The Ballad of Paud O'Donoghue

by Patrick Archer

When the Yeos were in Dunshaughlin
And the Hessians in Drumree,
And spread through fair Moynalty's plain
Were the Fencibles of Reagh.
When Roden's God-less troupers reigned
From Skryne to Mullacroo
And hammered were the pike heads first
by Paud O'Donoghue.

Young Paud he was as brave a boy
As ever hammer swung,
And the finest hurdler that you'd find
In the lads of Meath among.
And when the wrestling match was o'er
No man could boast he threw
The black-haired smith of Curraha,
Young Paud O'Donoghue

But ninety-eight's dark season came
And Irish hearts were sore,
The pitcheap and the triangle
The patient folk outwore.
Young Paud, he thought of Ireland,
And says, there's work to do.
We'll forge some steel for freedom,
Says Paud O'Donoghue.

And at Curraha each night
You'd hear his anvil ring
While scouting on the roadside
Where Hugh and Phelim King,
With Duffy's Matt and Mickey's Pat
And Hughie Gilsenan too,
While in the forge for Ireland worked
Young Paud O'Donoghue.

But a traitor crept amongst them
And the secret soon was sold
To the captain of the yeomen
For his ready Saxon gold.
And a troop rushed out one evening
From the woods of Lone Kilbrue
And soon a rebel prisoner bound
Was Paud O'Donoghue.

"Don on your knees, you rebel dog,"
The yeoman captain roared,
And high above his silver crest
He waved his gleaming sword.
"Down on your knees to meet your doom,
Such is the rebel's due,"
But straight as pikestaff 'fore him stood
Young Paud O'Donoghue.

And there upon the roadside
In childhood he had played
Before the cruel yeoman
He stood quite undismayed.
"I kneel but to my God above,
I ne'er shall bow to you.
You can shoot me as I'm standing,"
Said Paud O'Donoghue.

The captain gazed in wonder,
Then lowered his keen-edged blade.
"A rebel bold is this," he said,
"He's fitting to degrade."
"Here men, unbind him,
My charger needs a shoe,
The King shall have a workman
In this Paud O'Donoghue."

Now to the forge young Paud has gone,
The yeomen guard the door
And soon the angry bellows
Is heard to snort and roar.
The captain stands with reins in hands
While Padraie fits the shoe.
And when 'tis on it's short the shrift
He'll give bold Donoghue.

The last strong nail is firmly clinched,
The captain's horse is shod.
Now rebel bold thine hour has come;
Prepare to meet they God.
But why holds he the horse's hoof?
There's no more work to do.
Why clenches he the hammer so,
Young Paud O'Donoghue.

A volley from the muskets;
A rush of horses feet;
He's gone and noon can capture
The captain's charger fleet.
And in the night winds backward
Comes a mocking halloo!
Which tells the Yeomen they have lost
Young Paud O'Donoghue.

And still in Meath's fair county
There are brave lads, not a few
Who would follow in the footsteps
Of Paud O'Donoghue.

Transcribed from a brochure, Ceremonies on Tara Hill, Sunday, 3rd October 1948. Commemorative of those who fell fighting for freedom on the Hill of Tara and other parts of Meath in 1798.

In 1956, I visited Ireland to find my relatives and historical places my father often spoke about. I did find Curraha, about 10-15 miles west of Dublin, and behind the pub, then owned by a distant cousin, Charlie Coyle, there stood the forge believed to have been used by Paud O'Donoghue 161 years previous, as his contribution to the Battle of the Hill of Tara.

In May 2001, Jim Wall, who lives nearby Curraha, was searching the InterNet and found this page about Paud O'Donoghue. He very kindly photographed for me a statue, commemorating the memory and achievements of Paud O'Donoghue, recently erected at the crossroads by the citizens of Curraha.

In October 2001, Teresa Joyce, who lives in Curraha, knew about this web site and kindly provided a close-up of the statute.

Here they are:

Paud O'Donoghue's likeness at work at his forge.

Close-up of Paud O'Donoghue's likeness at work at his forge.

And here's The Legend of O'Donoghue which I recently found in my research, date unknown:

The Legend Of O'Donoghue

T. Crofton Croker

In an age so distant that the precise period is unknown, a chieftain named O'Donoghue ruled over the country which surrounds the romantic Lough Lean, now called the lake of Killarney. Wisdom, beneficence, and justice distinguished his reign, and the prosperity and happiness of his subjects were their natural results. He is said to have been as renowned for his warlike exploits as for his pacific virtues; and as a proof that his domestic administration was not the less rigorous because it was mild, a rocky island is pointed out to strangers, called “O'Donoghue's Prison”, in which this prince once confined his own son for some act of disorder and disobedience.

His end – for it cannot correctly be called his death – was singular and mysterious. At one of those splendid feasts for which his court was celebrated, surrounded by the most distinguished of his subjects, he was engaged in a prophetic relation of the events which were to happen in ages yet to come. His auditors listened, now wrapt in wonder, now fired with indignation, burning with shame, or melted into sorrow, as he faithfully detailed the heroism, the injuries, the crimes, and the miseries of their descendants. In the midst of his predictions he rose slowly from his seat, advanced with a solemn, measured, and majestic tread to the shore of the lake, and walked forward composedly upon its unyielding surface. When he had nearly reached the centre he paused for a moment, then, turning slowly round, looked toward his friends, and waving his arms to them with the cheerful air of one taking a short farewell, disappeared from their view.

The memory of the good O'Donoghue has been cherished by successive generations with affectionate reverence; and it is believed that at sunrise, on every May-day morning, the anniversary of his departure, he revisits his ancient domains: a favoured few only are in general permitted to see him, and this distinction is always an omen of good fortune to the beholders; when it is granted to many it is a sure token of an abundant harvest – a blessing, the want of which during this prince's reign was never felt by his people. Some years have elapsed since the last appearance of O'Donoghue. The April of that year had been remarkably wild and stormy; but on May-morning the fury of the elements had altogether subsided. The air was hushed and still; and the sky, which was reflected in the serene lake, resembled a beautiful but deceitful countenance, whose smiles, after the most tempestuous emotions, tempt the stranger to believe that it belongs to a soul which no passion has ever ruffled.

The first beams of the rising sun were just gilding the lofty summit of Glenaa, when the waters near the eastern shore of the lake became suddenly and violently agitated, though all the rest of its surface lay smooth and still as a tomb of polished marble, the next morning a foaming wave darted forward, and, like a proud high-crested war-horse, exulting in his strength, rushed across the lake toward Toomies mountain. Behind this wave appeared a stately warrior fully armed, mounted upon a milk-white steed; his snowy plume waved gracefully from a helmet of polished steel, and at his back fluttered a light blue scarf. The horse, apparently exulting in his noble burden, sprung after the wave along the water, which bore him up like firm earth, while showers of spray that glittered brightly in the morning sun were dashed up at every bound.

The warrior was O'Donoghue; he was followed by numberless youths and maidens, who moved lightly and unconstrained over the watery plain, as the moonlight fairies glide through the fields of air; they were linked together by garlands of delicious spring flowers, and they timed their movements to strains of enchanting melody. When O'Donoghue had nearly reached the western side of the lake, he suddenly turned his steed, and directed his course along the wood-fringed shore of Glenaa, preceded by the huge wave that curled and foamed up as high as the horse's neck, whose fiery nostrils snorted above it. The long train of attendants followed with playful deviations the track of their leader, and moved on with unabated fleetness to their celestial music, till gradually, as they entered the narrow strait between Glenaa and Dinis, they became involved in the mists which still partially floated over the lakes, and faded from the view of the wondering beholders: but the sound of their music still fell upon the ear, and echo, catching up the harmonious strains, fondly repeated and prolonged them in soft and softer tones, till the last faint repetition died away, and the hearers awoke as from a dream of bliss.

Terry Smythe
Winnipeg, Canada
February, 2000

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