“And then, sir,” says he at last, picking up courage, “if it isn’t taking a liberty, might I ax who you are, and why you are so kind as to do half of the day’s work for the girls every night?” “No liberty at all,” says the pooka, says he: “I’ll tell you, and welcome. I was a servant in the time of Squire R——’s father, and was the laziest rogue that ever was clothed and fed, and done nothing for it. When my time came for the other world, this is the punishment was laid on me to come here and do all this labour every night, and then go out in the cold. It isn’t so bad in the fine weather; but if you only knew what it is to stand with your head between your legs, facing the storm from midnight to sunrise, on a bleak winter night.” “And could we do anything for your comfort, my poor fellow?” says the boy. “Musha, I don’t know,” says the pooka; “but I think a good quilted frieze coat would help me to keep the life in me them long nights.” “Why, then, in troth, we’d be the ungratefullest of people if we didn’t feel for you.”

To make a long story short, the next night the boy was there again; and if he didn’t delight the poor pooka, holding a fine warm coat before him, it’s no mather! Betune the pooka and the man, his legs was got into the four arms of it, and it was buttoned down the breast and the belly, and he was so pleased he walked up to the glass to see how it looked. “Well,” says he, “it’s a long lane that has no turning. I am much obliged to you and your fellow-servants. You have made me happy at last. Good night to you.”

So he was walking out, but the other cried, “Och! sure you’re going too soon. What about the washing and sweeping?” “Ah, you may tell the girls that they must now get their turn. My punishment was to last till I was thought worthy of a reward for the way I done my duty. You’ll see me no more.” And no more they did, and right sorry they were for having been in such a hurry to reward the ungrateful pooka.

Patrick Kennedy.

ho rideth through the driving rain
At such a headlong speed?
Naked and pale he rides amain
Upon a naked steed.
Nor hollow nor height his going bars,
His wet steed shines like silk,
His head is golden to the stars
And his limbs are white as milk.
But, lo, he dwindles as the light
That lifts from a black mere,
And, as the fair youth wanes from sight,
The steed grows mightier.
What wizard by yon holy tree
Mutters unto the sky
Where Macha’s flame-tongued horses flee
On hoofs of thunder by?

Ah, ’tis not holy so to ban
The youth of kingly seed:
Ah! woe, the wasting of a man
Who changes to a steed.
Nightly upon the Plain of Kings,
When Macha’s day is nigh,
He gallops; and the dark wind brings
His lonely human cry.