The Yule Lads

Gleðileg jól frá Saga Thing! We're back with another exciting holiday discovery for you. This time, we share a bit of backgroundy stuff about the famous Yule Lads of Icelandic tradition before premiering a brand new poem about them. This may or may not be the oldest surviving poem about the Yule Lads, though we have some suspicions about the nature of the manuscript we were working from for the translation. Either way, it's a lot of fun. Merry Christmas! If you're interested, here's the original poem (in Icelandic) by Jóhannes úr Kötlum “Jólasveinarnir” by Jóhannes úr KötlumEnglish translation by Hallberg Hallmundsson Let me tell the storyof the lads of few charms,who once upon a timeused to visit our farms. Thirteen altogether,these gents in their primedidn´t want to irk peopleall at one time. They came from the mountains,as many of you know,in a long single fileto the farmsteads below. Creeping up, all stealth,they unlocked the door.The kitchen and the pantrythey came looking for. Grýla was their mother –she gave them ogre milk –and the father Leppalúdi;a loathsome ilk. They hid where they could, with a cunning look or sneer,ready with their prankswhen people weren´t near. They were called the Yuletide lads– at Yuletide they were due –and always came one by one,not ever two by two. And even when they were seen,they weren´t loath to roam and play their tricks – disturbingthe peace of the home. The first of them was Sheep-Cote Clod. He came stiff as wood,to pray upon the farmer´ssheep as far as he could. He wished to suck the ewes,but it was no accidenthe couldn´t; he had stiff knees –not to convenient. The second was Gully Gawk,gray his head and mien.He snuck into the cow barnfrom his craggy ravine. Hiding in the stalls,he would steal the milk,while the milkmaid gave the cowherda meaningful smile. Stubby was the third called,a stunted little man,who watched for every chanceto whisk off a pan. And scurrying away with it,he scraped off the bitsthat stuck to the bottomand brims – his favorites. The fourth was Spoon Licker;like spindle he was thin.He felt himself in cloverwhen the cook wasn´t in. Then stepping up, he grappledthe stirring spoon with glee,holding it with both handsfor it was slippery. Pot Scraper, the fifth one,was a funny sort of chap.When kids were given scrapings,he´d come to the door and tap. And they would rush to seeif there really was a guest.Then he hurried to the potand had a scrapingfest. Bowl Licker, the sixth one,was shockingly ill bred.From underneath the bedsteadshe stuck his ugly head. And when the bowls were leftto be licked by dog or cat,he snatched them for himself –he was sure good at that! The seventh was Door Slammer,a sorry, vulgar chap:When people in the twilightwould take a little nap, he was happy as a larkwith the havoc he could wreak,slamming doors and hearingthe hinges on them sqeak Skyr Gobbler, the eighth,was an awful stupid bloke.He lambasted the skyr tubtill the lid on it broke. Then he stood there gobbling– his greed was well known –until, about to burst,he would bleat, howl and groan. The ninth was Sausage Swiper, a shifty pilferer.He climbed up to the raftersand raided food from there. Sitting on a crossbeamin soot and in smoke,he fed himselfon sausage fit for gentlefolk. The tenth was Window Peeper,a weird little twit,who stepped up to the windowand stole a peek through it. And whatever was insideto which his eye was drawn,he most likely attemptedto take later on. Eleventh was Door Sniffer,a doltish lad and gross.He never got a cold,yet had a huge, sensitive nose. He caught the scent of lacebread while leagues away stilland ran toward it weightlessas wind over dale and hill Meat Hook, the twelfth one,his talent would displayas soon as he arrivedon Saint Thorlak´s Day. He snagged himself a morselof meet of any sort,although his hook at timeswas a tiny bit short. The thirteenth was Candle Beggar –´twas cold, I believe,if he was not the lastof the lot on Christmas Eve.