Irish Folk Tales (77 page)

“God save your Reverence!” said Bill, very submissively.

“Be off. There’s no admittance here for so pure a youth as you are,” said Saint Moroky.

He was now so cold and fatigued that he cared little where he went, provided only, as he said himself, “he could rest his bones, and get an air of the fire.” Accordingly, after arriving at a large black gate, he knocked, as before, and was told he would get instant admittance the moment he gave his name, in order that they might find out his berth from the registry, taking it for granted that he had been booked for them, as is usual in such cases.

“I think your master is acquainted with me,” said Billy.

“If he were not, you’d not come here,” said the porter. “There are no friendly visits made to us. What’s your name?”

“Billy Duffy,” he replied.

The porter and several of his companions gave a yell of terror, such as Bill had never heard before, and immediately every bolt was bolted, every chain drawn tight across the gate, and every available weight and bar placed against it, as if those who were inside dreaded a siege.

“Off, instantly,” said the porter, “and let his Majesty know that the rascal he dreads so much is here at the gate.”

In fact, such a racket and tumult were never heard as the very mention of Billy Duffy created among them.

“Oh,” said Bill, with his eye to the bar of the gate, “I doubt I have got a bad name,” and he shook his head like an innocent man who did not deserve it.

In the meantime, his old acquaintance came running towards the gate, with such haste and consternation that his tail was several times nearly tripping up his heels.

“Don’t admit that rascal,” he shouted. “Bar the gate. Make every chain and lock and bolt fast. I won’t be safe. None of us will be safe. And I won’t stay here, nor none of us need stay here, if he gets in. My bones are sore yet after him. No, no. Begone, you villain. You’ll get no entrance here. I know you too well.”

Bill could not help giving a broad, malicious grin at Satan, and, putting his nose through the bars, he exclaimed:

“Ha! you old dog, I have you afraid of me at last, have I?”

He had scarcely uttered the words, when his foe, who stood inside, instantly tweaked him by the nose, and Bill felt as if he had been gripped by
the same red-hot tongs with which he himself had formerly tweaked the nose of Nicholas.

“Well,” said he, “that’s not the way
I treated you
once upon a time. Troth you’re undecent. But you know what it is to get tinker’s reckoning—to be paid in advance—so I owe you nothing for
that
, Nicholas.”

Bill then departed, but soon found that in consequence of the inflammable materials which strong drink had thrown into his nose, that organ immediately took fire, and, indeed, to tell the truth, kept burning night and day, winter and summer, without ever once going out, from that hour to this.

Such was the sad fate of Billy Duffy, who has been walking without stop or stay, from place to place, ever since. And in consequence of the flame on his nose, and his beard being tangled like a wisp of hay, he has been christened by the country folk Will-o’-the-Wisp, while, as it were to show the mischief of his disposition, the circulating knave, knowing that he must seek the coldest bogs and quagmires in order to cool his nose, seizes upon that opportunity of misleading the unthinking and tipsy night travelers from their way, just that he may have the satisfaction of still taking in as many as possible.

W
ILLY THE WISP

This man he was a blacksmith and he was a very heavy drinker, and no matter how much money he could make he could never get enough to do him. So someone told him that if he’d go out to such’n a place, in the middle of the night, and call Old Nick three times, Nick’d appear to him, and give him as much money as he’d want.

So begod he’d do anything for money; so he went out to this place in the middle of the night and called three times to Old Nick, and the Divil appeared to him: and he give him as much money as he’d spend for seven years; but he’d have to come and take him when the time would be up.

Well begod anyway, he was a blacksmith, and he had piles of money: he had so much money he was drinking away, and he was building a town; he joined to build a town in the County Meath, and the town he built was Trim.

He was building this town and he still had the forge; and this saint appeared to him; and he helped him; and he says to the blacksmith:

“I’ll give you three wishes, and whatever you wish for you’ll get it.”

“Well,” he says, “the first wish I want, any man that takes my hammer in his hand he cannot get rid of it till I take it from him.

“And the second wish is,” he says, “that anyone that sits in my armchair he’ll never get out of it till I take him out of it.

“And the third wish,” he says, “any money that goes into my purse will never come out till I take it out of it.”

“Ah … if only you had wished for Heaven and you’d get it,” says the saint.

But anyway, he was working away at the town, and in the forge, and he was shoeing a horse, and the seven years was up and the Divil come for him. And Willy—that was his name—was in the forge, working in the forge, when the Divil come.

“Come …”

“Right,” says Willy. “Take that hammer and time this shoe with a few taps.”

The Divil took the hammer.

“When I shoe this mare I’ll be with you,” says Willy.

The Divil took the hammer, and Willy left him and went up to his house and left him there hammering in the forge for three days, and when Willy came back the Divil was hammering away. And the Divil begged him for all sakes and as much more money to release him for another seven years.

“Right,” says Willy. “Give me that hammer.”

And away with the Divil.

So Willy had piles of money for another seven years.

Still working away in his forge, and the seven more years was up and the Divil come for him. And Willy was working in the forge again.

“Are you ready for to come the day? You must come the day,” says the Divil.

“Right,” says Willy. “I’ll be with you when I get a cup of tea. Come up to the house,” he says, “and when I have a cup of tea I’ll be with you. Sit down in that chair.”

Got the cup of tea. The Divil sat down. So Willy left him in the armchair, and Willy went down to the forge and reddened an iron, and come up and started to persecute the Divil.

The Divil begged him for all sakes to let him free and he’d give him as much more money for another seven years; but he’d surely have to come then.

“Right,” says Willy. “Come on, get out.”

And the Divil went; and Willy carried on for another seven years more.
And the Divil come in the latter end and Willy was once more working in the forge.

“Are you coming?… You have to come.”

“Right,” says Willy. “I’ll be with you.”

Of course all his money was gone and the time was up, seven years, he would get no more. So Willy threw his coat on his shoulder and walked off with the Divil and was just going by a public house.

“I’m very dry,” says Willy, “I’d like a drink. I have no money,” he says. “You could turn yourself into a half-crown,” he says, “and put it in my purse, and you’d be out of the public house as soon as me.”

So, all right, the Divil did it. Willy put the half-crown into his purse and went back to the forge. He lit the fire, and he put the purse into the fire and reddened the purse and the half-crown in it, and he put it on the anvil and joined to hammer it with the sledge.

The Divil yelled to be let go. He says:

“Let me go,” he says, “and I’ll give you as much more money and never ask you to come with me.”

“Right,” says Willy.

So he did, and the Divil was free; and Willie worked away. And when Willy died he went to Heaven. He was met at the gates.

“Aw, you can’t come in here. You sold yourself to the Divil. You’ll have to go below.”

He went down below to Hell and the Divil wouldn’t let him in there either: he was afraid if Willy got in he’d lay Hell waste. So he lit a wisp in the fire and he gave it to Willy and sent him back. And he’s going from Heaven to Hell to this day, and that’s what they call “Willy The Wisp.”

T
HE BUIDEACH, THE TINKER, AND THE BLACK DONKEY

In times long ago there was a poor widow living near Castlebar, in the County Mayo. She had an only son, and he never grew one inch from the time he was five years old, and the people called him Buideach as a nickname.

One day when the Buideach was about fifteen years of age his mother went to Castlebar. She was not gone more than an hour when there came a big Tinker, and a Black Donkey with him, to the door, and “Are you in, woman of the house?” said the Tinker.

“She is not,” said the Buideach, “and she told me not to let anyone in until she’d come home herself.”

The Tinker walked in, and when he looked at the Buideach he said, “Indeed you’re a nice boy to keep anyone at all out, you could not keep out a turkey cock.”

The Buideach rose of a leap and gave the big Tinker a fist between the two eyes and pitched him out on the top of his head, under the feet of the Black Donkey.

The Tinker rose up in a rage and made an attempt to get hold of the Buideach, but he gave him another fist at the butt of the ear and threw him out again under the feet of the Black Donkey.

The donkey began to bray pitifully, and when the Buideach went out to see why, the Tinker was dead. “You have killed my master,” said the Black Donkey, “and indeed I am not sorry for it, he often gave me a heavy beating without cause.”

The Buideach was astonished when he heard the Black Donkey speaking, and he said, “You are not a proper donkey.”

“Indeed, I have only been an ass for seven years. My story is a pitiful one. I was the son of a gentleman.”

“Musha, then, I would like to hear your story,” said the Buideach.

“Come in, then, to the end of the house. Cover up the Tinker in the dunghill, and I will tell you my story.”