Name: Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland
Author: T. Crofton Croker

Read the copy these stories were drawn from on the Project Gutenberg.

45: stories drawn from it
45: placed on the map
8: counties: Cork, Kerry, Limerick and more
11,146: words in the passages on this page

The stories, best first

45 in all

Each story keeps the passage it was read from. Open one to read the passage as the book has it, and, where the companion has written its own telling, that too.

The Banshee of Spring House foretells Charles Mac Carthy's death

Springhouse · townland · Tipperary · 1749–1752

In 1749 Charles Mac Carthy of Spring House, Co. Tipperary, apparently died of fever but revived, claiming a vision that granted him three years to repent. On the eve of his twenty-seventh birthday in October 1752, travellers to Spring House met a shrieking white-clad woman — the Mac Carthy Banshee — at a crossroads. Charles, accidentally shot days earlier by a woman seduced by his guest James Ryan, died of the mistreated wound on the foretold day.

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“The Bourkes kept us up so late on Friday night, that yesterday was pretty far advanced before we could begin our journey, and the day closed when we were nearly fifteen miles distant from this place. The roads were excessively deep, from the heavy rains of the last week, and we proceeded so slowly, that at last my mother resolved on passing the night at the house of Mr. Bourke’s brother (who lives about a quarter of a mile off the road), and coming here to breakfast in the morning. The day had been windy and showery, and the sky looked fitful, gloomy, and uncertain. The moon was full, and at times shone clear and bright; at others, it was wholly concealed behind the thick, black, and rugged masses of clouds, that rolled rapidly along, and were every moment becoming larger, and collecting together, as if gathering strength for a coming storm. The wind, which blew in our faces, whistled bleakly along the low hedges of the narrow road, on which we proceeded with difficulty from the number of deep sloughs, and which afforded not the least shelter, no plantation being within some miles of us. My mother, therefore, asked Leary, who drove the jaunting-car, how far we were from Mr. Bourke’s. ‘’Tis about ten spades from this to the cross, and we have then only to turn to the left into the avenue, ma’am.’ ‘Very well, Leary: turn up to Mr. Bourke’s as soon as you reach the cross roads.’ My mother had scarcely spoken these words, when a shriek that made us thrill as if our very hearts were pierced by it, burst from the hedge to the right of our way. If it resembled any thing earthly, it seemed the cry of a female, struck by a sudden and mortal blow, and giving out her life in one long deep pang of expiring agony. ‘Heaven defend us!’ exclaimed my mother. ‘Go you over the hedge, Leary, and save that woman, if she is not yet dead, while we run back to the hut we just passed, and alarm the village near it.’ ‘Woman!’ said Leary, beating the horse violently, while his voice trembled—‘that’s no woman: the sooner we get on, ma’am, the better;’ and he continued his efforts to quicken the horse’s pace. We saw nothing. The moon was hid. It was quite dark, and we had been for some time expecting a heavy fall of rain. But just as Leary had spoken, and had succeeded in making the horse trot briskly forward, we distinctly heard a loud clapping of hands, followed by a succession of screams, that seemed to denote the last excess of despair and anguish, and to issue from a person running forward inside the hedge, to keep pace with our progress. Still we saw nothing; until, when we were within about ten yards of the place where an avenue branched off to Mr. Bourke’s to the left, and the road turned to Spring House on the right, the moon started suddenly from behind a cloud, and enabled us to see, as plainly as I now see this paper, the figure of a tall thin woman, with uncovered head, and long hair that floated round her shoulders, attired in something which seemed either a loose white cloak, or a sheet thrown hastily about her. She stood on the corner hedge, where the road on which we were, met that which leads to Spring House, with her face towards us, her left hand pointing to this place, and her right arm waving rapidly and violently, as if to draw us on in that direction. The horse had stopped, apparently frightened at the sudden presence of the figure, which stood in the manner I have described, still uttering the same piercing cries, for about half a minute. It then leaped upon the road, disappeared from our view for one instant, and the next was seen standing upon a high wall a little way up the avenue, on which we proposed going, still pointing towards the road to Spring House, but in an attitude of defiance and command, as if prepared to oppose our passage up the avenue. The figure was now quite silent, and its garments, which had before flown loosely in the wind, were closely wrapped around it. ‘Go on, Leary, to Spring House, in God’s name,’ said my mother; ‘whatever world it belongs to, we will provoke it no longer.’ ‘’Tis the Banshee, ma’am,’ said Leary; ‘and I would not, for what my life is worth, go any where this blessed night but to Spring House. But I’m afraid there’s something bad going forward, or _she_ would not send us there.’ So saying, he drove forward; and as we turned on the road to the right, the moon suddenly withdrew its light, and we saw the apparition no more; but we heard plainly a prolonged clapping of hands, gradually dying away, as if it issued from a person rapidly retreating. We proceeded as quickly as the badness of the roads and the fatigue of the poor animal that drew us would allow, and arrived here about eleven o’clock last night. The scene which awaited us you have learned from my mother’s letter. To explain it fully, I must recount to you some of the transactions which took place here during the last week.

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 12
The Hag Grana and the Candle of Death at Carrigogunnel

Carrigogunnel · townland · Limerick

Before the castle was built, the monstrous hag Grana dwelt on the rock of Carrigogunnel and lit an enchanted candle each night that caused instant death to anyone who looked upon it, laying waste to the surrounding country. The Finnian hero Regan, wearing a magic cap to shield his eyes, climbed the rock and hurled the candle into the Shannon, extinguishing it forever and ending the hag's reign of death.

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Death was her sport. Like the angler with his rod, the hag Grana would toil, and watch, nor think it labour, so that the death of a victim rewarded her vigils. Every evening did she light an enchanted candle upon the rock, and whoever looked upon it died before the next morning’s sun arose. Numberless were the victims over whom Grana rejoiced; one after the other had seen the light, and their death was the consequence. Hence came the country round to be desolate, and Carrigogunnel, the Rock of the Candle, by its dreaded name.
These were fearful times to live in. But the Finnii of Erin were the avengers of the oppressed. Their fame had gone forth to distant shores, and their deeds were sung by a hundred bards. To them the name of danger was an invitation to a rich banquet. The web of enchantment stopped their course as little as the swords of an enemy. Many a mother of a son—many a wife of a husband—many a sister of a brother, had the valour of the Finnian heroes bereft. Dismembered limbs quivered, and heads bounded on the ground before their progress in battle. They rushed forward with the strength of the furious wind, tearing up the trees of the forest by their roots. Loud was their warcry as the thunder, raging was their impetuosity above that of common men, and fierce was their anger as the stormy waves of the ocean!

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 32
The Banshee's Warning at Buttevant

Buttevant · townland · Cork · 1750

As the Reverend Charles Bunworth of Buttevant lay dying, his herdsman Kavanagh reported meeting the Banshee keening and clapping her hands along the glen of Ballybeg before she vanished into the abbey pigeon-field. On the night before his death, witnesses in the house heard the same mournful moaning and hand-clapping at the window, though no one could be found outside.

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“May be so,” replied Kavanagh, as if the words ‘idle superstition’ only sounded upon his ear without reaching his mind—“May be so,” he continued; “but as I came through the glen of Ballybeg, she was along with me, keening, and screeching, and clapping her hands, by my side, every step of the way, with her long white hair falling about her shoulders, and I could hear her repeat the master’s name every now and then, as plain as ever I heard it. When I came to the old abbey, she parted from me there, and turned into the pigeon-field next the _berrin_ ground, and folding her cloak about her, down she sat under the tree that was struck by the lightning, and began keening so bitterly, that it went through one’s heart to hear it.”
“Kavanagh,” said Miss Bunworth, who had, however, listened attentively to this remarkable relation, “my father is, I believe, better; and I hope will himself soon be up and able to convince you that all this is but your own fancy; nevertheless, I charge you not to mention what you have told me, for there is no occasion to frighten your fellow-servants with the story.”

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 11
The Drowned Palace of King Core

near Lough Mahon · townland · Cork

King Core of Cork kept a magical spring walled up for his own use, and when his daughter Fior Usga fell into the well while fetching water for a feast, the waters rose and drowned the entire palace, forming the lough of Cork. The palace and its feasting are said to continue nightly beneath the water as punishment for the king's greed.

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Nobody can doubt that it was a judgment upon the king for his shutting up the well in the court-yard from the poor people: and if there are any who do not credit my story, they may go and see the lough of Cork, for there it is to be seen to this day; the road to Kinsale passes at one side of it; and when its waters are low and clear, the tops of towers and stately buildings may be plainly viewed in the bottom by those who have good eyesight, without the help of spectacles.

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 15
The death coach at Hanlon's Mill and the master of Ballygibblin

Ballygiblin · townland · Cork

Crossing the Inch near ruined Hanlon's mill, Michael Noonan hears a phantom hunt and the long-silent mill clacking, and later that night a headless black coach with six headless horses sweeps silently past him on the road by the Awbeg. Next morning Mr. Wrixon, the master, is struck down by a fit, and Ballygibblin becomes a house of mourning — the coach an omen of his death.

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The night was a beautiful one; the moon was better than a quarter old; and Mick, looking up at her, could not help bestowing a blessing on her beautiful face, shining down so sweetly upon the gentle Awbeg. He had now got out of the open road, and had come to where the trees grew on each side of it: he proceeded for some space in the chequered light which the moon gave through them. At one time, when a big old tree got between him and the moon, it was so dark, that he could hardly see the horse’s head; then, as he passed on, the moonbeams would stream through the open boughs and variegate the road with light and shade. Mick was lying down in the car at his ease, having got clear of the plantation, and was watching the bright piece of a moon in a little pool at the road-side, when he saw it disappear all of a sudden as if a great cloud came over the sky. He turned round on his elbow to see if it was so; but how was Mick astonished at finding, close alongside of the car, a great high black coach drawn by six black horses, with long black tails reaching almost down to the ground, and a coachman dressed all in black sitting up on the box. But what surprised Mick the most was, that he could see no sign of a head either upon coachman or horses. It swept rapidly by him, and he could perceive the horses raising their feet as if they were in a fine slinging trot, the coachman touching them up with his long whip, and the wheels spinning round like hoddy-doddies; still he could hear no noise, only the regular step of his gossip Darby’s horse, and the squeaking of the gudgeons of the car, that were as good as lost entirely for want of a little grease.
Poor Mick’s heart almost died within him, but he said nothing, only looked on; and the black coach swept away and was soon lost among some distant trees. Mick saw nothing more of it, or, indeed, of any thing else. He got home just as the moon was going down behind Mount Hillery—took the tackling off the horse, turned the beast out in the field for the night, and got to his bed.

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 22
The Phooka Crookens Peggy Barrett's Back at Ballyhooly

Ballyhooly · townland · Cork

On May-eve, Peggy Barrett of Ballyhooley was returning home past the demesne wall when a goat-like creature with cloven feet sprang onto her back and rode her to her door, leaving her unable to speak, run, or knock. Only after blessing herself three times did the burden spring off, pitching her onto the floor. Her back was bent nearly level from that night on, and she named the creature as the Phooka.

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“It was, of all days in the year, the day before May-day, that I went out to the garden to weed the potatoes. I would not have gone out that day, but I was dull in myself, and sorrowful, and wanted to be alone; all the boys and girls were laughing and joking in the house, making goaling-balls and dressing out ribands for the mummers next day. I couldn’t bear it. ’Twas only at the Easter that was then past (and that’s ten years last Easter—I won’t forget the time,) that I buried my poor man; and I thought how gay and joyful I was, many a long year before that, at the May-eve before our wedding, when with Robin by my side, I sat cutting and sewing the ribands for the goaling-ball I was to give the boys on the next day, proud to be preferred above all the other girls of the banks of the Blackwater, by the handsomest boy and the best hurler in the village; so I left the house and went to the garden. I staid there all the day, and didn’t come home to dinner. I don’t know how it was, but somehow I continued on, weeding, and thinking sorrowfully enough, and singing over some of the old songs that I sung many and many a time in the days that are gone, and for them that never will come back to me to hear them. The truth is, I hated to go and sit silent and mournful among the people in the house, that were merry and young, and had the best of their days before them. ’Twas late before I thought of returning home, and I did not leave the garden till some time after sunset. The moon was up; but though there wasn’t a cloud to be seen, and though a star was winking here and there in the sky, the day wasn’t long enough gone to have it clear moonlight; still it shone enough to make every thing on one side of the heavens look pale and silvery-like; and the thin white mist was just beginning to creep along the fields. On the other side, near where the sun was set, there was more of daylight, and the sky looked angry, red, and fiery through the trees, like as if it was lighted up by a great town burning below. Every thing was as silent as a churchyard, only now and then one could hear far off a dog barking, or a cow lowing after being milked. There wasn’t a creature to be seen on the road or in the fields. I wondered at this first, but then I remembered it was May-eve, and that many a thing, both good and bad, would be wandering about that night, and that I ought to shun danger as well as others. So I walked on as quick as I could, and soon came to the end of the demesne wall, where the trees rise high and thick at each side of the road, and almost meet at the top. My heart misgave me when I got under the shade. There was so much light let down from the opening above, that I could see about a stone-throw before me. All of a sudden I heard a rustling among the branches, on the right side of the road, and saw something like a small black goat, only with long wide horns turned out instead of being bent backwards, standing upon its hind legs upon the top of the wall, and looking down on me. My breath was stopped, and I couldn’t move for near a minute. I couldn’t help, somehow, keeping my eyes fixed on it; and it never stirred, but kept looking in the same fixed way down at me. At last I made a rush, and went on; but I didn’t go ten steps, when I saw the very same sight, on the wall to the left of me, standing in exactly the same manner, but three or four times as high, and almost as tall as the tallest man. The horns looked frightful; it gazed upon me as before; my legs shook, and my teeth chattered, and I thought I would drop down dead every moment. At last I felt as if I was obliged to go on—and on I went; but it was without feeling how I moved, or whether my legs carried me. Just as I passed the spot where this frightful thing was standing, I heard a noise as if something sprung from the wall, and felt like as if a heavy animal plumped down upon me, and held with the fore feet clinging to my shoulder, and the hind ones fixed in my gown, that was folded and pinned up behind me. ’Tis the wonder of my life ever since how I bore the shock; but so it was, I neither fell, nor even staggered with the weight, but walked on as if I had the strength of ten men, though I felt as if I couldn’t help moving, and couldn’t stand still if I wished it. Though I gasped with fear, I knew as well as I do now what I was doing. I tried to cry out, but couldn’t; I tried to run, but wasn’t able; I tried to look back, but my head and neck were as if they were screwed in a vice. I could barely roll my eyes on each side, and then I could see, as clearly and plainly as if it was in the broad light of the blessed sun, a black and cloven foot planted upon each of my shoulders. I heard a low breathing in my ear; I felt at every step I took, my leg strike back against the feet of the creature that was on my back. Still I could do nothing but walk straight on. At last I came within sight of the house, and a welcome sight it was to me, for I thought I would be released when I reached it. I soon came close to the door, but it was shut; I looked at the little window, but it was shut too, for they were more cautious about May-eve than I was; I saw the light inside, through the chinks of the door; I heard ’em talking and laughing within; I felt myself at three yards’ distance from them that would die to save me;—and may the Lord save me from ever again feeling what I did that night, when I found myself held by what couldn’t be good nor friendly, but without the power to help myself, or to call my friends, or to put out my hand to knock, or even to lift my leg to strike the door, and let them know that I was outside it! ’Twas as if my hands grew to my sides, and my feet were glued to the ground, or had the weight of a rock fixed to them. At last I thought of blessing myself; and my right hand, that would do nothing else, did that for me. Still the weight remained on my back, and all was as before. I blessed myself again: ’twas still all the same. I then gave myself up for lost: but I blessed myself a third time, and my hand no sooner finished the sign, than all at once I felt the burden spring off of my back; the door flew open as if a clap of thunder burst it, and I was pitched forward on my forehead, in upon the middle of the floor. When I got up my back was crookened, and I never stood straight from that night to this blessed hour.”

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 14
Charley Culnane and the Headless Horseman of Kilcummer Hill

Kilcummer · townland · Cork

Riding home past the ruined Templar walls at the bottom of Kilcummer Hill, Charley Culnane was joined by a gigantic headless horseman carrying his ghastly head under his arm, who revealed he and his horse had broken their necks there a hundred years before and had sought a fearless rider ever since.

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“Charley Culnane,” says he, “you have a stout soul in you, and are every inch of you a good rider. I’ve tried you, and I ought to know; and that’s the sort of man for my money. A hundred years it is since my horse and I broke our necks at the bottom of Kilcummer hill, and ever since I have been trying to get a man that dared to ride with me, and never found one before. Keep, as you have always done, at the tail of the hounds, never balk a ditch, nor turn away from a stone wall, and the headless horseman will never desert you nor the old mare.”
Charley, in amazement, looked towards the stranger’s right arm, for the purpose of seeing in his face whether or not he was in earnest, but behold! the head was snugly lodged in the huge pocket of the horseman’s scarlet hunting-coat. The horse’s head had ascended perpendicularly above them, and his extraordinary companion, rising quickly after his avant-coureur, vanished from the astonished gaze of Charley Culnane.

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 24
Father Cuddy's Vanishing at Innisfallen

Innisfallen · townland · Kerry

Father Cuddy of Innisfallen monastery, after drinking freely at Irelagh abbey, followed a mysterious young woman with a bottle and knelt to pray, only to awaken with his knees sunk into solid stone. He discovered a hundred years had passed, the monastery dissolved under Elizabeth, and all he knew was gone.

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Rubbing his eyes, he looked about him, and the more he looked the more he wondered at the alteration which appeared in the face of the country. “Bless my soul and body!” said the good father, “I saw the stars changing last night, but here is a change!” Doubting his senses, he looked again. The hills bore the same majestic outline as on the preceding day, and the lake spread itself beneath his view in the same tranquil beauty, and studded with the same number of islands; but every smaller feature in the landscape was strangely altered. What had been naked rocks were now clothed with holly and arbutus. Whole woods had disappeared, and waste places had become cultivated fields; and, to complete the work of enchantment, the very season itself seemed changed. In the rosy dawn of a summer’s morning he had left the monastery of Innisfallen, and he now felt in every sight and sound the dreariness of winter. The hard ground was covered with withered leaves; icicles depended from leafless branches; he heard the sweet low note of the robin, who familiarly approached him; and he felt his fingers numbed from the nipping frost. Father Cuddy found it rather difficult to account for such sudden transformations, and to convince himself it was not the illusion of a dream, he was about to rise, when lo! he discovered that both his knees were buried at least six inches in the solid stone; for, notwithstanding all these changes, he had never altered his devout position.
Cuddy was now wide awake, and felt, when he got up, his joints sadly cramped, which it was only natural they should be, considering the hard texture of the stone, and the depth his knees had sunk into it. But the great difficulty was to explain how, in one night, summer had become winter, whole woods had been cut down, and well-grown trees had sprouted up. The miracle, nothing else could he conclude it to be, urged him to hasten his return to Innisfallen, where he might learn some explanation of these marvellous events.

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 33
The Black Hole of Knockfeerina

near Knockfeerina · townland · Limerick

The Poul-duve, or Black Hole, on Knockfierna in County Limerick was held to be the entrance to a fairy castle; a land surveyor named Ahern who tried to fathom it with a line was drawn down into it and never heard of again. Carroll O'Daly, following a mysterious farmer up the mountain by night, flung a stone into the hole; it was hurled back into his face, breaking his nose and disfiguring him for life.

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Following as well as he could the direction taken by the figures of the man and pony, he pursued his way, occasionally guided by their partial appearance: and after toiling nearly three hours over a rugged and sometimes swampy path, came to a green spot on the top of the mountain, where he saw the white pony at full liberty grazing as quietly as may be. O’Daly looked around for the rider, but he was nowhere to be seen; he, however, soon discovered, close to where the pony stood, an opening in the mountain like the mouth of a pit, and he remembered having heard, when a child, many a tale about the “Poul-duve,” or Black Hole of Knockfierna; how it was the entrance to the fairy castle which was within the mountain; and how a man whose name was Ahern, a land surveyor in that part of the country, had once attempted to fathom it with a line, and had been drawn down into it, and was never again heard of; with many other tales of the like nature.
“But,” thought O’Daly, “these are old woman’s stories: and since I’ve come up so far, I’ll just knock at the castle door and see if the fairies are at home.”

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 2
Davy Roche's Dance with the Dead at Kilcrumper

Kilcrumper · townland · Cork

Returning merry from a fair, Davy Roche fell in with a ghostly funeral procession, including a man he believed to be long dead, and followed them into Kilcrumper churchyard where the mourners danced among the graves after the burial; he vanished from among them the moment he broke a fairy taboo by kissing his partner.

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“Why, then, may be, you never heard, ma’am, what happened to Davy Roche in that same churchyard,” said Bourke; and turning to Mr. Martin, added, “’twas a long time before he went into your service, sir. He was walking home of an evening, from the fair of Kilcummer, a little merry, to be sure, after the day, and he came up with a berrin. So he walked along with it, and thought it very queer, that he did not know a mother’s soul in the crowd, but one man, and he was sure that man was dead many years afore. Howsomever, he went on with the berrin, till they came to Kilcrumper churchyard; and then he went in and staid with the rest, to see the corpse buried. As soon as the grave was covered, what should they do but gather about a piper, that come along with ’em, and fall to dancing as if it was a wedding. Davy longed to be among ’em (for he hadn’t a bad foot of his own, that time, whatever he may now;) but he was loath to begin, because they all seemed strange to him, only the man I told you that he thought was dead. Well, at last this man saw what Davy wanted, and came up to him. ‘Davy,’ says he, ‘take out a partner, and show what you can do, but take care and don’t offer to kiss her.’ ‘That I won’t,’ says Davy, ‘although her lips were made of honey.’ And with that he made his bow to the _purtiest_ girl in the ring, and he and she began to dance. ’Twas a jig they danced, and they did it to th’ admiration, do you see, of all that were there. ’Twas all very well till the jig was over; but just as they had done, Davy, for he had a drop in, and was warm with the dancing, forgot himself, and kissed his partner, according to custom. The smack was no sooner off his lips, you see, than he was left alone in the churchyard, without a creature near him, and all he could see was the tall tombstones. Davy said they seemed as if they were dancing too, but I suppose that was only the wonder that happened him, and he being a little in drink. Howsomever, he found it was a great many hours later than he thought it; ’twas near morning when he came home; but they couldn’t get a word out of him till the next day, when he woke out of a dead sleep about twelve o’clock.”

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 6

As the companion tells it

Somewhere around here is Kilcrumper churchyard, where Davy Roche had his strange encounter. He was walking home one evening from the fair of Kilcummer, a little merry after the day, when he fell in with a funeral procession. What struck him was queer: he did not know a soul among the mourners but one man, and he was sure that man had been dead for years. He went along with them all the same, into Kilcrumper churchyard, and stayed to see the corpse buried. As soon as the grave was covered, a piper who had come with them struck up, and the whole crowd fell to dancing as if it were a wedding. Davy longed to join in, but held back until the man he thought was dead came over to him and said, take out a partner and show what you can do, but take care and don't offer to kiss her. Davy made his bow to the prettiest girl in the ring, and they danced a jig to the admiration of all present. But when the jig was over, warm with the dancing and the drink in him, he forgot himself and kissed his partner, according to custom. The smack was no sooner off his lips than he was left alone in the churchyard, with nothing but tall tombstones around him. He said they seemed as if they were dancing too, though that may have been the wonder of it, and the drink. It was near morning when he got home, and they could not get a word out of him till the next day, when he woke from a dead sleep about twelve o'clock.
The Fairies of Knockgraffon and Jack Madden's Curse

Knockgraffon · townland · Tipperary

At the old moat of Knockgrafton, between Cahir and Cappagh, fairies removed the hump of the piper of straw-work Lusmore after he perfected their song. When the peevish hunchback Jack Madden spoiled the fairy tune, they fixed a second hump on his back; he died soon after of its weight and the journey home, leaving his curse on anyone who would listen to fairy tunes.

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And twenty of the strongest fairies brought Lusmore’s hump, and put it down upon poor Jack’s back, over his own, where it became fixed as firmly, as if it was nailed on with twelvepenny nails, by the best carpenter that ever drove one. Out of their castle they then kicked him; and in the morning, when Jack Madden’s mother and her gossip came to look after their little man, they found him half dead, lying at the foot of the moat, with the other hump upon his back. Well, to be sure how they did look at each other! but they were afraid to say any thing, lest a hump might be put upon their own shoulders: home they brought the unlucky Jack Madden with them, as downcast in their hearts and their looks as ever two gossips were; and what through the weight of his other hump and the long journey, he died soon after, leaving, they say, his heavy curse to any one who would go to listen to fairy tunes again.
THE PRIEST’S SUPPER.

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 3

As the companion tells it

Somewhere around here, at the old moat of Knockgraffon, a piper called Lusmore once had his hump taken off by the fairies after he perfected their song. But Jack Madden spoiled the tune, and twenty of the strongest fairies brought Lusmore's hump and put it on Jack's back, over his own. It fixed on as firmly as if it was nailed on with twelvepenny nails by the best carpenter that ever drove one. They kicked him out of their castle, and in the morning his mother and her gossip found him half dead at the foot of the moat with the second hump on his back. They were afraid to say anything, lest a hump be put on their own shoulders. They brought him home, and what through the weight of that other hump and the long journey, he died soon after. He left his curse, they say, on anyone who would go to listen to fairy tunes again.
Teigue of the Lee: the unseen voice of Carrigrohane

near Carrigrohane · townland · Cork

The old manor-house of Carrigrohan, near Cork, was haunted by an invisible mocking voice calling itself Teigue, which taunted servants and dinner guests and took food left on the lawn without ever being seen. Colonel Pratt pursued the voice over hedge and ditch to a cliff above a deep black stretch of the River Lee called Hell-hole, where it plunged into the water and later resumed speaking at the house. Despite many later visits, no discovery was ever made of Teigue's person or character.

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“Ho, ho, ho! what a fool you are; do you think Teigue is going to show himself to you in the field, there? But colonel, follow me if you can:—you a soldier!—ho, ho, ho!” The colonel was enraged—he followed the voice over hedge and ditch, alternately laughed at and taunted by the unseen object of his pursuit—(Mr. Bell, who was heavy, was soon thrown out,) until at length, after being led a weary chase, he found himself at the top of the cliff, over that part of the river Lee, which from its great depth, and the blackness of its water, has received the name of Hell-hole. Here, on the edge of the cliff, stood the colonel out of breath, and mopping his forehead with his handkerchief, while the voice, which seemed close at his feet, exclaimed—“Now, colonel Pratt—now, if you’re a soldier, here’s a leap for you;—now look at Teigue—why don’t you look at him?—Ho, ho, ho! Come along: you’re warm, I’m sure, colonel Pratt, so come in and cool yourself; Teigue is going to have a swim!” The voice seemed as descending amongst the trailing ivy and brushwood which clothes this picturesque cliff nearly from top to bottom, yet it was impossible that any human being could have found footing. “Now, colonel, have you courage to take the leap?—Ho, ho, ho! what a pretty soldier you are. Good-bye—I’ll see you again in ten minutes above, at the house—look at your watch, colonel:—there’s a dive for you!” and a heavy plunge into the water was heard. The colonel stood still, but no sound followed, and he walked slowly back to the house, not quite half a mile from the Crag.
“Well, did you see Teigue?” said his brother, whilst his nephews, scarcely able to smother their laughter, stood by.—“Give me some wine,” said the colonel. “I never was led such a dance in my life: the fellow carried me all round and round, till he brought me to the edge of the cliff, and then down he went into Hell-hole, telling me he’d be here in ten minutes: ’tis more than that now, but he’s not come.”

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 26
The Demon Bargain of Bottle Hill

near Bottlehill · townland · Cork

On a hill between Mourne Abbey and Cork, the farmer Mick Purcell was overtaken by an uncanny little man who glided over the road without noise and knew his name unasked. The stranger compelled Mick to trade his cow for a magic bottle that disgorged tiny servants, and a second bottle later loosed cudgel-wielding figures on his household. The hill has been called Bottle Hill ever since.

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“Good morrow,” says he. “Good morrow,” kindly, says Mick, looking at the stranger, who was a little man, you’d almost call him a dwarf, only he wasn’t quite so little neither: he had a bit of an old, wrinkled, yellow face, for all the world like a dried cauliflower, only he had a sharp little nose, and red eyes, and white hair, and his lips were not red, but all his face was one colour, and his eyes never were quiet, but looking at every thing, and although they were red, they made Mick feel quite cold when he looked at them. In truth he did not much like the little man’s company; and he couldn’t see one bit of his legs, nor his body; for, though the day was warm, he was all wrapped up in a big great coat. Mick drove his cow something faster, but the little man kept up with him. Mick didn’t know how he walked, for he was almost afraid to look at him, and to cross himself, for fear the old man would be angry. Yet he thought his fellow-traveller did not seem to walk like other men, nor to put one foot before the other, but to glide over the rough road, and rough enough it was, like a shadow, without noise and without effort. Mick’s heart trembled within him, and he said a prayer to himself, wishing he hadn’t come out that day, or that he was on fair hill, or that he hadn’t the cow to mind, that he might run away from the bad thing—when, in the midst of his fears, he was again addressed by his companion.
“Where are you going with the cow, honest man?”

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 5

As the companion tells it

Somewhere around here is Bottle Hill, where a farmer named Mick Purcell met something on the road that was not of this world. He was driving his cow between Mourne Abbey and Cork when a stranger fell in beside him. The stranger was a little man, not quite a dwarf, with a wrinkled, yellow face for all the world like a dried cauliflower, a sharp nose, red eyes that never were quiet, and white hair. His lips were not red but the same colour as the rest of his face, and his red eyes made Mick feel cold. Mick could not see one bit of his legs or his body. Though the day was warm, the little man was all wrapped up in a big great coat. Mick drove his cow something faster, but the little man kept up with him. He did not seem to walk like other men, or to put one foot before the other, but to glide over the rough road like a shadow, without noise and without effort. Mick's heart trembled. He said a prayer to himself, wishing he had not come out that day, or that he was on fair hill, or that he had not the cow to mind, that he might run away from the bad thing. Then his companion spoke again, knowing Mick's name though Mick had not given it, and asked, "Where are you going with the cow, honest man?" The little man compelled Mick to trade his cow for a magic bottle. That bottle disgorged tiny servants. A second bottle later loosed cudgel-wielding figures on his household. The hill has carried that name ever since.
The Drowning Prophecy of Cairn Thierna

Fermoy · townland · Cork

An old hag foretold that the only son of O'Keefe, lord of Fermoy, would drown before reaching manhood, so his father began building a castle on the summit of Cairn Thierna, the mountain overlooking Fermoy, far from any river. While the workmen gathered stones the boy leaned over a vessel of water brought for their use, lost his balance, and drowned, fulfilling the prophecy; the abandoned heap of stones still crowns the mountain.

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A vessel which contained a small supply of water, brought there for the use of the workmen, attracted the attention of the child. He saw, with wonder, the glitter of the sunbeams within it; he approached more near to gaze, when a form resembling his own arose before him. He gave a cry of joy and astonishment and drew back; the image drew back also, and vanished. Again he approached; again the form appeared, expressing in every feature delight corresponding with his own. Eager to welcome the young stranger, he bent over the vessel to press his lips; and, losing his balance, the fatal prophecy was accomplished.
The father in despair abandoned the commenced building; and the materials remain a proof of the folly of attempting to avert the course of fate.

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 31

As the companion tells it

Somewhere close to Fermoy, the mountain called Cairn Thierna keeps the story of O'Keefe, lord of Fermoy, and his only son. An old hag foretold the boy would drown before reaching manhood, so his father began building a castle on the summit, far from any river. While the workmen gathered stones, the child was drawn to a vessel of water brought for their use, captivated by the glitter of sunbeams within it. A form resembling his own arose before him, and eager to welcome the young stranger, he bent over to press his lips. He lost his balance, and drowned. The father abandoned the building in despair, and the heap of stones still crowns the mountain.
The piper lured beneath the waves at Trafraska

Ballinskelligs · townland · Kerry

At Trafraska strand on Ballinskelligs Bay, the blind piper Maurice Connor plays a magical tune that sets the fish dancing, and a green-haired lady of the sea persuades him to marry her and be king of the fishes. A great wave sweeps him under, and his grieving mother dies three weeks after the dance. Seafaring men off the Kerry coast are said to still hear his music rising from the water at night.

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Maurice was not long getting to the rim of the water; there he kept playing and dancing on as if nothing was the matter, and a great thundering wave coming in towards him ready to swallow him up alive; but as he could not see it, he did not fear it. His mother it was who saw it plainly through the big tears that were rolling down her cheeks; and though she saw it, and her heart was aching as much as ever mother’s heart ached for a son, she kept dancing, dancing, all the time for the bare life of her. Certain it was she could not help it, for Maurice never stopped playing that wonderful tune of his.
He only turned the bothered ear to the sound of his mother’s voice, fearing it might put him out in his steps, and all the answer he made back was—

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 21
Manus O'Rourke and the Serpent of Linn-na-Payshtha

near Lough Gill · townland · Leitrim

Manus O'Rourke, tempted by repeated dreams of treasure, dives into the pool of Linn-na-Payshtha near O'Rourke's old hall on Hollow-eve night and encounters a monstrous serpent guarding the buried gold and arms of the ancient lords of Breffni. The creature spares him but warns him never to return, expelling him through the linked pool of Poul-maw-Gullyawn.

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The first individual I encountered was an old cowherd; nor was I unfortunate in my cicerone, for he assured me there were plenty of old stories about strange things that used to be in the place; “but,” continued he, “for my own share, I never met any thing worse nor myself. If it bees ould stories that your honour’s after, the story about Linnna-Payshtha and Poul-maw-Gullyawn is the only thing about this place that’s worth one jack-straw. Does your honour see that great big black hole in the river yonder below?” He pointed my attention to a part of the river about fifty yards from the old hall, where a long island occupied the centre of the wide current, the water at one side running shallow, and at the other assuming every appearance of unfathomable depth. The spacious pool, dark and still, wore a death-like quietude of surface. It looked as if the speckled trout would shun its murky precincts—as if even the daring pike would shrink from so gloomy a dwelling-place. “That’s Linn-na-Payshtha, sir,” resumed my guide, “and Poul-maw-Gullyawn is just the very _moral_ of it, only that it’s round, and not in a river, but standing out in the middle of a green field, about a short quarter of a mile from this. Well, ’tis as good as fourscore years—I often _hard_ my father, God be merciful to him! tell the story—since Manus O’Rourke, a great buckeen, a cockfighting, drinking blackguard that was long ago, went to sleep one night, and had a dream about Linn-na-Payshtha. This Manus, the dirty spalpeen, there was no ho with him; he thought to ride rough-shod over his betters through the whole country, though he was not one of the real stock of the O’Rourkes. Well, this fellow had a dream that if he dived in Linn-na-Payshtha at twelve o’clock of a Hollow-eve night, he’d find more gold than would make a man of him and his wife, while grass grew or water ran. The next night he had the same dream, and sure enough, if he had it the second night, it came to him the third in the same form. Manus, well becomes him, never told mankind or womankind, but swore to himself, by all the books that were ever shut or open, that, any how, he would go to the bottom of the big hole. What did he care for the Payshtha-more that was lying there to keep guard on the gold and silver of the old ancient family that was buried there in the wars, packed up in the brewing-pan? Sure he was as good an O’Rourke as the best of them, taking care to forget that his grandmother’s father was a cow-boy to the earl O’Donnel. At long last Hollow-eve comes, and sly and silent master Manus creeps to bed early, and just at midnight steals down to the river-side. When he came to the bank his mind misgave him, and he wheeled up to Frank M’Clure’s—the old Frank that was then at that time—and got a bottle of whisky, and took it with him, and ’tis unknown how much of it he drank. He walked across to the island, and down he went gallantly to the bottom like a stone. Sure enough the Payshtha was there afore him, lying like a great big conger eel, seven yards long, and as thick as a bull in the body, with a mane upon his neck like a horse. The Payshtha-more reared himself up; and, looking at the poor man as if he’d eat him, says he, in good English,

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 30
The Cursed Meadow of Lough Gur

near Lough Gur · townland · Limerick

Larry Cotter's meadow by Lough Gur was mysteriously ruined year after year despite intact fences, and one moonlit night he and two watchers saw a fat cow and seven white heifers emerge from and vanish back into the lake. After losing the otherworldly heifers again, Larry never got a crop from the meadow and drank himself to death from grief.

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Larry drove the seven heifers, and beautiful beasts they were, to the pound: but after he had them there for three days, and could hear of no owner, he took them out, and put them up in a field of his own. There he kept them, and they were thriving mighty well with him, until one night the gate of the field was left open, and in the morning the seven heifers were gone. Larry could not get any account of them after; and, beyond all doubt, it was back into the lake they went. Wherever they came from, or to whatever world they belonged, Larry Cotter never had a crop of grass off the meadow through their means. So he took to drink, fairly out of the grief; and it was the drink that killed him, they say.

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 17
The Death Coach Departs Rathcooney Churchyard

near Rathcooney · townland · Cork

A headless coach built of dead men's bones, with skulls for lamps, is said to emerge from Rathcooney churchyard at midnight and race down through Glanmire and Lota toward Cork city, carrying headless passengers on their way to seek a resting place.

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From the gloom of Rathcooney churchyard, They dash down the hill of Glanmire; Pass Lota in gallop as hard As if horses were never to tire!
With people thus headless ’tis fun To drive in such furious career; Since _headlong_ their horses can’t run, Nor coachman be _heady_ from beer.

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 23
The Sea People End the Cantillon Burials at Ballyheigue

Ballyheige · townland · Kerry

The Cantillons' ancient island burial-place in Ballyheigh Bay was drowned by the Atlantic, so the family left their coffins on the strand, where they vanished overnight, believed carried to the sunken tomb by ancestors. At Flory Cantillon's funeral, Connor Crowe hid and watched mysterious figures rise from the sea, keening, to launch the coffin into the water. Discovered by the sea people, he ended the custom: no Cantillon was ever again carried to the strand for burial beneath the waves.

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One after the other turned slowly round, and regarded Connor Crowe, who still remained as if bound by a spell. Again arose their funeral song; and on the next wave they followed the coffin. The sound of the lamentation died away, and at length nothing was heard but the rush of waters. The coffin and the train of sea people sank over the old churchyard, and never, since the funeral of old Flory Cantillon, have any of the family been carried to the strand of Ballyheigh, for conveyance to their rightful burial-place, beneath the waves of the Atlantic.

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 19

As the companion tells it

Close to Ballyheige, the Cantillon family once buried their dead beneath the Atlantic waves. At old Flory Cantillon's funeral, Connor Crowe watched as the sea people turned and regarded him, still bound by a spell. They sang their funeral song, and on the next wave they followed the coffin as it sank over the old churchyard. Since that day, no Cantillon has ever been carried to the strand of Ballyheigh for burial beneath the waves.
The Shape-Shifting Fairy Queen of Knocksheegowna

Knocksheegowna · townland · Waterford

A fairy chief haunted the pasture on the hill of Knocksheogowna in Tipperary, appearing nightly to herdsmen in monstrous shifting shapes until cattle were maimed, drowned, and killed, and no man would watch the herd. The piper Larry Hoolahan faced her, rode her over the Shannon and back in the shape of a calf, and won a promise that the hill would never again be molested during his life.

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But before lodge was built, or acre sown, there was close to the head of this hill a large pasturage, where a herdsman spent his days and nights among the herd. The spot had been an old fairy ground, and the good people were angry that the scene of their light and airy gambols should be trampled by the rude hoofs of bulls and cows. The lowing of the cattle sounded sad in their ears, and the chief of the fairies of the hill determined in person to drive away the new comers; and the way she thought of was this. When the harvest nights came on, and the moon shone bright and brilliant over the hill, and the cattle were lying down hushed and quiet, and the herdsman, wrapt in his mantle, was musing with his heart gladdened by the glorious company of the stars twinkling above him, she would come and dance before him,—now in one shape—now in another,—but all ugly and frightful to behold. One time she would be a great horse, with the wings of an eagle, and a tail like a dragon, hissing loud and spitting fire. Then in a moment she would change into a little man lame of a leg, with a bull’s head, and a lambent flame playing round it. Then into a great ape, with duck’s feet, and a turkey cock’s tail. But I should be all day about it were I to tell you all the shapes she took. And then she would roar, or neigh, or hiss, or bellow, or howl, or hoot, as never yet was roaring, neighing, hissing, bellowing, howling, or hooting, heard in this world before or since. The poor herdsman would cover his face, and call on all the saints for help, but it was no use. With one puff of her breath she would blow away the fold of his great coat, let him hold it never so tightly over his eyes, and not a saint in heaven paid him the slightest attention. And to make matters worse, he never could stir; no, nor even shut his eyes, but there was obliged to stay, held by what power he knew not, gazing at these terrible sights until the hair of his head would lift his hat half a foot over his crown, and his teeth would be ready to fall out from chattering. But the cattle would scamper about mad, as if they were bitten by the fly; and this would last until the sun rose over the hill.

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 2
Morty Sullivan Found Battered Below the Cliff

near Gougane Barra · townland · Cork

Pilgrims returning from taking their rounds at Gougane Barra discovered Morty Sullivan lying bruised on his back beneath a steep cliff, having been thrown there by the Phooka during the night.

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The following morning Morty Sullivan was discovered by some pilgrims (who came that way after taking their rounds at Gougane Barra) lying on the flat of his back, under a steep cliff, down which he had been flung by the Phooka. Morty was severely bruised by the fall, and he is said to have sworn on the spot, by the hand of O’Sullivan (and that is no small oath),[15] never again to take a full quart bottle of whisky with him on a pilgrimage.
[15] “Nulla manus, Tam liberalis Atque generalis Atque universalis Quam Sullivanis.”

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 13
The Dead Father's Ghost in the Kilworth Cow-house

Kilworth · townland · Cork

Tom Bourke, a farmer living between Kilworth and Lismore, lost several children one after another to the same disorder, which he blamed on the good people taking his boys. Following a fairy doctor's orders he lay with his dying son in the cow-house, where his dead father appeared at the bedside, took his hand, and within a week the child recovered.

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“I could not tell you that, sir,” said Bourke, with a mysterious look: “howsoever, you often saw him, and he does not live far from this. But I had a trial of him before; and if I went to him at first, may be I’d have now some of them that’s gone, and so Shamous often told me. Well, sir, I went to this man, and he came with me to the house. By course, I did every thing as he bid me. According to his order, I took the little boy out of the dwelling-house immediately, sick as he was, and made a bed for him and myself in the cow-house. Well, sir, I lay down by his side, in the bed, between two of the cows, and he fell asleep. He got into a perspiration, saving your presence, as if he was drawn through the river, and breathed hard, with a great _impression_ (oppression) on his chest, and was very bad—very bad entirely through the night. I thought about twelve o’clock he was going at last, and I was just getting up to go call the man I told you of; but there was no occasion. My friends were getting the better of them that wanted to take him away from me. There was nobody in the cow-house but the child and myself. There was only one halfpenny candle lighting, and that was stuck in the wall at the far end of the house. I had just enough of light where we were laying to see a person walking or standing near us: and there was no more noise than if it was a churchyard, except the cows chewing the fodder in the stalls. Just as I was thinking of getting up, as I told you—I wont belie my father, sir—he was a good father to me—I saw him standing at the bed-side, holding out his right hand to me, and leaning his other hand on the stick he used to carry when he was alive, and looking pleasant and smiling at me, all as if he was telling me not to be afeard, for I would not lose the child. ‘Is that you, father?’ says I. He said nothing. ‘If that’s you,’ says I again, ‘for the love of them that’s gone, let me catch your hand.’ And so he did, sir; and his hand was as soft as a child’s. He stayed about as long as you’d be going from this to the gate below at the end of the avenue, and then went away. In less than a week the child was as well as if nothing ever ailed him; and there isn’t to-night a healthier boy of nineteen, from this blessed house to the town of Ballyporeen, across the Kilworth mountains.”

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 6

As the companion tells it

Somewhere around here, in Kilworth, there is the story of a dead father's ghost in a cow-house. Tom Bourke was a farmer living between Kilworth and Lismore. He lost several children, one after another, to the same disorder, and he blamed the good people for taking his boys. When another son was dying, Bourke went to a fairy doctor, who came to the house and gave orders. Bourke took the sick boy out of the dwelling-house and made a bed for them both in the cow-house. He lay down beside the child between two cows, and the boy fell asleep, sweating hard and breathing with a great oppression on his chest, very bad entirely through the night. Around midnight Bourke thought the child was going, and he was about to get up and call the doctor. But there was no need. His friends were getting the better of those who wanted to take the boy. The cow-house was quiet, with only a halfpenny candle stuck in the wall. Then Bourke saw his dead father standing at the bedside, holding out his right hand, leaning his other hand on the stick he carried when alive, and smiling. Bourke said, "Is that you, father?" His father said nothing. Bourke said again, "If that's you, for the love of them that's gone, let me catch your hand." His father did, and his hand was as soft as a child's. He stayed a short while and then went away. In less than a week the child was as well as if nothing had ever ailed him, and Bourke said there was not that night a healthier boy of nineteen from his house to the town of Ballyporeen, across the Kilworth mountains.
The Drowned Palace Beneath the Lough of Cork

The Lough · townland · Cork

King Core walled up the wondrous spring in his palace courtyard near the Gallows Green of Cork, denying its water to the poor. When his daughter Fior Usga fell into the well while fetching water during a banquet, the freed water rose and flooded the whole green valley, forming the present lough of Cork. The king and his court are said to continue their entertainment nightly in the palace at the bottom of the lough, a judgment for shutting up the well.

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The door of the well being left open, the water, which had been so long confined, rejoiced at obtaining its liberty, rushed forth incessantly, every moment rising higher and higher, and was in the hall of the entertainment sooner than the young prince himself, so that when he attempted to speak to the king he was up to his neck in water. At length the water rose to such a height, that it filled the entire of the green valley in which the king’s palace stood, and so the present lough of Cork was formed.
Yet the king and his guests were not drowned, as would now happen, if such an awful inundation were to take place; neither was his daughter, the fair Usga, who returned to the banquet-hall the very next night after this dreadful event; and every night since the same entertainment and dancing goes on in the palace at the bottom of the lough, and will last until some one has the luck to bring up out of it the golden vessel which was the cause of all this mischief.

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 15

As the companion tells it

Close to The Lough, somewhere around here, King Core had his palace, and in its courtyard a wondrous spring. He walled up the well, denying its water to the poor. During a banquet his daughter Fior Usga fell into the well while fetching water, and the confined water rushed out, rising higher every moment, until it filled the green valley and formed the lough of Cork. The king and his guests were not drowned. His daughter returned to the banquet-hall the very next night, and every night since the same entertainment and dancing goes on in the palace at the bottom of the lough. It will last until someone has the luck to bring up the golden vessel which was the cause of all this mischief.
The Fairies' Question at Inchigeelagh

Inchigeelagh · townland · Cork

On a moonlit September evening near Inchegeela in west Cork, fairies pulled a salmon from Dermod Leary's net and sent him to ask Father Horrigan whether their souls would be saved at the last day. When the priest bade them come to him themselves for the answer, the whole throng fled in terror, leaving the priest a supper of dry potatoes.

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It is said by those who ought to understand such things, that the good people, or the fairies, are some of the angels who were turned out of heaven, and who landed on their feet in this world, while the rest of their companions, who had more sin to sink them, went down further to a worse place. Be this as it may, there was a merry troop of the fairies, dancing and playing all manner of wild pranks on a bright moonlight evening towards the end of September. The scene of their merriment was not far distant from Inchegeela, in the west of the county Cork—a poor village, although it had a barrack for soldiers; but great mountains and barren rocks, like those round about it, are enough to strike poverty into any place: however, as the fairies can have every thing they want for wishing, poverty does not trouble them much, and all their care is to seek out unfrequented nooks and places where it is not likely any one will come to spoil their sport.
On a nice green sod by the river’s side were the little fellows dancing in a ring as gaily as may be, with their red caps wagging about at every bound in the moonshine; and so light were these bounds, that the lobes of dew, although they trembled under their feet, were not disturbed by their capering. Thus did they carry on their gambols, spinning round and round, and twirling and bobbing, and diving and going through all manner of figures, until one of them chirped out—

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 3
The Phantom Hunt at Hanlon's Mill

Ballyduff · townland · Cork

Walking home past the ruined Hanlon's mill near Ballyduff, Michael Noonan heard a spectral hunt of hounds, horns, and horses though nothing could be seen, and the old millwheel seemed to clack again though it had long stood silent. This eerie occurrence was taken as an omen that something evil was afoot.

Read the passage

and the echo over from the gray rock across the river giving back every word as plainly as it was spoken. But nothing could Mick see, and the shouting and hallooing following him every step of the way till he got up to Jack Brien’s door; and he was certain, too, he heard the clack of old Hanlon’s mill going, through all the clatter. To be sure, he ran as fast as fear and his legs could carry him, and never once looked behind him, well knowing that the Duhallow hounds were out in quite another quarter that day, and that nothing good could come out of the noise of Hanlon’s mill.
Well, Michael Noonan got his brogues, and well heeled they were, and well pleased was he with them; when who should be seated at Jack Brien’s before him, but a gossip of his, one Darby Haynes, a mighty decent man, that had a horse and car of his own, and that used to be travelling with it, taking loads like the royal mail coach between Cork and Limerick; and when he was at home, Darby was a near neighbour of Michael Noonan’s.

Project Gutenberg #39752
Tim Jarvis and the Fairy Gold of Ballydehob

Ballydehob · townland · Cork

Tim Jarvis of Ballydehob, led by repeated dreams, dug beneath a furze bush in the Fort field and was carried down among the fairies, who threatened to feed him to the serpent of the mountain lake before filling his pockets with gold that turned to stones and furze blossoms. The day after his ride with the fairies, Mick Dowling went missing and was believed given to the serpent in Tim's place, never heard of since.

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When the next night arrived, the hopes of the crock of gold got the better of his fears, and taking care to arm himself with a bottle of potheen, away he went to the field. Jumping into the pit, he took a little sup from the bottle to keep his heart up—he then took a big one—and then, with desperate wrench, he wrenched up the stone. All at once, up rushed a blast of wind, wild and fierce, and down fell Tim—down, down and down he went—until he thumped upon what seemed to be, for all the world, like a floor of sharp pins, which made him bellow out in earnest. Then he heard a whisk and a hurra, and instantly voices beyond number cried out—
“Welcome, Tim Jarvis, dear! Welcome, down here!”

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 28

As the companion tells it

Somewhere around here, Tim Jarvis dreamed again and again of a crock of gold buried beneath a furze bush in the Fort field. The next night his hopes got the better of his fears, so he armed himself with a bottle of potheen and went to the field. He jumped into the pit, took a little sup to keep his heart up, then a big one, and with a desperate wrench he wrenched up the stone. Up rushed a blast of wind, wild and fierce, and down fell Tim, down and down, until he thumped upon what seemed like a floor of sharp pins, which made him bellow out. Then he heard a whisk and a hurra, and voices beyond number cried out, "Welcome, Tim Jarvis, dear! Welcome, down here!"
The Mysterious Vanishing of O'Donoghue

near Lough Leane · townland · Kerry

The chieftain O'Donoghue, ruler of the lands around Lough Leane, vanished mysteriously during a feast by walking out onto the surface of the lake and disappearing, never to be seen dead or buried. Tradition holds he reappears at sunrise on May mornings, riding across the water followed by ghostly attendants.

Read the passage

His end—for it cannot correctly be called his death—was singular and mysterious. At one of those splendid feasts for which his court was celebrated, surrounded by the most distinguished of his subjects, he was engaged in a prophetic relation of the events which were to happen in ages yet to come. His auditors listened, now wrapt in wonder, now fired with indignation, burning with shame, or melted into sorrow, as he faithfully detailed the heroism, the injuries, the crimes, and the miseries of their descendants. In the midst of his predictions he rose slowly from his seat, advanced with a solemn, measured, and majestic tread to the shore of the lake, and walked forward composedly upon its unyielding surface. When he had nearly reached the centre, he paused for a moment, then turning slowly round, looked towards his friends, and waving his arms to them with the cheerful air of one taking a short farewell, disappeared from their view.
The memory of the good O’Donoghue has been cherished by successive generations with affectionate reverence: and it is believed that at sunrise, on every May-dew morning, the anniversary of his departure, he revisits his ancient domains: a favoured few only are in general permitted to see him, and this distinction is always an omen of good fortune to the beholders: when it is granted to many, it is a sure token of an abundant harvest,—a blessing, the want of which during this prince’s reign was never felt by his people.

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 18
Heads on spikes at Cork gaol

Cork · townland · Cork

In describing the spectral wheel of torture at Kilnaslattery, the narrator compares it to Cork gaol at the time when the heads of Murty Sullivan and other executed men were displayed upon it. The aside records the public display of the heads of the executed at the gaol in Cork.

Read the passage

When he recovered to something like a feeling of consciousness, he slowly opened his eyes, and then, indeed, a scene of wonder burst upon him. In the midst of the ruin stood an old wheel of torture, ornamented with heads, like Cork gaol, when the heads of Murty Sullivan and other gentlemen were stuck upon it. This was plainly visible in the strange light which spread itself around. It was fearful to behold, but Larry could not choose but look, for his limbs were powerless through the wonder and the fear. Useless as it was, he would have called for help, but his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth, and not one word could he say. In short, there was Larry, gazing through a shattered window of the old church, with eyes bleared and almost starting from their sockets; his breast resting on the thickness of the wall, over which, on one side, his head and outstretched neck projected, and on the other, although one toe touched the ground, it derived no support from thence: terror, as it were, kept him balanced. Strange noises assailed his ears, until at last they tingled painfully to the sharp clatter of little bells, which kept up a continued ding—ding—ding—ding: marrowless bones rattled and clanked, and the deep and solemn sound of a great bell came booming on the night wind.
’Twas a spectre rung That bell when it swung— Swing-swang! And the chain it squeaked, And the pulley creaked, Swing-swang!

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 22

As the companion tells it

Somewhere around here is where Cork gaol once stood. The passage that records it does so in a strange way. A man named Larry, in a ruin at Kilnaslattery, opened his eyes after losing consciousness and saw an old wheel of torture standing in the middle of the ruin, ornamented with heads. The narrator compares that wheel to Cork gaol, when the heads of Murty Sullivan and other gentlemen were stuck upon it. That is the record: the heads of executed men, displayed on the gaol, in Cork. The passage then stays with Larry. He could not move. His limbs were powerless through wonder and fear. He would have called for help, but his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth, and not one word could he say. He was gazing through a shattered window of the old church, eyes bleared and almost starting from their sockets, his breast resting on the thickness of the wall, his head and outstretched neck projecting over one side, and on the other, one toe touching the ground but taking no support from it. Terror kept him balanced. Strange noises assailed his ears until they tingled painfully to the sharp clatter of little bells, a continued ding-ding-ding-ding. Marrowless bones rattled and clanked, and the deep and solemn sound of a great bell came booming on the night wind.
O'Donoghue's Gold at Killarney

Killarney · townland · Kerry

A despairing tenant, Bill Doody, is given a hatful of gold by a mysterious stranger by the Lake of Killarney, later recognised as the spirit O'Donoghue. The gold pays his rent, but afterwards turns to gingerbread cakes in the grasping agent's desk.

Read the passage

The agent going to his desk shortly after, was confounded at beholding a heap of gingerbread cakes instead of the money he had deposited there. He raved and swore, but all to no purpose; the gold had become gingerbread cakes, just marked like the guineas, with the king’s head, and Bill had the receipt in his pocket; so he saw there was no use in saying any thing about the affair, as he would only get laughed at for his pains.
From that hour Bill Doody grew rich; all his undertakings prospered; and he often blesses the day that he met with O’Donoghue, the great prince that lives down under the lake of Killarney.

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 29
The Headless Travellers Turned Away at Ballintemple

Ballintemple · townland · Cork

The death coach's headless passengers, having no room among the Murphys, Crowleys, and Fitzgeralds already buried at Ballintemple churchyard, are told they must move on to the Old Head of Kinsale in search of their own heads.

Read the passage

“Yet here for the night we lie down, To-morrow we speed on the gale; For having no heads of our own, We seek the Old Head of Kinsale.”

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 23

As the companion tells it

Somewhere around here lies Ballintemple churchyard, already full with the Murphys, Crowleys, and Fitzgeralds. The death coach arrived carrying headless passengers, but there was no room for them among the dead. They lay down for the night, saying they would speed on tomorrow, for 'having no heads of our own, we seek the Old Head of Kinsale.'
Three-Night Fairy Battle over a Corpse's Burial

Kilcrumper · townland · Cork

When Tom Bourke's mother died, he delayed her burial because the fairy friends of her people and of his father's people fought a great battle at Dunmanwaycross over whose churchyard should receive her. After three nights of fighting a man named Patrick settled the dispute, and she was buried in Kilcrumper churchyard with her husband's people.

Read the passage

“Well, I believe I may tell you that, any how; his name is Patrick. He was always a smart, active, ’cute boy, and would be a great clerk if he stuck to it. The first time I knew him, sir, was at my mother’s wake. I was in great trouble, for I did not know where to bury her. Her people and my father’s people—I mean their friends, sir, among the _good people_, had the greatest battle that was known for many a year, at Dunmanwaycross, to see to whose churchyard she’d be taken. They fought for three nights, one after another, without being able to settle it. The neighbours wondered how long I was before I buried my mother; but I had my reasons, though I could not tell them at that time. Well, sir, to make my story short, Patrick came on the fourth morning and told me he settled the business, and that day we buried her in Kilcrumper churchyard with my father’s people.”
“He was a valuable friend, Tom,” said Mrs. Martin, with difficulty suppressing a smile. “But you were about to tell how he became so skilful.”

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 6

As the companion tells it

Somewhere close to Kilcrumper is the churchyard where this story ends. When Tom Bourke's mother died, he could not bury her. Her people and his father's people, meaning their friends among the good people, fought the greatest battle known for many a year at Dunmanwaycross, over whose churchyard she should be taken to. They fought for three nights, one after another, without being able to settle it. The neighbours wondered how long Tom was before he buried his mother, but he had his reasons, though he could not tell them at the time. On the fourth morning Patrick came and told Tom he had settled the business, and that day they buried her in Kilcrumper churchyard with his father's people. Tom called Patrick a smart, active, cute boy who would have been a great clerk if he had stuck to it. Mrs. Martin said he was a valuable friend, suppressing a smile, and asked Tom to tell how Patrick became so skilful.
Mary Held Beneath Lough Corrib

Lough Corrib · townland · Galway

Cormac believes his lost love Mary is not dead but held captive beneath Lough Corrib's waters by unholy spells. A ghostly host of fairy figures rises from the lake before him, but he breaks the enchantment by invoking Christ's name, freeing Mary and restoring her to life.

Read the passage

“She is not dead—she has no grave— She lives beneath Lough Corrib’s water;[16] And in the murmur of each wave Methinks I catch the songs I taught her.”
Thus many an evening on the shore Sat Cormac raving wild and lowly; Still idly muttering o’er and o’er, “She lives, detain’d by spells unholy.

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 16
The Grandfather's Capture of the Cluricaune near Kilmallock

Kilmallock · townland · Limerick

Molly Cogan recounts how her grandfather, near an old gateway of Kilmallock, caught a cluricaune shoemaker hiding under his mare's girth while it hammered and whistled, only for the creature to trick him and escape, leaving behind a tiny shoe.

Read the passage

“Why, then, I’ll tell you. My grandfather, you see, was out there above in the bog, drawing home turf, and the poor old mare was tired after her day’s work, and the old man went out to the stable to look after her, and to see if she was eating her hay; and when he came to the stable door there, my dear, he heard something hammering, hammering, hammering, just for all the world like a shoemaker making a shoe, and whistling all the time the prettiest tune he ever heard in his whole life before. Well, my grandfather, he thought it was the Cluricaune, and he said to himself, says he, ‘I’ll catch you, if I can, and then, I’ll have money enough always.’ So he opened the door very quietly, and didn’t make a bit of noise in the world that ever was heard; and looked all about, but the never a bit of the little man he could see anywhere, but he heard him hammering and whistling, and so he looked and looked, till at last he _see_ the little fellow; and where was he, do you think, but in the girth under the mare; and there he was with his little bit of an apron on him, and hammer in his hand, and a little red nightcap on his head, and he making a shoe; and he was so busy with his work, and he was hammering and whistling so loud, that he never minded my grandfather till he caught him fast in his hand. ‘Faith I have you now,’ says he, ‘and I’ll never let you go till I get your purse—that’s what I won’t; so give it here to me at once, now.’—‘Stop, stop,’ says the Cluricaune, ‘stop, stop,’ says he, ’till I get it for you.’ So my grandfather, like a fool, you see, opened his hand a little, and the little fellow jumped away laughing, and he never saw him any more, and the never the bit of the purse did he get, only the Cluricaune left his little shoe that he was making; and my grandfather was mad enough angry with himself for letting him go; but he had the shoe all his life, and my own mother told me she often _see_ it, and had it in her hand, and ’twas the prettiest little shoe she ever saw.”
“And did you see it yourself, Molly?”

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 10
Daniel O'Rourke bewitched under the Phooka's tower at Carrigaphooca

Carrigaphooca · townland · Cork

Daniel O'Rourke, who lived at the foot of Hungry Hill near Bantry, fell into the water at the ford of Ballyasheenough after a feast and was carried through a night of bedevilment — borne by an eagle to the moon, cast down, and dropped by a gander into the sea. He woke to find he had lain all night under the old walls of Carrigaphooka, the Phooka's tower, to which his perils were attributed.

Read the passage

“‘Get up,’ said she again: ‘and of all places in the parish, would no place _sarve_ your turn to lie down upon but under the _ould_ walls of Carrigaphooka? an uneasy resting I am sure you had of it.’ And sure enough I had; for I was fairly bothered out of my senses with eagles, and men of the moon, and flying ganders, and whales, driving me through bogs, and up to the moon, and down to the bottom of the green ocean. If I was in drink ten times over, long would it be before I’d lie down on the same spot again; I know that.”

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 13
Murdered Prisoners in the Vaults of Dunmore Castle

Doonmore · townland · Clare

Keeping watch on Ballyheigh strand, the Clare man Connor Crowe recalled the gloomy tower of Dunmore in his own county, where prisoners were murdered long ago in the vaults under the castle and none was buried decently. He tells of often hearing lamentations and great mourning coming from the castle vaults, though he reasoned it was the waves working through the cliffs and hollows of the rocks.

Read the passage

“If ’twas near the gloomy tower of Dunmore, in my own sweet county, I was,” said Connor Crowe, with a sigh, “one might well believe that the prisoners, who were murdered long ago, there in the vaults under the castle, would be the hands to carry off the coffin out of envy, for never a one of them was buried decently, nor had as much as a coffin amongst them all. ’Tis often, sure enough, I have heard lamentations and great mourning coming from the vaults of Dunmore Castle; but,” continued he, after fondly pressing his lips to the mouth of his companion and silent comforter, the whisky bottle, “didn’t I know all the time well enough, ’twas the dismal sounding waves working through the cliffs and hollows of the rocks, and fretting themselves to foam. Oh then, Dunmore Castle, it is you that are the gloomy-looking tower on a gloomy day, with the gloomy hills behind you; when one has gloomy thoughts on their heart, and sees you like a ghost rising out of the smoke made by the kelp-burners on the strand, there is, the Lord save us! as fearful a look about you as about the Blue Man’s Lake at midnight. Well then, any how,” said Connor, after a pause, “is it not a blessed night, though surely the moon looks mighty pale in the face? St. Senan himself between us and all kinds of harm!”
It was, in truth a lovely moonlight night; nothing was to be seen around but the dark rocks, and the white pebbly beach, upon which the sea broke with a hoarse and melancholy murmur. Connor, notwithstanding his frequent draughts, felt rather queerish, and almost began to repent his curiosity. It was certainly a solemn sight to behold the black coffin resting upon the white strand. His imagination gradually converted the deep moaning of old ocean into a mournful wail for the dead, and from the shadowy recesses of the rocks he imaged forth strange and visionary forms.

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 19

As the companion tells it

Somewhere around here is Dunmore Castle, a gloomy tower that a Clare man named Connor Crowe knew well. Long ago, prisoners were murdered in the vaults beneath the castle, and not one of them was buried decently or had so much as a coffin among them. Crowe said he often heard lamentations and great mourning coming from those vaults, though he reasoned it was really the waves working through the cliffs and hollows of the rocks, fretting themselves to foam. He called the castle a gloomy-looking tower on a gloomy day, with gloomy hills behind it, and said that when one has gloomy thoughts and sees it rising out of the smoke of the kelp-burners on the strand, there is as fearful a look about it as about the Blue Man's Lake at midnight. He was telling this on a moonlit night, sitting on a strand where a black coffin rested on the white pebbles, and the sea broke with a hoarse and melancholy murmur. He pressed his lips to his companion, the whisky bottle, and called on St. Senan to stand between them and all harm. Even so, the moaning of the ocean sounded to him like a wail for the dead, and from the shadowy rocks he saw strange and visionary forms.
The Merrow Wife of Gollerus Returns to the Sea

Gallarus · townland · Kerry

At Gollerus on Smerwick harbour, Dick Fitzgerald captured a Merrow by seizing her enchanted cohuleen driuth and married her; she bore him three children and was the pattern of a wife. Years later she found the hidden cap while cleaning, forgot husband and children at the sea's singing, and plunged back beneath the waves. Dick waited year after year but never saw her more, believing her father the king of the waves kept her below by force.

Read the passage

She got up and went towards the door, but came back again to look once more at the child that was sleeping in the cradle. She kissed it gently, and as she kissed it, a tear trembled for an instant in her eye and then fell on its rosy cheek. She wiped away the tear, and turning to the eldest little girl, told her to take good care of her brothers, and to be a good child herself, until she came back. The Merrow then went down to the strand.—The sea was lying calm and smooth, just heaving and glittering in the sun, and she thought she heard a faint sweet singing, inviting her to come down. All her old ideas and feelings came flooding over her mind, Dick and her children were at the instant forgotten, and placing the _cohuleen driuth_ on her head, she plunged in.
Dick came home in the evening, and missing his wife, he asked Kathelin, his little girl, what had become of her mother, but she could not tell him. He then inquired of the neighbours, and he learned that she was seen going towards the strand with a strange looking thing like a cocked hat in her hand. He returned to his cabin to search for the _cohuleen driuth_. It was gone and the truth now flashed upon him.

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 19
The Fairy Host under the Old Oak of Ballinhassig

near Ballinhassig · townland · Cork

Riding home by moonlight, John Mulligan saw what he took for thousands of tiny white fairies dancing under the ancient oak of Ballinghassig, ranged about a chief of superior stature. When he brought two young collegians back to witness the sight, the fairies proved to be mushrooms and their king an overgrown puff-ball, and Mulligan was mocked as 'musharoon Jack' to the end of his days.

Read the passage

He looked, and saw a gallant spectacle. His road lay by a noble demesne, gracefully sprinkled with trees, not thickly planted as in a dark forest, but disposed, now in clumps of five or six, now standing singly, towering over the plain of verdure around them as a beautiful promontory arising out of the sea. He had come right opposite the glory of the wood. It was an oak, which in the oldest title-deeds of the county, and they were at least five hundred years old, was called the old oak of Ballinghassig. Age had hollowed its centre, but its massy boughs still waved with their dark serrated foliage. The moon was shining on it bright. If I were a poet, like Mr. Wordsworth, I should tell you how the beautiful light was broken into a thousand different fragments—and how it filled the entire tree with a glorious flood, bathing every particular leaf, and showing forth every particular bough; but, as I am not a poet, I shall go on with my story. By this light Jack saw a brilliant company of lovely little forms dancing under the oak with an unsteady and rolling motion. The company was large. Some spread out far beyond the farthest boundary of the shadow of the oak’s branches—some were seen glancing through the flashes of light shining through its leaves—some were barely visible, nestling under the trunk—some, no doubt, were entirely concealed from his eyes. Never did man see any thing more beautiful. They were not three inches in height, but they were white as the driven snow, and beyond number numberless. Jack threw the bridle over his horse’s neck, and drew up to the low wall which bounded the demesne, and leaning over it, surveyed with infinite delight, their diversified gambols. By looking long at them, he soon saw objects which had not struck him at first; in particular that in the middle was a chief of superior stature, round whom the group appeared to move. He gazed so long that he was quite overcome with joy, and could not help shouting out: “Bravo! little fellow,” said he, “well kicked and strong.” But the instant he uttered the words the night was darkened, and the fairies vanished with the speed of lightning.
“I wish,” said Jack, “I had held my tongue; but no matter now. I shall just turn bridle about and go back to Ballybegmullinahone Castle, and beat the young Master Whaleys, fine reasoners as they think themselves, out of the field clean.”

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 7
The Stone of Clough na Cuddy

Killarney · townland · Kerry

The stone bearing the impression of Father Cuddy's knees, marking the site of his supernatural century-long sleep, is said to remain visible in Lord Kenmare's park near Killarney as proof of the tale.

Read the passage

The stone impressed with the mark of Father Cuddy’s knees may be seen to this day. Should any incredulous persons doubt my story, I request them to go to Killarney, where Clough na Cuddy—so is the stone called—remains in Lord Kenmare’s park, an indisputable evidence of the fact. Spillane, the bugle-man, will be able to point it out to them, as he did so to me; and here is my sketch by which they may identify it.
THE GIANT’S STAIRS.

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 33
Diarmid Bawn Made a Horse by the Fir Darrig

Killarney · townland · Kerry

Diarmid Bawn, a piper, encounters an army of the good people at an old fort while walking at night. He is transformed into a horse and ridden by the Fir Darrig into a battle in Jamaica, returning wounded but rewarded with tobacco.

Read the passage

“‘There’s Diarmid Bawn,’ said the general, pointing to Judy’s grandfather, your honour, ‘make a horse of him.’
“So with that master Fir darrig comes up to Diarmid, who, you may be sure, was in a mighty great fright; but he determined, seeing there was no help for him, to put a bold face on the matter; and so he began to cross himself, and to say some blessed words, that nothing bad could stand before.

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 25
Mary Spellbound Beneath Lough Corrib's Waters

Lough Corrib · townland · Galway

Cormac kept watch on the shore of Lough Corrib in County Galway, insisting his Mary was not dead but held beneath the lake by unholy spells. A ghostly fairy host with spears, banners, and steeds rose from the water before him, until he cried out a blessing on her soul. At the spoken name of Christ the apparitions vanished with fiendish shrieks, the spell broke, and Mary was restored to life and to her lover.

Read the passage

“Christ save her soul,” he boldly cried; And when that blessed name was spoken, Fierce yells and fiendish shrieks replied, And vanished all,—the spell was broken.
And now on Corrib’s lonely shore, Freed by his word from power of faëry, To life, to love, restored once more, Young Cormac welcomes back his Mary.

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 16
The Sea Maiden's Blood at Dunkerron

Dunkerron · townland · Kerry

O'Sullivan More, lord of Dunkerron near Kenmare, pursued a spirit of the ocean into the deep and won her promise on an enchanted isle. When she dived to seek her monarch's sanction for the match, sounds of rage and grief rose from the deep and the water was tinged with her blood, for consent was refused and she was slain. The crystal palace melted away and a wave bore the exhausted chieftain back to the shore.

Read the passage

Can he doubt what the gush of warm blood would explain? That she sought the consent of her monarch in vain! For see all around him, in white foam and froth, The waves of the ocean boil up in their wroth!
The palace of crystal has melted in air, And the dyes of the rainbow no longer are there; The grottoes with vapour and clouds are o’ercast, The sunshine is darkness—the vision has past!

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 20

As the companion tells it

Somewhere close to Dunkerron, O'Sullivan More, lord of Dunkerron near Kenmare, pursued a spirit of the ocean into the deep and won her promise on an enchanted isle. When she dived to seek her monarch's sanction for the match, the water boiled up in wrath and was tinged with her blood. Consent was refused and she was slain. The crystal palace melted in air, and a wave bore the exhausted chieftain back to shore.
The Enchanted Herd of Lough Gur

near Lough Gur · townland · Limerick

Larry Cotter's meadow beside Lough Gur in County Limerick was mysteriously ruined year after year, so he kept watch by moonlight with two neighbours' sons. They saw a great cow and seven milk-white heifers walk across the surface of the lake into the meadow; the captured heifers later escaped back into the water. His grass never grew again through their means, and he took to drink out of grief, which they say killed him.

Read the passage

They looked, and saw a great fat cow, followed by seven milk-white heifers, moving on the smooth surface of the lake towards the meadow.
“’Tis not Tim Dwyer the piper’s cow, any way, that danced all the flesh off her bones,” whispered Mick to his brother.

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 17
The Cluricaune Naggeneen in the wine-cellar of Ballinacarthy

near Ballinascarty · townland · Cork

At the mansion of Ballinacarthy, built on the site of an old castle, no butler would stay in service because of a spirit haunting the rock-cut wine-cellar. When the new butler Jack Leary opened the cellar door he was terrified by roaring and casks rocking; the master, Justin Mac Carthy, descended himself and found a six-inch Cluricaune named Naggeneen astride a pipe of port, who declared he would follow the family if they moved. Mac Carthy stayed, fetching his own wine for years afterwards.

Read the passage

To recount what the poor fellow saw would be impossible, for he seems not to know very clearly himself: but what he told the cook the next morning was, that he heard a roaring and bellowing like a mad bull, and that all the pipes and hogsheads and casks in the cellar went rocking backwards and forwards with so much force, that he thought every one would have been staved in, and that he should have been drowned or smothered in wine.
When Leary recovered, he made his way back as well as he could to the dining-room, where he found his master and the company very impatient for his return.

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 8
The Fairy Wedding at Carrigogunnel

Carrigogunnel · townland · Limerick

Billy Mac Daniel, bound into service to a fairy master, travelled with him to a farmhouse near the old castle of Carrigogunnel in County Limerick, where the fairy planned to steal the bride Bridget Rooney at her wedding feast by counting her sneezes.

Read the passage

“And to that purpose,” said the little man, “have I come all the way to Carrigogunnel; for in this house, this very night, is young Darby Riley going to be married to Bridget Rooney; and as she is a tall and comely girl, and has come of decent people, I think of marrying her myself, and taking her off with me.”
“And what will Darby Riley say to that?” said Billy.

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 9
Burial at Kilcrumper Churchyard

Kilcrumper · townland · Cork

After the fairy dispute was resolved, Tom Bourke's mother was buried in Kilcrumper churchyard alongside his father's people, a place also known as a favourite haunt of the good people.

Read the passage

“Well, I believe I may tell you that, any how; his name is Patrick. He was always a smart, active, ’cute boy, and would be a great clerk if he stuck to it. The first time I knew him, sir, was at my mother’s wake. I was in great trouble, for I did not know where to bury her. Her people and my father’s people—I mean their friends, sir, among the _good people_, had the greatest battle that was known for many a year, at Dunmanwaycross, to see to whose churchyard she’d be taken. They fought for three nights, one after another, without being able to settle it. The neighbours wondered how long I was before I buried my mother; but I had my reasons, though I could not tell them at that time. Well, sir, to make my story short, Patrick came on the fourth morning and told me he settled the business, and that day we buried her in Kilcrumper churchyard with my father’s people.”
“He was a valuable friend, Tom,” said Mrs. Martin, with difficulty suppressing a smile. “But you were about to tell how he became so skilful.”

Project Gutenberg #39752, Chapter 6

As the companion tells it

Somewhere close to Kilcrumper, there's an old churchyard where Tom Bourke's mother lies buried with his father's people. When she died, Tom didn't know where to lay her, because her people and his father's people — that's their friends among the good people — fought the greatest battle that was known for many a year, at Dunmanwaycross, over which churchyard she should be taken to. They fought for three nights, one after another, and couldn't settle it. The neighbours wondered why Tom took so long to bury his mother, but he had his reasons. On the fourth morning, a clever fellow named Patrick came and told Tom he'd settled the business. That same day, they buried her here in Kilcrumper churchyard, with his father's people. The good people themselves were known to favour this place as a haunt, which may be why the dispute ran so deep.

This book is in the public domain; how the books' rights are judged. The passages are quoted as the scan has them, spelling and all; a story's place is the gazetteer's best reading of the text and can be wrong.

Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland

The stories, best first

The Banshee of Spring House foretells Charles Mac Carthy's death

The Hag Grana and the Candle of Death at Carrigogunnel

The Banshee's Warning at Buttevant

The Drowned Palace of King Core

The death coach at Hanlon's Mill and the master of Ballygibblin

The Phooka Crookens Peggy Barrett's Back at Ballyhooly

Charley Culnane and the Headless Horseman of Kilcummer Hill

Father Cuddy's Vanishing at Innisfallen

The Black Hole of Knockfeerina

Davy Roche's Dance with the Dead at Kilcrumper

The Fairies of Knockgraffon and Jack Madden's Curse

Teigue of the Lee: the unseen voice of Carrigrohane

The Demon Bargain of Bottle Hill

The Drowning Prophecy of Cairn Thierna

The piper lured beneath the waves at Trafraska

Manus O'Rourke and the Serpent of Linn-na-Payshtha

The Cursed Meadow of Lough Gur

The Death Coach Departs Rathcooney Churchyard

The Sea People End the Cantillon Burials at Ballyheigue

The Shape-Shifting Fairy Queen of Knocksheegowna

Morty Sullivan Found Battered Below the Cliff

The Dead Father's Ghost in the Kilworth Cow-house

The Drowned Palace Beneath the Lough of Cork

The Fairies' Question at Inchigeelagh

The Phantom Hunt at Hanlon's Mill

Tim Jarvis and the Fairy Gold of Ballydehob

The Mysterious Vanishing of O'Donoghue

Heads on spikes at Cork gaol

O'Donoghue's Gold at Killarney

The Headless Travellers Turned Away at Ballintemple

Three-Night Fairy Battle over a Corpse's Burial

Mary Held Beneath Lough Corrib

The Grandfather's Capture of the Cluricaune near Kilmallock

Daniel O'Rourke bewitched under the Phooka's tower at Carrigaphooca

Murdered Prisoners in the Vaults of Dunmore Castle

The Merrow Wife of Gollerus Returns to the Sea

The Fairy Host under the Old Oak of Ballinhassig

The Stone of Clough na Cuddy

Diarmid Bawn Made a Horse by the Fir Darrig

Mary Spellbound Beneath Lough Corrib's Waters

The Sea Maiden's Blood at Dunkerron

The Enchanted Herd of Lough Gur

The Cluricaune Naggeneen in the wine-cellar of Ballinacarthy

The Fairy Wedding at Carrigogunnel

Burial at Kilcrumper Churchyard