THE Vth AND LAST PART.
Being an Account of Jockeys Mother’s Death and Burial: With an Elegant Elegy and Epitaph on that occasion—The Baptizing of his two Children, and how he mounted the stool.
Being an Account of Jockeys Mother’s Death and Burial: With an Elegant Elegy and Epitaph on that occasion—The Baptizing of his two Children, and how he mounted the stool.
As Jockey and his mither came hobbling hame together on the out side of the auld doil’d beast his mither’s black mare; a waefu’ misfortune befel them;—Her hinderlets being wickedly wet, in John Davie’s well that morning, and it being a frosty night, her coats was a’ frozen round about her and the hard harn sark plaid clash between her legs like a wet dish clout, her teeth gaed like a rattle bag till almost haf gate hame, then she was suddenly seiz’d wi’ a rumbling in her muckle bag, what we kintry fouks ca’s a rush i’ the guts; Jockey was fash’d helping her aff and helping her on, foul, fat and dirty was the road, having like half a T——d as ever tadder length.
Jock. Deed mither, I doubt death has something to do wi’ you, for there’s a rumbling in a your wame like an auld wife kirning.
Mith. Hout tout I canna hear o’t, but they’ll be na fear o’ me now, I’m safe at my ain door, thanks to thee an’ the auldbeast it brought me; heat my feet wi’ the bannock stane, an’ lay me in my bed, fling four pair o’ blankets an’ a cann’os on me, I’ll be weel enough an’ ance I were better, swieth Maggy gae mak me a cogfu’ o’ milk brose, an’ a placks worth o’ spice in them, nae fear of an auld wife as lang as she’s loose behin, an can tak meat.
Jock. I’se be’t mither, a e’en fill up the boss o’ your belly, you’ll stand to the storm the better, I’se warran ye never die as lang as you can tak your meat.
Ben comes Maggy wi’ the brose; but four soups an’ a slag filled her to the teeth, till she began to bock them back again, and ding awa the dish.
Jock. A mither, mither I dout there’s mair ado wi’ you nor a dish to lick: whan ye refuse guide milk meat, I’m doubtfu’ your mouth be gaun to the mules.
Mith. A dear Johnny am no willin to die if I could do better: but this will be a sair winter, on auld frail fouks, yet an’ I wou’d grow better I might live these twenty years yet, an’ be nae auld wife for a’ that: but alake a day there is e’en mony auld fouk dying this year.
Jock. A deed mither there is fouks dying the year that never died before.
Mith. Dear Johnny wilt thou bring me the doctor he may do me some guide, for an my heart warna sick an’ my head sae sair, I think I may grow better yet.
Jock. A weel mither, I’se bring the doctor, the minister, an’ my uncle.
Mith. Na, na, bring nae ministers to me, his dry cracks ’ll do me but little guid, I dinna want to see his powder’d pow, an’ I in sic an ill condition; get me a pint o’ drams in the muckle bottle, an’ set in the bole in the back side o’ my bed.
Jock. A deed mither ye’re in the right o’t, for ye want to be weel warm’d within; to chace the call wind an’ frosty water out at your back side.
Then awa he rins to draff Meg’s at the Kirktown, an’ brings a bottle in every hand, out wi’ the cork an’ gies her ane in o’er, she sets it to her gab an’ squattles up a mutchkin at a waught,which was like to wirry her till she fell a rifting and roaring like an auld blunder-bush.
Mith. Hech hay, co’ she, but that maks an alteration and wears awa the wind.
Wi’ that her head fell to the cod and she sughte awa, like a very saint or drunken sinner.
Jock. O! Maggy, Maggy, my mither’s lost her breath, (she’ll no live lang without it,) I doubt she be dead already, and nae body seen her but ye and I and oursels twa; an’ she had been fair o’er seen it maksna, I’ll no ha’d this a fair strae death indeed, fy Maggy, cry in a’ the neighbours to see her die, although she be dead. O an’ she wad but shake her fit, or wag her muckle tae, it wad ay be some satisfaction:[20]but in came the neighbours in a hush, dinging ither down in the door.
Jock. Come awa sirs, for my mither’s as dead as a mauk, good be thanket for’t; but I’d rather it had a been the black mare, or the muckle rigget cow, for weel a wat I’ll een miss her, for she was a bra spinner o’ tow; an’ cou’d a cardet to twa muckle wheels, she had nae faut but ane an that was her tongue, but she’ll speak nae mair, fy gets a dale or a barn door to straught her on, for ay whan she was cauld she was unco kankert an’ ill to curch, but I’se hae her yerdet on Wednesday teen.
Come, come, says Maggy, wi maun hae her drest.
Jock. What does the fool mean? wad ye dress a dead woman, she’ll never gang to kirk nor market a’ her days again.
Mag. A dear John be at ease, ye ken she mauna be buried as she is, a sark and winding sheet is the least she can get.
Jock. Ah ha Maggy is that what you mean, she has a guid new windin sheet, it was never about her shoulders yet,[21]sayMaggy do’t a’ yoursell, and I’se gar clinkem Bell misure the grave and mak it.
Now when they brought out the corps John told the people they were welcome, to haud in a cheek o’ his auld mither wast the gate; and being laid right on the spakes,[22]ha! ha! quoth he, this is a braw honestly indeed, its mair boukie nor my bridal was, but when they came to the grave, it was o’er short and strait about the mouth, which set John in a great passion, saying a foul fa your naughty fashions master bell man, did not I packshon wi’ you for the bried o’ my mither’s back and the length o’ her carkage? an’ this hole winna haud her thou’s get nae mair o’ my change if I sude die the morn.
Uncle Rabbie. Whisht, whisht, stir, this sude be a day o’ mourning for your mither, dinna flyte here.
Jock. What the vengeance uncle, sudna fouks die when they’re auld? an’ am to pay for a hole and get but haf a hole; that’s the thing that vexes me, but I’se keep twopence out o’ his trencher for’t, an’ se will I een; but gang ye hame uncle to get cog and cap for the dradgey, and I’ll see her get fair play or I gae.
Hame they came in a croud and fell to the cheese and cheeks of leaves tuth and nail, the ale was handed about in cogs and caps, lashing it down o’er like bletchers watering their webs; John blutter’d in the cog like a cow in warm water, till the barm and bubbles came belling out at his nose, saying, a guide health to you a round about, an shoon and shortly may wi a gang the gate may mither’s gane, an’ I wish them a burying amang the dogs that speaks against it.[23]
About eight and twenty weeks thereafter Maggy had a wally weame fu of weans to bear, an’ ay whan she cryed, John cryed, which made a’ the kimmers and auld Katty the howdie laugh heartily to hear them.
Katty. Here now John, your wife’s brought to bed wi’ a bra lad bairn, gie him your blessing.
Jock. Well I wat he’s no want that, but an’ there had a been samuckle din at the getting o’ him, as at the bearing o’ him, it sude ne’er a been gotten for me: Come, come, gets in uncle Rabbie, the com riddle fu’ of the three nucket scons, whang down the cheese like peats, eat and drink[24]as at my mither’s dradgey, till wi forget our sorrow, and then weel see Mess John about a name till him; since wi see its the way o’t, that the young comes into the warld and chases out the auld, wi maun chrisen them, and they maun bury us.
Now John and his uncle goes to the minister, he enters, saying, guideen to you Mr. Minister ye dinna ken my mither’s dead?
Minister. Yes John I heard so: but how is your wife?
Jock. My wife stir a wae worth her, for the wives o’ our town an’ I hae gotten a waking night wi’ her; but wi hae gotten her turn’d and still’d again, she’s born a bra wally thumping stirra, he’ll herd the kye belyve to me an’ he had huggers on him, an’ am come to you to get a bit name to him.
Minister. A bit name to him John, if ye want no more but a name, ye may gie him that yourself.
Jock. Na but stir, I want baith the words and the water, what ye say to ither fouks say to me.
Minister. A but John you must give security or satisfaction, you’re a man under scandal.
Jock. What the muckle mischief stir, though under scandal or abune scandal, will ye refuse to chrisen my wean that’shonestly gotten in my ain wife’s bed beneath the blankets; caus I had a bystart, canna ye chrisen the weel com’d ane, let the bystart stand for its ain skaith without a name.
Minister. No John you have been too slackly dealt with, I’ll bring you to obedience by law, since you reject counsel.
Jock. A deed stir, I wad think naething to stan a time or twa on’t to please you, if there were nae body in the kirk on a uke day, but you an’ the elders to flyte a wee on me; but its war on a Sunday, to hae a’ body looking and laughing at me, as I had been coding the piese, suppen the kirn, or something that’s no bonny like pissing the bed.
Minister. A well John never mind you these things, come ye to the stool, its nothing when its over we cannot sae o’er much to you about it.
Upon Sunday thereafter John comes in with uncle Rabbies auld wide coat, a muckle great gray lang tail’d wig and a big bonnet, which cover’d his face, so that he seem’d more like an old Pilgrim than a young fornicator; mounts the creepy[25]with a stiff stiff back as he had been a man of sixty, every one looked at him, thinking he was some old stranger who knew not the stool of repentance by another seat, so that he passed the first day unknown but to very few, yet or the second it came to be known, that the whole parish and many more came to see him; which caused such a confusion that he was absolved, and got his children baptized the next day.
But there happened a tullie between the twa mother’s who would have both their names to be Johns, a weel, a weel says old John their father to the minister, deed stir ye maun ca’ the tean John an’ the tither Jock, and that will please baith these enemies o’ mankind.
Minister. A well John suppose ye do, it is still twa Johns nevertheless.
Jock. A deed stir, ye maun gie the wicked a’ their will, wi’s ca’ the bystart Jockie, an’ my son Johnny Bell; On wi’t some way and let her ca’t as she likes.
Minister. A dear John but ye speak indifferently about this matter, ye know not the nature of it.
Jock. A mony thanks to you Mess John, now caus ye hae chrisend baith my bairn and my bystart I hope you’ll forgive me the buttock mail.
Minister. John I desire you to be silent and to speak none here: You must keep a straight walk in time coming, free of scandal or offence.
Jock. Ay stir an’ how think ye the like o’ me can wak straight wi’ sic auld shevelin heel’d shune as mine, amang such rugh rigs, highs an’ hows as I hae to harl through.
Minister. I need not speak to you, you are but a poor mean ignorant person.
Jock. Na stir welawat am neither poor nor yet mean, my mither’s fairly yerdet now guide be thanket, and left a’ she had to Maggy and me.
Minister. But hear ye this John, ye must not kiss any other woman nor[26]your own wife, live justly like another honest christian, and you’ll come to die well.
Jock. A black end on a me stir, in ever I lay an unlawfu leg upon hissie again an they sude lie down to me while our Maggy lests; and for dyingthere’s nae fearo’ that, but I’ll no get fair play if ye an’ a’ the aulder fouk in the parish be not dead before me, so I hae done wi’ ye now.
An EPITAPH.
Here lies the dust of John Bell’s Mither,Against her will, death’s brought her hither;Clapt in this hole, hard by his dady,Death snatch’t her up, or she was ready;Lang might she liv’d wer’t not her wame,But wha can live beyond their time?There’s none laments her but the Suter,So here she lyes looking about her;Looking about her! how can that be?Yes, she sees her state, better than we.
Here lies the dust of John Bell’s Mither,Against her will, death’s brought her hither;Clapt in this hole, hard by his dady,Death snatch’t her up, or she was ready;Lang might she liv’d wer’t not her wame,But wha can live beyond their time?There’s none laments her but the Suter,So here she lyes looking about her;Looking about her! how can that be?Yes, she sees her state, better than we.
Here lies the dust of John Bell’s Mither,
Against her will, death’s brought her hither;
Clapt in this hole, hard by his dady,
Death snatch’t her up, or she was ready;
Lang might she liv’d wer’t not her wame,
But wha can live beyond their time?
There’s none laments her but the Suter,
So here she lyes looking about her;
Looking about her! how can that be?
Yes, she sees her state, better than we.
An ELEGY on the Death ofJockey’s Mother
Now a’ body ken’s my Mither’s dead,For weel a wat I bore her head,And in the grave I saw her laid,It was e’en right drole,For her to change a warm fire side:For a cauld kirk-hole.But every ane tell’st just like a sang,That yon’s the gate we have to gang,For me to do it, I think nae lang,If I can do better.For I trow my Mither thinks it nae sang,What needs we clatter.But thanks to death ay for the futer,That did not let her get the Suter,For about her gear wad been a splutter,And sae had been,For he came ay snoaking about her,Late at een.For our Maggy watch’t and saw,My Mither’s back was at the wa’,But what was mair hach ha’ hach ha’I winna tell,She to do yon stood little aw’,Just like mysell.But to get gear was a’ her drift,And used many a pinging shift:About her spinning and her thrift,Was a’ her care,She’s gotten but little o’t abune the lift,Wi’ her ti wear.
Now a’ body ken’s my Mither’s dead,For weel a wat I bore her head,And in the grave I saw her laid,It was e’en right drole,For her to change a warm fire side:For a cauld kirk-hole.But every ane tell’st just like a sang,That yon’s the gate we have to gang,For me to do it, I think nae lang,If I can do better.For I trow my Mither thinks it nae sang,What needs we clatter.But thanks to death ay for the futer,That did not let her get the Suter,For about her gear wad been a splutter,And sae had been,For he came ay snoaking about her,Late at een.For our Maggy watch’t and saw,My Mither’s back was at the wa’,But what was mair hach ha’ hach ha’I winna tell,She to do yon stood little aw’,Just like mysell.But to get gear was a’ her drift,And used many a pinging shift:About her spinning and her thrift,Was a’ her care,She’s gotten but little o’t abune the lift,Wi’ her ti wear.
Now a’ body ken’s my Mither’s dead,For weel a wat I bore her head,And in the grave I saw her laid,It was e’en right drole,For her to change a warm fire side:For a cauld kirk-hole.
Now a’ body ken’s my Mither’s dead,
For weel a wat I bore her head,
And in the grave I saw her laid,
It was e’en right drole,
For her to change a warm fire side:
For a cauld kirk-hole.
But every ane tell’st just like a sang,That yon’s the gate we have to gang,For me to do it, I think nae lang,If I can do better.For I trow my Mither thinks it nae sang,What needs we clatter.
But every ane tell’st just like a sang,
That yon’s the gate we have to gang,
For me to do it, I think nae lang,
If I can do better.
For I trow my Mither thinks it nae sang,
What needs we clatter.
But thanks to death ay for the futer,That did not let her get the Suter,For about her gear wad been a splutter,And sae had been,For he came ay snoaking about her,Late at een.
But thanks to death ay for the futer,
That did not let her get the Suter,
For about her gear wad been a splutter,
And sae had been,
For he came ay snoaking about her,
Late at een.
For our Maggy watch’t and saw,My Mither’s back was at the wa’,But what was mair hach ha’ hach ha’I winna tell,She to do yon stood little aw’,Just like mysell.
For our Maggy watch’t and saw,
My Mither’s back was at the wa’,
But what was mair hach ha’ hach ha’
I winna tell,
She to do yon stood little aw’,
Just like mysell.
But to get gear was a’ her drift,And used many a pinging shift:About her spinning and her thrift,Was a’ her care,She’s gotten but little o’t abune the lift,Wi’ her ti wear.
But to get gear was a’ her drift,
And used many a pinging shift:
About her spinning and her thrift,
Was a’ her care,
She’s gotten but little o’t abune the lift,
Wi’ her ti wear.
Finis.