people then gathered round the heroes’ bodies and asked Connachar what was to be done with the bodies. The order that he gave was that they should dig a pit and put the three brothers in it side by side.
Deirdre kept sitting on the brink of the grave, constantly asking the grave-diggers to dig the pit wide and free. When the bodies of the brothers were put in the grave, Deirdre said: ‘Come over hither, Naois, my love, Let Arden close to Allen lie;
If the dead had any sense to feel, Ye would have made a place for Deirdre.’
The men did as she told them. She jumped into the grave and lay down by Naois, and she was dead by his side.
The king ordered the body to be raised from out the grave and to be buried on the other side of the loch. It was done as the king bade, and the pit closed. Thereupon a fir shoot grew out of the grave of Deirdre and a fir shoot from the grave of Naois, and the two shoots united in a knot above the loch. The king ordered the shoots to be cut down, and this was done twice, until, at the third time, the wife whom the king had married caused him to stop this work of evil and his vengeance on the remains of the dead.
KIng O’Toole and His Goose
Och, I thought all the world, far and near, had heerd o’ King O’Toole – well, well, but the darkness of mankind is untellible! Well, sir, you must know, as you didn’t hear it afore, that there was a king, called King O’Toole, who was a fine old king in the old ancient times, long ago; and it was he that owned the churches in the early days. The king, you see, was the right sort; he was the real boy, and loved sport as he loved his life, and hunting in particular; and from the rising o’ the sun, up he got, and away he went over the mountains after the deer; and fine times they were.
Well, it was all mighty good, as long as the king had his health; but, you see, in course of time the king grew old, by raison[19] he was stiff in his limbs, and when he got stricken in years, his heart failed him, and he was lost entirely for want o’ diversion, because he couldn’t go a-hunting no longer; and, by dad, the poor king was obliged at last to get a goose to divert him. Oh, you may laugh, if you like, but it’s truth I’m telling you; and the way the goose diverted him was this-away: You see, the goose used to swim across the lake, and go diving for trout, and catch fish on a Friday for the king, and flew every other day round about the lake, diverting the poor king. All went on mighty well until, by dad, the goose got stricken in years like her master, and couldn’t divert him no longer, and then it was that the poor king was lost entirely. The king was walkin’ one mornin’ by the edge of the lake, lamentin’ his cruel fate[20], and thinking of drowning himself, that could get no diversion in life, when all of a sudden, turning round the corner, who should he meet but a mighty decent young man coming up to him.
‘God save you,’ says the king to the young man.
‘God save you kindly, King O’Toole,’ says the young man.
‘True for you,’ says the king. ‘I am King O’Toole,’ says he, ‘prince and plennypennytinchery of these parts,’ says he; ‘but how came ye to know that?’ says he.
‘Oh, never mind,’ says St. Kavin.
You see it was St. Kavin, sure enough – the saint himself in disguise, and nobody else. ‘Oh, never mind,’ says he, ‘I know more than that. May I make bold to ask how is your goose, King O’Toole?’ says he.
‘Blur-an-agers, how came ye to know about my goose?’ says the king.
‘Oh, no matter; I was given to understand it,’ says St. Kavin.
After some more talk the king says, ‘What are you?’
‘I’m an honest man,’ says St. Kavin.
‘Well, honest man,’ says the king, ‘and how is it you make your money so aisy?’
‘By makin’ old things as good as new,’ says St. Ka-vin.
‘Is it a tinker you are?’ says the king.
‘No,’ says the saint; ‘I’m no tinker by trade, King O’Toole; I’ve a better trade than a tinker,’ says he. ‘What would you say,’ says he, ‘if I made your old goose as good as new?’
My dear, at the word of making his goose as good as new, you’d think the poor old king’s eyes were ready to jump out of his head. With that the king whistled, and down came the poor goose, just like a hound, waddling up to the poor cripple, her master, and as like him as two peas. The minute the saint clapped his eyes on the goose, ‘I’ll do the job for you,’ says he, ‘King O’Toole.’
‘By Jaminee?’ says King O’Toole. ‘If you do, I’ll say you’re the cleverest fellow in the seven parishes.’
‘Oh, by dad,’ says St. Kavin, ‘you must say more nor that – my horn’s not so soft all out,’ says he, ‘as to repair your old goose for nothing; what’ll you gi’ me if I do the job for you? – that’s the chat,’ says St. Kavin.
‘I’ll give you whatever you ask,’ says the king; ‘isn’t that fair?’
‘Divil a fairer,’ says the saint; ‘That’s the way to do business. Now,’ says he, ‘this is the bargain I’ll make with you, King O’Toole: will you gi’ me all the ground the goose flies over, the first offer, after I make her as good as new?’
‘I will,’ says the king.
‘You won’t go back o’ your word?’ says St. Kavin. ‘Honour bright!’ says King O’Toole, holding out his fist.
‘Honour bright!’ says St. Kavin, back agin, ‘it’s a bargain. Come here!’ says he to the poor old goose, ‘come here, you unfortunate ould cripple, and it’s I that’ll make you the sporting bird.’ With that, my dear, he took up the goose by the two wings – ‘Criss o’ my cross an you,’ says he, markin’ her to grace with the blessed sign at the same minute – and throwing her up in the air. ‘Whew,’ says he, jist givin’ her a blast to help her; and with that, my jewel, she took to her heels[21], flyin’ like one o’ the eagles themselves, and cutting as many capers as a swallow before a shower of rain.
Well, my dear, it was a beautiful sight to see the king standing with his mouth open, looking at his poor old goose flying as light as a lark, and better than ever she was: and when she lit at his feet, patted her on the head, and ‘Ma vourneen,’ says he, ‘but you are the darlint o’ the world.’
‘And what do you say to me,’ says St. Kavin, ‘for making her the like?’
‘By Jabers,’ says the king, ‘I say nothing beats the art o’ man, barring the bees.’
‘And do you say no more nor that?’ says St. Kavin.
‘And that I’m beholden to you,’ says the king.
‘But will you gi’e all the ground the goose flew over?’ says St. Kavin.
‘I will,’ says King O’Toole, ‘and you’re welcome to it,’ says he. ‘Though it’s the last acre I have to give.’
‘But you’ll keep your word true?’ says the saint.
‘As
by raison – (
lamentin’ his cruel fate – (
took to her heels – (
