was sent to you in the shape of a man to ask alms of you, in honour
of Jesus Christ, and you were not satisfied with refusing him, but you
must abuse him with bad names. Now, your life on this world is not
long, and in the name of God, I beseech you, make a good use of it."
"Hold your tongue," she said, "I think that you saw a ghost, or that
you lost your senses, and may God never relieve you, nor anyone else
who would leave a good fire, and a good supper, running out in the snow
after a lazy rap; but the devil a much sense was in you ever."
"If you don't take my advice, you'll repent when you'll be too late,"
said Patrick; but it was no use for him to be talking.
When Little Christmas [New Year's Day] came, the woman was not able to
get dinner ready; she was deaf and blind. On the Twelfth Night she was
not able to leave her bed, but she was raving and crying, "give them
alms, alms, alms, give them everything in the house in the name of
Jesus Christ."
She remained for a while like that, between the death and the life, and
she without sense. The priest came often, but he could do nothing with
her. The seventh day the priest came to her, and he brought the last
oil to anoint her with.
The candles were lit, but they were quenched upon the spot. They tried
to light them again, but all the coals that were in the county Mayo
would not light them. Then he thought to put the oil on her without a
candle, but on the spot the place was filled with a great smoke, and it
was little but the priest was smothered. Patrick came to the door of
the room, but he could go no further. He could hear the woman crying,
"a drink, a drink, in the name of Christ!"
She remained like this for two days, and she alive, and they used to
hear her from time to time crying out, "a drink, a drink," but they
could not go near her.
Word was sent for the Bishop O'Duffy, and he came at last, and two old
friars along with him. He was carrying a cross in his right hand. When
they got near Patrick's house, there came down on them with one swoop a
multitude of kites, and it was little but they plucked the eyes out of
the three.
They came then to Patrick's door and they lit the candles. The bishop
opened a book and said to the friars, "When I shall begin reading the
prayers do ye give the responses." Then he said, "Depart, O Christian
soul----"
"She is not a Christian soul," said a voice, but they saw no one.
The Bishop began again, "Depart, O Christian soul, out of this world,
in the name of the all-powerful Father who created you." Before he
could say more there came great thunder and lightning. They were
deafened with the thunder; the house was filled with smoke. The
lightning struck the gable of the house and threw it down. The deluge
came down so that the people thought it was the end of the world that
was in it.
The Bishop and the two friars fell to their prayers again. "O Lord,
according to the abundance of Thy mercy, look mercifully upon her,"
said the Bishop. "Amen," said the friars. There came a little calm and
the Bishop went over to the bed. Poor Patrick came to the other side
of the bed, and it was not long until the woman opened her mouth and
there came a host of dardeels out of it. Patrick let a screech and ran
for fire to put on them. When he came back the woman was dead, and the
dardeels gone.
The Bishop said prayers over her, and then he himself went away and the
two friars, and Patrick went out to get women to wash the corpse, but
when he came back the body was not to be found either up or down. There
was a purse of gold round its neck, and the purse went with the body,
and there is no account of either of them from that out.
Many was the story and version that the neighbours had about Patrick
Kerwan's wife. Some of them say that the devil took her with him.
Others said that the good people carried her away. At all events there
is no account of her since.
At the end of a month after that the speckled disease (smallpox) broke
out amongst the children and they all died. There was very great grief
on Patrick. He was alone, by himself, without wife, without children,
but he said: "Welcome be the will of God."
A short time after that, he sold all that he had and went into a
monastery. He spent his life piously and died a happy death. May God
grant us a good death and the life that is enduring.
THE BURIAL OF JESUS.
PREFACE.
The first time I heard this poem was at the Galway Feis many years ago.
A poor old man, called the Cean-nuidhe Cóir (Canny Core) or Honest
Merchant--I don't know what his real name was--recited it. I took him
aside in the interval during the competitions and wrote the most of
it down from his recitation. My friend, Eoghan O Neachtain, wrote the
rest of it down for me from the old man's mouth later on, but with the
greatest difficulty as he had lost his teeth and pronounced very badly.
Neither of us ever heard the poem before, and it is obviously only a
fragment of a long piece, now, I fear, hopelessly lost, in common with
many others, once popular. Indeed, I have seen a copy of this poem
written down by a man called Hessian some eighty years ago, who called
it the Assire [=Aiseirghe], but it is hopelessly undecipherable. This
curious piece refers to a story once so commonly known in Ireland that
it may almost be said to have formed part of the regular account of
the crucifixion. It is celebrated even more in Irish art than in Irish
story and song. When examining a few years ago the remains of the
beautiful abbey which gives to Ennis its Irish name of Mainistir na
h-Innse, I saw where a portion of the stone carving had recently been
laid bare, and there, as plain as though it had been carved yesterday,
was a very spirited picture of the cock rising up out of the pot and
getting ready to crow. This was included with the other symbols of the
crucifixion. I have seen the same thing on old wooden crucifixes, and
elsewhere. There seems to have been a body of legend in some way or
other connecting the cock with the history of the Passion. A Coptic
legend tells us that on the day of the betrayal a roasted cock had been
served up to our Lord, who bade it rise up and follow Judas, who was
then upon his way to make his bargain with the chief priests. The cock
rose up and did what it was ordered, and brought back word to our Lord
that the arch-traitor had sold Him, "and for this that cock shall enter
Paradise." Thevonet Voyages II. 75, quoted in Journal for Apocrypha.
It is more likely, however, that the legend as we know it came from the
second Greek form of the Gospel of Nicodemus, certain MSS. of which
contain the following passage: "And when the Jews refused to receive
again from Judas the thirty pieces of silver for which he had betrayed
his Master, he threw them in their midst and went away. And he came
home to make a halter out of a cord to hang himself with. There he
found his wife sitting and roasting a cock upon the coals. And he said
unto her: 'Rise wife and get a rope ready for me because I mean to hang
myself as I deserve.' But his wife said unto him, 'Why speakest thou
like that?' And Judas replied, 'Know then that I have unjustly betrayed
my master, Jesus, to the evil-doers who have taken him before Pilate
to put Him to death; but He will rise again on the third day, and then
woe to us.' But his wife said unto him, 'Speak not so, and believe it
not. For it is just as likely that this cock roasting on the coals will
crow as that Jesus will rise, as thou sayest.' And while she was thus
speaking the cock flapped his wings and crew thrice. Then was Judas yet
the more convicted, etc." (Tischendorff, p. 289). The legend found its
way into Scotland also. It is told in a bald version in Scotch Gaelic
of only four verses, recovered by Carmichael ("Carmina Gadelica," vol.
II., p. 176): "That cock which you have in the pot pounded as fine as
cabbage, the liar shall not leave the tomb until it crows upon the
beam." For the original and literal translation, see "Religious Songs
of Connacht."
THE STORY.
Virgin gentle, courteous, gracious,
Whose goodness, which my soul embraces,
A shaft of light through time and space is
To lead it into heavenly places.
Thy Holy Son, the King of Angels,
Suffered passion, wounds, estrangement,
In satisfaction for the ailments
Of the sins which here assail us.
* * * * *
He was laid in the tomb at the will of the King,
He died with pains unstinted,
The blood of His heart on the point of the dart,
And death on His cold face printed.
At the door of the tomb was a stone of gloom,
Not a hundred men could heave it,
But an angel came from heaven like flame
To raise it and to leave it.
The Magdalen came, and she came in her haste
To wash His wounds in a minute,
She searched through the gloom of the rock-hewn tomb,--
No trace of the Lord was in it.
She saw by the wall the grave clothes all
Lying empty there, and started,
And timidly asked of the soldier guard,
"Where has our Lord departed."
"I was here," said the guard, "I kept watch and kept ward,
Why seek ye the truth to smother?
I've a nice little cock who boils here in my pot--
And the one is as dead as the other."
"I've a nice little cock who boils here in my pot,
While the camp looks on and sees us,
And until the cock rises out of the pot,
He never shall rise, your Jesus."
With that the dead cock flew out of the pot,
And clapped with his wings loud crowing,
"Ochone"! cried the man, and his features grew wan,
"Then Jesus is up and doing."
[SPAKE THE VIRGIN.]
"I sicken, I sigh, with longing I die,
If ye show me not where to find Him,
To put balm in the cuts and the stabs and the wounds,
Wherewith in His side they signed Him."
He is gone where are gone the Apostles, and soon
In Galilee thou shalt find him.
[SPAKE CHRIST.]
By Peter my Church has been holily built
With flame of faithful endeavour,
Though the body be stricken the soul hath no guilt,--
Confess ye My name for ever.
Here is another melodious little piece about the two Marys which I got
from my friend Miss Agnes O'Farrelly, who got it from a young gossoon
in Inismaan, or in Aranmore, I do not know which.
UPROSE THE TWO MARYS.
Uprose the two Marys,
Two hours ere day,
And they went to the temple
To keene and to pray.
There came in the angel
With candle so bright,
"All hail to thee, Mary,"
Said God full of light.
"And dost thou forget it,
Thy passion and pain,
And dost thou forget it,
Thy slaying by men?
"And dost thou forget it,
The spear and the threat,
Which no children of Adam
Could ever forget?"
* * * * *
Remember me, children
Of Adam and Eve,
And the heavens of God
Ye shall surely receive.
SAINT PETER.
PREFACE.
An old woman named Bridget Casey, from near Baile-'dir-dhá-abhainn or
Riverstown, Co. Sligo, told this story to F. O'Conor in Athlone, from
whom I got it. For the original see "Religious Songs of Connacht," vol.
1, p. 192.
THE STORY.
At the time that St. Peter and our Saviour were walking the country,
many was the marvel that his Master showed him, and if it had been
another person who was in it and who had seen half as much, no doubt
his confidence in his Master would have been stronger than that of
Peter.
One day they were entering a town, and there was a musician sitting
half-drunk on the side of the road and he asking for alms. Our Saviour
gave him a piece of money, going by of him. There came wonder on Peter
at that, for he said to himself, "many's the poor man in great want
that my Master refused, but now He has given alms to this drunken
musician; but perhaps," says he to himself, "perhaps He likes music."
Our Saviour knew what was in Peter's mind, but he did not speak a word
about it.
On the next day they were journeying again, and a poor friar (_sic_)
met them, and he bowed down with age and almost naked. He asked our
Saviour for alms, but He took no notice of him, and did not answer his
request.
"There's another thing that's not right," said Peter in his own mind.
He was afraid to speak to his Master about it, but he was losing his
confidence in Him every day.
The same evening they were approaching another village when a blind
man met them and he asking alms. Our Saviour talked with him and said,
"What do you want?" "The price of a night's lodging, the price of
something to eat, and as much as I shall want to-morrow: if you can
give it to me you shall get great recompense, and recompense that is
not to be found in this sorrowful world."
"Good is your talk," said the Lord, "but you are only seeking to
deceive me, you are in no want of the price of a lodging or of anything
to eat, you have gold and silver in your pocket, and you ought to give
thanks to God for your having enough to do you till [next] day."
The blind man did not know that it was our Saviour who was talking to
him, and he said to him, "It is not sermons but alms I'm asking for, I
am certain that if you did know that there was gold or silver about me
you would take it from me. Get off now, I don't want your talk."
"Indeed you are a senseless man," said the Lord, "you will not have
gold or silver long," and with that He left him.
St. Peter was listening to the discourse, and he had a wish to tell the
blind man that it was our Saviour who was talking to him, but he got no
opportunity. But there was another man listening when our Saviour said
that the blind man had gold and silver. It was a wicked plunderer who
was in it, but he knew that our Saviour never told a lie. As soon as
He and St. Peter were gone, the robber came to the blind man and said
to him, "give me your gold and silver or I'll put a knife through your
heart."
"I have no gold or silver," said the blind man, "if I had, I wouldn't
be looking for alms." But, with that, the robber caught hold of him,
put him under him, and took from him all he had. The blind man shouted
and screamed as loud as he was able, and our Saviour and Peter heard
him.
"There's wrong being done to the blind man," said Peter.
"Get treacherously and it will go the same way," said our Saviour, "not
to speak of the Day of Judgment."
"I understand you, there is nothing hid from you, Master," said Peter.
* * * * *
The day after that they were journeying by a desert, and a greedy lion
came out. "Now, Peter," said our Saviour, "you often said that you
would lose your life for me, go now and give yourself to the lion, and
I shall escape safe."
Peter thought to himself and said, "I would sooner meet any other death
than let a lion eat me; we are swift-footed, and we can run from him,
but if I see him coming up with us I'll remain behind, and you can
escape safe."
"Let it be so," said our Saviour.
The lion gave a roar, and off and away with him after them, and it was
not long till he was gaining on them and close up to them.
"Remain behind, Peter," said our Saviour, but Peter let on that he
never heard a word, and went running out before his Master. The Lord
turned round and said to the lion, "go back to the desert," and so he
did.
Peter looked behind him, and when he saw the lion going back, he stood
till our Saviour came up with him.
"Peter," said He, "you left me in danger, and--what was worse than
that--you told lies."
"I did that," said Peter, "because I knew that you have power over
everything, not alone over the lion of the wilderness."
"Silence your mouth, and do not be telling lies; you did _not_ know,
and if you were to see me in danger to-morrow you would forsake me
again. I know the thoughts of your heart."
"I never thought that you did anything that was not right," said Peter.
"That is another lie," said our Saviour. "Do you not remember the day
that I gave alms to the musician who was half drunk, there was wonder
on you, and you said to yourself that many's the poor man in great
want, whom I refused, and yet that I gave alms to a drunken man because
I liked music. The day after that I refused the old friar, and you
said that that was not right; and the same evening you remember what
happened about the blind man. I will explain to you now why I acted
like that. That musician did more good than twenty friars of his sort
since ever they were born. He saved a girl's soul from the pains of
hell. She wanted a piece of money, and was going to commit a deadly sin
to get it, but the musician prevented her and gave her the piece of
money, though he himself was in want of a drink at the same time. As
for the friar, he was not in want at all; although he had the name of
friar he was a limb of the devil, and that was why I paid him no heed.
As for the blind man, his God was in his pocket, for the old word is
true, 'where your store is your heart will be with it.'"
A short time after that Peter said, "Master, you have a knowledge of
the most lonesome thoughts in the heart of man, and from this moment
out I submit to you in everything."
* * * * *
About a week after that they were travelling through hills and
mountains, and they lost their way. With the fall of the night there
came lightning, thunder, and heavy rain. The night was so dark they
could not see a sheep's path. Peter fell against a rock and hurt his
foot so badly that he was not able to walk a step.
Our Saviour saw a little light under the foot of a hill, and he said to
Peter, "remain where you are, and I will go for help to carry you."
"There is no help to be found in this wild place," said Peter, "and
don't leave me here in danger by myself."
"Be it so," said our Saviour, and with that he gave a whistle, and
there came four men; and who was captain of them but the person who
robbed the blind man a while before that! He recognized our Saviour and
Peter, and told his men to carry Peter carefully to the dwelling-place
they had among the hills. "These two put gold and silver in my way a
short time ago," said he.
They carried Peter into a chamber under the ground. There was a fine
fire in it, and they put the wounded man near it, and gave him a drink.
He fell asleep, and our Saviour made the sign of the cross with his
finger above the wound, and when he awoke he was able to walk as well
as ever. There was wonder on him when he awoke, and he asked "what
happened to him." Our Saviour told him each thing and how it occurred.
"I thought," said Peter, "that I was dead, and that I was up at the
gate of heaven, but I could not get in, for the door was shut, and
there was no doorkeeper to be found."
"It was a vision you had," said our Saviour, "but it is true. Heaven is
shut and is not to be opened until I die for the sin of the human race
who put anger on My Father. It is not a common but a shameful death I
shall get, but I shall rise again gloriously and open the heaven that
was shut, and you shall be doorkeeper."
"Ora! Master," said Peter, "it cannot be that you would get a shameful
death. Would you not allow me to die for you? I am ready and willing."
"You think that," said our Saviour.
* * * * *
The time came when our Saviour was to get death. The evening before
that He Himself and His twelve disciples were at supper, when He said,
"There is a man of you going to betray Me." There was great trouble on
them, and each one of them said, "Am I he?" But He said, "He who dips
with his hand in the dish with Me, he is the man who shall betray Me."
Peter said then, "If the whole world were against you," said he, "I
will not be against you." But our Saviour said to him, "Before the cock
crows to-night you will reneague (deny) Me three times."
"I would die before I would reneague you," said Peter; "indeed I shall
not reneague you."
When death-judgment was passed upon our Saviour, His enemies were
beating Him and spitting on Him. Peter was outside in the court, when
there came a servant-girl to him and said to him, "You were with
Jesus." "I don't know," says Peter, "what you are saying."
Then when he was going out the gate another girl said, "There's a man
who was with Jesus," but he took his oath that he had no knowledge at
all of Him. Then some of the people who were listening said, "There is
no doubt at all but you were with Him; we know it by your talk." He
took the great oaths, then, that he was not with Him. And on the spot
the cock crew, and then he remembered the words our Saviour said, and
he wept the tears of repentance, and he found forgiveness from Him whom
he denied. He has the keys of heaven now, and if we shed the tears of
repentance for our faults, as he shed them, we shall find forgiveness
as he found it, and he will welcome us with a hundred thousand welcomes
when we go to the door of heaven.
LEGENDS OF ST. DEGLAN.
PREFACE
I wrote down the following legend of St. Deglan, word for word, in
Irish, from the telling of my friend, Padraig O'Dalaigh, who comes
himself from the Decies.
THE STORY
When Deglan was leaving Rome he held his bell in his hand, but as he
was going into the ship he left the bell upon a rock that was by the
harbour, and forgot to bring it with him. The ship put out to sea, with
the bell left on the rock behind it.
When Deglan was coming near Ireland he remembered the bell, and knew
that he had left it on the rock behind him in Rome. Old people say
that long ago there used not to be much good in "a cleric without a
bell."[50] Deglan knew that he would want the bell when he would land in
Ireland, and he prayed God to send it to him.
[50] "A cleric without a bell," and "the forgetting his bell by the
cleric," are common proverbs in Irish.
At the end of a little time what should be seen swimming behind the
ship but the rock and the bell on it, just as Deglan had left it at
Rome. And when the vessel came to land, then the stone came into the
harbour at Ardmore, and the stone comes up on the shore, and it is
there yet. The stone is set high up on the top of two smaller stones,
and room between the two for a man to pass out under them. If you were
to see the hole you would feel certain that even a cat could not pass
out through it, and yet a big man can pass through.
Every Deglan's Day, the 24th of July, and the Sunday nearest to it,
thousands of people come from all over the Decies, from twenty miles
away, to the "pattern," and anyone who has anything the matter with
him, either disease or pain or sickness, goes in under that stone, and
believes firmly in his mind that he will be healed. Hundreds do that
yet, up to the present day.
About fifteen years ago the "pattern" was growing small and dying out,
but a feis, the second feis in Ireland [in modern times] was held on
Deglan's Sunday, and thousands and thousands of people came to it, and
there had not been such a "pattern" for fifty years. I myself have
often seen people passing under the stones.
Every second person in the "seana-phoball," and in the parish of
Ardmore also, is called Deglan down to the present day. Scarcely a
month passes that a child is not christened Deglan. The explanation
that the people give of the name of the parish called "Seana-phoball,"
or Old Parish, is that Deglan had made a parish of it and that there
were Christians there before there was a parish, or before there were
Christians in any other place in Ireland, and "old phoball" is the same
as "old paróiste" or parish.
[The above story is the folk version of part of the following, which
is here translated for the first time from an Irish MS. in my own
possession. St. Deglan's church is spoken of in the MS. as still
standing, and his miraculous stone as being still preserved there when
the account was written. This throws back the account many hundreds of
years. I collated my MS. carefully with one written in 1758 [23 M 50],
preserved in R.I.A. It has never been printed, but I believe my friend,
Father Power, will soon publish the entire life of St. Deglan.]
ST. DEGLAN.
OF HOW TRAMORE GOT ITS NAME.
And the people of the island concealed the ship so that Deglan could
not embark on it, for they disliked it greatly that Deglan should
inhabit it, for fear they themselves might be banished out of it.
His disciples then said to Deglan, "Father, thou often requirest to
come to this place. We pray thee to avoid it, and mayest thou receive
from God that the sea should ebb away from the land so that people may
go into it with dry feet, for Christ has said that whatever shall be
asked of My Father in My name He shall give it you, for it is not easy
for thou to inhabit this place or to protect it."
And Deglan said, "This place which was promised me by God and where my
burial was promised, how shall I be able to avoid it? But concerning
this thing which ye desire me to do, namely, to inhabit it, I like not
to pray against the will of God concerning the taking away from the sea
its own natural movement; howsoever, at your entreaty I shall direct
my petition to God, and whatsoever pleases God, let it be done."