 | Poems And Songs |  |
54
THE DEIL IN THE PIT.
A TALE.
When deils of endless darkness tire,
And regions of eternal fire,
Or, maybe, of the zeal relentin'
Wi' which they've been puir souls tormentin'.
Forsake their ancient vile vocation,
The dread of every Christian nation,
And cause of muckle deathbed mournin',
And tak' to honest table-turnin',
Folk think that fame has been at fau't,
And that they're no as ill's they're ca't.
And regions of eternal fire,
Or, maybe, of the zeal relentin'
Wi' which they've been puir souls tormentin'.
Forsake their ancient vile vocation,
The dread of every Christian nation,
And cause of muckle deathbed mournin',
And tak' to honest table-turnin',
Folk think that fame has been at fau't,
And that they're no as ill's they're ca't.
But whiles they in their upward flight,
Jist ere they reach the realms of light,
In dreary caves, that venturous men
Hae houkit mony a fathom ben,
Rest for a wee to reconnoitre,
Or frae their tails to shake the nitre.
Syne when they've heard the engine's clank,
And keekit up the dreepin' shank,
And seen, wi' dazzled een, afar,
The sunlight, like a setting star,
And heard the rumblin', rattlin' din
Of hutches hurried oot and in,
And wonner't if the swarthy chiels
That drave them could be kindred deils,
Condemned, like them, for unco sin,
To toil without a sun or moon,—
They wale the pit's most lonely places,
To show their grim unearthly faces,
Whiles frichtin' puir folk into fits,
Or a'thegither oot their wits.—
What wonder, then, if folks complain
Aboot their deilships' length of chain,
And doot the wisdom of the plan
That lets them face to face wi' man?
I dinna doot but some wha read
May curl the lip and shake the head,
And think, when colliers swear they see
Sic unco things, they simply—lee.
Be canny, freens—ye may be wrang;
There's evidence, baith guid and lang,
To prove sic wondrous things hae happen't;
And men, whase words can weel be lippen't,
Aft forms hae seen wad gar't your hair
Staun' up like thrashes in the air.
Jist ere they reach the realms of light,
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Hae houkit mony a fathom ben,
Rest for a wee to reconnoitre,
Or frae their tails to shake the nitre.
Syne when they've heard the engine's clank,
And keekit up the dreepin' shank,
And seen, wi' dazzled een, afar,
The sunlight, like a setting star,
And heard the rumblin', rattlin' din
Of hutches hurried oot and in,
And wonner't if the swarthy chiels
That drave them could be kindred deils,
Condemned, like them, for unco sin,
To toil without a sun or moon,—
They wale the pit's most lonely places,
To show their grim unearthly faces,
Whiles frichtin' puir folk into fits,
Or a'thegither oot their wits.—
What wonder, then, if folks complain
Aboot their deilships' length of chain,
And doot the wisdom of the plan
That lets them face to face wi' man?
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May curl the lip and shake the head,
And think, when colliers swear they see
Sic unco things, they simply—lee.
Be canny, freens—ye may be wrang;
There's evidence, baith guid and lang,
To prove sic wondrous things hae happen't;
And men, whase words can weel be lippen't,
Aft forms hae seen wad gar't your hair
Staun' up like thrashes in the air.
Ah, Nick! it's mean, and far frae fair,
To let your legions linger there:
The place is aye owre gloomy far—
Why should their presence make it waur?
Na! you yoursel', they say wha ken,
Whiles show yoursel' to leevin' men,
No to your sulphurous hame to light them,
But merely wi' your tail to fright them.
Is that ocht like (I mean nae praise)
Your glorious deeds in ancient days?
Langsyne ye was a deil of might,
And far aboon sic puny spite:
Of sic wee deeds ye wadna thought
When ye wi' doughty Gabriel fought.
I say again, it's far frae fair—
They hae nae richt to linger there;
But when the central fires they lea',
Straught to the surface let them flee,
And show their haives and horns aboon,
Whare folk at least hae room to rin.
Their pit-wark only mars their glory.—
But I maun hasten to my story.
To let your legions linger there:
The place is aye owre gloomy far—
Why should their presence make it waur?
Na! you yoursel', they say wha ken,
Whiles show yoursel' to leevin' men,
No to your sulphurous hame to light them,
But merely wi' your tail to fright them.
Is that ocht like (I mean nae praise)
Your glorious deeds in ancient days?
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And far aboon sic puny spite:
Of sic wee deeds ye wadna thought
When ye wi' doughty Gabriel fought.
I say again, it's far frae fair—
They hae nae richt to linger there;
But when the central fires they lea',
Straught to the surface let them flee,
And show their haives and horns aboon,
Whare folk at least hae room to rin.
Their pit-wark only mars their glory.—
But I maun hasten to my story.
Lang years sinsyne, before the pit
Was deemed for wives a place unfit,
Upon as bright a summer dawn
As ever grew upon our laun',
A body might hae seen twa men
Draw near the Gin-pit at Spooten'—
Twa colliers, as their dress declared,
And for their dreary darg prepared,
Each wi' his pipe aboon his lug,
And fit-cloots in his oxter snug;
Their picks upon their shouthers clankit,
As owre the stoory pad they spankit.
Was deemed for wives a place unfit,
Upon as bright a summer dawn
As ever grew upon our laun',
A body might hae seen twa men
Draw near the Gin-pit at Spooten'—
Twa colliers, as their dress declared,
And for their dreary darg prepared,
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And fit-cloots in his oxter snug;
Their picks upon their shouthers clankit,
As owre the stoory pad they spankit.
The ane gaun first was Patie Kelly,
A man less bound to back than belly;
He ne'er was kent to weet his sark,
Nor hurt his haun's or arms wi' wark.
His greatest foe he wadna wrang't for't,
And could hae leeved whare folk were hang't for't;
An endless “crack,” a mighty smoker,
And wi' nae rival as a joker:
A poet too—we truth maun tell;
He hawkit sangs he'd made himsel,
And ne'er wi' customers wad differ,
Though he for gills his books should niffer.
He wore a coat of scarlet hue,
That had been worn at Waterloo;
A cut upon its arm was seen,
Whare ance a Frenchman's sword had been.
Nae threed nor needle Pate could thole
To mar the glory o' that hole—
No! though a blast oot through't should blaw,
Eneuch to cut his arm in twa.
A man less bound to back than belly;
He ne'er was kent to weet his sark,
Nor hurt his haun's or arms wi' wark.
His greatest foe he wadna wrang't for't,
And could hae leeved whare folk were hang't for't;
An endless “crack,” a mighty smoker,
And wi' nae rival as a joker:
A poet too—we truth maun tell;
He hawkit sangs he'd made himsel,
And ne'er wi' customers wad differ,
Though he for gills his books should niffer.
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That had been worn at Waterloo;
A cut upon its arm was seen,
Whare ance a Frenchman's sword had been.
Nae threed nor needle Pate could thole
To mar the glory o' that hole—
No! though a blast oot through't should blaw,
Eneuch to cut his arm in twa.
Though but ae shillin' it had cost,
Yet through't sae mony days were lost,
The folk aboot Spooten' aft sware
It cost its weight in gold, and mair.
Yet through't sae mony days were lost,
The folk aboot Spooten' aft sware
It cost its weight in gold, and mair.
That day was deemed a day accurst
That Patie at the pit was first:
The tow wad break, or picks gang blunt,
Or some puir soul be hurt or brunt.
Yet aft the loon wad sleep a' Sunday,
So that he might be first on Monday.
In short, whate'er his freens might say,
He dearly lo'ed an idle day,
Yet seemed as weel to wun alang
As them that aye were workin' thrang.
That Patie at the pit was first:
The tow wad break, or picks gang blunt,
Or some puir soul be hurt or brunt.
Yet aft the loon wad sleep a' Sunday,
So that he might be first on Monday.
In short, whate'er his freens might say,
He dearly lo'ed an idle day,
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As them that aye were workin' thrang.
However, on the morn in question,
He seemed to hae nae thocht of restin',
But trodged alang wi' eident speed.
But Pate has something in his head;
A humorous twinkle lights his ee,—
But patience, reader! wait a wee.
He seemed to hae nae thocht of restin',
But trodged alang wi' eident speed.
But Pate has something in his head;
A humorous twinkle lights his ee,—
But patience, reader! wait a wee.
Aboot his neebor there was naething
To gar a stranger glower, but ae thing;
That was the plain between his een,
Whare, when a bairn, his nose had been;
But noo, between his whiskers, twa
Roun' holes was a' the nose ye saw.
A face to be lang min't was Johnnie's,
And Pate and he were freens and cronies;
He fir't the balls that Patie made,
And sware to everything he said.
To gar a stranger glower, but ae thing;
That was the plain between his een,
Whare, when a bairn, his nose had been;
But noo, between his whiskers, twa
Roun' holes was a' the nose ye saw.
A face to be lang min't was Johnnie's,
And Pate and he were freens and cronies;
He fir't the balls that Patie made,
And sware to everything he said.
See hoo, as after Pate he's gaun,
He chokes his laughter wi' his haun'.
What can be ticklin' Johnnie Bell?
Have patience, reader! time will tell.
He chokes his laughter wi' his haun'.
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Have patience, reader! time will tell.
But let us hasten to Spooten',
And staun' among the duddy men,
And lassies braw, wi' rosy cheeks,
And coats preen't up like Turkish breeks.
(Alas that een sae bright as thae
Should ever lea' the light o' day!)
And why thus idly do they staun',
The unlichtit can'le in each haun'?
What gars them crood the pit aroun'?
What gars thae three or four glower doun
Wi' open mooths and widened een?
Is ocht extror'nar to be seen?
What strange thing ettle they to hear?
Come forrit, honest Pate, and speir.
And staun' among the duddy men,
And lassies braw, wi' rosy cheeks,
And coats preen't up like Turkish breeks.
(Alas that een sae bright as thae
Should ever lea' the light o' day!)
And why thus idly do they staun',
The unlichtit can'le in each haun'?
What gars them crood the pit aroun'?
What gars thae three or four glower doun
Wi' open mooths and widened een?
Is ocht extror'nar to be seen?
What strange thing ettle they to hear?
Come forrit, honest Pate, and speir.
“What's wrang?” said Patie, glowerin' roun',
And on his hunkers courin' doun.
“What's wrang?” said Johnnie. “Ane may say
It's awfu' like an idle day.”
“Whisht, neebors, whisht!” said sneevlin' Sannie,
“There's something in the pit no cannie.
The owresman's up and led awa',
Wi' face as white's the driven snaw;
He canna speak, but Matthew Strang
And Jock's gane doun to see what's wrang.”
And on his hunkers courin' doun.
“What's wrang?” said Johnnie. “Ane may say
It's awfu' like an idle day.”
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“There's something in the pit no cannie.
The owresman's up and led awa',
Wi' face as white's the driven snaw;
He canna speak, but Matthew Strang
And Jock's gane doun to see what's wrang.”
“Tuts! nonsense,” Pate was sneerin', when
A cry came frae the pit, “Oh men!
Wind fast!” Roun' flew the gin like fury,
The horse was ne'er in sic a hurry:
A jiffy brang the corf to light,
Revealin', sirs! an unco sight!
Puir Matthew in its bottom lay,
As white's a cloot, as cauld as clay;
While doun his stronger brither's face
The cauld sweat, streamin', left its trace,
As he, to save puir Matthew fain,
Wi' grasp of death clung to the chain.
Wi' eager haun's the corf they struck,
And liftit Matthew, wat as muck;
His draiglit coat some hurry aff,
The cool air in his face some waff,
A wheen staun' roun' in mute dismay,
And ithers rin for Doctor Ray.
A cry came frae the pit, “Oh men!
Wind fast!” Roun' flew the gin like fury,
The horse was ne'er in sic a hurry:
A jiffy brang the corf to light,
Revealin', sirs! an unco sight!
Puir Matthew in its bottom lay,
As white's a cloot, as cauld as clay;
While doun his stronger brither's face
The cauld sweat, streamin', left its trace,
As he, to save puir Matthew fain,
Wi' grasp of death clung to the chain.
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And liftit Matthew, wat as muck;
His draiglit coat some hurry aff,
The cool air in his face some waff,
A wheen staun' roun' in mute dismay,
And ithers rin for Doctor Ray.
Puir Matthew's joe, 'twas sad to see her,
As doun her cheeks ran tear on tear,
While frae her heart the wailin' brake,
That modesty wad fain kept back,
Till owre to kneel beside the man
That was to be her ain she ran,
And took his haun' and spoke his name,
And grat, and had nae thocht of shame.
Wi' him she loved, pale, cauld, and dein',
What cared the maid whase een were seein'!
She kissed his cheek —'twas love's first kiss—
Fast through him ran the thrill of bliss.
He waukened, strangely stared, and spoke,
“God help us! let us rin! Whare's Jock?”
Then drew a long, deep, heavin' breath,—
A sigh that seemed the sigh of death.
As doun her cheeks ran tear on tear,
While frae her heart the wailin' brake,
That modesty wad fain kept back,
Till owre to kneel beside the man
That was to be her ain she ran,
And took his haun' and spoke his name,
And grat, and had nae thocht of shame.
Wi' him she loved, pale, cauld, and dein',
What cared the maid whase een were seein'!
She kissed his cheek —'twas love's first kiss—
Fast through him ran the thrill of bliss.
He waukened, strangely stared, and spoke,
“God help us! let us rin! Whare's Jock?”
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A sigh that seemed the sigh of death.
“Pate,” whispered Johnnie, “see his ee!
We'll better rin—he'll maybe dee.”
“Staun' still,” quoth Pate; “glower and be dumb,
The best o't a' is yet to come;
Let's light our pipes and tak' oor smokes.”
Pate, as I've said, was fond of jokes,
But whether he was jokin' then,
As yet, of course, we dinna ken.
We'll better rin—he'll maybe dee.”
“Staun' still,” quoth Pate; “glower and be dumb,
The best o't a' is yet to come;
Let's light our pipes and tak' oor smokes.”
Pate, as I've said, was fond of jokes,
But whether he was jokin' then,
As yet, of course, we dinna ken.
Meantime the news had reached Spooten';
Wives, weans, auld women, and auld men,
Ran to the pit like folk dementit,
As if they had destruction scentit,
Or feared that auld Gomorrah's doom
Would instantly the raws consume.
The young folks first, a' pechin', rin,
The auld folks wachlet on ahin';
And bairns, to whom the road was dreech,
Cam toddlin' slowly at head-screech.
There huzzies wha their necks should scrubbit,
In haste their een hae only rubbit;
And while their petticoats they're tyin',
On wi' Camilla speed are flyin'.
There new-made wives their haun's are wringin',
There weans to mithers' necks are clingin',
Whase preenless shortgowns are revealin'
The founts of life that seek concealin'.
Their hair on en' is wavin' high,
Their mutches on their shouthers lie;
For wha on sic an awfu' mornin'
Could think upon the head's adornin'?
The super-prudent might have blamed,
And maidens, lacking hearts, been 'shamed;
But common folk like us, I ween,
Would charitably heard and seen.
Still as they puff and pech alang,
Each at the ither speirs “What's wrang?”
For even yet they werena sure
What 'twas that gar't them rin sae sair.
See, closing up the queer display,
Though last, not least, comes Doctor Ray;
E'en he seems redder in the face,
And walks at an unwonted pace.
But while a' this we've been relatin',
The crowd are Matthew's case debatin';
Indeed, his life seemed still at stake,
For wan he was, and unco weak;
And, as if fear't what might be seen,
Still closely steekit kept his een.
Wives, weans, auld women, and auld men,
Ran to the pit like folk dementit,
As if they had destruction scentit,
Or feared that auld Gomorrah's doom
Would instantly the raws consume.
The young folks first, a' pechin', rin,
The auld folks wachlet on ahin';
And bairns, to whom the road was dreech,
Cam toddlin' slowly at head-screech.
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In haste their een hae only rubbit;
And while their petticoats they're tyin',
On wi' Camilla speed are flyin'.
There new-made wives their haun's are wringin',
There weans to mithers' necks are clingin',
Whase preenless shortgowns are revealin'
The founts of life that seek concealin'.
Their hair on en' is wavin' high,
Their mutches on their shouthers lie;
For wha on sic an awfu' mornin'
Could think upon the head's adornin'?
The super-prudent might have blamed,
And maidens, lacking hearts, been 'shamed;
But common folk like us, I ween,
Would charitably heard and seen.
Still as they puff and pech alang,
Each at the ither speirs “What's wrang?”
For even yet they werena sure
What 'twas that gar't them rin sae sair.
See, closing up the queer display,
Though last, not least, comes Doctor Ray;
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And walks at an unwonted pace.
But while a' this we've been relatin',
The crowd are Matthew's case debatin';
Indeed, his life seemed still at stake,
For wan he was, and unco weak;
And, as if fear't what might be seen,
Still closely steekit kept his een.
But here's the Doctor come at last;
He says immediate danger's past,
But care and quietness recommends,
Then to the wants of Jock attends;
Syne how the thing had happened speir't.
Quoth Jock, “Ye ken I ne'er was fear't,
But he that fearless yon could see,
I'll own a better man than me.
He says immediate danger's past,
But care and quietness recommends,
Then to the wants of Jock attends;
Syne how the thing had happened speir't.
Quoth Jock, “Ye ken I ne'er was fear't,
But he that fearless yon could see,
I'll own a better man than me.
“When we gaed doun, we stood and listened,
But nocht we heard, syne on we hastened,
First up the brae, syne roun' the faces,
But a' was right in a' the places;
And Matthew there had jist been sayin',
‘The owresman has some trick been playin';’
We're roun' and half-way oot the level,
And no as muckle's smell't the devil,
When, sir, we heard a wailin' soun'
Up Tamson's Drift, and, leukin' roun',
Saw twa great een, like fire-lamps burnin'—
Be sure we werena slack of turnin';
But hardly had we turned aboot,
When, Lord! our can'le baith gaed oot.
Then sic a soun' of rattlin' chains,
Sic wailin' cries and moans and granes—
The chains of fifty thoosan' deils,
Seemed to be rattlin' at our heels:
I'm sure I thocht my death was there,
And never thocht to see you mair.
Puir Matthew swarf't, as weel he might,
For 'twas an unco soun' and sight!
Wi' facht up in my arms I got him,
And warslet wi' him to the bottom:
To keep him right I did my best;
My head's fell sair—ye ken the rest.”
The Doctor smiled, syne reasoned weel
To prove it couldna be the deil,
But couldna shake his hearers' faith—
The deil was there, as sure as death!
But nocht we heard, syne on we hastened,
First up the brae, syne roun' the faces,
But a' was right in a' the places;
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‘The owresman has some trick been playin';’
We're roun' and half-way oot the level,
And no as muckle's smell't the devil,
When, sir, we heard a wailin' soun'
Up Tamson's Drift, and, leukin' roun',
Saw twa great een, like fire-lamps burnin'—
Be sure we werena slack of turnin';
But hardly had we turned aboot,
When, Lord! our can'le baith gaed oot.
Then sic a soun' of rattlin' chains,
Sic wailin' cries and moans and granes—
The chains of fifty thoosan' deils,
Seemed to be rattlin' at our heels:
I'm sure I thocht my death was there,
And never thocht to see you mair.
Puir Matthew swarf't, as weel he might,
For 'twas an unco soun' and sight!
Wi' facht up in my arms I got him,
And warslet wi' him to the bottom:
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My head's fell sair—ye ken the rest.”
The Doctor smiled, syne reasoned weel
To prove it couldna be the deil,
But couldna shake his hearers' faith—
The deil was there, as sure as death!
By this time Mr Tom, the master,
Had heard about the morn's disaster,
And hurried owre to see aboot it—
He heard, but, like the Doctor, dootit.
In truth, the master had guid reason
To think Nick's visit out of season;
For he was bound to serve a mill,
And no a coal had on the hill:
Besides, he couldna see why Nick
Should serve him such a dirty trick—
He wha sae lang, wi' zeal most fervent,
Had been his most obedient servant.
Had heard about the morn's disaster,
And hurried owre to see aboot it—
He heard, but, like the Doctor, dootit.
In truth, the master had guid reason
To think Nick's visit out of season;
For he was bound to serve a mill,
And no a coal had on the hill:
Besides, he couldna see why Nick
Should serve him such a dirty trick—
He wha sae lang, wi' zeal most fervent,
Had been his most obedient servant.
He fumed, and sware the men were lyin';
But, stop—a thocht—'twas worth the tryin';
A gallon of the best might dae't—
A trifle—so he turned to Pate:
But, stop—a thocht—'twas worth the tryin';
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A trifle—so he turned to Pate:
“Would Peter go and face this phantom?
If such a favour he would grant him,
He'd pay his wages every farthing,
And stand a gallon to the bargain.”
If such a favour he would grant him,
He'd pay his wages every farthing,
And stand a gallon to the bargain.”
Pate seemed to swither—clawed his head—
He didna like to win his bread
By fechting deils; besides, the wife
Might set some value on his life;
At least he wadna gang his sel'.
“I'll venture too,” said Johnnie Bell;
And, steppin' owre wi' manly stride,
He took his place at Patie's side.
He didna like to win his bread
By fechting deils; besides, the wife
Might set some value on his life;
At least he wadna gang his sel'.
“I'll venture too,” said Johnnie Bell;
And, steppin' owre wi' manly stride,
He took his place at Patie's side.
Behold them, then, prepared to meet
That Prince that's cloven in the feet,
The enemy of a' mankind,
Whom mortal ne'er could kill or bind.
Did ever men sae bravely dare?
Was e'er there sic a venturous pair?
Twa heroes they mair glorious far
Than a' our mighty men of war.
“Oh, Pate, don't gang!” “Stay up, oh, Johnnie!”
That was the guid advice of mony;
But they were men of noblest mettle,
And stuck to their immortal ettle.
Could Mrs Kelly no dissuade?
Alas! she snug in bed is laid:
She hasna heard the morn's alarm,
Or trusts her Pate will meet nae harm;
She kens him for a wily dodger—
For Johnnie Bell, he's but a lodger.
That Prince that's cloven in the feet,
The enemy of a' mankind,
Whom mortal ne'er could kill or bind.
Did ever men sae bravely dare?
Was e'er there sic a venturous pair?
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Than a' our mighty men of war.
“Oh, Pate, don't gang!” “Stay up, oh, Johnnie!”
That was the guid advice of mony;
But they were men of noblest mettle,
And stuck to their immortal ettle.
Could Mrs Kelly no dissuade?
Alas! she snug in bed is laid:
She hasna heard the morn's alarm,
Or trusts her Pate will meet nae harm;
She kens him for a wily dodger—
For Johnnie Bell, he's but a lodger.
Pate blithely spoke—“If it be Satan,
For guidsake dinna keep us waitin',
But lift us quickly when we cry:
Come, Johnnie, then, our luck we'll try.”
Then in the corf they step, and roun'
The gin creeps slowly till they're doun.
For guidsake dinna keep us waitin',
But lift us quickly when we cry:
Come, Johnnie, then, our luck we'll try.”
Then in the corf they step, and roun'
The gin creeps slowly till they're doun.
Lang seemed the time till they cam' back,
But no a voice was raised in crack.
Pale faces 'mang the crowd were seen,
Up to the lift were turned some een;
Though twenty weans in arms were seen,
By nae ane was a whimper gi'en;
And Matthew Strang's Newfoundland whelp,
Though sairly trod on, scorned to yelp.
The Doctor roamed about alane,
Still wonderin' what the folk had ta'en;
While Mr Tom stood, vex't and still,
His een coost owre his empty hill.
But no a voice was raised in crack.
71
Up to the lift were turned some een;
Though twenty weans in arms were seen,
By nae ane was a whimper gi'en;
And Matthew Strang's Newfoundland whelp,
Though sairly trod on, scorned to yelp.
The Doctor roamed about alane,
Still wonderin' what the folk had ta'en;
While Mr Tom stood, vex't and still,
His een coost owre his empty hill.
But frae the pit, hark! comes a soun'—
“Heave up!” Again the gin flees roun'.
Up comes the corf; ye powers! what's that
In Patie's haun'? a big black cat;
Its green een startin' frae its head,
For Patie's grip had choked it dead.
“There, sir,” quoth Patie, “is your deil;
I trust he's left your freens a' weel.”
“And there,” quoth Johnnie, “is his chain;
He'll never gie't a shake again.”
Ah, Patie, Patie! lang unmatched
At jokin', noo, I fear, you're catched;
Ah, Johnnie, him ye liked to ape
At last has led ye in a scrape.
'Twas wrang the bogle's form to show—
Ye should hae left the cat below;
Beneath the tail o' some auld fa'
Ye should hae hidden't, chains an' a'.
Owre dangerous was the joke that's past;
And the reward that's comin' fast
Will gar ye mind through comin' time
It's but a step frae fun to crime.
“Heave up!” Again the gin flees roun'.
Up comes the corf; ye powers! what's that
In Patie's haun'? a big black cat;
Its green een startin' frae its head,
For Patie's grip had choked it dead.
“There, sir,” quoth Patie, “is your deil;
I trust he's left your freens a' weel.”
“And there,” quoth Johnnie, “is his chain;
He'll never gie't a shake again.”
72
At jokin', noo, I fear, you're catched;
Ah, Johnnie, him ye liked to ape
At last has led ye in a scrape.
'Twas wrang the bogle's form to show—
Ye should hae left the cat below;
Beneath the tail o' some auld fa'
Ye should hae hidden't, chains an' a'.
Owre dangerous was the joke that's past;
And the reward that's comin' fast
Will gar ye mind through comin' time
It's but a step frae fun to crime.
Wee Johnnie scarce had named the chain,
When forrit to him stepped Jean Main,
A hizzie frae the south o' Fife,
A touzie tairge, the owresman's wife.
“Let's see the chain!” she cried; “it's mine;
I coft it no a week sinsyne.
Whare gat ye't?” Johnnie, ta'en aback,
Hung down his head, and naething spak.
When forrit to him stepped Jean Main,
A hizzie frae the south o' Fife,
A touzie tairge, the owresman's wife.
“Let's see the chain!” she cried; “it's mine;
I coft it no a week sinsyne.
Whare gat ye't?” Johnnie, ta'en aback,
Hung down his head, and naething spak.
73
“Whare gat ye't?” (rowin' up her sleeves,
And shakin' in his face her nieves).
“Ye nasty, noseless, sneevelin' snachle,
No fit to be a guid man's bachle!
Ye'll steal folk's chains, and fricht folk's men;
Ye ape-faced nyaff, I dinna ken
What hauds my haun's. Were't worth my while,
I'd trail ye through the sheugh a mile!”
Then steppin' owre to Pate a pace,
“A preen wad gar me break your face!”
And shakin' in his face her nieves).
“Ye nasty, noseless, sneevelin' snachle,
No fit to be a guid man's bachle!
Ye'll steal folk's chains, and fricht folk's men;
Ye ape-faced nyaff, I dinna ken
What hauds my haun's. Were't worth my while,
I'd trail ye through the sheugh a mile!”
Then steppin' owre to Pate a pace,
“A preen wad gar me break your face!”
Wrath flashed in every matron's ee,
Like furies round the twa they flee,
Some cryin', “Fling them doon the heugh!”
And ithers, “Dook them in the sheugh!”
(The sheugh, whare lang-drooned cats were soomin'!—
Wha can believe the thocht was human?)
Like furies round the twa they flee,
Some cryin', “Fling them doon the heugh!”
And ithers, “Dook them in the sheugh!”
(The sheugh, whare lang-drooned cats were soomin'!—
Wha can believe the thocht was human?)
Then in a twinklin' baith were grippit,
And in the dirty ditch were dippit;
Syne, by the orders o' Jean Main,
They by the legs and arms were taen,
And, “Ance! Twice!! Thrice!!!” in air they swung them,
Then in the filthy water flung them;
Syne peltit them wi' sticks and stanes,
Nor cared though they had broken banes.
Sic furies, in sae queer a scene,
I trow on earth had never been.
And in the dirty ditch were dippit;
74
They by the legs and arms were taen,
And, “Ance! Twice!! Thrice!!!” in air they swung them,
Then in the filthy water flung them;
Syne peltit them wi' sticks and stanes,
Nor cared though they had broken banes.
Sic furies, in sae queer a scene,
I trow on earth had never been.
Ere lang our heroes up the bank
Were scramblin' (safe us! how they stank!)
The coat that lang was Patie's pride
Is noo wi' nauseous mud re-dyed;
Amang the rents it noo can boast,
Alas! the honoured sword-cut's lost.
Their huggers trail out-owre their taes,
A filthy stream dreeps aff their claes;
Wi' mud the hair sticks to each brow,
O' mud their lugs and mooths are fu'.
But though thus marred their sense o' hearing,
They brawly ken the men are cheerin',
And hear the treble o' Jean Main,
“Let's grip and dook the loons again!”
And see her at an unco pace,
While vowin' vengeance, lead the chase!
“Rin, Johnnie, rin!” quo' Pate; “come on—
If in their hands again, we're gone.”
Were scramblin' (safe us! how they stank!)
The coat that lang was Patie's pride
Is noo wi' nauseous mud re-dyed;
Amang the rents it noo can boast,
Alas! the honoured sword-cut's lost.
Their huggers trail out-owre their taes,
A filthy stream dreeps aff their claes;
Wi' mud the hair sticks to each brow,
O' mud their lugs and mooths are fu'.
But though thus marred their sense o' hearing,
They brawly ken the men are cheerin',
75
“Let's grip and dook the loons again!”
And see her at an unco pace,
While vowin' vengeance, lead the chase!
“Rin, Johnnie, rin!” quo' Pate; “come on—
If in their hands again, we're gone.”
Then through the hedge at ance they dartit,
Nor fan' hoo sair their skin was scartit;
Across the park like hares they flew,
A black trail leavin' 'mang the dew;
And soon, wi' fricht and hurry pantin',
They reached the shelter o' the plantin'.
How far they ran we dinna ken—
They ne'er mair ventured to Spooten'.
Nor fan' hoo sair their skin was scartit;
Across the park like hares they flew,
A black trail leavin' 'mang the dew;
And soon, wi' fricht and hurry pantin',
They reached the shelter o' the plantin'.
How far they ran we dinna ken—
They ne'er mair ventured to Spooten'.
The custom was, and is, to put their pipes into a hole in their pit caps, leaving only the bowl visible.
It was then customary for colliers to wear pieces of old cloth rolled round their feet instead of shoes. These “cloots” were generally tied on at the pit-head.
| Poems And Songs | |