Irish Wonders

Each story keeps the passage it was read from. Open one to read it as the scan has it, and, where the companion has written its own telling, that too. The passages are read off photographs of the page by machine, so a word here and there comes out wrong; they are kept as the reading produced them, so you can check any of them against the scan.

1. The Sergeant Shot by His Brothers at Derryclare

   Derryclare · townland · Galway · 1850–1886

   In 1850, the famine-stricken O'Malley family of a small farm near Lake Derryclare turned to illicit poteen distilling, unaware that the eldest son John had joined the constabulary. Years later, posted back to Connemara as a sergeant, John O'Malley led a night raid from Maume on the family's still near the Twelve Pins and was shot dead by one of his own brothers. Two O'Malleys were killed by police fire, a constable was mortally wounded, and Michael O'Malley and his surviving son, learning at trial that the dead sergeant was their kin, were hanged for murder.

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   The eldest brother, John O'Malley, having gone to Galway, succeeded, by what he considered a great stroke of good fortune, in obtaining a place on the constabulary. The family at home knew nothing of him, nor had he communicated with them, for directly after his enlistment he was sent to the County Wexford on the opposite side of the island, and completely lost sight of his old home. Proving intelligent and capable, he was promoted, made a sergeant, and ordered to the County Galway. Immediately upon his arrival at his new post, a small village in Connemara, intelligence was brought of illicit distilling near the Twelve Pins, and O'Malley was ordered to proceed with a strong party of police to seize the still, and, if possible, arrest the criminals. The names of the offenders were not given, but the location of the glen where operations were carried on was described with such exactness that O'Malley, who knew every foot of ground in the vicinity, laid such plans as to render escape by the distillers a practical impossibility. Before dark one evening a party of twelve mounted constables armed with rifles started from Maume, at the head of Lough Corrib, travelled all night, and by morning Sergeant O'Malley had so posted his men round the glen that the arrest of the distillers was apparently a certainty. In the early dawn, before objects could be distinctly seen, several men were observed going into the glen, and, at a given signal, the police closed in on the little shanty where the still was in operation. A desperate fight ensued, and Sergeant O'Malley was shot dead by one of his brothers without knowing whose hand pointed the weapon. Two of the O'Malleys were killed by the police bullets, and a constable was mortally wounded. Michael and his remaining son were taken alive, afterwards tried for murder, when for the first time they learned that the dead Sergeant was their relative. Both were hanged, the singular circumstances of the crime for which they suffered attracting wide attention.

   Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 10

   As the companion tells it

   Somewhere around here, the O'Malley family lived through the famine years on a small farm near the lake. The eldest son, John, went to Galway and found what he considered a great stroke of good fortune: a place on the constabulary. The family at home knew nothing of it. He had not communicated with them. Directly after his enlistment he was sent to County Wexford, on the opposite side of the island, and completely lost sight of his old home. He proved intelligent and capable. He was promoted, made a sergeant, and ordered to County Galway. Upon his arrival at his new post, a small village in Connemara, intelligence was brought of illicit distilling near the Twelve Pins. O'Malley was ordered to proceed with a strong party of police to seize the still and arrest the criminals. The names of the offenders were not given, but the location of the glen was described with such exactness that O'Malley, who knew every foot of ground in the vicinity, laid his plans to render escape a practical impossibility. Before dark one evening, twelve mounted constables armed with rifles started from Maume, at the head of Lough Corrib, travelled all night, and by morning the sergeant had posted his men round the glen. In the early dawn, before objects could be distinctly seen, several men were observed going in. At a given signal, the police closed in on the little shanty where the still was in operation. A desperate fight ensued. Sergeant O'Malley was shot dead by one of his own brothers, without knowing whose hand pointed the weapon. Two of the O'Malleys were killed by police bullets, and a constable was mortally wounded. Michael and his remaining son were taken alive, tried for murder, and for the first time learned that the dead sergeant was their relative. Both were hanged.

2. Nora O'Moore and Her Father Drowned Beneath the Rock of Cashel

   Cashel · townland · Tipperary

   Fleeing a forced marriage to a Tipperary farmer, Nora O'Moore escaped from a lodging house near the Rock of Cashel and ran toward the flooded stream, pursued by her father. Searchers found footprints, her torn shawl, and a collapsed bank; the next day both bodies were recovered a mile downstream, the father still gripping his daughter's clothes. They were buried on the Rock, Nora in Cormac's Chapel and her father shunned by the wall near the gate.

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   "The next day they found thim, a good Irish mile down the strame, owld O'Moore wid wan hand howlding her gown an' the other wan grippin' her collar an' the clothes half torn aff her poor cowld corpse, her hands stratched out afore her, wid the desperation in her heart to get away, an' her white face wid the great eyes an' the light gone out av thim, the poor craythur, God give her rest, an' so to us all.

   "They laid thim dacintly, wid candles an' all, an' the wake that they had was shuparb, fur the shtory was towld in all the counthry, wid the vartues av Nora; an' the O'Brian's come from Ennis, an' the O'Moore's from Crusheen, an' the Murphy's an' their frinds from Tipperary, an' more from Clonmel. There was a power av atin' an' slathers av dhrink fur thim that wanted it, fur, d'ye mind, thim of Cashel thried fur to show the rale Irish hoshpitality, bekase O'Moore an' Nora were sint there to die an' they thought it was their juty to thrate thim well. An' all the County Clare an' Tipperary was at the berryin', an' they had three keeners, the best that iver was, wan from Ennis, wan from Tipperary, an' wan from Limerick, so that the praises av Nora wint on day an' night till the berryin' was done. An' they made Nora's grave in Cormac's Chapel just in front o' the Archbishop's tomb in the wall an' berried her first, an' tuk O'Moore as far from her as they cud get him, an' put his grave as clost be the wall as they cud go fur the shtones an' jist ferninst the big gate on the left hand side, an' berried him last, an' sorra the good word they had fur him aither.

   Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 3

   As the companion tells it

   Somewhere around here, Nora O'Moore fled a forced marriage to a Tipperary farmer. She escaped from a lodging house near the Rock of Cashel and ran toward the flooded stream, her father pursuing her. Searchers found footprints, her torn shawl, and a collapsed bank. The next day they found them a good Irish mile downstream. Old O'Moore had one hand holding her gown and the other gripping her collar. The clothes were half torn off her poor cold corpse, her hands stretched out before her with the desperation in her heart to get away, and her white face with the great eyes and the light gone out of them. They laid them out decently with candles and all, and the wake was superb. The story was told in all the country, and the virtues of Nora with it. O'Briens came from Ennis, O'Moores from Crusheen, Murphys and their friends from Tipperary, and more from Clonmel. The people of Cashel tried to show real Irish hospitality, since O'Moore and Nora were sent there to die and they thought it their duty to treat them well. All County Clare and Tipperary was at the burial. They had three keeners, the best that ever was, one from Ennis, one from Tipperary, and one from Limerick. The praises of Nora went on day and night till the burial was done. They made Nora's grave in Cormac's Chapel, just in front of the Archbishop's tomb in the wall, and buried her first. They took O'Moore as far from her as they could and put his grave as close by the wall as they could for the stones, just opposite the big gate on the left-hand side, and buried him last. "Sorra the good word they had for him either."

3. Policeman Killed During a Limerick Eviction

   Limerick · townland · Limerick

   During a violent eviction battle near Limerick, a constable was killed after being beaten by the crowd defending the cabin. In court, the defence for those accused claimed his skull was simply too thin to withstand the beating he received.

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   As soon as the police appear on the scene, a babel of Irish voices ensues and fearful curses and imprecations are hurled at all concerned in the eviction, succeeded by showers of stones from enthusiastic outside supporters of the cabin's defenders. The constables draw their clubs and make a rush, striking right and left at the heads of the crowd. A desperate battle ensues, in which the police are generally victorious, driving the rabble to a safe distance; then, leaving a portion of the force to keep them away, the remainder return to effect an entrance to the hut. A beam, handled by several pairs of strong arms, speedily demolishes the miserable pretence of a door, then in go the police, to be met with fists, clubs, stones, showers of boiling water, and other effective and offensive means of defence. After a stubborn contest the cabin is finally cleared; the furniture, if there be any, is set out in the road, the thatched roof torn off and scattered on the ground, the walls levelled, and the police, battered with sticks and stones, scalded, burned, return to headquarters with their prisoners. Not infrequently a policeman is killed on one of these evictionary expeditions, the defence of his slayers being generally grounded on the statement made in court in one instance of this kind near Limerick. "We niver intinded fur to kill him at all, but his shkull was too thin entirely for a consthable, an' broke wid the batin' he was afther gettin'."

   Firearms are not often used in these encounters between the police and the populace, for such battles always take place in daylight, and although, when an eviction promises to be of more than usual danger, the police carry rifles, strict orders are given not to use them save in dire extremity, and a policeman will be beaten almost to death without resorting to the use of his gun. On ordinary day-duty the police carry only a short club or revolver, hidden under the coat; but at night, the country constables are armed with rifle and bayonet, and patrol the roads in pairs, one walking on each side and as close as possible to the hedge or wall.

   Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 10

   As the companion tells it

   Somewhere around here, a constable was killed during an eviction battle, and the defence in court said his skull was simply too thin for a constable and broke with the beating he got. This is how these evictions went. When the police appeared, Irish voices rose in a babel of curses and imprecations hurled at all concerned in the eviction. Then came showers of stones from outside supporters of the cabin's defenders. The constables drew their clubs and rushed, striking right and left at the heads of the crowd. A desperate battle followed. The police generally won, driving the rabble to a safe distance. Leaving a portion of the force to keep them back, the rest returned to force an entrance to the hut. A beam, handled by several pairs of strong arms, demolished the miserable pretence of a door. In went the police, met with fists, clubs, stones, showers of boiling water, and other means of defence. After stubborn contest the cabin was cleared. The furniture, if there was any, was set out in the road, the thatched roof torn off and scattered on the ground, the walls levelled. The police, battered with sticks and stones, scalded and burned, returned to headquarters with their prisoners. Not infrequently a policeman was killed on one of these expeditions. The defence of his slayers was grounded on the statement made in court in this instance near Limerick. The words spoken were, "We niver intinded fur to kill him at all, but his shkull was too thin entirely for a consthable, an' broke wid the batin' he was afther gettin'." Firearms were not often used in these encounters. The battles always took place in daylight. When an eviction promised more than usual danger, the police carried rifles, but strict orders were given not to use them save in dire extremity. A policeman would be beaten almost to death without resorting to his gun.

4. Satan's Witch Gatherings on Corkscrew Hill

   near Corkscrew Hill · townland · Clare

   In the old days witches were said to gather on Corkscrew Hill, riding sticks, bats, owls and Pookas, wearing snakes as jewels and dead men's eyes in their hair, to report their evil deeds — drowned fishermen, smothered babies, murders — to Satan, who attended on a dragon. Sinners caught by a Pooka were brought there to be torn limb from limb while fiends drank their blood.

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   "Ye see, in the owld days, the counthry was full av avil sper'ts, an' fairies an' witches, an' divils entirely, and the harrum they done was onsaycin', for they wor always comin' an' goin', like Mulligan's blanket, an' widout so much as sayin', by yer lave. The fairies 'ud be dancin' on the grass every night be the light av the moon, an' stalin' away the childhre, an' many's the wan they tuk that niver come back. The owld rath on the hill beyant was full av the dead, an' afther nightfall they'd come from their graves an' walk in a long line wan afther another to the owld church in the valley where they'd go in an' stay till cock-crow, thin they'd come out agin an' back to the rath. Sorra a parish widout a witch, an' some nights they'd have a great enthertainmint on the Corkschrew Hill, an' you'd see thim, wid shnakes on their arrums an' necks an' ears, be way av jewels, an' the eyes av dead men in their hair, comin' for miles an' miles, some ridin' through the air on shticks an' bats an' owls, an' some walkin', an' more on Pookas an' horses wid wings that 'ud come up in line to the top av the hill, like the cabs at the dure o' the theayter, an' lave thim there an' hurry aff to bring more.

   "Sometimes the Owld Inimy, Satan himself, 'ud be there at the enthertainmint, comin' an a monsthrous draggin, wid grane shcales an' eyes like the lightnin' in the heavens, an' a roarin' fiery mouth like a lime-kiln. It was the great day thin, for they do say all the witches brought their rayports at thim saysons fur to show him phat they done.

   Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 2

   As the companion tells it

   Somewhere close to Corkscrew Hill, people once said the country was full of evil spirits, fairies, witches, and devils, and the harm they did was unceasing. They were always coming and going, without so much as asking your leave. The fairies would be dancing on the grass every night by the light of the moon, stealing away the children, and many the one they took that never came back. The old rath on the hill beyond was full of the dead, and after nightfall they would come from their graves and walk in a long line one after another to the old church in the valley, where they would go in and stay till cock-crow, then come out again and back to the rath. There was not a parish without a witch, and some nights they would have a great entertainment on Corkscrew Hill. You would see them with snakes on their arms and necks and ears, by way of jewels, and the eyes of dead men in their hair, coming for miles and miles, some riding through the air on sticks and bats and owls, and some walking, and more on Pookas and horses with wings that would come up in line to the top of the hill, like the cabs at the door of the theatre, and leave them there and hurry off to bring more. Sometimes the Old Enemy, Satan himself, would be there at the entertainment, coming on a monstrous dragon, with green scales and eyes like the lightning in the heavens, and a roaring fiery mouth like a lime-kiln. It was the great day then, for they say all the witches brought their reports at those seasons to show him what they had done.

5. The Widow's Endless Vigil at the Connemara Cairn

   Derryclare · townland · Galway · 1886

   By a wayside cairn of uncut stones near Lake Derryclare, under the shadow of the Twelve Pins, an old woman knelt in prayer every daylight hour through the summer of 1886. She was Mrs. O'Malley, who had lost her husband and four sons in a single blow — three dead in the still raid and its aftermath, two of them hanged — and who spent her remaining life reciting prayers for the dead buried under the cairn in a disused churchyard, never speaking to anyone.

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   Near Lake Derryclare, in the Connemara district of Galway, and almost under the shadow of the Twelve Pins, there stands by the wayside a small rude monument of uncut stones, a mere heap, surmounted by a rough wooden cross. Such stone heaps as this are common on the west coast, and originate in the custom of making a family memorial, each member of the family, or, in some cases, each friend attending the funeral, contributing a stone to the rude monument. In some neighborhoods, every relative and friend casts a stone on the common pile whenever he passes the spot, so the heap is constantly growing. This particular monument in Connemara does not differ in any important respect from many others, but before it, in the summer of 1886, there knelt, all day long, an old peasant woman. Every morning she came from a hut in the glen near by and spent every hour of daylight in prayer before the wooden cross. It seemed to matter little to her whether it rained or the sun shone; in sunshine, the hood of her tattered cloak was thrown back and her white hair exposed, while the rain compelled her to draw the hood forward, but rain or shine she was always there, her lips silently moving as the beads slipped through her withered fingers, nor could any question divert her attention from her devotions. She never looked up, never took the slightest notice of remarks addressed to her, nor was she ever heard to speak aloud. Once a week provisions were sent to her house from the nearest police station; they were left within, and those who brought them went their way, for she gave them no word of thanks, no look of gratitude; nor, for many years, had the constables sent with the allowance made her by the government ventured to compel her to speak to them.

   Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 10

   As the companion tells it

   Somewhere close to Derryclare stands a small heap of uncut stones near the lake, almost under the shadow of the Twelve Pins, surmounted by a rough wooden cross. Such stone heaps are common on the west coast, raised as family memorials where each person attending a funeral contributes a stone, and in some places every relative casts another stone whenever they pass, so the pile keeps growing. This one does not differ from many others, but in the summer of 1886 an old peasant woman knelt before it all day long. She was Mrs O'Malley, who had lost her husband and four sons in a single blow. Three died in the still raid and its aftermath, and two were hanged. She spent every hour of daylight in prayer before the wooden cross, her lips silently moving as the beads slipped through her withered fingers. Every morning she came from a hut in the glen nearby, and it mattered little to her whether it rained or the sun shone. In sunshine she threw back the hood of her tattered cloak and her white hair was exposed, and the rain compelled her to draw the hood forward, but rain or shine she was always there. She never looked up, never took the slightest notice of remarks addressed to her, and was never heard to speak aloud. No question could divert her attention from her devotions. She spent her remaining life reciting prayers for the dead buried under the cairn in a disused churchyard, never speaking to anyone. Once a week provisions were sent to her house from the nearest police station. They were left within, and those who brought them went their way, for she gave no word of thanks and no look of gratitude. For many years, the constables sent with the allowance made her by the government had not ventured to compel her to speak to them.

6. The Island of Shades and its Wife-Slaying King

   Inishmore · townland · Galway

   A Connemara legend, told by fisherman Dennis Moriarty of Ballyconneely Bay, places an island called the Island of Shades between the Connemara coast and Inishmore before Saint Patrick's time. Its heathen king beheaded servants, hanged thieves without trial, and cut off the heads of ten of his hundred wives, until a Joyce Country princess, armed with an enchanter's charm, turned him to stone; the cursed island was emptied and doomed to wander the west coast forever.

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   "Faith, I'm not rightly sure how long ago it was, but it was a good while an' before the blessed Saint Pathrick come to the counthry an' made Crissans av the haythens in it. Howandiver, it was in thim times that betune this an' Inishmore, there was an island. Some calls it the Island av Shades, an' more says its name was the Sowls Raypose, but it doesn't matther, fur no wan knows. It was as full av payple as it could howld, an' cities wor on it wid palaces an' coorts an' haythen timples an' round towers all covered wid goold an' silver till they shone so ye cudn't see for the brightness.

   "And they wor all haythens there, an' the king av the island was the biggest av thim, sure he was Satan's own, an' tuk delight in doin' all the bloody things that come into his head. If the waither that minded the table did annything to displaze him, he'd out wid a soord the length av me arrum an' cut aff his head. If they caught a man shtaling, the king 'ud have him hung at wanst widout the taste av a thrial, 'Bekase,' says the king, says he, 'maybe he didn't do it at all, an' so he'd get aff, so up wid him,' an' so they'd do. He had more than a hunderd wives, ginerally spakin', but he wasn't throubled in the laste be their clack, for whin wan had too much blasthogue in her jaw, or begun gostherin' at him, he cut aff her head an' said, beways av a joke, that 'that's the only cure fur a woman's tongue.' An' all the time, from sun to sun, he was cursin' an' howlin' wid rage, so as I'm sure yer Anner wouldn't want fur to hear me say thim blastpheemies that he said. To spake the truth av him, he was wicked in that degray that, axin' yer pardon, the owld divil himself wouldn't own him.

   Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 5

   As the companion tells it

   Somewhere close to Inishmore, there was once an island called the Island of Shades. Some called it the Sowls Raypose, but nobody knows for certain. This was before Saint Patrick came to Ireland, when the people were still heathen. A fisherman named Dennis Moriarty of Ballyconneely Bay told the story. The island was full of people, with cities and palaces, heathen temples and round towers all covered in gold and silver, shining so bright no one could see for the brightness. The king of that island was the worst of them. If a servant at his table displeased him, he would draw a sword the length of a man's arm and cut off the servant's head. If they caught a thief, the king hanged him at once without trial. "Maybe he didn't do it at all, and so he'd get off, so up with him," the king would say. He had more than a hundred wives. When one talked too much, he cut off her head and said, by way of a joke, "that's the only cure for a woman's tongue." He cut off the heads of ten of them. From morning to night he cursed and howled with rage, so wicked that the old devil himself would not own him. Then a princess from Joyce Country came, armed with an enchanter's charm, and turned the king to stone. The cursed island was emptied and doomed to wander the west coast forever.

7. Brian Boru Tames the Pooka on Corkscrew Hill

   near Corkscrew Hill · townland · Clare · 1002–1014

   After the Pooka carried off his servant Riley and his white mare, and killed a drunken sailor by leaping over a cliff with him, King Brian Boru worked a charm with three hairs from the Pooka's tail. Bridling the beast, he rode it round and round Corkscrew Hill all night, spurring it until its sides ran blood, and by morning extracted its promise never again to steal horses or kill Irishmen — its winding path is still shown on the hill as the Pooka's Path.

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   "But sure, the Pooka's a different baste entirely to phat he was afore King Bryan-Boru tamed him. Niver heard av him? Well, he was the king av Munster an' all Ireland an' tamed the Pooka wanst fur all on the Corkschrew Hill ferninst ye.

   "Ye see, in the owld days, the counthry was full av avil sper'ts, an' fairies an' witches, an' divils entirely, and the harrum they done was onsaycin', for they wor always comin' an' goin', like Mulligan's blanket, an' widout so much as sayin', by yer lave. The fairies 'ud be dancin' on the grass every night be the light av the moon, an' stalin' away the childhre, an' many's the wan they tuk that niver come back. The owld rath on the hill beyant was full av the dead, an' afther nightfall they'd come from their graves an' walk in a long line wan afther another to the owld church in the valley where they'd go in an' stay till cock-crow, thin they'd come out agin an' back to the rath. Sorra a parish widout a witch, an' some nights they'd have a great enthertainmint on the Corkschrew Hill, an' you'd see thim, wid shnakes on their arrums an' necks an' ears, be way av jewels, an' the eyes av dead men in their hair, comin' for miles an' miles, some ridin' through the air on shticks an' bats an' owls, an' some walkin', an' more on Pookas an' horses wid wings that 'ud come up in line to the top av the hill, like the cabs at the dure o' the theayter, an' lave thim there an' hurry aff to bring more.

   Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 2

   As the companion tells it

   Somewhere around here on Corkscrew Hill, King Brian Boru tamed the Pooka once and for all. Brian was king of Munster and all Ireland. In the old days the country was full of evil spirits, fairies, witches and devils, and the harm they did was terrible. They came and went without so much as asking your leave. The fairies would dance on the grass every night by moonlight, stealing away children, and many they took never came back. The old rath on the hill was full of the dead, and after nightfall they would walk in a long line to the old church in the valley, staying till cock-crow, then back to the rath. There was not a parish without a witch, and some nights they would have a great entertainment on Corkscrew Hill, with snakes on their arms and necks and ears by way of jewels, and the eyes of dead men in their hair. The Pooka had carried off Brian's servant Riley and his white mare, and killed a drunken sailor by leaping over a cliff with him. Brian worked a charm with three hairs from the Pooka's tail. He bridled the beast and rode it round and round Corkscrew Hill all night, spurring it until its sides ran blood. By morning he had its promise never again to steal horses or kill Irishmen. Its winding path is still shown on the hill as the Pooka's Path.

8. The Sexton of Cashel's Sixty-One Year Vigil

   Cashel · townland · Tipperary

   After Nora's death, her grieving lover Paddy O'Sullivan was visited by her ghost, who called him to Cashel to be with her. He lived as a hermit sexton on the Rock for sixty-one years, tending the graves and speaking with spirits of kings and bishops, until he was found dead on Nora's grave.

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   "Poor Paddy wint nayther to the wake nor to the berryin', fur afther they towld him the news, he sat as wan in a dhrame, no more cud they rouse him. He'd go to his work very quite, an' niver shpake a word. An' so it was, about a fortnight afther, he says to his mother, says he, 'Mother I seen Nora last night an' she stood be me side an' laid her hand on me brow, an' says "Come to Cashel, Paddy dear, an' be wid me."' An' his mother was frighted entirely, for she parsaved he was wrong in his head. She thried to aise his mind, but the next night he disappared. They folly'd him to Cashel, but he dodged an' kept from thim complately whin they come an' so they left him. In the day he'd hide an' slape, an' afther night, Nora's sper't 'ud mate him an' walk wid him up an' down the shtones av the Chapel an' undher the arches av the Cathaydral, an' he cared fur her grave, an' bekase she was berried there, fur the graves av all thim that shlept on the Rock. No more had he any frinds, but thim o' Cashel 'ud lave pitaties an' bread where he'd see it an' so he lived. Fur sixty wan years was he on the Rock an' never left it, but he'd sometimes show himself in the day whin there was a berryin', an' say, 'Ye've brought me another frind,' an' help in the work, an' never was there a graveyard kept like that o' Cashel.

   "When he got owld, an' where he cud look into the other worruld, Nora came ivery night an' brought more wid her, sper'ts av kings an' bishops that rest on Cashel, an' there's thim that's seen the owld man walkin' in Cormac's Chapel, Nora holdin' him up an' him discoorsin' wid the mighty dead. They found him wan day, cowld an' shtill, on Nora's grave, an' laid him be her side, God rest his sowl, an' there he slapes to-day, God be good to him.

   Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 3

   As the companion tells it

   Somewhere around here, the Rock of Cashel holds the story of a man called Paddy O'Sullivan. When Nora died, he wouldn't go to the wake or the burial, just sat in a daze, and about a fortnight later he told his mother he'd seen Nora's ghost standing beside him, laying her hand on his brow, saying, "Come to Cashel, Paddy dear, and be with me." His mother thought he'd lost his mind, but the next night he vanished, and when they followed him to Cashel he dodged them completely, hiding by day and sleeping, while at night Nora's spirit met him and walked with him among the stones of the chapel and under the arches of the cathedral, and because she was buried there he tended all the graves on the Rock. People of Cashel left potatoes and bread where he'd find them, and he lived that way for 61 years, never leaving, sometimes showing himself at burials and saying, "You've brought me another friend," helping with the work, and never was there a graveyard kept like that of Cashel. When he grew old, Nora came every night and brought spirits of kings and bishops that rest on Cashel, and there were those who saw the old man walking in Cormac's Chapel with Nora holding him up while he discoursed with the mighty dead, until they found him one day, cold and still, on Nora's grave, and laid him beside her.

9. The Widow's Curse and the Drowning of the City of Peace

   near Lough Gara · townland · Roscommon

   A destitute widow with three children was refused alms and shelter by every house in a village by Lough Gara, so she pronounced a curse of the widow and orphan upon the town. That night the brook became a torrent and drowned the uncharitable inhabitants in their sleep.

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   Lough Gara, in Sligo, flows over a once thriving little town, the City of Peace, destroyed by an overflow on account of the lack of charity for strangers. A poor widow entered it one night leading a child on each side and carrying a baby at her breast. She asked alms and shelter, but in vain; from door to door she went, but the customary Irish hospitality, so abundant alike to the deserving and to the unworthy, was lacking. At the end of the village "she begun to scraich, yer Anner, wid that shtrength you'd think she'd shplit her troat." At this provocation, all the inhabitants at once ran to ascertain the reason of so unusual a noise, upon which, when they were gathered 'round her, the woman pronounced the curse of the widow and orphan on the people and their town. They laughed at her and returned home, but that night, the brook running through the village became a torrent, the outlet was closed, the waters rose, and "ivery wan o' them oncharitable blaggards wor drownded, while they wor aslape. Bad cess to the lie that's in it, for, sure, there's the lake to this blessed day."

   [Illustration: Lough Conn]

   Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 6

   As the companion tells it

   Somewhere close to Lough Gara, the water covers what was once a thriving little town called the City of Peace. A poor widow came into that town one night, leading a child on each side and carrying a baby at her breast. She asked for alms and shelter, going from door to door, but the customary Irish hospitality was nowhere to be found. At the end of the village, she began to wail, as the source puts it, with "that shtrength you'd think she'd shplit her troat." The people all ran to see what was making so unusual a noise. When they had gathered round her, the woman pronounced the curse of the widow and orphan on the people and their town. They laughed at her and went home. That night the brook running through the village became a torrent, the outlet was closed, the waters rose, and every one of those uncharitable people was drowned while they were asleep. The lake is there to this blessed day.

10. Satan's Temptation of Saint Kevin at Glendalough

    Glendalough · townland · Wicklow

    The devil, fearing Saint Kevin's church-building at Glendalough, disguised himself as Kevin's former sweetheart Kathleen to tempt him from his vows. Kevin recognized the deception and kicked the devil over a cliff into the lake below.

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    "'No,' says he, wid sudden shtrength. 'It's not Kathleen that's in it, but an avil sper't. God's prisence be about us! Get you gone Satan an' sayce to throuble me,' an' that minnit the blessed saint jumped up aff the ground an' wid his two feet gev the owld rayprobate a thunderin' kick in the stummick, an' when he doubled up wid the pain an' fell back an' clapped his hands together on the front av him, Saint Kevin gev him another in his rare, axin' yer pardon, that sent him clane over the clift, wid Saint Kevin gatherin' shtones an' flingin' thim afther him wid all the might that was in him. So the minnit the saint kicked him the very foorst kick, Kathleen disappeared, an' there was the owld black Belzebub a-tumblin' over, an' fallin' down to the lake, holdin' his stummick an' thryin' hard to catch himself wid his wings afore he'd hit the wather. But he did by the time he got to the bottom an' flew away, bellerin' worse nor a bull with a dog hangin' to his nose, so that all the monks woke wid fright, an' cudn't go to shlape agin till they'd said a craydo an' five aves apiece, but the blessed saint set be his bed a-sayin' his baids the rest o' the night wid a pile o' shtones convaynient to his hand fur fear the divil 'ud come back. But Satan flew over an that hill an' rubbed himself before an' behind too, where the saint had kicked him, an' didn't go back, for he'd enough o' the saint fur that time. But he was mightily vexed, an' not to lose the chance fur to do some mischief before he'd go away, he pulled down all the walls that the poor monks had built that day.

    "Now there's thim that says that it was the rale Kathleen that Saint Kevin kicked over the clift, but sure that's not thrue, fur it's not in an Irishman to thrate a woman that-a-way, that makes me belave that the shtory I'm tellin' ye was the thrue shtory an' that it wasn't Kathleen at all, but Satan, that Saint Kevin thrated wid such onpoliteness, an my blessin' an him fur that same, fur he come out very well axceptin' five or six blisthers on his face, where the divil's tears touched him, that's well known to make blisthers on phatever they touch.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 4

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here at Glendalough, Saint Kevin was building his church when the devil grew afraid of what that holy work would mean. Satan disguised himself as Kevin's old sweetheart Kathleen, and came to tempt the saint away from his vows. But Kevin knew the deception. "It's not Kathleen that's in it, but an evil spirit," he said. "God's presence be about us. Get you gone, Satan, and cease to trouble me." He jumped up and drove his two feet into the old reprobate's stomach with a thundering kick. When the devil doubled over and fell back, Saint Kevin gave him another kick that sent him clean over the cliff. The moment of that first kick, Kathleen vanished, and there was old black Beelzebub tumbling down toward the lake, holding his stomach and trying to catch himself with his wings before he hit the water. He managed it at the bottom and flew away, bellowing worse than a bull with a dog hanging to its nose. The noise woke all the monks with fright, and they could not sleep again till they had said a creed and five aves apiece. The blessed saint sat by his bed saying his beads the rest of the night, with a pile of stones convenient to his hand in case the devil came back. Satan did not come back, for he had enough of the saint for that time. But he was mightily vexed, and before he left he pulled down all the walls the poor monks had built that day. Some say it was the real Kathleen that Saint Kevin kicked over the cliff, but the storyteller says it was not in an Irishman to treat a woman that way, and that it was Satan himself. Kevin came out well, except for five or six blisters on his face where the devil's tears had touched him.

11. The Curse of the Evicted Tenant and Lough Conn

    near Lough Conn · townland · Mayo

    A castle lord evicted poor tenants to build a fish-pond, prompting one evicted man to curse him and pray for his death by the pond's waters. The pond immediately overflowed, flooding the valley and drowning the chief in his own castle.

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    In the County Mayo is found Lough Conn, once, according to local story-tellers, the site of a village built within and around the enclosure of a castle. The lord of the castle, being fond of fish, determined to make a fish-pond, and as the spot selected for the excavation was covered by the cabins of his poorest tenants, he ordered all the occupants to be turned out forthwith, an order at once carried out "wid process-sarvers, an' bailiffs, an' consthables, an' sogers, an' polis, an' the people all shtandin' 'round." One of the evicted knelt on the ground and cursed the chief with "all the seed, breed and gineration av 'im," and prayed "that the throut-pond 'ud be the death av 'im." The prayer was speedily answered, for no sooner was the water turned into the newly-made pond, than an overflow resulted; the valley was filled; the waves climbed the walls of the castle, nor ceased to rise till they had swept the chief from the highest tower, where "he was down an his hard-hearted knees, sayin' his baids as fast as he cud, an' bawlin' at all the saints aither to bring him a boat or taiche him how to swim quick." Regard for the unfortunate tenants, however, prevented any interference by the saints thus vigorously and practically supplicated, so the chief was drowned and went, as the story-teller concluded, to a locality where he "naded more wather than he'd left behind him, an' had the comp'ny av a shwarm av other landlords that turned out the poor to shtarve."

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 6

    As the companion tells it

    Near here is Lough Conn, in County Mayo. Local storytellers say a village once stood within and around the enclosure of a castle. The lord of that castle was fond of fish, and he decided to make a fish-pond. The spot he chose for the excavation was covered by the cabins of his poorest tenants. He ordered all the occupants to be turned out at once. The order was carried out with process-servers and bailiffs, constables and soldiers and police, and the people all standing round. One of the evicted men knelt on the ground and cursed the chief, with "all the seed, breed and gineration av 'im," and prayed "that the throut-pond 'ud be the death av 'im." The prayer was answered quickly. No sooner was the water turned into the newly-made pond than it overflowed. The valley filled. The waves climbed the walls of the castle and did not stop rising until they swept the chief from the highest tower, where he was on his hard-hearted knees, saying his prayers as fast as he could, and bawling at all the saints either to bring him a boat or teach him how to swim quick. Regard for the unfortunate tenants prevented any interference by the saints, and the chief was drowned. The storyteller concluded that he went to a place where he needed more water than he had left behind him, and had the company of a swarm of other landlords who turned out the poor to starve.

12. The Murdered Girl's Curse and the Mayo Family's Hateful Banshee

    Mayo · townland · Mayo

    A noble Mayo family is haunted by the vengeful spirit of a young girl who was deceived and murdered by a former head of the family. She cursed him with her dying breath, and years later her shrieking spirit foretold his assassination and continues to notify the family of deaths with vengeful cries.

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    The "hateful Banshee" is much dreaded by members of a family against which she has enmity. A noble Irish family, whose name is still familiar in Mayo, is attended by a Banshee of this description. This Banshee is the spirit of a young girl deceived and afterwards murdered by a former head of the family. With her dying breath she cursed her murderer, and promised she would attend him and his forever. Many years passed, the chieftain reformed his ways, and his youthful crime was almost forgotten even by himself, when, one night, he and his family were seated by the fire, and suddenly the most horrid shrieks were heard outside the castle walls. All ran out, but saw nothing. During the night the screams continued as though the castle were besieged by demons, and the unhappy man recognized, in the cry of the Banshee, the voice of the young girl he had murdered. The next night he was assassinated by one of his followers, when again the wild, unearthly screams of the spirit were heard, exulting over his fate. Since that night, the "hateful Banshee" has never failed to notify the family, with shrill cries of revengeful gladness, when the time of one of their number had arrived.

    [Illustration: The "Friendly Banshee"]

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 8

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here, a noble family whose name is still familiar in Mayo is haunted by what is called the hateful Banshee. She is the spirit of a young girl who was deceived and then murdered by a former head of the family. With her dying breath she cursed her murderer and promised she would attend him and his forever. Many years passed. The chieftain reformed his ways, and his youthful crime was almost forgotten, even by himself. One night he and his family were seated by the fire when suddenly the most horrid shrieks were heard outside the castle walls. All ran out, but saw nothing. Through the night the screams continued, as though the castle were besieged by demons. The unhappy man recognized, in the cry of the Banshee, the voice of the young girl he had murdered. The next night he was assassinated by one of his followers, and again the wild, unearthly screams of the spirit were heard, exulting over his fate. Since that night, the hateful Banshee has never failed to notify the family, with shrill cries of revengeful gladness, when the time of one of their number had arrived.

13. O'Flaherty Drowned by His Own Oath at Derryclare

    near Derryclare Lough · townland · Galway

    A wicked O'Flaherty chief, returning from sending men to devastate a neighbouring village, swore 'May God drownd me where I shtand' if he did not slay on the altar those who had taken refuge in the spared church. The rivulet in the ravine instantly became a torrent that drowned him and his troop, forming Lough Derryclare, where the groans of the lost souls are said to be heard when the lake is still.

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    "May God drownd me where I shtand," said he, "if I don't shlay thim all an the althar," and no doubt he would have done so, but the moment the words passed his lips, the rivulet became a seething torrent, drowned him and his men, and the lake was formed over the spot where they stood when the curse was pronounced. "An' sometimes, they say, that when the lake is quite shtill, ye may hear the groans av the lost sowls chained at the bottom."

    The fairies are responsible for at least two of the Irish lakes, Lough Key and the Upper Lough Killarney. The former is an enlargement of the River Boyle, a tributary of the Shannon, and is situated in Roscommon. At a low stage of water, ruins can be discerned at the bottom of the river, and are reported to be those of a city whose inhabitants injudiciously attempted to swindle the "good people" in a land bargain. The city was built, it seems, by permission of the fairies, the understanding being that all raths were to be left undisturbed. For a long time the agreement was respected, fairies and mortals living side by side, and neither class interfering with the other. But, as the necessity for more arable land became evident, it was determined by the townspeople to level several raths and mounds that interfered with certain fields and boundary lines. The dangers of such a course were plainly pointed out by the local "fairy-man," and all the "knowledgable women" lifted their voices against it, but in vain; down the raths must come and down they came, to the consternation of the knowing ones, who predicted no end of evil from so flagrant a violation of the treaty with the fairies.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 6

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here is the place they call Derryclare Lough. The story tells of a wicked O'Flaherty chief who had been returning from sending men to devastate a neighbouring village. Some people had taken refuge in a church that had been spared, and the chief meant to slay them on the altar. He swore an oath for it. "May God drownd me where I shtand," said he, "if I don't shlay thim all an the althar." He would have done so, no doubt, but the moment the words passed his lips, everything changed. The rivulet in the ravine became a seething torrent. It drowned him and his men, and the lake was formed over the spot where they stood when the curse was pronounced. The water covered them where they were, and the place became Lough Derryclare. And sometimes, they say, that when the lake is quite still, you may hear the groans of the lost souls chained at the bottom. Those who know the story say the groans can be heard when all is silent and the water is calm. The chief had come back from ruin he sent upon others, and his own oath brought ruin upon himself and every man with him. The rivulet that had been nothing became a torrent, and the ground they stood on became a lake, and the lake has kept them ever since.

14. The Angel's Judgment on Shane O'Donovan's Castle at Lough Neagh

    near Lough Neagh · townland · Antrim

    The tyrannical chief Shane O'Donovan refused hospitality to a disguised angel and set his dogs on him, while a poor cobbler took the traveller in. The angel led the villagers to safety and then caused the castle and its sleeping inhabitants to sink beneath the rising waters of Lough Neagh.

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    By chance there came into that part of Ireland an angel who had been sent from heaven to observe the people and note their piety. In the garb and likeness of a man, weary and footsore with travel, the angel spied the castle from the hills above the lake, came down, and boldly applied for a night's lodging. Not only was his request refused, "but the oncivil Shane O'Donovan set an his dogs fur to bite him." The angel turned away, but no sooner had he left the castle gate than the villagers ran 'round him and a contest ensued as to which of them should entertain the traveller. He made his choice, going to the house of a cobbler who was "that poor that he'd but the wan pitatee, and when he wanted another he broke wan in two." The heavenly visitor shared the cobbler's potato and slept on the cobbler's floor, "puttin' his feet into the fire to kape thim warrum," but at daylight he rose, and calling the inhabitants of the village, led them out, across the isthmus to a hill near by, and bid them look back. They did so, beholding the castle and promontory separated from the mainland and beginning to subside into the lake. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the castle sank, while the waters rose around, but stood like a wall on every side of the castle, not wetting a stone from turret to foundation. At length the wall of water was higher than the battlements, the angel waved his hand, the waves rushed over the castle and its sleeping inmates, and the O'Donovan inhospitality was punished. The angel pointed to a spot near by, told the villagers to build and prosper there; then, as the awe-stricken peasants kneeled before him, his clothing became white and shining, wings appeared on his shoulders, he rose into the air and vanished from their sight.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 6

    As the companion tells it

    Close to Lough Neagh, a castle once stood where Shane O'Donovan ruled as chief. An angel came down from heaven into that part of Ireland, sent to observe the people and note their piety. He took the garb and likeness of a man, weary and footsore with travel, and spied the castle from the hills above the lake. He came down and boldly asked for a night's lodging. Not only was his request refused, but Shane O'Donovan set his dogs on him to bite him. The angel turned away. No sooner had he left the castle gate than the villagers ran around him, and a contest ensued as to which of them should entertain the traveller. He chose the house of a cobbler who was so poor he had but one potato, and when he wanted another he broke one in two. The heavenly visitor shared the cobbler's potato and slept on the cobbler's floor, putting his feet into the fire to keep them warm. At daylight he rose, and calling the inhabitants of the village, led them out across the isthmus to a hill near by, and bid them look back. They saw the castle and promontory separated from the mainland and beginning to subside into the lake. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the castle sank, while the waters rose around it, but stood like a wall on every side, not wetting a stone from turret to foundation. At length the wall of water was higher than the battlements. The angel waved his hand, the waves rushed over the castle and its sleeping inmates, and the O'Donovan inhospitality was punished. The angel pointed to a spot near by, told the villagers to build and prosper there. Then, as the awe-stricken peasants kneeled before him, his clothing became white and shining, wings appeared on his shoulders, he rose into the air and vanished from their sight.

15. The Tragic Death of Nora O'Moore and Her Father

    Cashel · townland · Tipperary

    Nora O'Moore, forced by her cruel father to marry a wealthy but dull suitor instead of her true love Paddy O'Sullivan, fled from a lodging house near the Rock of Cashel and drowned in a flooded stream while her father tried to catch her. Both were found dead together the next day and buried in Cormac's Chapel at Cashel.

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    "They laid thim dacintly, wid candles an' all, an' the wake that they had was shuparb, fur the shtory was towld in all the counthry, wid the vartues av Nora; an' the O'Brian's come from Ennis, an' the O'Moore's from Crusheen, an' the Murphy's an' their frinds from Tipperary, an' more from Clonmel. There was a power av atin' an' slathers av dhrink fur thim that wanted it, fur, d'ye mind, thim of Cashel thried fur to show the rale Irish hoshpitality, bekase O'Moore an' Nora were sint there to die an' they thought it was their juty to thrate thim well. An' all the County Clare an' Tipperary was at the berryin', an' they had three keeners, the best that iver was, wan from Ennis, wan from Tipperary, an' wan from Limerick, so that the praises av Nora wint on day an' night till the berryin' was done. An' they made Nora's grave in Cormac's Chapel just in front o' the Archbishop's tomb in the wall an' berried her first, an' tuk O'Moore as far from her as they cud get him, an' put his grave as clost be the wall as they cud go fur the shtones an' jist ferninst the big gate on the left hand side, an' berried him last, an' sorra the good word they had fur him aither.

    "Poor Paddy wint nayther to the wake nor to the berryin', fur afther they towld him the news, he sat as wan in a dhrame, no more cud they rouse him. He'd go to his work very quite, an' niver shpake a word. An' so it was, about a fortnight afther, he says to his mother, says he, 'Mother I seen Nora last night an' she stood be me side an' laid her hand on me brow, an' says "Come to Cashel, Paddy dear, an' be wid me."' An' his mother was frighted entirely, for she parsaved he was wrong in his head. She thried to aise his mind, but the next night he disappared. They folly'd him to Cashel, but he dodged an' kept from thim complately whin they come an' so they left him. In the day he'd hide an' slape, an' afther night, Nora's sper't 'ud mate him an' walk wid him up an' down the shtones av the Chapel an' undher the arches av the Cathaydral, an' he cared fur her grave, an' bekase she was berried there, fur the graves av all thim that shlept on the Rock. No more had he any frinds, but thim o' Cashel 'ud lave pitaties an' bread where he'd see it an' so he lived. Fur sixty wan years was he on the Rock an' never left it, but he'd sometimes show himself in the day whin there was a berryin', an' say, 'Ye've brought me another frind,' an' help in the work, an' never was there a graveyard kept like that o' Cashel.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 3

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here is where Nora O'Moore and her father met their end. Her father forced her toward a wealthy suitor instead of the man she loved, Paddy O'Sullivan, and she fled from a lodging house near the Rock of Cashel. She drowned in a flooded stream while her father tried to catch her, and both were found dead the next day. They were buried in Cormac's Chapel, Nora in front of the Archbishop's tomb, her father placed as far from her as they could get him, close by the wall. Sorra the good word they had for him either. The wake was grand, with people coming from Ennis, Crusheen, Tipperary and Clonmel, and three keeners from Ennis, Tipperary and Limerick sang Nora's praises day and night. Paddy never went to the wake or the burial. He sat like a man in a dream, and would not speak. About a fortnight later he told his mother he had seen Nora, and she had said, 'Come to Cashel, Paddy dear, and be with me.' He vanished the next night, and they followed him to Cashel but could not find him. For 61 years he lived on the Rock, hiding by day, walking with Nora's spirit among the stones of the Chapel and the arches of the Cathedral by night. He cared for her grave and for all the graves on the Rock. The people of Cashel would leave potatoes and bread where he would find them. When there was a burial he would show himself and say, 'Ye've brought me another friend,' and help with the work, and never was there a graveyard kept like that of Cashel.

16. Banshee Chorus over the Boyne Camp

    Oldbridge · townland · Meath · 1690

    On the night before the battle of the Boyne, several Banshees were heard singing in the air above the Irish camp. Their prophecy of death was verified by the death-roll of the following day's battle.

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    The prophetic spirit does not follow members of a family who go to a foreign land, but should death overtake them abroad, she gives notice of the misfortune to those at home. When the Duke of Wellington died, the Banshee was heard wailing round the house of his ancestors, and during the Napoleonic campaigns, she frequently notified Irish families of the death in battle of Irish officers and soldiers. The night before the battle of the Boyne several Banshees were heard singing in the air over the Irish camp, the truth of their prophecy being verified by the death-roll of the next day.

    How the Banshee is able to obtain early and accurate information from foreign parts of the death in battle of Irish soldiers is yet undecided in Hibernian mystical circles. Some believe that there are, in addition to the two kinds already mentioned, "silent Banshees," who act as attendants to the members of old families, one to each member; that these silent spirits follow and observe, bringing back intelligence to the family Banshee at home, who then, at the proper seasons, sings her dolorous strain. A partial confirmation of this theory is seen in the fact that the Banshee has given notice at the family seat in Ireland of deaths in battles fought in every part of the world. From North America, the West Indies, Africa, Australia, India, China; from every point to which Irish regiments have followed the roll of the British drums, news of the prospective shedding of Irish blood has been brought home, and the slaughter preceded by a Banshee wail outside the ancestral windows. But it is due to the reader to state, that this silent Banshee theory is by no means well or generally received, the burden of evidence going to show that there are only two kinds of Banshees, and that, in a supernatural way, they know the immediate future of those in whom they are interested, not being obliged to leave Ireland for the purpose of obtaining their information.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 8

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Oldbridge, on the night before the Battle of the Boyne in 1690, several Banshees were heard singing in the air above the Irish camp. The truth of their prophecy was verified by the death-roll of the following day. The Banshee is said to give notice of death to old families, and during the Napoleonic campaigns she frequently notified Irish families when their officers and soldiers fell in battle. When the Duke of Wellington died, the Banshee was heard wailing round the house of his ancestors. How the Banshee obtains early and accurate news of Irish deaths in foreign parts remains undecided in what the book calls Hibernian mystical circles. Some hold that there are silent Banshees, one attending each member of a family, who follow and observe abroad and bring back intelligence to the family Banshee at home, who then sings her dolorous strain. The theory draws support from the fact that Banshee wails have preceded news of Irish deaths in battles fought in North America, the West Indies, Africa, Australia, India, and China. But this theory is not well or generally received, the burden of evidence going to show that there are only two kinds of Banshees, and that in a supernatural way they know the immediate future of those they watch over, without needing to leave Ireland.

17. Burthey's death-leap from the Lovers' Leap

    near Giant's Causeway · townland · Antrim

    In the fisherman's telling of the Gray Man legend, the jilted giantess Burthey O'Ghallaghy pined after Finn rejected her, and on learning he was leaving Ireland she leapt from the cliff into the sea and drowned. Fishermen recovered and buried her body, and the precipice near the Giant's Causeway has been called the Lovers' Leap ever since.

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    "But poor Burthey pined wid shame an' grief at the loss av him, for she loved him wid all the heart she had, an' that was purty big. So she fell aff her weight, till from the size av a hogs'ead she got no bigger round than a barrel an' was like to die. But all the time she kept on hopin' that he'd come to her, but whin she heard for sartain he was goin' to lave the counthry she let go an' jumped aff that clift into the say an' committed shooicide an' drownded herself. She wasn't turned into a pillar at all, that's wan o' thim guides' lies; she just drownded like annybody that fell into the wather would, an' was found afther an' berrid be the fishermen, an' a hard job av it they had, for she weighed a ton. But they called the place the Lovers' Lape, bekase she jumped from it, an' lovin' Finn the way she did, the lape she tuk made the place be called afther her an' that's razon enough.

    "Finn was showbogher enough afore, but afther that he seen it was no use thryin' for to live in Ireland at all, so he got the barmaid, that was aiquel to goin' wid him, the more that ivery wan was agin him, that's beway o' the conthrariness av wimmin, that are always ready for to do annything ye don't want thim to do, an' wint to Scotland an' wasn't heard av for a long time.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 12

    As the companion tells it

    Close to Giant's Causeway there is a precipice that fishermen have long called the Lovers' Leap. The name comes from the story of Burthey O'Ghallaghy, a giantess who loved Finn. When Finn rejected her, she pined with shame and grief. She loved him with all the heart she had, and that was pretty big. She fell off her weight, shrinking from the size of a hogshead to no bigger round than a barrel, and was like to die. All the while she kept hoping he would come back to her. But when she heard for certain he was going to leave the country, she let go and jumped off that cliff into the sea and drowned. The fishermen found her after and buried her, and a hard job of it they had, for she weighed a ton. The place was called the Lovers' Leap because she jumped from it, and loving Finn the way she did, the leap she took made the place be called after her. After that Finn saw it was no use trying to live in Ireland at all, so he went to Scotland and was not heard of for a long time.

18. The Sudden Appearance of the Enchanted Island off Ballycotton

    Ballycotton · townland · Cork · 1878

    On July 7, 1878, the fishermen of Ballycotton were astonished to see a rugged, wooded island appear far out at sea where they knew none existed. As boats approached to investigate, the island grew dim and vanished entirely, convincing the villagers they had seen the legendary Enchanted Island.

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    On the afternoon of Sunday, July 7, 1878, the inhabitants of Ballycotton, County Cork, were greatly excited by the sudden appearance, far out at sea, of an island where none was known to exist. The men of the town and island of Ballycotton were fishermen and knew the sea as well as they knew the land. The day before, they had been out in their boats and sailed over the spot where the strange island now appeared, and were certain that the locality was the best fishing-ground they had.

    "And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew," for the day was clear and the island could be seen as plainly as they saw the hills to the north. It was rugged, in some parts rocky, in others densely wooded; here and there were deep shadows in its sides indicating glens heavily covered with undergrowth and grasses. At one end it rose almost precipitously from the sea; at the other, the declivity was gradual; the thick forest of the mountainous portion gave way to smaller trees, these to shrubs; these to green meadows that finally melted into the sea and became indistinguishable from the waves.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 5

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here, on the afternoon of Sunday, July 7, 1878, the fishermen of Ballycotton saw something they could not explain. Far out at sea, an island appeared where none was known to exist. These were men who knew the sea as well as they knew the land. The day before, they had sailed over the very spot where the strange island now rose, and they were certain it was their best fishing ground. The day was clear and the island could be seen as plainly as the hills to the north. It was rugged, rocky in parts, densely wooded in others. Deep shadows marked glens heavy with undergrowth and grasses. One end rose almost precipitously from the sea. At the other, the slope was gradual: thick forest gave way to smaller trees, then to shrubs, then to green meadows that melted into the waves and became indistinguishable from the sea. As boats approached, the island grew dim and vanished, and the villagers believed they had seen the legendary Enchanted Island.

19. Saint Kevin Gives the Devil His Cloven Hoof

    Glendalough · townland · Wicklow

    Legend tells that Saint Kevin caught the Devil trespassing on consecrated ground beside his church at Glendalough after a cow kicked the saint while he milked her. Kevin threw the Devil down, unscrewed his left leg at the knee, and screwed the cow's hind leg in its place, so that Satan is lame and must show his cloven foot to everyone he meets. The new leg kicked a hole in a stone as the Devil fled, and Kevin made the stone into the cross still shown in the graveyard.

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    "Well, the divil made a break fur to run, bekase he wanted no more benedictions from the toes o' Saint Kevin, but not bein' used to his new leg, the very foorst shtep he made wid it, it kicked out behind agin this shtone, that wasn't a crass at all then, an' made this hole that ye see, an' Saint Kevin tuk the shtone an' made a crass av it aftherwards. But the divil didn't shtop at all when the leg wudn't go fur him, fur he seen the blessed saint comin', a-wavin' his fut about, so he rowled over an' over till he got to the wall, then made a shpring an it an' out av sight like a ghost.

    [Illustration: "An' so he's lame, an' must show his cloven fut"]

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 4

    As the companion tells it

    Close to Glendalough, Saint Kevin caught the Devil on consecrated ground beside his church. A cow had kicked the saint while he milked her. Kevin threw the Devil down, unscrewed his left leg at the knee, and screwed the cow's hind leg in its place. That is why Satan is lame and must show his cloven foot to everyone. The Devil ran, not wanting more benedictions from Saint Kevin's toes. But not being used to his new leg, the first step kicked out behind against a stone that wasn't a cross then, and made the hole you can still see. Kevin took the stone and made a cross of it. The Devil rolled over and over to the wall, sprang on it and out of sight like a ghost.

20. The Devil's Dam that Made Lough Ree

    near Lough Ree · townland · Westmeath

    A boatman's tale relates that after Saint Patrick converted the peat-diggers near Athlone and left the priest Caruck among them, the devil dammed the stream by night to flood the bog and drown out the new church. Caruck caught Satan at the work, kept the dam that formed Lough Ree, and forced the devil to carry out all the turf as punishment.

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    "But the divil was watchin' him ivery minnit, fur it made the owld felly tarin' mad to see himself bate out o' the face that-a-way in the counthry where he'd been masther so long, an' he detarmined he'd spile the job. So wan night, he goes to the bottom o' the bog, an' begins dammin' the shtrame, from wan side to the other, layin' the shtones shtrong an' tight, an' the wather begins a risin' an the bog. Now it happened that the blessed Caruck wasn't aslape as Satan thought, but up an' about, for he misthrusted that the Owld Wan was dodgin' round like a wayzel, an' was an the watch fur him. So when the blessed man saw the wather risin' on the bog an' not a taste o' rain fallin', 'Phat's this?' says he. 'Sure it's some o' Satan's deludherin'.'

    "So down he goes bechuxt the hills an' kapin' from the river, an' comes up below where the divil was workin' away pilin' on the airth an' shtones. So he comes craipin' up on him an' when he got purty clost, he riz an' says, 'Hilloo, Nayber!' Now Belzebub was like to dhrop on the ground wid fright at the look av him, he was that astonished. But there was no gettin' away, so he shtopped on the job, wiped the shweat aff his face, an' says, 'Hilloo yerself.'

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 6

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Lough Ree, there's a story about how this lake came to be. Saint Patrick had converted the peat-diggers near Athlone and left the priest Caruck among them. The devil was watching every minute, furious at being driven out of a country where he'd been master so long. One night he went to the bottom of the bog and began damming the stream from one side to the other, laying stones strong and tight, to flood the bog and drown out the new church. The water began rising on the bog. Caruck wasn't asleep as Satan thought. He was up and about, suspicious that the Old One was dodging round like a weasel. When he saw the water rising with no rain falling, he said, "What's this? Sure it's some of Satan's deludherin'." He went down between the hills, keeping from the river, and came up below where the devil was piling on earth and stones. He crept up close, rose, and said, "Hilloo, Nayber!" Beelzebub nearly dropped to the ground with fright, he was that astonished. But there was no getting away. He stayed on the job, wiped the sweat off his face, and said, "Hilloo yerself." Caruck kept the dam that formed Lough Ree, and forced the devil to carry out all the turf as punishment.

21. The Drowned Village Beneath Lough Allen

    near Lough Allen · townland · Leitrim

    A village near Lough Allen had a fairy-guarded fountain that had to be kept covered, but a distracted bride-to-be left the cover open while talking with her lover. A resistless flood burst forth and submerged the entire village, drowning all but the girl and her lover.

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    The latter objected, urging the edict of the head man already mentioned, but was overcome, partly by her mother's argument, that "the good people know ye're the same as married now that the banns are cried," but principally by the more potent consideration, "Av ye havn't that wather here in a wink, I'll not lave a whole bone in yer body, ye lazy young shtrap, an' me breaking me back wid the work," she took the bucket and proceeded to the fountain with the determination to get the water and "shlip out agin afore the good people 'ud find her out." Had she adhered to this resolution, all would have been well, as the fairies would have doubtless overlooked this infraction of the city ordinance. But as she was filling the pail, her lover came in. Of course the two at once began to talk of the all-important subject, and having never before taken water from the fountain, she turned away, forgetting to close the cover of the well. In an instant, a stream, resistless in force, burst forth, and though all the married women of the town ran to put down the cover, their efforts were in vain, the flood grew mightier, the village was submerged, and, with two exceptions, all the inhabitants were drowned. The girl and her lover violated poetic justice by escaping; for, seeing the mischief they had done, they were the first to run away, witnessed the destruction of the town from a neighboring hill, and were afterwards married, the narrator of this incident coming to the sensible conclusion that "it was too bad entirely that the wans that got away were the wans that, be rights, ought to be droonded first."

    Upper Lough Erne has a legend, in all important particulars identical with that of Lough Allen, the catastrophe being, however, in the former case brought about by the carelessness of a woman who left her baby at home when she went after water and hearing it scream, "as aven the best babies do be doin', God bless 'em, for no betther rayson than to lishen at thimselves," she hurried back, forgetting to cover the well, with a consequent calamity like that which followed similar forgetfulness at Lough Allen.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 6

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here lies a drowned village beneath the waters of Lough Allen. The village had a fountain, and the fountain had a rule kept by the good people: the cover must always be closed after drawing water. No one was to leave it open. A young woman, betrothed, with her banns already cried, was sent to fetch water from that fountain. Her mother pressed her hard, threatening her if she did not hurry, arguing that the good people would overlook it now that she was the same as married. So the girl took the bucket and set out, meaning to get the water and slip away before the fairies found her out. Had she stuck to that plan, all would have been well. But as she was filling the pail, her lover came along. The two fell to talking, and she turned away, forgetting to close the cover of the well. In an instant a stream burst forth, resistless in force. All the married women of the town ran to put the cover back down, but their efforts were in vain. The flood grew mightier, the village was submerged, and with two exceptions every inhabitant was drowned. The girl and her lover escaped. Seeing the mischief they had done, they were the first to run. They watched the destruction of the town from a neighbouring hill and were afterwards married. The one who told this story came to a sensible conclusion: it was too bad entirely that the ones that got away were the ones that by rights ought to have been drowned first. Upper Lough Erne carries the same legend, though there a woman left her baby at home and forgot the cover when she hurried back to it.

22. The Fairies' Revenge for the Broken Raths at Lough Key

    near Lough Key · townland · Roscommon

    Townspeople near Lough Key violated an ancient agreement with the fairies by levelling protected raths for farmland, despite warnings from the local fairy-man. That night the fairies built a wall across the glen and flooded the city, drowning every soul within it.

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    The night after the demolition of the raths, one of the towns-men was coming through the gorge below the city, when, "Millia, murther, there wor more than a hundherd t'ousand little men in grane jackets bringin' shtones an' airth an' buildin' a wall acrass the glen. Begob, I go bail but he was the skairt man when he seen phat they done, an' run home wid all the legs he had an' got his owld woman an' the childher. When she axed him phat he was afther, he towld her to howld her whisht or he'd pull the tongue out av her an' to come along an' not spake a word. So they got to the top o' the hill an' then they seen the wathers swapin' an the city an' niver a sowl was there left o' thim that wor in it. So the good people had their rayvinge, an' the like o' that makes men careful wid raths, not to displaze their betthers, for there's no sayin' phat they'll do."

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 6

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here at Lough Key, the fairies took their revenge for broken raths. People had levelled the ancient raths for farmland, against an old agreement, and the night after that demolition, one of the townsmen was coming through the gorge below the city. He saw more than a hundred thousand little men in green jackets bringing stones and earth and building a wall across the glen. He was the frightened man when he saw what they had done. He ran home with all the legs he had and got his old woman and the children. When she asked him what he was after, he told her to hold her whisht or he would pull the tongue out of her, and to come along and not speak a word. They got to the top of the hill and then they saw the waters sweeping over the city, and never a soul was left of them that were in it. The good people had their revenge, and the like of that makes men careful with raths.

23. The Sinful Abbot of Clare Abbey

    Clareabbey · townland · Clare

    In the Abbey of Clare the ghost of a sinful abbot walks the aisles of the ruined nave. He must continue his tireless march, unceasingly muttering prayers, until his sin has been atoned for.

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    In some parts of Ireland there exists a belief that the spirits of the dead are not taken from earth, nor do they lose all their former interest in earthly affairs, but enjoy the happiness of the saved, or suffer the punishment imposed for their sins, in the neighborhood of the scenes among which they lived while clothed in flesh and blood. At particular crises in the affairs of mortals, these disenthralled spirits sometimes display joy or grief in such a manner as to attract the attention of living men and women. At weddings they are frequently unseen guests; at funerals they are always present; and sometimes, at both weddings and funerals, their presence is recognized by aerial voices or mysterious music known to be of unearthly origin. The spirits of the good wander with the living as guardian angels, but the spirits of the bad are restrained in their action, and compelled to do penance at or near the places where their crimes were committed. Some are chained at the bottoms of the lakes, others buried under ground, others confined in mountain gorges; some hang on the sides of precipices, others are transfixed on the tree-tops, while others haunt the homes of their ancestors, all waiting till the penance has been endured and the hour of release arrives. The Castle of Dunseverick, in Antrim, is believed to be still inhabited by the spirit of a chief, who there atones for a horrid crime, while the castles of Dunluce, of Magrath, and many others are similarly peopled by the wicked dead. In the Abbey of Clare, the ghost of a sinful abbot walks and will continue to do so until his sin has been atoned for by the prayers he unceasingly mutters in his tireless march up and down the aisles of the ruined nave.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 8

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here is the Abbey of Clare, where the ghost of a sinful abbot walks and will continue to do so until his sin has been atoned for by the prayers he unceasingly mutters in his tireless march up and down the aisles of the ruined nave. In parts of Ireland, there is a belief that the spirits of the dead are not taken from the earth. They do not lose all their former interest in earthly affairs. The saved enjoy their happiness, and the sinful suffer their punishment, in the neighborhoods of the scenes where they lived while clothed in flesh and blood. The spirits of the good wander with the living as guardian angels. But the spirits of the bad are restrained in their action and compelled to do penance at or near the places where their crimes were committed. Some are chained at the bottoms of lakes, others buried underground, others confined in mountain gorges. Some hang on the sides of precipices, others are transfixed on the tree-tops, while others haunt the homes of their ancestors. All are waiting till the penance has been endured and the hour of release arrives. At particular crises in the affairs of mortals, these spirits sometimes display joy or grief in a manner that attracts the attention of living men and women. At weddings they are frequently unseen guests. At funerals they are always present. Sometimes their presence is recognized by aerial voices or mysterious music known to be of unearthly origin. The Castle of Dunseverick in Antrim is believed to be still inhabited by the spirit of a chief who there atones for a horrid crime. The castles of Dunluce, of Magrath, and many others are similarly peopled by the wicked dead.

24. The Gray Man, omen of calamity, and his vanishing isle

    near Giant's Causeway · townland · Antrim

    Off the coast near the Giant's Causeway lies the Gray Man's Isle, said to appear only once in seventeen years, inhabited by the ghostly Gray Man. He is never seen except on the eve of some awful calamity, and the cleft called the Gray Man's Path is said to be his route ashore.

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    Some distance from the mainland is found the Ladies' Wishing Chair, composed of blocks in the Great Causeway, wishes made while seated here being certain of realization. To the west of the Wishing Chair a solitary pillar rises from the sea, the "Gray Man's Love." Look to the mainland, and the mountain presents a deep, narrow cleft, with perpendicular sides, the "Gray Man's Path." Out in the sea, but unfortunately not often in sight, is the "Gray Man's Isle," at present inhabited only by the Gray Man himself. As the island, however, appears but once in seventeen years, and the Gray Man is never seen save on the eve of some awful calamity, visitors to the Causeway have a very slight chance of seeing either island or man. There can be no doubt though of the existence of both, for everybody knows he was one of the greatest of the giants during his natural lifetime, nor could any better evidence be asked than the facts that his sweet-heart, turned into stone, still stands in sight of the Causeway; the precipice, from which she flung herself into the sea, is still known by the name of the "Lovers' Leap;" and the path he made through the mountain is still used by him when he leaves his island and comes on shore.

    It is not surprising that so important a personage as the Gray Man should be the central figure of many legends, and indeed over him the story-makers seem to have had vigorous competition, for thirty or forty narratives are current in the neighborhood concerning him and the principal events of his life. So great a collection of legendary lore on one topic rendered the choice of a single tradition which should fairly cover the subject a matter of no little difficulty. As sometimes happens in grave undertakings, the issue was determined by accident. A chance boat excursion led to the acquaintance of Mr. Barney O'Toole, a fisherman, and conversation developed the fact that this gentleman was thoroughly posted in the local legends, and was also the possessor of a critical faculty which enabled him to differentiate between the probable and the improbable, and thus to settle the historical value of a tradition. In his way, he was also a philosopher, having evidently given much thought to social issues, and expressing his conclusions thereupon with the ease and freedom of a master mind.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 12

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Giant's Causeway, out in the sea, lies an island that is not often in sight. It appears but once in seventeen years, and it is inhabited only by the Gray Man himself. He is never seen save on the eve of some awful calamity, so visitors to the Causeway have a very slight chance of seeing either the island or the man. There can be no doubt of the existence of both, for everybody knows he was one of the greatest of the giants during his natural lifetime. His sweetheart, turned into stone, still stands in sight of the Causeway, a solitary pillar rising from the sea, known as the Gray Man's Love. The precipice from which she flung herself into the sea is still known by the name of the Lovers' Leap. And the path he made through the mountain, a deep narrow cleft with perpendicular sides, is still called the Gray Man's Path. He uses it when he leaves his island and comes on shore. The Gray Man is the central figure of many legends. Thirty or forty narratives are current in the neighbourhood concerning him and the principal events of his life. So great a collection of legendary lore on one topic made the choice of a single tradition a matter of no little difficulty. The issue was determined by accident. A chance boat excursion led to the acquaintance of Mr. Barney O'Toole, a fisherman, who was thoroughly posted in the local legends. He also possessed a critical faculty which enabled him to differentiate between the probable and the improbable, and thus to settle the historical value of a tradition. In his way, he was also a philosopher, having given much thought to social issues, and expressing his conclusions with the ease and freedom of a master mind.

25. Saint Kevin Banishes Ireland's Last Serpent at Glendalough

    Glendalough · townland · Wicklow

    The storyteller relates that Saint Kevin rid the country of the very last serpent left after Saint Patrick had driven the rest into the sea. Meeting the beast while walking in the hills, Kevin took it home, got it drunk, nailed it into a box, and flung it into the sea, where it is said to remain.

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    "'Twas he too that put out o' the counthry the very last sarpint that was left in it, afther Saint Patrick had druv the rest into the say, fur he met the baste wan day as he was walkin' in the hills and tuk him home wid him to give him the bit an' sup, an' the sarpint got as dhrunk as a piper, so Saint Kevin put him in a box an' nailed it up an' flung it into the say, where it is to this blessed day.

    "But 'tis my belafe that the besht job o' work he ever done was markin' the divil so if you'd meet him an the road, you'd know in a minnit that it was himself an' no other that was in it, an' so make ready, aither fur to run away from him, or to fight him wid prayin' as fast as ye cud, bekase, ye see, it's no use fur to shtrive wid him any other way, seein' that no waypon can make the laste dint on his carkidge.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 4

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Glendalough, they tell the story of Saint Kevin and the last serpent in Ireland. Saint Patrick had already driven the serpents into the sea, but one remained. Kevin met the beast one day walking in the hills and took it home to give it food and drink. The serpent got as drunk as a piper. So Kevin put him in a box, nailed it shut, and flung it into the sea, where it is to this day. But they say the best work Kevin ever did was marking the devil, so that if you met him on the road, you would know in a minute it was himself and no other. Then you could make ready, either to run away or to fight him with praying as fast as you could, because no weapon can make the least dint on his carcass.

26. The Demon-Built Tower of Glendalough

    Glendalough · townland · Wicklow

    According to legend, the round tower at Glendalough was constructed by a demon compelled to labor under the command of Saint Kevin, who outwitted the devil by sealing the roof with his own bishop's cap turned to stone.

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    The Tower Ardpatrick was, according to tradition, built under the auspices of Ireland's great saint, while the high tower on the Rock of Cashel is attributed, by the same authority, to Cormac Macarthy, king and archbishop of Cashel, who, being once engaged in hostilities with a neighboring potentate, needed a watch-tower, so summoned all his people, built the tower in one night, and, at sunrise, was able by its help to ascertain the location of the opposing army and so give it an overwhelming defeat. The Glendalough Tower was built by a demon at the command of Saint Kevin. This saint had conspicuously routed Satan on a previous occasion; so the arch-fiend and all the well-informed of his subjects kept at a safe distance from Glendalough, not caring to take any risks with so doughty a spiritual champion as Saint Kevin had proved himself to be in more than one encounter.

    "But there was wan snakin' vagabone av a divil that come from furrin parts an' hadn't heard the news about the saint, and the blessed saint caught him wan avenin' an' set him to work to build that tower. So the black rogue wint at it as hard as he knew how, an' was workin' away wid all the hands he had, as busy as a barmaid at a fair, thinkin' that afore sunrise he'd have it so high it 'ud fall down be itself an' do the blessed saint not a ha'porth av good. But afther batin' owld Satan himself, Saint Kevin wasn't to be deludhered be wan av his undershtrappers, an' was watchin' wid his two eyes every minnit o' the time, so whin the divil had the tower high enough, he threw his bishop's cap at it, an' it become shtone an' made the roof, so the omadhawn divil was baten at his own game."

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 9

    As the companion tells it

    The round tower somewhere around here has a strange story behind it. Tradition says other round towers in Ireland had human builders. The one at Ardpatrick was built under Ireland's great saint. The high tower on the Rock of Cashel was put up by Cormac Macarthy, king and archbishop of Cashel, who needed a watch-tower during hostilities with a neighbouring potentate. He summoned all his people, built the tower in one night, and at sunrise used it to find the opposing army and give it an overwhelming defeat. But this tower was built by a demon, at the command of Saint Kevin. The saint had already routed Satan on a previous occasion, and the arch-fiend and all the well-informed of his subjects kept at a safe distance, not wanting to risk another encounter with so proven a spiritual champion. Then one evening a vagabond of a devil came from foreign parts, not having heard the news about the saint. Saint Kevin caught him and set him to work building the tower. The devil went at it as hard as he could, working with all the hands he had, thinking that before sunrise he would have it so high it would fall down by itself and do the saint no good at all. But having beaten old Satan himself, Saint Kevin was not to be fooled by one of his underlings. He watched every minute, and when the devil had the tower high enough, the saint threw his bishop's cap at it, and it became stone and made the roof. The devil was beaten at his own game.

27. Dennis O'Rourke's Terrifying Ride

    near Corkscrew Hill · townland · Clare

    Dennis O'Rourke, drunk and exhausted after a fair in Galway, fell in a ditch near a rath and was found by the tamed Pooka, who forced him onto its back for a terrifying ride across mountains and sea before returning him to the same ditch. He was found unable to walk for a fortnight afterward from the ordeal.

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    "Poor Dennis thried, but he cudn't, so the Pooka tuk him to the wall an' give him a lift an it, an' whin Dennis was mounted, an' had a tight howld on the mane, the first lep he give was down the rock there, a thousand feet into the field ye see, thin up agin, an' over the mountain, an' into the say, an' out agin, from the top av the waves to the top av the mountain, an' afther the poor soggarth av a ditcher was nigh onto dead, the Pooka come back here wid him an' dhropped him in the ditch where he found him, an' blowed in his face to put him to slape, so lavin' him. An' they found Dennis in the mornin' an' carried him home, no more cud he walk for a fortnight be razon av the wakeness av his bones fur the ride he'd had.

    "But sure, the Pooka's a different baste entirely to phat he was afore King Bryan-Boru tamed him. Niver heard av him? Well, he was the king av Munster an' all Ireland an' tamed the Pooka wanst fur all on the Corkschrew Hill ferninst ye.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 2

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Corkscrew Hill is a story about Dennis O'Rourke. Dennis was a ditcher, and after a fair in Galway he was drunk and exhausted. He fell into a ditch near a rath, and that is where the Pooka found him. Dennis could not mount on his own, so the Pooka brought him to a wall and gave him a lift. Once he had a tight hold on the mane, the first leap was down the rock, a thousand feet into the field below. Then up again, over the mountain, into the sea, and out again, from the top of the waves to the top of the mountain. Dennis was nearly dead. The Pooka brought him back and dropped him in the same ditch where it found him. It blew in his face to put him to sleep and left him. They found Dennis in the morning and carried him home. He could not walk for a fortnight from the weakness in his bones after the ride he had endured. This Pooka was not what it once was. King Bryan-Boru, king of Munster and all Ireland, had tamed it once and for all on the hill.

28. The Chorus of Banshees at the O'Flaherty Mansion

    Galway · townland · Galway

    A beloved lady of the O'Flaherty family fell ill at the family mansion near Galway with what seemed a minor cold. While friends visited her, a chorus of Banshees was heard singing, and she soon died of pleurisy, the spirits singing again as she passed.

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    The wail most frequently comes at night, although cases are cited of Banshees singing during the daytime, and the song is often inaudible to all save the one for whom the warning is intended. This, however, is not general, the death notice being for the family rather than for the doomed individual. The spirit is generally alone, though rarely several are heard singing in chorus. A lady of the O'Flaherty family, greatly beloved for her social qualities, benevolence, and piety, was, some years ago, taken ill at the family mansion near Galway, though no uneasiness was felt on her account, as her ailment seemed nothing more than a slight cold. After she had remained in-doors for a day or two several of her acquaintances came to her room to enliven her imprisonment, and while the little party were merrily chatting, strange sounds were heard, and all trembled and turned pale as they recognized the singing of a chorus of Banshees. The lady's ailment developed into pleurisy, and she died in a few days, the chorus being again heard in a sweet, plaintive requiem as the spirit was leaving her body. The honor of being warned by more than one Banshee is, however, very great, and comes only to the purest of the pure.

    The "hateful Banshee" is much dreaded by members of a family against which she has enmity. A noble Irish family, whose name is still familiar in Mayo, is attended by a Banshee of this description. This Banshee is the spirit of a young girl deceived and afterwards murdered by a former head of the family. With her dying breath she cursed her murderer, and promised she would attend him and his forever. Many years passed, the chieftain reformed his ways, and his youthful crime was almost forgotten even by himself, when, one night, he and his family were seated by the fire, and suddenly the most horrid shrieks were heard outside the castle walls. All ran out, but saw nothing. During the night the screams continued as though the castle were besieged by demons, and the unhappy man recognized, in the cry of the Banshee, the voice of the young girl he had murdered. The next night he was assassinated by one of his followers, when again the wild, unearthly screams of the spirit were heard, exulting over his fate. Since that night, the "hateful Banshee" has never failed to notify the family, with shrill cries of revengeful gladness, when the time of one of their number had arrived.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 8

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Galway stood the O'Flaherty family mansion. A lady of the O'Flaherty family, greatly beloved for her social qualities, benevolence, and piety, fell ill some years ago. No uneasiness was felt at first, for her ailment seemed nothing more than a slight cold. She stayed indoors for a day or two, and then several of her acquaintances came to her room to enliven her imprisonment. While the little party were merrily chatting, strange sounds were heard. All trembled and turned pale as they recognized the singing of a chorus of Banshees. The wail most frequently comes at night, though cases are cited of Banshees singing during the daytime. The song is often inaudible to all save the one for whom the warning is intended, but this is not general, the death notice being for the family rather than for the doomed individual. The spirit is generally alone, though rarely several are heard singing in chorus. The lady's ailment developed into pleurisy, and she died in a few days. The chorus was heard again, a sweet, plaintive requiem, as the spirit was leaving her body. The honor of being warned by more than one Banshee is very great, and comes only to the purest of the pure.

29. The Fairy Queen Floods O'Donohue's Wedding at Killarney

    Killarney · townland · Kerry

    The Upper Lake at Killarney is said to have been created by the fairy queen of Kerry to punish her faithless lover, Prince O'Donohue, who abandoned her to marry another. On his wedding night she flooded his castle during the feast, and he escaped only just in time before the castle filled with water.

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    The Upper Killarney lake was created by the fairy queen of Kerry to punish her lover, the young Prince O'Donohue. She was greatly fascinated by him, and, for a time, he was as devoted to her as woman's heart could wish. But things changed, for, in the language of the boatman, who told the legend, "whin a woman loves a man, she's satisfied wid wan, but whin a man loves a woman, belike he's not contint wid twinty av her, an' so was it wid O'Donohue." No doubt, however, he loved the fairy queen as long as he could, but in time tiring of her, "he concluded to marry a foine lady, and when the quane rayproached him wid forgittin' her, at first he said it wasn't so, an' whin she proved it an him, faith he'd not a word left in his jaw. So afther a dale o' blasthogue bechuxt thim, he got as mad as Paddy Monagan's dog when they cut his tail aff, an' towld her he wanted no more av her, an' she towld him agin for to go an' marry his red-headed gurrul, 'but mark ye,' says she to him, 'ye shall niver resave her into yer cassel.' No more did he, for the night o' the weddin', while they were all dhrinkin' till they were ready to burst, in comes the waither an' says, 'Here's the wather,' says he. 'Wather,' says O'Donohue, 'we want no wather to-night. Dhrink away.' 'But the wather's risin',' says the waither. 'Arrah, ye Bladdherang,' says O'Donohue, 'phat d' ye mane be inthrudin' an agrayble frinds an such an outspishus occasion wid yer presince? Be aff, or be the powdhers o' war I'll wather ye,' says he, risin' up for to shlay the waither. But wan av his gintlemin whuspered the thruth in his year an' towld him to run. So he did an' got away just in time, for the cassel was half full o' wather whin he left it. But the quane didn't want to kill him, so he got away an' built another cassel an the hill beyant where he lived wid his bride."

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 6

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here, the Upper Lake at Killarney has a story behind it. The fairy queen of Kerry created it to punish her lover, the young Prince O'Donohue. She was greatly fascinated by him, and for a time he was as devoted to her as any woman could wish. But things changed. In the words of the boatman who told the legend, when a woman loves a man she's satisfied with one, but when a man loves a woman, he's not content with twenty of her, and so it was with O'Donohue. He loved the fairy queen as long as he could, but in time he tired of her and concluded to marry a fine lady. When the queen reproached him with forgetting her, at first he said it wasn't so, and when she proved it on him, he had not a word left. After a deal of argument between them, he got as mad as could be and told her he wanted no more of her. She told him to go and marry his red-headed girl, but said to him, you shall never receive her into your castle. And he never did, for the night of the wedding, while they were all drinking till they were ready to burst, in comes the waiter and says, here's the water. O'Donohue said they wanted no water that night and told him to drink away. But the waiter said the water was rising. O'Donohue called him a blatherer and asked what he meant intruding on agreeable friends on such an occasion, and threatened to water him himself. But one of his gentlemen whispered the truth in his ear and told him to run. He did, and got away just in time, for the castle was half full of water when he left it. The queen didn't want to kill him, so he got away and built another castle on the hill beyond, where he lived with his bride.

30. The Pooka's One-Jump Ride Across Ireland from Gort

    Gort · townland · Galway

    Tim O'Bryan was carried off by the Pooka, a fiery-eyed spectral black horse, which leaped from Gort to Athlone in a single bound, then on to Mullingar and Dublin, returning by way of Kilkenny and Limerick. The creature spoke to him like a mortal, which is how he knew it was the Pooka.

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    "'Tis the Pooka's Path they call it," said the car-man. "Phat's the Pooka? Well, that's not aisy to say. It's an avil sper't that does be always in mischief, but sure it niver does sarious harrum axceptin' to thim that desarves it, or thim that shpakes av it disrespictful. I never seen it, Glory be to God, but there's thim that has, and be the same token, they do say that it looks like the finest black horse that iver wore shoes. But it isn't a horse at all at all, for no horse 'ud have eyes av fire, or be breathin' flames av blue wid a shmell o' sulfur, savin' yer presince, or a shnort like thunder, and no mortial horse 'ud take the lapes it does, or go as fur widout gettin' tired. Sure when it give Tim O'Bryan the ride it give him, it wint from Gort to Athlone wid wan jump, an' the next it tuk he was in Mullingyar, and the next was in Dublin, and back agin be way av Kilkenny an' Limerick, an' niver turned a hair. How far is that? Faith I dunno, but it's a power av distance, an' clane acrost Ireland an' back. He knew it was the Pooka bekase it shpake to him like a Christian mortial, only it isn't agrayble in its language an' 'ull niver give ye a dacint word afther ye're on its back, an' sometimes not before aither.

    "Sure Dennis O'Rourke was afther comin' home wan night, it was only a boy I was, but I mind him tellin' the shtory, an' it was at a fair in Galway he'd been. He'd been havin' a sup, some says more, but whin he come to the rath, and jist beyant where the fairies dance and ferninst the wall where the polisman was shot last winther, he fell in the ditch, quite spint and tired complately. It wasn't the length as much as the wideness av the road was in it, fur he was goin' from wan side to the other an' it was too much fur him entirely. So he laid shtill fur a bit and thin thried fur to get up, but his legs wor light and his head was heavy, an' whin he attimpted to get his feet an the road 'twas his head that was an it, bekase his legs cudn't balance it. Well, he laid there and was bet entirely, an' while he was studyin' how he'd raise, he heard the throttin' av a horse on the road. ''Tis meself 'ull get the lift now,' says he, and laid waitin', and up comes the Pooka. Whin Dennis seen him, begob, he kivered his face wid his hands and turned on the breast av him, and roared wid fright like a bull.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 2

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Gort, they still talk about the Pooka's Path. The Pooka is an evil spirit, always in mischief, though it never does serious harm except to those who deserve it or those who speak of it disrespectfully. The car-man who told the story said he had never seen it himself, Glory be to God, but there are those who have. They say it looks like the finest black horse that ever wore shoes. But it is not a horse at all, at all. No horse has eyes of fire, or breathes blue flames with a smell of sulfur, or has a snort like thunder. No mortal horse could take the leaps it takes or go as far without getting tired. When it gave Tim O'Bryan the ride it gave him, it went from Gort to Athlone with one jump. The next jump took him to Mullingar, and the next was in Dublin, and back again by way of Kilkenny and Limerick, and never turned a hair. Clean across Ireland and back in three leaps and a return journey. He knew it was the Pooka because it spoke to him like a Christian mortal. Only it is not agreeable in its language, and it will never give you a decent word after you are on its back, and sometimes not before either.

31. King Brian Boru Taming the Pooka

    near Corkscrew Hill · townland · Clare

    After the Pooka killed a drunken sailor and stole three hairs from its tail, King Brian Boru used the hairs to create a magic charm, tricked the Pooka into letting him look in its mouth, then slipped the enchanted hairs around its jaw as a bridle. He rode and whipped the Pooka bloody around Corkscrew Hill until it agreed never to steal horses or kill Irishmen again.

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    "So the Pooka come up to him fair an' soft an' stratched his mouth like as he thought the king was wantin' fur to climb in, an' the king put his hand on his jaw like as he was goin' to see the teeth he had: and thin, that minnit he shlipped the three hairs round the Pooka's jaw, an' whin he done that, he dhrew thim tight, an' said the charm crossin' himself the while, an' immejitly the hairs wor cords av stale, an' held the Pooka tight, be way av a bridle.

    "'Arra-a-a-h, now, ye bloody baste av a murtherin' divil ye,' says the king, pullin' out his big whip that he had consaled in his top-coat, an' giving the Pooka a crack wid it undher his stummick, 'I'll give ye a ride ye won't forgit in a hurry,' says he, 'ye black Turk av a four-legged nagur an' you shtaling me white mare,' says he, hittin' him agin.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 2

    As the companion tells it

    Close to Corkscrew Hill, King Brian Boru once tamed the Pooka. The Pooka had killed a drunken sailor, and Brian Boru took 3 hairs from its tail to make a magic charm. He tricked the Pooka into letting him look in its mouth. The Pooka came up to him fair and soft, and the king put his hand on its jaw as if checking its teeth. That minute he slipped the 3 hairs round the Pooka's jaw and drew them tight, saying the charm and crossing himself. The hairs became cords of steel and held the Pooka by way of a bridle. Then he pulled out his big whip he had concealed in his coat and struck the Pooka under its stomach. "I'll give ye a ride ye won't forget in a hurry," he said, hitting it again, calling it a murdering devil for stealing his white mare. He rode and whipped the Pooka bloody near here until it agreed never to steal horses or kill Irishmen again.

32. The Fairy Ball by the Lake Shore near Collooney

    Collooney · townland · Sligo

    Near Collooney in Sligo, the grandmother's aunt of a local 'knowledgeable woman' was said to have witnessed a fairy ball by a lake shore. The fairies danced by firefly light and moonlight to an orchestra of a monstrous frog on a giant fiddle, kittens on little fiddles, cats on drums and fat pigs on trumpets. The glen where it happened is still called the fairy glen.

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    "It was the cutest sight alive. There was a place for thim to shtand on, an' a wondherful big fiddle av the size ye cud slape in it, that was played be a monsthrous frog, an' two little fiddles, that two kittens fiddled on, an' two big drums, baten be cats, an' two trumpets, played be fat pigs. All round the fairies were dancin' like angels, the fireflies givin' thim light to see by, an' the moonbames shinin' on the lake, for it was be the shore it was, an' if ye don't belave it, the glen's still there, that they call the fairy glen to this blessed day."

    The fairies do much singing, seldom, however, save in chorus, and their songs were formerly more frequently heard than at present. Even now a belated peasant, who has been at a wake, or is coming home from a fair, in passing a rath will sometimes hear the soft strains of their voices in the distance, and will hurry away lest they discover his presence and be angry at the intrusion on their privacy. When in unusually good spirits they will sometimes admit a mortal to their revels, but if he speaks, the scene at once vanishes, he becomes insensible, and generally finds himself by the roadside the next morning, "wid that degray av pains in his arrums an' legs an' back, that if sixteen thousand divils were afther him, he cudn't stir a toe to save the sowl av him, that's phat the fairies do be pinchin' an' punchin' him for comin' on them an' shpakin' out loud."

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 7

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here, close to Collooney, there is a glen by a lake shore they still call the fairy glen. A local woman's grandmother's aunt was said to have seen what happened there. The fairies had a place to stand, and a wonderful big fiddle, big enough to sleep in, played by a monstrous frog. Two kittens played two little fiddles. Two cats beat two big drums. Two fat pigs played trumpets. All round, the fairies were dancing like angels, the fireflies giving them light to see by, and the moonbeams shining on the lake, for it was by the shore it was. The fairies sing much in chorus, though their songs were more often heard in former times than now. Even now, a belated peasant coming home from a wake or a fair, passing a rath, will sometimes hear the soft strains of their voices in the distance, and will hurry away lest they discover his presence and be angry at the intrusion. When in good spirits they will sometimes admit a mortal to their revels, but if he speaks the scene vanishes, he becomes insensible, and generally finds himself by the roadside the next morning, with such a degree of pains in his arms and legs and back that if sixteen thousand devils were after him he could not stir a toe to save his soul. That is what the fairies do, pinching and punching him for coming upon them and speaking out loud.

33. The Lady's Tower and the Deadly Siege at Monasterboice

    Monasterboice · townland · Louth

    A young woman being pursued by an unwanted and villainous suitor built the round tower at Monasterboice overnight to escape abduction. When the chieftain besieged the tower with his men, she killed several attackers by hurling stones down upon their skulls until her true love arrived to drive them off.

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    The round tower is not without a touch of romance, one of the most notable structures, Monaster-Boice, having been built by a woman under peculiar circumstances. According to the legend, she was young, beautiful, and good, but though she ought to have been happy also, she was not, being persecuted by the attentions of a suitor chieftain, whose reputation must have been far from irreproachable, since he was characterized by the narrator of the story either as an "outprobrious ruffin," or "a sootherin', deludherin', murtherin' villin." Loving another chief who was a "gintleman entirely," and determined to escape from the obnoxious attentions of the "ruffin" already mentioned, the lady, having learned that her disagreeable suitor had resolved to carry her off, employed two men to aid her the night before the proposed abduction, and, before morning, built the tower and took up her abode in the topmost chamber. In due season the chieftain came "wid a gang av thaves," but, disappointed in his "endayvor fur to stale away her varchew," besieged the tower. Having taken the precaution to provide a good supply of heavy stones, the lady pelted her persecutors vigorously, "crackin' their haythen shkulls the same as they wor egg-shells." Her heroism was rewarded by her deliverance, for her lover, hearing of her desperate situation, came to her relief and attacked the besiegers, so that "wid the lady flingin' shtones at the front o' them, an' the other fellys beltin' 'em behind, they got disconsarted as not knowin' phat to do next, an' so they up's an' runs like as tin thousand divils wor parshooin' afther thim. So she was saved an' brought down, an' was married to the boy av her heart the next Sunday, Glory be to God, an' that's the way the tower come to be built, an' shows that thim that thries to marry a lady agin her will always comes to grief, fur av she cant bate thim wid her tongue she can some other way, fur a woman can always get phat she's afther, an' bad luck to the lie that's in that."

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 9

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here stands the round tower of Monasterboice, and the story goes that a woman built it. She was young, beautiful, and good, but she was not happy. A chieftain was pursuing her, a suitor whose reputation was far from clean. The old storyteller called him an outrageous ruffian, or in his words, a soothering, deluding, murdering villain. She loved another chief, a gentleman entirely, and she was determined to escape. Word came that the villain had resolved to carry her off, so the night before the planned abduction, she hired two men to help her. Before morning, they had built the tower, and she took up her abode in the topmost chamber. In due season the chieftain came, in the storyteller's words, with a gang of thieves. Disappointed in his endeavour to steal her away, he besieged the tower. But the lady had taken the precaution to provide a good supply of heavy stones, and she pelted her persecutors vigorously, cracking their heathen skulls, as the story says, the same as they were eggshells. Her heroism was rewarded. Her lover heard of her desperate situation and came to her relief, attacking the besiegers from behind. With the lady flinging stones at the front of them and the other fellows beating them from behind, they got disconcerted, not knowing what to do next, and they up and ran, as the storyteller put it, as if ten thousand devils were pursuing after them. So she was saved and brought down, and was married to the boy of her heart the next Sunday. And that is the way the tower came to be built.

34. The Seven Kings' Legendary Siege of Athenry

    Athenry · townland · Galway

    A folk legend attached to Athenry castle tells how six young kings, all suitors of Princess Bridget, besieged the town and threw up the earthen mounds still visible outside the walls after her father could not produce her. On learning she had eloped with the King of Galway, the six kings allied with old King Dennis of Athenry, and the Seven Kings made war on the King of Galway and drove him out of the country. The castle ruin itself is described as concealing 'reminders of battle and blood'.

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    "An' they all wint into the coort an' had the bit an' sup, an' made a thraty forninst the King av Galway. It was the great war that was in it, the Siven Kings wid the King av Galway, an' bate him out o' the counthry intirely. But it's my consate that they was all fools to be afther fightin' consarnin' wan woman whin the worruld is full o' thim, an' any wan competint to give a man plenty to think av, bekase whin she gives her attinshun to it, any woman can be the divil complately."

    [Illustration: "All disconsarted entirely"]

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 1

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here is Athenry, where a legend clings to the castle. Six young kings, all suitors of Princess Bridget, besieged the place when her father could not produce her. They threw up the earthen mounds still visible outside the walls. On learning she had eloped with the King of Galway, the six allied with her father, old King Dennis, and the Seven Kings made war on the King of Galway and drove him out of the country entirely. The castle ruin still conceals reminders of battle and blood.

35. Cormac Macarthy's Overnight Watch-Tower on the Rock of Cashel

    near Rock of Cashel · townland · Tipperary

    Legend holds that the tower on the Rock of Cashel was built in a single night under King and Archbishop Cormac Macarthy's orders, so he could spot an approaching enemy army at dawn and win a decisive victory.

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    The Tower Ardpatrick was, according to tradition, built under the auspices of Ireland's great saint, while the high tower on the Rock of Cashel is attributed, by the same authority, to Cormac Macarthy, king and archbishop of Cashel, who, being once engaged in hostilities with a neighboring potentate, needed a watch-tower, so summoned all his people, built the tower in one night, and, at sunrise, was able by its help to ascertain the location of the opposing army and so give it an overwhelming defeat. The Glendalough Tower was built by a demon at the command of Saint Kevin. This saint had conspicuously routed Satan on a previous occasion; so the arch-fiend and all the well-informed of his subjects kept at a safe distance from Glendalough, not caring to take any risks with so doughty a spiritual champion as Saint Kevin had proved himself to be in more than one encounter.

    "But there was wan snakin' vagabone av a divil that come from furrin parts an' hadn't heard the news about the saint, and the blessed saint caught him wan avenin' an' set him to work to build that tower. So the black rogue wint at it as hard as he knew how, an' was workin' away wid all the hands he had, as busy as a barmaid at a fair, thinkin' that afore sunrise he'd have it so high it 'ud fall down be itself an' do the blessed saint not a ha'porth av good. But afther batin' owld Satan himself, Saint Kevin wasn't to be deludhered be wan av his undershtrappers, an' was watchin' wid his two eyes every minnit o' the time, so whin the divil had the tower high enough, he threw his bishop's cap at it, an' it become shtone an' made the roof, so the omadhawn divil was baten at his own game."

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 9

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here on the Rock of Cashel stands a high tower that tradition attributes to Cormac Macarthy, king and archbishop of Cashel. He was once engaged in hostilities with a neighboring potentate and needed a watch-tower. He summoned all his people, built the tower in one night, and at sunrise was able by its help to ascertain the location of the opposing army and so give it an overwhelming defeat. The same tradition gives other towers their own origins. The tower at Ardpatrick was built under the auspices of Ireland's great saint. The Glendalough Tower was built by a demon at the command of Saint Kevin. This saint had conspicuously routed Satan on a previous occasion, so the arch-fiend and all the well-informed of his subjects kept at a safe distance from Glendalough, not caring to take any risks with so doughty a spiritual champion as Saint Kevin had proved himself to be in more than one encounter. But there was one sneaking vagabond of a devil that came from foreign parts and had not heard the news about the saint, and the blessed saint caught him one evening and set him to work to build that tower. The black rogue went at it as hard as he knew how, working away with all the hands he had, as busy as a barmaid at a fair, thinking that before sunrise he would have it so high it would fall down by itself and do the blessed saint not a ha'porth of good. But after beating old Satan himself, Saint Kevin was not to be deluded by one of his understrappers, and was watching with his two eyes every minute of the time, so when the devil had the tower high enough, he threw his bishop's cap at it, and it became stone and made the roof, so the foolish devil was beaten at his own game.

36. The Fairies Steal Eva from Termon Magrath Castle

    Termon Magrath · townland · Donegal

    While Termon Magrath was away at war in Tyrone, fairies drew his newborn daughter Eva down through the floor of his castle on the shore of Lough Erne, leaving a changeling in her place after the protective charms of a wise woman failed. Eva was raised by the fairies under the lake, later married a mortal, Darby O'Hoolighan, by the fairy queen's consent, and after he struck her three accidental blows she returned beneath the lake with all her cattle and goods, never to be seen again.

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    "So the nurse tuk the babby in the next room an' laid it on the bed, an' wint away for a minnit, but thinkin' she heard it cry, back she come an' there was the babby, bedclothes an' all just goin' through the flure, bein' dhrawn be the fairies. The nurse scraiched an' caught the clothes an' the maid helped her, so that the two o' thim pulled wid all their mights an' got the bedclothes up agin, but while the child was out o' sight, the fairies changed it an' put a fairy child in its place, but the nurse didn't know phat the fairies done, no more did the owld struckawn, that shows she was an ignerant woman entirely. But the fairies tuk Eva away undher the lake where they trated her beautiful. Every night they gev her a dance, wid the loveliest music that was iver heard, wid big drums an' little drums, an' fiddles an' pipes an' thrumpets, fur such a band the good people do have when they give a dance.

    "So she grew an' the quane said she should have a husband among the fairies, but she fell in love wid an owld Leprechawn, an' the quane, to sarcumvint her, let her walk on the shore o' the lake where she met Darby O'Hoolighan an' loved him an' married him be the quane's consint. The quane towld her to tell him if he shtruck her three blows widout a razon, she'd lave him an' come back to the fairies. The quane gev her a power av riches, shape an' pigs widout number an' more oxen than ye cud count in a week. So she an' Darby lived together as happy as two doves, an' she hadn't as much care as a blind piper's dog, morebetoken, they had two boys, good lookin' like their mother an' shtrong as their father.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 7

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Termon Magrath, there was a castle on the shore of Lough Erne. Termon Magrath was away at war in Tyrone when his newborn daughter Eva was taken. A wise woman had set protective charms, but they failed. The nurse took the baby into the next room and laid it on the bed, then stepped away for a minute. Hearing it cry, she came back and found the baby, bedclothes and all, going down through the floor, drawn by the fairies. The nurse screamed and grabbed the clothes. A maid helped her, and the two of them pulled with all their might and hauled the bedclothes back up. But while the child was out of sight, the fairies changed it, putting a fairy child in its place. The nurse didn't know what the fairies had done. The fairies took Eva away under the lake, where they treated her beautifully. Every night they gave her a dance, with the loveliest music ever heard: big drums and little drums, fiddles, pipes and trumpets. She grew up there, and the fairy queen said she should have a husband among the fairies. But Eva fell in love with an old leprechaun. To get around it, the queen let Eva walk on the shore of the lake. There she met Darby O'Hoolighan, fell in love with him, and married him by the queen's consent. The queen told Eva that if Darby struck her three blows without reason, she would leave him and return to the fairies. The queen gave her riches: sheep and pigs without number, and more oxen than you could count in a week. Eva and Darby lived together as happy as two doves. They had two boys, good-looking like their mother and strong like their father. But Darby did strike her three accidental blows, and Eva returned beneath the lake with all her cattle and goods, never to be seen again.

37. The Forgotten Well at Upper Lough Erne

    near Upper Lough Erne · townland · Fermanagh

    As with the Lough Allen legend, a village near Upper Lough Erne was destroyed after a woman rushing to tend her crying baby forgot to cover the sacred fountain. The resulting flood drowned the townspeople and formed the lake.

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    Upper Lough Erne has a legend, in all important particulars identical with that of Lough Allen, the catastrophe being, however, in the former case brought about by the carelessness of a woman who left her baby at home when she went after water and hearing it scream, "as aven the best babies do be doin', God bless 'em, for no betther rayson than to lishen at thimselves," she hurried back, forgetting to cover the well, with a consequent calamity like that which followed similar forgetfulness at Lough Allen.

    In the County Mayo is found Lough Conn, once, according to local story-tellers, the site of a village built within and around the enclosure of a castle. The lord of the castle, being fond of fish, determined to make a fish-pond, and as the spot selected for the excavation was covered by the cabins of his poorest tenants, he ordered all the occupants to be turned out forthwith, an order at once carried out "wid process-sarvers, an' bailiffs, an' consthables, an' sogers, an' polis, an' the people all shtandin' 'round." One of the evicted knelt on the ground and cursed the chief with "all the seed, breed and gineration av 'im," and prayed "that the throut-pond 'ud be the death av 'im." The prayer was speedily answered, for no sooner was the water turned into the newly-made pond, than an overflow resulted; the valley was filled; the waves climbed the walls of the castle, nor ceased to rise till they had swept the chief from the highest tower, where "he was down an his hard-hearted knees, sayin' his baids as fast as he cud, an' bawlin' at all the saints aither to bring him a boat or taiche him how to swim quick." Regard for the unfortunate tenants, however, prevented any interference by the saints thus vigorously and practically supplicated, so the chief was drowned and went, as the story-teller concluded, to a locality where he "naded more wather than he'd left behind him, an' had the comp'ny av a shwarm av other landlords that turned out the poor to shtarve."

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 6

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Upper Lough Erne, there is a legend that follows the same pattern as the one told about Lough Allen. There was a village here, and near it a sacred well that had to be kept covered. One day a woman left her baby at home and went to the well for water. While she was away, the baby began to scream. The old storyteller put it this way: the child was crying "as aven the best babies do be doin', God bless 'em, for no betther rayson than to lishen at thimselves." She heard the screaming and hurried back to tend the child. In her rush she forgot to cover the well. The water rose and the flood that followed drowned the townspeople. The village was destroyed and what remained became Upper Lough Erne. The calamity was the same as the one that followed similar forgetfulness at Lough Allen, where a sacred fountain left uncovered brought destruction on the people who lived beside it. Here the cause was a woman's haste, her thoughts on her crying baby rather than on the well she had left open. The story does not name her. It does not name the village. It says only that the well was forgotten, and that the forgetting was enough to drown the townspeople and make a lake.

38. The Giant's Bride Turned to Stone

    near Giant's Causeway · townland · Antrim

    According to guide legend near the Giant's Causeway, a giant's bride slew her husband and tried to flee, but a magician turned her to stone as she waited by the shore for a boat.

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    No locality of Ireland is fuller of strange bits of fanciful legend than the neighborhood of the Giant's Causeway. For miles along the coast the geological strata resemble that of the Causeway, and the gradual disintegration of the stone has wrought many peculiar and picturesque effects among the basaltic pillars, while each natural novelty has woven round it a tissue of traditions and legends, some appropriate, others forced, others ridiculous misapplications of commonplace tales. Here, a long straight row of columns is known as the "Giant's Organ," and tradition pictures the scene when the giants of old, with their gigantic families, sat on the Causeway and listened to the music; there, a group of isolated pillars is called the "Giant's Chimneys," since they once furnished an exit for the smoke of the gigantic kitchen. A solitary pillar, surrounded by the crumbling remains of others, bears a distant resemblance to a seated female figure, the "Giant's Bride," who slew her husband and attempted to flee, but was overtaken by the power of a magician, who changed her into stone as she was seated by the shore, waiting for the boat that was to carry her away. Further on, a cluster of columns forms the "Giant's Pulpit," where a presumably outspoken gigantic preacher denounced the sins of a gigantic audience. The Causeway itself, according to legend, formerly extended to Scotland, being originally constructed by Finn Maccool and his friends, this notable giant having invited Benandoner, a Scotch giant of much celebrity, to come over and fight him. The invitation was accepted, and Maccool, out of politeness, built the Causeway the whole distance, the big Scotchman thus walking over dryshod to receive his beating.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 12

    As the companion tells it

    Close to Giant's Causeway there is a solitary pillar, surrounded by the crumbling remains of others, that bears a distant resemblance to a seated female figure. People call her the Giant's Bride. She slew her husband and attempted to flee, but a magician overtook her and changed her into stone as she sat by the shore, waiting for the boat that was to carry her away. No locality of Ireland is fuller of strange bits of fanciful legend than this neighbourhood. For miles along the coast the geological strata resemble that of the Causeway itself, and the gradual disintegration of the stone has wrought many peculiar and picturesque effects among the basaltic pillars. Each natural novelty has woven round it a tissue of traditions and legends, some appropriate, others forced, others ridiculous misapplications of commonplace tales. A long straight row of columns is known as the Giant's Organ, where tradition pictures the giants of old with their gigantic families sitting on the Causeway and listening to the music. A group of isolated pillars is called the Giant's Chimneys, since they once furnished an exit for the smoke of the gigantic kitchen. Further on, a cluster of columns forms the Giant's Pulpit, where a presumably outspoken gigantic preacher denounced the sins of a gigantic audience. The Causeway itself, according to legend, formerly extended to Scotland, being originally constructed by Finn Maccool and his friends. He had invited Benandoner, a Scotch giant of much celebrity, to come over and fight him. The invitation was accepted, and Maccool, out of politeness, built the Causeway the whole distance, the big Scotchman thus walking over dryshod to receive his beating.

39. A Phantom City Seen off Carrigaholt

    near Carrigaholt · townland · Clare

    The Enchanted Island appeared at the mouth of the Shannon and off Carrigaholt in Clare, where the people saw a city upon it. The chapter notes the island's resemblance to neighbouring land, attributed to the enchanter disguising his property.

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    In Cork, for instance, it has been seen by hundreds of people off Ballydonegan Bay, while many more can testify to its appearance off the Bay of Courtmacsherry. In Kerry, all the population of Ballyheige saw it a few years ago, lying in Tralee Bay, between Kerry Head and Brandon's Head, and shortly before, the villagers of Lisneakeabree, just across the bay from Ballyheige, saw it between their shore and Kerry Head, while the fishermen in Saint Finan's Bay and in Ballinskelligs are confident it has been seen, if not by themselves, at least by some of their friends. It has appeared at the mouth of the Shannon, and off Carrigaholt in Clare, where the people saw a city on it. This is not so remarkable as it seems, for, in justice to the Enchanted Island, it should be stated that its resemblance to portions of the neighboring land is sometimes very close, and shows that the "enchanter" who has it under a spell knows his business, and being determined to keep his island for himself changes its appearance as well as its location in order that his property may not be recognized nor appropriated.

    In Galway, the Enchanted Island has appeared in the mouth of Ballinaleame Bay, a local landlord at the time making a devout wish that it would stay there. The fishermen of Ballynaskill, in the Joyce Country, saw it about fifteen years ago, since when it appeared to the Innisshark islanders. The County Mayo has seen it, not only from the Achille Island cliffs, but also from Downpatrick Head; and in Sligo, the fishermen of Ballysadare Bay know all about it, while half the population of Inishcrone still remember its appearance about twenty years ago. The Inishboffin islanders in Donegal say it looked like their own island, "sure two twins couldn't be liker," and the people on Gweebarra Bay, when it appeared there, observed along the shore of the island a village like Maas, the one in which they lived. It has also appeared off Rathlin's Island, on the Antrim coast, but, so far as could be learned, it went no further to the east, confining its migrations to the west coast, between Cork on the south and Antrim on the north.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 5

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Carrigaholt, the Enchanted Island has appeared at the mouth of the Shannon, and the people here saw a city on it. This is the same island that has been turning up along the west coast of Ireland for years, and the book says its wanderings run from Cork in the south to Antrim in the north. In Cork, hundreds saw it off Ballydonegan Bay, and many more off the Bay of Courtmacsherry. In Kerry, all the people of Ballyheige saw it lying in Tralee Bay between Kerry Head and Brandon's Head, and the villagers of Lisneakeabree, just across the bay, saw it between their shore and Kerry Head. Fishermen in Saint Finan's Bay and Ballinskelligs were confident their friends had seen it. In Galway it appeared in the mouth of Ballinaleame Bay, where a landlord wished it would stay. The fishermen of Ballynaskill in the Joyce Country saw it about 15 years ago, and after that it showed itself to the Innisshark islanders. Mayo saw it from the Achille Island cliffs and from Downpatrick Head. In Sligo the fishermen of Ballysadare Bay knew all about it, and half the people of Inishcrone remembered it from about 20 years ago. The Inishboffin islanders in Donegal said it looked like their own island, and the book quotes them: "sure two twins couldn't be liker." On Gweebarra Bay, people saw a village along its shore that looked like their own village of Maas. The book says the resemblance to neighbouring land is sometimes very close, and shows that the enchanter who has the island under a spell knows his business. Being determined to keep his island for himself, he changes its appearance as well as its location, so his property will not be recognized nor appropriated.

40. The Banshee's Fatal Warning at Shane Castle

    Shane's Castle · townland · Antrim

    An O'Neill of Shane Castle in Antrim heard the Banshee's cry as he set out on a journey before dawn. He was later accidentally killed while still on that same journey, fulfilling the Banshee's death-warning.

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    The song of the Banshee is commonly heard a day or two before the death of which it gives notice, though instances are cited of the song at the beginning of a course of conduct or line of undertaking that resulted fatally. Thus, in Kerry, a young girl engaged herself to a youth, and at the moment her promise of marriage was given, both heard the low, sad wail above their heads. The young man deserted her, she died of a broken heart, and the night before her death, the Banshee's song, loud and clear, was heard outside the window of her mother's cottage. One of the O'Flahertys, of Galway, marched out of his castle with his men on a foray, and, as his troops filed through the gateway, the Banshee was heard high above the towers of the fortress. The next night she sang again, and was heard no more for a month, when his wife heard the wail under her window, and on the following day his followers brought back his corpse. One of the O'Neills of Shane Castle, in Antrim, heard the Banshee as he started on a journey before daybreak, and was accidentally killed some time after, but while on the same journey.

    [Illustration: The "Hateful Banshee"]

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 8

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Shane Castle, the banshee's cry once marked the start of a fatal journey. The banshee's song is usually heard a day or two before the death it warns of, but sometimes it comes at the beginning of a course of action that ends in death. In Kerry, a young girl promised herself to a youth, and the moment she gave her word, both heard the low, sad wail above their heads. The young man left her. She died of a broken heart, and the night before her death, the banshee's song, loud and clear, was heard outside her mother's window. One of the O'Flahertys of Galway marched out of his castle with his men on a foray, and as they filed through the gateway, the banshee was heard high above the towers. She sang again the next night and was heard no more for a month, until his wife heard the wail under her window, and the next day his followers brought back his corpse. One of the O'Neills of Shane Castle, in Antrim, heard the banshee as he started on a journey before daybreak, and was accidentally killed some time after, but while on the same journey.

41. The Devil's Sabotage of the Church Walls

    Glendalough · townland · Wicklow

    Furious after being kicked over the cliff, Satan repeatedly pulled down the monks' newly built church walls at Glendalough each night, forcing them to stand watch with holy water to complete the building.

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    "'No,' says he, wid sudden shtrength. 'It's not Kathleen that's in it, but an avil sper't. God's prisence be about us! Get you gone Satan an' sayce to throuble me,' an' that minnit the blessed saint jumped up aff the ground an' wid his two feet gev the owld rayprobate a thunderin' kick in the stummick, an' when he doubled up wid the pain an' fell back an' clapped his hands together on the front av him, Saint Kevin gev him another in his rare, axin' yer pardon, that sent him clane over the clift, wid Saint Kevin gatherin' shtones an' flingin' thim afther him wid all the might that was in him. So the minnit the saint kicked him the very foorst kick, Kathleen disappeared, an' there was the owld black Belzebub a-tumblin' over, an' fallin' down to the lake, holdin' his stummick an' thryin' hard to catch himself wid his wings afore he'd hit the wather. But he did by the time he got to the bottom an' flew away, bellerin' worse nor a bull with a dog hangin' to his nose, so that all the monks woke wid fright, an' cudn't go to shlape agin till they'd said a craydo an' five aves apiece, but the blessed saint set be his bed a-sayin' his baids the rest o' the night wid a pile o' shtones convaynient to his hand fur fear the divil 'ud come back. But Satan flew over an that hill an' rubbed himself before an' behind too, where the saint had kicked him, an' didn't go back, for he'd enough o' the saint fur that time. But he was mightily vexed, an' not to lose the chance fur to do some mischief before he'd go away, he pulled down all the walls that the poor monks had built that day.

    "Now there's thim that says that it was the rale Kathleen that Saint Kevin kicked over the clift, but sure that's not thrue, fur it's not in an Irishman to thrate a woman that-a-way, that makes me belave that the shtory I'm tellin' ye was the thrue shtory an' that it wasn't Kathleen at all, but Satan, that Saint Kevin thrated wid such onpoliteness, an my blessin' an him fur that same, fur he come out very well axceptin' five or six blisthers on his face, where the divil's tears touched him, that's well known to make blisthers on phatever they touch.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 4

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here at Glendalough, there is a story about the devil and the church walls. Saint Kevin found an evil spirit before him, not Kathleen as it appeared. He called on God's presence and told Satan to be gone. The saint jumped up and gave the old reprobate a thundering kick in the stomach, and when Satan doubled up and fell back, Saint Kevin gave him another that sent him clean over the cliff. The saint gathered stones and flung them after him. The moment the saint kicked him, Kathleen disappeared, and there was old black Beelzebub tumbling down toward the lake, holding his stomach and trying to catch himself with his wings before he hit the water. He managed that by the time he reached the bottom and flew away, bellowing worse than a bull with a dog hanging to his nose. All the monks woke with fright and could not sleep again until they had said a creed and five Aves each. The blessed saint sat by his bed saying his beads the rest of the night, with a pile of stones convenient to his hand in case the devil came back. Satan flew over the hill and rubbed himself where the saint had kicked him, and did not go back, for he had enough of the saint for that time. But he was mightily vexed, and not to lose the chance to do some mischief before he went away, he pulled down all the walls that the poor monks had built that day. There are those who say it was the real Kathleen that Saint Kevin kicked over the cliff, but the teller says that is not true, for it is not in an Irishman to treat a woman that way. The saint came out well except for five or six blisters on his face, where the devil's tears touched him.

42. The Vanishing Procession of Killarney's Fairy Rath

    Killarney · townland · Kerry

    When a landowner tried to level a fairy rath on an island in the Upper Lake of Killarney, laborers saw a strange procession of about two hundred robed figures followed by shining beings crossing to the mainland at dawn. Work on the rath was abandoned after the sighting.

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    The homes of the fairies are commonly in raths, tumuli of the pagan days of Ireland, and, on this account, raths are much dreaded, and after sundown are avoided by the peasantry. Attempts have been made to remove some of these raths, but the unwillingness of the peasants to engage in the work, no matter what inducements may be offered in compensation, has generally resulted in the abandonment of the undertaking. On one of the islands in the Upper Lake of Killarney there is a rath, and the proprietor, finding it occupied too much ground, resolved to have it levelled to increase the arable surface of the field. The work was begun, but one morning, in the early dawn, as the laborers were crossing the lake on their way to the island, they saw a procession of about two hundred persons, habited like monks, leave the island and proceed to the mainland, followed, as the workmen thought, by a long line of small, shining figures. The phenomenon was perhaps genuine, for the mirage is by no means an uncommon appearance in some parts of Ireland, but work on the rath was at once indefinitely postponed. Besides raths, old castles, deserted graveyards, ruined churches, secluded glens in the mountains, springs, lakes, and caves all are the homes and resorts of fairies, as is very well known on the west coast.

    The better class of fairies are fond of human society and often act as guardians to those they love. In parts of Donegal and Galway they are believed to receive the souls of the dying and escort them to the gates of heaven, not, however, being allowed to enter with them. On this account, fairies love graves and graveyards, having often been seen walking to and fro among the grassy mounds. There are, indeed, some accounts of faction fights among the fairy bands at or shortly after a funeral, the question in dispute being whether the soul of the departed belonged to one or the other faction.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 7

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Killarney, on one of the islands in the Upper Lake, there stands a rath, one of the old mounds from the pagan days of Ireland. These raths are dreaded as the homes of fairies, and the peasantry avoid them after sundown. A proprietor of the land found the rath occupied too much ground and resolved to have it levelled to increase the arable surface of the field. The work was begun, but one morning in the early dawn, as the laborers were crossing the lake on their way to the island, they saw a procession of about 200 persons, habited like monks, leave the island and proceed to the mainland. They were followed, as the workmen thought, by a long line of small, shining figures. Work on the rath was at once indefinitely postponed. Attempts have been made to remove other raths as well, but peasants are unwilling to engage in such work, no matter what inducements are offered in compensation, and so the undertaking is generally abandoned. The phenomenon at the lake was perhaps genuine, for the mirage is by no means an uncommon appearance in some parts of Ireland. Besides raths, old castles, deserted graveyards, ruined churches, secluded glens in the mountains, springs, lakes, and caves are all said to be homes and resorts of fairies, as is very well known on the west coast.

43. Ballyheige Sees the Enchanted Island in Tralee Bay

    Ballyheige · townland · Kerry

    The whole population of Ballyheige saw the Enchanted Island lying in Tralee Bay between Kerry Head and Brandon Head, a few years before 1888. Shortly before, villagers across the bay at Lisneakeabree had seen it between their shore and Kerry Head.

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    In Cork, for instance, it has been seen by hundreds of people off Ballydonegan Bay, while many more can testify to its appearance off the Bay of Courtmacsherry. In Kerry, all the population of Ballyheige saw it a few years ago, lying in Tralee Bay, between Kerry Head and Brandon's Head, and shortly before, the villagers of Lisneakeabree, just across the bay from Ballyheige, saw it between their shore and Kerry Head, while the fishermen in Saint Finan's Bay and in Ballinskelligs are confident it has been seen, if not by themselves, at least by some of their friends. It has appeared at the mouth of the Shannon, and off Carrigaholt in Clare, where the people saw a city on it. This is not so remarkable as it seems, for, in justice to the Enchanted Island, it should be stated that its resemblance to portions of the neighboring land is sometimes very close, and shows that the "enchanter" who has it under a spell knows his business, and being determined to keep his island for himself changes its appearance as well as its location in order that his property may not be recognized nor appropriated.

    In Galway, the Enchanted Island has appeared in the mouth of Ballinaleame Bay, a local landlord at the time making a devout wish that it would stay there. The fishermen of Ballynaskill, in the Joyce Country, saw it about fifteen years ago, since when it appeared to the Innisshark islanders. The County Mayo has seen it, not only from the Achille Island cliffs, but also from Downpatrick Head; and in Sligo, the fishermen of Ballysadare Bay know all about it, while half the population of Inishcrone still remember its appearance about twenty years ago. The Inishboffin islanders in Donegal say it looked like their own island, "sure two twins couldn't be liker," and the people on Gweebarra Bay, when it appeared there, observed along the shore of the island a village like Maas, the one in which they lived. It has also appeared off Rathlin's Island, on the Antrim coast, but, so far as could be learned, it went no further to the east, confining its migrations to the west coast, between Cork on the south and Antrim on the north.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 5

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here, all the people of Ballyheige saw the Enchanted Island a few years before 1888. It lay in Tralee Bay, between Kerry Head and Brandon Head. Shortly before that, the villagers of Lisneakeabree, just across the bay from Ballyheige, had seen it between their shore and Kerry Head. The Enchanted Island was not seen only here. In Cork, hundreds saw it off Ballydonegan Bay, and many more off the Bay of Courtmacsherry. Fishermen in Saint Finan's Bay and in Ballinskelligs were confident it had been seen, if not by themselves, at least by some of their friends. It appeared at the mouth of the Shannon, and off Carrigaholt in Clare, where the people saw a city on it. Its resemblance to portions of the neighbouring land was sometimes very close, for the enchanter who had it under a spell changed its appearance as well as its location to keep it from being recognized. In Galway it appeared in the mouth of Ballinaleame Bay, where a local landlord wished it would stay. The fishermen of Ballynaskill in the Joyce Country saw it about fifteen years before, and then it appeared to the Innisshark islanders. County Mayo saw it from the Achill Island cliffs and Downpatrick Head. In Sligo, fishermen of Ballysadare Bay knew all about it, and half the population of Inishcrone remembered its appearance about twenty years before. The Inishboffin islanders in Donegal said it looked like their own island, "sure two twins couldn't be liker." The people on Gweebarra Bay saw along its shore a village like Maas, the one in which they lived. It appeared off Rathlin's Island on the Antrim coast, but went no further east, staying between Cork and Antrim.

44. Curing the Evil Eye with Moll's Charms

    Ballynahinch · townland · Tipperary

    When Jerry Magwire's daughter Dora fell ill after dancing too hard, his wife consulted Owld Moll, who determined the girl had been cast with an evil eye. Moll gave her a tea to drink and a charm to wear, and the fever left her.

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    "Whin me dawther Dora, that was named afther her mother, was ill afther she'd been to the dance, whin O'Hoolighan's Peggy was married to Paddy Noonan (she danced too hard in the cabin an' come home in the rain), me owld woman wint to Moll an' found that Dora had been cast wid an avil eye. So she gev her a tay to dhrink an' a charm to wear agin it, an' afther she'd dhrunk the tay an' put on the charm the faver lift her, an' she was well entirely.

    [Illustration: AN' PHAT DOES THIM LETTERS SHPELL?]

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 14

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here, a man named Jerry Magwire told what happened to his daughter Dora. She had been at the dance the night Peggy O'Hoolighan was married to Paddy Noonan. She danced too hard in the cabin and came home in the rain, and fell ill. Jerry's wife went to Owld Moll, who found that Dora had been cast with an evil eye. Moll gave her a tea to drink and a charm to wear against it. After she drank the tea and put on the charm the fever left her, and she was well entirely.

45. Owld Moll, the Wise Woman of Ballynahinch

    Ballynahinch · townland · Galway · 1839–1888

    In a lonely valley near Ballynahinch, a fishing village on Bertraghboy Bay in County Galway, dwells 'Owld Moll', a Pishogue or wise woman who has supplanted the old witches. From a wretched hovel she doctors the peasantry with herbs and charms, lifts spells from dry cows, detects the evil eye, and is reputed so powerful that robbers dare not approach her cabin.

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    Not far from Ballinahinch, a fishing village on Birterbuy Bay, in the County Galway, and in the most lonely valley of the neighborhood, there dwells one of these wise women who supplant the ancient witches. The hovel which shelters her bears every indication of wretched poverty; the floor is mud, the smoke escapes through a hole in the thatch in default of a chimney; the bed is a scanty heap of straw in the corner, and two rude shelves, bearing a small assortment of cracked jars and broken bottles, constitute Moll's stock in trade.

    The misery of her household surroundings, however, furnished to the minds of her patients no argument against the efficiency of her remedies, Moll being commonly believed to have "a power av goold," though no one had ever seen any portion thereof. But with all her reputed riches she had no fear of robbers, for "she could aisily do for thim did they but come as many as the shtraws in the thatch," and would-be robbers, no doubt understanding that fact, prudently consulted their own safety by staying away from the vicinity of her cabin.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 14

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here, in the loneliest valley near Ballynahinch, a fishing village on Bertraghboy Bay in County Galway, there lived a wise woman known as Owld Moll. She was what people called a Pishogue, one of those wise women who supplanted the ancient witches. Her hovel bore every mark of wretched poverty. The floor was mud. Smoke escaped through a hole in the thatch, there being no chimney. Her bed was a scanty heap of straw in the corner. Two rude shelves held a small assortment of cracked jars and broken bottles, and that was Moll's entire stock in trade. None of this misery counted against her in the minds of her patients. She doctored the peasantry with herbs and charms, lifted spells from dry cows, and detected the evil eye. People commonly believed she had a power of gold, though no one had ever seen any of it. She had no fear of robbers, for she could easily do for them did they come as many as the straws in the thatch. Robbers, understanding that fact, prudently stayed away.

46. The Dead Who Walked Nightly from the Rath to the Old Church

    near Corkscrew Hill · townland · Clare

    The old rath on the hill near Corkscrew Hill was said to be full of the dead, who after nightfall rose from their graves and walked in a long line to the old church in the valley below, staying inside until cock-crow before returning to the rath.

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    "Ye see, in the owld days, the counthry was full av avil sper'ts, an' fairies an' witches, an' divils entirely, and the harrum they done was onsaycin', for they wor always comin' an' goin', like Mulligan's blanket, an' widout so much as sayin', by yer lave. The fairies 'ud be dancin' on the grass every night be the light av the moon, an' stalin' away the childhre, an' many's the wan they tuk that niver come back. The owld rath on the hill beyant was full av the dead, an' afther nightfall they'd come from their graves an' walk in a long line wan afther another to the owld church in the valley where they'd go in an' stay till cock-crow, thin they'd come out agin an' back to the rath. Sorra a parish widout a witch, an' some nights they'd have a great enthertainmint on the Corkschrew Hill, an' you'd see thim, wid shnakes on their arrums an' necks an' ears, be way av jewels, an' the eyes av dead men in their hair, comin' for miles an' miles, some ridin' through the air on shticks an' bats an' owls, an' some walkin', an' more on Pookas an' horses wid wings that 'ud come up in line to the top av the hill, like the cabs at the dure o' the theayter, an' lave thim there an' hurry aff to bring more.

    "Sometimes the Owld Inimy, Satan himself, 'ud be there at the enthertainmint, comin' an a monsthrous draggin, wid grane shcales an' eyes like the lightnin' in the heavens, an' a roarin' fiery mouth like a lime-kiln. It was the great day thin, for they do say all the witches brought their rayports at thim saysons fur to show him phat they done.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 2

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere near Corkscrew Hill, there is an old rath on the hill, and in the old days it was said to be full of the dead. After nightfall, the dead would rise from their graves and walk in a long line, one after another, down to the old church in the valley below. They would go inside and stay there until cock-crow, and then come out again and make their way back to the rath. The country, they said, was full of evil spirits and fairies and witches and devils. The fairies would be dancing on the grass every night by the light of the moon, stealing away the children, and many was the one they took that never came back. Every parish had its witch, and some nights they would have a great entertainment on Corkscrew Hill. You could see them with snakes on their arms and necks and ears, by way of jewels, and the eyes of dead men in their hair, coming for miles and miles, some riding through the air on sticks and bats and owls, some walking, and more on Pookas and horses with wings. They would come up in line to the top of the hill, as the book says, "like the cabs at the dure o' the theayter," and leave them there and hurry off to bring more. Sometimes the Old Enemy, Satan himself, would be there at the entertainment, coming on a monstrous dragon with green scales and eyes like the lightning in the heavens, and a roaring fiery mouth like a lime-kiln. It was the great day then, for they say all the witches brought their reports at those seasons to show him what they had done.

47. The Vanishing Island Seen from Ballynakill

    Ballynakill · townland · Galway · 1873

    The fishermen of Ballynakill in the Joyce Country saw the Enchanted Island about fifteen years before 1888. Soon afterwards it appeared to the islanders of Inishshark.

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    In Galway, the Enchanted Island has appeared in the mouth of Ballinaleame Bay, a local landlord at the time making a devout wish that it would stay there. The fishermen of Ballynaskill, in the Joyce Country, saw it about fifteen years ago, since when it appeared to the Innisshark islanders. The County Mayo has seen it, not only from the Achille Island cliffs, but also from Downpatrick Head; and in Sligo, the fishermen of Ballysadare Bay know all about it, while half the population of Inishcrone still remember its appearance about twenty years ago. The Inishboffin islanders in Donegal say it looked like their own island, "sure two twins couldn't be liker," and the people on Gweebarra Bay, when it appeared there, observed along the shore of the island a village like Maas, the one in which they lived. It has also appeared off Rathlin's Island, on the Antrim coast, but, so far as could be learned, it went no further to the east, confining its migrations to the west coast, between Cork on the south and Antrim on the north.

    Concerning the island itself, legendary authorities differ on many material points. Some hold it to be "a rale island sure enough," and that its exploits are due to "jommethry or some other inchantmint," while opponents of this materialistic view are inclined to the opinion that the island is not what it seems to be, that is to say, not "airth an' shtones, like as thim we see, but only a deludherin' show that avil sper'ts, or the divil belike, makes fur to desave us poor dishsolute craythers." Public opinion on the west coast is therefore strongly divided on the subject, unity of sentiment existing on two points only; that the island has been seen, and that there is something quite out of the ordinary in its appearance. "For ye see, yer Anner," observed a Kerry fisherman, "it's agin nacher fur a rale island to be comin' and goin' like a light in a bog, an' whin ye do see it, ye can see through it, an' by jagers, if it's a thrue island, a mighty quare wan it is an' no mishtake."

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 5

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here, the fishermen of Ballynakill in the Joyce Country saw what people call the Enchanted Island. That was about 1873, roughly 15 years before the account was written. Soon after the men here saw it, the island appeared to the islanders of Inishshark. The Enchanted Island has been seen up and down the west coast. It showed itself in the mouth of Ballinaleame Bay in Galway, where a local landlord made a devout wish that it would stay. In Mayo it was seen from the cliffs of Achill Island and from Downpatrick Head. In Sligo the fishermen of Ballysadare Bay knew all about it, and half the people of Inishcrone still remembered its appearance. The islanders of Inishboffin in Donegal said it looked like their own island. The people on Gweebarra Bay saw along its shore a village like their own village of Maas. It appeared off Rathlin's Island on the Antrim coast, but went no further east, confining itself to the west coast between Cork and Antrim. People disagree about what the island is. Some hold it to be a real island sure enough, and that its doings are due to enchantment or some other magic. Others say it is not earth and stones like them we see, but only a deluding show that evil spirits, or the devil belike, make to deceive us poor dissolute creatures. On two points everyone agrees: the island has been seen, and there is something quite out of the ordinary in its appearance. A Kerry fisherman put it plainly: it is against nature for a real island to be coming and going like a light in a bog, and when you do see it, you can see through it.

48. How the Devil Got His Cloven Hoof

    Glendalough · townland · Wicklow

    The devil disguised himself as a Lord Lieutenant to bribe Saint Kevin, then later appeared while Kevin struggled to milk an unruly cow on consecrated ground at Glendalough. Kevin caught the devil trespassing on holy ground, swapped his leg for the cow's leg, and cursed him to forever show a cloven hoof revealing his true identity.

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    "That's the way Satan got his lame leg, bekase, ye see he's niver larned fur to manage it, an' goes limpity-lop, an' though he wears a cloak, is obligated fur to show the cow's fut whenever he talks wid any wan, fur if he doesn't, begorra, the leg does fur itself, fur it's niver forgot the thrick av kicking the owld cow larned it, an' if Satan waits a minnit, up goes the cow's fut, as hard an' high as the last time she kicked the saint. No more did the divil ever dare to come there agin, so the blessed Saint Kevin was left in pace to build the siven churches, an the divil wasn't ever seen in Glendalough, till the day the saint was berrid, an' then he peeped over the hill to look at the berryin', but he wudn't come down, thinkin', belike, it was a lie they were tellin' him when they said the saint was dead, fur to injuice him to come into the glen an' give Saint Kevin wan more whack at him wid his fut. An' they do say, that he's been to the besht docthers in the univaarse fur to get him another leg, but they cudn't do it, Glory be to God; an' so he is lame an' must show his cloven fut, so as ivery wan knows at wanst that it's the divil himself that's in it, an' can run away from him before he's time to do thim harm.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 4

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here at Glendalough, Saint Kevin had his dealings with the devil. The devil came disguised as a Lord Lieutenant, trying to bribe the saint. Later he appeared while Kevin struggled to milk an unruly cow on consecrated ground. Kevin caught him trespassing on holy ground, swapped his leg for the cow's leg, and cursed him to carry it forever. That's how Satan got his lame leg. He never learned to manage it and goes "limpity-lop." Though he wears a cloak, he's obliged to show the cow's foot whenever he talks with anyone. If he doesn't, the leg does it for itself. It never forgot the trick the old cow taught it. If Satan waits a minute, up goes the cow's foot, as hard and high as the last time she kicked the saint. The devil never dared to come there again. Kevin was left in peace to build the seven churches. The devil wasn't seen there till the day the saint was buried. He peeped over the hill but wouldn't come down, thinking it might be a lie, that the saint was dead, just to lure him into the glen and give Kevin one more whack at him. They say he's been to the best doctors in the universe to get another leg, but they couldn't do it. So he is lame and must show his cloven foot, so everyone knows at once it's the devil himself, and can run away before he does them harm.

49. Fairy Faction Fight in a Kerry Rath

    Kerry · townland · Kerry

    A witness named Paddy O'Donohue claimed to see a battle between two fairy armies near a rath and an old graveyard in Kerry. He watched the green-coated fairies fight the red-coated fairies until he shouted encouragement and lost consciousness, waking the next morning stiff on the road.

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    "I was lyin' be the road, bein' on me way home an' tired wid the walkin'. A bright moon was out that night, an' I heard a noise like a million av sogers, thrampin' on the road, so I riz me an' looked, an' the way was full av little men, the length o' me hand, wid grane coats on, an' all in rows like wan o' the ridgmints; aitch wid a pike on his showldher an' a shield on his arrum. Wan was in front, beway he was the ginral, walkin' wid his chin up as proud as a paycock. Jagers, but I was skairt an' prayed fasther than iver I did in me life, for it was too clost to me entirely they wor for comfort or convaynience aither. But they all went by, sorra the wan o' thim turnin' his head to raygard me at all, Glory be to God for that same; so they left me. Afther they were clane gone by, I had curosity for to see phat they were afther, so I folly'd thim, a good bit aff, an' ready to jump an' run like a hare at the laste noise, for I was afeared if they caught me at it, they'd make a pig o' me at wanst or change me into a baste complately. They marched into the field bechuxt the graveyard an' the rath, an' there was another army there wid red coats, from the graveyard, an' the two armies had the biggest fight ye iver seen, the granes agin the reds. Afther lookin' on a bit, I got axcited, for the granes were batin' the reds like blazes, an' I up an' give a whilloo an' called out, 'At 'em agin! Don't lave wan o' the blaggards!' An' wid that word, the sight left me eyes an' I remimber no more till mornin', an' there was I, layin' on the road where I seen thim, as shtiff as a crutch."

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 7

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here, a man named Paddy O'Donohue had one of the strangest encounters ever recorded in Kerry. He was walking home one night under a bright moon, tired from the road, when he heard a noise like a million soldiers marching. He looked and saw the way full of little men the length of his hand, all in green coats and in rows like a regiment, each with a pike on his shoulder and a shield on his arm. One walked in front like a general, proud as a peacock. Paddy was terrified and prayed faster than he ever had in his life, but not one of them turned his head. They all marched past and left him. Curiosity got the better of him, so he followed at a good distance, ready to run like a hare at the least noise, afraid they would turn him into a pig or some other beast. They marched into the field between the graveyard and the rath, where another army waited in red coats. The greens and the reds had the biggest fight you ever saw. The greens were beating the reds like blazes, and Paddy got so excited he shouted out, 'At 'em again! Don't leave one of the blaggards!' With that word, the sight left his eyes and he remembered no more till morning, when he found himself lying on the road, as stiff as a crutch.

50. The Love Charm Sewn into Dooley's Coat

    Galway · townland · Galway · 1873

    Miss Rooney, an old maid of about forty-one, paid Owld Moll one pound five for a dreadful charm written in Latin, kept in whispers lest evil spirits hear it. Pretending to mend his coat, she ripped the collar and sewed the charmed paper inside. When three Galway widows hauled Dooley before the judge for courting all of them, the charm worked on him in court and he chose to marry Miss Rooney that same day.

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    "'Then take a sate an' I'll sow it on ye,' says she to him agin, so he set down afore the fire, an' she, wid a pair av shizzors an' a nadle, wint behind him an' at the coat. 'Twas a sharp thrick av her, bekase she took the shizzors, an' whin she was lettin' on to cut aff the t'reads that she said were hangin', she ripped the collar, an' shlipped in the bit o' paper, an' sowed it up as nate as a samesthress in less than no time.

    "'It's much beholden to ye I am,' says Dooley, risin' wid his pipe lit. 'An' it's a happy man I'd be if I'd a young woman av yer size to do the like to me ivery day.'

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 14

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Galway, in 1873, a love charm was sewn into Dooley's coat. Miss Rooney, about forty-one, paid Owld Moll one pound five for a dreadful charm written in Latin, kept in whispers lest evil spirits hear it. She sat him by the fire, took the scissors, and pretending to cut loose threads, "ripped the collar, and slipped in the bit of paper, and sewed it up as neat as a seamstress." Dooley lit his pipe and said he'd be a happy man with a woman of her size to do the like every day. When three Galway widows hauled him before the judge for courting all of them, the charm worked in court, and he chose to marry Miss Rooney that same day.

51. The Monk Who Raised Tullaherin's Tower in a Single Night

    Tullaherin · townland · Kilkenny

    A missionary monk arrived at Tulloherin and, finding the people inhospitable, could obtain no lodging for the night. He resolved to stay, began building at evening, and by morning the round tower stood finished. He took up his abode in it, preaching from its entrance to crowds drawn by the fame of the miracle.

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    The Tower Tulloherin, for instance, was built in one night by a monk who came to the neighborhood as a missionary. Finding the people inhospitable, and unable to obtain lodging for the night, he determined to remain, believing there could not be found in Ireland a locality more in need of missionary work. So, on the evening of his arrival, he began to build, and by morning the tower was finished, and he took up his abode in it, preaching from its entrance to the crowds attracted by the fame of the miracle. The story of the Tower of Aghagower is similar, save in one particular, the saint in this case being aided by angels. Kilmackduagh was built in one night by angels without human assistance, the work being done at the solicitation of a saint who watched and prayed while the angels toiled.

    Ballygaddy has a history somewhat less miraculous, the local peasant historian attributing its origin to a "giont" of the neighborhood. Having received a belligerent message from another "giont," he took a stand on Ballygaddy hill to watch for the coming of his antagonist, proposing, as the humble chronicler stated, "to bate the head aff the braggin' vagabone if he said as much as Boo." For seven days and nights he stood upon the hill, and at the end of that time, as may readily be believed, "his legs wor that tired he thought they'd dhrop aff him." To relieve those valuable members he put up the tower as a support to lean on. The bellicose gigantic party who proposed the encounter finally came to time, and lovers of antiquities will be glad to learn that the tower-building giant "didn't lave a whole bone in the blaggard's ugly carkidge." After the battle, the victor "shtarted for to kick the tower down," but, upon second thought, concluded to put the roof on it and "lave it for a wondher to thim little mortials that come afther him," for which consideration all honor to his memory.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 9

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Tullaherin stands a round tower whose origin is told in old accounts of Irish wonders. A missionary monk came to this neighbourhood, and the people were inhospitable. He could not obtain lodging for the night anywhere. He determined to remain, believing there could not be found in Ireland a locality more in need of missionary work. On the evening of his arrival, he began to build, and by morning the tower was finished. He took up his abode in it, preaching from its entrance to the crowds attracted by the fame of the miracle. Other towers in Ireland have stories told of them that echo this one. The tower of Aghagower is similar, save that the saint in that case was aided by angels. Kilmackduagh was built in one night by angels without human assistance, the work done at the solicitation of a saint who watched and prayed while the angels toiled. Ballygaddy has a history somewhat less miraculous. A local peasant historian attributed its origin to a giant of the neighbourhood. Having received a belligerent message from another giant, he took a stand on Ballygaddy hill to watch for the coming of his antagonist, proposing, as the humble chronicler stated, to bate the head off the braggin' vagabond if he said as much as boo. For seven days and nights he stood on the hill, and his legs were so tired he thought they would drop off him. He put up the tower as a support to lean on. His opponent finally arrived, and the tower-building giant didn't leave a whole bone in him.

52. The Penitent Chief of Dunseverick Castle

    near Dunseverick · townland · Antrim

    The ruined Castle of Dunseverick in Antrim is believed to be inhabited still by the spirit of a chief. He remains there doing penance, atoning for a horrid crime committed in life, awaiting the hour of his release.

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    In some parts of Ireland there exists a belief that the spirits of the dead are not taken from earth, nor do they lose all their former interest in earthly affairs, but enjoy the happiness of the saved, or suffer the punishment imposed for their sins, in the neighborhood of the scenes among which they lived while clothed in flesh and blood. At particular crises in the affairs of mortals, these disenthralled spirits sometimes display joy or grief in such a manner as to attract the attention of living men and women. At weddings they are frequently unseen guests; at funerals they are always present; and sometimes, at both weddings and funerals, their presence is recognized by aerial voices or mysterious music known to be of unearthly origin. The spirits of the good wander with the living as guardian angels, but the spirits of the bad are restrained in their action, and compelled to do penance at or near the places where their crimes were committed. Some are chained at the bottoms of the lakes, others buried under ground, others confined in mountain gorges; some hang on the sides of precipices, others are transfixed on the tree-tops, while others haunt the homes of their ancestors, all waiting till the penance has been endured and the hour of release arrives. The Castle of Dunseverick, in Antrim, is believed to be still inhabited by the spirit of a chief, who there atones for a horrid crime, while the castles of Dunluce, of Magrath, and many others are similarly peopled by the wicked dead. In the Abbey of Clare, the ghost of a sinful abbot walks and will continue to do so until his sin has been atoned for by the prayers he unceasingly mutters in his tireless march up and down the aisles of the ruined nave.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 8

    As the companion tells it

    Close to Dunseverick, there is a ruined castle that people say is still inhabited. Not by the living, but by the spirit of a chief, who remains there doing penance for a horrid crime he committed in life. In parts of Ireland there is a belief that the dead are not taken far from the earth. Their spirits stay near the scenes where they lived, and they do not lose their interest in earthly affairs. The good wander among the living as guardian angels. But the bad are held where they are, compelled to do penance at or near the places where their crimes were done. Some are chained at the bottoms of lakes. Some are buried under ground. Some are confined in mountain gorges, or hang on the sides of precipices, or are transfixed on the tops of trees. Others haunt the homes of their ancestors. All of them wait until the penance has been endured and the hour of release arrives. At weddings these spirits are often unseen guests. At funerals they are always present. Sometimes their presence is known by aerial voices, or by mysterious music that people recognize as having an unearthly origin. The chief at Dunseverick is one of these. He stays in the ruined castle, atoning for what he did. The castles of Dunluce and Magrath, and many others, are said to be similarly peopled by the wicked dead. In the Abbey of Clare, the ghost of a sinful abbot walks up and down the aisles of the ruined nave, muttering prayers without ceasing, and will do so until his sin has been atoned for.

53. A Ghostly Village Like Maas Seen on Gweebarra Bay

    Maas · townland · Donegal

    When the Enchanted Island appeared in Gweebarra Bay, the people living there observed along its shore a village resembling Maas, the very village in which they lived.

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    In Galway, the Enchanted Island has appeared in the mouth of Ballinaleame Bay, a local landlord at the time making a devout wish that it would stay there. The fishermen of Ballynaskill, in the Joyce Country, saw it about fifteen years ago, since when it appeared to the Innisshark islanders. The County Mayo has seen it, not only from the Achille Island cliffs, but also from Downpatrick Head; and in Sligo, the fishermen of Ballysadare Bay know all about it, while half the population of Inishcrone still remember its appearance about twenty years ago. The Inishboffin islanders in Donegal say it looked like their own island, "sure two twins couldn't be liker," and the people on Gweebarra Bay, when it appeared there, observed along the shore of the island a village like Maas, the one in which they lived. It has also appeared off Rathlin's Island, on the Antrim coast, but, so far as could be learned, it went no further to the east, confining its migrations to the west coast, between Cork on the south and Antrim on the north.

    Concerning the island itself, legendary authorities differ on many material points. Some hold it to be "a rale island sure enough," and that its exploits are due to "jommethry or some other inchantmint," while opponents of this materialistic view are inclined to the opinion that the island is not what it seems to be, that is to say, not "airth an' shtones, like as thim we see, but only a deludherin' show that avil sper'ts, or the divil belike, makes fur to desave us poor dishsolute craythers." Public opinion on the west coast is therefore strongly divided on the subject, unity of sentiment existing on two points only; that the island has been seen, and that there is something quite out of the ordinary in its appearance. "For ye see, yer Anner," observed a Kerry fisherman, "it's agin nacher fur a rale island to be comin' and goin' like a light in a bog, an' whin ye do see it, ye can see through it, an' by jagers, if it's a thrue island, a mighty quare wan it is an' no mishtake."

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 5

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here, on the shore of Gweebarra Bay, people once saw an island that shouldn't have been there. They call it the Enchanted Island, and it has appeared all along the west coast, from Cork to Antrim, drifting in and out like a light in a bog. When it showed itself here, the people looking out over the water made out a village along its shore that looked like Maas, the very place they lived in. The Inishboffin islanders in Donegal had much the same experience, saying it looked like their own island, that two twins couldn't be liker. No one agrees on what the island is. Some say it is a real island, its comings and goings down to jommethry or some other enchantment. Others hold that it is not earth and stones at all, but only a deluding show made by evil spirits or the devil himself to deceive poor dissolute creatures. A Kerry fisherman put the matter plainly, saying it is against nature for a real island to come and go like that, and when you do see it, you can see through it.

54. Four Magpies Foretell a Corpse at Ennis Fair

    Ennis · townland · Clare

    Owld Moll taught that one magpie means sorrow, two luck, three a wedding, and four a death. Jerry Magwire claimed the omen proved true when he saw four magpies on the day of the fair in Ennis, the same day a man named O'Dougherty was laid out dead.

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    "Sure Moll towld me wan magpie manes sorrow, two manes luck, three manes a weddin', an' four manes death; an' didn't I see four o' thim the day o' the fair in Ennis whin O'Dougherty was laid out? An' whin O'Riley cut his arrum wid a bill-hook, an' the blood was runnin', didn't she tie a shtring on the arrum an' dip a raven's feather into the blood av a black cat's tail, an' shtop the bleedin'? An' didn't she bid me take care o' meself the day I met a red-headed woman afore dinner, an' it wasn't six months till I met the woman in the mornin', it a-rainin' an' ivery dhrop the full o' yer hat, an' me top-coat at home, an' that same night was I tuk wid the roomytics an' didn't shtir a toe fur a fortnight. Faix, she's an owld wan is Moll; phat she can't do isn't worth thryin'. If she goes fur to make a match, all the fathers in Ireland cudn't purvint it, an' it's no use o' their settin' theirselves agin her, fur her head's as long as a summer day an' as hard as a shillalee.

    "Did iver ye hear how she got a husband for owld Miss Rooney, the same that married Misther Dooley that kapes the Aygle Inn in Lisdoon Varna, an' tuk him clane away from the Widdy Mulligan an' two more widdys that were comin' down upon him like kites on a young rabbit?

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 14

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here, in Ennis, a fair day gave weight to an old belief about magpies. Owld Moll taught that 1 magpie means sorrow, 2 means luck, 3 means a wedding, and 4 means death. Jerry Magwire said he saw 4 of them the day of the fair in Ennis, the same day a man named O'Dougherty was laid out dead. Jerry had other reasons to trust Moll's knowledge. O'Riley cut his arm with a bill-hook and the blood was running. Moll tied a string on the arm and dipped a raven's feather into the blood of a black cat's tail, and stopped the bleeding. She also warned Jerry to take care of himself the day he met a red-headed woman before dinner. It wasn't 6 months before he met that woman in the morning, rain coming down with every drop the full of your hat, his top-coat left at home. That same night he was taken with the rheumatics and didn't stir a toe for a fortnight. Jerry said what Moll can't do isn't worth trying. If she sets out to make a match, all the fathers in Ireland couldn't prevent it. Her head was as long as a summer day and as hard as a shillelagh. He told how she got a husband for old Miss Rooney, who married Mister Dooley, keeper of the Eagle Inn in Lisdoonvarna. Moll took him clean away from the Widow Mulligan and 2 more widows coming down on him like kites on a young rabbit.

55. Inishcrone Remembers the Enchanted Island

    near Inishcrone · townland · Sligo · 1868

    In Sligo the fishermen of Ballysadare Bay knew all about the Enchanted Island, and half the population of Inishcrone still remembered its appearance off their coast about twenty years before 1888.

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    In Galway, the Enchanted Island has appeared in the mouth of Ballinaleame Bay, a local landlord at the time making a devout wish that it would stay there. The fishermen of Ballynaskill, in the Joyce Country, saw it about fifteen years ago, since when it appeared to the Innisshark islanders. The County Mayo has seen it, not only from the Achille Island cliffs, but also from Downpatrick Head; and in Sligo, the fishermen of Ballysadare Bay know all about it, while half the population of Inishcrone still remember its appearance about twenty years ago. The Inishboffin islanders in Donegal say it looked like their own island, "sure two twins couldn't be liker," and the people on Gweebarra Bay, when it appeared there, observed along the shore of the island a village like Maas, the one in which they lived. It has also appeared off Rathlin's Island, on the Antrim coast, but, so far as could be learned, it went no further to the east, confining its migrations to the west coast, between Cork on the south and Antrim on the north.

    Concerning the island itself, legendary authorities differ on many material points. Some hold it to be "a rale island sure enough," and that its exploits are due to "jommethry or some other inchantmint," while opponents of this materialistic view are inclined to the opinion that the island is not what it seems to be, that is to say, not "airth an' shtones, like as thim we see, but only a deludherin' show that avil sper'ts, or the divil belike, makes fur to desave us poor dishsolute craythers." Public opinion on the west coast is therefore strongly divided on the subject, unity of sentiment existing on two points only; that the island has been seen, and that there is something quite out of the ordinary in its appearance. "For ye see, yer Anner," observed a Kerry fisherman, "it's agin nacher fur a rale island to be comin' and goin' like a light in a bog, an' whin ye do see it, ye can see through it, an' by jagers, if it's a thrue island, a mighty quare wan it is an' no mishtake."

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 5

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here, half the people of Inishcrone still remembered the time the Enchanted Island appeared off their coast, about twenty years before 1888. The fishermen of Ballysadare Bay in Sligo knew all about it too. This was no ordinary island. It came and went, showing itself along the west coast from Cork in the south to Antrim in the north, appearing in bays and off headlands, then vanishing again. People disagreed about what it was. Some held it to be a real island, its tricks down to magic of some kind. Others said it was not earth and stones at all, but a deluding show made by evil spirits or the devil himself to deceive poor sinful creatures. What everyone agreed on was that it had been seen, and that there was something strange about it. A Kerry fisherman summed it up: it is against nature for a real island to be coming and going like a light in a bog, and when you do see it, you can see through it. The Inishboffin islanders in Donegal said it looked like their own island, and the people on Gweebarra Bay, when it appeared there, saw along its shore a village like their own. A landlord in Galway even made a devout wish that it would stay where it appeared in the mouth of his bay. It never did stay, of course. It confined its wanderings to the west coast and went no further east than Rathlin's Island off Antrim.

56. Jerry Magwire's Snail Charm and Marriage

    Ballinasloe · townland · Galway

    Jerry Magwire sought an enchantment from Owld Moll to win Dora O'Callighan, involving changing his garters, tying bark to his thumb, and finding a snail on a tombstone on Halloween. A hare startled him in the graveyard, but he completed the charm and the snail's markings were read as the letters of his beloved's name, leading to their marriage.

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    "Sure I was married meself be her manes," stated Jerry, "an' this is the way it was. Forty-nine years ago come next Mickelmas, I was a good-lookin' young felly, wid a nate cabin on the road from Ballinasloe to Ballinamore, havin' a fine car an' a mare an' her colt, that was as good as two horses whin the colt grew up. I was afther payin' coort to Dora O'Callighan, that was the dawther av Misther O'Callighan that lived in the County Galway, an', be the same token, was a fine man. In thim times I used be comin' over here twict or three times a year wid a bagman, commercial thraveller, you'd call him, an' I heard say av Owld Moll, an' she wasn't owld thin, an' the next time I come, I wint to her an' got an inchantmint. Faix, some av it is gone from me, but I mind that I was to change me garthers, an' tie on me thumb a bit o' bark she gev me, an' go to the churchyard on Halloween, an' take the first chilla-ca-pooka (snail) I found on a tombshtone, an' begob, it was that same job that was like to be the death o' me, it bein' dark an' I bendin' to look clost, a hare jumped in me face from undher the shtone. 'Jagers,' says I, an' me fallin' on me back on the airth an' the life lavin' me. 'Presince o' God be about me,' says I, for I knewn the inchantmint wasn't right, no more I oughtn't to be at it, but the hare was skairt like meself an' run, an' I found the shnail an' run too wid the shweat pourin' aff me face in shtrames.

    "So I put the shnail in a plate that I covered wid another, an' av the Sunday, I opened it fur to see phat letters it writ, an' bad luck to the wan o' thim cud I rade at all, fur in thim days I cudn't tell A from any other letther. I tuk the plate to Misther O'Callighan, fur he was a fine scholar an' cud rade both books an' writin', an' axed him phat the letters was.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 14

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Ballinasloe, Jerry Magwire once had a neat cabin on the road to Ballinamore. He was courting Dora O'Callighan, daughter of a County Galway man, and being a good-looking young fellow with a car and a mare and her colt, he wanted to win her. So he went to Owld Moll, who wasn't old then, and got an enchantment. He had to change his garters, tie a bit of bark to his thumb, and go to the churchyard on Halloween to find the first snail on a tombstone. That nearly killed him. It was dark, and bending to look close, a hare jumped in his face from under the stone. He fell on his back with the life leaving him, crying out, "Presince o' God be about me," for he knew the enchantment wasn't right. But the hare was as scared as himself and ran. Jerry found the snail, sweat pouring off his face in streams, and ran too. He put the snail on a plate covered with another, and on the Sunday he opened it to see what letters the snail had written. He couldn't read a one of them, not being able to tell A from any other letter. So he took the plate to Dora's father, who was a fine scholar and could read both books and writing, and asked him what the letters were. The markings spelled out his beloved's name, and by those means Jerry Magwire was married.

57. Paddy Donnelly's Leprechaun Gold in Connemara

    near Connemara · townland · Galway

    A Galway peasant told of Paddy Donnelly of Connemara, a man who worked constantly, shunned fairs and drink, and gradually grew rich. His neighbours concluded he had caught a Leprechaun and forced it to reveal hidden gold, and though Donnelly insisted his property came from industry, economy, and temperance, local opinion held that he lied about the gold to keep it for himself.

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    "It was Paddy Donnelly av Connemara. He was always hard at work as far as anny wan seen, an' bad luck to the day he'd miss, barrin' Sundays. When all 'ud go to the fair, sorra a fut he'd shtir to go near it, no more did a dhrop av dhrink crass his lips. When they'd ax him why he didn't take divarshun, he'd laugh an' tell thim his field was divarshun enough fur him, an' by an' by he got rich, so they knewn that when they were at the fair or wakes or shports, it was lookin' fur a Leprechawn he was an' not workin', an' he got wan too, fur how else cud he get rich at all."

    And so it must have been, in spite of the denials of Paddy Donnelly, though, to do him justice, he stoutly affirmed that his small property was acquired by industry, economy, and temperance. But according to the opinions of his neighbors, "bad scran to him 't was as greedy as a pig he was, fur he knewn where the goold was, an' wanted it all fur himself, an' so lied about it like the Leprechawns, that's known to be the biggest liars in the world."

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 11

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here lived Paddy Donnelly, a man who was always hard at work, as far as anyone saw, and never missed a day barring Sundays. While all the neighbours went to fairs, wakes, and sports, he would not stir, and not a drop of drink crossed his lips. When they asked him why he didn't take diversion, he'd laugh and tell them his field was diversion enough for him. By and by he grew rich, and the neighbours concluded that when they were off enjoying themselves, it was looking for a leprechaun he was, and he caught one too, for how else could he get rich at all. Paddy himself stoutly affirmed that his small property was acquired by industry, economy, and temperance. But his neighbours would have none of it. They said he was as greedy as a pig, that he knew where the gold was and wanted it all for himself, and so he lied about it like the leprechauns, who are known to be the biggest liars in the world.

58. Riley and the White Mare Taken by the Pooka

    near Corkscrew Hill · townland · Clare

    When the queen's baby fell ill, King Brian Boru sent his servant Riley on the white mare to fetch a doctor at night, but the Pooka took both Riley and the mare, and neither was ever seen again. Spirits later deceived people into thinking they saw Riley in Cork, but this was merely illusion.

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    "So he wint, wid great shlowness, tuk the white mare, an' aff, an' that was the last seen o' him or the mare aither, fur the Pooka tuk 'em. Sorra a taste av a lie's in it, for thim that said they seen him in Cork two days afther, thrading aff the white mare, was desaved be the sper'ts, that made it seem to be him whin it wasn't that they've a thrick o' doin'.

    "Well, the babby got well agin, bekase the docther didn't get there, so the king left botherin' afther it and begun to wondher about Riley an' the white mare, and sarched fur thim but didn't find thim. An' thin he knewn that they was gone entirely, bekase, ye see, the Pooka didn't lave as much as a hair o' the mare's tail.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 2

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Corkscrew Hill, there's a story of King Brian Boru's servant Riley and a white mare. When the queen's baby fell ill, the king sent Riley out at night on the white mare to fetch a doctor. That was the last seen of him or the mare. The Pooka took them both. Some said they saw Riley in Cork two days after, dismounting the white mare, but they were deceived by spirits, who have a trick of making things seem what they are not. The baby got well, because the doctor never arrived. The king began to wonder about Riley and the white mare. He searched but found nothing. He knew they were gone entirely, because the Pooka did not leave as much as a hair of the mare's tail.

59. The Policeman Shot by the Wall near Corkscrew Hill

    near Corkscrew Hill · townland · Clare · 1887

    The car-man narrator notes in passing that a policeman was shot the previous winter at a wall beside the road near the rath and fairy-dancing ground below Corkscrew Hill, on the Ennis to Ballyvaughan road. The killing is offered as a local landmark, with no further detail given.

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    "Sure Dennis O'Rourke was afther comin' home wan night, it was only a boy I was, but I mind him tellin' the shtory, an' it was at a fair in Galway he'd been. He'd been havin' a sup, some says more, but whin he come to the rath, and jist beyant where the fairies dance and ferninst the wall where the polisman was shot last winther, he fell in the ditch, quite spint and tired complately. It wasn't the length as much as the wideness av the road was in it, fur he was goin' from wan side to the other an' it was too much fur him entirely. So he laid shtill fur a bit and thin thried fur to get up, but his legs wor light and his head was heavy, an' whin he attimpted to get his feet an the road 'twas his head that was an it, bekase his legs cudn't balance it. Well, he laid there and was bet entirely, an' while he was studyin' how he'd raise, he heard the throttin' av a horse on the road. ''Tis meself 'ull get the lift now,' says he, and laid waitin', and up comes the Pooka. Whin Dennis seen him, begob, he kivered his face wid his hands and turned on the breast av him, and roared wid fright like a bull.

    [Illustration: Dennis and the Pooka]

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 2

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Corkscrew Hill, a wall beside the road marks where a policeman was shot in the winter of 1887, near a rath and a fairy-dancing ground on the Ennis to Ballyvaughan road. The shooting is a landmark here. A story about that same spot concerns Dennis O'Rourke, coming home one night from a fair in Galway. He had been having a drink, some say more than one. When he reached the rath, just beyond where the fairies dance and opposite the wall where the policeman was shot, he fell into the ditch, completely spent and tired. It was not the length of the road but the width of it that defeated him, for he was going from one side to the other and it was too much for him entirely. He lay still for a bit and then tried to get up, but his legs were light and his head was heavy. When he attempted to get his feet on the road, it was his head that landed on it, for his legs could not balance it. He lay there, beaten entirely. While he studied how to raise himself, he heard the trotting of a horse on the road. "'Tis meself 'ull get the lift now," says he, and laid waiting. Up comes the Pooka. When Dennis seen him, he covered his face with his hands and turned on his breast and roared with fright like a bull.

60. Dooley's Bewitched Cow Outside Galway

    Galway · townland · Galway · 1873

    Around 1873 the cow of Mr. Dooley, a bachelor farmer on a farm just outside Galway, suddenly went dry though she grazed from sun to sun, and his man Paddy declared she was bewitched. Dooley sought out Owld Moll, whose charm soon restored the beast — and the errand for milk at the neighbouring Rooney farm led to his eventual marriage.

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    "But he wint to Owld Moll about the cow, an' the charm she gev him soon made the baste all right agin, but, be that time, he'd got used to goin' to Rooney's an' liked it betther than the town, bekase whinever he wint to town he had to make so many axcuses he was afeared the widdys 'ud ketch him in a lie.

    "So he shtayed at home most times and wint over to Rooney's the rest, fur it wasn't a bad job at all, though she was about one an' forty, an' had give up the fight fur a husband an' so saiced strugglin'. As long as they've anny hope, owld maids are the most praypostherous craythers alive, fur they'll fit thimselves wid the thrappin's av a young gurrul an' look as onaisey in thim as a boy wid his father's britches on. But whin they've consinted to the sitiwation an' saiced to struggle, thin they begin to be happy an' enjoy life a bit, but there's no aise in the worruld fur thim till thin. Now Miss Rooney had gev up the contist an' plasthered her hair down on aitch side av her face so smooth ye'd shwear it was ironed it was, an' begun to take the worruld aisey.

    Project Gutenberg #19486, Chapter 14

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here, around 1873, a bachelor farmer named Dooley had a cow that suddenly went dry. She grazed from sun to sun but gave no milk, and his man Paddy declared she was bewitched. Dooley went to Owld Moll about the cow, and the charm she gave him soon made the beast all right again. By that time, though, he had got used to going over to Rooney's for milk, and he liked it better than going into town. Whenever he went to town he had to make so many excuses he was afraid the widows would catch him in a lie. So he stayed at home most times and went over to Rooney's the rest. Miss Rooney was about 41 and had given up the fight for a husband. As long as old maids have any hope, they are the most preposterous creatures alive, fitting themselves out with the trappings of a young girl and looking as uneasy in them as a boy in his father's britches. But when they have consented to the situation and ceased to struggle, they begin to be happy. She had plastered her hair down on each side of her face so smooth you would swear it was ironed, and begun to take the world easy. And that errand for milk led Dooley to marriage.