Folklore

Mummers Story

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The Mummers tradition, I am told, was brought here with the Planters and might still be experienced in England’s South-West counties.  Rose McKeown of Sheetrim tells me they were still doing the rounds in that vicinity up to the early Sixties.  She has that character too as Wee Dibbley Doubt. 
 
They would cover an area of about five miles circumference.  This group had a French Fiddle (harmonica) for accompaniment and sang the popular songs of the time.  Besides the characters aforementioned she remembers King George.  They would perform in the kitchen, never getting access to ‘The Room’ which was far too grand for them!  The gloom of the old oil lamp added to the air of mystery!
 
At some houses they would get nothing and at others they might get as little as a sixpence, though half-a-crown was common.  By then they were primarily interested in the money.  She remembers giving a ten-shilling note.  She tells of one disguised figure commenting on her new Cuckoo Clock.  These were imported from Germany and hers was purchased above in ‘Cross (Carrickmacross) by her husband for seven pounds and ten shillings; a fortnight’s wages then.  Naturally she was very proud of it and it ‘cuckoo-ed’ non-stop for nigh on twenty years.   
 
Anyway when yer man commented on the clock he used her first name and an undisguised voice.  She recognised him as a former ‘flame.’  Perhaps that accounted for the generosity!
 
But I was trying to complete the script!
 
CROMWELL
 
Here comes I, Sir Oliver Cromwell.  As you may suppose
I have conquered many nations with my long and copper nose
I have caused my foes to tremble, and all my enemies to quake
Sure I bate me own companions till they were no longer fit to spake.
I shot the devil through a reel
And through an oul’ spinning wheel
Through a bag of pepper
Through a horse-shoe cocker.
Such a man was never known
And if you don’t believe the words that I say
Enter in Saint Patrick and he will clear the way.
 
SAINT PATRICK
 
Here comes I Saint Patrick in my shinin ‘ armour bright
I was once a noble champion, but now a worthy knight
I fed my sheep on oats and hay
And after that I ran away
If you don’t believe the words that I say
Enter in Beelzebub and he will clear the way.
 
BEELZEBUB
 
Here comes I Beelzebub
And over me shoulder I carry a club
And in me hand, a dripping-pan
And I count myself a jolly fine man.
And if you don’t believe the words that I say
Enter in Big-Bellied Ned and he will clear the way.
 
NED
 
Here comes I Big-Bellied Ned
If ye can’t give me money give me plenty of bread
For when I was young I was not well-fed
But now they call me Big-Bellied Ned.
If you don’t believe in the words that I say
Enter in Big Head and he will clear the way.
 
BIG HEAD
 
Here comes I that niver come yit
Big Head and little wit
The more me head’s so big, the more me body’s small
But I’ll do me best to plaze ye all
And if you don’t believe the words that I say
Here comes Wee Divil Doubt and he’ll clear the way.
 
DIVIL DOUBT
 
Here comes I, wee Divil Doubt
If ye don’t give me money I’ll sweep ye all out
(my mother has this line…The tail of me shirt is hanging out..)
Money I want and money I crave
If you don’t give me money I’ll sweep ye till your grave.
And if you don’t believe in the words that I say
Enter in Johnny Funny and he will clear the way.
 
We have earlier quoted Johnny Funny’s lines and the final chorus.
 
End…

Use of a Handkerchief!

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You may have wondered why there’s just the tumbled remains of a forth in this picture.  Well, I’m going to tell you!
 
A man that lived hereabouts one time went so far as to drill holes in the rock under some bushes, ready to take blasting powder to it.
 
Then he took a break for he’s dinner and when he come back he found the track of a foot in the loose mould, and a penny, a pipe and a candle lying on the stone.
 
Well it was, that he knew that these were the symbols of a wake, so he abandoned the work!   
 

 
This is also one of those fields where manys the time people at night got stuck in it and couldn’t find the pad out!  There was only one solution, if you weren’t to wait there till morning!
 
You had to turn your coat inside out, to tie three knots in your handkerchief and then to sit down for a while. 
 
Then you would see your way clear again!

Mummers, Sheetrim, 1930s

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‘Heartsore imagining the years without
The Doctor, Darkie and Wee Devil Doubt.’
 
This couplet from Hewitt’s ‘An old woman remembers.. Christmas 1941’ reminded me of my earlier promise to return to the story of the Mummers.  They were also known as the Christmas Rhymers.  My mother recalls their visits to her home in Sheetrim, Cullyhanna in the 1930’s and, bless her, still has a few of their rhymes.  The characters altered a little (or is it my memory, asks Eileen?) with the latter named then known as Wee Dibbley Doubt, and the Doctor given the surname Brown..
 
‘Here comes I, Doctor Brown
I’m the best doctor that’s in the town..’
 
She doesn’t recall any Cromwell, though with the big, false nose, he was a persistent character in most localities.  There was however a Jack Straw and a Funny Face.  Nor does Mother remember any barbs directed at local characters or political personalities, but she would hardly have understood then being just a young girl.  
 
In addition to being a continuation of long custom and tradition, the Mummers were a much appreciated travelling drama troupe in a country area that had none other.  This one had no costume department and the characters were dressed in apparel they made themselves, with much straw ropes in view, coats worn inside out and hats garnered with wisps of hay.  The sword fight scene was common to all, the injury requiring the entry of the Doctor.  Some had soot-blackened faces which gave us the character of Darkie.  I haven’t yet evinced from Mum the name of any of the songs they rendered.  Can anyone help?
 
I am envious of course, the modern re-enactment scarcely making up for the kitchen drama, learning the songs and rhymes, guessing real identities behind the costumes and masks etc.  The entry of Johnny Funny sadly presaged the entertainment’s end, there following just the choral rendition of tribute and thanks to the home’s master and mistress.
 
‘Here comes I, Johnny Funny
I’m the man that lifts the money
All silver, no brass
Bad ha’pence won’t pass
Send the farthings to Belfast’.
 
All gather round to finish..
 
‘God bless the master of this house
Likewise the mistress too.
May their barns be filled with wheat and corn
And their hearts be always true.
A Merry Christmas is our wish
Where’er we do appear
To you a well-filled purse
A well-filled dish
And a happy, bright New Year.’
 
Which is our greeting to all our patrons on Newry Journal!

Peter’s Away with the Fairies

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About a hundred years ago a certain Peter Malone lived at the corner where the Stang Road meets the Castlewellan Road.  One Halloween Night he was coming home from Stang Tops at a late hour.  It was a bright moonlit night and as Peter hurried along he could hear sweet sounds as of music coming from a field a short distance from the roadside.  He paused for a moment to listen and this is the refrain he heard, coming from a chorus of voices:
 
‘Saddle and Bridle; Saddle and Bridle,
‘Saddle and Bridle; Saddle and Bridle.’
 
Peter listened for a while, then carried away by the music he chimed in;
 
‘Saddle and Bridle for me!
‘Saddle and Bridle for me!’
 
Instantly he was surrounded by a company of fairies on horseback.  Then one of the fairies led up a gray mare with a saddle on her back and a bridle on her head and motioned Peter to mount.  Up Peter got and off they all went at full gallop over hill and dale and never slackening for a moment till they arrived in the sunny land of Spain.
 
On and on they galloped over high mountains and through deep valleys until at length they arrived in a large town.  Tightening their bridles Peter and the fairies cantered through the main street till by and by they struck up with a funeral procession heading towards a grand church in the centre of the town.  The fairies and Peter followed the cortege and dismounting from their steeds walked respectfully into the church behind the coffin.  They took their places in the pews and looked on while the priest recited the prayers.  Then someone called out, ‘Who will lift the offerings?’  At this the chief mourner pointed to Peter.
 
So Peter took the plate and collected the offerings.  This done he pocketed the money.  And just as he was putting the last coin into his pocket he found himself at his own gate in Stang, his coat pocket bulging with money.  It was now far into the night and the family were all in bed so Peter crept softly up to the door and knocked. 
 
After a few moments delay the wife unbarred the door and seeing it was Peter began to ‘give out’ about the bad hours he was keeping. 
 
‘Now don’t be going on like that, woman dear,’ says Peter.
 
‘Wait a moment till I show you the big heap of money I have brought home to you from Spain.’
 
Then he put his hand in his coat pocket.  But no money was there.
 
Instead of coins, Peter drew out a handful of clabber.
 
 

Mummers’ Cast

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To the child’s eye, the Mummers were characterised by fantastic hats and costumes, flowing beards, long coats – many worn inside out, black and painted and masked faces, oddly behaved and strangely dressed women, underwear worn on the outside, sword fights in tiny kitchens and a vague sense of threat.  They were, I suppose, the precursors of our modern amateur drama groups but the general gist of their scripts were ancient and handed-down.  There was also ready room for improvisation and adaptation, copied now in the drama of pantomime.
 
In his notes, the collector T G F Patterson refers to the similarities and differences of Cast and Performance of two groups with which he was familiar between the wars.  The Drumcree Players (yes, that Drumcree) had the following cast:
 
St George    red tunic, white trousers, sword, plumed hat
Turk             black tunic, white trousers, green beret (turkey feathers) sword
Old Woman  red flannel petticoat, shawl, stick
Cromwell     red coat, white trousers, sword, huge false nose
S Patrick      gilt crozier, robe decorated with gold and silver paper
Beelzebub    black coat, white trousers, club in hand, frying pan
Big Belly       huge padded trousers and wearing long beard
Divil Doubt   red coat, white trousers, blackened face, besom in hand
John Funny  all in white, red hat, carrying money-box
 
Locals note in bygone days the characters wore plaited straw hats with coloured streamers and feathers and had their limbs encased in straw ropes; shirts or coats were worn inside out.  This fairly describes the costumes of Sheetrim, Cullyhanna of later (1930s-1940s) times.
 
Patterson said that the Ballymore-Mullavilly Rhymers (not far removed) were dressed more in that traditional way, long shirts over their ordinary clothes tied at the waist by a twisted straw rope or coloured scarf and all carried swords made from the backs of scythes.  Hats were usually made from old-fashioned strong white (7-14 lb) paper flour bags adorned with coloured streamers.  Others wore ‘dunce’s-cap’ headgear similarly decorated.  The bottom half of bodies were neatly encased in ‘leggings’ of straw ropes or in long women’s stockings.  Their characters were similar to those of Drumcree with the addition of Turk’s Father and Big Head with Divily Doubt substituting for his namesake above!
 
 
SAINT GEORGE
I’ll beat him up,
I’ll hack him as small as any fly
An’ throw him to the divil
To make a Christmas pie.
 
TURK
What are you but St Peter’s stable boy
Who fed his horse on oats an’ hay
For seven days, then ran away.
 
That’s a lie, St George!
 
Take out your purse to pay, Sir
 
Take out your sword to try, Sir,
I’ll run my dagger through your heart
Or make you run away, Sir.
 
They fight. The Turk falls.  A doctor is called.
 
 
 
 
 
I can cure, the plague within, the plague without
The pip, the pop, the palsy and the gout
Lumbaga, sciatic and dicktolleroo
Moreover I can make an oul’ woman on critches
Burst her britches
Leppin’ over stones hedges and whitethorn ditches.
 
An’ what medicine do you use, Sir?
 
DOCTOR
I use the heart and liver of a creepy stool
The brains of an anvil
The giblets of a dish cloth
Put that in a wran’s bladder
Stir carefully with a cat’s feather
Take that fourteen fortnights before day
An’ if that doesn’t cure ye, I’ll ask no pay
Moreover I’ve a little bottle on the end of my cane
Hocus, pocus, Sally Campane
Rise up, dead man, and fight again! 

Woman’s Work

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She was a formidable character, the farm woman of old.
 
‘Don’t work for a woman,’ the old labourers would advise.  ‘They never know what’s in a day’s work.’
 
In truth, she was more energetic and capable and expected no less from the men. She came to the head-rig with ‘dinner for the field’ and after the meal – amid compliments satirical and genuine, the teasing and earthy, adult repartee in traditional phrases about love and marriage and children or the lack of them, she stayed to help.
 
In between the preparation and the hectic scamper of setting or sowing she found time to ‘cut the seed’.  This time she found – ‘idle time’ – was to get to a barn where she squatted on a creepie stool, bent over a heap of potatoes which she was slitting expertly to make seed with just enough eyes or buds and no more (or she gouged those out) and so make ordinary white potatoes go further.
 
Sometimes she was giving a hand there, to an old woman who had come to do the task for wages.  When we saw these waifs – most of them ‘going the roads’ in spring, their dark shawls about them – we knew they were off to ‘cut seed’ for someone and glad to get the money.  Many of them subsisted on ‘poor relief’ doled out in the local dispensary each week.
 
‘They have the back for it’, the men sometimes said wryly, evasively, but it was a belief then.  When a man had his drills ready for planting, he might say wishfully,
 
‘Man, if only two or three tight, strappin’ lumps o’ weemen would slip a braskin about them and drop me seed, I’d have that field in, in junk time!’

Read moreWoman’s Work

Why ducks can swim!

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D’ye know how ducks came to swim?  Ye don’t?  Ah, the sarrah be aff you for a scholar!  Well I’ll tell ye.
 
When Our Lord was on earth, He was hidin’ from His enemies one day under a heap of flax-shoughs.  An’ doesn’t a wastrel of a hin come up an’ start to tear with her feet.  Bad scran to the same hins an’ their tearin’.  She stripped the shoughs aff Him, indeed.  But doesn’t the ducks come up then, an’ thim cacklin’ like mad, an’ they flew at the hin an’ scarred her aff.  Then they covered Him agin with their beaks, an’ sat on Him, cackli’ away. 
 
The sojers came an’ saw the cacklin’ ducks an’ passed it by.
 
The ducks couldn’t swim then, ye know.  But doesn’t a big flood come over the country, an’ He gave the ducks the power to swim.  The hins were drowned but the ducks were saved.
 
An’ THAT’S why ducks can swim now.

She wus lame, anyhow!

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A man in Killeavy could get no milk from his cows.  Somebody was taking the best of the milk.  He put a charge in he’s gun one night and a handful of silver for colpher.  
 
He watched and he saw a hare slip in till the byre.  As it come out he blazed at it and hit it about the hip an’ it got away.
 
But the country said it was Jane O’Hanlon.
 
She was lame after anyhow!