Scottish Traditional Tales

by A. J. Bruford

  The other farmer came up. He wasn’t very far behind and he came up and there was no trace of his companion. He couldn’t make out what had happened. He searched up and down there and he couldn’t make out what had happened. There was nothing for it at last but to head for home.

  He got to his own house, then called on the wife of the man who had been carrying the jar . . . – the other farmer – and told her what had happened.

  Oh, there was no-one there who would believe him. They didn’t know what the man was on about at all. But at last he came under suspicion and policemen came up from Inveraray and took him away and he was brought to a great public trial there. He told them every detail from start to finish just as it had happened. There was no-one there who would believe him either and he was sent to prison.

  He spent some time in prison and then he had to face another public trial, but the farmer had nothing to tell but the same story. He told everything . . . just the same story. At last they got so sick of questioning him that they let him go home.

  And the better part of a year after that, on Hallowe’en of all nights . . . They say the fairies are out in force at Hallowe’en. And the fish are spawning at that time of year too – salmon and trout in the burns about Hallowe’en time.

  And this farmer – he said to the lads round about: ‘Come on out to burn the water, and we’ll get some fish.’

  They went out at night and I’m sure they got a fair catch of fish, and what had the farmer brought to catch the fish but a hay-fork. And they worked their way through the burns and I’m sure they got a good haul of fish.

  They were coming home by the very track they had taken the night he lost his companion – the piper who had been carrying the jar – and they sat down. The farmer said to the lads: ‘Do you see that light up yonder?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s where I lost my companion last year. Come on up!’

  The lads wouldn’t go . . . They weren’t keen to go there. They had heard so much about this business. But at last they went – one of them went with him. And he set off up the brae carrying his fork and when they got there, there was the fine bright light and a piper inside the door playing away, as I told you before . . . women in silk dresses, and who should he see right in the middle but the farmer – with the jar on his back just the same as ever, dancing away, dancing away!

  ‘Well,’ said the farmer to himself, ‘I’m not going in.’

  But he stood in the doorway with one foot outside and the other in, and he stuck the fork – the hay-fork – he stuck it in the lintel of the doorway, because he knew that if there was steel in the doorway the door couldn’t shut.

  There he was. They were dancing away and when they had finished that dance they swung into the Reel of Tulloch, and one of these times the man with the jar – the farmer with the jar on his back – came swinging round close to the door.

  The farmer in the doorway grabbed him by the shoulder: ‘Out of here! Out of here!’

  The farmer with the jar on his back stopped. He stopped: ‘Take it easy, boy,’ said he. ‘We’ve only just got started.’

  ‘Started or finished or not,’ said he, ‘come on out of here!’ He got him outside the door.

  The instant he got him outside the door he pulled the fork out of the doorway. The door closed just as it had done the first time. He said to his companion, ‘Where have you been all this time? What were you . . .?’

  ‘Och, I was dancing all the time.’

  ‘Get on home now!’

  He didn’t . . . The other farmer . . . didn’t bother offering to take a turn at carrying the jar because he . . . the other man was so used to having it on his back anyway. But they got home and he went into his own house and the wife of the man with the jar stared at him and: ‘Man, man,’ said she, ‘where have you been all this time?’

  Oh, he gave her no answer at first; he just sat down.

  ‘Man, where have you been all this time? It’s the better part of a year now since you went missing.’

  ‘Och, I’ve been dancing all the time,’ said he.

  ‘Oh in that case,’ said the other, ‘you ought to be a pretty good dancer by now!’

  But then his wife said: ‘Man, what’s that you’ve got on your back there?’

  They had a look and . . . they got going on it, cutting the ropes that were round it. There were so many knots and it had been . . . so long on his back anyway. They cut them through and lifted the jar off his back and set it down in the middle of the floor. And they drew the cork and they just made a Christmas Eve of it there and then.

  64b George Peterson

  THE FIDDLER O GORD

  THIS IS A STORY fae the district o Sandness, which is near Papa Stour. The croft was occupied by a man ’at güd away one night, away to the craigs to fish – fir fish. So he was comin hom one night, wi his büddie o sillocks an waand, and as he passed a certain knowe, he wis awaar ’at they were a light sheenin oot an he güd up tö examine this, an he saa ’at . . . the trows wis dancin inside. So he güd in, bein a fiddler, an the knowe closed up behint him, until they were noathing left to shaa any doorway.

  An his fokk that night waetit fir him to come hom wi the fish, an he niver like to com, and all night they waeted an i the moarnin they were a search party güd oot an they lookit, huntit the coast an they fand no sign o him. An time güd by and it was pitten doon ’at he wis geen ower the craig and the sea was teen him and the tide was taen his boady.

  So time güd by an eventually his faimly grew up an moved awey, and his name wis forgoaten. And the time cam when they were a whoale century wis passed fae that thing happened: they were a new faimly livin i that croft. So one night i the haert o the winter the owld granfaither was settin at the fire, the son an his wife was settin i the shairs an their bairns wis playin them aroond the flöir, when the door oapened an they appeared a oald man i the door, cled in rags wi a long quite baerd, cairryin in his haand a fiddle. And of coorse the bairns dey laached at this, they t’oucht this wis a man ’at wis silly. He cam in ower the flöir an he says, ‘What are you doin here? This’ my house!’ And dey t’oucht it a graet joke and they laached at him, and they made a fül o him – everyboady but the old granfaither settin at the fire, smoakin his pipe. He listened.

  And he says, ‘What are you doin here? Dis’ my house: you’ve got to get oot o hit. Quhaar’s wir fokk?’

  And every time he would say his [piece] then the young eens laached at him; till at last the owld grandfaither spaekin fae the fireside says, ‘Well, quat is your name?’ An he telled him his name.

  ‘Well, they wir,’ he says, ‘dey were a man o that name ’at used to bide here long, long afore my day, but,’ he says, ‘he . . . he disappeared one night, an never cam home.’

  And be noo da laachin fell silent, an everyboady was awaar ’at they were something queer goin on here. So this figure i the door says, ‘Well, quere is my fokk den?’

  And the old grandfather fae the fireside says, ‘Your fokk is aal däid.’

  ‘Well then,’ he says, ‘if that’s the case, then,’ he says, ‘A’ll go an join them.’ An he turned him an güd oot. Now they were one growin lad among the faimly ’at wisna laached at him, and he rase an güd furth efter this aald man, an he güd oot an he followed efter him, an he creepit up t’row the yaird among the keel to watch him. An this old fellow wi the fiddle goes [?owre] up aroond to the back o the yaird daek, quhar they were a wal, an he lifts the fiddle til his neck, an he looks up ower the knowe to quar the Merry Dancers was sheenin i the northern sky, he lifts the fiddle til his neck and he plays a tune aince or twice ower. And the boy inside the yaird daek watchin aal of a sudden saa him collapse.

  An the boy oot ower the yaird daek an he ran, and he cam to the spok whar the man wis faan at the side o the wal, and there he fand the remains of a man that was been däid fir a hunder year, an a peerie fiddle. And he aalways minded that tune; and when that boy grew up he could play that tune, and that tune’s b
een handed doon to this day.

  65 Bella Higgins

  THE HUMPH AT THE FIT O THE GLEN AND THE HUMPH AT THE HEAD O THE GLEN

  WELL, THIS IS THE STORY o the Humph at the fit o the glen, an the Humph at the head o the glen, this wis two men, an they were very good friends. But the wan at the fit o the glen, he wis very humphy, he wis near doublet in two wi the humph that was on his back. The other one at the top o the glen, he wisnae jist quite so big in the humph, but he wis pretty bad too.

  Well, Sunday about they cam to visit one another, wan would travel up aboot three mile up tae the top o the glen, tae spend the day wi his friend, the Humph at the heid o the glen. An then the Humph at the head o the glen next Sunday would come down to the Humph at the fit o the glen an spend the day.

  So anyway, it wis the wan at the fit o the glen, he had tae go tae see the Humph at the head o the glen, it wis he’s Sunday tae walk up tae the heid o the glen tae see his friend. Well, he had a wee bit ae a plantin to pass, an when he wis comin past this plantin, he hears a lot o singin goin on. He says: ‘Wheesht!’ – an a’ the song they hed wis:

  ‘Saturday, Sunday,

  Saturday, Sunday,

  Saturday, Sunday.’

  an that’s the length they could get.

  ‘Gosh!’ he says, ‘I could pit a bit tae that song.’ An he goes:

  ‘Saturday, Sunday,

  Monday, Tyoooosday!’

  O, an he heard the lauchs an the clappin o the hands.

  ‘Goad bliss me,’ he says, ‘what can that be?’

  But this wis three kind of fairies that was in the wood. And the wan says to the other: ‘Brither, what dae ye wish that man,’ he says, ‘for that nice part he put tae wir song?’

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘I wish him that the humph ’ll drop an melt off his back,’ he says, ‘ ’at he’ll be as straight as a rush. An what dae you wish him?’

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘I wish him tae have the best of health,’ he says, ‘an happiness. An what dae you wish him, brither?’

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘I wish him,’ he says, ‘full an plenty, ’at he’ll always have plenty, tae he goes tae his grave.’

  ‘Very good!’

  Och, this man wis walkin up the glen, an he feels hissel gettin lighter and lighter, an he straightened hissel up, an he’s wonderin what’s come ower him. He didnae think it was hissilf at all, ’at he could jist march up, like a soldier, up this glen.

  So he raps at the door when he came tae his friend, the Humph at the head o the glen, and when they cam out, they ask’t him whit he want’, they didnae know him.

  ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘I want tae see So-an-So, ma friend.’

  ‘But who are you?’

  ‘Och,’ he says, ‘ye know,’ he says, ‘the humphy man ’at’s lived at the fit o the glen,’ he says. ‘A’m his friend, ye know me.’ An he . . . told his name.

  ‘Oh my!’ he says, ‘whit . . . whit . . . whit happen’t tae ye? Whit come owre tae ye?’

  ‘Oh wheesht,’ he says, ‘if you come down,’ he says, ‘wi me, or when ye’re comin down next Sunday,’ he says, ‘listen,’ he says, ‘at the wee plantin as ye’re gan doon the road, an,’ he says, ‘you’ll hear singin.’ An he says . . . he told him ’at they only had ‘Saturday, Sunday, Saturday, Sunday,’ but he says, ‘I pit a bit tae their song,’ he says. ‘I says “Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tyoooosday”, an,’ he says, ‘I felt masel,’ he says – ‘everything disappearin from me.’ An he says, ‘If you come down,’ he says, ‘you’ll be made as straight as whit I am.’

  Anyway, this man’s aye wishin it wis next Sunday, an he’s comin – when Sunday cam – he’s comin marchin down the road, an jist at the wee plantin he hears them aa singin, the song, the bit ’at the ither humph pit oot tae it, ye know. They’re goin:

  ‘Saturday, Sunday,

  Monday, Tyoooosday!’

  ‘Wheesht,’ he says, ‘I’ll pit a bit tae that.’ He goes:

  ‘Saturday, Sunday,

  Monday, Tuesday,

  Wednesday, Thursday,

  Friday, Saturday’

  mair ’n what he put. Aand, he got no clap.

  He says, ‘Whit dae ye wish him, brither?’ he says, ‘that man, for destroyin our lovely song?’

  He says, ‘I wish him,’ he says, ‘if his humph wis big, that it’ll be a thousand times bigger: an whit dae you wish him?’

  He says, ‘I wish him,’ he says, ‘to be the ugliest man,’ he says, ‘that ever wis on the face of the earth, ’at nobody can look at him: an whit do you wish him?’

  He says, ‘I wish him to be in torture,’ he says, ‘an punishment tae he goes tae his grave.’

  Well, he grew an he grew, tae he wis the size o Bennachie – a mountain. An he could hardly walk up. Well, when he come tae his house, he couldnae get in no way or yet another. Well, he had tae lie outside, an it’d took . . . ta’en aboot seventeen pair of blankets tae cover him, tae cover him up. An he’s lyin out winter an summer till he died an it ta’en twenty-four coffins to hold him. So he’s buriet at the top o the glen.

  66a Kate Dix

  THE THIRSTY PLOUGHMAN

  YES, WELL, IT WAS two men from Brusda, that this was about. They were down ploughing in Siabaidh on a hot, hot day in their bare feet. And as they went up the knoll they heard a woman working away at a churn. And the one called Ewen said to the one called Donald: ‘Oh, Donald,’ says he, ‘if the milkmaid had my thirst, what a drink of buttermilk she would drink.’

  Donald said to him: ‘Oh, I wouldn’t care for it.’

  They turned down [the field] and when they came up ploughing the next furrow a bonny woman in a white apron was standing there with a jug of buttermilk. And she offered it to the one who had asked for it and he refused to take it: he was afraid. And the one who wouldn’t care for it, he went and drank the buttermilk, saying that it was the best he had ever tasted.

  ‘Oh,’ says she, ‘you who asked for the drink,’ says she, ‘and did not accept it, a short life and poor living to you. And the one who did not ask for the drink and took it, a long life and good living to you.’

  Apparently when poor Ewen went home he took to his bed and never got up again, with the anxiety that the witch from the knoll had caused him – or the fairy or whatever it was.

  And it was in Berneray itself that that happened.

  66b Duncan MacDonald

  THE HUNGRY PLOUGHMAN

  THERE WERE ONCE two men who were working near a fairy knoll. The day was hot and they sat down in the shade beside the fairy knoll for a breather, and they began to eat the bite of food they had. I’m sure they hadn’t much kitchen [to flavour their bread] anyway, but one of the two said, ‘I wish, myself,’ said he, ‘that we each had a good bit of meat out of the fairy knoll along with the poor bite we have here.’

  The words were hardly out of his mouth when a young, beautiful woman, dressed in light blue clothes, approached them, with two plates, and a piece of meat on each plate. She offered them a plate each. One of the men took it from her, but the one who had made the wish would not accept it; he was kind of afraid. When the woman saw that he was refusing the meat, she grabbed the meat off the plate and she struck the man with it on the temple. And ever after this there was a running sore on the man’s temple; fluid kept dripping from his temple where the fairy woman’s meat had hit it.

  67 Calum Johnston

  THE TALE OF THE CAULDRON

  THERE IS A LITTLE island south of Barra which we call Sandray. Nobody lives there now: there’s nothing there but sheep. But I can remember when there were families living there. And evidently at that time there were a lot of fairies there too, and some of the people got to know them quite well.

  One of the fairy women was in the habit of coming to one of the houses every day to ask for a loan of a cauldron, and the housewife had a rhyme which she always used to say when she gave her the cauldron, to make sure she got the cauldron back. Anyway, one day the woman of the house, she had to cross over to C
astlebay to get some shopping she needed, and she told her husband: ‘Now,’ said she, ‘when the fairy woman comes for the cauldron, you must say to her what I always say –

  “A smith must have coal

  To heat cold iron:

  A cauldron must have bones

  And be put home unharmed”.’

  ‘Oo yes,’ said he, ‘I’ll say that to her sure enough.’

  ‘That’s fine, then. I’ll go to Castlebay, and I hope you’ll manage everything all right.’

  ‘Oh, it’ll be all right,’ said he.

  And his wife left and took the ferry over to Castlebay. And the husband was at work in the fields close to the house for part of the morning, and then he saw the fairy woman coming. And, oh, she had the fairy way of moving. You couldn’t see her feet touching the ground at all, but she was coming just as if she was treading on the tips of the grass. And he got scared: he ran home and barred the door and huddled himself into a corner somewhere.

  The fairy woman came on all the same and tried the door, and she couldn’t get in. Then she jumped up on to the wall-head, and from there to the top of the roof. And in those houses it was generally a fire in the middle of the floor that they had, and a lum above it to let the smoke out. Whatever words the fairy woman spoke to the cauldron, it leapt off the pot-chain and shot off out through the lum, and she caught hold of it as it came out and went off with it. As for him, poor man, he stayed there, knowing just what he would get from his wife when she came if the cauldron hadn’t come back, and he just sat there brooding all the rest of the day.

  Anyway, when evening came and darkness began to fall, his wife got home from Castlebay, but the cauldron had never come home. And she asked him about it, and, oh, he told her how he’d got scared when he saw the fairy woman coming and run into the house, and he told her every detail – how she’d got up on the top of the roof, and how the cauldron had leapt off the pot-chain and shot out through the roof, and how she had gone off with it and he had been too scared to say a word of the rhyme she had taught him, and he hadn’t seen the cauldron since.