It is one Rory's wild tales, and, as it mightily interested me—to be sure, I was young at the time—I trust, gentle reader, it may not prove entirely devoid of attraction for you.
In the little village of Templeneiry, situated at the base of one of the Galtee mountains, whose summit looks down upon the diminutive hamlet from the altitude of two thousand feet, there dwelt a very celebrated and greatly-sought-after individual, one Terry Magra, the Piper; there wasn't a pathern, fair, wake, wedding, or merriment of any description, for miles round, in which he and his dhrones were not called into requisition: there wasn't a performer on that noisy, but much-loved instrument, that could at all compare with Terry; it was solemnly asserted, indeed, that his superiority was the result of fairy agency; a belief which he was not unwilling to foster and encourage, inasmuch, as it gave him a wonderful importance among the superstitious peasantry.
Now, with grief it must be recorded, Terry was too much addicted to the almost national failing, that of intoxication. Whisky was to him the universal panacea; did his sweetheart, and he had plenty of them, frown upon his tender suit, whisky banished the mortification; was his rent in arrear, and no sign of anything turning up, whisky wiped off the account, instanter; did all the ill-omened birds that flock around the head of poverty, assail him, he fired a stiff tumbler of whisky punch at them, and they dispersed.
On the whole, it was a jolly vagabond, reckless, and variegated life, that of Terry Magra; his supernatural reputation, together with the general belief in the positive existence of fairies, entertained by the community in which he exercised his pleasant vocation, rendering him a fit subject to receive any spiritual impression, howsoever removed from the common course of events.
It was one moonlight night that Terry, after having attended a grand festival in the neighborhood, brought up, as was his usual custom, at a Sheebieen house, where a few seasoned old casks, like himself, invariably "topped off" with a round of throat-raspers; here he was the Sir Oracle; the lord of the soil himself—did they ever see him, which was not at all probable, for, upon the means wrung by his agents from the poor wretches, by Providence delegated to his care—those same agents, by the way, managing to squeeze out a comfortable per-centage for themselves—he lives in London. The lord of the soil, as I said, could not be served with readier obedience, or listened to with more profound attention.
The roaring song, and joke, and fun abounded upon this occasion, and Terry improvised so wild and inspiriting a strain upon his famous pipes, that it was generally conceded, with enthusiasm tinctured with awe, that no mortal hand could have produced such astounding music.
At length, the sleepy proprietor of the place put a sudden end to the jollification, by stopping the supplies, the only way in which the Widow Brady—for I'm sorry to say it was a woman, and a decent-looking one too, who presided over this Pandora's box, where Hope forever lies imprisoned—could break up the party.
Terry, after vainly endeavoring to mollify the widow, gathered up his magic pipes, and sallied forth. Adieus were exchanged; friendly hugs, and protestations of eternal friendship passed between the stammering, roaring crowd, to be ratified hereafter, it might be, by a crack on the skull from a tough alpieen. At last they separated, each to find, as he could, his way home by the devious light of a clouded moon.
Now, Terry lived a smart way up the mountain, and so, with, as he said, "the sense fairly bilin' in him everywhere but his murdherin' legs," that persisted in carrying him in the opposite direction to that which his intention pointed, the contest between his will and his locomotive powers making his course somewhat irregular—our bold piper proceeded on his way, humming snatches of songs, and every now and then, by way of diversion, waking the echoes by a fierce blast from his "chanter."
Whether Terry resorted to these means for the purpose of keeping his courage from slumbering within his breast, I know not; but, inasmuch as the ground he was traversing had a general fairy repute, I think it more than likely that, notwithstanding the whisky-valor with which he had armed himself, it was not without considerable trepidation he endeavored to make his way through the enchanted precincts.