Nature has been kind to the hill country of the central Southern Uplands; it holds more than its share of stunning landscapes. Of these, arguably the most well-known, and easily the most visited is that which sits just to the east of the BFT’s property in Carrifran; the great falls of the Grey Mare’s Tail, where Loch Skeen empties its waters over the rim of Moffatdale. At 70 metres in height this is one of the tallest waterfalls in the whole country, and in full flow a truly awesome sight.
Near the base of the falls on the eastern side, near the modern car park, there lies a substantial bank of earth some 50 metres in length. This is an ancient monument, marked on the OS maps as “The Giant’s Grave”. What exactly the earthwork here represents is something of a mystery; it might be the remains of a Celtic fortified settlement, a checkpoint controlling traffic along Moffatdale, or perhaps some sort of ritual site associated with the waterfall. That it is of considerable age is not in doubt; the manner of its construction, combining raised earthwork and ditch is characteristic of the Bronze and Iron Age fortifications found throughout the region.
It is perhaps surprising, given the fame of the site and the backdrop, that the story connected to it is not better known. There is a tale that recounts the story of the giant buried here; a tale of supernatural horrors and heroic combat as powerful as any to have emerged from the Border Ballad tradition. That it has not become more famous is perhaps a consequence of the manner of its transmission; the most complete rendition is contained within a 19th century ballad composed by a well-known writer of fiction, and the tale appears to have been overlooked as his own invention.
This may have been a significant oversight. The story delivered is, though considerably expanded, recognisably identical in the details of its narrative to another first written down in 1715, over 100 years before the 19th century version was composed (see Pennecuik 1715, “A Georgraphical, Historical Description of the Shire of Tweeddale”, pg. 23). That earlier tale placed the scene of the action 8 miles away in upper Tweeddale, on the northern slopes of the Moffat hills rather than the southern – it is, however, clear evidence that this same legend of a giant and his demise was present in this stretch of hill country. Another brief version was in included in the Second Statistical Account of Scotland. At the very least, the writer of the 19th century version took this earlier tradition and simply relocated it a short distance to the south.
This is not the only possibility. It may well be that the location at the Grey Mare’s Tail reflects an alternative, Moffatdale version of the story; we know with certainty that the name “Giant’s Grave” was applied to the earthwork in Moffatdale before the 19th century ballad was published. It was by no means an uncommon thing for popular tales to be claimed by the residents of more than one valley, village or family; the worms of Linton and Lambton provide one example, and the white stags hunted in both Roslin and the inner Pentlands another. Should this be the case, then the tale may be a very ancient one indeed; stories of giants are very common in the culture of the Brittonic Celtic peoples, and since these were the people who first erected the hillforts of the Borders region, it is not inconceivable that the earliest versions of the story may have arisen in their ancient culture.
Some support for the notion of the tale’s antiquity is provided by the identity of the author of the later version. He was in fact the foremost literary figure to stem from this part of the country; James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd. He was a man with an undoubted passion for the tales of these hills, and access to the very oldest of them; his mother was Margaret Laidlaw, one of the informants who supplied the material for Scott’s original Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, while his grandfather was Will O’Phaup, the last man of these hills to claim to have dealings with the otherworld of elves and fairies. Hogg was therefore better-placed than anyone to pass on a tradition of the supernatural denizens of Moffatdale; and the quality of the version he crafted is such that, even if it does represent a transplant rather than a pre-existing legend, it deserves a wider audience nonetheless.
Here then is the tale of the Grey Mare’s Tail that James Hogg called “The Grousome Carle”, which I have updated into modern language for ease of reading, and edited a little. Readers with a good grounding in Old Scots can find the original on pages 183-199 of his “A Queer Book”, published in 1832.
The Giant’s Grave
There was a man came out of the West,
and a fearsome thing was he…
Matted hair hung over a bestial brow; wrinkled, knotted muscles rippled over a bull-like neck. He wore neither bonnet nor shoes nor shirt; only a jerkin tied around his broad waist kept the hill-country cold at bay. He wore a belt of bull’s hide, and carried a pole upon his shoulder that was full thirteen feet long.
He strode his way up Moffatdale, first passing the Craigie Burn. He gazed up at the slopes of Saddle Yoke, and for a moment seemed to consider bounding up its slopes – a task to which his huge, tree-like legs were surely equal. He sniggered then, so loud that the leaves shook on the trees, and the birds of the forest ceased to sing. Until he’d passed on by their woods, not a breath would they draw.
The woodsman saw him coming,
and thought his life was done.
He ran and hid behind the hazel bush,
until the sound of steps had gone.
The deer took to their heels and ran,
noses against the wind;
they fled up to the slopes of Carrifran Gans,
and looked not once behind.
Whenever the giant man gave a shout, a snigger, a belch or a bray, then all the rocks of the valley clattered in response, the rejoinder of his voice rebounding for miles from wall to wall of the dale. The awful echoes set the sheep to start on their steeps, and brought the wild goats forth from their lairs to bleat forebodingly on the slopes. The dogs of the shepherd lads tucked their tails between their legs, and off to the braes they sped.
And if this man was flesh and blood,
Or a monster come from hell,
Or risen out of the deeps of the sea,
No man in the land could tell.
In his wake came a horrible train, the like of which had never passed Annandale before; a cavalcade of monsters hastening from the west, bound for the inner fells.
The giant came to the Grey Mare’s Tail,
beneath the roaring steep,
and he dug a hole shaped like bended bow,
flanked with a trench both long and deep.
He pulled the bracken from the valley’s floor,
and the heather from the hill;
the rowan trees from the Strang Cleuch,
and the birch from the Raking Gill.
He piled them up over his deep hole, and lay therein with all his awful brood. No mortal eye gazed upon them; neither man nor beast dared look within, for fear of a swift and painful end,
Oxen began to vanish from the fields,
Sheep went missing from the brae.
The shepherds grumbled throughout the land,
but knew not what to say.
Young maids went missing from their beds,
before the break of day –
and mothers rocked the empty cradles,
of children stolen away.
Word went east, and word went west,
from Yarrow as far as the Ae;
and it came to the Lord of Annandale,
in Lochhouse Tower where he lay.
The lord he laughed at his vassals’ tale,
and doubted it was true;
said he’d wend next morn to the Grey Mare’s Tail,
this supposed ‘giant’ to view.
The lord arose at the break of day,
and mounted his fine steed.
Twenty-four fighting men rode with him;
guard fit for a Reiver chief.
Three staunch bloodhounds paced ahead of them; fierce Border hounds, trained to track the thieves of the night, or any shedder of men’s blood.
When they arrived at Hunterheck Farm,
they found a sad and forbidding scene;
a precious girl stolen in the night,
and no dry eye to be seen.
The lord loosed the leash of the bloodhounds,
to send them on their way;
but they looked dour, and did not rush,
As usual to find their prey.
They dropped their heads and sniffed the dew,
then sniffed the dew again –
and their heckles arose and their backs did shudder,
like their master had never seen.
Then Jowler he began to bark,
with a sharp and angry tone;
and German’s eye began to glint,
with a blood-red glare thereon.
And Harper turned his nose to the heavens,
and gave a howl so long,
that all the woods of Moffatdale
with mouthless echoes rang.
With that, they were off, the horsemen coursing behind…
The fords were deep and the banks were steep,
and the pathway there was slight;
by the time they reached the Selcoth Burn,
the hounds were gone from sight.
But they heard their voices crying on,
Through the clouds so calm,
As if the spirits of the fells,
Were singing their morning psalm.
And the eagle left his misty home,
Amidst the cliffs so grim,
And he soared on the morning’s ruddy brow,
And joined in the bloody hymn.
“Spur on, spur on,” cried Annandale, exhorting his riders to keep pace with the hounds – but they could not lay eyes on them.
When they came to the Grey Mare’s Tail,
To the trench both long and low,
Lord Annandale’s steed turned round his head –
No further would he go.
“Who holds this hole?” cried Annandale
“This pit of dread and doubt?
If you be creatures of mortal birth,
I command you to come out!”
He heard a snigger, and then a laugh,
and then a smothered scream.
As if the Devil himself had been asleep,
and wakened from a dream.
The three bloodhounds howled out loud, glad to hear their master’s voice –
but they were chained up in the cave, and no amount of straining could loose their bonds.
Out then climbed the gruesome man,
and atop his trench stood tall;
his matted locks reared to the clouds,
towering over all.
Lord Annandale had no word to say,
his heart did beat so fast.
Although he put great courage on,
His heart was sore aghast.
He looked up at the giant’s face,
then at those of his men.
They seemed in grim comparison,
but a scraggle of cocks and hens.
“Christ be my shield!” said Annandale,
“preserve my immortal soul,
If ten such men came to this land,
they’d swallow it up whole!”
“What seek you here?” breathed the giant man,
“and what is your will with me?”
“We seek for oxen, stolen away,
and search for a fair lady!”
“You shall have their bones then,” said the giant;
“you shall have them with my good will –
when my good dames and my noble sons
have gnawed from them their fill.”
“Lord God be my shield!” cried Annandale,
“and save us from this scorn!
Such evil I have never heard,
since the day that I was born!
Loose you my hounds, foul thing,
or we’ll slay you where you stand!”
“Neither for gold nor any other fee will I release them,” replied the giant. “They will hunt the sheep and the deer for my good ladies – and if they fail to hunt for us, we’ll dine on them instead!”
Lord Annandale’s rage rose high –
such thoughts he could not abide.
He swore he’d spill the giant’s blood,
and in that hole his body hide.
“Do you wish to fight?” laughed the giant,
“I truly hope you do.
For it will please our stomachs greatly,
to eat your fat men and you!”
He bore a pole thirteen feet long,
Gripped tight in his giant hand,
And unto the end he fixed a blade –
the fiercest spear in all the land.
Lord Annandale’s men drew forth their swords,
and charged the giant’s side –
but in five twinklings of an eye,
a third of them had died.
The remainder wheeled their steeds around,
and fled fast as the wind;
when they glanced behind, they shuddered and gasped,
at the awful sight they found.
There they saw both wives and bairns,
of the hideous giant’s brood,
come running from the horrid hole,
to drink their kinsmen’s blood.
And as they quaffed the warm red tide,
Their greed it ran full rife.
Then trailed the bodies to the hole –
though they flickered still with life.
Lord Annandale’s men they rode and ran
Over all over the Borders’ bounds,
till they came upon John of Littledean,
an archer of great renown.
He came to the Grey Mare’s Tail at night,
and hid himself right well.
He laid in wait for the giant man,
to send his soul to hell.
When the giant broke his morning’s fast,
he strode down to the stream,
He knelt down by the Tail Burn,
And emptied it with his morning drink.
The giant then rose up like a tree,
and took a steadfast stand;
for he saw on the hill the archer’s den,
and the bow bent in his hand.
The archer fired an arrow swift,
from his fine strong yew-wood bow –
but the giant caught it in his teeth,
then smiled to mock him sore.
But John he was a cunning man,
And an archer of great skill,
He put two arrows to his bow,
The giant fiend to kill.
He giant deftly caught the first,
Full swiftly though it flew;
But the second pierced him through the breast,
And clove his heart in two.
He gave a growl – he gave but one,
That made the hillsides roar,
Then down he toppled on the Peel-knowe side,
To growl never-more.
Then up rose the lord of Annandale,
from an ambush where he lay,
He sacked the giant’s gruesome lair,
Made of its brood his prey.
They took the giant’s awful clan,
His sons, and his wives three;
And they tied long ropes about their necks,
And hanged them from a tree.
They took them all to their gruesome hole,
And made of it their tomb;
And that Giant’s Grave and the Giant’s Trench,
Will stand till the day of doom.
Now long live James our noble king,
and Lord Annandale long live he;
and long live John of Littledean,
who set this country free!
May heaven preserve both man and beast,
that tread these fields below;
and little bairns and maidens fair,
God grant them grace to grow.
Pray that never another awful fiend,
Make a sequel to this tale,
And never a giant be seen again,
Like he of the Grey Mare’s Tail.
© William Young and Inter-Celtic, 2023. Unauthorised use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to William Young and Inter-Celtic with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
Be First to Comment