Read Online Irish Fairy and Folk Tales by Edited and with an Introduction by William Butler Yeats - Free Book Online Page A
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better right to expect it from?
Well, as we have said, she lay a bedridden invalid for long enough, trying doctors and quacks of all sorts, sexes, and sizes, and all without a farthing’s benefit, until, at the long run, poor Paddy was nearly brought to the last pass, in striving to keep her in “the bit o’ mait.” The seventh year was now on the point of closing, when, one harvest day, as she lay bemoaning her hard condition, on her bed beyond the kitchen fire, a little weeshy woman, dressed in a neat red cloak, comes in, and, sitting down by the hearth, says:
“Well, Kitty Corcoran, you’ve had a long lair of it there on the broad o’ yer back for seven years, an’ you’re jist as far from bein’ cured as ever.”
“Mavrone, ay,” said the other; “in throth that’s what I was this minnit thinkin’ ov, and a sorrowful thought it’s to me.”
“It’s yer own fau’t, thin,” says the little woman; “an’, indeed, for that matter, it’s yer fau’t that ever you wor there at all.”
“Arra, how is that?” asked Kitty. “Sure I wouldn’t be here if I could help it? Do you think it’s a comfort or a pleasure to me to be sick and bedridden?”
“No,” said the other, “I do not; but I’ll tell you the truth: for the last seven years you have been annoying us. I am one o’ the good people; an’ as I have a regard for you, I’m come to let you know the raison why you’ve been sick so long as you are. For all the time you’ve been ill, if you’ll take the thrubble to remimber, your childhre threwn out yer dirty wather afther dusk an’ before sunrise, at the very time we’re passin’ yer door,which we pass twice a-day. Now, if you avoid this, if you throw it out in a different place, an’ at a different time, the complaint you have will lave you: so will the gnawin’ at the heart; an’ you’ll be as well as ever you wor. If you don’t follow this advice, why, remain as you are, an’ all the art o’ man can’t cure you.” She then bade her good-bye, and disappeared.
Kitty, who was glad to be cured on such easy terms, immediately complied with the injunction of the fairy; and the consequence was, that the next day she found herself in as good health as ever she enjoyed during her life.
CUSHEEN LOO
T RANSLATED FROM THE I RISH BY J. J. C ALLAHAN
[This song is supposed to have been sung by a young bride, who was forcibly detained in one of those forts which are so common in Ireland, and to which the good people are very fond of resorting. Under pretence of hushing her child to rest, she retired to the outside margin of the fort, and addressed the burthen of her song to a young woman whom she saw at a short distance, and whom she requested to inform her husband of her condition, and to desire him to bring the steel knife to dissolve the enchantment.]
Sleep, my child! for the rustling trees,
Stirr’d by the breath of summer breeze,
And fairy songs of sweetest note,
Around us gently float.
Sleep! for the weeping flowers have shed
Their fragrant tears upon thy head,
The voice of love hath sooth’d thy rest,
And thy pillow is a mother’s breast.
Sleep, my child!
Weary hath pass’d the time forlorn,
Since to your mansion I was borne,
Tho’ bright the feast of its airy halls,
And the voice of mirth resounds from its walls
Sleep, my child!
Full many a maid and blooming bride
Within that splendid dome abide,—
And many a hoar and shrivell’d sage,
And many a matron bow’d with age.
Sleep, my child!
Oh! thou who hearest this song of fear,
To the mourner’s home these tidings bear.
Bid him bring the knife of the magic blade,
At whose lightning-flash the charm will fade.
Sleep, my child!
Haste! for to-morrow’s sun will see
The hateful spell renewed for me;
Nor can I from that home depart,
Till life shall leave my withering heart.
Sleep, my child!
Sleep, my child! for the rustling trees,
Stirr’d by the breath of summer breeze,
And fairy songs of
Well, as we have said, she lay a bedridden invalid for long enough, trying doctors and quacks of all sorts, sexes, and sizes, and all without a farthing’s benefit, until, at the long run, poor Paddy was nearly brought to the last pass, in striving to keep her in “the bit o’ mait.” The seventh year was now on the point of closing, when, one harvest day, as she lay bemoaning her hard condition, on her bed beyond the kitchen fire, a little weeshy woman, dressed in a neat red cloak, comes in, and, sitting down by the hearth, says:
“Well, Kitty Corcoran, you’ve had a long lair of it there on the broad o’ yer back for seven years, an’ you’re jist as far from bein’ cured as ever.”
“Mavrone, ay,” said the other; “in throth that’s what I was this minnit thinkin’ ov, and a sorrowful thought it’s to me.”
“It’s yer own fau’t, thin,” says the little woman; “an’, indeed, for that matter, it’s yer fau’t that ever you wor there at all.”
“Arra, how is that?” asked Kitty. “Sure I wouldn’t be here if I could help it? Do you think it’s a comfort or a pleasure to me to be sick and bedridden?”
“No,” said the other, “I do not; but I’ll tell you the truth: for the last seven years you have been annoying us. I am one o’ the good people; an’ as I have a regard for you, I’m come to let you know the raison why you’ve been sick so long as you are. For all the time you’ve been ill, if you’ll take the thrubble to remimber, your childhre threwn out yer dirty wather afther dusk an’ before sunrise, at the very time we’re passin’ yer door,which we pass twice a-day. Now, if you avoid this, if you throw it out in a different place, an’ at a different time, the complaint you have will lave you: so will the gnawin’ at the heart; an’ you’ll be as well as ever you wor. If you don’t follow this advice, why, remain as you are, an’ all the art o’ man can’t cure you.” She then bade her good-bye, and disappeared.
Kitty, who was glad to be cured on such easy terms, immediately complied with the injunction of the fairy; and the consequence was, that the next day she found herself in as good health as ever she enjoyed during her life.
CUSHEEN LOO
T RANSLATED FROM THE I RISH BY J. J. C ALLAHAN
[This song is supposed to have been sung by a young bride, who was forcibly detained in one of those forts which are so common in Ireland, and to which the good people are very fond of resorting. Under pretence of hushing her child to rest, she retired to the outside margin of the fort, and addressed the burthen of her song to a young woman whom she saw at a short distance, and whom she requested to inform her husband of her condition, and to desire him to bring the steel knife to dissolve the enchantment.]
Sleep, my child! for the rustling trees,
Stirr’d by the breath of summer breeze,
And fairy songs of sweetest note,
Around us gently float.
Sleep! for the weeping flowers have shed
Their fragrant tears upon thy head,
The voice of love hath sooth’d thy rest,
And thy pillow is a mother’s breast.
Sleep, my child!
Weary hath pass’d the time forlorn,
Since to your mansion I was borne,
Tho’ bright the feast of its airy halls,
And the voice of mirth resounds from its walls
Sleep, my child!
Full many a maid and blooming bride
Within that splendid dome abide,—
And many a hoar and shrivell’d sage,
And many a matron bow’d with age.
Sleep, my child!
Oh! thou who hearest this song of fear,
To the mourner’s home these tidings bear.
Bid him bring the knife of the magic blade,
At whose lightning-flash the charm will fade.
Sleep, my child!
Haste! for to-morrow’s sun will see
The hateful spell renewed for me;
Nor can I from that home depart,
Till life shall leave my withering heart.
Sleep, my child!
Sleep, my child! for the rustling trees,
Stirr’d by the breath of summer breeze,
And fairy songs of
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