JACK THE ASHYPET “OH, YOU ETERNAL VAGABOND!” SAYS THE GIANT, “IT’S ME WILL MAKE SHORT WORK OF YOU.”
Once on a time when Kings and Queens were as plenty in Ireland as good people, and good people as plenty as Kings and Queens, there was a poor widow woman in Donegal who had one son they called Jack. Now this Jack was a lazy, good-for-nothing streel of an Ashypet, who sat round the fire with his heels and his toes never out of the ashes all days of the year, and all years of his life, till he grew to be man-big, and he neither good for King, country, nor clipping sheep.
Till one day, at long and at last, Jack the Ashypet ups, and he says, says he:
“Mother,” says he, “it’s the black shame’s on me to be hunkering in the ashes all days of my life, and you putting the bone through the skin trying to do for me. It has been so for long, but it will not be so for longer. Bake me a bannock, cut me a collop and give me your blessing till I go away to push my fortune.”
No sooner said than done.
. . .
