It appears from a volume of “Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South
of Ireland,”[129] that there are romantic remains of antiquity
connected with the celebration of May-day in that country of
imagination. “Mummers in Ireland,” says the author, “are clearly a
family of the same race with those festive bands, termed
Morrice-dancers, in England. They appear at all seasons in Ireland, but
_May-day_ is their favourite and proper festival. They consist of a
number, varying according to circumstances, of the girls and young men
of the village or neighbourhood, usually selected for their good looks,
or their proficiency,--the females in the dance, the youths in hurling
and other athletic exercises. They march in procession, two abreast, and
in three divisions; the young men in the van and the rear, dressed in
white or other gay-coloured jackets or vests, and decorated with ribbons
on their hats and sleeves; the young women are dressed also in
light-coloured garments, and two of them bear each a holly bush, in
which are hung several new hurling balls, the May-day present of the
girls to the youths of the village. The bush is decorated with a
profusion of long ribbons or paper cut in imitation, which adds greatly
to the gay and joyous, yet strictly rural, appearance of the whole. The
procession is always preceded by music; sometimes of the bagpipe, but
more commonly of a military fife, with the addition of a drum or
tamboureen. A clown is, of course, in attendance: he wears a frightful
mask, and bears a long pole, with shreds of cloth nailed to the end of
it, like a mop, which ever and anon he dips in a pool of water, or
puddle, and besprinkles such of the crowd as press upon his companions,
much to the delight of the younger spectators, who greet his exploits
with loud and repeated shouts and laughter. The Mummers, during the day,
parade the neighbouring villages, or go from one gentleman’s seat to
another, dancing before the mansion-house, and receiving money. The
evening, of course, terminates with drinking. _May-eve_ is considered a
time of peculiar danger. The ‘_good people_,’ are supposed then to
possess the power and the inclination to do all sorts of mischief
without the slightest restraint. The ‘_evil eye_’ is then also deemed to
have more than its usual vigilance and malignity; and the nurse who
would walk in the open air with a child in her arms, would be
reprobated as a monster. Youth and loveliness are thought to be
especially exposed to peril. It is therefore a natural consequence, that
not one woman in a thousand appears abroad: but it must not be
understood that the want of beauty affords any protection. The grizzled
locks of age do not always save the cheek from a _blast_; neither is the
brawny hand of the roughest ploughman exempt from a similar visitation.
The _blast_ is a large round tumour, which is thought to rise suddenly
upon the part affected, from the baneful breath cast on it by one of the
‘good people’ in a moment of vindictive or capricious malice. May-day is
called _la na Beal tina_, and May-eve _neen na Beal tina_,--that is, day
and eve of Beal’s fire, from its having been in heathen times,
consecrated to the god Beal, or Belus; whence also the month of May is
termed in Irish ‘_Mi na Beal-tine_.’ The ceremony practised on May-eve,
of making the cows leap over lighted straw, or faggots, has been
generally traced to the worship of that deity. It is now vulgarly used
in order to save the milk from being pilfered by ‘the good
people.’--Another custom prevalent on May-eve is the painful and
mischievous one of stinging with nettles. In the south of Ireland it is
the common practice for school-boys, on that day, to consider themselves
privileged to run wildly about with a bunch of nettles, striking at the
face and hands of their companions, or of such other persons as they
think they may venture to assault with impunity.”
* * * * *
A popular superstition related in the last quoted work, is, that at
early dawn on May-morning, “the princely O’Donoghue gallops his white
charger over the waters of Killarney.” The foundation of this is,
_The Legend of O’Donoghue._
In an age so distant that the precise period is unknown, a chieftain
named O’Donoghue ruled over the country which surrounds the romantic
Lough Lean, now called the lake of Killarney. Wisdom, beneficence, and
justice distinguished his reign, and the prosperity and happiness of his
subjects were their natural results. He is said to have been as renowned
for his warlike exploits as for his pacific virtues; and as a proof that
his domestic administration was not the less rigorous because it was
mild, a rocky island is pointed out to strangers, called ‘O’Donoghue’s
Prison’ in which this prince once confined his own son for some act of
disorder and disobedience.
“His end--for it cannot correctly be called his death--was singular and
mysterious. At one of those splendid feasts for which his court was
celebrated, surrounded by the most distinguished of his subjects, he was
engaged in a prophetic relation of the events which were to happen in
ages yet to come. His auditors listened, now wrapt in wonder, now fired
with indignation, burning with shame, or melted into sorrow, as he
faithfully detailed the heroism, the injuries, the crimes, and the
miseries of their descendants. In the midst of his predictions, he rose
slowly from his seat, advanced with a solemn, measured, and majestic
tread to the shore of the lake, and walked forward composedly upon its
unyielding surface. When he had nearly reached the centre, he paused for
a moment, then turning slowly round, looked towards his friends, and
waving his arms to them with the cheerful air of one taking a short
farewell, disappeared from their view.
“The memory of the good O’Donoghue has been cherished by successive
generations, with affectionate reverence; and it is believed, that at
sunrise, on every May-day morning, the anniversary of his departure, he
revisits his ancient domains: a favoured few only are, in general,
permitted to see him, and this distinction is always an omen of good
fortune to the beholders: when it is granted to many, it is a sure token
of an abundant harvest,--a blessing, the want of which, during this
prince’s reign, was never felt by his people.
“Some years have elapsed since the last appearance of O’Donoghue. The
April of that year had been remarkably wild and stormy; but on
May-morning the fury of the elements had altogether subsided. The air
was hushed and still; and the sky, which was reflected in the serene
lake, resembled a beautiful but deceitful countenance, whose smiles,
after the most tempestuous emotions, tempt the stranger to believe that
it belongs to a soul which no passion has ever ruffled.
“The first beams of the rising sun were just gilding the lofty summit of
Glenaa, when the waters near the eastern shore of the lake became
suddenly and violently agitated, though all the rest of its surface lay
smooth and still as a tomb of polished marble. The next moment a
foaming wave darted forward, and like a proud high-crested war-horse,
exulting in his strength, rushed across the lake towards Toomies
mountain. Behind this wave appeared a stately warrior, fully armed,
mounted upon a milk-white steed: his snowy plume waved gracefully from a
helmet of polished steel, and at his back fluttered a light-blue scarf.
The horse, apparently exulting in his noble burthen, sprung after the
wave along the water, which bore him up like firm earth, while showers
of spray, that glittered brightly in the morning sun were dashed up at
every bound.
“The warrior was O’Donoghue: he was followed by numberless youths and
maidens, who moved light and unconstrained over the watery plain, as the
moonlight fairies glide through the fields of air; they were linked
together by garlands of delicious spring flowers, and they timed their
movements to strains of enchanting melody. When O’Donoghue had nearly
reached the western side of the lake, he suddenly turned his steed, and
directed his course along the wood-fringed shore of Glenaa, preceded by
the huge wave that curled and foamed up as high as the horse’s neck,
whose fiery nostrils snorted above it. The long train of attendants
followed, with playful deviations, the track of their leader, and moved
on with unabated fleetness to their celestial music, till gradually, as
they entered the narrow strait between Glenaa and Dinis, they became
involved in the mists which still partially floated over the lakes, and
faded from the view of the wondering beholders: but the sound of their
music still fell upon the ear, and echo catching up the harmonious
strains, fondly repeated and prolonged them in soft and softer tones,
till the last faint repetition died away, and the hearers awoke as from
a dream of bliss.”
Such is the story of O’Donoghue, in the words of the author of “Irish
Legends,” an elegant work of amusing and recondite lore regarding the
land of his fathers.