(8–8–8–8 singing rhythm, + 6 phased refrains) to the tune of The Great Silkie of Sule Skerry

About the Ballad
This Shetland-inspired ballad is set during the “Seven Ill Years” and the smallpox outbreak in the Northern Isles — years remembered for harvest failure, food shortages, harsh winters, and the scourge of disease. It reflects the resilience of the crofting communities who endured these trials.

Amidst these hardships, the folklore of the Shetland Isles tells of the Wullver: a fae spirit, a creature with a head of a wolf and the body of a man. Known for fishing the lochs and leaving food on the windowsills of the hungry, his tales often end with him fading back into the mist. But the version sung here diverges from the familiar telling.

He meets a crofter’s daughter, Aileana, whose courage and compassion bridge the divide between mortal and fae. Their meeting, love, and loss are woven here in the old Scottish ballad style, meant for the voice and the memory.

Prologue

The wind skirls through the heather red,
it carries names near lost tae fade.
A tale o’ beast an’ lass it fed,
wi’ love nae blade could e’er degrade.
O’er tide the Wullver bides.

They say he walks the loch at nicht,
whar nae man daurs tae strike a flame,
a Wullver, aye, misjudged by sicht,
kent only tae the few by name.
O’er tide the Wullver bides.

I

Where sea-cliffs bite the lift sae black,
an’ mirrie lichts burn cauld an’ pale,
a Wullver roves wi’ wolven back,
an’ love that turns tae tale.
O’er tide the Wullver bides.

His hame a howe hid deep by fern,
wi’ stane an’ drift, wi’ salt-sea air,
few cross his path an’ fewer return,
for few will linger there.
O’er tide the Wullver bides.

He fished by nicht, he watched by day,
a ghaist in grey wi’ amber een,
he roamed the hills o’ brume an’ brae,
half-seen, aye never seen.
O’er tide the Wullver bides.

A muzzle broad, wi’ coat sae coarse,
yet sorrow softened every line,
his arms held strength, his tread held force,
but never crossed the line.
O’er tide the Wullver bides.

A creature shaped o’ mist and lore,
wi’ claws that ne’er had torn nor bled,
a watcher o’ the island shore,
wi’ hands that mourned the dead.
O’er tide the Wullver bides.

They say he rose when hunger cried,
in years when earth gave naught but grain,
born o’ need an’ mercy tied,
a spirit wrought by rain.
O’er tide the Wullver bides.

Nae born tae guard, nor bound by name,
but fae he is, by ancient grace,
he came tae help, tae kindle flame,
an’ guide through darkest place.
O’er tide the Wullver bides.

He heard the wail o’ bairns grown lean,
an’ left his share at door an’ sill,
wi’oot a word, wi’ soul unseen,
yet bound by heart an’ will.
O’er tide the Wullver bides.

He’d watched them pass, the weak, the worn,
the strong that broke, the bairns that wept,
he knelt beside the new-born morn,
an’ near their beds he kept.
O’er tide the Wullver bides.

Yet even beasts that walk alone
ken when the tide begins tae shift,
the air grew warm, the salt-wind shone,
as if the day had gi’en a gift.
O’er tide the Wullver bides.

II

Then down the brae she rode one day,
wi’ hair as dark as rowan bark,
her een the green the sea had made,
her pony low and stark.
O’er tide the Wullver smiles.

A crofter’s dochter, brave an’ lone,
she held her kin through hunger’s reign,
wi’ frozen earth an’ reekin’ stone,
she toiled through wind an’ rain.
O’er tide the Wullver smiles.

When rigs lay bare an’ lambs lay thin,
an’ kye starved on the lea,
she braved the surf an’ tangle-green,
a selkie in the sea.
O’er tide the Wullver smiles.

She dove where weed an’ sun met deep,
wi’ silver shoals her hands tae keep,
each net she wove wi’ kelp and line,
to feed her folk till springtime’s sign.
O’er tide the Wullver smiles.

The Wullver watched her fae the tide,
a lass that feared nae beast nor blight,
her hair streamed dark o’er shoulders bare,
sea-goddess in the light.
O’er tide the Wullver smiles.

She moved like myths the elders tell,
through sway o’ grass an’ ocean swell,
her courage called him frae his pride,
her fire warmed his night.
O’er tide the Wullver smiles.

Days turned tae nights, an’ nights tae days,
wi’ footsteps crossed on moor an’ glen,
their words like water’s weaving ways,
that find the shore again.
O’er tide the Wullver smiles.

He met her by the lochan’s rim,
she did nae flinch nor turn awa’,
she said, “If ye’ve a licht sae dim,
then I will be yer dawn.”
O’er tide the Wullver smiles.

She brought him bannocks, ale, an’ flame,
he brought her tales an’ silences,
an’ love that daurna speak its name,
yet thrived in wilderness.
O’er tide the Wullver smiles.

He told her o’ the auld dark days,
o’ faerie courts an’ selkie kin,
o’ runes that hid in island bays,
an’ wars nae man could win.
O’er tide the Wullver smiles.

“Do others like ye still remain?”
she asked as embers breathed their last,
he shook his heid wi’ wistful pain,
“Most turned awa’, or passed.”
O’er tide the Wullver smiles.

She laughed, “Then strange are we, us two,
half-myths oursel’s in flesh and bone,”
he said, “Aye lass, but what is true,
is this unknown, yet known.”
O’er tide the Wullver smiles.

III

They danced ae nicht by northern flame,
her hair like seaweed wind had caught,
he dared tae speak her given name,
his beast’s heart held the love she brought.
O’er tide the Wullver smiles.

But seasons turn wi’ sharpened teeth,
an’ joy can sink like stane in tide,
the air grew cauld, the light beneath,
an’ stormwinds wouldnae bide.
O’er tide the Wullver smiles.

For winter cam, wi’ pox and flame,
it stilled her breath, it hushed her sang,
he cried her name, he cursed his shame,
an’ wept the whole nicht lang.
O’er tide the Wullver cries.

He tried tae lift her frae her bed,
an’ take her tae the faerie shore,
but mortal weight an’ time had bled,
an’ she would walk nae more.
O’er tide the Wullver cries.

He wrapped her in the plaid she wore,
an’ laid her whar the tide meets land,
then vanished wi’ the waves’ uproar,
wi’ nowt but tremblin’ hand.
O’er tide the Wullver cries.

Yet love like hers leaves mark nae fade,
it clings like salt in seabird’s wing,
it haunts the shore whar vows were made,
an’ keeps his winter’s spring.
O’er tide the Wullver cries.

IV

Now Wullver walks whar nane daur tread,
he speaks nae word, he sings nae tune,
wi’ heart like stane, wi’ soul near dead,
beneath the cauld white moon.
O’er tide the Wullver bides.

Yet still they tell o’ lass sae free,
wi’ braid as black as storm-blown sky,
wha tamed the beast an’ let him be,
wi’ love that couldnae die.
O’er tide the Wullver bides.

So if ye ride the tide at nicht,
an’ hear the lochan’s hushin’ roll,
take tent, for ye may glimpse the licht,
o’ Wullver made full soul.
O’er tide the Wullver bides.

They ken his name in whispered breath,
wi’ reverence on peat an’ stone,
Wullver, born o’ hunger an’ death,
yet ne’er again tae walk alone.
O’er tide the Wullver bides.

Though fae he be wi’ wolven shade,
an’ she lang gone, her tale still guides,
for love was found, an’ love was made,
by cliffs, by mist, by moonlit tides.
O’er tide the Wullver bides.

Collector’s Note:
Scholars believe that singers first performed this version of the ballad in Shetland during the smallpox years of the early 1700s. Unlike other Wullver tales, which often cast him as a solitary fisherman or silent benefactor, this ballad tells of a love between the Wullver and a crofter’s daughter named Aileana. 

No other surviving version gives her name, leading some to believe the ballad began as a local telling within one family or community before passing into wider oral tradition. The refrain’s shifting verbs: bides, smiles, cries, and bides again, may mirror the arc of the Wullver’s life as remembered by the singers. While a few mainland variants soften the ending, the Shetland form keeps the bittersweet close, tying the Wullver’s grief to the unbroken memory of Aileana’s love.

[Hana Xen writes myth-inspired fiction and poetry that blend folklore, history, and the quiet magic found at the edges of the world. Her work often explores transformation, grief, and the liminal spaces where myth and memory meet.]