Three Irish Fairy Tales
Ireland is full of Fairy Tales. There are folk and fairy tales of all kinds. Wonderful tales full of magic and transformation and legends of saints and popular history fill Ireland! One famous writer of Fairy Tales is W.B. Yeats. Below are just a few Fairy Tales that I have selected. They weren’t selected for any particular reason and will be added to. (All stories are copied as they are in text. If it seems that a typo has occurred, it hasn’t. It’s the way the story was written.) The first of the tales to be told is written by Yeats and is from his book titled ‘Fairy Tales of Ireland’.
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats.
There we’ve hid our fairy vats
Full of berries,
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O, human child!
To the woods and waters wild
With a fairy hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than
you can understand.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by farthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands, and mingling glances,
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap,
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles.
And is anxious in it’s sleep.
Come away! O, human child!
To the woods and waters wild,
With a fairy hand in hand,
For the word’s more full of weeping than
you can understand.
Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes,
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout,
And whispering in their ears;
We give them evil dreams,
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Of dew on the young streams.
Come! O, human child!
To the woods and waters wild,
with a fairy hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than
you can understand.
Away with us, he’s going,
The solemn-eyed;
He’ll hear nor more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hill-side.
Or the kettle on the hob
sing peace into his breast;
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the woods and waters wild,
With a fairy hand in hand,
For the world’s mor full of weeping than
he can understand.
Here is another Tale for the same book.
they can be unfriendly if they’re angered, an’ they can be the very
best o’ gude neighbours if they’re treated kindly.
My mother’s sister was her lone in the house one day, wi’ a
big pot o’ water boiling on the fire, and ane o’ the wee folk fell
down the chimney, and slipped wi’ his leg in the hot water.
He let a terrible squeal out o’ him, an’ in a minute the house
was full o’ wee creatures pulling him out o’ the pot, an’ carrying
him across the floor.
''Did she scald you?'' my aunt heard them saying to him.
''Na, na, it was mysel’ scaled my ainsel’,'' quoth the wee
fellow.
''A weel, a weel,'' says they. ''If it was your ainsel scalded
yoursel’, we’ll say nothing, but if she had scalded you, we’d ha’
made her pay.''
That book by Yeats is full of twenty great stories! If you ever get a chance to read it. Please do!
Another good book is by Una Leavy. It is titled ‘Irish Fairy Tales and Legends’.
him. He was lazy and untidy. Not for him the hard work and neat farms
of his neighbours. His fields were full of weeds, gates sagged, his cattle
rambled the roads. Dan preferred to spend his time dreaming. He had
great plans: one day he would be rich and have everything he could wish
for. Some bit of luck was sure to happen...
This morning though, he was up early. It was a feast day and there
would be sports and dancing in Ballycahill. He put on his only suit,
then reached for a tie - his best red silk one. A flick of the comb and he
was ready.
It was a long walk to Ballycahill. At first the road passed along by his
own farm. It didn’t bother him that he neighbours’ fields teemed with
full ripe crops of oats and barley. There they were - poor things -
slaving away while he was off on a day’s outing.
Clouds of dust flurried his shoes as he walked, then a shoelace
loosened. He stooped to tie it.
''Tic! Tac! Tic!''
What was that noise in the field beside him? Puzzled, he listened.
''Tic! Tac! Tic!''
Was it a grasshopper? No, this was louder and sharper. Was it a thrush,
smashing a snail’s shell against a stone? No, this was completely different.
On tiptoe, Dan peered through the hedge. What he was almost caused
him to stumble into the briars. There in the field sat the smallest man you
could imagine. His hat was red with a white feather in it, and he wore a
little leather apron. A leprechaun!
Dan gave a great big grin. Here surely was the bit of luck he had been
waiting for. Straightening his tie, he clambered clumsily through the
hedge. There was a loud rrrriiiippppp on the seat of his pants - but what
harm? Soon he would be buying a new suit...
The leprechaun looked up as Dan stepped into the field.
''Good morning, Dan,'' he said. ''Are you going to the fair of Ballycahill?''
''I was on my way,'' said Dan, ''when I heard you working, so I thought
I’d stop for a minute.''
''You’re ver welcome,'' said the leprechaun politely. ''Sit down and rest
yourself. There’s a rock there behind you.''
Dan was just about to turn when he remembered - if he looked away,
even for a second, the leprechaun would vanish.
‘He’s a crafty little fellow,’ thought Dan. ‘I’ll have to be careful.’ So he
just stood where he was.
''That’s a grand little shoe you’re making,'' he said.
''It is indeed,'' said the leprechaun. ''There’s a big ball tonight in
Liosachoill. It’s a pair of dancing shoes for the Queen of the Fairies.''
Dan had never seen anything so lovely.
''They’re gorgeous,'' he said, ''but it isn’t shoes I’m looking for.''
''I didn’t think it was,'' sighed the leprechaun.
''No indeed,'' said Dan, ''I’m after your pot of gold. Everyone know
that leprechauns have loads of money.''
''Pot of gold?'' laughed the leprechaun. ''You must be joking! Why do
you think I’m sitting here working, while the rest of the world is feasting
and merrymaking?''
''Your world isn’t my world,'' said Dan, ''and why you’re working is
none of my business. But it’s my field you’re sitting in and I want
the gold this instant!''
''And a poor bit of a field it is too!'' Remarked the leprechaun. ''Look
at it - full of poisonous ragwort, and all the sees blowing in on your
neighbours. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?''
''The gold!'' screeched Dan in a terrible temper. He’d heard plenty of
complaints about his fields already. ''The gold - get me the pot of gold!''
And he snatched the little man in a vicious grip.
''Let me go!'' squealed the leprechaun. ''I’m meeting in the middle!
You have the breath squeezed out of me!''
''I’ll let you go when you show me where the pot of gold is!'' roared
Dan.
''All right! I’ll show you!'' croaked the leprechaun. ''Just put me down!''
Dan dropped him roughly on the grass. With his hat squashed
sideways, the leprechaun hopped across to a clump of ragwort. ''It’s
under here,'' he said sulkily.
Dan groaned. He had no spade and the field was dotted with ten
thousand clumps of ragwort. Sweat ran down his face and he loosened
his collar. At one an idea came to him. He grinned, then taking off his
tie, he knotted it round the piece of ragwort.
''I’m going home for a spade,'' he said the leprechaun. ''Will you
promise me on your honour that you will not touch that tie?''
''I promise,'' said the leprechaun.
For a lazy man, Dan Kelly could move very quickly. In minutes he
was home and back again. Bu when he reached the field, the spade
clattered from his hand. The leprechaun was gone and red ties fluttered
cheerfully on then thousand clumps of ragwort...
Dan Kelly didn’t go to the fair that day. He spent the afternoon
sewing the seat of his trousers. Once or twice he thought he heard
someone laughing, but it was only the wind in the chimney. He never
did buy another suit, but he had plenty of ties to wear to the fair of
Ballycahill...
That book has ten wonderful stories! I hope that one day you will read it.
Below are a few brief details about the stories above taken from the books that the stories came from.
The Stolen Child: This haunting poem first appeared in the Irish Monthly in December 1886. It marked Yeats’ crucial decision to confine his poetry to Irish subjects. It’s dreamy late-Romantic atmosphere is not typical of the folk belief in fairy changelings on which it draws, reflecting instead Yeats’ own misty concept of the ‘Celtic Twilight’. In a review of Lady Wild’s Ancient Cures, Charms and Usages of Ireland in 1890, he announced that ‘the grey morning melancholy runs through all the legends of my people’ - a view he must have been caused to revise on his later expeditions collection folklore with Lady Gregory. Real folklore is more down-to-earth and robust that this’ but the unearthly fragile elegance of ‘The Stolen Child’ had made it deservedly one of the most popular of Yeats’ early poems. Yeats noted, ‘The places mentioned are round about Sligo. Further Rosses is a very noted fairy locality. There is here a little point of rocks where, if anyone falls asleep, there is danger of their waking silly, the fairies having carried off their souls.’
A Donegal Fairy: From Letitia McClintock ‘Folk Lore of the County Donegal’, Dublin University Magazine vol. 89, 1877. The ‘Norman’ motif, familiar from The Odyssey is found in many folk literatures. This version is unusual in that it avoids the joke that the human who has harmed the fairy or ogre gives their name as ‘My ainsel’ or some such, so that when the injured party is asked who hurt them, they can only say ‘Myself’. Instead the story is used to point the moral that’ the gentry’ will avenge all ill-treatment, and so must be treated with respect. Letitia McClintock collected many Ulster traditions but published only a few articles. She give the narrator of ‘A Donegal Fairy’ as ‘old Matt Craig’, but his is probably a made-up name. It is typical of Yeats’ small alterations to his sources that he amends her stage-Irish ‘crathurs’ to ‘creatures’.
The Pot of Gold: Leprechauns are little people believed to have lived in Ireland long ago. They were usually seen mending a shoe and always had a pot of gold hidden nearby. This story is based on “The Field of the Boliauns”, one of a collection from T. Crofton Croker’s Fairy Legends of the South of Ireland (1825). Boliaun (buachallán) is the Gaelic word for ragwort.
I hope that you have enjoyed these stories and the bit of information that goes with them.
The Stolen Child
Where dips the rocky highlandOf Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats.
There we’ve hid our fairy vats
Full of berries,
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O, human child!
To the woods and waters wild
With a fairy hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than
you can understand.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by farthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands, and mingling glances,
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap,
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles.
And is anxious in it’s sleep.
Come away! O, human child!
To the woods and waters wild,
With a fairy hand in hand,
For the word’s more full of weeping than
you can understand.
Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes,
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout,
And whispering in their ears;
We give them evil dreams,
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Of dew on the young streams.
Come! O, human child!
To the woods and waters wild,
with a fairy hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than
you can understand.
Away with us, he’s going,
The solemn-eyed;
He’ll hear nor more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hill-side.
Or the kettle on the hob
sing peace into his breast;
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the woods and waters wild,
With a fairy hand in hand,
For the world’s mor full of weeping than
he can understand.
Here is another Tale for the same book.
A Donegal Fairy
Ay, it’s a bad thing to displeasure the gentry, sure enough -they can be unfriendly if they’re angered, an’ they can be the very
best o’ gude neighbours if they’re treated kindly.
My mother’s sister was her lone in the house one day, wi’ a
big pot o’ water boiling on the fire, and ane o’ the wee folk fell
down the chimney, and slipped wi’ his leg in the hot water.
He let a terrible squeal out o’ him, an’ in a minute the house
was full o’ wee creatures pulling him out o’ the pot, an’ carrying
him across the floor.
''Did she scald you?'' my aunt heard them saying to him.
''Na, na, it was mysel’ scaled my ainsel’,'' quoth the wee
fellow.
''A weel, a weel,'' says they. ''If it was your ainsel scalded
yoursel’, we’ll say nothing, but if she had scalded you, we’d ha’
made her pay.''
That book by Yeats is full of twenty great stories! If you ever get a chance to read it. Please do!
Another good book is by Una Leavy. It is titled ‘Irish Fairy Tales and Legends’.
The Pot of Gold
Dan Kelly lived alone. He didn’t have a wife, for no girl would marryhim. He was lazy and untidy. Not for him the hard work and neat farms
of his neighbours. His fields were full of weeds, gates sagged, his cattle
rambled the roads. Dan preferred to spend his time dreaming. He had
great plans: one day he would be rich and have everything he could wish
for. Some bit of luck was sure to happen...
This morning though, he was up early. It was a feast day and there
would be sports and dancing in Ballycahill. He put on his only suit,
then reached for a tie - his best red silk one. A flick of the comb and he
was ready.
It was a long walk to Ballycahill. At first the road passed along by his
own farm. It didn’t bother him that he neighbours’ fields teemed with
full ripe crops of oats and barley. There they were - poor things -
slaving away while he was off on a day’s outing.
Clouds of dust flurried his shoes as he walked, then a shoelace
loosened. He stooped to tie it.
''Tic! Tac! Tic!''
What was that noise in the field beside him? Puzzled, he listened.
''Tic! Tac! Tic!''
Was it a grasshopper? No, this was louder and sharper. Was it a thrush,
smashing a snail’s shell against a stone? No, this was completely different.
On tiptoe, Dan peered through the hedge. What he was almost caused
him to stumble into the briars. There in the field sat the smallest man you
could imagine. His hat was red with a white feather in it, and he wore a
little leather apron. A leprechaun!
Dan gave a great big grin. Here surely was the bit of luck he had been
waiting for. Straightening his tie, he clambered clumsily through the
hedge. There was a loud rrrriiiippppp on the seat of his pants - but what
harm? Soon he would be buying a new suit...
The leprechaun looked up as Dan stepped into the field.
''Good morning, Dan,'' he said. ''Are you going to the fair of Ballycahill?''
''I was on my way,'' said Dan, ''when I heard you working, so I thought
I’d stop for a minute.''
''You’re ver welcome,'' said the leprechaun politely. ''Sit down and rest
yourself. There’s a rock there behind you.''
Dan was just about to turn when he remembered - if he looked away,
even for a second, the leprechaun would vanish.
‘He’s a crafty little fellow,’ thought Dan. ‘I’ll have to be careful.’ So he
just stood where he was.
''That’s a grand little shoe you’re making,'' he said.
''It is indeed,'' said the leprechaun. ''There’s a big ball tonight in
Liosachoill. It’s a pair of dancing shoes for the Queen of the Fairies.''
Dan had never seen anything so lovely.
''They’re gorgeous,'' he said, ''but it isn’t shoes I’m looking for.''
''I didn’t think it was,'' sighed the leprechaun.
''No indeed,'' said Dan, ''I’m after your pot of gold. Everyone know
that leprechauns have loads of money.''
''Pot of gold?'' laughed the leprechaun. ''You must be joking! Why do
you think I’m sitting here working, while the rest of the world is feasting
and merrymaking?''
''Your world isn’t my world,'' said Dan, ''and why you’re working is
none of my business. But it’s my field you’re sitting in and I want
the gold this instant!''
''And a poor bit of a field it is too!'' Remarked the leprechaun. ''Look
at it - full of poisonous ragwort, and all the sees blowing in on your
neighbours. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?''
''The gold!'' screeched Dan in a terrible temper. He’d heard plenty of
complaints about his fields already. ''The gold - get me the pot of gold!''
And he snatched the little man in a vicious grip.
''Let me go!'' squealed the leprechaun. ''I’m meeting in the middle!
You have the breath squeezed out of me!''
''I’ll let you go when you show me where the pot of gold is!'' roared
Dan.
''All right! I’ll show you!'' croaked the leprechaun. ''Just put me down!''
Dan dropped him roughly on the grass. With his hat squashed
sideways, the leprechaun hopped across to a clump of ragwort. ''It’s
under here,'' he said sulkily.
Dan groaned. He had no spade and the field was dotted with ten
thousand clumps of ragwort. Sweat ran down his face and he loosened
his collar. At one an idea came to him. He grinned, then taking off his
tie, he knotted it round the piece of ragwort.
''I’m going home for a spade,'' he said the leprechaun. ''Will you
promise me on your honour that you will not touch that tie?''
''I promise,'' said the leprechaun.
For a lazy man, Dan Kelly could move very quickly. In minutes he
was home and back again. Bu when he reached the field, the spade
clattered from his hand. The leprechaun was gone and red ties fluttered
cheerfully on then thousand clumps of ragwort...
Dan Kelly didn’t go to the fair that day. He spent the afternoon
sewing the seat of his trousers. Once or twice he thought he heard
someone laughing, but it was only the wind in the chimney. He never
did buy another suit, but he had plenty of ties to wear to the fair of
Ballycahill...
That book has ten wonderful stories! I hope that one day you will read it.
Below are a few brief details about the stories above taken from the books that the stories came from.
The Stolen Child: This haunting poem first appeared in the Irish Monthly in December 1886. It marked Yeats’ crucial decision to confine his poetry to Irish subjects. It’s dreamy late-Romantic atmosphere is not typical of the folk belief in fairy changelings on which it draws, reflecting instead Yeats’ own misty concept of the ‘Celtic Twilight’. In a review of Lady Wild’s Ancient Cures, Charms and Usages of Ireland in 1890, he announced that ‘the grey morning melancholy runs through all the legends of my people’ - a view he must have been caused to revise on his later expeditions collection folklore with Lady Gregory. Real folklore is more down-to-earth and robust that this’ but the unearthly fragile elegance of ‘The Stolen Child’ had made it deservedly one of the most popular of Yeats’ early poems. Yeats noted, ‘The places mentioned are round about Sligo. Further Rosses is a very noted fairy locality. There is here a little point of rocks where, if anyone falls asleep, there is danger of their waking silly, the fairies having carried off their souls.’
A Donegal Fairy: From Letitia McClintock ‘Folk Lore of the County Donegal’, Dublin University Magazine vol. 89, 1877. The ‘Norman’ motif, familiar from The Odyssey is found in many folk literatures. This version is unusual in that it avoids the joke that the human who has harmed the fairy or ogre gives their name as ‘My ainsel’ or some such, so that when the injured party is asked who hurt them, they can only say ‘Myself’. Instead the story is used to point the moral that’ the gentry’ will avenge all ill-treatment, and so must be treated with respect. Letitia McClintock collected many Ulster traditions but published only a few articles. She give the narrator of ‘A Donegal Fairy’ as ‘old Matt Craig’, but his is probably a made-up name. It is typical of Yeats’ small alterations to his sources that he amends her stage-Irish ‘crathurs’ to ‘creatures’.
The Pot of Gold: Leprechauns are little people believed to have lived in Ireland long ago. They were usually seen mending a shoe and always had a pot of gold hidden nearby. This story is based on “The Field of the Boliauns”, one of a collection from T. Crofton Croker’s Fairy Legends of the South of Ireland (1825). Boliaun (buachallán) is the Gaelic word for ragwort.
I hope that you have enjoyed these stories and the bit of information that goes with them.