long time we are at odds with one another, and we ought to have a drink
together. Elleesh has a good bottle and come in till we drink a drop
of it before we go." "Why, then, I'll go with you," says the Devil, as
there was the Devil's thirst on him after his being up in the tree so
long. They drank their enough then inside in Elleesh's hovel, and when
the Devil had the bottle empty he rose up standing, that he might get
a grip of Shaun's throat to choke him. "In with you into the bottle,"
says Shaun. "In with you this moment," says he. "Did you think that you
would play on me," says he. The Devil had to go into the bottle, and he
spent seven years inside the bottle, with Shaun, without being let out.
Now it fell out that Elleesh had a young son, and there was a bottle
wanting to go for stuff for Elleesh. What was the bottle they should
bring with them but the bottle in which the Devil was down, and when
they took the cork out of it the Devil went off with himself.
Shaun was gone away looking for gossips for his son. The Son of God met
him.
"God salute you, Shaun," says he.
"God and Mary salute you."
"Where were you going now, Shaun?" says he.
"I was hunting for gossips for my son," says Shaun.
"Would you give him to me, and I'll stand for him?"
"Who are you?" says Tinker Shaun.
"I am the Son of God," says he.
"Well, then, indeed, I won't give him to you," says Shaun, "you give
seven times their enough to some people, and you don't give their half
enough to other people."
The Son of God departed.
The King of Sunday met him then and they saluted one another.
"Where were you going?" says the King of Sunday.
"Well, then, I was going hunting for a gossip for my son."
"Will you give him to me?" says the King of Sunday.
"Who are you?" says Shaun.
"I am the King of Sunday."
"Indeed, then, I won't give him," says Shaun. "You have only a single
day in the week and you're not able to do much good that day itself."
In this way he refused him, and the King of Sunday departed from him.
Who should meet him then and he coming home but the Death. [The Devil
was afraid to go near him again, but he sent the Death to meet him.]
"Make your soul now Shaun," says he, "I have you."
"Oh, you wouldn't give me death now," says Shaun, "until I baptise my
son."
"All right, baptise him," said the Death. "Who will you put to stand
for him?"
"I don't see any person," says Shaun, "better than yourself. It's you
who will leave him longest alive," says he.
When he got the son baptised he gave death to Shaun. He would not allow
him to be humbugging him.
MARY AND ST. JOSEPH AND THE CHERRY TREE.
PREFACE.
I wrote down this poem from the mouth of Michael Mac Ruaidhri or
Rogers, from near Ballycastle, in the Co. Mayo. The last five verses of
it, which he had not got, I obtained from Martin O'Callaly (or Caldwell
in English) in Erris, in the same county. There is a cherry tree carol
in English, and an excellent one in German. The original legend was
probably told of a date tree. A fifteenth century Dutch carol retains
the date tree. In a legendary life of the Blessed Virgin, quoted by
Jewitt in his book "The Nativity in Art and Song," we are told that the
Blessed Virgin, during the flight into Egypt, resting in the heat of
the noon day, saw a palm loaded with dates and desired them, but they
were high up out of reach. Then the child Jesus, who was yet in the
arms of Mary and had never spoken, lifted up his voice and said to the
palm tree, "bend thy branches O tree, bow down and offer thy fruits to
My mother," and immediately the tree bent down its top even to the feet
of Mary, and all were nourished with the fruits it bore. And the palm
tree remained bent to the earth awaiting that He whom it had obeyed
should bid it again to rise. And Jesus said, "Arise, O palm tree; thou
shalt be the companion of the trees which grow in the paradise of my
father." And while He was yet speaking behold an angel of the Lord
appeared, and taking a branch from the tree he flew through the midst
of heaven holding the palm in his hand.
The story has found its way into art. In "A Flight into Egypt," by
Martin Schongaur, angels bow the palm tree and St. Joseph gathers the
dates. In a work of Andrea Solario (Milanese School) St. Joseph is seen
giving the fruit with one hand to the Virgin, and with the other to her
Divine Son.
This poem was at one time known in the Highlands as well as Ireland,
for Carmichael recovered a very poor and imperfect version of eight
verses, which he printed in his monumental work "Carmina Gadelica,"
vol. II., p. 162.
A very pretty anonymous sixteenth century German Christmas hymn appears
to allude to our story in the first verse, which runs as follows:--
Als Gott der Herr geboren war
Da war es kalt,
Was sieht Maria am Wege stehn
Ein Feigenbaum.
Maria lass du die Feigen noch stehn
Wir haben noch dreissig Meilen zu gehn.
Es wird uns spat.
The word "Als" must here be taken as equivalent to "Ehe."
THE STORY.
Holy was good St. Joseph
When marrying Mary Mother,
Surely his lot was happy,
Happy beyond all other.
Refusing red gold laid down,
And the crown by David worn,
With Mary to be abiding
And guiding her steps forlorn.
One day when the twain were talking,
And walking through gardens early,
Where cherries were redly growing,
And blossoms were blowing rarely,
Mary the fruit desired,
For faint and tired she panted,
At the scent on the breezes' wing
Of the fruit that the King had planted.
Then spake to Joseph, the Virgin,
All weary and faint and low,
O pull me yon smiling cherries
That fair on the tree do grow,
"For feeble I am, and weary,
And my steps are but faint and slow,
And the works of the King of the graces
I feel within me grow."
Then out spake the good St. Joseph,
And stoutly indeed spake he,
"I shall not pluck thee one cherry,
Who art unfaithful to me.
"Let him come fetch thee the cherries,
Who is dearer than I to thee,"
Then Jesus, hearing St. Joseph,
Thus spake to the stately tree.
"Bend low in her gracious presence,
Stoop down to herself, O tree,
That My mother herself may pluck thee,
And take thy burden from thee."
Then the great tree lowered her branches
At hearing the high command,
And she plucked the fruit that it offered,
Herself with her gentle hand.
Loud shouted the good St. Joseph,
He cast himself on the ground,
"Go home and forgive me, Mary,
To Jerusalem I am bound;
I must go to the holy city,
And confess my sin profound."
Then out spake the gentle Mary,
She spake with a gentle voice,
"I shall not go home, O Joseph,
But I bid thee at heart rejoice,
For the King of Heaven shall pardon
The sin that was not of choice."
THE STUDENT WHO LEFT COLLEGE.
PREFACE.
The following curious story has parallels in many countries. It is
probably founded upon the verse in II. Peter iii. 8. "Quia unus dies
apud Dominum sicut mille anni et mille anni sicut unus dies"--"for a
thousand years are with the Lord as one day, and one day as a thousand
years." It need not, however, be founded upon any Christian conception,
for the purely Pagan story of Oisín or Ossian in the "Land of the
Ever-Young" was known all over Ireland. Oisín thought he had spent only
a short time in the Happy Other-World, but when he returned to Ireland
he found he had been away for 300 years, and every one he knew had died.
The reciter had forgotten what the name of the monastery was, but I
believe it to have been the ancient abbey and school at Killarney,
now in ruins. I have heard that the things told in this story, or one
similar to it, were supposed to have happened there.
The river with water as red as blood reminds us of Thomas of
Ercildoune's experience when rapt away into faërie by the queen.
O, they rode on, and farther on
And they waded through rivers above the knee,
And they saw neither sun or moon
But they heard the roaring of the sea.
It was mirk, mirk night, there was nae stern light
And they waded through red blude to the knee,
For a' the blude that's shed on earth
Runs through the springs of that country.
Hence it was small wonder that the student thought that the musicians
belonged to the Fairy-Host.
The fact that while in the other world he ate nothing, is pure Pagan
tradition, for as is well known from many stories, classical and other,
whoso eats or drinks of other-world food is precluded from returning to
this life. Proserpine would not eat in Pluto's realm or she must have
remained there. The six pomegranate seeds she swallowed cost her six
months' stay there.
For the text of this story, see "Religious Songs of Connacht," vol.
II., p. 122.
THE STORY.
There came a number of young people from the County of Galway, to a
great college, to learn and gain instruction, so as to become priests.
I often heard the name of this college from my mother, but I do not
remember it. It was not Maynooth. There was a man of these of the name
of Patrick O'Flynn. He was the son of a rich farmer. His father and
his mother desired to make a priest of him. He was a nice, gentle lad.
He used not to go dancing with the other boys in the evening, but it
was his habit to go out with the grey-light of day, and he used to be
walking by himself up and down under the shadow of the great trees that
were round about the college, and he used to remain there thinking and
meditating by himself, until some person would come to bring him into
his room.
One evening, in the month of May, he went out, as was his custom, and
he was taking his walk under the trees when he heard a melodious music.
There came a darkness or a sort of blindness over his eyes, and when he
found his sight again he beheld a great high wall on every side of him,
and out in front of him a shining road. The musicians were on the road,
and they playing melodiously, and he heard a voice saying, "_Come with
us to the land of delight and rest_." He looked back and beheld a great
high wall behind him and on each side of him, and he was not able to
return back again across the wall, although he desired to return. He
went forward then after the music. He did not know how long he walked,
but the great high wall kept ever on each side of him and behind him.
He was going and ever-going, until they came to a great river, and
water in it as red as blood. Wonder came upon him then, and great fear.
But the musicians walked across the river without wetting their feet,
and Patrick O'Flynn followed them without wetting his own. He thought
at first that the musicians belonged to the Fairy-Host, and next he
thought that he had died and that it was a group of angels that were in
it, taking him to heaven.
The walls fell away from them then, on each side, and they came to a
great wide plain. They were going then, and ever-going, until they came
to a fine castle that was in the midst of the plain. The musicians went
in, but Patrick O'Flynn remained outside. It was not long until the
chief of the musicians came out to him and brought him into a handsome
chamber. He spoke not a word, and Patrick O'Flynn never heard one word
spoken so long as he remained there.
There was no night in that place, but the light of day throughout. He
never ate and he never drank a single thing there, and he never saw
anyone eating or drinking, and the music never ceased. Every half-hour,
as he thought, he used to hear a bell, as it were a church-bell, being
rung, but he never beheld the bell, and he was unable to see it in any
place.
When the musicians used to go out upon the plain before the castle,
there used to come a tribe of every sort of bird in the heavens,
playing the most melodious music that ear ever heard. It was often
Patrick O'Flynn said to himself, "It is certain that I am in heaven,
but is it not curious that I have no remembrance of sickness, nor of
death, nor of judgment, and that I have not seen God nor His Blessed
Mother, as is promised to us?"
Patrick O'Flynn did not know how long he was in that delightful place.
He thought that he had been in it only for a short little time, but he
was in it for a hundred years and one.
One day the musicians were out in the field and he was listening to
them, when the chief came to him. He brought him out and put him behind
the musicians. They departed on their way, and they made neither stop
nor stay until they came to the river that was as red as blood. They
went across that, without wetting their foot-soles, and went forward
until they came to the field near the college where they found him at
the first. Then they departed out of his sight like a mist.
He looked round him, and recognised the college, but he thought that
the trees were higher and that there was some change in the college
itself. He went in, then, but he did not recognise a single person whom
he met, and not a person recognised him.
The principal of the college came to him, and said to him, "Where are
you from, son, or what is your name?"
"I am Patrick O'Flynn from the County of Galway," said he.
"How long are you here?" said the principal.
"I am here since the first day of March," said he.
"I think that you are out of your senses," said the principal, "there
is no person of your name in the college, and there has not been for
twenty years, for I am more than twenty years here."
"Though you were in it since you were born, yet I am here since last
March, and I can show you my room and my books."
With that he went up the stairs, and the principal after him. He went
into his room and looked round him, and said, "This is my room, but
that is not my furniture, and those are not my books that are in it."
He saw an old bible upon the table and he opened it, and said: "This is
my bible, my mother gave it to me when I was coming here; and, see, my
name is written in it."
The principal looked at the bible, and there, as sure as God is in
heaven, was the name of Patrick O'Flynn written in it, and the day of
the month that he left home.
Now there was great trouble of mind on the principal, and he did not
know what he should do. He sent for the masters and the professors and
told them the story.
"By my word," said an old priest that was in it, "I heard talk when
I was young, of a student who went away out of this college, and
there was no account of him since, whether living or dead. The people
searched the river and the bog holes, but there was no account to be
had of him, and they never got the body."
The principal called to them then and bade them bring him a great book
in which the name of every person was written who had come to that
college since it was founded. He looked through the book, and see!
Patrick O'Flynn's name was in it, and the day of the month that he
came, and this [note] was written opposite to his name, that the same
Patrick O'Flynn had departed on such a day, and that nobody knew what
had become of him. Now it was exactly one hundred and one years from
the day he went until the day he came back in that fashion.
"This is a wonderful, and a very wonderful story," said the principal,
"but, do you wait here quietly my son," said he, "and I shall write to
the bishop." He did that, and he got an account from the bishop to keep
the man until he should come himself.
At the end of a week after that the bishop came and sent for Patrick
O'Flynn. There was nobody present except the two. "Now, son," said the
bishop, "go on your knees and make a confession." Then he made an act
of contrition, and the bishop gave him absolution. Immediately there
came a fainting and a heavy sleep over him, and he was, as it were, for
three days and three nights a dead person. When he came to himself the
bishop and priests were round about him. He rose up, shook himself, and
told them his story, as I have it told, and he put excessive wonder
upon every man of them. "Now," said he, "here I am alive and safe, and
do as ye please."
The bishop and the priests took counsel together. "It is a saintly man
you are," said the bishop then, "and we shall give you holy orders on
the spot."
They made a priest of him then, and no sooner were holy orders given
him than he fell dead upon the altar, and they all heard at the same
time the most melodious music that ear ever listened to, above them
in the sky, and they all said that it was the angels who were in it,
carrying the soul of Father O'Flynn up to heaven with them.
THE HELP OF GOD IN THE ROAD.
PREFACE.
This story was written down by my friend, C. M. Hodgson, from the mouth
of one of his brother tenants, James Mac Donough, near Oughterard, in
Connemara. Mac Donough called it "Conal, King of the Cats." In a Kerry
version of this story it is a poor scholar and a thief who make the bet
as to whether honesty or roguery is the best for a man to follow. The
people they meet give it in favour of the thief. The poor scholar loses
everything, eventually his two eyes. His going under the tombstone is
properly motivated by saying that he meant to die there and would then
be buried and have a tombstone. The rest of the story is pretty much
the same as ours. My friend, the late Patrick O'Leary, found a story
called the "Three Crows," something like this, where the crows talk as
the cats do in our story, and where they end by picking out the two
bad men's eyes, but there is no bet made, the man is simply robbed and
blinded for no particular reason.
THE STORY
There were two merchants travelling along the road. One of them said to
the other that the help of God was in the road. The other said it was
not.
"How shall we find that out?"
"We'll leave it to the judgment of the first man we will meet."
It was short they went till they met a man. They asked him was the help
of God in the road. He told them that it was not. Whatever the bet was
that they had made about it, he [_i.e._, the man who said that the help
of God was in the road] had to pay.
Well, they walked along for another while, and this man said that he
would not give it up [or admit], that the help of God was not in the
road.
"What bet will you make now?" says the other man.
"I've nothing left now except my eye, but I'll bet it with you," says
he.
"Well, leave the decision to the first man who shall meet us."
The next man they met said the same as the first man, that the help of
God was not in the road.
The other man did nothing but put his finger into the eye and pluck it
out.
[Yet the man said] "I'll bet the other eye with you that the help of
God is in the road, and let it be left to the judgment of the next man
who shall meet us."
It was short they went [had gone] when a man met them. They asked him
was the help of God in the road. The man said that it was not.
He plucked the other eye out of him then.
"Now," said he [the blind man], "take me with you and leave me in the
church."
He took him with him and left him in under a flagstone in the church.
At that time the cats used to be collecting in gatherings. [They
collected in that same church that night]. When they were all gathered
together, Conall, the king of the cats, said that himself would tell
a story if it were not that he was afraid that some one would be
listening.
"Let us get up and search," said some of the cats. They searched
through the churchyard and they found no one.
"It is a year from to-night that I went in to the king's daughter. I
rubbed my tale to her mouth, and her father is perished looking for a
cure [for her]. There are twelve cats in her stomach."
"Is there anything at all to cure her?" says one of the cats.
"There is," said Conall; "if she were to get a drop of the water that
is in the well here, it would cure her. If one of those [twelve cats
inside her] were to get away they could kill all the kingdom."
"Is there anything else of cure in the well?"
"There is," said Conall; "if any one were blind, and he to put a drop
of that water on his eyes he would get his sight."
When they had gone away then in the morning, and were departed, the man
that was listening to them rose up from [under] the flag. There was a
herd or shepherd going by. He came to this man who was blind and spoke
to him.
"Well, now," says the blind man, "is there any well here?"
"There is," says the herd.
"Leave me at the brink of the well."
He left him there.
He just put down his hand and splashed a drop of the water in on his
two eyes; and he had his sight then as well as ever he had.
"Well now," says he to the herd, "would you be so kind as to give me a
bottle?"
"I will," says the herd.
He filled the bottle with the water of the well and off he went. He was
travelling until he came to the king's house. He asked to let him in.
The man who was on guard said that he would not let him in, that the
king's daughter was sick and ill.
He sent for the king. He told him [by the messenger] that there was a
man at the gate who would cure his daughter.
The king came out, and told the gate keeper to let in the man.
When he came in the king took him back into the chamber where his
daughter was. When he looked at her [he saw that] she was as big as a
horse.
"Now," said he to the king, "send for your men at arms, bring them in
here."
When the men at arms were inside, he closed the door outside. He told
them, anything that she should throw out, they must cut the head off it.
He gave her a drop of the water that was in the bottle to drink. The
moment she drank it she threw from her a live cat out of her stomach.
The head was cut off it before it reached the ground. They did the same
with the twelve cats that she threw out of her stomach. She rose up
then as sound and as well as ever she was.
The merchant was about to go away then, but the king would not allow
him to depart. He said that he must marry his daughter.
[They were married and happy.]
They were one day going in their coach, and they saw the merchant who
had made the bet that the help of God was not in the road. He spoke to
him, and the merchant asked him where did he get all his riches.
"I got it in the place where you left me, in the church."
He [the other merchant] went away then at night, and he went in under
the same flag, and it happened to the cats that they came together that
night. When they were all assembled together. "Tell a story, O Conall,
king of the cats," said one of them.
"I would tell a story," said he, "but I told one this very night last
year, and a man was listening to me, and he cured the king's daughter
with a bottle of the water that was in the well."
"We'll rise up [and look]" said the cat; "there won't be anyone
listening to you to-night."
They rose up and they searched until they came to the place where the
man was under the flag. They pulled him out and tore him asunder.
That is how it happened to him on account of the bet he had made that
the help of God was not in the road.
THE MINISTER'S SON.
PREFACE.
Perhaps no people ever gave such free rein to the imagination with
regard to the infernal regions as did the Irish. It began with St.
Fursa, whose story was known to Christendom through Bede, and Adamnan's
Vision [he died about 704] is known over Europe. The last to let
himself go in this way was Keating. See the amazing alliterative
description in his "Three Shafts of Death," Leabhar III. alt 10.
It is curious to find a Mayo peasant reproducing a little of this
racial characteristic in the present poem. I often heard of this piece
and made many attempts to get it, interviewing several people who I was
told had got it, but I failed to get more than a few lines. My friend,
John Mac Neill, wrote down for me the present version word for word
from the recitation of Michael Mac Ruaidhri, but it is obviously only
fragmentary. It is full (in the original, both prose and verse) of
curious words and forms, and the periphrasis the "Virgin's Garb" for
the scapular is curious.
For the original, see "Religious Songs of Connacht," vol. II., p. 134.
THE STORY.
There was a Roman Catholic girl at service in a minister's house, and
she was wearing the Virgin Mary's garb (_i.e._, a scapular). She once
was getting ready to go to Mass, and when she was washing herself she
took the garb off her, and laid it on one side. The minister's son
came in, and he began rummaging (?) backwards and forwards through the
room, and he met the garb. He caught it up in his hand and observed it
closely. He put it round his neck, and when the girl turned about she
saw the garb on the minister's son, and she got very furious. She gave
a step forward and she tore the garb off his neck. She began railing at
him and abusing him. She told him that it was not right nor fitting for
a man of his religion to lay hold of that garb in his hand, seeing that
he had a hatred and a loathing of the glorious Virgin, "and," says she
to him, "since it has happened that you have laid hold of the blessed
garb, unless you fast next Friday in eric for your sin, one sight of
the country of the heavens you shall never see."
Grief and great unhappiness came over the minister's son at the abuse
the girl gave him, and he told her that he would fast the Friday.
It was well, and it was not ill. When the minister's son went to
sleep that night he got a fit of sickness, and he was very bad in the
morning, and he told his mother that he would not let anyone next nor
near him except the servant girl, and that he hoped that he would not
be long in the fit of sickness.