Peigín agus Peadar

Play recording: Peigín agus Peadar

In the long ago, when people were fortunate enough to get a job — now, I’m talking about the time… houses were very few and far between, and there was no roads. And this man had just been married a week, when he stepped out of the house he had — one room, the bedroom, the kitchen everything was in the one room. Peigín was the name of the wife, and his own name was Peadar, and he said to Peigín, “I don’t see any prospects around here, so I’ll put my bag on my back and go looking for work”. So he kissed Peigín goodbye, and off he goes.

Well, the rule was, if you hired to work for somebody, you’d have to waste [Joe probably meant to say ‘wait’] seven years. If you left half an hour before the seven years was up, you got no wages. That was the law. So after travelling three or four days, he hired with a certain farmer to do the job, and he was doing it so good that after seven years, the farmer said to him, “Well, now”, he said. “How would you like to spend another seven years with me? We like you!” To make a long story short, he stayed twenty-one years. And then he thought it was time to go home and see how the wife was getting on.

Well, the night before he left, the man of the house and his wife put their two heads together, and they asked him, “Would you rather if we gave you your wages for twenty-one years in money, than take three good, solid advices?” And, being a wise man, he said he’d take the advices. And the first advice they gave him — now, this… story was told in Irish, I’m translating it for you. Más cam díreach an ród, sé an bealach mór an aicearra¹. Whether the road you know is long, crooked, or whatever, it’s better than the road you don’t know. In other words, the devil you know is better than the devil you don’t know. The second advice: “Ná codail oíche amháin i dteach a bhfuil seanfhear pósta ag bean óg rua.” Never sleep one night in a house where an old man is married to a young, red-headed woman And the third advice was: “Ná déan tada san oíche a mbeidh aiféal ort faoi ar maidin.” Never do anything at night you’ll be sorry for in the morning. And it’s not what some people may be thinking about now! It’s not that at all.

Well, the woman of the house cooked two cakes for him. She said, “One cake you take home to your wife, the other cake you may eat on the road”. Next day he set off; and he met a man who was travelling the same way as he was. And the man told him, “Now, if you come with me, I know a shortcut, it will cut miles off your way home”. And he thought of the first advice, and he said, “I don’t think I’ll bother; I think I’ll go the road I know”. So he did; and next morning he heard the man who took the shortcut was waylaid by two robbers and killed that night.

The second day he was travelling, and getting awful tired by this time, and he knocked on a certain cottage. And the door was opened by the most gorgeous redhead you ever saw in your life — about seventeen, or something like that. And she welcomed him. “Come in! You look tired. I’ll get you something to eat. Go down and talk to my husband down at the fire until I’m ready.” And he looked down. And he never saw anybody so weak or so old-looking as the man at the fire. He had a cane under his chin… for keeping up his chin, otherwise he’d fall into the fire — he was that old! And he started thinking about the second advice. And when she gave him something to eat, she said “Do you want to stay around for the night? We’ll give you a place to stay”. “No”, he said. “I have to go home, the wife is waiting.” And he had no intentions of leaving that house that night. So he went outside, and lay down in an old shed outside. And at midnight, he saw a young man coming to the door. He went inside. And… about half an hour after he saw the young redhead and the young fellow coming out with the old man, stone — stiff — dead between them. And they started burying him just within earshot of where he was. And he crawled out and he took out his pen-knife, and he cut a piece out of the man’s jacket, which later proved his conviction for killing the old man.

But anyway, the third — the fourth day… he was on the road, he said he’d never stop until he reached home. Now, at this point I may add before he left, his wife was expecting a baby — but he knew nothing about it. And he went in, and when — it was broad daylight, very early in the morning — and he saw his wife in bed with this bearded fellow. And he put up his hand where he used to keep the old hatchet, and about half a ton of rust fell off it, nobody had used it since he left. And he was going to take the head off one of them, or two of them — I don’t know which — but then he thought of the third advice: “Ná déan — don’t do anything at night you’ll be sorry for in the morning.” And he put down the hatchet, and he said to Peigín, “A Pheigín na gcarad, is a Pheigín mo chroí, cé hé an fear fada sínte leat síos?” Peg dearest, Peg of my heart, who is that long bearded man down beside you? And she said, “A Pheadair na gcarad is a Pheadair mo chroí, sin é do leanbh nach bhfaca tú ariamh”. Oh Peter my dearest, O Peter my [heart], that’s your baby you never saw! And he said, “Shiúil mé thoir agus shiúil mé thiar” — I travelled east, I travelled west — “ach féasóg ar leanbh ní fha[ca mé ariamh]” — but I never saw whiskers on a baby boy!

Now, I’ll… do them three, and then I’ll tell you the other three verses, what happened. In Irish these are, and that’s the way I’m going to sing them. This is what he said when he put down the hatchet:

Is a Pheigín na gcarad is a Pheigín mo chroí
Cé hé an fear fada sínte leat síos?
Ó-bhá, hó-bhá, hó-bhá-ín, hó-bhá
Hó-bhá-ín, hó-bhá, a stóirín mo chroí.

‘S a Pheadair na gcarad ‘s a Pheadair mo chroí
Sin é do leanbh nach bhfaca tú ariamh!
Ó-bhá, hó-bhá, hó-bhá-ín, hó-bhá
Hó-bhá-ín, hó-bhá, a stóirín mo chroí.

Shiúil mé thoir agus shiúil mé thiar
Ach féasóg ar leanbh ní fhaca mé ariamh.
Ó-bhá, hó-bhá, hó-bhá-ín, hó-bhá
Hó-bhá-ín, hó-bhá, a stóirín mo chroí.

Now, after saying all that, she finally convinced him that was the fellow himself. And he asked her to get him something to eat, and she said “A Pheadair na gcarad, a Pheadair mo chroí, níl ins an teach aon ghreim mine buí”. Oh Peter my dearest, o Peter of my heart, we don’t have one iota of meal in the house. And then he said, “A Pheigín na gcarad, a Pheigín mo chroí, in íochtar mo mhála tá cáca mine buí”. O Peggy my dearest, there’s a cake in the bottom of my bag. She started cutting the cake, and out of the cake came his wages in golden sovereigns for twenty-one years. That’s how this goes²:

‘S a Pheadair na gcarad ‘s a Pheadair mo chroí
Tá an cáca seo a’d lán de ghineachaí buí
Ó-bhá, hó-bhá, hó-bhá-ín, hó-bhá
Hó-bhá-ín, hó-bhá, a stóirín mo chroí.

‘S a Pheigín ‘s a mhaicín, suífidh muid síos
Ní fhágfad an baile chúns mhairfeas mé aríst!
Ó-bhá, hó-bhá, hó-bhá-ín, hó-bhá
Hó-bhá-ín, hó-bhá, a stóirín mo chroí.

That is often sung as a lullaby, and it didn’t start out like that, but — a lullaby to somebody very old!