Fairy Legends and Traditions of The South of Ireland Part 18

"Is it home you're going with the brogues this blessed night?" said Darby to him.

"Where else would it be?" replied Mick: "but, by my word, 'tis not across the Inch back again I'm going, after all I heard coming here; 'tis to no good that old Hanlon's mill is busy again."

"True, for you," said Darby; "and may be you'd take the horse and car home for me, Mick, by way of company, as 'tis along the road you go.

I'm waiting here to see a sister's son of mine that I expect from Kilcoleman." "That same I'll do," answered Mick, "with a thousand welcomes." So Mick drove the car fair and easy, knowing that the poor beast had come off a long journey; and Mick--G.o.d reward him for it--was always tender-hearted and good to the dumb creatures.

The night was a beautiful one; the moon was better than a quarter old; and Mick, looking up at her, could not help bestowing a blessing on her beautiful face, s.h.i.+ning down so sweetly upon the gentle Awbeg. He had now got out of the open road, and had come to where the trees grew on each side of it: he proceeded for some s.p.a.ce in the chequered light which the moon gave through them. At one time, when a big old tree got between him and the moon, it was so dark, that he could hardly see the horse's head; then, as he pa.s.sed on, the moonbeams would stream through the open boughs and variegate the road with light and shade.

Mick was lying down in the car at his ease, having got clear of the plantation, and was watching the bright piece of a moon in a little pool at the road-side, when he saw it disappear all of a sudden as if a great cloud came over the sky. He turned round on his elbow to see if it was so; but how was Mick astonished at finding, close along-side of the car, a great high black coach drawn by six black horses, with long black tails reaching almost down to the ground, and a coachman dressed all in black sitting up on the box. But what surprised Mick the most was, that he could see no sign of a head either upon coachman or horses. It swept rapidly by him, and he could perceive the horses raising their feet as if they were in a fine slinging trot, the coachman touching them up with his long whip, and the wheels spinning round like hoddy-doddies; still he could hear no noise, only the regular step of his gossip Darby's horse, and the squeaking of the gudgeons of the car, that were as good as lost entirely for want of a little grease.

Poor Mick's heart almost died within him, but he said nothing, only looked on; and the black coach swept away and was soon lost among some distant trees. Mick saw nothing more of it, or, indeed, of any thing else. He got home just as the moon was going down behind Mount Hillery--took the tackling off the horse, turned the beast out in the field for the night, and got to his bed.

Next morning, early, he was standing at the road-side, thinking of all that had happened the night before, when he saw Dan Madden, that was Mr. Wrixon's huntsman, coming on the master's best horse down the hill, as hard as ever he went at the tail of the hounds. Mick's mind instantly misgave him that all was not right, so he stood out in the very middle of the road, and caught hold of Dan's bridle when he came up.

"Mick, dear--for the love of heaven! don't stop me," cried Dan.

"Why, what's the hurry?" said Mick.

"Oh, the master!--he's off,--he's off--he'll never cross a horse again till the day of judgment!"

"Why, what would ail his honour?" said Mick; "sure it is no later than yesterday morning that I was talking to him, and he stout and hearty; and says he to me, Mick, says he--"

"Stout and hearty was he?" answered Madden; "and was he not out with me in the kennel last night, when I was feeding the dogs; and didn't he come out to the stable, and give a ball to Peg Pullaway with his own hand, and tell me he'd ride the old General to-day; and sure,"

said Dan, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his coat, "who'd have thought that the first thing I'd see this morning was the mistress standing at my bed-side, and bidding me get up and ride off like fire for Doctor Galway; for the master had got a fit, and"--poor Dan's grief choked his voice--"oh, Mick! if you have a heart in you, run over yourself, or send the gossoon for Kate Finnigan, the midwife; she's a cruel skilful woman, and may be she might save the master, till I get the doctor."

Dan struck his spurs into the hunter, and Michael Noonan flung off his newly-mended brogues, and cut across the fields to Kate Finnigan's; but neither the doctor nor Katty was of any avail, and the next night's moon saw Ballygibblin--and more's the pity--a house of mourning.

THE DEATH COACH.

XXVIII.

'Tis midnight!--how gloomy and dark!

By Jupiter there's not a star!-- 'Tis fearful!--'tis awful!--and hark!

What sound is that comes from afar?

Still rolling and rumbling, that sound Makes nearer and nearer approach; Do I tremble, or is it the ground?-- Lord save us!--what is it?--a coach!--

A coach!--but that coach has no head; And the horses are headless as it: Of the driver the same may be said, And the pa.s.sengers inside who sit.

See the wheels! how they fly o'er the stones!

And whirl, as the whip it goes crack: Their spokes are of dead men's thigh bones, And the pole is the spine of the back!

The hammer-cloth, shabby display, Is a pall rather mildew'd by damps;

And to light this strange coach on its way, Two hollow skulls hang up for lamps!

From the gloom of Rathc.o.o.ney church-yard, They dash down the hill of Glanmire; Pa.s.s Lota in gallop as hard As if horses were never to tire!

With people thus headless 'tis fun To drive in such furious career; Since _headlong_ their horses can't run, Nor coachman be _heady_ from beer.

Very steep is the Tivoli lane, But up-hill to them is as down; Nor the charms of Woodhill can detain These Dullahans rus.h.i.+ng to town.

Could they feel as I've felt--in a song-- A spell that forbade them depart; They'd a lingering visit prolong, And after their head lose their heart!

No matter!--'tis past twelve o'clock; Through the streets they sweep on like the wind, And, taking the road to Blackrock, Cork city is soon left behind.

Should they hurry thus reckless along, To supper instead of to bed, The landlord will surely be wrong, If he charge it at so much a head!

Yet mine host may suppose them too poor To bring to his wealth an increase; As till now, all who drove to his door, Possess'd at least _one crown_ a-piece.

Up the Deadwoman's hill they are roll'd; Boreenmannah is quite out of sight; Ballintemple they reach, and behold!

At its church-yard they stop and alight.

"Who's there?" said a voice from the ground, "We've no room, for the place is quite full."

"O! room must be speedily found, For we come from the parish of Skull.

"Though Murphys and Crowleys appear On headstones of deep-letter'd pride; Though Scannels and Murleys lie here, Fitzgeralds and Toonies beside;

"Yet here for the night we lie down, To-morrow we speed on the gale; For having no heads of our own, We seek the Old Head of Kinsale."

THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN.

XXIX.

"G.o.d speed you, and a safe journey this night to you, Charley,"

e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the master of the little sheebeen house at Ballyhooley after his old friend and good customer, Charley Culnane, who at length had turned his face homewards, with the prospect of as dreary a ride and as dark a night as ever fell upon the Blackwater, along the banks of which he was about to journey.

Charley Culnane knew the country well, and, moreover, was as bold a rider as any Mallow-boy that ever _rattled_ a four-year-old upon Drumrue race-course. He had gone to Fermoy in the morning, as well for the purpose of purchasing some ingredients required for the Christmas dinner by his wife, as to gratify his own vanity by having new reins fitted to his snaffle, in which he intended showing off the old mare at the approaching St. Stephen's day hunt.

Charley did not get out of Fermoy until late; for although he was not one of your "nasty particular sort of fellows" in any thing that related to the common occurrences of life, yet in all the appointments connected with hunting, riding, leaping, in short, in whatever was connected with the old mare, "Charley," the saddlers said, "was the devil to _plase_." An ill.u.s.tration of this fastidiousness was afforded by his going such a distance for his snaffle bridle. Mallow was full twelve miles nearer "Charley's farm" (which lay just three quarters of a mile below Carrick) than Fermoy; but Charley had quarrelled with all the Mallow saddlers, from hard-working and hard-drinking Tim Clancey, up to Mr. Ryan, who wrote himself "Saddler to the Duhallow Hunt;" and no one could content him in all particulars but honest Michael Twomey of Fermoy, who used to a.s.sert--and who will doubt it--that he could st.i.tch a saddle better than the lord-lieutenant, although they made him all as one as king over Ireland.

This delay in the arrangement of the snaffle bridle did not allow Charley Culnane to pay so long a visit as he had at first intended to his old friend and gossip, Con Buckley, of the "Harp of Erin." Con, however, knew the value of time, and insisted upon Charley making good use of what he had to spare. "I won't bother you waiting for water, Charley, because I think you'll have enough of that same before you get home; so drink off your liquor, man. It's as good _parliament_ as ever a gentleman tasted, ay, and holy church too, for it will bear 'x _waters_,' and carry the bead after that, may be."

Charley, it must be confessed, nothing loath, drank success to Con, and success to the jolly "Harp of Erin," with its head of beauty and its strings of the hair of gold, and to their better acquaintance, and so on, from the bottom of his soul, until the bottom of the bottle reminded him that Carrick was at the bottom of the hill on the other side of Castletown Roche, and that he had got no farther on his journey than his gossip's at Ballyhooley, close to the big gate of Convamore. Catching hold of his oil-skin hat, therefore, whilst Con Buckley went to the cupboard for another bottle of the "real stuff,"

he regularly, as it is termed, bolted from his friend's hospitality, darted to the stable, tightened his girths, and put the old mare into a canter towards home.

The road from Ballyhooley to Carrick follows pretty nearly the course of the Blackwater, occasionally diverging from the river and pa.s.sing through rather wild scenery, when contrasted with the beautiful seats that adorn its banks. Charley cantered gaily, regardless of the rain, which, as his friend Con had antic.i.p.ated, fell in torrents: the good woman's currants and raisins were carefully packed between the folds of his yeomanry cloak, which Charley, who was proud of showing that he belonged to the "Royal Mallow Light Horse Volunteers," always strapped to the saddle before him, and took care never to destroy the military effect of by putting it on.--Away he went singing like a thrush--

"Sporting, belleing, dancing, drinking, Breaking windows--(_hiccup_!)--sinking, Ever raking--never thinking, Live the rakes of Mallow.

"Spending faster than it comes, Beating--(_hiccup, hic_,) and duns, Duhallow's true-begotten sons, Live the rakes of Mallow."