Editor’s Note. This is Daniel Binchy’s classic translation of the Saga of Fergus. It is important for Irish fairy-lore because the sprites in §4 are actually lucorpans, probably the ancestor of the leprechaun. 

1. There were three chief races in Ireland: the Féni, the Ulaid, and the Gáilni or Laigin. Now there were three royal chiefs contending for the sovereignty of the Féni, viz. Conn Cétchathach [‘of the hundred battles’] and Conn Cétchorach [‘of the hundred treaties’?] and Eochu Bélbuide [‘of the yellow lips’] son of Tuathal Techtmar. Eochu went into exile to Fergus mac Léti king of the Ulaid in quest of support and allies, having inflicted many injuries on Conn before going. For a long time thereafter he remained with Fergus. Eventually Eochu Bélbuide came to his own tribe to offer them terms of peace, but was slain by Asal son of Conn Cétchathach and the four sons of Buide mac Ainmirech —viz. Eochu Oiresach, Énda Aigenbras [‘broadmouthed’?], Ailill Antuarad [‘ill-omened’?] and Tipraite Traiglethan [‘broadfooted’]— and a son whom Dorn the daughter of Buide had borne to an outlander.

2. Of this was sung: ‘An aggressor against us (?) is the son of (?) Dorn …… I doom him to death for it if he can be secured …; or let his mother sustain [responsibility for] his misdeeds. Help (?) shall not support her nor shall her kin-land protect her …… let her advance into bondage and servitude for the whole course of her life. Or I decide her case [thus]: that she (?) be left in thy hand [to be sent adrift] as far as three muirchrecha out to sea, for it is against thee she (?) has offended.’

3. And Fergus’s protection was violated by the slaying of him and his followers. Fergus came with armies to avenge the violation. Eventually his own terms were given to him, and there were paid to him thrice seven cumals, viz. seven cumals of gold and silver, and land worth seven cumals, the land of Conn Cétchorach — Níth was the name of this land on account of the numerous contests (nítha) and dissensions that arose about it subsequently — and a human cumal [bondwoman] to serve him, to wit Dorn daughter of Buide, a sister of Buide’s sons who had violated his [Fergus’s] protection, but it was as pledge for the surrender of a captive that she was given — or it may be that seven cumals had to be pledged for every hand that had slain him [Eochu] — so that it is from this that the penalty for breach of a king’s protection has been fixed at a captive for every five persons concerned; and Conn gave the land in atonement for the liability of his son [Asal], etc.

4. In consideration of this mulct Fergus concluded full peace and went to his own land, bringing with him his bondmaid into servitude. When he had reached his domain he went on to the sea accompanied by his charioteer, whose name was Muena. There they fell asleep on the sea coast. Sprites came to the king and bore him out of his chariot, having first deprived him of his sword. They then carried him as far as the sea, and when his feet touched the sea he became aware of it. At this point he awoke and caught hold of three of them, one in each hand and one on his breasts. ‘Life for life!’ [said the chief dwarf]. ‘Let my three wishes be granted to me’ said Fergus. ‘Thou shalt have anything that is not beyond our power’, said the dwarf. So Fergus chose to ask from him a charm for passing under seas and pools and lakes. ‘Thou shalt have it,’ said the dwarf, ‘save one that I bar to thee: thou shalt not go under Loch Rudraige which is in thy own territory.’ Then the sprites gave him herbs [to put] in his ears, and he used to travel about with them underseas.

[Dogeni fergus ogcoru tarsa nericso & luid doa tir & bir[t] a cumail lais i foghnum. IN tan ronainic fergus a methus luid docum mara sechis & a ara muena a ainm. contuilsit and for bru in mara. dolota(ta)r lucorpain dond rig conidmbert[at]ar asa carpat & bertatar a claidem nuad i tosach. runucsat iarum co rainic a muir(e) conidforcualae o rancatar a cosa a muir. dofiuchtradar la sodain & argab triar dib fer cechtar a da la(i)m & araile for bruinnib. ‘anmain i nanmain’ .i. anacal. ‘tartar mu tri drindro(i)sc’ .i. roga ol fergus. ‘rodbia’ ol int abac ‘acht ni bes ecmacht dun’. atgege fergus fair didiu eolas fobarta fo muirib & lindaib & lochaib. ‘rotbia’ ar int abacc ‘acht aen ar[a]cuillimm airiut loch rudrige fil ad crich ni dechais fai’. Dobertatar didiu in lucuirp luibe dosom ina cluasa(ib) & imtiged leo fo muirib.]

5. Some say that the dwarf gave him his cloak and Fergus used to wind (?) it about his head, and in this way used to pass under seas and water. This was the dwarf who sucked his, Fergus’s breasts and caught hold of his cheek as a token of [asking] quarter from him. ‘Why dost thou do that?’ said Fergus. ‘That,’ said the dwarf, ‘is [one of the rules of] fair combat with us.’ Hence comes today [the custom of] taking hold of men’s breasts and cheeks for the purpose of seeking quarter and making appeal (?) to their honour, etc. (Some say that Ogma, Fergus’s servant, went with him when he had parted from his hound, etc.)

6. One day Fergus essayed to pass under Loch Rudraige, leaving his charioteer and his chariot on the brink of the loch. When he dived under the lake he saw there a muirdris, a fearful water-monster which kept alternately inflating and contracting itself like a smith’s bellows. At the sight of it his mouth was wrenched back as far as his occiput, and he came out on land in terror. He said to his charioteer: ‘How do I appear to thee?’ ‘Ill is thy aspect’, said the charioteer, ‘but it will be nothing more (?); sleep will take it from thee.’ Thereupon the charioteer laid him down and he fell asleep.

7. While he slept the charioteer went in the meantime to the wise men of Ulster who were [assembled] in Emain Macha and told them of the king’s adventures and his present condition. He inquired of them what king they would take in his stead, since it would not be proper to have a blemished king in E. M. The decision of the wise men of Ulster was that the king should come to his house, and that beforehand a clearance should be made of all the base folk so that there should be neither fool nor half-wit therein lest these should cast his blemish in the king’s face; and further that he should always have his head washed while lying on his back so that he might not see his shadow in the water. For seven years he was diligently guarded [in this manner].

8. One day he told his bondmaid to wash his head. Thinking that the woman was too slow in carrying out this, he gave her a blow with his whip. Resentment overcame her and she taunted him to his face with his blemish. He gave her a blow with his sword and cut her in two. Thereupon he turned away and went under Loch Rudraige; for a whole day and night the loch seethed from [the contest between] him and the muirdris, and the surge of its waves kept coming on to the land. Eventually he emerged on the surface of the loch, holding the head of the monster, so that the Ulaid saw him, and he said to them: ‘I am the survivor.’ Thereupon he sank down dead, and for a whole month the loch remained red from [the battle between] them.

9. Of this was sung:

King Fergus, son of Léte
Went on the sandbank of Rudraige;
A horror which appeared to him — fierce was the conflict —
Was the cause of his disfigurement.

‘Now tell me, Molly’ said Mr. Coote to Molly Cogan, as he met her on the road one day, close to one of the old gateways of Kilmalloek, ‘did you ever hear of the Cluricaune?’

‘Is it the Cluricaune? Why, then, sure I did, often and often; many’s the time I heard my father, rest his soul! tell about ’em.’

‘But did you ever see one, Molly, yourself?’

‘Och! no, I never see one in my life; but my grandfather, that’s my father’s father, you know, he see one, one time, and caught him too.’

‘Caught him! Oh! Molly, tell me how?’

‘Why, then, I’ll tell you. My grandfather, you see, was out there above in the bog, drawing home turf, and the poor old mare was tired after her day’s work, and the old man went out to the stable to look after her, and to see if she was eating her hay; and when he came to the stable door there, my dear, he heard something hammering, hammering, hammering, just for all the world like a shoemaker making a shoe, and whistling all the time the prettiest tune he ever heard in his whole life before. Well, my grandfather, he thought it was the Cluricaune, and he said to himself, says he, ‘I’ll catch you, if I can, and then, I’ll have money enough always.’ So he opened the door very quietly, and didn’t make a bit of noise in the world that ever was heard; and looked all about, but the never a bit of the little man he could see anywhere, but he heard him hammering and whistling, and so he looked and looked, till at last he see the little fellow; and where was he, do you think, but in the girth under the mare; and there he was with his little bit of an apron on him, and hammer in his hand, and a little red nightcap on his head, and he making a shoe; and he was so busy with his work, and he was hammering and whistling so loud, that he never minded my grandfather till he caught him fast in his hand. ‘Faith I have you now,’ says he, ‘and I’ll never let you go till I get your purse — that’s what I won’t; so give it here to me at once, now.’ ‘Stop, stop,’ says the Cluricaune, ‘stop, stop,’ says he, ‘till I get it for you.’ So my grandfather, like a fool, you see, opened his hand a little, and the little fellow jumped away laughing, and he never saw him any more, and the never the bit of the purse did he get,only the Cluricaune left his little shoe that he was making; and my grandfather was mad enough angry with himself for letting him go; but he had the shoe all his life, and my own mother told me she often see it, and had it in her hand, and ’twas the prettiest little shoe she ever saw (Crofton Croker).’

‘And did you see it yourself, Molly?’

‘Oh! no, my dear, it was lost long afore I was born; but my mother told me about it often and often enough.’

When a farm servant was once lying in hiding near the Ynys Geinon Rock, waiting for some perverse rabbits to enter his net, he saw a little man going up to that great mass of stone. On his uttering a curious little word, a door opened in the face of the rock: he went in, and the door closed behind him.

Dai (every other man in South Wales has this pretty name) thought he would see what would happen if he uttered the same little word as the little man had used. He tried the experiment: the door opened for him also, and he went into the rock. But he could not shut the stone door behind him, and when he saw that it weighed at least three or four tons, he did not want to do so. At this juncture a little man came running towards Dai shouting, ‘Shut the door, shut the door, the candles are guttering with the draught.’ With that he uttered another curious little word, and the door shut of its own accord. Then he noticed the intruder and called his companions. They made great sport of Dai, but as he was ruddy and of a fair complexion they treated him kindly.

He found that there were underground passages running in all directions: they could get to the Cave of Tan yr Ogof, near Craig y Nos Castle, the Caves of Ystrad Fellte, the Garn Goch, and other places by them. He learned, too, much about their habits: these fairies were dreadful thieves, always stealing milk and butter and cheese from farm-dairies.

After he had been, with them for about two years they let him go, and gave him a hatful of guineas to take with him, for they had great stores of gold. He told his master all about his experiences when he returned, but it would have been better if he had kept his knowledge to himself. His master thought it was a great pity that so much gold should lie idle, and opening the stone door by means of the password which Dai had learned, he brought from the cave enough guineas, half-guineas and seven-and-sixpenny pieces to fill his salt chest. But he became too greedy; and when he went, to the cave to fetch still more money, the fairies caught him, and he never returned. When Dai went to look for him, he found his four quarters hanging behind the stone door: he was so frightened that he never again ventured to use the password, nor would he reveal it to anyone, so that this very useful bit of information has perished, which is a very great pity (Thomas 1907 159-160).

Long, long have I wandered in search of my love,

O’er moorland and mountain, through greenwood and grove.

From the banks of the Maig unto Finglas’s flood

I have ne’er seen the peer of this Child of the Wood.

One bright Summer evening alone on my path,

My steps led me on to the Dark Fairy Rath;

And, seated anear it, my Fair One I found,

With her long golden locks trailing down on the ground.

When I met her, though bashfulness held me in check,

I put my arm gently around her white neck;

But she said, ‘Touch me not, and approach me not near;

I belong to this Rath, and the Fairy Host here.’

‘Ah!’ I spake, ‘you are burdened with sorrow and care;

But whence do you come? From Clar Luirc or elsewhere?

Are you Blanaid the blooming, the queenly, yet coy,

Or the dame brought by Paris aforetime to Troy?’

‘I’m neither’ she said, ‘but a meek Irish maid,

Who years ago dwelt in yon green-hillocked glade,

And shone all alone, like a lamp in a dome.

Come! take off your arms! I’ll be late for my home!’

‘O, Pearl of my soul, I feel sad and forlorn

To see your bright cheeks fairy-stricken and worn.

From your kindred and friends far away were you borne

To the Hill of Cnoc-Greine, to languish and mourn

And I said to myself, as I thought on her charms,

‘O, how fondly I’d lock this young lass in my arms!

How I’d love her deep eyes, full of radiance and mirth,

Like new-risen stars that shine down upon earth!’

Then I twined round her waist my two arms as a zone,

And I fondly embraced her to make her my own;

But, when I glanced up, behold ! nought could I see.

She had fled from my sight as the bird from the tree! (George Roberts 1884)

Mrs. L. having heard that Molly Toole, an old woman who held a few acres of land from Mr. L., had seen Leprechauns, resolved to visit her, and learn the truth from her own lips. Accordingly, one Sunday, after church, she made her appearance at Molly’s residence, which was – no very common thing – extremely neat and comfortable. As she entered, every thing looked gay and cheerful. The sun shone bright in through the door on the earthen floor. Molly was seated at the far side of the fire in her arm-chair; her daughter Mary, the prettiest girl on the lands, was looking to the dinner that was boiling; and her son Mickey, a young man of about two-and-twenty, was standing lolling with his back against the dresser.

The arrival of the mistress disturbed the stillness that had hitherto prevailed. Mary, who was a great favourite, hastened to the door to meet her, and shake hands with her. Molly herself had nearly got to the middle of the floor when the mistress met her, and Mickey modestly staid where he was till he should catch her attention. ‘O then, musha! but isn’t it a glad sight for my ould eyes to see your own silf undher my roof? Mary, what ails you, girl? and why don’t you go into the room and fetch out a good chair for the misthress to sit down upon and rest herself?’ ‘Deed faith, mother, I ‘m so glad I don’t know what I ‘m doin’. Sure you know I didn’t see the misthress since she cum down afore.’

Mickey now caught Mrs. L.’s eye, and she asked him how he did. ‘By Gorra, bravely, ma’am, thank you,’ said be, giving himself a wriggle, while his two hands and the small of his back rested on the edge of the dresser.

‘Now, Mary, stir yourself alanna,’ said the old woman, ‘and get out the bread and butther. Sure you know the misthress can’t but be hungry afther her walk.’

‘ O, never mind it, Molly; it’s too much trouble.’

‘ Throuble, indeed! It’s as nice butther, ma’am, as iver you put a tooth in; and it was Mary herself that med it.’

‘O, then I must taste it.’

A nice half griddle of whole-meal bread and a print of fresh butter were now produced, and Molly helped the mistress with her own hands. As she was eating, Mary kept looking in her face, and at last said, ‘Ah then, mother, doesn’t the misthress luk mighty well? Upon my faikins, ma’am, I never seen you luking half so handsome.’

‘Well! and why wouldn’t she luk well? And niver will she luk betther nor be betther nor I wish her.’

‘ Well, Molly, I think I may return the compliment, for Mary is prettier than ever; and as for yourself, I really believe it’s young again you’re growing.’

‘Why, God be thanked, ma’am, I’m stout and hearty; and though I say it mysilf, there ‘a not an ould woman in the county can stir about betther nor me, and I ‘m up ivery mornin’ at the peep of day, and rout them all up out of their beds. Don’t I?’ said she, looking at Mary.

‘Faith, and sure you do, mother,’ replied Mickey; ‘and before the peep of day, too; for you have no marcy in you at all at all.’

‘Ah, in my young days,’ continued the old woman, ‘people woren’t slugabeds; out airly, home late–that was the way wid thim.’

‘And usedn’t people to see Leprechauns in thim days, mother?’ said Mickey, laughing.

‘Hould your tongue, you saucy cub, you,’ cried Molly; ‘what do you know about thim?’

‘Leprechauns?’ said Mrs. L., gladly catching at the opportunity; ‘did people really, Molly, see Leprechauns in your young days?’

‘Yes, indeed, ma’am; some people say they did,’ replied Molly, very composedly.

‘O com’ now, mother,’ cried Mickey, ‘don’t think to be goin’ it upon us that away; you know you seen thim one time yoursilf, and you hadn’t the gumption in you to cotch thim, and git their crocks of gould from thim.’

‘Now, Molly, is that really true that you saw the Leprechauns?’

‘Deed, and did I, ma’am; but this boy ‘s always laughin’ at me about thim, and that makes me rather shy in talkin’ o’ thim.’

‘Well, Molly, I won’t laugh at you; so, come, tell me how you saw them.’

‘Well, ma’am, you see it was whin I was jist about the age of Mary, there. I was comin’ home late one Monday evenin’ from the market; for my aunt Kitty, God be marciful to her! would keep me to take a cup of tay. It was in the summer time, you see, ma’am, much about the middle of Tune, an’ it was through the fields I come. Well, ma’am, as I was sayin’, it was late in the evenin’, that is, the sun was near goin’ down, an’ the light was straight in my eyes, an’ I come along through the bog-meadow; for it was shortly afther I was married to him that ‘a gone, an’ we wor livin’ in this very house you’re in now; an’ thin whin I come to the castle-field–the pathway you know, ma’am, goes right through the middle uv it–an’ it was thin as fine a field of whate, jist shot out, as you’d wish to luk at; an’ it was a purty sight to see it wavin’ so beautifully wid every air of wind that was goin’ over it, dancin’ like to the music of a thrash, that was singin’ down below in the hidge.[1] Well, ma’am, I crasst over the style that ‘a there yit, and wint along fair and aisy, till I was near about the middle o’ the field, whin somethin’ med me cast my. eyes to the ground, a little before me; an’ thin I saw, as sure as I ‘m sittin’ here, no less nor three o’ the Leprechauns, all bundled together like so miny tailyors, in the middle o’ the path before me. They worn’t hammerin’ their pumps, nor makin’ any kind, of n’ise whatever; but there they wor, the three little fellows, wid their cocked hats upon thim, an’ their legs gothered up undher thim, workin’ away at their thrade as hard as may be. If you wor only to see, ma’am, how fast their little ilbows wint as they pulled out their inds! Well, every one o’ thim had his eye cocked upon me, an’ their eyes wor as bright as the eye of a frog, an’ I cudn’t stir one step from the spot for the life o’ me.. So I turned my head round, and prayed to the Lord in his marcy to deliver me from thim, and when I wint to luk at thim agin, ma’am, not a sight o’ thim was to be seen: they wor gone like a dhrame.’

‘But, Molly, why did you not catch them?’

‘I was afeard, ma’am, that ‘a the thruth uv it; but maybe I was as well widout thim. I niver h’ard tell of a Leprechaun yit that wasn’t too many for any one that cotch him.’

‘Well, and Molly, do you think there are any Leprechauns now?’

‘It’s my belief, ma’am, they’re all gone out of the country, diver and dane, along wid the Fairies; for I niver hear tell o’ thim now at all.’

Mrs. L. having now attained her object, after a little more talk with the good old woman, took her leave, attended by Mary, who would see her a piece of the way home. And Mary being asked what she thought of the Leprechauns, confessed her inability to give a decided opinion: her mother, she knew, was incapable of telling a lie, and yet she had her doubts if there ever were such things as Leprechauns (Keightley 1891, 379-382).

[1] Keightley’s writes: In our Tales and Popular Fictions, p. 16, we noticed the coincidence between this and a passage in an Arabic author. We did not then recollect the. following verses of Milton,

The willows and the hazle copses green
Shall now no more be seen
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.
Lycidas, 42.

The simile of the moon among the stars in the same place, we have since found in the Nibelungen Lied (st. 285), and in some of our old poets, and Hammer says (Schirin i. note 7), that it occurs even to satiety in Oriental poetry. In like manner Camoens’ simile of the mirror, mentioned in the same place, occurs in Poliziano’s Stanze i. 64.

There’s a sort a’ people that every body must have met wid sumtime or another. I mane thim people that purtinds not to b’lieve in things that in their hearts they do b’lieve in, an’ are mortially afeard o’ too. Now Failey [1] Mooney was one o’ these. Failey (iv any o’ yez knew him) was a rollockin’, rattlin’, divil-may-care sort ov a chap like – but that ’a neither here nor there; he was always talkin’ one nonsinse or another; an’ among the rest o’ his fooleries, he purtinded not to b’lieve in the fairies, the Leprechauns, an’ the Poocas, an’ he evin sumtimes had the impedince to purtind to doubt o’ ghosts, that every body b’lieves in, at any rate. Yit sum people used to wink an’ luk knowin’ whin Failey was gostherin’, fur it was obsarved that he was mighty shy o’ crassin’ the foord a’ Ahnamoe afther nightfall; an’ that whin onst he was ridin’ past the ould church o’ Tipper in the dark, tho’ he’d got enough o’ pottheen into him to make any man stout, he med the horse trot so that there was no keepin’ up wid him, an’ iv’ry now an’ thin he’d throw a sharp luk-out ovir his lift shouldher.

Well, one night there was a parcel o’ the neighbours sittin’ dhrinkin’ an’ talkin’ at Larry Rielly’s public-house, an’ Failey was one o’ the party. He was, as usual, gittin’ an wid his nonsinse an’ baldherdash about the fairies, an’ swearin’ that he didn’t b’lieve there was any live things, barrin’ min an’ bastes, an’ birds and fishes, an’ sich like things as a body cud see, and he wint on talkin’ in so profane a way o’ the good people, that som o’ the company grew timid an’ begun to crass thimsilves, not knowin’ what might happin’, whin an ould woman called Mary Hogan wid a long blue cloak about her, that was sittin’ in the chimbly corner smokin’ her pipe widout takin’ the laste share in the conversations tuk the pipe out o’ her mouth, an’ threw the ashes out o’ it, an’ spit in the fire, an’ turnin’ round, luked Failey straight in the face. ‘An’ so you don’t b’lieve there’s sich things as Leprechauns, don’t ye?’ sed she.

Well, Failey luked rayther daunted, but howsumdivir he sed nothin’. ‘Why, thin, upon my throth, an’ it well becomes the likes a’ ye, an’ that’s nothin’ but a bit uv a gossoon, to take upon yer to purtind not to b’lieve what yer father, an’ yer father’s father, an’ his father dare him, nivir med the laste doubt uv. But to make the matther short, seein’ ’s b’lievin’ they say, an’ I, that might be yer gran’mother, tell ye there is sich things as Leprechauns, an’ what ’a more, that I mysilf sedn one o’ thim, – there ’a fur ye, now!’

All the people in the room luked quite surprised at this, an’ crowded up to the fireplace to listen to her. Failey thried to laugh, but it wouldn’t do, nobody minded him.

‘I remimber,’ sed she, ‘some time afther I married the honest man, that’s now dead and gone, it was by the same token jist a little afore I lay in o’ my first child (an’ that ’a many a long day ago), I was sittin’, as I sed, out in our little bit a’ a gardin, wid my knittin’ in my hand, watchin’ sum bees we had that war goin’ to swarm. It was a fine sunshiny day about the middle o’ June, an’ the bees war hummin’ and flyin’ backwards an’ forwards frum the hives, an’ the birds war chirpin’ an’ hoppin’ an the bushes, an’ the buttherflies war flyin’ about an’ sittin’ an the flowers, an’ ev’ry thing smelt so fresh an’ so sweet, an’ I felt so happy, that I hardly knew whare I was. Well, all uv a suddint, I heard among sum rows of banes we had in a corner o’ the gardin, a n’ise that wint tick tack tick tack, jist fur all the world as iv a brogue-maker was puttin’ an the heel uv a pump. ‘The Lord presarve us,’ sed I to mysilf, ‘what in the world can that be?’ So I laid down my knittin’, an’ got up, an’ stole ovir to the banes, an’ nivir believe me iv I didn’t see, sittin’ right forenint me, in the very middle of thim, a bit of an ould man, not a quarther so big as a newborn child, wid a little’ cocked hat an his head, an’ a dudeen in his mouth, smokin’ away; an’ a plain, ould-fashioned, dhrab-coloured coat, wid big brass buttons upon it, an his back, an’ a pair o’ massy silver buckles in his shoes, that a’most covered his feet they war so big, an’ be workin’ away as hard as ivir he could, heelin’ a little pair o’ pumps. The instant minnit I clapt my two eyes upon him I knew him to be a Leprechaun, an’ as I was stout an’ foolhardy, sez I to him ‘God save ye honist man! That’s hard work ye’re at this hot day.’ He luked up in my face quite vexed like; so wid that I med a run at him an’ cotch hould o’ him in my hand, an’ axed him whare was his purse o’ money! ‘Money?’ sed he, ‘money annagh! An’ whare on airth id a poor little ould crathur like myself git money?’ ‘Come, come,’ sed I, ‘none o’ yer thricks upon thravellers; doesn’t every body know that Leprechauns, like ye, are all as rich as the divil himsilf.’ So I pulled out a knife I’d in my pocket, an’ put on as wicked a face as ivir I could (an’ in throth, that was no aisy matther fur me thin, fur I was as comely an’ good-humoured a lukin’ girl as you’d see frum this to Ballitore) – an’ swore by this and by that, if he didn’t instantly gi’ me his purse, or show me a pot o’ goold, I’d cut the nose aft his face. Well, to be shure, the little man did luk so frightened at hearin’ these words, that I a’most found it in my heart to pity the poor little crathur. ‘Thin,’ sed he, ‘come wid me jist a couple o’ fields aft, an’ I’ll show ye whare I keep my money.’ So I wint, still houldin’ him fast in my hand, an’ keepin’ my eyes fixed upon him, whin all o’ a suddint I h’ard a whiz-z behind me. ‘There! there!’ cries he, ‘there’s yer bees all swarmin’ an’ goin’ aff wid thimsilves like blazes.’ I, like a fool as I was, turned my head round, an’ whin I seen nothin’ at all, an’ luked back at the Leprechaun, an’ found nothin’ at all at all in my hand – fur whin l had the ill luck to take my eyes aff him, ye see, he slipped out o’ my fingers jist as iv he was med o’ fog or smoke, an’ the sarra the fut he iver, come nigh my garden again (Keightley 1891, 376-378).’

[1] Keightley writes: i. e. Felix. On account of the Romish custom of naming after Saints, Felix, Thaddaeus, Terence, Augustine, etc., are common names among the peasantry.

Oliver Tom Fwich- (i.e. Fitz)pathrick, as people used to call him, was the eldest son o’ a comfortable farmer, who lived nigh hand to Morristown-Lattin, not far from the Liftey. Tom. was jist turned o’ nine-an’-twinty, whin he met wid the follyin’ advinthur, an’ he was as cliver, clane, tight, good-lukin’ a boy as any in the whole county Kildare. One fine day in harvist (it was a holiday) Tom was takin’ a ramble by himsilf thro’ the land, an’ wint sauntherin’ along the sunny side uv a hidge, an’ thinkin’ in himsilf, whare id be the grate harm if people, instid uv idlin’ an’ goin’ about doin’ nothin’ at all, war to shake out the hay, an’ bind and stook th’ oats that was lyin’ an the ledge, ’specially as the weather was raither brokm uv late, whin all uv a suddint he h’ard a clackin’ sort o’ n’ise jist a little way fornint him, in the hidge. ‘Dear me,’ said Tom, ‘but isn’t it now raaly suiprisin’ to hear the stonechatters singin’ so late in the saison.’ So Tom stole an, goin’ on the tips o’ his toes to thry iv he cud git a sight o’ what was makin’ the n’ise, to see iv he was right in his guess. The n’ise stopt; but as Tom hiked sharp thro’ the bushes, what did he see in a neuk o’ the hidge but a brown pitcher that might hould about a gallon an’ a haff o’ liquor; an’ bye and bye he seen a little wee deeny dawny bit iv an ould man, wid a little motty iv a cocked hat stuck an the top iv his head, an’ a deeshy daushy leather apron hangin’ down afore him, an’ he pulled out a little wooden stool, an’ stud up upon it, and dipped a little piggen into the pitcher, an’ tuk out the full av it, an’ put it beside the stool, an’ thin sot down undher the pitcher, an’ begun to work at put’ a heelpiece an a bit iv a brogue jist fittin’ fur himself.

‘Well, by the powers!’ said Tom to himsilf, ‘I aften hard tell o’ the Leprechauns, an’, to tell God’s thruth, I nivir rightly believed in thim, but here ’a won o’ thim in right airnest; if I go knowin’ly to work, I’m a med man. They say a body must nivir take their eyes aff o’ thim, or they’ll escape.’

Tom now stole an a little farther, wid his eye fixed an the little man jist as a cat does wid a mouse, or, as we read in books, the rattlesnake does wid the birds he wants to inchant. So, whin he got up quite close to him, ‘God bless your work, honest man,’ sez Tom. The little man raised up his head, an’ ‘Thank you kindly,’ sez he. ‘I wundher you ’d be workin’ an the holiday,’ sez Tom. ‘That’s my own business, an’ none of your’s,’ was the reply, short enough. ‘Well, may be, thin, you’d be civil enough to tell us, what you ’ye got in the pitcher there,’ sez Tom. ‘Aye, will I, wid pleasure,’ sez he: ‘it’s good beer.’ ‘Beer!’ sez Tom: ‘Blud an’ turf man, whare did ye git it?’ ‘Whare did l git it is it? why l med it to be shure; an’ what do ye think I med it av?’ ‘Divil a one o’ me knows,’ sea Tom, ‘but av malt, I ’spose; what ilse?’ ‘Tis there you ’re out; I med it av haith.’ ‘Av haith!’ sez Tom, burstin’ out laughin’. ‘Shure you don’t take me to be sich an omedhaun as to b’lieve that?’ ‘Do as ye plase,’ sez he, ‘but what I tell ye is the raal thruth. Did ye nivir hear tell o’ the Danes?’ ‘To be shure I did,’ sea Tom, ‘warn’t thim the chaps we gev such a lickin’ whin they thought to take Derry frum huz?’ ‘Hem,’ sez the little man dhryly, ‘is that all ye know about the matther?’ ‘Well, but about thim Danes,’ sea Tom. ‘Why all th’ about thim is,’ said he, ‘is that whin they war here they taught huz to make beer out o’ the haith, an’ the saicret ’s in my family ivir sense.’ ‘Will ye giv a body a taste o’ yer beer to thry?’ sez Tom. ‘I’ll tell ye what it is, young man, it id be fitther fur ye to be lukin’ afther yer father’s propirty thi’n to be botherin’ dacint, quite people wid yer foolish questions. There, now, while you ’re idlin’ away yer time here, there ’s the cows hay’ bruk into th’ oats, an’ are knockin’ the corn all about.’

Tom was taken so by surprise wid this, that he was jist an the very point o’ turnin’ round, whin he recollicted himsilf. So, afeard that the like might happin agin, he med a grab at the Leprechaun, an’ cotch him up in his hand, but in his hurry he ovirset the pitcher, and spilt all the beer, so that he couldn’t git a taste uv it to tell what sort it was. He thin swore what he wouldn’t do to him iv he didn’t show him whare his money was. Tom luked so wicked, an’ so bloody-minded, that the little man was quite frightened. ‘So,’ sez he, ‘come along wid me a couple o’ fields aff an’ I’ll show ye a crock o’ gould.’ So they wint, an’ Tom held the Leprechaun fast in his hand, an’ nivir tuk his eyes frum aff uv him, though they had to crass hidges an’ ditches, an’ a cruked bit uv a bog (fur the Leprechaun seemed, out o’ pure mischief, to pick out the hardest and most conthrairy way), till at last they come to a grate field all full o’ balyawn buies, [1] an’ the Leprechaun pointed to a big bolyawn, an’ sez he, ‘Dig undher that bolyawn, an’ you’II git a crock chuck full o’ goulden guineas.’

Tom, in his hurry, had nivir minded the bringin’ a fack [2] wid him, so he thought to run home and fetch one, an’ that he might know the place agin, he tuk aff one o’ his red garthers, and tied it round the bolyawn. ‘I s’pose,’ sez the Leprechaun, very civilly, ‘ye’ve no further occashin fur me?’ ‘No,’ sez Tom, ‘ye may go away now, if ye like, and God speed ye, an’ may good luck attind ye whareivir ye go.’ ‘Well, good bye to ye, Tom Fwichpathrick,’ sed the Leprechaun, ‘an’ much good may do ye wid what ye’II git.’

So Tom run fur the bare life, till he come home, an’ got a fack, an’ thin away wid him as hard as he could pilt back to the field o’ bolyawns; but whin he got there, lo an’ behould, not a bolyawn in the field, but had a red garther, the very idintical model o’ his own, tied about it; an’ as to diggin’ up the whole field, that was all nonsinse, fur there was more nor twinty good Irish acres in it. So Tom come home agin wid his fack an his shouldher, a little cooler nor he wint; and many’s the hearty curse he gev the Leprechaun ivry time he thought o’ the nate turn he sarved him (Keightley 1891, 373-375). [3]

[1] Keightley writes: Lit. Yellow-stick, the ragwort or ragweed, which grows to a great size in Ireland.

[2] Keightley writes: A kind of spade with but one step, used in Leinster.

[3] Keightley writes: All that is said in this legend about the beer is a pure fiction, for we never heard of a Leprechaun drinking or smoking. It is, however, a tradition of the peasantry, that the Danes used to make beer of the heath. It was a Protestant farmer in the county of Cavan, that showed such knowledge of the siege of Derry; the Catholic gardener who told us this story, knew far better. It is also the popular belief that the Danes keep up their claim on Ireland, and that a Danish father, when marrying his daughter, gives her a portion in Ireland.

Editor’s Note: The earliest reference we’ve found to this poem appears in 2001. Readers will note that the diction sounds more American than British… But perhaps we have a WW2 piece here?

Say, you’ve gotta beware when you’re up in the air

And sailing serenely along.

‘Cos I often appear with a horrible leer

And make you do everything wrong.

I run up the wing, you can hear a sharp ‘ting’

As I pull at the wires in the plane,

Then I sit on the prop and the kite starts to drop,

It drives all the pilots insane.

When you’re trying to think, with a devilish wink

I proceed to bit lumps off the rudder.

You go down in a spin and I laugh and I grin,

It’s enough to make anyone shudder.

So you’ve gotta beware when you’re up in the air,

You might see me appear on the spanner.

I’m a wicked old ____; I know it as well

I’m a Gremlin, a ___ old sinner! (Stern ‘Puget Sound’ 151)

Editor’s Note: This is part of a short story ‘the Snow Cradle’ by Mather. Note that readers of a nervous disposition might want to know that the story finishes well. The little boy is found.

Everybody in Rehoboth knew little Billy o’ Oliver’s o’ Deaf Martha’s. He was a smart lad of eight years, with a vivid imagination and an active brain. His childish idealism, however, found little food in the squalid cottage in which he dragged out his semi-civilized existence; but among the hills he was at home, and there he roamed, to find in their fastnesses a region of romance, and in their gullies and cloughs the grottoes and falls that to him were a veritable fairy realm. Child as he was, in the summer months he roamed the shady plantations, and sailed his chip and paper boats down their brawling streams, feeding on the nuts and berries, and lying for hours asleep beneath the shadows of their branching trees. He was one of the few children into whose mind Amos failed to find an inlet for the catechism; and once, during the past summer, he had blown his wickin-whistle in Sunday-school class, and been reprimanded by the superintendent because he gathered blackberries during the sacred hours.

A few days previous to his disappearance in the snow he had heard the legend of Jenny Greenteeth, the haunting fairy of the Green Fold Clough, and how that she, who in the summer-time made the flowers grow and the birds sing, hid herself in winter on a shelf of rock above the Gin Spa Well, a lone streamlet that gurgled from out the rocky sides of the gorge. The story laid hold of his young mind, and under the glow of his imagination assumed the proportions of an Arabian Nights’ wonder. He dreamed of it by night, and during the day received thrashings not a few from his zealous schoolmaster, because his thoughts were away from his lessons with Jenny Greenteeth in her Green Fold Clough retreat. On this, the afternoon of the first snowfall of the autumn, there being a half-holiday, the boy determined once more to explore the haunts of the fairy; and just as Mr. Penrose turned out of his lodgings to kill the prose of his life, which he felt to be killing him, Oliver o’ Deaf Martha’s little boy turned out of his father’s hovel to feed the poetry that was stirring in his youthful soul. The north wind blew through the rents and seams of his threadbare clothing; but its chill was not felt, so warm with excitement beat his little heart. And when the first flakes fell, he clapped his hands in wild delight, and sang of the plucking of geese by hardy Scotchmen, and the sending of their feathers across the intervening leagues.

Poor little fellow! His was a hard lot when looked at from where Plenty spread her table and friends were manifold. But he was not without his compensations. His home was the moors, and his parent was Nature. He knew how to leap a brook, and snare a bird, and climb a tree, and shape a boat, and cut a wickin-whistle, and many a time and oft, when bread was scarce, he fed on the berries that only asked to be plucked, and grew so plentifully along the sides of the great hills.

The dusk was falling, and the snow beginning to lie thick, as he entered the dark gorge of the Clough; but to him darkness and light were alike, and as for the snow, it was more than a transformation-scene is to the petted child of a jaded civilization. He watched the flakes as they came down in their wild race from the sky, and saw them disappear on touching the stream that ran through the heart of the Clough. He gathered masses of the flaky substance in his hand, and, squeezing them into balls, threw them at distant objects, and then filled his mouth with the icy particles, and revelled in the shock and chill of the melting substance between his teeth as no connoisseur of wine ever revelled in the juices of the choice vintages of Spain and France. Then he would shake and clap his hands because of what he called the ‘hot ache’ that seized them, only to scamper off again after some new object around which to weave another dream of wonder.

The dusk gave place to gloom, and still faster fell the snow, white and feathery, silent and sublime. The child felt the charm, and began to lose himself in the impalpable something that, like a curtain of spirit, gathered around. He, too, was now as white as the shrubs through which he wended his way, and every now and then he doffed his cap, and, with a wild laugh of delight, flung its covering of snow upon the ground. Then, out of sheer fulness of life and rapport with the scene, he would rush for a yard or two up the steep sides of the Clough and roll downwards in the soft substance which lay deeply around.

The gloom thickened and nightfall came, but the snow lighted up the dark gorge, and threw out the branching trees, the tall trunks of which rose columnar-like as the pillars of some cathedral nave. Did the boy think of home – of fire – of bed? Not he! He thought only of Jenny Greenteeth, the sprite of the Clough, and of the Gin Spa Well, above which she was said to sleep; and on he roamed.

And now the path became narrower and more tortuous, while on the steep sides the snow was gathering in ominous drifts. Undaunted he struggled on, knee-deep, often stumbling, yet always rising to dive afresh into the yielding element that lay between himself and the enchanted ground beyond. In a little time he came to a great bulging bend, around the foot of which the waters flowed in sullen sweeps. Here, careful as he was, he slipped, and lay for a moment stunned and chilled with his sudden immersion. Struggling to the bank, he regained his foothold, and, rounding the promontory of cliff which had almost defeated his search, he turned the angle that hid the grotto, and found himself at the Gin Spa Well.

He heard the ‘drip, drip’ of falling waters as they oozed from out their rocky bed, and fell into one of those tiny hollows of nature which, overflowing, sent its burden towards the stream below. He looked above, and saw the fabled ledge – its mossy bank all snow-covered – with the entrance to Jenny Greenteeth’s chambers dark against the white that lay around. Tired with the search, yet glad at heart with the find, he climbed and entered, the somnolence wrought by the snow soon closing his eyes, and its subtle opiate working on his now wearily excited brain. There he slept – and dreamed (Mather 1898).