The Project Gutenberg eBook ofKrindlesykeThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: KrindlesykeAuthor: Wilfrid Wilson GibsonRelease date: July 3, 2006 [eBook #18743]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Louise Hope, Alicia Williams and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KRINDLESYKE ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: KrindlesykeAuthor: Wilfrid Wilson GibsonRelease date: July 3, 2006 [eBook #18743]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Louise Hope, Alicia Williams and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Title: Krindlesyke
Author: Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
Author: Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
Release date: July 3, 2006 [eBook #18743]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Louise Hope, Alicia Williams and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KRINDLESYKE ***
In the printed book, all advertising and related matter was placed before the main text; the Epilogue was the final page of the book. Most of this front matter has been moved to the end of the e-text.Unusual spellings are assumed to be intentional unless there is strong reason to believe otherwise. The use of parentheses in stage directions is as in the original.The word “thon” (a regional variant of “yon”) is used several times in the text. The pronoun “thou” does not occur.
Onthe occasion of an obscure dramatic presentation, an early and rudimentary draft of Book I. was published in 1910. It has since been entirely re-written. Book II., written 1919-22, has not been printed hitherto. Though the work was not conceived with a view to stage-production, the author reserves the acting rights.
It may be added that, while “Krindlesyke” is not in dialect, it has been flavoured with a sprinkling of local words; but as these are, for the most part, words expressive of emotion, rather than words conveying information, the sense of them should be easily gathered even by the south-country reader.
W. G.
Four bleak stone walls, an eaveless, bleak stone roof,Like a squared block of native crag, it stands,Hunched, on skirlnaked, windy fells, aloof:Yet, was it built by patient human hands:Hands, that have long been dust, chiselled each stone,And bedded it secure; and from the squareSquat chimneystack, hither and thither blown,The reek of human fires still floats in air,And perishes, as life on life burns through.Squareset and stark to every blast that blows,It bears the brunt of time, withstands anewWildfires of tempest and league-scouring snows,Dour and unshaken by any mortal doom,Timeless, unstirred by any mortal dream:And ghosts of reivers gather in the gloomAbout it, muttering, when the lych-owls scream.
Krindlesyke is a remote shepherd’s cottage on the Northumbrian fells, at least three miles from any other habitation. It consists of two rooms, a but and a ben.Ezra Barrasford, an old herd, blind and decrepit, sits in an armchair in the but, or living-room, near the open door, on a mild afternoon in April.Eliza Barrasford, his wife, is busy, making griddle-cakes over the peat fire.
Eliza(glancing at the wag-at-the-wa’):
It’s hard on three o’clock, and they’ll be homeBefore so very long now.
Ezra:
Eh, what’s that?
Eliza:
You’re growing duller every day. I saidThey’d soon be home now.
Ezra:
They? And who be they?
Eliza:
My faith, you’ve got a memory like a milk-sile!You’ve not forgotten Jim’s away to wed?You’re not that dull.
Ezra:
We cannot all be needles:And some folk’s tongues are sharper than their wits.Yet, till thon spirt of hot tar blinded me,No chap was cuter in all the countryside,Or better at a bargain; and it tookA nimble tongue to bandy words with mine.You’d got to be up betimes to get round Ezra:And none was a shrewder judge of ewes, or women.My wits just failed me once, the day I married:But, you’re an early riser, and your tongueIs always up before you, and with an edge,Unblunted by the dewfall, and as busyAs a scythe in the grass at Lammas. So Jim’s awayTo wed, is he, the limb? I thought he’d goneFor swedes; though now, I mind some babblementAbout a wedding: but, nowadays, words tumbleThrough my old head like turnips through a slicer;And naught I ken who the bowdykite’s to wed—Some bletherskite he’s picked up in a ditch,Some fond fligary flirtigig, clarty-fine,Who’ll turn a slattern-shrew and a cap-riverWithin a week, if I ken aught of Jim.Unless ... Nay, sure, ’twas Judith Ellershaw.
Eliza:
No, no; you’re dull, indeed. It’s Phœbe Martin.
Ezra:
Who’s Phœbe Martin? I ken naught of her.
Eliza:
And I, but little.
Ezra:
Some trapsing tatterwallops,I’ll warrant. Well, these days, the lads are likeThe young cockgrouse, who doesn’t consult his dadBefore he mates. In my—yet, come to think,I didn’t say overmuch. My dad and mammyScarce kenned her name when I sprung my bride on them;Just loosed on them a gisseypig out of a pokeThey’d heard no squeak of. They’d to thole my choice,Lump it or like it. I’d the upper hand then:And well they kenned their master. No tawse to chide,Nor apron-strings to hold young Ezra then:His turn had come; and he was cock of the midden,And no braw cockerel’s hustled him from it yet,For all their crowing. The blind old bird’s still game.They’ve never had his spirit, the young cheepers,Not one; and Jim’s the lave of the clutch; and heWill never lord it at Krindlesyke till I’m straked.But this what’s-her-name the gaby’s bringing ...
Eliza:
Phœbe.
Ezra:
A posical name; I never heard the like.She’ll be a flighty faggit, mark my words.
Eliza:
She’s only been here once before; and nowShe’ll be here all the time. I’ll find it strangeWith another woman in the house. Needs mustGet used to it. Your mother found it strange,Likely ... It’s my turn now, and long in coming.Perhaps, that makes it harder. I’ve got setLike a vane, when the wind’s blown east so long, it’s cloggedWith dust, and cannot whisk with the chopping breeze.’Twill need a wrench to shift my bent; for changeComes sore and difficult at my time of life.
Ezra:
Ay, you may find your nose put out of joint,If she’s a spirited wench.
Eliza:
Due east it’s blownSince your mother died. She barely outlived my coming;And never saw a grandchild. I wonder ... Yet,I spared her all I could. Ay, that was it:She couldn’t abide to watch me trying to spare her,Another woman doing her work, finoodlingAt jobs she’d do so smartly, tidying her hearth,Using her oven, washing her cups and saucers,Scouring her tables, redding up her rooms,Handling her treasures, and wearing out her gear.And now, another, wringing out my dishclout,And going about my jobs in her own fashion;Turning my household, likely, howthery-towthery,While I sit mum. But it takes forty years’Steady east wind to teach some folk; and thenThey’re overdried to profit by their learning.And so, without a complaint, and keeping her secrets,Your mother died with patient, quizzical eyes,Half-pitying, fixed on mine; and dying, leftKrindlesyke and its gear to its new mistress.
Ezra:
A woman, she was. You’ve never had her handAt farls and bannocks; and her singing-hinniesFair melted in the mouth—not sad and soggyAs yours are like to be. She’d no habnabAnd hitty-missy ways; and she’d turn to,At shearing-time, and clip with any man.She never spared herself.
Eliza:
And died at forty,As white and worn as an old table-cloth,Darned, washed, and ironed to a shred of cobweb,Past mending; while your father was sixty-nineBefore he could finish himself, soak as he might.
Ezra:
Don’t you abuse my father. A man, he was—No fonder of his glass than a man should be.Few like him now: I’ve not his guts, and Jim’sJust a lamb’s head, gets half-cocked on a thimble,And mortal, swilling an eggcupful; a gillWould send him randy, reeling to the gallows.Dad was the boy! Got through three bottles a day,And never turned a hair, when his own master,Before we’d to quit Rawridge, because the dandyHad put himself outside of all his money—Teeming it down his throat in liquid gold,Swallowing stock and plenishing, gear and graith.A bull-trout’s gape and a salamander thrapple—A man, and no mistake!
Eliza:
A man; and so,She died; and since your mother was carried out,Hardly a woman’s crossed the threshold, and noneHas slept the night at Krindlesyke. Forty-year,With none but men! They’ve kept me at it; and nowJim’s bride’s to take the work from my hands, and doThings over that I’ve done over for forty-year,Since I took them from your mother—things some woman’sBeen doing at Krindlesyke since the first brideCame home.
Ezra:
Three hundred years since the first herdCut peats for that hearth’s kindling. Set alow,Once and for all, it’s seen a wheen lives burnBlack-out: and when we, too, lie in the houseThat never knew housewarming, ’twill be glowing.Ay! and some woman’s tongue’s been going it,Like a wag-at-the-wa’, in this steading, three hundred years,Tick-tocking the same things over.
Eliza:
Dare say, we’ll manage:A decent lass—though something in her eye,I couldn’t quite make out. Hardly Jim’s sort ...But, who can ever tell why women marry?And Jim ...
Ezra:
Takes after me: and wenches buzzRound a handsome lad, as wasps about a bunghole.
Eliza:
Though now they only see skin-deep, those eyesWill search the marrow. Jim will have his hands full,Unless she’s used to menfolk and their ways,And past the minding. She’d the quietnessThat’s a kind of pride, and yet, not haughty—heldHer head like a young blood-mare, that’s mettlesomeWithout a touch of vice. She’ll gan her gaitThrough this world, and the next. The bit in her teeth,There’ll be no holding her, though Jim may tugThe snaffle, till he’s tewed. I’ve kenned that lookIn women’s eyes, and mares’, though, with a difference.And Jim—yet she seemed fond enough of Jim:His daffing’s likely fresh to her, though his jokesAre last week’s butter. Last week’s! For forty-yearI’ve tholed them, all twice-borrowed, from dad and granddad,And rank, when I came to Krindlesyke, to findLife, the same jobs and same jests over and over.
Ezra:
A notion, that, to hatch, full-fledged and crowing!You must have brooded, old clocker.
Eliza:
True enough,Marriage means little more than a new gownTo some: but Phœbe’s not a fancicle tauntril,With fingers itching to hansel new-fangled flerds.Why she’d wed ...
Ezra:
Tuts! Girls take their chance. And you’dConceit enough of Jim, at one time—proudAs a pipit that’s hatched a cuckoo: and if the gowkWere half as handsome as I—you ken, yourself,You needed no coaxing: I wasted little breathWhistling to heel: you came at the first “Isca!”
Eliza:
Who kens what a lass runs away from, crazed to quitHome, at all hazards, little realizingIt’s life, itself, she’s trying to escape;And plodging deeper.
Ezra:
Trust a wench for kenning.I’ve to meet the wife who’d be a maid again:Once in the fire, no wife, though she may crackleOn the live coals, leaps back to the frying-pan.It’s against nature.
Eliza:
Maybe: and yet, somehow,Phœbe seemed different.
Ezra:
I’ve found little differenceBetwixt one gimmer and another gimmer,When the ram’s among them. But, where does she hail from?
Eliza:
Allendale way. Jim met her at Martinmas fair.
Ezra:
We met ...
Eliza:
Ay, fairs have much to answer for.
Ezra:
I thought ’twas Judith Ellershaw.
Eliza:
God forbid’Twas Judith I’d to share with: though Jim fanciedThe lass, at one time. He’s had many fancies:Light come, light go, it’s always been with Jim.
Ezra:
And I was gay when I was young—as briskAs a yearling tup with the ewes, till I’d the pains,Like red-hot iron, clamping back and thighs.My heart’s a younker’s still; but even loveGives in, at last, to rheumatics and lumbago.Now, I’m no better than an old bell-wether,A broken-winded, hirpling tattyjackThat can do nothing but baa and baa and baa.I’d just to whistle for a wench at Jim’s age:And Jim’s ...
Eliza:
His father’s son.
Ezra:
He’s never hadMy spirit. No woman’s ever bested me.For all his bluster, he’s a gaumless nowt,With neither guts nor gall. He just butts blindly—A woolly-witted ram, bashing his horns,And spattering its silly brains out on a rock:No backbone—any trollop could twiddle himRound her little finger: just the sort a doxy,Or a drop too much, sets dancing, heels in air:He’s got the gallows’ brand. But none of your sonsHas a head for whisky or wenches; and not oneHas half my spunk, my relish. I’d not trustTheir judgment of a ewe, let alone a woman:But I could size a wench up, at a glance;And Judith ...
Eliza:
Ay: but Krindlesyke would beA muckheap-lie-on, with that cloffy slutFor mistress. But she flitted one fine night.
Ezra:
Rarely the shots of the flock turn lowpy-dyke;Likelier the tops have the spunk to run ramrace;And I think no worse ...
Eliza:
Her father turned her out,’Twas whispered; and he’s never named her, since:And no one’s heard a word. I couldn’t tholeThe lass. She’d big cow-eyes: there’s little goodIn that sort. Jim’s well shot of her; he’ll notHear tell of her: that sort can always findAnother man to fool: they don’t come back:Past’s past, with them.
Ezra:
I liked ...
Eliza:
Ay, you’re Jim’s dad.But now he’s settling down, happen I’ll seeBairn’s bairns at Krindlesyke, before I die.Six sons—and only the youngest of the bunchLeft in the old home to do his parents credit.
Ezra:
Queer, all went wild, your sons, like collies bittenWith a taste for mutton bleeding-hot. Cold leadCures dogs of that kidney, peppering them one fine nightFrom a chink in a stell; but, when they’re two-legged curs,They’ve a longer run; and, in the end, the gallowsDon’t noose them, kicking and squealing like snarled rabbits,Dead-certain, as ’twould do in the good old days.
Eliza:
You crack your gallows-jokes on your own sons—And each the spit of the father that drove them wild,With cockering them and cursing them; one moment,Fooling them to their bent, the moment after,Flogging them senseless, till their little bodiesWere one blue bruise.
Ezra:
I never larruped enough,But let the varmints off too easily:That was the mischief. They should have had my dad—An arm like a bullock-walloper, and a fistCould fell a stot; and faiks, but he welted meSkirlnaked, yarked my hurdies till I yollered,In season and out, and made me the man I am.Ay, he’d have garred the young eels squirm.
Eliza:
And yet,My sons, as well: though I lost my hold of eachAlmost before he was off my lap, with youTo egg them on against me. Peter went first:And Jim’s the lave. But he may settle down.God kens where you’d be, if you’d not wed young.
Ezra:
And the devil where you’d be, if we hadn’t metThat hiring-day at Hexham, on the minute.I’d spent last hiring with another wench,A giggling red-haired besom; and we were trystedTo meet at the Shambles: and I was awaiting her,When I caught the glisk of your eye: but she was late;And you were a sonsy lassie, fresh and pink;Though little pink about you now, I’d fancy.
Eliza:
Nay, forty-year of Krindlesyke, and all!
Ezra:
Young carroty-pow must have been in a fine fantigue,When she found I’d mizzled. Yet, if she’d turned upIn time, poor mealy-face, for all your roses,You’d never have clapped eyes on Krindlesyke:This countryside and you would still be strangers.
Eliza:
In time!
Ezra:
A narrow squeak.
Eliza:
If she’d turned up,The red-haired girl had lived at Krindlesyke,Instead of me, this forty-year: and I—I might ... But we must dree our weird. And yet,To think what my life might have been, if only—The difference!
Ezra:
Ay, and hers, “if ifs and ans!”But I’m none certain she’d have seen it, either.I could have had her without wedding her,And no mistake, the nickering, red-haired baggage.Though she was merry, she’d big rabbit-teeth,Might prove gey ill to live with; ay, and a swarmOf little sandy moppies like their doe,Buck-teeth and freckled noses and saucer-eyes,Gaping and squealing round the table at dinner,And calling me their dad, as likely as not:Though little her mug would matter, now I’m blind;And by this there’ll scarce be a stump in her yellow gums,And not a red hair to her nodding poll—That shock of flame a shrivelled, grizzled wispLike bracken after a heathfire; that creamy skin,Like a plucked hen’s. But she’d a merry eye,The giglet; and that coppertop of hersWas good to think on of a nippy morning:While you—but you were young then ...
Eliza:
Young and daft.
Ezra:
Nay, not so gite; for I was handsome then.
Eliza:
Ay, the braw birkie of that gairishonOf menseless slubberdegullions: and I trustedMy eyes, and other people’s tongues, in those days:And you’d a tongue to glaver a guff of a girl,The devil’s own; and whatever’s gone from you,You’ve still a tongue, though with a difference:Now it’s all edge.
Ezra:
The knife that spreads the butterWill slice the loaf. But it’s sharper than my teeth.
Eliza:
Ay, tongues cut deeper than any fang can bite,Sore-rankling wounds.
Ezra:
You talk of tongues! I’m deaf:But, for my sins, I cannot be deaf to yours,Nattering me into my grave; and, likely, your wordsWill flaffer about my lugs like channering peesweeps,When I lie cold.
Eliza:
Yes, I was young, and agapeFor your wheedling flum, till it fleeched my self from me.There’s something in a young girl seems to workAgainst her better sense, and gives her up,Almost in spite of her.
Ezra:
It’s nature.
Eliza:
ThenNature has more than enough to answer for.Young, ay! And you, as gallant as the stallion,With ribboned tail and mane, that pranced to the crackOf my father’s whip, when first I saw you gaping,Kenspeckle in that clamjamfrey of copers.
Ezra:
Love at first sight!
Eliza:
And I was just as foolishAs you were braw.
Ezra:
Well, we’d our time of it,Fools, or no fools. And you could laugh in those days,And didn’t snigger like the ginger fizgig.Your voice was a bird’s: but you laugh little now;And—well, maybe, your voice is still a bird’s.There’s birds and birds. Then, ’twas a cushy-doo’sThat’s brooding on her nest, while the red giglet’sWas a gowk’s at the end of June. Do you call to mindWe sat the livelong day in a golden carriage,Squandering a fortune, forby the tanner I dropt?They wouldn’t stop to let me pick it up;And when we alighted from the roundabout,Some skunk had pouched it: may he pocket itRed-hot in hell through all eternity!If I’d that fortune now safe in my kist!But I was a scatterpenny: and you were bonnie—Pink as a dog-rose were your plump cheeks then:Your hair’d the gloss and colour of clean straw:And when, at darkening, the naphtha flares were kindled,And all the red and blue and gold aglitter—Drums banging, trumpets braying, rattles craking;And we were rushing round and round, the music—The music and the dazzle ...
Eliza:
Ay: that was it—The rushing and the music and the dazzle.Happen ’twas on a roundabout that JimWon Phœbe Martin.
Ezra:
And when you were dizzy,And all a hazegaze with the hubblyshew;You cuddled up against me, snug and warm:And round and round we went—the music brayingAnd beating in my blood: the gold aglitter ...
Eliza:
And there’s been little dazzle since, or music.
Ezra:
But I was merry, till I fetched you home,To swarm the house with whinging wammerels.
Eliza:
You fetched me from my home. If I’d but knownBefore I crossed the threshold. I took my arles,And had to do my darg. And another brideComes now. They’ll soon be here: the train was dueAt half-past one: they’d walk it in two hours,Though bride and groom.
Ezra:
I wish he’d married Judith.Cow-eyed, you called the wench; but cows have horns,And, whiles, they use them when you least expect.’Twould be no flighty heifer you’d to face,If she turned mankeen. But, I liked the runt.Jim might do worse.
Eliza:
You liked ... But come, I’ll setYour chair outside, where you can feel the sun;And hearken to the curlew; and be the firstTo welcome Jim and Phœbe as man and wife.Come!
Ezra:
Are the curlew calling?
Eliza:
Calling? Ay!And they’ve been at it all the blessed day,As on the day I came to Krindlesyke.Likely the new bride—though ’twasn’t at the timeI noticed them: too heedless and new-fangled.She may be different: she may hear them now:They’re noisy enough.
Ezra:
I cannot catch a note:I’m getting old, and deaved as well as darkened.When I was young, I liked to hear the whaupsCalling to one another down the slacks:And I could whistle, too, like any curlew.’Twas an ancient bird wouldn’t answer my call: and nowI’m ancient myself—an old, blind, doddering heron,Dozing his day out in a syke, while minnowsPlay tiggy round his shanks and nibble his toes;And the hawk hangs overhead. But then the bloodWas hot, and I’d a relish—such a relish!Keen as a kestrel ... and now ...
Eliza:
It’s Jim and Phœbe—The music and the dazzle in their heads:And they’ll be here ...
Ezra:
I wish he’d married Judith:She’s none the worse for being a ruddled ewe.
Eliza:
Nay, God forbid! At least, I’m spared that bildert.
(Ezrarises; andElizacarries out his chair, and he hobbles after her. She soon returns, and puts griddle-cakes into the oven to keep hot. Presently a step is heard on the threshold, andJudith Ellershawstands in the doorway, a baby in her arms.Elizadoes not notice her for a few moments; then, glancing up, recognizes her with a start.)
Eliza:
You, Judith Ellershaw! I thought ’twas Jim.
Judith:
You thought ’twas Jim?
Eliza:
Jim and ... To think it’s you!Where’ve you sprung from? It’s long since you’ve shown faceIn these parts; and we’d seen the last of you,I reckoned, little dreaming—and, least of all,To-day!
Judith:
And should I be more welcome, then,On any other?
Eliza:
Welcome? I hardly know.Decent folk don’t keep open house for your sortAt any time. Your foot’s not dirtied that doorstoneA dozen times in your life: and then, to come,To-day, of all days, just when Jim ...
(Breaks off abruptly.)
Judith:
When Jim?
Eliza:
But, don’t stand there. You’re looking pale and peaked.It’s heavy, traiking the fell-tracks with a baby:Come in, and rest a moment, if you’re tired.You cannot bide here long: I’m sorry, lass;But I’m expecting company; and youYourself, I take it, won’t be over-eagerFor company.
Judith:
I’m tired enough, God kens—Bone-weary: but we’ll not stay long, to shame you:And you can send us packing in good time,Before your company comes.
(She enters, and seats herself on a chair near the door.Elizabusies herself, laying the table for tea, and there is silence for a while.)
Judith:
And so, Jim’s goneTo fetch the company?
Eliza:
Ay, Jim has gone ...
(She breaks off again abruptly, and says no more for a while. Presently she goes to the oven, takes out a griddle-cake, splits and butters it, and hands it toJudith.)
Eliza:
Likely, you’re hungry, and could do with a bite?
Judith(taking it):
I’m famished. Cake! We’re grand, to-day, indeed!And scones and bannocks—carties, quite a spread!It’s almost like a wedding.
Eliza:
A wedding, woman?Can’t folk have scones and bannocks and singing-hinnies,But you must prate of weddings—you, and all!
Judith:
I meant no harm. I thought, perhaps, Jim might ...Though, doubtless, he was married long ago?
(Elizadoes not answer.Judith’sbaby begins to whimper, and she tries to hush it in an absent manner.)
Judith:
Whisht, whisht! my little lass! You mustn’t cry,And shame the ears of decent folk. Whisht, whisht!
Eliza:
Why, that’s no way to hush the teelytoon.Come, give the bairn to me. Come, woman, come!
(Taking the child fromJudith.)
I’ll show you how to handle babies. There!
Judith:
And you would nurse my brat?
Eliza:
A bairn’s a bairn—Ay, even though its mother ...
(Breaks off abruptly, and stands, gazing before her, clasping the baby to her bosom.)
Judith:
Why don’t you finish?“Ay, even though its mother ...” you were saying.
Eliza:
It’s ill work, calling names.
Judith:
You needn’t fearTo make me blush by calling me any nameThat hasn’t stung me to the quick already.My pious father had a holy tongue;And he had searched the Scriptures to some purpose.
Eliza(gazing before her in an abstracted manner):
Ay: likely enough.... Poor bairn, poor little bairn—It’s strange, but, as you snuggled to my breast,I could have fancied, a moment, ’twas Jim I heldIn my arms again. I’m growing old and foolish,To have such fancies.
Judith:
Fancied ’twas Jim, your son—My bastard brat?
Eliza:
Shame on you, woman, to callYour own bairn such, poor innocent. It’s notTo blame for being a chance-bairn. Yet ... O Jim!
Judith:
Why do you call on Jim? He’s not come home yet?But I must go, before your son brings back ...Give me the bairn ...
Eliza(withholding the baby):
Nay, daughter, not till I learnThe father’s name.
Judith:
What right have you ...
Eliza:
God kens ...And yet ...
Judith:
Give me the bairn. You’ll never learnThe father’s name from me.
Eliza:
Go, daughter, go.What ill-chance made you come to-day, of all days?
Judith:
Why not to-day? Come, woman, I’d ken that,Before I go. I’ve half a mind to stay.
Eliza:
Nay, lass, you said ...
Judith:
I’ve said a lot, in my time.I’ve changed my mind. ’Twas Jim I came to see—Though why, God kens! I liked the singing-hinny:Happen, there’ll be some more for me, if I stay.I find I cannot thrive on nettle-broth:And it’s not every day ...
Eliza:
Judith, you ken.
Judith:
Ken? I ken nothing, but what you tell me.
Eliza:
Daughter,I’ll tell you all. You’ll never have the heart ...
Judith:
The heart!
Eliza:
To stay and shame us, when you ken all.
Judith:
All?
Eliza:
When you talked of weddings, you’d hit the truth:And Jim brings home his bride to-day. Even now ...
Judith:
And Jim brings home ...
Eliza:
I looked for them by this:But you’ve still time ...
Judith:
The bride comes home to-day.Brides should come home: it’s right a man should bringHis bride home—ay! And we must go, my wean,To spare her blushes. We’re no companyFor bride and bridegroom. Happen, we should meet them,You must not cry to him: I must not liftMy eyes to his. We’re nothing now to him.Your cry might tell her heart too much: my eyesMight meet her eyes, and tell ... It isn’t goodFor a bride to know too much. So, we must hideIn the ditch, as they pass by, if we should chanceTo meet them on the road—their road and ours—The same road, though we’re travelling different ways.The bride comes home. Brides come home every day.And you and I ...
Eliza:
There’s nothing else for it.
Judith:
There’s nothing else?