OMNIUM SANCTORUM HIBERNIAE

Category: Saints of Sligo

  • The Prayer of Saint Atty

    A couple of days ago I reprinted a poem by Philadelphia resident Patrick J. Coleman on the founding of the diocese of Achonry by Saint  Nathy.  Now we have another of his poetic offerings, this time in praise of Achonry’s female patroness Saint Attracta and her role as peacemaker and protectress.

    THE PRAYER OF SAINT ATTY.*

    A LEGEND OF ACHONRY

    KING Connor made an edict old:
    “A royal palace I will build;
    Tribute I order of the gold,
    From every clan and craftsman’s guild.

    “Tithings of scarlet and of silk,
    Curtain and screen of regal woof
    Deep-uddered heifers, rich in milk,
    And bronze and timber for the roof.

    “From Leyney’s lord, in token due
    Of fealty, I will ordain
    A hundred masts of ash and yew,
    A hundred oaks of pithy grain.”

    “Saint Atty, keep us safe from scath
    And shield us in the battle crash!
    For roof of royal house or rath
    We will not render oak or ash!”

    Thus lowly prayed the Leyney clan,
    While sang the birds in bush and brake.
    As fast they mustered, horse and man,
    To face the foe by Gara’s lake.

    For, wroth’ at heart, came Connor’s clan;
    Ah, Christ! they made a horrid front,
    With red spears bristling in the van.
    And shields to brave the battle-brunt.

    From wing to wing in wrath they rolled,
    Crested with helmets all afire.
    Of burnished bronze or burning gold.
    To martial measures of the lyre.

    A dreadful war! the blessed saints
    Defend to-day the Leyney clan!
    For they must reel before the steel
    Of such a hosting, horse and man.

    From sounding sheaths the swords flamed out,
    The clattering quivers echoed loud,
    From their dark ranks the battle shout
    Broke out, as thunder from the cloud.

    “Saint Atty, keep us safe from scath!”
    Thus made the Leyney men their prayer ;
    When lo! adown the forest path
    Trooped, lily-white, a herd of deer!

    Broke from the branching thicket green,
    While mute the watching warriors stood;
    Such gracious deer were never seen
    In Irish fern or Irish wood;

    And, mighty marvel, on their backs.
    Bound by a maiden’s tresses gold.
    Clean-hewn as if by woodman’s axe.
    The tribute of the wood behold !

    Nor paused the sylvan creatures sweet,
    But gliding onward, like to ghosts.
    Cast off the wood at Connor’s feet
    In wondrous wise betwixt the hosts;

    Then vanished in the forest green.
    While mused amaze the king and kern;
    And nevermore from then were seen
    In Irish wood or Irish fern.

    Down dropped the sword to thigh and hip,
    “God’s will be done, let hatred cease!”
    Rose up the cry from every lip.
    And harps attuned a chord of peace.

    Yea, “blessings broke from every lip,
    To God and to His saints above.
    And hands that came for deadly grip
    Were mingled in fraternal love.

    ” ‘Gainst scath or scar our battle-shield
    Is Atty, saint of Leyney’s clan!”
    They sang, as homeward from the field
    They hied, unscathed, horse and man.

    For in her chapel in the wood
    The boding war had Atty seen,
    And for the people of her blood
    Made prayer amid the forest green.

    And men do say that on that day
    She saved the Leyney clan from scath,
    Such power there is when lowly pray
    The pure of heart and keen of faith.

    And still when autumn gilds the lea,
    And scythes are shrill in meadows ripe,
    The rural pageant you may see
    Sporting with jocund dance and pipe.

    The village women you may mark
    In Leyney, at Saint Atty’s well.
    Ere yet hath trilled the risen lark
    In golden mead or dewy dell.

    PATRICK J. COLEMAN.

    *Saint Atty is the loving name of the people of Achonry for Saint Attracta, the patroness of the diocese.

    The Irish Monthly, Volume 18 (1890),80-82 

     

     

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  • Saint Muadhnat of Caille, January 6

    Among the saints commemorated on the Irish calendars on January 6 is a County Sligo holy woman, Muadhnat of Caille. As Canon O’Hanlon explains below, she is one of three saintly siblings, the Daughters of Nadfraich:

    St. Muadhnat, Virgin, of Caille, Drumcliffe, County Sligo.

    [Sixth Century.]

    In numerous instances, we find it was customary in the Irish Church to venerate, on the same day, saints of a particular family, community, or place. Nor is it probable, that all such persons could have died on that particular festival. It rather appears to have been a matter of convenience, thus to classify and unite them, for various good reasons. The present holy woman, and the other two virgins, who follow in order, are said to have been the daughters of Naidfraic, and sisters to St. Molaissius, Abbot of Devenish. The Martyrologies of Tallagh and of Marianus O’Gorman, as also a Commentator on St. Aengus, place the festivals of those pious sisters at the 6th of January. They were venerated at a place called Enac-ard. We find that Caille is said to have been the name of St. Muadhnat’s habitation. It seems to have been situated in Cairbre, and near Drum-cliabh. This was probably her natal place. It is now known as Drumcliffe, a parish in the barony of Lower Carbery, and county of Sligo.  It lies near the sea-shore, a little to the north of Sligo, and it is situated within the diocese of Elphin. A portion of its round tower here remains, as a proof of its ancient consequence. St. Columkille is said to have been the first founder of a religious establishment, at this place. From the sixth century, Drumcliffe had its abbatial succession, and the herenachy of the Church became limited in the eleventh century to the family of O’Beollain or O’Boland. To St. Columkille is attributed the poetic sentiment of attachment to this spot :—

    Beloved to my heart also in the West—
    Drumcliffe at Culcinne’s strand.

    Its situation is one of great attractiveness to the tourist, and yet in a district but little frequented.

    The present Protestant church stands on the site of an ancient religious establishment; while many relics of the past are observable throughout the parish. We are told that a religious house had been founded here by a St. Fintan, a disciple of St. Columba, at a place called Cailleavinde. This was probably the Caille, where St. Muadhnat’s Convent stood.

    St. Muadhnat is mentioned in the Martyrology of Donegal, as having had a festival on this day. She lived in the sixth century. In the table appended, she is also called Muaghneat, i.e., Mo-Aignes. In the published Martyrology of Tallagh, we find a notice at the 6th of January, Ingen Natfraich, in Enach-airdd. There is probably a mistake for Ingena, the plural form, and which relates to the festival of Natfraich’s daughters. Likewise, incorrectly joined, there is an entry together with St. Diarmaid, whose feast occurs this same day.

  • Saint Attracta's Stags

     

    Below is a poem telling the story of the miracle of the hard-hearted King Keannfaelid and Saint Attracta, whose feast is celebrated on August 11:

    THE BALLAD OF SAINT ATHRACTA’S STAGS

    ATHRACTA was a maiden fair,
    A Prince’s daughter she;
    Down to her feet fell golden hair,
    A wondrous sight to see.

    And all amid this golden shower,
    The sweetest rosebud face
    Blossomed like a dew-fed flower
    Upon a stem of grace.

    Yet loved she not the court of kings,
    But in the wild would be,
    With but one maid her hair to braid
    And bear her company.

    So, near Lough Gara’s silver sheen,
    They built of turf and bark
    A hut wherein from springtide green
    They dwelt through winter’s dark.

    On seven cross-roads the hut was made,
    That they might offer rest
    To pilgrims by the night waylaid,
    And strangers hunger-pressed.

    To draw them water from the lake,
    To till their little soil,
    Two ancient horses did they take,
    Outworn for other toil.

    Once gallant chargers these had been,
    Keen-eyed and prancing gay,
    Who tourneys brave and wars had seen,
    All decked in bright array.

    But now their age in peace was spent
    By kind Athracta’s side ;
    No gallant wars, no tournament,
    And yet they served with pride.

    Their neighbors in the forest glades
    Were stately, antlered deer,
    Nor of the two most holy maids
    Had these, their brothers, fear.

    So dwelt the maidens there alone
    For many months and years,
    The doings of the world unknown,
    Its wars, its woes, its tears.

    But strife was stirring in the land,
    And kings must castles build,
    To guard them from the foeman’s hand
    With fire and weapon filled.

    And so the King’s most stern decree
    Went forth upon a day,
    “My serfs must build a fort for me,
    Each must his service pay”.

    “Each man and maiden must fulfill
    In this great work his share ;
    It is the King of Connaught’s will,
    Let tardy hands beware!”

    Athracta sent unto the King :
    “We be but maidens twain,
    My Liege, we cannot do this thing,
    I beg we may refrain.”

    But sternly sent he back the word,
    “Ye maids must do your part.”
    He was a hard and cruel lord,
    No pity touched his heart.

    So forth they fared into the wood,
    Athracta with her maid,
    To fell the timber as they could,
    Without of men for aid.

    Heavy the axe and full of pain
    Each weak and skill-less stroke,
    Yet strove the maids again, again,
    With walnut, beech, and oak.

    Until upon the wagon cast
    By which the horses stood,
    Their bleeding hands had piled at last
    The goodly logs of wood.

    But when Athracta saw the steeds
    Straining with feeble will
    To draw the heavy load, it needs
    Must make her eyes to fill.

    Athracta spoke all piteously,
    “Alack ! poor broken things,
    Must you, too, bear your painful share
    To save the pride of Kings?”

    “How can I ease your burden, how,
    My faithful servants still?
    My little hands are bleeding now
    With toil beyond their skill.”

    “O mistress dear,” then spoke her maid,
    “These be but feeble nags;
    How would the King’s pride be dismayed
    If you could harness Stags!”

    “Thou sayest well,” Athracta vowed.
    “Come hither, Stags!” she cried,
    And lo! the thud of hoofs grew loud
    Ere yet the echo died.

    “Come hither, Stags!” O’er green and glade
    The silver summons thrilled,
    And soon the space about the maid
    With antlered kings was filled.

    Through moss and fern and tangled trees
    Twelve panting creatures broke,
    And bending low their stately knees
    They knelt beneath the yoke.

    Now harnessed in the horses’ stead
    The great Stags strained their best,
    To please the Lady at their head
    And follow her behest.

    But lo! a vexing thing then happed;
    Scarce had they gained the road,
    The rusty chains of iron snapped
    Beneath the heavy load.

    Yet paused she not in weak despair,
    This noble-hearted maid,
    But loosed her heavy golden hair
    Out from its double braid.

    She loosed her locks so wonder-bright
    And shook them to the breeze;
    It seemed a beam of yellow light
    Had sifted through the trees.

    Then from amid this golden net
    She plucked some silken strands,
    And where the chains had first been set
    She bound them with her hands.

    She tied the ends against the strain,
    And knotted them with care,
    Then bade the Stags pull once again
    Upon the ropes of hair.

    And lo! the slender harness held,
    And lo! the antlered steeds
    Went forth to prove their generous love
    Lent to a maiden’s needs.

    Straight to the King her gift they bore
    To fill his heart with shame;
    And her true maiden went before
    To show him whence they came.

    Now when the King this wonder saw
    He turned all pale and red,
    “She hath a greater power than law,”
    He vowed, and bowed his head.

    “She hath a greater power than I,
    Whose slaves the wild stags be,
    And golden hair like this might snare
    E’en the wild heart of me.

    “No need to her of castles stout,
    No need of moat or tower,
    With antlered guardians about
    Her lonely wild-wood bower.

    ” No need to her of watch or ward,
    With friends like these at hand ;
    Bid her from me henceforth to be
    Queen of her little land.

    “Henceforth she is no serf of mine,
    Nor subject to my throne;
    Where’er her golden hair may shine
    That is her realm alone.”

    So where the seven cross-roads met
    Still dwelt the holy maid,
    Her hut a place of refuge set
    For all who shelter prayed.

    Her realm a holy place of peace,
    Where, with the ancient nags,
    Lived out their days in pleasant ways
    Athracta’s faithful Stags.

    Abbie Farwell Brown, The Book of Saints and Friendly Beasts (Boston and New York), 1900, 69-77.

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