 | The Woo-Creel |  |
1
THE WOO-CREEL;
OR, THE BILL O' BASHAN.
Foul fa' the Bard wha fawns and phrases,
And gowks in liein rhymes bepraises,
And, wi' a thousand virtues, plaisters
Right honourable graceless maisters.
And foul fa' him, wha' spittin spite,
On gentle folk casts a' the wyte,
And curses a', or far or near,
Wha aught, or mailin, gowd, or geer;
On a' his betters spouts his libel,
And hunts ilk sin out thro the Bible,
(E'en frae the Apocrypha he'll tak it)
And prins it to the gowd laced jacket.—
Tho satire's rude, and rhymes be rough,
We aiblins a' hae fauts enough;
Wi' loons I trou the warld teems—
We needna glowr for motes and beams,
Nor crabbit mark, wi' special malice,
The theekit cot, or gilded palace.
Princes and Ploughmen play their pranks,
Like cowts, fu' daft, that break the branks:
The bare-leg'd Lass and dainty Dutchess
May differ in their gowns and mutches;
But strip them stark, Mess John wad swither
To spae ye whilk is taen or tither.
At Plays and Balls, and Masquerades,
Nae doubt there's walth o' painted jades,
But kintra queans, tho folk may blether,
Are just as daft amang the hether;
And no a rake, o' tip-tap fashion,
Could ding our Dan the Bill o' Bashan.
And gowks in liein rhymes bepraises,
And, wi' a thousand virtues, plaisters
Right honourable graceless maisters.
And foul fa' him, wha' spittin spite,
On gentle folk casts a' the wyte,
And curses a', or far or near,
Wha aught, or mailin, gowd, or geer;
On a' his betters spouts his libel,
And hunts ilk sin out thro the Bible,
(E'en frae the Apocrypha he'll tak it)
And prins it to the gowd laced jacket.—
Tho satire's rude, and rhymes be rough,
We aiblins a' hae fauts enough;
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We needna glowr for motes and beams,
Nor crabbit mark, wi' special malice,
The theekit cot, or gilded palace.
Princes and Ploughmen play their pranks,
Like cowts, fu' daft, that break the branks:
The bare-leg'd Lass and dainty Dutchess
May differ in their gowns and mutches;
But strip them stark, Mess John wad swither
To spae ye whilk is taen or tither.
At Plays and Balls, and Masquerades,
Nae doubt there's walth o' painted jades,
But kintra queans, tho folk may blether,
Are just as daft amang the hether;
And no a rake, o' tip-tap fashion,
Could ding our Dan the Bill o' Bashan.
Dan was, I wat, the wail o' Bills—
Far owre the bleak New Cumnock hills,
Whar Nith, that rins to Solway Sea,
Springs i' the moss frae green Well-ee;
His peat-reek'd spence lay snug and bein,
In cozie holm, twa rigs atween.
He cared na tippence for the lights
That turn to day his Lordship's nights,
Enough for him, owre heights and craigs,
To see red Phœbus whip his naigs,
And whiles, at e'en, the varying Moon
Steal saftly furth whan wark was done,
As sillar bright, round as a bannet,
And she was aye his welcome planet.
The Moor-cock rous'd him i' the morn,
The Patrick chirrup'd i' the corn,
The Whaap and flekkerin Peesweep's throat,
At mid-day, cheer'd him wi' their note;
And whan the Sun was i' the wast,
And owre Cantyre was sinkin fast,
The Mavis his sweet sang began,
Wi' scarce ae listener but Dan.
Far owre the bleak New Cumnock hills,
Whar Nith, that rins to Solway Sea,
Springs i' the moss frae green Well-ee;
His peat-reek'd spence lay snug and bein,
In cozie holm, twa rigs atween.
He cared na tippence for the lights
That turn to day his Lordship's nights,
3
To see red Phœbus whip his naigs,
And whiles, at e'en, the varying Moon
Steal saftly furth whan wark was done,
As sillar bright, round as a bannet,
And she was aye his welcome planet.
The Moor-cock rous'd him i' the morn,
The Patrick chirrup'd i' the corn,
The Whaap and flekkerin Peesweep's throat,
At mid-day, cheer'd him wi' their note;
And whan the Sun was i' the wast,
And owre Cantyre was sinkin fast,
The Mavis his sweet sang began,
Wi' scarce ae listener but Dan.
Dan was a poacher far and wide,
He cross'd the moors without a guide,
And weel he kent whar game lay plenty,
But he was tod-like and right tenty,
The feint a foot the loon wad stear,
Whan gurly cuckold carles war near.
Nae pynin thing sma' shank'd and sallow,
He was a rosy sturdy fallow:
But, by my troth, I need na roose him,
For feint a lass could e'er refuse him.
At e'en whiles, whan the Sun was doun,
His gude blue bannet on his croun,
And owre his shouthers, stark and braid,
Five ell o' hame-spun gude gray plaid,
He wander'd yont Dalhanna hill,
Or doun by Brocloc to the Mill;
Nae airth to Dannie cam amiss,
Nae wind could blaw but blew a kiss,
Nae gaet, to Dan, could e'er come wrang,
Welcome whare'er he liked to gang.
He cross'd the moors without a guide,
And weel he kent whar game lay plenty,
But he was tod-like and right tenty,
The feint a foot the loon wad stear,
Whan gurly cuckold carles war near.
Nae pynin thing sma' shank'd and sallow,
He was a rosy sturdy fallow:
But, by my troth, I need na roose him,
For feint a lass could e'er refuse him.
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His gude blue bannet on his croun,
And owre his shouthers, stark and braid,
Five ell o' hame-spun gude gray plaid,
He wander'd yont Dalhanna hill,
Or doun by Brocloc to the Mill;
Nae airth to Dannie cam amiss,
Nae wind could blaw but blew a kiss,
Nae gaet, to Dan, could e'er come wrang,
Welcome whare'er he liked to gang.
Auld Lowrie Weir, what ail'd ye man,
What gart ye glowr on pawky Nan?
Ye had a ready ee for nowt,
And ye could buy and sell a cowt;
We ne'er heard tell that chapman loon
Frae southern looms, or spinnin toun,
Sly tho he war, wi' mealy mou,
Wan e'er ayont ye sellin woo:
Ye cam weel out o' ilka market
A thrivin carle, weel fed, weel sarkit.
And now gudesake! whan past your simmer,
Blind wi' the glamour o' a limmer!
Like ony gaislin, daft and dizzy,
Gabblin to a hare-brain'd hizzy.
And aften ye gaed stoitin till her,
Braggin o' your gather'd siller,
Till buxom Nanse ye croosely wan,
And was a happy auld gude-man.
What gart ye glowr on pawky Nan?
Ye had a ready ee for nowt,
And ye could buy and sell a cowt;
We ne'er heard tell that chapman loon
Frae southern looms, or spinnin toun,
Sly tho he war, wi' mealy mou,
Wan e'er ayont ye sellin woo:
Ye cam weel out o' ilka market
A thrivin carle, weel fed, weel sarkit.
And now gudesake! whan past your simmer,
Blind wi' the glamour o' a limmer!
Like ony gaislin, daft and dizzy,
Gabblin to a hare-brain'd hizzy.
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Braggin o' your gather'd siller,
Till buxom Nanse ye croosely wan,
And was a happy auld gude-man.
Auld Lowrie Weir, wise thrifty chield,
To buy or sell wad ride a-field,
And left his deary, and her wean,
Poor dowie thing, her leesome lane.
Wha was the daddy do ye spier?—
For shame, it's mair than I can bear;
Wha sould it be but her gude-man,
And gif ye doubt—gae speir at Nan.
To buy or sell wad ride a-field,
And left his deary, and her wean,
Poor dowie thing, her leesome lane.
Wha was the daddy do ye spier?—
For shame, it's mair than I can bear;
Wha sould it be but her gude-man,
And gif ye doubt—gae speir at Nan.
It was a dreary Winter's day,
Whan Lowrie Weir rade doun the brae,
Quoth he, “My dawtie,” wi' a kiss,
“Ye manna tak it sair amiss,
I'll no be back, my dow, the night,
Sae bar the door and keep a' right.”
And aff he cadg'd on his gray horse,
Doun by Craigman and Achencors;
But thro what dubs his beast might plash,
To sing, atweel, we needna fash.
Whan Lowrie Weir rade doun the brae,
Quoth he, “My dawtie,” wi' a kiss,
“Ye manna tak it sair amiss,
I'll no be back, my dow, the night,
Sae bar the door and keep a' right.”
And aff he cadg'd on his gray horse,
Doun by Craigman and Achencors;
But thro what dubs his beast might plash,
To sing, atweel, we needna fash.
6
The Sun was set, the gloamin cam,
The gude-wife huzh'd her bonnie lamb,
And for hersel was unca wae,
And rued, and rued again, the day
She took the ring, the weddin token,
And owre her head the cake was broken.
Nae daffin now, nae canty crack,
But streekit at auld Lowrie's back;
She pyn'd like a forsaken hen,
When wha but Dan cam trampin ben.—
Ye weel may guess how blith to meet,
Ye think there might be kisses sweet;
I'll no believe it, on my life,
Ye ken—she was auld Lowrie's wife.
The gude-wife huzh'd her bonnie lamb,
And for hersel was unca wae,
And rued, and rued again, the day
She took the ring, the weddin token,
And owre her head the cake was broken.
Nae daffin now, nae canty crack,
But streekit at auld Lowrie's back;
She pyn'd like a forsaken hen,
When wha but Dan cam trampin ben.—
Ye weel may guess how blith to meet,
Ye think there might be kisses sweet;
I'll no believe it, on my life,
Ye ken—she was auld Lowrie's wife.
But aye some mischief-makin imp,
Laughs gin it mortal bliss can skrimp:
Some witches bantlin, ye may swear,
That night brought hame auld Lowrie Weir.
Whan she was smirkin, Dannie wooin,
And like twa cushots fondly cooin,
There cam a rap, like thunner clap,
'Twas Lowrie's sel, and up she lap.
Laughs gin it mortal bliss can skrimp:
Some witches bantlin, ye may swear,
That night brought hame auld Lowrie Weir.
Whan she was smirkin, Dannie wooin,
And like twa cushots fondly cooin,
There cam a rap, like thunner clap,
'Twas Lowrie's sel, and up she lap.
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A woman's wit aye stands the test,—
She whip'd young Lowrie frae his nest;
And aye whan the auld carle tirl'd,
Nippit the weanock, till it skirl'd,
To droun the bustle and the din
O' him without and them within.
“Doil'd Carle!” quo she, “back sae soon!
O Dannie, Dannie we're undone!
Or butt or ben there's no ae neuk
To hide a chiel o' sic a buik;
For gude-sake man, fye haste ye speel,
And hide up in the big woo-creel;
My wearied man, belyve, will snore,
Syne ye may slip out at the door.”
“Woo-creel!” quoth Dan, and swore an aith,
“The black Mahoun may tak ye baith!
A bonnie birth, for me, I trou,
Aboon the reek, amang foul woo,
Foul braxy dirt, 'twad smoor a sow.
Sooner than do sic fool-like biddin,
I'll ding the carle owre the midden.”
“O dinna,” quo she, “be a fool,
Fye haste ye man draw in the stool.”—
The carle roar'd, the carle rappit,
Dan drew the stool and up he stappit,
And clamber'd to the creel, right fain
That he war ance weel out again.
She whip'd young Lowrie frae his nest;
And aye whan the auld carle tirl'd,
Nippit the weanock, till it skirl'd,
To droun the bustle and the din
O' him without and them within.
“Doil'd Carle!” quo she, “back sae soon!
O Dannie, Dannie we're undone!
Or butt or ben there's no ae neuk
To hide a chiel o' sic a buik;
For gude-sake man, fye haste ye speel,
And hide up in the big woo-creel;
My wearied man, belyve, will snore,
Syne ye may slip out at the door.”
“Woo-creel!” quoth Dan, and swore an aith,
“The black Mahoun may tak ye baith!
A bonnie birth, for me, I trou,
Aboon the reek, amang foul woo,
Foul braxy dirt, 'twad smoor a sow.
Sooner than do sic fool-like biddin,
I'll ding the carle owre the midden.”
“O dinna,” quo she, “be a fool,
Fye haste ye man draw in the stool.”—
The carle roar'd, the carle rappit,
Dan drew the stool and up he stappit,
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That he war ance weel out again.
Nanse to the door now glegly ran,
“Hech! safe us a', is't you gude-man!
Ye raised up sic an awesome din,
I thought 'twas thieves that wad be in.”
“Thieves, quotha, troth ye are na blaet,
Sae lang to gar a body wait
And thole the rain and bitter blast:
Mair peats upon the ingle cast,
And ripe the ribs and gie's a low”—
Syne rub'd his hands and droukit pow.
The heapit peats began to bleeze
To warm the Carle, but Nan to freeze;
For keekin up, a fearsome sight,
For her, glanc'd by the glimmerin light;
To hide her fright, she tuke to singin,
For—owre the creel Dan's leg was hingin.
“Hech! safe us a', is't you gude-man!
Ye raised up sic an awesome din,
I thought 'twas thieves that wad be in.”
“Thieves, quotha, troth ye are na blaet,
Sae lang to gar a body wait
And thole the rain and bitter blast:
Mair peats upon the ingle cast,
And ripe the ribs and gie's a low”—
Syne rub'd his hands and droukit pow.
The heapit peats began to bleeze
To warm the Carle, but Nan to freeze;
For keekin up, a fearsome sight,
For her, glanc'd by the glimmerin light;
To hide her fright, she tuke to singin,
For—owre the creel Dan's leg was hingin.
SANG.
Balow, my babe, balow, balow;My bonnie babe, balow, balow;
My sonsie lad, balow, balow.
And 'twas aye draw in yer leg, my joe.
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Dan tuke the hint, the leg drew in,
And co'erd he was frae heel to chin;
But keekin cannie owre the creel,
He wish'd Skulduddery at the deel.
The ingle low'd, the wat peats reekit,
And restless Dan, half smoor'd, half smeekit,
Began to hotch and writhe and wrastle,
And wish'd himsel at Cumnock Castle,
At Straid, Polwhyrter, or Monaight,
Poulosh, Brydesbank, Leinmark, or Laight,
Or ony spat in a' the shire,
But in a creel aboon a fire.
And co'erd he was frae heel to chin;
But keekin cannie owre the creel,
He wish'd Skulduddery at the deel.
The ingle low'd, the wat peats reekit,
And restless Dan, half smoor'd, half smeekit,
Began to hotch and writhe and wrastle,
And wish'd himsel at Cumnock Castle,
At Straid, Polwhyrter, or Monaight,
Poulosh, Brydesbank, Leinmark, or Laight,
Or ony spat in a' the shire,
But in a creel aboon a fire.
What mortal should o' safety brag!—
By gude strae rape, out-owre a knag
Hang the woo-creel, weel pack'd and fou,
Ten stane o' flesh, twa stane o' woo;
And whan Dan's thoughts ran far awa,
Doun wi' a brainge cam creel and a'.—
Ae grane he loot, but it was sture,
And out he row'd on the clay floor.
His back was just ae gude braid fleesh
O' tarry tates o' woo and creesh;
He look'd, if ought ye could ca' like,
A muckle towzie water-tyke;
And aff he bang'd, ne'er keek'd a-hint him,
The carle in a jiffey tint him.—
“Losh!” cried the wife, “some deed ye've done,
That brings sic ferlies frae the Moon;
O Lowrie! a black hour is come,
Whan de'ils come rowin doun the lum.
Rin Lowrie, rin for Mess John Hunter,
Be't de'il or witch he can confront her,
Gar spirits skelp to Egypt's coast,
To soom wi' Pharaoh and his host.”
By gude strae rape, out-owre a knag
Hang the woo-creel, weel pack'd and fou,
Ten stane o' flesh, twa stane o' woo;
And whan Dan's thoughts ran far awa,
Doun wi' a brainge cam creel and a'.—
Ae grane he loot, but it was sture,
And out he row'd on the clay floor.
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O' tarry tates o' woo and creesh;
He look'd, if ought ye could ca' like,
A muckle towzie water-tyke;
And aff he bang'd, ne'er keek'd a-hint him,
The carle in a jiffey tint him.—
“Losh!” cried the wife, “some deed ye've done,
That brings sic ferlies frae the Moon;
O Lowrie! a black hour is come,
Whan de'ils come rowin doun the lum.
Rin Lowrie, rin for Mess John Hunter,
Be't de'il or witch he can confront her,
Gar spirits skelp to Egypt's coast,
To soom wi' Pharaoh and his host.”
Poor Lowrie bicker'd to the Manse,
But right and left whiles glowr'd a-skance:
Back cam the Minister, I wat
He was the man to bell the cat
Wi' ony witch that ever flew,
In hood o' red and cleuk o' blue.
He curs'd, and blest, and exorcis'd—
Lowrie grew calm, the wife was pleas'd,
For ilka imp, about the house,
Slank aff like ratten, or like mouse.
But right and left whiles glowr'd a-skance:
Back cam the Minister, I wat
He was the man to bell the cat
Wi' ony witch that ever flew,
In hood o' red and cleuk o' blue.
He curs'd, and blest, and exorcis'd—
Lowrie grew calm, the wife was pleas'd,
11
Slank aff like ratten, or like mouse.
Fools say, (a douse man scandal scorns)
That some ane left a pair o' horns,
That stack, I canna tell ye how,
On unsuspectin Lowrie's brow.
Wha cares for claverin and clashin,—
And wha wad wyte the Bill o' Bashan.
That some ane left a pair o' horns,
That stack, I canna tell ye how,
On unsuspectin Lowrie's brow.
Wha cares for claverin and clashin,—
And wha wad wyte the Bill o' Bashan.
FINIS.
| The Woo-Creel | |