There was a young chief, Conor O’Quin, who lived near Inchiquin Lake. One day, as he was out walking near an old stone fort by the lake, he saw a large number of swans swimming on the water, heading in towards the southern shore. As he watched them, the swans stretched their necks, shook out their wings and walked ashore. There they seemed to grow taller and, removing black hoods and feathered dresses, they became a group of graceful young women dressed in thin white shifts. These girls danced and chattered there at the lake’s reedy edge. One girl sat on a rock to comb her black hair, and turned her face in O’Quin’s direction.
O’Quin had never seen such a beauty before, and he was immediately smitten. The girl, when she noticed the man watching her, took up her feathered dress and flew off over the water, the other swan-girls behind her in graceful flight.
O’Quin could not get the face of this beautiful swan maiden from his mind. He took to wandering down by the lake each day in the hope of seeing her again. Three times he caught a glimpse of her as she sat on the rock by the water’s edge combing her dark hair. Each time he approached she would quickly pull on her hood and feathered dress and take flight.
One day, however, O’Quin, now consumed with love for the swan maiden, had a plan. He rose early and hid himself behind some scrubby trees and bushes near the water’s edge and waited for the swans to come to shore. When they did, he watched them shake off their feathered dresses and hoods, biding his time, waiting only for the right moment to make his move. As his beloved lay down her black hood, O’Quin quickly grabbed it up and held it fast. This time the swan maiden could not escape him.
He asked her to marry him and come live with him in his grand house.
She tried to dissuade him. ‘You would be better to marry one of your own kind,’ she said. But O’Quin would not be put off. He asked again, stressing the depth of his love for her. At last she agreed to become his wife, but she named three conditions to her consent. The first condition was that the marriage must remain a secret; the second, that he must never invite an O’Brien into their house; and third, that he must not engage in games of chance.
O’Quin agreed at once, and swore that he would tell no one about his lovely bride; that he would never invite an O’Brien to the house; and that he would neither gamble nor play cards. He thought these conditions a small price to pay for the love of his life.
O’Quin scooped her up into his arms and carried her back to the grand house. There they lived happily together for many years. As time went by two children were born, and as they grew, all seemed well in the world for Conor O’Quin.
One day, O’Brien of Leamanagh and some of the other chiefs of the area decided to hold a tournament nearby at Coad. There would be horseraces, and great sport was promised. O’Quin’s wife begged him not to go, but when he insisted, she pleaded with him to accept no invitation to dine, nor to invite anyone to dine at their house. O’Quin gave her his solemn word and set off for the races at Coad.
In the excitement of the day, he quite forgot his promise. He invited O’Brien to dine with him, and the chief came with all his retinue to O’Quin’s house. O’Quin’s wife prepared a glorious feast and served it up on the finest of dishes, but she spoke not one word. While O’Brien and his party ate their fill, entertained by her foolish husband, she took up her swan gown and put it on, along with her black hood. She carried her children, one under each arm, from their beds, and then slipped away down to the shores of the lake, and was never seen again in human form.
Not knowing about his loss, O’Quin played cards with O’Brien after dinner. He wagered his house and lands, and lost it all to Tadg O’Brien of Coad. O’Quin was a ruined man. Having broken his promises, he had lost all that he held dear: his wife, family, house and lands, all gone in one foolish, thoughtless night. They say O’Brien gave him a place to build a small house and he lived out his days there, a sad and broken man.
His spirit can still be seen to this day, wandering the shore on Lake Inchiquin in the hope that his beloved swan maiden might one day return.
A wealthy man named O’Brien lived in Newhall House. Nearby was a lake, at the foot of a long tree-covered hill, where O’Brien spent much of his time fishing. The local peasants told O’Brien that a mermaid lived in that lake. They had seen her wearing a green cloak, sitting on a rock at the lake’s edge, combing her long black hair. O’Brien laughed at their foolish stories. He was very rich and cared little for the poor people who lived around him. All that concerned him was sport and making money. His house was very grand. There were marble pillars by the heavy carved wooden doors, and tall windows that let in plenty of light to his drawing room. And the furniture, well there were chairs there with legs painted gold and covered in brocade cushions. He kept a number of servants, none of whom he treated well. He was known as a cruel master, and no one would want to cross him.
Underneath his grand mansion there was a cellar, where he kept his store of fine wines. When he had company he wished to impress, he would send a servant down to bring up a bottle or two of some particularly fine vintage. At other times he would go down to the cellar himself to admire his store. It was not particularly pleasant in the cellar, being cold and damp and with a constant sound of running water – some said an underground stream ran beneath it.
One day, O’Brien noticed that some of his wine was missing. He presumed that his servant had stolen it, and made up his mind to prosecute the man. As he would need evidence, O’Brien decided to stay up that night to catch the thief red-handed.
He dressed warmly and made himself as comfortable as he could, using an old wine cask as a chair, and he waited. Just after midnight he heard movement at the far end of the cellar. He was greatly surprised when he saw the thief: it was a woman, of sorts, above the waist, but with scales and a tail like a fish below. The mermaid came from Newhall Lake, along the narrow covered stream that ran from under the cellar to the lake.
O’Brien had never seen such a creature before; he had thought the tales of mermaids in the nearby lake to be just the foolishness and superstition of the peasantry. O’Brien, who had his pistol ready to confront the thief, fired at the mermaid and his shot wounded her badly. She gave an ear-shattering shriek that echoed all around the cellar. Before she disappeared, bleeding, along the channel to the lake, the mermaid cursed the O’Briens that they would never have an heir.
‘Fish without flesh, meat without bones, hear the mermaid’s curse on the plains of Killone.
As the mermaid floats bloodless down the stream, so shall the O’Briens pass away from Killone.’
The mermaid’s curse proved to be true, and this was how it worked out. O’Brien had seven daughters and no sons. One of the daughters married a man called McDonnell and they had seven daughters too.
The wounded mermaid floated back to the lake, which turned red with her blood for a day and a night. It is said that it still turns red once every seven years. And it will turn red if an O’Brien should be in residence at Newhall House. Cattle will not drink from the lake when it is red with the mermaid’s blood.
The mermaid also said that a crow would never build its nest or live in the wood near Newhall House after that day, and this also came to pass.
Major Moloney was a landlord who lived at Kiltannon, over near O’Callaghan’s Mills. His lands were broad and spread over a large part of East Clare. A man called James Hanlon paid rent to the Major for a small farm at Corraclune, near Clonusker. James kept a herd of black and white cows, but although the cows were still giving milk, and it looked as creamy as ever it had, he had been unable to make any butter for the last month or so. It just would not churn.
At first he paid no heed to it, thinking, well, don’t we all have a bad day some time? But when the same thing happened every time he went to make butter, he knew there was something wrong. He started to remember what his old auntie used to say about people who would stole butter. What was it? If someone took water from your well before yourself on May morning they’d have your butter for the year. Was that it? He knew his auntie used to bring in a whitethorn branch to the house on May Eve to bring luck for the year. He used to think it was all just superstition, but now he was getting poorer all the time with no butter to sell. James decided he’d best go and ask Biddy Early for her advice on what to do. She would know if it was anything to do with fairies or magic, wouldn’t she? Biddy lived over the other side of Feakle, so James set off one morning to her house. When he reached the door, Biddy was there to greet him, ‘Well, hello and welcome, James Hanlon and God bless you. It’ll be about the butter is it?’
James was not at all surprised that Biddy already knew the reason for his visit. After all, everyone in East Clare knew about Biddy’s gift for healing and her blue bottle that showed her the future. Biddy brought James into the house, sat him down and made him some tea. She listened as James told his story, describing how he couldn’t make the butter at all. Then she told him, ‘There is an old woman, a witch, who stole your butter on May morning, by turning herself into a hare. She will try to do it again next May morning, and you will get no butter until you catch and stop her. The only thing that can stop her is a black hound with not a rib of white hair on it.’
James went home, wondering how he would get this black hound with no white on it, when he had hardly a penny left to his name. He went to see the landlord and told him what Biddy had said. Major Moloney was a wealthy man, and he agreed that he would pay for the hound. The Major sent out word all over the country that he was looking for a black hound with no rib of white hair, but no one in Ireland had such a hound. He sent then to Scotland, but they too had no such hound. At last he found a black hound with no rib of white hair in England. The Major paid 100 English pounds for the beast, and had him shipped over on the boat. He was a fine looking beast, smooth and sleek, and not a single white hair on him. The Major trained the hound himself to be ready for the following May Day and the hound proved to be fast and a great hunter.
On May Eve, all of John’s friends gathered at his house. They brought all the cows into a little paddock next to the house, where they could keep an eye on them. Early next morning, before the sun was up, the Major’s men brought the hound to James’ house. As the sun rose over the horizon, James had the hound on a long leash, and his friends all watching for the hare. They were only just out the door when the hare came bounding into the paddock where all the cows were lying on the grass. The hare went to the first cow and began to suck on its teats. When she’d taken her fill, the hare moved on to the next cow. She went from one cow to the next, drinking the milk from each in turn.
James unfastened the leash and let the hound free. The Major had trained him well. As soon as he caught sight and scent of the hare, he was off, and a fine chase there was, like nothing ever seen before. The hare ran off up the mountain, with the black hound following close at her heels. The hare ran through fields and over bogs, across moorland and through scrubby trees, jumping over streams and splashing through rivers, and right behind her was the sleek black hound, who would give her no rest. When they had run 10 miles or more, the hare was beginning to tire. She knew she could not go further, so she turned for home. When they were close to Corraclune, the hare made a dash for a little mean-looking cottage. The hound was closer behind now, and the hare looked to be in a panic, trying to find the way into the house. The doors were closed, what was she to do? She saw that one window had a small pane of glass broken. The hare leapt for it, meaning to get in through that small window. Just as she leapt, the hound caught her back leg and bit her. The hare squealed with pain, struggling to get away. At last she got free and disappeared through the window.
The men who had followed the hunt opened the cottage door. The house was sparsely furnished, just a table and chair in the room by the fire. There was no sign of a hare. In another room there was an old woman in bed, groaning. ‘What are ye after here?’ she called out to the men. ‘Can a sick old woman not get some peace in her own home?’
‘Did you see a hare come in the house, Granny?’ asked one of the men.
‘I saw no hare. I am sick in my bed, I tell ye,’ and she groaned again.
The men searched all around the room. ‘Would you look at this!’ said one, pointing to a trail of blood that ran from the broken window and across the floor to the bed where the old woman lay groaning in pain.
The black hound was brought back to James’ farm, but when it reached the paddock it fell down dead. They buried it in the paddock and placed a carved stone over his grave.
James Hanlon had no further trouble making butter after that day.
There were two brothers, Francis and John, who lived together in a small house in the west of Clare. The day came when Francis had to leave home in search of his fortune. That morning he took his brother John down to a spring well near their home. As the two looked down at the clear water bubbling up into the pool, Francis told his brother that he should come to the well every day, for here he would find news. If the water in the pool should turn red, then he would know that Francis had died on his travels. The brothers shook hands, said their farewells, and Francis rode off into the wide world with his horse, his dog and his gun.
After a day or two Francis came to a cottage where a blacksmith lived. He asked for work, but the blacksmith had no work for him. He rode on to a big old mansion, and the people there gave him a task. He was to kill a hare that was stealing the milk from their cows. Francis rose early next morning and set out with his horse, his dog and his gun. When he got out to the field where they kept their cattle, he saw the hare milking the cows. Francis fired a shot at the hare, but did not kill her. The wounded hare bounded unsteadily away. Francis followed the hare to a ramshackle hut and watched it disappear through a crack in the wall. When he opened the door, he saw no hare inside, only an old woman lying moaning in the corner.
‘Are ye alright there, old woman?’ asked Francis. His dog began to growl and pace nervously.
There was a bone on the floor near the old woman. ‘Oh I am fine, son,’ she says. ‘That’s a grand dog you have there. Why don’t you give it the bone?’
Francis gave his dog the bone. As soon as it began to chew, its paws suddenly became stuck to the floor and the dog could not move an inch.
‘That’s a fine horse you have. Why don’t you feed it some oats?’ said the old woman, pointing towards a bag of oats by the wall.
Francis brought the oats to his horse, and as soon as the horse put its nose into the bag, its feet were stuck to the ground.
Francis began to wonder if the old woman was a witch, but before he could stop her, the old woman leapt up and killed him with an axe.
The next day, back at the small house in the west of Clare, John went to the well for water. What he saw filled his heart with grief, for the water was red and he knew his brother was dead. John decided he would travel out into the world himself, and see could he find where his brother was buried. Sure, what else could he do?
He made ready his horse, called his dog, and took up his gun, and off he rode into the wide world. After some time he came to a blacksmith’s forge. He asked for work there, but the smith had no work for him. He rode on and came to a big old mansion, and he got work there. He was out in the field next morning when he saw a hare stealing milk from the cow. He fired a shot at her and wounded her. John followed the limping hare to a ramshackle hut and watched her disappear through a crack in the wall. When he opened the door, he saw no hare inside, only an old woman lying moaning in the corner. His dog began to growl and pace nervously.
‘Are ye alright there, old woman?’ asked John.
‘Oh I am fine, son,’ she says, ‘but that’s a grand dog you have there. Maybe it would like a bone?’ She pointed to the bone on the floor.
John shook his head, ‘My dog has eaten well this morning already.’
‘That’s a fine horse you have. Maybe it would want some oats?’ The old woman pointed towards a bag of oats by the wall.
John shook his head, ‘My horse has eaten well this morning already.’
The old woman got up unsteadily, and she commanded the dog, ‘Dog, help me!’ But the dog just growled, bared its teeth and leapt at her with his claws out.
‘Horse, help me!’ she cried, but the horse only reared and kicked out at her.
John spoke then, ‘I know who you are, old woman, and I believe that you are responsible for my brother’s death.’
She knew then that she was found out, and feared she would be killed. The old woman pleaded for her life, ‘Spare me, and I will give your brother back to you, and I swear, I will never again cause harm to anyone!’
When John agreed, his dear brother Francis was instantly restored to him, none the worse for his short journey to the land of the dead. The old woman kept her word and never stole milk again. In fact she became a model of virtue in the world, doing what good she could for everyone she met thereafter.
The two brothers celebrated their good fortune, then set off together on the road, and no doubt they found many further adventures. For all I know they may be travelling still, if the roads have not turned to gold and the stars fallen silver on the fields.
There were three wealthy brothers who lived near Classagh Hill. They lived in a big house and they had many acres of good land. Their land was dark and rich and gave them plentiful crops each year. They kept large flocks of sheep and cattle that provided them with plenty of meat and milk and plenty to trade. However, no matter how much they had, or how rich they grew, they worried constantly about losing their wealth, and so they were mean and miserly. If a beggar came to their door, they would send him on his way without so much as a crust of bread.
In those days, there was a monastery nearby. Every year at harvest time, the monks would send a friar out around the country to visit all the farms in the locality. Each farm would give a portion of their corn to the monks – that was how the monks made their living. The monks did all the praying, and the people on the farms supported them to do that, each giving a sieve of wheat to the monastery.
One year, when harvest time had come around again, a fresh-faced young friar arrived at the miserly brothers’ barn door, a broad smile on his face and a sack almost full of wheat over his shoulder.
‘Good morning to you gentlemen. I have come to claim the monks’ share of your harvest: a sieve full of your finest corn. God bless you, workers of the land, for the bounty God gives.’
The three wealthy misers grumbled. ‘Workers of the land, we are, but the bounty is our own!’
‘Psah! It was our own sweat and back-breaking work that grew this corn.’
‘Why do we owe any of our harvest to these pampered monks? What do they give to us? Nothing!’ They went into the barn, still moaning, then one of the brothers had an idea. He took up the sieve and turned it in his hands. ‘Look, brothers. The sieve has two sides to it: the bottom and the mouth,’ he said.
‘The monks did not say which side of the sieve we should fill. We can fill the bottom!’
The others clapped him on the back and laughed at how they could cheat the naive young friar and give him less of their wheat than he expected. They measured out a small amount of grain in the bottom of the sieve.
The young friar came into the barn and watched as they emptied the sieve into the sack. Something was not right, and the sack hardly looked any fuller at all.
‘Are you sure you gave me the full sieve of wheat, my good brothers?’ asked the friar.
‘Oh yes, we did all right,’ sniggered the brothers.
The young friar might have been naive but he could still tell they were trying to cheat him. He spread his arms, looked up to the heavens and spoke a curse upon them, ‘May God turn you mean and unholy brothers to stone as hard as your hearts!’
The three misers froze where they stood. A dog that came running and barking at the friar was also turned to stone. Those three large stones and one small one are still standing on the hill to this day. The place is known as Knockfearbreag, the hill of the deceitful men.
The Swan Maiden: Irish Birds, Facts, Folklore and History, Glynn Anderson (Collins Press, 2008); Folklore of Clare, T.J. Westropp’s (Clasp Press; Ennis, 2000).
The Newhall Mermaid’s Curse: SFS (1937-38) adapted from a story told to Brendan Walker by Lot Malone, Darragh, Baile Aoda, p.3.
Stolen Butter: SFS (1937-38) adapted from a story Eileen Guilfoyle heard from Michael Guilfoyle, Bridge St Scariff, Scariff p.69.
The Two Brothers: SFS (1937-38) Mary Nolan, heard from Mr Tom O’Dea, Clonina, Cree.
Hearts of Stone: SFS (1937-38) Daniel Sweeney, Clooney School, p.302.