'Come here!' says he to the poor ould goose--'come here, you unfort'nate ould cripple,' says he, 'and it's I that'll make you the sportin' bird.'

"With that, my dear, he tuk up the goose by the two wings--'criss o' my cra.s.s an you,' says he, markin' her to grace with the blessed sign at the same minute--and throwin' her up in the air, 'whew!' says he, jist givin' her a blast to help her; and with that, my jewel, she tuk to her heels, flyin' like one o' the aigles themselves, and cuttin' as many capers as a swallow before a shower of rain. Away she wint down there, right forninst you, along the side o' the clift, and flew over Saint Kavin's bed (that is, where Saint Kavin's bed is _now_, but was not _thin_, by raison it wasn't made, but was conthrived afther by Saint Kavin himself, that the women might lave him alone), and on with her undher Lugduff, and round the ind av the lake there, far beyant where you see the watherfall--and on with her thin right over the lead mines o' Luganure (that is, where the lead mines is _now_, but was not _thin_, by raison they worn't discovered, _but was all goold in Saint Kavin's time_). Well, over the ind o' Luganure she flew, stout and studdy, and round the other ind av the _little_ lake, by the Churches (that is, _av coorse_, where the Churches is _now_, but was not _thin_, by raison they wor not built, but aftherwards by Saint Kavin), and over the big hill here over your head, where you see the big clift--(and that clift in the mountain was made by _Finn Ma Cool_, where he cut it acra.s.s with a big swoord that he got made a purpose by a blacksmith out o' Rathdrum, a cousin av his own, for to fight a joyant (giant) that darr'd him an' the Curragh o' Kildare; and he thried the swoord first an the mountain, and cut it down into a gap, as is plain to this day; and faith, sure enough, it's the same sauce he sarv'd the joyant, soon and suddint, and chopped him in two like a pratie, for the glory of his sowl and ould Ireland)--well, down she flew over the clift, and fluttherin' over the wood there at Poulana.s.s. Well--as I said--afther fluttherin' over the wood a little bit, to _plaze_ herself, the goose flew down, and bit at the fut o' the King, as fresh as a daisy, afther flyin' roun' his dominions, jist as if she hadn't flew three perch.

"Well, my dear, it was a beautiful sight to see the King standin' with his mouth open, lookin' at his poor ould goose flyin' as light as a lark, and betther nor ever she was; and when she lit at his fut he patted her an the head, and '_ma vourneen_,' says he, 'but you are the _darlint_ o' the world.'

"'And what do you say to me,' says Saint Kavin, 'for makin' her the like?'

"'By gor,' says the King, 'I say nothin' bates the art o' men, 'barrin'

the bees.'

"'And do you say no more nor that?' says Saint Kavin.

"'And that I'm behoulden to you,' says the King.

"'But will you gi' me all the ground the goose flewn over?' says Saint Kavin.

"'I will,' says King O'Toole, 'and you're welkim to it,' says he, 'though it's the last acre I have to give.'

"'But you'll keep your word thrue?' says the saint.

"'As thrue as the sun,' says the King.

"'It's well for you,' says Saint Kavin, mighty sharp--'it's well for you, King O'Toole, that you said that word,' says he; 'for if you didn't say that word, _the divil receave the bit o' your goose id iver fly agin_,' says Saint Kavin.

"'Oh, you needn't laugh,' said old Joe, 'for it's thruth I'm telling you.'

"Well, whin the King was as good as his word, Saint Kavin was _plazed_ with him, and thin it was that he made himself known to the King.

"Well, my dear, that's the way that the place kem, all at wanst, into the hands of Saint Kavin; for the goose flew round every individyial acre o' King O'Toole's property, you see, _bein' let into the saycret_ by Saint Kavin, who was mighty _cute_; and so, when he _done_ the ould King out iv his property for the glory of G.o.d, he was _plazed_ with him, and he and the King was the best o' friends iver more afther (for the poor ould King was _doatin'_, you see), and the King had his goose as good as new to divart him as long as he lived; and the saint supported him afther he kem into his property, as I tould you, until the day iv his death--and that was soon afther; for the poor goose thought he was ketchin' a throut one Friday; but, my jewel, it was a mistake he made--and instead of a throut, it was a thievin' horse-eel! and, by gor, instead iv the goose killin' a throut for the King's supper--by dad, the eel killed the King's goose--and small blame to him; but he didn't ate her, bekase he darn't ate what Saint Kavin laid his blessed hands on."

SAMUEL LOVER.

Lament of the Last Leprechaun

For the red shoon of the Shee, For the falling o' the leaf, For the wind among the reeds, My grief.

For the sorrow of the sea, For the song's unquickened seeds, For the sleeping of the Shee, My grief.

For dishonoured whitethorn-tree, For the runes that no man reads Where the grey stones face the sea, My grief.

Lissakeole, that used to be Filled with music night and noon, For their ancient revelry, My grief.

For the empty fairy shoon, Hollow rath and yellow leaf, Hands unkissed to sun or moon, My grief--my grief!

NORA HOPPER.

The Corpse Watchers

There was once a poor woman that had three daughters, and one day the eldest said, "Mother, bake my cake and kill my c.o.c.k till I go seek my fortune." So she did, and when all was ready, says her mother to her, "Which will you have--half of these with my blessing, or the whole with my curse?" "Curse or no curse," says she, "the whole is little enough."

So away she set, and if the mother didn't give her her curse, she didn't give her her blessing.

She walked, and she walked, till she was tired and hungry, and then she sat down to take her dinner. While she was eating it a poor woman came up, and asked for a bit. "The d.i.c.kens a bit you'll get from me," says she; "it's all too little for myself." And the poor woman walked away very sorrowful. At nightfall she got lodging at a farmer's, and the woman of the house told her that she'd give her a spadeful of gold and a shovelful of silver if she'd only sit up and watch her son's corpse that was waking in the next room. She said she'd do that, and so, when the family were in their bed, she sat by the fire, and cast an eye from time to time on the corpse that was lying under the table.

All at once the dead man got up in his shroud, and stood before her, and said, "All alone, fair maid?" She gave him no answer; when he had said it the third time he struck her with a switch, and she became a grey flag.

About a week after, the second daughter went to seek her fortune, and she didn't care for her mother's blessing no more _nor_ her sister, and the very same thing happened to her. She was left a grey flag by the side of the other.

At last the youngest went off in search of the other two, and she took care to carry her mother's blessing with her. She shared her dinner with the poor woman on the road, and _she_ told her that she would watch over her.

Well, she got lodging in the same place as the others, and agreed to mind the corpse. She sat up by the fire, with the dog and cat, and amused herself with some apples and nuts the mistress had given her. She thought it a pity that the man under the table was a corpse, he was so handsome.

But at last he got up, and, says he, "All alone, fair maid?" and she wasn't long about an answer:

All alone I am not, I've little dog Douse, and p.u.s.s.y, my cat; I've apples to roast and nuts to crack, And all alone I am not.

"Ho, ho!" says he, "you're a girl of courage, though you wouldn't have enough to follow me. I am now going to cross the quaking bog, and go through the burning forest. I must then enter the cave of terror and climb the hill of gla.s.s, and drop from the top of it into the Dead Sea."

"I'll follow you," says she, "for I engaged to mind you." He thought to prevent her, but she was stiff as he was stout.

Out he sprang through the window, and she followed him, till they came to the "Green Hills," and then says he:

"Open, open, Green Hills and let the light of the Green Hills through."

"Aye," says the girl, "and let the fair maid too."

They opened, and the man and woman pa.s.sed through, and there they were on the edge of a bog.

He trod lightly over the shaky bits of moss and sod; and while she was thinking of how she'd get across, the old beggar appeared to her, but much nicer dressed, touched her shoes with a stick, and the soles spread a foot on each side. So she easily got over the shaky marsh. The burning wood was at the edge of the bog, and there the good fairy flung a damp, thick cloak over her, and through the flames she went, and a hair of her head was not singed. Then they pa.s.sed through the dark cavern of horrors, when she'd have heard the most horrible yells, only that the fairy stopped her ears with wax. She saw frightful things, with blue vapours round them, and felt the sharp rocks and the slimy backs of frogs and snakes.

When they got out of the cavern, they were at the mountain of gla.s.s; and then the fairy made her slippers so sticky with a tap of her rod that she followed the young corpse quite easily to the top. There was the deep sea a quarter of a mile under them, and so the corpse said to her, "Go home to my mother, and tell her how far you came to do her bidding.

Farewell!" He sprung head-foremost down into the sea, and after him she plunged, without stopping a moment to think about it.

She was stupefied at first, but when they reached the waters she recovered her thoughts. After piercing down a great depth, they saw a green light towards the bottom. At last they were below the sea, that seemed a green sky above them; and, sitting in a beautiful meadow, she half-asleep, and her head resting against his side. She couldn't keep her eyes open, and she couldn't tell how long she slept; but when she woke, she was in bed at his house, and he and his mother sitting by her bedside, and watching her.

It was a witch that had a spite to the young man because he wouldn't marry her, and so she got power to keep him in a state between life and death till a young woman would rescue him by doing what she had done.

So, at her request, her sisters got their own shapes again, and were sent back to their mother, with their spades of gold and shovels of silver. Maybe they were better after that, but I doubt it much. The youngest got the young gentleman for her husband. I'm sure she lived happy, and, if they didn't live happy--_that we may_!

PATRICK KENNEDY.