Guide Killarney

WRENBOYS

December 26th

The haunting sound of the reverberating bodhran drum ... shadows sent dancing and chasing by the flickering light from the burning sods of turf ... the garishly colourful combination of incongrous clothing ... the king, oinseach, hobby horse.

The wrenboy groups moving through the streets of Listowel touched my very soul. That was at the All-Ireland Wrenboys Bands Competition on a Friday night late in September .

Traditionally the wrenboys come out on St Stephen's Day, December 26th, and they continue to come out on the day after Christmas in Dingle, in Listowel and throughout North Kerry, in Beaufort and West Limerick.

The size of the groups and quality of presentation and entertainment varies enormously. Music can include any combination of box, fiddle, tin whistle, flute. Dancing might be sets, jigs, reels or hornpipes. Singing will also reflect the age and talent of the performer .. but the group will always chant their anthem

The wran, the wran,
the king of all birds
St Stephen's Day was caught in the furze,
Although he was little his honour was great,
Jump up me lads and give him a trate.

chorus:
Up with the kettle and down with the pan
Give us a penny to bury the wran.

The custom was that only men and boys went on the wran, as the names suggests, but in these more liberated times women and girls are now part of the groups. Which renders somewhat redundant the practise of cross dressing – exposing nylons, slip or knickers.

In the past a wren was hunted and killed and then the dead bird was paraded on a pole or holly bush through town and country calling to house and pub.

It is said that over a thousand years ago an Irish plan to attack a Viking army failed because a number of wrens created a rat-tat-tat sound when they were pecking seed that had fallen on Viking drums.

As well the wren is blamed for betraying the hiding place of St Stephen, the thirteenth apostle and early Christian martyr.

According to Irish mythology, all of the birds gathered to select which of them should be king. It was decided that the one who flew highest would win the title.

As they flew higher and higher one bird after another dropped out with only the biggest and strongest continuing. Eventually only the eagle was left. But when he was completely exhausted a tiny wren, who had been hiding in the eagle's feathers, rose from his back to fly higher than any other bird.

And so, out of revenge or jealousy, the wren was labelled the bird of the devil and was hunted. Now only an effigy of the bird is paraded.

Money gathered on the wran is used to buy drink and food – mostly drink – to be consumed at a great wran ball in the following weeks. Now the money is often donated to charity.

- Frank Lewis

There was an Irish tradition that the Holy Family of Mary, Joseph and the Child Jesus travelled the roads again each Christmas Eve as they did in Bethlehem on the first Christmas when they were refused entry. So to show that they were now welcome the door was unlocked, a candle was lit on each window, a warm fire filled the grate and food was left on the table.

The Kerry Christmas Carol

by Sigerson Clifford

Brush the floor and clean the hearth and set the fire to keep

For they might visit us to-night when all the world's asleep.

Don't blow the tall white candle out but leave it burning bright

So that they'll know hey're welcome here this holy Christmas night.

Leave out the bread and meat for them and sweet milk for the Child

And they will bless the fire that baked and too the hands that toiled.

For Joseph will be travel-tired and Mary pale and wan

And they can sleep a little while before they journey on.

They will be weary of the roads and rest will comfort them

For it must be many a lonely mile from here to Bethlehem.

O long the road they have to go the bad mile with the good

Till the journey ends on Calvary beneath a Cross of wood.

So leave the door upon the latch and set the fire to keep

And pray they'll rest with us tonight when all the world's asleep.

Don't blow the tall white candle out but leave it burning bright

So that they'll know they're welcome here this holy Christmas night.

BIDDIES

Feburary 1st

We young people used to go in parties from house to house on St Bridget's Eve collecting money, and in return we'd sing and dance in the kitchens. With the proceeds we used to buy shop bread and jam, and if we could rise to it a half tierce of porter for an all night dance which would be held before Lent began.

All the fun was in the dressing up for the Biddy and we went to great extremes to conceal our identity. Women used to dress up as men, and many is the sedate old farmer, sitting in a neighbour's kitchen, spotted his Sunday suit dancing around in a set. His daughter, Mary that'd have it on! She'd hear about it after.

A very forward young lady might get into her father's long johns, and if there were a few family heirlooms like a cut-away coat and a caroline hat to go with it she would look something going around in the hornpipe figure of the set dance.

A lot of straw was used in the disguise. You'd see Biddy boys in straw capes and straw puttees, and back around Beaufort they had specially made mitre-shaped straw hats to wear over the capes and puttees. When they'd burst into a house on Bridget's Eve you'd swear they came up out of Lois an Phśca (the fairy fort)!

We used to wear high fiddles - hallowe'en masks which were coming into the shops at the time - or we'd cover our faces with the screen off the window. You could see out and breath in through this lacey fabric, and the alteration it made to the physiognomy was truly remarkable.

Every party had a br’deog. There is some doubt as to who this effigy was supposed to represent. We thought it was St Bridget and the priest thought it was St Bridget, but then again you'll hear another person say that the custom of lugging the br’deog around was in the world long before St Bridget saw the light of day.

To make a br’deog you'd put straw around the handle of a brush bulging it out below and above. Doll it up with a skirt and a blouse, and with a carved turnip for the face set in a head shawl and fixed to the top of the handle. What would give a damn nice effect would be to scoop out the inside of the turnip and put the butt of a lighting candle into it.

Every party going along would have a musical instrument, or maybe two, but if they couldn't rise to that they'd dyddle or they'd play on the comb.

When we came to a house, and if we were admitted, we'd take over the kitchen. The person with the biddy- the brídeog - would stand by the fireplace, the musicians by the dresser and the rest would crowd on to the floor. As the music struck up we'd take a partner saying: 'Come on, shake a leg!'

Mhuire Mh‡thair, the pounding the flagged floor'd get, and if any pots or saucepans came in the way they went flying under the settle. When the set was over, order would be called for a step dance or a song. Then the biddy boy would collect whatever money the household was inclined to give. Not a great lot, but by setting out at nightfall and covering a fair bit of ground we'd get a good few bob together for the ball night.

Local people who became a bit enlightened, or should I say anglified, were always ashamed of those customs, and the clergy considered the br’deog a mockery, an insult to St Bridget. They discouraged the practice and put an end to the porter nights. And the young people only had themselves to blame for that, for those biddy balls, as they were known, were often held in houses without proper supervision. As a man said to me, 'With all the drink and everything, Ned, the thing could develop into an orgy.'

And he was right, partly right anyway, for you had fellows there half-plastered and couples mouzing up along the stairs, in the room and in the linny! Then you'd have a modicum of men who can't get women, they'd be up to some other devilment. They might go outside and tie the door from the outside, put a coarse bag over the chimney, and as the house filled with smoke shove red pepper under the door.

Pandemonium would follow, sneezing, coughing, cursing, swearing and as the music came to a halt the stairs would come alive, and the room and the linny, for as we all know there is no vexation in the world to equal that of men interrupted in lovemaking. They would swear vengeance on those responsible and by shoving a small fellow out through the window to untie the door, they'd rush out and it would be open war with the crowd outside.

And I remember one night one section took cover behind the rick of turf and the opposing party behind a pit of turnips. Sods and swedes came flying through the air. It was like Dunkirk, which gave Archdeacon Godfrey any God's amount of ammunition for the following Sunday's sermon. As if the man hadn't enough to contend with already!

- Eamon Kelly

(From 'According to Custom', published by Mercier Press and written by Ireland's most famous story teller Eamon Kelly, who grew up near Killarney.)

ST. PATRICK

March 17th

Everybody has heard of Saint Patrick, and how he drove the serpents and all manner of venomous things out of Ireland. But there was one old serpent left, who was too cunning to be talked out of the country, and made to drown himself. Saint Patrick didn't know how to manage this fellow, who was doing great havoc; till, at long last he thought of a plan. St. Patrick got a strong iron chest made with nine bolts on it.

So one fine morning, he takes a walk where the serpent used to be. The serpent, who didn't like the saint in the least, and small blame to him for that, began to hiss and show his teeth at him like anything.

'Oh', says Saint Patrick, 'where's the use of making such a piece or work, about a gentleman like myself coming to see you. 'Tis a nice house I have got made for you, against the winter; for I'm going to civilise the whole country, man and beast,' says he, 'and you can come and look at it whenever you please, and 'tis myself will be glad to see you.'

The serpent hearing such smooth words, thought that though Saint Patrick had driven all the rest of the serpents into the sea, he meant no harm to himself, so he walks fair and easy up to see the Saint and the house he was speaking about. But when the serpent saw the nine great bolts on the chest, he thought he was sold (betrayed) and was for making off with himself as fast as ever he could.

'Tis a nice warm house you see,' says Saint Patrick, 'and 'tis a good friend I am to you.' 'I thank you kindly, Saint Patrick, for your civility,' says the serpent, 'but I think its too small for me' - meaning it for an excuse, and away he was going.

'Too small!' says Saint Patrick, 'stop, if you please,' says he, 'you're out in that, my boy, sure, I bet you a gallon of porter 'twill fit you completely; and I'll tell you what,' says he, 'that if you'll only try and get in there'll be plenty of room for you.'

The serpent was as thirsty as could be with his walk, and 'twas great joy to him the thoughts of doing Saint Patrick out of the gallon of porter, so, swelling himself up as big as he could, in he got to the chest, all but a little bit of his tail.

'There, now,' says he, 'I've won the gallon, for you see the house is too small for me, for I can't get in my tail.'

When what does Saint Patrick do, but he comes behind the great heavy lid of the chest, and, putting his two hands to it, down he slaps it, with a bang like thunder.

When the rogue of a serpent saw the lid coming down, in went his tail, like a shot, for fear of it being whipped off him, and Saint Patrick began at once to bolt the nine iron bolts.

'Oh, murder! - won't you let me out, Saint Patrick?' says the serpent - 'I've lost the bet fairly; and I'll pay you the gallon like a man'.

'Let you out, my darling,' says Saint Patrick, 'to be sure I will - by all manner of means - but, you see, I haven't time now, so you must wait till to-morrow.' And so he took the iron chest, with the serpent in it, and pitches it into the lake here, where it is to this hour for certain; and 'tis the serpent struggling down at the bottom that makes the waves upon it.

People in the Gap of Dunloe will tell you that they frequently hear the serpent crying out from the depths`: 'is it to-morrow yet? Is it to-morrow yet?' Which, to be sure, it never can be: and that’s the way Satin Patrick setteled the last of the serpents.

(story told to Crofton Croker by Pigott the Guide at Serpent Lake in the Gap of Dunloe in the 1820’s)