Bruadar and Smith and Glinn,Amen, dear God, I pray,May they lie low in waves of woe,And tortures slow each day!Amen!Bruadar and Smith and GlinnHelpless and cold, I pray,Amen! I pray, O King,To see them pine away.Amen!Bruadar and Smith and GlinnMay flails of sorrow flay!Cause for lamenting, snares and caresBe theirs by night and day!Amen!Blindness come down on Smith,Palsy on Bruadar come,Amen, O King of Brightness! SmiteGlinn in his members numb,Amen!Smith in the pangs of pain,Stumbling on Bruadar's path,King of the Elements, Oh, Amen!Let loose on Glinn Thy wrath.Amen!For Bruadar gape the grave,Up-shovel for Smith the mould,Amen, O King of the Sunday! LeaveGlinn in the devil's hold.Amen!Terrors on Bruadar rain,And pain upon pain on Glinn,Amen, O King of the Stars! and SmithMay the devil be linking him.Amen!Glinn in a shaking ague,Cancer on Bruadar's tongue,Amen, O King of the Heavens! and SmithFor ever stricken dumb.Amen!Thirst but no drink for Glinn,Smith in a cloud of grief,Amen! O King of the Saints! and routBruadar without relief.Amen!Smith without child or heir,And Bruadar bare of store,Amen, O King of the Friday! TearFor Glinn his black heart's core.Amen!Bruadar with nerveless limbs,Hemp strangling Glinn's last breath,Amen, O King of the World's Light!And Smith in grips with death.Amen!Glinn stiffening for the tomb,Smith wasting to decay,Amen, O King of the Thunder's gloom!And Bruadar sick alway.Amen!Smith like a sieve of holes,Bruadar with throat decay,Amen, O King of the Orders! GlinnA buck-show every day.Amen!Hell-hounds to hunt for Smith,Glinn led to hang on high,Amen, O King of the Judgment Day!And Bruadar rotting by.Amen!Curses on Glinn, I cry,My curse on Bruadar be,Amen, O King of the Heaven's high!Let Smith in bondage be.Amen!Showers of want and blame,Reproach, and shame of face,Smite them all three, and smite again,Amen, O King of Grace!Amen!Melt, may the three, away,Bruadar and Smith and Glinn,Fall in a swift and sure decayAnd lose, but never win.Amen!May pangs pass through thee Smith,(Let the wind not take my prayer),May I see before the year is outThy heart's blood flowing there.Amen!Leave Smith no place nor land,Let Bruadar wander wide,May the Devil stand at Glinn's right hand,And Glinn to him be tied.Amen!All ill from every airtCome down upon the three,And blast them ere the year be outIn rout and misery.Amen!Glinn let misfortune bruise,Bruadar lose blood and brains,Amen, O Jesus! hear my voice,Let Smith be bent in chains.Amen!I accuse both Glinn and Bruadar,And Smith I accuse to God,May a breach and a gap be upon the three,And the Lord's avenging rod.Amen!Each one of the wicked threeWho raised against me their hand,May fire from heaven come down and slayThis day their perjured band,Amen!May none of their race survive,May God destroy them all,Each curse of the psalms in the holy booksOf the prophets upon them fall!Amen!Blight skull, and ear, and skin,And hearing, and voice, and sight,Amen! before the year be out,Blight, Son of the Virgin, blight!Amen!May my curses hot and redAnd all I have said this day,Strike the Black Peeler too,Amen, dear God, I pray!Amen!
Bruadar and Smith and Glinn,Amen, dear God, I pray,May they lie low in waves of woe,And tortures slow each day!Amen!Bruadar and Smith and GlinnHelpless and cold, I pray,Amen! I pray, O King,To see them pine away.Amen!Bruadar and Smith and GlinnMay flails of sorrow flay!Cause for lamenting, snares and caresBe theirs by night and day!Amen!Blindness come down on Smith,Palsy on Bruadar come,Amen, O King of Brightness! SmiteGlinn in his members numb,Amen!Smith in the pangs of pain,Stumbling on Bruadar's path,King of the Elements, Oh, Amen!Let loose on Glinn Thy wrath.Amen!For Bruadar gape the grave,Up-shovel for Smith the mould,Amen, O King of the Sunday! LeaveGlinn in the devil's hold.Amen!Terrors on Bruadar rain,And pain upon pain on Glinn,Amen, O King of the Stars! and SmithMay the devil be linking him.Amen!Glinn in a shaking ague,Cancer on Bruadar's tongue,Amen, O King of the Heavens! and SmithFor ever stricken dumb.Amen!Thirst but no drink for Glinn,Smith in a cloud of grief,Amen! O King of the Saints! and routBruadar without relief.Amen!Smith without child or heir,And Bruadar bare of store,Amen, O King of the Friday! TearFor Glinn his black heart's core.Amen!Bruadar with nerveless limbs,Hemp strangling Glinn's last breath,Amen, O King of the World's Light!And Smith in grips with death.Amen!Glinn stiffening for the tomb,Smith wasting to decay,Amen, O King of the Thunder's gloom!And Bruadar sick alway.Amen!Smith like a sieve of holes,Bruadar with throat decay,Amen, O King of the Orders! GlinnA buck-show every day.Amen!Hell-hounds to hunt for Smith,Glinn led to hang on high,Amen, O King of the Judgment Day!And Bruadar rotting by.Amen!Curses on Glinn, I cry,My curse on Bruadar be,Amen, O King of the Heaven's high!Let Smith in bondage be.Amen!Showers of want and blame,Reproach, and shame of face,Smite them all three, and smite again,Amen, O King of Grace!Amen!Melt, may the three, away,Bruadar and Smith and Glinn,Fall in a swift and sure decayAnd lose, but never win.Amen!May pangs pass through thee Smith,(Let the wind not take my prayer),May I see before the year is outThy heart's blood flowing there.Amen!Leave Smith no place nor land,Let Bruadar wander wide,May the Devil stand at Glinn's right hand,And Glinn to him be tied.Amen!All ill from every airtCome down upon the three,And blast them ere the year be outIn rout and misery.Amen!Glinn let misfortune bruise,Bruadar lose blood and brains,Amen, O Jesus! hear my voice,Let Smith be bent in chains.Amen!I accuse both Glinn and Bruadar,And Smith I accuse to God,May a breach and a gap be upon the three,And the Lord's avenging rod.Amen!Each one of the wicked threeWho raised against me their hand,May fire from heaven come down and slayThis day their perjured band,Amen!May none of their race survive,May God destroy them all,Each curse of the psalms in the holy booksOf the prophets upon them fall!Amen!Blight skull, and ear, and skin,And hearing, and voice, and sight,Amen! before the year be out,Blight, Son of the Virgin, blight!Amen!May my curses hot and redAnd all I have said this day,Strike the Black Peeler too,Amen, dear God, I pray!Amen!
Bruadar and Smith and Glinn,Amen, dear God, I pray,May they lie low in waves of woe,And tortures slow each day!Amen!
Bruadar and Smith and GlinnHelpless and cold, I pray,Amen! I pray, O King,To see them pine away.Amen!
Bruadar and Smith and GlinnMay flails of sorrow flay!Cause for lamenting, snares and caresBe theirs by night and day!Amen!
Blindness come down on Smith,Palsy on Bruadar come,Amen, O King of Brightness! SmiteGlinn in his members numb,Amen!
Smith in the pangs of pain,Stumbling on Bruadar's path,King of the Elements, Oh, Amen!Let loose on Glinn Thy wrath.Amen!
For Bruadar gape the grave,Up-shovel for Smith the mould,Amen, O King of the Sunday! LeaveGlinn in the devil's hold.Amen!
Terrors on Bruadar rain,And pain upon pain on Glinn,Amen, O King of the Stars! and SmithMay the devil be linking him.Amen!
Glinn in a shaking ague,Cancer on Bruadar's tongue,Amen, O King of the Heavens! and SmithFor ever stricken dumb.Amen!
Thirst but no drink for Glinn,Smith in a cloud of grief,Amen! O King of the Saints! and routBruadar without relief.Amen!
Smith without child or heir,And Bruadar bare of store,Amen, O King of the Friday! TearFor Glinn his black heart's core.Amen!
Bruadar with nerveless limbs,Hemp strangling Glinn's last breath,Amen, O King of the World's Light!And Smith in grips with death.Amen!
Glinn stiffening for the tomb,Smith wasting to decay,Amen, O King of the Thunder's gloom!And Bruadar sick alway.Amen!
Smith like a sieve of holes,Bruadar with throat decay,Amen, O King of the Orders! GlinnA buck-show every day.Amen!
Hell-hounds to hunt for Smith,Glinn led to hang on high,Amen, O King of the Judgment Day!And Bruadar rotting by.Amen!
Curses on Glinn, I cry,My curse on Bruadar be,Amen, O King of the Heaven's high!Let Smith in bondage be.Amen!
Showers of want and blame,Reproach, and shame of face,Smite them all three, and smite again,Amen, O King of Grace!Amen!
Melt, may the three, away,Bruadar and Smith and Glinn,Fall in a swift and sure decayAnd lose, but never win.Amen!
May pangs pass through thee Smith,(Let the wind not take my prayer),May I see before the year is outThy heart's blood flowing there.Amen!
Leave Smith no place nor land,Let Bruadar wander wide,May the Devil stand at Glinn's right hand,And Glinn to him be tied.Amen!
All ill from every airtCome down upon the three,And blast them ere the year be outIn rout and misery.Amen!
Glinn let misfortune bruise,Bruadar lose blood and brains,Amen, O Jesus! hear my voice,Let Smith be bent in chains.Amen!
I accuse both Glinn and Bruadar,And Smith I accuse to God,May a breach and a gap be upon the three,And the Lord's avenging rod.Amen!
Each one of the wicked threeWho raised against me their hand,May fire from heaven come down and slayThis day their perjured band,Amen!
May none of their race survive,May God destroy them all,Each curse of the psalms in the holy booksOf the prophets upon them fall!Amen!
Blight skull, and ear, and skin,And hearing, and voice, and sight,Amen! before the year be out,Blight, Son of the Virgin, blight!Amen!
May my curses hot and redAnd all I have said this day,Strike the Black Peeler too,Amen, dear God, I pray!Amen!
PREFACE.
This story was written down, word for word, and given me by my friend Mr. C. M. Hodgson, from the telling of James Mac Donagh, one of his brother tenants, near Oughterard, Co. Galway. It is obvious that the story is only a fragment, and very obscure, but it is worth preserving if only for the sake of Friar Brian's striking answer to the Devil, which would come home with particular force to all who have ever bought or sold at an Irish fair; the acceptance of "earnest" money is the clinching of the bargain, behind which you cannot go. If you receive "earnest" in the morning you may not sell again, no matter how much higher a price may have been offered you before evening. I have heard another story about Friar Brian.
THE STORY
There was a young man in it long ago, and long ago it was, and he had a great love for card-playing and drinking whiskey. He came short [at last] of money, and he did not know what he would do without money.
A man met him, and he going home in the night. "I often see you going home this road," said the man to him.
"There's no help for it now," says he; "I have no money."
"Now," says the man, "I'll give you money every time you'll want it, if you will give to me written with your own blood [a writing to say] that you are mine such and such a year, at the end of one and twenty years."
It was the Devil who was in it in the shape of a man.
He gave it to him written with his share of blood that he would be his at the end of one and twenty years.
He had money then every time ever he wanted it until the one and twenty years were almost out, and then fear began coming on him. He went to the priest and he told it [all] to him. "I could not do any good for you," says the priest. "You must go to such and such a man who is going into Ellasthrum (?) He has so much of the Devil's influence (?) that he does be able to change round the castle door any time the wind is blowing [too hard] on it."
He went to this man and he told him his story. "I wouldn't be able to do you any good," says he, "you must go to Friar Brian."
He went to Friar Brian and told him his story. The one and twenty years were all but up by this time. "Here is a stick for you," said Friar Brian, "and cut a ring [with the stick] round about the place where you'll stand. He [the Devil] won't be able to come inside the place which you'll cut out with this stick. And do you be arguing with him, and I'll be watching you both," says he. "Tell him that there must be some judgment [passed] on the case before you depart [to go away] with him."
"Very well," says the man.
When the appointed hour came the man was standing in the place he said. The Devil came to him. He told the man that the time was up and that he had to come along.
The man began to say that the time was not up. He cut a ring round about himself with the stick which Friar Brian had given him. "Well, then," says the man, says he [at last], "we'll leave it to the judgment of the first person who shall come past us."
"I am satisfied," says the Diabhac.[74]
Friar Brian came to the place where they were. "What is it all about from the beginning?" says Friar Brian. The Diabhac told him that he had this man bought for one and twenty years, and that he had to come with him to-day; "it is left to you to judge the case."
"Now," says Friar Brian, says he, "if you were to go to a fair to buy a cow or a horse, and if you gave earnest money for it, wouldn't you say that it was more just for you to have it than for the man who would come in the evening and who would buy it without paying any earnest money for it?"
"I say," says the Diabhac, "that the man who paid earnest money for it first, ought to get it."
"And now," says Friar Brian, "the Son of God paid earnest for this man before you bought him."
The Diabhac had to go away then.
Friar Brian asked then what would be done to him now when he had not got the man.
"I shall be put into the chamber which is for Friar Brian," said the Diabhac.[75]
"And now," said Friar Brian to the man whom he had saved, "I saved you now," says he, "and do you save me."
"What will I be able to do for you to save you?"
"Get the axe," says Friar Brian to him, "take the head off me," says he, "and cut me up then as fine as tobacco."[76]
He did that, and Friar Brian repented then, and he was saved.
He suffered himself to be cut as fine as tobacco on account of all he had ever done out of the way. There now, that was the end of Friar Brian.
PREFACE.
I got the following story from my friend Dr. Conor Maguire, of Claremorris. It explains how the first cat and first mouse were created. I heard many such stories explaining the origin of this thing or the other from the Red Indians in Canada, but, of course, none of them had anything to say to Christianity. It is impossible to tell the age of this legend, but it may be taken for granted that such themes were common in Pagan times just as they are amongst the Red Men to-day, and it may well be that this story in its origin is older than Christianity itself, and that a saint may have taken the place of an enchanter when the people became Christians. I think it is pretty certain that this story originally concerned only the flour—the food of man—and the mice—the enemy of the flour—and the cat—the enemy of the mice; and that the mention of the sow and her litter is a late and stupid interpolation.
THE STORY.
One day Mary and her Son were travelling the road, and they heavy and tired, and it chanced that they went past the door of a house in which there was a lock of wheat being winnowed. The Blessed Virgin went in, and she asked an alms of wheat, and the woman of the house refused her.
"Go in again to her," said the Son, "and ask her for it in the name of God."
She went, and the woman refused her again.
"Go in to her again," said He, "and ask her to give you leave to put your hand into the pail of water, and to thrust it down into the heap of wheat, and to take away with you all that shall cling to your hand."
She went, and the woman gave her leave to do that. When she came out to our Saviour, He said to her, "Do not let one grain of that go astray, for it is worth much and much."
When they had gone a bit from the house they looked back, and saw a flock of demons coming towards the house, and the Virgin Mary was frightened lest they might do harm to the woman. "Let there be no anxiety on you," said Jesus to her; "since it has chanced that she has given you all that of alms, they shall get no victory over her."
They travelled on, then, until they reached as far as a place where a man named Martin had a mill. "Go in," said our Saviour to His mother, "since it has chanced that the mill is working, and ask them to grind that little grain-eenfor you."
She went. "O musha, it's not worth while for me," said the boy who was attending the querns, "to put that littlelockeena-grinding for you." Martin heard them talking and said to the lout, "Oh, then, do it for the creature, perhaps she wants it badly," said he. He did it, and he gave her all the flour that came from it.
They travelled on then, and they were not gone any distance until the mill was full of flour as white as snow. When Martin perceived this great miracle he understoodwell that it was the Son of God and His Mother who chanced that way. He ran out and followed them, at his best, and he made across the fields until he came up with them, and there was that much haste on him in going through a scunce of hawthorns that a spike of the hawthorn met his breast and wounded him greatly. There was that much zeal in him that he did not feel the pain, but clapt his hand over it, and never stopped until he came up with them. When our Saviour beheld the wound upon poor Martin, He laid His hand upon it, and it was closed, and healed upon the spot. He said to Martin then that he was a fitting man in the presence of God; "and go home now," said He, "and place a fistful of the flour under a dish, and do not stir it until morning."
When Martin went home he did that, and he put the dish, mouth under, and the fistful of flour beneath it.
The servant girl was watching him, and thought that maybe it would be a good thing if she were to set a dish for herself in the same way, and signs on her, she set it.
On the morning of the next day Martin lifted his dish, and what should run out from under it but a fine sow and a big litter of bonhams with her. The girl lifted her own dish, and there ran out a big mouse and a clutch of young mouselets with her. They ran here and there, and Martin at once thought that they were not good, and he plucked a big mitten off his hand and flung it at the young mice, but as soon as it touched the ground it changed into a cat, and the cat began to kill the young mice. That was the beginning of cats. Martin was a saint from that time forward, but I do not know which of the saints he was of all who were called Martin.
PREFACE.
There is an Anglo-Irish proverb to the effect that "fine words butter no parsnips," and an Irish one runs "Ní bheathuigheann na briathra na bráithre," "words don't feed friars." This story is also told in other parts of the country about a cobbler. I have translated this version of it from the Lochrann "Márta agus Abrán, 1912," written down by "Giolla na lice."
THE STORY.
There was a smith in Skibbereen long ago, long before the foreigners nested there, and people used to be coming to him who did not please him too well. When he would do some little turn of work for them in the forge they used only have a "God spare you your health" for him. It's a very nice prayer, "God spare you your health," but when the smith used to go out to buy bread he used not to get it without money. Prayers, no matter how good, would not do the business for him. He used often to be half mad with them, but he used not to say anything. He was so vexed with that work one day that he took a hound he had from his house into his forge, and he tied it there with a wisp of hay under it. "Yes," said he, "we will soon see whether the prayers of these poor people will feed my hound."
The first person who came and had nothing but a "God spare you the health" in place of payment. "Right," said the smith, "let my hound have that."
Other people came to the forge, and they without any payment for the poor smith but that same fine prayer, and according as the smith used to get the prayers he used to bestow them on the hound. He used to give it no other food or drink. The prayers were the hound's food, but they made poor meat for him, for the smith found him dead in the morning after his being dependent on the feeding of the prayers.
A man came to the forge that day and he had a couple of hinges and a couple of reaping hooks, that were not too strong, to be fixed. The smith did the work, and the man was thinking of going, "God spare you the health," said he. Instead of the answer "Amen! Lord! and you likewise"; what the smith did was to take the man by the shoulder. "Look over in the corner," said he; "my hound is dead, and if prayers could feed it, it ought to be fat and strong. I have given every prayer I got this while back to that hound there, but they have not done the business for it. And it's harder to feed a man than a hound. Do you understand, my good man?"
He did apparently, for he put his hand in his pocket. "What's the cost?" said he.
It was short until all the neighbours heard talk of the death of that hound of the smith's, and much oftener from that out used their tune to be, "What's the cost, Dermot?" than "God spare you your health."
PREFACE.
This story of Teig (in the ballad "Tomaus" O'Cahan or O'Kane) and the corpse, was told to me nearly thirty years ago by an old man from near Fenagh in the County Leitrim, whom I met paying his rent to a relative of mine in the town of Mohill. He must have been one of the last Irish speakers in that district. There does not appear to be a trace of Irish left there now. I did not write down the story from his lips, but wrote it out afterwards from memory. I took down the ballad, however, from his recitation so far as he had it; and I afterwards came across a written version of it in the handwriting of Nicholas O'Kearney, of the County Louth. The ballad as written by him coincides pretty closely with my version, but breaks off apparently in the middle, as though O'Kearney had not time to finish the rest of it. The first twenty-three verses are from O'Kearney's version, the rest are from mine. O'Kearney remarks in English at the top of the page: "The following fragment is one of our wild fairy adventures versified ... the fragment is preserved on account of the singular wildness of the air."
The only other Irish poem nearly in the same metre which I know of is a poem by Cormac Dall, or Cormac Common, which my friend Dr. Maguire, of Claremorris, took down the other day from the recitation of an old man.
It is on Halloweve night that one is especially liable toadventures like those of Tomaus O'Cahan, but it is well known that all gamblers coming home at night are exposed to such perils.
THE STORY.
There was once a grown-up lad in the County Leitrim, and he was strong and lively, and the son of a rich farmer. His father had plenty of money, and he did not spare it on the son. Accordingly, when the boy grew up he liked sport better than work, and, as his father had no other children, he loved this one so much that he allowed him to do in everything just as it pleased himself. He was very extravagant, and he used to scatter the gold money as another person would scatter the white. He was seldom to be found at home, but if there was a fair, or a race, or a gathering within ten miles of him, you were dead certain to find him there. And he seldom spent a night in his father's house, but he used to be always out rambling, and, like Shawn Bwee long ago, there was
"grádh gach cailín i mbrollach a léine,"
"grádh gach cailín i mbrollach a léine,"
"grádh gach cailín i mbrollach a léine,"
"the love of every girl in the breast of his shirt," and it's many's the kiss he got and he gave, for he was very handsome, and there wasn't a girl in the country but would fall in love with him, only for him to fasten his two eyes on her, and it was for that someone made this rann on him—
"Feuch an rógaire 'g iarraidh póige,Ni h-iongantas mór é a bheith mar atáAg leanamhaint a gcómhnuidhe d'arnán na graineoigeAnuas 's aníos 's nna chodladh 'sa lá."i.e.—"Look at the rogue, it's for kisses he's rambling,It isn't much wonder, for that was his way;He's like an old hedgehog, at night he'll be scramblingFrom this place to that, but he'll sleep in the day."
"Feuch an rógaire 'g iarraidh póige,Ni h-iongantas mór é a bheith mar atáAg leanamhaint a gcómhnuidhe d'arnán na graineoigeAnuas 's aníos 's nna chodladh 'sa lá."i.e.—"Look at the rogue, it's for kisses he's rambling,It isn't much wonder, for that was his way;He's like an old hedgehog, at night he'll be scramblingFrom this place to that, but he'll sleep in the day."
"Feuch an rógaire 'g iarraidh póige,Ni h-iongantas mór é a bheith mar atáAg leanamhaint a gcómhnuidhe d'arnán na graineoigeAnuas 's aníos 's nna chodladh 'sa lá."
i.e.—"Look at the rogue, it's for kisses he's rambling,It isn't much wonder, for that was his way;He's like an old hedgehog, at night he'll be scramblingFrom this place to that, but he'll sleep in the day."
At last he became very wild and unruly. He wasn't to be seen day nor night in his father's house, but always rambling or going on his kailee (night-visit) from place to place and from house to house, so that the old people used to shake their heads and say to one another, "it's easy seen what will happen to the land when the old man dies; his son will run through it in a year, and it won't stand him that long itself."
He used to be always gambling and card-playing and drinking, but his father never minded his bad habits, and never punished him. But it happened one day that the old man was told that the son had ruined the character of a girl in the neighbourhood, and he was greatly angry, and he called the son to him, and said to him, quietly and sensibly—"Avic," says he, "you know I loved you greatly up to this, and I never stopped you from doing your choice thing whatever it was, and I kept plenty of money with you, and I always hoped to leave you the house and land and all I had, after myself would be gone; but I heard a story of you to-day that has disgusted me with you. I cannot tell you the grief that I felt when I heard such a thing of you, and I tell you now plainly that unless you marry that girl I'll leave house and land and everything to my brother's son. I never could leave it to anyone who would make so bad a use of it as you do yourself, deceiving women and coaxing girls. Settle with yourself now whether you'll marry that girl and get my land as a fortune with her, or refuse to marry her and give up all that was coming to you; and tell me in the morning which of the two things you have chosen."
"Och! murdher sheery! father, you wouldn't saythat to me, and I such a good son as I am. Who told you I wouldn't marry the girl?" says he.
But the father was gone, and the lad knew well enough that he would keep his word too; and he was greatly troubled in his mind, for as quiet and as kind as the father was, he never went back of a word that he had once said, and there wasn't another man in the country who was harder to bend that he was.
The boy did not know rightly what to do. He was in love with the girl indeed, and he hoped to marry her some time or other, but he would much sooner have remained another while as he was, and follow on at his old tricks—drinking, sporting, and playing cards; and, along with that, he was angry that his father should order him to marry and should threaten him if he did not do it.
"Isn't my father a great fool," says he to himself. "I was ready enough, and only too anxious, to marry Mary; and now since he threatened me, faith I've a great mind to let it go another while."
His mind was so much excited that he remained between two notions as to what he should do. He walked out into the night at last to cool his heated blood, and went on to the road. He lit a pipe, and as the night was fine he walked and walked on, until the quick pace made him begin to forget his trouble. The night was bright and the moon half full. There was not a breath of wind blowing, and the air was calm and mild. He walked on for nearly three hours, when he suddenly remembered that it was late in the night, and time for him to turn. "Musha! I think I forgot myself," says he; "it must be near twelve o'clock now."
The word was hardly out of his mouth when he heard the sound of many voices and the trampling of feet on the road before him. "I don't know who can be out so late at night as this, and on such a lonely road," said he to himself.
He stood listening and he heard the voices of many people talking through other, but he could not understand what they were saying. "Oh, wirra!" says he, "I'm afraid. It's not Irish or English they have; it can't be they're Frenchmen!" He went on a couple of yards further, and he saw well enough by the light of the moon a band of little people coming towards him, and they were carrying something big and heavy with them. "Oh, murdher!" says he to himself, "sure it can't be that they're the good people that's in it!" Every rib of hair that was on his head stood up, and there fell a shaking on his bones, for he saw that they were coming to him fast.
He looked at them again, and perceived that there were about twenty little men in it, and there was not a man at all of them higher than about three feet or three feet and a half, and some of them were grey, and seemed very old. He looked again, but he could not make out what was the heavy thing they were carrying until they came up to him, and then they all stood round about him. They threw the heavy thing down on the road, and he saw on the spot that it was a dead body.
He became as cold as the Death, and there was not a drop of blood running in his veins when an old little grey maneencame up to him and said, "Isn't it lucky we met you, Teig O'Kane?"
Poor Teig could not bring out a word at all, nor openhis lips, if he were to get the world for it, and so he gave no answer.
"Teig O'Kane," said the little grey man again, "isn't it timely you met us?"
Teig could not answer him.
"Teig O'Kane," says he, "the third time, isn't it lucky and timely that we met you?"
But Teig remained silent, for he was afraid to return an answer, and his tongue was as if it was tied to the roof of his mouth.
The little grey man turned to his companions, and there was joy in his bright little eye. "And now," says he, "Teig O'Kane hasn't a word, we can do with him what we please. Teig, Teig," says he, "you're living a bad life, and we can make a slave of you now, and you cannot withstand us, for there's no use in trying to go against us. Lift that corpse."
Teig was so frightened that he was only able to utter the two words, "I won't;" for as frightened as he was, he was obstinate and stiff, the same as ever.
"Teig O'Kane won't lift the corpse," said the little maneen, with a wicked little laugh, for all the world like the breaking of a lock of dry kippeens, and with a little harsh voice like the striking of a cracked bell. "Teig O'Kane won't lift the corpse—make him lift it;" and before the word was out of his mouth they had all gathered round poor Teig, and they all talking and laughing through other.
Teig tried to run from them, but they followed him, and a man of them stretched out his foot before him as he ran, so that Teig was thrown in a heap on the road. Thenbefore he could rise up, the fairies caught him, some by the hands and some by the feet, and they held him tight, in a way that he could not stir, with his face against the ground. Six or seven of them raised the body then, and pulled it over to him, and left it down on his back. The breast of the corpse was squeezed against Teig's back and shoulders, and the arms of the corpse were thrown around Teig's neck. Then they stood back from him a couple of yards, and let him get up. He rose, foaming at the mouth and cursing, and he shook himself, thinking to throw the corpse off his back. But his fear and his wonder were great when he found that the two arms had a tight hold round his own neck, and that the two legs were squeezing his hips firmly, and that, however strongly he tried, he could not throw it off, any more than a horse can throw off its saddle. He was terribly frightened then, and he thought he was lost. "Ochone! for ever," said he to himself, "it's the bad life I'm leading that has given the good people this power over me. I promise to God and Mary, Peter and Paul, Patrick and Bridget, that I'll mend my ways for as long as I have to live, if I come clear out of this danger—and I'll marry the girl."
The little grey man came up to him again, and said he to him, "Now, Teigeen," says he, "you didn't lift the body when I told you to lift it, and see how you were made to lift it; perhaps when I tell you to bury it you won't bury it until you're made to bury it!"
"Anything at all that I can do for your honour," said Teig, "I'll do it," for he was getting sense already, and if it had not been for the great fear that was on him, he never would have let that civil word slip out of his mouth.
The little man laughed a sort of laugh again. "You're getting quiet now, Teig," says he. "I'll go bail but you'll be quiet enough before I'm done with you. Listen to me now, Teig O'Kane, and if you don't obey me in all I'm telling you to do, you'll repent it. You must carry with you this corpse that is on your back to Teampoll-Démuis, and you must bring it into the church with you, and make a grave for it in the very middle of the church, and you must raise up the flags and put them down again the very same way, and you must carry the clay out of the church and leave the place as it was when you came, so that no one could know that there had been anything changed. But that's not all. Maybe that the body won't be allowed to be buried in that church; perhaps some other man has the bed, and, if so, it's likely he won't share it with this one. If you don't get leave to bury it in Teampoll-Démuis, you must carry it to Carrick-fhad-vic-Oruis, and bury it in the churchyard there; and if you don't get it into that place, take it with you to Teampoll-Ronáin; and if that churchyard is closed on you, take it to Imlogue-Fhada; and if you're not able to bury it there, you've no more to do than to take it to Kill-Breedya, and you can bury it there without hindrance. I cannot tell you what one of those churches is the one where you will have leave to bury that corpse under the clay, but I know that it will be allowed you to bury him at some church or other of them. If you do this work rightly, we will be thankful to you, and you will have no cause to grieve; but if you are slow or lazy, believe me we shall take satisfaction of you."
When the grey little man had done speaking, his comrades laughed and clapped their hands together. "Glic! Glic! Hwee! Hwee!" they all cried; "go on, go on, you have eight hours before you till daybreak, and if you haven't this man buried before the sun rises, you're lost." They struck a fist and a foot behind on him, and drove him on in the road. He was obliged to walk, and to walk fast, for they gave him no rest.
He thought himself that there was not a wet path, or a dirty boreen, or a crooked contrary road in the whole county that he had not walked that night. The night was at times very dark, and whenever there would come a cloud across the moon he could see nothing, and then he used often to fall. Sometimes he was hurt, and sometimes he escaped, but he was obliged always to rise on the moment and to hurry on. Sometimes the moon would break out clearly, and then he would look behind him and see the little people following at his back. And he heard them speaking amongst themselves, talking and crying out, and screaming like a flock of sea-gulls; and if he was to save his soul he never understood as much as one word of what they were saying.
He did not know how far he had walked, when at last one of them cried out to him, "Stop here!" He stood, and they all gathered round him.
"Do you see those withered trees over there?" says the old boy to him again. "Teampoll-Démuis is among those trees, and you must go in there by yourself, for we cannot follow you or go with you. We must remain here. Go on boldly."
Teig looked from him, and he saw a high wall that was in places half broken down, and an old grey church on theinside of the wall, and about a dozen withered old trees scattered here and there round it. There was neither leaf nor twig on any of them, but their bare crooked branches were stretched out like the arms of an angry man when he threatens. He had no help for it, but was obliged to go forward. He was a couple of hundred yards from the church, but he walked on, and never looked behind him until he came to the gate of the churchyard. The old gate was thrown down, and he had no difficulty in entering. He turned then to see if any of the little people were following him, but there came a cloud over the moon, and the night became so dark that he could see nothing. He went into the churchyard, and he walked up the old grassy pathway leading to the church. When he reached the door, he found it locked. The door was large and strong, and he did not know what to do. At last he drew out his knife with difficulty, and stuck it in the wood to try if it were not rotten, but it was not.
"Now," said he to himself, "I have no more to do; the door is shut, and I can't open it."
Before the words were rightly shaped in his own mind, a voice in his ear said to him, "Search for the key on the top of the door, or on the wall."
He started. "Who is that speaking to me?" he cried, turning round; but he saw no one. The voice said in his ear again, "Search for the key on the top of the door, or on the wall."
"What's that?" said he, and the sweat running from his forehead; "who spoke to me?"
"It's I, the corpse, that spoke to you!" said the voice.
"Can you talk?" said Teig.
"Now and again," said the corpse.
Teig searched for the key, and he found it on the top of the wall. He was too much frightened to say any more, but he opened the door wide, and as quickly as he could, and he went in, with the corpse on his back. It was as dark as pitch inside, and poor Teig began to shake and tremble.
"Light the candle," said the corpse.
Teig put his hand in his pocket, as well as he was able, and drew out a flint and steel. He struck a spark out of it, and lit a burnt rag he had in his pocket. He blew it until it made a flame, and he looked round him. The church was very ancient, and part of the wall was broken down. The windows were blown in or cracked, and the timber of the seats was rotten. There were six or seven old iron candlesticks left there still, and in one of these candlesticks Teig found the stump of an old candle, and he lit it. He was still looking round him on the strange and horrid place in which he found himself, when the cold corpse whispered in his ear, "Bury me now, bury me now; there is a spade and turn the ground." Teig looked from him, and he saw a spade lying beside the altar. He took it up, and he placed the blade under a flag that was in the middle of the aisle, and leaning all his weight on the handle of the spade, he raised it. When the first flag was raised it was not hard to raise the others near it, and he moved three or four of them out of their places. The clay that was under them was soft and easy to dig, but he had not thrown up more than three or four shovelfuls, when he felt the iron touch something soft like flesh. He threw up three or four more shovelfuls from aroundit, and then he saw that it was another body that was buried in the same place.
"I am afraid I'll never be allowed to bury the two bodies in the same hole," said Teig, in his own mind. "You corpse, there on my back," says he, "will you be satisfied if I bury you down here?" But the corpse never answered him a word.
"That's a good sign," said Teig to himself. "Maybe he's getting quiet," and he thrust the spade down in the earth again. Perhaps he hurt the flesh of the other body, for the dead man that was buried there stood up in the grave, and shouted an awful shout. "Hoo! hoo!! hoo!!! Go! go!! go!!! or you're a dead, dead, dead man!" And then he fell back in the grave again. Teig said afterwards, that of all the wonderful things he saw that night, that was the most awful to him. His hair stood upright on his head like the bristles of a pig, the cold sweat ran off his face, and then came a tremor over all his bones, until he thought that he must fall.
But after a while he became bolder, when he saw that the second corpse remained lying quietly there, and he threw in the clay on it again, and he smoothed it overhead, and he laid down the flags carefully as they had been before. "It can't be that he'll rise up any more," said he.
He went down the aisle a little further, and drew near to the door, and began raising the flags again, looking for another bed for the corpse on his back. He took up three or four flags and put them aside, and then he dug the clay. He was not long digging until he laid bare an old woman without a thread upon her but her shirt. She was morelively than the first corpse, for he had scarcely taken any of the clay away from about her, when she sat up and began to cry, "Ho, you bodach (clown)! Ha, you bodach! Where has he been that he got no bed?"
Poor Teig drew back, and when she found that she was getting no answer, she closed her eyes gently, lost her vigour, and fell back quietly and slowly under the clay. Teig did to her as he had done to the man—he threw the clay back on her, and left the flags down overhead.
He began digging again near the door, but before he had thrown up more than a couple of shovelfuls, he noticed a man's hand laid bare by the spade. "By my soul, I'll go no further, then," said he to himself; "what use is it for me?" And he threw the clay in again on it, and settled the flags as they had been before.
He left the church then, and his heart was heavy enough, but he shut the door and locked it, and left the key where he found it. He sat down on a tombstone that was near the door, and began thinking. He was in great doubt what he should do. He laid his face between his two hands, and cried for grief and fatigue, since he was dead certain at this time that he never would come home alive. He made another attempt to loosen the hands of the corpse that were squeezed round his neck, but they were as tight as if they were clamped; and the more he tried to loosen them, the tighter they squeezed him. He was going to sit down once more, when the cold, horrid lips of the dead man said to him, "Carrick-fhad-vic-Oruis," and he remembered the command of the good people to bring the corpse with him to that place if he should be unable to bury it where he had been.
He rose up and looked about him. "I don't know the way," he said.
As soon as he had uttered the words, the corpse stretched out suddenly its left hand that had been tightened round his neck, and kept it pointing out, showing him the road he ought to follow. Teig went in the direction that the fingers were stretched, and passed out of the churchyard. He found himself on an old rutty, stony road, and he stood still again, not knowing where to turn. The corpse stretched out its bony hand a second time, and pointed out to him another road—not the road by which he had come when approaching the old church. Teig followed that road, and whenever he came to a path or road meeting it, the corpse always stretched out its hand and pointed with its fingers, showing him the way he was to take.
Many was the cross-road he turned down, and many was the crooked boreen he walked, until he saw from him an old burying-ground at last, beside the road, but there was neither church nor chapel nor any other building in it. The corpse squeezed him tightly, and he stood. "Bury me, bury me in the burying-ground," said the voice.
Teig drew over towards the old burying-place, and he was not more than about twenty yards from it, when, raising his eyes, he saw hundreds and hundreds of ghosts—men, women, and children—sitting on the top of the wall round about, or standing on the inside of it, or running backwards and forwards, and pointing at him, while he could see their mouths opening and shutting as if they were speaking, though he heard no word, nor any sound amongst them at all.
He was afraid to go forward, so he stood where he was, and the moment he stood, all the ghosts became quiet, and ceased moving. Then Teig understood that it was trying to keep him from going in that they were. He walked a couple of yards forwards, and immediately the whole crowd rushed together towards the spot to which he was moving, and they stood so thickly together that it seemed to him that he never could break through them, even though he had a mind to try. But he had no mind to try it. He went back broken and disspirited, and when he had gone a couple of hundred yards from the burying-ground, he stood again, for he did not know what way he was to go. He heard the voice of the corpse in his ear, saying "Teampoll-Ronáin," and the skinny hand was stretched out again, pointing him out the road.
As tired as he was, he had to walk, and the road was neither short nor even. The night was darker than ever, and it was difficult to make his way. Many was the toss he got, and many a bruise they left on his body. At last he saw Teampoll-Ronáin from him in the distance, standing in the middle of the burying-ground. He moved over towards it, and thought he was all right and safe, when he saw no ghosts nor anything else on the wall, and he thought he would never be hindered now from leaving his load off him at last. He moved over to the gate, but as he was passing in, he tripped on the threshold. Before he could recover himself, something that he could not see seized him by the neck, by the hands, and by the feet, and bruised him, and shook him up, and choked him, until he was nearly dead; and at last he was lifted up, and carried more than a hundred yards from that place, andthen thrown down in an old dyke, with the corpse still clinging to him.
He rose up, bruised and sore, but feared to go near the place again, for he had seen nothing the time he was thrown down and carried away.
"You, corpse up on my back," said he, "shall I go over again to the churchyard?"—but the corpse never answered him. "That's a sign you don't wish me to try it again," said Teig.
He was now in great doubt as to what he ought to do, when the corpse spoke in his ear, and said "Imlogue-Fhada."
"Oh, murder!" said Teig, "must I bring you there? If you keep me long walking like this, I tell you I'll fall under you."
He went on, however, in the direction the corpse pointed out to him. He could not have told, himself, how long he had been going, when the dead man behind suddenly squeezed him, and said, "There!"
Teig looked from him, and he saw a little low wall, that was so broken down in places that it was no wall at all. It was in a great wide field, in from the road; and only for three or four great stones at the corners, that were more like rocks than stones, there was nothing to show that there was either graveyard or burying-ground there.
"Is this Imlogue-Fhada? Shall I bury you here?" said Teig.
"Yes," said the voice.
"But I see no grave or gravestone, only this pile of stones," said Teig.
The corpse did not answer, but stretched out its long
fleshless hand, to show Teig the direction in which he was to go. Teig went on accordingly, but he was greatly terrified, for he remembered what had happened to him at the last place. He went on, "with his heart in his mouth," as he said himself afterwards; but when he came to within fifteen or twenty yards of the little low square wall, there broke out a flash of lightning, bright yellow and red, with blue streaks in it, and went round about the wall in one course, and it swept by as fast as the swallow in the clouds, and the longer Teig remained looking at it the faster it went, till at last it became like a bright ring of flame round the old graveyard, which no one could pass without being burnt by it. Teig never saw, from the time he was born, and never saw afterwards, so wonderful or so splendid a sight as that was. Round went the flame, white and yellow and blue sparks leaping out from it as it went, and although at first it had been no more than a thin, narrow line, it increased slowly until it was at last a great broad band, and it was continually getting broader and higher, and throwing out more brilliant sparks, till there was never a colour on the ridge of the earth that was not to be seen in that fire; and lightning never shone and flame never flamed that was so shining and so bright as that.
Teig was amazed; he was half dead with fatigue, and he had no courage left to approach the wall. There fell a mist over his eyes, and there came a soorawn in his head, and he was obliged to sit down upon a great stone to recover himself. He could see nothing but the light, and he could hear nothing but the whirr of it as it shot round the paddock faster than a flash of lightning.As he sat there on the stone, the voice whispered once more in his ear, "Kill-Breedya"; and the dead man squeezed him so tightly that he cried out. He rose again, sick, tired, and trembling, and went forwards as he was directed. The wind was cold, and the road was bad, and the load upon his back was heavy, and the night was dark, and he himself was nearly worn out, and if he had had very much farther to go he must have fallen dead under his burden.
At last the corpse stretched out its hand, and said to him, "Bury me there."
"This is the last burying-place," said Teig in his own mind; "and the little grey man said I'd be allowed to bury him in some of them, so it must be this; it can't be but they'll let him in here."
The first faint streak of the ring of day was appearing in the east, and the clouds were beginning to catch fire, but it was darker than ever, for the moon was set, and there were no stars.
"Make haste, make haste!" said the corpse; and Teig hurried forward as well as he could to the graveyard, which was a little place on a bare hill, with only a few graves in it. He walked boldly in through the open gate, and nothing touched him, nor did he either hear or see anything. He came to the middle of the ground, and then stood up and looked round him for a spade or shovel to make a grave. As he was turning round and searching, he suddenly perceived what startled him greatly—a newly-dug grave right before him. He moved over to it, and looked down, and there at the bottom he saw a black coffin. He clambered down into the hole and lifted the lid, and found that (as hethought it would be) the coffin was empty. He had hardly mounted up out of the hole, and was standing on the brink, when the corpse, which had clung to him for more than eight hours, suddenly relaxed its hold of his neck, and loosened its shins from round his hips, and sank down with a plop into the open coffin.
Teig fell down on his two knees at the brink of the grave, and gave thanks to God. He made no delay then, but pressed down the coffin lid in its place, and threw in the clay over it with his two hands; and when the grave was filled up, he stamped and leaped on it with his feet, until it was firm and hard, and then he left the place.
The sun was fast rising as he finished his work, and the first thing he did was to return to the road, and look out for a house to rest himself in. He found an inn at last, and lay down upon a bed there, and slept till night. Then he rose up and ate a little, and fell asleep again till morning. When he awoke in the morning he hired a horse and rode home. He was more than twenty-six miles from home where he was, and he had come all that way with the dead body on his back in one night.
All the people at his own home thought that he must have left the country, and they rejoiced greatly when they saw him come back. Everyone began asking him where he had been, but he would not tell anyone except his father.
He was a changed man from that day. He never drank too much; he never lost his money over cards; and especially he would not take the world and be out late by himself of a dark night.He was not a fortnight at home until he married Mary, the girl he had been in love with; and it's at their wedding the sport was, and it's he was the happy man from that day forward, and it's all I wish that we may be as happy as he was.