V.

“Now, jump upon shore, ye queer little oddities, ... Eh! what is this? Where are they at all? Where are they and where are their tiny commodities? Well! as I live!” He looks blank as a wall, The poor Ferryman! Round him, and round him he gazes, But only gets deeplier lost in the mazes Of utter bewilderment! All, all are gone— And he stands alone, Like a statue of stone, In a doldrum of wonder. He turns to steer, And a tinkling laugh salutes his ear With other odd sounds—“Ha! ha! ha! ha! Tol, lol; zid, ziddle—quee, quee—bah! bah! Fizzigigiggidy! phse! sha! sha!” “O, ye thieves, ye thieves! ye rascally thieves!” The good man cries. He turns to his pitcher, And there, alas! to his horror perceives, That the little folks’ mode of making him richer Had been to pay with him—withered leaves!

CLARENCE MANGAN.

THUBBER-NA-SHIE; OR, THE FAIRY WELL.

[Amongst the many old and fanciful superstitions embodied in the traditions of our peasantry, some of the most poetical are those connected with spring wells, which in Ireland have been invested with something of a sacred character ever since the days of Druidical worship. It is in some parts of the country an article of popular belief, that the desecration of a spring by any unworthy use is followed invariably by some misfortune to the offender; and that the well itself, which is regarded as the source of fruitfulness and prosperity, moves altogether out of the fields in which the violation has been committed.—_Dublin University Magazine_, vol. viii., p. 449.]

Oh! Peggy Bawn was innocent, And wild as any roe; Her cheek was like the summer rose, Her neck was like the snow:

And every eye was in her head So beautiful and bright, You’d almost think they’d light her through Glencarrigy by night.

Among the hills and mountains, Above her mother’s home, The long and weary summer day Young Peggy Blake would roam;

And not a girl in all the town, From Dhua to Glenlur, Could wander through the mountain’s heath Or climb the rocks with her.

The Lammas sun was shinin’ on The meadows all so brown; The neighbours gathered far and near To cut the ripe crops down;

And pleasant was the mornin’, And dewy was the dawn, And gay and lightsome-hearted To the sunny fields they’re gone.

The joke was passing lightly, And the laugh was loud and free; There was neither care nor trouble To disturb their hearty glee;

When, says Peggy, resting in among The sweet and scented hay, “I wonder is there one would brave The Fairy well to-day!”

She looked up with her laughin’ eyes, So soft at Willy Rhu; Och murdher! that she didn’t need His warnin’ kind and true!

But all the boys and girls laughed, And Willy Rhu looked shy; God help you, Willy! sure they saw The throuble in your eye.

“Now, by my faith!” young Connell says— “I like your notion well— There’s a power more than gospel In what crazy gossips tell.”

Oh, my heavy hatred fall upon Young Connell of Sliabh-Mast! He took the cruel vengeance For his scorned love at last.

The jokin’ and the jibin’ And the banterin’ went on, One girl dared another, And they all dared Peggy Bawn.

Till, leaping up, away she flew Down to the hollow green— Her bright locks, floating in the wind, Like golden lights were seen.

They saw her at the Fairy-well— Their laughin’ died away, They saw her stoop above its brink With heart as cold as clay.

Oh! mother, mother, never stand Upon your cabin floor! You heard the cry that through your heart Will ring for evermore;

For when she came up from the well, No one could stand her look: Her eye was wild—her cheek was pale— They saw her mind was shook:

And the gaze she cast around her Was so ghastly and so sad— “O Christ preserve us!” shouted all, “Poor Peggy Blake’s gone mad!”

The moon was up—the stars were out, And shining through the sky, When young and old stood mourning round To see their darling die.

Poor Peggy from her death-bed rose— Her face was pale and cold, And down about her shoulders hung The lovely locks of gold.

“All you that’s here this night,” she said, “Take warnin’ by my fate, Whoever braves the Fairies’ wrath, Their sorrow comes too late.”

The tear was startin’ in her eye, She clasp’d her throbbin’ head, And when the sun next mornin’ rose Poor Peggy Bawn was dead.

JAMES TEELING.

THE HAUNTED SPRING.

[It is said, Fays have the power to assume various shapes for the purpose of luring mortals into Fairyland; hunters seem to have been particularly the objects of the lady fairies’ fancies.]

Gaily through the mountain glen The hunter’s horn did ring, As the milk-white doe Escaped his bow, Down by the haunted spring. In vain his silver horn he wound,— ’Twas echo answered back; For neither groom nor baying hound Were on the hunter’s track In vain he sought the milk-white doe That made him stray, and ’scaped his bow; For, save himself, no living thing Was by the silent haunted spring.

The purple heath-bells, blooming fair, Their fragrance round did fling, As the hunter lay At close of day, Down by the haunted spring. A lady fair, in robe of white, To greet the hunter came; She kissed a cup with jewels bright, And pledged him by his name; “Oh, lady fair,” the hunter cried, “Be thou my love, my blooming bride, A bride that well may grace a king! Fair lady of the haunted spring.”

In the fountain clear she stoop’d, And forth she drew a ring; And that loved Knight His faith did plight Down by the haunted spring. But since that day his chase did stray, The hunter ne’er was seen, And legends tell, he now doth dwell Within the hills so green;[4] But still the milk-white doe appears, And wakes the peasants’ evening fears, While distant bugles faintly ring Around the lonely haunted spring.

SAMUEL LOVER.

[4] Fays and fairies are supposed to have their dwelling-places within old green hills.

THE ROMANCE OF THE FAIRY CURE.

Nelly Phelan’s child is ailing; Hour by hour, the babe is failing; Squeeling, kicking, biting, whining, To an atomy he’s pining.

Once he was a fine, wee fellow; Now he’s wrinkled, thin, and yellow. Playful then he was, and civil; Now he’s cross-grained, as the devil.

To a wise woman Nell’s walking; Long time they’re in secret talking; First she heard all Nell’s description; Then she wrote out a prescription.

“Take this cure, although a strange one; It is needed when they change one; By it you’ll the fairies bother, Get your child, and choke the other.

“You must make the fairy speak out, Ere your child, from them, you take out. If you follow what’s here written, You shall find the biter bitten.”

Cried Nell, “Be sure that I’ll observe it; If I fail I’ll not deserve it: I would walk the wide world over, If my child I could recover.”

Five hundred egg-shells Nelly chooses In a pot, the shells she bruises; In spring water now they’re boiling, Stirring round the pot she’s toiling.

Red-hot now the poker’s ready; While Nell stirs the pot, so steady: From the child, in cradle lying, Nell now hears a strange voice crying—

“Mammy! Mammy! what’s that boiling? Why with potstick are you toiling?” Nell, with fright, to drop was ready, Yet she answered, cool, and steady—

“Egg-shells, deary! I am brewing, Cock’s broth for my babe I’m stewing. When I skim off all the dripping, Then it will be fit for sipping.”

“Though five hundred years I’m chewing, Egg-shells never saw I brewing; Though five centuries I’m cheating, Ne’er have I seen cock’s broth eating.”

Quick the poker Nelly seizes; To the cradle now she races; Red-hot down its throat she crams it; With her might and main she rams it.