"Renounce your evil coorses," says she, "you villain, or you'll repint it too late; be a good man for the futhur, and go to your duty[5] reg'lar, and now," says she, "take me back and put me into the river again, where you found me." "Oh, my lady," says the sojer, "how could I have the heart to drownd a beautiful lady like you?" But before he could say another word, the lady was vanished, and there he saw the little throut an the ground. Well he put it in a clean plate, and away he runs for the bare life, for fear her lover would come while she was away; and he run, and he run, even till he came to the cave agin, and threw the throut into the river. The minit he did, the wather was as red as blood for a little while, by rayson av the cut, I suppose, until the sthrame washed the stain away; and to this day there's a little red mark an the throut's side, where it was cut.[6] Well, sir, from that day out the sojer was an altered man, and reformed his ways, and went to his duty reg'lar, and fasted three times a-week--though it was never fish he tuk an fastin' days, for afther the fright he got, fish id never rest an his stomach--savin' your presence. But anyhow, he was an altered man, as I said before, and in coorse o' time he left the army, and turned hermit at last; and they say he _used to pray evermore for the soul of the White Throut_. [These trout stories are common all over Ireland. Many holy wells are haunted by such blessed trout. There is a trout in a well on the border of Lough Gill, Sligo, that some paganish person put once on the gridiron. It carries the marks to this day. Long ago, the saint who sanctified the well put that trout there. Nowadays it is only visible to the pious, who have done due penance.] [Footnote 5: The Irish peasant calls his attendance at the confessional "going to his duty."] [Footnote 6: The fish has really a red spot on its side.] THE FAIRY THORN. _An Ulster Ballad._ SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON. "Get up, our Anna dear, from the weary spinning-wheel; For your father's on the hill, and your mother is asleep; Come up above the crags, and we'll dance a highland-reel Around the fairy thorn on the steep." At Anna Grace's door 'twas thus the maidens cried, Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the green; And Anna laid the rock and the weary wheel aside, The fairest of the four, I ween. They're glancing through the glimmer of the quiet eve, Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle bare; The heavy-sliding stream in its sleepy song they leave, And the crags in the ghostly air: And linking hand in hand, and singing as they go, The maids along the hill-side have ta'en their fearless way, Till they come to where the rowan trees in lonely beauty grow Beside the Fairy Hawthorn grey.