Chapter III: Introduction (2)

Well, that was work enough for one day, and the potatoes were just done in the big kitchen of the palace. I don’t know what great people take instead of stirabout and milk before they go to bed. Indeed, people do be saying that some of them never leave the table from dinner to bedtime, but I don’t believe it. Anyhow, they took dinner and supper and went to bed, everything in its own time, and rose in the morning when the sun was as high as the trees. So when they were at breakfast, Red-head, who wasn’t at all agreeable to the match, says to the king, in Gilla’s hearing: “The Danes, ill-luck be in their road! will be near the city in a day or two; and it is said in an old prophecy book, that if you could get the flail that’s hanging on the couple under the ridge pole of Hell, you could drive every enemy you have into the sea--Dane or divil. I’m sure, sir, Gilla wouldn’t have too much trouble in getting that flail; nothing seems too hot or too heavy for him!” “If he goes,” said the princess, “it is against my wish and will.” “If he goes,” said the king, “it is not by my order.” “Go I will,” said Gilla, “if any one shows me the way.” There was an old gentleman with a red nose on him sitting at the table, and says he, “Oh! I’ll show you the way; it lies down Cut Purse Row. You will know it by the sign of the ‘Cat and Bagpipes’ on one side, and the ‘Ace of Spades’ stuck in the window opposite.” “I’m off,” says Gilla; “pray all of you for my safe return.” He easily found the “Cat and Bagpipes” and the “Ace of Spades,” and nothing further is said of him till he was knocking at Hell’s Gate. It was opened by an old fellow with horns on him seven feet long, and says he to Gilla, mighty politely, “What is it you want here, sir?” “I am a great traveller,” said Gilla, “and wish to see every place worth seeing, inside and outside.” “Oh! if that’s the case,” says the porter, “walk in. Here, brothers, show this gentleman-traveller all the curiosities of the place.” With that they all, big and little, locked and bolted every window and door, and stuffed every hole, till a midge itself couldn’t find its way out; and then they surrounded Gilla with their spits, and pitchforks, and _sprongs_; and if they didn’t whack and prod him, it’s a wonder. “Gentlemen,” says Gilla, “these are the tricks of clowns. Fairplay is bonny play; show yourselves gentlemen, if you have a good drop in you. Hand me a weapon, and let us fight fair. There’s an old flail on that couple, it will do as well as another.” “Oh, yes! the flail! the flail!” cried they all; and some little imps climbed up the rafters, pulled down the flail and handed it to Gilla, expecting to see his hands burned through the moment it touched them. They knew nothing of the giant’s balsam that Gilla rubbed on his hands as he was coming along, but they soon knew and felt the strength of his arm, when he was knocking them down like nine-pins, and thrashing them, arms, legs, and bodies, like so much oaten straw. “Oh! murdher! murdher!” says the big divil of all at last. “Stop your hand, and we’ll give you anything in our power.” “Well,” says Gilla, “I’ve seen all I want in your habitation. I don’t like the welcome I’ve got, and will thank you to open the gate.” Oh! wasn’t there twenty pair of legs tearing in a moment to let Gilla out. “You don’t mean, I hope, to carry off the flail?” says the big fellow; “it’s very useful to us in winter.” “It was the very thing that brought me here,” says Gilla, “to get it, and I won’t leave without it; but if you look in the black pool of the Liffey at noon to-morrow, you’ll find it there.” Well, they were very down in the mouth for the loss of the flail, but a second rib-roasting wasn’t to be thought of. When they had him fairly locked out they put out their tongues at him through the bars, and shouted, “Ah! Gilla na Chreckan Gour! wait till you’re let in here so easy again,” but he only answered, “You’ll let me in when I ask you.” There was both joy and terror at court when they saw Gilla coming back with the terrible flail in his hand. “Now,” says every one, “we care little for the Danes and all kith and kin. But how did you coax the fellows down below to give up the implement?” So he told them as much as he chose, and was very glad to see the welcome that was on the princess’s face. Red-head thought it would be a fine thing to have the flail in his power. So he crept over to where Gilla laid it aside after charging no one to touch it; but his hand did not come within a foot of it, when he thought he was burned to the bone. He danced about, shook his arm, put his fist to his mouth, and roared out for water. “Couldn’t you mind what I said?” says Gilla, “and that wouldn’t have happened.” However, he took Red-head’s hand within his own two that had the ointment, and he was freed from the burning at once. Well, the poor rogue looked so relieved, and so ashamed, and so impudent at the same time, that the princess joined in the laughing of all about. “Three halves at last,” said Gilla; “now, my liege,” said he, “I hope that after I give a good throuncing to the Danes, you will fulfil your promise.” “There are no two ways about that,” said the king; “Danes or no Danes, you may marry my daughter to-morrow, if she makes no objection herself.” Red-head, seeing by the princess’s face that she wasn’t a bit vexed at what her father said, ran up to his room, thrust his head into a cupboard, and nearly roared his arm off, but the company downstairs did not seem to miss him.

Early in the forenoon of next day a soldier came running in all haste from the bridge that crossed the Liffey, and said the Danes were coming in thousands from the north, all in brass armour, brass pots on their heads, and brass pot-lids on their arms, and that the yellow blaze coming from their ranks was enough to blind a body. Out marched the king’s troops with the king at their head, to hinder the Danes from getting into the town over the bridge. First went Gilla, with his flail in one hand and his club in the other. He crossed the bridge, and when the enemy were about ten perch away from him, he shouted out, “This flail belongs to the divil, and who has a better right to it than his children?” So saying, he swung it round his head, and flung it with all his power at the front rank. It mowed down every man it met in its course, and when it cut through the whole column, and the space was clear before it, it sunk down, and flame and smoke flew up from the breach it made in the ground. The soldiers at each side of the lane of dead men ran forward on Gilla, but as every one came within the sweep of his club he was dashed down on the bridge or into the river. On they rushed like a snowstorm, but they melted like the same snow falling into a furnace. Gilla kept before the pile of the dead soldiers, but at last his arms began to tire. Then the king and his men came over, and the rest of the Danes were frightened and fled. Often was Gilla tired in his past life, but that was the greatest and tiresomest exploit he ever done. He lay on a settle-bed for three days; but if he did, hadn’t he the princess and all her maids of honour to wait on him, and pity him, and give him gruel, and toast, and tay of all the colours under the sun? Red-head did his best to stop the marriage, but once when he was speaking to the king, one of the body-guard swore he’d open his skull with his battle-axe if he dared open his mouth again about it. So married they were, and as strong as Gilla was, if ever his princess and himself had a _scruting_ (dispute), I know who got the upper hand.

_Kennedy’s Fireside Stories of Ireland._

_OFTEN-WHO-CAME._

There was once a man, and he had a handsome daughter, and every one was in love with her. There used to be two youths constantly coming to her, courting her. One of them pleased her and the other did not. The man she did not care for used often to come to her father’s house to get a sight of herself, and to be in her company, while the man she liked used not come but seldom. The father preferred she should marry the boy who was constantly coming, and he made one day a big dinner and sent every one an invitation. When every one was gathered he said to his daughter, “Drink a drink now,” says he, “on the man you like best in this company,” for he thought she would drink to the man he liked best himself. She lifted the glass in her hand and stood up and looked round her, and then said this _rann_:--

“I drink the good health of Often-Who-Came,
Who often comes not I also must name,
Who often comes not I often must blame
That he comes not as often as Often-Who-Came!”

She sat down when she had spoken this quatrain, and said no other word that evening; but the youth Often-Who-Came did not come as far as her again, for he understood he was not wanted, and she married the man of her own choice with her father’s consent.

I heard no more of them since.

_Translated by Dr. Douglas Hyde._

_THE OLD CROW AND THE YOUNG CROW._

There was an old crow teaching a young crow one day, and he said to him, “Now, my son,” says he, “listen to the advice I’m going to give you. If you see a person coming near you and stooping, mind yourself, and be on your keeping; he’s stooping for a stone to throw at you.”

“But tell me,” says the young crow, “what should I do if he had a stone already down in his pocket?”

“Musha, go ’long out of that,” says the old crow, “you’ve learned enough; the devil another learning I’m able to give you.”

_Translated by Dr. Douglas Hyde._

_ROGER AND THE GREY MARE._

Roger the miller came coorting of late
A rich farmer’s daughter called Katty by name.

She has to her fortune goold, dimins, and rings;
She has to her fortune fifty fine things;

She has to her fortune a large plot of ground;
She has to her fortune five hundred pounds.

When dinner was over and all things laid down,
It was a nice sight to see five hundred pounds.

The sight of the money and beauty likewise
Tickled his fancy and dazzled his eyes.

“And now, as your daughter is comely and fair,
It’s I that won’t take her,
It’s I that won’t take her,
Without the grey mare.”

Instantly the money was out of his sight,
And so was Miss Katty, his own heart’s delight.

Roger the miller was kicked out the doore,
And Roger was tould not to come there no more.

Roger pulled down his long yalla hair,
Saying, “wishing I never,”
And “wishing I never
Spoke of the grey mare.”

It was in twelve months after, as happened about,
That Roger the miller saw his own true love.

“Good morrow, fair maid, or do you know me?”
“Good morrow, kind sir, I do well,” says she;

“A man of your complexion with long yalla hair,
That wance came a-coorting,
That wance came a-coorting
Me father’s grey mare.”

“It was not to coort the grey mare I came,
But a nice handsome girl called Katty by name.

“I thought that her father would never dispute,
In giving his daughter, the grey mare for boot,

“Before he would lose such a beautiful son;
It’s then I was sorry,
It’s now I am sorry
For what I have done.”

“As for your sorrow, I do value not,
There is men in this town enough to be got.

“If you had the grey mare you would marry me,
But now you have nayther the grey mare nor me.

“The price of the grey mare was never so great,
So fare you well, Roger,
So fare you well, Roger,
Go murn[2] for Kate.”

_Traditional (taken down from a peasant by
Dr. Douglas Hyde)._

_WILL O’ THE WISP._

In old times there was one Will Cooper, a blacksmith who lived in the parish of Loughile; he was a great lover of the bottle, and all that he could make by his trade went to that use, so that his family was often in a starving condition. One day as he was musing in his shop alone after a fit of drunkenness, there came to him a little old man, almost naked and trembling with cold. “My good fellow,” said he to Will, “put on some coals and make a fire, that I may get myself warmed.” Will, pitying the poor creature, did so, and likewise brought him something to eat, and told him, if he thought proper, he was welcome to stay all night. The old man thanked him kindly, and said he had farther to go; “but,” says he, “as you have been so kind to me, it is in my power to make you a recompense; make three wishes,” says he, “for anything you desire most, and let it be what it will you shall obtain it immediately.” “Well,” says Will, “since that is the case, I wish that any person who takes my sledge into their hand may never get free of it till I please to take it from them. Secondly, I have an armed chair, and I wish that any person sitting down on the same may never have power to rise until I please to take them off it. I likewise wish for the last,” says Will, “that whatever money or gold I happen to put into my purse, no person may have power to take it out again but myself.” “Ah! unfortunate Will!” cries the old man, “why did not you wish for Heaven?” With that he went away from the shop, as Will thought, very pensive and melancholy, and never was heard of more. The old man’s words opened Will’s eyes; he saw it was in his power to do well had he made a good use of the opportunity, and when he considered that the wishes were not of the least use to him, he became worse every day, both in soul and body, and in a short time he was reduced to great poverty and distress.

One idle day as he was walking along through the fields he met the devil in the appearance of a gentleman, who told him if he would go along with him at the end of seven years, he should have anything he desired during that time. Will, thinking that it was as bad with him as it could be, although he suspected it was the devil, for the love of rising in the world, made bargain to go with him at the end of the seven years, and requested that he would supply him with plenty of money for the present. Accordingly, Will had his desire, and dreading to be observed by his neighbours to get rich on a sudden, he removed to a distance from where he was then living. However, there was nobody in distress or in want of money but Will was always ready to relieve, insomuch that in a short time he became noted, and went in that country by the name of Bill Money, in regard of the great sums he could always command. He then began to build houses, and before the seven years were expired he had built a town, which, in imitation of the name he then had, was called Ballymoney, and is to this day. However, to disguise the business, and that nobody might suspect him having any dealings with Satan, he still did something now and then at his trade. The seven years being expired, he was making some article for a friend, when the devil came into the shop in his former appearance. “Well, Will,” says he, “are you ready to go with me now?” “I am,” says Will, “if I had the job finished; take that sledge,” says he, “and give me a blow or two, for it is a friend that is to get it, and then I will go with you where you please.” The devil took the sledge, and they soon finished the job. “Now,” says Will, “stay you here till I run to my friend with this, and I will not stay a minute.” Will then went out and the devil stopped in the shop till it was near night, but there was no sign of Will coming near him, nor could he by any means get the sledge out of his hands. He thought if he was once in his old abode, perhaps there might be some of the smith trade in it who would disengage him of the sledge, but all that were in hell could not get it out of his hand, so he had to retain the shape he was then in as long as the iron remained in his hand. The devil, seeing he could get nobody to do anything for him, went in search of Will once more, but somehow or other he could not get near him for a month. At length he met him coming out of a tavern, pretty drunk. “Well, Will,” says he, “that was a pretty trick you put on me!” “Faith, no,” says Will, “it was you that tricked me, for when I came back to the shop you were away, and stole my sledge with you, so that I could not get a job done ever since.” “Well, Will,” says Satan, “I could not help taking the sledge, for I cannot get it out of my hand; but if you take it from me I will give you seven years more before I ask you with me.” Will readily took the sledge, and the devil parted from him well pleased that he had got rid of it. Will having now seven years to play upon, roved about through the town of Ballymoney, drinking and sporting, and sometimes doing a little at his trade to blindfold the people; yet there was many suspected he had dealings with Satan, or he could not do half of what he had done.

At length the seven years were expired, and the devil came for him and found him sitting at the fire smoking, in his own house, where he kept his wonderful chair. “Come, Will,” says he, “are you ready to go with me now?” “I am,” says Will, “if you sit down a little till I make my will and settle everything among my family, and then I will go with you wherever you please.” So, setting the arm-chair to Satan, he sat down, and Will went into the chamber as if to settle his affairs; after a little he came up again, bidding the devil come along, for he had all things completed to his mind, and would ask to stay no longer. When Will went out the devil made an attempt to rise, but in vain; he could not stir from the chair, nor even make the least motion one way or other, so he was as much confounded to think what was the matter, as when he was first cast into utter darkness. Will, knowing what would occur to Satan, stayed away a month, during which time he never became visible in the chair to any of the family, nor do we hear that any one else ever observed him at any time but Will himself. However, at the month’s end Will, returning, pretended to be very much surprised that the devil did not follow him. “What,” says Will, “kept you here all this time? I believe you are making a fool of me; but if you do not come immediately I will have the bargain broken, and never go with you again.” “I cannot help it,” says Satan, “for all I can do I cannot stir from my seat, but if you could liberate me I will give you seven years more before I call on you again.” “Well,” says Will, “I will do what I can.” He then went to Satan and took him by the arm, and with the greatest ease lifted him out of the chair and set him at liberty once more. No sooner was Satan gone than Will was ready for his old trade again; he sported and played, and drank of the best, his purse never failing, although he sunk all the property and income he had in and about Ballymoney long before; but he did not care, for he knew he could have recourse to the purse that never would fail, as I told you before. However, an accident happened the same purse, that a penny would never stay in it afterwards, and Will became one of the poorest men to be found. This was at the end of the seven years of his last bargain, when Satan came in quest of him again, but was so fearful of a new trick put upon him by Will that he durst not come near the house. At length he met him in the fields, and would not give him time to bid as much as farewell to his wife and children, he was so much afraid of being imposed upon. Will had at last to go, and travelling along the road he came to an inn, where many a good glass he had taken in his time. “Here’s a set of the best rogues,” says Will, “in Ireland; they cheated me many a time, and I will give all I possess could I put a trick upon them.” ... “Well,” says Satan, “I do not care if we stop.” “But,” says Will, “I have no money, and I cannot manage my scheme without it; but I will tell you what you can do-you can change yourself into a piece of gold; I will put you in my purse, and then you will see what a hand I will make for you and me both, before we are at our journey’s end.” Satan, ever willing to promote evil, consented to change himself into gold, and when he had done so, Will put the piece into his purse and returned home. Satan, understanding that Will did not do as he pretended, strove to deliver himself from confinement, but by the power of the purse he could never change himself from gold, as long as Will pleased to keep him in it, and no other person, as I have told you before, had power to take anything out of it but himself. Will would go to drink from one ale-house to another, and would pretend to be drunk when he was not, where he would lay down his purse and bid the waiters take what they pleased for the reckoning. Every person saw he had money plenty, yet all they could do they could never get one penny out of the purse, and he would get so drunk when they would give it back to him that he would not seem to understand anything, and so would sneak away. In this manner he cheated both town and country round, until Satan, weary of confinement, had recourse to a stratagem of his own, and changed himself from pieces of gold into a solid bar or ingot of the same metal, but could not get out of the purse.

This, however, put a great damp upon Will’s trade, for when he had no coin to show he could get nothing from anybody, and how to behave he did not know. He took a notion that he would perhaps force him into coin again, and accordingly brought him to an iron forge, where he had the ingot battered, for the length of an hour, at a fearful rate; but all they could do they never changed it in the least, neither could they injure the purse, for the quality of it became miraculous after his wish, and the people swore the devil was surely in the purse, for they never saw anything like it. They were compelled at last to give over, and Will returned home and went to bed, putting the purse under his head. His wife was asleep, and the devil kept such a hissing, puffing, and blowing under the bolster that he soon awakened her, and she, almost frightened out of her wits, awakened Will, telling him that the devil was under his head. “Well, if he be,” says Will, “I will take him to the forge, where I assure you he will get a sound battering.” “Oh, no,” says Satan, “I would rather be in hell than stay here confined in this manner, and if you let me go I will never trouble you again.” “With all my heart,” says Will; “on that head you shall have your freedom,” and opening the purse, gave Satan his liberty.

Will was now free from all dread or fear of anything, and cared not what he did. But I forgot to mention that at the time Will wished nobody might take anything out of the purse, he wished he might never put his hand in it himself but he would find money--but after Satan being in it he found it empty ever after. By this unlucky accident, he that had seen so much of the world for such a length of time was reduced to the most indigent state, and at length forced to beg his bread. In this miserable condition he spent many years until his glass was run, and he had to pay that debt to nature which all creatures have since the fall of Adam. However, his life was so ill-spent and his actions so bad that it is recorded he could get no entrance to any place of good after his decease, so that he was destined to follow his own master. Coming to the gates of hell, he made a horrible noise to get in; then Satan bid the porter ask who it was that made such a din, and not to admit him till he would let him know. The porter did so, and he bade him tell his master that he was his old friend, Will Cooper, wanting to come to him once more. When Satan had heard who it was he ordered the gates to be strongly guarded; “for if that villain gets in,” says he, “we are all undone.” Will pleaded the distress he was in, that he could not get backward nor forward with the darkness he was surrounded with, and having lost his guide, if Satan would not let him in; and being loath to listen to the noise and confusion he was making at the gate, Satan sent one of his servants to conduct him back to earth again, and particularly not to quit him until he left him in Ireland. “Now,” says Satan to Will when he was going away, “you were a trusty servant to me a long time; now you are going to earth again, let me see you be busy, and gain all to me that you can; but remember how you served me when in the purse, and you shall never be out of darkness. I will give you a light in your hand to allure and deceive the weary traveller, so that he may become a prey to us.” So lighting a wisp, he gave it to Will, and he was conducted to earth, where he wanders from that day to this, under the title of _Will o’ the Wisp_.

_Hibernian Tales (a chap-book)._

_EPIGRAMS._

THE CHURL AND HIS WINE.

To thirst he’ll never own,
His wife’s a stingy crone,
A little bottle, half-filled, _mavrone_,
He keeps locked tight in a corner lone!

ON A SURLY PORTER.

What a pity Hell’s gates are not kept by O’Flinn--
The surly old dog would let nobody in.

_RIDDLES._

There’s a garden that I ken
Full of little gentlemen,
Little caps of blue they wear,
And green ribbons very fair.
(_Flax._)

I threw it up as white as snow,
Like gold on a flag it fell below.
(_Egg._)

I ran and I got,
I sat and I searched,
If I could get it I would not bring it with me,
As I got it not I brought it.
(_A thorn in the foot._)

From house to house he goes,
A messenger small and slight,
And whether it rains or snows
He sleeps outside in the night.
(_Boreen--lane or path._)

On the top of the tree
See the little man red,
A stone in his belly,
A cap on his head.
(_Haw._)

A bottomless barrel,
It’s shaped like a hive,
It is filled full of flesh,
And the flesh is alive.
(_Tailor’s thimble._)

As I went through the garden
I met my uncle Thady,
I cut his head from off his neck
And left his body “aisy.”
(_A head of cabbage._)

Out in the field my daddy grows,
Wearing two hundred suits of clothes.
(_Ditto._)

Snug in the corner I saw the lad lie,
Fire in his heart and a cork in his eye.
(_Bottle of whisky._)

’Tis round as dish was ever known,
And white as snow the look of it,
’Tis food and life of all mankind,
Yet no man e’er partook of it.
(_Breast-milk._)

MY daddy on the warm shelf
Talking, talking to himself.
(_Pot on the hob, simmering._)

Up in the loft the round man lies,
Looking through two hundred eyes.
(_A sieve._)

Out she goes and the priest’s dinner with her.
(_Hen with an egg._)

_Translated by Dr. Hyde and F. A. Fahy._

_DONALD AND HIS NEIGHBOURS._

Hudden and Dudden and Donald O’Nery were near neighbours in the barony of Balinconlig, and ploughed with three bullocks; but the two former, envying the present prosperity of the latter, determined to kill his bullock, to prevent his farm being properly cultivated and laboured, that going back in the world he might be induced to sell his lands, which they meant to get possession of. Poor Donald, finding his bullock killed, immediately skinned it, and throwing the skin over his shoulder, with the fleshy side out, set off to the next town with it, to dispose of it to the best of his advantage. Going along the road a magpie flew on the top of the hide and began picking it, chattering all the time. The bird had been taught to speak and imitate the human voice, and Donald, thinking he understood some words it was saying, put round his hand and caught hold of it. Having got possession of it, he put it under his great-coat, and so went on to the town. Having sold the hide, he went into an inn to take a dram, and following the landlady into the cellar, he gave the bird a squeeze which made it chatter some broken accents that surprised her very much. “What is that I hear?” said she to Donald; “I think it is talk, and yet I do not understand.” “Indeed,” said Donald, “it is a bird I have that tells me everything, and I always carry it with me to know when there is any danger. Faith,” says he, “it says you have far better liquor than you are giving me.” “That is strange,” said she, going to another cask of better quality, and asking him if he would sell the bird. “I will,” said Donald, “if I get enough for it.” “I will fill your hat with silver if you leave it with me.” Donald was glad to hear the news, and taking the silver, set off, rejoicing at his good luck. He had not been long at home until he met with Hudden and Dudden. “Mr.,” said he, “you thought you did me a bad turn, but you could not have done me a better, for look here what I have got for the hide,” showing them the hatful of silver; “you never saw such a demand for hides in your life as there is at present.” Hudden and Dudden that very night killed their bullocks, and set out the next morning to sell their hides. On coming to the place they went through all the merchants, but could only get a trifle for them. At last they had to take what they could get, and came home in a great rage, and vowing revenge on poor Donald. He had a pretty good guess how matters would turn out, and he being under the kitchen window, he was afraid they would rob him, or perhaps kill him when asleep, and on that account, when he was going to bed he left his old mother in his place and lay down in her bed, which was on the other side of the house; and taking the old woman for Donald, they choked her in her bed, but he making some noise they had to retreat and leave the money behind them, which grieved them very much. However, by daybreak Donald got his mother on his back and carried her to town. Stopping at a well, he fixed his mother with her staff, as if she was stooping for a drink, and then went into a public-house convenient and called for a dram. “I wish,” said he to a woman that stood near him, “you would tell my mother to come in; she is at yon well trying to get a drink, and she is hard of hearing. If she does not observe you, give her a little shake and tell her that I want her.” The woman called her several times, but she seemed to take no notice; at length she went to her and shook her by the arm, but when she let her go again, she tumbled on her head into the well, and, as the woman thought, was drowned. She, in great surprise and fear at the accident, told Donald what had happened. “Oh, mercy,” said he, “what is this?” He ran and pulled her out of the well, weeping and lamenting all the time, and acting in such a manner that you would imagine he had lost his senses. The woman, on the other hand, was far worse than Donald, for his grief was only feigned, but she imagined herself to be the cause of the old woman’s death. The inhabitants of the town, hearing what had happened, agreed to make Donald up a good sum of money for his loss, as the accident happened in their place; and Donald brought a greater sum home with him than he got for the magpie. They buried Donald’s mother, and as soon as he saw Hudden and Dudden he showed them the last purse of money he had got. “You thought to kill me last night,” said he, “but it was good for me it happened on my mother, for I got all that purse for her to make gunpowder.”

That very night Hudden and Dudden killed their mothers, and the next morning set off with them to town. On coming to the town with their burthen on their backs, they went up and down crying, “Who will buy old wives for gunpowder?” so that every one laughed at them, and the boys at last clodded them out of the place. They then saw the cheat, and vowing revenge on Donald, buried the old women, and set off in pursuit of him. Coming to his house, they found him sitting at his breakfast, and seizing him, put him in a sack, and went to drown him in a river at some distance. As they were going along the highway they raised a hare, which they saw had but three feet, and throwing off the sack, ran after her, thinking by appearance she would be easily taken. In their absence there came a drover that way, and hearing Donald singing in the sack, wondered greatly what could be the matter. “What is the reason,” said he, “that you are singing, and you confined?” “Oh, I am going to heaven,” said Donald, “and in a short time I expect to be free from trouble.” “Oh, dear,” said the drover, “what will I give you if you let me to your place?” “Indeed, I do not know,” said he; “it would take a good sum.” “I have not much money,” said the drover, “but I have twenty head of fine cattle, which I will give you to exchange places with me.” “Well,” says Donald, “I do not care if I should; loose the sack, and I will come out.” In a moment the drover liberated him and went into the sack himself, and Donald drove home the fine heifers, and left them in his pasture.

Hudden and Dudden having caught the hare, returned, and getting the sack on one of their backs, carried Donald, as they thought, to the river, and threw him in, where he immediately sank. They then marched home, intending to take immediate possession of Donald’s property; but how great was their surprise when they found him safe at home before them, with such a fine herd of cattle, whereas they knew he had none before. “Donald,” said they, “what is all this? We thought you were drowned, and yet you are here before us.” “Ah,” said he, “if I had but help along with me when you threw me in, it would have been the best job ever I met with, for of all the sight of cattle and gold that ever was seen is there, and no one to own them; but I was not able to manage more than what you see, and I could show you the spot where you might get hundreds.” They both swore they would be his friend, and Donald accordingly led them to a very deep part of the river, and lifted up a stone. “Now,” said he, “watch this,” throwing it into the stream; “there is the very place, and go in one of you first, and if you want help you have nothing to do but call.” Hudden, jumping in and sinking to the bottom, rose up again, and making a bubbling noise, as those do that are drowning, attempted to speak, but could not. “What is that he is saying now?” says Dudden. “Faith,” says Donald, “he is calling for help; don’t you hear him? Stand about,” said he, running back, “till I leap in. I know how to do better than any of you.” Dudden, to have the advantage of him, jumped in off the bank, and was drowned along with Hudden. And this was the end of Hudden and Dudden.

_Hibernian Tales (a chap-book)._

_THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS._

O Woman of Three Cows, _agragh!_ don’t let your tongue thus rattle!
Oh, don’t be saucy, don’t be stiff, because you may have cattle.
I have seen--and here’s my hand to you, I only say what’s true--
A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you.

Good luck to you, don’t scorn the poor, and don’t be their despiser;
For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser:
And death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows,
Then don’t be stiff, and don’t be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!

See where Momonia’s heroes lie, proud Owen More’s descendants--
’Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants!
If _they_ were forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows,
Can _you_ be proud, can _you_ be stiff, my Woman of Three Cows?

The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning;
_Mavrone!_ for they were banished, with no hope of their returning;
Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house?
Yet _you_ can give yourself those airs, O Woman of Three Cows!

Oh, think of Donnell of the Ships, the chief whom nothing daunted--
See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted!
He sleeps, the great O’Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse--
Then ask yourself, should _you_ be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!

O’Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrined in
story--
Think how their high achievements once made Erin’s greatest glory;
Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and cypress boughs,
And so, for all your pride, will you, O Woman of Three Cows!

The O’Carrolls also, famed when fame was only for the boldest,
Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin’s best and oldest;
Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or carouse?
Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three Cows!

Your neighbour’s poor, and you, it seems, are big with vain ideas,
Because, _inagh_,[3] you’ve got three cows, one more, I see, than
_she_ has;
That tongue of yours wags more at times than charity allows--
But if you’re strong, be merciful, great Woman of Three Cows!

THE SUMMING-UP.

Now, there you go! you still, of course, keep up your scornful
bearing,
And I’m too poor to hinder you--but, by the cloak I’m wearing,
If I had but _four_ cows myself, even though you were my spouse,
I’d thrash you well, to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows!

_Translated by James Clarence Mangan._

_IN PRAISE OF DIGRESSIONS._

I have sometimes heard of an Iliad in a nut-shell, but it has been my fortune to have much oftener seen a nut-shell in an Iliad. There is no doubt that human life has received most wonderful advantages from both, but to which of the two the world is chiefly indebted I shall leave among the curious as a problem worthy of their utmost inquiry. For the invention of the latter I think the commonwealth of learning is chiefly obliged to the great modern improvement of digressions: the late refinements in knowledge running parallel to those of diet in our nation, which, among men of a judicious taste, are dressed up in various compounds, consisting in soups and olios, fricassees and ragouts.

It is true, there is a sort of morose, detracting, ill-bred people who pretend utterly to disrelish these polite innovations; and as to the similitude from diet, they allow the parallel, but are so bold to pronounce the example itself a corruption and degeneracy of taste. They tell us that the fashion of jumbling fifty things together in a dish was at first introduced in compliance to a depraved and debauched appetite, as well as to a crazy constitution; and to see a man hunting through an olio after the head and brains of a goose, a widgeon, or a woodcock, is a sign he wants a stomach and digestion for more substantial victuals. Further, they affirm that digressions in a book are like foreign troops in a state, which argue the nation to want a heart and hands of its own, and often either subdue the natives or drive them into the most unfruitful corners.

But after all that can be objected by these supercilious censors, it is manifest the society of writers would quickly be reduced to a very inconsiderable number if men were put upon making books with the fatal confinement of delivering nothing beyond what is to the purpose. It is acknowledged that were the case the same among us as with the Greeks and Romans, when learning was in its cradle, to be reared and fed, and clothed by invention, it would be an easy task to fill up volumes upon particular occasions, without further expatiating from the subjects than by moderate excursions, helping to advance or clear the main design. But with knowledge it has fared as with a numerous army encamped in a fruitful country, which, for a few days, maintains itself by the product of the soil it is on; till, provisions being spent, they are sent to forage many a mile, among friends or enemies, it matters not. Meanwhile, the neighbouring fields, trampled and beaten down, become barren and dry, affording no sustenance but clouds of dust.

The whole course of things being thus entirely changed between us and the ancients, and the moderns wisely sensible of it, we of this age have discovered a shorter and more prudent method to become scholars and wits, without the fatigue of reading or of thinking. The most accomplished way of using books at present is twofold: either, first, to serve them as some men do lords, learn their titles exactly, and then brag of their acquaintance; or, secondly, what is indeed the choicer, the profounder, and politer method, to get a thorough insight into the index, by which the whole book is governed, and turned like fishes by the tail. For to enter the palace of learning at the great gate requires an expense of time and forms; therefore men of much haste and little ceremony are content to get in by the back door. For the arts are all in flying march, and therefore more easily subdued by attacking them in the rear. Thus physicians discover the state of the whole body by consulting only what comes from behind. Thus men catch knowledge by throwing their wit into the posteriors of a book, as boys do sparrows with flinging salt upon their tails. Thus human life is best understood by the wise man’s rule of regarding the end. Thus are the sciences found, like Hercules’ oxen, by tracing them backwards. Thus are old sciences unravelled, like old stockings, by beginning at the foot. Beside all this, the army of the sciences has been of late, with a world of martial discipline, drawn into its close order, so that a view or a muster may be taken of it with abundance of expedition. For this great blessing we are wholly indebted to systems and abstracts in which the modern fathers of learning, like prudent usurers, spent their sweat for the ease of us their children. For labour is the seed of idleness, and it is the peculiar happiness of our noble age to gather the fruit.

Now, the method of growing wise, learned and sublime, having become so regular an affair, and so established in all its forms, the number of writers must needs have increased accordingly, and to a pitch that has made it absolutely necessary for them to interfere continually with each other. Besides, it is reckoned that there is not at this present a sufficient quantity of new matter left in nature to furnish and adorn any one particular subject to the extent of a volume. This I am told by a very skilful computer, who has given a full demonstration of it from rules of arithmetic.

* * * * *

By these methods, in a few weeks, there starts up many a writer capable of managing the profoundest and most universal subjects. For what though his head be empty, provided his commonplace book be full? and if you will bate him but the circumstances of method, and style, and grammar, and invention; allow him but the common privileges of transcribing from others, and digressing from himself, as often as he shall see occasion; he will desire no more ingredients towards fitting up a treatise that shall make a very comely figure on a bookseller’s shelf; there to be preserved neat and clean for a long eternity, adorned with the heraldry of its title fairly inscribed on a label; never to be thumbed or greased by students, nor bound to everlasting chains of darkness in a library; but when the fulness of time is come, shall happily undergo the trial of purgatory, in order to ascend the sky.

Without these allowances, how is it possible we modern wits should ever have an opportunity to introduce our collections, listed under so many thousand heads of a different nature; for want of which the learned world would be deprived of infinite delight, as well as instruction, and we ourselves buried beyond redress in an inglorious and undistinguished oblivion.

From such elements as these I am alive to behold the day wherein the corporation of authors can outvie all its brethren in the guild. A happiness derived to us, with a great many others, from our Scythian ancestors; among whom the number of pens was so infinite, that the Grecian eloquence had no other way of expressing it than by saying that in the regions far to the north it was hardly possible for a man to travel, the very air was so replete with feathers.

_Jonathan Swift_ (1667–1745).

_A RHAPSODY ON POETRY._

All human race would fain be wits,
And millions miss for one who hits:
Young’s universal passion, Pride,
Was never known to spread so wide.
Say, Britain! could you ever boast,
Three poets in an age at most?
Our chilling climate hardly bears
A sprig of bays in fifty years,
While every fool his claim alleges,
As if it grew in common hedges.
What reason can there be assigned
For this perverseness in the mind?
Brutes find out where their talents lie:
A bear will not attempt to fly:
A foundered horse will oft debate
Before he tries a five-barred gate:
A dog by instinct turns aside,
Who sees the ditch too deep and wide;
But man we find the only creature
Who, led by folly, combats Nature;
Who, where she loudly cries “Forbear,”
With obstinacy fixes there,
And where his genius least inclines,
Absurdly bends his whole designs.
Not empire to the rising sun,
By valour, conduct, fortune, won:
Not highest wisdom in debates,
For framing laws to govern states:
Not skill in sciences profound,
So large to grasp the circle round,
Such heavenly influence require
As how to strike the Muse’s lyre.

* * * * *

Poor starveling bard! how small thy gains!
How unproportioned to thy pains!
And here a simile comes pat in:
A chicken takes a month to fatten,
Tho’ guests in less than half-an-hour
Will more than half-a-score devour.
So after toiling twenty days
To earn a stock of pence and praise,
Thy labours, grown the critic’s prey,
Are swallowed o’er a dish of tea;
Gone to be never heard of more,
Gone where the chickens went before.
How shall a new attempter learn
Of different spirits to discern?
And how distinguish which is which,
The poet’s vein or scribbling itch?
Then hear an old experienced sinner
Instructing thus a young beginner.
Consult yourself, and if you find
A powerful impulse urge your mind,
Impartial judge within your breast,
What subject you can manage best:
Whether your genius most inclines
To satire, praise, or hum’rous lines;
To elegies in mournful tone,
Or prologue sent from hand unknown;
Then rising with Aurora’s light,
The Muse invok’d, sit down to write;
Blot out, correct, insert, refine,
Enlarge, diminish, interline;
Be mindful, when invention fails,
To scratch your head and bite your nails.
Your poem finished, next your care
Is needful to transcribe it fair:
In modern wit all printed trash is
Set off with num’rous breaks--and dashes--
To statesmen would you give a wipe
You print it in _Italic_ type:
When letters are in vulgar shapes,
’Tis ten to one the wit escapes;
But when in CAPITALS exprest,
The dullest reader smokes the jest;
Or else perhaps he may invent
A better than the poet meant,
As learned commentators view
In Homer more than Homer knew.

* * * * *