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  Thistle and Thyme

  Tales and Legends from Scotland

  Sorche Nic Leodhas

  To Maxine McFarland Digby

  Ceud mìle fàilte!

  Contents

  1.

  The Laird’s Lass and the Gobha’s Son

  2.

  St. Cuddy and the Gray Geese

  3.

  The Stolen Bairn and the Sìdh

  4.

  The Lass Who Went Out at the Cry of Dawn

  5.

  The Changeling and the Fond Young Mother

  6.

  The Bride Who Out Talked the Water Kelpie

  7.

  The Drowned Bells of the Abbey

  8.

  The Beekeeper and the Bewitched Hare

  9.

  The Fisherlad and the Mermaid’s Ring

  10.

  Michael Scott and the Demon

  Introduction

  SCOTLAND HAS STORIES OF SO MANY DIFFERENT SORTS that the richness of their variety is almost beyond believing. Take the legends alone! There are old, old legends which are as like myths as they are like anything else. Then there are legends of the supernatural, and of saints, which have come down to us in old monkish records. And there are the popular legends, which are sometimes sentimental, but often very funny, and which were sometimes ballads in the beginning.

  Another sort of Scottish story is the cottage tale, which somebody made up to amuse folks gathering around the fire on long winter’s evenings. There are usually fairy people of some kind in cottage stories. They are true folk tales and have been handed down almost as they were first told.

  Then there are the seanachie (shon-a-hee) stories told by the wandering storytellers. They took a bit of a legend here and a bit of a cottage tale there, mixed them together with some of the fairy folk, and perhaps a bit of the supernatural, and came out with something distinctive and all their own.

  There are other sorts of Scottish stories, but some of the most interesting are the sgeulachdan (skale-ak-tan). The special thing about a sgeulachdan is that it is almost never written down. The composer of a sgeulachdan was (and still is, I have been reliably told) someone who had won some renown as a storymaker-and-teller among his friends and neighbors. And the sgeulachdan (which translated simply means tale) was almost always told as part of the entertainment at some sort of ceilidh (kay-lee) or gathering, such as a wedding, a wake, a christening, or the like. Sometimes they were told in impromptu rhyme, and almost always they pointed a moral, or had a theme suited to the occasion.

  Gaelic folks have never been hard put to find a reason for a ceilidh. Weddings, or the announcement of an intention to wed, are the best and likely to produce the most merriment, but a christening is good, too, and so is the return of one who has been far, and long, away from home. There are many special days in the year that call for celebration, such as the end of sheepshearing or of harvest. Then there are the special seasons and holidays like All Hallows’ Eve or New Year’s. But no matter what brings folks together, you may be sure that there will be a grand feast spread, and the singing of old songs and ballads, the dancing of reels, and most probably speeches to follow. But in the old days, the high point of the entertainment was the sgeulachdan.

  The man who was going to tell it was always well prepared. As soon as he received his bidding or invitation to the ceilidh, he knew that he’d be called upon to tell a tale. Why wouldn’t he be, being famous for just that in all the countryside? So he’d be casting around in his mind for things to make it out of, and putting them together. And from maybe an idea he got from an old tale he’d heard, or from something that had happened to someone that he’d been told about, he made up his story. After he’d got it together, he changed it about and polished it and burnished it, until he was satisfied that it couldn’t be bettered, and there was his sgeulachdan, ready for telling.

  There was a special art in the telling of it, too. When the storymaker-and-teller stood up before the company to tell it at last, he had a way of making it seem to fit the occasion even better. He did this by starting out with an introduction which he invented as he went along, telling what the ceilidh was for, and bringing in the names of the guest or the guests of honor, and hinting at the things he was going to tell about. And when he was well into the sgeulachdan, he’d begin to put in asides about this person or that, who was standing there listening, making the lasses blush and giggle, and the lads shuffle their feet awkwardly and look at each other with a wink or a grin, and setting the rest of the crowd roaring with laughter—until it was their turn to be the butt of the joke. Unless the sgeulachdan was a serious one (like The Stolen Bairn and the Sìdh), the telling of it could be a very hilarious affair.

  These are the stories in THISTLE AND THYME:

  The Laird’s Lass and the Gobha’s Son: A sgeulachdan from the Highlands on the Inverness side of Beauly. This is a fairly modern wedding or betrothal sgeulachdan, brought here about 1850. It pokes fun at the lass who insists on getting her own way.

  St. Cuddy and the Gray Geese: A medieval legend of Lowland origin. In the beginning, it probably was told in rhyme. It may have been a ballad or a broadside. This version was brought from Galashiels, not too far from Mulross (Melrose). St. Cuthbert was prior of Melrose Abbey at one time.

  The Stolen Bairn and the Sìdh: A sgeulachdan from Cromarty on Moray Firth. A very old one, and quite evidently one told at a christening, for the theme is the steadfast love of a mother for her child.

  The Lass Who Went Out at the Cry of Dawn: A seanachie story from the Lowlands. From Beatock about forty miles or so from Dumfries. This story is unusual because it has practically nothing but action in it and moves along at a fast rollicking swing. Originally, it was probably rhymed.

  The Changeling and the Fond Young Mother: A cottage story from New Galloway in the Lowlands, and a true folk tale.

  The Bride Who Out Talked the Water Kelpie: A sgeulachdan from Ardfainaig in Perthshire. This is a wedding sgeulachdan. It was told at the wedding of a cousin of my grandfather, who brought it to America and told it to my father, who told it to me.

  The Drowned Bells of the Abbey: A legend of the supernatural from Ballachulish near Glencoe. Perhaps told in Latin by the monks, then retold in Gaelic.

  The Beekeeper and the Bewitched Hare: A sgeulachdan from Lairg on Loch Shin in the Highlands. It is obviously an All Hallows’ Eve tale.

  The Fisherlad and the Mermaid’s Ring: A sgeulachdan for a wedding from Tobermory on the Island of Mull. The general idea behind this tale is that one’s first love is not always one’s true love.

  Michael Scott and the Demon: A legend from Glenluce on Luce Bay. A Lowland story, as are almost all those in which the devil figures. This is a popular legend, probably once a ballad. Nobody knows how old it is, but it is very old.

  It is important to remember, when retelling a sgeulachdan in a book, that these stories were always told in Erse (Scottish Gaelic). The swing and rhythm of the Gaelic must be faithfully reproduced to preserve the cadence, which is almost metrical. Wherever possible, Gaelic phrases and expressions must be translated not freely, but literally, to preserve the atmosphere. As there are no written records of them, a writer can only come by them by hearing them told by someone who heard them himself, or even by being told them at second- or third-hand. Considering this, it is remarkable that the sgeulachdan have come down with so many of the old Gaelic phrases and intonations still intact.

  The sgeulachdan in this collection were all told to me long ago, and I have reconstructed them from a few notes and the echoes of their telling in my mind.

  Sorche Nic Leodhas

  The Laird’s Lass

  and the Gobha’s Son

  AN OLD L
AIRD HAD A YOUNG DAUGHTER ONCE AND SHE was the pawkiest piece in all the world. Her father petted her and her mother cosseted her till the wonder of it was that she wasn’t so spoiled that she couldn’t be borne. What saved her from it was that she was so sunny and sweet by nature, and she had a naughty merry way about her that won all hearts. The only thing wrong with her was that when she set her heart on something she’d not give up till she got what it was she wanted.

  Nobody minded so much while she was a wee thing, but when she was getting to be a young lady, that’s when the trouble began.

  She turned out better than anyone would have expected, considering all. You wouldn’t have found a bonnier lass if you searched far and wide. But she was as stubborn as ever about having her own way.

  Well, now that she was old enough the laird decided it was time to be finding a proper husband for her to wed, so he and her mother began to look about for a suitable lad.

  It didn’t take long for the lass to find out what they had in mind. She began to do a bit of looking around on her own. She hadn’t the shade of a bit of luck at first. All the men who came to the castle were too fat or too thin or too short or too tall or else they were wed already. But she kept on looking just the same.

  It was a good thing for her that she did, because one day as she stood at the window of her bedroom she saw the lad she could fancy in the courtyard below.

  She called to her maid: “Come quick to the window! Who is the lad down below?”

  The maid came and looked. “Och, ’tis only the son of the gobha that keeps the shop in the village. No doubt the laird sent for him about shoeing the new mare,” she said. And she went back to her work.

  “How does it come that I ne’er saw him before?” asked the lass.

  “The gobha’s shop is not a place a young lady would be going to at all. Come away from the window now! Your mother would be in a fine fret could she see you acting so bold.”

  And no doubt she was right, for the lass was hanging over the windowsill in a most unladylike way.

  The lass came away as she was told, but she had made up her mind to go down to the village and get another look at the gobha’s son.

  She liked the jaunty swing to his kilt and she liked the way his yellow hair swept back from his brow and she had a good idea there’d be a lot of other things about him she’d be liking, could she be where she could get a better look at him.

  She knew she wouldn’t be let go if she asked, so she just went without asking. And to make sure nobody’d know her, she borrowed the dairymaid’s Sunday frock and bonnet. She didn’t ask for the loan of them either, but just took them away when nobody was around to see.

  The gobha’s shop was a dark old place but it wasn’t so dark that she couldn’t see the gobha’s son shoeing the laird’s new mare.

  His coat was off and his arms were bare and he had a great smudge of soot on his cheek, but she liked what she saw of him even better than before.

  He was holding the mare’s leg between his knees and fixing the new shoe on its hoof, so she waited till he finished. Then she stepped inside.

  “Good day,” said she.

  “Good day,” said he, looking up in surprise. And he gave her a great wide smile that fair turned her heart upside down.

  So she gave him one as good in return. “I’m from the castle,” said she. “I just stopped in as I passed by to see how you were coming on with the mare.”

  “I’ve two shoes on and two to go,” said he. “Bide here a bit and I’ll ride you up on her back when I’m done.”

  “Och, nay!” said the laird’s daughter. “I just stopped by. They’ll be in a taking if I’m late coming home.”

  Though he begged her to stay, she would not. So off she went.

  He was not well pleased to see her go for he’d taken a terrible fancy to her and wanted to know her better. It was only after she was gone that he remembered he’d never asked her name.

  When he took the mare back, he tried to find out which of the maids from the castle had been in the village that day. But there were maids galore in the castle and half a dozen or more had been in the village on one errand or another, so he got no satisfaction. He had to go home and hope he’d be seeing her soon again. Whoever she was and wherever she was, she’d taken his heart along with her.

  The laird’s daughter had come home and put the dairymaid’s frock and bonnet back where she got them. After she made herself tidy, she went to find her father. She found him with her mother in the second-best parlor and she stood before them and said, “You can just stop looking for a husband for me to wed because I’ve found the one I want myself.”

  The laird laughed, for he thought it a joke she was making, but he soon found out it was not.

  “I’m going to marry the gobha’s son!” said she.

  The laird flew into a terrible rage. But no matter what he said, it was all of no use. The lass had made up her mind, and he couldn’t change it for her. And it was no use bothering the gobha’s son about it, because he didn’t even know who she was. He’d just tell the laird he’d never laid eyes on his daughter.

  Well, the laird could only sputter and swear, and his lady could only sit and cry, and the lass was sent to bed without her supper. But the cook smuggled it up to her on a tray so that did her no harm at all.

  The next morning the laird told her that she and her mother were going to Edinbro’ in a week’s time. And there she’d stay until she was safely wed to her second cousin twice-removed that he’d finally picked to be her husband. The cousin had asked for her hand before, but the laird had been putting him off in case someone better came along. But the way things were, the laird had decided he’d better take the cousin after all, and get his daughter wedded to a husband her mother and he had picked for her themselves.

  “I’ll go if I must,” said the lass. “But you can tell my cousin that I’ll not be marrying him. I’ve made up my mind to wed the gobha’s son!”

  The gobha’s son was having his own troubles.

  When the laird and his family came out of the church on the Sabbath morn, they passed by the gobha and his son at the gate. When they’d gone by, the gobha’s son pulled at his father’s arm.

  “Who is the lass with the laird and his lady?” he asked his father.

  His father turned and looked. “Och, you ninny!” said he in disgust. “Can you not see ’tis no lass at all? ’Tis a young lady, so it is! That’s the laird’s own daughter.”

  The gobha’s son had been building cloud-castles about the lass he’d thought was one of the castle maids, and now they all tumbled down. His heart was broken because he was so unlucky as to fall in love with the daughter of the laird.

  Well, the days went by till it came to the one before the lass and her mother were to go to Edinbro’. The lass rose from her bed at break of dawn and dressed herself and tiptoed down the stairs. Since this was going to be her last day at home, she wanted to have a little time to be alone for it seemed that either the laird or her mother or else her maid was at her elbow ever since she’d told them she meant to wed the gobha’s son.

  The cook was in the kitchen as she passed through to the back door of the castle. The cook was picking something up from the floor.

  “What have you there?” asked the lass.

  “’Tis a bairn’s wee shoe,” said the cook. “One of the laird’s dogs fetched it in and dropped it on the floor just now as he went through. It must belong to one of the gardener’s weans. ’Tis a bonny wee shoe and much too good for the likes of them,” she added with a sniff.

  “Give it to me,” said the lass. “I’ll find the bairn that owns it.” She took the shoe and dropped it in her pocket.

  Around the stables she went and through the kitchen garden to the lane that led to the gardener’s house. Halfway there she came upon a wee small old man sitting on the bank at the side of the lane with his head in his hands. He was crying as if his heart would break. He was the smallest manikin ever she’d see
n. He was no bigger than a bairn and indeed he looked so like a bairn, sitting there and weeping so sorely, that she sat down beside him and put her arms about him to comfort him. “Do not greet so sore,” said she. “Tell me your trouble and if I can I’ll mend it.”

  “’Tis my shoe!” wept the wee man. “I took it off to take out a stone that got in it, and a great rough dog snatched it from my hand and ran off with it. I cannot walk o’er the briers and brambles and the cruel sharp stones without my shoe and I’ll ne’er get home today.”

  “Well now!” said the lass, with a laugh. “It seems I can mend your troubles easier than my own. Is this what you’re weeping for?” And she put her hand in her pocket and took out the shoe she had taken from the cook.

  “Och, aye!” cried the wee man. “’Tis my bonny wee shoe!” He caught it from her hand and put it on and, springing into the road, he danced for joy. But in a minute he was back, sitting on the bank beside her.

  “Turnabout is only fair,” said he. “What are your troubles? Happen I can mend them as you did mine.”

  “Mine are past mending,” said the lass. “For they’re taking me to Edinbro’ in the morn to wed my second cousin twice-removed. But I’ll not do it. If I can’t marry the gobha’s son, I’ll marry no man at all. I’ll lay down and die before I wed another!”

  “Och, aye!” said the wee man thoughtfully. “So you want to marry the gobha’s son. Does the gobha’s son want to wed you?”

  “He would if he knew me better,” the lass said.

  “I could help you,” the manikin told her, “but you might have to put up with a bit of inconvenience. You mightn’t like it.”

  “Then I’ll thole it,” the lass said. “I’d not be minding anything if it came right for me in the end.”

  “Remember that” said the wee man laughing, “when the right time comes.”

  Then he gave her two small things that looked like rowan berries, and told her to swallow them before she slept that night.