In the Sennen country, within a mile of the end of Britain, I talked with two farmers who knew something about piskies. The first one, Charles Hutchen, of Trevescan, told me this legend: A St. Just Pisky. ‘Near St. Just, on Christmas Day, a pisky carried away in his cloak a boy, but the boy got home. Then the pisky took him a second time, and again the boy got home. Each time the boy was away for only an hour (probably in a dream or trance state) (Evans-Wentz 181).

From fairies the old lady got on to recollections of what clearly was a survival of dwarf folklore. For she told me of certain small people who used to dwell in the houes (grave-mounds) that years ago were to be found in the Roxby and Mickleby direction, but which had been dug into and after-wards ploughed over, so that the former denizens had clearly been evicted and forced to retire. But it was only imperfect recollections of what she had heard in her own young days that my informant was dealing with now ; and the lack of feature and detail consequent on her lack of personal interest in the subject was quite evident. But it was quite different when I began to ask her if in her youth she had had any knowledge of the Hart Hall ‘Hob.’ On this topic she was herself again. ‘Why, when she was a bit of a lass, everybody knew about Hart Hall in Glaisdale, and t’ Hob there, and the work that he did, and how he came to leave, and all about it.’ Had she ever seen him, or any of the work he had done? ‘Seen him’, saidst ’ee. Neea, naebody had ever seen him, leastwise, mair nor yance. And that was how he coomed to flit,’— ‘How was that?’ I asked. ‘Wheea, everybody kenned at sikan a mak’ o’ creatur as yon never tholed being spied efter.’ ‘And did they spy upon him?’ I inquired, ‘Ay, marry, that did they. Yah moonleeght neeght, when they beared his swipple (the striking part of the flail) gannan’ wiv a strange quick bat (stroke) o’ t’ lathe fleear (on the barn floor) — ye ken he wad dee mair i’ yah neeght than a’ t’ men o’ t’ farm cou’d dee iv a deea — yan o’ t’ lads gat hissel’ croppen oop close anenst lathe-deear, an’ leeak’d in thruff’ a lahtle hole i’ t’ boards, an’ he seen a lahtle brown man, a’ covered wi’ hair, spangin’ about wiv fleeal lahk yan wud (striking around with the flail as if he was beside himself). He’d getten a haill dess o’ shaffs (a whole layer of sheaves) doon o’ t’ fleear, and my wo’d! ommost afore ye cou’d tell ten, he had tonned (turned) oot t’ strae, an’ sided away t’ coorn, and was rife for another dess. He had nae claes on to speak of, and t’ lad, he cou’d na see at he had any mak’ or mander o’ duds by an au’d ragg’d soort ov a sark.’ And she went on to tell how the lad crept away as quietly as he had gone on his expedition of espial, and on getting indoors, undiscovered by the unconscious Hob, had related what he had seen, and described the marvellous energy of ‘t’ lahtle hairy man, amaist as nakt as when he wur boom.’ But the winter nights were cold, and the Hart Hall folks thought he must get strange and warm working ‘sikan a bat as yon, an’ it wad be sair an’ cau’d for him, gannan’ oot iv lathe wiv nobbut thae au’d rags. Seear, they’d mak’ him something to hap hissel’ wiv.’ And so they did. They made it as near like what the boy had described him as wearing — a sort of a coarse sark, or shirt, with a belt or girdle to confine it round his middle. And when it was done, it was taken before nightfall and laid in the barn, ‘gay and handy for t’ lahtle chap to notish’ when next he came to resume his nocturnal labours. In due course he came, espied the garment, turned it round and round, and — contrary to the usual termination of such legends, which represents the uncanny, albeit efficient, worker as displeased at the espionage practised upon him — Hart Hall Hob, more mercenary than punctilious as to considerations of privacy, broke out with the following couplet —

Gin Hob miin hae nowght but a bardin’ hamp,

He’ll coom nae mair, nowther to berry nor stamp.

I pause a moment in my narrative here to remark that this old jingle or rhyme is one of no ordinary or trifling interest. It seems almost superfluous to suggest that up to half a century ago, and even later, there was hardly a place in all Her Majesty’s English dominions better qualified to be conservative of the old words of the ordinary folk-speech, as well as of the old notions, legends, usages, beliefs, such as constitute its folklore, than this particular part of the district of Cleveland. The simple fact that its Glossary comprises near upon four thousand words, and that still the supply is not fully exhausted, speaks volumes on that head. And yet this couplet preserves three words, all of which had become obsolete forty years ago, and two of which had no actual meaning to the old dame who repeated the rhyme to me. These two are ‘berry’ and ‘hamp.’ ‘Stamp’ was the verb used to express the action of knocking off the awns of the barley previously to threshing it, according to the old practice. But ‘berry,’ meaning to thresh, I had been looking and inquiring for, for years, and looking and inquiring in vain; and as to ‘hamp,’ I never had reason to suppose that it had once been a constituent part of the current Cleveland folk-speech. But this is not all. The meaning of the word, and no less the description given of the vestment in question, in the legend itself, throws back the origin, at least the form-taking, of the story, and its accompaniments, to an indefinite, and yet dimly definable period. There was a time when the hamp was the English peasant’s only garment; at all events, mainly or generally so. For it might sometimes be worn over some underclothing. But that was not the rule. The hamp was a smock rock-like article of raiment, gathered in somewhat about the middle, and coming some little way below the knee. The mention in Pier the Plowman of the ‘hatere’ worn by the labouring man in his day serves to give a fairly vivid idea of the attire of the working-man of that time, and that attire was the ‘hamp’ of our northern parts. For the word seems to be clearly Old Danish in form and origin. But although the form and fashion and accessories of our old lady’s stories were of so distinctly an old-world character, it was impossible to doubt for a moment her perfect good faith. She told all with the most utter simplicity, and the most evident conviction that what she was telling was matter of faith, and not at all the flimsy structure of fancy or of fable. (Atkinson, Forty, 54-57)

Editor’s Note: This is a nineteenth-century Cleveland story.

But her fairy reminiscences were by no means exhausted, even by such a revelation as this. She had known a lass quite well, who one day, when raking in the hayfield, had raked over a fairy bairn [child]. ‘It was liggin’ in a swathe of the half-made hay, as bonny a lahtle thing as ever yan seen. But it was a fairy-bairn, it was quite good to tell. But it did not stay lang wi’ t’ lass at fun’ (found) it. It a soort o’ dwinied away, and she aimed (supposed) the fairy-mother couldn’t deea wivout it any langer.’ Here again I was a little disappointed. I had expected to get hold of a genuine unsophisticated changeling story, localised and home-bred. But the termination was as I have just recorded (Atkinson 53-54).

But it is a weary road, and hills lie before me which are too steep to be made pleasant even by the sight of sea-birds soaring round the grey cliff-tops; while ere long the road runs inland, as it often does in this part of Yorkshire, where the railways have usurped the coast, and I have consequently nothing else to think of than the stories and traditions of this country, where gnomes and fairies have continued their pranks unchecked almost to the present day. There was one such in those very Mulgrave Woods, which I have but this moment left behind me. Her name was Jeanie; she may be there still for aught I know, but few will go to look for her when they hear what befell one who desired her acquaintance many years ago. He was a farmer in this neighbourhood, and he rode up on horseback to her dwelling, calling her by name. I do not know whether he omitted any title of respect, or whether it was merely the unauthorised attention which enraged the irritable Jeanie. But the fact is that she rushed out in a towering passion and flew at the unlucky farmer with a wand. He spurred his horse and avoided her blow, but she gave him chase, and gained upon him for all the fleetness of his horse; so shuddering and pursued the luckless farmer galloped to a brook, which he leapt in the very nick of time. For Jeanie was upon him, and as the horse rose to the leap, her wand descended on his back, cutting him in two, so that Jeanie retained his hind-quarters on her side the water, while the farmer with the head and forelegs fell on the safe side of the flowing stream, which fairies cannot cross. It was a narrow escape, and one may understand why it is that when the clashing of the bittles which Jeanie and her fellow bogles use in washing their linen at Claymore Well is heard echoing down the dales, the peasants will not interfere nor attempt to see what the demons are about (Norway 144-146).

Editor’s Note: This tale presumably relates to 1907-1909 when Evans-Wentz travelled through Ireland and ‘Celtic’ Britain.

An old woman came to the wife of Steven Callaghan and told her not to let Steven cut a certain hedge. ‘It is where we shelter at night,’ the old woman added; and Mrs. Callaghan recognized the old woman as one who had been taken in confinement. A few nights later the same old woman appeared to Mrs. Callaghan and asked for charity; and she was offered some meal, which she did not take. Then she asked for lodgings, but did not stop. When Mrs. Callaghan saw the meal-chest next morning it was overflowing with meal: it was the old woman’s gift for the hedge.’ Evans-Wentz, 1911,75.

One evening of a blustering May,

When the green leaves were whirled away

By winds as wild as those that blow

In autumn, with the earliest snow,

Some friends were gathered close around

A farmhouse fire, and as the sound

The heard of the untimely gales,

They told old ghost and boggart tales.

 

The wind blew in great gusts, then failed,

And in the valleys shrieked and wailed;

The rain against the window dashed,

And from the low eaves dripped and splashed

It was a night on which a fool –

The biggest ever sent to school

Beneath the guidance of the Board,

Could know that witches were abroad,

Perchance e’en then were riding past

On bones broomsticks, with the blast.

 

The supper now as o’er and done,

And, ranged around the fire, each one

Told forth his tale in order due.

One told how, when his years were few,

As he to cellar once did steal

To supplement a scanty meal,

From pie, by careful mother stored,

A boggart by him rushed and roared;

Another told how once he heard

The sweetest song e’er trilled by bird –

Canary, nightingale, or lark –

Come from an empty cage; not dark

It was (said he) but sunny-bright

Whence all allowed that, truth to tell,

His story bore away the bell,

Because ’tis know such wonders aye

Are oftener worked by night than day.

 

Another – Lord! preserve from evil! –

Told how a man once raised the Devil,

Who made him a stout rope of sand,

Tied a neat knot in water – and

Put all the village in a fright,

Till a good priest put him to flight.

 

O ye whose faith is small indeed,

As is a grain of mustard-seed,

In boggarts – who at fairies sneer,

And turn to ghost-tales doubting ear;

O ye who think yourselves so wise,

You trust your own, doubt others’ eyes;

Who don’t believe in any elf

But in that sapient one – yourself, –

Had you, set by that ingle-side

Been by these wonders edified,

A heavy wager might be taken

Your scepticism had been shaken.

 

Yet there bold Tat o’ Swinden sat

As silent as the small black cat;

Little he said, but now and then

He smiled, and slily took his pen,

Wrote something quickly in a book,

The while his sides with laughter shook –

O doubter! ere the night be done,

Or ere upsprings to-morrow’s sun

As sure as these wild winds are shouting

You shall at home berue your doubting.

 

For now approached the midnight hour

When spirits have their greatest power;

And Tat o’ Swinden has to go

Through all the eerie gusts that blow,

A mile or more to his small cot.

Not one was there but blessed his lot,

’Twas not his fate to have to trudge

Through the deep darkness and the sludge

At such an hour, when parted souls

Rise as the bell its twelve times tolls;

When witches ride upon their sticks,

And boggarts play their eldritch tricks;

On such a night, when without doubt

Ill spirits would alone be out!

 

Yet Tat o’ Swinden bade good night –

Boldly he left the fireside bright;

The door is shut on him. Bold man!

The heavens assist thee, if they can!

 

Fiercely the wind against him blew,

Dark demon clouds just o’er him flew;

The wind wailed like a child in pain,

Then, like a woman, shrieked again;

The air was black as witch-cat’s hide,

That scarce the path might be descried;

Once, groping, he his way mistook

And fell head foremost in a brook;

Once he fell o’er a cow that lay

Asleep and dreaming, in his way;

Once in a wicket gate he stuck,

And, stumbling, fell in mud and muck;

Once he tripped o’er an erring goose

That from a yard had wandered loose;

Oft the scared peewit swooped and cried

Like a lost soul, just by his side; –

In short, this rambling tale to settle,

Had he been made of weaker metal,

Doubtless his bold heart would have failed him

From all the terrors that assailed him.

 

But joy! his little cottage white

Looms through the darkness on his sight!

Ne’er England’s chalky cliffs of pride

By sailors through a storm descried

With greater joy; nor white sails seen

Gladlier (from shore) by a marine;

Soon snugly tucked in little bed,

After an hour or two he’s read

Some ancient book, he’ll sleep and snore,

All dangers and all troubles o’er!

 

But, oh! how fleeting is each plan,

Hope and delight of mortal man!

They’re like the bubbles in a burn

That burst, as they in eddies turn;

Like filmy clouds that melt away

Before the searching eye of day;

These truths must all be prov’d and borne

By Tat o’ Swinden ere the morn!

 

Now he has gained, proud and elate,

His little garden’s wicket gate;

Passed through the garden safe and whole,

And put the key into its hole;

Has turned the key and ope’d the door,

And stands upon his own house floor;

He locks the door, and in the gloom,

Stands safely in his little room,

And is about to strike a light,

When hark! what sounds his ears affright?

 

A sound as if all duns that ere

Poor debtors from their wits did scare,

All creditors that ever called

On bankrupt men by debts enthralled,

All devils ere supposed to dwell

Within the room halls of hell –

Had knocked hard at his door – such din!

It seemed t’ would soon be broken in!

 

And yet his bold heart never failed.

Nor his cool head – he never quailed,

But seized a cutlass at his side –

(His grand-dad waved it as he died

Fighting Napoleon on the Nile)

Its edge was rough as rusty tile;

He ope’d the door – O vision horrid!

The cold sweat stood upon his forehead!

 

Two yellow eyes like coals that shone,

Two carving horns that stood upon

A head with scraggy beard – two legs

As thin as cripples’ wooden pegs;

And, not to look for further proofs,

A tail, a horrid pair of hoofs –

All showed, as plain as eyes could tell,

’Twas Nick himself, just fresh from hell!

 

Tat though – he scarce had time to think –

The De’il will have me in a wink

If I’m not quick – he boldly struck

Out twice – and O! unheard of luck!

He pierced the foe of all mankind!

The sword went out a span behind!

Without a groan, upon his head

Before Tat’s door the De’ll fell dead!

 

Ah me! how strange is mortal life!

The man who strives not gains the strife!

The drone, who neither toils nor spins,

The hard-earned gold of workers wins;

The doctor dies of fever or could,

While he who laughs at him grows old;

The saint, who wrestles with the Devil.

Is overthrown at last by evil;

While Tat, who said there was no Nick,

Meets him at last, and wins the trick!

 

Tat stands and thinks what shall be done –

(The clock inside was striking one.)

Not Eve, the mother of us all,

Nor poor old Nick-tormented Paul,

Nor he, the patriarch of old,

Who once in Heaven to Nick was sold,

Felt half so queer, when teased and tried

By Nick alive in all his pride,

As Tat o’ Swinden did that night,

With Nick before him, killed outright!

 

It would not do the tale to tell

Of how he killed the Lord of Hell,

For then his credit in the town

Would surely, hopelessly, be gone;

And though men would be glad to see

The corpse of their old enemy.

How they would laugh to see him slain

By one who always held him vain!

No! better throw him in the brook!

No sooner thought than done. He took

Old Nick by the heels – the hoofs we mean –

And o’er the bridge he threw him clean:

The wilds winds howled as in he splashed,

Blue lightning shone, the thunder crashed,

As by the torrent in its play

The corpse of Nick was whirled away!

 

Bold Tat into his cottage ran,

A sadder and much wiser man;

He vowed that he would never fail

When good folk told a boggart-tale,

To say that, from experience, he

Knew that such things, and more, might be

In a wise man’s philosophy;

When parsons preached of Satan’s wile,

He vowed, and felt, he ne’er should smile

So, with these good resolves new-bred,

He tucked himself up snug in bed.

 

Next morning broke serene and fine

The little birds sang songs divine;

Water puried placid down the linn,

Forgetful of its last night’s din;

The sky was blue and all unclouded,

No mists the top o’ Pendle shrouded;

As Tat o’ Swinden early rose

From bed, and shaved, and donned his clothes.

He sought with joy the flowery mead

Where his two goats were wont to feed;

He saw but one! alas! too plain

The sad truth flashed across his brain

One goat for Nick he’d blindly ta’en

And with his cutlass foully slain!

 

O ye whose faith too often fails

When you hear good old boggart-tales –

Ye who on Tat intend to call

When decent folk are sleeping all –

(Specially if the weather’s foul,

And winds and waters rave and howl)

If you’d object to try how steel

Run through your spinal-cord would feel –

If you can neither swim nor float –

REMEMBER TAT O’ SWINDEN’S GOAT

Barcroft ‘Tat O’ Swinden: A Boggart Tale of To-day’

There was once a grown-up lad in the County Leitrim, and he was strong and lively, and the son of a rich farmer. His father had plenty of money, and he did not spare it on the son. Accordingly, when the boy grew up he liked sport better than work, and, as his father had no other children, he loved this one so much that he allowed him to do in everything just as it pleased himself. He was very extravagant, and he used to scatter the gold money as another person would scatter the white. He was seldom to be found at home, but if there was a fair, or a race, or a gathering within ten miles of him, you were dead certain to find him there. And he seldom spent a night in his father’s house, but he used to be always out rambling, and, like Shawn Bwee long ago, there was ‘grádh gach cailin i mbrollach a léine,’ (‘the love of every girl in the breast of his shirt,’) and it’s many’s the kiss he got and he gave, for he was very handsome, and there wasn’t a girl in the country but would fall in love with him, only for him to fasten his two eyes on her, and it was for that someone made this rann on him: ‘Feuch an rógaire ‘g iarraidh póige, Ni h-iongantas mór é a bheith mar atá Ag leanamhaint a gcómhnuidhe d’árnán na gráineóige Anuas ‘s anios ‘s nna chodladh ‘sa’ lá.’ (‘Look at the rogue, it’s for kisses he’s rambling, It isn’t much wonder, for that was his way; He’s like an old hedgehog, at night he’ll be scrambling From this place to that, but he’ll sleep in the day.’)

At last he became very wild and unruly. He wasn’t to be seen day nor night in his father’s house, but always rambling or going on his kailee (night-visit) from place to place and from house to house, so that the old people used to shake their heads and say to one another, ‘it’s easy seen what will happen to the land when the old man dies; his son will run through it in a year, and it won’t stand him that long itself.’

He used to be always gambling and card-playing and drinking, but his father never minded his bad habits, and never punished him. But it happened one day that the old man was told that the son had ruined the character of a girl in the neighbourhood, and he was greatly angry, and he called the son to him, and said to him, quietly and sensibly ‘Avic,’ says he, ‘you know I loved you greatly up to this, and I never stopped you from doing your choice thing whatever it was, and I kept plenty of money with you, and I always hoped to leave you the house and land, and all I had after myself would be gone; but I heard a story of you today that has disgusted me with you. I cannot tell you the grief that I felt when I heard such a thing of you, and I tell you now plainly that unless you marry that girl I’ll leave house and land and everything to my brother’s son. I never could leave it to anyone who would make so bad a use of it as you do yourself, deceiving women and coaxing girls. Settle with yourself now whether you’ll marry that girl and get my land as a fortune with her, or refuse to marry her and give up all that was coming to you; and tell me in the morning which of the two things you have chosen.’

‘Och! Domnoo Sheery! father, you wouldn’t say that to me, and I such a good son as I am. Who told you I wouldn’t marry the girl?’ says he.

But his father was gone, and the lad knew well enough that he would keep his word too; and he was greatly troubled in his mind, for as quiet and as kind as the father was, he never went back of a word that he had once said, and there wasn’t another man in the country who was harder to bend than he was.

The boy did not know rightly what to do. He was in love with the girl indeed, and he hoped to marry her sometime or other, but he would much sooner have remained another while as he was, and follow on at his old tricks, drinking, sporting, and playing cards; and, along with that, he was angry that his father should order him to marry, and should threaten him if he did not do it.

‘Isn’t my father a great fool,’ says he to himself. ‘I was ready enough, and only too anxious, to marry Mary; and now since he threatened me, faith I’ve a great mind to let it go another while.’

His mind was so much excited that he remained between two notions as to what he should do. He walked out into the night at last to cool his heated blood, and went on to the road. He lit a pipe, and as the night was fine he walked and walked on, until the quick pace made him begin to forget his trouble. The night was bright, and the moon half full. There was not a breath of wind blowing, and the air was calm and mild. He walked on for nearly three hours, when he suddenly remembered that it was late in the night, and time for him to turn. ‘Musha! I think I forgot myself,’ says he, ‘it must be near twelve o’clock now.’

The word was hardly out of his mouth, when he heard the sound of many voices, and the trampling of feet on the road before him. ‘I don’t know who can be out so late at night as this, and on such a lonely road,’ said he to himself. He stood listening, and he heard the voices of many people talking through other, but he could not understand what they were saying. ‘Oh, wirra!’ (‘Oh Mary!’) says he, ‘I’m afraid. It’s not Irish or English they have; it can’t be they’re Frenchmen!’ He went on a couple of yards further, and he saw well enough by the light of the moon a band of little people coming towards him, and they were carrying something big and heavy with them. ‘Oh, murder!’ says he to himself, ‘sure it can’t be that they’re the good people that’s in it!’ Every rib (single hair) of hair that was on his head stood up, and there fell a shaking on his bones, for he saw that they were coming to him fast.

He looked at them again, and perceived that there were about twenty little men in it, and there was not a man at all of them higher than about three feet or three feet and a half, and some of them were grey, and seemed very old. He looked again, but he could not make out what was the heavy thing they were carrying until they came up to him, and then they all stood round about him. They threw the heavy thing down on the road, and he saw on the spot that it was a dead body.

He became as cold as the Death, and there was not a drop of blood running in his veins when an old little grey maneen came up to him and said, ‘Isn’t it lucky we met you, Teig O’Kane?’

Poor Teig could not bring out a word at all, nor open his lips, if he were to get the world for it, and so he gave no answer.

‘Teig O’Kane,’ said the little grey man again, ‘isn’t it timely you met us?’

Teig could not answer him.

‘Teig O’Kane,’ says he, ‘the third time, isn’t it lucky and timely that we met you?’

But Teig remained silent, for he was afraid to return an answer, and his tongue was as if it was tied to the roof of his mouth.

The little grey man turned to his companions, and there was joy in his bright little eye. ‘And now,’ says he, ‘Teig O’Kane hasn’t a word, we can do with him what we please. Teig, Teig,’ says he, ‘you’re living a bad life, and we can make a slave of you now, and you cannot withstand us, for there’s no use in trying to go against us. Lift that corpse.’

Teig was so frightened that he was only able to utter the two words, ‘I won’t’, for as frightened as he was, he was obstinate and stiff, the same as ever.

‘Teig O’Kane won’t lift the corpse,’ said the little maneen, with a wicked little laugh, for all the world like the breaking of a lock of dry kippeens (bundle of twigs), and with a little harsh voice like the striking of a cracked bell. ‘Teig O’Kane won’t lift the corpse, make him lift it’, and before the word was out of his mouth they had all gathered round poor Teig, and they all talking and laughing through other.

Teig tried to run from them, but they followed him, and a man of them stretched out his foot before him as he ran, so that Teig was thrown in a heap on the road. Then before he could rise up the fairies caught him, some by the hands and some by the feet, and they held him tight, in a way that he could not stir, with his face against the ground. Six or seven of them raised the body then, and pulled it over to him, and left it down on his back. The breast of the corpse was squeezed against Teig’s back and shoulders, and the arms of the corpse were thrown around Teig’s neck. Then they stood back from him a couple of yards, and let him get up. He rose, foaming at the mouth and cursing, and he shook himself, thinking to throw the corpse off his back. But his fear and his wonder were great when he found that the two arms had a tight hold round his own neck, and that the two legs were squeezing his hips firmly, and that, however strongly he tried, he could not throw it off, any more than a horse can throw off its saddle. He was terribly frightened then, and he thought he was lost. ‘Ochone! for ever’, said he to himself, ‘it’s the bad life I’m leading that has given the good people this power over me. I promise to God and Mary, Peter and Paul, Patrick and Bridget, that I’ll mend my ways for as long as I have to live, if I come clear out of this danger, and I’ll marry the girl.’

The little grey man came up to him again, and said he to him, ‘Now, Teigeen,’ says he, ‘you didn’t lift the body when I told you to lift it, and see how you were made to lift it; perhaps when I tell you to bury it you won’t bury it until you’re made to bury it!’

‘Anything at all that I can do for your honour,’ said Teig, ‘I’ll do it,’ for he was getting sense already, and if it had not been for the great fear that was on him, he never would have let that civil word slip out of his mouth.

The little man laughed a sort of laugh again. ‘You’re getting quiet now, Teig,’ says he. ‘I’ll go bail but you’ll be quiet enough before I’m done with you. Listen to me now, Teig O’Kane, and if you don’t obey me in all I’m telling you to do, you’ll repent it. You must carry with you this corpse that is on your back to Teampoll-Démus, and you must bring it into the church with you, and make a grave for it in the very middle of the church, and you must raise up the flags and put them down again the very same way, and you must carry the clay out of the church and leave the place as it was when you came, so that no one could know that there had been anything changed. But that’s not all. Maybe that the body won’t be allowed to be buried in that church; perhaps some other man has the bed, and, if so, it’s likely he won’t share it with this one. If you don’t get leave to bury it in Teampoll-Démus, you must carry it to Carrick-fhad-vic-Orus, and bury it in the churchyard there; and if you don’t get it into that place, take it with you to Teampoll-Ronan; and if that churchyard is closed on you, take it to Imlogue-Fada; and if you’re not able to bury it there, you’ve no more to do than to take it to Kill-Breedya, and you can bury it there without hindrance. I cannot tell you what one of those churches is the one where you will have leave to bury that corpse under the clay, but I know that it will be allowed you to bury him at some church or other of them. If you do this work rightly, we will be thankful to you, and you will have no cause to grieve; but if you are slow or lazy, believe me we shall take satisfaction of you.’

When the grey little man had done speaking, his comrades laughed and clapped their hands together. ‘Glic! Glic! Hwee! Hwee!’ they all cried, ‘go on, go on, you have eight hours before you till daybreak, and if you haven’t this man buried before the sun rises, you’re lost.’ They struck a fist and a foot behind on him, and drove him on in the road. He was obliged to walk, and to walk fast, for they gave him no rest.

He thought himself that there was not a wet path, or a dirty boreen (lane), or a crooked contrary road in the whole county that he had not walked that night. The night was at times very dark, and whenever there would come a cloud across the moon he could see nothing, and then he used often to fall. Sometimes he was hurt, and sometimes he escaped, but he was obliged always to rise on the moment and to hurry on. Sometimes the moon would break out clearly, and then he would look behind him and see the little people following at his back. And he heard them speaking amongst themselves, talking and crying out, and screaming like a flock of sea-gulls; and if he was to save his soul he never understood as much as one word of what they were saying.

He did not know how far he had walked, when at last one of them cried out to him, ‘Stop here!’ He stood, and they all gathered round him.

‘Do you see those withered trees over there?’ says the old boy to him again. ‘Teampoll-Démus is among those trees, and you must go in there by yourself, for we cannot follow you or go with you. We must remain here. Go on boldly.’

Teig looked from him, and he saw a high wall that was in places half broken down, and an old grey church on the inside of the wall, and about a dozen withered old trees scattered here and there round it. There was neither leaf nor twig on any of them, but their bare crooked branches were stretched out like the arms of an angry man when he threatens. He had no help for it, but was obliged to go forward. He was a couple of hundred yards from the church, but he walked on, and never looked behind him until he came to the gate of the churchyard. The old gate was thrown down, and he had no difficulty in entering. He turned then to see if any of the little people were following him, but there came a cloud over the moon, and the night became so dark that he could see nothing. He went into the churchyard, and he walked up the old grassy pathway leading to the church. When he reached the door, he found it locked. The door was large and strong, and he did not know what to do. At last he drew out his knife with difficulty, and stuck it in the wood to try if it were not rotten, but it was not.

‘Now,’ said he to himself, ‘I have no more to do; the door is shut, and I can’t open it.’

Before the words were rightly shaped in his own mind, a voice in his ear said to him, ‘Search for the key on the top of the door, or on the wall.’

He started. ‘Who is that speaking to me?’ he cried, turning round; but he saw no one. The voice said in his ear again, ‘Search for the key on the top of the door, or on the wall.’

‘What’s that?’ said he, and the sweat running from his forehead, ‘who spoke to me?’

‘It’s I, the corpse, that spoke to you!’ said the voice.

‘Can you talk?’ said Teig.

‘Now and again,’ said the corpse.

Teig searched for the key, and he found it on the top of the wall. He was too much frightened to say any more, but he opened the door wide, and as quickly as he could, and he went in, with the corpse on his back. It was as dark as pitch inside, and poor Teig began to shake and tremble.

‘Light the candle,’ said the corpse.

Teig put his hand in his pocket, as well as he was able, and drew out a flint and steel. He struck a spark out of it, and lit a burnt rag he had in his pocket. He blew it until it made a flame, and he looked round him. The church was very ancient, and part of the wall was broken down. The windows were blown in or cracked, and the timber of the seats was rotten. There were six or seven old iron candlesticks left there still, and in one of these candlesticks Teig found the stump of an old candle, and he lit it. He was still looking round him on the strange and horrid place in which he found himself, when the cold corpse whispered in his ear, ‘Bury me now, bury me now; there is a spade and turn the ground.’ Teig looked from him, and he saw a spade lying beside the altar. He took it up, and he placed the blade under a flag that was in the middle of the aisle, and leaning all his weight on the handle of the spade, he raised it. When the first flag was raised it was not hard to raise the others near it, and he moved three or four of them out of their places. The clay that was under them was soft and easy to dig, but he had not thrown up more than three or four shovelfuls, when he felt the iron touch something soft like flesh. He threw up three or four more shovelfuls from around it, and then he saw that it was another body that was buried in the same place.

‘I am afraid I’ll never be allowed to bury the two bodies in the same hole,’ said Teig, in his own mind. ‘You corpse, there on my back,’ says he, ‘will you be satisfied if I bury you down here?’ But the corpse never answered him a word.

‘That’s a good sign,’ said Teig to himself. ‘Maybe he’s getting quiet,’ and he thrust the spade down in the earth again. Perhaps he hurt the flesh of the other body, for the dead man that was buried there stood up in the grave, and shouted an awful shout. ‘Hoo! hoo!! hoo!!! Go! go!! go!!! Or you’re a dead, dead, dead man!’ And then he fell back in the grave again. Teig said afterwards, that of all the wonderful things he saw that night, that was the most awful to him. His hair stood upright on his head like the bristles of a pig, the cold sweat ran off his face, and then came a tremor over all his bones, until he thought that he must fall.

But after a while he became bolder, when he saw that the second corpse remained lying quietly there, and he threw in the clay on it again, and he smoothed it overhead and he laid down the flags carefully as they had been before. ‘It can’t be that he’ll rise up any more,’ said he.

He went down the aisle a little further, and drew near to the door, and began raising the flags again, looking for another bed for the corpse on his back. He took up three or four flags and put them aside, and then he dug the clay. He was not long digging until he laid bare an old woman without a thread upon her but her shirt. She was more lively than the first corpse, for he had scarcely taken any of the clay away from about her, when she sat up and began to cry, ‘Ho, you bodach (clown)! Ha, you bodach! Where has he been that he got no bed?’

Poor Teig drew back, and when she found that she was getting no answer, she closed her eyes gently, lost her vigour, and fell back quietly and slowly under the clay. Teig did to her as he had done to the man—he threw the clay back on her, and left the flags down overhead.

He began digging again near the door, but before he had thrown up more than a couple of shovelfuls, he noticed a man’s hand laid bare by the spade. ‘By my soul, I’ll go no further, then,’ said he to himself; ‘what use is it for me?’ And he threw the clay in again on it, and settled the flags as they had been before.

He left the church then, and his heart was heavy enough, but he shut the door and locked it, and left the key where he found it. He sat down on a tombstone that was near the door, and began thinking. He was in great doubt what he should do. He laid his face between his two hands, and cried for grief and fatigue, since he was dead certain at this time that he never would come home alive. He made another attempt to loosen the hands of the corpse that were squeezed round his neck, but they were as tight as if they were clamped; and the more he tried to loosen them, the tighter they squeezed him. He was going to sit down once more, when the cold, horrid lips of the dead man said to him, ‘Carrick-fhad-vic-Orus,’ and he remembered the command of the good people to bring the corpse with him to that place if he should be unable to bury it where he had been.

He rose up, and looked about him. ‘I don’t know the way,’ he said.

As soon as he had uttered the word, the corpse stretched out suddenly its left hand that had been tightened round his neck, and kept it pointing out, showing him the road he ought to follow. Teig went in the direction that the fingers were stretched, and passed out of the churchyard. He found himself on an old rutty, stony road, and he stood still again, not knowing where to turn. The corpse stretched out its bony hand a second time, and pointed out to him another road, not the road by which he had come when approaching the old church. Teig followed that road, and whenever he came to a path or road meeting it, the corpse always stretched out its hand and pointed with its fingers, showing him the way he was to take.

Many was the cross-road he turned down, and many was the crooked boreen he walked, until he saw from him an old burying-ground at last, beside the road, but there was neither church nor chapel nor any other building in it. The corpse squeezed him tightly, and he stood. ‘Bury me, bury me in the burying-ground,’ said the voice.

Teig drew over towards the old burying-place, and he was not more than about twenty yards from it, when, raising his eyes, he saw hundreds and hundreds of ghosts – men, women, and children – sitting on the top of the wall round about, or standing on the inside of it, or running backwards and forwards, and pointing at him, while he could see their mouths opening and shutting as if they were speaking, though he heard no word, nor any sound amongst them at all.

He was afraid to go forward, so he stood where he was, and the moment he stood, all the ghosts became quiet, and ceased moving. Then Teig understood that it was trying to keep him from going in, that they were. He walked a couple of yards forwards, and immediately the whole crowd rushed together towards the spot to which he was moving, and they stood so thickly together that it seemed to him that he never could break through them, even though he had a mind to try. But he had no mind to try it. He went back broken and dispirited, and when he had gone a couple of hundred yards from the burying-ground, he stood again, for he did not know what way he was to go. He heard the voice of the corpse in his ear, saying ‘Teampoll-Ronan’, and the skinny hand was stretched out again, pointing him out the road.

As tired as he was, he had to walk, and the road was neither short nor even. The night was darker than ever, and it was difficult to make his way. Many was the toss he got, and many a bruise they left on his body. At last he saw Teampoll-Ronan from him in the distance, standing in the middle of the burying-ground. He moved over towards it, and thought he was all right and safe, when he saw no ghosts nor anything else on the wall, and he thought he would never be hindered now from leaving his load off him at last. He moved over to the gate, but as he was passing in, he tripped on the threshold. Before he could recover himself, something that he could not see seized him by the neck, by the hands, and by the feet, and bruised him, and shook him, and choked him, until he was nearly dead; and at last he was lifted up, and carried more than a hundred yards from that place, and then thrown down in an old dyke, with the corpse still clinging to him.

He rose up, bruised and sore, but feared to go near the place again, for he had seen nothing the time he was thrown down and carried away.

‘You corpse, up on my back,’ said he, ‘shall I go over again to the churchyard?’ But the corpse never answered him. ‘That’s a sign you don’t wish me to try it again,’ said Teig.

He was now in great doubt as to what he ought to do, when the corpse spoke in his ear, and said ‘Imlogue-Fada’.

‘Oh, murder!’ said Teig, ‘must I bring you there? If you keep me long walking like this, I tell you I’ll fall under you.’

He went on, however, in the direction the corpse pointed out to him. He could not have told, himself, how long he had been going, when the dead man behind suddenly squeezed him, and said, ‘There!’

Teig looked from him, and he saw a little low wall, that was so broken down in places that it was no wall at all. It was in a great wide field, in from the road; and only for three or four great stones at the corners, that were more like rocks than stones, there was nothing to show that there was either graveyard or burying-ground there.

‘Is this Imlogue-Fada? Shall I bury you here?’ said Teig.

‘Yes,’ said the voice.

‘But I see no grave or gravestone, only this pile of stones,’ said Teig.

The corpse did not answer, but stretched out its long fleshless hand, to show Teig the direction in which he was to go. Teig went on accordingly, but he was greatly terrified, for he remembered what had happened to him at the last place. He went on, ‘with his heart in his mouth,’ as he said himself afterwards; but when he came to within fifteen or twenty yards of the little low square wall, there broke out a flash of lightning, bright yellow and red, with blue streaks in it, and went round about the wall in one course, and it swept by as fast as the swallow in the clouds, and the longer Teig remained looking at it the faster it went, till at last it became like a bright ring of flame round the old graveyard, which no one could pass without being burnt by it. Teig never saw, from the time he was born, and never saw afterwards, so wonderful or so splendid a sight as that was. Round went the flame, white and yellow and blue sparks leaping out from it as it went, and although at first it had been no more than a thin, narrow line, it increased slowly until it was at last a great broad band, and it was continually getting broader and higher, and throwing out more brilliant sparks, till there was never a colour on the ridge of the earth that was not to be seen in that fire; and lightning never shone and flame never flamed that was so shining and so bright as that.

Teig was amazed; he was half dead with fatigue, and he had no courage left to approach the wall. There fell a mist over his eyes, and there came a soorawn (vertigo) in his head, and he was obliged to sit down upon a great stone to recover himself. He could see nothing but the light, and he could hear nothing but the whirr of it as it shot round the paddock faster than a flash of lightning.

As he sat there on the stone, the voice whispered once more in his ear, ‘Kill-Breedya’ and the dead man squeezed him so tightly that he cried out. He rose again, sick, tired, and trembling, and went forwards as he was directed. The wind was cold, and the road was bad, and the load upon his back was heavy, and the night was dark, and he himself was nearly worn out, and if he had had very much farther to go he must have fallen dead under his burden.

At last the corpse stretched out its hand, and said to him, ‘Bury me there’.

‘This is the last burying-place’, said Teig in his own mind; ‘and the little grey man said I’d be allowed to bury him in some of them, so it must be this; it can’t be but they’ll let him in here.’

The first faint streak of the ring of day was appearing in the east, and the clouds were beginning to catch fire, but it was darker than ever, for the moon was set, and there were no stars.

‘Make haste, make haste!’ said the corpse; and Teig hurried forward as well as he could to the graveyard, which was a little place on a bare hill, with only a few graves in it. He walked boldly in through the open gate, and nothing touched him, nor did he either hear or see anything. He came to the middle of the ground, and then stood up and looked round him for a spade or shovel to make a grave. As he was turning round and searching, he suddenly perceived what startled him greatly, a newly-dug grave right before him. He moved over to it, and looked down, and there at the bottom he saw a black coffin. He clambered down into the hole and lifted the lid, and found that (as he thought it would be) the coffin was empty. He had hardly mounted up out of the hole, and was standing on the brink, when the corpse, which had clung to him for more than eight hours, suddenly relaxed its hold of his neck, and loosened its shins from round his hips, and sank down with a plop into the open coffin.

Teig fell down on his two knees at the brink of the grave, and gave thanks to God. He made no delay then, but pressed down the coffin lid in its place, and threw in the clay over it with his two hands; and when the grave was filled up, he stamped and leaped on it with his feet, until it was firm and hard, and then he left the place.

The sun was fast rising as he finished his work, and the first thing he did was to return to the road, and look out for a house to rest himself in. He found an inn at last, and lay down upon a bed there, and slept till night. Then he rose up and ate a little, and fell asleep again till morning. When he awoke in the morning he hired a horse and rode home. He was more than twenty-six miles from home where he was, and he had come all that way with the dead body on his back in one night.

All the people at his own home thought that he must have left the country, and they rejoiced greatly when they saw him come back. Everyone began asking him where he had been, but he would not tell anyone except his father.

He was a changed man from that day. He never drank too much; he never lost his money over cards; and especially he would not take the world and be out late by himself of a dark night.

He was not a fortnight at home until he married Mary, the girl he had been in love with; and it’s at their wedding the sport was, and it’s he was the happy man from that day forward, and it’s all I wish that we may be as happy as he was.

Yeats, Irish Fairy and Folk Tales, 16-33 [Douglas Hyde translated from Gaelic original]

Martin was a thin pale man, when I saw him, of a sickly look, and a constitution naturally feeble. His hair was a light auburn, his beard mostly unshaven, and his hands of a singular delicacy and whiteness, owing, I dare say, as much to the soft and easy nature of his employment as to his infirm health. In everything else he was as sensible, sober, and rational as any other man; but on the topic of fairies, the man’s mania was peculiarly strong and immovable. Indeed, I remember that the expression of his eyes was singularly wild and hollow, and his long narrow temples sallow and emaciated. Now, this man did not lead an unhappy life, nor did the malady he laboured under seem to be productive of either pain or terror to him, although one might be apt to imagine otherwise. On the contrary, he and the fairies maintained the most friendly intimacy, and their dialogues – which I fear were woefully one-sided ones – must have been a source of great pleasure to him, for they were conducted with much mirth and laughter, on his part at least.

‘Well, Frank, when did you see the fairies?’

‘Whist! There’s two dozen of them in the shop (the weaving shop) this minute. There’s a little ould fellow sittin’ on the top of the sleys, an’ all to be rocked while I’m weavin’. The sorrow’s in them, but they’re the greatest little skamers alive, so they are. See, there’s another of them at my dressin’ noggin.[1] Go out o’ that, you shingawn; or, bad cess to me, if you don’t, but I’ll lave you a mark. Ha! Cut, you thief you!’

‘Frank, arn’t you afeard o’ them?’

‘Is it me! Arra, what ud I be afeard o’ them for? Sure they have no power over me.’

‘And why haven’t they, Frank?’

‘Because I was baptized against them.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Why, the priest that christened me was tould by my father, to put in the proper prayer against the fairies – an’ a priest can’t refuse it when he’s asked – an’ he did so. Begorra, it’s well for me that he did –  let the tallow alone, you little glutton, see, there’s a weeny thief o’ them aitin’ my tallow – becaise, you see, it was their intention to make me king o’ the fairies.’

‘Is it possible?’

‘Devil a lie in it. Sure you may ax them, an’ they’ll tell you.’

‘What size are they, Frank?’

‘Oh, little wee fellows, with green coats, an’ the purtiest little shoes ever you seen. There’s two of them – both ould acquaintances o’ mine – runnin’ along the yarn-beam. That ould fellow with the bob-wig is called Jim Jam, an’ the other chap, with the three-cocked hat, is called Nickey Nick. Nickey plays the pipes. Nickey, give us a tune, or I’ll malivogue you – come now, ‘Lough Erne Shore’. Whist, now, listen!’

The poor fellow, though weaving as fast as he could all the time, yet bestowed every possible mark of attention to the music, and seemed to enjoy it as much as if it had been real. But who can tell whether that which we look upon as a privation may not after all be a fountain of increased happiness, greater, perhaps, than any which we ourselves enjoy? I forget who the poet is who says:

‘Mysterious are thy laws; The vision’s finer than the view; Her landscape Nature never drew So fair as Fancy draws.’

Many a time, when a mere child, not more than six or seven years of age, have I gone as far as Frank’s weaving-shop, in order, with a heart divided between curiosity and fear, to listen to his conversation with the good people. From morning till night his tongue was going almost as incessantly as his shuttle; and it was well known that at night, whenever he awoke out of his sleep, the first thing he did was to put out his hand, and push them, as it were, off his bed.

‘Go out o’ this, you thieves, you, go out o’ this now, an’ let me alone. Nickey, is this any time to be playing the pipes, and me wants to sleep? Go off, now, troth if yez do, you’ll see what I’ll give yez to-morrow. Sure I’ll be makin’ new dressin’s; and if yez behave decently, maybe I’ll lave yez the scrapin’ o’ the pot. There now. Och! Poor things, they’re dacent crathurs. Sure they’re all gone, barrin’ poor Red-cap, that doesn’t like to lave me.’ And then the harmless monomaniac would fall back into what we trust was an innocent slumber.

About this time there was said to have occurred a very remarkable circumstance, which gave poor Frank a vast deal of importance among the neighbours. A man named Frank Thomas, the same in whose house Mickey M’Rorey held the first dance at which I ever saw him, as detailed in a former sketch; this man, I say, had a child sick, but of what complaint I cannot now remember, nor is it of any importance. One of the gables of Thomas’s house was built against, or rather into, a Forth or Rath, called Towny, or properly Tonagh Forth. It was said to be haunted by the fairies, and what gave it a character peculiarly wild in my eyes was, that there were on the southern side of it two or three little green mounds, which were said to be the graves of unchristened children, over which it was considered dangerous and unlucky to pass. At all events, the season was mid-summer; and one evening about dusk, during the illness of the child, the noise of a hand-saw was heard upon the Forth. This was considered rather strange, and, after a little time, a few of those who were assembled at Frank Thomas’s went to see who it could be that was sawing in such a place, or what they could be sawing at so late an hour, for everyone knew that nobody in the whole country about them would dare to cut down the few white-thorns that grew upon the Forth. On going to examine, however, judge of their surprise, when, after surrounding and searching the whole place, they could discover no trace of either saw or sawyer. In fact, with the exception of themselves, there was no one, either natural or supernatural, visible. They then returned to the house, and had scarcely sat down, when it was heard again within ten yards of them. Another examination of the premises took place, but with equal success. Now, however, while standing on the Forth, they heard the sawing in a little hollow, about a hundred and fifty yards below them, which was completely exposed to their view, but they could see nobody. A party of them immediately went down to ascertain, if possible, what this singular noise and invisible labour could mean; but on arriving at the spot, they heard the sawing, to which were now added hammering, and the driving of nails upon the Forth above, whilst those who stood on the Forth continued to hear it in the hollow. On comparing notes, they resolved to send down to Billy Nelson’s for Frank Martin, a distance of only about eighty or ninety yards. He was soon on the spot, and without a moment’s hesitation solved the enigma.

‘’Tis the fairies,’ said he. ‘I see them, and busy crathurs they are.’

‘But what are they sawing, Frank?’

‘They are makin’ a child’s coffin,’ he replied, ‘they have the body already made, an’ they’re now nailin’ the lid together.’

That night the child died, and the story goes that on the second evening afterwards, the carpenter who was called upon to make the coffin brought a table out from Thomas’s house to the Forth, as a temporary bench; and, it is said, that the sawing and hammering necessary for the completion of his task were precisely the same which had been heard the evening but one before, neither more nor less. I remember the death of the child myself, and the making of its coffin, but I think the story of the supernatural carpenter was not heard in the village for some months after its interment.

Frank had every appearance of a hypochondriac about him. At the time I saw him, he might be about thirty-four years of age, but I do not think, from the debility of his frame and infirm health, that he has been alive for several years. He was an object of considerable interest and curiosity, and often have I been present when he was pointed out to strangers as ‘the man that could see the good people’.

[1] The dressings are a species of sizy flummery, which is brushed into the yarn to keep the thread round and even, and to prevent it from being frayed by the friction of the reed.

William Carleton short story in Yeats, Irish Fairy and Folk Tales, 5-9

As told to me this story runs somewhat thus: A company of fairies which frequented Cader Idris were in the habit of going about from cottage to cottage in that part of Wales, in pursuit of information concerning the degree of benevolence possessed by the cottagers. Those who gave these fairies an ungracious welcome were subject to bad luck during the rest of their lives, but those who were good to the little folk became the recipients of their favour. Old Morgan ap Rhys sat one night in his own chimney corner making himself comfortable with his pipe and his pint of cwrw da. The good ale having melted his soul a trifle, he was in a more jolly mood than was natural to him, when there came a little rap at the door, which reached his ear dully through the smoke of his pipe and the noise of his own voice–for in his merriment Morgan was singing a roystering song, though he could not sing any better than a haw – which is Welsh for a donkey. But Morgan did not take the trouble to get up at sound of the rap; his manners were not the most refined; he thought it was quite enough for a man on hospitable purposes bent to bawl forth in ringing Welsh, ‘Gwaed dyn a’i gilydd’ Why don’t you come in when you’ve got as far as the door?’ The welcome was not very polite, but it was sufficient. The door opened, and three travellers entered, looking worn and weary. Now these were the fairies from Cader Idris, disguised in this manner for purposes of observation, and Morgan never suspected they were other than they appeared. ‘Good sir,’ said one of the travellers, ’we are worn and weary, but all we seek is a bite of food to put in our wallet, and then we will go on our way.’ ‘Waw, lads! is that all you want? Well, there, look you, is the loaf and the cheese, and the knife lies by them, and you may cut what you like, and fill your bellies as well as your wallet, for never shall it be said that Morgan ap Rhys denied bread and cheese to a fellow creature.’ The travellers proceeded to help themselves, while Morgan continued to drink and smoke, and to sing after his fashion, which was a very rough fashion indeed. As they were about to go, the fairy travellers turned to Morgan and said, ‘Since you have been so generous we will show that we are grateful. It is in our power to grant you any one wish you may have; therefore tell us what that wish may be.’

‘Ho, ho!’ said Morgan, ‘is that the case? Ah, I see you are making sport of me. Wela, wela, the wish of my heart is to have a harp that will play under my fingers no matter how ill I strike it; a harp that will play lively tunes, look you; no melancholy music for me!’ He had hardly spoken, when to his astonishment, there on the hearth before him stood a splendid harp, and he was alone. ‘Waw!’ cried Morgan, ‘they’re gone already.’ Then looking behind him he saw they had not taken the bread and cheese they had cut off, after all. ‘’Twas the fairies, perhaps,’ he muttered, but sat serenely quaffing his beer, and staring at the harp. There was a sound of footsteps behind him, and his wife came in from out doors with some friends. Morgan feeling very jolly, thought he would raise a little laughter among them by displaying his want of skill upon the harp. So he commenced to play – oh, what a mad and capering tune it was! ‘Waw!’ said Morgan, ‘but this is a harp. Holo! what ails you all?’ For as fast as he played his neighbours danced, every man, woman, and child of them all footing it like mad creatures. Some of them bounded up against the roof of the cottage till their heads cracked again; others spun round and round, knocking over the furniture; and, as Morgan went on thoughtlessly playing, they began to pray to him to stop before they should be jolted to pieces. But Morgan found the scene too amusing to want to stop; besides, he was enamoured of his own suddenly developed skill as a musician; and he twanged the strings and laughed till his sides ached and the tears rolled down his cheeks, at the antics of his friends. Tired out at last he stopped, and the dancers fell exhausted on the floor, the chairs, the tables, declaring the diawl himself was in the harp. ‘I know a tune worth two of that,’ quoth Morgan, picking up the harp again; but at sight of this motion all the company rushed from the house and escaped, leaving Morgan rolling merrily in his chair. Whenever Morgan got a little tipsy after that, he would get the harp and set everybody round him to dancing; and the consequence was he got a bad name, and no one would go near him. But all their precautions did not prevent the neighbours from being caught now and then, when Morgan took his revenge by making them dance till their legs were broken, or some other damage was done them. Even lame people and invalids were compelled to dance whenever they heard the music of this diabolical telyn. In short, Morgan so abused his fairy gift that one night the good people came and took it away from him, and he never saw it more. The consequence was he became morose, and drank himself to death–a warning to all who accept from the fairies favours they do not deserve.

 

 

Shon ap Shenkin was a young man who lived hard by Pant Shon Shenkin. As he was going afield early one fine summer’s morning he heard a little bird singing, in a most enchanting strain, on a tree close by his path. Allured by the melody he sat down under the tree until the music ceased, when he arose and looked about him. What was his surprise at observing that the tree, which was green and full of life when he sat down, was now withered and barkless! Filled with astonishment he returned to the farm-house which he had left, as he supposed, a few minutes before; but it also was changed, grown older, and covered with ivy. In the doorway stood an old man whom he had never before seen; he at once asked the old man what he wanted there. ‘What do I want here?’ ejaculated the old man, reddening angrily; ‘that’s a pretty question! Who are you that dare to insult me in my own house?’ ‘In your own house? How is this? where’s my father and mother, whom I left here a few minutes since, whilst I have been listening to the charming music under yon tree, which, when I rose, was withered and leafless?’ ‘Under the tree! Music! What’s your name?’ ‘Shon ap Shenkin.’ ‘Alas, poor Shon, and is this indeed you!’ cried the old man. ‘I often heard my grandfather, your father, speak of you, and long did he bewail your absence. Fruitless inquiries were made for you; but old Catti Maddock of Brechfa said you were under the power of the fairies, and would not be released until the last sap of that sycamore tree would be dried up. Embrace me, my dear uncle, for you are my uncle–embrace your nephew.’ With this the old man extended his arms, but before the two men could embrace, poor Shon ap Shenkin crumbled into dust on the doorstep.