Fermanagh Folk Tales E-Book

Doreen McBride

• Herausgeber: THP Ireland
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 264

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Fermanagh's culture, heritage, characters and stories set it apart from the rest of the world. Every mountain, tree, lake, stream, rock, stone and character tells a tale. There are the strange stories of mythical creatures, such as the Shining Folk that lurk under the surface of Lough Erne, and the fairies that taught the unruly wee Meg Barnileg a lesson. There are spooky tales of the Cooneen poltergeist that haunted the Murphy family and the ghost of Belleek Pottery. And there are the 'pants', or tall tales, that the locals love to retell, such as the stories about 'educated' Irish pigs who understood three languages, talking horses or the pike who went 'fishing' for squirrels. All these stories and more are featured in this unique collection which will take you deep into the heart of this historic county.

Leseprobe

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I think of the people I want to acknowledge with a mixture of pleasure and sadness. I am grateful for the fun I have had and sad because so many of my family members and old friends are no longer with us. I am particularly grateful to my Granny Henry and her sisters for, as my father said, ‘filling my head with nonsense’ and for giving me a love of storytelling. I am grateful, too, to my cousin Vernon Finlay, who is thankfully still very much alive, for his encouragement and for reading the manuscript and offering helpful comments.

Thanks are also due to John Reihill, chairman of Lisnaskea Historical Society, for his wonderful hospitality and for telling me so many tall tales, as well as the rest of the Lisnaskea Historical Society for their helpful comments and the fun I had with them when I visited. The book would not be what it is today without the help of the following. Dr Owen Dudley Edwards provided good advice. Dr Henry Glassie gave me permission to print, word for word, a story about the Great Famine told to him by Michael Boyle in 1972. The late Dr Jack Doyle, Senior Professor of English Literature at the University of South Carolina, Sumter Campus, pointed out the similarities between tall tales in County Fermanagh and those found in the Carolinas. Viki Herbert, local historian and author, answered my constant stream of questions with unremitting patience. Catherine Scott of Enniskillen Museum gave me useful information and pointed me in the right direction. Local historians Florence Chambers, Malcolm Duffy, Jack Johnston and Sam Craig were also great sources of information. I am thankful to Frances Quinn, a storyteller, for her encouragement.

Brian McMurray, Eddie Carr and the late Charlie McCourt told me about the ancient art of faking. Bernadette Layden, a storyteller, shared the story ‘The Yanks are Coming’ and pointed out how important tall tales are to residents in County Fermanagh where the tradition of sharing, and loving, tall tales is still alive and kicking. The staff of Enniskillen Library, especially Robena Elliott, and Frances Creighton of Lisnaskea Library provided valuable information. The Enniskillen Fusiliers Museum gave me information about the fusiliers.

Dr Denis Marnane taught me about the song, ‘It’s a Long, Long Way to Tipperary’. The late Pat Cassidy gave me a stick imbued with a cure for a bad leg, talked to me about folk cures, shared some good stories and told me about making poteen. The late Dr Bill Crawford sparked my interest in folklore. The late Dr Maurna Crozier gave good advice, was always ready to lend an ear and shared contacts with me. I thank the late Ernest Scott, the late Tom McDevitte and the late John Campbell for a lot of good Ulster craic and some great stories. Thanks must also go to the late Matt Doherty for the story about the rary. Linda Ballard must be thanked for her information, encouragement and the story about St Febor. I am grateful to the late Crawford Howard and to Liz Weir, both storytellers, for encouragement for sharing their knowledge and to Declan Forde who gave me permission to print ‘The Belleek One’. Fergus Clery, Head of Design at Belleek Pottery, shared the story about the ghost that haunts Belleek Pottery and provided helpful feedback. Finally, I would like to thank Richard Watson for sharing folk tales about Marble Arch Caves.

CONTENTS

Title

Acknowledgements

Introduction

F

ERMANAGH

P

ANTS

(T

ALL

T

ALES

)

1.    The Yanks Are Coming

2.    Return to Tempo

3.    The Cure of a Clever Wee Woman from Enniskillen

4.    The Fish Who Went ‘Fishing’ in the River Sillees

5.    How to Deal with a Plague of Rabbits

6.    Lough MacNean’s Talking Frog

7.    ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ and the Inniskilling Fusiliers

8.    I Thought You Were the Parish Priest

9.    Married to his Sister

10.    The Warning

11.    An Arresting Moment

12.    Bags of Heat and Bags of Help

13.    So You Want to Change Your Religion?

14.    Paddy Irishman

F

IRESIDE

T

ALES

15.    Wee Meg Barnileg and the Fairies

16.    The Cooneen Ghost

17.    Lough Melvin and the River Sillees Are Cursed

18.    Banshees, Fairies, Witches and Other Fermanagh Folklore

19.    The Fermanagh Mystery Found in Killadeas Churchyard

20.    Huddon, Duddon and Dónal O’Leary

21.    The Mountain Dew (Poteen)

22.    The Remarkable Rocket

23.    The Great Famine (1845-1847)

24.    The Lake of the Fair Woman (Near Garrison)

25.    Folk Customs and Charms

26.    The Fiddler’s Memorial, Castle Caldwell and Belleek Pottery

27.    The Dogs in Big Dog Forest

28.    The Defeat of Lough Erne’s Pagan Gods

29.    Country Cures

30.    The Belleek One

31.    Fairs and Faking

32.    The Birth of the River Shannon

33.    Death and Funeral Customs

34.    Phil Purcell, the Pig Drover

35.    The Lady of the Lake

36.    Folk Tales Associated with Marble Arch Caves

Glossary

Bibliography

Copyright

INTRODUCTION

Fermanagh’s diverse history is reflected in its folklore and folk tales and the humour of its inhabitants. Humorous stories are found throughout Ireland but they are particularly prevalent and treasured in Fermanagh, where they are referred to as ‘pants’ or ‘tall tales’. A pant can be defined as a story with an unexpected ending, which nobody is expected to believe. I have not found such a concentration of humorous stories elsewhere and I was surprised by their strong resemblance to the tall tales I found in South Carolina, a likeness explained by history.

The Ulster-Scots dream of religious freedom was not realised in Ireland, so they left the country and took their Bibles, tools, language and stories with them. Huge numbers emigrated and became known abroad as the Scots-Irish. Most of the first settlers from Ireland left because they chose to do so. They were comparatively wealthy. Others had committed what would today be regarded as minor crimes, such as stealing. These people were tried and, if convicted, were transported to the New World. Many more left for America during and after the Great Famine (1845-1847). Once again, some were transported for disagreeing with government policies, such as the great Presbyterian Irish Nationalist, John Mitchel. Others, both Protestant and Catholic, left because of grinding poverty. These emigrants were often disease-ridden and so were unwelcome. They were met with job advertisements proclaiming ‘Blacks and Irish need not apply’.

I was amazed to find many Afro-Americans boasting of Irish ancestry. When I was Storyteller in Residence on the Sumter Campus of the University of South Carolina, I met a charming Afro-American man who said, ‘My name is McBride, like yours! That is my real name. I do not take my name after “slave daddy”. My family remembered their real name through oral history during all the years we spent as slaves. I visited Ireland and discovered my oral history is correct. My ancestor was given what was then a light sentence for stealing linen. He was sold as a slave, first of all in Jamaica, before being passed on to South Carolina.’

Darker skin aside, that gentleman bore a striking resemblance to my husband! I later learnt there is a colony of black McBrides in Sumter, South Carolina.

I was stunned when, as a featured storyteller in the 1993 University of Rochester, NY, Storytelling Festival, I heard American storyteller Tiny Glover talk about Mark Twain and tell several stories attributed to him. I heard the same stories during my childhood. The oral history of Straid, near Ballyclare, County Antrim, claims Mark Twain’s ancestors lived on Clements Hill before emigrating to America. Mark Twain’s given name was Samuel Cleghorn Clements. Twain also made mention of the ‘pea fairy’ and I was the only one who had heard of her. My mother’s best friend, who I called Auntie Sally, came from County Fermanagh and when she sat us down to shell peas she used to tell us to split the shells quickly if we wanted to catch a glimpse of the pea fairy jumping from one pod to another.

Henry Glassie did sterling work recording stories from County Fermanagh during the 1970s. These are an accurate snapshot of the time. They preserve the original dialect, complete with a key indicating when the teller laughed or smiled during the telling. I am grateful to him for permission to include a word-for-word transcription of a story he obtained from Michael Boyle about the Great Famine.

I have retold other stories collected by him, and others, in my own words, having acknowledged the source. This re-telling of a story is consistent with the oral tradition in Ireland, where storytellers believe it is the story that is important, not the teller. The teller will die; the aim is to ensure survival of the story. This is different from the situation in America, where storytellers copyright ‘their’ stories so no one else can tell them without facing possible legal action. In America some white people have learnt Native American stories and copyrighted them so they can no longer be told by Native Americans without the risk of court proceedings. In Ireland if somebody re-tells ‘your’ story you feel flattered because the story was worth passing on.

I am grateful to Dr Timothy Dudley Edwards for suggesting there could be a distinct difference between Protestant tales and those treasured by the Roman Catholic population. This is not the place to explore what would make for a fascinating academic study, but I have a distinct impression that Professor Edwards may be correct. I suspect Catholics tell more tales about priests! I did find that both sides of the community think their stories differ. Catholics have told me they think Protestants tell tales that have a more spiritual element with a greater emphasis on the supernatural than is the case in Catholic tales. But I was astonished to hear Protestants say the same thing about Catholic stories.

According to the 2011 census, four of the six Northern Irish counties have a predominantly Catholic population. Fermanagh is one of these. Both sides of the community place great emphasis on Fermanagh’s culture, history, folklore and traditions. There is a determination to retain a distinct identity. Fermanagh was the only county in Northern Ireland that insisted on maintaining its old townland names when the Post Office introduced BT numbers. Eventually a compromise was reached, with townlands and BT numbers being part of each address. It is that attitude, along with the friendly, humorous character of Fermanagh’s inhabitants, that has made collecting these folk tales such an interesting, enjoyable experience.

FERMANAGH PANTS(TALL TALES)

1

THE YANKSARE COMING

I am indebted to Bernadette Layden, one of Fermanagh’s best-loved storytellers, for giving me this story at an evening of storytelling in Derry/Londonderry.

Maggie had a heart of gold and the habits of a clart. In other words, she was always ready to do anyone a good turn but she was a useless housewife. Her wee thatched cottage was full of clutter, from floor to ceiling, and smelt of burnt food. As her husband Big Brendan said, she burnt everything. She had even kept her babies too long in her own personal oven; all of her six children were at least ten days late.

Maggie was excited when a letter arrived from her relatives in America. She always enjoyed hearing from them, but when she opened this letter she had a shock.

‘Oh!’ gasped Maggie. ‘The Yanks are coming to Ireland. They are going on a coach tour and are spending two nights in Enniskillen. They want to come and see us. Thon’s terrible!’

‘What’s wrong with that?’ asked Big Brendan. ‘I’d have thought ye’d be pleased. Ye’d have something to talk about for weeks. If they come to see ye, ye’ll have the neighbours eyes out on stalks listening to ye, so ye will.’

‘Look at the state of this place. It’s a tip. An’ I’ll be expected to give them a wee bite til ate. An’ ye know I can’t cook.’

‘Maggie dear, we’ve awful good neighbours. I’m sure they’ll help you.’

And that’s exactly what happened. The neighbours rallied round her and made her house sparkle with cleanliness.

‘Well,’ said Sally, who lived next door, ‘that’s that. Now we need to see about the grub. I’ll make a trifle here in the house and the rest of ye can bring back sandwiches, cakes and tray bakes.’

Maggie watched with amazement as Sally placed pieces of sponge in the bottom of a cut-glass bowl, added a little sherry and a tin of fruit cocktail, then covered them with thick custard. As a finishing touch she decorated the top with small silver balls.

‘I could do that,’ Maggie thought. ‘I’ll have a go. It’s easy. It’s only fair that I make something for the Yanks too.’

Maggie made a lovely trifle and was busy admiring it when Big Brendan finished ploughing and came in through the kitchen door.

‘What do you think of that?’ asked Maggie, pointing proudly at the result of her efforts.

Big Brendan said it looked lovely, almost as good as Sally’s. ‘But,’ he added, ‘it doesn’t have any of them wee silver balls on top.’

‘You’re right,’ said Maggie. ‘As you’re going to market, would you ever bring me back some?’

‘Aye, I will,’ replied Big Brendan, who was a helpful soul.

He searched high and low for little silver balls and couldn’t find any anywhere. Eventually he found some ball bearings in a builders’ merchandise shop and thought, ‘They’re small. They’re bigger than the ones I saw on top of Sally’s trifle, but they are silver, so I’m sure they’ll do.’

He took them home. Maggie was delighted and used them to decorate the top of her trifle.

The Yanks arrived the following day. The visit was a huge success. The house was admired, the supper enjoyed and everyone said the craic was mighty.

The next day some of the neighbours met at the well and began to gossip.

‘Thon was a great night, last night,’ they all agreed.

‘I got great relief when I bent over the fire!’

‘Aye, it was,’ said Sally, ‘but I don’t know what happened to me after it was all over. I had such cramps in my tummy. I thought I was dying.’

‘That’s strange,’ replied another. ‘I’d terrible cramps as well. They had me up all night, so they had. I hardly slept a wink, but I got such relief this morning when I took the poker and bent over the fire and poked it to get it going. The relief was tremendous, but sadly I farted and killed the cat!’

2

RETURNTO TEMPO

This is a story I got from my father, William Henry. During and after the Second World War, he spent a lot of time in Fermanagh. He worked in the insurance industry; his job was to travel around the countryside assessing Scutch Mills and giving quotations for insurance. He was always in good humour when he came back. He said the people were ‘no fools’; they knew how to make a shrewd bargain and he always had a tall tale to tell. Unfortunately this is the only one I can remember. I am grateful to Florence Creighton, who works in Lisnaskea Library and is a member of Lisnaskea Historical Society, for adding the last sentence. I had forgotten it!

There was a fella from Tempo who emigrated to America. He found the States to be everything he had hoped for. As far as he could see, the land was flowing with milk, honey and opportunity. He, being a Fermanagh man, had the gift of the gab and was a hard worker. He made the most of his opportunities, built up a good business and eventually became a millionaire. Naturally he wanted to go back home and show off.

The Yank thought long and hard about how he’d impress his friends. Eventually he decided the best thing to do would be to ship his large car to Ireland, drive it across the country and finish his journey by travelling slowly up the main street of Tempo. Nobody there had a car, never mind one as big as his. It would cause a sensation.

The car landed safely on Irish soil. The Yank breathed a sigh of relief, got into it, filled it with petrol and set off. In those days the roads were poor so it was a long, hazardous journey from the port to Fermanagh and on to the village of Tempo. He drove up hills and down dales, then near the top of Brougher Mountain the car gave a splutter, a cough and conked out. It was as dead as a dodo.

The Yank got out and, with a lot of futtering and stuttering, managed to open the bonnet. He knew nothing about the innards of cars. At home he paid a chauffeur to drive him about and the chauffeur knew all there is to know. The Yank was stuck. He felt helpless and gazed in horror at the engine. He looked around for help. It was a remote area and he couldn’t even see the friendly twinkling of light from a farmhouse. He was scratching his head in bewilderment, wondering what to do next, when a voice spoke to him.

‘Your sparking plugs are dirty. Unscrew them, clean them, put them back and start the engine.’

The Yank was puzzled and looked all round.

There was nobody there.

He felt frightened.

Was he hearing a ghost or a fairy? He, being a practical Yank, didn’t believe in such things. But maybe … maybe there were such things as ghosts and fairies? This was Ireland and strange things happen in Ireland. He’d heard that fairies sometimes steal humans. Perhaps he was going to be stolen? He was confused and terrified.

‘You gomeral, you,’ said the voice. ‘Why can’t you do what you’re told?’

The Yank felt more confused than ever. He looked around but couldn’t see anybody. The only living thing within view was a white horse standing near the fence beside his car.

‘Oh! You’re a right eejit,’ said the voice. ‘Why don’t you just do as you’re told? Look at your engine. Can’t you see there’re four sparking plugs sticking up and gazing you straight in the eye? You can easily unscrew them. Take them out one at a time, clean them on your handkerchief, Screw them back in, start up your engine and away you go. What have you got to lose?’

The Yank thought about the advice given. He had nothing to lose by following it, so he did as he was told, got into the car and drove off. He felt shaken by the experience. The more he thought about it, the more shaken he felt so he drove to the nearest village, stopped at Campbell’s Bar and staggered in through the door.

The bartender glanced at him.

‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,’ he remarked.

The Yank explained what had happened.

‘Was it a white horse, or a brown one, in the field?’ the bartender asked.

‘It was a white one,’ said the Yank.

‘You were lucky the white horse was out,’ said the bartender. ‘Thon brown one hasn’t got an ounce of sense at all, at all, at all. It knows nothin’ about cars.’

‘That brown horse has no sense.It knows nothing about cars.’

3

THE CUREOFA CLEVER WEE WOMANFROM ENNISKILLEN

I was told this story by an old friend, Dr David Erwin, who’s a great yarn spinner. I was surprised and delighted to hear him tell a Fermanagh pant. David could not remember where he first heard it. I am including it because the wee woman in the story lived on the outskirts of Enniskillen.

Mickey Finn lived in the Short Strand area of East Belfast. Shortly after the Second World War he suffered terribly from constipation. He grew worried because his bowels didn’t work for a week, then a second week passed. He was near driven to distraction by the end of the third week when his old friend, Paddy McClean, told him about a clever wee woman who lived on the outskirts of Enniskillen and had a great cure for constipation. Mickey didn’t pay much attention at first because Enniskillen’s a long way from the Short Strand in Belfast, but eventually he became so worried that he decided it would be wise to go and find her.

Poor Mickey felt desperate and uncomfortable so he walked all the way from Short Strand to the old UTA Station in Smithfield and caught the bus to Enniskillen. He found the clever wee woman without any trouble, knocked on her door and was invited in. She welcomed him, sat him down by the fireside and gave him a wee cup of tea. She stared and stared at him as he drank his tea and ate a delicious bit of apple tart.

Eventually she spoke.

‘I see,’ she said. ‘You’re constipated.’

‘I am,’ said Mickey.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I think I can help ye.’

And with that she told him to follow her into the scullery. She took a bowl of a peculiar-looking liquid down from a shelf and a spoon from a drawer. She filled a bottle with liquid and looked at Mickey.

‘Where did ye come from?’ she asked.

‘I think I can help you. Come on, on in and have a wee cup of tea in yer hand.’

‘Belfast.’

She took a spoonful of liquid out of the bottle.

‘And how did ye travel? By bus or by car?’

‘By bus.’

The wee woman took another spoonful out of the bottle.

‘And ye walked the last wee bit?’

‘That’s right,’ replied Mickey. ‘I walked.’

‘Belfast,’ she muttered. ‘That’ll take about three and a half hours on the bus.’ She took another half spoonful of liquid out of the bottle and put the it back into the bowl.

‘Now, tell me, where do you live in Belfast?’

‘Short Strand.’

The wee woman removed half a teaspoon of liquid from the bottle.

‘I guess it’ll take you about half an hour to get from Smithfield to Short Strand,’ she said.

‘No,’ said Mickey, ‘I’m a fast walker, I can do it in twenty minutes.’

‘Right,’ said the wee woman, taking a drop out of the bottle. She looked steadily at Mickey and put three drops back.

‘Now, last question: how do you fasten your trousers, with a zip or buttons?’

‘I’m a button man,’ replied Mickey.

The wee woman carefully took another drop out of the bottle before handing it to Mickey.

‘Here, drink that,’ she said, ‘then get home as fast as you can. That’ll cure your constipation!’

And, do you know, she was a very clever wee woman. She was only one button wrong!

4

THE FISH WHO WENT ‘FISHING’ INTHE RIVER SILLEES

Years ago my old friend, the late Dr Jack Doyle, Senior Professor of English Literature, Sumter Campus, University of South Carolina, told me a tall tale about a fish who went fishing in the South Carolina Swampland. Some time later I was stunned to hear the same story told in County Fermanagh. I was a guest of late Dermot Magee’s family in Enniskillen at the time. I can’t remember who told the story; I just remember being surprised to hear it. Evidently the story had travelled with the Irish migrants. People from Ulster emigrated and some travelled down the Appalachian Chain to the Carolinas, taking their traditions, language and stories with them.

Tall tales are common among the black population in the Carolinas, many of whom intermarried with white slaves of Irish origin.

One day Seán was sitting on the bank of the River Sillees when he spotted a large pike. It was in a deep pool near a large willow tree that had branches hanging down over the water.

‘Thon fish would make a great meal for me and my family,’ he thought, ‘so I’ll just nip up to the house and grab the hault of my fishing gear and catch thon big brute.’

Seán spent the whole afternoon attempting to catch the pike. It was huge, the biggest fish he had ever seen. It would make a fine meal. He salivated at the thought.

After he had been sitting there for several hours he began to think the pike was laughing at him. It kept swimming to the surface, sticking out its head and looking at him with what he imagined was an amused look in its big fishy eyes. He was about to give up and return home when the fish surfaced, gave what he imagined to be a knowing look and swam under a branch of the willow tree that was hanging over the water. It spat something that looked like a nut out of its mouth and it fell into the water with a small splash.

The fish swam round, retrieved the nut, moved away from the branch, took careful aim and spat it in the direction of the willow tree. This time it landed on a branch hanging just a few inches above the water and stayed there. The fish remained underneath, watching and waiting. After a short period of time a squirrel appeared, saw the nut, moved towards it and picked it up. The big fish jumped out of the water, caught the squirrel and swallowed it.

Seán never attempted to catch that pike again and, for all anyone knows, it’s still swimming around in the River Sillees, fishing for squirrels.

5

HOWTO DEALWITHAPLAGUEOF RABBITS

This is one of the pants collected byHenry Glassie and retold by me.

There was once a terrible plague that affected the whole of County Fermanagh, if not the whole of Ireland. Nobody could grow any vegetables; nobody, that is, except John Brodison.

One day somebody asked auld John how he managed to grow such beautiful cabbages and why they weren’t eaten by rabbits.

‘Auch!’ said auld John. ‘Sure one day I had a good idea. I went down to the quarry and filled my wee cart with big stones. When I got back home I put the stones all round my cabbage patch. Then I went down to Cathcart’s shop and bought a pound of pepper. After that I dusted the stones with pepper.

‘Now when the rabbits came til ate my cabbages the pepper gets up their noses and they start til sneeze. They can’t help it, the poor wee souls. They sneeze and sneeze and sneeze and knock their brains out against the stones and now I’ve had no more trouble with them, so I haven’t.’

6

LOUGH MACNEAN’STALKING FROG

Siobhán Maguire was walking beside Lough MacNean, enjoying the fine sunny day and the gentle breeze wafting in from the lough. She smiled and waved when she saw Peter, who was rowing a cot (a type of wooden boat found in County Fermanagh) across the water. Her friend waved back. She watched until he was out of sight behind an island before continuing her walk.

Suddenly she heard a little voice calling, ‘Kiss me! Kiss me! Kiss me!’

She tossed her long dark hair out of eyes and looked around. There was nobody there. She stopped walking to listen, but she heard nothing apart from the gentle rustle of the breeze through the rushes and the soft splashing of the little wavelets caressing the shore.

‘There’s nobody here,’ she thought. ‘It must be my imagination.’

‘Kiss me! Kiss me! Kiss me!’

The voice sounded louder. Puzzled Siobhán looked around. Again she could see nothing so she continued to walk.

‘KISS ME! KISS ME! KISS ME!’ The voice was even louder this time and it was tinged with desperation, but there was still nobody in sight.

‘KISS ME! KISS ME! KISS ME!’ the voice yelled as something soft and slimy hit her bare ankle.

She looked down and there was the biggest, ugliest, slimiest frog she had ever seen in the whole of her life.

‘If you kiss me, I’ll turn into a handsome prince,’ it said.

She bent down, picked it up and put it into her pocket.

‘I said, if you kiss me, I’ll turn into a handsome prince,’ it yelled.

‘Yes,’ replied Siobhán, ‘I know, but not many people have a talking frog!’

‘Who needs a handsome prince?’

7

‘IT’SA LONG WAYTO TIPPERARY’ ANDTHE INNISKILLING FUSILIERS

I am grateful to the Inniskilling Museum in Enniskillen and to Dr Denis Marnane for information and to the late Matt Doherty for the tall tale.

The famous wartime song ‘It’s a long way to Tipperary’ has little to do with the town of Tipperary. It began life as a music hall song written several years before the First World War by Jack Judge and Harry Williams. They wrote it in response to a five shilling bet on 13 January 1912 in Stalybridge. It was first performed the next night in the local music hall, but it didn’t become popular until the beginning of the First World War, when it was picked up by the troops, who sang it as a marching song.

Tipperary had an army barracks, which recruited soldiers who signed up as infantrymen in the Inniskilling Fusiliers, based in Enniskillen.

Seán Magee signed up in the Tipperary barracks and served on the Western Front during the First World War. One day, as the battle raged, he spotted a small frightened creature crouching under a hedge. He felt sorry for it, picked it up and cuddled it. To his great surprise the animal said, ‘Thank you. I feel much safer in your arms.’

‘I didn’t know animals could talk!’ exclaimed Seán.

‘Most animals can’t. But I’m a rary. Raries can talk.’

‘Is that so? I’ve never even heard of a rary.’

‘That’s because we’re rare. You’re unlikely to hear about us because there are very few of us around.’

Seán asked the rary why it was by itself, sheltering under a hedge and it told him its parents had been killed by an exploding shell. The poor little thing was all alone in the world and didn’t know where to turn.

Seán felt sorry for the animal. ‘I’ll take care of you,’ he said. He picked it up and placed it in his pocket. He grew to love it and fed it from his own rations.

Gradually other members of Seán’s brigade grew to love the rary and they all fed it, which caused the other soldiers to remark, ‘That creature is better fed than we are!’

Before long, the animal grew too big to fit into Seán’s pocket, so he transferred it to his knapsack and carried it wherever he went. He even took it to the Battle of the Somme. The animal grew and grew and grew. It became too big to fit into a knapsack so the soldiers dressed it up in some of their old clothes and it marched alongside them.