(From “West Irish Folk Tales.”)
(A Legend of Glendalough.)
here was wanst a king, called King O’Toole, who was a fine ould king in the ould ancient times, long ago; and it was him that owned the Churches in the airly days.
“Surely,” said I, “the Churches were not in King O’Toole’s time?”
“Oh, by no manes, your honor—throth, it’s yourself that’s right enough there; but you know the place is called ‘The Churches’ bekase they wor built afther by St. Kavin, and wint by the name o’ the Churches iver more; and, therefore, av coorse, the place bein’ so called, I say that the King owned the Churches—and why not, sir, seein’ ’twas his birthright, time out o’ mind, beyant the flood? Well, the King (you see) was the right sort—he was the rale boy, and loved sport as he loved his life, and huntin’ in partic’lar; and from the risin’ o’ the sun up he got, and away he wint over the mountains beyant afther the deer: and the fine times them wor; for the deer was as plinty thin, aye throth, far plintyer than the sheep is now; and that’s the way it was with the King, from the crow o’ the cock to the song o’ the redbreast. Well, it was all mighty good as long as the King had his health; but, you see, in coorse o’ time, the King grewn ould, by raison he was stiff in his limbs, and when he got sthricken in years, his heart failed him, and he was lost intirely for want o’ divarshin, bekase he couldn’t go a huntin’ no longer; and, by dad, the poor King was obleeged at last for to get a goose to divart him. You see, the goose used for to swim acrass the lake, and go down divin’ for throut (and not finer throut in all Ireland than the same throut) and cotch fish on a Friday for the King, and flew every other day round about the lake divartin’ the poor King that you’d think he’d break his sides laughin’ at the frolicksome tricks av his goose; so, in coorse o’ time, the goose was the greatest pet in the counthry, and the biggest rogue, and divarted the King to no end, and the poor King was as happy as the day was long. So that’s the way it was; and all wint on mighty well antil, by dad, the goose got sthricken in years, as well as the King, and grew stiff in the limbs, like her masther, and couldn’t divart him no longer; and then it was that the poor King was lost complate, and didn’t know what in the wide world to do, seein’ he was gone out of all divarshin by raison that the goose was no more in the flower of her blume.