"Sure I believe she's takin' time to think of the iligant load she's carryin', melady, and small blame to her!" said Mr. Barney O'Mara; and after that we let him drive as best he could, although it did take us four hours to do nine Irish miles. He came, did Mr. Barney, from County Armagh, and he beguiled the way with interesting tales from that section of Ireland, one of which, 'the Old Crow and the Young Crow,' particularly took our fancies.
"An old crow was teaching a young crow one day, and says to him, 'Now, my son,' says he, 'listen to the advice I'm going to give you,' says he. 'If you see a person coming near you and stooping, mind yourself, and be on your keeping; he's stooping for a stone to throw at you,' says he.
"'But tell me,' says the young crow, 'what should I do if he had a stone already down in his pocket?' says he.
"'Musha, go 'long out of that,' says the old crow, 'you've learned enough; the divil another learning I'm able to give you.'"
He was a perfect honey-pot of useless and unreliable information, was Barney O'Mara, and most learned in fairy lore; but for that matter, all the people walking along the road, the drivers, the boatman and guides, the men and women in the cottages where we stop in a shower or to inquire the way, relate stories of phookas, leprehauns, and sprites, banshees and all the various classes of elves and fays, as simply and seriously as they would speak of any other occurrences. Barney told us gravely of the old woman who was in the habit of laying pishogues (charms) to break the legs of his neighbour's cattle, because of an ancient grudge she bore him; and also how necessary it is to put a bit of burning turf under the churn to prevent the phookas, or mischievous fairies, from abstracting the butter or spoiling the churning in any way. Irish fays seem to be much interested in dairy matters, for, besides the sprites who delight in distracting the cream and keeping back the butter (I wonder if a lazy up-and-down movement of the dasher invites them at all, at all?), it is well known that many a milkmaid on a May morning has seen fairy cows browsing along the banks of lakes,--cows that vanish into thin mist at the sound of human footfall.
When we were quite cross at missing the noon train from Rossan, quite tired of the car's jolting, somewhat vexed even at the mare's continued enjoyment of her 'iligant load,' Barney appeased us all by singing, in a delightful, mellow voice, a fairy song called the 'Leprehaun,'* This personage, you must know, if you haven't a large acquaintance among Irish fairies, is a tricksy fellow in a green coat and scarlet cap, with brave shoe buckles on his wee brogues.
You will catch him sometimes, if the 'glamour' is on you, under a burdock leaf or a thorn bush, and he is always making or mending a shoe. He commonly has a little purse about him, which, if you are quick enough, you can snatch; and a wonderful purse it is, for whatever you spend, there is always money to be found in it. Truth to tell, nobody has yet succeeded in being quicker than Master Leprehaun, though many have offered to fill his cruiskeen with 'mountain dew,' of which Irish fairies are passionately fond.
* By Patrick W. Joyce.
'In a shady nook, one moonlight night, A leprehaun I spied;
With scarlet cap and coat of green, A cruiskeen by his side.
'Twas tick, tack, tick, his hammer went, Upon a weeny shoe;
And I laughed to think of his purse of gold;
But the fairy was laughing too!
With tip-toe step and beating heart, Quite softly I drew nigh:
There was mischief in his merry face, A twinkle in his eye.
He hammered, and sang with tiny voice, And drank his mountain dew;
And I laughed to think he was caught at last;
But the fairy was laughing too!
As quick as thought I seized the elf.
"Your fairy purse!" I cried.
"The purse!" he said--"'tis in her hand---That lady at your side."
I turned to look: the elf was off.
Then what was I to do?
O, I laughed to think what a fool I'd been;
And the fairy was laughing too!'
I cannot communicate any idea of the rollicking gaiety and quaint charm Barney gave to the tune, nor the light-hearted, irresistible chuckle with which he rendered the last two lines, giving a snap of his whip as accent to the long 'O':--'O, I laughed to think what a fool I'd been;
And the fairy was laughing too!'
After he had sung it twice through, Benella took my guitar from its case for me, and we sang it after him, again and again; so it was in happy fashion that we at least approached Ballyrossan, where we bade Barney O'Mara a cordial farewell, paying him four shillings over his fare, which was cheap indeed for the song.
As we saw him vanish slowly up the road, ragged himself, the car and harness almost ready to drop to pieces, the mare, I am sure, in the last week of her existence, we were glad that he had his Celtic fancy to enliven his life a bit,--that fancy which seems a providential reaction against the cruel despotisms of fact.
