Brigid of the Songs was the most famous singer in Rossnageeragh, not
only in my time but in my father’s time. It’s said that she could wile
the song-thrush from the branch with the sweetness of the music that God
gave her; and I would believe it, for it’s often she wiled me and other
lads besides from our dinner or our supper. I’d be a rich man to-day if
I had a shilling for every time I stopped outside her door, on my way
home from school, listening to her share of songs; and my father told me
that it’s often and often he did the same thing when he was a lad going
to school. It was a tradition among the people that it was from Raftery
himself that Brigid learned “_Conntae Mhuigheó_” (The County of Mayo),
and isn’t it with the “_Conntae Mhuigheó_” that she drew the big tears
out of the eyes of John MacHale one time he was on a visit here, along
with our own Bishop, a year exactly before I was born?
A thing that’s no wonder, when we heard that there was to be a Feis in
Moykeeran, we all settled in our minds that it’s Brigid would have the
prize for the singing, if she’d enter for it. There was no other person,
neither men-singers nor women-singers, half as good as she was in the
seven parishes. She couldn’t be beaten, if right was to be done. She
would put wonderment on the people of Moykeeran and on the grand folk
would be in it out of Galway and out of Tuam. She would earn name and
fame for Rossnageeragh. She would win the prize easy, and she would be
sent to Dublin to sing a song at the Oireachtas. There was a sort of
hesitation on Brigid at first. She was too old, she said. Her voice
wasn’t as good as it used be. She hadn’t her wind. A share of her songs
were going out of her memory. She didn’t want a prize. Didn’t the men of
Ireland know that she was the best singer in Iar-Connacht? Didn’t
Raftery praise her, didn’t Colm Wallace make a song in her honour,
didn’t she draw tears out of the eyes of John MacHale? Brigid said that
much and seven times more; but it was plain, at the same time, that
there was a wish on her to go to the Feis, and we all knew that she
would go. To make a short story of it, we were at her until we took a
promise out of her that she would go.
She went. It’s well I remember the day of the Feis. The world of Ireland
was there, you’d think. The house was overflowing with poor people and
with rich people, with noble folk and with lowly folk, with strong,
active youths, and with withered, done old people. There were priests
and friars there from every art. There were doctors and lawyers there
from Tuam and from Galway and from Uachtar Ard. There were newspaper
people there from Dublin. There was a lord’s son there from England. The
full of people went up, singing songs. Brigid went up. We were at the
back of the house, listening to her. She began. There was a little
bashfulness on her at the start, and her voice was too low. But she came
to herself in time, according as she was stirring out into the song, and
she took tears out of the eyes of the gathering with the last verse.
There was great cheering when she had finished, and she coming down.
_We_ put a shout out of us you’d think would crack the roof of the
house. A young girl went up. Her voice was a long way better than
Brigid’s, but, we thought, there was not the same sadness nor sweetness
in the song as there was in Brigid’s. She came down. The people cheered
again, but I didn’t notice that anybody was crying. One of the judges
got up. He praised Brigid greatly. He praised the young girl greatly,
too. He was very tedious.
“Who won the prize?” says one of us at last, when our share of patience
was exhausted.
“Oh, the prize!” says he. “Well, in regard to the prize, we are giving
it to Nora Cassidy (the young girl), but we are considering the award of
a special prize to Brígid ní Mhainín (our Brigid). Nora Cassidy will be
sent to Dublin to sing a song at the Oireachtas.”
The Moykeeran people applauded, for it was out of Moykeeran that Nora
Cassidy was. We didn’t say anything. We looked over at Brigid. Her face
was grey-white, and she trembling in every limb.
“What did you say, sir, please?” says she in a strange voice. “Is it I
that have the prize?”
“We are considering the award of a special prize to you, my good woman,
as you shaped so excellently--you did that,--but it’s to Nora Cassidy
that the Feis prize is given.”
Brigid didn’t speak a word; but it’s how she rose up, and without
looking either to the right hand or to the left, she went out the door.
She took the road to Rossnageeragh, and she was before us when we
reached the village late in the night.
* * * * *
The Oireachtas was to be in Dublin the week after. We were a sad crowd,
remembering that Brigid of the Songs wouldn’t be there. We were full
sure that fair play wasn’t done her in Moykeeran, and we thought that if
she’d go to Dublin she’d get satisfaction. But alas! we had no money to
send her there, and if we had itself we knew that she wouldn’t take it
from us. We were arguing the question one evening at the gable of the
Boatman’s house, when who should come up but little Martin Connolly, at
a full run, and he said to us that Brigid of the Songs was gone, the
lock on the door, and no tale or tidings to be got of her.
We didn’t know what happened her until a fortnight’s time after that.
Here’s how it fell out. When she heard that the Oireachtas was to be in
Dublin on such a day, she said to herself that she would be there if she
lived. She didn’t let on to anyone, but went off with herself in the
night-time, walking. She had only a florin piece in her pocket. She
didn’t know where Dublin was, nor how far it was away. She followed her
nose, it’s like, asking the road of the people she met, tramping always,
until she’d left behind her Cashlagh, and Spiddal, and Galway, and
Oranmore, and Athenry, and Kilconnell, and Ballinasloe, and Athlone, and
Mullingar, and Maynooth, until at last she saw from her the houses of
Dublin. It’s like that her share of money was spent long before that,
and nobody will ever know how the creature lived on that long, lonesome
journey. But one evening when the Oireachtas was in full swing in the
big hall in Dublin, a countrywoman was seen coming in the door, her feet
cut and bleeding with the hard stones of the road, her share of clothes
speckled with dust and dirt, and she weary, worn-out and exhausted.
She sat down. People were singing in the old style. Brígid ní Mhainín
from Rossnageeragh was called on (for we had entered her name in hopes
that we’d be able to send her). The old woman rose, went up, and started
“_Conntae Mhuigheó_.”
When she finished the house was in one ree-raw with shouts, it was that
fine. She was told to sing another song. She began on the “_Sail Og
Ruadh_” (The Red Willow). She had only the first line of the second
verse said when there came some wandering in her head. She stopped and
she began again. The wandering came on her a second time, then a
trembling, and she fell in a faint on the stage. She was carried out of
the hall. A doctor came to examine her.
“She is dying from the hunger and the hardship,” says he.
While that was going on, great shouts were heard inside the hall. One of
the judges came out in a hurry.
“You have won the first prize!” says he. “You did”--. He stopped
suddenly.
A priest was on his knees bending over Brigid. He raised his hand and he
gave the absolution.
“She has won a greater reward than the first prize,” says he.
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