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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]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by hekula03, John Campbell and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
        book was produced from images made available by the
        HathiTrust Digital Library.)


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




Produced by hekula03, John Campbell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
book was produced from images made available by the
HathiTrust Digital Library.)









  TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

  This book is a collection of nineteen separate ‘Chap-books’, with
  an introduction on the life of Dougal Graham.

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

  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.

  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.

  [Illustration: (a large asterisk)]

  _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.

  [Illustration]


  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.

  [Illustration]


  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.

  [Illustration]


  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.

  [Illustration]


  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.

  [Illustration]


  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.”


[Illustration: FINIS.]




  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

  [Illustration]


  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.

  [Illustration]


  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.

  [Illustration]


  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.

  [Illustration]

      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.

  [Illustration]


  GLASGOW:
  PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.




THE

WHOLE PROCEEDINGS

OF

JOCKEY AND MAGGY’S

COURTSHIP.


PART I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hame gaed Maggy and telled her Mither.

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

Mith. Dear Maggy and what is that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mith. And wha think ye gudeman?

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

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

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

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

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

Hame gaed Jocky to his mither crying.

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

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

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

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

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

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


PART II.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jock. I wat weel that’s true.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


PART III.

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

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

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

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

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

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


[Illustration: FINIS.]




  THE

  COALMAN’S COURTSHIP

  TO THE

  CREEL-WIFE’S DAUGHTER.

  IN THREE PARTS.

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

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

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

  [Illustration]


  GLASGOW:
  PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.




THE

COALMAN’S COURTSHIP

TO THE

CREEL-WIFE’S DAUGHTER.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


END OF PART I.


PART II.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


PART III

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      I will buy a pound of woo’,
      I will wash’t and mak a plaidy,
      I’m gaun ower the muir to woo’,
      Carlin, is your daughter ready.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kate. And what mair said she of me?

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

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

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

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

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


ANECDOTE.

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


THE END.




  THE HISTORY OF

  BUCHAVEN

  IN FIFESHIRE,

  CONTAINING THE WITTY AND ENTERTAINING EXPLOITS OF

  WISE WILLIE,

  AND

  WITTY EPPY,

  [Illustration]

  THE ALE WIFE.

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

  ADORNED WITH WOODCUTS.


  PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.




THE

HISTORY

OF

BUCHAVEN.


[Illustration]

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

[Illustration]

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

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

[Illustration]

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

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

[Illustration]

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

[Illustration]

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

[Illustration]

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

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


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

[Illustration]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration]

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sandy is next called upon, and in he goes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration]

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

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

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

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

[Illustration]




  THE

  DOMINIE DEPOSED,

  WITH THE SEQUEL.

  BY WILLIAM FORBES, A.M.
  LATE SCHOOLMASTER AT PETERCOULTER.

  TO WHICH IS ADDED,

  MAGGY JOHNSTON’S ELEGY.

  [Illustration]


  GLASGOW:
  PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.




PREFACE.


      If this offend when ye peruse,
      Pray, reader, let this me excuse,
      Myself I only here accuse,
                      Who am the cause,
      That e’er ye had this piece of news
                      To split your jaws.

      For had I right the gully guided,
      And wi’ a wife mysel’ provided,
      To keep me frae that wae betide it,
                      That’s kent to a’,
      I’d stay’d at hame, or near beside it;
                      Now that’s awa’.

      Be wiser then, and do what’s right,
      And mind your business wi’ might,
      Lest unexpected gloomy night,
                      Should you surround
      An’ mingle a’ your pleasure bright,
                      Wi’ grief profound.

      And, bonny lasses, mind this rhyme,
      As true as three and sax mak nine,
      If ye commit ye ken what crime,
                      And turn unweel,
      There’ll something wamble in your wame
                      Just like an eel.




THE

DOMINIE DEPOSED.


PART I.

      Some Dominies are sae bias’d,
      That o’er the dyke themsells they cast,
      They drink an’ rant, an’ live sae fast,
                      This drives them on,
      To draw a weapon at the last,
                      That sticks Mess John.

      Thus going on from day to day,
      Neglecting still to watch and pray,
      And teach the little anes A, B, C,
                      An’ Pater Noster,
      Quite ither thoughts our Lettergae,
                      Begins to foster.

      For, laying by baith fear and shame,
      They slily venture on that game,
      _All Fours_, I think, they call’t by name,
                      Baith auld an’ rife,
      Than in the play, Mess John is slain
                      Wi’ his ain knife.

      ’Tis kind, therefore, I winna strive
      My doughty deeds here to descrive,
      A lightsome life still did I thrive,
                      Did never itch,
      By out an’ in abouts to drive,
                      For to mak rich.

      I ne’er laid money up in store,
      Into a hole behind the door,
      A shilling, penny, less or more,
                      I aye did scatter,
      ’Tis just, now, I should drink, therefore,
                      Sma’ beer or water.

      I never sooner siller got,
      But a’ my pouches it would plot,
      And scorch them fair, it was sae hot;
                      Then to get clear
      Of it, I swill’d it down my throat,
                      In ale or beer.

      Thus, a’ my failing was my glass,
      An’ anes to please a bonny lass,
      I, like a silly amorous ass,
                      Drew forth my gully,
      An’ through an’ through at the first pass,
                      Ran Mr. Willy.

      Sae far this mad, though merry fit,
      I was sair vexed, and forced to flit,
      They plagu’d me sae wi’ pay and sit,
                      Quo’ they, You thief,
      How durst you try to steal a bit
                      Forbidden beef?

      O then, I humbly plead that _vos_,
      Would make it your continual _mos_,
      Wi’ hearts sincere an’ open _os_,
                      You’d often pray,
      _A tali malo libera nos,
                      O Dominie_.

      For, hark, I’ll tell you what they think,
      Since I left handling pen an’ ink:
      Wae worth that weary soup o’ drink
                      He lik’d sae weel,
      He drank it a’, left not a clink
                      His throat to swill.

      He lik’d, still sitting on his doup,
      To view the pint or cutty stoup,
      And sometimes lasses overcoup,
                      Upo’ their keels,
      This made the lad at length to loup,
                      And tak his heels.

      Then was it not a grand presumption,
      To ca’ him doctor o’ the function?
      He dealt too much in barley-unction
                      For his profession:
      He never took a good injunction
                      Frae kirk or session.

      An’ to attend, he was not willing,
      His school, sae lang’s he had a shilling,
      But lov’d to be where there was filling
                      Good punch or ale,
      For him to rise was just like killing
                      Or first to fail.

      His fishing-wand, his sneeshing box,
      A fowling piece, to shoot muir cocks,
      An’ hunting hare through craigs and rocks,
                        This was his game,
      Still left the young anes, so the fox
                        Might worry them.

      When he committed a’ these tricks,
      For which he weel deserv’d his licks,
      Wi’ red-coats he did intermix,
                        When he foresaw
      The punishment the kirk inflicts
                        On fowks that fa’.

      Then to his thrift he bade adieu,
      When wi’ his tail he stopp’d his mou’,
      He changed his coat to red and blue,
                        An’ like a sot
      Did the poor Clerk convert into
                        A Royal Scot.

      An’ now fowks use me at their wills,
      My name is blawn out o’er the hills,
      At banquets, feasts, a’ mouths it fills,
                        ’Twixt each, _Here’s t’ thee_,
      ’Tis sore traduc’d at kilns and mills,
                        And common smithy.

      Then, Dominies, I you beseech,
      Keep very far from Bacchus’ reach,
      He drown’d a’ my cares to preach,
                        Wi’ his ma’t-bree,
      I’ve wore sair banes by mony a bleech
                        O’ his tap-tree.

      If venus does possess your mind,
      Her antics ten times warse ye’ll find,
      For to ill tricks she’s sae inclin’d,
                        For praticks past,
      She blew me here before the wind:
                        Cauld be her cast.

      Within years less than half a dizen,
      She made poor Maggy lie in jizen,
      When little Jock brake out of prison
                        On gude yule-day,
      This of my quiet cut the wisen,
                        Whan he wan gae.

      Let readers then tak better heed,
      For fear they kiss mair than they read,
      In case they wear the sacken weed,
                        For fornication,
      Or leave the priest-craft shot to dead
                        For procreation.

      The maist o’ them, like blind an’ lame,
      Have nae aversion to the game,
      But better ’twere to tak her hame,
                        Their pot to cook,
      An’ teach his boys to write a theme,
                        And mind their book.

      Then may they sit at hame, an’ please,
      Themselves wi’ gathering in their fees,
      While I must face mine enemies,
                        Or shaw my dock:
      There’s odds ’twixt handling pens wi’ ease
                        An’ a firelock.

      Sae shall they never mount the stool,
      Whereon the lasses greet an’ howl,
      Tho’ deil a tear, scarce fair or foul,
                        Comes o’er their cheeks;
      Their mind’s not there, ’tis spinning wool,
                        Or mending breeks.

      The Kirk then pardons no such prots,
      They must tell down good five pounds scots,
      Though they should pledge their petticoats,
                        An’ gae arse bare;
      The least price there is twenty groats,
                        An’ prigging fair.

      If then the lad does not her wed,
      Poor Meg some feigned tears maun shed,
      Her minny crooks her mou’ and dad,
                        They fart an’ fling;
      “O wow that e’er I made the bed,”
                        Then does she sing.

      _Thus for her Maidenhead she moans,
        Bewailing what is past;
      Her pitcher’s dash’d against the stones,
        And broken at the last._


PART II.

      A’ Maids, therefore, I do bemoan,
      Betwixt the rivers Dee and Don,
      If anes they get a taste o’ yon,
                        Though by the laird,
      The toy-mutch maun then gae on,
                        Nae mair bare-hair’d.

      Yet wanton Venus, that she-b--h,
      Does a’ our senses sae bewitch,
      An’ fires our blood wi’ sic an itch,
                        That aftentimes,
      There is nae help but to commit,
                        Some ill-far’d crimes.

      Yet some they are sae very willing,
      At ony time they’ll tak’ a shilling,
      But he that learnt them first that spelling,
                        Or Meg or Nell,
      Be sure, to him they’ll lay an egg in;
                        This some can tell.

      Unthinking things! it is their creed,
      If some sic things be done wi’ speed,
      They’re safe, ’tis help in time o’ need,
                        Nae after-claps:
      Tho’ nine months aft brings quick or dead,
                        Into their laps.

      Experience thus makes me speak,
      I ance was hooked wi’ the cleek,
      I almost had beshit my breek,
                        When Maggy told,
      That by her saul, not e’en a week
                        Young Jack would hold.

      She was sae stiff she cou’d not loot;
      Your pranks she says, are now found out,
      The kirk and you maun hae a bout;
                        Ill mat you fare,
      ’Tis a’ your ain, you need na doubt
                        Ilk hilt an hair.

      Alas that e’er I saw your face,
      I can nae langer hide the case;
      Had I foreseen this sad disgrace,
                        Nae man nor you,
      Shou’d e’er hae met me in yon place,
                        Or kiss’d my mou’.

      O Dominie, you’re dispossest,
      Ye hae defil’d your holy nest,
      The warld sees ye hae transgrest,
                        I’m at my time,
      Ye dare nae mair, now do your best
                        Let gae the rhyme.

      Ohon! how weel I might hae kent,
      When first to you I gae consent,
      Wi’ me to mak your merriment,
                        How a’ would be:
      Alas! that e’er my loom I lent
                        That day to thee.

      Wae to the night I first began
      To mix my moggans wi’ thee man:
      ’Tis needless now to curse or ban,
                        But deil hae me,
      Ye’ll pay an’ sit, for sit ye can,
                        An’ that ye’ll see.

      I heard her as I heard her not,
      But time and place had quite forgot,
      I guess’d Young Jack fell to my lot;
                        For I could tell,
      It was too short her petticoat,
                        By half an ell.

      Wi’ blubber’d cheeks, and watry nose,
      Her weary story she did close;
      I said the best, and aff she goes
                        Just like a thief,
      An’ took a glass to interpose,
                        ’Twixt mirth and grief.

      Yet would hae gi’en my ha’f year’s fee,
      Had Maggy then been jesting me,
      Had tartan purry, meal an’ bree,
                        Or buttr’y brose,
      Been kilting up her petticoats
                        Aboon her hose.

      But time that tries such praticks past,
      Brought me out o’er the coals fu’ fast;
      Poor Maggy took a sudden blast,
                        And o’er did tumble,
      For something in her wame at last
                        Began to rumble.

      Our folk ca’d it the windy gravel,
      That grips the guts beneath the navel,
      But laith was she for to unravel
                        Their gross mistake,
      Weel kend she, that she was in travail,
                        Wi’ little Jack.

      But, to put matters out of doubt,
      Young John within would fain been out,
      An’ but an’ ben made sic a rout
                        Wi’ hands and feet,
      That she began twa-fauld about
                        The house to creep.

      Then dool an’ sorrow interveen’d;
      For Jack nae langer could be screen’d,
      My lass upon her breast she lean’d,
                        An’ gae a skirl.
      The canny wives came there conveen’d,
                        An’ in a whirl.

      They wrought together in a crowd;
      By this time I was under cloud;
      Yet bye and bye I understood,
                        They made one more,
      For Jack he tun’d his pipe, and loud
                        Wi’ cries did roar.

      Wi’ that they blam’d the Session-Clark;
      Where is the lown hid in the dark?
      For he’s the father o’ this wark:
                        Swear to his mither,
      He’s just as like him as ae lark
                        Is like anither.

      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.

  [Illustration]

  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.

  [Illustration]


  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.

  [Illustration]


  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’.”


[Illustration: FINIS.]




  JOHN FALKIRK’S

  CARICHES,

  TO WHICH IS ADDED

  TAM MERRILEES;

  A CAPITAL STORY.

  [Illustration]


  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.

  [Illustration]


  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.

  [Illustration]


  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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