Scottish Folk and Fairy Tales from Burns to Buchan (Penguin Classics)

by Gordon Jarvie

  Presently the lad gave a wild shriek, and jumped high in the air. ‘Gold, gold!’ he cried. ‘By the name of Thor, who would have looked to find gold here?’

  This was too much for the boatman. Forgetting all about his head and the King, he jumped out of the boat, and, pushing Assipattle aside, began to scrape among the sand with all his might.

  While he was doing so, Assipattle seized his pot, jumped into the boat, and pushed off. He was half a mile out to sea before the outwitted man, who, needless to say, could find no gold, noticed what he was about.

  And, of course, he was very angry, and the old King was more angry still when he came down to the shore, attended by his nobles and carrying the great sword Sickersnapper, in the vain hope that he, poor feeble old man that he was, might be able in some way to defeat the monster and save his daughter.

  But to make such an attempt was beyond his power now that his boat was gone. So he could only stand on the shore, along with the fast assembling crowd of his subjects, and watch what would befall.

  And this was what befell.

  Assipattle, sailing slowly over the sea, and watching the Mester Stoorworm intently, noticed that the terrible monster yawned occasionally, as if longing for his weekly feast. And as it yawned a great flood of sea-water went down its throat, and came out again at its huge gills.

  So the brave lad took down his sail, and pointed the prow of his boat straight at the monster’s mouth, and the next time it yawned he and his boat were sucked right in, and, like Jonah, went straight down its throat into the dark regions inside its body. On and on the boat floated; but as it went the water grew less, pouring out of the Stoorworm’s gills, until at last it stuck, as it were, on dry land. And Assipattle jumped out, his pot in his hand, and began to explore.

  Presently he came to the huge creature’s liver, and, having heard that the liver of a fish is full of oil, he made a hole in it and put in the live peat.

  Woe’s me! but there was a conflagration! And Assipattle just got back to his boat in time; for the Mester Stoorworm, in its convulsions, threw the boat right out of its mouth again, and it was flung up, high and dry, on the bare land.

  The commotion in the sea was so terrible that the King and his daughter – who by this time had come down to the shore dressed like a bride, in white, ready to be thrown to the monster – and all his courtiers, and all the country-folk, were fain to take refuge on the hilltop, out of harm’s way, and stand and see what happened next.

  And this was what happened next.

  The poor, distressed creature – for it was now to be pitied, even although it was a great, cruel, awful Mester Stoorworm – tossed itself to and fro, twisting and writhing.

  And as it tossed its awful head out of the water its tongue fell out, and struck the earth with such force that it made a great dent in it, into which the sea rushed. And that dent formed the crooked Straits which now divide Denmark from Norway and Sweden.

  Then some of its teeth fell out and rested in the sea, and became the islands that we now call the Shetland Isles; and a little afterwards some more teeth dropped out, and they became what we now call the Faeroe Isles.

  After that the creature twisted itself into a great lump and died; and this lump became the island of Iceland; and the fire which Assipattle had kindled with his live peat still burns on underneath it, and that is why there are mountains which throw out fire in that chilly land.

  When at last it was plainly seen that the Mester Stoorworm was dead, the King could scarce contain himself with joy. He put his arms around Assipattle’s neck, and kissed him, and called him his son. And he took off his own royal mantle and put it on the lad, and girded his good sword Sickersnapper around his waist. And he called his daughter, the Princess Gemdelovely, to him, and put her hand in his, and declared that when the right time came she should be his wife, and that he should be ruler over all the Kingdom of Orkney.

  Then the whole company mounted their horses again, and Assipattle rode on Go-swift by the Princess’s side; and so they returned, with great joy, to the King’s Palace.

  But as they were nearing the gate Assipattle’s sister, she who was the Princess’s maid, ran out to meet him, and signed to the Princess to lean down, and whispered something in her ear.

  The Princess’s face grew dark, and she turned her horse’s head and rode back to where her father was, with his nobles. She told him the words that the maiden had spoken; and when he heard them his face, too, grew as black as thunder.

  For the matter was this: the cruel Queen, full of joy at the thought that she was to be rid, once and for all, of her stepdaughter, had been making love to the wicked Sorcerer all the morning in the old King’s absence.

  ‘He shall be killed at once,’ cried the monarch. ‘Such behaviour cannot be overlooked.’

  ‘You will have much ado to find him, your Majesty,’ said the girl, ‘for more than an hour since he and the Queen fled together on the fleetest horses that they could find in the stables.’

  ‘But I can find him,’ cried Assipattle; and he went off like the wind on his good horse Go-swift.

  It was not long before he came within sight of the fugitives, and he drew his sword and shouted to them to stop.

  They heard the shout and turned around, and they both laughed aloud in derision when they saw that it was only the boy who grovelled in the ashes who pursued them.

  ‘The insolent brat! I will cut off his head for him! I will teach him a lesson!’ cried the Sorcerer; and he rode boldly back to meet Assipattle. For although he was no fighter, he knew that no ordinary weapon could harm his enchanted body; therefore he was not afraid.

  But he did not count on Assipattle having the sword of the great god Odin, with which he had slain all his enemies; and before this magic weapon the Sorcerer was powerless. And, at one thrust, the young lad ran it through his body as easily as if he had been any ordinary man, and he fell from his horse, dead.

  Then the courtiers of the King, who had also set off in pursuit, but whose steeds were less fleet of foot than Go-swift, came up, and seized the bridle of the Queen’s horse, and led it and its rider back to the Palace.

  She was brought before the Council, and judged, and condemned to be shut up in a high tower for the remainder of her life. Which thing surely came to pass.

  As for Assipattle, when the proper time came he was married to the Princess Gemdelovely, with great feasting and rejoicing. And when the old King died they ruled the kingdom for many a long year.

  PART THREE:

  WANCHANCY APPARITIONS, SECOND SIGHT, WITCHES

  TAM O’ SHANTER: A TALE

  Robert Burns

  ‘Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this Buke.’

  (Gavin Douglas)

  When chapman billies leave

  the street,

  And drouthy neebors neebors meet;

  As market days are wearing late,

  An’ folk begin to tak the gate;

  While we sit bousing at the nappy,

  An’ gettin fou and unco happy,

  We think na on the lang Scots miles,

  The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,

  That lie between us and our hame,

  Whare sits our sulky sullen dame,

  Gathering her brows like gathering storm,

  Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

  This truth fand honest Tam o’ Shanter,

  As he frae Ayr ae nicht did canter:

  (Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses

  For honest men and bonny lasses).

  O Tam! hads’t thou but been sae wise

  As taen thy ain wife Kate’s advice!

  She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum

  A blethering, blustering, drunken

  blellum;

  That frae November till October

  Ae market day thou was na sober,

  That ilka melder wi’ the miller

  Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;

  That every naig
was ca’d a shoe on

  The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;

  That at the Lord’s house, ev’n on Sunday,

  Thou drank wi’ Kirkton Jean till Monday.

  She prophesy’d that, late or soon,

  Thou wad be found deep drown’d in Doon;

  Or catch’d wi’ warlocks in the

  mirk

  By Alloway’s auld haunted kirk.

  Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet

  To think how mony counsels sweet,

  How mony lengthen’d, sage advices

  The husband from the wife despises!

  But to our tale: – Ae market night,

  Tam had got planted unco right;

  Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,

  Wi’ reaming swats, that drank

  divinely;

  And at his elbow, Souter Johnny,

  His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony;

  Tam lo’ed him like a very brither;

  They had been fou for weeks thegither.

  The night drave on wi’ sangs and clatter;

  And ay the ale was growing better;

  The landlady and Tam grew gracious

  Wi favours secret, sweet and precious:

  The Souter tauld his queerest stories;

  The landlord’s laugh was ready chorus:

  The storm without might rair and rustle,

  Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

  Care, mad to see a man sae happy,

  E’en drown’d himself amang the nappy;

  As bees flee hame wi’ lades o’ treasure,

  The minutes wing’d their way wi’ pleasure:

  Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,

  O’er a’ the ills o’ life victorious!

  But pleasures are like poppies spread,

  You seize the flow’r, its bloom is shed;

  Or like the snow falls in the river,

  A moment white – then melts for ever;

  Or like the borealis race

  That flit ere you can point their place;

  Or like the rainbow’s lovely form

  Evanishing amid the storm.

  Nae man can tether time or tide;

  The hour approaches, Tam maun ride;

  That hour, o’ night’s black arch the

  key-stane,

  That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;

  And sic a night he taks the road in

  As ne’er poor sinner was abroad in.

  The wind blew as ’twad blawn its last

  The rattling show’rs rose on the blast;

  The speedy gleams the darkness swallow’d;

  Loud, deep and lang the thunder bellow’d:

  That night a child might understand

  The Deil had business on his hand.

  Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg,

  A better never lifted leg,

  Tam skelpit on thro’ dub and mire,

  Despising wind, and rain, and fire;

  Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet;

  Whiles crooning o’er some auld Scots sonnet;

  Whiles glow’ring round wi’ prudent cares

  Lest bogles catch him unawares:

  Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh

  Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry.

  By this time he was ’cross the ford,

  Where in the snaw the chapman

  smoor’d;

  And past the birks and meikle stane

  Where drunken Charlie brak’s neck-bane;

  And thro’ the whins, and by the cairn

  Where hunters fand the murder’d bairn;

  And near the thorn abune the well

  Where Mungo’s mither hanged hersel.

  Before him Doon pours all his floods,

  The doubling storm roars thro’ the woods;

  The lightnings flash frae pole to pole;

  Near and more near the thunders roll:

  When, glimmering thro’ the groaning trees,

  Kirk-Alloway seem’d in a bleeze

  Thro’ ilka bore the beams were glancing,

  And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

  Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!

  What dangers thou canst make us scorn!

  Wi’ tippenny we fear nae evil,

  Wi’ usquabae we’ll face the Devil!

  The swats sae ream’d in Tammie’s

  noddle,

  Fair play, he car’d na deils a boddle.

  But Maggie stood right sair astonish’d

  Till, by the heel and hand admonish’d,

  She ventur’d forward on the light;

  And vow, Tam saw an unco

  sight!

  Warlocks and witches in a dance;

  Nae cotillion brent new frae

  France;

  But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys and reels,

  Put life and mettle in their heels.

  A winnock-bunker in the

  east,

  There sat Auld Nick, in shape o’ beast;

  A towzie tyke, black, grim and

  large,

  To gie them music was his charge:

  He screw’d the pipes and gart them skirl

  Till roof and rafters a’ did dirl.

  Coffins stood round, like open presses

  That shaw’d the dead in their last dresses;

  And, by some devilish cantraip sleight,

  Each in its cauld hand held a licht –

  By which heroic Tam was able

  To note upon the haly table

  A murderer’s banes, in gibbet-airns;

  Twa span-lang, wee unchristened bairns;

  A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,

  Wi’ his last gasp his gab did gape;

  Five tomahawks wi’ blude red-rusted;

  Five scymitars wi’ murder crusted;

  A garter which a babe had strangled;

  A knife a father’s throat had mangled –

  Whom his ain son o’ life bereft –

  The grey hairs yet stack to the heft;

  Wi’ mair o’ horrible and awefu’

  Which ev’n to name wad be unlawfu’.

  As Tammie glowr’d, amaz’d and curious,

  The mirth and fun grew fast and furious:

  The piper loud and louder blew,

  The dancers quick and quicker flew.

  They reel’d, they set, they cross’d, they

  cleekit,

  Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,

  And coost her duddies to the

  wark,

  And linket at it in her sark!

  Now Tam, O Tam! had they been

  queans,

  A’ plump and strapping in their teens!

  Their sarks, instead o’ creeshie

  flannen,

  Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder

  linen!–

  Thir breeks o’ mine, my only pair,

  That aince were plush, o’ gude blue hair,

  I wad hae gi’en them off my hurdies

  For ae blink o’ the bonnie burdies!

  But wither’d beldams, auld and droll,

  Rigwoodie hags wad

  spean a foal,

  Lowping and flinging on a

  crummock,

  I wonder didna turn thy stomach.

  But Tam kend what was what

  fu’ brawlie:

  There was ae winsome wench an’

  wawlie,

  That night enlisted in the core

  (Lang after kend on Carrick shore,

  For mony a beast to dead she shot,

  And perish’d mony a bonny boat,

  And shook both meikle corn and

  bere,

  And held the countryside in fear).

  Her cutty sark, o’

  Paisley harn

  That while a lassie she had worn,

  In longitude tho’ sorely scanty,

  It was her best and she was vauntie.

  Ah! little ken’d thy reverend grannie,

  That
sark she coft for her wee Nannie,

  Wi’ twa pund Scots (’twas a’ her riches),

  Wad ever grac’d a dance of witches!

  But here my Muse her wing

  maun cour,

  Sic flights are far beyond her power;

  To sing how Nannie lap and flang

  (A souple jade she was and strang),

  And how Tam stood like ane bewitch’d

  And thought his very een enrich’d;

  Even Satan glowr’d, and fidg’d fu’ fain,

  And hotch’d and blew wi’ might and main

  Till first ae caper, syne anither,

  Tam tint his reason a’ thegither

  And roars out ‘Weel done, Cutty-sark!’

  And in an instant all was dark.

  And scarcely had he Maggie rallied

  When out the hellish legion sallied.

  As bees bizz out wi’ angry fyke

  When plundering herds assail their

  byke;

  As open pussie’s mortal foes,

  When, pop! she starts before their nose;

  As eager runs the market-crowd,

  When ‘Catch the thief!’ resounds aloud:

  So Maggie runs – the witches follow

  Wi’ mony an eldritch skreech and

  hollo.

  Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou’ll get thy

  fairin,

  In hell they’ll roast thee like a herrin’!

  In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin’,

  Kate soon will be a woefu’ woman!

  Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,

  And win the key-stane of the brig.

  There, at them thou thy tail may toss,

  A running stream they dare na cross.

  But ere the key-stane she could make,

  The fient a tail she had to shake!

  For Nannie, far before the rest,

  Hard upon noble Maggie prest

  And flew at Tam wi’ furious ettle;

  But little wist she Maggie’s mettle!