Hello and welcome to all my little sleepy listeners on this beautiful starry night.
I'm going to tell you a story that you might not have heard before.
It's a story from long,
Long ago.
In a land far,
Far away.
Where there was a little cottage in the woods.
There lived an old widow and her only son.
The little cottage was made of timber.
With a floor of pine needles and bark.
And a roof of thick branches woven with thatch.
It was a humble home,
With a fireplace to warm it in the winter months,
And little round windows to let the sunlight stream through in the summer months.
The widow kept one cow,
Who gave them fresh milk.
A flock of chickens who gave them eggs,
And a stubborn old goat who gave them plenty of extra work to do for he was often causing havoc.
Chasing the chickens around the yard.
Tormenting the gentle cow.
And even chewing on the shirts and aprons that the widow had hanging on her washing line.
There was always plenty of work to do.
From sunrise to sunset.
And as the first threads of morning light began to break the darkest hour before dawn,
The old widow would rise from her slumber.
O woe is me,
For I'm weary of work,
Day after day after day,
And not a soul to help me on my way.
She would then stoke the glowing embers of the fire to start it up for the day ahead.
Set the wood and sweep the hearth.
Milk the cow,
Collect the eggs,
Shoo the goat away from the washing,
Starch the linen,
Churn the butter,
Dig the garden,
Collect the spuds,
Sow the corn and bake the bread.
Gather water from the well,
Mend the clothes and chop the wood.
But what about her son,
You might well be thinking.
Well,
Her son,
Whose name was Podrick,
Was the laziest fellow you ever did meet.
He would lull around in his cosy bed until well after midday.
When then he would rise,
Eat his fill,
Before taking his fiddle off the hook.
Pulling on his boots and heading off in a wandering way through the woods without a care or a thought for his dear mother,
Working hard to ensure that there was wood for the fire,
Food for them enough to eat and a tidy roof over their heads.
Padraig would be off,
Rambling around the countryside,
Playing his fiddle,
Whistling a tune,
Without a care in the world.
Adidu,
Adidu,
Dade.
Adidu,
Adideo.
I whistle my song as I wander along without a care through the day.
Now!
One day.
When he was out on his wander.
Partridge came to a soft and grassy glade.
On the banks of a babbling brook.
Well now,
This looks like as good a place as any for me to take a rest,
He thought.
And with that,
He placed his fiddle beside him.
Laid down under the branches of a weeping willow tree.
Pulled his felted hat over his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.
As the little brook bubbled and murmured and lulled him into slumber.
Some time had passed when he eventually woke.
And what did he find?
Only that the sun had set and the moon had already risen in the sky.
Oh goodness me!
He's lost.
I'll be late for my supper.
I'll be late for my tea.
Not once did he think of his dear old mother who had spent yet another day working hard on her own.
For he was a lazy lad with his head in the clouds.
Twas lucky for Podrick,
The moon hung low that night.
And the road was polished with light.
He didn't mind the odd shapes of bramble and briar or the whistling wind as it hummed in the hawthorn branches.
He took out his fiddle and he played a little tune to keep himself company as he made his way back home.
On he went,
Thinking only of the warm fire and the plate of supper that awaited him.
When he came to a small bend in the path.
As he rounded it,
He realized He was right back where he had started.
At the soft and grassy glade on the banks of the bubbling brook.
Of course,
Podrick was puzzled.
For although he was a lad with his head in the clouds,
He did know these paths very well.
For that was how he spent his days,
Wandering and meandering around the countryside.
A strange thing has happened this night.
He said.
He dropped his fiddle on the grass and leaned over to look in at the water as it flowed over the rocks and rushes.
The moon shimmered in the reflection.
And it made him feel a little bit on the dizzy side.
He shook his head and stooped down for his fiddle.
The moon shimmered in the reflection.
And it made him feel a bit on the dizzy side.
He shook his head.
And stooped down for his fiddle.
When there came a voice.
From behind the willow tree.
On a night like this as you wander and meander.
Can you play me a tune that's called The Raven's Reel?
Well,
Podrick jumped with the fright,
For he could not see from where the voice came from.
When outstepped a tiny little fellow.
With golden buckles on his shoes.
A little red jacket.
And a green hash.
With the feather of a raven's stockinish.
The,
The,
The,
The,
The,
The raven's real?
Stuttered Podrick in shock and dismay.
For he had never met one of the wee folk before.
Nor had he ever heard of a tune known as the Raven's Reel.
Now his mother had told him tales of the wee folk ever since he was a small boy.
So he knew not to upset or refuse this strange little fellow's request.
For to anger one of the wee folk would mean a life full of trouble and misfortune.
So with trembling hands,
Podrick reached for his fiddle.
The bow in his right hand quivered and bounced off the strings,
While the fingers of his left hand seemed to be frozen in fear.
He knew not what was the first note to play,
Not to mention the last note,
Or any of the notes in between.
What was he to do?
He looked to this strange little fellow.
And he could see a flush of anger begin to colour the little man's cheeks.
And so Podrick took a deep breath.
And made a wish,
For he knew it was his only hope in pleasing the wee fellow.
Oh mother!
Said he.
If you can grant me the strength to play the Raven's Reel,
I promise you I'll never be such a lazy lad again.
Now,
A strange thing happened in that moment.
Padraig's dear old mother was out under the moonlight chopping a few final bits of wood to keep the fire going through the night.
When she felt a rush of cool air on the back of her neck.
And when she looked up.
.
.
There.
Perched on top of the wood pile.
Was a raven.
With feathers as black as night and eyes that were glistening in the moonlight.
The old woman was taken aback,
For it is not the usual sight to see a raven out in the dark of night.
May Padraig find his way back home May he know the way to go.
May he know the tune to play.
That will send him on his way His mother sang to the raven.
And with wings spread wide.
The raven vanished.
As silently and swiftly as it had arrived.
And in that very same moment.
.
.
Partrick took the courage to place his bow on the strings of his fiddle once more.
And to his great surprise.
.
.
A roll of notes came pouring out from his fiddle.
Clearer and sweeter than any he had ever played before.
His fingers flew at their own accord over and back across the strings,
Up and down the neck of the fiddle,
And his bow was simply a blur as it raced over the strings in a flurry of rhythmic joy.
The music soared over the countryside.
And away into the night.
And the wee fellow and all his friends came to dance in the soft and grassy glade by the banks of the babbling brook.
Under the light of the moon they sang and they danced to the raven's reel as Podrick continued to play deep into the night.
Heel and toe and a kick off the heel That's how we dance to the raven's reel Hop and a shuffle,
We dance to the tune Under the light of the silvery moon Fal-da-do-de-re,
Fal-da-do-de Fal-da-do-de-re,
Fal-da-do-de and when the stars began to fade.
And the wee folk finally stopped their dancing.
Smiling and laughing,
They gathered around Podrick.
Your music brought us great joy!
" they exclaimed.
And we are very grateful.
And now,
Here's your payment for your hard night's work.
And they each handed him.
A solid golden coin.
Before Padraig had time to say thank you to the wee folk,
They had vanished.
And only a wisp of mist shimmered over the babbling brook.
In the distance,
A cock crowed to welcome the beginning of a brand new day.
Padraig walked home at a lively pace,
For even though he had been awake all night playing his fiddle,
He seemed to have an abundance of energy about him.
His pockets were heavy with gold.
But his heart was light.
And when he arrived home.
.
.
To his mother's cottage in the woods,
He whisked her up into his arms and twirled her around.
Put me down,
Put me down,
Podrick!
What in the name of the Wee Folk has gotten into your boy?
She said.
But Padraig did not answer.
For he was off milking the cow,
Collecting the eggs,
Shooing the goat away from the washing,
Starching the linen,
Churning the butter,
Digging the garden,
Collecting the spuds,
Sewing the corn and baking the bread.
Gathering water from the well,
Mending the clothes and chopping the wood.
Well,
His dear old mother could not believe her eyes.
And Podrick was never a lazy lad again.
He and his mother had plenty of money.
And Padraig became known as the best fiddler in the land.
And on every full moon.
He would return.
To the soft and grassy glade by the banks of the babbling brook.
Where he would play through the night.
While the wee folk danced and sang till the early morn.
Heel and toe and a kick off the heel That's how we dance to the raven's reel Hop and a shuffle we dance to the tune Under the light of the silvery moon Fal-da-do-de-re,
Fal-da-do-de Fal-da-do-de-re,
Fal-da-do-de Good night to all my sleepy little listeners.
Sweetest dreams to you.
