Chapter XXII: 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.