Scottish Traditional Tales

by A. J. Bruford

  So he chapped at the door an the old fairmer ruz fae the chair an come tae the door. He opened the door a wee bit an the wind was blowin an the fairmer said, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘let me in for goodness sake. I’m jist a wanderin piper,’ he says, ‘an I’m lost and I’m gaun tae be frostit, or got dead, if ye don’t let me in! Let me in some place!’

  ‘Away ye go!’ says the fairmer. ‘We don’t want no tramps here. Away ye go! Away ye go!’

  An he shut the door on him, ye see. He’s stannin there, the piper’s stannin there, rubbin his hands. He stood for another wee while an he luckit back the road an he luckit forward the road an he seen there wis naethin else for’t, he had tae chap the door again. He chappit at the door again, an chappit hard this time. This old fairmer he ruz again an he come tae the door again. He opened the door an, ‘What dae you want?’ he says.

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘I jist want in. For goodness sake let me in. I’ll maybe die.’

  ‘Ye’re not gettin in here!’ he says. ‘There no tramps gettin in here. Away an play your pipes some place else,’ he says, ‘an ye’ll maybe get some place tae sleep.’

  He says, ‘I’ll have tae get in some place.’

  ‘Well,’ says the fairmer, ‘go round the back an ye’ll find a byre or somethin roon there,’ he says, ‘some place tae sleep. There are some sheds away roon there,’ he says, ‘sleep doon there.’

  So the piper went roon the back, ye see, an he come right roon an there wis this long shed thing an it wis a byre for the cattle. One side o it wis half knockit doon an och! it wisnae very comfortable lookin at aa.

  But anyway he opened the door an came right away in an there was two stalls for haudin the kye. An in wan o the stalls there wis this big auld coo lyin, lyin doon, an it wis chowin away, the way it chows its cuid aa the time. It’s lyin chewin an when he come close tae the coo, it was a wee bit warmer – the warm breath, ye see. The auld piper looked at the coo an he said, ‘I think I could put the boots here,’ he says, ‘an the breath, the warm breath o that coo wad melt the frost on these boots and I’ll get them on.’

  So he took the boots off an he left them at the top o the cow, at the coo’s feedin place that wis a kind o a crib thing. He pit the boots in there an of course, the coo was chowin away an it was breathin on these boots. So the auld piper went tae the next stall an there wis some straw there an he blusted the bale o straw, he took off his old boots aff him an he got in among this straw an pulled his old coat roon him. In a very very short time he was sound asleep.

  So he slept there for a long time. He didnae ken hoo lang he sleppit. He was wakent early in the oors o the mornin, aboot half past six in the mornin, he wakent up. He lucked over an he seen the coo still chowin away. ‘I wonder,’ he says, ‘if my boots is thawed oot yet.’

  So he went roon an he got his boots back roond, the dead man’s boots. Of coorse the feet came oot dead easy, ye see, oot o the sock, the two o them; he left them doon. ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘that’s lovely!’ An he tried these boots on an they were lovely and warm wi the coo’s breath, ye see. So he laced them ontae his feet. ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘that’s lovely. That’s beautiful,’ he says. ‘That’s better now. I’ll be able to go on the road a bit better noo.’ An he sat an he thocht for a wee while. He got his ain two auld boots then, that were all torn, an he pit the dead man’s feet intae these boots an laced them up and left the two boots at the cow’s head again, ye see. Left them doon there an he lay doon quietly tae see whit wis gonnae happen.

  So the auld woman come roon early in the mornin fur tae milk the coo. An she had a lamp in her hand: it wis kinna dark. She had this lamp wi her an she left the lamp doon. She sat doon on her wee stool an wis jist gaun away tae milk the coo an she seen the two boots an she lookit an she seen the stumps o the feet stickin in the boots.

  ‘Oh my God!’ she says. ‘Oh my God!,’ she says. ‘That was the piper, the wanderin piper,’ she says. ‘The coo must have ett him!’ she says. ‘Oh whit am I gonnae do?’ She left the stool an left her pail an she run roon tae the hoose again. She tellt her oul man, ‘Come oot tae ye see this!’ she says. ‘Come oot tae see this!’

  He says, ‘Whit’s wrong. Whit’s wrong wi ye, silly oul woman?’

  ‘Come here tae ye see this!’ she says. ‘The cow’s ett the piper,’ she says. ‘The cow’s ett the piper. Come here tae ye see this!’

  So of course, the fairmer came an he lookit. ‘Oh my God Almighty!’ he says. ‘It did eat him right enough!’ he says. ‘That’s his boots,’ he says, ‘ett him all but his boots. Oh,’ he says, ‘we’re gaun tae get transported!’ he says. ‘We’re gonnae get pit away frae the world when everybody fins us oot. We’ll have tae bury these boots,’ he says, ‘an this bits o feet. But the ground’s that hard,’ he says, ‘I don’t know where we’re gonnae bury them.’

  The auld woman says, ‘Down in the garden there’s a big tree,’ she says, ‘a big bushy tree there, an the ground’ll be softer there,’ she says. ‘We’ll bury him in there.’

  ‘Right,’ he says. ‘Come on, we’ll get the spade, and a pick,’ the auld fairmer says, ‘an we’ll go an bury him there.’

  So away they went for the pick an the spade, ye see, an when the auld piper got them away, he jouked oot an went doon tae this big tree an he stood at the back o the big tree an he’s watchin the cairry-on.

  So they came back wi the pick an the spade, dug a hole an this old fairmer, he’s all shakin. He says, ‘If anybody fins oot aboot this, we’ll get the jail, or we’ll be transported. I don’t know what’ll happen tae us,’ he says. ‘We’ll need tae dae away wi these boots an bury them properly.’

  So he dug this hole an he pit the boots in an covered it back up wi earth. Of coorse the piper’s standin watchin. They didnae see the piper. An the mist was comin doon early in the mornin. An they buried them up an scattert the snow on the top o them on the ground, so ye’d never hae kent it and away they went.

  ‘Oh,’ the fairmer says, ‘come on, we better get some hot tea,’ he says. ‘This is terrible.’ So away they wannert, back up tae the fairm again. The oul piper got them jist goin intae the door o the hoose. He blowed up his pipes jist at the back o this tree.

  ‘Listen!’ he [the farmer] says. ‘What’s that?’ An the sound come [storyteller imitates drone of pipes, then the tune “The Barren Rocks of Aden”]. The old fairmer, ‘That’s the ghost o the piper,’ he says, ‘that’s the ghost o the piper!’ An they lookit back doon where the boots wis an they seen the shedda o this man standin. Wi the mist they couldnae hardly recognise him an they heard the tone o the pipes comin through. ‘Oh as sure as fate,’ he says, ‘we’re gaunnae be hantit. We should have let that old piper in,’ he says, ‘We’re gaunnae be hantit.’

  An they’re stannin lookin an the piper come oot canny fae the bushes an he come mairchin up canny an he’s still playin, comin up tae them. When the ould fairmer seen the ghost o this man, as what he thought, comin up, he says tae his old woman, ‘Run for your life!’ he says. ‘Run for your life, quick!’ he says. ‘There’s the ghost o the piper comin,’ he says, ‘an it’ll have its revengeance on us!’ he says. ‘Make for your livin life!’

  So the ould fairmer an his ould wife run away up the road, ye see. So the ould piper came up an he seen them runnin an he stopped an came up tae the hoose an he stood having a good look efter them. He opened the door an come intae the hoose, an of coorse, the fire was still burnin, ye see. So he rakit up the fire and he got a good heat and there wis a good drop whisky left in the bottle. The ould piper liftit the whisky, drunk the whisky an had a bit o this chicken. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘maybe that’s set them,’ he says, ‘a lesson, for no lettin people in at nicht.’

  So I think the piper’s still stuck at that fairm yet. An that’s the last o my story. The auld fairmer never came back.

  35 Alasdair MacArthur

  CAILLEACH NAN CNÙ AND TÀlLLEAR NAN CLÀR

  MANY YEARS AGO there was
a great, wild old woman living in one of the glens of the Highlands who had the name of being a notorious witch and in full communion with the evil spirits of the world. And among all the old woman’s other peculiarities, she was very fond of nuts. She used to have a bag full of nuts hanging on a stake every day of the year, from which she was given the name of Cailleach nan Cnù [the Old Woman of the Nuts]. There was not a horse that fell over a cliff, a cow whose milk ran dry, a girl who lost her sweetheart, but it was Cailleach nan Cnù who had done it. There was not an old man who went fishing, if he got no fish that night and she had met him, but it was Cailleach nan Cnù who had done that.

  But at long last, Cailleach nan Cnù was taken very ill, and it looked very much as if she was dying. And she gave strict instructions to her friends, if in fact she died, to be sure to bury the bag of nuts at her head. This was how it turned out: her friends were afraid of her when she was alive, and they were none too sure of her even when she was dead. Anyway, as they had agreed, the bag of nuts was buried at the old woman’s head.

  There was a smart lad there in the place who didn’t believe very much in the old woman’s powers and he said to himself one night that it would be a great shame to let such a lot of good nuts go to waste, buried at the old woman’s head. Anyway, one night when the family had settled down, our lad took his shovel on his shoulder and went off to the churchyard to dig up the old woman’s bag of nuts.

  When he was getting near the churchyard who should meet him but a bad character who had the name of being an expert sheep-stealer. And they came upon each other so suddenly in the dark that neither of them had a chance to draw back.

  ‘Hullo!’ said the sheep-stealer, ‘where in the name of goodness are you going at this time of night with your shovel?’

  ‘Where am I going! I know perfectly well where you’re going. You’re away to steal a wether. Now, since the pair of us have met here, and neither of us on honest business, I’ll tell you where I’m going. I’m going to dig up the old woman’s bag of nuts. And now, if you give me half of the wether you’re going to steal, I’ll give you half of the nuts.’

  ‘Done!’

  ‘Well, off you go then, and be sure you get a good wether. And while you’re away, I’ll sit in the churchyard and I’ll pass the time cracking nuts till you get back.’

  Now we’ll leave the sheep-stealer and the lad with the nuts to their own business and we’ll have a look now for a little while at Tàillear nan Clàr [the Tailor of the Boards].

  Tàillear nan Clàr was a cripple who had lost the use of his legs. He used to wear a little piece of board on the palm of each hand and under each knee and in this way he could get around on all fours among the houses where there was tailoring for him to do.

  He happened to be working, on this particular night that we’re talking about, in a house that was just about sixty yards from the churchyard gate, and the house was full of visitors. And as tailors found it useful to be good at telling old stories, there was not a single man in the country round about who was a match for Tàillear nan Clàr at that. And there was Tàillear nan Clàr: reeling off a lot of lies about fairies and witches.

  But, anyway, at last one of the party got thirsty, and it so happened that there wasn’t a drop of water in the house. There was a smart lad there who offered to go to the well – and the well would be about half a dozen yards from the gate of the churchyard. Off he went with the pail.

  As he was getting near the well he heard a nut go crack! He stopped to listen. He heard another nut go crack! He took to his heels and rushed back home, gasping for breath, with his eyes about popping out of his head and swearing by every power high and low that the old woman was sitting up in the churchyard cracking away at the nuts.

  ‘Pah!’ said everyone. ‘You’re nothing but a miserable coward.’

  ‘Give me the pail,’ said the Gille Maol Dubh [Crop-headed Black-haired Lad], ‘and I’ll bring it back full.’

  Off went the black-haired lad with the pail in his hand. When he got to the well he heard a nut go crack! He stopped to listen. He heard another nut go crack! Like the other lad, he came back gasping for breath, his eyes about popping out of his head and swearing by every power high and low:

  ‘There’s no denying it. The old woman is sitting up in the churchyard cracking away at the nuts!’

  ‘Well, now,’ said Taillear nan Clar, ‘I’ve wandered many a comer of the world, and I’ve never come across a houseful of cowards like you,’ said he. ‘If I had the power of my legs, which I haven’t, I’d bring the pail back full from the well, however many old women and men were sitting up cracking nuts.’

  ‘Well,’ said the Gille Ruadh [Red-haired Lad], ‘I’ll carry you there on my back.’

  ‘All right then. Give me a lift!’

  The Gille Ruadh took Tàillear nan Clàr on his back, and Taillear nan Clar took a tight grip on the pail in his hand. As he was getting near the well he heard a nut go crack!

  ‘Do you hear that?’ [said the Gille Ruadh].

  ‘May I lose my honour, if it’s not her right enough!’

  He heard another nut . . .

  ‘Did you hear that?’

  ‘It’s not canny this, at this time of night,’ said Tàillear nan Clàr.

  ‘Will I take you any further?’

  ‘Yes, but be very quiet about it.’

  Now the lad with the nuts was getting impatient that his friend, the sheep-stealer, wasn’t getting back and he stood up, and when he saw Tàillear nan Clàr on the back of the Gille Ruadh he concluded that it was a wether he was bringing. Anyway, he called out in a loud, ringing voice:

  ‘Is he fat?’

  ‘Fat or thin, you can have him’ – and he pitched Tàillear nan Clàr straight into the churchyard.

  Anyway, very late that night Tàillear nan Clàr got home, without pail or water, covered with mud and filth and tom by thorns.

  And like everyone else who thinks a great deal of himself Tàillear nan Clàr was much less of a hero coming back than when he set out.

  36 Tom Tulloch

  THE MINISTER AND THE STRAW

  THIS WIS A WIFE ’at they caa’t Jannie, an shö bade be hersel in a peerie strae-t’eckit-röf’ t hoose inside o the hill-daeks, an it wis the kind o a bit o grunnd that ’at shö hed ’at they caa’d a ootset, an it wis jist enoff to keep wan coo. And shö cared this coo like the aipple o her eye: in fact they were a loack o fokk ’at said that shö took more care o the coo as what shö took o hersel. But in spite o all the care ’at shö took o the coo, it . . . [did] no hinder the coo to get a turn o illness. An shö did the best ’at shö could fir the coo, but it cam to the time ’at the coo güd in liftin – that wis, ’at the coo couldna rise hersel. And shö administered all the cures to the coo ’at shö t’owt aboot – shö pluckit her gaw girse, an shö got her tail cut [for ‘worm in the tail’] and shö administered the usual pultice o fir tar an söt an saut, and shö even güd to the extent to gie her the cüt krüll: yon was a krüll ’at wis baekit oot o aitmeal, but no fire’t, an they turned him i the dog’s mooth, an then pat him doon wi the coo to see if it wouldna start her up showin the cüt. But in spite o all her care o intention the coo was nefer like to get baetter.

  And then they were ae day that the minister was goin aroond among the fokk: he was veesitin an catechisin. And this was een o the hooses that he veesited. An efter they were feenished wi their drevoasheens, then Jannie be no persuasion would hae the minister to come i the byre an look at her coo. And the baurn oapened aff o the but end an the byre oapened aff o the baum; an while they were goin through the baum the minister kind o aibsent-mindetly pickit up a . . . Shetlan ait strae. An he took yon in his haund and he güd in i the byre, and although he kent noathing aboot kye, to please Jannie, he gied the coo a pok here and there, and then he drew the strae back an fore ower her, an he said to Jannie, ‘Weel,’ he says, ‘weel, if shö liffs shö liffs, an if shö dies shö dies, sho’s oanly the brute baest onywey!’

 
; But the minister güd on his rodd, an it wis likely as luck would hae it, he wisna been very lang awey when the coo bang’t til her feet, an shö appear’t to be restored til her noarmal health!

  Noo the time güd on a bit, and they were ae day ’at Jannie spak wi een o the sarvant lasses fae the Manse, and they could tell Jannie ’at the minister wis awful ill. And Jannie said awfu little, but shö güd in i the hoose and shö buckled on her best bits o claes, and shö made fir the Manse. And when shö cam to the Manse the mistress said that shö could not see the minister, fir he was lyin in sic a state o illness wi a whinsy boil in his thrott. But Jannie insisted tö the extent that they ot the latest hed to slip her in. And shö güd up the stairs to the bedroom, and although the minister wis awful ill, he kent her an all that: an shö stüd an lookit at him fir a moament an then shö gied a pok here and there ower the bedclaes, and shö fumbled inunder her hap and shö cam oot wi a graet muckle Shetlan ait strae, and shö drew him back an fore ower the baed, an said, ‘Weel, bairns, if he liffs he liffs, and if he dies he dies, he’s oanly the brute baest onywey!’

  And although the minister was lyin in a graet state o illness, he was that much amused at this that he couldna help gaffin, an it wis the means o the boil brakkin in his thrott, an he improved fae that ’oor onwards, an it was no graet lenth till he was restored til his full maesure o health ageen. And Jannie aalways aatributed, ever efter, this to the healin powers o the Shetlan ait strae and the wirds ’at güd wi ’im!

  37 Jeannie Durie

  STRUNTY POKES

  THERE WAS ONCE A MAN who liked to have everything different from other people and when he was going to hire a man-servant, he made him promise to call everything by queer names which he invented for himself.