When last year I had the pleasure of laying before the Society some notes from the parish of Kiltubbrid, co. Leitrim, which embodied the more general folk-sentiment of the district, I was not without hope that I might be able to extend the area covered by my researches to other parts of the county during the past summer. This, however, I was unable to do, and what I have to present to you in continuation of my first paper has all been gathered in the above-named parish.

Cut off as the place is from outside influence, one would perhaps expect to find a greater number of customs surviving, and in this respect the locality is disappointing. Fortunately, what is lacking in one direction is made up in another, and, all things considered, a place cannot be ranked as coming below the standard which supplies, besides the odds and ends here brought together, at least a dozen folk-tales in a fair state of preservation. I attribute this to the fact that little reading being indulged in by the people (save perhaps of a newspaper now and then), the folk-tale is still in request round the fire on a winter’s night. Among the older people, too, memories of past ideas yet linger, which, though changing rapidly into “superstitions”, or “pistogues”, as they themselves will tell you, yet have a certain amount of credence given them.

Such, for instance, is the story attaching to Polaphuca, or Lugaphuca, a piece of disused road running past Anna-dale, Mr. James Slacke’s residence. There are tales of phantom asses to be seen there at times, but they are paled by that told of a certain man named O’Neil, who was returning home one night before the road was diverted further from the house. It was very dark as he rode down the slope of the hill, when suddenly a pooca jumped up on the horse behind him, and began to squeeze him to death. It was going hard with him, when he remembered a black-handled knife that was in his pocket; so he out with it, and struck behind him, and presently the hold of the creature relaxed, and he got to his own door. There, half-dead with fright, he flung his horrible burden on the heap beside the house, and went in to bed. Next morning he found nothing on the heap but a log of wood with a great gash in it.

This I was told by Francis Mulvanerty, who is nearly seventy years of age, and who gave it as the reason for the place being called Lugaphuca (the Hollow of the Ghosts).

Most of the fire-side tales relate to the doings of some (generally nameless) hero against the giants, who belong to a far-away period, having been driven out by the good people. According to the popular story, the fairies challenged the giants to fight in harvest time, and chose a cornfield for the battle. When the giants arrived, the fairies made themselves invisible, and set to work to fight with the butts of the sheaves. The giants stood this for some time, and then, finding it impossible to return the blows of their assailants, they turned and fled.

A belief in the present-day existence of the “good people” seems fairly general. Besides the forts, “lone bushes” are declared to be specially under their protection, and in many fields is to be seen a small blackthorn bush, which it would be most unlucky to cut down. The children tell you that when the Danes left Ireland they hid their treasure and planted a bush over each pot of gold, so that in the event of their return they would know where to look for it.

I have collected a few more stories of the fairies and their doings. That of the “Football Players” seems to be a wide-spread tale in one form or another; here is the Kiltubbrid version, by Barney Whelan of Driny:—

There was a man returning home one evening, when, as he was crossing a field, there met him a man on horseback. “Will you come with me for a couple of hours?” said he. “I will,” says the first; “but how will I come back?” “Oh, I’ll leave you back,” said the man; so he up on the horse behind the stranger, and away with them.

“Now what I want you to do is this: we’ve got a football match on, and you must kick for us.”

“Well, I will,” says he; and on that they were in the football field and the game began, and Jack wasn’t long before he kicked the ball before him and kicked a goal. There was great joy among the little people, and they all set off to the big house for refreshment. Then the man who had brought Jack came and said, “You must take no refreshment here, nor take any notice of anything.” So he watched them in the hall, and they had great eating and drinking.

To his great surprise, the first girl that brought in a dish was a sister he had lost three years before, but she passed without noticing him, and disappeared. After a while the man who had brought him came, and they mounted his horse and soon were back at the field whence they came. Then before he went, the horseman asked Jack what could he do for him? “Well,” said he, “I saw my sister that’s been dead three years at that house, and I would like her back.”

“It’s a hard thing,” said the man, “but I’ll try and do it for you.” So he went away, and in a little time returned with the girl and disappeared. There was much joy on the two of them, and they set off for home.

Early in the morning the old father was wakened by a lowing without, and he saw some cattle among his oats. So he out and hunted them, and back to bed, and he says to the wife: “There’s Jack come in, and he’s brought a wife with him at last.”

They had great astonishment when the lad brought down his sister, and she wasn’t a day older than when she died. She went out and called the cows in—for they had been sent with her—and there they are now.

The two following tales are told as facts regarding persons living within memory:—

Judge was a young fellow who lived with a married brother. There was a fort beside the house, and of an evening as he passed this on his way home, a “buckie” used to jump on his back and take a ride until he came to the stream that ran by the door, when the little creature would fall off. One night Judge turned his coat and hat, to see what would happen, and, as he expected, ne’er a “buckie” came near him. He thought, however, that it would get him laughed at if he entered the house that way, so he turned his coat back again, when “plop” came one on his back!

They never did him any harm, though; indeed, he had one good friend among them. One day he was taking a cow to the fair at Boyle, and, leaving the beast in the byre, he went to bed. In the middle of the night he was awakened by a voice calling his name three times. Going down, he found his cow nearly strangled, and was just in time to free her head, which had become entangled in the ropes. He knew then it was his friends the “buckies” who had called him. (Patrick McManus, Aughrim.)

On the townland of Lisdrumacrone lived James Dogherty and Ody Mahon. These two had a whiskey-still between them, but it had been lent to friends in Keshcarrigan, and Dogherty and two others went to Kesh one night to bring it home. As they went on the road they heard the noise of horsemen following, and saw a troop of the “good people” coming along, with their little swords glittering in the moonlight. As they swept by they called out three times, “Good-night, James Dogherty!”

Dogherty and his companions were somewhat scared, but went on, and when they arrived at the green at Kesh there was the company drawn up in line. They wheeled round and rode past, saying again, “Good-night, James Dogherty!” James and his friends then got the still and went home safely. He used to put a pot of whiskey in the fort for the “good people”, and they in return led the revenue men astray, so that the still was never discovered. They were doubtless safeguarding its home-coming on the night in question.

Ody Mahon managed later on to incur the displeasure of the little folk, by cutting down bushes in a part of his holding where they had their playing-place. Their revenge took the shape of pelting his house after dark with little clods of earth, pebbles, etc., and finally the family had to quit the place. (Michael Lynch, formerly of Lisdrumacrone.)

A favourite tale is that of how Battle Bridge came by its name:—

There lived near Sheemore (a hill on the Carrick-on-Shannon road), many years ago, a farmer who had a good many cows, and was altogether in a fairly prosperous way. One day, as he was going by a bush, he heard a voice say, “We shall have plenty of milk to day.” He knew it was the good people talking, so he told his man to leave one cow and her calf always in the field, hoping that thereby he would have the friendship of the fairies. After a time bad luck came upon him, and at last all his cattle were seized for debt and driven off towards Boyle. The poor man in his misery called out in the fields to the good people, saying he had always left them a cow for milk, and now, in his evil days, they had deserted him. It was not so, however. When the party with his cattle reached the Shannon, and went to cross it, they were assailed by an invisible host which beat them without mercy, and hunted them and drove back the cattle to the farm again, and they were left in peace, none caring to interfere with them.

It is from this circumstance that the place where it occurred is called Battle Bridge.

So natural does it seem to see the turf burning on the cottage hearths, that it is difficult to conceive of a time when the people were ignorant of the use of it. Most things, however, have a beginning, and this is the story of the first turf fire according to Francis Whelan of Driny, who had it from an old resident in the place:—

Before the days of Saint Patrick, the only fuel the Irish had was wood, for the use of turf had not been discovered. One day St. Patrick’s servant was returning home, when suddenly a little man in red appeared in front of him. “If you will ask St. Patrick the answer to one question”, said he, “I will tell you something in return.”

“Well, what is it?” said the man.

“To-morrow morning at Mass ask him this question: ‘Is there any hope for the fallen angels?’ ”

So the next morning at Mass, at the elevation, the servant called out he had a question he wished to ask (for the celebrant must answer any question put to him that moment). When Mass was over, St. Patrick said, “Who was that wretched man who called out?” The servant then told the saint about the little man and his question.

Said ...