The Wild Rose of Lough Gill. A tale of the Irish War in the seventeenth century

Front matter

% »Itr $00* of f tm$ (Sill. THE WILD ROSE OF LOUGH GILL salt of % |ri8^ cMar in i\t JStfrtirtuttijj Ætntarg. BY PATRICK G. SMYTH AUTHOR OF "THE DUCHEB3 OF INVEB," " KINO AND VIKTKG," ETC. " lo ! from their sleep the people rose, And their chains Uke a reed they brake. "It stirs me still, that solemn sight, Of the proud old land made free, Our flag afloat from her castles tall And the ships on the circling sea, And the joyful voice, like a roll of drums, Of the nation's jubilee !" Duffy DUBLIN M. H. GILL k SON, 50 UPPER SACKVILLE STREET M. H. GILL AND SON, PRINTERS, DUBLIN TO TIMOTHY D. SULLIVAN ESQ. glembtr of for S&UslnuatJj, AS A SLIGHT TRIBUTE TO THE MANY STERLING QUALITIES OF HEAD AND HEART THAT HAVE ENDEARED HIM TO HIS COUNTRYMEN AT HOME AND ABROAD, Sljis goot is Inmibtb BY THE AUTHOR.

Preface

. In this tale (reproduced, with some alterations, from the Dublin Weekly News) it is proposed to familiarise the reader with some of the chief personages and scenes of the eventful drama known as " the Irish Insurrection of 1 64 1." The historic data on which the narrative is framed have been drawn from the most authentic sources, chief among which may be mentioned the admirable works of the Rev. C. P. Meehan, a writer whose Titanic labour of love on behalf of the patriots of the Confederation should win him the warmest gratitude of his countrymen. Nearly all the characters are, therefore, real, and occupy their various bright or gloomy niches in the temple of Irish history : the merciless Hamilton is no myth, as everybody knows who has read his horrible record of " services ;" neither is the intrepid Mac Mahon, nor the informer O'Connolly, nor the heroic O'Reilly, nor the inhuman Swanley — no more, indeed, than Rory O'Moore or Owen Roe O'Neill.

Of course there is a due dash of fiction — and where it ends, and fact begins, and vice versa, is left to the inquiring reader to distinguish — but the exigencies of

PREFACE.

. the plot have been laid to accord with the truths of history, and in very rare or trifling instances has this principle been departed from. However, apart from the violet light of romance here attempted to be shed upon them, there must ever be a solid, intrinsic interest, thrilling and fascinating, in the bold and valiant exploits of the chivalry of Ireland in their struggle for homes and altars. With these brief premises the Author invites the reader to accompany him under the national flag of green in its progress, surrounded by guardian swords, throughout Ireland ; — to charge with the Slasher at Finae, to assault with Preston at Duncannon, to conquer with Owen Roe at Benburb. May, 1883. CONTENTS.

Chapter I. The Banks Of Lough Gill

" She's more sweet than the sunset, more bright than the swan, And song like her sweet voice I never heard one ! There's not in my pulses a red drop so mean Would not flow to defend thee, my bonnie Kathleen !" O'Carolan (Dr. Sigerson's Trans.) It was a beautiful evening in September. The declining sun cast a flood of light on the mellow landscape, glowing on the brown, red, and golden foliage of the wooded hills, and on the bosom of the lovely sheet of water they enclosed — the Killarney of North Connaught — so aptly termed by the ancient Celts, in their truthful and poetic topography, Loch Gile, " the Bright Lake." Calm and serene as the blue, unclouded sky that domed it, the lake spread out like a vast mirror — a mirror in which nature loved to see herself reflected in her brightest array of bloom and beauty.

Every islet that arose from its bosom was a luxuriant grove, and all around the shore stately woods ex tended over hill and dale, save where broad fields of corn were ripening in the sun, or where pleasant meadows ex panded along the banks, with fat and favoured kine ruminat ing amidst the rich grass. The sunlight gilt the hoary walls of Breffny Castle and the venerable ruins on Church Island; and here and there from amidst the trees a thin blue wreath of smoke ascended into the still air from the thatched hut of a brughaidh or farmer — almost the only tokens of human life visible in the landscape. The vesper voice of Nature sounded sweet and low. Now and then a stray zephyr rustled the branches of the trees, seeming to shake off flakes of sunlight into the shadowy recesses of the wood. There was an occasional drowsy lowing from the kine in the pastures, a cooing of amatory doves in the depths ofthe wood, the rustle of a rabbit among the tall grass and fern, the shriek of a skimming seagull, or the plash of a water-fowl.

These and other sounds mingled at intervals with the gentle, dreamy ripple of the wavelets on the shingle ; but the hush of eve was growing deeper every moment, and the sounds that broke its silence seemed to add to its tranquillity. Suddenly a melodious strain floated out over the sunlit water, and the music of a delicious female voice carolling a Celtic song was borne on the air. It was a simple, artless song, a quaint old Irish ballad tell ing of the sorrowful loves of a certain fair Mac Dermott and a certain dark O'Rourke, and yet the enchantress Lurline, seated on her mossy rock beside the Rhine, could scarce have poured forth a more tender and bewitching melody than this, which seemed like the harmony of silver bells tinkled by music-loving fairies in some bosky dell beside the water.

The melody proceeded from beneath the shade of a magnificent sycamore that grew on the verge ofthe shore. There, on the trunk of a prostrate tree, were seated an old man and a maiden, and it was from the red lips of the latter that the stream of song was flowing. The old man, who wore the high conical cap (or fileadh) and flowing robes of an Irish bard, was a venerable, white haired patriarch, with a majesty akin to that of one of the giant trees of the primeval wood that stood at his back, robed with trailing ivy and hoary with moss. Manus O'Cuirnin had long followed the profession of seanachie — a combination of bard, story-teller, and historian — and his was long the place of honour at the feasts of the neighbouring Irish chieftains. But now his palsied fingers refused to touch the harp-strings as they had been wont, his shoulders were bowed with the weight of nigh a century, and he who had seen generation after generation pass away lived in daily and almost hourly expectation of the summons which was to open to him the gates of another world.

He had had two sons, both of whom were gone before him to the grave: one perishing in the war in Flanders, the other dying at home. The latter had left two children, a son and a daughter, the daughter being THE BANKS OF LOUGH GILL. 3 the fair young songstress who now sat by her grandsire's side. Despite the seanachie's great age his sight was almost un impaired, and he was now poring over an old yellow manu script. It was only when the maiden's song ceased that he raised his eyes from the black lines of Celtic characters. " Gillamachree," he said, turning to his young companion, "I feel as if I were thirty years younger when I listen to your sweet voice, and the blood runs right warmly through my old veins. You remind me of the bird whose singing raised St. Fursey to the gate of heaven. What would I do at all without you, avourneen ?"

He laid his feeble hand caressingly on her head. A dainty, graceful little head it was — a head crowned with the natural " glory of woman," a wealth of hair that, bound by the simple ribbon of maidenhood, streamed down the owner's back in a mass of glossy brown tresses. She was barely sixteen, a brunette, and singularly handsome. Her beauty was of that sweet, piquant, peculiarly Celtic type that is so racy of the Irish soil. A perfect embodiment she looked of fresh young health, of gazelle-like grace and vigour — and the spirit of the seanachie's grandchild was pure as the wholesome air that breathed around her. A shawl of dark woollen stuff was gracefully draped round her shoulders and fastened on one of them by a silver brooch representing a cluster of interwined serpents. Old Manus was dressed in his parti-coloured costume of Irish bard ; and the pair made a quite picturesque little group — a group very suggestive of May and December.

" Now, grandfather mine," she replied, with a light laugh, " I fear you have too high an opinion of me. You praise my singing — you who taught me how to sing, ay, and to play your clairseach, too. You compare me to the bird of St. Fursey. Alas ! 'tis not my poor voice can raise your mind to heavefl." " It can, asthore, and so can your face, for your bright eyes make me think of my poor dead Nuala, who is now with the saints — ay, brings her to my memory not as you saw her, ma colleen, a withered old vanithee, but a merry, handsome girl like yourself. Ah, wirrasthrue ! wirrasthrue !" continued the old man, mournfully, "that was a long, long time ago. The old people are all gone, acushla, all gone ; — but I'll soon follow them, and the gray worn heart shall have rest at last." " Nay, nay, your words are like a wreath of thorns round my heart.

Be cheerful ! — am I not here to comfort you ?" A fair shapely arm stole round the seanachie's neck, and his grandchild's head rested tenderly on his breast. For some time age and youth remained in mute embrace, the silvery locks of the one mingling with the brown tresses of the other, and silence prevailed save for the splash made by a diving cormorant and the distant wail of a horn in the wood. " Listen, avourneen, listen," said the patriarch at the latter sound, " the hunters are in the wood. There was a time when I could hunt, fish, ay, or fight, as well as the best ; but, farcer gair, that time is gone — heaven be with it! — and ali that is left for the old man now is a grave beside his wife inside the walls of Creevelea. But don't be downhearted, asthore. Her brother Niall and the good angels of heaven will watch over my darling when her old grandfather is gone.

So now, acushla, cheer up, for I would not see a tear in the bright eyes of my girleen. Come, aroon, sing me that fine old song again !" Again the sweet young voice was raised in song ; but this time the melody was interrupted by a ferocious yell from the wood, and a large wolf emerged from the thicket and came dashing along the shore right in the direction of the singer and her aged companion. Recovering from her first shock of surprise, the maiden sprang to her feet, and threw herself courageously between the seanachie and the threatening danger. On came the fierce animal, through rage or fear rendered blind to the human obstacle in his way, until he almost reached the maiden's feet, when, with another wild yell, he halted, and sank back on his haunches, as if preparing for a spring. It was a moment of painful excitement, that in which Kathleen Ny-Cuirnin, pale and frigid as snow, stood confronting the wild creature as it crouched at her feet, with its eyes aflame, its cruel white fangs wickedly displayed, and its shaggy sides, from one of which a stream of blood was issuing, violently panting.

Another moment and those gleaming fangs would have clashed in that fair young throat, but suddenly a shout rang from the wood, and forth from the underwood bounded a splendid wolf-hound, which with the rapidity of an arrow flew at its natural enemy. . In an instant wolf and dog, locked in deadly grapple, were rolling over and over on the sward ; but the combat was soon ended by a young man THE BANKS OF LOUGH GILL. 5 who came running from the wood, and who with one plunge os a javelin which he carried in his hand, stretched the huge body of the wolf gaunt and lifeless on the ground. Still white and trembling, Kathleen resumed her seat. The whole affair had occurred so suddenly that it was only when it had so fortunately terminated that she began to comprehend the great extent of the danger which had threatened her.

The girl had good nerves, but it was some time before she raised her sinking head to see the hunter whose arrival had been so opportune. " It was in good time you came, avic," said old Manus, addressing the latter ; " and more power to your arm for giving that fine thrust. Kathleen, alanna machree, it was heaven that saved you from a bloody death — such a death as happened to Blanche de Burgo in the old times, when, poor lady ! she was killed by a wolf on her wedding morning. Come here, my bouchal, and give me a shake of your hand for that good job you're after doing. Kathleen machree, sure you're forgetting to give the boy a good word for his brave action." Seizing the youth's hand the seanachie shook it warmly, while Kathleen gracefully and sincerely uttered the "good word " of thanks, accompanying it with a glance of her dark eyes that spoke a world of gratitude.

At sight of the bardic fileadh on the seanachie's head, the young man doffed his plumed cap and stood in a respectful attitude in the homage-exacting presence of age and beauty. " I need no thanks, father," he replied, with the familiar style of address in vogue among the Irish, "but I thank heaven myself and Fiacha arrived in such good time. Great Fionn ! what a hot" chase the brute has led us. Well done, my gallant Fiacha — a braver dog never breathed !" So saying he patted the head of his hound, whose sharp muzzle was red with the gore of the slain animal. The rejoicing wolf-hunter was a tall, symmetrical youth of twenty years, with a frank and pleasant countenance and a head covered with dark clustering curls. His dress was a simple brown tunic, girded by a broad leather belt supporting a skian fada — the favourite weapon, sharp and long, of the native Irish — and the close-fitting Celtic braccœ, which dis played his well-shaped nether limbs to advantage.

" You do not hunt often in this direction ?" remarked Kathleen. " No. I usually take Fiacha to the woods of Glenfarne, but this dead sheep-stealer led the pair of us hither after we had started him almost at the gate of Dromahaire." " Ha, Dromahaire, that is the place, surely !" exclaimed old Manus, starting from a short reverie, during which his eyes were intently fixed on the features of the new-comer. " Tell me, avic, have I not seen you beneath the roof of Owen O'Rourke ?" " Possibly, for I am his dalta, and have often noticed you in his company." "What — you the foster-son of the tierna of Dromahaire and I not to know it ! Sit you down, avic, sit you down for a shanachus with the old man and his grandchild. Perhaps you know who I am ?" " Certainly, father. Who in Breffny has not seen or heard of Manus O'Cuirnin, the famed seanachie of Lough Gill ?

The patriarch shook his white locks dubiously. " People might speak like that of me some ten or twenty years ago, but the still voice and the silent harp are soon for gotten. Well, what matters it to the shan van voght, who should be thinking of his soul ? Are you an O'Rourke?" No, my name is Edmund O'Tracy." " O'Tracy — 'tis not a name we often hear in these parts." " Our sept is a Northern one," remarked the youth, and picking up the manuscript which had fallen from the seanachie's hands when the wolf put in his unwelcome appearance, he handed it to the owner, remarking that it was a pity that such a goodly book should lie neglected. "Yes, yes," acquiesced Manus, " the book is a good one, sure enough ; but what is it to the manuscripts and the Leabhar Garr of the O'Cuirnins that were burnt in Inismore yonder in the old days ?

Ay, in the grand old days, when the spears of Breffny were strong and sharp to resist an invader, and when the rule of O'Rourke lay from the Dunchladh to the sea. Mavrone ! things are changed since, but may heaven ever bless the noble posterity of Feargna !" "You seem much attached to the Clann O'Rourke." " Heart and soul I am with the family to whom mine owes fealty. I have seen the proud and generous race in its grandeur, as I see it now in its ruin. Yes, avic, when Brian Oge and his clansmen marched home in triumph from the victory of the Corrsliabh my harp and chant rang loudest in the hall of Dromahaire. Ah, that was a day to remember !" THE BANKS OF LOUGH GILL. 7 The old man was now set on his favourite theme, and a long discourse ensued between the trio. The seanachie re lated some of his best legends, and the young hunter told his new acquaintances the tale of his origin, past life, and future prospects — a story which proved very interesting to Kathleen, in fact more interesting than all her grandsire's wondrous narratives taken together.

And as she learned by degrees that the fine manly young fellow before her was soon to seek a soldier's fortune in the army of the King of Spain, and as her grandsire, speaking from experience, painted a thrilling picture of the tumult, contention, and slaughter of a battlefield and ofthe hazards and horrors of war, Desdemona could never have been more sincere than she in deciding that "'twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful." And ever and anon as the young man encountered the earnest, sympathetic look of her dark eyes he experienced a strange kind of feeling, a feeling which caused him to make innumerable blunders in his tale, and partly confused his senses in a curious and inexplicable manner, but which was withal most vaguely delightful. They conversed until the evening was near its close, and the shadows of the great trees were stretched far over the water.

" The old man must get indoors ere the air grows cooler," said the seanachie at length, rising with difficulty to his feet. " Come, avic, you will lend him the support of your strong arm as far as his sheeling ?" As he moved homewards between his two companions he indulged hispenchant by the relation of some more traditions, pointing out the site of the great battle in which Roderick Mac Cathal O'Connor defeated the O'Rourkes three centuries before, and the aenach where KingEogan Bel was buried head downwards in his armour by the Clann Connaill. It was not far to the homestead of the O'Cuirnins, on reaching which Edmund O'Tracy had a warm Milesian greet ing accorded him by Kathleen's brother Niall, a tall, strapping young brughaidh; and he sat down with his entertainers to their evening repast.

As soon as the board was cleared the old clairseach (or harp) of Manus was brought forth from its recess to be touched by the white fingers of Kathleen ; and the guest ofthe evening listened in silent rapture as the soul melting strains of the grand old Irish song of Maurice O'Dugan of Benburb, the immortal " Coulin," thrilled through the apartment, and as the face and form, the voice and mien of the singer were impressing themselves on his heart and mind. It was long after sunset when the hunter quitted the hospitable abode of the O'Cuirnins. The stars had begun to peep out of the blue vault of heaven, and the calm and beautiful summer twilight was deepening over the fairy landscape as he crossed the hills with the wiry wolf-dog at his heels. His heart was so full of his adventure, so charged with sweet and tender emotions, that on reaching Dromahaire Castle, his home, he could not for the life of him avoid detailing the events of the day to an old gilly or servant of the castle, and inquiring of him as to his newly-formed acquaintance.

"Beard of Conn ! I see how the land lies," ejaculated old Cahir O'Meehan, with a facetious wrinkling of his gray eye brows ; "arrah, gossoon, are you to this without knowing the handsomest colleen ofthe country side — her that the people call the Wild Rose of Lough Gill ?"

Chapter II

A BURIAL IN CREEVELEA. " Now lower, now louder, now longer it mourns, — Now faintly it falls, and now fitful returns ; Now near, and now nearer, it swells on the ear — The wild ululu, the death-song is near ? " With slow steps, sad burden, and wild uttered wail, Maid, matron, and cottier wind up from the vale ; And loud lamentations salute the gray hill, Where their fathers are sleeping, the silent and still !" Rev. James Wills. A very great favourite with the inmates of Dromahaire Castle, as well as with the simple-mannered Irish folk living in the neighbourhood ofthe old Breffnian stronghold, was Edmund O'Tracy. Gay, light-hearted, and good-natured, of graceful and manly bearing, strong and agile, and almost as fleet of foot as a wild buck in the woods of Glenfarne, he was a universal favourite; and the lord of the castle, his foster-father, looked on him with particular esteem and affection.

The following were the circumstances by which Owen O'Rourke, the proprietor of Dromahaire and the representative of the old rulers of Breffny, came to be the protector of young O'Tracy. Edmund's father, a member of an Ulster sept that shared the Northern bank of Upper Lough Erne with the O'Cassidys, had fought on many a battle-field from the Yellow Ford to Kinsale, and could boast of many a scar re ceived in combat with the soldiers of the virgin queen. When the craft of Carew and Mountjoy had terminated the war, he returned to his native place, married a blooming Ulster girl, far younger than himself, and somehow or other managed, despite the " Plantation," to retain a portion of the estates of his ancestors. However, at the end of twenty six years, during which time his wife died, he was compelled to relinquish his patrimonial acres to the avarice of the Scotch settlers.

Then, looking his last on the bright bosom of Lough Erne, he set out for Connaught — at all times an asy lum for the friendless and distressed — taking with him his only child, a little boy of about seven years,. The journey proved too much for the old man's worn-out constitution. On entering the hospitable portal of Dromahaire, on his way to Sligo, he was stricken with paralysis, and death drew rapidly near. Owen O'Rourke pitied the condition of the desolate old warrior, and tended his death-bed with the utmost solici tude, promising faithfully to carry out his last wishes. " Chieftain," said the dying man, after receiving the last rites of the Church, as his host sat by his bedside holding his hand in his, " our family has been a family of soldiers. My grandfather's blood was spilt at Belahoe when the Ulster gallowglasses were put to flight by Gray; my father fell' at Armagh when Shane O'Neill routed the Sassenach.

Perhaps I am the first of my race to die in bed. I have determined that my son shall be a soldier, for, alas ! I have nothing to leave him but the courage and valour of his forefathers. While he wields the sword of a soldier he need be dependent on the bounty of no man. But that sword must not be wielded in the cause of our enemies. You hear me, Edmund," he said, with a flash of* the dying fire,- to the weeping boy, who knelt with his face buried in the bedclothes, " when you grow to be a soldier — as, please heaven, you will — you will join the army of Spain ; and if it ever come to your turn to strike a blow at the Power that has overthrown our altars and darkened our hearths, do your duty like an O'Tracy, and strike it with a will I" The gallant old Ultonian was buried in the Abbey of Creevelea, and Owen O'Rourke took the orphan boy under his protection, treating him with all the kindness of a father ; while his brother Con took pleasure in giving the warrior in embryo sundry lessons in the martial art, so that under his tuition the young Edmund soon attained proficiency in going through the pike exercise as used by the Irish clansmen half a century before, and in doing the manual exercise of the period with an old Elizabethan arquebuse, which accomplish ments called forth the applauses of his preceptor.

The latter also gave him lessons in the art of fencing, so that in course of time he could use both the falchion and rapier pretty well. The whole country side knew the destiny in store for young O'Tracy — a destiny common enough to the youth of Ireland at the time, batches of stalwart young Hibernians departing annually to take service under the banner of some Continental power, notably Spain — many of them, poor fellows! doomed never to see the land of their birth again. So as Edmund O'Tracy developed into a fine handsome youth, sinewy, broad-chested, and upright, and the inevitable day that was to sunder him from Ireland came quickly on, not only the brothers O'Rourke but the Breffnians in general began to feel a greater sympathy for the future soldier. Some, indeed, there were who indulged in gloomy forebodings as to his fate, and remarked it was a pity such a promising youth should go to leave his bones on a Flemish battlefield ; but their doubts and mournings had but little effect on our hero, and were far from damping his eagerness for his intended vocation.

Month after month brought tidings of Irish valour and enterprise displayed on the Continent — the gallant action of Preston and his band of soldier-students before the walls of Louvain, the heroic defence of Arras by Owen Roe O'Neill and his Irishmen, which had aroused the interest and ad miration of Europe — and the result was that he ardently longed for the commencement of the martial life which awaited him. But, truth to tell, his meeting w^th the fair maiden of Lough Gill, as narrated in the preceding chapter, did not tend to increase his desire to quit the Irish shore, though it rather heightened his aspirations after martial glory, giving them at length a cherished direction and end. On the poor sword of a soldier of fortune he began already to build magnificent chateaux en Espagne, and passionately he longed to make those airy edifices substantial fabrics for the sake of lovely Kathleen Ny-Cuirnin, as she was called — the feminine prefix Ny or Nic having a similar use to the masculine Mac or 0 in Irish surnames.

His love-dream, however, was speedily marred. " I dare not try to win her," he sighed one day in bitter communing with himself; — "it would be base, wanton, audacious ! Fate casts my lot in a far-off country. A voice from the grave commands me to-be a soldier in Spain rather than a helot in Ireland. Alas ! that the sweet Wild Rose must bloom for another! Well, I shall see her to-night for the last time." That evening he found the home ofthe O'Cuirnin's filled with the gloom of death. Several neighbours were grouped round the bed on which lay the corpse of Kathleen's grand sire. Young Niall O'Cuirnin stood grave and downcast, his hand on the shoulder of his weeping sister. "Poor Old Manus!" sobbed a woman; — "his end was peaceful as the close of an autumn evening." The funeral took place on the following day — an eventful day it proved for O'Tracy.

A large concourse of people assembled to pay their last re pects to the remains of the venerable seanachie, and the funeral train that proceeded slowly and solemnly along the shore of Lough Gill was a long and imposing one. O'Rourkes, Mac Tiernans, Mac Murrays, Mac Clancys, O'Duigenans, and other-named natives of the district were there in plenty. The coffin was drawn on a small cart with solid wooden wheels, and after it walked the female caoiners, their large red cloaks thrown back from their shoulders, their hair streaming in disorder, and their skinny arms upraised as they poured forth their wild ululu. " Hospitable was your hearth, alanna," they cried, " kind and noble your heart, sweet your song ! The hearth is quenched, the heart is cold, the song is hushed ! Wirrasthrue, wirrasthrue !

Oh, may his kind, noble, charitable soul rest this night in heaven I" At length the gray walls of Creevelea Abbey appeared in sight, the sacred edifice that the piety ofthe chieftain Owen O'Rourke and his wife Margaret had erected in the beginning of the previous century to the honour of God and St. Francis. On nearing the abbey the procession was headed by some of the friars bearing aloft a crucifix, and so it moved on until it reached the chief entrance to the sacred enclosure, where a halt was made for payment of the customary toll. . Of this toll and its exactors something requires to be told. The Harrisons, father and son, were well known in Breffpy- O'Rourke. Old Harrison— a cornet, or such, in Lambert's army at the conclusion of O'Neill's war— had got in return for his services a large grant of land in Leitrim, including the Abbey of Creevelea and its possessions.