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.