Bana-bhuidseach
This is Fab Figmentals, the podcast that explores the realm of curious creatures, magical monsters, and beautiful beasts. I’m your host, Lindsey Morse.
On each episode of Fab Figmentals, we dive into the folklore and history of a different legendary creature and share a story about it.
If you’re a regular listener of the show, you probably won’t be surprised to hear that Halloween is my favorite holiday. It’s a time when we collectively allow ourselves to suspend our disbelief in the supernatural. We lean into spooky stories, put horror films on repeat, and delight in feeling our spines tingle. Adults and children alike set aside reality, and for one short season, we all allow ourselves to play pretend. But sometimes in our hunt for shivers, we come across something that blurs the line between the “real” and the “make believe.” Something that isn’t so easily set aside when the Halloween season ends.
For me, the topic of today’s episode is an example of just that: witches.
You see, when we talk about witches, most of our minds jump to thoughts of the green-faced wicked witch of the west, from the Wizard of Oz, or maybe the Sanderson sisters from Hocus Pocus. But witches don’t all live inside storybooks and kids movies: they feature prominently in history all over the world. And the hunt to rid the world of them left a wake of death and destruction that— to this day— seems almost unbelievable.
Here in the states, we talk a lot about the witch trials in Salem, but Scotland has a vast and dark history with witches, too. Today, we’re going to zero in on the folklore and history of witches in Scotland, known as bana-bhuidseach.
Let’s dive in.
I’d like to set the scene with a little Shakespeare. In Macbeth, Shakespeare’s Scottish play, we meet 3 witches. We’re introduced to them at the start of the play, but they get their 15 minutes of fame in Act 4. Huddled around a boiling pot, they recite the following words:
Round about the cauldron go;
In the poison'd entrails throw.
Toad, that under cold stone
Days and nights has thirty-one
Swelter'd venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i' the charmed pot.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg and howlet's wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble.
Cool it with a baboon's blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.
This spell casting returns ominous visions of the future— troubling forecasts that foreshadow Macbeth’s downfall.
I first read Macbeth back in High School English class, and this part was without question my favorite part of the play. What I didn’t know at the time was the context in which the scene was written.
Macbeth was first performed in 1606 in London. And at that time witches were a real concern up in Scotland.
Witch trials in Scotland began in the early 16th century, and things reached fever pitch in 1597, in what is now known as the Great Scottish Witch Hunt. All across the country, 400 people were put on trial for their alleged associations with witchcraft, and as many as 200 were put to death.
When you think that Macbeth’s witches first walked onto the London stage only 9 years later, it casts a darkness on their presence. What I once read as fun and lighthearted verse, now seems— weighty.
The witch trials in Scotland continued with varied fervency well into the 1700’s, and by the end it’s estimated that more than 1500 people were killed. 75% of those were women.
Things eventually calmed, and in 1763 an act was passed that prohibited the legal persecution of witches, essentially putting the slaughter to rest. But a widespread belief in witches wasn’t so easily quelled.
For today’s story, we’re going to look at Robert Burns’ “Tam O’Shanter,” a poem that was written in 1790 and tells of a man’s close encounter with witches, warlocks, and the devil himself. The site of this demonic party is the Alloway Kirk, a small church outside Ayr, in the Southwestern part of Scotland. Burns’ own father lies in eternal rest in the cemetery there, and the poet seems to have believed wholeheartedly in the spot’s association with witches: he provided the publisher with 3 “true” witch stories about the kirk to accompany the poem.
Niall Cooper, the host of our sister show, Assassinations Podcast, is going to read for us today, but before we dive in, I want to give a quick overview of the plot.
Burns’ verse is beautiful, but he uses Scots words that are often unfamiliar to the modern ear— much like hearing Shakespeare read aloud, sometimes it’s helpful to understand the context ahead of time, so you can focus on enjoying the rhythm and flow.
The story begins with Tam, a farmer who’s getting drunk in a bar with his friends. It’s a stormy night, and Tam sets out for home on the back of his horse, Meg. While riding past the local church, he notices that it’s all lit up, and as he gets closer he sees witches dancing and the devil playing the bagpipes. In his intoxicated state, he becomes transfixed by the risqué hemline of one of the dancers, and let’s out an appreciative “weel-done, cutty sark!” Cutty-sark is the short skirt. At this, he’s given himself away: the lights go out, and the witches come after him. Away he rides, fleeing on Meg’s back towards the River Doon, for he knows the devilish creatures can not cross the water. Will he make it? Let’s go and see.
Here’s Niall Cooper with Robbie Burns’ “Tam O’Shanter.”
***
When chapmen billies leave the street,
And drouthy neibors, neibors meet,
As market days are wearing late,
An' folk begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
And getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky sullen dame.
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
But to our tale:-- Ae market-night,
Tam had got planted unco right;
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony;
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither--
They had been fou for weeks thegither!
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter
And ay the ale was growing better:
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
wi' favours secret,sweet and precious
The Souter tauld his queerest stories;
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.
But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white--then melts for ever;
Or like the borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the rainbow's lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm.--
Nae man can tether time or tide;
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he taks the road in
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.
The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd:
That night, a child might understand,
The Deil had business on his hand.
Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg--
A better never lifted leg--
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire;
Despisin' wind and rain and fire.
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet;
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet;
Whiles glowring round wi' prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares:
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.
Before him Doon pours all his floods;
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods;
The lightnings flash from pole to pole;
Near and more near the thunders roll:
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze;
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing;
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.
Maggie stood, right sair astonish'd,
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,
She ventured forward on the light;
And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight
Warlocks and witches in a dance;
Nae cotillion brent-new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
A winnock-bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge:
He scre'd the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.--
Coffins stood round, like open presses,
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses;
And by some develish cantraip slight,
Each in its cauld hand held a light.--
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table,
A murders's banes in gibbet-airns;
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns;
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape;
Five tomahawks, wi blude red-rusted;
Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted;
A garter, which a babe had strangled;
A knife, a father's throat had mangled -
Whom his ain son o' life bereft -
The gray hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu',
Which even to name wad be unlawfu'.
Three lawyers' tongues, turn'd inside out,
Wi' lies seam'd like a beggar's clout;
Three priests' hearts, rotten, black as muck,
Lay stinking, vile in every neuk.
As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;
The piper loud and louder blew;
The dancers quick and quicker flew;
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit,
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,
And coost her duddies to the wark,
And linket at it in her sark!
Tam kend what was what fu' brawlie:
There was ae winsome wench and waulie,
That night enlisted in the core,
Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore;
(For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perish'd mony a bonie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
And kept the country-side in fear.)
Her cutty-sark, o' Paisley harn
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude tho' sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie,-
Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches),
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!
But here my Muse her wing maun cour;
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
(A souple jade she was, and strang),
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd,
And thought his very een enrich'd;
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main;
Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his reason a' thegither,
And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"
And in an instant all was dark:
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
When out the hellish legion sallied.
As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie's mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi' mony an eldritch skriech and hollo.
Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin'!
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy commin'!
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stane o' the brig;
There at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross.
But ere the key-stane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake!
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie's mettle -
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain gray tail;
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.
No, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son take heed;
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd,
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,
Think! ye may buy joys o'er dear -
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.
*****
Did you catch the ending?
Tam escapes the grasp of the witches— Meg is fast and swift enough to carry him to safety. But, sadly, she doesn’t get away unscathed. One of the creatures manages to grab ahold of her tail and rips it clean off— leaving her with barely a stump. Poor Meg. Seems unfair that she’s the one left hurting because of Tam’s lecherous outburst, doesn’t it?
Anyway…
This poem is a lot of fun, but it’s important to remember that while it’s easy to view this as a lighthearted romp, people actually believed the stories that inspired it. In the minds of many Scots in the late 1700’s, witches were very real, and the bloody history of their targeted elimination was still very fresh when Burns put pen to paper.
Over the course of the witch trials in Scotland, an estimated 4-6 thousand people were tried for witchcraft, and over 1,500 were executed: usually strangled and then burned. The hunt for witches wasn’t limited to Scotland, of course. There were witch trials taking place all over Europe; however, I think it’s important to note that the environment in Scotland was especially zealous. Scotland saw 4x as many persecutions as most of Europe, and though Scotland had 1/4 the population of neighboring England, there were 3x the number of cases.
Some folk healers were accused of witchcraft, but most cases were just average, unlucky members of the community who were called out for “strange behavior” or simply blamed for the misfortunes of their neighbors.
Once accused, there were several methods to determine whether or not the person was a witch. Sometimes their skin would be pricked with needles to see if they were protected by the devil and unable to feel pain. In other cases, victims might be kept awake for days— a process known as “waking the witch”— to see if they would confess. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that a prolonged lack of sleep typically brings about hallucinations; and sleep deprivation as an interrogation technique is now commonly classified as a form of torture.
This happened all over Scotland, and in the capital city of Edinburgh many witches were strangled and burned near the entrance to Edinburgh’s famous castle, along the Castle Esplanade, a large open walkway that exists to this day, and separates the castle from the rest of the town.
I’m always astonished by life’s little ironies, and there’s a significant one here that I’ll share with you now.
As you may know, J. K. Rowling wrote the first Harry Potter books in the city of Edinburgh. For those who’ve been living under a rock for the past couple of decades, Harry Potter is a boy wizard, and he and his spell-casting friends study magic and battle the evil forces that always seem to be knocking at their door.
The series has been a massive, global success, and it’s brought magic into the homes of children around the world.
Rowling has gone on record to say that she did her best early writing in cafes dotted around the city, and she’s named names. One of her favorite spots is a place called The Elephant House, a homey cafe with wooden floors and homemade cakes. She spent hours writing at the little shop— preferably at a corner table— often writing longhand— creating a world where wizards and witches are celebrated and admired.
The great irony is that The Elephant house is located only a short 7 minute stroll from Castle Esplanade, the very spot where— in a different time— and a different world— her beloved characters would have been put to death for witchcraft.
****
Thank you so much for listening to this episode of Fab Figmentals.
Research, writing, and sound editing are done by me, Lindsey Morse. Our theme music was created by Graeme Ronald. Niall Cooper, the host of our sister show, Assassinations Podcast, joined us to read Tam O’Shanter. Thanks, Niall. Great job.
If you’d like to learn more about European witch trials, check our episode notes for a link to a recent video from Eventful Globe that looks at witchcraft in central Europe. The episode features the famous story of the “Flower Witch” and showcases beautiful footage of Reigersburg Castle. The creators of Eventful Globe are friends of the show, and I can’t recommend their channel enough.
Thanks again for listening, and I hope you’ll join me next time. I’m still finalizing the details for our next show, but I think I want to look at somnolites— those who have been hypnotized or entranced— though the lens of mesmerism and animal magnetism. And I think it’s time we read some Edgar Allen Poe.
We’ll see you next time.