Gallawa Superstitions.
No.VII—The Dunnie.
By R. De Bruce Trotter
There are four prominent supernatural personages common to the superstitious beliefs of our Alban and Gaelic ancestors—the Each-Uisgé, or Water-Horse, the Kelpie, the Broonie, and the Doonie—all of which have something in common, and all of which are distinctly different, and the tales current about them are far removed from probability, or even possibility, so that it is difficult to imagine how they have obtained such a wide-spread credence. They may probably have been some of the numerous gods of our heathen ancestors, transformed into evil spirits by the primitive saints by whom our Christianity was introduced, and who, finding they could not otherwise overcome the awe and reverence in which they were held by the natives, and that they could not easily adopt them as Christian saints, as the early Romish Church did with Jupiter, Venus, Woden, and Œster, they denounced them as demons and attributed to them the evil qualities likely to make them hateful to their former worshippers.
The first-named of these, Each-Uisgé, the Water-Horse, is very little known in Galloway now, but he is still believed in as an existent reality in great part of the West Higblands (where I have spoken to people who professed to have seen it), in the Isle of Man, in the norh-west [sic] of Ireland, and in Wales. It was or malevolent disposition, and frequented the lone end of Loch Ken till the establishment of thee Boat of Rhone; and several other lochs, but scarcely ever heard of now.
The Kelpie was also a water-spirit, and was also malevolent, and frequented big burns, rivers, and lochs; and under the form of a horse or a cow, or a young girl or a young man, laid itself out to lure people to destruction by drowning, in order, it is said, that they might be utilised as sacrifices to the devil. The Kelpie is not by any means extinct in Galloway yet.
The Broonie or Brownie is, I fear, extinct now, though he was still believed in as an existing entity as late as 1820, in Galloway at any rate. Wull Nicholson’s immortal poem, “The Brownie of Blednoch,” and Hogg’s well-known tale, “The Brownie of Bodsbeck,” have made him familiar to most people. Hogg, Sir Walter Scott, and other writers of that type have tried hard to make out that the Broonie was a role assumed for protection and safety by the fugitive Covenanters when our godly sovereigns Charles II. and James VII., assisted by the Scottish Episcopal clergy and nobility, were striving to convert them from Christianity to Episcopacy by means of the thumb-screws, the boot, the Bass Rock, the sword, the carbine, and the gallows, and other gentle arts of pious persuasion.
This solution of the mystery of the Broonie is nullified by the fact that the Broonie is not a recent creation, and is not confined to Lowland Scotland, but has been known to all the Gaelic races for hundreds, and probably for thousands of years. In the Scottish Highlands and in Ireland he is widely known as “The Gruagach,” which means “the hairy one,” reminding one of Nicholson’s description:
This is an exact description of the Gruagach all but the kilt, which Nicholson probably put on for decency’s sake. His other characteristics are just as described by Nicholson.
He is also well known in the Isle of Man as the Glashan, probably in reference to his grey-brown colour. In Carrick he was formerly known as The Bodach, or old man, but he is now known there as the Broonie. In all places he is described as kind, helpful, industrious, and obliging; nocturnal in his habits, fond of cream and new milk, and of the heat of a fire, which he never replenishes of his own accord, but “he’s awfu’ easy huff’t.” He never assumes any shape but his own.
The Dunnie or Doonie is now almost as scarce as the water-horse, though I knew a man in Nithsdale in 1855 who declared that one of them did signal service when he made his appearance into the world.
He seems to be a Danish version of the Broonie, and is still talked about from Nithsdale through the Border Counties and even in Northumberland. He sometimes assumes the appearance of an old man or woman, and sometimes of a horse, and, like the Broonie, he is always disposed to give help to people in need of assistance. His name is probably derived from the Gaelic Donn (brown), and would consequently mean Brownie; Donn, pronounced Dun or Thun, being the origin of the English word “Dun” and the Scotch word “Din,” meaning a lightish brown. He has, in his character of an old man, probably some connection with the Bodach of Carrick, pronounced Budach or Buddich, whence come the Scotch Buddy, and the English Body—a person or individual.
According to the account of Douglas M’Math, his father was a herd on the farm of Locherben, in the parish of Closeburn, and lived in a little sheiling on the march of Mitchellslacks, long since destroyed, and he had been away on the hill all the afternoon, and it was long after dark when he got home, for the weather was very coarse and threatening an “onfa’,” for it was the 22nd of December and the weather awfully broken. When he got home he found the wife in the pains of labour, and the only woman that could be had was Lucky Harkness, of The Garroch, and she was very shortly married herself, and so was of little or no use; so there was nothing for it but to order M’Math off as hard as he could go to Thornhill for the doctor. Thornhill was a very small place then, and only one doctor in it. M’Math was awfully tired, so he went down to the farm town to get the beast, but “the Cork” had another farm the other side of Durisdeer, somewhere near Coshogle, and he had the beast away there and would not be back till’ the next day; so that there was nothing for the poor man but to trudge away over the muir, footsore, wornout, and weary, all the way to Thornhill, with the dread possibility of finding the doctor not at home, but away seven or eight miles off in some other direction.
Not far off there is a large shallow circular hole in the meadow, some 12 or 14 feet across, from which a strong stream of about eight feet wide rises suddenly with tremendous force, making a large and well-filled burn, even in the driest seasons. It is said that this well was long an object of worship to the ancient inhabitants of the district, and was the cause of frequent wars and contentions for its possession between the natives of Nithsdale and Annandale. This is borne out to some extent by the numerous large and almost perfect cairns, and very plentiful small cairns, still existing for miles to the south of it.
It would be of great antiquarian interest to have this “Well” thoroughly explored, as such places were usually the receptacles of many votive offerings; and this one might yield some valuable relics. It is the property of the Duke of Buccleuch.
When M’Math was turning the head of this pool in the dark he ran up against a pony standing right in his way, and instead of letting fling at him, as he expected, it rubbed its face up against his shoulder. He took hold of it he the forelock and tried to lead it towards the “toun,” so that he might get a saddle and bridle, or at least a halter to ride it into Thornhill with.
He couldn’t imagine what a pony could be doing there, or whose it was, unless some tinklers might be camping near by, and he hadn’t seen or heard of any. Whoever it belonged to it was a perfect God-send, and he determined not to let the chance slip; so as it would not be led towards the stable, he jumped on its back and tried to direct it towards the stable with his stick; but no! He was no sooner on its back than it wheeled about and set off in the direction of Thornhill at a smart “trootle.” At first he was in great dread, thinking it was some malicious kelpie, which was taking him to drown him in the “Well” to become a sacrifice to the devil, but a few minutes were sufficient to assure him that such was not the case; for the way the wind blew against his face soon told him that his mysterious charger was heading right for Cample Brig. So on it “trootled,” M’Math jogging away the best way he could, without either saddle or bridle; at first trying to direct it with the stick; but he soon found that it wouldn’t be directed by him, and knew a way better than he did, and would go neither faster nor slower by any effort of his. So had just to let it have its own way, when in due time it got to Thornhill and “trootled” right up to the doctor’s door, where it came to a dead stop. When M’Math dismounted and knocked at the door the pony disappeared, and when the doctor came he declared that he was that tired that he couldn’t go without a horse, and both of his animals were completely exhausted.
So M’Math and he knocked up the only two other people in the place who had a horse, to try to get the loan of one, but neither of them would lend one for love or money, and he and the doctor had just to go back disappointed, and wondering what on earth was to be done.
Just as they turned the doctor’s corner he ran up against the same old pony, standing as if it was asleep. “Thank goodness!” says the doctor, “here’s somebody’s aul’ yaud; l’Il just take it with me and ask no questions,” and he tried to lead it towards the stable, but not a foot would it move. “Bring out the saddle and bridle, says he, “and we’ll put them on here, and the saddle and bridle were brought out, but it would have none of them, and after M’Math telling him that it had brought him in without either, he got on to its back, and the moment he did so it “trootled” away with him in the proper direction. The doctor was astonished at the wonderful sagacity of the brute, which carried him safely, “ower muir and fell,” and right up to M’Math’s door, where the doctor on alighting was able to tell by the sounds emanating from the sheiling that he was just in time to afford valuable assistance; for in little more than half-an-hour a man child was born into the world.
Murdoch M’Math set out for home in the wake of the doctor, but could not overtake him, and nearly lost himself seven or eight times on the way. At long and last he came to the big well, and there stood the pony just where he had found it, and apparently fast asleep. He clapped it on the neck, and said to it, “Wha’s ever aught ye, ye did my wife and me a gude turn this nicht. I hae juist gotten in some corn for the hens, an’ l’Il bring ye doon the best feed o’ corn ye ever had in your life an’ anither in the mornin’.”
When he got to the house and found the wife better he was like to stand on his head with joy, and got an immense feed of corn and took it down to the well, but when he got there no pony could be found. He made up a bed for the doctor and made him stay all night, and in the morning he went out again to feed the pony, but neither it nor any tinklers or other wanderers could be found. Mitchellslacks came home unexpectedly in the morning, for he was anxious about the sheep, and he drove the doctor home, and being told the adventure of the pony, informed the doctor that it had been the Doonie, a well-known institution thereabouts, which had helped many a one in a strait, and he reckoned would do so many a time again. “Aye!” says he, “I mind my faither tellin’ us, yt when he was a laddie at the skule, he gaed tae Closeburn Academy; an’ yae afternune him an’ some ither boys gaed tae Crichope Linn looking for young doos, for there was a hantle o’ them biggit there then. Ye ken what a queer bit Crichope is; joost like a muckle crack in the freestane rock, a’ thrawn an’ crookit, wi’ bits o’ shelfs here an’ there, an’ holes yt the doos biggit in, an’ a’ smooth’t wi’ the water, yt wus rinnin’ at the buddum, maybe therty or forty fit doon. Weel, he was thrang herryin’ a nest, an’ pittin’ the young doos in his jacket pouch, when his fit slippit an’ ower he gaed; an’ juist as he was gaun oot o’ sicht, he gat a grip o’ a hazel buss, an’ hel’ on. He try’t a’ he could tae warsel up on tae the shelf again, but he couldna manage’t, an’ it wasna lang or he fun yt he couldna hing on muckle langer; an’ he was juist lookin’ doon tae see if he wus gaun tae fa’ on tae a craig an’ get kill’t, or intae a pule an’ get droon’t; whun he notice’t a queer-lookin’ aul’ wife stannin’ on a shelf naur the buddum, Whun she saw him lookin’ she hel’ oot her brat wi’ baith han’s, an’ cry’t oot—‘Let gae, an’ A’ll kep ye.’ He didna think there was muckle chance o’ her keppin’ him, but he had tae let gae onyway, an’ doon he fell on tae the aul’ wifes apron. The apron didna exactly kep him though, for he skeytit off’t, an’ intae a deep pule, yt couldna be seen fae abune; an’ the minute he cam’ tae the tap the aul’ wife gruppit him by the cuff o’ the neck an’ harl’t him oot on tae the stanes, no’ a bit the waur.
“He couldna imagine hoo the aul’ wife got there, or hoo they wur gaun tae wun oot; for the linn’s a bit naebuddy can wun either oot or in o’; but she took him by the han’ and said, ‘C’wa this wey; an’ she led him oot o’ the inn by a wey he kent naething aboot, an’ could never fin’ efter, for he socht for’t aften; and then she said, ‘Noo, scrieve for hame, au dinna ye come here herryin’ doos again, or maybe the Doonie ’ll no be here tae kep ye, an’ when he turn’t roon tae answer her she wusna there. Sae ye see, doctor, there’s waur things nor the Doonie i’ warl’.”
It is not likely that the farmer in Mitchellslacks now could understand Scotch, far less speak it, but the farmers in those days had not discovered what a disgrace it was not to be English, or what an awful crime it was, socially, to be able speak more than one language.