OMNIUM SANCTORUM HIBERNIAE

Tag: Irish saints and beasts

  • Saint Colman's Ducks

    St. Colman’s Ducks.

    The old church of Templeshanbo in Wexford, from which the surrounding parish has its name, lies about three miles from the eastern base of Mount Leinster. It was anciently called Shanbo-Colman (Colman’s old tent or booth) from St. Colman O’Ficra, the founder and patron, who lived in the seventh century, and who was held in great veneration there during the long lapse of years that the monastery continued to flourish after his death.


    There is now a large graveyard attached to St. Colman’s old church, and another about two hundred yards off. Between the two is St. Colman’s holy well which was formerly much frequented by pilgrims  in honour of the patron on his festival day, the 27th  of October. But no pilgrim ever makes his “rounds”  or prays there now: the well has lost its reputation: even St. Colman’s festival day is quite forgotten.


    At this spot there was in former days a large pond supplied from the well, where for ages after St.  Colman’s death a number of ducks were kept, which were believed to be under the saint’s special protection, and on this account were regarded with affection and treated with great tenderness. They were quite tame and took food from the hand, never flying away at the approach of pilgrims, and never avoiding the gentle familiarities of the people.


    Nothing could harm them: and the legend tells us in particular that it was impossible to cook them. Not that any of the good people of Templeshanbo would dare to molest or even frighten them; and the insane thought never entered into any one’s head to kill and cook them for food. But as they were so  tame, persons fetching water from the pond on a dark night—so the legend goes on to say—sometimes by an unlucky chance brought one of them away in the vessel without knowing it, and threw the contents, bird and all, into a pot over a fire to be boiled.


    Whenever this happened no matter how the people heaped on wood, or how long the fire was kept up, the water still remained as cold as when it was taken from the pond; and in the end the little duck was found not in the least harmed, swimming about unconcernedly on the top. It was of course brought back to the pond: and after this the water in the pot got heated and boiled without further trouble.


    This is indeed a marvellous relation: but the version given by Giraldus is more marvellous still: and the birds, as he states, were not the common domestic ducks but the small species of wild duck commonly called teal. He tells us that if any one offered injury or disrespect to the Church, to the clergy, or to the ducks themselves, the whole flock flew away and betook themselves to some other lake at a distance. Soon after their flight the clear water of the pond grew muddy and putrid, emitted a foul smell, and altogether became quite unfit for either man or beast to use. They never returned till the offender was punished according to his deserts; and the moment they alighted on their old place, the water became clear and wholesome as before.


    A kite once carried off one of these ducks and perched with it on a neighbouring tree. But the moment he set about killing his prey, his limbs grew stiff, and he fell to the ground dead before the eyes of several persons who happened to be looking on; while the duck flew back unharmed to its companions.


    On another occasion a hungry fox seized one of them on a cold frosty evening, near a little cell dedicated to the saint that stood on the shore of the pond; and he ran into the cell with it to have a comfortable warm meal. But in the morning the brute was found lying on the floor choked, while the little duck was alive and well, with its head out of the fox’s mouth and its body in his throat.


    We find according to certain old authorities, that in the remote little island of Inishmurray in Sligo Bay, where this same Colman was also venerated there were tame ducks under his protection as in Templeshanbo, about which the very same story was told—that it was impossible to cook or harm  them. From these facts and legends we may gather  that St. Colman O’Ficra had an amiable love for birds, and that he kept a number of them as pets, ducks being his special favourites. And in memory of the good old man, the custom was affectionately kept up in both places by his successors. If we are allowed so much of a foundation to rest on, it is not hard to account for the growth of the marvellous part of the legend. The legend of St. Colman’s ducks is now altogether forgotten in the neighbourhood; which is to be regretted; for the people would be all the better for a memory of it….

    P.W. Joyce, The Wonders of Ireland (Dublin, 1911), 23-26.

  • 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.

    Content Copyright © Omnium Sanctorum Hiberniae 2012-2015. All rights reserved.

  • The Legend of Saint Mochaoi of Oendruim

    The Legend of Saint Mochaoi of Oendruim

    by Seamus O Cuisin

    ST MOCHAOI was born about 420 A.D.; founded the abbey of Oendruim (pronounced Endrim; i.e.,”the single ridge”), on the beautiful island bearing that name, about 450; and died in the year 496 or 497. For several centuries the abbey, in which education and monasticism were combined, occupied a prominent position, and from it emanated a number of subsequent founders of similar institutions. Between 974 and 1178 history is silent in regard to it; but it is certain that, from its position on Loch Cuan (Strangford), which was infested by Danish marauders, it came in for a large share of their devastating attentions. From its affiliation, in 1178, with an English religious establishment, it seems to have fallen into a condition of decay; and in 1450 it is simply noted as a parish church in the charge of the Bishop of Down.

    The island of Oendruim or, as it is now called, Mahee, from Inis Mochaoi, in memory of its patron saint and founder is situated most picturesquely on Strangford Lough, about seven miles from Comber, and is approachable on foot or car by a fine modern causeway, which crosses an intervening island. On the shore end of the island may be seen many remains of the stone buildings which superseded the original wooden structures in the history of this venerable, romantic, but popularly-neglected shrine. These remains include the stump of a round tower; traces of extensive foundations, once partially laid bare by the late Bishop Reeves, and now almost entirely hidden from sight again; the site of the harbour, where anchored “ships” from Britain; evidences of a God’s-acre, hallowed by long time and association ; and a fairly complete castle of a later period. The circuit of the island can be made on foot leisurely in a couple of hours, and the walk affords a view of the extensive waters of the once Dane-infested lough, the distant hoary walls of Greyabbey, the haunts of Saint Patrick, the scene of the death of Ollamh Fodhla, and the daring and unscrupulous deeds of De Courcy, and many other places of interest.

    Baile Draigin (Ballydrain) about half-way between Comber and Mahee Island is so called from baile, a place, and Draigin, a blackthorn tree; and the reader will observe the connection between this place and the story. No trace of a church, however, has yet been discovered at Ballydrain.

    Rudraide (pronounced Rury) is the modern Dundrum Bay.

    The idea contained in the following verses has been variously rendered by several eminent authors. The incident in which it is here embodied may, however, be fairly claimed as the oldest version the original in fact.

    Quoth good Saint Mochaoi of Oendruim:
    “I will build for Christ my master
    Here a church, and here defend Him
    And His cause from all disaster.”
    Seven score youths cut beam and wattle;
    Seven score hands unseared in battle
    Their unstinted aid did lend him,
    Fast and ever faster.

    But though arm, and voice loud-ringing,
    To a test of toil defied him,
    Right and left the wattles flinging,
    Not a tongue could dare deride him;
    For, before them all, he stood
    Finished, waiting. Not a rood
    From the spot a bird was singing
    In a thorn beside him.

    Sang no bird in ancient story
    Half so sweet or loud a strain:
    Seaward to the loch of Rudraide,
    Landward then, and back again
    Swelled the song, and trilled and trembled
    O’er the toiling youths assembled,
    Rang around ‘mid summer glory
    There at Baile-draigin.

    Far more beautiful the bird was
    Than the bright-plumed bird of bliss,
    And the Abbot’s feeling stirred was
    To its deepest depths, I wis ;
    ‘Til, as from the fiery splendour
    Moses saw, in accents tender
    Spake the bird, and lo! the word was:
    “Goodly work is this.”

    “True,” quoth Saint Mochaoi of Oendruim,
    ” ‘Tis required by Christ my master
    Here to build, and here defend Him
    And His cause from all disaster :
    But my blood mounts high with weening
    Of this gracious word the meaning.”
    Nearer then the bird did tend him,
    Fast and ever faster.

    “I shall answer. I descended
    From mine angel soul’s compeers,
    From my home serene and splendid
    To this haunt of toil and tears;
    Came to cheer thee with a note
    From an angel’s silvern throat.”
    Then he sang three songs: each, ended,
    Made a hundred years.

    There, through days that dawned and darkened,
    With his wattles by his side,
    Stood the island Saint, and hearkened
    To that silvery-flowing tide ;
    Stood entranced, and ever wonder’d
    ‘Til had circled thrice a hundred
    Years, o’er fields life-lade or stark, and
    Cuan’s waters wide.

    Then, when came the final number,
    Ceased the angel-bird its strain,
    And, unheld by ills that cumber
    Mortals, sought the heavenly plain.
    Then the Saint, in mute amaze,
    Round him turned an anxious gaze,
    And from that far land of slumber
    Came to earth again.

    There his load, ‘mid weed and flower,
    Lay beside him all unbroken,
    ‘Til, with thrice augmented power,
    From his holy dream awoken,
    Up he bore it to his shoulder,
    Broad, and not a hand’s-breadth older.
    Scarce, thought he, had passed an hour
    Since the bird had spoken.

    Toward his island church he bore it.
    Lo! an oratory gleaming,
    And ” To Saint Mochaoi “writ o’er it.
    “Now,” quoth he, “in truth I’m dreaming.
    Say, good monk, at whose consistory
    Shall I solve this mighty mystery,
    And to form of fact restore it
    From this shadowy seeming?”

    So he spake to one who faced him
    With a look of mild surprise,
    One who swiftly brought and placed him
    ‘Neath the Abbot’s searching eyes.
    Leave him there. Not mine to rhyme of
    Deeds that filled the later time of
    Him who, fain though years would waste him,
    Ages not nor dies.

    Ends the wondrous old-time story
    Of the bird’s long, lethal strain,
    Sung through summers hot and hoary,
    Winters white on mount and main ;
    And the monks, to mark the mission
    Of the bird so says tradition
    Built a church to God’s great glory
    There at Baile-draigin.

    Ulster Journal of Archaeology,  Vol 10 (1904), 100-103.

    Content Copyright © Omnium Sanctorum Hiberniae 2012-2015. All rights reserved.