May Oscar with his fiery flailTo pieces dash all Doneraile.
May Oscar with his fiery flailTo pieces dash all Doneraile.
May Oscar with his fiery flailTo pieces dash all Doneraile.
Mr. Stephen Gwynn, M.P., found a variant of this story in Donegal and has given a spirited poetic version of it. The story is also known in Waterford. It is probably spread all over the lands occupied by the Gael, and contains elements that are exceedingly old. The very verses about "the humming gnat or the scintilla of a beam of the sun" which I wrote down from the mouth of old John Cunningham in the Co. Roscommon, had been already jotted down in phonetics by Magregor, the Dean of Lismore, in Argyllshire in the year 1512. I printed the whole story with a French translation and introduction in the "Revue Celtique," vol. 13, p. 425, showing how in the Tripartite life of St. Patrick the story of piercing a penitent's foot is told of a son of the King of Munster. But, as his name was doubtless soon forgotten, the story got fathered upon Oisín.
The story had its rise, no doubt, in the sorrow felt by the people when the clerics told them that their beloved Fenians and Oisín and Finn were damned, and the story was probably invented by some clever person to save them from perdition. There are scores of MSS. which contain disputes betweenSt. Patrick and Oisín, or Ossian as the Scotch call him, on this very subject. See "Religious Songs of Connacht," vol. I., p. 209. For the allusion to Elphin, see the poem which follows.
THE STORY
Saint Patrick came to Ireland, and Oisín met him in Elphin and he carrying stones.
And whatever time it might be that he got the food,It would be long again till he would get the drink.
And whatever time it might be that he got the food,It would be long again till he would get the drink.
And whatever time it might be that he got the food,It would be long again till he would get the drink.
"Oisín," says he, "let me baptize you."
"Oh, what good would that do me?" says Oisín.
"Oisín," says St. Patrick, "unless you let me baptize you, you will go to hell where the rest of the Fenians are."
"If," says Oisín, "Diarmaid and Goll were alive for us, and the king that was over the Fenians, if they were to go to hell they would bring the devil and his forge up out of it on their back."
"Listen, O gray and senseless Oisín, think upon God, and bow your knee, and let me baptize you."
"Patrick," says Oisín, "for what did God damn all that of people?"
"For eating the apple of commandment," says St. Patrick.
"If I had known that your God was so narrow-sighted that he damned all that of people for one apple, we would have sent three horses and a mule carrying apples to God's heaven to Him."
"Listen, O gray and senseless Oisín, think upon God, and bow your knee, and let me baptize you."
Oisín fell into a faint, and the clergy thought that he had died. When he woke up out of it, "O Patrick, baptize me," says he—he saw something in his faint, he saw the thing that was before him. The spear was in St. Patrick's hand, and he thrust it into Oisín's foot purposely; and the ground was red with his share of blood.
"Oh," says St. Patrick to Oisín, "you are greatly cut."
"Oh, isn't that for my baptism?" says Oisín.
"I hope in God that you are saved," says St. Patrick, "you have undergone baptism and ...?"
"Patrick," says Oisín, "would you not be able to take the Fenians out of hell"—he saw them there when he was in his sleep.
"I could not," says St. Patrick, "and any one who is in hell, it is impossible to bring him out of it."
"Patrick," says Oisín, "are you able to take me to the place where Finn and the Fenians of Erin are?"
"I cannot," says St. Patrick.
As much as the humming gnatOr a scintilla of the beam of the sun,Unknown to the great powerful kingShall not pass in beneath my shield.
As much as the humming gnatOr a scintilla of the beam of the sun,Unknown to the great powerful kingShall not pass in beneath my shield.
As much as the humming gnatOr a scintilla of the beam of the sun,Unknown to the great powerful kingShall not pass in beneath my shield.
"Can you give them relief from the pain?" says Oisín.
St. Patrick then asked it as a petition from God to give them a relief from their pain, and he said to Oisín that they had found relief. This is the relief they got from God. Oscar got a flail, and he requested a fresh thong to be put into the flail, and there went a green rush as a thong into it, and he got the full of his palm of green sand,and he shook the sand on the ground, and as far as the sand reached the devils were not able to follow; but if they were to come beyond the place where the sand was strewn, Oscar was able to followthem, and to beat them with the flail. Oscar and all the Fenians are on this side of the sand, and the devils are on the other side, for St. Patrick got it as a request from God that they should not be able to follow them where the sand was shaken,—and the thong that was in the flail never broke since!
PREFACE.
In the story which I have just given it is said that St. Patrick met Oisin when he was carrying stones in Elphin, a small village in the County Roscommon, which was once a great ecclesiastical centre founded by St. Patrick. I had often heard other people in Roscommon tell about Oisín's carrying those stones in Elphin, and of St. Patrick meeting him there, but I always imagined that they had localised the story because they themselves belonged to the place. That this is not so, however, and that the story of the ancient warriors being forced to carry stones in his old age is old and genuine is proved by Magregor in Argyllshire jotting down a verse 400 years ago in which Ossian tells how Finn had prophesied to him that he would yet be carrying stones for the "Tailgin."
Bea tou schell a tarraing clooch,Ma in deyt how in weit wronyth.
Bea tou schell a tarraing clooch,Ma in deyt how in weit wronyth.
Bea tou schell a tarraing clooch,Ma in deyt how in weit wronyth.
i.e.
and the very poem (which I give here, taken from a Belfast MS.) was written in phonetics by Magregor in far-away Argyll.
Magregor's first line as read by McLaughlin (Skene's Book of Lismore) runs "is fadda noch ni nelli fiym," but Dr. Cameron later on gave a more correct reading "is fadda not ni nelli finni." It is not to be translated as McLaughlan does, "long are the clouds this night above me," but "long is to-night in Elphin," ni nelli finni being evidently to be transliterated as "i n-Ailfinne." This poem may almost be looked upon as a pendant to the last piece. See my "Religious Songs of Connacht."
COLD ELPHIN.
Long was last night in cold Elphin,More long is to-night on its weary way,Though yesterday seemed to me long and ill,Yet longer still was this dreary day.And long, for me, is each hour new-born,I fall forlorn to grinding griefFor the hunting lands, and the Fenian bands,And the long-haired generous Fenian Chief.I make no music, I find no feast,I slay no beast from a bounding steed,I give no gold, I am poor and old,I am cursed and cold without wine or mead.No more I court, and I hunt no more,These were before my strong delight,I have ceased to slay, and I take no prey,—Weary the day and long the night.No heroes come in their war array,No game I play, and no gold I win;I swim no stream with my men of might,—Long is to-night in cold Elphin.Would I were gone from this evil earth,I am wan with dearth, I am old and thin,Carrying stones in my own despite,—Long is to-night in cold Elphin.Ask, O Patrick, of God, for grace,And tell me what place he will hold me in,And save my soul from the Ill One's might—For long is to-night in cold Elphin.
Long was last night in cold Elphin,More long is to-night on its weary way,Though yesterday seemed to me long and ill,Yet longer still was this dreary day.And long, for me, is each hour new-born,I fall forlorn to grinding griefFor the hunting lands, and the Fenian bands,And the long-haired generous Fenian Chief.I make no music, I find no feast,I slay no beast from a bounding steed,I give no gold, I am poor and old,I am cursed and cold without wine or mead.No more I court, and I hunt no more,These were before my strong delight,I have ceased to slay, and I take no prey,—Weary the day and long the night.No heroes come in their war array,No game I play, and no gold I win;I swim no stream with my men of might,—Long is to-night in cold Elphin.Would I were gone from this evil earth,I am wan with dearth, I am old and thin,Carrying stones in my own despite,—Long is to-night in cold Elphin.Ask, O Patrick, of God, for grace,And tell me what place he will hold me in,And save my soul from the Ill One's might—For long is to-night in cold Elphin.
Long was last night in cold Elphin,More long is to-night on its weary way,Though yesterday seemed to me long and ill,Yet longer still was this dreary day.
And long, for me, is each hour new-born,I fall forlorn to grinding griefFor the hunting lands, and the Fenian bands,And the long-haired generous Fenian Chief.
I make no music, I find no feast,I slay no beast from a bounding steed,I give no gold, I am poor and old,I am cursed and cold without wine or mead.
No more I court, and I hunt no more,These were before my strong delight,I have ceased to slay, and I take no prey,—Weary the day and long the night.
No heroes come in their war array,No game I play, and no gold I win;I swim no stream with my men of might,—Long is to-night in cold Elphin.
Would I were gone from this evil earth,I am wan with dearth, I am old and thin,Carrying stones in my own despite,—Long is to-night in cold Elphin.
Ask, O Patrick, of God, for grace,And tell me what place he will hold me in,And save my soul from the Ill One's might—For long is to-night in cold Elphin.
PREFACE.
This story I wrote down most carefully, word for word, from the telling of Mairtin Ruadh O Giollarnath, near Monivea, Co. Galway. He knew no English. I printed it in my "Sgeuluidhe Gaedhealach," published in Rennes. I know no variant of this story.
THE STORY.
There arose some little difference between three sons. A farmer's sons they were. One man of them said that he would leave home and go to an island (i.e., emigrate). Another man of them became a priest, and the eldest brother remained at home.
The young priest never stopped until he went to Athlone to the college there, and he remained there for five years until his term had expired, and he was turned out a professed priest. He got himself ready, then, in the college, and said that he would go home to visit his father and mother.
He bound his books together in his bag, and then he faced for home. There was no mode of conveyance at that time; he had to walk. He walked all through the day until night was coming on. He saw alight at a distance from him. He went to it and found a gentleman's big house. He came into the yard and asked for lodgings until the morning. He got that from the gentleman and welcome, and the gentleman did not know what he would do for him, with the regard he had for him.
The priest was a fine handsome man, and the daughter of the gentleman took, as you would say, a fancy to him, when she was bringing his supper—and a fine supper it was he got. When they went to sleep then the young woman went into the room where the priest was. She began entreating him to give up the church and to marry herself. The gentleman had no daughter but herself, and she was to have the house and place, all of it, and she told that to the priest.
Says the priest, "don't tell me your mind," says he; "it's no good. I am wed already to Mary Mother, and I shall never have any other wife," says he. She gave him up then when she saw that it was no good for her, and she went away. There was a piece of gold plate in the house, and when the young priest fell asleep she came back again into his room, and she put the gold plate unbeknownst to him into his bag, and out she went again.
When he rose then, in the morning, he was getting himself ready to be going off again. It was a Friday, a fast day, that was in it, but she got a piece of meat and put it into his pocket, unbeknownst to him. Now he had both the meat and the gold plate in his bag, and off my poor man went, without any meal in the morning. When he had gone a couple of miles on his road, up she rose and told her father that the man that he had lastnight with him, "it was a bad man he was, that he stole the gold plate, and that he had meat in his pocket, going away of him, that she herself saw him eating it as he went the road that morning." Then the father got ready a horse and pursued him, and came up with him and got him taken and brought back again to his own house, and sent for the peelers.
"I thought," said he, "that it was an honest man you were, and it's a rogue you are," said he.
He was taken out then and given to the jury to be tried, and he was found guilty. The father took the gold plate out of the bag and showed it to the whole jury. He was sentenced to be hanged then. They said that any man who did a thing of that sort, he deserved nothing but to put his head in the noose[54]and hang him.
He was up on the stage then going to be hanged, when he asked leave to speak in the presence of the people. That was given him. He stood up, then, and he told all the people who he himself was, and where he was going and what he had done; how he was going home to his father and mother, and how he came into the gentleman's house. "I don't know that I did anything bad," said he, "but the daughter that this gentleman had, she came in to me, into the room, where I was asleep, and she asked me to leave the church and to marry herself, and I would not marry her, and no doubt it was she who put the gold plate and the fish into my bag," and he went down on his two knees then, and put up a petition to God to send them all light that it was not himself who was guilty.
"Oh, it was not fish that was in your bag at all but meat," said the daughter.
"It was meat perhaps thatyouput in it, but it was fish that I found in it," says the priest.
When the people heard that, they desired to bring the bag before them, and they found that it was fish in the place of meat that was in it. They gave judgment then to hang the young woman instead of the priest.
She was put up then in place of him to be hanged, and when she was up on the stage, going to be hanged, "Well, you devil," said she, "I'll have you, in heaven or on earth," and with that she was hanged.
The priest went away after that, drawing on home. When he came home he got, after a while, a chapel and a parish, and he was quiet and satisfied, and everybody in the place had a great respect for him, for he was a fine priest in the parish. He was like this for a good while, until a day came when he went to visit a great gentleman who was in that place; just as yourself might come into this garden,[55]or like that, and they were walking outside in the garden, the gentleman and himself. When he was going up a walk in this garden a lady met him, and when she was passing the priest on the walk, she struck a light little blow of her hand on his cheek. It was that lady who had been hanged who was in it, but the priest did not recognise her, [seemingly] alive, and thought she was some other fine lady who was there.
She went then into a summer house, and the priest went in after her, and had a little conversation with her,and it is likely that she beguiled him with melodious conversation and talk before she went out. When she herself and he himself were ready to depart, and when they were separating from one another, she turned to him and said, "you ought to recognize me," said she, "I am the woman that you hanged; I told you that day that I would have you yet, and I shall. I came to you now to damn you." With that she vanished out of his sight.
He gave himself up then; he said that he was damned for ever. He was getting no rest, either by day or by night, with the fear that was on him at her having met him again. He said that it was not in his power either to go back or forward—that he was to be damned for ever. That thought was preying on him day and night.
He went away then, and he went to the Bishop, and he told him the whole story and made his confession to him, and told him how she met him and tempted him. Then the bishop told him that he was damned for ever, and that there was nothing in the world to save him or able to save him.
"I have no hope at all, so?" said the priest.
The bishop said to him, "you have no hope at all, till you get a small load of cambrick needles,"—the finest needles at all—"and get a ship, and go out to sea, and according as you go every hundred yards on the sea you must throw away a needle from you out of the ship. Be going then," says he, "for ever," says he, "until you have thrown away the last of them. Unless you are able to gather them up out of the sea and to bring them all to me back again here, you will be lost for ever."
"Well that's a thing that I never shall do; it fails me to do that," said the priest.
He got the ship and the needles and went out to sea, according as he used to go a piece he used to throw a needle from him. He was going until he was very far away from land, and until he had thrown out the last needle. By the time he had thrown away the last needle, his own food was used up, and he had not a thing to eat. He spent three days then, on end, without bite or sup or drink, or means to come by them.
Then on the third day he saw dry land over from him at a distance. "I shall go," said he, "to yon dry land over there, and perhaps we may get something there that we can eat." The man was on the road to be lost. He drew towards the place and walked out upon the dry land. He spent from twelve o'clock in the day walking until it was eight o'clock at night. Then when the night had fallen black, he found himself in a great wood, and he saw a light at a distance from him in the wood, and he drew towards it. There were twelve little girls there before him and they had a good fire, and he asked of them a morsel to eat for God's sake. Something to eat was got ready for him. After that he got a good supper, and when he had the supper eaten he began to talk to them, telling them how he had left home and what it was he had done out of the way, and the penance that had been put on him by the bishop, and how he had to go out to sea and throw the needles from him.
"God help you, poor man," said one of the women, "it was a hard penance that was put upon you."
Says he, "I am afraid that I shall never go home. I have no hope of it. Have you any idea at all for me down from heaven as to where I shall get a man whowill tell me whether I shall save myself from the sins that I have committed?"
"I don't know," said a little girl of them, "but we have mass in this house every day in the year at twelve o'clock. A priest comes here to read mass for us, and unless that priest is able to tell it to you there is no use in your going back for ever."
The poor man was tired then and he went to sleep. Well now, he was that tired that he never felt to get up, and never heard the priest in the house reading mass until the mass was read and priest gone. He awoke then and asked one of the women had the priest come yet. She told him that he had and that he had read mass and was gone again. He was greatly troubled and sorry then after the priest.
Now with fear lest he might not awake next day, he brought in a harrow and he lay down on the harrow in such a way that he would have no means, as he thought, of getting any repose.
But in spite of all that the sleep preyed on him so much that he never felt to get up until mass was read and the priest gone the second day. Now he had two days lost, and the girls told him that unless he got the priest the third day he would have to go away from themselves. He went out then and brought in a bed of briars on which were thorns to wound his skin, and he lay down on them without his shirt in the corner, and with all sorts of torture that he was putting on himself he kept himself awake throughout the night until the priest came. The priest read mass, and when he had it read and he going away, my poor man went up to him and asked him to remain,that he had a story to tell him, and he told him then the way in which he was, and the penance that was on him, and how he had left home, and how he had thrown the needles behind him into the sea, and all that he had gone through of every kind.
It was a saint who was in the priest who read mass, and when he heard all that the other priest had to tell him, "to-morrow," says the saint to him, "go up to such and such a street that was in the town in that country; there is a woman there," says he, "selling fish, and the first fish you take hold of bring it with you. Fourpence the woman will want from you for the fish, and here is the fourpence to give her. And when you have the fish bought, open it up, and there is never a needle of all you threw into the sea that is not inside in its stomach. Leave the fish there behind you, everything you want is in its stomach; bring the needles with you, but leave the fish." The saint went away from him then.
The priest went to that street where the woman was selling fish, as the saint had ordered, and he brought the first fish he took hold of, and opened it up and took out the thing which was in its stomach, and he found the needles there as the saint had said to him. He brought them with him and he left the fish behind him. He turned back until he came to the house again. He spent the night there until morning. He rose next day, and when he had his meal eaten he left his blessing to the women and faced for his own home.
He was travelling then until he came to his own home. When the bishop who had put the penance on him heard that he had come back he went to visit him.
"You have come home?" said the bishop.
"I have," said he.
"And the needles with you?" said the bishop.
"Yes," says the priest, "here they are."
"Why then, the sins that are on me," said the bishop, "are greater than those on you."
The bishop had no rest then until he went to the Pope, and he told him that he had put this penance on the priest, "and I had no expectation that he would come back for ever until he was drowned," said he.
"That same penance that you put upon the priest you must put it on yourself now," said the Pope, "and you must make the same journey. The man is holy," said he.
The bishop went away, and embarked upon the same journey, and never came back since.
PREFACE.
There is scarcely another country in Europe, outside perhaps of a part of Switzerland and the Tyrol, in which there is the same veneration for purity and female chastity as in the Irish-speaking provinces of Ireland. In the pathetic and well-known song which begins "tá mé sínte ar do thuamba," "I am stretched upon thy tomb," the man who was in love with the maiden who had died says:
The priests and the friarsWear faces of gloomAt me loving a maidenAnd she cold in her tomb.I would lie on your grave-sodTo shield you from rain,This the thought of you there, love,Has numbed me with pain.When my people are thinkingThat I am asleep,It is on your cold grave, love,My vigil I keep.With desire I pineAnd my bosom is torn,You were mine, you were mine,From your childhood my storeen.
The priests and the friarsWear faces of gloomAt me loving a maidenAnd she cold in her tomb.I would lie on your grave-sodTo shield you from rain,This the thought of you there, love,Has numbed me with pain.When my people are thinkingThat I am asleep,It is on your cold grave, love,My vigil I keep.With desire I pineAnd my bosom is torn,You were mine, you were mine,From your childhood my storeen.
The priests and the friarsWear faces of gloomAt me loving a maidenAnd she cold in her tomb.I would lie on your grave-sodTo shield you from rain,This the thought of you there, love,Has numbed me with pain.
When my people are thinkingThat I am asleep,It is on your cold grave, love,My vigil I keep.With desire I pineAnd my bosom is torn,You were mine, you were mine,From your childhood my storeen.
But the mourner is not left entirely without comfort when he remembers the purity of her who had died:
You remember the night'Neath the thorn on the wold.When the heavens were freezingAnd all things were cold.Now thanks be to Jesus,No tempter came o'er you,And your maidenhood's crownIs a beacon before you.
You remember the night'Neath the thorn on the wold.When the heavens were freezingAnd all things were cold.Now thanks be to Jesus,No tempter came o'er you,And your maidenhood's crownIs a beacon before you.
You remember the night'Neath the thorn on the wold.When the heavens were freezingAnd all things were cold.Now thanks be to Jesus,No tempter came o'er you,And your maidenhood's crownIs a beacon before you.
In the story about St. Peter we saw how our Lord is made to say that the old drunkard who had kept a woman from evil had done more good than the friars themselves.
The following story seems to contain the same moral. It shows how it was not in the power of anything except virginity itself to banish the foul and evil spirit which had invaded the peace of the friars. There is a certain humour in the way in which the laziness, drunkenness and carelessness of the piper are portrayed, for by this is thrown into better relief the excellence of the only good deed he had performed.
The monastery of the friars is on the brink of the lake called Urlaur (floor), Orlar on the map. Àr-làr (slaughter-site) suggested in the text, is only folk-etymology. The remains are still to be seen, just inside the borders of the County Roscommon, and on the brink of the Co. Mayo. The monastery was built by Edward Costello and his wife Finuala, a daughter of the O'Conor Donn for the Dominican Friars, and was dedicated to St. Thomas. The Dominicans settled in it about the year 1430. On the dissolution of the monasteries it was granted to Lord Dillon, and it has now, with the rest of his enormous property, been bought by the Congested Districts Board and distributed amongst the tenants. We are told that there was once a town there, but there is now no trace of it. The monastery, being in such a retired spot, was set aside for the reception of novices throughout Connacht. The "pattern" here spoken of,i.e., the gathering held in honour of the "patron" saint, used to take place on the 4th of August, St. Dominick's day. The place is four or five miles from the town of Kilkelly, and Tavran or Towrann, where the piper came from, is a townland between Ballaghaderreen and Lough Errit, not very far from Urlaur. For the original, see "Religious Songs of Connacht."
THE STORY.
In times long ago there was a House of Friars on the brink of Loch Urlaur but there is nothing in it now except the old walls, with the water of the lake beating up against them every day in the year that the wind be's blowing from the south.
Whilst the friars were living in that house there was happiness in Ireland, and many is the youth who got good instructions from the friars in that house, who is now a saint in heaven.
It was the custom of the people of the villages to gather one day in the year to a "pattern," in the place where there used to be fighting and great slaughter when the Firbolgs were in Ireland, but the friars used to be amongst the young people to give them a good example and to keep them from fighting and quarrelling. There used to be pipers, fiddlers, harpers and bards at the pattern, along with trump-players and music-horns; young and old used to be gathered there, and there used to be songs, music, dancing and sport amongst them.
But there was a change to come and it came heavy. Some evil spirit found out its way to Loch Urlaur. It came at first in the shape of a black boar, with tusks on it as long as a pike, and as sharp as the point of a needle.
One day the friars went out to walk on the brink of the lake. There was a chair cut out of the rock about twenty feet from the brink, and what should they see seated in the chair but the big black boar. They did not know what was in it. Some of them said that it was a great water-dogthat was in it, but they were not long in doubt about it, for it let a screech out of it that was heard seven miles on each side of it; it rose up then on its hind feet and was there screeching and dancing for a couple of hours. Then it leaped into the water, and no sooner did it do that than there rose an awful storm which swept the roof off the friar's house, and off every other house within seven miles of the place. Furious waves rose upon the lake which sent the water twenty feet up into the air. Then came the lightning and the thunder, and everybody thought that it was the end of the world that was in it. There was such a great darkness that a person could not see his own hand if he were to put it out before him.
The friars went in and fell to saying prayers, but it was not long till they had company. The great black boar came in, opened its mouth, and cast out of it a litter of bonhams. These began on the instant running backwards and forwards and screeching as loud as if there were the seven deaths on them with the hunger. There was fear and astonishment on the friars, and they did not know what they ought to do. The abbot came forward and desired them to bring him holy water. They did so, and as soon as he sprinkled a drop of it on the boar and on the bonhams they went out in a blaze of fire, sweeping part of the side-wall with them into the lake. "A thousand thanks to God," said the Father Abbot, "the devil is gone from us."
But my grief! he did not go far. When the darkness departed they went to the brink of the lake, and they saw the black boar sitting in the stone chair that was cut out in the rock.
"Get me my curragh," said the Father Abbot, "and I'll banish the thief."
They got him the curragh and holy water, and two of them went into the curragh with him, but as soon as they came near to the black boar he leaped into the water, the storm rose, and the furious waves, and the curragh and the three who were in it were thrown high up upon the land with broken bones.
They sent for a doctor and for the bishop, and when they told the story to the bishop he said, "There is a limb of the devil in the shape of a friar amongst you, but I'll find him out without delay." Then he ordered them all to come forward, and when they came he called out the name of every friar, and according as each answered he was put on one side. But when he called out the name of Friar Lucas he was not to be found. He sent a messenger for him, but could get no account of him. At last the friar they were seeking for came to the door, flung down a cross that he had round his neck, smote his foot on it, and burst into a great laugh, turned on his heel, and into the lake. When he came as far as the chair on the rock he sat on it, whipped off his friar's clothes and flung them out into the water. When he stripped himself they saw that there was hair on him from the sole of his foot to the top of his head, as long as a goat's beard. He was not long alone, the black boar came to him from the bottom of the lake, and they began romping and dancing on the rock.
Then the bishop enquired what place did the rogue come from, and the (father) Superior said that he came a month ago from the north, and that he had a friar's dresson him when he came, and that he asked no account from him of what brought him to this place.
"You are too blind to be a Superior," said the bishop, "since you do not recognise a devil from a friar." While the bishop was talking the eyes of everyone present were on him, and they did not feel till the black boar came behind them and the rogue that had been a friar riding on him. "Seize the villain, seize him," says the bishop.
"You didn't seize me yourself," says the villain, "when I was your pet hound, and when you were giving me the meat that you would not give to the poor people who were weak with the hunger; I thank you for it, and I'll have a hot corner for you when you leave this world."
Some of them were afraid, but more of them made an attempt to catch the black boar and its rider, but they went into the lake, sat on the rock, and began screaming so loud that they made the bishop and the friars deaf, so that they could not hear one word from one another, and they remained so during their life, and that is the reason they were called the "Deaf Friars," and from that day (to this) the old saying is in the mouth of the people, "You're as deaf as a friar of Urlaur."
The black boar gave no rest to the friars either by night or day: he himself, and the rogue of a companion that he had, were persecuting them in many a way, and neither they themselves nor the bishop were able to destroy or banish them.
At last they were determining on giving up the place altogether, but the bishop said to them to have patience till he would take counsel with Saint Gerald, the patron saint of Mayo. The bishop went to the saint and told him thestory from beginning to end. "That sorrowful occurrence did not take place in my county," said the saint, "and I do not wish to have any hand in it." At this time Saint Gerald was only a higher priest in Tirerrill (?) but anything he took in hand succeeded with him, for he was a saint on earth from his youth. He told the bishop that he would be in Urlaur, at the end of a week, and that he would make an attempt to banish the evil spirit.
The bishop returned and told the friars what Gerald had said, and that message gave them great courage. They spent that week saying prayers, but the end of the week came, and another week went by, and Saint Gerald did not come, for "not as is thought does it happen." Gerald was struck with illness as it was fated for him, and he could not come.
One night the friars had a dream, and it was not one man alone who had it, but every man in the house. In the dream each man saw a woman clothed in white linen, and she said to them that it was not in the power of any man living to banish the evil spirit except of a piper named Donagh O'Grady who is living at Tavraun, a man who did more good, says she, on this world than all the priests and friars in the country.
On the morning of the next day, after the matin prayers, the Superior said, "I was dreaming, friars, last night about the evil spirit of the lake, and there was a ghost or an angel present who said to me that it was not in the power of any man living to banish the evil spirit except of a piper whose name was Donagh O'Grady who is living at Tavraun, a man who did more good in this world than all the priests and friars in the country."
"I had the same dream too," says every man of them.
"It is against our faith to believe in dreams," says the Superior, "but this was more than a dream, I saw an angel beside my bed clothed in white linen."
"Indeed I saw the same thing," says every man of them.
"It was a messenger from God who was in it," said the Superior, and with that he desired two friars to go for the piper. They went to Tavraun to look for him and they found him in a drinking-house half drunk. They asked him to come with them to the Superior of the friars at Urlaur.
"I'll not go one foot out of this place till I get my pay," says the piper. "I was at a wedding last night and I was not paid yet."
"Take our word that you will be paid," said the friars.
"I won't take any man's word; money down, or I'll stop where I am." There was no use in talk or flattery, they had to return home again without the piper.
They told their story to the Superior, and he gave them money to go back for the piper. They went to Tavraun again, gave the money to the piper and asked him to come with them.
"Wait till I drink another naggin; I can't play hearty music till I have my enough drunk?"
"We won't ask you to play music, it's another business we have for you."
O'Grady drank a couple of naggins, put the pipes under his oxter (arm-pit) and said, "I'm ready to go with ye now."
"Leave the pipes behind you," said the friars, "you won't want them."
"I wouldn't leave my pipes behind me if it was to Heaven I was going," says the piper.
When the piper came into the presence of the Superior, the Superior began examining him about the good works he had done during his life.
"I never did any good work during my life that I have any remembrance of," said the piper.
"Did you give away any alms during your life?" said the Superior.
"Indeed, I remember now, that I did give a tenpenny piece to a daughter of Mary O'Donnell's one night. She was in great want of the tenpenny piece, and she was going to sell herself to get it, when I gave it to her. After a little while she thought about the mortal sin she was going to commit, she gave up the world and its temptations and went into a convent, and people say that she passed a pious life. She died about seven years ago, and I heard that there were angels playing melodious music in the room when she was dying, and it's a pity I wasn't listening to them, for I'd have the tune now!"
"Well," said the Superior, "there's an evil spirit in the lake outside that's persecuting us day and night, and we had a revelation from an angel who came to us in a dream, that there was not a man alive able to banish the evil spirit but you."
"A male angel or female?" says the piper.
"It was a woman we saw," says the Superior, "she was dressed in white linen."
"Then I'll bet you five tenpenny pieces that itwas Mary O'Donnell's daughter was in it," says the piper.
"It is not lawful for us to bet," says the Superior, "but if you banish the evil spirit of the lake you will get twenty tenpenny pieces."
"Give me a couple of naggins of good whiskey to give me courage," says the piper.
"There is not a drop of spirits in the house," says the Superior, "you know that we don't taste it at all."
"Unless you give me a drop to drink," says the piper, "go and do the work yourself."
They had to send for a couple of naggins, and when the piper drank it he said that he was ready, and asked them to show him the evil spirit. They went to the brink of the lake, and they told him that the evil spirit used to come on to the rock every time that they struck the bell to announce the "Angel's Welcome" [Angelical Salutation].
"Go and strike it now," says the piper.
The friars went, and began to strike the bell, and it was not long till the black boar and its rider came swimming to the rock. When they got up on the rock the boar let a loud screech, and the rogue began dancing.
The piper looked at them and said, "wait till I give ye music." With that he squeezed on his pipes, and began playing, and on the moment the black boar and its rider leapt into the lake and made for the piper. He was thinking of running away, when a great white dove came out of the sky over the boar and its rider, shot lightning down on top of them and killed them. The waves threw them up on the brink of the lake, and the piper went and told theSuperior and the friars that the evil spirit of the lake and its rider were dead on the shore.
They all came out, and when they saw that their enemies were dead they uttered three shouts for excess of joy. They did not know then what they would do with the corpses. They gave forty tenpenny pieces to the piper and told him to throw the bodies into a hole far from the house. The piper got a lot of tinkers who were going the way and gave them ten tenpenny pieces to throw the corpse into a deep hole in a shaking-scraw a mile from the house of the friars. They took up the corpses, the piper walked out before them playing music, and they never stopped till they cast the bodies into the hole, and the shaking-scraw closed over them and nobody ever saw them since. The "Hole of the Black Boar" is to be seen still. The piper and the tinkers went to the public house, and they were drinking till they were drunk, then they began fighting, and you may be certain that the piper did not come out of Urlaur with a whole skin.
The friars built up the walls and the roof of the house and passed prosperous years in it, until the accursed foreigners came who banished the friars and threw down the greater part of the house to the ground.
The piper died a happy death, and it was the opinion of the people that he went to Heaven, and that it may be so with us all!
PREFACE.
This story of the two women I got from Francis O'Connor. He said he heard it from one Mary Casey, a Co. Galway woman, but I don't know from what part of Galway. It is I who am responsible for the dialogue form of it, which I have used instead of putting in an occasional bald "said Mary," "said Sheela"; but it really was told more in a dramatic then a narrative form, the reciter's voice showing who was speaking. The words I have not interfered with.
I once heard a dialogue not unlike this between two Melicete Indians in Canada who fell to discussing Theology over the camp-fire at night after hunting. One was a Catholic and the other a close replica of Maurya in our dialogue.
The story of Páidin Críona seems familiar to me, but I cannot think where or in what literature I have met it before.
THE STORY.
Maurya.
A hundred welcomes Sheela, it's a cure for sore eyes to see you; sit down and rest and tell us your news.
Sheela.
Musha! I have no news. It is not news that's troubling me.
Maurya.
Arrah! and what's troubling you? sure you're not ill!
Sheela.
I'm not ill, thanks be to God and to His blessed mother, but I do be thinking of the four last ends—the Death and the Judgment, and Hell and Heaven, for I know I shan't be much longer in this sorrowful world, and I wouldn't mind if I were leaving it to-morrow.
Maurya.
No nonsense at all of that sort ever comes intomyhead, and I'm older than you. I'm not tired of this world yet. I have knowledge of this world, and I have no knowledge at all of the other world. Nobody ever came back to tell me about it. I'll be time enough thinking of Death when he comes. And, another thing,—I don't believe that God created anyone to burn him in hell eternally.
Sheela.
You're going astray Maurya; were you at mass last Sunday?
Maurya.
Indeed and I was not! I was doing a thing more profitable. It was taking care of my hens I was, to keep them from laying abroad, or I wouldn't have the price of a grain of tea or sneesheen throughout the week. Thatbolgán-béiceachFather Brian wouldn't give me a penny if it was to keep me from being hanged. He's only a miserable greedysanntachán. I had a little sturk of a pig last Christmas and he asked me to sell it to give him a shilling on Christmas Day, and as I didn't do that, he called out my name the Sunday after, in the chapel. He's not satisfiedwith good food, and oats for his horse, and gold and silver in his pocket. As I said often, I don't see any trade as good as a priest's trade; see the fine working clothes they wear, and poor people earning it hard for them.
Sheela.
I wonder greatly at your talk. Your unbelief is great. I wonder that you speak so unmannerly about Father Brian, when if you were dying to-morrow, who would give you absolution but the same father?
Maurya.
Arrah! Sheela, hold your tongue. Father Brian wouldn't turn on his heel, either for you or for me, without pay, even if he knew that it would keep us out of hell.
Sheela.
The cross of Christ on us! I never thought that it was that sort of a woman you were. Did you ever go to confession?
Maurya.
I went the day I was married, but I never bowed my knee under him before or since.
Sheela.
You have not much to do now, and you ought to think about your poor soul.
Maurya.
That wouldn't keep the hens from laying abroad on me, and if I were to go to confess to Father Brian, instead of absolution it's a barging I'd get from him, unless I had a half-crown on the top of my fingers to give him.
Sheela.
Father Brian isn't half as bad as you say; I'm to go tohis house this evening with fresh eggs and a pint of butter. I'll speak to him about you if you give me leave.
Maurya.
Don't trouble yourself about me, for I'm not going near Father Brian: when I'll be on my death-bedhe'llcome tome.
Sheela.
And how do you know that it's not a sudden death you'd get, and what would happen to you if you were to get a "death without priest?"
Maurya.
And wouldn't I be as well off as the thousands who got death without e'er a priest. I haven't much trust in the priests. It's sinners that's in them all; they're like ourselves, exactly. My own notion is that there's nothing in religion but talk. Did you ever hear mention of Páidín Críona[56][wise Patsy].
Sheela.
I did, often.
Maurya.
Very well; did you ever hear his opinion about religion?
Sheela.
Indeed, I never did, but tell it to me if you please.
Maurya.
Musha, then, I will. There were three officers living in one house and Paudyeen Críona [Cree-on-a] was servant to them. There were no two of them of the same religion, and there used often to be a dispute amongst them—and every man of them saying that it was his own religion wasthe best religion. One day a man of them said, "We'll leave it to Wise Paudyeen as to which of us has the best religion." "We're satisfied," said the other two. They called in Paudyeen and a man of them said to him, "Paudyeen, I'm a Catholic, and what will happen to me after my death?"
"I'll tell you that," says Paudyeen. "You'll be put down into the grave, and you'll rise again and go up to the gate of heaven. Peter will come out and will ask you, 'what religion are you of.' You'll tell him, and he'll say, 'Go and sit in that corner amongst the Catholics.'"
"I'm a Protestant," said the second man, "and what'll happen to me after my death?"
"Exactly as the other man. You will be put sitting in the corner of the Protestants!"
"I'm a Hebrew," says the third man, "and what will happen to me after my death?"
"Exactly as the other two; you will be put sitting amongst the Hebrews."
Now there was no one of them better off than the other, as Paudyeen left them, and so the Catholic asked Paudyeen, "Paudyeen, what's your own religion?"
"I have no religion at all," says he.
"And what'll happen to you after your death?"
"I'll tell you that. I shall be put down into the hole, I shall rise again and go up to the gate of heaven. Peter will come and ask me, 'of what religion are you?' I will say that I have no religion at all, and Peter will say then, 'come in, and sit down, or walk about in any place that you have a wish for.'"
Now, Sheela, don't you see that he who had no religion at all was better off than the people who had a religion! Every one of them was bound to the corner of his own creed, but Paudyeen was able to go in his choice place, and I'll be so too.
Sheela.
God help you Maurya; I'm afraid there's a long time before your poor soul in Purgatory.
Maurya.
Have sense Sheela; I'll go through Purgatory as quickly as lightning through a gooseberry bush.
Sheela.
There's no use talking to you or giving you advice. I'll leave you.
When Sheela was going out, Maurya let a screech out of her which was heard for a mile on every side of her. Sheela turned round and she saw Maurya in the midst of a flame of fire. Sheela ran as fast as was in her to Father Brian's house, and returned with him running to Maurya's house. But, my grief! the house was burned to the ground, and Maurya was burnt with it; and I am afraid that the [her] poor soul was lost.
PREFACE.
This curious little piece is another dialogue in the same form as the last. These are the only two stories, if one may call them stories, which I have found couched in this form, so partly for that reason I give it here.
THE STORY
One day there was a poor little gossoon on the side of the road, and he taking care of an old sow of a pig, and a litter of bonhams along with her. A minister came the way, and he riding upon a fine horse, and he said to the gossoon, "Where does this road bring you?"
Gossoon.
I'm here for a fortnight, and it never brought me anywhere yet.
Minister.
Now, isn't it the wise little boy you are! Whose are the little pigs?
Gossoon.
They're the old sow's.
Minister.
I know that, but I'm asking you who is the master of the bonhams.
Gossoon.
That little black-and-white devil that you see rooting, he's able to beat the whole of them.
Minister.
That's not what I'm asking you at all, but who is your own master?
Gossoon.
My mistress's husband, a man as good as you'd get from here to himself.
Minister.
You don't understand me yet. Who is your mistress—perhaps you understand that?
Gossoon.
I understand you well. She is my master's wife. Everyone knows that.
Minister.
You're a wise little boy; and it's as good for me to let you be, but tell me do you know where Patrick O'Donnell is living?
Gossoon.
Yes, indeed. Follow this road until you come to a boreen on the side of your thumb-hand. Then follow your nose, and if you go astray break the guide.
Minister.
Indeed, and you're a ripe (precocious) little lad! What trade will you have when you'll be older?
Gossoon.
Herding a pig. Don't you see that I'm putting in my term. What is your own trade?
Minister.
A good trade. I am showing the people what is the way to heaven.
Gossoon.
Oh, what a liar!Youcan't show the way to any place. You don't know the way to Patrick O'Donnell's, a man that everybody—big and little—in this country knows, and I'm certain sure you have no knowledge of the road to heaven.
Minister.
I'm beaten. Here's half a crown for you for your cleverness, and when I come again you'll get another.
Gossoon.
Thank you. It's a pity that a fool like you doesn't come the way every day.
PREFACE.
I got the following poem from a schoolmaster called O'Kearney, near Belmullet, in West Mayo, who told me that he had taken it down from the recitation of an old man in the neighbourhood. I got another version of it afterwards from Michael Mac Ruaidhri of Ballycastle, Co. Mayo, with quite a different "cur-fa" or refrain, namelyŏch Ōch agus ŏch ūch ānafter the first two lines, andŏch [)o]ch agus Ōch ŏn Ōafter the next two. Spelt phonetically in English and givingghthe guttural value ofchin German, andoathe same sound as in Englishroachandoothe sound of oo inpool, it would run——