Corryvreckan: A hymn to the Cailleach

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The folktales of Scotland tell of the Cailleach, the old hag of winter, a powerful goddess who rules the winter and who is sometimes said to be the creator goddess of Scotland. This song tells the myth of the washing of the plaid at Corryvreckan, the Cauldron of the Plaid, a whirlpool between the islands of Jura and Scarba in the Inner Hebrides. At the turning from autumn to winter, the Cailleach goes down to Corryvreckan to wash her great plaid till it is pure white, then throws it over the peaks of Scotland, a blanket of snow.

I wrote this for a winter solstice ritual honoring the Cailleach in December 2016, and it's been a favorite of mine since; I sing it for her whenever the snow comes to my home, and throughout the winter. The Scottish Gaelic at the top of the piece names her: the Cailleach, the Shrill One, the Old One, the Wise One.

Corryvreckan
Mike Bierschenk

Chailleach Bheurra, bric horó!
Chailleach Shean, bric horó!
Chailleach Ghlic, bric horó!
Chailleach Bheurra, bric horó!

At the high point of Mull she sits gazing out
O'er the sea as her goats graze for milking.
The waters froth white with a wind from the north,
And she bares her red teeth to the gale.

Her cheeks are struck blue like the frigid North Sea
And her hair falls in one shock of white.
But her eye is as sharp as a knife at the throat
And as swift as the seafaring mackerel.

CHORUS
The tempest is come and the old Cailleach Bheur
Has anointed the wind to arise.
And the great queen of winter is washing her plaid
In the high waters at Corryvreckan.

She strides on the land and her footfalls resound
Through the hills and the lochs of the Highlands.
She gathers the cloth of all Scotland, her home,
Her fiefdom, her own true creation.

CHORUS

And the fishermen pull all their nets from the sea.
And the sailors bring ships into harbor.
And the crofters have cut down the last sheaves of corn.
And the mothers are packing the larder.
And the old Cailleach washes her plaid in the sea.
And the seawater boils for three days.
And she casts out her blanket over Scotland's high peaks.
And the plaid is full white and unbroken.

The hills are as white as the milk from her goats,
And the snow veils the land till the springtime.
For the Cailleach has come to reclaim her domain
And the mountains bow down at her coming.

CHORUS