Irish Fairy Tales quotes

“But,” Finnian objected in bewilderment, “Partholon came to Ireland not long after the Flood.”

“I came with him,” said Tuan mildly.

The saint pushed his chair back hastily, and sat staring at his host, and as he stared the blood grew chill in his veins, and his hair crept along his scalp and stood on end.

“Then, sudden as a rising wind, between one night and a morning, there came a sickness that bloated the stomach and purpled the skin, and on the seventh day all of the race of Partholon were dead, save one man only.”

“There always escapes one man,” said Finnian thoughtfully.

“And I am that man,” his companion affirmed.

“I was alone,” said Tuan. “

I was so alone that my own shadow frightened me.

I was so alone that the sound of a bird in flight, or the creaking of a dew-drenched bough, whipped me to cover as a rabbit is scared to his burrow.

What a tingle dwelt about my heart! What a thrill spun to the lofty points of my antlers!

How the world was new! How the sun was new! How the wind caressed me!

“With unswerving forehead and steady eye I met all that came. The old, lone wolf leaped sideways, snarling, and slunk away. The lumbering bear swung his head of hesitations and thought again; he trotted his small red eye away with him to a nearby brake.

which caresses and lets go, and will not let you fall. For man may stumble in a furrow; the stag tumble from a cliff; the hawk, wing-weary and beaten, with darkness around him and the storm behind, may dash his brains against a tree.

But the home of the salmon is his delight, and the sea guards all her creatures.

”

It was the only way they could get rid of such a man; but it was not an easy way, for what Fionn’s father did not know in arms could not be taught to him even by Morna.

Still, the hound that can wait will catch a hare at last, and even Mananánn sleeps.

Fionn’s mother was beautiful, long-haired Muirne: so she is always referred to. She was the daughter of Teigue, the son of Nuada from Faery, and her mother was Ethlinn.

She was going back secretly, in dread of the sons of Morna, slipping through gloomy woods, keeping away from habitations, getting by desolate and lonely ways to her lord in Kerry.

Perhaps it was he that was afraid of the sons of Morna, and perhaps she loved him.

The women Druids, his guardians, belonged to his father’s people. Bovmall was Uail’s sister, and, consequently, Fionn’s aunt.

Of Conán Mael mac Morna his brother, gruff as a badger, bearded like a boar, bald as a crow, and with a tongue that could manage an insult where another man would not find even a stammer.

His boast was that when he saw an open door he went into it, and when he saw a closed door he went into it.

When he saw a peaceful man he insulted him, and when he met a man who was not peaceful he insulted him.

The crows will tell a secret if no one else does; and under a bush, behind a clump of bracken, what eyes may there not be! But if your secret is legged like a young goat! If it is tongued like a wolf!

One can hide a baby, but you cannot hide a boy.

He will rove unless you tie him to a post, and he will whistle then.

and under a bush, behind a clump of bracken, what eyes may there not be! But if your secret is legged like a young goat! If it is tongued like a wolf! One can hide a baby, but you cannot hide a boy.

He will rove unless you tie him to a post, and he will whistle then.

The sons of Morna came, but there were only two grim women living in a lonely hut to greet them. We may be sure they were well greeted. One can imagine Goll’s merry stare taking in all that could be seen;

… beat them at swimming, he beat their best at running and jumping, and when the sport degenerated into violence, as it was bound to, the roughness of Fionn would be ten times as rough as the roughness of the roughest rough they could put forward.

Bravery is pride when one is young, and Fionn was proud.

There must have been anger in his mind as he went away leaving that lake behind him, and those snarling and scowling boys, but there would have been disappointment also, for his desire at this time should have been towards friendliness.

“Tell us, chief,” one ventured, “what you think?”

“The music of what happens,” said great Fionn, “that is the finest music in the world.”

He loved “what happened,” and would not evade it by the swerve of a hair; so on this occasion what was occurring he would have occur, although a king was his rival and his master.

It may be that his mother was watching the match and that he could not but exhibit his skill before her. He committed the enormity of winning seven games in succession from the king himself!!!

It is seldom indeed that a subject can beat a king at chess, and this monarch was properly amazed.

“Who are you at all?” he cried, starting back from the chessboard and staring on Fionn.

Fionn went on his travels again.

All desires save one are fleeting, but that one lasts forever.

Fionn, with all desires, had the lasting one, for he would go anywhere and forsake anything for wisdom; and it was in search of this that he went to the place where Finegas lived on a bank of the Boyne Water.

and it was in search of this that he went to the place where Finegas lived on a bank of the Boyne Water. But for dread of the clann-Morna he did not go as Fionn. He called himself Deimne on that journey.

We get wise by asking questions, and even if these are not answered we get wise, for a well-packed question carries its answer on its back as a snail carries its shell.

Fionn asked every question he could think of, and his master, who was a poet, and so an honourable man, answered them all, not to the limit of his patience, for it was limitless, but to the limit of his ability.

“Why do you live on the bank of a river?” was one of these questions.

“Because a poem is a revelation, and it is by the brink of running water that poetry is revealed to the mind.”

“How long have you been here?” was the next query.

“It is a long time,” said wondering Fionn.

“I would wait twice as long for a poem,” said the inveterate bard.

“Have you caught good poems?” Fionn asked him.

This dish was filled with clear water. Then Fionn would bend his head and stare into the water, and as he stared he would place his thumb in his mouth under his “Tooth of Knowledge,” his “wisdom tooth.”

Knowledge, may it be said, is higher than magic and is more to be sought.

It is quite possible to see what is happening and yet not know what is forward, for while seeing is believing it does not follow that either seeing or believing is knowing.

a bush rustled yonder, but that brief rustle was a bird; that pressure was a wolf, and this hesitation a fox; the scraping yonder was but a rough leaf against bark, and the scratching beyond it was a ferret’s claw.

Fear cannot be where knowledge is, and Fionn was not fearful.

His mind, quietly busy on all sides, picked up one sound and dwelt on it. “A man,” said Fionn, and he listened in that direction, back towards the city.

“Make your choice,” said Conn to Goll Mor; “you will leave Ireland, or you will place your hand in the hand of this champion and be his man.”

Goll could do a thing that would be hard for another person, and he could do it so beautifully that he was not diminished by any action.

“Here is my hand,” said Goll.

But the law of life is change; nothing continues in the same way for any length of time; happiness must become unhappiness, and will be succeeded again by the joy it had displaced.

The past also must be reckoned with; it is seldom as far behind us as we could wish: it is more often in front, blocking the way, and the future trips over it just when we think that the road is clear and joy our own.

Iollan had a past. He was not ashamed of it; he merely thought it was finished, although in truth it was only beginning, for it is that perpetual beginning of the past that we call the future.

“However that may be, master, I have given Fionn’s message, and here at my heel is the dog. Do you take her or refuse her?”

“If I could refuse anything to Fionn it would be a dog,” said Fergus, “but I could not refuse anything to Fionn, so give me the hound.”

Uct Dealv put the chain in his hand.

Everywhere he walked the dog followed him, giving little prances and little pats against him, and keeping her eyes fixed on his with such eagerness and intelligence that he marvelled.

“That dog likes me,” he murmured in amazement.

“By my hand,” he cried next day, “I like that dog.”

“Except the High King and the kings I have authority in this land.”

“What man has authority over himself?” said Saeve.

“Do you mean that I am the man you seek?” said Fionn.

She filled him with wonder and surmise. There was magic in the tips of her fingers. Her thin palm ravished him. Her slender foot set his heart beating; and whatever way her head moved there came a new shape of beauty to her face.

“She is always new,” said Fionn. “She is always better than any other woman; she is always better than herself.”

He attended no more to the Fianna. He ceased to hunt. He did not listen to the songs of poets or the curious sayings of magicians, for all of these were in his wife, and something that was beyond these was in her also.

“You are in love, dear heart,” said Caelte.

“In love he is,” Conán grumbled. “A cordial for women, a disease for men, a state of wretchedness.”

“Wretched in truth,” the Chief murmured. “Love makes us poor We have not eyes enough to see all that is to be seen, nor hands enough to seize the tenth of all we want.

There were many blanks in the tale, for a young child does not remember very well.

Deeds grow old in a day and are buried in a night.

New memories come crowding on old ones, and one must learn to forget as well as to remember.

“We must all master it,” Dermod replied.

“We may think with our minds and with our tongues, but we should never think with our noses and with our eyebrows.”

The woman in the chariot had drawn nigh to the ford by which they were standing, and, without pause, she swung her steeds into the shallows and came across the river in a tumult of foam and spray.

“If you continue it,” he said, “it will surely come to an end some time.

A stone on a stone makes a house, dear heart, and a word on a word tells a tale.

”

“Yes, separated. If they had not come between us I still think—”

“Don’t think out loud, dear heart, for you and I are at peace by law.”

“That is true,” said Cairell, “and a man must stick by a judgement. Come with me, my dear, and let us see how the youngsters are shaping in the school. One of them has rather a way with him as a swordsman.”

“That is true,” said Cairell, “and a man must stick by a judgement. Come with me, my dear, and let us see how the youngsters are shaping in the school. One of them has rather a way with him as a swordsman.”

“No youngster is any good with a sword,” Conán replied.

“You are right there,” said Cairell. “It takes a good ripe man for that weapon.”

The singers, the harpers, and jugglers submitted to that constraint, so that every person felt awkward and no one knew what should be done or what would happen, and from that doubt dullness came, with silence following on its heels.

There is nothing more terrible than silence. Shame grows in that blank, or anger gathers there, and we must choose which of these is to be our master.

That choice lay before Fionn, who never knew shame.

Yonder a big-shouldered person lifted another man in his arms and threw him at a small group that charged him. In a retired corner a gentleman stood in a thoughtful attitude while he tried to pull out a tooth that had been knocked loose.

“You can’t fight,” he mumbled, “with a loose shoe or a loose tooth.”

“Hurry up with that tooth,” the man in front of him grumbled, “for I want to knock out another one.”

“You can’t fight,” he mumbled, “with a loose shoe or a loose tooth.”

“Hurry up with that tooth,” the man in front of him grumbled, “for I want to knock out another one.”

Pressed against the wall was a bevy of ladies, some of whom were screaming and some laughing and all of whom were calling on the men to go back to their seats.

That, by itself, is wonderful, for there are few people who remember that they have been to Faery or aught of all that happened to them in that state.

In truth we do not go to Faery, we become Faery, and in the beating of a pulse we may live for a year or a thousand years.

But when we return the memory is quickly clouded, and we seem to have had a dream or seen a vision, although we have verily been in Faery.

“Help yourself,” roared Cael, “for all that I want is not to be near you.”

“The tooth that does not help gets no helping,” the other replied.

In a short time the Carl returned with a wild boar which he had run down. He cooked the beast over his bonfire and ate one half of it, leaving the other half for his breakfast.

“Who lost the tails of his coat?” he roared.

“Don’t ask riddles of a man that’s eating blackberries,” the Carl rebuked him.

“The dog without a tail and the coat without a tail,” cried Cael.

He had a sword in his hand, and there was nothing in his face but redness and ferocity.

Fear fell like night around the Fianna, and they stood with slack knees and hanging hands waiting for death.

But the Carl lifted a pawful of his oozy slop and discharged this at Cael with such a smash that the man’s head spun off his shoulders and hopped along the ground.

Not even a call was necessary, for Goll felt in his heart when Fionn was threatened, and he would leave Fionn’s own brother only half-killed to fly where his arm was wanted.

He was never thanked, of course, for although Fionn loved Goll he did not like him, and that was how Goll felt towards Fionn.

Fionn, with Conán the Swearer and the dogs Bran and Sceólan, was sitting on the hunting-mound at the top of Cesh Corran.

Their bodies were covered with a bristle of hair and fur and fluff, so that they looked like dogs in some parts and like cats in others, and in other parts again they looked like chickens.

They had moustaches poking under their noses and woolly wads growing out of their ears, so that when you looked at them the first time you never wanted to look at them again, and if you had to look at them a second time you were likely to die of the sight.

They were called Caevóg, Cuillen, and Iaran. The fourth daughter, Iarnach, was not present at that moment, so nothing need be said of her yet.

“One could not call them handsome,” said Conán.

“One could,” Fionn replied, “but it would not be true.”

“I cannot see them properly,” Fionn complained. “They are hiding behind the holly.”

“I cannot see them properly,” Fionn complained. “They are hiding behind the holly.”

“I would be contented if I could not see them at all,” his companion grumbled.

“I want to make sure that it is whiskers they are wearing.”

The uncanny, misbehaved, and outrageous harridans advanced then to meet the son of Morna, and when he saw these three Goll whipped the sword from his thigh, swung his buckler round, and got to them in ten great leaps.

Silence fell on the world during that conflict. The wind went down; the clouds stood still; the old hill itself held its breath;

the warriors within ceased to be men and became each an ear; and the dogs sat in a vast circle round the combatants, with their heads all to one side, their noses poked forward, their mouths half open, and their tails forgotten.

… did not prevent Goll from killing Fionn’s brother Cairell later on, nor did it prevent Fionn from killing Goll later on again, and the last did not prevent Goll from rescuing Fionn out of hell when the Fianna-Finn were sent there under the new God.

Nor is there any reason to complain or to be astonished at these things, for it is a mutual world we llve in, a give-and-take world, and there is no great harm in it.

There are more worlds than one, and in many ways they are unlike each other.

But joy and sorrow, or, in other words, good and evil, are not absent in their degree from any of the worlds, for wherever there is life there is action, and action is but the expression of one or other of these qualities.

It is certain that she was not a fit person to exist in the Many-Coloured Land, and it is to be feared that she was organised too grossly even for life in the Shí.

She was an earth-woman, and she was banished to the earth.

Word was sent to the Shís of Ireland that this lady should not be permitted to enter any of them;

“You must choose,” Conn answered.

“If you allow me to choose it means that you do not want me very badly,” said she with a smile.

“Then I will not allow you to choose,” cried the king, “and it is with myself you shall marry.”

and for a long time he could not tell what that was which made a difference on the salt-whipped wind or why he should be excited. For suddenly he had become excited and his heart leaped in violent expectation.

“It is an October smell,” he said.

“It is apples that I smell.”

It was she who was responsible for the ills which had come on Ireland, and we may wonder why she brought these plagues and droughts to what was now her own country.

Under all wrongdoing lies personal vanity or the feeling that we are endowed and privileged beyond our fellows.

It is probable that, however courageously she had accepted fate, Becuma had been sharply stricken in her pride; in the sense of personal strength, aloofness, and identity, in which the mind likens itself to god and will resist every domination but its own.

There is a difference between this world and the world of Faery, but it is not immediately perceptible. Everything that is here is there, but the things that are there are better than those that are here. All things that are bright are there brighter.

There is more gold in the sun and more silver in the moon of that land.

There is more scent in the flowers, more savour in the fruit. There is more comeliness in the men and more tenderness in the women.

There is more gold in the sun and more silver in the moon of that land. There is more scent in the flowers, more savour in the fruit. There is more comeliness in the men and more tenderness in the women.

Everything in Faery is better by this one wonderful degree, and it is by this betterness you will know that you are there if you should ever happen to get there.

Mongan and his companions stepped from the world of storm into sunshine and a scented world. The instant they stepped they stood, bewildered, looking at each other silently, questioningly, and then with one accord they turned to look back whence they had come.

“We are disgraced,” said he.

“It is very lucky,” said the man in the branch below, “that a sheep cannot climb a tree.”

“We are disgraced forever,” said the King of Ulster.

“It is not nice of you to laugh at us,” said Fiachna Finn.

“Who could help laughing at a king hunkering on a branch and his army roosting around him like hens?” said the stranger.

“Nevertheless,” the king replied, “it would be courteous of you not to laugh at misfortune.”

“Nevertheless,” the king replied, “it would be courteous of you not to laugh at misfortune.”

“We laugh when we can,” commented the stranger, “and are thankful for the chance.”

“You may come up into the tree,” said Fiachna, “for I perceive that you are a mannerly person, and I see that some of the venomous sheep are charging in this direction. I would rather protect you,” he continued, “than see you killed;

And the man on a branch yet above him groaned out “Amen!”

“There is nothing to frighten sheep like a dog,” said Manannán, “and there is nothing to frighten these sheep like this dog.”

He put the dog on the ground then.

“I never before heard,” said Mongan, “of a man giving away his own wife.”

“Even if you never heard of it before, you must do it now,” said Duv Laca, “for honour is longer than life.”

Mongan became angry when Duv Laca said that. His face went red as a sunset, and the veins swelled in his neck and his forehead.

It was a long, uneasy journey, for although mac an Dáv was of stout heart and goodwill, yet no man can carry another on his back from Ulster to Leinster and go quick.

Still, if you keep on driving a pig or a story they will get at last to where you wish them to go, and the man who continues putting one foot in front of the other will leave his home behind, and will come at last to the edge of the sea and the end of the world.

When they reached Leinster the feast of Moy Lifé was being held, and they pushed on by forced marches and long stages so as to be in time, and thus they came to the Moy of Cell Camain, and they mixed with the crowd that …

… illness which comes from longing and despair that he sat one day looking on a world that was black although the sun shone, and that was lean and unwholesome although autumn fruits were heavy on the earth and the joys of harvest were about him.

“Winter is in my heart,” quoth he, “and I am cold already.”

He thought too that some day he would die, and the thought was not unpleasant, for one half of his life was away in the territories of the King of Leinster, and the half that he kept in himself had no spice in it.

“It is a weariness and a tiredness,” said mac an Dáv. “

It is a long yawn without sleepiness. It is a bee, lost at midnight and buzzing on a pane.

It is the noise made by a tied-up dog. It is nothing worth dreaming about. It is nothing at all.”