As I Rode by Granard Moat (20 page)

Pilgrims, O pilgrims, where are you going?

Up to the Reek, to the holy man’s mountain.

Keep your stick in your fist or you’ll tumble forever,

tumble and toss with the torrents of water,

water that’s brown with the bog’s bitter drainings,

water that scours out the rocks like a penance.

But Patrick keeps guard from the cold windy summit,

watching with prayer like the sunrise about him,

his casula wet with the labour of sorrow,

his bell hoarse with ringing damnation to demons,

for fear we should fail, we the nation he fashioned;

watching forever, his eyes never weary,

wrestling with devils and angels and Heaven,

he, who accounted himself sinner of sinners.

Pilgrims, O pilgrims, how far to the summit?

Now our breath breaks like the shudder of death,

now the sharp stones are an ambush of demons,

now the cold morning cuts heat from our hearts.

Pilgrims, O pilgrims, the darkness is lifting,

daybreak is polishing ocean’s dulled mirror,

islands will gleam like the rivets on silver.

But prayers must be said till the heart groans in anguish,

limbs must be strained till the flesh is no rebel,

bones must be tried till the will is the master,

slopes must be climbed till the body is civil.

Thirst is a prayer that makes the tongue kindle;

hunger a penance that cries in the belly.

Pilgrims, O pilgrims, look down on the ocean,

morning uncovers the islands to glory.

Pilgrims, O pilgrims, here is your haven.

Lost are the torrents spuming sour water;

below is the bog that hugged the heels evilly;

below are the boulders that huddled to hinder us;

below are the flints that dared us and prattled.

But look to that man who bares his knees bravely,

kneels to the stones while his mouth mutters Aves.

(God save ye, pilgrims, here Patrick guards us!)

Look at that woman, old as the mountain,

swinging her beads to the shake of her fingers.

(Patrick is watching over all Ireland)

Look at that girl who skips like a sparrow,

brown as a berry, laughing and gabbing.

Patrick he guards them all from his mountain,

guarding with prayers like those strong winds about him,

his casula wet with the love that melts heaven,

his bell beating devils to rout in infernos,

for fear we should fail, we his nation, his people,

watching for ever, his eyes like the planets,

Patrick the slave and the master of Ireland.

Pilgrims, O pilgrims, whence are you coming?

Back from Croagh Patrick’s mountain high vigil.

Back from the flight of the darkness at morning.

Back from a word to the maker of Ireland.

All night the woods were talking:

colloquy of nodding heads till matins

levelled light through sparkling bracken,

caught the tardy poachers napping,

teased the convent cocks to bragging,

and hushed blown boughs with the din of morning.

All night the trees colloguing,

mouth to ear, implored an answer.

‘Tell, O tell, who was she walking, daring

dayfall to a candle,’

murmured gravely swaying elms;

‘probing thistledown alighting were less

gentle than her sandals.’

Beeches swung like happy bellmen:

‘Over in the claustral brambles

blackbirds tucked up drooping habits,

chirped and hurried, drowsy

brethren badgered by a prowling

abbot; hurried, ranked the boughs, sang,

and sang, weaving light above the pathway

till the woods with glim-note, hymn-flame, star-chant,

song-flare ran and rang.’

‘She,’ the ash said.

– a skitting whisper –

‘is a king’s maid,

a chieftain’s surely,

slipped through a dun-gate

to inveigle a lover.’

‘Look!’ cried the yew, ‘but those skulking trappers

will creep empty-satchelled back to their slatterns,

and search for the hag whose viper cursing

poisoned the night for snaring and netting.

Who can forget the warren folk’s merriment,

eyes like the sun on dew-polished berries,

ripe to the glint of no curse but her blessing?’

‘Who?’ sighed the woods.

‘Who?’ all together,

Thus all night the woods were talking,

a colloquy of nodding heads since vespers.

Only the oak knew Brighid the bright nun walking,

mothering as evening air,

through the flocked glebe-land and among the talking

trees in windy, cropped Kildare.

Only the Shannon’s hurtling water,

only these ramparts that crannied lichens climb,

can tell how fighters fled from sterile slaughter,

and God intoned Amen to their time.

River, tell me, river, did a nation topple when swordsmen

wrestled with the ladders and tumbled to the pikemen?

Ramparts, tell me, ramparts, was an epoch dust and rubble

when the lords sailed from Ireland to mix in foreign trouble?

Our fathers, are they fathers? Or shadows from a story

finished on these ramparts watching Limerick town,

while we, with empty pockets, pick their purse of glory?

River, tell me, rampart, are we heirs to old renown?

Limerick fell. And this, only this I know,

only a hovelled rabble was left to build from slaughter,

only ruined ramparts where patient grasses grow,

only the Shannon’s hurtling water.

‘All over the world,’ the traveller said,

‘In my wanderings I have been;

But these two lookin’ eyes have seen.

From the haunts of the ape an’ marmozet,

To the lands of the Fellaheen.’

Says the other, ‘I’ll lay you an even bet

You were never in Farranaleen.’

‘I’ve hunted the woods of Seringapatam,

An’ sailed in the Polar Seas.

I fished for a week in the Gulf of Siam

An’ lunched on the Chersonese.

I’ve lived in the valleys of fair Cashmere,

Under Himalay’s snowy ridge.’

Says the other impatiently, ‘Looka here,

Were you ever at Laffan’s Bridge?’

‘I’ve lived in the land where tobacco is grown,

In the suburbs of Santiago;

An’ I spent two years in Sierra Leone,

An’ in Terra Del Fuego.

I walked across Panama all in a day,

Ah me, but the road was rocky!’

The other replied, ‘Will you kindly say,

Were you ever at Horse-and-Jockey?

‘I’ve borne my part in a savage fray,

When I got this wound from a Lascar;

We were bound just then from Mandalay

For the isle of Madagascar.

Ah! the sun never tired of shining there,

An’ the trees canaries sang in.’

‘What of that?’ says the other, ‘Sure I’ve a pair,

And there’s lots more over in Drangan.’

‘I’ve hunted tigers in Turkestan,

In Australia the kangaroos;

An’ I lived six months as medicine man

To a tribe of Katmandoos.

An’ I’ve stood on the scene of Olympic games,

Where the Grecians showed their paces.’

The other replied, ‘Now tell me, James,

Were you ever at Fethard Races?

‘Don’t talk of your hunting in Yucatan,

Or your fishing off Saint Helena;

I’d rather see young lads hunting the wran

In the hedges of Tubberheena.

No doubt the scenes of a Swiss canton

Have a passable sort of charm,

But give me a sunset on Sliabh na mBan

From the road by Hackett’s Farm.

‘An’ I’d rather be strolling along the quay,

An’ watching the river flow,

Than growing tea with the cute Chinee,

Or mining in Mexico.

An’ I wouldn’t much care for Sierra Leone,

If I hadn’t seen Killenaule,

An’ the man that ne’er saw Mullinahone

Shouldn’t say he had travelled at all.’

He grasped his ponderous hammer, he could not stand it more,

To hear the bombshells bursting, and the thundering battle’s roar;

He said – The breech they’re mounting, the Dutchman’s murdering crew –

I’ll try my hammer on their heads and see what that can do!

‘Now, swarthy Ned and Moran, make up that iron well;

’Tis Sarsfield’s horse that wants the shoes, so mind not shot nor shell’;

‘Ah sure,’ cried both, ‘the horse can wait – for Sarsfield’s on the wall,

And where you go we’ll follow, with you to stand or fall!’

The blacksmith raised his hammer, and rushed into the street,

His ‘prentice boys behind him, the ruthless foe to meet –

High on the breach of Limerick, with dauntless hearts they stood,

Where the bombshells burst, and shot fell thick, and redly ran the blood.

‘Now, look you, brown-haired Moran, and mark you, swarthy Ned,

This day we’ll prove the thickness of many a Dutchman’s head!

Hurrah! upon their bloody path they’re mounting gallantly;

And now, the first that tops the breach, leave him to this and me!’

The first that gained the rampart, he was a captain brave!

A captain of the grenadiers, with blood-stained dirk and glaive;

He pointed and he parried, but it was all in vain,

For fast through skull and helmet the hammer found his brain!

The next that topped the rampart, he was a colonel bold,

Bright through the murk of battle his helmet flashed with gold –

‘Gold is no match for iron,’ the doughty blacksmith said,

As with that ponderous hammer he cracked his foeman’s head!

‘Hurrah for gallant Limerick!’ black Ned and Moran cried,

As on the Dutchman’s leaden heads their hammers well they plied;

A bombshell burst between them – one fell without a groan,

One leaped into the lurid air, and down the breach was thrown!

‘Brave smith! brave smith!’ cried Sarsfield, ‘beware the treacherous mine –

Brave smith! brave smith! fall backward, or surely death is thine!’

The smith sprang up the rampart and leaped the blood-stained wall,

As high into the shuddering air went foemen, breach, and all!

Up like a red volcano they thundered wild and high,

Spear, gun, and shattered standard, and foemen through the sky;

And dark and bloody was the shower that round the blacksmith fell –

He thought upon his ‘prentice boys, they were avenged well!

On foemen and defenders a silence gathered down,

’Twas broken by a triumph-shout that shook the ancient town;

As out its heroes sallied, and bravely charged and slew,

And taught King William and his men what Irish hearts can do!

Down rushed the swarthy blacksmith unto the river side,

He hammered on the foe’s pontoon, to sink it in the tide;

The timber it was tough and strong, it took no crack or strain –

‘Mavrone, ’twon’t break,’ the blacksmith roared, ‘I’ll try their heads again!’

The blacksmith sought his smithy, and blew his bellows strong,

He shod the steed of Sarsfield, but o’er it sang no song:

‘Ochón! my boys are dead,’ he cried; ‘their loss I’ll long deplore,

But comfort’s in my heart, their graves are red with foreign gore!’

[Robert Dwyer Joyce]

The night we rode with Sarsfield out from Limerick to meet

The wagon-train that William hoped would help in our defeat,

How clearly I remember it, though now my hair is white

That clustered’ black and curly ’neath my trooper’s cap that night.

For I was one of Sarsfield’s men, in years though still a lad,

And to be one of Sarsfield’s men what boy would not be glad?

For Sarsfield chose, of all his troops, the best and bravest ones

To ride and raid the convoy’s camp that brought the English guns.

’Twas silently we left the town and silently we rode,

While o’er our heads the silent stars in silver beauty glowed.

And silently and stealthily, well led by one who knew,

We crossed the shining Shannon at the ford of Killaloe.

The galloping O’Hogan, Ireland’s fiery-hearted son,

’Twas he, by many a byway, led us confidently on,

Till when the night was nearly spent we saw the distant glow

The English convoy’s campfire in the quiet vale below.

Still silently and stealthily, at Sarsfield’s stern command

We close and closer drew the lines of our devoted band.

‘We must not fail, my comrades.’ That was Sarsfield’s voice that spoke.

‘For Limerick and Ireland’s fate depend upon this stroke.

The password of the Williamites is Sarsfield. Strange but true.

And with that word upon our lips, we’ll pass the sentries through.

Then when you hear my voice upraised, charge boldly, one and all.

No cannon from this convoy e’er must bark at Limerick’s wall.’

The sleepy sentry, on his rounds, perhaps was musing o’er

His happy days of childhood on the pleasant English shore.

Perhaps was thinking of his home and wishing he were there,

When springtime makes the English land so wonderfully fair.

At last our horses’ hoof-beats and our jingling arms he heard.

‘Halt! Who goes there?’ the sentry cried: ‘Advance and give the word.’

‘The word is Sarsfield,’ cried our Chief. ‘And stop us he who can.

For Sarsfield is the word tonight. And Sarsfield is the man.’

One bursting cheer, one headlong charge, and sabres bright and keen

Are hacking at the foemen’s heads where’er a head is seen.

The colonel leaves his wig behind, bestrides a horse and flies

To tell of Sarsfield’s daring and the convoy camp’s surprise.

We make a pile of captured guns and powder-bags and stores,

Then skyward in one flaming blast the great explosion roars.

And then we sang, as back we rode with Sarsfield in the van:

‘Ho! Sarsfield is the word tonight and Sarsfield is the man.’

The night we rode with Sarsfield, I shall always hold it dear,

Though he is dead on Landen Plain, this many and many a year.

Though he is dead and I am old, my hair all silver white

That clustered black and curly ’neath my trooper’s cap that night.

For I was one of Sarsfield’s men, while yet a boy in years

I rode as one of Sarsfield’s men and men were my compeers.

They’re dead, the most of them, afar, yet they were Ireland’s sons

Who saved the walls of Limerick from the might of English guns.

Before the famed year Ninety-eight,

In blood stamp’d Ireland’s wayward fate;

When laws of death and transportation

Were served, like banquets, thro’ the nation –

But let it pass – the tale I dwell on

Has nought to do with red Rebellion;

Altho’ it was a glorious ruction,

And nearly wrought our foes’ destruction.

There lived and died in Limerick City,

A dame of fame – Oh! what a pity

That dames of fame should live and die,

And never learn for what, or why!

Some say her maiden name was Brady,

And others say she was a Grady;

The d___ I choke their contradictions!

For truth is murder’d by their fictions.

’Tis true she lived – ’tis true she died,

’Tis true she was a Bishop’s bride,

But for herself, ’tis little matter

To whom she had been wife or daughter.

Whether of Bradys or O’Gradys!

She lived, like most ungodly ladies,

Spending his Reverend Lordship’s treasure;

Chasing the world’s evil pleasure;

In love with suppers, cards, and balls,

And luxurious sin of festive halls,

Where flaming hearts, and flaming wine,

Invite the passions all to dine.

She died – her actions were recorded –

Whether in Heaven or Hell rewarded

We know not, but her time was given

Without a thought of Hell or Heaven.

Her days and nights were spent in mirth –

She made her genial Heaven of earth;

And never dreamt, at balls and dinners,

There is a Hell to punish sinners.

How quick Time throws his rapid measure

Along the date of wordly pleasure?

A beam of light, ’mid cloudy shadows,

Flitting along the autumn meadows;

A wave that glistens on the shore,

Retires, and is beheld no more;

A blast that stirs the yellow leaves

Of fading woods, in autumn eves;

A star’s reflection on the tide,

Which gathering shadows soon shall hide. –

Such and so transient, the condition

Of earthly joys and man’s ambition.

Death steals behind the smile of joy,

With weapon ready to destroy;

And, tho’ a hundred years were past,

He’s sure to have his prey at last.

And, when the fated hour is ready,

He cares not for a lord or lady;

But lifts his gun, and snaps the trigger

And shoots alike the king and beggar.

And thus the heroine of our tale,

He shot, as fowlers shoot a quail;

And, ’mid the flash of pomp and splendour,

He made her soul the world surrender.

She join’d her father’s awful forms

’Mid rolling clouds and swelling storms;

And, lest the Muse would be a liar,

I’m led to think she went no higher.

But now I have some secret notion,

She did not like her new promotion;

For if she did she would remain,

And scorn to come to earth again.

But earth, the home of her affection,

Could not depart her recollection!

So she return’d to flash and shine,

But never more to dance or dine!

The story of her resurrection

Flew out in many a queer direction!

Each night, she roam’d, with airy feet,

From Thomond Bridge to Castle-street;

And those that stay’d out past eleven,

Would want a special guard from Heaven,

To shield them, with a holy wand,

From the mad terrors of her hand!

She knock’d two drunken soldiers dead,

Two more, with batter’d foreheads, fled;

She broke the sentry-box in staves,

And dash’d the fragments in the waves!

She slash’d the gunners, left and right,

And put the garrison to flight!

The devil, with all his faults and failings,

Was far more quiet in his dealings

(Notwithstanding all that he lost)

Than this unruly, rampant she-ghost!

No pugilist in Limerick Town,

Could knock a man so quickly down,

Or deal an active blow so ready

To floor one, as the Bishop’s Lady!

And thus the ghost appear’d and vanished,

Until her Ladyship was banish’d

By Father Power whom things of evil

Dread as mortals dread the devil!

Off to the Red Sea shore he drove her,

From which no tide nor time can move her,

From numbering sands upon the coast

That skirts the grave of Pharaoh’s host!

A lady of her high-born station

Must have acquired great education

For such a clerkship – numbering sands,

With no account-book, save her hands!

But, ere the Priest removed the Lady,

There lived a ‘Boy’, call’d ‘Drunken Thady’!

In Thomond-gate, of social joys,

The birth-place of the ‘Devil’s Boys’!

Thade knew his country’s history well,

And for her sake would go to hell!

For hours he’d sit and madly reason

Upon the honours of high treason!

What Bills the House had lately got in,

What Croppies nimbly danced on nothing!

And how the wily game of State

Was dealt and play’d in Ninety-eight!

How Wexford fought – how Ross was lost!

And all to Erin’s bloody cost!

But had the powers of Munster ’risen,

Erin had England by the weasan’!

He told long tales about those play-boys,

Call’d Terry Alts and Peep-o’-day Boys

Who roused, at night, the sleeping country,

And terrified the trembling gentry!

Now who dare say that Irish history

To Thady’s breeding was a mystery?

Altho’ the Parish Priest proclaim’d him,

And first of living devils named him!

In heart he was an Irish Lumper,

But all his glory was a bumper!

He believed in God, right firm and well,

But served no Heaven and feared no Hell!

A sermon on Hell’s pains may start him,

It may convince but not convert him!

He knew his failing and his fault

Lay in the tempting drop of malt;

And every day his vice went further,

And, as he drank, his heart grew harder.

Ah, Thady! oft the Parish Priest

Call’d you a wicked, drunken beast!

And said you were the devil’s handle

Of brazen, bare-faced, public scandal!

An imp – without the least contrition –

At whiskey, discord and sedition!

That drinking was your sole enjoyment,

And breaking doors your whole employment!

That you – at every drunken caper –

Made windows change their glass for paper!

That sure as closed each Sunday night in,

You set near half the parish fighting!

That, with your constant, droughty quaffing,

You broke Moll Dea and Biddy Lavin!

And drove the two poor widows begging,

For not a drop you left their keg in!

If Satan stood, with his artillery,

Full at the gates of Stein’s Distillery;

With Satan’s self you’d stand a tussle

To enter there and wet your whistle!

In vain the Priest reproved his doings –

Even as the ivy holds the ruins –

He caution’d, counsell’d, watch’d and track’d him,

But all in vain – at last he whack’d him;

And with a blackthorn, highly seasoned,

He urged the argument he’d reason’d.

But Thady loved intoxication,

And foil’d all hopes of reformation;

He still rais’d rows and drank the whiskey,

And roar’d, just like the Bay of Biscay.

In every grog-shop he was found,

In every row he fought a round;

The treadmill knew his step as well

As e’er a bellman knew his bell;

The jail received him forty times

For midnight rows and drunken crimes;

He flailed his wife and thump’d her brother,

And burn’d the bed about his mother,

Because they hid his fine steel pike

Deep down in Paudh Molony’s dike!

The guard was call’d out to arrest him,

Across the quarry loch they chased him;

The night was dark, the path was narrow,

Scarce giving room to one wheelbarrow;

Thade knew the scanty passage well,

But headlong his pursuers fell

Into the stagnant, miry brook

Like birds in birdlime sudden stuck.

The neighbours said the devil steel’d him,

For if the garrison assail’d him

Inside King John’s strong Castle-wall,

He would escape unhurt from all!

All day he drank ‘potheen’ at Hayes’s,

And pitched the King and Law to blazes!

He knocked his master on the floor,

And kiss’d Miss Lizzy at the door!

But ere his drunken pranks went further,

The host and he had milla murdher!

The window panes he broke entire

The bottles flew about the fire;

The liquor, on the hearth increasing,

Caught fire and set the chimney blazing!

The Reverend sage this deed admonish’d,

The congregation stood astonish’d –

He said that Thady was an agent

Employ’d on earth by hell’s black Regent!

And if he wouldn’t soon reform,

His place and pay would be more warm!

His vital thread would soon be nick’d,

And into Hades he’d be kick’d!

Even there he would not be admitted,

Except the Porter he outwitted!

For, if he got inside the wall,

Most likely, he’d out-devil them all!

The people heard the sad assertion,

And pray’d aloud for his conversion!

While Thady in the public-house

Was emptying kegs and ‘brewing’ rows!

For him the Priest prognosticated

A woeful doom and end ill-fated!

And truth had rarely disappointed

The sayings of the Lord’s Anointed!

But many a one in heaven takes dinner,

Who died a saint and lived a sinner!

’Twere better far, and safer surely,

To live a saint and die one purely!

All ye who’re ready to condemn

A fellow-child of clay, like him!

Try if yourselves need no repentance,

Before you pass the bitter sentence!

And ere you judge your brother, first

Remember that yourselves are dust!

But if your conscience tells you then

That your own heart is free from sin –

Cry, with the Pharisee, ‘Thank God!

I am not like that wicked clod!’

But to our story of this queer boy

Thady the drunken, devil-may-care boy!

’Twas Christmas Eve – the gale was high –

The snow-clouds swept along the sky;

The flaky drift was whirling down,

Like flying feathers thro’ the town.

The tradesman chatted o’er his ‘drop’,

The Merchant closed his vacant shop

Where, all day long, the busy crowd

Bought Christmas fare, with tumult loud.

The Grocer scored the day’s amounts,

The Butcher conn’d his fat accounts;

The Farmer left the noisy mart,

With heavy purse and lighten’d heart.

In every pane the Christmas light

Gave welcome to the holy night;

In every house the holly green

Around the wreathed walls was seen;

The Christmas blocks of oak entire,

Blaz’d, hiss’d and crackled in the fire;

And sounds of joy from every dwelling,

Upon the snowy blast came swelling.

The flying week, now past and gone,

Saw Thady earn two pounds one!

His good employer paid it down,

And warn’d him to refrain from town;

And banned the devilment of drinking,

But Thady scorned his sober thinking;

He fobb’d the coin, with spirit light,

To home and master bade good-night,

And, like a pirate-frigate cruising,

Steer’d to the crowded City, boozing!

The sweet-toned bells of Mary’s tower,

Proclaim’d the Saviour’s natal hour!

And many an eye with pleasure glisten’d!

And many an ear with rapture listen’d!

The gather’d crowd of charm’d people

Dispersed from gazing at the steeple;

The homeward tread of parting feet,

Died on the echoes of the street;

For Johnny Connell, that dreaded man,

With his wild-raking Garryowen clan,

Clear’d the streets and smash’d each lamp,

And made the watchmen all decamp!

At half-past one the town was silent,

Except a row rais’d in the Island,

Where Thady – foe to sober thinking –

With comrade boys sat gaily drinking!

A table with a pack of cards

Stood in the midst of four blackguards,

Who, with the bumper-draught elated,

Dash’d down their trumps, and swore, and cheated!

Four pints, the fruit of their last game,

White-foaming, to the table came;

They drank, and dealt the cards about,

And Thady brought ‘fifteen wheel out’!

Again the deal was Jack Fitzsimon’s,

He turned them up, and trumps were diamonds;

The ace was laid by Billy Mara,

And beat with five by Tom O’Hara;

The queen was quickly laid by Thady,

Jack threw the king and douced the lady!

Bill jink’d the game and cried out, ‘Waiter!

Bring in the round, before ’tis later!’

The draughts came foaming from the barrel;

The sport soon ended in a quarrel; –

Jack flung a pint at Tom O’Hara,

And Thady levell’d Billy Mara;

The cards flew round in every quarter,

The earthen floor grew drunk with porter;

The landlord ran to call the Watch,

With oaths half Irish and half Scotch.

The Watch came to the scene of battle,

Proclaiming peace, with sounding wattle;

The combatants were soon arrested,

But Thady got off unmolested.