"I'd rather live with my mother."

"Foolish boy!" said the gentleman; "stop here and live in a palace."

"I'd rather live in my mother's cabin."

"Here you can walk through gardens loaded with fruit and flowers."

"I'd rather," said Shemus, "be cutting heath on the mountain."

"Here you can eat and drink of the best."

"Since I've got my cow, I can have milk once more with the praties."

"Oh!" cried the ladies, gathering round him, "sure you wouldn't take away the cow that gives us milk for our tea?"

"Oh!" said Shemus, "my mother wants milk as bad as anyone, and she must have it; so there is no use in your palaver--I must have my cow."

At this they all gathered about him and offered him bushels of gould, but he wouldn't have anything but his cow. Seeing him as obstinate as a mule, they began to thump and beat him; but still he held fast by the horns, till at length a great blast of wind blew him out of the place, and in a moment he found himself and the cow standing on the side of the lake, the water of which looked as if it hadn't been disturbed since Adam was a boy--and that's a long time since.

Well, Shemus-a-sneidh drove home his cow, and right glad his mother was to see her; but the moment she said "G.o.d bless the beast," she sunk down like the _breesha_[50] of a turf rick. That was the end of Shemus-a-sneidh's dun cow.

"And, sure," continued my companion, standing up, "it is now time for me to look after my brown cow, and G.o.d send the ganconers haven't taken her!"

Of this I a.s.sured him there could be no fear; and so we parted.

[Footnote 44: _Dublin and London Magazine, 1825._]

[Footnote 45: Ir. _gean-canach_--_i.e._, love-talker, a kind of fairy appearing in lonesome valleys, a dudeen (tobacco-pipe) in his mouth, making love to milk-maids, etc.]

[Footnote 46: A thousand murders.]

[Footnote 47: Ir. _cipin_--_i.e._, a stick, a twig.] [Footnote 48: Otherwise "gumshun--" _i.e._, sense, cuteness.]

[Footnote 49: Ir. _B'eidir sin_--_i.e._, "that is possible."]

[Footnote 50: Ir. _briscadh_--_i.e._, breaking.]

HY-BRASAIL--THE ISLE OF THE BLEST.

BY GERALD GRIFFIN.

On the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell, A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell; Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest, And they called it _Hy-Brasail_, the isle of the blest.

From year unto year on the ocean's blue rim, The beautiful spectre showed lovely and dim; The golden clouds curtained the deep where it lay, And it looked like an Eden, away, far away!

A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale, In the breeze of the Orient loosened his sail; From Ara, the holy, he turned to the west, For though Ara was holy, _Hy-Brasail_ was blest.

He heard not the voices that called from the sh.o.r.e-- He heard not the rising wind's menacing roar; Home, kindred, and safety, he left on that day, And he sped to _Hy-Brasail_, away, far away!

Morn rose on the deep, and that shadowy isle, O'er the faint rim of distance, reflected its smile; Noon burned on the wave, and that shadowy sh.o.r.e Seemed lovelily distant, and faint as before; Lone evening came down on the wanderer's track, And to Ara again he looked timidly back; Oh! far on the verge of the ocean it lay, Yet the isle of the blest was away, far away!

Rash dreamer, return! O, ye winds of the main, Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again.

Rash fool! for a vision of fanciful bliss, To barter thy calm life of labour and peace.

The warning of reason was spoken in vain; He never revisited Ara again!

Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and spray, And he died on the waters, away, far away!

THE PHANTOM ISLE.

GIRALDUS CAMBRENSIS.[51]

Among the other islands is one newly formed, which they call the Phantom Isle, which had its origin in this manner. One calm day a large ma.s.s of earth rose to the surface of the sea, where no land had ever been seen before, to the great amazement of islanders who observed it. Some of them said that it was a whale, or other immense sea-monster; others, remarking that it continued motionless, said, "No; it is land." In order, therefore, to reduce their doubts to certainty, some picked young men of the island determined to approach nearer the spot in a boat. When, however, they came so near to it that they thought they should go on sh.o.r.e, the island sank in the water and entirely vanished from sight. The next day it re-appeared, and again mocked the same youths with the like delusion. At length, on their rowing towards it on the third day, they followed the advice of an older man, and let fly an arrow, barbed with red-hot steel, against the island; and then landing, found it stationary and habitable.

This adds one to the many proofs that fire is the greatest of enemies to every sort of phantom; in so much that those who have seen apparitions, fall into a swoon as soon as they are sensible of the brightness of fire. For fire, both from its position and nature, is the n.o.blest of the elements, being a witness of the secrets of the heavens.

The sky is fiery; the planets are fiery; the bush burnt with fire, but was not consumed; the Holy Ghost sat upon the apostles in tongues of fire.

[Footnote 51: "Giraldus Cambrensis" was born in 1146, and wrote a celebrated account of Ireland.]

SAINTS, PRIESTS.

Everywhere in Ireland are the holy wells. People as they pray by them make little piles of stones, that will be counted at the last day and the prayers reckoned up. Sometimes they tell stories. These following are their stories. They deal with the old times, whereof King Alfred of Northumberland wrote--

"I found in Innisfail the fair, In Ireland, while in exile there, Women of worth, both grave and gay men, Many clericks and many laymen.

Gold and silver I found, and money, Plenty of wheat, and plenty of honey; I found G.o.d's people rich in pity, Found many a feast, and many a city."

There are no martyrs in the stories. That ancient chronicler Giraldus taunted the Archbishop of Cashel because no one in Ireland had received the crown of martyrdom. "Our people may be barbarous," the prelate answered, "but they have never lifted their hands against G.o.d's saints; but now that a people have come amongst us who know how to make them (it was just after the English invasion), we shall have martyrs plentifully."

The bodies of saints are fastidious things. At a place called Four-mile-Water, in Wexford, there is an old graveyard full of saints.

Once it was on the other side of the river, but they buried a rogue there, and the whole graveyard moved across in the night, leaving the rogue-corpse in solitude. It would have been easier to move merely the rogue-corpse, but they were saints, and had to do things in style.

THE PRIEST'S SOUL.[52]

LADY WILDE.