merve/folk-mythology-tales · Datasets at Hugging Face

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THE LAD WITH THE GOAT-SKIN

Long ago, a poor widow woman lived down near the iron forge, by
Enniscorth, and she was so poor she had no clothes to put on her son;
so she used to fix him in the ash-hole, near the fire, and pile the
warm ashes about him; and according as he grew up, she sunk the pit
deeper. At last, by hook or by crook, she got a goat-skin, and fastened
it round his waist, and he felt quite grand, and took a walk down the
street. So says she to him next morning, "Tom, you thief, you never
done any good yet, and you six foot high, and past nineteen;--take that
rope and bring me a faggot from the wood."

"Never say't twice, mother," says Tom--"here goes."

When he had it gathered and tied, what should come up but a big giant,
nine foot high, and made a lick of a club at him. Well become Tom, he
jumped a-one side, and picked up a ram-pike; and the first crack he
gave the big fellow, he made him kiss the clod.

"If you have e'er a prayer," says Tom, "now's the time to say it,
before I make fragments of you."

"I have no prayers," says the giant; "but if you spare my life I'll
give you that club; and as long as you keep from sin, you'll win every
battle you ever fight with it."

Tom made no bones about letting him off; and as soon as he got the club
in his hands, he sat down on the bresna, and gave it a tap with the
kippeen, and says, "Faggot, I had great trouble gathering you, and run
the risk of my life for you, the least you can do is to carry me home."
And sure enough, the wind o' the word was all it wanted. It went off
through the wood, groaning and crackling, till it came to the widow's
door.

Well, when the sticks were all burned, Tom was sent off again to pick
more; and this time he had to fight with a giant that had two heads on
him. Tom had a little more trouble with him--that's all; and the
prayers he said, was to give Tom a fife; that nobody could help dancing
when he was playing it. Begonies, he made the big faggot dance home,
with himself sitting on it. The next giant was a beautiful boy with
three heads on him. He had neither prayers nor catechism no more nor
the others; and so he gave Tom a bottle of green ointment, that
wouldn't let you be burned, nor scalded, nor wounded. "And now," says
he, "there's no more of us. You may come and gather sticks here till
little Lunacy Day in Harvest, without giant or fairy-man to disturb
you."

Well, now, Tom was prouder nor ten paycocks, and used to take a walk
down street in the heel of the evening; but some o' the little boys had
no more manners than if they were Dublin jackeens, and put out their
tongues at Tom's club and Tom's goat-skin. He didn't like that at all,
and it would be mean to give one of them a clout. At last, what should
come through the town but a kind of a bellman, only it's a big bugle he
had, and a huntsman's cap on his head, and a kind of a painted shirt.
So this--he wasn't a bellman, and I don't know what to call
him--bugleman, maybe, proclaimed that the King of Dublin's daughter was
so melancholy that she didn't give a laugh for seven years, and that
her father would grant her in marriage to whoever could make her laugh
three times.

"That's the very thing for me to try," says Tom; and so, without
burning any more daylight, he kissed his mother, curled his club at the
little boys, and off he set along the yalla highroad to the town of
Dublin.

At last Tom came to one of the city gates, and the guards laughed and
cursed at him instead of letting him in. Tom stood it all for a little
time, but at last one of them--out of fun, as he said--drove his
bayonet half an inch or so into his side. Tom done nothing but take the
fellow by the scruff o' the neck and the waistband of his corduroys,
and fling him into the canal. Some run to pull the fellow out, and
others to let manners into the vulgarian with their swords and daggers;
but a tap from his club sent them headlong into the moat or down on the
stones, and they were soon begging him to stay his hands.

So at last one of them was glad enough to show Tom the way to the
palace-yard; and there was the king, and the queen, and the princess,
in a gallery, looking at all sorts of wrestling, and sword-playing, and
long-dances, and mumming, all to please the princess; but not a smile
came over her handsome face.

Well, they all stopped when they seen the young giant, with his boy's
face, and long black hair, and his short curly beard--for his poor
mother couldn't afford to buy razors--and his great strong arms, and
bare legs, and no covering but the goat-skin that reached from his
waist to his knees. But an envious wizened bit of a fellow, with a red
head, that wished to be married to the princess, and didn't like how
she opened her eyes at Tom, came forward, and asked his business very
snappishly.

"My business," says Tom, says he, "is to make the beautiful princess,
God bless her, laugh three times."

"Do you see all them merry fellows and skilful swordsmen," says the
other, "that could eat you up with a grain of salt, and not a mother's
soul of 'em ever got a laugh from her these seven years?"

THE LAD WITH THE GOAT-SKIN

Long ago, a poor widow woman lived down near the iron forge, by

Enniscorth, and she was so poor she had no clothes to put on her son;

so she used to fix him in the ash-hole, near the fire, and pile the

warm ashes about him; and according as he grew up, she sunk the pit

deeper. At last, by hook or by crook, she got a goat-skin, and fastened

it round his waist, and he felt quite grand, and took a walk down the

street. So says she to him next morning, "Tom, you thief, you never

done any good yet, and you six foot high, and past nineteen;--take that

rope and bring me a faggot from the wood."

"Never say't twice, mother," says Tom--"here goes."

When he had it gathered and tied, what should come up but a big giant,

nine foot high, and made a lick of a club at him. Well become Tom, he

jumped a-one side, and picked up a ram-pike; and the first crack he

gave the big fellow, he made him kiss the clod.

"If you have e'er a prayer," says Tom, "now's the time to say it,

before I make fragments of you."

"I have no prayers," says the giant; "but if you spare my life I'll

give you that club; and as long as you keep from sin, you'll win every

battle you ever fight with it."

Tom made no bones about letting him off; and as soon as he got the club

in his hands, he sat down on the bresna, and gave it a tap with the

kippeen, and says, "Faggot, I had great trouble gathering you, and run

the risk of my life for you, the least you can do is to carry me home."

And sure enough, the wind o' the word was all it wanted. It went off

through the wood, groaning and crackling, till it came to the widow's

door.

Well, when the sticks were all burned, Tom was sent off again to pick

more; and this time he had to fight with a giant that had two heads on

him. Tom had a little more trouble with him--that's all; and the

prayers he said, was to give Tom a fife; that nobody could help dancing

when he was playing it. Begonies, he made the big faggot dance home,

with himself sitting on it. The next giant was a beautiful boy with

three heads on him. He had neither prayers nor catechism no more nor

the others; and so he gave Tom a bottle of green ointment, that

wouldn't let you be burned, nor scalded, nor wounded. "And now," says

he, "there's no more of us. You may come and gather sticks here till

little Lunacy Day in Harvest, without giant or fairy-man to disturb

you."

Well, now, Tom was prouder nor ten paycocks, and used to take a walk

down street in the heel of the evening; but some o' the little boys had

no more manners than if they were Dublin jackeens, and put out their

tongues at Tom's club and Tom's goat-skin. He didn't like that at all,

and it would be mean to give one of them a clout. At last, what should

come through the town but a kind of a bellman, only it's a big bugle he

had, and a huntsman's cap on his head, and a kind of a painted shirt.

So this--he wasn't a bellman, and I don't know what to call

him--bugleman, maybe, proclaimed that the King of Dublin's daughter was

so melancholy that she didn't give a laugh for seven years, and that

her father would grant her in marriage to whoever could make her laugh

three times.

"That's the very thing for me to try," says Tom; and so, without

burning any more daylight, he kissed his mother, curled his club at the

little boys, and off he set along the yalla highroad to the town of

Dublin.

At last Tom came to one of the city gates, and the guards laughed and

cursed at him instead of letting him in. Tom stood it all for a little

time, but at last one of them--out of fun, as he said--drove his

bayonet half an inch or so into his side. Tom done nothing but take the

fellow by the scruff o' the neck and the waistband of his corduroys,

and fling him into the canal. Some run to pull the fellow out, and

others to let manners into the vulgarian with their swords and daggers;

but a tap from his club sent them headlong into the moat or down on the

stones, and they were soon begging him to stay his hands.

So at last one of them was glad enough to show Tom the way to the

palace-yard; and there was the king, and the queen, and the princess,

in a gallery, looking at all sorts of wrestling, and sword-playing, and

long-dances, and mumming, all to please the princess; but not a smile

came over her handsome face.

Well, they all stopped when they seen the young giant, with his boy's

face, and long black hair, and his short curly beard--for his poor

mother couldn't afford to buy razors--and his great strong arms, and

bare legs, and no covering but the goat-skin that reached from his

waist to his knees. But an envious wizened bit of a fellow, with a red

head, that wished to be married to the princess, and didn't like how

she opened her eyes at Tom, came forward, and asked his business very

snappishly.

"My business," says Tom, says he, "is to make the beautiful princess,

God bless her, laugh three times."

"Do you see all them merry fellows and skilful swordsmen," says the

other, "that could eat you up with a grain of salt, and not a mother's

soul of 'em ever got a laugh from her these seven years?"