Let me tell
the story
of the lads of few charms,
who once upon a time
used to visit our farms.
They came from the
mountains,
as many of you know,
in a long single file
to the farmsteads below.
Grýla was their mother
- she gave them ogre milk -
and the father Leppalúdi;
a loathsome ilk.
They were called the
Yuletide lads
- at Yuletide they were due -
and always came one by
one,
not ever two by two. |
Thirteen
altogether,
these gents in their prime
didn´t want to irk people
all at one time. Creeping up, all stealth,
they unlocked the door.
The kitchen and the pantry
they came looking for.
They hid where they
could,
with a cunning look or sneer,
ready with their pranks
when people weren´t near.
And even when they were
seen,
they weren´t loath to roam
and play their tricks -
disturbing
the peace of the home.
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The first of
them was Sheep-Cote Clod.
He came stiff as wood,
to pray upon the farmer´s
sheep
as far as he could. He wished to suck the ewes,
but it was no accident
he couldn´t; he had stiff
knees
- not to convenient. |
The second was
Gully Gawk,
gray his head and mien.
He snuck into the cow barn
from his craggy ravine.
Hiding in the stalls,
he would steal the milk, while
the milkmaid gave the cowherd
a meaningful smile. |
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Stubby
was the third called,
a stunted little man,
who watched for every chance
to whisk off a pan. And scurrying away with it,
he scraped off the bits
that stuck to the bottom
and brims - his favorites.
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The fourth was
Spoon Licker;
like spindle he was thin.
He felt himself in clover
when the cook wasn´t in.
Then stepping up, he
grappled
the stirring spoon with glee,
holding it with both hands
for it was slippery. |
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Pot
Scraper, the fifth one,
was a funny sort of chap.
When kids were given
scrapings,
he´d come to the door and
tap. And they would
rush to see
if there really was a guest.
Then he hurried to the pot
and had a scrapingfest.
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Bowl
Licker, the sixth one,
was shockingly ill bred.
From underneath the bedsteads
he stuck his ugly head.
And when the bowls were
left
to be licked by dog or cat,
he snatched them for himself
- he was sure good at that!
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The seventh
was Door Slammer,
a sorry, vulgar chap:
When people in the twilight
would take a little nap,
he was happy as a lark
with the havoc he could wreak,
slamming doors and hearing
the hinges on them sqeak.
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Skyr*
Gobbler, the eighth,
was an awful stupid bloke.
He lambasted the skyr tub
till the lid on it broke.
Then he stood there
gobbling
- his greed was well known -
until, about to burst,
he would bleat, howl and
groan. |
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The ninth was Sausage
Swiper,
a shifty pilferer.
He climbed up to the rafters
and raided food from there.
Sitting on a crossbeam
in soot and in smoke,
he fed himself on sausage
fit for gentlefolk.
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The tenth was Window
Peeper,
a weird little twit,
who stepped up to the window
and stole a peek through it.
And whatever was inside
to which his eye was drawn,
he most likely attempted
to take later on.
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Eleventh was Door
Sniffer,
a doltish lad and gross.
He never got a cold, yet had
a huge, sensitive nose.
He caught the scent of lace
bread
while leagues away still
and ran toward it weightless
as wind over dale and hill.
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Meat
Hook, the twelfth one,
his talent would display
as soon as he arrived
on Saint Thorlak´s Day.
He snagged himself a morsel
of meet of any sort,
although his hook at times was
a tiny bit short.
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The thirteenth
was Candle Beggar
- ´twas cold, I believe,
if he was not the last
of the lot on Christmas Eve.
He trailed after the little
ones
who, like happy sprites,
ran about the farm with
their fine tallow lights.
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On Christmas night itself
- so a wise man writes
- the lads were all restraint
and just stared at the lights.
Then one by one they trotted
off
into the frost and snow.
On Twelfth Night the last
of the lads used to go.
Their footprints in the
highlands
are effaced now for long,
the memories have all turned
to image and song
*Dairy product, similar to yogurt. |