Part 2

Winter comes with screech and wail, Piercing blast and thundering gale; Far from frozen climes he brings Sleet and snow, and blanching things. He has trod the North Pole round, Long in icy fetters bound; Swept by Greenland’s frigid shore, Where the western billows roar-- Roamed o’er Lapland’s ice-bound plains, Where chaotic darkness reigns; Rested on that land of woe Where the Russian captives go; Land where men of royal race, Exiled by some tyrant base, Pined in suffering, died in grief, No fond hand to bring relief-- No bright eyes to shed one tear O’er their cold and lonely bier; Dying far from wife and child In Siberia’s stormy wild.

Winter comes--his footsteps tread O’er the ocean’s rugged bed; As a ruthless conqueror he Sends his storms from sea to sea; Pity ne’er hath seized his breast, Sighs do ne’er disturb his rest-- Shrieks that boom along the wave, And mark the seaman’s wat’ry grave, Fail to touch his icy soul, Fail to stop the billow’s roll. When enthroned as ocean’s king, Spirits of his triumphs sing, Drinking to his sovereign power In the fearful midnight hour, From those remnants of the dead That round ocean’s depths are spread.

Winter comes, with giant stride O’er the hills and forests wide; From his aged brow he sheds Hoary locks around their heads-- Mantles in his polar garb Tree and flower and tender herb. Not a leaf appears to show Where the summer cowslips grow; Not a bud or blossom fair Scents with sweets the chilly air; Not a bluebell decks the heath, All are hid beneath the wreath Spread by his unfriendly hand O’er the dark dismantled land. Gardens once so bright and gay, ’Neath the summer’s solar ray, Once so rich in lovely gems, Hanging on their pendent stems, Seem as some lone desert wild Where fair beauty never smiled-- Where the light of summer’s sun Never touched or lit upon; Nature lies all lone and dead, ’Neath old Winter’s frosty tread.

Winter comes, and some rejoice, Glad to hear his sullen voice Booming o’er the crested waves, Sounding through old grots and caves-- Sighing ’mid the forest trees, Not in songs of summer’s breeze, But like mournings for the dead, That as fairy flowers have fled; Mounting o’er the mountain’s brow, Where the oak-tree’s trembling bough, Rushing through the wooded glen, Swooping o’er the frightsome fen. This is joy to hearts that know Nothing of the drifting snow, But beside the glowing hearth Spend the hours in joy and mirth, Laughing at the well-told tale, While without the rising gale Sweeps in furious mood along, Heedless of their boisterous song.

Winter comes--and sorrow brings On his dark foreboding wings, To the poor lone helpless child On whom fortune never smiled, To the wretched cots and cells Where want’s abject sufferer dwells. Round them he does cast his reins, O’er them brings his woes and pains. O! ye lordlings of the earth, Freed from pinching want by birth, Let your bosoms heave one sigh For the poor whose piercing cry Calls for sympathy from all, Loud as human woes can call, Plead with you on every mind To be moved with mercy kind; Supplicates for help to save Suffering equals from the grave. Hear, O hear their melting cries Rising upward to the skies; Hear, and let the good which heaven Kindly to your hands hath given, Aid in promptly helping those Steept in poverty and woes; Then when earthly days are fled, And the joys (now dark and dead) Cease for ever from your eyes, May you live beyond the skies; May you hear your Saviour say, Come, my servants, come away; Enter in and seize your crown, Be partakers of my throne; For on earth you loved your lord; Hearken’d to his every word-- Heard his suffering children cry, Wiped the tear-drops from their eye-- Inasmuch as thus your love, Round their troubled souls did move, So to me that love was given Enter in with me to heaven.

Coleraine, December 1840. S. A.

TALES OF MY CHILDHOOD, BY JOHN KEEGAN.

No. I.--THE BOCCOUGH RUADH.

A TRADITION OF POOR-MAN’S BRIDGE.

“When ghosts, as cottage maids believe, Their pebbled beds permitted leave, And goblins haunt, from fire or fen, Or mine or flood, the walks of men.”----COLLINS.

One evening last winter--a holiday evening too--when the western wind was sweeping on wild pinions from the grey hills of Tipperary, athwart the rich and level plains of the Queen’s County, when the blast roared down in the chimney, and the huge rain-drops pattered saucily against the four tiny panes which constituted the little kitchen window, I was sitting in the cottage of a neighbouring peasant, amid a small but happy group of village rustics, and enjoying with them that enlivening mirth and sinless delight which I have never found any where but at the fireside of an Irish peasant. The earthen floor was well scrubbed over; the “brullaws ov furnithure” were arranged with more than usual tidiness, and even the crockery on the well-scoured dresser reflected the ruddy glare of the red fire with redoubled brilliancy, and glittered and glistened as merrily as if they felt conscious of the calm and tranquillity of that happy scene. And happy indeed was that scene, and happy was that time, and happier still the hearts of the laughing rustics by whom I was on that occasion surrounded, and amongst whom I have spent the lightest and happiest hours of my existence.

It was, as I said, a wild night, but even the violence of the weather abroad gave an additional relish to the enjoyments within. The blast whistled fiercely in the bawn and in the haggard, but the huge fire blazed brightly on the hearth-stone. The rain fell in torrents; but, as one of the company chucklingly remarked, “the wrong side ov the house was out,” and I myself mentally exclaimed with Tam o’ Shanter,

“The storm without may roar and rustle, _We_ do not mind the storm a whustle.”

Whilst, to wind up the climax of our happiness, a gossoon who had been dispatched for a grey-beard full of “the native,” now returned, and in a few minutes a huge jug of half and half smoked on the table, and was circulated around the smiling and expectant ring, with an impetus of which the peasantry of Ireland will in a short time, from certain existing causes, have not even the remotest idea.

Well! such an evening as we had, I shall never forget; it would be vain to attempt a description. Those who have witnessed similar scenes require none, and to those who have not, any attempt at one would be useless. All therefore I shall say, is, that such a scene of fun and frolic and harmless waggery could not be found any where outside that ring which encircles the Emerald Isle, and even within that bright zone, nowhere but in the cabin of an Irish “scullogue.”

The songs of our sires, chanted with all that melancholy softness and pathetic sweetness for which the voices of our wild Irish girls are remarkable, the wild legend recited with that rich brogue and waggish humour peculiar alone to the Irish peasant, and the romantic and absurd fairy tale, told with all the reverential awe and caution which the solemnity of the subject required, long amused and excited the captivated auditors; but at length, more’s the pity, the vocalist could sing no more, having “a mighty great could intirely.” The story-teller was “as dry as a chip wid all he talked,” and even the sides of most of the company “war ready to split wid the rale dint of laughin’;” whilst, as if to afford us another illustration of the truth of the old proverb, “one trouble never comes alone,” even the old crone who had astonished us with the richness and extent of her fairy lore, was also knocked up, or rather knocked _down_, for the quantity of earthly _spirits_ she had put _in_, entirely put _out_ all memory of _un_-earthly _spirits_, and sent her disordered fancy, all confused as it was, wool-gathering to the classic regions of _Their-na-noge_.[3]

Well, what was to be done? It was still young in the night, and, better than that, a good “slug” still remained in the grey-beard, and as we all had contributed to procure the stock, so all declared that none should depart until the very last drop was drained. But how was the interval to be employed? The singer was hushed, the story-teller was exhausted, and vollies of wit and waggery had exploded until every one was tired; yet to remain silent was considered by all as the highest degree of discomfort. In this dilemma the man of the house scratched his pericranium, and, as acting by some sudden impulse, started up and handed me an old sooty book, “hoping that I would read a wollume for the edication of the company, until it would be time to retire.”

I agreed without hesitation, and on opening the dusty and smoke-begrimed volume found that it was “Sir Charles Coote’s Statistical Survey of the Queen’s County,” printed in Dublin by Graisberry and Campbell, and published by direction of the Dublin Society in the year 1801. Although well aware that the dry details of a work professedly and almost exclusively statistical, were little calculated to amuse or interest _such_ an audience, yet, as the library of an Irish peasant is always unfortunately scanty, and in this instance, with the exception of a few trifling works on religious subjects, limited to the book in question, I determined to make the best I could of it, and for that purpose opened it at Sir Charles’s description of the immediate district in which we were situated, namely, the barony of Maryborough West, and town-land of Killeany. I read on thus:--“On Sir Allen Johnson’s estate stand the ruins of Killeany Castle; the walls are injudiciously built of very bad stones, though excellent quarry is contiguous. … Poor-man’s Bridge over the Nore was lately widened, and is very safe, but I cannot learn the tradition why it was so called.”

“Read that again, sir,” said a fine grey-headed, patriarchal old man who was present; “read that again,” said he emphatically. I did so.

“_He_ cannot learn the tradition of Poor-man’s Bridge, _inagh_!” said the old man with a sneer; “faith, I believe not; I’d take his word for more nor that. But had he come to me when he was travelling the country making up his statisticks, I could open his eyes on that subject, and many others too.”

Some of those present laughed outright at the old man’s gravity of manner as he made this confident boast.

“You need not laugh--you may shut your potato-traps,” said the old man indignantly. “Grand as he was, with his gold and silver, his coach and horses, and servants with gold and scarlet livery, I could enlighten him more on the ancient history and traditions of our country than all the _boddaghs_ of squireens whom he visited on his tour through the Queen’s County.”

These assertions served only to increase the storm of ridicule which was gathering around the old man’s head; and to put a stop to any bad blood which the occasion might call forth, I requested of him to tell us the tradition of “the Boccough Ruadh.”

After some wheedling and flattery he complied, and told a curious story, of which the following is the substance.

The river Nore flows through a district of the Queen’s County celebrated for fertility and romantic beauty. From its source amongst the blue hills of Slievebloom to its termination at New Ross, where its bright ripples commingle with the briny billows of the Irish sea, many excellent and even some beautiful bridges span its stream. Until the commencement of the last century, however, except in the vicinity of towns, there were but few permanent bridges across this river, and in the country districts access was gained over it chiefly by means of causeways, or, as they are termed, “foords,” constructed of stones and huge blocks of timber fixed firmly in the bed of the river, and extending in irregular succession from bank to bank. Over this pathway foot passengers crossed easily enough, but cattle and wheeled carriages were obliged to struggle through the water as well as they could; but in time of floods, and in the winter season when the waters were swollen, all communication was cut off except to pedestrians alone.

One of those “foords,” in former times, crossed the Nore at Shanahoe, a very pretty neighbourhood, about three miles northwards of the beautiful and rising town of Abbeyleix, in the Queen’s County. The river here winds its course through a silent glen, and now several snug cottages and farm-houses arise above its banks at either side. The country in this neighbourhood is remarkably beautiful. Several gentlemen’s seats are scattered along the banks of the river in this vicinity, all elegant and of modern erection, whilst swelling hills, sloping dales, gloomy groves, and ruins of church and tower and “castle grey,” ornament and diversify the scene.

On a gentle eminence on the eastern bank of the river, stood, about a hundred years ago, the cabin of a man named Neale O’Shea. At that period there was not another dwelling within a long distance of the “foord,” and many a time was Neale summoned from his midnight repose to guide the traveller in his passage over the lonely and dangerous river pathway.

One wild stormy December night, when the huge limestone rocks that formed the stepping-stones of the ford were lashed and chafed by the angry foam of the agitated river, Neale O’Shea’s wife fancied she heard, amid the fitful pausings of the wind, the cry of some mortal in distress. She immediately aroused her husband, who was stretched asleep on a large oak stool in the chimney corner, and told him to look out. Neale, ever willing to relieve a fellow-creature, arose, and, flinging his grey “trusty” over his expansive shoulders, and seizing a long iron-shod pole or wattle, the constant companion of his nightly excursions, hastened down to the river’s brink. He stood a moment at the verge of the ford, and tried to penetrate through the intense gloom, to see if he could discover a human form, but he could see nothing.

“Is there any one there?” he shouted in a stentorian voice, which rose high above the whistling of the blast, and the brawling of the angry and swift-rushing river.

A voice sounded at the other extremity of the ford, and the stout-hearted peasant, with steady step, crossed over the slippery stepping-stones.

“Who the devil are you?” roughly exclaimed Neale to a man who lay extended on the brink of the river, convenient to the entrance of the ford.

“Whoever I am,” faintly replied the stranger, “you are my good angel, and it was surely Providence who sent you this night to rescue me from a watery grave.”

“Whoever you are,” again said Neale, “come along with me, and Kathleen and the childre will make you welcome in my cabin until morning.” So saying, he seized the bending form of the wayworn stranger, and flinging him on his back with herculean strength, trudged over the stepping-stones, chuckling with delight, and gaily whistling as he went.

The dangerous pass was soon crossed, and arriving at the door, Neale pushed it before him, and with a smile deposited his trembling burthen on the warm hearth. A fine fire blazed merrily, and its flickering beams fell brightly on the face of the stranger. He was a tall, portly figure, stooped as if from extreme suffering more than age, and had a wooden leg. His features, which had evidently been handsome in his youth, were worn, pale, and attenuated, and he might be about fifty years of age. His clothes were faded and ragged; he was entirely without shoes or stockings; and his head was covered by a broad-brimmed leathern hat, under which he wore an enormous red nightcap of coarse woollen cloth.

The good Kathleen now set about preparing supper, and while thus employed, the stranger gave them a brief account of his bygone life. He told them that he was a native of the north of Ireland, and that he had spent several years of his youth at sea; that being wounded in a fray with smugglers on the coast of France, and losing his leg, he was discharged from his employment, and sent adrift on the world, without having one friend on earth, or a penny in his pocket. In this exigence he had no alternative but to apply to the commiseration of his fellow-creatures, and had thus for the last twenty years wandered up and down, entirely dependent on the bounty and charity of the public.

Supper was now ready, and having partaken of a comfortable meal, the wanderer went to rest in a comfortable “shake-down,” which the good woman had prepared for him in the chimney corner. The storm died away during the night, and next morning the watery beams of the winter’s sun shone faintly yet gaily on the smooth surface of the silvery Nore.

The stranger was up at sunrise, and was preparing to depart, but his kind host and hostess would not permit him to go. They told him to stop a few days to rest himself, and in the interim, that he could not do better than take his stand at the ford, and ask alms of those who passed the way, as a great many frequented that pass; and as nothing was ever craved from them there, they would cheerfully extend their charity to an object worthy of relief.

Acting on their suggestions, the old sailor was soon sitting on a stone at the western extremity of the ford. With his old caubeen in his hand, and his head enveloped in the gigantic red nightcap, he craved alms, in the name of God and the Virgin, from all who passed the way; and before the sickly beams of the December sun had sunk behind the conical “Gizebo,” he could show more money than ever he did before, since his limb was swept off by the shot of the smuggling Frenchman.

The next morning, and every morning after, found the sailor at his post at the ford: he soon became well known to all the villagers, and from the circumstance of his always appearing with no other head-gear than the red nightcap, they nicknamed him the “Boccough Ruadh,”[4] a name by which he went ever after till his death.

Time passed on as usual, and the one-legged sailor still plied his lucrative vocation at the river pass. Neale O’Shea’s cabin still continued to afford him shelter every night, and all his days, from the crow of the cock to the vesper song of the wood-thrush, were passed at the ford, seated on that remarkable block of limestone called to this day the “Clough-na-Boccough.”[5] His hand was stretched to every stranger for alms, “for the good of their souls,” and very few passed without giving more or less to the Boccough Ruadh. Thus he acquired considerable sums of money, but constantly denied having a “keenogue;” but when bantered by any of the neighbouring urchins on the length of his purse, he would get into a great rage, and swear, by the cross of his crutch, that between buying the shough of tobacco and paying for other things he wanted, he hadn’t as much as would jingle on a tomb-stone, or what would buy a farthing candle to show light to his poor corpse at the last day. His food was of the very worst description, and unless supplied by the kind-hearted Kathleen O’Shea, he would sooner go to bed supperless than lay out one penny to buy bread. He suffered his clothes to go to rags, unless when any person in the neighbourhood would give him old clothes for charity, and he would not pay for soap to wash his shirt once in the twelvemonth. Yet no one could find out what he did with his money; he did not spend two-and-sixpence in the year, and it was people’s opinion that he was hoarding it up to give for the benefit of his soul at his dying day.

Years rolled away, and Neale O’Shea having now waxed old, died, and was gathered to his fathers in the adjacent green churchyard of Shannikill,[6] on the banks of the winding Nore. The Boccough followed the remains of his kind benefactor to his last earthly resting-place, and poured his sorrows over his grave in loud and long-continued lamentations. But though Neale was gone, Kathleen remained, and she promised that while she lived, neither son nor daughter should ever turn out the Boccough Ruadh.

It was now forty years since the Boccough first crossed the waters of the Nore, and still he was constantly to be found from morning till night on his favourite stone at the river side. In the mean time, all O’Shea’s children were married, and separated through various parts of the country, with the exception of Terry, the youngest, a fine stout fellow, now about thirty-five years of age, who still remained in a state of single blessedness, and said he would continue so, “until he would be after laying the last sod on his poor ould mother.” With gigantic strength, he inherited all his father’s kindness of heart and undaunted bravery, and he was particularly attentive to the Boccough, whom he regarded with the same affection as a child would a parent.

One morning in summer, the Boccough was observed to remain in bed longer than was his custom, and thinking that he might be unwell, Terry went to his bedside, and demanded why he was not up as usual.

“Ah, Terry, _alanna_,” said the old man sorrowfully, “I will never get up again until I do upon the bearer.[7] My days are spent, and I know it, for there is something over me that I cannot describe, and I won’t be alive in twenty-four hours;” and as he said these words, he heaved a deep groan, whilst Terry, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his coat, wept bitterly.

“Will I go for the priest?” demanded Terry, sobbing as if his heart would break.

“No,” replied the old man sorrowfully, “I do not want him. It is long since I complied with my religious duties, and now I feel it is useless.”

“There is mercy still,” replied Terry; “you know the ould sayin’,

‘Mercy craved and mercy found Between the saddle and the ground.’”

The old man replied not, but shook his head, indicating his determination to die without the consolations of religion, whilst Terry trembled for his hopeless situation.

“Well, since you won’t have the priest, will you give me some money till I bring you the doctor?” said Terry.

The old man’s eyes literally flashed fire, his form heaved with rage, and his countenance displayed demoniac indignation.

“What’s that you say?” he demanded in a ferocious tone.

Terry repeated the question.

“Send for a doctor!--give you money!” echoed the old man. “Where the devil would I get money to pay a doctor?”

“You have it, and ten times as much,” said Terry, “and you cannot deny it.”

“If I have as much money as would buy me a coffin,” said the Boccough, “may my soul never rest quiet in the grave.”

Terry crossed his brow with terror. He knew the unhappy wretch was dying with a lie on his tongue, but he resolved not to press the matter further.

“You are dying as fast as you can,” remarked Terry; “have you any thing to say before you go?”

“Nothing,” replied he faintly. “But let me be buried with my red nightcap on me.”

“Your wish must be granted,” said Terry, and he went to awake his old mother, who still lay asleep. When he returned, he found the old man breathing his last. He uttered a convulsive groan, and expired.

He was washed and stretched, and waked, with all the honours, rites, and ceremonies belonging to a genuine Irish wake; and on the third day following, being the Sabbath, he was followed to the grave by crowds of the village peasantry, who remained in the churchyard until they saw his remains deposited, as they thought for ever, in the rank soil of the “City of the Dead.”