If thou own big Gordon farm, boy—
If thine this little glen east, and thine this little glen west,
Not thine the merry Glen of Rushen yet, boy!
So he flung the clothes away and walked his ways to Glen Rushen, out to Juan Mooar Cleary’s. He was working for him then, cutting the meadow hay for him, cutting turf for him, and seeing after the sheep.
It happened one winter’s night that there was a great snow-storm. Juan Mooar got up to see after the sheep, but the Fynoderee came to the window.
‘Lie, lie an’ take a sleep, Juan,’ says he; ‘I’ve got all the sheep in the fold, but there was one loaghtan (brown native sheep) yearling there that give me more trouble till all the res’. My seven curses on the little loaghtan! I was twice round Barrule Mooar afther her, but I caught her for all.’
When Juan went out in the morning all the sheep were safe in the cogee house and a big hare in with them, with two short lankets on him, that was the brown yearling!
After a time the Fynoderee went up to the top of Barrule Mountain to live, up to the very peak. Himself and the wife went to make a potful of porridge one day, and they fell out.
She ran and left him. He threw a big white rock after her and it struck her on the heel—the mark of the blood is still on the stone at Cleigh Fainey. While she stooped to put a rag on her heel he threw a lot of small rocks at her, that made her give a spring to the Lagg, two miles away. Then he threw a big rock with the pot-stick in it—it’s in the Lagg river to-day. At that she gave two leaps over the sea to the Mountains of Mourne in Ireland; and for all that I know she’s living there still.