October 27 is the feast of Saint Colman of Seanbotha. He is associated with a miraculous flock of ducks and a holy well which fed a lake where the ducks continued to thrive for centuries after his death. The story was told that the ducks could not be harmed and were impossible to use as a food source, although that didn’t stop the foolish, the ignorant or the profane from trying! I have already looked at the account of P.W. Joyce from 1911 here, but below is another telling of the legend of Saint Colman’s ducks, this time from a 1920s newspaper. Here the story has been updated and repackaged for an Irish expatriate audience to feature an old wise woman called Brigid (what else?) and presented in the best Hiberno-English dialect:
ST. COLMAN’S DUCKS.
Old Brigid
Heffernan lived in a little cabin that stood among the ruins of the old
abbey on the edge of the lake. There was a hole in the thatch of her
roof, and yellow ragwort and house leeks growing round it, and there was
not a neighbour to be heard or seen within an ass’s bawl; but Brigid was not lonely. She was such a wise adviser that people would travel for
miles to buy charms from her for the toothache, or to make the butter
come, so that she always had something in her pocket. As for
company, after her customers had gone, she had the black Kerry cow, the
chickens, and, choicest of all, a wild duck, a tiny teal, which had its
nest among the rushes which fringed the dark crystal waters of the lake.
When she called it it would come flying from far away, to follow her
like a child.
Heffernan lived in a little cabin that stood among the ruins of the old
abbey on the edge of the lake. There was a hole in the thatch of her
roof, and yellow ragwort and house leeks growing round it, and there was
not a neighbour to be heard or seen within an ass’s bawl; but Brigid was not lonely. She was such a wise adviser that people would travel for
miles to buy charms from her for the toothache, or to make the butter
come, so that she always had something in her pocket. As for
company, after her customers had gone, she had the black Kerry cow, the
chickens, and, choicest of all, a wild duck, a tiny teal, which had its
nest among the rushes which fringed the dark crystal waters of the lake.
When she called it it would come flying from far away, to follow her
like a child.
Brigid had a greater
regard for the creature than she would tell, for hundreds of years ago
the old hermit St. Colman used to live in the abbey, and he had flocks
of teal which he tamed and blessed, and wonderful stories were told of
them. “Who can tell whether my little pet is not a
great-great-descendant of the Saint’s blessed ducks?” Brigid used to say.
regard for the creature than she would tell, for hundreds of years ago
the old hermit St. Colman used to live in the abbey, and he had flocks
of teal which he tamed and blessed, and wonderful stories were told of
them. “Who can tell whether my little pet is not a
great-great-descendant of the Saint’s blessed ducks?” Brigid used to say.
One night very late someone came tapping at Brigid’s
door, and who would it be but a red-coated soldier. “I was told you
were the most knowledgeable Wise Woman in the Four Provinces,” said he,
“and our regiment has need of your services. We have pitched our camp by
the other end of the lake, and the curse which St. Patrick laid upon
the kettles of the heathen seems to be on ours too. Our fires won’t burn
and our pots won’t boil. “Or maybe it’s a fairy spell which is set
upon them. Anyway, if you would come and bring them back to their duty
it’s yourself that would be welcome, and rewarded too.” “I will come,
but so will Christmas,” said Brigid,
shaking her head. “It’s too old and lame I am to be shortening the way
to the camp with you at this time of night.” “Sure, it is not to be
expected, said the soldier. “To-morrow I shall come with a side-car and
the Captain’s mare, and be driving you in style.”
door, and who would it be but a red-coated soldier. “I was told you
were the most knowledgeable Wise Woman in the Four Provinces,” said he,
“and our regiment has need of your services. We have pitched our camp by
the other end of the lake, and the curse which St. Patrick laid upon
the kettles of the heathen seems to be on ours too. Our fires won’t burn
and our pots won’t boil. “Or maybe it’s a fairy spell which is set
upon them. Anyway, if you would come and bring them back to their duty
it’s yourself that would be welcome, and rewarded too.” “I will come,
but so will Christmas,” said Brigid,
shaking her head. “It’s too old and lame I am to be shortening the way
to the camp with you at this time of night.” “Sure, it is not to be
expected, said the soldier. “To-morrow I shall come with a side-car and
the Captain’s mare, and be driving you in style.”
At break of day he was
there, still black with contending with the fires and the kettles. Before Brigid took the lead into the car
she looked round and saw that the clear, glassy surface of the lake
was muddy and a mist rising from it, and that the wild duck’s nest in
the reeds was empty.
there, still black with contending with the fires and the kettles. Before Brigid took the lead into the car
she looked round and saw that the clear, glassy surface of the lake
was muddy and a mist rising from it, and that the wild duck’s nest in
the reeds was empty.
When they drew rein at the camp they took Brigid
to the only fire they had got to burn. A big covered cauldron was
swinging over it. “Do you see that pot?” asked the soldiers. “It has
been hanging over the fire for an hour, and never a bubble has it let
out of itself.” “Take the cauldron from the fire,” said Brigid.
She lifted up the lid, and there in the midst of the cauldron floated a
little yellow water-lily and the little teal. The flower was not faded
and the bird was alive and well, for the water was as ice-cold as when
the soldiers dipped the cauldron into the lake in the dark, taking in
as well, unbeknown to themselves, the little teal asleep on the ripple
and the water-lily, folded in sleep, underneath. Brigid picked up the teal and held It between her hands, while it looked at her with jewels of eyes, keeping up a tender twittering.
to the only fire they had got to burn. A big covered cauldron was
swinging over it. “Do you see that pot?” asked the soldiers. “It has
been hanging over the fire for an hour, and never a bubble has it let
out of itself.” “Take the cauldron from the fire,” said Brigid.
She lifted up the lid, and there in the midst of the cauldron floated a
little yellow water-lily and the little teal. The flower was not faded
and the bird was alive and well, for the water was as ice-cold as when
the soldiers dipped the cauldron into the lake in the dark, taking in
as well, unbeknown to themselves, the little teal asleep on the ripple
and the water-lily, folded in sleep, underneath. Brigid picked up the teal and held It between her hands, while it looked at her with jewels of eyes, keeping up a tender twittering.
“Sleepy
head, to be caught napping like that I” said the Wise. Woman. “Your
lake is troubled for the want of its guardian spirit. Away with you now
to where you belong, St. Colman’s blessed duck, and let the decent
soldier boys’ kettles come to the boil!” And she set it free.
head, to be caught napping like that I” said the Wise. Woman. “Your
lake is troubled for the want of its guardian spirit. Away with you now
to where you belong, St. Colman’s blessed duck, and let the decent
soldier boys’ kettles come to the boil!” And she set it free.
With a
clapping of wings, as if a child were laughing, the little teal, so the
old legend says, rose in the air and flew away.
clapping of wings, as if a child were laughing, the little teal, so the
old legend says, rose in the air and flew away.
Waikato Times, Volume 103, Issue 17314, 28 January 1928
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