The "Charleys", Phaudrig Crohoore, The Dublin Magazine.

Chapter VII

The “Charleys”’ life was not a pleasant one - Paddy O’Neill and his rhymes - “With my rigatooria” - Too far west to wash - On the coast at Kilkee - ” Phaudrig Crohoore” - The Dublin Magazine.

When I was in college a favourite amusement of the ingenious youth there was tormenting the old city watchmen, or “Charleys” as they were called. They were the only guardians of the city by night; there were none by day; the metropolitan police did not then exist. These watchmen were generally old and often feeble. Many of them had in their earlier days been the domestic servants or retainers of members of the Corporation and of their friends. They wore long grey frieze coats, with large capes and low-crowned hats. Their only weapon, offensive and defensive, was what was called a crook, a long pole with a spear at the end and near the spear a crook for catching runaway offenders. They also carried a rattle, which, when whirled swiftly round, made a loud, harsh, and grating sound like the voice of a gigantic corncrake; with this, when in trouble or in danger, they summoned other watchmen to their assistance. To rob them of these was an exploit not to be despised. In the college rooms of friends of mine - some of them afterwards judges, others eminent divines - I have seen, hanging up as trophies, many a crook and many a rattle.

The duties of these ancient guardians of the peace were, to patrol a certain beat, to quell riots, and to arrest and bring to the watch-house disorderly characters. They had also, as they walked along their beat, to call out the hour and the state of the weather- “Past twelve o’clock, and a cloudy night!” or “Past two o’clock, and a stormy morning!” as the case might be. They were not very attentive to their duties, and spent a great part of their time in sleeping snugly in their watch-boxes, which were much like soldiers’ sentry-boxes, but more comfortable; and how often, after a cosy doze, has a poor fellow woke up from his pleasant dreams to find his crook and rattle gone!

To catch a “Charley” fast asleep, and to overturn his watch-box, face downward on the ground, was the grandest feat of all. When in this position his rattle could not be heard at any distance, and his assailants were wont to let him lie in that helpless state for a considerable time before they turned the box over on its side and let him out. Before he was on his legs they were far out of reach of capture.

A cousin of mine, Brinsley H---, a remarkably steady youth, who highly disapproved of these attacks on the old men, and, amongst his other good qualities, had, or thought he had, a mission to see that all men with whom he came in contact did their duty in their respective callings, was coming home late one night, and as he passed a watch-box was attracted by the sound of snoring. On looking in he saw the occupant in profound slumber. He roused him up at once, and said, “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, asleep in your box and neglecting your duty. If I hadn’t wakened you, you would probably have lost your crook and your rattle. I shall certainly report you to the city magistrate to-morrow morning. “Bedad, then,” said the Charley, “I’ll report you first, my boy,” and seizing him by the collar, he sprung his rattle, and held him till two other watchmen arrived. The three of them then conveyed him to the watch-house, where he was kept till ten o’clock next morning, when he was brought before Mr. Cole, one of the city magistrates. The watchman swore that the young gentleman had assaulted him, and tried to wrest his crook from him; the other men gave evidence of his violent conduct and abusive language as they led him to the watch-house. Mr. Cole asked him what he had to say for himself. H--- told the true story, exactly as it happened. The magistrate did not seem to attach much credence to it; but, as he had been all night in a cell, dismissed him with a caution, saying, “I hope, young man, that this will be a warning to you, and that you will not again behave in such a way; and I promise you that if you are ever brought before me for an offence of this sort again, I shall deal severely with you. You may go now.” I never saw a man so indignant as Brinsley was when he next day told me of his wrongs, and of the cruel injustice of Mr. Cole. From that day he never again roused a sleeping watchman, but acted on the wise principle of letting sleeping dogs lie. Though over 80, he is hale and hearty still, and if this should meet his eye he will smile at the recollection of his early wrongs.

After our return to Abington we occasionally spent a few weeks in summer at Kilkee, in the county of Clare, now a much-frequented watering-place, then a wild village on the wildest coast of Ireland. A new steamboat, the *Garry Owen, *had then begun to ply between Limerick and Kilrush, a considerable town, about eight miles from Kilkee. On the voyage, which generally took about four hours - sometimes five or more if the weather was bad - the passengers were cheered by the music and songs of a famous character, one Paddy O’Neill, whose playing on the fiddle was only surpassed by his performances on the bagpipes. He was, moreover, a poet, and sang his own songs with vigour and expression to his own accompaniment. One of these songs was in praise of the new steamboat, and was in the style of the well-known song, *“Garry Owen,” *which, as most Irishmen know, begins in this fashion -

“Oh, *Garry Owen” *is gone to wrack,

Since Johnny O’Connell is gone to Cork,

Though Paddy O’Brien jumped out of the dock,

In spite of judge and jury.

‘Twas in Irishtown a battle begun,

‘Twas down the Mall he made them run,

‘Twas in *Garry Owen *we had the fun,

On Easter Tuesday morning.”

I regret that I only remember the first verse of Paddy’s song. It ran thus -

“Oh, *Garry Owen *is no more a wrack;

Whoever says she is, is a noted ass;

She’s an iron boat that flies like shot

Against the strongest storum.

On Kilrush Quay there’s brave O’Brien,

Of ancient line, without spot or slime;

In double quick time, with graceful smile,

He hands ashore the ladies.”

It will be seen that in these verses, as in most Irish songs, it is the vowels that make the rhyme. In the former, “wrack,” “Cork,” and “dock,” and in the latter “wrack,” “ass,” and “shot” are made to rhyme. In another of Paddy’s songs, “A Parody on the famous rebel song, ‘The Shan Van Yocht,”’ the following rhymes appear:-

“We’ll have turkeys and roast beet

And we’ll eat them very sweet,

And then will take a sleep,

Says the Shan Van Vocht.”

One summer evening my brother, who was a prime favourite of his, persuaded Paddy to drive across with him from Kilrush to Kilkee, and there they got up a dance in Mrs. Reade’s lodge, where some of our family were sojourning at the time. I am sorry to say I was away somewhere and missed the fun. The dance music was supplied by Paddy’s pipes and fiddle, and between the dances he sang some of his favourite songs. Next day my brother wrote some doggerel verses celebrating the dance and in imitation of the “Wedding of Ballyporean,” a song then very popular in the south of Ireland. One verse ran -

“But Paddy no longer his fiddle could twig,

And the heat was so great that he pulled off his wig;

But Mary McCarthy being still for a jig,

He screwed his old pipes till they roared like a pig.

Oh! they fell to their dancing once more, sir,

Till their marrow bones all grew quite sore, sir,

And they were obliged to give o’er, sir,

At the dance in the lodge at Kilkee.”

A copy of the verses was presented to Paddy, who was highly delighted with them, and for years after sang them with much applause to the passengers on the *Garry Owen. *A few days after the dance he came to see my brother, and said he would be for ever obliged to him if he would alter one little word in the song.

“Of course I shall, with pleasure,” said my brother. “What is the word?”

“Pig, your honour,” said Paddy. “I’m sure your honour doesn’t think my beautiful pipes sounded like a pig.”

“Oh,” he answered, “you don’t think I meant that they sounded like the grunt or squeak of a pig? I only meant that they were as loud as a pig.”

“As loud as a pig!” said Paddy, rather indignantly; “as loud as a pig! They wor a great deal louder; but if your honour wouldn’t mind changing that one word, I think it would be a great improvement, and would sound more natural like. This is the way I’d like it to go -

‘But Mary McCarthy being still for a jig,

He screwed his old pipes till they roar’d like a nymph.’

You see, your honour, the rhyme would be just as good, and I think it would be more like the rale tune of it.”

The suggested improvement was at once made, to Paddy’s great satisfaction.

My brother told me that it was a favourite song of Paddy’s that suggested to him the plot of “Shamus O’Brien.” Here is the song -

“I am a young man that never yet was daunted;

I always had money, plenty, When I wanted;

Courting pretty fair maids was all the trade I’d folly:

My life I would venture for you, my sporting Molly.

“As I was going up the Galtee mountain

I met with Captain Pepper; his money he was counting.

I first drew out my pistol, and then drew out my weapon:

‘Stand and deliver, for I am the receiver.’

“When I got the money - it was a nice penny -

I put it in my pocket, and brought it home to Molly.

Molly, she told me she never would decave me;

But the divil’s in the women, for they never can be ‘asy.

“I went to her chamber for to take a slumber;

I went to her chamber - sure, I thought it little wonder.

I took out my pistols, and laid them on the table;

She discharged off them both, and filled them up with water.

“Early next morning, between six and seven,

The guard they surrounded me, with brave Captain Ledwell.

I ran to my pistols, but sure I was mistaken;

I discharged off the water, and a prisoner I was taken.

“Johnny, oh, Johnny, you are a gallant soldier;

You carry your firelock over your shoulder.

When you meet those gentlemen you’re sure to make them tremble;

Put your whistle to your mouth, and your party will assemble.

“Johnny, oh, Johnny, I oftentimes told you,

With your bright shining sword, how the guard would surround you;

With your silver-mounted pistols deluding pretty fair maids,

Which causes your head to lie under the raven.

“I have two brothers ‘listed in the army;

One is in Killiney, the other in Killarney.

If I had been them, I would be brave and charming.

I’d rather have them here than you, my sporting Molly.

I stood in the hall while the turnkey was brawling;

I stood in the hall while the roll it was calling.

‘Twas with my metal bolt I knocked the sentry down;

I made my escape, adieu to Nenagh town.

With my rigatooria,

Right, foltheladdy; with my rigatooria.”

The chorus, “With my rigatooria,” etc., which I have appended only to the last verse, was sung by Paddy, with much expression, at the end of each verse, and, in his opinion, greatly added to the effect and beauty of the song.

The cliffs at Kilkee, though not so high as some others on the west coast of Ireland, are amongst the - boldest; they overhang so much, that if from the highest of them, Look-out Hill, you drop a stone over the edge, it falls well out into the sea. A stranger will hardly venture to look over the top of the cliff without kneeling or lying down; while the natives will sit quite happily on the very edge, with their legs dangling over, as they fish with long hand-lines for rock bream in the sea below. This, of course, they can do only on fine days; in stormy weather the foam and spray of the great Atlantic waves are driven right over the top of the cliffs.

In those days bathing on the strand in the Bay of Kilkee was carried out in a rather primitive style. A shower-bath was given by a man who climbed up at the back of the bath, carrying a bucket full of water, which he poured through a colander on the bather. A lady had taken her place in the bath, quite ready for the shower, when she heard a voice say to her, through the colander; “If you’d be plazed, my lady, to stand a little more to the west, I’d be able to give it to you better.”

In the south of Ireland they constantly speak of a men being gone west or east, but never north or south. For instance, if in Kenmare you happened to ask where a man had gone, they would say, “To Killarney,” or “To Glangarriff,” as the case might be, but never “North to Killarney,” or “South to Glengarriff.” However, if he had gone to Sneem, or to Kilgarvin, they would invariably say, “ile’s gone west to Sneem,” or “East to Kilgarvin.” “West” is also used to mean back or backwards. When at our fishing quarters in Kerry some years ago, a small peasant boy, Davy Cronin by name, unwashed and unkempt, with hands and face as black as a potatoe-pot, used to come and sit near us on the bank of the river. My wife told him that’ unless he washed and made himself clean, she could not let him sit near our children. Next day he appeared with his face and hands much cleaner, but with the back of his neck as black as ever. “You are a good boy, Davy,” said my wife to him, “to have washed your hands and face; but when you were about it, why didn’t you wash the back of your neck?” “‘Twas too far west, my lady,” was the answer.

Another day, Jim Shea, who was then my fishing attendant, had a violent fit of coughing. “I’ll give you something this evening,” said my wife, “that will do your cold good.” “‘Tis not a cold I have at all, my lady,” said he; “‘tis a fly that’s gone west in my stomach.”

This last word reminds me of a story, told me by a friend, of a little girl, a niece of his, who had been told by her mother that “stomach” was not a nice word, and that a young lady ought not to use it. Some time afterwards she had done something naughty, and was put into the corner, and told to stay there till she was good. As no sign of penitence appeared, the mother took the initiative, and said, ” Well, Mary, are you good now?” “No said she, “I’m not good. Stomach - stomach -stomach - stomach!”

Kilkee has been for many years a favourite summer resort of the people of Limerick and the neighbouring counties; I wonder it is not more often visited by tourists from other parts of the country, and from England. The scenery is magnificently wild, the cliffs, many hundred feet high, go sheer down to the sea, many of them even overhanging.

No vessel willingly approachhes this iron-bound coast, and in the many times I have been there I do not think I have seen a sail half a dozen times, and when I did see one it was far away in the offing. One winter, on Christmas morning, the *Intrinsic, *having been disabled at sea, was driven by the storm under the highest of the cliffs, where she came to anchor, and there for hours she lay battered and buffeted by the waves. Crowds collected on the Look-out Hill which overhung the cliff. The coast-guard men were there, trying in vain, with rockets, to send a rope to the ship. Two or three times in the forenoon some of the crew were seen on deck; two of them were washed overboard and lost; after midday none were seen. From hour to hour the crowd increased. The priests from Kilkee came up and celebrated Mass on the hill, while the people knelt, in the storm and rain, praying for those in peril on the ship. The Mass had scarcely ended when a huge wave struck the vessel; she heeled over and sunk. A gull was seen to pick up something from the sea where she went down, which, when flying high overhead, it dropped amongst the crowd; it was a lady’s glove. The captain’s wife had perished with her husband and the crew.

Years after this, in November, 1850, professional business brought me for a day to Kilkee. The greatest storm known for years had been raging for the two previous days. It was a grand sight, those mighty Atlantic waves dashing and breaking against the rocks, and sending foam and spray flying high above the lofty cliffs. The day before I arrived, an emigrant ship, the *Edmund, *had left Limerick for America, with between two and three hundred emigrants on hoard, and on the following night had been caught in this great storm. A ledge, called the Dugarna Rocks, stretches a great part of the way across the mouth of the little Bay of Kilkee; over this she was carried by the waves, and driven right up to the village, her bows high and dry on the rocks close to the coastguard station. The greater number of the passengers were saved, but about a hundred of them were still on board when the vessel went to pieces; they were drowned, and with them the ship’s carpenter, a brave fellow, who had risked his life again and again in saving some of the emigrants, and had gone on board once more to rescue others. I saw lying side by side, on a sail spread on the beach, many of the poor drowned ones, most of them young women and children; others were constantly being washed ashore and were laid with those already there. Had I not seen it I would not have believed that such a large vessel could have so completely broken up in so short a time; all that was left of her were fragments scattered on the rocks and beach. That night I had a long and weary journey from Kilkee to Limerick, over 60 miles, on an outside car in storm and rain, and could think of nothing all through the night but the terrible scene I had witnessed, and ever before me were the poor sad faces I had seen upon the sail.

In 1839 my brother became connected with the *Dublin University Magazine, *of which he was subsequently the proprietor; to it he contributed the many interesting and amusing Irish stories, afterwards collected in the *Purcell Papers. *Some of them I used occasionally to recite, and wishing to have one in verse, I asked him to write one for me. He said he did not know what subject I would like. I said, “Give me an Irish Young Lochinvar,” and in a few days he sent me “Phaudrig Crohoore” (“Patrick Connor;” or, more correctly, “Patrick the Son of Connor”). Although it has appeared in the *Purcell Papers, *my readers may not object to see it here.

Phaudrig Croohore

“Oh! Phaudrig Crohoore was the broth of a boy,

And he stood six foot eight;

And his arm was as round as another man’s thigh -

‘Tis Phaudrig was great.

And his hair was as black as the shadows of night -

And hung over the scars left by many a fight;

And his voice, like the thunder, was deep, strong, and loud,

And his eye like the lightning from under the cloud.

And all the girls liked him, for he could spake civil,

And sweet when he liked it, for he was the divil.

And there wasn’t a girl from thirty-five under,

Divil a matter how cross, but he could come round her.

But of all the sweet girls that smiled on him but one

Was the girl of his heart, and he loved her alone;

For warm as the sun, as the rock firm and sure,

Was the love of the heart of Phaudrig Crohoore.

And he’d die for one smile from his Kathleen O’Brien,

For his love, like his hatred, was strong as the lion.

“But Michael O’Haulon loved Kathleen as well

As he hated Crohoore, an’ that same was like hell.

But O’Brien liked him, for they were the same parties,

The O’Briens, O’Hanlons, and Murphys, and Cartys;

And they all went together and hated Crohoore,

For it’s many’s the batin’ he gave them before;

And O’Hanlon made up to O’Brien, an’ says he,

‘I’ll marry your daughter, if you’ll give her to me.’

And the match was made up, and when Shrovetide came on.,

The company assembled three hundred, if one.

There was all the O’Hanlons, an’ Murphys, an’ Cartys,

An’ the young boys an’ girls of all of them parties.

The O’Briens, of coorse, gathered strong on that day,

An’ the pipers an’ fiddlers were tearin’ away;

There was roarin’, an’ jumpin’, an’ jiggin’, an’ flingin’,

An’ jokin’, an’ blessin’, an’ kissin’, an’ singin’;

An’ they wor all laughin’- why not to be sure? -

How O’Hanlon come inside of Phaudrig Crohoore;

An’ they talked an’ they laughed the length of the table,

‘Atin’ an’ drinkin’ all while they were able;

An’ with pipin’ an’ fiddlin’, and reorin’ like thunder,

Your head you’d think fairly was splittin’ asunder.

An’ the priest called out, ‘Silence, ye blackguards, agin,’

An’ he took up his prayer-book, just goin’ to begin.

An’ they all held their tongues from their funnin’ and bawlin’,

So silent you’d notice the smallest pin fallin’.

An’ the priest was just beginnin’ to read, when the door

Sprang back to the wall, and in walked Crohoore.

Oh! Phaudrig Crohoore was the broth of a boy, And he stood six foot eight;

And his arm was as round as another man’s thigh - ‘Tis Phaudrig was great.

And he walked slowly up, watched by many a bright eye,

As a black cloud moves on through the stars of the sky;

And none strove to stop him, for Phaudrig was great,

Till he stood, all alone, just opposite the sate

Where O’Hanlon and Kathleen, his beautiful bride,

Were sittin’ so illigant out side by side.

An’ he gave her one look that her heart almost broke,

Au’ he turned to O’Brien, her father, and spoke;

An’ his voice, like the thunder, was deep, strong, and loud,

An’ his eye shone like lightning from under the cloud.

“‘I didn’t come here like a tame, crawlin’ mouse,

But I stand like a man in my enemies’ house.

In the field, on the road, Phaudrig never knew fear

Of his foemen, and God knows he scorns it here;

So lave me at aise, for three minutes or four,

To spake to the girl I’ll never see more.’

And to Kathleen he turned, and his voice changed its tone,

For he thought of the days when he called her his own,

An’ his eye blazed like lightnin’ from under the cloud

On his false-hearted girl, reproachful and proud.

An’ says he, ‘Kathleen bawn, is it true what I hear,

That you marry of your free choice, without threat or fear?

If so, spake the word, an’ I’ll turn and depart,

Cheated once, and once only, by woman’s false heart.’

“Oh! sorrow and love made the poor girl dumb,

And she tried hard to spake, but the words wouldn’t come;

For the sound of his voice, as he stood there fornint her,

Went cold on her heart, as the night wind in winter;

And the tears in her blue eyes stood tremblin’ to flow,

And pale was her cheek, as the moonshine on snow.

“Then the heart of bold Phaudrig swelled high in its place,

For he knew, by one look in that beautiful face,

That though strangers and foemen their pledged hands might sever,

Her true heart was his, and his only, for ever.

And he lifted his voice like the eagle’s hoarse call,

And says Phaudrig, ‘She’s mine still, in spite of you all!’

Then up jumped O’Hanlon - an’ a tall boy was he -

And he looked on bold Phaudrig as fierce as could be’

An’ says he, ‘By the holy, before you go out

Bold Phaudrig Crohoore, you must fight for a bout.

Then Phaudrig made answer, ‘I’ll do my endeavour,

And with one blow he stretched bold O’Hanlon for ever.

In his arms he took Kathleen, and stepped to the door,

And he leaped on his horse, and flung her before.

An’ they all were so bothered that not a man stirred

Till the galloping hoofs on the pavement were heard;

Then up they all started, like bees in the swarm,

An’ they riz a great shout, like the burst of a storm;

An’ they roared, an’ they ran, an’ they shouted galore;

But Kathleen and Phaudrig they never saw more.

“But them days are gone by, and he is no more,

An’ the green grass is growin’ o’er Phaudrig Crohoore;

For he couldn’t be aisy or quiet at all;

As he lived a brave boy, he resolved so to fall.

An’ he took a good pike, for Phaudrig was great

And he fought, and he died in the year ‘98;

An’ the day that Crohoore in the green field was killed,

A strong boy was stretched, and a strong heart was stilled.”

When “Phaudrig.Crohoore” appeared in the *Dublin University Magazine, *my brother, under his *nom de plume, *wrote a preface to it, in which he said that it had been composed by a poor Irish minstrel, Michael Finley, who could neither read nor write, but used to recite it, with others of his songs and ballads, at fairs and markets.

Many years afterwards, one evening, after I had recited it at Lord Spencer’s, who was then Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, the late primate, Beresford, said to Lady Spencer, who was sitting near me, “I can tell you a curious fact, Lady Spencer; that poem was composed by a poor Irish peasant, one Michael Finley, who could neither read nor write.” Then turning to me, “Were you aware of that, Mr. Le Fanu?” “I was, your Grace,” said I; “and you may be surprised to hear that I knew the Michael Finley who wrote the ballad intimately - he was, in fact, my brother. But in one particular your Grace is mistaken; he could read and write a little.” The primate took it very well, and was much amused.

Some of my brother’s earliest stories in the *Dublin University Magazine *abound in fun about courtship and matrimony. In one he makes the narrator, an Irish peasant, thus describe the condition of Billy Malowney when courting pretty Molly Donovan. “Well, now, he was raly stupid wid love; there wasn’t a bit of fun left in him. He was good for nothing on earth but sittin’ under bushes smokin’ tobaccy and sighing, till you’d wonder where he got the wind for it all. Now you might as well be persuadin’ the birds again’ flying, or strivin’ to coax the stars out of the sky into your hat, as to be talking common sense to them that’s fairly bothered and burstin’ wid love. There is nothing like it. The toothache and colic together would compose you better for an argument; it leaves you fit for nothing but nonsinse. It’s stronger than whisky, for one good drop of it will make you drunk for a year, and sick, begorra, for ten; it’s stronger than the sea, for it will carry you round the world, and never let you sink in sunshine or in storm; and begorra it’s stronger than Death itself, for it’s not afear’d of him, but dares him in every shape. But lovers does have their quarrels sometimes; and, begorra, when they do, you’d almost think they hated one another like man and wife.”

Another time he makes a man warn his son against matrimony, telling him that “marriage is like the smallpox. A man may have it mildly, but he generally carries the marks of it with him to his grave.”

In another story he puts into the mouth of an Irish farmer, addressing his son, the following cynical view of life, the last part of which very considerably shocked the Dean:

“You see, my boy, a man’s life naturally divides itself into three distinct periods. The first is that in which he is plannin’ and conthrivin’ all sorts of villainy and rascality; that is the period of youth and innocence. The second is that in which he is puttin’ into practice the villainy and rascality he contrived before; that is the prime of life or the flower of manhood. The third and last period is that in which he is makin’ his soul and preparin’ for another world; that is the period of dotage.”

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