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 encreased, and John’s works turned out to be very wonderful; for he made Janet, that was his mither’s lass the last year, grow like an Elshin shaft, and got his Maggy wi’ bairn forby.
The hamsheughs were very great until auld uncle Rabby came into redd them, and a sturdy auld fallow he was, stood stively wi’ a stiff rumple, and by strength of his arms rave them sindry, flingin the tane east and the tither west, until they stood a round about like as many breathless forfoughen cocks, and no ane durst steer anither for him, Jockey’s mither was driven o’re a kist, and brogget a her hips on a round heckle, up she gat and rinning to fell Maggy’s mither wi’ the ladle, swearing she was the mither of a’ the mischief that happened, uncle Rabby ran in between them, he having a great lang nose like a trumpet, she recklessly came o’er his lobster neb a drive wi’ the ladle until the blood sprang out and ran down his auld grey beard and hang like snuffy bubbles at it; O! then he gaed wood, and looked as waefu like, as he had been a tod lowrie, com’d frae worrying lambs, wi’ his bloody mouth. Wi’ that he gets an auld flail, and rives away the supple, then drives them a to the back o’ the door, but yet nane wan out; than wi’ chirten and chappen, down comes the clay hallen and the hen bauk with Rab Reid the fidler, who had crept up aside the hens for the preservation of his fiddle.
Ben comes the bride when she got on her coat, clappet Rabby’s shoulder and bad him spare their lives: for their is blood enough shed in ae night, quoth she, and that my beard can witness, quoth he. So they a’ came in obedience to uncle Rabby, for his supple made their pows baith saft and sair that night; but daft Maggy Simson sat by the fire and picket banes a’ the time o’ the battle: indeed quoth she, I think ye’re a’ fools but mysel; for I came here to get a guid supper, and other fouk has gotten their skin we’ll pait.
By this time up got John the bridegroom, that was Jockey before he was married, but could na get his breeks; yet wi’ a horse nail he tacket his sark tail between his legs, that nane might see what every body should hide, and rambling he cries settle ye, or I’ll gar my uncle settle ye, and saften ye’re heads wi’ my auld supple.
Poor Rab Reid the fidler took a sudden blast; some said he was maw-turn’d wi’ the fa’; for he bocked up a the barley and then gar’d the ale go like a rain bow frae him as brown as wort brose.
The hurly burly being ended, and naething but fair words and shaking o’ hands, which was a sure sign o’ an agreement, they began to cow their cuttet lugs, and wash their sairs, a but Jockey’s mither, who cries out a black end on a you and your wedding baith: for I hae gotten a hunder holes dung in my arse wi’ the heckle teeth.
Jockey answers, A e’en had you wi’ them than mither, ye will een be better sair’d.
Up gets uncle Rabby, and auld Sandy the sutor o’ Seggyhole, and put every thing in order; they prappet up the bed wi’ a rake and rippling kame, the bearers being broken, they made a solid foundation of peats, laid on the cauf bed and bowsters, where Jockey and Maggy was beddet the second time.
Jockey no being used to lie wi’ a naked woman, except heads and thraws wi’ his mither, gets his twa hands about the brides neck and his houghs out o’er her hurdies, saying, I ne’er kist wife nor lass naked before, and for fainness I’ll bite you, I’ll bite you, &c. Naithing mair remarkable till about haf a year and four ukes thereafter, in comes Marion Mushet rinning barefoot and bare legget, wi’ bleart cheeks and a watery nose, cursing and banning, greeting and flyting.
Marion enters. Crying, and whar’s John.
His mither answers. Indeed he’s out in the yard powing Kail runts.
Marion. A black end on a him and his runts baith, for he’s ruin’d me and my bairn.
Mith. Ruin’d you! it canna be; he never did you ill, nor said you ill, be night or be day, what gars you say that?
Mar. O woman! our Jenny is a’ rowing like a pack o’ woo; indeed she’s wi’ quick bairn, and your John is the father o’t.
Mith. Our John the father o’t! had, there enough said, lying lown, I trow our John was ne’er guilty of sic a sinfu action: Daft woman, I true it ill be but wind that hoves up the lasses wame; she’ll hae drunken some sour drink like sour sowens, or rotten milk that mak’s her sae.
Mar. A wae be to him and his actions baith, he’s the father o’t furnicator dog that he’s, he’s ruin’d 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 cou’d pit on anither’s claes, or tak a louse aff ither.
Mith. I bid you had 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 o’ John, and let’s ratify’t wi’ the auld ruddoch: ay, ye’ere no blate for saying sae.
Mar. Be angry, or be well pleased, I’ll say’t in a your faces, an I’ll ca you before your betters about it or lang gae.
John enters. An what want ye now, is our brose ready yet?
Mith. Ay brose, black brose indeed for thee, my bairn; here Marion Mushet saying ye hae gotten her dochter wi’ bairn.
Jock. Me mither? I ne’er lay in a bed wi’ her dochter a my days, it’ll be the young lairds, for a saw him kiss her at the Lammas fair, an let glam at her nonsense.
Mith. Ay, ay, my man Johny, that’s the way she has gotten her belly fu’ o’ bairns; it’s no you nor the like o’ you, poor innocent lad, that gets bystart weans: a wheen filthy lowns, every ane loups on anither, and gies you the wyte o’ a’.
Mar. You may say what you like about it, it’s easy to ca’ a court whar there’s nae body to say again, but I’ll tell you a I ken about it, and that is what she tell’t me, and you guidwife telt me some o’t yoursel; an gin you hadna brought in Maggy wi’ her muckle tocher atween the twa, your Jockey and my Jenny had a been man and wife the day.
Jock. I wat weel that’s true.
Mith. Ye filthy dog at ye are, are ye gaun to confess wi’ a bystart; and it no yours: dinna I ken as well as she do wha’s aught it?
Jock. Ay but mither, we may deny as we like about it, but I doubt it come to my door at last.
Mith. Ye silly sumff and senseless fallow, had ye been knuckle deep wi’ the dirty drab, ye might a said sae, but ye telt me lang syne that ye cou’d na lo’e her, she was so lazy and lown like; besides her crooket fit and bow’d legs.
Jock. Ay but mither, do ye mind since ye sent me out to gie her the parting kiss, at the black hole o’ the peet stack; she rave the button frae my breeks, and wad gar me do’t; and bad me do’t, and cou’d flesh and blood refuse to do’t; I’m sure mither, I cou’d ne’er get her wi’ bairn an my breeks on.
Mith. Na, na, poor simple silly lad, the wean’s no yours, ilk ane loups on of anither, and you’ll get the wyte o’ a bytarts round about.
Up gets Maggy wi’ a rore, and rives her hair, cries her back, belly, and baith her sides; the weed and gut gaes thro’ my flesh like lang needles, nails or elshin irons. Wae be ti’ the day that e’er I saw his face, I had better married a tinkler, or a followed the sogers, as mony an honest man’s dochter has done, and liv’d a better life than I do.
Up gets Jockey and rins o’er the rigs, for John Roger’s wife, auld Katty the howdy, but or he wan back she parted wi’ patrick thro’ perfect spite, and then lay twa fauld o’er a stool in a swoon.
Jock. A well, a well, sirs, since my first born is dead without seeing the light o’ the warld; ye’s a get bread an cheese to the blyth meat, the thing we shou’d a war’d on the banket will sair the burial, and that will ay be some advantage: an Maggy should die, I maun een tak Jenny, the tane is as far a length as the tither: I’se be furnisht wi’ a wife between the twa.
But Maggy turn’d better the next day, and was able to muck the byre; yet there gead sic a tittle tattling thro’ the town every auld wife tell’t anither o’t, and a’ the light hippet hussies that rins between towns at een, 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 wi’ bairn.
At last Mess John Hill hears of the horrid action, and sends the elder of that quarter and Clinkem Bell[5] the grave maker, to summon Jockey and Jenny to the session, and to see how the stool of repentance wad set them,[6] no sooner had they entered the door but Maggy fa’s a greeting, and wringing her hands; Jockey’s mither fell a fliting, and he himself a rubbing his lugs, and riving his hair, saying, O gin I were but a half ell higher, I sud be a soger or it be lang, and gie me a good flail or a corn fork, I sud kill Frenchman enew, before I gaed to face yon flyting ministers, an be set up like a warlds wonder, on their cock-stool or black stool[7] an wha can bide the shame, whan every body looks to them, wi’ their sacken sarks or gowns on them,[8] like a piece of an auld canvass prickt about a body, for naething, but what every body does amaist, or they be married as well as me.
Mith. My man Johny, ye’re no the first that has done it, an ye’ll no be the last; een mony o’ the ministers has done it themselves, hout ay, your father and I did it mony a time.
Mag. Ay, ay, and that gars your son be so good o’t as he is: the thing that is bred in the flesh is ill to pit out o’ the bane.
Mith. Daft woman what way could the warld stand, if fouks wadna make use o’ ither, it’s the thing that’s natural, bairns getting, therefore it’s no to be scunnert at.
Mag. Ay, ay, but an they be for the like o’ that, they should marry.
Mith. But I think there’s little ill tho’ they try it yence or twice or they be married; it’s an unco thing till a body to be bound to a business, if they dinna ken whether they be able for it or no.
Mag. Ay, ay, that’s your way o’ doing and his, but its no the way o’ 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 mine.
Mag. Ay, but fouk should ay strive to mortify their members.
Mith. An is that your Whigry? Will you or any body else, wi’ your mortifying o’ your members, prevent what’s to come to pass? I wish I saw the minister an his elders, but I’se gie him scripture for a he’s done yet: tell na me about the mortifying o’ members, gin he hae gotten a bystart let her and him feed it between them an they sud gie’t soup about: but she maun keep it the first quarter, an be that time muckle black lady ’ill be cauft, we sall sell the cauf an foster the wean on the cow’s milk: That’s better mense for a fault, than a’ your mortifying o’ your members, and a’ your repenting-stools; a wheen papist rites an rotten ceremonies, fashing fouks wi’ sack gowns and buttock-males,[9] an I dinna ken what, but bide you yet till I see the minister.[10]
THE WONDERFUL WORKS OF OUR JOHN MADE MANIFEST BEFORE THE MINISTER, &c.