|
URSGEUL
Bha roimhe so
réiseamaid ann am Bailchath an Eirinn, 's bha i 'folbh air turas fada. Bha
séirdsean, corpoal, agus saighdear sìngilte aig: an robh leannain anns a'
bhaile. Chaidh iad am faicinn an latha bha iad ri folbh, 's dh' fhan iad
tuillidh is fada, 's dh' fhag an réiseamaid iad. Lean iad i 's bha iad a'
folbh 's a' folbh gus an d' thàinig an oidhche orra. Chunnaic iad solus
fada uatha, 's ma b' fhada uatha cha b' fhada bha iadsan 'ga ruigheachd.
Chaidh iad a stigh. Bha 'n t-ủrlar reidh, sguabte, 's gealbhan air, 's gun
duine stigh. Shuidh iad aig a' ghealbhan 'gan garadh. Cha b' fhada 'bha
iad mur sin nur a dh' éirich an saighdear sìngilte, d' am b' aimn Iain, a
dh' amharc de 'bha 'san t-seombar, a thaobh gun robh solus ann. Bha 'n sin
bord air a chuirneachadh leis a h-uile seòrsa bidh, ‘s coinneal laist'
air. Chaidh e suas; thòisich e air itheadh; 's thòisich càch air a bhacail,
o nach robh gnothach aige ris. Nur a chunnaic iad nach do stad e, chaidh
iad suas, 's thòisich iad féin. Bha tri leapaichean anns an t-seombar, 's
chaidh fear dhiu 'laidhe anns gach leaba.
Cha b' fhada
a bha iad 'nan laidhe nur a thàinig tri nigheanan mòra ruagha stigh, 's
shin té aca i féin aig beulthaobh gach té de na leapaichean, 's nur a
chunnaic iad an t-am iomchuidh anns a' mhaidinn dh' éirich iad, agus dh'
fholbh iad.
Nur a dh'
éirich na saighdearan cha 'n aithnichte gun d' thàinig mir bhàr a' bhủird
riamh. Shuidh iad, 's ghabh iad am biadh. Thuirt an seirdsean gum b'
fheàrra dhaibh an réiseamaid a leantainn, 's thuirt Iain nach leanadh.
Fhad 'sa gheibheadh e bhiadh 'na thàmh nach folbhadh e. Nur a thàinig an
t-am dinnearach, shuidh iad 's ghabh iad an dinneir. Thuirt an séirdsean
gum b' fheàrra dhaibh folbh, 's thuirt Iain nach folbhadh. Nur a thàinig
am sioparach, shuidh iad 's ghabh iad an siopair. An déigh an sioparach
chaidh iad a laidhe, gach fear d'a leaba féin.
Thàinig na
nigheanan an oidhche so cuideachd, 's chaidh té laidhe anns a' h-uile
leaba dhiu. Anns a' mhaidinn, nur a chunnaic iad an t-am iomchuidh, dh'
éirich iad 's dh' fholbh iad.
Nur a dh'
éirich na gillean bha 'm bòrd củirnichte, 's cha 'n aithnichte gun d'
thàinig mir riamh dheth. Shuidh iad 's ghabh iad am biadh, 's nur a ghabh
iad am biadh thuirt an seirdsean gum folbhadh iad codhiu. Thuirt Iain nach
folbhadh. Ghabh iad an dinneir 's an siopair mur a b' àbhaist. Chaidh iad
a laidhe.
Thàinig na
nigheanan 's laidh iad as an déigh. Anns a' mhaidinn thug an té 'bu shine
sporan do 'n t-seirdsean, 's a' h-uile h-uair a dh' fhosgladh e e bhiodh e
làn òir is airgid. Urs' i ris an té mheadhonaich, "De 'bheir thusa do t'
fhear fein?" "Bheir mise dha tuthailt, 's a' h-uile h-uair a sgaoileas e i
bidh i làn de na h-uile seòrsa bìdh. " Thug i 'n tuthailt do 'n chorporal,
's thuirt i ris an té b’ òige, " Dé 'bheir thusa do t' fhear fein?" "Bheir
mi dha fideag, ‘s a' h-uile h-uair a sheinneas e i bidh e ‘n teis meadhoin
na réiseamaid." Thug i dha an fhìdeag. Dh’fhàg iad beannachd aca ‘s dh'
fholbh iad.
"Cha leig mi
leis an so e," urs' Iain, "bidh fhios'am co iad ma 'n d' théid mi na 's
faide air m' aghaidh. " Lean e iad, 's chunnaic e iad a' dol sìos le
gleann, 's nur a bha e thun a bhi shìos thàinig iad 'na choinneamh, 's iad
a' caoineadh. "De th' oirbh?" urs' esan. " 'S mòr a th’ oirnn," urs'
iadsan; "tha sinn fo gheasan gus am faigh sinn tri gillean a laidheas
leinn tri oidehean gun cheisd a chur oirnn, ‘s nam fanadh thusa gun ar
leantainn bha sinn ma sgaoil." "Am bheil dòigh sam bith air am faigh sibh
ma sgaoil, " urs' esan, "ach sin?" "Tha," urs' iadsan; "tha craobh aig
ceann an tighe, 's na'n d' thigeadh sibh, an ceann la is bliadima, 's a'
chraobh sin a spìonadh bha sinne ma sgaoil."
Thill Iain
air ais far an robh càch; dh' innis e dhaibh mar a thachair dha; 's chuir
iad an comhairle r'a cheile gun tilleadh iad air an ais do Bhailecliath a
rithisd, chionn nach b' fhiach dhaibh an réisemaid a leantainn. Thiall iad
do Bhailecliath air an ais. An oidhche sin urs' Iain, " 'S fheàrr dhomh
dol a dh' amharc nighean an rìgh a nochd." " 'S fheàrra dhuit fantainn aig
an tigh," arsa càch, “na dol ann." "Théid mi am codhiủ," urs' esan.
Dh' fholbh e
's ràinig e tigh an rìgh. Bhuail e aig an dorus. Dh' fheòraich h-aon de na
mnathan uaisle de 'bha dhith air, 's thuirt e gun robh toil aige ‘bhi 'bruidhinn
ri nighean an rìgh. Thàinig nighean an rìgh far an robh e, 's dh'
fheòraich i dé 'n gnothuch a bh' aige rithe. "Bheir mi dhuit fideag," urs'
esan, " 's nur a sheinneas thu i bidh thu ann am meadhon a leithid so do
réiseamaid." Nur a fhuair ise an fhideag bhreab i leis an staighir e, 's
dhủin i’ n dorus air. "Démur chaidh dhuit?" urs' iadsan. "Mheall i 'n
fhìdeag uam," urs' esan. Cha do stad e gus an do mheall e coingheall de 'n
sporan o 'n t-séirdsean. " 'S fheàrra dhomh," urs' esan, "dol a dh'
fhaicinn nighean an rìgh a rithisd."
Dh’ fholbh e
's ràinig e 'n tigh. Chunnaic e nighean an rìgh; mheall i 'n sporan uaidhe;
bhreab i leis an staighir e mar a rinn i roimhid; 's thill e air ais. Cha
do stad e gus an do mheall e coingheall de 'n tuthailt o 'n chorporal.
Chaidh e 'rithisd
far an robh nighean an rìgh. "De 'bheir thu dhomh air an t-siubhal so?"
urs’ ise. "Tuthailt, 's nur a dh’ fhosglar i bidh i làn de na h-uile
seòrsa bidh." "Leig fhaicinn domh i," urs' ise. "Sgaoilidh sin a mach i,"
urs' esan. Sgaoil e mach i, 's bha oisean di nach laidheadh gu ceart.
Thuirt e rithe seasamh air an oisean.
Sheas i air.
Sheas e féin air oisean eile, 's ghuidh e bhi ann an eilean iomallach na
doimhne. 'S bha e féin, is nighean an rìgh,'s an tuthailt ann ann an còig
mionaldean. Bha 'sin an aon eilean a bu bhòidhche a chunnaic duine riamh,
's gun ni ann ach craobhan is measan. Bha iad an sin a' folbh feadh an
eilean air an ais 's air an aghaidh, 's thàinig an cadal airsan. Thàinig
iad gu lagan bòidheach, 's chuir esan a cheann 'na h-uchdse 's rinn e
gréim bàis air a h-apran, air alt 's nach fhaigheadh i air folbh gun e
mhòthchuinn di. Nur a chaidil esan dh' fhuasgail ise an t-apran; dh' fhàg
i 'n sin e; thug i leatha an tuthailt; sheas i urra; ghuidh i bhi 'n tigh
a h-athar; 's bha i ann.
Nur a dhủisg
esan cha robh ni ri fhaotainn aige, 's cha robh ni ri fhaicinn aige, ach
craobhan is eunlaith. Bha e 'n sin a' tighinn beò air measan an eilean, 's
dh' amais ubhlan air, 's nur a dh' itheadh e aon seòrsa dhiu chuireadh iad
ceann féidh air, 's nur a dh' itheadh e seòrsa eile dhiu chuireadh iad
deth e. Aon latha chruinnich e mòran de na h-ubhlan, 's chuir e ‘n darna
seòrsa ann an aon cheann do 'n phòca, 's an seòrsa éi1e anns a' cheann
eile. Chunnaic e soitheach a' dol seachad; chrath e rithe; thàinig bàta gu
tìr; 's thug iad air bòrd e. Thug an caibhtinn sìos e gu biadh, 's dh'
flàg e 'm poca gu h-ard. Dh' fhosgaill na seòliadairean am poca a dh'
amharc de 'bh 'ann. Nur a chunnaic iad an seòrsa 'chuireadh adhaircean
féidh orra. Chinn adhaircean féidh orra, 's thòisich iad air leum air a
chéile gus an robh iad a' brath an soitheach a bhrisdeadh. Nur a chuala an
caibhtinn an starum thàinig e nìos, s nur a chunnaic e iad thuirt e, " 'Dhroch
dhuine dé tha thu an déigh a dhèanadh air mo, dhaoine nis?" "De," urs'
Iain, "a chuir do dhaoine-sa cho miomhail ‘s gun rachadh iad a dh'
fhaicinn de bhiodh ann am poca duine sam bith? De bheir thu dhomh, " urs'
Iain, "ma dh' fhàgas mi iad mur a bha iad roimhid?" Ghabh an sgiobair
eagal, 's thuirt e gun d' thugadh e dha an soitheach agus an luchd aig a'
chiad phort a ruigeadh iad. Dh' fhosgail e 'n so am poca, 's thug e dhaibh
an seòrs' eile, 's thuit na h-adhaircean diu. 'S e luchd òir a' bh' air an
t-soitheach, agus 's ann a Bhailecliath a bha i 'dol. Nur a ràinig iad
thuirt an caibhtinn ris, e ‘bhi 'gabhail củram de 'n t-soitheach 's de 'n
luchd, gun robh esan réidh is i. "Dèan faighidinn," urs' Iain, "gus am
faic sinn démur a théid duinn ann an ceann beagan làithean."
Dh' fholbh e
'n la 'r na mhàireach a reic nan ubhlan feadh a' bhaile, 's gun air ach
aodach srachdte. Chaidh e suas feadh a' bhaile, 's thàinig e ma choinneamh
tigh an rìgh, 's chunnaic e nighean an rìgh 's a ceann a mach air uinneag.
Dh’ iarr i punnd de na h-ubhlan a chur suas a 'h-ionnsuidh. Thuirt esan i
dh' fheacainn démur a chòrdadh iad rithe an toiseach. Thilg e 'suas ubhal
urra de 'n t-seòrsa 'chuireadh ceann féidh urra. Nur a dh' ith i 'n ubhal
thàinig ceann féidh urra. Chuir an rìgh fios a mach nam faighte duine sam
bith a léighseadh a nighean gum faigheadh e peic òir is peic airgid, 's i
féin r'a phòsadh. Bha i mur sin mòran làithean, 's gun duine 'tighinn a
bha déanadh math sam bith. Thàinig Iain gus an dorusd leis an aodach
shrachdte 'g iarraidh a stigh, 's nur a chunnaic iad a choslas cha
leigeadh iad a stigh e, ach bha bràthair beag aicise a chunnaic iad 'ga
chumail a mach 's dh' innis e d'a athair e, 's thuirt a h-athair ged a b’
e bleidire an lòin a bhiodh ann a leigeil a stigh. Chaidh fios as a dhéigh
a 'thilleadh, agus thill e. Thuirt an rìgh ris an léighseadh e 'nighean,
's thuirt e gum feuchadh e ris. Thug iad suas e do 'n t-seombar far an
robh i. Shuidh e, 's thug e 'mach leobhar a phòca 's gun ni sam bith ann,
a' leigeil air gun robh e 'ga 'leubhadh. "An do mheall thusa," urs' esan,
"fideag o shaighdear bochd, nur a sheinneadh e i ‘bheireadh e gu meadhon a
réiseamaid." "Mheall," urs' ise. "Mar a' bheil sin air faotainn," urs'
esan, "cha 'n urrainn mise do leigheas. "Tha," urs' ise. Thug iad a'
ionnsuidh an fhìdeag. Nur a fhuair e 'n fhìdeag thug e dhi pìosa de dh'
ubhal, 's thuit fear de na cabair dhi. "Cha ‘n urrainn mi," urs' esan, "tuillidh
a dhèanadh an diugh, ach thig mi 'm màireach."
Dh' fholbh e
'n sin a mach, 's thachair a sheana chompanaich air, 's e cheaird a bh'
aca 'bhi buacadh aoil, 's a' tarruinn uisge do chlachairean. Dh' aithnich
esan iadsan, ach cha d' aithnich iadsan esan. Cha do leig e rud sam bith
air, ach thug e dhaibh deich tasdain, 's thuirt e riu, "òlaibh deoch
slàinte an fhir a thug dhuibh e.
Dhealaich e
'n sin riu, 's thill e gus an t-soithich. An la 'r na mhàireach chaidh e
far an robh nighean an rìgh. Thug e mach an leabhar, 's thuirt e rithe,
"An do mheall thusa sporan o shaighdear bochd, a bhiodh làn òir is airgid
h-uile h-uair a dh' fhosgailt' e?" "Mheall," ars' ise. "Mar a' bheil sin
air faotainn," urs' esan, "cha ‘n urrainn mise do leigheas." "Tha," urs'
ise, 's thug ian dha an sporan. Nur a fhuair e e thug e dhi pìosa do 'n
ubhal, 's thuit cabar eile dhi. "Cha 'n urrainn mi tuillidh a dhèanadh an
diugh," urs' esan, "ach thig mi 'n ath oidhche."
Chaidh e far
an robh 'sheana chompanaich, 's thug e dhaibh deich tasdain eile, 's
thuirt e riu deoch slàinte an fhir a thug dhaibh e òl. Thill e 'n sin thun
an t-soithich. Thuirt an caibhtinn ris an robh e 'dol a ghabhail củram do
'n t-soitheach a nis. Thuirt esan, "Glac faighidinn gu ceann latha na dha
gus am faic sinn démur a théid duinn." Thill e an ath oidhche a dh'
fhaicinn nighean an rìgh. Thug e tarrainn air a leabhar mar a b' àbhaist
dha. "An do mheall thusa," urs' esan, "tuthailt o shaighdear bochd, a
bhiodh làn de na h-uile seòrsa bidh a' h-uile h-uair a dh' fhosgailt i?" "Mheall,"
urs' ise. "Mar a' bheil an tuthailt sin air fhotainn cha 'n urrainn mise
do leigheas," urs' esan. "Tha," urs' ise. Thug iad dha i. Cho luath 's a
fhuair esan i thug e ubhal shlàn dhi, 's nur a dh' ith i i bha i mar a bha
i roimhid. Fhuair e 'n sin peic òir is peic airgid, 's thuirt iad ris gum
faigheadh e i féin ri 'pòsadh, "Thig mi 'm màireach," urs' esan.
Ghabh e
rathad a sheana chompanach air an t-siubhal so cuideachd; thug e deich
tasdain daibh; 's thuirt e riu deoch slàinte an fhir a thug dhaibh e òl.
Urs' iadsan, "Bu mhail leinn fios a bhi againn co an caraid caoimhneil a
tha 'toirt duinn a' leithid' a' h-uile h-oidhche?" "Am bheil cuimhn'
agaibh," urs’ esan, "Nur a bha sinn 'na leithid so do dh' àite, 's a
gheall sin do na tri nigheanan gun rachamaid ann bliadhna o 'n am sin a
rithisd?" Dh' aithnich iad an sin e. "Chaidh an ủine sin seachad o chionn
fada," urs' iadsan. "Cha deachaidh," urs' esan; " 's i an ath oidhche an
oidhche." Thill e far an robh an caibhtinn, 's thuirt e ris gum faodadh e
féin 's a luchd a bhi folbh, nach biodh esan a' cur dragh air, gun robh na
leòir aige.
An la 'r na
mhàireach chaidh e seachad tigh an rìgh, 's thuirt nighean an rìgh ris,
"Am bheil thu dol am' phòsadh an diugh?" "Cha 'n 'eil na 'màireach," urs'
esan. Thill e far an robh càch, 's thòisich e air cur an òrdugh air son
dol far an do gheall iad. Thug e 'n sporan do 'n séirdsean, an tuthailt do
'n chorporal, 's ghléidh e féin an fhìdeag. Cheannaich e tri eich, 's dh'
fholbh iad air mharcachd ann an cabhaig mhòir do 'n aite an do gheall iad
dol. Nur a ràinig iad an tigh rug iad air a' chraoibh, is thàinig i leis
air a' chiad spìonadh. Thàinig na tri nigheanan gu geal, gàireachdach far
an robh iad, 's bha iad saor o na geasan. Thug a' h-uile fear dhiu leis a
thè féin, 's thàinig iad air an ais do Bhailecliath, 's phòs iad.
Got this tale
from a young lad of the name of James M'Lachlin, who is at present in my
own employment. I have had the preceding tale from him also. He has had
them from an old woman that lives somewhere up the way of Portaskaig, who,
he says, can repeat several more, and to whom I intend immediately to
apply.
May 27, 1860.
After spealking to the old woman MacKerrol, I find that, from age and loss
of memory, she is unable now to tell any of the tales she was wont to
repeat.
HECTOR
MACLEAN.
Another
version of this has been sent by Mr. Osgood Mackenzie from Gairloch. It
was recited by HECTOR MACKENZIE at Dibaig, who learned it some years ago
from KENNETH MACKENZIE at Dibaig; and it was written by ANGUS MACRAE at
Dibaig. This Dibaig version tells how -
1. There was
a soldier, by name Coinneach Buidhe, Kenneth the Yellow, in the army of
old, and he belonged to Alba. He deserted, and his master sent a "corpaileir"
after him; but the corporal deserted too; and so did a third. They went on
till they reached the "yearly wood," in America. After a time, they saw on
a certain night, a light which led them to a large house; they found meat
and drink, and all that they could desire. They saw no one for a year and
a day, except three maidens, who never spoke, but called in at odd times;
and as they did not speak, the soldiers were silent.
At the end of
the year the maidens spoke, and praised them for their politeness,
explained that they were under spells, and for their kindness, gave to the
first a cup that would be ever full, and a lamp of light; to the second, a
table-cover on which meat was ever; and to the third, a bed in which there
would ever be rest for them at any time they chose; and besides, the
“TIADHLAICEAN” would make any one who had them get anything he wished.
They reached a certain king, whose only daughter pretended to be fond of
Kenneth the Yellow, and wheedled him till he gave her the TIADHLAICEAN,
when she ordered him to be put in an island in the ocean. When there alone
he grew hungry, and ate "abhlan," and a wood like thatch grew through his
head, and there remained till he ate "ABHLAN" of another kind, when the
wood vanished. He got off in a ship with "ABHLAN" of each sort, and
reached the big town of the king where he had been before, where he set up
a booth. On a certain day a fair lad came in to sell ABHLAN, and through
him the other kind were sold to the king's daughter, and a wood grew on
her head. Kenneth the Yellow got back the TIADHLAICEAN, and found his two
companions AGUS BHA IAD UILE TUILLEADH ANN AM MEAS AGUS SOIRBHEACHADH GUS
A CHRIOCH. And they were all after in worship and prosperousness till the
end.
This is
manifestly the same story shortened, and made reasonable. It is very well
written and spelt according to rule.
3. I have
another version of this told by Hector Boyd, fisherman, Castle Bay, Barra,
who says he learned it from John MacNeill, who has left the island; and
from Neill MacKinnon, Ruagh Lias. In this the three soldiers are English,
Scotch, and Irish. The two last desert; and the first, a sergeant, is sent
after them. They persuade him to desert also, and they come to a castle.
The Irishman acts the part of John in the Islay version; and the first
night they eat and go to sleep, and find dresses when they wake. In the
morning they get up and put on their dresses; and the board was set over
with meat and with drink, and they took their TRATH MADAIN, breakfast.
They went to take a walk without. The Englishman had a gun, and he saw
three swans swimming on a loch, and he began to put a charge in his gun.
The swans perceived him, and they cried to him, and they were sure he was
going to shoot at them. They came on shore and became three women. "How
are these dresses pleasing you?" said they. "The like will be yours every
day in the year, and your meat as good as you got; but that you should
neither think or order one of us to be with you in lying down or rising
up." And so they remained for a year in the castle. One night the Irishman
thought of the swans, and in the morning they had nothing but their old
dresses.
They went to
the loch; the swans came on shore, became women, and gave a purse that
would always be full of gold and jewels, to the Englishman; a knife to the
Scotchman, and whenever it was opened he would be wherever he wished; and
to the Irishman a horn, and when he blew in the small end there would be a
thousand soldiers before him; and when he blew in the big end none of them
would be seen.
They go to a
big town, and build a house on a green hill with money from the purse; and
when the house was built, one about went to the town to buy meat. The
Irishman fell in love with the king's daughter, and was cheated out of his
magic horn; borrowed the purse, and lost that; and then, by the help of
the knife, transported himself and the king's daughter to an island which
could hardly be seen in the far ocean. And there they were, and there they
stayed for seventeen days, eating fruits. One day he slept with his head
on her knee, and she looked at her hands and saw how long the nails had
grown; so she put her hand in his pocket and took out the knife to pare
them. "Oh," said she, "that I were where the nails grew on me," and she
was in her father's house. Then he found red apples and grey apples; and
no sooner had he eaten some of the red apples than his head was down, and
his heels were up, from the weight of the deer's horns that grew on his
head. Then he bethought him that one of the grey apples might heal him;
and he stretched himself out with his head downwards, and kicked down one
of the apples with his feet, and ate it, and the horns fell off him. Then
he made baskets, and filled them with the apples; climbed a tree, saw a
ship, tore his shirt and waved it on a stick, and was seen.
The skipper
was under an oath that he would never leave a man in extremity. They came
on shore for him, and were terrified at his beard, thinking that he was
the evil spirit. When he got on board, a razor was got, and (as the
narrator said) SHEUBHAIG E he was shaved. The ship sailed straight to the
king's house. The lady looked out of a window. He sold her a red apple for
a guinea. She ate it, the horns grew, and there were not alive those who
could take her from that. They thought of saws, and they sent for doctors;
and he came, and then there is a scene in which he pretends to read a
divining book, and tries saws on the horns, and frightens the lady and
recovers the lost gifts. Then he went to his friends, and they went to the
swans; and the spells went off them. and they married them.
The story is
very well told, especially the last scene; but it is too like the Islay
version to make it worth translating at fun length.
4. 1 have
another story, from a Ross-shire man, now in Glasgow, which begins in the
same manner, but the incidents are very different.
This story
has a counterpart in German, Der Krautesel; and it has a very long
pedigree in Grimm's third volume. It seems to be very widely spread, and
very old, and to belong to many languages; many versions are given. In one
a soldier, one of three, eats apples in a forest, and his nose grows right
through the forest, and sixty miles beyond it; and the king's daughter's
nose is made to grow, exactly as horns are made to grow on the princess in
the Highlands; and she is forced to give up the things which she had got
from the soldiers; and which are a purse, a mantle, and a horn of magic
power.
In another
version, it is a young huntsman who changes a with and her daughter into
donkeys, by giving them magic cabbages, which had previously transformed
him.
The swans in
the third version seem to belong to Sanscrit, as well as to Norse and
other languages. In "Comparative Mythology," by Max Muller, Oxford Essays,
1856, a story is given from the Brâhmana of the Yagurveda, in which this
passage occurs - "Then he bewailed his vanished love in bitter grief; and
went near Kurukshetra. There is a lake there called Anyatahplaksha, full
of lotus flowers; and while the king walked along its border, the fairies
were playing there in the water in the shape of birds; and Urvasi
discovered him, and said, ‘That is the man with whom I dwelt so long.'
Then her friends said, 'Let us appear to him,' " etc., etc.
The rest of
the Eastern story has many Western counterparts, such as "Peter Wilkins
and the Flying Ladies," and a story which I have from Islay. The incident
of birds which turn out to be enchanted women, occurs in a great many
other Gaelic stories; and is in Mr. Peter Buchan's "Green Sleeves" (see
introduction); and, as I am told, in the Edda.
BAILECLIATH
is Dublin, and takes its Gaelic name from a legend. The name should be
Baile àth Cliath, the town of Wattle Ford; either from wattled boats, or a
bridge of hurdles; and as it appears, there was a weaver, or tailor,
residing at Ath Chath, Wattle Ford, who got his living by making creels or
hurdles, CLIATHAN, for crossing the river. There was a fluent, gabby old
man, who was a friend of his; and from his having such a tongue, the
marker of the creels advised him to become a beggar, as he was sure to
succeed. He began, and got plenty of money. He wore a cap or currachd, and
all the coin he got he buried under a stone, at the end of the wattle
bridge. The bridge maker died; the beggar got ill and kept his cap on, and
never took it off; and when he was dying he asked his wife to bury him in
it; and he was buried with his cap on. The widow's son found out about the
buried treasure, and dug it up; but the beggar's ghost so tormented the
boy, that he had to go to the minister, who advised them to build a bridge
with the money; so they built DROCHAID ATH CLIATH, and there it is to this
very day.
I do not know
which of the Dublin bridges is meant, but the story was got from a woman
at Kilmeny in Islay, and this is a mere outline of it. It is known as the
story of the red haired beggar, Am Bochd Ruagh.
Bailecliath
is a great place in Gaelic songs.
The story of
the Three Soldiers is one of which I remember to have heard a part in my
childhood. I perfectly remember contriving with a companion how we would
have given the cruel princess bits of different kinds of apples, mixed
together, so as to make the horns grow, and fall off time about; but I
cannot remember who told me the story. The version I have given is the
most complete, but the language of the Barra version is better.
There are two
or three inconsistencies. They travel on the towel which had the
commissariat, and do not use the locomotive whistle at. all. But there are
touches of nature. The mason's labourers thought the time had passed, but
the adventurer did not find time so long; and he alone remembered the day. |
