The Psalter of the Pig
An Ancient Irish Tale
Translated from the Irish text in Cross, Tom Peete. “The Psalter of the Pig, an Irish Legend.” Modern Philology 18, no. 8 (December 1920): 443–455.
In the tale recounted below, a devout community of otherworld monks shame their human neighbors with their Lenten piety. The editor notes: “The story of the monastery beneath the lake and of Caenchomrac’s sojourn therein appears to be of local origin and, in its present form, is the work of a writer who was acquainted with the monastic tradition represented by the annals. It is more or less paralleled by many accounts of sunken churches, castles, and cities and of visits made by mortals to the subaqueous world in medieval romance and in modern folk-lore.” He appends a large and interesting bibliography.1
There was a distinguished bishop in Clonmacnoise, whose name was Cáin Comrac (though at first he had been called Mochta). He was a “son of virginity,” a true heir of God, and he had made two pilgrimages to Clonmacnoise. So great was the honour and affection shown him there that he had won this favour from God: no member of his community would ever die either of hunger or of painful sickness, and each year he foretold to everyone who among them would die in the last quarter of that same year.
Yet that very honour at Clonmacnoise weighed on him; so he went off to the lonely island of Inis Eandaimh in Lough Ree to do penance apart from the round of rule, Mass, and communal prayer.
A devout handful of monks stayed with him on the island. They would row to the mainland of Teffia to collect alms and first-fruits, for the men of Teffia were bound to him by a heavy tribute: one hundred piglets, one hundred calves, one hundred lambs, a loaf from every hearth, and a small silver coin (screapall) from every farm-steading.
No travelling company was allowed to exceed nine persons unless it paid an extra screapall; and Cáin Comrac laid down the rule in these verses:
“I beg it of my King:
let the men of Teffia reach their land;
may they wound no one,
and let no one wound them.“Hear me plainly—no lying word—
if you will heed me,
your company shall be nine.“Though great hosts stand in your path and strike you with dread, if you keep to my counsel you will go home safe.
“Nine men of Teffia’s land
against a hundred thousand warriors—
my ordering shall protect them;
they will pass unharmed through every host.“No victorious war-band,
no mighty army of the world,
will plunder them,
so long as they remain in my service—
and my service is service of God.”
For a time the traffic ran back and forth between Clonmacnoise and Inis Eandaimh on those terms. One day, while the saint was on the island, the monks went off. Eógan and Eicertach, two sons of Áedacán of Uí Maine, helped carry the bishop’s packs as far as Sliabh Liatroma. There the clan Fannáin were out hunting in the mountain; they killed a litter of young pigs that belonged to the clerics, brought one piglet to them, and spitted it beside the fire. When the party dispersed about the island to chant the psalms, Cáin Comrac was left alone to watch the roasting.
It was not long till he saw a gigantic man striding toward him, rising from the very bottom of the lake. They exchanged blessings. “Good is the watch you keep,” the stranger said, “over the pig upon the spit, while the others chant their psalms without you.”
“And what is that to you?” asked Cáin Comrac.
“It concerns me much,” the stranger replied. “There is a monastery of ours beneath this lake; it offends the Creator no more that men should dwell under water than in other places. The novices of the monastery caused mischief, and for penance they were turned into pigs; they are the very pigs that were killed to-day on Sliabh Liatroma. That pig on the spit is one of them, and I am his father in the flesh. Here in my hand is his Psalter; I give it to you. It will afterwards be called Saltair na Muice, ‘The Pig’s Psalter’, and may it be treasured long in Clonmacnoise.
“As for the piglet, give it to Eógan — let it count in place of a full-grown boar” — and Cáin Comrac granted him leave to carry it away for burial. “But, cleric,” the great man added, “will you not come and visit the monastery that lies beneath this lake?”
“I will,” said Cáin Comrac. Down they went together, entered the hidden monastery, and the bishop stayed a while among the underwater monks. Next morning he returned to his own house, laden with the spiritual riches of the lake; thenceforward he often visited the brethren below and never abandoned them so long as he lived.
Every Thursday the clerics of Lough Ree came to Inis Eandaimh for Cáin Comrac to bless oil for them; he celebrated the Hours and Mass, blessed the oil, and preached.
A feast followed, as was the custom after the liturgy.
Cáin Comrac withdrew, taking with him most of the Lenten fare, and later re-entered the refectory where they were dining. He found the tables heaped with fat meats, which they were freely eating in mid-Lent; he began to clear the dishes away in honour of the fast. A mighty wrath seized him; such radiance of divine fire shone from his face that the clerics could not endure his look. They fled in trembling before the holiness of the man.
Cáin Comrac left them—and was never seen again. No one knows whether he went beneath the lake for good, to serve God in the hidden monastery, or whether angels bore his soul straight to heaven.
And, say the old men of Ireland, from that day on the elders of the Gaels would never again taste flesh in Lent.
In addition to the citations enumerated in Modern Philology, XII (1915), 603, nn. 2 and 3 (cf. Modern Philology, XIII [1916], 731 if.), see T. C. Croker, Researches in the South of Ireland, London, 1824, p. 98; Edward Davies, Mythology and Rites of the British Druids, London, 1809, p. 146; Rhŷs, Celtic Folk-Lore, I, pp. 74, 191 f., 381 ff.; II, 426 ff. 436 ff.; Arthur C. L. Brown, Anniversary Papers by Colleagues and Pupils of George Lyman Kittredge, Boston and London, 1913, pp. 236 if.; Ulster Journal of Archaeology VII (1859), 348; Lady Wilde, Ancient Legends of Ireland, rev. ed., London, 1899, p. 248; M. A. Courtney, Cornish Feasts and Folk-Lore, Penzance, 1890, pp. 66 if.; Robert Hunt; Popular Romances of the West of England, a new impression, London, 1916, pp. 189 if., Robert C. Hope, Legendary Lore of the Holy Wells of England: Including Rivers, Lakes, Fountains, and Springs, London, 1893, pp. 132, 181; J. F. Campbell, Popular Tales of the West Highlands, London, III (1892), 421 if.; Marie Trevelyan, Folk-Lore and Folk- Stories of Wales, London, 1909, pp. 11 if.
Fletcher S. Bassett (Sea Phantoms: or Legends and Superstitions of the Sea and of Sailors, Chicago, 1892, p. 480) tells a modern Irish yarn connected with the town of Kilkokeen, which, like the monastery in the Saltair na muice, lies beneath the Shannon River. “It was said that, in 1823, a boat’s crew of fifteen men were seen in church, who came from this subaqueous village, to receive spiritual consolation. The legend further relates that a ship came into the river one night, and anchored here at the wharves of a fine city. The next morning, one of the inhabitants came aboard, and engaged them to go to Bordeaux; and the day after their return with a rich cargo, the city sank and never reappeared.”
According to a Shropshire tradition, a monastery once stood on the ground now occupied by Colemere. A spring near the monastery burst forth and overwhelmed it. The chapel bells may still be heard ringing at certain times (C. S. Burne, Shropshire Folk-Lore, p. 67). For a church overwhelmed by water and “now represented on dry land only by a hermit in a violent hurry,” see Celtic Review, III (1906-7), 273. See, further, Paul Sébillot, Le Folk-Lore des Pecheurs, Paris, 1901, p. 359 if., and Franz Schmarsel, Literarhistorische Forschungen, Heft 53, Berlin, 1913, pp. vi-viii (Bibliog.), pp. 62 ff.