Gallawa Superstitions.

No.II—The History of the Pikestav: An Authentic Tradition.

By R. De Bruce Trotter

Awa up in the Glenkenns, half a dizzen mile abune The Aul’ Clachan, there’s a muckle hill they ca’ Dundeuch, wi’ the Water o’ Deugh roon twa sides o’t, the Water o’ Ken on anither, an’ a laigh-lyin’ nairra neck o’ lan’ atween them at the fourt side, whaur the Water o’ Deuch in aul’ times use’t tae rin intill the Ken, afore it brak’ through the craigs at the Tinkler’s Lowp.

Lookin’ at Dundeugh Hill frae aboot Dalshangan, it’s like an awfu’ big green sugar loaf, but frae aboot Carminnow, it’s a great, lang steep hill, sklentin’ fae the S.-W. tae the N.-E., an’ wi’ the tap o’t dividit inta three geyan’ steep tummocks. Yin o’ them they ca’ Dunmore—the muckle doon; yin they ca’ Dunminnoch—the mid doon; an’ the ither they ca’ Dumbeg—the wee doon; though it’s as big as ony o’ them, but no joost sae heich. Whut Dundeugh means, I dinna ken. Dun means a doon, an deoch means a drink in Gaelic; but I’m thinkin’ Deugh, like Dee, an’ Ken, an’ Nith, an’ Fleet, an’ Cree, is Kymric, an’ I ken unca little aboot Welsh.

They ca’ the haill hill Dundeuch Hill noo; that’s tae say—the Hill on the farm o’ Dundeugh; but whaur the doon iss yt Dungeugh gat its name fae, I couldna guess, athoot it be the aul fort o’ Carminnow on the ither side o’ the Deugh. They ca’t a Roman Camp noo, but there’s naething Roman aboot it but the name, only the ootside rampart’s strecht, an’ the Romans made a’ the sides o’ their camps strecht. Hooever, that’s naething—tae antiquaries—an’ naebuddy else haes ony business wi’t.

They maun ’a been awfu’ teegers for fechtin’ thereawa yince, for a’ the hillsides thereabouts is cover’t wi’ han’-cairns, espeshally the sides facin’ the sooth.

A’ the braeside facin’ the Deuch, frae Polquhanity tae the Tinkler’s Lowp’s joost cover’t wi’ them. There maun ’a’ been a deevil o’ a stramash there I’m thinkin’. They’r maist a’ roon, aboot ten fit across, an’ maybe twa fit heich, that’s the yins on the Carminnow side o’ the water; but on the side o’ the Hill o’ Dundeugh they’r maistly oval, twal fit lang an’ aboot nine braid; verra likely the cairns o’ a different clan or race, for this is joost alang the track o’ the Deil’s Dyke, yt use’t tae divide the Gallawa Picts on the sooth frae the Kymric Britons o’ Strathclyde on the north.

Aboot fifty year sin, a’ the laigh pairts o’ the hill was cover’t wi’ birk, an’ esh, an’ thorns, an’ crabtrees, while a’ the heich bits an’ opens was thick wi’ han’cairns, hunners an’ hunners o them, but the feck o’ them’s taen awa noo tae big dykes an’ oothooses. Maybe it was frae thae crabtrees yt Glenhowl got its name, for that’s the likest tae aipple trees was ever likely tae be there, an’ Glenhowl means the Glen o’ Aipple Trees.

Weel! aboot seeventeen hunner an’ echty twa, there was a lang-leggit herd they cat Quentin M’Naicht leev’t at the aul’ farm-hoose o’ Dundeugh, an he was an awfu’ godly an religious man, an’ was yince verra nearly made an elder.

Weel! there was yae Sunday that simmer, he was oot on the hill herdin’ the yowes an’ lambs tae keep them oot o’ the scrogs, an’ it wus weel an inta the efternune, an’ he wus gettin’ geyly tiret o’t, for bein’ the Sabbath, he couldna tak a stockin’ oot wi’ him tae work, sae he sat hissel doon on a cairn an’ begood tae powter amang the stanes wi’ the point o’ his kent or pikestav, as they ca’t it thereawa than. It wus aboot echt fit lang, an’ had a airn pike at the yae en, an’ a airn click at the ither. Efter awhile he begood tae mak a raith roon the cairn wi’ the stanes, like a wee bruch or a sheep-ree, an’ sune forgat a aboot it bein Sunday, only bein’ an awfu’ gude man, he keepit croonin a verse or twa o’ a Psalm a’ the time, or maybe a bit o’ a Paraphrase, for they wurna lang come oot than, an’ a lot o’ folk likit them.

While he wus hokin’ awa, he mind’it yt a wee aul wife, no unlike a fairy, had come tae the door on the Friday nicht, an’ beggit the wife for a caupfu’ o’ meal, an’ Jean had gien her a gey fu’ yen; an’ the aul’ wife had tell’t her yt her folk wud sen’ something their wey or lang yt wud gar them grow that weel aff yt they wud hae a pickle meal tae gie tae a puir neebor.

“Noo!” says Quentin tae hissel, atween twa verses o’ the paraphrase, “wha kens, but the fairies micht a pittin’ a crock o’ goold in this cairn the nicht, tae pay us for the pickle meal Jean gied them. An wi’ that he gaed deeper an’ deeper in ye hert o ye cairn, till lo! an’ behold! richt in ye verra middle o’t, he cam’ on a great flat leck as big as a door step, yt gied oot a hollow soon whun ocht fell on ’t.

“Gude guide as a’! quo Quentin, the sweet brekkin a’ ower him, “maybe the goold’s there efter a’. Lovanenty! an’ it the Sabbath nicht,” an’ he got a grup o’ the stane wi’ baith han’s, an’ harl’t it oot o’ root.

In aneath wus a hole, an in the hole wus something wi a sklate on the tap o’t.

It wus na lang till he had the sklate aff ‘t, an there, richt aneath his nose, wus a broon crock pig, big aneuch tae haud a stane o’ butter, an’ fu’ o’ goold coins, maist as big as pennies. He liftit up a gowpenfu’ o’ them, an’ wus joost gaun ’a’ pit them inta the poke o’ his plaid, whun a’ on a suddent he mindit yt it wus Sunday.

Like a pious Scotsman, he wus horrifyt at the sin he had narabouts committit, an’ layin’ them back intill the crock, a’ but three yt he took hame tae show tae the wife, he carefully cover’t it up again, tryin’ tae gar the cairn look as if it had never been middle’t wi’; he took a lang glower a’ roon, tae see gin ony buddy wus in sicht, an’ no seein’ naebody, he stuck up his pikestav at yae en’ o’ the cairn for a mark, an’ hoy’t awa hame tae tell Jean the glorious news, ettlin’ tae come back the first thing ’ye mornin’, whun it wudna be a sin, an’ tak’ hame the god-sen’ yt the wee folk had putten in his way.

Whun he gaed in tae tell the joyfu’ tidin’s tae the wife, she flew at him like a wull-cat, for bidin’ sae lang an’ keepin’ the supper waitin’.

Quentin, douce man, waitit till her tongue got tire’t a wee, an’ than he pu’t the three pieces o’ money oot, an’ haudin’ them aneath her neb, said—“Jean Fallace! wusna thae worth waitin’ for?”—an’ than he tell’t her the haill story.

“Man alive!” quo she, “but ye’re a puir gumptionless slunge; ye never wur nocht else! Could ye no’a’ brocht it a’ hame wi’ ye, Sabbath or nae Sabbath? Sorra kens wha’ll hae’t awa or the mornin’.”

But he explain’t yt he had bidden till it wus maist mirk, an’ supposin’ onybuddy had seen him, they wud never jaloose he had fun ocht, an’ if they had, they could never fin ’t in the dark; an’ forbye, when Providence had been sae gude till him he wusna gaun a’ temp’ it wi’ brekkin’ the Sabbath day ower it.

“Ey, my!” says the wife, “if we had a’ that goold hame, we’el be as rich as aul’ Rorison o’ the Airdoch, an’ I’Il be the gran’est leddy in the Glenkens. Rorison had only a hoshenfu’, an’ we hae the fu’ o’ a crock pig.”

“Ah! but!” says Quentin, “first o’ a’ I wud like tae buy back Dundeuch. Ye ken tha M’Naichts wus lairds o’t lang afore the flood, an I wudd like tae get it back again.”

“Deil a Dundeuch l’m wantin’” cries the wife, “I’Il big a gran’ twa storey hoose in the Burgh o’ Carsephairn, whaur I belang tae, there’ll no be the like o’t naegate: an’ l’Il hae roses an’ wudbin growin’ up the wa’s o’t, an’ a jeuk-dub an’ a hen hoose ahint it, an’ wha kens whut forbye.”

“Hevvers!” says Quentin, “we’ll buy Dundeuch wi’ the first o’t, an’ we’ll big up the aul’ castle o’ the Karss again, an’ we’ll leeve there, an’ cairy the gree ower a’ thae M’Millans an’ M’Turks, to say naething o’ the Gordons an’ Newalls an’ ither incomers.

“Nae siccan thing!” cry’t the wife, “I’m gaun a’ hae my joost richts! I daur ye tae think o’ Dundeuch till I hae my new hoose at Carsephairn biggit; an’ a’ coach an’ four, an’ a’ flunkey, an’ a’ silk goon, an’ a’ scarlet cloak, an’ a’ goold cheen, an’ Cordovan shoon, an’ the gran’est mutches in the Glenkens. My certes! l’Il let them a’ see I’m somebuddy.”

An’ they cangle’t an’ tuilzie’t a’ nicht ower’t, till Quentin actually forgat tae tak’ the beuk; an’ or ever they ken’t, the daylicht was beekin in at the wunda.

Than she gat haud o’ the dish-nap an’ startit tae wesh up the supper things an’ than she gaed oot tae toom the nap in the syre. Joost as she oepn’t the door wha steppit richt afore her but the wee aul wife again.

“Jean Fallace!” says she “ye micht obleege me by no jawin’ oot yer nap sae close tae the door. The dirty water comes down on my wean’s bed, an’ it makes sic a han’ o’ the blankets. Ye micht jaw’t in the syre at the ither side o’ the close, tae obleege an aul neebor.”

Jean was in an unca’temper wi’ her tweelziein wi’ the man, an’ she stampit her fit like a March tip, an’ scraich’t oot:

“I’ll do naething o’ the kin’! I’Il see ye at Jerusalem first! A’ll jaw oot my naps whaur I like, athoot speirin yer leave, ye meeserable lookin’ orishon, ye! get oot o’ my gate, or I’Il coup it on the tap o’ ye!”

“Weel! Jean Fallace,” quo the wee wife, “I ettle’t tae do ye a gude turn; but it’s joost as easy tae do ye an ill yin.”

An’ wi’ that she gaed roon the hoose en’ an oot o’ sicht. Then Jean gaed in an’ rage’t on her man an’ ca’t him everything.

By this time it was aboot three in the mornin’, sae they quietit theirsel’s a bit, an’ set aff for the crock pig, takin’ an’ aul’ whun howe tae hoke it up wi, an yin o’ the sons tae help tae cairy the goold hame in his plaid.

Whun they wun tae the cairn, there wus the pikestav stickin’ up joost as he left it, an’ the cairn look’t as if it hadna been disturbit aither.

It wasna lang ’or they wur in tae the inside o’t; an’ what a scunner they got! the muckle flagstane wusna there.

“Devver my wig!” cries Quentin, haudin’ up his hand in horror, “some dirtery haes been here an’ rypit the cairn.”

An’ whaur’s the muckle leck ye tell’t us aboot?” says Jean, “they couldna ’a’ cairy’t it awa?

“Na! haith them!” says Quentin, “it was a’ I could do tae lift the yae side o’t.”

“Glory fugal!” cries the son, “look there faither! we’r at the wrang cairn a’ thegither! there’s yer pikestav stickin’ up at that cairn over bye there, joost whaur ye put it.”

An’ lo! an’ behold! there it wus, no three yairds aff, an’ there was the three o’ them stannin’ glowerin’ at it like three fules, an’ wunnerin’ hoo they could ’a’ been sae gley’t, an’ no a drap o’ brandy among them. At it they gaed, a’ three o’ them, an’ gart the stanes flee, an’ ’or ever they ken’t, they wur through tae the buddum o’t, but there was nae flagstane there, nae crock-pig, nae goold, nor nae naething, no’ even a hole.

Raxin’ theirsel’s up wi’ a waefu’ grane, they lookit aboot them in amazement, for, there could be nae doot aboot it, they had been hokin’ at the wrang cairn again efter a’, the pikestav stickin’ up richt fornent them, an’ the cairn lookin’ joost as Quentin had left it whun he biggit it up again.

At it they gaed again, howe an’ hans, garrin the stanes pinner doon the hillside like all-ever-more, an’ sennin’ the sheep an’ lambs fleein’ in a’ directions, Quentin an’ Jean sweetin’ like twa brocks, an’ the son stannin’ up giein orders. Or lang they wur doon tae whaur the flag bud a’ been, but sorra the flag wus there; an’ glowrin’ aboot them wi’ open-mooth’t astonish-ment, whut should they see but the confoondit pikestav wagglin’ in the wun at the head o’ anither cairn close bye them.

“Gude guide us a’!” cries Quentin, “surely we’re no a’ dreamin’; maybe this is a nichtmare.

“Deil a nichtmare!” says Jean, “thae stanes is no a nichtmare, an’ my back an’ airms is no a nichtmare aither. But tak’ a gude look at it this time, an’ make sure it’s the richt cairn afore we begin on’t.”

Quintin lookit it ower, an’ declare’t yt there wus nae mistak aboot it this time, for the stanes wus a’ lowse, an’ the bits o’ truffs yt he pu’t oot frae atween them wus a’ lyin’ lowse joost as he left them, an’ he mindit odd yins o’ the stanes.

Sure they wur richt this time, they at it like furies, an’ sune skail’t the cairn tae the four wuns o’ heaven, but the upshot wus joost the same—nae pig—an’ nae suner wus their een liftit in dumb amazement, nor there wus the infernal pikestav waggin’ its pow at them aside anither cairn.

They wur wud mad noo, an’ flew at the tummock like teegers, but nae pig; an’ as sune as yae cairn wus disembowel’t, there stood the everlastin’ pikestav at still anither.

Than the wil’ Gallawa blude gat raise’t in them, an’ a’ the deils in the ill-bit wudna ’a’ stoppit them, an’ cairn after cairn wus riven open, till the haill hillside wus a perfet cludder o’ stanes, an’ a’ three o’ them wus drookit wi’ sweet, till it wus rinnin’ frae their neb-en’s in strauns, but never a’ pig; till aboot the hicht o’ the day, the son stood up tae rax his back awee, au’ gied a bit skime aboot him.

“Lordsake! mither! look there!” he cry’t.

An’ they streekit theirsels up an’ lookit, an’ lo! an’ behold! an’ moreover! the haill hillside wus wavin’ wi’ pikestavs, yin on every cairn.

Whut wus tae be dune, noo? They wudna could hoke a’ thae cairns gin they hokit till the day o’ joodgment, sae they had tae gie’t up in despair, an’ turn their weary steps for hame, wunnerin’ at the fearfu’ dispensations o’ Providence, yt could growe pikestavs as thick as brackens a’ ower the Hill o’ Dundeuch.

At last Quentin open’t his mooth an’ declare’t yt the neixt time he cam’ on a pig o’ gowd, sin or nae sin, Sunday or Seturday, licht or mirk, sleepin’ or waukin’ he wus gaun a’ hae that crock wi’ him, if it wus in the pooer o’ man tae cairy’t.

“Confound you an’ yer crock o’ goold!” says Jean in a fury, “there never was nae pig o’ goold naegate hereawa; ye joost fell owr an’ dream’t it whun ye wur sleepin’, ye meeserable aumitant; toilin’ my puir banes this wey; ye ocht tae be spanghue’t like a paddick, yt should ye.

By this time they wur turnin’ the hoose-en’ intae the close, an’ there wus the the [sic] wee, aul’ wife again, stannin’ girnin’ at them.

“Jean Fallace!” quo she, “ye’ll hae haen a gran’ time o’t this mornin’, fine for the tantrums, maybe ye’ll jaw oot yer dishnap somegate else neixt time I ax ye. Whiles it peys tae be obleegin’ tae an aul neebor like mysel.”

The story sune gat wun, for the lad couldna keep his gab steekit, an’ a’ that simmer ve wud a’ thocht Dundeugh wus clad wi’ droves o’ sheep, o’ a’ the colours o’ the rainbow, an’ there wusna a cairn atween the waters but wus hokit up, some o’ them twa or three times ower, but naeboddy hais gotten the crock pig yet.

I hae yin o’ the coins yt Quentin brang hame; my granfather got it frae him for mendin’ an unweel wean, an’ its a Roman denarius o’ the Empress Faustina, an’ if I’m ony joodge o’ metals, its no goold onyway.

An’ the M’Naichts haesna gotten Dundeuch back yet. Deed, the M’Turks haes’t, an’ there’s nae M’Naichts thereawa noo; they hae a’ turn’t genteel, an’ there’s naething but Naughts and M’Naughts, Knights an’ M’Knights tae be fun’. They a’ want tae be English, ye ken.

An’ for the Fallaces, ye har’ly ken what tae ca them. First they ca’t themsels Fallas, but noo there’s Falls an’ Faulds, an’ Foulis, an’ Foulds, an’ wha kens what else. They micht a’ gane as far as Fules whun they wur at it.

Joost fancy the guid aul Scotch names, Dallas, Fallace, an’ Wallace, turn’t intae Doulds, Foulds, an’ Woulds; a gran name this last yin for the great Scottish hero. But they’re “so genteel you know.” Verra naur as genteel as the genteel Scotchman in London, yt change’t his name fae Dooglas intae Diggles.

An here en’s the History o’ the Pikestav.