Irish Folk Tales (24 page)

Well, this parish priest had great wisdom. “It is like this, my good man,” says he. “It was not about the Mass you were thinking, and it was not for your neighbors that you were praying all the times that you were at Mass, but all the time thinking how pious you were and how everyone should have great respect for you. And that is a sign to you from Heaven that you heard only five of the Masses properly, and that is the only five you will get credit for. And remember that, now, the next time you go to the church.”

I tell you that it is not the one that is first to the chapel that is the highest in the sight of God.

A
N ACTUAL SAINT

I used to always go to an old person for to get a few histories. ’Twas an old man that in nineteen twenty-eight told me this: he said that there was a wonderful man living just beyond here, a sheepherder for a Protestant landlord years ago, and this man had no knowledge of anything but his sheep and his lands. He was away up in the mountain beyond minding sheep, and he never seen a chapel, he was miles away from a chapel.

There was a priest crossing one time, and the priest began to talk to this man, and he says, “Do you go to Mass?” “What is that?” says he. The priest asked him his age, and he told him, a man well gone in years, a white bawneen he was wearing. “Next Sunday,” says the priest, “you’ll see the people going to Mass, and follow them. Follow them down the mountain.” “All right,” says he.

Sure enough, the next Sunday he followed them down the mountain and into the chapel. The day was very warm, and after walking, and when he was coming inside, he started to pour sweat. There was a sunbeam coming in from the window, and he thought it was a rope, and he took off his white bawneen and threw it up upon it, and faith, believe it or believe it not, the coat caught up on the sunbeam and the sunbeam kept the coat. Then the priest, seeing the coat hanging there, said to the congregation, “Thanks be to God, there’s a saint at Mass today.”

After Mass, the priest came up to the old man and told him he needn’t come any more. Why? Because he was a true Christian, a living saint, Because if he continued coming to that chapel, could happen next Sunday, he could fall into sin and the sunbeam wouldn’t hold up the coat. He might look at a handsome lassie, that’s all the marks you need ever pass, that’s a sin for you. So he stayed away for the rest of his life.

You see, that man was an actual saint. He was in the mountains all his life, out there on his own, and there was more religion in him than there could ever be if he went looking for it, at the chapel. I don’t think the sunbeam would have held up that priest’s coat.

That happened for a fact. But they’re very few saints left in it today, of that you can be even more sure. No, not many saints at all and altogether too many priests, at least that’s what I think.

O
LD THORNS AND OLD PRIESTS

Old thorns and old priests should be left alone: there’s power in the pair of them if they want to use it. You may not believe it, but there was a time in Ireland when everyone believed it and maybe right they were. It’s better be sure than sorry.

Anyhow, there was this fellow one time and he was very fond of the drink. Worse still he had a wife and a family, and the way he was drinking himself out of house and habitation they were living on the clippings of tin, licking the stones. She was sick, sore, and tired scolding him and asking him to have sense, so in the latter end she went to the old parish priest about him.

The parish priest listened to her story and said he would see what he could do. So this day there was a market or something in the village and the priest knew your man would be there and wouldn’t leave the public house till he lowered every cent in his pocket down the red lane, and maybe rise more on the slate if his name was good.

So the priest was in the village and he seen your man heading for the public house. He called him over.

“I forbid you to go in there this day,” says he.

“Only one drink, Father,” says he, “and then I’m going home to my wife and childer.”

“One drink,” says the priest, “will lead to another drink and another and another till you go home with the two legs plaiting under you. Now listen here,” says the priest, “I don’t want to use my power, but if you go inside that public house today or let drink wet your lips, I’ll turn you into a mouse by twelve o’clock tonight.”

At that the priest turned and walked away home, and your man turned and walked home too. He didn’t want to draw the anger of the priest on him and he believed he had the power when he wanted.

He wasn’t far outside the village on his way home and who does he meet but an old pal who’d been years in England or America and was just home. Well, you know how it is. Handshakes and great talk and what not. And before your man knew where he was, he was back with this pal in the pub in the village and didn’t leave it till he couldn’t see a hole in a ladder.

It was dark, down night when he got as far as his own house and his wife, Mary, was sitting lamenting to herself at the fire. He staggered in and
looked at the mantelpiece and he could see the clock all right but he was that cross-eyed with drink he couldn’t tell what time it was.

“Mary,” says he, “what time is it?”

“What time do you think?” says she. “It’s a few minutes off midnight.”

“Mary,” says he, “if you see me getting wee and hairy … put out that bloody cat.”

P
RIESTS AND FARMING MEN

There was a man out here, he was the name of Tom Nabby.

And the priest engaged him this day to clean up the cemetery.

So, he started to work and was working a considerable length of time.

He was fond of a drink, like meself, and he was expecting one too. And the priest came into the graveyard where he was working. And he had a half-pint in his hand.

“Now,” he says, “Tom,” he says, “I’m going to treat you.”

“I’m very thankful to ye, Father,” he says, “surely.”

“I’m sure you’d like it.”

“Oh indeed I would,” he says, “like it surely. I was always used to a half-one.”

So the priest handed him the half-one, or the glass, whatever it contained.

“And now,” says the priest to him, he says, “do you know Tom, I’m not against you drinking,” he says, “but
every
one of them that you drink,” he says, “is a nail in your coffin.”

So Tom took and he put it on his head and he drunk it
down
.

“Well,” he says, “please, Father, while you’re at it,” he says, “just drive another nail into me coffin.”

Aye.

There was another man like meself: he was a fiddler, and he lived up at Derrylin.

And of course, I think the fiddlers longgo, they hadn’t too much money, and any drink they got, they drunk it.

This man, well, whether he had drink in him or not, he appeared to be drunk nearly every day. He was drunk in the priest’s eye every day.

He lived near the parochial house, and every time the priest went out, he met him nearly, and this day, “Och, Tom,” he says:

“Drunk the day again,” says he to Tom.

“Aye,” and says Tom back to him:

“So am I.”

S
AVED BY THE PRIEST