IV. The Sea-Maiden, pp.72-85.

As told by John Mackenzie, Fisherman, April 1850, to Hector Urquhart in Kenmore, near Inverary.

THERE was ere now a poor old fisher, but on this year he was not getting much fish. On a day of days, and he fishing, there rose a sea-maiden at the side of his boat, and she asked him if he was getting fish. The old man answered, and he said that he was not.

“What reward wouldst thou give me for sending plenty of fish to thee?”

(De ‘n duais a bheireadh tu dhòmhsa airson pailteas éisg a chuir thugad?)

“Ach!”

(Ach!)

said the old man,

“I have not much to spare.”

(Cha ‘n ‘eil a bheag agamsa ri sheachnadh.)

“Wilt thou give me the first son thou hast?”

(An oir thu dhomh an cèud mhac a bhitheas agad?)

said she.

“It is I that would give thee that, if I were to have a son; there was not, and there will not be a son of mine,”

(‘S mise a bheireadh sin dhuit na ‘m biodh mac agam; cha robh’s cha bhi mac agamsa,)

said he,

“I and my wife are grown so old.”

(Tha mi fèin ‘s mo bhean air cinntinn co sean.)

“Name all thou hast.”

(Ainmich na bheil agud.)

“I have but an old mare of a horse, an old dog, myself and my wife. There’s for thee all the creatures of the great world that are mine.”

(Cha ‘n ‘eil agamsa ach seann làir eich. Seana ghalla choin, mi féin ‘s mo bhean; sin agadsa na tha chreutairean an t-saoghail mhòr agamsa.)

“Here, then, are three grains for thee that thou shalt give thy wife this very night, and three others to the dog, and these three to the mare, and these three likewise thou shalt plant behind thy house, and in their own time thy wife will have three sons, the mare three foals, and the dog three puppies, and thou there will grow three trees behind thy house, and the trees will be a sign, when one of the sons dies, one of the trees will wither. Now, take thyself home, and remember me when thy son is three years of age, and then thyself wilt get plenty of fish after this.”

(So agad, mata, trì spilgeanan a bheir thu do d’ mhnaoi air an oidhche nochd, agus trì eile do ‘n ghalla, agus an trì so do ‘n chapull, agus an trì so mar an ceudna, cuiridh tu air cùl do thighe; agus ‘nan am fein bithidh triùir mhac aig do bhean, tri searraich aig an làir, tri cuileanan aig a ghalla, agus cinnidh tri chraobhan air cùl do thighe, agus bithidh na craobhan ‘nan samhladh; ‘nuair a bhasaicheas a h-aon do na mic seargaidh té do na craobhan. Nis, thoir do thigh ort, agus coinnich mise dur a bhitheas do mhac tri bliadhna ‘dh’ aois, ‘s gheibh thu féin pailteas eisg an déigh so.)

Everything happened as the sea-maiden said, and he himself was getting plenty of fish; but when the end of the three years was nearing, the old man was growing sorrowful, heavy hearted, while he failed each day as it came. On the namesake of the day, he went to fish as he used, but he did not take his son with him.

The sea-maiden rose at the side of the boat, and asked,

“Didst thou bring thy son with thee hither to me?”

(An d’-thug thu leat do mhac thugam?)

“Och! I did not bring him. I forgot that this was the day.”

(Ach! Cha d’thug, dhi-chuimhnich mi gu ‘mi b’e so an latha.)

“Yes! Yes! Then,”

(Seadh! Seadh! Mata,)

said the sea-maiden;

“thou shalt get four other years of him, to try if it be easier for thee to part from him. Here thou hast his like age,“

(gheibh thu ceithir bliadhn‘ eile dheth; faodaidh gur ann is usa dhuit dealachadh ris. So agad a chomhaoise,)

and she lifted up a big bouncing baby.

“Is thy son as fine as this one?”

(Am bheil do mhac-sa cho brèagha ris?)

He went home full of glee and delight, for that he had got four other years of his son, and he kept on fishing and getting plenty of fish, but at the end of the next four years sorrow and woe struck him, and he took not a meal, and he did not a turn, and his wife could not think what was ailing him. This time he did not know what to do, but he set it before him, that he would not take his son with him this time either. He went to fish as at the former times, and the sea-maiden rose at the side of the boat, and she asked him,

“Didst thou bring thy son hither to me?”

(An d’ thug thu thugam do mhac?)

“Och! I forgot him this time too,”

(Ach! Dhi-chuimhnuich mi e air an uair so cuideachd,)

said the old man.

“Go home then,”

(Falbh dhachaidh mata,)

said the sea-maiden,

“and at the end of seven years after this, thou art sure to remember me, but then it will not be the easier for thee to part with him, but thou shalt get fish as thou used to do.”

(agus an ceann seachd bliadhna na dheigh so, tha thu cinnteach mis’ a choinneachadh; ach cha ‘n ann an sin is usa dhuit dealachadh ris; ach gheibh thu iasg mar a b-àbhaist dhuit.)

The old man went home full of joy; he had got seven other years of his son, and before seven years passed, the old man thought that he himself would be dead, and that he would see the sea-maiden no more. But no matter, the end of those seven years was nearing also, and if it was, the old man was not without care and trouble. He had rest neither day nor night. The eldest son asked his father one day if any one were troubling him? The old man said that some one was, but that belonged neither to him nor to any one else. The lad said he must know what it was. His father told him at last how the matter was between him and the sea-maiden.

“Let not that put you in any trouble,”

(Na cuireadh sin cùram ‘sam bith oirbh,)

“I will not oppose you.”

(Cha téid, mise na ‘r n-aghaidh.)

“Thou shalt not; thou shalt not go, my son, though I should not get fish for ever.”

(Cha teid; cha teid, a mhic, ged nach faighinn iasg a chaoidh.)

“If you will not let me go with you, go to the smithy, and let the smith make me a great strong sword, and I will go to the end of fortune.”

(Mur leig sibh dhomh dol maille ribh, rachaibh do’n cheàrdach, agus deanadh an gobha claidheamh mòr làidir dhòmhsa, ‘s falbhaidh mi air ceann an fhortain.)

His father went to the smithy, and the smith made a doughty sword for him. His father came home with the sword. The lad grasped it and gave it a shake or two, and it went in a hundred splinters. He asked his father to go to the smithy and get him another sword in which there should be twice as much weight; and so did his father, and so likewise it happened to the next sword – it broke in two halves. Back went the old man to the smithy; and the smith made a great sword, its like he never made before.

“There’s thy sword for thee,”

(So agad do chlaidheamh,)

said the smith,

“and the fist must be good that plays this blade.”

(‘s feumaidh an dorn a bhi maith a chluicheas an lann so.)

The old man gave the sword to his son, he gave it a shake or two.

“This will do,”

(Ni so feum,)

“it’s high time now to travel on my way.”

(‘s mithich a nis triall air mo thuras.)

On the next morning he put a saddle on the black horse that the mare had, and he put the world under his head,¹ and his black dog was by his side. When he went on a bit, he fell in with the carcass of a sheep beside the road. At the carrion were a great dog, a falcon, and an otter. He came down off the horse, and he divided the carcass amongst the three. Three third shares to the dog, two third shares to the otter, and a third share to the falcon.

“For this,”

(Airson so,)

said the dog,

“if swiftness of foot or sharpness of tooth will give thee aid, mind me, and I will be at thy side.”

(ma ni luathas chas na géire fiacail cobhair dhuit, cuimhnich ormsa, agus bithidh mi ri d’ thaobh.)

Said the otter,

“If the swimming of foot on the ground of a pool will loose thee, mind me, and I will be at thy side.”

(Ma ni snàmh coise air grunnd linne fuasgladh ort, cuimhnich ormsa, agus bithidh mi ri ‘d’ thaobh.)

Said the falcon,

“If hardship comes on thee, where swiftness of wing or crook of a claw will do good, mind me, and I will be at thy side.”

(Ma thig cruaidh chàs ort, far an deàn luathas itean na crom ionga feum, cuimhnich ormsa, ‘s bithidh mi ri ‘d’ thaobh.)

On this he went onward till he reached a king’s house, and he took service to be a herd, and his wages were to be according to the milk of the cattle. He went away with the cattle, and the grazing was but bare. When lateness came (in the evening), and when he took (them) home they had not much milk, the place was so bare, and his meat and drink was but spare this night.

On the next day he went on further with them; and at last he came to a place exceedingly grassy, in a green glen, of which he never saw the like.

But about the time when he should go behind the cattle, for taking homewards, who is seen coming but a great giant with his sword in his hand.

“HIU! HAU!! HOGARAICH!!!”

(HIU! HAU!! HOGARAICH!!!)

says the giant.

“It is long since my teeth were rusted seeking thy flesh. The cattle are mine; they are on my march; and a dead man art thou.”

(‘S fada bho ‘n bha meirg air m’ fhiaclan ag iarraidh do chuid feola. ‘S leamsa ‘n crodh, tha iad air mo chrìch, agus is duine marbh thusa.)

“I said, not that,”

(Cha dubhairt mi sin,)

says the herd;

“there is no knowing, but that may be easier to say than to do.”

(cha ‘n ‘eil fios nach usa sin a ràdh na dhèanamh.)

To grips they go – himself and the giant. He saw that he was far from his friend, and near his foe. He drew the great clean-sweeping sword, and he neared the giant; and in the plat of the battle the black dog leaped on the giant’s back. the herd drew back his sword, and the head was off the giant in a twinkling. He leaped on the black horse, and he went to look for the giant’s house. He reached a door, and in the haste that the giant made he had left each gate and door open. In went the herd, and that’s the place where there was magnificence and money in plenty, and dresses of each kind on the wardrobe with gold and silver, and each thing finer than the other. At the mouth of night he took himself to the king’s house, but he took not a thing from the giant’s house. And when the cattle were milked this night there was milk. He got good feeding this night, meat and drink without stint, and the king was hugely pleased that he had caught such a herd. He went on for a time in this way, but at last the glen grew bare of grass, and the grazing was not so good.

But he thought he would go a little further forward in on the giant’s land; and he sees a great park of grass. He returned for the cattle, and he puts them into the park.

They were but a short time grazing in the park when a great wild giant came full of rage and madness.

“Hiu! Haw!! Hoagraich!!!”

(HÉU! HÒ!! HOAGRAICH!!!)

“It is a drink of thy blood that quenches my thirst this night.”

(‘Se deoch do d’ fhuil a chaisgeas mo phathadh a nochd.)

“There is no knowing,”

(Cha ‘n’ eil fios,)

said the herd,

“but that’s easier to say than to do.”

(nach fasa sin a ràdh na dhèanamh.)

And at each other went the men. There was the shaking of blades” At length and at last it seemed as if the giant would get the victory over the herd. Then he called on his dog, and with one spring the black dog caught the giant by the neck, and swiftly the herd struck off his head.

He went home very tired this night, but it’s a wonder if the king’s cattle had not milk. The whole family was delighted that they had got such a herd.

He followed herding in this way for a time; but one night after he came home, instead of getting “all hail” and “good luck” from the dairymaid, all were at crying and woe.

He asked what cause of woe there was this night. The dairymaid said that a great beast with three heads was in the loch, and she was to get (some) one every year, and the lots had come this year on the king’s daughter,

“and in the middle of the day (to morrow) she is to meet the Uile Bheist at the upper end of the loch, but there is a great suitor yonder who is going to rescue her.”

(‘s mu mheadhon latha ‘màireach, tha i ri coinneachainn na huile-bhéist aig ceann shuas an loch; ach tha suiriche mòr an siud a tha ‘dol g’a teàrnadh.)

“What suitor is that?”

(De ‘n suiriche a tha ann?)

said the herd.

“Oh, he is a great General of arms,”

(O! Tha Seanalair mòr airm,)

said the dairymaid,

“and when he kills the beast, he will marry the king’s daughter, for the king has said, that he who could save his daughter should get her to marry.”

(agus a nuair a mharbhas e ‘bhéist, pòsaidh e nighean an rìgh, oir thubhairt an rìgh ‘ge b’è theàrnadh a nighean, gu ‘faigheadh e I ri phòsadh.)

But on the morrow when the time was nearing, the king’s daughter and this hero of arms went to give a meeting to the beast, and they reached the black corrie at the upper end of the loch. They were but a short time there when the beast stirred in the midst of the loch; but on the general’s seeing this terror of a beast with three heads, he took fright, and he slunk away, and he hid himself. And the king’s daughter was under fear and under trembling with no one at all to save her. At a glance, she sees a doughty handsome youth, riding a black horse, and coming where she was. He was marvellously arrayed, and full armed, and his black dog moving after him.

“There is gloom on thy face, girl,”

(Tha gruaim air do ghnùis, a nighean,)

said the youth.

“What dost thou here?”

(Dé tha thu deanadh an so?)

“Oh! That’s no matter,”

(O! ‘S coma sin,)

said the king’s daughter.

“It’s not long I’ll be here at all events.”

(Cha ‘n fhad’ a bhitheas mi ann co dhiu.)

“I said not that,”

(Cha dubhairt mi sin,)

said he.

“A worthy fled as likely as thou, and not long since,”

(Theich laoch cho coltach riutsa, ‘s cha ‘n ‘eil fada uaidhe,)

said she.

“He is a worthy who stands the war,”

(‘Se laoch a sheasas cath,)

said the youth. He lay down beside her, and he said to her, is he should fall asleep, she should rouse him when she should see the beast making for shore.

“What is rousing for thee?”

(De ‘s dùsgadh duit?)

said she.

“Rousing for me is to put the gold ring on thy finger on my little finger.”

(‘S dusgadh dhomh am fàinne th’ air do mheur a chur air mo lughdag.)

They were not long there when she saw the beast making for shore. She took a ring off her finger, and put it on the little finger of the lad. He awoke, and to meet the beast he went with his sword and his dog. But there was the spluttering and splashing between himself and the beast! The dog was doing all he might, and the king’s daughter was palsied by fear of the noise of the beast. They would now be under, and now above. but at last he cut one of the heads off her. She gave one roar RAIVIC, and the son of earth, MACTALLA of the rocks (echo), called to her screech, and she drove the loch in spindrift from end to end, and in a twinkling she went out of sight.

“Good luck and victory that were following thee, lad!”

(Piseach ‘s buaidh gu ‘n robh ga d’ leantainn, òganaich!)

said the king’s daughter.

“I am safe for one night, but the beast will come again, and for ever, until the other two heads come off her.”

(Tha mise sàbhailt air son aon oidhche, ach thig a bheist a rithist, gu bràth gus an d’ thig an dà cheann eile dhi.)

He caught the beast’s head, and hge drew a withy through it, and he told her to bring it with her there to-morrow. She went home with the head on her shoulder, and the herd betook himself to the cows, but she had not gone far when this great General saw her, and he said to her that he would kill her, if she would not say that ’twas he took the head off the beast.

“Oh!”

(O!)

says she,

“’tis I will say it. Who else took the head off the beast but thou!”

(‘s mi their! Co eile ‘thug an ceann do ‘n bhéist ach thu!)

They reached the king’s house, and the head was on the General’s shoulder. But here was rejoicing, that she should come home alive and whole, and this great captain with the beast’s head full of blood in his hand. On the morrow they went away, and there was no question at all but that this hero would save the king’s daughter.

they reached the same place, and they were not long there when the fearful Uile Bheist stirred in the midst of the loch, and the hero slunk away as he did on yesterday, but it was not long after this when the man of the black horse came, with another dress on. No matter, she knew that it was the very same lad.

“It is I am pleased to see thee,”

(‘S mise tha toilichte d’ fhaicinn,)

said she.

“I am in hopes thou wilt handle thy great sword today as thou didst yesterday. Come up and take breath.”

(Tha mi ‘n dòchas gu làimhsich thu do chlaidheamh mòr an diugh mar a rinn thu ‘n dè. Thig a nìos ‘s leig t-anail.)

But they were not long there when they saw the beast steaming in the midst of the loch.

the lad lay down at the side of the king’s daughter, and he said to her,

“If I sleep before the beast comes, rouse me.”

(Ma chaidleas mise mu ‘n d’thig a bhéist, dùisg mi.)

“What is rousing for thee?”

(De as dùsgadh dhuit?)

“Rousing for me is to put the earring that is in thine ear in mine.”

(‘S dùsgadh dhomh a chluais-fhail sin a tha ‘na d’ chluais, a chuir ‘na mo thè féin.)

He had not well fallen asleep when the king’s daughter cried,

“Rouse! Rouse!“

(Dùisg! Dùisg!)

but wake he would not; but she took the ear-ring out of her ear, and she put it in the ear of the lad. At once he woke, and to meet the beast he went, but there was Tloopersteich and Tlaperstich, rawceil s’tawceil, spluttering, splashing, raving and roaring on the beast! They kept on thus for a long time, and about the mouth of night, he cut another head off the beast. He put it on the withy, and he leaped on the black horse, and he betook himself to the herding. The king’s daughter went home with the heads. The General met her, and took the heads from her, and he said to her, that she must tell that it was he who took the head off the beast this time also.

“Who else took the head off the beast but thou?”

(Co eile ‘thug an ceann do ‘n bhéist ach thu.)

said she. They reached the king’s house with the heads. Then there was joy and gladness. If the king was hopeful the first night, he was now sure that this great hero would save his daughter, and there was no question at all but that the other head would be off the beast on the morrow.

About the same time on the morrow, the two went away. The officer his himself as he usually did. The king’s daughter betook herself to the bank of the loch. The hero of the black horse came, and he lay at her side. She woke the lad, and put another ear-ring in his other ear; and at the beast he went. But if rawceil and toiceil, roaring and raving were on the beast on the days that were passed, this day she was horrible. But no matter, he took the third head off the beast; and if he did, it was not without a struggle. He drew it through the withy, and she went home with the heads. When they reached the king’s house, all were full of smiles, and the General was to marry the king’s daughter the next day. The wedding was going on, and every one about the castle longing till the priest should come. but when the priest came, she would marry but the one who could take the heads off the withy without cutting the withy.

“Who should take the heads off the withy but the man that put the heads on?”

(Co bheireadh na cinn do ‘n ghad ach am fear a chuir na cinn air?)

said the king.

The General tried them, but he could not loose them; and at last there was no one about the house but had tried to take the heads off the withy, but they could not. The king asked if there were any one else about the house that would try to take the heads off the withy? They said that the herd had not tried them yet. Word went for the herd; and he was not long throwing them hither and thither.

“But stop a bit, my lad,”

(Ach fan beagan òganoich,)

said the king’s daughter,

“the man that took the heads off the beast, he has my ring and my two ear-rings.”

(am fear a thug na cinn do ‘n bhéist, tha ‘m fàinne agamsa aige, agus mo dhà chluais-fhail.)

The herd put his hand in his pocket, and he threw them on the board.

“Thou art my man,”

(‘S-tusa mo dhuine-sa,)

said the king’s daughter. The king was not so pleased when he saw that it was a herd who was to marry his daughter, but he ordered that he should be put in a better dress; but his daughter spoke, and she said that he had a dress as fine as any that ever was in his castle; and thus is happened. The herd put on the giant’s golden dress, and they married that same night.

They were now married, and everything going on well. They were one day sauntering by the side of the loch, and there came a beast more wonderfully terrible than the other, and takes him away to the loch without fear, or asking. The king’s daughter was now mournful, tearful, blind-sorrowful for her married man; she was always with her eye on the loch. An old smith met her, and she told how it had befallen her married mate. the smith advised her to spread everything that was finer than another in the very same place where the beast took away her man; and so she did. The beast put up her nose, and she said,

“Fine is thy jewellery, king’s daughter.”

(‘S brèagh ‘d’ ailleas a nighean an rìgh.)

“Finer than that is the jewel that thou tookest from me,”

(‘S brèagha na sin an t-àilleagan a thug thu uam,)

said she.

“Give me one sight of my man, and thou shalt get any one thing of all these thou seest.”

(Thoir dhomh aon sealladh do m’ dhuine, ‘s gheibh thu aon ni do na tha thu ‘faicinn.)

The beast brought him up.

“Deliver him to me, and thou shalt get all thou seest,”

(Aisig dhomh e, ‘s gheibh thu na tha thu ‘faicinn,)

said she. The beast did as she said. She threw him alive and whole on the bank of the loch.

A short time after this, when they were walking at the side of the loch, the same beast took away the king’s daughter. Sorrowful was each one that was in the town on this night. her man was mournful, tearful, wandering down and up about the banks of the loch, by day and night. The old smith met him. The smith told him that there was no way of killing the Uille Bheist but the one way, and this is it –

“In the island that is in the midst of the loch is EILLID CHAIS-FHION – the white footed hind, of the slenderest legs, and the swiftest step, and though she should be caught, there would spring a hoodie out of her, and though the hoodie should be caught, there would spring a trout out of her; but there is an egg in the mouth of the trout, and the soul of the beast is in the egg, and if the egg breaks, the beast is dead.”

(Anns an eilean ‘tha am meadhon an locha tha eilid chaisfhionn as caoile cas ‘s as luaithe ceum, agus ge do rachadh beirsinn oirre, leumadh feannag aisde, agus ged a rachadh beirsinn air an fheannag, leumadh breac aisde; ach tha ubh am beul a bhric, agus tha anam na béiste ‘san ubh ‘s ma bhristeas an t-ubh, tha a bhéist marbh.)

Now, there was no way of getting to this island, for the beast would sink each boat and raft that would go on the loch. He thought he would try to leap the strait with the black horse, and even so he did. The black horse leaped the strait, and the black dog with one bound after him. He saw the Eillid, and he let the black dog after her, but when the black dog would be on one side of the island, the Eillid would be on the other side.

“Oh! Good were now the great dog of the carcass of flesh here!”

(O! Bu mhath a nis madadh mòr na closaiche feòla an so.)

No sooner spoke he the word than the generous dog was at his side; and after the Eillid he took, and the worthies were not long in bringing her to earth. But he no sooner caught her than a hoodie sprang out of her.

“‘Tis now, were good the falcon grey, of sharpest eye and swiftest wing!”

(‘S ann a nis a bu mhath an t-seobhag ghlas as geire suil ‘s is làidire sgiath.)

No sooner said he this than the falcon was after the hoodie, and she was not long putting her to earth; and as the hoodie fell on the bank of the loch, out of her jumps the trout.

“Oh! That thou wert by me now, oh otter!”

(O! Nach robh thus’ agamsa a nis a dhobhrain.)

No sooner said than the otter was at his side, and out on the loch she leaped, and brings the trout from the midst of the loch; but no sooner was the otter on shore with the trout than the egg came from his mouth. He sprang and he put his foot on it. ‘Twas then the beast let out a roar, and she said,

“Break not the egg, and thou gettest all thou askest.”

(Na brist an t-ubh, ‘s gheibh thu na dh’ iarras tu.)

“Deliver to me my wife?”

(Aisig dhòmhsa mo bhean?)

In the wink of an eye she was by his side. When he got hold of her hand in both his hands he let his foot (down) on the egg and the beast died.

The beast was dead now, and now was the sight to be seen. She was horrible to look upon. The three heads were off her doubtless, but if they were, there were heads under and heads over head on her, and eyes, and five hundred feet. But no matter, they left her there, and they went home, and there was delight and smiling in the king’s house that night. And till now he had not told the king how he killed the giants. The king put great honour on him, and he was a great man with the king.

Himself and his wife were walking one day, when he noticed a little castle beside the loch in a wood; he asked his wife who was dwelling in it? She said that no one would be going near that castle, for that no one had yet come back to tell the tale, who had gone there.

“The matter must not be so,”

(Cha ‘n fhaod a chùis a bhi mar sin,)

said he;

“this very night I will see who is dwelling in it.”

(a nochd féin chi mi co’ tha gabhail comhnuidh ann.)

“Go not, go not.”

(Cha d’ theid, cha d’ theid,)

said she;

“there never went a man to this castle that returned.”

(cha deach duine riamh do ‘n chaisteal so a phill air ais.)

“Be that as it pleases,”

(Biodh sin ‘s a roghainn aige,)

says he. He went; he betakes himself to the castle. When he reached the door, a little flattering crone met him standing in the door.

“All hail and good luck to thee, fisher’s son; ’tis I myself am pleased to see thee; great is the honour for this kingdom, thy like to be come into it – thy coming in is fame for this little bothy; go in first; honour to the gentles; go on, and take breath.”

(Furan ‘s failte dhuit, a mhic an iasgair ‘s mi féin a tha toilichte d’ fhaicinn; ‘s mòr an onair do ‘n rìoghachd so do leithid a thighinn innte; ‘s urram do ‘n bhothan bheag so thu thighinn a stigh; gabh a stigh air thoiseach, onair na h-uaisle, ‘s leig t’ anail.)

In he went, but as he was going up, she drew the Slachdan druidhach on him, on the back of his head, and at once – there he fell.

On this night there was woe in the king’s castle, and on the morrow there was a wail in the fisher’s house. The tree is seen withering, and the fisher’s middle son said that his brother was dead, and he made a vow and oath, that he would go, and that he would know where the corpse of his brother was lying. He put saddle on a black horse, and rode after his black dog; (for the three sons of the fisher had a black horse and a black dog), and without going hither or thither he followed on his brother’s step till he reached the king’s house.

This one was so like his elder brother, that the king’s daughter thought it was her own man. He stayed in the castle. They told him how it befell his brother; and to the little castle of the crone, go he must – happen hard or soft as it might. To the castle he went; and just as befell the eldest brother, so in each way it befell the middle son, and with one blow of the Slachdan druidhach, the crone felled him stretched beside his brother.

On seeing the second tree withering, the fisher’s youngest son said that now his two brothers were dead, and that he must know what death had come on them. On the black horse he went, and he followed the dog as his brothers did, and he hit the king’s house before he stopped. ‘Twas the king who was pleased to see him; but to the black castle (for that was its name) they would not let him go. But to the castle he must go; and so he reached the castle. –

“All hail and good luck to thyself, fisher’s son: ’tis I am pleased to see thee; go in and take breath,”

(Failte ‘s furan dhuit féin, a mhic an iasgair, ‘s mi tha toillichte d’fhaicinn; gabh a steach ‘s leig t-anail,)

said she (the crone).

“In before me thou crone: I don’t like flattery out of doors; go in and let’s hear thy speech.”

(Stigh romham thu, a chailleach, ‘s coma leam sodal a muigh. Rach a steach ‘s cluinneam do chòmhradh.)

In went the crone, and when her back was to him he drew his sword and whips her head off; but the sword flew out of his hand. And swift the crone gripped her head with both hands, and puts it on her neck as it was before. The dog sprung on the crone, and she struck the generous dog with the club of magic; and there he lay. But this went not to make the youth more sluggish. To grips with the crone he goes; he got a hold of the Slachdan druidhach, and with one blow on the top of the head, she was on earth in the wink of an eye. He went forward, up a little, and he sees his two brothers lying side by side. He gave a blow to each one with the Slachdan Druidhach and on foot they were, and there was the spoil! Gold and silver, and each thing more precious than another, in the crone’s castle. They came back to the king’s house, and then there was rejoicing! The king was growing old. The eldest son of the fisherman was crowned king, and the pair of brothers stayed a day and a year in the king’s house, and then the two went on their journey home, with the gold and silver of the crone, and each other grand thing which the king gave them; and if they have not died since then, they are alive to this very day..