Scottish Traditional Tales

by A. J. Bruford

  So, he comes marchin owre to the baker to ax – to ask where there was a lodgin-hoose or anything where he could sleep for the night, and the man directed him where he could get lodgins. He says, ‘What are ye doin?’ he says – ‘ye’re a stranger here,’ says the man o the shop.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘I’m a stranger.’ He says, ‘I’m lookin for a job.’

  He says, ‘What kin’ o job are ye lookin for?’

  ‘Well,’ says the man, he says, ‘it’s a funny thing,’ he says, ‘you asked me that,’ he says – ‘jist the same kin’ o job . . . you are in . . .,’ he says. ‘I’m a baker. I’m a baker to trade.’

  ‘Well,’ says the man, ‘I could do wi a man for a baker – a man to bake pastries. Well,’ says the man – they’ve come to agreement an asked the wages, and the man tellt him – ‘Well,’ he says, ‘ye’ll get your lodgins,’ he says. ‘And,’ he says, ‘I’ll gie ye a good pey, and everything.’

  So he was there for aboot six month, and he could make the loveliest pastries ever the man – he was aboot the best baker this man had – the boss of the baker’s shop: he told him he was a good baker. And . . . he got so much wi his keep – got his food an his bed, but at the end o the year he got so much o his wages, a lump sum for goin away.

  Now he was wearied for his wife and two wee lassies – see? – so he says to the man, ‘I’m goin home,’ he says, ‘the day after tomorrow,’ he says. ‘I’m goin back home,’ he says – ‘I want to see the wife an kiddies. And,’ he says, ‘I’ll be liftin aa my wages,’ he says. ‘I mightnae be back,’ he says, ‘I don’t know what might happen me, for I’ve a long road to go home.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ says the man, he says, ‘but,’ he says, ‘there one thing,’ he says, ‘I’m goin to ask ye,’ he says. ‘I jist cam in to see ye, man,’ he says, ‘before ye were goin away up to your bed.’ He says, ‘Whether wad ye take your year’s wages, or take three good advices?’

  So the baker looked at him. He says, ‘What d’ye mean, Boss?’

  ‘Well,’ he says. ‘I’m only askin,’ he says, ‘whether wad ye take three good advices,’ he says, ‘or wad ye take your year’s pay?’

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘ye’ve got me noo,’ he says, ‘ye see’ he says, ‘I cud dae wi my week’s [sic] pey. An,’ he says, ‘wi three good advices,’ he says, ‘I could walk oot in the road there,’ he says, ‘an get killed,’ he says, ‘or something like that.’ An he says, ‘Wad ye gie me up to the morn’s mornin to think it ower?’

  So the man says, ‘Yes, that’ll do,’ he says. ‘If you wait till the morn’s mornin,’ he says. ‘Ye’re gaun away tomorrow,’ he says. ‘I’ll – ye can decide then which of the things ye want tae take . . . yer money or yer three advices.’

  So away, thinkin in bed . . . he could hardly sleep. An he says . . . whan he cam doon for his breakfast in the mornin, the boss says, ‘Well,’ he says, ‘George,’ he says, ‘did ye make up your mind what ye’re goin to take,’ he says, ‘your money,’ he says, ‘there’s your wages; there’s your packet,’ he says, ‘there’s a fair lump of money in it – I know you could be daein wi the money. An,’ he says, ‘I’ve got three good advices to gie ye,’ he says. ‘Now, have ye made up your mind which o’m ye’re gonnae take?’

  ‘Well,’ says the man, ‘I could dae wi the money,’ he says, ‘but,’ he says, ‘I think I’ve made up my mind,’ he says, ‘to take the three good advices.’

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘you took a wise decision,’ the man says.

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘the first advice is: Never take a near-cut.’ Ye see? So . . . the baker looked at the man . . . He says, ‘Never go intae a hoose,’ he says, ‘where there’s a red-heidit man, a red-heidit wumman, an a red-heidit – an auld red-heidit man, an an auld red-heidit wumman, an a red-heidit son.’

  ‘Oh,’ says the man, he says, ‘I’ll mind that.’

  ‘An,’ he says, ‘your third advice is,’ he says, ‘there’s a half-loaf, an don’t break that half-loaf,’ he says, ‘tae ye break it in your wife’s aperon. Get her to haud oot her apron,’ he says, ‘an break the half-loaf in your wife’s aperon.’ See?

  ‘Very good,’ says the man.

  ‘But,’ he says, ‘there’s your week’s pey to ye,’ he says, ‘ ’ll cairry ye hame.’

  So he bid the baker – bid his boss farewell, and said ‘You were very good tae me,’ and bid his family farewell, and away he set off for home.

  In them days it was mail-coaches – there were nae motor-cars, an buses – horseback an mail-coaches. He’s marchin the road back an his feet wis sore, travellin. Well, he come to a near-cut, and across this near-cut, across this fields, if he’d ’a took the near-cut it was cuttin aboot three mile off him, off his journey, see. He forgot aboot the advice, an he says, ‘Well,’ he says . . . ‘I’m goin ower this near-cut,’ he says, ‘an it’ll cut three mile off me.’ An he says, ‘my feet’s sore, I’ll have to go across this field.’

  So he went ower the stile, and he’s marchin through the field – it was a moonlight’s night – an the frost was on everything. An when he’s comin over the field, he hears a scream o a man, and this was burkers cuttin the packman’s throat in the middle o the field, jist as he was comin owre the brae o the hill. The screams o him an the roars o him was something terrible. He backs back, an he backs back, and he run for his life tae he got on to the road, and he run doon to the road, and wi the excitement – he run doon the road– he run to a wee crofter’s hoose at the side o the road, and when he ran in oot the road, there was a reid-heidit man, an an auld red-heidit wumman, an a red-heidit son. And he knew he’d done wrong. An the man says, ‘What is it?’ ‘Ah,’ . . . he says, ‘I’m tired,’ he says, ‘I got chased there,’ he says, ‘an I cam in,’ he says, ‘to see if ye could pit me up for the night.’

  ‘Well,’ says the man, he says, ‘I’ll tell ye,’ he says, ‘ye can gie him some parritch,’ he says, ‘an milk there – gie him a feed.’

  So he mindit on the three advices noo: he says, ‘I’m goin to be murdered here the night,’ he says, ‘this is a burkers’ hoose.’ ‘Well,’ he says, ‘listen,’ he says, ‘before ye gie me a wee bite of meat an that,’ he says, ‘and before yeze pit me in the byre,’ he says, ‘will yeze let me oot for a wee minute,’ he says. ‘I want tae do something.’ See?

  The man says, ‘Aye, aye,’ he says, ‘jist gang oot there and dinnae be lang.’

  And here, when he oot, he got into the reed – that’s where they keep the manure – coo’s manure and horse manure – he went into the reed, and he sut in the corner of the reed an he never cam back in again. And they’re searchin for him up and doon, here an there, an they couldnae fin’ him; they jist – they searched byre, stacks, an everything, but they hadnae an idea to ha’ gone into the reed where the dung was, where he was sitting an hidin, see? He was hidin in there.

  He bud there tae aboot the break o day light, and here was the mail-coach comin, wi the mail an two horses. An the man had a gun on tap o the . . . the thing, an his two dogs, an the horses comin trottin along the road. An he jumps ower an he held his hands up to the man like that an tellt the man to gie him a lift. An he still has his parcel. He got on to the mail-coach, and he tells the man goin along the road what happened.

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘if they come eftir ye,’ he says, ‘I’ll gie them an unce o leid,’ he says, ‘oot o ma gun, oot o this blunderbuss I’ve got,’ he says, ‘an I’ll put my dogs on them,’ he says. ‘Ye should watch what ye’re daein, man!’

  But when he got to the wife’s hoose, the wife was gled to see him, and the wee lassie; she throwed her neck aroon her man [sic] and tellt him tae come in.

  ‘God,’ she says, ‘you look fagged-oot,’ she says, an he tellt – She says, ‘Have ye got the money?’

  ‘No,’ he says, ‘I’ve only got this, what I’ve got left,’ he says, ‘aboot three pound,’ he says.

  ‘Did ye no get nae mair than that,’ she says, ‘for your year’s
workin?’

  ‘Naw,’ he says, ‘that’s aa I’ve got,’ he says, but he startit tellin her aboot the three good advices. He says, ‘My first one o the good advices was no to take a near-cut through the field, an whan I went through the field,’ he says, ‘there was the man gettin murdered, the packman. An,’ he says, ‘the other yin,’ he says, ‘was no to gaun intae a hoose where there was a red-heidit folk. But,’ he says, ‘that’s what I done,’ he says, ‘and I had tae sit in the reed aa night. An,’ he says, ‘ma third good advice,’ he says, ‘wife,’ he says, ‘was this wee half-loaf.’ He says, ‘The baker told me,’ he says, ‘the boss at the baker’s shop told me for to haud oot your aperon, an noo,’ he says, ‘haud it oot, yer aperon, tae I break the half-loaf.’

  An the wife held oot her apron, like that, an he broke the half-loaf. It was full of gold sovereigns. Jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle, the gold sovereigns fell intae her apron, and they lived happy ever after, an she was gled to see her man – he was near killt. So the three good advices peyed him, didn’t it? That’s the finish o’t an that’s the end o my story.

  HERO TALES

  16 Alasdair Stewart

  THE STORY OF THE COOK

  WHO WAS THERE, then, but – as the story went – this was a king, too, and this king had two sons, but he had one son by the nurse, and the queen didn’t know he was the nurse’s . . . she thought he was . . . one he had adopted. And this day – they were celebrating and the hen-wife (as we always call her) came along: she said (she was speaking to the queen), ‘You think that the inheritance is coming to you,’ said she, ‘to your son, but it isn’t,’ said she. ‘The nurse’s son will have the inheritance.’

  ‘Whose son is that?’ said she.

  ‘The nurse’s son,’ said she.

  And they were so much alike that they couldn’t be told apart, and, ‘Well . . .’ said [the queen], ‘how will I tell them apart?’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you that,’ . . . said she, ‘how you can tell them apart. You raise . . .’ said she – ‘Call them indoors for lunch and raise your dress above your knee. And your own son will come in and bow his head, and the nurse’s son will come in and take his lunch out of your hand, and not bow his head.’

  Oh, she did that – she called them in for lunch, and when they came in . . . her own son came in and bowed his head, and the nurse’s son came in quite forward and took his lunch.

  ‘Oh,’ said she, ‘I knew well enough that it was you!’ She gave him a box on the ear.

  ‘Ah well,’ said he, ‘if that’s the way of it,’ said he, ‘I won’t stay here any longer.’ He was going to leave, and, oh, his brother went after him and tried to hold him back. But whatever, one way or another he got him to stay that day.

  But one day, this is where they were then – on the king’s big green playing shinty. They had a silver ball and a gold caman, playing the ball: and there was an old man going past them there – an old old man.

  ‘Oh, though you’re a fine pair of brothers,’ said he, ‘one of you is going to kill the other yet.’

  ‘Oh, bad luck to you, old man,’ said they.

  He [the nurse’s son] got ready to go this time: ‘Well,’ said he, ‘I won’t stay here any longer then,’ said he. ‘I’m going.’ He set off and his brother was holding him back. ‘Oh, I won’t turn back at all.’

  He came to the gate and he gave it a slap. It was an iron gate and he turned it red. ‘As long as this gate is red,’ said he, ‘I’ll be alive, and when it turns black I’ll be dead.’

  He kept going and came down to the shore, and he took a little wand out of his shirt front. He made a great well-trimmed ship, with her bows to the sea and her stern to the land. [?He sailed her by all the signs and landmarks] until he came to land in the kingdom of France.

  When he landed in the kingdom of France he . . . came to an old woman . . . a little black house there and an old woman in it, and she said, ‘Oh, have you come, my poor lad?’ said she. ‘Where have you come from?’ She said, ‘The king . . . the cook,’ said she, ‘is going to be married. I should be calling him not the cook, but the king,’ said she. ‘He’s going to marry [the king’s daughter] and he’s going to kill the big giants in the hills.’

  ‘Fine,’ said he.

  He got up in the morning and got an axe and went up to the wood. When he got up to the wood he saw a great lady sitting beside a tree weeping.

  ‘What’s troubling you, my bonnie lass?’ said he. ‘A great lady like you, why should you be weeping?’

  ‘Ah, there’s many a trouble that afflicts one that can’t be told,’ said she.

  ‘What great trouble is afflicting you?’

  ‘There are giants coming to kill me,’ said she.

  ‘But isn’t there a man who’s going to save you?’

  ‘The man who is to save me is up in that tree,’ said she, ‘he’s so frightened.’

  ‘Ah well,’ said he, ‘I’ll take your part today and let who will take it tomorrow.’

  ‘Good enough,’ said she. ‘If I could even get through today alone I’d be glad. There’s a giant coming with two heads – one head in a flame and one head out, and eight and eighteen carlines bound to the latchets of his shoes.’

  ‘Well,’ . . . said he, ‘you can start grooming my hair, then.’

  ‘Well,’ said she, ‘if you fall asleep, what will wake you?’

  ‘One clip with the scissors out of my right ear.’

  ‘Fine,’ said she.

  They weren’t long there when he fell asleep. When he had gone to sleep along came the great giant with one head in a flame and one head out, and eight and eighteen carlines bound to the latchets of his shoes. But whatever, she clipped his right ear with the scissors, and he got up and saw the giant and they went for each other wrestling, and here were the hard holds: it came into his mind that this was the first test of valour he had ever entered upon and that it would be a great disgrace to lose: he laid him flat on his back and cut the heads off him, and he took his tongues and eyes out . . .

  And the cook came along – he came down out of the tree: ‘Here, here!’ said he. ‘Hoist these heads on my back.’ He brought the heads home and when he had brought the heads home he went in to the king with them.

  ‘Oh, she’s a hard-won wife for me,’ said he.

  ‘Oh indeed,’ said the king, ‘she’s a hard-won wife for you.’

  [The nurse’s son] came home, and oh, his ear was cut where the scissors had clipped it, and the old woman asked what had done that to him. And, oh, he was putting something on his ear, and she told him: ‘The cook – I shouldn’t call him the cook – has won . . .’

  ‘Did the cook get . . .?’ said he.

  ‘Shush!’ said she, ‘You’re not allowed to call him the cook, you must call him the king.’

  But whatever, anyway or another, this day passed. To make a long story short, he went up the next day, and when he went up she [the king’s daughter] was in the same place.

  ‘Are you here before me today?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said she, ‘I’m here today too.’

  And, ‘How are you today?’ said he.

  ‘There’s a three-headed one coming today,’ said she, ‘and . . . going to kill me.’

  ‘And where’s the cook today?’

  He was a bit higher up the tree that day.

  ‘Ah well,’ said he, ‘I’ll take your part today and let who will take it tomorrow.’

  ‘Ah well, if I can get through today I won’t have any complaints.’

  But whatever, he got . . . he was just lying . . . with his head on her knee, and she asked him what would waken him?

  ‘One clip of the scissors,’ said he, ‘out of the little finger of my right hand.’

  But anyway it wasn’t long till this giant came – three heads on him . . . two heads in a flame and one head out, and eight and eighteen carlines bound to the latchets of his shoes. But whatever, they struck . . . They went for each other wrestling, and, my word
, they fell upon each other there, and here were the hard holds, but it came into his mind that this was the second test of valour he had ever entered into and it would be a great disgrace to lose, and he gave him a great gay glorious lift and laid him flat on his back and cut the heads and everything off him and the tongues and the eyes out of them. He went home.

  Och, the old woman at the house was in her glory, bandaging his hand: ‘Ho, did you hear that the cook – the king won?’

  ‘Oh, did the cook win?’

  ‘Shush, you wretch!’ said she, or I’ll take the tongs to you. You’d better not call him the cook.’

  ‘Oh,’ says he, ‘I can’t help it. I’m going to call him the cook.’

  There was no more said about that. Next morning it was – he went up, and when he went up: ‘Are you here again today?’ said he.

  ‘I’m here,’ said she.

  ‘Ah well,’ said he, ‘I don’t know what I can do about you,’ said he, ‘but I’ll try to take your part today,’ said he. ‘Let who will take it tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh well,’ said she, ‘if I could get through today there would be no more trouble, but,’ said she, ‘the one who’s coming today,’ said she, ‘is really ferocious; he has four heads.’

  ‘Ah well, it can’t be helped,’ said he.

  ‘What will waken you today if you fall asleep?’

  ‘Cutting a piece,’ said he, ‘the size of a half-crown out of the top of my head with the scissors.’