Chapter II: Introduction (1)

That the Irish people have a wide reputation for wit and humour is a fact which will not be disputed. Irish humour is no recent growth, as may be seen by the folk-lore, the proverbs, and the other traditional matter of the country. It is one of Ireland’s ancient characteristics, as some of its untranslated early literature would conclusively prove. The curious twelfth-century story of “The Vision of McConglinne” is a sample of this early Celtic humour. As the melancholy side of older Celtic literature has been more often emphasised and referred to, it is usually thought that the most striking features of that literature is its sadness. The proverbs, some of which are very ancient, are characteristic enough to show that the early Irish were of a naturally joyous turn, as a primitive people should be, for sadness generally comes with civilisation and knowledge; and the fragments of folk-lore that have so far been rescued impress us with the idea that its originators were homely, cheerful, and mirthful. The proverbs are so numerous and excellent that a good collection of them would be very valuable--yet to judge by Ray’s large volume, devoted to those of many nations, Ireland lacks wise sayings of this kind. He only quotes seven, some of which are wretched local phrases, and not Irish at all. The early humour of the Irish Celts is amusing in conception and in expression, and, when it is soured into satire, frequently of marvellous power and efficacy.

Those who possessed the gift of saying galling things were much dreaded, and it is not absolutely surprising that Aengus O’Daly and other satirists met with a retribution from those whom they had rendered wild with rage. In the early native literature the Saxon of course came in for his share of ridicule and scorn; but there is much less of it than might have been fairly expected, and if the bards railed at the invader, they quite as often assailed their own countrymen. One reason for the undoubted existence of a belief that the old Celts had little or no humour is that the reading of Irish history suggests it, and people may perhaps be forgiven for presuming it to be impossible to preserve humour under the doleful circumstances recorded by historians. And indeed if there was little to laugh at even before the English invasion, there was assuredly less after it. Life suddenly became tragic for the bards and the jesters. In place of the primitive amusements, the elementary pranks of the first ages, more serious matters were forced upon their attention, but appearances notwithstanding, the humorist thrived, and probably improved in the gloom overcasting the country; at any rate the innate good humour of the Irish refused to be completely stifled or restricted. Personalities were not the most popular subjects for ridicule, and the most detested characters, though often attacked in real earnest, were not the favourite themes with the wits. Cromwell’s name suggested a curse rather than a joke, and it is only your moderns--your Downeys and Frenches--who make a jest of him.

It being impossible to define humour or wit exactly, it is hardly wise to add another to the many failures attached to the attempt. But Irish humour, properly speaking, is, one may venture to say, more imaginative than any other. And it is probably less ill-natured than that of any other nation, though the Irish have a special aptness in the saying of things that wound, and the most illiterate of Irish peasants can put more scorn into a retort than the most highly educated of another race. There is sometimes a half-pathetic strain in the best Irish humorous writers, and just as in their saddest moments the people are inclined to joke, so in many writings where pathos predominates, the native humour gleams. If true Irish humour is not easily defined with precision, it is at least easily recognisable, there is so much buoyancy and movement in it, and usually so much expansion of heart. An eminent French writer described humour as a fusion of smiles and tears, but clearly that defines only one kind, and there are many varieties, almost as many, one might say, as there are humorists. The distinguishing between wit and humour is not so simple a matter as it looks, but one might hazard the opinion that while the one expresses indifference and irreverence, the other is redolent of feeling and sincerity. Humour and satire are extremes--the more barbed and keen a shaft, the more malicious and likely to hurt, whereas the genuine quality of humour partakes of tenderness and gentleness. Sheridan is an admirable example of a wit, while Lover represents humour in its most confiding aspect. There are intermediate kinds, however, and the malice of Curran’s repartees is not altogether akin to the rasping personalities of “Father Prout.” Irish humour is mainly a store of merriment pure and simple, without much personal taint, and does not profess to be philosophical. Human follies or deformities are rarely touched upon, and luckily Irish humorous writers do not attempt the didactic. In political warfare, however, many bitter taunts are heard, and it is somewhat regrettable that Irish politics should have absorbed so great a part of Irish wit, and turned what might have been pleasant reading into a succession of biting sarcasms. The Irish political satirists of the last and present centuries have often put themselves out of court by the ephemeral nature of their gibes no less than by the extra-ferocious tone they adopted. There is no denying the _verve_ and point in the writings of Watty Cox, Dr. Brenan, William Norcott, and so on, but who can read them to-day with pleasure? Eaton Stannard Barrett’s “All the Talents,” after giving a nickname to a ministry, destroyed it; it served its purpose, and would be out of place if resurrected and placed in a popular collection, where the student of political history--to whom alone it is interesting and amusing--will hardly meet with it. Consequently political satire finds no place in this work, and even T. D. Sullivan, who particularly excels in personal and political squibs in verse, is shown only as the author of a prose sketch of more general application. Besides what has been wasted in this way, from a literary point of view, a good deal of the native element of wit has been dissipated as soon as uttered. After fulfilling its mission in enlivening a journey or in circling the festive board, it is forgotten and never appears in print. How many of Lysaght’s and Curran’s best quips are passed beyond recall? It cannot be that men like these obtained their great fame as wits on the few sample witticisms that have been preserved for us. Their literary remains are so scanty and inconsiderable, and their reputation so universal, that one can only suppose them to have been continuously coining jokes and squandering them in every direction.

Irish humour has been and is so prevalent, however, that in spite of many losses, there is abundant material for many volumes. It is imported into almost every incident and detail of Irish life--it overflows in the discussions of the local boards, is bandied about by carmen (who have gained much undeserved repute among tourists), comes down from the theatre galleries, is rife in the law courts, and chronic in the clubs, at the bar-dinners, and wherever there is dulness to be exorcised. Jokes being really as plentiful as blackberries, no one cares to hoard so common a product. A proof of the contempt into which the possession of wit or humour has fallen may be observed in the fact that no professedly comic paper has been able to survive for long the indifference of the Irish public. There have been some good ones in Dublin--notably, _Zoz_, _Zozimus_, _Pat_, and _The Jarvey_--but they have pined away in a comparatively short space of time, the only note of pathos about their brief existence being the invariable obituary announcement in the library catalogues--“No more published.” But their lives, if short, were merry ones. It was not their fault if the people did not require such aids to vivacity, being in general able to strike wit off the corners of any topic, no matter how unpromising it might appear. Naturally enough, the chief themes of the Irish humorist have been courting and drinking, with the occasional relief of a fight. The amativeness of the poets is little short of marvellous. Men like Lover (who has never been surpassed perhaps as a humorous love-poet) usually confined their humour in that groove; others, like Maginn, kept religiously to the tradition that liquor is the chief attraction in life, and the only possible theme for a wit after exhausting his pleasantries about persons. Maginn, however, was very much in earnest and did not respect the tradition simply because it was one, but solely on account of his belief in its wisdom. There can be no question, it seems to me, of Ireland’s supremacy in the literature devoted to Bacchus. It is another affair, of course, whether any credit attaches to the distinction. All the bards were not so fierce as Maginn in their likes and dislikes when the liquor was on the table. It may indeed be said of them in justice that their enthusiasm for the god of wine was often enough mere boastfulness. It is difficult to believe Tom Moore in his raptures about the joys of the bowl. He was no roysterer, and there is wanting in his Bacchanalian effusions, as in others of his light and graceful school, that reckless _abandon_ of the more bibulous school. A glance at the lives of the Irish poets shows that a goodly number of them lived up to their professions. The glorification of the joys of the bottle by so many of our poets, their implication that from no other source is genius to be drawn, suggests that the Irish inclination to wit was induced by drinking long and deep. Sallies flowed therefrom, and the taciturn man without an idea developed under the genial influence into a delightful conversationalist. Yet as the professional humorist is often pictured as a very gloomy personage, gnawed by care and tortured by remorse, his pleasantries probably strike more in consequence of their vivid contrast to his dismal appearance. But to return to the bards’ love of liquor. One and all declare of the brown jug that “there’s inspiration in its foaming brim,” and what more natural than that they should devote the result to eulogy of the source. It may be somewhat consoling to reflect that often they were less reckless than they would have us believe. Something else besides poetic inspiration comes from the bowl, which, after all, only brings out the natural qualities.

As a rule, Irish poets have not extracted a pessimistic philosophy from liquor; they are “elevated,” not depressed, and do not deem it essential to the production of a poem that its author should be a cynic or an evil prophet. One of the best attributes of Irish poetry is its constant expression of the natural emotions. Previous to the close of the seventeenth century, it is said, drunkenness was not suggested by the poets as common in Ireland--the popularity of Bacchanalian songs since that date seems to prove that the vice soon became a virtue. Maginn is the noisiest of modern revellers, and easily roars the others down.

Not a small portion of the humour of Ireland is the unconscious variety in the half-educated local poets. Sometimes real wit struggles for adequate expression in English with ludicrous and unlooked-for results. A goodly number of the street ballads are very comic in description, phraseology, or vituperation, and “Nell Flaherty’s Drake” may be taken as a fair specimen of the latter class. Occasionally there is coarseness, usually absent from genuine Irish songs; sometimes a ghastly sort of _grotesquerie_, as in “The Night before Larry was Stretched.” Only a few examples of such are necessary to form an idea of the whole. Maginn’s great service in exposing the true character of the wretched rubbish often palmed off on the English public as Irish songs deserves to be noticed here. He proved most conclusively that the stuff thus styled Irish, with its unutterable refrains of the “Whack Bubbaboo” kind, was of undoubted English origin, topography, phraseology, rhymes, and everything else being utterly un-Irish. The internal evidence alone convicts their authors. No Irishman rhymes _O’Reilly_ to _bailie_, for instance, and certainly he would never introduce a priest named “Father Quipes” into a song, even if driven to desperation for rhymes to “swipes.” Any compiler who gives a place in a collection of Irish songs to such trash as “Looney Mac*-twolter,” “Dennis Bulgruddery,” or any other of the rather numerous effusions of their kind, with their Gulliverian nomenclature and their burlesque of Irish manners, is an accomplice in the crime of their authors. In this connection it may be pointed out that not only in songs, but in many stories and other writings purporting to be Irish, the phraseology is anything but Irish. Irishmen do not, and never did, speak of their spiritual guardian as the _praste_. The Irishman never mispronounces the sound of _ie_, and if he says _tay_ for tea and _mate_ for meat he is simply conforming to the old and correct English pronunciation, as may be seen by consulting the older English poets, who always rhymed _sea_ with _day_, etc. To this hour, the original sound is preserved by English people in _great_ and _break_.

To leave the anonymous, the hybrid, and the spurious, it will be well to consider the continuity of the humour of Ireland. The long line of humorous writers who have appeared in our literary history has never been broken, despite many intervals of tribulation. In Anglo-Irish literature they commence practically with Farquhar, whose method of treating the follies of fine ladies and “men of honour” is anticipatory of that of the _Spectator_. Swift’s irony, unsurpassable as it is, is cruel to excess, and has little that is Irish about it. A contemporary and countryman, Dean Smedley, said he was “always in jest, but most so in prayer,” but that is an exaggeration, for Swift was mostly in grim earnest. The charge implies that many of his contemporaries, like several moderns, had a difficulty in satisfying themselves as to when he joked and when he did not. Smedley is also responsible for another poem directed against Swift, which was posted upon the door of St. Patrick’s, Dublin, when the great writer was appointed its Dean, and of which the following is the best stanza:--

“This place he got by wit and rhyme,
And many ways most odd,
And might a bishop be in time,
Did he believe in God.”

The impassive and matter-of-fact way in which Swift, using the deadliest of weapons, ridicule, reformed the abuses of his time, deceived a good many. He never moved a muscle, and his wit shone by contrast with his moody exterior as a lightning-flash illuminates a gloomy sky. It has that element of unexpectedness which goes far to define the nature of wit.

Real drollery in Anglo-Irish literature seems to have begun with Steele. In the case of Steele there is rarely anything to offend modern taste. His tenderness is akin to Goldsmith’s, and the natural man is clearly visible in his writings. A direct contrast is seen in Sterne, who was more malicious and sly, full of unreality and misplaced sentiment, and depending chiefly upon his constant supply of _doubles entendres_ and the morbid tastes of his readers. Writers like Derrick and Bickerstaffe were hardly witty in the modern sense, but rather in the original literal meaning of the term. There are many wits, highly popular in their own day, who are no longer readable with any marked degree of pleasure. Wit depends so largely upon the manner of its delivery for the effect produced that the dramatists are not so numerously represented in this collection as might be expected from the special fecundity and excellence of the Irish in that branch of literature. To extract the wit or humour from some of the eighteenth-century plays is no easy task. In men like Sheridan, it is superabundant, over-luxuriant, and easily detachable; but others, like Kane O’Hara, Hugh Kelly, William O’Brien, James Kenney, and so on, whose plays were famous at one time and are not yet forgotten, find no place in this work on account of the difficulty of bringing the wit of their plays to a focus.

There never was a writer, perhaps, concerning whose merits there has been less dispute than Goldsmith. Sheridan, with all his brilliance, has not been so fortunate. Lysaght and Millikin were and are both greatly overrated as poets and wits, if we are to judge by the fragments they have left. Lysaght, however, must have been considered a genuine wit, for we find a number of once popular songs wrongly attributed to him. He most unquestionably did not write “The Sprig of Shillelagh,” “Donnybrook Fair,” “The Rakes of Mallow,” or “Kitty of Coleraine,” though they have all been put down as his. The first two were written by H. B. Code and Charles O’Flaherty respectively. Millikin’s fame is due to one of those literary accidents which now and then occur. Henry Luttrell in his verse had something of the sprightliness and point of Moore.

Very few specimens of parody have been included in this collection. Two extracts are here given from Eaton Stannard Barrett’s burlesque romance, which ridiculed a school of writers whose mannerisms were once very prevalent. Maginn was a much better parodist. He was a great humorist in every way, and may be claimed as the earliest writer who showed genuine rollicking Irish humour. “Daniel O’Rourke” is here given to him for the first time, probably, in a collection; though it appeared in Crofton Croker’s “Fairy Legends” it was known to their contemporaries as Maginn’s. He could be both coarse and refined; his boisterous praise of the bottle was not a sham, but his occasional apparent delight in savage personal criticism was really quite foreign to his character, as he was a most amiable man, much loved by those who knew him. It was different with “Father Prout,” who was one of the venomous order of wits, and certainly not a personal favourite with his colleagues. His frequent and senseless attacks on O’Connell and other men, dragged into all his essays, are blots on his work. His wit is too often merely abusive, like that of Dr. Kenealy, who, almost as learned as “Prout,” was quite as unnecessarily bitter. It is from Lover that we get the cream, not the curds of Irish humour. He is the Irish arch-humorist, and it is difficult to exaggerate the excellence of his lovesongs. Others may be more classical, more polished, more subtle, but there is no writer more irresistible. Among his earlier contemporaries Ettingsall was his nearest counterpart in one notable story. It must not be forgotten, either, that “Darby Doyle’s Voyage to Quebec” appeared in print before Lover’s “Barney O’Reirdon.” Carleton and Lever were admirable humorists, but only incidentally so, whereas Lover was nothing if not a humorist before all. There are many excellent comic passages in the novels of both, as also in one or two of Lefanu’s works, and if it should be thought that proportionately they are under-represented, it need only be pointed out that though a large volume might easily be made up of examples of their humour alone, other writers also have a good claim to a considerable amount of space. It has been thought preferable to restrict the selections from such famous novelists in order to give a place to no less admirable but much less familiar work.

O’Leary and the other Bacchanalians who came after Maginn were worthy followers of the school which devoted all its lyrical enthusiasm to the praise of drink, while Marmion Savage showed rather the acid wit of Moore. Ferguson and Wade are better known by their verse than as humorous storytellers. We find true Irish humour again in Kickham and Halpine. The Irish humorists of the present day hardly need any introduction to the reader.

The treatment of sacred subjects by Irish wits is similar to that in most Catholic countries. St. Patrick is hardly regarded as a conventional saint by Irish humorists, and it is curious that St. Peter is accepted by the wits of all nationalities as a legitimate object of pleasantry. If, however, Irish writers occasionally seem to lack reverence for things which in their eyes are holy, “it is only their fun,” as Lamb would say. Only those who are in the closest intimacy with sacred objects venture to treat them familiarly, and the Irish peasant often speaks in an offhand manner of that which is dearest to him. Few nations could have produced such a harvest of humour under such depressing and unfavourable influences as Ireland has experienced. And it may be asserted with truth that many countries with far more reason for uninterrupted good-humour, with much less cause for sadness, would be hard put to it to show an equally valuable contribution to the world’s lighter literature.

* * * * *

Though it has been sought to make this volume as comprehensive as possible, some familiar names will be missed; it is believed, however, that it contains a thoroughly representative collection of humorous extracts. There are some undoubted humorists whose wit will not bear transferring or transplanting, and it is as hard to convey their humour in an extract as it is to bottle a sunbeam. In others, the humour is beaten out too thin, and spread over too wide an area, to make selection satisfactory. The absence from this collection of any example of Mr. Oscar Wilde’s characteristic wit is not the fault of the present writer or the publishers. I have to thank nearly all the living authors represented in this collection for permission to use their writings, the one or two exceptions being those whose writings are uncollected, and whom I could not reach; and I have also to express my indebtedness to Mr. Alfred Nutt for allowing me to quote from “The Vision of McConglinne” and Dr. Hyde’s “Beside the Fire”; to Messrs. Ward & Downey for the extract from Edmund Downey; to Messrs. James Duffy & Son for the extract from Kickham; to Messrs. Routledge for poems by Lover; etc. I am also, deeply obliged to Dr. Douglas Hyde, the eminent Irish scholar and folk-lorist, for copies of some of the earlier extracts, and to Messrs. F. A. Fahy and P. J. McCall for some later pieces. For the proverbs I am chiefly indebted to Dr. Hyde, Mr. Fahy, Mr. T. J. Flannery, and Mr. Patrick O’Leary. D. J. O’DONOGHUE.

THE HUMOUR OF IRELAND.

_EXORCISING THE DEMON OF VORACITY._

[Cathal MacFinguine, King of Munster, is possessed by a demon of
gluttony that “used to devour his rations with him to the ruin
of the men of Munster during three half-years; and it is likely
he would have ruined Ireland during another half-year.” Anier
MacConglinne, “a famous scholar” and satirist, undertakes to
banish the demon, whom he entices out of Cathal by marvellous
stories of food and feasting, etc., meanwhile keeping him
fasting.]

And he called for juicy old bacon, and tender corned-beef, and full-fleshed wether, and honey in the comb, and English salt on a beautiful polished dish of white silver, along with four perfectly straight white hazel spits to support the joints. The viands which he enumerated were procured for him, and he fixed unspeakable huge pieces on the spits. Then putting a linen apron about him below, and placing a flat linen cap on the crown of his head, he lighted a fair four-ridged, four-apertured, four-cleft fire of ash-wood, without smoke, without fume, without sparks. He stuck a spit into each of the portions, and as quick was he about the spits and fire as a hind about her first fawn, or as a roe, or a swallow, or a bare spring wind in the flank of March. He rubbed the honey and the salt into one piece after another. And big as the pieces were that were before the fire, there dropped not to the ground out of theses four pieces as much as would quench a spark of a candle; but what there was of relish in them went into their very centre.

It had been explained to Pichán that the reason why the scholar had come was to save Cathal. Now, when the pieces were ready, MacConglinne cried out, “Ropes and cords here!” “What is wanted with them?” asked Pichán. Now that was a “question beyond discretion” for him, since it had been explained to him before; and hence is the old saying, “a question beyond discretion.” Ropes and cords were given to MacConglinne, and to those that were strongest of the warriors. They laid hands upon Cathal, who was tied in this manner to the side of the palace. Then MacConglinne came, and was a long time securing the ropes with hooks and staples. And when this was ended, he came into the house, with his four spits raised high on his back, and his white wide-spread cloak hanging behind, its two peaks round his neck, to the place where Cathal was. And he stuck the spits into the bed before Cathal’s eyes, and sat himself down in his seat, with his two legs crossed. Then taking his knife out of his girdle, he cut a bit off the piece that was nearest to him, and dipped it in the honey that was on the aforesaid dish of white silver. “Here’s the first for a male beast,” said MacConglinne, putting the bit into his own mouth. (And from that day to this the old saying has remained.) He cut a morsel from the next piece, and dipping it in the honey, put it past Cathal’s mouth into his own. “Carve the food for us, son of learning!” exclaimed Cathal. “I will do so,” answered MacConglinne and cutting another bit of the nearest piece, and dipping it as before, he put it past Cathal’s mouth into his own. “How long wilt thou carry this on, student?” asked Cathal. “No more henceforth,” answered MacConglinne, “for, indeed, thou hast consumed such a quantity and variety of agreeable morsels, that I shall eat the little that is there myself, and this will be ‘food from mouth’ for thee.” (And that has been a proverb since.) Then Cathal roared and bellowed, and commanded the killing of the scholar. But that was not done for him. “Well, Cathal,” said MacConglinne, “a vision has appeared to me, and I have heard that thou art good at interpreting a dream.” “By my God’s doom!” exclaimed Cathal, “though I should interpret the dreams of the men of the world, I would not interpret thine.” “I vow,” said MacConglinne, “even though thou dost not interpret it, it shall be related in thy presence.” He then began his vision, and the way he related it was, whilst putting two morsels or three at a time past Cathal’s mouth into his own--

“A vision I beheld last night:
I sallied forth with two or three,
When I saw a fair and well-filled house,
In which there was great store of food.

A lake of new milk I beheld
In the midst of a fair plain.
I saw a well-appointed house
Thatched with butter.

As I went all around it
To view its arrangement:
Puddings fresh-boiled,
They were its thatch-rods.

Its two soft door-posts of custard,
Its daïs of curd and butter,
Beds of glorious lard,
Many shields of thin-pressed cheese.

Under the straps of these shields
Were men of soft sweet-smooth cheese,
Men who knew not to wound a Gael,
Spears of old butter had each of them.

A huge caldron full of _luabin_--
(Methought I’d try to tackle it)
Boiled leafy kale, browny-white,
A brimming vessel full of milk.

A bacon-house of two-score ribs,
A wattling of tripe--support of clans--
Of every food pleasant to man,
Meseemed the whole was gathered there.”

* * * * *

(_MacConglinne then narrates a fable concerning the land of O’Early-Eating, etc._)

Then in the harbour of the lake before me I saw a juicy little coracle of beef-fat, with its coating of tallow, with its thwarts of curds, with its prow of lard, with its stern of butter, with its thole-pins of marrow, with its oars of flitches of old boar in it. Indeed she was a sound craft in which we embarked. Then we rowed across the wide expanse of New-Milk Lake, through seas of broth, past river-mouths of mead, over swelling boisterous waves of butter-milk, by perpetual pools of gravy, past woods dewy with meat-juice, past springs of savoury lard, by islands of cheeses, by hard rocks of rich tallow, by headlands of old curds, along strands of dry-cheese, until we reached the firm level beach between Butter-Mount and Milk-Lake and Curd-Point, at the mouth of the pass to the country of O’Early-Eating, in front of the hermitage of the Wizard Doctor. Every oar we plied in New-Milk Lake would send its sea-sand of cheese-curds to the surface.... Marvellous, indeed, was the hermitage in which I then found myself. Around it were seven score hundred smooth stakes of old bacon, and instead of the thorns above the top of every long stake was fried juicy lard of choice well-fed boar, in expectation of a battle against the tribes of Butter-fat and Cheese that were on New-Milk Lake, warring against the Wizard Doctor. There was a gate of tallow to it, whereon was a bolt of sausage.

Let an active, white-handed, sensible, joyous woman wait upon thee, who must be of good repute.... Let this maiden give thee thy thrice nine morsels, O MacConglinne, each morsel of which shall be as big as a heathfowl’s egg. Those morsels then must be put in thy mouth with a swinging jerk, and thine eyes must whirl about in thy skull whilst thou art eating them. The eight kinds of grain thou must not spare, O MacConglinne, wheresoever they are offered thee--viz., rye, wild-oats, beare, buckwheat, wheat, barley, _fidbach_, oats. Take eight cakes of each fair grain of these, and eight condiments with every cake, and eight sauces with each condiment; and let each morsel thou puttest in thy mouth be as big as a heron’s egg. Away now to the smooth panikins of cheese-curds, O MacConglinne:

to fresh pigs,
to loins of fat,
to boiled mutton,
to the choice easily-discussed thing for which the hosts
contend--the gullet of salted beef;
to the dainty of the nobles, to mead;
to the cure of chest-disease--old bacon;
to the appetite of pottage--stale curds;
to the fancy of an unmarried woman--new milk;
to a queen’s mash--carrots;
to the danger awaiting a guest--ale;
to a broken head--butter roll;
to hand-upon-all--dry bread;
to the pregnant thing of a hearth--cheese;
to the bubble-burster--new ale;
to the priest’s fancy--juicy kale;
to the treasure that is smoothest and sweetest of all food--white
porridge;
to the anchor--broth;
to the double-looped twins--sheep’s tripe;
to the dues of a wall--sides (of bacon);
to the bird of a cross--salt;
to the entry of a gathering--sweet apples;
to the pearls of a household--hen’s eggs;
to the glance of nakedness--kernels.

When he had reckoned me up those many viands, he ordered me my drop of drink. “A tiny little measure for thee, MacConglinne, not too large, only as much as twenty men will drink, on the top of those viands: of very thick milk, of milk not too thick, of milk of long thickness, of milk of medium thickness, of yellow bubbling milk, the swallowing of which needs chewing, of the milk the snoring bleat of a ram as it rushes down the gorge, so that the first draught says to the last draught, ‘I vow, thou mangy cur, before the Creator, if thou comest down I’ll go up, for there is no room for the doghood of the pair of us in this treasure-house.’ ...”

At the pleasure of the recital and the recounting of those many pleasant viands in the king’s presence, the lawless beast that abode in the inner bowels of Cathal MacFinguine came forth, until it was licking its lips outside his head. The scholar had a large fire beside him in the house. Each of the pieces was put in order to the fire, and then one after the other to the lips of the king. One time, when one of the pieces was put to the king’s mouth, the son of malediction darted forth, fixed his two claws in the piece that was in the student’s hand, and, taking it with him across the hearth to the other side, bore it below the caldron that was on the other side of the fire. And the caldron was overturned on him.

_From an Irish manuscript of the 12th century,
translated by Kuno Meyer._

_THE ROMAN EARL._

No man’s trust let woman claim,
Not the same as men are they;
Let the wife withdraw her face
When ye place the man in clay.

Once there was in Rome an earl,
Cups of pearl held his ale.
Of this wealthy earl’s mate
Men relate a famous tale.

For it chanced that of a day,
As they lay at ease reclined,
He in jest pretends to die,
Thus to try her secret mind.

“Och, ochone! if you should die,
Never I should be myself,
To the poor of God I’d give
All my living, lands and pelf.

“Then in satin stiff with gold
I should fold thy fair limbs still,
Laying thee in gorgeous tomb”--
Said the woman bent on ill.

Soon the earl as if in death
Yielded up his breath to try her;
Not one promise kept his spouse
Of the vows made glibly by her.

Jerked into a coffin hard
With a yard of canvas coarse,--
To his hips it did not come--
To the tomb they drove the corse.

Bravely dressed was she that day,
On her way to mass and grave--
To God’s church and needy men
Not one penny piece she gave.

Up he starts, the coffined man,
Calls upon his wife aloud,
“Why am I thus thrust away
Almost naked, with no shroud?”

Then as women will when caught
In a fault, with ready wit,
Answered she upon the wing--
Not one thing would she admit.

“Winding sheets are out of date,
All men state it--clad like this,
When the judgment trump shall sound
You can bound to God and bliss.

“When in shrouds they trip and stumble,
You’ll be nimble then as erst,
Hence I shaped thee this short vest;
You’ll run best and come in first.”

Trust not to a woman’s faith,
’Tis a breath, a broken stem,
Few whom they do not deceive;
Let him grieve who trusts to them.

Though full her house of linen web,
And sheets of thread spun full and fair--
A warning let it be to us--
She left her husband naked there.

Spake the prudent earl: “In sooth,
Woman’s truth you here behold,
Now let each his coffin buy
Ere his wife shall get his gold.

“When Death wrestles for his life,
Let his wife not hear him moan,
Great though be his pain and fear,
Let her hear nor sigh nor groan.”

_Translated by Dr. Douglas Hyde from an
old Irish manuscript._

_THE FELLOW IN THE GOAT-SKIN._

There was a poor widow living down there near the Iron Forge when the country was all covered with forests, and you might walk on the tops of trees from Carnew to the Lady’s Island, and she had one boy. She was very poor, as I said before, and was not able to buy clothes for her son. So when she was going out she fixed him snug and combustible in the ash-pit, and piled the warm ashes about him. The boy knew no better, and was as happy as the day was long; and he was happier still when a neighbour gave his mother a kid to keep him company when herself was abroad. The kid and the lad played like two may-boys; and when she was old enough to give milk, wasn’t it a godsend to the little family? You won’t prevent the boy from growing up into a young man, but not a screed of clothes had he then no more than when he was a gorsoon.

One day as he was sitting comfortably in his pew he heard poor Jin bleating outside so dismally. It was only one step for him to the door, another to the middle of the road, and another to the gap going into the wood; and there he saw a pack of deer hounds tearing the life out of his poor goat. He snatched a _rampike_ out of the gap, was up with the dogs while a cat would be licking her ear, and in two shakes he made _smithereens_ of the whole bilin’ of them. The hunters spurred their horses to ride him down, but he ran at them with the terrible club, roaring with rage and grief; and horses and men were out of sight before he could wink. He then went back, crying, to the poor goat. Her tongue was hanging out and her legs quivering, and after she strove to lift her head and lick his hand, she lay down cold and dead. He lifted the body and carried it into the cabin, and _pullilued_ over it till he fell asleep out of weariness; and then a butcher, that came in with other neighbours to pity him, took away the body and dressed the skin so smooth, so soft, and fastened two thongs to two of the corners. When the boy’s grief was a little mollified, the neighbour stepped in and fastened the nice skin round his body. It fell to his knees, and the head skin was in front like a Highlander’s pocket. He was so proud of his new dress that he walked out with his head touching the sky, and up and down the town with him two or three times. “Oh, dear!” says the people, standing at their doors and admiring the great big boy, “look at the _Gilla na Chreckan Gour_” (_Giolla na Chroiceann Gobhair_--the fellow in the goat-skin), and that name remained on him till he went into his coffin. But pride and fine dress won’t make the pot boil. So his mother says to him next morning, “Tom,” says she, for that was his real name, “you’re idle long enough; so now that you are well clad, and needn’t be ashamed to appear before the neighbours, take that rope and bring in a special good _bresna_ (fagot) of rotten boughs from the forest.” “Never say it twice,” says Gilla, and off he set into the heart of the wood. He broke off and gathered up a great big fagot, and was tying it, when he heard a roar that was enough to split an oak, and up walks a giant a foot taller than himself; and he was a foot taller than the tallest man you’d see in a fair.

“What brings you here, you vagabone,” says the giant, says he, “threspassin’ in my demesne and stealin’ my fire-wood?” “I’m doin’ no harm,” says Gilla, “but clearin’ your wood, if it is your wood, of rotten boughs.” “I’ll let you see the harm you’re doin’,” says the giant, and with that he made a blow at Gilla that would have felled an ox. “Is that the way you show civility to your neighbours?” says the other, leaping out of the way of the club; “here’s at you,” and he leaped in and caught the giant by the body, and gave him such a heave that his head came within an inch of the ground. But he was as strong as Goliath, and worked up, and gave Gilla another heave equal to the one he got himself. So they held at it, tripping, squeezing, and twisting, and the hard ground became a bog under their feet, and the bog became like the hard road. At last Gilla gave the giant a great twist, got his right leg behind _his_ right leg, and flung him headlong again the root of an oak tree. He caught up the club from where the giant let it fall at the beginning of the scrimmage, and said to him, “I am goin’ to knock out your brains; what have you to say again it?” “Oh, nothin’ at all! But if you spare my life, I’ll give you a flute that, whenever you play on it, will set your greatest enemies a-dancing, and they won’t have power to lay their hands on you, if they were as mad as march hares to kill you.” “Let us have it,” says Gilla, “and take yourself out of that.” So the giant handed him the flute out of his oxter-pocket, and home went Gilla as proud as a paycock, with his fagot on his back and his flute stuck in it.

In three days’ time he went to get another fagot; and this day he was attacked by a brother of the same giant; and whatever trouble he had with the other he had it twice with this one. He levelled him at last, and only gave him his life on being offered a bottle of soft green wax of a wonderful nature. If a person only rubbed it on the size of a crown-piece on his body, fire, nor iron, nor any sharp thing could do him the least harm for a year and a day after. Home went Gilla with his bottle, and never stirred out for three days, for he was a little tired and bruised after his wrestling. The next fagot he went to gather he met with the third brother, and if they hadn’t the dreadful struggle, leave it till again! They held at it from noon till night, and then the giant was forced to give in. What he gave for his life was a club that he took away once from a hermit, and any one fighting with that club in a just cause would never be conquered. If Gilla stayed at home three days after the last struggle, he didn’t stir for a week after this. It was on a Monday morning he got up, and he heard a blowing of bugles and a terrible hullabulloo in the street. Himself and his mother ran to the door, and there was a fine fat man on horseback, with a jockey’s cap on his head, and a quilt with six times the colours of the rainbow on it hanging over his shoulders. “Hear, all you good people,” says he, after another pull at his bugle-horn, “the King of Dublin’s daughter has not laughed for three years and a half, and her father promises her in marriage, and his crown after his death, to whoever makes her laugh three times.” “And here’s the boy,” says Gilla, “will make her do that, or know the reason why.” If one was to count all the threads in a coat, it would never come into the tailor’s hands; and if I was to reckon all that Gilla’s mother and her neighbours said to him before he set out, and all the steps he took after he set out, I’d never have him as far as the gates of Dublin; but to Dublin he got at last, as sure as fate. They were going to stop him at the gates, but he gave a curl of his club round his shoulder, and said he was coming to make the princess laugh. So they laughed and let him pass; and maybe the doors and windows were not crowded with women and children gazing after the good-natured-looking young giant, with his long black hair falling on his shoulders, and his goat-skin hanging from his waist to his knee. There was a great crowd in the palace yard when he reached there, and ever so many of them playing all sorts of tricks to get a laugh from the princess; but not a smile, even, could be got from her. “What is your business?” said the king, “and where do you come from?” “I come, my liege,” said Gilla, “from the country of the ‘Yellow Bellies,’[1] and my business is to make the princess, God bless her! give three hearty laughs.” “God enable you!” said the king. But an ugly, cantankerous fellow near the king, with a white face and red hair on him, put in his spoon, and says he to Gilla, “My fine fellow, before any one is allowed to strive for the princess, he is expected to show himself a man at all sorts of matches with the champions of the court.” “Nothing will give me greater pleasure,” says Gilla. So he laid his club and spit in his fists, and a brave sturdy Galloglach came up and took him by the shoulder and elbow. If he did, he didn’t keep his hold long; Gilla levelled him while you’d wink, and then came another and another till two score were pitched on their heads.

Well, no one gripped him the second time; but at last all were so mad that they stopped rubbing their heads and hips and shoulders, and made at Gilla in a body. The princess was looking very much pleased at Gilla all the time, but now she cried out to her father to stop the attack. The white-faced fellow said something in the king’s ear and not a budge did he make. But Gilla didn’t let himself be flurried. He took up his _kippeen_ (cudgel or club), and gave this fellow a tap on his left ear, and that fellow a tap on his right ear, and the other a crack on the ridge pole of his head; and maybe it wasn’t a purty spectacle to see every soul of two score of them tumbling over and hether, their heads in the dust and their heels in the air, and they roaring “Murdher” at the _ling_ of their life. But the best of it was that the princess, when she saw the confusion, gave a laugh like the ring of silver on a stone, so sweet and so loud that all the court heard it; and Gilla struck his club butt-end on the ground, and says he, “King of Dublin, I have won half of your daughter.” The face of Red-head turned from white to yellow, but no one minded him, and the king invited Gilla to dine with himself and the princess and all the royal family. So that day passed, and while they were at breakfast next morning Red-head reminded the king that he had nothing to do now but to send the new champion to kill the wild beast that was murdering every one that attempted to go a hen’s race beyond the walls. The king did not say a word one way or the other; but the princess said it was not right nor kind to send a stranger out to his certain death, for no one ever escaped the wild beast if it could get near them. “I’ll make the trial,” says Gilla; “I’d face twenty wild beasts to do any service to yourself or your subjects.” So he inquired where the beast was to be found, and White-face was only too ready to give him his directions. The princess was sorrowful enough when she saw him setting out, but go he must and would. After he was gone a mile beyond the gates he heard a terrible roar in the wood and a great cracking of boughs, and out pounced a terrible beast on him, with great long claws, and a big mouth open to swallow him, club and all.

When he was at the very last spring Gilla gave him a stroke on the nose; and crack! he was sprawling on his back in two seconds. Well, that did not daunt him; he was up, and springing again at Gilla, and this time the blow came on him between the two eyes. Down and up he was again and again till his right ear, his left ear, his right shoulder, and left shoulder were black and blue. Then he sat on his hindquarters and looked very surprised at Gilla and his club. “Now, my tight fellow,” says Gilla, “follow your nose to Dublin gates. Do no harm to any one, and I’ll do no harm to you.” “Waw! waw! waw!” says the beast, with his long teeth all stripped, and sparks flashing from his eyes; but when he saw the club coming down on him he put his tail between his legs and walked on. Now and then he’d turn about and give a growl, but a flourish of the club would soon set him on the straight road again. Oh! if there wasn’t racing and tearing through the streets, and roaring and bawling; but Gilla nor the beast ever drew rein till they came to the palace yard. Well, if the people in the streets were frightened, the people in the court were terrified. The king and his daughter were in a balcony, or something that way, and so were out of danger; but lord and gentleman, and officer, and soldier, as soon as they laid eye on the beast, began to run into passages and halls; but those that got in first shut the doors in their fright; and they that were left out did not know what to do, and the king cried out to Gilla to take away the frightful thing. Gilla at once took his flute out of his goat-skin pocket and began to play, and every one in the court--beast and body--began to dance. There was the unfortunate beast obliged to stand on his hind legs and play heel and toe, while he shovelled about after those that were next him, and he growling fearfully all the time. The people, striving to keep out of his way, were still obliged to mind their steps, but that didn’t prevent them from roaring out to Gilla to free them from their tormentor. The beast kept a steady eye on Red-head, and was always sliding after him as well as the figures of the dance would let him; and you may be sure the poor fellow’s teeth were not strong enough to keep his tongue quiet. Well, it was all a fearful thing to look at, but it was very comical, too; and as soon as the princess saw that Gilla’s power over the beast was strong enough to prevent him doing any hurt, and especially when she heard the roars of Red-head and looked at his dancing, she burst out laughing the second time. “Now, King of Dublin,” said Gilla, “I have won two halves of the princess, and I hope it won’t be long till the third half will fall to me.” “Oh! for goodness’ sake,” said the king, “never mind halves or quarters--banish this vagabone beast to Bandon, or Halifax, or Lusk, or the Red Say, and we’ll see what is to come next.” Gilla took his flute out of his mouth and the dancing stopped like shot The poor beast was thrown off his balance and fell on his side, and a good many of the dancers had a tumble at the same moment. Then said Gilla to the beast, “You see that street leading straight to the mountain; down that street with you; don’t let a hare catch you; and if you fall, don’t wait to get up. And if I hear of you coming within a mile of castle or cabin within the four seas of Ireland I’ll make an example of you; remember the club.” He had no need to give his orders twice. Before he was done speaking the beast was half-way down the street like a frightened dog with a kettle tied to his tail. He was once after seen in the Devil’s Glen, in Wicklow, picking a bone, and that’s all was ever heard of him.