Customs and Traditions, Myths and Legends

[John ThomsonHollingsworth]

This article was in today's New York Times

August 7, 2009
Op-Ed Contributor
Keep Your Hands Off Our Haggis
By ALEXANDER McCALL SMITH

Edinburgh

THIS is very serious. Britain, as most readers of this newspaper know, has long been populated by three warlike tribes, the Scots, the English and the Welsh. Much of British history consists of disputes between these tribes, particularly between the Scots and the English. Since the middle of the 18th century, after Bonnie Prince Charlie made a vain attempt to reclaim the kingdom for the Scottish Stuart dynasty, an uneasy peace has prevailed, based, in part, on the understanding that Scottish pride and Scottish feathers will not be unduly ruffled. But then, every so often, somebody threatens this delicate understanding with an outrageous suggestion. This usually happens in August, when newspapers have nothing better to talk about. And it has happened again this August.

The insult to the Scots this year is that haggis, the Scottish national dish, is not really Scottish, but English. Now this may seem a matter of little consequence to Americans, but how would the United States react if apple pie and turkey with cranberry sauce were to be claimed as the products of, say, French cuisine? Or if somebody asserted that baseball was invented by the Romanians (which it was)? These things are a matter of national pride, and people should take great care when talking about them.

The basis of the current claim is that an English cookbook of the early 17th century contains a recipe for haggis. This, we are told, was well before any Scottish recipe book gives similar information. Well, now, this assertion is so patently flimsy that it hardly requires refutation. Of course there was no published Scottish recipe for haggis before then, for the simple reason that it would have been quite unnecessary for Scots to publish a recipe for something that everybody in Scotland knew how to make. Why state the obvious? It’s as simple as that.

But if further proof is required, then it is there in abundance. English cuisine has always been very open to foreign influences, and still is. If one looks at contemporary English cookbook writers, what do they write about? French food, Indian food, Chinese food — anything but English food. And it was ever thus. So it is no surprise that early 17th-century English food writers should have written about exotic Scottish dishes rather than English ones. This is what these people have always done.

The haggis, of course, has played an important role in the Scottish national psyche — not as food, but as an invention. Scots like to console themselves with the knowledge that even if today we are a small nation on the periphery of Europe, an adjunct to a defunct empire, and chronically unsuccessful at something we would love to be successful at (soccer), we nonetheless have a great past as inventors.

Scottish schoolchildren are indoctrinated with the history of Scottish inventions. Television, they are taught, was invented by John Logie Baird, a Scotsman, and not by Philo Taylor Farnsworth, an American. The Irish did not invent whisky, and Irish whiskey is not the real McCoy; McCoy himself, whoever he was, was clearly Scottish and definitely not Irish. And golf was not invented by the Dutch — as misguided Dutchmen have a habit of claiming — it was a product of the Scottish genius for hitting things with sticks and counting the hits.

So the haggis is clearly Scottish, as Robert Burns understood full well when he wrote his famous poem in its praise. If one’s national bard writes a poem to a dish consisting of chopped-up offal cooked in a sheep’s stomach together with oatmeal and spices and secured with a curious pin, then that dish must be authentically national.

Anyway, even if there were doubts about this — which of course no right-thinking person would entertain — why take an iconic dish away from a national cuisine that has so little else of distinction in it? Yes, we have salmon and porridge, and one or two other dishes, but Escoffier would surely have been very unfulfilled had he been born Scottish.

Blithely attributing our haggis to a people who already have lots and lots of dishes — most of them terribly stodgy — in their national cuisine seems, if nothing else, to be gratuitously cruel. It would be like eating a mockingbird, if I may be permitted a literary allusion.

Never heard of haggis? Never tasted it? Try it on your next visit to Scotland, or even England. It is best taken with mashed turnips, which, incidentally, were invented in Scotland, and with a shot of whisky. The whisky is to neutralize the taste of the haggis, and the turnips are there for health reasons. Highly recommended.

Alexander McCall Smith is the author, most recently, of “Tea Time for the Traditionally Built.”
Copyright 2009 The New York Times Company

[Thomas Thompson]

Proof that Scots are leaders.
   4/09/2010 article by Thomas Sowell:   'MULTICULTRAL DOGMA FETTERS ADVANCEMENT.
"...In 18th-century Scotland, the great philosopher David Hume urged his fellow Scots to learn the English language, in order to advance themselves, individually and collectively.
   The net result was that Scotland went from being one of the most backward countries on the fringes of European civilization to being one of the most advanced countries in the world.  A wholly disproportionate share of the leading British intellectuals from mid-18th century to mid-19th century were of Scottish ancestry, and the Scots ultimately surpassed the English in medicine and Engineering."

[Stirling Thompson]

Prince's Flowers

On the island of Eriskay in Scotland's Western Isles. There grows a small pink flower. Unique to the island this frail little Convolvulus flower has a link with Bonnie Prince Charlie.

Before he reached Glenfinnan to raise the Jacobite standard in 1745 the 'young pretender' first arrived at the island of Eriskay. He had travelled on the French Frigate La Doutelle. The weather was typical for the area and time of year and the small frigate was buffeted by harsh weather. Charles made the decision to land on the island and a small party rowed ashore.

The Princes StrandThe tiny boat made landfall at a small inlet which has come to be known as 'Coilleag d'Phrionnso' (The Prince's Strand). As the Prince stepped ashore he reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of flower seeds. These he scattered close to the shore. The seeds grew by the beach and these rare pink flowers grew at the spot. They have come to be known as the princes flower for this reason. It has been observed that when anyone tries to move the plants from the island to another location they never flourish.

[Stirling Thompson]

Mary Stewart, Queen of Scotland (1542 - 1587)


    "In my end is my Beginning"
    - Mary Queen of Scots

How many of us wonder in our secret hearts just what our lives are meant to be, what impact our presence and passing may have on the balance of the world both as it is now and as it may become?

Mary Stewart had nineteen long years to ponder these questions, and possessed both the courage and the will to determine for herself the outcome of her personal tragedy and make her mark in our hearts and in the lives of many generations of Scots and Englishmen.

Born to rule, raised in luxury at the French court, Queen of Scotland, Queen Dowager of France, second in line to the English throne, in her darkest nightmares Mary could not have imagined what her life would become when she set sail from France in 1561 at the age of eighteen to rejoin her people and begin her personal rule of Scotland.

Well-educated, beautiful, charming, religiously tolerant of her Protestant subjects, and loyal and caring with high- and low-born alike -- none of these talents and qualities were adequate for holding her throne against the greed and ambition of the Scottish nobles. The very qualities so often admired in the Scots -- independence, courage, clan loyalty -- worked against a strong monarchy in Scotland. These powerful lords were only interested in self-aggrandizement and extending their own lands and power base. Constantly changing loyalties and pacts amongst them brought Mary to grief over and over again. The duplicity of Elizabeth I, Mary's cousin and Queen of England, further undermined Mary's authority.

After a remarkable series of catastrophes, including Mary's ill-received marriage to Lord Darnley (father of James VI), the murder of Mary's servant Riccio, Darnley's subsequent murder at Kirk o' Field, her abduction and brief marriage to James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell -- all with in a three-year period! -- Mary made the most unfortunate decision of her short reign. Pursued by rebels, Mary chose to flee to England, rather than attempt an escape to France.

Putting herself into Elizabeth's hands seems well-nigh impossible to understand, for Elizabeth's primary concern throughout her reign was to secure the kingdom to herself and ensure a Protestant England. Once on English soil, Mary never left again. She was imprisoned in various homes and castles for the next nineteen years -- and eventually executed (illegally) on charges of treason soon after her 44th birthday.

In reflecting on Mary Queen of Scots' life and person, we are overwhelmed at the unfairness and injustice she suffered, losing her kingdom to the pettiness of those less fit to rule. Her son, Jame VI (James I of England, surname Stuart from his father Darnley), torn from her at age 10 months, was raised to despise her and her Catholic faith -- he never lifted a finger to help her and did not grieve at her death. Elizabeth's motives are at least clear, as Mary was a definite threat to her throne, but the underhanded and cruel way in which Mary was often treated is inexcusable.

Many readers become bored with Mary's later life, preferring the excitement and romance of her youthful escapades. But half of Mary's life was led in captivity and the maturity and insight she gained during these years produced her immortal legacy. While always loyal to the Roman Catholic church, Mary had not been excessively devout when young.

However, her years in prison deepened her faith. Knowing she would soon be put to death, Mary determined to die with all the dignity of a Queen (a birthright no one could take from her) and as a martyr to the Catholic faith. In this endeavor, she richly succeeded and future generations revered her devotion to the cause of Christ and put to shame her oppressors.

Elizabeth I died barren, "The Virgin Queen". She lies in a tomb at Westminster Abbey with her sister, Mary Tudor, also barren. Mary Queen of Scots lies in the Abbey surrounded by generation after generation, babies, children, and adults, of the Stuart line. Her blood flows through the centuries and in the veins of the current Elizabeth II.

"In my end is my Beginning" was embroidered by Mary herself on the royal dais of state under which she sat throughout her years of captivity.

[Thomas Thompson]

Thanks Stu
  Your article cause me to rethink some of my assumed facts on Scottish history. In the rush of this important election year we often overlook the meaning of personal  freedom. I 'll wager none of us can image what it means to spend years in captivity just because you are a threat to someone's ruling position.
Tom

[Stirling Thompson]

From heartoscotland.com...

Christmas in Scotland

What is Christmas in Scotland really like? The following article was written by a young Scotswoman willing to share with Americans how the Scots celebrate Christmas.
A Real Scottish Christmas

Dear Americans.

I have entitled this article "A Real Scottish Christmas" and I hope that it gives interested people some insight into how the average Scot spends the festive season. Personally, I'm spending this year snowboarding in France, but for the majority of Scots stuck with it, here's how it goes:

Christmas shopping in Scotland: Apart from the supermarket "Christmas Savings Stamps", which start earlier, this now starts just before Hallowe'en, when the shops start filling up with a variety of gift ideas. The big out of town shopping centres tend to start their decorations earliest, but keen to attract shoppers to town centres, which are losing business to the out of town centres, local councils light up the streets and encourage shops to stay open later in competition. The bigger cities are now attempting a more classy look by putting fairy lights into the trees that are there all year round, while smaller towns tend to get multicoloured light bulbs into a big fir tree in the town centre. These get gradually smashed by young people in the run up to Christmas leaving one or two at the top by December 24th.

The advertising also gets into full swing round about Hallowe'en so that the children have plenty of time to drive their parents mad asking for the latest toys. Also in shopping centres Santa's Grottos appear, where children queue up to go in and ask Santa for what they want at Christmas, and get given a small toy.

Letters to Santa: Children at this time often start to make Christmas lists, which are lists of the presents they want. Some children send this list to 'Santa' in Lapland by one means or another. I was told that you could burn this on the fire and the list would go up the chimney and get to Santa that way. However my parents "living flame" fire was behind glass so that never really worked.

Decorating Houses: The next exciting thing that happens is that people start to decorate their houses. These decorations are getting gradually more outrageous as the years go by with the humble plastic tree and bits of tinsel strung across the ceiling being replaced by light up musical Santas climbing into windows and fake snow being rolled out across roofs. We don't tend to get real snow any more due to global warming (hence going to France). Children can join in the countdown by using advent calendars, which have little doors that you can open for every day in December with a little picture behind, ending on Christmas Eve.

On Christmas Eve: The children are in a frenzy of excitement waiting for their presents. Practice at this point varies; I used to have big presents put under the Christmas tree to find in the morning as well as a stocking for smaller presents at the end of the bed for Santa to come and fill in the night ready for me to find in the morning. Some families used pillow cases instead of stockings, and some don't see the point of stockings at all and just go for the big presents. We eat ordinary food on Christmas Eve.

On Christmas day: Usually families will get together to open their presents and have a big Christmas lunch. Everyone looks hopefully out of the window to see if it will snow, and I remember it did once. Presents are unwrapped carefully so that the wrapping paper can be used again. Often dads and grandpas get socks. Lunch is usually turkey with all the trimmings and one or two glasses of wine or champagne. Pudding is usually a Christmas cake - some people who don't like fruit cake may have a Yule log, which is a chocolate cake from Sweden. Most people have Christmas crackers and eat their dinner wearing a paper crown. Following this the whole family get together in front of the TV and fall asleep in front of either:

1. "The Wizard of Oz" or
2. "The Sound of Music" or
3. "The Queen's Speech" (always at 3pm).

At tea time, our family liked to have a light supper of bread and butter and smoked salmon, and more crackers if there are any left.

Thus ends Christmas and we all wait for a few days until Hogmanay. (Ed. note: Hogmanay is New Year's)

Hogmanay is the time of year when children get to stay up until 12:00 am. It goes like this:

1. Sit up watching 'hoochter choochter' music on the telly and trying not to fall asleep. For many years a comedy show called 'Scotch and Wry' was shown, even for several years after the death of the main character. Now we have pictures of the tourists in the streets of Edinburgh.

2. Just before midnight, go to your neighbour's across the road, where they will be waiting with bowls of mixed nuts and a glass of wine. Some (generally older) people may at this point drink whiskey. Remember to take a lump of stone symbolising a piece of coal for good luck. This is called "First Footing".

3. At "the bells" (on the telly), everyone stands up and stands in a circle with their hands crossed, holding hands with the people on either side of them, and sings 'Auld Lang Syne' while feeling slightly embarrassed.

4. Stay for a bit to make an effort and then go home and climb gratefully into bed.

The younger and more adventurous may go round to more than one person's house and take them all a lump of stone, and will get drunk. If there are a lot of people about in the streets, everyone will wish each other a happy new year and kiss each other on the (usually) cheek. This is what used to happen in Edinburgh but can no longer because the whole town is full of tourists who don't know what to do and the people who live in Edinburgh aren't allowed across town without a ticket.

January the 2nd is also a Scottish holiday. However we have two less public holidays than England throughout the rest of the year to make up for it.

I hope you have enjoyed this little slice of Scottish life, and you have my best wishes for recreating it in America.

Merry Christmas!

Well, there you have it! Sounds like Americans and Scots don't differ too much in our ways of celebrating that most commercial of holidays - but as we say in America: "It's for the children."

[Parker Thomson]

Jock Tamson's Bairns
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

"We're a' Jock Tamson's Bairns" (Lowland Scots for we're all John Thomson's children) is a popular saying in Scotland and the far north of England, and is known in other parts of the world. Nowadays, the phrase is often used to mean "we're all the same under the skin"

My Siblings and I went to visit my Grandfather's birthplace in Fenwick.  Somewhere along the way, we went to the Pilochry Games. Anyway, I thought I would throw on the Thomson Tartan kilt and walk around.  I t did not take me long to figure out that in Scottish Games, the only ones wearing kilts are contestants and old guys.  Some old guy came up to me and asked what I was competing in. And I told him I was just there as a spectator. He said " Aye, Amercian?" I told him yes and why we were there, to visit Grandfather Thomson's birthplace.  So then he said, "Aye we're all John Thomson's bairn."  I have to admit that I said, " Uhhh- what?" I figured it meant something about all Scot's kinship in the context.

[Stirling Thompson]

From Folk lore of Lowland Scotland by Evelyn Balantyre Simpson 1908

FAIRIES

"Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a hunting
For fear of little men.
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together,
Green jacket, red cap
And white owl's feather."

Wm. Allingham.
...
Northern fable explains to us how the gay wee folk and gnomes were turned into a useful path, when the world was young. Odin had spied from his high seat wicked dwarfs and sprites in mischief. He sent Hermod, the Flying Wind, to bid them speak with him. The "light elves were surprised at the summons, not quite knowing whether to feel honoured or afraid. However, they put on their prettiest manners and went clustering after Hermod like a swarm of lady birds." They were very inquisitive, but became awed when they saw Odin in the Judgment Hall, and hung back in the doorway, peeping over their comrades' shoulders. They had to be beckoned to, two or three times, and finally shoving one another, and whispering timidly, they reached his footstool. "Then Odin spoke to them in calm, low, serious tones about the wickedness of their mischievous propensities. Some of the very worst of them only laughed in a forward, hardened manner, but a great many looked up surprised and a little pleased at the novelty of serious words, whilst the light elves all wept, for they were tender-hearted little things." Odin named the two dwarfs whom he had seen murdering the wise man, and so pleased were they at their fame they leapt up and danced and boasted of their misdeeds. Then Odin thundered with disapproval at them, condemned the wicked dwarfs to live far underground from henceforth, and throw fuel upon the earth's fire; those who had only been impishly mischievous were to hammer in the gold and diamond mines, and only at night return to breathe the upper air. Chattering with fear and rage they departed, but the light elves stood with their joyous faces bedimmed with tears and begged Odin to forgive them, as they had done no one any harm. Sage Odin asked if they had ever done anybody any good, and they confessed, with innocent candour, that they had never done anything at all. "You may go then," said Odin, "to live amongst the flowers and play with the wild bees and summer insects, but you must find something to do or you will work mischief like the dwarfs from idleness."

The elves explained they were such foolish little people and had no one to guide them, so Frey, the genius of clouds and sunshine, was sent for, and promised to teach the brainless, useless elves to burst the folded buds, to set the blossoms, to pour sweetness into the swelling fruit, to lead the bees through the honey passages of the flowers, to make the single ear a stalk of wheat, to hatch the birds' eggs and teach the young to sing. Delighted were the elves at the course of study that Frey suggested, and away they went with him to Altheim, and so the frivolous elves became our tricksy, pretty fairies, who, like Puck, sing merrily:—

"In the cowslip's bell I lie.
Where the bee lurks there lurk I."

Oberon and Titania and all their mimic train dance lightsomely before us in poetry and romance, for they have been made into familiar spirits for us by pen and brush. These are the inconsequent fairies of northern fable, but those denizens of Elfinland who live in Scotland have been described by the people preserved in folk lore, and also ministers of the gospel have written what they believe to be facts about these fairies. The Rev. Mr. Kirk of Aberfoyle, at the beginning of last century, published a book describing these contrairy sylvan pigmies. He says: "They are a kind of astral spirits between angels and humanity, being like men and women in appearance and similar in many of their habits. They live in subterranean habitations, and in an invisible condition attend very constantly on men. They are very fond of human children and pretty women, both of which they will steal if not protected by some superior influence. When people offend them they shoot flint-tipped arrows, and by this means kill either the persons who have offended them or their cattle. They cause these arrows to strike the most vital part, but the stroke does not visibly break the skin, only a blae mark is the result visible on the body after death. These flint arrow heads are occasionally found, and the possession of one of these will protect the possessor against the power of these astral beings and at the same time enable him or her to cure diseases in cattle and women."

Another divine in 1670, Lucas Jacobsen Debes, in his description written from Thorshaven in the Faroes, complains "of the fairies disturbing his congregation and sometimes carrying off his hearers." The Rev. Lucas must have surely delivered very spiritual discourses when he drew around him those teasing elves, who could lend their aid when they listed as a choir invisible. Perhaps his congregation were not averse to these fairy visits, or did not object to being lifted from out of hearing of the good man's lengthy discourse. We must bear in mind that the people of previous times led less artificial lives than we do. As a modern writer says: "When we were children we did not say at such a distance from the post-office or so far from the butcher's or the grocer's, but measured things from the covered well in the wood, or by the burrow of the fox in the hill. We belonged then to God and His works and to things come down from the ancient days. We would not have been greatly surprised had we met the shining feet of an angel among the white mushrooms upon the mountains—for we knew in those days immense despair, unfathomed love, every eternal mood— but now the draw-net is about our feet."

As we have grown in civilisation we have lost many instincts once granted to mortals. We have undoubtedly acquired knowledge, and thereby power, on many subjects, but our progenitors, along with'untamed races and animals, had faculties of sight, smell, and hearing which education and indoor life has blotted out from our list of attainments. They lived close to nature, who was a kind old nurse to the children who cuddled close to her, and she gifted them with a keener range of vision than we possess. They therefore may, for aught we know, have seen face to face their good neighbours of whom so much has been said and sung....

[Thomas Thompson]

Stu
   Thanks for that reminder of a time more innocent than ours. I think our children missed the best part of youth by NOT spending time in the woods listening ONLY to the wind and birds.

[Stirling Thompson]

Found this interesting...

Scottish Naming Traditions

    The following is the traditional method of naming offspring used by those of Scottish descent during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries and before.

        First son after father's father
        Second son after mother's father
        Third son after father
        Subsequent sons after great-grandfathers, uncles, cousins, neighbours, minister, doctor, schoolmaster, laird etc.

        First daughter after mother's mother
        Second daughter after father's mother
        Third daughter after mother
        Subsequent daughters after great-grandparents, aunts, cousins, neighbours, minister's wife, doctor's wife, schoolmaster's wife, laird's wife etc.

[Stirling Thompson]

The following tale is taken from:
Wonder Tales from Scottish Myth and Legend
By Donald Alexander Mackenzie
[1917]

The Maid-of-the-Wave

The mermaid, or, as she is called in Gaelic, Maid-of-the-Wave, has great beauty and is sweet-voiced. Half her body is of fish shape, and glitters like a salmon in sunshine, and she has long copper-coloured hair which she loves to comb as she sits on a rock on a lonely shore, gazing in a mirror of silver, and singing a song in praise of her own great beauty. Sometimes, on moonlight nights, she takes off her skin covering and puts on sea-blue garments, and then she seems fairer than any lady in the land.

Once a young crofter was wandering below the cliffs on a beautiful summer night when the wind was still and the silver moon shone through the clear depths of ocean, casting a flood of light through Land-under-Waves. He heard sounds of song and laughter. He crept softly towards a shadowy rock, and, climbing it, looked down on a bank of white sand. There he beheld a company of mermaids dancing in a ring round a maid who was fairest of the fair. They had taken off their skin coverings, and were gowned in pale blue, and, as they wheeled round about, their copper tresses streamed out behind their backs, glistening in the moonlight. He was delighted by their singing and amazed at their beauty.

At length he crept stealthily down the rock, and ran towards the skin coverings lying on the sand. He seized one and ran off with it. When the mermaids saw him they screamed and scattered in confusion, and snatching up their skin coverings, leapt into the sea and vanished from sight. One maid remained behind. This was the fair one round whom the others had been dancing. Her skin covering was gone, and so she could not return to her sea home.

Meanwhile the crofter ran to his house and hid the skin covering in a box, which he locked, placing the key in his pocket. He wondered what would happen next, and he had not long to wait. Someone came to his door and knocked softly. He stood listening in silence. Then he heard the knocking again, and opened the door. A Maid-of-the-Wave, clad in pale sea-blue garments, stood before him, the moonlight glistening on her wet copper hair. Tears stood in her soft blue eyes as she spoke sweetly saying: "O man, have pity and give me back my skin covering so that I may return to my sea home."

She was so gentle and so beautiful that the crofter did not wish her to go away, so he answered: "What I have got I keep. Do not sorrow, O fair one. Remain here and be my bride."

The mermaid turned away and wandered along the shore, but the crofter did not leave his house. In the morning she returned again, and the crofter said to her: "Be my bride."

The mermaid consented saying: "I cannot return to my fair sea home. I must live now among human beings, and I know no one except you alone. Be kind to me, but do not tell man or woman who I am or whence I came."

The crofter promised to keep her secret, and that day they were married. All the people of the township loved Maid-of-the-Wave, and rejoiced to have her among them. They thought she was a princess from a far country who had been carried away by the fairies.

For seven years the crofter and his wife lived happily together. They had three children, two boys and a girl, and Maid-of-the-Wave loved them dearly.

When the seventh year was drawing to a close the crofter set out on a journey to Big Town, having business to do there. His wife was lonely without him, and sat often on the shore singing songs to her baby girl and gazing over the sea.

One evening, as she wandered amidst the rocks, her eldest boy, whose name was Kenneth, came to her and said: "I found a key which opened Father's box, and in the box I saw a skin like the skin of a salmon, but brighter and more beautiful, and very large."

His mother gasped with surprise and secret joy, and asked softly: "Will you give me the key?"

Kenneth handed the key to her, and she hid it in her bosom. Then she said: "It is getting late. The moon will not rise till near midnight. Come home, little Kenneth, and I shall make supper, and put you to bed, and sing you to sleep."

As she spoke she began to sing a joyous song, and Kenneth was glad that his mother was no longer sad because his father was from home. He grasped his mother's hand, and tripped lightly by her side as they went homeward together.

When the two boys had supper, and were slumbering in bed, the crofter's wife hushed her girl-baby to sleep, and laid her in her cradle. Then she took the key from her bosom and opened the box. There she found her long-lost skin covering. She wished to return to her fair sea home, yet she did not care to leave her children. She sat by the fire for a time, wondering if she should put on the skin covering or place it in the box again. At length, however, she heard the sound of singing coming over the waves, and the song she heard was like this:--

Maid-of-the-Wave, the dew mist is falling,
  Thy sisters are calling and longing for thee;
Maid-of-the-Wave, the white stars are gleaming,
  Their bright rays are streaming across the dark sea.
Maid-of-the-Wave, would thou wert near us!
  Come now to cheer us--Oh, hear us! Oh, hear us!

Maid-of-the-Wave, a sea-wind is blowing,
  The tide at its flowing hath borne us to thee;
Maid-of-the-Wave, the tide is now turning--
  Oh! we are all yearning our sister to see.
Maid-of-the-Wave, come back and ne'er leave us,
  The loss of thee grieves us--believe us! believe us!

Maid-of-the-Wave, what caredst thou in childhood
  For moorland or wildwood? thy home was the sea.
Maid-of-the-Wave, thine exile and sorrow
  Will end ere the morrow, and thou shalt be free.
Maid-of-the-Wave, to-night from our sea-halls
  A heart-spell on thee falls--the sea calls! the sea calls!

She kissed the two boys and wept over them. Then she knelt beside her little baby girl, who smiled in her sleep, and sang:

Sleep, oh! sleep my fair, my rare one,
  Sleep, oh! sleep nor sigh nor fret thee.
Though I leave thee it doth grieve me--
  Ne'er, oh! ne'er will I forget thee.

Sleep, oh! sleep, my white, my bright one,
  Sleep, oh! sleep and know no sorrow.
Soft I kiss thee, I who'll miss thee
  And thy sire who'll come to-morrow.

Sleep, oh! sleep my near, my dear one,
  While thy brothers sleep beside thee.
They will waken all forsaken--
  Fare-thee-well, and woe betide me!

 
When she had sung this song she heard voices from the sea calling low and calling sweet:

Maid-of-the-Wave, oh! list to our singing;
  The white moon is winging its way o'er the sea.
Maid-of-the-Wave, the white moon is shining,
  And we are all pining, sweet sister, for thee.
Maid-of-the-Wave, would thou wert near us!
  Come now to cheer us--Oh, hear us! Oh, hear us!

The weeping mother kissed her boys and her baby-girl once again. Then she put on her skin covering and, hastening down the beach, plunged into the sea. Ere long, sounds of joy, and laughter were heard far out amongst the billows, and they grew fainter and fainter until they were heard no more. The moon rose high and fair, and shone over the wide solitary ocean, and whither the mermaids had gone no one could tell.

When the crofter returned next morning he found the children fast asleep. He wakened Kenneth, who told him about finding the key and opening the box.

"Where is the key now?" the crofter asked.

"I gave it to Mother," said the boy.

The crofter went towards the box. It was open, and the skin covering was gone. Then he knew what had happened, and sat down and sorrowed because Maid-of-the-Wave had gone.

It is told that the lost mother often returned at night-time to gaze through the cottage windows on her children as they lay asleep. She left trout and salmon for them outside the door. When the boys found the fish they wondered greatly, and their father wept and said: "Your mother is far away, but she has not forgotten you."

"Will Mother return again?" the boys would ask.

"No, Mother will not return," their father would say. "She now dwells in the home of her people, to which you and I can never go."

When the boys grew up they became bold and daring seamen, and no harm ever came to them in storm or darkness, for their mother, Maid-of-the-Wave, followed their ship and protected it from all peril.

[Stirling Thompson]

I haven't posted anything here for awhile so try this one...


The Fian Warriors

There is an ancient legend that an army of sleeping warriors is waiting in a cave in the Eildon Hills until the day comes when all Gaeldom shall rise against its oppressors. Sir Walter Scott related the following story in his "Letters on Demonology and Witchcraft".
"The story has often been told, of a daring horse-jockey having sold a black horse to a man of venerable and antique appearance, who appointed the remarkable hillock upon Eildon hills, called the Lucken-hare, as the place where at twelve o'clock at night, he should receive the price. He came, his money was paid in ancient coin, and he was invited by his customer to view his residence. The trader in horses followed his guide in the deepest astonishment through several long ranges of stalls, in each of which a horse stood motionless, while an armed warrior lay equally still at the charger's feet.
"All these men", said the wizard in a whisper,"will awaken at the battle of Sheriffmuir." At the extremity of this extraordinary depot hung a sword and a horn, which the prophet pointed out to the horse-dealer as containing means of dissolving the spell. The man in confusion took the horn and attempted to wind it. The horses instantly started in their stalls, stamped, and shook their bridles, the men arose and clashed their armour, and the mortal, terrified by the tumult he had excited, dropped the horn from his hand. A voice like that of a giant, louder even than the tumult around, pronounced these words:
'Woe to the coward that ever he was born
That did not draw the sword before he blew the horn.'
A whirlwind expelled the horse-dealer from the cavern, the entrance to which he could never find again." Scott says that the wizard was Thomas of Ercildoune, known as the Rhymer.

[Barbara]

Love these stories and history Stirling, thanks!

Barbara

[Stirling Thompson]

The Kindly Wulver

Wulvers are ofter called werewolves, but legend shows they are quite different. Said to inhabit the Shetland Islands off the coast of northeast Scotland. The ancient Celts believed that the Wulver evolved from wolves, and that the Wulver symbolizes the in-between stage of man and wolf. With the head of a wolf, the body of a man, and covered in short brown hair, the Wulver lives alone in a cave. Unlike his werewolf brethren, the Scottish Wulver is considered kindhearted, and he will often guide lost travelers to nearby towns and villages. There are also tales of Wulvers leaving fish on the windowsills of poor families.

The Wulver was frequently spotted fishing for its daily meal from a rock dubbed, �The Wulver�s Stane� (Wolf Stone), and as long as he was left alone, a Wulver showed no aggression. Habitually, this peace-loving creature demonstrated a benevolent side as well, and oft-times was observed leaving extra fish on the windowsill of poor families.

Unfortunately, there isn�t much documentation on the elusive Wulver, the last reported sighting being in the early twentieth century. Considering there are few bad stories connected with the beast, many believe an encounter providential, and may lead a person to treasure buried amongst ancient ruins. Conversely, others view Wulver sightings as omens of imminent death.
The Wulver has two legs and is hal human unlike a werewolf

The Wulver has two legs and is hal human unlike a werewolf

Werewolf tales abound, cloaked in terror, wonder and ill will. Therefore, if ever you find yourself lost on the fog-shrouded shores of the Shetland Isles, you�d do well to pray the benign Wulver finds you first, and guides you safely home.

[Donna]

Hey Stu,
What a cool story!  Thanks for posting it!
Donna