Irish Fairy and Folk Tales (22 page)
Read Irish Fairy and Folk Tales Online
Authors: Edited and with an Introduction by William Butler Yeats
G
hosts, or as they are called in Irish,
Thevshi
or
Tash (taidhbhse, tais)
, live in a state intermediary between this life and the next. They are held there by some earthly longing or affection, or some duty unfulfilled, or anger against the living. “I will haunt you,” is a common threat; and one hears such phrases as, “She will haunt him, if she has any good in her.” If one is sorrowing greatly after a dead friend, a neighbor will say, “Be quiet now, you are keeping him from his rest;” or, in the Western Isles, according to Lady Wilde, they will tell you, “You are waking the dog that watches to devour the souls of the dead.” Those who die suddenly, more commonly than others, are believed to become haunting Ghosts. They go about moving the furniture, and in every way trying to attract attention.
When the soul has left the body, it is drawn away, sometimes, by the fairies. I have a story of a peasant who once saw, sitting in a fairy rath, all who had died for years in his village. Such souls are considered lost. If a soul eludes the fairies, it may be snapped up by the evil spirits. The weak souls of young children are in especial danger. When a very young child dies, the western peasantry sprinkle the threshold with the blood of a chicken, that the spirits may be drawn away to the blood. A Ghost is compelled to obey the commands of the living. “The stable-boy up at Mrs. G—–’s there,” said an old countryman, “met the master going round the yards after he had been two days dead, and told him to be away with him to the lighthouse, and haunt that; and there he is far out to sea still, sir. Mrs. G—– was quite wild about it, and dismissed the boy.” A very desolate lighthouse, poor devil of a
Ghost! Lady Wilde considers it is only the spirits who are too bad for heaven, and too good for hell, who are thus plagued. They are compelled to obey some one they have wronged.
The souls of the dead sometimes take the shapes of animals. There is a garden at Sligo where the gardener sees a previous owner in the shape of a rabbit. They will sometimes take the forms of insects, especially of butterflies. If you see one fluttering near a corpse, that is the soul, and is a sign of its having entered upon immortal happiness. The author of the
Parochial Survey of Ireland
, 1814, heard a woman say to a child who was chasing a butterfly, “How do you know it is not the soul of your grandfather?” On November eve the dead are abroad, and dance with the fairies.
As in Scotland, the fetch is commonly believed in. If you see the double, or fetch, of a friend in the morning, no ill follows; if at night, he is about to die.
W
ILLIAM
A
LLINGHAM
I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night;
I went to the window to see the sight;
All the Dead that ever I knew
Going one by one and two by two.
On they pass’d, and on they pass’d;
Townsfellows all, from first to last;
Born in the moonlight of the lane,
Quench’d in the heavy shadow again.
Schoolmates, marching as when we play’d
At soldiers once—but now more staid;
Those were the strangest sight to me
Who were drown’d, I knew, in the awful sea.
Straight and handsome folk; bent and weak, too;
Some that I loved, and gasp’d to speak to;
Some but a day in their churchyard bed;
Some that I had not known were dead.
A long, long crowd—where each seem’d lonely,
Yet of them all there was one, one only,
Raised a head or look’d my way.
She linger’d a moment—she might not stay.
How long since I saw that fair pale face!
Ah! Mother dear! might I only place
My head on thy breast, a moment to rest,
While thy hand on my tearful cheek were pressed!
On, on, a moving bridge they made
Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade,
Young and old, women and men;
Many long-forgot, but remember’d then.
And first there came a bitter laughter;
A sound of tears the moment after;
And then a music so lofty and gay,
That every morning, day by day,
I strive to recall it if I may.
M
ISS
L
ETITIA
M
ACLINTOCK
Thady and Grace Connor lived on the borders of a large turf bog, in the parish of Clondevaddock, where they could hear the Atlantic surges thunder in upon the shore, and see the
wild storms of winter sweep over the Muckish mountain, and his rugged neighbors. Even in summer the cabin by the bog was dull and dreary enough.
Thady Connor worked in the fields, and Grace made a livelihood as a pedlar, carrying a basket of remnants of cloth, calico, drugget, and frieze about the country. The people rarely visited any large town, and found it convenient to buy from Grace, who was welcomed in many a lonely house, where a table was hastily cleared, that she might display her wares. Being considered a very honest woman, she was frequently entrusted with commissions to the shops in Letterkenny and Ramelton. As she set out toward home, her basket was generally laden with little gifts for her children.
“Grace, dear,” would one of the kind housewives say, “here’s a farrel
*
of oaten cake, wi’ a taste o’ butter on it; tak’ it wi’ you for the weans;” or, “Here’s half-a-dozen of eggs; you’ve a big family to support.”
Small Connors of all ages crowded round the weary mother, to rifle her basket of these gifts. But her thrifty, hard life came suddenly to an end. She died after an illness of a few hours, and was waked and buried as handsomely as Thady could afford.
Thady was in bed the night after the funeral, and the fire still burned brightly, when he saw his departed wife cross the room and bend over the cradle. Terrified, he muttered rapid prayers, covered his face with the blanket; and on looking up again the appearance was gone.
Next night he lifted the infant out of the cradle, and laid it behind him in the bed, hoping thus to escape his ghostly visitor;
but Grace was presently in the room, and stretching over him to wrap up her child. Shrinking and shuddering, the poor man exclaimed: “Grace, woman, what is it brings you back? What is it you want wi’ me?”
“I want naething fae you, Thady, but to put thon wean back in her cradle,” replied the specter, in a tone of scorn. “You’re too feared for me, but my sister Rose willna be feared for me—tell her to meet me tomorrow evening, in the old wallsteads.”
Rose lived with her mother, about a mile off, but she obeyed her sister’s summons without the least fear, and kept the strange tryst in due time.
“Rose, dear,” she said, as she appeared before her sister in the old wallsteads, “my mind’s oneasy about them twa’ red shawls that’s in the basket. Matty Hunter and Jane Taggart paid me for them, an’ I bought them wi’ their money, Friday was eight days. Gie them the shawls the morrow. An’ old Mosey McCorkell gied me the price o’ a wiley coat; it’s in under the other things in the basket. An’ now farewell; I can get to my rest.”
“Grace, Grace, bide a wee minute,” cried the faithful sister, as the dear voice grew fainter, and the dear face began to fade: “Grace, darling! Thady? The children? One word mair!” but neither cries nor tears could further detain the spirit hastening to its rest!
E
LLEN
O’L
EARY
Crouched round a bare hearth in hard, frosty weather,
Three lonely, helpless weans cling close together;
Tangled those gold locks, once bonnie and bright—
There’s no one to fondle the baby to-night.
“My mammie I want; oh! my mammie I want!”
The big tears stream down with the low wailing chant.
Sweet Eily’s slight arms enfold the gold head:
“Poor weeny Willie, sure mammie is dead—
And daddie is crazy from drinking all day—
Come down, holy angels, and take us away!”
Eily and Eddie keep kissing and crying—
Outside, the weird winds are sobbing and sighing.
All in a moment the children are still,
Only a quick coo of gladness from Will.
The sheeling no longer seems empty or bare,
For, clothed in soft raiment, the mother stands there.
They gather around her, they cling to her dress;
She rains down soft kisses for each shy caress.
Her light, loving touches smooth out tangled locks,
And, pressed to her bosom, the baby she rocks.
He lies in his cot, there’s a fire on the hearth;
To Eily and Eddy ’tis heaven on earth,
For mother’s deft fingers have been everywhere;
She lulls them to rest in the low
suggaun
*
chair.
They gaze open-eyed, then the eyes gently close,
As petals fold into the heart of a rose,
But ope soon again in awe, love, but no fear,
And fondly they murmur, “Our mammie is here.”
She lays them down softly, she wraps them around;
They lie in sweet slumbers, she starts at a sound,
The cock loudly crows, and the spirit’s away—
The drunkard steals in at the dawning of day.
Again and again, ’tween the dark and the dawn,
Glides in the dead mother to nurse Willie Bawn:
Or is it an angel who sits by the hearth?
An angel in heaven, a mother on earth.
*
L
ADY
W
ILDE
It is a custom among the people, when throwing away water at night, to cry out in a loud voice, “Take care of the water;” or literally, from the Irish, “Away with yourself from the water”—for they say that the spirits of the dead last buried are then wandering about, and it would be dangerous if the water fell on them.
One dark night a woman suddenly threw out a pail of boiling water without thinking of the warning words. Instantly a cry was heard, as of a person in pain, but no one was seen. However, the next night a black lamb entered the house, having the back all fresh scalded, and it lay down moaning by the hearth and died. Then they all knew that this was the spirit that had been scalded by the woman, and they carried the dead lamb out reverently, and buried it deep in the earth. Yet every night at the same hour it walked again into the house, and lay down, moaned, and died; and after this had happened many times, the priest was sent for, and finally, by the strength of his exorcism, the spirit of the dead was laid to rest; the black lamb appeared no more. Neither was the body of the dead lamb found in the grave when they searched for it,
though it had been laid by their own hands deep in the earth, and covered with clay.