John Cheap, the Chapman's Library. Vol. 1: Comic and Humorous / The Scottish Chap Literature of Last Century, Classified
Date: 2020-05-10T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: English literature -- 18th century; Chapbooks; Scottish; Popular literature -- Scotland; Graham; Dougal; 1724-1779

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Title: John Cheap, the Chapman's Library. Vol. 1: Comic and Humorous

Author: Dougal Graham

Release date: May 10, 2020 [eBook #62080]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOHN CHEAP, THE CHAPMAN'S LIBRARY. VOL. 1: COMIC AND HUMOROUS ***

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

This book is a collection of nineteen separate ‘Chap-books’, with an introduction on the life of Dougal Graham. Each Chap-book has its own page numbering from 1 to 24. (It so happens they are all 24 pages in length.)

The three Footnote anchors are denoted by [A], [B] and [C], and they have been placed at the end of their section.

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

Many minor changes to the text are noted at the end of the book.

John Cheap
The Chapman’s Library:

THE

SCOTTISH CHAP LITERATURE

OF LAST CENTURY, CLASSIFIED.

WITH LIFE OF DOUGAL GRAHAM.

COMIC AND HUMOROUS.

GLASGOW:

ROBERT LINDSAY, QUEEN STREET.

1877.

CONTENTS.

The Life of Dougal Graham.
Witty Sayings and Exploits of George Buchanan.
Adventures of Bamfylde Moore Carew.
Daniel O’Rourke’s Voyage to the Moon.
The Comical Tricks of Lothian Tom, &c.
Comical History of the King and the Cobbler.
John Cheap, the Chapman.
Simple John and his Twelve Misfortunes.
The Wise Men of Gotham.
Mansie Waugh, Tailor in Dalkeith.
Jockey and Maggie’s Courtship.
The Coalman’s Courtship.
History of Buckhaven: Wise Willy and Witty Eppy.
The Dominie Deposed. Maggie Johnston’s Elegy.
A Groat’s Worth of Fun for a Penny.
The Comical Sayings of Paddy from Cork.
Fun upon Fun; or, Leper the Tailor, &c.
John Falkirk’s Cariches.
Grinning made Easy,—Funny Dick’s Jokes.
The Scotch Haggis; or, Choice Bon-Mots.

PREFACE.

A name is very often only a definition of a thing in one of its aspects—generally the most obvious to ordinary observation, though not always the most comprehensive or characteristic. The name Chap-book is an example of names of this class, and owes its origin to the fact that the tracts which we now recognise by it were first—and, indeed, during the whole time of their circulation as popular literature—sold by chapmen, or pedlars. With the extinction of these itinerants, the popular circulation of chap-books has ceased; and it seemed as if—from the flimsy nature of their get-up—this form of literature was about to vanish, like the compositions of our earliest minstrels, when a taste for collecting specimens sprung up among the curious in literature. To meet the demand for collections which the spread of this taste originated, the present issue has been projected.

What purpose, it may be asked, does their preservation serve? Of no class might this be more properly inquired than of the Religious, which may be supposed to admit of less scope for originality of treatment than any other; yet an examination of a few of the tracts under this head soon shows us the popular creed in forms of thought and illustration quite unexpected, and with a definiteness and force the originality of which cannot be mistaken. The same character, of course, applies in a more marked degree to classes where the composer was less influenced by prepossessed ideas, and where his only boundaries were the limits of his own imagination, and the deference which he was careful to pay to the prejudices of his readers.

That these carelessly got-up publications constituted the popular literature of the peasantry and a large part of the urban population of Scotland for about half a century, is a fact which no student of our recent history will wisely ignore. They possess one advantage over the sensational reading of the present day penny journals, in that they represent the opinions and manners of those who read them, and, consequently, have a truthfulness and reality of which their London-manufactured substitutes are entirely destitute. The Chap-book is a mirror of rural opinions and manners; the Penny Sensational is only evidence of a vitiated popular taste.

These remarks are chiefly applicable to the chap-books of Scottish production, which, along with those adopted from foreign sources, but so naturalized as to language and characters as to pass for productions of home growth—in reference to the purposes of this issue—are by far the most important. Keeping this purpose in view, there is no call here to apologise for their coarseness and indelicacy, for which, on the score of taste and morals, from a popular point of view, there is no defence; but their real value to us consists in their being true delineations of the manners and ways of thinking of low rural life, whose grossness was rather the result of the buoyancy of animal vigour than of the indulgence of vicious passions.

The English ones are very varied in character, and have been chosen with considerable judgment, to suit the taste and understanding of those for whom they were selected. Their circulation in Scotland has been so large that we are justified in including them in a collection of Scottish peasant literature.

The original Scottish chap-books attributed to the pen of Dougal Graham are so decidedly superior, that a sketch of his life, containing all that is known of him, has been considered the most fitting introduction to the present issue. The earliest literary inquiry into his history was made by Motherwell, the poet, who contributed a sketch of him and his writings to the Paisley Magazine of January, 1829, based upon information derived from George Caldwell, bookseller, Paisley, who knew Dougal well, and was the chief publisher of his “penny histories.” Some further information regarding him, and corrections of mistakes in Motherwell’s article, are given in an appendix to the 1830 edition of M’Ure’s History of Glasgow, very possibly from the pen of M’Vean, its publisher, who was a collector of Dougal’s tracts. A more recent life of him—chiefly based on those already mentioned—forms chap. iii. of Scottish Chap-books, by John Fraser—a dissertation which brings into one view the gist of what has been written on this subject by Scott, Motherwell, Strang, Strathearn, and others.

That any other chapmen contributed to the series is not known, nor very probable, if we except two or three pieces that have been adopted from the writings of Wilson the ornithologist. That the calling afforded excellent opportunities for observing country life and manners is amply testified by those sketches of Graham’s, which in their graphic pictures of low life and morals are unsurpassed, unless in the Jolly Beggars. That a chapman’s opportunities may be employed in observing the finer traits of humble life is exemplified in the case of Alexander Laing of Brechin, whose Wayside Flowers contain touches of pathos, delicacy of sentiment, and refinement of feeling that rank him as high above Dougal in these respects as he is surpassed by him in force, breadth, and keenness of wit and humour.

The present issue of the Chap-books is printed from plates that have been used in producing the texts of chap circulation, and are the veritable impressions of these, with “all their imperfections on their heads.” The classification is an innovation, which, it is expected, will at least please the studious collector; and the extra margins, the want of which is the great difficulty in binding stray collections, should be welcomed by all who dislike to see the text stitched into the back of the binding.

THE LIFE
OF
DOUGAL GRAHAM.

It has been observed, by nearly every one who has written on the subject of Scottish chap-books, that, as truthful delineations of the manners and ways of thinking of native peasantry, they excel those of most other nations. There is an equal unanimity of opinion that this superiority of the Scottish chap-books is due to the penetrating observation, the broad humour, and the truthful adherence to nature of Dougal Graham—a genius of a somewhat grotesque type, whose literary ambition it was to make his writings “acceptable, especially, to those of common education” like himself; and whose social aspirations were satisfied by the appointment of skellat bellman to the city of Glasgow.

Dougal was born in the small hamlet known by the Celtic name of Raploch, situated at the western base of the romantic rock on which stands Stirling Castle; and now in a most tumble-down condition, characteristically abandoned to the natives of Erin. The exact date of his birth is unknown, but is placed in or about the year 1724. Nothing is recorded of his boyhood and youth, except that he learned no trade, it is said, on account of the poverty of his parents, but probably as much on account of physical deformities, which rendered him unsuitable for most mechanical labour. His education does not appear to have gone beyond reading and writing; for his composition shows no traces of his having been taught any other grammar than that which regulates the conversation of the class whose manners he so faithfully sketches. It is related that he tried farm service for some time at Campsie, in the west of Stirlingshire, but soon found it incompatible with his physical constitution and the restlessness of his disposition.

If the date assigned to his birth be correct, he was only twenty-one when the rebellion of 1745 awoke the martial ardour of the youth of Scotland, and Dougal, notwithstanding his incapacity for bearing arms, had his love of adventure fired by the popular enthusiasm evoked by the romantic enterprise of “Prince Charlie.” The Fords of Frew, on the Forth—the Rubicon crossed by the Highland army in its march into the Lowlands—are only a few miles to the west of Dougal’s birthplace; and it was here that he appears to have embarked in the popular cause, with what purposes it would be difficult to say. In his metrical History of the Rebellion, although he writes in the first person, he makes no mention of any adventures personal to himself; he records only what he saw, and in the preface he says “that he had been an eye witness of most of the movements of the Highland army from the crossing of the Fords of Frew till the final defeat at Culloden.” Nor does he make any allusion to the capacity in which he observed the movements of the army; and, as it is every way improbable that he gave the Jacobites any other assistance than that of sympathy, the conjecture almost amounts to a certainty that he followed them as a sutler. He had sufficient pride not to mention the fact in his writings; yet, no doubt, a man of his genial and outspoken disposition must often have referred to the incidents of his campaigning among his boon companions. We are disposed to think, considering the circumstances, that he must have been born earlier than 1724; for the coolness and self-confidence, not to say the indifference, with which he regarded the success or failure of either side, the impartiality of his narrative, and, it is conjectured, his dealing with either side, according as it suited his convenience or his safety, argue greater experience of the world than could reasonably be expected of a person of such limited education at the age of twenty-one. It is true he was born within hearing of the muster trumpet of Stirling Castle, and must, from his boyhood, have been sufficiently familiar with the garrison exercises to make him at home in the bustle of a camp; but there is the fact, that, almost before the smoke of the rebellion was extinguished, his metrical History, consisting of over five thousand lines, Hudibrastic metre, is announced in the Glasgow Courier as “A full and particular account of the late rebellion, in the years 1745 and 1746, beginning with the Pretender’s embarking for Scotland, and then, an account of every battle, siege, or skirmish that has happened in either Scotland, or England; to which is added several addresses and epistles to the Pope, Pagans, Poets, and Pretender; all in metre; price fourpence.” After stating that any bookseller of packman might have it on easier terms from James Duncan, or the author, D. Graham, it is added:—“The like has not been done since the days of David Lindsay.” The book appeared in September, 1746, and has been so popular, that by 1828 it reached its twentieth edition. The first edition is now supposed to be extinct; yet so late as 1830 a copy was in the possession of Sir Walter Scott, which he intended publishing, in facsimile, for the Maitland Club.

The statement in the advertisement, that dealers might have copies from the author, points to his having a place of business or residence in Glasgow; but this does not appear to have been the case, then at least, for in the preface he tells his readers that it was

“Composed by the Poet, Dougal Graham;

In Stirlingshire he lives at hame.”

The probability is that he made his father’s house at Raploch his home, whence he started on his journeys, as a chapman, through the counties of Stirling, Lanark, and Dumbarton, more rarely over the three Lothians, and occasionally into Fifeshire. Glasgow would, of course, be his purchasing market, which he would frequently visit for replenishing his stock; and, while there, his resort would be well known to his confrères in the “travelling line.” He continued thus for several years, after the publication of his history, compiling chap-books, and writing poems and songs, for which there seems to have been an eager competition among the booksellers of Glasgow, Paisley, Stirling and Falkirk, until, by his industry and saving, he accumulated sufficient capital to set up a printing office in the “Salt Mercat” of Glasgow.

Dougal did not make a fortune by his campaigning, any more than the chiefs whose wake he generally followed; but he was at least more fortunate than most of them, in getting back to where he might begin. At first he appears to have encountered some hardships for want of money, and, possibly from the dislike of Jacobitism, and all who “melled with the rebels,” for which Glasgow was distinguished; and the exasperation caused by these difficulties he ventilates on the heads of the Papists, to whom, with bad rhyme, and worse reason, he attributes the general scarcity of money, and his own in particular:

“You Papists are a cursed race,

And this I tell you to your face;

And your images of gold so fine,

Their curses fall on me and mine.

Likewise themselves at any rate,

For money now is ill to get.

I have run my money to an en’,

And have nouther paper nor pen

To write thir lines, the way you see me,

And there’s none for to supplie me.”

As may be inferred from his having soon after set up in business, his finances did not remain long in the condition implied in the above doggerel; and in 1752, in the preface to a second edition of his History, he styles himself “merchant,” a title which ambitious pedlars assumed on finding themselves progressing in business and wealth, which many of them did, to the extent of making large fortunes, and founding establishments whose present owners are merchant princes of Glasgow.

Whether the phrase “me and mine” in the above quotation means a wife and children, as it is usually understood, or dependent parents, or whether mine is a mere expansion for rhyme’s sake, is uncertain; for there is no authentic account of his having ever married; but an advertisement which appeared in the Glasgow Journal of 14th June, 1764, crying down the credit “of Jean Stark, spouse of Dougal Graham, ale seller above the Cross, Glasgow,” for having parted from her husband, has raised some doubts about his having always retained his single blessedness. There is, however, no other evidence than the coincidence of his name with that of a less fortunate clansman, to identify the real Dougal with the “ale seller above the Cross.” The fact that a namesake was such, would naturally lead to a confounding of his name with the better known of the two; and out of the confusion of names would originate the tradition that Dougal the poet was Dougal the ale seller.

When he learned printing, and the date of his setting up in that art, in the Saltmarket, are not known. A second edition of his “History of the Rebellion” having been published in 1752, it is very natural to suppose that he learned type-setting and the other details necessary for printing the class of publications in which he dealt, during its progress through the press. Like his better known predecessor, Ramsay, whom he resembled in many traits of character, he relinquished the reputedly less respectable profession as soon as he found that he could depend upon the more dignified one of printer. It is obvious, also, that, to a person of his constitution, travelling must have been attended with difficulties which would create a strong desire to quit it as soon as possible.

The next event in Dougal’s career of which we have any information, and that which, it is most likely, he would himself consider the crowning success of his life, is his appointment as bellman to the city of Glasgow. Of this it might be thought that the date, or a close approximation to it, might be found in some of the public records of the city, for at that time the office was one of considerable importance; and many duties connected with the municipality, as the ringing of the Skellat bell and attending the meetings of the Town Council, in the livery of his office, were discharged by the bellman. The emoluments also were considerable, for, besides his official salary of ten pounds, and many valuable perquisites, the bellman was then the chief advertising medium. The year 1772 is assigned as the most probable date of the election; and as the candidates for the office were unusually numerous, the competition was keener than ordinary. As the selection was to be made after a public trial of the fitness of the candidates before the magistrates, the arrangement was all in Dougal’s favour, for he was just the man to undergo such an ordeal triumphantly. But his connection with the Rebellion, and suspicions, not without foundation, that he still sympathized with the Jacobite cause, were election weapons not likely to be overlooked by his opponents, to rouse the Hanoverianism of the magistrates against him, so that, notwithstanding the toning down of political asperity, and Dougal’s advances in popular favour, as a poet and a wit, it needed all his address to overcome what George Caldwell, his Paisley publisher, called the ill brew (ill will) of the Glasgow bailies against Highlanders and anybody that melled (associated) with the rebels.

The trial of skill took place in the court behind the old Town’s Hospital, near the Clyde; and the popular traditional account of the event represents Dougal as the hero of the occasion. After the other candidates had tried the strength of their lungs and the reach of their voices on the announcement of “Fresh herrings at the Broomielaw,” he sang out at the top of his voice, with simulated gravity, in a manner that put them all in the shade—

“Caller herring at the Broomielaw,

Three a penny, three a penny.”

But remembering that it was not the season for fresh herring, he added, with the comic confidence for which he was distinguished—

“But indeed, my friends, it is a’ a blawflum,

For the herring’s no catch’d and the boat’s no come.”

Dougal was elected unanimously, and the traditional fame of his bellmanship leaves no doubt that he discharged the duties of the office to the satisfaction of the magistrates, and the advantage and entertainment of the public. He was imbued with all the love of fun and drollery of an Irishman, and all the pawky sarcastic humour, and independent sagacity of a Scot; and invariably drew large crowds to hear his rhymed or otherwise queerly-worded notices, to which his laugh-provoking manner gave additional point.

His appointment as bellman did not necessitate the giving up of his business; and he still continued to write and print with unabated vigour; indeed, some of the most popular productions of his pen are assigned to this date. In 1774 he issued a third edition of his History of the Rebellion, with “amendments,” and the addition of “a description of the dangers and travels of the Pretender through the Highland isles after the break at Culloden.” It extends to 189 pages, and contains plans of the battles of Prestonpans, Clifton, Falkirk, and Culloden; with a full-length woodcut portrait of the author, in his bellman costume, fronting the title-page; and bears to have been printed by John Robertson, Glasgow. This edition, there is every probability in supposing, was the last issued during his lifetime, for between it and the second there is a space of twelve years, and, allowing for his increased popularity, six years is a short enough time to allow for the disposal of it. We are unable to get any trace of the fourth—the third, of which, probably, there was a much larger edition, being the oftenest met with of the early editions; but the fifth, we learn from Campbell’s History of Scottish Poetry, was issued by John Robertson in 1787, eight years after the author’s death, and is, no doubt, along with the fourth, a reprint of the third. Besides the additions already indicated, this last has a new preface, very much in Ramsay’s style, in which he gives his motives for having written the book. “First, then, I have an itch for scribbling; and having wrote the following for my pleasure, I had an ambition to have this child of mine placed out in the world; expecting, if it should thrive and do well, it might bring credit or comfort to the parent. For it is my firm opinion that parental affection is as strong towards children of the brain as those produced by ordinary generation. I have wrote it in vulgar rhyme, being not only what pleased my own fancy, but what I have found acceptable to the most part of my countrymen, especially those of common education like myself. If I have done well, it is what I should like; and if I have failed, it is what mankind are liable to. Therefore, let cavilers rather write a better one, than pester themselves and the public with criticisms on my faults.”

The half-apologetic reason for having written in vulgar rhyme, coupled with the addenda in the advertisement of the first edition, “the like has not been done since the days of David Lindsay,” almost lead to the inference that he was acquainted with Lindsay’s works; while the reference to “those of common education like myself,” does not support the assertion that “he got no education.” The disappearance of the first and second editions makes it impossible to ascertain the extent of the “amendments” which he made on their texts; but they are said to be in the way of toning down the Jacobite leanings, in deference to the Hanoverianism of his patrons, the Glasgow magistrates. On this is founded a charge of trimming, which, the impossibility presently existing of comparing the two texts, prevents our either verifying or refuting. We must therefore suspend our judgment until a copy of either of the lost editions turns up—if that should ever happen. Meanwhile, it may be observed that the edition “amended,” as he himself calls it, was published two years after his appointment as bellman, and could no way influence his preference to that office. If made in remembrance of past favours, it at least shows a sense of gratitude; but this is proverbially not a strong motive; and as to future favours, there is every reason to think that Dougal’s ambition in that direction was already satisfied. If we also take into consideration that the History was written when he was little over twenty-one, and published within a few months of the last and misguided struggle of the clans, too soon to admit of the events truthfully recorded being impartially judged, and before the lapse of time admitted of their being seen in their true bearings, that, nearly thirty years afterwards, “amendments” were made on some of his early judgments, need excite no suspicion that they went beyond the real change in his convictions.

We have no wish to claim for Dougal, and it would be unfair to exact of him a high moral standard: he had been all his life too much under the stern discipline of circumstances, and saw too much of its levelling effects to have retained—if he ever possessed—any sympathy for that scrupulosity of thought and conduct which constitutes a high principled character. But we see nothing in his behaviour which betrays any lack of spirit or independence; the quotations from his preface are the expression of sober self-respect, without egotism; conveyed in quaint, but appropriate language, and full of good common sense.

We have dwelt upon the “History of the Rebellion,” not because we think it the greatest—though by far the largest of his works—but, because its history is almost the only authentic nucleus round which the events of his life cluster; the only “child of his brain,” of which he himself acknowledges the fatherhood. For this reason, and because of the disappearance of first editions, it has been found impossible to determine the date, or even his authorship, of many popular chap-books ascribed to his pen. Fortunately, the authorship of the best of them rests upon the authority of Motherwell the poet, whose information, derived, as it is, direct from his “intelligent” friend, George Caldwell, the chief publisher of Dougal’s “Penny Histories,” is of the most reliable kind. His article in the Paisley Magazine of January, 1829, on “Dougald Graham” being the stimulus and groundwork of all subsequent investigations on the subject.

The incidents of Dougal’s official life being committed to the keeping of tradition, have faded out of public memory with the generation whose sides were tickled by his jokes; but a list of his chap-books made by Motherwell, lets us see how he employed his literary leisure, and the date of publication of the last but one on the list, brings us to the date of his exit from the scene which his pen and his voice helped so much to enliven. It is generally agreed that “Jockie and Maggie’s Courtship” is the first of his original prose compositions; and that it was written some time after his having set up in business as a printer. He appears to have previously devoted his pen entirely to the service of the poetic muses; and is the originator of those comic, but harmless satires on the simplicity and imperfect English of Highlanders, of which his John Hielandman and Turnimspike are the prototypes. But, like his greater countryman, and it may be added, his greatest extinguisher, Scott—and much about the same age—after he had worked out the poetic vein, he discovered a prose one, equally prolific, and of richer ore; but of which, like the “Great Unknown,” he preferred to be the unknown excavator. It is an odd coincidence that, like Scott, too, he frequently wrote under cognomens, as John Falkirk, or The Scots Piper. The following is Motherwell’s list of his prose tracts, with the dates of the earliest editions which he was able to obtain:—Leper the Tailor, Part II. only, being a first edition.

1. Jockie and Maggie, five parts, 1783; 2. Paddy from Cork, 1784; 3. Lothian Tom, six parts, 1793; 4. John Cheap (The Chapman), three parts, 1786; 5. John Falkirk, 1779; 6. John Falkirk’s Cariches; 7. Janet Clinker’s Orations; sometimes published under the title of Granny M’Nab’s Lectures in the Society of Clashing Wives; 8. Leper the Tailor, parts I. and II., 1779; 9. Simple John and His Twelve Misfortunes. Motherwell is of opinion that George Buchanan, The Coalman’s Courtship, and the History of Buckhaven, are his also; and questions the existence of any of them before his time. These three are also found attributed to him by M’Vean, a Glasgow antiquarian bookseller, in a MS. list of Dougal’s publications quoted by Dr Strang,[A] which, in addition to those in Motherwell’s list, contains: The History of the Haverel Wives, The Grand Solemnity of the Tailor’s Funeral, &c.; The Remarkable Life and Transactions of Alexander Hamwinkle, &c.; The Dying Groans of Sir John Barleycorn, &c.; A Warning to the Methodist Preachers; A Second Warning to the Methodist Preachers. Mr Fraser, who has, perhaps, given more consideration to the subject than any of his predecessors, besides having the benefit of their labours,[B] gives a classified list of his publications under four heads.

1. The Works of Dougal Graham. 2. Works Probably Written by Graham. 3. Works Compiled or Edited by Graham. 4. Works attributed to Graham. Under the first head he adopts Motherwell’s list, substituting for Paddy from Cork and Simple John, The Coalman’s Courtship, and Simple Tam, which is the Scotch introduction to Simple John; and adding, The Grand Solemnity of the Tailor’s Funeral, Turnimspike, John Hielandman, Proverbs on the Pride of Women, and The History of the Haverel Wives. Under the second he gives: Dugald M’Taggart, in verse; Verses on the Popular Superstitions of Scotland; Rythmical Dialogue between the Pope and the Devil; An Epitaph on the Third Commandment; Alexander Hamwinkle; Warning to the Methodist Preachers; and A Second Warning. Under the third he places Paddy from Cork; Simple John; John Falkirk; and John Falkirk’s Cariches; and under the fourth, Sir John Barleycorn; The History of Buckhaven; and Verses on the Pride of Women; he should also have added George Buchanan. Of the History of Buckhaven; George Buchanan; and Simple John, except the Scotch introduction, Mr Fraser thinks it extremely improbable, judging from internal evidence, that they were composed by Graham, though he may have sold them to the publishers as his own composition. “For,” he adds, regarding the two first, “there is not a single sentence in either of them that might not have been written by anyone else.” Then why not by Graham? We wonder whether Mr Fraser has read the History of Buckhaven through, or whether he is thinking of some other tract.

What Mr Fraser says as to their facetiæ—including that of Paddy from Cork—being found in the facetiæ of almost every country in Europe, may be true—as Motherwell also states in almost the same words; but Mr Fraser does not contend for originality in the incidents, if the composition be imbued with the national spirit and adapted to the manner of thought and language of Scotchmen. George Buchanan is thoroughly Scotch in spirit, and its language is such as an ordinary Scotchman of common education would use in writing of events that happened out of Scotland, and where the use of his native dialect was inappropriate. The same may be said—of the language only—of Paddy from Cork, which Mr Fraser places under the third head, and we see no improbability in the composition of both tracts being Graham’s. Mr Fraser seems to forget that Dougal could write in other styles than that of Jockie and Maggie—that, no doubt, is his best—but his preface to the third edition of his History, Turnimspike, &c., and his denunciations of the Papists, display a versatility as to style which makes it difficult to except almost anything in chap literature from his authorship.

Leper the Tailor, Part II. (as has been already observed), the only first edition in Motherwell’s list, bears date 1779; and on the 20th July, of that year, Dougal died (if the date of his birth given be correct) at the age of 55,[C] and while his literary powers were in unabated vigour. The cause of his death is not recorded, and no obituary of him appeared in any of the local papers of the time; but an elegy “On the much-lamented Death of the Witty Poet and Bellman,” from the pen of some unknown admirer, has been preserved. We quote two stanzas which bear contemporary evidence to his humanity and wit:

“Ye mothers fond! Oh! be not blate

To mourn poor Dougal’s hapless fate;

Oft times, you know, he did you get

Your wandered weans;

To find them out both air and late

He spared no pains.”

“Of witty jokes he had such store,

Johnson could not have pleased you more;

Or, with loud laughter, made you roar

As he could do;

He still had something ne’er before

Exposed to view.”

To judge Dougal’s character by any fastidious standard of manners and morals would be unfair; but, making a reasonable allowance for the unfavourable nature of the times, and his surroundings, there is nothing known of him inconsistent with the character of a well-intentioned, self-respecting citizen; who thought it no sin to make his lines pleasanter for himself, by contributing to the enjoyment of his fellow-countrymen. His History of the Rebellion abounds with instances of the fairness and impartiality of his judgment, and the humanity of his sentiments; and is full of examples of his quaint and grotesque, yet mostly shrewd reflections on events which he seldom fails to place distinctly before his readers. Dr Robert Chambers, whose opinion, as the writer of an excellent history of the Rebellion, is entitled to all respect, in his Lives of Eminent Scotsmen, says of it:—“The poetry is of course in some cases a little grotesque, but the matter of the work is valuable. It contains—and in this consists the chief value of all such productions—many minute facts, which a work of more pretensions would not admit.”

Sir Walter Scott, writing to Dr Strang, of Glasgow, in 1830, in reference to his notice of Graham, says:—“Neither had I the least idea of his being the author of so much of our Bibliotheque Blue as you ascribe to him, embracing, unquestionably, several coarse, but excessively meritorious, pieces of popular humour. The Turnimspike, alone, was sufficient to entitle him to immortality. I had in my early life a great collection of these chap books, and had six volumes of them bought before I was ten years old, comprehending most of the rare and curious of our popular tracts.” Motherwell, besides calling him the “Scottish Rabelais” and the “Vulgar Juvenal of his age,” in the article already referred to, reviewing his history and his tracts, says:—“However slightingly we esteem his metrical power, we really believe he has conscientiously and honestly detailed the events that came under his observation. It is not, however, on the merits of this work that Graham’s fame rests. Had he written only it, we believe he never would have occupied our thoughts for a moment; but as one who, subsequently, contributed largely to the amusement of the lower classes of his countrymen, we love to think of the facetious bellman. To his rich vein of gross comic humour, laughable and vulgar description, great shrewdness of observation, and strong though immeasurably coarse sense, every one of us, after getting out of toy books and fairy tales, has owed much. In truth, it is no exaggeration, when we state that he who desires to acquire a thorough knowledge of low Scottish life, vulgar manners, national characteristics, and popular jokes, must devote his days and nights to the study of John Cheap, the Chapman, &c., &c., &c., all the productions of Dougal’s fertile brain, and his unwearied application to the cultivation of vulgar literature. To refined taste Dougal had no pretensions. His indelicacy is notorious, his coarseness an abomination, but they are characteristic of the class for whom he wrote. He is thoroughly imbued with the national humours and peculiarities of his countrymen of the humblest class; and his pictures of their manners, modes of thinking, and conversation, are always sketched with a strong and faithful pencil. Indeed, the uncommon popularity his chap books have acquired, entitles them in many a point of view to the regard of the moralist and the literary historian. We meet them on every stall and in every cottage. They are essentially the library of entertaining knowledge to our peasantry; and have maintained their ground in the affections of the people, notwithstanding the attempt of religious, political, or learned associations to displace them by substituting more elegant and wholesome literature in their stead.” It is now about fifty years since Motherwell wrote the article quoted; and the Waverley Novels, Chambers’ Journal, and The Tales of the Borders have accomplished what the religious and learned societies failed in doing.

Of Dougal’s personal appearance some particulars have been already noted, but an edition of John Falkirk’s Cariches, which appeared soon after his death, contains a prefatory notice, in which, under the cognomen of John Falkirk, commonly called the Scots Piper, the popular contemporary ideal of him is given as “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.”

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Glasgow and its Clubs.

[B] Scottish Chap-Books, by John Fraser, New York, 1873.

[C] Motherwell calculates his age to have been 65, supposing him to have lived to 1787.

THE

WITTY AND ENTERTAINING

EXPLOITS OF

GEORGE BUCHANAN,

COMMONLY CALLED

THE KING’S FOOL.

GLASGOW:

PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

THE
WITTY EXPLOITS
OF
MR 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 the age, that ever proposed questions to him. He was servant or teacher to king James the VI., and one of his private counsellors; but publicly acted as his fool.

1. It happened one day that a young airy nobleman 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 he fancied, he would not pull it himself, but to find it again, without farther search, he covered it with his hat, and went away for his sweatheart. No sooner was he gone, but up goes George, lifts his hat, and pulls the flower, then eases himself on the spot, covers it with the hat again, and away he goes. Soon after, the young gentleman returned, leading his sweatheart to pull the flower below the hat; but as soon as he lifted the hat, and saw what was below it, he looked like a fool; and the lady flying in a passion, sets off, and would never countenance him any more. The young gentleman being sadly vexed an this affront given to him by George, sent him a challenge to fight him, appointing day and place where they were to meet. Being to fight on horseback, George gets an old stiff horse, and for harnessing, covers him about with blown bladders, with small stones in each, without either sword or spear; and 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 made up to him with all the speed his horse could carry him; when the small stones in the bladders made such a rattling 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 still more 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, viz:—To hold him a jumping-bout publickly, 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-time, caused a deep pit to be made, and the earth of it carried away; then filled it up with dung from a p——, and covered it over with a green turf, 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 did, and jumped within a foot of the place where the ground was falsified. The young man seeing this, made his performance with great airs, and all his might, so that he jumped a foot over George, but, up 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.

2. On a time after this, the king and his court were 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, with a pair of old riven boots, 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 their horses’ chafts, 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 turning about suddenly, and clapping his hands with a 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, causing George to dismount 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 them to make a pair of great boots, and put a quantity of Scottish earth in each of them, and away he goes for London, to see the king once more. He hearing the king and his court was to pass through a town, George places himself up in an old window, and sets up his bare a——, to the king and his court as they passed. The king being greatly amazed to see such an unusual honour done to him, was curious to know the performer: so he called unto him, desiring 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 a——. 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, behold, my Sovereign, it is all Scots earth I stand upon. The king and his court being greatly diverted with this merry joke, George was admitted again to the king’s favour.

3. 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 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. Accordingly she came, and was received with all the honour and congratulations that 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 very quickly, lifted one of his legs, let a loud f——t, which set the whole house a-laughing; whereat the queen was greatly offended, and said, 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 f——t. The queen being enraged at the affront put on her first appearance in parliament, went off in a passion, and never would countenance them 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, but she and her maids of honour pronounced his doom, which was as follows:—As he had affronted the queen among so great an equipage, who ought to be honoured in chief 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 had to die, according to their appointment, he was taken into a park, where a great number of women were waiting for him, with their aprons full of stones, to fall upon him, and put him to death according to the queen’s appointment.

GEORGE’S 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 f——s to rifts?

Since I, the first for f——s do 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 a——.

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 f——;

But since ’tis so ye will come on,

The greatest w—— throw the first stone.

When he had ended with these words, “The greatest w—— throw the first stone,” every one put it to another to cast the first stone, but knowing they would attain the character of a w—— for so doing, they all refused till the dying hour was past, and then he took a protest against them, and by that means he gained his life. After this he was admitted into the queen’s favour and presence, and attended the court as formerly.

4. About this time, the French king, in order to pick a quarrel with the court of 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 ordered an answer to be wrote, 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 agreed that it should be sent off. But George, smiling, and shaking his head, cried out,

Many men, many minds,

Who knows what he designs?

Then they asked George what the French king meant by such a letter? to which he answered, I suppose he wants an invitation to come over to dine with you, and then return 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 as follows:—“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 extinguished, and turned into love.

5. It happened once, that a malignant party in Scotland sent up a great spokesman to the king and parliament, for the reducing 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! He then ran to the king with all his might, and fell 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, than he said, indeed my sovereign, I threw his hat over the bridge, but his head was in it. O Geordie, Geordie, says the king, thou wilt never give over till thou be hanged.

6. A nobleman in England agreed with the king how to put a trick upon George, to try his manly courage, in sending him to a certain place for a bag of money. On his way home, through St James’ park, they caused a sturdy fellow to go and set upon him by the way, and take the money from him. The fellow being armed with sword and pistol, came up quickly, 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 some indeed, but ’tis not my own, and therefore do not like to part with it: nevertheless, since being determined as you are, to exchange blows for it, pray do me the favour 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 parted with it, which he accordingly did. No sooner had he fired the pistol, than George whipt 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? None, 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 all.

7. Now, this last exploit of George’s caused many of the English to hate him; and, among the rest, a young nobleman fell a joking of George, saying, he would be as famous a champion for Scotland as Sir William Wallace was. Ay, ay, says George, Wallace was a brave man in his time.—True indeed, says the young nobleman, 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 s—— to this very day. And do you 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 Englishmen, when he was alive, that the sight of his picture yet makes them p—— themselves. The English took this answer as a great affront, and forthwith caused Wallace’s picture to be taken out of all their s——.

8. A young English girl falling in love with a Scotchman, she petitioned him several times for to marry her: which he refused. So, to be revenged on him, she went to a Justice, and swore a rape against him, which is death by the law. George hearing of this, went to 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 he could get him to answer, to tell whether he was guilty or not. After the justice 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 justice. No, no, says the woman, my Lord Justice, you may believe me, I lay as mute as a lamb, and never spoke a word all the time. Very well confessed, said the justice, and you have sworn a rape upon him. Take the w—— to prison, and let the poor man go about his business, and so it ended.

PART II.

George happened one time to be in company with a bishop, and so they fell to dispute anent education, and he blanked the bishop remarkably, and the bishop himself owned he was worsted.—Then one of the company addressed himself to him in these words: thou, Scot, said he, should not have left thy country. For what? says he, because thou has carried all the wisdom that is in it thither with thee. No, no, says he, the shepherds in Scotland will dispute with any bishop in London, and exceed them very far in education. The bishops then took this as an affront, and several noblemen affirmed it to be as the Scot had said: bets were laid on each side, and three of the bishops were chosen, and sent away to Scotland to dispute it with the shepherds, accompanied with several others, who were to bear witness of what they should hear pass between them. Now, George knowing which way they went, immediately took another road and was in Scotland before them. He then made an acquaintance with a shepherd on the border whose pasture lay on the wayside where the bishops were to pass: and there he mounted himself in shepherd’s dress: and when he saw the bishops appear, he conveyed his flock to the roadside, and fell a chanting at a Latin ballad. When the bishops came up to George, one of them asked him in French what o’clock it was? To which he answered in Hebrew, it is directly about the time of the day it was yesterday at this time. Another asked him, in Greek, what countryman he was? To which he answered in Flemish, if ye knew that, you would be as wise as myself. A third asked him, in Dutch, where was you educated? To which he answered, in Earse, herding my sheep between this and Lochaber. This they desired him to explain into English, which he immediately did. Now, said they one to another, we need not proceed any farther. What, says George, are you butchers? I’ll sell you a few sheep. To this they made no answer, but went away shamefully, and said, they believed the Scots had been through all the nations in the world for their education, or the devil had taught them. Now, when George had ended this dispute with the bishops, he stripped off his shepherd’s dress, and up through England he goes, with all the haste imaginable, so that he arrived at the place from whence they set out, three days before the judges, and went every day asking if they were come, so that he might not be suspected. As soon as they arrived, all that were concerned in the dispute, and many more, came crowding in, to hear what news from the Scottish shepherds, and to know what was done. No sooner had the three gentlemen declared what had past between the bishops and the shepherds, whom they found on the Scots border, but the old bishop made answer, and think you, said he, that a shepherd could answer these questions? It has been none else but the devil; for the Scots ministers themselves could not do it; they are but ignorant of such matters, a parcel of beardless boys. Then George thought it was time to take speech in hand. Well, my lord bishop, says George, you call them a parcel of ignorant beardless boys. You have a great long beard yourself, my lord bishop, and if grace were measured by beards, you bishops and the goats would have it all, and that will be quite averse to Scripture. What, says the bishop, are you a Scot? Yes, says George, I am a Scot. Well, says the bishop, and what is the difference between a Scot and a sot? Nothing at present, says George, but the breadth of the table, there being a table betwixt the bishop and George. So the bishop went off in a high passion, while the whole multitude were like to split their jaws with laughter.

2. About this time there was an act of parliament for the benefit of murderers, that any person, who committed murder, if they forfeited five hundred marks, which went under the name of Kinboot, because, so much of this went to the murdered person’s nearest relations, as the price of blood, the murderer got a remit. Now George knowing this to be contrary to Moses’ laws, was very much grieved to see so many pardons sealed by the king’s hand for murder, almost one every week; it being so usual for the king to subscribe them, that he would not read them, nor enquire what they were; for which cause, George writes a writ to the crown, and sent it to the king to be subscribed, which he actually did, and never looked what it was, returned it to George. No sooner had he received it, but he goes to the king and told him it was not time for him to be sitting there, whereat, the king greatly amazed, started up; then George in great haste, sets himself down in the king’s chair, forthwith declaring himself king, saying, you who was king must be my fool, for I am now the wisest man. The king at this was greatly offended, until George shewed him his seal and superscription. But from that day forth the king knew what he subscribed.

3. The next pardon that came to be sealed by the king, was a gentleman who had killed two men before, and had got pardons for them by money. This being the third, the king was very silent in looking over the petition: George standing by, asked the king what he was going to seal now? To which he answered, it is a remit for a man who has killed three men at sundry times, I gave him two remits before. O! says George; he has killed but one man. And who killed the other two says the king. You did, says George, for if you had given him justice when he had killed the first, he had killed no more. When the king heard these words he threw down the pen, and declared that such an act to save a murderer, should be null ever after by him.

4. One day, George having no money, he goes away and gets a pick and a spade, and then falls a digging at a corner of the king’s palace; which the king perceiving from his window, calls what he was wanting there? Are you going to undermine my house, and make it fall? No, my sovereign, says George, but it is verily reported that there is plenty of money about this house, and where can it be? says George, I cannot find it, for it is not within the house to do me service, then surely it must be below it. O George! says the king, that is a crave after the new fashion, what money you want I’ll order for you. Then, my sovereign, says George, I’ll dig no more.

5. One time George being in the country, he came to an inn, where he alighted to refresh himself and his horse. The innkeeper charged him double price for every thing he called for.—George never grumbled at this, but gave him all demands, and away he goes on his journey. At the inn where he quartered the following night he was used after the same manner, if not worse. Having little farther to go, he returned next day, and came that night to the inn where he refreshed himself the day before. So, when he alighted, the boy asked him what he would give his horse? What you will, said he. When he had gone to his room, the waiter enquired what he would have to drink? What you will, says he. The master of the inn came into his room before supper, and enquired what he would have for supper? What you will landlord, says he. After supper, and a hearty bowl to put all over, he went to bed. On the morrow, he rose very early, and called for the boy to make ready his horse in all haste, for he was designed to mount and go directly. Soon after, he went into the stable where the boy was, calling for his horse, when he mounted with all the speed he could, and gave the boy a piece of money, saying, here my boy, this is for taking care of my horse; I have paid for all I have ordered in the house, and off he goes. About mid-day he alighted again at an inn to refresh himself and his horse, and there he chanced to be in company with his other landlord where he was the night before, and charged him with the double reckoning: so he addressed himself to him in the following manner.—Sir, says he, I do believe I was in your house yesternight; O yes Sir, says he, I mind of you pretty well. And where was you last night? Last night, says George, I was in one of the finest inns, and the civilest landlord I ever had in my life: they brought all things that I stood in need of unto me, without calling for them; and when I came off this morning, they charged me nothing, and I paid nothing but sixpence to the boy for dressing my horse.—Blood and wounds! said the old fellow, then I’ll go there this night. Ay, says George, do; and mind this, when they ask you what you will have for yourself and your horse, answer nothing but What you will, Sir. George smiling within himself, to think how he had got the one extortioner to take amends of the other. So this innkeeper set off on his journey, and rode so late that night that he might reach the cheap inn, that most of the people were gone to bed before he arrived. As soon as he dismounted from his horse, the boy enquired at him, What shall I give your horse, master? To which he answered, What you will, boy. The boy hearing this, runs away, (leaving him and his horse to stand at the door,) up stairs to his master’s room, crying, master, master, What-you-will is come again:—O the rogue, cries he, where is he?—I’ll cane him—I’ll what you will him by and by. Then to him he runs with his cane, licks, and kicks him until he was scarce able to mount his horse, and would give him no entertainment there, which caused him to ride the whole of a cold winter night, after he had got his bones all beat and bruised. So the one pursued the other as a murderer; and his defence was, that he was a cheat and a scorner of his house, until the truth was found out.

6. About this time, the French king sent, and demanded from the king of England, three men of different qualities. The first was to be a mighty strong man; the second a very wise man; and the third, a very great fool; so that he might have none in all France to match them. So, accordingly, there were two men chosen; the one a strong man, and the other a very wise man, but George was to act as the fool; nevertheless he was the teacher of the other two. On their way to France George asked the strong man, what will you answer the French king, when he asks if you be a strong man? Why, says he, I’ll say I am. Then, says George, he’ll possibly get a stronger man than you, who will kill you, and affront your country: what shall I say then, said the strong man?—Why, says George, tell him you are strong enough untried. Then said he to the wise man, and what will you say to the king when he asks if you are a wise man? Why, I’ll tell him I am, and answer him all the questions I know:—Very well, says George, but what if he asks you what you do not know? then you’ll affront your country, and be looked upon as a greater fool than me: well, and what shall I answer then? said the wise man. Why, says George, tell him he is only a wise man that can take care of himself: and I shall come in after you, and take care of you altogether. As soon as they arrived at the king of France’s palace, the king sent for them, to try them. The strong man was first called for, and in he went; then the king asked him if he was a strong man? to which he answered, O king! I am strong enough untried. Very well, said the king. After him the wise man was called; and the king asked him if he was a wise man? to which he answered, he is only a wise man that can take care of himself. Very well, says the king. On which, George pushed up the door, and in he went with loud laughter, and p—— directly in his Majesty’s face, which blinded both his eyes, and put the whole court in amaze. Now, now, said his Majesty, it is true enough what the wise man says, for if I had taken care of myself, I need not have been p—— upon by the English fool. O ho, says George, fools always strive to make fools of others, but wise men make fools of themselves. By this, his Majesty seemed to think he was made the greatest fool, and charged them to go home, for he wanted no more of England’s strength, wisdom, or folly.

7. One night, a Highland drover chanced to have a drinking-bout with an English captain of a ship, and at last they came to be very hearty over their cups, so that they called in their servants to have a share of their liquor. The drover’s servant looked like a wild man, going without breeches, stockings, or shoes, not so much as a bonnet on his head, with a long peeled rung in his hand. The captain asked the drover, how long it was since he catched him? He answered, it is about two years since I hauled him out of the sea with a net, and afterwards ran into the mountains, where I catched him with a pack of hounds. The captain believed it was so, but says he, I have a servant the best swimmer in the world. O but, says the drover, my servant will swim him to death. No, he will not, says the captain, I’ll lay two hundred crowns on it. Then says the drover, I’ll hold it one to one, and staked directly, the day being appointed when trial was to be made. Now the drover, when he came to himself, thinking on what a bargain he had made, did not know what to do, knowing very well that his servant could swim none. He hearing of George being in town, who was always a good friend to Scotsmen, he went unto him and told him the whole story, and that he would be entirely broke, and durst never return home to his own country, for he was sure to lose it. Then George called the drover and his man aside, and instructed them how to behave, so that they should be safe and gain too. So accordingly they met at the place appointed. The captain’s man stript directly and threw himself into the sea, taking a turn until the Highlandman was ready, for the drover took some time to put his servant in order. After he was stripped, his master took his plaid, and rolled a kebbuck of cheese, a big loaf, and a bottle of gin in it, and this he bound on his shoulders, giving him directions to tell his wife and children that he was well, and to be sure he returned with an answer against that day se’nnight. As he went into the sea, he looked back to his master, and called out to him for his claymore. And what waits he for now? says the captain’s servant. He wants his sword, says his master. His sword, says the fellow: What is he to do with a sword? Why, says his master, if he meets a whale or a monstrous beast, it is to defend his life: I know he will have to fight his way through the north seas, ere he get to Lochaber. Then cried the captain’s servant, I’ll swim none with him, if he take his sword. Ay, but says his master, you shall, or lose the wager; take you another sword with you. No, says the fellow I never did swim with a sword, nor any man else, that ever I saw or heard of, I know not but that wild man will kill me in the deep water; I would not for the whole world, venture myself with him and a sword. The captain seeing his servant afraid to venture, or if he did, he would never see him again alive; therefore he desired an agreement with the drover, who at first seemed unwilling, but the captain putting it in his will, the drover quit him for half the sum. This he came to through George’s advice.

8. George was met one day by three bishops, who paid him the following compliments; says the first, good-morrow, father Abraham; says the second, good-morrow, father Isaac; says the third, good-morrow father Jacob. To which he replied, I am neither father Abraham, father Isaac, nor father Jacob; but I am Saul, the Son of Kish, sent out to seek my father’s asses, and, lo! I have found three of them. Which answer fully convinced the bishops that they had mistaken their man.

9. A poor Scotchman dined one day at a public house in London upon eggs and not having money to pay, got credit till he should return. The man being lucky in trade, acquired vast riches; and after some years happening to pass that way, called at the house where he was owing the dinner of eggs. Having called for the innkeeper, he asked him what he had to pay for the dinner of eggs he got from him such a time? The landlord seeing him now rich, gave him a bill of several pounds; telling him, as his reason for so extravagant a charge, that these eggs had they been hatched, would have been chickens; and these laying more eggs, would have been more chickens: and so on multiplying the eggs and their product, till such time as their value amounted to the sum charged. The man refusing to comply with this demand, was charged before a judge. He then made his case known to George, his countryman, who promised to appear in the hour of cause, which he accordingly did, all in a sweat, with a great basket of boiled pease, which appearance surprised the judge, who asked him what he meant by these boiled pease? says George I am going to sow them. When will they grow? said the judge. They will grow, said George, when sodden eggs grow chickens. Which answer convinced the judge of the extravagance of the innkeeper’s demand, and the Scotsman was acquitted for twopence halfpenny.

George, one day easing himself at the corner of a hedge, was espied by an English squire who began to mock him asking him why he did not keckle like the hens? But George, whose wit was always ready, told him he was afraid to keckle, lest he would come and snatch up the egg, which rebuff made the squire walk off as mute as a fish.

George was professor of the College of St Andrews, and slipt out one day in his gown and slippers, and went on his travels through Italy, and several other foreign countries and after seven years, returned with the same dress he went off in; and entering the college, took possession of his seat there; but the professor in his room quarreling him for so doing. Ay, says George, it is a very odd thing that a man cannot take a walk out in his slippers, but another will take up his seat. And so set the other professor about his business.

Two drunken fellows one day fell a beating one another on the streets of London, which caused a great crowd of people to throng together to see what it was. A tailor being at work up in a garret, about three or four stories high, and he hearing the noise in the street, looking over the window, but could not well see them; he began to stretch himself, making a long neck, until he fell down out of the window, and alighted on an old man who was walking on the street; the poor tailor was more afraid than hurt, but the man he fell on died directly. His son caused the tailor to be apprehended, and tried for the murder of his father; the jury could not bring it in wilful murder, neither could they altogether free the tailor; the jury gave it over to the judges, and the judges to the king. The king asked George’s advice in this hard matter. Why, says George, I will give you my opinion in a minute; you must cause the tailor to stand in the street, where the old gentleman was when he was killed by the tailor, and then let the old gentleman’s son the tailor’s adversary, get up to the window from whence the tailor fell, and jump down, and so kill the tailor as he did his father. The tailor’s adversary hearing this sentence past, he would not venture to jump over the window, and so the tailor got clear off.

George went into the mint one day, when they were melting gold. One of them asked George, if he would have his hat full of gold? George readily accorded, but it burnt the bottom out of his hat, as they knew it would, and for the bout foiled George. However, George, to be up with them, bought a fine large hat, and caused a plate of copper to be put betwixt the hat and the linen; and returning next day they jestingly asked him, if he would have another hat full of gold? He said he would: They gave it red hot, and George now laughed at them in his turn; telling them, that his new hat was a good one, and stood fire better than the old one, and so carried it off honestly, and being afterwards prosecuted for to return it, he excused himself, telling the judge, that he took nothing but was given him, and therefore he was honourably acquitted, and the other heartily laughed at.

George being now far advanced in years, and being weary of the great fatigue and folly of the court fashions, a short time before his death, he had a great desire to visit his native country, and the place of his nativity. Therefore he petitioned the king for permission to do so which was granted. So he set out for Scotland, and went to the parish of Buchanan, in Dumbartonshire, where he visited all his relations and friends.—But George staying longer from court than the time allowed, the king sent him several messages to return, to which he returned no answer. At last the king sent him a letter threatening, that if he did not appear before him in the space of twenty days he would send his Lyon Heralds for him; to which George returned the following answer.

My honour’d Liege, and sovereign King,

Of your boasting great I dread nothing:

On your feud or favour I’ll fairly venture;

Or that day I’ll be where few kings enter.

And also gave him many good admonitions and directions concerning the government of his kingdom and the well being of his soul; which drew tears from the king’s eyes when he read it.

WILL SCOTT

A celebrated attendant upon the Sheriff, well known for his activity in the execution of his orders, as well as for taking a bit comfortable guzzel when finances would afford it, was one Sabbath day snugly seated in the pew behind the Bailies at church. Will had not been there long till he was soon lull’d into sweet slumbers, and fancied himself seated along with his companions over a good Imperial Half-mutchkin, and in a short time the reckoning came a-paying, when some of the party insisted it was already paid; however, Will happened not to be of that opinion, and true to his integrity, bawled out with all his might in the midst of the sermon, “No, no, by my faith it’s no pay’t, we have had just a’e half-mutchkin, an’ twa bottles o’ ale and there’s no a fardin o’t pay’t.”

GRAVE-DIGGER OF SORN.

The Grave-digger of Sorn, Ayrshire, was as selfish and as mean a sinner as ever handled mattock, or carried mortcloth. He was a very quarrelsome and discontented old man, with a voice like the whistle of the wind thro’ a key-hole. On a bleak Sunday afternoon in the country, an acquaintance from a neighbouring parish accosted him one day, and asked how the world was moving with him, “Oh, very puirly, sir, very puirly indeed,” was the answer, “the yard has done naething ava for us this summer, if ye like to believe me, I havna buried a levin’ soul this sax weeks.”

THE END.

A BRIEF RELATION

OF THE

ADVENTURES

OF

BAMFYLDE MOORE CAREW,

WHO WAS FOR MORE THAN FORTY YEARS

KING OF THE BEGGARS.

GLASGOW:

PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

ADVENTURES
OF
BAMFYLDE MOORE CAREW.

Mr. Bamfylde Moore Carew was the son of a clergyman near Tiverton, in Devonshire, and born in 1693. He was tall and majestic, his limbs strong and well proportioned, his features regular, and his countenance open and ingenious, bearing the resemblance of a good-natured mind. At twelve years old he was put to Tiverton school, where he soon got a considerable knowledge of the Latin and Greek tongues, so as to be fitted for the University, that in due time he might be fitted for the church, for which his father designed him; but here a new exercise engaged his attention, namely, that of hunting, in which he soon made a prodigious progress. The Tiverton scholars had command of a fine cry of hounds, which gave Carew a frequent opportunity of exercising his beloved employment, and getting acquainted with John Martin, Thomas Coleman, and John Escott, young gentlemen of the best rank and fortune. One day a farmer came to the school and complained of a deer, with a collar round his neck, that he had seen running through his grounds, and had done him much damage, desiring them to hunt it down and kill it. They, wishing for no better sport, on the next day put the old farmer’s request into execution, in doing of which they did much damage to the neighbouring grounds, whose owners, together with Colonel Nutcombe, to whom the deer belonged, came and complained to the schoolmaster of the injuries they had suffered by his scholars: they were very severely reprimanded, and hard threatened for the same. The resentment of the present reproof, and the fear of future chastisement, made them abscond from the school; and going into a brick alehouse, about half a mile from Tiverton, there they accidentally fell in company with some gypsies, who were then feasting and carousing. This company consisted of seventeen, who were met on purpose for festivity and jollity; which, by plenty of meat, fowl, flowing cups of beer, cider, &c., they seemed to enjoy to their hearts’ content. In short, the freedom, mirth, and pleasure that appeared among them, invited our youngsters to enlist into their company; which on communicating to the gypsies, they would not believe them, as thinking they jested; but on tarrying with them all night, and continuing in the same mind next morning, they at length thought them serious, and encouraged them; and, after going through the requisite ceremonials, and administering to them the proper oath, they admitted them into their number.

The reader will no doubt wonder to hear of the ceremonials and oaths among gypsies and beggars, but that will cease on being informed, that these people are subject to a form of government and laws peculiar to themselves, and pay due obedience to one who is styled their king; to which honour Carew in a short time arrived, after having by many acts proved himself worthy of it. The substance of them is this:—strong love and mutual regard for each member in particular, and the whole community in general; which being taught them in their infancy, grows up with them, prevents oppression, frauds, and overreaching one another, which is common among other people, and tends to the very worst of evils. This happiness and temper of mind so wrought on Carew, as to occasion the strongest attachment to them for forty years, refusing very large offers that had been made to him to quit their society.

Being thus initiated into the ancient society of gypsies, who take their name from Egypt, a place well known to abound in learning, and the inhabitants of which country travel about from place to place to communicate knowledge to mankind.—Carew did not long continue in it before he was consulted in important matters; particularly Madam Musgrove, of Monkton, near Taunton, hearing of his fame, sent for him to consult him in an affair of difficulty. When he was come, she informed him, that she suspected a large quantity of money was buried somewhere about her house, and if he would acquaint her with the particular place, she would handsomely reward him. Carew consulted the secrets of his art on this occasion, and, after a long study, he informed the lady, that under a laurel tree in the garden lay the treasure she sought for; but that she must not seek it till such a day and hour. The lady rewarded him with twenty guineas; but, whether Carew mistook his calculation, or the lady mistook her lucky hour, we cannot tell; but truth obliges us to say, the lady having dug below the root of the laurel tree, she could not find the treasure.

When he was further initiated, he was consulted in important matters and met with better success; generally giving satisfaction by his wise and sagacious answers. In the mean time his parents sorrowed after him, as one that was no more, having advertised him in all the public papers, and sent messengers after him to almost every part of the kingdom; till about a year and a half afterwards, when Carew, hearing of their grief, and being struck with tenderness thereat, repaired to his father’s house. He was so disguised they did not know him, but when they did their joy was beyond expressing, tenderly embracing him, bedewing his cheeks with tears and kisses; and all his friends and neighbours shewed every demonstration of joy at his return. His parents did every thing to render home agreeable to him; but the uncommon pleasure he had enjoyed in the community he had left, their simplicity, freedom, sincerity, mirth, and frequent change of habitation, and the secret presages of the honour he has since arrived at, sickened and palled all other diversions, and at last prevailed over his filial duty; for one day without taking leave of his friends or parents, he went back to them again, where he was heartily welcomed, both to his own and their satisfaction, they being glad to regain one who was likely to become so useful a member of their community.

Carew’s first adventure in his new profession.

Carew being again initiated among them, at the first general assembly of the gypsies, took the oaths of allegiance to their sovereign, by whom he was soon sent out on a cruise against their enemies. Carew now set his wits to work how to succeed: so equipping himself with an old pair of trowsers, a piece of a jacket, just enough to cover his nakedness, stockings full of holes, and an old cap, he forgot both friends and family, and became nothing more or less than an unfortunate shipwrecked seaman. In this, his first excursion, he gained much credit, artfully imitating passes and certificates that were necessary for him to travel unmolested. After a month’s travel he happened to meet with his old school-fellow Coleman, who had once left the gypsies’ society, but for the same reason as himself, returned to them again. Great was their joy at meeting, and they agreed to travel some time together; so entering Exeter, they in one day raised a contribution of several pounds.

Having obtained all he could from this stratagem, he then became a plain, honest farmer, whose grounds had been overflowed, and cattle drowned; his dejected countenance and mournful tale, together with a wife and seven helpless infants being partakers of his misfortunes, gained him both pity and profit.

Having obtained a considerable booty by these two stratagems, he returned to his companions, where he was received with great applause; and, as a mark of their respect, seated him next the king. He soon became a great man in the profession, and confined not himself from doing good to others, when it did not infringe upon the community of which he was a member.

His next stratagem was to become a mad-man; so stripping himself quite naked, he threw a blanket over him, and then he was, “Poor mad Tom, whom the foul fiend has led through fire and through flame! through fire and whirlpool, over bog and quagmire; that hath laid knives under his pillow, and halters in his pew; set ratsbane for his porridge, and made him proud at heart to ride on a bay trotting-horse over four-inch bridges; to curse his own shadow for a traitor; who eats the swimming-frog, the toad, the tadpole, the wall-newt, and the water-newt; that in the fury of his heart, when the foul fiend rages, swallows the old rat and ditch dog; drinks the green mantle of the standing pool;

And mice and rats, and such like gear,

Have been Tom’s food for seven long year.

O do de, do de, do de! bless thee! from whirlwind, star-blasting, and taking! Do poor Tom some charity, whom the foul fiend vexes—There I could have him now—and there!—and there!—and here again!—and there!—Through the sharp hawthorn blows the cold wind—Tom’s a cold!—who gives any thing to poor Tom?”

In this character, with such-like expressions, he entered the houses of both small and great, claiming kindred to them, and committing all kinds of frantic actions, such as beating himself, offering to eat coals of fire, running against the wall, and tearing to pieces whatever garments were given to him to cover his nakedness; by which means he raised considerable contributions.

He never was more happy than when he was engaged in some adventure; therefore he was always very diligent to enquire when any accident happened, especially fire, to which he would immediately repair, and, getting information of the causes, names, trades, and circumstances of the unhappy sufferers, he would assume one of them, and burning some part of his clothes, by way of demonstration, run to some place distant, pass for one of them, gain credit, and get much profit. Under this character he had once the boldness to address a justice, who was the terror and professed enemy to all the gypsies, yet he so well managed the affair, that in a long examination he made him believe he was an honest miller, whose house, mill and substance had been consumed by fire, occasioned by the negligence of the apprentice; and accordingly, got a bountiful sum for his relief, the justice not in the least suspecting a defraud.

He had such wonderful facility in every character he assumed, that he even deceived those who thought themselves so well acquainted with him, that it was impossible for him to impose on them.

Coming one day to ‘Squire Portman’s house at Blandford, in the character of a rat-catcher, with a hair cap on his head, a buff girdle about his waist, a little box by his side, and a tame rat in his hand, he goes boldly up to the house, where he had been well known before, and meeting the ’squire, Parson Bryant, and one Mr. Pleydell, of Milbourn, and some other gentlemen, he asked them if they had any rats to kill. “Do you understand the business well?” says the ’squire. “Yes, an please your honour,” replied Carew, “I have been a rat-catcher for many years, and have been employed in his Majesty’s yards and ships.” “Well,” says the ’squire, “go in and get some victuals, and after dinner we will try your abilities.” He was accordingly called into the parlour, where were a large company of gentlemen and ladies. “Well, honest rat-catcher,” says the squire, “can you lay any scheme to kill the rats without hurting my dogs?” “Yes, yes,” cries Carew, “I can lay it where even the rats cannot climb to reach it.”—“What countryman are you?”—“A Devonshireman, an please your honour.” “What is your name?” Here our hero began to perceive that he was discovered, by the smilings and whisperings of several gentlemen, and he very composedly answered,—“My name is Bamfylde Moore Carew.” This occasioned much mirth, and Mr. Pleydell expressed extraordinary pleasure. He had often wished to see him, but never had.—“Yes you have,” replied Carew, “and given me a suit of clothes. Do you not remember meeting a poor wretch one day at your stable door, with a stocking round his head, an old mantle over his shoulders, without shirt, stockings, or scarce any shoes, who told you he was a poor unfortunate man, cast away upon the coast, with sixteen more of the crew, who were all drowned; you, believing this story, generously relieved me with a guinea and a good suit of clothes.” “I well remember it,” said Mr. Pleydell, “but, on this discovery, it is impossible to deceive me so again, come in whatever shape you will.” The company blamed him for thus boasting, and secretly prevailed upon Carew to put his art in practice to convince him of the fallacy thereof: to which he agreed, and in a few days after appointing the company present to be at Mr. Pleydell’s house, he put the following scheme into execution.

He shaved himself closely, and clothed himself in an old woman’s apparel, with a high-crowned hat, and a large dowdy under his chin; then taking three children from among his fraternity, he tied two on his back and one under his arm. Thus accoutred, he comes to Mr. Pleydell’s door, and pinching one of the brats, set it a roaring; this gave the alarm to the dogs, who came out with open mouths, so that the whole company was soon alarmed. Out came the maid, saying, “Carry away the children, good woman, they disturb the ladies.” “God bless their ladyships,” said Carew, “I am the poor unfortunate grandmother of these helpless infants, whose mother and all they had were burnt at the dreadful fire at Kirkton, and hope the good ladies, for Heaven’s sake, will bestow something on the poor famishing, starving infants.” In goes the maid with this affecting story to the ladies, while Carew keeps pinching the children to make them cry, and the maid soon returned with half-a-crown and some good broth, which he thankfully received, and went into the court-yard to sit down to sup them, as perceiving the gentlemen were not at home. He had not long been there before they came, when one of them accosted him thus: “Where do you come from, old woman?” “From Kirkton, please your honours,” said he, “where the poor unhappy mother of these helpless infants was burnt in the flames, and all she had consumed.” “There has been more money collected for Kirkton than ever Kirkton was worth,” said the gentleman. However, they gave the supposed old grandmother a shilling, commiserating the hard case of her and her poor helpless infants, which he thankfully received, pretending to go away; but the gentlemen were hardly got into the house, before their ears were suddenly saluted with a “tantivy, tantivy,” and a “halloo” to the dogs; on which they turned about, supposing it to be some other sportsmen; but seeing nobody, they imagined it to be Carew, in the disguise of the old Kirkton grandmother; so bidding the servants fetch him back, he was brought into the parlour among them all, and confessed himself to be the famous Mr. Bamfylde Moore Carew, to the astonishment and mirth of them all; who well rewarded him for the diversion he had afforded them.

In like manner he raised a contribution twice in one day of Mr. Jones, near Bristol. In the morning, with a sooty face, leather apron, a dejected countenance, and a woollen cap, he was generously relieved as an unfortunate blacksmith, whose all had been consumed by fire. In the afternoon he exchanged his legs for crutches, and, with a dejected countenance, pale face, and every sign of pain, he became a disabled tinner, incapable of maintaining a wife and seven small children, by the damps and hardships he had suffered in the mines; and so well acted his part, that the tinner got as well relieved in the afternoon as the blacksmith in the morning.

These successful stratagems gained him high applause and honour in the community of gypsies. He soon became the favourite of their king, who was very old and decrepid, and had always some honourable mark of distinction assigned him at their assemblies.

Being one morning near the seat of his good friend Sir William Courtney, he was resolved to pay him three visits that day. He therefore puts on a parcel of rags, and goes to him with a piteous, mean, dismal countenance, and deplorable tale, and got half-a-crown from him, telling him he had met with great misfortunes at sea. At noon he puts on a leather apron scorched with fire, and with a dejected countenance goes to him again, and was relieved as an unfortunate shoemaker, who had been burnt out of his house and all he had. In the afternoon he goes again in trimmed clothes, and desiring admittance to Sir William, with a modest grace and submissive eloquence, he repeats his misfortunes, as the supercargo of a vessel which had been cast away, and his whole effects lost.

Sir William, seeing his genteel appearance and behaviour, treated him with respect, and gave him a guinea at his departure. There were several gentlemen at dinner with Sir William at that time, none of whom had any knowledge of him except the Rev. Mr. Richards, who did not discover him till he was gone; upon which a servant was despatched to desire him to come back, which he did; and when he entered the room they were very merry with him and requested him to give an account how he got his fine clothes, and of his stratagems, with the success of them. He asked Sir William if he had not given half-a-crown in the morning to a beggar, and about noon relieved a poor unfortunate shoemaker. “I did,” said Sir William. “Behold him before you,” said Carew, “in this fine embroidered coat, as a broken merchant.” The company would not believe him; so, to convince them, he re-assumed those characters again, to their no small mirth and satisfaction.

Carew made King of the Beggars.

On the death of the king of the gypsies, named Clause Patch, our hero was a candidate to succeed him, and exhibited to the electors a long list of bold and ingenious stratagems which he had executed, and made so graceful and majestic an appearance in his person, that he had a considerable majority of voices, though there were ten candidates for the same honour; on which he was declared duly elected, and hailed by the whole assembly—King of the Gypsies. The public register of their acts being immediately committed to his care, and homage done him by all the assembly, the whole concluded by rejoicings.

Though Mr. Carew was now privileged, by the dignity of his office, from going on any cruise, and was provided with every thing necessary, by the joint contribution of the community, yet he did not give himself up to indolence. Our hero, though a king, was as active in his stratagems as ever, and ready to encounter any difficulty which seemed to promise success.

Mr. Carew being in the town of South Molton, in Devonshire, and having been ill-used by an officer there, called the bellman, resolved on the following stratagem, by way of revenge. It was at that time reported that a gentleman of the town, lately buried, walked nightly in the church-yard; and as the bellman was obliged by his nightly duty to go through it just at the very hour of one, Mr. Carew repaired thither a little before the time, and stripping in his shirt, lay down upon the gentleman’s grave. Soon after, hearing the bellman approach, he raised himself up with a solemn slowness, which the bellman beholding, by the glimmerings of the moon through a dark cloud, was terribly frightened, so took to his heels and ran away. In his fright he looked behind him, and seeing the ghost following him, dropped his bell and ran the faster; which Carew seized on as a trophy, and forbore any further pursuit. The bellman did not stop till he reached home, where he obstinately affirmed he had seen the gentleman’s ghost, who had taken away the bell, which greatly alarmed the whole town.

Coming to the seat of ’Squire Rhodes, in Devonshire, and knowing he had lately married a Dorsetshire lady, he thought proper to become a Dorsetshire man of Lyme, the place of the lady’s nativity; and meeting the ’squire and his bride, he gave them to understand that he was lost in a vessel belonging to Lyme, Captain Courtney commander. The ’squire and his lady gave him half-a-crown each, for country sake, and entertained him at their house.

Our hero exercising his profession at Milbury, where the ’squire’s father lived, and to whom the son was come on a visit, Mr. Carew made application to him, and knocking at the door, on its being opened, saw the young ’squire sitting alone, whom Mr. Rhodes interrupted by saying he was twice in one day imposed on by that rogue Carew, of whose gang you may likely be: besides, I do not live here, but am a stranger. In the mean time comes the old ’squire, with a bottle of wine in his hand, giving Carew a wink to let him understand he knew him, and then very gravely enquired into the circumstances of his misfortunes, and also of the affairs and inhabitants of Dartmouth, from whence he pretended to have sailed several times, of all which he gave a full and particular account: whereupon the old ’squire gave him half-a-crown, and the young one the same; on which Carew and the old man burst into laughter, and discovered the whole affair, at which ’Squire Rhodes was a little chagrined at being imposed on a third time; but on recollecting the expertness of the performer, was well satisfied, and they spent the remainder of the day in mirth and jollity.

At Bristol he dressed himself like a poor mechanic, and then going out into the streets, acted the religious madman, talking in a raving manner about Messrs. Whitfield and Wesley, as though he was disordered in his mind by their preaching; calling in a furious manner, every step, upon the Virgin Mary, Pontius Pilate, and Mary Magdalene, and acting every part of a man religiously mad. Sometimes walking with his eyes fixed upon the ground, and then on a sudden he would break out in some passionate expressions about religion. This behaviour greatly excited the curiosity and compassion of the people; some of them talked to him, but he answered every thing they said in a wild and incoherent manner; and as compassion is generally the forerunner of charity, he was relieved by most of them.

Next morning he appeared in a morning gown, still acting the madman, and addressed himself to all the posts of the street, as if they were saints, lifting up his hands and eyes to heaven, in a fervent but distracted manner, and making use of so many extravagant gestures, that he astonished the whole city. Going through Castle Street, he met the Rev. Mr. B——e, whom he accosted with his arms thrown round him, and insisted, in a raving manner, he should tell him who was the father of the morning star; which frightened the parson so much, that he took to his heels and ran for it, Carew running after him, till the parson was obliged to take shelter in a house.

Having well recruited his pocket by this stratagem, he left Bristol next day, and travelled towards Bath, acting the madman all the way till he came to Bath: as soon as he came there, he enquired for Dr. Coney’s, and being directed to his house, found two brother mendicants at the door. After they had waited some time, the servant brought out each of them a halfpenny, for which his brother mendicants were very thankful. But Carew gave his halfpenny to one of them; then knocking at the door, and the maid coming out again, “Tell your master” says he, “I am not a halfpenny man, but that my name is Bamfylde Moore Carew, king of the mendicants;” which being told, the doctor came out with one of his daughters, and gave him sixpence and a mug of drink, for which he returned them thanks.

Mr. Carew happening to be in the city of Wells on a Sunday, was told the bishop was to preach that morning: on which he slipped on a black waistcoat and morning gown, and ran out to meet the bishop as he was walking in procession, and addressed himself to him as a poor unhappy man, whose misfortunes had turned his brains; which the bishop hearing gave him half-a-crown.

It was in Newcastle-upon-Tyne that he became enamoured with the daughter of Mr. G——y, an eminent apothecary and surgeon there. This young lady had charms sufficient to captivate the heart of any man susceptible of love; and they made so deep an impression upon him, that they wholly effaced every object which before had created any desire in him, and never permitted any other to raise them afterwards; for, wonderful to tell! we have, after about thirty years’ enjoyment, seen him lament her occasional absence almost with tears, and talk of her with all the fondness of one who has been in love with her but three days. Our hero tried all love’s persuasions with his fair one in an honourable way; and as his person was very engaging, and his appearance genteel, he did not find her greatly averse to his proposals. As he was aware that his being of the community of gypsies might prejudice her against him, without examination he passed with her for the mate of a collier’s vessel, in which he was supported by Captain L——n, in whose vessel they set sail; and the very winds being willing to favour these happy lovers, they had an exceedingly quick passage to Dartmouth, where they landed. In a few days they set out for Bath, where they lawfully solemnized their nuptials with great gaiety and splendour; and nobody at that time could conjecture who they were, which was the cause of much speculation and false surmises.

Some time after this, he took his passage at Folkstone, in Kent, for Boulogne, in France, where he arrived safe, and proceeded to Paris, and other noted cities of that kingdom. His habit was now tolerably good, his countenance grave, his behaviour sober and decent—pretending to be a Roman Catholic, who had left England, his native country, out of an ardent zeal for spending his days in the bosom of the Catholic church. This story readily gained belief: his zeal was universally applauded, and handsome contributions made for him. But, at the time he was so zealous a Roman Catholic, with a little change of habit, he used to address those English he heard of in any place, as a protestant, and shipwrecked seaman; and had the good fortune to meet with an English physician at Paris, to whom he told this deplorable tale, who not only relieved him very handsomely, but recommended him to that noble pattern of unexhausted benevolence, Mrs. Horner, who was then on her travels, from whom he received ten guineas, and from some other company with her five more.

It was about this time he became acquainted with the Hon. Sir William W——m, in the following manner:—Being at Watchett, in Somersetshire, near the seat of that gentlemen, he resolved to pay him a visit. Putting on, therefore, a jacket and a pair of trousers, he made the best of his way to Sir William’s seat, and luckily met Sir William, Lord Bolingbroke, and several other gentlemen and clergy, with some commanders of vessels, walking in the park. Carew approached Sir William with a great deal of seeming fearfulness and respect; and with much modesty acquainted him he was a Silverton man, that he was the son of one of his tenants named Moore—had been to Newfoundland, and in his passage homeward, the vessel was run down by a French ship in a fog, and only he and two more were saved; but being put on board an Irish vessel, were carried into Ireland, and from thence landed at Watchett. Sir William hearing this, asked him a great many questions concerning the inhabitants of Silverton, who were most of them his own tenants, and of the principal gentlemen in the neighbourhood; all whom Carew was well acquainted with, and therefore gave satisfactory answers. Sir William at last asked him, if he knew Bickley, and if he knew the parson thereof? Carew replied, that he knew him very well, and so indeed he might, as it was no other than his own father! Sir William then enquired what family he had, and whether he had not a son named Bamfylde, and what became of him. “Your honour,” replied he, “means the beggar and dog-stealer—I don’t know what has become of him, but it is a wonder if he is not hanged by this time.” “No, I hope not,” replied Sir William, “I should be glad, for his family’s sake, to see him at my house.” Having satisfactorily answered many other questions, Sir William generously relieved him with a guinea, and Lord Bolingbroke followed his example; the other gentlemen and clergy contributed according to their different ranks. Sir William then ordered him to go to his house, and tell the butler to entertain him, which he accordingly did, and set himself down with great comfort.

Having heard that young Lord Clifford, his first cousin, (who had just returned from his travels abroad,) was at his seat at Callington, about four miles from Bridgewater, he resolved to pay him a visit. In his way thither resided parson C——, who being one whom nature had made up in a hurry without a heart, Mr Carew had never been able to obtain any thing of him, even under the most moving appearance of distress, but a small cup of drink. Stopping now in his way, he found the parson was gone to Lord Clifford’s; but being saluted at the door by a fine black spaniel, with almost as much crustiness as he would have been had his master been at home, he thought himself under no stronger obligation of observing the strict laws of honour, than the parson did of hospitality; and therefore soon charmed the crossness of the spaniel, and made him follow him to Bridgewater.

Having secured the spaniel, and passed the night merrily at Bridgewater, he set out the next morning for Lord Clifford’s, and in his way called upon the parson again, who very crustily told him he had lost his dog, and supposed some of his gang had stolen him: to which Mr. Carew very calmly replied, What was he to his dog, or what was his dog to him? if he would make him drink it was well, for he was very dry: at last with the use of much rhetoric, he got a cup of small drink; then, taking leave of him, he went to the Red-Lion, in the same parish, where he staid some time. In the mean time, down ran the parson to my Lord Clifford’s, to acquaint him that Mr. Carew was in the parish, and to advise him to take care of his dogs; so that Mr. Carew, coming down immediately after, found a servant with one dog in his arms, and another with another: here one stood whistling and another calling, and both my lord and his brother were running about to seek after their favourites.

Mr. Carew asked my lord what was the meaning of this hurry, and if his dogs were cripples, because he saw several carried in the servant’s arms; adding, he hoped his lordship did not imagine he was come to steal any of them. Upon which his lordship told him, that parson C—— had advised him to be careful, as he had lost his spaniel but the day before. “It may be so,” replied he, “the parson knows but little of me, or the laws of our community, if he is ignorant that with us ingratitude is unknown, and the property of our friends always sacred.” His lordship, hearing this, entertained him very handsomely, and both himself and his brother made him a present.

On his return home, he reflected how idly he had spent the prime of life; and recovering from a severe illness, he came to a resolution of resigning the Egyptian sceptre. The assembly finding him determined, reluctantly acquiesced, and he departed amidst the applause and sighs of his subjects.

Our adventurer, finding the air of the town not rightly to agree with him, and the death of some of his relations rendering his circumstances quite easy, he retired to the western parts, to a neat purchase he had made, and there he ended his days, beloved and esteemed by all; leaving his daughter (his wife dying some time before him) a genteel fortune; who was married to a neighbouring young gentleman.

ANECDOTES.

AN IRISH WAGER.

Two natives of the Emerald Isle, who were travelling together, finding their means run short, and being in want of a “dhrop of the craythur,” devised the ways and means for raising a supply. Catching a frog in a ditch, one of them went on with it in advance of his companion, and stopping at the first public-house he came to, asked the landlord if he could tell what sort of an animal that was? “What sort of an animal?” exclaimed Boniface, “why, you booby, it’s a frog, to be sure.” “Booby here, booby there,” said Pat, “it strikes me you’re mistaken, for as ’cute as you think yourself, I’ll bet you the price of a pint of whisky it’s a mouse; and I’ll lave it to the first traveller that comes up to decide between us.” “Agreed,” said the landlord. Pat’s confederate came up; and being required to say what sort of an animal it was, after much examination and deliberation, declared it to be a mouse; and thus the landlord, in spite of the evidence of his senses, had to pay the wager.

A SAD MISTAKE.

A farm servant in Strathearn having intimated to his master that it was his intention “to take unto himself a wife,” and being rather a bit of a favourite, was ordered to take a greybeard and go to Perth for a gallon of whisky, for the purpose of adding to the hilarity of the occasion. The lad willingly did as ordered; and when the marriage company were about starting to meet the bride, stalked majestically into the middle of the room, with glass in hand, and the greybeard under his arm, and filling a bumper, handed it to the nearest person, who hurriedly swallowed it, but instantly shaking his head, gravely remarked, that it was “shurely some o’ the new-fangled mixture graith.” Being in too great haste to give the observation that attention it merited, the second was instantly filled and tasted; but how aghast did the company look when the recipient roared out in a voice of horror, “L—d, Jock, that’s uily!” And “uily” it was. The bridegroom, on going to St. Johnston, had taken the wrong jar, and having requested the shopman to “fill that wi’ the auld thing,” the wary functionary, to catch the plain meaning, smelled the jar, and implemented the order accordingly. Although the mistake was felt severely at the time, we are happy to say that a good horse speedily bore the needful from a neighbouring public-house, and everything afterwards went on with a spirit which, instead of being damped, appeared to have been augmented by the mischance.

SCOTCH ANECDOTE.

An anxious Scotch mother was taking leave of her son on his departure for England, and giving him all good advice. “My dear Sauny, my ainly son, gang south and get all the siller from the southerns, take every thing you can, but the English are a braw boxing people, and take care of them Sauny. My dear son Sauny, never fight a bald man, for you cannot catch hold of him by the hair of his head.”

AMERICAN WIT.

“Master, if that house cost five hundred dollars, and a barrel of nails five dollars, what would a good sizeable pig come to? Do you give it up? Well, he’d come to a bushel of corn.”

A BRIGHT IDEA.

“What is light?” asked a school-master of the booby of the class. “A sovereign that isn’t full weight is light.”

FINIS.

Daniel O’Rourke’s

WONDERFUL

VOYAGE TO THE MOON.

ALSO,

Master and Man;

OR,

The Adventures of Billy Mac Daniel.

GLASGOW:

PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

DANIEL O’ROURKE’S
Wonderful Voyage to the Moon.

People may have heard of the renowned adventures of Daniel O’Rourke but how few are there who know that the cause of all his perils, above and below, was neither more nor less than his having slept under the walls of the Phooka’s tower. I knew the man well; he lived at the bottom of Hungry Hill, just at the right hand side of the road as you go towards Bantry. An old man was he at the time that he told me the story, with gray hair, and a red nose; and it was on the 25th of June, 1813, that I heard it from his own lips, as he sat smoking his pipe under the old poplar tree, on as fine an evening as ever shone from the sky. I was going to visit the caves in Dursey Island, having spent the morning at Glengariff.

‘I am often axed to tell it, sir,’ said he, ‘so that this is not the first time. The master’s son, you see, had come from beyond foreign parts in France and Spain, as young gentlemen used to go, before Buonaparte or any such was heard of; and sure enough there was a dinner given to all the people on the ground, gentle and simple, high and low, rich and poor. The ould gentlemen were the gentlemen, after all, saving your honour’s presence. They’d swear at a body a little, to be sure, and, may be, give one a cut of a whip now and then, but we were no losers by it in the end;—and they were so easy and civil, and kept such rattling houses, and thousands of welcomes, and there was no grinding for rent, and few agents; and there was hardly a tenant on the estate that did not taste of his landlord’s bounty often and often in the year;—but now it’s another thing; no matter for that, sir, for I’d better be telling you my story.

‘Well, we had every thing of the best, and plenty of it; and we ate, and we drank, and we danced, and the young master by the same token danced with Peggy Barry, from the Bothereen—a lovely young couple they were, though they are both long enough now. To make a long story short, I got, as a body may say, the same thing as tipsy almost, for I can’t remember ever at all, no ways, how I left the place; only I did leave it that’s certain. Well, I thought, for all that, in myself, I’d just step to Molly Cronohan’s, the fairy woman, to speak a word about the bracket heifer that was bewitched; and so as I was crossing the stepping stones at the ford of Ballyashenogh, and was looking up at the stars and blessing myself—for why? it was Lady-day.—I missed my foot, and souse I fell into the water. ‘Death alive!’ thought I, ‘I’ll be drowned now!’ However, I began swimming, swimming, swimming away for the dear life, till at last I got ashore, somehow or other, but never the one of me can tell how, upon a dissolute island.

‘I wandered and wandered about there, without knowing where I wandered, until at last I got into a big bog. The moon was shining as bright as day, or your fair lady’s eyes, sir, (with your pardon for mentioning her,) and I looked east and west, and north and south, and every way, and nothing did I see but bog, bog, bog; I could never find out how I got into it, and my heart grew cold with fear, for sure and certain I was that it would be my barrin place. So I sat down upon a stone which, as good luck would have it, was close by me, and I began to scratch my head and sing the Ullagon—when all of a sudden the moon grew black, and I looked up, and saw something for all the world as if it was moving down between me and it, and I could not tell what it was. Down it came with a pounce, and looked at me full in the face; and what was it but an eagle? as fine a one as ever flew from the kingdom of Kerry. So he looked at me in the face, and says he to me, ‘Daniel O’Rourke,’ says he, ‘how do you do?’ ‘Very well, I thank you, sir,’ says I: ‘I hope you’re well;’ wondering out of my senses all the time how an eagle came to speak like a Christian. ‘What brings you here, Dan?’ says he. ‘Nothing at all, sir,’ says I: ‘only I wish I was safe home again.’ ‘Is it out of the island you want to go, Dan?’ says he. ‘’Tis sir,’ says I: so I up and told him how I had taken a drop too much, and fell into the water; how I swam to the island; and how I got into the bog and did not know my way out of it. ‘Dan,’ says he, after a minute’s thought, ‘though it is very improper for you to get drunk on Lady-day, yet as you are a decent sober man, who tends mass well, and never flings stones at me or mine, nor cries out after us in the fields—my life for yours,’ says he; ‘so get up on my back, and grip me well for fear you’d fall off, and I’ll fly you out of the bog,’—I am afraid, says I, your honour’s making game of me; for who ever heard of riding a horseback on an eagle before? ‘Pon the honour of a gentleman, says he, putting his right foot on his breast I am quite in earnest: and so now either take my offer or starve in the bog—besides, I see that your weight is sinking the stone.

It was true enough as he said, for I found the stone every minute going from under me. I had no choice: so thinks I to myself, faint heart never won fair lady, and this is fair persuadance;—I thank your honour, says I, for the load of your civility: and I’ll take your kind offer: I therefore mounted upon the back of the eagle, and held him tight enough by the throat, and up he flew in the air like a lark. Little I knew the trick he was going to serve me. Up—up—up—God knows how far up he flew. Why, then said I to him—thinking he did not know the right road home—very civilly, because why?—I was in his power entirely;—sir, says I, please your honour’s glory, and with humble submission to your better judgment, if you’d fly down a bit, you’re now just over my cabin, and I could be put down there, and many thanks to your worship.

Arrah, Dan, said he, do you think me a fool? Look down in the next field, and don’t you see two men and a gun? By my word it would be no joke to be shot this way, to oblige a drunken blackguard, that I picked up off a could stone in a bog. Bother you, said I to myself, but I did not speak out, for where was the use? Well, sir, up he kept, flying, flying, and I asking him every minute to fly down, and all to no use. Where in the world are you going, sir? says I to him.—Hold your tongue, Dan, says he; mind your own business, and don’t be interfering with the business of other people.—Faith, this is my business, I think, says I. Be quiet, Dan, says he; so I said no more.

At last where should we come to, but to the moon itself. Now you can’t see it from this, but there is, or there was in my time, a reaping-hook sticking out of the side of the moon, this way (drawing the figure on the ground, with the end of his stick.)

Dan said the eagle. I’m tired with this long fly; I had no notion ’twas so far. And my lord, sir, said I, who in the world axed you to fly so far—was it I? did not I beg, and pray, and beseech you to stop half an hour ago? There’s no use talking, Dan, said he; I’m tired bad enough, so you must get off, and sit down on the moon until I rest myself. Is it sit down on the moon? said I; is it upon that little round thing, then? why; then, sure I’d fall off, in a minute, and be kilt and split, and smashed all to bits; you are a vile deceiver,—so you are. Not at all, Dan, said he: you can catch fast hold of the reaping-hook, that’s sticking out of the side of the moon, and ’twill keep you up. I won’t, then, said I. May be not, said he, quite quiet. If you don’t, my man, I shall just give you a shake, and one slap of my wing, and send you down to the ground, where every bone in your body will be smashed as small as a drop of dew on a cabbage-leaf in the morning. Why, then, I’m in a fine way, said I to myself, ever to have come alone with the likes of you, and so giving him a hearty curse in Irish, for fear he’d know what I said, I got oft his back with a heavy heart, took a hold of the reaping-hook, and sat down upon the moon, and a mighty cold seat it was, I can tell you that.

When he had me there fairly landed, he turned about on me, and said, Good morning to you, Daniel O’Rourke, said he; I think I’ve nicked you fairly now. You robbed my nest last year, (’twas true enough for him, but how he found it out is hard to say,) and in return you are freely welcome to cool your heels dangling upon the moon like a cockthrow.

Is that all, and is this the way you leave me, you brute, you? says I. You ugly unnatural baste, and is this the way you serve me at last? Bad luck to yourself, with your hooked nose, and to all your breed, you blackguard. ’Twas all to no manner of use: he spread out his great big wings, burst out a laughing, and flew away like lightning. I bawled after him to stop; but I might have called and bawled for ever, without his minding me. Away he went, and I never saw him from that day to this—Sorrow fly away with him! You may be sure I was in a disconsolate condition, and kept roaring out for the bare grief, when all at once a door opened right in the middle of the moon, creaking on its hinges as if it had not been opened for a month before. I suppose they never thought of greasing ’em, and out there walks who do you think but the man in the moon himself? I knew him by his busk.

Good morrow to you, Daniel O’Rourke, said he; How do you do? Very well, thank your honour, said I. I hope your honour’s well. What brought you here, Dan? said he. So I told him how I was a little overtaken in liquor at the master’s, and how I was cast on a dissolute island, and how I lost my way in the bog and how the thief of an eagle promised to fly me out of it, and how instead of that he had fled me up to the moon.

Dan, said the man in the moon, taking a pinch of snuff when I was done, you must not stay here. Indeed, sir, says I, ’tis much against my will I’m here at all; but how am I to go back? That’s your business, said he, Dan: mine is to tell you that here you must not stay, so be off in less than no time. I’m doing no harm, says I, only holding on hard by the reaping-hook, lest I fall off. That’s what you must not do, Dan, says he. Pray, sir, says I, may I ask how many you are in family, that you would not give a poor traveller lodgings; I’m sure ’tis not so often you’re troubled with strangers coming to see you, for ’tis a long way. I’m by myself, Dan, says he; but you’d better let go the reaping-hook. Faith, and with your leave, says I, I’ll not let go the grip, and the more you bids me, the more I won’t let go: so I will. You had better, Dan, says he again. Why, then, my little fellow, says I, taking the whole weight of him with my eye from head to foot, there are two words to that bargain; and I’ll not budge, but you may if you like. We’ll see how that is to be, says he; and back he went, giving the door such a great bang after him, (for it was plain he was huffed,) that I thought the moon and all would fall down with it.

Well, I was preparing myself to try strength with him, when back again he comes, with the kitchen cleaver in his hand, and without saying a word, he gives two bangs to the handle of the reaping-hook that was keeping me up, and whap! it came in two. Good morning to you, Dan, says the spiteful little old blackguard, when he saw me cleanly falling down with a bit of the handle in my hand; I thank you for your visit, and fair weather after you, Daniel. I had no time to make any answer to him, for I was tumbling over and over, and rolling and rolling at the rate of a fox-hunt. God help me, says I, but this is a pretty pickle for a decent man to be seen in at this time of night; I am now sold fairly. The word was not out of my mouth when whiz! what should fly by close to my ear but a flock of wild geese; all the way from my own bog of Ballyasheenough, else how should they know me? the ould gander, who was their general, turning about his head, cried out to me, Is that you, Dan? The same, said I, not a bit daunted now at what he said, for I was by this time used to all kinds of bedevilment, and, besides, I knew him of ould. Good morrow to you, says he, Daniel O’Rourke: how are you in health this morning? Very well, sir, says I. I thank you kindly, drawing my breath, for I was mightily in want of some. I hope your honour’s the same. I think ’tis falling you are, Daniel, says he. You may say that sir, says I. And where are you going all the way so fast? said the gander. So I told him how I had taken the drop, and how I came on the island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and how the thief of an eagle flew me up to the moon, and how the man in the moon turned me out. Dan, said he, I’ll save you: put your hand out and catch me by the leg, and I’ll fly you home. Sweet is your hand in a pitcher of honey, my jewel, says I, though all the time I thought in myself that I don’t much trust you; but there was no help, so I caught the gander by the leg, and away I and the other geese flew after him as fast as hops.

We flew, and we flew and we flew, until we came right over the wide ocean. I knew it well, for I saw Cape Clear to my right hand, sticking up out of the water. Ah! my lord, said I to the goose, for I thought it best to keep a civil tongue in my head any way, fly to land if you please. It is impossible, you see, Dan, said he, for a while, because you see we are going to Arabia. To Arabia! said I; that’s surely some place in foreign parts, far away. Oh! Mr Goose: why then, to be sure, I’m a man to be pitied among you.—Whist, whist, you fool, said he, hold your tongue: I tell you Arabia is a very decent sort of place, as like West Carbery as one egg is like another, only there is a little more sand there.

Just as we were talking, a ship hove in sight, scudding so beautiful before the wind: Ah! then, sir, said I, will you drop me on the ship, if you please? We are not fair over it, said he. We are, said I. We are not, said he: If I dropped you now, you would go splash into the sea. I would not, says I; I know better than that, for it is just clean under us, so let me drop now at once.

If you must, you must said he. There, take your own way; and he opened his claw, and faith he was right—sure enough I came down plump into the very bottom of the salt sea! Down to the very bottom I went, and I gave myself up then for ever, when a whale walked up to me, scratching himself after his night’s rest, and looked me full in the face, and never the word did he say; but lifting up his tail, he splashed me all over again with the cold salt water, till there wasn’t a dry stitch upon my whole carcase; and I heard somebody saying—’twas a voice I knew too—Get up, you drunken brute, out of that: and with that I woke up, and there was Judy with a tub full of water, which she was splashing all over me;—for, rest her soul! though she was a good wife, she never could bear to see me in drink, and had a bitter hand of her own.

Get up, said she again; and of all places in the parish, would no place sarve your turn to lie down upon but under the ould walls of Carrigaphooka? an uneasy resting I am sure you had of it. And sure enough I had; for I was fairly bothered out of my senses with eagles, and men of the moons, and flying ganders, and whales, driving me through bogs, and up to the moon, and down to the bottom of the great ocean. If I was in drink ten times over, long would it be before I’d lie down in the same spot again, I know that.

Master and Man;
OR,
The Adventures of Billy Mac Daniel.

Billy Mac Daniel was once as likely a young man as ever shook his brogue at a patron, emptied a quart, or handled a shillelagh; fearing for nothing but the want of drink; caring for nothing but who should pay for it; and thinking of nothing but how to make fun over it; drunk or sober, a word and a blow was ever the way with Billy Mac Daniel; and a mighty easy way it is of either getting into or of ending a dispute. More is the pity that, through the means of his thinking, and fearing, and caring for nothing, this same Billy Mac Daniel fell into bad company; for surely the good people are the worst of all company any one could come across.

It so happened that Billy was going home one clear frosty night not long after Christmas; the moon was round and bright; but although it was as fine a night as heart could wish for, he felt pinched with the cold. By my word, chattered Billy, a drop of good liquor would be no bad thing to keep a man’s soul from freezing in him; and I wish I had a full measure of the best.

Never wish it twice, Billy, said a little man in a three-cornered hat, bound all about with gold lace, and with great silver buckles in his shoes, so big that it was a wonder how he could carry them and he held out a glass as big as himself, filled with as good liquor, as ever eye looked on or lip tasted.

Success, my little fellow, said Billy Mac Daniel, nothing daunted, though well he knew the little man to belong to the good people; here’s your health, any way, and thank you kindly; no matter who pays for the drink; and he took the glass and drained it to the very bottom, without ever taking a second breath to it.

Success, said the little man: and you’re heartily welcome, Billy; but don’t think to cheat me as you have done others,—out with your purse and pay me like a gentleman.

Is it I pay you? said Billy; could I not just take you up and put you in my pocket as easily as a blackberry?

Billy Mac Daniel, said the little man, getting very angry, you shall be my servant for seven years and a day, and that is the way I will be paid; so make ready to follow me.

When Billy heard this, he began to be very sorry for having used such bold words towards the little man; and he felt himself, yet could not tell how, obliged to follow the little man the live-long night about the country, up and down, and over hedge and ditch, and through bog and brake without any rest.

When morning began to dawn, the little man turned round to him and said, You may now, go home, Billy, but on your peril don’t fail to meet me in the Fort-field to-night; or if you do, it may be the worse for you in the long run. If I find you a good servant, you will find me an indulgent master.

Home went Billy Mac Daniel, and though he was tired and weary enough never a wink of sleep could he get for thinking of the little man; but he was afraid not to do his bidding, so up he got in the evening, and away he went to the Fort-field. He was not long there before the little man came towards him and said, Billy, I want to go a long journey to night; so saddle one of my horses and you may saddle another for yourself, as you are to go along with me, and may be tired after your walk last night.

Billy thought this very considerate of his master, and thanked him accordingly: But, said he If I may be so bold, sir, I would ask which is the way to your stable, for never a thing do I see but the fort here, and the old thorn-tree in the corner of the field, and the stream running at the bottom of the hill, with the bit of bog over against us.

Ask no questions, Billy, said the little man, but go over to that bit of bog, and bring me two of the strongest rushes you can find.

Billy did accordingly, wondering what the little man would be at; and he picked out two of the stoutest rushes he could find, with a little bunch of brown blossom stuck at each side of each, and brought them back to his master.

Get up, Billy, said the little man, taking one of the rushes from him and stridding across it.

Where shall I get up, please your honour? said Billy.

Why, upon horseback, like me, to be sure, said the little man.

Is it after making a fool of me you’d be, said Billy, bidding me get a horse-back upon that bit of a rush? May be you want to persuade me that the rush I pulled but while ago out of the bog over there, is a horse?

Up! up! and no words, said the little man, looking very angry; the best horse you ever rode was but a fool to it. So Billy, thinking all this was in joke, and fearing to vex his master, straddled across the rush; Borram! Borram! Borram! cried the little man three times, (which, in English, means to become great,) and Billy did the same after him; presently the rushes swelled up into fine horses, and away they went full speed; but Billy, who had put the rush between his legs, without much minding how he did it, found himself sitting on horseback the wrong way, which, was rather awkward, with his face to the horse’s tail; and so quickly had his steed started off with him, that he had no power to turn round, and there was therefore nothing for it but to hold on by the tail.

At last they came to their journey’s end, and stopped at the gate of a fine house: Now, Billy, said the little man, do as you see me do, and follow me close: but as you do not know your horse’s head from his tail, mind that your own head does not spin round until you can’t tell whether you are standing on it or on your heels for remember that old liquor, though able to make a cat speak, can make a man dumb.

The little man then said some queer kind of words, out of which Billy could make no kind of meaning; but he contrived to say them after him for all that and in they both went through the key-hole of the door, and through one key-hole after another, until they got into the wine-cellar which was well stored with all kinds of wine.

The little man fell to drinking as hard as he could, and Billy, no way disliking the example, did the same. The best of masters are you, surely, said Billy to him; no matter who is the next; and well pleased will I be with your service if you continue to give me plenty to drink.

I have made no bargain with you, said the little man, and will make none; but up and follow me. Away they went, through key-hole after key-hole; and each mounting upon the rush which he left at the hall door, scampered off, kicking the clouds before them like snow-balls, as soon as the words, Borram, Borram, Borram, had passed their lips.

When they came back to the Fort-field, the little man dismissed Billy, bidding him to be there the next night at the same hour. Thus did they go on, night after night, shaping their course one night here, and another night there—sometimes north, and sometimes east, and sometimes south, until there was not a gentleman’s wine-cellar in all Ireland they had not visited, and could tell the flavour of every wine in it as well—ay, better than the buttler himself.

One night when Billy Mac Daniel met the little man as usual in the Fort-field and was going to the bog to fetch the horses for their journey, his master said to him, Billy, I shall want another horse to-night, for may be we may bring back more company with us than we take. So Billy, who now knew better than to question any order given to him by his master, brought a third rush, much wondering who it might be that would travel back in the company, and whether he was about to have a fellow servant. If I have, thought Billy, he shall go and fetch the horses from the bog every night; for I don’t see why I am not, every inch of me, as good a gentleman as my master.

Well, away they went, Billy leading the third horse, and never stopped till they came to a snug farmer’s house in the country Limerick, close under the old castle of Carrigoggunniel, that was built, they says by the great Brian Bora. Within the house there was a great carousing going forward, and the little man stopped outside for some time to listen; then turning round all of a sudden, said, Billy, I will be a thousand years old to-morrow!

God bless us, sir, said Billy, will you?

Don’t say these words again, Billy, said the little man, or you will be my ruin for ever.—Now, Billy, as I will be a thousand years in the world to-morrow, I think it is full time for me to get married.

I think so too, without any kind of doubt at all, said Billy, if ever you mean to marry.

And to that purpose, said the little man, have I come all the way to Carrigoggunniel: for in this house, this very night, is young Darby Riley going to be married to Bridget Rooney; and as she is a tall and comely girl, and has come of decent people, I think of marrying her myself, and taking her off with me.

And what will Darby Riley say to that? said Billy.

Silence! said the little man, putting on a mighty severe look; I did not bring you here with me to ask questions; and without holding farther argument, lit began saying the queer words, which had the power of passing him through the key-hole as free as air, and which Billy thought himself mighty clever to be able to say after him.

In they both went; and for the better viewing the company, the little man perched himself up as nimbly as a cock-sparrow upon one of the big beams which went across the house overall their heads, and Billy did the same upon another facing him; not being much accustomed to roosting in such a place, his legs hung down as untidy as may be, and it was quite clear he had not taken pattern after the way in which the little man had bundled himself up together. If the little man had been a tailor all his life, he could not have sat more contented by upon his haunches.

There they were, both master and man, looking down upon the fun going forward—and under them were the priest and piper—and the father of Darby Riley, with Darby’s two brothers and his uncle’s son—and there were both father and the mother of Bridget Rooney, and proud enough the old couple were that night of their daughter, as good right they had—and her four sisters with bran new ribbons in their caps, and her three brothers all looking as clean and clever as any three boys in Munster—and there were uncles and aunts, and gossips and cousins enough besides to make a full house of it—and plenty was there to eat and drink on the table for every one of them, if they had been double the number.

Now it happened, just as Mrs Rooney had helped his reverence to the first cut of the pig’s head which was placed before her, beautifully bolstered up with white savoys, that the bride gave a sneeze which made every one at the table start, but not a soul said “God bless us.” All thinking that the priest would have done so, as he ought if he had done his duty, no one wished to take the word out of his mouth, which unfortunately was preoccupied with pig’s head and greens. And after a moment’s pause the fun and merriment of the bridal feast went on without the pious benediction.

Of this circumstance both Billy and his master were no inattentive spectators from their exalted stations. Ha! exclaimed the little man, throwing one leg from under him with a joyous flourish, and his eye twinkled with a strange light, whilst his eyebrows became elevated into the curvature of Gothic arches—Ha! said he, leering down at the bride, and then up at Billy, I have half of her now, surely. Let her sneeze but twice more, and she is mine, in spite of priest, mass-book and Darby Riley.

Again the fair Bridget sneezed; but it was so gently, and she blushed so much, that few except the little man took, or seemed to take any notice; and no one thought of saying, “God bless us.”

At this critical moment the bride gave a third sneeze, and Billy roared out with all his might, “God save us!” No sooner was it uttered, than the little man, his face glowing with rage and disappointment, sprung from the beam on which he had perched himself, and shrieking out in the shrill voice of a cracked bagpipe, I discharge you my service, Billy Mac Daniel—take that for your wages, gave poor Billy a most furious kick in the back, which sent his unfortunate servant sprawling upon his face and hands right in the middle of the supper table.

If Billy was astonished, how much more so was every one of the company into which he was thrown with so little ceremony; but when they heard his story, Father Cooney laid down his knife and fork, and married the young couple out of hand with all speed; and Billy Mac Daniel danced the Rinka at their wedding, and plenty did he drink at it too, which was what he thought more of than dancing.

FINIS.

THE

COMICAL TRICKS

OF

LOTHIAN TOM,

WITH A

SELECTION OF ANECDOTES.

GLASGOW:

PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

THE
COMICAL TRICKS
OF
LOTHIAN TOM.

This Thomas Black, vulgarly called Lothian Tom, because he was of that country, was born about four miles from Edinburgh; his father being a wealthy farmer, gave him a good education, which he was very awkward in receiving, being a very wild mischievous boy.

When he was about ten 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 behind him. But when Tom 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, such a thing as the shoe makers use to soften their leather on, and with a rope he tied it to the couple-bauk in the stable directly opposite to the horse’s tail, then gets on the bauk, and gives it a swing, so that the pikes in the end of it, came with full drive against the horse’s backside, which made him fling, and the more he flung and struck at it, it rebounded back, and struck him again; the battle lasted with great fury for a long time, which was good fun for Tom, until his father hearing some noise in the stable, came to know the matter, and was surprised to see the poor animal tanning his own hide, with his legs all cut and bloody! he cut the rope and the battle was ended; but the poor horse would never afterwards kick at any thing that came behind him.

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 put her into a little tub, or cog, then sets her adrift in a small mill-dam, ordering her to go a fishing for herself; then set two or three dogs upon her, and a most terrible sea fight ensued, as ever was seen on fresh water; for if any of the dogs, when attempting to board her, set up their noses, baudrins came flying to that place, to repulse them with her claws; then the vessel was like to be 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 mewing always turning herself about, combing their noses with her foot. The old woman being informed of the dangerous situation of her dearly beloved cat, came running with a long poll 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 have perished in the water had not one of the people who was there looking at the diversion, come to her relief.

After this Tom was sent to school to keep his hand 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 perceived 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-powder, and sprinkled it on the ground directly before the seat, and lays a little of it along in a train to the fireside; 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 about his master’s backside, which scorched him terribly, 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 was in the master’s house, his wife was stooping into a big meal-barrel, to bring out some meal: then he takes her by the feet, and coups her up into the barrel with her head down and her bare backside uppermost; then runs into the school, crying O master, master! the de’il’s looking out o’ your meal stand; wi’ a fat face and a black ill-farr’d mouth; yon’s just Auld Nick if he be living. So the master ran out with all speed he could, for 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 revenge 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 threw the waistband behind: So Tom goes to a butcher, and gets a raw pudding, and fills it with blood and water, and puts it within the waistband of his breeches, then goes to the school next day, and as his master was sitting with his back to 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 fizzing about his ears; he first put out the flames by tramping on the wig, 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, whips poor Tom over his knee, and with a great struggle cuts the waistband of his breeches; but thro’ pudding and all, so that the blood gushed out, and Tom cried out Murder! Murder! Murder! and down he fell.

The poor Dominie ran out of the school crying and wringing his hands. Word flew about that he was sticked by the Dominie, which made the people come running from several parts of the country round about to see how it was: but upon searching him, they found the empty pudding, which discovered all the fraud. 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 riding after him crying to stop and come back again, he ran the faster until he could run no more, but fell down on the road, and prayed them to let him go, for, if he was taken back, he was sure to be 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, whom Tom had offended by some of his tricks, and she, to be up with Tom again, one night spread a handful of short nettles in his bed, between the sheets which stung his legs and thighs so much, that he was obliged to quit his bed for some part of the night; for such he resolved to be revenged, whenever a proper opportunity offered. It happened in a few days after, that she was invited to a wedding, where the dancing and diversions induced her to stay all night, and on coming home in the morning, she fell a washing some clothes. But being fatigued with her night’s diversion and for want of rest, fell fast asleep with her hands extended in the tub, and standing on her feet, with her belly leaning on the tub; Tom perceiving this, slips her petticoat and smoke over her head, facing the highway; several people passing by, while she continued in this posture, some of them were diverted with the sight, and others were ashamed at it; but a poor cadger had the misfortune to be coming that way at the time, and his horse taking fright at this unusual sight threw of his creels, and broke the poor man’s eggs all to smash; which so enraged him that he lashed her buttocks with his whip, in such an unmerciful manner, that with the smart and shame together, she had not the least inclination to sleep for the remaining part of the day.

Tom being grown up to years and age of man, thought himself wiser and slyer than his father: and there were several things about the house which he liked better than to work; so he turned to be a dealer amongst brutes, a cowper of horses and cows, &c., and even wet ware, amongst the brewers and brandy shops, until he cowped himself to the toom halter, and then his parents would supply him no more. He knew his grandmother had plenty of money, but she would give him none; but the old woman had a good black cow of her own, which Tom went to the fields one evening and catches, and takes her to 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 at night when it was dark, and made the old woman believe somebody had stolen the cow for their winter’s mart, which was grief enough to the old woman, for the loss of her cow. However she employs Tom to go to a fair that was near by, and buy her another; she gives him three pounds which Tom accepts of very thankfully, and promises to buy her one as like the other as possibly he could get; then he takes a piece of chalk, and brays it as small as meal, and steeps it in a little water, and therewith rubs over the cows face and back, which made her baith brucket and rigget. So Tom in the morning, takes the cow to a public house within a little of the fair, and 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 it used to do, which made the old woman to rejoice, thinking it was her own cow but when she saw her white, sighed and said, Alas! thou’ll never be like the kindly brute my Black Lady, and yet ye rout as like her as ony ever I did hear. But says Tom to himself, ’tis a mercy 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 her neighbour’s 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 cow’s 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 now turned to his own shifts, considered with himself how to raise a little more money; and so gets a string as near as he could guess to be the length of his mother, and to Edinburgh he goes, to a wright who was acquainted with his father and mother. The wright asked him how he did; he answered him, very soberly, he had lost a good dutiful mother last night, and there’s a measure for the coffin. Tom went out and staid 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, whom he named, and he that day was gone out of town.—The wright asked him how much he wanted? To which he answered a guinea and a half. Then Tom gave him strict orders to be out next day against eleven o’clock with the coffin, and he should get his money altogether. So Tom set off to an ale-house with the money, and lived well while it lasted. Next morning the wright and his two lads went out with the coffin; and as they were going into the house they met Tom’s mother, who asked the master how he did, and where he was going with that fine coffin? not knowing well what to say, being surprised to see her alive, at last he told her, that her son brought in the measure the day before, and had got a guinea and a half from him, with which he said he was to buy some necessaries for the funeral. O the rogue! said she, has he play’d me that? So the wright got his lent money, and so much for his trouble, and had to take back his coffin with him again.

Tom being short of money, began to think how he could raise a fresh supply; so he went to the port among the shearers, and there he hired about thirty of them, and agreed to give them a whole week’s shearing at ten-pence a-day which was two-pence higher than any had got that year; this made the poor shearers think he was a very honest generous and genteel master, as ever they met with; for he took them all into an ale-house, and gave them a hearty breakfast. Now says Tom when there is so many of you together, and perhaps from very different parts, and being unacquainted with one another I do not know but there may be some of you honest men and some of you rogues; and as you are all to lie in one barn together, any of you who has got money, you will be surest 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 night when you receive your wages. O! very well goodman, there’s mine, take mine said every one faster than another. Some gave him five, six, seven and eight shillings even all that they had earn’d thro’ the harvest, which amounted to near seven pounds sterling. So Tom having got all their money, he goes on with them till about three miles out of town, and coming to a field of standing corn tho’ somewhat green, yet convenient for his purpose, as it lay at some distance from any house; so he made them begin work there, telling them he was going to order dinner for them, and send his own servants to join them. Then he sets off 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: so the farmer whose corn it was, went of crying always as he ran to them, to stop; but they would not, until he began to strike at 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 people coming up to them the poor shearers were convinced they had got the bite, which caused them to go away sore lamenting their misfortune.

Two or three days thereafter, as Tom was going down Canongate in Edinburgh, he meets one of his shearers, who knew and kept fast by him, demanding back his money, and also satisfaction for the rest. Whisht, whisht, says Tom and you’ll get yours and something else beside. So Tom takes him into the jail, and calls for a bottle of ale and a dram, then takes the jailor aside, as if he had been going to borrow some money from him; and says to the jailor, this man is a great thief, I and other two have been in search of him these three days, and the other two men have the warrant with them; so if you keep this rogue here till I run and bring them you shall have a guinea in reward. Yes, says the jailor, go and I’ll secure the rogue for you. So Tom got off, leaving the poor innocent fellow and the jailor struggling together, and then sets out for England directly.

PART IV.

Tom having now left his own native country, went into the county of Northumberland, where he hired himself to an old miser of a farmer, where he continued for several years, performing his duty in his service very well, tho’ sometimes playing tricks on those about him; but his master had a naughty custom, he would allow them no candle at night, to see with when at supper. So Tom one night sets himself next his master, and as they were all about to fall on, Tom puts his spoon into the heart of the dish, where the crowdy was hottest, and claps a spoonful into his master’s mouth. A pox on you for a rogue, cried his master, for my mouth is all burnt. A pox on you for a master, says Tom, for you keep a house as dark as Purgatory, for I was going to my mouth with the soup, and missed 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 crowdy, they always got a candle to show 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 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 at the plough, he saw his master coming from the house towards him, he left the horses and the plough standing in the field, and goes away towards his master. Who cried, what is wrong? or is there 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 now it is about the time the maid makes all the rest, so I’ll go and make mine too. No, no, says his master, go to your plough, and I’ll cause it to be made every night. Then, says Tom, I’ll plough two or three furrows more in the time, so Tom gained his end.

One day a butcher came and bought a fine fat calf from Tom’s master, and Tom laid it on the horse’s neck, before the butcher: when he was gone; Now, says Tom, what will you hold master but I’ll steal the calf from the butcher before he goes two miles off? Says his master, I’ll hold a guinea you don’t. Done, says Tom. Into the house he goes, and takes a good shoe of his master’s and runs another way across a field, till he got before the butcher, near the corner of a hedge, where there was an open and turning of the way; here Tom places himself behind the hedge, and throws the shoe into the middle of the highway; so, when the butcher came up riding, with 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 light for it, but what signifies one shoe without its neighbour? So on he rides and lets it lie. Tom then slips out and takes up the shoe, and runs across the fields until he got before the butcher, at another open of a hedge, about half a mile distant, and throws out the shoe again on the middle of the road; 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 refuse, being so fairly won. The poor butcher not finding the shoe, came back to his horse, and missing the calf, knew not what to do; but thinking it had broke the rope from about its feet, and had run into the fields, the butcher spent the day in search of it, amongst the hedges and ditches, and returned to Tom’s master’s at night intending to go in search again for it next day; and gave them a tedious relation how he came to loose it by a cursed pair of shoes, which he believed the devil had dropped in his way, and taken the calf and shoes along with him; but he was thankful he had left his old horse to carry him home. Next morning Tom set to work, and makes a fine white face on the calf with chalk and water: then brings it out and sells 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 ere he goes two miles off? No no, says his master, I’ll hold no more bets 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 through the fields, until he came before the butcher, hard by the place where he stole the calf from him the day before; and there he lies down behind the hedge, and as the butcher came past, he put 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 on the ground, gets thro’ the hedge in all haste, thinking he had no more to do but to take it up; but as he came in at one part of the hedge, Tom jumped out at another, and gets the calf on his back; then goes over the hedge on the other side, and thro’ 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 the calf. So the butcher returning to his horse again, and finding his other calf gone, he concluded that it was done by some invisible spirit, about that spot of ground; and so went home lamenting the loss of his calf. When Tom got home he washed the white face off the stolen calf, and his master sent the butcher word to come and buy another calf, which he accordingly did in a few days after, and Tom sold him the same calf a third time, and then told him the whole affair as it was acted, giving him his money again. So the butcher got fun for his trouble.

PART V.

There was an old rich blind woman, who lived hard by, that had a young girl, her only daughter, who fell deep in love with Tom, and he fell as deep in love with the money, but not with the maid. The old woman gave Tom many presents, and mounted him like a gentleman; but he used every method to put off the marriage, pretended he still 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 then took the old woman and girl aside, and made the following apology: Madam, said he, I am very willing to wed with my dear Polly, for she appears as an angel in my 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 is not a fitter match in the whole world for my Polly, I did not think your country could afford such a clever youth as what I hear of you to be, you shall neither want gold nor silver, nor a good horse to ride upon, and when I die, you shall have my all.

O but, says Tom; Madam, that’s not the thing, the stop is this: When I was in Scotland, I got a stroke from a horse’s foot, on the bottom of the belly, which has quite disabled me below, that I cannot perform a 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 wofu’ that! which gold and silver cannot purchase, and yet the poorest people that is common beggars have plenty of it.

The old wife and her daughter sat crying and wringing their hands, and Tom stood and wept lest he should get no more money, O, said Polly, mother, I’ll wed him nevertheless, I love him so dearly! No you foolish girl, said her mother, would you 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 Paradise, and if you wed this man you will live and die, and never feel 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 as 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 see what he can do, and then come again and wed my child or she and I will both die for thy sake. Tom having now got twelve guineas more of their money, got all things ready, and early next morning set out for Newcastle, but instead of going there he came to old Scotland, and left Polly and her mother to think upon him. In about two weeks thereafter, when he was not like to return, nor so much as any word from him, the old woman and Polly got a horse, and came to Newcastle in search of him, went thro’ all the doctors’ shops, asking if there came a young man there, about two weeks ago, with a broken —— to mend? Some laughed at her, other’s were like to kick her out of doors, so they had to return without getting any further intelligence of him.

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 years, following his old business the couping horses and cows, and feeding veals for the 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 had certainly some very great faults. Tom gives the wife the other hearty bicker of ale, then says he, gudewife the money is yours and the cow is mine, you maun tell me ony wee faults it has. Indeed, says the goodwife, she has na faut but ane, and if she wanted it, I wad never a parted wi’ her. And what’s that gudewife, said he. Indeed said she, the filthy daft beast sucks ay hersel’. But says Tom if that be all, I’ll soon cure her of that. O! can you do’t, said she, if I had kent what wad don’t I wadna sold her. A-well, says Tom, I’ll tell you what to do, tak’ the price I gave you just now, and tie it hard and fast in your napkin, and give it to me, through beneath the cow’s wame, and I’ll give you the napkin again o’er the cow’s back, and I’ll lay my life for it, that she’ll never suck hersel’ in my aught. I wat well said she I’se do that, an’ there should be witchcraft in’t. So Tom got it thro’ below the cow’s wame, he takes out his money, and gave the wife her napkin over the cow’s back, as he promised, saying, Now, wife, you have your cow and I my money, and she will never suck herself in my aught, as I told you. O dole! dole! cried the wife, is that your cure? you’ve cheated me, you’ve cheated me.

Tom being very scarce of money one time when he had his rent to pay, and tho’ he was well acquainted with the butchers in Edinburgh, and tried several of them, yet none of them would lend him as much, he was known to be such a noted sharper. So Tom contrived a clever trick, to give them all the bite in general, who thus refused him; in he comes next day, (for they had all heard of the fine calf he was feeding,) and tells one of the butcher’s who dealt with him that he was going to sell the calf he had at home. Well said the butcher, and what will you have for it? Just thirty-five shillings, says Tom. No, says the butcher, but by what I hear of it I’ll give you thirty. Na, says Tom you must remember, that it is not the price of it, but you may give me twenty shillings just now and send out your lad to-morrow, and we’ll perhaps agree about it. Thus Tom went through 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 to-morrow and perhaps we will agree, was all that passed. So Tom went home with his ten pounds and paid his rent. Early next morning the fleshers came to Tom’s house for the calf, and every one called for his calf, but Tom had only one to serve them all. Now, says Tom, whoever will give most, and speediest shall have it, I will put it to a roup. What, said one of them, my master bought it yesterday. Then, said Tom, you would be a great fool to buy it to-day, for it is fashious to lead and heavy to carry.

ANECDOTES.

MARCH OF INTELLECT.

Two country carters, passing the entrance to the Arcade, Argyll street, Glasgow, observed painted on the wall, “No Dogs to enter here.” “No Dogs to enter here!” exclaimed one of them, “I’m sure there’s nae use for that there.” “What way, Jock,” replied the other. “’Cause dogs canna read signs,” said he. “Ha, ha, Jock, ye’re may be wrang, I’se warran ye gentle folk’s dogs ’ill ken’t brawley, for there’s schools, noo, whar they learn the dumb baith to read an’ speak.”

HOW TO READ A SIGN-BOARD.

A Highland Drover passing through a certain town, noticed a Sign-board above an entry, with the following inscription:

Green Teas, Raw Sugars, Marmalades, Jellies, Capped Biscuits, and all sorts of Confectionary Goods, sold down this entry.

read it as follows:—

Green Trees, Raw Sodgers, Mermaids, Jades, Scabbed Bitches, and all sorts of Confusionary Goods, sold down this entry.

ADDITION.

A farmer’s Son, who had been some time at the university, coming home to visit his father and mother; and being one night with the old folks at supper, on a couple of fowls, he told them, that by the rules of logic and arithmetic, he could prove these two fowls to be three.—“Well, let us hear,” said the old man; “Why this,” said the scholar, “is one, and this,” continued he, “is two, two and one, you know make three.”—“Since ye hae made it out sae weel,” answered the old man, “your mother shall hae the first fowl, I’ll hae the second, and the third you may keep to yoursell.”

FINIS.

THE

COMICAL HISTORY

OF THE

KING AND THE COBBLER;

CONTAINING

The Entertaining and Merry Tricks, and Droll Frolics, played by the Cobbler.—How he got acquainted with the King, became a great man, and lived at Court ever after.

GLASGOW:

PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

THE
COMICAL HISTORY
OF THE
KING AND THE COBBLER.

How King Henry VIII, used to visit the watches in the city, and how he became acquainted with a merry jovial Cobbler.

It was the custom of King Henry the Eight, to walk late in the night into the city disguised, to observe and take notice how the constables and watch performed their duty, not only in guarding the city gates, but also in diligently watching the inner parts of the city, that so they might, in a great measure, prevent those disturbances and casualties which too often happen in great and populous cities in the night; and this he did oftentimes, without the least discovery who he was, returning home to Whitehall early in the morning.

Now, on his return home through the Strand, he took notice of a certain cobbler who was constantly up at work, whistling and singing every morning. The king was resolved to see him, and be acquainted with him, in order to which he immediately knocks the heel of his shoe by hitting it against a stone, and having so done, he bounced at the cobbler’s stall.

Who’s there? cries the cobbler.

Here’s one, cries the king. With that the cobbler opened the stall door, and the king asked him if he could put the heel on his shoe.

Yes, that I can, says the cobbler: come in, honest fellow, and sit thee down by me, and I will do it for thee straight, the cobbler scraping his awls and old shoes to one side to make room for the king to sit down.

The king being hardly able to forbear laughing at the kindness of the cobbler, asked him if there was not a house hard by that sold a cup of ale, and the people up?

Yes said the cobbler, there is an inn over the way, where I believe the folks are up, for the carriers go from thence very early in the morning.

With that the king borrowed an old shoe of the cobbler, and went over to the inn, desired the cobbler would bring his shoe to him thither as soon as he had put on the heel again. The cobbler promised he would; so making what haste he could to put on the heel, he carries it over to the king, saying, honest blade, here is thy shoe again, and I warrant thee it will not come off in such haste again.

Very well, says the king, what must you have for your pains?

A couple of pence, replied the cobbler.

Well, said the king, seeing thou art an honest merry fellow, there is a tester for thee; come, sit down by me, I will drink a full pot with thee; come, here’s a good health to the king.

With all my heart, said the cobbler, I’ll pledge thee were it in water.

So the cobbler sat down by the king and was very merry, and drank off his liquor very freely; he likewise sung some of his merry songs and catches, whereat the king laughed heartily, and was very jocund and pleasant with the cobbler, telling him withal that his name was Harry Tudor, that he belonged to the court, and that if he would come and see him there, he would make him very welcome, because he was a merry companion, and charged him not to forget his name, and to ask any one for him about the court, and they would soon bring him to him; for, said the king, I am very well known there.

Now the cobbler little dreamt that he was the king that spake to him, much less that the king’s name was Harry Tudor. Therefore, with a great deal of confidence, he stands up and puts off his hat, makes two or three scrapes with his foot, and gives the king many thanks, also telling him that he was one of the most honest fellows he ever met with in all his life time, and although he never had been at court, yet he should not be long before he would make a holyday to come and see him.

Whereupon the king, paying for what they had drunk, would have taken his leave of the cobbler; but he, not being willing to part with him, took hold of his hand, and said, by my faith you must not go, you shall not go, you shall first go and see my poor habitation, I have there a tub of good brown ale that was never tapped yet, and you must go and taste it, for you are the most honest blade I ever met withal, and I love an honest merry companion with all my heart.

CHAP. II.

How the Cobbler entertained the King in his cellar, and of the disturbance they had like to have had by his wife Joan.

So the cobbler took the king with him over the way, where he had his cellar adjoining the stall, which was handsomely and neatly furnished for a man of his profession. Into the cellar he took the king; there, said he, sit down, you are welcome; but I must desire you to speak softly, for fear of waking my wife Joan, who lies hard by, (shewing the king a close bed made neatly up at one corner of the cellar, much like a closet,) for if she should wake she will make our ears ring again.

At which speech of the cobbler’s the king laughed, and told him he would be mindful and follow his directions.

Whereupon the cobbler kindled up a fire, and fetched out a brown loaf, from which he cut a lusty toast, which he sat baking at the fire; then he brought out his Cheshire cheese. Now, says he, there is as much fellowship in eating as in drinking.

Which made the king admire the honest freedom of the cobbler. So having eaten a bit the cobbler began. A health to all true hearts and merry companions; at which the king smiled, saying, friend I’ll pledge thee.

In this manner they ate and drank together till it was almost break of day; the cobbler being very free with his liquor, and delighting the king with several of his old stories, insomuch that he was highly pleased with the manner of his entertainment; when, on a sudden, the cobbler’s wife Joan began to awake. I’faith, says the cobbler, you must begone, my wife Joan begins to grumble, she’ll awake presently, and I would not for half the shoes in my shop she should find you here.

Then taking the king by the hand, he led him up the stairs, saying, farewell honest friend, it shan’t be long before I make a holyday to come and see thee at court.

Thou shalt be kindly welcome, replied the king.

So they parted the king on his way to Whitehall, and the cobbler to his cellar, and there putting all things to rights before his wife Joan got up, he went to work again, whistling and singing as merry as he used to be, being much satisfied that he happened on so good and jovial a companion, still pleasing himself in his thoughts how merry he should be when he came to court.

CHAP. III.

How the Cobbler prepared himself to go to court, and how he was set out in the best manner by his wife Joan.

Now as soon as the king came home, he sent out orders about the court, that if any one enquired for him by the name of Harry Tudor, they should immediately bring him before him, whatever he was, without any further examination.

The cobbler thought every day a month till he had been at court to see his new acquaintance, and was troubled how he should get leave of his wife Joan, for he could not get without her knowledge, by reason he did resolve to make himself as fine as he could, for his wife always keeped the keys of his holyday clothes; whereupon one evening, as they sat at supper finding her in a very good humour, he began to lay open his mind to her, telling her the whole story of their acquaintance, repeating it over and over again, that he was the most honest fellow that ever he met withal. Husband, quoth she, because you have been so ingenious as to tell me the whole truth, I will give you leave to make a holyday, for this once you shall go to court, and I will make you as fine as I can.

So it was agreed that he should go to court the next day; whereupon Joan rose betime the next morning to brush up her husband’s holyday clothes, and made him as fine as she could. She washed and ironed the lace-band, and made his shoes shine that he might see his face in them; having done this she made her husband rise and pull off his shirt. Then she washed him with warm water from head to foot, putting on him a clean shirt; afterwards she dressed him in his holyday clothes, pinning his laced band in prim.

CHAP. IV.

The Cobbler’s reception at court, with the manner of his behaviour before the King.

The Cobbler being thus set forth, he strutted through the street like a crow in a gutter, thinking himself as fine as the best of them all.

In this manner he came to the court, staring on this body and that body as he walked up and down, and not knowing how to ask for Harry Tudor. At last he espied one, as he thought, in the habit of a servant-man, to whom he made his address, saying,

Dost thou hear, honest fellow, do you know one Harry Tudor who belongs to the court.

Yes, said the man, follow me, and I will bring you to him.

With that he had him presently up into the guard chamber, telling one of the yeomen of the guard there was one that enquired for Harry Tudor.

The yeoman replied; I know him very well, if you please to go along with me, I’ll bring you to him immediately.

So the cobbler followed the yeoman, admiring very much the prodigious finery of the rooms which he carried him through. He thought within himself, that the yeoman was mistaken in the person whom he inquired for; for, said he, he whom I look for is a plain, merry, honest fellow, his name is Harry Tudor; we drank two pots together not long since. I suppose he may belong to some lord or other about the court.

I tell you, friend, replied the yeoman, I know him very well, do you but follow me, and I shall bring you to him instantly.

So going forward, he came into the room where the king was accompanied by several of his nobles, who attended him.

As soon as the yeoman had put up by the arras, he spoke aloud, may it please your Majesty, here is one that inquires for Harry Tudor.

The cobbler hearing this, thought he had committed no less than treason: therefore he up with his heels and ran for it: but not being acquainted with the several turning and rooms through which he came, he was soon overtaken and brought before the king, whom the cobbler little thought to be the person he inquired after, therefore in a trembling condition, he fell down on his knees, saying,

May it please your Grace, may it please your Highness, I am a poor cobbler, who inquired for one Harry Tudor, who is a very honest fellow, I mended the heel of his shoe not long since, and for which he paid me nobly, and gave me two pots to boot: but I had him afterwards to my cellar, where we drank part of a cup of nappy ale, and were very merry, till my wife Joan began to grumble which put an end to our merriment, for that time, but I told him I would come to the court and see him, as soon as conveniently I could.

Well, said the king, don’t be troubled, would you know this honest fellow again, if you could see him?

The cobbler replied, Yes, that I will among a thousand.

Then said the king, stand up, and be not afraid, but look well about you, peradventure you may find the fellow in this company.

Whereupon the cobbler arose, and looked wishfully upon the king and the rest of the nobles, but it was to little or no purpose; for though he saw something in the king’s face which he thought he had seen before, yet he could not be Harry Tudor, the heel of whose shoe he had mended, and who had been so merry a companion with him at the inn, and at his own cellar.

He therefore told the king he did not expect to find Harry Tudor among such fine folks as he saw there, but that the person he looked for was a plain honest fellow. Adding withal, that he was sure that did Harry Tudor but know he was come to court, he would make him very welcome: for, says the cobbler, when we parted he charged me to come to court soon and see him, which I promised I would, and accordingly I have made a holyday on purpose to have a glass with him.

At which speech of the cobbler’s the king had much ado to forbear laughing out, but keeping his countenance as steady as he could before the cobbler, he spoke to the yeoman of the guard.

Here, said he, take this honest cobbler down into my cellar, and let him drink my health; and I will give orders that Harry Tudor shall come to him presently.

So away they went, the cobbler being fit to leap out of his skin for joy, not only that he had come off so well, but that he should see his friend Harry Tudor.

CHAP. V.

The Cobbler’s entertainment in the King’s Cellar.

The cobbler had not been long in the king’s cellar, before the king came to him in the same habit that he had on when the cobbler mended his shoe; whereupon the cobbler knew him immediately, and ran and kissed him, saying, honest Harry, I have made an holyday on purpose to see you, but I had much ado to get leave of my wife Joan, who was loath to lose so much time from my work; but I was resolved to see you, and therefore I made myself as fine as I could. But I’ll tell thee, Harry, when I came to court I was in a peck of troubles how to find you out; but at last I met with a man who told me he knew you very well, and that he would bring me to you, but instead of doing so, he brought me before the king which almost frightened me out of my seven senses; but faith I’m resolved to be merry with you now, since I have met you at last.

Aye, that we shall replied the king, we shall be as merry as princes.

Now after the cobbler had drunk about four or five good healths, he began to be merry, and fell a-singing his old songs and catches, which pleased the king very much, and made him laugh heartily.

When on a sudden several of the nobles came into the cellar, extraordinary rich in apparel, and all stood uncovered before Harry Tudor, which put the cobbler into a great amazement at first, but presently recovering himself, he looked more wishfully upon Harry Tudor, and soon knowing him to be the king, whom he saw in his presence chamber, though in another habit, he immediately fell upon his knees saying,

May it please your Grace, may it please your Highness, I am a poor honest cobbler and mean no harm.

No, no, said the king, nor shall receive any here, I assure you.

He commanded him therefore to rise, and be as merry as he was before; and though he knew him to be the king, yet he should use the same freedom with him as he did before, when he mended the heel of his shoe.

This kind speech of the king’s and three or four glasses of wine, made the cobbler be in as good humour as before, telling the king several of his old stories and singing some of his best songs, very much to the satisfaction of the king and all his nobles.

THE

COBBLER’S SONG

IN THE

KING’S CELLAR.

Come let us drink the other pot,
our sorrows to confound.

We’ll laugh and sing before the King,
so let his health go round;

For I am as bold as bold can be,
no cobbler e’er was ruder;

Then here good fellow here’s to thee,

(remembering Harry Tudor.)

When I’m at work within my stall,
upon him I will think;

His kindness I to mind will call,
whene’er I eat or drink;

His kindness was to me so great,
the like was never known,

His kindness I shall still repeat,
and so shall my wife Joan.

I’ll laugh when I sit in my stall,
and merrily will sing.

That I with my poor last and awl,
am fellow with the king.

But it is more I must confess,
than I at first did know,

But Harry Tudor ne’ertheless,
resolves it shall be so.

And now farewell unto Whitehall,

I homeward must retire,

To sing and whistle in my stall,
my Joan will me desire:

I do but think how she shall laugh,
when she hears of this thing,

That he that drank her nut-brown ale,

Was England’s Royal King.

CHAP. VI.

How the Cobbler became a Courtier.

Now the king considering the pleasant humour of the cobbler, how innocently merry he was, and free from any design; that he was a person that laboured very hard, and took a great deal of pains for a small livelihood, was pleased, out of his princely grace and favour, to allow him a liberal annuity of forty merks a year, for the better support of his jolly humour, and the maintenance of his wife Joan, and that he should be admitted one of his courtiers, and that he might have the freedom of his cellar whenever he pleased.

Which being so much beyond expectation, did highly exalt the cobbler’s humour, much to the satisfaction of the king.

So after a great many legs and scrapes, he returned home to his wife Joan, with the joyful news of his reception at court; which so well pleased her, that she did not think much at the great pains she took in decking him for the journey.

ANECDOTE.

When Charles II was on a progress through his dominions, he was waited upon by the magistracy of a certain city in the north of England. The Mayor had prepared with no little study a splendid oration for so memorable an occasion. Kneeling down to deliver his address the worthy Magistrate (who was excessively fat) commenced by a feu dejoy of rather a singular nature: whether he deemed an expression of loyalty tantamount to a royal salute of the present day, history is silent: certain it is, he felt greatly embarrassed, and blundered his oration most woefully. “I have, please your Majesty, begun at the wrong end,” cried the good Mayor, endeavouring to apologize for the incoherency of his speech. “So I remarked,” replied the facetious monarch, “but I fear the mistake can’t now be corrected:—Rise up, Sir Walter Cannon.”

THE TWO BEARS.

Two very intimate friends, one a painter, the other a goldsmith, travelling together, were benighted near a convent of religious christians, where they were entertained with great humanity. As those travellers wanted money to continue their journey, the painter, who was a proficient in his art, offered to work for the monastery. He soon possessed his hosts with a high opinion of his talents, and even inspired them with a confidence, which they had soon too much reason to repent.

The monks having one night left the sacristy of their church open, the painter and his friend the goldsmith went in; and, after taking out all the vessels of gold and silver which they found there, they ran away as fast as possible. Possessed of so great a booty, they determined to return to their own country. When they arrived there, fearing lest the robbery should be discovered, they put all their riches into a chest, and made an agreement that neither should take any out, without informing the other.

Soon after the goldsmith married, and became the father of two children. To supply his expenses, which increased with his family, he appropriated the greatest part of the treasure in the chest to his own use. The painter perceived his treachery, and reproached him with it. The other absolutely denied the fact.

The painter, provoked at his perfidy, determined to punish him for it; but, to be more certain of his revenge, he pretended to believe every thing his associate swore. With this view he applied to a huntsman, a friend of his, to procure him two young bears alive. When he had them in his possession, he ordered a wooden statue to be made so much resembling the goldsmith in every respect, that the eye was deceived. After having thus prepared every thing necessary to his design, he accustomed the bears to eat out of the hands of the statue. He led them every morning into the room where he kept it; and, as soon as they saw it, they always ran and ate the victuals, which had been put in its hands.

The painter employed many weeks in teaching them this exercise every day. As soon as he saw the two bears were perfect in their parts, he invited the goldsmith and his two children to supper. The feast being prolonged till midnight, the goldsmith and his two children lay at their host’s. At day-break the painter dexterously conveyed away the two children, and in their place substituted the two bears.

How much was the father, on waking, surprised to find them in his room instead of his children! He cried out most dreadfully. The painter ran to him, and appeared greatly astonished: “Perhaps,” said he, “you have deserved so great a punishment as this metamorphosis from heaven, for some very extraordinary crime.” The goldsmith was not to be deceived by what his friend said; but being convinced that he was the author of the metamorphosis, he obliged him to appear before the cadi; and there accused him of having stolen his children. “My lord,” said the painter, “It is very easy for you to know the truth; order the two bears to be brought here; and if, by their gestures and caresses, they distinguish the goldsmith from the rest of the company, you cannot doubt their being really his children.”

The cadi consented to make this trial. As soon as the two little bears, whom the painter had made to fast two days before, saw the goldsmith, they ran to him, and licked his hands. So extraordinary a sight astonished the cadi, who was so embarrassed that he durst not pronounce sentence.

The goldsmith confused, returned to the painter, and on his knees confessed his treachery, conjuring him to pray to God to restore his children to their natural form. The painter pretending to be affected with what he said, passed the night with him in prayers. He had before taken away the two bears, and in their place conveyed the two children, whom he had hid till then. The painter conducted their father into the room where they were; and returning them to him, said, “God has heard my feeble prayers, learn from this time to keep strictly to your engagements.”

ENTERTAINING

HISTORY

OF

JOHN CHEAP
The Chapman;

CONTAINING

Above a Hundred Merry Exploits done by him and his fellow traveller and companion, Drouthy Tom, a sticked shaver.

IN THREE PARTS

GLASGOW:

PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

HISTORY
OF
JOHN CHEAP.

PART I.

The following Relation is taken from his own mouth verbatim.

John Cheap, the chapman, was a comical, short, thick fellow, with a broad face and a long nose; both lame and lazy, and something lecherous among the lasses. He chose rather to sit idle than work at any time, as he was a hater of hard labour. No man needed offer him cheese and bread after he cursed he would not have it; for he would blush at bread and milk when hungry, as a beggar doth at a bawbee. He got the name of John Cheap, the Chapman, by selling twenty needles for a penny, and twa leather laces for a farthing.

I was born at the Hottom, near the Habertehoy Mill. My father was a Scotch Highlander, and my mother a York-shire Wench, which causes me to be of a mongrel kind; I made myself a chapman when very young, in hopes of being rich when I became old.

My first journey was through Old Kilpatrick, 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 a 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, I sat down upon a stone at the end of the house, till day light would go away; and as I was getting up to go into the house, out comes the goodwife, and sat down at the end of the stone. I being at the other, there she began to let 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 door, I heard the goodman saying, Ay, ay, goodwife, what’s the haste, you run sae fast.

No more passed, until I addressed the goodman for quarters; which he answered, ‘indeed lad, we hae nae beds but three, my wife and I ourselves twa, and the twa bits o’ little anes, Willy and Jenny lie in ane; the twa lads, our twa servant men, Willy Black and Tom I’ve, lie in anither; auld Maggs my mither, and the lass Jean Tirrem lie thegither, 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 lie heads and thraws wi’ them, and keep on my breeks. A good keep me, quo’ the lass frae a’ temptations to sin, although thou be but a callan, heth I’ll rather lie wi’ Sannock Garnor. Hout awa, quo, the auld wife, the poor lad may lie an a bottle o straw beyond the fire. No, no, cries the goodwife, he’s no be here the night, or I’se no be here. Dear goodwife, said I, what ails you at me! If you will not let me stay, you’ll not hinder me to go where I please. Ay, ay, said she, gae where you like; then I got in beyond the fire, beside the goodman. Now, said I goodwife, I like to be here. A d——l be here, and ye be here the night, said she. Ho, ho, said I, but I’m here first and first comed, first served, goodwife; but if the ill thief be a friend of yours, you’ll hae room for him too. Ye thief-like widdifu’ said she, are ye evening me to be sib to the foul thief; tis weel kend I am com’d o’ gude honest folks. It may be so, goodwife, said I, but ye look rather the other way, when you would lodge the devil in your house, and ca’ out a poor chapman to die, such a stormy night as this. What do ye say, says she, there wasna a bonnier night since winter came in than this? O goodwife, what are ye saying, do ye no 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; I wat weel there was nae rain when I came in. The wife then pushes me out, and bolted the door behind me. Well, said I, but I shall be through between thy mouth and thy nose ere the morn. 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. The goodman, on the morning, perceiving the heap of corn sheaves, came running to carry it away, and stop the hole in the stack wherein I lay with some of the sheaves, so with the steighling of the straw, and him talking to others, cursing the thieves who had done it, swearing they had stole six sheaves of it; I then skipped 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 to 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, and told the whole of the story.

After this I travelled up by the water of Clyde, near the foot of Tintock hill, where I met with a sweet companion, who was an older traveller than I, and he gave me some 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 worth of her sour milk: Na, na, said she, I’ll neither sell butter, bread nor milk, ’tis 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 have 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 miles and a bittock frae this; a thief ane was to swear you there, an’ it wasna auld Willy Miller the cobbler the ill thief, a nither minister nor a magistrate ever was in it a’. O but, says the other lad, the Temple-bar he means by is at London. Yea, yea, lad, an’ ye be com’d frae Lunun ye’re little worth. London, said he, is but at home to the place he comes from. A dear man, quoth she, and where in the warl’ comes he frae? All the way from Italy, where the Pope of Rome dwells, says he. A sweet be wi’ us, quoth she, for the fouks there awa is a’ witches and warlocks, deils, brownies, and fairies. Well I wat that’s 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, lifts twa or three long straws, and casting knots on them, into the byre I went, and throws a knotted straw on every cow’s 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 the door, and lifted a stone, and threw it over the house, muttering some words, which I knew not myself, and concluded with these words; thou monster, Diable, 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.

The wife hearing the aforesaid 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, where she made us eat heartily of butter and cheese; and earnestly pleaded with me to go and lift my cantrips, 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,” but gave them less or more as you see them in need. This she faithfully promised to do while she lived, and with milk we drank to the cow’s good health and her own, not forgetting her husband’s 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.

In a few days thereafter we came to an ale house in a muir far distant from any other, it being a sore day of wind and rain, we could not travel, but were obliged to stay there: and the house being very throng, we could get no beds but the servant lass’s, which we were to have for a penny worth of pins and needles, and she was to lie with her master and mistress. But as we were going to bed, in comes three Highland drovers on their way from England; the landlord told them that the beds were all taken up but one, that two chapmen were to lie 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 spewing a brog:” for not one of them would serve a child ten years old, being so boiled in. The landlord persuaded them that their feet were swelled with the hard travelling, being so wet the last night, and they would go on well enough if they had travelled a mile or two. Now the Highlandmen laughed at me the night before when they lay down in the bed I was to have; but I laughed as much to see them trot away in the morning with boiled brogues in their hands.

PART II.

We again came to a place near Sutry-hill, where the ale was good, and very civil usage, and our drouth being very great, the more we drank the better we loved it. 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 up with a big pin to keep him from sleeping; he bought of our hair, and we of his 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 the profit, though all to come, went to the landlady to make up the loss of having the lime pished off the door cheeks.

But at last our money ran short, and the landlady had no chalk or faith to credit us, seeing by our coats, courage, and conduct, that we would little mind performance against the day of payment; so that we began to turn sober and wise behind the hand, and every one of us to seek supply from another; and then we collected all the money we had amongst us on the table, it was but four pence halfpenny, which we lovingly divided among us, being only three bawbees apiece; and as drouthy Tom’s stock and mine was conjunct, we gave the Quack again his sh—ng stuff and his stinking mugs, and he gave us our goods and pickles of 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 unsuitable for the country, I got little or no money next day; and it being Saturday, I prevailed to get staying in a great farmer’s house, about two miles from Haddington; they were all at supper when I came in; I was ordered to go round the servants and collect a soup out of every cog, which was sufficient to have served three men: the goodwife ordered me to be laid in the barn all night, but the bully-faced goodman swore he had too much stuff in it to venture me there; the goodwife, said I should not lie in the house, for I would be o’er near the lasses’ bed; then the lads swore I would not go with them, for I was a for-jesket like fellow, and who kens whether I was honest or not; he may fill his wallet wi’ our claes 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. Now I began to reflect on the sour fruits of drinking, and own all the misery just that was come upon me. In the night the young pigs came grunting 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 the 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, as caused her to roar out murder in her own language, and alarmed the servants, who came to see what was the matter. I told them their old sow was going to swallow me up alive, bid them 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? Sir, 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 the sty to lie in your sow’s oxter, who is a fitter companion for a devil than any human creature; the most abominable brute upon the earth, said I, who was forbidden to be eaten under the law, and cursed under the gospel. Be they cursed or be they blessed, said he, I wish I had anew of them: but an’ ye will not take aff my beard, ye’se get nae meat here the day; then said I, if ye will not give me meat and drink for money, until the sabbath be past, I’ll take on my wallet, and go along with you to the kirk, and tell your minister how you used me as a hog. No, said the goodwife, you will not want your crowdle, man. But my heart being full of sorrow and revenge a few of them sufficed me, whereon I passed over that long day, and at night went to sleep with my old companions, which was not sound, being afraid of mistress sow coming to revenge the quarrel we had the night before.

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 of chapmen. Well, I had no sooner began to it, than out came a great 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. 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, bade her farewell 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 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 into 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 into a poor weaver’s house, and asked him if he would lend me a hammer: Yes, said he: what are ye 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 the 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 alehouse? O no, said he, he preaches every sunday; and what 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 than give it to beggars, or let good meat spoil? If your minister be as haughty 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 Dalkeith; the goodman being very civil, and desirous of news, I related the whole passages of the 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 in the parish. So the goodman and I fell so thick, that he ordered me to be laid on a shake-down bed by the fire, where I lay more snug than among the swine. Now there were 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 below the chimney grate, where I had a perfect view of her bonny thing, as the coal burned so clearely all the night; and then another rose and did the same; last of all got up the old matron, as she appeared to be, like a second handed goodwife, or a whirled o’er maiden, six times overturned, and as she let her dam go, she also, with full force, when done, let a f—t like the blast of a trumpet, which made the ashes on the hearth stone to fly up like dust about her buttocks, whereat I was forced to laugh out, which made her to run for it, but to smother the laughter I stapt the blankets in my mouth; she went to bed and awakened the other two, saying, O dole! what will I tell you? yon chapman body has seen a’ our a—ses the night! Shame fa’ him, said they, for we had nae mind he was there; I wat weel, says one of them, I’se no rise till he be awa’: but said the old woman, gin he has seen mine, I canna help it, it’s just like other folk’s, an’ feint a hair I care. On the morning the old matron got up first, and ordered up the house, then told me to rise now, for chapmen and every body were up; then she asked me if I had a custom 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 waking. A good preserve us, said she, ye’r an unco body; but ye needna wait on your 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 foot of Pentland hills, where I got plenty of hair, good and cheap, besides a great plenty 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 a 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 gave her a civil knap 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 baudrins ran through the middle of them, burnt her feet, and threw them on the ground, ran through the house crying fire and murder in her own language, which caused the weary wicked wabster to come 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 into the midden-dub, 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 were upon me in all quarters, the wife hung in my hair, while the twa sons boxed me both behind and before, and being thus overpowered by numbers, I was fairly beat by this wicked wabster, his troops being so numerous.

On the Saturday night thereafter, I was like to be badly off for quarters, I travelled until many people were going to bed; but at last I came to a farmer’s house asked what they would buy, naming twenty fine things which I never had, and then asked for quarters, which they very freely granted, thinking I was some genteel packman, with a rich pack; and being weary with travel could take but little supper; being permitted to lie in the spence beside the goodman’s bed, the goodwife being very hard of hearing, she thought that every body was so, for when she went to bed, she cries out A how hearie goodman, is na yon a braw moderate chapman we hae here the night, he took just seven soups o’ our sowens, and that fill’d him fu’; a’ dear Andrew man, turn ye about an’ tak my cauld a—se in your warm lunchoch. On the morrow I went to the kirk, with the goodman, and I missed him about the door, went into the middle of the kirk, but could see no empty seats but one big firm, where none sat but one woman by herself, and so I set myself down beside her, not knowing where I was, until sermon was over, when the minister began to rebuke her for using her Merry-bit against law or license; and then she began to whinge and yowl like a dog, which made me run out cursing, before the minister had given the blessing.

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 too thin; so the goodman, being a sworn birly-man 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 bade awa frae them. A sweet be here, mither, said he, do you 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 gude substantial meat;—a what say you chapman? Indeed, goodwife, said I, sowens are but saft meat at the best, but, if you make them thick enough, and put a good lump of butter in them, they’ll do very well for a supper. I trow sae lad, said she, ye ha’e some sense: so the old woman put on the pot with her sowens, and went to milk the cows, leaving me to steer; the goodman, her son, as soon as she went out, took a great cogful of water, and put it into the pot amongst the sowens, and then went out of the house and left me alone: I considering what sort of a pish-the-bed supper I was to get if I staid there, thought it fit to set out, but takes up a pitcher of 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 witched sowens at their own pleasure.

The next little town I came to, and the very first house that 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 gart our Sandy burn the gude bane kame it I gid a saxpence for in Fa’kirk, ay did ye, ay, 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 a’ the days of my life, and do not say that Sandy is mine. A wae worth 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 me for’t. Gae awa, sir, said I, your mother and you are but mocking me. It was either you or ane like you, or some other body. O goodwife, I mind who it is now; ’twas just ane like me, when ye see the tane ye see the tither; they ca’ him Jock Jimbither. A wae worth him, quoth the wife, if I dinna thrapple him for my gude bane kame. Now, said I, goodwife, be good, bridle your passion, and buy a bane kame and coloured napkin, I’ll gie you a whaukin’ 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 o’t sweetly or a’ be done. Hech, man, said she, ye’re a hearty fallow, and I hae need o’ a’ these things, but a bane kame I maun hae; 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 grow as grit as grossets. And here I sold a bane kame and a napkin, for she believed such a douse lad as I had no hand in making the boy burn the bone comb.

The next house I came into, there was a very little tailor sitting on a table, like a t—d on a trencher, with his legs plet over other, made me imagine he was a sucking three-footed tailor; first I sold him a thimble, and then he wanted needles which I showed him, one paper after another; he looked their eyes and trying their nibs 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 did not perceive him. O said he them needles of yours are not good, man, I’ll not buy any of them. I do not think you need, said I, taking them out of his hand, and lights a candle that was standing near by; come, said I, sit about, you thieving dog, till I gather up my needles, then gathers up ten of them.

Come, said he, I’ll buy twa penny worth of them frae ye, I hae troubled you sae muckle; no, said I, you lousied 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 you in the fire, though it be in your own house; but as you are a poor tailor, and neither a man nor a boy, I’ll do nothing but expose you for what you are. O dear honest chapman, cried his wife, ye maunna do that, and I’se gie you cheese and bread. No, no, you thieves, I’m for nothing but vengeance; no bribes for such. So as I was lifting up my pack, there was a pretty black cat which I spread my napkin over, took the four corners in my hand, carrying her as a bundle, until 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 tailor’s cat in the midst of them, and a terrible battle ensued for some time, and baudrins had certainly died in the field, had I not interposed and got her off mortally wounded. The people who saw the battle alarmed the tailor, and he sallied out like a great 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 travelled down the side of a water called Avon; 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 he dipt it full and set it down on the ground, staring at me he rumbled 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 you had 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—e, so that I fell designedly on his pitcher, and it tumbled down the bank and 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, I met an old crabbed fellow riding upon an old glaid mare, which he always was thrashing upon with his stick. Goode’en to you, goodman, said I, are you going to the bull wi’ your mare? What do you say sir? they gang to the bull wi’ a cow, you brute. O yes, goodman, you are right, said I; but what do they ca’ the he-beast that rides on the mare’s back? They ca’d 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 waur than your first: he comes then to ride me down, but I struck his beast on the face, and in a short turn about it fell, yet, or I could get my pack to the ground, he cut me on the head at the first stroke; I then getting clear of the pack, played it away for some time, till by blows on the face, I made him bleed at both mouth and nose; then he cried out, Chapman, we are baith daft, for we’ll kill oursells and mak naething o’t; we had better ’gree: with all my heart, said I; and what will you buy? nothing but a pair of beard shears, said he, and give me them cheap; so I sold him a pair of B. shears, for three half-pence, and give 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 sweet and dear companion, and here we held a most terrible encounter with the tippenny for twa nights and a day; and then we set out for Fife, on the hair order, by the way of Torryburn and Culross; and came up to a parcel of women washing by a water-side, I buys one of their hair: the time I was cutting it off, Tom fell a courting and kissing and clapping one of them, what happened I know not, but she cried out, Ye mislear’d filthy fallow, ye put your hand atween my feet. Daft jade, canna ye haud your tongue when it’s your ain shame that ye speak. Filthy body, the last chapman that kissed me had a horse pack, but he’ll hae naething in his Pack but auld breeks, hare skins, mauken skins, or ony trash that fills the bag and bears bouk, and yet he wad kiss and handle me! I was made for a better fallow.

FINIS.

THE

COMICAL HISTORY

OF

SIMPLE JOHN

AND HIS

TWELVE MISFORTUNES,

WHICH HAPPENED ALL IN TWELVE DAYS AFTER THE UNHAPPY
DAY OF HIS MARRIAGE.

GLASGOW:

PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

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, drugget and harn was the finest webs he could lay his fingers to: he was a great lump of a lang, lean lad, aboon sax feet afore he was aughteen years 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 with him, but yet he hoped it would follow him, and he would meet wi’t as mony a ane does after they’re married. He had but ae sister, and she had as little sense as himsel’, she was married on Sleeky Willie, the wylie weaver; his mither was a rattling rattle-scull’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 estate, to the age of twenty-one years, he told his mither he would hae a wife o’ some sort, either young or auld, widow or lass, if they had but heads and lips, tongue and tail, he should 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, wha had three doughters, and every ane o’ them had something, there was Kate, Ann, and Girzy, had a hundred merks the piece. Kate and Ann had baith bastards. Girzy the eldest had a humph back, a high breast, baker legged, 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 haggis, a second edition of crook backed Richard, an old English King, that was born with teeth to bite a’ around about him, and yet the wight gaed mad to be married.

John’s mither told 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 of new pillonian breeks o’ his mither’s making. In he comes and tells 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 douchters hae ye? Are they a’ married yet? I fain wad tak a look o’ some o’ them gin ye like.

A wow, said the goodwife, come in by, honest lad, and rest ye, an ye be a wooer sit down and gie’s a snuff—A deed, goodwife, I hae nae mills but my mither’s, and it’s at hame.—Whare win ye, I’se no ken ye? I wat, quoth he, my name’s Jock Sandyman, and 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 pigs, four cogs, and a candlestick, a good cock, a cat, twa errocks 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 harl o’ health she has is about dinner time; what say ye till’t, goodman? can ye buckle me or not?

Goodman. A dear John, ye’re in an unco haste, ye wadna hae your wife hame wi’ ye? they’re a’ there before ye, which o’ them will ye tak?

Hout, tout, says John, ony o’ them will sair me, but my mither says there is twa o’ them has fauts. And what is their fauts? says 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 among ither beasts, or gin ye be aun ony penny, let somebody tak them up o’ desperate debt, I sud flie the fykes frae them, they anger’d you, and sham’d you baith with 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, then, will ye tak me; I hae nae bastards; how will you and I do?

John. I wat na gin ye be able to get a bastard, yet ye may hae some waur 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 carded through ither, we may get bonny weans o’ a middlen mak. I hae nae fauts to ye, but ye hae a high breast, a humph back, a short neck, and high shouthers, the hands and legs may do, tho’ your mouth be a wee to the tae side it will lie weel to the rock, and I hae a hantle o’ tow to spin, will be baith sarks and sacks till us, ye’ll be my soncy dauty, up and down; a perfect beauty, wi’ cat’s yellow een, black brous, and red lips, and your very nose is a purple 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, should na ye be ready whan I’m ready, and every body says that the woman’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 weel, goodman, I’ll tell my mither o’t, and come back on Monday, and we’ll hae a chappin o’ ale, and roasted cheese on the chance o’t, but I maun hae a word o’ the bride out by, to convoy me, and a quiet speak to hersel about it.

Goodwife. A wow na, John, the daft loons will laugh at you, and she’ll think shame, gang ye out by, and she’ll speak to you through 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 suth I’m no scorning.

Girzy. Indeed, John, I’m very willing to tak ye, but ye needna tell every body about it.

John. Then gie me a kiss on that.

He shoves 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 weel; it’s a pity there is sic a hard wa’ between us, I’se tell my mither sae bonny as ye are: O, gie me anither kiss yet, and then I’ll go. One of her sisters standing by in a dark corner, gets haud o’ a cow’s head, which wanted a’ the skin but about the mouth, and shoves it towards his mouth, which he kissed in the dark. O, cries he, your mouth be cauld since I kissed ye last, and I think ye hae a beard, I saw nae that before, 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.

All things was got ready, and next week Sleeky Willie the weaver and him came to gree the marriage, and stay all night with the bride, and teach John good manners, for when John was hungry, he minded his meat mair than his good behaviour, and he never was fu’ till the dish was tume. Willie the weaver was to tramp on his fit when he thought he had suppet aneugh; so all things being agreed, upon short and easy terms, and the wedding day set, they were to be three times cried on Sunday, and quietly married on Monday, neither piper nor fiddler to be employ’d, but sweith awa hame frae the Minister, and into the bed amang the blankets; ha, ha, cried John, that’s the best o’t a’.

Now every thing being concluded and proposed, the supper was brought, a large fat haggis, the very smell wad a done a hungry body gude, but John had only got twa or three soups, until one of the butcher’s meikle dogs tramped on John’s fit, which he took to be the weaver, and then he would eat nae mair. 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 whare it was set; they are a’sleeping, I’ll go rise and tak a soup o’t yet. Aye, een do sae, said Sleeky Willie, and bring a soup to me too. Away then John goes to the amry, and lays to the haggis, till his ain haggis could haud nae mair; then brought some to Sleeky Willie; but, instead of going to the bed where he was, goes to the bed where the bride and the twa sisters lay, they being fast asleep, speaks slowly, Will ye tak it, will ye tak it; but they making no answer, he turns up the blankets to put a soup into Willie’s mouth, but instead of doing so, he puts a great spoonful close into one of their backsides. Sleeky Willie hears a’ that past, comes out the bed, and sups out the remainder, and sets up the dish where it was, leaves the amry door open to let the cats get the blame of supping the haggis, and away they go to bed; but poor John could 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 nane he closed his hand when it was within the pitcher, and then could not get it out, goes to the bed and tells Sleeky Willie 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 make a noise in the house. So out he goes, and the bride’s sister who had gotten the great spoonful of the haggis 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 ower her hurdies with the pitcher, till it flew in pieces about her, then off she runs with the fright, round a turf-stack, and into the house before him. John came in trembling to the bed again, wi’ the fright, praying to preserve him, for sic a knocking-stane he never yet saw, for it ran clean awa when he broke the pig upon it.

Now John was furnished in a house by his father-in-law; the bed, the loom, heddles, treadles, thrumbs, reed, and pirn-wheel, was a’ brought and set up before the marriage, which was kept a profound secret; so that John got the first night of his ain wife, and his ain house 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 the rent for three years; they were to hae nae servants, until they had children; and their 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 she said, wha wrought best for’t.

MISFORTUNE I.

Then she ordered John to rise and begin his wark, by putting on a fire, and to tak the twa new pigs and gang to the well for water. No sooner had John opened the door, and gone out with a pig in every hand, than a’ the boys and girls being gathered in a crowd 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 twa pigs, clashes the tane against the tither, till baith went to pieces, and that was a cheerful huzza to baith young and auld that was looking at him; Girzy the wife draws him into the house, and to him she flies with the wicked wife’s weapon, her Tongue and Tangs, and made his ribs to crack, saying, “They told me ye war daft, but I’ll ding the daffing out o’ ye, I’ll begin wi’ you as I’ve a mind to end wi’ you.” Poor John sat crying and clawing his head.

“Ha, ha,” said he, “its nae bairn’s play to be married, I find that already.” His mother-in-law came in and made up peace, went to a cooper, and got them a big wooden stoop to carry in their water.

MISFORTUNE 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 flesher dogs fall on and worry at a poor country colly dog; “Justice, justice,” cries John to the dogs, “ye’re but a wheen unmannerly rascals, that fa’s a’ on ae poor beast, heth ye should a’ be put in the toubuoth, and ta’en to the bailies, and hanged for the like o’ that; its perfect murder;” and in he runs amongst the dogs, “And be hanged to you a’ thegither, What’s the quarrel? What’s the quarrel?” John flings down the flesh he had carrying, and grips the colly, who took John for an enemy too, and bites his hands till the blood followed, the whole of the tykes comes a’ on poor John, till down he goes in the dirt amongst their feet, and one of the dogs runs off with the flesh, so John went hame both dirty and bloody and without his flesh, told 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 ne’er do a better turn.

MISFORTUNE 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 couldna win out: some people passing by chance heard the slunge, cried, and ran to his relief, hauled 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 hard Tangs.

MISFORTUNE 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 you buy: see that ye put on the pat, hae’t boiling again I come hame. John promised weel, but performs very badly. She’s no sooner gone, than he puts on the new pat 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 persuaded John to take a game wi’ them, on he plays, till ane o’ the boys cries, Hey John, yonders your Girzy coming. John runs into the house wi’ the water, and the pat being red-hot on the fire, he tumes in the cauld water into it, which made the pat flee all in pieces, just as she was entering the door. John runs for it, and she runs after him, crying catch the thief, some persons stopped him; she comes up, and then she laboured him all the way hame, and he crying, “O Sirs, ye see what it is to be married!” The mither-in-law had to make up peace again, and he promised good behaviour in time to come.

MISFORTUNE V.

On the next morning she sent him to the water to wash some cow’s 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 turned and washed 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 ane, which he carried hame in his hand, crying like a child, and underwent a severe tost of the old plaister before any mercy was shown.

MISFORTUNE 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 half-pence, 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 would not be stopped for him, he knocks the horse on the face with the napkin and the money, so the napkin rave, 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 old plaister, which he got very sickerly.

MISFORTUNE VII.

On the next morning, she sent him again to the bridge, to see if he could find any of it in the water, and there he found some ducks swimming, 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 ragman came past, and took away all his clothes. So he went home naked to get a bath of the old plaister.

MISFORTUNE VIII.

The next morning, she sent him to a farm-house for a pigful of buttermilk, and as he was returning through the fields, the farmer’s bull and another bull were fighting; the farmer’s bull being like to loss, John runs in behind him, and sets his head to the bull’s tail, on 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 pig, and spilt the milk. So John went home to get his auld plaister, which began to be a usual diet to him, and so he regarded it the less.

MISFORTUNE IX.

His mother-in-law, with several auld witty wives, held a private council 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 into his hand, that he was ruined for ever; insisted either to unmarry them again, or send death and the bellman 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 de’il. The Minister began to exhort him to peace and patience, telling him that marriages were made in heaven: “ye’re a baist liar,” says John, “for I was married in your ain kitchen, and a’ the blackguards in the town were there, an it had a been a heaven they wadna win in, yet tell me that matrimony was sic a happy state, but had ye gotten as mony weel pay’d skins as I hae gotten, ye wad a kend what it was; ill chance on you, sir;” and out he goes cursing like a madman, throwing stanes and breaking the Minister’s windows for which he was caught and put twa hours in the stocks, and at last his lump of corruption came and rubbed his lugs, drew his nose, got him out, and drove him home before her, took a resolution never to set him about any business in time coming, but keep him on his loom.

MISFORTUNE X.

Now she gave him no sleep all that night for scolding. John got up in the morning lang or day, and left his Tormenter in bed, fell asleep upon his loom wi’ the 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 gets, and with her cries alarmed the neighbourhood who came to her relief; but poor John underwent a dreadful swabbing for this.

MISFORTUNE XI.

After the former hurry and beating being over, his work being stopt, he went to bed and slept a’ that day, and following night. On the next day, having nothing to do, she sent him in search of a hen’s nest, which had ta’en 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 broke, 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, scarce able to get hame, his face and nose all running of 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 you think there is ony of your banes broken; and what part of you is sairest? And what will I get to do good?” “Oh!” said he, “Girzy, I’m a’ brizzled 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, upo’ my word, ye’s no be here, gang whare ye like.”

MISFORTUNE XII.

Now, as poor John was turned 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 through 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 kent 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 fashious fouks; owns he has but an empty skull, but his wicked wife wants wit to pour judgment into it, never tells him o’ danger till it comes upon him, for his mother said he was a biddable bairn, if ony body had been to learn him wit.

FINIS.

THE

MERRY TALES

OF THE

WISE MEN

OF

GOTHAM.

Of merry Books this is the chief,
’Twill make you laugh your fill.

GLASGOW: PRINTED FOR THE

BOOKSELLERS.

THE
MERRY TALES
OF THE
WISE MEN OF GOTHAM

TALE I.

There were two men of Gotham, and one of them was going to Nottingham market to buy sheep, and both met together on Nottingham bridge. Well met, said one to the other; whither are you going? said he that came from Nottingham. Marry, said he that was going thither, I am going to the market to buy sheep. Buy sheep! said the other, which way will you bring them home? Marry, said the other, I will bring them over this bridge. By Robin Hood, said he that came from Nottingham, but thou shalt not. By my maid Margery, said the other, but I will. You shall not, said the one. I will, said the other. Then they beat their staves one against the other, and then against the ground, as if a hundred sheep had been betwixt them. Hold there, said the one. Beware of my sheep leaping over the bridge, said the other. I care not, said the one. They shall all come this way, said the other. But they shall not, said the one. Then said the other, if thou makest much ado, I will put my finger in thy mouth. A turd thou wilt, said the other. And as they were in contention, another wise man that belonged to Gotham, came from the market with a sack of meal on his horse; and seeing his neighbours at strife about sheep and none betwixt them, said he, Ah fools! will you never learn wit! Then help me, continued he, to lay this sack upon my shoulder; they did so, and he went to the side of the bridge and shook out the meal into the river, saying, How much meal is there in my sack, neighbour? Marry, said one, there is none. Indeed, replied this wise man, even so much wit is there in your two heads to strive for that you have not. Now which was the wisest of these three, I leave thee to judge.

TALE II.

There was a man of Gotham that rode to the market with two bushels of wheat, and lest his horse should be damaged by carrying too great a burden he was determined to carry the corn himself, upon his own neck, and still kept riding upon his horse till he arrived at the end of his journey. I will leave you to judge which was the wisest, his horse or himself.

TALE III.

On a time the men of Gotham fain would have pinned in the cuckoo that she might sing all the year; and in the midst of the town they had a hedge made round in compass, and got a cuckoo and put her into it, and said, Sing here, and thou shalt lack neither meat nor drink all the year. The cuckoo, when she found herself encompassed by the hedge, flew away. A vengeance on her, said these wise men, we did not make our hedge high enough.

TALE IV.

There was a man of Gotham who went to Nottingham market to sell cheese; and going down the hill to Nottingham bridge, one of his cheeses fell out of his wallet and ran down the hill. Whoreson, said the man, can you run to the market alone? I’ll now send one after another. Then laying his wallet down, and taking out the cheeses, he tumbled them down the hill one after another. Some ran into one bush and some into another. He charged them, however, to meet him at the market place. The man went to the market to meet the cheeses, and staying till the market was almost over, then went and inquired of his neighbours if they saw his cheeses come to the market? Why, who should bring them? says one; Marry, themselves, said the fellow, they knew the way very well. A vengeance on them, they ran so fast, I was afraid they would run beyond the market; I am sure they are by this time as far as York. So he immediately rode to York, but was much disappointed. And to add to it, he never found nor heard of one of his cheeses.

TALE V.

A man of Gotham bought, at Nottingham market, a trevet of bar iron; and going home with it, his feet grew weary with the carriage. He set it down, and seeing it had three feet, said, Whoreson, thou hast three feet and I but two; thou shalt bear me home if thou wilt, so he set himself down upon it, and said to it, bear me as long as I have done thee, for if thou dost not thou shalt stand still for me. The man of Gotham saw his trevet would not move. Stand still said he, in the Mayor’s name, and follow me if thou wilt, and I can shew you the right way. When he went home, his wife asked where the trevet was? He said it had three legs, and he had but two, and he had taught him the ready way to his house, therefore he might come himself if he would. Where did you leave the trevet? said the woman. At Gotham bridge, said he. So she immediately ran and fetched the trevet herself; otherwise she must have lost it on account of her husband’s want of wit.

TALE VI.

A certain smith of Gotham had a large wasp’s nest in the straw at the end of the forge, and there coming one of his neighbours to have his horse shod, and the wasps being exceeding busy, the man was stung by one of them. The man, being grievously affronted, said, Are you worthy to keep a forge or not, to have men stung with these wasps? O neighbour, said the smith, be content, and I will put them from their nest presently. Immediately he took a coulter, and heated it red hot, and thurst it into the straw at the end of his forge, and set it on fire, and burnt it up. Then, said the smith, I told thee I’d fire them out of their nest.

TALE VII.

On Good Friday the men of Gotham consulted together what to do with their white herrings, sprats, and salt fish, and agreed, that all such fish should be cast into a pond or pool, in the midst of the town, that the number of them might increase the next year. Therefore every one that had any fish left, did cast them immediately into the pond. Then said one, I have gotten left so many red herrings. Well, said another, and I have left so many whitings. Another cried out, I have as yet gotten so many sprats left. And, said the last, I have gotten so many salt fishes, let them go together in the great pond, without any distinction, and we may be sure to fare like lords the next year. At the beginning of the next Lent, they immediately went about drawing the pond, imagining they should have the fish, but were much surprised to find nothing but a great eel. Ah! said they, a mischief on this eel, for he hath eaten up our fish. What must we do with him? said one; chop him in pieces, said another. Nay, not so, said another, but let us drown him. Be it accordingly so, replied they all. So they went immediately to another pond, and cast the eel into the water. Lay there, said these wise men, and shift for thyself, since you may not expect help from us. So they left the eel to be drowned.

TALE VIII.

On a time the men of Gotham had forgotten to pay their rents to their landlord; so one said the other, to-morrow must be pay-day, by whom can we send our money? So one said, I have this day taken a hare, and she may carry it, for she is very quick footed; be it so, replied the rest; she shall have a letter, and a purse to put our money in, and we can direct her the way. When the letter was written and the money put into a purse, they tied them about the hare’s neck, saying, You must first go to Loughborough, and then to Leicester, and at Newark is our landlord; then commend us to him, and there is his due. The hare, as soon as she got out of their hands, ran quite a contrary way.—Some said, Thou must first go to Loughborough; others said, Let the hare alone, for she can tell a nearer way than the best of us; let her go.

TALE IX.

A man of Gotham, that went mowing in the meadow, found a large grasshopper He instantly threw down his scythe, and ran home to his neighbour, and said that the devil was at work in the field, and was hopping among the grass. Then was every man ready with their clubs, staves, halberts, and other weapons, to kill the grasshopper. When they came to the place where the grasshopper was, said one to the other, let every man cross himself from the devil, for we will not meddle with him. So they returned again, and said, We are blest this day that we went no farther. O ye cowards! said he that left the scythe in the meadow, help me to fetch my scythe. No, answered they, it is good to sleep in a whole skin. It is much better for thee to lose thy scythe than to mar us all.

TALE X.

On a certain time there were twelve men of Gotham that went to fish; some waded in the water, and some stood on dry land. In going home, one said to the other, we have ventured wonderfully in wading, I pray God that none of us did come from home to be drowned. Nay, marry, said one to the other, let us see that, for there did twelve of us come out. Then they told themselves, and every one told eleven. Said the one to the other, there is one of us drowned. They then went back to the brook, where they’d been fishing, and sought up and down for him that was drowned, making great lamentation. A courtier coming by, asked what it was they sought for, and why they were sorrowful. Oh, said they, this day we went to fish in the brook; twelve of us came out together, and one is drowned. The courtier said, tell how many there be of you. One of them told eleven, but he did not tell himself. Well, said the courtier, what will you give me, and I will find the twelfth man? All the money we have got, said they. Give me the money, said he. He began with the first, and gave him a stroke over the shoulders with his whip, that made him groan, saying, here is one, and so he served them all, and they groaned at the matter. When he came to the last, he paid him well, saying, here is the twelfth man. God’s blessings on thee said they, for finding our brother.

TALE XI.

A man of Gotham, riding along the highway, saw a cheese, so drew his sword and pricked it with the point, in order to pick it up. Another man who came by, alighted, picked it up, and rode away with it. The man of Gotham rides to Nottingham to buy a long sword to pick up the cheese, and returning to the place where it did lie, he pulled out his sword, pricked the ground, and said, if I had had but this sword I should have had the cheese myself, but now another has come before me and got it.

TALE XII.

A man in Gotham, that did not love his wife, and she having fair hair, he said divers times he would cut it off, but durst not do it when she was awake, so he resolved to do it when she was asleep; therefore, one night he took a pair of shears and put them under his pillow, which his wife perceiving, said to her maid, go to bed to my husband, to-night, for he intends to cut off my hair; let him cut off thy hair, and I will give thee as good a kirtle as ever thou didst see. The maid did so, and feigned herself asleep, which the man perceiving, cut off her hair, wrapped it about the shears, and, laying them under the pillow, fell asleep. The maid arose, and the wife took the hair and shears, and went to the hall and burnt the hair. The man had a fine horse that he loved, and the goodwife went into the stable, cut off the hair of the horse’s tail, wrapped the shears up in it, and laid them under the pillow again.—Her husband, seeing her combing her head in the morning, marvelled thereat. The girl, seeing her master in a deep study, said, What ails the horse in the stable, he has lost his tail? The man ran into the stable, and found the horse’s tail was cut off; then going to the bed, he found the shears wrapped up in his horse’s tail. He then went to his wife, saying, I crave thy mercy, for I intended to cut off thy hair, but I have cut off my own horse’s tail. Yea, said she, self do self have. Many men think to do a bad turn, but it turneth oft times to themselves.

TALE XIII.

A man of Gotham laid his wife a wager that she could not make him a cuckold. No! said she, but I can. Do not spare me, said he, but do what you can. On a time she had hid all the spigots and faucets, and going into the buttery, set a barrel of broach, and cried to her spouse, Pray, bring me a spigot and faucet, or else the ale will all run out. He sought up and down, but could not find one. Come here then, said she, and put thy finger in the tap-hole. Then she called a tailor with whom she made a bargain. Soon after she came to her husband, and brought a spigot and a faucet, saying, Pull thy finger out of the tap-hole, good cuckold. Beshrew your heart for your trouble, said she, make no such bargain with me again.

TALE XIV.

A man of Gotham took a young buzzard, and invited four or five gentlemen’s servants to the eating of it; but the wife killed an old goose, and she and two of her gossips ate up the buzzard, and the old goose was laid to the fire for the gentlemen’s servants. So when they came the goose was set before them. What is this? said one of them. The goodman said, a curious buzzard. A buzzard! why, it is an old goose, and thou art a knave to mock us, and so departed in great anger. The fellow was sorry that he had affronted them, and took a bag and put the buzzard’s feathers in it; but his wife desired him, before he went, to fetch a block of wood, and in the interim she pulled out the buzzard’s feathers, and put in the goose’s. The man, taking the bag, went to the gentlemen’s servants, and said, Pray, be not angry with me, you shall see I had a buzzard, for here be the feathers. Then he opened the bag, and took out the goose’s feathers; upon which one of them took a cudgel, and gave him a dozen of stripes, saying, Why, you knave, could you not be content to mock us at home, but you are come here to mock us also.

TALE XV.

A man’s wife of Gotham was brought to bed of a male child, and the father invited the gossips, who were children of eight or ten years of age. The eldest child’s name was Gilbert, the second’s name was Humphrey, and the godmother was called Christabel. Their relations admonished them divers times, that they must all say after the parson. And when they were come to church, the priest said, Be you all agreed of the name? Gilbert, Humphrey, and Christabel, said the same. The priest then said, Wherefore came you hither? They immediately said the same. The priest being amazed, could not tell what to say, but whistled and said Whey, and so did they. The priest being angry, said, Go home, you fools, go home. Then Gilbert, Humphrey, and Christabel, did the same. The priest then provided god-fathers and god-mothers himself.

TALE XVI.

A young man of Gotham went a wooing a fair maid: his mother warned him before-hand, saying, whenever you look at her, cast a sheep’s eye at her, and say, How dost thou my sweet Pigmy? The fellow went to a butcher and bought seven or eight sheep eyes. And when this lusty wooer was at dinner, he would look upon the fair wench, and cast in her face a sheep’s eye, saying, How dost thou do, my sweet Pigmy? How I do, said the wench; Swine’s face, what do you mean by casting a sheep’s eye at me? O! sweet Pigmy have at thee with another. I defy thee Swine’s face, said the wench, What my sweet old Pigmy, be content, for if you live till next year you will be a foul sow. Walk, knave, walk, said she, for if you live till next year you will be a fool.

TALE XVII.

There was a man of Gotham who would be married, and when the day of marriage was come, they went to church. The priest said, Do you say after me. The man said, Do you say after me. The priest said, Say not after me such like, but say what I shall tell you; thou dost play the fool to mock the holy Scriptures concerning matrimony. The fellow said, Thou dost play the fool to mock the holy Scriptures concerning matrimony. The priest wist not what to say, but answered, What shall I do with this fool? and the man said, What shall I do with this fool? So the priest took his leave, and would not marry them. The man was instructed by others how to do, and was afterwards married. And thus the breed of the Gothamites has been perpetuated even unto this day.

TALE XVIII.

There was a Scotsman who dwelt at Gotham, and he took a house a little distance from London, and turned it into an inn, and for his sign he would have a boar’s head, accordingly he went to a carver, and said, Can you make me a bare head? Yes, said the carver. Then said he, make me a bare head, and thou’se hae twenty shillings for thy hire. I will do it, said the carver, on St Andrew’s day, before Christmas, (called Yule in Scotland,) the Scot came to London for his boar’s head. I say, speak, said the Scotsman, hast thou made me a bare head? Yes, said the carver. He went and brought a man’s head of wood that was bare, and said, Sir, there is your bare head. Ay said the Scot the meikle de’il! is this a bare head! Yes, said the carver. I say, said the Scotsman, I will have a bare head like the head that follows a sow with gryces. What, whoreson, know you not a sow that will greet and groan and cry a-week, a-week. What, said the carver, do you mean a pig! Yes, said the Scotsman, let me have her head made of timber, and set on her a scalp, and let her sing—Whip whire. The carver said he could not. You whoreson, said he, gar her as she’d sing whip whire.

TALE XIX.

In old times, during these tales the wives of Gotham were got into an alehouse, and said they were all profitable to their husbands. Which way, good gossips! said the ale-wife. The first said, I will tell you all, good gossips I cannot brew nor bake, therefore I am every day alike, and go to the alehouse because I cannot go to church; and in the alehouse I pray to God to speed my husband, and I am sure my prayers will do him more good than my labour. Then said the second, I am profitable to my husband in saving of candle in winter, for I cause my husband and all my people to go to bed by day-light and rise by day-light. The third said, I am profitable in sparing bread, for I drink a gallon of ale, and I care not much for meat. The fourth said, I am loath to spend meat and drink at home, so I go to the tavern at Nottingham and drink wine, and such other things as God sends me there. The fifth said, A man will ever have more company in another’s house than his own, and most commonly in the ale-house. The sixth said, My husband has flax and wool to spare, if I go to other folk’s houses to do their work. The seventh said, I spare my husband’s wood and clothes, and sit all day talking at other folks’ fires. The eighth said, Beef, mutton, and pork are dear, I therefore take pigs, chickens, conies, and capons, being of a lesser price. The ninth said, I spare my husband’s soap, for instead of washing once a week, I wash but once a quarter. Then said the ale-wife, I keep all my husband’s ale from souring; for as I was wont to drink it almost up, now I never leave a drop.

TALE XX.

On Ash Wednesday, the minister of Gotham would have a collection from his parishioners, and said unto them, My friends, the time is come that you must use prayer, fasting, and alms, but come ye to shrift, I will tell you more of my mind. But as for prayer, I don’t think that two men in the parish can say their Paternoster. As for fasting, ye fast still, for ye have not a good meal’s meat in the year. As for alm-deeds, what should they give that have nothing? In Lent you must refrain from drunkenness and abstain from drink. No not so, said one fellow, for it is an old proverb, that fish should swim. Yes, said the priest, they must swim in the water. I crave thy mercy, quoth the fellow, I thought it should have swam in fine ale, for I have been told so. Soon after the men of Gotham came to shrift and being seven, the priest knew not what penance to give. He said, if I enjoin you to pray, you cannot say your Paternoster. And it is but folly to make you fast, because you never eat a meal’s meat. Labour hard and get a dinner on Sunday, and I will partake of it. Another man he enjoined to fare well on Monday, and another on Tuesday, and another on Wednesday, and so on one after another, that one or other should fare well once in the week that he might have part of their meat, on every day during the week. And as for your alm-deeds, the priest said, ye be but beggars all, except one or two, therefore bestow your alms on yourselves.

FINIS.

THE

LIFE OF

MANSIE WAUCH

TAILOR IN DALKEITH.

For a tailor is a man, a man, a man,
And a tailor is a man.

GLASGOW;

PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS

THE LIFE OF
MANSIE WAUCH.

I was born during the night of the 15th of October, 1765, in that little house, standing by itself, not many yards from the eastmost side of the Flesh-Market Gate, Dalkeith. Long was it spoken about that something mysterious would happen on that dreary night; as the cat, after washing her face, gaed mewing about, with her tail sweeing behind her like a ramrod; and a corbie, from the Duke’s woods, tumbled down Jamie Elder’s lum, when he had set the little still a-going—giving them a terrable fright, as they took it for the deevil and then for an exciseman—and fell with a great cloud of soot, and a loud skraigh, into the empty kail-pot.

The first thing that I have any clear memory of, was my being carried out on my auntie’s shoulder, with a leather cap tied under my chin, to see the Fair Race. Oh! but it was a grand sight! I have read since then, the story of Aladdin’s Wonderful Lamp, but this beat it all to sticks. There was a long row of tables, covered with carpets of bonny patterns, heaped from one end to the other with shoes of every kind and size, some with polished soles, and some glittering with sparribles and cuddyheels; and little red worsted boots for bairns, with blue and white edgings, hinging like strings of flowers up the posts at each end;—and then what a collection of luggies! the whole meal in the market sacks on a Thursday did not seem able to fill them: and horn spoons, green and black freckled, with shanks clear as amber,—and timber caups,—and ivory egg-cups of every pattern. Have a care of us! all the eggs in Smeaton dairy might have found resting places for their doups in a row. As for the gingerbread, I shall not attempt a discription. Sixpenny and shilling cakes, in paper, tied with skinie; and roundabouts, and snaps, brown and white quality, and parliaments, on stands covered with calendered linen, clean from the fold. To pass it was just impossible; it set my teeth a-watering, and I skirled like mad, until I had a gilded lady thurst into my little nieve; the which after admiring for a minute, I applied my teeth to and of the head I made no bones: so that in less than no time, she had vanished, petticoats and all, no trace of her being to the fore, save and except long treacly daubs, extending east and west from ear to ear, and north and south from cape nep of the nose to the extremity of beardyland.

But what, of all things, attracted my attention on that memorable day, was the show of cows, sheep and horses, mooing, baaing, and neighering; and the race—that was best! Od, what a sight!—we were jammed in the crowd of auld wives, with their toys and shining ribbons; and carter lads, with their blue bonnets; and young wenches, carrying home their fairings in napkins, as muckle as would hold their teeth going for a month;—there scarcely could he muckle for love, when there was so much for the stomach;—and men with wooden legs, and brass virls at the end of them, playing on the fiddle,—and a bear that roared, and danced on its hind feet, with a muzzled mouth,—and Punch and Polly,—and puppie-shows and mair than I can tell,—when up came the horses to the starting-post. I shall never forget the bonny dresses of the riders. One had a napkin tied round his head, another had on a black velvet hunting-cap and his coat stripped O! but he was a brave lad and sorrow was the folks for him, when he fell off in taking ower sharp a turn, by which auld Pullen, the bell-ringer wha was holding the post was made to coup the creels. And the last was all life, as gleg as an eel. Up and down he went and up and down gaed the beast on its hind-legs and its fore-legs, funking like mad; yet tho’ he was not aboon thirteen, or fourteen at most, he did not cry out for help more than five or six times, but grippit at the mane with one hand and at the back of the saddle with the other, til, daft Robie, the hostler at the stables claught hold of the beast by the head, and off they set. The young birkie had neither hat nor shoon but he did not spare the stick; round and round they flew like daft. Ye would have thought their een would have loupen out, and loudly all the crowd were hurraing, when young hatless came up foremost, standing in the stirrups, the long stick between his teeth, and his white hair fleeing behind him in the wind like streamers on a frosty night.

CALF-LOVE.

Just after I was put to my ’prenticeship, having made free choice of the tailoring trade, I had a terrible stound of calf-love. Never shall I forget it. I was growing up, long and lank as a willow-wand, brawns to my legs there were none, as my trowsers of other years too visibly effected to show. The long yellow hair hung down, like a flax-wig, the length of my lantern jaws, which looked, notwithstanding my yapness and stiff appetite, as if eating and they had broken up acquaintanceship. My blue jacket seemed in the sleeves to have picket a quarrel with the wrists, and had retreated to a tait below the elbows. The haunch-buttons, on the contrary appeared to have taken a strong liking to the shoulders, a little below which they showed their tarnished brightness. At the middle of the back the tails terminated, leaving the well-worn rear of my corduroys, like a full moon seen through a dark haze. Oh! but I must have been a bonny lad.

My first flame was the minister’s lassie, Jess, a buxom and forward queen, two or three years older than myself. I used to sit looking at her in the kirk, and felt a droll confusion when our een met. It dirled through my heart like a dart, and I looked down at my psalm-book sheepish and blushing. Fain would I have spoken to her, but it would not do; my courage aye failed me at the pinch, though she whiles gave me a smile when she passed me. She used to go to the well every night with her twa stoups, to draw water after the manner of the Israelites at gloaming; so I thought of watching to give her the two apples which I had carried in my pouch for more than a week for that purpose. How she laughed when I stappit them into her hand, and brushed by without speaking? I stood at the bottom of the close listening, and heard her laughing till she was like to split. My heart flap flappit in my breast like a pair of fanners. It was a moment of heavenly hope; but I saw Jamie Coom, the blacksmith, who I aye jealoused was my rival, coming down to the well. I saw her give him one of the apples: and hearing him say with a loud gaffaw, “Where is the tailor?” I took to my heels, and never stopped till I found myself on the little stool by the fireside, and the hamely sound of my mother’s wheel bum-bumming in my lug, like a gentle lullaby.

Every noise I heard flustered me, but I calmed in time, though I went to my bed without my supper. When I was driving out the gaislings to the grass on the next morn, who was it my ill fate to meet but the blacksmith. “Ou, Mansie,” said Jamie Coom, “are ye gaun to take me for your best man? I hear you are to be cried in the kirk on Sunday?”

“Me!” answered I, shaking and staring.

“Yes!” said he, “Jess the minister’s maid told me last night, that you had been giving up your name at the manse. Ay, it’s ower true—for she showed me the apples ye gied her in a present. This is a bonny story, Mansie, my man, and you only at your ’prenticeship yet.”

Terror and despair had struck me dumb. I stood as still and as stiff as a web of buckram. My tongue was tied and I couldna contradict him. Jamie faulded his arms, and gaed away whistling, turning every now and then his sooty face over his shoulder, and mostly sticking his tune, as he could not keep his mouth screwed for laughing. What would I not have given to have laughed to!

There was no time to be lost; this was the Saturday. The next rising sun would shine on the Sabbath. Ah, what a case I was in I could mostly have drowned myself, had I not been frighted. What could I do? My love had vanished like lightning: but oh, I was in a terrible gliff! Instead of gundy, I sold my thrums to Mrs Walnut for a penny, with which I bought at the counter a sheet of paper and a pen; so that in the afternoon I wrote out a letter to the minister, telling him what I had been given to hear, and begging him, for the sake of mercy, not to believe Jess’s word, as I was not able to keep a wife, and as she was a leeing gipsy.

PUSHING MY FORTUNE.

The days of the years of my ’prenticeship having glided cannily over on the working board of my respected maister, James Hosey, where I sat working cross-legged like a busy bee, in the true spirit of industrious contentment, I found myself at the end of the seven year, so well instructed in the tailoring trade, to which I had paid a near-sighted attention, that, without more ado, I girt myself round about with a proud determination of at once cutting my mother’s apron string, and venturing to go without a hold. Thinks I to myself “faint heart never won fair lady;” so, taking my stick in my hand, I set out towards Edinburgh, as brave as a Hielander in search of a journeyman’s place. I may set it down to an especial providence, that I found one, on the very first day, to my heart’s content in by at the Grassmarket, where I stayed for the space of six calendar months.

Had it not been from a real sense of the duty I owed to my future employers, whomsoever they might be, in making myself a first-rate hand in the cutting, shaping, and sewing line, I would not have found courage in my breast to have helped me out through such a long and dreary time.

Never let us repine, howsomever, but consider that all is ordered for the best. The sons of the patriarch Jacob found out their brother Joseph in a foreign land, and where they least expected it: so it was here—even here where my heart was sickening unto death, from my daily and nightly thoughts being as bitter as gall—that I fell in with the greatest blessing of my life, Nanse Cromie!

In the flat below our workshop lived Mrs Whitterraick, the wife of Mr. Whitterraick, a dealer in hens and Hams in the poultry market, who coming from the Lauder neighbourhood had hired a bit wench of a lassie that was to follow them come the term. And who think ye should this lassie be, but Nanse Cromie, afterwards, in the course of a kind providence, the honoured wife of my bosom, and the mother of bonny Benjie.

In going up and down the stairs,—it being a common entry, ye observe—me may be going down with my every day hat on to my dinner, and she coming up, carrying a stoup of water, or half a-pound of pouthered butter on a plate, with a piece of paper thrown over it,—we frequently met half-way, and had to stand still to let one another pass. Nothing came of these forgetherings, howsomever, for a month or two, she being as shy and modest as she was bonny, with her clean demity short gown, and snow-white morning mutch, to say nothing of her cherry mou, and me unco douffie in making up to strangers. We could not help, nevertheless, to take aye a stoun look of each other in passing; and I was a gone man, bewitched out of my seven senses, falling from my claes, losing my stomach, and over the lugs in love, three weeks and some odd days before ever a single syllable passed between us.

If ever a man loved and loved like mad, it was me, Mansie Wauch,—and I take no shame in the confession; but, kenning it all in the course of nature, declared it openly and courageously in the face of the wide world. Let them laugh who like; honest folk, I pity them;—such know not the pleasures of virtuous affection. It is not in corrupted sinful hearts that the fire of true love can ever burn clear. Alas, and ohon orie! they lose the sweetest, completest, dearest, truest pleasure that this world has in store for its children. They know not the bliss to meet, that makes the embrace of separation bitter. They never dreamed the dreams that make awakening to the morning light unpleasant. They never felt the raptures that can dirl like darts through a man’s soul from a woman’s ee. They never tasted the honey that dwells on a woman’s lip, sweeter than yellow marygolds to the bee; or fretted under the fever of bliss that glows through the frame on pressing the hand of a suddenly met, and fluttering sweetheart. But tuts-tuts—hech-how! my day has long since past; and this is stuff to drop from the lips of an auld fool. Nevertheless, forgive me, friends: I cannot help all-powerful nature.

Nanse’s taste being like my own, we amused one another in abusing great cities: and it is curious how soon I learned to be up to trap—I mean in an honest way; for, when she said she was wearying the very heart out of her to be home again to Lauder, which, she said, was her native and the true land of Goshen, I spoke back to her by way of answer—“Nancy my dear,” says I, “believe me that the real land of Goshen is out at Dalkeith; and if ye’ll take up house wi’ me, and enter into a way of doing, I daursay in a while ye’ll come to think so too.”

What will you say there? Matters were by-and-by settled full tosh between us; and though the means of both parties were small, we were young, and able and willing to help one another. For two three days, I must confess, after Nanse, and me found ourselves in the comfortable situation of man and wife, I was a dowie and disponding, thinking we were to have a’ numerous small family and where work was to come from; but no sooner was my sign nailed up, with four iron haudfasts by Johnny Hammer, painted in black letters, on a blue ground, with a picture of a jacket on one side and a pair of shears on the other, and my shop door opened to the public with a wheen ready-made waistcoats, gallowses, leather-caps, and Kilmarnock cowls, hung up at the window, than business flowed in upon us in a perfect torrent. First one came in for his measure, and then another; a wife came in for a pair of red worsted boots for her bairn, but would not take them for they had not blue fringes. A bare-headed lassie, hoping to be hansel, threw down twopence, and asked tape at three yards a halfpenny. The minister sent an old black coat beneath his maid’s arm, prinned up in a towel, to get docked in the tails down into a jacket: which I trust I did to his entire satisfaction, making it fit to a hair. The Duke’s butler himself patronised me, by sending me a coat which was all hair powder and pomate, to get a new neck put to it.

No wonder than we attracted customers, for our sign was the prettiest ye ever saw, though the jacket was not just so neatly painted, as for some sand-blind creatures not to take it for a goose. I daresay there were fifty half-naked bairns glowring their een out of their heads at it, from morning till night: and, after they all were gone to their beds, both Nanse and me found ourselves so proud of our new situation in life, that we sliped out in the dark by ourselves, and had a prime look at it with a lantern.

MANSIE WAUCH’s FIRST AND LAST PLAY.

Mony a time and often had I heard of play-acting, and of players making themselves kings and queens, and saying a great many wonderful things; but I had never before an opportunity of making myself a witness to the truth of these hearsays. So Maister Glen, being as fu’ of nonsense, and as fain to have his curiosity gratified, we took upon us the stout resolution to gang our thegither, he offering to treat me, and I determined to run the risk of Maister Wiggie, our minister’s rebuke, for the transgression, hoping it would make na lasting impression on his mind, being for the first and only time. Folks shouldna at a’ times be ower scrupulous.

After paying our money at the door, never, while I live and breathe, will I forget, what we saw and heard that night; it just looks to me, by a’ the world, when I think on’t, like a fairy dream. The place was crowded to the ee, Maister Glen and me having nearly got our ribs dung in, before we fand a seat, and them behint were obliged to mount the back benches to get a sight. Right to the fore hand of us was a large green curtain, some five or six ells wide, a guid deal the waur of the wear, having seen service through two or three simmers, and just in the front of it were eight or ten penny candles, stuck in a board fastened to the ground, to let us see the players’ feet like, when they came on the stage, and even before they came on the stage, for the curtain being scrimpit in length, we saw legs and feet moving behind the scenes very neatly, while twa blind fiddlers, they had brought with them, played the bonniest ye ever heard. Odd, the very music was worth a sixpence of itsell.

The place, as I said before, was choke full, just to excess, so that ane could scarcely breathe. Indeed I never saw ony pairt sae crowded, not even at a tent-preaching, when Mr Roarer was giving his discourses on the building of Solomon’s Temple. We were obligated to have the windows opened for a mouthful of fresh air, the barn being as close as a baker’s oven, my neighbour and me fanning our red faces with our hats to keep us cool, and, though all were half stewed, we had the worst o’t, the toddy we had ta’en having fomented the blood of our bodies into a perfect fever.

Just at the time that the twa blind fiddlers were playing the Downfall of Paris, a hand-bell rang and up goes the green curtain, being hauled to the ceiling, as I observed wi’ the tail o’ my ee, by a birkie at the side, that had haud o’ a rope. So, on the music stopping and all becoming as still as that you might have heard a pin fall, in comes a decent old gentleman, at his leasure, weil powdered, wi’ an auld-fashioned coat, and waistcoat wi’ flap pockets, brown breeches, with buckles at the knees, and silk stockings, with red gushets on a blue ground. I never saw a man in sic distress; he stampit about, and better stampit about, dadding the end of his staff on the ground, and emploring all the powers of heaven and yearth to help him to find out his run-awa’ daughter, that had decampit wi’ some neerdowell loon of a halfpay captain, that keppit her in his arms frae her bed-room window, up twa pair o’ stairs. Every father and head of a family maun hae felt for a man in his situation, thus to be rubbit of his dear bairn, and an only daughter too, as he tell’t us ower and ower again, as the saut tears ran gushing down his withered face, and he aye blew his nose on his clean callendered pocket napkin. But, ye ken, the thing was absurd to suppose, that we should ken ony thing about the matter, having never seen either him or his daughter between the een afore, and no kenning them by head mark; so, though we sympathised with him, as folks ought to do with a fellow-creature in affliction, we thought it best to haud our tongues, to see what might cast up better than he expected. So out he gaed stamping at the ither side, determined, he said, to find them out, though he should follow them to the world’s end, Johnny Groat’s House, or something to that effect.

Hardly was his back turned, and amaist before ye could cry Jack Robinson, in comes the birkie and the very young leddy the auld gentleman described, arm and arm thegether, smoodging and lauching like daft. Dog on it, it was a shameless piece of business. As true as death, before all the crowd of folk, he pat his arm round her waist, and caad her his sweetheart, and love, and dearie, and darling, and every thing that is sweet. If they had been courting in a closs thegether, on a Friday night, they couldna hae said mair to ane anither, or gaen greater lengths. I thought sic shame to be an eewitness to sic on-goings, that I was obliged at last to haud up my hat afore my face and look down, though, for a’ that, the young lad, to be sic a blackguard as his conduct showed, was weil enough faured and had a guid coat on his back, wi’ double-gilt buttons, and fashionable lapells, to say little o’ a very weil-made pair of buckskins, a lettle the waur o’ the wear to be sure, but which, if they had been cleaned, would hae looked amaist as good as new. How they had come, we never could learn, as we neither saw chaise nor gig; but, from his having spurs on his boots, it is mair than likely that they had lighted at the back door of the barn frae a horse, she riding on a pad behint him, may be with her hand round his waist.

The faither lookit to be a rich auld bool, baith from his manner of speaking, and the rewards he seemed to offer for the apprehension of his daughter; but, to be sure, when so many of us were present that had an equall right to the spulzie, it wad na be a great deal a thousand pounds when divided, still it was worth the looking after; so we just bidit a wee.

Things were brought to a bearing, whosoever, sooner than either themsells, I daur say, or onybody else present seemed to hae the least glimpse of; for just in the middle of their fine going-on, the sound of a coming fit was heard, and the lassie taking guilt to her, cried out, “Hide me, hide me, for the sake of gudeness, for yonder comes my old father!”

Nae sooner said than done. In he stappit her into a closet; and, after shutting the door on her, he sat down upon a chair, pretending to be asleep in a moment. The auld faither came bouncing in, and seeing the fellow as sound as a tap, he ran forrit and gaed him sich a shake, as if he wad hae shooken him a’ sundry, which sune made him open his een as fast as he had steekit them. After blackguarding the chield at no allowance, cursing him up hill and down dale, and caaing him every name but a gentleman, he haddit his staff ower his crown, and gripping him by the cuff o’ the neck, askit him what he had made o’ his daughter. Never since I was born did I ever see sich brazen-faced impudence! The rascal had the brass to say at ance, that he hadna seen word or wittens o’ his daughter for a month, though mair than a hundred folk sitting in his company had seen him dauting her with his arm round her jimpy waist, not five minutes before. As a man, as a father, as an elder of our kirk, my corruption was raised, for I aye hated leeing, as a puir cowardly sin, and an inbreak on the ten commandments: and I fand my neebour Mr Glen, fidgetting on the seat as weel as me; so I thocht, that whaever spoke first wad hae the best right to be entitled to the reward; whereupon, just as he was in the act of rising up, I took the word out of his mouth, saying, “Dinna believe him, auld gentleman, dinna believe him, friend; he’s telling a parcel of lees. Never saw her for a month! It’s no worth arguing, or caaing witnesses; just open that press door, and ye’ll see whether I’m speaking truth or no.”

The auld man stared, and lookit dumb-foundered: and the young man, instead of rinning forrit wi’ his double nieves to strike me, the only thing I was feared for, began a laughing, as if I had dune him a gude turn. But never since I had a being, did I ever witness an uproar and noise as immediately took place. The haill house was sae glad that the scoundrel had been exposed, that they set up siccan a roar o’ lauchter, and thumpit away at siccan a rate at the boards wi’ their feet, that at lang and last, wi’ pushing, and fidgetting, and hadding their sides, down fell the place they ca’ the gallery, a’ the folk in’t being hurled tapsy-turvy, head foremost amang the saw-dust on the floor below; their guffawing sune being turned to howling, ilka ane crying louder than anither at the tap of their voices, “Murder! murder! haud off me; murder! my ribs are in; murder! I’m killed—I’m speechless!” and ither lamentations to that effect; so that a rush to the door took place, in which everything was overturned—the door keeper being wheeled away like wildfire—the furms strampit to pieces—the lights knockit out—and the twa blind fiddlers dung head foremost ower the stage, the bass fiddle cracking like thunder at every bruise. Siccan tearing, and swearing, and tumbling, and squeeling, was never witnessed in the memory of man, sin the building of Babel; legs being likely to be broken, sides staved in, een knocked out, and lives lost; there being only ae door, and that a sma’ ane: so that when we had been carried off our feet that length, my wind was fairly gane, and a sick dwam cam ower me, lights of a’ manner of colours, red, blue, green, and orange dancing before me, that entirely deprived me o’ common sense, till, on opening my een in the dark, I fand mysell leaning wi’ my braid side against the wa’ on the opposite side of the close. It was some time before I mindit what had happened; so, dreading scaith, I fand first the ae arm, and then the ither, to see if they were broken—syne my head—and syne baith o’ my legs; but a’, as weel as I could discover, was skinhale and scart free. On perceiving which, my joy was without bounds, having a great notion that I had been killed on the spot. So I reached round my hand, very thankfully, to tak out my pocket-napkin, to gie my brow a wipe, when lo and behold the tail of my Sunday’s coat was fairly aff and away, dockit by the haunch buttons.

PHILISTINE IN THE COAL-HOLE.

It was about the month of March, in the year of grace anno domini eighteen hunder, that the haill country trummelled, like a man ill of the interminable fiver, under the consternation of Bonapartie, and all the French vagabonds emigrating ower, and landing in the firth. Keep us a’! the folk, dydit bodies, pat less confidence than became them in what our volunteer regiments were able and willing to do; though we had a remnant amang us of the true bluid, that with loud lauchter lauched the creatures to scorn, and I for ane, keepit up my pluck, like a true Hielander. Does ony leeving soul believe that Scotland could be conquered, and the like o’ us sold, like Egyptian slaves, into captivity? Fie, fie,—I could spit on siccan haevers. Are ye no descended, faither and son, frae Robert Bruce and Sir William Wallace, having the bright bluid of freemen in our veins and the Pentland hills, as weel as our ain dear hames and firesides, to fight for? The fief that wadna gie cut-and-thrust for his country, as lang as he had a breath to draw, or a leg to stand on, should be tied neck and heels, without benefit o’ clergy, and thrown ower Leith pier, to swim for his life like a mangy dog!

It was sometime in the blasty month of March, the weather being rawish and rainy, wi’ sharp frosty nights, that left all the window-soles white-washed ower with frost-rind in the morning, that, as I was going out in the dark, afore lying doun in my bed, to gie a look into the hen-house door, and lock the coal cellar, so that I might pit the bit key intil my breek pouches, I happened to gie a keek in, and, lo and behold, the awfu’ apparition of a man wi’ a yellow jacket, lying sound asleep on a great lump o’ parrot-coal in a corner.

In the hurry of my terror and surprise, at seeing a man with a yellow jacket, and a blue foraging-cap in such a situation, I was like to drap the guid two-penny candle, and feint clean away; but comming to mysell in a jiffy, I determined, in case it might be a high-way rubber, to thraw about the key, and, rinning up for the firelock, shoot him through the head instantly, if found necessary. In turning round the key, the lock being in want of a feather o’ oil, made a noise, and waukened the puir wretch, who jumping to the soles of his feet in despair, cried out in a voice that was like to break my heart, though I coudna make out ae word of his paraphernally. It minded me, by a’ the world, of a wheen cats fuffing and feighting through ither, and whiles something that sounded like “Sugar, sugar, measure the cord,” and “dabble, dabble.” It was waur than the maist outrageous Gaelic ever spoken in the height o’ passion by a Hieland shearer.

‘Oho!’ thinks I, ‘friend, ye cannot be a Christian from your lingo, that’s one thing poz; and I would wager tippence you’re a Frenchy. Who kens keep us all, but ye may be Bonaparte himself in disguise, come over in a flat-bottomed boat, to spy the nakedness of the land. So ye may just rest content, and keep your quarters good till the morn’s morning.’

It was a wonderful business, and enough to happen to a man, in the course of his lifetime, to find Mounseer from Paris in his coal-neuk, and have the enemy of his country snug under lock and key; so, while he kept rampaging, fuffing, stamping, and diabbling away, I went in, and brought out Benjie with a blanket rowed round him, and my journeyman, Tommy Bodkin,—who being an orphan, I made a kind of parlour boarder of, be sleeping on a shake-down beyond the kitchen fire—to hold a consultation, and be witness of the transaction.

I got my musket, and Tommy Bodkin armed himself with the goose, a deadly weapon, whoever may get a clour with it, and Benjie took the poker in one hand and the tongs in the other; and out we all marched briskly, to make the Frenchman, that was locked up from the light of day in the coal house surrender. After hearkening at the door for a while, and finding all quiet, he gave a knock to rouse him up, and see if we could bring anything out of him by speering him cross-questions. Tammy and Benjie trembled from top to toe, like aspen leaves, but fient a word could we make common sense of it all. I wonder wha edicates thae foreign creatures? it was in vain to follow him, for he just gab, gabbled away like ane o’ the stone-masons at the tower of Babel. At first I was completely bamboozled, and amaist dung stupid, though I kent a word of French which I wantit to pit till him, so I cried through, “Canna you speak Frencha, Mounseer?”

He hadna the politeness to stop and mak answer, but just gaed on wi’ his string of havers, without either rhyme or reason, which we could mak neither tap, tail, nor main o’.

It was a sair trial to us a’, putting us to our wits end, and hoo to come on was past all visible comprehension; when Tammy Bodkin gieing his elbow a claw said, “Odd maister, I wager something that he’s broken loose frae Pennycuick. We have him like a rotten in a fa.” On Pennycuick being mentioned we heard the foreign crature in the coal house groaning out, ‘och’ and ‘ohone,’ and ‘parbleu,’ and ‘Mysie Rabbie,’—that I fancy was his sweetheart at hame, sum bit French queen that wondered he was never like to come frae the wars and marry her. I thocht on this, for his voice was mournfu’, though I couldna understand the words; and kenning he was a stranger in a far land, my bowels yearned within me with compassion towards him.

I wad hae gien half-a-crown, at that blessed moment, to hae been able to wash my hands free o’ him; but I swithered, and was like the cuddie between the twa bundles of hay. At lang and last a thocht struck me, which was to gie the deluded simple cratur a chance of escape; reckoning that if he fand his way hame, he wad see the shame and folly of feighting against us ony mair; and, marrying Maysie Rabbie, live a contented and peacefu’ life under his ain feg and bey tree. So, wishing him a sound sleep, I cried through the door,—“Mounseer, gooda nighta;” decoying away Benjie and Tammy Bodkin into the house, and dispatching them to their beds like lamp-lighters, bidding them never, fash their thumbs, but sleep like taps, as I would keep a sharp look-out till morning.

As soon, hoosomever, as I fand a’ things snug, I slippit awa to the coal hole, and gien the key a canny turn in the lock, I went to my bed beside Nanse.

At the dawn o’ day, by cock-craw, Benjie and Tammy Bodkin, keen o’ the ploy, were up and astir as anxious as if their life depended on it, to see that all was safe and snug, and that the prisoner hadna shot the lock. They agreed to march sentry over him, half an hour the piece, time about, the ane stretching himsell out on a stool beside the kitchen fire, by way of a bench in the guard-house, while the other gaed to and fro like the ticker of a clock.

The back window being up a jink, I heard the twa confabbing. ‘We’ll draw cuts,’ said Benjie, ‘which is to walk sentry first; see, here’s twa straes, the langest gets the choice,’ ‘I’ve won,’ cried Tammy, ‘so gang you in a while, and if I need ye, or grow frightened, I’ll beat leather-ty-patch wi’ my knuckles on the back door. But we had better see first what he is about, for he may be howking a hole through aneath the foundations; thae fiefs can work like moudiewards.’—‘I’ll slip forrit,’ said Benjie, ‘and gie a peep,’—‘Keep to a side,’ cried Tammy Bodkin, ‘for, dog on it, Moosey’ll maybe hae a pistol;—and, if his birse be up, he would think nae mair o’ shooting ye as dead as a mawkin than I would do of taking my breakfast.’

‘I’ll rin past, and gie a knock at the door wi’ the poker to rouse him up?’ askit Benjie.

‘Come away then,’ answered Tammie, ‘and ye’ll hear him gie a yowl, and commence gabbling like a goose.’

As all this was going on, I rose and took a vizzy between the chinks of the window-shutters; so, just as I got my neb to the hole, I saw Benjie, as he flew past, give the door a drive. His consternation, on finding it flee half open, may be easier imagined than described, for, expecting the Frenchman to bounce out like a roaring lion, they hurried like mad into the house, couping the creels ower ane anither, Tammie spraining his thumb against the back door, and Benjie’s foot going into Tammie’s coat pocket, which it carried away with it, like a cloth sandal; what became o’ the French vagrant is a matter o’ surmise,—nae mortal kens.

FINIS.

THE

WHOLE PROCEEDINGS

OF

JOCKY AND MAGGY’S

COURTSHIP,

WITH

THE GREAT DIVERSION THAT ENSUED AT THEIR BEDDING.

IN THREE PARTS.

GLASGOW:

PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

THE
WHOLE PROCEEDINGS
OF
JOCKEY AND MAGGY’S
COURTSHIP.

PART I.

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

Maggy. Wiltu come awa’ then Johnnie, I fain wad be hame or the kie come in; our mickle Riggy is sic a rummeling royte she rins aye thro’ the byre, and sticks a’ the bits of couties; my mither isna able to haud her up to her ain stake.

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

Mag. Indeed I canna weel tell you man; our gude-man is a’ gane wi’ the gout; my mither is very frail, my father he’s aye wandering about, and widdling amang the beasts.

Jock. But dear, Maggy, they tell me we’re gaun to get a wedding of thee and Andrew Merrymouth, the Laird’s young gardener.

Mag. Na, na, he maun hae a brawer lass to be his wife than the like of me; but auld Tammy Tailtree was seeking me; my father wad a hane me to tak him, but my mither wadna let me, there was a debate about it, my guidame wad a sticket my mither wi’ the grape, if my father hadna chanced to founder her wi’ the beetle.

Jock. Hech, woman, I think your father was a fool for fashing wi’ him, auld slavery dufe, he wants naething of a cow but the clutes; your guidame may tak him hersel, twa auld tottering stumps, the taen may sair the tither fu’ weel.

Mag. Hech, man! I wad a tane thee or ony body to hane them greed again; my father bled my guidame’s nose, and my guidame brak my mither’s thumb, the neighbours came rinning in, but I had the luck to haud my father’s hands, till yence my guidame plotted him wi’ the broe that was to mak our brose.

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

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

Jock. Indeed, Maggy, the fouk of your town and the fouk of our town says we are gaun to be married. What sayest thou?

Mag. I wish we ne’er do waur, man. O Johnny, I dream’d of you langsyne, and I liket you aye after that.

Jock. O Maggy, Maggy, dost thou not mind since I came to your father’s bull wi’ my mother’s cow, ye ken she wadna stand, and ye helped me to haud her; aye after that they scorn’d me, that I wad be married to you.

Mag. It’s very true man, it’ll be an odd thing and it be; but it’ll na fa’ back at my door, I assure you.

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

Mag. Indeed sall ye. Johnny, thou’s no want twa kisses, ane on every side of the mouth, man.

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

Mag. Ay, but Johnny, you maun stay till that night come; it’s best to keep the feast till the feast day.

Jock. Dinna be angry, Maggy, my wife to be; for I have heard my mither say in her daffin, that fouk sud aye try gin their house will haud their plenishing.

Mag. Ay, but Johnny, a wife is ae thing and a house anither; a man that’s a-mind to marry a woman, he’ll no make her a whore.

Jock. ’Tis a’ true, Maggy, but fouks may do it ance or they be married, and no hae nae ill in their minds.

Mag. Aha, Johnny, mony a ane has been beguiled wi’ ance; and do it ance, ye may do it aye. What an ye get a bystart, and hae to suffer for the foul act of fornication.

Jock. Ay, but my mither says, if I dinna get thee wi’ bairn, I’ll no get thee, for ’tis the surest way of wooing.

Mag. Indeed, Johnny, I like you better nor ony lad I see; an I sall marry you an ance my faither’s muck were out; my mither downa work at the midden.

Jock. Ah Maggy, Maggy! I’m feared ye beguile me, and then my mither will murder me for being so silly.

Mag. My jo, Johnny, tell your mither to provide a’ things for the bridal and I sall marry you in three ouks after this; but we maun gie in siller to the Precentor, a groat and a drink to the bellman, and then the kirk wa’s maun hear o’t three Sundays or it come.

Jock. But Maggy, I’m not to mak a blind bargain wi you nor nae body; I maun ken of your things, and you sall ken of mine.

Mag. I ken well what I was to get, and gin my mither likes the bargain weel, she’ll mak it better; but an my father be angry at the bargain, I darna speak of marrying.

Jock. I seena how he can be angry. I wat well I’m a gay sturdy fallow, when I laid a bow and five pecks of beer on the Laird’s Bawsy, and he’s as bilshy a beast as in a’ the barony.

Mag. Ay, but my mither is aye angry at ony body that evens themselves to me, an it binna them she likes, indeed she bade me tak ony body, if it wasna auld tottering Tammy; for his beard is aye brown wi’ sucking tobacco, and slavers a’ the breast of his fecket.

Jock. O Maggy take me, and I’ll tell you what I hae. First my father left me, when he died fifty merks, twa sacks, twa pair of sunks; the hens and the gaun gear was to be divided between me and my mither, and if she died first, a’ her gear was to come in among mine, and if I died before her, a’ my gear was to come back to her again, and her to marry anither man, if she could get him. But since ’tis happened sae, she is to gie me Brucky and the black mare, the half of the cogs, three spoons, four pair of blankets, and a cannas: she’s to big a twabey to her ain gavel, to be a dwelling house to me and my wife, and I’m to get the wee byre at the end of the raw, to haud my cow and twa couties; the half of the barn, and a bed of the kail-yard, as lang as she leaves, and when she dies, I’m to pay for the yerding of her honestly, and a’ the o’ercome is to be my ain; and by that time I’ll be as rich as e’er my father was before me.

Mag. Truly, Johnnie; I’se no sae meikle to the contrair, but an ye hae a mind to tak’ me wi’ what I hae, tell me either now or never, for I’se be married or lang be.

Jock. I wat weel I’m courting in earnest tell me what you hae, an we’ll say na mair but marry ither.

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

Jock. That’s right, I want nae mair, ’tis an unco thing to marry a naked woman, and get naething but twa bare legs.

Mag. O Johnny, ye’re in the right o’t, for mony a ane is beguiled and gets naething, but my father is to gie me forty pound Scots that night I am married, a lade of meal, a furlot of groats: auld Crummie is mine since she was a calf, and now she has a stirk will tak the bill ere Belten yet; I hae twa stane of gude lint, and three pockfu’s of tow, a gude ca’f bed, twa bousters and three cods, with twa pair of blankets, and a covering, forby twa pair to spin, but my mither wadna gie me creesh to them, and ye ken the butter is dear now.

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

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

Hame gaed Maggy and telled her Mither.

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

Mith. Dear Maggy and what is that?

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

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

Mag. Na, na, he’s a braw young man, and I’ll tell you, ’tis Johnny Bell; and his mither sent him to the market just to court me ance errand.

Mith. Deed, Maggy, ye’ll no be ill yoked wi’ him, he’s a gay well gaun fellow, right spruce, maist like an ill-faured gentleman. Hey gudeman, do you hear that our Maggy is gaun to be married an the muck were a’ ance out.

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

Mag. O father! ’tis dangerous to delay the like of that, I like him and he likes me; ’tis best to strike the iron when ’tis het.

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

Mith. And wha think ye gudeman?

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

Mith. Indeed she’s gaun to get Johnny Bell, as clever a little fellow as in a’ the parony whare he bides.

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

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

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

Hame gaed Jocky to his mither crying.

Jock. Mither! mither I made it out, her mouth is sweeter than milk; my heart play’d a’ whilkie whaltie whan I kissed her.

Mith. Fair fa’ thee, my son, Johnny, thou’s gotten the geat o’t at last. And whan art thou gaun to be married?

Jock. Whan I like, mither; but get the masons the morn to big me my house, for I’ll hae a’ things in right good order.

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

The wooing being over and the day being set, Jockey’s mither killed the black boul horned yeal ewe, that lost her lamb the last year, three hens and a gule-fitted cock; to prevent the ripples, 5 pecks of maut masked in the muckle kirn, a pint of treacle, to mak it thicker, and sweeter, and mamier for the mouth; 5 pints of whisky, wherein was garlic and spice, for raising the wind, and the clearing their water. The friends and good neighbours went wi’ John to the Kirk, where Maggy chanced to meet him, and was married by the minister. The twa companies joined the gither, and came hame in a crowd; and at every change-house they chanced to pass by, Providence stopt their proceeding with full stoups, bottles, and glasses, drinking their healths, wishing them joy, ten girls and a boy. Jockey seeing so many wishing well to his health, coupt up what he got for to augment his health, and gar him live long, which afterwards couped him up, and proved detrimental to the same.

So hame they came to the dinner, where his mither presenting to them a piping het haggis, made of the creesh of the black boul horned ewe, boiled in the meikle pot, mixt with bear-meal, onions, spice, and mint. This haggis being supt warm, the foaming swats and spice in the liquor set John’s belly a-bizzing like a working fat; and he playing het-fit to the fiddler, was suddenly seized with a bocking and rebounding, which gave his dinner such a backward ca’, that he lost a’ but the girt bits, which he scythed thro’ his teeth. His mither cried to spence him, and bed him with the bride. His breeks being filed, they washed both his hips and laid him in his bed. Pale and ghostly was his face, and closed were baith his een. Ah, cries his mither, a dismal day indeed; his bridal and his burial may be in ae day. Some cuist water in his face, and jag’d him wi a needle, till he began to rouse himself up, and then lisp out some broken words. Mither, mither! cries Jockey, whar am I now? Whar are you now, my bairn, says his mither, ye’re bedet, and I’ll bring the bride to you. Beded, says Jockey, and is my bridal done else? Ay is’t, said his mither, and here’s the bride come to lie down beside you, my man. Na na, mither, says Jockey, I’ll no lie wi an unco woman indeed, and it binna heads and thraws, the way that I lie wi’ you, mither. O fy, John, says his mither, dinna affront yoursel’ and me baith, tak her in o’er the bed ayont ye, and kiss her, and clap her, and daut her till ye fa’ asleep. The bride fa’s a-crying out, O mither! mither! was this the way my father guided you the first night? Na, na, thy father was a man of manners, and better mettle; poor thing, Meg, thou’s ca’d thy hogs to a bonny market. A bonny market! says Jockey’s mither; a shame fa’ you and her baith, he’s wordy of her though she were better nor what she is, or e’er will be.—His friends and her friends being a mixed multitude, some took his part, some took hers, there did a battle begin in the clap of a hand, being a very fierce tumult, which ended in blood; they struck so hard with stones, sticks, beetles, and barrow trams; pigs, pots, stoups, and trenchers, were flying like bombs and granadoes; the crook, bouls, and tangs, were all employed as weapons of war, till down came the bed, with a great mou of peats! So this disturbed a’ the diversion at Jockey’s bedding, and the sky was beginning to break in the east before the hurly-burly was over.

PART II.

Now, though all the ceremonies of Jockey and Maggy’s wedding were ended, when they were fairly bedded before a wheen rattling unruly witnesses, who dang down the bed aboon them; the battle still increased, and John’s work turned out to be very wonderful, for he made Janet, that was his mithers servant lass the last year, grew like an elshen haft and got his ain, Maggy wi’ bairn forby. The humsheughs were very great, until auld uncle Rabby came in to redd them; and a sturdy auld fallow he was; he stood lively with a stiff rumple, and by strength of his arms rave them aye sundry, flinging the taen east and the tither wast, till they stood a’ round about like as many for-foughten cocks and no ane durst steer anither for him. Jockey’s mither was caed o’er a kist and brokit a’ her hip on a round heckle, up she gat, and running to fell Maggy’s mither with the ladle, swearing she was the mither of a’ the mischief that happened. Uncle Rabby ran in between them, he having a muckle nose, like a trumpet, she recklessly came o’er his lobster neb a drive wi’ the laddle, till the blood came, ran down his old grey beard, and hang like snuffy bubbles at it. O then he gaed wud, and looked as waefu’ like as he had been a tod-lowrie come frae worrying lambs, with his bloody mouth. With that he gets an auld flail and rives awa’ the supple, then drives them a’ to the back of the door, but yet nane wan out; then wi chirting and claping down comes the clay hallen, and the hen bawk wi Rab Reid the fiddler, who had crept up beside the hens, for the preservation of his fiddle.

Ben comes the bride, when she got on her coat, clappet Rabby on the shouther, and bade him spare their lives, for there was blood enough shed in ae night, quoth she; and that my beard can witness quoth he. So they all came in obedience to uncle Rabby, for his supple made their pows baith saft and sair that night; but daft Maggy Simpson sat by the fire and picked banes a’ the time of the battle. Indeed, quoth she, I think ye’re a’ fools, but myself, for I came here to get a good supper, and ither folk hae gotten their skin well paid.

By this time up got Jock, the bridegroom, that was Jockey before he was married, but couldna get his breeks; yet wi a horse-nail he tacked his sark-tail between his legs, that nane might see what every body should hide; and ramplingly he cries, Settle ye, or I’ll gar my uncle settle ye, and saften your heads wi an auld supple.

Poor Rab Reid, the fiddler, took a sudden blast; same said he was maw-turned wi the fa’, for he bocked up a’ the barley, and then gar’d the ale gae like a rainbow frae him, as brown as wort-brose.

The hurley-burly being ended, and naething but fair words and shaking of hands, which was a sure sign of an agreement, they began to cow their cutted lugs, and wash their sairs, a’ but Jockey’s mither, who cried out. A black end to you and your wedding baith, for I hae gotten a hunder holes dung in my arse wi’ the round heckle teeth.

Jockey answers, A e’en haud you wi’ them then, mither, ye will e’en be the better sair’d.

Up gets auld Rabby, and auld Sandy, the souter of Seggyhole, and put every thing in order; they prapet up the bed wi’ a rake, and rippling kame; the stoops being broken, they made a solid foundation of peats, laid on the caff bed and bowsters, and Jockey and Maggy were bedet the second time.

Jockey not being used to lie wi’ a naked woman, except heads and thraws wi’ his mither, gets his twa hands about the bride’s neck, and his hough out-o’er her hurdies, saying, I ne’er kist wife nor lass naked before, and for fainness I’ll bite you, &c.

Naething mair remarkable happened till about half a year and four oukes thereafter, when in comes Marion Mushet, rinning barefitted and barelegged, wi’ bleart cheeks and a watery nose, cursing and banning greeting and flyting.

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

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

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

Mith. Ruined you! it canna be; he never did you ill, nor said you ill, by night nor by day, what gars you say that?

Mar. O woman! our Jenny is a rowing like a pack of woo; indeed she’s wi’ quick bairn, and your John is the father o’t.

Mith. Our John the father o’t! haud, there’s enough said, lieing lown? I trow our John was ne’er guilty of sic a sinfu’ action. Daft woman, I trow it’ll be but wind, that hoves up the lasses wame; she’ll hae drucken some sour drink, raw sowens, or rotten milk, makes her so ill.

Mar. A wae be to him and his actions baith, he’s the father o’t, fornicator dog that he is, he’s ruined me and my bairn; I bore her and brought her up honestly, till she came to you: her father died, and left me wi’ four o’ them; there wasna ane o’ them could pit on anither’s claes, or tak a louse aff ither.

Mith. I bid you haud your tongue, and no even your bystarts to my bairn, for he’ll ne’er tak wi’t: he, poor silly lad, he wad ne’er look to a lass, be’s to lay her down. Fy, Maggy, cry in John and let’s ratify’t wi’ the auld ruddoch aye, ye’re no blate to say sae.

Mar. Be angry or be well pleased, I’ll say’t in of your faces, and I’ll call you before your betters ere lang gae.

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

Mith. Ay, brose! black brose indeed for thee, my bairn; here’s Marion Mushet saying ye hae gotten her dochter wi’ bairn.

Jock. Me, mither! I never lay in a bed wi’ her dochter a’ my days; it’ll be the young Laird’s for a saw him kiss her at the Lammas-fair and let glaum at her nonsense.

Mith. Ay, ay, my man, Johnny, that’s the way she has gotten her belly full of bairns; ’tis no you, nor the like of you, poor innocent lad, that gets bastard weans; ’tis a wheen rambling o’erfull lowns, ilka ane of them loups on anither, and gies the like of you the wyte o’t.

Mar. Ye may say what you like about it ’tis easy to ca’ a court whar there’s nae body to say again; but I’ll let you ken about it; and that is what she tell’t me, and you gudewife tell’t me some o’t yoursel’; and gin you hadna brought in Maggy wi her muckle tocher atween the twa, your Jocky and my Jenny wad hae been man and wife that day.

Jock. I wat weel that’s true.

Mith. Ye filthy dog that ye are, are ye gaun to confess wi a bystards, and it no yours? Dinna I ken as well as ye do wha’s aught it, and wha got the wean.

Jock. Aye, but mither, we may deny as we like about it, but I doubt it will come to my door at the last.

Mith. Ye silly sumph, and senseless fellow, had ye been knuckle deep wi’ the nasty drab, ye might hae said sae, but ye tell’t me langsyne that ye couldna lo’e her, she was sae lazy and lown like, besides her crooket fit and bowed legs.

Jock. Ay, but mither, do ye mind since ye sent me out to gie her the parting kiss at the black hole of the peat-stack; she rave the button frae my breeks, and wad gar me do’t; and could flesh and blood refuse to do’t; I’m sure mither, I could ne’er get her wi’ bairn wi’ my breeks on.

Mith. Na, na, poor simple silly lad; the wean’s no yours, ilka ane loups on o’ anither, and ye’ll get the wyte of a’ the bytarts that are round about the country.

Up gets Maggy wi’ a roar, and rives her hair, and cries, O her back! her belly! and baith her sides! The weed and gut gaes through my flesh like lang needles, nails, or elshin irons! Wae be to the day that e’er I saw his face. I had better married a tinkler, or followed the sodgers, as mony an honest man’s dochter has done, and lived a better life than I do.

Up gets Jockey, and rins over the rigs for John Rodger’s wife, auld Katty and howdy; but or he wan back, she parted wi’ Patrick through perfect spite, and then lay twa-fauld o’er a stood in a swoon.

Jock. A-weel, a-weel, sirs, though my first-born is e’en dead without seeing the light of the warld, ye’s a’ get bread and cheese to the blythe-meat, the thing we should a waured on the bauket will sair the burial, and that will aye be some advantage; and should Maggy die, I maun een tak Jenny, the taen is as far a length as the tither; I’se be furnished wi’ a wife between the twa.

But Maggy grew better the next day, and was able to muck the byre; yet there gaed sic a tittle-tattlin through the town, every auld wife tell’d anither o’t, and a’ the light-hippet hissies that rins between towns at e’en tugging at their tow rocks, spread it round the kintry, and every body’s mouth was filled wi’ Jockey and Jenny and how Maggy had parted with bairn.

At last Mess John Hill hears of the foul fact, and sends the Elder of that quarter, and Clinkum-Bell, the grave-maker to summon Jockey and Jenny, to the Session, and to see how the stool of repentance wad set them. No sooner had they entered the door, but Maggy fa’s a greeting and wringing her hands! Jockey’s mither fell a-flyting, and he himself a-rubbing his lugs, and riving his hair, crying out, O gin I were but half an ell higher, I sud be a sodger or it be lang; and gie me a good flail or a corn fork, I sud kill Frenchmen anew, before I gade to face yen flyting Ministers, and be set up like a warld’s wonder, on their cock-stool, or black stool; and wha can hide the shame when every body looks to them, wi’ their sacken sarks, or gowns, on them, like a piece of auld canvas prickt about a body, for naething but what every body does amaist or they are married; as well as me.

Mith. My man, Johnnie, ye’re no the first that has done it, and ye’ll no be the last; e’en mony of the ministers hae done it themselves; hout aye, e’en your father and I did it mony a time.

Mag. Aye, aye, and that gars your son be so good o’t as he is; the thing that’s bred in the flesh, is ill to pit out of the bane.

Mith. Daft woman, what way wad the warld stand if folks wadna mak use of ither; ’Tis the thing that’s natural bairns getting; therefore it’s no to be scunner’d at.

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

Mith. But I think there’s little ill though they try it ance or twice or they be married; ’tis an unco thing for a body to be bound to a business or they ken whether they be able for it or no.

Mag. Aye, aye, that’s your way of doing and his, but it’s no the way of ither honest fouk; see what the Minister will say to it.

Mith. The Minister is but a mortal man, and there’s defections in his members as well as in mine.

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

Mith. Aye, aye mortify their members that’s your Whiggery, indeed; But will you or ony body else, wi your mortifying of your members prevent what’s to come to pass? I wish I saw the Minister and his Elders, I’se gie them Scriptures for a’ his done yet. Tell nae me about the mortifying of members, gin he has gotten a bystart, let her and him feed it between them, and they gie’t soup about; but she maun keep it the first quarter, and by that time muckle black Lady will be cauft; we sall sell the cauf and foster the wean on the cow’s milk; that’s better mense for a faut, than a’ your repenting-stools; a wheen Papist rites, and rotten cerimonies, fashing fouks wi sack gowns and buttock-mails, and I dinna ken what. But bide ye till I see the Minister.

Now Jockey and his mither went into the little byre and held a private meeting, nane present but auld Bruckie and the twa brutes, the bits of couties, that she might give him counsel how to behave when he appeared before Mess John, to answer for his bastard; which concludes the third and last part.

PART III.

Aff he goes to the minister, and owns a’ his faut to him; and Mess John desired him to appear before the congregation the next Sabbath, to be rebuked for his fau’t.

Jock. Indeed, Sir, I wad think naething to stan’ a time or twa on the black stool, to please you, if there were naebody in the kirk, on a ouke-day, but you and the elders to flyte a wee on me; but ’tis waur on a Sunday to have a’ bodies looking and laughing at me, as I had been codding the peas, sipping the kirn, or something that’s no bonny, like pissing the bed.

Minist. Aweel John, never mind you these things, but come ye to the stool it’s nothing when it’s over, we cannot say o’er muckle to you about it.

Upon Sunday thereafter, John comes with Uncle Rabby’s auld wide coat, a muckle grey lang-tail’d wig, and a big bonnet, which covered his face, so that he seemed more like an old Pilgrim than a young fornicator! mounts the creepy wi’ a stiff, stiff back, as he had been a man of sixty! Every one looked at him, thinking he was some old stranger, who knew not the stool of repentance by another seat, so that he passed the first day unknown but to very few; yet, on the second it came to be well known, that the whole parish and many more, came to see him which caused such a confusion, that he was absolved, and got his children baptised the next day.—But there happened a tullie between the twa mothers’ who would have both their names to be John. A-weel says auld John their father to the Minister, A-deed, Sir, ye maun ca’ the tane John and the tither Jock, and that will please baith these enemies of mankind.

Minist. Now John, you must never kiss another Woman but your own wife; live justly, like another honest man, and you’ll come to die well.

Jock. A black end on a me, Sir, if ever I lay an unlawfu’ leg upon a hissy again, an’ they sud lie down to me, as lang as our Maggy lasts; and for dying, there’s nae fear of that, or I’ll no get fair play, if ye an’ a’ the aulder folk in the parish be not dead before me. So I hae done wi’ ye now, fareweel Sir.

THE

COALMAN’S COURTSHIP

TO THE

CREEL-WIFE’S DAUGHTER.

IN THREE PARTS.

I.—Containing a very curious dialogue between the Carter and his Mother, who instructs him in the true art of Courtship.

II.—Sawny’s Visit to his sweetheart, and what passed betwixt them. With the curious house where Sawny got drunk—and an account of the terrible misfortunes he met with in consequence.

III.—Description of his second Visit to his intended bride—what passed between them; and how Sawny was in danger of losing his sweetheart. How her mother got all parties pleased again: with an account of the Wedding of the happy Couple—the whole abounding with the most laughable occurrences.

GLASGOW:

PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

THE
COALMAN’S COURTSHIP

TO THE

CREEL-WIFE’S DAUGHTER.

All that are curious of Courtship, give attention to the history of Mary and her son Sawney, a young Coalman, who lived in the country, a few miles from Edinburgh.

Mary, his mither, was a gay hearty wife; had mair wantonness than wealth; was twelve years a married wife, nine years a widow, and was very chaste in her behaviour wi’ her ain tale, for want o’ chargin’, for all the time of her widowhood there was never a man got a kiss of her lips, nor laid a foul hand on her hind quarters.

Sawny, her son, was a stout young raw loon, full fac’d, wi flabby cheeks, duddy breeks and a ragget doublet; gade always wi’ his bosom bare sometimes ae garter, a lingle or strae rape was gude enough for Sawny. His very belly was a’ sunburnt like a piper’s bag, or the head of an auld drum, and yet his beard began to sprout out like herring banes. He took thick brose to his breakfast, and baps and ale through the day, and when the coals selled dear, and the win’ was cauld, bought an oven-farl, and twa Dunbar Wadders, or a Glasgow Magistrate, which fish-wifes ca’s a wastlin herrin’.

His mither, auld Mary, plagued him ay in the morning; she got up when the hens keckled, riping the ribs, blew her snotterbox, primed her nose, kindled her tobacco-pipe, and at every puff breathed out frettings against her hard fortune and lanely single life. O but a widow be a poor name; but I live in a wilderness in this lang-lonen, mony a man gaes by my door, but few folks looks in to poor Mary. Hoch hey, will I never win out of this wearied life. Wa Sawny, man, wilt thou not rise the day; the sun’s up, and a’ the nibours round about; Willie and Charlie is on the hill an hour syne, and half gate hame again. Wilt thou rise an gie the beasts a bite, thou minds na them, I wat man. Grump grump, quo Sawny, they got their supper an hour after I got mine. Shut to dead come on them every ane an they get a bit frae me till they work for’t.

Sawny. But mither I’ve been dreaming that I was married, an’ in the bed aboon the bride: I wonder gin it be true? Od, I ne’er got sic fun: what will’t be, think ye? how auld am I mither? do you think I could man a hissy yet? fegs I have a mind to try; but the saucy hissies will na hae me, I ken weel enough.

Mither. Say you lad, ay mony a hungry heart wad be blythe o’ you, but there was never a sca’d Jockey but there was a scabbed Jenny till him yet: dinna be scar’d lad.

Sawny. A hech, mither, I’se no be lordly an’ I sud tak a beggar wife aff the hi’ gate; but I’ll tell ye something that I’m ay thinking on, but ye maun na tell the neighbours, for the chiels wad aye jaw me wi’t.

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

Sawny. Do ye mind mither, that day I gade to the Pans I came in by auld Mattie’s your countrywoman, the Fife wife, it cam’ out o’ the town ye cam frae, the wife that says Be-go laddies, I gade there, an she was unco kind, and made me fat brose out of the lee side o’ her kail-pot: there was baith beef and paunches in’t; od they smell’d like ony haggis, and shined a’ like a gould fac’d waiscoat: fegs I suppit till I was like to rive o’ hem and had a rift o’ them the morn a’ day; when I came out I had a kite like a cow wi’ calf; she spiered for you, mither, and I said ye was gaily; and she looked to me, and leuch, and gripped my shakle-bane, and said I would be a sturdy fallow yet—I looked to her, and thought I liked her, and thinks on’t aye since syne: she leugh, and bade me seek out a coal driver for her, for she didna like to carry a fish creel.

Mither. Forsooth, Sawny, I’ll gie my twa lugs for a lav’rock’s egg if she binna in love wi’ thee, and that will be a bargain.

Sawny. An upon my word mither, she’s a sturdy gimmer, well worth the smoaking after; she has a dimple on every cheek, an haunches like a sodjer’s lady’s hoop, they hobble when she shakes, and her paps play nidlety nod when she gangs; I ken by her keckling she has a conceit of me.

Mither. But Sawney man, an thou see her mither Matty in the town, auld be-go laddie as you ca’ her, gie her a dram, she likes it weel; spout ye a mutchkin of molash in her cheek, ye’ll get her mind, and speed the better.

Sawny. But mither, how sud I do when I gang to court her? will I kiss her, an kittle her and fling her o’er as the chiels do the hisses amang the hay. I’ve seen them gang owre ither, and owre ither, and when they grip them by the wame, they’d cry like a maukin.

Mither. Hout awa, daft doug it thou is, that’s no the gate; thou maun gang in wi’ braw good manners, and something manfu’, put on a Sunday’s face, and sigh as ye were a saint, sit down beside her, as ye were a Mess John, keek aye till her now and then wi’ a stowen look, and haud your mouth as mim and grave as a May-puddock, or a whore at a christening; crack well o’ our wealth, and hide our poverty.

Sawny. Ay, but mither there is some ither way in courting nor that, or the lassies would na couple so close to them.

Mither. Ay, but Sawny man there’s a time for every thing, and that too; when ye sit where naebody sees you, you may tak her head in your oxter like a creesh pig; dab nebs wi’ her now and then; but be sure you keep a close mouth when you kiss her, clap her cheeks and straik her paps, but for your drowning gang na farther down; but fouks that’s married can put their hand to ony part they like.

Sawny. Aha but mither I didna ken the first word o’ courting, the lassie’ll no ken what I’m com’d about.

Mither. Ay will she lad, wink and keek well to her, she’ll hae a guess, seek a quiet word of her at the door, and gin it be dark, gie her a bit wee kiss when ye hae tell’d her your errand, and gin they gie you cheese and bread, or ony meat, be sure you ca’t guid, whether it be sae or no; and for my blessing, be mensfu wi your mouth, and dinna eat unca muckle, for I’ve seen you sup as mony milk brose as would have saired twa men to carry on a barrow.

Sawney. Aha, but mither you’re lying now, for I never did it but ance, but an they set meat afore me an I be hungry, deil claw the clungest an I binna upsides with it for the same. Adeed mither, fouk maun hae meat an they should neer get wives, and there some of them no worth cursing, an a body werna setting an oath whether or no; a hear ye that now, when ye put me till’t, and gar me speak, ay by my sooth, I would rather hae a bit good poney and a pund of cheese, or I were bound to bab after ony hizzies buttocks I see yet.

Mither. Wa Sawny man, thou’s a fool, an that’s a fault; gin every ane were as easy about women as thou is, the warld wad be a wilderness in a wee time, there wad be nae body to inhabit the earth but brute beasts; cats and dogs wad be worrying ither, and every thing wad gae to confusion. Gae to the courting, ye dog that ye are, and either do something or naething at a’.

END OF PART I.

PART II.

Up got Sawney in the morning, and swallowed owre sodded meat flag by flag; and aff he goes to the coals and the courting, lilting and singing like a laverock in a May morning—O to be married if this be the way.

The colliers wondered a’ to see him sae well buskit wi a pair of wally side auld-fashioned leather breeks of his father’s, and an auld creeshy hat, mair like a fryingpan than ony thing else; a lang cravat like a minister or Baillie Duff at a burial, a clean face and hands, and nae less than a gun-sleeved linen sark on him, which made his cheeks to shine like a sherney weight, and the colliers swore he was as braw as a horse gaun to a cow’s dredgy.

But Sawny came off wi his coals, whistling and whipping up the poor beasts, even as outrageous as ony ram at riding time; well might ony body see there was a storm in Sawny’s nose, light where it like; for no sooner had he selled his coals, than he left his horse to come hame wi a nibour callan, and gad keekin up the Cowgate, and through the closses, seeking auld Be-go, his guid-mither to be; then in through the fish-market, where he bought twa lang herrin, and twa baps, a pair of suter’s auld shoon, greased black and made new again, to make his feet feasible like, as he kend the lass would look at them (for his mither tell’d him the women looked ay to the mens legs or they married them, and the weel-legged loons gade ay best aff.)

So Sawny came swaggering through a the shell wives, but she was no there, going down the town below the guard he met auld Be-go just in the teeth, an she cries, Hey laddie my dow, how’s your mither honest Mary? Thank you, quo’ Sawny, she’s meat hale, aye working some—how’s a at hame, is Kate and the laddie weel?

Matty. Fu’ weel, my dow: ye’re a braw sonsy dog grown, a wallie fa’me gin I kend ye.

Come, come, quo’ Sawny, and I’ll gie ye a nossack to heat your wame, it is a cauld day, and ye’re my mither’s countrywoman.

Na, fair fa’ you, Sawny, I’ll nae refus’t; a dram’s better the day than a clap on the arse wi’ a cauld shule, sae follow me, my dow.

So awa’ she took me, quo’ Sawny, down a dark stair, to ane o’ the houses beneath the yird, where it was mirk as in a coal heugh, and they had a great fire. Sweet be wi me quo’ Sawny, for it minds me of the ill part; an a muckle pot has a little cauldron, seething kail and roasting flesh, the wife forked them out as fast us she could into coags and caps, for there came in a wheen sutor like fallows, with black thumbs and creeshy aprons, that cutted them all up in a wee time, but they never fashed with us, nor we with them; we first got a gill, and then got a het pint. A vow quoth I, Matty, is Kate gaun to get a man yet?

Matty. A man laddie, wha wad hae her? a muckle, lazy, useless jade; she can do naething but work at husband wark, card and spin, wash ladies rooms, and a gentleman’s bonny things: she canna tak a creel on her back, and apply to merchandizing as I do, to win a man’s bread.

Sawny. I think some of the fishers and her might mak it up.

Matty. A fisher, laddie! haith the fishers wad rather hae a pickle good bait to their hooks, and twa three bladders to their lines, than put up wi’ the like of her, a stinking prideful jade, altho’ I bore her, ay scourin and washin at hersel, prickin and prinnin keeps, her face ay like a Flander’s baby, and naeless than ribbons and rings, and her shoon made of red clouts; a devil stick pride, when our auld guidams ran barefoot, and our gutchers gade wi bare hips. Gie her a man! ill thief stap a gouk in her arse first, that may cry cuckow when e’er she speaks o’t; she can do naething but scour ladies pishpots, and keep clean the tirlie-wherlies that hang about the fire: haith she’s o’er gentle brought up to be a poor man’s penny-worth.

Heigh how, quo’ Sawny, and ’tis e’en a great pity, for she’s weel-far’d lusty hissie; he had a great kindness for her.

Matty. A well-a-wat she’s no lingletailed, she may be a caff bed to a good fallow, but an thou had but seen me at her age, I was a sturdy gimmer; there was nae a Hynd in a Dubbyside could lay a corpen to a creel wi me, the fint a fallow in a Fife but I wad a laid on the bread of his back, and a’ his gear uppermost, I was na a chicken to chatter wi indeed laddie, for I had a flank like an ox, and a pair of cheeks like a chapmans arse.

Sawny. Nae doubt but ye had a pair of beefy buttocks, for your very cheeks hings like leather bags to this day; but I’ll tell you what I’m gaun to tell you—do ye think that your Kate wad tak me, an I would come to court her?

Matty. Tak you, laddie, tak you, faith she’ll tak you, for she would tane a poor button thing of a half blind tailor, wartna me, a poor, blind, bowly, scabbit like creature; I’ve seen the day I wad hae carried him in my pouch. Wode I’se warrant her jump at you, like a fish at a flee, wad I say tak you, and she winna tak you, I’se tak you mysel, but she an I cust out the day about her cockups and black caps, gar’d me say muckle of her; but she’s my sonsy dawty for a that; weel-a wat she’s a weel-natured lassie, and gin she turn an illnatured wife I canna tell.

Sawny. A well then I’ll venture on her as she is, for my mither’s pleased; an ye’re pleased, an I’m pleased; wode I am sure to get her, an the taylor has nae bridled her; or tane a trying trot o’ her.

Matty. But Sawny, man, I’ll tell you what we’ll do, I’ll hame and broach her the night on’t, an come ye the morn, we’ll male it fu’ fast in a wee time, so thou’s get mair tocher than a Cramon, gammon to gammon; she has baith blankets and sheets, a covering, and twa cods o’ caff, a caff bed and bowster, and hear’st thou’ my laddie, I hae a bit auld hogger, and something in’t, thou’s get it when I die; but by my sooth it will be the last thing that I’ll part wi’, I kenna what I may need yet—it is an auld wife that kens her ain weird.

On this they paid their spout and parted; but when Sawny came out, he stoited and staggered like a sturdy stot: molash was chief commander, for Sawny thought every body had twa heads and four een, and more noses than they needed, while in the dark house he sometimes thought it was the morning of a new day: a hech, said he, when was I a night frae my mither before; she’ll think I am put in the guard, tane wi’ the deil or the doctors, or else married, and working at the wanton trade of weans making.

Matty. Hute, daft laddie, the soup drink’s in your head, and gars ye think sae, this day and yesterday is ae day: ye’ll be hame in braw time yet.

Sawny. A well, a well then, good day to you, good mither; ye maun gar Kate tak me, or thief tak you a thegither: I’ll hame and tell the length it’s come, and if it comes nae farther, it maun e’en stick there.

Off he goes, tacking about like a ship against the wind, as if he would knock holes in the walls and windows wi’ his elbows; he looked as fierce as a lion, with a red face like a trumpeter, and his nose was like a bubbly jock’s neb, as blue as a blawart: but or he wan half way hame his head turned heavier than his heels and mony a filthy fa’ he got, through thick and thin he plashed, till hame he gets at last, grunting and gaping by the wall, when auld Mary thought it was their nibours sow, he was sae bedaubed wi dirt; by the time she got him to bed, he was in a boiling-barrel fever, and poor Mary grat wi grief.

Sawny. Hech, hey! but courting be a curst wark, and costly too: an marrying be as mortifying and murdering, the deil be married for me.

Mither. Wa Sawny, man, what’s come o’er thee now? thou hast gotten skaith, some auld wife has witcht thee, or the deil has dung thee o’er in some dirty midden; where hast thou been, or what hast thou seen; thae een reel like a wild cat’s, and the sweat is hailing o’er thy nose; thou’s witcht, thou’s witch’t, O man, what will I do.

Bock, bock, gaed Sawney; but it could na win up for bubbles and herrin banes. Oh, quo’ he, keep me in my bed for my days will soon be done; a curse on your courting wark, for it has killed me, and wives are but wicked things, I ken by the same.

Mither. O dole, dole, my bairn has gotten poison, for the smell of it is like to poison me.

Sawny. Gin herring and het ale be poison, there’ll no be mony left alive. Bock, bock, Oh, quo, Sawney the bed’s filed!

Mither. O my bairn, thou was ay a cleanly bairn till now; thou’s surely lost thy senses when thou files where thou lies, like the brute beasts: thou never did the like of this before since thou left rocking of the cradle.

PART III

Poor Sawny had a terrible night o’t, wi a sair head and a sick heart, his eyes stood in his head, his wame, caddled like ony cow’s milks, and puddings crocket like a wheen puddocks in a pool; his mither rocket and wrung her hands, crying, a wae be to the wife that brewed it, for I hae lost a weel foster’d bairn wi’ their stinking stuff, a meikle deil ding the doup out of their caldron, my curse come on them and their whisky-pots, it’s brunt him alive; ay, ay, my bairn he’s gone.

But about the break of day, his wind brak like the bursting of a bladder, O happy deliverance, cried Mary his mither; tho’ dirt bodes luck, and foul farts file the blankets, I wish ne’er waur be among us. The next thing that did Sawny good, was three mutchkins of milk made into thin brose, and a pickle fine pepper in them, yet he had a soughing in his lugs like a saw-mill, and every thing gade round about wi’ him a’ that day; his mither gat him out of bed, and put him in the muckle chair wi a’ pair of blankets about his shoulders, a cod at his back, and a het brick to his soles, to gar him trow he was nae well, and there he sat like a lying-in wife, cracking like a Holladdie, and ate twa dead herrin’ and a crust, telling a the outs and ins about the bridal, and when it was to be, for he had gotten every body’s consent but the bride’s about it.

Mither. But Sawny, man, that’s the main thing; ye maun hae that too.

Sawny. Na, na, mither, I’m the main thing myself, aye she’s but a member; the men maun aye be foremost—gang what way it will, I’se aye be uppermost.

Mither. But Sawny man, what way is thou gaun to do? will ye make a penny wedding; or twa or three gude neebours, a peek of meal baken, wi a cheese and a barrel of ale; will that do?

Sawny. Na na mither, I’ll take a cheaper gate nor ony of them; I’ll gar-a-crown and half a mutchkin, or a rake of coals do it a’, then a body has nae mair to do but piss and tumble into bed.

Mither. Na na, my man Sawny, I hae mony a time heard thy honest father say, that never a ane would do well that capstrided the kirk or cuckold the minister.

Sawny. A tell nae me, mither, of the minister, they’re aye for their ain end as well as ither fouk, and if a poor beggar body had a bit wean to christen, the deil a bait they’ll feike him o’t.

Mither. Hute awa man, there’s na body has weans but what has siller to pay the christening of them; or if they be that poor, they sudna get nae weans, and they wadna be fashed syne.

Sawny. Ha ha mither, the poor fouk, like the lice, ay when they meet they marry, and maks mae of them: and I think the ministers might christen their bits of weans for naething, the water’s no sae scant; they are weel paid for their preaching, they may very weel baith marry and christen a’ the poor fouks into the bargain, by the way of a maggs.

Mither. Ay, ay, my man Sawny, marriage is a sweet thing for young fouk, and the bed undefiled.

Sawny. What the vengeance, mither, do ye think a body’s to file the bed every night because they did it ance.

Mither. Na, na that’s no what I mean; it is the happiness that fouk hae that’s married, beside the lonesome life that I hae, lying tumbling and gaunting in a bed my lane: O sirs, but a man in bed be a useful body, an it were but to claw anes back, as for a body’s foreside they can claw it themselves.

Sawny. Ah mither, mither, ye hae fun a string again; I think ye might a wanted all your days, when ye hae wanted sae lang: ye hae plenty of baith milk and meal, snuff and tobacco; but ye smell at the crack of a whip, I kend my mither wad ride yet, for I’ve seen her fit waggan this lang time.

Mither. A dear Sawny man, an thou were ance fairly aff the fodder, I’ll be cast into a hole of a house by mysel, where I’ll just lye and break my heart, and weary myself to death; but an I could get a bit honest weaver, a cobbler, or some auld tailor by the tail, I would tackle to him yet, let the country clash as they please about it.

Sawny. A well, a well mither, tak your ain flight, there’s nae fool like an auld fool; for the morn I’ll be aff or on wi’ the hissie I hae in hand.

So on the morrow Sawny got all his claes cleaned, his hair camed and greased with butter, and his face as clean as if the cat had licked it, and away he goes singing.

I will buy a pound of woo’,

I will wash’t and mak a plaidy,

I’m gaun ower the muir to woo’,

Carlin, is your daughter ready.

Now poor Sawny, although he sang, he was as pale as a ghost from the grave; his face was whitely white, like a weel bleached dishclout, and he looked as if he had been eaten and spued again; but at length he came to the bride’s door, and in he goes with a brattle, crying, how’s all here the day? and what’s comed of thy mither lassie? O Saunders, quo the bride she’s awa to the town: what came of ye yesterday, she waited on you the whole day, ye gart her lose a day’s trade lad, and she is awa this morning cursing like a heathen, and swearing Be-go that ye hae gien her the begunk.

Sawny. A dole woman, I took a sudden blast in the hame gaun and was never sae near dead in my life.

And wha think you was in company wi Kate the bride, but the wee button of a tailor, who sat and sewed on a table, cocking like a t—d on a trencher; but when he kent wha was come, he leaped down on the floor, coost a dash of pride like a little bit prince, bobbet about, and so out he goes, with the tear in his eye, and his tail between his feet, like a half worried dog.

Sawny. Now, Katie, do ye ken what I’m comed about?

Kate. O yes, my mither tell’d me: but I’m no ready yet, I hae twa gowns to spin and things to make.

Sawny. Hute, things to make, ye hae as mony things as ye’ll need, woman; canna ye spin gowns in your ain house wi me, as weel as here, wi an auld girning mither?

Kate. But dear Saunders, ye maun gie a body time to think on’t—’twad be ill-far’d to rush the gither just at the first.

Sawny. And do ye think I hae naething ado but come here every ither day hoiting after you, it will no do! I maun be either aff or on wi’ you, either tak me or tell me, for I ken of ither twa, and some of you I’ll hae, for as I’m a sinner, my mither is gaun to be married too, an she can get ony bit man of ony shape or trade.

Kate. Indeed, then, Saunders, since you’re in such haste, ye maun e’en tak them that’s readiest, for I’m no ready yet.

Sawny. Dear woman, when your mither and my mither’s pleased, and I am willing to venture on ye, what a sorrow ails you?

Kate. Na, na, I’ll think on’t twa or three days; its o’er lang a term to see without a thought.

Sawny. Wode I think ye’re a camstrerie piece of stuff; it’s true enough what your mither said of ye, that ye’re no for a poor man.

Kate. And what mair said she of me?

Sawny. Wode, she said ye could do naething but wash mugs, and scour gentleman’s bonny things, but hissies that is bred amang gentle houses, minds me of my mither’s cat; but ye’re far costlier to keep, for the cat wastes neither sape nor water, but spits in her loof, and washes her ain face, and wheens of you can do nae ither thing; and up he gets.

Kate. O Saunders, but ye be short, can ye no stay till my mither come hame?

Sawny. I’ve staid lang enough for ony thing I’m to be the better; and I’m nae sae short as your totum of a tailor, that I could stap in my shoe, sae could I e’en.

Hame he goes in a passion, and to his bed he ran, crying, O death! death! I thought the jade wad a jumped at me: no comfort nor happiness mair for me. O mither, gae bake my burial bread, for I’ll die this night, or soon the morn. But early next morning in comes auld Be-go his guid mither, wha had left her daughter in tears for slighting of Sawny, and hauls him and his mither awa’ to get a dinner of dead fish; where a’ was agreed upon, and the wedding to be upon Wednesday, no bridal fouks but the twa mithers, and themselves twa.

So according to appointment, they met at Edinburgh, where Sawny got the cheap priest, who gave them twa three words, and twa three lines, took their penny and a guid drink, wished them joy, and gade his wa’s. Now, said auld Be-go, if that be your minister, he’s but a drunken b—h, mony a ane drinks up a’, but he leaves naething; he’s got the penny for diel a hate, ye might cracket lufes on’t, tane ane anither’s word, a kiss and a hoddle at a hillock side, and been as weel, if no better: I hae seen some honest man say mair o’er their brose nor what he said a’ the gither; but an ye be pleased, I’m pleased; about in the bed ends a’, and makes sure wark—so here’s to you, and joy to the bargain—its ended now, well I wat.

ANECDOTE.

Lewis XI. although an unprincipled Prince, (of whom it was remarkable, that he did not scruple to perjure himself, except when he swore by the leaden Image of the Virgin) was yet very attentive to every circumstance that could increase the wealth and happiness of his subjects. He behaved with the greatest affability to such merchants whose superior knowledge could suggest any means of extending the benefits of commerce; and that he might engage them to be more communicative, he frequently invited them to his table. A merchant, named Mr. John, intoxicated by the familiarity of the King, who very often admitted him in particular to dine with him, took it in his head one day, to request his Majesty to grant him letters of nobility. The King did not refuse his request; but when the new nobleman appeared at court, he affected not to know him. Mr. John, surprised at this unexpected reception, could not forbear complaining of it: “Go about your business, Mr. John, I mean my Lord,” said the King: “When I used to invite you to my table, I considered you as the first of your profession; but now I would insult my nobles, if I would treat you with the same distinction.”

THE END.

THE HISTORY OF

BUCHAVEN

IN FIFESHIRE,

CONTAINING THE WITTY AND ENTERTAINING EXPLOITS OF

WISE WILLIE,

AND

WITTY EPPY,

THE ALE WIFE.

WITH A DESCRIPTION OF THEIR COLLEGE, COAT OF ARMS, &C.

ADORNED WITH WOODCUTS.

PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

THE
HISTORY
OF
BUCHAVEN.

In the county of Fife, on the sea-cost, there stands a little town, inhabited by few but fishers, called Buckey harbour, because of sea buckies and shells to be found so plenty on the rocks about that place. There is little mention made of this town by historians, to know its original extraction and antiquities, but in their own Burges-ticket, which was partly truth, but more of it by way of lampoon. This Ticket was dated the two and thirtieth day of the month of Julius Cæsar. Their Coat of Arms was two hands gripping each other over a Scate’s rumple. Their oath was, “I wish that de de’il may tak me an I binna an honest man to you, an ye binna de like to me.” An article of good neighbourhood they had, whoever was first up in a good morning, was to raise all the rest to go to sea; but if a very bad morning, piss and go to bed again till break of day, then raise wise Willy, who could judge of the weather by the blawing of the wind. Their freedoms were to take all sorts of fish contained in their tickets, viz.:—Lobsters, partens, podles, spout-fish, sea-cats, sea-dogs, fluks, piks, dick-puddocks, and p—fish.

Again, these people are said to have descended from one Tom and his two sons, who were fishers on the coast of Norway, who, in a violent storm, were blown over, and got a-shore at Buck-harbour, where they settled; and the whole of his children were called Thomsons, and soon became a little town by themselves, as few of any other name dwelt among them. This is a traditional story handed down from one generation to another.—They kept but little communication with the country people about them, for a farmer, in those days, thought his daughter cast away, if she married one of the other hand; Witty Eppie the ale-wife, wad a sworn Bugo, laddie, I wad rather see my boat and a’ my three sons daded against the Bass or I saw ony ane o’ them married to a muck-a-byre’s daughter; a wheen useless tawpies, it can do naething but rive at a tow-rock and cut corn, they can neither bait a hook nor redd a line, hook sand-eels, nor gather pirriwinkles.

Now, Wise Willie and Witty Eppie the ale-wife, lived there about a hundred years ago. Eppie’s chamber was their College and Court-House where they decided controversies, and explained their wonders; for the house was like a little kirk, had four windows and a gavle door: the wives got leave to flyte their fill, but fighting was prohibited, as Eppie said, up-hands was fair play. Their fines was a pint o’ ale, and Eppie sold it at a plack the pint. They had neither minister nor magistrate, nor yet a burly bailie, to brag them wi’ his tol-booth. The Lord o’ the manor decided all disputable points, and Wise Willie and Witty Eppie were the rulers of the town.

Now Eppie had a daughter, she ca’d Lingle-tail’d Nancy, because of her feckless growth; her waist was like a twitter, had nae curpen for a creel, being Edinburgh bred, and brought up wi’ her Louden aunty, was learned to read and sew, make coarse claiths and calicoe mancoes; there was nae scholar in the town but hersel, she read the bible, and the book of kirk sangs that was newly come in fashion. Willie and Eppie tell’d them aye what he meant, and said a’ the letters in it was litted by my Lord, for they saw him hae a feather that he dipt in black water, and made crooked scores, just like the same; and then he spake o’er again, and it tell’d him what to say.

It happened on a day that two of their wives near the town, found a horse shoe, and brought it home and sent for Willie to see what it was; Willie comes and looks at it; Indeed, co’ Willie, its a thing and holes in’t. I kent, co’ they, he wad get a name till’t. A’ ho’! co’ Willie, whar did ye find it? Aneath my Lord’s ain house, Willie. Adeed, said Willie, it’s the auld moon, I ken by the holes in’t, for nailing it to the left; but I winder if she fell in Fyfe, for the last time I saw her, she was hinging on her back aboon Edinburgh. A-hech, co’ Willie, we’ll set her upon the highest house in the town, and we’ll hae moonlight o’ our ain a’ the days o’ the year. The whole town ran to see the moon! Honest tout, said Witty Eppie, ye’re but a’ fools thegither; its but ane o’ the things it my Lord’s mare wears upon her lufe.

At another time one of the wives found a hare with its legs broken, lying among her kail in the yard. She not knowing what it was, called out to her neighbours to see it; some said it was a gentleman’s cat, or my lady’s lap dog, or a sheep’s young kittlen, because it had saft horns. Na, na, cried Wise Willie, its ane o’ the maukins that gentlemen’s dogs worie, what will we do wi’t? Faith, co’ they all, we’ll singe the woo aff, and make fish and sauce o’t to my Tammy’s parritch. Na, na, said Witty Eppie, better gie’t to my Lord, and he’ll stap an iron stick through the guts o’t, and gart rin round afore the fire till it be roasted.

It happened on a dark winter morning, that two of their wives were going to Dysart to sell their fish; and on the road side there happened to be some tinker’s ass teeth red. The poor ass seeing the two wives coming with the creels, thought it was the tinkers coming to flit or relieve him, fell a-crying, the two wives threw their fish a’ awa’, and ran hame like mad persons, crying they had seen the deil, ay, the very horned deil, and that he spoke to them but they didna ken what he said, for it was waur than a highlandman’s; the whole town was in an uproar; some would go with picks and spades, and hagg him to pieces; others would go and catch him in a strong net, and then they would either hang or drown him. Na, na, co’ Wise Willie, we manna cast out wi’ him at the first, as he’s gotten the twa burden’s o’ fish, he’ll e’en gang his wa, and no fash us nae mair; he is o’er souple to be catch’d in a net; a’ your pith will neither hang nor drown him, and the kintra he comes frae is a’ het coals, he’d never burn. We’ll gae to him in a civil manner, and see what he wants. Get out Witty Eppie and lingle-tail’d Nancy wi’ the Bible and Psalm-book. So aff they came in a crowd, either to kill the deil, or catch him alive; and as they came near the place, the ass fell a-crying, which caused many of them to faint and run back. Na, na, co’ Willie, that’s no the deil’s words at a’, its my Lord’s trumpeter, routing on his brass whistle. Willie ventured till he saw the ass’s twa lugs. Now, said Willie, come forward, an’ haud him fast, I see his twa horns; hech, sirs, he has a white beard like an auld man. So they inclosed the poor ass on all sides, thinking it was the deil; but when Wise Willie saw he had nae cloven feet, he cried out, Scarna lads, this is not the deil, it’s some living beast; it’s neither cow nor horse. An’ what is’t then, Willie? Indeed, co Willie, it’s the father of the maukins, I ken by its lang lugs.

Now some say this history is too satirical, but it is according to the knowledge of those times, not to say one place by another. The old wives will tell you yet of many such stories of the devil appearing to their grandfathers and grandmothers, and dead wives coming back again to visit their families long after being dead. So this Buchaven was once noted for droll exploits; but it is now become better known, and a place that produces the hardiest sailors of any town on the Scots coast. Yet many of the old people in it still retain the old tincture of their ancient and uncultivated speech, such as Be-go, laddie; they are also of a fiery nature, for if you ask any of their wives where their college stands, they’ll tell you, if your nose was in their a—e, your mouth would be at the door of it.

Now, it happened when Wise Willie turned old, he took a great swelling in his wame, and casting up his kail, collops, and cauld fish, that nothing could stand on his stomach; and a stout stomach he had for crabs heads, and scate broo, or brose in a bridal morning; yet it fail’d him, and he fell sick. None could cure him, nor tell what ail’d him, till a mountebank stage doctor came to Kircaldy that could judge by people’s piss the trouble of their person. Wise Willie hearing of his fame, pissed into the bottle, and sent it away with his daughter. The bottle being uncorked, his daughter spilt it by the way, and to conceal her sloth in so doing, pissed in it herself, and on she goes till she came to the stage-doctor, when she cried out aloud, Sir Doctor, Sir Doctor, here is a bottle of my father’s wash, he has a sair guts, and needs na drite ony, but spues a’ he eats. It’s true I tell you, my dow. The doctor looks at it, then says, it’s not your father’s surely, it’s your mither’s. The deil’s in the man, said she, divna I ken my father frae my mother. Then, said he, he is with child. The deil’s in the man, co’ she, for my mither bare a’ de bairns before; dat’s no true, sir, fegs ye’re a great liar. Hame she comes, and tell’d Willie, her father, that the doctor said he was wi’ bairn. O waes me, co’ Willie, for I hae a muckle wame, an’ I fear its owre true. O plague on you, Janet, for ye’re the father o’t, an’ I am sure to die in the bearing o’t. Witty Eppie was sent for, as she was a houdie, an’ she fand a’ Willie’s wame, to be sure about it. Indeed, co’ Eppie, ye’re the first man ere I saw wi’ bairn before. and how ye’ll bare it, troth I dinna ken, but I would drink salt sea-water and drown it in my guts—for if men get ance the gate o’ bearing weans themselves, they’ll need nae mair wives. So Willie drank sea-water till his guts was like to rive, and out he got to ease himself among the kail; and with the terrible noise of his farting, up starts a maukin behind him, who thought it was shot. Willie seeing her jump o’er the dyke, thought it was a child brought forth, and cried out, come back, my dear, and be christened, and dinna rin to the hills to be a pagan. So Willie grew better every day thereafter, being brought to bed in the kail yard; but his daughter was brought to bed some months after, which was the cause of the doctor’s mistake.

Now Wise Willie had a daughter called Rolling Coughing Jenny, because she spak thick, sax words at three times, half sense and half nonsense, as her own records will bear witness. She being with child, and delivered of a bonnie lassie; and all the wives in the town cried out be-go, laddie, it’s just like its ain father, lang Sandy Tason (or Thomson), we ken by his lang nose; for Sandy had a great muckle red nose, like a labster’s tae, bowed at the point like a hawk’s neb, and Sandy himself said that it was surely his, or some other body’s; but he had used a’ his bir at the getting o’t to try his abilities, being the first time ever he was at sic a business before; and when he had done a’ that man could do at it, he said it was nonsense; and shame fa’ him, but he would rather row his boat round the Bass and back again, or he’d do the like again; for Wise Willie gade wude at the bairn, and said it had mair ill nature than the auldest wife in the town, for it pissed the bed, skirl’d like a wild cat, & kept him frae his night’s rest; the auld hags about the town ca’d him Sandy the bairn’s daddy; and a’ the young gillie-gaukies o’ lasses held out their fingers and cried, Ti hi hi, Sandy, the Kirk will kittle your hips for that: And after a’ the blear-eye’d bell-man came bladering about the buttock meal, summoned him and her before the haly band—a court that was held in the Kirk on Saturday morning—and all the herd laddies round about cried, Ay, ay, Sandy, pay the bull-siller, or we’ll cut the cow’s tail awa’. So poor Sandy suffered sadly in the flesh, besides the penalty and Kirk penance.

But Wise Willie had pity on them, and gade wi’ them to the Kirk-court, what learned fouk call the Session. Jenny was first called upon, and in she goes where a’ the haly band was convened, elders and younger deacons, and dog payers, keeping the door, the cankerdest carles that could be gotten between Dysart and Duddy-side—white heads and bald heads sitting wantin’ bonnets, wi’ their white headed staffs, and hodden grey jockey-coats about them.

Mess John says, come away, Janet, we’re waiting on you here.

Min.—Now, Janet, where was this child gotten? you must tell us this plainly.

Jan.—Adeed sir, it was gotten at the black stanes, at the cheek of the crabb holes.

Mess John stares at her, not knowing the place, but some of the elders did. Then said he, O Janet, but the devil was busy with you at that time!

Jan.—A, by my fegs sir, that’s a great lie ye’re telling now, for the deil wasna there that I saw, nor ony body else, to bid us do ae thing or anither: we lo’ed ither unco weel for a lang time before that, an syne we tell’d ither, and agreed to marry ither, like honest fouk; then might na we learn to do the thing married fouk do, without the deil helping us.

Whisht, whisht, cried they, ye should be scourged, sausie loon quien that thou is, ye’re speaking nonsense.

Jan.—De deil’s i’ the carles, for you and your ministers are liars, when ye say it is de deil it was helping Sandy and me to get de bairn.

Come, come, said they, pay down the Kirk-dues, and come back to the stool the morn; the price is four pound, and a groat to the bell-man.

Jan.—The auld thief speed the darth o’t, sir, far less might sair you and your bell-man baith. O but this be a world indeed, when poor honest fouk maun pay for making use o’ their ain a—! Ye misca the poor deil a-hint his back, an’ gies him the wyte of a de ill in de kintry, bastard bairns and every thing; and if it be say as ye say, ye may thank de deil for that four pound and a groat I hae gien you; that gars your pat play brown, an gets you jockey-coats, and purl-handed sarks, and white-headed staves, when my father’s pot wallops up nought but bear and blue water.

The woman is mad, said they, for this money is all given to the poor of the parish!!

Jan.—The poor of the parish! Feint a hate ye gie to them but we pickles o’ pease-meal, didna I see their pocks? an’ the minister’s wife gies naething ava to unco beggars, but bids them gae to their ain parishes; and yet ye’ll tak the purse frae us for naething but playing the loon a wee or we be married, and syne cock them up to be looked on, and laugh’d at by every body: a deil speed you and your justice, sir. Hute tute, ye’re a’ coming on me like a wheen colly dogs, hunting awa a poor raggit chapman frae the door. So out she goes cursing and greeting.

Sandy is next called upon, and in he goes.

Min.—Now, Saunders, you must tell us how this child was gotten.

San.—A now, Mess John, sir, ye hae bairns o’ your ain, how did ye get them? But yours are a’ laddies, and mine is but a lassie; if you tell me how you get your laddies, I’ll tell you how I got my lassie, and then we’ll be baith alike good o’ the business.

The minister looks at him and says, Hute, tute, Saunders, lay down four pund and a groat, and come back the morn to the stool, and give satisfaction to the congregation; you had more need to be seeking repentance for that abominable sin of uncleanness than speaking so to me.

San.—Well, here’s your siller, sir, I hae gotten but poor penny-worths for’t, an’ ye tell me to repent for’t; what, the auld thief, needs I repent! when I’m gaun to marry the woman, an’ then I’ll hae to do’t o’er again every day, or there’ll be nae peace in the house; figs, it’s nonsense to pay siller, repent, and do’t again, too: a fine advice, indeed, master minister! and that’s the way the like o’ you live.

Now, sir, says Wise Willie, ye manna put them on the black creepy till they be married; they’ve suffered enough at ae time.

A-weel, a-weel, said they, but they must marry very soon.

I, true, says Sandy, ye’ll be wanting mair clink; foul haet ye do for naething here.

The next exploit was an action at law against the goodman of Muiredge, a farmer, who lived near by, that kept sheep and swine. His sheep came down and broke their yards, and ate up their kail. The wild hares they thought belonged to the man, as they ran to his house when they were hunted. The swine came very often in about their houses, seeking fish guts, and ony thing they could get. So it happened, when one of the children was sitting easing itself, that one of the swine tumbled it over, and bit a piece out of its backside! The whole town rose in an uproar against poor grunkie, as they called her, and takes her before Wise Willie. Willie took an axe and cut two or three inches off her long nose. Now, says Willie, I trow I hae made thee something like anither beast: thou had sic a lang mouth before, it wad a frighted a very deil to look at ye; but now your fac’d like a little horse or cow. The poor sow ran home roaring, all blood, and wanting the nose; which caused Muiredge to warn them in before my Lord. So the wives that had their kail eaten appeared first in the court, complaining against Muiredge. Indeed, my Lord, said they, Muiredge is no a good man, when he is sic an ill neighbour. He keeps black hares an’ white hares, little wee brown-backed hares wi’ white arses, and loose waggin horns; they creep in at our gush-holes, an’ does the like; when we cry, pussie, pussie, they rin hame to Muiredge: but I’ll gar my colly had them by the foot, an’ I’ll had them by the horn, an’ pull the hair aff them, and send ’em hame wanting the skin, as he did Sowen Tammie’s wee Sandy, for codin o’ his pease, he took aff the poor laddie’s coat, and sae did he e’en. And Willie said, if ye were a sow, my Lord, and me sitting driting, and you to bite my arse, sudna I hae amends o’ you for that? Odd, my Lord, ye wadna hae a bit out o’ your arse for twinty marks. Ye maun e’en gar Muiredge gie ten marks to buy a plaster to heal the poor bit wean’s arse again.

Well said, Willie, says my Lord; but who put on the sow’s nose again.

A, fegs, my Lord, said Willie, she’s honester like wantin’t, an’ she’ll bite nae mair arses wi’t. An ye had hane a nose, my Lord, as lang as the sow, ye’d been obliged to ony body it wad cut a piece aft.

A gentleman coming past near their town, asked one of their wives where their college stood? Said she, gie me a shilling an’ I’ll let you see baith sides o’t. He gives her the shilling, thinking to see something curious. Now, says she, there’s the one side of your shilling, and there’s the other; so it is mine now.

There was a custom in Buckey-harbour, when they got a hearty drink, that they went down to dance among the boats; two or three of the oldest went into a boat to see the residence, and when they admitted a burgher, there was also a dance. One day they admitted gly’d Rob, who was a warlock, and made them all stop their dancing, for which he was carried before Wise Willie to answer for that, for which he was banished to the Isle of May, to carry coals to the Light House.

THE
DOMINIE DEPOSED,

WITH THE SEQUEL.

BY WILLIAM FORBES, A.M.

LATE SCHOOLMASTER AT PETERCOULTER.

TO WHICH IS ADDED,

MAGGY JOHNSTON’S ELEGY.

GLASGOW:

PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

PREFACE.

If this offend when ye peruse,

Pray, reader, let this me excuse,

Myself I only here accuse,

Who am the cause,

That e’er ye had this piece of news

To split your jaws.

For had I right the gully guided,

And wi’ a wife mysel’ provided,

To keep me frae that wae betide it,

That’s kent to a’,

I’d stay’d at hame, or near beside it;

Now that’s awa’.

Be wiser then, and do what’s right,

And mind your business wi’ might,

Lest unexpected gloomy night,

Should you surround

An’ mingle a’ your pleasure bright,

Wi’ grief profound.

And, bonny lasses, mind this rhyme,

As true as three and sax mak nine,

If ye commit ye ken what crime,

And turn unweel,

There’ll something wamble in your wame

Just like an eel.

THE

DOMINIE DEPOSED.

PART I.

Some Dominies are sae bias’d,

That o’er the dyke themsells they cast,

They drink an’ rant, an’ live sae fast,

This drives them on,

To draw a weapon at the last,

That sticks Mess John.

Thus going on from day to day,

Neglecting still to watch and pray,

And teach the little anes A, B, C,

An’ Pater Noster,

Quite ither thoughts our Lettergae,

Begins to foster.

For, laying by baith fear and shame,

They slily venture on that game,

All Fours, I think, they call’t by name,

Baith auld an’ rife,

Than in the play, Mess John is slain

Wi’ his ain knife.

’Tis kind, therefore, I winna strive

My doughty deeds here to descrive,

A lightsome life still did I thrive,

Did never itch,

By out an’ in abouts to drive,

For to mak rich.

I ne’er laid money up in store,

Into a hole behind the door,

A shilling, penny, less or more,

I aye did scatter,

’Tis just, now, I should drink, therefore,

Sma’ beer or water.

I never sooner siller got,

But a’ my pouches it would plot,

And scorch them fair, it was sae hot;

Then to get clear

Of it, I swill’d it down my throat,

In ale or beer.

Thus, a’ my failing was my glass,

An’ anes to please a bonny lass,

I, like a silly amorous ass,

Drew forth my gully,

An’ through an’ through at the first pass,

Ran Mr. Willy.

Sae far this mad, though merry fit,

I was sair vexed, and forced to flit,

They plagu’d me sae wi’ pay and sit,

Quo’ they, You thief,

How durst you try to steal a bit

Forbidden beef?

O then, I humbly plead that vos,

Would make it your continual mos,

Wi’ hearts sincere an’ open os,

You’d often pray,

A tali malo libera nos,

O Dominie.

For, hark, I’ll tell you what they think,

Since I left handling pen an’ ink:

Wae worth that weary soup o’ drink

He lik’d sae weel,

He drank it a’, left not a clink

His throat to swill.

He lik’d, still sitting on his doup,

To view the pint or cutty stoup,

And sometimes lasses overcoup,

Upo’ their keels,

This made the lad at length to loup,

And tak his heels.

Then was it not a grand presumption,

To ca’ him doctor o’ the function?

He dealt too much in barley-unction

For his profession:

He never took a good injunction

Frae kirk or session.

An’ to attend, he was not willing,

His school, sae lang’s he had a shilling,

But lov’d to be where there was filling

Good punch or ale,

For him to rise was just like killing

Or first to fail.

His fishing-wand, his sneeshing box,

A fowling piece, to shoot muir cocks,

An’ hunting hare through craigs and rocks,

This was his game,

Still left the young anes, so the fox

Might worry them.

When he committed a’ these tricks,

For which he weel deserv’d his licks,

Wi’ red-coats he did intermix,

When he foresaw

The punishment the kirk inflicts

On fowks that fa’.

Then to his thrift he bade adieu,

When wi’ his tail he stopp’d his mou’,

He changed his coat to red and blue,

An’ like a sot

Did the poor Clerk convert into

A Royal Scot.

An’ now fowks use me at their wills,

My name is blawn out o’er the hills,

At banquets, feasts, a’ mouths it fills,

’Twixt each, Here’s t’ thee,

’Tis sore traduc’d at kilns and mills,

And common smithy.

Then, Dominies, I you beseech,

Keep very far from Bacchus’ reach,

He drown’d a’ my cares to preach,

Wi’ his ma’t-bree,

I’ve wore sair banes by mony a bleech

O’ his tap-tree.

If venus does possess your mind,

Her antics ten times warse ye’ll find,

For to ill tricks she’s sae inclin’d,

For praticks past,

She blew me here before the wind:

Cauld be her cast.

Within years less than half a dizen,

She made poor Maggy lie in jizen,

When little Jock brake out of prison

On gude yule-day,

This of my quiet cut the wisen,

Whan he wan gae.

Let readers then tak better heed,

For fear they kiss mair than they read,

In case they wear the sacken weed,

For fornication,

Or leave the priest-craft shot to dead

For procreation.

The maist o’ them, like blind an’ lame,

Have nae aversion to the game,

But better ’twere to tak her hame,

Their pot to cook,

An’ teach his boys to write a theme,

And mind their book.

Then may they sit at hame, an’ please,

Themselves wi’ gathering in their fees,

While I must face mine enemies,

Or shaw my dock:

There’s odds ’twixt handling pens wi’ ease

An’ a firelock.

Sae shall they never mount the stool,

Whereon the lasses greet an’ howl,

Tho’ deil a tear, scarce fair or foul,

Comes o’er their cheeks;

Their mind’s not there, ’tis spinning wool,

Or mending breeks.

The Kirk then pardons no such prots,

They must tell down good five pounds scots,

Though they should pledge their petticoats,

An’ gae arse bare;

The least price there is twenty groats,

An’ prigging fair.

If then the lad does not her wed,

Poor Meg some feigned tears maun shed,

Her minny crooks her mou’ and dad,

They fart an’ fling;

“O wow that e’er I made the bed,”

Then does she sing.

Thus for her Maidenhead she moans,

Bewailing what is past;

Her pitcher’s dash’d against the stones,

And broken at the last.

PART II.

A’ Maids, therefore, I do bemoan,

Betwixt the rivers Dee and Don,

If anes they get a taste o’ yon,

Though by the laird,

The toy-mutch maun then gae on,

Nae mair bare-hair’d.

Yet wanton Venus, that she-b—h,

Does a’ our senses sae bewitch,

An’ fires our blood wi’ sic an itch,

That aftentimes,

There is nae help but to commit,

Some ill-far’d crimes.

Yet some they are sae very willing,

At ony time they’ll tak’ a shilling,

But he that learnt them first that spelling,

Or Meg or Nell,

Be sure, to him they’ll lay an egg in;

This some can tell.

Unthinking things! it is their creed,

If some sic things be done wi’ speed,

They’re safe, ’tis help in time o’ need,

Nae after-claps:

Tho’ nine months aft brings quick or dead,

Into their laps.

Experience thus makes me speak,

I ance was hooked wi’ the cleek,

I almost had beshit my breek,

When Maggy told,

That by her saul, not e’en a week

Young Jack would hold.

She was sae stiff she cou’d not loot;

Your pranks she says, are now found out,

The kirk and you maun hae a bout;

Ill mat you fare,

’Tis a’ your ain, you need na doubt

Ilk hilt an hair.

Alas that e’er I saw your face,

I can nae langer hide the case;

Had I foreseen this sad disgrace,

Nae man nor you,

Shou’d e’er hae met me in yon place,

Or kiss’d my mou’.

O Dominie, you’re dispossest,

Ye hae defil’d your holy nest,

The warld sees ye hae transgrest,

I’m at my time,

Ye dare nae mair, now do your best

Let gae the rhyme.

Ohon! how weel I might hae kent,

When first to you I gae consent,

Wi’ me to mak your merriment,

How a’ would be:

Alas! that e’er my loom I lent

That day to thee.

Wae to the night I first began

To mix my moggans wi’ thee man:

’Tis needless now to curse or ban,

But deil hae me,

Ye’ll pay an’ sit, for sit ye can,

An’ that ye’ll see.

I heard her as I heard her not,

But time and place had quite forgot,

I guess’d Young Jack fell to my lot;

For I could tell,

It was too short her petticoat,

By half an ell.

Wi’ blubber’d cheeks, and watry nose,

Her weary story she did close;

I said the best, and aff she goes

Just like a thief,

An’ took a glass to interpose,

’Twixt mirth and grief.

Yet would hae gi’en my ha’f year’s fee,

Had Maggy then been jesting me,

Had tartan purry, meal an’ bree,

Or buttr’y brose,

Been kilting up her petticoats

Aboon her hose.

But time that tries such praticks past,

Brought me out o’er the coals fu’ fast;

Poor Maggy took a sudden blast,

And o’er did tumble,

For something in her wame at last

Began to rumble.

Our folk ca’d it the windy gravel,

That grips the guts beneath the navel,

But laith was she for to unravel

Their gross mistake,

Weel kend she, that she was in travail,

Wi’ little Jack.

But, to put matters out of doubt,

Young John within would fain been out,

An’ but an’ ben made sic a rout

Wi’ hands and feet,

That she began twa-fauld about

The house to creep.

Then dool an’ sorrow interveen’d;

For Jack nae langer could be screen’d,

My lass upon her breast she lean’d,

An’ gae a skirl.

The canny wives came there conveen’d,

An’ in a whirl.

They wrought together in a crowd;

By this time I was under cloud;

Yet bye and bye I understood,

They made one more,

For Jack he tun’d his pipe, and loud

Wi’ cries did roar.

Wi’ that they blam’d the Session-Clark;

Where is the lown hid in the dark?

For he’s the father o’ this wark:

Swear to his mither,

He’s just as like him as ae lark

Is like anither.

About me then there was a din,

They sought me out through thick an’ thin,

Wi’ deil hae her, an deil hae him,

He’s o’er the dyke;

Our Dominie has now dung in

His arse a pike.

Ye may weel judge I was right sweer,

This uncouth meeting to draw near,

Yet forc’d I was then to appear,

Altho’ perplex’d;

But listen how, and ye shall hear,

The hags me vex’d.

The carlings Maggy had sae cleuked,

Before young Jack was rightly hooked,

They made her twice as little booked,

But to gae on,

O then! how like a fool I looked,

When I saw John.

The Cummer then came to me bent,

And gravely, did my son present;

She bade me kiss him, be content,

Then wish’d me joy;

An’ tauld it was—what luck had sent,

A waly boy.

In ilka member, lith an’ lim’,

Its mouth, its nose, its cheeks, its chin,

’Tis a’ like daddy, just like him,

His very self,

Though it look’d cankered sour and grim,

Like ony elf.

Then whisp’ring now to me she harked,

Indeed your hips they should be yarked,

Nae mair Mess John, nor dare ye Clarkit,

Faith ye hae ca’d

Your hogs into a bonny markit,

Indeed my lad.

But tell me, man, (I should say master,)

What muckle deil in your way chas’d her?

Lowns baith! but I think I hae plac’d her,

Now on her side,

My coming here has not disgrac’d her,

At the Yule-tide.

An’ for yoursell, ye dare na look

Hereafter ever on a book,

Your mou’ about the psalms to crook;

Ye’ve play’d the fool,

Anither now your post maun bruik,

An’ you the stool.

She bann’d her saul, and then she blest it,

That in the Kirk-books it would be lifted,

An’ thus the weary wife insisted,

Our Lettergae

Will sit whar he will not be pish’t at

By dogs some day.

She wrung her hands until they cracked,

An’ sadly me she sham’d an’ lacked—

Ah, man! the Priest, how will he tak’ it,

Whan he hears tell,

How Maggy’s mitten ye hae glacket,

Ye ken yoursell.

The Session-Clark to play such prankies,

Ye’ll stan’ I fear upon your shankies,

An’ maybe slaver in the brankies;

It could na miss,

But lifting o’ the killimankies,

Would turn to this.

A toothless Howdy, auld and teugh,

Says, Cummer husht, we hae eneugh,

Thirsh mony ane has touch’d the pleugh,

As gude ash he,

An’ yetsh gane backlensh o’er the heugh,

Shae let him be.

Hesh no, quoth she, though he’sh be lear’d,

That ye ken what, they hae crept near’t,

Far you an I hash aft-times heard

O’ nine or ten,

Wha thush the clergy hath beshmear’d

Wi’ their ain pen.

The auld mou’d wives thus did me taunt,

Though a’ was true, I must needs grant,

But ae thing maistly made me faint,

Poor Meg lay still,

An’ look’d as loesome as a saint

That kend nae ill.

Then a’ the giglets young and gaudy,

Sware by their sauls, I might be wady,

For getting sic a lusty laddy,

Sae like mysell;

An’ made me blush wi’ speaking baudy,

’Bout what befel.

Thus auld an’ young their verdict had,

’Bout Maggy’s being brought to bed,

I thought my fill, yet little said,

Or had to say,

To reap the fruit o’ sic a trade,

On gude-yule day.

What sometimes in the mou’ is sweet,

Turns bitter in the wame;

I grumbled sair to get the geet,

At sic a merry time.

PART III.

Now Maggy’s twasome in a swoon,

A counsel held condemns the loon,

The cushle mushle thus gaed roun’,

Our bonny Clark,

He’ll get the dud an’ sarken gown,

That ugly sark.

Consider, sirs, now this his crime,

’Tis no like hers, or yours, or mine,

He’s just next thing to a divine,

An’ vow, ’tis odd,

Sic men should a’ their senses tine,

An’ fear o’ God.

’Tis strange what mak’s kirk folk sae stupit,

To mak or meddle wi’ the fuca’it,

Or mint to preach in sic a pu’pit,

The senseless fools,

Far better for them hunt the tyouchot,

Or teach their schools.

They hunt about frae house to house,

Just as a tailor hunts a louse,

Still girding at the barley-juice

An’ aft get drunk,

They plump into some open sluice,

Where a’ is sunk.

A plague upo’ that oil o’ ma’t,

That weary drink is a’ their fau’t,

It made our Dominie to hal’t;

The text fulfil,

Which bids cast out the sa’rless sa’t,

On the dunghill.

They are sae fed, they lie sae saft,

They are sae hain’d, they grow sae daft;

This breeds ill wiles, ye ken fu’ aft

In the black coat,

Till poor Mess John, and the priest-craft,

Gaes to the pot.

I tald them then, it was but wicked

To add affliction to the afflicted,

But to it they were sae addicted,

They said therefore,

The clout about me should be pricked,

At the kirk-door.

But yet not kirk nor consterie,

Quoth they, can ask the taudy fee,

Tell them in words just twa or three,

The deil a plack,

For tarry-breeks should ay gae free,

An’ he’s the Clark.

I then was dumb! how I was griev’d!

What would I gi’en to be reliev’d!

They us’d me waur than I had thiev’d,

Some strain’d their lungs,

An’ very loud they me mischiev’d

Wi’ their ill tongues.

Had you been there to hear and see

The manner how they guided me,

An’ greater penance wha could dree!

A Lettergae,

Wi’ sic a pack confin’d to be,

On gude Yule-day.

Young Jack wi’ skirls he pierc’d the skies,

I pray’d that death might close his eyes,

But did not meet with that surprise,

To my regret,

Sae had nae help, but up an’ cries

Het drinks to get.

This laid their din; the drink was stale,

An’ to’t they gaed wi’ tooth an’ nail,

An’ wives whase rotten tusks did fail

Wi’ bread an’ cheese,

They birl’d fu’ fast at butter’d ale,

To gie them ease.

They ca’ upon me, then dadda,

Come, tune your fiddle, play us a

Jigg or hornpipe, nae mair SOL FA,

My bonny cock;

The kirk an’ you maun pluck a craw

About young Jock.

Play up, Sae merry as we hae been,

Or, Wat ye wha we met yestreen,

Or, Lass will ye lend me your leam?

Or, Soups o’ brandy,

Or, Gin the kirk wad let’s alane,

Or, Houghmagandy.

Sic tunes as these, yea, three or four,

They call’d for, ill mat they cour,

Play, cries the cummer, wi’ a glour,

The wanton toudy,

Wha’ did the Dominie ding o’er,

Just heels o’er goudy.

O’ music I had little skill,

But as I could, I played my fill,

It was my best to shaw good will;

Yet a’ my drift,

Was best how I might win the hill

The wives to shift.

Sae leaving them to drink het ale,

I slipt awa’, an’ let them rail:

Then running till my breath did fail,

I was right glad

Frae kirk and wives to tak’ leg bail,—

Nae doubt they said.

The Lettergae has plaid the fool,

And shifted the repenting-stool.

To kirk and session bids good-day,

He’ll o’er the hills and far away.

THE SEQUEL.

Now, loving friends I hae you left,

Ye ken I neither stole nor reft,

But when I found myself infeft,

In a young Jack,

I did resolve to change the haft

For that mistak’.

An’ reasons mae I had anew,

For I had neither horse nor cow;

My stock took wings an’ aff it flew,

Sae a’ was gone,

An’ deil a flee had I was new

Except young John.

Too aft my thirsty throat to cool,

I went to visit the punch bowl,

Which makes me now wear reddish wool

Instead o’ black;

Or I must foot the cutty stool

Wi’ deil a plack.

The chappen-stoup, the pint an’ gill,

Too aft I caused for to fill,

Ay loving those wha would sit still,

An’ wet the mouth,

Ne’er minding that the Tullo-hill,

Leads people south.

O but that loving laird Kingswells

My blessings flow where his foot swells,

Lang life to him whate’er befals,

God be his guide,

He’s cured a thousand thirsty sauls,

An’ mine beside.

O had I but thae days again,

Which I sae freely spent in vain,

I’d strive some better for to ken.

What future chance

Should blaw me here out o’er the main,

An’ sae near France.

But since that ills maun ay befall

The chiel that will be prodigal;

When wasted to the very spaul

He turns his tusk,

For want o’ comfort to his saul,

On hungry husk.

Now since I’m aff sae mony a mile,

There’s naething got without some toil,

I’ll wait; cross fortune yet may smile,

Come want, come wealth,

I’ll tak’ a pint in the mean while,

To Heilden’s health.

Sae, for a time, friends fare ye weel,

My pot companions, true and leel,

I wish ye all a merry yule,

Much mirth and glee

Nae mair young Jacks into the creel

That day for me.

Some other Yule may yet cast up,

When we again shall meet,

To drown our sorrows in a cup,

In case we live to see’t.

ELEGY ON MAGGY JOHNSTON,

Who died Anno Domini, 1711

Auld Reeky mourn in sable hue,

Let fouth o’ tears dreep like May dew,

To bra’ tippeny bid adieu,

Which we wi’ greed,

Bended as fast as she could brew,

But now she’s dead.

To tell the truth now, Maggy dang,

O’ customers she had a bang;

For lairds an’ sutors a’ did thrang

To drink bedeen;

The barn an’ yard was aft sae thrang,

We took the green.

An’ there by dizens we lay down,

Syne sweetly ca’d the healths aroun’,

To bonny lasses, black or brown,

As we lo’ed best;

In bumpers we dull cares did drown,

An’ took our rest.

When in our pouch we fand some clinks,

An’ took a turn o’er Bruntsfield Links,

Aften in Maggy’s, at Hay-jinks,

We guzzl’d scuds,

Till we could scarce, wi’ hale-out drinks

Cast aff our duds.

We drank an’ drew, an’ fill’d again,

O wow! but we were blythe an’ fain:

When ony had their count mistane,

O it was nice,

To hear us a’ cry pick your bane,

An’ spell your dice.

Fou close we us’d to drink an’ rant,

Until we baith did glowr and gaunt,

An’ pish, an’ spue, an’ yesk, an’ maunt,

Right swash I trow,

Then aff auld stories we did chaunt,

Whan we were fou.

Whan we were wearied at the gouff,

Then Maggy Johnston’s was our houff,

Now a’ our gamesters may sit douff,

Wi’ hearts like lead.

Death wi’ his rung reach’d her a youff,

An’ sae she’s dead.

Maun we be forc’d thy skill to tine,

For which we will right sair repine?

Or hast thou left to bairns o’ thine,

The pauky knack,

O brewing ale amaist like wine,

That gar’d us crack?

Sae brawly did a pease-scon toast.

Biz i’ the quaff, and flee the frost,

There we gat fu’ wi’ little cost,

An’ muckle speed;

Now wae worth death, our sport’s a’ lost,

Since Maggy’s dead.

Ae summer night I was sae fu’,

Amang the riggs I gaed to spew,

Syne down on a green bank I trow,

I took a nap,

An’ sought a night balillilu,

As soun’s a tap.

An’ whan the dawn began to glow,

I hirsled up my dizzy pow,

Frae ’mang the corn like worry-kow,

Wi’ banes fu’ sair,

An’ kend nae mair than if a yow,

How I came there.

Some said it was the pith o’ broom,

That she stow’d in her masking loom,

Which in our heads rais’d sic a foom,

Or some wild seed,

Which aft the chappen-stoup did toom,

But fill’d our head.

But now since ’tis sae that we must,

Not in the best ale put our trust,

But when we’re auld return to dust,

Without remead;

Why should we tak’ it in disgust,

Since Maggy’s dead.

O’ wardly comforts she was rife,

An’ liv’d a lang and hearty life,

Right free o’ care, or toil, or strife,

Till she was stale;

An’ kend to be a canny wife

At brewing ale.

Then farewell Maggy, douce and fell,

O’ brewers a’ ye bore the bell;

Let a’ your gossips yelp and yell,

An’ without feed,

Guess whither ye’re in heaven or hell,

They’re sure ye’re dead.

FINIS.

ODDS AND ENDS,

OR, A

GROAT’S-WORTH OF FUN

FOR A PENNY.

Being a Collection of the best Jokes, Comic
Stories, Anecdotes, BonMots, &c.

The Piper who was carried away for dead during the Plague
in London, but revived before interment.—See p. 22.

PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

A
GROAT’S-WORTH OF FUN
FOR A PENNY.

A Sailor taking a walk in a field, observed a bull rapidly advancing towards him—‘Helm a-lee, messmate,’ he cried out at the top of his voice. The bull, however, probably not comprehending the injunction, speedily levelled his adviser with the ground. ‘There, you stupid,’ said the tar, as he raised himself, evidently more in sorrow than in anger, on his elbow, ‘didn’t I tell you you’d run foul of me.’

The Grey Ass.—Shortly after the Battle of Waterloo, and while the Duke of Wellington was at the height of his popularity, the Boniface of a village inn somewhere in England, whose establishment flourished under the name of ‘The Grey Ass,’ resolved to add to the popularity of his house by substituting a painting of the Great Captain, for the one which had so long dangled above his door. So resolved, so done. A travelling artist was employed; the ‘Grey Ass’ was obliterated; and the Duke ‘reigned in his stead.’ Alas, however, for the uncertainty of human calculations; this event, to which he had looked forward with the certainty of its increasing his business, and consequently his coffers, proved to our landlord a source of bitter vexation and disappointment;—a rival in the village had adopted his discarded sign, and as the country bumpkins were better acquainted with their old friend the Ass, than with his new successor, the consequence was that they followed their old acquaintance and left the Duke ‘alone with his glory.’ This was not to be borne; our landlord, having nothing else to do, put his brains to steep to devise some plan to counteract his fatal error; and the result of his cogitations appeared shortly after in an addition to his signboard, immediately under the figure of the Duke, on which was painted, in large letters, the significant intimation—‘This is the Old Grey Ass.’ Whether the exhibition of the Duke of Wellington, with such an addition to his titles, produced the desired effect, we have not learned.

A person desiring to be witty at the expense of a Jew whom he met, accosted him thus—‘’Tis a wonder, Isaac, that we never hear of the death of a Jew, or a Jack-ass; how does it happen, eh?’ ‘Well, mishter,’ replied Isaac, ‘I does’nt rightly know; but perhaps you and I will be the first in this neighbourhood.’

The following exquisite lines, the result of a true appreciation of the sublime and beautiful in nature, are copied from the Album kept at a small inn on the Banks of the Windermere, in Cumberland—

I never eats no meat,

Nor drinks no beer,

But sighs and ruminates

On Windermere.

Mr. Ogilvie, minister of the parish of Lunan, in the county of Forfar, had a great deal of eccentricity in his composition. One Sunday an old woman, who kept a public-house in the parish, with whom Mr. Ogilvie was well acquainted, fell asleep in the church during sermon—not an uncommon occurrence. Her neighbour kept jogging in order to awake her. Mr. Ogilvie observing this, cried out, ‘Let her alane, I’ll waken her mysel’, I’ll warrant ye.’—‘Phew! phew! (whistling) a bottle o’ ale an’ a dram, Janet.’—‘Comin’ Sir.’ was instantly replied.—‘There now,’ says the minister, ‘I tald ye it wadna be lang afore that I waken’d her!’

An Obedient Wife.—A Mr. P——n, of Dublin, was one morning boasting among his friends that he had the best wife in the world, and the reason he gave was, that she did every thing that he bid her. ‘By Jasus,’ said one of the party, ‘I’ll bet a dinner for the present party, that she will not boil a roasting pig.’ ‘Done,’ said the husband. To market a messenger was despatched to buy the pig, the company taking care that the husband should have no means of communication with home. The pig being brought, was sent to his house with this message, ‘that Mrs. P——n was to have the roasting pig boiled, and sent to a certain tavern in time for dinner!’ The messenger, on delivering the pig to cookee, was accosted with, ‘sure now, the master is mad!—boil a roasting pig!—By Jasus, I’ll not boil the pig! Sure and now you have made a big blunder! Boil a roasting pig, indeed! But, however, a pig is a pig, and I’ll take it to the mistress; and sure and now it is a big blunder! Boil a roasting pig! Was ever such a matter as that?’ At the hour appointed came the dish under a cover; and as cookee passed up the room to place it on the table, ‘is the pig boiled or roasted?’ whispered every body in his ear. Not a word spake cookee; but, on uncovering the dish, the roasting pig was boiled sure enough; and Mrs P——n pronounced universally ‘to be the most obedient wife in Dublin.’—(A true story, as Pat would say.)

March of Intellect.—A gentleman the other day visiting Mr. Wood’s school in Edinburgh, had a book put into his hand for the purpose of examining a class. The word inheritance occurring in the verse, the querist interrogated the youngster as follows:—‘What is inheritance?’ A. ‘Patrimony.’ ‘What is patrimony?’ A. ‘Something left by a father.’ ‘What would you call it if left by a mother?’ A. ‘Matrimony.’

What colours were the winds and waves the last tempest at sea? Answer—The winds blew and the waves rose.

A gentleman walking along Parliament-street, towards the Abbey, overtook a butcher who had a tray filled with sheeps’ heads on his shoulder; the butcher was humming a tune, and his lightheartedness induced the gentleman to observe to him, that he had more brains than most men. ‘Yes, Sir,’ said the butcher, ‘I am carrying them to the House of Lords.’ ‘Aye, aye,’ said a by-stander, they are very much wanted there.

Sir Isaac Newton was once riding over Salisbury plain, when a boy keeping sheep called to him, ‘Sir, you had better make haste on, or you will get a wet jacket.’ Newton, looking round, and observing neither clouds nor a speck on the horizon, jogged on, taking very little notice of the rustic’s information. He had made but a few miles, when a storm suddenly arising wetted him to the skin. Surprised at the circumstance, and determined, if possible, to ascertain how an ignorant boy had attained a precision and knowledge in the weather, of which the wisest philosophers would be proud, he immediately rode back, wet as he was. ‘My lad,’ said Newton, ‘I’ll give thee a guinea if thou wilt tell me how thou canst foretel the weather so truly.’ ‘Will ye, Sir? I will then,’ said the boy, scratching his head, and holding out his hand for the guinea. ‘Now, Sir,’ having received the money, and pointed to his sheep, ‘when you see that black ram turn his tail towards the wind, ’tis a sure sign of rain within an hour.’ ‘What! exclaimed the philosopher, ‘must I, in order to foretel the weather, stay here and watch which way that black ram turns his tail?’ ‘Yes Sir.’ Off rode Newton quite satisfied with his discovery, but not much inclined to avail himself of it or recommend it to others.

Military Manœuvre.—A few days since a gallant and distinguished military officer, who, though unlike Falstaff in one respect, possesses among other characteristics of that celebrated person, his facetious disposition, and goodness of heart, was passing along Deansgate, when he observed a crowd surrounding a shop door, and inquired the cause. He was told that an unlucky urchin had just fractured a pane of glass, and that the shopkeeper was detaining him in pledge for the payment of the damage. ‘How much is it?’ inquired the son of Mars.—‘Half-a-crown,’ was he answer.—‘Oh, is that all?’ rejoined the officer, and thereupon unbuttoned one of his breeches’ pockets which the unwitting shopkeeper considered as an indication that the money was forthcoming, and with this pleasing anticipation let off the boy, who was soon out of the way. The gallant tactician observing the success of his plan, and having now had his hand in his pocket a sufficient length of time, deliberately re-buttoned up his treasure, and with suitable nonchalance laughed and rode away, to the no small amusement of the spectators, who raised a loud shout at the painful expense of the disappointed tradesman.

Being in company, and the ‘Tuscan grape’ producing more riot than concord, Foote saw one gentleman so far gone in debate as to throw the bottle at his antagonist’s head, upon which, catching the missile in his hand, he restored the harmony of the company, by observing, that if the bottle was passed so quickly, not one of them would be able to stand out the evening.

A lady, seeing her lover running in great haste to meet her, observed to him, that he must be in a very great hurry to run so fast. ‘Madam,’ replied the lover, ‘I was following my inclination.’

THE WEEPING WIDOW.

Lady B——, who, in public, bewails her dead spouse,

While in private, her thoughts on another are turning;

Reminds us of lighting a fire with green boughs,

Which weep at one end, while the other is burning.

A Lord Lieutenant, going over to Ireland with his lady and family, was in his passage, overtaken by so violent a storm, that the mariners themselves gave the vessel over for lost, and expected every minute that she would either founder or go ashore. At this juncture a sailor observing one of the menials standing pale with fear at the cabin door, came up to him, and asked him if ever he had lain with the duchess. ‘No,’ says the poor fellow, frightened at such waggery in such a dangerous time. ‘Why then,’ says the tar, ‘you have that pleasure to come; for by G——, we shall lie with her grace in less than half an hour.’ The duke, who overheard this, when the storm was abated, and the danger was over, sent the fellow a handsome present, and forgave him the impudence of the jest.

Accommodation.—The following curious notice was affixed to the residence of a gentleman, whose premises had suffered by some nightly depredators.—‘Notice, those persons who have been in the habit of stealing my fence for a considerable time past, are respectfully informed, that if agreeable to them it will be more convenient to me if they steal my wood, and leave the fence for the present, and as it may be some little inconvenience getting over the paling, the gate is left open for their accommodation.

Anonymous Baptism.—The late Mr. M’Cubbin of Douglas, a most happy humourist, and who was seldom outwitted, had his gravity severely put to the test upon one occasion when officiating in a neighbouring congregation, by a rustic who was no less impudent than ignorant. After having administered the vows, and received the satisfactory nods, the clown reached up the child towards the pulpit to receive the initiatory sprinkling without either whispering the name or tendering a line to that effect. The minister had for a considerable time bent his head, and inclined his head to no purpose; until at last his patience beginning to fail, he addressed the sponsor in rather a surly tone, ‘Your child’s name?’ Not a syllable from the man! Mr. M’Cubbin repeated very audibly, ‘Your child’s name, Sir?’ ‘Ye’ve naething ado wi’ that,’ rejoined the fellow, ‘gie ye’t its water,’ which the good man was obliged to do, to the no small merriment of the gaping congregation.

Daniel Purcel, the Hibernian punster, going along with a great mob of spectators assembled to see a culprit pass to his execution at Tyburn, asked a genteel person, who was standing in the crowd, what was the name of the fellow going to be hanged. He answered, ‘One Vowel.’ ‘Ah!’ said Purcel, ‘Do you know which of them it is, for there are several of that name?’ ‘No,’ returned the other, ‘I do not.’ ‘Well,’ said the wag, ‘this however is certain, and I am very glad of it, that it is neither U nor I.’

When the Leith Docks were to be opened, old Gow’s band was summoned to play some appropriate air, and Sir Walter Scott suggested ‘Water parted from the sea.’

Military Etiquette.—During the late rebellion in Ireland, General Berresford (now Peer and Field-Marshal) commanded a district, and, upon one occasion, proceeded to inspect a country Corps of Yeomanry, drawn up for that purpose. On riding up to their front, instead of being received with ‘presented arms,’ he found the corps ‘standing at ease.’ The Captain had, in fact, on first seeing the General, given the word ‘attention,’ to which no attention was paid—but, pressed by the General’s rapid approach, he proceeded to the next order of his formula, ‘shoulder arms.’ To add to his embarrassment, however, the arms moved not. The General, with his characteristic good-nature, suggested to the Commandant to speak in a louder tone, who, not a little indignant, repeated with a Stentorian voice, ‘shoulder arms,’ but all to no purpose; there stood the corps, dogged and motionless. Such a total apparent ignorance of the manual exercise, naturally excited the chagrin of the Captain, and the astonishment of the General, to whom the former only a few days before had been puffing off the discipline of his corps. At length, the General having intimated his intention of reporting the corps, was about to leave the field, when a Serjeant with his ‘halbert recovered,’ stepped in front of the ranks, and addressed the General in the following terms:—‘Plase your honour, General; don’t think the corpse does not know its exercise as well as any sojers in the land. There is not min in the country knows how to use their arms, aye and their legs, too, bitter than those afore you; but since you must know the thruth, Sir, the min and the Captain of late have not been on spaking terms.’

Who and Hoo.—A little girl lately brought a volume to a Glasgow librarian, with the following message:—‘John sent me wi’ this book, and he wants the next ane.’ ‘And who is John,’ questioned the man of books, to which the girl very readily answered, ‘he’s gettin better.’

A Certificate Easily Got.—As the late Mr G——, farmer at Duddingstone, once stood at his gate, an Irish lad came up to him and requested to be employed.

Mr. G.—Go away, sir, I will never employ any of your country again.

Irishman.—Why, your honour? sure we are good workers? God bless you, do give me a job.

Mr. G.—No, sir, I wont; for the last Irishman I employed died upon me, and I was forced to bury him at my own charge.

Irishman.—Ah! your honour, you need not fear that of me, for I can get you a certificate that I never died in the employment of any master I ever served.

There was no resisting. Poor Paddy got employed at once, and remained a faithful servant until his master’s death.

A Lazy Horse.—Some time ago, a jolly farmer from D—— went to Falkirk for ‘sax furlots o’ beans,’ which he had trysted from a Carse farmer, near B——. After spending the day in dram-drinking and fun with his cronies, about the going down of the sun’ he bethought himself of stepping home. The landlord of the S—— public house, with the assistance of his stable-boy, got the beans, and what was more difficult still, the ‘gudeman himsel’’ on horseback. So off Saunders got almost galloping. Unluckily, however, at a sharp turning of the road on his route, down came our hero, beans an’ a’. The whisky (wae be till’t) had so deranged his powers of perception, that he mounted his bean-sack instead of his mare, that was standing at some distance, no doubt well pleased to see her master belabouring the bean-sack instead of her own bony protuberances. At this moment up comes one of his neighbours, who had, like himself, staid too long in Falkirk, and seeing a man riding on a sack in the middle of the road, at that time of the night, made a solemn pause. After listening a while, he began to conjecture who it was, and venturing a little nearer he exclaims,—‘Preserve us, what are you doing here?’—‘What am I doing here!’ says Saunders, ‘I’ve been fechtin’ this twa hours wi’ that stupid mare o’ mine, and deil ae fit she’ll lift yet.’

MY SHIRT.

As Bayes, whose cup with poverty was dash’d,

Lay snug in bed, while his one shirt was wash’d;

The dame appeared, and holding it to view,

Said, ‘If ’tis washed again, ’twill wash in two.’

‘Indeed,’ cried Bayes; then wash it, pray, good cousin,

And, wash it, if you can, into a dozen!’

A farmer who regularly attends Devizes market, some short time since, (finding the article unsaleable) gave another farmer 100 bushels of potatoes, which he was to send for, and on meeting there, the following dialogue took place:—‘How did the ’taties turn out?’ ‘Oh, main, good; I never eated better uns for the time o’ year, and they are pretty nigh gone.’ ‘Well, thee may ha’ some more on um if thee likest.’ ‘Why if I do, thee and me must ha’ a fresh agreement.’ ‘Fresh agreement! why dint I gie thee the ’taties?’ ‘Ah, but I can’t afford to ha’ ony more if thee don’t pay one of the pikes!’ The waggon had to pass two turnpike gates, the toll at one was 4d. and the other 4½d.

The Bane and Antidote.—The town bellman of Kirriemuir having received a written advertisement to that effect, proclaimed in the midst of the assembled multitude, on a fair day, in that ancient burgh of regality or barony, as follows:—‘Notish—All persons driving their cattle through the lands of Logie, to or from the market, will be prosecuted with the utmost rigour of law.’ And, immediately after, by way of sedative to the natives, exclaimed—‘Ye needna mind a’ this, lads; it’s only a haver o’ the grieve’s!’

A simple Highland girl, on her way home for the north, called, as she passed by Crieff, upon an old master with whom she had formerly served. Being kindly invited by him to share in the family dinner, and the usual ceremony of asking a blessing having been gone through, the poor girl, anxious to compliment, as she conceived, her ancient host, exclaimed, ‘Ah, master, ye maun hae a grand memory, for that’s the grace ye had when I was wi’ you seven years ago.’

A Last Century Anecdote.—Mr. Ross, Pitcalnie, an ingenious humourist, who spent his latter years chiefly in Edinburgh, was one night (about the year 1780) reeling home in a state of intoxication through St. Andrew-Square, when his fancy suggested to him the following amusing hoax upon Sir Lawrence Dundas. It occurred to his remembrance, on seeing Sir Lawrence’s fine house (now the office of the Royal Bank of Scotland), that that gentleman was then known to be engaged in the laudable business of prevailing upon the members of the town council of Edinburgh to elect him their representative in parliament, and that he had already secured the approbation of so many of these worthy trustees of the public interest that, but for one recusant deacon, he was certain of his election. It was known that Sir Lawrence had tried every possible means to bring over this dissentient voice, but hitherto without success; and there was some reason to apprehend that, after all the pains he had expended upon the rest, the grand object would not eventually be accomplished. Pitcalnie bethought him to assume the name of the deacon, to enter the house of the candidate, call for what entertainment he pleased, and, finally, as Sir Lawrence was confined to bed with gout, to go away without being discovered. No sooner had he settled the plan in his own mind than he proceeded to put it in execution. Reeling up to the door he rung the bell with all the insolent violence which might have been expected from so consequential a person as the individual he wished to personate, and presently down came a half-dressed lacquey, breathing curses, not loud but deep, against the cause of this unseasonable annoyance. ‘Tell your master,’ said Pitcalnie, ‘that Deacon —— (mentioning the name of the important elector) wishes to see him.’ When the man went up, and told Sir Lawrence that Deacon —— had come drunk to the door, wishing to see him, the heart of the old gentleman leapt within him, and he instantly sent down his compliments to his respected visitor, begging him to excuse his non-appearance, which was only owing to extremity of illness, but entreating that he would enter, and in every respect use the house as his own. Pitcalnie grunted out an assent to the last part of the message, and, being shown into a room, began to call lustily about him. In the first place he ordered a specimen of Sir Lawrence’s port, next of his sherry, then of his claret, and lastly of his champagne. When he had drunk as much as he could, and given a most unconscionable degree of trouble to the whole household, he staggered off, leaving it to Sir Lawrence to come, next day, to the best explanation he could with the deacon.

‘If Britannia rules the waves,’ said a qualmish writing-master, going to Margate in a storm, ‘I wish she’d rule them straighter.’

An Irishman having a looking glass in his hand, shut his eyes, and placed it before his face; another asking him why he did so, ‘Upon my soul,’ says Teague, ‘it is to see how I look when I am asleep.’

A lady that had married a gentleman who was a tolerable poet, one day sitting alone with him, said, ‘come my dear, you write upon other people—prithee, write something for me: let me see what epitaph you’ll bestow on me when dead.’ ‘Oh! my dear,’ replied he, ‘that’s a melancholy subject! don’t think of it.’ ‘Nay, upon my life, you shall,’ says she; ‘come, I’ll begin: Here lies Bid.’ To which he answered, ‘Ah! I wish she did.’

Mr. O’Connel, who is remarkable for the successful verdicts he obtains, having been lately robbed of his wardrobe, replied to a friend that was lamenting his loss, ‘Never mind, my dear Sir; for surely as I have gained so many suits, I can afford to lose a few.’

The late Mr. Murray, who was of a very credulous disposition, was telling a very strange and improbable story, when he observed Fawcett cast a very doubtful eye. ‘Zounds, Sir,’ says he, ‘I saw the thing happen.’ ‘If you did,’ says Fawcett, ‘I must believe it; but by —— I would not have believed it if I had seen it myself.’

A countryman busy sowing his ground, two smart fellows riding that way, one of them called to him with an insolent air, ‘Well, honest fellow,’ said he, ‘’tis your business to sow, but we reap the fruits of your labour.’ To which the countryman replied, ‘’Tis very like you may, for I am sowing hemp.’

Lady Carteret, wife of the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, in Swift’s time, said to him, ‘the air of this country is good.’ ‘For God’s sake, Madam,’ said Swift, ‘don’t say so in England; if you do, they will certainly tax it.’

When Mr. Wilberforce was a candidate for Hull, his sister, an amiable and witty young lady, offered the compliment of a new gown to each of the wives of those freemen who voted for her brother, on which, she was saluted with a cry of ‘Miss Wilberforce for ever!’ when she pleasantly observed—‘Thank you, gentlemen, but I cannot agree with you, for, really, I do not wish to be Miss Wilberforce for ever.’

An elderly man, from the Braes of Athol, who had never seen either a ship or sea in his life, once chanced to be crossing from Kinghorn to Leith on a very stormy day, and as the vessel heeled terribly, he ran to the cords and held down with his whole vigour, to keep her from upsetting. ‘For to sake of our lhives, shentles, come and hold town!’ cried he; ‘or if you will nhot pe helping mhe, I’ll lhet you all go to te bhottom in one mhoment. And you ploughman tere, cannot you kheep te howe of te furr, and no gang ower te crown of te rhiggs avaw? Heich?’ The steersman at this laughing aloud, the Highlander was irritated, and with one of the levers he ran and knocked him down. ‘Nhow! laugh you nhow?’ said he; ‘and you weel deserve it all, for it was you who put her so mhad, kittling her thail with tat pin.’

There is but one instance known, in which King James II. made a reply of wit and humour. After King William had landed, it was announced to James II.: ‘Sire, such a great lord has left you, and has gone over to King William.’ Prince George of Denmark, exclaimed, ‘est il possible!’ Again it was announced to James, that another great lord had gone over to William: ‘est il possible!’ again exclaimed Prince George: and so he did always—exclaiming, ‘est il possible!’ upon every new defection. At last, Prince George himself went over to William; and when his defection was announced to James II., ‘What,’ said the King, is ‘est il possible’ gone too.

A Highlander from the small isles, who had never been in a church, or heard a sermon in his life, came over to a sacrament on the mainland, and the service being in his native tongue, he paid great attention till the psalm was given out, for he had missed the first one. When the precentor fell a-bawling out, Donald could not comprehend that, and called to some to stop him; but how was he astounded, when the whole congregation fell a-gaping and bawling with all their energy! Donald, conceiving it altogether a fit of madness, of which the precentor was the primary cause, bustled up to him, and gave him a blow on the side of the head, till the book dropped from his hand. ‘What do you mean, sir,’ said the clerk. ‘Humph! pe you taking tat,’ said Donald; ‘for you was te pekinner of tis tamn toohoe!’

George the Fourth, when Prince of Wales, meeting Mr. Colman at a convivial party, composed of the first wits of the day, gaily observed, that there were two George the Youngers in company. ‘But,’ continued his royal highness, ‘I should like to know who is George the Youngest?’ ‘Oh!’ replied Colman, very happily, ‘I could never have had the rudeness to come into the world before your royal highness.’

Foote and Carrick were at a tavern together, at the time when the gold coin was regulated. Foote taking out his purse to pay his reckoning, asked Carrick what he should do with a light guinea. ‘Pshaw! it is worth nothing,’ said Carrick; ‘so fling it to the devil.’ ‘Well, David,’ said Foote, ‘you are an ingenious fellow, as I always thought you; ever contriving to make a guinea go farther than any other man.’

One day Bannister was obliged to take shelter from the rain in a comb-maker’s shop, in Holborn, where an old man was at work. ‘I am sorry,’ said he, ‘that a person of your time of life should suffer so much pain.’ ‘Pain! I have no pain, thank God!’ said the man. ‘Surely you must,’ said the wit, ‘are you not cutting your teeth?’

Coming into a coffee-house one stormy night, Bannister said, ‘I never saw such a wind in my life.’ ‘Saw a wind,’ said a friend; ‘pray what was it like?’ ‘Like,’ answered Bannister, ‘like to have blown my hat off.’

EPIGRAM.

‘Is my wife out of spirits,’ said Sir John, with a sigh;

(For he fear’d that a tempest was forming:)

‘Quite out, sir, indeed,’ said her maid in reply,

‘She finished the brandy this morning.’

One day going to Holland House, by the Hammersmith stage, Rogers was mortified to find that by the delay of the coachman he had missed meeting with the noble proprietor. ‘Why, bless my heart,’ said he, looking at his watch, ‘you have been considerably more than an hour bringing me here! What do you call your coach?’ ‘The Regulator, Sir,’ said the man. ‘The Regulator!’ replied Rogers; ‘it is a very proper title—for all the other stage coaches go by it.’

A lady observing Mr. Jekyll directing some letters, one of which was addressed to ‘Mr. ——, Solicitor;’ and another to ‘Mr. ——, Attorney;’ inquired what was the difference between an attorney and a solicitor. ‘Much the same, my dear Madam,’ replied the wit, ‘as there is between a crocodile and an alligator.’

Poor Laws.—A man in the last stage of destitution, came before the sitting Magistrate, at Lambeth Street, and stated that having by the operation of the new Poor Laws, been suddenly deprived of parish assistance, he was reduced to such extremity, that if not instantly relieved he must be driven to do a deed that his soul abhorred. The worthy Magistrate instantly ordered him five shillings from the poor-box, and after a suitable admonition against giving way to despair, asked him what dreadful deed he would have been impelled to, but for this seasonable relief; ‘To work,’ said the man with a deep sigh as he left the office.

Scotch Frugality.—A commercial traveller having got a settlement of his account with a shopkeeper in Falkirk, invited him to dinner at the inn. ‘Na, na,’ said he, ‘I never gang to an inn; I’ll no gang. But just tell me how muckle it would cost you gi’eing me my dinner at the inn as ye ca’d?’ ‘Oh! never mind that,’ said the traveller. ‘Aye, but I want to ken—just tell me,’ added he behind the counter. ‘Oh,’ said the traveller, ‘perhaps six or seven shillings.’ ‘Very weel, then,’ replied the curmudgeon, ‘just gi’e me the seven shillings.’

A Man of Family.—A decent highlander in Badenoch called lately upon the minister of the parish, and making his bow, hoped ‘that Mr —— would look in at his house some day and christen a few bairns for him.’ ‘A few bairns!’ exclaimed the minister, ‘what way is that to speak, Donald; how many have you got?’ ‘Why, sir,’ replied the other, ‘there were three when I left the house, but I canna tell how many there may be since.’

Blessings of Primogeniture.—A countryman whose master had two sons, being asked one day whether the youngest was married? replied, ‘Yes.’ ‘Is the oldest married too? ‘Na,’ said the sagacious servant, ‘ye ken he’s the young laird; he canna get a wife till his father dies.’

A certain worthy divine from the north, who visits the general assembly of the kirk of Scotland every year, has for time immemorial taken up his annual abode in a certain tavern in Edinburgh. This healthy mountaineer has an instinctive horror at all deleterious mixtures in human food, whether solid or liquid; and the reason he assigned for frequenting the above tavern was, that he could always command the luxury of fresh eggs to breakfast. These he always boiled himself, and would take none except he found them hot from the nest. This year he appeared as usual, like the bittern at her appointed time; but, unfortunately, he laid his forepaw on a couple of plump eggs, but quite cold, and apparently not laid yesterday. The man of the church waxed wroth, and summoned the waiter. Betty assured him they were fresh, but could not explain why they were cold. The landlady was next taken to task, and threatened with the loss of a customer unless this suspicious phenomenon was satisfactorily cleared up. ‘’Deed, sir,’ replied the hostess, ‘I am unco sorry for’t; but to tell Gude’s truth, sir, I couldna get the cat to sit on them this morning.’

A Sailor’s Notion.—A Sailor, seeing some of our domestic slave-traders driving coloured men, women, and children on board a ship for New Orleans market, shook his head and said, ‘Jim, if the devil don’t catch them fellows, we might as well not have any devil.’

An American paper says—‘Travellers should be careful to intrust their baggage to proper persons only, as a gentleman a few days since, on alighting from a stage-coach, intrusted his wife to a stranger, and she has not been heard of since.’

Montaigne retained during the whole of his life an elderly female in his service, who had been the nurse of his childhood, and to whom he was in the habit of reading his compositions, on the principle that if she could understand them everybody else must. On one occasion the philosopher, whilst sipping his morning dish of coffee, accosted her as follows:—‘Nurse, I have made a deep discovery this morning.’ ‘Indeed,’ replied the old lady; ‘what is that?’ ‘Why, nurse, you need not tell any one, but I have actually found out what no one else could suspect.’ ‘And what is that, Sir.’ ‘Why, that I am an old fool.’ ‘La! Sir! is that all?’ observed the good woman; ‘if you had but asked me I could have told you that 20 years ago—I have seen it all along.’

The Bagpiper.—During the great plague of London, carts were sent round the city each night, the drivers of which rung a bell, as intimation for every house to bring out its dead. The bodies were then thrown promiscuously into the cart, conveyed to the suburbs, and buried. A piper had his constant stand at the bottom of Holborn, near St Andrew’s Church. He became well known about the neighbourhood. A certain gentleman, who never failed in his generosity to the piper, was surprised, on passing one day as usual, to miss him from his accustomed place:—upon inquiry, he found that the poor man had been taken ill in consequence of a very singular accident. On the joyful occasion of the arrival of one of his countrymen from the Highlands, the piper had in fact made too free with the contents of his keg; these so overpowered his faculties, that he stretched himself out upon the steps of the church, and fell fast asleep. He was found in this situation when the dead cart went its rounds; and the carter, supposing that the man was dead, made no scruple to put his fork under the piper’s belt, and hoisted him into his vehicle, that our Scottish musician should share the usual brief ceremonies of interment. The piper’s faithful dog protested against this seizure of his master, jumped into the cart after him, to the no small annoyance of the men, whom he would not suffer to come near the body; he further took upon himself the office of chief mourner, by setting up the most lamentable howling as they passed along. The streets and roads by which they had to go being very rough, the jolting of the cart, added to the howling of the dog, had soon the effect of awakening our drunken musician from his trance. It was dark; and the piper, when he first recovered himself, could form no idea either of his numerous companions, or his conductors. Instinctively, however, he felt for his pipes, and playing up a merry Scottish tune, terrified in no small measure the carters, who fancied they had got a legend of ghosts in their conveyance. A little time, however, put all to rights;—lights were got, and it turned out that the noisy corpse was the well known living piper, who was joyfully released from his awful and perilous situation. The poor man fell badly ill after his unpleasant excursion, and was relieved during his malady by his former benefactor, who, to perpetuate the remembrance of so wonderful an escape, resolved, as soon as his patient recovered, to employ a sculptor to execute him in stone. The statue represents a bagpiper in a sitting posture, playing on his pipes.

Puffing in Style.—A few days ago a hawker, while cheapening his haberdashery wares, was bawling out, ‘Here’s the real good napkins; they’ll neither tear, wear, ruffle, nor rive; throw in the washing, nor go back in the pressing. All the water between the rocks of Gibralter and the Cape of Good Hope will not alter the colour of them. They were woven seven miles below ground by the light of diamonds; and the people never saw day-light but once in the seven years. They were not woven by a brosy clumsy apprentice boy, but by a right and tight good tradesman, who got two eggs, and a cup of tea, and a glass of whisky to his breakfast; and every thread is as long and strong as would hang a bull, or draw a man-of-war ship into harbour.’

Highland Simplicity.—A poor simple Highlander, who last week made his appearance at Stirling shore and purchased a cart of lime, met with an adventure sufficiently untoward. Donald had no sooner got his cart well filled, than he turned his own and his horse’s head to his own dear Highland hills. He had not, however, got far beyond Stirling bridge, when a smart shower of rain came on. The lime began to smoke. Donald, who was sitting on the front of his cart, at first supposed it to be nothing but a whiff of mountain mist, but at last becoming enveloped in the cloud, and no longer able to see his way before him, he bethought him it was time to cast a look behind, and was not a little amazed to discover that the whole cause of the annoyance proceeded from his cart of lime. It was on fire, but how was beyond his comprehension. He stopt his horse and stood still, in hopes the rain would quench the intruding element, but remarking no abatement, he next drove his cart to a stream at a short distance, and taking his shovel, began busily to throw water upon his smoking load. This speedily brought Donald’s difficulties to a crisis, for his steed, unaccustomed to the heat which threatened to deprive aim of his tail, began now to exhibit symptoms of open rebellion. Besides, seeing that his cart was in danger of being burnt to a cinder, and not knowing but the horse might take it into his head to commence burning too, he was resolved the bewitched load and ‘the puir beast and braw bit cart’, should instantly be disunited. He accordingly unyoked the impatient animal, and immediately buried the smoking lime in the stream, triumphantly exclaiming as the hissing mass yielded to the overpowering element, ‘the deil’s in her if she’ll burn noo.’

THE

COMICAL SAYINGS

OF

PADDY FROM CORK,

WITH HIS

Coat Buttoned Behind.

BEING AN ELEGANT CONFERENCE BETWEEN

ENGLISH TOM AND IRISH TEAGUE;

WITH PADDY’S CATECHISM,

And his Supplication when a Mountain Sailor.

GLASGOW:

PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

COMICAL SAYINGS
OF
PADDY 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 came from my own kingdom.

Tom. Why, I know that, but where is thy kingdom?

Teag. Allelieu dear honey, don’t you know Cork is in Ireland?

Tom. You fool, Cork is not a kingdom but a city.

Teag. Then dear shoy, I’m sure 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 will 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 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 kept 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 wont 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 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 Paddy, 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, people makes a thing to sweep the house of it!

Tom. O yes, Paddy, they call it the broom.

Teag. Ay, ay, you have it, 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 went behind with the dogs.

Tom. O yes, Paddy, it was the 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 give 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 were at dinner with him, and they admired me for want of judgment, for my head was all of a lump: adding, they were going a-fishing along with my master and me in the afternoon; but I told them that it was a very unhappy thing for any man to go a hunting in the morning, and a fishing in the afternoon; 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 themselves dry from the shower, and we catched them all but got none.

Tom. How long did you serve that gentleman, Paddy?

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 were 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 him the impudence of the fellow, who would give me no letters unless I would tell him your name, master. My master at this flew in a 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, 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 with 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 them right, buying and selling such dear penny-worths. So I came again for my dear sixpence letter; and as the fellow wus shuffling through a parcel of them, seeking for it again, to make the best of a dear market, I pict up two, and home I comes to my master, thinking he would be pleased with what I had done; now, said I, master, I think I have put a trick upon them fellows, for selling the letter to you. What have you done? 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.

Tom. Well, Paddy, I think you was to blame, and your master too, for he ought to have taught you how to go about these 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 got the double of that for nothing, and in Cork and Linsale 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 the 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 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 come 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.

Tom. O rarely done, Paddy, you behaved like a man! but what is the reason that you Irish people swear always by saint 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.

Tom. But, Paddy, is saint Patrick yet alive?

Teag. Arra dear honey, I don’t know whether he be dead or alive, but it is a long time since they killed him; the people all turned heathens, but he would not change his profession, and was going to run the country with it, and for taking the gospel away to England, so the barbarous tories of Dublin cutted off his head; and he swimmed over to England, and carried his head in his teeth.

PART II.

Tom. How did you get safe out of Scotland?

Teag. By the law dear honey, when I came to Port Patrick, and saw my own kingdom, I knew 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 into 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 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.

Tom. Well Paddy, 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 did you get there?

Teag. O my dear shoy, I was kindly used as another gentleman, and would 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, Harry 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, says he. 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 death’s 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 none 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 recruiting 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 collegioners, when I saw a box like a bible upon their bellies; until I saw G for King George upon it, and R for God bless him: ho, ho, said I, I shan’t be long here.

Tom. O then Paddy you deserted from them?

Teag. That’s what I did, and ran to the mountains like a 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 when you was a soldier?

Teag. Arra, dear honey, I killed a man.

Tom. And how did you do 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 Paddy 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 fulusipher, my father was a fulusipher, 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, 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 own 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 the 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. 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 of a 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 Paddy, that’s a bull surpasses all: but is there none of that cock’s offspring alive now.

Teag. Arra, dear shoy, I don’t think 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 nobody be drowned at all.

Tom. Very well Paddy, but in all your travels did you ever get a wife?

Teag. Ay, that’s what I did, and a wicked wife too, and my 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; so when that old rover called the Fever came raging over the whole kingdom, she went away and died out of spite, leaving me nothing.

Tom. O but Paddy, 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.

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 Paddy?

Teag. Why, he asked me, How did my wife go to stool? to which I answered, the same way that other people 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 cut 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 into a most terrible rage, and kicked me down stairs, and would give me nothing to her, but called me a dirty vagabond for speaking of shit before ladies.

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.

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 her 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 Paddy?

Teag. Dear Tom, if you don’t know I’ll tell you, when my person 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 Paddy, 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, Paddy, 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 Paddy, and what do they make of all these things?

Teag. Then Tom, since you are so inquisitive, you must go ask the Priest.

Tom. What did you make of your children Paddy?

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. I fancy, Paddy, you came 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 big a city as any market-town in all England, where I got myself aboard of a little young boat, with a parcel of fellows, and a long leather bag. I supposed them to be tinklers, 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 waked 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 boat, with the fellows that carries over the English meal from the Irish milns.

Tom. O then Paddy, I am sure you 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. 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 take 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 the lock of the leather sack to get a lick of their meal; but allelieu, dear shoy, I found neither meal nor seeds, but a parcel of papers and letters—a poor morsel for a hungry man.

Tom. O then Paddy you laid down your honesty for nothing.

Teag. Ay, ay, I was a great thief but got nothing to steal.

Tom. And how did you get victuals at last?

Teag. Allelieu, dear honey, the thoughts of meat and drink, death and life, and every thing else was out of mind, I had not a thought but one.

Tom. And what was that Paddy?

Teag. To go down among the fishes and become a whale; then I would have lived at ease all my days, having nothing to do but to drink salt water, and eat caller oysters.

Tom. What 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 safe on shore, and not one of us drowned at all.

Tom. 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 the 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 Paddy?

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, Paddy, 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 flee, 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, Paddy, 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 flerry 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. 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 were very sore by reason of the hardness of my feet, and lameness of my brogues, so I went but very slowly across 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 body, for I had not a good shirt.

Tom. I am sure then, Paddy, 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 behind, but I wondered how the people knew my name and where I came from: for every one told another, that was Paddy from Cork: I suppose they knew my face by seeing my name in the newspapers.

Tom. Well, Paddy, what business did you follow in Chester?

Teag. To be sure I was not idle, working at nothing at all, till a decruiting seargeant 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 streets, as if they were going to be married. I saw them courting none but young men; so to bring myself to no preferment at all, I listed for a soldier,—I was too big for a grandedeer.

Tom. What listing money did you get, Paddy?

Teag. Arra, dear shoy, I got five thirteens and a pair of English brogues; the guinea and the rest of the gold was sent 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 Paddy: 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, Paddy?

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, his face is all bored in 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 you meet him again: 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 reads 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, sir, 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 of 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 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 Paddy, how did you end the matter?

Teag. Arra, dear shoy, by the nights of shaint Patrick and help of my brogues, I both ended it, and mended it, for the next night before that, I gave them leg bail for my fidelity, and went about the country a fortune-teller, dumb and deaf as I was not.

Tom. How old was you Paddy when you was a soldier last?

Teag. Arra, dear honey, I was three dozen all but two, and it is only 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 warrant you.

Tom. O but Paddy, 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, Paddy, of what profession art thou?

Teag. Arra, dear shoy, my religion was too weighty a matter to carry out of mine own country: I was afraid that you English Presbyterians should pluck it away from me.

Tom. What, Paddy, was your religion such a load that you could not carry it along with you?

Teag. 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?

Teag. Why I adored the cross, the pope, and the priest, cursed Oliver as black as 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, Paddy?

Teag. 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, Paddy?

Teag. Because they have liberty to eat flesh in lent, and every thing that’s fit for the belly.

Tom. What, Paddy, are you such a lover of flesh that you would change your profession for it?

Teag. O yes, that’s what I would, 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 bulls’ bastards, and sheep’s young children.

Tom. Why Paddy, do you say the bull is a fornicator and gets bastards?

Teag. 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. What reward will you get when you are dead, for punishing your belly so while you are alive?

Teag. By shaint Patrick I’ll live like a king when I’m dead, for I will neither pay for meat nor drink.

Tom. What, Paddy, do you think that you are to come alive again when you are dead?

Teag. O yes, we that are true Roman Catholics 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 priest give you of that?

Teag. Arra, dear shoy, our priest is a great shaint, a good shoul, who can repeat a pater-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?

Teag. 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 what money design you to give the priest for your pardon?

Teag. 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?

Teag. 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’ll never be killed, hanged 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?

Teag. 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?

Teag. Dear shoy, you know little about it, for there is none can enter 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 for 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?

Teag. O my dear, we are all kept there untill a general review, which is commonly once in the week; and then we are drawn up like as many young recruits, and all the blackguard scoundrels is pict 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 Patricks table, and them that is owing the priests any money is put in the black-hole, and then given to the hands of a great black bitch of a devil, which is keeped for a hangman, who whips them up and down the smoky dungeon every morning for six months.

Tom. Well Paddy, are you to do as much justice to a Protestant as a Papist?

Teag. O my dear shoy, the most justice we are commanded to do 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?

Teag. Arra, dear shoy, I am a mountain sailor and my supplication is as follows.

PADDY’S HUMBLE PETITION, OR SUPPLICATION.

Good Christian people, behold me a man! who has com’d through 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 biscuit. And now I have nothing: being taken by the Turks and relieved by the Spaniards, lay sixty-six days at the siege of Gibralter, and got nothing to eat but sea wreck and raw mussels; put to sea for our safety, cast upon the Barbarian coast, among the wicked Algerines, where we were taken and tied with tugs and tadders, horse-locks, and cow-chains: then cut and castrate yard and testicle quite away, 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 desart wild wilderness of Arabia; where we lived among the wild asses, upon wind, sand, and sapless ling. Afterwards put to sea in the hull of an old house, where we were tossed above and below the clouds, being driven through thickets and groves by fierce, coarse, calm, and contrary winds: at last, was cast upon Salisbury plains, where our vessel was dashed 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 biscuit, 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 half-pence 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.

FUN UPON FUN:

OR

LEPER,

THE TAILOR.

IN TWO PARTS,

WITH A

Selection of Entertaining Anecdotes.

GLASGOW:

PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

THE MERRY TRICKS
OF
LEPER THE TAILOR.

Leper’s father lived in a village about six miles from Glasgow, and died when he was but very young; he left a widow and three children, two daughters and a son; Leper being the youngest, was greatly idolized by his mother, who was a good soft-natured woman, very industrious, and followed the bleaching of cloth.

As Leper grew up he grew a very mischievous boy, playing many tricks on the neighbourhood, such as tying cats to dogs tails, breaking hens legs, stopping peoples lums, or chimney-tops; so that his poor mother was sadly vexed with complaints against him.

To get him kept from mischief, she prevailed with a Tailor to take him an apprentice; he settled, and was very peaceable for some time, until he got as much of his trade on his finger ends as he might pass for a journeyman, and then he was indifferent whether he staid with his master or not; his mistress gave him but very little meat when he wrought at home, so he liked best to be in other houses, where he got meat and diversion.

Leper being resolved on revenge against his mistress for her thin kail, no kitchen, and little bread; for though flesh was boiled in the pot none for poor Leper and his master, but a little bit on Sundays, and all the bones were kept and put in the pot, to make the broth through the week. Leper perceived always when she took of the pot, she turned her back and took out the flesh, and set it on a shelf in her own bed-room; one night after work, he steals out a pan, cuts a piece of flesh out of a dead horse, and 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 of 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 wishing to see you, to go directly and speak to her mistress. Off she goes in all haste, Leper runs and takes away her bits of good meat, and lays down his horse flesh; and knowing she would return in a passion, and sit down with a soss in her cushion chair, as she used, he takes a large pin, and staps it straight through the cushion with its head on the chair and the point to her backside. So in she comes in a rage, and down she sits with all her weight on the pin point, and she roars out murder! murder! for she was sticket in the a—e: the neighbours came running in, and Leper went 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 accidently, but the houdie was very oft to be had before it was got hale again; and his landlady by eating of the horse beef, took such a loathing at flesh, that Leper and his master got all the beef ever after, and his landlady turned one of the kindest mistresses a prentice could wish for.

There was a neighbour wife on whom Leper used to play tricks sometimes, for which she came and complained to his master and had him severely beaten several times, Leper resolved to be revenged on her, so one night he came to the backside of the house, (no one being in but herself) and took up a big stone, and runs along the rough wall with all his strength, which roared like thunder in the inside of the house, and frighted the wife so, that she thought the house was tumbling down about her ears, and she ran out and sat down at a distance, looking every minute when the house would fall down, till her husband came home and persuaded her to go in, to whom she told the above story; ‘hout tout, daft tapie,’ said he, ‘the house will stand these hundred years.’ Leper knowing they were both in, comes and plays the same trick over again, which also frightened the goodman so much, that he cried out—‘run Maggy, run, for my heart plays 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 cur 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 hung on 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 fire! wonderful fire! the devil is ringing the bell.’ When they saw the black colly hang at the rope, I trow it set the minister and all the people to their prayers: but Leper fearing he would be detected by his garter, came to the minister’s side, and asked the reverend gentleman what was the matter; indeed my bairn, said he, ’tis the deil ringing the kirk bell; says Leper, I’ll go and see him, for I never saw the devil; the minister cried stop the mad laddie, but Leper ran and loosed the dog, crying it’s such a man’s dog, which had the rope in its teeth; they all cried out, ‘the deil’s i’ the cur, the deil’s i’ the dog,’ then took up stone and felled poor colley, and the devil got the blame of making the dog ring the bell.—This spread Leper’s fame, for being one of the wisest and most courageous tailors that was in all the kingdom; and many shaking their heads, said, ‘it was a pity he was a tailor, 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 deil frae being a bellman, sent for him to an alehouse, and drank with him very heartily, and told him he was sadly borne down by a spirit of jealousy against his wife; and a suspicion of her being too free with a servant lad he had before; and if he would keep it a secret and learn him to find it out, he would give his mother a load of meal, to which Leper agreed; so he gave the poor supposed cockold instructions how to behave. So home he goes, and feins himself 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 a crying, Aha! marry, she would never marry! no no there should never a man lie by my side, or kiss my lips, after thee, my ain dear lamb Johnny. Then he acts the dead man as well as he possibly could, the neighbours were called in, and he’s fairly o’erseen, as the old saying is, before good neighbours. The sorrowful widow made sad lament, wrung her hands and tore her hair.—The reverend women 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 o’ the kist, that nae body can wear, ony things good enough for the grave; well, said they, we must have some linen for a winding sheet, a weel, quo’ she, I ha’e twa cut o’ linen i’ the kist neuk, but there’s a pare o’ auld linen sheets, hol’d i’ the middle, may do well enough, I had need to be carefu’, I’m a poor widow the day, wi’ three sma’ bairns.

Well, the corpse is dressed, and laid on the tap of the big chest, while neighbours sat by her condoling her misfortune, and how the funeral raisins were to be provided, said one the coffin must need be seen about first. Ay ay, he has some new deals in the barn, he bought them to make a bed o’, but we’ll no break them, there’s the auld barn door, and the caff kist will do well enough, ony thing’s gude enough to gang to the grave wi’; but O quo’ 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 any thing wi’, he’s the lad that will not see me wrang’d; then Sandy comes wrying his face, and rubbing his eyes. O Sandy, there’s a sad alteration here, and ba-a she cries like a bitten calf, O sirs, will ye gang a’ butt the house till I tell ye what to do; butt they went, and there she fell a kissing of Sandy, and said, now, my dear, the auld chattering ghaist is awa and we’ll get our will o’ ither; be as haining of every thing as ye can, for thou kens it’s a’ thy ain; but the corpse’ sister and some other people coming in, ben they came to see the corpse, lifts up the cloth off his face, and seeing him all in a pour of sweat, said heigh he’s a bonny corp, and a lively like colour. When he could no longer contain himself to carry on the joke, but up he got among them, a deal of people ran for it, and his wife cried out, O my dear do you ken me? Ay you base jade and whore, better than ever I did. Jumps on the floor, gets his staff and runs after Sandy, and catches him in the fields, a little from the house;—ate and drank with his sister and neighbours who came to see his corpse, and poor Sandy went home with a skin full of terror, and a sorting of sore bones, took a sore fever and died a few days after, so he got quit of his cockolder, and Leper’s mother got her load of meal.

Leper’s mother was a careful industrious wife, but as the bye-word is, ‘a working mother makes a dally daughter,’ and so it happened here, for she had two gleakit sluts of daughters, that would do nothing but lie 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, who was bleaching some cloth, was very early at work in the mornings, and Leper’s patience being worn out with the laziness of his two sisters, he resolved to play a trick on them, for their reformation, so he goes and gets a mortcloth, and spread it on the bed above them, and sends the dead bell through the town, inviting the people next day at four o’clock afternoon to the burial of his two sisters, for they had died suddenly; this brought all the neighbouring wives in, who one after another lifted up the mortcloth, and said, with a sigh, they’ve gone to their rest, a sudden call indeed! Their aunt hearing of this sudden news, came running in all haste, and coming where the jades’ mither was at work, and was ignorant of the story, she cries out, Fye upon ye, woman, fye upon ye! What’s the matter, sister, says she, what’s the matter! I think you might let your wark stand for a’e day, when your daughters are baith lying corpse. My bairns corpse! I am certain they went to bed hale and fair last night. But I tell you, says the other, the dead bell has been thro’ warning the folks to the burial, then the mother cries out, O the villian! O the villian that he did not send me word.—So they both ran, and the mother as soon as she entered the house, flies to the bed, crying, O my bairns, my dear bairns; on which the sluts rose up in a consternation, to the great surprise of the beholders, and the great mortification of the girls, who thought shame to set their noses out of doors, and to the great diversion of the whole town.

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 sowns was to be put in. After she had taken her supper, as she was covering the table, the imnock powder began to operate, and she let a great f—: well done Margaret, said the Laird, your a— would take a cautioner. Before she got out of the chamber door she let 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 herself, and there she played away her one gun battery so fast, that you would have thought she had been besieging 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 her place, to the great satisfaction of all her fellow servants.

PART II.

Leper’s landlady became very harsh to his master, and very often abused him exceedingly sore with her tongue and hands, and always called upon him for more money, and to have all the money in her keeping; which Leper was sorry for. It so happened on a day that the tailor had got a hearty drubbing both with tongue and tongs, that he pouched his thimble and was going to make a queen of her: when she saw that, she cried out, O! will you leave a poor tender dying woman. But Leper knowing the cause of her 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 both go; but as she was always complaining for want of health, and that she was very weak, she cried frequently out, O! ’tis a crying sin to take a woman in my condition out o’er a door. During their absence, Leper goes and searches the bed, and below the bolster gets a bottle of rare whisky, of which he takes a hearty pull, and then pisses in it to make it up; 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, and she was exceedingly distressed as a woman could be, and cried out, it was a horrid thing to take her out of the house. The tailor seeing her so bad, thought she would have died, ran as fast as he could for a dram, but she in her hypocrisy pretended she could not take it, and called on him to help her to bed, into which he lays her; she was not well gone when she fell to her bottle, taking two or three hearty gluts, then she roars out murder, I’m poisoned, I’m poisoned. Bocking and purging began, and the neighbours were called in; she lays her blood upon poor Leper, and tells how such an honest woman brought her a’e bottle as another was done, and the murdering loon had stolen 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 all he had done, which made the justice laugh heartily at the joke; and the tailor’s wife was well purged from her feigned sickness, laziness, and cursed ill nature; for always when she began to curl her nose for the future, the tailor had no more to say, but Maggy mind the bottle.

Leper was working with a master-tailor in Glasgow, who hungered his men; and one morning, just when 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 undertook it, and said with an audible voice, that the stranger gentleman might overhear him as follows:—‘Och, hoch! we are a parcel of poor beastly bodies, and we are as beastly minded; if we do not work we get nothing to eat; yet we are always eating and always fretting; singing and half starving is like to be our fortune; scartings and scrapings are the most of our mouthfuls. We would fain thank thee for our benefactors are not worthy the acknowledging;—hey. Amen.’ The gentleman laughed till his sides were like to burst, 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, he might have done very well. He and his lads being employed to work in a farmer’s house, where the housewife was a great miser, and not very cleanly in making meat, and sneeveled through her nose greatly when she spoke.—In the morning, when she went to make the potage, she made a fashion of washing the pot, which to appearance seemed to him to have been among the first that had been made; then sets it before the fire till she went to the well, in which time Leper looking into it, sees two great holes stapped with clouts, he takes up his goose, and holds it as high as his head, then lets it drop 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 fireside all in a dam, for still as she poured 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, ‘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 tailors potage is heavier than other mens. Indeed lad I believe it, but they say ye’re a warlock; its Wednesday all the world o’er, and a waefu’ Wednesday to me indeed, my pot might ha’e served me this fifty year, a sae wad it e’en.

This sport diverted Leper and his lads through the day; and after supper, knowing he was to get some dirty bed, as the cows and the people lived all in one apartment, he choose rather to go home; and knowing the moon was to rise a little after midnight, he sat by the fire, told them many a fine story to drive away the time, and bade the wife make the 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 place, and which the wife did not notice was covered with the straw, and the bed clothes spread over it. The most of the family being in bed, the wife told them 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 rise, and not seeing where to go, it fell a crying and turned round, which set the whole house a roaring out murder in their own tongue. The goodwife ran to the bed above the goodman, and the whole family cried out, not knowing what it was; but Leper and his two lads whipt off the blankets, and the brute 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 any more.

Leper had a peal 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 desired drink money for his lads, which the gentleman refused: Leper resolved to be even with him, so he goes to the hay loft where the groom slept, and takes his stockings, breeches, and jacket, sewed them together, and stuffs them full of hay; makes a head, puts a rope about the neck, and hangs it on a tree, opposite to the lairds 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 was struck with astonishment, and 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 Leper to do it. Leper refuses, till the laird promises him a load of meal, then Leper pulls out 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, lad thy master is wanting thee. So the lad in all haste runs to see what his master wanted, the laird no sooner saw him open the door, than he cried out, Avoid thee Satan, avoid thee Satan! The lad says, 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, said the laird, I find out the story now, if I had Leper I would run my sword thro’ him; but Leper before that was gone 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 one Sunday afternoon as he was cooking his pot, John Mucklecheek, 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’m reading my book and cooking my pot, which I think is a work of necessity. Then says the one to the other, don’t answer that graceless fellow, we’ll make him appear before his betters; so they took the kail pot, and puts a staff through the bools, and bears it to the Clerk’s chamber. Leper who was never at a loss for invention, goes to the Principal of the College’s house, no body being at home but a lass roasting a leg of mutton; Leper says, my dear, will you go and bring me a drink 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 haud nor to bind he was so angry; so on Monday he goes and makes a 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 dared your civileers to take away my kail pot? I’m 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; and to the Principal, a leg of mutton will not make him and me fall out; so they were forced to carry the pot back again, and Leper caused the boys to huzza after them to their disgrace.

There was a barber who always plagued Leper, and called him 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 fine Southland gentlemen just come to his house, which much 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 awaken 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 drunkard.—I a drunkard you have not a soberer man in your parish: stop Sir, I will 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, and sometimes three choppins; at supper I take a bit of bread and cheese and a pint, and so go to bed. Mess John says, its extravagant Sir, its excessive drinking, I allow you 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 wont 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 you stand another quarter: Get away, says Mess John, and don’t trouble me. Leper says, I am sure you may, for I am always twopence to your penny.

THE END.

ANECDOTES.

INCONVENIENCE OF A PETITION.

A reverend Gentleman, when visiting his parishioners, was in one house first saluted with the growling of a dog, and afterwards by the cheering voice of a female, d—ning the dog for his ill-breeding. He advanced and enquired for the master of the house. “What do ye want wi’ that?” said the female. “We are wishing to see him,” said the Reverend Gentleman, “will ye be so good as bring him to us?” “I’ll gang nae sic an errand,” said she; “ye may gang doon to the market yoursel’, an’ ye’ll see him there: they’re thrang killin’ the day. But what are ye wanting wi’ Pate, if a body micht speir.” “This is the minister,” said the elder who accompanied him, “he is wishing to have some conversation with Peter, and to put up a petition.” “A petition! a petition!” exclaimed the matron, “ye’ll put up nae petition here; the house is wee eneugh already, an’ wha do ye think’s gaun to be fashed wi’ masons an’ wrights an’ a’ thae clamjamfray about their house? Faith no—the devil a petition will be putten up in this house, as langs am in’t we’re gaun to flit at Whitsunday, so ye may come then an’ put up as mony petitions as ye like.”

DUKE OF BUCCLEUGH.

Henry, Duke of Buccleugh was greatly beloved by his numerous tenantry. One of his small tenants, Jamie Howie by name, had a son about four years of age, who, having heard much of a great Duke of Buccleugh, was very anxious to see him. Honest Jamie, in a few days, was honoured with a visit from the duke, when Jamie, doffing his bonnet, and making a reverential bow, says “O my Lord! ye maunna be angry wi’ me, but it’s God’s truth, my Lord, there’s a daft we callant o’ mine that canna rest, nor let others rest nicht nor day; he has ta’en in his head sic a notion o’ seeing what like ye are, Gudesake, my Lord, I dinna think he has ony yedea ye are a man at a’ but some far awa, outlandish, ower sea creature.” The Duke mightily tickled with this fancy, desired Jamie to bring the youngster into his presence forthwith. Out comes the juvenile inquisitor, with his finger in his mouth, and cautiously reconnoitres the personage before him. At last quoth the urchin, “Can ye soom?” “No my little fellow,” replied his grace, “I canna soom.” “Can ye flee?” “No, I canna flee.” “Weel, man, for as muckle’s ye’re I wadna gie ane o’ my father’s dukes for ye, for they can baith soom an’ flee.”

A BANE TO PIKE.

Some boys diverting themselves in one of the streets of Edinburgh, observed on a door, a brass plate with Al—x—nd—r Guthrie, W. S. engraved on it. In their diverson, they broke a pane of glass in one of the windows, upon which Mrs. Guthrie and the maid sallied forth and seized one of the delinquents. “Ye young rascal, what’s ye’r name?” says the lady, “Saundy,” replied the boy. “What’s ye’r ither name?”—“Guthrie.”—“Wha’s ye’r mither?”—“My mither sells burd’s cages.”—“Whar does she live?”—“I’ the Patter Raw.”—“Wha’s ye’r father?”—“I dinna ken.”—“Do ye no ken ye’r father?”—“Na! he ne’er comes but whan it’s dark, an’ naebody kens bit my mither.” Upon hearing this, the lady in a passion let go her victim, and running into the room where her husband was sitting, fell a-scolding him like a fury about his infidelity towards her. The young rogue laughed heartily at the success of his fraud, and turning to his companions, said to them, “I think I’ve gi’en her a bane to pike!”

SEEING ONE DRUNK.

The late Rev. Mr.—— of D—— Aberdeenshire was fond of his friend and a bottle; he sacrificed so often and so freely to the jolly god, that the presbytery could no longer overlook such proceedings, and summoned him before them to answer for his conduct.—One of the elders, and constant companion in his social hours, was cited as a witness against him. “Well, John (says one of the presbytery to the elder) did you ever see the Rev. Mr. C—— the worse of drink?” “Weel a wyte no: I’ve mony a time seen him the better o’t, but I ne’er saw him the war o’t.” “But did you never see him drunk?” “That’s what I’ll ne’er see, for before he be half slockened, I’m aye blind fu’.”

JOHN FALKIRK’S

CARICHES,

TO WHICH IS ADDED

TAM MERRILEES;

A CAPITAL STORY.

GLASGOW;

PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

JOHN FALKIRK’S
CARICHES.

Question, What is the wisest behaviour of ignorant persons?

Answer, To speak of nothing but what they know, and to give their opinion of nothing but what they thoroughly understand.

Ques. What time is it when a scolding wife is at her best?

Ans. 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 head, when she cannot get at her neighbours, and through 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 most 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 it stand till sun-rising next morning, then she’ll become one of the peaceablest women that ever lay by a man’s side.

Q. What time of the year is it that there are most holes open?

A. In harvest when there are stubbles.

Q. What time is a cow heaviest?

A. When the bull’s on her back.

Q. Who was the goodman’s muckle cow’s calf’s mother?

A. The muckle cow herself.

Q. What is the likeliest thing to a man on a horse?

A. A Tailor on a mare.

Q. What is the hardest dinner that ever a Tailor laid his teeth to?

A. His own goose, tho’ ever so well boiled or roasted.

Q. How many toads’ tails will it take to reach up to the moon?

A. One, if it be long enough.

Q. How many sticks gangs to the digging of a craw’s nest?

A. None, for they are all carried.

Q. How many whites will a well made pudding-prick need?

A. When well made it will need no more.

Q. Who was the father of Zebedee’s children?

A. Zebedee 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 goodbrother to you?

A. He is my 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. What is the best method of catching rogues?

A. There is none so fit as a rogue himself.

Q. Where was the usefulest fair in Scotland kept?

A. At Mullgay.

Q. What sort of commodities were there?

A. Nothing but ale and wicked wives.

Q. How was it abolished?

A. Because those that 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 another for her with two as bad.

Q. What was the reason, that in those day a man could put away his wife for pissing the bed, but not for sh——g it?

A. Because he could push it away with his foot and lie 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 no more thought of than for 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 puts away, and lies down with whom he pleases.

Q. How will one know the bairns of our town by all others in the kingdom?

A. By their ill-breeding and bad manners.

Q. What is their ill-breeding and bad manners?

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 alike for ill breeding?

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 bid you kiss his father’s arse and then you’ll ken.

Q. What sort of creatures are kindliest when they meet?

A. None can exceed the kindness of dogs when they meet in a market.

Q. And what is collie’s conduct when there?

A. First, they kiss other’s mouths and noses, smell all about, and last of all, they are so kind as to kiss each other 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. Her backside.

Q. What is the reason that these three parts of men, women, and dogs are coldest?

A. Fabulous Historians, says, that there were three little holes in Noah’s Ark; and that the dog stopt his nose in one, and the man put his knee in another, and into the third and biggest hole, the woman bang’d her backside: and these parts being exposed to the cold blast, is the cause which makes them cold ever since.

Q. What remedy does the man take for to warm his cold knees?

A. He holds them towards the fire, and when in bed, draws his shirt down over them.

Q. What does the women do, to warm their cold part.

A. The married women put their backsides into their husbands’ arms:—Virgins, and those going mad for marriage, their maidenhead keeps them warm:—old matrons, and whirl’d-o’er maidens, and widows bewitched, hold their coldest parts to the fire.

Q. And what remedy does the poor dog take for his cold nose?

A. He staps it below his tail, the hotest bit in his body.

Q. What is the reason the dogs are worst on chapmen than on any other strangers?

A. It is said, the dogs have three accusations against the chapman, which has been 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 dogs having a lawsuit against the cats, they gained the plea: one of the dogs coming trudging home with the Decreet below his tail, a wicked chapman threw his ell-wan at him, and he let the Decreet fall and so lost their great privileges thereby. The second is, because in old times the chapmen used to buy dogs and kill them for their skins. The third reason is, when a chapman was quartered at a farmer’s house, that night the Dog lost his right of licking the pot.

Q. What creature resembles most a drunken Piper?

A. A Cat when she sips milk, for then she always sings, and so does a piper when he drinks good ale.

Q. What is the reason a dog runs twice round before he lies 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-faced lady, for pride?

A. None so much as a cat, who is continually spitting in her lufe and rubing her face, as many such ladies do the brown leather of their wrinkled chafts.

Q. Amongst what sort of creatures will you observe most of a natural law, or instinctive knowledge?

A. The Hart and the Hind meet on one certain day in the year; the Brood Goose, lays her first egg on Eastern’s Even, old stile; the Crows begin to build their nest about the first of March old stile; the Swans, observe matrimony, and if a female die, the male dare 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 hen grows old he puts her away and takes another; the Locusts observe military order, and march in bands; the Frogs resembles gipsies and pedlers, for the young ones ride the old ones to death.

Q. Who are the merriest and heartiest people in the world?

A. The Sailors, for they’ll be singing and cursing and daming 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 neathmost.

Q. What 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. Because he is admitted to trim Noblemen’s chafts, thake their sculls, take Kings by the nose, and hold a razor to their very throats, which no other subject dare presume to 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. Then who can walk in a vainer show than a tailor carrying home a gentleman’s new clothes?

Q. What is the cause of a young soldier’s pride?

A. When he lists, he thinks he is free of his mother’s correction, the hard usage of a bad master, his 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 civil and military law above his head, and, perhaps, far worse masters than ever.

Q. What is the cause of the poor dominie’s pride?

A. As he is the teacher of the young and ignorant, he supposes no man knows what he knows; and because boys call him master, therefore he thinks himself a great man.

Q. What song is it that is sung without a tongue, and yet its notes are understood by people of all nations?

A. It is a fart every one knows the sound of.

Q. What is the reason that young people are vain, giddy-headed and airy, and not so obedient as the children of former years?

A. Because they are brought up and educated after a more haughty strain, by reading fables, plays, novels, and romances; gospel books, such as the Psalm-book, Proverbs, and Catechisms, are like old almanacks; there is nothing in vogue but fiddle, flute, Troy and Babylonish tunes; our plain English speech is corrupted with beauish cants, such as dont, wont, nen, and ken; a jargon worse than the Yorkshire dialect or the Hottentot gibberish.

Q. Why is swearing become so common among Scotch people?

A. Because so many lofty teachers came from the south amongst us, where swearing is practised in its true grammatical perfection! Hot oaths, new struck, hath as bright a lustre as a new quarter guinea just come from the mint.

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 lying in the same place?

A. Because it is made of wood.

Q. What are the two things not to be spared, but not to be abused?

A. A soldier’s coat and a hired horse.

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.

Q. How is a lawyer like a contentious woman?

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 looks 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 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’s 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 later 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
STRANGE ADVENTURES
OF
TAM MERRILEES
A True Story.

Some years ago there dwelt in the “south side” of the gude town of Edinburgh a wight of the name of Tam Merrilees, who, saving that he occasionally took rather more of “strong waters” than he could walk steadily under, generally got the name of an honest, industrious, hard-working man. It happened one evening that Tam, in going home, met with an old crony of his, who vehemently pressed him to adjourn to a favourite haunt of their’s to wit a well frequented taproom in the neighbourhood. As Tam had an unfortunate weakness of never being able to withstand the pressing solicitations of a friend “to tak a gill wi him,” he was in the present instance constrained to accept Jock Thomson’s invitation, more especially as Jock declared that “he would stand the damage himsel”. Whether they exceeded the original stipulation of “just one gill” or Tam had been previously refreshing himself I cannot say, certain it was, that when the friends parted, Tam found it extremely difficult to walk in a straight line.

It was considerable past the witching hour of night that Tam Merrilees proceeded towards his house, rather a little in dread of a curtain lecture. The night was dark; and the wind blowing hard in his teeth, added to his unsteadiness, caused him several times to reel against the sides of the houses, as he passed the Chapel of Ease. One of these unlucky staggers brought his shoulder to bear full against the door which led into the kirk-yard. To Tam’s great astonishment it flew open; and having lost his equilibrium, he made a sort of semicircular movement, and found himself standing in the midst of tombs and headstones. “Hech,” said he, “the door open at this hour o’ the night! that’s extraordinar’—its incomprehensible. What in a’ the warld’s that?” continued he, perceiving something at his feet. Upon stooping down he discovered that the object of which had arrested his attention was a wheelbarrow, having upon it a dead body, thurst neck and heels into a sack. Tam lifted up his hands in amazement, and stepping forward perceived at the other end of the ground some men engaged in filling up the grave from which the corps had been taken. “Resurrectioners, as I’m a living man!” he exclamed. “Wha wad hae thought it?—but I’ll gi’e the devils such a fright as they never got the like o’t.” The whiskey had undoubtedly raised his courage to the highest pitch; for, untying the sack, he drew the body from it and carrying it on his back to the opposite side of the church-yard, he reared it upright against the wall. He then returned to the barrow, and having placed the sack upon it, he crept in and disposed himself in the same manner as he found the body.

He had scarcely laid down when the men approached.—They spoke a few words sufficient for him to discover that one of the party was the sexton himself. The barrow was wheeled off, and he heard the gate locked immediately. As the wheelbarrow rattled over the rough causeway, Tam’s stomach began to feel rather queer—he nevertheless resolved to lie quiet until they should stop. After a short time, however, he became aware that, if his jolting was not put an end to, his stomach would be speedily emptied of the contents.—In short, he found it almost impossible any longer to refrain from vomiting. He had therefore no alternative but to raise himself up in the vehicle; and accordingly, he suddenly started up, and stretching out his arms with great violence soon disencumbered the upper part of his body from the sack in which he had been inveloped. The consternation of the body-lifters may be imagined. The one who was wheeling the barrow suddenly let go his hold, by which means it upset, and both taking to their heels, they ran as if the evil one himself had been in chase of them. By the upsetting of the barrow, Tam Merrilees was rolled upon the ground: however, having managed to get entirely free from the sack; and regain his legs, he found himself at the end of the Cross causeway, near St. Leonard’s. He scratched his head, and taking a snuff, began to consider how he was to dispose of the barrow. “It is no sic a bad wheelbarrow,” said he; “I’ll just tak it hame wi’ me;” so throwing into it the sack, he made the best of his way home, feeling a good deal soberer for his adventure.—On his arrival at home he deposited the barrow in a small yard at the back of the house; and without facing his expectant spouse, he proceeded straightway to the dwelling of Maister Peter Mitchell, an old acquaintance, and moreover an elder of the kirk. On his road thither he indulged in no very gentle denunciations against the sexton. “A fine fellow to trust folks’ bodies wi’! I’se warrant all the corpses that’s been buried thonder for the last twalvemonth hae gaen the same gate as that yin wad if I had na’ prevented it. It’s an awfu’ thing that folk canna get leave to rest in their graves now-a-daye for thae doctors.” Tam’s reflections were interrupted by his arrival at the elder’s house; the inmates were all gone to bed, with the exception of the elder himself, who was doubtless rather surprised at so late, or rather early, a visit from his friend Tam Merrilees. (It was, now between one and two of the morning.) ‘Mr. Merrilees!’ exclaimed he, ‘what was brought you here at this time of the night? Nothing serious, I hope.’ ‘Serious enough,’ muttered Tam. ‘I’m just come, Maister Mitchell, ye see, about an unco queer kind o’ a circumstance.’ Aye, Mr. Merrilees, what is it? Sit down and lets hear it.’ ‘I’ll just speer at ye a sma’ question first,’ answered Tam.—‘What kind o’ a body is that grave-digger o’ yours?’ ‘Is it Willie Scrymgeour ye mean?’ asked the elder. ‘Aye, man, its just him; dy’e think he’s an honest man?’ ‘An honest man!’ echoed Mr. Mitchell ‘what should make you ask that; he’s no been stealing surely.’ ‘I’m no saying that,’ responded Tam, ‘but div ye think he wad lift a corpse or any thing o’ that kind?’ ‘Surely not, Mr. Merrilees,’ said the anxious elder, drawing his chair closer? ‘you do not mean body-lifting—the man that’s trusted with the keys of the burial-ground!’ ‘I’m no saying, Mr. Mitchell, that he lifts bodies. I’ll no say that the noo; but I’ll tell ye what, he disna mak them bide in their graves. What will ye wager, Mr. Mitchell, that there’s no a dead woman standing up against the wa’, in the kirk-yard?’ ‘The man’s daft!’ uttered the astonished Mr. Mitchell. ‘Gang awa’ hame to your wife, Tam Merrilees, and sleep yourself sober.’—‘Sober,’ said Tam, very dryly, ‘did ye say sober? Hum! that’ll be just as muckle as saying that I’m fou’; may be I am, may be no, but if you think sae, Mr. Mitchell, that’ll no hinder ye fra taking a bet upon it.’ After a lengthened parley, in which Tam strenuously supported his assertion, Maister Mitchell, in order to get rid of his visitor’s company, was fain to accept a bet of a dozen of ‘strong ale’ that no such thing existed, save in Tam’s imagination; and it was agreed that the two should call at the sexton’s house at seven o’ clock, and procure the keys, after which they were to proceed to the scene of dispute. Who can imagine the amazement of the horror-struck elder, at perceiving the corps of a woman standing upright against the wall, in the very identical spot that Tam had described? It was some time ere he could sufficiently compose himself to interrogate Tam upon so mysterious an affair. On his explaining the whole circumstance, the elder’s risibility was not a little raised at Tam’s description of the jolting he had suffered, while his indignation was as much roused against the dishonest Willie Scrymgeour. ‘Well. Mr. Merrilees,’ said he, ‘you have been soberer last night than I thought you were; and as for that worthless grave digger, he has had these keys too long already; but he has now seen the last of them.’ The elder was as good as his word; the sexton was dismissed, and his place filled by a more trust-worthy individual, while the dozen of ‘strong ale’ was drank with much glee.

FINIS.

GRINNING

MADE EASY;

OR,

FUNNY DICK’S

UNRIVALLED COLLECTION

OF

JESTS, JOKES, BULLS, EPIGRAMS &c

With many other descriptions of

WIT & HUMOUR.

GLASGOW:

PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

GRINNING MADE EASY.

Mr. Serjeant Gardner, being lame of one leg, and pleading before the late Judge Fortescue, who had little or no nose, the judge told him, he was afraid he had but a lame cause of it. Oh! my lord, said the serjeant have but a little patience, and I’ll warrant I prove every thing as plain as the nose on your face!

Hume the historian, passing one day by the back of Edinburgh Castle, where the ground is very swampy, and the foot path narrow, inadvertently tumbled into the bog, where he stuck, not being able to extricate himself. A washer-woman happening to pass at the time, looked at him, and was travelling on, when he shouted after her to lend him her assistance. Na, na, (replied the woman) you are Hume the Deist. Well, well, no matter, replied he—you know, good woman, your Christian charity commands you to do good even to your enemies. Na, I winna, said she, unless you will first repeat the Creed and the Lord’s Prayer. Having no alternative, he was forced to accede to the pious woman’s terms.

Two English gentlemen, some time ago, visited the field of Bannockburn, so celebrated for the total defeat of the English army, by Robert the Bruce, with an army of Scottish heroes, not one fourth their number. A sensible country man pointed out the positions of both armies, the stone where the Bruce’s standard was fixed during the battle, &c.—Highly satisfied with his attention, the gentlemen, on leaving him, pressed his acceptance of a crown-piece,—Na, na, said the honest man, returning the money, keep your crown-piece—the English have paid dear enough already for seeing the field of Bannockburn.

Judge Toler, afterwards Lord Norbury, whose severity was at one time proverbial, was at a public dinner with Curran the celebrated Irish lawyer. Toler observing Curran carving a piece of corned beef, told him, if it was hung beef he would try it. If you try it, my Lord, replied Curran, I am sure it will be hung.

A gentleman coming into a coffee-room one stormy night, said. He never saw such a wind in his life. Saw a wind, says a friend, I never heard of such a thing as seeing a wind; pray, what was it like? Like answered the Gentleman, like to have blown my hat off.

A young lady going into a barrack-room at Fort George, saw an officer toasting a slice of bread on the point of his sword. On which she exclaimed, I think, Sir, you have got the staff of life on the point of death.

One day, Socrates, having for a long time endured his wife’s brawling, went out of his house, and sat down before the door, to rid himself of her impertinence. The woman, enraged to find all her scolding unable to disturb his tranquility, flung the contents of a chamber-pot on his head. Those that happened to see it, laughed heartily at poor Socrates; but this philosopher observed, smiling, “I thought, indeed, after so much thunder we should have rain.”

A clergyman chose for his text the following words: “Which of you will go up with me to Ramoth-Gilead?” Then pausing, he again and again repeated the words, when a gallant tar started from his seat, and looking round him with an eye full of indignation, he exclaimed, Will none of you go up with the worthy gentleman; Then, d—n me, I will go myself.

An old beggar, pretending to be dumb, was thrown off his guard by the question, How many years have you been dumb; and answered, Five years last June, please your honour.

A countryman sowing his ground, two smart fellows riding by, one of them called to him with an insolent air, Well honest fellow, ’tis your business to sow, but we reap the fruits of your labour. To which the country man replied, ’Tis very likely you may, for I am sowing hemp.

One told another, who did not use to be very well clothed, that his new coat was too short for him: That’s true, answered he but it will be long enough before I get another.

A proud parson and his man, riding over a common, saw a shepherd tending his flock, in a new coat. The parson asked, in a haughty tone, who gave him that coat? The same people, (said the shepherd) that clothe you—the parish. The parson nettled a little, rode on murmuring a considerable way, and sent his man back to ask the shepherd, if he would come and live with him, for he wanted a fool. The man went to the shepherd accordingly, and delivered his master’s message, concluding that his master really wanted a fool. Are you going away then? said the shepherd. No, answered the other. Then you may tell your master, replied the shepherd, that his living won’t maintain THREE of us.

An arch prisoner, who had an unfavourable countenance, being brought to the bar to be tried for horse-stealing, the judge immediately cried, Oh, here is a noted villain, I am sure! Why, Sir I can see the rogue in your face. Ah, my Lord, says the fellow, I wonder at that: I did not know my face was a looking-glass till now.

Mr Hare, formerly the envoy of Holland, had apartments in the same house with Mr Fox, and, like his friend Charles, had frequent dealings with the monied Israelites. One morning, as he was looking out of his window, he observed several of the tribe assembled at the door for admittance. Pray, gentlemen, says he, are you Fox hunting, or Hare hunting this morning?

An Irish officer had the misfortune to be dreadfully wounded at Waterloo. As he lay on the ground, an unfortunate soldier, who was near him, and was also severely wounded, made a terrible howling, when the officer exclaimed, D—n your eyes, what do you make such a noise for? Do you think there is nobody killed but yourself?

When Mr. Horne Tooke was called before the commissioners to give an account of the particulars of his income; having answered a question which was asked, one of the wise men said, peevishly, that he did not understand his answer—Then, said Tooke, as you have not half the understanding of another man, you ought at least to have double the patience.

When the Scotch Court of Justiciary passed sentence of fourteen years banishment on Mr Muir, some persons in the gallery began to hiss. The Lord Justice Clerk turned round in a great fury, and ordered the macer, who stood behind his chair, to take the persons that were hissing into custody. The macer, with great coolness, answered, My Lord, they are all hissing.

Sir Boyle Roach, in one of the debates on the question of the Union, made a speech in favour of it, which he concluded by saying, that it would change the barren hills into fruitful vallies.

A man walking along after a woman, whose elegant shape excited his admiration, was not a little disappointed when he got up with her and saw her ordinary face—If, Madam, said he, you were as handsome before as you are behind, I would kiss you. You may, replied the lady, kiss where you think I am handsomest.

When Buchanan was tutor to James I. he found it necessary, one day, to give his most sacred Majesty a flogging. A lady of the court, being in the next room, and overhearing what passed, ran in, and catching the young king in her arms, asked Buchanan how he could lift his hand against the Lord’s anointed: to which he replied, with great coolness, Madam, I have whipped his arse, you may kiss it if you please.

Alphonso, King of Arragon, to whom a Jew wished to sell a picture of our Saviour for five hundred ducats, said, “You are much more unconscionable than your ancestors, who sold the original for thirty pieces.”

A man and his wife, as a proof of their fondness for each other, made a mutual vow, that, on either of their deaths, the survivor should remain in a state of celibacy. The husband having died, the widow kept her vow, religiously, for about a twelvemonth. At the end of this period, however, she began to repent of it, and being a Catholic, she applied to the priest, to know whether she could not be released from it. This having, as might be expected, been negatived, the good woman thought of appealing to a higher power, and accordingly she daily paid her devotions to an image of the Virgin, who she hoped would, by some sign, sanction her second marriage. On one of those occasions, when, as usual, she fervently asked the Virgin whether she might not lawfully marry a second time, a wag, who had concealed himself under the image, answered, No!—On which the devotee immediately replied. Hold your tongue, you bastard; I am speaking to your mother.

The Captain of one of the British frigates a man of undaunted bravery, had a natural antipathy to a cat. A sailor, who from misconduct had been ordered a flogging, saved his back by presenting to his Captain the following petition:

By your Honour’s command,

A culprit I stand—

An example to all the ship’s crew;

I am pinion’d and stript,

And condemn’d to be whipt;

And, if I am flogg’d ’tis my due

A cat, I am told,

In abhorrence you hold;

Your Honour’s aversion is mine!

If a cat with one tail

Makes your stout heart to fail,

O, save me from one that has NINE!

Two boys, belonging to the chaplains of two different men of war, entertaining each other with an account of their respective manners of living—How often, Jack, says the one, do you go to prayers? Why, answered Jack, we pray when we are afraid of a storm, or going to fight! Aye, quoth the other, there is some sense in that; but my master makes us go to prayers when there is no more occasion for it than for my jumping overboard.

A man having been capitally convicted at the Old Bailey, was, as usual, asked what he had to say why judgement of death should not pass against him? Say! replied he, why I think the joke has been carried far enough already, and the less that is said about it the better—If you please, Sir, we’ll drop the subject.

Advertisement from a London Paper—Wanted for a wine-merchant’s house in the city, as a porter, an athletic man, of a serious countenance, a character, and of the Protestant religion; must attend prayers twice a day, and divine worship four times on Sunday; be able to bear confinement, have the fear of God before his eyes, and be master for two hundred weight. Wages fourteen shillings a week, and find himself.

A man seeing in the street an old woman who drove some asses, said, Adieu, mother of asses. Adieu, adieu, my son, answered she.

A Quaker was examined before the Board of Excise, respecting certain duties; the Commissioners thinking themselves disrespectfully treated by his thee- and thouing, one of them with a stern countenance, asked him—Pray, Sir, do you know for what we sit here? Yea, replied Nathan, I do—some of you for a thousand, and others for seventeen hundred and fifty pounds a year.

Comparisons of Drunkenness.—A man is said to be as drunk as an owl, when he cannot see—as drunk as a sow, when he wallows in the dirt—as drunk as a beggar, when he is very impudent—as drunk as the devil, when he is inclined to mischief, and—as drunk as a Lord, when he is every thing that is bad.

Walking Stewart having given an account of his being cast away on an unknown coast, thus expresses himself: ‘After walking a considerable way up the country, we saw, to our inexpressible satisfaction, a man hanging on a gibbet. This delight affored us by this cheering sight is inconceivable, for it convinced us that we were in a civilized country.’

When the Earl of Clancartie was Captain of a man of war, he lost his Chaplain. The First Lieutenant, a Scotchman, announced his death to his Lordship, adding, he was sorry to inform him that the chaplain died a Roman Catholic. Well, so much the better, said his Lordship. Oot awa my Lord, how can you say so of a Breetish Clergyman? Why, replied his Lordship, because I believe I am the first Captain that ever could boast of a Chaplain who had any religion at all.

An attorney being employed to draw the Testament of a rich man, was requested to word it in such a manner, that no room might be left for contestation among his heirs. That quoth the man of law, is imposible. Can I go beyond our Saviour whose Testament has been a perpetual source of contest for these eighteen hundred years?

The late learned Lord Kames, one day, after coming out of the Court of Edinburgh, went to make water at a place where the centinel on duty assumes a power of levying a fine for such transgression. My Lord said the soldier, you are fined. For what? For pissing at this place. How much? Threepence, my Lord. There is six-pence for you, then, Sir; and remember you owe me a piss.

Mr Ogilvy, a Scottish Clergyman, at Lunan, in Forfarshire, had a great deal of eccentricity in his character and manner.—One Sunday when he was in the middle of his sermon, an old woman, who kept an alehouse in the parish, fell asleep. Her neighbour jogged her, in order to awaken her. The Minister seeing this, said, I’ll waken her fast enough; and immediately giving a loud whistle, cried out ‘Janet! a bottle of ale and a dram!’ ‘Coming, Sir,’ said the old lady, starting out of her nap.

The Sexton of a parish-church in Shropshire insisted on a poor man, who had lost his leg by amputation, paying sixteen pence for burying it. The man appealed to the Rector, who said that he could not relieve him in the present case; but he would consider in his fees when the remainder of his body came to be buried.

Epitaph on a Physician.

Here Docter Fisher lies interr’d,

Who filled the half of this church-yard.

A certain bruising Parson having been examined as a witness in the Court of King’s Bench, the adverse Counsel attempted to browbeat him: I think you are the bruising Parson, said he. I am, said the divine; and if you doubt it, I’ll give it you under my hand.

A gentleman happening to be in the stable belonging to an inn in London, met a most active fellow officiating as hostler. The gentleman enquired where he came from? Yorkshire, was the reply. How long have you been here as ostler? Thirteen years. What! you a Yorkshireman, and so long a servant: why, I should have supposed you would have been master ere this time. Ay, Sir, but master is Yorkshire too.

Hugo Arnot, author of the History of Edinburgh, &c. was a perfect walking skeleton. One day he was eating a split dried haddock, or, as it is called in Scotland, a spelding, when Harry Erskine came in. You see, said Hugo, I am not starving. I must own, replied the other, that you are very like your meat.

An Irish soldier once returning from battle in the night, marching a little way behind his companion, called out to him, Hollo, Pat, I have catch’d a Tartar! Bring him along then! bring him along! Aye, but he won’t come. Why, then, come away without him. By Saint Patrick, but he won’t let me.

Lord Somers, when Chancellor, hired a small box near Twickenham common, in which parish Mr Johnson, secretary of state for Scotland, built a beautiful villa. The chancellor of England invited the secretary of Scotland to a convivial dinner; and Johnson, as the glass was circulating, told a long tale of a countryman of his own, and wound up his story by saying that the person was a d—d knave. The chancellor stared at him, and exclaimed, It is strange for you, Mr Johnson, to call a Scotchman a knave.—Take no heed to that, said the secretary, for you may depend on it, that we have more knaves in Scotland that ye have honest men in England.

A gentleman being asked his opinion of the singing of a lady who had not the purest breath, said, that the words of the song were delightful, but he did not much admire the air.

What objection can you have to me (said a wife of Bath to her husband) it is absolutely impossible for two people to be more of one mind—you want to be master, and so do I?

Macklin the player, once going to one of the fire offices to insure some property, was asked by the clerk how he would please to have his name entered? Entered, replied the veteran, why, I am only plain Charles Macklin, a vagabond, by act of Parliament; but, in compliment to the times, you may set me down Charles Macklin, Esq. as they are now synonymous terms.

A celebrated physician being sent for by a lady who imagined herself very ill, she slept too sound, and had a very uncommon flow of spirits. Make yourself perfectly easy Madam, said the doctor, follow my prescription, and you shall soon have none of these things to complain of.

Two friends, who had not seen each other a great while, meeting by chance, one asked the other how he did? He replied, that he was not very well, and was married since they had last met. That is good news indeed. Nay, not so very good neither, for I married a shrew. That is bad, too. Not so bad, neither, for I had two thousand pounds with her. That is well again. Not so well neither, for I laid it out in sheep, and they all died of the rot. That was hard, in truth. Not so hard neither, for I sold the skins for more than the sheep cost me. Aye that made you amends. Not so much amends neither, for I laid out my money in a house, and it was burned. That was a great loss, indeed. Not so great a loss, neither—for my wife was burned in it!

A religious English gentleman lately advertised for a coachman, and had a great number of applications. One of them he approved of, and told him, if his character answered, he would take him on the terms which they had agreed: But, said he, my good fellow, as I am rather a particular man, it may be proper to inform you, that every evening, after the business in the stable is done, I shall expect you to come to my house for a quarter of an hour, to attend family prayers—to this I suppose you can have no objection? Why, as to that, Sir, (replied the fellow) I does not see much to say against it, but I hope you’ll consider it in my wages.

An English gentleman being taken ill of the yellow fever at Jamaica, a lady, whom he had married in that island, indirectly hinted to him, in the presence of an Irish physician, who attended him, the propriety of making his will, in a country where people are so apt to die. The physician, thinking his judgement called in question, tartly replied, Truly, Madam, I wish you would tell me that country where people do not die, and I will go and end my days there.

A man being asked by his neighbours, how his wife did? made this answer: Indeed, neighbour, the case is pitiful, my wife fears she shall die, and I fear she will not die, which makes a most disconsolate house.

A great crowd being gathered about a poor cobbler who had just died in the street, a man asked Alexander Stevens what was to be seen? Only a Cobler’s End, replied he.

Bayle says that a woman will inevitably divulge every secret with which she is intrusted, except one, and that is—her own age.

An Irish soldier, who came over with General Moore, being asked if he met with much hospitality in Holland? O yes, replied he, too much: I was in the hospital almost all the time I was there.

The Duchess of York being in want of a laundress, desired the housekeeper to look out for some person to fill that situation. A decent looking woman was accordingly recommended; but the housekeeper objected to her, and, in the Duke’s presence observed, that she was a soldier’s wife, and that these people were generally bad characters. What’s that you say, (replied the Duke) a soldier’s wife! pray what is your mistress?—Engage the woman this instant.

In a great storm at sea, when the ships crew were all at prayers, a boy burst into a violent fit of laughter; being reproved for his ill-timed mirth, and asked the reason of it, Why, said he, I was laughing to think what a hissing the boatswain’s red nose will make when it comes into the water. This ludicrous remark set the crew a-laughing, inspired them with new spirits, and by a great exertion they brought the vessel safe into port.

The following curious paragraph, in honour of the Dutch physicians, was lately inserted in one of the London Paper:—“The mortality in Groningen, Delft, and Rotterdam, was at first very great; but after the death of the three physicians, it is stated to have abated very considerably.”

Chateauneut, keeper of the seals of Louis XIII. when a boy of only nine years of age, was asked many questions by a bishop and gave very prompt answers to them all. At length the prelate said, I will give you an orange if you will tell me where God is?—My Lord, replied the boy, I will give you two oranges, if you will tell me where he is not!

During the great Frederick of Prussia’s last painful illness, that eminent physician Dr Zimmerman, of Hanover, attended him. One day, when he waited upon his Majesty, the King said to him, You, Sir, I suppose, have helped many a man into another world. Not so many, replied the doctor, as your Majesty, nor with so much honour to myself.

An apothecary in Durham has the following words written in his shop-window: “Dying stuffs sold here.”

A stranger, who had acquired the habit of standing long on one leg, came to Lacedemon to see the city. Exhibiting this trick to a Spartan, he told him, vauntingly, You could not preserve that posture so long. I know that, replied the Lacedemonian, but a goose can.

Mrs Siddons, in performing the character of Jane Shore, having arrived at the conclusion of that affecting tragedy, where she says, “Now I die! I die!” falls down, nature being supposed entirely exhausted.—A sailor, perched on the front of the shilling gallery, forgetting that the distress of the actress was feigned roared out to the pit, “Ho! why don’t some of you lubbers in that there hold hand the poor woman a can of grog, since she is so badly?”

Dr Franklin, when last in England, used pleasantly to repeat an observation of his negro-servant, when the Doctor was making the tour of Derbyshire, Lancashire, &c. “Every thing, Massa, work in this country; water work; wind work; fire work; smoke work; dog work; (he had noticed the last at Bath) man work; bullock work; horse work; ass work; every thing work here but the hog; he eat, he drink, he sleep, he do nothing all day, he walk about like a gentleman!”

One of the people called Quakers, equally remarkable for his gallantry to the fair sex, as for his urbanity of manners, was one day walking in the streets of Edinburgh with a handsome young lady who remarked to him, that the heat of the day was oppressive; on which the Quaker recommended her to throw off a petticoat. The lady replied, Between you and I, friend G——s, I have but one on. And between thee and me, replied broad-brim, even that is one too many!

A very young officer, striking an old grenadier of his company for some supposed fault in performing his evolutions, was unable to reach any higher than his legs. The grenadier, upon this infantine assault, gravely took off his cap, and holding it over the officer by the tip, said, Sir, if you were not my officer, I would extinguish you.

Francis I, having imposed a new tax it was reported to him, as a treasonable offence, that the people murmured so much as not even to spare his sacred person. Poh! answered Francis, why should they not have amusement for their money?

A citizen dying greatly in debt, it coming to his creditors’ ears, Farewell, said one there is so much of mine gone with him. And he carried so much of mine, said another. One hearing them make their several complaints, said, Well, I see now, that tho’ a man can carry nothing of his own out of the world, yet he may carry a great deal of other men’s.

A young fellow in the country, after having an affair with a girl in the neighbourhood, said, What shall I do, Bess, if you prove with child? Oh! very well, said she for I am to be married to-morrow.

A Bachelor friend of ours had a fine tortoise, which was allowed to creep about the kitchen. Some time ago he hired a raw country girl, who never had seen nor had of a tortoise in her life. One day he says to her, ‘Marget, what’s become of the tortoise?—I have not seen it for some days.’ But Marget ‘didna ken ought about it.’ ‘You had letter light a candle, and see if it has not got into the coal-hole: poor thing! it will be starving for want of meat.’ A candle was accordingly lighted, and looking over her shoulder, he observed it, as he had expected, snug among the coals. ‘Ah, there it is, poor creature!’ said he: ‘take it out, and place it near the fire.’ ‘Is that what ye ca’ the tortoise?” quoth Marget in astonishment: ‘Od, Sir, I’ve been breaking the coals wi’t this fortnight past!’

A few days ago a hawker, while cheapning his haberdashery wares, was bawling out, ‘Here’s the real good napkins: they’ll neither tear, wear, ruffle, nor rive; throw in the washing, or go back in the pressing. All the water between the rocks of Gibraltar and the Cape of Good Hope will not alter the colour of them. They were woven seven miles below ground by the light of diamonds; and the people never saw day light but once in the seven years. They were not woven by a brosy clumsy apprentice boy, but by a right and tight good tradesman, who got two eggs, and a cup tea, and a glass of whisky to his breakfast; and every thread is as long and strong as would hang a bull, or draw a man-of-war ship into harbour.’

A man in the last stage of destitution, came before the sitting Magistrate, at Lambeth Street, and stated that having by the operation of the new Poor Laws, been suddenly deprived of parish assistance, he was reduced to such extremity, that if not instantly relieved he must be driven to do a deed that his soul abhorred. The worthy Magistrate instantly ordered him five shillings from the poor-box, and after a suitable admonition against giving way to despair, asked him what dreadful deed he would have been impelled to do, but for this seasonable relief; ‘To work,’ said the man, with a deep sigh, as he left the office.

One day, at the table of the late Dr. Pearse, (Dean of Ely,) just as the cloth was removing, the subject of discourse happened to be that of an extraordinary mortality amongst the lawyers. ‘We have lost,’ said a gentleman, ‘not less than six eminent barristers in as many months.’—The Dean, who was quite deaf, rose as his friend finished his remark, and gave the company grace—‘For this, and every other mercy, the Lord’s name be praised!’

In Salem, Massachusets, after the heavy and deep snow fall, a man was discovered sticking sticks into a huge ‘winter bank of snow.’ On being asked why he amused himself thus? ‘Amuse!’ said he, with a voice which betrayed the deepest anxiety of mind, ‘fine amusement! I have lost my shop—it used to stand somewhere near this spot.’

During the last Assizes, in a case of assault and battery, where a stone had been thrown by the defendant, the following clear and conclusive evidence was drawn out of a Yorkshireman:—Did you see the defendant throw the stone?—I saw a stone, and I’ze pretty sure the defendant throwed it.—Was it a large stone?—I should say it war a largeish stone.—What was its size?—I should say sizeable stone.—Can’t you answer definitely how big it was?—I should say it wur a stone of some bigness.—Can’t you give the jury some idea of the stone?—Why, as near as I recollect, it wur something of a stone.—Can’t you compare it to some other object?—Why, if I wur to compare it, so as to give some notion of the stone, I should say it wur as large as a lump of chalk.

FINIS.

THE

SCOTCH HAGGIS;
A SELECTION OF
CHOICE BON MOTS,

IRISH BLUNDERS, REPARTEES, ANECDOTES, &c.

Care to our coffin adds a nail no doubt,
While every laugh so merry draws one out.

GLASGOW:

PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

ANECDOTES.

ENGLISHMAN AND HIGHLANDMAN.

An English vessel passing up the Clyde fell in with a Highland Sloop coming down which the captain of the former hailed with the usual salutation of “Sloop ahoy!” when the following conversation took place:—

Captain. What’s your cargo?
Highlander. Penlomon.
Cap. Where are you bound for?
High. Potatoes.
Cap. What’s your Captain’s name?
High. Proomala.
Cap. Where do you come from?
High. Yes; it’s a fine poat.
Cap. Will you take us on board?
High. Yesterday.

DUKE OF BUCCLEUGH.

Henry, Duke of Buccleugh, was greatly beloved by his numerous tenantry. One of them yclept Jamie Howie, had a son about four ears of age, who having heard much of a great Duke of Buccleugh, was very anxious to see him. Honest Jamie, in a few days, being honoured with a visit from the Duke, doffed his bonnet, made a profound, reverential bow, and said, “O, my lord, ye maunna be angry wi’ me, but it’s a Heeven’s truth, my lord, there’s a daft wee callant o’ mine that canna rest nor let ithers rest nicht nor day, he has ta’en in his head sic a notion o’ seein’ what like you are, gude sake, my lord; I dinna think he has ony yedeea ye are a man at a’, but some far-awa, outlandish, ower-the-sea creature.” The Duke, mightily tickled with this fancy, desired Jamie to bring the youngster into his presence forthwith. Out comes the juvenile inquisiter with his finger in his mouth, and cautiously reconnoitres the personage before him. At last quoth the urchin, “Can ye soom?” “No, my little fellow,” replied his Grace, “I canna soom.” “Can ye flee?” “No, I canna flee.” “Well, man, for as muckle’s ye’re, I wadna gi’e ane o’ ma fayther’s dukes for ye; for they can baith soom an’ flee!”

PARAGRAPH ON PARRITCH.

Once upon a time, a worthy tradesman who had his “wonn” in a certain populous city “i’ the wast,” was in the habbit of nightly indulging a predilection for a comfortable lounge in an auction-room, where he managed to procure a fund of ease and amusement sufficient to dissipate the effects of the dry details of the day. On one occasion, while paying a tribute of more than ordinary attention to a string of elaborate eulogia on the merits of some article of sale, delivered by the eloquent lips of him of the hammer, his ears were suddenly assailed by the well known voice of his son, a boy of five years of age, who had been charged with a message of special importance from the guidwife, to the frequenter of the nocturnal howff. “Fayther!” vociferated the unceremonious rascal, “yer parritch is ready!” Honest Thomas looked certain “unutterable things,” as the eyes of a hundred individuals were simultaneously directed first to the quarter whence the salute proceeded, and then to the subject of the address. He cleared the mob in one step—bolted from the threshold in another, and finished a third with a smart application of a weighty tacketted shoe to the astonished retreater’s seat of honour, while he grinned out, “Ye deevil’s Jawcobeet! the next time ye come wi’ sic an eerand, say a Gentleman’s waitin on me.” An opportunity soon occurred for a display of the urchin’s new-acquired politesse;—two evenings afterwards he was observed popping in his antiquated phiz, and magnanimously bawling the intelligence regarding the gentleman in waiting. He was answered with a complaisant “Vera weel,” and a promise of immediate attendance. A new turn in the business of the lounge, banished the circumstance from the father’s recollection—the boy returned in breathless haste to repeat the requisition, which he did in a clearer, louder, and more anxious tone than ever—true, withal, to the late hint on etiquette—Fayther! If ye dinna come quick, the Gentleman’ll be quite cauld!

A GOOD WIFE

Should be like three things; which three things she should not be like.

First.—She should be like a snail, always keep within her house:—but she should not be like a snail, to carry all she has upon her back.

Secondly.—She should be like an echo, speak when she is spoken to:—but she should not be like an echo, always to have the last word.

Thirdly.—She should be like a town-clock, always keep time and regularity:—but she should not be like a town-clock, to speak so loud that all the town may hear her.

A WEATHER-MASTER.

An Irish pastor, when applied to by one of his flock for a shower of rain, said he should be happy to oblige him, but he had several previous applications for dry weather; and as it would be impossible for him to disoblige any of his congregation, he was under the necessity of declining to interfere.

EPITAPH ON GABRIEL JOHN.

Here lies the body of Gabriel John

Who died in the year 1001.

Pray for the soul of Gabriel John;

You may, if you please,

Or let it alone;

For it’s all one

To Gabriel John,

Who died in the year 1001.

A POWERFUL PREACHER.

“Ah, Sir!” exclaimed the elder in the tone of pathetic recollection,—“our late minister was the man! He was a poorfu’ preacher; for i’ the short time he delivered the word amang us, he knock’d three pupits to pieces, and dang the guts out o’ five Bibles.”

EPITAPH.

I, Sir John Trollop,

Made these stones roll up;

When God shall take my soul up,

My body shall fill this hole up.

ENTRIES OF THE NAMES OF CUSTOMERS.

The following entries of the names of customers were found in the books of a grocer, in a neighbouring city, on his insolvency:—“Woman on the Key. Jew Woman. Coal Woman. Old Coal Woman. Fat Coal Woman. Market Woman. Pale Woman. A Man. Old Woman. Little Milk Girl. Candle Man. Stable Man. Coachman. Big Woman. Lame Woman. Quiet Woman. (!!!) Egg Man. Little Black Girl. Old Watchman. Shoemaker. Little Shoemaker. Short Shoemaker. Old Shoemaker. Little Girl. Jew Man. Mrs in the Cart. Old Irishwoman. Woman in Corn-street. A Lad. Man in the Country. Long Sal. Woman with Long Sal. Mrs Irishwoman. Mrs Featherbonnet. Blue Bonnet. Green bonnet. Green Coat. Blue Breeches. Big Breeches. The Woman that was married. The Woman that told me of the man.”

THE MINISTER AND HIS THREE SONS.

Jolly dame who kept the principal carvansary at Greenlaw, in Berwickshire, had the honour to receive under her roof a very worthy clergyman, with three sons of the same profession, each having a cure of souls; be it said, in passing, none of the reverend laity were reckoned powerful in the pulpit. After dinner, the worthy senior, in the pride of his heart, asked Mrs Buchan whether she ever had such a party in her house before. “Here sit I,” said he, “a placed minister of the kirk of Scotland, and here sit my three sons, each a placed minister of the same kirk.—Confess, Luckie Buchan, you never had such a party in your house before.” The question was not premised by any invitation to sit down and take a glass of wine or the like, so Mrs B. answered dryly, “Indeed sir, I cannot just say that ever I had such a party in my house before, except once in the forty-five, when I had a Highland piper here, with his three sons, all Highland pipers; and de’il a spring they could play amang them.”

MATRIMONY.

One of the towns’ officers of Ayr, was struck severly by accident on the head by his wife.—After the fray was adjusted, the wife said to her husband, H——, had I killed you, and I been hanged for it, would you marry Kate M’Lauchlan.

ARABIAN PROVERB.

Let him that would be safe avoid seven things:—wasps, spiders, hyænas, crocodiles, effs, adders, and fine women!

THE WICKEDEST MAN.

A clergyman, who wished to know whether the children of the parishioners understood their bibles, asked a lad that he one day found reading the Old Testament, who was the wickedest man? Moses, to be sure, said the boy.—Moses, exclaimed the parson, how can that be? Why, said the lad, because he broke all the commandments at once!

NOT LOST BUT DROWNED.

A Leith merchant being on his usual ride to the south, came to the ford of a dark river, at the side of which a boy was diverting himself. The traveller addressed him as follows;—“Is this water deep?” “Ay, gaen deep,” answered the boy. “Is there ever any person lost here?” “No,” replied the boy, “there was never any lost; there has been some drowned, but we aye get them again.”

THE RED NOSE.

A West Indian, who had a remarkably fiery nose, having fallen asleep in his chair, a negro boy who was in waiting, observed a musquitto hovering round his face. Quasi eyed the insect very attentively, at last he saw him alight on his master’s nose, and immediately fly off. ‘Ah! d——n your heart,’ exclaimed the negro, ‘me d——n glad see you burn your foot.’

THE DEVIL DEFINED.

The Reverend Mr Shirra, burger minister in Kirkcaldy, once gave the following curious defination of the Devil:—“The Devil, my brethern, is ill ony way ye’ll tak him. Tak the D from his name, he’s evil; tak the E from his name, he’s vil; tak the V from his name he’s il.” Then, shrugging up his shoulders, and lengthening his sanctified snout, he said, with peculiar emphasis, “he’s naething but an il, vil, evil, Devil, ony way ye’ll tak him!”

MARK ME WELL.

A gentleman having missed his way, fortunately overtook a boy going with a pot of tar to mark his master’s sheep, asked the road to Banff, but was directed by so many turnings, right and left, that he agreed to take the boy behind him on the horse, as he was going near to the same place. Finding the boy pert and docile, he gave him some wholesome advice relative to his future conduct, adding occasionally, “Mark me well, my boy.”—“Yes, Sir, I do.” He repeated the injunction so often, that the boy at last cried out, “Sir, I have no more tar!”

SCOTTISH ATMOSPHERE.

An English Gentleman on a tour through Scotland, was unfortunately accompanied by wet weather most of the time. When he set out from Glasgow to Greenock, the morning was very fine; however, before he had proceeded half way, he was overtaken by a heavy shower. “Boy,” (says he to a little fellow herding near the road side) “does it always rain in this country!” “Na,” replied the boy, “it sometimes snaws.”

LIBERTY OF THE PRESS.

A master tailor in Glasgow, lately reading the News-papers to his family, and when expressing the title, Liberty of the Press in France, one of his daughters interrupted him, by asking what the Liberty of the Press meaned? “I’ll soon answer that question,” said he; “you know when your mother goes but, and leaves the key in the cupboard door, where the bread, butter, and sugar lies, then you have access:—That’s the Liberty o’ the Press.”

RESTLESS HAGGIS.

Daft Will Callender, lived with his sister Babie, in Port-Glasgow: Babie kept lodging house for Sailors. On Saturday night Babie was making a Haggis, for Sunday’s dinner, when one of her lodgers put four ounce of quicksilver into the Haggis, unknown to Babie. On Sunday, Will was left at home to cook the dinner; but when the pot began to boil, the Haggis would be out of the pot; Will faithful to his charges held the lid on the pot until his patience was exhausted—at last Will ran off to the church for Babie; she sat on one of the back pews; Will beckoned to her two or three times, Babie as often nodded and winked to Will to be quiet; at last he bawled out, “Babie come hame, for I believe the deil’s got into the Haggis, it’ll no bide in the pat, it’s out dancing on the floor, and if I had not locked the door, I think it would have been at the kirk as soon’s mysel.”

THE KELLOCHSYDE GRACE.

The following is preserved traditionally as the grace of the farmer of Kellochsyde or Killocsyde, in Clydesdale:—O Lord, we’r ay gangan, and we’r ay gettan. We soud ay be cuman to thee, but we’r ay forgettan. We leive in the gude mailen o’ Kellochsyde, suppan thy gude peisie kale, puir sinfou sons of —— that we are. Monie mercies we receive, gude trowth: and we’r little thankfou for them, gude feth. Janet, rax by the spunes; and aw praise and glory sall be thine. Amen.

PATRIMONY AND MATRIMONY.

At an examination of a school in Edinburgh, a gentleman asked one of the scholars by what name they called property that descended from a father? “Patrimony,” answered the scholar: and what do you call it, when descended from a mother? “Matrimony,” was the reply.

THE LIGHT GUINEA.

An Irishman one day walking on the streets of Glasgow, found a light guinea, and got 18s for it: next day he was walking and sees another, Allelieu dear honey, says he, I’ll have nothing to do with you, for I lost 3s by your brother yesterday.

ELDER’S HOURS.

A cunning carle, invested with the semi-sacred office of “Ruling Elder,” or practically seemingly identified with that office, in order to gratify an inclination, scratched, wi’ the neb o’ a fork, the figure 10, on the one side of his outer door, and the figure 11, on the other. By which plan he was able to say wi’ “a good conscience,” at a’ times and on a’ occasions, that he came ay hame atween ten and eleven.

THE THISTLE.

A few Scotch and English travellers being met together, an Englishman took it upon him to run down the Thistle, exclaimed against the empty boast of its motto; “Nemo me impune lacesset;” when a Scotchman present observed, “The Thistle, sir, is the pride of the Scottish nation, but it is nothing in the mouth of an Ass.”

SAGE INSTRUCTIONS.

A labouring Highlandman, who lived in the upper parts of Perthshire, whose wife was taken in labour, wished him to retire out of the house. Janet says to him.—“Oh! you be gang awa’, Duncan, gang awa’!” The man however kept loitering about the door, seemingly impressed with something of great importance. At last he cries to his wife, “You speak a me, Shanet! you speak a me!” The wife asks, “What you say, Duncan?”—“Gie the cummer (the midwife) a dram, Shanet, gie the cummer a dram!”—“What for Duncan?” “Gie the cummer a dram, Shanet an’ tell him to mak her a laddie.”

DEATH OF A WATCH.

After the battle of Falkirk, in 1746, a Highlandman was observed extracting a gold watch from the fob of an English officer who had been killed. His comrade viewed him with a greedy eye; which the man taking notice of said to him “Tamn you gapin’ creedy bitch, gang an’ shoot a shentleman for hersel’, an’ no envie me o’ my pit watch.” Next morning finding his watch motionless, and meeting his comrade, says to him, “Och! she no be care muckle about a watch, an’ you be like mine what will you gie me for her?” The other replied, “I be venture a kinny.”—“Weel then,” said the other, “Shust tak her, an’ welcome, for she be die yester night.”

LUMP OF OLD WOOD.

An aged man, named Thomas Wood, sitting on a high three footed stool in the gallery of the Old Church of Falkirk, during divine service, happened to fall asleep, tumbled on the floor with a great noise. The preacher stopped, and demanded the reason of the noise. “Nothing, Sir,” cries a wag, “But a lump of Old Wood fallen down.”

SCOTCH PARROT.

A Parrot perched upon a pole at a cottage door, basking itself in the sun, was observed by a rapacious Hawk which happened to be passing over it, and suddenly dived down and seized poor Poll by the back, away the Hawk flew with his prey; when passing over the garden, Polly observed his old friend the Gardener, and exclaimed, I’m ridin’ noo, John Laurie: Hawky alarmed at hearing a voice so near, darted into a tree for safety, when, after recovering a little, commenced to devour poor Poll, when it roared out with all its might, “will you bite you b——.” The Hawk terrified out of its wits, flew off with a birr, leaving Poll to proceed homewards at pleasure.

LONG CREDIT.

Soon after the battle of Preston, two Highlanders, in roaming through the south of Mid-Lothian, entered the farm-house of Swanston, near the Pentland Hills, where they found no one at home but an old woman. They immediately proceeded to search the house, and soon finding a web of coarse home-spun cloth, made no scruple to unroll and cut off as much as they thought would make a coat to each. The woman was exceedingly incenced at their rapacity, roared and cried, and even had the hardihood to invoke divine vengeance upon their heads. “Ye villians!” she cried, “ye’ll ha’e to account for this yet!”—“And when will we pe account for’t?” asked one of the Highlanders.—“At the last day, ye blackguards!” exclaimed the woman. “Ta last tay!” replied the Highlander: “Tat pe cood long credit—we’ll even pe tak a waistcoat too!” at the same time cutting off a few additional yards of the cloth.

A BRUSH FOR THE BARBER.

A Highlander who sold brooms, went into a barber’s shop in Glasgow, a few days since to get shaved. The barber bought one of his brooms, and after having shaved him, asked the price of it; “Twopence,” said the highlander; “No, no,” said the barber, “I’ll give you a penny, if that does not satisfy you, take your broom again.” The Highlander took it, and asked what he had got to pay? “A penny,” said Strap. “I’ll gi’e ye a baubee,” said Duncan, “an if that dinna satisfy ye, put on my beard again.”

HOW TO FIND WORK.

A Slater being employed by a gentleman to repair his house in the country, took along with him a Prentice: when they set to work, and continued to work for some days, the gentleman having no conception the job was to be of such duration, came out one morning, and found the apprentice at work alone, when he expressed himself as surprised at the continuation of them working so long, and enquired what had become of his master: to which the boy replied, “that he’s awa to Glasgow to look for a Job, and if he got ane, this ane would be done the morn, and if he didna get ane, he didna ken when it would be done.”

DONALD AND THE LAIRD.

A Scottish Laird and his man, Donald, travelling southward: at the first English inn, the room in where they were to sleep, containing a bed for the master and a truckle for the man, which drew forth from beneath the larger couch. Such furniture being new to the Highlanders, they mistook the four posted pavilion for the two beds, and the Laird mounted the tester, while the man occupied the comfortable lodging below. Finding himself wretchedly cold in the night, the Laird called to Donald to know how he was accommodated. “Ne’er sae weel a’ my life,” quoth the gilly. Ha, man, exclaimed the Laird, “If it was na for the honour of the thing, I could find in my heart to come down.”

GRAVE-DIGGER OF SORN.

The Grave-Digger of Sorn, Ayrshire, was as selfish and as mean a sinner as ever handled mattock, or carried mortcloth. He was a very quarrelous and discontented old man, with a voice like the whistle of the wind thro’ a key hole. On a bleak Sunday afternoon in the country, an acquaintance from a neighbouring parish accosted him one day, and asked how the world was moving with him, “Oh, very puirly, sir, very puirly indeed,” was the answer, “the yard has done naething ava for us this Summer, if ye like to believe me, I havna buriet a leevin’ soul this sax weeks.”

EXPENCE OF A WIFE.

An old bachelor who lived in a very economical style, both as regards food and clothing, and not altogether so very trig as some bachelors sometimes appear, was frequently attacked by his acquaintances on the propriety of taking a wife; he was very smartly set upon one day, and told how snod a wife would keep him, and many other fine things to induce him to take a wife, and among the rest, what a comfort it would be to him, if it was for nothing else, but to mak his puritch in the morning; says he, “I dinna doubt but she wad mak my puritch, put the plauge is, she wad be fair to sup the half o’ them.”

CHARITY.

A person who resides in the ancient town of Killwinning, proverbial for his liberality in meat and drink, to friends and acquaintances; strangers too, seldom passed without experiencing a due share of his kindness; lately while feasting nearly a dozen of random visitors on “Pat Luck,” a beggar called at the door soliciting charity, when he very good humouredly called out, “I canna help you the day, I hae plenty o’ your kin here already.”

DISTINCTION OF SONS AND DAUGHTERS.

About the year thretty-sax, a company differed, “Whether it was better for a man to hae sons or daughters?” They cou’dna gree, but disputed it pro and con. At last, one of them said to Graham of Kinross, (wha hadna yoked wi’ them in the argument,) “Laird, what’s your opinion?” Quo he, “I had three lads and three lasses; I watna whilk o them I liked best sae lang as they sucket their mither; but de’il hae my share o’ the callants, when they came to suck their father.”

BIRD’S NEST.

The mother of a respectable Grocer in a town in the west, called her son to her, while on her death-bed, and declared to him that his reputed father was not really his father; but that such a one (nameing him) really was his father; and that the deed was done one night while journeying from Greenock, when at the Clun-Brae-Head; this story got wing, and ran through the town like wildfire, and was a fine source of amusement for some time. One day, a boy vulgarly named the “Linty,” went into the said Grocer’s shop to purchase some article, when he was assailed with “Weel, Linty, whar is tu gaun to big thy nest the year?” The boy replied, “I was thinkin’ to big it down about the Clun-Brae-head.”

THE GREAT WANT.

A female pauper, lately made a very strong and forcible appeal to the elders and heritors of a certain parish, for an advance of 4s. 6d.—Some one of the grave quorum enquired what made her so urgent on this occasion, when she had lately got a supply of coals, shoes, &c., to this she replied—“Why, deed sirs, it’s just to buy a pair o’ corsets to my daughter Tibboc, ilk lass that’s ocht respectable has them but hersel’, so ye see she canna do wantin them, an’ ye maun e’en let me ha’t sirs.”

CAPTAIN SILK.

In a party of ladies, on it being reported that a Captain Silk had arrived in town, they exclaimed, with one exception, ‘What a name for a soldier!’ ‘The fittest name in the world,’ replied a witty female, ‘for Silk never can be Worsted!’

MARCH OF INTELLECT.

Two country carters, passing the entrance to the Arcade, Argyll street, Glasgow, observed painted on the wall, “No Dogs to enter here.” “No Dogs to enter here!” exclaimed one of them, “I’m sure there’s nae use for that there.” “What way, Jock,” replied the other. “’Cause dogs canna read signs,” said he. “Ha, ha, Jock, ye’re maybe wrang, I’se warran ye gentle folk’s dogs ’ill ken’t brawley, for there’s schools, noo, whar they learn the dumb baith to read an’ speak.”

HOW TO READ A SIGN-BOARD.

A Highland Drover passing through a certain town, noticed a Sign-board above an entry, with the following inscription:

Green Teas, Raw Sugars, Marmalades, Jellies, Capped Biscuits, and all sorts of Confectionary Goods, sold down this entry.

read it as follows:—

Green Trees, Raw Sodgers, Mermaids, Jades, Scabbed Bitches, and all sorts of Confusionary Goods, sold down this entry.

ADDITION.

A farmer’s Son, who had been some time at the university, coming home to visit his father and mother; and being one night with the old folks at supper, on a couple of fowls, he told them, that by the rules of logic and arithmetic, he could prove these two fowls to be three.—“Well, let us hear,” said the old man; “Why this,” said the scholar, “is one, and this,” continued he, “is two, two and one, you know make three.”—“Since ye hae made it out sae weel,” answered the old man, “your mother shall hae the first fowl, I’ll hae the second, and the third you may keep to yoursell.”

FINIS.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources.

Several missing opening quotation marks have been inserted; many missing closing quotation marks have been inserted.

Except for those changes noted below, all dialect in the text, all misspellings, and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

Witty Sayings and Exploits of George Buchanan.
Pg 7: ‘was she delivered’ replaced by ‘was he delivered’.

Adventures of Bamfylde Moore Carew.
Pg 20: ‘bnt being saluted’ replaced by ‘but being saluted’.

Daniel O’Rourke’s Voyage to the Moon.
Pg 5: ‘bog, bog; could’ replaced by ‘bog, bog; I could’.
Pg 5: ‘Daniel O’Rouke,’ replaced by ‘Daniel O’Rourke,’.
Pg 20: ‘and conld tell’ replaced by ‘and could tell’.
Pg 23: ‘was preocoupied with’ replaced by ‘was preoccupied with’.

The Comical Tricks of Lothian Tom, &c.
Pg 12: ‘lamenting there’ replaced by ‘lamenting their’.
Pg 13: ‘is a great theif’ replaced by ‘is a great thief’.

Comical History of the King and the Cobbler.
Pg 3: ‘casualities which’ replaced by ‘casualties which’.
Pg 8: ‘his Chesire cheese’ replaced by ‘his Cheshire cheese’.
Pg 8: ‘Joan begings to’ replaced by ‘Joan begins to’.
Pg 10: ‘pull of his shirt’ replaced by ‘pull off his shirt’.
Pg 12: ‘replied the yoeman’ replaced by ‘replied the yeoman’.
Pg 12: ‘to him instanly’ replaced by ‘to him instantly’.
Pg 15: ‘loath to loose’ replaced by ‘loath to lose’.
Pg 21: ‘supply his expences’ replaced by ‘supply his expenses’.
Pg 22: ‘ran and eat’ replaced by ‘ran and ate’.
Pg 23: ‘so embarassed that’ replaced by ‘so embarrassed that’.

John Cheap, the Chapman.
Pg 13: ‘but yesternigh’ replaced by ‘but yesternight’.
Pg 13: ‘take on my waller’ replaced by ‘take on my wallet’.
Pg 16: ‘country villiage,’ replaced by ‘country village,’.
Pg 17: ‘this wicked webster’ replaced by ‘this wicked wabster’.

Simple John and his Twelve Misfortunes.
Pg 2: ‘as monv a ane’ replaced by ‘as mony a ane’.
Pg 7: ‘back on Mononday’ replaced by ‘back on Monday’.
Pg 10: ‘ano then he’ replaced by ‘and then he’.
Pg 10: ‘could naud nae’ replaced by ‘could haud nae’.
Pg 23: ‘pleaded for im’ replaced by ‘pleaded for him’.

The Wise Men of Gotham.
Pg 9: ‘At the begining’ replaced by ‘At the beginning’.

Mansie Waugh, Tailor in Dalkeith.
Pg 4: ‘searcely could he’ replaced by ‘scarcely could he’.
Pg 7: ‘of heavenly bope’ replaced by ‘of heavenly hope’.
Pg 8: ‘spirit of industrous’ replaced by ‘spirit of industrious’.
Pg 11: ‘an houest way’ replaced by ‘an honest way’.
Pg 14: ‘au auld-fashioned’ replaced by ‘an auld-fashioned’.
Pg 15: ‘the saut saut tears’ replaced by ‘the saut tears’.
Pg 15: ‘cry Jack Robison’ replaced by ‘cry Jack Robinson’.
Pg 17: ‘The rascel had’ replaced by ‘The rascal had’.
Pg 19: ‘Are e no descended’ replaced by ‘Are ye no descended’.
Pg 19: ‘as weel as ou ain’ replaced by ‘as weel as our ain’.
Pg 22: ‘a  I wonder’ replaced by ‘all. I wonder’.
Pg 23: ‘a sound aleep’ replaced by ‘a sound sleep’.

Jockey and Maggie’s Courtship.
Pg 5: ‘but foulks may’ replaced by ‘but fouks may’.
Pg 13: ‘So this distubed’ replaced by ‘So this disturbed’.
Pg 16: ‘Mith. O woman!’ replaced by ‘Mar. O woman!’.
Pg 19: ‘that are rouud’ replaced by ‘that are round’.
Pg 22: ‘which coucludes the’ replaced by ‘which concludes the’.
Pg 23: ‘a tims or twa’ replaced by ‘a time or twa’.

The Coalman’s Courtship.
Pg 5: ‘tell the neihbours’ replaced by ‘tell the neighbours’.
Pg 7: “the lassie I’ll” replaced by “the lassie’ll”.

History of Buckhaven: Wise Willy and Witty Eppy.
Pg 11: ‘say one one place’ replaced by ‘say one place’.
Pg 21: ‘do for naethig’ replaced by ‘do for naething’.
Pg 24: ‘before Wise Wille’ replaced by ‘before Wise Willie’.

The Dominie Deposed. Maggie Johnston’s Elegy.
Pg 6: “his ma’t-brec” replaced by “his ma’t-bree”.
Pg 23: the last word on each of the first two lines was unclear;
they have been rendered as:
Whan we were wearied at the gouff,
Then Maggy Johnston’s was our houff,

A Groat’s Worth of Fun for a Penny.
Pg 2: ‘Helm-a lee, messmate’ replaced by ‘Helm a-lee, messmate’.
Pg 6: ‘and point-to’ replaced by ‘and pointed to’.
Pg 6: ‘Military Monœuvre’ replaced by ‘Military Manœuvre’.
Pg 17: ‘gone to’ replaced by ‘gone too.’.
Pg 23: ‘he first recoverd’ replaced by ‘he first recovered’.
Pg 23: ‘ago a nawker’ replaced by ‘ago a hawker’.

The Comical Sayings of Paddy from Cork.
Pg 1: ‘FOR THE BOOKSELERS’ replaced by ‘FOR THE BOOKSELLERS’.
Pg 3: ‘Cork iu Ireland?’ replaced by ‘Cork is in Ireland?‘.
Pg 4: ‘grown a a big’ replaced by ‘grown a big’.
Pg 5: ‘the hairs were not’ replaced by ‘the hares were not’.
Pg 16: ‘was a great theif’ replaced by ‘was a great thief’.
Pg 18: ‘a good safegaurd’ replaced by ‘a good safeguard’.
Pg 23: ‘blackgaurd scoundrels’ replaced by ‘blackguard scoundrels’.
Pg 24: ‘cut and castcate’ replaced by ‘cut and castrate’.

Fun upon Fun; or, Leper the Tailor, &c.
Pg 5: ‘strugling to get’ replaced by ‘struggling to get’.
Pg 6: ‘gave thee poor’ replaced by ‘gave the poor’.
Pg 11: ‘had been beseiging’ replaced by ‘had been besieging’.
Pg 23: ‘reconnitres the’ replaced by ‘reconnoitres the’.

John Falkirk’s Cariches.
Pg 3: ‘infalible remedy is’ replaced by ‘infallible remedy is’.
Pg 8: ‘and and when in bed’ replaced by ‘and when in bed’.
Pg 8: ‘a lawsuit aganst’ replaced by ‘a lawsuit against’.
Pg 14: ‘to one anther’ replaced by ‘to one another’.
Pg 19: ‘steping forward’ replaced by ‘stepping forward’.
Pg 21: ‘the evil on himself’ replaced by ‘the evil one himself’.
Pg 22: ‘who was doubtess’ replaced by ‘who was doubtless’.

Grinning made Easy,—Funny Dick’s Jokes.
Pg 5: ‘your buisness to’ replaced by ‘your business to’.
Pg 6: ‘unfavourable countence’ replaced by ‘unfavourable countenance’.
Pg 8: ‘coolness, answer-’ replaced by ‘coolness, answered,’.
Pg 12: ‘a perpetual soure’ replaced by ‘a perpetual source’.
Pg 13: ‘ou a Physician’ replaced by ‘on a Physician’.
Pg 15: ‘are now synonimous’ replaced by ‘are now synonymous’.
Pg 16: ‘said the docter’ replaced by ‘said the doctor’.
Pg 16: ‘English geutleman’ replaced by ‘English gentleman’.
Pg 18: ‘want of a laundres’ replaced by ‘want of a laundress’.
Pg 19: ‘trelate said’ replaced by ‘the prelate said’.
Pg 20: ‘friend G......s’ replaced by ‘friend G——s’.
Pg 23: ‘and and stated that’ replaced by ‘and stated that’.
Pg 23: ‘was quiet deaf’ replaced by ‘was quite deaf’.

The Scotch Haggis; or, Choice Bon-Mots.
Pg 9: ‘your honse before’ replaced by ‘your house before’.
Pg 9: ‘the the wife said’ replaced by ‘the wife said’.
Pg 10: ‘of the parishoners’ replaced by ‘of the parishioners’.
Pg 13: ‘but four ounce of’ replaced by ‘put four ounce of’.
Pg 14: ‘the cemi-sacred’ replaced by ‘the semi-sacred’.
Pg 14: ‘indentified with that’ replaced by ‘identified with that’.
Pg 15: ‘mak her laddie’ replaced by ‘mak her a laddie’.

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Table of Contents

John Cheap The Chapman’s Library:

CONTENTS.

PREFACE.

THE LIFE OF DOUGAL GRAHAM.

- FOOTNOTES:

THE WITTY EXPLOITS OF MR GEORGE BUCHANAN.

- PART I.

- PART II.

- WILL SCOTT

- GRAVE-DIGGER OF SORN.

ADVENTURES OF BAMFYLDE MOORE CAREW.

- Carew’s first adventure in his new profession.

- Carew made King of the Beggars.

- AN IRISH WAGER.

- A SAD MISTAKE.

- SCOTCH ANECDOTE.

- AMERICAN WIT.

- A BRIGHT IDEA.

DANIEL O’ROURKE’S Wonderful Voyage to the Moon.

- Master and Man; OR, The Adventures of Billy Mac Daniel.

THE COMICAL TRICKS OF LOTHIAN TOM.

- PART II.

- PART III.

- PART IV.

- PART V.

- MARCH OF INTELLECT.

- HOW TO READ A SIGN-BOARD.

- ADDITION.

THE COMICAL HISTORY OF THE KING AND THE COBBLER.

- CHAP. II.

- CHAP. III.

- CHAP. IV.

- CHAP. V.

- CHAP. VI.

- ANECDOTE.

- THE TWO BEARS.

HISTORY OF JOHN CHEAP.

- PART I.

- PART II.

- PART III.

COMICAL HISTORY OF SIMPLE JOHN, AND HIS TWELVE MISFORTUNES.

- MISFORTUNE I.

- MISFORTUNE II.

- MISFORTUNE III.

- MISFORTUNE IV.

- MISFORTUNE V.

- MISFORTUNE VI.

- MISFORTUNE VII.

- MISFORTUNE VIII.

- MISFORTUNE IX.

- MISFORTUNE X.

- MISFORTUNE XI.

- MISFORTUNE XII.

THE MERRY TALES OF THE WISE MEN OF GOTHAM

- TALE I.

- TALE II.

- TALE III.

- TALE IV.

- TALE V.

- TALE VI.

- TALE VII.

- TALE VIII.

- TALE IX.

- TALE X.

- TALE XI.

- TALE XII.

- TALE XIII.

- TALE XIV.

- TALE XV.

- TALE XVI.

- TALE XVII.

- TALE XVIII.

- TALE XIX.

- TALE XX.

THE LIFE OF MANSIE WAUCH.

- CALF-LOVE.

- PUSHING MY FORTUNE.

- MANSIE WAUCH’s FIRST AND LAST PLAY.

- PHILISTINE IN THE COAL-HOLE.

THE WHOLE PROCEEDINGS OF JOCKEY AND MAGGY’S COURTSHIP.

- PART I.

- PART II.

- PART III.

THE COALMAN’S COURTSHIP

- PART II.

- PART III

- ANECDOTE.

THE HISTORY OF BUCHAVEN.

THE DOMINIE DEPOSED,

- PREFACE.

- PART I.

- PART II.

- PART III.

- THE SEQUEL.

- ELEGY ON MAGGY JOHNSTON,

A GROAT’S-WORTH OF FUN FOR A PENNY.

COMICAL SAYINGS OF PADDY FROM CORK.

- PART I.

- PART II.

- PART III.

- A NEW CATECHISM, &c.

- PADDY’S HUMBLE PETITION, OR SUPPLICATION.

THE MERRY TRICKS OF LEPER THE TAILOR.

- PART II.

- INCONVENIENCE OF A PETITION.

- DUKE OF BUCCLEUGH.

- A BANE TO PIKE.

- SEEING ONE DRUNK.

JOHN FALKIRK’S CARICHES.

- THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF TAM MERRILEES A True Story.

GRINNING MADE EASY.

THE SCOTCH HAGGIS; A SELECTION OF CHOICE BON MOTS,

- ENGLISHMAN AND HIGHLANDMAN.

- DUKE OF BUCCLEUGH.

- PARAGRAPH ON PARRITCH.

- A GOOD WIFE

- A WEATHER-MASTER.

- EPITAPH ON GABRIEL JOHN.

- A POWERFUL PREACHER.

- EPITAPH.

- ENTRIES OF THE NAMES OF CUSTOMERS.

- THE MINISTER AND HIS THREE SONS.

- MATRIMONY.

- ARABIAN PROVERB.

- THE WICKEDEST MAN.

- NOT LOST BUT DROWNED.

- THE RED NOSE.

- THE DEVIL DEFINED.

- MARK ME WELL.

- SCOTTISH ATMOSPHERE.

- LIBERTY OF THE PRESS.

- RESTLESS HAGGIS.

- THE KELLOCHSYDE GRACE.

- PATRIMONY AND MATRIMONY.

- THE LIGHT GUINEA.

- ELDER’S HOURS.

- THE THISTLE.

- SAGE INSTRUCTIONS.

- DEATH OF A WATCH.

- LUMP OF OLD WOOD.

- SCOTCH PARROT.

- LONG CREDIT.

- A BRUSH FOR THE BARBER.

- HOW TO FIND WORK.

- DONALD AND THE LAIRD.

- GRAVE-DIGGER OF SORN.

- EXPENCE OF A WIFE.

- CHARITY.

- DISTINCTION OF SONS AND DAUGHTERS.

- BIRD’S NEST.

- THE GREAT WANT.

- CAPTAIN SILK.

- MARCH OF INTELLECT.

- HOW TO READ A SIGN-BOARD.

- ADDITION.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE