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IT WASNA HIS WYTE
by Charles Murray
Read by Peter D. Wright
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It wasna his
wyte he was beddit sae late
An' him wi'
sae muckle to dee,
He'd the
rabbits to feed an' the fulpie to kame
An' the hens
to hish into the ree;
The mason's
mear syne he set up in the closs
An' coupit the
ladle fu' keen,
An' roon the
ruck foun's wi' the lave o' the loons
Played "Takie"
by licht o' the meen.
Syne he rypit
his pooches an' coontit his bools,
The reed-cheekit
pitcher an' a',
Took the
yirlin's fower eggs fae his bonnet, an' fegs,
When gorbell't
they're fykie to blaw ;
But furth cam'
his mither an' cried on him in,
Tho' sairly he
priggit o wait -
"The'll be nae
wird o' this in the mornin', my laad" -
But it wasna
his wyte he was late.
"Och hey ! "
an' "Och hum ! " he was raxin himsel'
An' rubbin'
his een when he raise,
An' faur was
his bonnet, an' faur was his beets
An' fa had
been touchin' his claes ?
Ach ! his
porritch was caul', they'd forgotten the saut,
There was owre
muckle meal on the tap.
Was this a'
the buttermilk, faur was his speen,
An' fa had
been bitin' his bap ?
His pints
wasna tied, an' the backs o' his lugs
Nott some sma'
attention as weel -
But it wasna
as gin it was Sabbath, ye ken,
An' onything
does for the squeel.
Wi' his piece
in his pooch he got roadit at last,
Wi' his beuks
an' his skaalie an' sklate,
Gin the
wag-at-the-wa' in the kitchie was slaw -
Weel, it wasna
his wyte he was late.
The
fite-fuskered cat wi' her tail in the air
Convoyed him
as far as the barn,
Syne, munchin'
his piece, he set aff by his leen,
Tho' nae very
willin', I'se warn'.
The cairt road
was dubby, the track throu' the wid,
Altho' maybe
langer was best,
But when
loupin' the dyke a steen-chackert flew oot,
An' he huntit
a fyle for her nest.
Syne he
cloddit wi' yowies a squirrel he saw
Teetin' roon
frae the back o' a tree,
An' jinkit the
"Gamie," oot teeming his girns -
A ragie aul'
billie was he.
A' this was a
hinner : an' up the moss side
He ran noo at
siccan a rate
That he fell i'
the heather an' barkit his shins,
Sae it wasna
his wyte he was late.
Astride on a
win'-casten larick he sat
An' pykit for
rosit to chaw,
Till a
pairtrick, sair frichtened, ran trailin' a wing
Fae her
cheepers to tryst him awa'.
He cried on
the dryster when passin' the mull,
Got a lunt o'
his pipe an' a news,
An' his oxter
pooch managed wi' shillans to full -
A treat to tak'
hame till his doos.
Syne he waded
the lade an' crap under the brig
To hear the
gigs thunner abeen,
An' a rotten
plumped in an' gaed sweemin' awa'
Afore he could
gaither a steen.
He hovered to
herrie a foggie bee's byke
Nae far fae
the mole-catcher's gate,
An' the squeel
it was in or he'd coontit his stangs -
But it wasna
his wyte he was late.
He tried on
his taes to creep ben till his seat,
But the snuffy
aul' Dominie saw,
Sneckit there
in his dask like a wyver that waits
For a flee in
his wob on the wa' ;
He tell't o'
his tum'lie, but fat was the eese
Wi' the mannie
in sic an ill teen,
An fat was a
wap wi a spainyie or tag
To hands that
were hard as a steen ?
Noo, gin he
had grutten, it's brawly he kent
Foo croose a'
the lassies would craw,
For the mornin'
afore he had scattered their lames,
An' dung doon
their hoosies an' a',
Wi' a gully to
hooie tho', soon he got ower
The wye he'd
been han'led by fate,
It was coorse
still an' on to be walloped like thon,
When it wasna
his wyte he was late.
It's thirty
year, said ye, it's forty an' mair,
Sin' last we
were licket at squeel :
The Dominie's
deid, an' forgetten for lang,
An' a' oor
buik learnin' as weel.
The size o' a
park - wi' the gushets left oot -
We'll quess
geyan near, I daur say :
Or the wecht
o' a stot, but we wouldna gyang far
Gin we tried
noo, the coontin' in "Gray."
"Effectual
Callin' " we canna rin throu'
Wha kent it
aince clear as the text,
We can say "
Man's Chief En' " an' the shorter " Commands,"
But fat was
the " Reasons Annexed ? "
Oor heads
micht be riddels for a' they haud in
O Catechis,
coontin' or date,
Yet I'll
wauger we min' on the mornin's lang syne
When it wasna
oor wyte we were late.
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