casaḋ fear eile ḋóiḃ agus a ġunna ann a láiṁ, agus é ag “leiḃléaraċt” air an londuḃ a ḃí ṫall ’san doṁan ṡoir, go mbeiḋeaḋ sé aige le n-aġaiḋ a ḋinéir. Duḃairt an fear gearr glas le Mac Ríġ Éireann gó raiḃ sé ċoṁ maiṫ ḋó an fear sin ġlacaḋ air aimsir, da raċfaḋ sé air aimsir leis. D’ḟiafruiġ Mac Ríġ Eireann an dtiucfaḋ sé air aimsir leis.
“Raċfad,” ar san fear, “má ḃfáġ’ mé mo ṫuarastal.”
“Agus cad é an tuarastal ḃéiḋeas tu ’g iarraiḋ?”
“Áit tíġe agus garḋa.”
“Geoḃaiḋ tu sin uaim, má éiriġeann mo ṫuras liom.”
D’imṫiġ Mac Ríġ Eireann leis an ḃfear glas agus leis an ngunnaire, agus ní fada ċuaiḋ síad gur casaḋ fear dóiḃ, agus a ċluas leagṫa air an talaṁ, agus é ag éisteaċt leis an ḃfeur ag fás.
“Tá sé ċoṁ maiṫ ḋuit an fear sin ġlacaḋ air aimsir,” ar san fear gearr glas.
D’ḟiafruiġ Mac Ríġ Eireann de ’n ḟear an dtiucfaḋ sé leis air aimsir.
“Tiucfad má ḃfáġ mé áit tiġe agus garḋa.”
“Geoḃaiḋ tu sin uaim má éiriġeann an rud atá ann mo ċeann liom.”
Ċuaiḋ Mac Riġ Eireann, an fear gearr glas, an gunnaire, agus an cluasaire, agus ní fada ċuaiḋ siad gur casaḋ fear eile ḋóiḃ agus a leaṫ-ċos air a ġualainn, agus é ag congḃáil páirce geirrḟiaḋ gan aon ġeirrḟiaḋ leigean asteaċ ná amaċ. Ḃí iongantas air Ṁac Ríġ Eireann agus d’ḟiafruiġ sé cad é an ċiall a raiḃ a leaṫ-ċos air a ġualainn mar sin.
“O,” ar seisean, “dá mbeiḋeaḋ mo ḋá ċois agam air an talam ḃeiḋinn ċoṁ luaṫ sin go raċfainn as aṁarc.”
“An dtiucfaiḋ tu air aimsir liom,” ar san Mac Riġ.
“Tiucfad, má ḃfáġ’ mé áit tiġe agus garḋa.”
“Geoḃaiḋ tu sin uaim,” ar Mac Ríġ Éireann, “má éiriġeann an rud atá ann mo ċeann, liom.”
Ċuaiḋ Mac Riġ Eireann, an fear gearr glas, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, agus an coisire air aġaiḋ, agus níor ḃfada go dtáncadar go fear agus é ag cur muilinn gaoiṫe ṫart le na leaṫṗolláire, agus a ṁeur leagṫa aige air a ṡrón ag druidim na polláire eile.
“Cad ċuige ḃfuil do ṁeur agad air do ṡrón?” ar Mac Ríġ Eireann leis.
“O,” ar seisean, “dá séidfinn as mo ḋá ṗolláire do sguabfainn an muileann amaċ as sin suas ’san aer.”
“An dtiucfaiḋ tu air aimsir?”
“Tiucfad, má ḃfáġ’ mé áit tiġe agus garḋa.”
“Geoḃaiḋ tu sin, má éiriġeann an rud atá ann mo ċeann liom.”
Ċuaiḋ Mac Riġ Eireann, an fear gearr glas, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, an coisire, agus an séidire go dtáncadar go fear a ḃí ’nna ṡuiḋe air ṫaoiḃ an ḃoṫair, agus é ag briseaḋ cloċ le na leaṫ-ṫóin agus ní raiḃ casúr ná dadaṁ aige. D’ḟiafruiġ an Mac Ríġ ḋé, cad ċuige a raiḃ sé ag briseaḋ na g-cloċ le na leaṫ-ṫóin.
“O,” ar seisean, “dá mbualfainn leis an tóin ḋúbalta iad ḋeunfainn púġdar díoḃ.”
“An dtiucfaiḋ tu air aimsir liom?”
“Tuicfad, má ḃfaġ’ mé áit tíġe agus garḋa.”
D’imṫiġ siad uile ann sin, Mac Ríġ Eireann, an fear gearr glas, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, an coisire, an séidire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna agus ḃeurfaḋ siad air an ngaoiṫ Ṁárta a ḃí rompa agus an ġaoṫ Ṁárta a ḃí ’nna n-diaiġ ní ḃéurfaḋ sí orra-san go dtáinig traṫnóna agus deireaḋ an laé.
Ḍearc Mac Ríġ Éireann uaiḋ agus ní ḟacaiḋ sé aon teaċ a mbeiḋeaḋ sé ann an oiḋċe sin. Ḍearc an fear gearr glas uaiḋ agus ċonnairc sé teaċ naċ raiḃ bonn cleite amaċ air, ná bárr cleite asteaċ air, aċt aon ċleite aṁáin a ḃí ag congḃáil dídinn agus fasgaiḋ air. Duḃairt mac ríġ Éireann naċ raiḃ ḟios aige cá ċaiṫfeaḋ siad an oiḋċe sin, agus duḃairt an fear gearr glas go mbeiḋeaḋ siad i dṫeaċ an ḟaṫaiġ ṫall an oiḋċe sin.
Ṫáinig siad ċum an tiġe, agus ṫarraing an fear gearr glas an cuaille cóṁraic agus níor ḟág sé leanḃ i mnaoi searraċ i g-capall, pigín i muic, ná broc i ngleann nár iompuiġ sé ṫart trí uaire iad le méad an torain do ḃain sé as an g-cuaille cóṁraic. Ṫáinig an faṫaċ amaċ agus duḃairt sé “moṫuiġim bolaḋ an Éireannaiġ ḃinn ḃreugaiġ faoi m’ḟóidín dúṫaiġ.”
“Ní Éireannaċ binn breugaċ mise,” ar san fear gearr glas, “aċt tá mo ṁáiġistir amuiġ ann sin ag ceann an ḃóṫair agus má ṫagann sé bainfiḋ sé an ceann díot.” Ḃí an fear gearr glas ag meuduġaḋ, agus ag meuduġaḋ go raiḃ sé faoi ḋeireaḋ ċoṁ mór leis an g-caisleán. Ḃí faitċios air an ḃfaṫaċ agus duḃairt sé,“Ḃfuil do ṁáiġistir ċoṁ mór leat féin?”
“Tá,” ar san fear gearr glas, “agus níos mó.”
“Cuir i ḃfolaċ mé go maidin go n-imṫiġeann do ṁáiġistir,” ar san faṫaċ.
Ċuir sé an faṫaċ faoi ġlas, ann sin, agus ċuaiḋ sé ċum a ṁáiġistir.
Ṫáinig mac ríġ Éireann, an fear gearr glas, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, an séidire, an coisire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna, asteaċ ’san g-caisleán, agus ċaiṫ siad an oiḋċe sin, trian dí le fiannaiġeaċt agus trian le sgeuluiġeaċt, agus trian le soirm(sic)sáiṁ suain agus fíor-ċodalta.
Nuair d’ éiriġ an lá air na ṁáraċ ṫug sé leis a ṁáiġistir agus an gunnaire, agus an cluasaire, agus an coisire, agus an séidire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna, agus d’ḟág sé amuiġ ag ceann an ḃóṫair iad, agus ṫáinig sé féin air ais agus ḃain sé an glas de ’n ḟaṫaċ. Duḃairt sé leis an ḃfaṫaċ gur ċuir a ṁáiġistir air ais é i g-coinne an ḃirréid ḋuiḃ a ḃí faoi ċolḃa a leabuiḋ. Duḃairt an faṫaċ go dtiuḃraḋ sé hata ḋó nár ċaiṫ sé féin ariaṁ, aċt go raiḃ náire air, an sean-ḃirreud do ṫaḃairt dó. Duḃairt an fear gearr glas muna dtiuḃraḋ sé an birreud dó go dtiucfaḋ a ṁáiġistir air ais, agus go mbainfeaḋ sé an ceann dé.
“Is fearr dam a ṫaḃairt duit,” ar san faṫaċ, “agus uair air biṫ a ċuirfeas tu air do ċeann é, feicfiḋ tu uile ḋuine agus ni ḟeicfiḋ duine air biṫ ṫu.” Ṫug sé ḋó an birreud ann sin, agus ċuaiḋ an fear gearr glas agus ṫug sé do ṁaċ ríġ Éireann é.
Ḃí siad ag imṫeaċt ann sin. Do ḃéarfaḋ siad air an ngaoiṫ Ṁárta do ḃí rómpa, agus an ġaoṫ Ṁárta do ḃí ’nna ndiaiġ ní ḃéarfaḋ sí orra-san, ag duldo’n doṁan ṡoir. Nuair ṫáinig traṫnóna agus deireaḋ an lae ḋearc mac ríġ Eireann uaiḋ agus ní ḟacaiḋ sé aon áit a mbeiḋeaḋ sé ann an oiḋċe sin. Ḍearc an fear gearr glas uaiḋ, agus ċonnairc sé caisleán, agus duḃairt sé, “an faṫaċ atá ann san g-caisleán sin, is dearḃráṫair do’n ḟaṫaċ a raḃamar aréir aige, agus béiḋmíd ann san g-caisleán sin anoċt.” Ṫáinig siad, agus d’ḟág sé mac ríġ Eireann agus a ṁuinntir ag ceann an ḃóṫair agus ċuaiḋ sé ċum an ċaisleáin, agus ṫarraing sé an cuaille cóṁraic, agus níor ḟág sé leanḃ i mnaoi ná searraċ i g-capall ná pigín i muic ná broc i ngleann, i ḃfoigse seaċt míle ḋó, nár ḃain sé trí iompóḋ asta leis an méad torain a ṫug sé as an g-cuaille cóṁraic.
Ṫáinig an faṫaċ amaċ, agus duḃairt sé, “Moṫuiġim bolaḋ an Éireannaiġ ḃinn ḃreugaiġ faoi m’ḟóidín dúṫaiġ.”
“Ní Eireannaċ binn breugaċ mise,” ar san fear gearr glas, “aċt tá mo ṁáiġistir amuiġ ann sin ag ceann an ḃóṫair, agus má ṫagann sé bainfiḋ sé an ceann díot.”
“Is mór líom ḋe ġreim ṫu, agus is beag liom de ḋá ġreim ṫu,” ar san faṫaċ.
“Ní ḃfuiġfiḋ tu mé de ġreim air biṫ,” ar san fear gearr glas, agus ṫoisiġ sé ag meuduġaḋ go raiḃ sé ċoṁ mór leis an g-caisleán.
Ṫáinig faitċios air an ḃfaṫaċ agus duḃairt sé, “ḃfuil do ṁáiġistir ċoṁ mór leat-sa?”
“Tá agus níos mó,” ar san fear beag glas.
“Cuir i ḃfolaċ mé go maidin go n-imṫiġeann do ṁáiġistir,” ar san faṫaċ, “agus rud air biṫ atá tu ag iarraiḋ caiṫfiḋ tu a ḟáġail.”
Ṫug sé an faṫaċ leis, agus ċaiṫ sé faoi ḃeul daḃaiċ é. Ċuaiḋ se amaċ agus ṫug sé asteaċ mac ríġ Eireann, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, an séidire, an coisire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna, agus ċaiṫ siad an oiḋċe ann sin, trian le fiannuiġeaċt trian le sgeulaiġeaċtagus trian le soirm sáiṁ suain agus fíor-ċodalta, go dti an ṁaidin.
Air maidin, lá air na ṁáraċ, ṫug an fear gearr glas mac ríġ Eireann agus a ṁuinntir amaċ as an g-caisleán agus d’ḟág sé ag ceann an ḃóṫair iad, agus ṫáinig sé féin air ais agus d’iarr sé na sean-slipéaraiḋ a ḃi faoi ċolḃa an leabuiḋ, air an ḃfaṫaċ. Duḃairt an faṫaċ go dtiúḃraḋ sé péire ḃútais ċoṁ maiṫ agus ċaiṫ sé ariaṁ d’a ṁáiġistir, agus cad é an maiṫ a ḃí ann sna sean-slipéaraiḃ! Duḃairt an fear gearr glas muna ḃfáġaḋ sé na slipeuraiḋ go raċfaḋ sé i g-coinne a ṁáiġistir, leis an ceann do ḃaint dé. Duḃairt an faṫaċ ann sin go dtiúḃraḋ sé ḋó iad, agus ṫug. “Am air biṫ,” ar seisean, “a ċuirfeas tu na slipeuraiḋ sin ort, agus ’haiġ óiḃir’ do ráḋ, áit air biṫ a ḃfuil súil agad do ḋul ann, béiḋ tu innti.”
D’imṫiġ mac ríġ Eireann agus an fear gearr glas, agus an gunnaire, agus an cluasaire, agus an coisire, agus an séidire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna, go dtáinig traṫnóna agus deireaḋ an laé; agus go raiḃ an capall ag dul faoi sgáṫ na copóige agus ní fanfaḋ an ċopóg leis. D’ḟiafruiġ mac ríġ Eireann de’n ḟear gearr glas ann sin, cá ḃeiḋeaḋ siad an oiḋċe sin, agus duḃairt an fear gearr glas go mbeiḋeaḋ siad i dteaċ dearḃráṫar an ḟaṫaiġ ag a raiḃ siad areir. Ḍearc mac ríġ Eireann uaiḋ agus ni ḟacaiḋ sé dadaṁ. Ḍearc an fear gearr glas uaiḋ agus ċonnairc sé caisleán mór. D’ḟágḃaiġ sé mac ríġ Eireann agus a ṁuinntir ann sin agus ċuaiḋ sé ċum an ċaisleáin leis féin, agus ṫarraing sé an cuaille cóṁraic, agus níor ḟágḃaiġ sé leanḃ i mnaoi, searraċ i láir, pigín i muic, na broc i ngleann, nár ṫionntuiġ sé ṫart trí uaire leis an méad torain a ḃain sé as an g-cuaille cóṁraic. Ṫáinig an faṫaċ amaċ agus duḃairt sé,“moṫuiġim bolaḋ an Éireannaiġ ḃinn ḃreugaiġ faoi m’ḟóidín dúṫaiġ.”
“Ní Éireannaċ binn breugaċ mise,” ar san fear gearr glas, “aċt tá mo ṁáiġistir ’nna ṡeasaṁ ann sin, ag ceann an ḃóṫair, agus má ṫagann sé bainfiḋ sé an ceann díot.”
Agus leis sin ṫosuiġ an fear gearr glas ag méaduġaḋ go raiḃ sé ċoṁ mór leis an g-caisleán faoi ḋeireaḋ.
Ṫáinig faitċios air an ḃfaṫaċ, agus duḃairt sé, “ḃfuil do ṁáiġistir ċoṁ mór leat féin?”
“Tá,” ar san fear gearr glas, “agus níos mó.”
“O cuir mé a ḃfolaċ, cuir me i ḃfolaċ,” ar san faṫaċ, “go n-ímṫiġeann do ṁáiġistir, agus rud air biṫ a ḃéiḋeas tu ag iarraiḋ caiṫfiḋ tu a ḟáġail.”
Ṫug sé an faṫaċ leis agus ċuir sé faoi ḃeul daḃaiċ é, agus glas air.
Ṫáinig sé air ais agus ṫug sé mac ríġ Éireann, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, an coisire, an séidire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna asteaċ leis, agus ċaiṫ siad an oiḋċe sin go rúgaċ, trian dí le fiannuiġeaċt, agus trian dí le sgeuluiġeaċt, agus trian dí le soirm sáiṁ suain agus fíor ċodalta.
Air maidin, lá air na ṁáraċ, ṫug sé mac ríġ Eireann agus a ṁuinntir amaċ agus d’ḟágḃuiġ sé ag ceann an ḃóṫair iad agus ṫáinig sé féin air ais, agus leig sé amaċ an faṫaċ, agus duḃairt se leis an ḃfaṫaċ an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ a ḃí faoi ċolḃa a leabuiḋ do ṫaḃairt dó.Duḃairt an faṫaċ naċ dtiúḃraḋ sé an sean-ċloiḋeaṁ sin d’ aon duine, aċt go dtiúḃraḋ sé ḋó cloiḋeaṁ na trí faoḃar, nár ḟág fuiġeal buille ’nna ḋiaiġ, agus dá ḃfág-faḋ sé go dtiuḃraḋ sé leis an dara ḃuille é.
“Ní ġlacfaiḋ mé sin,” ar san fear gearr glas, “caiṫfiḋ mé an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ ḟáġail, agus muna ḃfáġ’ mé é raċfaiḋ me i g-coinne mo ṁáiġistir agus bainfiḋ sé an ceann díot.”
“Is fearr dam a ṫaḃairt duit,” ar san faṫaċ, “agus cia bé áit a ḃualfeas tu buille leis an g-cloiḋeaṁ sin raċfaiḋ sé go dtí an gaineaṁ dá mbuḋ iarann a ḃí roiṁe.” Ṫug sé an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ dó ann sin.
Cuaiḋ mac ríġ Eireann agus an fear gearr glas, agus an gunnaire, agus an cluasaire, agus an coisire, agus an séidire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna ann sin, go dtáinig traṫnóna agus deireaḋ an laé, go raiḃ an capall ag dul faoi sgáṫ na copóige agus ní ḟanfaḋ an ċopóg leis. Ní ḃéarfaḋ an ġaoṫ Ṁárta a ḃí rompa orra agus an ġaoṫ Ṁárta a ḃí ’nna ndiaiġ ní rug sí orra-san, agus ḃí siad an oiḋċe sin ann san doṁan ṡoir, an áit a raiḃ an ḃean-uasal.
D’ ḟiafruiġ an ḃean de ṁac ríġ Eireann creud do ḃí sé ag iarraiḋ agus duḃairt seisean go raiḃ sé ag iarraiḋ íféin mar ṁnaoi. “Caiṫfiḋ tu m’ḟáġail,” ar sise, “má ḟuasglann tu mo ġeasa ḋíom.”
Fuair sé a lóistín le na ċuid buaċaill ann san g-caisleán an oiḋċe sin, agus ann san oiḋċe táinig sise agus duḃairt leis,“seó siosúr agad, agus muna ḃfuil an siosúr sin agad air maidin amáraċ bainfiġear an ceann díot.”
Ċuir sí biorán-suain faoi na ċeann, agus ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ, agus ċoṁ luaṫ a’s ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ rug sí an siosúr uaiḋ agus d’ḟágḃuiġ sí é. Ṫug sí an siosúr do’n ríġ niṁe, agus duḃairt sí leis an ríġ, an siosúr do ḃeiṫ aige air maidin dí. D’imṫiġ sí ann sin. Nuair ḃí sí imṫiġṫe ṫuit an ríġ niṁe ’nna ċodlaḋ agus nuair a ḃí sé ’nna ċodlaḋ ṫáinig an fear gearr glas agus na sean-slipéaraiḋ air, agus an birreud air a ċeann, agus an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ ann a láiṁ, agus cia bé áit a d’ḟágḃuiġ an ríġ an siosúr fuair seisean é. Ṫug sé do ṁac ríġ Eireann é, agus nuair ṫáinig sise air maidin d’ḟiafruiġ sí, “a ṁic ríġ Eireann ḃfuil an siosúr agad?”
“Tá,” ar seisean.
Ḃí tri fíċe cloigionn na ndaoine a ṫáinig ’gá h-íarraiḋ air spíciḃ ṫimċioll an ċaisleáin agus ṡaoil sí go mbeiḋeaḋ a ċloigionn air spíce aici i g-cuideaċt leó.
An oiḋċe, an lá air na ṁáraċ, ṫáinig sí agus ṫug sí cíar dó, agus duḃairt sí leis muna mbeiḋeaḋ an ċíar aige air maidin nuair a ṫiucfaḋ sí go mbeiḋeaḋ an ceann bainte ḋé. Ċuir sí biorán-suain faoi na ċeann agus ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ mar ṫuit sé an oiḋċe roiṁe, agus ġoid sise an ċíar léiṫe. Ṫug sí an ċíar do’n ríġ niṁe agus duḃairt sí leis gan an ċiar do ċailleaḋ mar ċaill sé an siosúr. Ṫáinig an fear gearr glas agus na sean-sléiparaiḋ air a ċosaiḃ, an sean-ḃirreud air a ċeann agus an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ ann a láiṁ, agus ní ḟacaiḋ an ríġ é go dtáinig se taoḃ ṡiar dé agus ṫug sé an ċíar leis uaiḋ.
Nuair ṫáiniġ an ṁaidin, ḋúisiġ mac ríġ Eireann agus ṫosuiġ sé ag caoineaḋ na ciaire a ḃí imṫiġṫe uaiḋ.“Ná bac leis sin,” ar san fear gearr glas, “tá sé agam-sa.” Nuair ṫáinig sise ṫug sé an ċíar dí, agus ḃí iongantas uirri.
Táinig sí an tríoṁaḋ oiḋċe, agus duḃairt sí le mac riġ Eireann an ceann do cíaraḋ leis an g-cíair sin do ḃeiṫ aige ḋí, air maidin amáraċ. “Nois,” ar sise, “ní raiḃ baoġal ort go dtí anoċt, agus má ċailleann tu an t-am so i, tá do ċloigionn imṫiġṫe.”
Ḃí an biorán-suain faoi na ċeann, agus ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ. Ṫáinig sise agus ġoid sí an ċíar uaiḋ. Ṫug sí do’n ríġ niṁe í, agus duḃairt sí leis nár ḟeud an ċíar imṫeaċt uaiḋ no go mbainfiḋe an ceann dé. Ṫug an riġ niṁe an ċiar leis, agus ċuir sé asteaċ í i g-carraig cloiċe, agus trí fiċe glas uirri, agus ṡuiḋ an ríġ taoiḃ amuiġ de na glasaiḃ uile ag doras na carraige, ’gá faire. Ṫáinig an fear gearr glas, agus na slipeuraiḋ agus an birreud air, agus an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ ann a láiṁ, agus ḃuail sé buille air an g-carraig cloiċe agus d’ḟosgail suas í, agus ḃuail sé an dara ḃuille air an ríġ niṁe, agus ḃain sé an ceann dé. Ṫug sé leis an ċiar ċuig (do) mac ríġ Eireann ann sin, agus fuair sé é ann a ḋúiseaċt, agus é ag caoineaḋ na ciaire. “Súd í do ċíar duit,” ar seisean, “tiucfaiḋ sise air ball, agus fiafróċaiḋ sí ḋíot an ḃfuil an ċíar agad, agus abair léiṫe go ḃfuil, agus an ceann do cíaraḋ léiṫe, agus caiṫ ċuici an cloigionn.”
Nuair ṫáinig sise ag fiafruiġ an raiḃ an ċiar aige, duḃairt sé go raiḃ, agus an ceann do cíaraḋ léiṫe, agus ċaiṫ sé ceann an ríġ niṁe ċuici.
Nuair ċonnairc sí an cloigionn ḃí fearg ṁór uirri, agus duḃairt sí leis naċ ḃfuiġfeaḋ sé í le pósaḋ go ḃfáġaḋ sé coisire a ṡiúḃalfaḋ le na coisire féin i g-coinne trí ḃuideul na h-íoċṡláinte as tobar an doṁain ṡoir, agusdá mbuḋ luaiṫe a ṫáinig a coisire féin ’ná an coisire aige-sean, go raiḃ a ċeann imṫiġṫe.
Fuair sí sean-ċailleaċ (ḃuitse éigin) agus ṫug sí trí buideula ḋí. Duḃairt an fear gearr glas trí ḃuideula do ṫaḃairt do’n ḟear a ḃí ag congḃáil páirce na ngeirrḟiaḋ, agus tugaḋ ḋó iad. D’imṫiġ an ċailleaċ agus an fear, agus trí buidéala ag gaċ aon aca, agus ḃí coisire mic ríġ Éireann ag tíġeaċt leaṫ-ḃealaiġ air ais, sul a ḃí an ċailleaċ imṫiġṫe leaṫ-ḃealaiġ ag dul ann. “Suiḋ síos,” ar san ċailleaċ leis an g-coisire, “agus leig do sgíṫ, tá an ḃeirt aca pósta anois, agus ná bí briseaḋ do ċroiḋe ag riṫ.” Ṫug sí léiṫe cloigionn capaill agus ċuir sí faoi na ċeann é, agus biorán-suain ann, agus nuair leag sé a ċeann air, ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ.
Ḍóirt sise an t-uisge a ḃí aige amaċ, agus d’imṫiġ sí.
B’ḟada leis an ḃfear gearr glas go raiḃ siad ag tíġeaċt, agus duḃairt sé leis an g-cluasaire, “leag do ċluas air an talaṁ, agus feuċ an ḃfuil siad ag teaċt.” “Cluinim,” ar seiseann, “an ċailleaċ ag teaċt, agus tá an coisire ’nna ċodlaḋ, agus é ag srannfartuiġ.”
“Dearc uait,” ar san fear gearr glas leis an ngunnaire “go ḃfeicfiḋ tu ca ḃfuil an coisire.”
Duḃairt an gunnaire go raiḃ sé ann a leiṫid sin d’áit, agus cloigionn capaill faoi na ċeann, agus é ’nna ċodlaḋ.
“Cuir do ġunna le do ṡúil,” ar san fear garr glas, “agus cuir an cloigionn ó na ċeann.”
Ċuir sé an gunna le na ṡúil agus sguaib sé an ċloigionn ó na ċeann. Ḍúisiġ an coisire, agus fuair sé na buideula a ḃí aige folaṁ, agus ḃ’éigin dó filleaḋ ċum an tobair arís.
Ḃí an ċailleaċ ag teaċt ann sin agus ní raiḃ an coisire le feiceál (feicsint). Ar san fear gearr glas annsin, leis an ḃfear a ḃí ag cur an ṁuilinn-gaoiṫe ṫart le na ṗolláire, “éiriġ suas agus feuċ an g-cuirfeá an ċailleaċ air a h-ais.” Ċuir sé a ṁeur air a ṡrón agus nuair ḃí an ċailleaċ ag teaċt ċuir sé séideóg gaoiṫe fúiṫi a sguaib air a h-ais í. Ḃí sí teaċt arís agus rinne sé an rud ceudna léiṫe. Gaċ am a ḃíḋeaḋ sise ag teaċt a ḃfogas dóiḃ do ḃíḋeaḋ seisean dá cur air a h-ais arís leis an ngaoiṫ do ṡéideaḋ sé as a ṗolláire. Air deireaḋ ṡéid se leis an dá ṗolláire agus sguaib sé an ċailleaċ ċum an doṁain ṡoir arís. Ṫáinig coisire mic ríġ Eireann ann sin, agus ḃí an lá sin gnóṫuiġṫe.
Ḃí fearg ṁór air an mnaoi nuair ċonnairc sí naċ dtáinig a coisire féin air ais i dtosaċ, agus duḃairt sí le mac riġ Eireann, “ní ḃfuiġfiḋ tu mise anois no go siùḃailfiḋ tu trí ṁíle gan ḃróig gan stoca, air ṡnáṫaidiḃ cruaiḋe.”
Ḃí bóṫar aici trí ṁíle air fad, agus snáṫaide geura cruaiḋe craiṫte air, ċoṁ tiuġ leis an ḃfeur. Ar san fear gearr glas le fear-briste na g-cloċ le na leaṫ-ṫóin, “téiḋ agus maol iad sin.” Ċuaiḋ an fear sin orra le na leaṫ-ṫóin agus rinne sé stumpaiḋ ḋíoḃ. Duḃairt an fear gearr glas leis dul orra le na ṫóin ḋúbalta. Ċuaiḋ sé orra ann sin le na ṫóin ḋúbalta, agus rinne sé púġdar agus praiseaċ díoḃ. Ṫáinig mac ríġ Éireann agus ṡiúḃail sé na trí ṁíle, agus ḃí a ḃean gnóṫuiġṫe aige.
Pósaḋ an ḃeirt ann sin, agus ḃí an ċéud ṗóg le fáġail ag an ḃfear gearr glas. Rug an fear gearr glas an ḃean leis féin asteaċ i seomra, agus ṫosuiġ sé uirri. Ḃí sí lán ḋe naiṫreaċaiḃ niṁe, agus ḃeiḋeaḋ mac ríġ Éireann marḃ aca, nuair a raċfaḋ sé ’nna ċodlaḋ, aċt gur ṗiuc an fear gearr glas aisti iad.
Ṫainig sé go mac ríġ Eireann ann sin, agus duḃairt sé leis,“Tig leat dul le do ṁnaoi anois. Is mise an fear a ḃí ann san g-cóṁra an lá sin, a d’íoc tu na deiċ bpúnta air a ṡon, agus an ṁuinntir seó a ḃí leat is seirḃísíġe iad do ċuir Dia ċugad-sa.”
D’imṫiġ an fear gearr glas agus a ṁuinntir ann sin agus ní ḟacaiḋ mac ríġ Éireann arís é. Rug sé a ḃean aḃaile leis, agus ċaiṫ siad beaṫa ṡona le ċéile.
THE KING OF IRELAND’S SON.There was a king’s son in Ireland long ago, and he went out and took with him his gun and his dog. There was snow out. He killed a raven. The raven fell on the snow. He never saw anything whiter than the snow,or blacker than the raven’s skull, or redder than its share of blood,[19]that was a’pouring out.He put himself undergassa[20]and obligations of the year, that he would not eat two meals at one table, or sleep two nights in one house, until he should find a woman whose hair was as black as the raven’s head, and her skin as white as the snow, and her two cheeks as red as the blood.There was no woman in the world like that; but one woman only, and she was in the eastern world.The day on the morrow he set out, and money was not plenty, but he took with him twenty pounds. It was not far he went until he met a funeral, and he said that it was as good for him to go three steps with the corpse. He had not the three steps walked until there came a man and left his writ down on the corpse for five pounds. There was a law in Ireland at that time that any man who had a debt upon another person (i.e., to whom another person owed a debt) that person’s people could not bury him, should he be dead, without paying his debts, or without the leave of the person to whom the dead man owed the debts. When the king of Ireland’s son saw the sons and daughters of the dead crying, and they without money to give the man, he said to himself: “It’s a great pity that these poor people have not the money,” and he put his hand in his pocket and paid the five pounds himself for the corpse. After that, he said he would go as far as the church to see it buried. Then there came another man, and left his writ on the body for five pounds more.“As I gave the first five pounds,” said the king of Erin’s son to himself, “it’s as good for me to give the other five, and to let the poor man go to the grave.” He paid the other five pounds. He had only ten pounds then.Not far did he go until he met a short green man, and he asked him where was he going. He said that he was going looking for a woman in the eastern world. The short green man asked him did he want a boy (servant), and he said he did, and [asked] what would be the wages he would be looking for? He said: “The first kiss of his wife if he should get her.” The king of Ireland’s son said that he must get that.Not far did they go until they met another man and his gun in his hand, and he a’levelling it at the blackbird that was in the eastern world, that he might have it for his dinner. The short green man said to him that it was as good for him to take that man into his service if he would go on service with him. The son of the king of Ireland asked him if he would come on service with him.“I will,” said the man, “if I get my wages.”“And what is the wages you’ll be looking for?”“The place of a house and garden.”“You’ll get that if my journey succeeds with me.”The king of Ireland’s son went forward with the short green man and the gunner, and it was not far they went until a man met them, and his ear left to the ground, and he listening to the grass growing.“It’s as good for you to take that man into your service,” said the short green man.The king’s son asked the man whether he would come with him on service.“I’ll come if I get the place of a house and garden.”“You will get that from me if the thing I have in my head succeeds with me.”The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, and the earman, went forward, and it was not far they went until they met another man, and his one foot on his shoulder, and he keeping a field of hares, without letting one hare in or out of the field. There was wonder on the king’s son, and he asked him “What was the sense of his having one foot on his shoulder like that.”“Oh,” says he, “if I had my two feet on the ground I should be so swift that I would go out of sight.”“Will you come on service with me?” said the king’s son.“I’ll come if I get the place of a house and garden.”“You’ll get that if the thing I have in my head succeeds with me.”The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, the earman, and the footman, went forward, and it was not far they went till they came to a man and he turning round a wind-mill with one nostril, and his finger left on his nose shutting the other nostril.“Why have you your finger on your nose?” said the king of Ireland’s son.“Oh,” says he, “if I were to blow with the two nostrils I would sweep the mill altogether out of that up into the air.”“Will you come on hire with me?”“I will if I get the place of a house and garden.”“You’ll get that if the thing I have in my head succeeds with me.”The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, the earman, the footman, and the blowman went forward until they came to a man who was sitting on the side of the road and he a’breaking stones with one thigh, and he had no hammer or anything else.The king’s son asked him why it was he was breaking stones with his half (i.e., one) thigh.“Oh,” says he, “if I were to strike them with the double thigh I’d make powder of them.”“Will you hire with me?”“I will if I get the place of a house and garden.”“You’ll get that if the thing I have in my head succeeds with me.”Then they all went forward together—the son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man that broke stones with the side of his thigh, and they would overtake the March wind that was before them, and the March wind that was behind them would not overtake them, until the evening came and the end of the day.The king of Ireland’s son looked from him, and he did not see any house in which he might be that night. The short green man looked from him, and he saw a house, and there was not the top of a quill outside of it, nor the bottom of a quill inside of it, but only one quill alone, which was keeping shelter and protection on it. The king’s son said that he did not know where he should pass that night, and the short green man said that they would be in the house of the giant over there that night.They came to the house, and the short green man drew thecoolaya-coric(pole of combat), and he did not leave child with woman, foal with mare, pigeen with pig, or badger in glen, that he did not turn over three times with the quantity of sound he knocked out of thecoolaya-coric. The giant came out, and he said: “I feel the smell of the melodious lying Irishman under (i.e., in) my little sod of country.”“I’m no melodious lying Irishman,” said the short green man;“but my master is out there at the head of the avenue, and if he comes he will whip the head off you.” The short green man was growing big, growing big, until at last he looked as big as the castle. There came fear on the giant, and he said: “Is your master as big as you?”“He is,” says the short green man, “and bigger.”“Put me in hiding till morning, until your master goes,” said the giant.Then he put the giant under lock and key, and went out to the king’s son. Then the king of Ireland’s son, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, came into the castle, and they spent that night, a third of it a’story-telling, a third of it with Fenian tales, and a third of it in mild enjoyment(?) of slumber and of true sleep.When the day on the morrow arose, the short green man brought with him his master, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, and he left them outside at the head of the avenue, and he came back himself and took the lock off the giant. He told the giant that his master sent him back for the black cap that was under the head of his bed. The giant said that he would give him a hat that he never wore himself, but that he was ashamed to give him the old cap. The short green man said that unless he gave him the cap his master would come back and strike the head off him.“It’s best for me to give it to you,” said the giant; “and any time at all you will put it on your head you will see everybody and nobody will see you.” He gave him the cap then, and the short green man came and gave it to the king of Ireland’s son.They were a’going then. They would overtake theMarch wind that was before them, and the March wind that was behind them would not overtake them, going to the eastern world. When evening and the end of the day came, the king of Ireland’s son looked from him, and he did not see any house in which he might be that night. The short green man looked from him, and he saw a castle, and he said: “The giant that is in that castle is the brother of the giant with whom we were last night, and we shall be in this castle to-night.” They came to the castle, and he left the king’s son and his people at the head of the avenue, and he went to the door and pulled thecoolaya-coric, and he did not leave child with woman, foal with mare, pigeen with pig, or badger in glen, within seven miles of him, that he did not knock three turns out of them with all the sound he knocked out of thecoolaya-coric.The giant came out, and he said, “I feel the smell of a melodious lying Irishman under my sod of country.”“No melodious lying Irishman am I,” says the short green man; “but my master is outside at the head of the avenue, and if he comes he will whip the head off you.”“I think you large of one mouthful, and I think you small of two mouthfuls,” said the giant.“You won’t get me of a mouthful at all,” said the short green man, and he began swelling until he was as big as the castle. There came fear on the giant, and he said:“Is your master as big as you?”“He is, and bigger.”“Hide me,” said the giant, “till morning, until your master goes, and anything you will be wanting you must get it.”He brought the giant with him, and he put him underthe mouth of adouac(great vessel of some sort). He went out and brought in the son of the king of Ireland, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, and they spent that night, one-third of it telling Fenian stories, one-third telling tales, and one-third in the mild enjoyment of slumber and of true sleep until morning.In the morning, the day on the morrow, the short green man brought the king’s son and his people out of the castle, and left them at the head of the avenue, and he went back himself and asked the giant for the old slippers that were left under the head of his bed.The giant said that he would give his master a pair of boots as good as ever he wore; and what good was there in the old slippers?The short green man said that unless he got the slippers he would go for his master to whip the head off him.Then the giant said that he would give them to him, and he gave them.“Any time,” said he, “that you will put those slippers on you, and say ‘high-over!’ any place you have a mind to go to, you will be in it.”The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, went forward until evening came, and the end of the day, until the horse would be going under the shade of the docking, and the docking would not wait for him. The king’s son asked the short green man where should they be that night, and the short green man said that they would be in the house of the brother of the giant with whom they spent the night before. The king’s son looked from him and he saw nothing. The short green man looked from him and he saw agreat castle. He left the king’s son and his people there, and he went to the castle by himself, and he drew thecoolaya-coric, and he did not leave child with woman, foal with mare, pigeen with pig, or badger in glen, but he turned them over three times with all the sound he struck out of thecoolaya-coric. The giant came out, and he said: “I feel the smell of a melodious lying Irishman under my sod of country.”“No melodious lying Irishman am I,” said the short green man; “but my master is standing at the head of the avenue, and if he comes he shall strike the head off you.”And with that the short green man began swelling until he was the size of the castle at last. There came fear on the giant, and he said: “Is your master as big as yourself?”“He is,” said the short green man, “and bigger.”“Oh! put me in hiding; put me in hiding,” said the giant, “until your master goes; and anything you will be asking you must get it.”He took the giant with him, and he put him under the mouth of adouac, and a lock on him. He came back, and he brought the king of Ireland’s son, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, into the castle with him, and they spent that night merrily—a third of it with Fenian tales, a third of it with telling stories, and a third of it with the mild enjoyment of slumber and of true sleep.In the morning, the day on the morrow, he brought the son of the king of Ireland out, and his people with him, and left them at the head of the avenue, and he came back himself and loosed out the giant, and said to him, that he must give him the rusty sword that wasunder the corner of his bed. The giant said that he would not give that old sword to anyone, but that he would give him the sword of the three edges that never left the leavings of a blow behind it, or if it did, it would take it with the second blow.“I won’t have that,” said the short green man, “I must get the rusty sword; and if I don’t get that, I must go for my master, and he shall strike the head off you.”“It is better for me to give it to you,” said the giant, “and whatever place you will strike a blow with that sword, it will go to the sand (i.e., cut to the earth) though it were iron were before it.” Then he gave him the rusty sword.The son of the king of Ireland, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, went forward after that, until evening came, and the end of the day, until the horse was going under the shade of the docking, and the docking would not wait for him. The March wind that was behind them would not overtake them, and they would overtake the wind of March that was before them, and they were that night (arrived) in the eastern world, where was the lady.The lady asked the king of Ireland’s son what it was he wanted, and he said that he was looking for herself as wife.“You must get me,” said she, “if you loose my geasa[21]off me.”He got lodging with all his servants in the castle that evening, and in the night she came and said to him,“Here is a scissors for you, and unless you have that scissors for me to-morrow morning, the head will be struck off you.”She placed a pin of slumber under his head, and he fell into his sleep, and as soon as he did, she came and took the scissors from him and left him there. She gave the scissors to the King of Poison,[22]and she desired the king to have the scissors for her in the morning. Then she went away. When she was gone the King of Poison fell into his sleep; and when he was in his sleep the short green man came, and the old slippers on him, and the cap on his head, and the rusty sword in his hand, and wherever it was the king had left the scissors out of his hand, he found it. He gave it to the king of Ireland’s son, and when she (the lady) came in the morning, she asked; “Son of the king of Ireland, have you the scissors?”“I have,” said he.There were three scores of skulls of the people that went to look for her set on spikes round about the castle, and she thought that she would have his head on a spike along with them.On the night of the next day she came and gave him a comb, and said to him unless he had that comb for her next morning when she would come, that the head should be struck off him. She placed a pin of slumber under his head, and he fell into his sleep as he fell the night before, and she stole the comb with her. She gave the comb to the King of Poison, and said to him not to lose the comb as he lost the scissors. The short green man came with the old slippers on his feet, the old cap on his head, and the rusty sword in his hand; and the king did not see him until he came behind him and took away the comb with him.When the king of Ireland’s son rose up the next morning he began crying for the comb, which was gonefrom him. “Don’t mind that,” said the short green man: “I have it.” When she came he gave her the comb, and there was wonder on her.She came the third night, and said to the son of the king of Ireland to have for her the head of him who was combed with that comb, on the morrow morning. “Now,” said she, “there was no fear of you until this night; but if you lose it this time, your head is gone.”The pin of slumber was under his head, and he fell into his sleep. She came and stole the comb from him. She gave it to the King of Poison, and she said to him that he could not lose it unless the head should be struck off himself. The King of Poison took the comb with him, and he put it into a rock of stone and three score of locks on it, and the king sat down himself outside of the locks all, at the door of the rock, guarding it. The short green man came, and the slippers and the cap on him, and the rusty sword in his hand, and he struck a stroke on the stone rock and he opened it up, and he struck the second stroke on the King of Poison, and he struck the head off him. He brought back with him then the comb to the king’s son, and he found him awake, and weeping after the comb. “There is your comb for you,” said he; “she will come this now,[23]and she will ask you have you the comb, and tell her that you have, and the head that was combed with it, and throw her the skull.”When she came asking if he had the comb, he said he had, and the head that was combed with it, and he threw her the head of the King of Poison.When she saw the head there was great anger on her, and she told him he never would get her to marry until he got a footman (runner) to travel with her runner for three bottles of the healing-balm out of the well of thewestern world; and if her own runner should come back more quickly than his runner, she said his head was gone.She got an old hag—some witch—and she gave her three bottles. The short green man bade them give three bottles to the man who was keeping the field of hares, and they were given to him. The hag and the man started, and three bottles with each of them; and the runner of the king’s son was coming back half way on the road home, while the hag had only gone half way to the well. “Sit down,” said the hag to the foot-runner, when they met, “and take your rest, for the pair of them are married now, and don’t be breaking your heart running.” She brought over a horse’s head and a slumber-pin in it, and laid it under his head, and when he laid down his head on it he fell asleep. She spilt out the water he had and she went.The short green man thought it long until they were coming, and he said to the earman, “Lay your ear to the ground and try are they coming.”“I hear the hag a’coming,” said he; “but the footman is in his sleep, and I hear him a’snoring.”“Look from you,” said the short green man to the gunman, “till you see where the foot-runner is.”The gunman looked, and he said that the footman was in such and such a place, and a horse’s skull under his head, and he in his sleeping.“Lay your gun to your eye,” said the short green man, “and put the skull away from under his head.”He put the gun to his eye and he swept the skull from under his head. The footman woke up, and he found that the bottles which he had were empty, and it was necessary for him to return to the well again.The hag was coming then, and the foot-runner wasnot to be seen. Says the short green man to the man who was sending round the windmill with his nostril: “Rise up and try would you put back that hag.” He put his finger to his nose, and when the hag was coming he put a blast of wind under her that swept her back again. She was coming again, and he did the same thing to her. Every time she used to be coming near them he would be sending her back with the wind he would blow out of his nostril. At last he blew with the two nostrils and swept the hag back to the western world again. Then the foot-runner of the king of Ireland’s son came, and that day was won.There was great anger on the woman when she saw that her own foot-runner did not arrive first, and she said to the king’s son: “You won’t get me now till you have walked three miles, without shoes or stockings, on steel needles.” She had a road three miles long, and sharp needles of steel shaken on it as thick as the grass, and their points up. Said the short green man to the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh: “Go and blunt those.” That man went on them with one thigh, and he made stumps of them. He went on them with the double thigh, and he made powder andprashuchof them. The king of Ireland’s son came and walked the three miles, and then he had his wife gained.The couple were married then, and the short green man was to have the first kiss. The short green man took the wife with him into a chamber, and he began on her. She was full up of serpents, and the king’s son would have been killed with them when he went to sleep, but that the short green man picked them out of her.He came then to the son of the king of Ireland, and he told him: “You can go with your wife now. I am the man who was in the coffin that day, for whom you paid the ten pounds; and these people who are with you, they are servants whom God has sent to you.”The short green man and his people went away then, and the king of Ireland’s son never saw them again. He brought his wife home with him, and they spent a happy life with one another.
There was a king’s son in Ireland long ago, and he went out and took with him his gun and his dog. There was snow out. He killed a raven. The raven fell on the snow. He never saw anything whiter than the snow,or blacker than the raven’s skull, or redder than its share of blood,[19]that was a’pouring out.
He put himself undergassa[20]and obligations of the year, that he would not eat two meals at one table, or sleep two nights in one house, until he should find a woman whose hair was as black as the raven’s head, and her skin as white as the snow, and her two cheeks as red as the blood.
There was no woman in the world like that; but one woman only, and she was in the eastern world.
The day on the morrow he set out, and money was not plenty, but he took with him twenty pounds. It was not far he went until he met a funeral, and he said that it was as good for him to go three steps with the corpse. He had not the three steps walked until there came a man and left his writ down on the corpse for five pounds. There was a law in Ireland at that time that any man who had a debt upon another person (i.e., to whom another person owed a debt) that person’s people could not bury him, should he be dead, without paying his debts, or without the leave of the person to whom the dead man owed the debts. When the king of Ireland’s son saw the sons and daughters of the dead crying, and they without money to give the man, he said to himself: “It’s a great pity that these poor people have not the money,” and he put his hand in his pocket and paid the five pounds himself for the corpse. After that, he said he would go as far as the church to see it buried. Then there came another man, and left his writ on the body for five pounds more.“As I gave the first five pounds,” said the king of Erin’s son to himself, “it’s as good for me to give the other five, and to let the poor man go to the grave.” He paid the other five pounds. He had only ten pounds then.
Not far did he go until he met a short green man, and he asked him where was he going. He said that he was going looking for a woman in the eastern world. The short green man asked him did he want a boy (servant), and he said he did, and [asked] what would be the wages he would be looking for? He said: “The first kiss of his wife if he should get her.” The king of Ireland’s son said that he must get that.
Not far did they go until they met another man and his gun in his hand, and he a’levelling it at the blackbird that was in the eastern world, that he might have it for his dinner. The short green man said to him that it was as good for him to take that man into his service if he would go on service with him. The son of the king of Ireland asked him if he would come on service with him.
“I will,” said the man, “if I get my wages.”
“And what is the wages you’ll be looking for?”
“The place of a house and garden.”
“You’ll get that if my journey succeeds with me.”
The king of Ireland’s son went forward with the short green man and the gunner, and it was not far they went until a man met them, and his ear left to the ground, and he listening to the grass growing.
“It’s as good for you to take that man into your service,” said the short green man.
The king’s son asked the man whether he would come with him on service.
“I’ll come if I get the place of a house and garden.”
“You will get that from me if the thing I have in my head succeeds with me.”
The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, and the earman, went forward, and it was not far they went until they met another man, and his one foot on his shoulder, and he keeping a field of hares, without letting one hare in or out of the field. There was wonder on the king’s son, and he asked him “What was the sense of his having one foot on his shoulder like that.”
“Oh,” says he, “if I had my two feet on the ground I should be so swift that I would go out of sight.”
“Will you come on service with me?” said the king’s son.
“I’ll come if I get the place of a house and garden.”
“You’ll get that if the thing I have in my head succeeds with me.”
The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, the earman, and the footman, went forward, and it was not far they went till they came to a man and he turning round a wind-mill with one nostril, and his finger left on his nose shutting the other nostril.
“Why have you your finger on your nose?” said the king of Ireland’s son.
“Oh,” says he, “if I were to blow with the two nostrils I would sweep the mill altogether out of that up into the air.”
“Will you come on hire with me?”
“I will if I get the place of a house and garden.”
“You’ll get that if the thing I have in my head succeeds with me.”
The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, the earman, the footman, and the blowman went forward until they came to a man who was sitting on the side of the road and he a’breaking stones with one thigh, and he had no hammer or anything else.The king’s son asked him why it was he was breaking stones with his half (i.e., one) thigh.
“Oh,” says he, “if I were to strike them with the double thigh I’d make powder of them.”
“Will you hire with me?”
“I will if I get the place of a house and garden.”
“You’ll get that if the thing I have in my head succeeds with me.”
Then they all went forward together—the son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man that broke stones with the side of his thigh, and they would overtake the March wind that was before them, and the March wind that was behind them would not overtake them, until the evening came and the end of the day.
The king of Ireland’s son looked from him, and he did not see any house in which he might be that night. The short green man looked from him, and he saw a house, and there was not the top of a quill outside of it, nor the bottom of a quill inside of it, but only one quill alone, which was keeping shelter and protection on it. The king’s son said that he did not know where he should pass that night, and the short green man said that they would be in the house of the giant over there that night.
They came to the house, and the short green man drew thecoolaya-coric(pole of combat), and he did not leave child with woman, foal with mare, pigeen with pig, or badger in glen, that he did not turn over three times with the quantity of sound he knocked out of thecoolaya-coric. The giant came out, and he said: “I feel the smell of the melodious lying Irishman under (i.e., in) my little sod of country.”
“I’m no melodious lying Irishman,” said the short green man;“but my master is out there at the head of the avenue, and if he comes he will whip the head off you.” The short green man was growing big, growing big, until at last he looked as big as the castle. There came fear on the giant, and he said: “Is your master as big as you?”
“He is,” says the short green man, “and bigger.”
“Put me in hiding till morning, until your master goes,” said the giant.
Then he put the giant under lock and key, and went out to the king’s son. Then the king of Ireland’s son, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, came into the castle, and they spent that night, a third of it a’story-telling, a third of it with Fenian tales, and a third of it in mild enjoyment(?) of slumber and of true sleep.
When the day on the morrow arose, the short green man brought with him his master, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, and he left them outside at the head of the avenue, and he came back himself and took the lock off the giant. He told the giant that his master sent him back for the black cap that was under the head of his bed. The giant said that he would give him a hat that he never wore himself, but that he was ashamed to give him the old cap. The short green man said that unless he gave him the cap his master would come back and strike the head off him.
“It’s best for me to give it to you,” said the giant; “and any time at all you will put it on your head you will see everybody and nobody will see you.” He gave him the cap then, and the short green man came and gave it to the king of Ireland’s son.
They were a’going then. They would overtake theMarch wind that was before them, and the March wind that was behind them would not overtake them, going to the eastern world. When evening and the end of the day came, the king of Ireland’s son looked from him, and he did not see any house in which he might be that night. The short green man looked from him, and he saw a castle, and he said: “The giant that is in that castle is the brother of the giant with whom we were last night, and we shall be in this castle to-night.” They came to the castle, and he left the king’s son and his people at the head of the avenue, and he went to the door and pulled thecoolaya-coric, and he did not leave child with woman, foal with mare, pigeen with pig, or badger in glen, within seven miles of him, that he did not knock three turns out of them with all the sound he knocked out of thecoolaya-coric.
The giant came out, and he said, “I feel the smell of a melodious lying Irishman under my sod of country.”
“No melodious lying Irishman am I,” says the short green man; “but my master is outside at the head of the avenue, and if he comes he will whip the head off you.”
“I think you large of one mouthful, and I think you small of two mouthfuls,” said the giant.
“You won’t get me of a mouthful at all,” said the short green man, and he began swelling until he was as big as the castle. There came fear on the giant, and he said:
“Is your master as big as you?”
“He is, and bigger.”
“Hide me,” said the giant, “till morning, until your master goes, and anything you will be wanting you must get it.”
He brought the giant with him, and he put him underthe mouth of adouac(great vessel of some sort). He went out and brought in the son of the king of Ireland, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, and they spent that night, one-third of it telling Fenian stories, one-third telling tales, and one-third in the mild enjoyment of slumber and of true sleep until morning.
In the morning, the day on the morrow, the short green man brought the king’s son and his people out of the castle, and left them at the head of the avenue, and he went back himself and asked the giant for the old slippers that were left under the head of his bed.
The giant said that he would give his master a pair of boots as good as ever he wore; and what good was there in the old slippers?
The short green man said that unless he got the slippers he would go for his master to whip the head off him.
Then the giant said that he would give them to him, and he gave them.
“Any time,” said he, “that you will put those slippers on you, and say ‘high-over!’ any place you have a mind to go to, you will be in it.”
The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, went forward until evening came, and the end of the day, until the horse would be going under the shade of the docking, and the docking would not wait for him. The king’s son asked the short green man where should they be that night, and the short green man said that they would be in the house of the brother of the giant with whom they spent the night before. The king’s son looked from him and he saw nothing. The short green man looked from him and he saw agreat castle. He left the king’s son and his people there, and he went to the castle by himself, and he drew thecoolaya-coric, and he did not leave child with woman, foal with mare, pigeen with pig, or badger in glen, but he turned them over three times with all the sound he struck out of thecoolaya-coric. The giant came out, and he said: “I feel the smell of a melodious lying Irishman under my sod of country.”
“No melodious lying Irishman am I,” said the short green man; “but my master is standing at the head of the avenue, and if he comes he shall strike the head off you.”
And with that the short green man began swelling until he was the size of the castle at last. There came fear on the giant, and he said: “Is your master as big as yourself?”
“He is,” said the short green man, “and bigger.”
“Oh! put me in hiding; put me in hiding,” said the giant, “until your master goes; and anything you will be asking you must get it.”
He took the giant with him, and he put him under the mouth of adouac, and a lock on him. He came back, and he brought the king of Ireland’s son, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, into the castle with him, and they spent that night merrily—a third of it with Fenian tales, a third of it with telling stories, and a third of it with the mild enjoyment of slumber and of true sleep.
In the morning, the day on the morrow, he brought the son of the king of Ireland out, and his people with him, and left them at the head of the avenue, and he came back himself and loosed out the giant, and said to him, that he must give him the rusty sword that wasunder the corner of his bed. The giant said that he would not give that old sword to anyone, but that he would give him the sword of the three edges that never left the leavings of a blow behind it, or if it did, it would take it with the second blow.
“I won’t have that,” said the short green man, “I must get the rusty sword; and if I don’t get that, I must go for my master, and he shall strike the head off you.”
“It is better for me to give it to you,” said the giant, “and whatever place you will strike a blow with that sword, it will go to the sand (i.e., cut to the earth) though it were iron were before it.” Then he gave him the rusty sword.
The son of the king of Ireland, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, went forward after that, until evening came, and the end of the day, until the horse was going under the shade of the docking, and the docking would not wait for him. The March wind that was behind them would not overtake them, and they would overtake the wind of March that was before them, and they were that night (arrived) in the eastern world, where was the lady.
The lady asked the king of Ireland’s son what it was he wanted, and he said that he was looking for herself as wife.
“You must get me,” said she, “if you loose my geasa[21]off me.”
He got lodging with all his servants in the castle that evening, and in the night she came and said to him,“Here is a scissors for you, and unless you have that scissors for me to-morrow morning, the head will be struck off you.”
She placed a pin of slumber under his head, and he fell into his sleep, and as soon as he did, she came and took the scissors from him and left him there. She gave the scissors to the King of Poison,[22]and she desired the king to have the scissors for her in the morning. Then she went away. When she was gone the King of Poison fell into his sleep; and when he was in his sleep the short green man came, and the old slippers on him, and the cap on his head, and the rusty sword in his hand, and wherever it was the king had left the scissors out of his hand, he found it. He gave it to the king of Ireland’s son, and when she (the lady) came in the morning, she asked; “Son of the king of Ireland, have you the scissors?”
“I have,” said he.
There were three scores of skulls of the people that went to look for her set on spikes round about the castle, and she thought that she would have his head on a spike along with them.
On the night of the next day she came and gave him a comb, and said to him unless he had that comb for her next morning when she would come, that the head should be struck off him. She placed a pin of slumber under his head, and he fell into his sleep as he fell the night before, and she stole the comb with her. She gave the comb to the King of Poison, and said to him not to lose the comb as he lost the scissors. The short green man came with the old slippers on his feet, the old cap on his head, and the rusty sword in his hand; and the king did not see him until he came behind him and took away the comb with him.
When the king of Ireland’s son rose up the next morning he began crying for the comb, which was gonefrom him. “Don’t mind that,” said the short green man: “I have it.” When she came he gave her the comb, and there was wonder on her.
She came the third night, and said to the son of the king of Ireland to have for her the head of him who was combed with that comb, on the morrow morning. “Now,” said she, “there was no fear of you until this night; but if you lose it this time, your head is gone.”
The pin of slumber was under his head, and he fell into his sleep. She came and stole the comb from him. She gave it to the King of Poison, and she said to him that he could not lose it unless the head should be struck off himself. The King of Poison took the comb with him, and he put it into a rock of stone and three score of locks on it, and the king sat down himself outside of the locks all, at the door of the rock, guarding it. The short green man came, and the slippers and the cap on him, and the rusty sword in his hand, and he struck a stroke on the stone rock and he opened it up, and he struck the second stroke on the King of Poison, and he struck the head off him. He brought back with him then the comb to the king’s son, and he found him awake, and weeping after the comb. “There is your comb for you,” said he; “she will come this now,[23]and she will ask you have you the comb, and tell her that you have, and the head that was combed with it, and throw her the skull.”
When she came asking if he had the comb, he said he had, and the head that was combed with it, and he threw her the head of the King of Poison.
When she saw the head there was great anger on her, and she told him he never would get her to marry until he got a footman (runner) to travel with her runner for three bottles of the healing-balm out of the well of thewestern world; and if her own runner should come back more quickly than his runner, she said his head was gone.
She got an old hag—some witch—and she gave her three bottles. The short green man bade them give three bottles to the man who was keeping the field of hares, and they were given to him. The hag and the man started, and three bottles with each of them; and the runner of the king’s son was coming back half way on the road home, while the hag had only gone half way to the well. “Sit down,” said the hag to the foot-runner, when they met, “and take your rest, for the pair of them are married now, and don’t be breaking your heart running.” She brought over a horse’s head and a slumber-pin in it, and laid it under his head, and when he laid down his head on it he fell asleep. She spilt out the water he had and she went.
The short green man thought it long until they were coming, and he said to the earman, “Lay your ear to the ground and try are they coming.”
“I hear the hag a’coming,” said he; “but the footman is in his sleep, and I hear him a’snoring.”
“Look from you,” said the short green man to the gunman, “till you see where the foot-runner is.”
The gunman looked, and he said that the footman was in such and such a place, and a horse’s skull under his head, and he in his sleeping.
“Lay your gun to your eye,” said the short green man, “and put the skull away from under his head.”
He put the gun to his eye and he swept the skull from under his head. The footman woke up, and he found that the bottles which he had were empty, and it was necessary for him to return to the well again.
The hag was coming then, and the foot-runner wasnot to be seen. Says the short green man to the man who was sending round the windmill with his nostril: “Rise up and try would you put back that hag.” He put his finger to his nose, and when the hag was coming he put a blast of wind under her that swept her back again. She was coming again, and he did the same thing to her. Every time she used to be coming near them he would be sending her back with the wind he would blow out of his nostril. At last he blew with the two nostrils and swept the hag back to the western world again. Then the foot-runner of the king of Ireland’s son came, and that day was won.
There was great anger on the woman when she saw that her own foot-runner did not arrive first, and she said to the king’s son: “You won’t get me now till you have walked three miles, without shoes or stockings, on steel needles.” She had a road three miles long, and sharp needles of steel shaken on it as thick as the grass, and their points up. Said the short green man to the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh: “Go and blunt those.” That man went on them with one thigh, and he made stumps of them. He went on them with the double thigh, and he made powder andprashuchof them. The king of Ireland’s son came and walked the three miles, and then he had his wife gained.
The couple were married then, and the short green man was to have the first kiss. The short green man took the wife with him into a chamber, and he began on her. She was full up of serpents, and the king’s son would have been killed with them when he went to sleep, but that the short green man picked them out of her.
He came then to the son of the king of Ireland, and he told him: “You can go with your wife now. I am the man who was in the coffin that day, for whom you paid the ten pounds; and these people who are with you, they are servants whom God has sent to you.”
The short green man and his people went away then, and the king of Ireland’s son never saw them again. He brought his wife home with him, and they spent a happy life with one another.