And one time Manannan’s cows came up out of the sea at Baile Cronin, three of them, a red, and a white, and a black, and the people that were there saw them standing on the strand for a while, as if thinking, and then they all walked up together, side by side, from the strand.  And at that time there were no roads in Ireland, and there was great wonder on the people when they saw a good wide road ready before the three cows to walk on.  And when they got about a mile from the sea they parted; the white cow went to the north-west, towards Luimnech, and the red cow went to the south-west, and on round the coast of Ireland, and the black cow went to the north-east, towards Lis Mor, in the district of Portlairge, and a road opened before each of them, that is to be seen to this day.

And some say it was Manannan went to Finn and the Fianna in the form of the Gilla Decair, the Bad Servant, and brought them away to Land-under-Wave.  Anyway, he used often to go hunting with them on Cnoc Aine, and sometimes he came to their help.

CHAPTER IX.  MANANNAN AT PLAY

And it was he went playing tricks through Ireland a long time after that again, the time he got the name of O’Donnell’s Kern.  And it is the way it happened, Aodh Dubh O’Donnell was holding a feast one time in Bel-atha Senaig, and his people were boasting of the goodness of his house and of his musicians.

And while they were talking, they saw a clown coming towards them, old striped clothes he had, and puddle water splashing in his shoes, and his sword sticking out naked behind him, and his ears through the old cloak that was over his head, and in his hand he had three spears of hollywood scorched and blackened.

He wished O’Donnell good health, and O’Donnell did the same to him, and asked where did he come from.  “It is where I am,” he said, “I slept last night at Dun Monaidhe, of the King of Alban; I am a day in Ile, a day in Cionn-tire, a day in Rachlainn, a day in the Watchman’s Seat in Slieve Fuad; a pleasant, rambling, wandering man I am, and it is with yourself I am now, O’Donnell,” he said.  “Let the gate-keeper be brought to me,” said O’Donnell.  And when the gate-keeper came, he asked was it he let in this man, and the gate-keeper said he did not, and that he never saw him before.  “Let him off, O’Donnell,” said the stranger, “for it was as easy for me to come in, as it will be to me to go out again.”  There was wonder on them all then, any man to have come into the house without passing the gate.

The musicians began playing their music then, and all the best musicians of the country were there at the time, and they played very sweet tunes on their harps.  But the strange man called out:  “By my word, O’Donnell, there was never a noise of hammers beating on iron in any bad place was so bad to listen to as this noise your people are making.”

With that he took a harp, and he made music that would put women in their pains and wounded men after a battle into a sweet sleep, and it is what O’Donnell said:  “Since I first heard talk of the music of the Sidhe that is played in the hills and under the earth below us, I never heard better music than your own.  And it is a very sweet player you are,” he said.  “One day I am sweet, another day I am sour,” said the clown.