By Loch and by Lin Read online

  “As I came through the glen of enchantment,” the brown giant told him, “I met with the giant of the jeweled cup who tricked you out of your legs. He let me have one of your legs lest I needed to bargain with you. I will blow your leg back in place under you, if you will let me out.”

  “I’ll take the leg and set it in place with my own magic,” said the Amadhain Mhor, and seizing the leg from the giant’s hand, he set it beneath him where it belonged.

  “You have the leg I offered,” the brown giant said. “It is time now for me to depart.”

  “Stay where you are for a little longer,” said the Amadhain Mhor. “I made no bargain with you, but took the leg from you and put it in place myself. Furthermore, my other leg is needed before I walk like other men. If you got one leg from the trickster who stole them, no doubt you got the second. I will have both my legs from you or you will go without your head!”

  Then “Help!” and “Mercy!” cried the brown giant as the Amadhain Mhor lunged toward him, driving him before him, until the giant took refuge behind the beautiful lady’s chair. “Save me from this Amadhain Mhor!” the brown giant cried. But the lady smiled, and bowed her head and said nothing at all, sitting quietly in her tall golden chair.

  “Ho, then!” said the Amadhain Mhor. “If death be a terror to you, hand me over my second leg, or before I can say ‘snipp, snapp!’ your head will roll about your feet!”

  The brown giant gave up the other leg and the Amadhain Mhor set it beside the first one in its right place. “My two good legs are mine again, and I can walk as other men,” rejoiced the Amadhain Mhor.

  “It is time now for me to depart,” said the brown giant with his eye to the door.

  The Amadhain Mhor took his stand in the doorway again. “You shall stay in,” said he. “The day will not come when you will go out, till comes the giant of the City of Gold.”

  “Oh! Ho!” said the brown giant, laughing, as he threw aside his brown helmet and cloak. “It is I myself who am the giant of the City of Gold! And I am also the giant of the jeweled cup who took away your legs. And I am the brown giant who came in while you slept and kissed the beautiful lady, my wife. Each disguise was assumed that I might test your courage and your honor. O Amadhain Mhor, your renown has been for your might before, but now it shall be for your courage and faithfulness as well. We shall be as brothers henceforward, and you and your wife, Gealmhin, the delicate fair one, shall dwell with me and my wife, the lady blest with beauty, forever in the City of Gold.”

  Then the beautiful wife of the golden giant stepped down from her tall golden chair.

  “Was it not right that my husband should give me a kiss when he came in?” she said, smiling. “But, then, he could not disguise himself from me.”

  Then all four clasped hands, gave love for love, and goodwill for goodwill, and ever after lived together like the fellowship of the Finne.

  S dh’imich an sgeul mar sin.

  (And so passeth the old tale away.)

  The Tale of the

  Lochmaben Harper

  THERE was an old harper of Lochmaben town, and he played his harp and played it well, with a

  Dum ti tiddely,

  Um ti diddely,

  Daddely, diddely,

  Dee dum do!

  His harping brought him such fame that folks from far and near came trooping to hear the tunes of the Lochmaben harper. He’d give them a sad and a sorry song that would make the tears spring to the eye, then in a trice he’d strike up a tune so blithe and gay that heads would be nodding and feet would be tapping, and folks would be laughing and shouting with glee, before their tears had time to dry. Och, aye, a merry old body was he, the harper of Lochmaben town, with his

  Dum ti tiddely,

  Um ti diddely,

  Daddely, diddely,

  Dee dum do!

  This merry harper took a great delight in a wager or a bet. Many a guinea of gold was laid by the lairds and the lords of Lochmaben town against the harper’s one wee crown. His luck was aye in, for he ne’er lost a stake and whate’er the wager, he’d win it. The lairds would lower and grumble, and swear the de’il himself was in it! But the de’il had naught to do with his winning, because, to tell you true, the harper was sharper than the lairds. So he’d pocket their gold and off he’d go, with his

  Dum ti tiddely,

  Um ti diddely,

  Daddely, diddely,

  Dee dum do!

  King Henry of England in London town sat drinking his cup of wine. “’Tis time,” he said to his chamberlain, “for a royal progress through our domain.” So he summoned his lords of high degree, his nobles and his knights, and bade them all ride out with him to keep him company. And with him he took his huntsmen bold, his horses and his hounds. And with them, led by a trusty groom, was that steed of great renown, King Henry’s favorite, Wanton Brown.

  The king’s domain was long and wide. For days, through the English countryside, the company rode, mile after mile, and the lairds and nobles and knights would fain have found themselves at home again. The roads were miry, the weather was wet and chill, the day was dark and dreary, the lords and nobles and knights and all were saddlesore and weary. They begged the king to stop a while and rest in his castle in Carlisle.

  “I’ faith,” quoth the king. “’Tis what we’ll do! We’ll hold court here for a fortnight—or maybe two.”

  Then the company, one and all, found comfort and cheer in the castle hall, while in the stables, in a warm stall, the groom put that steed of great renown, King Henry’s favorite, Wanton Brown.

  Two Scottish lairds were riding along the road that led to Lochmaben town when whom should they meet but the merry old Lochmaben harper, with his

  Dum ti tiddely,

  Um ti diddely,

  Daddely, diddely,

  Dee dum do!

  They stopped to pass the time of day. Then said Sir John, “Now have you heard the Sassenach king is biding a while at the castle of Carlisle?”

  “Aye,” said Sir Charles. “And he’s brought a sluagh of lordlings and callants along wi’ him, too.”

  “Och, havers! Your news is new no more. I’ve heard the tale you tell before. But do ye ken that they’ve brought that steed of great renown, King Henry’s very favorite, Wanton Brown?” asked the Lochmaben harper.

  “Och,” sighed Sir John. “’Tis a noble beast. And worth his weight in gold, at the least. I’ve ne’er laid eyes upon him myself.”

  “Nor I,” said Sir Charles. “But I’m telling you true. ’Tis what I would like to do.”

  “So I would, too,” said Sir John.

  “I would not have you want, my lairds,” said the sly old Lochmaben harper. “So over the Border to England I’ll slip and steal the horse and then, when you have had a good blink at him, you may take him back again!”

  “You’re daft!” cried Sir John. “You cannot do it.”

  “You silly loon!” said Sir Charles. “Och, you’d be caught, and the king would hang you on the spot!”

  “What will you wager against a crown that I will not go to Carlisle and bring King Henry’s Wanton Brown here to Lochmaben town?” asked the canny old Lochmaben harper.

  “Five acres of good plowed land,” said Sir John. “If you come home alive to tell the tale.”

  “I’ll wager five thousand pounds in gold,” said Sir Charles. “And a safer bet was never made.”

  “The wager is laid,” the harper said. “Five acres and five thousand pounds against my crown that I will fetch, for you to see, King Henry’s Wanton Brown.”

  The Lochmaben harper went home to his wife. “I’m off to Carlisle,” said he, “to steal King Henry’s Wanton Brown for the Lochmaben lairds to see.”

  “Then take along the old gray mare that yestreen had a foal,” said she. “Take the old gray mare, but leave the foal at home with me. Hide a halter under your cloak till you can steal the Wanton away, then slip the halter over the steed’s nose and tie the lead to the tail of the
gray. Then let the old gray mare go free, and off she’ll speed, like a hiving bee, to her foal that’s here at home with me. She’ll never stop for food nor drink till she comes to Lochmaben town. And willy-nilly, tied to her tail, she’ll bring King Henry’s Wanton Brown!”

  “Praise God who gave me a wife with wits!” said the harper. “I’ll do as you say.” So with his harp, on the gray mare’s back, he merrily rode away, with his

  Dum ti tiddely,

  Um ti diddely,

  Daddely, diddely,

  Dee dum do!

  The Lochmaben harper came to Carlisle and went harping through the town. Hard by Carlisle Castle gate he met a man coming down, with jeweled coat, and feathered cap, and many a golden chain and ring. When the harper asked folk who he was, they said ’twas Henry the English king.

  “Light down! Light down!” King Henry said. “Old harper, your music I must hear!”

  “Oh, by my sooth,” the harper said. “I cannot play till I find stabling for my gray mare.”

  “Go down below to the outer court that stands by the town. You’ll find room there to stable your mare beside my good steed Wanton Brown.”

  The harper went to the outer court and found the stable there. Beside King Henry’s Wanton Brown he tied up his old gray mare.

  With his harp on his arm to the gate he went, and into the castle hall, to harp for King Henry, his lords and his knights, his huntsmen and nobles all, with his

  Dum ti tiddely,

  Um ti diddely,

  Daddely, diddely,

  Dee dum do!

  The harper played and the harper carped and the king and his lordlings swore that never in all their lives had they heard music so sweet before. So still they stood a body’d have thought they were rooted to the floor, and even the grooms crept in to hear, and forgot to lock the stable door.

  The harper harped and the harper carped a lay so soft and slow that the king and his lords all nodded their heads and off to sleep did go. One by one they closed their eyes and lay in slumber deep. The harper looked them over and laughed to see that every soul was asleep.

  Then quickly he slipped off his shoon and softly crept down the stair to the outer court below, near the town, to see how matters stood there.

  There was never a body in sight, and the stable door was standing wide. Finding a lantern to give him light, the harper quietly stole inside.

  Five and thirty horses stood, stamping their feet and champing their food. Three and thirty the harper passed without a glance till he came at last to his old gray mare by that steed of great renown, King Henry’s favorite, Wanton Brown.

  He took the halter from under his cloak and set the lantern out of the way. The halter he slipped o’er the nose of the brown and tied it fast to the tail of the gray.

  Then he led the mare to a small back gate that opened out on the town, and step for step as she trotted along came King Henry’s favorite, Wanton Brown. He set the mare free with a thump on her rump. “Be off, auld lass!” cried he. And like an arrow shot from a bow, off at a gallop went she. Down the road, and over the bridge, and in and out of the town the gray mare sped, and close behind galloped the Wanton Brown.

  When the noise of their hoofs was heard no more the harper slipped back to the castle hall and, bent o’er his harp, he went to sleep with the king, his nobles, and knights, and all.

  The old gray mare was swift of foot and she tarried for naught along the way. To the harper’s door in Lochmaben town she brought herself and the Wanton Brown at the breaking of the day.

  “Lass, get up!” called the harper’s wife. “And help your master stable the mare.”

  The serving lass peeped out the door and saw the two horses standing there.

  “Mistress,” she cried. “The master’s not come, but a wonderful sight to see! The gray mare’s had another foal, and it’s bigger by far than she!”

  “Och, ye silly wench!” said the harper’s wife. “It’s daft wi’ sleep you be! Come ben the house and go back to bed. I’ll get up and go myself to put the mare in the shed.”

  The harper’s wife clapped her hands for joy and chuckled at the sight of the old gray mare and Wanton Brown in the early morning light. “Get in to your foal,” she said to the mare. “You’ve done a good job this night.”

  She loosed the lead from the gray mare’s tail and foddered and bedded the two of them down. Then she locked the shed that none might know that it held that steed of great renown, King Henry’s Wanton Brown.

  The groom woke up in the castle hall early in the morn. To the stable he went where the horses stood, stamping their feet and champing their corn. Three and thirty horses there were where five and thirty there should be. The groom gave a blink at the empty stall and cried out, “Woe is me!” He hurried back to the castle hall on legs that shook with fear, and shouted like one whose wits are gone, “King Henry’s Wanton Brown’s awa’, and so is the silly old harper’s mare!”

  The harper feigned to weep and lament. “Och, a wretched body I am! The English loons have stolen my mare, and she with a newborn foal at home that’ll die without its dam!”

  “If there be rogues in Carlisle town, I’ve suffered for it too,” said the king. “They’ve stolen my Wanton Brown, so I’ve lost a horse as well as you.”

  Said the harper, “My loss is twice as great!” and he cursed and tore his hair. “You’ve lost one horse but I have lost two, for I’ll lose the foal as well as the mare.”

  “Hold your tongue!” King Henry said. “You’ll have no cause to lament and swear. I’ll give you thirty guineas to pay for your foal, and three times thirty to pay for your mare!”

  Little did King Henry know ’twas the harper who’d stolen his Wanton Brown. The king put the gold in the harper’s hand and the harper went harping from the town, with his

  Dum ti tiddely,

  Um ti diddely,

  Daddely, diddely,

  Dee dum do!

  Sir Charles and Sir John rode out again and they looked over dale and down. They saw the harper come over the hill, a-harping into Lochmaben town. They caught up with him on the road. Said Sir John, “Are ye back so soon?”

  “I thought you went to Carlisle,” said Sir Charles, “to steal the English king’s steed, ye loon.”

  “I doubt ye’ve won the wager,” said they. “Come, pay us over your crown.”

  Said the harper, “To England I have been and harped for the king in Carlisle town. The music I made he liked so well that he gave me a bag of gold, and it as full of guineas bright as ever it would hold.” He took a long white bag from his pouch and jingled it merrily. “I’ve brought back a bag of gold,” he said, “and the Wanton Brown for you to see.”

  “You lie!” said Sir Charles.

  “You lie!” said Sir John. “The steed is guarded by night and day. ’Twould take a craftier thief than you to steal the Wanton Brown away!”

  “Your words are harsh,” the harper said. “But I will gladly pay over my crown if, when you come to my stable with me, I do not show you that steed of great renown, King Henry’s favorite, Wanton Brown.”

  To the harper’s stable the two lairds went, and he opened the door and there, plain to be seen, was the Wanton Brown beside the harper’s old gray mare.

  “I’ve kept my word,” the harper said, and a merry man was he. “I’ve brought King Henry’s Wanton Brown, my lairds, for you to see.”

  The harper had won the wager again, and the two lairds had to pay. Sir John made over the land he’d staked, and Sir Charles paid up five thousand pounds, ere the dawn of another day.

  They swore that never again would they lay a wager against the harper’s crown. Then back to the English king they took that steed of great renown, King Henry’s favorite, Wanton Brown.

  Long in Lochmaben the harper did dwell with his wife and his mare and his land and his gold, and now there’s no more of the tale to be told, but he played his harp and played it well, with a

  Dum ti tiddely,

/>   Um ti diddely,

  Daddely, diddely,

  Dee dum do!

  The Tale of the

  Earl of Mar’s Daughter

  HAPPEN you’ve heard many a tale about one Earl of Mar or another. Surely their names have been known through the ages for deeds of daring, but there is a story about the daughter of one Earl of Mar that is better than all the others put together.

  The green summer is bonnie, and once, on a pleasant summer’s morn, this noble Earl of Mar’s daughter ran out of her father’s castle to sport and play with her maids in the dewy fresh morning air. The sun rose high and bright, and the day grew warm, so they threw themselves down to rest from their play in the cool shade of a green oak tree. The Earl of Mar’s daughter looked here and there about her, to see what she could see. She saw the green grass and the flowers in bloom and the little white clouds in the bright blue sky. And she saw a bonnie white turtledove preening his wings as he sat at the top of a high stone tower. A bonnier bird she had never seen, and the sight of him so delighted her eye that she raised her voice to call him down and coaxed him to fly to her hand.

  “My bonnie bird, O my Coo-me-doo,” she cried. “Come down to me, come down! You shall have a cage made of good red gold instead of a nest of straws, beneath the eaves. I’ll put golden curtains to your cage and silver hangings on the wall. Of all the birds in Scotland you shall be fairest of all. I will tend you with care, and love and cherish you, my Coo-me-doo, if you will come down to me.”

  No sooner was the promise made than the dove came flying down. He lit on her shoulder and folded his wings as if contented to stay. The Earl of Mar’s daughter laughed for joy to find the dove was won. She carried him back to the castle that morn and made him a place in her bower. Her promise she kept, for she gave him a cage all made of the good red gold. She fashioned it all so fair and fine, with silver hangings and curtains of gold, that never a bird in all the world was as gay as her bonnie dove, Coo-me-doo.

  The day was passing and night was nigh, and it was eventide. The Earl of Mar’s daughter sat in her bower with only her bonnie turtledove to keep her company.