Killing or murder? "Shamus O'Brien, Samuel Lover.

Chapter IX

Mitchelstown remembered - A Night on the Galtees - The weird horse - Killing, or murder? - The ballad of “Shamus O’Brien” - A letter from Samuel Lover.

In a very hot July five and fifty years ago, a walking party left my father’s house to visit some places of note in the counties of Limerick, Cork, and Tipperary. Our party consisted of John Walsh, afterwards Master of the Rolls in Ireland; John Jellett the late Provost of Trinity College, Dublin; Gaetano Egedi, an Italian friend of ours; my brother, and myself. The weather being unusually warm, our plan was to start each day late in the afternoon, arriving at our destination about midnight, and visiting next day whatever was of interest in the neighbourhood. Towards the end of our tour we arrived late one night at Mitchelstown, famous for its caves, and now also of sacred political memory. Next morning we set off, immediately after breakfast, for the caves, which are about six miles from the town, near the village of Ballyporeen, celebrated in the old Irish song, “The Wedding of Ballyporeen, in which the wedding feast is thus described -

“There was bacon and greens, but the turkey was spoiled;

Potatoes dressed every way, roasted and boiled;

Red herrings, plum-pudding - the priest got a snipe;

Cobladdy, stiff dumpliug, and cow-heel and tripe.

Oh! they ate till they could ate no more, sir;

Then the whisky came pouring galore, sir.

How Terence McManus did roar, sir,

At the wedding of Ballyporeen!”

The caves are in the cavernous limestone formation, and not unlike those of Derbyshire. We entered by a sort of ladder, which, after a descent of about 30 feet, leads to a long and narrow sloping passage, ending in a chamber about 80 feet in diameter, and 30 feet high. From this lofty hall a series of passages lead to other chambers of various sizes and heights; in many of them the stalactites from the roof uniting with the stalagmites from the floor form white pillars of glistening brightness; the whole effect of these halls when lighted up is very beautiful.

Having spent most of the day in the caves, we started about seven in the afternoon for Tipperary, which we hoped to reach by midnight. To go there by road would have been a walk of some five and twenty or thirty miles, while straight across the Galtee mountains was little more than half the distance; we therefore adopted the latter route. Lest we should lose our way, we secured the services of a guide, a fine young peasant, who said he knew the way across the mountains well. He could speak but little English; this however did not matter much, as we only wanted him to lead us. Off we set on this splendid summer evening, bright and calm. After a while we sat down for a little rest among the heather, high up on Galtee More. It was a glorious sight as we looked back on the great plain below us, with its green pastures and waving cornfields bathed in the light of the setting sun. We could not rest long, and were soon on foot again, and had nearly reached the crest of the range, when suddenly a fog rolled down upon us, so thick that we could not see more than 30 or 40 yards. On we trudged, vainly hoping that the fog would lift; but, far from doing so, it grew darker every hour. We wandered on till we had crossed the summit; but soon after we and our guide had completely lost our way. On reaching the edge of a lake we asked the guide in which direction we should go round it and found, as we had suspected, that he was as hopelessly lost as we were, and saw plainly that he had never known that there was a lake there. We went round by its margin till we came to a small stream flowing from it; we followed its course, knowing that it must lead us to the lower lands.

It was night now, and though the fog was as thick as ever, it was not altogether dark, as some little moonlight shone through it. The guide tried to cheer us up by constantly saying, “Nabochlish” (“never mind”), “the houses is near, the houses is near.” Once, some 15 or 20 yards from us, a home galloped past; as well as we could see he was of a chestnut colour. We were too anxious to find our way to think much of this; but our guide brightened up immensely. “See the coppel” (the horse), “gentlemen,” he said, “I tell’d ye the houses is near.” But, alas! near the houses were not, and we had yet before us many a scramble through brakes of gorse, and many a tumble over rocks and tussocks. By this time the moon had gone down, and we were in complete darkness. The fog lifted as suddenly as it had come upon us. I forget which of us suggested that we should all shout together as loudly as we could, and thus, perhaps, attract the notice of some dweller on the slope of the mountain. After several shouts, to our joy, we heard in the distance an answering shout, and soon saw a bright light in the direction from which the welcome sounds had come. Shout answered shout as we hurried down; at times the light went out, but soon blazed up again.

At last, on the opposite side of a narrow glen full of rocks and brushwood, we saw the figures of men and women lighted up by a flaming sheaf of straw, which one of the men held up high in his hands. We quickly crossed the glen, and were at once surrounded. “Who are ye?” “What do ye want?” “Are ye peelers?” “What sort of gentlemen are ye at all to be on the mountains this time of night?” To these and many suchlike questions we gave the best answers we could. After a brief conversation, in Irish, with our guide, they led us to a large thatched farm-house; the habitation highest on the hills. They explained to us that they and some of their neighbours had been at the fair at Bansha and stayed out late, and just as they got home had heard our shouts. A huge turf fire was blazing on the hearth, at which we sat drying our nether garments which were thoroughly drenched; great mugs of hot goats’ milk were supplied to warm our insides, our host informing us that he had upwards of 80 goats on the mountain. He and the boys (all unmarried men are boys in the south) and girls sat up with us by the cheery fire, talking, joking, and telling stories. After some time my brother happened to say to the man of the house, “I suppose that was your horse that passed us on the mountain?” All were silent, and looked one at another half incredulous, half-frightened. One of them, after a -pause, said, “There is no horse on the mountain. What sort of a horse was it that ye thought ye seen?”

“A chestnut horse,” said we.

“Oh, begorra!” said our friend; “they seen the yalla horse!” Then turning to us,” It’s a wonder ye all cum down alive and safe; it is few that sees the yalla horse that has luck after.”

This was one of the superstitions of the dwellers on the Galtees. We afterwards thought that it might have been a red deer that passed us, as at that time it was supposed that there were a few of them, wild ones, still on the mountain. From what our entertainers told us it appears that had not the night been so calm, we should have been in considerable danger of an attack by the enchanted “wurrum,” who had his abode in the dark lake we had passed; but fortunately for us it is only on wild and stormy nights that, with fearful roars, he emerges from the lake to waylay benighted wanderers.

One of the boys now asked us whether we had heard what had happened that day. As we had not, he told us that “a very responsible man,” as he called him, had been shot dead that morning hard by towards Bansha. (He was, I think, Mr. Massey Dawson’s steward or forester.) He, did not exactly know, he said, why the man had been shot, but thought he was hard on the people’ about the price of timber, and had also dismissed some labourers.

Another of the boys said, “Now, why didn’t they give b{m a good batin’, and not to go kill him entirely?”

“Ah, then, I suppose,” said the other, “they kem from a distance and didn’t like to go home without finishing the job.”

“But,” said the other very seriously, “what will them chaps do on the day of judgment?”

“Oich,” said his friend, “what does that signify, sure many a boy done a foolish turn.”

It is not improbable that our friends knew perfectly well who had been engaged in the murder. However that may be, early next morning we bid our entertainers a hearty farewell, and, again refreshed with hot goats’ milk, started for the ‘town of Tipperary, passing through the glen of Aherlow, then one of the most disturbed places in Ireland, about which the saying amongst the people was, “Wherever the devil is by day he is sure to be in the glen of Aherlow by night.” It was the only time my brother saw that lovely valley, which he made the home of Shamus O’Brien in the popular ballad which I give here, as I do not think a correct version of it can elsewhere be found.

Shamus O’Brien

“Just after the war, in the year ninety-eight,

As soon as the boys were all scattered and bate,

‘Twas the custom, whenever a peasant was caught,

To hang him by trial, barring such as was shot.

There was trial by jury goin’ on by daylight,

And the martial law hangin’ the lavings by night.

It’s them was hard times for an honest gossoon:

If he missed in the judges, he’d meet a dragoon;

And whether the judge or the soldiers gave sentence,

The divil a much time they allowed for repentance.

And it’s many’s the fine boy was then on his keeping,

With small share of restin’, or atin’, or sleepin’,

And because they loved Erin, and scorned to sell it,

A prey for the bloodhound, a mark for the bullet,

Unsheltered by night, and unrested by day,

With the heath for their barrack, revenge for their pay.

And the bravest and hardiest boy of them all

Was Shamus O’Brien, from the town of Glengall.

His limbs were well set, and his body was light,

And the keen fangéd hound hadn’t teeth half so white;

But his face was as pale as the face of the dead,

And his cheek never warmed with the blush of the red;

And for all that he wasn’t an ugly young boy,

For the divil himself couldn’t blaze with his eye,

So funny and so wicked, so dark and so bright,

Like the fire-flash that crosses the depth of the night.

And he was the best mower that ever has been,

And the illigantest hurler that ever was seen;

In fincin’ he gave Patrick Mooney a cut,

And in jumpin’ he bate Tim Maloney a foot.

For lightness of foot there wasn’t his peer,

For, begorra, you’d think he’d outrun the red deer;

And his dancin’ was such that the men used to stare,

And the women turned crazy, he had done it so quare -

And, begorra, the whole world gave in to him there.

And it’s he was the boy that was hard to be caught,

And it’s often he ran, and it’s often he fought,

And it’s many’s the one can remember right well

The quare things he done; and it’s often I heerd tell

How he frightened the magistrate in Cahirbally,

And escaped through the soldiers in Aherlow Valley,

And leathered the yeomen himself agin’ four,

And stretched the two strongest on old Galtimore.

But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild deer must rest,

And treachery preys on the blood of the best.

After many a brave action of power and pride,

And many a hard night on the’ mountain’s bleak side,

And a thousand great dangers and toils overpast,

In the darkness of night he was taken at last.

“Now, Shamus, look back on the beautiful moon,

For the door of the prison must close on you soon;

And take your last look at her dim lovely light,

That falls on the mountain and valley this night;

One look at the village, one look at the flood,

And one at the sheltering, far-distant wood.

Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill,

And farewell to the friends that will think of you still;

Farewell to the hurlin’, the pattern, and wake,

And farewell to the girl that would die for your sake.

“Well, twelve soldiers brought him to Maryboro’ jail,

And the turnkey received him, refusin’ all bail;

The’ fleet limbs were chained, and the strong hands were bound,

And he laid down his length on the cold prison ground.

And the dreams of his childhood came over him there,

As gentle and soft as the sweet summer air;

And happy remembrances crowding on ever,

As fast as the foam flakes drift down the river,

Bringing fresh to his heart merry days long gone by,

Till the tears gathered heavy and thick in his eye.

But the tears didn’t fall, for the pride of his heart

Wouldn’t suffer one drop down his pale cheek to start;

And he sprang to his feet in the dark prison cave,

And he swore with the fierceness that misery gave,

By the hopes of the good, by the cause of the brave,

That when he was mouldering in his cold grave

His enemies never should have it to boast

His scorn of their vengeance one moment was lost;

His bosom might bleed, but his cheek should be dry,

For undaunted he’d live, and undaunted he’d die.

‘Well, as soon as a few weeks were over and gone,

The terrible day of the trial came on.

There was such a crowd there was scarce room to stand,

With soldiers on guard, and dragoons sword in hand;

And the court-house so full that the people was bothered,

And attorneys and criers on the point of being smothered;

And counsellors almost given over for dead,

And the jury sittin’ up in their box overhead;

And the judge settled out, so detarmined and big,

With his gown on his back, and an illigant new wig.

And silence was called, and the minute it was said,

The court was as still as the heart of the dead,

And they heard but the opening of one prison lock,

And Shamus O’Brien came into the dock.

For one minute he turned his eye round on the throng,

And he looked on the bars, so firm and so strong,

And he saw that he hadn’t a hope nor a friend,

A chance to escape nor a word to defend;

And he folded his arms as he stood there alone,

As calm and as cold as a statue of stone.

And they read a big writin’, a yard long at laste,

And Jim didn’t understand it or mind it a taste.

And the judge took a big pinch of snuff, and he says,

‘Are you guilty or not, Jim O’Brien, if you plase?’

And they all held their breath in the silence of dread;

And Shamus O’Brien made answer and said,

‘My lord, if you ask me if in my life-time

I thought any treason or done any crime

That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here,

The hot blush of shame or the coldness of fear,

Though I stood by the grave to receive my death-blow,

Before God and the world I answer you, “No!”

But if you would ask me, as I think it like,

If in the rebellion I carried a pike,

And fought for old Ireland from the first to the close,

And shed the heart’s blood of her bitterest foes,

I answer you, “Yes!” and I tell you again,

Though I stand here to perish, it’s my glory that then

In her cause I was willing my veins should run dry,

And that now for her sake I am ready to die.’

Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright,

And the judge wasn’t sorry the job was made light;

By my sowl! it’s himself was the crabbed old chap,

In a twinklin’ he pulled on his ugly black cap.

“Then Shamus’s mother, in the crowd standing by,

Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry:

‘Oh, judge darlin’, don’t! - oh, don’t say the word!

The crathur is young; have mercy, my lord!

He was foolish, he didn’t know what he was doin’;

You don’t know him, my lord - oh, don’t give him to ruin!

He’s the kindliest crathur, the tenderest hearted,

Don’t part us for ever, we that’s so long parted!

Judge, mavourneen, forgive him! forgive him, my lord!

And God will forgive you. Oh, don’t say the word!’

“That was the first minute that O’Brien was shaken,

When he saw that he wasn’t quite forgot or forsaken;

And down his pale cheeks, at the words of his mother,

The big tears were runnin’ fast, one after th’ other;

But in vain, for his hands were too fast bound that day.

And two or three times he endeavoured to spake,

But the strong, manly voice used to falter and break;

Till at last, by the strength of his high-mounting pride,

He conquered and mastered his grief’s swelling tide.

‘And,’ says he, ‘Mother darlin’, don’t break your poor heart

For sooner or later the dearest must part.

And God knows it’s better than wandering in fear

On the bleak, trackless mountain among the wild deer,

To lie in the grave, where the head, hand, and breast

From thought, labour and sorrow for ever shall rest.

Then, mother, my darlin’, don’t cry any more,

Don’t make me seem broken in this my last hour;

For I wish, when my head is lyin’ under the raven,

No true man can say that I died like a craven!’

Then towards the judge Shamus bowed down his head,

And that minute the solemn death sentence was said.

“The morning was bright, and the mist rose on high,

And the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky.

But why are the men standin’ idle so late?

And why do the crowds gather fast in the street?

What come they to talk of? what come they to see?

And why does the long rope hang from the cross-tree?

Now, Shamus O’Brien, pray fervent and fast;

May the saints take your soul! for this day is your last;

Pray fast, and pray strong, for the moment is nigh

When, strong, proud, and great as you are, you must die.

And faster and faster the crowd gathered there -

Boys, horses, and gingerbread, just like a fair;

And whisky was sellin’, and cussamuck too,

Aud ould men and young women enjoym’ the view;

And ould Tim Mulvany he made the remark,

‘There wasn’t such a sight since the time” of Noah’s ark.’

And, begorra, ‘twas true for him, the divil such a scruge,

Such divarshin and crowds was known since the deluge!

Ten thousand was gathered there, if there was one,

All waitin’ till such time as the hangin’ ‘id come on.

At last they threw open the big prison gate,

And out come the sheriffs and soldiers in state,

And a cart in the middle, and Shamus was in it

Not paler, but prouder than ever that minute.

And as soon as the people saw Shamus O’Brien,

With prayin’ and blessin’ and all the girls cryin’,

A wild, wailin’ sound came on by degrees,

Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin’ through trees.

On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone,

And the cart and the soldiers go steadily on;

And at every side swellin’ around of the cart,

A wild, sorrowful sound that would open your heart.

Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand,

And the hangman gets up with the rope in his hand;

And the priest gives his blessing and goes down op the ground,

And Shamus O’Brien throws one last look round;

Then the hangman drew near, and the people grew stilt

Young faces turned sickly and warm hearts grew chill.

And all being ready, his neck was made bare

For the gripe of the life-stranglin’ cord to prepare;

And the good priest has left him, having said his last prayer.

But the good priest done more, for his hands he unbound,

And with one daring spring Jim has leaped on the ground!

Bang! bang! go the carbines, and clash go the sabres!

‘He’s not down! he’s alive still! now stand to him, neighbours!

Through the smoke and the horses, he’s into the crowd!

By the heavens he is free!’ than thunder more loud,

By one shout from the people the heavens were shaken -

One shout that the dead of the world might awaken.

Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang,

But if you want hangin’, it’s yourselves you must hang,

For tonight he’ll be sleepin’ in Aherlow glen,

And the divil’s in the dice if you catch him again.

The soldiers ran this way, the hangman ran that,

And Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat;

And the sheriffs were both of them punished severely,

And fined like the divil because Jim done them fairly.”

The ballad was written in a very few days, in the year 1840, and sent to me day by day by my brother as he wrote it to Dundalk, where I was then staying. I quickly learned it by heart, and now and then recited it. The scraps of paper on which it was written were lost, and years after, when my brother wished for a copy, I had to write it out from memory for him. One other copy I wrote out in the same way and gave to Samuel Lover when he was starting on his tour through the United States, where, as will be seen by the following letter, it was received with much applause:-

“Astor House, New York, U.S. America,

“September30, 1846.

“My Dear Le Lanu,

“In reading over your brother’s poem while I crossed the Atlantic, I became more and more impressed with its great beauty and dramatic effect; so much so that I determined to test its effect in public, and have done so here, on my first appearance, with the greatest success. Now I have no doubt there will be great praises of the poem, and people will suppose most likely that the composition is mine, and, as you know (I take it for granted) that I would not wish to wear a borrowed feather, I should be glad to give your brother’s name as author, should he not object to have it known; but as his writings are often of so different a tone, I would not speak without permission to do so. It is true that in my programme my name is attached to the other pieces, and no name appended to the recitation; so far you will see I have done all I could to avoid ‘appropriating,’ the spirit of which I might have caught here with Irish aptitude; but I would like to have the means of telling all whom it may concern the name ot the author to whose head and heart it does so much honour. Pray, my dear Le Fanu, inquire and answer me here by next packet, or as soon as convenient. My success here has been quite triumphant.

“Yours very truly,

“Samuel Lover.”

Notwithstanding his disclaimer of authorship, I afterwards, more than once, heard the poem attributed to Lover. He did, indeed, add a few lines, by no means an improvement to it, in which he makes Shamus emigrate to America, where he sets up a public-house, and writes home to his mother to invite her to come out and live with him in his happy home. I suppose he thought that this would suit the taste of the Irish-Americans.

Many years after this, when I had recited the poem at the house of my friend, Sir William Stirling Maxwell, he said, “I was afraid poor Shamus would be hanged.” “I didn’t think so for a moment,” said Lord Dufferin. “Why?” said Sir William. “Possibly,” said Lord Dufferin, “it may have been because I have heard William Le Fanu recite it once or twice before.”

There are a few words and phrases in “Shamus O’Brien” which some of my readers may not understand. I give them here with their meaning.

“Just after the war.” The peasants always call the rebellion of 1798 “the War.”

“On his keeping,” in hiding from the police or soldiers.

“The illigantest hurler.” “Hurling” (or “hurley,” as it is now called) was formerly the chief game in Ireland.

“Gossoon,” or “gorsoon,” a young lad.

“Pattern,” a gathering for religious purposes or for cures at a holy well, or some other place, dedicated to some patron saint. The word is a corruption of “patron.’

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