Legend o’ The Deil’s Cradle
As telt in the Glen o’ Dollar

Auld Scots
English

Ae nicht, lang syne, on Hallowe’en, when the veil atween this warld an’ the neist grows thin, the witches frae the Ochil braes gaithered in yon deep, mirk glen abune Dollar. They cam’ skirlin’ through the trees, castin’ spells an’ cacklin’ wild, tae the auld cradle-stane whaur nae bairn e’er lay, but Auld Nick hissel’!

 

The Deil’s Cradle, they ca’d it — a stane o’ queer shape, wrought by nae man’s hand nor time’s wind, but by eldritch craft frae the days afore kirk or crown. There, as the clock o’ nicht chappit twal, the witches took their place, an in their midst lay a beast wi cloven feet, curled horns, an een that lowed like smoorin peat — the Deil!

 

Wi’ eerie chants an gruesome mirth, they rocked the cradle, to an fro, till the earth did groan an the burn bubble wi reek. The Deil, lulled by their sang, laughed lang an low, as the trees bowed doon, as gin the warld hersel tremmelt.

 

But hark! Ae year, a daft laddie, fou wi drink an daurin, boasted he’d sit the Cradle o’ the Deil on Hallowe’en. His cronies, no slaw tae the ploy, skulkit near, wi masks an din, an whiles he slept on yon fell stane, they yowlt like Hell’s ain hounds, droukit him in the burn, an dreggit him through the glaur.

 

He waukent skirlin, hauf-mad, an fled doon the glen, ne’er touchin dram nor cradle again. Some say he gaed grey ere his hair had grown. Ithirs say the Deil himsel’ had seen him, an left his mark still.

 

Mind ye, freend, gin ye daunder yon glen atween the gloamin an the mirk, bide nae lang by yon cradle. For the Deil’s still rocked at Samhain’s turn — an he keeps mind o wha daurs wake him.

Long ago, on Halloween night—when the veil between this world and the next is at its thinnest—the witches from the Ochil Hills would gather in a dark glen above the town of Dollar. They came shrieking through the trees, casting spells and cackling wildly, to an ancient cradle-shaped rock where no human child had ever lain—only the Devil himself.

 

They called it the Deil’s Cradle. It was a strange stone, worn not by weather or time, but by some dark magic older than church or crown. And there, at the stroke of midnight, the witches would take their places. In their midst lay a creature with hooves and horns, eyes glowing like embers in the dark—the Devil.

 

With eerie songs and wild laughter, they rocked the stone back and forth until the earth groaned and the burn bubbled and steamed. The Devil, soothed by their song, would laugh low and long while the very trees seemed to bend toward him.

 

One year, a bold young man, drunk and full of boasts, claimed he would sit on the Devil’s Cradle on Halloween night. His friends, eager for mischief, followed him secretly. As he slumped onto the stone in the moonlight and passed out, they crept through the glen, wearing masks and howling like demons. They hauled him into the burn, splashing and shrieking.

 

He woke in terror and ran home, white as a ghost and swearing never again to drink or tempt fate. Some say he turned grey before his time. Others say the Devil really did see him—and remembers him still.

 

So take care if you wander near that cradle on a dark October night. For the Devil is still rocked to sleep there, when the witches come calling—and he’s not fond of being woken.