‘It’s the king’s daughter. They are bothering the life out of me to marry her.’
‘You’re the lucky fellow. I’d give something to be in your shoes.’
‘Do you see that now! Wouldn’t it be a fine thing for a farmer to be marrying a princess, all dressed in gold and jewels?’
‘Jewels, do you say? Ah, now, couldn’t you take me with you?’
‘Well, you’re an honest fellow, and as I don’t care for the king’s daughter, though she’s as beautiful as the day, and is covered with jewels from top to toe, you shall have her. Just undo the cord, and let me out; they tied me up tight, as they knew I’d run away from her.’
Out crawled Donald, in crept the farmer.
‘Now lie still, and don’t mind the shaking; it’s only rumbling over the palace steps you’ll be. And maybe they’ll abuse you for a vagabond, who won’t have the king’s daughter; but you needn’t mind that. Ah! It’s a deal I’m giving up for you, sure as it is that I don’t care for the princess.’
‘Take my cattle in exchange,’ said the farmer; and you may guess it wasn’t long before Donald was at their tails driving them homewards.
Out came Hudden and Dudden, and the one took one end of the pole, and the other the other.
‘I’m thinking he’s heavier,’ said Hudden.
‘Ah, never mind,’ said Dudden; ‘it’s only a step now to the Brown Lake.’
‘I’ll have her now! I’ll have her now!’ bawled the farmer, from inside the sack.
‘By my faith[8], and you shall though,’ said Hudden, and he laid his stick across the sack.
‘I’ll have her! I’ll have her!’ bawled the farmer, louder than ever.
‘Well, here you are,’ said Dudden, for they were now come to the Brown Lake, and, unslinging the sack, they pitched it plump into the lake.
‘You’ll not be playing your tricks on us any longer,’ said Hudden.
‘True for you,’ said Dudden. ‘Ah, Donald, my boy, it was an ill day when you borrowed my scales.’
Off they went, with a light step and an easy heart, but when they were near home, who should they see but Donald O’Neary, and all around him the cows were grazing, and the calves were kicking up their heels and butting their heads together.
‘Is it you, Donald?’ said Dudden. ‘Faith, you’ve been quicker than we have.’
‘True for you, Dudden, and let me thank you kindly; the turn was good, if the will was ill[9]. You’ll have heard, like me, that the Brown Lake leads to the Land of Promise. I always put it down as lies, but it is just as true as my word. Look at the cattle.’
Hudden stared, and Dudden gaped; but they couldn’t get over the cattle; fine fat cattle they were too.
‘It’s only the worst I could bring up with me,’ said Donald O’Neary; ‘the others were so fat, there was no driving them. Faith, too, it’s little wonder they didn’t care to leave, with grass as far as you could see, and as sweet and juicy as fresh butter.’
‘Ah, now, Donald, we haven’t always been friends,’ said Dudden, ‘but, as I was just saying, you were ever a decent lad, and you’ll show us the way, won’t you?’
‘I don’t see that I’m called upon to do that; there is a power more cattle down there. Why shouldn’t I have them all to myself?’
‘Faith, they may well say, the richer you get, the harder the heart. You always were a neighbourly lad, Donald. You wouldn’t wish to keep the luck all to yourself?’
‘True for you, Hudden, though ’tis a bad example you set me. But I’ll not be thinking of old times. There is plenty for all there, so come along with me.’
Off they trudged, with a light heart and an eager step. When they came to the Brown Lake, the sky was full of little white clouds, and, if the sky was full, the lake was as full.
‘Ah now! Look, there they are,’ cried Donald, as he pointed to the clouds in the lake.
‘Where? Where?’ cried Hudden and, ‘Don’t be greedy!’ cried Dudden, as he jumped his hardest to be up first with the fat cattle. But if he jumped first, Hudden wasn’t long behind.
They never came back. Maybe they got too fat, like the cattle. As for Donald O’Neary, he had cattle and sheep all his days to his heart’s content.
The Story of Deirdre
There was a man in Ireland once who was called Malcolm Harper. The man was a right good man, and he had a goodly-share of this world’s goods. He had a wife, but no family. What did Malcolm hear but that a soothsayer had come home to the place, and as the man was a right good man, he wished that the soothsayer might come near them. Whether it was that he was invited or that he came of himself, the soothsayer came to the house of Malcolm.
‘Are you doing any soothsaying?’ says Malcolm.
‘Yes, I am doing a little. Are you in need of soothsaying?’
‘Well, I do not mind taking soothsaying from you, if you had soothsaying for me, and you would be willing to do it.’
‘Well, I will do soothsaying for you. What kind of soothsaying do you want?’
‘Well, the soothsaying I wanted was that you would tell me my lot or what will happen to me, if you can give me knowledge of it.’
‘Well, I am going out, and when I return, I will tell you.’
And the soothsayer went forth out of the house and he was not long outside when he returned.
‘Well,’ said the soothsayer, ‘I saw in my second sight that it is on account of a daughter of yours that the greatest amount of blood shall be shed that has ever been shed in Erin since time and race began. And the three most famous heroes that ever were found will lose their heads on her account.’
After a time, a daughter was born to Malcolm; he did not allow a living being to come to his house, only himself and the nurse. He asked this woman, ‘Will you yourself bring up the child to keep her in hiding far away where eye will not see a sight of her nor ear hear a word about her?’
The woman said she would, so Malcolm got three men, and he took them away to a large mountain, distant and far from reach without the knowledge or notice of anyone. He caused there a hillock, round and green, to be dug out of the middle, and the hole thus made to be covered carefully over so that a little company could dwell there together. This was done.
Deirdre and her foster-mother dwelt in the bothy mid the hills without the knowledge or the suspicion of any living person about them and without anything occurring, until Deirdre was sixteen years of age. Deirdre grew like the white sapling, straight and trim as the rash on the moss. She was the creature of fairest form, of loveliest aspect, and of gentlest nature that existed between earth and heaven in all Ireland – whatever colour of hue she had before, there was nobody that looked into her face but she would blush fiery red over it.
The woman that had charge of her, gave Deirdre every information and skill of which she herself had knowledge and skill. There was not a blade of grass growing from root, nor a bird singing in the wood, nor a star shining from heaven but Deirdre had a name for it. But one thing, she did not wish her to have either part or parley with any single living man of the rest of the world. But on a gloomy winter night, with black, scowling clouds, a hunter of game was wearily travelling the hills, and what happened but that he missed the trail of the hunt, and lost his course and companions. A drowsiness came upon the man as he wearily wandered over the hills, and he lay down by the side of the beautiful green knoll in which Deirdre lived, and he slept. The man was faint from