Irish Folk and Fairy Tales Read online

  Imprint Information

  First published in 1992 by Puffin Books

  Published by Blackstaff Press in 2002

  This edition published in 2013 by

  Blackstaff Press

  4D Weavers Court

  Linfield Road

  Belfast BT12 5GH

  with the assistance of

  The selection, adaptations and Introduction copyright © Gordon Jarvie, 1992

  Grateful acknowledgement is made to Douglas Sealey and the Estate of Douglas Hyde for permission to include in this collection the story entitled ‘Guleesh’ from Beside the Fire (1890), by Dr Douglas Hyde.

  ‘The Stolen Child’ from The Wanderings of Oisin and Other Poems (1889), by W.B. Yeats is reproduced by kind permission of AP Watt Ltd on behalf of Gráinne Yeats.

  All rights reserved

  Gordon Jarvie has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  Produced by Blackstaff Press

  Cover design by Lisa Dynan

  A cip catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  epub isbn 978-0-85640-190-9

  mobi isbn 978-0-85640-191-6

  www.blackstaffpress.com

  About the Author

  Gordon Jarvie was born in Edinburgh in 1941 and currently lives in Fife. A graduate of Trinity College, Dublin, he has worked as a teacher, publisher and writer. His poetry has appeared in a wide range of journals and newspapers and he has also published information books for children and several successful guides to grammar and punctuation, including The Bloomsbury Grammar Guide (2007). His numerous anthologies include 100 Favourite Scottish Poems to Read Out Loud (2007) and this book’s sister collection, Scottish Folk and Fairy Tales from Burns to Buchan (2008).

  Introduction

  More than a hundred years ago, in the Introduction to his Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry (1888), the poet W.B. Yeats pointed to the key difference between English and Irish fairy tales:

  The personages of English fairy literature are merely mortals beautifully masquerading. Nobody ever laid new milk on their doorstep for them.

  Irish fairy literature, on the other hand, is written for a people who believed absolutely in fairies and their power. The belief lingers on in rural Ireland even today, as anyone coming across a fairy thorn-tree will realise. There it stands, in some lonely country spot, a little tree mysteriously tricked out in handkerchiefs, tied to its branches by people with some hope – or belief – in the worth of such an exercise. It is not unlike those shrines in Mediterranean countries where Catholic worshippers have placed garments or belongings of a loved one – a sailor perhaps – to be guarded by their prayers to the Virgin from the perils of the deep sea.

  Irish fairy-lore is often linked to a feature of the landscape such as a thorn-tree or a ruined hillfort (or rath), or a fairy well. Readers of ‘Guleesh’ or ‘The Fairies’ Revenge’ will observe this.

  Following Yeats, I have grouped the stories in the first six parts of this book according to whether they are about the good people or sidhe (fairy people); the red man or fear dearg (sometimes just called Far Darrig) and his gruesome pranks; the merrow or murrughach (mermaids and mermen); the leprehaun or leith bhrogan (fairy shoemaker); witches or giants. The stories in this part of the book are mostly from the school of collectors of the folk literature of Ireland, inspired by the work of Perrault in France, the Brothers Grimm in Germany, and Robert Burns and Sir Walter Scott in Scotland.

  In Part Seven of the book, the stories are from even older sources. They include nine bardic stories from the Celtic sagas, first written down as long ago as the twelfth century. Some of these stories may in fact date from as long ago as the time of Christ, and they were handed down orally by the hereditary bards and singers and harpers employed at the Courts of the Irish Kings. Eleanor Hull’s legend of Donn-bo throws light on this period.

  The great folklore scholar, Joseph Jacobs, in his Celtic Fairy Tales (1882, and still in print), commented on the delightful problem of selection in a folk literature as rich and varied as Ireland’s. I can only echo this observation. This anthology represents the tip of a massive, marvellous and enduring iceberg. I hope readers will enjoy exploring it.

  gordon jarvie

  PART ONE: THE SIDHE

  ‘The Fairies’ by William Allingham

  Up the airy mountain,

  Down the rushy glen,

  We daren’t go a-hunting

  For fear of little men;

  Wee folk, good folk,

  Trooping all together;

  Green jacket, red cap,

  And white owl’s feather!

  Down along the rocky shore

  Some make their home,

  They live on crispy pancakes

  Of yellow tide-foam;

  Some in the reeds

  Of the black mountain lake,

  With frogs for their watch-dogs,

  All night awake.

  High on the hill-top

  The old King sits;

  He is now so old and grey

  He’s nigh lost his wits.

  With a bridge of white mist

  Columbkill he crosses,

  On his stately journeys

  From Slieveleague to Rosses;

  Or going up with music

  On cold starry nights,

  To sup with the Queen

  Of the gay Northern Lights.

  They stole little Bridget

  For seven years long;

  When she came down again

  Her friends were all gone.

  They took her lightly back,

  Between the night and morrow,

  They thought that she was fast asleep,

  But she was dead with sorrow.

  They have kept her ever since

  Deep within the lake,

  On a bed of flag-leaves,

  Watching till she wake.

  By the craggy hill-side,

  Through the mosses bare,

  They have planted thorn-trees

  For pleasure here and there.

  Is any man so daring

  As dig them up in spite,

  He shall find their sharpest thorns

  In his bed at night.

  Up the airy mountain,

  Down the rushy glen,

  We daren’t go a-hunting

  For fear of little men;

  Wee folk, good folk,

  Trooping all together;

  Green jacket, red cap,

  And white owl’s feather!

  ‘Jamie Freel and the Young Lady’ by Letitia McClintock

  Down in Fannet, in times gone by, lived Jamie Freel and his mother. Jamie was the widow’s sole support; his strong arm worked for her untiringly, and as each Saturday night came around, he poured his wages into her lap, thanking her dutifully for the halfpence which she returned him for tobacco.

  He was extolled by his neighbours as the best son ever known or heard of. But he had neighbours of whose opinion he was ignorant – neighbours who lived pretty close to him, whom he had never seen, who are, indeed, rarely seen by mortals, except on May eves and Hallowe’ens.

  An old ruined castle, about a quarter of a mile from his cabin, was said to be the abode of the ‘wee folk’. Every Hallowe’en were the ancient windows lighted up, and passers-by saw little figures flitting to and fro inside the building, while they heard the music of pipes and flutes.

  It was well known that fairy revels took place; but nobody had the courage to intrude on them.

  Jamie had often watched the little figures from a distance, and listened to the charming music, wondering what the inside of the cas
tle was like; but one Hallowe’en he got up and took his cap, saying to his mother, ‘I’m awa’ to the castle to seek my fortune.’

  ‘What!’ cried she, ‘would you venture there? You that’s the poor widow’s one son! Dinna be sae venturesome an’ foolitch, Jamie! They’ll kill you, an’ then what’ll come o’ me?’

  ‘Never fear, mother; nae harm ’ill happen me, but I maun gae.’

  He set out, and as he crossed the potato-field, came in sight of the castle, whose windows were ablaze with light, that seemed to turn the russet leaves, still clinging to the crabtree branches, into gold.

  Halting in the grove at one side of the ruin, he listened to the elfin revelry, and the laughter and singing made him all the more determined to proceed.

  Numbers of little people, the largest about the size of a child of five years old, were dancing to the music of flutes and fiddles, while others drank and feasted.

  ‘Welcome, Jamie Freel! Welcome, Jamie!’ cried the company, perceiving their visitor. The word ‘welcome’ was caught up and repeated by every voice in the castle.

  Time flew, and Jamie was enjoying himself very much, when his hosts said, ‘We’re going to ride to Dublin tonight to steal a young lady. Will you come too, Jamie Freel?’

  ‘Ay, that I will!’ cried the rash youth, thirsting for adventure.

  A troop of horses stood at the door. Jamie mounted, and his steed rose with him into the air. He was presently flying over his mother’s cottage, surrounded by the elfin troop, and on and on they went, over bold mountains, over little hills, over the deep Lough Swilley, over towns and cottages, where people were burning nuts, and eating apples, and keeping merry Hallowe’en. It seemed to Jamie that they flew all round Ireland before they got to Dublin.

  ‘This is Derry,’ said the fairies, flying over the cathedral spire; and what was said by one voice was repeated by all the rest, till fifty little voices were crying out, ‘Derry! Derry! Derry!’

  In like manner was Jamie informed as they passed over each town on the route, and at length he heard the silvery voices cry, ‘Dublin! Dublin!’

  It was no mean dwelling that was to be honoured by the fairy visit, but one of the finest houses in Stephen’s Green.

  The troop dismounted near a window, and Jamie saw a beautiful face, on a pillow in a splendid bed. He saw the young lady lifted and carried away, while the stick which was dropped in her place on the bed took her exact form.

  The lady was placed before one rider and carried a short way, then given to another, and the names of the towns were cried out as before.

  They were approaching home. Jamie heard ‘Rathmullan’, ‘Milford’, ‘Tamney’, and then he knew they were near his own house.

  ‘You’ve all had your turn at carrying the young lady,’ said he. ‘Why wouldn’t I get her for a wee piece?’

  ‘Ay, Jamie,’ replied they, pleasantly, ‘you may take your turn at carrying her, to be sure.’

  Holding his prize very tightly, he dropped down near his mother’s door.

  ‘Jamie Freel, Jamie Freel! Is that the way you treat us?’ cried they, and they too dropped down near the door.

  Jamie held fast, though he knew not what he was holding, for the little folk turned the lady into all sorts of strange shapes. At one moment she was a black dog, barking and trying to bite; at another, a glowing bar of iron, yet without heat; then, again, a sack of wool.

  But still Jamie held her, and the baffled elves were turning away, when a tiny woman, the smallest of the party, exclaimed, ‘Jamie Freel has her awa’ frae us, but he sall hae nae gude o’ her, for I’ll mak’ her deaf and dumb,’ and she threw something over the young girl.

  While they rode off disappointed, Jamie lifted the latch and went in.

  ‘Jamie, man!’ cried his mother, ‘you’ve been awa’ all night; what have they done on you?’

  ‘Naething bad, mother; I ha’ the very best of gude luck. Here’s a beautiful young lady I ha’ brought you for company.’

  ‘Bless us an’ save us!’ exclaimed the mother, and for some minutes she was so astonished that she could not think of anything else to say.

  Jamie told his story of the night’s adventure, ending by saying, ‘Surely you wouldna have allowed me to let her gang with them to be lost for ever?’

  ‘But a lady, Jamie! How can a lady eat we’er poor diet, and live in we’er poor way? I ax you that, you foolitch fellow?’

  ‘Weel, mother, sure it’s better for her to be here nor over yonder,’ and he pointed in the direction of the castle.

  Meanwhile, the deaf and dumb girl shivered in her light clothing, stepping close to the humble turf fire.

  ‘Poor crathur, she’s quare and handsome! Nae wonder they set their hearts on her,’ said the old woman, gazing at her guest with pity and admiration. ‘We maun dress her first; but what, in the name o’ fortune, hae I fit for the likes o’ her to wear?’

  She went to the press in ‘the room’, and took out her Sunday gown of brown drugget; she then opened a drawer, and drew forth a pair of white stockings, a long snowy garment of fine linen, and a cap, her ‘dead dress’, as she called it,

  These articles of attire had long been ready for a certain sad ceremony, in which she would some day fill the chief part, and only saw the light occasionally, when they were hung out to air, but she was willing to give even these to the fair trembling visitor, who was turning in dumb sorrow and wonder from her to Jamie and from Jamie back to her.

  The poor girl suffered herself to be dressed, and then sat down on a ‘creepie’ in the chimney corner, and buried her face in her hands.

  ‘What’ll we do to keep up a lady like yon?’ cried the old woman.

  ‘I’ll work for you both, Mother,’ replied her son.

  ‘An’ how could a lady live on we’er poor diet?’ she repeated.

  ‘I’ll work for her,’ was all Jamie’s answer.

  He kept his word. The young lady was very sad for a long time, and tears stole down her cheeks many an evening while the old woman spun by the fire, and Jamie made salmon nets, an accomplishment lately acquired by him, in hopes of adding to the comfort of his guest.

  But she was always gentle, and tried to smile when she perceived them looking at her; and by degrees she adapted herself to their ways and mode of life. It was not very long before she began to feed the pig, mash potatoes and meal for the fowls, and knit blue worsted socks.

  So a year passed, and Hallowe’en came round again.

  ‘Mother,’ said Jamie, taking down his cap, ‘I’m off to the ould castle to seek my fortune.’

  ‘Are you mad, Jamie?’ cried his mother, in terror; ‘sure they’ll kill you this time for what you done on them last year.’

  Jamie made light of her fears and went his way.

  As he reached the crabtree grove, he saw bright lights in the castle windows as before, and heard loud talking. Creeping under the window, he heard the wee folk say, ‘That was a poor trick Jamie Freel played us this night last year, when he stole the nice young lady from us.’

  ‘Ay,’ said the tiny woman, ‘an’ I punished him for it, for there she sits, a dumb image by his hearth; but he does na’ know that three drops o’ this glass I hold in my hand wad gie her her hearing and her speeches back again.’

  Jamie’s heart beat fast as he entered the hall. Again he was greeted by a chorus of welcomes from the company – ‘Here comes Jamie Freel! Welcome, welcome, Jamie!’

  As soon as the tumult subsided, the little woman said, ‘You be to drink our health, Jamie, out o’ this glass in my hand.’

  Jamie snatched the glass from her hand and darted to the door. He never knew how he reached his cabin, but he arrived there breathless, and sank on a stone by the fire.

  ‘You’re kilt surely this time, my poor boy,’ said his mother.

  ‘No, indeed, better luck than ever this time!’ and he gave the lady three drops of the liquid that still remained at the bottom of the glass, notwithstanding his mad race over
the potato-field.

  The lady began to speak, and her first words were words of thanks to Jamie.

  The three inmates of the cabin had so much to say to one another, that long after cock-crow, when the fairy music had quite ceased, they were still talking round the fire.

  ‘Jamie,’ said the lady, ‘be pleased to get me paper and pen and ink, that I may write to my father, and tell him what has become of me.’

  She wrote, but weeks passed, and she received no answer. Again and again she wrote, and still no answer.

  At length she said, ‘You must come with me to Dublin, Jamie, to find my father.’

  ‘I ha’ no money to hire a car for you,’ he replied, ‘an’ how can you travel to Dublin on your foot?’

  But she implored him so much that he consented to set out with her, and walk all the way from Fannet to Dublin. It was not as easy as the fairy journey; but at last they rang the bell at the door of the fine house in Stephen’s Green.

  ‘Tell my father that his daughter is here,’ said she to the servant who opened the door.

  ‘The gentleman that lives here has no daughter, my girl. He had one, but she died better nor a year ago.’

  ‘Do you not know me, Sullivan?’

  ‘No, poor girl, I do not.’

  ‘Let me see the gentleman. I only ask to see him.’

  ‘Well, that’s not much to ax; we’ll see what can be done.’

  In a few moments the lady’s father came to the door.

  ‘Dear father,’ said she, ‘don’t you know me?’

  ‘How dare you call me your father?’ cried the old gentleman, angrily. ‘You are an impostor. I have no daughter.’