Legends of the North; The Guidman O' Inglismill and The Fairy Bride Part 2

Come hame just ae nicht sober--_gin ye can_."

His breakfast o'er, auld Inglis tak's the road, Frae tap to tae weel buskit an' fell snod; His hardin sark as white's the driven snaw-- The lint was fernyear grown beside the shaw; His coat an' breeks war' o' a lichtly blue, Weel waukit, an' the pick o' hame-grown woo; His hose war' rig an' fur, a guid grow grey; His bonnet blue, an's shoon as black's a slae.

Oot ower the Cruives an' up the Ba'muir park He linkit at it, like some blythesome spark Stendin' alang to woo his winsome Jean, An' beik his love in her bricht glancin' een.

The girss was saft an' springy, ilka blade Glancin' wi' dew, wi' emerald-green inlaid; The air was sharp, the lift was blue an' clear, An' Inglis fussled as he cross'd the muir; But noo an' than he mant.i.t in his sang An' thocht: "Saul! the Guidwife was nae far wrang.

Sin' we war' wed I've had nae cause o' grief; Troth--it's o'er true--I maun turn o'er a leaf.

A couthie wife an' cantie she has been; I _maun_ gie o'er sic rants, an' that's be seen.

She never heckles me but for my guid; I sall gang sober hame--I will indeed.

Whan we war' wed, withoot ae word o' pride, She was the bonniest la.s.s on Ugie's side; In a' the warld--she's bonniest aye to me, In a' the warld--a better canna be."

Ah, stern resolve! thou art a glorious thing For Earl or Beggar, Ploughman, Laird, or King; But, ah! how oft our best resolves are vain; We fall, resolve, fall and resolve again.

No hearts are adamant, no minds are steel; Let none condemn poor Inglis who can feel A woman's love, or tries to drown desires,-- "All tempers yield or soften in those fires."

The safest plan and best--as wise folks think-- Is ne'er to mell with rogues, or love, or drink.

By many a winding road, from far and nigh, Came sheep and owsen, shelts, and stirks, and kye; Goodwives and men, and lads and la.s.ses fair, Cracking their jokes, or courting pair and pair.

Below the Windmill Brae, the gazer's eye Roams o'er a glorious sight of sea and sky; The land throws forth its arms as if to press The smiling ocean in a fond embrace; Or when the wintry waves, with angry roar, Dash in wild fury on the rock-bound sh.o.r.e, That bars all entrance, save to driving foam,-- Guarding from harm or hurt the dear old home.

Thou dear old home! no mountains capped with snow, No glorious oaks, no forest glades ye show; No minster h.o.a.r, no pile of cla.s.sic fame, To lure the pilgrim by a world-wide name.

One boast is thine--that boast beyond compare-- "Men that are true, and maidens fairly fair."

Far have I roamed since first in early life I left that home to face the world's sore strife,-- From Arctic sh.o.r.es to India's golden strand, O'er many a country, many a cla.s.sic land!

How dear the Geddle and the Pinkie Braes, Where bloomed the b.u.t.tercup! I knew the ways Where meadow-queens, perfuming all the air, Held gentle converse with sea-daisies fair; Where first the laverock and the blackbird sang; Where first the earliest, bonniest bluebells sprang;-- And, till the fight of life's last battle's fought, Of thee I'll dream as I have dreamt and thought.

But to our tale--Whan Inglis reached the fair: "Ay! Lundie, man, hoo's a'? Na! Mains; _you_ there?

Hoo's a' your folk?" "Oh! fine, man; hoo's your ain?"

"Brawly--meat-hale and hearty; whaur' ye gain?"

"Man, things are deein' gran'--horn, corn, an' woo-- Come roun' to Luckie's, an' we'll weet oor mou'."

"Na, Lundie, man! I think I'll need to try An' haud by't _some_ the day." Quo Lundie, "Fye!

You're grown John Tamson's man--_a' in a fizz_, Or else _your mither's milk is i' your nizz_."

"Aweel! we's hae _ae_ stoup--nae mair the nicht; I promised to gang hame _for once_ a' richt-- Step ye your wa's, an' shortly I'll be roun'; I'm gain for tea an' troke doun thro' the toun, To speak for beef, a Sunday's frock to Mari'n, An' syne to Jamie Rhind's to buy some fairin'."

His erran's deen, as fast as he cu'd spang, He hastes to Luckie's howf to join the thrang, An' Luckie smirks her kin'liest welcome ben, Prinkin' her feathers like a tappit hen.

"Hooray! there's Inglis, sirs; ye see he's true;"

An' doun sits Inglis 'mang the jovial crew.

An' syne the crack gaed on--wha bocht o'er dear; What "Aikie Brae" gat for his muckle steer; Hoo auld Tam Gray has buiket young May Mason; An' "Bogie," wi' his quean maun stan' the Session; Hoo "Brosie Tam" is heckled by his wife; An' sic-like news aboot the country rife.

Ilk gies his tale while at the drinkin' thrang, Till Lundie cries, "Come, Inglis, gie's a sang!

We'll drink your health till ye get into tune,-- Nae moulie draps, noo,--clean-cap-oot a' roun'."

"Hoot, Lundie, man! ye ken I hae the cauld,-- Nae han' at best, an' a' my sangs are auld; But, gin I maun--an' ye're sae singin'-fain-- I'll try ane on a forbear o' mine ain:--

Air--"_Muirland Willie._"

"Watt o' the Hill cam' doun the brae, Trigly buskit frae tap to tae, Ridin' fu' crouse on his dappled grey-- Wattie wis fidgin' fain; 'An', aye,' quo' he, 'whate'er betide, Some canty bit la.s.s I'll mak' my bride, For winter is comin'--my bed's o'er wide-- I'll lie nae mair my lane.'

"Wattie gaed hoddlin' to the mill.

'Here's routh,' quo' he, 'to woo at will, Jenny an' Meg an' Bess an' Lill, Tibbie an' Kate an' Jane.

La.s.ses,--I'm here a wooer to woo, Will ane o' ye come an' be my doo?

I've siller, an' lan', an' mony a coo-- I'm tired o' lyin' my lane.'

"The la.s.ses skirled a loud 'tee hee!'

But ilka ane cried, 'wull ye tak me?'

Better an' auld man's dawtie be, Wi' walth o' gear, than nane.

'Wattie,' quo' they, 'just steek yer een, Grip wha ye like, she'll ne'er compleen; _Better a cuttie than wantin' a speen_-- Ye'se lie nae mair yer lane.'"

"Noo, my sang's deen," quo Inglis; "I've the ca'

To keep the pottie boilin'. Come awa, Lundie, my man, an' gie's your winsome Jean; Begin at ance--the seener ye'll be deen."

"Inglis, wha yokes wi' you's a gowk, atweel!

'He needs a lang speen that sups wi' the deil!'

But, troth, 'twere wrang to gar ye sup yer kail A wee thocht hetter than I wud mysel':--

Air--"_Laird o' c.o.c.kpen._"

"In a wee thieket hoosie, far doon i' the glen, There lived a young la.s.sie, the plague o' the men.

Sae dainty, sae genty, sae canty an' keen, The wale o' the parish was Tipperty's Jean.

The minister smiled till her braid i' the kirk, The dominie winkit wi' mony a smirk, An' douce-lookin' elders, on Sat.u.r.day's e'en, Could crack aboot naething but Tipperty's Jean.

"Auld Lowrie the laird, wi' his hat in his han', Says, 'Will ye tak' _me_, wi' my siller an' lan';'

'Mony thanks to ye, laird, but it's sinfu' gin ane Sud marry their grandad,' quo Tipperty's Jean.

The doctor grew dowie, and maist like to dee, Sae wowf gat the lawyer he bade folks agree, An' Rob o' the Milltown an' Tam o' the Green Maist tint their scant wits aboot Tipperty's Jean.

"The la.s.ses gaed wand'ring their lanes i' the loan, The auld folks were girnin' wi' mony a groan; 'The warld's seerly gyte, sirs, there's never been seen Sic wark as they haud aboot Tipperty's Jean.'

Nae dellin' was deen, nae thras.h.i.+n', nae ploughin', The wark a' gaed wrang, sae thrang war they wooin'; Sic ridin', sic racin' there never was seen, The chiels were sae daft aboot Tipperty's Jean.

"They happit aboot her like craws on a rig, A' fechtin', or fleechin', or crackin' fell big; 'Gae 'wa', sirs, to Freuchie, for brawly it's seen It's siller yer wooin',' quo Tipperty's Jean.

'Sin' auld uncle Davie cam' back owre the sea, An' left sic a hantle o' siller to me, I'm deaved wi' yer wooin' frae mornin' till e'en.

The deil tak sic wooers,' quo Tipperty's Jean.

"'Oh, wae on the siller! it's twined me an' Johnnie.

Though scanty o' wealth, yet he's kindly an' bonnie Gin he wud but seek me this very gude e'en, He'd no tine his errand,' quo Tipperty's Jean.

Peer Johnnie o'erheard her, his heart like to brak, He cuist his arms roon' her an' gied her a smack.

'Wull ye be my dawtie?' she blinkit fu' keen; 'Yer welcome to tak' me,' quo Tipperty's Jean.

"An' there was a waddin'! sic vivers an' drinks, Sic fiddlin' an' pipin', sic dancin' an' jinks; The haggis e'en hotched to the piper it's lane; 'It's a' weel that ends weel,' quo Tipperty's Jean.

The minister danced i' the barn wi' the bride; The elders cried 'Fiddlers, play up _Delvin Side_;'

The dominie sang like a mavis at e'en; 'Here's a health to quid la.s.ses,' like Tipperty's Jean."

Thus ance begun, sang followed sang a' roun'-- _The Cunnin' Clerk o' Colliston_, _The Tailor Loon_, _Auld Scour Abeen_, an' mony mair as fell-- Till Luckie brings the drucken bite hersel'-- Saut beef an' breid (she was a sleekit bodie) To moyen ben anither bowl o' toddy; Anither, an' anither yet, 'til a' war' glorious, Some greetin'-fow, an' ithers clean uproarious.

To tak' the gate at lang an' last they're fain, "Sorry to pairt, happy to meet again."

Though Inglis kent a bull's fit frae a B, He had mair than a wee drap in his ee; For length o' road he caredna half a bodle, The breadth o't sairly fash'd his drummel'd nodle.

"It's dreich wark this," quo he; "I kenna, haith, Gin I'd best gang or rin--I'se try them baith.

I wish I war' weel hame! na, what excuse Can I mak' oot for haudin' sic a boose?

Weel was I warnised ere I cam' frae hame; I canna say ae word--it _was_ a shame-- An', by my troth I sweer, if I get o'er This dirdum richt, I'll ne'er haud sic a splore."

Alas! alas! what witchery constrains Man's pleasures thus, to breed such racking pains?

'Tis retribution just: vice is the source Of dread despair and harrowing remorse; But, like the star that gems the darkest night, Returning virtue brings back glorious light.

While Inglis, thus opprest wi' drink an' care, Pyowtered alang, an' browdenin' unco sair On's Tibbie dear,--whiles thinkin' upo' witches That haunt the Collieburn--unholy wretches!-- His puir Guidwife set doun the evenin' meal, An', by the fire, sat birrin' at her wheel.