{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_20170/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_20170","id":"gutenberg_20170","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/20170","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Folk literature, English","Folklore -- England","Tales -- England"],"text":"Produced by Chris Curnow, David Garcia and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\nG.W.R: The Line to Legend Land\n\nTHE HURLERS              Page  8\nPERRAN SANDS             Page 12\nST ALLEN                 Page 16\nZENNOR                   Page  4\nST MICHAEL'S MOUNT       Page 20\nTHE LOOE BAR             Page 24\n\"FURRY DAY SONG\"         Page 52\n\nVol. One Front End]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLEGEND LAND\n\n\n    Being a collection of some of the _OLD TALES_ told\n    in those Western Parts of Britain served by the\n    _GREAT WESTERN RAILWAY_, now retold by _LYONESSE_\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\nVOLUME ONE\n\n\n        _Published in 1922 by_\n       THE GREAT WESTERN RAILWAY\n  [FELIX J. C. POLE, GENERAL MANAGER]\n      PADDINGTON STATION, LONDON\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS AND ILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n  The Mermaid of Zennor                           _Page_  4\n  The Stone Men of St. Cleer                              8\n  How St. Piran Came to Cornwall                         12\n  The Lost Child of St. Allen                            16\n  The Giants who Built the Mount                         20\n  The Tasks of Tregeagle                                 24\n  The Lady of Llyn-y-Fan Fach                            28\n  St. David and His Mother                               32\n  The Vengeance of the Fairies                           36\n  The Old Woman who Fooled the Devil                     40\n  The Women Soldiers of Fishguard                        44\n  How Bala Lake Began                                    48\n  The Furry Day Song (_Supplement_)                      52\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  This is a reprint in book form of the first series of\n  _The Line to Legend Land_ leaflets, together with a\n  Supplement, \"The Furry Day Song.\"\n\n  The Map at the beginning provides a guide to the localities\n  of the six Cornish legends and the \"Furry Day Song\"; that at\n  the back to the six stories of Wales.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  _Printed by_ SPOTTISWOODE, BALLANTYNE & COMPANY LIMITED,\n         _One New Street Square, London, E.C.4_\n\n\n\n\nFOREWORD\n\n\nIn those older, simpler days, when reading was a rare accomplishment,\nour many times great-grandparents would gather round the blazing fire of\nkitchen or hall on the long, dark winter nights and pass away the hours\nbefore bedtime in conversation and story-telling.\n\nThe old stories were told again and again. The children learned\nthem in their earliest years and passed them on to their children and\ngrandchildren in turn. And, as is natural, in all this telling the\nstories changed little by little. New and more familiar characters were\nintroduced, or a story-teller with more vivid imagination than his\nfellows would add a bit here and there to make a better tale of it.\n\nBut in origin most of these old legends date from the very dawn of\nour history. In a primitive form they were probably told round the\ncamp-fires of that British army that went out to face invading Caesar.\n\nThen with the spread of education they began to die. When many folk\ncould read and books grew cheap there was no longer the need to call\nupon memory for the old-fashioned romances.\n\nYet there have always been those who loved the old tales best, and they\nwrote them down before it was too late, so that they might be preserved\nfor ever. A few of them are retold briefly here.\n\nAll people should like the old stories; all nice people do. To them I\ncommend these tales of Legend Land, in the hope that they may grow to\nlove them and the countries about which they are written.\n\n                                                               LYONESSE\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE MERMAID OF ZENNOR\n\n\nCarved on one of the pews in the church of Zennor in West Cornwall is a\nstrange figure of a mermaid. Depicted with flowing hair, a mirror in one\nhand and a comb in the other, the Zennor folk tell a strange story about\nher.\n\nYears and years ago, they say, a beautiful and richly dressed lady\nused to attend the church sometimes. Nobody knew where she came from,\nalthough her unusual beauty and her glorious voice caused her to be the\nsubject of discussion throughout the parish.\n\nSo attractive was she that half the young men of the village fell in\nlove with her, and one of them, Mathey Trewella, a handsome youth and\none of the best singers in the neighbourhood, determined that he would\ndiscover who she was.\n\nThe beautiful stranger had smiled at him in church one Sunday, and after\nservice he followed her as she walked away towards the cliffs.\n\nMathey Trewella never returned to Zennor, nor did the lovely stranger\never attend church again.\n\nYears passed by, and Mathey's strange disappearance was almost forgotten\nwhen, one Sunday morning, a ship cast anchor off Pendower Cove, near\nZennor. The captain of the vessel was sitting idling on the deck when he\nheard a beautiful voice hailing him from the sea. Looking over the side\nhe saw the mermaid, her long yellow hair floating all around her.\n\nShe asked him to be so kind as to pull up his anchor, for it was resting\nupon the doorway of her house under the sea and she was anxious to get\nback to Mathey, her husband, and her children.\n\nIn alarm, the captain weighed anchor and stood out to sea, for sailors\nfear that mermaids will bring bad luck. But later he returned and told\nthe Zennor folk of Mathey's fate, and they, to commemorate the strange\nevent, and to warn other young men against the wiles of the merrymaids,\nhad the mermaid figure carved in the church.\n\nAnd there it is to-day for all the world to see, and to prove, to those\nwho do not believe the old stories, the truth of poor Mathey Trewella's\nsad fate.\n\nZennor is a lovely moorland village in the neighbourhood of some of the\nwildest scenery in Cornwall. To the south-west rugged moors stretch away\nto the Land's End. To the north a quarter of an hour's walk brings you\nto the coast with its sheltered coves and its cruel cliffs. Gurnard's\nHead, one of the most famous of all Cornish promontories, is less than\ntwo miles away. Grim, remote, yet indescribably fascinating, the country\naround Zennor is typical of that far western corner of England which is\nswept continually by the great health-giving winds of the Atlantic.\n\nIn its sheltered valleys flowers bloom all the year round. On its\nbold hill-tops, boulder-strewn and wild, there remain still the old\nmysterious stones and the queer beehive huts erected by men who\ninhabited this land in the dark days before Christianity.\n\nGorse and heather riot over the moorland. There is a charm and peace\nabout this too little known country that compels health and well-being.\n\nYet Zennor is only five and a half miles by the moorland road from St.\nIves, that picturesque little fishing town that artists and golfers know\nso well. St. Ives, less than seven hours' journey from Paddington, is an\nideal centre from which to explore the coast and moorland beauties of\nEngland's furthest west.\n\n[Illustration: _The Mermaid of Zennor: Bench End in Zennor Church_]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE STONE MEN OF ST. CLEER\n\n\nA thousand feet above sea level among the heather and bracken of\nCraddock Moor, four or five miles north of Liskeard, you may find to-day\nthe remains of three ancient stone circles known as \"The Hurlers.\"\nAntiquaries will tell you that the Druids first erected them, but the\npeople of the countryside know better. From father to son, from\ngrandparent to child, through long centuries, the story has been handed\ndown of how \"The Hurlers\" came to be fixed in eternal stillness high up\nthere above the little village of St. Cleer.\n\nExactly how long ago it was nobody knows, but it happened in those early\ndays when pious saints were settling down in the remote parts of savage\nCornwall and striving to convert the wild Cornish from their pagan ways.\n\nThen, as even to this day, the game of Hurling--a sort of primitive\nRugby football--was a popular pastime with the people. Village used to\nplay against village, with goals perhaps four or five miles apart. And\nthe good folk of St. Cleer were as fond of the game as any of their\nneighbours--so fond, in fact, that they would play it on any and every\noccasion, despite the admonitions of their local saint and parson, after\nwhom the village was named.\n\nAgain and again he would notice that his little church was empty on\nSunday mornings while the shouts and noise of a hard-fought Hurling\nmatch drifted across the moorland in through the open church door. Again\nand again he would take his flock to task for their godless ways and\ntheir Sabbath-breaking games. But it was of little use. For a Sunday or\ntwo they would be penitent and attend service. Then would come a fine\nmorning, and a challenge perhaps from the Hurlers of St. Ive or North\nHill, on the other side of the moors, and the young men would decide to\nchance another lecture from the patient saint, and out they would go to\nthe hillside to do battle for the honour of their parish.\n\nBut even the patience of saints comes to an end at last, and good St.\nCleer saw something more than words was needed to lead his people into\nthe right way. And so it happened one Sunday morning, in the midst of a\nhot tussle on Craddock Moor, the outraged St. Cleer arrived in search of\nhis erring flock.\n\nHe bade them cease their game at once and return to church. Some of them\nobeyed, wandering sheepishly off down the hill; some were defiant and\ntold the worthy man to go back to his prayers and not to come up there\nto spoil sport.\n\nThen St. Cleer spoke in anger. Raising his staff he told them in solemn\nand awful tones that it should be as they had chosen. Since they\npreferred their game on the moor to their service in church, on the moor\nat their game they should stay for ever. He lowered his staff and to the\nhorror of all onlookers the defiant ones were seen to be turned into\nstone.\n\nMany centuries have passed since then. Time, wind and rain have\nweathered the stone men out of all semblance of humanity. Some have been\ndestroyed, but most still remain as an awful example to impious Sabbath\nprofaners. And there you may see them silent and still, just as they\nwere struck on that grim Sunday in the dark long ago.\n\nThe glorious moorland, rugged and wild, stretches all about them--a\nwonderful walking country, where one may escape from all cares and\nwander for hours amid the bracken and sweet-smelling grasses and find\nstrange prehistoric remains seldom visited by any but the moorland sheep\nand the wild birds. It is a country of vast spaces and far views. You\nmay see on one hand the Severn Sea, on the other the Channel; to the\neast the upstanding blue hills of Dartmoor and to the west the rugged\nhighlands by Land's End--and then trudge back at night weary but happy\nto Liskeard, described as \"the pleasantest town in Cornwall,\" and find\nit hard to believe that only five hours away is the toil and turmoil of\nLondon.\n\n[Illustration: _\"The Hurlers,\" St. Cleer_]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nHOW ST. PIRAN CAME TO CORNWALL\n\n\nSome sixteen hundred years ago, so tradition tells, there lived in the\nSouth of Ireland a very holy man named Piran. Such was his piety that\nhe was able to perform miracles. Once he fed ten Irish kings and their\narmies for ten days on end with three cows. Men sorely wounded in battle\nwere brought to him to be cured, and he cured them. Yet the Irish grew\njealous of his power and decided he must be killed.\n\nAnd so one stormy, boisterous morning the pious Piran was brought in\nchains to the summit of a high cliff, and with a huge millstone tied to\nhis neck his ungrateful neighbours hurled him into the raging billows\nbeneath. This horrible deed was marked, as the holy man left the top of\nthe cliff, with a blinding flash of lightning and a terrifying crash of\nthunder, and then, to the amazement of the savages who had thus sought\nto destroy him, a wonderful thing happened.\n\nAs man and millstone reached the sea the storm instantly ceased. The sun\nshone out, the waves and the wind died down, and, peering over the edge\nof the cliff, the wondering crowd saw the holy man, seated peacefully\nupon a floating millstone, drifting slowly away in the direction of the\nCornish shore, some hundreds of miles to the south-east.\n\nSt. Piran's millstone bore him safely across the Atlantic waves until at\nlength--on the fifth day of March--it grounded gently upon the Cornish\ncoast, between Newquay and Perranporth, on that glorious stretch of sand\nknown to-day as Perran Beach. Here the Saint landed, and, taking his\nmillstone with him, proceeded a little distance inland and set himself\nto work to convert the heathen Cornish to Christianity.\n\nHe built himself a little chapel in the sands and lived a useful and\npious life for many years, loved by his people, until at last, at the\ngreat age of two hundred and six, he died. Then his sorrowing flock\nburied him and built over his grave St. Piran's Chapel, the remains of\nwhich you can see to-day hidden away in the sandhills of the Penhale\nSands.\n\nAlthough Cornwall can boast many saints, St. Piran has greater right\nthan any other to be called the patron of the Duchy. To him the Cornish\nin the old days attributed a vast number of good actions, among them the\ndiscovery of tin, the mining of which has for centuries formed one of\nthe chief Cornish industries.\n\nThis came about, according to the old story, from the saint making use\nof some strange black stones that he found, to make a foundation for\nhis fire. The heat being more intense than usual one day, these stones\nmelted and a stream of white metal flowed from them.\n\nThe saint and his companion, St. Chiwidden, told the Cornish people of\ntheir discovery, and taught them to dig and smelt the ore, thus bringing\nmuch prosperity to the country, the story of which eventually reached\nthe far-away Phoenicians and brought them in their ships to trade with\nthe Cornish for their valuable metal.\n\nGood St. Piran has left his name all over the wonderful country\nsouth-west of Newquay. In Perranporth, with its rocks and caves and\nglorious bathing beach; in St. Piran's Round, that strange old\nearth-work not far away; in the parish of Perranzabuloe, which means\nPerran in the Sands; in Perranwell, near Falmouth, and even further\nsouth in Perranuthnoe, which looks out across the waters of Mounts Bay.\n\nBut although memorials of him are to be found over most of South\nCornwall, it is the district of the Perran Sands, where he landed, lived\nand died, that is his true home. There, where the soft Atlantic breezes\nor the fierce winter gales sweep in to Perran Bay, you may look out over\nthe dancing sea towards Ireland and America with nothing but Atlantic\nrollers between, or wander amid the waste of sand dunes that comprise\nthe Perran Sands and breathe in health with every breath you take.\n\nPerranporth is on the edge of these sandhills, which stretch away\nnorth-east to within four miles of Newquay--all within seven hours'\njourney from London.\n\n[Illustration: _St. Piran's Chapel_]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE LOST CHILD OF ST. ALLEN\n\n\nThey never talk of fairies in Cornwall; what \"foreigners\" call fairies\nthe Cornish call \"piskies,\" or \"small people.\" And all about the Duchy\npiskies still abound for those who are fitted to see them. The old folk\nwill still tell you many strange stories of the piskies. One of the best\nknown is that of the lost child of St. Allen. St. Allen is a parish on\nthe high ground about four miles from Truro, and there, in the little\nhamlet of Treonike, or, as it is now called, Trefronick, on a lovely\nspring evening years and years ago, a small village boy wandered out\nto pick flowers in a little copse not far from his parents' cottage.\n\nHis mother, looking from the kitchen door, saw him happily engaged in\nhis innocent amusement, then turned to make ready the supper for her\ngood man, whom she saw trudging home in the distance across the fields.\nWhen, a few minutes later, she went to call her boy in to his evening\nmeal, he had vanished.\n\nAt first it was thought that the child had merely wandered further\ninto the wood, but after a while, when he did not return, his parents\ngrew alarmed and went in search of him. Yet no sign of the boy was\ndiscovered.\n\nFor two days the villagers sought high and low for the missing child,\nand then, on the morning of the third day, to the delight of the\ndistracted parents, their boy was found sleeping peacefully upon a bed\nof fern within a few yards of the place where his mother had last seen\nhim. He was perfectly well, quite happy, and entirely ignorant of the\nlength of time that had elapsed. And he had a wonderful story to tell.\n\nWhile picking the flowers, he said, he had heard a bird singing in more\nbeautiful tones than any he had heard before. Going into the wood to\nsee what strange songster this was, the sound changed to most wonderful\nmusic which compelled him to follow it. Thus lured onward he came at\nlength to the edge of an enchanted lake, and he noticed that night had\nfallen but that the sky was ablaze with huge stars. Then more stars\nrose up all around him, and, looking, he saw that each was in reality a\npisky. These small people formed themselves into a procession, singing\nstrange fascinating songs the while, and under the leadership of one who\nwas more brilliant and more beautiful than the rest they led the boy\nthrough their dwelling place. This, he said, was like a palace. Crystal\npillars supported arches hung with jewels which glistened with every\ncolour of the rainbow. Far more wonderful, the child said, were the\ncrystals than any he had seen in a Cornish mine.\n\nThe piskies were very kind to him, and seemed to enjoy his wonder and\nastonishment at their gorgeous cave. They gave him a fairy meal of the\npurest honey spread on dainty little cakes, and when at last he grew\ntired numbers of the small folk fell to work to build him a bed of\nfern. Then, crowding around him, they sang him to sleep with a strange\nsoothing lullaby, which for the rest of his life he was always just\non the point of remembering, but which as certainly escaped him. He\nremembered nothing more until he was awakened and taken home to his\nparents.\n\nThe wise folk of St. Allen maintained that only a child of the finest\ncharacter ever received such honour from the small people, and that\nthe fact that they had shown him the secrets of their hidden dwelling\naugured that for ever afterwards they would keep him under their\nespecial care. And so it was; the boy lived to a ripe old age and\nprospered amazingly. He never knew illness or misfortune, and died\nat last in his sleep; and those that were near him say that as he\nbreathed his last a strange music filled the room. Some say that the\npiskies still haunt the woods and fields around Trefronick, but that\nthey only show themselves to children and grown-ups of simple, trusting\nnature. Anyhow, those that wish to try to see them may reach the place\nwhere the lost child was spirited away in an hour and a half's walk from\nTruro, Cornwall's cathedral city, which is at the head of one of the\nmost beautiful rivers in the world.\n\nThe trip from Truro down the Truro river and the Fal to Falmouth\nat any time of the year is a pleasurable experience that can never be\nforgotten. Truro is an ideal centre for South Cornwall. Wild sea coast\nand moorland, and woods and sheltered creeks, are all close at hand, yet\nthe city itself has the cloistered calm peculiar to all our cathedral\ntowns.\n\nThe tourist neglects Truro too much, for as a lover of the Duchy once\nsaid: \"It is the most convenient town in Cornwall; it seems to be within\nan hour and a half's journey of any part of the county.\"\n\n[Illustration: _Truro Cathedral_]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE GIANTS WHO BUILT THE MOUNT\n\n\nSt. Michael's Mount, that impressive castle-crowned pyramid of rock that\nrises from the waters of Mounts Bay, was not always an island. In fact,\nit is not always an island now. At low tide you may reach it from the\nmainland along a causeway. But once upon a time the Mount stood in the\nmidst of a forest; its old name, \"Caraclowse in Cowse,\" means \"the Grey\nRock in the Wood,\" and that was at the time when the Giants built it.\n\nCormoran was one of the Giants; he lived in this great western forest,\nwhich is now swallowed up by the sea, and there he determined to erect\nfor himself a stronghold that should rise well above the trees. So he\nset to work to collect huge stones from the neighbouring granite hills,\nand his new home grew apace.\n\nBut the labour of searching far afield for suitable stones, and of\ncarrying them to the forest and piling them one upon another, was a\nwearying task even for a giant, and as Cormoran grew tired he forced his\nunfortunate Giantess wife, Cormelian, to help him in his task, and to\nher he gave the most toilsome of the labour.\n\nWas there a gigantic boulder in a far part of the Duchy that Cormoran\ncoveted, unhappy Cormelian was sent to fetch it; and she, like a dutiful\nwife, never complained, but went meekly about her work, collecting the\nfinest and biggest stones and carrying them back to the forest in her\napron. Meanwhile Cormoran, growing more lazy, spent much of his time\nin sleep, waking up only very occasionally to admonish his wife or to\nincite her to greater efforts.\n\nOne day, when Cormelian had been twice as far as the Bodmin moors to\nfetch some particularly fine stones Cormoran had seen, and was about\nto set off on a third journey, she, noticing her husband fast asleep,\nthought to save herself another weary walk by going only a short\ndistance and breaking off some huge masses of greenstone rock which\nexisted in the neighbourhood and placing them upon the nearly completed\nMount without being seen. Although Cormoran had insisted that the stone\nbe grey, Cormelian could see no reason why one stone was not as good as\nanother.\n\nSo, carrying out her plan, she was returning with the first enormous\npiece of greenstone, walking ever so carefully so as not to awaken\nCormoran, when, unfortunately, he did awake. He flew into a terrible\nrage on seeing how his wife was trying to delude him, and, rising with\na dreadful threat, he ran after her, overtaking her just before she\nreached the Mount.\n\nScolding her for her deceit, he gave her a terrific box on the ear. Poor\nCormelian, in her fright, dropped the huge greenstone she was carrying,\nand ran sobbing from her angry husband to seek refuge in the deepest\npart of the forest; and it was not until Cormoran himself had finished\nbuilding the Mount that she would return to him.\n\nAnd to-day, as you walk along the causeway from Marazion to St.\nMichael's Mount, you will see on your right hand an isolated mass of\ngreenstone, the very rock that Cormelian dropped. It is called Chapel\nRock now, because years and years afterwards, when pious monks lived\nupon the summit of the Mount and devout pilgrims used to visit their\nchurch to pay homage at a shrine, they built a little chapel, upon poor\nCormelian's green rock, of which only a few stones now remain.\n\nYou may visit Chapel Rock and St. Michael's Mount from Penzance, which\nis between three and four miles away and is the ideal centre for some of\nthe most wonderful scenery in Cornwall. Both Land's End and the Lizard\nare within easy reach of this, England's westernmost town, where a\nclimate that rivals that of the Mediterranean may be enjoyed in the\ndepth of winter. Semi-tropical flowers and trees bloom in the open,\nand in February and early March--in what is, in fact, winter weather\nfor those in less favoured parts--Penzance and its neighbourhood are\nsurrounded by glorious spring flowers, the growing of which forms a\nvery considerable industry.\n\nLondon and our other big towns often get their first glimpse of coming\nspring in the narcissi and wallflowers grown around the shores of Mounts\nBay, and packed off to the grim cold cities only a few hours away.\n\n[Illustration: _St. Michael's Mount_]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE TASKS OF TREGEAGLE\n\n\nThe name of the demon Tregeagle is a household word in nearly every part\nof Cornwall. His wild spirit rages of nights along the rocky coasts,\nacross the bleak moors and through the sheltered valleys. For Tregeagle\nis a Cornish \"Wandering Jew\"; his spirit can never rest, since in life\nhe was the most evil man the Duchy ever knew.\n\nHis story, as the legend has it, is that he was a man who amassed great\nwealth by robbing his neighbours in the cruellest manner. As he approached\nthe end of his most evil life remorse seized him. There was no sin he\nhad not committed, and hoping to escape from the just reward of so\nwicked a life, in the hereafter, he lavished money upon the Church and\nthe poor, trusting to obtain the help of the holy priests to save him\nfrom the clutches of the Evil One.\n\nThe priests, ever anxious to save a soul, banded themselves together,\nand by constant prayer and powerful exorcisms kept the powers of\ndarkness at bay, and Tregeagle died and was buried in St. Breock Church.\nBut the demons were not so ready to give up what they felt was their\nlawful prey. An important lawsuit occurred shortly after his death, and\nas the judge was about to give his decision against the unjustly accused\ndefendant, to the horror of all in court, the gaunt figure of the dead\nTregeagle stalked into the room. His evidence saved the defendant.\n\nNow Tregeagle being brought from the grave, despite the honesty of\nhis mission, placed himself once more in danger of the demons. The\ndefendant, who had raised the spirit, calmly left him to the Churchmen\nto put once more to rest, and after a long conference, presided over by\nthe Prior of Bodmin, it was decided that the only hope of ultimate peace\nfor the evil man's spirit was that he be set to some task which might\nlast until the Day of Judgment. And so long as he worked unceasingly\nat that task he might still hope for salvation.\n\nSo the task appointed him was to empty out Dozmary Pool, a gloomy lake\non the Bodmin Moors, with a limpet-shell with a hole in it. For years\nTregeagle laboured at this, until one day during a terrible storm he\nceased work for a moment. Then the demons descended upon him. He fled\nfrom his pursuers, and only escaped them by leaping right across the\nlake--for demons cannot cross water--and rushing for sanctuary to the\nlittle chapel on the Roche Rock, where he managed just in time to get\nhis head in at the east window. But the howls of the demons outside,\nand the roaring of the terrified Tregeagle within, made the life of the\nunfortunate priest of the Roche chapel unbearable, and he appealed to\nhis brethren of the Church to do something about it. So they bound the\nwicked spirit with holy spells and took him safely across to the north\ncoast, where another task was set him. He was to weave a truss of sand\nand spin a sand rope to bind it with. But as soon as he started on his\nwork the winds or the waves destroyed it, and the luckless creature's\nroars of anger so disturbed the countryside that the holy St. Petroc was\nprevailed upon to move him once more, to a wilder part of the country,\nand the saint took him to the coast near Helston.\n\nHere Tregeagle was set to the task of carrying all the sand from the\nbeach below Bareppa across the estuary of the Looe river to Porthleven,\nfor St. Petroc knew that each tide would sweep the sand back again and\nthe task could never be completed. But the demons were always watching\nTregeagle, and one of them contrived one day to trip him up as he was\nwading across the river. The sand poured from the huge sack Tregeagle\nwas carrying and dammed up the stream, thus forming the Looe Pool, which\nyou may see to-day just by Helston, and the Looe Bar, which separates it\nfrom the sea.\n\nTregeagle's next task he is engaged upon to-day. He was taken to near\nthe Land's End, and there he is still endeavouring to sweep the sand\nfrom Porthcurnow Cove round the headland of Tol-Peden-Penwith into\nNanjisal Bay, and on many a winter night if you are there you can hear\nhim howling and roaring at the hopelessness of his task.\n\nThese scenes of Tregeagle's labours are all situated amid most glorious\nscenery. Dozmary Pool, bleak and lonely amid the Bodmin Moors, the\nlittle chapel on the Roche Rock near St. Austell, and the beautiful Looe\nPool by Helston, that attractive little town on a hillside, which is the\ntourist centre for that country full of colour, deep sheltered valleys,\nand magnificent coast scenery, the Lizard peninsula.\n\nPorthcurnow, the miserable man's present abode, you will find nestling\namid the grim cliffs near the Land's End. And if you doubt this sad\nhistory of the demon-ridden Tregeagle, go and look at the Looe Bar and\nexplain if you can how otherwise so strange a place could have been\ncreated.\n\n[Illustration: _The Roche Rocks_]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE LADY OF LLYN-Y-FAN FACH\n\n\nNot many miles from Llandovery, in the midst of glorious mountain\nscenery, is a lovely little lake known as Llyn-y-Fan-Fach, the scene of\na very remarkable occurrence. Once upon a time a simple cowherd, eating\nhis frugal meal by the edge of the water, observed with amazement,\nseated upon the calm surface of the lake, the most beautiful woman he\nhad ever seen. So great was his admiration for her that he cried out,\nand she, turning to him, gave a rapturous smile and silently disappeared\nbeneath the waters.\n\nThe peasant was distracted, for he had fallen deeply in love with the\nbeautiful lady. He waited until dark, but she did not appear again;\nbut at daybreak the next morning he returned once more, and was again\nrewarded by the sight of his enchantress and another of her alluring\nsmiles.\n\nSeveral times more he saw her and each time he besought her to be his\nwife, but she only smiled and disappeared, until at length one evening,\njust as the sun was setting, the beautiful lady appeared, and this time,\ninstead of diving beneath the surface, she came to the shore, and,\nafter some persuasion, consented to marry the youth. But she made one\ncondition: if ever he should strike her three blows without cause she\nwould leave him, she said, and their marriage would be at an end.\n\nSo the two were married happily and went to live at Esgair Laethdy, near\nMyddfai, the maiden bringing with her as dowry a large number of cattle\nand horses which she called up from the bottom of the lake.\n\nFor years the couple lived in great prosperity and happiness, and three\nhandsome sons were born to them; then the day arrived when husband and\nwife were setting out for a christening, and, being rather late, the\nhusband slapped his wife merrily on the shoulder, urging her to hurry.\nSadly she reminded him that he had struck her the first of the causeless\nblows.\n\nYears passed by, and the couple were at a wedding. In the midst of\nall the merry-making the wife burst suddenly into tears. Patting her\nsympathetically on the arm, the man inquired the cause of her weeping,\nand she, sobbing the harder, reminded him that he had struck her a\nsecond time.\n\nNow that he had only one chance left, the husband was particularly\ncareful never to forget and strike the third and last blow; but, after\na long while, at a funeral one day, while all were sobbing and weeping,\nthe beautiful lady suddenly began laughing merrily. Touching her gently\nto quiet her, the husband realised that the end had come.\n\n\"The last blow has been struck; our marriage is ended,\" said the wife,\nnow in tears; and with that she started off across the hills to their\nfarm. There she called together her cattle and other stock, which\nimmediately obeyed her voice, and, led by the beautiful lady, the whole\nprocession moved off across the mountains back to the lake.\n\nAmong the animals was a team of four oxen which were ploughing at the\ntime. They followed, too, plough and all, and, they say, to this very\nday you may see a well-marked furrow running right across the Myddfai\nmountain to the edge of Llyn-y-Fan-Fach, which proves the truth of this\nstory.\n\nThe disconsolate husband never saw his lady again, but she used\nsometimes to appear to her sons, and she gave them such wonderful\nknowledge that all three became the most famous doctors in that part\nof Wales.\n\nLlandovery, from which place you may visit the scenes of this legend,\nis a charming little town in East Carmarthenshire, situated in glorious\nsurroundings of mountains, vale, and moorland, where some of the finest\nsalmon and trout fishing in South Wales may be enjoyed. It stands in the\nbeautiful Towy Valley, on a branch line which runs up into the mountain\ncountry from Llanelly. Llandovery is famous for its air, which is said\nto be the purest and most bracing in the district.\n\n[Illustration: _Landovery Castle_]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nST. DAVID AND HIS MOTHER\n\n\nSt. David, everybody knows, is the patron saint of Wales, but few know\nthe unique little \"village-city,\" the smallest cathedral city in the\nUnited Kingdom, St. Davids, in the far south-west of Wales; and fewer\nstill the story of the holy David himself. This story really begins\nwith St. Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland. As the old legends tell,\nSt. Patrick sailed on his mission to Ireland from the neighbourhood of\npresent-day St. Davids, and he liked the look of the country so well\nthat many years afterwards he established there a sort of missionary\ncollege known as \"Ty Gwyn,\" or the \"White House,\" and here on the slopes\nof Carn Llidi some of the earliest of the old Celtic holy men and women\nwere educated.\n\nAmong them, some fifteen hundred years ago, was a Welsh Princess named\nNon, daughter of Cynyr of Caer Gawch, a powerful chieftain of the\ndistrict. Non was as pious as she was beautiful. There were few maidens\nin the land who could compare with her.\n\nBut on what seemed to be an evil day--although it became really for\nWales a very lucky one--a barbarous chieftain from the north, called\nSant son of Ceredig, espied the rapturous Non picking flowers on a\nlonely part of the hillside, and in the manner of those boisterous times\nhe decided to carry her off and make her his wife. And so despite her\nstruggles the unfortunate Non was kidnapped.\n\nAfter some while she managed to escape from her fierce captor and\nreturned to live in a little cottage on the cliffs just south of St.\nDavids, where subsequently a son was born to her. At the time of his\nbirth they say Non clutched at a stone in the wall of her cottage room,\nand the marks of her fingers remained on it for ever. This stone was\nseen by many people for years afterwards and was eventually placed over\nher tomb.\n\nThe little son grew up and was baptised David by a kinsman of Non's,\none St. Ailbe. Like his mother, he was sent to the \"Ty Gwyn\" to school\nand he became a very pious youth. Then he was sent away to the holy\nSt. Illtyd to be trained as a priest.\n\nHis grandfather Cynyr, who was by no means a holy man, growing\nremorseful in his old age, was so much impressed by David's piety,\nthat for the good of his soul he made over to him all his lands, and\non this estate David founded a sanctuary for men of all tribes and\nnationalities, and, to mark the privileged ground, he caused a deep\ntrench to be dug, and traces of this trench you may find to-day known\nas \"The Monk's Dyke.\"\n\nHere in his sanctuary the holy David lived his pious, peaceful life for\nmany years, converting the heathen and performing miracles. And when\nat last he died his sorrowing companions built over his grave a great\nchurch to his memory, which years afterwards, when David had become\nrecognised as a saint, was replaced by the wonderful old building which\nstands there now--St. David's Cathedral.\n\nThe remains of Non's old cottage on the cliff, which the monks\nafterwards turned into a Chapel, may still be seen, and because of her\nholy life she also became a saint. Near to the ruined Chapel you will\nfind, too, St. Non's well, or St. Nunn's well as it is sometimes called,\nfrom which the holy woman drew her water when she lived her lonely life\nat the time of St. David's birth.\n\nQuaint little St. Davids lies far from a railway station, but a road\nmotor service will take you there in a two hours' journey across\nmagnificent country from Haverfordwest in Pembrokeshire, or you may\napproach it along a wild, hilly road from Fishguard.\n\nSt. Davids is unique: it is literally both village and city. Situated\nright by the coast of picturesque St. Bride's Bay on one side and\nWhitesand Bay on the other, it occupies a position of peculiar beauty.\nGood bathing, fishing and shooting abound; there is a golf course, and,\nchief of its attractions, the glorious Norman architecture of its\njewel-like cathedral, its ancient monastic ruins, its old cross and all\nthe other relics of the careful work of the old ecclesiastical builders\nin the far-away days.\n\n[Illustration: _St. David's Cathedral_]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE VENGEANCE OF THE FAIRIES\n\n\nOverlooking the sea that washes the beautiful coast of the Gower\nPeninsula in Glamorganshire stands the ruined castle of Pennard. All\nabout it is a waste of sandhills, beneath which, so the old stories have\nit, a considerable village lies buried. For it is told that in the old\ndays, when the lands about Pennard were fertile and populous, the lord\nof the castle was holding a great feast one day to rejoice over the\nwedding of his daughter.\n\nThis happy event was being celebrated by the villagers too, and, unknown\nto lord or serf, by the \"Tylwyth Teg,\" or the fairy folk who abounded in\nthe neighbourhood, for the little people enjoy an innocent merry-making\nas much as do mere mortals.\n\nAnd that night, long after the villagers had gone to bed, the\nfestivities in the castle were continued. Wine flowed free and the\nrevellers became more and more boisterous. From mere jesting they came\nto quarrelling, and, in the midst of their drunken orgy, there was heard\nan alarm. A sentry on the walls of the castle reported that he heard\nstealthy movements in the distance as of a large number of people\napproaching with care.\n\nThe frenzied warriors, fearing a surprise from their enemies, armed\nthemselves and rushed from the castle to attack the intruders. They,\ntoo, could hear a gentle murmur in the valley below, and towards it they\ncharged, uttering terrible threats, striking right and left with their\nswords at the unseen foe. But, apart from a few shadowy forms that\nquickly faded away into the undergrowth, nothing was to be seen, and at\nlength the knights and soldiers returned rather crestfallen, and much\nmore sober, to their stronghold.\n\nNow the truth of the whole matter was that the alarm had been caused\nby the festivities of the fairies, and they were so deeply incensed at\nhaving their party broken up by this violent intrusion of wine-maddened\nmen that they determined to be revenged.\n\nThat very night the whole family set out for Ireland, where they\ndescended upon a huge mountain of sand, and each one of the small\npeople, loading himself with as much sand as he could carry, returned\nto Pennard and deposited it upon the village at the base of the castle,\nintending to bury both village and castle in sand.\n\nTo and fro the fairies went, intent upon their task of vengeance, and,\nwhen morning broke, those in the castle looked out to see what they\nthought was a violent sand-storm raging. By mid-day the village below\nthe castle was overwhelmed, and those in the stronghold began to fear\nthat it too would be smothered. But fortunately for them the Irish\nsand-mountain gave out, and the fairies' complete vengeance was\nthwarted. Still, they had destroyed the rich and valuable lands that\nbelonged to the castle, and from that day its fortunes and those of its\nlords began to decline.\n\nIn proof of this story the old Irish records maintain that an\nextraordinary storm arose that night and blew away a whole\nsand-mountain.\n\nFew tourists ever explore the beauties of the little Gower Peninsula,\nsave holiday-makers from the neighbouring town of Swansea; yet it is\na country of amazing charm, with a glorious coast and high ridges of\nheather and moorland. It is only about eighty square miles in extent,\nbut it has over fifty miles of coast.\n\nRemote from the world, this country, with its churches, castles, and\nmany prehistoric remains, is an ideal holiday land.\n\n[Illustration: _Pennard Castle_]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN WHO FOOLED THE DEVIL\n\n\nOne of the most beautiful spots in all Wales is the Devil's Bridge--an\neasy excursion into the hills from Aberystwyth--which spans the gorge\nthrough which the Mynach cataract descends in four boiling leaps a\ndistance of two hundred and ten feet. How this place received its name\nis an old story, which goes back to the days before the monks of sweetly\nnamed Strata Florida, who subsequently replaced the earlier bridge\nacross the gorge.\n\nThe beginning of the story is told in an old rhyme which runs:--\n\n  \"_Old Megan Llandunach of Pont-y-Mynach_\n     _Had lost her only cow;_\n   _Across the ravine the cow was seen,_\n     _But to get it she could not tell how._\"\n\n\nSuch was the sad plight of old Megan, who was bemoaning the loss of her\nproperty on the wrong side of the gorge so many years ago, when there\nappeared to her suddenly a cowled monk, whose dark face was scarcely\ndiscernible, with a rosary hanging to his girdle, and a deep but\npleasant voice.\n\nEnquiring the cause of her distress, the monk, in sympathetic tones,\npromised to aid her. He would, he said, build a bridge across the\nravine, so that she might recover her lost cow, if she would promise\nto give him the first living being to cross the bridge.\n\nThis seemed a natural enough suggestion to the sorrowing old dame, for\nthe good monks of the neighbourhood were ever about the countryside,\nseeking converts; so Megan agreed, and the monk set to work with amazing\nenergy and skill to construct the bridge. And as he worked Megan sat on\na boulder and watched him.\n\nBefore sundown the marvellous bridge was finished, and the smiling monk,\nwalking over it, invited Megan to follow him and seek her cow. But Megan\nhad been observant. She had noticed two or three things. One, that there\nwas no cross attached to the monk's rosary; another, that while he was\nlabouring at his building he had slipped, and his left leg was exposed\nthrough his long habit, and the knee was on the back of the leg, and not\nthe front; also the leg ended not in a foot, but in a cloven hoof.\n\nAnd cunning old Megan was taking no chances. Feeling in the pocket of\nher skirt she found a crust, and walking to her side of the bridge she\ncalled to a black cur that was playing about. Hurling the crust across\nthe bridge she bade the dog fetch it. He ran over the bridge, and Megan,\nsmiling at the monk, thanked him, and told him to take the dog as his\nreward.\n\nThe devil, realising that he had been fooled, disappeared in an\nawe-inspiring cloud of smoke and sulphur fumes; but the bridge remained,\nand its name to this day recalls the discomfiture of his evil plans. So,\nhaving fooled the devil, Megan was able to recover her lost cow.\n\nWordsworth and Borrow, among other famous writers, have immortalised\nthe impressive beauties of the Devil's Bridge and its roaring cataract.\nIt is easily reached from that most attractive of Welsh seaside towns,\nAberystwyth, and lies in a country dominated by great Plinlimmon, from\nthe top of which a view of unrivalled beauty may be obtained.\n\nAll about this country of mountain and moorland are scenes of intense\nhistoric interest and natural beauty. It is a district bleak and bracing\non the summits, warm and sheltered in the valleys, and as yet quite\nunspoiled by the crowd, as too is the charming town which is the centre\nof this country.\n\nAberystwyth retains the quiet charm of an old-world \"watering-place,\"\nand glories in its wonderful climate and healing sea breezes that blow\nin across Cardigan Bay, which have won for it its reputation in winter\nand summer for being a British Biarritz.\n\n[Illustration: _Devil's Bridge, Aberystwyth_]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE WOMEN SOLDIERS OF FISHGUARD\n\n\nThey tell a story down in Pembrokeshire of how the Welsh country-women\nonce defeated an invading army. It was in the days of the Napoleonic\nwars when, on a winter's afternoon, four hostile ships appeared\nunexpectedly off Fishguard Bay. On board were fourteen hundred soldiers\nintent upon an invasion of Britain.\n\nThe wild country of the far west of Wales was in those days even more\nremote than it is now. In the neighbourhood were but three hundred\nmilitiamen, and the invaders had an easy task in landing at Llanwnda,\nabout two miles away from modern Fishguard, in a charming sheltered\ninlet known as Careg Gwastad Bay.\n\nBut the gallant Welsh determined to drive out the invader. They were\nfurious, and, armed with scythes and other farm implements, they quickly\ngathered together. For such firearms as they had there was little\nammunition, so they stripped the roof of beautiful little St. David's\nCathedral of its lead in order to make bullets.\n\nAnd the women of the country followed their men. Clad in their red\ncloaks and high black steeple-crowned hats, in the distance they had\nall the appearance of regular soldiers, and the leader of the defending\nforces was quick to realise this fact.\n\nHe marshalled them into something like military formation and marched\nthem about in various places where they could be seen by the invading\ntroops. Up and down hill the willing Welsh women trudged until darkness\nfell and they were tired out.\n\nMeanwhile there was consternation in the invaders' camp. The commander\nknew that scarlet was the colour of our soldiers' uniform, and he could\nonly conclude that overwhelming reinforcements were arriving from the\ninterior. Believing his cause hopeless, he sent in a letter under a flag\nof truce to the British commander, offering to surrender, and within\nthree days of landing the whole invading force was made prisoner.\n\nThere is an amazing sequel to this invasion, for it seems that most\nof the troops employed were criminals, released from French gaols, and\nother similar undesirable characters, and since they had failed in their\nprimary object the French Government was none too anxious to have them\nback in France again, and refused to exchange them.\n\nThe British Government was no more pleased than the French to have so\nunsavoury a band of ruffians in its midst, and it had at last to force\nthe Frenchmen to receive their own rogues back again. This was done by\nthreatening that if the prisoners were not exchanged within a certain\ntime they would be landed with arms on the coast of Brittany and left\nto do their worst.\n\nThe French preferred to have them in control and exchanges were promptly\narranged, the discomfited invaders going back, it is assumed, to the\nsafety of the French prisons from which they had been brought.\n\nCareg Gwastad Bay, the scene of this landing, is but one of the many\nfascinating little inlets that abound along the coast in the Fishguard\nneighbourhood. Excellent fishing--for sea fish, trout, sewin, and often\nsalmon--abounds off the coast or in the streams. Fishguard is fortunate\nin possessing a modern steam-heated hotel close to the station--the\nFishguard Bay--which is equipped with every modern luxury and comfort.\n\nFrom Fishguard one can approach, too, that romantic and historic\ncountry known as Kemaes Land, which extends away to the borders of\nCardiganshire, a country--bounded on the north by the cliffs that run\ndown to the waters of Cardigan Bay--full of old churches, castles, and\nstrange remains of earlier civilisations, standing remote upon its\nmountains and moorlands.\n\nThis is a land of flowers too, for its mild winter climate enables\nmany plants to flourish in the open that must seek the security of\ngreenhouses in the bleaker parts of the south.\n\n[Illustration: _Welsh National Costume_]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nHOW BALA LAKE BEGAN\n\n\nThere is a Welsh couplet, still well known in the neighbourhood of\nbeautiful Bala Lake in Merionethshire, which, translated into English,\nruns:\n\n  \"_Bala old the lake has had, and Bala new_\n   _The lake will have, and Llanfor, too._\"\n\n\nFor there is an ages-old belief in the countryside that Bala will\ncontinue to grow bigger until it has swallowed up the village of\nLlanfor, now about a couple of miles from the water's edge.\n\nAccording to the old story the site of the original town is near the\nmiddle of the present lake, at a spot opposite Llangower. There, years\nand years ago, a peaceful community lived a happy, prosperous life in\ntheir houses clustering around a well called Ffynnon Gwyer, or Gower's\nWell.\n\nOnly one very important thing had these long-ago people to remember, and\nthat was to cover up their well every night, otherwise, as they knew\nfrom their fathers and grandfathers before them, the spirit of the well\nwould grow angry with them and wreak some dire punishment upon them.\n\nBut one night, after some special festivities, the guardian of the well\nforgot his task. Too late this omission was discovered, for as soon as\nthe last inhabitant was in bed, the well began to gush forth water.\n\nSoon the whole village was in a state of alarm. The quickly rising\nwaters began to flow into the cottages, and young and old rushed to\nFfynnon Gower, which they realised was the cause of their distress.\nThere they saw a great stream of water gushing upward. In their anger\nthey called upon the negligent guardian, but he, seeing the harm that\nhad come of his forgetfulness, had fled, though it is said he did not\nescape the angry waters, for they overtook him and drowned him\nmiserably.\n\nA frenzied effort was made to cover up the well and stop the unwelcome\nflow, but it was useless, and the people of old Bala had to escape as\nbest they could to higher ground. When morning broke they looked out to\nwhere their homes had been and saw, instead of their fields and houses,\na great lake three miles long and a mile wide.\n\nTo-day the lake is five miles long; and they say that on clear days,\nwhen its surface is absolutely calm, you may see at the bottom, off\nLlangower, the ruins and chimneys of the old town that was overwhelmed\nso long ago.\n\nAnd, as the old couplet tells, they say too that the spirit of Gower's\nWell is not yet appeased. On stormy days water appears to ooze up\nthrough the ground at new Bala, which is built at the lower end of the\nlake, and some day they believe that too will be swamped and the waters\nwill cover the valley as far down as Llanfor.\n\nLlyn Tegid is the old name for Bala Lake; it means the lake of\nbeauty, and Bala well deserves that title. Its shores are verdant and\nbeautifully wooded, commanding in many places magnificent distant views\nof the mountains which encircle it only a few miles away. Its waters\nteem with fish; trout up to fourteen pounds and pike twice as big have\nbeen caught there--but the flyfisher must not expect always such giants.\nThere is salmon-fishing to be had in the Treweryn river in September.\n\nIn the neighbourhood are places of wonderful beauty. Dolgelly,\nnestling beneath great Cader Idris, is easily accessible, as also is\nthat charming seaside town of Barmouth. Bwlch-y-Groes, one of the finest\nmountain passes in the Principality, is only ten miles away, and an easy\nexcursion takes one across another very beautiful pass to Lake Vyrnwy,\nwhich gives to Liverpool its splendid water supply, and provides anglers\nwith magnificent baskets of Loch Leven trout.\n\nAll around is a paradise for artists and fishermen, and a country rich\nin mountain streams, wild woods, and wide, far views unbeaten in any\npart of Wales.\n\n[Illustration: _Bala Lake_]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE FURRY DAY SONG\n\n\nThe celebration of \"Furry Day,\" on May 8th each year, at Helston, in\nSouth Cornwall, is one of the most interesting survivals of an old\ncustom in the whole country. On \"Furry Day\" the whole town makes\nholiday. The people go first into the surrounding country to gather\nflowers and branches, and return about noon, when the Furry dance begins\nand continues until dusk; the merrymakers, hand in hand, dancing through\nthe streets and in and out of the houses, the doors of which are kept\nopen for the purpose.\n\nThe origin of the word \"Furry,\" and of the song and dance, is lost in\nthe ages. Some authorities hold that these celebrations are a survival\nof the old Roman Floralia, others that it began in celebration of a\ngreat victory gained by the Cornish over the Saxons. The words and\nmusic, as they have come down to us, show many signs of Elizabethan\norigin. The music reproduced here is from a very old setting and\ncontains many crude harmonies unfamiliar at the present day.\n\nThere is one line of the song, \"God bless Aunt Mary Moses,\" that most\npeople will find incomprehensible. It refers to the Virgin Mary, \"Aunt\"\nbeing among the Cornish a term of great respect; \"Moses\" being a\ncorruption of the old Cornish word \"Mowes,\" a maid. \"Mary Moses\" means\nliterally \"Mary the Maid.\"\n\n\nTHE FURRY-DAY SONG\n\n[Illustration: THE FURRY-DAY SONG (Sheet Music page 1)]\n\n[Illustration: THE FURRY-DAY SONG (Sheet Music page 2)]\n\n\n  Robin Hood and little John,\n      They both are gone to fair, O!\n  And we will go to the merry green wood\n      To see what they do there, O!\n  And for to chase, O!\n  To chase the buck and doe.\n\n  With Halantow,\n  Rumble Ow!\n  For we were up as soon as any day, O!\n  And for to fetch the Summer home,\n  The Summer and the May, O!\n  For Summer is a-come, O!\n  And Winter is a-gone, O!\n\n  Where are those Spaniards,\n      That make so great a boast, O?\n  They shall eat the grey goose feather,\n      And we will eat the roast, O,\n  In every land, O,\n  The land where'er we go.\n      With _Halantow, &c._\n\n  As for Saint George, O,\n      Saint George he was a Knight, O!\n  Of all the Knights in Christendom,\n      Saint Georgy is the right, O!\n  In every land, O,\n  The land where'er we go.\n      With _Halantow, &c_.\n\n  God bless Aunt Mary Moses,\n      And all her powers and might, O,\n  And send us peace in merry England,\n      Both day and night, O,\n  And send us peace in merry England,\n  Both now and evermore, O!\n      With _Halantow, &c_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FURRY-DANCE TUNE\n\n[Illustration: THE FURRY-DANCE TUNE (Sheet Music)]\n\nThe simple air only of \"The Furry Dance\" is given here. It was probably\noriginally played by a musician on the pipe, accompanying himself on the\ntabor.\n\nRemote Cornwall is still full of queer old customs and survivals of\nother days. Helston, the \"Metropolis\" of that picturesque wild district\nnear the Lizard, forms a perfect setting for this interesting relic of\nthe past, and an ideal centre for those who wish to enjoy the beauties\nand mystery of one of the most remote corners of our island.\n\n[Illustration: _The Furry Dance To-day_]\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n[Illustration:\n\nG.W.R: The Line to Legend Land\n\nBALA                     Page 48\nCARREGGWASTAD COVE       Page 44\nDEVIL'S BRIDGE           Page 40\nST. DAVID'S              Page 52\nPENNARD CASTLE           Page 36\nLLYN-Y-FAN-FACH          Page 28\n\nVol. One Back End]","title":"Legend Land, Vol. 1: Being a Collection of Some of the Old Tales Told in Those Western Parts of Britain Served by the Great Western Railway","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":9580}