Yeats' FAIRY AND FOLK
TALES OF THE IRISH PEASANTRY
THE ENCHANTMENT OF GEAROIDH
In old times in Ireland there
was a great man of the Fitzgeralds. The name on
him was Gerald, but the Irish, that always had a great liking for the family,
called him Gearoidh Iarla (Earl Gerald). He had a great castle or rath at
Mullymast (Mullaghmast); and whenever the English Government were
striving to put some wrong on the country, he was always the man that stood up
for it. Along with being a great leader in a fight, and very skilful at all
weapons, he was deep in the black art, and could change himself into
whatever shape he pleased. His lady knew that he had this power, and often asked
him to let her into some of his secrets, but he never would gratify her.
She wanted particularly to see him in some strange shape, but he put her off
and off on one pretence or other. But she wouldn't be a woman if she hadn't
perseverance; and so at last he let her know that if she took the least fright
while he'd be out of his natural form, he would never recover it till many
generations of men would be under the mould. "Oh! she wouldn't be a fit wife for
Gearoidh Iarla if she could be easily frightened. Let him but gratify her in
this whim, and he'd see what a hero she was!" So one beautiful summer evening,
as they were sitting in their grand drawing-room, he turned his face away from
her and muttered some words, and while you'd wink he was clever and clean out of
sight, and a lovely goldfinch was flying about the room.
The lady, as courageous as she thought herself, was a little startled, but
she held her own pretty well, especially when he came and perched on her
shoulder, and shook his wings, and put, his Me beak to her lips, and whistled
the delightfulest tune you ever heard. Well, he flew in circles round the room,
and played hide and go seek with his lady, and flew out into the
garden, and flew back again, and lay down in her lap as
if he was asleep, and jumped up again.
Well, when the thing had lasted long enough to satisfy both, he took one
flight more into the open air; but by my word he was soon on his return. He flew
right into his lady's bosom, and the next moment a fierce hawk was after him.
The wife gave one loud scream, though there was no need, for the wild bird came
in like an arrow, and struck against a table with such force that the life was
dashed out of him. She turned her eyes from his quivering body to where she saw
the goldfinch an instant before, but neither goldfinch nor Earl Gerald did she
ever lay eyes on again.
Once every seven years the Earl rides round the Curragh of Kildare on a
steed, whose silver shoes were half an inch thick the time he disappeared; and
when these shoes are worn as thin as a cat's ear he will be restored to the
society of living men, fight a great battle with the English, and reign king of
Ireland for two-score years.2
Himself and his warriors are now sleeping in a long cavern under the Rath of
Mullaghmast. There is a table running along through the middle of the cave. The
Earl is sitting at the head, and his troopers down along in complete armour both
sides of the table, and their heads resting on it. Their horses, saddled and
bridled, are standing behind their masters in their stalls at each side; and
when the day comes, the miller's son that's to be born with six fingers on each
hand, will blow his trumpet, and the horses will stamp and whinny, and the
knights awake and mount their steeds, and go forth to battle.
Some night that happens once in every seven years, while the Earl is riding
round the Curragh, the entrance may be seen by any one chancing to pass by.
About a hundred years ago, a horse-dealer that was late abroad and a little
drunk, saw the lighted cavern, and went in. The lights, and the stillness, and
the sight of the men in armour, cowed him a good deal, and he became sober. His
hands began to tremble, and he let a bridle fall on the pavement. The sound of the bit
echoed through the long cave, and one of the warriors that was next him lifted
his head a little, and said, in a deep hoarse voice, "Is it time yet?" He had
the wit to say, "Not yet, but soon will," and the heavy helmet sunk down on the
table. The horse-dealer made the best of his way out, and I never heard of any
other one having got the same opportunity.
1. Legendary Fiction of the Irish Celts.--(Macmillan).
2. The last time Gearoidh Iarla appeared the horse-shoes were as thin as