The Three Fools

South Uist proved to be rich pickings for Calum Maclean as well as many other collectors besides. Of the many storytellers and singers that Maclean met during his time in South Uist one of the best was undoubtedly Angus MacLellan. An example of an international tale (AT 1450) was recorded by Maclean from his recitation which was later published as ‘The Three Fools.’ The recording is available to listen to on the Tobar an Dualchais/Kist o’ Riches website on the following link [http://www.tobarandualchais.co.uk/en/fullrecord/32288/22] which was transcribed by Elizabeth Sinclair as follows:

AN TRIÙIR GHÓRACH

Bha gill’ òg ann a seo a dh’ fhalbh a dh’ iarraidh mnatha. Agus bha duin’ agus a bhean ’s a nighean a’ fuireach ann an taigh comhladh agus cha robh ann ach an triùir aca. Agus ’s e seo a’ nighean a chaidh e a dh’ iarraidh. Agus ’n uair a chaidh e a staigh ’s a bhruidhinn e air son na h-inghinn, O! ’bha am bodach toilichte gu leòr a toir dha, agus gu h-àraid a màthair. Agus chaidh a’ nighean a mach a seo dha’n chruaich-mhònadh a dh’ iarraidh mhònadh gu tein’ a chuir air, gus biadh a dhèanamh dha’n, dha’n t-srainsear. Agus ’n uair a bha i a’s a’ chruaich-mhòna, dè smaointich i ach nam biodh i trom aig an fhear ud, agus a’ chruach-mhònaidh a thuiteam air a muin, gur h-ì bhiodh nàr. Agus ’s ann a thòisich i air caoineadh a’s a’ chruaich-mhònaidh. ’N uair a bha a màthair a’ gabhail fadachd nach robh i tighinn a staigh, chaidh i fhéin a mach agus dh’ fhaidhneachd i dhi gu dé bh’ oirre.

“An dà, tha,” ors ise, “nam bithinn trom aig an fhear ud,” ors ise, “agus a’ chruach-mhònadh a thuiteam air mo mhuin,” ors ise, “nach mise bhiodh nàr.”

“A Mhoire, cha bu tu bhiodh nàr ach mis’!” ors a’ chailleach.

Thòisich a’ chailleach air rànaich comhla. Bha ’m bodach a seo a’ gabhail fadachd nach robh a h-aon aca tighinn a staigh, ’s chaidh e fhéin a mach. Bha ’n dithis aca a’ rànaich a’s a’ chruach-mhònadh.

“Gu dé tha cearr?” ors esan.

“An dà, tha,” ors a’ chailleach, “nam biodh a’ nighean trom aig an fhear ud, ’s a’ chruach-mhònadh a thuiteam air a muin,” ors ise, “nach sinn a bhiodh nàr.”

“A Mhoire, cha bu sibh a bhiodh nàr ach mise,” ors am bodach.

Bha ’n triùir aca a’ rànaich a’s a’ chruaich-mhònadh. ’N uair a bha a’ fear a bha staigh a’ gabhail fadachd, ’s gun duine a staigh ach e fhéin, dh’ éirich e a mach. Bha ’n triùir aca ann a shin. Dh’ fhaidhneachd e gu dé bha cearr orra.

“A, tha,” ors am bodach, “nam biodh mo nighean trom agat-sa,” ors esan, “agus a’ chruach-mhònadh a thuiteam air a muin, gur sinn a bhiodh nàr,” ors esan.

“An dà, chan ’eil agus cha bhi,” ors an gille, “ach tha mise a’ falbh,” ors esan, “agus cha till mi,” ors esan, “agus a faic mi,” ors esan, “triùir na’s glice no triùir is gòraichde na sibh-s’,” ors esan.

Dh’ fhalbh an gille is chum e air aghaidh. Chunnaic e a seo triùir dhaoine is iad a’ falbh agus cù a’ rompa agus à-san a’ leantail a’ choin. Agus ghabh e far a robh iad, agus cha robh duine dhiubh ’g ràdha guth ris. Bha e ’ga leantail. A chuile rathad a ghabhadh an cù, ghabhadh à-san as a dheadhaidh e. Stad iad seo am beul na h-oidhcheadh. Agus ’n uair a stad iad, dh’fhaidhneachd…thuirt fear aca:

“An dà,” ors esan, “nam biodh na bheil a muigh a staigh,” ors esan, “dh’ fhiadhaidhinn fhìn a’ strainsear a null.’

“An dà,” orsa fear eile, “nam biodh na bheil gun dèanamh air a dheanamh,” ors esan, “dh’ fhiadhaichinn fhìn a’ strainsear.”

“An dà,” ors an treas fear dhiubh, “o nach ’eil a h-aon diubh agam-sa ri dhèanamh,” ors esan, “fiadhaichidh mi a’ strainsear,” ors esan.

Agus dh’ fhiadhaich e ’n gille leis. Agus ’n uair a rànaig iad an taigh is a chaidh iad a staigh, bha bean an taigh – thànaig i a nuas. Agus ’n uair a chunnaic e bean an taighe, chan fhaca e boireannach riamh cho briagha rithe. Agus smaointich e ’uige fhéin gur h-e bhiodh gu math dheth nam biodh i siod aige. Agus thionndaidh am bodach:

“O, bu mhath,” ors am bodach, “gun ghuth, gun nàire, gun sgainneal.”

Thànaig a seo a’ nighean a nuas agus ’s i fada na bu bhriagha na màthair. Agus smaointich e gu dearbh gur a h-e biodh lucky nam biodh i siod aige.

“O, bu mhath sin,” ors am bodach, “agus toil a càirdean.”

Dh’ fhalbh a seo a’ boir…a’ bhean agus chuir i poit bheag air teine gu biadh a dhèanamh, agus choimhead esan air a’ phoit agus thuirt e ris fhéin, leis cho beag ’s a bha a’ phoit, nach b’ fhuilear dha fhéin aon dad agus rachadh innte. Agus thionndaidh am bodach:

“Math siod fhéin is gràsan Dhia,” ors am bodach.

’N uair a bha seo am biadh deiseil, chuir a’ bhean suas iad dha rùm, agus shuidh iad aig a’ bhord. Dh’iarr am bodach air tòiseachadh air a’ bhiadh.

“O,” ors esan, “cha ghabh mi biadh na deoch gus a faigh mi a mach.” Ors esan, “dé is cialld dha na facail a thuirt sibh péin a thàine mi dha ’r taigh.”

“Dé tha sin?” ors am bodach.

“’N uair a thuirt sibh,” ors esan, ”gum bu mhath siod gun ghuth, gun nàire, gun sgainneal,” ors esan, “dé bha sibih a’ minigeadh leis?”

“An dà, innsidh mi sin dut,” ors am bodach, “’N uair a chunnaic thu mo bhean-s’,” ors esan, “mhiannaich thu dhut fhéin i,” ors esan. “Thuirt mise riut,” ors esan ,”gum bu mhath siod gun ghuth, gun naire, gun sgainneal, is cha robh rathad aga’-s’ air mo bhean-s’ fhaighinn gun sin,” ors esan. “’S ’n uair a chunna tu mo nighean,” ors esan, “thuirt thu riut fhéin gur i siod an tè bhiodh math na faigheadh tu i; thuirt mise riut an uair sin gum bu mhath siod is toil a càirdean. ’S ’n uair a chunna tu i a’ cuir na poiteadh air,” ors esan,”smaointich thu,” ors esan, “gar bith gu dé rachadh a ’s a’ phoit, nach b’ fhuilear dhut fhéin e,” ors esan, “’s thuirt mise ’n uair sin gum bu mhath siod fhèin is gràsan Dhia.”

“O, seadh,” ors an gille, “’s gu dé nisd,” ors esan “bus cialld,” ors esan, “dha’n fheadhainn a thuirt,” ors esan, “nam biodh na bha a muigh a staigh,” ors esan, “’s na bha a staigh a muigh,” ors esan, “gu fiadhaicheadh e a’ strainsear?”

“Innsidh mi sin dut cuideachd,” ors esan, “Bha a’ fear sin,” ors esan, “bha a chliamhainn marbh a staigh aig’,” ors esan. “Agus a’ fear a thuirt,” ors esan, “nam biodh na bha gun dèanamh,” ors esan, “gu fiadhaicheadh e fhéin a’ strainsear, bha a bhean aig an fhear sin ri dhochann a chuile h-oidhche ’n uair a rachadh e dhachaidh,” ors esan, “agus ’s i boireannach a bh’ fhearr a bh’ ann a rithist,” ors esan. “Agus gabh a nisd do bhiadh,” ors esan.

“’S gu dé bus cialld dha’n obair a bh’ agaibh péin o mhoch-thràth,” ors esan, “a’ falbh,” ors esan, “as deadhaidh coin,” ors esan, “’s gun an darna h-aon agaibh ag ràdha guth ris an aon eile?” “Well, innsidh mi sin dut cuideachd,” ors am bodach. “’S fearann a bha siod,” ors esan, “a dh’ fhàg ar n-athair againn,” ors esan, “agus thug e bòidean oirnn,” ors esan, “nach robh guth againn ri ràdh,” ors esan, “ri…an àm a roinn,” ors esan, “agus smaointich sinn,” ors esan, “gu faigheamaid an cù,” ors esan, “agus gun gabhamaid,” ors esan, na crìochan mar a dh’ fhalabhadh an cù,” ors esan, “agus sin,”: ors esan, “an obair a bh’ againne an diu. Agus gabh a nisd do bhiadh,” ors esan.

Ghabh an gille a bhiadh agus bhruidhinn e air son na h-inghinn, agus fhuair e a’ nighean ri pòsadh. Agus thill e fhéin ’s i fhéin dhachaidh. Agus chunnaic e triùir a bha cheart cho neònach ris an triùir a dh’ fhàg e a’s a’ chruaich-mhònaidh.

A translation of the tale may be given as follows:

THE THREE FOOLS

There was a young lad here who set off to fetch a wife. There was husband and wife together with their daughter who stayed in the same house and they were the only three. And this lassie is the one which he went to fetch. He went in to parley for the lassie. Oh, the old man was well pleased to hand her over, especially her mother. And the lassie went out to the peat-stake to fetch peat for the fire to prepare food for the stranger. When she was at the peat-stack, what did she think but that if she fell pregnant by that man, and if the peat-stack fell on me, then I’d be black-affronted. She then began to cry standing by the peat-stack. When her mother grew impatient that she hadn’t returned, she went out and asked her what the matter was.

“Well,” she replied, “If I fell pregnant by that man and if the peat-stack should fall on me then I’d be black-affronted.”

“O, Mary, it’s not you but me that’d be black-affronted!” exclaimed the old woman.

The old woman began to cry as well. The old man was getting impatient as neither of them had returned and so he went out himself. The two of them were crying by the peat-stack.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Well,” replied the old woman, “If our daughter fell pregnant by that man and if the peat-stack should fall on her then we’d be black-affronted.”

“Oh Mary, it wouldn’t be you but me that’d be black-affronted,” exclaimed the old man.

The three of them were all crying by the peat-stack. When the man indoors grew impatient as he by himself, he went out. He found the three of them and asked what was wrong with them.

“Ah,” replied the old man, “if my daughter fell pregnant by you and if the peat-stack should fall on her then we’d all be black-affronted.”

“Well, that’s simply not and never will be the case,” said the lad, “but I’m going to head off and I won’t return until I find three others wiser or stupider than yourselves.”

The lad set off and kept going. He spotted three people setting off with a dog ahead of them which they were following. And he made his way to where they were and when he got there no one had a word to say to him. He followed them. Every which way the dog went, they followed. They stopped at nightfall. Once they stopped, one of them said.

“Well, he said, “if had without that which was within, I would invite the stranger over.”

“Well,” said the other man, “if I had done what had to be done then I would invite the stranger.”

“Well,” said the third man, “since I don’t have to do any of those things I’ll invite the stranger.”

And he invited the lad to join him. When they reached the house they entered, the goodwife of the house came over. When he saw the goodwife he though that he’d never seen a more beautiful woman. He thought to himself that he would be well off indeed if he had her as his wife. The old man turned to him:

“Oh, indeed,” said the old man, “without gossip, without shame, without scandal.”

The daughter came over and she was far even more beautiful than her mother. He thought to himself that he’d be lucky indeed if he had her.

“Oh, that would be good,” said the old man, “and with her relation’s pleasure.”

The wife then left and placed a small pot on the fire to prepare food. He looked at the pot and said to himself as the pot was so small that it wouldn’t be worth putting anything in it. And the old man turned to him:

“Very good indeed by the grace of God,” said the old man.

When the food was ready, the wife sent them to another room and they all sat at a table. The old man asked them to take their food.

“Oh,” he said, “I’ll not take any food or drink until I find out what you meant by the words you’ve said since I arrived here.

“What’s that?” asked the old man.

“When you said,” he explained, “that it’s was good without gossip, without shame, without scandal. What did you mean by that?”

“Well, I’ll let you know,” replied the old man, “When you saw my wife you wished her for yourself. I said to you that it was good, without gossip, without shame, without scandal, and there’d be no way that you’d get my wife without that. When you saw my daughter you said that it would be good if you could get her and I said that would be good with her relation’s pleasure. And when you saw her put the pot on whatever was put in wouldn’t be worth if for you then I said that would be good by God’s grace.”

“Oh, yes,” replied the lad, “And what now is the meaning of what the others said that if I had outside what I had inside and if that which was inside outside then I’d invite the stranger over?”

“I’ll also let you know about that,” he said, “That man had a dead son-in-law inside. And the man who said that if I hadn’t done that then I’d invite the stranger used to abuse his wife when he’d got home every night. And she was a good woman. Now take your food.”

“But what was the meaning behind the work you were undertaking earlier when following the dog and without any of them saying a word to one another?”

“Well, I’ll let you know about that as well,” replied the old man. “It was land that our father left us and he made us take a vow that we should not say anything until it was divided and we thought that if we got the dog then it would work out the boundaries wherever the dog went and that’s what we were working on today. Now take your food.”

The lad took his food and he asked about the lassie and he got her to marry. And they both returned home. And he saw three others who were just as strange as those he had left behind at the peat-stack.

Fortunately the tale is appended with a useful note:

This story (Aa.-Th. 1450) was recorded by C. I. Maclean on 14th June 1958 from Angus Maclellan, aged 91, Gearrabhailteas, South Uist. He heard the story from the late Alasdair Mór Macintyre, who died in 1914 and was then aged 83. There is a variant in English of this tale in J. F. Campbell’s, Popular Tales of the West Highlands, Vol. II, 2nd. Ed., pp. 28–32, 1890.

For the sake of comparison, the version from Popular Tales, collected from the recitation of Donald MacIntyre, Benbecula, may be given as follows:

There was once a farmer, and he was very well off, but he had never cast an eye on the women, though he was old enough to be married. So one day he took the horse and saddle, and rode to the house of another farmer, who had a daughter, to see if she would suit him for a wife, and when he got there the farmer asked him to come in, and gave him food and drink, and he saw the daughter, and he thought she would suit him well. So he said to the father, “I am thinking it is time for me to be married, I am going to look for a wife”―(here there was along conversation, which I forget). So the man told his wife what the other had said, and she told her daughter to make haste and set the house in order, for that such a man was come and he was looking for a wife, and she had better show how handy she was. Well never mind, the daughter was willing enough, so she began to set the house in order, and the first thing she thought of was to make up the fire, so she ran out of the house to the peat-stack. Well, while she was bent down filling her apron with peats, what should fall but a great heap from the top of the stack on her head and shoulders. So she thought to herself, “Oh, now, if I were married to that man, and about to be a mother, and all these peats fallen on my head, I should now be finished and all my posterity;” and she gave a great burst of weeping, and sat down lamenting and bewailing. The mother was longing for her daughter to come back, so she went out and found her sitting crying in the end of the peat-stack, and she said, “What is on thee?” and the daughter said, “Oh, mother, the peat-stack fell on my head, and I thought if I were now married to that man, and about to be a mother, I was done, and all my posterity;” and the mother said, “That is true for thee, my daughter; that is true, indeed,” and she sat down and cried too. Then the father was getting cold, so he too went out, wondering what kept the women, and when he found them, they told him what happened, and he said, “That would have been unfortunate indeed,” and he began to roar and cry too. The wooer at last came out himself, and found them all crying in the end of the peat-stack, and when they had told him why they were lamenting, he said, “Never you mind. It may be that this may never happen at all. Go you in-doors, and cry no more.” Then he took his horse and saddle, and rode home; and as he went, he thought, “What a fool I am to be stopping here all my life. Here I sit, and know no more of the world than a stock. I know how to grow corn, and that is all I know. I will go and see the world, and I will never come home till I find thee as wise as those were foolish whom I left crying in the peat-stack.” And so when he got home, he set everything in order, and took the horse and went away. And he travelled the Gaeldom and the Galldom Highlands and strange lands for many a day, and got much knowledge. At last, one fine evening he came to a pretty plot of green ground in a glen, by a river; and on it there were three men standing. They were like each other, and dressed alike. Their dress was a long coat with short brigis, and a broad belt about the middle, and caps on their heads. (What dress is that? That is the dress they used to wear here. I remember my father well; he always wore it.) So he put Failte on them (saluted them). The three men never answered a word. They looked at him, and then they bent their heads slowly towards each other―here the narrator bent his own head, and spoke solemnly)―and there they staid with their heads bowed for ten minutes. Then they raised their heads, and one said, “If I had without what I have within, I would give thee a night’s share;” the second said, “If I had done what is undone, I would give thee a night’s share;” and the third said, “I have nothing more than usual, come with me.” So the farmer followed the old man to his house, wondering what all this should mean. When they had gone in and sat down, he wondered still more, for his host never offered him a drink till he had told him all about his journey. Then he said, “Quicker is a drink than a tale;” and the old man gave a laugh, and struck the board, and a fine woman came and gave him a great cup of ale, and that was good. And he drank it, and thought to himself, “if I had that woman for my wife, she would be better than the one I left weeping in the peat-stack.” The old man laughed again, and he said, “If two were willing that might be.” The farmer wondered that this old man should know his thoughts, and answer them, but he held his tongue. Then the old man struck the board, and a girl came in, and he thought, “If I had that one for my wife, she would be better than the girl I left howling in the peat-stack.” The old man gave another little laugh, and he said, “If three were willing that might be too,” and the girl set a small pot on the fire. The farmer looked at it, and thought, “This man must have a small company.” “Ah,” said the man, “it will go about.”

“Now,” said the farmer, “I must know what all this means. I will neither eat nor drink in this house unless you tell me. I saluted you, and you bent your heads, and never answered for ten minutes. When you did speak, I could not understand you, and now you seem to understand my thoughts.” Then the old man said, “Sit down, and I will explain it all. Our father was a very wise man. We never knew how wise he was till long after he went away. We are three brothers, and on the bed of death our father left us this pretty place, and we have it amongst us, and plenty besides. Our father made us swear that we would never talk on important matters but in whispers. When thou camest, we bent our heads and whispered, as we always do, for men cannot dispute in a whisper, and we never quarrel. My first brother had the corpse of his mother-in-law within; he was unwilling to ask a stranger to a house of sorrow. She is to be buried to-morrow―If that were out which he had within, he had given thee a night’s share. My second brother has a wife who will do nothing till she gets three blows of a stick. Then she is like other women, and a good wife; he did not like a stranger to see the blows given, and he knew she would do nothing without them―If he had done what was undone, he had given thee a night’s share. I had nothing to do more than usual. Thou didst tell thy news, and when my wife came in, I knew thy thought. If I were dead, and thou and she were willing, you might be married. So if I, and thou, and my daughter were willing, you might be married too. Now, then, said the old man, sit and eat. The little pot will go about; it will serve for us. My company eat without.” On the morrow, the old man said, “I must go to the funeral to my brother’s house, do thou stay here.” But he said, “I will not stay in any man’s house when he is away. I will go with you to the funeral.” When came back he staid some time in the old man’s house. He married the daughter, and got a good share of the property. And, now, was not that a lucky peat-stack for the farmer.

Campbell of Islay noted the following about how he recorded the tale when visiting Benbecula:

This story and No. 19 were told to me on the 6th of September 1859, in the inn at the Sound of Benbecula, by a man whose name would sound to Saxon ears like Dolicolichyarlich; a Celt would know it for Donald MacDonald MacCharles, and his surname is MacIntyre; he is a cotter, and lives in Benbecula.

Donald is known as a good teller of tales, so I walked six miles to his house and heard him tell a long version of the tale of Conal Gulbanach.

It lasted an hour, and I hope to get it written some day; I have other versions of the same incidents. There was an audience of all the people of the village who were within reach, including Mr. Torrie, who lives there near Baile nan Cailleach, which is probably so called from an old nunnery. After the story, the same man recited a fragment of a poem about Fionn and his companions. A man returning from battle with a vast number of heads on a withy, meets a lady who questions him, he recites the history of the heads, and how their owners died. The poem was given rapidly and fluently. The story was partly told in measured prose; but it was very much spun out, and would have gained by condensation.

I told the old man that he had too many leaves on his tree, which he acknowledged to be a fair criticism. He followed me to the inn afterwards, and told me other stories; the household being assembled about the door, and in the room, and taking a warm interest in the proceedings. After a couple of glasses of hot whisky and water, my friend, who was well up in years, walked off home in the dark; and I noted down the heads of his stories in English, because my education, as respects Gaelic writing, was never completed. They are given as I got them, condensed, but unaltered. Donald says he has many more of the same kind.

References:

J. F. Campbell, Popular Tales of the West Highlands, vol. II (Paisley; London: Alexander Gardner, 2nd ed., 1890)

Angus MacLellan, ‘An Triùir Ghórach,’ in Von Prinzen, Trollen und Herrn Fro,Gessellschaft zur Pflege des Märchengutes der europäischen Völker, vol. 6 (1960), pp. 165–69

Image:

Angus MacLellan, taken by Margaret Fay Shaw, 1960s. By courtesy of Canna House Archives (National Trust for Scotland)