Monaghan Folk Tales

by Lally, Steve;

  He buried him with candle-light; he strewed his clothes with lime,

  Expecting there would be no trace of the body or the crime.

  He built the dung-hill on the top and felt all was secure

  Until one day two lads there came to draw away manure.

  And one of them did sink a fork much deeper in the ground

  And to the boy’s amazement, a human foot he found;

  He flung his fork in horror and off he dashed in fright

  And told the police who came around and arrested Fee that night.

  Two Monaghan jurors disagreed, though straight and honest men,

  For the murder of John Flanagan Joe Fee was tried again;

  At the winter Assizes in Belfast the jury men sat down

  And gave a hearing to the case presented to the Crown.

  On a cold Saturday evening, the jury took a stand,

  In an hour found Fee guilty of killing this young man

  And everyone within the court sat mute and held their breath

  As the judge, he put on his black cap and sentenced Fee to death.

  And then the fatal day arrived when Fee was doomed to die

  In expiation of his crime upon the gallows high;

  And while God’s mercy he did crave as the death-bell it did toll,

  We will say, God rest John Flanagan and have mercy on his soul.

  17

  THE ROSSMORE

  BANSHEE

  The Banshee plays a significant role in Irish folklore. It was to my great delight that I found a Banshee story associated with Co. Monaghan. Whilst speaking to various Monaghan folk, I was told of ‘The Rossmore Banshee’.

  The magnificent Rossmore Castle was situated on the outskirts of Monaghan town, Co. Monagahan. The area is now known as Rossmore Park. Rossmore was built for Warner Westenra (1765–1842), the 2nd Baron Rossmore. The Westenras, who were of Dutch descent, had inherited the title upon the death of the 1st Baron, Robert Cunninghame (1726–1801), whom this story is based on.

  The house was the main residence of the Westenras until the 1950s, when dry rot and disrepair forced the family to move to another property on the grounds.

  Eventually, the ill-fated house could no longer be maintained and it was demolished in 1974. Although the Rossmore Mausoleum still stands in Rossmore Park …

  I found this story in Personal Sketches of his Own Times by Sir Jonah Barrington, in which there is an account of a ghostly experience Sir Jonah Barrington (1757–1834) and his wife Catherine, Lady Barrington, had when they were invited by General Robert Cunninghame (1726–1801), 1st Baron Rossmore of Monaghan, to his home, Mount Kennedy House in Co. Wicklow.

  Barrington, who was an Anglo-Irish lawyer, judge and politician, was a good friend of Rossmore, who was commander-in-chief of His Majesty’s Forces in Ireland from 1793 to 1796.

  Fortune had favoured Lord Rossmore at every turn. Not only had he been eminently successful in his military vocation; he had been equally fortunate in marriage and finance. The lady with whom he had fallen in love returned his affections and, on their marriage, brought him a rich dowry.

  It was partly with her money that he purchased the estate of Mount Kennedy for £19,691 0s 10d, from Elizabeth Barker, in 1769. It comprised of 10,000 Irish acres.

  Not very far from Mount Kennedy, in the centre of what was called the golden belt of Ireland, stood Dunran, the residence of the Barringtons. Lord Rossmore and the Barringtons were practically neighbours.

  This is what Sir Jonah had to say about Wicklow, in his own words:

  The scenery of Wicklow is doubtless on a very minor scale, quite unable to compete with the grandeur and immensity of continental landscape; even to our own Killarney it is not comparable; but it possesses a genial glowing luxury, where of more elevated scenery is often destitute. In the world its beauties seem alive. It blooms, it blossoms, the mellow climate extracts from every shrub a tribute of fragrance wherewith the atmosphere is saturated, and through such a medium does the refreshing rain descend to brighten the hues of the evergreens. The site of my sylvan residence, Dunran, was nearly in the centre of the golden belt, about fifteen miles from the capital; but owing to the varied nature of the country, it appeared far more distant. Bounded by the beautiful glen of the Downs, at the foot of the magnificent Bellevue, and the more distant Sugar-loaf mountain.

  Barrington loved to visit Lord Rossmore. As he put it:

  One of the greatest pleasures I enjoyed whilst resident at Dunran, was visiting the near abode of the late Lord Rossmore. He was what may be called a remarkably fine old man, quite the gentleman, and when at Mount Kennedy quite the country gentleman.

  He lived in a style few people can attain to. His table, supplied by his own farms, was fit for the Viceroy himself yet was ever spread for his neighbours.

  In a word, no man ever kept a more even hand in society than Lord Rossmore, and no man was ever better repaid by universal esteem. Had his connections possessed his understanding, and practised his habits, they would probably have found more friends when they wanted them.

  The story begins one afternoon in August of 1801, when Lord Rossmore was attending the vice-royalty of Earl Hardwick in the drawing room at Dublin Castle. It was then that Lord Rossmore met Lady Barrington. He had been organising one of his weekly parties, which were held at Mount Kennedy, and eagerly invited her and her husband to come to the house party at Mount Kennedy the following day.

  ‘My little farmer,’ said he, addressing her by her pet name, ‘when you go home, tell Sir Jonah that no business is to prevent him from bringing you down to dine with me to-morrow. I will have no ifs in the matter—so tell him that come he must!’

  Lady Barrington promised and the following day saw her and Sir Jonah at Mount Kennedy. That night, at about midnight, they retired to rest and towards two in the morning Sir Jonah was awakened by a strange sound.

  It first occurred at short intervals and sounded like neither a voice nor an instrument, for it was softer than any voice and wilder than any music and seemed to float in the air, moving about from one spot to another.

  To quote Sir Jonah:

  We retired to our chamber about twelve; and towards two in the morning, when I was awakened by a sound of a very extraordinary nature. I don’t know wherefore, but my heart beat forcibly; the sound became still more plaintive, till it almost died in the air; when a sudden change, as if excited by a pang, changed its tone; it seemed descending.

  I felt every nerve tremble: it was not a natural sound, nor could I make out the point from whence it came. At length I awakened Lady Barrington, who heard it as well as myself. She suggested that it might be an Æolian harp; but to that instrument it bore no resemblance—it was altogether a different character of sound. My wife at first appeared less affected than I; but subsequently she was more so. We now went to a large window in our bedroom, which looked directly upon a small garden underneath. The sound seemed then, obviously, to ascend from a grass plot immediately below our window. It continued loudly.

  Lady Barrington requested I would call up her maid, which I did, and she was evidently more affected than either of us.

  The sounds lasted for more than half an hour. At last a deep, heavy, throbbing sigh seemed to come from the spot, and was shortly succeeded by a sharp, low cry, and by the distinct exclamation, thrice repeated, of ‘Rossmore!—Rossmore!—Rossmore!’ I will not attempt to describe my own feelings.

  At this point, Sir Jonah was indeed terrified, as were Lady Barrington and her maid. The terrible wailing voice screamed out Rossmore’s name. The maid ran screaming from the window and Lord Barrington urged his wife to return to bed in an attempt to establish calm.

  Again, in his own words:

  The maid fled in terror from the window, and it was with difficulty I prevailed on Lady Barrington to return to bed; in about a minute after the sound died gradually away until all was still.

  When it had all calmed down, Lady Barrington begged her husband
not to tell a soul about what they had witnessed as she feared they would be the laughing stock of the place.

  Sir Jonah recounts:

  Lady Barrington, who is not so superstitious as I, attributed this circumstance to a hundred different causes, and made me promise that I would not mention it next day at Mount Kennedy, since we should be thereby rendered laughing-stocks.

  Sir Jonah promised his wife that he would not utter a word, but this was obviously not his intention, as I would never have come across this story otherwise.

  He went on to say:

  At length, wearied with speculations, we fell into a sound slumber. Then about seven the next morning a strong rap at my chamber-door awakened me. The recollection of the past night’s adventure rushed instantly upon my mind, and rendered me very unfit to be taken suddenly on any subject. I went to the door, when my faithful servant, Lawler, exclaimed, on the other side, ‘Lord, sir!’

  ‘What is the matter?’ said I hurriedly.

  ‘Oh, sir!’ ejaculated he, ‘Lord Rossmore’s footman was running past the door in great haste, and told me in passing that my Lord, after coming from the Castle, had gone to bed in perfect health (Lord Rossmore, though getting on in years, had always appeared to be very healthy, and Sir Jonah had never once heard him complain that he was unwell), but that about half after two this morning, his own man, hearing a noise in his master’s bed (he slept in the same room), went to him, and found him in the agonies of death; and before he could alarm the other servants, all was over!’

  Sir Jonah remarks that Lord Rossmore was actually dying at the moment when Lady Barrington and he heard the voice calling his name. He adds that he cannot account for the sounds with any reasonable explanations.

  This is what Barrington wrote about the whole experience:

  I conjecture nothing. I only relate the incident as un-equivocally matter of fact.

  Lord Rossmore was absolutely dying at the moment I heard his name pronounced. Let sceptics draw their own conclusions; perhaps natural causes may be assigned; but I am totally unequal to the task.

  Atheism may ridicule me; orthodoxy may despise me; bigotry may lecture me; fanaticism might mock me; yet in my very faith I would seek consolation. It is, in my mind, better to believe too much than too little; and that is the only theological crime of which I can be fairly accused.

  Lord Rossmore, 1st Baron Rossmore of Monaghan died on the 6 August 1801 at approximately 2 a.m.

  This story was covered many years later in a book called The Banshee, published in 1907, by Elliott O’Donnell (27 February 1872–8 May 1965), a renowned Victorian ghost hunter and authority on the supernatural, who claimed to have seen ghosts and to have been attacked by them.

  O’Donnell claimed that he was unsure whether the phantom that took Rossmore was a Banshee, as Rossmore was of Scottish descent and one has to be of pure Irish descent to have a Banshee.

  But maybe you should visit Rossmore Mausoleum when the evenings get a bit shorter and listen carefully to the whispering voices carried by the wind …

  18

  THE BANSHEE

  The following poem is known as a ‘keen’ and is taken from Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland, Volume I (1825), by Thomas Crofton Croker (1798–1854).

  ‘Keening’ is the Irish term for a wild song or lamentation poured forth over a dead body by certain mourners employed for the purpose. The reader will find a paper on this subject with musical notation for the Irish funeral lamentation in the fourth volume of the Transactions of the Royal Irish Academy. The following verses, translated from a popular keen, are quoted because of the presence of the Banshee in the keen, which was composed for a young man named Ryan, whose mother is the narrator.

  Maidens sing no more in gladness

  To your merry spinning wheels;

  Join the keener’s voice of sadness,

  Feel for what a mother feels.

  See the space within my dwelling;

  ’Tis the cold blank space of death.

  ’Twas the Banshee’s voice came swelling

  Slowly o’er the midnight heath.

  Keeners, let your song not falter;

  He was as the hawthorn fair.

  Lowly at the virgin’s altar

  Will his mother kneel in prayer.

  Prayer is good to calm the spirit

  When the keen is sweetly sung;

  Death though mortal flesh inherit,

  Why should age lament the young?

  ’Twas the Banshee’s lonely wailing –

  Well, I knew the voice of death,

  On the night wind slowly sailing

  O’er the bleak and gloomy heath

  19

  HOLY WATER

  This chilling tale is based on a true story that children of Monaghan still tell to this day.

  The legend of the sleepwalking nun, Sister Mary Keough, dates back to 1875. It has been passed down through the years and is still part of the oral tradition in Co. Monaghan today.

  The Sisters of St Louis, based in Monaghan town, were well respected and held in high esteem in the vicinity and surrounding areas, so if the facts of the following incident had surfaced, it would have brought shame and embarrassment on the order.

  The story is about a nun who takes her own life in 1875. A nun committing suicide would have been a catastrophe, so by saying that the nun came to her death by accident while sleepwalking makes the ordeal more acceptable and somehow romanticises the event.

  Sister Mary Keough had been in her order for twelve years, since she was 18 years old, so she was still a young woman when she took her own life at 30. It is not known why she did so. Some speculate that she wanted to leave the convent, some say she met a man, but this is all just hearsay and these speculations may have been added to the story for effect.

  It is believed that two months before her death, her behaviour changed. The women around her began to notice the changes, especially her superioress, Sister Mary Beale. It is said that Mary Keough became depressed and was eating less. It was obvious to those who knew her that she had given up; apparently Sister Mary Beale said to the reverend at the time, L.J. O’Neill, that poor Mary had been absent from her duties and that she was concerned for her well-being.

  Mary told someone that she had a headache that wouldn’t go away, so Mary Beale called Dr Ross and an appointment was made for early in the new year. The morning of the appointment came and Mary was nowhere to be found. The grounds were searched and a cape was found beside the water’s edge of the convent lake.

  Poor Mary’s body was found in the water. She was dressed only in her nightdress. This may have been the inspiration for the sleepwalking story that was released afterwards by the sisters.

  The official verdict was that Sister Mary Keough came to her death on 6 January 1875 from drowning while labouring under temporary insanity, but it would have been considered too controversial for the convent to tell the truth, so they made up their own version of events.

  In Melancholy Madness: A Coroner’s Casebook, Michelle McGoff-McCann (Mercier Press, 2003) writes about Sister Mary Keough and how her inquest told a different story to the one people would have told long ago.

  Many variations of the sleepwalking-nun story exist and although the truth is easier to understand in today’s society, it is amazing that an order of nuns would rather lie than say what had actually happened, although it is true that many more tragic stories about cover-ups in the Church have come to light of late.

  One story holds that when Sister Mary was sleepwalking out by the lake near the convent, some of her fellow nuns followed her, but couldn’t get to her in time. She walked into the water, but, lo and behold, to the shock and amazement of her fellow sisters, she proceeded to walk effortlessly upon the water, treading on it like she would on the surface of a road. When the nuns called out her name, she woke up, startled, and fell into the lake and drowned.

  The incident was made to look like a miracle or supernatural ev
ent that was interrupted by human intervention.

  Did the nuns all gather and decide on this story? Did they want to make her all-divine and make the story almost sacred so that no one would question it?

  This would have been very easy to do almost 150 years ago because the Catholic Church had a vice-like grip on people’s thinking at the time.

  Why didn’t they just say that she was sleepwalking and fell into the lake? That would have been tragic enough, but by putting the story beyond human comprehension, they sought to avoid any sort of controversy or questioning.

  Ironically, this strategy backfired as the story became local folklore and, almost 150 years later, children still talk of the ghostly nun who wanders around Monaghan town by night.

  Sadly, the truth is that Sister Mary Keough died after taking her own life in Monaghan town in 1875 because she didn’t have anyone she could confide in about the phantoms that were haunting her.

  20

  SKELTON’S INN

  This is a story about Monaghan’s very own Procrustes (an ancient Greek villain who owned a murderous bed) or Sweeney Todd (from Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street).

  He was a man called Skelton, who was an innkeeper from Tydavnet, and this is his chilling tale.

  A long time ago, the village of Tydavnet was famous for its many fairs and markets and people came from all around to buy and sell their wares. It was a very exciting and popular place and it was all the more exciting if you owned a business there as you stood to benefit from all the reckless spending.

  Well, there was no one like Skelton to benefit from the money pouring in and he made sure that he did. He owned an inn in Tydavnet known as Skelton’s Inn, which was considered to be the best in the village. Skelton had plenty of money and was always accommodating the people who came to the fairs by serving them food and drink and putting them up in his fine establishment.