Chapter III: Part 3

They went to their dinner then, and when they had it eaten, the giant asked the tailor “would it come with him to swallow as much broth as himself, up out of its boiling.” The tailor said: “It will come with me to do that, but that you must give me an hour before we begin on it.” The tailor went out then, and he got a sheepskin, and he sewed it up till he made a bag of it, and he slipped it down under his coat. He came in then and said to the giant to drink a gallon of the broth himself first. The giant drank that, up out of its boiling. “I’ll do that,” said the tailor. He was going on until he had it all poured into the skin, and the giant thought he had it drunk. The giant drank another gallon then, and the tailor let another gallon down into the skin, but the giant thought he was drinking it.

“I’ll do a thing now that it won’t come with you to do,” said the tailor.

“You will not,” said the giant. “What is it you would do?”

“Make a hole and let out the broth again,” said the tailor.

“Do it yourself first,” said the giant.

The tailor gave a prod of the knife, and he let the broth out of the skin.

“Do that you,” said he.

“I will,” said the giant, giving such a prod of the knife into his own stomach, that he killed himself. That is the way he killed the third giant.

He went to the king then, and desired him to send him out his wife and his money, for that he would throw down the court again, unless he should get the wife. They were afraid then that he would throw down the court, and they sent the wife out to him.

When the tailor was a day gone, himself and his wife, they repented and followed him to take his wife off him again. The people who were after him were following him till they came to the place where the lion was, and the lion said to them: “The tailor and his wife were here yesterday. I saw them going by, and if ye loose me now, I am swifter than ye, and I will follow them till I overtake them.” When they heard that they loosed out the lion.

The lion and the people of Dublin went on, and they were pursuing him, until they came to the place where the fox was, and the fox greeted them, and said: “The tailor and his wife were here this morning, and if ye will loose me out, I am swifter than ye, and I will follow them, and overtake them.” They loosed out the fox then.

The lion and the fox and the army of Dublin went on then, trying would they catch the tailor, and they were going till they came to the place where the old white garraun was, and the old white garraun said to them that the tailor and his wife were there in the morning, and “loose me out,” said he; “I am swifter than ye, and I’ll overtake them.” They loosed out the old white garraun then, and the old white garraun, the fox, the lion, and the army of Dublin pursued the tailor and his wife together, and it was not long till they came up with him, and saw himself and the wife out before them.

When the tailor saw them coming he got out of the coach with his wife, and he sat down on the ground.

When the old white garraun saw the tailor sitting down on the ground, he said: “That’s the position he had when he made the hole for me, that I couldn’t come up out of, when I went down into it. I’ll go no nearer to him.”

“No!” said the fox, “but that’s the way he was when he was making the thing for me, and I’ll go no nearer to him.”

“No!” says the lion, “but that’s the very way he had, when he was making the plough that I was caught in. I’ll go no nearer to him.”

They all went from him then and returned. The tailor and his wife came home to Galway. They gave me paper stockings and shoes of thick milk. I lost them since. They got the ford, and I the flash;[16] they were drowned, and I came safe.

BRAN.

Ḃí cú breáġ ag Fionn. Sin Bran. Ċualaiḋ tu caint air Ḃran. Seó an daṫ a ḃí air.

Cosa buiḋe a ḃí air Ḃran
Dá ṫaoiḃ duḃa agus tárr geal,
Druim uaine air ḋaṫ na seilge
Dá ċluais cruinne cóiṁ-ḋearga.

Ḃéarfaḋ Bran air na Gaéṫiḃ-fiáḋna ḃí sí ċoṁ luaṫ sin. Nuair ḃí sí ’nna coileán d’éiriġ imreas no tsoid éigin ameasg na g-con a ḃí ag an ḃFéin, agus

Trí fiċe cu agus fiċe coileán
Ṁarḃ Bran agus í ’nna coileán,
Dá ġé-fiaḋáin, agus an oireaḋ leó uile.

Sé Fionn féin a ṁarḃ Bran. Ċuaiḋ siad amaċ ag fiaḋaċ agus rínneaḋ eilit de ṁáṫair Ḟinn. Ḃí Bran dá tóruiġeaċt.

“Eilit ḃaoṫ fág air sliaḃ,”

ar Fionn. “A ṁic óig,” ar sise, “Cá raċfaiḋ mé as?”

Má ṫéiḋim ann san ḃfairrge síos
Coiḋċe ni ḟillfinn air m’ais,
S má ṫéiḋim ann san aer suas
Ní ḃeurfaiḋ mo luaṫas air Ḃran.

“Gaḃ amaċ eidir mo ḋá ċois,” ar Fionn. Ċuaiḋ sise amaċ eidir a ḋá ċois, agus lean Bran í, agus air ngaḃail amaċ dí, d’ḟáisg Fionn a ḋá ġlúin uirri agus ṁarḃ sé í.

Ḃí inġean ag Bran. Cu duḃ a ḃí ann san g-coileán sin, agus ṫóg na Fianna í, agus duḃairt siad leis an mnaoi a ḃí taḃairt aire do’n ċoileán, bainne bó gan aon ḃall do ṫaḃairt do’n ċoileán, agus gaċ aon deór do ṫaḃairt dó, agus gan aon ḃraon ċongḃail uaiḋ. Ní ḋearnaiḋ an ḃean sin, aċt ċongḃuiġ cuid de’n ḃainne gan a ṫaḃairt uile do’n ċoileán. An ċeud lá do sgaoil na Fianna an cu óg amaċ ḃí gleann lán de ġéaḋaiḃ fiaḋáine agus d’ eunaċaiḃ eile, agus nuair sgaoileaḋ an cú duḃ ’nna measg, do ġaḃ sí iad uile aċt fíor-ḃeagán aca a ċuaiḋ amaċ air ḃearna a ḃí ann. Agus aċt gur ċongḃuiġ an ḃean cuid de’n ḃainne uaiṫi do ṁarḃfaḋ sí iad uile.

Ḃí fear de na Fiannaiḃ ’nna ḋall, agus nuair leigeaḋ an cu amaċ d’ḟiafruiġ sé de na daoiniḃ a ḃí anaice leis, cia an ċaoi a rinne an cú óg. Duḃairt siad-san leis gur ṁarḃ an cu óg an meud gé fiaḋáin agus eun a ḃi ann san ngleann, aċt beagán aca a ċuaiḋ amaċ air ḃearna, agus go raiḃ sí teaċt a ḃaile anois. “Dá ḃfáġaḋ sí an bainne uile a ṫáinig de’n ḃo gan aon ḃall,” ar san dall, “ni leigfeaḋ sí d’eun air biṫ imṫeaċt uaiḋi,” agus d’ḟiafruiġ sé, ann sin, cad é an ċaoi a raiḃ sí tíġeaċt a ḃaile. “Tá sí teaċt anois,” ar siad, “agus, sgáil’ lasta as a muineul agus i air buile.”

“Taḃair m’impiḋe ḋam anois,” ar san dall, “agus cuir mé ’mo ṡuiḋe ann san g-cáṫaoir agus cuir gual ann mo láiṁ, óir muna marḃaim í anois marḃfaiḋ sí muid (sinn) uile.” Ṫáinig an cú, agus ċaiṫ sé an gual léiṫe agus ṁarḃ sé í, agus é dall.

Aċt dá ḃfágaḋ an coileán sin an bainne uile do ṫiucfaḋ sí agus luiḋfeaḋ sí síos go socair, mar luiḋeaḋ Bran.

BRAN.

Finn had a splendid hound. That was Bran. You have heard talk of Bran. This is the colour was on him:

Yellow feet that were on Bran,
Two black sides, and belly white,
Grayish back of hunting colour,
Two ears, red, round, small, and bright.

Bran would overtake the wild-geese, she was that swift. There arose some quarrel or fighting between the hounds that the Fenians had, when she was only a puppy, and

Three score hounds and twenty puppies
Bran did kill, and she a puppy,
Two wild-geese, as much as they all.

It was Finn himself who killed Bran. They went out hunting, and there was made a fawn of Finn’s mother. (_Who made a fawn of her? Oh, how do I know? It was with some of their pishtrogues._) Bran was pursuing her.

“Silly fawn leave on mountain,”

said Finn. “Oh, young son,” said she, “how shall I escape?—

“If I go in the sea beneath
I never shall come back again,
And if I go in the air above
My swiftness is no match for Bran.”

“Go out between my two legs,” said Finn.

She went between his two legs, and Bran followed her; and as Bran went out under him, Finn squeezed his two knees on her and killed her.

Bran had a daughter. That pup was a black hound, and the Fenians reared it; and they told the woman who had a charge of the pup to give it the milk of a cow without a single spot, and to give it every single drop, and not to keep back one tint[17] from her. The woman did not do that, but kept a portion of the milk without giving it to the pup.

The first day that the Fenians loosed out the young hound, there was a glen full of wild-geese and other birds; and when the black hound was loosed amongst them, she caught them all except a very few that went out on a gap that was in it. (_And how could she catch the wild-geese? Wouldn’t they fly away in the air? She caught them, then. That’s how I heard it._) And only that the woman kept back some of the milk from her, she would have killed them all.

There was a man of the Fenians, a blind man, and when the pup was let out, he asked the people near him how did the young hound do. They told him that the young hound killed all the wild-geese and birds that were in the glen, but a few that went out on a gap. “If she had to get all the milk that came from the cow without spot,” says the blind man, “she wouldn’t let a bird at all go from her.” And he asked then “how was the hound coming home?” “She’s coming now,” said they, “and a fiery cloud out of her neck,” (_How out of her neck? Because she was going so quick._) “and she coming madly.”

“Grant me my request now,” said the blind man. “Put me sitting in the chair, and put a coal[18](?) in my hand; for unless I kill her she’ll kill us.”

The hound came, and he threw the coal at her and killed her, and he blind.

But if that pup had to get all the milk, she’d come and she’d lie down quietly, the same as Bran used to lie ever.

MAC RIĠ ÉIREANN.

Ḃí mac ríġ i n-Éirinn, fad ó ṡoin, agus ċuaiḋ sé amaċ agus ṫug sé a ġunna ’s a ṁadaḋ leis. Ḃí sneaċta amuiġ. Ṁarḃ sé fiaċ duḃ. Ṫuit an fiaċ duḃ air an tsneaċta. Ní ḟacaiḋ sé aon rud buḋ ġile ’ná an sneaċta, ná buḋ ḋuiḃe ’ná cloigionn an ḟiaiċ ḋuiḃ, ná buḋ ḋeirge ’ná a ċuid fola ḃí ’gá dórtaḋ amaċ.

Ċuir sé faoi geasaiḃ agus deimúġ (_sic_) na bliaḋna naċ n-íosaḋ sé ḋá ḃiaḋ i n-aon ḃord, ná ḋá oiḋċe do ċoḋlaḋ ann aon teaċ, go ḃfáġaḋ sé bean a raiḃ a cloigionn ċoṁ duḃ leis an ḃfiaċ duḃ, agus a croicionn ċoṁ geal leis an tsneaċta, agus a ḋá ġruaiḋ ċoṁ dearg le fuil.

Ni raiḃ aon ḃean ann san doṁan mar sin, aċt aon ḃean aṁáin a ḃí ann san doṁan ṡoir.

Lá air na ṁáraċ ġaḃ sé amaċ, agus ní raiḃ airgiod fairsing, aċt ṫug sé leis fiċe púnta. Ní fada ċuaiḋ sé gur casaḋ socraoid dó, agus duḃairt sé go raiḃ sé ċoṁ maiṫ ḋó trí ċoiscéim ḋul leis an g-corpán. Ní raiḃ na trí ċoiscéim siúḃalta aige go dtáinig fear agus leag sé a reasta air an g-corp air ċúig ṗúnta. Ḃí dlíġeaḋ i n-Eirinn an t-am sin, duinea ir biṫ a raiḃ fiaċa aige air ḟear eile, naċ dtiucfaḋ le muinntir an ḟir sin a ċur, dá mbeiḋeaḋ sé marḃ, gan na fiaċa d’íoc, no gan cead ó’n duine a raiḃ na fiaċa sin aige air an ḃfear marḃ. Nuair ċonnairc Mac Ríġ Éireann mic agus inġeana an duine ṁairḃ ag caoineaḋ, agus iad gan an t-airgiod aca le taḃairt do ’n ḟear, duḃairt sé leis fein, “is mór an ṫruaġ é naċ ḃfuil an t-airgiod ag na daoiniḃ boċta.” agus ċuir sé a láṁ ann a ṗóca agus d’íoc sé féin na cúig ṗúnta, air son an ċuirp. Duḃairt sé go raċfaḋ sé ċum an teampoill ann sin, go ḃfeicfeaḋ sé curṫa é. Ṫáinig fear eile ann sin, agus leag sé a reasta air an g-corp air son cúig ṗúnta eile. “Mar ṫug mé na ceud ċúig ṗúnta,” ar Mac Ríġ Éireann leis féin, “tá sé ċoṁ maiṫ ḋam cúig ṗúnta eile ṫaḃairt anois, agus an fear boċt do leigean dul ’san uaiġ.” D’íoc sé na cúig ṗúnta eile. Ní raiḃ aige ann sin aċt deiċ bpúnta.

Níor ḃfada ċuaiḋ sé gur casaḋ fear gearr glas dó agus d’ḟiafruiġ sé ḋé cá raiḃ sé dul. Duḃairt sé go raiḃ sé dul ag iarraiḋ mná ’san doṁan ṡoir. D’ḟiafruiġ an fear gearr glas dé, an raiḃ buaċaill teastál uaiḋ, agus duḃairt sé go raiḃ, agus cad é an ṗáiḋe ḃeiḋeaḋ sé ag iarraiḋ. Duḃairt seisean “an ċeud ṗóg air a ṁnaoi, dá ḃfáġaḋ sé í.” Duḃairt Mac Ríġ Éireann go g-caiṫfeaḋ sé sin ḟáġail.

Níor ḃfada ċuaiḋ siad gur casaḋ fear eile ḋóiḃ agus a ġunna ann a láiṁ, agus é ag “leiḃléaraċt” air an londuḃ a ḃí ṫall ’san doṁan ṡoir, go mbeiḋeaḋ sé aige le n-aġaiḋ a ḋinéir. Duḃairt an fear gearr glas le Mac Ríġ Éireann gó raiḃ sé ċoṁ maiṫ ḋó an fear sin ġlacaḋ air aimsir, da raċfaḋ sé air aimsir leis. D’ḟiafruiġ Mac Ríġ Eireann an dtiucfaḋ sé air aimsir leis.

“Raċfad,” ar san fear, “má ḃfáġ’ mé mo ṫuarastal.”

“Agus cad é an tuarastal ḃéiḋeas tu ’g iarraiḋ?”

“Áit tíġe agus garḋa.”

“Geoḃaiḋ tu sin uaim, má éiriġeann mo ṫuras liom.”

D’imṫiġ Mac Ríġ Eireann leis an ḃfear glas agus leis an ngunnaire, agus ní fada ċuaiḋ síad gur casaḋ fear dóiḃ, agus a ċluas leagṫa air an talaṁ, agus é ag éisteaċt leis an ḃfeur ag fás.

“Tá sé ċoṁ maiṫ ḋuit an fear sin ġlacaḋ air aimsir,” ar san fear gearr glas.

D’ḟiafruiġ Mac Ríġ Eireann de ’n ḟear an dtiucfaḋ sé leis air aimsir.

“Tiucfad má ḃfáġ mé áit tiġe agus garḋa.”

“Geoḃaiḋ tu sin uaim má éiriġeann an rud atá ann mo ċeann liom.”

Ċuaiḋ Mac Riġ Eireann, an fear gearr glas, an gunnaire, agus an cluasaire, agus ní fada ċuaiḋ siad gur casaḋ fear eile ḋóiḃ agus a leaṫ-ċos air a ġualainn, agus é ag congḃáil páirce geirrḟiaḋ gan aon ġeirrḟiaḋ leigean asteaċ ná amaċ. Ḃí iongantas air Ṁac Ríġ Eireann agus d’ḟiafruiġ sé cad é an ċiall a raiḃ a leaṫ-ċos air a ġualainn mar sin.

“O,” ar seisean, “dá mbeiḋeaḋ mo ḋá ċois agam air an talam ḃeiḋinn ċoṁ luaṫ sin go raċfainn as aṁarc.”

“An dtiucfaiḋ tu air aimsir liom,” ar san Mac Riġ.

“Tiucfad, má ḃfáġ’ mé áit tiġe agus garḋa.”

“Geoḃaiḋ tu sin uaim,” ar Mac Ríġ Éireann, “má éiriġeann an rud atá ann mo ċeann, liom.”

Ċuaiḋ Mac Riġ Eireann, an fear gearr glas, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, agus an coisire air aġaiḋ, agus níor ḃfada go dtáncadar go fear agus é ag cur muilinn gaoiṫe ṫart le na leaṫṗolláire, agus a ṁeur leagṫa aige air a ṡrón ag druidim na polláire eile.

“Cad ċuige ḃfuil do ṁeur agad air do ṡrón?” ar Mac Ríġ Eireann leis.

“O,” ar seisean, “dá séidfinn as mo ḋá ṗolláire do sguabfainn an muileann amaċ as sin suas ’san aer.”

“An dtiucfaiḋ tu air aimsir?”

“Tiucfad, má ḃfáġ’ mé áit tiġe agus garḋa.”

“Geoḃaiḋ tu sin, má éiriġeann an rud atá ann mo ċeann liom.”

Ċuaiḋ Mac Riġ Eireann, an fear gearr glas, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, an coisire, agus an séidire go dtáncadar go fear a ḃí ’nna ṡuiḋe air ṫaoiḃ an ḃoṫair, agus é ag briseaḋ cloċ le na leaṫ-ṫóin agus ní raiḃ casúr ná dadaṁ aige. D’ḟiafruiġ an Mac Ríġ ḋé, cad ċuige a raiḃ sé ag briseaḋ na g-cloċ le na leaṫ-ṫóin.

“O,” ar seisean, “dá mbualfainn leis an tóin ḋúbalta iad ḋeunfainn púġdar díoḃ.”

“An dtiucfaiḋ tu air aimsir liom?”

“Tuicfad, má ḃfaġ’ mé áit tíġe agus garḋa.”

D’imṫiġ siad uile ann sin, Mac Ríġ Eireann, an fear gearr glas, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, an coisire, an séidire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna agus ḃeurfaḋ siad air an ngaoiṫ Ṁárta a ḃí rompa agus an ġaoṫ Ṁárta a ḃí ’nna n-diaiġ ní ḃéurfaḋ sí orra-san go dtáinig traṫnóna agus deireaḋ an laé.

Ḍearc Mac Ríġ Éireann uaiḋ agus ní ḟacaiḋ sé aon teaċ a mbeiḋeaḋ sé ann an oiḋċe sin. Ḍearc an fear gearr glas uaiḋ agus ċonnairc sé teaċ naċ raiḃ bonn cleite amaċ air, ná bárr cleite asteaċ air, aċt aon ċleite aṁáin a ḃí ag congḃáil dídinn agus fasgaiḋ air. Duḃairt mac ríġ Éireann naċ raiḃ ḟios aige cá ċaiṫfeaḋ siad an oiḋċe sin, agus duḃairt an fear gearr glas go mbeiḋeaḋ siad i dṫeaċ an ḟaṫaiġ ṫall an oiḋċe sin.

Ṫáinig siad ċum an tiġe, agus ṫarraing an fear gearr glas an cuaille cóṁraic agus níor ḟág sé leanḃ i mnaoi searraċ i g-capall, pigín i muic, ná broc i ngleann nár iompuiġ sé ṫart trí uaire iad le méad an torain do ḃain sé as an g-cuaille cóṁraic. Ṫáinig an faṫaċ amaċ agus duḃairt sé “moṫuiġim bolaḋ an Éireannaiġ ḃinn ḃreugaiġ faoi m’ḟóidín dúṫaiġ.”

“Ní Éireannaċ binn breugaċ mise,” ar san fear gearr glas, “aċt tá mo ṁáiġistir amuiġ ann sin ag ceann an ḃóṫair agus má ṫagann sé bainfiḋ sé an ceann díot.” Ḃí an fear gearr glas ag meuduġaḋ, agus ag meuduġaḋ go raiḃ sé faoi ḋeireaḋ ċoṁ mór leis an g-caisleán. Ḃí faitċios air an ḃfaṫaċ agus duḃairt sé, “Ḃfuil do ṁáiġistir ċoṁ mór leat féin?”

“Tá,” ar san fear gearr glas, “agus níos mó.”

“Cuir i ḃfolaċ mé go maidin go n-imṫiġeann do ṁáiġistir,” ar san faṫaċ.

Ċuir sé an faṫaċ faoi ġlas, ann sin, agus ċuaiḋ sé ċum a ṁáiġistir.

Ṫáinig mac ríġ Éireann, an fear gearr glas, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, an séidire, an coisire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna, asteaċ ’san g-caisleán, agus ċaiṫ siad an oiḋċe sin, trian dí le fiannaiġeaċt agus trian le sgeuluiġeaċt, agus trian le soirm (_sic_) sáiṁ suain agus fíor-ċodalta.

Nuair d’ éiriġ an lá air na ṁáraċ ṫug sé leis a ṁáiġistir agus an gunnaire, agus an cluasaire, agus an coisire, agus an séidire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna, agus d’ḟág sé amuiġ ag ceann an ḃóṫair iad, agus ṫáinig sé féin air ais agus ḃain sé an glas de ’n ḟaṫaċ. Duḃairt sé leis an ḃfaṫaċ gur ċuir a ṁáiġistir air ais é i g-coinne an ḃirréid ḋuiḃ a ḃí faoi ċolḃa a leabuiḋ. Duḃairt an faṫaċ go dtiuḃraḋ sé hata ḋó nár ċaiṫ sé féin ariaṁ, aċt go raiḃ náire air, an sean-ḃirreud do ṫaḃairt dó. Duḃairt an fear gearr glas muna dtiuḃraḋ sé an birreud dó go dtiucfaḋ a ṁáiġistir air ais, agus go mbainfeaḋ sé an ceann dé.

“Is fearr dam a ṫaḃairt duit,” ar san faṫaċ, “agus uair air biṫ a ċuirfeas tu air do ċeann é, feicfiḋ tu uile ḋuine agus ni ḟeicfiḋ duine air biṫ ṫu.” Ṫug sé ḋó an birreud ann sin, agus ċuaiḋ an fear gearr glas agus ṫug sé do ṁaċ ríġ Éireann é.

Ḃí siad ag imṫeaċt ann sin. Do ḃéarfaḋ siad air an ngaoiṫ Ṁárta do ḃí rómpa, agus an ġaoṫ Ṁárta do ḃí ’nna ndiaiġ ní ḃéarfaḋ sí orra-san, ag dul do’n doṁan ṡoir. Nuair ṫáinig traṫnóna agus deireaḋ an lae ḋearc mac ríġ Eireann uaiḋ agus ní ḟacaiḋ sé aon áit a mbeiḋeaḋ sé ann an oiḋċe sin. Ḍearc an fear gearr glas uaiḋ, agus ċonnairc sé caisleán, agus duḃairt sé, “an faṫaċ atá ann san g-caisleán sin, is dearḃráṫair do’n ḟaṫaċ a raḃamar aréir aige, agus béiḋmíd ann san g-caisleán sin anoċt.” Ṫáinig siad, agus d’ḟág sé mac ríġ Eireann agus a ṁuinntir ag ceann an ḃóṫair agus ċuaiḋ sé ċum an ċaisleáin, agus ṫarraing sé an cuaille cóṁraic, agus níor ḟág sé leanḃ i mnaoi ná searraċ i g-capall ná pigín i muic ná broc i ngleann, i ḃfoigse seaċt míle ḋó, nár ḃain sé trí iompóḋ asta leis an méad torain a ṫug sé as an g-cuaille cóṁraic.

Ṫáinig an faṫaċ amaċ, agus duḃairt sé, “Moṫuiġim bolaḋ an Éireannaiġ ḃinn ḃreugaiġ faoi m’ḟóidín dúṫaiġ.”

“Ní Eireannaċ binn breugaċ mise,” ar san fear gearr glas, “aċt tá mo ṁáiġistir amuiġ ann sin ag ceann an ḃóṫair, agus má ṫagann sé bainfiḋ sé an ceann díot.”

“Is mór líom ḋe ġreim ṫu, agus is beag liom de ḋá ġreim ṫu,” ar san faṫaċ.

“Ní ḃfuiġfiḋ tu mé de ġreim air biṫ,” ar san fear gearr glas, agus ṫoisiġ sé ag meuduġaḋ go raiḃ sé ċoṁ mór leis an g-caisleán.

Ṫáinig faitċios air an ḃfaṫaċ agus duḃairt sé, “ḃfuil do ṁáiġistir ċoṁ mór leat-sa?”

“Tá agus níos mó,” ar san fear beag glas.

“Cuir i ḃfolaċ mé go maidin go n-imṫiġeann do ṁáiġistir,” ar san faṫaċ, “agus rud air biṫ atá tu ag iarraiḋ caiṫfiḋ tu a ḟáġail.”

Ṫug sé an faṫaċ leis, agus ċaiṫ sé faoi ḃeul daḃaiċ é. Ċuaiḋ se amaċ agus ṫug sé asteaċ mac ríġ Eireann, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, an séidire, an coisire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna, agus ċaiṫ siad an oiḋċe ann sin, trian le fiannuiġeaċt trian le sgeulaiġeaċt agus trian le soirm sáiṁ suain agus fíor-ċodalta, go dti an ṁaidin.

Air maidin, lá air na ṁáraċ, ṫug an fear gearr glas mac ríġ Eireann agus a ṁuinntir amaċ as an g-caisleán agus d’ḟág sé ag ceann an ḃóṫair iad, agus ṫáinig sé féin air ais agus d’iarr sé na sean-slipéaraiḋ a ḃi faoi ċolḃa an leabuiḋ, air an ḃfaṫaċ. Duḃairt an faṫaċ go dtiúḃraḋ sé péire ḃútais ċoṁ maiṫ agus ċaiṫ sé ariaṁ d’a ṁáiġistir, agus cad é an maiṫ a ḃí ann sna sean-slipéaraiḃ! Duḃairt an fear gearr glas muna ḃfáġaḋ sé na slipeuraiḋ go raċfaḋ sé i g-coinne a ṁáiġistir, leis an ceann do ḃaint dé. Duḃairt an faṫaċ ann sin go dtiúḃraḋ sé ḋó iad, agus ṫug. “Am air biṫ,” ar seisean, “a ċuirfeas tu na slipeuraiḋ sin ort, agus ’haiġ óiḃir’ do ráḋ, áit air biṫ a ḃfuil súil agad do ḋul ann, béiḋ tu innti.”

D’imṫiġ mac ríġ Eireann agus an fear gearr glas, agus an gunnaire, agus an cluasaire, agus an coisire, agus an séidire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna, go dtáinig traṫnóna agus deireaḋ an laé; agus go raiḃ an capall ag dul faoi sgáṫ na copóige agus ní fanfaḋ an ċopóg leis. D’ḟiafruiġ mac ríġ Eireann de’n ḟear gearr glas ann sin, cá ḃeiḋeaḋ siad an oiḋċe sin, agus duḃairt an fear gearr glas go mbeiḋeaḋ siad i dteaċ dearḃráṫar an ḟaṫaiġ ag a raiḃ siad areir. Ḍearc mac ríġ Eireann uaiḋ agus ni ḟacaiḋ sé dadaṁ. Ḍearc an fear gearr glas uaiḋ agus ċonnairc sé caisleán mór. D’ḟágḃaiġ sé mac ríġ Eireann agus a ṁuinntir ann sin agus ċuaiḋ sé ċum an ċaisleáin leis féin, agus ṫarraing sé an cuaille cóṁraic, agus níor ḟágḃaiġ sé leanḃ i mnaoi, searraċ i láir, pigín i muic, na broc i ngleann, nár ṫionntuiġ sé ṫart trí uaire leis an méad torain a ḃain sé as an g-cuaille cóṁraic. Ṫáinig an faṫaċ amaċ agus duḃairt sé, “moṫuiġim bolaḋ an Éireannaiġ ḃinn ḃreugaiġ faoi m’ḟóidín dúṫaiġ.”

“Ní Éireannaċ binn breugaċ mise,” ar san fear gearr glas, “aċt tá mo ṁáiġistir ’nna ṡeasaṁ ann sin, ag ceann an ḃóṫair, agus má ṫagann sé bainfiḋ sé an ceann díot.”

Agus leis sin ṫosuiġ an fear gearr glas ag méaduġaḋ go raiḃ sé ċoṁ mór leis an g-caisleán faoi ḋeireaḋ.

Ṫáinig faitċios air an ḃfaṫaċ, agus duḃairt sé, “ḃfuil do ṁáiġistir ċoṁ mór leat féin?”

“Tá,” ar san fear gearr glas, “agus níos mó.”

“O cuir mé a ḃfolaċ, cuir me i ḃfolaċ,” ar san faṫaċ, “go n-ímṫiġeann do ṁáiġistir, agus rud air biṫ a ḃéiḋeas tu ag iarraiḋ caiṫfiḋ tu a ḟáġail.”

Ṫug sé an faṫaċ leis agus ċuir sé faoi ḃeul daḃaiċ é, agus glas air.

Ṫáinig sé air ais agus ṫug sé mac ríġ Éireann, an gunnaire, an cluasaire, an coisire, an séidire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna asteaċ leis, agus ċaiṫ siad an oiḋċe sin go rúgaċ, trian dí le fiannuiġeaċt, agus trian dí le sgeuluiġeaċt, agus trian dí le soirm sáiṁ suain agus fíor ċodalta.

Air maidin, lá air na ṁáraċ, ṫug sé mac ríġ Eireann agus a ṁuinntir amaċ agus d’ḟágḃuiġ sé ag ceann an ḃóṫair iad agus ṫáinig sé féin air ais, agus leig sé amaċ an faṫaċ, agus duḃairt se leis an ḃfaṫaċ an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ a ḃí faoi ċolḃa a leabuiḋ do ṫaḃairt dó. Duḃairt an faṫaċ naċ dtiúḃraḋ sé an sean-ċloiḋeaṁ sin d’ aon duine, aċt go dtiúḃraḋ sé ḋó cloiḋeaṁ na trí faoḃar, nár ḟág fuiġeal buille ’nna ḋiaiġ, agus dá ḃfág-faḋ sé go dtiuḃraḋ sé leis an dara ḃuille é.

“Ní ġlacfaiḋ mé sin,” ar san fear gearr glas, “caiṫfiḋ mé an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ ḟáġail, agus muna ḃfáġ’ mé é raċfaiḋ me i g-coinne mo ṁáiġistir agus bainfiḋ sé an ceann díot.”

“Is fearr dam a ṫaḃairt duit,” ar san faṫaċ, “agus cia bé áit a ḃualfeas tu buille leis an g-cloiḋeaṁ sin raċfaiḋ sé go dtí an gaineaṁ dá mbuḋ iarann a ḃí roiṁe.” Ṫug sé an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ dó ann sin.

Cuaiḋ mac ríġ Eireann agus an fear gearr glas, agus an gunnaire, agus an cluasaire, agus an coisire, agus an séidire, agus fear briste na g-cloċ le taoiḃ a ṫóna ann sin, go dtáinig traṫnóna agus deireaḋ an laé, go raiḃ an capall ag dul faoi sgáṫ na copóige agus ní ḟanfaḋ an ċopóg leis. Ní ḃéarfaḋ an ġaoṫ Ṁárta a ḃí rompa orra agus an ġaoṫ Ṁárta a ḃí ’nna ndiaiġ ní rug sí orra-san, agus ḃí siad an oiḋċe sin ann san doṁan ṡoir, an áit a raiḃ an ḃean-uasal.

D’ ḟiafruiġ an ḃean de ṁac ríġ Eireann creud do ḃí sé ag iarraiḋ agus duḃairt seisean go raiḃ sé ag iarraiḋ íféin mar ṁnaoi. “Caiṫfiḋ tu m’ḟáġail,” ar sise, “má ḟuasglann tu mo ġeasa ḋíom.”

Fuair sé a lóistín le na ċuid buaċaill ann san g-caisleán an oiḋċe sin, agus ann san oiḋċe táinig sise agus duḃairt leis, “seó siosúr agad, agus muna ḃfuil an siosúr sin agad air maidin amáraċ bainfiġear an ceann díot.”

Ċuir sí biorán-suain faoi na ċeann, agus ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ, agus ċoṁ luaṫ a’s ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ rug sí an siosúr uaiḋ agus d’ḟágḃuiġ sí é. Ṫug sí an siosúr do’n ríġ niṁe, agus duḃairt sí leis an ríġ, an siosúr do ḃeiṫ aige air maidin dí. D’imṫiġ sí ann sin. Nuair ḃí sí imṫiġṫe ṫuit an ríġ niṁe ’nna ċodlaḋ agus nuair a ḃí sé ’nna ċodlaḋ ṫáinig an fear gearr glas agus na sean-slipéaraiḋ air, agus an birreud air a ċeann, agus an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ ann a láiṁ, agus cia bé áit a d’ḟágḃuiġ an ríġ an siosúr fuair seisean é. Ṫug sé do ṁac ríġ Eireann é, agus nuair ṫáinig sise air maidin d’ḟiafruiġ sí, “a ṁic ríġ Eireann ḃfuil an siosúr agad?”

“Tá,” ar seisean.

Ḃí tri fíċe cloigionn na ndaoine a ṫáinig ’gá h-íarraiḋ air spíciḃ ṫimċioll an ċaisleáin agus ṡaoil sí go mbeiḋeaḋ a ċloigionn air spíce aici i g-cuideaċt leó.

An oiḋċe, an lá air na ṁáraċ, ṫáinig sí agus ṫug sí cíar dó, agus duḃairt sí leis muna mbeiḋeaḋ an ċíar aige air maidin nuair a ṫiucfaḋ sí go mbeiḋeaḋ an ceann bainte ḋé. Ċuir sí biorán-suain faoi na ċeann agus ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ mar ṫuit sé an oiḋċe roiṁe, agus ġoid sise an ċíar léiṫe. Ṫug sí an ċíar do’n ríġ niṁe agus duḃairt sí leis gan an ċiar do ċailleaḋ mar ċaill sé an siosúr. Ṫáinig an fear gearr glas agus na sean-sléiparaiḋ air a ċosaiḃ, an sean-ḃirreud air a ċeann agus an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ ann a láiṁ, agus ní ḟacaiḋ an ríġ é go dtáinig se taoḃ ṡiar dé agus ṫug sé an ċíar leis uaiḋ.

Nuair ṫáiniġ an ṁaidin, ḋúisiġ mac ríġ Eireann agus ṫosuiġ sé ag caoineaḋ na ciaire a ḃí imṫiġṫe uaiḋ. “Ná bac leis sin,” ar san fear gearr glas, “tá sé agam-sa.” Nuair ṫáinig sise ṫug sé an ċíar dí, agus ḃí iongantas uirri.

Táinig sí an tríoṁaḋ oiḋċe, agus duḃairt sí le mac riġ Eireann an ceann do cíaraḋ leis an g-cíair sin do ḃeiṫ aige ḋí, air maidin amáraċ. “Nois,” ar sise, “ní raiḃ baoġal ort go dtí anoċt, agus má ċailleann tu an t-am so i, tá do ċloigionn imṫiġṫe.”

Ḃí an biorán-suain faoi na ċeann, agus ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ. Ṫáinig sise agus ġoid sí an ċíar uaiḋ. Ṫug sí do’n ríġ niṁe í, agus duḃairt sí leis nár ḟeud an ċíar imṫeaċt uaiḋ no go mbainfiḋe an ceann dé. Ṫug an riġ niṁe an ċiar leis, agus ċuir sé asteaċ í i g-carraig cloiċe, agus trí fiċe glas uirri, agus ṡuiḋ an ríġ taoiḃ amuiġ de na glasaiḃ uile ag doras na carraige, ’gá faire. Ṫáinig an fear gearr glas, agus na slipeuraiḋ agus an birreud air, agus an cloiḋeaṁ meirgeaċ ann a láiṁ, agus ḃuail sé buille air an g-carraig cloiċe agus d’ḟosgail suas í, agus ḃuail sé an dara ḃuille air an ríġ niṁe, agus ḃain sé an ceann dé. Ṫug sé leis an ċiar ċuig (do) mac ríġ Eireann ann sin, agus fuair sé é ann a ḋúiseaċt, agus é ag caoineaḋ na ciaire. “Súd í do ċíar duit,” ar seisean, “tiucfaiḋ sise air ball, agus fiafróċaiḋ sí ḋíot an ḃfuil an ċíar agad, agus abair léiṫe go ḃfuil, agus an ceann do cíaraḋ léiṫe, agus caiṫ ċuici an cloigionn.”

Nuair ṫáinig sise ag fiafruiġ an raiḃ an ċiar aige, duḃairt sé go raiḃ, agus an ceann do cíaraḋ léiṫe, agus ċaiṫ sé ceann an ríġ niṁe ċuici.

Nuair ċonnairc sí an cloigionn ḃí fearg ṁór uirri, agus duḃairt sí leis naċ ḃfuiġfeaḋ sé í le pósaḋ go ḃfáġaḋ sé coisire a ṡiúḃalfaḋ le na coisire féin i g-coinne trí ḃuideul na h-íoċṡláinte as tobar an doṁain ṡoir, agus dá mbuḋ luaiṫe a ṫáinig a coisire féin ’ná an coisire aige-sean, go raiḃ a ċeann imṫiġṫe.

Fuair sí sean-ċailleaċ (ḃuitse éigin) agus ṫug sí trí buideula ḋí. Duḃairt an fear gearr glas trí ḃuideula do ṫaḃairt do’n ḟear a ḃí ag congḃáil páirce na ngeirrḟiaḋ, agus tugaḋ ḋó iad. D’imṫiġ an ċailleaċ agus an fear, agus trí buidéala ag gaċ aon aca, agus ḃí coisire mic ríġ Éireann ag tíġeaċt leaṫ-ḃealaiġ air ais, sul a ḃí an ċailleaċ imṫiġṫe leaṫ-ḃealaiġ ag dul ann. “Suiḋ síos,” ar san ċailleaċ leis an g-coisire, “agus leig do sgíṫ, tá an ḃeirt aca pósta anois, agus ná bí briseaḋ do ċroiḋe ag riṫ.” Ṫug sí léiṫe cloigionn capaill agus ċuir sí faoi na ċeann é, agus biorán-suain ann, agus nuair leag sé a ċeann air, ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ.

Ḍóirt sise an t-uisge a ḃí aige amaċ, agus d’imṫiġ sí.

B’ḟada leis an ḃfear gearr glas go raiḃ siad ag tíġeaċt, agus duḃairt sé leis an g-cluasaire, “leag do ċluas air an talaṁ, agus feuċ an ḃfuil siad ag teaċt.” “Cluinim,” ar seiseann, “an ċailleaċ ag teaċt, agus tá an coisire ’nna ċodlaḋ, agus é ag srannfartuiġ.”

“Dearc uait,” ar san fear gearr glas leis an ngunnaire “go ḃfeicfiḋ tu ca ḃfuil an coisire.”

Duḃairt an gunnaire go raiḃ sé ann a leiṫid sin d’áit, agus cloigionn capaill faoi na ċeann, agus é ’nna ċodlaḋ.

“Cuir do ġunna le do ṡúil,” ar san fear garr glas, “agus cuir an cloigionn ó na ċeann.”

Ċuir sé an gunna le na ṡúil agus sguaib sé an ċloigionn ó na ċeann. Ḍúisiġ an coisire, agus fuair sé na buideula a ḃí aige folaṁ, agus ḃ’éigin dó filleaḋ ċum an tobair arís.

Ḃí an ċailleaċ ag teaċt ann sin agus ní raiḃ an coisire le feiceál (feicsint). Ar san fear gearr glas ann sin, leis an ḃfear a ḃí ag cur an ṁuilinn-gaoiṫe ṫart le na ṗolláire, “éiriġ suas agus feuċ an g-cuirfeá an ċailleaċ air a h-ais.” Ċuir sé a ṁeur air a ṡrón agus nuair ḃí an ċailleaċ ag teaċt ċuir sé séideóg gaoiṫe fúiṫi a sguaib air a h-ais í. Ḃí sí teaċt arís agus rinne sé an rud ceudna léiṫe. Gaċ am a ḃíḋeaḋ sise ag teaċt a ḃfogas dóiḃ do ḃíḋeaḋ seisean dá cur air a h-ais arís leis an ngaoiṫ do ṡéideaḋ sé as a ṗolláire. Air deireaḋ ṡéid se leis an dá ṗolláire agus sguaib sé an ċailleaċ ċum an doṁain ṡoir arís. Ṫáinig coisire mic ríġ Eireann ann sin, agus ḃí an lá sin gnóṫuiġṫe.

Ḃí fearg ṁór air an mnaoi nuair ċonnairc sí naċ dtáinig a coisire féin air ais i dtosaċ, agus duḃairt sí le mac riġ Eireann, “ní ḃfuiġfiḋ tu mise anois no go siùḃailfiḋ tu trí ṁíle gan ḃróig gan stoca, air ṡnáṫaidiḃ cruaiḋe.”

Ḃí bóṫar aici trí ṁíle air fad, agus snáṫaide geura cruaiḋe craiṫte air, ċoṁ tiuġ leis an ḃfeur. Ar san fear gearr glas le fear-briste na g-cloċ le na leaṫ-ṫóin, “téiḋ agus maol iad sin.” Ċuaiḋ an fear sin orra le na leaṫ-ṫóin agus rinne sé stumpaiḋ ḋíoḃ. Duḃairt an fear gearr glas leis dul orra le na ṫóin ḋúbalta. Ċuaiḋ sé orra ann sin le na ṫóin ḋúbalta, agus rinne sé púġdar agus praiseaċ díoḃ. Ṫáinig mac ríġ Éireann agus ṡiúḃail sé na trí ṁíle, agus ḃí a ḃean gnóṫuiġṫe aige.

Pósaḋ an ḃeirt ann sin, agus ḃí an ċéud ṗóg le fáġail ag an ḃfear gearr glas. Rug an fear gearr glas an ḃean leis féin asteaċ i seomra, agus ṫosuiġ sé uirri. Ḃí sí lán ḋe naiṫreaċaiḃ niṁe, agus ḃeiḋeaḋ mac ríġ Éireann marḃ aca, nuair a raċfaḋ sé ’nna ċodlaḋ, aċt gur ṗiuc an fear gearr glas aisti iad.

Ṫainig sé go mac ríġ Eireann ann sin, agus duḃairt sé leis, “Tig leat dul le do ṁnaoi anois. Is mise an fear a ḃí ann san g-cóṁra an lá sin, a d’íoc tu na deiċ bpúnta air a ṡon, agus an ṁuinntir seó a ḃí leat is seirḃísíġe iad do ċuir Dia ċugad-sa.”

D’imṫiġ an fear gearr glas agus a ṁuinntir ann sin agus ní ḟacaiḋ mac ríġ Éireann arís é. Rug sé a ḃean aḃaile leis, agus ċaiṫ siad beaṫa ṡona le ċéile.

THE KING OF IRELAND’S SON.

There was a king’s son in Ireland long ago, and he went out and took with him his gun and his dog. There was snow out. He killed a raven. The raven fell on the snow. He never saw anything whiter than the snow, or blacker than the raven’s skull, or redder than its share of blood,[19] that was a’pouring out.

He put himself under _gassa_[20] and obligations of the year, that he would not eat two meals at one table, or sleep two nights in one house, until he should find a woman whose hair was as black as the raven’s head, and her skin as white as the snow, and her two cheeks as red as the blood.

There was no woman in the world like that; but one woman only, and she was in the eastern world.

The day on the morrow he set out, and money was not plenty, but he took with him twenty pounds. It was not far he went until he met a funeral, and he said that it was as good for him to go three steps with the corpse. He had not the three steps walked until there came a man and left his writ down on the corpse for five pounds. There was a law in Ireland at that time that any man who had a debt upon another person (_i.e._, to whom another person owed a debt) that person’s people could not bury him, should he be dead, without paying his debts, or without the leave of the person to whom the dead man owed the debts. When the king of Ireland’s son saw the sons and daughters of the dead crying, and they without money to give the man, he said to himself: “It’s a great pity that these poor people have not the money,” and he put his hand in his pocket and paid the five pounds himself for the corpse. After that, he said he would go as far as the church to see it buried. Then there came another man, and left his writ on the body for five pounds more. “As I gave the first five pounds,” said the king of Erin’s son to himself, “it’s as good for me to give the other five, and to let the poor man go to the grave.” He paid the other five pounds. He had only ten pounds then.

Not far did he go until he met a short green man, and he asked him where was he going. He said that he was going looking for a woman in the eastern world. The short green man asked him did he want a boy (servant), and he said he did, and [asked] what would be the wages he would be looking for? He said: “The first kiss of his wife if he should get her.” The king of Ireland’s son said that he must get that.

Not far did they go until they met another man and his gun in his hand, and he a’levelling it at the blackbird that was in the eastern world, that he might have it for his dinner. The short green man said to him that it was as good for him to take that man into his service if he would go on service with him. The son of the king of Ireland asked him if he would come on service with him.

“I will,” said the man, “if I get my wages.”

“And what is the wages you’ll be looking for?”

“The place of a house and garden.”

“You’ll get that if my journey succeeds with me.”

The king of Ireland’s son went forward with the short green man and the gunner, and it was not far they went until a man met them, and his ear left to the ground, and he listening to the grass growing.

“It’s as good for you to take that man into your service,” said the short green man.

The king’s son asked the man whether he would come with him on service.

“I’ll come if I get the place of a house and garden.”

“You will get that from me if the thing I have in my head succeeds with me.”

The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, and the earman, went forward, and it was not far they went until they met another man, and his one foot on his shoulder, and he keeping a field of hares, without letting one hare in or out of the field. There was wonder on the king’s son, and he asked him “What was the sense of his having one foot on his shoulder like that.”

“Oh,” says he, “if I had my two feet on the ground I should be so swift that I would go out of sight.”

“Will you come on service with me?” said the king’s son.

“I’ll come if I get the place of a house and garden.”

“You’ll get that if the thing I have in my head succeeds with me.”

The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, the earman, and the footman, went forward, and it was not far they went till they came to a man and he turning round a wind-mill with one nostril, and his finger left on his nose shutting the other nostril.

“Why have you your finger on your nose?” said the king of Ireland’s son.

“Oh,” says he, “if I were to blow with the two nostrils I would sweep the mill altogether out of that up into the air.”

“Will you come on hire with me?”

“I will if I get the place of a house and garden.”

“You’ll get that if the thing I have in my head succeeds with me.”

The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, the earman, the footman, and the blowman went forward until they came to a man who was sitting on the side of the road and he a’breaking stones with one thigh, and he had no hammer or anything else. The king’s son asked him why it was he was breaking stones with his half (_i.e._, one) thigh.

“Oh,” says he, “if I were to strike them with the double thigh I’d make powder of them.”

“Will you hire with me?”

“I will if I get the place of a house and garden.”

“You’ll get that if the thing I have in my head succeeds with me.”

Then they all went forward together—the son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man that broke stones with the side of his thigh, and they would overtake the March wind that was before them, and the March wind that was behind them would not overtake them, until the evening came and the end of the day.

The king of Ireland’s son looked from him, and he did not see any house in which he might be that night. The short green man looked from him, and he saw a house, and there was not the top of a quill outside of it, nor the bottom of a quill inside of it, but only one quill alone, which was keeping shelter and protection on it. The king’s son said that he did not know where he should pass that night, and the short green man said that they would be in the house of the giant over there that night.

They came to the house, and the short green man drew the _coolaya-coric_ (pole of combat), and he did not leave child with woman, foal with mare, pigeen with pig, or badger in glen, that he did not turn over three times with the quantity of sound he knocked out of the _coolaya-coric_. The giant came out, and he said: “I feel the smell of the melodious lying Irishman under (_i.e._, in) my little sod of country.”

“I’m no melodious lying Irishman,” said the short green man; “but my master is out there at the head of the avenue, and if he comes he will whip the head off you.” The short green man was growing big, growing big, until at last he looked as big as the castle. There came fear on the giant, and he said: “Is your master as big as you?”

“He is,” says the short green man, “and bigger.”

“Put me in hiding till morning, until your master goes,” said the giant.

Then he put the giant under lock and key, and went out to the king’s son. Then the king of Ireland’s son, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, came into the castle, and they spent that night, a third of it a’story-telling, a third of it with Fenian tales, and a third of it in mild enjoyment(?) of slumber and of true sleep.

When the day on the morrow arose, the short green man brought with him his master, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, and he left them outside at the head of the avenue, and he came back himself and took the lock off the giant. He told the giant that his master sent him back for the black cap that was under the head of his bed. The giant said that he would give him a hat that he never wore himself, but that he was ashamed to give him the old cap. The short green man said that unless he gave him the cap his master would come back and strike the head off him.

“It’s best for me to give it to you,” said the giant; “and any time at all you will put it on your head you will see everybody and nobody will see you.” He gave him the cap then, and the short green man came and gave it to the king of Ireland’s son.

They were a’going then. They would overtake the March wind that was before them, and the March wind that was behind them would not overtake them, going to the eastern world. When evening and the end of the day came, the king of Ireland’s son looked from him, and he did not see any house in which he might be that night. The short green man looked from him, and he saw a castle, and he said: “The giant that is in that castle is the brother of the giant with whom we were last night, and we shall be in this castle to-night.” They came to the castle, and he left the king’s son and his people at the head of the avenue, and he went to the door and pulled the _coolaya-coric_, and he did not leave child with woman, foal with mare, pigeen with pig, or badger in glen, within seven miles of him, that he did not knock three turns out of them with all the sound he knocked out of the _coolaya-coric_.

The giant came out, and he said, “I feel the smell of a melodious lying Irishman under my sod of country.”

“No melodious lying Irishman am I,” says the short green man; “but my master is outside at the head of the avenue, and if he comes he will whip the head off you.”

“I think you large of one mouthful, and I think you small of two mouthfuls,” said the giant.

“You won’t get me of a mouthful at all,” said the short green man, and he began swelling until he was as big as the castle. There came fear on the giant, and he said:

“Is your master as big as you?”

“He is, and bigger.”

“Hide me,” said the giant, “till morning, until your master goes, and anything you will be wanting you must get it.”

He brought the giant with him, and he put him under the mouth of a _douac_ (great vessel of some sort). He went out and brought in the son of the king of Ireland, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, and they spent that night, one-third of it telling Fenian stories, one-third telling tales, and one-third in the mild enjoyment of slumber and of true sleep until morning.

In the morning, the day on the morrow, the short green man brought the king’s son and his people out of the castle, and left them at the head of the avenue, and he went back himself and asked the giant for the old slippers that were left under the head of his bed.

The giant said that he would give his master a pair of boots as good as ever he wore; and what good was there in the old slippers?

The short green man said that unless he got the slippers he would go for his master to whip the head off him.

Then the giant said that he would give them to him, and he gave them.

“Any time,” said he, “that you will put those slippers on you, and say ‘high-over!’ any place you have a mind to go to, you will be in it.”

The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, went forward until evening came, and the end of the day, until the horse would be going under the shade of the docking, and the docking would not wait for him. The king’s son asked the short green man where should they be that night, and the short green man said that they would be in the house of the brother of the giant with whom they spent the night before. The king’s son looked from him and he saw nothing. The short green man looked from him and he saw a great castle. He left the king’s son and his people there, and he went to the castle by himself, and he drew the _coolaya-coric_, and he did not leave child with woman, foal with mare, pigeen with pig, or badger in glen, but he turned them over three times with all the sound he struck out of the _coolaya-coric_. The giant came out, and he said: “I feel the smell of a melodious lying Irishman under my sod of country.”

“No melodious lying Irishman am I,” said the short green man; “but my master is standing at the head of the avenue, and if he comes he shall strike the head off you.”

And with that the short green man began swelling until he was the size of the castle at last. There came fear on the giant, and he said: “Is your master as big as yourself?”

“He is,” said the short green man, “and bigger.”

“Oh! put me in hiding; put me in hiding,” said the giant, “until your master goes; and anything you will be asking you must get it.”

He took the giant with him, and he put him under the mouth of a _douac_, and a lock on him. He came back, and he brought the king of Ireland’s son, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, into the castle with him, and they spent that night merrily—a third of it with Fenian tales, a third of it with telling stories, and a third of it with the mild enjoyment of slumber and of true sleep.

In the morning, the day on the morrow, he brought the son of the king of Ireland out, and his people with him, and left them at the head of the avenue, and he came back himself and loosed out the giant, and said to him, that he must give him the rusty sword that was under the corner of his bed. The giant said that he would not give that old sword to anyone, but that he would give him the sword of the three edges that never left the leavings of a blow behind it, or if it did, it would take it with the second blow.

“I won’t have that,” said the short green man, “I must get the rusty sword; and if I don’t get that, I must go for my master, and he shall strike the head off you.”

“It is better for me to give it to you,” said the giant, “and whatever place you will strike a blow with that sword, it will go to the sand (_i.e._, cut to the earth) though it were iron were before it.” Then he gave him the rusty sword.

The son of the king of Ireland, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, went forward after that, until evening came, and the end of the day, until the horse was going under the shade of the docking, and the docking would not wait for him. The March wind that was behind them would not overtake them, and they would overtake the wind of March that was before them, and they were that night (arrived) in the eastern world, where was the lady.

The lady asked the king of Ireland’s son what it was he wanted, and he said that he was looking for herself as wife.

“You must get me,” said she, “if you loose my geasa[21] off me.”

He got lodging with all his servants in the castle that evening, and in the night she came and said to him, “Here is a scissors for you, and unless you have that scissors for me to-morrow morning, the head will be struck off you.”