Transcript

Fadó nuair a bhí an tAthair Seoirse Ó Súilleabháin ina shagart paróiste i nGleann Bheithe do bhí air an uair sin dul go Gleann Chárthaigh geach Domhnach ag lé' Aifrinn. Do bhí seana-chasán amach tríd an gcnoc, agus do ghabhadh sé le capall iallaite ann ag dul go Gleann Chárthaigh. Ach do bhí an seana-chasán san anonn agus anall ag imeacht cam agus díreach. Nuair éiríodh[1] sé amach ar an bpointe i gcónaí chíodh sé gach aon ní, ach nuair a luíodh sé isteach sa chnoc, n'fheiceadh sé aon ní. Do chonaic sé uaidh scata garsún i bpáirc le hais an bhóthair agus iad ag báire. Thug sé fé ndeara iad go maith, agus do lean sé ar aghaidh, agus do bhíodar ag báire ana-dhian, ana-dhícheallach, ar shlí agus ná facadar an sagart in aon chor ag teacht orthu chun go dtáini' sé ar an mbóthar ar lastuas díobh. Ach do chuaigh an liathróid i dtroidín isteach 'dir bheirt des na garsúin. Do bhíodar le na camáin á priocadh amach óna chéile. Dúirt duine acu leis an tarna duine, "Fan[2] deas!" ar sé sin. "Fan deas, fan deas, a dhiabhail!" ar seisean. "Th'anam 'on diabhal," ar seisean, "fan deas!"

Do bhí an sagart an uair sin ar an dtaobh thuas díobh ar an mbóthar. Do chuala sé iad ag rá na bhfocal. D'aithin sé go maith an garsún a dúirt é. Tháini' sé anuas dá chapall. Do léim sé thar chlaí isteach. Do bhí an dá gharsún agus a gceann fúthu ag baint na liathróide dhá chéile, agus n'fheacadar aon tsagart. Ní bhraith an garsún aon ní chun gur bheir an sagart ar chluais air.

"Cad é seo mar áit go bhfuileann tú?" arsa an sagart. "Nár chóra dhuit a bheith ag an Aifreann duit féinig?"

"Ná beidh mé chomh luath leatsa ann?" arsa an garsún.

"Níleann tú téagartha do dhóthain, is dóigh liom," arsa an sagart, "agus b'fhéidir ná fuil do phaidreacha chomh maith san agat."

"Tá an méid a múineadh dom agam acu," arsa an garsún.

"Cé méid Dia ann?" arsa an sagart.

"Bog 'o mo chluais!" Bheir an t-athair... an sagart ar a chluais air.

"Beir (...) Bog 'o mo chluais," ar seisean, "agus neosad duit é."

Níor bhog an sagart dá chluais. Do bhí olc aige chuige mar do bhí sé ag luí ró-dhian ar an gcluais aige. D'fhiafraigh sé dhe an tarna huair cé méid Dia ann.

"Bog 'o mo chluais, a deirim leat," arsa an garsún, "agus neosad duit é."

Do bhog an garsún[3] dá chluais, agus, do (dh')éirigh sé suas ina sheasamh. D'fhéach sé isteach 'dir (a dh)á shúil ar an sagart. Do bhuail sé a chamán... bhuail sé a chamán féna ascaill. Dhrid sé cúpla ciscéim nó trí i ndiaidh a chúil agus dúirt sé, "Tá a fhios ag Dia agus aige Muire, mhuise, dá mbeadh lán páirce acu ann, ná neosainn éinne amháin acu anois duit!"

Translation

Long ago when Father George O'Sullivan was parish priest in Glenbeigh he used to have to go to Glencar every Sunday to say Mass. There was an old pathway through the mountain, and he used to take it on a saddle-horse when going to Glencar. But that old pathway was going to and fro and sraight and crooked. When he used to rise out onto the point he was always able to see everything, but when he went in close to the mountain he couldn't see anything. He saw in the distance some boys playing a match in a field near the road. He noticed them, and kept going, and they were playing very hard and with great effort so that they didn't see the priest at all coming towards them and he reached the road above them. But the ball became stuck between two of the boys. They were trying to get it off the other with their hurleys. One of them said to the other, "Stay right!" he said. "Stay right, stay right, you devil!" he said. "Your soul to the devil," he said, "stay right!"

The priest was by then above them on the road. He heard those words being spoken. He clearly recognised the boy who said it. He got off his house. He jumped in over a ditch. The two boys had their heads down taking the ball off each other, and they didn't see the priest. The boy didn't feel anything until the priest caught him by the ear.

"Where do you think you are?" said the priest. "Shouldn't you be at Mass for yourself?"

"Won't I be there as early as yourself?" said the boy.

"You are not strong enough, I think, said the priest, "and maybe you don't know your prayers that well."

"I know as many of them as were taught to me," said the boy.

"How many Gods are there?" said the priest.

"Let go of my ear!" The father... the priest [had] caught him by the ear.

"(...) Let go of my ear," he said, "and I will tell you."

The priest didn't let go of his ear. He was angry with him because he was squeezing his ear very tightly. He asked him a second time how many Gods were there.

"Let go of my ear I tell you," said the boy, "and I will tell you."

The boy (recte priest?) let go of the ear, and he stood up. He looked into the priest's two eyes. He tucked his hurley... he tucked his hurley under his arm. He backed back two or three footsteps and said, "God and Mary know that if the field was full of them that I wouldn't tell you of a single one of them now!"

Footnotes

Commentary

This story appears alongside another version in Séamus Ó Duilearga, Leabhar Sheáin Í Chonaill (Dublin, 1948), 347-50. Although it appears as a legend, it is ultimately derived from international folktale AT 1810A How many gods are there?. It is well known all over Ireland, with examples from the four provinces. See Seán Ó Súilleabháin and Rieder Th. Christiansen, The types of the Irish folktale (Helsinki, 1968).