Kildare Folk Tales

by Lally, Steve;

  The Gubbawn Seer was a carpenter. He was a first rate tradesman at all things. One day, he gave his son a sheepskin, and told him he wouldn’t let him get married until he brought back the skin and the price of it. So the son used to carry the sheepskin under his arm to Athy every Tuesday; but he could never get anyone to give him the skin and the price of it. There was a girl who lived at Barker’s Ford, Inch River, and he used to see her when he was passing by. One day she said to him, ‘Musha, what do you be carryin’ that sheepskin every Tuesday to Athy for?’ So he told her the reason. She took the skin off him, went in and plucked the wool off it; then she brought it out and the money for the wool in her hand: ‘Here now,’ says she, ‘here’s the skin and the price of it.’ The Gubbawn was so impressed he told his son to marry that girl.

  After the marriage the Gubbawn and his son were going somewhere to work, quite far away, and the Gubbawn said to his son; ‘Come, shorten the road.’ The son said he couldn’t, so the Gubbawn said the two of them should return home.

  So the two started back again. When the son’s wife saw them back again, she said, ‘Why, I thought you were at your journey’s end by now,’ and the son said, ‘My father bid me to shorten the road, and I couldn’t, so then he made us return.’ The wife told him, when they started again tomorrow morning, and when they got to the same place, that the Gubbawn ask him to shorten the road again. When this happened the son was to start a jig or a verse of a song. And so he did; and the Gubbawn Seer said, ‘That’s right now, come on, I see you know how to do it.’ That’s how the son shortened the road.

  There was another story in which a king sent for the Gubbawn and his son to create a magnificent building in England – one the likes never seen before. The king had planned when it was built to put the two to death, so they could not build anything more beautiful elsewhere.

  The Gubbawn heard of this plot somehow. When the king asked him was the building finished, the Gubbawn replied that it was not. He told him he needed a special tool that he had left at home and that he would have to get it himself.

  Instead, the king sent the Gubbawn’s son and his own son, the prince, to get it. The tool was supposed to be in a great big old chest and the son’s wife asked the prince to find it. The minute the prince put his arm in, she took him by the heels and heaved him down into it. She sent back a message to the king, saying she would cut his head off if he did not send back her father-in-law. So the king had to send back the Gubbawn Seer.

  Another story about the Gubbawn Seer tells of how he heard that the King of Lies, who lived in Dublin, was looking for someone to tell a better lie than he ever could. The king loved tall tales and was such a good liar he was sure no one would be able to beat him. Anyone who managed would be given great wealth. Many people took up the king’s challenge and all failed. As punishment for their failure, the king cut off their heads. The Gubbawn, however, was confident that he would triumph so he left Kildare and headed off to Dublin to see the king. When he arrived at the castle he saw all the heads of those who had failed the test on spikes outside the palace.

  The king was there to meet him with all his servants and soldiers watching with great enthusiasm. Two of the soldiers grabbed the Gubbawn so that he might not flee and the king began boasting about the chickens he had, how they were as big as horses and how he ate three cows and two sheep a day, washed down by seven kegs of whiskey. The Gubbawn Seer replied with all sorts of tall tales and fanciful stories, but the king was not impressed and he was about to lift his axe and cut off the Gubbawn’s head.

  Then the Gubbawn calmly began telling the king about his journey to Dublin from Kildare and how he had met an ass along the way that was looking very sad. He asked the ass why he was so full of sorrow and the ass replied that he was once a king and the fairies had put a spell on him. The Gubbawn Seer asked him why and he replied that he was too proud and full of himself so they turned him into an ass and turned an ass into a king. ‘What king would that be now?’ asked the Gubbawn and the ass replied, ‘The one that you are on your way to see in Dublin, for he truly is an ass’.

  The king was furious when he heard this and shouted at the top of his voice at the Gubbawn Seer ‘You’re a liar!’ With that the king had no choice but to tell the soldiers to release him. He put down his axe and handed over a bag of gold and jewels to the Gubbawn, who thanked the king politely and made his way home to Kildare.

  9

  THE BOG OF ALLEN

  The Bog of Allen is a vast plain of peatland in the centre of Ireland, covering over 370 square miles. Its borders touch the counties of Offaly, Meath, Laois, Westmeath and, of course, Kildare. There is a sense of foreboding about the place and it houses many secrets and stories, one of which is that of Poll the Pishogue, the Kildare witch. The bog is millions of years old and within its dark depths, prehistoric walkways were found, suggesting that pre-historic man lived there and who knows what other creatures before that. I found this story in a great little book called Irish Ghosts by J. Aeneas Corcoran, published by Geddes & Grosset in 2002.

  In the dreary, featureless flats of the Bog of Allen, especially in the days before much of it was drained, reclaimed for cultivation and for the harvesting of turf. Vague, indistinct shapes could sometimes be seen by travellers, only a little darker than the grey sky itself, lingering among the peaty pools and black sumps of the surface. From a distance they looked like human figures, and were thought to lure unsuspecting wayfarers into the treacherous depths of the bog. There were areas of soft mud, of unknown depth, where these unfortunates would be swallowed up and would die a hideous, choking death as the slime engulfed them.

  One traveller recorded an experience that might confirm this impression. Walking in the Bog of Allen, on a well-known path, he was overtaken by a heavy rainstorm. The sky was so darkened by clouds that he feared he would lose the path. Then in the distance he saw a low cabin, an indistinct shape in the rain. Hoping for shelter from the downpour, he made his way towards it. As he came nearer, he saw it was a derelict house, long abandoned, with no glass in any of its windows, and the roof half-collapsed. Nevertheless, it offered some respite and so he went in.

  Standing in the doorway, eating his rain-soaked sandwiches, he looked out, hoping to see the sky brighten up. Not far away, the dark loops of a stream wound their way across the bogland. At one point on the stream’s bank he saw what appeared to be a dark patch of haze, like fog, and yet not fog. Knowing that the bogland had strange atmospherics of its own, he was not unduly puzzled, and yet it gave him a somewhat eerie feeling. This feeling was greatly intensified when he saw that the hazy patch was moving over the surface of the bog in his direction. There was a sense of purpose in that steady movement that made him feel something was directing its course straight at him; something that was not friendly to humanity. As happens in a nightmare, he felt himself unable to move from the doorway as the darkness loomed up, blotting out everything else in the landscape.

  As it reached him, his terror reached a climax. It was completely dark, and he seemed to feel arms brushing past him. He was convinced that something terrible was about to happen to him. But then, suddenly, it was gone. It had moved on, through the ruined house and onward into the expanse of bogland beyond.

  Gulping and gasping for breath, he staggered round the corner of the house, oblivious of the still pouring rain, to see it dwindle and vanish into the distance. Whatever it was, some cold, lonely, shapeless spirit of the marsh, it had no more concern for him than if it had been the wind. But the terror that it induced was very far from natural. The traveller never returned to the Bog of Allen again and was always wary of travelling in remote areas after dark.

  For anyone now planning on visiting this ancient vast plain be wary of what might be lurking in the shadowy depths of the Bog of Allen.

  10

  THE GHOST ROOM AT MAYNOOTH

  I found this story in a great little book called Irish Ghosts by J. Aeneas Corcoran published by Geddes & Grosset 2
002.

  In his book, Window on Maynooth, Father Denis Meehan mentions the existence of a haunted room at Maynooth College. One of the main blocks of the complex of buildings is called Rhetoric House and this is what he has to say about it:

  The most interesting feature of Rhetoric House will certainly be the ghost room. The two upper floors are altogether residential, and the ghost room is, or rather was, Room 2, on the top corridor. It is now an oratory of St Joseph. Legend, of course, is rife concerning the history of this room, but unfortunately everything happened so long ago that no one can now guarantee anything like accuracy. The incident, whatever it may have been, is at least dated to some extent by a Trustees’ resolution of 23 October 1860: ‘That the President be authorised to convert Room 2 of the top corridor of Rhetoric House into an Oratory of St Joseph, and to fit up an Oratory of St Aloysius in the prayer hall of the Junior Students.’

  The story, as it is commonly now detailed for the edification of susceptible freshmen, begins with a suicide. The student resident in this room killed himself one night. According to some he used a razor, but tellers of the story are not too careful about such details. The next inhabitant, it is alleged, felt irresistibly compelled to follow suit, and again, according to some, he did. A third, or it may have been the second, to avoid a similar impulse, and when actually about to use his razor, jumped through the window into Rhetoric Yard. He broke some bones, but his life was spared.

  Subsequently no student could be induced to use the room but a priest volunteered to sleep or keep vigil there for one night. In the morning, his hair was white, though no one dares to relate what his harrowing experiences might have been. Afterwards the front wall of the room was removed and a small altar of Saint Joseph was erected.

  The basic details of the story have doubtless some foundation in fact, and it is safe to assume that something very unpleasant did occur. The suicide (or suicides), in so far as one can deduce from the oral tradition that remains, seem to have taken place in the period 1842–48. A few colourful adjuncts that used to form part of the stock-in-trade of the storyteller are passing out of memory now. Modern students for instance do not point out the footprint burned in the wood, or the blood marks on the walls. This is wise, for who knows what they may invite into their midst. But some say that they have seen strange shapes accompanied by low, baleful sounds at night in the area where the ghost room used to be.

  11

  THE GHOST AT CLONGOWES

  This story is taken from the Kildare Archaeological Society Journal Vol. III and describes a chilling tale from Clongowes Wood College, a secondary school for boys. Clongowes has a great history. James Joyce attended there and it has the most magnificent grounds and sports facilities, including one of the best nine-hole golf courses in Ireland.

  While Marshal Brain, serving in the Austrian service, was fighting abroad, his two sisters lived at Clongowes. Tragedy struck when he was killed at the Battle of Prague in 1757.

  Meanwhile, back at the mansion, the servants were all seated around the fire in the ironing room. Suddenly, the door to the room was wide open and so was the hall door. The servants were astonished to see an army officer in a white uniform enter the hall and go up the stairs. He seemed to glide there, as there was no sound of footsteps or even a creaking of stairs. His hands were pressed to this breast, from which blood was flowing down his white uniform.

  He then burst into a flaming pariah with a terrible scream and disappeared without a trace. When they recovered from the shock of this sight, they rushed up the stairs to inform the sisters.

  The sisters had seen nothing unusual, but on hearing a full description, realised that it had been their brother, and that he must have met his death on the battlefield.

  Masses were immediately celebrated for him, and a wake was held. Two weeks later a dispatch came announcing the Marshal’s death, the very date and time the apparition was seen walking up the stairs.

  Some people believed that the servants might have made up this story, so that they might profit from the wake celebrations. But, it could not be explained how ordinary working people from County Kildare, who had never left the country, described in detail and with conviction an Austrian Marshal’s uniform.

  12

  THE HUNGRY HALL

  This story was collected by Seamus Cullen as part of the schools collection that was conducted between 1937 and 1938 for the Irish Folklore Commission. It was part of a number of folklore stories written by Mary Gill and Nan Crowe, two sixth-class pupils from St Mochuo National School in Rathcoffey. This was the school I attended myself as a child. I only found this story recently and maybe it is a good thing, for sometimes ignorance is bliss, especially when you live out in the middle of the countryside and the nights are pitch black and the air is full of baleful sounds and chilling winds.

  Hungry Hall is an old placename in the townland of Barreen. It is situated approximately 160 yards south of Balraheen crossroads and one mile north of Rathcoffey. The name refers to a gateway that leads into a division of land and its origin comes from a very dark story that took place in the early nineteenth century.

  It all began when young boys from the area started disappearing in the general Rathcoffey area. Despite exhaustive search parties and thorough investigations, no trace of the missing children was found.

  One day, a man travelling in the Balraheen area close to Rathcoffey was passing by a house and needed to light his clay pipe. The house was a thatched house and had a half-door and an old woman and her son lived there. The traveller was in the habit of getting a light for his pipe from the woman in the house. However, on this occasion the woman was not in the house and, despite calling out her name, he got no reply.

  As the door was open, he decided to enter the house and help himself to a light. There was a big cooking pot over the fire and the traveller bent down to the fire to get a cinder in order to light his pipe. As he bent down he saw the foot of a child sticking out from the pot. The poor man got such a shock that he immediately ran out from the house screaming. He went and told another man who was walking along the road. The proper authorities were called and an investigation took place.

  The woman of the house was arrested and eventually brought before the local magistrate, Thomas Wogan Browne, from Castlebrown. Wogan Browne served two terms as a magistrate, firstly, for some years before 1797 and secondly, for a four-year period between 1806 and 1810 so the incident must have happened within one of those periods. At her trial she was accused of cannibalism and she admitted the charge. The woman seemed unfazed by the whole thing and went on to give a full statement on the events.

  Seemingly she lured the children into her house by offering them food. The judge, who was also a landlord in the area, informed her that he had many fine bullocks on his property and wondered why she didn’t take any of his cattle. She smiled at him in a way that would turn your blood to ice and replied, ‘Your Lordship, if only you tasted the flesh of young boys (which she described as tastier than veal), you would never eat another scrap of animal meat.’ This remark horrified the court and not surprisingly she was sentenced to death.

  Executions at the period would usually take place at the scene of the crime. Many highwaymen, also known as rapparees or tories, who were caught and convicted of robbery in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries were taken back to the scene of their crime and hanged there.

  The execution of this woman took place close to her house at Barreen. There was a large tree beside the house and a rope was placed across a branch of the tree and there she was hanged. The issue of how best to dispose of her remains had already been discussed. As one convicted of eating human flesh, she would not be allowed to be buried in consecrated ground. Therefore during the hanging a barrel of tar was placed under her body and the tar set on fire. When her body fell into the barrel it was consumed in the flames. She was regarded in the local area as a witch and her execution is the last recorded burning of a witch in the locality. This sugge
sts that there were other witch burnings before her in the area, but no details survive.

  The house where she lived was never again occupied and soon became a ruin. Due to the incident, both the house and the adjoining division of land came to be known as Hungry Hall.

  The story of the horrific events at Hungry Hall was often told to children in order to get them to go to bed early and that is one of the reasons why the story survived in folklore to modern times.

  In later years a black dog, thought to be the witch in disguise, was often seen running from Hungry Hall to the crossroads nearby.

  There is also speculation that her ghost roams the area. Dressed in white robes, she goes by the name of the White Lady. She has been seen wandering the roads and walking alongside weary, frightened travellers. She sings a haunting lullaby, the same lullaby that she used to entice the children into her house of Macabre. So if you are in the area, be wary of a woman dressed in white. She may stop you for a lift and who knows what may happen.

  13

  THE WHITE LADY

  This is a great ghost story that I got from a well-respected local historian Seamus Cullen. The story also appeared in Patrick Kennedy’s Legendry Fictions of the Irish Celts published 1866. I remember as a child hearing about the white lady and when I looked out my window on a windy night I thought of her as I watched the white sheets on the washing line fluttering and billowing like dancing ghosts.