The following tales are some of those which we contributed to the Irish Fairy Legends. Subjoined is a selection from the verses which we have written on various occasions, chiefly to oblige our lady-friends. They are inserted merely to show that the writer could compose well-rimed stanzas, while he lays no claim whatever to the title of poet.

The Harvest Dinner.

It was Monday, and a fine October morning. The sun had been some time above the mountains, and the hoar frost and the dew-drops on the gossamers[599] were glittering in the light, when Thady Byrne, on coming in to get his breakfast, saw his neighbour Paddy Cavenagh, who lived on the other side of the road, at his own door tying his brogues.

"A good morrow to you, Paddy, honey," said Thady Byrne.

"Good morrow, kindly, Thady," said Paddy.

"Why, thin, Paddy, avick, it isn't your airly risin', anyhow that 'ill do you any harm this mornin'."

"It's thrue enough for you, Thady Byrne," answered Paddy casting a look up at the sky; "for I b'leeve it's purty late in the day. But I was up, you see, murdherin' late last night."

"To be shure, thin, Paddy, it was up at the great dinner, yisterday, above at the big house you wor."

"Ay was it; an' a rattlin' fine dinner we had uv it, too."

"Why, thin, Paddy, agrah, what's to ail you now, but you'd jist sit yourself down here on this piece o' green sod, an' tell us all about it from beginnin' to ind."

"Niver say the word twist, man; I'll give you the whole full an' thrue account uv it, an' welcome."

They sat down on the roadside, and Paddy thus began.

"Well, you see, Thady, we'd a powerful great harvist uv it, you know, this year, an' the min all worked like jewels, as they are; an' the masther was in great sperits, an' he promis'd he'd give us all a grand dinner whin the dhrawin'-in was over, an' the corn all safe in the haggard. So this last week, you see, crown'd the business; an' on Satherday night the last shafe was nately tied an' sint in to the misthress, an' everything was finisht, all to the tatchin' o' the ricks. Well, you see, jist as Larry Toole was come down from headin' the last rick, an' we war takin' away the laddher, out comes the misthress herself—long life to her—by the light o' the moon; an', 'Boys,' sez she, 'yez hav' finish'd the harvist bravely, an' I invite yez all to dinner here to-morrow; an' if yez come airly, yez 'ill git mass in the big hall, widout the throuble o' goin' up all the ways to the chapel for it.'"

"Why, thin, did she raally say so, Paddy?"

"That she did—the divil the word o' lie in it."

"Well, go on."

"Well, if we didn't set up a shout for her, it's no matther!"

"Ay, an' a good right yez had too, Paddy, avick."

"Well, you see, yistherday mornin'—which, God be praised, was as fine a day as iver come out of the sky—whin I tuk the beard off o' me, Tom Conner an' I set off together for the big house. An' I don't know, Thady, whether it was the fineness o' the day, or the thoughts o' the good dinner we wor to have, or the kindness o' the misthress, that med my heart so light, but I filt, anyhow, as gay as any skylark. Well, whin we got up to the house, there was every one o' the people that's in the work, min, women and childher, all come together in the yard; an' a purty sight it was to luk upon, Thady: they wor all so nate an so clane, an' so happy."

"Thrue for you, Paddy, agrah; an' a fine thing it is, too, to work wid a raal gintleman like the masther. But till us, avick, how was it the misthress conthrived to get the mass for yez: shure Father Miley himself, or the codjuthor, didn't come over."

"No, in troth didn't they, but the misthress managed it betther nor all that. You see, Thady, there's a priest, an ould friend o' the family's, one Father Mulhall's on a visit, this fortnight past, up at the big house. He's as gay a little man as iver spoke, only he's a little too fond o' the dhrop,—the more's the pity,—an' it's whispered about among the sarvints that by manes uv it he lost a parish he had down the counthry; an' he was an his way up to Dublin, whin he stopt to spind a few days wid his ould frinds the masther an' misthress.

"Well, you see, the misthress on Satherday, widout sayin' a single word uv it to any livin' sowl, writes a letther wid her own hand, an' sinds Tom Freen off wid it to Father Miley, to ax him for a loan o' the vistmints. Father Miley, you know's a mighty ginteel man intirely, and one that likes to obleege the quolity in anything that doesn't go agin' his juty; an' glad he was to hav' it in his power to sarve the misthress; an' he sint off the vistmints wid all his heart an' sowl an' as civil a letther, Tommy Freen says, for he hard the misthress readin' it, as ivir was pinned."

"Well, there was an alther, you see, got up in the big hall, jist bechune the two doors—if ivir you wor in it—ladin' into the store-room, an' the room the childher sleep in; and whin iviry thing was ready we all come in, an' the priest gev' us as good mass iviry taste as if we wor up at the chapel for it. The misthress an' all the family attinded thimsilves, an' they stud jist widinside o' the parlour-door; and it was raaly surprisin', Thady, to see how dacently they behaved thimsilves. If they wor all their lives goin' to chapel they cudn't have behaved thimsilves betther nor they did."

"Ay, Paddy, mavourneen; I'll be bail they didn't skit and laugh the way some people would be doin'."

"Laugh! not thimsilves, indeed. They'd more manners, if nothin' else, nor to do that. Well, to go an wid my story: whin the mass was ovir we wint sthrollin' about the lawn an' place till three o'clock come, an' thin you see the big bell rung out for dinner, an' may be it wasn't we that wor glad to hear it. So away wid us to the long barn where the dinner was laid out; an' 'pon my conscience, Thady Byrne, there's not one word o' lie in what I'm goin' to tell you; but at the sight o' so much vittles iviry taste uv appetite in the world lift me, an' I thought I'd ha' fainted down an the ground that was undher me. There was, you see, two rows o' long tables laid the whole linth o' the barn, an' table cloths spred upon iviry inch o' them; an' there was rounds o' beef, an' rumps o' beef, an' ribs o' beef, both biled an' roast, an' there was ligs o' mootton, and han's o' pork, and pieces o' fine bacon, an' there was cabbage an' pratees to no ind, an' a knife an' fork laid for iviry body; an' barrils o' beer an' porther, with the cocks in iviry one o' them, an' moogs an' porringirs in hapes. In all my born days, Thady dear, I nivir laid eyes on sich a load o' vittles."

"By the powers o' dilph! Paddy, ahaygar, an' it was a grand sight shure enough. Tare an' ayjirs! what ill loock I had not to be in the work this year! But go on, agra."

"Well, you see, the masther himself stud up at the ind uv one o' the tables, an' coot up a fine piece o' the beef for us; and right forenint him at the other ind, sot ould Paddy Byrne, for, though you know he is a farmer himself, yet the misthress is so fond uv him—he is sich a mighty dacint man—that she would by all manner o' manes hav' him there. Then the priest was at the head o' th' other table, an' said grace for us, an' thin fill to slashin' up another piece o' the beef for us: and forenint him sot Jim Murray the stchewart; an' shure enough, Thady, it was oursilves that played away in grand style at the beef an' the mootton, an' the cabbage, an' all th' other fine things. An' there was Tom Freen, and all th' other sarvints waitin' upon us an' handin' us dhrink, jist as if we wor so many grand gintlemin that wor dinin' wid the masther. Well, you see, whin we wor about half doon, in walks the misthress hursilf, an' the young masther, an' the young ladies, an' the ladies from Dublin that's down on a visit wid the misthress, jist, as she said, to see that we wor happy and merry ovir our dinner; an' thin, Thady, you see, widout anybody sayin' a single word, we all stud up like one man, an' iviry man an' boy wid his full porringer o' porther in his hand dhrank long life an' success to the misthress and masther an' iviry one o' the family. I don't know for others, Thady, but for mysilf, I nivir said a prayer in all my life more from the heart; and a good right I had, shure, and iviry one that was there, too; for, to say nothin' o' the dinner, is there the likes uv her in the whole side o' the counthry for goodness to the poor, whethir they're sick or they're well. Wouldn't I mysilf, if it worn't but for her, be a lone an' desolate man this blissed day?"

"It's thrue for you, avick, for she brought Judy through it betther nor any docther o' thim all."

"Well, to make a long story short, we et, an' we dhrank, an' we laughed, an' we talked, till we wor tirt, an' as soon as it grew dusk, we wor all called agin into the hall: an' there, you see, the misthress had got ovir Tim Connel, the blind piper, an' had sint for all the women that could come, an' the cook had tay for thim down below in the kitchen; an' they come up to the hall, an' there was chairs set round it for us all to sit upon, an' the misthress come out o' the parlour, an' 'Boys,' says she, 'I hope yez med a good dinnir, an' I've bin thinkin' uv yez, you see, an' I've got yez plinty o' partnirs, an' it's your own faults if yez don't spind a pleasint evinin'.' So wid that we set up another shout for the misthress, an' Tim sthruck up, an' the masther tuk out Nilly Mooney into the middle of the flure to dance a jig, and it was they that futted it nately. Thin the masther called out Dinny Moran, an' dhragged him up to one o' the Dublin young ladies, an' bid Dinny be stout an' ax her out to dance wid him. So Dinny, you see, though he was ashamed to make so free wid the lady, still he was afeard not to do as the masther bid him; so, by my conscience, he bowled up to her manfully, an' hild out the fist an' axed her out to dance wid him, an' she gev' him her hand in a crack, an' Dinny whipt her out into the middle o' the hall, forenint us all, an' pulled up his breeches an' called out to Tim to blow up 'The Rocks of Cashel' for thim. An' thin my jewil if you wor but to see thim! Dinny flingin' the ligs about as if they'd fly from off him, an' the lady now here, now there, jist for all the world as if she was a sperit, for not a taste o' n'ise did she make on the flure that ivir was hard; and Dinny callin' out to Tim to play it up fasther an' fasther, an' Tim almost workin' his elbow through the bag, till at last the lady was fairly tirt, an' Dinny thin clapt his hands an' up jumpt Piggy Reilly, an' she attacked him bouldly, an' danced down Dinny an' thin up got Johnny Regan an' put her down complately. An' sence the world was a world, I b'leeve there nivir was such dancin' seen."

"The sarra the doubt uv it, avick I'm sartin'; they're all o' thim sich rael fine dancers. An' only to think o' the lady dancin' wid the likes o' Dinny!"

"Well, you see, poor ould Paddy Byrne, whin he hears that the womin wor all to be there, in he goes into the parlor to the misthress, an' axes her if he might make so bould as to go home and fetch his woman. So the misthress, you see, though you know Katty Byrne's no great favourite wid hur, was glad to obleege Paddy, an' so Katty Byrne was there too. An' thin ould Hugh Carr axt hur out to move a minnet wid him, an' there was Hugh, as stiff as if he dined on one o' the spits, wid his black wig an' his long brown coat, an' his blue stockin's, movin' about wid his hat in his hand, an' ladin' Katty about, an' lukin' so soft upon her; an' Katty, in her stiff mob-cap, wid the ears pinned down undher her chin, an' hur little black hat on the top uv her head; an' she at one corner curcheyin' to Hugh, an' Hugh at another bowin' to her, an' iviry body wundherin' at thim, they moved it so iligantly."

"Troth, Paddy, avourneen, that was well worth goin' a mile o' ground to see."

"Well, you see; whin the dancin' was ovir they tuk to the singin', an' Bill Carey gev' the 'Wounded Hussar,' an' the 'Poor but Honest So'dger,' in sich style that yi'd have h'ard him up on the top o' Slee Roo; an' Dinny Moran an' ould Tom Freen gev' us the best songs they had, an' the priest sung the 'Cruiskeen Laun' for us gaily, an' one o' the young ladies played an' sung upon a thing widin in the parlor, like a table, that was purtier nor any pipes to listen to."

"An' didn't Bill giv' yez 'As down by Banna's Banks I sthrayed?' Shure that's one o' the best songs he has."

"An' that he did, till he med the very sates shake undher us; but a body can't remimber iviry thing, you know. Well, where was I? Oh, ay! You see, my dear, the poor little priest was all the night long goin' backwards an' forwards, iviry minit, bechune the parlor an' the hall; an' the sperits, you see, was lyin' opin on the sideboord, an' the dear little man he cudn't, for the life uv him, keep himself from it, so he kipt helpin' himself to a dhrop now an' a dhrop thin, till at last he got all as one as tipsy. So thin he comes out into the hall among us, an' goes about whisperin' to us to go home, an' not to be keepin' the family out o' their bids. But the misthress she saw what he was at, an' she stud up, an' she spoke out an' she said, 'Good people,' sez she, 'nivir mind what the priest says to yez; yez are my company, an' not his, an' yez are heartily welcum to stay as long as yez like.' So whin he found he cud get no good uv us at all, he rowled off wid himself to his bid; an' his head, you see, was so bothered wid the liquor he'd bin takin', that he nivir once thought o' takin' off his boots, but tumbled into bed wid thim upon him, Tommy Freen tould us, whin he wint into the room to luk afther him; and divil be in Tim, when he h'ard it but he lilts up the 'Priest in his Boots;' and, God forgive us, we all burst out laughin', for shure who could hilp it, if it was the bishop himsilf?"

"Troth, it was a shame for yez, anyhow. But Paddy, agrah, did yez come away at all?"

"Why at last we did, afther another round o' the punch to the glory an' success o' the family. And now, Thady, comes the most surprisintest part o' the whole story. I was all alone, you see, for my woman, you know, cudn't lave the childher to come to the dance; so, as it was a fine moonshiny night, nothin' 'ud sarve me but I must go out into the paddock, to luk afther poor Rainbow the plough bullock, that's got a bad shouldher, and so by that manes, you see, I misst o' the cumpany, an' had to go home all alone by myself. Well, you see, it was out by the back gate I come, an' it was thin about twelve in the night, as well as I cud jidge by the Plough, an' the moon was shinin' as bright as a silver dish, and there wasn't a sound to be hard, barrin' the screechin' o' the ould owl down in the ivy-wall; an' I filt it all very pleasant, for I was sumhow rather hearty, you see, wid the dhrink I'd bin takin'; for you know, Thady Byrne, I'm a sober man."

"That's no lie for you, Paddy, avick. A little, as they say, goes a great way wid you."

"Well, you see, an I wint whistlin' to mysilf some o' the chunes they wor singin', and thinkin' uv any thing, shure, but the good people; whin jist as I come to the cornir o' the plantation, an' got a sight o' the big bush, I thought, faith, I seen sum things movin' backwards an' for'ards, an' dancin' like, up in the bush. I was quite sartin it was the fairies that, you know, resort to it, for I cud see, I thought, their little red caps an' green jackits quite plain. Well, I was thinkin', at first, o' goin' back an' gittin' home through the fields; but, says I to myself, says I, what sh'uld I be afeard uv? I'm an honest man that does nobody any harm; an' I h'ard mass this mornin'; an' it's neither Holly eve nor St. John's eve, nor any other o' their great days, an' they can do me no harm, I'm sartin. So I med the sign o' the crass, an' an I wint in God's name, till I come right undher the bush; and what do you think they wor, Thady, afther all?"

"Arrah, how can I till? But you wor a stout man anyhow, Paddy, agrah!"

"Why, thin, what was it but the green laves o' the ould bush, an' the rid bunches o' the haves that war wavin' and shakin' in the moonlight. Well on I goes till I come to the cornir o' the Crab road, whin I happined to cast my eyes ovir tow'st the little moat in the Moatfield, an' there, by my sowl! (God forgive me for swaerin',) I seen the fairies in rael airnist."

"You did, thin, did you?"

"Ay, by my faith, did I, an' a mighty purty sight it was to see, too, I can tell you, Thady. The side o' the moat, you see, that luks into the field was opin, and out uv it there come the darlintest little calvacade o' the purtiest little fellows you ivir laid your eyes upon. They wor all dhrest in green huntin' frocks, wid nice little rid caps on their heads, an' they wor all mounted on purty little, long-tailed, white ponies, not so big as young kids, an' they rode two and two so nicely. Well, you see, they tuk right acrass the field, jist abuv the san'pit, an' I was wundherin' in myself what they'd do whin they come to the big ditch, thinkin' they'd nivir git ovir it. But I'll tell you what it is, Thady. Misther Tom and the brown mare, though they're both o' thim gay good at either ditch or wall, they're not to be talked uv in the same day wid thim. They tuk the ditch, you see, big as it is, in full sthroke; not a man o' thim was shuk in his sate, nor lost his rank; it was pop, pop, pop, ovir wid thim; and thin, hurra, away wid thim like shot acrass the High Field, in the direction o' the ould church. Well, my dear, while I was sthrainin' my eyes lukin' afther thim, I hears a great rumblin' noise cumin' out o' the moat, an' whin I turned about to luk at it, what did I see but a great ould family coach-an'-six comin' out o' the moat, and makin' direct for the gate where I was stannin'. Well, says I, I'm a lost man now, anyhow. There was no use at all, you see, in thinkin' to run for it, for they wor dhrivin' at the rate uv a hunt; so down I got into the gripe o' the ditch, thinkin' to snake off wid mysilf while they war op'nin' the gate. But, be the laws, the gate flew opin widout a sowl layin' a finger to it, the very instant minnet they come up to it, an' they wheeled down the road jist close to the spot where I was hidin', an' I seen thim as plain as I now see you; an' a quare sight it was, too, to see; for not a morsel uv head that ivir was, was there upon one o' the horses, nor on the coachman neither, and yit, for all that, Thady, the Lord Lef'nint's coach cudn't ha' med a handier nor a shorter turn nor they med out o' the gate; an' the blind thief uv a coachman, jist as they wor makin' the wheel, was near takin' the eye out o' me wid the lash uv his long whip, as he was cuttin' up the horses to show off his dhrivin'. I've my doubts that the schamer knew I was there well enough, and that he did it all a purpose. Well, as it passed by me, I peept in at the quolity widinside, an' not a head, no not as big as the head uv a pin, was there among the whole kit o' thim, an' four fine futmin that war stannin' behind the coach war jist like the rest o' thim."

"Well, to be shure, but it was a quare sight."

"Well, away they wint tattherin' along the road, makin' the fire fly out o' the stones at no rate. So whin I seen they'd no eyes, I knew it was onpossible they could ivir see me, so up I got out o' the ditch, and afther thim wid me along the road as fast as ivir I culd lay fut to ground. But whin I got to the rise o' the hill I seen they wor a great ways a-head o' me, an' they'd takin to the fields, an' war makin' off for the ould church too. I thought they might have some business o' their own there, an' that it might not be safe for sthrangers to be goin' afther thim; so as I was by this time near my own house, I wint in and got quietly to bid, widout sayin' anything to the woman about it; an' long enough it was before I cud git to sleep for thinkin' o' thim, an' that's the raison, Thady, I was up so late this mornin'. But wasn't it a sthrange thing, Thady?"

"Faith, an' shure it was, Paddy ahayger, as sthrange a thing as ivir was. But are you quite sartin an' shure that you seen thim?"

"Am I sartin an' shure I seen thim? Am I sartin an' shure I see the nose there on your face? What was to ail me not to see thim? Wasn't the moon shinin' as bright as day? An' didn't they pass widin a yard o' me? And did ivir any one see me dhrunk, or hear me tell a lie?"

"It's thrue for you, Paddy, no one ivir did, and myself doesn't rightly know what to say to it?"[600]

The Young Piper.

There was livin', it's not very long ago, on the bordhers o' the county Wicklow, a dacint honest couple, whose names wor Mick Flanagan and Judy Muldoon. These poor people wor blist, as the saying is, wid four childher, all buys: three o' them wor as fine, stout, healthy, goodlukin' childher as ivir the sun shone upon; an' it was enough to make any Irishman proud of the breed of his counthrymen to see thim about one o'clock on a find summer's day stannin' at their father's cabin-door, wid their beautiful, fine flaxen hair hangin' in curls about their heads, an' their cheeks like two rosy apples, an' a big, laughin' potato smokin' in their hand. A proud man, was Mick, o' these fine childher, an' a proud woman, too, was Judy; an' raison enough they had to be so. But it was far otherwise wid the remainin' one, which was the ouldest; he was the most miserable, ugly, ill-conditioned brat that ivir God put life into: he was so ill thriven, that he was nivir able to stand alone or to lave his cradle; he had long, shaggy, matted, curly hair, as black as the sut; his face was uv a greenish yollow colour; his eyes wor like two burnin' coals, an' wor for ever movin' in his head, as if they had the parpaitual motion. Before he was a twel'month ould he had a mouth full o' great teeth; his hands wor like kite's claws, and his legs wor no thicker nor the handle of a whip, and about as straight as a rapin' hook; to make the matther worse, he had the gut uv a cormorant, and the whinge, and the yelp, and the screech, and the yowl, was never out of his mouth.

The neighbours all suspicted that he was somethin' not right, more especialy as it was obsarved, that whin people, as they use to do in the counthry, got about the fire, and begun to talk o' religion and good things, the brat, as he lay in the cradle which his mother ginerally put near the fireplace that he might be snug, used to sit up, as they wor in the middle of their talk, and begin to bellow as if the divil was in him in right airnest: this, as I said, led the neighbours to think that all wasn't right wid him, an' there was a gineral consultashion held one day, about what id be best to do wid him. Some advised to put him out an the shovel, but Judy's pride was up at that. A purty thing, indeed, that a child of her's shud be put an a shovel, an' flung out on the dunghill jist like a dead kitten or a pisoned rat; no, no, she wouldn't hear to that at all. One ould woman, who was considhered mighty skilful an' knowin' intirely in fairy matthers sthrongly recomminded to put the tongs in the fire, an' to hate thim rid hot, an' thin to take his nose in thim, an' that that id, beyant all manner o' doubt, make him tell what he was, an' whare he come from (for the gineral suspishion was, that he was changed by the good people); but Judy was too saft-harted, an' too fond o' the imp, so she wouldn't giv' into this plan neither, though iverybody said she was wrong; and may be so she was, but it's a hard thing, you know, to blame a mother. Well some advised one thing and some another, at last one spoke of sindin fur the priest, who was a very holy an' a very larned man, to see it; to this Judy uv ecorse had no objection, but one thing or another always purvinted her doing so, an' the upshot o' the business was that the priest niver seen him at all. Well, things wint on in the ould way for some time longer. The brat continued yelpin' an' yowlin', an' aitin' more nor his three brothers put together, an' playin' all sorts uv unlucky thricks, for he was mighty mischievyously inclined, till it happened one day that Tim Carrol, the blind piper, goin' his rounds, called in and sot down by the fire to hav' a bit o' chat wid the woman o' the house. So afther some time, Tim, who was no churl uv his music, yoked an the pipes an' begun to bellows away in high style; whin the instant minnit he begun, the young fellow, who was lyin' as still as a mouse in his cradle, sot up, an' begun to grin an' to twist his ugly phiz, an' to swing about his long tawny arms, an' to kick out his crucked ligs, an' to show signs o' grate glee at the music. At last nothin' id sarve him but he must git the pipes into his own hands, an', to humour him, his mother axt Tim to lind thim to the child for a minnit. Tim, who was kind to childher, readily consinted; and, as Tim hadn't his sight, Judy herself brought thim to the cradle, an' wint to put thim an him, but she had no need, for the youth seemed quite up to the business. He buckled an the pipes, set the bellows undher one arm and the bag undher th' other, an' worked thim both as knowingly as iv he was twinty years at the thrade, an' lilted up "Sheela na Guira," in the finest style that iver was hard.

Well, all was in amazemint; the poor woman crast herself. Tim, who, as I tould you afore, was dark an' didn't well know who was playin,' was in grate delight; an' whin he hard that it was a little prechaun,[601] not aight years ould, that nivir seen a set of pipes in all his days afore, he wished the mother joy iv her son; offered to take him aff her han's iv she'd part wid him, swore he was a born piper, a nath'ral jainus, an' declared that in a little time more, wid the help uv a little good tachein' frum himsilf, there wouldn't be his match in the whole counthry round. The poor woman was grately delighted to hear all this, particklarly as what Tim sed about nath'ral jainises put an ind to some misgivin's that war risin' in hur mind, laist what the naybours sed about his not bein' right might be only too thrue; an' it gratified hur too to think that her dear child (for she raely loved the whelp) wouldn't be forced to turn out an' big, but might airn dacent, honest bread fur himsilf. So whin Miek come home in the evenin' frum his work, she up an' she tould him all that happined, an' all that Tim Carrol sed; an Mick, as was nath'ral, was very glad to hear it, for the helpless condition o' the poor crather was a grate throuble to him; so nixt fair-day he tuk the pig to the fair of Naas, and wid what it brought he whipt up, the nixt holiday that come, to Dublin, an' bespoke a bran new set o' pipes o' the proper size fur him, an' the nixt time Tom Doolan wint up wid the cars, in about a fortnight after, the pipes come home, an' the minnit the chap in the cradle laid eyes on thim, he squealed wid delight, an' threw up his purty legs, an' bumped himsilf in his cradle, an' wint an wid a grate many comical thricks; till at last, to quite him, they gev him the pipes, an' immajetly he set to an' pulled away at "Jig Polthog," to th' admirashin uv all that hard him.

Well, the fame uv his skill an the pipes soon spread far an' near, for there wasn't a piper in the nixt three counties cud come near him at all, in Ould Maudha Roo, or the Hare in the Corn, or The Fox Hunther's Jig, or The Piper's Maggot, or any uv the fine ould Irish jigs, that make people dance whether they will or no: an' it was surprisin' to hear him rattle away The Fox Hunt; you'd raaly think you hard the hounds givin' tongue, an' the tarriers yelpin' always behind, an' the huntsman an' the whippers-in cheerin' or correctin' the dogs; it was, in short, the very nixt thing to seein' the hunt itself. The best uv him was, he was no way stingy uv his music, an' many's the merry dance the boys an' the girls o' the neighbourhood used to hav' in his father's cabin; an' he'd play up music fur thim that, they sed, used, as it wor, to put quicksilver in their feet; an' they all declared they nivir moved so light an' so airy to any piper's playin' that ivir they danced to.

But besides all his fine Irish music, he had one quare chune uv his own, the oddest that iver was hard; fur the minnit he begun to play it iverything in the house seemed disposed to dance; the plates an' porringers used to jingle an the dhresser, the pots an' pot-hooks used to rattle in the chimbley, an' people used even to fancy they felt the stools movin' frum undher thim; but, howiver it might be wid the stools, it is sartin that no one cud keep long sittin' an them, fur both ould and young always fell to caperin' as hard as ivir they cud. The girls complained that whin he begun this chune it always threw thim out in their dancin', an' that they nivir cud handle their feet rightly, fur they felt the flure like ice undher thim, an' thimsilves ready iviry minnit to come sprawlin' an their backs or their faces; the young bachelors that wanted to show aff their dancin' an' their new pumps, an' their bright red or green an' yellow garthers, swore that it confused thim so that they cud nivir go rightly through the heel-and-toe, or cover-the-buckle, or any uv their best steps, but felt thimsilves always bedizzied an' bewildhered, au' thin ould an' young id go jostlin' an' knockin' together in a frightful manner an' whin the anlooky brat had thim all in this way whirligiggin' about the flure, he'd grin an' he'd chuckle an' he'd chather, jist fur all the world like Jocko, the monkey, whin he's played off sum uv his roguery.[602]

The oulder he grew the worse he grew, an' by the time he was noine year ould there was no stannin' the house for him; he was always makin' his brothers burn or scald thimsilves, or brake their shins ovir the pots an' stools. One time in harvist, he was left at home by himself, an' whin his mother come in she found the cat a-horseback on the dog wid hur face to the tail, an' hur legs tied round him, an' the urchin playin' his quare chune to thim, so that the dog wint barking an jumpin' about, an' puss was miowin' fur the dear life, an' slappin' her tail backwards an' forwards, which whin it id hit agin the dog's chaps, he'd snap at it an' bite it, an' thin there was the philliloo. Another time the farmer Mick worked wid, a mighty dacint kind uv a man, happened to call in, an' Judy wiped a stool wid her apron an' axed him to sit down an rest himself afther his walk. He was sittin' wid his back to the cradle, an' behind him was a pan o' blood, fur Judy was makin' hog's puddin's; the lad lay quite still in his nist, an' watched his opportunity till he got ready a hook at the ind uv a piece o' packthread an' he conthrived to fling it so handy that it cotcht in the bob o' the man's nice new wig, an' soused it in the pan o' blood. Another time his mother was comin' in from milkin' the cow, wid the pail an her head, an' the very minnit he saw her, he lilted up his infernal chune, an' the poor woman lettin' go the pail, clapped her hands aside an' begun to dance a jig, an' tumbled the milk all atop uv her husband, who was bringin' in some turf to bile the supper. In short there id be no ind to tellin' all his pranks, an' all the mischievyous tricks he played.

Soon afther, some mischances begun to happen to the farmer's cattle; a horse tuk the staggers, a fine vale calf died o' the black-lig, an' some uv his sheep o' the rid wather; the cows begun to grow vicious, an' to kick down the milkpails, an' the roof o' one ind o' the barn fell in; an' the farmer tuk it into his head that Mick Flannagan's onlooky child was the cause uv all the mischief. So, one day, he called Mick aside, an' sed to him, "Mick," sez he, "you see things are not goin' on wid me as they ought to go; an' to be plain an' honest wid you, Mick, I think that child o' yours is the cause uv it. I am raaly fallin' away to nothin', wid frettin', an' I can hardly sleep an my bed at night for thinkin' o' what may happen afore the mornin'. So I'd be glad af you'd luk out fur work somewhare else; you're as good a man as any in the whole counthry, there's no denyin' it, an' there's no fear but you'll have yer choice o' work." To this Mick med answer, and sed, "that he was sorry indeed for his losses, and still sorrier that he or his shud be thought to be the cause o' thim; that, for his own part, he wasn't quite aisy in his mind about that child, but he had him, an' so he must keep him;" an' he promised to luk out fur another place immajetly.

So nixt Sunday at chapil, Mick gev out that he was about lavin' the work at John Riordan's, an' immajetly a farmer, who lived a couple o' miles aff, an' who wanted a ploughman (the last one havin' jist left him), come up to Mick, an' offered him a house an' garden, an' work all the year round. Mick, who knew him to be a good employer, immajetly closed wid him. So it was agreed that the farmer shud sind his car to take his little bit o' furniture, an' that he shud remove an the following Thursday.

Whin Thursday come, the car come accordin' to promise, an' Mick loaded it, an' put the cradle wid the child an' his pipes an the top, an' Judy sat beside it to take care uv him, laste he shud tumble out an' be kilt; they druv the cow afore thim, the dog follied; but the cat, uv coorse, was lift behind: an' the other three childer wint along the road, pickin' haves and blackberries; for it was a fine day towst the latther ind uv harvist. They had to crass a river; but as it run through the bottom between two high banks, you didn't see it till you wor close up an it. The young fellow was lyin' purty quite in the bottom o' the cradle, till they come to the head o' the bridge, whin hearin' the roarin' o' the wather (for there was a grate flood in the river, as there was heavy rain for the last two or three days), he sot up in his cradle, an' luked about him; an' the minnit he got a sight ov the wather, an' found they wor goin' to take him acrass it, oh! how he did bellow, an' how he did squeal. "Whisht, alanna," sed Judy, "there's no fear o' yer; shure it's only ovir the stone bridge we're goin'." "Bad luck to yer, ye ould rip," sez he, "what a purty thrick yuv played me, to bring me here;" an' he still wint an yellin', and the farther they got an the bridge, the loudher he yelled; till at last Mick cud hould out no longer; so givin' him a skelp o' the whip he had in his han', "Divil choke you, you crukked brat," sez he; "will you nivir stop bawlin'? a body can't hear their ears for you." Well, my dear, the instant minnit he felt the thong o' the whip, he jumped up in the cradle, clapped the pipes undher his arm, an' lept clane ovir the battlemints o' the bridge down into the wather. "Oh, my child! my child!" shouted Judy; "he's clane gone for ivir frum me." Mick an' the rest o' the childher run to the other side o' the bridge an' lukt down, an' they seen him comin' out from undher the arch o' the bridge, sittin' crass-liggs an the top uv a big white-headed wave, an' playin' away an the pipes, jist as if nothin' had happened at all. The river was runnin' very hard, so he was whirled away at a grate rate; but he played away as fast, ay, and faster nor the river run. They set aff as hard as they cud along the bank; but as the river med a suddint turn round the hill, about a hundred yards below the bridge, by the time they got there he was out o' sight, an' no one ivir led eyes an him sence; but the gineral belief is, that he wint home wid the pipes to his own relations—the good people—to make music fur thim.

The Soul Cages.

Jack Dogherty lived on the coast of the county Clare. Jack was a fisherman, as his father and his grandfather before him had been. Like them, too, he lived all alone (but for the wife), and just in the same spot, too. People used to wonder why the Dogherty family were so fond of that wild situation, so far away from all human kind, and in the midst of huge scattered rocks, with nothing but the wide ocean to look upon. But they had their own good reasons for it.

The place was just, in short, the only spot on that part of the coast where anybody could well live; there was a neat little creek, where a boat might lie as snug as a puffin in her nest, and out from this creek a ledge of sunken rocks ran into the sea. Now, when the Atlantic, according to custom, was raging with a storm, and a good westerly wind was blowing strong on the coast, many's the richly-laden ship that went to pieces on these rocks; and then the fine bales of cotton and tobacco, and such like things; and the pipes of wine, and the puncheons of rum, and the casks of brandy, and the kegs of Hollands that used to come ashore. Why, bless you! Dunbeg Bay was just like a little estate to the Doghertys.

Not but that they were kind and humane to a distressed sailor, if ever one had the good luck to get to land; and many a time, indeed, did Jack put out in his little corragh, that would breast the billows like any gannet, to lend a hand towards bringing off the crew from a wreck. But when the ship was gone to pieces, and the crew were all lost, who would blame Jack for picking up all he could find? "And who's the worse of it?" said he. "For as to the king, God bless him! everybody knows he's rich enough already, without gettin' what's floatin' in the say."

Jack, though such a hermit, was a good-natured, jolly fellow. No other, sure, could ever have coaxed Biddy Mahony to quit her father's snug and warm house in the middle of the town of Ennis, and to go so many miles off to live among the rocks, with the seals and sea-gulls for her next door neighbours. But Biddy knew what's what, and she knew that Jack was the man for a woman who wished to be comfortable and happy; for, to say nothing of the fish, Jack had the supplying of half the gentlemen's houses of the country with the Godsends that came into the bay. And she was right in her choice, for no woman ate, drank, or slept better, or made a prouder appearance at Chapel on Sundays than Mrs. Dogherty.

Many a strange sight, it may well be supposed, did Jack see, and many a strange sound did he hear, but nothing daunted him. So far was he from being afraid of Merrows, or such like beings, that the very first wish of his heart was fairly to meet with one. Jack had heard that they were mighty like Christians, and that luck had always come out of an acquaintance with them. Never, therefore, did he dimly discern the Merrows moving along the face of the waters in their robes of mist, but he made direct for them; and many a scolding did Biddy, in her own quiet way, bestow upon Jack for spending his whole day out at sea, and bringing home no fish. Little did poor Biddy know the fish Jack was after.

It was rather annoying to Jack that, though living in a place where the Merrows were as plenty as lobsters, he never could get a right view of one. What vexed him more was, that both his father and grandfather had often and often seen them; and he even remembered hearing, when a child, how his grandfather, who was the first of the family that had settled down at the Creek, had been so intimate with a Merrow, that, only for fear of vexing the priest, he would have had him stand for one of his children. This, however, Jack did not well know how to believe.

Fortune at length began to think that it was only right that Jack should know as much as his father and grandfather knew. Accordingly, one day, when he had strolled a little farther than usual along the coast to the northward, just as he was turning a point, he saw something, like to nothing he had ever seen before, perched upon a rock at a little distance out to sea: it looked green in the body, as well as he could discern at that distance, and he would have sworn, only the thing was impossible, that it had a cocked hat in his hand. Jack stood, for a good half hour, straining his eyes and wondering at it, and all the time the thing did not stir hand or foot. At last Jack's patience was quite worn out, and he gave a loud whistle and a hail, when the Merrow (for such it was) started up, put the cocked hat on its head, and dived down, head foremost, from the rock.

Jack's curiosity was now excited, and he constantly directed his steps toward the point; still he could never get a glimpse of the sea-gentleman with the cocked hat; and with thinking and thinking about the matter, he began at last to fancy he had been only dreaming. One very rough day, however, when the sea was running mountains high, Jack determined to give a look at the Merrow's rock, (for he had always chosen a fine day before,) and then he saw the strange thing cutting capers upon the top of the rock, and then diving down, and then coming up, and then diving down again. Jack had now only to choose his time, (that is, a good blowing day,) and he might see the man of the sea as often as he pleased. All this, however, did not satisfy him,—"much will have more;"—he wished now to get acquainted with the Merrow, and even in this he succeeded. One tremendous blustery day, before he got to the point whence he had a view of the Merrow's rock, the storm came on so furiously that Jack was obliged to take shelter in one of the caves which are so numerous along the coast, and there, to his astonishment, he saw, sitting before him, a thing with green hair, long green teeth, a red nose, and pig's eyes. It had a fish's tail, legs with scales on them, and short arms like fins. It wore no clothes, but had the cocked hat under its arm, and seemed engaged thinking very seriously about something. Jack, with all his courage, was a little daunted; but now or never, thought he; so up he went boldly to the cogitating fish-man, took off his hat, and made his best bow.

"Your sarvint, sir," said Jack.—"Your servant, kindly, Jack Dogherty," answered the Merrow.—"To be shure, thin, how well your honour knows my name," said Jack.—"Is it I not know your name, Jack Dogherty? Why, man, I knew your grandfather long before he was married to Judy Regan, your grandmother. Ah, Jack, Jack, I was fond of that grandfather of yours; he was a mighty worthy man in his time. I never met his match above or below, before or since, for sucking in a shellful of brandy. I hope, my boy," said the old fellow, "I hope you're his own grandson."—"Never fear me for that," said Jack; "if my mother only reared me on brandy, 'tis myself that 'ud be a suckin infant to this hour."—"Well, I like to hear you talk so manly; you and I must be better acquainted, if it were only for your grandfather's sake. But, Jack, that father of yours was not the thing; he had no head at all, not he."—"I'm shure," said Jack, "sense your honour lives down undher the wather, you must be obleeged to dhrink a power to keep any hate in you, at all at all, in such a cruel, damp, cowld place. Well, I often hard of Christhens dhrinkin' like fishes;—and might I be so bould as to ax where you get the sperits?"—"Where do you get them yourself, Jack?" said the Merrow, with a knowing look.—"Hubbubboo," cries Jack, "now I see how it is; but I suppose, sir, your honour has got a fine dhry cellar below to keep them in."—"Let me alone for that," said the Merrow, with another knowing look.—"I'm shure," continued Jack, "it must be mighty well worth the luking at."—"You may say that, Jack, with your own pretty mouth," said the Merrow; "and if you meet me here next Monday, just at this time of the day, we will have a little more talk with one another about the matter."

Jack and the Merrow parted the best friends in the world; and on Monday they met, and Jack was not a little surprised to see that the Merrow had two cocked hats with him, one under each arm. "Might I make so bould as to ask you, sir," said Jack, "why yer honour brought the two hats wid you to-day? You wouldn't, shure, be goin' to giv' me one o' them, to keep for the curosity of the thing?"—"No, no, Jack," said he, "I don't get my hats so easily, to part with them that way; but I want you to come down and eat a bit of dinner with me, and I brought you the hat to dive with."—"The Lord bless and presarve us!" cried Jack, in amazement, "would you want me to go down to the bottom of the salt say ocean? Shure I'd be smoothered and choked up wid the wather, to say nothin' of bein' dhrownded! And what would poor Biddy do for me, and what would she say?"—"And what matter what she says, you pinkeen you? Who cares for Biddy's squalling? It's long before your grandfather would have talked in that way. Many's the time he stuck that same hat on his head, and dived down boldly after me, and many's the snug bit of dinner, and good shellful of brandy, he and I had together, below under the water."—"Is it raally, sir, and no joke?" said Jack; "why, thin, sorra' be from me for ivir and a day afther, if I'll be a bit a worse man nor my grandfather was! So here goes; but play me fair now. Here's nick or nothin'!" cried Jack.—"That's your grandfather all over," said the old fellow. "So come along, my boy, and do as I do."

They both left the cave, walked into the sea, and then swam a piece until they got to the rock. The Merrow climbed to the top of it, and Jack followed him. On the far side it was as straight as the wall of a house, and the sea looked so deep that Jack was almost cowed.

"Now, do you see, Jack," said the Merrow, "just put this hat on your head, and mind to keep your eyes wide open. Take hold of my tail, and follow after me, and you'll see what you'll see." In he dashed, and in dashed Jack after him boldly. They went and they went, and Jack thought they'd never stop going. Many a time did he wish himself sitting at home by the fireside with Biddy; yet, where was the use of wishing now, when he was so many miles as he thought below the waves of the Atlantic? Still he held hard by the Merrow's tail, slippery as it was. And, at last, to Jack's great surprise, they got out of the water, and he actually found himself on dry land at the bottom of the sea. They landed just in front of a nice little house that was slated very neatly with oyster-shells; and the Merrow, turning about to Jack, welcomed him down. Jack could hardly speak, what with wonder, and what with being out of breath with travelling so fast through the water. He looked about him, and could see no living things, barring crabs and lobsters, of which there were plenty walking leisurely about on the sand. Overhead was the sea like a sky, and the fishes like birds swimming about in it.

"Why don't you speak, man?" said the Merrow: "I dare say you had no notion that I had such a snug little concern as this? Are you smothered, or choked, or drowned, or are you fretting after Biddy, eh?" "Oh! not mysilf, indeed," said Jack, showing his teeth with a good-humoured grin, "but who in the world 'ud ivir ha' thought uv seein' sich a thing?" "Well, come along my lad, and let's see what they've got for us to eat?"

Jack was really hungry, and it gave him no small pleasure to perceive a fine column of smoke rising from the chimney, announcing what was going on within. Into the house he followed the Merrow, and there he saw a good kitchen, right well provided with everything. There was a noble dresser, and plenty of pots and pans, with two young Merrows cooking. His host then led him into the room, which was furnished shabbily enough. Not a table or a chair was there in it; nothing but planks and logs of wood to sit on, and eat off. There was, however, a good fire blazing on the hearth—a comfortable sight to Jack. "Come, now, and I'll show you where I keep—you know what," said the Merrow, with a sly look; and opening a little door, he led Jack into a fine long cellar, well filled with pipes, and kegs, and hogsheads, and barrels. "What do you say to that, Jack Dogherty?—Eh!—May-be a body can't live snug down under the water!" "The divil the doubt of that," said Jack, "anyhow."

They went back to the room, and found dinner laid. There was no table-cloth, to be sure—but what matter? It was not always Jack had one at home. The dinner would have been no discredit to the first house in the county on a fast-day. The choicest of fish, and no wonder, was there. Turbots, and soles, and lobsters, and oysters, and twenty other kinds, were on the planks at once, and plenty of foreign spirits. The wines, the old fellow said, were too cold for his stomach. Jack ate and drank till he could eat no more: then, taking up a shell of brandy, "Here's to your honour's good health, sir," said he, "though beggin' your pardon, its mighty odd, that as long as we're acquainted, I don't know your name yit." "That's true, Jack," replied he; "I never thought of it before, but better late than never. My name is Coomara." "Coomara! And a mighty dacint sort of a name it is, too," cried Jack, taking another shellful: "here's, then, to your good health, Coomara, and may you live these fifty years." "Fifty years!" repeated Coomara; "I'm obliged to you, indeed; if you had said five hundred, it would have been something worth wishing." "By the laws, sir," said Jack, "yez live to a powerful great age here undher the wather! Ye knew my grandfather, and he's dead and gone betther nor sixty years. I'm shure it must be a mighty healthy place to live in." "No doubt of it; but come, Jack, keep the liquor stirring."

Shell after shell did they empty, and to Jack's exceeding surprise, he found the drink never got into his head, owing, I suppose, to the sea being over them, which kept their noddles cool. Old Coomara got exceedingly comfortable, and sang several songs; but Jack, if his life had depended on it, never could remember any of them. At length said he to Jack, "Now, my dear boy, if you follow me, I'll show you my curosities!" He opened a little door, and led Jack into a large room, where Jack saw a great many odds and ends that Coomara had picked up at one time or another. What chiefly took his attention, however, were things like lobster-pots, ranged on the ground along the wall.

"Well, Jack, how do you like my curosities?" said old Coo. "Upon my sowkins, sir," said Jack, "they're mighty well worth the lukin' at; but might a body make so bould as to ax what thim things like lobster-pots are?" "Oh, the soul-cages, is it?" "The what, sir?" "These things here that I keep the souls in." "Arrah! what sowls, sir?" said Jack in amazement: "shure the fish ha' got no sowls in them?" "Oh, no," replied Coo, quite coolly, "that they haven't; but these are the souls of drowned sailors." "The Lord presarve us from all harm!" muttered Jack, "how in the world did you conthrive to get thim?" "Easily enough. I've only when I see a good storm coming on, to set a couple of dozen of these, and then, when the sailors are drowned, and the souls get out of them under the water, the poor things are almost perished to death, not being used to the cold; so they make into my pots for shelter, and then I have them snug, and fetch them home, and keep them here dry and warm; and is it not well for them, poor souls, to get into such good quarters?"

Jack was so thunderstruck he did not know what to say, so he said nothing. They went back into the dining-room, and had some more brandy, which was excellent, and then, as Jack knew that it must be getting late, and as Biddy might be uneasy, he stood up, and said he thought it was time for him to be on the road.

"Just as you like, Jack," said Coo, "but take a doch an durrus before you go; you've a cold journey before you." Jack knew better manners than to refuse the parting glass. "I wondher" said he, "will I ivir be able to make out my way home." "What should ail you," said Coo, "when I show you the way?" Out they went before the house, and Coomara took one of the cocked hats, and put it on Jack's head the wrong way, and then lifted him up on his shoulder that he might launch him up into the water. "Now," says he, giving him a heave, "you'll come up just in the same spot you came down in; and, Jack, mind and throw me back the hat." He canted Jack off his shoulder, and up he shot like a bubble—whirr, whirr, whiz—away he went up through the water, till he came to the very rock he had jumped off, where he found a landing-place, and then in he threw the hat, which sunk like a stone.

The sun was just going down in the beautiful sky of a calm summer's evening. The evening star was seen brightly twinkling in the cloudless heaven, and the waves of the Atlantic flashed in a golden flood of light. So Jack, perceiving it was getting late, set off home; but when he got there, not a word did he say to Biddy of where he had spent his day.

The state of the poor souls cooped up in the lobster-pots, gave Jack a great deal of trouble, and how to release them cost him a great deal of thought. He at first had a mind to speak to the priest about the matter; but what could the priest do, and what did Coo care for the priest? Besides, Coo was a good sort of an old fellow, and did not think he was doing any harm. Jack had a regard for him too, and it also might not be much to his own credit if it were known that he used to go dine with the Merrows under the sea. On the whole, he thought his best plan would be to ask Coo to dinner, and to make him drunk, if he was able, and then to take the hat and go down and turn up the pots. It was first of all necessary, however, to get Biddy out of the way; for Jack was prudent enough, as she was a woman, to wish to keep the thing secret from her.

Accordingly, Jack grew mighty pious all of a sudden, and said to Biddy, that he thought it would be for the good of both their souls if she was to go and take her rounds at Saint John's Well, near Ennis. Biddy thought so too, and accordingly off she set one fine morning at day dawn, giving Jack a strict charge to have an eye to the place. The coast being clear, away then went Jack to the rock to give the appointed signal to Coomara, which was, throwing a big stone into the water; Jack threw, and up sprang Coo. "Good morrow, Jack," said he; "what do you want with me?" "Jist nothin' at all to spake about, sir," replied Jack; "only to come and take pot-luck wid me, now that Biddy's out of the way; if I might make so free as to ax you, an' shure it's myself that's afther doin' so." "It's quite agreeable, Jack, I assure you; what's your hour?" "Any time that's most convenient to yoursilf, sir: say one o'clock, that you may go home, if you wish it, wid the daylight." "I'll be with you," said Coo, "never fear me."

Jack went home and dressed a noble fish dinner, and got out plenty of his best foreign spirits, enough for that matter to make twenty men drunk. Just to the minute came Coo, with his cocked hat under his arm. Dinner was ready; they sat down, and ate and drank manfully. Jack thinking of the poor souls below in the pots, plied old Coo well with brandy, and encouraged him to sing, hoping to put him under the table, but poor Jack forgot that he had not the sea over his own head now to keep it cool. The brandy got into it and did his business for him, and Coo reeled off home, leaving his entertainer as dumb as a haddock on a Good Friday.

Jack never woke till the next morning, and then he was in a sad way. "'Tis no use at all for me thinkin' to make that ould Rapperee dhrunk," said Jack; "an' how in this world can I help the poor sowls out o' the lobster pots." After ruminating nearly the whole day, a thought struck him. "I have it," said he, slapping his thigh; "I'll be bail Coo nivir saw a dhrop o' raal potyeen as ould as he is, an' that's the thing to settle him! Och! thin isn't it well that Biddy won't be home these two days yit; I can have another twist at him." Jack asked Coo again, and Coo laughed at him for having no better head; telling him, he'd never come up to his grandfather. "Well, but thry me agin," said Jack, "and I'll be bail to dhrink you dhrunk and sober, and dhrunk agin."—"Any thing in my power," said Coo, "to oblige you."

All this dinner, Jack took care to have his own liquor watered, and to give the strongest brandy he had to Coo. At last, says he, "Pray, sir, did you ivir dhrink any potyeen? any raal mountain-jew?"—"No," says Coo; "what's that, and where does it come from?"—"Oh! that's a sacret," said Jack, "but it's the right stuff; nivir believe me agin if it isn't fifty times better nor brandy or rum either. Biddy's brother jist sint me a prisent of a little dhrop, in exchange for some brandy, and as you're an ould frind o' the family, I kep it to thrate you wid."—"Well, let's see what sort of thing it is," said Coo.

The potyeen was the right sort. It was first-rate, and had the real smack on it. Coo was delighted with it; he drank and he sang, and he laughed and he danced, till he fell on the floor fas' asleep. Then Jack, who had taken good care to keep himself sober, snapt up the cocked hat, ran off to the rock, leaped in, and soon arrived at Coo's habitation.

All was as still as a churchyard at midnight—not a Merrow young or old, was there. In he went and turned up the pots, but nothing did he see, only he heard, he thought, a sort of a little whistle or chirp as he raised each of them. At this he was surprised, till he recollected what the priest had often said, that nobody living could see the soul, no more than they could see the wind or the air. Having now done all he could do for them he set the pots as they were before, and sent a blessing after the poor souls to speed them on their journey wherever they were going. He now began to think of returning; he put on the hat (as was right,) the wrong way; but when he got out, he found the water so high over his head that he had no hopes of ever getting up into it now that he had not old Coomara to give him a lift. He walked about looking for a ladder, but not one could he find, and not a rock was there in sight. At last he saw a spot where the sea hung rather lower than anywhere else, so he resolved to try there. Just as he came to it, a big cod happened to put down his tail. Jack made a jump and caught hold of it, and the cod, all in amazement, gave a bounce and pulled Jack up. The minute the hat touched the water, pop away Jack was whisked; and up he shot like a cork, dragging the poor cod, that he forgot to let go, up with him tail foremost. He got to the rock in no time, and without a moment's delay hurried home rejoicing in the good deed he had done. But, meanwhile, there was fine work at home; for our friend Jack had hardly left the house on his soul-freeing expedition, when back came Biddy from her soul-saving one to the well. When she entered the house and saw the things lying thrie-na heelah on the table before her—"Here's a purty job," said she, "that blackguard of mine—what ill-luck I had ivir to marry him—he's picked up some vagabone or other, while I was prayin' for the good of his sowl; and they've bin dhrinkin' up all the potyeen that my own brother gev' him, and all the sperits, to be shure, that he was to have sould to his honour." Then hearing an outlandish kind of grunt, she looked down and saw Coomara lying under the table. "The blessed Vargin help an' save me," shouted she, "if he hasn't made a rael baste of himself. Well, well, well to be shure, I often hard till of a man makin' a baste of himself wid dhrink, but I niver saw it afore! Oh hone, oh hone,—Jack, honey, what 'ill I do wid you, or what 'ill I do widout you? How can any dacint woman ivir think of livin' wid a baste?"

With such like lamentations, Biddy rushed out of the house, and was going, she knew not where, when she heard the well known voice of Jack, singing a merry tune. Glad enough was Biddy to find him safe and sound, and not turned into a thing that was like neither fish nor flesh. Jack was obliged to tell her all; and Biddy, though she had half a mind to be angry with him for not telling her before, owned that he had done a great service to the poor souls. Back they both went most lovingly to the house, and Jack wakened up Coomara; and perceiving the old fellow to be rather dull, he bid him not be cast down, for 'twas many a good man's case; said it all came of his not being used to the potyeen, and recommended him, by way of cure, to swallow a hair of the dog that bit him. Coo, however, seemed to think he had had quite enough: he got up, quite out of sorts, and without having the good manners to say one word in the way of civility, he sneaked off to cool himself by a jaunt through the salt water.

Coomara never missed the souls. He and Jack continued the best friends in the world; and no one, perhaps, ever equalled Jack at freeing souls from purgatory; for he contrived fifty excuses for getting into the house below the sea, unknown to the old fellow; and then turned up the pots, and let out the souls. It vexed him, to be sure, that he could never see them; but as he knew the thing to be impossible, he was obliged to be satisfied. Their intercourse continued for several years. However, one morning, on Jack's throwing in a stone, as usual, he got no answer. He flung another, and another; still there was no reply. He went away, and returned the next morning; but it was to no purpose. As he was without the hat, he could not go down to see what had become of old Coo; but his belief was, that the old man, or the old fish, or whatever he was, had either died, or had removed away from that part of the country.[603]

Barry of Cairn Thierna.

Fermoy, though now so pretty and so clean a town, was once as poor and as dirty a village as any in Ireland. It had neither barracks, nor church, nor school, nor anything to admire. Two-storied houses were but few: its street (for it had but one) was chiefly formed of miserable mud cabins; nor was the fine scenery around sufficient to induce the traveller to tarry in its paltry, dirty inn, beyond the limits actually required.

In those days it happened that a regiment of foot was proceeding from Dublin to Cork. One company, which left Caher in the morning, had, with 'toilsome march,' passed through Mitchelstown, tramped across the Kilworth mountains; and, late of an October evening, tired and hungry, reached Fermoy, the last stage but one to their quarters. No barracks, as we have said, were then built there to relieve them; and every voice was raised, calling to the gaping villagers for the name and residence of the billet-master.

"Why, thin, can't ye be aisy, now, and let a body tell you," said one. "Shure, thin, how can I answer you all at onst," said another. "Anan!" cried a third, affecting not to understand the sergeant, who addressed him. "Is it Mr. Consadine you want?" replied a fourth, answering, À l' Irlandaise, the question, by asking another. "Bad luck to the whole breed and seed of the sogers!" muttered a fifth villager, between his teeth. "It's come to ate poor people that work for their bread, out of house and home, yez are?" "Whisht, Teigue, can't you, now?" said his neighbour, jogging the last speaker; "there's the house, gintlemen. You see it there, yondher, forenint you, at the bottom of the sthreet, wid the light in the winddy; or, stay, shure it's mysilf id think little of runnin' down wid you, poor crathurs! for 'tis tirt and wairy yez must be afther the road."—"That's an honest fellow," said several of the dust-covered soldiers; and away scampered Ned Flynn, with all the men of war following close at his heels.

Mr. Consadine, the billet-master, was, as may be supposed, a person of some, and on such occasions as the present, of no small consideration in such a place as Fermoy. He was of a portly build, and of a grave and slow movement, suited at once to his importance and to his size. Three inches of fair linen were at all times visible between his waistband and waistcoat. His breeches-pockets were never buttoned; and, scorning to conceal the bull-like proportions of his chest and neck, his shirt-collar was generally open, as he wore no cravat; and a flaxen bob-wig commonly sat fairly on his head, and squarely on his forehead. Such, then, was Mr. Consadine, billet-master-general and barony sub-constable, who was now just getting to the end of his eighth tumbler, in company with the proctor, who at that moment had begun to talk of coming to something like a fair settlement about his tithes, when Ned Flynn knocked.

"See who's at the door, Nilly," said the eldest Miss Consadine, raising her voice, and calling to the barefooted servant girl. "'Tis the sogers, sir, is come!" cried Nelly, running back into the room without opening the door. "I hear the jinketin of their swoords and bagnets on the pavin'-stones."—"Divil welcome them at this hour o' the night," said Mr. Consadine, taking up the candle, and moving off to the room on the opposite side of the hall, which served him for an office.

Mr. Consadine's own pen, and that of his son Tom were now in full employment. The officers were sent to the inn; the sergeants, corporals, etc., were billeted on those who were on indifferent terms with Mr. Consadine; for, like a worthy man as he was, he leaned as light as he could on his friends. The soldiers had nearly all departed for their quarters, when one poor fellow, who had fallen asleep, leaning on his musket against the wall, was awakened by the silence, and starting up, he went over to the table at which Mr. Consadine was seated, hoping his worship would give him a good billet. "A good billet, my lad," said the billet-master-general, "that you shall have, and on the biggest house in the whole place. Do you hear, Tom! make out a billet for this honest man upon Mr. Barry of Cairn Thierna." "On Mr. Barry of Cairn Thierna!" said Tom, with a look of amazement. "Yes, to be sure, on Mr. Barry of Cairn Thierna—the great Barry!" replied his father, giving a nod. "Isn't he said to keep the grandest house in this part of the counthry?—or stay, Tom, jist hand me over the paper, and I'll write the billet myself."

The billet was made out accordingly; the sand glittered on the signature and broad flourishes of Mr. Consadine, and the weary grenadier received it with becoming gratitude and thanks. Taking up his knapsack and firelock, he left the office, and Mr. Consadine waddled back to the proctor to chuckle over the trick he had played on the soldier, and to laugh at the idea of his search after Barry of Cairn Thierna's house. Truly had he said no house could vie in capacity with Mr. Barry's; for like Allan A-Dale's, its roof was

Barry of Cairn Thierna was one of the chieftains who, of old, lorded it over the barony of Barrymore, and for some reason or other, he had become enchanted on the mountain of Cairn Thierna, where he was known to live in great state, and was often seen by the belated peasant.

Mr. Consadine had informed the soldier that Mr. Barry lived a little way out of the town, on the Cork road; so the poor fellow trudged along for some time with eyes right and eyes left, looking for the great house; but nothing could he see only the dark mountain of Cairn Thierna before him, and an odd cabin or two on the road-side. At last he met a man, of whom he asked the way to Mr. Barry's. "To Mr. Barry's?" said the man; "what Barry is it you want?" "I can't say exactly in the dark," returned the soldier. "Mr. What's-his-name, the billet-master, has given me the direction on my billet; but he said it was a large house, and I think he called him the great Mr. Barry." "Why, sure, it wouldn't be the great Barry of Cairn Thierna you're asking after?" "Aye," said the soldier, "Cairn Thierna—that's the place. Can you tell me where it is?" "Cairn Thierna!" repeated the man—"Barry of Cairn Thierna! I'll show you the way, and welcome; but it's the first time in all my born days that ever I h'ard of a soger bein' billeted on Barry of Cairn Thierna. 'Tis a quare thing, anyhow, for ould Dick Consadin to be sindin' you up there," continued he; "but you see that big mountain before you—that's Cairn Thierna. Any one will show you Mr. Barry's when you get to the top of it, up to the big hape of stones."

The weary soldier gave a sigh as he walked forwards toward the mountain; but he had not proceeded far when he heard the clatter of a horse coming along the road after him, and, turning his head round, he saw a dark figure rapidly approaching. A tall gentleman, richly dressed, and mounted on a noble gray horse, was soon at his side, when the rider pulled up, and the soldier repeated his inquiry after Mr. Barry of Cairn Thierna. "Why, I'm Barry of Cairn Thierna, myself," said the gentleman, "and pray what's your business with me, friend." "I have got a billet on your house, sir," replied the soldier, "from the billet-master of Fermoy." "Did you, indeed," said Mr. Barry; "well, then, it is not very far off; follow me and you shall be well taken care of, depend upon it."

He turned off the road, and led his horse up the steep side of the mountain, followed by the soldier, who was astonished at seeing the horse proceed with so little difficulty, where he was obliged to scramble up, and could hardly find or keep his footing. When they got to the top, there was a house, sure enough, far beyond any house in Fermoy. It was three stories high, with fine windows, and all lighted up within, as if it was full of grand company. There was a hall-door, too, with a flight of stone steps before it, at which Mr. Barry dismounted, and the door was opened to him by a servant-man, who took his horse round to the stable. Mr. Barry, as he stood at the door, desired the soldier to walk in, and, instead of sending him down to the kitchen, as any other gentleman would have done, brought him into the parlour, and desired to see his billet. "Ay," said Mr. Barry, looking at it and smiling, "I know Dick Consadine well—he's a merry fellow, no doubt, and, if I mistake not, has got some capital good cows down on the inch-field of Carrickabrick; a sirloin of beef would be no bad thing for supper, my man, eh?"

Mr. Barry then called out to some of his attendants, and desired them to lay the cloth, and make all ready, which was no sooner done than a smoking sirloin of beef was placed before them. "Sit down, now, my honest fellow," said Mr. Barry, "you must be hungry after your long day's march." The soldier with a profusion of thanks for such hospitality, and acknowledgments for such condescension, sat down and made, as might be expected, an excellent supper; Mr. Barry never letting his jaws rest for want of helping until he was fairly unable to eat more. Then the boiling water was brought in, and such a jug of whiskey punch as was made! Take my word for it,—it did not, like honest Robin Craig's, require to be hung out on the bush to let the water drain out of it.

They sat together a long time, talking over the punch, and the fire was so good, and Mr. Barry himself was so free a gentleman, and had such fine conversation about everything in the world, far or near, that the soldier never felt the night going over him. At last Mr. Barry stood up, saying it was a rule with him that every one in his house should be in bed by twelve o'clock, "And," said he, pointing to a bundle which lay in one corner of the room, "take that to bed with you, it's the hide of the cow I had killed for your supper; give it to the billet-master when you go back to Fermoy, in the morning, and tell him that Barry of Cairn Thierna sent it to him. He will soon understand what it means, I promise you; so, good night, my brave fellow; I wish you a comfortable sleep and every good fortune; but I must be off and away out of this long before you are stirring." The soldier gratefully returned his host's good wishes, and went off to the room which was shown him, without claiming, as every one knows he had a right to do, the second best bed in the house.

Next morning the sun awoke him. He was lying on the broad of his back, and the skylark was singing over him in the beautiful blue sky, and the bee was humming close to his ear among the heath. He rubbed his eyes; nothing did he see but the dear sky, with two or three light morning clouds floating away. Mr. Barry's fine house and soft feather bed had melted into air, and he found himself stretched on the side of Cairn Thierna, buried in the heath, with the cowhide which had been given him, rolled up under his head for a pillow.[604]

"Well," said he, "this bates cockfighting, any how! Didn't I spind the plisantest night I iver spint in my life with Mr. Barry last night? And what in the world has becom' of the house, and the hall door with the steps, and the very bed that was undher me?" He stood up. Not a vestige of a house or any thing like one, but the rude heap of stones on the top of the mountain, could he see; and ever so far off lay the Blackwater, glittering with the morning sun, and the little quiet village of Fermoy on its banks, from whose chimneys white wreaths of smoke were beginning to rise upwards into the sky. Throwing the cowhide over his shoulder, he descended, not without some difficulty, the steep side of the mountain, up which Mr. Barry had led his horse the preceding night with so much ease; and he proceeded along the road, pondering on what had befallen him.

When he reached Fermoy, he went straight to Mr. Consadine's, and asked to see him. "Well, my gay fellow," said the official Mr. Consadine, recognising, at a glance, the soldier; "what sort of an entertainment did you meet with from Barry of Cairn Thierna?" "The best of good thratement, sir," replied the soldier; "and well did he spake of you, and he disired me to give you this cowhide as a token to remimber him by." "Many thanks to Mr. Barry for his generosity," said the billet-master, making a low bow, in mock solemnity; "many thanks indeed, and a right good skin it is, wherever he got it."

Mr. Consadine had scarcely finished the sentence, when he saw his cow-boy running up the street, shouting and crying aloud, that the best cow in the Inch-field was lost and gone, and nobody knew what had become of her, or could give the least tidings of her.

The soldier had spread out the skin on the ground for Mr. Consadine to see it; and the cow-boy looking at it, exclaimed—"That is her hide, wherever she is; I'd take my Bible oath to the two small white spots, with the glossy black about thim; and there's the very place where she rubbed the hair off her shouldher last Martinmas." Then clapping his hands together, he literally sang "the tune the old cow died of." This lamentation was stopped short by Mr. Consadine: "There is no manner of doubt about it," said he. "It was Barry that kilt my best cow, and all he has left me is the hide o' the poor baste to comfort myself with; but it will be a warnin' to Dick Consadine, for the rest of his life, nivir again to play off his thricks upon thravellers."

Aileen a Roon,

(ELLEN MY LOVE.)

Carrol O'Daly is the Lochinvar of Ireland. He and Ellen Cavanagh were intimate from childhood. The result was love; but Ellen's father insisted on her marrying a wealthier suitor. On the wedding-night Carrol came disguised as a harper, and played and sung this air, which he had composed for the occasion. Ellen's tenderness revived in full force; she contrived to make her father, the bridegroom, and the guests drink to excess, and by morning she and Carrol were beyond pursuit.

The following lines were written one evening to gratify a lady who wished to have the writer's idea of what Carrol might have sung. The air is generally known under the name of Robin Adair:—

Rousseau's Dream.

These verses are adapted to the well-known air. They were suggested by a passage from Rousseau's works, quoted by Alison in his Essay on Taste. Though real names are mentioned, the scenery and subject are purely ideal.

Alexander Selkirk's Dream.

COMPOSED ONE DAY WHEN CONFINED TO BED BY A COLD AND UNABLE TO READ.

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A Moonlight Scene,

CONCEIVED AND COMMENCED WHEN PASSING OVER PUTNEY BRIDGE ON A FINE MOONLIGHT NIGHT IN SUMMER.

Lines Written in a Lady's Album.

To Amanda.

[These are the verses quoted in the Introduction to the "Tales and Popular Fictions." The author was very young when he wrote them; and Amanda was, like Beatrice and Laura, a mere donna di mente, having no real existence.]

Lines,

WRITTEN AT HOME IN THE SPRING OF 1842.

A Farewell.

Verses,

WRITTEN AT BATH IN 1840, FOR A LITTLE BOY WHO KEPT AN ALBUM, AND WAS A GREAT ADMIRER OF ROBIN HOOD AND HIS MERRY MEN.

Father Cuddy's Song.

IN THE LEGEND OF CLOUGH NA CUDDY.

TRANSLATION.

The Praises of MazenderÂn.

FROM THE SHÂH-NÂMEH OF FERDOUSEE.

[The object of this version was to give a correct idea of the animated anapÆstic measure in which the ShÂh-NÂmeh is written. Our knowledge of Persian was extremely slight; but a friendly Orientalist gave us a faithful line-for-line translation, which we versified, and he and Ram Mohun Roy then compared our version with the original.]

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