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<h2> The Wonderful Tune. </h2>
<p>Maurice Connor was the king, and that's no small word, of all the pipers
in Munster. He could play jig and reel without end, and Ollistrum's March,
and the Eagle's Whistle, and the Hen's Concert, and odd tunes of every
sort and kind. But he knew one far more surprising than the rest, which
had in it the power to set everything dead or alive dancing.</p>
<p>In what way he learned it is beyond my knowledge for he was mighty
cautious about telling how he came by so wonderful a tune. At the very
first note of that tune the shoes began shaking upon the feet of all how
heard it—old or young, it mattered not—just as if the shoes
had the ague; then the feet began going, going, going from under them, and
at last up and away with them, dancing like mad, whisking here, there, and
everywhere, like a straw in a storm—there was no halting while the
music lasted.</p>
<p>Not a fair, nor a wedding, nor a feast in the seven parishes round, was
counted worth the speaking of without 'blind Maurice and his pipes.' His
mother, poor woman, used to lead him about from one place to another just
like a dog.</p>
<p>Down through Iveragh, Maurice Connor and his mother were taking their
rounds. Beyond all other places Iveragh is the place for stormy coasts and
steep mountains, as proper a spot it is as any in Ireland to get yourself
drowned, or your neck broken on the land, should you prefer that. But,
notwithstanding, in Ballinskellig Bay there is a neat bit of ground, well
fitted for diversion, and down from it, towards the water, is a clean
smooth piece of strand, the dead image of a calm summer's sea on a
moonlight night, with just the curl of the small waves upon it.</p>
<p>Here is was that Maurice's music had brought from all parts a great
gathering of the young men and the young women; for 'twas not every day
the strand of Trafraska was stirred up by the voice of a bagpipe. The
dance began; and as pretty a dance it was as ever was danced. 'Brave
music,' said everybody, 'and well done,' when Maurice stopped.</p>
<p>'More power to your elbow, Maurice, and a fair wind in the bellows,' cried
Paddy Dorman, a hump-backed dancing master, who was there to keep order.
''Tis a pity,' said he, 'if we'd let the piper run dry after such music;
'twould be a disgrace to Iveragh, that didn't come on it since the week of
the three Sundays.' So, as well became him, for he was always a decent
man, says he, 'Did you drink, piper?'</p>
<p>'I will, sir,' said Maurice, answering the question on the safe side, for
you never yet knew piper or schoolmaster who refused his drink.</p>
<p>'What will you drink, Maurice?' says Paddy.</p>
<p>'I'm no ways particular,' says Maurice; 'I drink anything, barring raw
water; but if it's all the same to you, Mister Dorman, may be you wouldn't
lend me the loan of a glass of whisky.'</p>
<p>'I've no glass, Maurice,' said Paddy; 'I've only the bottle.'</p>
<p>'Let that be no hindrance,' answered Maurice; 'my mouth just holds a glass
to the drop; often I've tried it sure.'</p>
<p>So Paddy Dorman trusted him with the bottle—more fool was he; and,
to his cost, he found that though Maurice's mouth might not hold more than
the glass at one time, yet, owing to the hole in his throat, it took many
a filling.</p>
<p>'That was no bad whisky neither,' says Maurice, handing back the empty
bottle.</p>
<p>'By the holy frost, then!' says Paddy, ''tis but cold comfort there's in
that bottle now; and 'tis your word we must take for the strength of the
whisky, for you've left us no sample to judge by'; and to be sure Maurice
had not.</p>
<p>Now I need not tell any gentleman or lady that if he or she was to drink
an honest bottle of whisky at one pull, it is not at all the same thing as
drinking a bottle of water; and in the whole course of my life I never
knew more than five men who could do so without being the worse. Of these
Maurice Connor was not one, though he had a stiff head enough of his own.
Don't think I blame him for it; but true is the word that says, 'When
liquor's in sense is out'; and puff, at a breath, out he blasted his
wonderful tune.</p>
<p>'Twas really then beyond all belief or telling the dancing. Maurice
himself could not keep quiet; staggering now on one leg, now on the other,
and rolling about like a ship in a cross sea, trying to humour the tune.
There was his mother, too, moving her old bones as light as the youngest
girl of them all; but her dancing, no, nor the dancing of all the rest, is
not worthy the speaking about to the work that was going on down upon the
strand. Every inch of it covered with all manner of fish jumping and
plunging about to the music, and every moment more and more would tumble
in and out of the water, charmed by the wonderful tune. Crabs of monstrous
size spun round and round on one claw with the nimbleness of a dancing
master, and twirled and tossed their other claws about like limbs that did
not belong to them. It was a sight surprising to behold. But perhaps you
may have heard of Father Florence Conry, as pleasant a man as one would
wish to drink with of a hot summer's day; and he had rhymed out all about
the dancing fishes so neatly that it would be a thousand pities not to
give you his verses; so here they are in English:</p>
<p>The big seals in motion,<br/>
Like waves of the ocean,<br/>
Or gouty feet prancing,<br/>
Came heading the gay fish,<br/>
Crabs, lobsters, and cray-fish,<br/>
Determined on dancing.<br/>
<br/>
The sweet sounds they followed,<br/>
The gasping cod swallow'd—<br/>
'Twas wonderful, really;<br/>
And turbot and flounder,<br/>
'Mid fish that were rounder,<br/>
Just caper'd as gaily.<br/>
<br/>
John-dories came tripping;<br/>
Dull hake, by their skipping,<br/>
To frisk it seem'd given;<br/>
Bright mackrel went springing,<br/>
Like small rainbows winging<br/>
Their flight up to heaven.<br/>
<br/>
The whiting and haddock<br/>
Left salt water paddock<br/>
This dance to be put in;<br/>
Where skate with flat faces<br/>
Edged out some old plaices;<br/>
But soles kept their footing.<br/>
<br/>
Sprats and herrings in powers<br/>
Of silvery showers<br/>
All number out-numbered;<br/>
And great ling so lengthy<br/>
Was there in such plenty<br/>
The shore was encumber'd.<br/>
<br/>
The scallop and oyster<br/>
Their two shells did roister,<br/>
Like castanets flitting;<br/>
While limpets moved clearly,<br/>
And rocks very nearly<br/>
With laughter were splitting.<br/></p>
<p>Never was such a hullabaloo in this world, before or since; 'twas as if
heaven and earth were coming together; and all out of Maurice Connor's
wonderful tune!</p>
<p>In the height of all these doings, what should there be dancing among the
outlandish set of fishes but a beautiful young woman—as beautiful as
the dawn of day! She had a cocked hat upon her head; from under it her
long green hair—just the colour of the sea—fell down behind,
without hindrance to her dancing. Her teeth were like rows of pearls; her
lips for all the world looked like red coral; and she had a shining gown
pale green as the hollow of the wave, with little rows of purple and red
seaweeds settled out upon it; for you never yet saw a lady, under the
water or over the water, who had not a good notion of dressing herself
out.</p>
<p>Up she danced at last to Maurice, who was flinging his feet from under him
as fast as hops—for nothing in this world could keep still while
that tune of his was going on—and says she to him, chanting it out
with a voice as sweet as honey:</p>
<p>I'm a lady of honour<br/>
Who live in the sea;<br/>
Come down, Maurice Connor,<br/>
And be married to me.<br/>
Silver plates and gold dishes<br/>
You shall have, and shall be<br/>
The king of the fishes,<br/>
When you're married to me.<br/></p>
<p>Drink was strong in Maurice's head, and out he chanted in return for her
great civility. It is not every lady, may be, that would be after making
such an offer to a blind piper; therefore 'twas only right in him to give
her as good as she gave herself, so says Maurice:</p>
<p>I'm obliged to you, madam:<br/>
Off a gold dish or plate,<br/>
If a king, and I had 'em,<br/>
I could dine in great state.<br/>
With your own father's daughter<br/>
I'd be sure to agree,<br/>
But to drink the salt water<br/>
Wouldn't do so with me!<br/></p>
<p>The lady looked at him quite amazed, and swinging her head from side to
side like a great scholar, 'Well,' says she, 'Maurice, if you're not a
poet, where is poetry to be found?'</p>
<p>In this way they kept on at it, framing high compliments; one answering
the other, and their feet going with the music as fast as their tongues.
All the fish kept dancing, too; Maurice heard the clatter and was afraid
to stop playing lest it might be displeasing to the fish, and not knowing
what so many of them may take it into their heads to do to him if they got
vexed.</p>
<p>Well, the lady with the green hair kept on coaxing Maurice with soft
speeches, till at last she over persuaded him to promise to marry her, and
be king over the fishes, great and small. Maurice was well fitted to be
their king, if they wanted one that could make them dance; and he surely
would drink, barring the salt water, with any fish of them all.</p>
<p>When Maurice's mother saw him with that unnatural thing in the form of a
green-haired lady as his guide, and he and she dancing down together so
lovingly to the water's edge, through the thick of the fishes, she called
out after him to stop and come back. 'Oh, then,' says she, 'as if I was
not widow enough before, there he is going away from me to be married to
that scaly woman. And who knows but 'tis grandmother I may be to a hake or
a cod—Lord help and pity me, but 'tis a mighty unnatural thing! And
my be 'tis boiling and eating my own grandchild I'll be, with a bit of
salt butter, and I not knowing it! Oh, Maurice, Maurice, if there's any
love or nature left in you, come back to your own ould mother, who reared
you like a decent Christian!' Then the poor woman began to cry and sob so
finely that it would do anyone good to hear her.</p>
<p>Maurice was not long getting to the rim of the water. There he kept
playing and dancing on as if nothing was the matter, and a great
thundering wave coming in towards him ready to swallow him up alive; but
as he could not see it, he did not fear it. His mother it was who saw it
plainly through the big tears that were rolling down her cheeks; and
though she saw it, and her heart was aching as much as ever mother's heart
ached for a son, she kept dancing, dancing all the time for the bare life
of her. Certain it was she could not help it, for Maurice never stopped
playing that wonderful tune of his.</p>
<p>He only turned his ear to the sound of his mother's voice, fearing it
might put him out in his steps, and all the answer he made back was,
'Whisht with you mother—sure I'm going to be king over the fishes
down in the sea, and for a token of luck, and a sign that I'm alive and
well, I'll send you in, every twelvemonth on this day, a piece of burned
wood to Trafraska.' Maurice had not the power to say a word more, for the
strange lady with the green hair, seeing the wave just upon them, covered
him up with herself in a thing like a cloak with a big hood to it, and the
wave curling over twice as high as their heads, burst upon the strand,
with a rush and a roar that might be heard as far as Cape Clear.</p>
<p>That day twelvemonth the piece of burned wood came ashore in Trafraska. It
was a queer thing for Maurice to think of sending all the way from the
bottom of the sea. A gown or a pair of shoes would have been something
like a present for his poor mother; but he had said it, and he kept his
word. The bit of burned wood regularly came ashore on the appointed day
for as good, ay, and better than a hundred years. The day is now
forgotten, and may be that is the reason why people say how Maurice Connor
has stopped sending the luck-token to his mother. Poor woman, she did not
live to get as much as one of them; for what through the loss of Maurice,
and the fear of eating her own grandchildren, she died in three weeks
after the dance. Some say it was the fatigue that killed her, but
whichever it was, Mrs. Connor was decently buried with her own people.</p>
<p>Seafaring people have often heard, off the coast of Kerry, on a still
night, the sound of music coming up from the water; and some, who have had
good ears, could plainly distinguish Maurice Connor's voice singing these
words to his pipes—</p>
<p>Beautiful shore, with thy spreading strand,<br/>
Thy crystal water, and diamond sand;<br/>
Never would I have parted from thee,<br/>
But for the sake of my fair ladie.<br/></p>
<p>From 'Fairy Tales and Traditions of the South of Ireland.'</p>
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