This history sets forth the only true account of the adventures of a daring Tipperary man named Darby O’Gill among the Fairies of Sleive-na-mon. These adventures were first related to me by Mr. Jerry ...

“Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren’t go a-hunting For fear of little men. Wee folk, good folk, Trooping altogether; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl’s feather. They stole little ...

Although only one living man of his own free will ever went among them there, still, any well-learned person in Ireland can tell you that the abode of the Good People is in the hollow heart of the gre...

The news that Darby O’Gill had spint six months with the Good People spread fast and far and wide. At fair or hurlin’ or market he would be backed be a crowd agin some convaynient wall, and there for ...

“I tould you how on cowld winther nights whin Bridget and the childher were in bed, ould Brian Connors, King of the Fairies, used to sit visitin’ at Darby O’Gill’s own fireside. But I never tould you ...

The most lonesome bridle-path in all Ireland leads from Tom Healy’s cottage down the sides of the hills, along the edge of the valley, till it raiches the high road that skirts the great mountain, Sle...

Did your honour ever hear how Anthony Sullivan’s goat came to join the fairies? Well, it’s a quare story and a wandhering, quarrelsome story, as a tale about a goat is sure to be. Howsumever, in the h...

Did your honour ever hear how Anthony Sullivan’s goat came to join the fairies? Well, it’s a quare story and a wandhering, quarrelsome story, as a tale about a goat is sure to be. Howsumever, in the h...

Five miles down the road from Kilmartin churchyard, and thin two miles across, lived Barney Casey with Judy, his wife⁠—known far and wide as the Couple without Childher. Some foolish people whuspered ...

The wee King of the Fairies sat in the dust of the road where Ann Mulligan had dhropped him. There were dents in his goold crown, and the baby’s dhress he still wore was soiled and tore. Ow! Ow! Ow! W...

’Twas the mendin’ of clothes that All Sowls’ afthernoon in Elizabeth Ann Egan’s kitchen that naturally brought up the subject of husbands an’ the best ways to manage them. An’ if there’s one thing mor...

’Twas the mendin’ of clothes that All Sowls’ afthernoon in Elizabeth Ann Egan’s kitchen that naturally brought up the subject of husbands an’ the best ways to manage them. An’ if there’s one thing mor...

’Twas the mendin’ of clothes that All Sowls’ afthernoon in Elizabeth Ann Egan’s kitchen that naturally brought up the subject of husbands an’ the best ways to manage them. An’ if there’s one thing mor...

That same All Sowls’ night Darby O’Gill, the friend of the fairies, sat, as he had often sat before, amidst the dancin’ shadows, ferninst his own crackling turf and wood fire, listening to the storm b...

Halloween night, to all unhappy ghosts, is about the same as St. Patrick’s Day is to you or to me⁠—’tis a great holiday in every churchyard. An’ no one knew this betther or felt it keener than did Dar...

Halloween night, to all unhappy ghosts, is about the same as St. Patrick’s Day is to you or to me⁠—’tis a great holiday in every churchyard. An’ no one knew this betther or felt it keener than did Dar...

Two candles burned above the blue and white chiney dishes on the table, a bright fire blazed on the hearth, an’ over in the corner where the low bed was set the stonecutter was on his knees beside it....

For a little while afther Darby O’Gill sint the banshee back her comb, there was the duckens to pay in that townland. Aich night came stormier than the other. An’ the rain⁠—never, since Noey the Phoen...

So the green-dhressed little army, all in the sweet, rosy light they made, wint marchin’, to the merry music of the pipes, over the tree-bowered roadway, past the ha’nted brakes up the shivering hills...

So the green-dhressed little army, all in the sweet, rosy light they made, wint marchin’, to the merry music of the pipes, over the tree-bowered roadway, past the ha’nted brakes up the shivering hills...

A man is never so brave as whin sittin’ ferninst his own comfortable fire, a hot supper asleep in his chist, a steamin’ noggin of flaygrant punch in his fist, an’ a well-thried pipe betwixt his teeth....