2022.01.04.
Yule Lads Poem
I wish to tell a taleabout those old lads,
who came here in times before
to our farm homes.
They were seen up in the fells,
— as many do know —
all lined up in one trail
down to the homes below.
Grýla, she was their mother,
she gave them giant’s milk,
but father Leppalúði
was of lamentable ilk.
The Yule Lads as they were named,
— at Yuletide they were due —
and one by one did they come,
but never two by two.
There were thirteen
of these gentlemen,
and they wished not to peeve
all folk at once
So into the door they snuck
and took apart the lock.
And most of all they searched all through
the pantry and kitchen.
With cunning smiles and sneers
they would hide here and there,
prepared with all of their tricks
when people weren’t near.
And still should they be seen,
they were wont to come
to tease people — and disturb
the peace of their home.
Sheep-cote Clod came first,
built firm as a tree.
Into the sheepfold he would sneak
to play with the farmer's sheep.
He meant to suck the ewes' milk,
— which they liked not at all,
for the wretch had feet stiff like wood
— well, this did not go well.
Gully Gawk was the next,
with his grey old head.
He snuck down from the gorge
and in the barn he leapt.
He hid himself in the stables
as he stole the froth,
while the friendly milkmaiden
chatted with the farmhand.
Stubby was named the third,
stumpy he was.
He snatched himself a cooking pan
whenever he could.
He ran away then with his prize
and collected the bits
which sometimes burned and stuck to
the bottom here and there.
The fourth lad came, Spoon Licker,
thin was he in shape.
He became mischievous
when the cook was not around.
And like lightning he then leapt,
grasping the stirring spoon,
He held it with both his hands
for sometimes it would slip.
Then fifth came the Pot Scraper,
a silly lad he was.
When children were given pieces,
he came to tap the door.
The children rushed to see themselves
if truly they had a guest.
Then he’d hurry over to the pot
and have himself a fest.
Then came Bowl Licker, the sixth,
of startlingly poor ilk.
From underneath the bed frame
he stuck his ugly head.
When the people would set down their bowls
for the cat and dog,
he sprang out to grab them
and lick them clean he would.
Seventh was the lad Door Slammer,
— quite obscene he was.
If people wished at twilight
to catch themselves a rest.
But he was not especially
downtrodden that night
if he could roughly bang on
doors and hear them thud.
Skyr Gobbler, the eighth one,
frightfully dim lad,
He’d knock upon the skyr tub
with his fist ‘til it broke.
He gobbled it by himself
gaping his mouth with food,
until he felt so full
he had to moan and howl.
The ninth was Sausage Swiper,
shifty and clever,
He climbed upon the rafters
and pilfered from there.
On a wood beam he sat
masked in soot and smoke,
and stuffed himself with sausage
without any care.
The tenth lad was Window Peeper,
odd little man,
Who snuck up to the window
And looked in through it.
If something did lie therein
and caught his sly eye,
most often later
to swipe it he would try.
Eleventh was the Door Sniffer,
— never had a cold,
yet he had such a funny
and oversized nose.
He caught scent of bread loaf
there upon the hills,
and smooth like a smoke cloud to
the sweet scent he ran.
Then Meat Hook, the twelfth one,
knew many different tunes,
He frolicked in the countryside
on mass of Thorlak's Day1.
He snatched himself a small bite,
when the coast was clear.
But sometimes it was too short,
that one hook of his.
Thirteenth was the Candle Beggar,
-- it was cold that night,
if he was not the last of them
on that Christmas eve.
He trailed behind the children,
who smiled happy and glad,
and ran about the farmland
with their tallow lights 2.
Then on Christmas night itself
-- so goes the story --
the lads, they all sat about
and stared at all the lights.
Then away they scampered,
through all the frost and snow.
On the thirteenth day, the last one
of the lads would go.
Long since in the mountainlands
have all their tracks faded.
But the memories have turned
into art and song.