A Tale of Lough Neagh
Lough Neagh is one of the largest and most beautiful bodies of water in the British Isles and lies in the centre of Ireland’s northernmost Province, Ulster. The waters of the lake are transparently blue in many places allowing you to see even small pebbles on the bottom, at a considerable depth. Near the southern end, a survey of the Lough bottom revealed cut stones that appear to have been laid in order, and careful observations have traced the remnants of the regular walls of a considerable sized structure. The Tradition of those who live on the shoreline tells us that this structure was once a castle, surrounded by a village, both of which succumbed to the expansion of the lake many generations past. In ancient times, it is said that the castle was owned by an Irish chieftain called Shane O’Donovan, who was noted for his bad character traits, such as being merciless in war, a tyrant in peace, feared by his neighbours, hated by his own family, and reviled by all for his inhospitality and lack of charity.
In those far off days, his castle stood by the bank of the lake, on an elevated promontory. It was almost an island, being joined to the mainland only by a narrow isthmus that stood at a small height above the level of the lake water. It is said that at one time an angel chanced to come into that part of Ireland, who had been sent from heaven to observe the people and to note their piety. Disguising himself in the clothes and body of a man, who was weary and footsore with travelling the country, the angel observed the castle from the hills above the lough and came down to boldly request a night’s lodging there. But his request was bluntly refused and, what’s more, the nasty and uncivil Shane O’Donovan set his dogs to bite the weary man. The angel immediately turned away from the castle, but he had no sooner passed through the castle gate than the villagers gathered around him and a contest began between them as to who should have the honour of entertaining the traveller.
The Angel made his choice and decided he would go to the house of a cobbler who was so poor that he had only one potato, and when he wanted another, he cut the one in two. Gratefully the heavenly visitor shared the cobbler’s potato and he slept on the cobbler’s floor, putting his feet onto the hearth to keep them warm. But as daylight dawned he rose, and called all the villagers together, led them out, across the isthmus to a nearby hill, and bid them look back. As they did so, they saw the castle and promontory separate from the mainland and begin to sink into the blue waters of the lough. Very slowly, almost imperceptibly, the castle sank, while the waters rose around it. But the waters stood like a wall on every side of the castle and did not wet a single stone from the highest turret to its foundation. After some time, the entire wall of water had risen higher than the battlements and, as the angel waved his hand, the waves suddenly rushed over the castle and its sleeping inmates, punishing the O’Donovan for his lack of hospitality. When all was done, the angel pointed to a spot close by, telling the villagers that they were to build and prosper there. Then, as the awe-stricken villagers knelt before him, the traveller’s clothing became pure white and shining wings appeared upon his shoulders, and he rose into the air to vanish from their sight.
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An Old Tale from the Annals of my Family
There was a time when every poor Irish peasant could tell you that he was the descendants of Chieftains and Kings, who were all beaten down by the vile English and had their lands stolen from them. Now, I am not going to tell you that my ancestry stretches back to one of the ruling families of old Ireland since I cannot trace my paternal or maternal line beyond ‘The Great Potato Famine in Ireland’, or as some would call it the ‘The Irish Genocide by the English.’ There are stories from days prior to the beginning of that terrible time that have been handed down but not earlier than the beginning of that century. It appears, after the failure of the ‘United Irishmen Rebellion of 1798’ the British Government decided to increase its military presence throughout the land. One area that saw an increase in the number of red-coated soldiers was the County of my forefathers, County Tyrone.
In the year of the ‘Union’, 1801, a certain regiment was ordered to Tyrone and was very soon dispersed over various districts of that County. One detachment was sent to be stationed in the townland of Sluggan, and their first impressions of that area were far from favourable. The detachment leader and his two assistants, however, soon discovered an Síbín (Shebeen), which was an illegal drinking place, where alcoholic drink was sold without a license and without having paid revenue to the government. This drinking den for the locals was based in the small thatched cabin where the soldiers had been sent to be billeted. One night, soon after arriving, the three soldiers began to discuss the types of leisure-time amusement that were on offer, and they were quite quickly disappointed with what they found.
Under the instructions of their military superiors, the three men were not allowed to associate with the locals or get too friendly with them because of their rumoured rebellious nature. They sought further entertainment to keep them amused but, for them, there was no hunting, no shooting, no gaming, no horses to ride, no lively young ladies that they might flirt with. It should be understood, military men in those days rarely had an interest in literature, but books suddenly became very important to these men and, when they had read the few they had, they sent to the nearest town, which was quite a distance away, for more. Unfortunately, reading is not the sort of active amusement that young, healthy men truly yearned for.
One evening the three soldiers took a walk along some of the tracks and boreens of the district, and their faces soon brightened when they saw a local peasant boy, wearing a shabby hat, a torn coat, and a pair of britches that were held together by a single button and a rope belt. As he paraded merrily along his way, he was whistling a merry tune and, in one hand dangled two fine-looking trout in one hand. In his other hand he was waving a long ‘switch’, and he marched along the track with his curly red hair blowing over his bright, rosy-cheeked face in the fresh breeze. He was a picture of health and of careless happiness.
“Hello! My fine fellow! Where did you catch these trout?” asked the leading soldier.
“Now, your honour, in the small lake, just over ‘thonder’,” replied the boy with a smile, pointing back along the track
“’Thonder!’ Where the devil is that?”
“Do you see ‘thone’ hills? Well, just behind them hills there’s the lake with plenty of fish. By Jaysus, if I had but a decent fishing-rod, and something more sensible than a crooked pin!’
“Aren’t you a handsome intelligent boy! What are you called?’
‘Patrick McCoille, if pleases your honour.’
‘Well, Paddy, if you will show us the trout lake, I’ll give you a shilling.’
Paddy McCoille had heard of a shilling, but he had never yet seen one, so he was overjoyed at the prospects of getting one. He not only showed them the small lake but made rush-baskets to carry the fish they caught. He told the three soldiers tales, sung them songs, and, by his good-humour and love of fun, very much enlivened their stay at Sluggan. He was very happy to be at the centre of the soldiers’ attention and was happy to be doing anything for them that gained him a few coppers. Now, when the time came for the soldiers to leave the district, Paddy was genuinely sorrowful at their going. The soldiers decided that they could help the young lad by recruiting him as a boy soldier in the regiment.
In those days there was no much money in a family of Roman Catholic, Irish Peasants, and Paddy’s mother encouraged him to begin a military career as a fifer in the British Regiment. There he would get clothes, shoes, a bed of his own, and three good meals a day. When he was older, Paddy entered the ranks full-time and became valet to a Captain Chalmondley-Rowbotham. Within months Paddy’s extraordinary intelligence and military bearing brought quick promotion to the rank of Sergeant. There was a war with France at this time, of course, and on two occasions he showed great courage and wisdom while leading a detachment of men in battle. As a result, Paddy was unanimously put forward for officer training and once again succeeded in gaining the promotion. Despite his rapid rise through the ranks, however, he retained the good opinion and friendship of all who had been former comrades.
It is said that Paddy was considered by many to be a handsome man and, as we have seen a very clever person. What he lacked in education he took advantage of every opportunity to improve himself. But no one is perfect, and Patrick McCoille became extremely ambitious and ever vainer. He came to a point in his ‘new’ life that he did not want to remain in a situation where his very humble origins were so well known, and he finally transferred to another regiment, where he soon became equally as popular with his new companions as he had been with his old friends. Eventually, however, war with France came to an end and Paddy’s financial status quickly fell below that which he had been used to. He needed a new life and he decided to use his long-held talents to help him seek out a fortune and further growth in his social status.
With the peace gained, Paddy settled himself in a town that lay along the north coast of France and began to seek a wife that would bring with her position and wealth. He did not have long to wait. Having become a fluent French speaker and his quick wits helped him greatly to open many doors which were closed the higher born, but less talented army companions. Before very long, he met the widow of a wealthy hotelkeeper who, though twenty years his senior, gave him clear signals that all he needed to do was to propose. Whether this was a case of him being greedy or a real case of love, it is hard to say. Nevertheless, they married, and lived together for three years, during which he was both affectionate and kind to her. Then, when his wife died, she left him all that she had, which, although much less than he had hoped for, made up, together with his army pension, a reasonably good income.
Although this amount of income would have represented a mere pittance to most men, it was a fortune to such an adventurer. Armed with this money and his natural talents, Paddy set out for Paris, where he made a great impression upon a young and beautiful widow who held a high situation within French society, and very soon after they met the two were married. One problem arose, however, during the nuptial preparations when the lady objected to his name.
“McCoille!” she cried, (pronouncing it as M’ecole — My School); “I cannot allow myself to accept such a name in my social circle. It is demeaning!”
“Well, my dear, I am very sorry about that, but it is my name.”
“Does your family not possess a title?”
“None,” said Paddy, who now insisted on being called Patrick.
“What, then, is the name of your father’s estate?”
Patrick’s thoughts turned to the small thatched cabin in which he had passed his childhood. He recalled the pig that had once been a playmate before it was delivered to the landlord to pay the rent. He remembered his father, in his long, heavy coat, with a hay-band round his hat, and his mother, dressed in fluttering rags which so many of the Irish peasantry thought added smartness to their dress. After so many years he, perhaps, thought with regret of the warm, loving hearts that had beat beneath in their breasts, so fond and so proud of him. With quiet dignity, he told her, ‘Sadly, my love, it is no longer in our family.‘
“But,” persisted the lady, “you were born near some village, or in some place that had a name?”
“The townland of Sluggan was where we lived.”
“Fantastique! That is just what is needed! You will call yourself the Baron de Sluggan!”
“Of course, and why not? I shall not object to being called ‘De Sluggan’”.
She accordingly had her cards printed ‘La Baroness de Sluggan,’ and her husband, who had a great love of his family name, now became known to all as ‘Baron McCoille de Sluggan’. One of these cards is preserved as a memento by one of my relatives and Paddy’s adventures are frequently repeated at wakes, weddings, and other family gatherings.
The Demon Cat
There are hundreds, perhaps thousands, of types and breeds of Cat which share this world with us. Among all these many natural types and breeds of feline, however, there are those from the world of the supernatural, which have particularly wicked and evil ways. The Cat Sidhe, (Cat Sìth-Scottish Gaelic) is one such has become a part of Celtic mythology, which is said to look like a large black cat with a white spot on its chest, that and mainly haunts rocky high ground. Although the greater number of legends associated with these creatures are to be found within the tales of Scottish folklore, there are a few stories that occur within the folklore archives of Ireland. It is customary within Irish folklore that such creatures as these are considered as demons, or witches’ “familiars”, that adopt the disguise of a cat to gain easy entry into human residences. And, once inside the homes of mortals, they can spy on all that happens and, thereby, bring about a range of terrible events.
The idea of the Cat Sidhe (‘Fairy Cat’) may have been originally inspired by the presence of the European Wildcat in the lands of the Celts. In those days the Wildcat was a much more numerous and widespread animal than it is now. Much like the wolf, it is extinct in Ireland but the memory of the large, all black cat with the white spot prominent on its chest, still lingers. Known as the ‘Demon Feline’ by some it was a creature never to be trusted. It was even thought capable of stealing a person’s soul before it could be claimed by God, and in several areas would hold special wakes to keep the creature away from the corpse before it was buried. At these, the people would play music, and all sorts of games to distract the Cat Sidhe away from the room in which the corpse lay. At the same time, no fires were lit in the room where the body lay for, it was said, the ‘Demon Feline’ was attracted by warmth.
Although never to be trusted when encountered, legend tells that on the feast of ‘Samhain’ the Cat Sidhe would bless any house that left a saucer of milk out or it to drink. But for those houses that did not leave out a saucer of milk, there was only a curse as a reward, such as having the cow’s milk dry-up. Such things, of course, led many to believe that the Cat Sidhe was a witch that could transform at will into a cat and back again nine times. It was said that should a witch choose to go back into their cat form for a ninth time, they would remain a cat for the rest of their days, and hence the tradition of the cat having nine lives.
The ‘Demon Feline’, however, came into its own when ancient rituals for calling up the dead were practiced. From tribe to tribe these rituals varied, but generally involved torture or cruelty to animals and humans and, occasionally, included animal sacrifice. It was not unknown in some of these rituals for the bodies of cats to be roasted alive over the course of several days and nights. All these rituals were carried out to summon legions of spirits or demons in the form of black cats, with the devil at their head, to answer questions concerning the future.
The following tale from Ireland, called ‘The Fisherman’s Wife’, recalls an encounter with one of these ‘Demon Felines’ and the difficulties that she faced before overcoming the demon.
In the West of Ireland, there once lived a woman, whose fisherman husband was an industrious worker who also had good knowledge of the sea and knew where to find the best catches. He worked hard to ensure that his wife was always well supplied with a great variety of fish that she could clean, cure, store, and make ready for sale in the market. But, despite her husband’s good fortune, this woman’s life was not at all a happy one because, when the husband was out fishing, she was being constantly tormented by a huge black cat that would make its way into the house, where it would greedily devour all the best and finest fish that she had prepared for market.
Finally, she decided that if she was to successfully fight off this creature, then she needed to arm herself with a large, thick stick, and with it, in her hands, she would patiently await the cat’s next entrance. Then, one day, unexpectedly, as she was sat in the house gossiping with another woman from the village, the entire house suddenly fell into great darkness and the front door of the house burst open as if blasted by a great wind. Through the open doorway and into the house the huge black monster of a cat strolled, triumphantly marching all the way up to the glowing fire. When he reached the hearth, this demon cat turned toward the two women with a grimace on its face and roared like a lion. “Oh, dear God! Sure, it’s the devil himself!” screamed a young girl who was sorting fish on a bench not far away.
“I’ll teach you to call me names, woman!” snarled the huge, black cat and it leaped at the girl, scratching her arm deeply with its huge claws and caused blood to flow from the wound. A diabolical laugh echoed through the house as the cat sneered, “There, now, woman! You’ll hold a much more civil tongue in your head the next time a gentleman, the likes of myself, calls on you!” Saying those words, which rang loudly in the young girl’s ears, the demon cat jumped at the open door, slamming it closed again to prevent any of his captives from escaping. The cat deemed it vital now that the wounded young girl was crying hysterically from the fright and the pain she had been caused. Now, with this one terrifying leap, the huge black cat had cut-off every possible route of escape for the women.
Just as the monster slammed the front door shut, a man, who was passing by the house, was stopped in his tracks by the series of loud cries and screams that were coming from the building. Being very much concerned by the terrible cries that he heard the man rushed up to the door of the house and, using every ounce of his strength that he could muster, he tried to force it open. But the demon cat dug in its heels and, doggedly standing its ground, it refused to allow the man to enter the house and help the women. The man, however, was carrying a large, thick blackthorn stick in his hands and he began to beat down on the monster with every muscle in his body and gave the demon several great blows that told. But, the monster feline was more than a match for the man and launched itself at him with force, tearing at his face and hands so badly that the man had no choice but to take to his heels and run away as fast as he could.
Now that the potential rescuer of the women had been forced to flee the scene a huge expression of joy came across the face of the demon as he hissed at his captives, “Now, it’s time for me to eat my dinner.” Then with quick and eager steps, the cat moved toward the long bench-table upon which the fish had been spread out as if they had been made ready for him to examine.
“I hope these fish are as good as they look,” the cat sneered as it displayed its sharp, ivory-colored, teeth to the frightened women. “Now, listen to me, don’t even think of making any kind of a fuss, or disturbance while I am helping myself to this feast.” Then, using the great strength it had in its rear legs, the demon cat pounced up on to the bench-table and began to rapidly and hungrily devour all the best fish. With each fish that it gobbled down, the demon continued to stare and growl at the terrified women, who now began to fear that they too might be on his menu.
Suddenly, filled with renewed courage, the fisherman’s wife jumped up from her where she was seated and squealed at the monster, “Get away out of this place you, black devil cat!” As she squealed the woman also gave the demon several mighty blows with a set of large, brass coal-tongs that would have certainly broken the back of any normal cat. In her anger and rage, the woman screamed again at the monster cat, “Get away from here, damn you! You will have no feast of our fish this day!”
Unfazed by the woman’s screams, the huge cat turned slowly to face her and grinned triumphantly as he began to tear at and devour the fish, feeling none the worse for the heavy blows that the fisherman’s wife had struck him. Undaunted by the failure of their efforts to chase the predator away, the two women continued attacking the demon cat with whatever instruments that they could put their hands on, striking huge blows that appeared to be hard enough to kill. Still, the huge cat continued to stare at the women contemptuously, apparently unaffected by their efforts to hurt him, and it then began to spit out fire as he made a deadly leap toward them. The demon’s great claws and sharp teeth tore into the hands and arms of the women until their blood began to run freely from the wounds caused, and the women made their last-ditch effort, screaming in their terror, to rush out of the building to freedom.
Within a very few minutes of leaving the building, the fisherman’s wife sought out a bottle of Holy Water and with this, in her hands, she moved back into the building to confront the great demon. Tentatively, the woman peeked into the house through the open door and saw that the huge cat was still totally engaged in devouring the fish that had been laid out upon the bench-table. So, with great stealth, the fisherman’s wife quietly crept over to the place where her enemy stood and, without making a sound, she opened the bottle of Holy Water and threw the contents all over the unsuspecting demon cat. In an instant a dense black cloud of smoke filled the entire room, covering everything until the only object that could be seen in the darkness was the demon’s glowing red eyes, which burned bright like the coals in a fire. Then, as the thick smoke gradually began to clear away, the fisherman’s wife saw the huge cat as it was burning slowly until it finally became like a shriveled, black cinder and disappeared. It was a gratifying sight but, from that moment onward, the fish catch would remain untouched by the demon and safe from further destruction. The power of the ‘evil one’ was finally broken and the fearsome ‘demon feline’ was never to be seen again.
Now that we have reached the end of this tale, it is time to consider the long-held tradition which warns us about the very vengeful tendencies shown by all cats, and that we should make every effort to ensure that we never do anything to offend these animals. What can happen if we fail to abide by these warnings is demonstrated in the following story, which is alleged to be true –
The story tells us that there was once a fine lady of quality, who had a habit of lifting her cat into her arms and to feed it from the food on her own table during dinner. She would select tasty morsels from the plate and give them to the cat with her own hands. One evening, however, the lady decided that she would give a special dinner party for her friends. On such an occasion the lady did not feel it was appropriate for her pet to be fed from the table around which her friends would be seated. The food was served, and the needs and expectations of the cat were completely ignored, while she was rebuffed on several occasions when she approached her mistress. The cat was greatly angered by the treatment it had received and she moved into a dark corner of the room, where it lay silently sulking and planning how it might get revenge for being treated so abysmally. It awaited its opportunity, which arrived after the lady had gone to her bed for the night. The vengeful cat crept silently out from its hiding place and, making its way to the mistress’ bedroom, sprang at the sleeping woman’s bared throat. The cat bit deep into the flesh and created a wound that was so severe that within a week the poor woman became gravely sick and eventually died from virulent blood poisoning.
There is a long-standing tradition, which says that there is a power that resides within the blood of a black cat which is to be held in the highest esteem by those persons who are proficient in the making the cures of ancient times. It is such as these that know the true power of the black cat’s blood can only be unleashed when it is mixed with magical charms, thereby providing relief to suffering people through ancient potions that cure even the worst of diseases. Those ‘wise people’ who prepare these magical charms and potions will tell you that three drops of blood from a black cat are more than enough to gain the desired effect. The custom among the ‘Fairy Doctors’ and ‘Wise Women’ is that they gather this blood by nipping off a small piece of a cat’s tail. But it is my opinion that untrained persons would be better leaving such tasks to the experts because cats can become evil demons and will seek to take a terrible vengeance upon anyone who offends them.
Unknown early 20th Century Irish Poet
Awake, dear sleepers, from your wintry tombs;
The sun has turned the point of Capricorn,
And ‘gins to pluck from Winter’s wings the plumes
Of darkness, and to wind his silver horn
For your return. Come to your homes, forlorn
In absence of your odours and your faces;
Like Rachel weeps for you the reaved morn,
As often as she views your empty places,
Erewhile the daily scene of her and your embraces.
Come, pensile snowdrop, like the earliest star
That twinkles on the brow of dusky Night;
Come, like the child that peeps from door ajar,
With pallid cheek, upon a wasteful sight:
And shouldst thou rise when all around is white,
The more thou’lt demonstrate the power of God
To shield the weak against the arms of might,
To strengthen feeble shoulders for their load,
And sinking hearts ‘mid ills they could not full forebode.
Come, crocus cup, the cup where early bees
Sip the first nectar of the liberal year,
Come and illume our green, as similes
Light up the poet’s song. And O ye dear
March violets, come near, come breathing near!
You too, fair primroses, in darksome woods
Shine forth, like heaven’s constellations clear;
And come, ye daisies, throng in multitudes,
And whiten hills and meadows with your saintly hoods.
Come with thy lilies, May; thy roses, June;
Come with your richer hues, Autumnal hours;
O tell your mellowing sun, your regal moon,
Your dewy drops, your soft refreshing showers,
To lift their blessing hands in Flora’s bowers,
Nor e’en to scorn the bindweed’s flossy gold,
Nor foxglove’s banner hung with purple flowers,
Nor solitary heath that cheers the wold,
Nor the last daisy shivering in November’s cold!
The normal things that amuse people are considered by the ‘Seer’ as being little else than vanity, if not something even worse. He despises those people who live and think only for the present, without ever once doing something for posterity, by attempting to discover the great events that lie in our future.
Domestic joys or the distresses that ordinary people encounter do not affect him in the least because the ‘Seer’ is not at all interested in feelings or emotions, but with a person’s principles. The speculations in which he indulges, and by which his whole life and conduct are regulated, place him far above the usual impulses of humanity. He does not care much who has been married or who has died, for his mind is more interested in communing with unborn generations upon affairs of high and solemn importance.
In the Seer’s mind, the past is something, but the future is everything, while the present unless it is marked by the prophetic symbols, means little or nothing. The topics of the ‘Seer’s’ conversation are vast and mighty, being nothing less than the fate of kingdoms, the revolution of empires, the ruin or establishment of creeds, the fall of monarchs, or the rise and prostration of principalities and powers. It is not surprising then, that a mind engaged in such things does not want to consider the lesser subjects of ordinary life, which are the priority of ordinary men. It is understandable that a man who is hard at work in evolving out of prophecy the subjugation of some hostile state, couldn’t care less if ‘Joe Bloggs’’ daughter was married to ‘Desperate Dan’s’ son, or not.
The ‘Seer’ could be called ‘The Prophecy Man’ because he devotes himself solely to the close observation of those political occurrences which mark the signs of the times, as they bear upon the future. It is his business to link such events with his own prophetic theories, which he spreads around. Many of the itinerant characters of old had when compared with him, a very limited area of operations. Instead of being confined to a parish or a barony, the bounds of the ‘Prophecy Man’s’ travels were those of the entire kingdom.
My Great-grandfather once told me about such a man, whom he said was the only one worthy of the title of ‘Prophecy Man’. He was known Barney Hagan, but my great-grandfather said that he didn’t know where in Ireland he was born. It remained a mystery, which is almost an advantage for a man who was constantly spoken of as ‘The Prophecy Man’. Quite oddly, although Barney could not read, he always carried about with him several old books and manuscripts that were concerned with his favourite subject.
Barney was a tall man and was always neatly dressed. He could not be considered a beggar, by any means, but was viewed as a person who must be received with respect wherever he went. People knew perfectly well that it was not with every farmer in the neighbourhood that he would feel happy to stay with. There was nothing of the austere and half-starved man in his appearance, which might be considered as a common trait of a Prophet. But Barney’s appearance was far from that, for he was quite portly. However, like a certain class of fat men, his natural disposition was to be calm and meditative. His movement was slow and regular, and his travel from one resting-place to another never exceeded the length of ten miles. Yet, even at this rate of travel, he covered the entire kingdom several times. Furthermore, there was hardly a local prophecy of any importance within the country with which he was not acquainted.
He took great delight in the words of the greater and lesser prophets in the Old Testament, but his favourite was the Revelations of St John the Divine. Usually, when the family came home from work in the evening, he would stretch himself on two chairs, with his head resting upon the hob, and his eyes closed to show that his mind was deeply engaged with the matter in hand. As he rested like this, he would ask someone to read the particular prophecy on which he wished to talk at length. It was generally curious and amusing entertainment to hear the text, accompanied by his own singular and original commentaries. There were, of course, many occasions when he was hoaxed by various jokers, and this was evident from the startling errors in the text which had been put into his mouth, and which, having been once put there, his tenacious memory never forgot.
Barney’s arrival in the neighbourhood was soon known far and wide throughout the district. As a result, the house in which he had thought it proper to stay became crowded every night. When their work had finished the people would eagerly gather to hear him speak. “Barney, old friend,” his host would say, “here’s a lot of the neighbours that have come to hear a lesson from you on the Prophecies. Sure, if you can’t give it to them, then who is there to be found that can?”
“By God, Paddy Trainor, although I say so myself, there’s a lot of truth in that. That same knowledge has cost me many a weary blister and sore heel in hunting it up and down, through mountain and glen, in Ulster, Munster, Leinster, and Connaught. And, sure, we should not be forgetting the Highlands of Scotland, where there is what they call the ‘short prophecy,’ or second sight. But, in that place, there is very little of the Irish or long prophecy, that tells what is to happen the ‘winged woman’ that had flown into the wilderness. No, indeed, their second sight isn’t true prophecy at all. If a man goes out to fish or steal a cow, and he happens to be drowned or shot, then another man who has the second sight will see this in his mind’s eye about or shortly after the time it occurs. But that’s no great thing. Many a time our own Irish dreams are equal to it, and indeed I have it from a knowledgeable man, that the gift they boast of has four parents, namely an empty stomach, thin air, a weak head, and strong whiskey. It is said that a man must have all these, especially the last before he can truly possess the second sight, and that is my own opinion as well. Now, I have a little book that contains a prophecy about the milk-white hind and the bloody panther, and a warning about the slaughter that there’s to be in the ‘Valley of the Black Pig’, as was foretold by ‘Beal Derg’, or the prophet with the red mouth, who never was known to speak except when he prophesied, or to prophesy only when he spoke.”
“The Lord bless and keep us! Why was he called the ‘Man with the Red Mouth’, Barney?”
“I’ll tell you that. First, because he always prophesied about the slaughter and fighting that was to take place in the future; and, secondly, because, while he spoke, the red blood always trickled out of his mouth, as proof that what he fore-told was true.”
“Glory be to God! but that’s wonderful altogether. Well, well!”
“Aye, and ‘Beal Derg’, or the ‘Red Mouth’, is still living.”
“Living? why, is he a man of our own time?”
“Our own time? The Lord help you! It’s more than a thousand years since he made the prophecy. The case you see is this. He and the ten thousand witnesses are lying in an enchanted sleep in one of the dark mountains.”
“An’ how is that known, Barney?”
“It’s known. Every night at a certain hour one of the witnesses and they’re all soldiers, by the way, must come out to look for the sign that’s to come.”
“And what is that, Barney?”
“It’s the fiery cross, and when he sees one on each of the four mountains of the north, he knows that the same sign is established in all the other parts of the kingdom. ‘Beal Derg’ and his men are then to waken up, and with their help, the ‘Valley of the Black Pig’ is to be set free forever.”
“And what is the Black Pig, Barney?”
“The Presbyterian Church, that stretch from Enniskillen to Derry, and back again from Derry to Enniskillen.”
“Well, well, Barney, but prophecy is a strange thing to be sure! Only think of men living a thousand years!”
“Every night one of ‘Beal Derg’s’ men must go to the mouth of the cave, which opens of itself, and then look out for the sign that’s expected. He walks up to the top of the mountain, and turns to the four corners of the heavens, to try if he can see it. And when he finds that he cannot, he goes back to ‘Beal Derg’, who, after the other touches him, starts up, and asks him, ‘Has the time come?’ He replies, ‘No. The man is, but the hour is not!’ and in that instant, they’re both asleep again. Now, you see, while the soldier is on the mountain top, the mouth of the cave is open, and anyone may go in that might happen to see it. One man it appears did, and wishing to know from curiosity whether the soldiers were dead or living, he touched one of them with his hand, who started up and asked him the same question, ‘Is the time come?’ Very, fortunately, he said ‘No’ and at that minute the soldier was as sound in his trance as before.”
“And, Barney, what did the soldier mean when he said, ‘The man is, but the hour is not?’”
“What did he mean? I’ll tell you that. The man is Bonaparte, which means, when put into the proper explanation, the right side, namely the true cause. Learned men have found that out.”
“Barney, wasn’t Columcille a great prophet?”
“Aye, he was a great man entirely at the prophecy, and so was St Bridget. He prophesied ‘that the cock with the purple comb is to have both his wings clipped by one of his own breed before the struggle comes.’ Before that time, too, we’re to have the Black Militia, and after that, it is time for every man to be prepared.”
“And, Barney, who is the cock with the purple comb?”
“Why, the Orangemen to be sure. Isn’t purple their colour, the dirty thieves?”
“And the Black Militia, Barney, who are they?”
“I have gone far and near, through north and through south, up and down, by hill and hollow, till my toes were corned and my heels cut in pieces but could find no one able to resolve that or bring it clear out of the prophecy. They’re to be soldiers in black, and all their arms and accouterments are to be the same colour, and more than that is not known as yet.”
“It’s a wonder that you don’t know it, Barney, for there’s very little about prophecy that you haven’t got at the tips of your fingers.”
“Three birds is to meet”, Barney proceeded, “upon the seas, two ravens and a dove, the two ravens are to attack the dove until she’s at the point of death. But before they take her life, an eagle comes and tears the two ravens to pieces, and the dove recovers. There are to be two cries in the kingdom. One of them is to reach from the Giants’ Causeway to the centre house of the town of Sligo. The other is to reach from the Falls of Beleek to the Mill of Louth, which is to be turned three times with human blood. But this is not to happen until a man with two thumbs and six fingers upon his right hand happens to be the miller.”
“Who’s to give the sign of freedom to Ireland?”
“The little boy with the red coat that’s born a dwarf, lives a giant and dies a dwarf again! He’s lightest of foot but leaves the heaviest foot-mark behind him. And it’s he that is to give the sign of freedom to Ireland!”
Celebrating a Man’s Life
Poor Sean Maguire died, just as Mr. Roche suspected he would, and the gold and the notes were found quilted into his wretched clothing. A search was then made for any of his relatives from in and about Moneygeran. in the West of the County, where his mother was known to have lived. Meanwhile, as much was taken from the hoard by ‘Big Peter’, in whose premises he died, as was necessary to buy a shroud and coffin, and some pipes, and tobacco, and snuff. Sheets were hung up in a corner of the barn, and the poor corpse was shaved and washed, and provided with a clean shirt, before he was laid on a table in the same corner and covered with a sheet.
Two or three large, roughly coloured wood prints of devout subjects were pinned on the sheets, and candlesticks, trimmed with coloured paper and furnished with candles, were provided. One or two persons relieved each other during daylight, to keep watch and ward off any evil. Of course, any poor neighbour who was cursed with a taste for tobacco smoke was only too ready for this duty, but the approach of darkness brought company enough, more indeed than were benefitted by the social duty.
The brave old patriarch Peter rested comfortably in his own chair and was talking intently to two or three of his neighbours, as old as himself, on the old chronicles of Castleton. We had paid little attention to his legends and tales, and we are now sorry enough for our inattention. On this occasion the hero of his story was a certain Squire Heaton, who, it appears, was the possessor of the Castleton demesne in some former age, and a terrible blackguard he must have been. He was employed in some fierce argument or other with his neighbours or tenants, we cannot now remember which, about a certain common, overgrown with furze bushes. It was, in fact, a large hill, which gave shelter to hundreds of hares and rabbits, and as the Squire would not give way to the demand made on him about the hill, the party collected and set fire to it on a fine summer evening.
Big Peter described, in a most graphic manner, the effect of the fire seen from the country round and about, all the poor hares and rabbits running for their lives, with their fur all scorched, and their eyes nearly burned out of their heads, and themselves falling into the hands of the crowds that kept watch at the edge of the burning mass. This reminiscence drew on others connected with matters that had taken place before the Rebellion, and while everyone was so engaged Eddie, Brian, and Charlie entered the room, reverently uncovering their heads, and reciting the ‘De Profundis’, verse and response. At the end they put their hats back on their heads and approached the elderly group.
A grand-daughter of Peter’s and Mrs O’Brien’s servant girl, Joanna, a rattling young girl, came in with them, and after the psalm joined the ‘Big Peter’s’ womenfolk in the house, who occupied seats near the table. The older people, not willing to lose any of their usual hours of rest, began to leave, after having nearly exhausted all the interesting topics of the locality. But it was not long until a considerable amount of more lively conversation, of more interest to the younger portion of the company, began to develop itself among the various groups, two or three of the chief families keeping together near the table, as has been said.
At last a request came from a young woman in this group to Mr. Edmond, that he would entertain them with a song. Never being a man that was troubled with bashfulness, he immediately agreed, merely asking one of the little boys to bring a young cat from the kitchen to walk down his throat and clear away the cobwebs. He warned his audience that his song was useful to anyone thinking of paying a visit to the sites of Dublin.
” THE CONNAUGHT MAN AT THE REVIEW.
” With a neat house and garden, I live at my ease,
But all worldly pleasures my mind cannot please;
To friends and to neighbours I bid them adieu,
And I pegged off to Dublin to see the review.
Chorus – Laddly, ta ral lal, ta ral lal, lee.
” With trembling expectations, to the town I advanced,
Till I met with a soup-maker’s cellar by chance,
Where I saw hogs’ puddings, cows’ heels, and fat tripes;
And that delicate sight
” I stood in amaze, and I viewed them all o’er
The mistress espied me, and came to her door ;
‘ Step in, if you please, there is everything nice ;
You shall have a good dinner at a reasonable price.’
“I tumbled down stairs, and I took off my hat;
And immediately down by the fire-side I sat.
In less than five minutes she brought me a plate
Overflowing with potatoes, white cabbage, and meat.
” Says she, it was in Leitrim I was born and bred,
And can accommodate you to a very good bed.’
I thanked her, and straightway to bed I did fly,
Where I lay as snug as a pig in a sty.
“In less than five minutes my sides they grew hard,
For every feather it measured a yard.
A regiment of black-boys my poor corpse overspread,
And insisted they’d tumble me out of the bed.
“I slept there all night until clear day-light,
And immediately called for my bill upon sight,
Says she, ‘as we both are come from the one town,
And besides old acquaintance, I’ll charge but a crown.’
” Oh, that is too much now, and conscience to boot ;’
So, between she and I there arose a dispute.
To avoid the dispute, and to soon put an end,
She out for the police her daughter did send.
“In the wink of an eye I was sorely confounded
To see my poor body so sadly surrounded.
I thought they were mayors, or peers of the land,
With their long coats, and drab capes, and guns in their hands.
“‘Gentlemen,’ says I, ‘I’m a poor, honest man :
Before in my life I was never trepanned.’
‘ Come, me good fellow ! Come pay for the whole,
Or else you will be the first man in the goal.’
“I paid the demand, and I bid her adieu,
And was off to the Park for to see the review ;
Where a soldier he gave me a rap of his gun,
And bid me run home, for the white eyes were done.
“‘My good fella,’ says I, ‘had I you where I know,
I’d make you full Bore to repent of that blow.’
At the hearing of this, in a passion he flew,
And his long carving knife on me poor head he drew.
There were three or four verses more, but the readers are probably content with the quantity furnished. There was clucking of tongues against palates at the mention of the roguish tricks of the Dublin dealers. But a carrier in company cleared the city-born folk of some of the bad reputation alleged by the song and pronounced country people who had made good their standing in Dublin for a few years, to be the greatest cheats in the kingdom.
Mr. Edmond, having now a right to call someone up, summoned Joanna, the servant maid, previously mentioned, to show what she could do. Joanna, though very ready with her tongue at home, was at heart a modest girl, and fought hard to be let off. But one protested that she was a good singer, in right of a lark’s heel she had, but this was not the case, for Joanna had a neat foot. Another said that she was taught to sing by note when Tone, the dancing-master made his last round through the country, another said, that he heard herself and a young kid sing verse about one day when nobody was within hearing.
So, poor Joan, to get rid of the torment, asked what song they would like her to sing for them, and a dozen voices requested a love song about murder. So, after looking down, with a blushing face, for a while, she began with an unsteady voice, but she was soon under the influence of the subject and sung with a sweet voice one of these old English ballads, which we heard for the first time from a young woman of the Barony of Bardon, in the south.
There is another song on the same subject in some collection which we cannot at this remember at this moment. But Joanna’s version is evidently a faulty one. It has suffered from transmission through generations of negligent vocalists and now it is not easy to give it an original period of time.
“‘Come, comb your head, Fair Eleanor ,
And comb it on your knee,
And that you may look maiden-like
Till my return to thee.’
“”Tis hard for me to look maiden-like,
When maiden I am none :
Seven fair sons I’ve borne to thee,
And the eighth lies in my womb.’
”Seven long years were past and gone ;
Fair Eleanor thought it long.
She went up into her bower,
With her silver cane in hand.
“She looked far, she looked near,
She looked upon the strand ;
And it’s there she spied King William a-coming,
And his new bride by the hand.
“She then called up her seven sons,
By one, by two, by three ;
‘ I wish that you were seven greyhounds,
This night to worry me ! ‘
“‘Oh, say not so our mother dear,
But put on your golden pall,
And go and throw open your wide, wide gates,
And welcome the nobles all.’
” So, she threw off her gown of green ;
She put on her golden pall,
She went and threw open her wide, wide gates,
And welcomed the nobles all.
” ‘ Oh, welcome, lady fair ! ‘ she said ;
‘ You’re welcome to your own ;
And welcome be these nobles all
That come to wait on you home.’
” ‘ Oh, thankee, thankee, Fair Eleanor !
And many thanks to thee ;
And if in this bower I do remain,
Great gifts I’ll bestow on thee.’
” She served them up, she served them down,
She served them all with wine,
But still she drank of the clear spring water,
To keep her colour fine.
“She served them up, she served them down.
She served them in the hall.
But still she wiped off the salt, salt tears,
As they from her did fall.
” Well bespoke the bride so gay,
As she sat in her chair—
‘And tell to me, King William,’ she said,
‘ Who is this maid so fair ?
” ‘ Is she of your kith, ‘ she said,
‘ Or is she of your kin,
Or is she your comely housekeeper
That walks both out and in i ‘
” ‘ She is not of my kith,’ he said,
‘ Nor is she of my kin ;
But she is my comely housekeeper
That walks both out and in.’
‘\’ Who then was your father,’ she said,
‘ Or who then was your mother 1
Had you any sister dear,
Or had you any brother 1 ‘
” ‘ King Henry was my father,’ she said,
‘ Queen Margaret was my mother,
Matilda was my sister dear,
Lord Thomas was my brother.’
” ‘ King Henry was your father,’ she said,
Queen Margaret, your mother,
1 am your only sister dear.
And here’s Lord Thomas, our brother.
” ‘ Seven lofty ships I have at sea,
All filled with beaten gold ;
Six of them I’ll leave with thee,
The seventh will bear me home.’ ”
The usual interruptions arising from new visitors entering had occurred several times during these relaxations, with the last visitor being a young giant of a man called Tom Sweeney. He was a labourer on the farm of young Roche, and an admirer of the songstress of Fair Eleanor, who, if she returned his affection, took special care to conceal the fact from the eyes of their acquaintance. Tom was as naïve a young man as there was anywhere in the county, and Peter O’Brien called on him to give a song. But the young man could think of nothing else to sing but the lamentation of a young girl for the absence of her lover.
” THE SAILOR BOY.
“‘Oh, the sailing trade is a weary life ;
It robs fair maids of their hearts’ delight,
Which causes me for to sigh and mourn,
For fear my true love will ne’er return.
“’The grass grows green upon yonder lea,
The leaves are budding from ev’ry spray,
The nightingale in her cage will sing
To welcome Willy home to crown the spring.
“’ I’ll build myself a little boat.
And o’er the ocean I mean to float :
From every French ship that do pass by,
I’ll inquire for Willy, that bold sailing boy.’
“She had not sailed a league past three
Till a fleet of French ships, she chanced to meet.
‘ Come tell me, sailors, and tell me true,
If my love Willy sails on board with you.’
“‘Indeed, fair maid, your love is not here,
But he is drowned by this we fear.
‘It was your green island that we passed by,
There we lost Willy, that bold sailing boy.’
“She wrung her hands and she tore her hair
Just like a lady that was in despair;
Against the rock her little boat she run—
‘How can I live, and my true love gone ? ‘
“Nine months after, this maid was dead,
And this note found on her bed’s head;
How she was satisfied to end her life,
Because she was not a bold sailor’s wife.
“‘Dig my grave both large and deep,
Deck it over with lillies sweet,
And on my head-stone cut a turtle-dove,
To signify that I died for love.’ ”
It is probable that the sentiments of this ballad will not produce similar feelings in our readers. It was not the case with the younger portion of Tom’s audience, for he sung it with much feeling. He was, indeed, a sincere young fellow, besides being a lover.
It would be a little boring, except to those with an interest in such things, if I was to let you read many more of the songs which were sung there. If truth be told, there were few that could be distinguished by them possessing genuine poetry or good taste. The people who were there were not so lucky and had to hear “The sailor who courted a farmer’s daughter, that lived convenient to the Isle of Man.” That was followed by the merry song called “The Wedding of Ballyporeen,” which caused the audience to laugh loudly, although they had heard it many times heard before. Then there were popular tunes such as, “The Boy with the Brown Hair,” “The Red-haired Girl,” “Sheela na Guira,” and “The Cottage Maid.” Laments and Ballads about lost loves and promising romantic futures, which were popular and encouraged the audience to join in. But, at last, some of those gathered began to demonstrate by their manner and gestures, that they had heard enough sweet singing, and O’Brien, and Roche, and Redmond, were invited to get up and perform the wake-house drama of ‘Old Dowd and his Daughters’, which would help them to hold out against the stale air in the room and the want of sleep.
The young men did not exhibit too good a sense of the moral fitness of things, since they were not normally disposed to vice, in private or in public. It was custom that influenced them to think that what was harmless at other times and in other places could be looked on as harmless at a wake. So, Charles at once assumed took his place as stage manager, and assumed the role of Old Dowd with a daughter he needed to dispose of. He set the blushing and giggling Joanna on a chair beside him, Tom Sweeney, and two or three other young men on a bench at his other side, cleared an open space in front, procured a good stick for himself and each of his sons, and awaited the approach of the expected suitor.
O’Brien and Roche had gone out, and on their return were to be looked on, the first as the suitor, a caustic poet, who makes himself welcome at rich farmers’ houses by satirizing their neighbours, and the second as his horse, whose forelegs were represented by the man’s arms, and a stool firmly grasped in his hands. Roche’s election to this role was determined by his size and great strength. Finally, amid the most profound silence the performance of “Old Dowd and his Daughters” began—
OLD DOWD AND HIS DAUGHTERS.
[Present : Old Dowd, his marriageable daughter, Sheela, and his six sons. Enter poetic suitor, appropriately mounted. Father and sons eye the pair with much contempt.]
Old Dowd: Who is this, mounted on his old cart-horse, coming to disturb us at this hour of the night ? What kind of a tramp or traveller are you ? for I don’t think we can give you a lodging, sir, and you must go on farther.
Suitor: I’m not an honest man, no more than you are yourself, you old sinner, and I don’t want a room. I’m seeking a cure for life’s troubles. In plain words, a wife who can be with me for the rest of my life on this earth. Are you lucky enough to be able to help me, for you won’t ever get another chance to make a more high-bred connection as myself? My grandfather owned seven townlands, and let more property slip through his fingers than the whole seed, breed, and generation of the Dowds possessed since Adam was a boy. Come on, are you ready for me?
Father of Bride: Aye, and what property have you got?
Suitor: A law suit that’s to be decided on day before Christmas Eve. If I gain it, I’ll get fifty acres of land on the side of the mountain at a pound an acre. If I lose, they can only put me in the jail. Come on, now, let us see the bride. But, first, as they used to say at the siege of Troy, let us know your breeding and bloodline.
Father. Here I am, Old Dowd, with his six sons. Himself makes seven, four more would be eleven, and hurrah, brave boys.”
At this point of the conference the patriarch flourished his stick, and aimed a few blows at the steed and rider, more, however, in courtesy than resentment. The suitor warded the strokes with some skill and gave a tap or two to his father-in-law elect. He at last setting his weapon upright and the argument ceased.
Father: Come now, I see that you are not altogether unworthy to enter the family of the Dowds. What’s your profession? How do you earn your bread? I won’t send out my dear Sheela to live on the neighbours.
Suitor: I’m a poet and live by the weaknesses of mankind.
Father: Och, what kind of trade is that? Your coat is white at the seams. Is that some sort of vest or is it a real shirt you have on you? How many meals a day do you get? Everyone knows the saying, ‘as poor as a poet’.
Suitor: Then I think three-quarters of the people about here must be in the same trade. If you were to be a father-in-law to me, then learn to be mannerly, Old Dowd. I scorn a vest, except when my old shirt is worn out, and my new one has not come from the seamstress, and if I could find an appetite, I might eat seven meals a day. I stop at a gentleman- farmer’s and repeat a few verses that I said for against a neighbour for his stinginess to one of the old-stock of the Muldoons, and a poet besides. And don’t myself and my steed live like fighting cocks, and the man of the house not daring to sneeze for fear of getting into a new a bad verse about himself. Is this my bride? Oh, the darling girl, I must make a verse in her praise off the top of my head, for if I was Homer, that noble poet, I’d sing your praises in verses sweet. Or Alexander, that bold commander, I’d lay my trophies down at your feet.”
“Venerable head of the Clan Dowd, my intended looks a little hot. I hope it wasn’t with the pot-rag she wiped her face this morning. Old Dowd, you’ll have to shell out something decent for soap. The young lady’s name is Sheela, you say. She’s not the same Miss Sheela, I hope! You know that Pat Cox, the shoemaker, was lately courting?
Father: You vagabond of a poet, do you think I’d demean the old kings of Leinster, my forefathers, by taking into my family a greasy shoemaker?
Suitor: I only asked a civil question. Pat met his darling one day, as she was binding after the reapers, and asked when she’d let him take her measure for a pair of new shoes. “No time like the present time,” says she, and off she kicked her right foot pump. Her nails were a trifle long and her lovely toes were peeping out through the worsted stockings. If there was anything between the same toes it wouldn’t be polite to mention it. So bewildered was the love-sick fool by the privilege conferred on him, that he felt in his own mind, that a prolonged communication would not be good for the peace of heart. So, the shoes are not yet made, and Pat’s nearest residence is in the village of Derrymore.
Father: And do you dare, you foul-mouthed blackguard, to cast insinuations on the delicate habits of my dear child? Take this for your reward.
Sympathetic Sons: And this … and this.”
And now began a neat cudgel-skirmish between the main contracting parties. The angry father not only struck at the evil-tongued suitor, but also whacked at the inoffensive horse. The suitor warded the blows from his trusty horse as well as he could, but still one or two made impressions on the more sensitive portions of his body, and the sons with their wooden sticks added to his overall discomfort. So, the noble animal, feeling his patience rapidly diminishing, executed a half-jump, and applying the hoof of his off hind leg to the bench on which the old gentleman and his sons were sitting in state, he overturned them with little effort, and their heads and backs made sore acquaintance with the wall and floor.
This disagreeable incident, and the still unconquered difficulties, stopped the further prosecution of the suit, and amid rubbing of sore spots, scratching of heads, and howls of laughter from all parts of the room, they set about another match with Peter’s grand-daughter being obliged to sit for the next blushing bride. In this second act, Redmond came in as a wooer, bestriding Tom Sweeney, His cue was to have nothing of the poet or the vagrant hanging to his skirts. He was the miserly, careful tradesman of country life. O’Brien represented Old Dowd.
Thrifty Suitor: God save all here! Look here, I want a wife, and no more about it. Have you got one available?
Father: To be sure we have! Who are you, if you please?
Thrifty Suitor: I’m not ashamed of my name nor of my business. I’m a brogue-maker to my trade, and my name’s Mick Kinsella, and I’m not short of a few pounds in my pocket, not like that scare-crow, Denny Muldoon, that’ll be obliged to throw his large cloak over his bride to keep her from freezing with the cold in the honeymoon. I won’t have Miss Sheela, you may depend on it.
Father: Indeed, I think you’re right, Mick-the Brogue. That dear girl was a little untidy, still she wasn’t without her good points. But she would persist in wiping the plates with the cat’s tail when the dishcloth was not at hand, and I’m afraid that her husband won’t be known by the whiteness of his shirt collar at the chapel. Well, well, we won’t speak ill of the absent. But here, you son of a turned pump, is the flower of the flock for you. Here’s one that will put a genteel stamp on your stand of brogues at a fair or market. By the way, the shoe-makers don’t associate with you, men of the leather strip. They don’t look on you as tradesmen. What shabby pride! Begging your pardon, Mick, what property have you, and what do you intend to leave to your widow? After all, no one can say to your face that you married out of a frolic of youth. You’re turned fifty, I think.
Thrifty Suitor: No, I am not, Old Dowd! I am only pushing forty-five, and I have neither a red nose nor a shaky hand, Old Dowd . And I hope Mrs. Kinsella won’t be at the expense of a widow’s cap for thirty years to come, Old Dowd. But not to make an ill answer, I have three hundred red guineas under the thatch. And now tell me what yourself will lay down on the nail the day your daughter changes her name.
Father: Well, well, the impudence of some people stings! Isn’t it enough, and more than enough, to get a young woman of birth, that has book-learning and reads novels? And you, you big jackass, don’t you think but your bread will be baked the day she condescends to take the vulgar name of Kinsella? Why, man, the meaning of the word is “Dirty Head.” An old king of Leinster got it for killing a priest.
Thrifty Suitor: I don’t care a pig’s bristle for your notions and grand ideas. Give me an answer, if you please.
Father: Oh, dear, dear, Old Dowd! Did you ever think you would live long enough to hear your genteel and accomplished daughter, Miss Biddy Dowd, called by the vile name of Biddy -the-Brogue?
Thrifty Suitor: Now, none of your impudence, you overbearing and immoral old toper! I want a wife to keep things snug at home, and make me comfortable, and not let me be cheated by my servants and workmen. You say that Biddy reads novels and, maybe when the ploughmen come in at noon, they’ll only find the praties put down over a bad fire, and the mistress crying over a greasy-covered book in the corner. To the Devil with all the novels in the world.
The Dowds (father and sons): This ignorant gobshite never went as far as the “Principles of Politeness ” in the “Universal Spelling-book.” Let us administer the youth a little of hazel-oil to make his joints supple and teach him some manners!”
Then another battle of arms took place, in which some skilful play was shown with the sticks, and several sound thumps were given and received, to the great delight and edification of the assembly.
Thrifty Suitor: Now that these few compliments are over, what is to be the fortune of Biddy, I beg a thousand pardons, Miss Biddy Dowd, I mean?
Father: Isn’t her face fortune enough for you, you vulgar man? Do you think nothing of the respectability of having her sitting on a pillion behind you going to fair or market to work after you, with her green silk gown and quilted purple petticoat, and her bright orange shawl ? Ah, you lucky thief ! Won’t you have the crowd of young fellows around you, bargaining for your ware, and inviting Mrs. Kinsella to a glass of punch? I think, instead of expecting a fortune, you should give a big bag of money for being let into my family.
Thrifty Suitor: Old Dowd, all your bluster isn’t worth a cast-off brogue. Mention a decent sum, or back I go to my work. I’m young enough to be married these fifteen years to come.”
Here the father and sons put their heads together, and finally the hard-pressed father named twenty pounds, but the worldly-minded suitor exclaimed against the smallness of the sum and insisted on a hundred. After a series of skilful thrusts and parries, they agreed to split the difference, and the candidate was asked whether he preferred to receive it in quarterly payments or be paid all at once. He inconsiderately named present payment and had soon reason to repent of his haste to become rich, for the dowry descended on himself and his charger in a shower of blows from the tough hazels and blackthorns of his new relatives. After receiving and inflicting several stripes, he shouted out that he was satisfied to give a long day with the balance. And so, with their shoulders and sides sore with blows and laughter, the play came to an end, and much appreciation was shown by the audience both with the action and dialogue, for many in the crowd knew the parties who were represented, and scarcely, if at all, caricatured. Denny Muldoon, and Mick Kinsella, and Biddy-the-Brogue, were well-known under other names.
When the enthusiasm had subsided a little, it being now about one o’clock in the morning, O’Brien, Roche, Edmond, Joanna, and Sweeney withdrew, but not before reciting some prayers before they left the room. When the vacated seats came to be filled, and lately bashful young fellows began to use the tobacco-pipes, which one but the older folk had meddled with before, the hitherto tolerably decent spirit of the society began to evaporate, and confusion and ill manners began to prevail. However, a young fellow, who felt a desire to hear himself sing in company, got some of his supporters to endeavour to quieten the noise, and request him to favour the assembly with a song. The noise did not entirely subside until the first notes were heard, and the dismal style in which the verses were sung needed to be restrained but indifferently.
” THE STREAMS OF BUNCLODY.
“Was I at the moss-house where the birds do increase,
At the foot of Mount Leinster, or some silent place,
At the streams of Bunclody, where all pleasures do meet,
And all I require is one kiss from you, sweet.
” The reason my love slights me, I do understand,
Because she has a freehold and I have no land ;
A great store of riches, both Silver and gold,
And everything fitting a house to uphold.
“If I was a clerk who could write a good hand,
I’d write to my true love that she might understand,
That I’m a young man that’s deeply in love,
That lived by Bunclody, and now must remove.
” Adieu my dear father ; adieu my dear mother ;
Farewell to my sister, and likewise my brother ;
I’m going to America, my fortune to try ;
When 1 think on Bunclody, I’m ready to die.”
The general feeling at the time was too cynical to relish such a sad song. Several songs were sung, whose composers’ ghosts shall not have the gratification of seeing them here either in substance or name. At last, even the songs, such as they were, began to lose their charm, and games were introduced. The first was played in the following way –
The captain took five assistants, and arranged them in a semicircle, giving to each a name. He then began with a short stick to pound the palm of one to whom the mischance came by lot, keeping a firm hold of his wrist all the time, and naming the troop in this manner “Fabby, Darby Skibby, Donacha the Saddler, Jacob the Farmer, Scour-dish, what’s that man’s name?” He suddenly pointed to one of the group, and if the patient named him on the moment, he was released, and the fellow named was submitted to the handy discipline. If there was the slightest delay about the name, the operator went on as before—”Fibby Fabby, Darby Skibby,” etc., until the poor victim’s fingers were in a sad state.
In the second game a candle was placed on the ground, in the middle of a circle of lads, and all are told to keep their eyes fixed on it, and their hands behind their backs. The captain provided himself with a twisted leathern apron, or something equally unpleasant to be struck with, and walked on the outside of the ring, exclaiming from time to time, “Watch the light, watch the light.” Secretly placing the weapon into the hands of one of the men, he at last cried out, “Use the linger, use the linger;” and this worthy ran round the circle, using it to some purpose on the backs of his playmates. He then became the captain, and in due course delivered the instrument to someone else.
But the most objectionable trick of all was “shooting the buck.” Some person or persons who had not yet seen the performance were essential to its success, as it required a victim or two. The person acting the buck having gone out, the sportsman who was to shoot him required one to three unsuspicious persons to lie in wait inside the door, to catch the animal when falling from the effect of the shot, promising that they should see fine things. All became silent and watchful, and the retrievers were at their post, when the stag appeared in the door-way, a stool on his head, with the feet upturned to represent horns. The huntsman stooped, and squinting along a stick, cried out, “too-oo”! Back fell the animal, and down came the stool, and all the dirt with which the rogue had charged it out side, on the hats and clothes of the raw sportsmen, and great laughter rose from all the throats but theirs.
By this time, it is three or four o’clock, and time for anyone who dreads the terrors of an over-burdened conscience, while he lies passive and stretched out the next morning, to quit the scene of such frivolity. We might here moralize on the inherent evil of the institution, and the number of young men who became hardened in vice by attending wakes, and the number of young women who lost their character thereby, and everything with it, here and hereafter. The evil lay in visiting them at all, for more than a few minutes. It would be out of the question for the best-intentioned to remain in the foul room for the whole night and come out as innocent in the morning as they entered in the evening. Girls with any pretence to good conduct never remained in them beyond the early hours of the night and were always supposed to be there under the guardianship of a brother, cousin, or declared lover. We will say, for the honour of those districts of Ireland that were known to us, that it was rare to hear of a young woman, farmer’s or cottager’s daughter, of bad character.