Irish Fairy and Folk Tales (45 page)

There was once a very worthy king, whose daughter was the greatest beauty that could be seen far or near, but she was as proud as Lucifer, and no king or prince would she agree to marry. Her father was tired out at last, and invited every king, and prince, and duke, and earl that he knew or didn’t know to come to his court to give her one trial more. They all came, and next day after breakfast they stood in a row in the lawn, and the princess walked along in the front of them to make her choice. One was fat, and says she, “I won’t have you, Beer-barrel!” One was tall and thin, and to him she said, “I won’t have you, Ramrod!” To a white-faced man she said, “I won’t have you, Pale Death;” and to a red-cheeked man she said, “I
won’t have you, Cockscomb!” She stopped a little before the last of all, for he was a fine man in face and form. She wanted to find some defect in him, but he had nothing remarkable but a ring of brown curling hair under his chin. She admired him a little, and then carried it off with, “I won’t have you, Whiskers!”

So all went away, and the king was so vexed, he said to her, “Now to punish your
impedence,
I’ll give you to the first beggarman or singing
sthronshuch
that calls;” and, as sure as the hearth-money, a fellow all over rags, and hair that came to his shoulders, and a bushy red beard all over his face, came next morning, and began to sing before the parlor window.

When the song was over, the hall-door was opened, the singer asked in, the priest brought, and the princess married to Beardy. She roared and she bawled, but her father didn’t mind her. “There,” says he to the bridegroom, “is five guineas for you. Take your wife out of my sight, and never let me lay eyes on you or her again.”

Off he led her, and dismal enough she was. The only thing that gave her relief was the tones of her husband’s voice and his genteel manners. “Whose wood is this?” said she, as they were going through one. “It belongs to the king you called Whiskers yesterday.” He gave her the same answer about meadows and cornfields, and at last a fine city. “Ah, what a fool I was!” said she to herself. “He was a fine man, and I might have him for a husband.” At last they were coming up to a poor cabin. “Why are you bringing me here?” says the poor lady. “This was my house,” said he, “and now it’s yours.” She began to cry, but she was tired and hungry, and she went in with him.

Ovoch! there was neither a table laid out, nor a fire burning, and she was obliged to help her husband to light it, and boil their dinner, and clean up the place after; and next day he
made her put on a stuff gown and a cotton handkerchief. When she had her house readied up, and no business to keep her employed, he brought home
sallies
[willows], peeled them, and showed her how to make baskets. But the hard twigs bruised her delicate fingers, and she began to cry. Well, then he asked her to mend their clothes, but the needle drew blood from her fingers, and she cried again. He couldn’t bear to see her tears, so he bought a creel of earthenware, and sent her to the market to sell them. This was the hardest trial of all, but she looked so handsome and sorrowful, and had such a nice air about her, that all her pans, and jugs, and plates, and dishes were gone before noon, and the only mark of her old pride she showed was a slap she gave a buckeen across the face when he
axed
her to go in an’ take share of a quart.

Well, her husband was so glad, he sent her with another creel the next day; but faith! her luck was after deserting her. A drunken huntsman came up riding and his beast got in among her ware, and made
brishe
of every mother’s son of ’em. She went home cryin’, and her husband wasn’t at all pleased. “I see,” said he, “you’re not fit for business. Come along, I’ll get you a kitchen-maid’s place in the palace. I know the cook.”

So the poor thing was obliged to stifle her pride once more. She was kept very busy, and the footman and the butler would be very impudent about looking for a kiss, but she let a screech out of her the first attempt was made, and the cook gave the fellow such a lambasting with the besom that he made no second offer. She went home to her husband every night, and she carried broken victuals wrapped in papers in her side pockets.

A week after she got service there was great bustle in the kitchen. The king was going to be married, but no one knew who the bride was to be. Well, in the evening the cook filled the princess’s pockets with cold meat and puddings, and, says she, “Before you go, let us have a look at the great doings in
the big parlor.” So they came near the door to get a peep, and who should come out but the king himself, as handsome as you please, and no other but King Whiskers himself. “Your handsome helper must pay for her peeping,” said he to the cook, “and dance a jig with me.” Whether she would or no, he held her hand and brought her into the parlor. The fiddlers struck up, and away went
him
with
her.
But they hadn’t danced two steps when the meat and the
puddens
flew out of her pockets. Every one roared out, and she flew to the door, crying piteously. But she was soon caught by the king, and taken into the back parlor. “Don’t you know me, my darling?” said he. “I’m both King Whiskers, your husband the ballad-singer, and the drunken huntsman. Your father knew me well enough when he gave you to me, and all was to drive your pride out of you.” Well, she didn’t know how she was with fright, and shame, and joy. Love was uppermost anyhow, for she laid her head on her husband’s breast and cried like a child. The maids-of-honor soon had her away and dressed her as fine as hands and pins could do it; and there were her mother and father, too; and while the company were wondering what end of the handsome girl and the king, he and his queen,
who
they didn’t know in her fine clothes, and the other king and queen, came in, and such rejoicings and fine doings as there was, none of us will ever see, any way.

In old times in Ireland there was a great man of the Fitzgeralds. The name on him was Gerald, but the Irish, that always had a great liking for the family, called him
Gearoidh Iarla
(Earl Gerald). He had a great castle or rath at
Mullymast
(Mullaghmast); and whenever the English Government were striving to put some wrong on the country, he was always the man that stood up for it. Along with being a great leader in a fight, and very skilful at all weapons, he was deep in the
black art
, and could change himself into whatever shape he pleased. His lady knew that he had this power, and often asked him to let her into some of his secrets, but he never would gratify her.

She wanted particularly to see him in some strange shape, but he put her off and off on one pretence or other. But she wouldn’t be a woman if she hadn’t perseverance; and so at last he let her know that if she took the least fright while he’d be out of his natural form, he would never recover it till many generations of men would be under the mould. “Oh! she wouldn’t be a fit wife for Gearoidh Iarla if she could be easily frightened. Let him but gratify her in this whim, and he’d see what a hero she was!” So one beautiful summer evening, as they were sitting in their grand drawing-room, he turned his face away from her and muttered some words, and while you’d wink he was clever and clean out of sight, and a lovely
goldfinch
was flying about the room.

The lady, as courageous as she thought herself, was a little startled, but she held her own pretty well, especially when he came and perched on her shoulder, and shook his wings, and put his little beak to her lips, and whistled the delightfulest tune you ever heard. Well, he flew in circles round the room, and played
hide and go seek
with his lady, and flew out into the garden, and flew back again, and lay down in her lap as if he was asleep, and jumped up again.

Well, when the thing had lasted long enough to satisfy both, he took one flight more into the open air; but by my word he was soon on his return. He flew right into his lady’s
bosom, and the next moment a fierce hawk was after him. The wife gave one loud scream, though there was no need, for the wild bird came in like an arrow, and struck against a table with such force that the life was dashed out of him. She turned her eyes from his quivering body to where she saw the goldfinch an instant before, but neither goldfinch nor Earl Gerald did she ever lay eyes on again.

Once every seven years the Earl rides round the Curragh of Kildare on a steed, whose silver shoes were half an inch thick the time he disappeared; and when these shoes are worn as thin as a cat’s ear, he will be restored to the society of living men, fight a great battle with the English, and reign king of Ireland for two-score years.
^*

Himself and his warriors are now sleeping in a long cavern under the Rath of Mullaghmast. There is a table running along through the middle of the cave. The Earl is sitting at the head, and his troopers down along in complete armor both sides of the table, and their heads resting on it. Their horses, saddled and bridled, are standing behind their masters in their stalls at each side; and when the day comes, the miller’s son that’s to be born with six fingers on each hand will blow his trumpet, and the horses will stamp and whinny, and the knights awake and mount their steeds, and go forth to battle.

Some night that happens once in every seven years, while the Earl is riding round the Curragh, the entrance may be seen by any one chancing to pass by. About a hundred years ago, a horse-dealer that was late abroad and a little drunk, saw the lighted cavern, and went in. The lights, and the stillness, and the sight of the men in armor, cowed him a good deal, and he
became sober. His hands began to tremble, and he let a bridle fall on the pavement. The sound of the bit echoed through the long cave, and one of the warriors that was next him lifted his head a little, and said, in a deep, hoarse voice, “Is it time yet?” He had the wit to say, “Not yet, but soon will,” and the heavy helmet sunk down on the table. The horse-dealer made the best of his way out, and I never heard of any other one having got the same opportunity.

There once lived a Munachar and a Manachar, a long time ago, and it is a long time since it was, and if they were alive then they would not be alive now. They went out together to pick raspberries, and as many as Munachar used to pick Manachar used to eat. Munachar said he must go look for a rod to make a gad (a withy band) to hang Manachar, who ate his raspberries every one; and he came to the rod. “God save you,” said the rod. “God and Mary save you.” “How far are you going?” “Going looking for a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.”

“You will not get me,” said the rod, “until you get an axe to cut me.” He came to the axe. “God save you,” said the axe. “God and Mary save you.” “How far are you going?” “Going looking for an axe, an axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.”

“You will not get me,” said the axe, “until you get a flag to edge me.” He came to the flag. “God save you,” says the flag. “God and Mary save you.” “How far are you going?” “Going looking for an axe, an axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.”

“You will not get me,” says the flag, “till you get water to wet me.” He came to the water. “God save you,” says the water. “God and Mary save you.” “How far are you going?” “Going looking for water, water to wet flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.”

“You will not get me,” said the water, “until you get a deer who will swim me.” He came to the deer. “God save you,” says the deer. “God and Mary save you.” “How far are you going?” “Going looking for a deer, deer to swim water, water to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.”