‘Do I not need a sheet for the bed?’ said she. ‘Did you not take away the sheet yourself,’ said she, ‘to bury that man you killed as he was coming in at the window?’
The laird realised then that the young boy was too much for him, and that he had better just keep quiet. His father remained in his service and I don’t know which way the young boy went after that. I haven’t heard any more about him.
24 Angus John MacPhail
THE FARMER WHO WENT BACK ON HIS AGREEMENT
WELL, THIS FARMER used to fee farm servants, and the contract he made with the servants before he would fee them, he told them the rules, which were that if they went back on their agreement before their time was up, they were to lose a strip of skin from the back of their heads down to their rumps, three fingers wide. And if he went back on the agreement the same thing would happen to him, the servant could do the same thing to him. This was all right, and he would fee someone now and then, and everyone he got he wasn’t long, not a moment with him when he went back on his agreement. And he took this strip of skin off them, and they used to be pretty poorly for a long time after, until it healed up.
Anyway he’d had a whole lot of them that this had happened to. But this man, he was a near neighbour of one person this happened to, and he said he would fee with him next, he’d try the job . . . He went to see the farmer and asked him if he needed a farm servant, and he said he did need a servant. ‘But,’ he said, ‘do you know the terms my servants get?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘not really, but I’d like to hear them.’
‘Well,’ said the man, ‘if you go back on our agreement before your time is up, a strip of skin three fingers wide will come off from the back of your head right down your back to your rump. And if I go back on it the same thing will be done to me.’
‘Fine, then,’ said he. ‘We’ll try it.’
‘If you’ll come on these terms we’ll manage all right.’
‘Yes, I’ll come then,’ he said.
‘Fine.’
Off he went to work with the man.
The morning of the first day he asked the farmer what he had to do today. He said, ‘First of all, you’ve to go and look for the horses.’
‘And where will I find them?’ said he.
‘Try where you think they might be and where you don’t.’
‘Fine, then,’ he said, and off he went. He went over to the byre and got a graip. He came back and climbed up the side of the house. In those days most people had thatched houses: all the farmers did. He set to work tearing down the thatch from a good way up above the door.
The farmer came out and saw him. ‘You walking disaster area,’ he said, ‘what are you doing up there?’
‘I’m looking for the horses,’ said he.
‘You knew fine the horses wouldn’t be there.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but you told me to go and look for them where I thought they might be and where I didn’t. I knew fine they weren’t here, but I did what you told me.’
‘Then come down out of that, you disaster area. I’m sorry I ever met you.’ However, ‘Are you going back on our agreement?’ said the farmer.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Are you going back on it?’
‘Well, no,’ said he: ‘not yet, anyway.’
Well, this was all right. That day passed and he kept going. Next day he asked him after breakfast what he should do today.
‘Make a sheep’s footpath [through the bog],’ said he.
‘Fine, then,’ said he. Off he went, taking the dog with him, and gathered every sheep that was to be seen, put them into the fank, and set about cutting their feet off from the knee, and laying them out in a row, one after the other.
Along came the farmer. ‘You misbegotten misfortune,’ said he, ‘what are you doing here?’
‘Just what you told me,’ said he. ‘You told me to make a sheep’s foot path, and you’ve got the feet laid out in a row there as you told me.’
‘Are you going back on our agreement?’ said he.
‘No,’ said he, said the servant. ‘Are you going back on it?’
‘Oh, not yet,’ said he. He just went and gave him something else to do . . .
Next evening . . . I think it was next evening, there was to be a wedding party in the village, and he told . . . the servant, ‘We’ve got an invitation to the wedding, and you’re to come along tonight,’ said he, ‘and I’ll be in charge of supplies, and when anything’s running short,’ he said, ‘give me the eye, cast an eye at me now and then when you need anything.’
He went out to the byre, and got . . . his pockets filled with eyes from the cattle. And he went to the wedding. Every time he got a chance at the farmer he aimed an ox’s eye at him as accurately as he could. The farmer began to wonder what he was throwing at him. Then he managed to catch one of the things he was throwing at him, looked at it and realised it was an animal’s eye.
He left [at once]. But anyhow, when they got home he went into the byre. Half of all the cattle he had in the byre had not one eye between them. And . . . he went into the house. ‘What,’ said he, ‘you walking disaster area,’ said he, ‘did you do there last night, taking the eyes out of my cattle?’
‘Didn’t you ask me,’ said he, ‘to keep giving you the eye when I was short of anything? Wasn’t I doing that at the wedding all night long?’
‘Well, that’s true,’ said he, ‘you disaster area. Are you going back on our agreement?’ said the farmer.
‘No,’ said he. ‘Are you going back on it?’
‘Oh, I’m going back on it now,’ said he, ‘and I didn’t do it soon enough.’
‘Then I’ll take the strip of skin off you,’ said he.
He started, and he didn’t spare him either, he tore him off a good strip. And the farmer was not fit to do anything much for a good while. He never took a strip of skin off any of his farm servants again after it happened to himself.
25 Revd Norman MacDonald
WILLIE TAKE-A-SEAT
LONG AGES AGO, there was a cunning old wife staying close to Kylerhea who owned Beinn na Caillich and a good deal of the land around there. Though the old woman was well off, with plenty of goods and chattels, she was very close and mean. Nobody who ever came to her house was invited to come in or sit down. She and the Lochaber men who used to go to the Isle of Skye to raid cattle were in league, for she always helped them on their way as they came and went across the sound . . . The old woman never helped the Lochaber rogues without getting good payment for it, but others never got a sight of her fireside.
However or whatever, there was a shrewd, clever man by the name of William who had come to live at Leac a’ Chaoil on the Glenelg side of the sound. And one particular evening, while he and others were talking about the behaviour of the miserable woman, he wagered that he would make her ask him to come in and sit down, for all she could do to stop him. That was all there was to it. William set out for the old woman’s house. He knocked at the door and out she came.
(Hag:)
‘Where have you come from?’
(William:)
‘I have come from Leac a’ Chaoil, my dear woman, as night began to fall.’
(Hag:)
‘What’s your name?’
(William:)
‘It’s Willie Take-a-Seat.’
(Hag:)
‘That’s a queer name you have, Willie Take-a-Seat.’
(William:)
‘I will indeed, when the goodwife of the house asks me.’
So saying, he went in through the door.
(Hag:)
‘If you sit down you’ll regret it. You’ll get nothing here but the bare floor, potholes and fleas: lean fleas from the floor nibbling your two buttocks without mercy.’
(William:)
‘Goodwife, bring me food. Let God come between me and my misery.’
(Hag:)
‘You won’t get enough food here to cover a winkle’s lid.’
(William:)
‘I see you have a sheep’s head and trotters up there.’
(Hag:)
‘Even so you won’t get much of it. What you can take away with a rhyme you shall have, but I’m going to start first:
‘Two brows, two seers,
Two ears, two tallows,
Two crooked jawbones,
Eight fist talons,
The head’s high speaker
And four shanks with marrow.’
The old woman meant to have every bit for herself, and she was quite convinced she had named every part of the head and trotters that was worth eating in the rhyme, and there would be nothing left for the other one. But she didn’t know who she was dealing with. Thereupon William answered:
‘The man who carves the head has a right
To the eyes, jowls and brains,
The ear with its roots,
Jaw’s son, cheek and temple.’
It is evident from this that William had the better part, for the things he named in his rhyme are by far the meatiest parts of the head. Then the head was divided and cooked, and William started to eat it.
(Hag.)
‘You’re a terrible eater.’
(William:)
‘I earned it all myself.’
(Hag:)
‘Many a one who has earned has given.’
(William:)
‘Go to those you have given something and get it back.’
When he had finished eating the meat, William began to sup the broth. That was the way with the old Gaels, to eat the meat first and sup the broth after it. As William was lifting a spoonful of broth to his mouth, the old woman said: ‘What a heavy load on that thin shank.’
(William:)
‘It hasn’t all that far to go.’
(Hag:)
‘Short as it is it’s uphill.’
(William.)
‘No sooner up than it’s down.’
(Hag:)
‘Oh man, aren’t you sharp? I’m sure your father must have been a bard.’
(William:)
‘No-one barred him from their house, and you’ve not barred me!’
26 Gilbert Voy
THE PARSON’S SHEEP
Away back in the old days in Orkney there were some gey pitiful times. Jimmock O’ Tissiebist, wi’ a scrythe o’ peerie bairns, were warse off than maist: wi’ the sheep aa deein’, and the tatties a failure, things at Tissiebist wisna lookin’ ower bright for Christmas. Whatever wyes or no, one blashie dark night, Jimmock was away a while, and twa – three days efter, an uncan yowe was seen aboot the hoose. Some of the bairns surely kent the yowe, for one day when ane of them was oot herdin’ the kye, he was singin’ to himsel’ aboot it, something like this:
Me father’s stol’n the parson’s sheep
An’ we’ll hae mutton an’ puddin’s tae eat
An’ a mirry Christmas we will keep,
But we’ll say nethin’ aboot it.
For if the parson gets to know,
It’s ower the seas we’ll have tae go,
And there we’ll suffer grief an’ woe
Because we stole fae the parson.
Well, up jumps the parson fae the other side o’ a faelie dyke, and he says tae the boy: ‘Boy, look here, if you’ll come to the church on the Sabbath and sing that same song, I’ll gie thee a suit o’ claes and half a croon.’
So, on the Sunday mornin’ service, efter the minister had read a psalm and said a prayer, he stood up and he said in an a’ful lood voice: ‘I hev the following intimation to make. Stand up, boy, and sing that same song as I heard you singin’, herdin’ the kye.’
But the peerie boy hed mair wit than that. This is what he sang:
As I was walkin’ oot one day
I spied the parson very gay:
He was tossin’ Molly in the hay –
He turned her upside down, sir.
A suit o’ claes and half a croon
Was given tae me be Parson Broon
Tae tell the neighbours all aroon’
What he hed done tae Molly!
27 George Jamieson
HOW TO DIDDLE
WELL, THIS IS A horse that . . . I took away to Kelso, to the horse-sale, for to sell, and before I went to Kelso I met Mr Walker fae —, and he says to me, he says, ‘. . . H’ much d’ you want for that horse?’
I says, ‘I want a hundred pound for’t.’
‘Well,’ he says, ‘I’ll jist give it ye. Now,’ he says, ‘I’ll tell ye what to do,’ he says, ‘you take it away along to the Anderson stables at Kelso, and leave it there.’
Ye see,. . . I says, ‘Right-oh.’ So away I went,. . . and of course . . . Mr Walker . . . paid me, right on the spot. [Comment from Mr Walker – ‘By God, you were lucky.’] – I was lucky – so jist before I arrived at, eh, at Anderson’s stables, I met Mr Wilson o’ —. He says . . . ‘Is that horse for sale?’
I says, ‘Aye.’
‘How much d’you want for’t?’
I says, ‘I want a hunder pound for’t.’
‘Well,’ he says, he says, ‘is it sound?’
I says, ‘It’s as soond as brass.’
‘Well,’ he says, ‘I’ll give ye’t.’
‘Well,’ I says, ‘got to be paid the now.’
He says, ‘Oh aye,’ he says, ‘I’ll pay ye,’ so he gave us a hunder quid. But I gave him the helter shank . . . an a’, an I cleared oot, an I forgot, I forgot a’ aboot . . . Mr Walker, but . . . I’d an extra hunder pound into ma pocket, what I was wantin’, so that’s a’, ’twas a’ ’t I was worryin aboot.
So ever, at the finish after I was home, he phoned us up, he says, eh, ‘Wha’ aboot that horse?’.
. . . I says, ‘What aboot it?’
He says, ‘The horse that I bought off ye.’
‘Oh,’ I says, ‘. . . I gave it tae another man.’
He says, ‘Whae was that other man?’
I says, ‘Wilson o’ —.’
‘Oh.’ An he says, ‘Wha’ aboot ma hundred pound?’
‘Oh,’ I says, . . . I says,‘I’ve naething to dae wi that now,’ I says, . . . I says, ‘ye’ll have tae . . . fend for yersel aboot that.’ So . . . he got on tae the phone . . . tae —, – oh . . . a kind o’ argument, and . . . one thing and another . . . and what a’ passed atween them I don’t know but there were a few days passed and the p’liceman arrived. Ye see? And he got, he got the story off them, ye see, an . . . went away, and ’twisnae long comin back wi’ . . . a Summons . . .
So, I went in, and ma mother says to me, she says, ‘What was that polisman daein here?’
‘Oh,’ I says, . . .‘I’ve got in a . . .’ . . . I was t’appear at the court.
So . . . oh, of course, ma mother was in a terrible state, ye see, aboot me havin t’appear at the court . . . so, . . .‘Well,’ she says, ‘Ye’ll have to go and see a lawyer.’
So, I says, ‘What lawyer there wis ye gaun tae?’
She says, ‘There’s, there’s a good man at Hawick.’
So . . . away I went to Hawick. I went in and he says, ‘Well,’ he says, ‘What can I do for you today?’
I says, ‘I dinna ken what ye can dae for us.’ I says, ‘I’ll ha’ to show ye this . . .’
So, showed him . . . and . . . he says, ‘Aye,’ he says, ‘You’ve got’n yoursel’ intae a bit o’ a fix.’
I says, I says, ‘I ken that a’ right.’
He says,. . . . ‘Are ye able to sing?’
I says, ‘No.’
He says, he says, he says, ‘Are ye able tae . . . deedle?’
‘Oh,’ I says, ‘I could deedle.’
‘Well,’ he says, ‘from now onward,’ he says, ‘if anybody mentions this to you, jist you say,
‘Oh yes, I can dae that.’
So home I goes, an I meets ma mother, she says . . .‘How did ye come on, son?’ Says I,
So however, here the court,. . . I was t’appear at the court, an . . . in I goes. And, it wasnae long till .
. . ‘George Jamieson,’. . . shouted oot, so of course I stood up, an . . . doon at the dock,. . . an the prosecutin fiscal read oot the charge, aboot this a’, and the next a’, an dear knows a’. [?what he said] – I wisnae listening quite til it a’ . . . And eh,. . . th’auld judge looks round tae me, he says, ‘D’ye plead Guilty, or Not Guilty?’ Says I,
He says, ‘Do you plead Guilty or Not Guilty?’ Says I,
So he looked doon at the prosecutin’ fiscal, an he says tae . . . I don’t know exactly what he was a’ saying tae him, but he says, ‘Look here,’ he says, ‘take this man oot o’ here.’ Ye see? So right enough,. . . an I just walkit oot, and kept gaun oot, and just as I was gaun oot I met the s’licit or at the door. He says, eh, ‘How did ye come on?’
‘Oh,’ I says, ‘I’ve gotten off.’
‘Oh,’ he says, ‘I knew ye’d get off,’. . . ye see. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘for tae . . . for tae . . . save time . . .’ he says, ‘for sending in the account,’ he says, ‘you owe me . . . three poun.’ Says I,
28 Alasdair Stewart
THE TAILOR AND HIS WIFE
[THIS WOMAN], her husband was a tailor, and . . . she and the tailor . . . they worked, and they got on well enough, but one way and another they got short of money. Their money ran out, and the tailor said he was going away to practise his trade.
‘I must go,’ said he, ‘as a travelling tailor,’ said he, ‘and see if I can get a bit more money than I’m getting.’
‘Oh well then,’ said she, ‘off you go then,’ said she, ‘but I’m not going away at all.’
‘All right,’ said he, ‘you can stay.’
She stayed [at home], and one day, who should come along but the local schoolmaster and . . . the schoolmaster came in and asked – she was just a young woman – the schoolmaster asked if he could go to bed with her, and she said he could if he gave her five pounds.
Scottish Traditional Tales Page 22
