Gallawa Superstitions.

No.IV—The Yellow-Haired Fairy.

By R. De Bruce Trotter

ABOUT the year 1840, old Mag M’Cutcheon had the little farm of Mulldaddie, on the southern side of Portnessock, or as genteel respectability now pleases to call it – Portlogan.

Mulldaddie was one of those little lairdships, once so common throughout Galloway, which had descended from father to son from time immemorial by right of the ancient Pictish laws of Galloway, but for which the possessors could show no deeds, having held the place for countless generations before anybody claimed the power to confer a written title.

The various lairds, who by some means or other acquired charters of regality over whole districts from the monarchs of the adjacent kingdom of Scotland, have now appropriated all these little holdings, sometimes, I fear, by rather shady means, and the bonnet laird is now among the things of the past.

Mulldaddie was a low, one-storey thatched house facing the north-west, and was conspicuous in the early summer from the large patch of yellow martagon lilies in front, scenting the air for hundreds of yards around. I don’t know if either the house or the patch of lilies is there now, but old Mag is with the rest of her Fingaul ancestors in the old kirkyard of St. Catherine’s, near Portankill.

Mag was a perfect repertory of old time stories and superstitions, which she delighted to relate to awe-stricken youngsters in the forenichts. But the story she was fondest of telling was one which she declared she had seen with her “ain twa een,” and “nae-thing secont-han’ aboot it.”

“Weel, ye ken,” says Mag, “It was in 1798, the year o’ the Eerish Rebellion, an’ the English Government was hangin’ a’ the Eerish they could get a haud o’, an’ the puir craiters wus comin’ ower at nicht tae the Rhinns tae save their lifes. They had nae richt boats, but joost wattle’t a wheen saugh wan’s thegither, like a muckle peat skep, an’ cover’t it wi’ the skin o’ a beast, an’ made a kin’ o’ boat that wey. Sorra kens hoo they manage’t tae wun ower in them, but they did it, whiles twa o’ them in yae corrach, an’ landit at a’ the wee bits o’ ports an’ slocks at ween Corsewall Point an’ the East Tarbert. They maistly contrive’t tae wun owre aboot the middle o’ the nicht, sae as tae across Luce San’s intae the Machars afore the mornin’, tae keep the sojers frae catchin’ them an’ shootin’ them.

“Weel! the Government wanted as mony o’ them shot as possible, an’ they had sojers an’ coastguardsmen a’ roon the heughs tae grup them as sune as they cam’ ashore; but there was aboot twenty miles o’ heugh, an’ they hadna men aneuch tae watch the haill o’t, an’ for fear ony o’ them wud escape, they offer’t the fishers areward o’ five shillin’ for every yin they deliver’t up tae the sojers, an’ they supply’t airn fetters wi’ padlocks on them tae pit their legs intae, tae hinner them frae rinnin’ awa afore the mornin’. Maist a’ the fisher folk got them, an’ there’s odd yins o’ them aboot their hooses yet.

“Some o’ the fisher folk, maistly them yt wus come o’ the Eerish theirsels, wus mean aneuch tae grup the puir hameless rebels, an’ sell them tae the sojers for the five shillin’s in the mornin’, an’ they joost set them up in some bit sheugh amang the craigs, an’ shot them like as mony foumarts, an’ bury’t them whaur they fell, -no ower deep, – an’ threw some mools an’ a when stanes ower them, an’ that was the last o’ them and their rebellion, an’ the folk yt gruppit an’ sell’t them, gat twa-three glorious drunks oot o’ the price o’ their meeserable lifes. There’s wheens o’ their graves tae be seen thereawa yet.”

According to old Marget she was taking a dauner along the heugh south of Mulldaddie one afternoon to see what had come of the goats; and when she got to the semi-detached rock, known as Carrick-a-sheean, she was amazed to see a little girl about twelve years of age dancing on a flat patch on the top of the craig. She had a white skin and red cheeks and long yellow hair, and was dressed in a short white frock with a blue ribbon round the waist, had white stockings and red shoes, and looked very neat and tidy.

She jumped and danced, and laughed and giggled, and every now and again whirled her-self round about till her frock tails spread out like an umbrella – “fair shame-less,” as old Mag put it and every time she whirled about she cried out in Gaelic, “Yune, da, tree; yune, da, tree,” – and then she laughed, and waffed her arms about her head and seemed to be “rejoicing dreadfully.”

Marget cried at her, telling her that if she was not careful she would fall over and get killed, and reproached her for the way she was showing off her legs, but she paid no heed to her, appearing not even to hear her, and still she kept spinning about, and with every whirl she called out, “Yune, da, tree,” and gave another giggle.

At length one of the goats on a neighbouring rock happened to bleat, and Marget looked that way, and when she turned again towards the dancing girl she was no longer to be seen. Next morning they had captured three Irish rebels at Slocknavata, and got their five shillings a-head for them, and a shilling extra a-head for burying them, and there was plenty of whisky.

Marget went along the heugh again next day looking for the dancing girl, but she did not appear, and the next morning there were no captured rebels; but the day after, when she went by Carrick-a-sheean, she was dancing and singing away as blithe as ever, only this time the song was, “Yune, da, tree-keeir, koig, say; – Yune, da, tree-keeir, koig, say,” and she seemed to be in a state of intense excitement and greatly pleased with herself. That night four rebels were caught at Portencorkrie and two at Carrick-a-mickey, and they were shot and buried in the usual manner, and the captors had a glorious fuddle over it.

The following day she was there again, but was not nearly so lively, and her song was a monotonous “Yune, da, – yune, da,” and next morning Marget noticed that there were only two Irishmen caught, and the whisky wife was in the dumps about it.

The day after she did not turn up, neither did the rebels, and some of the fishers were actually proposing to return to their fishing, when lo! and behold! Marget found her again, dancing merrily, and singing in a cheerful voice, “Yune, da; – tree, keeir, koig”; and making her frock tails “flee oot like the rim o’ a wecht, the shameless hizzy,” her long hair also streaming out from her head like a yellow cloud. Next morning two unfortunate Irishmen were shot at Portgill and three at Slocknacrummag.

Marget now began to tell her neighbours what she had seen and how the beautiful vision was always the precursor of the deaths of some miserable rebels; and so people made a practice of going daily to see her, but the curious thing about it was that she remained entirely invisible to everybody but Marget, although the others heard the laughter and the joyous “Yune, da, tree,” or whatever it was; and it was noticed that whatever numbers she mentioned in her song was the number of rebels who were captured and shot the next morning.

Then old people came to remember that the yellow-haired fairy had been seen before when there were troubles in Ireland, and that it seemed always to rejoice in the destruction of the Irish, and it was also brought to mind that old Morag M’Morlachan, the howdy, was said to have forgotten to put salt into Marget’s mouth when she was born, and that in consequence she was probably a fairy changeling, which satisfactorily accounted for her being able to see the yellow-haired fairy, when other and more Christian people could only hear her voice.

The fairy was not seen again after the close of the Rebellion till the time of the potato famine, when Marget declared that she danced and sang night and day, only no Irish came over at that time to be shot. They were too busy dying of starvation at home then.

She will probably not appear again until the next Irish rebellion.