Tales From The Land of Saints & Scholars

By Clive Gilson

This is the first of two volumes, so rich are the story-mining seams taken from just the few Irish collections I have in my possession at the moment. These first stories have been taken from around one hundred and forty Irish tales, themselves taken from pretty well every tradition, including classic tales of Irish legend, fairy and folk beliefs

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clive Gilson
• Release date: Dec 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781913500535

Book preview

I have edited Clive Gilson’s books for over a decade now – he’s prolific and can turn his hand to many genres. poetry, short fiction, contemporary novels, folklore and science fiction – and the common theme is that none of them ever fails to take my breath away. There’s something in each story that is either memorably poignant, hauntingly unnerving or sidesplittingly funny. 

Lorna Howarth, The Write Factor

Tales From The World's Firesides is a grand project. I've collected ‘000’s of traditional texts as part of other projects, and while many of the original texts are available through channels like Project Gutenberg, some of the narratives can be hard to read by modern readers, & so the Fireside project was born. Put simply, I collect, collate & adapt traditional tales from around the world & publish them for free as a modern archive. Part 1 covers a host of nations & regions across Europe. I'm not laying any claim to insight or specialist knowledge, but these collections are born out of my love of story-telling & I hope that you'll share my affection for traditional tales, myths & legends.

Cover image by Enrique Meseguer, Madrid / España

Tales from the Land of Saints & Scholars

Traditional tales, fables and sagas from Ireland, a Celtic heartland…

Compiled & Edited by Clive Gilson

‘Tales from the World’s Firesides’

Book 3 in Part 1 of the series: Europe

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Tales From The Land Of Saints & Scholars,

edited by Clive Gilson, Solitude, Bath, UK

www.clivegilson.com

First published as an eBook in 2018

2nd edition © 2019 Clive Gilson

3rd edition © 2023 Clive Gilson

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by United Kingdom copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Printed by IngramSpark

ISBN: 978-1-913500-53-5

Planet

SOLITUDE

Contents

Preface

A Legend of Knockmany

Andrew Coffey

Bewitched Butter

Clough Na Cuddy

Conall Yellowclaw

Cuchulain of Muirthemne

Diarmid Bawn, The Piper

Donald and his Neighbours

Fair, Brown and Trembling

Far Darrig in Donegal

Fior Usga

Gold and Silver Tree

Guleesh

Hookedy-Crookedy

Jack and His Master

King Iubdan and King Fergus

King O'Toole and St Kevin

Lawn Dyarrig and the Knight of Terrible Valley

Legend of Bottle Hill

Lough Leagh

Master and Man

Morraha

Munachar and Manachar

Ned Sheehy’s Excuse

Owney and Owney-Na-Peak

Rent-Day

Teig O’Kane and the Corpse

The Adventures of Ciad, Son of the King of Norway

The Amadan of the Dough

The Banshee of the Mac Carthys

The Birth of Bran

The Boyhood of Fion

The Brewery of Eggshells

The Carving of Mac Datho's Boar

The Countess Kathleen O’Shea

The Demon Cat

The Enchanted Cave of Cesh Corran

The Enchantment of Gearoidh Iarla

The Fairy Greyhound

The Fate of Frank M’Kenna

The Field of Boliauns

The Good Woman

The Haughty Princess

The Headless Horseman

The Hill-Man and the Housewife

The Horned Women

The Jackdaw

The King of the Black Desert

The Lad with the Goat-Skin

The Lazy Beauty and her Aunts

The Legend of Knockfierna

The Legend of Knockshegowna

The Legend of O’Donoghue

The Little Weaver of Duleek Gate

The Mad Pudding of Ballyboulteen

The Plaisham

The Pursuit of the Gilla Dacker

The Quest of the Sons of Turenn

The Red Pony

The Secret of Labra

The Snow, the Crow, and the Blood

The Spirit Horse

The Story of Deirdre

The Story of the Children of Lir

The Storyteller at Fault

The Three Crowns

The Three Wishes

The Vengeance of Mesgedra

The Witches’ Excursion

The Wonderful Tune

The Wooing of Becfola

Historical Notes

About the Editor

ORIGINAL FICTION BY CLIVE GILSON

Songs of Bliss

Out of the Walled Garden

The Mechanic’s Curse

The Insomniac Booth

A Solitude of Stars

AS EDITOR – FIRESIDE TALES – Part 1, Europe

Tales From the Land of Dragons

Tales From the Land of The Brave

Tales From the Land of Saints And Scholars

Tales From the Land of Hope And Glory

Tales From Lands of Snow and Ice

Tales From the Viking Isles

Tales From the Forest Lands

Tales From the Old Norse

More Tales About Saints and Scholars

More Tales About Hope and Glory

More Tales About Snow and Ice

Tales From the Land of Rabbits

Tales Told by Bulls and Wolves

Tales of Fire and Bronze

Tales From the Land of the Strigoi

Tales Told by the Wind Mother

Tales from Gallia

Tales from Germania

EDITOR – FIRESIDE TALES – Part 2, North America

Okaraxta - Tales from The Great Plains

Tibik-Kìzis – Tales from The Great Lakes & Canada

Jóhonaaʼéí –Tales from America’s Southwest

Qugaaĝix̂ - First Nation Tales from Alaska & The Arctic

Karahkwa - First Nation Tales from America’s Eastern States

Pot-Likker - Folklore, Fairy Tales, and Settler Stories from America

EDITOR – FIRESIDE TALES – Part 3, Africa

Arokin Tales – Folklore & Fairy Tales from West Africa

Hadithi Tales – Folklore & Fairy Tales from East Africa

Inkathaso Tales – Folklore & Fairy Tales from Southern Africa

Tarubadur Tales – Folklore & Fairy Tales from North Africa

Elephant And Frog – Folklore from Central Africa

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Preface

I’ve been collecting and telling stories for a couple of decades now, having had several of my own works published in recent years. My particular focus is on short story writing in the realms of magical realities and science fiction fantasies.

I’ve always drawn heavily on traditional folk and fairy tales, and in so doing have amassed a collection of many thousands of these tales from around the world. It has been one of my long-standing ambitions to gather these stories together and to create a library of tales that tell the stories of places and peoples from all corners of the globe.

One of the main motivations for me in undertaking the project is to collect and tell stories that otherwise might be lost or, at best forgotten. Given that a lot of my sources are from early collectors, particularly covering works produced in the late eighteenth century, throughout the nineteenth century, and in the early years of the twentieth century, I do make every effort to adapt stories for a modern reader. Early collectors had a different world view to many of us today, and often expressed views about race and gender, for example, that we find difficult to reconcile in the early years of the twenty-first century. I try, although with varying degrees of success, to update these stories with sensitivity while trying to stay as true to the original spirit of each story as I can.

I also want to assure readers that I try hard not to comment on or appropriate originating cultures. It is almost certainly true that the early collectors of these tales, with their then prevalent world views, have made assumptions about the originating cultures that have given us these tales. I hope that you’ll accept my mission to preserve these tales, however and wherever I find them, as just that. I have, therefore, made sure that every story has a full attribution, covering both the original collector / writer and the collection title that this version has been adapted from, as well as having notes about publishers and other relevant and, I hope, interesting source data. Wherever possible I have added a cultural or indigenous attribution as well, although for some of the tiles, the country-based theme is obvious.

This volume, Tales from the Land of Saints and Scholars, is the Irish collection, part of a series covering the whole of the British and Irish islands. These tales are drawn from some of the great collectors of Celtic and Irish storytelling, and as ever, these stories illustrate the beauty and the darkness inherent in our ancestral memories and in our modern interpretations of this confusing world. These titles will grow over coming years to tell lost and forgotten tales from every continent, and even then, I’ll just be scratching the surface of the world’s lore and love.

That’s the great gift in storytelling. Since the first of our ancestors sat around in a cave, contemplating an ape’s place in the world, we have, as a species, told each other stories of magic and cunning and caution and love. When I began to read through tales from the Celts, tales from Indonesia, tales from Africa and the Far East, tales from everywhere, one of the things that struck me clearly was just how similar are our roots. We share characters and characteristics. The nature of these tales is so similar underneath the local camouflage. Human beings clearly share a storytelling heritage so much deeper than the world that we see superficially as always having been just as it is now.

These tales were originally told by firelight as a way of preserving histories and educating both adult and child. These tales form part of our shared heritage, witches, warts, fantastic beasts, and all. They can be dark and violent. They can be sweet and loving. They are we and we are they in so many ways. I’ve loved reading and re-reading these stories. I hope you do too.

Clive

Bath, 2023

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A Legend of Knockmany

Original taken from William Carleton, this version adapted from Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry by William Butler Yeats, published in 1888 by The Walter Scott Publishing Company.

WHAT IRISH MAN, WOMAN, OR CHILD has not heard of our renowned Hibernian Hercules, the great and glorious Fin M'Coul? Not one, from Cape Clear to the Giant's Causeway, nor from that back again to Cape Clear. And, by-the-way, speaking of the Giant's Causeway brings me at once to the beginning of my story. Well, it so happened that Fin and his gigantic relatives were all working at the Causeway, in order to make a bridge across to Scotland; when Fin, who was very fond of his wife Oonagh, took it into his head that he would go home and see how the poor woman got on in his absence. To be sure, Fin was a true Irishman, and so his sense of sorrow at their separation made him want to go home to see that Oonagh was snug and comfortable, and, above all things, that she got her rest well at night; for he knew that the poor woman, when he was with her, used to be subject to nightly qualms and configurations, that kept him very anxious and made him strive all the harder to keep her up to the good spirits and health that she had when they were first married. So, accordingly, he pulled up a fir-tree, and, after lopping off the roots and branches, made a walking-stick of it, and set out on his way to Oonagh.

Oonagh and Fin lived at this time on the very tip-top of Knockmany Hill, which faces a cousin of its own called Cullamore, that rises up, half-hill, half-mountain, on the opposite side - east-east by south, as the sailors say, when they wish to puzzle a landsman.

Now, the truth is, for it must come out, that honest Fin's affection for his wife, though cordial enough in itself, was by no manner of means the real cause of his journey home. There was at that time another giant, named Cucullin - some say he was Irish, and some say he was Scotch - but whether Scotch or Irish, sorrow doubt of it but he was a targer (loud, obnoxious and confrontational). No other giant of the day could stand before him; and such was his strength, that, when well vexed, he could give a stamp that shook the country about him. The fame and name of him went far and near; and nothing in the shape of a man, it was said, had any chance with him in a fight. Whether the story is true or not, I cannot say, but the report went that, by one blow of his fists he flattened a thunderbolt, and kept it in his pocket, in the shape of a pancake, to show to all his enemies, when they were about to fight him. Undoubtedly he had given every giant in Ireland a considerable beating, barring Fin M'Coul himself; and he swore, by the solemn contents of Moll Kelly's Primer, that he would never rest, night or day, winter or summer, till he would serve Fin with the same sauce, if he could catch him. Fin, however, who no doubt was the cock of the walk on his own dunghill, had a strong disinclination to meet a giant who could make a young earthquake, or flatten a thunderbolt when he was angry; so he accordingly kept dodging about from place to place, not much to his credit as a Trojan, to be sure, whenever he happened to get the hard word that Cucullin was on the scent of him. This, then, was the marrow of the whole movement, although he put it on his anxiety to see Oonagh; and I am not saying but there was some truth in that too. However, the short and long of it was, with reverence be it spoken, that he heard Cucullin was coming to the Causeway to have a trial of strength with him; and he was naturally enough seized, in consequence, with a very warm and sudden sit of affection for his wife, poor woman, who was delicate in her health, and leading, besides, a very lonely, uncomfortable life of it (he assured them) in his absence. He accordingly pulled up the fir-tree, as I said before, and having snedded it into a walking-stick, set out on his affectionate travels to see his darling Oonagh on the top of Knockmany, by the way.

In truth, to state the suspicions of the country at the time, the people wondered very much why it was that Fin selected such a windy spot for his dwelling-house, and they even went so far as to tell him as much.

What can you mean, Mr. M'Coul, said they, by pitching your tent upon the top of Knockmany, where you never are without a breeze, day or night, winter or summer, and where you're often forced to take your nightcap without either going to bed or turning up your little finger; ay, an' where, besides this, there's the sorrow's own want of water?

Why, said Fin, ever since I was the height of a round tower, I was known to be fond of having a good prospect of my own; and where the dickens, neighbours, could I find a better spot for a good prospect than the top of Knockmany? As for water, I am sinking a pump, and, please goodness, as soon as the Causeway's made, I intend to finish it.

Now, this was more of Fin's philosophy; for the real state of the case was, that he pitched upon the top of Knockmany in order that he might be able to see Cucullin coming towards the house, and, of course, that he himself might go to look after his distant transactions in other parts of the country, rather than - but no matter - we do not wish to be too hard on Fin. All we have to say is, that if he wanted a spot from which to keep a sharp look-out - and, between ourselves, he did want it grievously - barring Slieve Croob, or Slieve Donard, or its own cousin, Cullamore, he could not find a neater or more convenient situation for it in the sweet and sagacious province of Ulster.

God save all here! said Fin, good-humouredly, on putting his honest face into his own door.

Musha, Fin, an' you're welcome home to your own Oonagh, you darlin' bully. Here followed a smack that is said to have made the waters of the lake at the bottom of the hill curl, as it were, with kindness and sympathy.

Faith, said Fin, beautiful; an' how are you, Oonagh - and how did you sport your figure during my absence, my bilberry?

Never a merrier - as bouncing a grass widow as ever there was in sweet 'Tyrone among the bushes.

Fin gave a short, good-humoured cough, and laughed most heartily, to show her how much he was delighted that she made herself happy in his absence.

An' what brought you home so soon, Fin? said she.

Why, avourneen, said Fin, putting in his answer in the proper way, never the thing but the purest of love and affection for yourself. Sure you know that's truth, anyhow, Oonagh.

Fin spent two or three happy days with Oonagh, and felt himself very comfortable, considering the dread he had of Cucullin. This, however, grew upon him so much that his wife could not but perceive something lay on his mind which he kept altogether to himself. Let a woman alone, in the meantime, for ferreting or wheedling a secret out of her good man, when she wishes. Fin was a proof of this.

It's this Cucullin, said he, that's troubling me. When the fellow gets angry, and begins to stamp, he'll shake you a whole townland; and it's well known that he can stop a thunderbolt, for he always carries one about him in the shape of a pancake, to show to anyone that might misdoubt it.

As he spoke, he clapped his thumb in his mouth, which he always did when he wanted to prophesy, or to know anything that happened in his absence; and the wife, who knew what he did it for, said, very sweetly,

Fin, darling, I hope you don't bite your thumb at me, dear?

No, said Fin, but I bite my thumb, acushla, said he.

Yes, jewel; but take care and don't draw blood, said she. Ah, Fin! don't, my bully - don't.

He's coming, said Fin, I see him below Dungannon.

Thank goodness, dear! an' who is it? Glory be to God!

That baste, Cucullin, replied Fin, and how to manage I don't know. If I run away, I am disgraced; and I know that sooner or later I must meet him, for my thumb tells me so.

When will he be here? said she.

To-morrow, about two o'clock, replied Fin, with a groan.

Well, my bully, don't be cast down, said Oonagh, depend on me, and maybe I'll bring you better out of this scrape than ever you could bring yourself, by your rule o' thumb.

This quieted Fin's heart very much, for he knew that Oonagh was hand and glove with the fairies; and, indeed, to tell the truth, she was supposed to be a fairy herself. If she was, however, she must have been a kind-hearted one, for, by all accounts, she never did anything but good in the neighbourhood.

Now it so happened that Oonagh had a sister named Granua, living opposite them, on the very top of Cullamore, which I have mentioned already, and this Granua was quite as powerful as herself. The beautiful valley that lies between them is not more than about three or four miles broad, so that of a summer's evening, Granua and Oonagh were able to hold many an agreeable conversation across it, from the one hill-top to the other. Upon this occasion Oonagh resolved to consult her sister as to what was best to be done in the difficulty that surrounded them.

Granua, said she, are you at home?

No, said the other, I'm picking bilberries in Althadhawan, the Devil's Glen.

Well, said Oonagh, get up to the top of Cullamore, look about you, and then tell us what you see.

Very well, replied Granua; after a few minutes, I am there now.

What do you see? asked the other.

Goodness be about us! exclaimed Granua, I see the biggest giant that ever was known coming up from Dungannon.

Ay, said Oonagh, there's our difficulty. That giant is the great Cucullin; and he's now coming up to leather Fin. What's to be done?

I'll call to him, she replied, to come up to Cullamore and refresh himself, and maybe that will give you and Fin time to think of some plan to get yourselves out of the scrape. But she proceeded, I'm short of butter, having in the house only half-a-dozen firkins, and as I'm to have a few giants and giantesses to spend the evening with me, I'd feel thankful, Oonagh, if you'd throw me up fifteen or sixteen tubs, or the largest miscaun you have got, and you'll oblige me very much.

I'll do that with a heart and a-half, replied Oonagh, and, indeed, Granua, I feel myself under great obligations to you for your kindness in keeping him off of us till we see what can be done; for what would become of us all if anything happened Fin, poor man.

She accordingly got the largest miscaun of butter she had - which might be about the weight of a couple a dozen mill-stones, so that you may easily judge of its size - and calling up to her sister, Granua, said she, are you ready? I'm going to throw you up a miscaun, so be prepared to catch it.

I will, said the other, a good throw now, and take care it does not fall short.

Oonagh threw it; but, in consequence of her anxiety about Fin and Cucullin, she forgot to say the charm that was to send it up, so that, instead of reaching Cullamore, as she expected, it fell about halfway between the two hills, at the edge of the Broad Bog near Augher.

My curse upon you! she exclaimed, you've disgraced me. I now change you into a grey stone. Lie there as a testimony of what has happened; and may evil betide the first living man that will ever attempt to remove or injure you!

And, sure enough, there it lies to this day, with the mark of the four fingers and thumb imprinted in it, exactly as it came out of her hand.

Never mind, said Granua, I must only do the best I can with Cucullin. If all fail, I'll give him a cast of heather broth to keep the wind out of his stomach, or a panada of oak-bark to draw it in a bit; but, above all things, think of some plan to get Fin out of the scrape he's in, otherwise he's a lost man. You know you used to be sharp and ready-witted; and my own opinion, Oonagh, is, that it will go hard with you, or you'll outdo Cucullin yet.

She then made a high smoke on the top of the hill, after which she put her finger in her mouth, and gave three whistles, and by that Cucullin knew he was invited to Cullamore - for this was the way that the Irish long ago gave a sign to all strangers and travellers, to let them know they were welcome to come and take share of whatever was going.

In the meantime, Fin was very melancholy, and did not know what to do, or how to act at all. Cucullin was an ugly customer, no doubt, to meet with; and, moreover, the idea of the confounded cake aforesaid flattened the very heart within him. What chance could he have, strong and brave though he was, with a man who could, when put in a passion, walk the country into earthquakes and knock thunderbolts into pancakes? The thing was impossible; and Fin knew not on what hand to turn him. Right or left - backward or forward - where to go he could form no guess whatsoever.

Oonagh, said he, can you do nothing for me? Where's all your invention? Am I to be skewered like a rabbit before your eyes, and to have my name disgraced forever in the sight of all my tribe, and me the best man among them? How am I to fight this man-mountain - this huge cross between an earthquake and a thunderbolt? - with a pancake in his pocket that was once -  -

Be easy, Fin, replied Oonagh, truth, I'm ashamed of you. Keep your toe in your pump, will you? Talking of pancakes, maybe we'll give him as good as any he brings with him - thunderbolt or otherwise. If I don't treat him to as smart feeding as he's got this many a day, never trust Oonagh again. Leave him to me, and do just as I bid you.

This relieved Fin very much; for, after all, he had great confidence in his wife, knowing, as he did, that she had got him out of many a quandary before. The present, however, was the greatest of all; but still he began to get courage, and was able to eat his victuals as usual. Oonagh then drew the nine woollen threads of different colours, which she always did to find out the best way of succeeding in anything of importance she went about. She then plaited them into three plaits with three colours in each, putting one on her right arm, one round her heart, and the third round her right ankle, for then she knew that nothing could fail with her that she undertook.

Having everything now prepared, she sent round to the neighbours and borrowed one-and-twenty iron griddles, which she took and kneaded into the hearts of one-and-twenty cakes of bread, and these she baked on the fire in the usual way, setting them aside in the cupboard according as they were done. She then put down a large pot of new milk, which she made into curds and whey, and gave Fin due instructions how to use the curds when Cucullin should come. Having done all this, she sat down quite contented, waiting for his arrival on the next day about two o'clock, that being the hour at which he was expected - for Fin knew as much by the sucking of his thumb. Now, this was a curious property that Fin's thumb had; but, notwithstanding all the wisdom and logic he used, to suck out of it, it could never have stood to him here were it not for the wit of his wife. In this very thing, moreover, he was very much resembled by his great foe, Cucullin; for it was well known that the huge strength he possessed all lay in the middle finger of his right hand, and that, if he happened by any mischance to lose it, he was no more, notwithstanding his bulk, than a common man.

At length, the next day, he was seen coming across the valley, and Oonagh knew that it was time to commence operations. She immediately made the cradle, and desired Fin to lie down in it, and cover himself up with the clothes.

You must pass for you own child, said she, so just lie there snug, and say nothing, but be guided by me. This, to be sure, was wormwood to Fin - I mean going into the cradle in such a cowardly manner - but he knew Oonagh well; and finding that he had nothing else for it, with a very rueful face he gathered himself into it, and lay snug, as she had desired him.

About two o'clock, as he had been expected, Cucullin came in. God save all here! said he, is this where the great Fin M'Coul lives?

Indeed it is, honest man, replied Oonagh, God save you kindly - won't you be sitting?

Thank you, ma'am, says he, sitting down, you're Mrs. M'Coul, I suppose?

I am, said she, and I have no reason, I hope, to be ashamed of my husband.

No, said the other, he has the name of being the strongest and bravest man in Ireland; but for all that, there's a man not far from you that's very desirous of taking a shake with him. Is he at home?

Why, then, no, she replied, and if ever a man left his house in a fury, he did. It appears that someone told him of a big basthoon of a giant called Cucullin being down at the Causeway to look for him, and so he set out there to try if he could catch him. Troth, I hope, for the poor giant's sake, he won't meet with him, for if he does, Fin will make paste of him at once.

Well, said the other, I am Cucullin, and I have been seeking him these twelve months, but he always kept clear of me; and I will never rest night or day till I lay my hands on him.

At this Oonagh set up a loud laugh, of great contempt, by-the-way, and looked at him as if he was only a mere handful of a man.

Did you ever see Fin? said she, changing her manner all at once.

How could I? said he, he always took care to keep his distance.

I thought so, she replied, I judged as much; and if you take my advice, you poor-looking creature, you'll pray night and day that you may never see him, for I tell you it will be a black day for you when you do. But, in the meantime, you perceive that the wind's on the door, and as Fin himself is from home, maybe you'd be civil enough to turn the house, for it's always what Fin does when he's here.

This was a startler even to Cucullin; but he got up, however, and after pulling the middle finger of his right hand until it cracked three times, he went outside, and getting his arms about the house, completely turned it as she had wished. When Fin saw this, he felt a certain description of moisture, which shall be nameless, oozing out through every pore of his skin; but Oonagh, depending upon her woman's wit, felt not a whit daunted.

Arrah, then, said she, as you are so civil, maybe you'd do another obliging turn for us, as Fin's not here to do it himself. You see, after this long stretch of dry weather we've had, we feel very badly off for want of water. Now, Fin says there's a fine spring-well somewhere under the rocks behind the hill here below, and it was his intention to pull them asunder; but having heard of you, he left the place in such a fury, that he never thought of it. Now, if you try to find it, truth I'd feel it a kindness.

She then brought Cucullin down to see the place, which was then all one solid rock; and, after looking at it for some time, he cracked his right middle finger nine times, and, stooping down, tore a cleft about four hundred feet deep, and a quarter of a mile in length, which has since been christened by the name of Lumford's Glen. This feat nearly threw Oonagh herself off her guard; but what won't a woman's sagacity and presence of mind accomplish?

You'll now come in, said she, and eat a bit of such humble fare as we can give you. Fin, even although he and you are enemies, would scorn not to treat you kindly in his own house; and, indeed, if I didn't do it even in his absence, he would not be pleased with me.

She accordingly brought him in, and placing half-a-dozen of the cakes we spoke of before him, together with a can or two of butter, a side of boiled bacon, and a stack of cabbage, she desired him to help himself - for this, be it known, was long before the invention of potatoes. Cucullin, who, by the way, was a glutton as well as a hero, put one of the cakes in his mouth to take a huge whack out of it, when both Fin and Oonagh were stunned with a noise that resembled something between a growl and a yell. Blood and fury! he shouted, how is this? Here are two of my teeth out! What kind of bread is this you gave me?

What's the matter? said Oonagh coolly.

Matter! shouted the other again, why, here are the two best teeth in my head gone.

Why, said she, that's Fin's bread - the only bread he ever eats when at home; but, indeed, I forgot to tell you that nobody can eat it but himself, and that child in the cradle there. I thought, however, that, as you were reported to be rather a stout little fellow of your size, you might be able to manage it, and I did not wish to affront a man that thinks himself able to fight Fin. Here's another cake - maybe it's not so hard as that.

Cucullin at the moment was not only hungry, but ravenous, so he accordingly made a fresh set at the second cake, and immediately another yell was heard twice as loud as the first. Thunder and giblets! he roared, take your bread out of this, or I will not have a tooth in my head; there's another pair of them gone!

Well, honest man, replied Oonagh, if you're not able to eat the bread, say so quietly, and don't be wakening the child in the cradle there. There, now, he's awake upon me.

Fin now gave a skirl that startled the giant, as coming from such a youngster as he was represented to be. Mother, said he, I'm hungry - get me something to eat. Oonagh went over, and putting into his hand a cake that had no griddle in it, Fin, whose appetite in the meantime was sharpened by what he saw going forward, soon made it disappear. Cucullin was thunderstruck, and secretly thanked his stars that he had the good fortune to miss meeting Fin, for, as he said to himself, I'd have no chance with a man who could eat such bread as that, which even his son that's but in his cradle can munch before my eyes.

I'd like to take a glimpse at the lad in the cradle, said he to Oonagh, for I can tell you that the infant who can manage that nutriment is no joke to look at, or to feed of a scarce summer.

With all the veins of my heart, replied Oonagh, get up, acushla, and show this decent little man something that won't be unworthy of your father, Fin M'Coul.

Fin, who was dressed for the occasion as much like a boy as possible, got up, and bringing Cucullin out, Are you strong? said he.

Thunder an' hounds! exclaimed the other, what a voice in so small a chap!

Are you strong? said Fin again, are you able to squeeze water out of that white stone? he asked, putting one into Cucullin's hand. The latter squeezed and squeezed the stone, but to no purpose; he might pull the rocks of Lumford's Glen asunder, and flatten a thunderbolt, but to squeeze water out of a white stone was beyond his strength. Fin eyed him with great contempt, as he kept straining and squeezing and squeezing and straining, till he got black in the face with the efforts.

Ah, you're a poor creature! said Fin. You a giant! Give me the stone here, and when I'll show what Fin's little son can do; you may then judge of what my daddy himself is.

Fin then took the stone, and slyly exchanging it for the curds, he squeezed the latter until the whey, as clear as water, oozed out in a little shower from his hand.

I'll now go in, said he to my cradle; for I scorn to lose my time with any one that's not able to eat my daddy's bread, or squeeze water out of a stone. Bedad, you had better be off out of this before he comes back; for if he catches you, it's in flummery he'd have you in two minutes.

Cucullin, seeing what he had seen, was of the same opinion himself; his knees knocked together with the terror of Fin's return, and he accordingly hastened in to bid Oonagh farewell, and to assure her, that from that day out, he never wished to hear of, much less to see, her husband. I admit fairly that I'm not a match for him, said he, strong as I am; tell him I will avoid him as I would the plague, and that I will make myself scarce in this part of the country while I live.

Fin, in the meantime, had gone into the cradle, where he lay very quietly, his heart at his mouth with delight that Cucullin was about to take his departure, without discovering the tricks that had been played off on him.

It's well for you, said Oonagh, that he doesn't happen to be here, for it's nothing but hawk's meat he'd make of you.

I know that, says Cucullin, devil a thing else he'd make of me; but before I go, will you let me feel what kind of teeth they are that can eat griddle-bread like that?, and he pointed to it as he spoke.

With all pleasure in life, said she, only, as they're far back in his head, you must put your finger a good way in.

Cucullin was surprised to find such a powerful set of grinders in one so young; but he was still much more so on finding, when he took his hand from Fin's mouth, that he had left the very finger upon which his whole strength depended, behind him. He gave one loud groan, and fell down at once with terror and weakness. This was all Fin wanted, who now knew that his most powerful and bitterest enemy was completely at his mercy. He instantly started out of the cradle, and in a few minutes the great Cucullin, that was for such a length of time the terror of him and all his followers, lay a corpse before him. Thus did Fin, through the wit and invention of Oonagh, his wife, succeed in overcoming his enemy by stratagem, which he never could have done by force, and thus also is it proved that the women, if they bring us into many an unpleasant scrape, can sometimes succeed in getting us out of others that are as bad.

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Andrew Coffey

Adapted from Celtic Fairy Tales by Joseph Jacobs

MY GRANDFATHER, ANDREW COFFEY, WAS KNOWN to the whole barony as a quiet, decent man. And if the whole barony knew him, he knew the whole barony, every inch, hill and dale, bog and pasture, field and covert. Fancy his surprise one evening, when he found himself in a part of the demesne he couldn't recognise a bit. He and his good horse were always stumbling up against some tree or stumbling down into some bog-hole that by rights didn't ought to be there. On the top of all this the rain came pelting down wherever there was a clearing, and the cold March wind tore through the trees. Glad he was then when he saw a light in the distance, and drawing near found a cabin, though for the life of him he couldn't think how it came there. However, in he walked, after tying up his horse, and right welcome was the brushwood fire blazing on the hearth. And there stood a chair right and tight, that seemed to say, Come, sit down in me. There wasn't a soul else in the room. Well, he did sit, and got a little warm and cheered after his drenching. But all the while he was wondering and wondering.

Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey!

Good heavens! who was calling him, and not a soul in sight? Look around as he might, indoors and out, he could find no creature with two legs or four, for his horse was gone.

ANDREW COFFEY! ANDREW COFFEY! tell me a story.

It was louder this time, and it was nearer. And then what a thing to ask for! It was bad enough not to be let sit by the fire and dry oneself, without being bothered for a story.

ANDREW COFFEY! ANDREW COFFEY!! Tell me a story, or it'll be the worse for you.

My poor grandfather was so dumbfounded that he could only stand and stare.

ANDREW COFFEY! ANDREW COFFEY! I told you it'd be the worse for you.

And with that, out there bounced, from a cupboard that Andrew Coffey had never noticed before, a man. And the man was in a towering rage. But it wasn't that. And he carried as fine a blackthorn as you'd wish to crack a man's head with. But it wasn't that either. But when my grandfather clapped eyes on him, he knew him for Patrick Rooney, and all the world knew he'd gone overboard, fishing one night long years before.

Andrew Coffey would neither stop nor stay, but he took to his heels and was out of the house as hard as he could. He ran and he ran taking little thought of what was before till at last he ran up against a big tree. And then he sat down to rest.

He hadn't sat for a moment when he heard voices.

It's heavy he is, the vagabond. Steady now, we'll rest when we get under the big tree yonder. Now that happened to be the tree under which Andrew Coffey was sitting. At least he thought so, for seeing a branch handy he swung himself up by it and was soon snugly hidden away. Better see than be seen, thought he.

The rain had stopped and the wind fallen. The night was blacker than ever, but Andrew Coffey could see four men, and they were carrying between them a long box. Under the tree they came, set the box down, opened it, and who should they bring out but—Patrick Rooney. Never a word did he say, and he looked as pale as old snow.

Well, one gathered brushwood, and another took out tinder and flint, and soon they had a big fire roaring, and my grandfather could see Patrick plainly enough. If he had kept still before, he kept stiller now. Soon they had four poles up and a pole across, right over the fire, for all the world like a spit, and on to the pole they slung Patrick Rooney.

He'll do well enough, said one, but who's to mind him whilst we're away, who'll turn the fire, who'll see that he doesn't burn?

With that Patrick opened his lips, Andrew Coffey, said he. Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey!

I'm much obliged to you, gentlemen, said Andrew Coffey from his hiding place in the tree, but indeed I know nothing about the business.

You'd better come down, Andrew Coffey, said Patrick.

It was the second time he spoke, and Andrew Coffey decided he would come down. The four men went off and he was left all alone with Patrick.

Then he sat and he kept the fire even, and he kept the spit turning, and all the while Patrick looked at him.

Poor Andrew Coffey couldn't make it all out at all, at all, and he stared at Patrick and at the fire, and he thought of the little house in the wood, till he felt quite dazed.

Ah, but it's burning me you are! says Patrick, very short and sharp.

I'm sure I beg your pardon, said my grandfather but might I ask you a question?

If you want a crooked answer, said Patrick, turn away or it'll be the worse for you.

But my grandfather couldn't get it out of his head; hadn't everybody, far and near, said Patrick had fallen overboard. There was enough to think about, and my grandfather did think.

ANDREW COFFEY! ANDREW COFFEY! IT'S BURNING ME YE ARE.

Sorry enough my grandfather was, and he vowed he wouldn't do so again.

You'd better not, said Patrick, and he gave him a cock of his eye, and a grin of his teeth, that just sent a shiver down Andrew Coffey's back. Well it was odd, that here he should be in a thick wood he had never set eyes upon, turning Patrick Rooney upon a spit. You can't wonder at my grandfather thinking and thinking and not minding the fire.

ANDREW COFFEY, ANDREW COFFEY, IT'S THE DEATH OF YOU I'LL BE.

And with that what did my grandfather see, but Patrick unslinging himself from the spit and his eyes glared and his teeth glistened.

It was neither stop nor stay my grandfather made, but out he ran into the night of the wood. It seemed to him there wasn't a stone but was for his stumbling, not a branch but beat his face, not a bramble but tore his skin. And wherever it was clear the rain pelted down and the cold March wind howled along.

Glad he was to see a light, and a minute after he was kneeling, dazed, drenched, and bedraggled by the hearth side. The brushwood flamed, and the brushwood crackled, and soon my grandfather began to feel a little warm and dry and easy in his mind.

ANDREW COFFEY! ANDREW COFFEY!

It's hard for a man to jump when he has been through all my grandfather had, but jump he did. And when he looked around, where should he find himself but in the very cabin he had first met Patrick in.

Andrew Coffey, Andrew Coffey, tell me a story.

Is it a story you want? said my grandfather as bold as may be, for he was just tired of being frightened. Well if you can tell me the rights of this one, I'll be thankful.

And he told the tale of what had befallen him from first to last that night. The tale was long, and may be Andrew Coffey was weary. It's asleep he must have fallen, for when he awoke he lay on the hill-side under the open heavens, and his horse grazed at his side.

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Bewitched Butter

Original taken from William Carleton, this version adapted from Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry by William Butler Yeats, published in 1888 by The Walter Scott Publishing Company.

NOT FAR FROM RATHMULLAN LIVED, LAST spring, a family called Hanlon; and in a farmhouse, some fields distant, people named Dogherty. Both families had good cows, but the Hanlons were fortunate in possessing a Kerry cow that gave more milk and yellower butter than the others.

Grace Dogherty, a young girl, who was more admired than loved in the neighbourhood, took much interest in the Kerry cow, and appeared one night at Mrs. Hanlon's door with the modest request, Will you let me milk your Moiley cow?

An' why would you wish to milk wee Moiley, Grace, dear? inquired Mrs. Hanlon.

Oh, just because you're so busy at the present time.

Thank you kindly, Grace, but I'm no too busy to do my own work. I'll no trouble you to milk.

The girl turned away with a discontented air; but the next evening, and the next, found her at the cow-house door with the same request.

At length Mrs. Hanlon, not knowing well how to persist in her refusal, yielded, and permitted Grace to milk the Kerry cow.

She soon had reason to regret her want of firmness. Moiley gave no more milk to her owner.

When this melancholy state of things lasted for three days, the Hanlons applied to a certain Mark McCarrion, who lived near Binion.

That cow has been milked by someone with an evil eye, said he. Will she give you a wee drop, do you think? The full of a pint measure would do.

Oh, aye, Mark, dear; I'll get that much milk from her, anyway.

Well, Mrs. Hanlon, lock the door, an' get nine new pins that was never used in clothes, an' put them into a saucepan with the pint o' milk. Set them on the fire, an' let them come to the boil.

The nine pins soon began to simmer in Moiley's milk.

Rapid steps were heard approaching the door, agitated knocks followed, and Grace Dogherty's high-toned voice was raised in eager entreaty.

Let me in, Mrs. Hanlon! she cried. Take off that cruel pot! Take out them pins, for they're pricking holes in my heart, an' I'll never offer to touch milk of yours again.

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Clough Na Cuddy

Adapted from Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland by Thomas Crofton Croker

ABOVE ALL THE ISLANDS IN THE lakes of Killarney give me Innisfallen - sweet Innisfallen, as the melodious Moore calls it. It is, in truth, a fairy isle, although I have no fairy story to tell you about it; and if I had, these are such unbelieving times, and people of late have grown so sceptical, that they only smile at my stories, and doubt them.

However, none will doubt that a monastery once stood upon Innisfallen island, for its ruins may still be seen; neither that within its walls dwelt certain pious and learned persons called Monks. A very pleasant set of fellows they were, I make not the smallest doubt; and I am sure of this, that they had a very pleasant spot to enjoy themselves in after dinner - the proper time, believe me, and I am no bad judge of such matters, for the enjoyment of a fine prospect.

Out of all the monks you could not pick a better fellow nor a merrier soul than Father Cuddy; he sung a good song, he told a good story, and had a jolly, comfortable-looking paunch of his own, that was a credit to any refectory table. He was distinguished above all the rest by the name of the fat father.

Now there are many that will take huff at a name; but Father Cuddy had no nonsense of that kind about him; he laughed at it - and well able he was to laugh, for his mouth nearly reached from one ear to the other. His might, in truth, be called an open countenance. As his paunch was no disgrace to his food, neither was his nose to his drink. 'Tis a doubt to me if there were not more carbuncles upon it than ever were seen at the bottom of the lake, which is said to be full of them. His eyes had a right merry twinkle in them, like moonshine dancing on the water; and his cheeks had the roundness and crimson glow of ripe arbutus berries.

"He ate, and drank, and prayed, and slept. - What then?

He ate, and drank, and prayed, and slept again!"

Such was the tenor of his simple life, but when he prayed a certain drowsiness would come upon him, which, it must be confessed, never occurred when a well-filled blackjack stood before him. Hence his prayers were short and his draughts were long. The world loved him, and he saw no good reason why he should not in return love its venison and usquebaugh. But, as times went, he must have been a pious man, or else what befell him never would have happened.

Spiritual affairs - for it was respecting the importation of a tun of wine into the island monastery - demanded the presence of one of the brotherhood of Innisfallen at the abbey of Irelagh, now called Mucruss. The superintendence of this important matter was committed to Father Cuddy, who felt too deeply interested in the future welfare of any community of which he was a member, to neglect or delay such mission. With the mornings light he was seen guiding his shallop across the crimson waters of the lake towards the peninsula of Mucruss; and having moored his little bark in safety beneath the shelter of a wave-worn rock, he advanced with becoming dignity towards the abbey.

The stillness of the bright and balmy hour was broken by the heavy footsteps of the zealous father. At the sound the startled deer, shaking the dew from their sides, sprung up from their lair, and as they bounded off - Hah! exclaimed Cuddy, what a noble haunch goes there! - how delicious it would look smoking upon a goodly platter!

As he proceeded, the mountain-bee hummed his tune of gladness around the holy man, save when he buried in the foxglove bell, or revelling upon a fragrant bunch of thyme; and even then the little voice murmured out happiness in low and broken tones of voluptuous delight. Father Cuddy derived no small comfort from the sound, for it presaged a good metheglin season, and metheglin he regarded, if well manufactured, to be no bad liquor, particularly when there was no stint of usquebaugh in the brewing.

Arrived within the abbey garth, he was received with due respect by the brethren of Irelagh, and arrangements for the embarkation of the wine were completed to his entire satisfaction. Welcome, Father Cuddy, said the prior, grace be on you.

Grace before meat, then, said Cuddy, for a long walk always makes me hungry, and I am certain I have not walked less than half a mile this morning, to say nothing of crossing the water.

A pasty of choice flavour felt the truth of this assertion, as regarded Father Cuddy's appetite. After such consoling repast, it would have been a reflection on monastic hospitality to depart without partaking of the grace-cup; moreover, Father Cuddy had a particular respect for the antiquity of that custom. He liked the taste of the grace-cup well. He tried another and found it was no less excellent; and when he had swallowed the third he found his heart expand, and put forth its fibres, willing to embrace all mankind. Surely, then, there is Christian love and charity in wine!

I said he sung a good song. Now though psalms are good songs, and in accordance with his vocation, I didn't mean to imply that he was a mere psalm-singer. It was well known to the brethren, that wherever Father Cuddy was, mirth and melody were with him; mirth in his eye and melody on his tongue; and these, from experience, are equally well known to be thirsty commodities; but he took good care never to let them run dry. To please the brotherhood, whose excellent wine pleased him, he sung, and as in vino veritas his song will well become this veritable history.

THE FRIAR'S SONG.

My vows I can never fulfil,

Until

I have breakfasted, one way or other;

And I freely protest,

That I never can rest

'Till I borrow or beg

An egg,

Unless I can come at the old hen, its mother.

But Maggy, my dear,

While you're here,

I don't fear

To want eggs that have just been laid newly;

For och! you're a pearl

Of a girl,

And you're called so in Latin most truly.

There is most to my mind something that is still upper

Than supper,

Though it must be admitted I feel no way thinner

But soon as I hear the cock crow

In the morning,

That eggs you are bringing full surely I know,

By that warning,

While your buttermilk helps me to float

Down my throat

Those sweet cakes made of oat.

I don't envy an earl,

Sweet girl,

Och, 'tis you are a beautiful pearl.

Such was his song. Father Cuddy smacked his lips at the recollection of Margery's delicious fried eggs, which always imparted a peculiar relish to his liquor. The very idea provoked Cuddy to raise the cup to his mouth, and with one hearty pull thereat he finished its contents.

This is, and ever was a censorious world, often construing what is only a fair allowance into an excess, but I scorn to reckon up any man's drink, like an unrelenting host; therefore, I cannot tell how many brimming draughts of wine, bedecked with the venerable Bead, Father Cuddy emptied into his soul-case, so he figuratively termed the body.

His respect for the goodly company of the monks of Irelagh detained him until their adjournment to vespers, when he set forward on his return to Innisfallen. Whether his mind was occupied in philosophic contemplation or wrapped in pious musings, I cannot declare, but the honest father wandered on in a different direction from that in which his shallop lay. Far be it from me to insinuate that the good liquor, which he had so commended caused him to forget his road, or that his track was irregular and unsteady. Oh no! - he carried his drink bravely, as became a decent man and a good Christian; yet somehow, he thought he could distinguish two moons. Bless my eyes, said Father Cuddy, everything is changing now-a-days! - the very stars are not in the same places they used to be; I think Camceachta (the Plough) is driving on at a rate I never saw it before to-night; but I suppose the driver is drunk, for there are blackguards everywhere.

Cuddy had scarcely uttered these words, when he saw, or fancied he saw, the form of a young woman, who, holding up a bottle, beckoned him towards her. The night was extremely beautiful, and the white dress of the girl floated gracefully in the moonlight, as with gay step she tripped on before the worthy father, archly looking back upon him over her shoulder.

Ah, Margery, merry Margery! cried Cuddy, "you tempting little rogue!

'Flos vallium harum,

Decus puellarum,

Candida Margarita.'

I see you, I see you and the bottle! let me but catch you, Candida Margarita! and on he followed, panting and smiling, after this alluring apparition.

At length his feet grew weary, and his breath failed, which obliged him to give up the chase; yet such was his piety, that unwilling to rest in any attitude but that of prayer, down dropped Father Cuddy on his knees. Sleep, as usual, stole upon his devotions; and the morning was far advanced, when he awoke from dreams, in which tables groaned beneath their load of viands, and wine poured itself free and sparkling as the mountain spring.

Rubbing his eyes, he looked about him, and the more he looked the more he wondered at the alteration which appeared in the face of the country. Bless my soul and body! said the good father, I saw the stars changing last night, but here is a change! Doubting his senses, he looked again. The hills bore the same majestic outline as on the preceding day, and the lake spread itself beneath his view in the same tranquil beauty, and studded with the same number of islands; but every smaller feature in the landscape was strangely altered. What had been naked rocks were now clothed with holly and arbutus. Whole woods had disappeared, and waste places had become cultivated fields; and, to complete the work of enchantment, the very season itself seemed changed. In the rosy dawn of a summer's morning he had left the monastery of Innisfallen, and he now felt in every sight and sound the dreariness of winter. The hard ground was covered with withered leaves; icicles suspended from leafless branches; he heard the sweet low note of the robin, who familiarly approached him; and he felt his fingers numbed from the nipping frost. Father Cuddy found it rather difficult to account for such sudden transformations, and to convince himself it was not the illusion of a dream, he was about to rise, when lo! he discovered that both his knees were