Folk Tales and Fairy Lore/An Taillear agus Taibhse Chill-an-Iubhair, The Tailor and the Kilnure Animated Corpse,
O cheann fhada bha mòran a' creidsinn gu 'n robh cuid de na seann chladhanna le làraichean sheann eaglaisean annta air an tathaich le taibhsibh agus le bòcain gun àireamh. An déidh tuiteam na h-oidhche, bu tearc iad le 'm b'àill dol seachad air aon dhiubh, gu sònraichte ma bha e fad air falbh o ionaid-chòmhnaidh nam beò, agus bu teirce na sin iad aig an robh de an-dànachd gu 'n rachadh iad a stigh do'n àite mhi-chneasda ré uair shàmhach a' mheadhoin-oidhche. Gidheadh thairgeadh còrr fhear neo-sgàthach an dearbhadh so a thoirt seachad air a mhisnich. A dheanamh an dearbhaidh cinnteach, bha claigeann duine air fhàgail am fròigean taobh a stigh do làraich na seann eaglaise, agus cho luath 's a bhuaileadh dà uair dheug a dh' oidhche, rachadh e stigh do'n làraich 'na aonar, agus bheireadh e air ais leis an claigeann do dh' àite far an robh a chompanaich a' feitheamh r'a theachd.
Long ago, many people believed that burying places with the ruins of an ancient church standing within them were frequented by ghosts and bogles innumerable. After nightfall few people cared to pass one of these abodes of the dead, especially if it stood far away from the dwellings of the living, and fewer still had the foolhardiness to enter the uncanny place during the silent hour of midnight. And yet some bold fellow now and again would offer to furnish this infallible proof of his daring! To make the proof certain a human skull was left in a crevice inside the old, ruined church, and, as soon as twelve o'clock at night struck, he would enter the church alone and bring back the skull to a place where his companions awaited his coming.
Bha, uair-eigin, Tàillear a chòmhnaidh air baile Fhionnchuirn làimh ri taobh deas Loch Obha; agus air dha àicheadh gu'n robh taibhsean idir ann, thug a choimhearsnaich dùbhlan da a dhearbhadh dhoibh gu'n robh e n da-rìreadh le dol mu mharbh mheadhon-oidhche do chladh Chill-an-iubhair, agus an claigeann a bha 'n uinneig na seann eaglais' a tha 'tabhairt 'ainme do 'n àite, a thoirt air ais leis. Fhreagair an Tàillear gu'n d'thugadh e dhoibh dearbhadh 'bu fàidire eadhon na sin le paidhir-thriubhais 'fhuaigheal anns an eaglais eadar àm dhol a laidhe agus gairm-choileach air an oidhche sin féin. Ghabh iad e air 'fhacal; agus cho luath 's a thàinig deich uairean a dh' oidhche, chaidh e stigh do'n eaglais, shuidh e air lic-lighe a bha 'na laighe air ceithir puist, agus an déidh dha coinneal laiste a chur làimh ris, thòisich e air 'obair chianail, fhadalaich. Chaidh a' cheud uair seachad sàmhach gu leòir, am feadh bha e 'fuaigheal, agus a' cumail suas a mhisnich a' seinn agus a' feadlaich nam port 'bu shunndaiche a b' urrainn e a chuimhneachadh. Chaidh an dà uair dheug mar an ceudna seachad, gidheadh cha'n fhaca 's cha chual' e ni air bith a chuir an sgath bu lugha air.
A tailor once, living on the farm of Fincharn, near the south end of Loch Awe, having denied the existence of ghosts, was challenged by his neighbours to prove his sincerity by going at the dead hour of midnight to the burying place of Kilnure and bringing back with him the skull lying in the window of the old church that gives its name to the place. The tailor replied that he would give them a stronger proof even than that, by sewing a pair of trews in the church between bed-time and cock-crow that very night. They took him at his word, and, as soon as ten o'clock came, the tailor entered the old church, seated himself on a flat grave-stone resting on four pillars, and, after placing a lighted candle beside him, he began his dreary, tedious task. The first hour passed quietly enough while he was sewing away and keeping up his heart singing and whistling the cheeriest airs he could think of. Twelve o'clock also passed, and yet he neither saw nor heard anything to alarm him in the least.
Ach uair-eigin an déidh sin chual' e fuaim a' teachd o lic-lighe a bha eadar e 's an dorus; agus air dha fiar-shùil a thoirt 'na rathad bha leis gu 'm fac' e 'n talamh fuipe 'g éirigh 's a' tuiteam. Chuir an sealladh air tùs ioghnadh air, ach an ùine ghoirid smuaintich e gu 'm b' e 'n ni a b' aobhar dha so solus neo-shocrach na coinnle 's an dorchadas. Le sin, an déidh dha crathadh a thoirt air a ghuailnibh, thionndaidh e rithist r'a obair, agus chum e air fuaigheal agus air seinn cho sunndach 's a bha e riamh.
But sometime after twelve he heard a noise coming from a gravestone which was between him and the door, and, on casting a side-look in its direction, he thought he saw the earth heave under it. The sight at first made him wonder, but he soon came to the conclusion that it was caused by the unsteady light of the candle in the dark. So, with a hitch and a shrug, he returned to his work and sewed and sang away as cheerily as ever.
Goirid an déidh sin thubhairt guth fròmhaidh, a thàinig a mach o'n chloich cheudna: "Sud a' chròg mhór liath, 's i gun bhiadh, a Thàilleir." Ach fhreagair an Tàillear: "Chì mi sin, agus fuaighidh mi so"; agus thòisich e air seinn agus air fuaigheal, mar bha e roimhe.
Soon after this a hollow voice, coming from under the same stone, said: "See the great, mouldy hand, and it so hungry looking, tailor." But the tailor replied: "I see that, and I will sew this," and then he sang and sewed away as before.
An ceann tacain eile thubhairt an guth fròmhaidh ceudna le fuaim na b'àirde. "Sud an ceann mór, liath, is e gun bhiadh, a Thàilleir." Ach fhreagair an Tàillear a rithist: "Chì mi sin, agus fuaighidh mi so"; agus dh' fhuaigh e na bu luaithe, agus sheinn e na b' àirde na rinn e riamh.
After another while the same hollow voice said, in a louder tone: "See the great, mouldy skull, and it so hungry looking, tailor." But the tailor again answered: "I see that, and I will sew this," and he sewed faster and sang louder than ever.
An treas uair labhair an guth agus thubhairt e le fuaim a b' àirde agus a bu neo-shaoghalta na rinn e fhathast: "Sud an slinnein mór, liath, 's e gun bhiadh, a Thàilleir." Ach fhreagair an Tàillear mar bu ghnàth leis: "Chì mi sin, agus fuaighidh mi so," agus chluich e 'n t-snàthad na bu luaithe, agus tharraing e na greimeannan na b' fhaide.
A third time the voice spake, and said in a louder and more unearthly tone: "See the great, mouldy shoulder, and it so hungry looking, tailor." But the tailor replied as usual: "I see that, and I will sew this," and he plied the needle quicker and lengthend his stitches.
Chaidh an obair so air a h-aghaidh fad ùine, an duine marbh a' leigeadh ris an ath uair a shléisde, agus, mu dheireadh, a choise. An sin thubhairt e le guth uamhasach: "Sud a' chas mhór, liath, 's i gun bhiadh, a Thàilleir." Aon uair eile fhreagair an Tàillear gu misneachail: "Chì mi sin, agus fuaighidh mi so." Ach bha fios aige gu 'n d’thàinig an t-àm dha teicheadh. Le sin chrìochnaich e 'obair le dithis no tri de ghreimeannan fada, agus snaim chruaidh air an ceann, shéid e as a' choinneal, agus leum e mach an dorus, an duine marbh 'ga leantuinn agus a' bualadh buille, a thàirneadh air-san, air peirceall an doruis far an d' fhàgadh fad iomadh latha aile a làimh agus a mheòir.
This went on for some time, the dead man showing next his haunch and finally his foot. Then he said in a fearful voice: "See the great, mouldy foot, and it so hungry looking, tailor." Once more the tailor bravely answered: "I see that, and I will sew this." But he knew that the time for him to fly had come. So, with two or three long stitches and a hard knot at the end, he finished his task, blew out the candle, and ran out at the door, the dead man following him, and striking a blow aimed at him against one of the jambs, which long bore the impression of a hand and fingers.
Gu fortanach thòisich a nis coilich Fhionnchuirn air glaodhaich, agus an sin thuit am marbh air ais d'a uaigh, agus phill an Tàillear dhachaidh gu caithreamach.
Fortunately the cocks of Fincharn now began to crow, the dead man returned to his grave, and the tailor went home triumphant.