Intro: This poem tells the bizarre and tragic story of Bridget Cleary, a real-life woman who lived in Ireland in the late 1800s. After passing through an area believed to be inhabited by fairies, she fell ill and was subsequently believed to be a fairy changeling by her family, who called upon not only the local doctor and priest for assistance, but also a man who was said to be a "fairy doctor," or folk healer, to try to get the real Bridget back from the land of the fairies.
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I was no witch, I was no fairy.
I was just a lass from Tipperary.
A wife, a daughter, an honest wan
Until my flame of life was buried.
Twas early March in the early morn
When my black stockings I did adorn
Myself with for to make my way
Through yonder glen, past the fairy fort.
Basket in hand, I moved with haste,
For I dared not tarry in this place
Where fae and demon foul did lurk
In search of souls to lay to waste.
I hurried on, wind at my back.
Bramble below my feet did crack
When hark! Another sound heard I
Behind me in the shadows black.
With quivering hands, I turned my head
And lo, my heart did fill with dread.
For there before me, beaming wide,
A face I knew to long be dead.
With hair of gold and gown of white,
She walked with gait so feather light.
My Michael's mother, yes it was she,
Gone six years now one autumn night.
"Bridgie, love!" to me she cried.
"Come hither, my dearest son's fair bride!"
And to me, an open hand she held
And beckoned me gaily to her side.
With thundering heart, I turned and ran
And threw the basket from my hand.
Back through the glen, and nae once dared I
Look back upon that cursed land.
At long last, back home I came
And fell upon the old doorframe.
And there I cried to the heavens above,
"God help this poor, unfortunate dame!"
Out came my Michael, eyes wide with terror
At seeing me trembling, lying there.
Into his arms, he took me hence
To our chamber with greatest care.
There I remained for days in bed,
Struck with fever the doctor said.
And then one day, to my dark room
The Father came with wine and bread.
"Bridget, child," said he to me.
"I've come to lend God's aid, you see.
For by His hand, you shall be healed."
And thus, my Michael did agree.
For hours and days o'er me he prayed
With Michael and kinfolk lending aid.
But try as they may, I healed not;
No, my affliction with me stayed.
It was then that cousin Jack did tell
Of how I’d fallen so unwell
And called upon the cunning man
To free me from this dismal spell.
With herbs and piss and poker hot,
They tormented me, but all for naught.
And as I weakened more each day,
With anguish my poor heart was wrought.
Then one late night, as I lay frail,
In came Michael, his face struck pale.
"Ye are not my wife!" cried he.
"But a changeling who from Hell does hail!"
Around my neck his hands did wrap.
"Where is my Bridget?! Bring her back!"
I tried to speak, but I could not
As with rough hand, my cheek he slapped.
Into blinding rage he did descend
And dragged me shrieking from my bed
To the fireside, unto the floor,
Cursing me as I wept and pled.
And then he took me by the mane
And held my face to burning flames.
"If ye won't bring my Bridget home,
Then back to Hell from whence you came!"
Into the fire I then did soar
As he hurled me with a frightful roar.
"God in Heaven!" I screamed in vain
As I burned upon the Devil's own floor.
Twas many days hence when at last they found
My charred black form upon the ground
Within the very same fairy fort
Where otherworldly beings abound.
What happened then, no one can say
For sure of the events that day.
But if you go down to Ballyvadlea,
The children still sing as they play,
"Are you a witch or are you a fairy?
Or are you the wife of Michael Cleary?"
Who fifteen years in penance waits
For his bride who far away was carried.
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Bio: As a member of the Taino Indian Nation of the Caribbean, storytelling has always been a big part of Natalie's life and culture. This is what first inspired her to go into creative writing. She is also a socio-cultural anthropologist and folklorist and often writes fiction and poetry inspired by and including folkloric themes. Previous publications include a contribution to the creative fiction anthology, A Multiplicity of Stories, for the University of Toronto and a thesis on Japanese folklore and mythology for George Mason University.
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Image is from Irish Fairy Tales, illustrated by Arthur Rackham. I think its squirmy madness represents the mood of this twisted tale.
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