PART III.

I travelled then west by Falkirk, by the foot of the great hills; and one night after I had got lodging in a farmer’s house, there happened a contest between the goodman and his mother, he being a young man unmarried, as I understood, and formerly their sowens had been too thin; so the goodman, being a sworn birly-man of that barony, came to survey the sowens before they went on the fire, and actually swore they were o’er thin; and she swore by her conscience they would be thick enough, if ill hands and ill een bade awa frae them. A sweet be here, mither, said he, do you think that I’m a witch? Witch here, or witch there, said the wife, swearing by her saul, and that was nae banning, she said, they’ll be gude substantial meat;—a what say you chapman? Indeed, goodwife, said I, sowens are but saft meat at the best, but, if you make them thick enough, and put a good lump of butter in them, they’ll do very well for a supper. I trow sae lad, said she, ye ha’e some sense: so the old woman put on the pot with her sowens, and went to milk the cows, leaving me to steer; the goodman, her son, as soon as she went out, took a great cogful of water, and put it into the pot amongst the sowens, and then went out of the house and left me alone: I considering what sort of a pish-the-bed supper I was to get if I staid there, thought it fit to set out, but takes up a pitcher of water, and fills up the pot until it was running over, and then takes up my pack, and comes about a mile farther that night, leaving the honest woman and her son to sup their watery witched sowens at their own pleasure.

The next little town I came to, and the very first house that I entered, the wife cried out, ‘Plague on your snout, sir, ye filthy blackguard chapman-like b——h it ye are, the last time ye came here ye gart our Sandy burn the gude bane kame it I gid a saxpence for in Fa’kirk, ay did ye, ay, sae did ye een, and said ye wad gie him a muckle clear button to do it.’ Me, said I, I never had ado with you a’ the days of my life, and do not say that Sandy is mine. A wae worth the body, am I saying ye had ado wi’ me, I wadna hae ado wi’ the like o’ you, nor I am sure wi’ them I never saw. But what about the button and the bane kame, goodwife? Sannock is na this the man? Ay is’t, cried the boy, gie me my button, for I burnt the kame, and she paid me for’t. Gae awa, sir, said I, your mother and you are but mocking me. It was either you or ane like you, or some other body. O goodwife, I mind who it is now; ’twas just ane like me, when ye see the tane ye see the tither; they ca’ him Jock Jimbither. A wae worth him, quoth the wife, if I dinna thrapple him for my gude bane kame. Now, said I, goodwife, be good, bridle your passion, and buy a bane kame and coloured napkin, I’ll gie you a whaukin’ penny-worth, will gar you sing in your bed, if I should sell you the tae half and gift you the tither, and gar you pay for every inch o’t sweetly or a’ be done. Hech, man, said she, ye’re a hearty fallow, and I hae need o’ a’ these things, but a bane kame I maun hae; for our Sannock’s head is a’ hotchen, and our John’s is little better, for an’ let them alane but ae eight days, they grow as grit as grossets. And here I sold a bane kame and a napkin, for she believed such a douse lad as I had no hand in making the boy burn the bone comb.

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

Come, said he, I’ll buy twa penny worth of them frae ye, I hae troubled you sae muckle; no, said I, you lousied dog, I’ll sell you none, if there’s any on the ground, seek them up and stap them in a beast’s a—se; but if ye were a man, I would burn you in the fire, though it be in your own house; but as you are a poor tailor, and neither a man nor a boy, I’ll do nothing but expose you for what you are. O dear honest chapman, cried his wife, ye maunna do that, and I’se gie you cheese and bread. No, no, you thieves, I’m for nothing but vengeance; no bribes for such. So as I was lifting up my pack, there was a pretty black cat which I spread my napkin over, took the four corners in my hand, carrying her as a bundle, until I came about the middle of the town, then provoking the dogs to an engagement with me, so that there came upon me four or five collies, then I threw the poor tailor’s cat in the midst of them, and a terrible battle ensued for some time, and baudrins had certainly died in the field, had I not interposed and got her off mortally wounded. The people who saw the battle alarmed the tailor, and he sallied out like a great champion, with his elwand in his hand. Go back, said I, you lousie dog, or I’ll tell about the needles; at which word he turned about. I travelled down the side of a water called Avon; and as I was coming past a mill-dam, there was a big clownish fellow lifting a pitcher of water out of the dam, so he dipt it full and set it down on the ground, staring at me he rumbled in himself out of sight o’er head and ears, and as soon as he got out, I said,—Yo ho, friend, did you get the fish? What an a fish, ye b——h? O, said I, I thought you had seen a fish, when you jumped in to make it jump out. What a d——l, sir, are you mocking me?—runs round his pitcher, and gives me a kick on the a—e, so that I fell designedly on his pitcher, and it tumbled down the bank and went in pieces: his master and another man looking and laughing at us, the poor fellow complained of me to him, but got no satisfaction.

The same evening as I was going towards the town of Linlithgow, I met an old crabbed fellow riding upon an old glaid mare, which he always was thrashing upon with his stick. Goode’en to you, goodman, said I, are you going to the bull wi’ your mare? What do you say sir? they gang to the bull wi’ a cow, you brute. O yes, goodman, you are right, said I; but what do they ca’ the he-beast that rides on the mare’s back? They ca’d a cusser, sir: a well then, goode’en to you, master cusser. He rides a little bit, then turns back in a rage, saying, I say, sir, your last words are waur than your first: he comes then to ride me down, but I struck his beast on the face, and in a short turn about it fell, yet, or I could get my pack to the ground, he cut me on the head at the first stroke; I then getting clear of the pack, played it away for some time, till by blows on the face, I made him bleed at both mouth and nose; then he cried out, Chapman, we are baith daft, for we’ll kill oursells and mak naething o’t; we had better ’gree: with all my heart, said I; and what will you buy? nothing but a pair of beard shears, said he, and give me them cheap; so I sold him a pair of B. shears, for three half-pence, and give him a needle, then parted good friends after the battle was over.

So I went to Linlithgow that night, where I met with Drouthy Tom, my sweet and dear companion, and here we held a most terrible encounter with the tippenny for twa nights and a day; and then we set out for Fife, on the hair order, by the way of Torryburn and Culross; and came up to a parcel of women washing by a water-side, I buys one of their hair: the time I was cutting it off, Tom fell a courting and kissing and clapping one of them, what happened I know not, but she cried out, Ye mislear’d filthy fallow, ye put your hand atween my feet. Daft jade, canna ye haud your tongue when it’s your ain shame that ye speak. Filthy body, the last chapman that kissed me had a horse pack, but he’ll hae naething in his Pack but auld breeks, hare skins, mauken skins, or ony trash that fills the bag and bears bouk, and yet he wad kiss and handle me! I was made for a better fallow.

FINIS.

THE

COMICAL HISTORY

OF

SIMPLE JOHN

AND HIS

TWELVE MISFORTUNES,

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

GLASGOW:

PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

COMICAL HISTORY
OF
SIMPLE JOHN,
AND HIS
TWELVE MISFORTUNES.

Simple John was a widow’s son, and a coarse country weaver to his trade. He made nothing but such as canvas for caff-beds, corn and coal sacks, drugget and harn was the finest webs he could lay his fingers to: he was a great lump of a lang, lean lad, aboon sax feet afore he was aughteen years auld; and, as he said himsel, he grew sae fast, and was in sic a hurry to be high, that he did not stay to bring a’ his judgment with him, but yet he hoped it would follow him, and he would meet wi’t as mony a ane does after they’re married. He had but ae sister, and she had as little sense as himsel’, she was married on Sleeky Willie, the wylie weaver; his mither was a rattling rattle-scull’d wife, and they lived a’ in ae house, and every body held them as a family of fools. When John came to man’s estate, to the age of twenty-one years, he told his mither he would hae a wife o’ some sort, either young or auld, widow or lass, if they had but heads and lips, tongue and tail, he should tak them, and weel I wat, mither, quoth he, they’ll get a lumping penny-worth o’ me, get me wha will.

His mither tells him o’ the black butcher on Ti’ot-side, wha had three doughters, and every ane o’ them had something, there was Kate, Ann, and Girzy, had a hundred merks the piece. Kate and Ann had baith bastards. Girzy the eldest had a humph back, a high breast, baker legged, a short wry neck, thrawn mouth, and goggle ey’d; a perfect Æsop of the female kind, with as many crooked conditions within as without, a very lump of loun-like ill-nature, row’d a’ together, as if she had been nine months in a haggis, a second edition of crook backed Richard, an old English King, that was born with teeth to bite a’ around about him, and yet the wight gaed mad to be married.

John’s mither told him the road where to go, and what to say, and accordingly he sets out wi’ his Sunday’s coat on, and a’ his braws, and a pair of new pillonian breeks o’ his mither’s making. In he comes and tells his errand before he would sit down, says good day to you, goodman, what are you a’ doing here? I am wanting a wife, an’ ye’re a flesher, and has a gude sorting aside you, my mither says ye can sair me or ony body like me, what say ye till’t, goodman? How mony douchters hae ye? Are they a’ married yet? I fain wad tak a look o’ some o’ them gin ye like.

A wow, said the goodwife, come in by, honest lad, and rest ye, an ye be a wooer sit down and gie’s a snuff—A deed, goodwife, I hae nae mills but my mither’s, and it’s at hame.—Whare win ye, I’se no ken ye? I wat, quoth he, my name’s Jock Sandyman, and they ca’ me Simple John the sack weaver. I hae nae tocher but my loom, a pirn-wheel, a kettle, pat, a brass pan, twa pigs, four cogs, and a candlestick, a good cock, a cat, twa errocks new begun to lay; my sister Sara is married on Sleeky Willie the wylie weaver, and I maun hae a hagwife or my mither die, for truly she’s very frail, and ony harl o’ health she has is about dinner time; what say ye till’t, goodman? can ye buckle me or not?

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

Hout, tout, says John, ony o’ them will sair me, but my mither says there is twa o’ them has fauts. And what is their fauts? says the goodwife. Hout, said John, it’s no meikle faut, but I dinna like it, they got men or they were married. And what shall I do wi’ them? said the goodman.

John. A deed, goodman, as ye’re ay dealing among dead beasts and living beasts, I wad put them awa among ither beasts, or gin ye be aun ony penny, let somebody tak them up o’ desperate debt, I sud flie the fykes frae them, they anger’d you, and sham’d you baith with their bastards, a wheen daft jades it gets men or they be married, and bairns or they get bridals.

Goodwife. A wat weel that’s true, lad.

Girzy. A weel, John, then, will ye tak me; I hae nae bastards; how will you and I do?

John. I wat na gin ye be able to get a bastard, yet ye may hae some waur faut; but ye maun be my pennyworth, for ye’re unco little, and I’m o’er muckle, and gin ye and I war ance carded through ither, we may get bonny weans o’ a middlen mak. I hae nae fauts to ye, but ye hae a high breast, a humph back, a short neck, and high shouthers, the hands and legs may do, tho’ your mouth be a wee to the tae side it will lie weel to the rock, and I hae a hantle o’ tow to spin, will be baith sarks and sacks till us, ye’ll be my soncy dauty, up and down; a perfect beauty, wi’ cat’s yellow een, black brous, and red lips, and your very nose is a purple colour; ye hae nae fauts at a’. Now, whan will we be married?

Girzy. Ha, ha, John lad, we maun think on that yet.

John. What the yeltow, lass, should na ye be ready whan I’m ready, and every body says that the woman’s aye ready.

Goodman. Ye’ll hae to come back and bring somebody wi’ you, and we’ll gree about it, and set the day whan ye’ll be married.

John. A weel, goodman, I’ll tell my mither o’t, and come back on Monday, and we’ll hae a chappin o’ ale, and roasted cheese on the chance o’t, but I maun hae a word o’ the bride out by, to convoy me, and a quiet speak to hersel about it.

Goodwife. A wow na, John, the daft loons will laugh at you, and she’ll think shame, gang ye out by, and she’ll speak to you through the gavel window.

Out goes John, and the bride, and her twa sisters goes to the window within to hear the diversion, and what he would say. Now says John, Girzy my dear, my braw pretty woman, an ye be in earnest, tell me, for by my suth I’m no scorning.

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

John. Then gie me a kiss on that.

He shoves his head in at the window, making a lang neck to win down to her, and she stood on a little stool to win up to him. O, cries he, an ye were good flesh I could eat you a’, I like you sae weel; it’s a pity there is sic a hard wa’ between us, I’se tell my mither sae bonny as ye are: O, gie me anither kiss yet, and then I’ll go. One of her sisters standing by in a dark corner, gets haud o’ a cow’s head, which wanted a’ the skin but about the mouth, and shoves it towards his mouth, which he kissed in the dark. O, cries he, your mouth be cauld since I kissed ye last, and I think ye hae a beard, I saw nae that before, or is’t wi’ spinning tow that maks your mouth sae rough at e’en.

Hame he comes, and tells his mither the speed and properties of the marriage.

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

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

Now John was furnished in a house by his father-in-law; the bed, the loom, heddles, treadles, thrumbs, reed, and pirn-wheel, was a’ brought and set up before the marriage, which was kept a profound secret; so that John got the first night of his ain wife, and his ain house at ae time. So, on the next morning after the marriage, John and his wife made up some articles, how they were to work, and keep house; John was to keep the house in meat, meal, fire, and water; Girzy was to mak the meat, and keep the house in clothes; the father-in-law to pay the rent for three years; they were to hae nae servants, until they had children; and their first child was to be a John, after its ain Daddy, get it wha will, if a boy; and if a girl, Girzy, after its ain minny, as she said, wha wrought best for’t.