The WIFE of AUCHTERMUCHTY

In Auchtermuchty thair dwelt ane man; An husband, as I hard it tauld, Quha weil could tippill out a can; And naithir luvit hungir nor cauld. Quhill anis it fell upon a day, He yokkit his pleuch upon the plain, Gif it be trew, as I heard say, The day was fowll for wind and rain.

He lowsit the pleuch at the landis en, And draife his oxen hame at ene, Quhen he came in he lukit ben, And saw the wife, baith dry and clene, Sittand at ane fyre beik and bauld, With ane fat soup, as I heard say; The man being very weit and cauld, Betwein thay twa it was na play.

Quoth he, Quhair is my horsis corn? My ox hes naithir hay nor stray: Dame ye maun to the pleuch the morn; I fall be hussy gif I may. Husband, quoth scho, content am I To tak the pleuch my day about; Sa ye will rewll baith kavis and ky, And all the house baith in and out.

But sen that ye will hussyskep ken, First ye sall sift, and syne sall kned; And ay as ye gang but and ben Luk that the bairnis fyle not the bed. Yeis lay ane soft wysp to the kill; (We haif ane deir ferme on our heid). And, ay as ye gang furth and till, Keip weill the gaislingis fra the gled.

The wyse was up richt late at ene I pray God gife her weil to fair! Scho kirn'd the kirn, and skum'd it clene, Left the gudeman bot bledoch bair. Than in the morning up scho gat, And on hir hairt laid her disjune; And pat als meikle in her lap As micht haif serd them baith at nune.

Says, Jok, be thou maister of wark, And thou fall had, and I sall ka; Ise promise thé ane gude new sark, Outhir of round claith or of sma. Scho lousit the oxin aught or nine, And hynt ane gad-staff in her hand.— Up the gudeman raise after syne, And saw the wyfe had done command.

He cawd the gaislingis furth to feid, Thair was but sevensum of them a, And by thair cumis the gredy gled, And likkit up fyve, left him but twa: Than out he ran, in all his mane, How sune he hard the gaislingis cry, But than or he came in agane The calvis brak louse and suckit the ky.

The calvis and ky met in the lone, The man ran with ane rung to red; Than thair cumis ane illwilly cow, And brodit his buttock quhill that it bled. Than hame ran to a rok of tow, And he satt doun to say the spinning; I trow he lowtit our neir the low— Quoth he, this work has ill beginning.

Hynd to the kirn than did he stoure, And jumlit at it quhill he swat; Quhen he had fumlit a full lang hour, The sorrow a scrape of butter he gat; Albeit na butter he could get, Yit he was cummerit with the kirne. And syne he het the milk our het, And sorrow a spark of it wald yirne.

Than ben thair cam ane greidy sow, I trow he cund hir little thank, For in scho shot her mekle mow, And ay scho winkit and scho drank: He cleikit up an cruked club, And thocht to hit the sow a rout; The twa gaislings the gled had left That straik dang baith thair harnis out.

Than he bare kindling to the kill, But scho stert up all in ane low; Quhatevir he hard quhatevir he saw That day he had na will to wow. Than he gied to tak up the bairnis, Thocht to haif fand thame fair and clene; The first that he gat in his armis Was a bedirtin to the ene.

The first it smelt sae sappelie, To touche the lave he did nocht greine: The devill cut off thair hands, quoth he, That fill'd ye a sa fow yestrene! He trailit the fowll sheites down the gait, Thocht to haif waschet thame on a stane; The burne was risen grit of spait, Away fra him the sheitis hes tane.

Then up he gat on ane know heid, On hir to cry, on hir to schout; Scho hard him, and scho hard him not, Bot stoutly steirid the stottis about. Scho draif al day unto the nicht; Scho lousit the pleuch, and syne came hame: Scho fand all wrang that sould bene richt; I trow the man thocht richt grit schame.

Quoth he, my office I forsaik For all the dayis of my lyfe; For I wald put ane house to wraik, Had I bene twenty dayis gudwife. Quoth scho weil met ye bruke your place, For trewlie I will nevir accep it: Quoth he feind fall the lyaris face, Bot yit ye may be blyth to git it.

Then up scho gate ane mekle rung, And the gudman maid to the doir: Quoth he, Deme I sall hald my tung, For an we fecht I'll get the woir. Quoth he, quhen I forsuik my pleuch, I trow I but forsuik my seill; And I will to my pleuch agane, For I and this hous will neir do weil.