Nanse’s taste being like my own, we amused one another in abusing

great cities: and it is curious how soon I learned to be up to

trap--I mean in an honest way; for, when she said she was wearying

the very heart out of her to be home again to Lauder, which, she

said, was her native and the true land of Goshen, I spoke back to

her by way of answer--“Nancy my dear,” says I, “believe me that the

real land of Goshen is out at Dalkeith; and if ye’ll take up house

wi’ me, and enter into a way of doing, I daursay in a while ye’ll

come to think so too.”

What will you say there? Matters were by-and-by settled full tosh

between us; and though the means of both parties were small, we

were young, and able and willing to help one another. For two

three days, I must confess, after Nanse, and me found ourselves

in the comfortable situation of man and wife, I was a dowie and

disponding, thinking we were to have a’ numerous small family and

where work was to come from; but no sooner was my sign nailed

up, with four iron haudfasts by Johnny Hammer, painted in black

letters, on a blue ground, with a picture of a jacket on one side

and a pair of shears on the other, and my shop door opened to the

public with a wheen ready-made waistcoats, gallowses, leather-caps,

and Kilmarnock cowls, hung up at the window, than business flowed

in upon us in a perfect torrent. First one came in for his measure,

and then another; a wife came in for a pair of red worsted boots

for her bairn, but would not take them for they had not blue

fringes. A bare-headed lassie, hoping to be hansel, threw down

twopence, and asked tape at three yards a halfpenny. The minister

sent an old black coat beneath his maid’s arm, prinned up in a

towel, to get docked in the tails down into a jacket: which I trust

I did to his entire satisfaction, making it fit to a hair. The

Duke’s butler himself patronised me, by sending me a coat which was

all hair powder and pomate, to get a new neck put to it.

No wonder than we attracted customers, for our sign was the

prettiest ye ever saw, though the jacket was not just so neatly

painted, as for some sand-blind creatures not to take it for a

goose. I daresay there were fifty half-naked bairns glowring their

een out of their heads at it, from morning till night: and, after

they all were gone to their beds, both Nanse and me found ourselves

so proud of our new situation in life, that we sliped out in the

dark by ourselves, and had a prime look at it with a lantern.

MANSIE WAUCH’s FIRST AND LAST PLAY.

Mony a time and often had I heard of play-acting, and of

players making themselves kings and queens, and saying a great

many wonderful things; but I had never before an opportunity

of making myself a witness to the truth of these hearsays. So

Maister Glen, being as fu’ of nonsense, and as fain to have his

curiosity gratified, we took upon us the stout resolution to

gang our thegither, he offering to treat me, and I determined to

run the risk of Maister Wiggie, our minister’s rebuke, for the

transgression, hoping it would make na lasting impression on his

mind, being for the first and only time. Folks shouldna at a’ times

be ower scrupulous.

After paying our money at the door, never, while I live and

breathe, will I forget, what we saw and heard that night; it just

looks to me, by a’ the world, when I think on’t, like a fairy

dream. The place was crowded to the ee, Maister Glen and me having

nearly got our ribs dung in, before we fand a seat, and them behint

were obliged to mount the back benches to get a sight. Right to the

fore hand of us was a large green curtain, some five or six ells

wide, a guid deal the waur of the wear, having seen service through

two or three simmers, and just in the front of it were eight or ten

penny candles, stuck in a board fastened to the ground, to let us

see the players’ feet like, when they came on the stage, and even

before they came on the stage, for the curtain being scrimpit in

length, we saw legs and feet moving behind the scenes very neatly,

while twa blind fiddlers, they had brought with them, played the

bonniest ye ever heard. Odd, the very music was worth a sixpence of

itsell.

The place, as I said before, was choke full, just to excess, so

that ane could scarcely breathe. Indeed I never saw ony pairt

sae crowded, not even at a tent-preaching, when Mr Roarer was

giving his discourses on the building of Solomon’s Temple. We were

obligated to have the windows opened for a mouthful of fresh air,

the barn being as close as a baker’s oven, my neighbour and me

fanning our red faces with our hats to keep us cool, and, though

all were half stewed, we had the worst o’t, the toddy we had ta’en

having fomented the blood of our bodies into a perfect fever.

Just at the time that the twa blind fiddlers were playing the

Downfall of Paris, a hand-bell rang and up goes the green curtain,

being hauled to the ceiling, as I observed wi’ the tail o’ my

ee, by a birkie at the side, that had haud o’ a rope. So, on the

music stopping and all becoming as still as that you might have

heard a pin fall, in comes a decent old gentleman, at his leasure,

weil powdered, wi’ an auld-fashioned coat, and waistcoat wi’ flap

pockets, brown breeches, with buckles at the knees, and silk

stockings, with red gushets on a blue ground. I never saw a man in

sic distress; he stampit about, and better stampit about, dadding

the end of his staff on the ground, and emploring all the powers of

heaven and yearth to help him to find out his run-awa’ daughter,

that had decampit wi’ some neerdowell loon of a halfpay captain,

that keppit her in his arms frae her bed-room window, up twa pair

o’ stairs. Every father and head of a family maun hae felt for a

man in his situation, thus to be rubbit of his dear bairn, and

an only daughter too, as he tell’t us ower and ower again, as the

saut tears ran gushing down his withered face, and he aye blew

his nose on his clean callendered pocket napkin. But, ye ken, the

thing was absurd to suppose, that we should ken ony thing about

the matter, having never seen either him or his daughter between

the een afore, and no kenning them by head mark; so, though we

sympathised with him, as folks ought to do with a fellow-creature

in affliction, we thought it best to haud our tongues, to see what

might cast up better than he expected. So out he gaed stamping at

the ither side, determined, he said, to find them out, though he

should follow them to the world’s end, Johnny Groat’s House, or

something to that effect.

Hardly was his back turned, and amaist before ye could cry Jack

Robinson, in comes the birkie and the very young leddy the auld

gentleman described, arm and arm thegether, smoodging and lauching

like daft. Dog on it, it was a shameless piece of business. As

true as death, before all the crowd of folk, he pat his arm round

her waist, and caad her his sweetheart, and love, and dearie, and

darling, and every thing that is sweet. If they had been courting

in a closs thegether, on a Friday night, they couldna hae said mair

to ane anither, or gaen greater lengths. I thought sic shame to be

an eewitness to sic on-goings, that I was obliged at last to haud

up my hat afore my face and look down, though, for a’ that, the

young lad, to be sic a blackguard as his conduct showed, was weil

enough faured and had a guid coat on his back, wi’ double-gilt

buttons, and fashionable lapells, to say little o’ a very weil-made

pair of buckskins, a lettle the waur o’ the wear to be sure, but

which, if they had been cleaned, would hae looked amaist as good

as new. How they had come, we never could learn, as we neither saw

chaise nor gig; but, from his having spurs on his boots, it is mair

than likely that they had lighted at the back door of the barn frae

a horse, she riding on a pad behint him, may be with her hand round

his waist.

The faither lookit to be a rich auld bool, baith from his manner of

speaking, and the rewards he seemed to offer for the apprehension

of his daughter; but, to be sure, when so many of us were present

that had an equall right to the spulzie, it wad na be a great deal

a thousand pounds when divided, still it was worth the looking

after; so we just bidit a wee.

Things were brought to a bearing, whosoever, sooner than either

themsells, I daur say, or onybody else present seemed to hae the

least glimpse of; for just in the middle of their fine going-on,

the sound of a coming fit was heard, and the lassie taking guilt to

her, cried out, “Hide me, hide me, for the sake of gudeness, for

yonder comes my old father!”

Nae sooner said than done. In he stappit her into a closet;

and, after shutting the door on her, he sat down upon a chair,

pretending to be asleep in a moment. The auld faither came bouncing

in, and seeing the fellow as sound as a tap, he ran forrit and gaed

him sich a shake, as if he wad hae shooken him a’ sundry, which

sune made him open his een as fast as he had steekit them. After

blackguarding the chield at no allowance, cursing him up hill and

down dale, and caaing him every name but a gentleman, he haddit his

staff ower his crown, and gripping him by the cuff o’ the neck,

askit him what he had made o’ his daughter. Never since I was born

did I ever see sich brazen-faced impudence! The rascal had the

brass to say at ance, that he hadna seen word or wittens o’ his

daughter for a month, though mair than a hundred folk sitting in

his company had seen him dauting her with his arm round her jimpy

waist, not five minutes before. As a man, as a father, as an elder

of our kirk, my corruption was raised, for I aye hated leeing, as

a puir cowardly sin, and an inbreak on the ten commandments: and

I fand my neebour Mr Glen, fidgetting on the seat as weel as me;

so I thocht, that whaever spoke first wad hae the best right to be

entitled to the reward; whereupon, just as he was in the act of

rising up, I took the word out of his mouth, saying, “Dinna believe

him, auld gentleman, dinna believe him, friend; he’s telling a

parcel of lees. Never saw her for a month! It’s no worth arguing,

or caaing witnesses; just open that press door, and ye’ll see

whether I’m speaking truth or no.”

The auld man stared, and lookit dumb-foundered: and the young man,

instead of rinning forrit wi’ his double nieves to strike me, the

only thing I was feared for, began a laughing, as if I had dune

him a gude turn. But never since I had a being, did I ever witness

an uproar and noise as immediately took place. The haill house

was sae glad that the scoundrel had been exposed, that they set

up siccan a roar o’ lauchter, and thumpit away at siccan a rate

at the boards wi’ their feet, that at lang and last, wi’ pushing,

and fidgetting, and hadding their sides, down fell the place they

ca’ the gallery, a’ the folk in’t being hurled tapsy-turvy, head

foremost amang the saw-dust on the floor below; their guffawing

sune being turned to howling, ilka ane crying louder than anither

at the tap of their voices, “Murder! murder! haud off me; murder!

my ribs are in; murder! I’m killed--I’m speechless!” and ither

lamentations to that effect; so that a rush to the door took place,

in which everything was overturned--the door keeper being wheeled

away like wildfire--the furms strampit to pieces--the lights

knockit out--and the twa blind fiddlers dung head foremost ower

the stage, the bass fiddle cracking like thunder at every bruise.

Siccan tearing, and swearing, and tumbling, and squeeling, was

never witnessed in the memory of man, sin the building of Babel;

legs being likely to be broken, sides staved in, een knocked out,

and lives lost; there being only ae door, and that a sma’ ane: so

that when we had been carried off our feet that length, my wind

was fairly gane, and a sick dwam cam ower me, lights of a’ manner

of colours, red, blue, green, and orange dancing before me, that

entirely deprived me o’ common sense, till, on opening my een in

the dark, I fand mysell leaning wi’ my braid side against the wa’

on the opposite side of the close. It was some time before I mindit

what had happened; so, dreading scaith, I fand first the ae arm,

and then the ither, to see if they were broken--syne my head--and

syne baith o’ my legs; but a’, as weel as I could discover, was

skinhale and scart free. On perceiving which, my joy was without

bounds, having a great notion that I had been killed on the

spot. So I reached round my hand, very thankfully, to tak out my

pocket-napkin, to gie my brow a wipe, when lo and behold the tail

of my Sunday’s coat was fairly aff and away, dockit by the haunch

buttons.

PHILISTINE IN THE COAL-HOLE.

It was about the month of March, in the year of grace anno domini

eighteen hunder, that the haill country trummelled, like a man ill

of the interminable fiver, under the consternation of Bonapartie,

and all the French vagabonds emigrating ower, and landing in the

firth. Keep us a’! the folk, dydit bodies, pat less confidence than

became them in what our volunteer regiments were able and willing

to do; though we had a remnant amang us of the true bluid, that

with loud lauchter lauched the creatures to scorn, and I for ane,

keepit up my pluck, like a true Hielander. Does ony leeving soul

believe that Scotland could be conquered, and the like o’ us sold,

like Egyptian slaves, into captivity? Fie, fie,--I could spit on

siccan haevers. Are ye no descended, faither and son, frae Robert

Bruce and Sir William Wallace, having the bright bluid of freemen

in our veins and the Pentland hills, as weel as our ain dear hames

and firesides, to fight for? The fief that wadna gie cut-and-thrust

for his country, as lang as he had a breath to draw, or a leg to

stand on, should be tied neck and heels, without benefit o’ clergy,

and thrown ower Leith pier, to swim for his life like a mangy dog!

It was sometime in the blasty month of March, the weather being

rawish and rainy, wi’ sharp frosty nights, that left all the

window-soles white-washed ower with frost-rind in the morning,

that, as I was going out in the dark, afore lying doun in my bed,

to gie a look into the hen-house door, and lock the coal cellar,

so that I might pit the bit key intil my breek pouches, I happened

to gie a keek in, and, lo and behold, the awfu’ apparition of a

man wi’ a yellow jacket, lying sound asleep on a great lump o’

parrot-coal in a corner.

In the hurry of my terror and surprise, at seeing a man with a

yellow jacket, and a blue foraging-cap in such a situation, I was

like to drap the guid two-penny candle, and feint clean away;

but comming to mysell in a jiffy, I determined, in case it might

be a high-way rubber, to thraw about the key, and, rinning up

for the firelock, shoot him through the head instantly, if found

necessary. In turning round the key, the lock being in want of a

feather o’ oil, made a noise, and waukened the puir wretch, who

jumping to the soles of his feet in despair, cried out in a voice

that was like to break my heart, though I coudna make out ae word

of his paraphernally. It minded me, by a’ the world, of a wheen

cats fuffing and feighting through ither, and whiles something

that sounded like “Sugar, sugar, measure the cord,” and “dabble,

dabble.” It was waur than the maist outrageous Gaelic ever spoken

in the height o’ passion by a Hieland shearer.

‘Oho!’ thinks I, ‘friend, ye cannot be a Christian from your lingo,

that’s one thing poz; and I would wager tippence you’re a Frenchy.

Who kens keep us all, but ye may be Bonaparte himself in disguise,

come over in a flat-bottomed boat, to spy the nakedness of the

land. So ye may just rest content, and keep your quarters good till

the morn’s morning.’

It was a wonderful business, and enough to happen to a man, in

the course of his lifetime, to find Mounseer from Paris in his

coal-neuk, and have the enemy of his country snug under lock and

key; so, while he kept rampaging, fuffing, stamping, and diabbling

away, I went in, and brought out Benjie with a blanket rowed round

him, and my journeyman, Tommy Bodkin,--who being an orphan, I made

a kind of parlour boarder of, be sleeping on a shake-down beyond

the kitchen fire--to hold a consultation, and be witness of the

transaction.

I got my musket, and Tommy Bodkin armed himself with the goose, a

deadly weapon, whoever may get a clour with it, and Benjie took

the poker in one hand and the tongs in the other; and out we all

marched briskly, to make the Frenchman, that was locked up from the

light of day in the coal house surrender. After hearkening at the

door for a while, and finding all quiet, he gave a knock to rouse

him up, and see if we could bring anything out of him by speering

him cross-questions. Tammy and Benjie trembled from top to toe,

like aspen leaves, but fient a word could we make common sense

of it all. I wonder wha edicates thae foreign creatures? it was

in vain to follow him, for he just gab, gabbled away like ane o’

the stone-masons at the tower of Babel. At first I was completely

bamboozled, and amaist dung stupid, though I kent a word of French

which I wantit to pit till him, so I cried through, “Canna you

speak Frencha, Mounseer?”

He hadna the politeness to stop and mak answer, but just gaed on

wi’ his string of havers, without either rhyme or reason, which we

could mak neither tap, tail, nor main o’.

It was a sair trial to us a’, putting us to our wits end, and hoo

to come on was past all visible comprehension; when Tammy Bodkin

gieing his elbow a claw said, “Odd maister, I wager something that

he’s broken loose frae Pennycuick. We have him like a rotten in a

fa.” On Pennycuick being mentioned we heard the foreign crature in

the coal house groaning out, ‘och’ and ‘ohone,’ and ‘parbleu,’ and

‘Mysie Rabbie,’--that I fancy was his sweetheart at hame, sum bit

French queen that wondered he was never like to come frae the wars

and marry her. I thocht on this, for his voice was mournfu’, though

I couldna understand the words; and kenning he was a stranger in a

far land, my bowels yearned within me with compassion towards him.

I wad hae gien half-a-crown, at that blessed moment, to hae been

able to wash my hands free o’ him; but I swithered, and was like

the cuddie between the twa bundles of hay. At lang and last a

thocht struck me, which was to gie the deluded simple cratur a

chance of escape; reckoning that if he fand his way hame, he wad

see the shame and folly of feighting against us ony mair; and,

marrying Maysie Rabbie, live a contented and peacefu’ life under

his ain feg and bey tree. So, wishing him a sound sleep, I cried

through the door,--“Mounseer, gooda nighta;” decoying away Benjie

and Tammy Bodkin into the house, and dispatching them to their beds

like lamp-lighters, bidding them never, fash their thumbs, but

sleep like taps, as I would keep a sharp look-out till morning.

As soon, hoosomever, as I fand a’ things snug, I slippit awa to the

coal hole, and gien the key a canny turn in the lock, I went to my

bed beside Nanse.

At the dawn o’ day, by cock-craw, Benjie and Tammy Bodkin, keen o’

the ploy, were up and astir as anxious as if their life depended on

it, to see that all was safe and snug, and that the prisoner hadna

shot the lock. They agreed to march sentry over him, half an hour

the piece, time about, the ane stretching himsell out on a stool

beside the kitchen fire, by way of a bench in the guard-house,

while the other gaed to and fro like the ticker of a clock.

The back window being up a jink, I heard the twa confabbing.

‘We’ll draw cuts,’ said Benjie, ‘which is to walk sentry first;

see, here’s twa straes, the langest gets the choice,’ ‘I’ve won,’

cried Tammy, ‘so gang you in a while, and if I need ye, or grow

frightened, I’ll beat leather-ty-patch wi’ my knuckles on the back

door. But we had better see first what he is about, for he may

be howking a hole through aneath the foundations; thae fiefs can

work like moudiewards.’--‘I’ll slip forrit,’ said Benjie, ‘and gie

a peep,’--‘Keep to a side,’ cried Tammy Bodkin, ‘for, dog on it,

Moosey’ll maybe hae a pistol;--and, if his birse be up, he would

think nae mair o’ shooting ye as dead as a mawkin than I would do

of taking my breakfast.’

‘I’ll rin past, and gie a knock at the door wi’ the poker to rouse

him up?’ askit Benjie.

‘Come away then,’ answered Tammie, ‘and ye’ll hear him gie a yowl,

and commence gabbling like a goose.’

As all this was going on, I rose and took a vizzy between the

chinks of the window-shutters; so, just as I got my neb to the

hole, I saw Benjie, as he flew past, give the door a drive. His

consternation, on finding it flee half open, may be easier imagined

than described, for, expecting the Frenchman to bounce out like a

roaring lion, they hurried like mad into the house, couping the

creels ower ane anither, Tammie spraining his thumb against the

back door, and Benjie’s foot going into Tammie’s coat pocket, which

it carried away with it, like a cloth sandal; what became o’ the

French vagrant is a matter o’ surmise,--nae mortal kens.

FINIS.

THE

WHOLE PROCEEDINGS

OF

JOCKY AND MAGGY’S

COURTSHIP,

WITH

THE GREAT DIVERSION THAT ENSUED AT THEIR BEDDING.

IN THREE PARTS.

[Illustration]

GLASGOW:

PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

THE

WHOLE PROCEEDINGS

OF

JOCKEY AND MAGGY’S

COURTSHIP.

PART I.

Jockey. Hey, Maggy, wiltu stay and tak kent folks hame wi’ ye the

night.

Maggy. Wiltu come awa’ then Johnnie, I fain wad be hame or the kie

come in; our mickle Riggy is sic a rummeling royte she rins aye

thro’ the byre, and sticks a’ the bits of couties; my mither isna

able to haud her up to her ain stake.

Jock. Hute, we’ll be hame in braw time woman. And how’s a’ your

folks at hame?

Mag. Indeed I canna weel tell you man; our gude-man is a’ gane wi’

the gout; my mither is very frail, my father he’s aye wandering

about, and widdling amang the beasts.

Jock. But dear, Maggy, they tell me we’re gaun to get a wedding of

thee and Andrew Merrymouth, the Laird’s young gardener.

Mag. Na, na, he maun hae a brawer lass to be his wife than the like

of me; but auld Tammy Tailtree was seeking me; my father wad a

hane me to tak him, but my mither wadna let me, there was a debate

about it, my guidame wad a sticket my mither wi’ the grape, if my

father hadna chanced to founder her wi’ the beetle.

Jock. Hech, woman, I think your father was a fool for fashing wi’

him, auld slavery dufe, he wants naething of a cow but the clutes;

your guidame may tak him hersel, twa auld tottering stumps, the

taen may sair the tither fu’ weel.

Mag. Hech, man! I wad a tane thee or ony body to hane them greed

again; my father bled my guidame’s nose, and my guidame brak my

mither’s thumb, the neighbours came rinning in, but I had the luck

to haud my father’s hands, till yence my guidame plotted him wi’

the broe that was to mak our brose.

Jock. Dear Maggy, I hae something to tell you, and ye wadna be

angry at it.

Mag. O Johnny, there’s my hand I’se no be angry at it, be what it

will.

Jock. Indeed, Maggy, the fouk of your town and the fouk of our town

says we are gaun to be married. What sayest thou?

Mag. I wish we ne’er do waur, man. O Johnny, I dream’d of you

langsyne, and I liket you aye after that.

Jock. O Maggy, Maggy, dost thou not mind since I came to your

father’s bull wi’ my mother’s cow, ye ken she wadna stand, and ye

helped me to haud her; aye after that they scorn’d me, that I wad

be married to you.

Mag. It’s very true man, it’ll be an odd thing and it be; but it’ll

na fa’ back at my door, I assure you.

Jock. Nor at mine--But my mither bade me kiss ye.

Mag. Indeed sall ye. Johnny, thou’s no want twa kisses, ane on

every side of the mouth, man.

Jock. Ha, ha, Maggy, I’ll hae a merry night of kissing you shortly.

Mag. Ay, but Johnny, you maun stay till that night come; it’s best

to keep the feast till the feast day.

Jock. Dinna be angry, Maggy, my wife to be; for I have heard my

mither say in her daffin, that fouk sud aye try gin their house

will haud their plenishing.

Mag. Ay, but Johnny, a wife is ae thing and a house anither; a man

that’s a-mind to marry a woman, he’ll no make her a whore.

Jock. ’Tis a’ true, Maggy, but fouks may do it ance or they be

married, and no hae nae ill in their minds.

Mag. Aha, Johnny, mony a ane has been beguiled wi’ ance; and do it

ance, ye may do it aye. What an ye get a bystart, and hae to suffer

for the foul act of fornication.

Jock. Ay, but my mither says, if I dinna get thee wi’ bairn, I’ll

no get thee, for ’tis the surest way of wooing.

Mag. Indeed, Johnny, I like you better nor ony lad I see; an I sall

marry you an ance my faither’s muck were out; my mither downa work

at the midden.

Jock. Ah Maggy, Maggy! I’m feared ye beguile me, and then my mither

will murder me for being so silly.

Mag. My jo, Johnny, tell your mither to provide a’ things for the

bridal and I sall marry you in three ouks after this; but we maun

gie in siller to the Precentor, a groat and a drink to the bellman,

and then the kirk wa’s maun hear o’t three Sundays or it come.

Jock. But Maggy, I’m not to mak a blind bargain wi you nor nae

body; I maun ken of your things, and you sall ken of mine.

Mag. I ken well what I was to get, and gin my mither likes the

bargain weel, she’ll mak it better; but an my father be angry at

the bargain, I darna speak of marrying.

Jock. I seena how he can be angry. I wat well I’m a gay sturdy

fallow, when I laid a bow and five pecks of beer on the Laird’s

Bawsy, and he’s as bilshy a beast as in a’ the barony.

Mag. Ay, but my mither is aye angry at ony body that evens

themselves to me, an it binna them she likes, indeed she bade me

tak ony body, if it wasna auld tottering Tammy; for his beard is

aye brown wi’ sucking tobacco, and slavers a’ the breast of his

fecket.

Jock. O Maggy take me, and I’ll tell you what I hae. First my

father left me, when he died fifty merks, twa sacks, twa pair of

sunks; the hens and the gaun gear was to be divided between me

and my mither, and if she died first, a’ her gear was to come in

among mine, and if I died before her, a’ my gear was to come back

to her again, and her to marry anither man, if she could get him.

But since ’tis happened sae, she is to gie me Brucky and the black

mare, the half of the cogs, three spoons, four pair of blankets,

and a cannas: she’s to big a twabey to her ain gavel, to be a

dwelling house to me and my wife, and I’m to get the wee byre at

the end of the raw, to haud my cow and twa couties; the half of the

barn, and a bed of the kail-yard, as lang as she leaves, and when

she dies, I’m to pay for the yerding of her honestly, and a’ the

o’ercome is to be my ain; and by that time I’ll be as rich as e’er

my father was before me.

Mag. Truly, Johnnie; I’se no sae meikle to the contrair, but an ye

hae a mind to tak’ me wi’ what I hae, tell me either now or never,

for I’se be married or lang be.

Jock. I wat weel I’m courting in earnest tell me what you hae, an

we’ll say na mair but marry ither.

Mag. I’se tell you a’ I ken of, whate’er my guidame gies ye’s get

it.

Jock. That’s right, I want nae mair, ’tis an unco thing to marry a

naked woman, and get naething but twa bare legs.

Mag. O Johnny, ye’re in the right o’t, for mony a ane is beguiled

and gets naething, but my father is to gie me forty pound Scots

that night I am married, a lade of meal, a furlot of groats: auld

Crummie is mine since she was a calf, and now she has a stirk will

tak the bill ere Belten yet; I hae twa stane of gude lint, and

three pockfu’s of tow, a gude ca’f bed, twa bousters and three

cods, with twa pair of blankets, and a covering, forby twa pair to

spin, but my mither wadna gie me creesh to them, and ye ken the

butter is dear now.

Jock. Then fareweel the night, Maggy; the best of friends maun part.

Mag. I wish you well, Johnny, but say nae mair till we be married,

and then, lad.

Hame gaed Maggy and telled her Mither.

Mag. O mither! I hae something to tell ye, but ye maunna tell my

father.

Mith. Dear Maggy and what is that?

Mag. Deed, Mither, I’m gaun to be married an the muck were out.

Mith. Dear, Maggy, and wha’st thou gaun to get, ’tis no auld bubly

Tammie?

Mag. Na, na, he’s a braw young man, and I’ll tell you, ’tis Johnny

Bell; and his mither sent him to the market just to court me ance

errand.

Mith. Deed, Maggy, ye’ll no be ill yoked wi’ him, he’s a gay well

gaun fellow, right spruce, maist like an ill-faured gentleman. Hey

gudeman, do you hear that our Maggy is gaun to be married an the

muck were a’ ance out.

Fath. Na, na, I’ll no allow that until the peats be custen and

hurled.

Mag. O father! ’tis dangerous to delay the like of that, I like him

and he likes me; ’tis best to strike the iron when ’tis het.

Fath. And wha’s she gaun to get, gudewife?

Mith. And wha think ye gudeman?

Fath. A what wat I, here and she please hersel, I’m pleased already.

Mith. Indeed she’s gaun to get Johnny Bell, as clever a little

fellow as in a’ the parony whare he bides.

Fath. A-weel, a-weel, herie, she’s yours as well as mine, gie her

to wha you please.

Mith. A-weel Maggy, I’se hae all things ready, to hae thee married

or a month.

Mag. Thanks to ye mither, mony a guid turn hae ye done me, and this

will be the best.

Hame gaed Jocky to his mither crying.

Jock. Mither! mither I made it out, her mouth is sweeter than milk;

my heart play’d a’ whilkie whaltie whan I kissed her.

Mith. Fair fa’ thee, my son, Johnny, thou’s gotten the geat o’t at

last. And whan art thou gaun to be married?

Jock. Whan I like, mither; but get the masons the morn to big me my

house, for I’ll hae a’ things in right good order.

Mith. Thou’s want for naething, my bairn, to get thee ready for

marriage.

The wooing being over and the day being set, Jockey’s mither

killed the black boul horned yeal ewe, that lost her lamb the last

year, three hens and a gule-fitted cock; to prevent the ripples,

5 pecks of maut masked in the muckle kirn, a pint of treacle, to

mak it thicker, and sweeter, and mamier for the mouth; 5 pints of

whisky, wherein was garlic and spice, for raising the wind, and

the clearing their water. The friends and good neighbours went wi’

John to the Kirk, where Maggy chanced to meet him, and was married

by the minister. The twa companies joined the gither, and came hame

in a crowd; and at every change-house they chanced to pass by,

Providence stopt their proceeding with full stoups, bottles, and

glasses, drinking their healths, wishing them joy, ten girls and

a boy. Jockey seeing so many wishing well to his health, coupt up

what he got for to augment his health, and gar him live long, which

afterwards couped him up, and proved detrimental to the same.

So hame they came to the dinner, where his mither presenting to

them a piping het haggis, made of the creesh of the black boul

horned ewe, boiled in the meikle pot, mixt with bear-meal, onions,

spice, and mint. This haggis being supt warm, the foaming swats and

spice in the liquor set John’s belly a-bizzing like a working fat;

and he playing het-fit to the fiddler, was suddenly seized with

a bocking and rebounding, which gave his dinner such a backward

ca’, that he lost a’ but the girt bits, which he scythed thro’ his

teeth. His mither cried to spence him, and bed him with the bride.

His breeks being filed, they washed both his hips and laid him in

his bed. Pale and ghostly was his face, and closed were baith his

een. Ah, cries his mither, a dismal day indeed; his bridal and his

burial may be in ae day. Some cuist water in his face, and jag’d

him wi a needle, till he began to rouse himself up, and then lisp

out some broken words. Mither, mither! cries Jockey, whar am I now?

Whar are you now, my bairn, says his mither, ye’re bedet, and I’ll

bring the bride to you. Beded, says Jockey, and is my bridal done

else? Ay is’t, said his mither, and here’s the bride come to lie

down beside you, my man. Na na, mither, says Jockey, I’ll no lie wi

an unco woman indeed, and it binna heads and thraws, the way that

I lie wi’ you, mither. O fy, John, says his mither, dinna affront

yoursel’ and me baith, tak her in o’er the bed ayont ye, and kiss

her, and clap her, and daut her till ye fa’ asleep. The bride fa’s

a-crying out, O mither! mither! was this the way my father guided

you the first night? Na, na, thy father was a man of manners, and

better mettle; poor thing, Meg, thou’s ca’d thy hogs to a bonny

market. A bonny market! says Jockey’s mither; a shame fa’ you and

her baith, he’s wordy of her though she were better nor what she

is, or e’er will be.--His friends and her friends being a mixed

multitude, some took his part, some took hers, there did a battle

begin in the clap of a hand, being a very fierce tumult, which

ended in blood; they struck so hard with stones, sticks, beetles,

and barrow trams; pigs, pots, stoups, and trenchers, were flying

like bombs and granadoes; the crook, bouls, and tangs, were all

employed as weapons of war, till down came the bed, with a great

mou of peats! So this disturbed a’ the diversion at Jockey’s

bedding, and the sky was beginning to break in the east before the

hurly-burly was over.

PART II.

Now, though all the ceremonies of Jockey and Maggy’s wedding were

ended, when they were fairly bedded before a wheen rattling unruly

witnesses, who dang down the bed aboon them; the battle still

increased, and John’s work turned out to be very wonderful, for he

made Janet, that was his mithers servant lass the last year, grew

like an elshen haft and got his ain, Maggy wi’ bairn forby. The

humsheughs were very great, until auld uncle Rabby came in to redd

them; and a sturdy auld fallow he was; he stood lively with a stiff

rumple, and by strength of his arms rave them aye sundry, flinging

the taen east and the tither wast, till they stood a’ round about

like as many for-foughten cocks and no ane durst steer anither for

him. Jockey’s mither was caed o’er a kist and brokit a’ her hip

on a round heckle, up she gat, and running to fell Maggy’s mither

with the ladle, swearing she was the mither of a’ the mischief that

happened. Uncle Rabby ran in between them, he having a muckle nose,

like a trumpet, she recklessly came o’er his lobster neb a drive

wi’ the laddle, till the blood came, ran down his old grey beard,

and hang like snuffy bubbles at it. O then he gaed wud, and looked

as waefu’ like as he had been a tod-lowrie come frae worrying

lambs, with his bloody mouth. With that he gets an auld flail and

rives awa’ the supple, then drives them a’ to the back of the door,

but yet nane wan out; then wi chirting and claping down comes the

clay hallen, and the hen bawk wi Rab Reid the fiddler, who had

crept up beside the hens, for the preservation of his fiddle.

Ben comes the bride, when she got on her coat, clappet Rabby on

the shouther, and bade him spare their lives, for there was blood

enough shed in ae night, quoth she; and that my beard can witness

quoth he. So they all came in obedience to uncle Rabby, for his

supple made their pows baith saft and sair that night; but daft

Maggy Simpson sat by the fire and picked banes a’ the time of the

battle. Indeed, quoth she, I think ye’re a’ fools, but myself, for

I came here to get a good supper, and ither folk hae gotten their

skin well paid.

By this time up got Jock, the bridegroom, that was Jockey before

he was married, but couldna get his breeks; yet wi a horse-nail he

tacked his sark-tail between his legs, that nane might see what

every body should hide; and ramplingly he cries, Settle ye, or I’ll

gar my uncle settle ye, and saften your heads wi an auld supple.

Poor Rab Reid, the fiddler, took a sudden blast; same said he was

maw-turned wi the fa’, for he bocked up a’ the barley, and then

gar’d the ale gae like a rainbow frae him, as brown as wort-brose.

The hurley-burly being ended, and naething but fair words and

shaking of hands, which was a sure sign of an agreement, they began

to cow their cutted lugs, and wash their sairs, a’ but Jockey’s

mither, who cried out. A black end to you and your wedding baith,

for I hae gotten a hunder holes dung in my arse wi’ the round

heckle teeth.

Jockey answers, A e’en haud you wi’ them then, mither, ye will e’en

be the better sair’d.

Up gets auld Rabby, and auld Sandy, the souter of Seggyhole, and

put every thing in order; they prapet up the bed wi’ a rake,

and rippling kame; the stoops being broken, they made a solid

foundation of peats, laid on the caff bed and bowsters, and Jockey

and Maggy were bedet the second time.

Jockey not being used to lie wi’ a naked woman, except heads and

thraws wi’ his mither, gets his twa hands about the bride’s neck,

and his hough out-o’er her hurdies, saying, I ne’er kist wife nor

lass naked before, and for fainness I’ll bite you, &c.

Naething mair remarkable happened till about half a year and four

oukes thereafter, when in comes Marion Mushet, rinning barefitted

and barelegged, wi’ bleart cheeks and a watery nose, cursing and

banning greeting and flyting.

(Marion enters, crying,) And whar’s John?

Mith. Indeed he’s out in the yard pouing kail runts.

Mar. A black end on him and his runts baith, for he’s ruined me and

my bairn.

Mith. Ruined you! it canna be; he never did you ill, nor said you

ill, by night nor by day, what gars you say that?

Mar. O woman! our Jenny is a rowing like a pack of woo; indeed

she’s wi’ quick bairn, and your John is the father o’t.

Mith. Our John the father o’t! haud, there’s enough said, lieing

lown? I trow our John was ne’er guilty of sic a sinfu’ action.

Daft woman, I trow it’ll be but wind, that hoves up the lasses

wame; she’ll hae drucken some sour drink, raw sowens, or rotten

milk, makes her so ill.

Mar. A wae be to him and his actions baith, he’s the father o’t,

fornicator dog that he is, he’s ruined me and my bairn; I bore her

and brought her up honestly, till she came to you: her father died,

and left me wi’ four o’ them; there wasna ane o’ them could pit on

anither’s claes, or tak a louse aff ither.

Mith. I bid you haud your tongue, and no even your bystarts to my

bairn, for he’ll ne’er tak wi’t: he, poor silly lad, he wad ne’er

look to a lass, be’s to lay her down. Fy, Maggy, cry in John and

let’s ratify’t wi’ the auld ruddoch aye, ye’re no blate to say sae.

Mar. Be angry or be well pleased, I’ll say’t in of your faces, and

I’ll call you before your betters ere lang gae.

John enters. A what want ye now! our brose ready yet?

Mith. Ay, brose! black brose indeed for thee, my bairn; here’s

Marion Mushet saying ye hae gotten her dochter wi’ bairn.

Jock. Me, mither! I never lay in a bed wi’ her dochter a’ my

days; it’ll be the young Laird’s for a saw him kiss her at the

Lammas-fair and let glaum at her nonsense.

Mith. Ay, ay, my man, Johnny, that’s the way she has gotten her

belly full of bairns; ’tis no you, nor the like of you, poor

innocent lad, that gets bastard weans; ’tis a wheen rambling

o’erfull lowns, ilka ane of them loups on anither, and gies the

like of you the wyte o’t.

Mar. Ye may say what you like about it ’tis easy to ca’ a court

whar there’s nae body to say again; but I’ll let you ken about it;

and that is what she tell’t me, and you gudewife tell’t me some o’t

yoursel’; and gin you hadna brought in Maggy wi her muckle tocher

atween the twa, your Jocky and my Jenny wad hae been man and wife

that day.

Jock. I wat weel that’s true.

Mith. Ye filthy dog that ye are, are ye gaun to confess wi a

bystards, and it no yours? Dinna I ken as well as ye do wha’s aught

it, and wha got the wean.

Jock. Aye, but mither, we may deny as we like about it, but I doubt

it will come to my door at the last.

Mith. Ye silly sumph, and senseless fellow, had ye been knuckle

deep wi’ the nasty drab, ye might hae said sae, but ye tell’t me

langsyne that ye couldna lo’e her, she was sae lazy and lown like,

besides her crooket fit and bowed legs.

Jock. Ay, but mither, do ye mind since ye sent me out to gie her

the parting kiss at the black hole of the peat-stack; she rave the

button frae my breeks, and wad gar me do’t; and could flesh and

blood refuse to do’t; I’m sure mither, I could ne’er get her wi’

bairn wi’ my breeks on.

Mith. Na, na, poor simple silly lad; the wean’s no yours, ilka ane

loups on o’ anither, and ye’ll get the wyte of a’ the bytarts that

are round about the country.

Up gets Maggy wi’ a roar, and rives her hair, and cries, O her

back! her belly! and baith her sides! The weed and gut gaes through

my flesh like lang needles, nails, or elshin irons! Wae be to the

day that e’er I saw his face. I had better married a tinkler, or

followed the sodgers, as mony an honest man’s dochter has done, and

lived a better life than I do.

Up gets Jockey, and rins over the rigs for John Rodger’s wife, auld

Katty and howdy; but or he wan back, she parted wi’ Patrick through

perfect spite, and then lay twa-fauld o’er a stood in a swoon.

Jock. A-weel, a-weel, sirs, though my first-born is e’en dead

without seeing the light of the warld, ye’s a’ get bread and cheese

to the blythe-meat, the thing we should a waured on the bauket

will sair the burial, and that will aye be some advantage; and

should Maggy die, I maun een tak Jenny, the taen is as far a length

as the tither; I’se be furnished wi’ a wife between the twa.

But Maggy grew better the next day, and was able to muck the byre;

yet there gaed sic a tittle-tattlin through the town, every auld

wife tell’d anither o’t, and a’ the light-hippet hissies that rins

between towns at e’en tugging at their tow rocks, spread it round

the kintry, and every body’s mouth was filled wi’ Jockey and Jenny

and how Maggy had parted with bairn.

At last Mess John Hill hears of the foul fact, and sends the Elder

of that quarter, and Clinkum-Bell, the grave-maker to summon Jockey

and Jenny, to the Session, and to see how the stool of repentance

wad set them. No sooner had they entered the door, but Maggy fa’s

a greeting and wringing her hands! Jockey’s mither fell a-flyting,

and he himself a-rubbing his lugs, and riving his hair, crying out,

O gin I were but half an ell higher, I sud be a sodger or it be

lang; and gie me a good flail or a corn fork, I sud kill Frenchmen

anew, before I gade to face yen flyting Ministers, and be set up

like a warld’s wonder, on their cock-stool, or black stool; and

wha can hide the shame when every body looks to them, wi’ their

sacken sarks, or gowns, on them, like a piece of auld canvas prickt

about a body, for naething but what every body does amaist or they

are married; as well as me.

Mith. My man, Johnnie, ye’re no the first that has done it, and

ye’ll no be the last; e’en mony of the ministers hae done it

themselves; hout aye, e’en your father and I did it mony a time.

Mag. Aye, aye, and that gars your son be so good o’t as he is; the

thing that’s bred in the flesh, is ill to pit out of the bane.

Mith. Daft woman, what way wad the warld stand if folks wadna

mak use of ither; ’Tis the thing that’s natural bairns getting;

therefore it’s no to be scunner’d at.

Mag. Aye, aye, but an they be for the like of that, they should

marry.

Mith. But I think there’s little ill though they try it ance or

twice or they be married; ’tis an unco thing for a body to be bound

to a business or they ken whether they be able for it or no.

Mag. Aye, aye, that’s your way of doing and his, but it’s no the

way of ither honest fouk; see what the Minister will say to it.

Mith. The Minister is but a mortal man, and there’s defections in

his members as well as in mine.

Mag. Aye, but fouk should aye strive to mortify their members.

Mith. Aye, aye mortify their members that’s your Whiggery, indeed;

But will you or ony body else, wi your mortifying of your members

prevent what’s to come to pass? I wish I saw the Minister and his

Elders, I’se gie them Scriptures for a’ his done yet. Tell nae me

about the mortifying of members, gin he has gotten a bystart, let

her and him feed it between them, and they gie’t soup about; but

she maun keep it the first quarter, and by that time muckle black

Lady will be cauft; we sall sell the cauf and foster the wean

on the cow’s milk; that’s better mense for a faut, than a’ your

repenting-stools; a wheen Papist rites, and rotten cerimonies,

fashing fouks wi sack gowns and buttock-mails, and I dinna ken

what. But bide ye till I see the Minister.

Now Jockey and his mither went into the little byre and held a

private meeting, nane present but auld Bruckie and the twa brutes,

the bits of couties, that she might give him counsel how to behave

when he appeared before Mess John, to answer for his bastard; which

concludes the third and last part.

PART III.

Aff he goes to the minister, and owns a’ his faut to him; and

Mess John desired him to appear before the congregation the next

Sabbath, to be rebuked for his fau’t.

Jock. Indeed, Sir, I wad think naething to stan’ a time or twa on

the black stool, to please you, if there were naebody in the kirk,

on a ouke-day, but you and the elders to flyte a wee on me; but

’tis waur on a Sunday to have a’ bodies looking and laughing at

me, as I had been codding the peas, sipping the kirn, or something

that’s no bonny, like pissing the bed.

Minist. Aweel John, never mind you these things, but come ye to the

stool it’s nothing when it’s over, we cannot say o’er muckle to you

about it.

Upon Sunday thereafter, John comes with Uncle Rabby’s auld wide

coat, a muckle grey lang-tail’d wig, and a big bonnet, which

covered his face, so that he seemed more like an old Pilgrim than a

young fornicator! mounts the creepy wi’ a stiff, stiff back, as he

had been a man of sixty! Every one looked at him, thinking he was

some old stranger, who knew not the stool of repentance by another

seat, so that he passed the first day unknown but to very few; yet,

on the second it came to be well known, that the whole parish and

many more, came to see him which caused such a confusion, that he

was absolved, and got his children baptised the next day.--But

there happened a tullie between the twa mothers’ who would have

both their names to be John. A-weel says auld John their father to

the Minister, A-deed, Sir, ye maun ca’ the tane John and the tither

Jock, and that will please baith these enemies of mankind.

Minist. Now John, you must never kiss another Woman but your own

wife; live justly, like another honest man, and you’ll come to die

well.

Jock. A black end on a me, Sir, if ever I lay an unlawfu’ leg upon

a hissy again, an’ they sud lie down to me, as lang as our Maggy

lasts; and for dying, there’s nae fear of that, or I’ll no get fair

play, if ye an’ a’ the aulder folk in the parish be not dead before

me. So I hae done wi’ ye now, fareweel Sir.

[Illustration: FINIS.]

THE

COALMAN’S COURTSHIP

TO THE

CREEL-WIFE’S DAUGHTER.

IN THREE PARTS.

I.--Containing a very curious dialogue between the Carter

and his Mother, who instructs him in the true art of

Courtship.

II.--Sawny’s Visit to his sweetheart, and what passed

betwixt them. With the curious house where Sawny got

drunk--and an account of the terrible misfortunes he met

with in consequence.

III.--Description of his second Visit to his intended

bride--what passed between them; and how Sawny was in danger

of losing his sweetheart. How her mother got all parties

pleased again: with an account of the Wedding of the happy

Couple--the whole abounding with the most laughable

occurrences.

[Illustration]

GLASGOW:

PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

THE

COALMAN’S COURTSHIP

TO THE

CREEL-WIFE’S DAUGHTER.

All that are curious of Courtship, give attention to the history of

Mary and her son Sawney, a young Coalman, who lived in the country,

a few miles from Edinburgh.

Mary, his mither, was a gay hearty wife; had mair wantonness than

wealth; was twelve years a married wife, nine years a widow, and

was very chaste in her behaviour wi’ her ain tale, for want o’

chargin’, for all the time of her widowhood there was never a man

got a kiss of her lips, nor laid a foul hand on her hind quarters.

Sawny, her son, was a stout young raw loon, full fac’d, wi flabby

cheeks, duddy breeks and a ragget doublet; gade always wi’ his

bosom bare sometimes ae garter, a lingle or strae rape was gude

enough for Sawny. His very belly was a’ sunburnt like a piper’s

bag, or the head of an auld drum, and yet his beard began to sprout

out like herring banes. He took thick brose to his breakfast, and

baps and ale through the day, and when the coals selled dear, and

the win’ was cauld, bought an oven-farl, and twa Dunbar Wadders, or

a Glasgow Magistrate, which fish-wifes ca’s a wastlin herrin’.

His mither, auld Mary, plagued him ay in the morning; she got up

when the hens keckled, riping the ribs, blew her snotterbox, primed

her nose, kindled her tobacco-pipe, and at every puff breathed

out frettings against her hard fortune and lanely single life. O

but a widow be a poor name; but I live in a wilderness in this

lang-lonen, mony a man gaes by my door, but few folks looks in to

poor Mary. Hoch hey, will I never win out of this wearied life.

Wa Sawny, man, wilt thou not rise the day; the sun’s up, and a’

the nibours round about; Willie and Charlie is on the hill an hour

syne, and half gate hame again. Wilt thou rise an gie the beasts a

bite, thou minds na them, I wat man. Grump grump, quo Sawny, they

got their supper an hour after I got mine. Shut to dead come on

them every ane an they get a bit frae me till they work for’t.

Sawny. But mither I’ve been dreaming that I was married, an’ in the

bed aboon the bride: I wonder gin it be true? Od, I ne’er got sic

fun: what will’t be, think ye? how auld am I mither? do you think

I could man a hissy yet? fegs I have a mind to try; but the saucy

hissies will na hae me, I ken weel enough.

Mither. Say you lad, ay mony a hungry heart wad be blythe o’ you,

but there was never a sca’d Jockey but there was a scabbed Jenny

till him yet: dinna be scar’d lad.

Sawny. A hech, mither, I’se no be lordly an’ I sud tak a beggar

wife aff the hi’ gate; but I’ll tell ye something that I’m ay

thinking on, but ye maun na tell the neighbours, for the chiels wad

aye jaw me wi’t.

Mither. Wad I tell o’ thee lad? I wad tell o’ mysel as soon.

Sawny. Do ye mind mither, that day I gade to the Pans I came in by

auld Mattie’s your countrywoman, the Fife wife, it cam’ out o’ the

town ye cam frae, the wife that says Be-go laddies, I gade there,

an she was unco kind, and made me fat brose out of the lee side

o’ her kail-pot: there was baith beef and paunches in’t; od they

smell’d like ony haggis, and shined a’ like a gould fac’d waiscoat:

fegs I suppit till I was like to rive o’ hem and had a rift o’

them the morn a’ day; when I came out I had a kite like a cow wi’

calf; she spiered for you, mither, and I said ye was gaily; and

she looked to me, and leuch, and gripped my shakle-bane, and said I

would be a sturdy fallow yet--I looked to her, and thought I liked

her, and thinks on’t aye since syne: she leugh, and bade me seek

out a coal driver for her, for she didna like to carry a fish creel.

Mither. Forsooth, Sawny, I’ll gie my twa lugs for a lav’rock’s egg

if she binna in love wi’ thee, and that will be a bargain.

Sawny. An upon my word mither, she’s a sturdy gimmer, well worth

the smoaking after; she has a dimple on every cheek, an haunches

like a sodjer’s lady’s hoop, they hobble when she shakes, and her

paps play nidlety nod when she gangs; I ken by her keckling she has

a conceit of me.

Mither. But Sawney man, an thou see her mither Matty in the town,

auld be-go laddie as you ca’ her, gie her a dram, she likes it

weel; spout ye a mutchkin of molash in her cheek, ye’ll get her

mind, and speed the better.

Sawny. But mither, how sud I do when I gang to court her? will I

kiss her, an kittle her and fling her o’er as the chiels do the

hisses amang the hay. I’ve seen them gang owre ither, and owre

ither, and when they grip them by the wame, they’d cry like a

maukin.

Mither. Hout awa, daft doug it thou is, that’s no the gate; thou

maun gang in wi’ braw good manners, and something manfu’, put on a

Sunday’s face, and sigh as ye were a saint, sit down beside her, as

ye were a Mess John, keek aye till her now and then wi’ a stowen

look, and haud your mouth as mim and grave as a May-puddock, or

a whore at a christening; crack well o’ our wealth, and hide our

poverty.

Sawny. Ay, but mither there is some ither way in courting nor that,

or the lassies would na couple so close to them.

Mither. Ay, but Sawny man there’s a time for every thing, and that

too; when ye sit where naebody sees you, you may tak her head in

your oxter like a creesh pig; dab nebs wi’ her now and then; but be

sure you keep a close mouth when you kiss her, clap her cheeks and

straik her paps, but for your drowning gang na farther down; but

fouks that’s married can put their hand to ony part they like.

Sawny. Aha but mither I didna ken the first word o’ courting, the

lassie’ll no ken what I’m com’d about.

Mither. Ay will she lad, wink and keek well to her, she’ll hae a

guess, seek a quiet word of her at the door, and gin it be dark,

gie her a bit wee kiss when ye hae tell’d her your errand, and gin

they gie you cheese and bread, or ony meat, be sure you ca’t guid,

whether it be sae or no; and for my blessing, be mensfu wi your

mouth, and dinna eat unca muckle, for I’ve seen you sup as mony

milk brose as would have saired twa men to carry on a barrow.

Sawney. Aha, but mither you’re lying now, for I never did it but

ance, but an they set meat afore me an I be hungry, deil claw the

clungest an I binna upsides with it for the same. Adeed mither,

fouk maun hae meat an they should neer get wives, and there some of

them no worth cursing, an a body werna setting an oath whether or

no; a hear ye that now, when ye put me till’t, and gar me speak,

ay by my sooth, I would rather hae a bit good poney and a pund of

cheese, or I were bound to bab after ony hizzies buttocks I see yet.

Mither. Wa Sawny man, thou’s a fool, an that’s a fault; gin

every ane were as easy about women as thou is, the warld wad be

a wilderness in a wee time, there wad be nae body to inhabit the

earth but brute beasts; cats and dogs wad be worrying ither, and

every thing wad gae to confusion. Gae to the courting, ye dog that

ye are, and either do something or naething at a’.

END OF PART I.

PART II.

Up got Sawney in the morning, and swallowed owre sodded meat flag

by flag; and aff he goes to the coals and the courting, lilting and

singing like a laverock in a May morning--O to be married if this

be the way.

The colliers wondered a’ to see him sae well buskit wi a pair of

wally side auld-fashioned leather breeks of his father’s, and an

auld creeshy hat, mair like a fryingpan than ony thing else; a lang

cravat like a minister or Baillie Duff at a burial, a clean face

and hands, and nae less than a gun-sleeved linen sark on him, which

made his cheeks to shine like a sherney weight, and the colliers

swore he was as braw as a horse gaun to a cow’s dredgy.

But Sawny came off wi his coals, whistling and whipping up the poor

beasts, even as outrageous as ony ram at riding time; well might

ony body see there was a storm in Sawny’s nose, light where it

like; for no sooner had he selled his coals, than he left his horse

to come hame wi a nibour callan, and gad keekin up the Cowgate, and

through the closses, seeking auld Be-go, his guid-mither to be;

then in through the fish-market, where he bought twa lang herrin,

and twa baps, a pair of suter’s auld shoon, greased black and made

new again, to make his feet feasible like, as he kend the lass

would look at them (for his mither tell’d him the women looked ay

to the mens legs or they married them, and the weel-legged loons

gade ay best aff.)

So Sawny came swaggering through a the shell wives, but she was no

there, going down the town below the guard he met auld Be-go just

in the teeth, an she cries, Hey laddie my dow, how’s your mither

honest Mary? Thank you, quo’ Sawny, she’s meat hale, aye working

some--how’s a at hame, is Kate and the laddie weel?

Matty. Fu’ weel, my dow: ye’re a braw sonsy dog grown, a wallie

fa’me gin I kend ye.

Come, come, quo’ Sawny, and I’ll gie ye a nossack to heat your

wame, it is a cauld day, and ye’re my mither’s countrywoman.

Na, fair fa’ you, Sawny, I’ll nae refus’t; a dram’s better the day

than a clap on the arse wi’ a cauld shule, sae follow me, my dow.

So awa’ she took me, quo’ Sawny, down a dark stair, to ane o’ the

houses beneath the yird, where it was mirk as in a coal heugh, and

they had a great fire. Sweet be wi me quo’ Sawny, for it minds me

of the ill part; an a muckle pot has a little cauldron, seething

kail and roasting flesh, the wife forked them out as fast us she

could into coags and caps, for there came in a wheen sutor like

fallows, with black thumbs and creeshy aprons, that cutted them all

up in a wee time, but they never fashed with us, nor we with them;

we first got a gill, and then got a het pint. A vow quoth I, Matty,

is Kate gaun to get a man yet?

Matty. A man laddie, wha wad hae her? a muckle, lazy, useless jade;

she can do naething but work at husband wark, card and spin, wash

ladies rooms, and a gentleman’s bonny things: she canna tak a creel

on her back, and apply to merchandizing as I do, to win a man’s

bread.

Sawny. I think some of the fishers and her might mak it up.

Matty. A fisher, laddie! haith the fishers wad rather hae a pickle

good bait to their hooks, and twa three bladders to their lines,

than put up wi’ the like of her, a stinking prideful jade, altho’

I bore her, ay scourin and washin at hersel, prickin and prinnin

keeps, her face ay like a Flander’s baby, and naeless than ribbons

and rings, and her shoon made of red clouts; a devil stick pride,

when our auld guidams ran barefoot, and our gutchers gade wi bare

hips. Gie her a man! ill thief stap a gouk in her arse first, that

may cry cuckow when e’er she speaks o’t; she can do naething but

scour ladies pishpots, and keep clean the tirlie-wherlies that hang

about the fire: haith she’s o’er gentle brought up to be a poor

man’s penny-worth.

Heigh how, quo’ Sawny, and ’tis e’en a great pity, for she’s

weel-far’d lusty hissie; he had a great kindness for her.

Matty. A well-a-wat she’s no lingletailed, she may be a caff bed

to a good fallow, but an thou had but seen me at her age, I was

a sturdy gimmer; there was nae a Hynd in a Dubbyside could lay a

corpen to a creel wi me, the fint a fallow in a Fife but I wad a

laid on the bread of his back, and a’ his gear uppermost, I was na

a chicken to chatter wi indeed laddie, for I had a flank like an

ox, and a pair of cheeks like a chapmans arse.

Sawny. Nae doubt but ye had a pair of beefy buttocks, for your very

cheeks hings like leather bags to this day; but I’ll tell you what

I’m gaun to tell you--do ye think that your Kate wad tak me, an I

would come to court her?

Matty. Tak you, laddie, tak you, faith she’ll tak you, for she

would tane a poor button thing of a half blind tailor, wartna me,

a poor, blind, bowly, scabbit like creature; I’ve seen the day I

wad hae carried him in my pouch. Wode I’se warrant her jump at

you, like a fish at a flee, wad I say tak you, and she winna tak

you, I’se tak you mysel, but she an I cust out the day about her

cockups and black caps, gar’d me say muckle of her; but she’s my

sonsy dawty for a that; weel-a wat she’s a weel-natured lassie, and

gin she turn an illnatured wife I canna tell.

Sawny. A well then I’ll venture on her as she is, for my mither’s

pleased; an ye’re pleased, an I’m pleased; wode I am sure to get

her, an the taylor has nae bridled her; or tane a trying trot o’

her.

Matty. But Sawny, man, I’ll tell you what we’ll do, I’ll hame and

broach her the night on’t, an come ye the morn, we’ll male it fu’

fast in a wee time, so thou’s get mair tocher than a Cramon, gammon

to gammon; she has baith blankets and sheets, a covering, and twa

cods o’ caff, a caff bed and bowster, and hear’st thou’ my laddie,

I hae a bit auld hogger, and something in’t, thou’s get it when I

die; but by my sooth it will be the last thing that I’ll part wi’,

I kenna what I may need yet--it is an auld wife that kens her ain

weird.

On this they paid their spout and parted; but when Sawny came out,

he stoited and staggered like a sturdy stot: molash was chief

commander, for Sawny thought every body had twa heads and four

een, and more noses than they needed, while in the dark house he

sometimes thought it was the morning of a new day: a hech, said he,

when was I a night frae my mither before; she’ll think I am put in

the guard, tane wi’ the deil or the doctors, or else married, and

working at the wanton trade of weans making.

Matty. Hute, daft laddie, the soup drink’s in your head, and gars

ye think sae, this day and yesterday is ae day: ye’ll be hame in

braw time yet.

Sawny. A well, a well then, good day to you, good mither; ye maun

gar Kate tak me, or thief tak you a thegither: I’ll hame and tell

the length it’s come, and if it comes nae farther, it maun e’en

stick there.

Off he goes, tacking about like a ship against the wind, as if

he would knock holes in the walls and windows wi’ his elbows; he

looked as fierce as a lion, with a red face like a trumpeter, and

his nose was like a bubbly jock’s neb, as blue as a blawart: but

or he wan half way hame his head turned heavier than his heels and

mony a filthy fa’ he got, through thick and thin he plashed, till

hame he gets at last, grunting and gaping by the wall, when auld

Mary thought it was their nibours sow, he was sae bedaubed wi dirt;

by the time she got him to bed, he was in a boiling-barrel fever,

and poor Mary grat wi grief.

Sawny. Hech, hey! but courting be a curst wark, and costly too: an

marrying be as mortifying and murdering, the deil be married for

me.

Mither. Wa Sawny, man, what’s come o’er thee now? thou hast gotten

skaith, some auld wife has witcht thee, or the deil has dung thee

o’er in some dirty midden; where hast thou been, or what hast thou

seen; thae een reel like a wild cat’s, and the sweat is hailing

o’er thy nose; thou’s witcht, thou’s witch’t, O man, what will I do.

Bock, bock, gaed Sawney; but it could na win up for bubbles and

herrin banes. Oh, quo’ he, keep me in my bed for my days will soon

be done; a curse on your courting wark, for it has killed me, and

wives are but wicked things, I ken by the same.

Mither. O dole, dole, my bairn has gotten poison, for the smell of

it is like to poison me.

Sawny. Gin herring and het ale be poison, there’ll no be mony left

alive. Bock, bock, Oh, quo, Sawney the bed’s filed!

Mither. O my bairn, thou was ay a cleanly bairn till now; thou’s

surely lost thy senses when thou files where thou lies, like the

brute beasts: thou never did the like of this before since thou

left rocking of the cradle.

PART III

Poor Sawny had a terrible night o’t, wi a sair head and a sick

heart, his eyes stood in his head, his wame, caddled like ony cow’s

milks, and puddings crocket like a wheen puddocks in a pool; his

mither rocket and wrung her hands, crying, a wae be to the wife

that brewed it, for I hae lost a weel foster’d bairn wi’ their

stinking stuff, a meikle deil ding the doup out of their caldron,

my curse come on them and their whisky-pots, it’s brunt him alive;

ay, ay, my bairn he’s gone.

But about the break of day, his wind brak like the bursting of a

bladder, O happy deliverance, cried Mary his mither; tho’ dirt

bodes luck, and foul farts file the blankets, I wish ne’er waur be

among us. The next thing that did Sawny good, was three mutchkins

of milk made into thin brose, and a pickle fine pepper in them, yet

he had a soughing in his lugs like a saw-mill, and every thing gade

round about wi’ him a’ that day; his mither gat him out of bed,

and put him in the muckle chair wi a’ pair of blankets about his

shoulders, a cod at his back, and a het brick to his soles, to gar

him trow he was nae well, and there he sat like a lying-in wife,

cracking like a Holladdie, and ate twa dead herrin’ and a crust,

telling a the outs and ins about the bridal, and when it was to be,

for he had gotten every body’s consent but the bride’s about it.

Mither. But Sawny, man, that’s the main thing; ye maun hae that too.

Sawny. Na, na, mither, I’m the main thing myself, aye she’s but a

member; the men maun aye be foremost--gang what way it will, I’se

aye be uppermost.

Mither. But Sawny man, what way is thou gaun to do? will ye make a

penny wedding; or twa or three gude neebours, a peek of meal baken,

wi a cheese and a barrel of ale; will that do?

Sawny. Na na mither, I’ll take a cheaper gate nor ony of them; I’ll

gar-a-crown and half a mutchkin, or a rake of coals do it a’, then

a body has nae mair to do but piss and tumble into bed.

Mither. Na na, my man Sawny, I hae mony a time heard thy honest

father say, that never a ane would do well that capstrided the kirk

or cuckold the minister.

Sawny. A tell nae me, mither, of the minister, they’re aye for

their ain end as well as ither fouk, and if a poor beggar body had

a bit wean to christen, the deil a bait they’ll feike him o’t.

Mither. Hute awa man, there’s na body has weans but what has siller

to pay the christening of them; or if they be that poor, they sudna

get nae weans, and they wadna be fashed syne.

Sawny. Ha ha mither, the poor fouk, like the lice, ay when they

meet they marry, and maks mae of them: and I think the ministers

might christen their bits of weans for naething, the water’s no sae

scant; they are weel paid for their preaching, they may very weel

baith marry and christen a’ the poor fouks into the bargain, by the

way of a maggs.

Mither. Ay, ay, my man Sawny, marriage is a sweet thing for young

fouk, and the bed undefiled.

Sawny. What the vengeance, mither, do ye think a body’s to file the

bed every night because they did it ance.

Mither. Na, na that’s no what I mean; it is the happiness that fouk

hae that’s married, beside the lonesome life that I hae, lying

tumbling and gaunting in a bed my lane: O sirs, but a man in bed be

a useful body, an it were but to claw anes back, as for a body’s

foreside they can claw it themselves.

Sawny. Ah mither, mither, ye hae fun a string again; I think ye

might a wanted all your days, when ye hae wanted sae lang: ye hae

plenty of baith milk and meal, snuff and tobacco; but ye smell at

the crack of a whip, I kend my mither wad ride yet, for I’ve seen

her fit waggan this lang time.

Mither. A dear Sawny man, an thou were ance fairly aff the fodder,

I’ll be cast into a hole of a house by mysel, where I’ll just lye

and break my heart, and weary myself to death; but an I could get

a bit honest weaver, a cobbler, or some auld tailor by the tail, I

would tackle to him yet, let the country clash as they please about

it.

Sawny. A well, a well mither, tak your ain flight, there’s nae fool

like an auld fool; for the morn I’ll be aff or on wi’ the hissie I

hae in hand.

So on the morrow Sawny got all his claes cleaned, his hair camed

and greased with butter, and his face as clean as if the cat had

licked it, and away he goes singing.

I will buy a pound of woo’,

I will wash’t and mak a plaidy,

I’m gaun ower the muir to woo’,

Carlin, is your daughter ready.

Now poor Sawny, although he sang, he was as pale as a ghost from

the grave; his face was whitely white, like a weel bleached

dishclout, and he looked as if he had been eaten and spued again;

but at length he came to the bride’s door, and in he goes with a

brattle, crying, how’s all here the day? and what’s comed of thy

mither lassie? O Saunders, quo the bride she’s awa to the town:

what came of ye yesterday, she waited on you the whole day, ye

gart her lose a day’s trade lad, and she is awa this morning

cursing like a heathen, and swearing Be-go that ye hae gien her the

begunk.

Sawny. A dole woman, I took a sudden blast in the hame gaun and was

never sae near dead in my life.

And wha think you was in company wi Kate the bride, but the wee

button of a tailor, who sat and sewed on a table, cocking like a

t--d on a trencher; but when he kent wha was come, he leaped down

on the floor, coost a dash of pride like a little bit prince,

bobbet about, and so out he goes, with the tear in his eye, and his

tail between his feet, like a half worried dog.

Sawny. Now, Katie, do ye ken what I’m comed about?

Kate. O yes, my mither tell’d me: but I’m no ready yet, I hae twa

gowns to spin and things to make.

Sawny. Hute, things to make, ye hae as mony things as ye’ll need,

woman; canna ye spin gowns in your ain house wi me, as weel as

here, wi an auld girning mither?

Kate. But dear Saunders, ye maun gie a body time to think

on’t--’twad be ill-far’d to rush the gither just at the first.

Sawny. And do ye think I hae naething ado but come here every

ither day hoiting after you, it will no do! I maun be either aff or

on wi’ you, either tak me or tell me, for I ken of ither twa, and

some of you I’ll hae, for as I’m a sinner, my mither is gaun to be

married too, an she can get ony bit man of ony shape or trade.

Kate. Indeed, then, Saunders, since you’re in such haste, ye maun

e’en tak them that’s readiest, for I’m no ready yet.

Sawny. Dear woman, when your mither and my mither’s pleased, and I

am willing to venture on ye, what a sorrow ails you?

Kate. Na, na, I’ll think on’t twa or three days; its o’er lang a

term to see without a thought.

Sawny. Wode I think ye’re a camstrerie piece of stuff; it’s true

enough what your mither said of ye, that ye’re no for a poor man.

Kate. And what mair said she of me?

Sawny. Wode, she said ye could do naething but wash mugs, and scour

gentleman’s bonny things, but hissies that is bred amang gentle

houses, minds me of my mither’s cat; but ye’re far costlier to

keep, for the cat wastes neither sape nor water, but spits in her

loof, and washes her ain face, and wheens of you can do nae ither

thing; and up he gets.

Kate. O Saunders, but ye be short, can ye no stay till my mither

come hame?

Sawny. I’ve staid lang enough for ony thing I’m to be the better;

and I’m nae sae short as your totum of a tailor, that I could stap

in my shoe, sae could I e’en.

Hame he goes in a passion, and to his bed he ran, crying, O death!

death! I thought the jade wad a jumped at me: no comfort nor

happiness mair for me. O mither, gae bake my burial bread, for I’ll

die this night, or soon the morn. But early next morning in comes

auld Be-go his guid mither, wha had left her daughter in tears

for slighting of Sawny, and hauls him and his mither awa’ to get

a dinner of dead fish; where a’ was agreed upon, and the wedding

to be upon Wednesday, no bridal fouks but the twa mithers, and

themselves twa.

So according to appointment, they met at Edinburgh, where Sawny

got the cheap priest, who gave them twa three words, and twa three

lines, took their penny and a guid drink, wished them joy, and gade

his wa’s. Now, said auld Be-go, if that be your minister, he’s but

a drunken b--h, mony a ane drinks up a’, but he leaves naething;

he’s got the penny for diel a hate, ye might cracket lufes on’t,

tane ane anither’s word, a kiss and a hoddle at a hillock side,

and been as weel, if no better: I hae seen some honest man say

mair o’er their brose nor what he said a’ the gither; but an ye

be pleased, I’m pleased; about in the bed ends a’, and makes sure

wark--so here’s to you, and joy to the bargain--its ended now, well

I wat.

ANECDOTE.

LEWIS XI. although an unprincipled Prince, (of whom it was

remarkable, that he did not scruple to perjure himself, except when

he swore by the leaden Image of the Virgin) was yet very attentive

to every circumstance that could increase the wealth and happiness

of his subjects. He behaved with the greatest affability to such

merchants whose superior knowledge could suggest any means of

extending the benefits of commerce; and that he might engage them

to be more communicative, he frequently invited them to his table.

A merchant, named Mr. John, intoxicated by the familiarity of the

King, who very often admitted him in particular to dine with him,

took it in his head one day, to request his Majesty to grant him

letters of nobility. The King did not refuse his request; but when

the new nobleman appeared at court, he affected not to know him.

Mr. John, surprised at this unexpected reception, could not forbear

complaining of it: “Go about your business, Mr. John, I mean my

Lord,” said the King: “When I used to invite you to my table, I

considered you as the first of your profession; but now I would

insult my nobles, if I would treat you with the same distinction.”

THE END.

THE HISTORY OF

BUCHAVEN

IN FIFESHIRE,

CONTAINING THE WITTY AND ENTERTAINING EXPLOITS OF

WISE WILLIE,

AND

WITTY EPPY,

[Illustration]

THE ALE WIFE.

WITH A DESCRIPTION OF THEIR COLLEGE, COAT OF ARMS, &C.

ADORNED WITH WOODCUTS.

PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

THE

HISTORY

OF

BUCHAVEN.

[Illustration]

In the county of Fife, on the sea-cost, there stands a little town,

inhabited by few but fishers, called Buckey harbour, because of sea

buckies and shells to be found so plenty on the rocks about that

place. There is little mention made of this town by historians,

to know its original extraction and antiquities, but in their own

Burges-ticket, which was partly truth, but more of it by way of

lampoon. This Ticket was dated the two and thirtieth day of the

month of Julius Cæsar. Their Coat of Arms was two hands gripping

each other over a Scate’s rumple. Their oath was, “I wish that de

de’il may tak me an I binna an honest man to you, an ye binna de

like to me.” An article of good neighbourhood they had, whoever

was first up in a good morning, was to raise all the rest to go to

sea; but if a very bad morning, piss and go to bed again till break

of day, then raise wise Willy, who could judge of the weather by

the blawing of the wind. Their freedoms were to take all sorts of

fish contained in their tickets, viz.:--Lobsters, partens, podles,

spout-fish, sea-cats, sea-dogs, fluks, piks, dick-puddocks, and

p--fish.

[Illustration]

Again, these people are said to have descended from one Tom and

his two sons, who were fishers on the coast of Norway, who, in a

violent storm, were blown over, and got a-shore at Buck-harbour,

where they settled; and the whole of his children were called

Thomsons, and soon became a little town by themselves, as few

of any other name dwelt among them. This is a traditional story

handed down from one generation to another.--They kept but little

communication with the country people about them, for a farmer, in

those days, thought his daughter cast away, if she married one of

the other hand; Witty Eppie the ale-wife, wad a sworn Bugo, laddie,

I wad rather see my boat and a’ my three sons daded against the

Bass or I saw ony ane o’ them married to a muck-a-byre’s daughter;

a wheen useless tawpies, it can do naething but rive at a tow-rock

and cut corn, they can neither bait a hook nor redd a line, hook

sand-eels, nor gather pirriwinkles.

Now, Wise Willie and Witty Eppie the ale-wife, lived there about

a hundred years ago. Eppie’s chamber was their College and

Court-House where they decided controversies, and explained their

wonders; for the house was like a little kirk, had four windows

and a gavle door: the wives got leave to flyte their fill, but

fighting was prohibited, as Eppie said, up-hands was fair play.

Their fines was a pint o’ ale, and Eppie sold it at a plack the

pint. They had neither minister nor magistrate, nor yet a burly

bailie, to brag them wi’ his tol-booth. The Lord o’ the manor

decided all disputable points, and Wise Willie and Witty Eppie were

the rulers of the town.

[Illustration]

Now Eppie had a daughter, she ca’d Lingle-tail’d Nancy, because of

her feckless growth; her waist was like a twitter, had nae curpen

for a creel, being Edinburgh bred, and brought up wi’ her Louden

aunty, was learned to read and sew, make coarse claiths and calicoe

mancoes; there was nae scholar in the town but hersel, she read the

bible, and the book of kirk sangs that was newly come in fashion.

Willie and Eppie tell’d them aye what he meant, and said a’ the

letters in it was litted by my Lord, for they saw him hae a feather

that he dipt in black water, and made crooked scores, just like the

same; and then he spake o’er again, and it tell’d him what to say.

It happened on a day that two of their wives near the town, found

a horse shoe, and brought it home and sent for Willie to see what

it was; Willie comes and looks at it; Indeed, co’ Willie, its a

thing and holes in’t. I kent, co’ they, he wad get a name till’t.

A’ ho’! co’ Willie, whar did ye find it? Aneath my Lord’s ain

house, Willie. Adeed, said Willie, it’s the auld moon, I ken by

the holes in’t, for nailing it to the left; but I winder if she

fell in Fyfe, for the last time I saw her, she was hinging on her

back aboon Edinburgh. A-hech, co’ Willie, we’ll set her upon the

highest house in the town, and we’ll hae moonlight o’ our ain a’

the days o’ the year. The whole town ran to see the moon! Honest

tout, said Witty Eppie, ye’re but a’ fools thegither; its but ane

o’ the things it my Lord’s mare wears upon her lufe.

[Illustration]

At another time one of the wives found a hare with its legs

broken, lying among her kail in the yard. She not knowing what it

was, called out to her neighbours to see it; some said it was a

gentleman’s cat, or my lady’s lap dog, or a sheep’s young kittlen,

because it had saft horns. Na, na, cried Wise Willie, its ane o’

the maukins that gentlemen’s dogs worie, what will we do wi’t?

Faith, co’ they all, we’ll singe the woo aff, and make fish and

sauce o’t to my Tammy’s parritch. Na, na, said Witty Eppie, better

gie’t to my Lord, and he’ll stap an iron stick through the guts

o’t, and gart rin round afore the fire till it be roasted.

[Illustration]

It happened on a dark winter morning, that two of their wives were

going to Dysart to sell their fish; and on the road side there

happened to be some tinker’s ass teeth red. The poor ass seeing

the two wives coming with the creels, thought it was the tinkers

coming to flit or relieve him, fell a-crying, the two wives threw

their fish a’ awa’, and ran hame like mad persons, crying they

had seen the deil, ay, the very horned deil, and that he spoke

to them but they didna ken what he said, for it was waur than

a highlandman’s; the whole town was in an uproar; some would go

with picks and spades, and hagg him to pieces; others would go

and catch him in a strong net, and then they would either hang or

drown him. Na, na, co’ Wise Willie, we manna cast out wi’ him at

the first, as he’s gotten the twa burden’s o’ fish, he’ll e’en gang

his wa, and no fash us nae mair; he is o’er souple to be catch’d

in a net; a’ your pith will neither hang nor drown him, and the

kintra he comes frae is a’ het coals, he’d never burn. We’ll gae to

him in a civil manner, and see what he wants. Get out Witty Eppie

and lingle-tail’d Nancy wi’ the Bible and Psalm-book. So aff they

came in a crowd, either to kill the deil, or catch him alive; and

as they came near the place, the ass fell a-crying, which caused

many of them to faint and run back. Na, na, co’ Willie, that’s no

the deil’s words at a’, its my Lord’s trumpeter, routing on his

brass whistle. Willie ventured till he saw the ass’s twa lugs.

Now, said Willie, come forward, an’ haud him fast, I see his twa

horns; hech, sirs, he has a white beard like an auld man. So they

inclosed the poor ass on all sides, thinking it was the deil; but

when Wise Willie saw he had nae cloven feet, he cried out, Scarna

lads, this is not the deil, it’s some living beast; it’s neither

cow nor horse. An’ what is’t then, Willie? Indeed, co Willie, it’s

the father of the maukins, I ken by its lang lugs.

[Illustration]

Now some say this history is too satirical, but it is according

to the knowledge of those times, not to say one place by another.

The old wives will tell you yet of many such stories of the devil

appearing to their grandfathers and grandmothers, and dead wives

coming back again to visit their families long after being dead.

So this Buchaven was once noted for droll exploits; but it is now

become better known, and a place that produces the hardiest sailors

of any town on the Scots coast. Yet many of the old people in it

still retain the old tincture of their ancient and uncultivated

speech, such as Be-go, laddie; they are also of a fiery nature, for

if you ask any of their wives where their college stands, they’ll

tell you, if your nose was in their a--e, your mouth would be at

the door of it.

Now, it happened when Wise Willie turned old, he took a great

swelling in his wame, and casting up his kail, collops, and cauld

fish, that nothing could stand on his stomach; and a stout stomach

he had for crabs heads, and scate broo, or brose in a bridal

morning; yet it fail’d him, and he fell sick. None could cure him,

nor tell what ail’d him, till a mountebank stage doctor came to

Kircaldy that could judge by people’s piss the trouble of their

person. Wise Willie hearing of his fame, pissed into the bottle,

and sent it away with his daughter. The bottle being uncorked,

his daughter spilt it by the way, and to conceal her sloth in so

doing, pissed in it herself, and on she goes till she came to the

stage-doctor, when she cried out aloud, Sir Doctor, Sir Doctor,

here is a bottle of my father’s wash, he has a sair guts, and needs

na drite ony, but spues a’ he eats. It’s true I tell you, my dow.

The doctor looks at it, then says, it’s not your father’s surely,

it’s your mither’s. The deil’s in the man, said she, divna I ken my

father frae my mother. Then, said he, he is with child. The deil’s

in the man, co’ she, for my mither bare a’ de bairns before; dat’s

no true, sir, fegs ye’re a great liar. Hame she comes, and tell’d

Willie, her father, that the doctor said he was wi’ bairn. O waes

me, co’ Willie, for I hae a muckle wame, an’ I fear its owre true.

O plague on you, Janet, for ye’re the father o’t, an’ I am sure

to die in the bearing o’t. Witty Eppie was sent for, as she was a

houdie, an’ she fand a’ Willie’s wame, to be sure about it. Indeed,

co’ Eppie, ye’re the first man ere I saw wi’ bairn before. and how

ye’ll bare it, troth I dinna ken, but I would drink salt sea-water

and drown it in my guts--for if men get ance the gate o’ bearing

weans themselves, they’ll need nae mair wives. So Willie drank

sea-water till his guts was like to rive, and out he got to ease

himself among the kail; and with the terrible noise of his farting,

up starts a maukin behind him, who thought it was shot. Willie

seeing her jump o’er the dyke, thought it was a child brought

forth, and cried out, come back, my dear, and be christened, and

dinna rin to the hills to be a pagan. So Willie grew better every

day thereafter, being brought to bed in the kail yard; but his

daughter was brought to bed some months after, which was the cause

of the doctor’s mistake.

Now Wise Willie had a daughter called Rolling Coughing Jenny,

because she spak thick, sax words at three times, half sense and

half nonsense, as her own records will bear witness. She being with

child, and delivered of a bonnie lassie; and all the wives in the

town cried out be-go, laddie, it’s just like its ain father, lang

Sandy Tason (or Thomson), we ken by his lang nose; for Sandy had

a great muckle red nose, like a labster’s tae, bowed at the point

like a hawk’s neb, and Sandy himself said that it was surely his,

or some other body’s; but he had used a’ his bir at the getting o’t

to try his abilities, being the first time ever he was at sic a

business before; and when he had done a’ that man could do at it,

he said it was nonsense; and shame fa’ him, but he would rather row

his boat round the Bass and back again, or he’d do the like again;

for Wise Willie gade wude at the bairn, and said it had mair ill

nature than the auldest wife in the town, for it pissed the bed,

skirl’d like a wild cat, & kept him frae his night’s rest; the auld

hags about the town ca’d him Sandy the bairn’s daddy; and a’ the

young gillie-gaukies o’ lasses held out their fingers and cried, Ti

hi hi, Sandy, the Kirk will kittle your hips for that: And after

a’ the blear-eye’d bell-man came bladering about the buttock meal,

summoned him and her before the haly band--a court that was held in

the Kirk on Saturday morning--and all the herd laddies round about

cried, Ay, ay, Sandy, pay the bull-siller, or we’ll cut the cow’s

tail awa’. So poor Sandy suffered sadly in the flesh, besides the

penalty and Kirk penance.

[Illustration]

But Wise Willie had pity on them, and gade wi’ them to the

Kirk-court, what learned fouk call the Session. Jenny was first

called upon, and in she goes where a’ the haly band was convened,

elders and younger deacons, and dog payers, keeping the door,

the cankerdest carles that could be gotten between Dysart and

Duddy-side--white heads and bald heads sitting wantin’ bonnets, wi’

their white headed staffs, and hodden grey jockey-coats about them.

Mess John says, come away, Janet, we’re waiting on you here.

Min.--Now, Janet, where was this child gotten? you must tell us

this plainly.

Jan.--Adeed sir, it was gotten at the black stanes, at the cheek of

the crabb holes.

Mess John stares at her, not knowing the place, but some of the

elders did. Then said he, O Janet, but the devil was busy with you

at that time!

Jan.--A, by my fegs sir, that’s a great lie ye’re telling now, for

the deil wasna there that I saw, nor ony body else, to bid us do ae

thing or anither: we lo’ed ither unco weel for a lang time before

that, an syne we tell’d ither, and agreed to marry ither, like

honest fouk; then might na we learn to do the thing married fouk

do, without the deil helping us.

[Illustration]

Whisht, whisht, cried they, ye should be scourged, sausie loon

quien that thou is, ye’re speaking nonsense.

Jan.--De deil’s i’ the carles, for you and your ministers are

liars, when ye say it is de deil it was helping Sandy and me to get

de bairn.

Come, come, said they, pay down the Kirk-dues, and come back to

the stool the morn; the price is four pound, and a groat to the

bell-man.

Jan.--The auld thief speed the darth o’t, sir, far less might sair

you and your bell-man baith. O but this be a world indeed, when

poor honest fouk maun pay for making use o’ their ain a--! Ye misca

the poor deil a-hint his back, an’ gies him the wyte of a de ill

in de kintry, bastard bairns and every thing; and if it be say as

ye say, ye may thank de deil for that four pound and a groat I hae

gien you; that gars your pat play brown, an gets you jockey-coats,

and purl-handed sarks, and white-headed staves, when my father’s

pot wallops up nought but bear and blue water.

The woman is mad, said they, for this money is all given to the

poor of the parish!!

Jan.--The poor of the parish! Feint a hate ye gie to them but we

pickles o’ pease-meal, didna I see their pocks? an’ the minister’s

wife gies naething ava to unco beggars, but bids them gae to their

ain parishes; and yet ye’ll tak the purse frae us for naething but

playing the loon a wee or we be married, and syne cock them up to

be looked on, and laugh’d at by every body: a deil speed you and

your justice, sir. Hute tute, ye’re a’ coming on me like a wheen

colly dogs, hunting awa a poor raggit chapman frae the door. So out

she goes cursing and greeting.

Sandy is next called upon, and in he goes.

Min.--Now, Saunders, you must tell us how this child was gotten.

San.--A now, Mess John, sir, ye hae bairns o’ your ain, how did ye

get them? But yours are a’ laddies, and mine is but a lassie; if

you tell me how you get your laddies, I’ll tell you how I got my

lassie, and then we’ll be baith alike good o’ the business.

The minister looks at him and says, Hute, tute, Saunders, lay

down four pund and a groat, and come back the morn to the stool,

and give satisfaction to the congregation; you had more need to

be seeking repentance for that abominable sin of uncleanness than

speaking so to me.

San.--Well, here’s your siller, sir, I hae gotten but poor

penny-worths for’t, an’ ye tell me to repent for’t; what, the auld

thief, needs I repent! when I’m gaun to marry the woman, an’ then

I’ll hae to do’t o’er again every day, or there’ll be nae peace

in the house; figs, it’s nonsense to pay siller, repent, and do’t

again, too: a fine advice, indeed, master minister! and that’s the

way the like o’ you live.

Now, sir, says Wise Willie, ye manna put them on the black creepy

till they be married; they’ve suffered enough at ae time.

A-weel, a-weel, said they, but they must marry very soon.

I, true, says Sandy, ye’ll be wanting mair clink; foul haet ye do

for naething here.

The next exploit was an action at law against the goodman of

Muiredge, a farmer, who lived near by, that kept sheep and swine.

His sheep came down and broke their yards, and ate up their kail.

The wild hares they thought belonged to the man, as they ran to his

house when they were hunted. The swine came very often in about

their houses, seeking fish guts, and ony thing they could get. So

it happened, when one of the children was sitting easing itself,

that one of the swine tumbled it over, and bit a piece out of its

backside! The whole town rose in an uproar against poor grunkie,

as they called her, and takes her before Wise Willie. Willie took

an axe and cut two or three inches off her long nose. Now, says

Willie, I trow I hae made thee something like anither beast: thou

had sic a lang mouth before, it wad a frighted a very deil to look

at ye; but now your fac’d like a little horse or cow. The poor sow

ran home roaring, all blood, and wanting the nose; which caused

Muiredge to warn them in before my Lord. So the wives that had

their kail eaten appeared first in the court, complaining against

Muiredge. Indeed, my Lord, said they, Muiredge is no a good man,

when he is sic an ill neighbour. He keeps black hares an’ white

hares, little wee brown-backed hares wi’ white arses, and loose

waggin horns; they creep in at our gush-holes, an’ does the like;

when we cry, pussie, pussie, they rin hame to Muiredge: but I’ll

gar my colly had them by the foot, an’ I’ll had them by the horn,

an’ pull the hair aff them, and send ’em hame wanting the skin, as

he did Sowen Tammie’s wee Sandy, for codin o’ his pease, he took

aff the poor laddie’s coat, and sae did he e’en. And Willie said,

if ye were a sow, my Lord, and me sitting driting, and you to bite

my arse, sudna I hae amends o’ you for that? Odd, my Lord, ye wadna

hae a bit out o’ your arse for twinty marks. Ye maun e’en gar

Muiredge gie ten marks to buy a plaster to heal the poor bit wean’s

arse again.

[Illustration]

Well said, Willie, says my Lord; but who put on the sow’s nose

again.

A, fegs, my Lord, said Willie, she’s honester like wantin’t, an’

she’ll bite nae mair arses wi’t. An ye had hane a nose, my Lord, as

lang as the sow, ye’d been obliged to ony body it wad cut a piece

aft.

A gentleman coming past near their town, asked one of their wives

where their college stood? Said she, gie me a shilling an’ I’ll

let you see baith sides o’t. He gives her the shilling, thinking to

see something curious. Now, says she, there’s the one side of your

shilling, and there’s the other; so it is mine now.

There was a custom in Buckey-harbour, when they got a hearty drink,

that they went down to dance among the boats; two or three of

the oldest went into a boat to see the residence, and when they

admitted a burgher, there was also a dance. One day they admitted

gly’d Rob, who was a warlock, and made them all stop their dancing,

for which he was carried before Wise Willie to answer for that, for

which he was banished to the Isle of May, to carry coals to the

Light House.

[Illustration]

THE

DOMINIE DEPOSED,

WITH THE SEQUEL.

BY WILLIAM FORBES, A.M.

LATE SCHOOLMASTER AT PETERCOULTER.

TO WHICH IS ADDED,

MAGGY JOHNSTON’S ELEGY.

[Illustration]

GLASGOW:

PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

PREFACE.

If this offend when ye peruse,

Pray, reader, let this me excuse,

Myself I only here accuse,

Who am the cause,

That e’er ye had this piece of news

To split your jaws.

For had I right the gully guided,

And wi’ a wife mysel’ provided,

To keep me frae that wae betide it,

That’s kent to a’,

I’d stay’d at hame, or near beside it;

Now that’s awa’.

Be wiser then, and do what’s right,

And mind your business wi’ might,

Lest unexpected gloomy night,

Should you surround

An’ mingle a’ your pleasure bright,

Wi’ grief profound.

And, bonny lasses, mind this rhyme,

As true as three and sax mak nine,

If ye commit ye ken what crime,

And turn unweel,

There’ll something wamble in your wame

Just like an eel.

THE

DOMINIE DEPOSED.

PART I.

Some Dominies are sae bias’d,

That o’er the dyke themsells they cast,

They drink an’ rant, an’ live sae fast,

This drives them on,

To draw a weapon at the last,

That sticks Mess John.

Thus going on from day to day,

Neglecting still to watch and pray,

And teach the little anes A, B, C,

An’ Pater Noster,

Quite ither thoughts our Lettergae,

Begins to foster.

For, laying by baith fear and shame,

They slily venture on that game,

_All Fours_, I think, they call’t by name,

Baith auld an’ rife,

Than in the play, Mess John is slain

Wi’ his ain knife.

’Tis kind, therefore, I winna strive

My doughty deeds here to descrive,

A lightsome life still did I thrive,

Did never itch,

By out an’ in abouts to drive,

For to mak rich.

I ne’er laid money up in store,

Into a hole behind the door,

A shilling, penny, less or more,

I aye did scatter,

’Tis just, now, I should drink, therefore,

Sma’ beer or water.

I never sooner siller got,

But a’ my pouches it would plot,

And scorch them fair, it was sae hot;

Then to get clear

Of it, I swill’d it down my throat,

In ale or beer.

Thus, a’ my failing was my glass,

An’ anes to please a bonny lass,

I, like a silly amorous ass,

Drew forth my gully,

An’ through an’ through at the first pass,

Ran Mr. Willy.

Sae far this mad, though merry fit,

I was sair vexed, and forced to flit,

They plagu’d me sae wi’ pay and sit,

Quo’ they, You thief,

How durst you try to steal a bit

Forbidden beef?

O then, I humbly plead that _vos_,

Would make it your continual _mos_,

Wi’ hearts sincere an’ open _os_,

You’d often pray,

_A tali malo libera nos,

O Dominie_.

For, hark, I’ll tell you what they think,

Since I left handling pen an’ ink:

Wae worth that weary soup o’ drink

He lik’d sae weel,

He drank it a’, left not a clink

His throat to swill.

He lik’d, still sitting on his doup,

To view the pint or cutty stoup,

And sometimes lasses overcoup,

Upo’ their keels,

This made the lad at length to loup,

And tak his heels.

Then was it not a grand presumption,

To ca’ him doctor o’ the function?

He dealt too much in barley-unction

For his profession:

He never took a good injunction

Frae kirk or session.

An’ to attend, he was not willing,

His school, sae lang’s he had a shilling,

But lov’d to be where there was filling

Good punch or ale,

For him to rise was just like killing

Or first to fail.

His fishing-wand, his sneeshing box,

A fowling piece, to shoot muir cocks,

An’ hunting hare through craigs and rocks,

This was his game,

Still left the young anes, so the fox

Might worry them.

When he committed a’ these tricks,

For which he weel deserv’d his licks,

Wi’ red-coats he did intermix,

When he foresaw

The punishment the kirk inflicts

On fowks that fa’.

Then to his thrift he bade adieu,

When wi’ his tail he stopp’d his mou’,

He changed his coat to red and blue,

An’ like a sot

Did the poor Clerk convert into

A Royal Scot.

An’ now fowks use me at their wills,

My name is blawn out o’er the hills,

At banquets, feasts, a’ mouths it fills,

’Twixt each, _Here’s t’ thee_,

’Tis sore traduc’d at kilns and mills,

And common smithy.

Then, Dominies, I you beseech,

Keep very far from Bacchus’ reach,

He drown’d a’ my cares to preach,

Wi’ his ma’t-bree,

I’ve wore sair banes by mony a bleech

O’ his tap-tree.

If venus does possess your mind,

Her antics ten times warse ye’ll find,

For to ill tricks she’s sae inclin’d,

For praticks past,

She blew me here before the wind:

Cauld be her cast.

Within years less than half a dizen,

She made poor Maggy lie in jizen,

When little Jock brake out of prison

On gude yule-day,

This of my quiet cut the wisen,

Whan he wan gae.

Let readers then tak better heed,

For fear they kiss mair than they read,

In case they wear the sacken weed,

For fornication,

Or leave the priest-craft shot to dead

For procreation.

The maist o’ them, like blind an’ lame,

Have nae aversion to the game,

But better ’twere to tak her hame,

Their pot to cook,

An’ teach his boys to write a theme,

And mind their book.

Then may they sit at hame, an’ please,

Themselves wi’ gathering in their fees,

While I must face mine enemies,

Or shaw my dock:

There’s odds ’twixt handling pens wi’ ease

An’ a firelock.

Sae shall they never mount the stool,

Whereon the lasses greet an’ howl,

Tho’ deil a tear, scarce fair or foul,

Comes o’er their cheeks;

Their mind’s not there, ’tis spinning wool,

Or mending breeks.

The Kirk then pardons no such prots,

They must tell down good five pounds scots,

Though they should pledge their petticoats,

An’ gae arse bare;

The least price there is twenty groats,

An’ prigging fair.

If then the lad does not her wed,

Poor Meg some feigned tears maun shed,

Her minny crooks her mou’ and dad,

They fart an’ fling;

“O wow that e’er I made the bed,”

Then does she sing.

_Thus for her Maidenhead she moans,

Bewailing what is past;

Her pitcher’s dash’d against the stones,

And broken at the last._

PART II.

A’ Maids, therefore, I do bemoan,

Betwixt the rivers Dee and Don,

If anes they get a taste o’ yon,

Though by the laird,

The toy-mutch maun then gae on,

Nae mair bare-hair’d.

Yet wanton Venus, that she-b--h,

Does a’ our senses sae bewitch,

An’ fires our blood wi’ sic an itch,

That aftentimes,

There is nae help but to commit,

Some ill-far’d crimes.

Yet some they are sae very willing,

At ony time they’ll tak’ a shilling,

But he that learnt them first that spelling,

Or Meg or Nell,

Be sure, to him they’ll lay an egg in;

This some can tell.

Unthinking things! it is their creed,

If some sic things be done wi’ speed,

They’re safe, ’tis help in time o’ need,

Nae after-claps:

Tho’ nine months aft brings quick or dead,

Into their laps.

Experience thus makes me speak,

I ance was hooked wi’ the cleek,

I almost had beshit my breek,

When Maggy told,

That by her saul, not e’en a week

Young Jack would hold.

She was sae stiff she cou’d not loot;

Your pranks she says, are now found out,

The kirk and you maun hae a bout;

Ill mat you fare,

’Tis a’ your ain, you need na doubt

Ilk hilt an hair.

Alas that e’er I saw your face,

I can nae langer hide the case;

Had I foreseen this sad disgrace,

Nae man nor you,

Shou’d e’er hae met me in yon place,

Or kiss’d my mou’.

O Dominie, you’re dispossest,

Ye hae defil’d your holy nest,

The warld sees ye hae transgrest,

I’m at my time,

Ye dare nae mair, now do your best

Let gae the rhyme.

Ohon! how weel I might hae kent,

When first to you I gae consent,

Wi’ me to mak your merriment,

How a’ would be:

Alas! that e’er my loom I lent

That day to thee.

Wae to the night I first began

To mix my moggans wi’ thee man:

’Tis needless now to curse or ban,

But deil hae me,

Ye’ll pay an’ sit, for sit ye can,

An’ that ye’ll see.

I heard her as I heard her not,

But time and place had quite forgot,

I guess’d Young Jack fell to my lot;

For I could tell,

It was too short her petticoat,

By half an ell.

Wi’ blubber’d cheeks, and watry nose,

Her weary story she did close;

I said the best, and aff she goes

Just like a thief,

An’ took a glass to interpose,

’Twixt mirth and grief.

Yet would hae gi’en my ha’f year’s fee,

Had Maggy then been jesting me,

Had tartan purry, meal an’ bree,

Or buttr’y brose,

Been kilting up her petticoats

Aboon her hose.

But time that tries such praticks past,

Brought me out o’er the coals fu’ fast;

Poor Maggy took a sudden blast,

And o’er did tumble,

For something in her wame at last

Began to rumble.

Our folk ca’d it the windy gravel,

That grips the guts beneath the navel,

But laith was she for to unravel

Their gross mistake,

Weel kend she, that she was in travail,

Wi’ little Jack.

But, to put matters out of doubt,

Young John within would fain been out,

An’ but an’ ben made sic a rout

Wi’ hands and feet,

That she began twa-fauld about

The house to creep.

Then dool an’ sorrow interveen’d;

For Jack nae langer could be screen’d,

My lass upon her breast she lean’d,

An’ gae a skirl.

The canny wives came there conveen’d,

An’ in a whirl.

They wrought together in a crowd;

By this time I was under cloud;

Yet bye and bye I understood,

They made one more,

For Jack he tun’d his pipe, and loud

Wi’ cries did roar.

Wi’ that they blam’d the Session-Clark;

Where is the lown hid in the dark?

For he’s the father o’ this wark:

Swear to his mither,

He’s just as like him as ae lark

Is like anither.