In Orkney, selkie was the popular name for seal. Seals were popularly divided into two classes; namely, first, the common seal, here called tang fish, which had no power to assume the human form. These, like other inhabitants of the sea, were called fish. To the other class belonged all seals larger in size than the Phoca vitulina; such as the great seal, rough seal, Greenland seal, crested seal, and gray seal, — all of which have been seen in Orkney waters. And it was this class of larger seals that were called “selkie folk,” because they had the power of assuming the human form. The believers in this myth were never at a loss to account for its existence; but the causes assigned for the origin of this amphibious human race, so far as known to me, must have been imagined since the introduction of Christianity. Some say the selkie folk were fallen angels, who, for a more trivial fault than that of those consigned to the infernal regions, were condemned to their present state. Others held that the selkie folk were human beings, who, for some grave misdemeanour were condemned to assume the seal’s form, and to live in the sea, and were yet allowed to take human form and shape when on dry land. “And who kens,” said one of my old gossips, “but they’ll maybe some day get leave to come back tae their auld state.”

It was believed that males among the selkie folk sometimes held secret and illicit intercourse with females of the human race. Sometimes these marine gallants became the paramours of married women. The ballad which I hope later on to give is an instance of such connection. And however ungainly the appearance of these gentlemen when in the sea, on assuming human shape they became in form fair, attractive, and in manner winning; and by their seductive powers the female heart seems to have been easily conquered. And if the selkie gentlemen were attractive in the eyes of earth-born women, the selkie females were no less charming in the estimation of men.

Indeed, to see a bevy of these lovely creatures, their seal skins doffed, disporting themselves on a sea-side rock, was enough to fire with admiration the coldest heart.

Let it be noted that the selkie nymphs always appear in groups; they never sit alone combing their hair like the mermaid; and, unlike her, are not represented as wearing long golden hair. And, unlike the mermaid, the selkie folk were never represented as dwelling in “Finfolk-a-heem.”

It was only at certain periods and conditions of the tide in which the seals had power to assume the human
shape. But these periods were a subject of dispute among my oral authorities.

Versions of the story I am now to tell were at one time rife in every Orkney island; and some of them have already appeared in print. The man who told me this tale was a native of North Ronaldshay, was well read in
English literature, and so familiar with Shakespeare that any six lines of that author you quoted he would tell you from what play your quotation was taken. Though above superstitious belief in, he possessed an inexhaustible store of old-world tales. He often assisted me in clearing up some difficulty in Orkney folk-lore.

The goodman of Wastness was well-to-do, had his farm well-stocked, and was a good-looking and well-favoured man. And though many braw lasses in the island had set their caps at him, he was not to be caught. So the young lasses began to treat him with contempt, regarding him as an old young man who was deliberately committing the unpardonable sin of celibacy. He did not trouble his head much about the lasses, and when urged by his friends to take a wife, he said, “Women were like many another thing in this weary world, only sent for a trial to man; and I have trials enouch without being tried by a wife.” “If that ould fool Adam had not been bewitched by his wife, he might have been a happy man in the yard of Edin to this day.” The old wife of Longer, who heard him make this speech, said to him, “Take doo heed de sell, doo’ll may be de sell bewitched some day.” “Ay,” quoth he, “that will be when doo walks dry shod frae the Alters o’ Seenie to dae Boar of Papa.”

Well, it happened one day that the goodman of Wastness was down on the ebb (that portion of the shore left
dry at low water), when he saw at a little distance a number of selkie folk on a flat rock. Some were lying
sunning themselves, while others jumped and played about in great glee. They were all naked, and had skins as white as his own. The rock on which they sported had deep water on its seaward side, and on its shore side a shallow pool. The goodman of Wastness crept unseen till he got to the edge of the shallow pool; he then rose and dashed through the pool to the rock on its other side. The alarmed selkie folk seized their seal skins, and, in mad haste, jumped into the sea. Quick as they were, the goodman was also quick, and he seized one of the skins belonging to an unfortunate damsel, who in terror of flight neglected to clutch it as she sprang into the water.

The selkie folk swam out a little distance, then turning, set up their heads and gazed at the goodman. He noticed that one of them had not the appearance of seals like the rest. He then took the captured skin under his arm, and made for home, but before he got out of the ebb, he heard a most doleful sound of weeping and lamentation behind him. He turned to see a fair woman following him. It was that one of the selkie folk whose seal skin he had taken. She was a pitiful sight; sobbing in bitter grief, holding out both hands in eager supplication, while the big tears followed each other down her fair face. And ever and anon she cried out, “O bonnie man! if there’s onie mercy i’ thee human breast, gae back me skin! I cinno’, cinno’, cinno’ live i’ the sea without it. I cinno’, cinno’, cinno’ bide among me ain folk without my ain seal skin. Oh, pity a peur distressed, forlorn lass, gin doo wad ever hope for mercy theesel’!” The goodman was not too soft-hearted, yet he could not help pitying her in her doleful plight. And with his pity came the softer passion of love. His heart that never loved women before was conquered by the sea-nymph’s beauty. So, after a good deal of higgling and plenty of love-making, he wrung from the sea-lass a reluctant consent to live with him as his wife. She chose this as the least of two evils. Without the skin she could not live in the sea, and he absolutely refused to give up the skin.

So the sea-lass went with the goodman and stayed with him for many days, being a thrifty, frugal, and
kindly goodwife.

She bore her goodman seven children, four boys and three lasses, and there were not bonnier lasses or statelier boys in all the isle. And though the goodwife of Wastness appeared happy, and was sometimes merry, yet there seemed at times to be a weight on her heart; and many a long longing look did she fix on the sea. She taught her bairns many a strange song, that nobody on earth ever heard before. Albeit she was a thing of the sea, yet the goodman led a happy life with her.

Now it chanced, one fine day, that the goodman of Wastness and his three eldest sons were off in his boat to the fishing. Then the goodwife sent three of the other children to the ebb to gather limpits and wilks. The youngest lass had to stay at home, for she had a beelan foot. The goodwife then began, under the pretence of house-cleaning, a determined search for her long-lost skin. She searched up, and she searched down; she searched but, and she searched ben; she searched out, and she searched in, but never a skin could she find, while the sun wore to the west. The youngest lass sat in a stool with her sore foot on a cringlo. She says to her mother, “Mam, what aredoo leukan for?” “O bairn, deu no tell,” said her mother, ”but I’m leukan for a bonnie skin, tae mak a rivlin that wad ceur thee sare fit.” Says the lass, “May be I ken whar hid is. Ae day, whin ye war a’ oot, an’ ded tought I war sleepan i’ the bed, he teuk a bonnie skin doon; he gloured at it a peerie minute, dan folded hid and led hid up under dae aisins abeun dae bed.” (Under the aisins — space left by slope of roof over wall-head when not beam-filled.)

When her mother heard this she rushed to the place, and pulled out her long-concealed skin. “Fareweel, peerie buddo!” (a term of endearment), said she to the child, and ran out. She rushed to the shore, flung on her skin, and plunged into the sea with a wild cry of joy. A male of the selkie folk there met and greeted her with every token of delight. The goodman was rowing home, and saw them both from his boat. His lost wife uncovered her face, and thus she cried to him: “Goodman o’ Wastness, fareweel tae thee! I liked dee weel, doo war geud tae me; bit I lo’e better me man o’ the sea! “And that was the last he ever saw or heard of his bonnie wife. Often did he wander on the sea-shore, hoping to meet his lost love, but nevermore saw he her fair face.

George F. Black, County Folklore Volume 3: Orkney and Shetlands, 1903, 170-176.

Summer has come, healthy and free,
Whence the brown wood is aslope;
The slender nimble deer leap.
And the path of seals is smooth.

The cuckoo sings sweet music.
Whence there is smooth restful sleep;
Gentle birds leap upon the hill.
And swift grey stags.

Heat has laid hold of the rest of the deer-
The lovely cry of curly packs!
The white extent of the strand smiles,
There the swift sea is.

A sound of playful breezes in the tops
Of a black oakwood is Drum Daill,
The noble hornless herd runs.
To whom Cuan-wood is a shelter.

Green bursts out on every herb.
The top of the green oakwood is bushy.
Summer has come, winter has gone,
Twisted hollies wound the hound.

The blackbird sings a loud strain.
To him the live wood is a heritage,
The sad angry sea is fallen asleep.
The speckled salmon leaps.

The sun smiles over every land, —
A parting for me from the brood of cares
Hounds bark, stags tryst.
Ravens flourish, summer has come !

Kuno Meyer, Selections from Ancient Irish Poetry, 1911, p52.

This is a wonderful poem translated by the prolific translator Kuno Meyer, and it is attributed to Fionn mac Cumhail himself. The Irish is available here!

Summer-time, season supreme!
Splendid is colour then.
Blackbirds sing a full lay
If there be a slender shaft of day.

The dust-coloured cuckoo calls aloud:
Welcome, splendid summer!
The bitterness of bad weather is past.
The boughs of the wood are a thicket.

Panic startles the heart of the deer.
The smooth sea runs apace —
Season when ocean sinks asleep.
Blossom covers the world.

Bees with puny strength carry
A goodly burden, the harvest of blossoms;
Up the mountain-side kine take with them mud,
The ant makes a rich meal.

The harp of the forest sounds music,
The sail gathers — perfect peace;
Colour has settled on every height.
Haze on the lake of full waters.

The corncrake, a strenuous bard, discourses.
The lofty cold waterfall sings
A welcome to the warm pool —
The talk of the rushes has come.

Light swallows dart aloft.
Loud melody encircles the hill,
The soft rich mast buds.
The stuttering quagmire prattles.

The peat-bog is as the raven’s coat,
The loud cuckoo bids welcome,
The speckled fish leaps —
Strong is the bound of the swift warrior.

Man flourishes, the maiden buds
In her fair strong pride.
Perfect each forest from top to ground.
Perfect each great stately plain.

Delightful is the season’s splendour,
Rough winter has gone:
Every fruitful wood shines white,
A joyous peace is summer.

A flock of birds settles
In the midst of meadows,
The green field rustles.
Wherein is a brawling white stream.

A wild longing is on you to race horses.
The ranked host is ranged around:
A bright shaft has been shot into the land.
So that the water-flag is gold beneath it.

A timorous, tiny, persistent little fellow
Sings at the top of his voice,
The lark sings clear tidings:
Surpassing summer-time of delicate hues!

Kuno Meyer, Selections from Ancient Irish Poetry, 1911, p53-54.

The pigeons coo – the spring’s approaching now.
The bloom is bursting on the leafy bough;
The cresses green o’er streams are clustering low.
And honey-hives with sweets abundant flow.

II.

Rich are the fruits the hazly woods display -
A slender virgin, virtuous, fair, and gay;
With steeds and sheep, of kine a many score.
By trout-stor’d Lee whose banks we’ll see no more!

III.

The little birds pour music’s sweetest notes.
The calves for milk distend their bleating throats;
Above the weirs the silver salmon leap.
While Cormac Oge and I all lonely weep!

Edward Walsh, Irish Popular Songs; With English Metrical Translations and Introductory Remarks and Notes, 1847, p49-51.

Thou art the sovereign lady with banded hosts² that presides over the Children of Catháir the Great.

God’s counsel at every time concerning Virgin Erin is greater than can be told: though glittering Liffey is thine today, it has been the land of others in their turn.

When from its side I gaze upon the fair Curragh…., the lot that has fallen to every king causes awe at each wreck

Logaire was king as far as the sea, – Ailill Áne, a mighty fate: the Curragh with its glitter remains – none of the kings remains that lived thereon.

Perfect Labraid Longsech lives no more, having trodden under foot his fair thirty years: since in Dinn Rig – `twas a wonted abode – he dealt doom to Cobthach the Slender.

Lore’s grandson, Oengus of Róiriu, seized the rule of Erin,….sway; Maistiu of the freckled neck, son of Mug Airt, through princes across their graves.

Fair-famed Alenn! Delightful knowledge! Many a prince is under its girth: it is greater than can be fathomed when Crimthan the Victorious was seen in its bosom.

The shout of triumph heard there after each victory around a shock of swords, a mettlesome mass; the strength of its warrior-bands against the dark blue battle-array; the sound of its horns above hundreds of heads.

The tuneful ring of its even-colored bent anvils, the sound of songs heard there from the tongues of bards; the ardour of its men at the glorious contest; the beauty of its women at the stately gathering.

Drinking of mead there in every home-stead; its noble steeds, many tribes; the jingle of chains unto kings of men under blades of five-edged bloody spears.

The sweet strains heard there at every hour, its wine-barque upon the purple flood; its shower of silver of great splendor; its torques of gold from the lands of the Gaul.

Far as the sea of Britain the high renown of each king has sped like a meteor: delightful Alenn with its might has made sport of every law.

Bresal Bree was king over Elg,³ Fiachra Fobree with a fierce band of warriors; Fergus of the Sea, Finn son of Roth they loved to dwell in lofty Alenn.

Worship of auguries is not worth listening to, nor of spells and auspices that betoken death; all is vain when it is probed, since Alenn is a deserted doom.

Bright is the smile that smiles on you from the plain…of Core’s land; of each generation which it reared in turn Liffey of Lore has made ashes.

The Currah of Liffey to the brink of the main, the Curragh of Sétna, a land of peace as far as the sea, – many is the king whom the Curragh of Carbre Nia-fer has overthrown.

Catháir the Great – he was the choicest of shapes – ruled Erin of many hues: though you cry upon him at his rath, his prowess of many weapons has vanished.

Fiachna of Fomuin, glorious Bresal ruled the sea with showers of spears: thirty great kings to the edge of the sea seized land around Tara of Bregia.

The Peaks of Iuchna, delightful place, around which many graves have settled behold in lofty Allen the abode of Tadg, son of Nuada Necht!

The apparel of Feradach – a goodly diadem – around whom crested bands would move; his blue-speckled helmet, his shining mantle, – many a king he overthrew.

Dunlang of Fornochta, he was generous, a prince who routed battles against the sons of Niall: though one were to tell the tale to all, this is not the world that was once.

Illann with his tribe launched thirty battles against every king, Enna’s grandson, a rock against terror, it was not a host without a king’s rule.

Ailill was a king that would bestow favour, against whom a fierce blood-dark battle-host would rise: Cormac, Carbre, Colman the Great, Brandub, a barque in which were hosts.

Faelan the Fair was a track of princeship, Fianamail with….; Braiin, son of Conall with many deeds, he was the wave over every cliff.

Oh Brigit whose land I behold, on which each one in turn has moved about, thy fame has outshone the fame of the king – thou art over them all.

Thou hast everlasting rule with the king apart from the land wherein is thy cemetery. Grand-child of Bresal son of Dian, sit thou safely enthroned, triumphant Brigit!

Kuno Meyer, Hail Brigit! An Old Irish Poem on the Hill of Alenn, 1912, pp13-19.

Notes

1 I.e. The plain of the Liffey, which included the town of Kildare.

2 I.e. The monks and nuns of Kildare.

3 A poetic name for Ireland.

Bera the aged dwelt in the cave of the rock. She was the daughter of Griannan the sage. Long was the line of her fathers, and she was the last of her race. Large and fertile were her possessions; hers the beautiful vales below; and hers the cattle which roamed on the hills around. To Bera was committed the charge of that awful spring, which by the appointment of fate was to prove so fatal to the inheritance of her fathers, and her fathers race. Before the sun should withdraw his beams she was to cover the spring with a stone, on which sacred and mysterious characters were impressed. One night this was forgot by the unhappy Bera. Overcome with the heat and chase of the day, she was seized with sleep before the usual hour of rest. The confined waters of the mountain burst forth in the plain below, and covered the large expanse, now known by the lake of Awe. The third morning Bera awaked from her sleep. She went to remove the stone from the spring; but, behold! no stone was there. She looked to the inheritance of her tribe! She shrieked. The mountain shook from its base; her spirit retired to the ghosts of her fathers in their light airy halls.

Barbour, Unique Traditions Chiefly of the West and South of Scotland, 1886, p188.

Aor Nan Eadan

Mìle marbhaisg ort, a radain!
A shlaideare nam badan arbhair;
Cha leòr leat sop ach an Iàn sguab dheth,
Dh-fàg thu ‘m bualadh dhomh nèo-tharbhach.
Rinn thu gradan de’m chuid eòrna,
A mhèirlich gur mòr do cháil dheth;
Na’n robh do cheann agam air innean,
‘Smise nach tilleadh mo lamh dhiot!

Cha d’fhàg thu mulan anus san iolainn
Nach do mhil thu ‘s nach do mhab thu,
Cha d’fhag thu poca ‘san t’sabhal,
Nach do tholl thu ‘s nach do shlaid thu;
Mo thruaighe mi aig àm ‘cuir coirce
An t’seann lairdhonn bi ‘bochd da-rireamh;
Mhic an Radain ‘s mòr do pheacadh,
Mar a chreach thu de gach nì mi!

Ach èirich a laochain a’s dean imric,
Imich th’ar a chaol gu séolta,
Thu fein ‘s do chuid daoine uile
Falbhaibh gu builleach mar chomhla’
Air Michail ‘sair Brìde mìn,
Eirich, imicli as mo thìr!

The Gaelic is uncommonly good, and there is a touch of humour in the whole that is very difficult to catch and reproduce in a translation ; but we have ventured upon the following version, which we warn the reader, in order to prevent future quarrel on the subject, is more of a paraphrase than a metaphrase:

The Rat-Expelling Incantation

A thousand ills befall thee, greedy rat!
Expertest thief that ever yet was born!
In barn and stack-yard, maugre trap and cat,
Sad is the state of all my stock of corn;
Nor does a handful serve thee, shameless thief,
Unblushing rogue, thou claimest the whole sheaf!

My barley thou hast millered into meal,
Chaff and small dust together close commingled;
Thou spoilest more than ever thou canst steal;
Hadst thou but any shame, thine ears had long since tingled;
I wish I had thy head upon a stithy,
I’d rap it with the biggest hammer in the smithy!

Nor corn in sheaf, nor barley snugly stacked,
Could serve thy turn; but all my garner’d grain,
In well-tilled sacks is next by thee attacked,
And all yspoiled, thou thief of fertile brain.
And all my sacks are nibbled too, and holed, —
A sight most aggravating to behold.

Alas, for all my seed corn in the spring!
Alas, for all thy keep, my good brown mare!
But take advice, and leave me, rat; and bring
All thy companions with thee; else beware
My malison shall fall withouten fail
On thee and thine, from whisker-tip to tail!

So rat be warned; away! across the Ferry,
And in some quarter new be sleek and merry;
By good St. Michael, and by chaste St. Bride,
I charge thee, leave me ere the morning tide!

(Exeunt Ratti tumultuously, and best foot foremost.)

Stewart, ‘Twixt Ben Nevis and Glencoe, 1885, p4-6.

1 Shannon, what is the cause thereof? I will relate (it) without deceit; without riddle, in luminous speech, I will declare its name and origin.

2 I will recount to each and all the rise of Shannon pure of stream; I will not hide its fair renown, I will declare the cause of its name.

3 The well of Connla great of cheer was ‘neath the dark blue-rimmed’) sea; seven streams whose fame was not alike (flowed) from it. Shannon among the seven.

4 Round about that well were set nine hazel-trees of Crimall sage; (wrapt) through a spell of sovran power are they in dark druidic mist.

5 At the same time – as is not wont – their leaves and blossoms grow; a marvel – though a virtue rare! – that they should ripen all at once.

6 As soon as the nuts are ripe, they fall from high into the well below, where they are scattered through its midst, so that the salmon eat them.

7 From the juice of the nuts – no portion mean! – are formed the bubbles of wisdom; thence at all seasons (to earth) they come, borne on (the bosom of) bright-green streams.

8 There was a yellow-crested maid yonder among the De Danann tribes, Sinann the feateous, of aspect pure, daughter of Lotan Lucharmar.

9 The maiden bethought her once at night, the sweet-voiced red-lipt womanly maid, how her condition had every (gift of) fame, save the (gift of) wisdom alone.

10 At day when the maiden of comely form came to the river, she beheld – no mean destiny was hers! – the beauteous bubbles of wisdom.

11 The maiden went – aspiring quest – after them into the emerald stream; in pursuit of them yonder she was drowned, so that from her is the Shannon (named).

12 Another shaping, if ye desire, I put on the Shannon of shining stream; though others besides me read it so, ’tis no better than the first account.

13 The name of the pool where she was drowned (I aver) is “the Noble Lady’s Pool”; ’tis but her due, for from her (it comes), as is truth to tell.

14 (Yet) another story I recall which all have heard far and wide; ’twas Nuada’s hound of beauty great that perished in the cruel stream.

15 Or it may be that “Sinann”, rightly read, is “Sin Morainn”, [''Morann's collar"] by interpretation; the custom of Morann in grandeur of deeds, fairer than any collar that).

Probably the best known of them is the Dindshenchas of Boann. Her name and even her association with the river Boyne is old, with the second century map of Ptolemy recording a river named ‘Buvinda’; in linguistic terms the name draws on the exact same roots as Boann’s name – *Bou-vindā, meaning ‘cow’ and ‘white’ respectively, placing her as a deity with one of the longest historical record of all of them.

There are a few different versions of the Dindshencas, which give differing reasons for her approaching the well that subsequently rises up and chases after her before she is overcome by the waters. In the version below it is said that she approaches the well because ‘noble pride uplifted her’; an alternative version describing the same reasoning has her walking around the well three times widdershins, suggesting or emphasising ill or wrong intent. In the second version of the Metrical Dindshenchas she is said to have gone to the well to wash herself of the sin of adultery she had committed with the Dagda, which resulted in the birth of Oengus mac Óc. In all cases there are definite misogynistic overtones to the story – the sin of sex, the sin of an uppity woman with thoughts beyond her meek and mild station…But like the Dindshenchas of Sinann, which features the exact same well, there are associations of wisdom in the waters that she approaches. One might think that her quest for knowledge may be a more likely reason for her approaching the well, and in her quest she is either overwhelmed or must sacrifice herself to bring the gift from its Otherworldly source into this world.

I’ve chosen to post this version because it gives an interesting pedigree about the names of various parts of the river, which seem to hint at other mythological associations; that the waters are linked with rivers far beyond Ireland is interesting too, and this Celtica article (pdf link) has lots to say about the motivations behind that.

1. Sid Nechtain is the name that is on the mountain here,
   the grave of the full-keen son of Labraid,
   from which flows the stainless river
   whose name is Boand ever-full.
2. 5] Fifteen names, certainty of disputes,
   given to this stream we enumerate,
   from Sid Nechtain away
   till it reaches the paradise of Adam.
3. Segais was her name in the Sid
   10] to be sung by thee in every land:
   River of Segais is her name from that point
   to the pool of Mochua the cleric.
4. From the well of righteous Mochua
   to the bounds of Meath’s wide plain,
   15] the Arm of Nuadu’s Wife and her Leg are
   the two noble and exalted names.
5. From the bounds of goodly Meath
   till she reaches the sea’s green floor
   she is called the Great Silver Yoke
   20] and the White Marrow of Fedlimid.
6. Stormy Wave from thence onward
   unto branchy Cualnge;
   River of the White Hazel from stern Cualnge
   to the lough of Eochu Red-Brows.
7. 25] Banna is her name from faultless Lough Neagh:
   Roof of the Ocean as far as Scotland:
   Lunnand she is in blameless Scotland —
   or its name is Torrand according to its meaning.
8. Severn is she called through the land of the sound Saxons,
   30] Tiber in the Romans’ keep:
   River Jordan thereafter in the east
   and vast River Euphrates.
9. River Tigris in enduring paradise,
   long is she in the east, a time of wandering
   35] from paradise back again hither
   to the streams of this Sid.
10. Boand is her general pleasant name
    from the Sid to the sea-wall;
    I remember the cause whence is named
    40] the water of the wife of Labraid’s son.
11. Nechtain son of bold Labraid
    whose wife was Boand, I aver;
    a secret well there was in his stead,
    from which gushed forth every kind of mysterious evil.
12. 45] There was none that would look to its bottom
    but his two bright eyes would burst:
    if he should move to left or right,
    he would not come from it without blemish.
13. Therefore none of them dared approach it
    50] save Nechtain and his cup-bearers:
    — these are their names, famed for brilliant deed,
    Flesc and Lam and Luam.
14. Hither came on a day white Boand
    (her noble pride uplifted her),
    55] to the well, without being thirsty
    to make trial of its power.
15. As thrice she walked round
    about the well heedlessly,
    three waves burst from it,
    60] whence came the death of Boand.
16. They came each wave of them against a limb,
    they disfigured the soft-blooming woman;
    a wave against her foot, a wave against her perfect eye,
    the third wave shatters one hand.
17. 65] She rushed to the sea (it was better for her)
    to escape her blemish,
    so that none might see her mutilation;
    on herself fell her reproach.
18. Every way the woman went
    70] the cold white water followed
    from the Sid to the sea (not weak it was),
    so that thence it is called Boand.
19. Boand from the bosom of our mighty river-bank,
    was mother of great and goodly Oengus,
    75] the son she bore to the Dagda — bright honour!
    in spite of the man of this Sid.
20. Or, Boand is Bo and Find
    from the meeting of the two royal streams,
    the water from bright Sliab Guaire
    80] and the river of the Sids here.
21. Dabilla, the name of the faithful dog
    who belonged to the wife of Nechtain, great and noble,
    the lap-dog of Boand the famous,
    which went after her when she perished.
22. 85] The sea-current swept it away,
    as far as the stony crags;
    and they made two portions of it,
    so that they were named therefrom.
23. They stand to the east of broad Breg,
    90] the two stones in the blue waters of the lough:
    Cnoc Dabilla is so called from that day to this
    from the little dog of the Sid.

She expressed an earnest desire to have a drink from the well of Creagaig, on the farm of Mannal, in Tiree. On the west margin of Loch Phuill there is a bare and stony rising in the ground, which becomes an island when the loch is flooded. It is called the ‘Roofless Walls of the Bera Wives’ (Totachun na Cailleacha Beura). On the south side of the Ross of Mull there is a natural enclosure in the rocks that goes by the same name. Here Bera folded her goats at night. In the daytime she drove them to pasture, where there is now no trace of land, beyond the dangerous Torrin Rocks, stretching away to the south-west of Iona (Na Torrainnean Itheach). At Sword Point (Rutha Chlaidheamth) on the north side of the same peninsula, there is a round mark in the face of the granite rocks, called ‘Bera’s Cake’ (Bonnach Chailleach Bheur) produced by a cake thrown by her. So also a natural enclosure in the rocks above Gorten, in Ardnamurchan, is called ‘ The Old Wife’s Byre ‘ (Bàthaich na Caillich) it being said that she folded her cattle there.

Curious natural appearances of another kind have suggested other fancies in connection with her. She set about building a bridge across the Sound of Mull, commencing at the Morvern side, and was on her way, with a creelful of stones on her back for the purpose, when the creel strap (iris mhuineil) broke, and the burden fell to the ground. The stones with which the basket was filled (and it must have been one of no small capacity) form the remarkable cairn called Cam na Caillich (the old wife’s heap of stones). She intended to put a chain across the Sound of Islay, to prevent the passage of ships that way, and the stones are pointed out on the Jura side to which the chains were to be secured. Beinn na Caillich a hill in Kildalton parish, Islay, is called after her, and a furrow down its side, called Sgrìob na Caillich) was made by her, as she slid down in a sitting posture. In the parish of Stralachlan and Strachur, in Cowal, Argyllshire, there is also a hill called after her, Beinn Chaillach Bheur (the Cailleach Bear or Bera of the Statistical Account, p. 105). The writer in the Statistical Account renders her name ‘The Old Wife of Thunder,’ having evidently mistaken beur, sharp-tongued and sharp-witted, for beithir (pron. beìr) a thunder-bolt. He adds: “She could (according to popular stories) with ease and incredible agility transfer herself from one hill to another, command terrific thunder and desolating deluges at pleasure; and hence the dreadful apprehensions of incurring her ire that generally prevailed.”

She is ‘the aged Bera’ (Beura aosmohr), daughter of ‘Crabbed the Wise’ (Greannan Glic), referred to in legend. She had charge of a well in a valley on the top of Ben Cruachan (Coire Chruachain) and was to cover it every evening at sunset with a flagstone. She failed one night to do so, the well overflowed all night, and before morning Loch Awe was formed.

It is told that a man once went to see her (it is not said where) and test her wit. She had the reputation of being inhospitable and sullen. He said he would make her give him meat and lodgings for a night. He found her a very old woman, in an empty house, with nothing to sit upon, a bare floor, not overly clean, and full of holes. At first she was churlish and uncivil, but after an exchange of witticisms became more hospitable, and gave him a sheep’s head to singe. The following version of the conversation bears repeating:

She. Whence has come the man with the flowing plaid and the flaunting kilt at the evening’s close?
He. I came from the flag-stones near the narrow Sound, to see my lady-love at the evening’s close.
She. What is your name?
He. William Sit-down.
She (in amazement). William Sit-down!
He. Why should I not sit down, when the mistress of the house asks it? (Sits down.)
She. Though you sit, it will not be to your benefit.
He. What should suffice for yourself during your life-time, will not that suffice for me for a night?
She. There is nothing here but bare floor, earth full of holes, and fleas sharp ground fleas, that will bite your two haunches most uneasily.
He. (when he gets the sheep’s head to singe). What is the portion of the man who singes the head?
She. As much as he can take with him in one verse.
He.

Ear from the root is mine,
The loud babbler of the head,
The jaws and two cheeks,
Eye, and snout, and brain.

Having thus secured the whole head, he made minced meat of it, to which he helped himself in large spoonfuls.

She. The load is heavy for the weakly neck.
He. The road is but a short one.
She. Though short, it is ascent.
He. Ascent is not quicker than descent.

Having said this, he swallowed his last spoonful and went away.

John Gregorson Campbell, The Sharp-Witted Wife, in The Scottish Historical Review Volume XII, 1915, p415-416.