The Mumbles Horse’s Head - The 'Mari Lwyd' by Marjorie Bowden (nee Jenkins)

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Ed: note. This article was written back in the 1970s, so it is now over 160 years since Sharper first made his appearance as a ‘Mari Lwyd’ in Mumbles.

The Mari Lwyd or ‘Grey Mare’ was a custom the origins of which are lost in time. It was one of a series of ritual entries to the home, which took place at Christmas and New Year, and was one variant of wassailing. All Hallows’ Eve marked the beginning of the winter half of the year in the old Celtic calendar. Winter was more active socially, perhaps because there was less work to be done in general or because of the isolation felt by country folk during the long winter evenings.

The Horse’s Head and 'The Mari Lwyd' custom

It was over 120 years ago that Mumbles first had the Horse’s Head. It started when my father, William Jenkins was a lad of sixteen. There was a mari lwyd up the valleys, but although the boys of the village used to go out with a ram’s head, they thought that if they had a horse’s head, they could do better. But where to get one! Well it so happened that there used to be a young horse that the boys knew very well; he used to come up every week from Gower with vegetables and the boys used to mind him while the man got on with his rounds; he was a quite horse and his name was Sharper.

Well, poor Sharper took ill and died. He was buried at Barland near Kittle. As time passed, the boys thought it would be a good plan to dig up his skull for a mari lwyd. So this they did and bought him back and buried him in lime out at Limeslade. They left him till he was clean, so when it got near to Christmas they dug him up again.

Now it was time to put him together. They joined his jaws with wire and put a block of wood between them and a broom handle to hold up right. He did not look too bad. He still had his teeth like he has today, but now they had to make some eyes. This, they did with the bottoms of dark green glass bottles. He was now ready for my grandmother to dress and she did this by making a cover for him to which she could pin rosettes and ribbons and sheets for a man to go under. Now, he needed a mane and this was made out of rope. He did look fine! Today, we still dress him the same.

The boys could not sing in Welsh, so they had to make up a song of their own. They asked the Curate of the church to help them and this same song has gone down though the years with him.

Sharper started to go out every Christmas for years to come and everyone in the village used to come out to see him and sing with him on Christmas eve. It was not Christmas unless they saw him coming down though the village! He became so well known that the party with him was invited to the big houses in and around Langland and Caswell, to come in and sing for the guests, who would give Sharper oranges, apples and mince pies. These were all taken by the man under the sheet, who would open Sharper’s jaws by pulling on a piece of string and take the food from them (this would always get a good laugh).

The man who led the horse was called the hasseless and he would be dressed up in a top hat and tails. Afterwards he would collect the money in his hat. If people wanted an encore, the party would sing the mistletoe bough and so it went on through the years till my father had him.

All of my six brothers had a turn at picking a party of ten men to carry on. They would go out about a fortnight before Christmas walking miles, but they always finished up by their own front door singing for my mother, before they shared the money out on Christmas Eve.

This went on till all my brothers left home. Then the 1914 war broke out and two of my brothers were drowned. Sharper was put away and forgotten till the war was over and the boys came back home. At Christmas they asked my mother if they could take Sharper out again, so my father let them. So Sharper was out again for a few more years. By this time, I was grown up, so I was taught how to dress him by my mother. This we did each year. Time went on and we lost our parents in 1936; then another war came and Sharper was put away again.

My sisters and I thought to put him in to Swansea Museum, but we could not part with him. Time went on. We were married to two brothers. My sister’s husband was in the navy and mine was in the fire service. When the war was over, my husband got Sharper out again. This went on for a good many years till we lost our husbands. I thought that was the end and that Sharper would never come out again.

Then, a few years ago, an old Mumbles boy came and asked me if we still had the Head and if I would make up a concert in the schoolroom of the long chapel to raise money to help the painting of the inside of the Chapel. This we did and Sharper went out again and again he was put away until I brought him out again in 1969, when I dressed him up just like he used to be years ago.

I went to three parties with him and found out he was not forgotten all together and then Christmas of 1970, my sons and a party of friends had him out. You may have heard they made enough money to give the pensioners a night out which was enjoyed by all.

now I hope that in the years to come, Sharper will do his work and that the boys of Mumbles will enjoy going on as my family did from all those years ago.

Marjorie Bowden (nee Jenkins)

written in the 1970s

These are two of the songs we used to sing.

——oOo——

THE HORSE’S HEAD

(1)

My clothing it was once

And my limbs they were so fine

My mane and tail so long

And my coat it used to shine

But now I'm getting older and my courage is getting small

I'm forced to eat the sour grogs that grow beneath the wall

Poor old horse let him die. Poor old horse let him die.

(2)

He eateth all my hay and corn

Devoureth all my straw.

Likewise he is not fit to put into my carriage to draw

Likewise those actful limbs of mine that have travelled so

many a mile

Over hedges ditches bramble bushes gates and narrow styles Poor old horse let him die. Poor old horse let him die.

(3)

My skin unto the huntsman so freely I would give

My flesh unto the hounds I really do believe

So it's whip him spur him cut him to the huntsman let him go

So it1s whip him spur him cut him to the hundsman let him go

Poor old horse let him die, Poor old horse let him die.

(4)

So now they've eaten all my flesh

And my bones are white and dry

They put my head upon a Stick

To go out at Christmas time

So now my tale is ended but I still am very gay

To wish you all the happiness on this coming Christmas Day.

On this coming Christmas Day, On this coming Christmas Day

——oOo——

——oOo——

THE MISTLETOE BOUGH

The mistletoe hung in the castle hall

The holly branch hung on the old oak wall

The baron's retainers were blithe and gay

In keeping their Christmas holiday

The baron beheld with a father's pride

His beautiful child young lovers bride

While she with her bright eyes seemed to be

The star of the goodly company.

Oh the mistletoe bough

Oh the mistletoe bough

‘I'm weary of dancing now’ she cried

'I'll tarry a moment, I'll hide, I'll hide'.

‘Young lover be sure you're the first to trace

The clue to my secret hiding place.’

And away she ran and her friends began

Each tower to search and each nook to scan

And young lover he cried ‘Oh where dost thou hide?

I'm lonesome without thee my own dear bride'

Oh! the mistletoe bough

Oh! the mistletoe bough

They sought her that night and they sought her next day

They sought her in vain till a week passed away

In the highest and lowest the loneliest spot

Young lover sought wisely but found her not

And years flew by and their grief at last

Was told as a sorrowful tale long past

And when lover appeared the children cried

'See the old man weep for his fairy bride!

Oh the mistletoe bough

Oh the mistletoe bough

At length an old oak chest that had long lain hid

They found in the castle, they raised the lid

And a skeleton form lay mouldering there

In the bridal wreath of that lady fair

Oh sad was the fate in her sporting jest

She hid from her lord in the old oak chest

It closed with a spring and her bridal bloom —

Lay withering there in a living tomb

Oh the mistletoe bough

Oh the mistletoe bough

——oOo——