LEGENDS OF THE CO. CLARE.
In the west of Clare, for many miles the country seems to consist of nothing but fields of grey limestone flags, which gives it an appearance of the greatest desolation: Cromwell is reported to have said of it, "that there was neither wood in it to hang a man, nor water to drown him, nor earth to bury him!" The soil is not, however, by any means as barren as it looks; and the following legend is related of the way in which an ancestor of one of the most extensive landed proprietors in the county obtained his estates.
'Twas on a dismal evening in the depth of winter, that one of Cromwell's officers was passing through this part of the country; his courage and gallantry in the "good cause" had obtained for him a large grant of land in Clare, and he was now on his journey to it. Picturing to himself a land flowing with milk and honey, his disappointment may therefore be imagined when, at the close of a weary day's journey, he found himself bewildered amid such a scene of desolation. From the inquiries he had made at the last inhabited place he had passed, he was led to conclude that he could not be far distant from the "land of promise," where he might turn his sword into a pruning-hook, and rest from all his toils and dangers. Could this be the place of which his imagination had formed so fair a vision? Hours had elapsed since he had seen a human being; and, as the solitude added to the dismal appearance of the road, bitterly did the veteran curse the folly that had enticed him into the land of bogs and "Papistrie." Troublous therefore as the times were, the tramp of an approaching steed sent a thrill of pleasure through the heart of the Puritan. The rider soon joined him, and as he seemed peaceably disposed, they entered into conversation; and the stranger soon became acquainted with the old soldier's errand, and the disappointment he had experienced. Artfully taking advantage of the occasion, the stranger, who professed an acquaintance with the country, used every means to aggravate the disgust of his fellow-traveller, till the heart of the Cromwellian, already half overcome by fatigue and hunger, sank within him; and at last he agreed that the land should be transferred to the stranger for a butt of Claret and the horse on which he rode. As soon as this important matter was settled, the stranger conducted his new friend to a house of entertainment in a neighbouring hamlet, whose ruins are still called the Claret House of K——. A plentiful, though coarse, entertainment soon smoked on the board; and as the eye of the Puritan wandered over the "creature comforts," his heart rose, and he forgot his disappointment and his fatigue. It is even said that he dispensed with nearly ten of the twenty minutes which he usually bestowed on the benediction;
but be this as it may, ere he retired to his couch—"vino ciboque gravatus"—the articles were signed, and the courteous stranger became possessed of one of the finest estates in the county!
Francis Robert Davies.