The Aran Islands Part 20

When we had dug out enough of roots from the deep crannies in the rocks where they are only to be found, I gave my companion a few pence, and sent him back to his cottage.

The old man who tells me the Irish poems is curiously pleased with the translations I have made from some of them.

He would never be tired, he says, listening while I would be reading them, and they are much finer things than his old bits of rhyme.

Here is one of them, as near the Irish as I am able to make it:--

RUCARD MOR.

I put the sorrow of destruction on the bad luck, For it would be a pity ever to deny it, It is to me it is stuck, By loneliness my pain, my complaining.

It is the fairy-host Put me a-wandering And took from me my goods of the world.

At Mannistir na Ruaidthe It is on me the shameless deed was done: Finn Bheara and his fairy-host Took my little horse on me from under the bag.

If they left me the skin It would bring me tobacco for three months, But they did not leave anything with me But the old minister in its place.

Am not I to be pitied?

My bond and my note are on her, And the price of her not yet paid, My loneliness, my pain, my complaining.

The devil a hill or a glen, or highest fort Ever was built in Ireland, Is not searched on me for my mare; And I am still at my complaining.

I got up in the morning, I put a red spark in my pipe.

I went to the Cnoc-Maithe To get satisfaction from them.

I spoke to them, If it was in them to do a right thing, To get me my little mare, Or I would be changing my wits.

'Do you hear, Rucard Mor?

It is not here is your mare, She is in Cnoc Bally Brishlawn With the fairy-men these three months.'

I ran on in my walking, I followed the road straightly, I was in Glenasmoil Before the moon was ended.

I spoke to the fairy-man, If it was in him to do a right thing, To get me my little mare, Or I would be changing my wits.

'Do you hear Rucard Mor?

It is not here is your mare, She is in Cnoc Bally Brishlawn With the horseman of the music these three months.'

I ran off on my walking, I followed the road straightly, I was in Cnoc Bally Brishlawn With the black fall of the night.

That is a place was a crowd As it was seen by me, All the weavers of the globe, It is there you would have news of them.

I spoke to the horseman, If it was in him to do the right thing, To get me my little mare, Or I would be changing my wits.

'Do you hear, Rucard Mor?

It is not here is your mare, She is in Cnoc Cruachan, In the back end of the palace.'

I ran off on my walking, I followed the road straightly, I made no rest or stop Till I was in face of the palace.

That is the place was a crowd As it appeared to me, The men and women of the country, And they all making merry.

Arthur Scoil (?) stood up And began himself giving the lead, It is joyful, light and active, I would have danced the course with them.

They drew up on their feet And they began to laugh,-- 'Look at Rucard Mor, And he looking for his little mare.'

I spoke to the man, And he ugly and humpy, Unless he would get me my mare I would break a third of his bones.

'Do you hear, Rucard Mor?

It is not here is your mare, She is in Alvin of Leinster, On a halter with my mother.'

I ran off on my walking, And I came to Alvin of Leinster.

I met the old woman-- On my word she was not pleasing.

I spoke to the old woman, And she broke out in English: 'Get agone, you rascal, I don't like your notions.'

'Do you hear, you old woman?

Keep away from me with your English, But speak to me with the tongue I hear from every person.'

'It is from me you will get word of her, Only you come too late-- I made a hunting cap For Conal Cath of her yesterday.'

I ran off on my walking, Through roads that were cold and dirty.

I fell in with the fairy-man, And he lying down in the Ruadthe.

'I pity a man without a cow, I pity a man without a sheep, But in the case of a man without a horse It is hard for him to be long in the world.'

This morning, when I had been lying for a long time on a rock near the sea watching some hooded crows that were dropping sh.e.l.lfish on the rocks to break them, I saw one bird that had a large white object which it was dropping continually without any result. I got some stones and tried to drive it off when the thing had fallen, but several times the bird was too quick for me and made off with it before I could get down to him. At last, however, I dropped a stone almost on top of him and he flew away. I clambered down hastily, and found to my amazement a worn golf-ball! No doubt it had been brought out in some way or other from the links in County Glare, which are not far off, and the bird had been trying half the morning to break it.

Further on I had a long talk with a young man who is inquisitive about modern life, and I explained to him an elaborate trick or corner on the Stock Exchange that I heard of lately. When I got him to understand it fully, he shouted with delight and amus.e.m.e.nt.

'Well,' he said when he was quiet again, 'isn't it a great wonder to think that those rich men are as big rogues as ourselves.'

The old story-teller has given me a long rhyme about a man who fought with an eagle. It is rather irregular and has some obscure pa.s.sages, but I have translated it with the scholar.

PHELIM AND THE EAGLE

On my getting up in the morning And I bothered, on a Sunday, I put my brogues on me, And I going to Tierny In the Glen of the Dead People.

It is there the big eagle fell in with me, He like a black stack of turf sitting up stately.

I called him a lout and a fool, The son of a female and a fool, Of the race of the Clan Cleopas, the biggest rogues in the land.

That and my seven curses And never a good day to be on you, Who stole my little c.o.c.k from me that could crow the sweetest.

'Keep your wits right in you And don't curse me too greatly, By my strength and my oath I never took rent of you, I didn't grudge what you would have to spare In the house of the burnt pigeons, It is always useful you were to men of business.