Scottish Folk and Fairy Tales from Burns to Buchan Read online

  McNeill, F. M., The Silver Bough, 4 vols (Glasgow: MacLellan, 1956–68).

  Ross, A., The Folklore of the Scottish Highlands (London: Batsford, 1976).

  Shaw, M. F., Folksongs and Folklore of South Uist (London: Oxford University Press, 1955).

  COLLECTIONS

  Bruford, A. J. and D. A. MacDonald, Scottish Traditional Tales (Edinburgh: Polygon, 1994).

  Campbell, J. F., Popular Tales of the West Highlands, vols I and II (Edinburgh: R. & R. Clark, 1860); vols III and IV (Edinburgh: R. & R. Clark, 1862).

  Campbell, J. L., and A. MacLellan, Stories from South Uist (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1961).

  Chambers, Robert,The Popular Rhymes of Scotland (Edinburgh: Chambers, 1826; 2nd edn, 1870).

  Douglas, G., Scottish Fairy and Folk Tales (London: W. Scott, 1894).

  Grierson, E. W., The Scottish Fairy Book (London: Philip Allan, 1906).

  Jacobs, J., Celtic Fairy Tales (London: David Nutt, 1892).

  Jacobs, J., More Celtic Fairy Tales (London: David Nutt, 1894).

  Montgomerie, W. and N., The Well at the World’s End (London: Bodley Head, 1956).

  Note on the Texts

  This book is an expanded version of the 1992 first edition, Scottish Folk and Fairy Tales issued first as a Puffin Classic and then from 1997 reprinted as a Penguin Popular Classic. Because the original collection had a young readership in view, it excluded texts in Scots on grounds of readability and difficulty of access. That meant making do with prose retellings of ‘Tam Lin’ and ‘Thomas the Rhymer’ and avoiding ‘Tam o’ Shanter’, a poem with good claim to be the greatest and best known of all Scottish folk tales.

  This new edition contains twenty-nine texts. It includes all twenty-one of the texts that appeared in the 1992 edition, except that the 1992 retellings of ‘Tam Lin’ and ‘Thomas the Rhymer’ are here replaced by their late eighteenth-century Scots verse versions. Additionally, eight other texts in Scots prose and verse have been added in an attempt to provide readers with a wider, more authentic and more comprehensive selection. Thus approximately one third of the texts in this new edition use the Scots language in varying degrees of density. All these Scots texts are provided with glossaries. In the case of the poetry, Scots words are glossed alongside the lines where they occur. In the case of the prose, they are glossed in footnotes at the foot of the relevant page. Words that are merely spelt differently in Old Scots are not glossed (e.g. ‘boozing’ for ‘bousing’). Perhaps the easiest way to make sense of the Scots words here is to read the text aloud. Otherwise, readers requiring further assistance with Scots vocabulary are referred to the Concise Scots Dictionary (1985, ed. Mairi Robinson) or to www.dsl.ac.uk/ for online information.

  PART ONE:

  MAGIC LORE

  THE MILK-WHITE DOO

  Elizabeth Grierson

  There was once a man who got his living by working in the fields. He had one little son, called Curly-locks, and one little daughter, called Golden-tresses; but his wife was dead, and, as he had to be out all day, these children were often left alone. So, as he was afraid that some evil might befall them when there was no one to look after them, he, in an ill day, married again.

  I say ‘in an ill day’, for his second wife was a most deceitful woman, who really hated children, although she pretended, before her marriage, to love them. And she was so unkind to them, and made the houseso uncomfortable with her bad temper, that her poor husband often sighed to himself, and wished that he had let well alone, and remained a widower.

  But it was no use crying over spilt milk; the deed was done, and he had just to try to make the best of it. So things went on for several years, until the children were beginning to run about out of doors and play by themselves.

  Then one day the Goodman chanced to catch a hare, and he brought it home and gave it to his wife to cook for the dinner.

  Now his wife was a very good cook, and she made the hare into a pot of delicious soup; but she was also very greedy, and while the soup was boiling she tasted it, and tasted it, till at last she discovered that it was almost gone. Then she was in a fine state of mind, for she knew that her husband would soon be coming home for his dinner, and that she would have nothing to set before him.

  So what do you think the wicked woman did? She went out to the door, where her little stepson, Curly-locks, was playing in the sun, and told him to come in and get his face washed. And while she was washing his face, she struck him on the head with a hammer and stunned him, and popped him into the pot to make soup for his father’s dinner.

  By and by the Goodman came in from his work, and the soup was dished up; and he, and his wife, and his little daughter, Golden-tresses, sat down to sup it.

  ‘Where’s Curly-locks?’ asked the Goodman. ‘It’s a pity he is not here while the soup is hot.’

  ‘How should I ken where he is?’ answered his wife crossly. ‘I have other work to do than to run about after a mischievous laddie all the morning.’

  The Goodman went on supping his soup in silence for some minutes; then he lifted up a little foot in his spoon.

  ‘This is Curly-locks’ foot,’ he cried in horror. ‘There’s been ill work here.’

  ‘Hoots, havers,’ answered his wife, laughing, pretending to be very much amused. ‘What should Curly-locks’ foot be doing in the soup? ’Tis the hare’s forefoot, which is very like that of a bairn.’

  But presently the Goodman took something else up in his spoon.

  ‘This is Curly-locks’ hand,’ he said shrilly. ‘I ken it by the crook in its little finger.’

  ‘The man’s demented,’ retorted his wife, ‘not to ken the hind foot of a hare when he sees it!’

  So the poor father did not say any more, but went away back to his work, sorely perplexed in his mind; while his little daughter, Golden-tresses, who had a shrewd suspicion of what had happened, gathered all the bones from the empty plates, and, carrying them away in her apron, buried them beneath a flat stone, close by a white rose tree that grew by the cottage door.

  And, lo and behold! those poor bones, which she buried with such care –

  ‘Grew and grew,

  To a milk-white Doo,

  That took its wings,

  And away it flew.’

  And at last it lighted on a tuft of grass by a burnside, where two women were washing clothes. It sat there cooing to itself for some time; then it sang this song softly to them:

  ‘Pew, pew,

  My mimmie me slew,

  My daddy me chew,

  My sister gathered my banes,

  And put them between two milk-white stanes.

  And I grew and grew

  To a milk-white Doo,

  And I took to my wings and away I flew.’

  The women stopped washing and looked at one another in astonishment. It was not every day that they came across a bird that could sing a song like that, and they felt that there was something not canny about it.

  ‘Sing that song again, my bonnie bird,’ said one of them at last, ‘and we’ll give you all these clothes!’

  So the bird sang its song over again, and the washerwomen gave it all the clothes, and it tucked them under its right wing, and flew on.

  Presently it came to a house where all the windows were open, and it perched on one of the window-sills, and inside it saw a man counting out a great heap of silver.

  And, sitting on the window-sill, it sang its song to him:

  ‘Pew, pew,

  My mimmie me slew,

  My daddy me chew,

  My sister gathered my banes,

  And put them between two milk-white stanes.

  And I grew and grew

  To a milk-white Doo,

  And I took to my wings and away I flew.’

  The man stopped counting his silver, and listened. He felt, like the washerwomen, that there was something not canny about this Doo. When it had finished its song, he said:

  ‘Sing that song again, my bonnie bird, a
nd I’ll give you a’ this siller in a bag.’

  So the Doo sang its song over again, and got the bag of silver, which it tucked under its left wing. Then it flew on.

  It had not flown very far, however, before it came to a mill where two millers were grinding corn. And it settled down on a sack of meal and sang its song to them.

  ‘Pew, pew,

  My mimmie me slew,

  My daddy me chew,

  My sister gathered my banes,

  And put them between two milk-white stanes.

  And I grew and grew

  To a milk-white Doo,

  And I took to my wings and away I flew.’

  The millers stopped their work, and looked at one another, scratching their heads in amazement.

  ‘Sing that song over again, my bonnie bird!’ exclaimed both of them together when the Doo had finished, ‘and we will give you this millstone.’

  So the Doo repeated its song, and got the millstone, which it asked one of the millers to lift on to its back; then it flew out of the mill, and up the valley, leaving the two men staring after it dumb with astonishment.

  As you may think, the milk-white Doo had a heavy load to carry, but it went bravely on till it came within sight of its father’s cottage, and lighted down at last on the thatched roof.

  Then it laid its burdens on the thatch, and, flying down to the courtyard, picked up a number of little chuckie stones. With them in its beak it flew back to the roof, and began to throw them down the chimney.

  By this time it was evening, and the Goodman and his wife, and his little daughter, Golden-tresses, were sitting around the table eating their supper. And you may be sure that they were all very much startled when the stones came rattling down the chimney, bringing such a cloud of soot with them that they were almost smothered. They all jumped up from their chairs, and ran outside to see what the matter was.

  And Golden-tresses, being the littlest, ran the fastest, and when she came out at the door the milk-white Doo flung the bundle of clothes down at her feet.

  And the father came out next, and the milk-white Doo flung the bag of silver down at his feet.

  But the wicked stepmother, being somewhat stout, came out last, and the milk-white Doo threw the millstone right down on her head and killed her.

  Then it spread its wings and flew away, and has never been seen again; but it had made the Goodman and his daughter rich for life, and it had rid them of the cruel stepmother, so that they lived in peace and plenty for the remainder of their days.

  THE WELL O’ THE

  WORLD’S END

  Elizabeth Grierson

  There was once an old widow woman, who lived in a little cottage with her only daughter, who was such a bonnie lassie that everyone liked to look at her.

  One day the old woman took a notion into her head to bake a girdleful of cakes. So she took down her baking-board, and went to the meal-chest and fetched a basinful of meal; but when she went to seek a jug of water to mix the meal with, she found that there was none in the house.

  So she called to her daughter, who was in the garden; and when the girl came she held out the empty jug to her, saying, ‘Run, like a good lassie, to the Well o’ the World’s End and bring me a jug of water, for I have long found that water from the Well o’ the World’s End makes the best cakes.’

  So the lassie took the jug and set out on her errand.

  Now, as its name shows, it is a long road to that well, and many a weary mile had the poor maid to go ere she reached it.

  But she arrived there at last; and what was her disappointment to find it dry.

  She was so tired and so vexed that she sat down beside it and began to cry; for she did not know where to get any more water, and she felt that she could not go back to her mother with an empty jug.

  While she was crying, a nice yellow puddock, with very bright eyes, came jump-jump-jumping over the stones of the well, and squatted down at her feet, looking up into her face.

  ‘And why are ye crying, my bonnie maid?’ he asked. ‘Is there anything I can do to help you?’

  ‘I am crying because the well is empty,’ she answered, ‘and I cannot get any water to carry home to my mother.’

  ‘Listen,’ said the puddock softly. ‘I can get you water in plenty, if you’ll promise to be my wife.’

  Now the lassie had but one thought in her head, and that was to get the water for her mother’s oatcakes, and she never for a moment thought that the puddock was serious, so she promised gladly enough to be his wife, if he would just get her a jug of water.

  No sooner had the words passed her lips than the beastie jumped down the mouth of the well, and in another moment it was full to the brim with water.

  The lassie filled her jug and carried it home, without troubling any more about the matter. But late that night, just as her mother and she were going to bed, something came with a faint ‘thud, thud’ against the cottage door, and then they heard a tiny little wee voice singing:

  ‘Oh, open the door, my hinnie, my heart,

  Oh, open the door, my ain true love;

  Remember the promise that you and I made

  Down i’ the meadow, where we two met.’

  ‘Wheesht,’ said the old woman, raising her head. ‘What noise is that at the door?’

  ‘Oh,’ said her daughter, who was feeling rather frightened, ‘it’s only a yellow puddock.’

  ‘Poor bit beastie,’ said the kind-hearted old mother. ‘Open the door and let him in. It’s cold work sitting on the doorstep.’

  So the lassie, very unwillingly, opened the door, and the puddock came jump-jump-jumping across the kitchen, and sat down at the fireside.

  And while he sat there he began to sing this song:

  ‘Oh, gie me my supper, my hinnie, my heart,

  Oh, gie me my supper, my ain true love;

  Remember the promise that you and I made

  Down i’ the meadow, where we two met.’

  ‘Gie the poor beast his supper,’ said the old woman. ‘He’s an uncommon puddock that can sing like that.’

  ‘Tut,’ replied her daughter crossly, for she was growing more and more frightened as she saw the creature’s bright black eyes fixed on her face. ‘I’m not going to be so silly as to feed a wet, sticky puddock.’

  ‘Don’t be ill-natured and cruel,’ said her mother. ‘Who knows how far the little beastie has travelled? And I warrant that it would like a saucerful of milk.’

  Now, the lassie could have told her that the puddock had travelled from the Well o’ the World’s End; but she held her tongue, and went into the pantry, and brought back a saucerful of milk, which she set down before the strange little visitor.

  ‘Now chap off my head, my hinnie, my heart,

  Now chap off my head, my ain true love,

  Remember the promise that you and I made

  Down i’ the meadow, where we two met.’

  ‘Hout, havers, pay no heed, the creature’s daft,’ exclaimed the old woman, running forward to stop her daughter, who was raising the axe to chop off the puddock’s head. But she was too late; down came the axe, off went the head; and, lo and behold! on the spot where the little creature had sat, stood the handsomest young Prince that had ever been seen.

  He wore such a noble air, and was so richly dressed, that the astonished girl and her mother would have fallen on their knees before him had he not prevented them by a movement of his hand.

  ‘It is I that should kneel to you, Sweetheart,’ he said, turning to the blushing girl, ‘for you have delivered me from a fearful spell, which was cast over me in my infancy by a wicked fairy, who at the same time slew my father. For long years I have lived in that well, the Well o’ the World’s End, waiting for a maiden to appear, who should take pity on me, even in my loathsome disguise, and promise to be my wife – a maiden who would also have the kindness to let me into her house, and the courage, at my bidding, to cut off my head.

  ‘Now I can return and claim my fa
ther’s kingdom, and you, most gracious maiden, will go with me, and be my bride, if you will have me.’

  And this was how the lassie who went to fetch water from the Well o’ the World’s End became a princess.

  THE SEAL CATCHER AND THE MERMAN

  Elizabeth Grierson

  Once upon a time there was a man who lived not very far from John-o’-Groat’s House, which, as everyone knows, is in the far north of Scotland. He lived in a little cottage by the sea-shore, and made his living by catching seals and selling their fur, which in those days was very valuable.

  He earned a good deal of money in this way, for these creatures used to come out of the sea in large numbers, and lie on the rocks near his house basking in the sunshine, so that it was not difficult to creep up behind them and kill them.

  Some of those seals were larger than others, and the country people used to call them ‘Roane’, and whisper that they were not seals at all, but mermen and merwomen, who came from a country of their own, far down under the ocean, who assumed this strange disguise in order that they might pass through the water, and come up to breathe the air of this earth of ours.

  But the seal catcher only laughed at them, and said that those seals were most worth killing, for their skins were so big that he got an extra price for them.

  Now it chanced one day, when he was pursuing his calling, that he stabbed a seal with his hunting-knife, and whether the stroke had not been sure enough or not, I cannot say, but with a loud cry of pain the creature slipped off the rock into the sea, and disappeared under the water, carrying the knife along with it.

  The seal catcher, much annoyed at his clumsiness, and also at the loss of his knife, went home to dinner in a very downcast frame of mind. On his way he met a horseman, who was so tall and so strange-looking, and who rode on such a gigantic horse, that he stopped and looked at him in astonishment, wondering who he was, and from what country he came.