Chapter V: Part 5

The prince said in a whisper: “Now the thirst’s coming on them; the salt that was in the beef is working them; now they’ll come out.” And before the word had left his mouth, the third one fell, with a plop, into the water; and a moment after that, another one jumped down, and then another, until he counted five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve.

“There’s a dozen of them now,” said the prince; “that’s the clutch; the old mother didn’t come yet.”

The poor sick man was getting up again, but the prince called to him: “Stay as you are; the mother didn’t come up.”

He remained as he was, but no other one came out, though he stayed there more than a quarter of an hour. The prince himself was getting uneasy for fear the old alt-pluachra might not stir at all. The poor man was so tired and so weak that he wished to get up; and, in spite of all the prince told him, he was trying to stand on his feet, when the prince caught him by one leg, and the boccuch by the other, and they held him down in spite of him.

They remained another quarter of an hour without speaking a word, or making a sound, and at the end of that time the poor man felt something stirring again in his side, but seven times worse than before; and it’s scarcely he could keep himself from screeching. That thing kept moving for a good while, and he thought the side was being torn out of himself with it. Then it began coming up, and it reached the mouth, and went back again. At last it came up so far that the poor man put the two fingers to his mouth and thought to catch hold of it. But if he put in his fingers quick, the old alt-pluachra went back quicker.

“Oh, you _behoonach_!” cried the prince, “what made you do that? Didn’t I tell you not to let a stir out of you? Remain quiet if she comes up again.”

They had to remain there for half an hour, because the old mother of the alt-pluachras was scared, and she was afraid to come out. But she came up at last, perhaps, because there was too much thirst on her to let her stand the smell of the water that was tempting her, or perhaps she was lonesome after her children going from her. Anyhow, she came up to his mouth, and stood there while you would be counting about four score; and when she saw nothing, and nothing frightened her, she gave a jump down into the water, like her clutch before her; and the plop of her into the water was seven times heavier than theirs.

The prince and the other two had been watching the whole, and they scarcely dared to breathe, for fear of startling the horrid beast. As soon as ever she jumped down into the water, they pulled back the man, and put him standing again on his two feet.

He was for three hours before he could speak a word; but the first thing he said was: “I’m a new man.”

The prince kept him in his own house for a fortnight, and gave him great care and good feeding. He allowed him to go then, and the daughter and the boccuch with him; and he refused to take as much as a penny from them.

“I’m better pleased than ten pounds on my own hand,” said he, “that my cure turned out so well; and I’d be long sorry to take a farthing from you; you lost plenty with doctors before.”

They came home safely, and he became healthy and fat. He was so thankful to the poor boccuch that he kept him in his own house till his death. As long as he was alive he never lay down on green grass again; and another thing, if there was any sickness or ill-health on him, it isn’t the doctors he used to call in to him.

That was small wonder!

PÁIDÍN O’CEALLAIĠ AGUS AN EASÓĠ.

A ḃfad ó ṡoin ḃí fear d’ar’ ḃ’ainm Páidín O’Ceallaiġ ’nna ċóṁnuiḋe i ngar do Ṫuaim i gcondaé na Gailliṁe. Aon ṁaidin aṁáin d’éiriġ sé go moċ agus ní raiḃ ḟios aige cia an t-am a ḃi sé, mar ḃí solas breáġ ó’n ngealaiġ. Ḃí dúil aige le dul go h-aonaċ Ċáṫair-na-mart le storc asail do ḋíol.

Ní raiḃ sé níos mó ’na trí ṁíle air an mbóṫar go dtáinig dorċadas mór air, agus ṫosuiġ ciṫ trom ag tuitim. Ċonnairc sé teaċ mór ameasg crann timċioll cúig ċeud slat ó’n mbóṫar agus duḃairt sé leis féin, “raċfaiḋ mé ċum an tíġe sin, go dtéiḋ an ciṫ ṫart.” Nuair ċuaiḋ sé ċum an tíġe, ḃí an doras fosgailte, agus asteaċ leis. Ċonnairc sé seomra mór air ṫaoiḃ a láiṁe ċlé, agus teine ḃreáġ ’san ngráta. Ṡuiḋ sé síos air stol le cois an ḃalla, agus níor ḃfada gur ṫosuiġ sé ag tuitim ’nna ċodlaḋ, nuair ċonnairc sé easóg ṁór ag teaċt ċum na teineaḋ agus leag si giniḋ air leic an teaġlaiġ agus d’imṫiġ. Níor ḃfada go dtáinig sí air ais le giniḋ eile agus leag air leic an teaġlaiġ é, agus d’imṫiġ. Ḃí sí ag imṫeaċt agus ag teaċt go raiḃ cárnán mór giniḋ air an teaġlaċ. Aċt faoi ḋeireaḋ nuair d’imṫiġ sí d’éiriġ Páidín, agus ċuir sé an méad óir a ḃí cruinniġṫe aici ann a ṗóca, agus amaċ leis.

Ní raiḃ sé a ḃ-fad imṫiġṫe gur ċualaiḋ sé an easóg ag teaċt ’nna ḋiaiġ agus í ag sgreadaoil ċoṁ h-árd le píobaiḃ. Ċuaiḋ sí roiṁ Páidín air an mbóṫar agus í ag lubarnuiġ anonn ’s anall agus ag iarraiḋ greim sgornaiġ d’ḟáġail air. Ḃí maide maiṫ daraċ ag Páidín agus ċongḃuiġ sé í uaiḋ go dtáinig beirt ḟear suas. Ḃí madaḋ maiṫ ag fear aca, agus ruaig sé asteaċ i bpoll ’san mballa í.

Cuaiḋ Páidín ċum an aonaiġ, agus ann áit é ḃeiṫ tíġeaċt a ḃaile leis an airgiod a fuair sé air a ṡean-asal, mar ṡaoil sé air maidin go mbeiḋeaḋ sé ag deanaṁ, ċeannuiġ sé capall le cuid de’n airgiod a ḃain sé de’n easóig, agus ṫáinig sé a ḃaile agus é ag marcuiġeaċt. Nuair ṫáinig sé ċoṁ fada leis an áit ar ċuir an madaḋ an easóg ann san bpoll, ṫáinig sí amaċ roiṁe, ṫug léim suas, agus fuair greim sgornaiġ air an g-capall. Ṫosuiġ an capall ag riṫ, agus níor ḟeud Páidín a ċeapaḋ, no go dtug sé léim asteaċ i g-clais ṁóir a ḃí líonta d’uisge agus de ṁúlaċ. Ḃí sé ’gá ḃáṫaḋ agus ’gá ṫaċtaḋ go luaṫ, go dtáinig fir suas a ḃí teaċt as Gailliṁ agus ḋíḃir siad an easóg.

Ṫug Páidín an capall a ḃaile leis, agus ċuir sé asteaċ i dteaċ na mbó é, agus ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ.

Air maidin, lá air na ṁáraċ, d’éiriġ Páidín go moċ, agus ċuaiḋ sé amaċ le uisge agus féar ṫaḃairt do’n capall. Nuair ċuaiḋ sé amaċ ċonnairc sé an easóg ag teaċt amaċ as teaċ na mbó, agus í foluiġṫe le fuil. “Mo ṡeaċt míle mallaċt ort,” ar Páidín, “tá faitċios orm go ḃfuil anaċain déanta agad.” Cuaiḋ sé asteaċ, agus fuair sé an capall, péire bó-bainne, agus dá laoġ marḃ Ṫáinig sé amaċ agus ċuir sé madaḋ a ḃí aige anḋiaiġ na h-easóige. Fuair an madaḋ greim uirri agus fuair sise greim air an madaḋ. Buḋ madaḋ maiṫ é, aċt b’éigin dó a ġreim sgaoileaḋ sul ṫáinig Páidín suas; aċt ċongḃuiġ sé a ṡúil uirri go ḃfacaiḋ sé í ag dul asteaċ i mboṫán beag a ḃí air ḃruaċ loċa. Ṫáinig Páidín ag riṫ, agus nuair ḃí sé ag an mboṫáinín beag ṫug sé craṫaḋ do’n ṁadaḋ agus ċuir sé fearg air, agus ċuir sé asteaċ roiṁe é. Nuair ċuaiḋ an madaḋ asteaċ ṫosuiġ sé ag taṫfant. Ċuaiḋ Páidín asteaċ agus ċonnairc sé sean-ċailleaċ ann san g-coirnéul. D’ḟiafruiġ sé ḋí an ḃfacaiḋ sí easóg ag teaċt asteaċ.

“Ní ḟacaiḋ mé,” ar san ċailleaċ, “tá mé breóiḋte le galar millteaċ agus muna dtéiḋ tu amaċ go tapa glacfaiḋ tu uaim é.”

Coṁ fad agus ḃí Páidín agus an ċailleaċ, ag caint, ḃí an madaḋ ag teannaḋ asteaċ, no go dtug sé léim suas faoi ḋeireaḋ, agus rug sé greim sgornaiġ air an g-cailliġ.

Sgreaḋ sise, agus duḃairt, “tóg díom do ṁadaḋ a Páidín Ui Ċeallaiġ, agus deunfaiḋ mé fear saiḋḃir díot.”

Chuir Páidín iaċ (d’ḟiaċaiḃ) air an madaḋ a ġreim sgaoileaḋ, agus duḃairt sé, “Innis dam cia ṫu, no cad fáṫ ar ṁarḃ tu mo ċapall agus mo ḃa?”

“Agus cad fáṫ dtug tusa leat an t-ór a raiḃ mé cúig ċeud ḃliaḋain ’gá ċruinniuġaḋ ameasg cnoc agus gleann an doṁain.”

“Ṡaoil mé gur easóg a ḃí ionnad,” ar Páidín, “no ni ḃainfinn le do ċuid óir; agus niḋ eile, má tá tu cúig ċeud bliaḋain air an tsaoġal so tá sé i n-am duit imṫeaċt ċum suaiṁnis.”

“Rinne mé coir ṁór i m’óige, agus táim le ḃeiṫ sgaoilte óm’ ḟulaing má ṫig leat fiċe púnta íoc air son ceud agus trí fiċid aifrionn dam.”

“Cá ḃfuil an t-airgiod?” ar Páidín.

“Éiriġ agus róṁar faoi sgeiċ atá os cionn tobair ḃig i g-coirneul na páirce sin amuiġ, agus geoḃaiḋ tu pota líonta d’ór. Íoc an fiċe púnta air son na n-aifrionn agus ḃéiḋ an ċuid eile agad féin. Nuair a ḃainfeas tu an leac de’n ṗota feicfiḋ tu madaḋ mór duḃ ag teaċt amaċ, aċt ná bíoḋ aon ḟaitċios ort; is mac daṁsa é. Nuair a ġeoḃas tu an t-ór, ceannuiġ an teaċ ann a ḃfacaiḋ tu mise i dtosaċ, geoḃaiḋ tu saor é, mar tá sé faoi ċáil go ḃfuil taiḋḃse ann. Béiḋ mo ṁac-sa ṡíos ann san tsoiléar, ní ḋéanfaiḋ sé aon doċar duit, aċt béiḋ sé ’nna ċaraid maiṫ ḋuit. Béiḋ mise marḃ mí ó’n lá so, agus nuair ġeoḃas tu marḃ mé cuir splanc faoi an mboṫán agus dóiġ é. Ná h-innis d’aon neaċ beó aon níḋ air biṫ de m’ṫaoiḃ-se, agus béiḋ an t-áḋ ort.”

“Cad é an t-ainm atá ort?” ar Páidín.

“Máire ni Ciarḃáin,” ar san ċailleaċ.

Ċuaiḋ Páidín a ḃaile agus nuair ṫáinig dorċadas na h-oiḋċe ṫug sé láiḋe leis agus ċuaiḋ sé ċum na sgeiċe a ḃí i g-coirneul na páirce agus ṫosuiġ sé ag róṁar. Níor ḃfada go ḃfuair sé an pota agus nuair ḃain sé an leac dé léim an madaḋ mór duḃ amaċ, agus as go bráṫ leis, agus madaḋ Ṗáidin ’nn a ḋiaiġ.

Ṫug Páidín an t-ór a ḃaile agus ċuir sé i ḃfolaċ i dteaċ na mbó é. Timċioll mí ’nna ḋiaiġ sin, ċuaiḋ sé go h-aonaċ i nGailliṁ agus ċeannuiġ sé péire bó, capall agus duisín caora. Ní raiḃ ḟios ag na cóṁarsannaiḃ cia an áit a ḃfuair sé an t-airgiod. Duḃairt cuid aca go raiḃ roinn aige leis na daoniḃ maiṫe.

Aon lá aṁáin ġleus Páidín é féin agus ċuaiḋ sé ċum an duine-uasail ar leis an teaċ mór, agus d’ iarr air, an teaċ agus an talaṁ do ḃí ’nna ṫimcioll, do ḋíol leis.

“Tig leat an teaċ ḃeiṫ agad gan ċíos, aċt ta taiḋḃse ann, agus níor ṁaiṫ liom ṫu dul do ċóṁnuiḋe ann, gan a innsint, aċt ní sgarfainn leis an talaṁ gan ceud púnta níos mó ’ná tá agad-sa le tairgsint dam.”

“B’éidir go ḃfuil an oiread agam-sa ’s atá agad féin,” ar Páidín, “béiḋ mé ann so amáraċ leis an airgiod má tá tusa réiḋ le seilḃ do ṫaḃairt dam.”

“Béiḋ mé réiḋ,” ar san duine-uasal.

Ċuaiḋ Páidín aḃaile agus d’innis d’á ṁnaoi go raiḃ teaċ mór agus gaḃáltas talṁan ceannuiġṫe aige.

“Cia an áit a ḃfuair tu an t-airgiod?” ar san ḃean.

“Naċ cuma ḋuit?” ar Páidín.

Lá air na ṁáraċ, ċuaiḋ Páidín ċum an duine-uasail, ṫug ceud púnta ḋó, agus fuair seilḃ an tiġe agus an talṁan, agus d’ḟág an duine-uasal an truscán aige asteaċ leis an margaḋ.

D’ḟan Páidín ann san teaċ an oiḋċe sin, agus nuair ṫáinig an dorċadas ċuaiḋ sé síos ann san tsoiléar, agus ċonnairc sé fear beag le na ḋá ċois sgarṫa air ḃáirille.

“’Niḋ Dia ḋuit, a ḋuine ċóir,” ar san fear beag.

“Go mbuḋ h-é ḋuit,” ar Páidín.

“Ná bíoḋ aon ḟaitċios ort róṁam-sa,” ar san fear beag, “béid mé mo ċaraid maiṫ ḋuit-se má tá tu ionnán run do ċongḃáil.”

“Táim go deiṁin. Ċongḃuiġ mé rún do ṁátar, agus congḃóċaiḋ mé do rún-sa mar an g-ceudna.”

“B’éidir go ḃfuil tart ort,” ar san fear ḃeag.

“Ní’l mé saor uaíḋ,” air Páidín.

Ċuir an fear beag láṁ ann a ḃrollaċ, agus ṫarraing sé corn óir amaċ, agus ṫug do Páidín é, agus duḃairt leis, “tarraing fíon as an mbáirille sin fúm.”

Ṫarraing Páidín lán coirn agus ṡeaċaid do’n ḟear beag é. “Ól, ṫu féin, i dtosaċ,” ar seisean. D’ól Páidín, ṫarraing corn eile agus ṫug dón ḟear beag é, agus d’ól sé é.

“Líon suas agus ól arís,” ar san fear beag, “is mian liom-sa ḃeiṫ go súgaċ anoċt.”

Ḃí an ḃeirt ag ól gó raḃadar leaṫ air meisge. Ann sin ṫug an fear beag léim anuas air an urlár, agus duḃairt le Páidín, “naċ ḃfuil dúil agad i g-ceól?”

“Tá go deiṁin,” ar Páidín, “agus is maiṫ an daṁsóir mé.”

“Tóg suas an leac ṁór atá ’san g-coirneul úd, agus geoḃaiḋ tu mo ṗíobaiḋ fúiṫi.”

Ṫóg Páidín an leac, fuair na píobaiḋ, agus ṫug do ’n ḟear beag iad. D’ḟáisg sé na píobaiḋ air, agus ṫosuiġ sé ag seinm ceóil ḃinn. Ṫosuiġ Páidín ag daṁsa go raiḃ sé tuirseaċ. Ann sin bí deoċ eile aca, agus duḃairt an fear beag:

“Deun mar duḃairt mo ṁáṫair leat, agus taisbéanfaiḋ mise saiḋḃreas mór duit. Tig leat do ḃean ṫaḃairt ann so, aċt ná h-innis dí go ḃfuil mise ann, agus ní ḟeicfiḋ fí mé. Am air biṫ a ḃéiḋeas lionn nó fíon ag teastáil uait tar ann so agus tarraing é. Slán leat anois, agus téiḋ ann do ċodlaḋ, agus tar ċugam-sa an oiḋċe amáraċ.”

Cuaiḋ Páidín ’nna leabuiḋ, agus níor ḃfada go raiḃ sé ’nna ċodlaḋ.

Air maidin, lá air na ṁáraċ, ċuaiḋ Páidín a ḃaile agus ṫug a ḃean agus a ċlann go dtí an teaċ mór, agus ḃíodar go sona. An oiḋċe sin ċuaiḋ Páidín síos ann san tsoiléar. Ċuir an fear beag fáilte roiṁe, agus d’iarr air “raiḃ fonn daṁsa air?”

“Ní’l go ḃfáġ’ mé deoċ,” ar Páidín.

“Ól do ṡaiṫ,” ar san fear beag, “ní ḃéiḋ an ḃáirille sin folaṁ fad do ḃeaṫa.”

D’ól Páidín lán an ċoirn agus ṫug deoċ do ’n ḟear ḃeag; ann sin duḃairt an fear beag leis:

“Táim ag dul go Dún-na-síḋ anoċt, le ceól do ṡeinm do na daoiniḃ maiṫe, agus má ṫagann tu liom feicfiḋ tu greann breáġ. Ḃéarfaiḋ mé capall duit naċ ḃfacaiḋ tu a leiṫeid asiaṁ roiṁe.”

“Raċfad agus fáilte,” ar Páidín, “aċt cia an leis-sgeul a ḋeunfas mé le mo ṁnaoi?”

“Téiḋ do ċodlaḋ léiṫe, agus ḃéarfaiḋ mise amaċ ó n-a taoiḃ ṫu, a gan ḟios dí, agus ḃéarfaiḋ mé air ais ṫu an ċaoi ċeudna,” ar san fear beag.

“Táim úṁal,” ar Páidín, “béiḋ deoċ eile agam sul a dtéiḋ mé as do láṫair.”

D’ól sé deoċ andiaiġ díġe, go raiḃ sé leaṫ air meisge agus ċuaiḋ sé ’nn a leabuiḋ ann sin le na ṁnaoi.

Nuair ḋúisiġ sé fuair sé é féin ag marcuiġeaċt air sguaib i ngar do Ḍún-na-síḋ, agus an fear beag ag marcuiġeaċt air sguaib eile le na ṫaoiḃ. Nuair táinig siad ċoṁ fada le cnoc glas an Dúin, laḃair an fear beag cúpla focal nár ṫuig Páidín; d’ḟosgail an cnoc glas, agus ċuaiḋ Páidín asteaċ i seomra breáġ.

Ní ḟacaiḋ Páidín aon ċruinniuġaḋ ariaṁ mar ḃí ann san dún. Ḃí an áit líonta de ḋaoiniḃ beaga, ḃí fir agus mná ann, sean agus óg. Chuireadar uile fáilte roiṁ Dóṁnal agus roiṁ Páidín O Ceallaiġ. B’é Dóṁnal ainm an ṗíoḃaire ḃig. Ṫáinig ríġ agus bainríoġan na síḋ ’nna láṫair agus duḃairt siad:

“Támaoid uile ag dul go Cnoc Maṫa anoċt, air cuairt go h-árd-riġ agus go bainríoġain ár ndaoine.”

D’éiriġ an t-iomlán aca, agus ċuaiḋ siad amaċ. Ḃí capaill réiḋ ag gaċ aon aca, agus an Cóiste Boḋar le h-aġaiḋ an ríġ agus an bainríoġna. Ċuadar asteaċ ’san g-cóiste. Léim gaċ duine air a ċapall féin, agus bí cinnte naċ raiḃ Páidín air deireaḋ. Ċuaiḋ an píobaire amaċ rompa, agus ṫosuiġ ag seinm ceóil dóiḃ, agus as go bráṫ leó. Níor ḃfada go dtángadar go Cnoc Maṫa. D’ḟosgail an cnoc agus ċuaiḋ an sluaġ síḋ asteaċ.

Ḃí Finḃeara agus Nuala ann sin, árd-ríġ agus bainríoġan Ṡluaiġ-síḋ Ċonnaċt, agus mílte de ḋaoiniḃ beaga. Ṫáinig Finḃeara a láṫair agus duḃairt:

“Támaoid dul báire ḃualaḋ ann aġaiḋ sluaiġ-síḋ Ṁúṁan anoċt, agus muna mbuailfimíd iad tá ár g-clú imṫiġṫe go deó. Tá an báire le ḃeiṫ buailte air Ṁáiġ-Túra faoi ṡliaḃ Belgadáin.”

“Támaoid uile réiḋ,” ar sluaġ-siḋ Ċonnaċt, “agus ní’l aṁras againn naċ mbuailfimíd iad.”

“Amaċ liḃ uile,” ar san t-árd-ríġ, “béiḋ fir Ċnuic Néifin air an talaṁ rómainn.”

D’imṫiġeadar uile amaċ, agus Dóṁnal beag agus dá ’r ḋeug píobaire eile rómpa ag seinm ceóil ḃinn. Nuair ṫángadar go Máġ-Túra ḃí sluaġ-síḋ Ṁúṁan agus siḋḟir Ċnuic Néifin rompa. Anois, is éigin do’n tsluaġ-síḋ beirt ḟear beó do ḃeiṫ i láṫair nuair a ḃíonn siad ag troid no ag bualaḋ báire, agus sin é an fáṫ rug Ḍóṁnal beag Páidín O Ceallaiġ leis. Ḃí fear dar ab ainm an Stangaire Buiḋe ó Innis i g-condaé an Chláir le sluaġ-síḋ Ṁúṁan.

Níor ḃfada gur ġlac an dá ṡluaġ taoḃa, caiṫeaḋ suas an liaṫróid agus ṫosuiġ an greann ná ríriḃ.

Ḃí siad ag bualaḋ báire agus na píobairiḋe ag seinm ceóil, go ḃfacaiḋ Páidín O Ceallaiġ sluaġ Ṁúṁan ag fáġail na láiṁe láidre, agus ṫosuiġ sé ag cuideaċtain le sluaġ-siḋ Ċonnaċt. Ṫáinig an Stangaire i láṫair agus d’ionnsuiġ sé Páidín O Ceallaiġ, aċt níor ḃfada gur ċuir Páidín an Stangaire Buiḋe air a ṫar-an-áirde. Ó ḃualaḋ-báire, ṫosuiġ an dá ṡluaġ ag troid, aċt níor ḃfada gur ḃuail sluaġ Ċonnaċt an sluaġ eile. Ann sin rinne sluaġ Ṁúṁan priompolláin díoḃ féin, agus ṫosuiġ siad ag iṫe uile níḋ glas d’á dtáinig siad suas leis. Ḃíodar ag sgrios na tíre rompa, go dtangadar ċoṁ fada le Conga, nuair d’éiriġ na mílte colam as Ṗoll-mór agus ṡluig siad na priompolláin. Ní’l aon ainm air an bpoll go dtí an lá so aċt Poll-na-gcolam.

Nuair ġnóṫuiġ sluaġ Ċonnaċt an caṫ, ṫángadar air ais go Cnoc Maṫa, luṫġáireaċ go leór, agus ṫug an ríġ Finḃeara sporán óir do Ṗáidín O Ceallaiġ, agus ṫug an píobaire beag a ḃaile é, agus ċuir sé ’nna ċodlaḋ le na ṁnaoi é.

Ċuaiḋ mí ṫart ann sin, agus ní ṫárla aon niḋ do b’ḟiú a innsint; aċt aon oiḋċe aṁáin ċuaiḋ Páidín síos ’san tsoiléar agus duḃairt an fear beag leis, “Tá mo ṁáṫair marḃ, agus dóġ an boṫán os a cionn.”

“Is fíor duit,” ar Páidín, “duḃairt sí naċ raiḃ sí le ḃeiṫ air an t-saoġal so aċt mí, agus tá an ṁí suas andé.”

Air maidin, an lá air na ṁáraċ, ċuaiḋ Páidín cum an ḃoṫáin agus fuair sé an ċailleaċ marḃ. Chuirsé splanc faoi an mboṫán agus ḋóiġ sé é Ṫáinig sé a ḃaile ann sin, agus d’innis sé do’n ḟear beag go raiḃ an boṫán dóiġte. Ṫug an fear beag sporán dó agus duḃairt, “Ní ḃéiḋ an sporán sin folaṁ ċoṁ ḟad agus ḃéiḋeas tu beó. Slán leat anois. Ní ḟeicfiḋ tu mé níos mó, aċt bíoḋ cuiṁne gráḋaċ agad air an easóig. B’ise tosaċ agus príoṁ-áḋḃar do ṡaiḋḃris.”

Ṁair Páidín agus a ḃean bliaḋanta anḋiaiġ seó, ann san teaċ mór, agus nuair fuair sé bas d’ḟág sé saiḋḃreas mór ’nna ḋíaiġ, agus muiriġín ṁór le na ċaṫaḋ.

Sin ċugaiḃ mo sgeul anois ó ṫús go deire, mar ċualaiḋ mise ó mo ṁáṫair ṁóir é.

PAUDYEEN O’KELLY AND THE WEASEL.

A long time ago there was once a man of the name of Paudyeen O’Kelly, living near Tuam, in the county Galway. He rose up one morning early, and he did not know what time of day it was, for there was fine light coming from the moon. He wanted to go to the fair of Cauher-na-mart to sell a _sturk_ of an ass that he had.

He had not gone more than three miles of the road when a great darkness came on, and a shower began falling. He saw a large house among trees about five hundred yards in from the road, and he said to himself that he would go to that house till the shower would be over. When he got to the house he found the door open before him, and in with him. He saw a large room to his left, and a fine fire in the grate. He sat down on a stool that was beside the wall, and began falling asleep, when he saw a big weasel coming to the fire with something yellow in its mouth, which it dropped on the hearth-stone, and then it went away. She soon came back again with the same thing in her mouth, and he saw that it was a guinea she had. She dropped it on the hearth-stone, and went away again. She was coming and going, until there was a great heap of guineas on the hearth. But at last, when he got her gone, Paudyeen rose up, thrust all the gold she had gathered into his pockets, and out with him.

He was not gone far till he heard the weasel coming after him, and she screeching as loud as a bag-pipes. She went before Paudyeen and got on the road, and she was twisting herself back and forwards, and trying to get a hold of his throat. Paudyeen had a good oak stick, and he kept her from him, until two men came up who were going to the same fair, and one of them had a good dog, and it routed the weasel into a hole in the wall.

Paudyeen went to the fair, and instead of coming home with the money he got for his old ass, as he thought would be the way with him in the morning, he went and bought a horse with some of the money he took from the weasel, and he came home and he riding. When he came to the place where the dog had routed the weasel into the hole in the wall, she came out before him, gave a leap up and caught the horse by the throat. The horse made off, and Paudyeen could not stop him, till at last he gave a leap into a big drain that was full up of water and black mud, and he was drowning and choking as fast as he could, until men who were coming from Galway came up and banished the weasel.

Paudyeen brought the horse home with him, and put him into the cows’ byre and fell asleep.

Next morning, the day on the morrow, Paudyeen rose up early and went out to give his horse hay and oats. When he got to the door he saw the weasel coming out of the byre and she covered with blood. “My seven thousand curses on you,” said Paudyeen, “but I’m afraid you’ve harm done.” He went in and found the horse, a pair of milch cows, and two calves dead. He came out and set a dog he had after the weasel. The dog got a hold of her, and she got a hold of the dog. The dog was a good one, but he was forced to loose his hold of her before Paudyeen could come up. He kept his eye on her, however, all through, until he saw her creeping into a little hovel that was on the brink of a lake. Paudyeen came running, and when he got to the little hut he gave the dog a shake to rouse him up and put anger on him, and then he sent him in before himself. When the dog went in he began barking. Paudyeen went in after him, and saw an old hag (cailleach) in the corner. He asked her if she saw a weasel coming in there.

“I did not,” said she; “I’m all destroyed with a plague of sickness, and if you don’t go out quick you’ll catch it from me.”

While Paudyeen and the hag were talking, the dog kept moving in all the time, till at last he gave a leap up and caught the hag by the throat. She screeched, and said:

“Paddy Kelly, take off your dog, and I’ll make you a rich man.”

Paudyeen made the dog loose his hold, and said: “Tell me who are you, or why did you kill my horse and my cows?”

“And why did you bring away my gold that I was for five hundred years gathering throughout the hills and hollows of the world?”

“I thought you were a weasel,” said Paudyeen, “or I wouldn’t touch your gold; and another thing,” says he, “if you’re for five hundred years in this world, it’s time for you to go to rest now.”

“I committed a great crime in my youth,” said the hag, “and now I am to be released from my sufferings if you can pay twenty pounds for a hundred and three score masses for me.”

“Where’s the money?” says Paudyeen.

“Go and dig under a bush that’s over a little well in the corner of that field there without, and you’ll get a pot filled with gold. Pay the twenty pounds for the masses, and yourself shall have the rest. When you’ll lift the flag off the pot, you’ll see a big black dog coming out; but don’t be afraid before him; he is a son of mine. When you get the gold, buy the house in which you saw me at first. You’ll get it cheap, for it has the name of there being a ghost in it. My son will be down in the cellar. He’ll do you no harm, but he’ll be a good friend to you. I shall be dead a month from this day, and when you get me dead put a coal under this little hut and burn it. Don’t tell a living soul anything about me—and the luck will be on you.”

“What is your name?” said Paudyeen.

“Maurya nee Keerwaun” (Mary Kerwan), said the hag.

Paudyeen went home, and when the darkness of the night came on he took with him a loy,[28] and went to the bush that was in the corner of the field, and began digging. It was not long till he found the pot, and when he took the flag off it a big black dog leaped out, and off and away with him, and Paudyeen’s dog after him.

Paudyeen brought home the gold, and hid it in the cow-house. About a month after that he went to the fair of Galway, and bought a pair of cows, a horse, and a dozen sheep. The neighbours did not know where he was getting all the money; they said that he had a share with the good people.

One day Paudyeen dressed himself, and went to the gentleman who owned the large house where he first saw the weasel, and asked to buy the house of him, and the land that was round about.

“You can have the house without paying any rent at all; but there is a ghost in it, and I wouldn’t like you to go to live in it without my telling you, but I couldn’t part with the land without getting a hundred pounds more than you have to offer me.”

“Perhaps I have as much as you have yourself,” said Paudyeen. “I’ll be here to-morrow with the money, if you’re ready to give me possession.”

“I’ll be ready,” said the gentleman.

Paudyeen went home and told his wife that he had bought a large house and a holding of land.

“Where did you get the money?” says the wife.

“Isn’t it all one to you where I got it?” says Paudyeen.

The day on the morrow Paudyeen went to the gentleman, gave him the money, and got possession of the house and land; and the gentleman left him the furniture and everything that was in the house, in with the bargain.

Paudyeen remained in the house that night, and when darkness came he went down to the cellar, and he saw a little man with his two legs spread on a barrel.

“God save you, honest man,” says he to Paudyeen.

“The same to you,” says Paudyeen.

“Don’t be afraid of me at all,” says the little man. “I’ll be a friend to you, if you are able to keep a secret.”

“I am able, indeed; I kept your mother’s secret, and I’ll keep yours as well.”

“May-be you’re thirsty?” says the little man.

“I’m not free from it,” said Paudyeen.

The little man put a hand in his bosom and drew out a gold goblet. He gave it to Paudyeen, and said: “Draw wine out of that barrel under me.”

Paudyeen drew the full up of the goblet, and handed it to the little man. “Drink yourself first,” says he. Paudyeen drank, drew another goblet, and handed it to the little man, and he drank it.

“Fill up and drink again,” said the little man. “I have a mind to be merry to-night.”

The pair of them sat there drinking until they were half drunk. Then the little man gave a leap down to the floor, and said to Paudyeen:

“Don’t you like music?”

“I do, surely,” says Paudyeen, “and I’m a good dancer, too.”

“Lift up the big flag over there in the corner, and you’ll get my pipes under it.”

Paudyeen lifted the flag, got the pipes, and gave them to the little man. He squeezed the pipes on him, and began playing melodious music. Paudyeen began dancing till he was tired. Then they had another drink, and the little man said:

“Do as my mother told you, and I’ll show you great riches. You can bring your wife in here, but don’t tell her that I’m there, and she won’t see me. Any time at all that ale or wine are wanting, come here and draw. Farewell now; go to sleep, and come again to me to-morrow night.”

Paudyeen went to bed, and it wasn’t long till he fell asleep.

On the morning of the day of the morrow, Paudyeen went home, and brought his wife and children to the big house, and they were comfortable. That night Paudyeen went down to the cellar; the little man welcomed him and asked him did he wish to dance?

“Not till I get a drink,” said Paudyeen.

“Drink your ’nough,” said the little man; “that barrel will never be empty as long as you live.”

Paudyeen drank the full of the goblet, and gave a drink to the little man. Then the little man said to him:

“I am going to Doon-na-shee (the fortress of the fairies) to-night, to play music for the good people, and if you come with me you’ll see fine fun. I’ll give you a horse that you never saw the like of him before.”

“I’ll go with you, and welcome,” said Paudyeen; “but what excuse will I make to my wife?”

“I’ll bring you away from her side without her knowing it, when you are both asleep together, and I’ll bring you back to her the same way,” said the little man.

“I’m obedient,” says Paudyeen; “we’ll have another drink before I leave you.”

He drank drink after drink, till he was half drunk, and he went to bed with his wife.

When he awoke he found himself riding on a besom near Doon-na-shee, and the little man riding on another besom by his side. When they came as far as the green hill of the Doon, the little man said a couple of words that Paudyeen did not understand. The green hill opened, and the pair went into a fine chamber.

Paudyeen never saw before a gathering like that which was in the Doon. The whole place was full up of little people, men and women, young and old. They all welcomed little Donal—that was the name of the piper—and Paudyeen O’Kelly. The king and queen of the fairies came up to them, and said:

“We are all going on a visit to-night to Cnoc Matha, to the high king and queen of our people.”

They all rose up then and went out. There were horses ready for each one of them and the _coash-t’ya bower_ for the king and the queen. The king and queen got into the coach, each man leaped on his own horse, and be certain that Paudyeen was not behind. The piper went out before them and began playing them music, and then off and away with them. It was not long till they came to Cnoc Matha. The hill opened and the king of the fairy host passed in.

Finvara and Nuala were there, the arch-king and queen of the fairy host of Connacht, and thousands of little persons. Finvara came up and said:

“We are going to play a hurling match to-night against the fairy host of Munster, and unless we beat them our fame is gone for ever. The match is to be fought out on Moytura, under Slieve Belgadaun.”

The Connacht host cried out: “We are all ready, and we have no doubt but we’ll beat them.”

“Out with ye all,” cried the high king; “the men of the hill of Nephin will be on the ground before us.”

They all went out, and little Donal and twelve pipers more before them, playing melodious music. When they came to Moytura, the fairy host of Munster and the fairy men of the hill of Nephin were there before them. Now, it is necessary for the fairy host to have two live men beside them when they are fighting or at a hurling-match, and that was the reason that little Donal took Paddy O’Kelly with him. There was a man they called the “_Yellow Stongirya_,” with the fairy host of Munster, from Ennis, in the County Clare.

It was not long till the two hosts took sides; the ball was thrown up between them, and the fun began in earnest. They were hurling away, and the pipers playing music, until Paudyeen O’Kelly saw the host of Munster getting the strong hand, and he began helping the fairy host of Connacht. The _Stongirya_ came up and he made at Paudyeen O’Kelly, but Paudyeen turned him head over heels. From hurling the two hosts began at fighting, but it was not long until the host of Connacht beat the other host. Then the host of Munster made flying beetles of themselves, and they began eating every green thing that they came up to. They were destroying the country before them until they came as far as Cong. Then there rose up thousands of doves out of the hole, and they swallowed down the beetles. That hole has no other name until this day but Pull-na-gullam, the dove’s hole.

When the fairy host of Connacht won their battle, they came back to Cnoc Matha joyous enough, and the king Finvara gave Paudyeen O’Kelly a purse of gold, and the little piper brought him home, and put him into bed beside his wife, and left him sleeping there.

A month went by after that without anything worth mentioning, until one night Paudyeen went down to the cellar, and the little man said to him: “My mother is dead; burn the house over her.”

“It is true for you,” said Paudyeen. “She told me that she hadn’t but a month to be on the world, and the month was up yesterday.”

On the morning of the next day Paudyeen went to the hut and he found the hag dead. He put a coal under the hut and burned it. He came home and told the little man that the hut was burnt. The little man gave him a purse and said to him; “This purse will never be empty as long as you are alive. Now, you will never see me more; but have a loving remembrance of the weasel. She was the beginning and the prime cause of your riches.” Then he went away and Paudyeen never saw him again.

Paudyeen O’Kelly and his wife lived for years after this in the large house, and when he died he left great wealth behind him, and a large family to spend it.

There now is the story for you, from the first word to the last, as I heard it from my grandmother.

UILLIAM O RUANAIĠ.

Ann san aimsir i n-allód ḃí fear ann dar ab ainm Uilliam O Ruanaiġ, ’nna ċóṁnuiḋe i ngar do Ċlár-Gailliṁ. Bí sé ’nna ḟeilméar. Áon lá aṁain ṫáinig an tiġearna-talṁan ċuige agus duḃairt, “Tá cíos tri bliaḋain agam ort, agus muna mbéiḋ sé agad dam faoi ċeann seaċtṁaine caiṫfiḋ mé amaċ air ṫaoiḃ an ḃóṫair ṫu.”

“Táim le dul go Gailliṁ amáraċ le h-ualaċ cruiṫneaċta do ḋíol, agus nuair a ġeoḃas mé a luaċ íocfaiḋ mé ṫu,” ar Liam.

Air maidin, lá air na ṁáraċ, ċuir sé ualaċ cruiṫneaċta air an g-cairt agus ḃí sé dul go Gailliṁ leis. Nuair ḃí sé timċioll míle go leiṫ imṫiġṫe o’n teaċ, ṫáinig duine-uasal ċuige agus d’ḟiafruiġ sé dé “An cruiṫneaċt atá agad air an g-cairt?”

“Seaḋ,” ar Liam, “tá mé dul ’gá ḋíol le mo ċíos d’íoc.”

“Cia ṁéad atá ann?” ar san duine uasal.

“Tá tonna cneasta ann,” ar Liam.

“Ceannóċaiḋ mé uait é,” ar san duine uasal, “agus ḃéarfaiḋ mé an luaċ is mó ’sa’ masgaḋ ḋuit. Nuair a raċfas tu ċoṁ fad leis an mbóṫairín cártaċ atá air do láiṁ ċlé, cas asteaċ agus ḃí ag imṫeaċt go dtagaiḋ tu go teaċ mór atá i ngleann, agus ḃéiḋ mise ann sin róṁad le d’ airgiod do ṫaḃairt duit.”

Nuair ṫáinig Liam ċoṁ fada leis an mbóṫairín ċas sé asteaċ, agus ḃí sé ag imṫeaċt go dtáinig sé ċoṁ fada le teaċ mór. Ḃí iongantas air Liam nuair ċonnairc sé an teaċ mór, mar rugaḋ agus tógaḋ ann san g-cóṁarsanaċt é, agus ní ḟacaiḋ sé an teaċ mór ariaṁ roiṁe, cíḋ go raiḃ eólas aige air uile ṫeaċ i ḃfoiġseaċt cúig ṁíle ḋó.

Nuair ṫáinig Liam i ngar do sgioból a ḃí anaice leis an teaċ mór ṫáinig buaċaill beag amaċ agus duḃairt, “céad míle fáilte róṁad a Liaim Ui Ruanaiġ,” ċuir sac air a ḋruim agus ṫug asteaċ é. Ṫáinig buaċaill beag eile amaċ, ċuir fáilte roiṁ Liam, ċuir sac air a ḋruim, agus d’imṫiġ asteaċ leis. Ḃí buaċailliḋe ag teaċt, ag cur fáilte roiṁ Liam, agus ag taḃairt sac leó, go raiḃ an tonna cruiṫneaċta imṫiġṫe. Ann sin ṫáinig iomlán na mbuaċaill i láṫair agus duḃairt Liam leó. “Tá eólas agaiḃ uile orm-sa agus ní’l eólas agam-sa orraiḃse.” Ann sin duḃradar leis, “téiḋ asteaċ, agus iṫ do ḋínnéar, tá an máiġistir ag fanaṁaint leat.”

Ċuaiḋ Liam asteaċ agus ṡuiḋ sé síos ag an mbord. Níor iṫ sé an dara greim go dtáinig trom-ċodlaḋ air agus ṫuit sé faoi an mbord. Ann sin rinne an draoiḋ-eadóir fear-bréige cosṁúil le Liam, agus ċuir a ḃaile ċum mná Liaim é, leis an g-capall, agus leis an g-cairt. Nuair ṫáinig sé go teaċ Liaim ċuaiḋ sé suas ann san t-seomra, luiḋ air leabuiḋ, agus fuair bás.

Níor ḃfada go ndeacaiḋ an ġáir amaċ go raiḃ Liam O Ruanaiġ marḃ. Ċuir an ḃean uisge síos agus nuair ḃí sé teiṫ niġ sí an corp agus ċuir os cionn cláir é. Ṫáinig na cóṁarsanna agus ċaoineadar go ḃrónaċ os cionn an ċuirp, agus ḃí truaġ ṁór ann do’n ṁnaoi ḃoiċt aċt ní raiḃ mórán bróin uirri féin, mar ḃí Liam aosta agus í féin óg. An lá air na ṁáraċ cuireaḋ an corp agus ní raiḃ aon ċuiṁne níos mó air Liam.

Ḃí buaċaill-aimsire ag mnaoi Liaim agus duḃairt sí leis, “buḋ ċóir duit mé ṗósaḋ, agus áit Liaim ġlacaḋ.”

“Tá sé ró luaṫ fós, anḋiaiġ bás do ḃeiṫ ann san teaċ,” ar san buaċaill, “fan go mbéiḋ Liam curṫa seaċtṁain.”

Nuair ḃí Liam seaċt lá agus seaċt n-oiḋċe ’nna ċodlaḋ ṫáinig buaċaill beag agus ḋúisiġ é. Ann sin duḃairt sé leis, “táir seaċtṁain do ċodlaḋ. Ċuireamar do ċapall agus do ċairt aḃaile. Seó ḋuit do ċuid airgid, agus imṫiġ.”

Ṫáinig Liam a ḃaile, agus mar ḃí sé mall ’san oiḋċe ní ḟacaiḋ aon duine é. Air maidin an laé sin ċuaiḋ bean Liaim agus an buaċaill-aimsire ċum an t-sagairt agus d’iarr siad air iad do ṗósaḋ.

“Ḃfuil an t-airgiod-pósta agaiḃ?” ar san sagart.

“Ní’l,” ar san ḃean, “aċt tá storc muice agam ’sa’ mbaile, agus tig leat í ḃeiṫ agad i n-áit airgid.”

Ṗós an sagart iad, agus duḃairt, “cuirfead fios air an muic amáraċ.”

Nuair ṫáinig Liam go dtí a ḋoras féin, ḃuail sé buille air. Ḃí an ḃean agus an buaċaill-aimsire ag dul ċum a leabuiḋ, agus d’ḟiafruiġ siad, “cia tá ann sin?”

“Mise,” ar Liam, “fosgail an doras dam.”

Nuair ċualadar an guṫ ḃí ḟios aca gur ’bé Liam do ḃí ann, agus duḃairt a ḃean, “ní ṫig liom do leigean asteaċ, agus is mór an náire ḋuit ḃeiṫ teaċt air ais anḋiaiġ ṫu ḃeiṫ seaċt lá san uaiġ.”

“An air mire atá tu?” ar Liam.

“Ní’lim air mire,” ar san ḃean, “’tá ḟios ag an uile ḋuine ’sa’ bparáiste go ḃfuair tu bás agus gur ċuir mé go geanaṁail ṫu. Téiḋ air ais go d’uaiġ, agus béiḋ aifrionn léiġte agam air son d’anma ḃoiċt amáraċ.”

“Fan go dtagaiḋ solas an laé,” ar Liam, “agus béarfaiḋ mé luaċ do ṁagaiḋ ḋuit.”

Ann sin ċuaiḋ sé ’san stábla, ’n áit a raiḃ a ċapall agus a ṁuc, ṡín sé ann san tuiġe, agus ṫuit sé ’nna ċodlaḋ.

Air maidin, lá air na ṁáraċ, duḃairt an sagart le buaċaill beag a ḃí aige, “téiḋ go teaċ Liaim Ui Ruanaiġ agus ḃéarfaiḋ an ḃean a ṗós mé andé muc duit le taḃairt a ḃaile leat.”

Ṫáinig an buaċaill go doras an tíġe agus ṫosuiġ ’gá ḃualaḋ le maide a ḃí aige. Ḃí faitċios air an mnaoi an doras ḟosgailt, aċt d’ḟiafruiġ sí, “cia tá ann sin?”

“Mise,” ar san buaċaill, “ċuir an sagart mé le muc d’ḟáġáil uait.”

“Tá sí amuiġ ’san stábla,” ar san ḃean.

Ċuaiḋ an buaċaill asteaċ ’san stábla agus ṫosuiġ ag tiomáint na muiċe amaċ, nuair d’éiriġ Liam agus duḃairt, “cá ḃfuil tu ag dul le mo ṁuic?”

Nuair ċonnairc an buaċaill Liam, as go bráṫ leis, agus níor stop go ndeacaiḋ sé ċum an tsagairt agus a ċroiḋe ag teaċt amaċ air a ḃeul le faitċios.

“Cad tá ort?” ar san sagart.

D’innis an buaċaill dó go raiḃ Liam O Ruanaiġ ann san stábla, agus naċ leigfeaḋ sé ḋó an ṁuċ ṫaḃairt leis.

“Bí do ṫost, a ḃreugadóir,” ar ran sagart, “tá Liam O’Ruanaiġ marḃ agus ann san uaiġ le seaċtṁain.”

“Dá mbeiḋ’ sé marḃ seaċt mbliaḋna connairc mise ann san stábla é ḋá ṁóimid ó ṡoin, agus muna g-creideann tu, tar, ṫu féin, agus feicfiḋ tu é.”

Ann sin ṫáinig an sagart agus an buaċaill le ċéile go doras an stábla, agus duḃairt an sagart, “téiḋ asteaċ agus cuir an ṁuc sin amaċ ċugam.”

“Ní raċfainn asteaċ air son an ṁéid is fiú ṫu,” ar san buaċaill.

Ċuaiḋ an sagart asteaċ ann sin agus ḃí sé ag tiomáint na muice amaċ, nuair d’éiriġ Liam suas as an tuiġe agus duḃairt, “cá ḃfuil tu dul le mo ṁuic, a aṫair Ṗádraig?”

Nuair a ċonnairc an sagart Liam ag éiriġe, as go bráṫ leis, ag ráḋ: “i n-ainm Dé orduiġim air ais go dtí an uaiġ ṫu a Uilliaim Ui Ruanaiġ.”

Ṫosuiġ Liam ag riṫ anḋiaiġ an tsagairt, agus ag ráḋ. “A aṫair Ṗádraig ḃfuil tu air mire? fan agus laḃair Liom.”

Níor ḟan an sagart aċt ċuaiḋ a ḃaile ċoṁ luaṫ agus d’ḟeud a ċosa a iomċar, agus nuair ṫáinig sé asteaċ ḋún sé an doras. Ḃí Liam ag bualaḋ an dorais go raiḃ sé sáruiġṫe, aċt ní leigfeaḋ an sagart asteaċ é. Faoi ḋeireaḋ ċuir sé a ċeann amaċ air ḟuinneóig a ḃí air ḃárr an tíġe agus duḃairt, “A Uilliam Ui Ruanaiġ téiḋ air ais ċum d’uaiġe.”

“Tá tu air mire a aṫair Ṗádraig, ní’l mé marḃ, agus ní raiḃ mé ann aon uaiġ ariaṁ ó d’ḟág me bronn mo ṁáṫar,” ar Liam.

“Ċonnairc mise marḃ ṫu,” ar san sagart, “fuair tu bás obann agus ḃí mé i láṫair nuair cuireaḋ ṫu ’san uaiġ, agus rinne mé seanmóir ḃreáġ os do ċionn.”

“Diaḃal uaim, go ḃfuil tu air mire ċoṁ cinnte a’s atá mise beó,” ar Liam.

“Imṫiġ as m’aṁarc anois agus léiġfiḋ mé aifrionn duit amáraċ,” ar san sagart.

Ċuaiḋ Liam a ḃaile agus ḃuail sé a ḋoras féin aċt ní leigfeaḋ an ḃean asteaċ é. Ann sin duḃairt sé leis féin, “raċfad agus íocfad mo ċíos.” Uile ḋuine a ċonnairc Liam air a ḃealaċ go teaċ an tiġearna ḃí siad ag riṫ uaiḋ, mar ṡaoileadar go ḃfuair sé bás. Nuair ċualaiḋ an tiġearna talṁan go raiḃ Liam O Ruanaiġ ag teaċt ḋún sé na doirse, agus ní leigfeaḋ sé asteaċ é. Ṫosuiġ Liam ag ḃualaḋ an dorais ṁóir gur ṡaoil an tiġearna go mbrisfeaḋ sé asteaċ é. Ṫáinig an tiġearna go fuinneóig a ḃí air ḃárr an tíġe, agus dḟiafruiġ, “cad tá tu ag iarraiḋ?”

“Ṫáinig mé le mo ċíos íoc, mar ḟear cneasta,” ar Liam.

“Téiḋ air ais go dtí d’uaiġ, agus ḃéarfaiḋ mé maiṫeaṁnas duit,” ar san Tiġearna.

“Ní ḟágfaiḋ mé seó, go ḃfáġ’ mé sgríḃinn uait go ḃfuil mé íocṫa suas glan, go dtí an Ḃealtaine seó ċugainn.”

Ṫug an Tiġearna an sgríḃinn dó, agus ṫáinig sé aḃaile. Ḃuail sé an doras, aċt ní leigfeaó an ḃean asteaċ é, ag ráḋ leis go raiḃ Liam O Ruanaiġ marḃ agus curṫa, agus naċ raiḃ ann san ḃfear ag an doras aċt fealltóir.

“Ní fealltóir mé,” ar Liam, “tá mé anḋiaiġ cíos trí ḃliaḋain d’íoc le mo ṁáiġistir, agus ḃéiḋ seilḃ mo ṫiġe féin agam, no ḃéiḋ ḟios agam cad fáṫ.”

Ċuaiḋ sé ċum an sgiobóil, agus fuair sé barra mór iarainn agus níor ḃfada gur ḃris sé asteaċ an doras. Ḃí faitċios mór air an mnaoi agus air an ḃfear nuaḋ-ṗósta. Ṡaoileadar go raḃadar i n-am an eiseiriġe, agus go raiḃ deire an doṁain ag teaċt.

“Cad ċuige ar ṡaoil tu go raiḃ mise marḃ?” ar Liam.

“Naċ ḃfuil ḟios ag uile ḋuine ann san ḃparáiste go ḃfuil tu marḃ,” ar san ḃean.

“Do ċorp ó’n diaḃal,” ar Liam, “tá tu ag magaḋ fada go leór liom. Fáġ ḋam niḋ le n-iṫe.”

Ḃí eagla ṁór air an mnaoi ḃoiċt agus ġleus sí biaḋ ḋó, agus nuair ċonnairc sí é ag iṫe agus ag ól duḃairt sí, “tá míorḃúil ann.”

Ann sin d’innis Liam a sgeul dí, o ḃonn go bárr, agus nuair d’innis sé gaċ niḋ, duḃairt sé, “raċfad ċum na n-uaiġe amáraċ go ḃfeicfead an biṫeaṁnaċ do ċuir siḃ-se i m’áit-sé.”

Lá air na ṁáraċ ṫug Liam dream daoine leis, agus ċuaiḋ sé ċum na roilige, agus d’ḟosgail siad an uaiġ, agus ḃíodar dul an ċóṁra d’ḟosgailt, agus nuair a ḃí siad ’gá tógḃáil suas léim madaḋ mór duḃ amaċ, agus as go ḃráṫ leis, agus Liam agus na fir eile ’nna ḋiaiġ. Ḃíodar ’gá leanaṁaint go ḃfacadar é ag dul asteaċ ann san teaċ a raiḃ Liam ’nna ċodlaḋ ann. Ann sin d’ḟosgail an talaṁ agus ċuaiḋ an teaċ síos, agus ní ḟacaiḋ aon duine é ó ṡoin, aċt tá an poll mór le feicsint go dtí an lá so.

Nuair d’imṫiġ Liam agus na fir óga aḃaile d’innis síad gaċ niḋ do ṡagart na paráiste, agus sgaoil sé an pósaḋ a ḃí eidir bean Liaim agus an buaċaill-aimsire.

Do ṁair Liam bliaḋanta ’nna ḋiaiġ seó, agus d’ḟág sé saiḋḃreas mór ’nna ḋiaiġ, agus tá cuiṁne air i g-Clár-Gailliṁ fós, agus ḃéiḋ go deó, má ṫéiḋeann an sgeul so ó na sean-daoiniḃ ċum na ndaoine óg.

LEEAM O’ROONEY’S BURIAL.

In the olden time there was once a man named William O’Rooney, living near Clare-Galway. He was a farmer. One day the landlord came to him and said: “I have three years’ rent on you, and unless you have it for me within a week I’ll throw you out on the side of the road.”

“I’m going to Galway with a load of wheat to-morrow,” said Leeam (William), “and when I get the price of it I’ll pay you.”

Next morning he put a load of wheat on the cart, and was going to Galway with it. When he was gone a couple of miles from the house a gentleman met him and asked him: “Is it wheat you’ve got on the cart?”

“It is,” says Leeam; “I’m going to sell it to pay my rent.”

“How much is there in it?” said the gentleman.

“There’s a ton, honest, in it,” said Leeam.

“I’ll buy it from you,” said the gentleman, “and I’ll give you the biggest price that’s going in the market. When you’ll go as far as the cart _boreen_ (little road) that’s on your left hand, turn down, and be going till you come to a big house in the valley. I’ll be before you there to give you your money.”

When Leeam came to the _boreen_ he turned in, and was going until he came as far as the big house. Leeam wondered when he came as far as the big house, for he was born and raised (_i.e._, reared) in the neighbourhood, and yet he had never seen the big house before, though he thought he knew every house within five miles of him.

When Leeam came near the barn that was close to the big house, a little lad came out and said: “A hundred thousand welcomes to you, William O’Rooney,” put a sack on his back and went in with it. Another little lad came out and welcomed Leeam, put a sack on his back, and went in with it. Lads were coming welcoming Leeam, and putting the sacks on their backs and carrying them in, until the ton of wheat was all gone. Then the whole of the lads came round him, and Leeam said; “Ye all know me, and I don’t know ye!” Then they said to him: “Go in and eat your dinner; the master’s waiting for you.”

Leeam went in and sat down at table; but he had not the second mouthful taken till a heavy sleep came on him, and he fell down under the table. Then the enchanter made a false man like William, and sent him home to William’s wife with the horse and cart. When the false man came to Leeam’s house, he went into the room, lay down on the bed and died.

It was not long till the cry went out that Leeam O’Rooney was dead. The wife put down water, and when it was hot she washed the body and put it over the board (_i.e._, laid it out). The neighbours came, and they keened sorrowfully over the body, and there was great pity for the poor wife, but there was not much grief on herself, for Leeam was old and she was young. The day on the morrow the body was buried, and there was no more remembrance of Leeam.

Leeam’s wife had a servant boy, and she said to him: “You ought to marry me, and to take Leeam’s place.”

“It’s too early yet, after there being a death in the house,” said the boy; “wait till Leeam is a week buried.”

When Leeam was seven days and seven nights asleep, a little boy came to him and awoke him, and said: “You’ve been asleep for a week; but we sent your horse and cart home. Here’s your money, and go.”

Leeam came home, and as it was late at night nobody saw him. On the morning of that same day Leeam’s wife and the servant lad went to the priest and asked him to marry them.

“Have you the marriage money?” said the priest.

“No,” said the wife; “but I have a _sturk_ of a pig at home, and you can have her in place of money.”

The priest married them, and said: “I’ll send for the pig to-morrow.”

When Leeam came to his own door, he struck a blow on it. The wife and the servant boy were going to bed, and they asked: “Who’s there?”

“It’s I,” said Leeam; “open the door for me.”

When they heard the voice, they knew that it was Leeam who was in it, and the wife said: “I can’t let you in, and it’s a great shame, you to be coming back again, after being seven days in your grave.”

“Is it mad you are?” said Leeam.

“I’m not mad,” said the wife; “doesn’t every person in the parish know that you are dead, and that I buried you decently. Go back to your grave, and I’ll have a mass read for your poor soul to-morrow.”

“Wait till daylight comes,” said Leeam, “and I’ll give you the price of your joking!”

Then he went into the stable, where his horse and the pig were, stretched himself in the straw, and fell asleep.

Early on the morning of the next day, the priest said to a little lad that he had: “Get up, and go to Leeam O’Rooney’s house, and the woman that I married yesterday will give you a pig to bring home with you.”

The boy came to the door of the house, and began knocking at it with a stick. The wife was afraid to open the door, but she asked: “Who’s there?”