Humours of Irish Life Part 8

forrard I'll stop; so put down the kittle an' make tay, an' if Fan and the Prencess Maynish didn't live happy together--that we may!

The Kildare Pooka.

_From "Legendary Fictions of the Irish Celts."_

BY PATRICK KENNEDY..

Mr. H---- H----, when he was alive, used to live a good deal in Dublin, and he was once a great while out of the country on account of the "ninety-eight" business. But the servants kept on in the big house at Rath--all the same as if the family was at home. Well, they used to be frightened out of their lives, after going to their beds, with the banging of the kitchen door and the clattering of fire-irons and the pots and plates and dishes. One evening they sat up ever so long keeping one another in heart with stories about ghosts and that, when--what would have it?--the little scullery boy that used to be sleeping over the horses, and could not get room at the fire, crept into the hot hearth, and when he got tired listening to the stories, sorra fear him, but he fell dead asleep.

Well and good. After they were all gone, and the kitchen raked up, he was woke with the noise of the kitchen door opening, and the tramping of an a.s.s in the kitchen floor. He peeped out, and what should he see but a big a.s.s, sure enough, sitting on his curabingo and yawning before the fire. After a little he looked about him, and began scratching his ears as if he was quite tired, an', says he, "I may as well begin first as last." The poor boy's teeth began to chatter in his head, for, says he, "Now he's going to ate me"; but the fellow with the long ears and tail on him had something else to do. He stirred the fire, and then brought in a pail of water from the pump, and filled a big pot that he put on the fire before he went out. He then put in his hand--foot, I mean--into the hot hearth, and pulled out the little boy. He let a roar out of him with fright. But the pooka only looked at him, and thrust out his lower lip to show how little he valued him, and then he pitched him into his pew again.

Well, he then lay down before the fire till he heard the boil coming on the water, and maybe there wasn't a plate, or a dish, or a spoon on the dresser, that he didn't fetch and put into the pot, and wash and dry the whole bilin' of 'em as well as e'er a kitchen maid from that to Dublin town. He then put all of them up on their places on the shelves; and if he didn't give a good sweepin' to the kitchen, leave it till again. Then he comes and sits fornent the boy, let down one of his ears, and c.o.c.ked up the other, and gave a grin. The poor fellow strove to roar out, but not a _dheeg_ (sound) ud come out of his throat. The last thing the pooka done was to rake up the fire and walk out, giving such a slap o'

the door, that the boy thought the house couldn't help tumbling down.

Well, to be sure, if there wasn't a hullabuloo next morning when the poor fellow told his story! They could talk of nothing else the whole day. One said one thing, another said another, but a fat, lazy scullery girl said the wittiest thing of all. "Musha," says she, "if the pooka does be cleaning up everything that way when we are asleep, what should we be slaving ourselves for doing his work?" "_Sha gu dheine_" (yes, indeed), says another, "them's the wisest words you ever said, Kauth; it's meeself won't contradict you."

So said, so done, not a bit of a plate or dish saw a drop of water that evening, and not a besom was laid on the floor, and everyone went to bed after sundown. Next morning everything was as fine as fine in the kitchen, and the Lord Mayor might eat his dinner off the flags. It was great ease to the lazy servants, you may depend, and everything went on well till a foolhardy gag of a boy said he would stay up one night and have a chat with the pooka. He was a little daunted when the door was thrown open and the a.s.s marched up to the fire.

"And then, sir," says he, at last, picking up courage, "if it isn't taking a liberty, might I ax you who you are, and why you are so kind as to do a half a day's work for the girls every night?" "No liberty at all," says the pooka, says he: "I'll tell you and welcome. I was a servant in the time of Squire H----'s father, and was the laziest rogue that was ever clothed and fed, and done nothing for it. When my time came for the other world, this is the punishment was laid on me to come here and do all this labour every night, and then go out in the cold. It isn't so bad in the fine weather; but if you only knew what it was to stand with your head between your legs, facing the storm from midnight to sunrise on a bleak winter night." "And could we do anything for your comfort, my poor fellow?" says the boy. "Musha, I don't know," says the pooka: "but I think a good quilted frieze coat would help me to keep the life in me them long nights." "Why, then, in truth, we'd be the ungratefullest of people if we didn't feel for you."

To make a long story short, the next night the boy was there again; and if he didn't delight the poor pooka, holding a fine, warm coat before him, it's no matther! Betune the pooka and the man, his legs was got into the four arms of it, and it was b.u.t.toned down the breast and belly, and he was so pleased he walked up to the gla.s.s to see how he looked. "Well," says he, "it's a long lane that has no turning. I am much obliged to you and your fellow servants. You have made me happy at last. Good night to you."

So he was walking out, but the other cried, "Och! sure you're going too soon. What about the washing and sweeping?" "Ah, you may tell the girls that they must now get their turn. My punishment was to last till I was thought worthy of a reward for the way I done my duty. You'll see me no more." And no more they did, and right sorry they were for having been in such a hurry to reward the ungrateful pooka.

The Piper and the Puca.

_From "An Sgeuluidhe Gaodhalach."_

BY DOUGLAS HYDE (1860--).

In the old times there was a half-fool living in Dunmore, in the County Galway, and though he was excessively fond of music, he was unable to learn more than one tune, and that was the "Black Rogue." He used to get a deal of money from the gentlemen, for they used to get sport out of him. One night the Piper was coming home from a house where there had been a dance, and he half-drunk. When he came up to a little bridge that was by his mother's house, he squeezed the pipes on, and began playing the "Black Rogue." The Puca came behind him, and flung him on his own back. There were long horns on the Puca, and the Piper got a good grip of them, and then he said:--

"Destruction on you, you nasty beast; let me home I have a tenpenny piece in my pocket for my mother, and she wants snuff."

"Never mind your mother," said the puca, "but keep your hold. If you fall you will break your neck and your pipes." Then the Puca said to him, "Play up for me the 'Shan Van Vocht.'"

"I don't know it," said the Piper.

"Never mind whether you do or you don't," said the Puca. "Play up, and I'll make you know."

The Piper put wind in his bag, and he played such music as made himself wonder.

"Upon my word, you're a fine music-master," says the Piper, then; "but tell me where you're bringing me."

"There's a great feast in the house of the Banshee, on the top of Croagh Patric to-night," says the Puca, "and I'm for bringing you there to play music, and, take my word, you'll get the price of your trouble."

"By my word, you'll save me a journey, then," says the Piper, "for Father William put a journey to Croagh Patric on me because I stole the white gander from him last Martinmas."

The Puca rushed him across hills and bog and rough places, till he brought him to the top of Croagh Patric.

Then the Puca struck three blows with his foot, and a great door opened, and they pa.s.sed in together into a fine room.

The Piper saw a golden table in the middle of the room, and hundreds of old women sitting round about it.

The old woman rose up and said, "A hundred thousand welcomes to you, you Puca of November. Who is this you have with you?"

"The best Piper in Ireland," says the Puca.

One of the old women struck a blow on the ground, and a door opened in the side of the wall, and what should the Piper see coming out but the white gander which he had stolen from Father William.

"By my conscience, then," says the Piper, "myself and my mother ate every taste of that gander, only one wing, and I gave that to Red Mary, and it's she told the priest I stole his gander."

The gander cleaned the table, and carried it away, and the Puca said, "Play up music for these ladies."

The Piper played up, and the old women began dancing, and they danced till they tired. Then the Puca said to pay the Piper, and every old woman drew out a gold piece and gave it to him.

"By the tooth of Patric," says he, "I'm as rich as the son of a lord."

"Come with me," says the Puca, "and I'll bring you home."

They went out then, and just as he was going to ride on the Puca, the gander came up to him and gave him a new set of pipes.

The Puca was not long until he brought him to Dunmore, and he threw the Piper off at the little bridge, and then he told him to go home, and says to him, "You have two things now that you never had before--you have sense and music." The Piper went home, and he knocked at his mother's door, saying, "Let me in, I'm as rich as a lord, and I'm the best Piper in Ireland."

"You're drunk," says the mother.

"No, indeed," says the Piper, "I haven't drunk a drop."

The mother let him in, and he gave her the gold pieces, and, "Wait, now," says he, "till you hear the music I play."

He buckled on the pipes, but instead of music there came a sound as if all the geese and ganders in Ireland were screeching together. He wakened all the neighbours, and they were all mocking him, until he put on the old pipes, and then he played melodious music for them; and after that he told them all he had gone through that night.

The next morning, when his mother went to look at the gold pieces, there was nothing there but the leaves of a plant.

The Piper went to the priest and told him his story, but the priest would not believe a word from him, until he put the pipes on him, and then the screeching of the ganders and the geese began.

"Leave my sight, you thief," says the priest.

But nothing would do the Piper till he put the old pipes on him to show the priest that his story was true.

He buckled on his old pipes, and played melodious music, and from that day till the day of his death there was never a Piper in the County Galway was as good as he was.