The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 28 August 1919, Page 3

The Storyteller

By William Carleton.

WILLY REILLY AND HIS DEAR ' COLEEN BAWN. — "."■».' 1,' — ■ (A Tale Founded upon Fact)

PREFACE. Most of our Irish readers must be aware that the following story is founded upon an incident in the history of the affections, which, ever since its occurrence, has occupied a large portion of popular interest. From the very first discovery of their attachment, the loves of “Willy Reilly” and his “Fair Coleen Bawn,” became celebrated, and were made the burden of many a rude ballad throughout Ireland. With the exception, however, of the one which we subjoin, they have all disappeared; but that production, rude as it is, has stood its ground, and is permanently embodied as a favorite in the ballad poetry of the people. It is not, though couched in humble and unpretending language, without a good deal of rustic vigor, and, if we may be allowed the expression, a kind of inartistic skill, furnished either by chance or nature —it is difficult to determine which. We are of opinion, however, that it owes a great portion of its permanent popularity to feelings which have been transmitted to the people, arising, not so much from the direct interest of the incidents embodied in it, as from the political spirit of the times in which they occurred. At'that unhappy period the Penal Laws were in deadly and terrible operation; and we need not be surprised that a young and handsome Catholic should earn a boundless popularity, especially among those of his own creed, by the daring and resolute act of taking away a Protestant heiressthe daughter of a persecutorand whose fame, from her loveliness and accomplishments, had already become proverbial among the great body of the Irish people, and indeed throughout all classes. It was looked upon as a kind of triumph over the persecutors; and, in this instance, Cupid himself seemed to espouse the cause of the beads and rosary, and to become a tight little Catholic. The character of Sir Robert-Whitecraft (a fictitious name) is drawn from traditions which were some time ago floating among the people, but which are fast fading out of the popular mind. The mode of his death, and its concomitants, the author has often heard told in his youth, around the hob, during the long winter evenings. With respect to the description of the state of the unhappy Catholics, however, I may have diminished, I have not exaggerated it; and I trust that I have done ample justice to the educated Protestants of the day, many of whom not only opposed the Government openly and directly—whose object was extermination by the withering operation of- oppressive laws—threw up their commissions as Justices of the Peace, and refused to become the tools and abettors of religious persecution. To such noble-minded men I trust I have rendered ample justice. The following is the celebrated ballad of “Willy Reilly,” which is still sung, and will long continue to be sung, at many a hearth in Ireland : “0 rise up, Willy Reilly, and come alongst with me, I mean for to go with you and leave this counterie, To leave my father’s dwelling, his houses and free lands And away goes Willy Reilly and his dear Coleen Bawn. They go by hills and mountains, and by yon lonesome plain, Through shady groves and valleys, all dangers to refrain But her father followed after, with a well-armed, chosen band, And taken was poor Reilly and his dear Coleen Bawn. It’s home then she was taken, and in her closet bound; Poor Reilly all in Sligo gaol lay on the stony ground, Till at the bar of justice before the judge he’d stand, For nothing but the stealing of his dear Coleen Bawn;

“Now in the cold, cold iron, my hands and feet are bound, I’m handcuffed like a murderer, and tied unto the ground; But all this toil and slavery I’m willing for to stand. Still' hoping to be succored by my dear Coleen Bawn.” The gaoler’s son to Reilly goes, and thus to him did say: “O get up, Willy Reilly; you must appear this day, For great Squire Folliarcl’s anger you never can withstand, I’m feared you’ll suffer sorely for your dear Coleen Bawn. “This is the news, young Reilly, last night that I did hear, The lady’s oath will hang you, or else will set you clear.” “If that be so,” says Reilly, “her pleasure I will stand, Still hoping to be succored by my dear Coleen Bawn.” Now Willy’s drest from top to too all in a suit of green, His hair hangs o’er his shoulders most glorious to be seen; He’s tall and straight, and comely, as any could be found, He’s fit for Folliard’s daughter, was she heiress to a crown. The Judge, he said: “This lady being in her tender youth, If Reilly has deluded her, she will declare the truth.” Then, like a moving beauty bright, before him she did stand : “You’re welcome there, my heart’s delight and dear Coleen Bawn !” “O gentlemen,” Squire Folliard said, “with pity look, on ~ me, This villain came amongst us to disgrace our family; And bf his base contrivances this villainy has planned; If I don’t get satisfaction I will quit this Irish land.” The lady with a tear began, and thus replied she; “The fault is none of Reilly’s, the blame lies all on me; I forced him for to leave his place and come along with me ; I loved him out of measure, which has wrought our destiny.” Then out bespoke the noble Fox,* at the table he stood by: “O gentlemen, consider on this extremity ; To hang a man for love is a murder, you may see; So spare the life of Reilly, let him leave this countone.” “Good my lord, he stole from her her diamonds and her rings, ’ ... Gold watch and silver buckles, and many precious things. Which cost mo in bright guineas more than five hundred pounds. I will have the life of Reilly should I lose ten thousand pounds.” “Good my lord, I gave them him as tokens of true love; And when we are a-parting, 1 will them all remove: If you have got them, Reilly, pray send them homo to me; They’re poor compared to that true heart which I have given to thee. “There is a ring among them I allow yourself to wear, With thirty locket diamonds, well set in silver fair, And as a true-love token wear it on your right hand, That you may think on my broken heart when you’re in a foreign land.” This ballad I found in a state of wretched disorder. It passed from one individual to another by ear alone; and the inconsecutive position of the verses, occasioned by inaccuracy of memory and ignorance, has sadly detracted from its genuine force. As it existed in the oral versions of the populace, the narrative was grossly at variance with the regular progress of circumstances which characterise a trial of any kind, but especially such a trial as that which it undertakes to describe. The individuals concerned in it, for instance, are made to speak out of place; and it would appear, from all the versions that I have heard, as if every stanza was assigned its position by lot. This fact, however, I have just accounted for and remedied, by having restored them to their original places, so that the vigorous but rustic bard is not answerable for the confusion to which unprinted poetry, sung by an uneducated ■ people, is liable. As the ballad now stands, the character of the poet is satisfactorily vindicated; and _ the disorder which crept in during the course of time, though strongly calculated to weaken its influence, has never been able to injure its fame. This is a high honor to its composer, and proves him well worthy of the popularity which, under such adverse circumstances, has taken so firm a hold of the peasant-feeling, and survived so long. The author trusts that he has avoided, as far as the truthful treatment of this subject would enable ;' * His counsel, a celebrated advocate and afterwards a judge.

him, the expression of any political sentiment calculated to give'offence to any party attempt of singular difficulty in a country so miserably divided upon the religious feeling as this. The experience of centuries should teach statesmen-and legislators that persecution, on account of creed and conscience, is not only bad feeling, but worse policyq and if the author, in these pages, has, succeeded in conveying this selfevident truth to his readers, he will rest satisfied with that result, however severely the demerits of his work may be censured upon purely literary grounds. One thing may be said in his defencethat it was utterly impossible to dissociate the loves of this celebrated couple from the condition of the country and the operation of the merciless laws which prevailed against the Catholics in their day. Had the lovers both been Catholics, or both been Protestants, this might have been avoided ; but, as political and religious matters then stood, to omit the state and condition of society which resulted from them, would be somewhat like leaving the character of Hamlet out of the tragedy. As the work was first written, I described a good many of the Catholic priests of the day as disguised in female apparel; but on discovering that there exists an ecclesiastical regulation or canon forbidding any priest, under whatever persecution or pressure, to assume such an apparel for the purpose of disguising his person or saving his life, I of course changed that portion of the matter, although a layman might well be pardoned for his ignorance of an ecclesiastical statute, which, except in very rare cases, can be known only to ecclesiastics themselves. I retain one instance, however, of this description, which I ascribe to Hennessy, the degraded friar, who is an historical character, and who wrought a vast weight of evil, as an informer, against the Catholic priesthood of Ireland, both regular and secular. With respect to the family name of the heroine and her father, I have adopted both the popular pronunciation and orthography, instead of the real. I give it simply as I found it in the ballad, and as I always heard it pronounced by the people in the first place from reluctance, by writing it accurately, to give offence to that portion of this highly respectable family which still exists ; and in the next— a disinclination to disturb the original impressions made on the popular mind by the ballad and the traditions associated with it. So far as the traditions go, there was nothing connected with the heroine of which her descendants need feel ashamed. If it had been otherwise, her memory never would have been enshrined in the affections of the Irish people for such an unusual period of time. Dublin, February, 1855. CHAPTER I.—AN ADVENTURE AND AN ESCAPE. Spirit of George Prince Regent James, Esq., forgive me this commencement! It was one evening at the close of a September month and a September day, that two equestrians might be observed passing along one of those old and lonely Irish roads that seemed, from the nature of its construction, to have been paved by a society of antiquarians, if a person could judge from its obsolete character, and the difficulty, without risk of neck and limb, of riding a horse or driving a carriage along it. Ireland, as our English readers ought to know, has always been a country teeming with abundance a happy land, in which want, destitution, sickness, and famine have never been felt or known, except through the mendacious misrepresentations of her enemies. The road we speak of was a proof of this; for it was evident to every observer that in some season of superabundant food the people, not knowing exactly how to dispose of their shilling loaves, took to paving the common roads with them,. rather than they should be utterly useless. These loaves, in the course of time, underwent the process of petrifaction, but could not, nevertheless, be looked upon as wholly lost to the country. A great number of-the Irish, within the last four years, took

a peculiar fancy for them as food, which, we presume, caused their enemies to say that we then had hard times in Ireland. Be this as it may, it enabled the sagacious epicures who lived upon them to retire, in due course, to the delightful retreats of Skull and Skibbereen, and similar asylums," there to pass the remainder of their lives in health, ease, and luxury. The evening, as we have said, was about the close of September, when the two equestrians we speak of were proceeding at a pace necessarily slow. One of them was a bluff, fresh-complexioned man, of about 60 summers: but although of a healthy look, and a frame that had evidently once been vigorous, yet he was a good deal stooped, had about him all the impotence of plethora, and his hair, which fell down his shoulders, was white as snow. The other, who rode pretty close to him, was much about his own age, or perhaps a few years older, if one could judge by a face that gave more undeniable evidences of those furrows and wrinkles which Time usually leaves behind him. This person did not, ride exactly side by side with the first mentioned, but a little aback, though not so far as to prevent the possibility of conversation. At this time it may be mentioned here that every man who could afford it wore a wig, with the exception of some of those eccentric individuals that are to be found in every state and period of society, and who are remarkable for that peculiar love of singularity which generally constitutes their character—a small and harmless ambition, easily gratified, and involving injury to their fellow-creatures. The second horseman, therefore wore a wig ; but the other, although he eschewed that ornament, if it can be called so, was by no means a man of that mild and harmless character which we have attributed to the eccentric and unfashionable class of whom we have just spoken. So far from that, he was a man of an obstinate and violent temper, of strong and unreflecting prejudice, both for good and evil, hot, persevering, and vindictive, though personally brave, intrepid, and often generous. Like many of his class, he never troubled his head about religion as a matter that must, and ought to have been, personally, of the chiefest interest to himself ; but, at the same time, he was looked upon as one of the best and staunchest Protestants of the day. His loyalty and devotedness to the throne of England were not only unquestionable, but proverbial throughout the country; but at the same time he regarded no clergyman, of his own or any other creed, as a man whose intimacy was worth preserving, unless he was able to take off his three or four bottles of claret after dinner. In fact, not to keep our readers longer in suspense, the relation which he and his companion bore to each other was that of master and servant. (To be continued.)