LL-L "Holidays" 2005.03.08 (01) [E/LS/S]
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From: Global Moose Translations <globalmoose at t-online.de>
Subject: LL-L "Holidays" 2005.03.07 (10) [E]
Ron wrote:
> Perhaps we should make tomorrow (already today for many of you) a special
> day on which we try to focus on matters concerning girls and women. Some
> literature bits would be nice, or feminine treatment in grammar, and
> anything of the sort. No, it doesn't all have to be serious.
Well, I appreciate the sentiment (although personally, I don't much identify
with a "female" role, and say to hell with all artificial gender
differences). Only, forgive me for saying so, the poems and songs you posted
(although they include one of my favourites which I have posted here before,
"De junge Wetfru") all focus on a traditional woman's role as a mother
and/or wife, which seems a bit... well, counterproductive.
So let me add a song written by Judy Small (who is Australian, I believe);
there are some beautiful recordings by the Corries, the McCalamans, and
others.
MOTHERS, DAUGHTERS, WIVES
Chorus:
The first time it was fathers the last time it was sons
And in between your husbands marched away with drums and guns
And you never thought to question you just went on with your lives
'Cause all they'd taught you who to be was mothers, daughters, wives
You can only just remember the tears your mothers shed
As they sat and read the papers through the lists and lists of dead
And the gold frames held the photographs that mothers kissed each night
And the doorframes held the shocked and silent strangers from the fight
Chorus
And it was twenty-one years later with children of your own
The trumpet sounded once again and the soldier boys were gone
And you drove their trucks and made their guns and tended to their wounds
And at night you kissed their photographs and prayed for safe returns
And after it was over you had to learn again
To be just wives and mothers when you'd done the work of men
So you worked to help the needy and you never trod on toes
And the photos on the pianos struck a happy family pose
Chorus
Then your daughters grew to women and your little boys to men
And you prayed that you were dreaming when the call-up came again
But you proudly smiled and held your tears as they bravely waved goodbye
But the photos on the mantelpieces always made you cry
And now you're growing older and in time the photos fade
And in widowhood you sit back and reflect on the parade
Of the passing of your memories as your daughters change their lives
Seeing more to our existence than just mothers, daughters, wives
Chorus
...and you believed them when they said you were just mothers daughters
wives
After that, let me add that I actually applied for a manager job in language
services at a big industrial company last year and was told by the personnel
manager: "Thank you for your application, but we have enough gentlemen to
choose from."
Methinks a whole lot more is needed than just one "World Women's Day" a
year. In most heads, men and women are still seen as different species. And
frankly, most women don't help much to change that view. The most scary
thing is that it's their own mothers and grandmothers who taught them to be
"women", with all the restrictions and implications..
Gabriele Kahn
----------
From: Andy Eagle <andy at scots-online.org>
Subject: LL-L "Holidays" 2005.03.07 (10) [E]
Ron wrote:
>Subject: Holidays
>Middle English (William Dunbar, c1460-c1513):
>
> In Praise of Women
Is middle Scots though a piece of Middle English for purposes of
comparrison would no doubt be very interesting.
> Now of wemen this I say for me,
> Of erthly thingis nane may bettir be.
> Thay suld haif wirschep and grit honoring
> Of men aboif all uthir erthly thing.
> Rycht grit dishonour upoun himself he takkis [takes]
> In word or deid [deed] quhaevir [whoever] wemen lakkis [dispises],
> Sen [since] that of wemen cumin [come = born] all ar we;
> Wemen ar wemen and sa will end and de [die].
> Wo wirth the fruct wald put the tre to nocht [nothing],
> And wo wirth him rycht so that sayis ocht [anything]
> Of womanheid that may be ony lak,
> Or sic [such] grit [great] schame upone him for to tak.
> Thay us consaif with pane, and be thame fed
> Within thair breistis thair we be boun to bed;
> Grit pane and wo and murnyng mervellus
> Into thair birth thay suffir sair for us;
> Than meit [food] and drynk to feid [feed] us get we nane [none]
> Bot that we sowk [suck] out of thair breistis bane [bone].
> Thay ar the confort that we all haif heir [have here] -
> Thair may no man be till us half so deir;
> Thay ar our verry nest of nurissing.
> In lak of thame quha [who] can say ony thing,
> That fowll [bird] his nest he fylis [fouls], and for thy
>[therefore]
> Exylit [exiled] he suld be of all gud cumpany;
> Thair suld na wyis [wise] man gif audience
> To sic ane [such a one] without intelligence.
> Chryst to His fader He had nocht ane [not a single] man;
> Se quhat [what] wirschep wemen suld haif than.
> That Sone is Lord, that Sone is King of Kingis,
> In Hevin and erth His majestie ay ringis.
> Sen scho hes borne Him in hir halines [holiness],
> And He is well and grund [foundation] of all gudnes,
> All wemen of us suld haif honoring,
> Service and luve, aboif [above] all uthir [other] thing.
Andy Eagle
----------
From: Arend Victorie <victorie.a at home.nl>
Subject: LL-L "Holidays" 2005.03.07 (10) [E]
Moi Leeglaanders,
Ök ik wul wel een stientie bi'j dragen an een ode an 't vrouwvolk.
Zi'j staot net zo goed as 't manvolk midden in een maatschappij,
Die al mar ingewikkelder wordt. En ök zi'j staot veuran in de riej en vangt
ök de klappen op bint nuuver slim en mangs een stok slimmer ök nog. Wat dat
betreft is der mar weinig veraanderd. Bij de aolde Germanen, stunden de
vrouwen ök veuran in de linie umme mit te vechten tegen de Romeinse legers.
De Romeinen dachten dat 't een kold kuunsie was umme de noordelijke stammen
baoven de grote rivieren onder de plak te kriegen.
Zi'j kwamen van een kolde karmis thuus. Mit dank an oonze starke oermoeders.
Mien eigen Harsenspinsels, staot hieronder neer 'eschreven.
Arend Victorie.
BRIGIT
Schim uut 't verleden, dagelijks in mien heufd.
Harsenschimmen, daanst veur mien netvlies.
Allent te vangen in woorden.
Hoe zuuver was oen stemme,
vol magie de woorden die mi'j mitnamen,
op reis veurbi'j de negende golf.
Toen en now nog steeds zing ik oe mien gedichten.
Ooit za'k oe weerzien, op de heuvel van Tara.
Inish Fail, laand van verre greinzen zal oonz herienigen
ONVOLTOOIDE TIED
Mit ogen nat van traonen, wandel ik het pad of,
heur lee'msweg naor 't vergeten strand
Vergeten is daor de tied, toen gedachten nog jong waren.
Ik viend der allent nog bloedstolsel.
Ie waren te jong veur een moeder.
Net zeuventiene toen de vliezen braken.
En ie hulden mij wat onwennig tegen de börst.
En ik, ik zöcht warmte.
Mit ogen nat van traonen,
wandel ik 't karkhof of. Terögge naor 't vergeten strand.
Vergeten is daor de stried mit ruwe kerelshaanden.
Oen lichaam naakt in bloedstolsel.
En ik, ik vien oe.
Gevangen in de golven.
Traonen van bitter zolt.
Eindelijk warmte.
TANFANA
Tanfana, weerde mi'j,
leut mi'j niet binnen in heur domein.
" 't Moor is niet meer veur starvelingen."
Fluusterde zi'j.
"Zelfs veur de dichter,
die mi'j in liederen gunstig wul stemmen,
is de poort 'esleuten."
Tanfana, weerde mi'j.
Diepe onder 't somp sluumert angst.
Tar Vana! Tar Vana!
Schalde ooit een stemme.
Diepe onder 't somp, sluumert 't verleden.
WI'J
Oen ogen spreekt taol,
welke oen mond verzweg.
Oen lichaam sprek boekdelen
en ik zuuk tasten mien weg naor oen innerlijke.
Oen aosem zo zuute as hunnig,
viendt bliendelinks de weg naor mien geest.
Oen harte, 't klopt zo onstumig,
ik pruuve 't zolt in 't zwiet,
dat as dauw oen lichaam bedekt.
twee verstrengelt in liefde,
tongen in een erotisch gevecht.
Stilte nao 't toomloze hichten.
Een welgemiend welterusten, slaop zacht.
CILLIE NEVELHEKSE
Heurt hier allemaole,
wat ik heb te verhaolen
van een maagien dat woonde in 't Hollandscheveld.
Heur name was Cillie van rieke familie,
maor dat har dat maagien gien iene vertelt.
As sterren zo mooi.
As sterren zo mooi.
Heur ogen die straalden as sterren zo mooi.
As 's morgens de zunne, zien reis weer begunde
daanste Cillie en dreef dan de mist uut 't veen.
Aover heide en ven, klunk heur golden stem.
zo zingen as Cillie, dat kun der gieniene.
As sterren zo mooi.
As sterren zo mooi.
Heur ogen die straalden as sterren zo mooi.
Gien meins, mug heur lieden
en begunden te verbieden,
dat 't maagien in 't dörp zich niet meer mug vertonen.
't Volk begunde een hetse en nuumden heur een hekse.
Zi'j kun toen maor amper an de vuur nog ontkomen.
As sterren zo mooi.
As sterren zo mooi.
Heur ogen die straalden as sterren zo mooi.
Maor een jonge edelman,
die deur de heide kwam.
Die steul toen 't harte van dat maagien uut 't veen.
Al dwaalend deur 't ven, en, behekst deur heur stem, '
dacht die jonker an Cillie, ja Cillie allien.
As sterren zo mooi.
As sterren zo mooi.
Heur ogen die straalden as sterren zo mooi.
Maor dat mug ök niet baten,
hi'j mus heur verlaoten.
De jonker zien aolders, die waren der op tegen.
Hi'j kun allien maor belaoven umme terögge te komen,
Bi'j Cillie, lief Cillie zien nimf uut 't veen.
As sterren zo mooi.
As sterren zo mooi.
Heur ogen die straalden as sterren zo mooi.
Doodziek en verward,
umdat 't noodlot heur tart.
Dwaalt Cillie op een nacht in een störm deur 't veen.
Al dwaalend deur 't donker,
reup zi'j umme heur jonker.
Gien meins wet, waordeur as toen 't maagien verdween.
As sterren zo mooi.
As sterren zo mooi.
Heur ogen die straalden as sterren zo mooi.
Rondumheer wördt vertelt,
löp men 's nachts deur 't veld.
Spookt soms de geest van lief Cillie heur ziel viendt gien vree.
Die schim in 't donker,
rüp nog steeds umme heur jonker.
Wo'j bewiezen hebben, dan go'j vannacht mit oonz mee.
As sterren zo mooi.
As`sterren zo mooi.
Heur ogen die straalt nog as sterren zo mooi.
----------
From: Sandy Fleming <sandy at scotstext.org>
Subject: "Holidays" [E/S]
> From: R. F. Hahn <sassisch at yahoo.com>
> Subject: Holidays
>
> Perhaps we should make tomorrow (already today for many of you) a special
> day on which we try to focus on matters concerning girls and women. Some
> literature bits would be nice, or feminine treatment in grammar, and
> anything of the sort. No, it doesn't all have to be serious.
Well, Archie McNab's "Essay on Woman" might be appropriate for the day. Or
inappropriate, as the case may be...
ESSAY ON WUMMAN
THE Author's gallantry made it impossible that he shoud dae onything else
than comply wi a request sent him bi the female leddies o the community,
desirin frae his pen an "Essay on Wumman."
His great work, "An Essay on Man," that was read wi profound interest bi the
intelligent public, that sat throu the lang summer days, on the porters
barrows, doon the pier, an discussed bi the learned an weel-up, in every
public hoose back room, generated a desire, that--afore he laid doon his
immortal pen for ever an a day--he wid compensate, in a sma' wey, for a' the
favours, the kindnesses, an the tender mercies, that it haed been his happy
lot to receive at the hauns o the gentler sex--ootthrou the course o a lang,
eventfu an checkered career--bi comin furrit, in the glory an ripeness o his
geenus, in a day when chivilry wis oot o fashion, to champion the leddies,
wi a pen that never wrote a single wird that micht bring a blush to the
cheek o even the maist depraved.
Naething worth daein is ever duin in a hurry, sae the Author sat doon, an
walked aboot, chowed his nails, thocht an thocht, an repeated ower to
himsel, aften an aften--"Airchie Macnab, are ye a man worthy o this
priviledge, this honour, this hie office? Hae ye got the penetration, the
intuitive insicht, an the delicacy required to perform this michty task?
Hae ye got the geenus that'll keep ye frae bein rideeclous, when yet get
fankelt up in the warp an waft o sic an intricate an complex fabrication as
a wumman is? Great writer an a' as ye are, hae ye the courage to attack sic
a kittlie subject?" The Author leuked in on himsel, his habits, an his
history, an he wisna blate to ashuir himsel that he haed muckle o that
wisdom that follows the folly o Solomon, an he saw that, baith as man an
callant, he haed--in common wi Rabbie Burns, an a' ither great
Scotchmen--dearly loe'd the lassies. Frae his inner consciousness cam at
last this conclusion--"If devotion to, an love o,
the subject, guarantees guid writin, an an 'Essay on Wumman' is wanted, to
dae it, Airchie Macnab, ye are the man."
The Author then went into his study (the wee back bedroom), filled his pipe,
an set to.
Seen frae afaur aff, the projected essay wis a cloud nae bigger than a man's
haun, but, on nearer approach, it leuked like a lot o men's hauns, an every
yin o them shut an shuckin, as muckle as sayin--"Noo, Airchie Macnab, nane o
yer hunker-slidin. Mak it an oot an oot affair, dae a square thing, spare
nane, or bi the hokey-pokey-pea-scones! we'll brand ye wi the desairved
impeachment o bein yin that, in his day an generation, hid his licht to wink
to the lassies. Tell the truith an shame the--damsels."
Noo, if there's a thing the Author haesna the courage for, it is--on certain
maiters--to tell the truith. He haes observed that the men an weemen o
history, that telt the truith, maistly always cam to a sudden an a fearfu
en'. It mey be airgied that things are different noo-a-days, but the Author
disna believe it. He thinks it a'maist suicidal at times to say even what
he thinks, let alane tell the truith.
Some o his bachelor freens'll be sayin--"Noo, Airchie, ye're a man o
experience, teach us." Wi a peety in his hert, an a contemptous curl on his
lip, the Author asks--"Wha coud teach ye?" He likes yer conceits, an he
watches hoo ye spen' on yersels the admiration that's the richt o mair
gracefu craiters, an the conduct o yer unnerstaunin is a puzzler to him, for
he kens fine ye want what ye'll no tak. Ye needna try to ashuir the Author
that ye are quite happy, he'll no believe it. He kens perfeckly weel that
ye dinna ken whether ye are happy or no. If ye haed a great an noble
purpose in bein singular, then he wid bou wi a' reverence. An if he kent ye
haed the remembrance o a sweet-lang-ago smile hung up in the chambers o yer
hert, he wid proffer ye the haun o sorrowfu concern, an skail for ye ony
tears he haed; but if it be that ye are waitin to see a lass that's better
than yersel, then a' the Author haes to say, is, that yer sicht maun be very
defective, an the suiner
ye consult an ee doctor the better.
The mairied man kens fine he can trust the Author. If it happens, as it
will, that noo an again attention is drawn to slicht differences between the
angels an weemen in general, the mairied man'll unnerstaun that the
exception to the rule is his wife in particular. Housomever, he can please
himsel aboot that.
The Author wid caution mairied folk against quotin him to bowster up their
ill-natured remerks to yin anither, for he kens fine that if they dae sae,
when they become again like twa wee dous in a doucot, he'll get the warst
wird oot o baith o their mooths.
The followin work is dedicated, withoot permission, to Her Maist Awfu
Gracious Majesty the Queen, an every ither Female Wumman in the Lan'.
CHAIPTER I.
"Wha can shew a button on?
Wumman, chairmin wumman, oh!"
--_Auld Sang_.
"But seldom daes it."
--_As You Like It._
To ken whit a wumman is we dinna need to gang back to the first pages o
sacred or, whit they ca', profane history, we hae juist to cry "Betty,"
an--there ye are! Drest in antidaluvian fig leafs, or adorned in the
hairness plaid an silk attire o oor sae cauld nineteenth century, the
craiter inside, that we ca' a wumman, is the same the noo, yestreen, the
morn, an the next day. Ever cheengin an eternally the same, is a paradox,
is a fact, an is a Wumman!
My desire is to be clearly unnerstuid, sae I'll gie anither paragraph on
this pynt.
If ye leuk back ootthrou the ages, ye'll notice that in times lang ago, men
haed whit's ca'd characteristics. That is to say, men were men. They coud
fecht an did fecht. But oh! they hae cheenged awfu. They hae nae
characteristics noo worth speakin o, for in risin, as they say, to the
occasion, they juist conform continually. If ye were to lift yer umberellae
to gie them a clooner ower the lug, they wid cry "Poliss" like
hey-my-nannie. Alace for the days when the insulted chiel wid draw his dirk
an ram it into his enemy's stamach! But ye shoud see a wumman risin to the
occasion! She haes a' the characteristics ever she haed, an if the truith
_maun_ be telt, she's addin to them every day.
But I maunna wanner awa into the metapheesical aspects o my subject. I maun
be practical.
Before onybody can become a wumman, he or she maun, in the first place, be a
lassie. This is requisite in a' cases. A lassie becomes a wumman juist as
suin as she becomes a source o comfort, or a cause o concern. The common
evidences o her hivin attained to her womanhood is when the lads in the kirk
begin to neglect their sauls to gaze on her sweet face. When a mither sees
her dochter chowin awa at soor draps, conversation lozengers, an things like
that, it mak's her prood to ken her bairn's
"Respected like the lave."--_Burns_.
My gentle reader, ye wid notice that I heidit this chaipter wi a poetic
quotation or twa. I coudna help it! On sic a subject as I hae noo on haun,
it taks me a' my time to write whit they ca' prose. I'm aye juist on the
pynt o burstin oot into some sublime rapsoda, an, in fact, if I haed follaed
my ain inclination in the maiter, this essay wid hae been an epic poem,
something like Milton's "Paradise Lost," only different. But I kent the
public wadna pit up wi the like o that aff o me. Housomever, for the sake o
variety, I'll pit in a wee bit pottery noo an again, an at this pairt ye
shall hae:--
THE SANG O THE BRIDE.
Ye hae mibbie beard aboot it,
But ye warna very share;
It's true I'm here to tell ye,
Juist as true as ye are there.
The "cries" are in, the day is fixed,
I've got my hairness plide,
A bat that cost its twa poun' ten,
A new silk dress beside.
"To mairy is a solemn thing,"
Sae say the gossips a';
But, fegs! it's faur mair solemn
Ne'er to get the chance ava.
Sae, I'll juist hae my Sandy,
An my Sandy he'll hae me,
An in oor room an kitchen
We'll be happy as can be.
_Chorus_
An I fancy I can see
Hoo the folk will glower at me
As doon the toun I happen to be gaun,
Wi my basket bi my side,
An my ring displayed wi pride,
An the haunle o the door in my haun.
We've gane thegither lang eneuch,
Juist lang eneuch for me;
An, fegs! I aften haed a thocht
That it wid never be.
But noo my fears are a' awa
Nae mair o them I'll hae,
He asked me if I'd be his wife
An name the weddin day.
I shoud hae hung my heid, nae dout,
An chowed my apron, tae,
I shoud hae blushed an leuked as if
A wird I coudna say.
I shoud hae kept him in suspense,
Wi sayin "Bye-an-bye"!
But, losh! I hae my share o sense;
My answer was, "Oh, aye!"
_Chorus_
An I fancy I can see
Hoo the folk will glower at me.
My Sandy he is anxious
That the weddin shoud be gran';
He's asked his weel-aff cousin
If he'll come an be best man.
He means to hae a new lum hat,
The best that is for sale;
He's got his measure for a suit,
The coat a swallow tail.
We've sent the invitations oot,
I've got some presents in--
The best-maid's set o cheenae,
Nicely gilded roon' the rim,
A jeely-pan as bricht as gowd,
A basket filled wi delf,
A baikie crammed wi bric-a-brac,
To ornament the shelf.
_Chorus_
An I fancy I can see
Hoo the folk will glower at me.
The unsophisticated innocence an simplicity o the foregaun, describes the
sublime hicht o estatic delyte that the female mortal mey arise to on the
eve o her nupsuals. The same feelins coudna be expressed in onything but
bonnie wirds an sweet soun's. Coud they ever? I dinna think it!
But before a lass can be a bride, she maun be coorted. That's what we'll
dae in the next chaipter.
CHAIPTER II.
The sun haes sank doun to his rest,
The gloamin flickers in the west,
The wee bit birds hae socht their nest
In ilka tree,
The bonnie lass that I loe best
I'll gang an see.
The man that can despise an mak licht o the elevatin influence o female
society, is--like him that haesna muisic in his saul--a cuddy. Him that
haesna felt the sacred pouer o real love, is yet unconscious o the latent
nobility that lies dormant in his ain breest, an the sel-sacrifice he is
capable o. I hae kent a chiel staun at the trystin place--mibbie a
lamp-post--on a cauld, snawy nicht for an oor on en', waitin on his lass, an
never utter what they ca' a single ejaculation o impatience. An when she
_did_ come alang, wi a smile on her face that was calculated to melt a
snawman, an said--
"Ye wad be thinkin I was like Ryal Chairlie, lang o comin?"
He wad gie a bit lauch, dicht the teir frae the pynt o his cauld beak, an
say, "Na, I didna think it lang. I raither like waitin."
This is manly love! The fine feelin in his answer shows how saft a bonnie
bit lassie's smile can mak a man's hert. Some wad say it was his heid was
saft. But that'll no dae. The hert an the heid are no to be confoondit.
Locality haes a lot to dae wi a wheen things. If the rose's hue is on the
cheek, we ca' it beauty, but if the same hue is on the nose, we ca'
it--booze. Strange!
The man that can philosophise aboot whit kin o wife he soud tak tae himsel
is as faur awa frae feelin the divine pawshin as I am frae bein an angel.
Chuisin a wife is a cauld, methodical, calculatin farce, an I aye peety the
chuisen cratur, nae maiter wha she is. When love is the maister o
ceremonies there's nae chuisin aboot it, an ye juist tak whit ye get, ca'in
it yer Fate, yer Wife, yer Helpmate, "Oor Yin," the Guidwife, the Missus, an
excetra.
The pouer o love gey aften upsets the plans o men an mice, o mithers an
faithers, an ithers--an whit we chuize to ca' its caprice haes gien us the
plot an exploits o the warl's history.
If men question their feelins an ask themsels, "Whit wey dae I loe
sae-an-sae sae weel?" the answer'll be various. Yae man maks his bounce
that his leddie love haes
"Een o fire, lips o dew,
Cheeks that shame the rose's hue;"
while anither'll be content to say that his lass haes a nice dimple on her
elbow.
But efter a', it's that "Providence that shapes oor en's," it's it that pous
the hert-strings, unless we tak to the makkin o a "Providence o oor ain an
mairy siller, askin its possessor to the waddin."
Lassies are coorted in mony a strange fashion, but the maist common wey is
to tak them oot for a walk on a Tuesday nicht.
An, oh! in thae walks whit dreams mey come! When we hae left the toon an a'
the warl ahin', an wauner, like twa disembodied spirits, in the licht o the
muin, an sich-sichs an vow-vows--wow! wow!! Draw a veil.
Coortships gey aften comes to an end wi a waddin; but that juist depends. I
hae seen them kept on even efter that, an a' throu life. If ye saw me wi my
airm roond Betty's neck, askin a bit saxpence to gang doon the toon wi like
a man, ye wid think I wis the young chap o forty years syne, an
she--Betty--wi the yellow coatie. Hech, sirse! for the days o auld lang
syne, when the sun shone warmer, an the nichts werena sae lang!
A great concern wi a wheen young folk is "Hoo to propose." Bosh! it's the
easiest thing in the warl'. I ken for mysel, I coudna keep frae proposin wi
the wey Betty wid leuk at me.
"I think," says I, "it's aboot time we were gettin up a waddin atween us, us
twa."
"Mak fun o yer auld bauchles, Airchie Macnab, an dinna try yer nonsense on
wi me."
"I'm in earnest, Betty,--as share as daith! sae help--. Excuise me, but I'm
shuir ye're no unwillin?"
She didna say a wird till we cam to a quait place whaur naebody coud see us,
an then she threw her airms roond my neck, an wi tears in her vice said--
Na, I'll no tell ye whit she said, for that wid be mean. Her wirds were in
trust, an I respect them. Hooever, efter a gran' speech, that wid hae duin
credit to the dochter o a Roman Patreecian, she wound up wi: "An yer kirk'll
be my kirk (ye see, wi Betty's folk it wis a' Free Kirk, an wi oor folk it
wis a' U.P.), an my people shall be your people."
"Haud on there, Betty," says I; "ca' canny a wee. I hae nae intention that
your people shall be my people. It's you I want, Betty--you, yersel. As
for yer people, that's anither thing a'thegither." An sae it was.
Writin love-letters is considered bi some folk a very dangerous practice.
They calculate that the chiel that indulges in sic pastimes is the chiel
likely to appear some day as ane o the principal characters in a breach o
promise case. Noo, if I wis a young lass I wid hae naething to dae wi the
chap that wis sae discreet, an sae very feart to commit himsel in a bit
letter. I dinna like to see these breach o promise cases ava, an they shoud
only be resorted to bi the puir lass that haesna a big brither that coud tak
the life o the fause villain that deceives her wi his tickets for swarries
an concerts, an things like that. O coorse, we shoud dae everything
accordin to law an order, an the big brither shoud dae the same; sae I wid
advise him to gang aboot the thing quietly, an no to let bug whit he's up to
till he gets a chance. Murder is an awfu thing, an the takin awa o human
life is nae joke; but it's only when its duin ugly that it leuks sae
horrible. Daecent, respecta
ble murder gangs on a' aroond us, an we never, or seldom, notice it. Herts
can be broken wi ither than stanes, an mony a lingerin, languishin life is a
prolonged tragedy.
But whaur am I noo? This chaipter aboot coortin, insteed o whit I thocht it
wid be,--happy, an windin up wi a waddin,--is mair like to wind up in a
shrood an a funeral.
So much for coortin.
"For puir's the hert that's ill to melt,
Thats tender pairt haes never felt
The blaw to smert bi Cupid dealt,
In wumman's weys;
An that to airt haes never telt
The flatterin praise."
CHAIPTER III.
OOR national bard haes truly said, "Man was made to murn," an he haes left
it for me to declare, that "Wumman was made tae mairy." In a' her dreams o
feleecity an happiness, mairage is the consummation devoutly to be wished,
an her walk an conversation; in the mornin o life, is conducted in the licht
o a future state. Yet for a' that there's a wheen o oor female sisters that
never haes an never will be led to the hymenial halter, that's disappyntment
is a veritable blessin in disguise. "A noble mither maun hae bred sae brave
a son," is said o mony a chiel that awes his comfort, happiness, an success
in life to the fact that he enjoyed the kindness, an profited bi the care o
a "maiden auntie," an "unmairit sister," or some ither possible platonic
freenship. "Auld maid" in the thochts o some is--whit the lairned wid
ca'--a term o disparagement, but why it shoud be sae, clean baits me to
unnerstaun. I mysel ken leddies--I coud name them--that, altho "auld
maids," suffers na
e reproach, an thats absence frae this cauld warl' wid be mair felt than
the annihilation o a wheen o oor ring-fingered mistresses. I am an auld
man, an my hat rises heich to the auld maid, an I loe her faur ower weel
ever to peety her. Anither man's wife is a mixed personality; a sensible
auld maiden leddie is ever an always--on her ain responsibility--a guid an
kind craiter. Men that kens the warl'll subscribe their full name an
address to these, my sentiments.
Yon's a real solemn bit o the mairage ceremony whaur the bride comes ben
frae the ither room greetin to get mairied. "Dae ye tak this man to be yer
lawfu husband?" says the minister; an she--hingin doon her abashed an
muslin-covered face, like a criminal afore the baur o juistice--juist nods,
or says, in a wee, faur-awa vice, "Aye." The mixed feelins that maun be
hers, as she hauds oot her haun for the best maid to tak aff the glove, are
ayont the pouer o my pen to describe. But the wumman in the craiter rises
abuin a' the perplexities o her position, an I never heard o a bride yet
that put oot the wrang finger to receive the gowden emblem o perpetual an
never-endin love, or, as I yince heard a sacreligious joker ca' it, "the
badge o slavery." Wisn't that an awfu thing to ca' a mairage ring? It
juist shows ye hoo some folk can tak the poetry oot o the maist sentimental
things. It's no fair!
The man an wife thus jined thegither, in what's ca'd the bonds o wedlock,
commence frae that meenit the battle o life atween them. An whiles they hae
an awfu fecht, an it's vexin to the poliss to interfere noo an again.
An noo we come to whit the foregaun wis juist, as it were, a preface. Noo
we come to consider whit a wumman is when she haes a man o her ain, a hoose
o her ain, a washin day, say, every fortnicht, an a' the ither concerns that
gaes to constitute the glory o a domesticated female's gran' position.
There's a limit to human knowledge, an I--even I--dinna ken everything. If
I did, I wid gang on to say, "Some weemen dae this, an some weemen dae
that." The proper study o man is man, an, I suppose, the proper study o
wumman is wumman. I think sae, for they ken mair aboot yin anither than we
dae aboot onything. Housomever, the study o yae wumman haes been forced
upon me, an if I shoud mak Betty the frequent local instance in illustration
o my remerks, ye're to unnerstaun that it's mair in sorrow than in anger.
As I hae aften said, she's no a bad body when she gets a' her ain wey, an
whit mair coud ye expect frae a wumman that's troubled every winter wi the
rheumatisms?
The antiquarian that taks a keek into the Rosy pairish register'll see there
that it wisna yesterday Betty Mackenzie led Airchie Macnab--I mean they got
mairit. I wis the full chiel that day o oor kirkin, as we walked up the
High Street, me wi my lum hat on, white troosers, printed waistcoat, an
Betty in her hairness plide, bocht in Paisley, her silk goon, an her cottage
bunnet--that her bonnie face smiled oot o as if throu a pen close. Tam Glen
an Jeanie Smith, the best man an best maid, brocht up the rear, while they
were follaed bi a' the neebors bairns, an ithers.
The beadle was gaun up wi the beuks as we reached oor saits, amang the
admirin an envious glances o a fou kirk, an Betty blushed as reid as a biled
labster to hear the minister readin oot, for his first psalm, the
paraphrase:--
"In life's gay morn, when sprichtly youth
Wi vital ardour glows,
An shines in a' the fairest chairms
That beauty can disclose."
Nae dout it wis ower bad o the minister to compliment us sae publicly, an I
thocht Betty wid never hae forgien him for it; yet, wid ye believe me?
nowithstaunin the perplexity o her critical circumstances, when we got hame,
an were at oor denner, Betty was able to describe every new dress an bunnet
to be seen in the kirk frae whaur we were sittin
"Sae these were wed, an merrily rang the bells,
An merrily ran the years."
In a very short time I haed laid aside my cauf-like demeanour, an wisna sae
carefu to say sweet things nor minch my wirds. I got that I coud kick up a
row aboot a button aff or a hole in my socks. An then it wis that I began
to see an discern some very strange facts. For instance, if we haed a haud,
say aboot the eggs for the brakfast bein hard biled, or the beef for the
denner bein teuch, a life o the maist awfu misery wis mine till I got it
southered up. Betty wid resort to her tantilisin silence. Silence did I
ca' it? Weel, she wis silent wi her tongue, but, lod! she coud speak wi the
bellaces, the poker an tangs, an even in steerin the parritch she wid be
positively eloquent wi the spurkle. I wid discover a' at yince that my feet
were sae fearfully big as to be in the road in every corner o the hoose, an
that every noo an again I very nearly spat in the fryin pan or the broth
pat, an in fact--oh! I hated that silence o Betty's. I wid far raither hae
perpetual thun
der in my ears. At last--in desperation--I wad gang awa doon the toun, get
a gless o courage in me, an come back hame wi an awfu magnanimous hert in my
breest, a smile on my lips, streetchin frae ear to lug, an pittin my airm
roon' Betty's neck, sing--to a tune composed as I gaed alang--
An awfu haud ye mey expect
If ye at ony time neglect
My sark or troosers to inspect
For buttons aff.
My anger's past, sae dinna sneak,
But gie's a lauch.
It's no yer place to flicht ootricht
If I've duin whit ye dinna think richt,
An if I shoud be late o nicht
In comin hame,
Ye'll let me ken anither licht,
Or I'm mistaen.
Yince I got Betty to lauch, my sufferin were speedily at an en'.
It mey be very easy to deceive a young lass, but yince ye hae made her yer
lawfu wife, I'll lay my lugs she's no lang o kennin ye better than ye ken
yersel. For instance, I hae seen me comin into the hoose lettin on I wis
fou. I wid stagger aboot, ram-stammin ower stuils, chairs, tables, an
everything that cam in my road, hing my hat up whaur there wis nae nail,
kick the cat, an bounce aboot hoo mony gless I haed in me, an a' that sort o
thing. But it wadna dae. She wid juist lauch, an mibbie gie me a slap or
twa wi the dishclout, sayin, "Oh, that's no you ava." It seems that's no
whit I dae ava when I'm fou. O coorse, I never saw mysel that wey, an sae
dinna ken. She kens! She says I cairy on like a sou, an at the same time
threep doon her throat that I hinna tasted a single drap. O coorse, Betty
is a teatotaler, an whit coud ye expect? Gie her her drap o tea, an she
disna care a preen for a' the whiskies, an the wines, an the brandies that
are in the warl'. My oh
! it's an awfu grup that tea taks o a body yince they yield themsels up to
its seductive influences. I wis juist coontin up a' the cups o tea that
body'll drink frae Ne'erday mornin to Hogmanay nicht; an guess ye whit the
amoont is? Twa thoosan' nine hunner an twenty fou cups! Isn't that awfu?
To say the least o't, it's preposterous. I tried to frichten Betty wi the
statistics, but it didna pit her aboot a preen pint. "Ye can coont my cups
o tea," says she, "but ye hinna taen mony o yer glesses o whiskey till ye
loss coont o them." There ye are, ye see! That's yer temperance, teetotal,
abstainin Guid Templar for ye! Aye sayin nesty, ill-natured things!
Onybody that kens the wey Betty can haunle the airguments in favour o whit
she ca's the Cause, wid be vexed for somebody.
CHAIPTER IV.
A' QUESTION aboot the equality o the sexes is stuff an nonsense. Ye mey
airgy as ye like aboot it, an show this an show that, but ye'll come to nae
mair reasonable conclusion than if the question afore ye haed been, "Whit
mak's maist fizz in a Seidletz poother, the contents o the blue or the white
paper?"
When I'm asked if I think the leddies capable o takin a haun in public
affairs, I always say, "I hope no." Ye see, I still desire to hug the
sentimental notion to my saul, that the leddies are quite abuin daein the
mean things that gangs bi the name o "servin the public."
Did ye ever meet the man that's a great contender for--whit he ca's--the
superiority o the male sex? He is a geenus! Get him on to the crack, an,
tak my wird for't, the hauf yin ye stan' him'll no be thrown awa. "We have
nae female Shakespeare, have we?" he asks ye, as he shoves back his ravin
lock wi his clawty fingers, "nor yet ony female Miltons?" Satisfied that
his airguments are conclusive, he drinks to yer health, an a' ye can dae is
to ring the bell, an tell Tam juist to "renew the dose."
I min' yince o bein in the company o yin o these "Lords o Creation," an he
went a great length. "Weemen," says he, "are undoutedly the weaker vessels.
That they are! That we shoud rule them is sanctioned bi the Scripturs (he
wis weel up in the Scripturs this man, for he wis an infidel). They are
only meant to be oor helpmates--oor haunmaidens. We shoud rule them." Hoo
far he wid hae gane on I canna say, but he was interrupted bi the door o the
room we were in openin. A face appeared, twa greedy grey een teuk in the
situation at a glance, an a voice cried--wi a' the pouers o elocutionary
declamation--"Is it there ye are, ye guid-for-naething, an ye promised to
come straicht hame an keep the wean till I went ower to my mither's. Come
awa, here!"
"Excuise me," says he, "that's the wife." I excuised him.
We read in the annals o history aboot weemen that led airmies to battle, an
focht like teegers on the bluidy field. Sic conduct mey hae been very fine
in the annals o history, but I raither dout some o us wadna be lang oot o
the Asslum if oor wifes an dochters taen to the sodger business sae
seriously. D'ye think I wid be Macnab the sociable, Macnab the gay an
festive up to ten o'clock an the shuttin o the shops, if, efter that, I haed
to gang hame an face a modern Joe Ann o Ark or a female Duke o Wellinton?
Scarcely! I dinna think the sex is muckle complimented bi thae hussies that
cairied on in the annals o history. If they haed steyed at hame an minded
their wark, it wid hae been a hantle sicht wicer-like. Leadin on airmies!
I wid raither lead on a hunner an fifty airmies, as keep yae yaumerin,
greetin wean that wis newly spained, ootthrou the lang--eternally lang--oors
o a washin day.
But (an here I maun write grandly) a wumman's sphere is the seek-room.
Pictur the scene. Her puir man haes been at a meetin the nicht before, a
late meetin, an noo he rowes back an furrit amang the blankets, like a door
on its hinges. He feels his heid to be aboot the size o a fifty shillin
pat, his spittles is as teuch as ju-jubes, an before his wattery een dances
the black spots. Then, then dis the wumman play her pairt in the economy o
natur. She'll mak him a drink. On gaes the wee pan. In gaes the meal; a
wee tate o saut, to mak it saut; a wee tate o sugar to mak it sweet; a shake
o pepper to season it--a drap or twa o spirits to gie it a flavour. She
steers an steers, syne tastes it, smacks her lips, poors it into a bowle, on
tip-tae brings it to the bedside o her puir man--helps him up on his
elbow--hauds the delectable beverage to his parched lips. He turns frae it
wi scunner, an she drinks it hersel. Coud human affection dae mair?
I defy onybody to explain hoo it is that I can tak aff an put on my claes a
hunner-an-fifty times withoot onybody kennin, bi the least jingle, that I
haed a bawbee aboot me, an Betty canna lift my waistcoat or troosers frae
yae chair to anither withoot every blessed curdie o my pocket money trintlin
oot on to the middle o the fluir. I hae asked Betty for an explanation o
the thing, but she, puir body, can gie nane. It's no stupeedity I'm
certain.
A wumman is never sae polite an sae guid-mainered as she is to that ither
wumman that she hates wi a perfect hatred. She'll--but I maun stop, as ye
see I'm beginnin to be juist raither deep. I'll draw to a close.
An, in conclusion, let me say, that the writin o this essay haes been a
labour o love. That I hae been pairtial, I maun admit. The lassies hae my
saft side, an what I said the week afore I got mairied, I say noo. "I wadna
gie yae lass for a' the men I ever clapped een on."
An lastly, to my bachelor freens, ane wird: Dinna be ower cautious.
Mairiage is a lottery, but, see here--
"Lang in the bag yin gropes an fummels,
Syne gangs awa in glooms an grummels,
If, 'haps, comes by the plucky chiel,
That draws at yince wi herty zeal
The very ticket held in swither,
Bi the far ower cautious ither,
Thats duilfu dirge will ever be--
'The lass was fause, an wae is me!'"
The man that gets a guid wife disna think there was ony chance aboot the
gemme; the man that gets a bad wife kens wha to blame; an the man that haes
nae wife ava thinks he haes the refuisin o every braw lass in the toon. We
are a queer lot o human beins us mortals, arn't we?
The question, "Wha is the happy man?" is as open yet as it was in the days o
Plato an Socrates; but ye'll easy get an answer to the query, "Wha is the
happy wumman?" Ask ony unmairied female wumman, "Are ye quite happy?" an
I'll lay my lugs the answer 'ill be, "O coorse, I am! wha said I wisna?"
But it'll be a' the same a hunner years hence.
Sandy
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