Words © 1973 George MacKay Brown / music © 1966 Gordon Bok
A poem by one of Orkney's greatest folklorists and poets. Here, a fiddler takes a dare and ends up in a place he should have stayed well away from.
Gordon – 12 string guitar
"Darst thu gang b' the black furrow
This night, thee and they song?"
"Wet me mooth wi' the Lenten ale,
I'll go along."
They spied him near the black furrow
B' the glim o' the wolf star.
Slow the dance was in his feet
Dark the fiddle he bore.
There stood three men at the black furrow
And one was clad in grey.
No mortal hand had woven that claith
B' the sweet light o' day.
There stood three men at the black furrow
And one was clad in green.
They've taen the fiddler b' the hand
Where he was no more seen.
There stood three men at the black furrow
And one was clad in yellow.
They've led the fiddle through the door
Where never a bird could follow.
They've put the gowd cup in his hand,
Elfin bread on his tongue.
And there he bade a hunder years,
Him and his lawless song.
"Darst thu gang through the black furrow
On a mirk night, alone?"
"I'd rather sleep wit' Christian folk,
Under a kirkyard stone."