HISTORY OF OL' ERIN:AND OTHER TALES TOLD FROM THE BOTTLE!
A real,or as real as you would want after a pint or three,history of Ireland and it's people.
God may not of smiled on us,but it is well known that He did look our way and wink!
An Appendix To The Tales:Or What Is That At The Bottom Of The Glass?
#1
Long before the battle of Agincount (1415) the French,anticipating victory over England,proposed to cut off the middle finger of all captured English bowmen.
Now it was believed that without the middle finger it would be impossible to draw the reowed and mighty longbow,and therefore they would be incapable of fighting in the furture.
This famous longblow was made of the native English Yew tree,and the act of drawing the bow was known as "plucking the yew" or "pluck yew".
Now to the bewilderment of the French,the English kept sending storms of arrows in every battle and mocking the French by waving their middle fingers saying 'See,we can still pluck yew!!'
Since 'pluck yew' can be a wee bit difficult to say in the heat of battle or drinking,which in the whole history of man seem to go hand 'n hand,it is believed the difficult consonant cluster at the beginning has gradually changed to a labiodentals fricative 'F' and thus the words often used in conjunction with the one finger salute.It is also believed,because of the pheasant feathers on the arrows used at the time with the longbow,that the symbolic gesture is known as 'giving the bird'.
So now yew know every plucking thing...and so ends this wee bit of the tale told.
7 th and 8 th Centuries, and a wee bit of the 9 th A.C.
The Irish indeed produced many a grand Saint in those early Christian years, but they did not outnumber the sinners. There was no decline in the manufacture of weapons or of drink, and drink was and is a terrible thing, or so I have been told. Tis an invention of the devil himself, for the sole purpose of destroying the minds and souls of great men, and many more that are not so great at all. Now it is well known that the Danes, kin of the Fomorians, those Scandinavians out of deep darkest Africa, were great drinkers, and wouldn’t that be the reason for all the pillage and murder and rapine that they brought to this God loving and peaceful land? Aye, that it would, and with there only a wee drop left in this bottle here, let you and me be emptying it, so we’ll not be tempted by the evil stuff, and Satan himself can work no harm as we start our tale so...now hand me your glass!
We’ll start our history here, when mighty Kings were spending their time murdering and being murdered, with Niall, known as Hy-Nialls and his decendants. Now it is well known that the southern and northern branches were constantly fighting each other, when they were not fighting and killing anyone else that happened to be passing by.
One, a fellow named Cornall Guthvin, of the southern branch of the clan, achieved a wee bit of fame at this time when two Kings were ruling jointly by murdering both of them. One thing you could be saying about him was that he never was afraid of a bit of hard work.
In about 623, King Suivne was murdered by a Congal Caech, King of Ulidia, who then lost a mighty battle with Suivne’s successor, but kept his head by escaping to Britain, of all bloody places. Here, with promises of blood, loot and women, he recruited a mercenary army of Saxons, Britons, Picts (aye, there was still one or two about), and some Scots from Argyle, who really couldn’t see a reason why they should not kill a few of their relatives in Ireland for the chance of profit, as is well known with those people…always trying to get the last drop of blood from a penny, and putting coin before kin. Hell, a Scots love of money is more so than the Irish love of drink…and better to be wearing a woman’s hand-me-downs then buy pants, just to save a penny, is a highlanders thought.
Somehow Congal really didn’t put a lot of thinking in his battle plans, spending his time chasing women, drink and the Picts, just for the fun of it, and thought it would be best to attack Donnell, king of the northern Hy-Nialls, a terrible hard man, and one that had never lost a fight.
This battle lasted six day and as many nights, fought about Magh Rath in County Down, and as always, all having a grand time till most of Congal’s mercenaries, his kinmen and himself fell, and again as always, a plague arrived (the Irish never did like cleaning up after a party) which lasted for ten years and it is said that many a good soul, and many not so good died of it. Now there were some that was believing this a good thing, as there were to many people and not enough food. Others believed the clergy prayed for a thinning out of the inferior multitude’s who were doing all the eating…but God himself wasn’t pleased with the prayer and sending an angel to arrange a pestilence which would be tinning everyone out, including the holy men themselves.
Myself, I’m not believing it at all…if that story was being put about at that time, ‘twas done by lying heathens and motherless wonders for the sole purpose of discrediting the poor messengers of God. Who here has ever heard of a member of the clergy doing any soul a wrong! Wasn’t it Saint Ultan of Ardbraccan who establish the first orphan asylum for the children whose mothers died of the plague? Fed them with milk through the teats of cows, he did, which he cut off for that purpose.
Wouldn’t it have been better if he’d left them on you may ask, and I’d say no it would not! Cruelty to dumb animals that would have been. My God, can you imagine the poor feelings of a cow with a crying baby held upside down underneath it? Oh, his way was the best I’m believing…don’t people, even backward England, still do it till this day with teats made artificially? Would you be having the mothers of today talking their wee ones to the cowyard and frightening the wits out of every heifer in the bloody country? I think not…so then don’t be questioning the wisdom of good Saint Ultan…and don’t be getting me on any more improbable stories angels., pestilences and the holy saint’s themselves…there is no room in history for unbelieving heathen superstition.
Aye, and let us not be forgetting Saint Moling. He preached the abolition of the cow tribute, which he believed wasn’t worth all the years of trouble and bloodshed it had caused. Saint Adamon was responsible for the adoption of a law that called for the ending of killing of women…called: “The Law To Stop Killing Women”, it was presumed that in return for this piece of advanced social legislation women would restrain themselves from the killing of men, and has been known for saving the lives of many a son of ol’ Ireland!
Aye many other saints were operating schools as others roamed the world, preaching the holy words of Patrick himself “…lower you shields and you will be assimilated…Your biological and technological distinctiveness will be added to our own…Resistance is futile!”, they began establishing monasteries and acquiring reputations for holiness and for peaceful intentions…for what place, anywhere on this planet that an Irishman has set foot and not made it a wee bit better…well, for himself and his.
Saint Columbanus built a monastery at Bovium in the Apennines, and the village of San Columbano is named after him, and the city of St Gallen, near Lake Constance in Switzerland, is named after a disciple of his. Then there was Saint Fiacre who built a monastery near Meaux in France…aye, are not the horsedrawn vehicles, called ‘fiacres’, taking the crowds about the place not named after him? And what of Saint Virgilius, who was the first person to teach that the world was round, and got into a wee bit of trouble for it, and in so doing, talked his way out of it, as always the way with a people with a persuasive tongue, making him bishop of Salzburg right then and there. Irish saints also established a colony in Iceland, called Thule, but some unbelieving heathen pagans like the Norwegians have dispersed this.
It was written at this time by one historian that it was an age of simplicity and fervour and may well be called the golden age of Ireland, for while the heathen barbarian swarms were inundating Europe, each wave of desolation plunging the nations over which it passed in social chaos and demoralization, ol’ Erinn was engaged in prayer and study, and the general gloom of Europe only made her light shine the more brilliantly by contrast, and enhanced her glorious distinction as the ‘Island of Saint’.
Of course…it’s believed he was an Irish historian!
Patrick was dead, and that was as true as the tales told, in all the chapters of this history, and for that end, it was and is as true as we want it to be.
Oh it was the best thing to happen when the holy Patrick was brought to Ireland, humble and in chains, to show the God fear’n people the error of their ways, and bring them all to the One and only True God of Justice, Charity and Mercy. Aye, a grand day it was, and the Irish have been Christians ever since. Indeed we have. been the Keeper’s of the Faith, through thick and thin, through fire and flood, famine and persecution, right down to the present.
Patrick changed the nature of the people, from murderous drunken pagans to gentle Christian men and women, loving the Lord and their neighbors as themselves: that he did, and only a Protestant Englishman would be saying otherwise…unbelieving heathens.
The Irish indeed produced many Saints and Holy men in those early Christian years: Saint Ailbe of Emily, Saint Benignus of Armagh, Saint Fliech of Sletty, Saint Mel of Ardath, Mochay of Antrim, Moctheus of Louth, Ibar of Beg-Erin, Asicus of Elphin, Olcan of Dercon, Saint Brigid…not to mention the holy Saint Columba, or Columkille, Columba-of -the-Church…he who was of royal blood. On his father’s side he was descended from the Niall of the Nine Hostages, and his mother’s side from one of the three brothers who set up the Scottish monarchy in Argyle.
It was when Murtough succeeded Lewy as king of Ireland (him being killed by lightning, if you have a mind to remember), and it was this same Murtough that supported a group of chiefs in the invasion of Alba, now called Argyle .It was a fellow named Fergus, kin of Saint Columba’s mother, that was the one chosen and crowned on the Stone of Scone (Lia Fail), and being an Irishman, was the first Scottish king, or that part of it that they occupied. And so it was during the reign of Murtough, a good and Christian king that the Irish killed enough of the picts, which continued to roam over the rest of the land, to establish themselves firmly and finally in Scotland. Murtough’s Christianity did not prevent him from giving his blessing to those of his relatives who tried and did exterminate the Picts. Nor did it stop him from doing battle at home in Leinster, in an attempts to extract his “cow” tribute. One cold winter evening he drowned, trying to save himself, in a keg of ale into which he dived when his house was on fire. It is always the curse of the Irish, that if you did not die by the sword, then you would most likely die by the drink.
The Picts were finally subdued by the year 850 by Kenneth MacAlpin, who became the first king of all Scotland, with his throne at Scone. So you now know that Scotland was called Scotland because of the Scots, who were Irish, and that is as plain as the nose on your face.
Now Murtough was succeeded by Tuathal Maelgarbh, who reigned for eleven years, till he was murdered, keeping alive the old ways, and Diarmaid, ancestor of the McDermotts became the next king., and this is how Saint Columba came to be having trouble with him.
There was a Saint Finnen that had lent Saint Columba a book of scriptures, and some time later, this Finnem went to the king and stating his case added: “This fellow is not returning it, and without permission he’s copying it…could ya be after getting it back for me, do ya think me lord?”
The king ordered Columba to return the book, together with any piece he’d copied.
“He can be have’n the book,” Columba was heard to say,”…but the copy is mine!”
“You may be a holy man after Patrick himself, and having the power of the Word…but I am the high king you motherless wonder, and my word is the law of this land!” the king said in as friendly a voice as a man could without placing his battle axe within the other man’s head. “Good for you to remember that the calf should follow the cow…now Finnen gets both!”
Now Columba being a good and caring man, one that thought the laws of man were but foot steps to the laws of God as Patrick himself had put before them “Resistance is futile“, considered the words of the wise king for some time, and still found them to be an injustice, which as you know is the nature and habit of all the celtic peoples of this world…”And what the bloody hell do cows having to do with it?”
Now about the same time there came to be a fellow named Curnan, himself a son of the king of Connaught, did kill a man in a fight, which was normal behaviour and no crime in itself, but he did it during the Assembly at Tara, where talking was compulsory and fighting, well killing anyway, was forbidden.
“Sanctuary!” Curnan cried to Columba. “I claim sanctuary from him and his…and place my life in your holy care!”
“Sanctuary is it now? From King Diarmaid himself?
“Aye!”
“Aye, grand and granted!” said the holy man. “Sit yourself down…Mrs Doyle, tay and scones would ya please!”
“Like bloody hell it is! We’ll be see’n about that!” said the king, and waiting till Columba was away… for Diarmaid was no fool, and knew the power and the word of those holy men: did not Patrick himself with “…your biological n’ technological distinctiveness will be added to ours…” converted half the place, and it being well known that all those holy men had the weapon of women, the power to argue…and dragged Curnan out and executed him, then and there. And there was a look upon the face of the king , that all those there knew he was thinking about executing Columba also.
Columba, believing the word of God was more powerful than the battle axes of man, still thought it best to head for the border…for he was no Patrick…which he crossed, and told his story to his proud and high-born relatives, who reached for their spears.
Now it came to place a mighty battle was fought, at Cooldrevny, in Carbury, north of Sligo, where three thousand of the king’s warriors were killed, where upon Diarmaid called a synod of the clergy of Meath, to excommunicate this son of the chruch. But they decided in Columba’s favour…and is it not the same today when the church is under attack, to close ranks and take care of their own.
Columba thought this king would get him sooner or later, for it is also the nature of the Irish to forgive, but never forget, and be looking for a safer place. This he found on the island of Iona, which was given to him by a kinsman, the king of Argyle. It was from here, with his disciples, he traveled out and converted the Picts, the one’s that Murtough’s kin and clan, did not kill.
It was here at Iona that a celebrated monastic institution and the headquarters of Saint Columba’s holy order was set.
Diarmaid was the last king of Ireland to reside at Tara. He made the mistake of violating the sanctuary of Saint Rodanus, a more powerful fellow then Columba, and a personnel friend of the Lord, it was said, at Lothra, in Tipperary. Saint Rodanus put a very powerful curse on Tara and the royal hill was deserted and no Irish king ever sat there again.
Superstition you say? Indeed it was not! If they were to be leaving because of the curse of a pagan druid, or that of a heathen Bearla, then that would be superstition, but a solemn malediction pronounced by a monk of the Church is a different thing entirely, indeed it is…and there be no place in heaven for you and yours if not believing it!
King Diarmaid was killed by Hugh of the Black, leader of a Pictish colony that had placed itself in Ireland.
Columba returned to be present at the great convention of Drumceat…the first assembly of states to be held after the abandonment of Tara.
It was here that another Hugh, Hugh Ainmire, was wearing the royal crown, and Columba persuaded him to give up all claims to the Scottish colony in Alba and to recognize its’ complete independence. Columba also persuaded him to be leaving the heads on some of the more troublesome bards, when King Hugh was in more of a favour of removing them.
Now Hugh didn’t see much virtue in the fifth commandment, or any commandment to be telling the truth, and he killed many a person in Leinster while trying to collect his tribute.
The king of Leinster was a Bran Dubh, then, and a very cunning fellow he proved himself to be. At the high of the campaign he disguised himself as a leper and visited King Hugh’s camp, and telling them that the men of Leinster had had enough.
“They’re coming now unarmed…with provisions, drink, women and many a present!”
They arrived later that evening, with many large bags of ‘provisions and presents’. And during the night, as Hugh and his followers enjoyed the wife and daughter of Leinster, and many more that of the drink, the bags opened and armed men stepped out and all had a grand time, the slaughter lasted until morning, when Bran Dubh personally killed King Hugh. This place was to be known as Dunbolg, ‘the Fort of the Bags’, in Wicklow, and now is called Dunboyke.
Bran Dubh and his men chased the survivors of Hugh’s army, and there wouldn’t of been many, into Meath, where Bran Dubh himself was later murdered by one of his own men, who did not like the idea of using his wife, or it was most likely his whiskey, as bite.
Now it came to pass, in the odour of sanctity, with a Christian king in Scotland, the Picts converted and himself nearly as good a man as Patrick himself, Saint Columba died at his monastery on Iona.
To many a person that may not understand, or not knowing a lot of the world, or even their own names, or even what day it is, may believe that the Irish, as Keepers of the Faith, are still practicing violence in defiance of the teachings of the Lord Christ.
Aye, and who was it….answer me fair…who was it now who flogged the money changers out of the temple?
‘He didn’t kill them’ you say…well now, from flogging to killing is only a wee step, and you’ll be remembering that Christ is the son of God and had more power to restrain Himself in the heat of an argument. Oh there’s a lot of fraility in the human nature and some men, and many a woman, have more of it than others. Aye, a wee bit of killing there was, and is, to be sure, but a lot more of preaching and teaching and baptizing, since the time of the holy Saint Patrick and Saint Columba. The Irish has always had more saints than sinners, to be sure….it’s just a wee bit harder to tell them apart,then other persons in the world.
Many a good and caring person, and heathen alike, would say that Patrick was a gentleman, and that would be true: as true as pen to paper; as true as the other five chapters of this history I have placed here.
It is, even to this day, that many still argue about his birthplace: some say that he was born in Dumbarton, and therefore, being a Scot was an Irishman…but Dumbarton back at that time, was in Britain…and if your about to say that he was an Englishman, I’d really advise against it!
Patrick himself said that he was born at Bonaven of Tabernia, and himself never told a lie in his life, would be believed, as I do, and you should as well, if your collar is not too tight about your neck.
Now if your asking where that was, I’d not be knowing. But ‘twas never in England!
Some say that Bonaven was the ancient name for Boulogne, and that would be making him a Frenchman…and you could say so yourself, just wait for me to leave the room.
It isn’t what he was that matter, it’s what he did that matters, and what he did he wouldn’t have done at all if he’d been English…or even French.
His real name was Succath. And to tell ya, that doesn’t matter either. ‘Twas the holy Pope himself ( a fellow named Celestine) that gave him the name of Patricius: and Patricius means Patrick, and Patrick he was and Patrick he is, and you can’t be denying that Patrick is a name more Irish than any other name anywhere in the world.
Well, his name was Succath when he was brought to Ireland as a boy and sold as a slave, where he worked amongst the pigs and sheep for six years or so, and it was about this time he had a wonder of wonders: a vision of God himself he had, telling him it was time to go, telling him to walk 200 miles to a certain ship and to a certain master of that ship, who would take him home.
Now it is no small wonder that Patrick had a vision of God…many a man, even women at times, have seem great, scary and wonderful sights…even I have had a vision or two in my time…but they have followed a night of hard drink, and a wild woman…so it was written about Patrick, that his lips never had drink or a woman, and to be telling ya, that’s the biggest wonder of them all, even over the vision of God himself!
Now when he was about thirty years of age he was granted another vision and in it he was presented with a parcel of letters and one of them was inscribed with the words “The Voice of the Irish.” As he was reading the letters, he heard a great multitude of voices crying out, “We entreat thee to come, holy young, and walk still amongst us.” And at first he did not understand, for no true Irishman would ever speak like that, but the voices cried out again, and he heard the accent, and knew it was the voice of Ireland. The Pope gave him his benediction and spend him on his way. In Gaul he was consecrated bishop, and he gathered his holy disciples about him, and sailed for Ireland, and landed on our beloved soil in the year 432, with the past behind him and his work ahead of him and the blessing of God on both.
Patrick and his followers made a permanent landing in Strangford Lough, County Down, after having a wee holiday on the island of Inis-Patrick, named after him, near Dublin.
Now it was a warrior named Dicho that was the chief (Laeghaire, the son of Niall of the Nine Hostages, was king of the land then) of the area at the time, and it was to him that the people came running to with a cry that the black-hearted, heathen Fomorian Scandinavian pirates were landing again, and they, with weapons in hand, the way the Irish have welcomed many from the days of Parthalon, and a cry of “Bloody unbelieving heathens.”, came running down to meet them, Dicho leading the way.
But they were no pirates, and they didn’t even have any weapons…Dicho was taken-a-back for a moment, not knowing what to do, other than taking their heads and knowing who they are later.
It was then that Patrick stepped forward, and his voice rang out across the field.
“I am Patrick!” His voice as sweet as morning air. “Lower your shields and you will be assimilated. Your biological and technological distinctiveness will be added to our own…Resistance is futile!” And he converted them and baptized them and all their kin and celebrated mass right then and there.
Next he and his growing numbers went to Antrim, where lived his old slave-master, a man named Milcho. But Milcho was determined that no runaway slave would be making him change his religion, and not prepared to expose himself to Patrick’s persuasive tongue, set fire to his house and burnt it to the ground, himself and family along with it. What an Irishman will do to make a point.
Within the year, Patrick and his followers sailed south to the river Boyne and journeyed overland towards royal Tara to convert the king.
“Oh great Lord” Cried King Laeghaire’s ( pronounce Lerey) generals. “There be a great and mighty army before us!”
“Oh grand king! Your power,” his druids told him. “ and ours, will be destroyed forever if the flame of this army is not put out!”
“Is that so?” said the king. “Well, let’s go down and have a wee word with them.” And seeing that this was not a rebel army, and not one of them good to even argue with, save their leader, sat himself down, and his chiefs and his nobles and his druids sat with him: and he ordered that Patrick should be paraded before him.
When Patrick was brought to them, they remained seated…this was the old way of showing no respect to him and his…all except one man, who stood up and greeted him, and was right then and there converted.
“Shields Full!” Was heard the king’s voice. All those that were to late placing their shields forward, or not had one at hand, were also converted on the spot, from the sweet sound of Patrick’s voice. The druids’ oratory and arguments were useless against those of Patrick, who easily won, and made many converts of them also.
Now the brave king was not converted, for his shield and arms were mighty, but he was very impressed.
“All right then,” the king said, after listening to Patrick for a bit. “I don’t believe a word of it, but you put it very well and if everybody behaved the way you say they should behave, then things would be nice and quiet. So you have my permission to go about preaching your gospel to anyone prepared to listen to it and they can worship your God in heaven as much as they like, so long as the obey me here on earth!”
Patrick considered this to be a fair proposition, and for the next twenty-three years he traveled all over the land, baptizing all wherever he went, and ordaining priests so they also would have the power to assimilate, and building churches. He established the See of Armagh, and the last years of his life were spent between there and Saul.
It was at Saul that be died…starting a big argument between the people of Armagh and the people of Down over who was to be having possession of his body: so they settled it by burying most of him in County Down, and the rest of him in his church in Armagh.
Now the remarkable thing about Patrick’s mission to Ireland was the almost total absence of violence connected with it. He did not… like later Christian expeditions in other parts of the world…try to enforce the cross with sword. He was a gentle, dignified, peaceable man, and carried no weapons. This, being so out of character with the times, and any person still with their head on their shoulders; it being one way of keeping it there.
This astonished the Irish, for very few of them tried to murder him…that also being the way of the times.
King Laeghaire died a pagan (it being left to Patrick’s successors to convert royalty). He was warring in Leinster while Patrick was still alive, trying to extract his ‘tribute’, which the poor souls weren’t prepared to deliver voluntarily. He and his fellows were finally defeated on the river Barrow, two years after Patrick’s death, and he was captured alive.
After he had sworn by ‘the sun, the moon, water and air, night and day, sea and land…and God himself’, that during his lifetime he would not demand tribute again, they let him go. But the very next year he tried again and was struck dead by lightning. God and the elements revenge for breaking his oath.
Now some would be saying that this sounded a wee bit of superstition, not I, knock on wood. It was a fact, and there’s no superstition about facts: break an oath, and if God won’t get ya, the elements will!
There is no superstition about the fate of his successor, Oiliol Molt. He was killed by Lewy, son of Laeghaire, in a battle at Ocha. And Lewy, was killed by lightning while cursing one of Patrick’s churches near Slane…that family never did learn.
Some, even to this day, think that Christianity improved the Irish nature: others believing their love of drink and murder was too strong for it.
‘Tis a strong word, murder. And who’s to say that any Irishman was ever guilty of it, not I, if the mood is right…and to most, if not all, Irishmen, the mood is always right. And who’s to say that a killing is not a justifiable homicide in defence of hearth and home, even if it wasn’t their own, against the depredations of the powers of evil? And as you have seen from the other chapters of this tale, it was and is the right of any Irishman, woman or child to make war upon evil…real or not!
So as time went by, the land under the one God and the sweet words of Saint Patrick “Resistance is futile!”, the people moved forward in love, peace and Christianity. But it is the nature and habit of the Irish to go into things head first and think about it later…some things will always stay the same.
In the days when Herod was king of the Jews, and the lord Christ was being born in Beth-lehem, the Irish were fighting the English: Romans they were at the time.
The great King Creevan had made many a grand raid on Britain, and brought back many a Roman/English head, which he stored in Dun Creevan: along with a golden chariot; a conquering sword; a spear, from the wound inflicted by which no one recovered; a sling from which no erring shot was discharged; boats; their women; pots and pans and many other remarkable things, leaving the Romans standing on shore, shouting and waving what spears they had left.
The Roman governor of Britain at this time was a man named Agricola, and he was not pleased. Who were those heathens? Did they not know that this was the Empire of all Empires? That all of the world fell under the shadow of Rome? We’ll show them!
His aids then and there organized an expedition from their best legions to invade Ireland.
“We’ll only be needing one legion,” he said. “With one little legion we’ll be beating them all over there!”
“My Lord,” cried his discontented generals. “It will take many legions…more than we have at hand! They’re worse than the bloody Picts!”
So Agricola, with his generals on their knees crying to their many Gods, and, after his spies, the one’s that made it back alive, told him how undoubtedly difficult the job would be, changed his mind.
“Bloody heathens…leave them alone!”
The Empire didn’t strike back.
Now it is true that no Roman soldier ever set a hostile foot on Irish soil. But hostile feet were already walking on it and had been for some time. With the Firbolgs in the west and the descendants of the Tuatha de Dananns all about the land, were exasperated by the airs and graces of their rulers…for the Milesian aristocrats did not work and extracted high tribute from all. So it was this way when the Firbolgs and the Tuatha de Dananna, farmers and tradesmen all, thought up a scheme for changing the situation.
They invited all the kings and nobles to a great feast at Magh Cro, Galway, and a grand feast it was, taking them three years to prepare it and they taxed themselves a third of their earnings to provide for it.
Now the proud and arrogant Milesians came from all over the country and ate, drank, boasted and enjoyed themselves for nine days and nights, till the Firbolgs and Tuatha de Dananns cut their heads off: and so was marked the first organized Irish rebellion… the others being unorganized and more of a informal family affair. And very successful it was, which few of the Milesians survived.
Now it was by the will of God, some say, that three Milesian pregnant chieftainesses escaped to Britain of all places, but nobody worried much about them, as everyone was to busy brewing, drinking, breeding, singing sad mournful songs and in general having a grand time celebrating.
But after a time they did elected a king, and he was called Carbry Cinncait… Cat-headed Carbry, because he had ears like a cat… and like all Irishmen after writing new laws or naming a new king, they proceeded to ignore him: and after a time there was no rule, no organization, no law, no taxation, no temperance and no work done, except about the brewing vats.
So there was a famine, and a great number of the celebrating rebels died of it…including Cat-headed Carbry.
Carbry’s son, who had ears like a human being, refused the crown.
“There be no future in it,” he said. “I know…it should be going to one of those children over in Albion, born of the women who escaped the feast!”
“Feast?”
“Massacre!”
“Aye…he’s right!”
Now it was that three princes had been born to these women and they were brought back and a young prince named Faradach, the son of Creevan himself was elected king.
With Carbry’s son, who’s idea this was in the first place, administered the law on Farasach’s behalf and got the people back to work. A very clever man, and a power in the land. His name was Morann: some called him Morann the Smart, or Morann Ollava (Ollava: an educated gentleman…if you been reading the chapters in order…if not, then you’ll be starting over again, thank you), or Morann the Just…and that he was.
He invented a collar for judges to wear, and whenever they gave an unjust judgment it tightened itself up and choked them to death. A fine thing it was, and I wish we had a few of them for some of the judges that sit on the benches today. In Morann’s day, they’d be gaspin’ and choking’ from one end of the country to the other.
So it was that everyone went back to work, because Morann and Faradach were worse than the Milesians when it came to raising taxes. And after Faradach died, be it by the hand of man or the hand of God, history can not tell us, there was another rebellion, and Morann placed the crown upon his head, only to have it removed by Elim the king of Ulster at the battle of Maghblog. Morann was the first Ollava to be killed in the history of Ireland: if you remember that the Milesians having great respect for their kind. But Elim was no Milesian.
So it was that Elim, a grand God-like figure of a man (like I said, he was an Ulsterman) became king of Ireland. And the brewers were busy again and everyone got drunk again and sang mournful songs again, till everyone starved again and cursed Elim.
Now when everyone is jealous of everyone else, sometimes the best thing to do is to appoint a stranger, who doesn’t know anybody. This is still a good rule, especially when looking for judges for beauty contests or baby competitions.
Now it was that some thought it best, that a prince of the name of Tuathal, one of the young one’s born in exile, might be a good man to be king.
Tuathal accepted the invitation and killed Elim in a battle at the hill of Skreen, in Meath.
Now to be telling you, Elim was asleep at the time Tuathal killed him, after a night of drink and enjoying many of the wives of a number of his followers. As stated before…he was an Ulsterman!
Tuathal had a number of sons and daughters, and one daughter he married off to the king of Leinster. But the king of Leinster decided he didn’t like her very much, it becoming the time of beauty of a woman and not her battle arm, so he told king Tuathal that she was dead and married the next daughter, her being as stated in the old scolls… a looker.
As a result of this, it came to pass that both daughters lost their heads and Tuathal, not wanting to be out-done, placed a tribute (tax) on Leinster, which lasted for 500 years. It was levied every second year and consisted of 150 cows, 150 hogs; 150 coverlets, or pieces of cloth to cover beds; 150 cauldrons, with two passing-great cauldrons, consisting in breadth and deepness, for the king’s own brewing; 150 couples of men and women in servitude, to draw water on their backs for the said brewing; together with 150 maids, with the king of Leinster’s own daughter in like bondage and servitude.
Tuathal reigned for some thirty years as king, and did his best to exterminate the Firbolgs and the Tuatha de Dananns and others from the land, until one Mal (it is believed that his great-great-great-ever-so great-great-grandson from the lands of the bottom of the world, were devils walked, is Mel of the Movies, better known today as Mel of the Drinking Mouth), exterminated him and took the crown.
But Mal didn’t enjoy it for long.
It was that the late king Tuathal had a son named Felimy, who was born of Baine, the daughter of Scal king of Finland, who as everyone knows, are the kinsman of the first Fomorians: the Scandinavian pirates from African. Many had emigrated across the north sea many centuries before, those who’s bodies that did not lay on the Dublin plain, and did well for themselves.
Felimy, as you might well know, killed Mal and ruled as Felimy the Lawmaker. And as one of his first laws: instead of cutting the head off of a man who offended you, you fined him and let him live so that he could pay the fine. Like father, like son Felimy was.
A grand time was had under Felimy’s rule, with more breeding than drinking, and the injection of Finnish blood added to the complicated mixture that all Irishmen carry in their veins and perhaps in their heads.
Sometime B.C. and just after, Early Centuries A.D.
Now as can be seen from our last three Chapters, this was the way of the Irish: brother killed brother and cousin killed cousin and women killed anybody who didn’t please them… and all were very fond of the drink.
There are clues to some of the characteristics of the more modern Irish, although the killing habit seems to be decreasing, and for this pleasant change perhaps we can be grateful to books, television, organized sport and the internet. But prior to the arrival of these grand entertainments what enjoyment was there to be had from life other than drinking and killing? Or killing and drinking? Powerful bronze swords and spearheads they made (like the Tuatha de Danaan’s with the sword they brought from Gorias, or from Finias the Spear of Victory, or even from Murias the most of wonderful treasures, the Cauldron that no company ever went away from unsatisfied, but that is another story)…and the powerful brews to go with them.
Now, between the Milesian invasion and the coming of Saint Patrick himself, 118 kings ruled in Ireland and very few of them died from natural causes. Sixty of them were descended from Heremon, twenty-nine of Heber, twenty-four from Ir, three from Lugaid, and one king was a Firbolg, and even one was a woman, of all things.
Under the kings were provincial chiefs, who were supposed to be obedient, but who spend most of their time trying to think up ways of separating the king’s bodies from their heads. It was all very exciting and a lot of pleasure was to be had from it before a man lost his head, or even a woman hers.
Aye,but they did find the time to clear the land and to build castles and to make laws. Irishmen have always been very good at making laws, but very few have been good at obeying them.
The trouble with laws is that they are always made to prevent someone from doing something. This makes the prevented resent the presenters, especially if the prevented are Firbolgs, with a history of slavery and prevention under the Greeks and Tuatha de Dananns. The Firbolgs didn’t really care for the Milesian laws as well, and every generation had to be persuaded that the laws were good for them…most of the time at the point of the sword and spear.
So there was enough fighting to keep everyone happy, and men and women killed each other often enough to prevent overpopulation of the land.
Some of the kings left their mark on the country, as well as on the bodies of their friends and enemies.
There was Tiernmas, who introduced the smelting of gold. A real proper heathen was Tiernmas: He and a hundred or so of his people dropped dead one evening while worshipping their golden idol called Crom-Cruach. Many believe it was a sign from the one and only true God, many others believe it was the drink.
But before that happened to him and his, he made a law that people of various classes should be distinguished by the colours in their clothing.: Slaves could wear only one colour, farmers two, soldiers three, innkeepers and proprietors four, territory bosses five, and educated gentlemen six. Only kings were entitled to wear seven.
This colorful system of class distinction eventually produced tartan kilts, and it is believe that the man who produced the first bagpipes, thru his name not be known, was an Irishman who wished to annoy everyone else.
Now the Milesians had great respect for educated gentlemen, probably because they were rather rare at the time. They were called Ollava, and others were not to be killing them.
King Enna Airgeach invented silver shields for nobles and heroes.
King Monemon invented gold rings and neck chains, also for heroes.
King Fiacha Finailches invented wells and also founded Kells.
King Sedna Innarry invented wages for soldiers, and King Enda Dearg invented the coins to pay them with.
All these were notable inventions. But none so notable as the invention of King Ollav Fola.
He invented parliaments. All the chiefs and bards and historians and generals in the whole land were expected at Tara every three years or so. Those that didn’t come were regarded as the king’s enemies and had their heads, along with their lands and all that they owned, removed.
And so great was the feasting and talking and the drinking and the fighting on these grand occasions.
Aye, a great man was Ollav Fola, as he was called. The meaning of his name ‘educated gentleman of Fodhla (or Ireland): His real name was Eochy, pronounced Achy, and being an Ollav he was able to die of old age.
King Cimbaeth invented Emania, the royal palace of Ulster, the mighty lands where God himself sat to rest…or rather, Cimbaeth’s wife did. This is the way of it…
Three cousins there were, the sons of three brothers and their names were Cimbaeth, Hugh Roe and Dihorba, and all claimed the throne.
All would take it in turn, seven years each! And so it was…until Hugh Roe was drowned at Ballyshannon and his green-eyed red-headed daughter claimed the crown in his place. Her name was Macha.
“Ridiculous…who the bloody hell ever heard of a woman king?”
One word led to another, as always the way with the celtic peoples, and Macha swung her father’s sword. Her father’s followers swung their swords and another great battle was fought, and Dihorba was no more.
Now Macha believing the crown to be her’s now had to face Cimbaeth, and that she did. Looking him over on the field of battle, seeing that he was a splendid, fine figure of a man, thought it best to marry this man and he could be king in name. He saw that she was a fine figure of a woman, with a good sword arm on her, thought he could do worse: and it was better than being dead. So they married, and chased the five sons of Dihorba into Connaught where every Irishman ran to when he was chased ( and some still do), and captured them, brought them back and made them build her a grand palace.
She marked out the site of it with the pin of her cloak, and that’s how it came to be named Emania, which is a pin.
Emania became the headquarters of the Red Branch Knights and was the palace of the kings of Ulster for 855 years…until the English came and ruined the place. We’ll never see their like again. Slainthe!
Milesius was the King of the Milesians in Spain, and so grand a man was he that all was named after him. There are many stories told about the origins of his race and about the adventures before they came to Spain, and this one would be acceptable to anyone that believes in stones that talk.
Now out of Nimrod came Fenius to Egypt, and his son Nil married Scota, the daughter of the Pharaoh and they had many a son, and mighty men they were. Ancestors of the one to be named Gaedhuil Glas, meaning Green Gael. So it is that the Fenians are named from Fenius and the Scots from Scota and the Gaels from the Green Gael, and only pinpricking pedants and soulless Bearla’s would deny this.
When Pharaoh and his army chased the Irsaelites arcoss the Red Sea and were drowned, the remaining Egyptians howled and lamented and there was great resentment against the sons of Nil…why was it, they asked, that these “Nilites” gave no help to their Pharaoh and sat on their brown behinds and let their Pharaoh drown?
“Well now,” said the sons of Nil, ”let us be putting to you a hypothetical question. Supposing we had gone chasing Israelites with our chariots…wouldn’t we have been drowned also? And this would have been a good thing?”
The Egyptians thought it would have been a very good thing. So the people of Nil, like the true Irishmen they were to become, stole the dead Pharaoh’s ships, daughters and wives, pots and pans, etc, and sailed to Scythia, leaving their Egyptian kinsmen throwing stones (as they had taking the spears as well), and shouting on shore.
They soon became discontented because their existence was peaceful and they were not enjoying it, so off again they sailed down the Mediterranean and had themselves a grand time fighting North Africans every time they stopped to look over a piece of land, till they landed on the south coast of Spain. Here they began to breed and farm ,sing sad songs, argue, fight with one another, kill and be killed, till they had covered the whole of the country. The Egyptian-Spaniards were a grand lot, with honour in everything that they did, for was it not one of them that killed the last three mighty Spanish lions that walked the earth, with his own hands in one day. Aye, mighty men they were and some believe ancestors of the Murphys, of all people. Till this day, the Murphys had lions on their coat of arms. There are lions on the coat of arms of many other famous families also, for that matter, including the O’Grady, though no one has never heard of one of them doing anything to be worthy of the honour.
Well now, back to the story of how the Milesians came to Ireland and the telling is as true as any.
In Spain they were led by a fine fellow named Brath, nineteenth in descent from Fenius of Nimrod. As stated above, they conquered that part of the country called Gallicia and built a fine city there. Brigantia was its name. When Brath passed, one of his sons, named Breogan, succeeded to the command, by helping his brothers follow their late father into the next life.
On the coast of Gallicia he had built a mighty watch tower, from the top of a man could see hundreds of miles out to sea. And who’s to deny that, except scientists, who claim it to be impossible because of the curvature of the earth which limit’s the visible extent of the horizon? We would…for if it’s in the songs, and history told, then it was a mighty tall tower! And very useful for spotting potential enemies…such as Fomorian pirates, ones that were not killed, enslaved or married into the Tuatha de Dananns, or a Firbolg, who were still about.
On one fine day,with the wind out of the east dispersing the Atlantic mists, Ith, first son of Breogan, saw the coast of Ireland, and indeed he did, having eyes like a hawk, he had. And having a bold adventurous heart in him, he sailed away to be having a closer look and to put foot on soil.
Now the Tuatha de Dananns, which still ruled all of the land, save Connaught, had a close look at Ith and didn’t like what they saw. A spy he might be, for the Fomorians or even the black-hearted Firbolg. So they put a spear, two or three to tell the true, in him. His crew got his body back to the boat, and they took him home to Spain with his son Lugaid in command.
And a mighty cry sang out “Look what the heathens did…and him a peaceful man all of his days. Can we let him remain unavenged? Where be Milesius our king?” And after a time of drinking, crying, singing sad mournful songs, argue, shaking of spears, swords and battle axes, someone remembered that the mighty King Milesius was dead, but his sons were not. Cousins they were of Lugaid, with blood thicker than all the waters between Spain and Ireland.
With their father (Milesius) dead and buried, and nothing to keep them there, thought it would be a grand thing to avenge the death of their Uncle, and Lugaid would join them.
The names of Milesius six sons were Donn, Colpa, Amergin, Ir, Heber and Heremon, and they thought it best to take their mother along, as she had a fine arm with a spear also. Her name was Scota after Pharaoh’s daughter.
They manned thirty some ships, and a fine sight it was to see them brave the wild Atlantic, climbing the waves and shouting their slogans “Bloody unbelieving Heathens…May God have mercy on you!”, sailing to the coast of Eire…or Banba or Fodhla, to avenge the death of a kinsman.
The Tuatha de Dananns saw them coming, for they also had a mighty tower, and cast a spell over the whole of the island, so that they couldn’t find it. Now, being good and caring Christians, it was well known that the Tuatha de Dananns had sorcerers and necromancers famous throughout the whole world. And how could they do that, you may ask? How could they do it, indeed…for they did it!
And how did the Milesians eventually find the place? Because they were hungry, cold, wet and seasick, and where is the Irishman born who is not ever ready to extend succour and hospitality to those in need, including his enemies? The spell was lifted and the Milesians were graciously permitted to land and refresh themselves. And as soon as they were refreshed they wanted to fight. Now how could the Tuatha de Dananns fight when they had to do the cleaning up and no army ready? So back to the sea the Milesians were told, and when the Tuatha de Dananns were ready, then the Milesians could be coming to shore and fighting like gentlemen with honour…they agreed!
So the Milesains took their vessels out to sea again and waited a distance from the land.
And the Tuatha de Dananns once again cast a spell; this time over the ocean and raised a most terrible storm that’s ever been seen in the history of the country. Off the coast of Cork, it was. And if you, being a Christian, fine that you can not believe a tale as told, then take heart…for this happened in the time before Christ
Weather the Tuatha de Dananns caused the storm or not is arguable. But there was one, and the ships were scattered all about. And many, including those of Donn and Ir, were wrecked on different parts of the coast. Heremon and Colpa escaped to the north-east, were Colpa was drowned at the month of the Boyne. Others landed at Inver Scene, believed to be named after the wife of Amergin.
Now the poor Tuatha de Dananns, after ruling and keeping the peace for as long as anyone could remember, and in spite of their great magical powers, were defeated in a battle near Tralee, where Scota, wife of Miesius himself, fell…her arm with a spear the best of any man, but not so with a sword. And it is because of her the place is now called Glen-Scoheen.
Another great battle was fought at Teltown, in Meath. Here the Tuatha de Dananns chieftains Eathur, Teathur and Ceathur were killed, with their wives Eire, Banba and Fodhla.
In those days women did not leave the fighting to the men alone. They were always prepared to swing a sword or thrust a spear with or at anybody. Irish women today fight mainly with their tongues…and very good at it they are!
Seeing that the Tuatha de Dananns were being defeated and scattered by the Milesians, the Firbolgs that were hiding with the Fomorians, came out of Connaught to help, both sides. And that was the end of the Tuatha de Dananns, except for a few who married Milesians, or emigrated to other lands. But the Firbolgs were allowed to live and were given land and there was some intermarrying to confirm the arrangement.
Only three sons of Milesius and Scota survived…Heremon, Heber and Amergin. And they sat down to drink and divide the land.
Now Heremon and Heber thought it best that they would have half the island each, leaving Amergin with nothing at all. And there was nothing he could do about it, having lost most of his fellows in battle then the other two.
But, as is still the way with many women, the wife of Heber was not satisfied. She wanted a wee bit for herself. And what she wanted was all the finest and most fertile vales in all the country.
“To hell with you!” was Heremon’s great cry.
“You’ll not speak to me wife like that!!” was Heber’s.
And so they fought a grand battle at Geashill and Heremon killed Heber, and his wee wife also…her tongue still chatting two days after the battle, still wanting more.
This all pleased Amergin very much because now there was only one against him.
“I’ll be having the lot now!”
But all he had of it was the very small piece where Heremon buried him.
Then Heremon the Only, give Ulster, the land were God himself rested, to another Heber, the son of Ir, and Munster to the four sons of Heber his brother; and Connaught to two Milesian chieftains named Un and Eadan; and Leinster to a Firbolg.
He himself sat down at Tara, which was named after his wife, who was the daughter of Lugaid. And with his followers to put down rebellions he ruled over the whole of the land for fifteen years.
No one knows what happened to Lugaid, who started the whole thing by stirring up the sons of Milesius to avenge the death of his father. But there are plenty of people named Leary, which is how Lugaid is pronounced, who roam the world today with a lion and a ship on their coat of arms.
Now when we last left our tale, the Firbolg’s having emigrated back from Greece ( where they were enslaved as human “man bags”), taking what they could from their Greek masters/kinsmen, and were able to land back on the shores of Ireland without opposition: as they were afraid that some would remember the time when they emigrated from there…and would be wanting their pigs, weapons and wives back; even after 200 years… and one thing that could be written in stone about the sons of old Parthalon, is that they may not remember your name, but do know what belongs to them…and that would be everything.
At the same time the black hearted pirates, the Fomorians (Scandinavians from Africa) were still living (just south of Dublin) and riding the country side. And the Nemedians, after the Fomorians made their meaning quite clear, left the coast and went inland and lived in the forests for another 200 years.
Now it was the Firbolg’s ,being welcomed back home without a battle cry, began to breed and multiplied faster then the others could kill them. Here they divided the country into five sections and each of the sons of Deala the Grand ruled over the whole five in turn. They ruled also over their relatives the Nemedians, who were still in the middle, but who weren’t numerous enough (most of the males dying from Fomorian spears , Firbolg swords, plague, bad drink and a woman‘s hand to many a time to count) to alter the situation.
Now after fifty-eight years or so, the situation was dramatically altered by another group of relatives…the Tuatha de Dananns, descendants of the refugees who had gone to northern Europe. Not a lot is known about this parting, as they hadn’t removed their neighbors belongings when they emigrated, and without anyone shaking spears on shore, no one noted that they were gone.
Nuad of the North, was their leader; a fine, confident fellow, as where his fellows, for as soon as they landed on the Irish coast they burnt their boats, so that they could not be tempted to retreat. They landed in a fog, which is know to be anytime in the year, but for one week in May, and were half way across the island before anybody saw them.
And the first to meet them were the Firbolgs. Now when relatives come to visit they generally bring small gifts to mark the occasion, and you welcome them by opening your best bottles, and in some cases your daughters, and busy yourself in the kitchen. But these visiting relatives brought spears and battle axes and were welcomed with the same.
It was a most satisfactory family affair, with nearly all the Firbolgs getting themselves killed, including their King.
Nuad lost a hand in the battle and a silver one was made for him. Seven years in the making it was, with every bone and sinew and nerve and blood-vessel in the right place and working. Aye, it would be true to say, that they don’t make artificial limbs like that in these decadent times. There wasn’t a thing he couldn’t do with it: He could throw a spear with it ten times as far as any man, and pinch a colleen’s bottom as delicately as anyone pinching a colleen’s bottom would. Many a song was sung and tales told about the silver hand, right from the mists of antiquity down to the present day, and if you allow for a certain amount of exaggeration on the telling, I would have you remember, that there was never an Irishman born who was ever guilty in the whole of his life of exaggeration.
Now to the Tuatha de Dananns, hunting Firbolgs was a grand sport, and with a cry of “Man bagsssssssss oooooooooooooooo!” there were not many left alive when Nuad and his clan sat down to brew strong drink and celebrate.
Those Firbolgs who managed to emigrate, this time without their neighbors belonging and not many of their own, sailed to the Isle of Man, some to the Hebrides, Britain, and others went west looking for a new world, and in all these places they stirred up as much trouble as they could. They told great tales of the wonder and beauty of Ireland, and how the ‘invader’ was not fit to inhabit such a sweet gentle and fertile country. Sure there were only a few of them and they’d be no trouble at all for a hand-full of brave Fomorians: Hadn’t the world seen for the centuries, and wonder, what fine seamen and fighters, what upright gentlemen were the Fomorians? The Fomorians that had been there and not been killed, enslaved or died of plague or bad drink were a wee bit afraid, as they only knew of the coast and not the dark island within. Yes, but didn’t Firbolgs know every hill, every lake, every tree and rock? Sure the Fomorians after knowing only the coast, and what’s on a coast but sea and rock? It’s inland where the fine sweet easy living is, and with the Firbolgs as their partners to share the adventure, sure how could they miss?
And the alliance was formed. Under their King the Fomorian pirates and the Firbolgs sailed to wage war on their impertinent relatives and a wonderful adventurous time was had by all.
The Tuatha de Dananns killed the Fomorian King and nearly all of his fellows, along with a grand number of the persuasive tongues of the black-haired Firbolgs.
The Tuatha de Dananns were fine gentlemen, and why wouldn’t they be, with the same blood in them as their fighting Firbolgs cousins that now lay across the field. Didn’t they all sit down to drink together after that grand battle, as friendly as could be, with agreement reached that the Fomorians would have Connaught as a home for themselves and their sons of their sons forever. And even if some of the surviving Fomorians married Tuatha de Dananns, what matter?…they didn’t marry Firbolgs. Those that didn’t die of battle, plague, drink or marry went back to pirating on safer shores. As for the Firbolgs that survived, and that was not many, they once again emigrated to other lands, leaving with less of their own as before.
The Tuatha de Dananns ruled most of the country, and welcome to it they were, but they didn’t rule Connaught. And there was peace in the land for almost 200 years.
The Tuatha de Dananns crowned their kings on the ancient Lia Fail, which cried out with a loud voice whenever it was touched by the rightful heir, and was silent as the grave under the hands of all imposters.
Now if your of the mind not to believe in the Lia Fail, the talking stone, then how could you expect to believe in anything, being ignorant and untravelled, for if you took you time, instead of mine, you could go and see it for yourself: for it still exists.
It was the Irish that civilized Scotland in the sixth century and set up kings there. Preserved in the monastery at Scone, it was, with all due reverence paid to it, until that dirty plague breeding Edward 1 of England took it away in the year 1300 and put it in Westminster Abbey, and named it the ‘Stone of Scone”.
There it sits, quiet as the grave, never to say a word, till it is back in the hands of the Six Counties and Ireland is united again and the rightful heir is chosen to sit again on the royal throne at Tara. And if supposing that day ever comes, and their brothers the Scots, with the help of the bloody English, stated that it wouldn’t come back to it’s real place on earth, then every Irish lad, even many generations removed, would persuaded them…grandly.
There are those that state that Ireland was never united, or in all it’s history that all Irishmen were ever once in agreement on anything, and was there ever a king at royal Tara that ruled by consent instead of the sword?
In the times of the Tuatha de Dananns there were three kings who were brothers. Their names were Eathur, Teathur and Ceathur, and famous they were. They married three sisters, whose names were Eire, Banba and Fodhla; and as the Tuatha de Dananns were very respectful to women, well to their own, the country was known by all three names at one time or another.
But only one name has survived, and that in the southern lands only, which is called Eire…the northerners prefer the name Ulster, to distinguish themselves from the barbarians in the south…but that distinction came later. The land was called one of the other when the Tuatha de Dananns were visited by the what they would call the Milesians, the Spanish of Egypt.
And the soil was fertilized again with the blood and bones of wild-eyed men, and the end of the long peace.
Many a good and caring person, and many a heathen alike, believe that in the beginning God made the World, and man, told him to multiply and fill the earth.
Others would deny this and find reasons for the existence of this planet and the creatures that inhabit it: Continuous creation, big bang, natural evolution. A multiplicity of theories and a minimum of proof.
There are some that deny the existence of everything and anything…but most agree that two things are a certain: that there is an earth and there are people on it.
They would agree also, that people, believing many things or nothing, are in general reasonable people. Most can see each other’s point of view, even while opposing it.
They eat, sleep, urinate, defecate, fornicate, work a little, pray a little, drink little or much. Some even drink water. Many have a certain amount of respect for law and order and the police. In other words, whether made by God or chemistry, they are normal rational human beings, and they take their place in the animal kingdom, a part of life.
They complete the pattern in the balance of nature.
But…….
There is a discrepancy, an imbalance, a break in nature. It is scattered through all nations, and concentrated in some people, people in a state of permanent opposition to everything and everybody including themselves. People who don’t know what they want and are never happy until they get “it”. They are the Irish.
People of this world can not understand them, and shake their heads, praying to their God or God’s or not a thing, that no Irishman would see which way they walk home, because when anyone goes anywhere, the Irish follow…if not already there.
Many a time, in the history of this exasperating race, other races have tried to banish or exterminate them. Frequently their numbers have been reduced by self-banishment and attempts at mutual extermination, but always a few survived, to breed, to argue, to fight again, to become priests, politicians, policemen, pugilists, and painful disturbers of the peace of Englishmen and other ordinary people: to fight in wars of other nations, generally on both sides, and to sing sad and mournful songs about the beauty and the glory of Ireland…where very few of them are prepared to live!
Only the creation theory can explain the existence of these people. Only the inexplicable mind of God could have conceived them. Ask why they are the way they are and the answer will be “God knows”. Certainly no one else does.
Meet a man with an Irish name, living in any country in this world, many generations removed from the native soil of his ancestors, and his Irishness … that semi-logical unverifiable insanity… should have been bred out of him years ago. You would think having removed himself from the land potatoes, pickled herrings, rhubarb and rain, his mental attitude would change with his geography and diet, that he would become much as other men. You would think so, and you would be wrong.
He will be as his father was, and his father’s father’s father’s father, and the long long line of unco-operative individualists who fought the land, the sea, the climate and each other, and are buried everywhere. He will argue with you,drink with you, love you, curse you, sing to you, fight you, marry your daughters and present you with a tribe of grandchildren who will be as he is. His blood can be as mixed as anybody’s blood can possibly be; but if he owns an Irish name, he’ll own an Irish nature. Kind and considerate, compassionate and bloodthirsty, rational and irrational, broadminded and bigoted…heart of a poet, mind of a hunter.
If it is that every soldier carries a field-marshal’s baton in his knapsack, then it should be said that every Irishman, and the descendant of every Irishman, carries in his head the firm conviction that he and he alone can solve the problems of the world. He alone is right, always right. If his ideas of rightness change themselves frequently, then why shouldn’t they? If everybody agreed with everybody else, wouldn’t the world be a terrible monotonous place to live in?
This then is perhaps the only constant and reliable thing in his nature… this belief that monotony is the curse of existence. It does not explain the rest of his nature, but it does seem to go a long way towards an explanation of his consistently rebellious attitude towards any status that may be quo at any time. He has a great desire to alter things. In fact, the first recorded Irishman altered the status quo of the person that disagreed with him.
This first Irishman was a Greek: name of Parthalon it is believed, and because of this ‘disagreement’, known in many a tongue as murder, he emigrated from a wee place known as Macedonia. With him, he took his three sons and their wives, many of his neighbours’ boats, sheep, weapons, pots and pans, gold and a number of their wives. He left his neighbours shaking spears (what was left) and shouting on the shore, while he sailed down the Mediterranean, not knowing exactly what he wanted, but determined to find it.
Into the Atlantic, and there it was…Ireland, which at that time was covered with more wet trees than wet grass, and uninhabited. Parthalon led his fellow-rebels ashore and they prowled around looking for someone to argue with. There was no one about, so they settled down to breed and kill each other. They bred a wee bit faster than they killed because after 300 years there 9,000 of them and counting.
Then, one dark and stormy day, out of the sea came a yelling mob of piratical Fomorians. They were most likely Scandinavians of African pirates, descended from somebody else. With a cry of “Bloody unbelieving Heathens…May God have mercy on you..” by both sides…and everyone had a wonderful time killing each other on the plain where Dublin now stands.
Note: It is unknown about the Fomorians, but often when an Irishman calls down the mercy of God on your head it is the opposite that he means. You have to look beyond the meaning of the spoken word and try to guess what is in his mind. This is rather difficult, since his words and thoughts coincide only when he wants to fight you. He then makes his meaning quite clear.
Now it was a fine fight, and the Irish Greeks won! Celebrating the victory, they all became drunk and forgot to bury the bodies; and a great plague broke out. The bodies lay on the Dublin plain for thirty years.
Only three Irish Greek Captains survived, with a few of their followers. They occupied the island for another 200 years, breeding and fighting with each other and with the Fomorians. In the last great battle, on the coast of Donegal, all became so interested in the fighting that they forget about the rising tide, and with many killed with spears and swords, many more were drowned. And so noted the first recorded sea battle in Irish history.
One Captain, decided that Ireland was too dangerous…because of the sea, weather, land, attacks by more Scandinavians of Africa, and the other two…and they emigrated.
So with brave heart and not so of mind, leaving neighbours shaking spears (what was left) on shore, he led his little cargo of refugees to Greece, where they were immediately enslaved. They became compulsory carriers of wood and water and were issued with leather bags for the work. They became known as Firbolgs, from the Irish words ‘fir=man, and ‘bolg=bag’. After a time, as slaves in Greece, they increased and multiplied, with the blessing of their masters, who liked to have plenty of slaves. With stories and mournful songs about the beauty and glory of Ireland, handed down from father to son, the sons, sufficiently numerous, rebelled against their Greek masters, whose ships, cows, pigs, weapons and wives they stole, leaving their pass masters shaking spears (what was left) and shouting on shore, they sailed west, for that dear land across the Irish sea…where they settled down to farm, breed, love, argue, sing sad mournful songs, kill and be killed…and at times to emigrate once more.
