A legend of grandeur and knightliness centred round that old Spain, and you can see the process of transition into the folk conception in the song The Spanish Lady, which I had heard only in Ireland—until, the night before I bought my boat, Eoin had sung it in Skye with all the Irish vivacity. Curiously enough he had first heard the song sung by his mother in Skye when he was a little boy, and she certainly had never been in touch with Ireland.

Now to give a true scholar’s interpretation of this word ‘folk’, I should like to quote from the Introduction to Popular Tales of the West Highlands, orally collected by J. F. Campbell, himself a great traveller and student of the folklore of many lands.‘. . . it may be said that there are hundreds of other books as well known in England as those mentioned above, of which neither I nor my collectors have ever found a trace. . . . There are no gorgeous palaces, and elegant fairies; there are no enchanters flying in chariots drawn by winged griffins; there are no gentle knights and gentle dames; no spruce cavaliers and well-dressed ladies; no heroes and heroines of fashionable novels; but, on the contrary, everything is popular. Heroes are as wild, and unkempt, and savage as they probably were in fact, and kings are men as they appear in Lane’s translations of the Arabian Nights.’

Mr. Campbell collected his tales round about 1860, so he did not know of our fashionable novels which do in fact attempt to bring to life well-known figures from the past, and even to translate them into the present, whereby, say, Helen of Troy may be readily understood in Mayfair. But being done in an ultra-smart fashion and with the witty idea of debunking greatness, the result is perhaps a trifle anaemic; certainly nothing like this:

The Spanish Lady

As I walked down through Dublin City
At the hour of twelve of the night,
Who should I spy but a Spanish lady
Washing her feet by candle light.
First she washed them, then she dried them,
O‘er a fire of amber coal,
In all my life I ne’er did see
A maid so neat about the sole.

Whack for the too-ra loo-ra lady
Whack for the too-ra loo-ra lee,
Whack for the too-ra loo-ra lady,
Whack for the too-ra loo-ra lee.

As I came back through Dublin City
At the hour of half-past eight,
Who should I spy but a Spanish lady
Brushing her hair in broad daylight;
First she tossed it, then she brushed it,
On her lap was a silver comb,
In all my life I ne’er did see
So fair a maid since I did roam.
Whack, etc.

As I went down through Dublin City
When the sun began to set,
Who should I see but a Spanish lady
Catching a moth in a golden net;
When she saw me then she fled me,
Lifting her petticoat over the knee,
In all my life I ne’er did spy
A maid so blithe as the Spanish lady.
Whack, etc.