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 Kötlum English translation by Hallberg Hallmundsson

Let me tell the story of the lads of few charms, who once upon a time used to visit our farms.

Thirteen altogether, these gents in their prime didn´t want to irk people all at one time.

They came from the mountains, as many of you know, in a long single file to the farmsteads below.

Creeping up, all stealth, they unlocked the door. The kitchen and the pantry they 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 pranks when 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 – disturbing the peace of the home.

The first of them was Sheep-Cote Clod.

He came stiff as wood, to pray upon the farmer´s sheep as far as he could.

He wished to suck the ewes, but it was no accident he couldn´t; he had stiff knees – not to convenient.

The second was Gully Gawk, gray his head and mien. He snuck into the cow barn from his craggy ravine.

Hiding in the stalls, he would steal the milk, while the milkmaid gave the cowherd a meaningful smile.

Stubby was the third called, a stunted little man, who watched for every chance to whisk off a pan.

And scurrying away with it, he scraped off the bits that stuck to the bottom and brims – his favorites.

The fourth was Spoon Licker; like spindle he was thin. He felt himself in clover when the cook wasn´t in.

Then stepping up, he grappled the stirring spoon with glee, holding it with both hands for 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 see if there really was a guest. Then he hurried to the pot and had a scrapingfest.

Bowl Licker, the sixth one, was shockingly ill bred. From underneath the bedsteads he stuck his ugly head.

And when the bowls were left to 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 twilight would take a little nap,

he was happy as a lark with the havoc he could wreak, slamming doors and hearing the hinges on them sqeak

Skyr Gobbler, the eighth, was an awful stupid bloke. He lambasted the skyr tub till 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 rafters and raided food from there.

Sitting on a crossbeam in soot and in smoke, he fed himself on sausage fit for gentlefolk.

The tenth was Window Peeper, a weird little twit, who stepped up to the window and stole a peek through it.

And whatever was inside to which his eye was drawn, he most likely attempted to 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 lace bread while leagues away still and ran toward it weightless as wind over dale and hill

Meat Hook, the twelfth one, his talent would display as soon as he arrived on Saint Thorlak´s Day.

He snagged himself a morsel of meet of any sort, although his hook at times was a tiny bit short.

The thirteenth was Candle Beggar – ´twas cold, I believe, if he was not the last of the lot on Christmas Eve.

He trailed after the little ones who, like happy sprites, ran about the farm with their fine tallow lights.

On Christmas night itself – so a wise man writes – the lads were all restraint and just stared at the lights.

Then one by one they trotted off into the frost and snow. On Twelfth Night the last of the lads used to go.

Their footprints in the highlands are effaced now for long, the memories have all turned to image and song