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.