The Piper's Porridge
by: Blackhall, Sheena
A lang time ago, in a wee, wee village in the Heilans, a piper made himsel a fine big plate o porridge. Efter it wis made, he laid it doon in a bowl on tap o the heather tae cweel, an set aff tae shakk the cobwebs ooto his
Alang cam the capercailie, spreadin oot his tail like a fan. An he wis an affa hungry capercaillie, fair ravenous, bit he wis feart tae eat the porridge withoot speirin fa it belanged tae. Sae he settled doon tae wait, tae see fa wid come tae claim it.
In a meenit or twa, the brock cam snufflin by ‘Is it your porridge?’ speired the Capercaillie. ‘No it’s nae,’ said the brock. ‘I jist like cornflakes.’
In a meenit or twa, the deer cam stridin by. ‘Is it your porridge?’ speired the Capercaillie ‘No it’s nae,’ said the deer. ‘I jist like Muesli.’
In a meenit or twa, the moch flew by. ‘Is it your porridge?’ speired the Capercaillie ‘No it’s nae,’ said the moch. ‘I jist like yoghurt.’
In a meenit or twa, the rubbit lowped by.
'Is it your porridge?’ speired the Capercaillie
'No it's nae,' said the rubbit. 'I jist like toast.'
Efter that naebody cam alang. The anely soun in the warld wis the Capercaillie's wyme rummlin.
'I dinna care fas porridge it is,' sdaid the Capercaillie. An he snapped it up, ilkie last drap.
Nae suner hid he feenished the porridge than the piper cam back wi the bagpipes aneth his airm.
'Gin ye steal the piper's meal
The piper's anger ye will feel.'
An the piper played an magic tune an he daunced a magic daunce an he thocht a magic thocht an he daunced awa up the Ben as licht's a flea.
Aathing wis fine till the meen cam oot an the Capercaillie sleepit. An then the piper lowsed his sporran an gied tae the brummil bush, an he gaithered aa its thorns an drapped them in. Syne he creepit up tae the side o the Capercaillie an dusted his heid wi moose-wabs tae makk him dream, an fin he wis snorin an dreamin, dreamin an snorin, the piper lifted up the Capercaillie's feathers ane efter anither an stitched a thorn aneth them aa.
Noo fin mornin come, an the Capercaillie waukened, he wis scratty an jobby an prickly an he daunced up an doon wi rage.
An the brock telt him
An the deer telt him
An the moch telt him
That the piper hid pitten a spell on him, fur ettin his porridge.
An thon is foo if ye ging tae the Heilans ye maun bide awa frae the Capercaillie, fur ye will pit him in mind o the piper fa made him scratty an he will chase ye ower the knowes an nip yer dowp.