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Legendary fictions of the Irish Celts

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playing ;<br />

Ossianic and o<strong>the</strong>r Early Legends. 253<br />

but <strong>the</strong> blood was galloping through <strong>the</strong>ir veins<br />

like mad. Every one that had room drew his sword, and<br />

waved it over his head (and such a clatter as <strong>the</strong>se swords<br />

made striking one ano<strong>the</strong>r !), and every one cried out <strong>the</strong><br />

war-cry <strong>of</strong> his own chief or king. This wouldn't do at all<br />

for a continuance ; so he changed his hand, and made<br />

such music as angels do when <strong>the</strong>y are welcoming good<br />

souls to heaven. Every one shut <strong>the</strong>ir eyes and leaned<br />

back, and hoped that <strong>the</strong> beautiful tune would never<br />

come to an end.<br />

But it was forced to come to an end, and <strong>the</strong> harper<br />

let his arms fall on his knees, and every one sighed and<br />

groaned for being brought back to <strong>the</strong> world again. You<br />

may depend that Craftine was praised, and gold and<br />

silver was thrown in showers to him. Then <strong>the</strong> harpers<br />

<strong>of</strong> Leinster, Munster, Connaught, and Ulster tried <strong>the</strong>ir<br />

hands, and, sure enough, fine music flew out from under<br />

<strong>the</strong>se hands ; but all did not come within miles <strong>of</strong> Craftine's.<br />

So when <strong>the</strong>y stopped, says <strong>the</strong> king to his harper,<br />

" Give us one tune more to finish decently, and put all<br />

that we invited in good humour for <strong>the</strong>ir dinner. I'm<br />

afraid if you go on in this way <strong>the</strong> King <strong>of</strong> Greece or <strong>the</strong><br />

Emperor <strong>of</strong> Moroco will be sending for you one <strong>of</strong><br />

<strong>the</strong>se days." " By your hand, my king," says Craftine,<br />

*' I'm afeard <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong> same harp. It wasn't my fingers at<br />

all that struck out that music ; it was <strong>the</strong> music that<br />

stirred my fingers. There's some pishrogue on <strong>the</strong> in-<br />

strument, and I'm in dread it will play us some trick."<br />

" Oh, trick be hanged !<br />

" says <strong>the</strong> king ; " play away."<br />

" Well," says <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r, " I must obey your majesty—why<br />

shouldn't I % Here goes !<br />

"<br />

Well, his fingers hardly touched <strong>the</strong> strings, when <strong>the</strong>y<br />

felt like sand-paper that was powdered with nettle-tops,<br />

and out <strong>the</strong>y roared as if thunder was breaking over <strong>the</strong><br />

ro<strong>of</strong>, and a thousand men were smashing stones. Every<br />

one was going to stop his ears, but a loud voice began to<br />

shout out from <strong>the</strong> strings that were keeping hold <strong>of</strong>

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