The Fellow in the Goat-Skin
There was a poor widow living down there near the Iron Forge when the country was all covered with forests, and you might walk on the tops of trees from Carnew to the Lady’s Island, and she had one boy. She was very poor, as I said before, and was not able to buy clothes for her son. So when she was going out she fixed him snug and combustible in the ash-pit, and piled the warm ashes about him. The boy knew no better, and was as happy as the day was long; and he was happier still when a neighbour gave his mother a kid to keep him company when herself was abroad. The kid and the lad played like two may-boys; and when she was old enough to give milk, wasn’t it a godsend to the little family? You won’t prevent the boy from growing up into a young man, but not a screed of clothes had he then no more than when he was a gorsoon.
One day as he was sitting comfortably in his pew he heard poor Jin bleating outside so dismally. It was only one step for him to the door, another to the middle of the road, and another to the gap going into the wood; and there he saw a pack of deer hounds tearing the life out of his poor goat. He snatched a rampike out of the gap, was up with the dogs while a cat would be licking her ear, and in two shakes he made smithereens of the whole bilin’ of them. The hunters spurred their horses to ride him down, but he ran at them with the terrible club, roaring with rage and grief; and horses and men were out of sight before he could wink. He then went back, crying, to the poor goat. Her tongue was hanging out and her legs quivering, and after she strove to lift her head and lick his hand, she lay down cold and dead. He lifted the body and carried it into the cabin, and pullilued over it till he fell asleep out of weariness; and then a butcher, that came in with other neighbours to pity him, took away the body and dressed the skin so smooth, so soft, and fastened two thongs to two of the corners. When the boy’s grief was a little mollified, the neighbour stepped in and fastened the nice skin round his body. It fell to his knees, and the head skin was in front like a Highlander’s pocket. He was so proud of his new dress that he walked out with his head touching the sky, and up and down the town with him two or three times. “Oh, dear!” says the people, standing at their doors and admiring the great big boy, “look at the Gilla na Chreckan Gour” (Giolla na Chroiceann Gobhair—the fellow in the goat-skin), and that name remained on him till he went into his coffin. But pride and fine dress won’t make the pot boil. So his mother says to him next morning, “Tom,” says she, for that was his real name, “you’re idle long enough; so now that you are well clad, and needn’t be ashamed to appear before the neighbours, take that rope and bring in a special good bresna (fagot) of rotten boughs from the forest.” “Never say it twice,” says Gilla, and off he set into the heart of the wood. He broke off and gathered up a great big fagot, and was tying it, when he heard a roar that was enough to split an oak, and up walks a giant a foot taller than himself; and he was a foot taller than the tallest man you’d see in a fair.
“What brings you here, you vagabone,” says the giant, says he, “threspassin’ in my demesne and stealin’ my fire-wood?” “I’m doin’ no harm,” says Gilla, “but clearin’ your wood, if it is your wood, of rotten boughs.” “I’ll let you see the harm you’re doin’,” says the giant, and with that he made a blow at Gilla that would have felled an ox. “Is that the way you show civility to your neighbours?” says the other, leaping out of the way of the club; “here’s at you,” and he leaped in and caught the giant by the body, and gave him such a heave that his head came within an inch of the ground. But he was as strong as Goliath, and worked up, and gave Gilla another heave equal to the one he got himself. So they held at it, tripping, squeezing, and twisting, and the hard ground became a bog under their feet, and the bog became like the hard road. At last Gilla gave the giant a great twist, got his right leg behind his right leg, and flung him headlong again the root of an oak tree. He caught up the club from where the giant let it fall at the beginning of the scrimmage, and said to him, “I am goin’ to knock out your brains; what have you to say again it?” “Oh, nothin’ at all! But if you spare my life, I’ll give you a flute that, whenever you play on it, will set your greatest enemies a-dancing, and they won’t have power to lay their hands on you, if they were as mad as march hares to kill you.” “Let us have it,” says Gilla, “and take yourself out of that.” So the giant handed him the flute out of his oxter-pocket, and home went Gilla as proud as a paycock, with his fagot on his back and his flute stuck in it.
In three days’ time he went to get another fagot; and this day he was attacked by a brother of the same giant; and whatever trouble he had with the other he had it twice with this one. He levelled him at last, and only gave him his life on being offered a bottle of soft green wax of a wonderful nature. If a person only rubbed it on the size of a crown-piece on his body, fire, nor iron, nor any sharp thing could do him the least harm for a year and a day after. Home went Gilla with his bottle, and never stirred out for three days, for he was a little tired and bruised after his wrestling. The next fagot he went to gather he met with the third brother, and if they hadn’t the dreadful struggle, leave it till again! They held at it from noon till night, and then the giant was forced to give in. What he gave for his life was a club that he took away once from a hermit, and any one fighting with that club in a just cause would never be conquered. If Gilla stayed at home three days after the last struggle, he didn’t stir for a week after this. It was on a Monday morning he got up, and he heard a blowing of bugles and a terrible hullabulloo in the street. Himself and his mother ran to the door, and there was a fine fat man on horseback, with a jockey’s cap on his head, and a quilt with six times the colours of the rainbow on it hanging over his shoulders. “Hear, all you good people,” says he, after another pull at his bugle-horn, “the King of Dublin’s daughter has not laughed for three years and a half, and her father promises her in marriage, and his crown after his death, to whoever makes her laugh three times.” “And here’s the boy,” says Gilla, “will make her do that, or know the reason why.” If one was to count all the threads in a coat, it would never come into the tailor’s hands; and if I was to reckon all that Gilla’s mother and her neighbours said to him before he set out, and all the steps he took after he set out, I’d never have him as far as the gates of Dublin; but to Dublin he got at last, as sure as fate. They were going to stop him at the gates, but he gave a curl of his club round his shoulder, and said he was coming to make the princess laugh. So they laughed and let him pass; and maybe the doors and windows were not crowded with women and children gazing after the good-natured-looking young giant, with his long black hair falling on his shoulders, and his goat-skin hanging from his waist to his knee. There was a great crowd in the palace yard when he reached there, and ever so many of them playing all sorts of tricks to get a laugh from the princess; but not a smile, even, could be got from her. “What is your business?” said the king, “and where do you come from?” “I come, my liege,” said Gilla, “from the country of the ‘Yellow Bellies,’1 and my business is to make the princess, God bless her! give three hearty laughs.” “God enable you!” said the king. But an ugly, cantankerous fellow near the king, with a white face and red hair on him, put in his spoon, and says he to Gilla, “My fine fellow, before any one is allowed to strive for the princess, he is expected to show himself a man at all sorts of matches with the champions of the court.” “Nothing will give me greater pleasure,” says Gilla. So he laid his club and spit in his fists, and a brave sturdy Galloglach came up and took him by the shoulder and elbow. If he did, he didn’t keep his hold long; Gilla levelled him while you’d wink, and then came another and another till two score were pitched on their heads.
Well, no one gripped him the second time; but at last all were so mad that they stopped rubbing their heads and hips and shoulders, and made at Gilla in a body. The princess was looking very much pleased at Gilla all the time, but now she cried out to her father to stop the attack. The white-faced fellow said something in the king’s ear and not a budge did he make. But Gilla didn’t let himself be flurried. He took up his kippeen (cudgel or club), and gave this fellow a tap on his left ear, and that fellow a tap on his right ear, and the other a crack on the ridge pole of his head; and maybe it wasn’t a purty spectacle to see every soul of two score of them tumbling over and hether, their heads in the dust and their heels in the air, and they roaring “Murdher” at the ling of their life. But the best of it was that the princess, when she saw the confusion, gave a laugh like the ring of silver on a stone, so sweet and so loud that all the court heard it; and Gilla struck his club butt-end on the ground, and says he, “King of Dublin, I have won half of your daughter.” The face of Red-head turned from white to yellow, but no one minded him, and the king invited Gilla to dine with himself and the princess and all the royal family. So that day passed, and while they were at breakfast next morning Red-head reminded the king that he had nothing to do now but to send the new champion to kill the wild beast that was murdering every one that attempted to go a hen’s race beyond the walls. The king did not say a word one way or the other; but the princess said it was not right nor kind to send a stranger out to his certain death, for no one ever escaped the wild beast if it could get near them. “I’ll make the trial,” says Gilla; “I’d face twenty wild beasts to do any service to yourself or your subjects.” So he inquired where the beast was to be found, and White-face was only too ready to give him his directions. The princess was sorrowful enough when she saw him setting out, but go he must and would. After he was gone a mile beyond the gates he heard a terrible roar in the wood and a great cracking of boughs, and out pounced a terrible beast on him, with great long claws, and a big mouth open to swallow him, club and all.
When he was at the very last spring Gilla gave him a stroke on the nose; and crack! he was sprawling on his back in two seconds. Well, that did not daunt him; he was up, and springing again at Gilla, and this time the blow came on him between the two eyes. Down and up he was again and again till his right ear, his left ear, his right shoulder, and left shoulder were black and blue. Then he sat on his hindquarters and looked very surprised at Gilla and his club. “Now, my tight fellow,” says Gilla, “follow your nose to Dublin gates. Do no harm to any one, and I’ll do no harm to you.” “Waw! waw! waw!” says the beast, with his long teeth all stripped, and sparks flashing from his eyes; but when he saw the club coming down on him he put his tail between his legs and walked on. Now and then he’d turn about and give a growl, but a flourish of the club would soon set him on the straight road again. Oh! if there wasn’t racing and tearing through the streets, and roaring and bawling; but Gilla nor the beast ever drew rein till they came to the palace yard. Well, if the people in the streets were frightened, the people in the court were terrified. The king and his daughter were in a balcony, or something that way, and so were out of danger; but lord and gentleman, and officer, and soldier, as soon as they laid eye on the beast, began to run into passages and halls; but those that got in first shut the doors in their fright; and they that were left out did not know what to do, and the king cried out to Gilla to take away the frightful thing. Gilla at once took his flute out of his goat-skin pocket and began to play, and every one in the court—beast and body—began to dance. There was the unfortunate beast obliged to stand on his hind legs and play heel and toe, while he shovelled about after those that were next him, and he growling fearfully all the time. The people, striving to keep out of his way, were still obliged to mind their steps, but that didn’t prevent them from roaring out to Gilla to free them from their tormentor. The beast kept a steady eye on Red-head, and was always sliding after him as well as the figures of the dance would let him; and you may be sure the poor fellow’s teeth were not strong enough to keep his tongue quiet. Well, it was all a fearful thing to look at, but it was very comical, too; and as soon as the princess saw that Gilla’s power over the beast was strong enough to prevent him doing any hurt, and especially when she heard the roars of Red-head and looked at his dancing, she burst out laughing the second time. “Now, King of Dublin,” said Gilla, “I have won two halves of the princess, and I hope it won’t be long till the third half will fall to me.” “Oh! for goodness’ sake,” said the king, “never mind halves or quarters—banish this vagabone beast to Bandon, or Halifax, or Lusk, or the Red Say, and we’ll see what is to come next.” Gilla took his flute out of his mouth and the dancing stopped like shot The poor beast was thrown off his balance and fell on his side, and a good many of the dancers had a tumble at the same moment. Then said Gilla to the beast, “You see that street leading straight to the mountain; down that street with you; don’t let a hare catch you; and if you fall, don’t wait to get up. And if I hear of you coming within a mile of castle or cabin within the four seas of Ireland I’ll make an example of you; remember the club.” He had no need to give his orders twice. Before he was done speaking the beast was half-way down the street like a frightened dog with a kettle tied to his tail. He was once after seen in the Devil’s Glen, in Wicklow, picking a bone, and that’s all was ever heard of him.
Well, that was work enough for one day, and the potatoes were just done in the big kitchen of the palace. I don’t know what great people take instead of stirabout and milk before they go to bed. Indeed, people do be saying that some of them never leave the table from dinner to bedtime, but I don’t believe it. Anyhow, they took dinner and supper and went to bed, everything in its own time, and rose in the morning when the sun was as high as the trees. So when they were at breakfast, Red-head, who wasn’t at all agreeable to the match, says to the king, in Gilla’s hearing: “The Danes, ill-luck be in their road! will be near the city in a day or two; and it is said in an old prophecy book, that if you could get the flail that’s hanging on the couple under the ridge pole of Hell, you could drive every enemy you have into the sea—Dane or divil. I’m sure, sir, Gilla wouldn’t have too much trouble in getting that flail; nothing seems too hot or too heavy for him!” “If he goes,” said the princess, “it is against my wish and will.” “If he goes,” said the king, “it is not by my order.” “Go I will,” said Gilla, “if any one shows me the way.” There was an old gentleman with a red nose on him sitting at the table, and says he, “Oh! I’ll show you the way; it lies down Cut Purse Row. You will know it by the sign of the ‘Cat and Bagpipes’ on one side, and the ‘Ace of Spades’ stuck in the window opposite.” “I’m off,” says Gilla; “pray all of you for my safe return.” He easily found the “Cat and Bagpipes” and the “Ace of Spades,” and nothing further is said of him till he was knocking at Hell’s Gate. It was opened by an old fellow with horns on him seven feet long, and says he to Gilla, mighty politely, “What is it you want here, sir?” “I am a great traveller,” said Gilla, “and wish to see every place worth seeing, inside and outside.” “Oh! if that’s the case,” says the porter, “walk in. Here, brothers, show this gentleman-traveller all the curiosities of the place.” With that they all, big and little, locked and bolted every window and door, and stuffed every hole, till a midge itself couldn’t find its way out; and then they surrounded Gilla with their spits, and pitchforks, and sprongs; and if they didn’t whack and prod him, it’s a wonder. “Gentlemen,” says Gilla, “these are the tricks of clowns. Fairplay is bonny play; show yourselves gentlemen, if you have a good drop in you. Hand me a weapon, and let us fight fair. There’s an old flail on that couple, it will do as well as another.” “Oh, yes! the flail! the flail!” cried they all; and some little imps climbed up the rafters, pulled down the flail and handed it to Gilla, expecting to see his hands burned through the moment it touched them. They knew nothing of the giant’s balsam that Gilla rubbed on his hands as he was coming along, but they soon knew and felt the strength of his arm, when he was knocking them down like nine-pins, and thrashing them, arms, legs, and bodies, like so much oaten straw. “Oh! murdher! murdher!” says the big divil of all at last. “Stop your hand, and we’ll give you anything in our power.” “Well,” says Gilla, “I’ve seen all I want in your habitation. I don’t like the welcome I’ve got, and will thank you to open the gate.” Oh! wasn’t there twenty pair of legs tearing in a moment to let Gilla out. “You don’t mean, I hope, to carry off the flail?” says the big fellow; “it’s very useful to us in winter.” “It was the very thing that brought me here,” says Gilla, “to get it, and I won’t leave without it; but if you look in the black pool of the Liffey at noon to-morrow, you’ll find it there.” Well, they were very down in the mouth for the loss of the flail, but a second rib-roasting wasn’t to be thought of. When they had him fairly locked out they put out their tongues at him through the bars, and shouted, “Ah! Gilla na Chreckan Gour! wait till you’re let in here so easy again,” but he only answered, “You’ll let me in when I ask you.” There was both joy and terror at court when they saw Gilla coming back with the terrible flail in his hand. “Now,” says every one, “we care little for the Danes and all kith and kin. But how did you coax the fellows down below to give up the implement?” So he told them as much as he chose, and was very glad to see the welcome that was on the princess’s face. Red-head thought it would be a fine thing to have the flail in his power. So he crept over to where Gilla laid it aside after charging no one to touch it; but his hand did not come within a foot of it, when he thought he was burned to the bone. He danced about, shook his arm, put his fist to his mouth, and roared out for water. “Couldn’t you mind what I said?” says Gilla, “and that wouldn’t have happened.” However, he took Red-head’s hand within his own two that had the ointment, and he was freed from the burning at once. Well, the poor rogue looked so relieved, and so ashamed, and so impudent at the same time, that the princess joined in the laughing of all about. “Three halves at last,” said Gilla; “now, my liege,” said he, “I hope that after I give a good throuncing to the Danes, you will fulfil your promise.” “There are no two ways about that,” said the king; “Danes or no Danes, you may marry my daughter to-morrow, if she makes no objection herself.” Red-head, seeing by the princess’s face that she wasn’t a bit vexed at what her father said, ran up to his room, thrust his head into a cupboard, and nearly roared his arm off, but the company downstairs did not seem to miss him.
Early in the forenoon of next day a soldier came running in all haste from the bridge that crossed the Liffey, and said the Danes were coming in thousands from the north, all in brass armour, brass pots on their heads, and brass pot-lids on their arms, and that the yellow blaze coming from their ranks was enough to blind a body. Out marched the king’s troops with the king at their head, to hinder the Danes from getting into the town over the bridge. First went Gilla, with his flail in one hand and his club in the other. He crossed the bridge, and when the enemy were about ten perch away from him, he shouted out, “This flail belongs to the divil, and who has a better right to it than his children?” So saying, he swung it round his head, and flung it with all his power at the front rank. It mowed down every man it met in its course, and when it cut through the whole column, and the space was clear before it, it sunk down, and flame and smoke flew up from the breach it made in the ground. The soldiers at each side of the lane of dead men ran forward on Gilla, but as every one came within the sweep of his club he was dashed down on the bridge or into the river. On they rushed like a snowstorm, but they melted like the same snow falling into a furnace. Gilla kept before the pile of the dead soldiers, but at last his arms began to tire. Then the king and his men came over, and the rest of the Danes were frightened and fled. Often was Gilla tired in his past life, but that was the greatest and tiresomest exploit he ever done. He lay on a settle-bed for three days; but if he did, hadn’t he the princess and all her maids of honour to wait on him, and pity him, and give him gruel, and toast, and tay of all the colours under the sun? Red-head did his best to stop the marriage, but once when he was speaking to the king, one of the body-guard swore he’d open his skull with his battle-axe if he dared open his mouth again about it. So married they were, and as strong as Gilla was, if ever his princess and himself had a scruting (dispute), I know who got the upper hand.
Kennedy’s Fireside Stories of Ireland.