Fenodyree, Phynnodderee, Fynoderee, Finoderee is a Manx brownie.
What follows are descriptions and tales from old sources:
21.
Fenodyree
The Phynnodderee
Another
cherished phantasm of Manks superstition is the phynnodderee. This creature of
the imagination is represented as being a fallen fairy, who was banished from
fairy land by the elfin-king for having paid his addresses to a pretty Manks
maid, who lived in a bower beneath the blue tree of Glen Aldyn, and for
deserting the fairy court during the re-hollys vooar yn ouyr, or
harvest moon, to dance in the merry glen of Rushen. He is doomed to remain in
the Isle of Man till the end of time, transformed into a wild satyr-like
figure, covered with long shaggy hair, like a he-goat, and was thence called
the phynnodderee, or hairy one.
The
Manks phynnodderee is seemingly analogous to the swart-alfar of the Edda,
somewhat resembles the lubber fiend of Milton, and possesses several of the
attributes of the Scottish brownie. (Jamieson described the brownie as a
"spirit supposed, till of late years, to haunt some old houses, those,
especially, attached to farms. Instead of doing any injury, he was believed to
be very useful to the family, particularly to the servants if they treated him
well, for whom, while they took their necessary refreshments in sleep, he was
wont to do many pieces of drudgery."—Scottish Dictionary. " Some
think the brownies not of supernatural origin, but distressed persons who were
obliged to conceal themselves and wander about during some of the past
turbulent ages.")
"His
was the wizard hand that toil'd
At
midnight's witching hour,
That
gather'd the sheep from the coming storm
Ere
the shepherd saw it lour,
Yet
ask'd no fee save a scatter'd sheaf
From
the peasant's garner'd hoard,
Or
cream-bowl pressed by a virgin-lip
To
be left in the household board."
(Mrs.
E. S. Cream Green.)
The
following is one of the many stories related by the Manks peasantry as
indicative of the prodigious strength of the phynnodderee. A gentleman having
resolved to build a large house and offices on his property, a little above the
base of Snafield mountain, at a place called Sholt-e-will, caused
the requisite quantity of stones to be quarried on the beach, but one immense
block of white stone, which he was very desirous to have for a particular part
of the intended building could not be moved from the spot, resisting the united
strength of all the men in the parish. To the utter astonishment, however, of
all not only this rock, but likewise the whole of the quarried stones,
consisting of more than an hundred cart-loads, were in one night conveyed from
the shore to the site of the intended onstead by the indefatigable
phynnodderee, and in confirmation of this wonderful feat, the white stone is
yet pointed out to the curious visitor. (MS. Account of Manks
Customs.—Another large stone is pointed out to the visitor near Jurby Church,
said to have been thrown by a giant from either Snafield or some of the
adjoining mountains, after a companion who had insulted him, but who contrived
to escape his rage by wading or swimming from Jurby to the coast of Scotland.
Such memorials of fabulous achievements are also to be found in Scot land. In
the town of Ayr, close to the Wallace Tower, is a block of blue whinstone of at
least a ton weight, called Wallace's putting stane, which, tradition says, was
slung by the Scottish champion against a squadron of English cavalry.)
The
gentleman for whom this very acceptable piece of work was performed, wishing to
remunerate the naked phynnodderee, caused a few articles of clothing to be laid
down for him in his usual haunt. The hairy one on perceiving the habiliments
lifted them up one by one, thus expressing his feelings in Manks:
Bayrn
da'n choine, dy doogh da'n choine,
Cooat
da'en dreeym, dy doogh da'n dreeym,
Breechyn
da'n toyn, dy doogh da'n toyn,
Agh
my she lhiat ooiley, shoh cha nee lhiat Glen reagh Rushen.
Cap
for the head, alas, poor head.
Coat
for the back, alas, poor back.
Breeches
for the breech, alas, poor breech.
If
these be all thine, thine cannot be the merry Glen of Rushen.
Having
repeated these words, he departed with a melancholy wail, and now
“You
may hear his voice on the desert hill When the mountain winds have power;
'Tis
a wild lament for his buried love, And his long lost Fairy Bower."
Many
of the old people lament the disappearance of the phynnodderee, for they say,
"There has not been a merry world since he lost his ground."
An Historical and Statistical Account or the Isle of Man,
Vol. II, J. Train (1865)
The
Manx brownie is called the fenodyree, and he is described as a hairy and
apparently clumsy fellow, who would, for instance, thrash a whole barnful of
corn in a single night for the people to whom he felt well disposed; and once
on a time he undertook to bring down for the farmer his wethers from Snaefell.
When the fenodyree had safely put them in an outhouse, he said that he had some
trouble with the little ram, as it had run three times round Snaefell that
morning. The farmer did not quite understand him, but on going to look at the
sheep, he found, to his infinite surprise, that the little ram was no
other than a hare, which, poor creature, was dying of fright and fatigue. I
need scarcely point out the similarity between this and the story of Peredur,
who, as a boy, drove home two hinds with his mother’s goats from the forest: he
owned to having had some trouble with the goats that had so long run wild as to
have lost their horns, a circumstance which had greatly impressed him. To
return to the fenodyree, I am not sure that there were more than one in Man.
I
have never heard him spoken of in the plural; but two localities at least are
assigned to him, namely, a farm called Ballachrink, in Colby, in the south, and
a farm called Lanjaghan, in the parish of Conchan, near Douglas. Much the same
stories, however, appear to be current about him in the two places, and one of
the most curious of them is that which relates how he left. The farmer so
valued the services of the fenodyree, that one day he took it into his head to
provide clothing for him. The fenodyree examined each article carefully, and
expressed his idea of it, and specified the kind of disease it was calculated
to produce. In a word, he found that the clothes would make head and foot sick,
and he departed in disgust, saying to the farmer, ‘Though this place is thine,
the great glen of Rushen is not.’ Glen Rushen is one of the most retired glens
in the island, and it drains down through Glen Meay to the coast, some miles to
the south of Peel. It is to Glen Rushen, then, that the fenodyree is supposed
to be gone; but on visiting that valley in 1890 in quest of Manx-speaking
peasants, I could find nobody there who knew anything of him. I suspect that
the spread of the English language even there has forced him to leave the
island altogether. Lastly, with regard to the term fenodyree, I may mention
that it is the word used in the Manx Bible of 1819 for satyr in Isaiah xxxiv.
143, where we read in the English Bible as follows: ‘The wild beasts of the
desert shall also meet with the wild beasts of the island, and the satyr shall
cry to his fellow.’ In the Vulgate the latter clause reads: et pilosus clamabit
alter ad alterum. The term fenodyree has been explained by Cregeen in his Manx
Dictionary to mean one who has hair for stockings or hose. That answers to the
description of the hairy satyr, and seems fairly well to satisfy the phonetics
of the case, the words from which he derives the compound being fynney,
‘hair,’ and oashyr, ‘a stocking’; but as oashyr seems to come from the old
Norse hosur, the plural of hosa, ‘hose or stocking,’ the term fenodyree cannot
date before the coming of the Norsemen; and I am inclined to think the idea
more Teutonic than Celtic. At any rate I need not point out to the English
reader the counterparts of this hairy satyr in the hobgoblin ‘Lob lie by the
Fire,’ and Milton’s ‘Lubber Fiend,’ whom he describes as one that
Basks
at the fire his hairy strength,
And
crop-full out of doors he flings,
Ere
the first cock his matin rings.
Lastly,
I may mention that Mr. Roeder has a great deal to say about the fenodyree under
the name of glashtyn; for it is difficult to draw any hard and fast line
between the glashtyn and the fenodyree, or even the water-bull, so much alike
do they seem to have been regarded. Mr. Roeder’s items of folklore concerning
the glashtyns (see the Lioar Manninagh, iii. 139) show that there were male and
female glashtyns, and that the former were believed to have been too fond of
the women at Ballachrink, until one evening some of the men, dressed as women,
arranged to receive some youthful glashtyns. Whether the fenodyree is of Norse
origin or not, the glashtyn is decidedly Celtic.
Celtic Folklore: Welsh and Manx (Volume 1, by John Rhys,
1901
 |
| 1. Phynodderee |
"The
small island of Inch, near Easdale, is inhabited by a brownie, which has
followed the MacDougalls of Ardincaple for ages, and takes a great interest in
them. He takes care of their cattle in that island night and day, unless the
dairy-maid, when there in summer with the milk cattle, neglects to leave warm
milk for him at night in a knockingstone in the cave, where she and the herd
live during their stay in the island. Should this perquisite be for a night
forgot, they will be sure in the morning to find one of the cattle fallen over
the rocks with which the place abounds. It is a question whether the brownie
has not a friend with whom he shares the contents of the stone, which will, I
daresay, hold from two to three Scotch pints."
The Folk-Lore of the Isle of Man, by Arthur William Moore
(1891)
The
Phynodderee, or Good-Natured Fairy.
Oh,
merry were the 'little people' in the pretty Glen of Rushen! How they danced
and sang beneath the moon's pale beams, or under the brighter rays of the sun,
or chased each other from one tall fern to another, playing hide and seek under
the shade of the dark trailing ivy that spread its sheltering leaves over the
soft green moss, from whence peeped out many a purple violet and gentle
primrose, with here and there the starlike daisies that scarce bent their
bright heads under the light tread of the fairy feet. Ay ! merry indeed were
they, and fairy music and fairy laughter sounded out on the air, mingling with
the pleasant ripple of the stream that took its sparkling way to the wide sea
beyond, scattering as it flowed showers of grateful moisture to the waiting
flowers that grew along its banks.
Amongst
all the joyous crew one alone stood aloof, pensive and sad, taking no part in
all the mirth and revelry. He was what might be called a giant by the'good
people,' being nearly two feet high, with dark hair and flowing beard. His
eyes, that rivalled in hue the deep shade of the violets near, and his whole
face were clouded o'er with melancholy. In vain did many a pretty fay try to
lure him to the dance, or at least a game. He was not to be tempted from his
unhappy musings, and while the revels were at their height, he had disappeared
from among the sportive throng. When again we see him, it is in the first hours
of the new day. In some mysterious way he has been conveyed in so short a space
of time as from the previous midnight from Glen Rushen to the beautiful Glen of
Auldyn, near Ramsey. Whether he had flown all those many miles on a bat's back
the fairy's favourite steed-or on 'the wings of love,' we are not prepared to
state; but this we can positively aver, that our hero was at those early hours
standing under the blue tree in Glen Auldyn, and gazing with anxious, longing
eyes at a cottage built under the shade of this tree against which he leaned.
No sound broke the stillness, save the murmur of the little stream that ran
swiftly on its course to swell the waters of the river Sulby, or now and again
the faint bleating of the sheep on the hillside might be heard. Over this
hillside, as the hours passed, came gleams of ruddy light ; and as these rays
rose higher and higher, proclaiming the advancing day, signs of wakefulness
were perceptible at the little cot. A tiny wreath of smoke curled upwards in
the fresh morning air ; sturdy roosters woke the echoes with their shrill cry.
Presently the door of the cottage opens, and a clear voice rings out blithe and
cheery
'Oh
! Vollee Charane craad hooar oo dty Sthoyr ? My lomarcan daag oo mee.'
and
then the singer comes into view-a pretty, brightfaced Manx girl, and as she
does, the watcher steps forward and is met by anything but pleased looks by the
country maid. 'What! you here again, little man?' she cries in angry tones. 'I
want naught to do wi' ye.'
In
vain the fairy pleaded as full many a morn before he had done. Promises of
untold grandeur or threats of dire misfortune were powerless to move the
obdurate fair one to listen with favour to his vows of love.
'Get
ye gone, and let me never see ye more,' was all he got for answer. And, alas!
his ill luck was not to end here, for the king was so incensed at his repeated
absences from the fairy court, and, what aggravated his offence, his daring to
make love to a mortal maid, that he not only expelled him from Glen Rushen and
association with any of his former friends, but by spells-unknown, we trust, to
fairies of the present day-changed his appearance into something, we should
judge, resembling a satyr's, for we are told he was suddenly transformed to the
height and size of an ordinary man, his body clothed with long shaggy hair like
the beasts of the field, and all his former beauty gone!
Misfortune,
however, seems not to have had the ill effect it is said to exercise sometimes
on the mind, by souring the temper and exciting unamiable feelings towards
those more happily placed; for this poor fay, whose strength must have been
supernatural indeed, used it always in behalf of those who were in great need
of help. The anxious, weary farmer has many a time had his heart lightened when
he has risen in the early morn to see, perhaps, a field ploughed, or crops
gathered in, or some other labour performed in a night, that weeks of toiling,
late and early, with many to help, and consequently many to pay, would not see
accomplished. But woe betide him if, in gratitude of heart, he placed some
offering for the kindly fairy, for from that day he lost all chance of his good
offices. Indeed, it is sometimes given as a reason why farmers of more recent
times are left without this supernatural aid, that one, to show his
appreciation of the Phynodderee's assistance, left a gift for him of wearing
apparel, and so offended was the fairy that he has never since mixed himself up
in mortal affairs. (This account of the Phynodderee hears a striking
resemblance to the 'brownie,' or good-natured fairy, of the Scots.-J. H. L.)
Shadowland in Ellan Vannin, Folk Tales of the Isle of Man,
by J. H. Leney, 1890
The Fynoderee
The Fynoderee went to
the meadow
To lift the dew at
grey cock crow,
The maiden hair and
the cow herb
He was stamping them
both his feet under;
He was stretching
himself on the meadow,
He threw the grass on
the left hand;
Last year he caused
us to wonder,
This year he’s doing
far better.
He was stretching
himself on the meadow,
The herbs in bloom he
was cutting,
The bog bean herb in
the curragh,
As he went on his way
it was shaking,
Everything with his
scythe he was cutting,
To sods was skinning
the meadows,
And if a leaf were
left standing,
With his heels he was
stamping it under.
(Old Song.)
The Fynoderee of
Gordon
There
was one time a Fynoderee living in Gordon. Those persons who saw him said that
he was big and shaggy, with fiery eyes, and stronger than any man. One night he
met the blacksmith who was going home from his shop and held out his hand to
him to shake hands. The blacksmith gave him hold of the iron sock of the plough
which he had with him, and he squeezed it as if it had been a piece of clay,
saying: ‘There’s some strong Manx-men in the world yet!’
The
Fynoderee did all his work at night and went into hidlans in the daytime. One
night, when he was out on his travels he came to Mullin Sayle, out in Glen
Garragh. He saw a light in the mill, so he put his head through the open
top-half of the door to
see what was going on inside, and there was Quaye Mooar’s wife sifting corn.
When she caught sight of the great big head she was frightened terrible. She
had presence of mind, however, to hand him the sieve and say: ‘If thou go to
the river and bring water in it, I’ll make a cake for thee; and the more water
thou carry back, that’s the bigger thy cake will be.’
So
the Fynoderee took the sieve, and ran down to the river; but the water poured
from it and he could fetch none for the cake, and he threw the sieve away in a
rage, and cried:
‘Dollan, dollan, dash!
Ny smoo ta mee cur ayn,
Ny smoo ta goll ass.’
Sieve,
sieve, dash!
The
more I put in,
The
more there’s going out.
The
woman got away while he was trying to fill the sieve, and when he came back to
the mill he found it in darkness.
The
Fynoderee was working very hard for the Radcliffes, who owned Gordon then.
Every night he was grinding their corn for them,
and often he would take a hand at the flails. If they put a stack into the barn
in the evening and loosed every sheaf of it, they would find it thrashed in the
morning, but he would not touch one sheaf of it unless it were loosed. In the
summer time he was getting in their hay and cutting their corn. Many
a time the people of the farm were passing the time of day with him. One cold
frosty day, big Gordon was docking turnips and he blew on his fingers to warm
them.
‘What
are thou blowing on thee fingers for?’ said the Fynoderee.
‘To
put them in heat,’ said the Farmer.
At
supper that night the Farmer’s porridge was hot and he blew on it.
‘What
are thou doing that for?’ said the Fynoderee. ‘Isn’t it hot enough for thee?’
‘It’s
too hot, it is; I’m blowing on it to cool it,’ said the Farmer.
‘I
don’t like thee at all, boy,’ said the Fynoderee, ‘for thou can blow hot and
blow cold with one breath.’
The
Fynoderee was wearing no clothes, but it is said that he never felt the cold.
Big Gordon, however, had pity on him that he had none, and one frosty winter he
went and got clothes made for him—breeches, jacket, waistcoat and cap—great big
ones they were too. And he went and gave them to him in the barn one
night. The Fynoderee looked on them and took them up, and says he:
Coat
for the back is sickness for the back!
Vest
for the middle is bad for the middle!
Breeches
for the breech is a curse for the breech!
Cap
for the head is injurious for the head!
If
thou own big Gordon farm, boy
If
thine this little glen east, and thine this little glen west,
Not
thine the merry Glen of Rushen yet, boy!
So
he flung the clothes away and walked his ways to Glen Rushen, out to Juan Mooar
Cleary’s. He was working for him then, cutting the meadow hay for him, cutting
turf for him, and seeing after the sheep. It
happened one winter’s night that there was a great snow-storm.
Juan Mooar got up to see after the sheep, but the Fynoderee came to the window.
Juan Mooar got up to see after the sheep, but the Fynoderee came to the window.
‘Lie,
lie an’ take a sleep, Juan,’ says he; ‘I’ve got all the sheep in the fold, but
there was one loaghtan (brown native sheep) yearling there that give me more
trouble till all the res’. My seven curses on the little loaghtan! I was twice
round Barrule Mooar afther her, but I caught her for all.’
When
Juan went out in the morning all the sheep were safe in the cogee house and a
big hare in with them, with two short lankets on him, that was the brown
yearling!
After
a time the Fynoderee went up to the top of Barrule Mountain to live, up to the
very peak. Himself and the wife went to make a potful of porridge one day, and
they fell out. She
ran and left him. He threw a big white rock after her and it struck her on the
heel—the mark of the blood is still on the stone at Cleigh Fainey. While she
stooped to put a rag on her heel he threw a lot of small rocks at her, that
made her give a spring to the Lagg, two miles away. Then he threw a big rock
with the pot-stick in it—it’s in the Lagg river to-day. At that she gave two
leaps over the sea to the Mountains of Mourne in Ireland; and for all that I
know she’s living there still.
Manx
Fairy Tales by Sophia Morrison, 1911
Yn Folder Gastey
"The Nimble Mower," celebrates the prowess of Finoderee, who thereby shares
with Manannan and Berrey Dhone the honour of a song entirely devoted to
himself. A verse translation will not obscure its single and doubtful allusion
to a magical practice in the second line; I have, indeed, slightly accentuated
the point with a simile which is not found in the original. (Similes are rare
in the Manx ballad poetry, which prefers to stick grimly to its facts.)
THE
NIMBLE MOWER.
Finoderee
stole at dawn to the Round-field,
And
skimmed the dew like cream from a bowl;
The
maiden's herb and the herb of the cattle,
He
was treading them under his naked sole.
He
was swinging wide on the floor of the meadow,
Letting
the thick swath leftward fall;
We
thought his mowing was wonderful last year,
But
the bree of him this year passes all !
He
was lopping the blooms of the level meadow,
He
was laying the long grass ready to rake;
The
bog-bean out on the rushy curragh,
As
he strode and mowed it was fair ashake !
The
scythe that was at him went whizzing through all things,
Shaving
the Round-field bare to the sod,
And
whenever he spotted a blade left standing
He
stamped it down with his heel unshod!
The
first line of the original Manx as given in Moore's Ballads is
otherwise remembered as Finoderee hie ad lheeaney ny lomarcan,
or ad lheeaney lomarcan. In that case the meaning may be that
Finoderee went to the meadow alone; or lheeaney ny lomarcan may
be understood as a field-name comparable with " Glion ny Lomarcan "
above the Dhoon in Maughold. Was Lomarcan, "the Lone One," ever a
name for the Finoderee or some similar personage whose place in folk-lore he
has usurped ?
Luss
y voidyn, which in line 3 I have translated literally as "the maiden's
herb," is, according to Kelly's Dictionary, "maidenlip," whatever plant that may be. Is loss y voidyn the
same herb as the Irish lus na Maighdine Muire, which Dinneen says
is the St. John's wort or yellow pimpernel ?
"The cattle herb," luss yn ollee, is known in England as the
goutweed, Aegopodium podagraria (P. G. Ralfe).
Yiarn, literally "iron," in the last stanza, translated "scythe," is sometimes
used for a sickle. Folder, in the title, certainly implies that he
mowed with a scythe, but the title of a Manx song may be much more recent than
the words. Scythes, however, were known in the Island at
least so far back as 1577, when "a Sickle or Syth" is an
alternative in the Customary Statutes. Finoderee therefore mowed the Lheeaney
Rhunt, or the Lheeaney ny Lomarcan-as well as all the other meadows he has
mowed unsung-with a scythe; but his may have been a scythe of the obsolete
type, which had the blade almost in the same plane as the straight, thick shaft; a much heavier implement than the modern scythe, and one demanding greater
strength and stamina, while correspondingly wider in its sweep. Finoderee's
handling of his yiarn mooar was nonetheless masterly, as might
have been expected from one of his superb physique.
Moreover, in that age of gold, before he suffered his rebuff from the thankless farmer near St. Trinian's, he was more willing and more energetic than ever since. He was more numerous, or more ubiquitous, too, and most of the larger farms were lucky enough to possess one of him. As we may gather from the song, he was then not too shy to start work at daybreak and let himself be seen and admired in the grey light by the respectful villagers, while they peeped over each other's shoulders through the sallies and alders that screened the little verdant meadows of the Curragh Glass. In the days ere he lost confidence in Manxmen he not only mowed for them, he raked and carried for them, reaped, made bands, tied sheaves and built the stack for them, threshed it and stacked the straw again, herded sheep and cattle, and whisked horse-loads of wrack and stone about the land like the little giant he was. He attacked his jobs like a convulsion of nature, making the hard ground soft and the soft ground waterhence the Curraghs. When he mowed he flung the grass to the morning star or the paling moon without heed to the cock's kindly word of warning from the near-by farmyard. He could clear a daymath in an hour and want nothing better than a crockful of bithag afterwards. The concentrated fury of his threshing resembled a whirlwind, an earthquake, Doomsday; his soost was a blur and the air went dark with the flying husks. In the zeal and zest of his shepherding he sometimes drove an odd animal over the cliffs, allowing, but he made up for that by folding in wild goats, purrs and hares along with the sheep. For he was a doer, not a thinker, mightier in thew than in brain, and when he should have been cultivating his intelligence at the village school between his nights of labour he was curled up asleep in some hiding-place he had at the top of the glen.
Or
so we may imagine him to have been in the days of his glory, since we can no
longer hope to meet him unless in a degenerate aspect hardly distinguishable
from humanity. Superhuman he may have been, but not supernatural. Indeed, in
the second line of the " Nimble Mower " it looks as though he were
operating an ordinary process of human magic, that of lifting the dew between
daybreak and sunrise. Drawing a cord of plaited horsehair behind them along the
grass before sunrise, especially on May Day, was a favourite morning exercise
of women who wished to divert the milk and butter of their neighbours to their
own dairies ; when a cow afterwards walked over the track
of the cord the spell began to work upon her milk. Possibly it could then be
milked out of the same cord hung from a nail in the witch's house, but of this
I know nothing, nor wish to. Or the dew of the neighbour's land could be
collected into a vessel, with the same intention. But it may be that Finoderee,
who owned neither house nor churn, was merely removing the moisture which is
such a hindrance to early-morning mowing. Since there is room for doubt, let us
impute the better motive.(It has even been said that the dew of May (besides beautifying the complexion)
gives, in the Isle of Man, immunity from witches. Rhys, Celtic
Folklore, ii., 302.)
A
Second Manx Scrapbook, by W. Walter Gill, 1932
1. Denman Rooke
Nico