Irish Fairy and Folk Tales (15 page)
Read Irish Fairy and Folk Tales Online
Authors: Edited and with an Introduction by William Butler Yeats
The
Lepracaun, Cluricaun
, and
Far Darrig.
Are these one spirit in different moods and shapes? Hardly two Irish writers are agreed. In many things these three fairies, if three, resemble each other. They are withered, old, and solitary, in every way unlike the sociable spirits of the first sections. They dress with all unfairy homeliness, and are, indeed, most sluttish, slouching, jeering, mischievous phantoms. They are the great practical jokers among the good people.
The
Lepracaun
makes shoes continually, and has grown very rich. Many treasure-crocks, buried of old in war-time, has he now for his own. In the early part of this century, according to Croker, in a newspaper office in Tipperary, they used to show a little shoe forgotten by a Lepracaun.
The
Cluricaun
(
Clobhair-ceann
, in O’Kearney) makes himself drunk in gentlemen’s cellars. Some suppose he is merely the Lepracaun on a spree. He is almost unknown in Connaught and the north.
The
Far Darrig
(
fear dearg
), which means the Red Man, for he wears a red cap and coat, busies himself with practical joking, especially with gruesome joking. This he does, and nothing else.
The
Fear-Gorta
(Man of Hunger) is an emaciated phantom that goes through the land in famine time, begging an alms and bringing good luck to the giver.
There are other solitary fairies, such as the House-spirit and the
Water-sheerie
, own brother to the English Jack-o’-Lantern; the
Pooka
and the
Banshee
—concerning these presently; the
Dallahan
, or headless phantom—one used to stand in a Sligo street on dark nights till lately; the Black Dog, a form, perhaps, of the
Pooka.
The ships at the Sligo quays are haunted sometimes by this spirit, who announces his presence by a sound like the flinging of all “the tin porringers in the world” down into the hold. He even follows them to sea.
The
Leanhaun Shee
(fairy mistress) seeks the love of mortals. If they refuse, she must be their slave; if they consent, they are hers, and can only escape by finding another to take their place. The fairy lives on their life, and they waste away. Death is no escape from her. She is the Gaelic muse, for she gives inspiration to those she persecutes. The Gaelic poets die young, for she is restless, and will not let them remain long on earth—this malignant phantom.
Besides these are divers monsters—the
Augh-iska
, the Water-horse
,
the Payshtha (
piast = bestia
), the Lake-dragon, and such like; but whether these be animals, fairies, or spirits, I know not.
W
ILLIAM
A
LLINGHAM
I
Little Cowboy, what have you heard,
Up on the lonely rath’s green mound?
Only the plaintive yellow bird
*
Sighing in sultry fields around,
Chary, chary, chary, chee-ee!—
Only the grasshopper and the bee?—
“Tip tap, rip-rap,
Tick-a-tack-too!
Scarlet leather, sewn together,
This will make a shoe.
Left, right, pull it tight;
Summer days are warm;
Underground in winter,
Laughing at the storm!”
Lay your ear close to the hill.
Do you not catch the tiny clamor,
Busy click of an elfin hammer,
Voice of the Lepracaun singing shrill
As he merrily plies his trade?
He’s a span
And a quarter in height.
Get him in sight, hold him tight,
And you’re a made
Man!
II
You watch your cattle the summer day,
Sup on potatoes, sleep in the hay;
How would you like to roll in your carriage,
Look for a duchess’s daughter in marriage?
Seize the Shoemaker—then you may!
“Big boots a-hunting,
Sandals in the hall,
White for a wedding-feast,
Pink for a ball.
This way, that way,
So we make a shoe;
Getting rich every stitch,
Tick-tack-too!”
Nine-and-ninety treasure-crocks
This keen miser-fairy hath,
Hid in mountains, woods, and rocks,
Ruin and round-tow’r, cave and rath,
And where the cormorants build;
From times of old
Guarded by him;
Each of them fill’d
Full to the brim
With gold!
III
I caught him at work one day, myself,
In the castle-ditch, where foxglove grows,—
A wrinkled, wizen’d, and bearded Elf,
Spectacles stuck on his pointed nose,
Silver buckles to his hose,
Leather apron—shoe in his lap—
“Rip-rap, tip-tap,
Tick-tack-too!
(A grasshopper on my cap!
Away the moth flew!)
Buskins for a fairy prince,
Brogues for his son,—
Pay me well, pay me well,
When the job is done!”
The rogue was mine, beyond a doubt.
I stared at him; he stared at me;
“Servant, Sir!” “Humph!” says he,
And pull’d a snuff-box out.
He took a long pinch, look’d better pleased,
The queer little Lepracaun;
Offer’d the box with a whimsical grace,—
Pouf! he flung the dust in my face,
And, while I sneezed,
Was gone!
T. C
ROFTON
C
ROKER
Billy Mac Daniel was once as likely a young man as ever shook his brogue at a patron
*
, emptied a quart, or handled a shillelagh; fearing for nothing but the want of drink; caring for nothing but who should pay for it; and thinking of nothing but how to make fun over it; drunk or sober, a word and a blow was ever the way with Billy Mac Daniel; and a mighty easy way it is of either getting into or of ending a dispute. More is the pity that, through the means of his thinking, and fearing, and caring for nothing, this same Billy Mac Daniel fell into bad company; for surely the good people are the worst of all company any one could come across.
It so happened that Billy was going home one clear frosty night not long after Christmas; the moon was round and bright; but although it was as fine a night as heart could wish for, he felt pinched with cold. “By my word,” chattered Billy, “a drop of good liquor would be no bad thing to keep a man’s soul from freezing in him; and I wish I had a full measure of the best.”
“Never wish it twice, Billy,” said a little man in a three-cornered hat, bound all about with gold lace, and with great silver buckles in his shoes, so big that it was a wonder how he could carry them, and he held out a glass as big as himself, filled with as good liquor as ever eye looked on or lip tasted.
“Success, my little fellow,” said Billy Mac Daniel, nothing daunted, though well he knew the little man to belong to the
good people
; “here’s your health, any way, and thank you kindly; no matter who pays for the drink;” and he took the glass and drained it to the very bottom without ever taking a second breath to it.
“Success,” said the little man; “and you’re heartily welcome, Billy; but don’t think to cheat me as you have done others,—out with your purse and pay me like a gentleman.”
“Is it I pay you?” said Billy; “could I not just take you up and put you in my pocket as easily as a blackberry?”
“Billy Mac Daniel,” said the little man, getting very angry, “you shall be my servant for seven years and a day, and that is the way I will be paid; so make ready to follow me.”
When Billy heard this he began to be very sorry for having used such bold words toward the little man; and he felt himself, yet could not tell how, obliged to follow the little man the live-long night about the country, up and down, and over hedge and ditch, and through bog and brake, without any rest.
When morning began to dawn the little man turned round to him and said, “You may now go home, Billy, but on your peril don’t fail to meet me in the Fort-field to-night; or if you do it may be the worse for you in the long run. If I find you a good servant, you will find me an indulgent master.”
Home went Billy Mac Daniel; and though he was tired and weary enough, never a wink of sleep could he get for thinking of the little man; but he was afraid not to do his bidding, so up he got in the evening, and away he went to the Fort-field. He
was not long there before the little man came towards him and said, “Billy, I want to go a long journey to-night; so saddle one of my horses, and you may saddle another for yourself, as you are to go along with me, and may be tired after your walk last night.”
Billy thought this very considerate of his master, and thanked him accordingly: “But,” said he, “if I may be so bold, sir, I would ask which is the way to your stable, for never a thing do I see but the fort here, and the old thorn tree in the corner of the field, and the stream running at the bottom of the hill, with the bit of bog over against us.”
“Ask no questions, Billy,” said the little man, “but go over to that bit of bog, and bring me two of the strongest rushes you can find.”
Billy did accordingly, wondering what the little man would be at; and he picked two of the stoutest rushes he could find, with a little bunch of brown blossom stuck at the side of each, and brought them back to his master.
“Get up, Billy,” said the little man, taking one of the rushes from him and striding across it.
“Where shall I get up, please your honor?” said Billy.
“Why, upon horseback, like me, to be sure,” said the little man.
“Is it after making a fool of me you’d be,” said Billy, “bidding me get a horseback upon that bit of a rush? May be you want to persuade me that the rush I pulled but a while ago out of the bog over there is a horse?”
“Up! up! and no words,” said the little man, looking very angry; “the best horse you ever rode was but a fool to it.” So Billy, thinking all this was in joke, and fearing to vex his master, straddled across the rush. “Borram! Borram! Borram!” cried the little man three times (which, in English, means to become great), and Billy did the same after him; presently the
rushes swelled up into fine horses, and away they went full speed; but Billy, who had put the rush between his legs, without much minding how he did it, found himself sitting on horseback the wrong way, which was rather awkward, with his face to the horse’s tail; and so quickly had his steed started off with him that he had no power to turn round, and there was therefore nothing for it but to hold on by the tail.
At last they came to their journey’s end, and stopped at the gate of a fine house. “Now, Billy,” said the little man, “do as you see me do, and follow me close; but as you did not know your horse’s head from his tail, mind that your own head does not spin round until you can’t tell whether you are standing on it or on your heels: for remember that old liquor, though able to make a cat speak, can make a man dumb.”
The little man then said some queer kind of words, out of which Billy could make no meaning; but he contrived to say them after him for all that; and in they both went through the key-hole of the door, and through one key-hole after another, until they got into the wine-cellar, which was well stored with all kinds of wine.
The little man fell to drinking as hard as he could, and Billy, noway disliking the example, did the same. “The best of masters are you, surely,” said Billy to him; “no matter who is the next; and well pleased will I be with your service if you continue to give me plenty to drink.”
“I have made no bargain with you,” said the little man, “and will make none; but up and follow me.” Away they went, through key-hole after key-hole; and each mounting upon the rush which he left at the hall door, scampered off, kicking the clouds before them like snowballs, as soon as the words, “Borram, Borram, Borram,” had passed their lips.