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Episode 9

30 minutes
First broadcast:
Sunday 25 October 2009

With Charlie Gillen. Jacqui Reed tells the gruesome Legend of Stumpie's Brae, a ghostly tale from east Donegal. Plus more poems and songs for Halloween.


    With Halloween near haun, Charlie Gillen opens the Kist to find Jacqui Reed telling the gruesome Legend of Stumpie’s Brae, a ghostly tale from east Donegal.

    Charlie himself relates Pat McCarty’s poem, Johnnie Cambell’s Hallaeen, a tale of wicked fairy folk, and a lucky escape.

    A version of the poignant and haunting poem Halloween, by Violet Jacob, is amongst the music on this week’s show, and there’s news of seasonal events around and about.

  • Jacqui Reed

    Jacqui Reed

  • Stumpie's Brae

    Stumpie's Brae

    This photograph of Stumpie's Brae is taken from the hill overlooking the brae. You can see the road in the centre of the picture, winding up by some trees.

  • Charlie Gillen

    Charlie Gillen

  • Alistair Moran

    Alistair Moran

  • Ruth Turkington

    Ruth Turkington

  • 'HALLOWEEN' by Violet Jacob

    The tattie-liftin's nearly through,
    They're plooin whaur the barley grew
    And efter dark roond ilka stack
    You'll hear the horsemen stand and crack -
    O Lachlan, but I mind on you.

    I mind too, aften we hae seen
    Ten thoosand stars keek doon atween
    The naked branches, and below
    Baith fairm and bothy hae their show,
    A-low wi lichts o Halloween.

    There's bairns wi guizers at their tail
    Clourin the doors wi runts o kail
    And aye you'll hear the screechs an skirls
    O lassies wi their drookit curls
    Bobbin fer epples i the pail.

    The bothy fire is loupin het,
    A new heid-horseman's kist is set
    Richt o'er the lum, whaur by the bleeze,
    The auld yin stood that kept yer claes;
    I cannae thole tae see it yet.

    An gin the auld folks' tales are richt,
    An ghaists cam hame on Hallow’s nicht,
    Oh freend o freends what would I gie
    Tae feel ye rax yer hand tae me
    Atween the dark an cannle licht?

    Awa in France, across the wave,
    The wee lichts burn on ilka grave,
    An you an me their lowe hae seen;
    Ye'll maybe get yer Halloween
    Yont whaur you're lyin wi the lave.

    There's drink an daffin, sang an dance
    An ploys an kisses get their chance,
    But Lachlan, man, the place I see
    Is whaur yer auld kist used tae be
    An the lichts o Halloween in France.

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