Chapter X: Part 10

When they get hold of a keerogue the head is cut off it and they say the same words that it said itself, "iné! iné"! while cutting the head off it. But nothing bad is done to the prumpolaun on account of the pity it had for our Saviour when He was flying from the Jews.

THE LADY OF THE ALMS.

PREFACE.

This was a story told by Michael S. Seoidhigh or Joyce from Turlogh More, Co. Galway, for the Oireachtas many years ago.

The form of the story is obviously corrupt and confused. Why should the woman tell her experiences to the voice above her head. There can be little doubt that it was the voice who directed her and that when she had come home, chastened and enlightened, she then told the story as it is here. Either that, or it is the fragment of a longer story in which both a strange man and the supernatural voice each played a part.

THE STORY.

There was once a lady, and there never was such an almsgiver as she was. When her master used to be at home she would go upstairs, and when she had no other way of giving she would take the inside garment off her own body and hand it out to the poor people.

She had three sons and one of them died. He was one and twenty years old when he died. After that she was greatly angered with the Son of God.

It was not long after that until another son went, who was twenty-two years old. And a great trouble fell upon her after their both dying.

Two years after that the third son died on her.

She went away then [half crazed]. She got a bag and began asking alms [like any beggar]. She spent the day going [on her quest] until night came on, and she never found house or wattled-shelter, under which she might put her head. She heard a voice above her, and she wondered. "What has sent you here?" said the voice, "methinks you had no cause to take up with misery were it not your own senselessness."

"I had not," said she, "but I think I never did anything against the Son of God, and He has taken from me a son who was twenty-one years old, a son as nice as there was in the parish. Well I did not half mind that--the Son of God's taking him from me--until a year from that day He took the second son from me. Two years from that day the third son was taken from me, and then I went and took a bag with me and said that I would never again do another day's service to God. I was [always] so good to the Son of God and the glorious Virgin that I never thought that He would put such punishment upon me. But He put such punishment on me that I went looking for alms. Away [from my home] I went and proceeded to look for alms, and I never met house or wattled-shelter. A man came to me before you [came] and he said to-me, 'What has brought you here?' I told him that the Son of God had taken my three children from me. 'Go in,' said he, 'into yonder house in which you see the light?' I went in, and what should I see there but a corpse and three lighted candles. I remained there watching the body and plenty of grief and fear on me. At the hour of midnight a slumber of sleeping fell upon me, for I was hungry and troubled. When I awoke out of the sleep I found food and drink and everything I desired laid out before me. I ate and drank my enough. After that I fell asleep, and when I awoke there was nothing there but a bare field, and my bag laid under my head. I arose and stood up and threw the bag over my shoulders and turned back again, and the same man met me a second time. 'Where did you spend the night?' said he. 'I spent it watching a corpse,' said I. 'Did you get your enough to eat and drink?' 'I did,' said I. 'Why did you take up with misery?' 'Well I did take up with misery,' said I, 'I had a son who was twenty-one years old and he was taken from me. A year from that day the second son was taken from me, and two years from that day the third son was taken. I went off then and I said that I would not do one morsel of God's rules any more.'

'Go home, now,' said the man, 'God was so good to you that He did not desire you to find shame or scandal. That first son that you had--he was to have been hanged [if he had lived] for slaying a man. And the second son, he was to have been banished far away to an island in the sea for stealing cattle [had he lived]. And the third son--a woman was to have sworn against him that he was the father of her child, although he never had anything, good or bad, to do with her. Go home now and mind your own business. God had so much consideration for you that He did not wish such pain to come down on you or your children, since you were yourself so good to the poor. Those [three sons] shall be three candles before you, and the three don't know which of them will arrange your bed under you in the Heaven of God.'"

According to what authors say, there are no other four who [now] enjoy greater pleasure and happiness than they!

ST. PATRICK AND HIS GARRON.

PREFACE.

This story of St. Patrick I got from Pronisias O'Conor. It seems to have a certain affinity with the story of Crom Dubh (which see). St. Patrick does not play a very desirable part in this tale. He uses his private knowledge of his garron's capacity as a weight-bearer to the detriment of his neighbour, the story-teller drawing no distinction between what was legal and what was morally equitable!

The story of the serpent's candle must be old and well-known, for it is alluded to in the widely-circulated poem the "Dirge of Ireland," by O'Connell, said to have been a Bishop of Kerry. Talking of St. Patrick's exploits he says it was he who "[uncial: mhúch coinneal na carraige le na rmérdeadh,]" "who quenched the candle of the Rock by his nod."

THE STORY.

When Saint Patrick came to Ireland to kindle the light of Grace in this island, many troubles were coming upon him. The island was filled with snakes, north, south, east and west, but it was God's will that Patrick should put them under foot.

When he came to West Connacht he had a servant whose name was Fintan, a pious and faithful man. One lay when he was drawing towards the Reek, and the demons running away before him in fear, it chanced that Fintan was travelling in front of the saint, and the serpents came round him and killed him. When the saint came he found Fintan dead on the road. He was grieved, but he went on his knees and prayed to God to bring his servant to life again. No sooner had he his prayers finished than Fintan rose up as well as ever he was. Patrick gave thanks to God, and said, "In God's name we will set up a church here as a sign of the great power of God, and we will call it Achaidh Cobhair."[95]

[95] _i.e._, Field of Help. This is folk etymology. Now Aughagower, in Mayo.

The saint bought a garron or nag for carrying stones, and he blessed it; for no burden had ever been laid upon it that it was not able to carry. Then he got workmen, masons and carpenters, and began to found the church. After a while the men began clamouring that they had nothing to eat. There was great famine and scarcity in the country that year. Meal was so scarce that few people had any to spare, or to sell, either for gold or silver.

There was a man named Black Cormac living near the place. He had the full of a barn of bags of meal. The saint took the men and the garron with him one morning to the house of Black Cormac, and he inquired how much would he be asking for as much meal as the garron would be able to carry on his back. Cormac looked at the garron and said "so much"--naming his price. "It's a bargain," said the saint, handing him money down. The men went into the barn and brought out a great bag and set it on the garron's back. Cormac said that it would break the creature's back. "Never mind," said the saint, "keep packing bags on him until I tell you to stop." They put bag after bag on him until they had a pile as big as a small house. "Drive on now," says the saint. The garron went off as readily and quickly as though it had only one bag. There was great anger on Black Cormac, and he said, "My share of trouble on ye, ye have me destroyed out and out." There was amazement upon every person who saw the garron and the load that was on him.

A short time after this the workmen asked the saint for meat, for they were working very hard. Some of them said that they heard that Black Cormac had a bull to sell cheap. The saint sent for Cormac, and asked him how much would he be wanting for the bull. Now it was a savage bull who had killed many people, and since Connac hated the saint with a great hatred he hoped the bull would kill him, and he told him, "You can have the bull for nothing if you go yourself for him." "I'm very thankful to you," said the saint, "I'll go for him in the evening when I'll have my work done."

That evening the saint went to Black Cormac's house and asked him to show him the field where the black bull was. He was greatly delighted and said, "Follow me; the walk is not a long one." He brought the saint down to a boreen, and showed him the bull in the field and said to him, "Take him with you now if you can." The saint went into the field, and when the bull saw him it raised its head and tail in the air and came towards him in anger. He raised his crozier and made the sign of Christ between himself and the bull. The beast lowered his head and his tail and followed the saint as quietly as a lamb.

When the saint came home he killed the bull and told the men, "Take the flesh with ye, but leave the skin and the bones." They took the flesh with them and ate it.

A week after that Black Cormac came to the saint and said, "I hear people saying that you are an honest man, but I know that you have done me a great wrong." "How so?" said the saint. "About my meal and my bull," said he. "I gave you your own bargain for the meal, and as for your bull, you can have it back if you wish it."

"How could I get it back, and it eaten by you and your workmen?" said Black Cormac.

The saint called for Fintan and told him, "Bring me the skin and bones of the bull." He brought them to him and he prayed over them, and in a moment the bull leapt up as well as ever he was. "Now," said the saint, "take your bull home with you."

Black Cormac was greatly surprised, and when he went home he told the neighbours that it was an enchanter the saint was, and that his own bull was a blessed bull, and that it was proper that the people should worship it. They believed that, and they said that they would come on Sunday morning.

The saint heard what Cormac had done, and he threatened him saying not to lead the people astray from the true faith that he himself was teaching them; but Black Cormac would not listen to him. On Sunday morning some of the people gathered along with him to worship the bull, and Black Cormac was the first to go into the field to set an example, and he went to prostrate himself in presence of the bull, but the beast came and put his two horns under him behind, and tossed him up in the air so high that when he came to the ground he was dead. The people remember that, still, in West Connacht, as Cormac Dubh's Sunday.

When Saint Patrick finished his church he said Mass in it, and after that he faced for the Reek, for many of the serpents had gone up that hill out of fear of the saint. For that reason he followed them and found that they were up on the top of the Reek.

When he came to the bottom he dug a great hole, and he went up on the Reek and drove the serpents down. They fell into the hole and were all drowned but two. Those two escaped from him. One of them went into a hole in a great rock near the Mouth of the Ford[96] in Tirawley, and wrought great havoc amongst the people.

[96] Ballina, Co. Mayo.

Every night when the sun would be going down this serpent used to light a candle, and anybody who would see the light used to fall dead. The people called this serpent Sercín, and the rock is to be seen to this day, and it is called Carrig-Sercín. The saint followed this serpent.

He and his servant, Fintan, came to a little village near Carrig-Sercín, and the saint asked a widow for lodgings for himself and his servant. "I'll give you that," said she, "but I must close my door before set of sun." "Why so?" said the saint. "There is a serpent in a hole of a rock out in the sea; he lights a candle every evening before sunset, and anybody who sees that light falls dead. He has great destruction made amongst the people."

"Have you a candle in the house?" said the saint. "Indeed I have not," said she. "Have you the makings of a candle," said the saint. "No," said she; "but I have dry rushes."

Then the saint drew out a knife and opened Fintan's stomach and took a bit of lard out of it, and gave it to the woman of the house, and told her to make a candle. She did as he had directed, and when the candle was made the saint lit it and stood in the mouth of the door. It was not long until the serpent lit his candle, but no sooner was it lit than it fell dead. The people thanked the saint greatly, and he explained to them the mighty power and the love of God, and baptized them all.

When the other serpent escaped St. Patrick, it never stopped until it went in on a little island that was in the north of the country. The name of this serpent was Bolán Mór, or Big Bolaun. He was as big as a round tower. St. Patrick pursued Bolán; but when he came as far as the lake he had no boat to take him to the island. He stripped off his clothes, and with his crozier in his hand he leapt into the water and began swimming to the island.

When the serpent saw the saint coming to him he took to the water, and when he came as far as the saint he opened his mouth, and, as sure as I'm telling it, he swallowed the saint. Bolán Mór had a great wide stomach, and when the saint found himself shut up there he began striking on every side with his crozier, and Bolán Mór began to throw a flood of blood out of his mouth, until the water of the lake was red (dearg), and there is no name on the lake from that day to this but Loch Dearg. The saint was beating Bolán Mór with the crozier until he killed him. Then he made a hole in his side and came out, and drew Bolán Mór's body to land after him.

There was wonder and great joy on the people of the villages round about, because neither man, beast, nor bird had come to the lake since Bolán came there but he had swallowed down into his big stomach, and it was great good for them he to be dead.

The next day the saint got a boat, and he and Fintan and a number of the people from the villages went to the island. St. Patrick blessed the little island, and it was not long until a number of pious men came and cut out [the site of] a monastery on the island, and from that time to the present, good people go on a pilgrimage to that blessed island.[97]

[97] _i.e._, Lough Derg.

St. Patrick remained for a time amongst the people near Loch Derg teaching and baptising them. And as soon as some of them were able to teach the others he returned to Aughagower. While the saint had been away from them some of them had fallen into unbelief, but so soon as he came back they returned to the true faith of St. Patrick and never lost it more. Many people also came to the saint seeking to buy the little garron from him; but he would not sell it.

One day the king who was over Connacht at that time came and said, "I hear you have a wonderful garron, and that he is able to carry a heavy load."

"He is a good garron," said the saint, "no load has failed him since I bought him, and I wouldn't like to part with him."

"I'll give you as much gold as he will be able to carry on his back in one load in one day from rise of sun until it sets. It is thirty miles from my castle to this place and he must do the journey in one day."

"Perhaps you have not as much gold in the house as the garron can carry," said the saint.

"If I haven't," said the king, "I'll give you as much as will found three churches for you, and you'll have your garron, too."

"It's a bargain," said the saint.

The king had a coach, a tent and servants, and he said, "I'll wait here till morning and you can come to my castle with me, and the morning after you can go home with your load."

"Very well, let it be so," said the saint.

On the morning of the next day they all departed, the saint riding on the garron, and the king and his servants in the coach. The king drove his horses as fast as they were able to run, to see would the garron be able to keep up with them. But if they had to go seven times as quick the garron was able for them. St. Patrick remained that night at the king's castle and next morning before sunrise the king brought himself and his garron to his treasury. The treasurer was there with his men. They filled a great bag with gold and put it on the garron's back. "Will he be able to carry it home?" said the king. "He will, and twenty times as much," said the saint. He filled another bag and put it on him, and another bag after that.

"Isn't there his enough of a load on him now?" said the king. "There isn't a half or a quarter of a load yet on him," said the saint. They were putting [bags] on him until every ounce in the treasury was on him. Then the saint said, "To show that there isn't half a load on him yet, put two or three tons of iron on top of the gold." They did that, and the garron walked out as lightly as though there had been nothing in it but a bag of oats. "Now," said the saint, "you see that my garron-_een_ hasn't half a load on him yet." "I see he has not," said the king. "There is more power in your garron than in all the horses of the Ard-ri.[98] Take your garron home again, and begin and set up those churches, and I'll pay the cost."

[98] _i.e._, The High King.

The saint rode on his garron and came home. He soon began to put up the three churches, and the king paid the costs. But the garron carried every stone that went to the building. The people have the old saying still when they want to praise anyone, "May you have the strength of Patrick's garron!"

When the three churches were finished he bestowed his garron on the brethren, and he himself went northward, lighting a coal of faith throughout Ireland which was never quenched, and never shall be quenched.

When the great judgment shall come it is St. Patrick who will judge the children of the Gael.

HOW SAINT MOLING GOT HIS NAME.

PREFACE.

There is hardly any Irish saint of whom more legends are related, at least in our literature, than of Saint Moling. He was both a poet and a prophet. Some stories bring him into contact with Gobán Saor, the great builder. He figures largely in the extraordinary tale of "Suibhne Geilt." See also the story of the "Death of Bearchán." The following legend was printed by my friend, Seán Tóibín, in the "Lochrann" a couple of years ago. I was sure it was taken from oral sources, but he has just told me to my surprise, that he was only retelling what he had read in Irish, not what he had HEARD or taken down orally. However, as the story had been set up in print, and as I have here no other story about St. Moling it may stay, only the reader must understand that it is not actual surviving folk-lore, but a retelling from an Irish MS.

THE STORY.

[He was first called Taircheal, and he was pupil to a cleric.] Taircheal went out one day, and he had two bags, one on his back and one in front of him. He took his master's stick, in his hand and off he set in this guise. He went round Luachair on pilgrimage, and he was there reciting his rosary when he saw coming towards him the Fuath[99] and his people; a black, dark, truly ugly band were they, and they had the form of demons. And they used never give quarter to anyone. And this was the number of those who were there, namely the Fuath himself, his wife, his gillie, his hound, and nine others.

[99] Pronounced "Foo-a." A weird shape, phantom, or spectre.

Says the Fuath to his people, "Wait ye there and I'll go talk to yon man who is alone, and since I took up with a life of plundering and stealing I never felt a desire to protect any man except that one only." He gripped his sword and went over to meet Taircheal.

He said to Taircheal, "Whence have you come from, you eater of beastings?"

"Whence have you come from yourself, you black burnt gruagach[100]?" said the young man.

[100] Literally, "long-haired one." It is a term for a wizard or warlock.

"I'll take your bags off you, and your head too, unless you listen to me," said the Fuath.

"By my father's hand you won't unless I wish it myself," said Taircheal.

"By the hand of him who taught me, but I'll ply my weapon on you," said the Fuath.

"I'd think it easier to put you down than boiled meat," said Taircheal.

"Listen or I'll stick this point in through the middle of your heart," said the Fuath.

"I swear," said the young man, "that I'll strike you on the head with this stick, it is the crozier of my master and tutor, and he promised that it should never be broken in single combat."

Then fear possessed the Fuath, and he called to his people to come and help him. The other Fuaths came. Then it was plain to Taircheal that he had no way of escape or of withdrawing.

"We'll kill you now, brown Taircheal," said the Fuath's hag, "I'll thrust you through with my knife, and you'll get death and violent dissolution."

"I ask a request of ye," said Taircheal.

"What is it?" said the Fuaths.

"Let me go to the other side of that ditch, and give three steps in the path of the King of Heaven and Earth," said he.

The Fuaths laughed. "That's all you want?" said they. "That's all," said he.

"Have it then," said the hag, "for you won't go from us, for we are as swift as the deer of the hill, and this hound of ours is as swift as the wind."

Then Taircheal walked to the ditch, and gave his three leaps. He went so far, of the first leap, that they thought he was no bigger [when he landed] than a crow on top of the hill. The second leap he gave they did not see him at all, and they did not see whether it was to heaven or earth he had gone. Of the third leap he landed upon the wall of his tutor's church.

"That way he's gone," said the Fuath's hag. Then they rose up and ran, both hound and person, so that their cry and yell was heard a mile overhead in the upper air. The hounds and populace of the village came out each one of them to protect the youth, for it was plain to them that he was being pursued by the Fuaths. But he leapt down off the wall and ran into the church, and began returning thanks to God in presence of his tutor.

"What angry madness is on you, son?" said the tutor.

"Nothing much, my tutor," said Taircheal, "it was the Fuaths who were hunting me;" and he told him the story how he had leaped [ling] from Luachair in his three leaps.

"Great is your leap [ling] my pupil," said the priest, "and it was for you that the angel Victor made the prophecy, and Moling [=my leap] of Luachair shall be your name henceforth from the leaps that you have leapt."

[uncial: CROICH]

APPENDIX.

NOTE ON THE DEATH OF MULRUANA, p. 33.

This proverb, "as I've burnt the candle I'll burn the inch," must be old, and appears to have been well-known, for Maolmuire Ua hUiginn, Archbishop of Tuam, used it over 300 years ago, in a poem beginning "Slán uaim don da aodhaire," of which I have a manuscript copy.

[uncial: Tig raoirse andiaidh ró-bhruroe,
Tar éir dubhuig tig roinieann,
Fuilnge feadh an órlaigh-si,
Mar do caitheadh an choineall.]

_i.e._, freedom comes after hard-captivity, after darkness comes fine weather, it is to be endured for the space of this inch, since the [rest of the] candle has been burnt.

NOTE ON THE DEATH OF BEARACHAN, p. 63.

I have found another version of the very curious story of the Death of Bearachan. It was sent in many years ago in a collection by some unknown collector competing for a prize in folk lore at the Oireachtas, under the [uncial: ainm-bréige] of [uncial: Seághan Crón]. In this version Bearachan is not a saint but a druid, and the three kings are Finn Mac Cumhaill king of the Fian, one of the provincial kings, and the hound Bran, the king of all hounds. The thing that wailed so piteously outside the door is called an "iarmhar," pronounced Eervar or Eerwar--there is no such creature known to me. The word is used by Keating as meaning a "remnant." He talks of the Iarmhar or Remnant of the Fir Bolg. I have never met the word in any other sense. There is nothing said in this version about its growing large when it got the heat, and the relationship to the Breton Buguel Noz is not so apparent as in the other story.

[uncial: DÁS BHEARACHÁIN NA RÁRDHTE GCLISDE..

Bhí sean-draoi ann, fad ó, gur bh'é ainm a bhí air ná Bearachàn, agus táinig Fionn Mac Cúmhaill agus righ eile d'á fhiosrughadh, oidhche airíghthe.

Do bhíodar ag caitheamh na h-oidhche leó féin ann--ag déanamh gach aon chaitheamh-aimsire o' fhéadadar dóibh féin.

I gcaitheamh na h-oidhche dhóibh d'iarr Fionn de Bhearachán an fada an saoghal a bhi gearrtha amach dó nó an raibh aon fhios aige air.

Dubhairt Bearachàn d'a fhreagairt go raibh, go maith--go mairfeadh sé go bráth chun go dtiucfadh tri rigthe gan cuireadh chum a thighe i gcómhair na h-oidhche,--ar an oidhche sin go dtiucfad mac tíre chuige do mhar'ochadh é.

"Béan t'anam, mar sin." arsa Fionn, "mar tá trí righthe gan cuireadh ann so anocht."

"Cionnar a bhéadh"? arsa Bearachán, "agus gan ann acht beirt agaibh."

"Tá," arsa Fionn, "mise righ na Féinne, agur é seo lem' chois righ cúigeadh is eadh é, agus Bhran atá 'na righ ar ghadharaibh an domhain."

"O! Dia le m'anam"! arsa Bearachán, "tá mo ghnó déanta mar sin."

"Ni baoghal duit anocht pé sgéal é," arsa Fionn, "no teipfidh sé orrainn-ne."

Sé rud do dheineadar, ná é do chur fa bhéal tobáin, agus an bheirt eile bheit ag imirt fithchille ar thóin an tobáin ar eagla go dtuitfeadh riad 'na geodladh an fhard do bheior ag faire ar Bhearachán. Do dhiodar as imirt leó.

Budh ghairid dóibh gur airigheadar an t-iarmhar a' ladhairt amuigh, agus d'iarr sé ortha go h-iairmhéileach é do leogaint isteach.

Dubhrodar leis go doithcheallach, i mbasa, á leogfaidis.

Do lean sé orra, fharo gach n-fhario, agus é niosa truarghmhéilighe gach uair 'ná a chéile.

Dubhairt Fionn fé dheireadh thair thall gur chóir gur chuireadar diobh cathanna ba chruardhe 'na pé iarmhar a bhí amuigh do smachtughadh go maidhin.

D'osgladar an dorus agus do sgaoileadar isteach é, agus do shuidh sé sa' chúinne agus do leog (leig) sé air do dheith dá leigheadh (leaghadh) ag an bhfuacht. Is gearr gun tharraihg sé chuige píob, agus do thornaigh sé ar an gceól do spreagadh do b'uaibhrighe agus d'airigh aon neach riamh. Agus da ghearr 'na dhiardh sin gur thuit duine aca na chodladh thall agus duine eile, abhos, agus ap maidin nuair dhúisigheadar ni raibh fe bhéal an tobáin acht cairnin cnámh. Sin é bár Bhearacháin agaibh.]

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Transcriber's note:

Variations in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained except in obvious cases of typographical error.

Diacritical marks are shown as follows breve [)o] and macron[=o]. Italics are shown thus _italic_.