TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Footnote anchors are denoted by [number], and the footnotes have
been placed at the end of the book.
Some minor changes to the text are noted at the end of the book.
COLLECTED WRITINGS
OF
DOUGAL GRAHAM.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF DOUGAL GRAHAM
_From Early Chap Book._
_Frontispiece to Vol. II._]
THE
COLLECTED WRITINGS
OF
DOUGAL GRAHAM
‘SKELLAT’ BELLMAN OF GLASGOW
EDITED WITH NOTES
_Together with a Biographical and Bibliographical Introduction, and
a Sketch of the Chap Literature of Scotland_
BY
GEORGE MAC GREGOR
_Author of ‘The History of Glasgow’ and Member of the Glasgow
Archæological Society_
_IN TWO VOLUMES_
_VOL. II._
For Subscribers and Private Circulation
GLASGOW: THOMAS D. MORISON
MDCCCLXXXIII
CONTENTS OF VOLUME II.
PAGE
JOCKEY AND MAGGY’S COURTSHIP 7
PART I.--_Jockey and Maggy’s Courtship as they were coming
from the market_ 9
PART II.--_The Wonderful Works of our John_ 15
PART III.--_The Wonderful Works of our John made manifest
before the Minister, &c._ 22
PART IV.--_How Jockey and his Mother went away to see
his bastard child, &c._ 31
THE VTH AND LAST PART.--_Being an Account of Jockey’s
Mother’s Death and Burial: With an Elegant Elegy
and Epitaph on that occasion--The Baptizing of his two
Children, and how he mounted the stool_ 37
THE COALMAN’S COURTSHIP 47
PART I. 49
PART II. 53
PART III. 58
COMICAL TRANSACTIONS OF LOTHIAN TOM 65
PART I. 67
PART II. 70
PART III. 73
PART IV. 76
PART V. 79
PART VI. 81
THE PLOWMAN’S GLORY; OR, TOM’S SONG 84
HISTORY OF JOHN CHEAP THE CHAPMAN 87
PREFACE 89
PART I. 89
PART II. 96
PART III. 102
LEPER THE TAYLOR 109
PART I. 111
PART II. 118
THE GRAND SOLEMNITY OF THE TAYLOR’S FUNERAL 125
_The Taylor’s Last Will_ 130
THE HISTORY OF HAVEREL WIVES 131
JANET CLINKER’S ORATION 145
THE COMICAL AND WITTY JOKES OF JOHN FALKIRK 155
THE SCOT’S PIPER’S QUERIES; OR, JOHN FALKIRK’S CARICHES 165
_An Account of John Falkirk, the Scots Piper_ 167
THE COMICAL SAYINGS OF PADY FROM CORK 179
PART I. 181
PART II. 188
PART III. 193
_A New Catechism_ 199
_Pady’s Humble Petition, or Supplication_ 203
_A Creed for Romish Believers_ 204
SIMPLE JOHN AND HIS TWELVE MISFORTUNES 205
THE ANCIENT AND MODERN HISTORY OF BUCK-HAVEN 217
PART I. 219
PART II. 225
PART III. 229
_The Minister and Mussel Mou’d Harry_ 237
THE WITTY AND ENTERTAINING EXPLOITS OF GEORGE BUCHANAN 239
PART I. 241
PART II. 248
PART III. 256
PART IV. 263
PART V. 269
PART VI. 277
GLOSSARY 281
_JOCKEY AND MAGGY’S COURTSHIP._
[This chap-book was one of the most popular of Graham’s
productions. It is reprinted here from a unique copy formerly
belonging the late Dr. David Laing, and now in the possession
of George Gray, Esq. It is in five parts. The title-page bears
that it had been ‘carefully corrected and revised by the Author.’
It was printed in 1779 by J. and J. Robertson, Glasgow, and is
perhaps the earliest copy extant.]
JOCKEY AND MAGGY’S COURTSHIP AS THEY WERE COMING FROM THE MARKET.
PART I.
Jockey. Hey Maggy, wilt thou stay and tak kent fouks hame wi’ ye
the night?
Maggy. Wiltu come awa than Johny. I fain wad be hame or the ky come
in, our meikle Riggy is sic a rumbling royte, she rins ay thro’ the
byre, and sticks a’ the bits a couties; my mither is nae able to
had her up to her ain stake.
Jockey. Hute, we’ll be hame in bra’ time woman: and how’s a’ your
fouks at hame?
Maggy. Indeed I canna well tell you man, our guidame is a’ gane
wi’ the gut; my mither is very frail, my father he’s ay wandering
about, and widdling amang the beasts.
Jockey. But dear Maggy they tell me we’re gawn to get a wedding of
thee and Andrew Merrymouth the laird’s gardener.
Maggy. Na, na, he maun hae a brawer lass to be his wife than the
like o’ me, but auld Tammy Tailtrees was seeking me, my father wad
a haen me to tak him, but my mither wadna let, there was an odd
debate about it, my guidame wad a sticket my mither wi’ the grape,
if my father hadna chanc’d to founder her wi’ the beetle.
Jockey. 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
tane may sair the tither fu’ well.
Maggy. Ach man! I wad a tane thee or ony body to hane them greed
again, my father bled my guidame’s nose, and my guidame brake my
mithers thumb; the neighbours came a’ 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.
Jockey. Dear Maggy, I hae something to tell you an ye wadna be
angry at it?
Maggy. O Johnny, there’s my hand I’se no be angry at it, be what it
will.
[Shakes hands for fear of an outcast.][1]
Jockey. Indeed Maggy the fouk of your town and the fouk of our
town, says, we are gawn to be married: What say’st thou?
Maggy. I wish we ne’er do war, O Johny, I dream’d o’ you lang syne,
an I liket you ay after that.
Jockey. O Maggy! Maggy! dost thou mind since I came to your
mither’s bill, wi’ my mither’s cow, ye ken she wadna stand, and ye
helped me to haud her; ay after that they scorned me that I wad be
married on a you.
Maggy. It’s very true man, it’ll be an odd thing an it be; but it’s
no fa’ back at my door, I assure ye.
Jockey. Nor at mine, but my mither bad me kiss ye.
Maggy. Indeed sall ye Johny, thou’s no want twa kisses man, ane on
every side o’ the mouth, man.
Jockey. Ha! ha! Maggy, I’ll hae a merry night o’ kissing you
shortly.
Maggy. Ay but Johny, you maun stay till that night come: it’s best
to keep the feast until the feast day.
Jockey. Dinna be angry Maggy, my wife to be, but I have heard my
mither saying in her daffing that fouk sud ay try gin their house
will haud their plenishin.
Maggy. Ay but Johny, a wife is ae thing, an a house anither, a man
that’s a mind to marry a woman he’ll no mak her a whore.
Jockey. It’s a’ true Maggy, but fouks may do it yence or they be
married and no hae nae ill in their minds.
Maggy. Aha Johny, mony a are has been beguil’d wi’ yence, and do it
yence ye may do it ay, what an we get a bystart, and hae to suffer
for the foul act of fornication.
Jockey. Ay but my mither says, if I dinna get thee wi’ bairn, I’ll
no get thee; so it’s the surest way of wooing.
Maggy. Indeed Johny I like you better nor ony lad I see, and I sall
marry you an yence my father’s muck were out, my mither downa wirk
at the midden.
Jockey. A Maggy, Maggy, I’m fear’d ye beguile me, an then my mither
will murder me for being so silly.
Maggy. My jo Jockey, tell your mither to provide a’ things for the
bridal, and I sal marry you in three uks after this, but we maun
gie in siller to the Precentor, a groat an a drink to the bellman,
and then the Kirk wa’s maun hear o’t, three sunday’s or it come.[2]
Jockey. But Maggy am no to make a blin bargain wi’ you nor nae
body, I maun ken o’ your things an ye sall ken o’ mine.
Maggy. I ken well what I was to get, an gin my mither like the
bargain well, she’ll make it better; but an my father be angry at
the match, I darna meet you to be married.
Jockey. I see na how he can be angry. I wat well I’m a gay sturdy
fallow, when I laid on a bow and five pecks o’ bear on the laird’s
Bawsey, an he’s as bilchy a beast as in a’ the barronry.
Maggy. Ay but my mither is aye angry at ony body that evens
themselves to me, an it binna them she likes, indeed she bad me tak
ony body if it were na auld tottering Tammie, for his beard is ay
brown wi’ sucking tobacco, and slavers a’ the breast o’ his fecket.
Jockey. O! Maggy tak me an 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, an the gawn gear was to be divided between me and
my mither, and if she died first, a’ her gear was to come amang
mine, and if I died before her, a’ my gear was to come back to her
again, an her to marry anither man if she cou’d get him. But since
it’s happened sae, she is to gie me Brucky an the black mare, the
haf o’ the cogs, three spoons, four pair o’ blankets an a can’as,
she’s to big a twa bey to her ain gavel to be a dwelling house
to me an my wife, am to get the wee byre at the end o’ the raw
to haud my cow and twa couties; the haf o’ the barn an a bed o’
the kailyard as lang as she lives, an when she dies am to pay the
earding o’ her honestly, and a’ the o’ercome is to be my ain: an by
that time I’ll be as rich as e’er my father was before me.
Maggy. Truly Johny, I’se no say 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 gae.
Jockey. I wat weel I am courting in earnest, tell me what you hae,
an we’ll say nae mair but marry ither.
Maggy. I’se tell you a’ I ken o’, whate’er my guidame gies ye’s get
it.
Jockey. That’s right, I want nae mair, it’s an unko thing to marry
a naket woman and get naething but twa bair legs.
Maggy. O Johny ye’re ay in the right o’t, for mony ane is beguil’d
and gets naething, but my father is to gie me forty pund Scots,
that night I am married, a lade of meal, a furlet of groats, auld
Crummie is mine since she was a cauf, and now she has a stirk
will tak the bill e’er beltan yet, I hae twa stane o’ good lint,
and three pockfu’s o’ tow a good cauf bed, twa bowsters and three
cods, with three pair o’ blankets, an’ a covering; forby twa pair
to spin, but my mither wadna gie me crish to them, an ye ken the
butter is dear now.[3]
Jockey. Then farewel the night Maggy; the best o’ friends maun
part, and so maun thy twa legs yet.
Maggy. I wish you well, Johny, but sae nae mair till we be married,
and then lad.
Hame gaed Maggy and tell’d her Mither.
Mag. O mither! I hae something to tell ye, but ye mauna tell my
father.
Mither. Dear Maggy an what is that!
Mag. Deed Mither, am gawn to be married an’ the muck were out.
Mith. Dear Maggy an wha’s thou gawn to get, it’s no auld bubly
Tammy.
Mag. Na, na, he’s a bra young man, and has mair gear nor ilka body
kens o’, guess an I’ll tell you, it’s Johny Bell, and his mither
sent him to the market just to court me.
Mith. Deed Maggy ye’ll no be ill youket wi’ him, he’s a gay we’ll
gawn fallow, right spruch, amaist like an ill-far’d gentleman. Hey
guidman, do ye hear that our Maggy is gawn to be married an the
muck were out.
Father. Na, na, I’ll no allow that until the peats be cussen and
hurl’d.
Mag. O father it’s dangerous to delay the like o’ that, I like him,
an he likes me, it’s best to strike the iron whan it’s het.
Fath. An wha is she gawn to get guidwife?
Mith. An wha think ye guidman?
Fath. A what wat I herie, an she please hersel, am pleas’d already.
Mith. Indeed she’s gawn to get Johny Bell, as cliver a little
fallow, as in a the barronry where he bides.
Fath. A well, a well herie, she’s yours as well as mine, gie her to
wha ye please.
Mith. A well Maggy, I’se hae a’ things ready, an I’ll hae thee
married or this month be done.
Mag. Thanks to ye Mither, mony a good turn ye done me, an this will
be the best, I think.
Hame gaed Jockey to his mither, crying.
Jock. Mither! Mither! I made it out, her mouth is sweeter na milk,
my heart plays a whiltie whaltie whan I kiss her.
Mith. Fair fa’ thee my son Johny, thou’s gotten the geat o’t at
last, and whan is thou gawn to be married?
Jock. Whan I like mither, but get the masons the morn, to big me my
house, for I’ll hae a’ my things in right good order.
Mith. Thou’s want for naething, my bairn, but pusht forward as fast
as ye can.
The wooing being o’er and the day being set, Jockey’s mither killed
the black boul horn’d yeal Ewe, that lost her lamb the last year,
three hens and a gule fitted cock, to prevent the ripples, five
pecks o’ maut masket in the meikle kirn, a pint o’ trykle to mak
it thicker an sweeter an maumier for the mouth; five pints o’
whisky wherein was garlic and spice, for raising o’ the wind, an
the clearing o’ their water; the friends and good neighbours went
a’ wi’ John to the kirk, where Maggy chanced to meet him and was
married by the minister; the twa companies joined togither and came
hame in a croud, at every change house they chanced to pass by,
providence stopt their proceeding, with full stoups, bottles and
glasses drinking their healths, wishing them much 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 coupt up him and proved detrimental to the same.
So home they came to the dinner, where his mother presented to
them a piping het haggies, made of the creish of the black boul
horn’d Ewe, boil’d in the meikle bag, 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 bizin like a working fat,
and he playing het fit to the fidler, was suddenly seized with a
bocking and rebounding, gave his dinner such a backward ca that he
lost a’ but the grit bits scythed through his teeth; his mother
cried to spence him, and bed him wi’ the bride, his breeks being
fill’d, they washed both his hips, 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 brithal and his burial may
baith be on ae day: some cuist water in his face, and jagg’d him
wi’ a needle; till he began to rouze himself up, and rap out broken
words, mither, mither, whar am I now? Whar are ye my bairn says
his mither, ye’re beddet, and I’ll bring the bride to you. Beddet,
and is my brithel done ells? Ay, said she, here’s the bride come
to ly down wi’ you: na, na, said he, I’ll no ly wi that unco woman
indeed, if it binna heeds and thraws, the way that I lay wi’ my
mither; O fy dinna affront yoursel. The bride faus a crying. O
mither, mither, was this the way my father guided you the first
night? Na, na, thy father was a man o’ manners and better mettle,
poor thing Meg, thou’s caud thy hogs to a bonny market. A bonny
market, says his mither, a shame fa you and her baith, he’s worthy
o’ her tho’ she were better nor what she is, or e’er will be. His
friends an her friends being a mixt multitude, some took his part
some took her’s, there a battle began 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,
trunchers, were flying like bombs and granades.
The crook, bouls and tongs were all employed as weapons of war:
till down came the bed with a great mou of peats. So this disturbed
the treading.[4]
THE WONDERFUL WORKS OF OUR JOHN.
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
encreased, and John’s works turned out to be very wonderful; for he
made Janet, that was his mither’s lass the last year, grow like an
Elshin shaft, and got his Maggy wi’ bairn forby.
The hamsheughs were very great until auld uncle Rabby came into
redd them, and a sturdy auld fallow he was, stood stively wi’ a
stiff rumple, and by strength of his arms rave them sindry, flingin
the tane east and the tither west, until they stood a round about
like as many breathless forfoughen cocks, and no ane durst steer
anither for him, Jockey’s mither was driven o’re a kist, and
brogget a her hips on a round heckle, up she gat and rinning to
fell Maggy’s mither wi’ the ladle, swearing she was the mither of
a’ the mischief that happened, uncle Rabby ran in between them, he
having a great lang nose like a trumpet, she recklessly came o’er
his lobster neb a drive wi’ the ladle until the blood sprang out
and ran down his auld grey beard and hang like snuffy bubbles at
it; O! then he gaed wood, and looked as waefu like, as he had been
a tod lowrie, com’d frae worrying lambs, wi’ his bloody mouth. Wi’
that he gets an auld flail, and rives away the supple, then drives
them a to the back o’ the door, but yet nane wan out; than wi’
chirten and chappen, down comes the clay hallen and the hen bauk
with Rab Reid the fidler, who had crept up aside the hens for the
preservation of his fiddle.
Ben comes the bride when she got on her coat, clappet Rabby’s
shoulder and bad him spare their lives: for their is blood enough
shed in ae night, quoth she, and that my beard can witness, quoth
he. So they a’ came in obedience to uncle Rabby, for his supple
made their pows baith saft and sair that night; but daft Maggy
Simson sat by the fire and picket banes a’ the time o’ the battle:
indeed quoth she, I think ye’re a’ fools but mysel; for I came here
to get a guid supper, and other fouk has gotten their skin we’ll
pait.
By this time up got John the bridegroom, that was Jockey before he
was married, but could na get his breeks; yet wi’ a horse nail he
tacket his sark tail between his legs, that nane might see what
every body should hide, and rambling he cries settle ye, or I’ll
gar my uncle settle ye, and saften ye’re heads wi’ my auld supple.
Poor Rab Reid the fidler took a sudden blast; some said he was
maw-turn’d wi’ the fa’; for he bocked up a the barley and then
gar’d the ale go like a rain bow frae him as brown as wort brose.
The hurly burly being ended, and naething but fair words and
shaking o’ hands, which was a sure sign o’ an agreement, they began
to cow their cuttet lugs, and wash their sairs, a but Jockey’s
mither, who cries out a black end on a you and your wedding baith:
for I hae gotten a hunder holes dung in my arse wi’ the heckle
teeth.
Jockey answers, A e’en had you wi’ them than mither, ye will een be
better sair’d.
Up gets uncle Rabby, and auld Sandy the sutor o’ Seggyhole, and
put every thing in order; they prappet up the bed wi’ a rake
and rippling kame, the bearers being broken, they made a solid
foundation of peats, laid on the cauf bed and bowsters, where
Jockey and Maggy was beddet the second time.
Jockey no being used to lie wi’ a naked woman, except heads and
thraws wi’ his mither, gets his twa hands about the brides neck
and his houghs out o’er her hurdies, saying, I ne’er kist wife
nor lass naked before, and for fainness I’ll bite you, I’ll bite
you, &c. Naithing mair remarkable till about haf a year and four
ukes thereafter, in comes Marion Mushet rinning barefoot and bare
legget, wi’ bleart cheeks and a watery nose, cursing and banning,
greeting and flyting.
Marion enters. Crying, and whar’s John.
His mither answers. Indeed he’s out in the yard powing Kail runts.
Marion. A black end on a him and his runts baith, for he’s ruin’d
me and my bairn.
Mith. Ruin’d you! it canna be; he never did you ill, nor said you
ill, be night or be day, what gars you say that?
Mar. O woman! our Jenny is a’ rowing like a pack o’ woo; indeed
she’s wi’ quick bairn, and your John is the father o’t.
Mith. Our John the father o’t! had, there enough said, lying lown,
I trow our John was ne’er guilty of sic a sinfu action: Daft woman,
I true it ill be but wind that hoves up the lasses wame; she’ll hae
drunken some sour drink like sour sowens, or rotten milk that mak’s
her sae.
Mar. A wae be to him and his actions baith, he’s the father o’t
furnicator dog that he’s, he’s ruin’d 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 cou’d pit on
anither’s claes, or tak a louse aff ither.
Mith. I bid you had 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 o’ John, and
let’s ratify’t wi’ the auld ruddoch: ay, ye’ere no blate for saying
sae.
Mar. Be angry, or be well pleased, I’ll say’t in a your faces, an
I’ll ca you before your betters about it or lang gae.
John enters. An what want ye now, is our brose ready yet?
Mith. Ay brose, black brose indeed for thee, my bairn; here Marion
Mushet saying ye hae gotten her dochter wi’ bairn.
Jock. Me mither? I ne’er lay in a bed wi’ her dochter a my days,
it’ll be the young lairds, for a saw him kiss her at the Lammas
fair, an let glam at her nonsense.
Mith. Ay, ay, my man Johny, that’s the way she has gotten her belly
fu’ o’ bairns; it’s no you nor the like o’ you, poor innocent lad,
that gets bystart weans: a wheen filthy lowns, every ane loups on
anither, and gies you the wyte o’ a’.
Mar. You may say what you like about it, it’s easy to ca’ a court
whar there’s nae body to say again, but I’ll tell you a I ken
about it, and that is what she tell’t me, and you guidwife telt me
some o’t yoursel; an gin you hadna brought in Maggy wi’ her muckle
tocher atween the twa, your Jockey and my Jenny had a been man and
wife the day.
Jock. I wat weel that’s true.
Mith. Ye filthy dog at ye are, are ye gaun to confess wi’ a
bystart; and it no yours: dinna I ken as well as she do wha’s aught
it?
Jock. Ay but mither, we may deny as we like about it, but I doubt
it come to my door at last.
Mith. Ye silly sumff and senseless fallow, had ye been knuckle deep
wi’ the dirty drab, ye might a said sae, but ye telt me lang syne
that ye cou’d na lo’e her, she was so lazy and lown like; besides
her crooket fit and bow’d legs.
Jock. Ay but mither, do ye mind since ye sent me out to gie her
the parting kiss, at the black hole o’ the peet stack; she rave
the button frae my breeks, and wad gar me do’t; and bad me do’t,
and cou’d flesh and blood refuse to do’t; I’m sure mither, I cou’d
ne’er get her wi’ bairn an my breeks on.
Mith. Na, na, poor simple silly lad, the wean’s no yours, ilk ane
loups on of anither, and you’ll get the wyte o’ a bytarts round
about.
Up gets Maggy wi’ a rore, and rives her hair, cries her back,
belly, and baith her sides; the weed and gut gaes thro’ my flesh
like lang needles, nails or elshin irons. Wae be ti’ the day that
e’er I saw his face, I had better married a tinkler, or a followed
the sogers, as mony an honest man’s dochter has done, and liv’d a
better life than I do.
Up gets Jockey and rins o’er the rigs, for John Roger’s wife, auld
Katty the howdy, but or he wan back she parted wi’ patrick thro’
perfect spite, and then lay twa fauld o’er a stool in a swoon.
Jock. A well, a well, sirs, since my first born is dead without
seeing the light o’ the warld; ye’s a get bread an cheese to the
blyth meat, the thing we shou’d a war’d on the banket will sair the
burial, and that will ay be some advantage: an Maggy should die, I
maun een tak Jenny, the tane is as far a length as the tither: I’se
be furnisht wi’ a wife between the twa.
But Maggy turn’d better the next day, and was able to muck the
byre; yet there gead sic a tittle tattling thro’ the town every
auld wife tell’t anither o’t, and a’ the light hippet hussies that
rins between towns at een, 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 wi’ bairn.
At last Mess John Hill hears of the horrid action, and sends the
elder of that quarter and Clinkem Bell[5] the grave maker, to
summon Jockey and Jenny to the session, and to see how the stool
of repentance wad set them,[6] no sooner had they entered the door
but Maggy fa’s a greeting, and wringing her hands; Jockey’s mither
fell a fliting, and he himself a rubbing his lugs, and riving his
hair, saying, O gin I were but a half ell higher, I sud be a soger
or it be lang, and gie me a good flail or a corn fork, I sud kill
Frenchman enew, before I gaed to face yon flyting ministers, an be
set up like a warlds wonder, on their cock-stool or black stool[7]
an wha can bide the shame, whan every body looks to them, wi’ their
sacken sarks or gowns on them,[8] like a piece of an auld canvass
prickt about a body, for naething, but what every body does
amaist, or they be married as well as me.
Mith. My man Johny, ye’re no the first that has done it, an ye’ll
no be the last; een mony o’ the ministers has done it themselves,
hout ay, your father and I did it mony a time.
Mag. Ay, ay, and that gars your son be so good o’t as he is: the
thing that is bred in the flesh is ill to pit out o’ the bane.
Mith. Daft woman what way could the warld stand, if fouks wadna
make use o’ ither, it’s the thing that’s natural, bairns getting,
therefore it’s no to be scunnert at.
Mag. Ay, ay, but an they be for the like o’ that, they should marry.
Mith. But I think there’s little ill tho’ they try it yence or
twice or they be married; it’s an unco thing till a body to be
bound to a business, if they dinna ken whether they be able for it
or no.
Mag. Ay, ay, that’s your way o’ doing and his, but its no the way
o’ 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 mine.
Mag. Ay, but fouk should ay strive to mortify their members.
Mith. An is that your Whigry? Will you or any body else, wi’ your
mortifying o’ your members, prevent what’s to come to pass? I wish
I saw the minister an his elders, but I’se gie him scripture for
a he’s done yet: tell na me about the mortifying o’ members, gin
he hae gotten a bystart let her and him feed it between them an
they sud gie’t soup about: but she maun keep it the first quarter,
an be that time muckle black lady ’ill be cauft, we sall sell the
cauf an foster the wean on the cow’s milk: That’s better mense
for a fault, than a’ your mortifying o’ your members, and a’ your
repenting-stools; a wheen papist rites an rotten ceremonies,
fashing fouks wi’ sack gowns and buttock-males,[9] an I dinna ken
what, but bide you yet till I see the minister.[10]
THE WONDERFUL WORKS OF OUR JOHN MADE MANIFEST BEFORE THE MINISTER,
&c.
PART III.
Now Jockey and his mither went into the little byre, and held a
private meeting, nane present but auld bruckie, and the two brutes
the bits a couties.
Mith. Ye silly dog, an he be drown’d to you, how cou’d ye confess
sae muckle to maeslie shanket Marion, altho’ she be her mither.
Jock. O mither, mither, say nae mair about it, my ain wand has
dung me dourly; sadly have I suffered for that, and ye ken a’ the
misery’s com’d o’er our Maggy, my mouth’s the mither o’t, sae ha’d
your tongue I tell you now.
Mith. An tell ye me to ha’d my tongue, an ye had a hauden your
tongue and your tail, an a done as I bade you, ye hadna hane sae
muckle ado the day daft silly dog it thou is.
Jock. Mither, mither, gies nane o’ your mocks nor malice, for tho’
I got the wean, ye hae as muckle the wyte o’t as I Gae seek me out
my three new sarks, an Sunday’s shune, an I’se gae whar ne’er man
saw my face before, neither wood, water nor wilderness, sall haud
me again.
Mith. My braw man Johny, ye mauna do that, stay at hame wi’ me, and
set a stout heart till a stay brae, I’se gae to the session wi’
you, gang whan ye like.
Jock. A well mither, I sall do your bidden for ance yet, but whan
the minister flytes on me, answer ye him, for I canna speak well
again.
Mith. Say nae mair, I hae a pokfu’ o’ perfect petitions to louse
an put to him an his elders, and if thou maun gae to their
black-stool, it’s no be thy lane sall sit upon’t.
Jock. But mither, whether will I deny the doing o’t or confess the
game was at the getting o’t?
Mith. Ay, ay, confess ye did it, but say but ance, and that it was
on the terms of marriage, the way that a’ our kintry bystarts is
gotten.[11]
Now Jockey being three times summon’d to the session and did not
appear, the session insisted for a warrant from the justice of
the peace,[12] which was readily granted, more for diversion than
justice’ sake, the warrant being given to John King the constable,
who went away with Clinkem Bell on Saturday’s morning, and catch’d
John just at his breakfast, hauls him awa, ane at ilka oxter like
twa butcher dogs hinging at a bull’s beard, his mother followed,
driving him up with good counsels, my bra’ man Johny, haud up your
head, dinna think shame, for a’ your fauts is but perfect honey,
you’re neither a thief, whore nor horse stealer.
Then Maggy ran for uncle Rabby, an uncle Rabby sent to Sandy the
Souter of Seggyhole, the Souter saddled his mare, and uncle Rabby
got aff at the gallop on his gray powney west the hags, an o’er by
Whitehill shough, the nearest, and was at Sir James the justices
lang or John was brought into judgment.
John enters, before the justice, with a red, red face, Goode’en
Mr. Justice, Sir James, an’t please your honour ye manna put me in
prison, for am no malefactor, but a poor honest kintry-man, that
was born in an ill planet, my mither says’t I had the ill luck of
a misfortune to fa’ foul wi’ furnication, and got my mither’s lass
wi’ bairn the last year, and they’re gawn to father’t on me the
year again.
The justice smiling, answer’d, indeed John I think it is but very
just and reasonable that ye be accountable this year for your last
years labours.
Jock. Ay, ay, sir, I have laboured very sair since my father died,
but our plough canna get gaun for frost this four days.
Just. Ay but John, that’s no what I mean, it’s the child ye got
last year, ye must be answerable for this.
Jock. A deed stir, there was twa o’ them, but there is ane o’ them
dead.
Just. A well then John you’ll have the more to give the one that’s
alive.
Jock. Oh! but stir, it’s my ain wean that’s dead, the ane I got wi’
my wife; I dinna ken whither the tither be mine or no.
Just. Yours or no sir, when ye told me ye got it; if ye should get
it wi’ a beggar wife at the back of a dike what is that to the
purpose, when it is of your getting you must maintain it.
Jock. O! yes stir, am no refusing to gie meat and meal to
maintain’t; but my mither winna let me to the black-stool.
Just. Why not go to the black-stool, when guilty of such an action
as deserves it, if you have any reasons why you should not go,
argument it in session and clear yourself if you can.
John’s mother enters, and addresses herself to the servant lass,
thinking she was the justice’s lady.
Indeed mistress madam, if ye were a kintry good-wife, like mysel,
I could tell you a’ about it, but you that’s gentiles, I canna use
freedom wi you, cause I hae na Latin. But waes me we that’s poor
fouk is born to mony fealins and backwart faus, this lad is my son,
an am his mither, he has had the foul fortune to get a bystart
bairn, nae doubt but we hae been a’ guilty o’ as muckle and ne’er a
word about it, a what say ye madam?
Off goes the lass, saying, Foul fa’ the wife, for I was never
guilty o’t.
Just. Well goodwife, what is the reason but ye let your son give
satisfaction to the kirk?
Mith. Deed stir, he’s no denying the bairn, but he’ll no hae the
black-stool.
Just. Ay, but I tell you, them that gets a bystart, gets the
black-stool to the bargain, and as he is in my hands now, he must
find caution that he will answer the session and be subject to the
law.
Mith. Ony thing ye like, stir, but that shamfu’ stance, the black
stool, here’s uncle Rabby, and auld Sandy the Sutor, will be
caution that we’s face the session on Sunday, the lad’s wae enough
he did it, but he canna help it now, the weans born and by hand;
Sae goodnight wi’ your honour’s ladyship it’s the first time e’er I
was before you.
On Sabbath after sermon the session met, John and his mother is
call’d upon, he enters courageously, saying, Good-een to you Master
Minister, bellman and elders a’, my mither and me is both here.
Mess John. Then let her in, come awa goodwife, What’s the reason
you keep your son so long back from answering the session? you see
it is the thing you are obliged to do at last.
Mith. Deed stir, I think there needs na be nae mair wark about it,
I think when he’s gien the lazy hulke, the mither o’t, baith meal
and groats[13] to maintan’t, ye need na fash him, he’s a dutifu’
father indeed, weel a wat, whan he feeds his bystart sae weel.
Mess John. Woman are you a hearer of the gospel? that ye reject
the dictates of it, how come you to despise the discipline of the
church? Is not offenders to be rebuked and chastised?
Mith. Yes stir, a’ that is very true, but I hae been three or four
times through the Bible, and the New Testament, and I never saw a
repenting stool in’t a’; then whar cou’d the first o’ them come
frae, the Apostles had nane o’ them. But a daft history book tells
me, that the first o’ them was used about Rome amang the Papists,
and ay whan ony o’ them turn’d Whigs, they were put on a four
neuked thing, like a yarn winnle blades, and rave a’ their gouls
sindry till they turn’d Papists again: and then for anger they put
them on a black stane or stool, in the mids o’ the kirk, and the
seck goun about them, wi’ the picture o’ the de’il and Satan on’t,
a sweet be wi’ us, we sudna speak o’ the ill thief in the kirk,
but it is a mercy the minister’s here an’ he come, but that was
the original of your repenting stools, and whan the whigs chas’d
awa the Papist fouk out o’ this kintry, they left a wheen o’ their
religious pictures, and the stool o’ repentance was amangst the
spoil, but yese no get my bairn to set upon a thing as hich as a
hen bawk, and ilka body to be glowring at him.[14]
Mess John. Woman I told you formerly that any who refuses
submission to the government of the church, is liable to
excommunication: and that we are to put the law in execution
against adultery and fornication, or the sin thereof, lies partly
on our head.
Mith. As for your sin of adultery, I have naething ado wi’t; I ken
my son is a fornicator, and ye can neither mak him better nor war
nor he is, there’s nae man can keep a standing in their ain hand,
fortune I mean, if it be a sin let him confess’t, and forsake it,
and wi’s pay the buttock-mail and mak nae mair about it.
Mess John. Goodwife you need not think your son will pass so,
more than others that has been before him, he must actually come
before the congregation three sabbaths before he be absolved from
the scandal, and get the benefit of any church privileges like any
other honest man.
Mith. Indeed Mess John, my son will never set his hips upon’t; if
he maun come before you, I’se gar him stand a bit a back frae’t
and hear what ye hae to say about fornication, twa harmless free
bodies, passing their trials to see what they can do, ye that’s
whigs may mak enough o’t, but I think na muckle about it.
Mess John. Woman you may go home and see what ye have to do; ye
have a very bad tongue: it’s no you we are to take account of.
Mith. Ay, ay, ye that’s ministers and modest fouk may say sae, but
if my son had tane as good tent o’ his tail, as I can do o’ my
tongue, there had na been sae muckle about it, a wheen silly loons
kens na what they were made for, or how to guide a thing whan they
get it.
Mess John. Put her out, she’s going to speak baudy.
Mith. O ay, stir, I’se gang out, but I’ll hae my bairn out wi’ me.
Mess John. We must first ask some few questions at him, there is no
harm can come on him here.
Mith. For as good company as you think yourselves, I wad rather hae
him in anither place.
John’s kept in and his mother put out.
Mess John. Well John, you must tell us whether this child was
gotten before ye was married, or since: for I suppose by the time
of the birth it is much about the same time.
Jock. Hout ay, stir, it was gotten lang or I was married, I need na
forget the getting, it was na sae easy to me.
Mess John. How long is it since ye was first acquaint?
Jock. Just when she came to be my mither’s lass, I never saw her
but ance before, and gin I had never seen her, I had never kend her
in sic a fashious fashion.
Mess John. How long was she serving with your mother.
Jock. Just twa hail-yerts: and I got her wi bairn about a year
after she came, and its no a year yet since I was married.
Mess John. Dear John there is a contradiction indeed, a woman
cannot go two years with child.
Jock. Deed stir, it was then the wean was first gotten.
Mess John. A John, John, I find you out to be a sinful liver, you
and that woman has had carnal dealings for some time; it is ill
keeping the cow out of the corn, if she once got a way of going to
it, ye should actually a married the poor woman, when ye cohabited
so long together.
Jock. No stir, we didna cow habit, tho’ she kist me, and I kist
her, sometimes in the barn, and sometimes in the byre: nane ken’t
o’t but my mither, an’ she wadna let me tak her, but sent me awa to
court our Maggy.
His mother cries through the hole o’ the door: A ye senseless
sumph, is that a’ the thanks I get for counselling you to do weel,
war na me ye wad a been married on a lownlike leepet lazy lump, who
had neither wit nor wyles, no say much judgment as wyfe the wind
frae her tail but lute it gang afore fouks.
Up gets the elders crying, Fy, fy, Duncan the bell-man drive that
wicked wife frae the door she disturbs us all.
Duncan runs to the door whispering, shame fa you for a wife had out
o’ that: but I wad rather hear you, as hear them yet.
Mess John. Now John will you be so plain as tell me whether ye
promist to marry the woman or no, when ye lay with her.
Jock. Na stir, I didna lie wi’ her, for the herd and me lay in the
byre-bed, and she lay in the little lang sadle at the hallen end.
Mess John. It is all one whether ye lay with her or not, when ye
have got her with child, that’s what ye confess.
Jock. I kenna whither I got her wi’ bairn or no: but I did wi’ her
as I did wi’ our Maggy, when she fell wi’ bairn.
Mess John. But the question is, whether or no, did you promise to
marry her when that child was gotten?
Jock. Hut, tut, stir, ye wad fash fouk spiering a’ thing, it was
her that promist to marry me for the getting o’t.
Mess John. And did not you do the like to her?
Jock. A what needed I do the like when she and my mither did it a’
but the wean getting, she could na do that.
Mess John. Indeed John you seem to have been a parcel of loose
livers altogether.
Jock. A loose stir, I wish I were loose yet, better be loose than
bun to an ill stake.
Mess. John. I see it is needless for me to enquire any further
into the matter, I find you out guilty, therefore, you must appear
publicly on the stool of repentance on Sabbath next, and the two
following thereafter, or ye be absolved from the scandal.
Jock. Indeed master minister, am very easy about repentance, and
for your stool, its a seat am very indifferent about, for am but
bashful, and as I was never guilty o’ getting bystarts, either
before or sin syne, except in thoughts, words, deeds and actions,
I think ye may een let me pass, I suffered enough wi’ the clash o’
the kintry, and loss o’ my ain wain, it was nae bystart, ye canna
gar me stand for that.
Mess John. You appear to be such a stupid fellow, the like of you
should neither have lawful child or bastard, and I admire that
such an ideot as you, was allowed to be married to any woman; and
you James, who is the elder of that proportion, should have given
information of this man’s capacity, before he was joined to a
wife.[15]
Elder. Indeed sir, ye ken very well, he answered the questions at
the examine, better nor any other fouks, and I think he is best
married, for he might a gotten mae bystarts and fasht us.
Jock. Indeed stir, it’s very true, for when ance I got the gate o’
women, I cou’d na bide aff them, but our Maggy was unco cunnen, she
wad na let me do naething but kiss her and kittle her till ance we
was married.
Mess John. I’ll ask no more questions at him: call on his mother,
(in she comes,) Goodwife, we have ordered your son to appear
three Sabbaths on the stool an’ there to be reproved before the
congregation publicly an’ be absolved from the scandal.
Mother. Than the ill thief be in his a--se Mess John, gin e’er he
set his hips upon’t, my bairn on your black stool? and wadna’t be
a great blunder on the auld black face o’t, to my son to gang on’t
before the young laird, who has had twa bystarts and ne’er set a
hip on’t yet, and he’s continually riding on the hussies to this
day, and them that wadna let him, he rives their duds, and kicks
their doups. A dear Mess John, an ye gie gentle fouk a toleration
to whore, to fornicate, kiss an’ kuddle a wee, wi’ ilka body they
like, I’ll gie you ten marks and gie’t to me and my son too.
Mess John. And what shall we do with these odious persons?
Elders. Indeed, sir, we see not what we can make of them.
Mess. John. Make of them, we’ll exclude them from all church
benefit, and lay them under the lesser excommunication.[16]
Mith. Indeed stir, tak your mind o’t as our cat did o’ the haggies,
when she sippit it a’, and crap in o’ the bag.
If ye winna christen the wean, ye canna hinder us to cast a cogfu’
o’ water on the face o’t, and ca’t ony thing we like.
So out she goes shooting Jockey before her, so John went and pisht
on the auld minister’s widow’s gavel, and there was nae mair about
it that day.
HOW JOCKEY AND HIS MOTHER WENT AWAY TO SEE HIS BASTARD CHILD, &c.
PART IV.
Now Jockey and his mither came hame together, cheek for chow
cracking like twa hand guns.
Moth. I trow I have fought a battle this day, and win the field
condingly, whan I hae conquer’d a’ the canker’d carles about the
kirk.
Jock. Indeed mither I think ye are a better man nor the minister,
and gin ye had Arithmattock and Latin, to ken the kittle figures
you may preach as well as he.
Moth. I true Jock lad their black stool o’ sham repentance ne’er
got sic a rattle as I hae gient the day.
Jock. Na, na, mither, a’ the whoremongers that ever set a hip on’t
kens na sae muckle about the auld foundation o’t as ye do.
Moth. But Johny man, an’ thou wad start in the morning, the first
o’ the daft days,[17] and that’s on Munday, ye an’ I wad go and see
the daft jade, Jenny the mither o’t.
Jock. Wi’ a’ my heart mither, but wi maun giet something an’ it
were an auld servet, or an auld sark to keep the hips o’t warm,
young weans is ay wet about the a--se ye ken.
Moth. A well then Johny, I’se cry to thee whan the hens begin to
keckle, and that’s about the break o’ day, an’ wees be ready to tak
the road again Torryburn day light, whan weel ken a turd by a stane.
Up gets auld Maggy, Jocks mither in the morning, puts on the
kettle, and maks her Yool sowens, the meikle pot hung on the fire
a’ night wi’ the cheek of an auld cows head, skims aff the fat an’
mak’s a great cog o’ brose, then pours on a chappen o’ clean creish
like oil, which made a brave sappy breakfast for Jockey and his
mither, and Maggy got the cog to scart.
The brose being done and a’ thing ready, he halters the black
mare, lays on the sunks and a covering, fine furniture for a
country wife.[18]
Jockey mounts, and his mother behind him, trots awa, till coming
down the brae abune John Davie’s well; the auld beast being unfiery
o’ the feet, she fundred before, the girth and curple brake, Jockey
tumbled o’er her lugs, and his mother out o’er him in the well wi’
a slung.
Jock. Ay, ay, mither, tho’ I fell ye needna faun abune me, an’ gin
ye had lyne whar ye lighted first, ye wadna tumbl’d into the well;
its an unco thing that a body canna get a fa’ but ye maun fa’ abune
them: auld ruddoch it thou is, thou might a hauden better by the
rumple, an’ ye wadna a bruised a my back wi’ your auld hard banes,
nor a wat a’ yoursel say, and see how ye hae drummel’d a John
Davie’s well.
Moth. Hech quo she, I wonder gin I be kill’d, thou always was wont
to get the word of a good rider, baith upon hussies and horses, an’
this be thy management thou’s little worth; fel’d the auld beans it
bore thee! sic a bath as I hae gotten to my Yool, thou coudna gien
me a war bed nor a water hole in a cauld frosty morning: wae be to
thee an’ that ill gotten gett o’ thine, O! let never better bounty
be gotten wi’ bystarts getting, an’ this is so much for the fruits
o’ fornication, a war stance nor the black-stool yet.
Jock. Let’s a be now wi’ your auld taunts about bystarts getting,
or I’se gie you the wind o’ the mare’s tail, an’ gar you wammel
hame an’ a’ your wate coats about you.
Moth. Na, na, my man Johny, haud the auld jade till I loup on, we
came together, and wi’s gang together, wi sall see thy bystart and
its mither or wi gae hame.
Jock. Wi’ a’ my heart mither, but yonder the house an’ the hens
on’t, the lums reeking rairly, but little ken they wha’s coming.
At length they came to Jenny’s mother’s door.
In goes his mother and in goes his mare,
Himself follows after, cries how’s a’ here?
Moth. Hech, is that poor body in her bed yet?
Her mother answers,
Well a wat she’s in her bed, an’ cauld cauld, and comfourtless is
her lying; bystarts getting is just like lent gear, seldom or ever
weel paid back again; but my poor lassie coudna done war nor she’s
done, O! gin she had yielded her body to some bit herd laddie, he
wad a seen her lang or now.
Moth. A dear Marrion what wad ye be at? Do ye think that our John
wha has a wife o’ his ain, cou’d come an’ wait on her as she were
a dame o’ honour, or yet an honest man’s wife, poor silly lown it
she is, an’ he had thought on what he was com’d o’ he wad ne’er a
offer’d benevolence to the like o’ her.
Mar. An’ ye had been as great an instrogater against his making
her double ribbet, as ye’re now against doing her justice, for the
filthy jimcrack he’s gien her, ye wadna need to ca’ her silly lown
the day, an him an honest man; but the ne’er an honest man wad a
hoddl’d sae lang on a ae poor hussie an’ then gane awa an a married
anither for love of a pickle auld clouts, and twa three pock-fou’s
o’ tow: an she is but a silly lown indeed that lute him or ony
rattle-scul else, shake their tail so lang upon her, without his
faith, an’ his troth, an’ his fist before the minister.
Moth. A cauld be your cast kimmer, do ye think it your dadeling
daughter’s a match fit for my son John; I think less may sair, her
father was but a poor cotter carle, an’ our John’s father was a
farmer, an’ its but a trick o’ youth, an’ the course of youdeth
maun be out; but she may thank good fortune an’ tell her friends
ay, an’ count it a credit that ever she bore a bystart to the like
o’ him; a good fu fat farmer’s son, but ae laigher nor a laird.
Mar. A wae be to sic a credit it’s no worth the cracking o’, an’
whar was a’ his noble equals whan he bute to lay a leg on a my poor
lassie, poor clarty clukny it thou is? an’ if they warna baith
ae man’s mak I wad think naething o’t; for they warna a needle o’
differ between their dadies an’ what war they baith but twa sticket
taylors at the best? ye had as good a gane hame an’ a counted
bow-kail stocks, as to come here to count kindred wi’ me.
Jock. Hout awa daft witless wives, I kenna what you’re flyting
about, I wad rather see the wean gin it be ony thing wally and like
the warld.
Mar. Indeed sall ye John, you’ll see your ain picture for little
siller, a muckle mouth’t haverel it is just like yoursel.
The child is presented.
Jock. Mither, mither, it has a muckle mouth just like mine, an’
sees wi’ baith ot’s een, an bit five days auld yet.
Moth. Dear Johny thou’s no wise man, wad tu hae the wean to be
blin, the poor thing saw whan it was new born.
Jock. A what ken I mither, am no sae weel skill’d as the howdies,
an’ them that’s ay hobbling weans: but I thought they had a been
like the wee bit’s a whalpies, nine nights auld before they had
seen ony.
Moth. Awa, awa, ye witless widdyfu’, comparing a beast till a
woman’s ain bairnie: a dog is a brute beast, an’ a wean is a
chrisen’d creature.
Jock. Na mither, its no a chrisen’d creature yet, for hit has
neither gotten the words nor the water, nor as little do I ken how
to ca’t yet.
Mar. I wat well it’s a very uncanny thing to keep about a house, or
yet t’ meet in a morning, a body wanting a name.[19]
Moth. Hout tout ay, ye it’s auld wives is ay fu o’ frits an’
religious fashions, them that looks to frits, frits follows them,
but it is six and thirty years since I was a married wife, an’ I
never kend a sabbath day by a nither ane, mony a time till the bell
rang.
Mar. Dear guidwife what needs ye speak so loud? ye fright the wean
wi’ crying sae, see as it starts.
Moth. Ay, ay, the bystarts is a’ that way, but ken ye the reason o’
that?
Mar. Ye that kens the reason of everything may soon find out that
too.
Moth. A deed than woman I’ll tell you, the merry begotten weans,
its bystarts I mean, is red wood, half wittet hillocket sort o’
creatures: for an it be nae ane among twenty o’ them, they’re a’
scar’d o’ the getting, for there’s few o’ them gotten in beds like
honest fouk’s bairns; but in out-houses, auld barns, backs o’
dikes, and kil-loggies; whar there’s ay somebody wandering to scar
poor needfu’ persons, at their job of journay-wark: for weel ken I
the gaits o’t, experience gars me speak.
Jock. A deed mither that’s very true, for whan I was getting that
wean at the black hole o’ the peat stack, John Gammel’s muckle
Colly came in behind us wi’ a bow wow, of a great goul just abune
my buttocks; an’ as I’m a sinner, he gart me loup laveruck height,
an’ yet wi got a wean for a’ that.
Moth. A weel than Johnny that mak’s my words good yet.
Jenny answers out o’ the bed. A shame fa your fashions ye hae nae
muckle to keep whan ye tell how it was gotten, or what was at the
getting o’t.
Jock. A shame fa yoursel Jenny, for I hae gotten my part o’ the
shame else, an’ gin ye hadna tell’d first there wad nane kend,
for nae body saw us but John Gammel’s auld colly an’ he’s no a
sufficient witness.
Mar. Now guidwife amang a’ your tales ye hae tell’d me, how is this
wean to be maintain’d?
Moth. Ill chance on your auld black mouth Marrion, did I not send
you my guid sprittled hen, a pund of butter and a sixpence, forby
a libby o’ groats an’ a furlat o’ meal; mak her a guid cogfu’ o’
brose, an’ put a knoist o’ butter in them, to fill up the hole whar
the lown came out, an’ I’ll send mair or that be done.
Mar. An it be na better nor the last ye may een keep it to your
sell; your groat meal, and gray meal, sand dust and seeds, course
enough to feed cocks an’ hens, besides a woman in her condition.
Moth. A foul be your gabs, ye’re a sae gash o’ your gabbies; a
whine fools that stives up your gutses wi’ guid meat, to gar the
worms turn wanton and wallop in your wames; feed yourselves as I
do, wi’ hacket kail brose, made o’ groat meal, an’ gray meal, sand,
seeds, dust an’ weak shilling, ony thing is good enough to fill the
guts an’ make a t--d of.
Jock. Na, na, mither an’ the wean wad suck our Maggy, I sud take it
hame in my oxter.
Moth. O ye fool, Maggy’s milk is a mould salt and sapless lang
syne; but I trow she wad keb at it, as the black ew did at the
white ews lamb the last year, sae speak nae mair o’ Maggy’s milk,
no to compare a cat to a creature, the yeal cats is never kind to
kitlens, an’ the maiden’s bairns is a’ unco weel bred.
Jock. Na, na, ye’re a’ mistane mither, Maggy has milk yet for every
pap she has is like a burn pig, I’se warrand ye they’ll haud pints
the piece.
Moth. My man Johny let them keep the wean, that has the wean, we’ll
never miss a pockfu’ of meal now and tan, I wadna hae my bed pisht
and blankets rotten for a bow o’ the best o’t.
Jock. O mither! I canna lea’t I like it say weel it has twa bonny
glancing een, just like mine in a keeking glass, I wonner how I was
able to get the like o’t, indeed mither I think mare o’ it, nor I
do o’ my gray horse, Maggy an’ the four ky.
Moth. My man Johnny ye’re at nae strait about bairns getting, nane
needs to gang to London to learn that auld trade; I ken very weel
when ane gets warklums right to their hand, nature will teach them
how to fa’ to.
Jock. Now fare ye weel Janet, that wean is weel worth the
warkmanship, I’ll warrand ye weel a wat ist.
Jenny. Guidnight wi’ you John, but O man thou’s broken my fortune,
I’ll never get mair o’ a man nor I hae gotten, an’ dear, dear, hae
I suffer’d for what I hae done, an’ if thou had a bestowed thyself
on a me, ye see what a bonny bairn time we had a hane.
Moth. Thou says it thou’s suffer’d sadly for what thou’s done, but
though they wad take the hide o’er thy een holes it wadna tak the
inclination out o’ thee; for thou’ll do’t again, but it’s no wi my
bairn I’se warrand thee, an’ now Johnny come awa hame to thy hauf
marrow an’ use thy freedom as formerly, thou’ll hae weans thick
and three fauld; I’se make thee a decoction of cock stanes, lamb
stanes, an’ chicken broe, will gar thee cock thy tail like a mevies
an’ canter like a Galloway toop.
THE VTH AND LAST PART.
_Being an Account of Jockeys Mother’s Death and Burial: With an
Elegant Elegy and Epitaph on that occasion--The Baptizing of his
two Children, and how he mounted the stool._
As Jockey and his mither came hobbling hame together on the out
side of the auld doil’d beast his mither’s black mare; a waefu’
misfortune befel them;--Her hinderlets being wickedly wet, in John
Davie’s well that morning, and it being a frosty night, her coats
was a’ frozen round about her and the hard harn sark plaid clash
between her legs like a wet dish clout, her teeth gaed like a
rattle bag till almost haf gate hame, then she was suddenly seiz’d
wi’ a rumbling in her muckle bag, what we kintry fouks ca’s a rush
i’ the guts; Jockey was fash’d helping her aff and helping her on,
foul, fat and dirty was the road, having like half a T----d as ever
tadder length.
Jock. Deed mither, I doubt death has something to do wi’ you, for
there’s a rumbling in a your wame like an auld wife kirning.
Mith. Hout tout I canna hear o’t, but they’ll be na fear o’ me now,
I’m safe at my ain door, thanks to thee an’ the auld beast it
brought me; heat my feet wi’ the bannock stane, an’ lay me in my
bed, fling four pair o’ blankets an’ a cann’os on me, I’ll be weel
enough an’ ance I were better, swieth Maggy gae mak me a cogfu’ o’
milk brose, an’ a placks worth o’ spice in them, nae fear of an
auld wife as lang as she’s loose behin, an can tak meat.
Jock. I’se be’t mither, a e’en fill up the boss o’ your belly,
you’ll stand to the storm the better, I’se warran ye never die as
lang as you can tak your meat.
Ben comes Maggy wi’ the brose; but four soups an’ a slag filled her
to the teeth, till she began to bock them back again, and ding awa
the dish.
Jock. A mither, mither I dout there’s mair ado wi’ you nor a dish
to lick: whan ye refuse guide milk meat, I’m doubtfu’ your mouth be
gaun to the mules.
Mith. A dear Johnny am no willin to die if I could do better: but
this will be a sair winter, on auld frail fouks, yet an’ I wou’d
grow better I might live these twenty years yet, an’ be nae auld
wife for a’ that: but alake a day there is e’en mony auld fouk
dying this year.
Jock. A deed mither there is fouks dying the year that never died
before.
Mith. Dear Johnny wilt thou bring me the doctor he may do me some
guide, for an my heart warna sick an’ my head sae sair, I think I
may grow better yet.
Jock. A weel mither, I’se bring the doctor, the minister, an’ my
uncle.
Mith. Na, na, bring nae ministers to me, his dry cracks ’ll do me
but little guid, I dinna want to see his powder’d pow, an’ I in sic
an ill condition; get me a pint o’ drams in the muckle bottle, an’
set in the bole in the back side o’ my bed.
Jock. A deed mither ye’re in the right o’t, for ye want to be weel
warm’d within; to chace the call wind an’ frosty water out at your
back side.
Then awa he rins to draff Meg’s at the Kirktown, an’ brings a
bottle in every hand, out wi’ the cork an’ gies her ane in o’er,
she sets it to her gab an’ squattles up a mutchkin at a waught,
which was like to wirry her till she fell a rifting and roaring
like an auld blunder-bush.
Mith. Hech hay, co’ she, but that maks an alteration and wears awa
the wind.
Wi’ that her head fell to the cod and she sughte awa, like a very
saint or drunken sinner.
Jock. O! Maggy, Maggy, my mither’s lost her breath, (she’ll no live
lang without it,) I doubt she be dead already, and nae body seen
her but ye and I and oursels twa; an’ she had been fair o’er seen
it maksna, I’ll no ha’d this a fair strae death indeed, fy Maggy,
cry in a’ the neighbours to see her die, although she be dead. O
an’ she wad but shake her fit, or wag her muckle tae, it wad ay
be some satisfaction:[20] but in came the neighbours in a hush,
dinging ither down in the door.
Jock. Come awa sirs, for my mither’s as dead as a mauk, good be
thanket for’t; but I’d rather it had a been the black mare, or the
muckle rigget cow, for weel a wat I’ll een miss her, for she was a
bra spinner o’ tow; an’ cou’d a cardet to twa muckle wheels, she
had nae faut but ane an that was her tongue, but she’ll speak nae
mair, fy gets a dale or a barn door to straught her on, for ay whan
she was cauld she was unco kankert an’ ill to curch, but I’se hae
her yerdet on Wednesday teen.
Come, come, says Maggy, wi maun hae her drest.
Jock. What does the fool mean? wad ye dress a dead woman, she’ll
never gang to kirk nor market a’ her days again.
Mag. A dear John be at ease, ye ken she mauna be buried as she is,
a sark and winding sheet is the least she can get.
Jock. Ah ha Maggy is that what you mean, she has a guid new windin
sheet, it was never about her shoulders yet,[21] say Maggy do’t a’
yoursell, and I’se gar clinkem Bell misure the grave and mak it.
Now when they brought out the corps John told the people they were
welcome, to haud in a cheek o’ his auld mither wast the gate; and
being laid right on the spakes,[22] ha! ha! quoth he, this is a
braw honestly indeed, its mair boukie nor my bridal was, but when
they came to the grave, it was o’er short and strait about the
mouth, which set John in a great passion, saying a foul fa your
naughty fashions master bell man, did not I packshon wi’ you for
the bried o’ my mither’s back and the length o’ her carkage? an’
this hole winna haud her thou’s get nae mair o’ my change if I sude
die the morn.
Uncle Rabbie. Whisht, whisht, stir, this sude be a day o’ mourning
for your mither, dinna flyte here.
Jock. What the vengeance uncle, sudna fouks die when they’re auld?
an’ am to pay for a hole and get but haf a hole; that’s the thing
that vexes me, but I’se keep twopence out o’ his trencher for’t,
an’ se will I een; but gang ye hame uncle to get cog and cap for
the dradgey, and I’ll see her get fair play or I gae.
Hame they came in a croud and fell to the cheese and cheeks of
leaves tuth and nail, the ale was handed about in cogs and caps,
lashing it down o’er like bletchers watering their webs; John
blutter’d in the cog like a cow in warm water, till the barm and
bubbles came belling out at his nose, saying, a guide health to
you a round about, an shoon and shortly may wi a gang the gate may
mither’s gane, an’ I wish them a burying amang the dogs that speaks
against it.[23]
About eight and twenty weeks thereafter Maggy had a wally weame fu
of weans to bear, an’ ay whan she cryed, John cryed, which made a’
the kimmers and auld Katty the howdie laugh heartily to hear them.
Katty. Here now John, your wife’s brought to bed wi’ a bra lad
bairn, gie him your blessing.
Jock. Well I wat he’s no want that, but an’ there had a been
samuckle din at the getting o’ him, as at the bearing o’ him, it
sude ne’er a been gotten for me: Come, come, gets in uncle Rabbie,
the com riddle fu’ of the three nucket scons, whang down the cheese
like peats, eat and drink[24] as at my mither’s dradgey, till wi
forget our sorrow, and then weel see Mess John about a name till
him; since wi see its the way o’t, that the young comes into the
warld and chases out the auld, wi maun chrisen them, and they maun
bury us.
Now John and his uncle goes to the minister, he enters, saying,
guideen to you Mr. Minister ye dinna ken my mither’s dead?
Minister. Yes John I heard so: but how is your wife?
Jock. My wife stir a wae worth her, for the wives o’ our town an’ I
hae gotten a waking night wi’ her; but wi hae gotten her turn’d and
still’d again, she’s born a bra wally thumping stirra, he’ll herd
the kye belyve to me an’ he had huggers on him, an’ am come to you
to get a bit name to him.
Minister. A bit name to him John, if ye want no more but a name, ye
may gie him that yourself.
Jock. Na but stir, I want baith the words and the water, what ye
say to ither fouks say to me.
Minister. A but John you must give security or satisfaction, you’re
a man under scandal.
Jock. What the muckle mischief stir, though under scandal or abune
scandal, will ye refuse to chrisen my wean that’s honestly gotten
in my ain wife’s bed beneath the blankets; caus I had a bystart,
canna ye chrisen the weel com’d ane, let the bystart stand for its
ain skaith without a name.
Minister. No John you have been too slackly dealt with, I’ll bring
you to obedience by law, since you reject counsel.
Jock. A deed stir, I wad think naething to stan a time or twa on’t
to please you, if there were nae body in the kirk on a uke day, but
you an’ the elders to flyte a wee on me; but its war on a Sunday,
to hae a’ body looking and laughing at me, as I had been coding the
piese, suppen the kirn, or something that’s no bonny like pissing
the bed.
Minister. A well John never mind you these things, come ye to the
stool, its nothing when its over we cannot sae o’er much to you
about it.
Upon Sunday thereafter John comes in with uncle Rabbies auld wide
coat, a muckle great gray lang tail’d wig and a big bonnet, which
cover’d his face, so that he seem’d more like an old Pilgrim than
a young fornicator; mounts the creepy[25] with 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 or the second it came to be 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 baptized the next day.
But there happened a tullie between the twa mother’s who would have
both their names to be Johns, a weel, a weel says old John their
father to the minister, deed stir ye maun ca’ the tean John an’ the
tither Jock, and that will please baith these enemies o’ mankind.
Minister. A well John suppose ye do, it is still twa Johns
nevertheless.
Jock. A deed stir, ye maun gie the wicked a’ their will, wi’s ca’
the bystart Jockie, an’ my son Johnny Bell; On wi’t some way and
let her ca’t as she likes.
Minister. A dear John but ye speak indifferently about this matter,
ye know not the nature of it.
Jock. A mony thanks to you Mess John, now caus ye hae chrisend
baith my bairn and my bystart I hope you’ll forgive me the buttock
mail.
Minister. John I desire you to be silent and to speak none here:
You must keep a straight walk in time coming, free of scandal or
offence.
Jock. Ay stir an’ how think ye the like o’ me can wak straight wi’
sic auld shevelin heel’d shune as mine, amang such rugh rigs, highs
an’ hows as I hae to harl through.
Minister. I need not speak to you, you are but a poor mean ignorant
person.
Jock. Na stir welawat am neither poor nor yet mean, my mither’s
fairly yerdet now guide be thanket, and left a’ she had to Maggy
and me.
Minister. But hear ye this John, ye must not kiss any other woman
nor[26] your own wife, live justly like another honest christian,
and you’ll come to die well.
Jock. A black end on a me stir, in ever I lay an unlawfu leg upon
hissie again an they sude lie down to me while our Maggy lests; and
for dying there’s nae fear o’ that, but I’ll no get fair play if ye
an’ a’ the aulder fouk in the parish be not dead before me, so I
hae done wi’ ye now.
* * * * *
An EPITAPH.
Here lies the dust of John Bell’s Mither,
Against her will, death’s brought her hither;
Clapt in this hole, hard by his dady,
Death snatch’t her up, or she was ready;
Lang might she liv’d wer’t not her wame,
But wha can live beyond their time?
There’s none laments her but the Suter,
So here she lyes looking about her;
Looking about her! how can that be?
Yes, she sees her state, better than we.
* * * * *
An ELEGY on the Death of JOCKEY’S MOTHER
Now a’ body ken’s my Mither’s dead,
For weel a wat I bore her head,
And in the grave I saw her laid,
It was e’en right drole,
For her to change a warm fire side:
For a cauld kirk-hole.
But every ane tell’st just like a sang,
That yon’s the gate we have to gang,
For me to do it, I think nae lang,
If I can do better.
For I trow my Mither thinks it nae sang,
What needs we clatter.
But thanks to death ay for the futer,
That did not let her get the Suter,
For about her gear wad been a splutter,
And sae had been,
For he came ay snoaking about her,
Late at een.
For our Maggy watch’t and saw,
My Mither’s back was at the wa’,
But what was mair hach ha’ hach ha’
I winna tell,
She to do yon stood little aw’,
Just like mysell.
But to get gear was a’ her drift,
And used many a pinging shift:
About her spinning and her thrift,
Was a’ her care,
She’s gotten but little o’t abune the lift,
Wi’ her ti wear.
FINIS.
_THE COALMAN’S COURTSHIP._
[The edition reprinted from here is ‘the tenth edition,’ as the
title page bears. The full title is:--‘The Young Coal-Man’s
Courtship to a Creel-Wife’s Daughter, or, a Dialogue between an
Old Woman and her Son: wherein she instructs him in the Real
Art of Courtship. Very beneficial for blate Wooers or young
Beginners. The Tenth Edition. Containing all its Three Parts.
Glasgow: Printed and sold by J. & J. Robertson, MDCCLXXXII.’ It
is a 16 pp. 12mo.]
THE YOUNG COALMAN’S COURTSHIP TO A CREEL-WIFE’S DAUGHTER.
All you that’s curious of Courtship, give attention to this History
of Mary and her son Sawny, a young Coalman, who lived in the
country a few miles from Edinburgh.
Mary, his mither, was a gay hearty wife, had mair wantonness nor
wealth; was twelve years a married wife, nine years a widow, and
was very chaste in her behaviour, wi’ her ain tale (for want of
charging:) for a’ this time of her widowhood, there was never a man
got a kiss o’ her lips, or laid a foul hand on her hind quarters.
Sawny her son was a stout young raw lown, full faced, wi’ flabby
cheeks, duddy breeks, and a ragged doublet, gade always wi’ his
bosom bare, sometimes had ae gartan, a lingle or rash-rape was
good enough for Sawny: his very belly was a’ sun burnt and brown
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
sell’d dear, when the wind was cauld, bought an oven farl and twa
Dunbar weathers,[27] or a Glasgow magistrate,[28] which fish-wives
ca’s a waslen herrin.
His mither, auld Mary plagued him ay in the morning, got up when
the hens keckled, reinged the ribs, blew her snotter-box, primed
her nose, kindled her tobacco pipe, and at every puff breathed
out fretting 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 looks in to
poor auld Mary: Hoch hey, will I never win out o’ this weery’d
life.--Wa’ Sawny man, wa’ Sawny man; wilt thou na rise the day; the
sun’s up, an a’ the nibours round about; Willie and Charlie is to
the hill an hour syne, an’ haf-gate hame again. Wilt thou rise and
gi’ 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. Shute to dead come on them, an’ they get a bit frae me till
they work for’t.
_Sawny._ But O Mither, I been dreaming that I was married, an’ i’
the bed aboon the bride, I wonder gin it be true: Od! I never got
sic fun; what wilt be, think ye? How auld am I mither; do you think
I could man a hissy yet? Fegs am a mind to try, but the sour saucy
hissies ’ill no hae me, I ken well enough.
_Mither._ Hae you lad, ay mony a hungry heart wad be blyth o’ you;
but there was never a sca’d Jocky but there was a scabbit Jenny
till him yet:[29] dinny be fear’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 you something it’m ay thinking
on, but ye manna tell the nibours, for the chields wad aye jamf[30]
me wi’t.
_Mither._ Wad I tell o’ thee, I wad tell o’ mysel as soon.
_Sawny._ Do ye mind, mither, that day I gaed to the Pans[31] I
came in by Auld Mattie’s, your countrymans, the Fife wife, it came
out o’ the town ye came frae, the wife it says, _Be-go laddie_, I
gaed there, and she wisna in, and her doughter kend me; she was
unco kind, and made me fat, fat brose out o’ the lee side o’ her
kail pat, there was baith beef and paunches in’t: od they smell’d
like ony haggies, an’ shin’d a’ like a gou’d lac’d waiscoat, figs
I suppit till I was like to rive o’ them, and had a rift o’ them
the morn a’ day; when I came out, I had a kite like a cow wi’ ca’f.
She spier’d for you mither, and I said ye was gaily: and she looked
to me, and leuch ay, and grippet my shakle bane, and said I wad
be a sturdy fallow yet.--I looked ay to her, and thought I liked
her, and thinks on’t ay sin-syne, she leugh, and bad me seek out a
coal-driver for her, for she did na’ like to carry a fish creel.
_Mither._ Forsooth, Sawny, I’ll gie my twa lugs for a lav’rocks 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 snoaking after; she has a dimple in every cheek, and ane on her
chin, twa legs like twa posts, an haunches like a sodger’s lady’s
hoop, they hobble when she shakes, and her paps plays nidity nod
when she gangs, I ken by her keeking[32] she has a conceit o’ me.
_Mither._ But Sawny man, an tou see her mither Matty in the town,
auld _Be-go-laddie_, as ye ca’ her, gi’ her a dram, she lik’st
well; spout ye a mutchkin o’ molash in her cheek, ye’ll get her
mind an’ speed the better.
_Sawny._ But mither how sud I do when I gang to court her; will
I kiss her and tan kittle her, an’ fling her o’er as the chiels
does the hissies amang the hay. I seen them gang our ither, and
o’er ither; an’ when they grip them by the wame, they’d cry like a
maukin when the dogs is worrying them.
_Mither._ Hut awa’, daft dog it thou is, that’s no the gate, thou
maun gang in wi’ bra’ good manners an’ 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 ay till her now and then wi’ a sto’en
look, and had 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’s some other way in courting nor
that, or the lasses would never couple so close to them.
_Mither._ Ay but Sawny man, there is a time for everything and that
too; when ye sit where nae body sees you, you may tak her head in
your oxter, like a creesh pig, dab nebs wi’ her now an’ than, but
be sure ye keep a close mouth when ye kiss her; clap her cheeks
and straik her paps, but for your drowning gang nae farther down;
but fouk’s 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 ’ill no ken what am com’d about.
_Mither._ Ay will she lad, wink and keek well to her, she’ll hae a
guess; seek a quiet word o’ her at the door; an’ gin it be dark,
gie her a wee bit kiss when ye’ve tell’d her your errand; an’ gin
they gi’e you cheese and bread, or ony meat, ca’t good, whether it
be sae or no; and for my blessing, be mensfu’ wi’ your mouth, and
dinna eat o’er muckle, for I seen you sip as mony milk brose as wad
a sar’t twa men to carry on a barrow.
_Sawny._ A but mither, ye’re lying now, or it was na’ a’ at ance
than, but an they set meat before me, and I be hungry, a de’il
claw the clungest[33] an’ I be nae upsides wi’t, for that same.
A faith mither, fouks maun hae meat, an’ they should ne’er get
wives, there’s some o’ them no worth the cursing, an’ a body were
na letting an oath whether or no: a hear ye that now, when ye pit
me till’t, and gar me speak; ay by my sooth, I wad rather hae a bit
good powny[34] an’ a pound o’ 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 fau’t: 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 gae to confusion. Gae to the courting ye dog it ye are,
and either do something or naething at a’.
End of the FIRST PART.
_The other two Parts give an account of his behaviour when in
courtship with the bride, the wedding, speuing of the blankets,
&c._
PART II.
Up got Sawny in the morning, and swallowed o’er his sodden meat,
slag by slag; and aff he goes to the coals and the courting,
lilting and singing like a lav’rock in a May mornin, _O to be
married if this be the way_. The colliers wonder’d a’ to see him
sae well busket, wi’ a pair o’ wally side auld fashioned breeks o’
his father’s,[35] and a lang cravate like a minister, or Baillie
Duff at a burial, a clean face and hands, and no less than a gun
sleev’d linen sark on him, which made his cheeks to shine like a
sherney weight, and the colliers swore he was as bra’ as a horse
gawn to a cow’s dredgy.
But Sawny came aff wi’ his coals whistling, and whipping up the
poor beast e’en as outragious 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 sell’d his coals than he left his horse
to come hame wi’ a nibour callen, and gade keeking up the Cow-gate,
and thro’ the closes, seeking auld _Be-go_ his good-mither to be,
then in thro’ the fish market where he bought a lang herrin, an’
twa baps, a pair of suters auld shoon greesed black and made new,
to make his feet feasible like, as he kend the lass wad look at
them, (for his mither tell’d him the women look’d ay to the men’s
legs or they marry’d them, and the well-legged louns gade ay best
aff.)
So Sawny came swaggering through a’ the shell wives, but she was
nae there, but coming down the town beneath the guard, meets auld
_Be-go_ just in the teeth, and crys, hey laddie my dow, how’s your
mither honest Mary? I thank you co’ Sawny, she’s meat-heal, and ay
working some, how is a’ at hame, is Kate and the laddie well?
_Mat._ Fu’ well my dow, you’re a bra’ soncy dog grown, a wally fa’
me gin I kend ye.
Come, come, co’ Sawny, and I’ll gie you a nossock to heat your
wame, it’s a cauld day, an’ ye’re my mither’s countryman.
Na’ fair fa’ you Sawny, I’ll no refus’t, a dram’s better the day
nor a clap on the arse wi’ a cauld shule, sae fallow me my dow.
So away she took me, co’ Sawny, down a dark stair to ane o’ the
how houses, beneath the yird, where it was mirk as in a coal
heugh,[36] and they had a great fire, _Sweet be wi’ me_, co’ Sawny,
_for it minds me o’ the ill part_, an’ a muckle pot like a little
caldron, seething kail and roasting flesh, the wife forket them
out as fast us she cou’d into cogs and caps, for there came in a
whin sutor-like fallows wi’ black thumbs and creashy aprons, that
cuttied them a’ up in a wee time, but they ne’er fashed wi’ us nor
we with them; we first got a gill and then a het pint; a vow said I
Matty, is nae Kate gawn to get a man yet?
A man laddie, a wha wad hae her? a muckle lazy useless jade, she
can do naething but work at husband wark;[37] card and spin, wash
ladies rooms, and scour gentlemen’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 o’ the fishers and her may mak it up.
_Mat._ A fisher laddie, hech the fishers has a better look out
wi’ them, the fishers wad rather hae a pickle good baits to their
hooks, and twa three bladders to their lines, then put up wi’ the
like o’ her, a stinking pridefu’ jade, although I bore her, ay
scraping and washing at hersel, pricking and prining, keeps her
face ay like a Flanders baby, and no less nor ribbons and rings,
and her shone made o’ red clouts; an’ de’il stick pride, when our
auld goodum ran barefoot, and our gutchers gaed wi’ bare hips. Gie
her a man, ill thief stap a gouk in her arse first, that it may
cry cuckow whenever she speaks o’t; she can do naething but scour
ladies piss pots, and keep clean the tirlie whirlies that hangs
about the fire, heth she’s o’er gently brought up to be a poor
man’s penny worth.
Hegh how co’ Sawny, an’ its e’en a great pity, for she’s a weel
far’d lusty hissy, I had a great kindness for her.
_Mat._ A-well-a-wat she’s no lingle tail’d, she may be a caff-bed
to a good fallow; but an thou had seen me at her age, I was a
sturdy gimmer: there was na ane about a’ the Hyne or Dubby-side,
cou’d lay a curpen to a creel wi’ me; the fient a fallow in a’
Fife, but I wad a laid him on the braid o’ his back, an’ a’ his
gear upmost, I was a chiken to chatter wi’ indeed laddie, I had a
pair o’ cheeks like a chapman’s arse, and a flank like an ox; sae
had I een.
_Sawny._ Nae doubt co’ Sawny but ye had a pair o’ beefy buttocks,
for your very cheeks hings like leather bags to this very day; but
I’ll tell you what am gaun to tell you, do you think that your Kate
wad tak me, an I wad come to court her.
_Mat._ Tak you laddie, tak you, a faith she’ll tak you, for she
wou’d a tane a poor button thing of a half blind taylor, wartna
me, a poor, bleir’d scabbit like creature it was, I seen the day
I wou’d ha carried it in my pouch: wode I’se warrent her jump at
you like a fish at a flee, wode I say tak you, an’ she winna tak
you I’se tak you mysel; but she and I cust out the day, about her
cockups and blackcaps, gard me say sae meickle o’ her, but she’s my
sonsy dawty for a’ that, weel a wat she’s a weel natured lassie an’
she turn an ill-natured wife I canna tell.
_Sawny._ A we’ll then I’ll venture on her as she is, for my
mither’s pleased, and ye’re pleas’d, an’ am pleas’d, an’ in she be
pleas’d wode I am sure to get her, an’ the taylor has nae bridled
her, or tane a trying trotty o’ her.
_Mat._ 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 make it fude
fast in a wee time, so thou’s get mair tocher than a cramon, _gamon
to gamon_, she has baith blankets and sheets, a covering and twa
cods, a caff-bed and bowster, and hear’st thou me laddie, I have a
bit auld hogger[38] an’ some thing in’t, thou’s get it when I die;
but by my suth it will be the last thing that I will part wi’, I
kenna what I may need yet, its an auld wife kens her wierd.
On this they paid their spout[39] and parted; but when Sawny came
out he stoited and stagger’d like a sturdy stot, molash was chief
commander, for he thought every body had two heads and four een
and more noses than they needed; being sometime in the dark house,
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 deel, or the doctors, or anse married, and wirking at
the wanton wark o’ wean’s making.
_Mat._ Hute daft laddie, the soup drink’s in your head, this day
and yesterday is a’ ae day, ye’ll be hame in bra’ 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’ the gither, I’ll hame and tell
the length its come, an’ it come 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 wa’s and windows wi’ his elbows, he
looked as fierce as a lion; wi’ a red face like a trumpeter, and
his nose was like a bublie-cocks neb, as blue as a blawirt; but or
he wan half way, his head turned heavier nor his heels, and many a
filthy fa’ he got, through thick and thin he plash’d, till hame he
gets at last, grunting and graping by the wa’s, that auld Mary his
mither thought it was their neighbour’s sow, he was so bedaubed wi’
dirt, gets him to bed, he was in a boiling barrel fever, and poor
Mary grat wi’ grief.
_Sawny._ Hech hey co’ Sawny, but courting be a curst wark, and
costly, an’ marriage be as mortifying and murdering, the devil may
be married for me.
_Mither._ Wa, Sawny man what’s come o’er thee now, thou’s gotten
skaith, some auld wife has witcht thee,[40] or the deel has dung
thee o’er in some dirty midden, my bairn’s elf-shot; whar has thou
been, or what hast thou seen, thy een reels like a wild cat, and
the sweat is hailing o’er thy nose, thou’s witcht, O man what will
I do!
_Sawny._ Bock, bock co’ Sawny, but it couldna win up wi’ bubbles
and herrin banes, o’ co’ Sawny put me in my bed, for my days will
soon be done, a curse on your courting wark, for its kill’d me, and
wives is but wicked things I ken by the same.
_Mither._ O dole! dole my bairn has gotten poison, for the smell
o’t is like poison to me.
_Sawny._ Gin herrin and het ale be poison, there’ll no be mony left
alive: Bock co’ Sawny, the bed’s filld.
_Mither._ My bairn thou was ay a cleanly bairn till now, thou’s
surely lost thy senses when thou files where thou lies as the brute
beasts does, thou never did the like o’ this before since thou left
cakying o’ the cradle.
N.B.--_The third Part gives a further account of the Courtship
and Marriage, &c._
PART III.
Poor Sawny had a terrible night o’t, wi’ a sair head, and a sick
heart, his een stood in his head, his wame caddled like onny mill
trows,[41] and a’ his puddings crocket like a wheen paddocks in a
pool; his mither rocket and wrang her hands, crying a wae be to
the wife that brew’d it! for I hae lost a well foster’d bairn, wi’
their stinking stuff, a meikle deel ding the doup out o’ their
ca’dron, my curse come on them and their whisky pots, its burnt him
alive, ay, ay, my bairn he’s gone.
But about the break of day, his wind brake like the bursting of
a bladder; O happy deliverance! cried Mary his mither, tho’ dirt
bodes luck,[42] and foul farts files the blankets, I wish ne’er
war be amang us. The next thing that did Sawny good was, three
mutchkins o’ milk made in thin brose, and a fine pickle pepper in
them, yet he had a soughing in his lugs like a saw-mill, and every
thing ran round about wi’ him a’ that day. Yet his mother got him
out o’ the bed, on o’ the meikle chair, a pair o’ blankets about
his shoulders, a cod at his back, and a hot brick to his soles,
to gar him true he was nae well; and there he sat like a lying-in
wife, cracking like a Hollander, and ate twa dead herrin and a
cufe,[43] telling a’ the outs and ins about his bridal, and whan 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 am the only thing myself, she’s but a
member, the men maun ay be foremost, gang what way it will, I’se ay
be the uppermost.
_Mither._ But Sawny man, what way is thou gaun to do? will ye mak a
pay penny wedding?[44] or twa three gude neighbours, a peck o’ meal
baken, wi’ a cheese, and a barrel o’ ale, will that do?
_Sawny._ Na, na, mither, I’ll take a cheaper gate nor ony o’ them;
I’ll gar haf-a-crown and haf-a-mutchkin or a rake o’ coals do it
a’, then a body has nae mair a-do but piss and then go to bed syne.
_Mither._ Na, na, my man Sawny, I have mony, mony a time, heard thy
honest father say, that never a ane wad do well that cap-strided
the kirk, or cuckol’d the minister.[45]
_Sawny._ A tell na me mither, o’ the ministers; they’re ay for
their ain hands as well as other fouks, an’ if a poor beggar body
had a bit wean to chrisen, the deil a doit they feike him o’t.
_Mither._ Hute awa man, there’s nae body has weans, but what has
siller to pay the chrissening o’ them; or if they be that poor they
sude na get nae weans, and they wad na be fash’d syne.
_Sawny._ Ha, ha, mither the poor foukes like the lice; ay when they
meet they marry and maks mae o’ them: And I think the ministers
might chrisen their bits a weans for nae thing, the water is no
sae scant; they’re well paid for their preaching, they may very
well both marry and chrisen a’ the poor foukes into the bargain, by
the way of a maggs.[46]
_Mither._ Ay, ay, my man Sawny, marriage is a sweet thing for young
fouke an’ the bed undefil’d.
_Sawny._ What the vengeance mither, do ye think that a body is to
file the bed every night, an’ they do’t ance.
_Mither._ Na, na, that’s no what I mean, its happiness that fouk
has that’s married, besides the wearied lonesome life it I hae,
lying tumbling and gaunting in a bed my lane; O sirs! but a man in
a bed be a usefu’ body, an’ it were but to claw ane’s back, as for
a body’s foreside they can claw it themsel.
_Sawny._ A’ mither, mither, ye hae fun a string again, I think ye
might a wanted a’ your days when ye fasted sae lang; ye hae plenty
o’ baith milk and meal, snuff and tobacco, but ye smell at the
crack o’ the whip, I kend my mither wad ride yet; for I seen her
fit wagging this lang time.
_Mither._ A dear Sawny man, an thou were ance fairly aff the
fodder, I’ll be casten into a hole of a house by mysel, where I’ll
just ly and break my heart, and weary mysel to dead, but an I cou’d
get a bit honest weaver, a cobler, or some auld taylor by the tail,
I wad tickle to him yet, let the country clash as they please about
it.
_Sawny._ A well, a well, then mither, take then your ain flight;
there’s nae fool to an auld fool; for the morn I’se be aff or on
wi’ the hissy I hae on hand.
So on the morning Sawny got a’ his clase clean, his hair cam’d and
greas’d wi’ butter, and his face as clean as the cat had licket it;
and away he goes singing.
_I will buy a pound of woo’,_
_I will wash’d and make a plaidy:_
_I’m gaun o’er the moor till woo,_
_Carline, is your daughter ready?_[47]
Now poor Sawny altho’ he sang, was as pale as a ghost from the
grave, his face was whitly white, like a well bleatch’d dish-clout,
he looked just as he had been eaten and spued again; but at length
he came to the bride’s door, and in he goes wi’ a brattle, crying
how is a’ here the day? an’ what’s com’d o’ thy mither lassie?
O Saunders said the bride she’s awa’ to the town, what came o’
you yesterday, she waited on you the whole day; ye gart her lose
a day’s trade lad, and she is away this morning cursing like a
heathen, an’ swearing _be-go_ that ye hae geen her a begunk.
_Sawny._ A dole woman, I took a sudden blast o’ the hame gawn, an’
was never so near dead in my life.
An’ wha think you was in company wi’ Kate the bride, but the wee
button of a taylor, who sat and sewed on a table, cocking like a
t--d on a trencher, but when he kend wha was com’d he leaped down
on the floor, custe a dash o’ pride like a little bit prince, he
bobet about, and so out he goes with the tear in his eye, and his
tail between his feet like a haff worried colly-dog.
_Sawny._ Now Katty do ye ken what I’m com’d about?
_Kate._ O yes my mither tell’d me, but I’m no ready yet, I have twa
gowns to spin, and things to mak.[48]
_Sawny._ Hute, things to mak, ye have as mony things as ye’ll need
woman, canna ye spin gowns in your ain house wi’ me, as right as
here wi’ an auld girning mither?
_Kate._ But dear Saunders, ye must give a body time to think on’t,
’twad be ill far’d to rush together just at the first.
_Sawny._ And do ye think I have naething a-do, but come here every
other day hoiting after you? it’ll no do, I maun be either aff wi’
you or on wi’ you, either tell me or tak me, for I ken of other
twa, and some o’ you I will hae, for as I’m a sinner my mither is
gawn to be married too, an’ she can get a bit man of ony shape or
trade.
_Kate._ Indeed then Saunders, since you’re in such a haste, you
must e’en tak them that’s readiest, for am no ready yet.
_Sawny._ Dear woman whan your mither an’ my mither’s pleas’d, am
willing to venture on ye, what a sorrow ails you?
_Kate._ Na, na I’ll think on’t twa or three days; it’s o’er lang a
term to see without a thought.
_Sawny._ Wode I think ye’re a cumstrarie piece o’ stuff, it’s true
enough your mither said o’ ye, that ye’re no for a poor man.
_Kate._ And what mair said she o’ me?
_Sawny._ Wode she said you could do naething but scure wash mugs,
an’ gentlemen’s bonny things, but hissies it is bred amang gentle
houses, minds me o’ my mither’s cat, but ye’r far costlier to keep,
for the cat wastes neither saep nor water, but spits in her lufe
and washes ay at her face, and whins o’ you can do nae ither thing,
and up he gets.
_Kate._ O Saunders but ye be short, will ye no stay till my mither
come hame?
_Sawny._ I stay’d long enough for any thing I’ll be the better; and
am no sae short as your totum of a taylor it I cou’d stap it my
shoe, sae cou’d I e’en.
Hame he goes in a passion, and to his bed he ran crying, O death,
death! I thought the jade wad jumpet at me; no comfort nor
happiness mair for poor me. O mither gar make my burial bread, for
I’ll die this night or soon the morn.[49] But early next morning
in comes auld _Be-go_ his good mither, who had left her daughter
in tears for the slighting o’ Sawny; and haules him and his mither
away to get a dinner of dead fish, where a’ was agreed upon, 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,[50] who gave them twa three words, and twa three
lines, took their penny and a good drink, wish’d them joy and gaed
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 that penny for deil haet, ye might cracket lufes on’t[51]
and been as well, if no better; I have seen some honest men say
mair o’er their brose[52] nor what he said a’ the gither, but an ye
be pleas’d am pleas’d, a bout in the bed ends a’, and makes firm
wark: so here’s to you, and joy to the bargain, its ended now well
I wat.
_COMICAL TRANSACTIONS OF LOTHIAN TOM._
[This is another unique specimen of the early chap-book from
the library of George Gray, Esq. The original is in three
numbers of eight pages each, breaks being made in the narrative
without respect to any thing but the filling of requisite space.
The first number bears the title:--‘The History and Comical
Transactions of Lothian Tom. In Six Parts. Wherein is contained a
Collection of Roguish Exploits done by him, both in Scotland and
England,’ while the other two are but modifications of it. There
is this addition on the third number:--‘Which contains a dialogue
betwixt Tom and Pady about their questions, and Tom’s song.’ They
were all printed in Niddery’s Wynd, Edinburgh: the first in 1775,
the second in 1777; while the third is without date. Since the
Introduction to these volumes was written we have seen an edition
of this chap-book published by Morren, Cowgate, Edinburgh,
without date. It is a 24 pp. 12mo., and contains all the material
to be found in the edition from which the following pages are
printed, including Tom’s Song. In this edition, however, ‘Pady’s
New Catechism’ is made part VI., while part II. as in the 1775
edition, with additions and alterations, is incorporated into
part I. The ‘Catechism,’ as already explained, does not seem to
belong to this chap-book, but to ‘Pady from Cork.’]
THE LIFE AND COMICAL TRANSACTIONS OF LOTHIAN TOM.
This Thomas Black, vulgary called Lothian Tom, because of that
country, was born four miles from Edinburgh, his Father being a
very wealthy farmer, who gave him good education, which he was very
awkward in receiving, being a very wild cross mischievous boy.
When he was about 10 years of age, he was almost killed by the
stroke of a horse’s foot, which his father had; who had a trick
of kicking at every person that came in behind him. But when Tom
was got heal of the dreadful wound, whereof many thought he would
have died. To be even with the horse, he gets a clog, or piece of
tree which was full of wooden pins; a thing which the shoe makers
used to tann their leather upon; and with a rope he tied it to the
cupple balk in the stable, directly opposite to the horse’s tail,
gets up on the balk and gives it a swing back so that the pikes in
the end of it, came with a full drive against the horse’s arse;
which made him to fling and the more he flung and struck at it, it
rebounded back again and struck him; the battle lasted with great
fury for a long time, which was good diversion for Tom, until his
father hearing some disturbance in the stable, came in to know the
matter, and was surprized when he saw the poor horse tanning his
own hide, with his legs all cut and bloody, with kicking against
the pikes of the tanners stool; so he cut the rope and the battle
was ended, but the poor horse would never kick at any thing that
came behind him afterwards, but always run from it.
It happened one day that Tom went a fishing and brought home a few
small fish, which his grandmother’s cat snapt up in the dark; so
Tom to have justice of the cat for so doing catches her, and puts
her into a little tub cogbome,[53] then sets her a drift into a
mill-dam, ordering her to go a fishing for herself; then sets two
or three dogs upon her, where a most terriable seafight ensued as
ever was seen in fresh watter: for if any of the dogs assayed to
board her, by setting in over their nose, badrons came flying to
that quarter, to repulse him with her claws; then her vessel was
like to overset by the weight of herself, so she had to flee to
the other, and finding the same there, from thence to the middle,
where she sat mawing, always turning herself about, coming her
nose with her foot. The old woman being informed of the dangerous
situation of her dearly beloved cat, came running with a long pole
to beat off the dogs and haul her ashore: What now, says Tom, if
you be going to take part with my enemies, you shall have part of
their reward: then gives the old woman such a push that she tumbled
into the dam over head and ears, beside her beloved cat, and would
undoubtedly perished in the water, had not one of the people who
were there looking at the diversion, com’d to her relief.
After this Tom was sent to the school to keep his hands out of
an ill turn; and having an old canker’d crab witted fellow for
his dominie, they were always at variance, for if Tom had got
his whips, which he often deserved, he was sure to be revenged
upon his master again for it. So Tom perceiving his master had a
close-stool in a little closet within the school, where he went
and eased himself when need was: Tom gets a penny-worth of gun
powdar, and strinkled it on the ground directly before the seat,
and lays a little of it along in a train to the fire side, then
perceiving when his master went into it, and as he was loosing down
his breeches, sets fire to the train which blew it all up about his
master’s bare hips, which scorched him most terriably, besides the
fright; for which Tom was severely whipt; yet in a little after he
began to study revenge on his master.
So it happened one day as Tom went into the master’s house, the
wife was stooping into a big meal barrel[54] to bring out some
meal; there he takes her by the feet and cowps her up into the
barrel with her head down, and her bare backside upper-most; then
runs into the school, crying, “O! master, master! the deel’s
looking out of your meal stand wi’ a fat face, and a black ill
far’d mouth: yon’s just auld nick and he be living.” At this the
master run with all speed he could to see what it was, and found
it to be his own wife speechless and almost smothered to death;
but as she could not tell who did it, Tom got clear off; yet he
was not satisfied without some more vengeance on the old fellow;
and knowing his master had a fashion when he was going to whip the
boys, if they would not loose their breeches willingly, he drew
his knife and cut them thro’ the waistband behind: so Tom goes
to a butcher and gets a raw pudding, and fills it with blood and
watter and puts it in within the waistband of his breeches: then
goes to school next day, and as the master was sitting with his
back towards the fire, Tom lights a piece of paper and sets his wig
in a low, which burnt for some time unperceived, until the flames
came fizing about his ears: he first put out the wig by trampling
it upon the ground with his feet, and being informed that Tom did
it, flies to him in a rage, ordering him to loose his breeches,
but Tom told him he was never so mad: then he drew his knife and
whips poor Tom over his knee, and with great kicking and struggling
cuts the waistband of his breeches through pudding and all, so that
the blood gushed out; and Tom cried murder, murder, and down he
fell. The poor dominie went out of the door crying and wringing his
hands. Word flew about that Tom was sticket by the dominie, which
made the people come running from several parts of the country
round about to see how it was; but searching him for the wound,
found none but the empty pudding, which discovered the fraud.[55]
Then two men had to get horses and ride after the poor dominie, who
had by this time got two or three miles away; and when he saw them
coming after him, crying to stand, and come back again, he ran the
faster, untill he could run no more, but fell over on the road,
praying him to let him go, for if he was taken back he was sure of
being hanged: and would not be persuaded that Tom was alive, until
they forced him back and he saw him: but he would be Tom’s teacher
no longer; so Tom’s father had to seek another master for him.
PART II.
There was a young woman servant to Tom’s father, which Tom had
offended by some of his tricks, and she to be up with him again;
one night spread a handfull of short nettles in his bed, between
his sheets; which stinged his legs and thighs so much, that he was
obliged to quit his bed, for some part of the night; for which he
resolved to be revenged when ever a proper opportunity offered.
It happened in a few days after that she was invited to a wedding
where the dancing and diversion induced her to stay all night;
and on coming home in the morning, her mistress set her to wash
some cloaths. But she being fatigued with her night’s diversion,
and for want of rest fell fast asleep with her hand extended in
the tub, and standing on her feet with her belly leaning on the
tub, Tom perceiving this, slips her petticoats and smock over her
head, letting the sun shine on her bare back side, which faced
the highway. Several people passing by while she continued in
this posture, some of them were diverted, and others ashamed at
the sight. But a poor cadger had the misfortune to be coming on
the road at the time, and his horse taking fright at this unusual
sight, threw off the creels which broke the poor man’s eggs all
to smash. Which so enraged him, that he lashed her buttocks with
his whip in so unmerciful a manner, that with the smart and shame
together, she had not the least inclination to sleep for the
remaining part of the day.[56]
Tom being grown up to the years and age of a man, thought himself
more wiser and slyer than his father; and there was several things
about the house he liked better than to work: so he turned to be
a dealer amongst the brutes, a couper of horses and cows, &c. and
even wet ware amongst brewers and brandy shops; until he couped
himself to the toom halter; and then his parents would supply him
no more. He knew well his grandmother had plenty of mony, but she
would give him none; but the old woman had a good black calf her
own, which Tom went to the fields one evening and catches and takes
her into an old waste house which stood at a distance from any
other, and there he kept her two or three days, giving her meat and
drink when it was dark at night, and made the old woman believe
some body had stole the cow for their winter mairt:[57] which was
grief enough to the old woman, for the loss of her dearly beloved
cow. However, she employs Tom to go to a fair that was near by,
to buy her another, gives him 3 lr[58] which Tom accept of very
thankfulli and promised to buy one as like the other as possibly
he could get; then he gets a piece of chalk and brays it small as
meal, and steeps it in a little water, and therewith rubs over
the cow’s face and back which made her both brocket and rigget:
So Tom in the morning takes the cow to a public house within a
little of the fair, and there left her till the fair was over, and
then drives her home before him; and as soon as they came home
the cow began to rout as she used to do, which made the old woman
so rejoice, thinking it was her own black cow; but when she saw
her white face, sighed and said, “Alas! thou’ll never be like the
kindly brute my black lady, and yet routs as like her as ony I ever
did hear;” but Tom says to himself, the mercy is you know not what
she says, or all would be wrong yet. So in two or three days the
old woman put forth her bra’ rigget cow in the morning with the
rest of the neighbours cattle, but it came on a sore day of heavy
rain, which washed away all the white from her face and back: so
the old woman’s black lady came home at night, and her rigget cow
went away with the shower and was never heard of. But Tom’s father
having some suspicion, and looking narrowly into the cows face,
found some of the chalk not washed away; and then he gave poor Tom
a hearty beating, and sent him away to seek his fortune with a skin
full of sore bones.
PART III.
Tom being turned to his own shifts, considers with himself how to
raise a little more money, gets a long string as near as he could
guess to be the length of his mother; and into Edinburgh he goes,
to a wright who was acquainted with his father and mother; the
wright asking him how he did? he answered him very soberly, for he
had lost a good dutiful mother; last night, and there’s a measure
of her coffin. The wright was surprised at the news, and lamented
his loss and so fell to work on the coffin. Tom went out and stayed
for some time, and then comes in again, and tells the wright he did
not know what to do, for his father had ordered him to get money
from such a man, which he named, and that he was that day gone
out of town; the wright asked him how much he wanted? to which he
answered, a guinea and a half might do, or thirty shillings at the
least; so he gave him the guinea and the half: then Tom gave him
strict charge to be out on the morrow against eleven o’clock with
the coffin, and he should have his money altogether; Tom set out
for the alehouse with the money, and lived while it lasted. Next
morning the wright and his two lads goes out with the coffin; and
as they were going in the house, Tom’s mother stands at the door,
asking the master how he did, and where he was going with that fine
coffin? he did not know well what to say, being so surprized to see
her alive! but at last he told her it was made designedly for her,
and that her son brought in the measure the day before, and had got
a guinea and a half from him, which he said was to buy some other
necessaries for the funeral. O the rogue! said she has he played
me that? So the wright got his guinea and half and so much for his
trouble, and had to take back his coffin with him again.
Tom being now short of money again began to think how he would
raise a fresh supply; so he went to the port amongst the shearers,
and there hires about thirty of them, and agrees to give them a
whole week’s shearing at tenpence a day, which was twopence higher
than any had got that year; this made the poor shearers think he
was an honest generous genteel master as ever they got, so he took
them all into an alehouse, and gave them a hearty breakfast, till
they could eat no more. Now says he, when there are so many of you
together perhaps from different parts, and unacquainted with one
another, I do not know but there may be some of you honest men and
some of you rogues: and you are to lie all in one barn together,
any of you who has any mony, you’ll be safest to give it to me, and
I’ll mark it down in my book, with your names and what I receive
from each of you and you shall have it all again on Saturday’s
night when you get your wages. O! very well good man, take mine
take mine, every one cried faster than another; some gave him five,
six, seven and eight shillings, even all they had earned through
the harvest, which amounted to near seven pounds sterling. Having
got all their money, he goes on with them till about three miles
out of the town, and coming to[59] a great field of standing corn,
though some thing green, yet convenient for this purpose, as it
lay some distance from any house or person; so he made them begin
there, telling them he was going to order dinner for them, and
send is own servants to join them: Away he goes with all the speed
he could, but takes another road into the town, lest they should
follow and catch him.
Now when the people to whom the corn belonged, saw such a band in
their field, they could not understand the meaning of it; but the
goodman whose corn it was, went off crying always as he run, to
them to stop; but they would not, until he began to strike them,
and they at him, he being in a great passion, as the corn was not
fully ripe; at last, by force of argument and other peoples coming
up to them, the poor shearers were convinced they had gotten the
bite, which caused them to go away lamenting their misfortune.
In two or three days thereafter as Tom was going down the
Canongate, he meets one of his shearers, who knew him and kept
fast by him demanding his money and satisfaction for all the rest:
whisht, whisht, says Tom, and you’ll get yours and something else
beside. So Tom takes him into the jail,[60] and calls for a bottle
of ale and a dram, then takes the jaylor aside, as if he had been
to borrow the money from him: and says to the jaylor, this man
here is a great thief, I and two others, have been in search of
him these three days, and the other two men have the warrant with
them, so if you’ll keep the rogue here till I run and bring them,
you shall have a guinea in reward: yes, said the jaylor, go and
I’ll fix the rogue for you. Tom gets clear out, leaving the poor
innocent fellow and the jaylor straggling together, and then sets
off for England directly.
PART IV.
Tom having now left his own native country, went into the county
of Northumberland, where he hired himself with an old miser of a
farmer; and here he continued several years, performing the duty in
his service very well, though sometimes playing a roguish trick to
those about him: his master had a very naughty custom that he would
allow them no candle at night to see with when at supper; Tom one
night sets himself next to his master, and as they were all about
to fall on, Tom puts his spoon into the midst of the dish where
the crowdie was the hottest, and claps a spoonful into his masters
mouth: a pox upon you for a rogue, cried his master, for my mouth
is all burnt; a pox upon you for a master, says Tom, for you keep
a house as dark as Purgatory, for I was going to my own mouth with
that sup and mist the way it being so dark: don’t think master that
I am such a big fool as to feed you, while I have a mouth of my
own. So from that night that Tom burnt his master’s mouth with the
hot crowdie, they always got a candle to shew them light at supper,
for his master would feed no more in the dark while Tom was present.
There was a servant girl in the house, who always when she made the
beds neglected to make Tom’s, and would have him to do it himself,
well then, says Tom, I have harder work to do, and I shall do that
too, so next day when Tom was in the field at the plough, when he
saw his master coming from the house towards him, he then left the
horses and the plough standing in the field, and goes away towards
his master, who cried, What is wrong, or is any thing broke with
you? No, no, says Tom, but I am going home to make my bed, it has
not been made these two weeks, and just now is about the time, the
maid makes all the rest, so I’ll go home and make mine too. No, no
sirrah, go back to your plough, and I’ll cause it to be made every
night to you. Then, says Tom, I’ll plough two or three furrows more
in the time.[61]
There was a butcher came to his master’s and bought a fine fat
calf, so Tom laid it on the horses neck before the butcher, and
when he was gone, now, says Tom, what will you hold master, but
I’ll steal that calf from the butcher before he goes two miles off?
Why, says his master, I’ll hold a guinea you don’t; done, says
Tom; in he goes, and gets a good shoe of his master’s, and runs
off another way cross the fields until he got before the butcher:
near to the corner of a hedge, where there was an open and turning
of the way, here Tom darns himself behind the hedge, and throws
the shoe in the middle of the highway, then up comes the butcher
riding and his calf before him; hey, said he to himself, there’s
a good shoe, if I knew how to get on my calf again I would alight
for it but what signifies one without its neighbour? so off he goes
and lets it lye. Tom then slips out and takes the shoe up again,
and runs across the fields until he got in before the butcher at
another part of the hedge, about half a mile distant, and there he
throws the shoe out again in the midst of the way; then up comes
the butcher, and seeing it, says to himself, now I shall have a
pair of good shoes for the lifting: and down he comes, lays the
calf on the ground, and tying his horse to the hedge, runs back,
thinking to get the other shoe; in which time, Tom whips up the
calf and shoe, and home he comes, demanding his wager, which his
master could not deny, being so fairly won.
The poor butcher returned to his horse, got only his travel for
his pains, so missing his calf, he knew not what to say or do,
but thinking it had broke the rope from about it’s feet, and had
run into the fields, the butcher spent that day in search of it
amongst the hedges and ditches, and so returned to Tom’s master’s
all night, intending to go and search farther for it next day,
giving them a tedious relation how he came to lose it by a curs’d
pair o’ shoes which he believed the devil had dropt in his way,
and now he had taken the calf and all along with him, expressing
his thankfulness that the devil was so honest as to spare his old
horse when he stole away his calf. Next morning Tom went to work
and makes a fine white face on the calf with chalk and water
then brings it out and sold it to the butcher, which was good
diversion to his master and other servants to see the butcher buy
his own calf again: no sooner was he gone with it, but Tom says,
now master what will you hold but I’ll steal it from him again,
or he goes two miles off? No, no, says his master, I’ll hold no
more beats with you, but I’ll give you a shilling if you do it,
done says Tom, it shall cost you no more; and away he runs a foot
through the fields, until he came in before the butcher, hard by
the place where he stole the calf from him the day before; and here
he lyes behind the hedge, and as the butcher came past, he puts his
hand on his mouth, and cries, Baw, baw, like a calf; the butcher
hearing this, swears to himself, that there was the calf he had
lost the day before, down he comes and throws the calf he had on
the ground, gets in through the hedge in all haste, thinking he had
no more to do but take it up; but as he came in at the one part
of the hedge, Tom jumps out at another, and gets the calf on his
back, then gets in over the hedge on the other side, and through
the fields he came safely home, with the calf on his back; while
the poor butcher spent his time and labour in vain, running from
hedge to hedge, and hole to hole, seeking what was not there to
be found. So the butcher returned to his horse again, and finding
his other calf gone, he concluded it to be done by some invisible
spirit thereabout that spot of ground; and so went home and raised
a bad report on the devil, saying he was turned a highwayman and
had taken two calfs from him. So Tom washing the white face off
the stolen calf, his master sent the butcher word to come and buy
another calf, which he accordingly did a few days after, and Tom
sold him the same calf a third time; then told him the whole affair
as it was acted, giving him his money again so the butcher got but
fun for all his fuddle.[62]
PART V.
There was an old rich blind woman, who lived hard bye, that had a
young girl her only daughter, and she fell deep in love with Tom,
and Tom fell as deep in love with the money, but not with the maid:
the old woman bestowed a vast of presents on Tom, and mounted him
like a gentleman, but still he put off the marriage from time to
time, and always wanted something, which the old woman gave the
money to purchase for him, until he had got about thirty pounds
of her money and then she would delay the marriage no longer: Tom
went and took the old woman and girl aside, and made his apology
as follows--Dear mother,[63] said he I am very willing to wed with
my dear Polly, for she appears as an angel in mine eyes, but I am
sorry very sorry to acquaint you that I am not a fit match for her:
what child, says the old woman, there’s not a fitter match in the
world for my Polly, I did not think your country could afford such
a clever youth as what I hear of you to be,[64] you shall neither
want gold nor silver, and a good horse to ride upon and when I die
you shall have my all: O but says Tom, mother that’s no the matter
at all, the stop is this, when I was at home in Scotland, I got a
stroke with a horse’s foot on the bottom of my belly, which has
quite disabled me below that I cannot perform I husband’s duty in
bed. Then the old woman clapt her hands, and fell a crying, O! if
it had been any impediment but that, but that, but that, woful
that! which gold and silver cannot purchase and yet the poorest
people that is even common beggars have plenty off it. The old
woman and her daughter sat crying and wringing their hands, and
Tom stood and wept lest he should get no more money, O says Polly,
mother I’ll wed with him nevertheless, I love him so dearly? No,
no, you foolish girl would you throw yourself away to marry a man
and die a maid, you don’t know the end of your creation, it is
the enjoyment of a man in bed that makes women to marry, which is
a pleasure like a paradise, and if you wed with this man, you’ll
live and die and never know it. Hoo, hoo, says Tom, If I had got
money, I needed not been this way till now; money, you fool, said
the old woman, there’s not such a thing to be got for money in all
England: ay, says Tom, there’s a doctor in Newcastle, will make me
able as any other man for ten guineas: ten guineas, said she, I’ll
give him fifty guineas if he will, but here is twelve and go to him
directly, and know first what he can do, and come again and wed
my child, or she and I both will die for thy sake. Tom having now
got twelve guineas more of their money, got all things ready, and
next morning early, sets out for Newcastle, but instead of going to
Newcastle, he came to old Scotland, and left Polly and her mother
to think upon him, then in about two weeks after, when he was not
like to return, no nor so much as a word from him: the old woman
and Polly got a horse, and came to Newcastle in search of him, went
through all the doctors shops asking if there came a young man
there about two weeks ago with a broken cock to mend: some laught
at her, others were like to kick her out of doors, so the old woman
had to return without getting any further intelligence of Tom.
Now after Tom’s return to Scotland, he got a wife and took a
little farm near Dalkeith, and became a very douse man for many
days, followed his old business the couping of horses and cows the
feeding of veals for slaughter, and the like: He went one day to a
fair and bought a fine cow from an old woman, but Tom judged from
the lowness of the price that the cow certainly had some fault; Tom
gives the wife the other hearty bicker of good ale, then says, he,
wife the money’s your’s and the cow’s mine, ye must tell me ony wi’
bit of faults it she has: Indeed quoth she goodman, she has nae a
fault but ane, and in she had wanted it, I wad never a parted wi’
her; and what’s that goodwife said he? Indeed said she the filthy
daft beast sucks ay hersel; hute, says Tom, if that be all, I’ll
soon cure her of that, O can ye do’t said she, If I had kend what
wad a done it, ye had nae gotten her. A well says Tom I’ll tell you
what to do, tak the cow’s price I gave you just now, and tye it
hard and fast in your napkin, and give it to me throw beneath the
cow’s wame, and I’ll give you the napkin again over the cow’s back,
and I’ll lay my life for it that she’ll never suck hersel in my
aught; a wat well, said she, I’se do that an they sud be witchcraft
in’t,[65] so Tom no sooner got it throw below the cow’s wame than
he looses out his money and puts it in his pocket, and gave the
wife again her napkin over the cow’s back accordingly as he told
her, saying, now wife, you have your cow and I my money, and she’ll
never suck herself in my aught, as I told you, O dole, cryed the
wife, is that your cure, ye have cheated me, ye have cheated me.
PART VI.
Tom being very scant of money at a time when his rent was to pay,
and though he was well acquainted with the Butchers in Edinburgh,
he tried severals of them, yet none of them would lend him as
much, he was known to be such a noted sharper.[66] Tom thinks with
himself that he’ll give them all a bite in general who had refused
him: So in he comes next day (and all of them had heard of a fine
fat calf he had feeding) comes to one of the butchers, and tell’s
him he was going to sell the fat calf he had at home. Well says
the butcher, and what will you have for it? just five and thirty
shillings, says Tom: No, says the butcher, by what I hear of it
I’ll give thirty. Na, na, says Tom, you must remember that is not
the price of it, but give me twenty shillings just now, and send
out your lad the morrow and we’ll perhaps agree about it. Thus Tom
went thro’ ten of them in one day, and got twenty shillings from
each of them, and kept his speech against the law for whatever they
offered him for his calf, he told them to remember that was not
to be the price of it, but give me twenty shillings just now, and
send out your lad on the morrow morning and perhaps we’ll agree was
all that passed. So Tom came home with his ten pound, and pay’d
his rent; and early next morning one of the butcher’s sent out his
lad to Louthian Tom’s for a calf, and as he was about a mile from
the town, went to an ale house door and calls for a bicker of ale,
and as he was drinking it, up comes another butcher’s lad on the
same errand, he being called by the first to come and drink, which
caused another bicker; then come other two on the same errand;
again six more, which made out the ten; and every one told he was
going to Louthian Tom’s for a calf, which made them think Tom had
gathered together all the calves in that country side: So up they
comes to Tom’s house and every one called for his calf, and his
calf; and Tom had but one calf to serve them all; which he took out
and shews them. Now, says he, whoever gives most for it shall have
it, or I’ll put it to a roup. What said they, our masters bought
it yesterday. Then says Tom, you would be fools to buy it to day
for it is heavy to carry and fashious to lead,[67] you must all go
home without it; next day Tom got ten summonses, to answer at the
instance of the butchers for selling his calf and not delivering
it. Tom then goes to Edinburgh, gets the ablest lawyer in town for
that purpose, tells him the whole of what past, from first to
last. Then said the lawyer, as they cannot prove a bargain, and
deny the paying of the money again, if you’ll give me the calf,
I’ll bring you off; but remember in law there is no point like
that of denial. The calf, says Tom, you’ll not want the calf, and
a stone of butter to make it ready with. Then the lawyer goes to
the court, where Tom is called upon; his lawyer answers first, who
asked the butchers, if they could tell the price of the calf, or
prove the bargain? they answered, No; but he ordered us to send
out our lads and we would agree about it? Gree about it, said the
judges! why, do you come to sue for a bargain and to gree about
it; Ay, but, said they, we want twenty shillings a piece from him
of money we gave him. Tom is called out, then said the judge, did
you borrow twenty shillings of any of these men? Not I my lord,
I came indeed asking the loan of money from them, but they would
lend me none; and then I came next day beggar-ways, and they were
so generous as to give me twenty shillings a piece. But said the
judge, were not you to give it back again; I never promised nor
never intended at all, my lord; for what is given to the poor is
given gratis, and I appeal to this whole court that whatever pence
any of you has given to the poor that you look not for any of it
back again. Then Tom was freed at the bar, and the butchers lost,
and laughed at.
After the court, Tom and the lawyer had a hearty bottle;[68] and
at parting the lawyer said, now mind Tom, and send me the calf
to-morrow. O yes, says Tom, but you must first send me out forty
shillings for it. What, says the lawyer, did not you promise me it
and a stone of butter to make it ready with, for gaining your plea?
But, says Tom, did you not tell me, that the only point of the law
was to deny? and you cannot prove it: So I’ll sell my calf to them
that will give most for it; and if you have learned me law, I have
learned you roguery to your experience. So take this as a reward
for helping me to cheat the butchers: and I think I’m even now with
you both. And this was all the lawyer got of Tom.[69]
* * * * *
THE PLOWMAN’S GLORY; or, TOM’S SONG.[70]
As I was a walking one morning in the spring,
I heard a young plowman so sweetly to sing,
And as he was singing, these words he did say,
No life is like the plowman’s in the month of May.
The lark in the morning rises from her nest,
And mounts in the air with the dew on her breast,
And with the jolly plowman she’ll whistle and she’ll sing,
And at night she’ll return to her nest back again.
If you walk in the fields any pleasure to find,
You may see what the plowman enjoys in his mind;
There the corn he sows grows and the flowers do spring,
And the plowman’s as happy as a prince or a king.
When his days work is done that he has to do,
Perhaps to some country walk he will go,
There with a sweet lass he will dance and sing,
And at night return with his lass back again.
And as they return from the walk in the town,
When the meadows is mowed and the grass is cut down,
If they chance for to tumble among the green hay,
It’s kiss me now or never the damsel will say.
Then he rises next morning to follow his team,
Like a jolly plowman so neat and so trim;
If he kiss a pretty girl he will make her his wife,
And she loves her jolly plowman as dear as her life.
Come Molly and Dolly let’s away to the wake,
There the plow boys will treat us with beer ale and cake,
And if in coming home they should gain their Ends,
Ne’er fear but they’ll marry us, or make us amends.
There’s Molly and Dolly, Nelly and Sue,
There’s Ralph, John and Willie and young Tommy too;
Each lad takes his lass to the wake or the fair,
Adzooks they look rarely, I vow and declare.
FINIS
_HISTORY OF JOHN CHEAP THE CHAPMAN._
[A Falkirk edition of this chap-book, printed by T. Johnston in
1798, has been used here. The full title is--‘The History of John
Cheap the Chapman: containing above a Hundred Merry Exploits done
by him and his fellow Traveller, Drowthy Tam, a sticked Shaver.
In three parts.’ It has been usual to suspect that the work is
autobiographical to some extent.]
THE HISTORY OF JOHN CHEAP THE CHAPMAN.
PREFACE.
John Cheap the chapman, was a very comical short thick fellow, with
a broad face and a long nose; both lame and lazy, and something
leacherous among the lasses: he chused rather to sit idle than work
at any time, as he was a hater of hard labour. No man needed to
offer him cheese and bread after he curst he would not have it; for
he would blush at bread and milk, when hungry, as a beggar doth at
a babee. He got the name of John Cheap the chapman, by his selling
20 needles for a penny, and twa leather laces for a farthing. He
swore no oaths but one, which was, Let me never sin.
He used no imprecations, But let me never cheat nor be cheated, but
rather cheat, &c.
He gave bad counsel to none but children, to burn the bonecombs,
that their mother might buy another when he came again.
He never fought with any but dogs,[71] and the good wives daughters
in their daffing, and that’s not dangerous.
PART I.
_The following relation is taken from his own mouth, verbatim._
I John Cheap by chance, at some certain time, doubtless against my
will, was born at the Hottom, near Habertehoy mill: My father was
a Scots Highlandman, and my mother a Yorkshire wench, but honest,
which causes me to be of a mongrel kind; I made myself a chapman
when very young, in great hopes of being rich when I became old;
but fortune was fickle and so was I; for I had not been a chapman
above two days, until I began to consider the deep ditches, midden
dubs, biting dogs and wiet sacks: And what comfort is it, says
I, to lye in a cows oxter, the length of a cold winter night: to
sit behind backs, till the kail be a cuttied up, and then to lick
colley’s leavings.[72]
My first journey was through old Kilpatrick, all the day long I got
no meat nor money until the evening, I began to ask for lodging,
then every wife to get me away, would either give me a cogful of
kail, or piece of cake. Well says I to myself, if this be the way,
I shall begin in the morning to ask for lodging, or any time when
I am hungry. Thus I continued going from house to house, until my
belly was like to burst, and my pockets could hold no more; at
last I came to a farmer’s house, but thinking it not dark enough
to prevail for lodging, sat down upon a stone at the end of the
house, till day-light would go away out of the west; and as I was
going to get up to go in to the house, out comes the goodwife, as I
supposed her to be, and sat down at the end of the stone I being at
the other, there she began to make off her water with full force,
which I bore with, very modestly, till near an end; then she made
the wind follow with such force, as made (as I thought) the very
stone I leaned upon to move, which made me burst out into laughter;
then up gets the wife, and runs for it; I followed hard after into
the house, and as I entered the house, I heard the goodman, saying,
Ay, ay, goodwife, What’s the haste, you run so?
No more passed, until I addressed myself to the goodman for
quarters; which he answered, “Indeed lad, we hae nae beds but
three, my wife and I, our sells twa, and the twa bits a little
anes, Willie and Jenny lies in ane, the twa lads our twa servant
men Willie Black and Tam, lies in anither, and auld Mags my mither,
and the lass Jean Tirram lies the gither, and that fills them a’.”
O but says I, Goodman, there is some of them fuller than others,
you may let me lie with your mither and the lass; I shall ly heads
and thraws wi’ them, and keep on my breeks. A good keep me, quo’
the lass, frae a’ temptations to sin, altho’ thou be but a callen,
heth I’ll rather ly wi’ Sannock Garner. No, no, cries the goodwife,
he’s no be here the night. Dear good-wife, said I, what ails you
at me? a d--l be here, an’ ye be here the night, said she; ho,
ho, said I, but I’m here first, and first com’d first serv’d,
good-wife; but an’ the ill thief be a friend of your’s, you’ll have
room for him too. Ye thief like widdyfu’, said she, are ye evening
me to be sib to the foul thief; it’s weel kend I am come of good
honest fouks: It may be so goodwife, said I, but ye look rather
the other way, when ye would lodge the d--l in your house and ca’
out a poor chapman to die, such a stormy night as this. What do ye
say! says she, there was na a bonnier night since winter came in
nor this. O goodwife, what are you saying! Do ye not mind, when
you and I was at the east end of the house, such a noise of wind
and water was then; a wae worth the filthy body, said she, is not
that in every part. What said the goodman, a wat well there was
nae rain when I came in: The wife then shuts me out, and bolted
the door behind me: Well, said I, but I shall be through between
thy mouth and thy nose or the morrow. It being now so dark, and I
a stranger, could see no place to go to, went into the corn yard,
but finding no loose straw I fell a drawing one of their stacks,
sheaf by sheaf, until I pulled out a threave or two, and got into
the hole myself, where I lay as warm as a pye; but the goodman in
the morning, perceiving the heap of corn sheaves, came running to
carry it away, and stop up the hole in the stack wherein I lay,
with some of the sheaves, so with the steighling of the straw, and
him cursing the thieves who had done it: I then skipping out of
the hole, ho, ho, said I, goodman, you’re not to bury me alive in
your stack: He then began to chide me, vowing he would keep my pack
for the damage I had done: whereupon, I took his servants witnesses
he had robbed me; when hearing me urge him so, he gave me my pack
again, and off I came to the next house, where I told the whole
story.
My next exploit was near Carluke, between Hamiltown and Lanerk:
Where on a cold stormy night, I came to a little town with four or
five houses in it; I went twice through it, but none of them would
give me the credit to stand all night among their horse, or yet to
ly in their cow’s oxter: At last I prevailed with a wife, if her
husband was willing, to let me stay, if he was not against it, to
which he answered, “If I should ly in his midden-dib, I should get
no quarters from him that night; a wheen lazy idle villains rins a
to be chapman, comes through the country fashing fouks, ay seeking
quarters; the next day ye’ll be gaun wi’ a powder’d pirrewig, and a
watch at your arse, and winna let fouk stand afore your chop doors,
ye’ll be sae saucy.”
After hearing my sentence from the goodman, expecting no relief
but to ly without, yet I perceived when he came out of the barn,
he only drew too the door behind him: So when he was gone, I slipt
into the barn, and by help of one of the kiples, climbs up the
mou, and there dives down among the sheaves, and happed myself all
over, so that I lay as warm as the goodman himself. But in the
morning long before day, two fellows came into the barn, and fell
a threshing, that by their disturbance I could sleep no more; at
last I got up with all my hair hanging over my face, and when he
that stood on the opposite side perceived me, I made my eyes to
roll, and wrayed my face in a frightful manner, so that the poor
fellow supposed he had seen the deil, or something as ill, gave a
rore as if he had been sticked, and out at the door he runs; the
other following after him crying, Wa’ Johny man, what did you see?
O! Sandy, Sandy, the deil’s on the tap o’ the mou’, sheavling his
mouth at me; I’ll not be so well this month man, my heart’s out
o’ its hole, wou but yon be a fearfu’ like fake indeed, it would
fright ony living creature out o’ their senses.
I hearing the fear they were in, cried unto them not to be
frighted, for I was not the deil, but a poor chapman who could not
get quarters last night a foul fa’ thy carcase sir, for our Jock is
through the midden-dib, dirt and a’ the gither; he who went last
came again, but the other man ran into the house, and told what he
had seen: The goodman and his wife came running, he with a grape in
his hand, and her with the Bible,[73] the one crying Sandy, Sandy,
is’t true that the deil was in the barn; Na, na, said he, it’s but
a chapman, but poor Jock has gotten a fright wi’ him. They laughed
heartily at the sport, took me in to breakfast, and by this time
poor Johnny was gone to bed.[74]
After this I travelled up the water of Clyde, near the foot of
Tintock-hill, where I met with a sweet companion, who was an older
traveller than I, who gave me more information how to blow the
goodwife, and sleek the goodman, with him I kept company for two
months, and as we travelled down Tweed towards the border we being
both hungry and could get nothing to buy for the belly, we came
unto a wife who had been kirning, but she would give us nothing,
nor sell so much as one halfpenny’s worth of her sour milk; Na,
na, said she, I’ll neither sell butter, bread or milk, it’s a’
little enough to sair my ain family: ye that’s chapman may drink
water, ye dinna work sair. Ay, but goodwife, said I, I hae been at
Temple-bar, where I was sworn ne’er to drink water, if I could get
better: What do ye say, said she, about Temple-bar? A town just
about twa three mile and a bittock frae this: A thief ane was to
swear there, an’ it wasna’ auld Willie Miller the cobler, the ill
thief a neither minister nor magistrate ever was in’t a’.
O but says the other lad, the Temple-bar he means by is at London.
Yea, yea, lad, an ye be cum’d frae London ye’re no muckle worth,
for the fouks there awa, is a’ witches and warlocks, deils,
brownies and fairies.[75] We’ll a wat that is true, said I, and
that thou shalt know, thou hard hearted wretch, who would have
people to starve or provoke them to steal. With that I rose and
lifts twa or three long straws, and casting knots on them, into
the byre I went and throws a knotted straw to every cows stake,
saying, Thy days shall not be long: The wife followed, wringing her
hands, earnestly praying for herself and all that was hers. I then
came out at the door, and lifted a stone, running three times round
about, and threw it over the house,[76] muttering some words, which
I knew not myself, and concluding with these words, “Thou Monsieur
Diable,[77] brother to Beelzebub god of Ekron, take this wife’s
kirn, butter and milk, sap and substance, without and within, so
that she may die in misery, as she would have others to live.”[78]
The wife hearing the aforsaid sentence, clapt her hands, and called
out another old woman as foolish as herself, who came crying after
us to come back, back we went, when she made us eat heartily of
butter and cheese; then she earnestly pleaded with me to go and
lift my cantrups, which I did, upon her promising never to deny
a hungry traveller meat nor drink, whether they had money to pay
for’t or not: and never to serve the poor with the old proverb, Go
home to your own parish;[79] but give them less or more, as ye see
them in need. This faithfully she promisee to do while she lived,
and with milk, we drank towards her cow’s health and her own, not
forgetting her husband and the bull’s, as the one was goodman of
the house, and the other of the byre; and away we came in all
haste, lest some of a more understanding nature should come to hear
of it, and follow after us.[80]
In a few days thereafter we came to an ale-house in a moor, far
distant from any other, it being a sore day of wind and rain, we
could not travel therefore was obliged to stay there, and the house
being very throng, we could get no bed but the servant lasses,
which we was to have for a pennyworth of pins and needles, and
she was to ly with her master and mistress: But as we were going
to bed, in comes three Highland drovers on their way home from
England; the landlord told them that the beds were all taken up
but one, that two chapmen was to ly in; one of them swore, his
broad sword should fail him, if a chapman lay there that night.
They took our bed, and made us sit by the fire all night: I put on
a great many peats, and when the drovers were fast asleep, I put
on a big brass pan full of water, and boiled their brogs therein,
for the space of half an hour, then lays them as they were, every
pair by themselves; so when they rose, every one began to chide
another, saying, “Hup, pup, ye sheing a brog,” for not one of them
would serve a child of ten years of age, being so boil’d in, the
landlord persuaded them that their feet was swelled with their hard
traveling, being so wet last night, and they would go on well
enough if they had travelled a mile or two. Now the Highlandmen
laught at me the night before, when they lay down in the bed I was
to have; but I laught as much to see them all three trot away in
the morning with their boil’d brogs in their hands.
PART II.
We came again to a place near Sutry-hill, where the ale was good,
and very civil usage, and our drought being very great the more we
drank, the better we lov’d it: and here we fell in company with a
quack doctor, who bragged us with bottle about, for two days and
two nights, only when one fell drunk, we pushed and pricked him
with a big prin, to keep him from sleeping. He bought of our hair,
and we of his pills and drugs, he having as much knowledge of the
one, as we had of the other, only I was sure, I had as much as
would set a whole parish to the midden or mug, all at once.
But at last our money ran short, and the landlady had no chalk nor
faith to credit us seeing by our coats, courage, and conduct, that
we would little mind performance against the day of payment, so
then we began to turn sober and wise behind the hand, and every
one of us to seek supply from another, and when we collected all
the money we had amongst us, on the table, it was but fourpence
halfpenny, which we lovingly divided among us, but only three
babees a piece, and as Drouthy Tom’s stock and mine was conjunct,
we gave the quack again his sh----g stuff and stinking drugs, and
he gave us our goods and hair, which we equally divided betwixt
us, the whole of it only came to eighteen shillings and sixpence
prime cost, and so we parted; I went for East Lothian, and Tom for
the West; but my sorting of goods being very unsuitable for that
country, I got but little or no money, which caused me to apply
to the goodman for to get lodging, and it being upon a Saturday’s
night was hard to be found till very late in the night. I prevailed
to get staying in a great farmers house, about two miles from
Haddington; they were all at supper when I went in; I was ordered
to sit down behind their backs, the goodwife then took a dish, went
round the servants, and collected a soup out of every cog,[81]
which was sufficient to have served three men; the goodwife ordered
me to be laid in the barn all night for my bed, but the bully-fac’d
goodman swore he had too much stuff in it, to venture me there,
the goodwife said I should not ly within the house, for I would
be o’er near the lasses bed, then the lads swore I should not go
with them,[82] for I was a forjesket like fellow, and (wha kens
whether I was honest or not) he may fill his wallet wi’ our cloaths
and gang his wa’ or day light. At last I was conducted out to the
swine’s stye, to sleep with an old sow and seven pigs, and there I
lay for two nights[83] In the night the young pigs came gruzling
about me very kindly, thinking I was some friend of their mother’s
come to visit them; they gave me but little rest, always coming
kissing me with their cold noses, which caused me to beat them off
with my staff, which made them to make a terrible noise, so that
their old mother came up to argue the matter, running upon me with
open mouth, but I gave her such a rout over her long snout, which
caused her to roar out murder in her own language that alarmed
the servants where they lay, who came to see what was the matter,
I told them, their old sow was going to swallow me up alive, bid
them to go and bring her meat, which they did, and the brute became
peaceable.
On the Sabbath morning I came into the house, the goodman asked
me if I could shave any, yes, said I, but never did on the
Sabbath-day. I fancy, said he, you are some Westland Whig?[84]
Said I, you may suppose me to be what you think proper to day, but
yesternight you used me like a Tory, when you sent me into a stye
to ly in your sow’s oxter, who is a fitter companion for a devil,
than any human creature, the abominablest brute upon the earth,
said I, who was forbidden to be eaten under the law, and cursed
under the gospel[85]: Be they curs’d or be they bless’d said he, I
wish I had anew of them; but an’ ye will not tak aff my beard, ye’s
get nae meat here the day; then said I, if you will give me meat
and drink for money, until the Sabbath be past, I’ll take on my
wallat, and go along with you to the kirk, and tell your minister
how you used me as a hog. No said the goodwife, you shall not want
your crowdie man. But my heart being full of sorrow and revenge, a
few of them sufficed me.
On the morning I went into the house, the goodman ordered me
the pottage pot to lick, for, says he it is an old property to
chapmen. Well I had no sooner begun to it, then out came a great
big mastiff dog from below the bed, and grips me by the breast,
then turns me over upon my back, and takes the pot himself; Ay, ay,
said the goodman I think your brother pot-licker and you cannot
agree about your breakfast? A well said I, goodman, you said that
pot-licking was a chapman’s property, but your dog proves the
contrary: So away I comes and meeting the goodwife at the door,
bids her farewel for ever; but what said I is your husband’s name?
to which she answered, John Swine, I was thinking so, said I, he
has such dirty fashions: but whether was yon his mother or his
sister, I lay with these two nights.
All that day I travelled the country west from Haddington, but
could get no meat; when I asked if they had any to sell, they told
me, they never did sell any bread, and I found by sad experience,
they had none to give for nothing. I came unto a little country
village, and went through it all, house after house, and could get
neither bread nor ale to buy; At last I came to a poor weavers
house, and asked him if he could lend me a hammer? Yes, said he,
What are you going to do with it? Indeed said I, I am going to
knock out all my teeth with it, for I can get no bread to buy in
all this country, for all the stores and stacks you have in it:
What said he, was you in the minister’s? I know not said I, does
he keep an ale-house? O na, said he, he preaches every Sunday: and
does he preach, said I? is it to harden your hearts? haud well
together? have no charity? hate strangers? hunger the poor? eat and
drink all yourselves? better burst your bellies then give it to
beggars, or let good meat spoil[86]: if your minister be as naughty
as his people, I’m positive he’ll drive a louse to London for the
hide and tallow. Here I bought the weaver’s dinner for twopence,
and then set out again, keeping my course westward. It being now
night, I came to a farmer’s house south from Dalkieth, the goodman
being very civil, and desirous of news, I related the whole
passages of two days and nights by-past; whereat he was greatly
diverted, and said, I was the first he heard of, that ever that man
gave quarters to before, though he was an elder of the parish. So
the goodman and I fell so thick, that he ordered me to be laid on
a shake down bed beyond the fire, where I lay more snug than among
the swine.
Now there was three women lying in a bed in the same apartment,
and they not minding that I was there, first one of them rose and
let her water go in below the chimney-grate, where I had a perfect
view of her bonny-thing, as the coal-fire burnt so clearly all the
night, then another rose and did the same, last of all got up the
old matron, as she appear’d to be, like a second-handed goodwife,
or a whirl’d o’er maiden, six times overturned, and as she let her
dam go, she also with full force, when done, let a fart like the
blast of a trumpet, which made the dust on the hearth-stone to fly
up like mist about her arse, whereat I was forc’d to laugh out,
which made her run for it, but to smother the laughter I stapt the
blankets in my mouth; she went to bed and waken’d the other two
saying, O dole! what will I tell you? yon chapman has seen a’ our
a--ses the night; shame fa’ him, said they, for we had nae mind
he was there: I wat well, says one of them, I’se no rise till he
be awa’, but said the old woman, gin he has seen mine, I cannot
help it, it’s just like other folks, and fin’t a hair care I. In
the morning the old matron got up first and ordered up the house,
then told me to rise now for chapmen and every body was up, then
she asked me if I had an use of laughing in my sleep? Yes, said I,
when I see any daft like thing I can look and laugh at it, as well
sleeping as walking; A good preserve us, said she, ye’re an unco
body, but ye needna wait on our porridge time, I’se gie you cheese
and bread in your pouch, which I willingly accepted, and away I
came.
Then I kept my course west by the Pentland hills, where I got
plenty of hair,[87] good and cheap, besides a great quantity of
old brass, which was an excellent article to make my little pack
seem big and weighty. Then I came into a little country village,
and going in by the side of the house, there was a great big cat
sitting in a weaver’s window, beiking herself in the sun, and
washing her face with her feet: I takes her a civil nap on the
nose, which made her turn back in through the window, and the
weaver having a plate full of hot pottage in the innerside to cool,
poor badrons ran through the middle of them, burnt her feet, and
threw them all to the ground, ran thro’ the house, crying fire
and murder in her own language, which caused the weary wicked
webster to come running to the door, where he attacked me in a
furious rage, and I to avoid the first shock, fled to the top
of the midden, where endeavouring to give me a kick, I catched
him by the foot, and tumbled him back over into the dirty midden
dub,[88] where both his head and shoulders went under dirt and
water; but before I could recover my elwand or arms, the wicked
wife and her twa sons was upon me in all quarters, the wife hung in
my hair, while the two sons boxed me about and before, and being
thus over-powered by numbers, I was fairly beat of by this wicked
webster, his troops being so numerous.
The same day as I was going up to a country house, I met on the
way a poor beggar wife with a boy, who was both of them bitten
in different places by a big mastiff dog, they persuaded me to
turn back, but I said I should first see him: so up I goes to the
side of a hedge, and cuts a long bramble full of prickles, which
I carried in my left hand, with my sturdy staff in the right; and
as I came near the house, Mr. Youffer came roaring upon me like a
lion, he being a tyke of such a monstrous size, frighted me so that
I ran back; but he pursued me so hard, I was forced to face about,
and holding out the briar to him, which he gripped in his mouth,
and then I stripped it through his mouth, and gave him a hearty
blow upon his ear with my rung, which made him go tumbling to his
master’s door, and when he got up he could not fight any, his mouth
being so full of prickles by the biting of the briar, which caused
him go about yuling and rubbing his mouth with his foot, the people
of the house came running to bite me, but my briar had bitten him;
they then called him in, and fell to picking the pricks out of his
tongue.
PART III.
I travelled then west by Falkirk, by the foot of the great hills;
and one night after I had got lodging in a farmer’s house, there
happened a contest between the goodman and his mother, he being a
young man unmarried, as I understood, and formerly their sowens had
been that thin, so the goodman being a sworn birley-man[89] of that
barony, came to survey the sowens before they went on the fire, and
actually swore they were o’er thin, and she swore by her conscience
they would be thick enough if ill hands and ill een[90] baed awa’
from them: A sweet be here mither, said he, do ye think that
I’m a witch? Witch here or witch there, said the wife, swearing
by her saul, and that was nae banning, she said they’ll be good
substantial meat, a’ what say ye chapman? indeed goodwife, said
I, sowens is but saft meat at the best; but if ye make them thick
enough, and put a good lump of butter in them, they’ll do very
well for a supper: I true sae lad, said she, ye hae some sense; so
the old woman put on the pot with her sowens, and went to milk her
cows, leaving me to steer; the goodman her son, as soon as she went
out, took a great cog full of water and put it into the pot amongst
the sowens, and then went out of the house, and left me alone: I
considered what sort of a pish the bed supper I was to get if I
staid there, I thought to set out, but takes up the pitcher with
water, and fills up the pot until it was running over, and then
takes up my pack and comes about a mile farther that night, leaving
the honest woman and her son, to sup their watery witch’t sowens at
their own leisure.
I then turned towards the east, through a place called Slamanen,
and was lodged one night near a place called Tod’s bughts, where
there was a boul-horn’d goodwife, but a very civil goodman, when
I went in, she took up a dish from the dog wherein was a few he
had left, and with a collection more from other cogs, she offered
them to me, which I refused, ’m, said she, ye’re a lordly sort of
a chapman indeed; so I began to divert the goodman, by telling
him a deal of fine stories to make him laugh, but could not get
near the fire, at last said, O goodwife, I’ll tell you news; ay,
chapman, what’s that, said she? indeed my feet’s very cauld, said
I, whereat they all laught but the goodwife, she gloom’d until the
rest was done, and then took a laugh at it herself: So the goodman
ordered the Johnies, Jamies and Jennies with their wheels to sit
about; then I was set beyond the fire, and preferred to steer their
sowens, but when they were ready and put up in dishes, the goodwife
order’d one of the lads to take a pair of old blankets and two
sacks, and shew me where I was to ly in the barn: Ho, ho, thinks I,
there’s no supper for me, but I’ll remember this, to pay her stock
and annual. So I went to the barn and lay till next morning, about
Chapman’s rising time, when pottage was ready, and then gives the
wife a fine cotton lace and a few pins, which pleased her so well,
that she went through the cogs and collected about a mutchkin of
pottage for me, for which I thanked her: “Awat well lad, said she,
an ye be coming buy ony time, ye’s be welcome to a night o’ our
barn, for ye hae na steal’d naething,” thanks to you goodwife, said
I, that’s very fair; “Indeed lad ’tis no every ane we’ll trust wi’
our new barn, farfore sud we?” O goodwife, it wad be a great thief
that wad run awa’ wi’ a barn on his back I wonder ye let it stand
out all night: Hute awa’ ye daft body, how can we get it in, ke
awa’ chapman ye’re joking me now.
I then took a turn round the country for two weeks, and then came
back to be avenged on the naughty wife and her sowens, it being
very dark or I came in, the goodwife did not know me, but made her
speech as follows: “Indeed, says she, ye’s no be here, for there
is so many thieves and robbers gawn a-thort the kintry, an our
goodman’s no at hame; is thou honest enough?” I can want nothing of
my honesty goodwife; but did you ever see any people gawn thro’ the
country, telling they were thieves? “Na, a wat well no, said she.”
Then, said I, I’m sure I did not take away your barn on my back the
last time I was here; “Yee lad, said she, are ye the chapman that
cracket sae well to our goodman? come in by, ye’s get a night o’
the barn yet;” thanks to you goodwife and we sud get nae mair. I
then being preferred to my old seat and got the sowens to steer,
until they were near ready, when the goodwife ordered the lad to
take the old blankets, and shew me to my bed in the barn; I then
gave the sowens their last turn, and having about the bigness of a
nut of C--l S--p, drops it into the pot, then went off to bed in
the barn as fast as I could, and made fast both the doors within,
lest the bewitched sowens out of the pot should attack me in my
sleep: Next morning when I came in, the goodwife began to pray for
herself and all that she had, saying, “It’s Wednesday thro’ a’ the
warld and good be between you and me chapman, for ye’re either a
witch or a warlock, or something that’s no canny, for ye witch’t
our sowens last night, for they gaed mad, rag’d out o’ the pot,
belling and bizing like barm, I thought they wad run out to the
barn to you, see how they fill’d up my milk tub, and a’ the dishes
in the house is fu’ o’ them.” Dear goodwife, said I, they were very
good when I left them, tho’ I did not prie them, and wish’d them as
much good of them as I got, but certainly they’re not witcht, but a
blessing in them, when they are so multiplied: “Gae awa, cried she,
in a passion, ye’re no canny, ye’se ne’er be here again:” I need
not value that, said I, for I have nothing to thank you for, but my
dinner, supper, and breakfast, and for a night o’ your barn, I’ll
pay it when I come back: “Ay, ay, said she, ye need nae thank me
for what ye did not get:” that’s not my fault goodless good, said
I, prosperity to you and your witcht sowens.[91]
The next little town I came to, and the first house which I
entered, the wife cried out, “plague on your snout sir, ye filthy
blackguard chapman like b--h it ye are, the last time ye came here
ye gard our Sandy burn the good bane kame it I gade a sax pence in
Falkirk, ay did ye, and sae did ye, and sae did ye een, and said,
ye wad gie him a muckle clear button to do it:” Me, said I, I never
had ado with you all the days of my life, and do not say that Sandy
is mine: “A wae wirth the body am I saying ye had ado wi’ me, I
wadna hae ado wi’ the like o’ you nor I am sure wi’ them I never
saw.” But what about the button and the bane kame goodwife? Sannock
is na this the man? Ay is’t cried the boy, gie me my button, for I
burnt the kame, and she paid[92] me for’t, Gae awa’ sir, said I,
your mother and you is but mocking me; it was either you or ane
like you, or some ither body. O goodwife, I mind wha’ it is now,
it’s ane just like me, when ye see the taen ye see the tither, they
ca’ him Jock Jimpither: A wae worth him quo’ the wife, if I winna
thrapple him for my good bane comb. Now said I, good wife be good,
bridle your passion, and buy a bane comb and colour’d napkin, I’ll
gie you a whaken penny-worth will gar you sing in your bed, If I
should sell you the tae half, and gift you the tither, and gar you
pay for every inch of it sweetly or a’ be done: Hech man, said
she, ye’re a hearty fallow, and I hae need o’ a’ these things, for
our Sannock’s head is a’ hotchen, and our John’s is little better,
for an’ let them alane but ae eight days, they’ll grow as grit as
grosets. And here I sold a bone comb and a napkin, for she believed
such a douse lad as I, had no hand in making her boy burn the bone
comb.
The next house I came into, there was a very little taylor, sitting
on a table like a t--d on a truncher, with his legs plet over
other, made me imagine he was a sucking three footed taylor, first
I sold him a thimble, and then he wanted needles, which I showed
him one paper after another, he looking their eyes and trying
their nebs in his sleeve, dropt the ones he thought proper on the
ground between his feet, where he sat in a dark corner near the
fire, thinking I would not perceive him: O, said he, them needles
of yours is not good man, I’ll no buy any of them, I do no not
think you need, said I, taking them out of his hand, and lights a
candle was standing near by, come, said I, sit about you thieving
dog till I gather up my needles, gathers up ten of them, come said
he, I’ll buy twal-penny’s worth of them, since I troubled you sae
muckle; no, said I, you lazie dog, I’ll sell you none, if there’s
any on the ground, seek them up and stap them in a beast’s a--se,
but if ye were a man I would burn thee in the fire, tho’ it be in
your own house, but as your a poor taylor and neither man nor boy,
I’ll do nothing but expose you for what you are. O dear honest
chapman, cried his wife, ye mauna do that and I’ll gie you cheese
and bread. No, no, you thieves, I’m for nothing but vengeance; no
bribes, for such: So as I was lifting my pack, there was a pretty
black cat which I spread over with my napkin, and took the four
corners in my hand, carrying her as a bundle, untill I came about
the middle of the town, then provoking the dogs to an engagement
with me, so that there came upon me four or five collies, then I
threw the poor taylor’s cat in the midst of them, there a terrible
battle ensued for some time, and badrons had certainly died on the
field had I not interposed, and got her off mortally wounded; the
people who saw the battle, alarmed the taylor, and he sallied out
like a champion with his elwand in his hand, go back, said I, you
lousie dog, or I’ll tell about the needles, at which word he turned
about. I went to an ale-house to get some breakfast, there they
asked me where I was all night, as it was usual for chapmen to get
meat where they lodged, I told where it was, but would take none
of their meat, they seem to me not to be canny, for this morning
they were making ropes of cold sowens to crown their stacks wi: Gae
awa’, cried the wife, I cannot believe it. Die in your ignorance
for me: The wife sent away her son to see if it was so, but or he
came back I set out, and travelled down the side of a water called
Evan: and as I was coming past a mill dam, there was a big clownish
fellow lifting a pitcher of water out of the dam, so as he dipt
it full and set down on the ground, staring at me, he tumbled in
himself out of sight o’er head and ears, and as soon as he got
out, I said, Yo ho friend, Did you get the fish? What an’ a fish
ye b--h, O said I, I thought ye, seen a fish, when you jumped in
to make it jump out: What a d--l sir, are you mocking me? runs
round his pitcher, and gives me a kick on the a--se, so that I fell
designedly on his pitcher, and tumbling it down the bank, went in
pieces, his master and another man looking and laughing at us, the
poor fellow complained of me to him, but got no satisfaction.
The same evening, as I was going towards the town of Linlithgow,
meets an old crabet fellow riding upon an old glaied mare, which
he always was a threshing upon with his stick: Goode’en to you
goodman, said I, are you going to the bull wi’ your mare? What
do ye say sir, they gang to the bull wi’ a cow ye brute. O yes
goodman, ye are right, said I, but how do they call that he beast
that rides on the mare’s back, they ca’t a cusser sir, a well then
goode’en to you Master Cusser. He rides a little bit, then turns
back in a rage, saying, I say sir, your last words are war nor your
first, he comes then at the flight to ride me down, but I struck
his beast on the face, and in the short turn about it fell, yet
or I got my pack to the ground, he cutted me on the head at the
first stroke, and then getting clear of the pack, played it away
for some time, till by blows on the face, I made him blood at both
mouth and nose; then he cried out, chapman, we are baith daft, for
we’ll kill oursells and make nothing o’t, we had better gree, with
all my heart, said I, and what will ye buy? nothing but a pair of
beard sheers, said he, and give me them cheap, so I sold him a pair
of sheers for three half-pence, and gave him a needle, then parted
good friends after the battle was over.
So I went to Linlithgow that night, where I met with Drouthy Tom my
dear companion, and here we had a most terrible encounter with the
tipenny for two nights and a day, and then we set out for Fife on
the hair order, by way of Torryburn and Culross and coming up to a
parcel of women washing by a water side, I buys one of their hairs,
the time I was cutting it off, Tom fell a courting and kissing a
girl among them, but she fell to crying against him, saying ye have
put your hands a-tween my feet; cries an old wife, mony a ane has
taen me by there, and I ne’er said a word about it, a-wheen daft
jades, canna ye had your tongues whan its to your shame ye speak;
gae wa’, cried the lass the filthy body at he is, the last chapman
that kist me had a horse-pack, but he’ll hae naething in his but
a whisp of strae, some auld breeks, hare skins, maukin skins, ony
thing that fills the bag and bears bouk, and yet he would kiss and
handle me, hech I was made for a better fallow, ane of them came by
ae day, and sell’d our Meg twa ell and a quarter o’ linnen to be
her bridal sark, for he had nae mair, and when she made it, and put
it on, it wadna hide her hech, hech, he.
FINIS.
_LEPER THE TAYLOR._
[The following pages contain a reprint of a chap-book which had
a long run of popularity. The edition followed bears this on
the title-page:--‘Fun upon Fun: or, the Comical Merry Tricks
of Leper the Taylor. Stirling: Printed and sold by C. Randall,
MDCCXCIX.’ It consists of 16 pp., and each of the two parts has a
title-page.]
THE COMICAL TRICKS OF LEPER THE TAYLOR.[93]
PART I.
Leper’s father lived in a village about six miles from Glasgow,
and died when Leper was but very young, he left a widow and three
children, two daughters and a son, and Leper being the youngest,
was greatly idolized by his mother, who was a good soft natured
woman, very industrious, and followed the business of bleaching of
cloth.
As Leper grew up, he turned a very mischievous boy, playing tricks
on the neighbourhood, such as tying cats to dogs-tails, breaking
hen’s legs, stoping people’s lumbs or chimney-tops; so that his
poor mother was sadly vex’d with complaints against him.
To get him kept from mischief, she prevailed with a taylor to take
him an apprentice, he settled and was very peaceable for some time,
until he had got so much of the trade on his finger-ends as he
might pass for a journey-man, and then he was indifferent whether
he stayed with his master or not; his mistress gave him but very
little meat when they wrought at home, so he loved best to be in
other houses, where he got both meat and diversion.[94]
Leper being resolved on revenge against his mistress, for her thin
kail, no kitchen and little bread; for tho’ flesh was boiled in
the pot, none for poor Leper and his master, but a little bit on
Sabbaths, and all the bones were kept, and put in the pot, to make
the broth thro’ the week. Leper perceived always when she took off
the pot, she turned her back to them and took out the flesh, and
set it on a shelf within her own bed;[95] one night after work,
he steals out a pan, cuts a piece of flesh out of a dead horse,
then goes to a lime kiln and boils it; next day his master being
from home, his landlady and him being in the house, after she had
set off the pot as usual, and taken out her bit of good beef, he
goes out for some time, and then comes in, saying, The minister’s
lass is wanting you to go directly and speak to her mistress, away
she goes in all haste, Leper runs and takes away her bit of good
beef, and lays down his horse-flesh, and knowing she would soon
return in a passion, and sit down with a sosse in her cushion’d
chair as she used, he takes a large prin and staps it straight up
through the cushion, with its head on the chair and the point to
her back-side: in she comes in a rage, and down she sits with all
her weight on the prin point, and she roars out, Murder, murder,
for she was sticket through the a--se, the neighbours came running
in, and Leper got out with his bit of good beef, leaving the wives
to doctor his landlady’s doup as they pleased; he still denied the
doing of it, and his master believed it might happen accidentally,
but the Houdie was very often to be had before the hole was got
heal again; and his landlady by eating of that horse-beef, took a
loathing at flesh, so Leper and his master got all the beef to eat
ever after, and his landlady turned one of the kindest mistresses a
prentice could wish for.
There was a neighbour wife on which Leper used to play tricks
sometimes, for which she came and complained to his master, and
got him severely beaten[96] several times: Leper resolved to be
revenged on her, so one day he came to the back-side of her house,
(no body being within but herself) and took up a big stone, and
runs it along the rough wall with all his force, which roared like
thunder in the inside of the house, and frightened the wife so,
that she thought the house was tumbling down about her ears, upon
which she ran out and sat down at a distance, looking when the
house would fall down, till her husband came home, to whom she told
the above story, ‘Hout daft Taupie, said he, the house will stand
these hundred years,’ so by his persuasion they both went into the
house, Leper (knowing they were both in) comes back and plays the
same trick over again, which frighted the goodman also so much,
that he cried out, ‘Run Maggy run, for my heart plays a’ pitty
patty,’ and they would not lodge in the house any more, till the
masons convinced them of its sufficiency.
There was another neighbour who had a snarling curr dog, which bit
Leper’s leg; Leper resolved to be revenged on the dog, and so,
one night he catches the dog and carries him to the kirk, where
the rope of the bell hang upon the outside, so with his garter he
tied the dog’s fore-foot to the rope, and left him hanging; the
dog struggling to get free, set the bell a ringing, which alarmed
the whole village, every one cried out, ‘Wonderful sirs! Wonderful
sirs![97] the de’il is ringing the bell.’ When they saw the black
colley hanging the rope, I true it set the minister and all the
people to their prayers:[98] but Leper fearing he would be found
out by his garter, came to the minister’s side and asked the
reverend gentleman, what was the matter? Indeed my bairn (said he)
it’s the de’il ringing the kirk-bell; says Leper, I’ll go and see
him, for I never saw the de’il; the minister cry’d, Stop that mad
laddie, but Leper ran and loused the dog, crying, It’s such a man’s
dog, which had the rope in his teeth, they all cried out, ‘The
de’il is in the dog, the de’il is in the dog,’ took up some stones
and fell’d poor colley, and the de’il got the blame of making the
dog ring the bell, this spread Leper’s fame for being one of the
wisest and most couragious taylors that was in all the kingdom; and
many shaking their heads, said, ‘It was a pity he was a taylor, but
a captain or general of an army, as the devil could not fear him.’
After this a farmer in the neighbourhood, hearing the fame of
Leper, how he had frighted the de’il frae being a bell-man, sent
for him to an ale-house, and drank with him very heartily, and told
him he was sadly born down with the spirit of jealousy against his
wife, on suspicion of being too free with a servant-lad she had
before, and if he would keep it secret, and learn him how to find
it out, he would give his mother a load of meal, to which Leper
and him agrees, so he gave the poor supposed cockold instructions
how to behave. So home he goes and feigns himself to be very sick,
and every day worse and worse, taking death to him, blesses his
three small children, and charges his wife not to marry until his
children could do something for themselves: This hypocritical
woman takes the roaring, a-ha, marry, she would never marry! No,
no, there should never man ly by her side, nor kiss her lips after
thee, my lamb Johnny----Then he acted the dying man as well as
possibly he could, the neighbours were called in, and he’s fair
o’erseen[99] as the old saying is, Before good neighbours; the
sorrowful widow made a sad lament, wrung her hands, and tearing
her hair,----the reverend women[100] about began to dress the
corpse, asked her for a shirt, ay, ay, said she, He has twa new
linen sarks, and there is an auld ane in the bottom of the kist
it nae body can wear, just take it, ony thing is good enough for
the grave; well, said they, we must have some linen for a winding
sheet, a’well, co’ she, I ha’ twa cut o’ linen in the kist, but
there is a pair of auld linen sheets hol’d in the mids, may do
well enough, I had need to be carefu’, I’m a poor widow the day,
wi’ three sma’ bairns. Awell, the corpse is dress’d, and laid on
the top of a big chest, while the neighbours sat by her condoling
her misfortune, and wondering how the funeral raisins were to be
provided; said one, the coffin must be seen about first. Ay, ay,
said she, he has some new deals in the barn he bought to mak a bed
o’, but we’ll no break them, there is the auld barn-door and the
chaff-kist will do well enough, ony thing’s good enough to gang to
the grave; but O, co’ she, send for Sandy my honest auld servant,
and he’ll see every thing right done, I’ll tell him where he’ll
get siller to do ony thing wi’, he’s the lad it will not see me
wrang’d; then Sandy comes wrying his face and rubbing his eyes, O
Sandy, there is a sad alteration here, and ba-a-a she cries like
a bitten calf, O sirs, will ye gang a’ butt the house till I tell
Sandy what to do; butt they goes, and there she fell a kissing
of Sandy, and said, Now my dear, the auld channering ghaist is
awa,’ and we’ll get our will o’ ither; be as haining of every
thing as you can, for thou kens it’s a’ thy ain; but the corpse’s
sister and some other people came in, and ben they came to see the
corpse, lifts the cloth off his face, and seeing him all in a pour
of sweat, said, Hegh, he’s a bonny corp,[101] and a lively like
colour, when he could no longer contain to carry on the joke, but
up he got amongst them, a deal of the people ran for it, and his
wife cried out, O my dear, do ye ken me? Ay ye base jade and whore,
better than ever I did. Jumps on to the floor and gets his staff,
and runs after Sandy, and catches him in the fields a little from
the house, gives him a hearty beating, never tell’d him for what;
returns to the house, ate and drank with his sister and neighbours
who had come to see his corpse; poor Sandy went home with a skinful
of terror, and a sorting of sore bones, took a sore fever, and died
in a few days after, so he got quit of his cockler, and Leper’s
mother got her meal.
Leper’s mother was a careful industrious wife, but as the by-word
is ‘A working mother makes a daly daughter,’ and so it happened
here, for she had two idle glaket sluts of daughters, that would
do nothing but ly in their bed in the morning, till (as the saying
is) ‘The sun was like to burn a hole in their backsides;’ the old
woman being at this time busy bleaching some cloth, was very early
at work in the mornings, and Leper’s patience was worn out with the
laziness of his two sisters, and he resolved to play a trick on
them for their reformation; so he goes and gets a mortcloth[102]
and spreads it upon the bed above them, and sends the dead
bell[103] thro’ the town, inviting the people to his sisters’
burial the next day, at four o’clock afternoon, for they had died
suddenly; this brought all the neighbour-wives in, who one after
another lifted the mortcloth, and said with a great sigh, ‘They’re
gone to their rest, a sudden call indeed!’ Their aunt hearing of
this sudden news, came running in all haste, and coming through the
green where the jades mother was at work, who was ignorant of the
story, she cries out, ‘Fy upon you, woman, fy upon you,’ says she.
What’s the matter, sister? What’s the matter? ‘I think ye may let
your work stand for ae day, when your daughters are lying corpse.’
My bairns corpse! I am certain they went to bed heal and fair last
night. But I tell you (says the other) the dead bell has been
through the town, warning the folk to the burial, then the mother
cries out, ‘O the villain, O the villain, that he did not send me
word.’ So they both ran, and the mother as soon as she entered the
house, flies into the bed, crying, ‘O my bairns, my dear bairns!’
on which the sluts rises up in a consternation, to the great
surprize of the beholders, and to the great diversion of the whole
town, and to the great mortification of girls, who thought shame to
set their noses out of doors.
Leper and his master went to a gentleman’s house to work, where
there was a saucy house-keeper, who had more ignorance and
pride, than good sense and manners; she domineered over her
fellow-servants in a tyrannical manner; Leper resolved to mortify
her pride; so he finds an ant’s nest, and takes their white
eggs, grinds them to a powder, and puts them into the dish her
supper-sowens was to be put in. After she had taken her supper,
as she was covering the table, the imock-powder began to operate,
and she let a great fart, well done Margaret, says the laird, she
runs away for shame, but before she turned herself round, she gives
another raird. My faith, says the Laird, Margaret, your arse would
take a cautioner; before she got out of the chamber-door, she lets
fly another crack; then she goes to order her fellow-servant to
give the laird his supper, but before she could give the necessary
directions, she gave fire again, which set them all a laughing; she
runs into a room by herself, and there she played away her one gun
battery so fast, as she had been sieging the Havannah. The laird
and lady came to hear the fun, they were like to split their sides
at proud Maggy, so next morning she left the place, to the great
joy of her fellow servants.
(The end of the First Part.)
N.B.--In the Second Part, will be a deal of very diverting
Stories done by LEPER, when he was a Journeyman and Master.
PART II.[104]
Leper’s Landlady became very harsh to his Master, and very often
abused him exceeding sore with both tongue and hands, and always
chided upon him for more money, and to have all the money in her
keeping, which Leper was very sorry for. It so happened on a day,
after the Taylor had got a hearty drubbing with tongue and tongs,
that he pouch’d his thimble, and was going to make a Queen of her?
when she saw that, she cried out, ‘O will you leave me, a poor
tender, dying woman?’ But Leper knowing the cause of her cursed
ill-nature better than his Master did, advised him to take her on
a fine day, like a mile out of town, and give her a walk, and he
would stay at home, and study a remedy for her disorder.----Away
they goes, but as she was always complaining of her health, and
that she was very weak, she cry’d out frequently, ‘O it is a crying
sin to take a woman in my condition out o’er a door.’ During their
absence, Leper goes and searches her bed, and below the bolster
he gets a bottle of rare whisky, of which he takes a hearty pull,
and then pisses in it to make it up again, gets a halfpenny worth
of snuff and puts it in also, shakes all together, and so sets it
in its place again. Home they came again, and she was exceedingly
distressed as a woman could be, and cry’d out, ‘It was a horrid
thing to take her out of a house.’ The taylor seeing her so bad,
thought she would have died, and ran as fast as he could and
brought her a dram, but she in her hypocrisy pretended she could
not take it, and called him to help her to bed. Into her bed he
lays her, and he was not well gone until she fell to her bottle,
taking two or three hearty gluts, then she roars out murder, for
she was poisoned, she was poisoned. Bocking and purging began,
and the neighbours are called in, she leaves her blood on poor
Leper, and tells how such an honest woman brought her ae bottle
as another was done, and the murdering lown had stole it, and put
in a bottle of poison instead of it. Leper took to his heels, but
was pursued and carried before a Justice of the Peace, where he
told what he had done, which made the Justice laugh heartily at the
joke, and the Taylor’s wife was well purged both from her feigned
sickness, laziness, and cursed ill nature, for always when she
began to curl her nose for the future, the Taylor had no more to
say, ‘But, Maggy, Maggy, mind the bottle.’
Leper was working with a master taylor in Glasgow, who hungered his
men, and one morning just as the breakfast was set on the table,
in comes a gentleman to try on a suit of clothes, the Master being
obliged to rise, desired the lads to say the grace themselves,
every one refused it, and put it to his neighbour, till Leper took
it, and said as follows, with an audible voice, that the stranger
gentleman might overhear him; “Oh, hoch, we are a parcel of poor
beastly bodies, and we’re as beastly guided, if we do not work we
get nothing to eat, yet we are always eating and always fretting,
fidging and half fasting is like to be our fortune, scartings and
scrapings are the most of our mouthfu’s; we would fain thank thee
for thy fulness if ever it were so, but the rest of our benefactors
are not worth the acknowledging, hech hey, Amen,” which made the
gentleman laugh till he held his sides, and gave Leper half a crown
to drink.
Leper was not long done with his apprenticeship till he set up
for himself, and got a journeyman and an apprentice, was coming
into very good business, and had he restrained his roguish tricks
might have done very well. He and his lads being employed to work
in a farmer’s house, where the goodwife was a great miser, and not
very cleanly in making ready of meat, and snivel’d greatly when
she spoke. In the morning when she went to make their pottage, she
made a fashion of washing the pot, which to appearance seemed to
him to be among the first pots that had been made; then she set it
down before the fire till she went to the well, in which time Leper
looking into it, sees two great holes in the bottom stopped with
clouts, he takes up his goose, and holds it as high as his head,
then lets it fall into the pot, which knocked out the bottom of it;
presently in comes the wife with the water, and pours it into the
pot, which set the fire-side all in a dam, for still as she poured
it in, it ran out, the wife being short-sighted, or what they call
sand-blind, looks into the pot, holds up both her hands and cries,
“The losh preserve me, sirs, for the grip atween the twa holes is
broken;” says Leper the pot was old enough, but do you not ken that
taylor’s pottage is heavier than other mens: indeed lad, said she,
I believe it is sae, but they say ye’re a Warlock, it’s Wednesday
a’ the warld o’er,[105] and a woful Wednesday to me indeed, my
pot might have lasted me this fifty years, a sae wad it een.[106]
This sport diverted Leper and his lads thro’ the day, and after
supper, knowing he was to get but some dirty bed, as the cows and
the people lived all in one apartment,[107] he chused rather to go
home; and knowing the moon was to rise a little after midnight,
they sat long by the fire, told them many a fine story to drive
away the time, and bade the wife go and make their bed to see how
it might be; to save candle she made it in the dark, directly on
the floor behind where they sat, shaking down two bottles of straw:
a calf which chanced to be lying on that spot, and which the wife
did not notice, was covered up with the straw, and the bed clothes
spread over all. The most of the family being gone to bed, the
wife told them several times to go to bed also; but Leper knowing
of the calf, said, I’ll make my bed come to me, on which the wife
began to pray for herself, and all that was in the house; so up
he gets his elwand, and gives a stroke on the bed, which caused
the brute to get up, and not seeing where to go, it fell a crying,
and turning round, which set the whole cows in the whole house a
roaring out murder in their own tongue, the wife ran to the bed
above the goodman, and the whole family cried out, not knowing what
it was, but Leper and his two lads whipp’d off the blankets off the
brute, and it ran in among the rest unperceived, then Leper lighted
a candle, and all of them got out of bed, paid Leper for his work,
and more if he pleased, and begged him to go away, and take the
devil with him. So home he went, but never was employed by that
wife more.
Leper had a deal of the best customers, both in town and country;
so one time he had occasion to go to the parish of Inchinan to
make a wedding suit for a gentleman; after they were finished, he
asked drink-money to his lads, which the gentleman refused: Leper
resolved to be even with him, so goes to the hay-loft where the
groom slept, and takes his stockings, breeches and jacket, sews
them altogether, and stuffs them full of hay, makes a head, puts a
rope about the neck, and hangs it on a tree opposite to the Laird’s
window, then goes to the Laird and tells him that his groom had
hanged himself, and that if he would open his window, he would
see him hanging; the laird struck with astonishment knew not what
to do; Leper advises him to bury him privately, the Laird said,
he had not a servant he could trust, so begged of Leper to do it,
Leper refuses, till the Laird promised him a load of meal: then
Leper pulls all the hay out of the groom’s clothes, goes and gets
his load of meal and sends it to Glasgow, then goes to the groom,
and says hastily, lad, thy master is wanting thee; so the lad in
a haste runs to see what his master wanted, the Laird no sooner
saw him opening the door, than he cry’d out, Avoid thee Satan,
avoid thee Satan; the lad says, What’s the matter, Sir? What’s the
matter? Did not you hang yourself this morning? Lord forbid! said
the lad: the laird says, If thou be an earthly creature, take that
tankard and drink; which he did: Then says he to his Master, Leper
called me up and said, you wanted me in all haste: Ho, ho, says
the Laird, I find out the story now, If I had Leper I would run my
sword through him: But Leper before that was away for Glasgow with
his meal.
Leper was in use to give his lads their Sunday’s supper, which
obliged him to stay from the Kirk in the afternoon, he having
neither wife nor servant-maid; so on Sunday afternoon, as he was at
home cooking his pot, John Muckle-cheeks and James Puff-and-Blaw,
two Civileers, having more zeal than knowledge, came upon him and
said, What’s the matter Sir, you go not to the kirk? Leper replied,
I am reading my book, and cooking my pot, which I think is the
work of necessity. Then says the one to the other, Don’t answer
the graceless fellow, we’ll make him appear before his betters, so
they took the kail-pot and puts a staff thro’ the bowls, and bears
it to the Clerk’s chamber.[108] Leper who was never at a loss for
invention, goes to the Principal of the College his house, no body
being at home but a lass roasting a leg of mutton; Leper says, My
dear, will you go and bring a pint of ale, and I’ll turn the spit
’till you come back, the lass was no sooner gone, than he runs away
with the leg of mutton, which served his lads and him for their
supper. When the Principal came home, he was neither to bin nor
ha’d, he was so angry; so on Monday he goes and makes complaint
to the Lord Provost, who sends two officers for Leper, who came
immediately. My Lord asked him, How he dared to take away the
Principal’s mutton? Leper replied. How came your Civileers to take
away my kail-pot? I am sure, there is less sin in making a pot-full
of kail, than roasting a leg of mutton, Law-makers should not be
law-breakers, so I demand justice on the Civileers; the Provost
asked him, what justice he would have? says he, Make them carry the
pot back again; as for the Principal, a leg of mutton won’t make
him and me fall out: so they were forced to carry the pot back, and
Leper caused the boys to huzza after them to their disgrace.
There was a Barber which always plagued Leper, calling him a
Prick-the-Louse; Leper resolved to be even with him, so he goes and
buys three sheep-heads, and sends for the Barber and told him, that
there were three Southland gentlemen come to his house, who wanted
to be shaved, and he assured him he would receive sixpence for
each one of them, this good news made the shaver send for a dram;
Leper was still praising them for quiet good natured gentlemen,
so Leper takes him to the bed where the sheep-heads lay covered,
and desired him to waken them, for they would not be angry, or say
an ill word to him, the Barber lifts the covering and sees the
sheep-heads, runs out cursing and swearing, and Leper crying after
him, Sheep-head Barber.
The Barber resolved to be revenged on Leper, so when he was shaving
Mess John, he tells him that Leper was the drunkenest fellow in
the parish; so Mess John warns him to the session, Leper comes
and says, What do you want with me, Sir? Come away Leper, says
Mess John, I hear a bad report of you; Me, Sir! I am sure they
were not my friends that told you that. Indeed, I am informed you
are a great drunkard; I a drunkard! you have not a soberer man in
your parish: Stay Sir, I’ll tell you how I lead my life: In the
morning I take a choppin of ale, and a bit of bread, that I call
my morning: for breakfast I generally take a herring and a choppin
of ale, for I cannot sup brose like my lads; the herring makes me
dry, so at eleven hours I take a pint; at dinner another pint; at
four afternoon my comrades and I join, sometimes we are a pint
and sometimes three choppins; at supper I take a bite of bread
and cheese and a pint, and so I go to bed: Mess John says, It’s
extravagant Sir, it’s excessive drinking, I allow you the one half
of it for a quarter of a year; says Leper, I’ll try it, Sir, and
come back and tell you. At the end of the quarter he draws out his
account, and goes to Mess John, who was sitting with his elders in
the session-house, and says, Sir, I have a demand on you: On me,
Sir! Yes, on you, Sir; Don’t you remember you allowed me so much
drink for a quarter of a year, and I want the money; Am I to pay
your reckoning, Sir? You allowed it, and if you won’t pay it, I’ll
take you before the Provost: The Elders advised him to pay it or
he would be affronted: so Leper got the money: When he was at the
door, he says, Sir, will ye stand another quarter? Get away, says
Mess John, and don’t trouble me. Leper says, I’m sure you may, for
I was always two-pence to your penny.
THE END OF THE SECOND PART.
_THE GRAND SOLEMNITY OF THE TAYLOR’S FUNERAL._
[The edition here followed was published in the year 1816,
without any mention of the place of issue. It contains also the
two parts of _Leper the Taylor_. The full title is:--‘Fun upon
Fun, or, the Comical Merry Tricks of Leper the Taylor. In two
Parts. To which are added, The Grand Solemnity of the Taylor’s
Funeral, who lay Nine Nights on his own Shop-Board, together with
his Last Will.’ It has been collated with an edition published
in 1820, and with another, apparently of English origin, without
date. This chap-book, as has been explained in the Introduction,
Vol. I., p. 48, is believed to be the third part of _Leper the
Taylor_; and M‘Vean has given his sanction to the conjecture by
entering it in his list of _Opera Dugaldi_. Upon a close study
of the work, however, and after a careful comparison of it with
the two parts of _Leper the Taylor_, the editor cannot avoid the
suspicion that what appears in the following pages is not the
_bona-fide_ work of Dugald Graham. That suspicion is founded not
only upon the almost entire absence of Scotticisms, but also
upon the mention of some customs which were certainly not common
in Scotland, such, for instance, as the presentation of a sprig
of rosemary to each person at a funeral, and the corpse arrest.
These were more prevalent in England. While that is so, the fact
that the work forms a quite consistent conclusion to the other
two parts, and that Dugald did not always run in the same groove,
prevents the editor from pressing this suspicion to an extreme;
and he contents himself with marking the authorship as doubtful.]
THE GRAND SOLEMNITY OF THE TAYLOR’S FUNERAL.
Leper[109] in his life-time desired, That all those who came
to attend his funeral, might be handsomely entertained with a
half-penny-roll, and a pint of ale;[110] in memory of the many
breakfasts he had made in his life-time: And furthermore desired,
That those who were his former[111] relations and chief mourners,
instead of a mourning ring, might be presented with a Taylor’s
Thimble, in memory of his own trade, and round the rim to have this
motto engraved:
_Be sure you Feed Hell._
Round the room hung divers remnants of black-cloth, of the Taylor’s
own cabbaging, for he was very honest that way, and never cabbaged
but a quarter[112] out of a yard. At the four corners of the
room stood four woolen-drapers, lamenting the loss of so good a
customer, with each of them a white wand in his hand, just a yard
long and a parchment label hanging on their shoulders, with this
motto:
_The Taylor has finished his work,_
_And now he is gone to receive his wages._
At the head of the Taylor’s coffin, stood the goose triumphant, the
cabbage blazoned, and the cucumber argent. On the lid of his coffin
was engraven, on a brass plate, this applicable motto:
_Hell is beneath me._
At the foot of the coffin was the sheers pendent, the bodkin
rampant, and the thimble enclosed in three ermins.
When the Corpse was conveyed down stairs, each person was served
decently round with a leaf of red cabbage, instead of a sprig of
rosemary. Then the Corpse was hoisted on the shoulders of six
piece-brokers, having each of them this motto:
_The Taylor steals, we buy._
The pall was supported by those who sold stay-tape, buckram, and
canvas.
The Corpse was followed down Cloth-fair by thirty-six
master-taylors, each having a yard in his right-hand, with a
parchment streamer at the end of it, with this motto:
_We Taylors by our art and trade_
_Do often mend what God hath made._
Next followed twenty-four[113] woolen-drapers, two-by-two, bearing
on their breasts this motto:
_We deal in wool, but can’t forbear_
_To deal, alas! some times in hair._
Then followed the like number of button-makers, wringing their
hands with this motto:
_Man’s but a Button, by my soul!_
_The very Grave’s a Button-hole._
After these, followed a vast number of city ricketty hopper-arsed
beaux, who had been padded up, and made into a complete gentlemen,
by the deceased limb-trimmer, drying their watery eyes, with
cambrick hankerchiefs, and having this motto engraved on their
watch cases:
_He’s gone who made us human shapes,_
_And now we must again turn apes._
But to conclude the procession: Last of all, followed a numerous
croud of journeymen taylors, who were all slip-shoed, their
stockings about their heels, their hats off, a skein of thread
hung carelessly about their necks; and their shirt collars were
open, that they might have liberty to disturb their bosom friends.
On their left sleeve was a cushion, whereon stuck abundance of
Spanish and Whitchapel needles. The tails of their wigs were matted
like horses’ manes, just as if they had come off the shop-board
from work. On their left shoulders each had a long strip of
parchment, whereon was written this motto:
_The lice bite us, ’tis not deny’d,_ }
_We bite our masters when employ’d;_ }
_And they bite all the world beside._ }
At the bottom of Cloth-fair, the Corpse was arrested at the suit
of an old herb-woman for elevenpence halfpenny,[114] which had
been due a long time to the hag, for cabbages and cucumbers, which
the deceased had in his life-time: However the journeymen-taylors
manfully released the Corpse,[115] and afterwards marched on
in ample procession to the house of one Ned Kemp, an honest
piece-broker, where there was a spacious grave dug, between a large
cabbage and a cucumber plant.
The FUNERAL SERMON was preached by Obadiah Backstitch, and the
words of the text were these:
_A remnant of all shall be saved._[116]
After which, the journeymen taylors were admitted into the
house,[117] and each of them served with a halfpenny-roll, and a
pint of ale, and so went weeping home, for the loss of so good a
master.
THE TAYLOR’S LAST WILL.
I will and bequeath unto Simon Whipstitch,[118] my needle and
thimble; unto Peter Niggle, my sheers and bodkin; and unto Mrs.
Mary Laycock[118] is my Pincushion, stuck full of needles and pins,
to which I sewed a watch-chain, key, and seal with which I used to
strut about like a crow in a gutter.[119]
_Gae canty book and win a name;_
_Nae lyrics ev’er shall ding thee:_
_Hope large esteem, and lasting fame,_
_For Leper’s name will raise thee._[120]
FINIS.
_THE HISTORY OF HAVEREL WIVES._
[The title of the edition reprinted here is:--‘The Folly of
Witless Women Displayed; or, the History of Haverel Wives:
Written by Humphray Clinker the Clashing Wives Clerk. Being a
Comical Conference between Maggy and Janet his two old Aunties.
Glasgow: Printed for the Company of Flying Stationers, in Town
and Country, MDCCLXXXI.’ It has been collated with an undated
edition issued by Morren of Edinburgh, and one published by the
Robertsons of Glasgow in 1807; and also with a reprint by D.
Webster & Son, Lothian Street, Edinburgh. This last named firm,
considering the reprinting of old Scottish popular tales ‘in a
more correct and neat form’ than hitherto to be a desideratum,
issued this chap-book, along with _Janet Clinker’s Oration_, as
the first number of what they called the ‘Caledonian Classics
of the Common People.’ _John Cheap_ was announced as the second
number. It should be stated that the 1781 edition here followed
is exceptional in respect that the _History of the Haverel Wives_
is given as a separate and distinct publication. It is an 8 pp.
12mo. In all the other editions that have come under the editor’s
notice this chap-book and _Janet Clinker’s Oration_ are issued
together.]
THE HISTORY OF HAVEREL WIVES, &c.
It is a certain old saying, That where women are conveen’d in
crouds there can be but little silence; and some have acknowledged
that it was a great bondage for them to hold their peace in the
church: and where there is much talk by ignorant speakers, it is
diverting for persons of understanding to hear them. Therefore we
have furnished the public with a small collection of old wives
noted sayings and wonders, which they relate happened in their own
time, also what has been told them by their forefathers.
Two old wives (Maggy, and Janet) at their rocks, began their cracks
as follows:
Janet. A dear Maggy, an how auld will ye be now, o’ it’s lang since
I kend you.
Maggy. Indeed Janet that’s what nae body kens, for my father and
mither had sae mony o’ us, they ne’er counted how auld ane o’ us
was, they minded ay wha o’ us was born first, and wha was neist ane
anither, and that was a’ that e’er we sought to ken about it; but I
ha’e mind o’ the mirk Munonday.[121]
Jan. Hout, tout, woman, the mirk Munonday, I hae mind since there
was nae Munondays at a’, and the Sabbath days was nae com’d in
fashion, there was a day they ca’d Sunday came anes o’ the ouk
for it, we kend ay whan it came, for my father cow’d ay his beard
whan the bell rang, and then every body ran to the kirk it had
ony thing ado, an it were to buy saut or shune, for the chapman
chiels set up a’ their creims at the kirk-door, an the lasses wad a
gotten keeking glasses, red snudes, needles, prins, elshin irons,
gemlets, brown bread and black saep to buy, forby sweety wives
things, and rattless for restless little anes; the men wad a bought
pints o’ ale, an a gotten a whang o’ gude cheese to chow a’ the
time a drinking o’t, hout, tout ay, they were braw markets on the
Sundays i’ the time o’ Paepery,[122] we had nae ministers than but
priests, Mess Johns, Black Friers, and White Friers, Monks, Abbots,
and Bishops, they had nae wives, yet the best o’ them wad a spoken
baudy language, and a kiss’d the lasses, fikle fyking bodies they
ware, unko ill to please, they wad a baith curs’d fouk and bless’d
them, just as ye pay’d them; a deed they were unco greedy o’ the
penny, and pray’d ay to the dead fouk, and gard the living pay them
for’t, and although they had play’d the loon wi’ a poor hizey she
durst na speak o’t for her very life, for they cou’d gi’ ony body
o’er to the de’il when they liket: They did not gar fouks learn to
read and pray like our new ministers, but thump on your breast,
strake your fingers o’er aboon your nose, tell your beads and rin
bare-fit thro’ amang hard stanes, and cauld sna’.
Mag. A hech woman, an wad they a had carnal dealings wi’ the women,
and they sae good and haly.
Jan. Hout ye daft woman, do ye think their goodness gelded them
tho’ they had nae wives; there was a great sort o’ them it they
ca’d cardonels, that ay when twa young bodies was married they bute
to hae the first night o’ the bride.[123]
Mag. A wae worth them filthy hureing dogs, if I wadna’ a libbet
them mysel, I wonder that the gentle fouks and lairds lote them do
the like o’ that.
Jan. A dear woman the gentle fouks and the lairds keepet ay in wi’
them, for they said they had the command o’ the de’il and the dead
fouk, and the gentles durst na cast out wi’ them, for they got a’
their sins pardon’d for the less siller.
Mag. A dear woman that was unko like, the de’il wad get nae body
then but the poor fouk, and them that had nae siller.
Jan. A well a wat that was true, for an they pay’d the priest well,
the de’il durst na middle wi’ them.
Mag. A wow woman, a what’s come o’ them a’ now, am sure the like o’
thae fouks it had sae meikle power, needed neither die nor yet be
sick: they wad live a’ their days.
Jan. A wat well did they, for the maist o’ them is dead and rotten,
and the rest o’ them gade awa’ to Italy, where the auld Pape their
father, the de’il, the witches, brownies and faries dwal,[124] and
then we gat anither sort o’ gospel fouks it they ca’d curits,[125]
fine sort o’ dainty honest foulks they war, but gay and greedy,
they did na’ like sculdudery wark, but said na meikle against it,
for a hantle o’ bits a callans wad a gotten twa or three bastards
before they wad a gotten breeks; they beit to hae their tithes of
every thing that grew, mony a time my father wist they wad take
the tithes of his hemp too, an it were to hang themsels, they were
ay warst whare a poor man or wife died, altho’ they left weans
fatherless and mitherless, a deed they wad a sent their bellman,
and wi’ his lang prelatic fingers he wad a harled the upper pair
o’ blankets aff o’ the poor things bed, for some rent that they
gard fouks pay for dying, a sae did they e’en, and yet they keepit
a hantle o’ bra haly days, and days o’ meikle meat, Fastrens-e’en
and Yule days, when we gat our wames fou o’ fat brose, and a sippet
Yule sowens till our sarks had been like to rive, and after that a
eaten roasted cheese and white puddings well spiced, O bra times
for the guts, well I wat every body might live than that had ony
thing to live on.
Mag. But dear Janet ye’er bra an lang o’ the memory, do ye mind o’
the waefu blast, when the foul thief was raging in the air, and
the de’il dang doun a’ the kail yard dykes cutted the corn stacks,
tirr’d the houses and blew giddy Wille’s wig in the wall, they said
it was some young minister it had rais’d the de’il, and for want o’
a cock, a cat, or some unkirsen’d creature to gi’ him, they could
na’ get laid again, an he brake the bridle slipped his head an ran
awa frae them.[126]
Jan. A deed woman I heard tell o’ that, and how wood Willie M‘Neel
met him on the staps in the mids o’ the water, an shot him o’er,
and thought to drown him, but he gade doun the water like a meikle
branded bill roaring, a’ burning fire; but I hae mind the first
time it the de’il came to this kintrey was on a Sunday, I was a wi’
bit gaun lassie my father and a’ the men fouk was at the kirk, the
ware twa o’ them, a humeld ane an a horn’d ane, a goodman de’il,
and a goodwife de’il as we took them to be, we ran a’ into the
house, and my mither barr’d the door and hunted the dogs at the
byre hole, thinking the de’il wou’d rin frae the dogs, but, na, na,
they got up on their tae end like twa auld men, they were a rugh
lang hair like a pyet horse, wi’ lang bairds aneath their chin, and
the meikle horn’d de’il box’d the dogs in at the hole agen, we ran
a’ ben the house and grat, but our Jock wha wis a little gabby gaun
laddock, cry’d ay, mither, mither, what is the de’il seeking here,
he’ll be wanting to tak a’ the auld wives an cats to mak witches
o’ them,[127] I true whan my gran mither heard that, she gat up and
ran ben to the spence, and crap in the bear meal barrel to hide
hersel frae the de’il, and curr’d there ’till the kirk skaild, a
deed she was sae fear’d, she made her burn in the barrel; and what
was’t true ye after a’ but a tupe and a ewe of the highland gaits,
it the laird had gotten to gie the lady milk, but mony a day we
leugh at the twa de’ils.
Mag. But dear woman, what an a body is that de’il, it ev’ry body is
sae fear’d for him, is’t na him they ca’ auld nick, what fore do
they ca’ him auld nick?
Jan. A dead woman I dinna ken what like a body he is, but they say
he’s a’ black, and they ca’ him auld nick, because he’s aulder nor
Adam, and Adam was the first man in the warld, and they say the
de’il will never die, nor yet be sick, nor yet tak sair een.
Mag. A wow Janet but ye’re a witty creature, but can ye tell me
what way the blackamoors is made, some fouk says they’re a’ dipped
in cats blood and burnt bear strae, but I’m ay thinking the litster
doucks them in amang the broe that they lit the black claith wi’,
and then sells them to the lairds and gentle folks to flee their
bairns wi’, or dis the gentles eat them when they’re dead think
ye.[128]
Jan. Hout awa daft creature, the blackamoors is fouk just like
oursel, but only they hae a black skin on them, did ye never see
black sheep and white sheep, black horse and white horse, ye think
they’re a’ de’ils because the de’il’s black: I thought mysel lang
syne, they were made for the penny, and sell’d the dearer o’ the
black skin.
Mag. But Janet did ye ever see the de’il, I wad fain ken what like
he is, some says he’s like a bill, a bear or an auld beggar man.
Jan. Indeed I never saw sae muckle as the de’il a’ my days, but
I’ve heard the ministers flyting and misca’ing him, and whan they
said a’ that they cou’d say o’ him, they ca’d him an ill spirit,
and a great liar, mony a ane has war names than a’ that yet.[129]
Mag. But do you think there is ony de’ils but ane, every body’s
speaking an crying on him, ane couldna answer them a’.
Jan. A deed they say there’s black anes and white anes o’ them,
humel anes, and horn’d anes, the very witches is haf de’ils whan
they’re living, and hail de’ils when they’re dead; the brownies is
haf dogs haf de’ils, a’ rugh but the mouth, seeks na claise, ae
man’s meat ’ill sair them, and they’ll work ten mens work in ae
night, forby hob-goblins fairies and elfs, that shoots fouks beasts
to dead, an no a hole to be seen in the skin o’ them;[130] hard
na ye tell o’ the twa Highland wives, how the tane cry’d oh, on,
oh on, Shenet my cows shot, houp, poup, co’ she, an wha shot her,
a de’d it was the de’il, oh hough, oh hough, Shenet we’ll a’ be
kill’d whan the de’il has gotten a gun.
Mag. A sweet be wi’ us woman, is nit an unco thing they dinna a’
flee on the minister, whan he flytes and misca’s them sae, do ye
think they hear him?
Jan. A doubtless but they hear and sees too, they’re neither blind
nor bleer-ey’d, but ay whan ye speak o’ them, name the day cry it’s
wansday thro’ a’ the warld and there’s nae fear o’ you.[131]
Mag. But what de ye think o’ our minister, is he a good man think
ye?
Jan. Indeed I think he’s a gay gabby body, but he has twa fauts,
and his wife has three, he’s unko greedy o’ siller, and he’s ay
preaching down pride, and up charity, and yet he’s that fou o’
pride himsel, that he has gotten a glass window on ev’ry side o’
his nose, and his een is as clear as twa clocks to luk to, he has
twa gigglet gilliegaukies o’ dochters, comes into the kirk wi’
their cobletehow mutches frizel’d up as braid’s their hips, and
clear things like starns about their necks, and at ev’ry lug a
walloping white thing hanging like a snotter at a bubbly wean’s
nose, syne about their necks, a bit thin claith like a mouse web
and their twa bits o’ paps playing ay niddity nod, shining through
it like twa yearning bags, shame fa’ them and their fligmagaries
baith, for I get nae good o’ the preaching looking at them; and
syne a’ the dirty sherney hought hizies in the parish maun hae the
like or lang gae; but an I ware to preach, sic pride sudna hae
baith peace and property in my parish, I wou’d point out my very
finger to them in the kirk, and name them baith name and sirname,
and say there sits sherney Meg o’ the mill, stumpy May o’ the
moss, sniveling Kate wi’ her hodle-makenster coat, they came into
the kirk bobbing their hin quarters like three water wag tails,
shaking their heads like a hunder pund horse, smacking their lips
and hauding their mouth like May puddocks; and what shall I compare
them to, but painted Jezebels; the whore of Babylon or Rachel
the harlot, with a’ their gaudy decoying colours, high taps, and
spread glittering tails, whan they come sailing into the house of
prayer, as it were a house o’ dancing and debaushery, go, go, ye
painted pisweips to fairs and weddings, and there display your
proud banners of pride which ye are puffed up with, it is the very
spirit o’ the devil, and unbecoming o’ the house o’ prayer: But
if these gillygaukies shou’d come into the kirk with their heels
up and their heads down, our mess John is become like ane o’ the
dogs of Egypt, he’ll no move his tongue, and I believe he darna for
Clipock his wife; wha’s element is to banter a’ the poor beggars
from her door, nane can stand her but the tinkler wives, and she’s
ay whinging about charity, but it’s to hersel, she widna pity the
cripple on the blind’s back, but bids gae hame to their ain parish
filthy beggar dirt,[132] she casts a’ her cauld paritch and kail to
the cocks and hens, kicks the poor colly dogs out at the door, ca’s
them filthy useless brutes, because they canna lay eggs, like hens
eggs, she’s ay flyting on her lasses, hungers her servant lad, eats
cocks and hens hersel, and gars the poor minister eat saut herrin.
Mag. A well I wat then I wish he may not turn a drucken body, for
herring maks fouk ay dry, but well I wat Janet ye hae tell’d their
faults on baith the sides, an I hae ae great faut to our minister
yet, and tho’ I ware dead and rotten the night afore the morn I’ll
neither forgi’ him nor yet forget him, a what he said to me, that
I sud be ta’en and douked for offerin to marry agen, a woman at my
age; an auld man, said he, ought to marry some kindly body to keep
him clean in his auld age, but an auld woman (said he) that can
wash a dud sark to themsels needs nae men; and now no Janet, I am
no to ca’ very auld although I be stricken in years, I dinna ken
my ain age, being kirsen’d in the time o’ Paepery;[133] I hae the
penny, tho’ bair o’ flesh and blood, has four good teeth before
and well willin gums in the backside, I canna gang far without a
staff, an yet I wad as fain be married as whan I was fifteen year
auld, O woman! but a man in the bed is an usefu body, they hae a
sweet breath, and natural heat to keep a body warm; but an our
minister ware an auld wife, he wad ken what the want of a bit man
is as well as I, and a’ this began about wanton Wat the town taylor
that promis’d to tak me again sic a time or tell me what for, mony
a pickle well butter’d kail bleds I gi’d him, held out frae my ain
wame and stappit in a his, he said he wad do as muckle to me again,
but he has na don’t fause loun carle it he was, cheated me out o’
sax pund and twa sarks and then gar’d me mak a fool o’ mysel whan
the laird’s duket[134] was biggit and made a’ white to gar the dows
come, he said an my window ware as white they wad come to me too,
and I like a poor fool took a basin fu’ o’ good bear meal and made
it drammock and whitened a my window wi’t, but the never a dow came
near hand me the mair o’t, but a’ the town dogs came pyking and
licking it at night and day, I was plagued wi’ them till a gude
shure came and wisht awa agen, the laird an every body came to look
and laugh at it.[135]
Jan. But Maggy an ye be a mind to marry ye maun snod yoursel better
up, cast awa your staff, singe your whiskers wi’ a candle or fir
stick, stand straight up like a rash kekle, and looky cantylike
whan the carles is gaun by, tak a mouthfu’ o’ good meat, and a drap
dram in the mornin will keep the dirt aff your face and raise the
red in your cheek, ye see the hens turns ay red lugget or they
begin to lay: a body that wants a bit man will use mony a shift for
ane, I ken how I did mysel whan I was fourteen lang year a widow,
and thought never to gotten ane, I feed our John, whan he was a
saft silly docus callan to ca’ the pleugh, and keepit him three
years till he turn’d a wally whincer and fain wad I had him, but
he widna speak o’t to me, but ae day we was in the house our lane,
an I ties a gude hard stane knot on the strings o’ my toy beneath
my chin, an fykes wi’t awee, then says, O Johnny my man look an
ye can louse this knot wi’ your teeth, he lays a hand on every
shouther and louses the knot, and I gripes him by the twa lugs and
gies him a kiss, and saes poor man Johnny thou has a sweet breath,
thou needsna want a bit kiss o’ me whan thou likes lad, I true that
culli’d him hither ay the mair, ha, ha, thou has nae art woman.
Enters Humphray Clinker, hearing a’ that past, perswades his aunt
Maggy that no man would marry such as her, for she looked like
a picture of death riding upon hunger’s back, a rickle of banes
row’d up in a runkly skin, had wasted her body with water lythocks
into a scrufe of skin and bane for want of teeth to chow bread
for the nourishment of her body, and that he was com’d on purpose
to write her testament or latter will, that it was a lightness in
her brain before death; therefore she ought to go to bed and die
directly,[136] which she accordingly did[137] by taking thought
of what was said to her, the priest being sent for came and
discoursed with her, but still she keeping her purse in her hand,
which he observed, desired she would give it to her friends or she
died, to which she would answer by her sooth that she wad not, for
she wad tak it wi’ her, for she had heard every body say they were
the better o’ the penny wi’ them, gang whare they like, and so died
supposed to be an hundred and six years old.
Humphray’s aunt Janet is yet alive an has made an oration in praise
of the old women, and on the pride of the young.
FINIS.
_JANET CLINKER’S ORATION._
[_Janet Clinker’s Oration_ is commonly found printed along with
_The History of Haverel Wives_, and in the chap-book from which
the text in the following pages are taken, this is the case. The
full title in this case is:--‘An Oration on the Virtues of the
Old Women, and the Pride of the Young: with a Direction for Young
Men, what sort of Women to take, and for Women what sort of Men
to Marry. Dictated by Janet Clinker, and written by Humphrey
Clinker, the Clashing Wives’ Clerk. Glasgow: Printed by J. &
M. Robertson, Saltmarket, 1807.’ It has been collated with the
editions mentioned in the Introduction to these volumes: together
with the reprint published in 1820 by Webster & Son, Edinburgh,
referred to in the prefatory note to the _History of the Haverel
Wives_.]
AN ORATION ON THE VIRTUES OF THE OLD WOMEN, AND THE PRIDE OF THE
YOUNG.
The madness of this unmuzzled age has driven me to mountains of
thoughts, and a continual meditation: It is enough to make an
auld wife rin red-wood, and drive a body beyond the halter’s-end
of ill-nature, to see what I see, and here what I hear: Therefore
the hinges of my anger are broke, and the bands of my good and
mild nature are burst in two, the door of civility is laid quite
open, plain speech and mild admonition is of none effect; nothing
must be used now but thunder-bolts of reproach tartly trimm’d up
in a tantalizing stile, roughly redd up and manufactured thro’
an auld Matron’s mouth, who is indeed but frail in the teeth,
but will squeeze surprizingly with her auld gums, until her very
chaft-blades crack in the crushing of your vice.
I shall branch out my discourse into four heads.
First, What I have seen, and been witness to.
Secondly, What I now see, and am witness to.
Thirdly, What I have heard, does hear, and cannot help; I mean the
difference between the old women and the young.
Fourthly, Conclude with an advice to young men and young women, how
to avoid the buying of Janet Juniper’s stinking butter,[138] which
will have a rotten rift on their stomach as long as they live.[139]
First, The first thing then, I see and observe is, that a wheen
daft giddy-headed, cock-nosed, juniper nebbed mothers, bring up
a wheen sky-racket dancing daughters, a’ bred up to be ladies,
without so much as the breadth of their lufe of land, it’s an
admiration to me, whare the lairds are a’ to come frae that’s to
be coupled to them; work, na, na, my bairn manna work, she’s to
be a lady, they ca’ her Miss, I maun hae her lugs bor’d says auld
Numps the mither; thus the poor pet is brought up like a mitherless
lamb, or a parrot in a cage; they learn naething but prick and sew,
and fling their feet when the fidle plays, so they become a parcel
of yellow-faced female-taylors, unequal matches for countrymen,
Flanders-babbies, brought up in a box, and must be carried in a
basket; knows nothing but pinching-poverty, hunger and pride; can
neither milk kye, muck a byre, card, spin, nor yet keep a cow from
a corn-rigg; the most of such are as blind penny-worths, as buying
pigs in pocks, and ought only to be matched with Tacket-makers,
Tree-trimmers, and Male-taylors, that they may be male and female
agreeable in trade, since their piper fac’d fingers are not for
hard labour; yet they might also pass on a pinch for a black
Sutor’s wife, for the stitching of white seams round the mouth of
a lady’s shoe; or, with Barbers or Bakers they might be buckled,
because of their muslin-mouth and pinch-beck speeches, when barm is
scant, they can blow up their bread with fair wind, and when the
razor is rough, can trim their chafts with a fair tale, oil their
peruke with their white lips, and powder the beau’s pow with a
French-puff; they are well versed in all the science of flattery,
musical tunes, horn-pipes, and country-dances, though perfect in
none but the reel of Gamon.
Yet these are they the fickle farmer fixes his fancy upon; a
bundle of clouts, a skeleton of bones, Maggy and the Much, like
twa fir-sticks and a pickle tow, neither for his plate nor his
plow; very unproper plenishing, neither for his profit nor her
pleasure, to plout her hands through Hawkey’s[140] caff-cog, is a
hateful hardship for Mammy’s Pet, and will hack a’ her hands. All
this I have seen and heard, and been witness to; but my pen being
a goose-quill, cannot expose their names nor places of abode, but
warns the working-men out of their way.
Secondly, I see another sort, who can work, and maun work till
they be married, and become mistresses themselves; but as the
young man receives them, the thrift leaves them; before that, they
wrought as for a wager, they span as for a premium, busked as for
a brag, scour’d their din skins as a wauker does worsted blankets,
kept as mim in the mouth as a minister’s wife, comely as Diana,
chaste as Susanna, yet the whole of their toil is the trimming of
their rigging, though their hulls be everlastingly in a leaking
condition; their backs and their bellies are box’d about with the
fins of a big fish,[141] six petticoats, a gown and apron, besides
a side sark down to the ankle-banes; ah! what monstrous rags are
here, what a cloth is consumed for a covering to one pair of
buttocks! I leave it to the judgement of any ten taylors in town,
if 30 pairs of mens’ breeches may not be cut, from a little above
the easing of Bessy’s bum, and this makes her a motherly-like
woman, as sturdy a fabric as ever strade to market or mill.
But when she’s married she turns a madam, her mistress did not
work much, and why should she! Her mother tell’d ay she wad
be a lady, but cou’d never show where her lands lay; but when
money is all spent, credit broken, and conduct out of keeping,
a wheen babling bubly bairns, crying piece minny, parich minny,
the witless waster[142] is at her wit’s-end. Work now or want,
and do not say that the world has war’d you; but Lofty-Nodle,
your giddy-headed-mother has led you astray, by learning you to
be a lady, before ye was fit to be a servant-lass, by teaching
you laziness instead of hard labour, by giving you such a high
conceit of yourself, that no body thinks any thing of you now, and
you may judge yourself to be one of those, that wise people call
Littleworth; but after all, my Dear Dirty-face, when you begin the
warld again, be perfectly rich before you be gentle, work hard for
what you gain, and you’ll ken better how to guide it, for pride is
an unperfect fortune, and a ludicrous life will not last long.
Another sort I see, who has got more silver than sense, more gold
than good nature, more muslins and means than good manners, tho’ a
sack can hold their siller, six houses and a half cannot contain
their ambitious desires. Fortunatus’s wonderful purse[143] would
fail in fetching the fourth part of their worldly wants, and the
children imitate their mothers, chattering like hungry cranes,
crying still I want, I want, ever craving, willfully wanting, till
all be brought to a doleful dish of desolation, and with cleanness
of teeth, a full breast, an empty belly, big pockets without
pence, pinching penury perfect poverty, drouth, hunger, want of
money, and friends both, old age, dim eyes, feeble joints, without
shoes or clothes, the real fruits of a bad marriage, which brings
thoughtless Fops to both faith and repentance in one day.
Thirdly, Another thing I see, hear, and cannot help, is the
breeding of bairns, and bringing them up like bill-stirks, they gie
them walth o’ meat, but nae manners: but whan I was a bairn, if I
didna bend to obedience, I ken mysel what I gat which learned me
what to gie mine again; if they had tell’d me tuts, or prute-no,
I laid them o’er my knee, and a com’d crack for crack o’er their
hurdies, like a knock bleaching a harn-web, till the red wats stood
on their hips, this brought obedience into my house, and banished
dods and ill-nature out at the door; I dang the de’il out o’ them,
and dadded them like a wet dish-clout till they did my bidding: But
now the bairns are brought up to spit fire in their mither’s face,
and cast dirt at their auld daddies: How can they be good who never
saw a sample of it; or reverence old age, who practised no precepts
in their youth? How can they love their parents, who gave them
black poison instead of good principles? Who shewed them no good,
nor taught them no duties! No marvel such children despise old age,
and reverence their parents as an old horse does his father.
Fourthly, The last prevailing evil which I see, all men may
hear, but none strive to help,[144] the banishment of that noble
holy-day called the Sabbath, which has been blasted by a whirl-wind
from the south; I am yet alive who saw this hurricane coming
thro’ the walled city[145] near Solway in the South; it being on
a Sunday, and a beautiful sun-shine day amangst some foul weeks
in harvest-weather, which caused the Lord Mayor of the place to
work hard, and put in the whole fields of wheat harvest, and
the priests of that church commended him therefore: Because the
season was backward, why should not man be disobedient! And this
infection is come here also, surely the loss of this Sabbath-day
will be counted a black Saturday to some; when I walk in the
fields, I know it not but by the stopping of the plow, when in
the city, only by the clossness of a few shop-doors and the sound
of the bells; degenerate ideas of religion indeed! when the high
praise is sounded only by bell-metal, _A sounding Brass and a
tinkling Cymbal_: Is it not come to pass, the taverns roar like
Ætna’s mouth; children follow their gaming, and old sinners their
stroling about, nothing stopt but coal-carts and common carriers,
the Sabbath lasts no longer than the sermon, and the sermon is
measured by a little sand in a glass; many, too many frequent the
church, seemingly only to show their antic dress, with heads of a
monstruous form, more surprizing than those described by Aristotle,
as for length exceeding that of an asses’s head, ears and all; and
ah! How humbling would it be, to see their heads struck into such a
hideous form, &c.
They disdain now to ride on pads as of old, or to be hobled on a
horse’s hurdies, but must be hurled behind the tail, safely seated
in a leather conveniency, and there they fly swiftly as in the
chariot of Aminadab.[146]
They will not speak the mother language[147] of their native
country, but must have southern oaths, refined like raw-sugar thro’
the mills of cursing, finely polished, and fairly struck in the
profane mint of London, into a perfect form of flunky-language;
even the very wild Arabs from the mountain-tops, who have not yet
got English to profane his Maker’s name, will cry, _Cot, Cot_;
hateful it is to hear them swear, who cannot speak. O! strange
alteration since the days of old![148] the downful of Popery, and
the Prelates’ decay, when reformation was alive, and religion in
taste and fashion; the people during the sabbath, were all packed
up in closets, and their children kept within doors, when every
city appeared like a sanctuary, nothing to be heard on the streets,
but the sound of prayer on the right-hand, and the melodious sound
of psalms on the left.
Now is the days of counting, scribing, riding of horses, and the
sound of the post-horn come; surely there will be trade now; and
none will miss prosperity when every day is a fair; I add no more
on this head, but every one claim a right to his own set time, &c.
Another grievance of the female offenders I cannot omit, which
attacks a man’s fancy, and is the cause of his fall;[149] I mean
Flighters who has gotten a little of the means of Mammon, more
silver than sense, more gold than good nature, haughtiness for
humility, value themselves as a treasure incomprehensible, their
heads and hearts of Ophir-gold, their hips of silver, & their
whole body as set about with precious stones, great and many are
the congresses of their courtship, and the solemnizing of their
marriage is like the conclusion of a peace after a bloody and
tedious war.[150]
And what is she after all! yea, her poor penny will never be
exhausted, it must be laid out in lunacy and laziness, she must
have fine teas and the tuther thing: When pregnancy and the
speuing of porich approaches, then she prophecies of her death;
as she hatches life, she embraces laziness; then O the bed, the
bed, nothing like the bed for a bad wife, her body becomes as
par-boil’d,[151] being so bed-ridden, this rots their children in
the brewing, and buries them in the bringing up; yea, some mothers
are so beastly, as to water the bed and blame the child therefore;
yet such lazy wives live long, and their children soon die; their
far fetched feigned sickness, soon render the husband to the
substance of one sixpence, he becomes poor and hen-peck’t under
such petticoat government.
But when I Janet was a Janet, and had the judgement of my own
house, my husband was thrice happy, I never held him down, he was
above me day and night, I sat late and raise early, kept a fu’
house and rough back, when summer came we minded winter’s cauld,
we had peace ay at porich-time, and harmony through the day; we
supp’d our sowens at supper-time with a seasonable heat, and went
to bed good bairns kent naething but stark love and kindness, we
wrought for riches, and our ages and earthly stores increased
alike, we hated pride and loved peace, he died with a good name; I
let you ken I live, but not as many do, not so lordly of my brain
as some are of their belly! and was not my life strange by that now
practised? Come help yourselves you hillocat-livers and avoid it.
Now after a’, if a poor man want a perfect wife, let him wale a
weel blooded hissie wi’ braid shouders an thick about the haunches,
that has been lang servant in ae house, tho’ twice or thrice awa’
and ay fied back, that’s weel liked by the bairns and the bairns’
mither, that’s naeway cankard to the cats, nor kicks the colly-dogs
amang her feet, that wad let a’ brute-beasts live, but rats, mice,
lice, flaes, neets and bugs, that bites the wee bairns in their
cradles, that carefully comb the young things’ heads, washes their
faces, and claps their cheeks, snites the snotter frae their
nose[152] as they were a’ her ain, that’s the lass that will mak a
good wife; for them that dauts the young bairns, will ay be kind to
auld fouk an they had them.
And ony hale-hearted halsome hissie, that wants to halter a good
husband, never tak a widow’s ae son, for a’ the wifely gates in
the warld will be in him, for want of a father to teach him manly
actions; neither tak a sour looking sumf wi’ a muckle mouth, and a
wide guts, who will eat like a horse and soss like a sow, suffer
none to sup but himsel, eat your meat and the bairns baith; when
hungry angry, when fu’ full of pride, ten sacks will not haud
his sauce, tho’ a pea-shap wad haud his siller: But go, tak your
chance, and if cheated, channer not on me, for fashionable fouk
flee to fashionable things, for lust is brutish-blind, and fond
love is blear-ey’d. I add no more, says Janet; so be it, said
Humphray the Clerk.
FINIS.
_THE COMICAL AND WITTY JOKES OF JOHN FALKIRK._
[The text here used is from an edition bearing the following
matter on the title-page:--‘The Comical and Witty Jokes of John
Falkirk the merry Piper; When in Courtship to an old Fiddler’s
Widow, who wanted all the Teeth. With a Copy of the Love-Letter
he sent her, who is commonly called F--ting Betty.
Here’s a Piper on a merry pin,
Selling his words instead of win,
In courtship with an old fiddler’s jigg,
As weather beaten as his wigg;
Swears by his chanter he can win her bread,
Though never a tooth be in her head.
Edinburgh: Printed in the Year 1777.’ It has been collated with
an undated edition published by Morren of Edinburgh. On the title
of this latter edition the widow is called ‘Flinging Betty.’ The
1777 edition is an 8 pp. 12mo., containing only the ‘Jokes’; but
in Morren’s Edition the ‘Jokes’ follow the ‘Cariches.’ The two
were generally printed separately, although they are occasionally
to be seen together.]
THE COMICAL AND WITTY JOKES OF JOHN FALKIRK.
A certain old reverend priest, being one night at supper in a
gentleman’s house; and for one article having eggs, the server of
the table, as usual laid a cloath on every ones knee, wherewith
to hold their egg in when hot, when supper was over, the priest
looking down between his legs, and seeing the white cloath thought
it was his shirt-tail: and very slyly stops it into his breeches
bite, and bite, which the lady and her maid observed, but was
ashamed to challenge him; so home he went with the servet in his
breeches, and knew nothing of it till going to bed, when it fell
from him, his wife enquired how he came by it, he could not tell,
but was surprized how he came to have more bulk in his breeches
than formerly, but perceiving the name they sent it back again, the
priest pleaded to be excused own’d himself only a thief through
ignorance.[153]
An old gentleman and his two sons, being in a company, his oldest
son sitting next him, spoke a word which highly displeased his
father; for which his father gave him a hearty blow on the side of
the head: A well said he, I will not lift my hand to strick at my
parents, but gives his other brother that sat by him, a blow on the
ear, saying give that about by the way of a drink, till it comes to
my father again.
A sailor being traveling between _Edinburgh_ and _Linlithgow_
which is twelve long computed miles: and as he was setting out in
the morning about 8 o’clock, he seed a vain like young spark go
running past him, which he never minded, but kept jogging on at his
own leisure: and as he was going into _Linlithgow_, about twelve
o’Clock, up comes the young spark, and asked the sailor, what a
Clock it was, why says the sailor, I see you have a watch and I
have none, what is it? out he pulls his watch, ho said he, it’s
directly twelve, and what do you think, it was half an hour after
ten or I came out of _Edinburgh_, I have walked it in an hour and
a half; it is pretty well tript, says the sailor, but pray sir,
what man of business are you? O! said he, I am a watch maker, I
was thinking so, said the sailor, for you have made your watch to
answer your feet, for those feet can’t answer a right watch, and
I suppose your tongue can’t keep time with none of them do you
remember where you went past me this morning about eight o’Clock; O
yes said he, and off he went.
As two maids was coming from the milking of their cows, one of them
steping over a style, fell and spill’d the whole peal full of milk
from her head O said she, what will I do, what will I do, O said
the other maid, let it go who can help it now, you can make it up
again it is not your maiden-head: My maiden-head said she, if it
were my maiden-head, I would think nothing of it, many, many a
time, I have lost my maiden-head with great pleasure, and I got it
ay again, it came ay back to its ain place again, but I’ll never
gather up my milk again.
A sailor being one night in company with a country taylor, O said
the taylor, but your trade is a very dangerous trade, do you ever
pray any? yes said the sailor, when we’re hard beset we pray to
blast one anothers eyes and limbs, if they wont be nimble and
quick, a wow man but that’s a sad trade, said the taylor, and what
trade was your father? why said the sailor, he was a sailor too,
and where did he die, said the taylor? why he was drowned at sea,
and O man! said the taylor are you not fear’d to go to sea? not I
said the sailor: But what trade was your father? indeed said the
taylor, he was a taylor as well as me, and where did he die? said
the sailor, indeed he died in his bed, says the poor taylor. O then
says the sailor, are not you afraid to go to bed lest you die there
too.[154]
Three merry companions having met on a saturdays night at an Ale
house, (a hatter and a shoemaker, and a taylor,) where they drunk
heartily all that night, and to morrow until mid day; and their
beats was who had the lovingest wife: So they agreed for a trial of
their good nature that every man should do, whatever his wife bade
him do; as soon as ever he went home, or who did not as she ordered
him, was to pay all the reckoning, which was seven and six-pence,
or if all of them did as their wives bade them: then they were
to pay all alike: so on this agreement they all came away, first
to the hatters house, and in he goes like a madman, dancing and
jumping round the floor, his wife at the very time was taking of
the pot and setting it in the floor, he still dancing about, now
says the wife, ding over the pot with thy madness, so he gives it
a kick, and over it went, and that saved him as he had done what
his wife bad him do. Then away he goes to the taylors house, and in
he goes dancing likewise, but his wife fell a scolding him. O says
he, my dear give me a kiss? kiss my arse you drunken rogue, said
she; then to her he flys and whips her over in the bed, up with her
petty coats and kisses her arse before them all, and that saved
him; then away they went to the shoe-makers, and in he goes very
merry and dancing about as he saw the other two do: saying come my
dear heart and give me a kiss: go hang yourself you drunken dog
said she, so he must either go and hang himself directly or pay all
the reckoning.
An honest highlandman not long since, not much acquainted with the
law, fell out with one of his neighbours, and to the law they went;
he employed one advocate, and his opposite another, and as they
were debeating it in court before the judges, the highlandman being
there present, a friend of his asked him how he thought it would
go, or who would win the day, indeed said the highland man, his law
man speaks well, and my law man speaks well, I think we’ll both
win, and the judges will lose for they speak but a word now and
then.
A young woman by the old accident having got herself with child,
was called to the Session for so doing: and after one elder
another examining her how she got it, and where she got it, and
what tempt her to get it; and no doubt the de’il wad get her for
the getting of it; last of all the minister he fell a enquiring
how she got it, which run the poor lass out of all patience about
the getting of it, says the priest: tell me plainly where it was
gotten, I tell you said she, that it was gotten in the byre, at a
cows staike, and what other place do you want to ken about: but
said he, he did not tye you to the cows staike, no said she, I did
not need any tying, and how far was between the byre and the house?
just butt and ben, up and down twa steps of a stone stair, then
says the priest, why did you not cry to the folks in the house:
indeed sir, said she, I could not get cried for laughing at it.
An old sodger being on a furlough from the north of Scotland,
having got no breakfast, fell very hungry by the way and no ale
house being near; came into a farmers house, and desired they would
sell, him some bread, or any kind of victuals: to which the surly
good wife reply’d, she never sold any bread, and she was not going
to begin with him, he had but three miles and a bittok[155] to an
ale-house, and he might march on, and she did fair enough when she
gide bits of bread for naething to beggars though she gide nane
to idle sodgers; he had naething to do there awa: Hute said the
goodman gi’ him a laidle fu’ o’ our kail, he’s been ay somebodys
bairn, before he was a sodger,[156] What said she there not a drop
in the pot, they’re a’ in the plate before you, then gi’ him a
spoon and let him sup wi’ us, the soldier gets a spoon and thinking
he could sup all he seed himself, the first soup he put in his
mouth, spouted it back again in the plate, and crys out O my sore
mouth, the hide’s all of it yet since I had the Clap then every
one threw down his spoon, the soldier got all to sup himself, the
wife stood cursing and scolding all the while, and when he was done
burnt both plate and spoon in the fire to prevent the Clap: So the
soldier came off with a full belly, leaving the wife dressing the
goodmans rigging with a four footed stool, for bidding him sup.
A great drover who frequainted a public inn in the north of England
as he passed and repassed agreed with the servant maid of the
house, for a touch of love: for which he gave her a six and thirty
shilling piece: But on the next morning mounted his horse without
asking a bill, or what was to pay, but sir, said the landlord, you
forgot to pay your reckoning well minded, sir said he, I want my
change I gave your maid a six and thirty to change, the poor maid
is called on in haste, yes said she I got it, but it was not for
that, throws it down and off she goes, her mistress understood and
gave her the challenge, she told her it was so, but she should be
up with him; so in twelve months thereafter, he came past with his
drove, puts up at the same inn as foremerly; then the girl goes to
a neighbour woman, and borrows a young child about three months
old, comes into the company where he was, lays it down on the
table, saying, sir there’s the change of your six and thirty, and
away she comes; the child crys, and the bells rung, the landlord
was ready enough to answer, O sir, said he, call her back for this
will ruin my family and crack my credit, but sir said the girl,
you thought nothing to ruin my character and crack my maiden head;
peace, peace said he, my dear, here’s one hundred and fifty pound
and take away the child and trouble me no more, well said she I’ll
take it: But you will make more of buying cows than maiden heads;
so away she came with the money, and returned the borrowed child to
its own mother.
A churlish husband and virtuous wife one time fell sadly out,
because the wife had given something to the poor, what, said he,
mistress, I’ll let you know there is nothing about this house but
what is mine and you’re mine, and your very arse is mine; a well
well goodman, then you will let me have nothing take it all and
give me peace: So away they went to bed the goodwife turned her
backside towards the goodman, and as he was falling asleep, she
draws up her smoke, and let’s fly in the goodman’s shirt-tail,
which wakened him in a great fright, as he had been shot; ay, ay,
woman, what are ye about; what am I about, said she, dear woman
your filling the bed, not I goodman, for when my arse was my own I
took care of it, and take you care of it now it is yours. O rise
woman and clean the bed, and keep your arse, and a’ the liberty ye
had before, and more if you want it, fich fich, what’s this! am a
dirt.
A ships crew being one time in great distress at sea by reason of
a violent storm, and being all fallen down to prayer, expecting
every moment to go to the bottom; there happened to be an old
gentleman a passenger on board with them who had a great big red
nose with drinking ale and whisky; and being all at their last
prayer as they thought, a little boy burst out into loud laughter:
O thou thoughtless rogue said the captain what makes thee to laugh
in seeing us all on the point of perishing, why, said the boy, I
cannot but laugh, to think what a fine sport it will be when we
are all drowning, to see how that man’s red nose will make the
water bizz when it comes about it, at which words they all fell a
laughing, and cheered the crew, so that they made another attempt
to weather it out, and got all safe on shore at last.
_My lovely Bett_,
The beauty of old age, thy hoary head and loutching shoulders
inclines to mortality, yet I’ll compare thee to an eagle that has
renewed her youth, or a leek with a white head and a green tail,
this comes to thee with my kind compliments, for the kisses of thy
lips, and the kindness I had to thy late bed-fellow fiddler Pate my
brother pensioner, ah! how we drank other’s healths with the broe
of the brewket[157] ewes, we brought from boughts of the German
Boors, but its nonesence, to blow the dead when in the dust, yet a
better violer never scrided on a silken cord, or kittled a cat’s
tryps with his finger-ends, his elbow was souple as a eel, and
his fingers dabbed at the jigging end like a hungry hen picking
barley: I seldom or ever saw him drunk, if keep him from whisky and
whisky from him; except that night, he trysted the pair of free
stone breeches from Joseph the mason, and now my dear Bessy he’s
got them he’s got them, for a free stone covers his body, holds him
down and will do, and now, now, my dainty thing, my bonny thing,
my best match for matrimony come take me now, or tell me now, I am
in anger,[158] I’ll wait nae langer, I say be clever, either now
or never, its a rapture of love, that does me move, I’ll have a
wife or by my life, if she should be blind and criple, I’ll sell my
win, for her meat and fun, the like ne’er gade down her thraple;
so now Bessy I love you and my love lies upon you, and if ye love
not me again some ill chance come upon you, as am flyting free and
flitting free am both in love and banter; or may your rumple rust
for me, I’ve sworn it by my chanter.
_From John Kirk’s Wind-mill at Corky Crown._
FINIS.
_THE SCOTS PIPER’S QUERIES:
OR
JOHN FALKIRK’S CARICHES._
[Reprinted from an undated edition published by C. Randall,
Stirling, and collated with one by J. Morren, Edinburgh, and the
modern Glasgow undated edition. The full title is:--‘The Scots
Piper’s Queries: or John Falkirk’s Cariches, made Both Plain and
Easy.
Old PIPER JOHN if you desire
To read at leisure by the fire:
’Twill please the Bairns and keep them laughing,
And mind the Goodwife o’ her daffing.
Stirling.--Printed by C. Randall.’]
AN ACCOUNT OF JOHN FALKIRK, THE SCOTS PIPER.[159]
John Falkirk, commonly called the _Scots Piper_, was a curious
little witty fellow, with a round face and a broad nose. None of
his companions could answer the many witty questions he proposed to
them, therefore he became the wonder of the age in which he lived.
Being born of mean parents he got no education, therefore his witty
invention was truly natural; and being bred to no business, he
was under the necessity of using his genius in the composition of
several small books, of which the following Cariches was one, which
he disposed of for his support. He became author of many small
Tracts, and the following curious and diverting pieces are said to
be his composition, viz.:--The History of John Cheap the Chapman,
The History of the Haveral Wives, Janet Clinker’s Oration, John
Falkirk’s Witty Jokes, Jockie and Maggie’s Courtship, The Proverbs
of the Pride of Women, History of Lothian Tom, with many others,
which are well known in Scotland, England, and Ireland. In a word,
he was
The wittiest fellow in his time,
Either for Prose, or making Rhyme.
THE SCOTS PIPER’S QUERIES;
OR,
JOHN FALKIRK’S CARICHES.[160]
Q. What is the wisest behaviour of ignorant persons?
A. To speak of nothing but what they know, and to give their
opinion of nothing but what they understand.
Q. What time is a scolding wife at the best?
A. When she is fast asleep.
Q. What time is a scolding wife at the worst?
A. When she is that wicked as to tear the hair out of her own head,
when she cannot get at her neighbours, and thro’ perfect spite
bites her own tongue with her own teeth, my hearty wish is, that
all such wicked vipers may ever do so.
Q. What is the effectual cure and infallible remedy for a scolding
wife?
A. The only cure is to get out of the hearing of her, but the
infallible remedy is to nail her tongue to a growing tree, in
the beginning of a cold winter night, and so let her stand till
sun-rising next morning, she’ll become one of the peacegblest women
that ever lay by a man’s side.
Q. What time of the year is it that there is most holes open?
A. In harvest when there are stubbles.
Q. At what time is the cow heaviest?
A. When the bull is on her back.
Q. Who was the goodman’s muckle cow’s calf’s mother?
A. None but the muckle cow herself.
Q. What is the likeliest thing to a man and a horse?
A. A tailor and a mare.
Q. What is the hardest dinner that ever a taylor laid his teeth to?
A. His own goose, tho’ ever so well boiled or roasted.
Q. How many tods’ tails will it take to reach up to the moon?
A. One if it be long enough.
Q. How many sticks gangs to the bigging of a craw’s nest?
A. None for they are all carried.
Q. How many whit’s will a well made pudding prick need?
A. If it be well made it needs no more.
Q. Who was the father of Zebedee’s children?
A. Who but himself.
Q. Where did Moses go when he was full fifteen years old?
A. Into his sixteenth.
Q. How near related is your aunty’s good-brother to you?
A. No nearer than my own father.
Q. How many holes are there in a hen’s doup?
A. Two.
Q. How prove you that?
A. There is one for the dung and another for the egg.
Q. Who is the best for catching of rogues?
A. None so fit as a rogue himself.
Q. Where was the usefulest fair in Scotland kept?
A. At Millgavie.[161]
Q. What sort of commodities were sold there?
A. Nothing but ale and ill wicked wives.
Q. How was it abolished?
A. Because those who went to it once would go to it no more.
Q. For what reason?
A. Because there was no money to be got for them, but fair barter,
wife for wife, and he who put away a wife for one fault got a wife
with two as bad.
Q. What was the reason that in those days, a man could put away his
wife for pissing the bed, and not for sh----g it?
A. Because he could shute it away with his foot and ly down.
Q. What is the reason now a-days, that men court cast marry, and
re-marry so many wives, and only but one in public at last?
A. Because private marriage is become as common as smuggling and
cuckolding the kirk no more thought of than a man to ride a mile or
two upon his neighbour’s mare, men get will and wale of wives, the
best portion, and properest person is preferred, the first left the
weak to the worst, and she whom he does not love, he shutes away
with his foot, and lies down with whom he pleases.
Q. How will you know the bairns of our towns by all others in the
kingdom?
A. By their ill-breeding, and bad manners.
Q. What is their behaviour?
A. If you ask them a question in civility, if it were but the road
to the next town, they’ll tell you to follow your nose, and if you
go wrong curse the guide.
Q. Are young and old of them no better?
A. All the odds lies in the difference, for if you ask a child to
whom he belongs, or who is his father, he’ll tell you to kiss his
father’s a--.
Q. What sort of creatures is kindliest when they meet?
A. None can exceed the kindness of dogs when they meet in a market.
Q. And what is collie’s kindness there?
A. First, they kiss others mouths and noses, smell all about, and
last of all, they are so kind as to kiss others below the tail.
Q. What is the coldest part of a dog?
A. His nose.
Q. What is the coldest part of a man?
A. His knees.
Q. What is the coldest part of a woman?
A. The back parts of her body.
Q. What is the reason, that these three parts of man, woman, and
dogs, are coldest?
A. Fabulous historian say that there was three little holes in
Noah’s Ark, and that the dog stopt his nose in one, and the other
the man put his knee in it, a third and biggest hole broke, the
woman bang’d her backside in it and these parts being exposed to
the cold blast, make them always cold ever since.
Q. And what does the women do to warm their cold parts?
A. The married women turn their backsides to the goodman’s belly;
virgins and those going mad for marriage the heat of their
maidenhead keeps them warm, old matrons, whirl’d o’er maidens,
widow and widows bewitch’d hold up their coldest parts to the fire.
Q. And what remedy does the poor dog take for his cold nose?
A. Stops it below his tail the hottest bit in his body.
Q. What is the reason the dogs are worst on the chapmen, than on
other strange people?
A. It is said the dogs have three accusations against the chapmen,
handed down from father to son, or from one generation of dogs to
another; the first is as old as Æsop the great wit of Babylon, the
dog having a lawsuit against the cat, gained the plea, and coming
trudging home with the decree below his tail a wicked chapman
throwing his ellwan at him, he let it fa’ and so lost all his
privileges thereby. The second is, because in old times the chapmen
used to buy dogs and kill them for their skins. The third, when a
chapman was quarterd in a farmer’s house, that night the dog lost
his property the licking the pot.
Q. What creature resembles most a drunken piper?
A. A cat when she sips milk; she always sings, and so does a piper
when he drinks good ale.
Q. What is the reason a dog runs twice round about before he ly
down?
A. Because he does not know the head of his bed from the foot of it.
Q. What creature resembles most a long lean, ill looking
greasy-fac’d lady for pride?
A. None so much as the cat, who is continually spitting in her lufe
and rubbing her face, as many of such ladies do the brown leather
of their wrinkled chafts.
Q. Amongst what sort of creatures will you observe most of a
natural law?
A. The hart and the hind meet at one certain day in the year; the
brood goose, lays her first egg on Fasterns Even, old stile; the
crows begin to build their nest the first of March old stile; the
swans observe matrimony, and if the female die, the male dares not
take up with another or the rest will put him to death; all the
birds in general join in pairs and keep so; but the dove resembles
the adulterer, when the shoe-one turns old, he puts her away, and
takes another; the locusts observe military order, and march in
bands; the frogs resemble pipers and preachers, for the young ride
the old to death.
Q. Who are the merriest and heartiest people in the world?
A. The sailors, for they’ll be singing and cursing one another when
the waves, their graves, are going over their heads.
Q. Which are the disorderliest creatures in battle?
A. Cows and dogs for they all fall on them that are neath-most.
Q. Who are the vainest sort of people in the world?
A. A barber, a tailor, a young soldier, and a poor dominie.
Q. What is the great cause of the barber’s vanity?
A. His being admitted to trim noblemen’s chafts, thyke their
sculls, take kings by the nose, and hold a razor to his very
throat, which no other subject else dare do.
Q. What is the great cause of the tailor’s pride?
A. His making of peoples new clothes, of which every person, young
and old is proud of, then who can walk in a vainer shew than a
tailor carrying home a gentleman’s clothes.
Q. What is the cause of a young soldier’s pride?
A. When he lists, he thinks he is free from his mother’s
correction, the hard usage of a bad master, has a liberty to curse,
swear, whore, and do every thing; until he be convinced by four
halberts and the drummer’s whip that he has now got both a military
and civil law above his head, and perhaps worse masters than ever.
Q. What is the cause of the poor dominie’s pride?
A. As he is a teacher of the young and ignorant, he supposes no man
knows what he knows, the boys call him master therefore he thinks
himself a great man.
Q. What sort of a song is it that is sung without a tongue, and its
notes are understood by people of all nations?
A. It is a fart which every person knows to be but wind.
Q. What is the reason that young people are vain, giddy-headed, and
airy, and not so humble as the children of former years?
A. Because they are brought up and educat after a more haughty
strain, by reading fables, plays, novels, and romances; gospel
books, such as the psalm-book, proverbs, and the catechisms are
like old almanacks; nothing in vogue, but fiddle, flute, Troy
and Babylonish tunes; our plain English corrupted with beauish
cants, dont, wont, nen, and ken, a jargon worse than the Yorkshire
dialect.[162]
Q. Why is swearing become so common amongst the Scot people?
A. Because so many lofty teachers come from the south amongst us,
where swearing is practised in its true grammatical perfection, hot
oaths, new struck, with as bright a lustre as a new quarter guinea.
Q. How will you know the bones of a mason’s mare at the back of a
dyke amongst the bones of a hundred dead horses.
A. Because it is made of wood.
Q. Which are the two things not to be spared, but not to be abused.
A. A soldier’s coat, and a hired horse.[163]
Q. How is a man in debt like a nobleman?
A. Because he has many to wait on and call for him.
Q. How is swearing like a shabby coat?
A. Because it is a bad habit.
Q. How is a bad pen like a wicked and profligate man?
A. Because it wants mending.
Q. Why is a church bell like a story that is handed about?
A. Because it is often toll’d.
Q. What is a man like that is in the midst of a river and cannot
swim?
A. He is like to be drowned.
Q. Why is a drawn tooth like a thing that is forgot?
A. Because it is out of one’s head.
Q. Why is a book like a tree?
A. Because it is full of leaves.
Q. Why is a good sermon like a plump pudding?
A. Because there is reasons in it.
Q. How is a whorish woman like a charitable person?
A. Because she brings her husband to a piece of bread.[164]
Q. How is a lawyer like a contentious person?
A. Because he breeds wrangling and jangling.
Q. Who is the greatest fool in the world?
A. A whore; for she hazards soul and body for a miserable
livelihood.
Q. Who are the two greatest thieves in Great Britain?
A. Tea and Tobacco, for they pick the pockets of the whole nation.
Q. What is the difference between Ale-drapers and Linen-drapers?
A. Only this, the one cheats you with froth and the other with
cloth.
Q. If Extortioners cannot enter the Kingdom of Heaven, where will
Usurers, Tallymen, and Pawn-brokers go?
A. The same road with Extortioners.
Q. What is the consequence of immoderate gaming?
A. By cards and dice, a man is ruin’d in a trice, for gaming and
whoring often hang together.
Q. What employments are likest to one another?
A. Soldiers and Butchers are bloody near relations, for they both
live by slaughtering and killing.
Q. What are the two hardest things to be found, and yet they are
both good in their kind?
A. Good women and good small beer.
Q. Who is the likest to a Boatman?
A. An hypocrite, who always look one way and rows another, in all
his transactions.
Q. What are the five greatest rarities to be found in the world?
A. A black Swan, a Phœnix, an Unicorn, the Philosophers’ Stone, and
a maiden at sixteen.
Q. What is the greatest folly that sensible people can be guilty of?
A. To go to law about trifles, for whatever way the plea end, the
lawyers will be the greatest gainers.
Q. Who has the honestest trade in the world?
A. Ballad-singers; for they always deal with ready-money: and it is
as ancient as the Siege of Troy, for Homer was a ballad-singer.
Q. What is the surest method for one to become both rich and
respectable?
A. To be sober and industrious.
Q. What is the best method of overcoming the argument of a positive
person?
A. Either to say with him, or give him no answer.
Q. What is the wisest course to be followed by a man who has a
brawling and scolding wife?
A. To keep silent, and then she’ll bite her own fingers with anger.
Q. What thing is that which is lengthened by being cut at both ends?
A. A Ditch.
Q. What is that which was born without a soul, lived and had a
soul, yet died without a soul?
A. The whale that swallowed Jona.
Q. What is the longest and the shortest thing in the world? the
swiftest and the slowest? the most indivisible and the most
extended? the least valued and the most regretted? without which
nothing can be done? which devours all that is small, yet gives
life and spirit to all that is great?
A. Time.
Q. What creatures are those which appear closely connected, yet
upon examination are found to be three distinct bodies, with eight
legs, five on one side, and three on the other; three mouths, two
straight forwards, and the third on one side; six eyes, four on one
side, two on the other: six ears, four on one side, and two on the
other?
A. A Man and Woman on horseback.
Q. Why is a churchyard like an inn?
A. Because it receives weary travellers.
Q. Why is a carrotty[165] lady like a troop of soldiers?
A. Because she bears fire-locks.
Q. What did Adam first set in the garden of Eden?
A. His foot.
Q. How is it that a clergyman’s horse is like a King?
A. Because he is guided by a minister.
Q. What is the difference between a boiled sheep’s head and a
sheep’s head boiled?
A. In the first the sheep is boiled and in the last the head is
boiled.
Q. What kind of snuff is that, the more that is taken the fuller
the box is?
A. It is the snuff off the candle.
Q. What relation is that child to its own father who is not its
father’ own son?
A. Surely his daughter.
Q. What is that which is often brought to table, always cut, but
never eaten?
A. A pack of cards.
Q. Where was Peter when his candle went out?
A. He was in the dark.
Q. What relation is your uncle’s brother to you who is not your
uncle?
A. He must be your father.
Q. What difference is there between twice five and twenty and twice
twenty five?
A. The former is 30, the latter is 50.
Q. Why is a brewer’s horse like a tap-ster?
A. Because they draw drafts of drink.
END OF THE CARICHES.
_THE COMICAL SAYINGS OF PADY FROM CORK._
[The text here followed is that of an edition in the possession
of Matthew Shields, Esq. The full title is:--‘The Comical
Sayings of Pady from Cork, with his coat button’d behind. Being
an Elegant Conference between English Tom and Irish Teague:
With Pady’s Catechism, his Opinion of Purgatory, the State of
the dead; and his Supplication when a Mountain Sailor. To which
is added, a Creed for all Romish Believers. In all its parts,
carefully corrected. Glasgow, Printed by J. & M. Robertson, (No.
18.) Saltmarket, 1807.’ It is a 24 pp. 12mo. Pady’s Catechism and
petition, and the Creed, have been collated with the versions of
them given in the 1777 edition of _Lothian Tom_. See prefatory
note to that chap-book at p. 66 of the present volume, and also
footnote at p. 84.]
THE COMICAL SAYINGS OF PADY FROM CORK.
PART I.
_Tom._ Good morrow, Sir, this is a very cold day.
_Teag._ Arra, dear honey, yesternight was a very cold morning.
_Tom._ Well brother traveller, of what nation art thou?
_Teag._ Arra dear shoy, I come from my own kingdom.
_Tom._ Why, Sir, I know that, but where is thy kingdom?
_Teag._ Allelieu dear honey, don’t you know Cork in Ireland.
_Tom._ O you fool, Cork is not a kingdom, but a city.
_Teag._ Then dear shoy, I’m shure it is in a kingdom.
_Tom._ And what is the reason you have come and left your own dear
country?
_Teag._ Arra dear honey, by shaint Patrick, they have got such
comical laws in our country, that they’ll put a man to death in
perfect health; so to be free and plain with you, neighbour, I
was obliged to come away, for I did not choose to stay among such
a people that can hang a poor man when they please, if he either
steals, robs, or kills a man.
_Tom._ Ay, but I take you to be more of an honest man, than to
steal, rob, or kill a man.
_Teag._ Honest, I am perfectly honest, when I was but a child, my
mother would have trusted me with a house full of mill-stones.
_Tom._ What was the matter, was you guilty of nothing?
_Teag._ Arra, dear honey, I did harm to nobody? but fancied an old
gentleman’s gun, and afterwards made it my own.
_Tom._ Very well boy, and did you keep it so?
_Teag._ Keep it, I would have kept it with all my heart while I
lived, death itself could not have parted us, but the old rogue,
the gentleman, being a justice of the peace himself, had me tried
for the rights of it, and how I came by it, and so took it again.
_Tom._ And how did you clear yourself without punishment?
_Teag._ Arra, dear shoy, I told him a parcel of lies, but they
would not believe me; for I said that I got it from my father when
it was a little pistol, and I had keeped it till it had grown a
gun, and was designed to use it well until it had grown a big
cannon, and then sell it to the military. They all fell a laughing
at me as I had been a fool, and bade me go home to my mother and
clean the potatoes.
_Tom._ How long is it since you left your own country?
_Teag._ Arra, dear honey, I do not mind whether it be a fortnight
or four months, but I think myself, it is a long time; they tell
me my mother is dead since, but I won’t believe it, until I get a
letter from her own hand, for she is a very good scholar, suppose
she can neither write nor read.
_Tom._ Was you ever in England before?
_Teag._ Ay, that I was, and in Scotland too.
_Tom._ And were they kind to you when you was in Scotland?
_Teag._ They were that kind, that they kick’t my arse for me, and
the reason was because I would not pay the whole of the liquor that
was drunk in the company, though the landlord and his two sons got
mouthful about of it; they would have me pay it all, tho’ I did not
drink it all, and I told them it was a trick upon travellers, first
to drink his liquor, and then to kick him out of doors.
_Tom._ I really think they have used you badly, but could you not
beat them?
_Teag._ That’s what I did, beat them all to their own contentment;
but there was one of them stronger than me, who would have killed
me, if the other two had not pulled me away, and I had to run for
it, till his passion was over; then they made us drink and gree
again; we shook hands, and made a bargain, never to harm other
more; but this bargain did not last long, for, as I was kissing his
mouth, by shaint Patrick, I bit his nose, which caused him to beat
me very sore for my pains.
_Tom._ Well Pady, what calling was you when in Scotland.
_Teag._ Why sir, I was no business at all, but what do you call the
green tree that’s like a whin bush, many people makes a thing to
sweep the house of it!
_Tom._ O yes Pady, they call it a broom.
_Teag._ Ay, ay, you have it, then I was a gentleman’s broom, only
waited on his horses, and washed the dishes for the cook; and when
my master rode a hunting, I ran behind along with the dogs.
_Tom._ O yes, Pady, it was a groom you mean, but I fancy you was
cook’s mate, or kitchen-boy.
_Teag._ No, no, it was the broom that I was, and if I had staid
there till now, I might have been advanced as high as my master,
for the ladies loved me so well, that they laughed at me.
_Tom._ They might admire you for a fool.
_Teag._ What sir, do you imagine that I am not a fool, no, no, my
master asked counsel of me in all his matters, and I always gave
him a reason for every thing: I told him one morning that he went
too soon to the hunting, that the hares were not got out of their
beds; and neither the barking of horns nor the blowing of dogs,
could make them rise, it was such a cold morning that night; so
they all ran away that we catched, when we did not see them. Then
my master told my words to several gentlemen that was at dinner
with him, and they admired me for want of wisdom, saying, I was
certainly a man of great judgement, for my head was all of a lump,
added, they were going a-fishing along with my master and me in
the afternoon; but I told them it was a very unhappy thing for any
man to go a hunting in the morning and a fishing in the afternoon;
yet they would try it, but they had better staid at home, for
it came on a most terrible fine night of south-west rain and
even-down-wind: so the fishes got all below the water to keep them
dry from the shower, and we catched them all, but got none of them.
_Tom._ And how long did you serve that gentleman, Pady?
_Teag._ Arra, dear honey, I was with him six weeks, and he beat me
seven times.
_Tom._ For what did he beat you? was it for your madness and
foolish tricks?
_Teag._ Dear shoy, it was not; but for being too inquisitive and
going sharply about business. First, he sent me to the post-office,
to enquire if there was any letters for him: so when I came there,
said I, is there any letters here for my master to-day? Then they
asked who was my master; sir, said I, it is very bad manners in you
to ask any gentleman’s name: at this they laughed, mocking me, and
said they could give me none, if I would not tell my master’s name:
so I returned to my master, and told the impudence of the fellow,
how he would give me no letters unless I would tell him your name,
master. My master at this flew in a great passion, and kicked me
down stairs, saying, Go you rogue and tell my name directly, how
can the gentleman give letters, when he knows not who is asking for
them! Then I returned and told my master’s name, so they told me
there was one for him, I looked at it, but being very small, and
asking the price of it; they told me it was sixpence! sixpence,
said I, will you take sixpence for that small thing, and selling
bigger ones for twopence; faith I am not such a big fool; you think
to cheat me, now, this is not a conscionable way of dealing, I’ll
acquaint my master of it first; so I came and told my master how
they would have sixpence for his letter and was selling bigger
ones for twopence; he took up my head and broke his cane with it,
calling me a thousand fools, saying, the man was more just, than to
take any thing but the right for it: but I was sure there was none
of the right buying and selling such dear penny-worths: So I came
again for my dear sixpence letter; and as the fellow was shuffling
through a parcel of them, seeking for it again, to make the best
of a dear market, I pick’t up two, and home I comes to my master,
thinking he would be well pleased with what I had done, now, said
I, master, I think I have put a trick on them fellows, for selling
the letter to you: What have you done? said he, said I, I have
only taken other two letters; here’s one for you, master, to help
your dear penny-worth, and I’ll send the other to my mother to see
whether she be dead or alive, for she’s always angry I don’t write
to her: I had not the word well spoken, till he got up his stick
and beat me heartily for it, and sent me back to the fellows again
with the two: I had a very ill will to go, but nobody would buy
them of me by the way.
_Tom._ A well, Pady, I think you was to blame, and your master
too, for he ought to have taught you how to have gone about those
affairs, and not beat you so.
_Teag._ Arra, dear honey, I had too much wit of my own to be
teached by him, or any body else; he began to instruct me after
that, how I should serve the table, and such nasty things as those:
one night I took ben a roasted fish in one hand, and a piece
of bread in the other; the old gentleman was so saucy he would
not take it, and told me, I should bring nothing to him without
a trencher below it: the same night as he was going to bed, he
called for his slippers and pish-pot, so I clapt a trencher below
the pish-pot, and another below the slippers, and ben I goes,
one in every hand: no sooner did I enter the room, than he threw
the pish-pot at me which broke both my head and the pish-pot at
one blow: now, said I, the devil is in my master altogether, for
what he commands at one time he countermands at another. Next day
I went with him to the market to buy a sack of potatoes, I went
to the potatoe-monger, and asked what he took for the full of a
Scot’s cog, he weighed them in, he asked no less than fourpence;
fourpence, said I, if I were but in Dublin, I could get the full of
that for nothing, and in Cork and Kinsale far cheaper; them is but
small things like pease, said I, but the potatoes in my country is
as big as your head, fine meat, all made up in blessed mouthfuls;
the potatoe-merchant called me a liar, and my master called me a
fool, so the one fell a-kicking me, and the other a cuffing me, I
was in such bad bread among them, that I called myself both a liar
and a fool to get off alive.
_Tom._ And how did you carry your potatoes home from the market?
_Teag._ Arra, dear shoy, I carried the horse and them both, besides
a big loaf, and two bottles of wine: for I put the old horse on my
back, and drove the potatoes before me: and when I tied the load to
the loaf, I had nothing to do but to carry the bottle in my hand:
but bad luck to the way as I came home, for a nail out of the heal
of my foot sprung a leak in my brogue, which pricked the very bone,
bruised the skin, and made my brogue itself to blood: and I having
no hammer by me, but a hatchet I left at home, I had to beat down
the nail with the bottom of the bottle: and by the book, dear shoy,
it broke to pieces, and scattered the wine in my mouth.
_Tom._ And how did you recompense your master for the loss of your
bottle of wine?
_Teag._ Arra dear shoy, I had a mind to cheat him, and myself too,
for I took the bottle to a blacksmith, and desired him to mend it,
that I might go to the butcher and get it full of bloody water, but
he told me he could not work in any thing but steel and iron. Arra,
said I, if I were in my own kingdom, I could get a blacksmith who
would make a bottle out of a stone, and a stone out of nothing.
_Tom._ And how did you trick your master out of it?
_Teag._ Why the old rogue began to chide me, asking me what way
I broke it, then I held up the other as high as my head, and let
it fall to the ground on a stone, which broke it all in pieces
likewise: now, said I, master, that’s the way, and then he beat me
very heartily, until I had to shout out mercy and murder all at
once.
_Tom._ Why did you not leave him when he used you so badly.
_Teag._ Arra, dear shoy, I could never think to leave him while I
could eat, he gave me so many good victuals, and promised to prefer
me to be his own bone-picker. But by shaint Patrick, I had to run
away with my life or all was done, else I had lost my dear shoul
and body too by him, and then I came home much poorer than I went
away. The great big bitch dog which was my master’s best beloved,
put his head into a pitcher to lick out some milk, and when it
was in he could not get it out, and I to save the pitcher got the
hatchet and cut off the dog’s head, and then I had to break the
pitcher to get out the head; by this I lost both the dog and the
pitcher. My master, hearing of this, swore he would cut the head
off me, for the poor dog was made useless, and could not see to
follow any body for want of his eyes: And when I heard of this, I
ran away with my own head, for if I had wanted it I had lost my
eyes too, then I would not have seen the road to Port Patrick,
through Glen-nap, but by shaint Patrick I came home alive in spite
of them all.
_Tom._ O rarely done Pady, you behaved like a man, but what is the
reason that you Irish people swear always by shaint Patrick, what
is this shaint Patrick?
_Teag._ Arra, dear honey, he was the best shaint in the world, the
father of all good people in the kingdom, he has a great kindness
for an Irishman, when he hears him calling on his name; he was the
first that sow’d the potatoes in Ireland, for he knew it was a bit
of good fit ground, it being a gentleman’s garden before Noah’s
flood.
_Tom._ But dear Pady, is shaint Patrick yet alive, that he hears
the Irish people when they speak of his name?
_Teag._ Arra, dear honey, I don’t know whether he be dead or alive,
but it’s a long time since they killed him, the people turned all
heathens, for he would not change his profession, and was going to
run the country with it, and for taking his gospel away to England,
so the barbarous tories of Dublin cutted off his head, and what do
you think he did when his head was off?
_Tom._ What could a dead man do you fool?
_Teag._ Dead, faith he was not such a big fool as to die yet, he
swimmed over to England after this, and brought his head along with
him.[166]
_Tom._ And how did he carry his head and swim too?
_Teag._ Arra, dear honey, he carried his head in his teeth.
_Tom._ No, Pady, it won’t hold, I must have caution for that.
_Teag._ If you won’t believe me, I’ll swear it over again.
PART II.
_Tom._ And how did you get safe out of Scotland at last?
_Teag._ By the law dear honey, when I came to Port Patrick, and saw
my own kingdom, I thought I was safe at home, but I was clean dead
and almost drowned before I could get riding over the water: for
I, with nine passengers more, leapt in a little young boat, having
but four men dwelling in a little house, in the one end of it,
which was all thacked with deals: and after they had pulled up her
tether-stick, and laid her long halter over her mane, they pulled
up a long big sheet like three pair of blankets to the riggen of
the house, and the wind blew in that, which made her gallop up one
hill and down another, till I thought she would have run to the
world’s end if some part of the world had not catch’t her by the
foot.
_Tom._ I fancy, Pady, you was by this time very sick?
_Teag._ Sick, ay sick beyond all sickness, clean dead as a
door-nail; for as I had lost the key of my backside, I bock’d up
the very bottom of my belly, and I thought that liver and lungs,
and all that I had should have gone together; then I called to the
fellow that held by her tail behind, to pull down his sheet and
hold her head, till I got leasure to die, and then say my prayers.
_Tom._ Well then, Pady, and got you safe ashore at last?
_Teag._ Ay, we came ashore very fast; but, by shaint Patrick, I
shall never venture my dear shoul and body in such a young boat
again, while the wind blows out of Scots Galloway.[167]
_Tom._ Well, Pady, and where did you go when you came to Ireland
again?
_Teag._ Arra dear honey, and where did I go, but to my own dear
cousin, who was now become very rich by the death of the old buck
his father: who died but a few weeks before I went over, and the
parish had to bury him out of pity, it did not cost him a farthing.
_Tom._ And what entertainment or good usage did you get there, Pady?
_Teag._ O my dear shoy, I was kindly used as another gentleman,
for I told him I had made something of it, by my travels, as well
as himself, but I had got no money, therefore I had to work for my
victuals while I staid with him.
_Tom._ Ho, poor Pady, I suppose you would not stay long there.
_Teag._ Arra, dear honey, I could have staid there long enough, but
when a man is poor his friends think little of him: I told him I
was going to see my brother Harry: Harry, said he, is dead: dead
said I, and who killed him? Why said he, death: Allelieu, dear
honey, and where did he kill him? said I. In his bed, said he; O
what for a cowardly action was that, said I, to kill a man in his
bed: and what is this fellow death? said I. What is he, He is one
that kills more than the head butcher in all Cork does. Arra, dear
honey, said I, if he had been upon Newry mountains with his brogues
on, and his broad sword by his side, all the deaths in Ireland had
not have killed him: O that impudent fellow death, if he had let
him alone till he died for want of butter milk and potatoes, I am
sure he had lived all the days of his life.
_Tom._ In all your travels when abroad, did you never see any of
your countrymen, to inform you of what happened at home concerning
your relations?
_Teag._ Arra dear shoy, I saw none but Tom Jack one day in the
street; but when I came to him, it was not him, but one just like
him.
_Tom._ On what account did you go a travelling?
_Teag._ Why, a decruiting sergeant listed me to be a captain, and
after all advanced me no higher than a soldier itself, but only he
called me his dear countryman recruit: for I did not know what the
regiment was when I saw them; I thought they were all gentlemen’s
sons and collegeoners, when I saw a box like a bible upon their
bellies: until I saw K for King George upon it, and R for God bless
him: ho, ho, said I, I shan’t be long here.
_Tom._ O then Pady, you deserted from them?
_Teag._ Ah that’s what I did, and run to the mountains like a wild
buck, and ever since when I see any soldiers I close my eyes, lest
they should look and know me.
_Tom._ And what exploits did you do when you were a soldier?
_Teag._ Arra, dear honey, I killed a man.
_Tom._ And how did you that?
_Teag._ Arra, dear honey, when he dropt his sword, I drew mine, and
advanced boldly to him, and then cutted off his foot.
_Tom._ O then what a big fool was you; for you ought first to have
cut off his head.
_Teag._ Arra, dear shoy, his head was cutted off before I engaged
him, else I had not done it.
_Tom._ O then Pady, you acted like a fool; but you are not such a
big fool as many take you to be, you might pass for a philosopher.
_Teag._ A fulusifair, my father was a fulusifair, besides he was a
man under great authority by law, condemning the just and clearing
the guilty: do you know how they call the horse’s mother?
_Tom._ Why they call her a mare.
_Teag._ A mare, ay very well minded, by shaint Patrick, my father
was a mare in Cork.
_Tom._ And what riches was left you by the death of your mother?
_Teag._ A bad luck to her old barren belly, for she lived in great
plenty, and died in great poverty: devoured up all or she died,
but two hens and a pockful of potatoes, a poor estate for an Irish
gentleman, in faith.
_Tom._ And what did you make of your hens and potatoes, did you sow
them?
_Teag._ Arra, dear shoy, I sowed them in my belly, and sold the
hens to a cadger.
_Tom._ And what business did your mother follow after?
_Teag._ Greatly in the merchant way.
_Tom._ And what sort of goods did she deal in?
_Teag._ Dear honey, she went through the country and sold small
fishes, onions and apples: bought hens and eggs, and then hatched
them herself. I remember one long-necked cock she had of an oversea
brood, that stood on the midden and picked all the stars out of the
north-west so they were never so thick there since.
_Tom._ Now Pady, that’s a bull surpasses all: but is there none of
that cock’s offspring alive in Ireland now?
_Teag._ Arra, dear shoy, I don’t think that there are, but it is a
pity but they had, for they would fly with people above the sea,
which would put the use of ships out of fashion, and then there
would be nobody drowned at sea at all.
_Tom._ Very well Pady: but in all your travels did you ever get a
wife?
_Teag._ Ay that’s what I did, and wicked wife too.
_Tom._ And what is become of her now?
_Teag._ Dear shoy, I can’t tell whether she is gone to Purgatory,
or the parish of Pig-trantrum: for she told me she should certainly
die the first opportunity she could get, as this present evil
world was not worth the waiting on, so she would go and see what
good things is in the world to come; and so when that old rover
called the Fever, came raging like a madman over the whole kingdom,
knocking the people on the head with deadly blows, she went away
and died out of spite, leaving me with nothing but two motherless
children.
_Tom._ O, but Pady, you ought to have gone to a doctor, and got
some pills and physic for her.
_Teag._ By shaint Patrick I had as good a pill of my own as any
doctor in the kingdom could give her, and as for sneeshing, she
could never use snuff nor tobacco in her life.
_Tom._ O you fool that is not what I mean; you ought to have
brought the doctor to feel her pulse, and let blood of her if he
thought it needful.
_Teag._ Yes, that’s what I did; for I ran to the doctor whenever
she died, and sought something for a dead or dying woman; the old
foolish devil was at his dinner, and began to ask me some dirty
questions, which I answered distinctly.
_Tom._ And what did he ask, Pady?
_Teag._ Why, he asked me, How did my wife go to stool? to which I
answered, the same way that other women go to a chair: no, said he,
that’s not what I mean, how does she purge? Arra, Mr. Doctor, said
I, all the fire in Purgatory wont purge her clean; for she has both
a cold and stinking breath. Sir, said he, that is not what I ask
you, whether does she shit thick or thin? Arra, Mr. Doctor, said
I, it is sometimes so thick and hard that you may take it in your
hand, and eat it like a piece of cheese or pudding, and at other
times you may drink it, or sup it with a spoon. At this he flew in
a most terrible rage, and kicked me down stairs, and would give me
nothing to her, but called me a dirty scoundrel for speaking of
shit before ladies.
_Tom._ And was you sorry when your wife died?
_Teag._ Arra, dear shoy, if any body had beat me, I was fit to cry
myself.
_Tom._ And in what good order did you bury your wife when she died?
_Teag._ O my dear shoy she was buried in all manner of pomp,
pride, and splendour; a fine coffin with cords in it, and within
the coffin along with herself, she got a pair of new brogues, a
penny candle, a good hard-headed old hammer, with an Irish sixpenny
piece, to pay her passage at the gate and what more could she look
for.[168]
_Tom._ I really think you gave her enough along with her, but you
ought to have cried for her, if it was no more but to be in the
fashion.
_Teag._ And why should I cry without sorrow? when we hired two
criers to cry all the way before her to keep in the fashion.
_Tom._ And what do they cry before a dead woman?
_Teag._ Why they cry the common cry, or funeral lament that is used
in our Irish country.
_Tom._ And what manner of cry is that, Pady?
_Teag._ Dear Tom, if you don’t know, I’ll tell you, when any dies,
there is a number of criers goes before, saying, Luff, fuff, fou,
allelieu, dear honey, what aileth thee to die! it was not for want
of good buttermilk and potatoes.
PART III.
_Tom._ Well Pady, and what did you do when your wife died?
_Teag._ Dear honey, what would I do: do you think I was such a big
fool as to die too, I am sure, If I had I would not have got fair
play, when I am not so old yet as my father was when he died.
_Tom._ No, Pady, it is not that I mean, was you sorry, or did you
weep for her?
_Teag._ Weep for her; by shaint Patrick I would not weep nor yet be
sorry, suppose my own mother and all the women in Ireland had died
seven years before I was born.
_Tom._ What did you do with your children when she died?
_Teag._ Do you imagine I was such a big fool as bury my children
alive, along with a dead woman: Arra, dear honey, we always
commonly give nothing along with a dead person, but an old shirt,
a winding sheet, a big hammer, with a long candle, and an Irish
silver three-penny piece?
_Tom._ Dear Pady, and what use do they make of all them things?
_Teag._ Then, Tom, since you are so inquisitive, you must go ask
the priest.
_Tom._ What did you make of your children then Pady?
_Teag._ And what should I make of them, do you imagine that I
should give them into the hands of the butchers, as they had been a
parcel of young hogs: by shaint Patrick, I had more unnaturality in
me, than to put them in an hospital as others do.
_Tom._ No, I suppose you would leave them with your friends?
_Teag._ Ay, ay, a poor man’s friends is sometimes worse than a
profest enemy: the best friend I ever had in the world was my own
pocket while my money lasted; but I left two babes between the
priest’s door and the parish church, because I thought it was a
place of mercy, and then set out for England in quest of another
fortune.
_Tom._ And did you not take good-night with your friends ere you
came away?
_Teag._ Arra, dear honey, I had no friends in the world but an
Irish half-crown, and I would have been very sorry to parted with
such a dear pocket-companion at such a time.
_Tom._ I fancy Pady, you’ve come off with what they call a
moon-shine flitting.
_Teag._ You lie like a thief now, for I did not see sun, moon, nor
stars, all the night then: for I set out from Cork at the dawn of
night, and I had travelled twenty miles all but twelve, before
gloaming in the morning.
_Tom._ And where did you go to take shipping?
_Teag._ Arra, dear honey, I came to a country village called
Dublin, as a big a city as any market-town in all England, where I
got myself abroad of a little young boat, with a parcel of fellows,
and a long leather bag, I supposed them to be tinkers, until I
asked what they carried in that leather sack; they told me it was
the English mail they were going over with: then said I, is the
milns so scant in England, that they must send over their corn to
Ireland to grind it; the comical cunning fellows persuaded me it
was so; then I went down to a little house below the water, hard
by the rigg-back of the boat, and laid me down on their leather
sack, where I slept myself almost to death with hunger. And dear
Tom, to tell you plainly, when I awaked I did not know where I was,
but thought I was dead and buried, for I found nothing all round me
but wooden walls and timber above.
_Tom._ And how did you come to yourself, to know where you was at
last.
_Teag._ By the law, dear shoy, I scratched my head in a hundred
parts, and then set me down to think upon it, so I minded it was my
wife that was dead, and not me, and that I was alive in the young
post boat, with the fellows that carries over English meal from the
Irish milns.
_Tom._ O then, Pady, I am sure yon was glad when you found yourself
alive?
_Teag._ Arra, dear shoy, I was very sure I was alive, but I did not
think to live long, so I thought it was better for me to steal and
be hanged, than to live all my days, and die directly with hunger
at last.
_Tom._ What, had you no meat nor money along with you?
_Teag._ Arra, dear shoy, I gave all the money to the captain of the
house or gudeman of the ship, to carry me into the sea, or over
to England, and when I was like to eat my old brogues for want of
victuals, I drew my hanger and cut their leather sack thinkin’ to
get a lick of their meal; but allelieu, dear shoy, I found nothing,
meal nor seeds, but a parcel of papers and letters, a poor morsel
indeed for a hungry man.
_Tom._ O then Pady you laid down your honesty for nothing.
_Teag._ Ay, ay, I was a great theif, but got nothing to steal.
_Tom._ And how did you come to get victuals at last?
_Teag._ Allelieu, dear honey, the thoughts of meat and drink, death
and life, and every thing else, was out of my mind, I had not a
thought but one.
_Tom._ And what was that Pady?
_Teag._ To go down among the fishes and become a whale; then I
would have lived an easy life all my days, having nothing to do but
drink salt water, and eat caller oysters.
_Tom._ What Pady, was you like to be drowned again?
_Teag._ Ay, ay, drowned, as cleanly drowned as a fish, for the sea
blew very loud, and the wind ran so high, that we were all cast
away safe on shore, and not one of us drowned at all.
_Tom._ And where did you go when you came on shore?
_Teag._ Arra, dear honey, I was not able to go any where, you might
cast a knot on my belly, I was so hollow in my middle so I went
into a gentleman’s house and told him the bad fortune I had of
being drowned between Ireland and the foot of his garden; where we
came all safe ashore. But all the comfort I got from him was a word
of truth.
_Tom._ And what was that Pady?
_Teag._ Why he told me if I had been a good boy at home: I needed
not to have gone so far to push my fortune with an empty pocket; to
which I answered, and what magnifies that, as long as I am a good
workman at no trade at all.
_Tom._ I suppose, Pady, the gentleman would make you dine with him?
_Teag._ I really thought I was, when I saw them roasting and
skinning so many black chickens which was nothing but a few dead
crows they were going to eat; ho, ho, said I, them is but dry meat
at the best, of all the fowls that flie, commend me to the wing of
an ox: but all that came to my share, was a piece of boiled herring
and a roasted potatoe, that was the first bit of bread I ever eat
in England.
_Tom._ Well, Pady, what business did you follow after in England,
when you was so poor?
_Teag._ What sir, do you imagine I was poor when I came over on
such an honourable occasion as to list, and bring myself to no
preferment at all. As I was an able bodied man in the face, I
thought to be made a brigadeer, a grandedeer, or a fuzeleer, or
even one of them blew gowns that holds the fiery stick to the
bung-hole of the big cannons, when they let them off, to fright
away the French; I was as sure as no man alive ere I came from
Cork, the least preferment I could get, was to be riding-master to
a regiment of marines, or one of the black horse itself.
_Tom._ Well Pady, you seem to be a very clever man, to be all in
one body, what height are you?
_Teag._ Arra, dear shoy, I am five foot nothing, all but one inch.
_Tom._ And where in England was it you listed?
_Teag._ Arra, dear shoy, I was going through that little country
village, the famous city of Chester, the streets was very sore by
reason of the hardness of my feet, and lameness of my brogues, so
I went but very slowly a-cross the streets, from port to port is
a pretty long way, but I being weary thought nothing of it: then
the people came all crowding to me as I had been a world’s wonder,
or the wandering Jew: For the rain blew in my face, and the wind
wetted all my belly, which caused me to turn the backside of my
coat before, and my buttons behind, which was a good safeguard to
my body, and the starvation of my naked back: as I had not a good
shirt.
_Tom._ I am sure then, Pady, they would take you for a fool?
_Teag._ No, no, sir, they admired me for my wisdom, for I always
turned my buttons before, when the wind blew on behind, but I
wondered greatly how the people knew my name, and where I came
from: for every one told another, that was Pady from Cork: I
suppose they knew my face by seeing my name in the newspapers.
_Tom._ Well, Pady, what business did you follow in Chester?
_Teag._ To be sure I was not idle, working at nothing at all, until
a decruiting sergeant came to town with two or three fellows along
with him, one beating on a fiddle, and another playing on a drum,
tossing their airs thro’ the street, as if they were going to be
married: and I saw them courting none but young men; so to bring
myself to no preferment at all, I listed for a soldier because I
was too high for a grandedeer.
_Tom._ And what listing money did you get, Pady?
_Teag._ Arra, dear shoy, I got five thirteens and a pair of English
brogues; the guinea and the rest of the gold was sent away to
London, to the King my master, to buy me new shirts, a cockade, and
common treasing for my hat, they made me swear the malicious oath
of devilrie against the King, the colours, and my captain, telling
me if ever I desert and not run away, that I should be shot, and
then whipt to death, through the regiment.
_Tom._ No Pady: it is first whipt and then shot you mean.
_Teag._ Arra, dear shoy, it is all one thing at last, but it is
best to be shot and then whipt, the cleverest way to die, I’ll
warrant you.
_Tom._ How much pay did you get, Pady?
_Teag._ Do you know the little tall fat seargeant that feed me to
be a soldier?
_Tom._ And how should I know them I never saw, you fool?
_Teag._ Dear shoy, you may know him whether you see him or not! for
his face is all bored in big holes with the small pox, his nose
is the colour of a lobster-toe, and his chin like a well washen
potatoe: he’s the biggest rogue in our kingdom, you’ll know him
when he cheats you, and the wide world; and another mark, he dights
his mouth before he drinks, and blows his nose before he takes a
snuff; the rogue height me sixpence a day, kill or no kill: and
when I laid Sunday and Saturday both together, and all the days in
one day, I can’t make a penny above fivepence of it.
_Tom._ You should have kept an account, and asked your arrears once
a month.
_Teag._ That’s what I did, but he read a paternoster, out of his
prayer book, wherein all our names are written; so much for a
stop-hold to my gun, to bucklers, to a pair of comical harn-hose,
with leather buttons from top to toe; and worst of all, he would
have no less than a penny a week to a doctor; arra, said I, I never
had a sore finger nor yet a sick toe, all the days of my life, then
what have I to do with the doctor, or the doctor to do with me?
_Tom._ And did he make you pay all these things?
_Teag._ Ay, ay, pay and better pay; he took me before his captain,
who made me pay all was in his book. Arra, master captain, said I,
you are a comical sort of a fellow now, you might as well make me
pay for my coffin before I be dead, as to pay for a doctor before
I be sick; to which he answered in a passion, sirra, said he, I
have seen many a better man buried without a coffin: sir, said I,
then I’ll have a coffin, die when I will, if there be as much wood
in all the world, or I shall not be buried at all. Then he called
for the sergeant, saying, you, sir, go and buy that man’s coffin,
and put it in the store till he die, and stop sixpence a week off
his pay for it: No, no, sir, said I, I’ll rather die without a
coffin; and seek none when I’m dead; but if you are for clipping
another sixpence off my poor pay, keep it all to yourself, and I’ll
swear all your oaths of agreement we had back again, and then seek
soldiers where you will.
_Tom._ O then Pady, how did you end the matter?
_Teag._ Arra, dear shoy, by the mights of shaint Patrick and help
of my own brogues, I both ended it, and mended it, for the next
night before that, I gave them leg bail for my fidelity, and then
went about the country a fortune-teller, dumb and deaf as I was not.
_Tom._ How old was you Pady when you was a soldier last?
_Teag._ Arra, dear honey, I was three dozen all but two, and it is
only but two years since, so I want only four years of three dozen
yet, and when I live six dozen more, I’ll be older than I am, I’ll
warrand you.
_Tom._ O but Pady, by your account, you are three dozen of years
old already.
_Teag._ O what for a big fool are you now Tom, when you count the
years I lay sick; which time I count no time at all.
A NEW CATECHISM, &c.
_Tom._ Of all the opinions professed in religion tell me now, Pady,
of what profession art thou?
_Pady._ Arra, dear shoy, my religion was too weighty a matter
to carry out of my own country: I was afraid that you English
Presbyterians should pluck it away from me.
_Tom._ What, Pady, was your religion such a load that you could not
carry it along with you?
_Pady._ Yes, that it was, but I carried it always about with me
when at home, my sweet cross upon my dear breast, bound to my dear
button hole.
_Tom._ And what manner of worship did you perform by that?
_Pady._ Why I adored my cross, the pope, and the priest, cursed
Oliver, as black as a crow, and swears myself a cut throat against
all Protestants and church of Englandmen.
_Tom._ And what is the matter but you would be a church of
Englandman, or a Scotch Presbyterian yourself, Pady?
_Pady._ Because it is unnatural for an Irishman, but had shaint
Patrick been a Presbyterian, I had been the same.
_Tom._ And for what reason would you be a Presbyterian then, Pady?
_Pady._ Because they have a liberty to eat flesh in lent, and every
thing that’s fit for the belly.
_Tom._ What, Pady, are you such a lover of flesh that you would
change your profession for it?
_Pady._ O yes, that’s what I did, I love flesh of all kinds,
sheep’s beef, swine’s mutton, hare’s flesh, and hen’s venison;
but our religion is one of the hungriest in all the world, ah!
but it makes my teeth to weep, and my belly to water, when I see
the Scotch Presbyterians and English churchmen, in time of lent,
feeding upon bull’s bastards, and sheep’s young children.
_Tom._ Why Pady, do you say the bull is a fornicator, and gets
bastards?
_Pady._ Arra, dear shoy, I never saw the cow and her husband, all
the days of my life, nor before I was born, going to the church
to be married, and what then can his sons and daughters be but
bastards?
_Tom._ O Pady, Pady, the cow is but a cow, but and so are you: but
what reward will you get when you are dead, for punishing your
belly so while you are alive?
_Pady._ By shaint Patrick I’ll live like a king when I’m dead, for
I will neither pay for meat nor drink.
_Tom._ What, Pady, do you think that you are to come alive again
when you are dead?
_Pady._ O yes, we that are true Roman Catholicks we will live a
long time after we are dead; when we die in love with the priests,
and the good people of our profession.
_Tom._ And what assurance can your priests give you of that?
_Pady._ Arra, dear shoy, our priest is a great shaint, and a good
shoul, who can repeat a patter-noster, and Ave Maria, which will
fright the very horned devil himself and make him run for it, until
he be like to fall and break his neck.
_Tom._ And what does he give you when you are dying that makes you
come alive again?
_Pady._ Why he writes a letter upon our tongues, sealed with a
wafer, gives us a sacrament in our mouth, with a pardon, and
direction in our right-hand, who to call for at the ports of
Purgatory?
_Tom._ And to whom do they direct the dead?
_Pady._ Why the English Romans when they die are all directed to
shaint George, the Scots to shaint Andrew, the Welch to shaint
David, and our own dear countrymen must every shoul of them go to
shaint Patrick, but them that have no money to pay the priest for
a pardon, or those that are drown’d or die by themselves in the
fields without a priest, is lost, and sent away as black-guard
scoundrels, to wander up and down while the world stands, among the
brownies, fairies, mermaids, sea-devils, and water kelpies.
_Tom._ And what money design you to give the priests for your
pardon?
_Pady._ Dear shoy, I wish I had first the money he would take for
it, I would rather drink it myself, and then give him both my bill
and my honest word, payable in the other world.
_Tom._ And how then are you to get a passage to the other world, or
who is to carry you there?
_Pady._ O my dear shoy, Tom, you know nothing of the matter; for,
when I die, they will bury my body, flesh, blood, dirt and bones,
only my skin will be blown up full of wind and spirit, my dear
shoul I mean; and then I will be blown over to the other world,
on the wings of the wind; and after that I shall never be kill’d
hang’d nor drowned, nor yet die in my bed, for when any hits me a
blow, my new body will play buff upon it like a bladder.
_Tom._ But what way will you go to the new world, or where is it?
_Pady._ Arra, dear shoy, the priest knows where it is, but I do
not, but the Pope of Rome keeps the outer-port, shaint Patrick the
inner-port, and gives us a direction of the way to shaint Patrick’s
palace, which stands on the head of the Stalian-loch, where I’ll
have no more to do but chap at the gate.
_Tom._ What is the need for chapping at the gate, is it not always
open?
_Pady._ Dear Shoy, you know little about it, for there is none can
enter in but red-hot Irishmen, for when I call, “Allelieu, dear
honey, shaint Patrick countenance your own dear countryman if you
will.” Then the gates will be opened directly to me, for he knows
and loves an Irishman’s voice, as he loves his own heart.
_Tom._ And what entertainment will you get when you are in?
_Pady._ O my dear, we are all kept there until a general review,
which is commonly once in the week; and then we are drawn up, like
as many young recruits, and all the black-guard scoundrels is
pickt out of the ranks, and one half of them is sent away to the
Elysian fields, to curry the weeds from among the potatoes, the
other half of them to the river Sticks, to catch fishes for shaint
Patrick’s table; and all them that is owing the priests any money,
is put in the black hole, and then given into the hands of a great
black bitch of a devil which they keep for a hangman, who whips
them up and down the smoaky dungeon every morning for six months,
then holds their bare back-side to a great fire, until their hips
be all in one blister, and after all, they are sent away to the
poor parish of Pig-trantum, where they get nothing to eat but cold
sowens, burgue, and butter-milk.
_Tom._ And where does your good people go when they are separated
from the bad?
_Pady._ And where would you have them to go, but unto shaint
Patrick’s palace, and then they may go down the back stairs into
the garden of Eden, now called Paradise: ah! my dear shoy, this
is the real fundamental truths of our Romish Religion, and a deep
doctrine it is, but your Presbyterians and English churchmen will
not believe it, and, by shaint Patrick, neither can I, until I see
more of it come to pass.
_Tom._ And what manner of life does your priest ordain you to live
in the world to come?
_Pady._ Arra, dear shoy, if I had money enough to buy pardons from
our priest, I might commit all the lies forbidden in the holy
books, as he gives them a toleration to lie and cheat all the
world, but those of our own profession.
_Tom._ What, Pady, are you not to do as much justice to a
Protestant as a Papist?
_Pady._ O my dear shoy, the most justice we are commanded to do
to a Protestant, is to whip and torment them until they confess
themselves in the Romish Faith, and then cut their throats that
they may die believers.
_Tom._ What business do you follow after at present?
_Pady._ Arra, dear shoy, I am a mountain sailor, and my
supplication is as follows,
PADY’S HUMBLE PETITION, OR SUPPLICATION.
Good Christian people behold me a man! who has com’d thro’ a
world of wonders, a hell full of hardships, dangers by sea, and
dangers by land, and yet I am alive, you may see my hand crooked
like a fowl’s foot, and that is no wonder at all, considering my
sufferings and sorrows: Oh! oh! oh! good people I was a man in my
time who had plenty of the gold, plenty of the silver, plenty of
the clothes, plenty of the butter, the beer, beef, and bisket. And
now, now I have nothing: being taken by the Turks and relieved
by the Spaniards, lay sixty-six days at the siege of Gibraltar,
and got nothing to eat but sea wreck and raw mussels; then put to
sea for our safety, cast upon the Barbarian coast among the woful
wicked Algerines, where we were taken, and tied with tugs and
tadders, horse-locks and cow-chains: then cut and custrate yard
and testicles quite away, if you will not believe, put in your hand
and feel how every female’s made smooth by the sheer-bone, where
nothing is to be seen but what is natural. Then made our escape
to the desert wild wilderness of Arabia: where we lived amongst
the wild asses, upon wind, sand, and sapless ling. Afterwards put
to sea in the hull of an old house; where we was tossed above
and below the clouds, being driven thro’ thickets and groves by
fierce, coarse, calm and contrary winds; at last, was cast away
upon Salisbury plains, where our vessel was dash’d to pieces
against a cabbage-stock. And now my humble petition to you good
Christian people is, for one hundred of your beef, one hundred
of your butter, another of your cheese, a cask of your bisket, a
tun of your beer, a keg of your rum, with a pipe of your wine, a
lump of your gold, a piece of your silver, a few of your halfpence
or farthings, a waught of your butter-milk, a pair of your old
breeches, stockings, or shoes, even a chaw of tobacco for charity’s
sake.
A CREED FOR ROMISH BELIEVERS.
I believe the Pope of Rome, to be the right heir and true successor
of Peter the Apostle, and that he has a power above all the
kings of the world, being spiritual and temporal; endowed with a
communication from beyond the grave, and can bring up any departed
shoul[169] he pleases, even as the woman of Endor brought up Samuel
to Saul, by the same power he can, assisted by the enchantments
of old Manasseh, a king in Israel. I believe also in the Romish
priests that they are very civil chaste gentlemen, keep no wives
of their own, but partake a little of other men’s, when in secret
confession. I acknowledge the worshipping of images and relicks of
shaints departed to be very just; but if they hear us and not help
us, O they are but a parcel of ungrateful wretches.
FINIS.
_SIMPLE JOHN AND HIS TWELVE MISFORTUNES._
[‘The Comical History of Simple John, and his Twelve Misfortunes;
which happened all in twelve Days after the unhappy Day of his
Marriage. Giving a particular account of his Courtship and
Marriage to a Scolding Wife; which has been a mortifying Misery
to many a poor Man.
O Sirs will you see,
What it is to married be!
Glasgow: Printed for the Company of Flying Stationers, in Town
and country. MDCCLXXX.’ Such is the full title of the edition
here used. It has been with the following editions:--‘Edinburgh:
printed for the booksellers, 1823’; and ‘Stirling: printed by
William Macnie, and sold wholesale and retail, 1823’; and also
with the modern Glasgow one.]
THE COMICAL HISTORY OF SIMPLE JOHN AND HIS TWELVE MISFORTUNES.
Simple John was a widow’s son, and a coarse country weaver to his
trade; he made nothing but such as canvas for caff-beds, corn and
coal-sacks, druggit and harn was the finest webs he could lay his
fingers to; he was a great lump of a lang lean lad, aboon sax
fit high afore he was aughteen year auld, and as he said himsel
he grew sae fast and was in sic a hurry to be high, that he did
not stay to bring a’ his judgment wi’ him, but yet he hoped it
would follow him, and he would meet wi’t as mony a are does after
they’re married; he had but ae sister, and she had as little sense
as himsel, she was married on Sleeky Willy, the wylie weaver, his
mither was a rattling rattle-scul’d wife, and they lived a’ in ae
house, and every body held them as a family of fools. When John
came to man’s state, to the age of twenty-one years, he tell’d his
mither he would hae a wife o’ some sort, either young or auld,
widow or lass, if they had but head and hips, tongue and tail, he
shou’d tak them, and weel I wat mither, quoth he, they’ll get a
lumping penny-worth o’ me, get me wha will.
His mither tells him o’ the black butcher on Ti’ot-side, who had
three dochters, and every ane of them had something, there was
Kate, Ann, and Girzy, had hunder merks the piece, Kate and Ann had
both bastards. Girzy the eldest had a hump back, a high breast,
baker legs, a short wry neck, thrawn mouth, and goggle ey’d, a
perfect Æsop of the female kind, with as many crooked conditions
within as without, a very lump of loun-like ill nature, row’d a’
together, as if she had been nine months in a haggies, a second
edition of crooked backed Richard an old English king, that was
born wi’ teeth to bite a’ round about him; and yet the wight gaed
mad to be married.
John’s mother tell’d him the road where to go, and what to say,
and accordingly he sets out wi’ his sunday’s coat on, and a’ his
braws, and a pair o’ new pillonian breeks o’ his mither’s making.
In he comes and tell’d his errand before he would sit down, says
good day to you goodman, what are you a’ doing here? I am wanting
a wife, an’ ye’re a flesher and has a gude sorting aside you, my
mither says ye can sair me or ony body like me, what say ye till’t
goodman, how mony dochters hae ye? are they a’ married yet? I fain
wou’d tak a look o’ some o’ them gin ye like.
A wow said the goodwife come in by honest lad and rest you, an ye
be a wooer sit down an gi’s a snuff; a deed goodwife I hae nae mill
but my mither’s, and it’s at hame. A whar win ye, I’se no ken ye;
I wat quoth he, my name’s Jock Sandeman, they ca’ me simple John
the sack weaver, I hae nae tocher but my loom, a pirn wheel, a
kettle pat, a brass pan, twa piggs, four cogs and a candlestick, a
good cock, a cat, two eerocks new begun to lay; my sister Sara is
married on sleeky Willie the wylie weaver, and I maun hae a hagwife
or my mither die, for truly she’s very frail, and ony harle o’
health she has is about dinner-time; what say ye till’t, goodman?
can ye buckle me or no?
Goodman. A dear John ye’re in an unco haste, ye wadna hae you’re
wife hame wi’ ye? they’re a’ there before ye, which o’ them will ye
tak?
Hout tout says John, ony o’ them ’ill sare me, but my mither says
there’s twa o’ them has fauts: and what is their fauts said the
goodwife, hout said John, it’s no meikle faut, but I dinna like it,
they got men or they were married. And what shall I do wi’ them
said the goodman.
John. A deed goodman as ye’re ay dealing among dead beasts and
living beasts, I wad put them awa amang ither beasts, or gin ye be
aun ony penny, let some body tak them up o’ desperate debt, I sud
flay the sikes frae them, they anger’d you an’ sham’d you baith wi’
their bastards, a wheen daft jades it gets men or they be married,
and bairns or they get bridals.
Goodwife. A wat weel that’s true lad.
Girzy. A weel John than, will ye tak me, I hae nae bastards, how
will you and I do?
John. I watna gin ye be able to get a bastard, yet ye may hae some
war faut; but ye maun be my pennyworth for ye’re unco little, and
I’m o’er muckle, and gin ye and I war ance cairded thro’ ither, we
may get bonny weans o’ a midlen mak; I hae nae fauts to ye, but ye
hae a high breast, a hump back, a short neck, and high shoulders,
the hands and legs may do, tho’ your mouth be a wee bit to the tae
side it will ly well to the rock and I hae a hantle o’ tow to spin,
will be baith sarks and sacks till us, ye’ll be my sonsy dauty up
and down; a perfect beauty, wi’ cats yellow een, black brows and
red lips, and your very nose is a purpey colour, ye hae nae fauts
at a’: now whan will we be married.
Girzy. Ha, ha, John lad, we maun think on that yet.
John. What the yeltow lass, shoudna ye be ready whan I’m ready, and
every body says that the women’s aye ready.
Goodman. Ye’ll hae to come back and bring somebody wi’ you, and
we’ll gree about it, and set the day whan ye’ll be married.
John. A well goodman I’ll tell my mither o’t, and come back on
munonday, and we’ll hae a chappin o’ ale and roasted cheese on the
gude chance o’t, but I maun hae a word o’ the bride outby to convoy
me, an a quiet speak to hersel about it.
Good wife. A wow na John, the daft louns will laugh at you, and
she’ll think shame, gang ye out by and she’ll speak to you thro’
the gavel window.
Out goes John, and the bride and her twa sisters goes to the window
within to hear the diversion, and what he would say; now says John,
Girzy my dear, my braw pretty woman, an ye be in earnest tell me,
for by my suthe I’m no scorning.
Girzy. Indeed John I’m very willing to tak you, but ye need na tell
every body about it.
John. Then gi’ me a kiss on that? He shutes his head in at the
window, making a lang neck to win down to her, and she stood on a
little stool to win up to him, O cries he, an ye were good flesh I
could eat you a’ I like you sae well, it’s a pity there is sic a
hard wa’ a ’tween us, I’se tell my mither sae bonny as ye’re: O gi’
me anither kiss yet an then I’ll go; one of her sisters standing
by in a dark corner, get’s ha’d of a cow’s head which wanted a’ the
skin but about the mouth, and shutes it towards his mouth, which
he kiss’d in the dark, O cry’d he, but your mouth be cauld since I
kiss’d ye last, and I think ye hae a beard, I saw nae that afore,
or is’t wi’ spinning tow that maks your mouth sae rough at e’en?
Hame he comes, and tells his mither the speed and properties of
the marriage; a’ things was got ready, and next week sleeky Willy
the weaver and him came to gree the marriage and stay a’ night wi’
the bride, and teach John gude manners, for whan John was hungry
he minded his meat more than his gude behaviour, and as he never
was fu’ till the dish was tume, Willy the weaver was to tramp on
his fit when he thought he had supped enough; so all things being
agreed upon short and easy terms and the wedding day sett, they
were to be three times cry’d on Sunday and quietly married on
Munonday, neither piper nor fidler to be employ’d, but sweith awa’
hame frae the minister, and into the bed amang the blankets, ha,
ha, cries John, that’s the best o’t a’.
Now every thing being concluded and proposed, the supper was
brought, a large fat haggies, the very smell would done a hungry
body gude, but John had only got twa or three soups until are of
the butcher’s meikle dogs tramped on John’s fit, which he took to
be the weaver, and then he would sip no more; after supper they
went to bed, John and the weaver lay together, and then he abused
the weaver for tramping sae soon which he denied; but O, said John,
there’s a hantle o’t left, and I saw where it was set, they’re a’
sleeping, I’ll go rise and tak a soup o’t yet, ay een do sae said
Sleeky Willy, and bring a soup to me too; away then John goes to
the amry and lays to the haggies, till his ain haggies cou’d had
nae mair, then brings the rest to Sleeky Willy, but instead of
going to the bed whare he was, goes to the bed whare the bride and
her twa sisters lay, they being fast asleep, speaks slowly, will ye
tak it, will ye tak it, but they making no answers, he turns up the
blankets to put a soup into Willy’s mouth, but instead of doing so,
he puts a great spoonful close into one of their backsides, Sleeky
Willy hears all that past, comes out o’ the bed, and sups out the
remainders, and sets up the dish whare it was, leaves the amry door
open to let the cats get the blame of supping the haggies, and awa’
they goes to bed, but poor John cou’d get nae sleep for drouth, up
he gets in search of the water can, and finding an empty pitcher,
puts in his hand to find if there was any water in it, but finding
none, he closed his hand when it was within the pitcher, and then
could not get it out, goes to the bed and tells Sleeky Willy what
had happened him, who advised him to open the door and go out to a
knocking-stane that stood before the door, and break it there to
get out his hand, and not to mak a noise in the house, so out he
goes, but the bride’s sister who had gotten the great spoonful of
the haggies laid to her backside was out before him, rubbing the
nastiness (as she took it to be) off the tail of her sark, and she
being in a louting posture, he took her for the knocking-stane, and
comes o’er her hurdies with the pitcher, till it flew in pieces
about her, then off she runs wi’ the fright, round a turf stack and
into the house before him; John comes in trembling to the bed again
wi’ the fright, praying to preserve him, for sic a knocking stane
he never saw, for it ran clean awa’ when he brake the pigg upon it.
Now John was furnished in a house by his Father-in-law, the
bed, loom, heddles, treadles, thrums, reeds and pirn-wheel was
a’ brought and set up, before the marriage, which was kept as a
profound secret; so that John got the first night of his ain wife,
and his ain house a’ at ae time: So on the next morning after the
marriage, John and his wife made up some articles, how they were
to work, and keep house, John was to keep the house in meat, meal,
fire, and water; Girzy was to mak the meat and keep the house in
clothes, the Father-in-law to pay their rent for three years, they
were to hae no servants, until they had children, and the first
child was to be a John after its ain Daddy, get it wha will, if a
boy, and if a girl, Girzy after its ain Minny, as he said, wha had
wrought best for’t.[170]
I. Then she ordered John to rise and begin his work, by putting on
a fire, and take the twa new piggs and gang to the well, no sooner
had John opened the door, and gone out with a pigg in every hand,
than a’ the boys and girls being gathered in a croud to see him,
gave a loud huzza, and clapping their hands at him, poor John not
knowing what it meant, thought it was fine sport, began to clap his
hands too, and not minding the two piggs, clashes the tane against
the tither, till baith went in pieces, and that was a chearful
huzza, to baith young and auld that was looking at him. Girzel the
wife draws him into the house, and to him she flies with the wicked
wife’s wapons, her Tongue and Tangs, made his ribbs to crack,
saying, They tell’d me ye was daft, but I’ll ding the daffing out
o’ ye, I’ll begin wi’ ye as I’m amind to end wi’ ye; poor John sat
crying and clawing his lugs. Ha, ha, said he, its nae bairns play
to be married, I find that already; his Mither-in-law came in and
made up peace, went to a cooper, and got them a big wooden stoup to
carry in their water.
II. Next morning John was sent to the flesh-market an errand to
his Father-in-law, who gave him a piece of flesh to carry home,
and as he was coming out of the market, he saw six or seven of
the fleshers-dogs fall on and worry at a poor country colley
dog, Justice, justice, cries John to the dogs, ye’re but a wheen
unmannerly raskel’s, that fa’s a on ae poor beast, heth ye sude a’
be put in the toubooth, and tane to the bailies, and hang’d for the
like o’ that, it’s perfect murder, and in he runs amongst the dogs,
and be hang’d to you a’ the-gither, What is the quarrel? What is
the quarrel? John flings down the flesh he had carrying, and grips
the colley, who took John for an enemy too, and bites his hands,
till the blood followed, the whole of the tykes comes on a poor
John, till down he goes in the dirt amongst their feet, and one
of the dogs runs off with his flesh, so John went hame both dirty
and bloody without his flesh, tell’d Girzy how it happened, who
applied her old plaister, her tangs and tongue, made John to curse
the very minister that married them, and wished he might never do a
better turn.
III. Next morning, John was sent to the well with the great stoup
to bring in water for breakfast, and as he was pulling the stoup
out of the well, in he tumbles, and his head down, the well being
narrow, he you’d na win out, some people passing, by chance heard
the slunge, cried, and runs to his relief, hail’d him out half
dead, and helped him into the house, and after getting a dry sark,
he was comforted with the old plaister, her tongue and the hard
tangs.
IV. Next day, she says, John, I must go to the market myself, for
if you go, you’ll fight wi’ the dogs, and let them run awa’ wi’ ony
thing ye buy, see that ye put on the pot, and hae’t boiling again
I come hame; John promised well, but performs very badly, she’s no
sooner gone, than he puts on the new pot without any water in it,
and a good fire to make it boil, and away he goes to the unhappy
well, fills his stoup and sets it down, to look at a parcel of boys
playing at Cat and Dog, they perswades John to take a game wi’
them, on he plays till are o’ the boys cries, hy John, yonder’s
your Girzy coming. John runs into the house wi’ the water, and the
pot being red hot on the fire, he tumes in the cold water into it,
which made the pot flee all in pieces, just as she was entering the
door. John runs for it, and she runs after him, crying, haud the
thief, some persons stop’d him, she comes up, and then she laboured
him all the way home, and he crying, O sirs, ye see what it is to
be married; the Mither-in-law had to make up a peace again, and he
promised good behaviour in time to come.
V. On the next morning she sent him to the water to wash some cows
puddings, and turn them on a spindle, showing him how he was to do
or he went away; John goes to the water very willingly, and as he
turn’d and wash’d them, he laid them down behind him, where one of
his Father-in-law’s big dogs stood, and ate them up as fast as he
laid them down till all was gone but the very last one, which he
carried home in his hand, crying like a child, and underwent a
severe tost of the old plaister, before any mercy was shown.
VI. His Father-in-law next day sent him away to bring home a fat
calf he had bought in the country, and tied up the money in a
napkin, which he carried in his hand for fear he should lose it,
being very weighty as it was all in halfpence, and as he was going
alongst a bridge, he meets a man running after a horse, who cries
to John to stop the horse, John meets him on the top of the bridge,
and when he wou’d not be stopped for him, he knocks the horse on
the face wi’ the napkin and the money, so the napkin broke and most
of the half-pence flew over the bridge in the water, which made
poor John go home crying very bitterly for his loss, and dread of
the auld plaister which he got very sickerly.
VII. On the next morning, she sent him again to the bridge to see
if he you’d find any of it in the water, and there he found some
ducks sweeming, and ducking down with their heads below the water,
as he thought gathering up his money he kills one of them and rips
her up, but found none of it in her guts or gabbie, then says he,
they have been but looking for it, I’ll go do as they did, strips
off his clothes and leaves them on the bridge, goes in a ducking,
in which time a rag man came past and took away all his clothes, so
he went home naked to get a bath of the old plaister.
VIII. The next morning she sent him to a farm house for a piggful
of butter milk, and as he was returning through the fields the
farmer’s bull and anither bull was fighting, the farmer’s bull
being like to lose, John runs in behind him and sets his head to
the bull’s tail, in purpose to help him to push against the other,
but the poor bull thought John was some other bull attacking him
behind, fled aside, and the other bull came full-drive upon John,
pushed him down, broke the pigg and spilt the milk, so John went
home to his auld plaister, which began to be an usual diet to him,
and so he regarded it the less.
IX. His Mother-in-law with several auld witty wives held a private
counsel on John’s conduct and bad luck, and concluded he was
bewitched, John was of the same opinion, and went to the minister,
and told him he was the cause of a’ his misfortunes, ca’d him a
warlock to his face, and said, he had put such a black bargain in
his hand, that he was ruin’d for ever; insisted either to unmarry
them again, or send death and the bell-man to take her awa’, for
she has a lump of mischief on her back and anither on her breast,
and the rest of her body is a clean deil. The minister began to
exhort him to peace and patience, telling him that marriage was
made in heaven: ye’re a baist liar, says John, for I was married in
your ain kitchen, an a’ the blackguards about the town was there,
an it had a-been heaven they wadna win in, yet tell’t me that
matrimony was sic a happy state, but an ye had gotten as mony we’ll
paid skins as I hae gotten, ye wad ken what it is; ill chance on
you stir, and out he goes, cursing like a madman, throwing stanes,
and breaking the minister’s windows, for which he was catch’d and
put twa hours i’ the stocks, and at last his Lump of Corruption
came and rubbed his lugs, threw his nose, got him out, and drove
him home before her; took a resolution never to set him about any
bisiness in time coming, but keep him on his loom.
X. Now she giving him no sleep a’ that night for scolding; John got
up in the morning lang or day, leaving his tormentor in bed; fell
asleep upon his loom with his candle in his hand, and so set the
web, heddles, reed, and treadle cords in a fire, by chance his old
Viper looked out of the bed, or the whole house had been gone; up
she got, and with her cries alarm’d the neighbourhood who came to
her relief, but poor John underwent a dreadful swabing for this.
XI. After the former hurry and beating being over, his work being
stopt, he went to bed and sleept a’ that day, and following night,
on the next day having nothing to do; she sent him in search of a
hen’s-nest, who had taken some by-place to lay her eggs in, so as
poor John was in an auld kill searching a’ about the walls, the
kill-ribs brake, and down he goes with a vengeance into the logie
cutted and bruised himself in a terrible manner, up he could not
win, but had to creep out at the logie below, scarcely able to get
hame, his face and nose a’ running o’ blood, in this condition she
pitied and lamented for him very much, tied his sores and laid him
in bed, then sat down very kindly, saying, My dear and my lamb, do
ye think there is ony o’ your banes broken, and what part o’ you is
sairest? And what will I get to do you good? O! said he Girzy I’m
a brizel’d atween the feet; Are ye indeed quoth she, then I wish
ye had broken your neck, that I might a gotten anither, useless ae
way, and useless mae ways, a po’ my word, ye’s no be here, gang
whar ye like.
XII. Now, as poor John was turn’d out o’ doors next morning, to
go awa’ hirpling on a staff, one came and told him his Mother had
died last night, Oh hoch, said John, and is my Mither clean dead;
O an she wad but look down thro’ the lift, and see how I’m guided
this morning, I’m sure she wad send death for me too: I’m out o’ a
mither, and out o’ a wife, out o’ my health and strength and a’ my
warklooms. His mother-in-law came and pleaded for him: haud your
tongue, mither, said Girzy, if ye kend what ail’d him, ye wadna
speak about him, he’s useless, no worth the keeping in a house, but
to ca’ him to die like an auld beast at a dyke-side, hout tout, co’
the auld wife, we’ll mak o’ him and he’ll mend again: so John got
peace made up after a’, and he was easier mended than the burnt
web; got all his treadles and warklooms set in order the wife’s
tongue excepted, which was made of wormwood, and the rest of her
body of sea-water, which is always in a continual tempest.
* * * * *
So John appeals to a Jedburgh jury, if it be not easier to deal
wi’ fools, than headstrong fashous fouks; owns he has but an empty
scull, but his wicked wife wants wit to pour judgment into it,
never tells him o’ danger till it come upon him, for his mother
said, he was a bidable bairn, if ony body had been to learn him wit.
FINIS.
_THE ANCIENT AND MODERN HISTORY OF BUCK-HAVEN._
[This is one of the most valuable folk-lore chap-books ever
issued from the press. Its richness in this respect has attracted
the attention of Professor Stephens of Copenhagen, who gave
some quotations from it in the second volume of _The Folk-Lore
Record_. The edition used here is from the library of Alexander
Macdonald, Esq., and bears the following on the title-page:--‘The
Ancient and Modern History of Buck-haven in Fife-shire. Wherein
is contained, The Antiquities of their old Dress. The Bucky-boat,
with a flag of a green tree; with their dancing, Willy and his
trusty rapper. Their Burgess Ticket, with a view of their new
College: the noted sayings and exploits of Wise Willy in the
Brae, Witty Eppie the ale-wife, and Lingle-tail’d Nancy. By Merry
Andrew at Tamtallon. Glasgow, Printed by J. and M. Robertson,
Saltmarket, 1806.’ It is a 24 pp. 12mo, and is illustrated by
several rough woodcuts which had apparently done service in
other chap-books. The editor has carefully collated it with the
following editions:--One, undated, by Morren, Cowgate, Edinburgh;
another, also without date, by Morren, but a different issue
from the other, there being a change in the illustrations;
one published in 1817 by R. Hutchison & Co., 10 Saltmarket,
Glasgow; and an abridged one by M. Randall, Stirling (without
date), with this short title--‘The Exploits of Wise Willie, and
Witty Eppie the Ale-Wife of Buchaven.’ The three editions last
mentioned, were courteously sent to the editor, all the way from
Copenhagen, by Professor Stephens. There is also a modern Glasgow
edition, greatly abridged, the text, as issued by Randall, having
evidently been used by its publishers.]
THE HISTORY OF BUCK-HAVEN.
Amongst several ancient records, this Bucky is not mentioned; there
was a set called Buccaniers, who were pirates, that is to say
sea-robbers, and after a strict search for that set of sea-robbers,
they dispersed; what of them escaped justice in the southern
climate, are said to have sheltered at or near Berwick upon Tweed.
After a smart battle, among themselves, they divided, and ’tis
said, the party who gained this Bucky-battle, fearing the English
law to take place, set northward and took up their residence at
this Buck-haven, so called not only from the great quantity of
Buckies that are found in and about that place, but on account of
the battle they had with their neighbours at Berwick when they
divided, which was then called bucking one another, but is now
named boxing or fighting. Another party of these Buckers settled
in another town northward of Banff, called Bucky, near the river
Spey, which is a large sea-town, but among all the sea-towns in
Scotland, the fishers still retain a language, quite different from
the people in the country, and they almost all shift the letter H,
and use O, instead thereof which no country-people do in Scotland,
but themselves.[171] There is a corruption of speech, in every
county over all Britain, and likewise they use different tones and
pronouncing words from others, even some in the South of Scotland,
can hardly be understood by those in the North, though both pretend
to speak English, and have a liberal part of education: but since
learning is now so easy to be obtained, ignorance and corruption of
speech are greatly decreased.[172]
In the county of Fife, on the sea-coast, there stands a little
town, inhabited by few but fishers, called Bucky-harbour, because
of the sea buckies and shells to be found so plenty on the rocks,
in and 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 part of it perfect truths,
but more of it by way of lampoon; this ticket was dated the two and
thirty 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 the 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 bad morning, they piss and lie down again
till break of day then raise Wise Willy, who could judge of the
weather by the blowing of the wind.
Their freedoms were to take all sorts of fish contained in their
tickets, viz., lobsters, partans, podles, spout-fish, sea-cats,
sea-dogs, flukes, pikes, dike-padocks, and p-- fish.
Among these people were said to be one Tom and his two sons, who
were fishers on the coast of Norway, and in a violent storm were
blown over, and got ashore at Bucky-harbour, where they settled,
and the whole of his children were called Thomsons,[173] this is
a historical saying, handed down from one generation to another.
So in course of time they grew up and multiplied, that they soon
became a little town by themselves; few of any other name dwelt
among them, and were all called the Thomsons; they kept but little
communication with the country people, for a farmer in those days
thought his daughter cast awa, if she married one of the fishers of
Bucky-harbour,[174] and Witty Eppie the ale-wife, wad a sworn be-go
laddie, I wad rather see my boat and a’ my three sons dadet against
the Bass or I saw ony ane o’ them married on a muck-a-byre’s
daughter, a wheen useless taupies, that can do naething but rive
at a tow-rock, and cut corn; they can neither bait a hook nor red a
line, hook sandles nor gather periwinkles.
Now Wise Willy and Witty Eppie the ale-wife lived there, about
an hundred years ago. Eppie’s chamber was their college and
court-house, where they decided their controversies, and explained
their wonders, for the house was wide like a little kirk, had four
windows and a gavel-door, the wives got leave to flyte their fill,
but fighting was forbidden, (as Eppie said, up hands was fair
play) their fines, were a’ in pints 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 tolbooth; my Lord was their
landlord,[175] Wise Willy and Witty Eppie the ale-wife were the
rulers of the town.
Now Eppie had a daughter, call’d Lingle-tail’d Nancy, because
of her feckless growth, her waist was like a twitter, had nae
curpen for a creel, being Embruch bred, and brought up wi’ her
Lowdin aunty, was learned to read and sew, make corse-claiths and
callico-mutches,[176] there wasna scholar in the town but hersel,
she read the Bible and the book of Kirk-sangs which was newly come
in fashion, Willy and Eppie tell’d ay what it meant, and said a’
the letters in it, was litted by my Lord, for they saw him hae a
feather that he dipped in black water, and made crooked scores just
like the same, and then he spoke to it o’er again, and it tell’d
him what to say.
It happened on a day, that two of their wives found a horse-shoe
near the town, brought it hame, and sent for Wise Willy to see what
it was. Willy comes and looks at it, Indeed co’ Willy, its a thing
and holes in’t. Then said they, he would get a name til’t, aha, co’
Willy, but whair did ye find it? aneath my Lords ain house, Willy.
Adeed, said Willy, its the auld moon, I ken by the holes in’t for
nailing it to the lift; but I wonder it she fell in Fife, for the
last time I saw her she was hinging on her back aboon Embruch, a
hech co’ Willy we’ll hae her set up on the highest house in the
town, and we’ll hae moon-light o’ our ain a’ the days o’ the year.
The whole town ran to see the moon; hout tout, cried Witty Eppie,
ye’re a’ fools together, it is but ane o’ the things it my Lord’s
mare wears upo’ her lufe.[177]
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 her neighbours to see it, some said it was a
gentleman’s cat, or my lady’s lap-dog, or a sheep’s young kitlen,
because it had saft horns; Na, na, cry’d Wise Willy, its ane o’ the
maukens, that gentlemen’s dogs worrie. What will you do wi’t? haith
co’ Maggy, I’ll singe the woo’ afi’t, and mak fish and sauce o’t to
my Tammy’s parrich: No, no, said Witty Eppie, better gie’t to my
Lord, and he’d stap an iron stick thro’ the guts o’t, and gar’t rin
round afore the fire till it be roasted; Na, na, said Wise Willy,
we’ll no do that indeed, for my Lord wad mak us a’ dogs, an gar us
rin thro’ the kintry seeking maukins till him.
It happened on a dark winter morning, that two of the wives were
going to Dysart to sell their fish, and near the road-side there
happened to be a tinker’s ass tedder’d, and the poor ass seeing the
wives coming with their creels, thought it was the tinkers coming
to flit or remove him, fell a crying, the two wives threw their
fish away, and ran home like mad persons, crying, they had seen the
de’il, aye the very horned de’il, an that he had spoken to them,
and cried after them, but they did not ken what he said, for it was
worse words than a Highlandman’s. The whole town was in an uproar,
some would go with picks and spades and hag him a’ in pieces,
others wad gang and catch him in a strong net, and then they could
either hang or drown him. Na, na, co’ Wise Willy, we manna cast out
wi’ him at the first, as he’s gotten the twa burden o’ fish, he’ll
ables gang his wa’ and no fash nae mair, he is o’er souple to be
catch’d in a net, a’ your pith ’ill neither hang him nor drown him,
an’ the kintry he comes frae is a’ het coals, he’ll never burn,
we’ll go to him in a civil manner, and see what he wants: get out
Eppie the ale-wife, and lingle-tail’d Nancy, with the Bible and the
Saum-book:[178] so aff they came in a croud, either to kill the
de’il 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’ Willy, that’s no the de’ils words ava’, it’s my Lord’s
trumpeter touting on his brass whistle, Willy ventured till he saw
the ass’s twa lugs, now, cried Willy back to the rest, come forward
and hand him fast, I see his twa horns, hech sirs, he has a white
beard like an auld beggar man, so they enclosed the poor ass on all
sides thinking it was the de’il: but when Wise Willy saw he had nae
cloven feet, he cried out, Fearna’ lads, this is no the de’il, it’s
some living beast, ’tis neither a cow nor a horse, and what is it
then Willy? Indeed co’ Willie, ’tis the father o’ a’ the maukens, I
ken by its lugs.
Now some say, this is too satirical a history, but it is according
to the knowledge of those times, not to say in any place by
another, old wives tell us yet of many such stories, as the devil
appearing to their grandfathers and grandmothers, and dead wives
coming back again to visit their families, long after their being
buried: but this Bucky-haven which was once noted for droll
exploits, is now become more knowing, and is a place said to
produce the best and hardiest watermen or sailors of any town on
the Scots coast, yet many of the old people in it, still retain the
old tincture of their old and uncultivated speech, as be-go-laddie,
also a fiery nature, if you ask any of the wives where their
college stands, they’ll tell you, if your nose were in their arse,
your mouth would be at the door of it.
Now, it happened, when Wise Willy turned old he took a great
swelling in his wame, and casting up o’ his kail, collops and
cauld fish, that nothing staid on his stomach, and a stout stomach
had he, for crab-heads, or scate-brose, or fat-brose on a bridal
morning; yet it fail’d him; he fell sick, and none could cure
him, or tell what ail’d him, till a mountebank stage-doctor came
to Kirkcaldy, that could judge by people’s water, the troubles of
their person, and Willy hearing of his fame, pissed into a 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 comes to the
stage, and cries, Sir Dochter, Sir Dochter, here is a bottle o’ my
father’s wash, he has a sair guts, and never needs to drite ony, he
spues a’ he eats, ’tis true I tell you my dow; the doctor looks at
it, and says, It is not your father’s, surely it is your mother’s;
de’il’s i’ the man, co’ she, divna I ken my father by my mother?
Then, said he, he is with child: A de’il’s i’ the man co’ she, for
my mother bore a’ de bairns before, dat’s no true sir, a figs ye’re
a great liar, home she came, and tell’d Willy her father, that the
doctor said he was wi’ bairn. O waes me, co’ Willy, for I hae a
muckle wame, and I fear its o’er true, O plague on you Janet, for
ye’re the father o’t, and I’m sure to die in the bearing o’t. Witty
Eppie was sent for, as she was houdy, and fand a’ Willy’s wame, to
be sure about it, indeed co’ Eppie ye’re the first man e’er I saw
wi’ bairn before; and how ye’ll bear’t I dinna ken, ye hae a wally
wame, weel I wat, but how men bear bairns I never saw them yet,
but I would drink sa’t water and drown’t in my guts, for an men
get anes the gate o’ bearing weans themsells, they’ll seek nae mae
wives: so Willy drank sea-water till his guts was like to rive, and
out he goes to ease himself among the kail, and with the terrible
hurl of farting, up starts a mauken behind him, thinking she was
shot, Willy sees her jumping o’er the dike, thought it was a child
brought forth, cries, Come back my dear and be christened, and no
rin to the hills and be a Pagan,[179] so Willy grew better every
day thereafter, being brought to bed in the kail-yard: but his
daughter was brought to bed some months thereafter, which was the
cause of the doctor’s mistake.
PART II.
Now Wise Willie had a daughter, called Rolloching Jenny, because
she spoke thick, sax words at three times, half sense and half
nonsense, as her own words and actions will bear witness. She being
with child, was brought to bed of a bonnie lass bairn: and a’ the
wives in the town, cried, Be-go-laddie, its just like its ain
daddy, lang Sandy Tason (or Thomson) we ken by its nose: for Sandy
had a great muckle red nose like a lobster-tae, bowed at the point
like a hawk’s neb, and Sandy himself said, that it was surely his
or some ither body’s, but he had used a’ his birr at the getting
o’t, to fey his ability, being the first time e’er he was at sic
a business before, and when he had done a’ that man could do at
it, said, it was nonsense and shamefa’ him, but he wad rather row
his boat round the Bass and back again, or he did the like again:
For Wise Willy gade wood at the wean, and said, it had mair ill
nature in’t, than the auldest wife about the town, it piss’d the
bed, and shute the bed, skirl’d like a wil-cat, and kept him frae
his night’s rest; and a’ the auld haggs about the town, ca’d him
Sandy de bairn’s daddy, and a’ the young gilly-gawkie lasses, held
out their fingers, and cried, Tie, hie, Sandy, the kirk will kittle
your hips for yon yet.
And after a’, the blear-ein’d bell-man came bladdering about
the buttock-mail, summoned him and her before the hally-band,
a court that held in the kirk on Saturday morning; and a’ the
bred ladies[180] round about, cried, Ay, ay, Sandy, pay the
bill-siller, or we’ll cut the cow’s tail awa’, so poor Sandy
suffered sadly in the flesh, besides the penalty and kirk-penance.
But Wise Willy had pity upon them, and gade wi’ them to the
kirk-court, what learned folks call the session, Jenny was first
called upon, and in she goes where all the hally-band were
conveened, elders and youngers, deacons, and dog-payers keeping the
door, the cankerdest Carles that could be gotten between Dysart and
Dubby-side, white heads and bald heads sitting wanting bonnets, wi’
their white headed staves and hodden-grey jockey-coats about them.
Mess John says, Come away Janet, we’re a’ waiting on you here.
Min. Now Janet, where was this child gotten? you must tell plainly.
Jan. A deed stir, it was gotten amang the black stanes, at the
cheek of the crab-holes.
Mess John stares at her, not knowing the place but some of the
elders did; then said he, O Janet, but the de’il was busy with you
at that time.
Jan. A by my fegs stir, that’s a great lie ye’re telling now, for
the de’il wasna thereabout, it I saw, nor nae body else, to bid us
do either ae thing or anither, we loo’d ither unco’ weel for a lang
time before that, and syne we tell’d ither, and agreed to marry
ither like ither honest fouk, than mightna we learn to do the thing
married fouk does, without the de’il helping us.
Whisht, whisht, cried they, you should be scurged, fause loon quean
it thou is, ye’re speaking nonsense.
Jan. The deil’s i’ the carles, for you and your minister is liars,
when ye say it de de’il was helping Sandy and me to get the bairn.
Come, come, say they, pay down the kirk-dues, and come back to the
stool the morn, four pound, and a groat to the bell-man.
Jan. The auld thief speed the dearth o’t stir, for less might sair
you and your bell-man baith, O but this be a hard warld indeed,
when poor honest fouk maun pay for making use o’ their ain a--, ye
misca’ ay the poor de’il a-hint his back, and gie him the wyte o’
a’ de ill it’s done in the kintry, bastard barns and every thing,
and if it be sae as ye say, ye may thank de de’il for that gude
four pund and de groat I hae gi’en you, that gars your pots boil
brown, and get jockey-coats, and purl-handed sarks and white-headed
staves, when my father’s pot wallops up rough bear and blue water.
The woman’s mad, said they, for this money is a’ given to the poor
of the parish.
Jan. The poor of the parish, said she, and that’s the way o’t, a
fint hate ye gie them but wee pickles o’ pease-meal, didna I see’t
in their pocks, and the minister’s wife gie’s naething ava to unco
beggars, but bids them gang hame to their ain parish, and yet ye’ll
tak de purse frae poor fouks, for naething but playing the loun
awee or they be married, and syne cocks them up to be looked on and
laught at by every body, a de’il speed you and your justice stir;
hute, tute, ye are a coming on me like a wheen colly dogs, hunting
awa’ a poor ragget chapman frae the door, and out she comes cursing
and greeting: Sandy’s next called upon, and in he goes.
Min. Now Saunders, you maun tell us how this child was gotten?
San. A wow, Mess John stir, you hae bairns o’ your ain, how did you
get them? but yours is a’ laddies, and mine is but a lassie, if
you’ll tell me how ye got your laddie, 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, hute, tute, Saunders, lay down four
pund and a groat, and come back to-morrow 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. Then there is your siller stir, I hae gotten but poor
penny-worths for’t, and ye’ll tell me to repent for’t, what the
auld thief needs I repent, when I’m gaun to marry de woman, and
then I’ll hae to do’t o’er again every day, or they’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 is how ye
live.
Wise Willy. Now stir, you and master elders, ye manna put them on
the black creepy till they be married; they suffered enough at ae
time.
A well, a well, said they, but they must marry very soon then.
I trow sae says Sandy, ye’ll be wanting mair siller, fule hate
ye’ll do for naething here.
Hame came Sandy, starving o’ hunger, ye might a casten a knot
on his lang guts, his mither was baking pease bannocks, up he
gets a lump of her leaven into his mouth, auld thief be in your
haggies-bag, Sandy, kirk-fouks is ay greedy, ye been wi’ the
minister the day, ye’d get a good lang grace, he might a gi’en you
meat thou filthy dog that tu is, thou hast the bulk of a little
whalpie o’ my leaven in your guts, it wada been four good bannocks
and a scone, and a sair’d our Sunday’s dinner, sae wad it een, but
an ye keep a reeking house and a rocking cradle three eleven years
as I hae done, less o’ that will sair ye yet, baggity beast it tu
is, mair it I bore thee now, a hear ye that my dow.
The next exploit was an action at law, against the goodman of
Muir-edge, a farmer who lived near by, that kept sheep and swine,
his sheep came down and broke into their yards and ate up their
kail; the wild hares, they thought, belonged to the same man, as
they ran towards his house when they were hunted; the swine came
very often in and about their houses, seeking fish guts and ony
thing they cou’d get, so it happened that one of their children,
sitting easing itself, one of the swine tumbles it over, and bites
a piece out of the child’s backside: The whole town rose in an
uproar, and after Grunkie, as they called her, they catched her
and took her before Wise Willy: Willy takes an ax and cuts two or
three inches off her long nose, now says Willy, I trow I have made
thee something Christian-like, thou had sic a long mouth and nose
before, it wad a frighted a very de’il 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 Muir-edge to warn them in
before my Lord: so the wives that had their kail eaten, appeared
first in the court, complaining against Muir-edge. Indeed, my Lord,
Muir-edge is no a good man, when he’s sick an ill neighbour, he
keeps black hares and white hares, little wee brown backed hares
wi’ white arses, and loose wagging horns, de muckle anes loups o’er
the dyke and eats a de kail, and de little anes wi’ de wagging
horns, creeps in at our water gush-holes, and does the like, when
we cry pisue, they ran awa’ hame to Muir-edge, but I’ll gar my
colly hand ’em by the fit, and I’ll hand ’em by the horn, an pu’ a’
de hair aff ’em, and send ’em hame wanting the skin, as he did wi’
Sowen Tammy’s wi’ Sandy, for codding o’ his pease, he took aff de
poor laddies coat, a sae did he e’en.
A well then, said my Lord, what do you say, but call in Wise Willy.
In he comes, A well my Lord, I shall suppose an ye were a sow, and
me sitting d----g, and you to bite my arse, sudna I tak amends o’
you for that? Od my Lord, ye wadna hae sic a bit out o’ your arse
for twenty merks, ye maun just gar Muir-edge gie ten merks to buy a
plaister to heal the poor bit wean’s arse again. Well said, Willy,
says my Lord, but who puts on the sow’s nose again? A figs my lord,
said Willy, she’s honester-like wanting it, and she’ll bite nae
mair arses wi’t, and gin ye had hane a nose, my Lord, as lang as
the sow had, 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, Give me a shilling, and I’ll
let you see both sides o’t, he gives her a shilling, thinking to
see some curious sight, now there’s one side of your shilling and
there’s the other, and ’tis mine now.
PART III.[181]
Now Wise Willy was so admired for his just judgement in cutting
off the sow’s nose, that my Lord in a mocking manner, made him
burly-bailie[182] of Bucky-hine. Lang Sandy was provost, and John
Thrums, the weaver, was dean of guild, but Witty Eppie had ay the
casting vote in a’ their courts and controverses.
There happened one day a running horse to stand at one of their
doors, and a child going about, the horse trampled on the child’s
foot, which caused the poor child to cry, the mother came running
in a passion; crying, A wae be to you for a ’orse it ere ye was
born o’ a woman, filthy barbarian bruit it t’ou is, setting your
muckle iron lufe on my bairn’s wee fittie, od stir, I’ll drive the
hair out o’ your head, gripping the horse by the mane and the twa
lugs, cuffing his chafts as if he had been her fellow creature,
crying, Be-go-laddie, I’ll gar you as good, I’ll tak you before
Wise Willy the bailie, and he will cut aff wi’ de iron lufe, and
dan you will be cripple, and gang thro’ the kintry on a barrow,
or on twa shule-staffs[183] like Rab the Randy, an a meal-pock
about your neck; Her neighbour wife hearing and seeing what past,
cried, A ye fool taupy, what gars you say that a ’orse was born o’
a woman, do you think dat a ’orse has a fadder or a midder like
you or me, or ony ither body about; a what way do they come to the
world dan? A ye fool taupy, divna they whalp like the louses, ae
auld ’orse hobbles on anither anes back, and dat whalps a young
’orse: Gosh woman, it wad be ill-far’d to see a woman sitting wi’ a
young ’orse on her knee, dighting its arse, and gien it de pap.
The next occasion was Lang Sandy, and Rolloching Jenny’s wedding;
which held three days and twa nights, my Lord and my Lady, with
several gentlemen and ladies, attended for diversion’s sake,[184]
the piper of Kirkcaldy and the fidler of Kinghorn, were both
bidden by Wise Willy the bride’s father, and if ony mae came to
play unbidden, Wise Willy swore they should sit unsair’d, for
these twa should get a’ the siller that was to be gien or won that
day, the dinner and dorder-meat sat a’ in Eppie’s college, and the
dancing stood in twa rings before the door, and the first day with
dunting and dangling of their heels, dang doun the sea-dyke, some
tumbled in and some held by the stanes, the fidler fell o’er the
lugs an drouket a’ his fiddle, the strings gade out of order, and
the tripes turned saft like pudding skins, so the bagpipe had to
do for a’, and the fidler got nought to do but sup kail, and pike
banes wi the rest o’ them.
Now my Lord’s cook was to order the kettle, but Pate o’ the
Pans[185] play’d a sad prat, by casting in twa pounds of candle
among the kail, which made them fat, for some could not sup them,
for the candle wicks came ay into their cutties like sutter’s
lingles in the dish, but some wi’ stronger stomachs, stripped them
thro’ their teeth like ratton tails, an said, Mony a ane wad be
blythe o’ sic a string to tie their hose wi’ in a pinch; my Lord
and the Gentry, Mess John and the clerk were all placed at the
head of the table, opposite to the bride, but would sup none of
the candle kail. Wise Willy and the Bridegroom served the table,
and cried, Sup and a sorrow to you, for I never liked sour kail
about my house; when the flesh came, the bride got a ram’s rumple
to pick, she takes it up and wags it at my Lord, saying, Ti hie;
my Lord, what an a piece is dat? O, said he, bride, that’s the
tail-piece, it belongs to you, Me, my Lord, it’s no mine, I never
had a ting like dat, it’s a fish tail, see as it wags, it’s a bit
o’ a dead beast. O yes, said he, bride, you hit it now; but how
come you to eat with your gloves on! Indeed my Lord, there is
a reason for dat, I hae scabbit hands. O fy, said he, I cannot
believe you, so she pulls down a piece o’ her gloves, and shows
him, O yes, said he, I see it is so; Aha, but my Lord, I wish you
saw my a--, it’s a’ in ae hatter; O fy, said he, bride, you should
not speak so before Ladies and your maiden; I wonder, said he to
Wise Willy her father, you do not teach your daughter to speak
otherwise. A be my sae, my Lord, ye may as soon kiss her a--, as
gar her speak otherwise; I find so, said my Lord, but it lies much
in lack of a teacher.[186]
The next dish that was presented on the table, was roasted hens,
and the bride’s portion being laid upon her plate, she says to my
Lord, will ye let me dip my fowl arse, amang your sauce? Upon my
word, and that I will not, said he, if it be as you tell’d me; hout
my Lord, it’s no my arse, it’s but de hen’s I mean; O but, said he,
bride, it’s the fashion to every one to eat off their own trencher;
you may get more sauce, I can manage all mine myself; indeed, my
Lord, I thought ye liket me better than ony body; O but, said he, I
love myself better than you, bride; Deed my Lord, I think ye’re the
best body about the house, for your Lady’s but a stinking pridefu’
jade, she thinks that we sud mak the fish a’ alike, be-go, my Lord,
she thinks we sud mak the haddies a’ like herrin, and that we can
shape them as the hens do their eggs wi’ deir arse. O bride, said
he, you, should not speak ill of my Lady; for she hears you very
well: O deed my Lord, I had nae mind o’ that, a well then, said he,
drink to me, or them ye like best; then here’s to you a’ de gither,
arse o’er head. Very well said, says my Lord, that’s good sense or
something like it.
Dinner being over, my Lord desired the bride to dance; Indeed, my
Lord, I canna dance ony, but I’ll gar my wame wallop foment yours,
and then rin round about as fast as ye can; very well, said he,
bride, that will just do, we shall neither kiss nor shake hands,
but I’ll bow to you, and ye’ll beck to me, and so we’ll have done.
Now, after dinner and dancing, my Lord exhorted the bride to be
a good neighbour, and to gree well, wi’ every body round about,
I wat well my Lord, ye ken I did never cast out wi’ nae body but
lang Pate o’ de Pans, and he was a’ de wyte o’t, it began wi’ a
hiertieing, and a jamffing me about Sandy, de black-stanes and
de crab-holes, where de wean was gotten, and then it turn’d to a
hub-bub and colly-shangy, an or e’er ye wad said kiss my a--, my
Lord, we are aboon ither on the mussel midden, I trow I tell’d him
o’ Randy Rob his uncle, his feif-titty it steal’d de sarks and
drank de siller, an how his midder sell’d mauky mutton, an mair nor
a’ that, a sae did I een, my Lord.
My Lord had a friend of his own who was a captain in the army,
who came to visit him, and hearing of the Buckers’ sayings and
exploits; was desirous to see them, and my Lord as desirous to put
them in a fright, sent his servant, and ordered them, both men
and women, to come up before his gate, directly the morn about
kail-time, and all that did not come, was to flit and remove out
of my Lord’s ground directly, this put the whole of them in great
terror, some ran to Wise Willy to see what it mean’d, Willy said,
it was before something, and he was sure that death would be the
warst o’t, come what will; But Witty Eppie said, I ken weel what’s
to come, he’s gaun to mak de men o’ us sogers, and the wives
dragoons, because we’ve de best fighters; I ken there is something
to come on the town, for our Nancy saw Maggy’s gaist the streen,
it was bury’d four ouks syne;[187] a hech co’ Willy, that’s a sign
the meal is dear i’ the ither warld, when she comes to think on’t
again; we will tak our dinner or we go, we’ll may be ne’er come
back again, so away they went lamenting all in a crowd. My Lord and
the Captain were looking out at the window to them, the Captain
cries to them, To the right about, to which they answered, good
bliss you my Lord, what does that man say? Then said my Lord, turn
your face to Maggy Millheads, and your arse to the sea; this they
did in all haste. And what will we do now? said Willy; no more,
said my Lord, but gang away home Willy; O my bows, O my blessings
come o’er your bonny face, my Lord, I wish you may never die, nor
yet grow sick, nor naebody kill you: ye’re the best Lord I ken on
earth, for we thought a’ to be made dead men and sogers, ye’re
wiser than a’ the witches in Fife.
There was in Bucky-harbour, a method when they got a hearty drink,
that they went down to dance among the boats, one, two, or three
of the oldest went into a boat to see the rest dance; when e’er
they admitted a burgher there was always a dance. One day they
admitted a glied Rob Thomson, from the island of May, an’ after he
was admitted they got account from Wise Willy that glied Rob was a
witch, which made them all stop their dancing, and Rob was cried on
to make answer to this weighty matter. Gly’d Rob cried none of you
shall stir a fit for two hours, I’se warrand you: so Rob spang’d
and jump’d over the boat several times and put them in great
terror, some cried, O ’tis i’ the air, and then they cried they saw
him i’ the air hinging, so that Rob was obliged to go back to the
May, and carry coals to the light house.[188]
It was reported that gly’d Rob was born in Bucky and that his
father was Willy Thomson’s son, who was banish’d for a slave to the
May,[189] to carry coals; he would not tak with him, on account he
had but ae eye. After that there was no more dancing at admitting
of burgers; but the old usual way of scate rumple, and then drink
until they were almost blind.
Upon the Rood day,[190] four young Bucky lasses were away early in
the morning with their creels full of fish, and about a mile from
the town, they saw coming down a brae like a man driving a beast,
when they came near Tardy-Tib says, ’tis a man driving a big mauken
Tib flang her creel and fish away, the other three ran anther
way, and got clear; they said it was a horned devil. Tib told the
frightsome story, and many ran to see the poor cadger man and his
ass driving the auld mauken. The fishers look on all maukens to be
devils and witches, and if they but see the sight of a dead mauken,
it sets them a trembling.[191] The fisher lasses look with disdain
on a farmer’s daughter, and a’ country lasses; they call them
muck-byers and sherney-tail’d jades.
The Bucky lads and lasses when they go to gather bait tell strange
stories about Witches, Ghosts, Willy with the Wisp, and the Kelpy,
Fairies and Maukens, and boggles of all sorts.
The Ghosts, like old horses, go all night for fear they are seen,
and be made to carry scate or fish, or be carted; and witches are
the warst kind of devils, and mak use of cats to ride upon, or
kill-kebbers, and besoms, and sail over seas in cockle-shells, and
witch lads and lasses, and disable bridegrooms. As for Willy and
the Wisp, he is a fiery devil, and leads people off their road in
order to drown them, for he sparks sometimes at our feet, and then
turns before us with his candle, as if he were twa or three miles
before us, many a good boat has Spunkie drown’d; the boats coming
to land in the night-time, they observe a light off the land, and
set in upon it and drown.
The Kelpy[192] is a sly devil, he roars before a loss at sea, and
frightens both young and old upon the shore. Fairies are terrible
troublesome, they gang dancing round fouks lums, and rin through
the houses, they haunt, and play odd tricks, and lift new born
bairns from their mothers, and none of them is safe to ly with
their mothers, a night or two after they are born, unless the
mother gets a pair of men’s breeches under her head for the first
three nights; when the Fairies are frighted, they will leave an
old stock with the woman, and whip away the child. One tried to
burn an old stock that the Fairies left in the cradle; but when
the fire was put on, the old stock jumped on upon a cat and up the
lum.[193] Maukens are most terrible, and have bad luck, none will
go to sea that day they see a Mauken, or if a wretched body put in
a Mauken’s fit in their creels, they need not lift them that day,
as it will be bad luck, either broken backs, or legs, or arms, or
hear bad accounts of the boats at sea.[194]
They are terrified for all sorts of boggles both by land and by sea.
THE MINISTER AND MUSSEL MOU’D HARRY.
Mussel Mou’d Harry, the skull-maker,[195] whose lug was nailed to
a tree near my Lord’s garden, for cutting young saughs, for to
make sculls and creels of. He assumed a headdress as he had been
a devil, and went playing his tricks in the night-time, which
frighted the whole town, until the time he was catched by my Lord’s
piper. He was then sent for to the minister, and was obliged to
put on his frightful dress, with the appearance of two horns on
his head; the minister rebuked him, but he had the assurance to
tell the minister, that he only frighted his own town, but that he
frighted the whole parish, by telling them to repent or be d----d,
this is your gate o’t stir, so I made them repent by fright, and
I think, I sud be paid by your honour for’t; as you tell me stir
about my Lord’s saughs which I suffered for, if your ’onour’s lug
had been there, you could not get off so easy, for stir, your lugs
is as long as my grey cat’s, so I bid you farewel until our next
meeting.
FINIS.
_THE WITTY AND ENTERTAINING EXPLOITS OF GEORGE BUCHANAN._
[The following pages have been reprinted from an edition having
the following on the title-page:--‘The Witty and Entertaining
Exploits of George Buchanan, who was commonly called, The King’s
Fool. In six parts. Stirling: Printed and Sold by C. Randall,
MDCCXCV.’ Some stories to be found in an edition ‘printed in
Falkirk’ in 1799, and not in the edition which has been followed
here, have been inserted in the text, and the fact noted. In
addition to the Falkirk edition, the text has been collated
with--(1) An edition published by G. Angus, Newcastle; one by J.
Morren, Cowgate, Edinburgh, 1809; and undated Edinburgh, Glasgow,
Aberdeen, and Newcastle-on-Tyne editions. Many of the stories are
drawn from a variety of sources, and Buchanan is made their hero.]
THE WITTY AND ENTERTAINING EXPLOITS OF GEORGE BUCHANAN.
PART I.
Mr. George Buchanan was a Scotsman born, and though of mean
parentage, made great progress in learning.--As for his
understanding and ready wit, he excelled all men then alive in
that age, that ever proposed questions to him.--He was servant or
teacher to King James VI. as his private counsellor, but publicly
he acted as his fool.
It happened one day, that a young airy noble man went into the
king’s garden to pull a flower for a young lady he fancied: George
followed at a distance; so, when the young man found a flower
to his pleasure, he would not pull it himself, but to find it
again, without further searching, he covered it with his hat, and
went away for his sweetheart: no sooner was he gone, but up goes
George, lifts his hat, and pulls the flower, then cases himself
on the spot, and covers it with the hat again, and away he goes.
In comes the young man, leading his sweetheart to pull the flower
below the hat; but as soon as he lifted the hat, and seeing what
was below, he looked like a fool. The lady flies in a passion, off
she goes, and never would countenance him any more. The young man
being sadly vexed at this affront done to him by George, sent him
a challenge to fight him, appointing the day and place where they
were to meet. Being to fight on horseback, George gets an old stiff
horse, and for harnassing, covers him about with blown bladders,
with a little small stone in each, without either sword or spear,
away to the field he goes, where the duel was appointed; so when
George saw his enemy coming against him, all in glittering armour,
armed with sword and spear, he rode up to him with all the speed
his horse could carry him, and his horse, as is said being all
covered over with bladders, the small stones in them, made such a
terrible noise, that the gentleman’s fine gelding would not stand
the battle, but ran away, and threw his master to the ground,
which caused all the spectators to laugh, and say the gentleman
was more fool than George. The gentleman being so enraged at this
second affront, he would fight with George on foot; but his friends
persuaded him that it would be no honour for him to fight and kill
the king’s fool, and far less to be killed by the fool, so they
were advised both to agree; but the gentleman would try another
exploit with George, for to have it said he was still the cleverest
man, to hold him a jumping-bout publicly the next day thereafter.
With all my heart, says George, and we will end in and about where
we began; they not knowing his meaning in this. The place and hour
being set where they were to meet next morning, George in the
night caused a deep pit to be made, and the earth of it carried
away, afterwards filled it up with dung from a privy, covered it
over with a green turf, so that it might not be known by the other
ground; so, according to promise, they both met in the morning
against the appointed time: now George being the oldest man, and
by them counted the greatest fool, the young spark permitted him
to jump first, which he, according to order, performed; and jumped
within a foot of the place where the ground was falsified: the
young man seeing this, made his performance afterwards with great
airs and all his might, so that he jumped a foot over George, but
to the oxters among clean dung; whereat the whole multitude of
spectators cried out with huzzas and laughter. Now, says George, I
told you we would end in and about where we began, and that is in
clean dirt.
On a time after this, the king and his court was going into the
country, and they would have George to ride before them in the
fool’s dress, whereunto he seemed unwilling, but it was the king’s
pleasure. So George was mounted upon an old horse, a pair of old
riven boots, with the heels hanging down, and a palmer coat patched
over with pictures of divers kinds. George rode before them in this
posture, which caused great laughter and diversion until they came
to an inn, where they alighted to dine; and in the time they were
at dinner George went into the stables, and with a knife cut all
the horses chaffs, not sore, but so as they might bleed. Now, as
soon as dinner was over, and they mounted on their horses again,
George riding before them as usual, in his palmer coat and old
boots, they began to make their game of him: then George turned
about suddenly, and clapping his hands with loud laughter; the king
asked him, what made him laugh so? Laugh, says George, how can I
but laugh, when horses cannot hold their peace? O my sovereign,
says he, don’t you see how your horses have rent their chafts
laughing at my old boots; then every man looking at his horse’s
mouth, they were all in a rage against George; the king caused
him to be dismounted directly, and charged him never to let him
see his face on English ground. Now George knowing that nothing
could reconcile the king at this time, he came away to Scotland,
and caused make him a pair of great boots and put a quantity of
Scottish earth in each of them, and away he goes for England to
see the king once more. He hearing the king and his court were to
pass through a country village, George places himself up in an old
window, and sets up his bare arse to the king and his court as
they passed by. The king was greatly amazed to see such an unusual
honour done to him, was curious to know the performer; so he called
unto him, asking him to come down, and finding it to be George,
Sir, says the king, did not I charge you never to let me see your
face again? True, my sovereign, says George, for which cause I let
you see my arse. Ay but says the king, you was never to come on
English ground again. Neither I did, says George, pulling off his
boots before the king, saying, Behold, my Sovereign, ’tis all Scots
ground I stand upon.--The king and his court being so diverted with
this merry joke, George was admitted again to the king’s favour.
After this, there arose a debate betwixt the king and the queen
about votes in the parliament; as the king had two votes, the queen
would have one, and would needs be a parliamenter, or no peace
without the preferment: this matter was committed to George by
the king; so it was agreed among the parliamenters that the Queen
should be admitted into parliament for a day; and accordingly she
came, and was received with all the honour and congratulation, as
was due, and becoming her high station; but before any matter of
consequence was brought to the board, George seated himself hard
by the queen’s seat; all being silent, he rose up quickly, and
lifted one of his legs, and then gave a great fart, which set the
whole house a laughing; whereat the Queen was greatly offended,
crying, Go take the rogue and hang him; to which George answered,
A fine parliamenter indeed, to hang a man for a sinless infirmity,
and that’s a fart. The Queen being so enraged at this affront put
on her first proposal to parliament, went off in a passion, and
never would countenance them any more. But yet to be revenged on
George, she would never give the King rest till he delivered George
into her hands, that he might be punished at her pleasure: which
the king accordingly commanded to be done, knowing that George
would rescue himself by some intrigue or other. No sooner was he
delivered into her hands, to be at her disposal, but she and her
Maries[196] pronounced his doom, which is as follows: As he had
affronted the Queen among so great an equipage, who ought to be
honoured in chief, and above all women in the nation, that he
should be stoned to death by the hands of women. Now the time being
come that he was to die, according to their appointment, he was
taken into a park, where a great number of women was waiting upon
him, with their aprons full of stones, to fall upon him, and to put
him to death, according to the queen’s appointment.
His SPEECH to his Executioners.
Here’s a female band with bags of stones,
To kill a man for rumple groans.
I’m clean of rapine, blood, and thefts,
Could I convert my farts to rifts;
Since I, the first, for farting die,
Close up the place from whence they fly;
To commit my crime, I think ye’ll scarce,
If once you do cork up your arse.
And now since women stones do carry,
Men need not in the world tarry.
Judge if such women be chaste complete,
With forty stones between their feet.
But since ’tis so, ye will come on,
The greatest whore throw the first stone.
When he had ended with these words, The greatest whore throw the
first stone, every one put it to another to cast the first stone;
but knowing they would attain the character of a whore for so
doing, they all refused, till the dying hour was past, and then he
took a protest against them, and by that mean gained his life.
After this he was admitted to the Queen’s favour and presence,
attending the court as formerly. About this time the French king
not knowing how to pick a quarrel with Great Britain, sent a
letter to the king, desiring it to be read before the Parliament,
and the writing was as follows: Will I come? Will I come? Will I
come?--This letter being read before the king and his courtiers,
they all concluded that the French king designed to invade England;
therefore they wrote a letter on purpose to send to him again
upbraiding him with the breach of peace, and putting him in mind
of the last treaty. The answer being read before the King and his
Nobles, they all condescended that it should be sent as an answer;
but George smiling and shaking his head, cried out,
Many men, many minds;
Who knows what he designs?
Then they asked George what he thought the French king meant
by such a letter? to which he answered, I suppose he wants an
invitation to come over to dine, and then go back in a friendly
manner; but you are going to charge him with a breach of peace,
before he has given any signal of offence or war: his letter is
indeed dark and mystical, but send him an answer according to his
question. Now George being ordered to write the answer, it was, And
ye come, And ye come, And ye come. This being sent to the French
King, he admired it beyond expression, saying, It was an answer
more valiant and daring than he expected; so the enmity he intended
was thereby turned into love.
About this time it happened that a malignant party in Scotland sent
up a great spokesman to the King and Parliament, for the seducing
of the church: George hearing of his coming, went away and met him
on the bridge, and the salutation that he gave him was, the cutting
off his head, and throwing it over the bridge, then ran to the king
with all his might, falling down before him, pleading most heartily
for a pardon, or without it he was a dead man; the king most
seriously asked him what he had done now? to which he answered, He
had only thrown the Scots bishop’s hat over the bridge, which made
the king to laugh, to hear him ask pardon for such a small fault;
but he had no sooner got the pardon sealed by the King’s hand, then
he said, indeed my sovereign, I threw his hat over the bridge, but
his head was in it. Geordy, Geordy, says the King, thou wilt never
give over till thou be hanged.
After this, a nobleman in England agreed with the King to put a
trick upon George, to try his manly courage, in sending him to
a certain house for a bag of money. On his way home through St.
James’s Park, they caused a sturdy fellow to go and set the way
upon him, and take the money; he being armed with sword and pistol,
came up briskly, and attacked George with these words, You, Sir,
deliver what money you have, or you are a dead man: to which George
answered, Sir I have money indeed, but ’tis not my own, and I am
sorry to give it; nevertheless, since I am not armed as you are to
exchange blows for it, you shall have it; but pray do me the favour
as to fire your pistol through the flap of my cloak, that the
owners may see I have been in danger of my life before I lost the
money; which he accordingly performed. No sooner had he fired it,
than George whips out his hanger from below his cloak, and with one
stroke cut off his right hand, wherein he held his sword, so that
both his sword and the hand fell to the ground; but George lifted
his hand, and carried it to the King. No sooner did he come before
them, but they asked him, saying, Well George, did you see any body
to trouble you by the way? No, said he, but one fellow, who was
going to take the money from me; but I made him give me his hand
he would not do the like again. You did, says the fellow’s master?
Yes, I did, says George, let work bear Witness, throwing down the
fellow’s hand on the table before them.
Now this last exploit of George’s caused many of the English to
hate him, and among the rest, a young nobleman fell a jocking of
George, in saying, he would be as famous a champion for Scotland as
Sir William Wallace was: Ay, ay, says George, William Wallace was
a brave man in his time. True, indeed, says the other, but when he
came to London, we did him all manner of justice, and for honour of
the Scots, we have his effigy in the shite-houses to this very day.
And do you not know the reason of that, says George? No, I don’t,
says he: Well, I’ll tell you, says George, he was such a terror to
the Englishmen when he was alive, that the sight of him yet makes
them beshite themselves. The English took this as a great affront,
and forthwith caused Wallace’s picture to be taken out of that
place.
There was a young English girl in love with a Scotsman, and
petitioned him several times for to marry her, which he refused,
and upon revenge thereof, she went to a Justice, and swore a rape
against him, which is death by the law. George hearing this, went
into the prison where the young man was, and instructed him how
to behave before the judge. So in the time of the trial, George
came in, while the judge was crying to the man, but never a word
could he get him to answer, to tell whether he was guilty or not.
After the judge had given him over for deaf and dumb, others fell
a-shouting in his ears, but never a word he would speak. Then the
judge perceiving George, called him, saying, George, do you know
what is the matter with this man? Yes I do, very well, says George.
What is it, says the judge? Why, says George, the woman made such
a noise and crying, when he was ravishing her, it has put the poor
man quite deaf, I assure you. Is it so, says the judge. No, no,
says the woman, my lord judge, you may believe me, I lay as mute as
a lamb, and never spoke a word all the time. Very well confessed,
said the judge, and you have sworn a rape against him; go take the
whore to Newgate, and let the poor man go about his business, and
so it ended.[197]