The yuletide-lads.
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 Leppalúði:
a loathsome ilk.
They were called the Yuletide-lads
-at Yuletide they were due-
and always came one by one
not ever two and 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 were 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.
Stiff-Legs was the first.
Like a stick of wood he came
to prey upon the farmer´s sheep
and, following his game,
he wished to suck the ewes,
but it was no accident
he couldn’t, cause his knees were stiff
not too convenient.
Gully Gawk came second,
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.
Stubby was the third called,
a stunted little man,
who watched for every chance he got
to whisk off a pan.
And scurrying away with it,
he scraped off the bits
that stuck to the bottom
and brims – his favorites.
The fourth one was Spoonlicker;
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.
Potscraper, 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.
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!
The seventh was Door-Slammer,
a devil of abuse:
When people in the twilight
would take a little snooze,
he felt happy as a lark
with the havoc he could wreak,
slamming doors and hearing
the hinges on them squeak.
Skyr-Gobbler, the eighth,
was an awful stupid bloke.
He lambasted the skyr tub
till the lid on it broke.
Then he would keep gobbling
– his greed was well known –
until, about to burst,
he would bleat, howl and groan.
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.
The tenth was Window-Peeper
-wicked, creepy 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.
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.
Meathook, 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.
The thirteenth was Candlebeggar
– ‘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.
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 all turned
to image and song.
