Lord Mount Dhraggin

Once upon a time there was a little weaver, a very honest and industrious man with a wife and plenty of children. It was up early and bed late with him and the loom never standin’ still. One mornin’ his wife called to him and he busy throwin’ the shuttle and she says, ‘Jewel, come and ate your breakfast.’

He ignored her and went on workin’ so she called again and he drove the shuttle faster than before. She tried coaxing him. ‘Come at wanst, Thady dear, or your porridge will be stone cowld.’

‘I can’t, till I complate this,’ said Thady.

‘Faith, I’ll not ax you again,’ says she and she flounced off in a huff to the wash-house.

Well, he left the loom at last, and went over to the stirabout, and what would you think but when he looked at it, it was as black as a crow; for you see, it was in the height of summer, and the flies lit upon it in such a host that the stirabout was covered with them.

‘Why, thin, bad luck to your impidence,’ says the weaver, ‘would no place sarve you but that? And is it spyling my brekquest yiz are, you dirty bastes?’ And with that bein’ altogether bad tempered at the time, he lifted his hand, and he made one great slam at the dish o’ stirabout, and killed no less than three score and ten flies at the one blow. It was three score and ten exactly, for he counted the little carcases one by one, and laid them out an a tin plate, for to view them.

Well, he felt a powerful spirit rising in him, when he saw the slaughter he had done, and with that, he got a swelled head, and not a stroke more work would he do that day, but out he went and was fractious and contrary to every one he met, and was squarein’ up into their faces and sayin’, ‘Look at that fist! That’s the fist that killed three score and tin at one blow – Whoop!’

With that, all the neighbours thought he was cracked, and the poor wife herself thought the same when he came home in the evenin’, after spendin’ every rap he had in drink, swaggerin’ about the place, and looking at his brave hand every minute.

‘Indeed an’ your hand is very dirty, sure enough, Thady, jewel,’ says the poor wife, and true for her, for he rolled into a ditch comin’ home. ‘You had betther wash it, darlin’.’

‘How dar’ you say dirty to the greatest hand in Ireland,’ says he, going to strike her.

‘Well, it’s nat dirty,’ says she, ‘only a bit soiled.’

‘It is throwin’ away my time I have been all my life,’ says he, ‘livin’ with you and all, and stuck to my loom, nothin’ but a poor waiver, when it is Saint George or the Dhraggin I ought to be, or any one of the seven champions o’ Christendom.’

‘Sure what’s champions to uz?’ says she, ‘we’re paupers.’

‘Don’t put in your prate,’ says he, ‘you ignorant sthrap. You’re a vulgar woman – mighty vulgar. I’ll have nothin’ more to say except divil a more waivin’ I’ll do.’

‘Oh, Thady, dear, and what’ll the children ate then?’

‘Let them go play marvels,’ says he.

‘That would be but poor feedin’ for them, Thady?’

‘They shan’t want for feedin’,’ says he, ‘for it’s a rich man I’ll be soon, and a great man too.’

‘Usha, but I’m glad to hear it, darlin’, though I dunna how it’s to be, but I think you had better go to bed, Thady.’

‘Don’t talk to me of any bed, but the bed o’ glory, woman,’ says he, lookin’ mortal grand.

‘Oh! God send we’ll all be in glory yet,’ says the wife, crossing herself; ‘but go to sleep, Thady, for this present.’

‘I’ll sleep with the brave yit,’ says he.

‘Indeed an’ a brave sleep will do you a power o’ good my darlin’, says she.

‘I’m detarmined to set off immediantly and be a knight arriant,’ said he.

‘A what?’ says she.

‘A knight arriant, woman.’

‘Lord be good to me, what’s that?’

‘A knight arriant is a rale gintleman,’ says he, ‘going round the world for sport, with a sword by his side, takin’ whatever he plazes – for himself. That’s a knight arriant,’ says he.

Well sure enough he went about among his neigh­bours the next day, and he got a kettle from one, and a saucepan from another, and he took himself to the tailor, who sewed him up a suit of tin clothes like any knight errant and he borrowed a pot lid, and that was his shield, and he went to a friend o’ his, a painter and glazier, and made him paint on his shield in big letters ­

‘I’M THE MAN OF ALL MEN, THAT KILL’D THREE SCORE AND TIN, AT A BLOW.’

‘When the people sees that,’ says the waiver to himself, ‘the sorra one7 will dar for to come near me.’

And with that, he told the wife to scour the small iron pot for him, ‘for,’ says he, ‘it will make an iligant helmet;’ and when it was done, he put it on his head, and his wife says, ‘Oh, murther, Thady, jewel, is it puttin’ a great heavy iron pot an your head you are, by way iv a hat?’

‘Sartinly,’ says he, ‘for a knight arriant should always have a weight an his brain, to keep his taughts in.’

‘But, Thady, dear,’ says the wife, ‘there’s a hole in it, and it can’t keep out the weather.’

‘That’s fer ventiliation,’ says he, puttin’ it on him. ‘Besides, it is aisy to stop it with a wisp o’ sthraw, or the like o’ that if there’s a downpour.’

‘The three legs of it looks mighty quare, stickin’ up,’ says she.

‘Every helmet has a spike stickin’ out o’ the top of it,’ says the weaver, ‘and if mine has three, it’s the grandher it is.’

‘Well,’ says the wife, getting bitther at last, ‘all I can say is, it isn’t the first sheep’s head was dhress’d in it.’

‘Your sarvint, ma’am,’ says he; and off he set.

Well, he was in want of a horse, and so he went to a field hard by, where the miller’s horse was grazing.

‘This is the idintical horse for me,’ says the weaver. ‘He is used to carryin’corn and flour; and what am I but the flower o’ shovelry in a coat o’ mail; so the horse won’t be put out iv his way in the least.’

But as he was ridin’ him out o’ the field, who should see him but the miller. ‘Is it stalin’ my horse you are?’ says the miller.

‘No,’ says the weaver, ‘I’m only goin’ to axercise him,’ says he, ‘in the cool o’ the evenin’; it will be good for his health.’

‘Thank you kindly,’ says the miller, ‘but lave him where he is, and you’ll obleege me.’

‘I can’t afford it,’ says the weaver, runnin’ the horse at the ditch.

‘Bad luck to your impidence,’ says the miller, ‘you’ve as much tin about you as a thravellin’ tinker, but you’ve more brass. Come back here, you vagabone,’ says he.

But he was too late; away galloped the weaver and took the road to Dublin, for he thought the boldest thing he could do was to go to the King o’ Dublin. He went straight to the palace and when he got into the courtyard, he let his horse loose so’s he could graze about the place, for the grass was growing between the stones. The King as it happened was looking out of his drawing room window and when the weaver arrived the King saw him but the weaver pretended not to notice the King and sat on the ground to rest himself after his long journey. He pretended to go to sleep but he took great care to turn out the front of his shield with the bold letters on it. The King calls to one of his courtiers.

‘Look here,’ says the King, ‘what do you think of a vagabone like that, comin’ undher my very nose to go to sleep? It is thrue I’m a good King,’ says he, ‘and I ‘commodate the people by havin’ sates for them to sit down and enjoy the raycreation and contimplation of seein’ me here, lookin’ out a’ my drawing-room window; but that is no rayson they are to make a hotel o’ the place, and come and sleep here. Who is it at all?’ says the King.

‘Not a one o’ me knows, plaze your majesty.’

‘I think he must be a furriner,’ says the King, ‘his dhress is outlandish.’

‘And he doesn’t know manners, either,’ says the courtier.

‘I’ll go down and circumspect him myself,’ says the King. ‘Folly me,’ says he, wavin’ his hand at the same time in the most dignatious manner.

Down he went accordingly, followed by servants, and when he went over to where the weaver was lying, sure the first thing he saw was his shield with the big letters on it, and with that he brightens up. ‘By dad,’ says he, ‘this furriner is the very man I want.’

‘For what, plaze your majesty?’ says the courtier.

‘To kill that vagabone dragghin, to be sure,’ says the King.

‘Sure, do you think he could kill him,’ says the courtier, ‘when all the stoutest knights in the land wasn’t aiquil to it, but went out in search of him and never kern back, and was ate up alive by the cruel desaiver.’

‘Sure, don’t you see there,’ says the King pointin’ at the shield, ‘that he killed three score and tin at one blow; and the man that done that, I think, is a match for any dragghin.’

So, with that, he went over to the weaver and shook him by the shoulder, and the weaver rubbed his eyes as if just wakened, and the King says to him, ‘God save you.’

‘God save you kindly,’ says the weaver, pretending he didn’t know who he was spaking to.

‘Do you know who I am?’ says the King.

‘No, indeed,’ says the weaver, ‘you have the advan­tage o’ me.’

‘To be sure I have,’ says the King, moighty high; ‘amn’t I the King o’ Dublin?’ says he.

The weaver fell to his knees, bowed and scraped and says he, ‘I beg God’s pardon and yours for the liberty I tuk; plaze your holiness, I hope you’ll excuse it.’

‘No offince,’ says the King, ‘get up, good man, and tell us what brings you here?’

‘I’m in want o’ work, plaze your riverence,’ says the weaver.

‘Well, suppose I give you work?’ says the King.

‘I’ll be proud to sarve you, my lord,’ says the weaver.

‘Very well,’ says the King. ‘You killed three score and tin at one blow, I understan’.’

‘Yis,’ says the weaver. ‘That was the last thrifle o’ work I done, and I’m afeard my hand ‘ill go out o’ practice if I don’t get some job to do, at wanst.’

‘You shall have a job instantaneously,’ says the King.

‘A bucking big job,’ says the weaver.

‘Oh, it is not three score and tin or any fine thing like that. It is only a blaguard dhraggin that is disturbin’ the counthry and ruinatin’ my tenanthry wit aitin’ their powlthry, and I’m lost for want for eggs,’ says the King.

‘Troth thin, plaze your worship,’ says the weaver, ‘you look as yellow as if you swallowed twelve egg yolks this minnit.’

‘I want this dragghin to be moidered,’ says the King. ‘It will be no trouble in life to you; and I am only sorry that it isn’t betther spoil for he isn’t worth fearin’ at all. Now I must tell you that he lives in the country of Galway in the middle of a bog, and he has an advantage over you in that.’

‘Oh, I don’t value it in the laste,’ says the weaver, ‘for the last three score and tin I killed was in a soft place.’

‘When will you undhertake the job then?’ says the King.

‘Let me at him at wanst,’ says the weaver.

‘That’s what I like,’ says the King. ‘You’re the very man for my money.’

‘Talkin’ of money,’ says the weaver, ‘I’ll want a thrifle o’ change from you for my thravellin’ charges.’

‘As much as you plaze,’ says the King; and with the word, he brought him into his throne room where there was an oak chest, bursting with pouches full of golden guineas.

‘Take as many as you plaze,’ says the King; and, sure enough, the little weaver stuffed his pockets and even stuck some down inside his vest.

‘Now, I’m ready for the road,’ says the weaver.

‘Very well,’ says the King. ‘But you must have a fresh horse.’

‘With all my heart,’ says the weaver, who thought he might as well exchange the miller’s old nag for something more elegant.

Now the weaver had no notion whatsoever of fight­ing the dragon, all he intended to do was line his pockets with gold, ride home on this new thorough­bred, cause a sensation in his parish and be a gentle­man for the rest of his life. But the King was not as gullible as that, Kings have to be very canny or ordinary people would fool them. He put the weaver on a horse that had been trained to dash straight across the centre of Ireland and to head straight for the bog in Galway where the demon dragon lived.

Four days they travelled without stopping. On the last day he saw a crowd of people running and crying ‘The dragghin, the dragghin.’ but he couldn’t stop the horse or make him change course. He drew himself off the horse and clambered up a tree. Not a minute to spare had he, for the dragon appeared in a most imtemperate rage, and when he saw the horse he devoured it, bones and all.

Then he began to sniff about for the weaver, and at last he set his eye on him, up in the tree, and he shouted, ‘You might as well come down out o’ that, for I’ll have you as sure as eggs is mate.’

‘Divil a foot I’ll go down,’ says the weaver.

‘Nor a care do I care,’ says the dragon, ‘for you’re as good as a tit-bit in my pocket this minit, for I’ll lie undher this three,’ says he, ‘and sooner or later you must fall to my share.’

Sure enough he sat down, and began to pick his teeth with his tail, because of the heavy breakfast he made that mornin’ (for he ate a whole village, prior to the horse), and he got drowsy at last and fell asleep. But before he went to sleep he wound himself all round about the tree, so that the weaver could not escape.

Well, as soon as the weaver knew he was dead asleep by the snorin’ of him, he began to creep down as cautious as a fox; and he was near the bottom when a branch he was clinging to broke and down he fell, right on top of the dragon in a thud. But good luck was on his side, for where should he fall but with his two legs right across the dragon’s neck. He laid hold of the beast’s ears and kept his grip. The dragon couldn’t bite him either because he was plonked on his back and then when he tried to shake him off our clever little weaver wouldn’t stir, but clung on.

‘By the hokey, this is too bad intirely,’ says the dragon. ‘But if you won’t let go,’ says he, ‘by the powers o’ wildfire, I’ll give you a ride that ‘ill astonish your siven small sinses my boy.’

With that, away he flew like a thunderbolt and where do you think he flew to? He flew straight for Dublin till he came slap up against the palace of the King. But, being blind with rage, he never saw it and he knocked his brains out – that is, the small trifling little brain he had – and down he fell stunned.

As good luck would have it, the King o’ Dublin was looking out of his drawing room window at that moment and when he saw the weaver riding on the fiery dragon (for he was blazin’ like a tar-barrel) he called out to his courtiers to come and see the show.

‘By the powdhers o’ war, here comes the knight arriant.’ says the King, ‘ridin’ the dhraggin that’s all afire and if he gets into the palace, yiz must be ready with the fire engines for to put him out.’

But when they saw the dragon collapse outside, they all ran downstairs and scampered into the palace yard to survey the casualty at a close range. The weaver had got off the dragon’s neck and running up to the King he says ‘Plaze your holiness, I did not think myself worthy of killin’ this facetious baste, so I brought him to yourself, for to do him the honour of decripitation by your own royal five fingers. But I tamed him first, before I allowed him the liberty for to dar’ to appear in your royal prisince. You’ll oblige me if you’ll just make your mark with your own royal hand upon the onruly baste’s neck.’

With that, the King drew out his sword and took the head off the dirty brute, as neat as if he was topping an egg. There was great rejoicing in the court now that the dragon was killed; and the King said to the little weaver, ‘You are a knight arriant as it is, and so it would be no use for to knight you over agin; but I will make you a lord.’

‘Oh Lord! A lord,’ says the weaver, gurgling at his own good luck.

‘I will,’ says the King. ‘And as you are the first man I ever heer’d tell of that rode a dhraggin, you shall be called Lord Mount Dhraggin,’ says he.

‘And where’s my estates, plaze your holiness?’ says the weaver, who always had a cunning nature.

‘Oh, I didn’t forget that,’ says the King. ‘It is my royal pleasure to provide well for you, and for that rayson I make you a present of all the dhraggins in the world, and give you power over them from this out.’

‘Is that all?’ says the weaver, a bit snivelly.

‘All?’ says the King. ‘Why you ongrateful little vagabone, was the like ever given to any man before?’

‘I believe not, indeed,’ says the weaver. ‘Many thanks to your majesty ... and long life.’

‘But that is not all I’ll do for you,’ says the King. ‘I’ll give you my daugthter too, in marriage.’

Now, you see, that was nothing more than what he promised the weaver in his first promise; for, by all accounts, the King’s daughther was the greatest dragon ever was seen, and had the divil’s own tongue, and a beard a yard long.

Lord Mount Dhraggin was quick to rebut. He thanked the King for the noblesse of his offer, but explained to him and the courtiers that he’d be riskin’ bigamy and spoiling the girl’s honour. They gave him a black horse as a farewell present and he rode on home to the wife more conceited than ever.

7 sorra one – devil of one