THE WHITEBOYS OF SIXTY YEARS AGO.
There is living in our neighbourhood an old man, the son of a once famous ‘Whiteboy.’ As such, his bringing-up must have been strangely in keeping with the moonlighting propensities of the present day, and of which we unfortunately hear so much. But not so. ‘Barry,’ as we shall call him, has a horror of Land-leagueism, and will have nothing to do with it. His experience of the Whiteboys, or Moonlighters of sixty years ago, is interesting—at least to me; and I hope the following account will prove so to those who are not quite au fait with the doings of these confederations in Ireland sixty years ago.
Some time since, on the death of a relative, besides other effects willed to me, was a box containing several curios. Amongst them was a genuine letter written in 1823 by Captain Rock, in those days the Moonlight leader of the Whiteboys. Knowing from Barry that his father had been not only an admirer of Captain Rock, but a follower of his, I showed him the letter, hoping that in doing so I would also verify its authenticity. It was as follows:
¹ Perevil of the Peak. ¹
Notis.
Notis to Mistres H—— And all Whoe it May consarn that Whin Capton Rock and His Adicongs visot you next you Will take Kare to Have plenti of Mate and Pratees not Forgeting a Smol drop of the Crater.[1]
Sind—J. Rock. R.T.L.
given at our counsil this
10th day of April 1823.
‘Sure, and that’s a real letter, and no mistake,’ said Barry, handing it back to me after perusal. ‘I remember when I was a gorsoon [boy], my father writing letters just like it, when he and the Boys would meet of nights at our house. Many is the queer thing I heard them plan, when they thought I was asleep in bed; and though I forgets most of their doings now, I remembers a few; and I’ll tell them same to you and welcome, if you likes to hear them. The Whiteboys, and the Bloodsuckers, and the Molly M‘Guires resembles the Moonlighters of the present day; though they were not, so to say, as bad entirely, still they were fidgety creatures enough. ’Tis nigh on sixty years since my father died, and I was a tidy bit of a lad then. He was a follower of Captin Rock, the leader of what we called one kind of Whiteboys, in those days. Captin Rock was, you know, only an imaginary name, just as Captin Moonlight is in these times. I would not say as the Whiteboys in my father’s time was as bad as those as followed them. They said nothing against paying the rent; and a good drop of the crater would do wonders with Captin Rock and his followers. Sure, ’twas hard in name he was, as my father used to say, and not in nature.
‘The Bloodsuckers, who came next, were frightful creatures. They were so called because they took money to inform. ’Twas the price of blood, you see.
‘The famine of 1845 had a demoralising effect on the people, and many and many the poor creature breaking stones on the roadside had a pistol or some weapon of defence hid in the heap beside them. There was one gentleman you would like to hear about, maybe, who met with great troubles at the hands of the Boys. I knew him well, for many a pocketful of apples he gave me; and he was as hard-working and honest a creature as you’d meet with in a day’s walk. The Boys had no ill-will against himself personally; but they thought to frighten him from taking a farm as was “useful to them,”’ said Barry, with a knowing wink. ‘The first thing they did was to send him a threatening letter. Then a man as I knew full well—for many’s the time he and my poor father laid their plans together—he was turned off to shoot him. He stood inside the road-wall where there was an old archway half built up—a mighty convenient place, as he afterwards said, to rest a gun on. But for all that, he didn’t fire the shot that night, for reasons which you’ll hear presently. The Boys were so disappointed, that two of them went at dusk one evening to the gentleman’s own hall door and knocked. Sure enough, just as they thought, he opened it himself for them. On doing so, he saw the two Boys, one with a pistol, the other with a blunderbuss.
“Come out; you are wanted,” says they to him.
“Yes,” replied he; “but wait till I get my hat.”
“Don’t mind your hat,” was the answer; “you’ll do for us without it.”
‘Just then the Missis came into the hall, and hearing the noise, off they went.
‘Weeks afterwards, these men told the Master (as I shall call him, seeing I never likes to mention names) that had he gone in for his hat as he wanted to, they’d have shot him dead just where he stood, for they would have been afraid he was going for help.
“Why didn’t you shoot me the night you were behind the old archway on the old Moiveen road?” he asked one of them.
“The night was cold,” replied the Boy; “and the drop of the crater as the Captin sint me was that strong that it set me to sleep. I axes your pardon now for going to shoot you at all, for you are such a ‘dacent’ [plucky] man, you might be one of the Boys yourself. And to show you I has no ill-will agin you, if there is any little job as you wants done before marning” (meaning murder, of course), “I’ll do it for you meself and welcome.”
‘However, this didn’t see the poor Master at the end of his troubles; there was more before him. A short time after, as the man was ploughing in the field, four of the Boys came and told him to stand aside. Then two of them held him, while the other two put a bullet through the head of each horse, and the poor creatures died the same night. The Boys broke the plough afterwards and warned the man away. They tied notices on it forbidding any one to plough for the Master till he gave up the idea of taking the farm, as Captin Rock wanted it for his own use.
‘But the Master, he was an iligant man surely. Many’s the time, gorsoon though I was, I’d have given my two eyes to help him; but though I was no Whiteboy, and I hated their dirty work, I was the son of one, and you know, “There is honour among thieves.”—Well, as I was saying, the Master was an iligant, foine man. Being a bit handy, he mended his plough, took it in his own hands, and with his loaded gun laid across it, did all the ploughing himself. Maybe you won’t hardly credit me when I tell you that he did most of the work with a mule; and sometimes, to help the poor baste, when the ground was light, he yoked himself with her, whilst an old man who lived with the Master guided the plough. After this, the Boys, seeing they could not frighten him, let him alone.
‘When the Bloodsuckers had had their day, next came the Molly M‘Guires. ’Twas them as had the big blunderbuss called “Roaring Mag,” which maybe you have heard tell of. There was an Englishman who came over to Ireland and laid down a weir to catch our salmon; but the Molly M‘Guires would not have any foreigners come a-fishing to our shores, so they cut away the nets and destroyed the weir. Whenever they performed a bould feat such as this, they made poetry of it, writing it out, and giving a copy to the principal Molly M‘Guire Boys. ’Tis many a year ago since four of the Boys, long since dead, wrote the piece I allude to; and I doubt if there is any one alive but meself who could repeat it for you; but I always had a good mimory,’ concluded Barry proudly.
Molly M‘Guire.
written and composed for the
Boys, by four of ’em.
approved of
by our counsil
Sind—Molly M‘Guire.
’Twas of a Sunday morning,
All by the break of day,
When Molly M‘Guire and her army
Came sailing down the say.
She heard ‘Tom Spratt’s’ got down a weir
The salmon to insnare.
But soon she did them liberate,
Once more to sport and play.
When Molly M‘Guire came into the weir,
The salmon to her did say:
‘If you don’t us liberate,
We’ll surely die this day.’
But Molly bein’ a commander bold,
She soon did give them orders
The salmon to liberate.
Pat Munster the spy
He scampered the police to bring down,
Sayin’, there is an armed party
Come sailin’ to this town
With their guns and bagnots screwed and fixed,
Besides the ‘Roaring Mag;’[2]
For they surely will cut down the weir;
They seem to be all mad.
The sargint cries: ‘Come on, me boys;
We’ll fire at them some shots.’
But Molly M‘Guire made them soon retire,
Her army stood so brave.
She chases the poliss to their dens,
Like dogs that lost their tails;
For Molly M‘Guire will rise the hire,
An’ cut away the weirs.
‘That’s a fine piece of poetry, isn’t it?’ asked Barry, as he concluded this extraordinary medley, which cannot, I fear, be dignified by the name of rhyme, much less poetry. ‘A grain of powder and shot and a glass or two of the crater would make a Molly M‘Guire your friend for life, maybe. Sure, and many’s the curious thing I’ve known, and many’s the plan made in my hearing by the Boys and my father; but I would never tell on them, though I never had ought to do with their intrigues, as I calls them. But though my poor father was a real Whiteboy, he never had, as I knows of, the dark deeds on his conscience that some of them Moonlighters of the present days has. These is no times to be talking, leastways I keeps my thoughts to meself; but as you seemed anxious-like to hear of them that went before the Moonlighters, I am glad to oblige you. I have been able to do that without mentioning names; and there isn’t many alive who could tell you as well as meself of the doings in Old Oireland of sixty years ago.’