Part 10

They sent for a doctor and for the bishop, and when they told the story to the bishop he said, "There is a limb of the devil in the shape of a friar amongst you, but I'll find him out without delay." Then he ordered them all to come forward, and when they came he called out the name of every friar, and according as each answered he was put on one side. But when he called out the name of Friar Lucas he was not to be found. He sent a messenger for him, but could get no account of him. At last the friar they were seeking for came to the door, flung down a cross that he had round his neck, smote his foot on it, and burst into a great laugh, turned on his heel, and into the lake. When he came as far as the chair on the rock he sat on it, whipped off his friar's clothes and flung them out into the water. When he stripped himself they saw that there was hair on him from the sole of his foot to the top of his head, as long as a goat's beard. He was not long alone, the black boar came to him from the bottom of the lake, and they began romping and dancing on the rock.

Then the bishop enquired what place did the rogue come from, and the (father) Superior said that he came a month ago from the north, and that he had a friar's dress on him when he came, and that he asked no account from him of what brought him to this place.

"You are too blind to be a Superior," said the bishop, "since you do not recognise a devil from a friar." While the bishop was talking the eyes of everyone present were on him, and they did not feel till the black boar came behind them and the rogue that had been a friar riding on him. "Seize the villain, seize him," says the bishop.

"You didn't seize me yourself," says the villain, "when I was your pet hound, and when you were giving me the meat that you would not give to the poor people who were weak with the hunger; I thank you for it, and I'll have a hot corner for you when you leave this world."

Some of them were afraid, but more of them made an attempt to catch the black boar and its rider, but they went into the lake, sat on the rock, and began screaming so loud that they made the bishop and the friars deaf, so that they could not hear one word from one another, and they remained so during their life, and that is the reason they were called the "Deaf Friars," and from that day (to this) the old saying is in the mouth of the people, "You're as deaf as a friar of Urlaur."

The black boar gave no rest to the friars either by night or day: he himself, and the rogue of a companion that he had, were persecuting them in many a way, and neither they themselves nor the bishop were able to destroy or banish them.

At last they were determining on giving up the place altogether, but the bishop said to them to have patience till he would take counsel with Saint Gerald, the patron saint of Mayo. The bishop went to the saint and told him the story from beginning to end. "That sorrowful occurrence did not take place in my county," said the saint, "and I do not wish to have any hand in it." At this time Saint Gerald was only a higher priest in Tirerrill (?) but anything he took in hand succeeded with him, for he was a saint on earth from his youth. He told the bishop that he would be in Urlaur, at the end of a week, and that he would make an attempt to banish the evil spirit.

The bishop returned and told the friars what Gerald had said, and that message gave them great courage. They spent that week saying prayers, but the end of the week came, and another week went by, and Saint Gerald did not come, for "not as is thought does it happen." Gerald was struck with illness as it was fated for him, and he could not come.

One night the friars had a dream, and it was not one man alone who had it, but every man in the house. In the dream each man saw a woman clothed in white linen, and she said to them that it was not in the power of any man living to banish the evil spirit except of a piper named Donagh O'Grady who is living at Tavraun, a man who did more good, says she, on this world than all the priests and friars in the country.

On the morning of the next day, after the matin prayers, the Superior said, "I was dreaming, friars, last night about the evil spirit of the lake, and there was a ghost or an angel present who said to me that it was not in the power of any man living to banish the evil spirit except of a piper whose name was Donagh O'Grady who is living at Tavraun, a man who did more good in this world than all the priests and friars in the country."

"I had the same dream too," says every man of them.

"It is against our faith to believe in dreams," says the Superior, "but this was more than a dream, I saw an angel beside my bed clothed in white linen."

"Indeed I saw the same thing," says every man of them.

"It was a messenger from God who was in it," said the Superior, and with that he desired two friars to go for the piper. They went to Tavraun to look for him and they found him in a drinking-house half drunk. They asked him to come with them to the Superior of the friars at Urlaur.

"I'll not go one foot out of this place till I get my pay," says the piper. "I was at a wedding last night and I was not paid yet."

"Take our word that you will be paid," said the friars.

"I won't take any man's word; money down, or I'll stop where I am." There was no use in talk or flattery, they had to return home again without the piper.

They told their story to the Superior, and he gave them money to go back for the piper. They went to Tavraun again, gave the money to the piper and asked him to come with them.

"Wait till I drink another naggin; I can't play hearty music till I have my enough drunk?"

"We won't ask you to play music, it's another business we have for you."

O'Grady drank a couple of naggins, put the pipes under his oxter (arm-pit) and said, "I'm ready to go with ye now."

"Leave the pipes behind you," said the friars, "you won't want them."

"I wouldn't leave my pipes behind me if it was to Heaven I was going," says the piper.

When the piper came into the presence of the Superior, the Superior began examining him about the good works he had done during his life.

"I never did any good work during my life that I have any remembrance of," said the piper.

"Did you give away any alms during your life?" said the Superior.

"Indeed, I remember now, that I did give a tenpenny piece to a daughter of Mary O'Donnell's one night. She was in great want of the tenpenny piece, and she was going to sell herself to get it, when I gave it to her. After a little while she thought about the mortal sin she was going to commit, she gave up the world and its temptations and went into a convent, and people say that she passed a pious life. She died about seven years ago, and I heard that there were angels playing melodious music in the room when she was dying, and it's a pity I wasn't listening to them, for I'd have the tune now!"

"Well," said the Superior, "there's an evil spirit in the lake outside that's persecuting us day and night, and we had a revelation from an angel who came to us in a dream, that there was not a man alive able to banish the evil spirit but you."

"A male angel or female?" says the piper.

"It was a woman we saw," says the Superior, "she was dressed in white linen."

"Then I'll bet you five tenpenny pieces that it was Mary O'Donnell's daughter was in it," says the piper.

"It is not lawful for us to bet," says the Superior, "but if you banish the evil spirit of the lake you will get twenty tenpenny pieces."

"Give me a couple of naggins of good whiskey to give me courage," says the piper.

"There is not a drop of spirits in the house," says the Superior, "you know that we don't taste it at all."

"Unless you give me a drop to drink," says the piper, "go and do the work yourself."

They had to send for a couple of naggins, and when the piper drank it he said that he was ready, and asked them to show him the evil spirit. They went to the brink of the lake, and they told him that the evil spirit used to come on to the rock every time that they struck the bell to announce the "Angel's Welcome" [Angelical Salutation].

"Go and strike it now," says the piper.

The friars went, and began to strike the bell, and it was not long till the black boar and its rider came swimming to the rock. When they got up on the rock the boar let a loud screech, and the rogue began dancing.

The piper looked at them and said, "wait till I give ye music." With that he squeezed on his pipes, and began playing, and on the moment the black boar and its rider leapt into the lake and made for the piper. He was thinking of running away, when a great white dove came out of the sky over the boar and its rider, shot lightning down on top of them and killed them. The waves threw them up on the brink of the lake, and the piper went and told the Superior and the friars that the evil spirit of the lake and its rider were dead on the shore.

They all came out, and when they saw that their enemies were dead they uttered three shouts for excess of joy. They did not know then what they would do with the corpses. They gave forty tenpenny pieces to the piper and told him to throw the bodies into a hole far from the house. The piper got a lot of tinkers who were going the way and gave them ten tenpenny pieces to throw the corpse into a deep hole in a shaking-scraw a mile from the house of the friars. They took up the corpses, the piper walked out before them playing music, and they never stopped till they cast the bodies into the hole, and the shaking-scraw closed over them and nobody ever saw them since. The "Hole of the Black Boar" is to be seen still. The piper and the tinkers went to the public house, and they were drinking till they were drunk, then they began fighting, and you may be certain that the piper did not come out of Urlaur with a whole skin.

The friars built up the walls and the roof of the house and passed prosperous years in it, until the accursed foreigners came who banished the friars and threw down the greater part of the house to the ground.

The piper died a happy death, and it was the opinion of the people that he went to Heaven, and that it may be so with us all!

DIALOGUE BETWEEN TWO OLD WOMEN

PREFACE.

This story of the two women I got from Francis O'Connor. He said he heard it from one Mary Casey, a Co. Galway woman, but I don't know from what part of Galway. It is I who am responsible for the dialogue form of it, which I have used instead of putting in an occasional bald "said Mary," "said Sheela"; but it really was told more in a dramatic then a narrative form, the reciter's voice showing who was speaking. The words I have not interfered with.

I once heard a dialogue not unlike this between two Melicete Indians in Canada who fell to discussing Theology over the camp-fire at night after hunting. One was a Catholic and the other a close replica of Maurya in our dialogue.

The story of Páidin Críona seems familiar to me, but I cannot think where or in what literature I have met it before.

THE STORY.

MAURYA.

A hundred welcomes Sheela, it's a cure for sore eyes to see you; sit down and rest and tell us your news.

SHEELA.

Musha! I have no news. It is not news that's troubling me.

MAURYA.

Arrah! and what's troubling you? sure you're not ill!

SHEELA.

I'm not ill, thanks be to God and to His blessed mother, but I do be thinking of the four last ends--the Death and the Judgment, and Hell and Heaven, for I know I shan't be much longer in this sorrowful world, and I wouldn't mind if I were leaving it to-morrow.

MAURYA.

No nonsense at all of that sort ever comes into _my_ head, and I'm older than you. I'm not tired of this world yet. I have knowledge of this world, and I have no knowledge at all of the other world. Nobody ever came back to tell me about it. I'll be time enough thinking of Death when he comes. And, another thing,--I don't believe that God created anyone to burn him in hell eternally.

SHEELA.

You're going astray Maurya; were you at mass last Sunday?

MAURYA.

Indeed and I was not! I was doing a thing more profitable. It was taking care of my hens I was, to keep them from laying abroad, or I wouldn't have the price of a grain of tea or sneesheen throughout the week. That _bolgán-béiceach_ Father Brian wouldn't give me a penny if it was to keep me from being hanged. He's only a miserable greedy _sanntachán_. I had a little sturk of a pig last Christmas and he asked me to sell it to give him a shilling on Christmas Day, and as I didn't do that, he called out my name the Sunday after, in the chapel. He's not satisfied with good food, and oats for his horse, and gold and silver in his pocket. As I said often, I don't see any trade as good as a priest's trade; see the fine working clothes they wear, and poor people earning it hard for them.

SHEELA.

I wonder greatly at your talk. Your unbelief is great. I wonder that you speak so unmannerly about Father Brian, when if you were dying to-morrow, who would give you absolution but the same father?

MAURYA.

Arrah! Sheela, hold your tongue. Father Brian wouldn't turn on his heel, either for you or for me, without pay, even if he knew that it would keep us out of hell.

SHEELA.

The cross of Christ on us! I never thought that it was that sort of a woman you were. Did you ever go to confession?

MAURYA.

I went the day I was married, but I never bowed my knee under him before or since.

SHEELA.

You have not much to do now, and you ought to think about your poor soul.

MAURYA.

That wouldn't keep the hens from laying abroad on me, and if I were to go to confess to Father Brian, instead of absolution it's a barging I'd get from him, unless I had a half-crown on the top of my fingers to give him.

SHEELA.

Father Brian isn't half as bad as you say; I'm to go to his house this evening with fresh eggs and a pint of butter. I'll speak to him about you if you give me leave.

MAURYA.

Don't trouble yourself about me, for I'm not going near Father Brian: when I'll be on my death-bed _he'll_ come to _me_.

SHEELA.

And how do you know that it's not a sudden death you'd get, and what would happen to you if you were to get a "death without priest?"

MAURYA.

And wouldn't I be as well off as the thousands who got death without e'er a priest. I haven't much trust in the priests. It's sinners that's in them all; they're like ourselves, exactly. My own notion is that there's nothing in religion but talk. Did you ever hear mention of Páidín Críona[56] [wise Patsy].

[56] Pronounced "Paudyeen Creeöna."

SHEELA.

I did, often.

MAURYA.

Very well; did you ever hear his opinion about religion?

SHEELA.

Indeed, I never did, but tell it to me if you please.

MAURYA.

Musha, then, I will. There were three officers living in one house and Paudyeen Críona [Cree-on-a] was servant to them. There were no two of them of the same religion, and there used often to be a dispute amongst them--and every man of them saying that it was his own religion was the best religion. One day a man of them said, "We'll leave it to Wise Paudyeen as to which of us has the best religion." "We're satisfied," said the other two. They called in Paudyeen and a man of them said to him, "Paudyeen, I'm a Catholic, and what will happen to me after my death?"

"I'll tell you that," says Paudyeen. "You'll be put down into the grave, and you'll rise again and go up to the gate of heaven. Peter will come out and will ask you, 'what religion are you of.' You'll tell him, and he'll say, 'Go and sit in that corner amongst the Catholics.'"

"I'm a Protestant," said the second man, "and what'll happen to me after my death?"

"Exactly as the other man. You will be put sitting in the corner of the Protestants!"

"I'm a Hebrew," says the third man, "and what will happen to me after my death?"

"Exactly as the other two; you will be put sitting amongst the Hebrews."

Now there was no one of them better off than the other, as Paudyeen left them, and so the Catholic asked Paudyeen, "Paudyeen, what's your own religion?"

"I have no religion at all," says he.

"And what'll happen to you after your death?"

"I'll tell you that. I shall be put down into the hole, I shall rise again and go up to the gate of heaven. Peter will come and ask me, 'of what religion are you?' I will say that I have no religion at all, and Peter will say then, 'come in, and sit down, or walk about in any place that you have a wish for.'"

Now, Sheela, don't you see that he who had no religion at all was better off than the people who had a religion! Every one of them was bound to the corner of his own creed, but Paudyeen was able to go in his choice place, and I'll be so too.

SHEELA.

God help you Maurya; I'm afraid there's a long time before your poor soul in Purgatory.

MAURYA.

Have sense Sheela; I'll go through Purgatory as quickly as lightning through a gooseberry bush.

SHEELA.

There's no use talking to you or giving you advice. I'll leave you.

When Sheela was going out, Maurya let a screech out of her which was heard for a mile on every side of her. Sheela turned round and she saw Maurya in the midst of a flame of fire. Sheela ran as fast as was in her to Father Brian's house, and returned with him running to Maurya's house. But, my grief! the house was burned to the ground, and Maurya was burnt with it; and I am afraid that the [her] poor soul was lost.

THE MINISTER AND THE GOSSOON.

PREFACE.

This curious little piece is another dialogue in the same form as the last. These are the only two stories, if one may call them stories, which I have found couched in this form, so partly for that reason I give it here.

THE STORY

One day there was a poor little gossoon on the side of the road, and he taking care of an old sow of a pig, and a litter of bonhams along with her. A minister came the way, and he riding upon a fine horse, and he said to the gossoon, "Where does this road bring you?"

GOSSOON.

I'm here for a fortnight, and it never brought me anywhere yet.

MINISTER.

Now, isn't it the wise little boy you are! Whose are the little pigs?

GOSSOON.

They're the old sow's.

MINISTER.

I know that, but I'm asking you who is the master of the bonhams.

GOSSOON.

That little black-and-white devil that you see rooting, he's able to beat the whole of them.

MINISTER.

That's not what I'm asking you at all, but who is your own master?

GOSSOON.

My mistress's husband, a man as good as you'd get from here to himself.

MINISTER.

You don't understand me yet. Who is your mistress--perhaps you understand that?

GOSSOON.

I understand you well. She is my master's wife. Everyone knows that.

MINISTER.

You're a wise little boy; and it's as good for me to let you be, but tell me do you know where Patrick O'Donnell is living?

GOSSOON.

Yes, indeed. Follow this road until you come to a boreen on the side of your thumb-hand. Then follow your nose, and if you go astray break the guide.

MINISTER.

Indeed, and you're a ripe (precocious) little lad! What trade will you have when you'll be older?

GOSSOON.

Herding a pig. Don't you see that I'm putting in my term. What is your own trade?

MINISTER.

A good trade. I am showing the people what is the way to heaven.

GOSSOON.

Oh, what a liar! _You_ can't show the way to any place. You don't know the way to Patrick O'Donnell's, a man that everybody--big and little--in this country knows, and I'm certain sure you have no knowledge of the road to heaven.

MINISTER.

I'm beaten. Here's half a crown for you for your cleverness, and when I come again you'll get another.

GOSSOON.

Thank you. It's a pity that a fool like you doesn't come the way every day.

THE KEENING OF THE THREE MARYS.

PREFACE.

I got the following poem from a schoolmaster called O'Kearney, near Belmullet, in West Mayo, who told me that he had taken it down from the recitation of an old man in the neighbourhood. I got another version of it afterwards from Michael Mac Ruaidhri of Ballycastle, Co. Mayo, with quite a different "cur-fa" or refrain, namely _[)o]ch [=o]ch agus [)o]ch [=u]ch [=a]n_ after the first two lines, and _[)o]ch [)o]ch agus [=o]ch [)o]n [=o]_ after the next two. Spelt phonetically in English and giving _gh_ the guttural value of _ch_ in German, and _oa_ the same sound as in English _roach_ and _oo_ the sound of oo in _pool_, it would run----

Let us go to the mountain All early on the morrow, Ugh oagh agus ugh oogh awn. Hast thou seen my bright darling, O Peter, good apostle, Ugh ugh agus oagh on ó.

The agus "and" is pronounced nearly as "oggus." The story I have not traced, but it may have come from an Irish version of one of the apocryphal gospels.

THE STORY

Let us go to the mountain All early on the morrow, (Ochone! agus ochone, O!) "Hast thou seen my bright darling, O Peter, good apostle?" (Ochone! agus ochone, O!)

"Aye! truly O Mother Have I seen him lately, (Ochone agus ochone, O!) Caught by his foemen, They had bound him straitly," (Ochone agus ochone, O!)

"Judas, as in friendship, Shook hands, to disarm him," (Ochone agus ochone, O!) Oh, Judas! vile Judas! My love did never harm him. (Ochone agus ochone, O!)

No child has he injured, Not the babe in the cradle, (Ochone agus ochone, O!) Nor angered his mother Since his birth in the stable. (Ochone agus ochone, O!)

When the demons discovered That she was his mother, (Ochone agus ochone, O!) They raised her on their shoulders The one with the other; (Ochone agus ochone, O!)

And they cast her down fiercely On the stones all forlorn, (Ochone agus ochone, O!) And she lay and she fainted With her knees cut and torn, (Ochone agus ochone, O!)

"For myself, ye may beat me, But, oh, touch not my mother," (Ochone agus ochone, O!) "Yourself,--we shall beat you, But we'll slaughter your mother." (Ochone agus ochone, O!)

They dragged him off captive, And they left her tears flowing, (Ochone agus ochone, O!) But the Virgin pursued them Through the wilderness going, (Ochone agus ochone, O!)

"Oh, who is yon woman? Through the waste comes another," (Ochone agus ochone, O!) "If there comes any woman It is surely my mother," (Ochone agus ochone, O!)

"Oh John, care her, keep her, Who comes in this fashion," (Ochone agus ochone, O!) "But Oh, hold her from me Till I finish this passion," (Ochone agus ochone, O!)

When the Virgin had heard him And his sorrowful saying, (Ochone agus ochone, O!) She sprang past his keepers To the tree of his slaying, (Ochone agus ochone, O!)

"What fine man hangs there In the dust and the smother?" (Ochone agus ochone, O!) "And do you not know him, He is _your_ son, O Mother." (Ochone agus ochone, O!)

"Oh, is that the child whom I bore in this bosom, (Ochone agus ochone, O!) Or is that the child who Was Mary's fresh blossom" (Ochone agus ochone, O!)

They cast him down from them A mass of limbs bleeding, (Ochone agus ochone, O!) "There now he is for you, Now go and be keening." (Ochone agus ochone, O!)

Go call the three Marys Till we keene him forlorn, (Ochone agus ochone, O!) O Mother thy keeners Are yet to be born, (Ochone agus ochone, O!)

Thyself shall come with me Into Paradise garden, (Ochone agus ochone, O!) To a fair place in heaven At the side of thy darling, (Ochone agus ochone, O!)

THE FARMER'S SON AND THE BISHOP.

PREFACE.