Yeats' FAIRY AND FOLK
TALES OF THE IRISH PEASANTRY
FLORY CANTILLON'S FUNERAL
T. Crofton Croker
The ancient burial-place of the Cantillon family was on an island in
Ballyheigh Bay. This island was situated at no great distance from the shore,
and at a remote period was overflowed in one of the encroachments which the
Atlantic has made on that part of the coast of Kerry. The fishermen declare they
have often seen the ruined walls of an old chapel beneath them in the water, as
they sailed over the clear green sea of a sunny afternoon. However this may be,
it is well-known that the Cantillons were, like most other Irish families,
strongly attached to their ancient burial-place; and this attachment led to the
custom, when any of the family died, of carrying the corpse to the seaside,
where the coffin was left on the shore within reach of the tide. In the morning
it had disappeared, being, as was traditionally believed, conveyed away
by the ancestors of the deceased to their family tomb.
Connor Crowe, a county Clare man, was related to the Cantillons by marriage.
"Connor Mac in Cruagh, of the seven quarters of Breintragh," as he was commonly
called, and a proud man he was of the name. Connor, be it known, would drink a
quart of salt water, for its medicinal virtues, before breakfast; and for the
same reason, I suppose, double that quantity of raw whiskey between breakfast
and night, which last he did with as little inconvenience to himself as any man
in the barony of Moyferta; and were I to add Clanderalaw and Ibrickan, I don't
think I should say wrong.
On the death of Florence Cantillon, Connor Crowe was determined to satisfy
himself about the truth of this story of the old church under the sea: so when
he heard the news of the old fellow's death, away with him to Ardfert, where
Flory was laid out in high style, and a beautiful corpse he made.
Flory had been as jolly and as rollicking a boy in his day as ever was
stretched, and his wake was in every respect worthy of him. There was all kind
of entertainment, and all sort of diversion at it, and no less than three girls
got husbands there--more luck to them. Everything was as it should be; all that
side of the country, from Dingle to Tarbert, was at the funeral. The Keen was
sung long and bitterly; and, according to the family custom, the coffin was
carried to Ballyheigh strand, where it was laid upon the shore, with a prayer
for the repose of the dead.
The mourners departed, one group after another, and at last Connor Crowe was
left alone. He then pulled out his whiskey bottle, his drop of comfort, as he
called it, which he required, being in grief; and down he sat upon a big stone
that was sheltered by a projecting rock, and partly concealed from view, to
await with patience the appearance of the ghostly undertakers.
The evening came on mild and beautiful. He whistled an old air which he had
heard in his childhood, hoping to keep idle fears out of his head; but
the wild strain of that melody brought a
thousand recollections with it, which only made the twilight appear more
"If 'twas near the gloomy tower of Dunmore, in my own sweet country, I was,"
said Connor Crowe, with a sigh, "one might well believe that the prisoners, who
were murdered long ago there in the vaults under the castle, would be the hands
to carry off the coffin out of envy, for never a one of them was buried
decently, nor had as much as a coffin amongst them all. 'Tis often, sure enough,
I have heard lamentations and great mourning coming from the vaults of Dunmore
Castle; but," continued he, after fondly pressing his lips to the mouth of his
companion and silent comforter, the whiskey bottle, "didn't I know all the time
well enough, 'twas the dismal sounding waves working through the cliffs and
hollows of the rocks, and fretting themselves to foam. Oh, then, Dunmore Castle,
it is you that are the gloomy-looking tower on a gloomy day, with the gloomy
hills behind you; when one has gloomy thoughts on their heart, and sees you like
a ghost rising out of the smoke made by the kelp burners on the strand, there
is, the Lord save us! as fearful a look about you as about the Blue Man's Lake
at midnight. Well, then, anyhow," said Connor, after a pause, "is it not a
blessed night, though surely the moon looks mighty pale in the face? St. Senan
himself between us and all kinds of harm."
It was, in truth, a lovely moonlight night; nothing was to be seen around the
dark rocks, and the white pebbly beach, upon which the sea broke with a hoarse
and melancholy murmur. Connor, notwithstanding his frequent draughts, felt
rather queerish, and almost began to repent his curiosity. It was certainly a
solemn sight to behold the black coffin resting upon the white strand. His
imagination gradually converted the deep moaning of old ocean into a mournful
wail for the dead, and from the shadowy recesses of the rocks he imaged forth
strange and visionary forms.
As the night advanced, Connor became weary with watching. He caught himself
more than once in the act of nodding, when suddenly giving his head a shake, he would look towards the
black coffin. But the narrow house of death remained unmoved before him.
It was long past midnight, and the moon was sinking into the sea, when he
heard the sound of many voices, which gradually became stronger, above the heavy
and monotonous roll of the sea. He listened, and presently could distinguish a
Keen of exquisite sweetness, the notes of which rose and fell with the heaving
of the waves, whose deep murmur mingled with and supported the strain!
The Keen grew louder and louder, and seemed to approach the beach, and then
fell into a low, plaintive wail. As it ended Connor beheld a number of strange
and, in the dim light, mysterious-looking figures emerge from the sea, and
surround the coffin, which they prepared to launch into the water.
"This comes of marrying with the creatures of earth," said one of the
figures, in a clear, yet hollow tone.
"True," replied another, with a voice stiff more fearful, "our king would
never have commanded his gnawing white-toothed waves to devour the rocky roots
of the island cemetery, had not his daughter, Durfulla, been buried there by her
"But the time will come," said a third, bending over the coffin,
"When mortal eye--our work shall spy,
"Then," said a fourth, "our burial of the Cantillons is at an end for
And mortal ear--our
dirge shall hear."
As this was spoken the coffin was borne from the beach by a retiring wave,
and the company of sea people prepared to follow it; but at the moment one
chanced to discover Connor Crowe, as fixed with wonder and as motionless with
fear as the stone on which he sat.
"The time is come," cried the unearthly being, "the time is come; a human eye
looks on the forms of ocean, a human ear has heard their voices. Farewell to the
Cantillons; the sons of the sea are no longer doomed to bury the dust of the
One after the other turned slowly round, and regarded Connor Crowe, who still
remained as if bound by a spell. Again arose their funeral song; and on the next
wave they followed the coffin. The sound of the lamentation died away, and at
length nothing was heard but the rush of waters. The coffin and the train of sea
people sank over the old churchyard, and never since the funeral of old Flory
Cantillon have any of the family been carried to the strand of Ballyheigh, for
conveyance to their rightful burial-place, beneath the waves of the