The RIDE THROUGH THE BARN

RUTH COBB

MANX FAIRY TALES

BY
SOPHIA MORRISON

LONDON
DAVID NUTT, 57–59 LONG ACRE
1911

PREFACE

There is at least one spot in the world where Fairies are still believed in, and where, if you look in the right places, they may still be found, and that is the little island from which these stories come—Ellan Vannin, the Isle of Mann. But I have used a word which should not be mentioned here—they are never called Fairies by the Manx, but Themselves, or the Little People, or the Little Fellows, or the Little Ones, or sometimes even the Lil’ Boys. These Little People are not the tiny creatures with wings who flutter about in many English Fairy tales, but they are small persons from two to three feet in height, otherwise very like mortals. They wear red caps and green jackets and are very fond of hunting—indeed they are most often seen on horseback followed by packs of little hounds of all the colours of the rainbow. They are rather inclined to be mischievous and spiteful, and that is why they are called by such good names, in case they should be listening!

Besides these red-capped Little Fellows there are other more alarming folk. There is the Fynoderee, who is large, ugly, hairy and enormously strong, but not so bad as he looks, for often he helps on the farm during the night by thrashing corn. He does not like to be seen, so if a farmer wants work done by him, he must take care to keep out of the Fynoderee’s way. Then, far uglier than Fynoderee, are the Bugganes, who are horrible and cruel creatures. They can appear in any shape they please—as ogres with huge heads and great fiery eyes, or without any heads at all; as small dogs who grow larger and larger as you watch them until they are larger than elephants, when perhaps they turn into the shape of men or disappear into nothing; as horned monsters or anything they choose. Each Buggane has his own particular dwelling-place—a dark sea-cave, a lonely hill, or a ruined Keeill, or Church. There are many others too, but these are the chief.

Most of the stories are traditional and have been handed down by word of mouth from father to son. I owe hearty thanks to those from whose lips I have heard them—Messrs. J. R. Moore, William Cashen, Joe Moore, Ned Quayle and others. Of the four stories which have not been told to me personally—Teeval, Kitterland, The Wizard’s Palace, and Smereree—the three first have been printed in various folk-lore books, and the Manx of the last appeared in ‘Yn Lioar Manninagh’ some years ago. Lastly I must thank my friend Miss Alice Williams for her kind help and valuable assistance in many ways.

SOPHIA MORRISON.

Peel, Isle of Mann,
October 1911.

CONTENTS

MANX FAIRY TALES

THEMSELVES

I

There was a man once in the Isle of Mann who met one of the Little Fellows, and the Little Fellow told him that if he would go to London Bridge and dig, he would find a fortune. So he went, and when he got there he began to dig, and another man came to him and said:

‘What are you doing?’

‘One of Themselves told me to come to London Bridge and I would get a fortune,’ says he. And the other man said:

‘I dreamed that I was back in the lil’ islan’ an’ I was at a house with a thorn-tree at the chimley of it, and if I would dig there I would find a fortune. But I wouldn’ go, for it was only foolishness.’

Then he told him so plainly about the house that the first man knew it was his own, so he went back to the Island. When he got home he dug under the little thorn-tree by the chimney and he found an iron box. He opened the box and it was full of gold, and there was a letter in it, but he could not read the letter because it was in a foreign language. So he put it in the smithy window and challenged any scholar who went by to read it. None of them could, but at last one big boy said it was Latin and it meant:

‘Dig again and you’ll find another.’

So the man dug again under the thorn-tree, and what did he find but another iron box full of gold!

And from that day till the day of his death, that man used to open the front door before going to bed, and call out: ‘My blessing with the Little Fellows!’

II

Here is a true story that was told me by a man named James Moore when I was sitting with him by the fire one evening. He said:

‘I’m not much of a believer in most of the stories some ones is telling, but after all a body can’t help believing a thing they happen to see for themselves.

‘I remember one winter’s night—we were living in a house at the time that was pulled down for the building of the Big Wheel. It was a thatched house with two rooms, and a wall about six foot high dividing them, and from that it was open to the scrahs, or turfs, that were laid across the rafters. My Mother was sitting at the fire busy spinning, and my Father was sitting in the big chair at the end of the table taking a chapter for us out of the Manx Bible. My brother was busy winding a spool and I was working with a bunch of ling, trying to make two or three pegs.

‘“There’s a terrible glisther on to-night,” my Mother said, looking at the fire. “An’ the rain comin’ peltin’ down the chimley!”

‘“Yes,” said my Father, shutting the Bible; “an’ we better get to bed middlin’ soon and let the Lil’ Ones in to a bit of shelter.”

‘So we all got ready and went to bed.

‘Some time in the night my brother wakened me with a:

‘“Sh—ish! Listen boy, an’ look at the big light tha’s in the kitchen!” Then he rubbed his eyes a bit and whispered:

‘“What’s mother doin’ now at all?”

‘“Listen!” I said. “An’ you’ll hear mother in bed, it’s not her at all; it must be the Little Ones that’s agate of the wheel!”

‘And both of us got frightened, and down with our heads under the clothes and fell asleep. In the morning when we got up we told them what we had seen, first thing.

‘“Aw, like enough, like enough,” my Father said, looking at the wheel. “It seems your mother forgot to take the band off last night, a thing people should be careful about, for it’s givin’ Themselves power over the wheel, an’ though their meanin’s well enough, the spinnin’ they’re doin’ is nothin’ to brag about. The weaver is always shoutin’ about their work an’ the bad joinin’ they’re makin’ in the rolls.”

‘“I remember it as well as yesterday—the big light that was at them, and the whirring that was going on. And let anybody say what they like, that’s a thing I’ve seen and heard for myself.”’

III

One evening a young man who was serving his time as a weaver was walking home late from Douglas to Glen Meay. He had often been boasting that he had never seen any of the Little People. Well, this night he was coming along the St. John’s Road, and when he got near to the river a big, big bull stood across the road before him. He took his stick and gave it one big knock. It went into the river and he never saw it any more.

After that, when he got to the Parson’s Bridge, he met a little thing just like a spinning wheel and there was a little, little body sitting where the spool is. Well, he lifted his stick again and struck the little body that was sitting on the spool a hard knock with his stick. The little body said to him:

‘Ny jean shen arragh!’ which means, ‘Don’t do that again!’

He walked on then till he got to Glen Meay and told what he had seen in a house there. Then another man said he had seen the little old woman sitting on the top of the spool of the spinning wheel and coming down Raby Hill at dark. So it took her a long time, for the first man met her at six and the second at eleven, and there isn’t two miles between the two places.

So they were saying, when the cycles came in, that the Little People had been before them! And this is a true story.

THE BUGGANE OF GLEN MEAY WATERFALL

There was once a woman living near Glen Meay, and she was the wife of a decent, quiet, striving man of the place. There was no one but herself and the man, and they had a nice little cottage and owned a bit of a croft on which they grazed a cow and a few sheep and grew enough potatoes to do them the winter out; and the man had a yawl and went to the fishing when things were slack on land. But for all that they were not comfortable, for work as hard as the man might at his farming and his fishing, he was kept as poor as Lazarus by a lazy wife.

For the woman was fonder of lying a-bed in the morning than sitting at her milking stool; indeed the neighbours had it to say that she wore out more blankets than shoes. Many a day her man would be going out early as hungry as a hawk, without a bite or a sup in him. One morning when he came in from work for his breakfast there was no fire—his wife was never up. Well, my poor man had nothing for it but to get his own breakfast ready and go back to his work. When he came in for dinner it happened as it had happened for breakfast.

‘Bad luck to her laziness,’ he thought; ‘this is coul comfort for a poor man, but I’ll play a trick on her for it.’

And with that he fetched a bart of straw and bunged the two windows of his house. Then he went back to his work.

The sun had not yet set when he came home in the evening. His wife was lying in bed waiting for day.

‘Aw, woman,’ he shouted, ‘make haste an’ get up to see the sun rise in the wes’.’

Up jumped the wife and ran to the door just as the sun was going down, and the sight terrified her. The whole sky looked like fire, and she thought that the end of the world had come. But next morning it all happened as it had happened before, and himself said to her:

‘Kirry, it’s the Buggane, sure enough, that’ll be having thee one of these days if thou don’t mend thy ways!’

‘What Buggane?’ said she.

‘Ax me no questions,’ said he, ‘an’ I’ll tell thee no lies. But it’s the big, black, hairy fellow that lies under the Spooyt Vooar that I’m meanin’.’

‘Aw, houl yer tongue, man; thou don’t frecken me wi’ thy Bugganes,’ shouted the woman.

In the evening the man left the house to go out to the fishing. As soon as he had gone the woman took a notion in her head to bake, as she had only the heel o’ the loaf left for breakfast. Now, Themselves can’t stand lazy ways, and baking after sunset is the one thing they won’t abide. She who does so will meet their revenge—something is sure to be taken by them, but seldom worse than some of the live stock. Well, the woman set to work to bake some barley bread and flour cake. First, she went out to get gorse to put under the griddle, slipping the bolt on the door as she came in, that none of the neighbours would catch her and cry shame on her for baking after sunset. She got some meal out of the barrel and put it on the round table, and put salt and water on it, and then she kneaded the meal and clapped a cake out as thin as sixpence with her hands. But she was only a middling poor baker, one of the sort that has to use a knife to make the cake of a right round. She had turned the cake twice, and taken it off, and brushed the griddle with a white goose wing ready for the next cake which she was busy cutting round with her knife. Just at that moment there was heard the sound of something heavy lumbering up to the door. After a few seconds SOMETHING fumbled at the sneg of the door, then SOMETHING knocked high up on the door, and a voice like the thick, gruff voice of a giant was heard saying, ‘Open, open for me.’ She made no answer. Again there was a loud knock and a big hoarse voice was heard which cried: ‘Woman of the house, open for me.’ Then the door burst open and behold ye, what should she see but a great, big ugly beast of a Buggane rushing in mad with rage. Without as much as a ‘By your leave,’ he made one grab at her, and clutched hold of her by her apron and swung her on his shoulder, and away with him. Before she knew where she was he rushed her across the fields and down the hill, till he brought her to the top of the Spooyt Vooar, the big waterfall of Glen Meay. As the Buggane tore down the hill, the woman felt the ground tremble under his feet, and the noise of the waterfall filled her ears. And, there in front of her, she saw the stream turn to white spray as it came leaping down the rocks. As the Buggane swung her in the air to throw her into the deep pool, she thought that her last hour had come. Then all at once she remembered the knife that she held in her hand! Quick as thought she cut the string of her apron and down she tumbled to the ground, rolling over and over down the hill. And before he knew where he was the Buggane, with the speed he had on him, pitched forward head first down the rushing Spooyt Vooar. As he went head over heels and down to the bottom of the pool with a souse you’d have heard half a mile away, she heard him give a roar out of him:

Rumbyl, rumbyl, sambyl,

I thought I had a lazy Dirt,

And I have but the edge of her skirt.

And that was the last that was seen of that fellow!

HOW THE MANX CAT LOST HER TAIL

When Noah was calling the animals into the Ark, there was one cat who was out mousing and took no notice when he was calling to her. She was a good mouser, but this time she had trouble to find a mouse and she took a notion that she wouldn’t go into the Ark without one.

So at last, when Noah had all the animals safe inside, and he saw the rain beginning to fall, and no sign of her coming in, he said:

‘Who’s out is out, and who’s in is in!’ And with that he was just closing the door when the cat came running up, half drowned—that’s why cats hate the water—and just squeezed in, in time. But Noah had slammed the door as she ran in and it cut off her tail, so she got in without it, and that is why Manx cats have no tails to this day. That cat said:

Bee bo bend it,

My tail’s ended,

And I’ll go to Mann

And get copper nails,

And mend it.

THE MAKING OF MANN

Thousands of years ago, at the time of the Battles of the Giants in Ireland, Finn Mac Cooil was fighting with a great, red-haired Scotch giant who had come over to challenge him. He beat him and chased him eastwards towards the sea. But the Scotch giant was a faster runner and began to get ahead of him, so Finn, who was afraid that he would jump into the sea and escape, stooped down and clutched a great handful of the soil of Ireland to throw at him. He cast it, but he missed his enemy, and the great lump of earth fell into the midst of the Irish Sea. It is the Isle of Mann, and the great hole which Finn made, where he tore it up, is Lough Neagh.

There were men, too, in Ireland in those days as well as giants, and to some of them it seemed to happen in a different way. Men do not always understand the doings of giants, because men live, it may be said, in the footprints of the giants. It seems that at this time the Irish tribes were gathered in two great forces getting ready to meet the plunderers who had left Scotland and were at work on their own coast. Their blood got too hot and they went into each other in downright earnest, to show how they would do with the rascals when they came. To their confusion, for they lost hold over themselves, they got into boggy ground and were in great danger. The leaders, seeing that it was going to mean a big loss of life, got all their men together on a big patch of dry ground that happened to be in the bog-land, when all of a sudden a darkness came overhead and the ground began to shake and tremble with the weight of the people and the stir there was at them, and then it disappeared, people and all. Some said that it took plunge and sank into the bog with the people on it. Others said that it was lifted up, and the people on it dropped off into the swamp. No doubt the darkness that was caused by the hand of Finn made it hard to see just how it happened. However that may be, a while after this they said the sea was surging dreadful, and the men in the boats had to hold to the sides, or it’s out they’d have been thrown. And behold ye, a few days after this there was land seen in the middle of the sea, where no man ever saw the like before.

You may know that this story is true because the Irish have always looked on the Isle of Mann as a parcel of their own land. They say that when Saint Patrick put the blessing of God on the soil of Ireland and all creatures that might live upon it, the power of that blessing was felt at the same time in the Island.

Saint Patrick was a mighty man,

He was a Saint so clever,

He gave the snakes and toads a twisht!

And banished them for ever.

And there is proof of the truth of the saying to this day, for while such nasty things do live in England they cannot breathe freely on the blessed soil.

The island was much larger then than it is now, but the magician who for a time ruled over it, as a revenge on one of his enemies, raised a furious wind in the air and in the bosom of the earth. This wind tore several pieces off the land and cast them into the sea. They floated about and were changed into the dangerous rocks which are now so much feared by ships. The smaller pieces became the shifting sands which wave round the coast, and are sometimes seen and sometimes disappear. Later the island was known as Ellan Sheaynt, the Isle of Peace, or the Holy Island. It was a place where there was always sunshine, and the singing of birds, the scent of sweet flowers, and apple-trees blossoming the whole year round. There was always enough there to eat and drink, and the horses of that place were fine and the women beautiful.

THE COMING OF SAINT PATRICK

It was the time that Saint Patrick was coming on horseback to Mann, over the sea from Ireland. When he drew near to the land, Manannan Mac y Leirr, that great wizard that was ruler of Mann, put a charm out of him that made the air round the island thick with mist, so that neither sun nor sky nor sea nor land could be seen. Patrick rode into the thick of the mist, but try as he would he could find no way out of it, and behind him there was a great sea-beast waiting to swallow him up. He didn’t know in his seven senses where he was—east, or west—and was for turning back, when there came to his ears the cry of a curlew, calling:

‘Come you, come you, come you!’

Then he said to himself:

‘The curlew will be down feeding among the rocks; she will be calling to her young.’

After that he heard the bleat of a goat:

‘Beware, beware, beware!’

And he said to himself:

‘Where the goat bleats for the fall of her kid there will be a steep bit of a hill.’

Last of all he heard the crow of a cock:

‘Come to us—come, come!’

Then said Patrick:

‘I believe on me sowl I’m back of Peel Hill.’

And with that he took one leap on to the little island and put his horse up the sheer rock. Soon he stood, sure enough, at the top of Peel Hill. As he stood there he cried out:

‘Me blessing on the curlew. No man afther this is to find her nest!’

‘Me blessing on the goat, an’ no man is to see her bring forth her young!’

‘Me blessing on the cock, an’ he shall crow at dawn ever afther at this same hour!’

He cursed the sea beast and turned him into a solid rock and there he lies now with his great fin on his back.

Where the horse’s hoofs struck the top of the hill there sprang a well of pure water, of which man and horse drank, and it is called the Holy Well of Saint Patrick to this day. If you go down to the ledges of the rock, which were made by the horse’s hoofs as he clambered up, you may see the footprints still.

When Patrick looked about him the mist was lifting, and he saw a great host of warriors round Manannan’s Faery Mound, with the first rays of the rising sun shining on their spears. But the saint knew that they were phantoms raised by Manannan’s magic power and he bade them to be gone.

And, behold, they and their master, in the shape of three-legged men, whirled round and round like wheels before the swift wind, which could not overtake them, till they came to Spanish Head. There they whirled over the houghs so quickly and lightly that the gulls on the ledges below were not disturbed, then on over the rough, grey Irish Sea till they came to the enchanted island, fifteen miles south-west of the Calf. Once there Manannan dropped the isle to the bottom of the sea, and he and his company were seen no more.

Saint Patrick on his snow-white horse stood still on Peel Hill and blessed the island where he had touched land, and blessed it has been to this day. Then he leapt on to the little islet that he saw below him. Ever since it has been called Saint Patrick’s Isle, and from the rocks on its northern side he watched the fierce storm which Manannan’s going had made. Just then a brave ship, with foresail and mainsail gone, was driving straight for the terrible rocks. Saint Patrick raised his mailed hand and the tempest was calmed. The good ship righted herself again, and those on board were saved. They looked up with awe and thankfulness at the rider in his shining armour on the snow-white steed, standing bright against the blackness of the rocks. And ever since that day the fisherman, as he sails past the Horse Rock, has offed with his cap and put up this bit of a prayer to good Saint Patrick:

Saint Patrick who blessed our Island, bless us and our boat,

Going out well, coming in better,

With living and dead in the boat.

HOW THE HERRING BECAME KING OF THE SEA

The old fishermen of the island have it to say that years and years ago the fish met to choose themselves a king, for they had no deemster to tell them what was right. Likely enough their meeting-place was off the Shoulder, south of the Calf. They all came looking their best—there was Captain Jiarg, the Red Gurnet, in his fine crimson coat; Grey Horse, the Shark, big and cruel; the Bollan in his brightest colours; Dirty Peggy, the Cuttle-fish, putting her nicest face on herself; Athag, the Haddock, trying to rub out the black spots the devil burnt on him when he took hold of him with his finger and thumb, and all the rest. Each one thought he might be chosen.

The Fish had a strong notion to make Brac Gorm, the Mackerel, king. He knew that, and he went and put beautiful lines and stripes on himself—pink and green and gold, and all the colours of the sea and sky. Then he was thinking diamonds of himself. But when he came he looked that grand that they didn’t know him. So they said that he was artificial and would have nothing to do with him.

In the end it was Skeddan, the Herring, the Lil Silver Fella, who was made King of the Sea.

When it was all over, up came the Fluke, too late to give his vote, and they all called out:

‘You’ve missed the tide, my beauty!’

It seems that he had been so busy tallivating himself up, touching himself up red in places, that he forgot how time went. When he found that the herring had been chosen, he twisted up his mouth on one side, and says he:

‘An’ what am I goin’ to be then?’

‘Take that,’ says Scarrag the Skate, and he ups with his tail and gives the Fluke a slap on his mouth that knocked his mouth crooked on him. And so it has been ever since.

And, maybe, it’s because the Herring is King of the Sea that he has so much honour among men. Even the deemsters, when they take their oath, say: ‘I will execute justice as indifferently as the herring’s backbone doth lie in the midst of the fish.’

And the Manx people will not burn the herring’s bones in the fire, in case the herring should feel it. It is to be remembered, too, that the best herring in the world are caught in this place off the Shoulder, where the fish held their big meeting, and that is because it is not very far from Manannan’s enchanted island.

THE SILVER CUP

There was once a man living in the south of the island whose name was Colcheragh. He was a farmer, and he had poultry on his street, sheep on the mountain, and cattle in the meadow land alongside the river.

His cows were the best cows in the parish. Nowhere could you see such a fine head of cattle as he had; they were the pride of his heart, and they served him well with milk and butter.

But after a time he began to think that something was amiss with the cows. He went to the cow-house the first thing every morning, and one morning he noticed the cows looking so tired they could hardly stand. When it came to milking time they found not a drop of milk. The girls, who went out to milk the cows, came back with empty cans, saying:

‘The milk has gone up into the cows’ horns!’

Colcheragh began to think that some one had put an evil eye on his cows, so he swept up some of the dust from the cross four-roads close by, in a shovel, and sprinkled it on their backs. But the cows got no better. Then he wondered if some one was coming at night to steal the milk. He made up his mind to sit in the cow-house all night to see if he could catch the thief.

So one night after everyone had gone to bed he crept out of the house and hid himself under some straw in a corner of the cow-house. Hour after hour of the dark lonesome night crept on, and he heard nothing but the cows’ breathing and their rustle in the straw. He was very cold and stiff, and he had just made up his mind to go into the house, when a glimmering light showed under the door; and then he heard Things laughing and talking—queer talk—he knew that they were not right people. The cow-house door opened and in came a whole lot of Little Men, dressed in green coats and leather caps. Keeking through the straw, he saw their horns hung by their sides, their whips in their hands, and scores of little dogs of every colour—green, blue, yellow, scarlet, and every colour you can think of—at their heels. The cows were lying down. The Little Fellows loosed the yokes from the cows’ necks, hopped on their backs, a dozen, maybe, on each cow, and cracked their little whips. The cows jumped to their feet and Themselves galloped off!

Colcheragh ran to the stable, got on a horse, and made chase after his cows. The night was dark, but he could hear the whizz of the little whips through the air, the click of the cows’ hoofs on stones, and the little dogs going:

‘Yep, yep, yep!’

He heard, too, the laughing of Themselves. Then one of them would be singing out to the dogs, calling them up by name, giving a call out of him:

‘Ho la, ho la, la!’

Colcheragh followed these sounds, keeping close at their heels. On and on they went, helter-skelter over hedges and over ditches till they got to the Fairy Hill, and Colcheragh was still following them, though on any other night he would not have gone within a mile of the great green mound. When the Little Fellows came to the hill they sounded a tan-ta-ra-ra-tan on their horns. The hill opened, bright light streamed out, and sounds of music and great merriment. Themselves passed through, and Colcheragh slid off his horse and slipped unnoticed in after them. The hill closed behind them and he found himself in a fine room, lit up till it was brighter than the summer noonday. The whole place was crowded with Little People, young and old, men and women, all decked out for a ball, that grand—he had never looked on the like. Among them were some faces that he thought he had seen before, but he took no notice of them, nor they of him. In one part there was dancing to the music of Hom Mooar—that was the name of the fiddler—and when he played all men must follow him whether they would or no. The dancing was like the dancing of flowers in the wind, such dancing as he had never seen before.

In another part his cows were being killed and roasted, and after the dance there was a great feast, with scores of tables set out with silver and gold and everything of the best to eat and drink. There was roast and boiled, and sollaghan and cowree, and puddings and pies, and jough and wine—a feast fit for the Governor himself. When they were taking their seats one of them, whose face he thought he knew, whispered to him: ‘Don’t thee taste nothin’ here or thou will be like me, and never go back to thy ones no more.’

Colcheragh made up his mind to take this advice. When the feast was coming to an end there was a shout for the Jough-y-dorrys, the Stirrup Cup. Some one ran to fetch the cup. The one among the Little People, who seemed to be their king, filled it with red wine, drank himself, and passed it on to the rest. It was going round from one to another until it came to Colcheragh, who saw, when he had it in his hands, that it was of fine carved silver, and more beautiful than anything ever seen outside that place. He said to himself: ‘The little durts have stolen and killed and eaten my cattle—this cup, if it were mine, would pay me for all.’ So standing up and grasping the silver cup tightly in his hand, he held it up and said:

‘Shoh Slaynt!’ which is the Manx toast.

Then he dashed the cupful of wine over Themselves and the lights. In an instant the place was in black darkness, save for a stime of grey dawn light which came through the chink of the half-closed door. Colcheragh made for it, cup in hand, slammed the door behind him, and ran for his life.

After a moment of uproar Themselves missed the cup and Colcheragh, and with yells of rage they poured out of the hill after him, in full chase. The farmer, who had a good start, ran as he had never run before. He knew he would get small mercy at their hands if he was caught; he went splashing through the wet mire and keeping off the stepping stones; he knew they could not take him in the water. He looked over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the whole Mob Beg behind him, close at his heels, waving their naked arms in the light of the torch each one held up. On they came, shrieking and howling in Manx:

Colcheragh, Colcheragh,

Put thy foot on the stone,

And do not put it in the wet!

But he ran in the water till he came to the churchyard, and they could not touch him there. When he went into the cowhouse the next morning the cows had all come home and they got rest after that.

He put the cup in the Church at Rushen, and they are saying it was there for many years; then it was sent to London. It is said that after this the farmer would not go out of his house of an evening after dark.

THE CHILD WITHOUT A NAME

It was many and many a year ago that the heiress of Eary Cushlin Farm had a little child. Eary Cushlin is a terribly lonely place; it stands high up on the Eanin Mooar, the big precipice, close by the steep brow of Cronk-yn-Irree-Laa. You might live there for months without seeing the face of clay, and no person knew of the birth of the child. It was not welcome when it came, and as soon as it was born, it died. Then the mother carried it, at dead of night, along the narrow path over the rocks, past where the waters of Gob-yn-Ushtey leap into the bay, past Ooig-ny-Goayr, the Cave of the Goat, to Lag-ny-Keilley. She buried it in the ruins of the lonely little Keeill that has been there on the hill-side for fourteen hundred years and more. There she left it alone.

A short while after some yawls were going to the haddock fishing from Dalby. There was the ‘Lucky Granny’ from the Lagg, the Muck Beg, or Little Pig, from Cubbon Aalish’s, Boid-y-Conney from Cleary’s, Glen Rushen, and others, ten in all. Then it began to be said that something strange was going on over at Lag-ny-Keilley. The men would be fishing close in to land under the black shadow of Cronk-yn-Irree-Laa, the Hill of the Rising Day. When little evening came, the yawls would be drifting south with the flood tide, north with the ebb, passing and repassing the strand of Lag-ny-Keilley. Then they would see a beautiful light and hear a lamentation and crying, as if from a little lost child. In the end the light would run up the steep brow to the old Keeill, and go out. The men got so frightened that at last they would not go on the bay after dark, but would make from the fishing-ground as soon as the sun was getting low.

Things became so black for the women and children at home that one old, old man, Illiam Quirk, who had not gone to sea for many years, said he would go with one of the yawls to see for himself. They used to say of him: ‘Oul Illiam has the power at him in the prayer, and he is a middlin’ despard fella; he will dar’ most anything.’ It was so at this time—his yawl was the last of them coming in; the rest were frightened. It was a right fine, beautiful moonlight night when he was coming down from the mark, and when he was near to Gob-yn-Ushtey he heard crying and crying. He lay on his oars and listened, and he heard a little child wailing over and over again: ‘She lhiannoo beg dyn ennym mee!’ That is, ‘I am a little child without a name!’

‘Pull nearer to the lan’,’ said Illiam when he heard it. They pulled close in, and he plainly saw a little child on the strand bearing a lighted candle in his hand.

‘God bless me, bogh, we mus’ give thee a name!’ said Illiam. And he took off his hat, and stood up in the boat, and threw a handful of water towards the child, crying out: ‘If thou are a boy, I chrizzen thee in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, Juan! If thou are a girl I chrizzen thee in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, Joanney!’

In an instant the crying stopped, and was never heard again, and the light went out and was seen no more.

THE FAIRY DOCTOR

The shoemakers and tailors and chance spinners used to go round on people’s houses, making things and spinning rolls of wool for the people.

One time the tailor went to Chalse Ballawhane. Long enough they were waiting for him, and, as luck happened, he caught Chalse at home.

Now Chalse had power over the fishes of the sea and the birds of the air as well as over the beasts of the field. Himself and the Little Ones got on well together too, but somehow or other he was never able to get the power over them. People said he was never able to learn their language right. Anyhow, be that as it may, he was often enough with them.

After the tailor had had a crack with the women he turned round to Ballawhane, who was sitting in the big chair, his elbow on the table and his hand holding his forehead, the other hand in his trouser’s pocket to the elbow, and he not minding anybody nor anything.

‘I batter take yer measure, Mr. Teare, while yer in, for there’s no knowin’ how long that’ll be,’ the tailor said.

‘Aw, boy, boy,’ answered Chalse, looking out through the window—people were not bothering with blinds then—and then turning to the clock, he said: ‘There’s no time goin’ to-night: I want to go from home apiece, an’ it’s time I was gettin’ ready.’ Nobody said a word for a minute or two. He was exactly like a body with his mind far away. Again, all of a sudden, he looked at the tailor. Then he said:

‘Ahm goin’ to a big supper to-night. Thou’ll get nothin’ done here, maybe thou would like to go? It’s apiece to go, but thou’ll be right enough with me. But there’s one promise I’ll be wantin’ from thee—no matter, no matter what thou’ll see, nor what thou’ll hear, nor who’ll spake to thee, thou mustn’t spake back or it’ll be all over with thee.’

The tailor was so taken up with the chance of seeing the Little People for himself that he promised faithfully, no matter what took place, never to speak a word, and he knew he would be right enough with Chalse.

Ballawhane then took his hat from the latt, and when he was going out he said:

‘I’ll be back for thee just now; side thee things a bit while thou ’re waitin’.’

In a while there was a noise of horses coming up the street—it was awful. Then they stopped on the street and in came Ballawhane saying:

‘We couldn’ get another hoss for thee, boy, do what we would, but thou ’ll have to get a hoss of some sort.’

And going down to the parlour he got hold of something, and went out, never saying a word. Coming back to the door after a bit, he said:

‘Come on, boy. I’ll hold her head till thou get on.’

Out goes the tailor, and up, with one whip, on her back, and they go like the very hommers, on and on, over hedges and ditches, till they came to a big brow by a river. It seems they knew the way, night as it was, for they all took it one after another like fun. It was a big jump, though, and when the tailor felt himself flying through the air, his heart jumped to his mouth.

‘Oh Lord, what a jump!’ he said.

The next minute he fell flop in a bog, with the lapboard between his legs, all alone in the dark. Next morning he got up all slaaed with slush, looking like a thing that had been dragged through a gutter, and as quiet as a mouse—the shy he was, every bit of steam took out of him.

Awhile after some of the women were asking him, how did he like it last night, and would he go again? But all they could get out of him was:

‘Aw, naver no more, naver no more!’

JOE MOORE’S STORY OF FINN MACCOOILLEY AND THE BUGGANE

This Finn MacCooilley was an Irish giant, and the Buggane was a Manx giant. But, anyway at all, this Finn came across from the Mountains of Mourne to see what was the Isle of Mann like, for he was seeing land. He liked the island uncommon well, so he stopped in it, living out Cregneish way. The Buggane was hearing great talk about the giant Finn MacCooilley that was in the Sound, so he came down from the top of Barrule to put a sight on him. Finn knew that he was coming to have a fight with him, to see who was best man, and Finn did not want to fight. ‘Lave him to me,’ says the wife; ‘an’ I’ll put the augh-augh on him!’

Before long they caught sight of the Buggane, and he was a walking terror. He was coming from Barrule to them, in a mighty pursue.

‘Slip in the criddle, Finn,’ says she. ‘It’s me that’ll spake to him.’

Up comes the Buggane to the door, hot-foot.

‘Where’s Himself?’ says he.

‘This man is gone from home this bit,’ says she. ‘What is it you are wantin’ with him?’

‘Aw, there is no hurry on me. I’ll put my fut inside and wait till he comes back,’ says he.

‘Plaze yourself,’ says she, ‘an’ you’ll plaze me; but I must get on with my bakin’.’

‘Who have you got in the criddle?’ says he.

‘That’s our baby,’ says she.

‘An’ in the name of the Unknown Powers, what sort of a man is he Himself if his baby is that big?’

‘He’s very big an’ powerful,’ says she. ‘An’ the child is favourin’ the father.’

She was baking barley bread, and when the baking was done at her, she took the griddle and put it between two cakes of bread, and gave it to the Buggane to eat, with a quart of buttermilk. He went to try and eat, and he couldn’.

‘Aw, man-alive! But this is the hard bread,’ says he. ‘What sort have you given me at all, at all?’

‘That’s the sort I’m giving Finn,’ says she.

‘An’ will Finn’s teeth go through this?’

‘Aw, yes, Finn thought nothing at all of ’atin’ that—that’s the sort of bread he was wantin’,’ says Thrinn.

Finn got up out of the cradle, and began to roar for a piece. She fetched him a clout on the lug.

‘Stop your noisin’,’ says she. ‘An’ stand straight and don’t be puttin’ the drone on yer back like that.’ And givin’ him a buttercake, she says:

‘Ate, ate, lash into ye, an’ let’s have no lavins.’

‘You’ll have the chile’s teeth broke in his head, woman. He can naver ate bread as hard as that!’ says the Buggane.

‘Aw, he can do that with life,’ says she.

But that done the Buggane; he sleeched out and claned away again. He thought if Finn was that strong and the baby that big, he had best catch home again.

But it was not long until the Buggane and Finn did meet, and then they had the battle! One day Finn met the Buggane over at Kirk Christ Rushen, and they went at each other early in the day till the sunset. Finn had one fut in the Big Sound, an’ so he made the Channel between the Calf and Kitterland, and the other in the Little Sound, an’ so he made the narrow Channel between Kitterland and the islan’. The Buggane was standin’ at Port Iern—that’s what made the fine big openin’ at Port Iern. The rocks were all broken to pieces with their feet. But, anyway, the Buggane came off victorious and slashed Finn awful, so he had to run to Ireland. Finn could walk on the sea, but the Buggane couldn’; and when Finn got off and he couldn’ get more revenge on him, he tore out a tooth and hove it whizzing through the air after Finn. It hit him on the back of the head, and then it fell into the sea and became what we are now calling the Chickens’ Rock. Finn turned round with a roar and a mighty curse:

‘My seven swearings of a curse on it!’ says he. ‘Let it lie there for a vexation to the sons of men while water runs and grass grows!’

And a vexation and a curse has it been to seamen from that day to this.

THE FYNODEREE

The Fynoderee went to the meadow

To lift the dew at grey cock crow,

The maiden hair and the cow herb

He was stamping them both his feet under;

He was stretching himself on the meadow,

He threw the grass on the left hand;

Last year he caused us to wonder,

This year he’s doing far better.

He was stretching himself on the meadow,

The herbs in bloom he was cutting,

The bog bean herb in the curragh,

As he went on his way it was shaking,

Everything with his scythe he was cutting,

To sods was skinning the meadows,

And if a leaf were left standing,

With his heels he was stamping it under.

Old Song.

THE FYNODEREE OF GORDON

There was one time a Fynoderee living in Gordon. Those persons who saw him said that he was big and shaggy, with fiery eyes, and stronger than any man. One night he met the blacksmith who was going home from his shop and held out his hand to him to shake hands. The blacksmith gave him hold of the iron sock of the plough which he had with him, and he squeezed it as if it had been a piece of clay, saying: ‘There’s some strong Manx-men in the world yet!’

The Fynoderee did all his work at night and went into hidlans in the daytime. One night, when he was out on his travels he came to Mullin Sayle, out in Glen Garragh. He saw a light in the mill, so he put his head through the open top-half of the door to see what was going on inside, and there was Quaye Mooar’s wife sifting corn. When she caught sight of the great big head she was frightened terrible. She had presence of mind, however, to hand him the sieve and say: ‘If thou go to the river and bring water in it, I’ll make a cake for thee; and the more water thou carry back, that’s the bigger thy cake will be.’

So the Fynoderee took the sieve, and ran down to the river; but the water poured from it and he could fetch none for the cake, and he threw the sieve away in a rage, and cried:

‘Dollan, dollan, dash!

Ny smoo ta mee cur ayn,

Ny smoo ta goll ass.’

Sieve, sieve, dash!

The more I put in,

The more there’s going out.

The woman got away while he was trying to fill the sieve, and when he came back to the mill he found it in darkness.

The Fynoderee was working very hard for the Radcliffes, who owned Gordon then. Every night he was grinding their corn for them, and often he would take a hand at the flails. If they put a stack into the barn in the evening and loosed every sheaf of it, they would find it thrashed in the morning, but he would not touch one sheaf of it unless it were loosed. In the summer time he was getting in their hay and cutting their corn.

Many a time the people of the farm were passing the time of day with him. One cold frosty day, big Gordon was docking turnips and he blew on his fingers to warm them.

‘What are thou blowing on thee fingers for?’ said the Fynoderee.

‘To put them in heat,’ said the Farmer.

At supper that night the Farmer’s porridge was hot and he blew on it.

‘What are thou doing that for?’ said the Fynoderee. ‘Isn’t it hot enough for thee?’

‘It’s too hot, it is; I’m blowing on it to cool it,’ said the Farmer.

‘I don’t like thee at all, boy,’ said the Fynoderee, ‘for thou can blow hot and blow cold with one breath.’

The Fynoderee was wearing no clothes, but it is said that he never felt the cold. Big Gordon, however, had pity on him that he had none, and one frosty winter he went and got clothes made for him—breeches, jacket, waistcoat and cap—great big ones they were too. And he went and gave them to him in the barn one night. The Fynoderee looked on them and took them up, and says he:

Coat for the back is sickness for the back!

Vest for the middle is bad for the middle!

Breeches for the breech is a curse for the breech!

Cap for the head is injurious for the head!

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.

THE LHONDOO AND THE USHAG-REAISHT

One time Lhondoo, the Blackbird, was living in the mountains and Ushag-reaisht, the Bird of the Waste, as Manx ones call the Golden Plover, was living in the lowlands, and neither of them was able to leave his own haunts. One day, however, the two birds met on the borders between mountain and plain, and they made it up between them that they would change places for a while. The Bird of the Waste should stay in the mountains till the Lhondoo should return.

The Lhondoo found himself better off in his new home than in the old one, and he did not go back. So the poor Bird of the Waste was left in the mountains and any day you may hear him cry in a mournful voice:

‘Lhondoo, vel oo cheet, vel oo cheet?

S’foddey my reayllagh oo!’

Black Thrush, are you coming, are you coming?

The time is long and you are not here!

But the Lhondoo answers:

‘Cha jig dy braa, cha jig dy braa!’

Will never come, will never come!

Then the poor Ushag-reaisht wails:

‘T’eh feer feayr, t’eh feer feayr!’

It’s very cold, it’s very cold.

Then the Blackbird goes his ways.

BILLY BEG, TOM BEG, AND THE FAIRIES

Not far from Dalby, Billy Beg and Tom Beg, two humpback cobblers, lived together on a lonely croft. Billy Beg was sharper and cleverer than Tom Beg, who was always at his command. One day Billy Beg gave Tom a staff, and quoth he:

‘Tom Beg, go to the mountain and fetch home the white sheep.’

Tom Beg took the staff and went to the mountain, but he could not find the white sheep. At last, when he was far from home and dusk was coming on, he began to think that he had best go back. The night was fine, and stars and a small crescent moon were in the sky. No sound was to be heard but the curlew’s sharp whistle. Tom was hastening home, and had almost reached Glen Rushen, when a grey mist gathered and he lost his way. But it was not long before the mist cleared, and Tom Beg found himself in a green glen such as he had never seen before, though he thought he knew every glen within five miles of him, for he was born and reared in the neighbourhood. He was marvelling and wondering where he could be, when he heard a far-away sound drawing nearer to him.

‘Aw,’ said he to himself, ‘there’s more than myself afoot on the mountains to-night; I’ll have company.’

The sound grew louder. First, it was like the humming of bees, then like the rushing of Glen Meay waterfall, and last it was like the marching and the murmur of a crowd. It was the fairy host. Of a sudden the glen was full of fine horses and of Little People riding on them, with the lights on their red caps, shining like the stars above, and making the night as bright as day. There was the blowing of horns, the waving of flags, the playing of music, and the barking of many little dogs. Tom Beg thought that he had never seen anything so splendid as all he saw there. In the midst of the drilling and dancing and singing one of them spied Tom, and then Tom saw coming towards him the grandest Little Man he had ever set eyes upon, dressed in gold and silver, and silk shining like a raven’s wing.

‘It is a bad time you have chosen to come this way,’ said the Little Man, who was the king.

‘Yes; but it is not here that I’m wishing to be though,’ said Tom.

Then said the king: ‘Are you one of us to-night, Tom?’

‘I am surely,’ said Tom.

‘Then,’ said the king, ‘it will be your duty to take the password. You must stand at the foot of the glen, and as each regiment goes by, you must take the password: it is Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday.’

‘I’ll do that with a heart and a half,’ said Tom.

At daybreak the fiddlers took up their fiddles, the Fairy army set itself in order, the fiddlers played before them out of the glen, and sweet that music was. Each regiment gave the password to Tom as it went by—Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday; and last of all came the king, and he, too, gave it—Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday. Then he called in Manx to one of his men:

‘Take the hump from this fellow’s back,’ and before the words were out of his mouth the hump was whisked off Tom Beg’s back and thrown into the hedge. How proud now was Tom, who so found himself the straightest man in the Isle of Mann! He went down the mountain and came home early in the morning with light heart and eager step. Billy Beg wondered greatly when he saw Tom Beg so straight and strong, and when Tom Beg had rested and refreshed himself he told his story: how he had met the Fairies who came every night to Glen Rushen to drill.

The next night Billy Beg set off along the mountain road and came at last to the green glen. About midnight he heard the trampling of horses, the lashing of whips, the barking of dogs, and a great hullabaloo, and, behold, the Fairies and their king, their dogs and their horses, all at drill in the glen as Tom Beg had said.