Thistle and Thyme by Sorche Nic Leodhas Page A

bairn’s mother picked up her babe and wept for joy. She ran after the old woman to thank her, but all the old cailleach said was, “Have a care after this how you go about so braggart about your weans. ’Tis always unlucky to praise your own. A fairy might be hearing you.”
    And to be sure, though that fond mother had a half a dozen bairns more and each one bonnier than the one before, she never was known to say a word in praise of them. At least not out loud. Because you never could tell. There might be a fairy hiding somewhere near.

The Bride
Who Out Talked the Water Kelpie
    A SOLDIER THERE WAS ONCE, AND HE WAS COMING HOME from the foreign wars with his heart light and free, and his bagpipes under his arm. He was marching along at a good pace, for he had a far way to go, and a longing in his heart to get back to his home again. But as the sun lowered to its setting, he could plainly see that he’d not get there by that day’s end so he began to be thinking about a place where he could bide for the night.
    The road had come to the top of a hill and he looked down to see what lay at the foot of it. Down at the bottom was a village, and there was a drift of smoke rising from the chimneys where folks were getting their suppers, and lights were beginning to twinkle on here and there in the windows.
    â€œThere’ll be an inn down there, to be sure,” said the soldier, “and they’ll have a bite of supper for me and a place for me to sleep.”
    So down the hill he went at a fast trot with his kilt swinging, and the ribbons on his bagpipes fluttering in the wind of his going.
    But when he got near the foot of the hill, he stopped short. There by the road was a cottage and by the door of the cottage was a bench and upon the bench sat a bonny lass with black hair and blue eyes, taking the air in the cool of the evening.
    He looked at her and she looked at him, but neither of them said a word, one to the other. Then the soldier went on his way again, but he was thinking he’d ne’er seen a lass he fancied so much.
    At the inn they told him that they could find him a place to sleep and he could have his supper too, if he’d not be minding the wait till they got it ready for him. That wouldn’t trouble him at all, said he. So he went into the room and laid off his bagpipes and sat down to rest his legs from his day’s journey.
    While the innkeeper was laying the table, the soldier and he began talking about one thing or another. At last the soldier asked, “Who is the bonny lass with the hair like the wing of a blackbird and eyes like flax flowers who bides in the house at the foot of the hill?”
    â€œOch, aye,” said the innkeeper. “That would be the weaver’s lass.”
    â€œI saw her as I passed by on the road,” said the soldier, “and I ne’er saw a lass that suited me so fine.”
    The innkeeper gave the soldier a queer sort of look, but said naught.
    â€œI’m minded to talk to her father,” the soldier said, “and if she could fancy me as I do her, happen we could fix it up to wed.”
    â€œHappen you’d better not,” said the innkeeper.
    â€œWhy not, then?” asked the soldier. “Is she promised to someone already?”
    â€œNay, ’tis not that,” the innkeeper replied quickly. “Only … Och, well! You see she’s not a lass to be talking o’ermuch.”
    â€œâ€™Tis not a bad thing for a lass to be quiet,” the soldier said. “I ne’er could abide a woman with a clackiting tongue.”
    The innkeeper said no more, so that was the end o’ that.
    When he’d had his supper, the soldier went out of the house and back up the road till he came to the cottage again. The bonny lass was still sitting on the bench by the door.
    â€œI’ll be having a word with your father, my lass,” said the soldier. She rose from the bench and opened the