Anent The Fisher An His Wife

Thare wis ance a fisher an his wife that steyed thegither ablo a cowpit chantie aneist the sea. Ilka day the fisher gaed til the sea for tae fish, an he fisht an he fisht. Ance he sat fishin an glowerin intil the clear watter, he sat an he sat. Syne the line gaed tae grund, deep doun, an as he heezed it oot, he heezed oot a muckle rodden fleuk. Syne the rodden fleuk says til him,
"tak tent, fisher, A fleetch at ye for tae lat's leeve, A'm no a real rodden fleuk A'm a bewitchit prince. Hou's it gaun tae help ye gin ye kill me? A wadna taste richt guid tae ye onywey, pit us back intil the watter an lat us soum."
"Crivens!", says the man,
"ye dinna need haiver a hantle sicht, A wad as lief lat a rodden fleuk that can speak gang soum."
Wi thon he pit the rodden fleuk back intil the clear watter. Syne the rodden fleuk gaed tae grund lea'in a lang straik o bluid ahint him. Syne the man gat up an gaed til his wife ablo the chantie.
"Guidman" says the wife,
"Hae ye no catcht onything the day?"
"Na" says the man, "A catcht a rodden fleuk that said he wis a bewitchit prince, sae A lat him gang soum."
"Did ye no wiss for onything?" speirt the wife.
"Na" says the man, "whit shoud A wiss masel?"
"Och!" says the wife, "it's sae awfu, aye haein tae stey ablo a chantie at stews an is sae scunnersome. Ye coud hae wisst us a wee bothy. Gang back an cry on him. Tell him we want a wee bothy, he's boond tae dae thon."
"Och!" says the man, "whit for shoud A gang thare?"
"Ah!" says the wife, "ye catcht him, an syne lat him gang soum, he's boond tae dae thon. Gang straucht thare."
The man didna richt want tae, but he didna want tae fash his wife sae he gaed til the sea. Whan he gat thare the sea wis gey an green an yellae, an no sae clear ony mair. Sae he gaed an stuid thare an says:

"Mannie, mannie, Timpee Tee,
Fleukie, fleukie in the sea,
Ma lief wife the Iseabail
Winna dae as A her tell."

Syne the rodden fleuk soums up an speirs: "Ah, whit's she efter?"
"Och", says the man, "A catcht ye an nou ma wife says A shoud hae makkit a wiss. She disna want tae stey ablo a chantie ony mair, she wad sair like a bothy."
"gang back man" says the rodden fleuk, "she awreadies haes hit."
Syne the man gaed back, an his wife wisna sittin ablo a chantie ony mair, but a wee bothy stuid thare, an his wife wis sittin afore the door on a bink. Syne his wife teuk him by the haund an says til him,
"Come awa ben, see, nou thon's a guid bit mair better".
Syne thay gaed awa in, an in the bothy wis a wee entry, an a braw wee stove, an a chaumer whaur ilkane's bed stuid, an a keetchin, an a press. Aw the bestest gear, an aw the bonniest polisht pewther an bress thingmies, an awthing that's aucht thon. Oot the back wis a wee yaird wi chuckies an deuks, an a bit gairden wi green yerbs an fruit.
"See", says the wife, "is thon no braw?"
"Ay", says the man, "an sae it shoud bide, nou we're gaun tae leeve gey an blythesome."
"We'll think on thon", says the wife.
Wi thon thay haed a bit meat an gaed til thair beds.

Sae it gaed on for aicht or fowerteen days. Syne the wife said,
"Tak tent guidman, the bothy's grawn ower hampert, an the yaird an gairden's sae wee. The rodden fleuk coud hae gien us a mair muckle hoose. A want tae stey in a muckle stanern castle. Gang til the rodden fleuk, he shoud gie's a castle."
"Och wife" says the man, "the bothy's aye guid eneuch, whit will we dae in a castle?"
"Och whit!", says the wife, "gang ye thare, the rodden fleuk can aye dae't."
"Nae wife", says the man, "the rodden fleuk first gied us the bothy, A dinna want tae aye be comin back, it micht coud mismey the rodden fleuk."
"Gang onywey", says the wife, "he can dae thon richt guid, an he likes tae. Gang ye thare."
The man didna want tae an his hert wis wechty. He says intil hissel,
"Thon's no richt"
but he gaed thare onywey. Whan he cam til the sea the watter wis fair purpie an daurk blae, an gray an stieve, an no sae green an yellae ony mair, but it wis aye still lown. He gaed an stuid thare, an says:

"Mannie, mannie, Timpee Tee,
Fleukie, fleukie in the sea,
Ma lief wife the Iseabail
Winna dae as A her tell."

"Nou, whit's she efter?" speirs the rodden fleuk.
"Och", says the man, hauf dowie-like, "she wants tae stey in a muckle stanern castle."
"Gang back man" says the rodden fleuk "she's staundin afore the door."
Syne the man gaed back an thocht he wad be gaun tae the bothy, but whan he gat thare, a muckle stanern palace stuid thare, an his wife haed juist gane on the stair for tae gang in. She teuk him by the haund an says, "come awa ben."
Wi thon he gaed in wi her. In the castle wis a muckle haw wi a seamless merble fluir, an the war sae mony servands that poud the muckle doors open, an the waws wis happit wi braw wawpaper, an in the chaumers wis mony gowden chairs an tables, an creestal chandeleeries hingin fae the camceil, an aw the rooms an chaumers haed cairpets, an meat an the brawmaist wine stuid on the tables, naur garrin thaim brak thegither. Ahint the hoose wis a muckle yaird wi a horsestable an byre, an the best maist horsecairts, an thare wis a muckle byous gairden, wi the bonniest flouers an rerr fruit trees, an a maize, a fou hauf mile lang. The war rae-deer an donies intil't, an awthing that a body coud aye wiss for.
"Na!" says the wife, "is thon no braw?"
"Och ay", says the man, "an sae it shoud bide, nou that we stey in this braw castle, we shoud be contentit."
"We'll think on thon", says the wife, "We shoud sleep."
Wi thon thay gaed til thair beds.

The neist morn the wife wis the first waukent. It wis juist dawin, an fae her bed she seen the braw laund liggin afore her. The man wis aye still oot-raxed, sae she proggit him in the side wi her elbucks an says,
"Staund up guidman an keek ower the windae. See, can we no be the laird ower aw thon laund? Gang til the rodden fleuk, we want tae be the laird."
"Och wife", says the man, "Whit for dae ye want tae be the laird? A dinna want tae be the laird."
"Na", says the wife, "gin ye dinna want tae be the laird A'll be the laird. Gang til the rodden fleuk A want tae be the laird."
"Och wife", says the man, "whit for dae ye want tae be the laird?, A dinna want tae tell him thon."
"Hou no?", says the wife, "gang straucht thare, A maun be the laird."
Syne the man gaed, he wis gey an dowie acause his wife wantit tae be the laird.
"Thon's no richt, it's no richt ava" thocht the man.
He didna want tae gang, but he gaed onywey. Whan he gat til the sea, the sea wis aw black-gray an the watter wis hotterin up fae aneath, an stewed awfu fersell an aw. He gaed an stuid thare an says:

"Mannie, mannie, Timpee Tee,
Fleukie, fleukie in the see,
Ma lief wife the Iseabail
Winna dae as A her tell."

"Nou, whit's she efter? speirs the rodden fleuk.
"Och", says the man, "she wants tae be the laird."
"gang back man" says the rodden fleuk "she's awreadies hit."
Syne the man gaed, an as he cam til the palace it haed become mair muckle, wi a heich touer wi braw whigmaleeries on it, an the airmed gaird stuid afore the door an the war sae mony sodgers, an pipes an drums. An as he gaed in the hoose awthing wis wrocht fae pure merble, wi gowd an saitin plaids an muckle gowden tossles. Syne the doors o the muckle haw opent, thare wis the hail coort, an the wife sittin on a muckle throne o gowd an diamont. She haed a muckle gowden croon on, an a sceptre o pure gowd an precious stanes in her haund, an at baith her sides, young lassies stuid in a raw, an aye ane a heid wee-er nor the neist. He gaed an stuid thare an says,
"Och wife, are ye the laird nou?"
"Ay", says the wife, "A'm the laird nou."
Thare he stuid an leukit at her, an efter he'd leukit at her a whilie, he says,
"Och wife, lat it be, nou ye're the laird! Nou we're no gaun tae wiss for ony mair."
"Nae guidman", says the wife, an becam awfu fykerie,
"The time's ower langsome. A canna thole it ony mair. Gang til the rodden fleuk, A'm the laird, nou A maun be the keeng an aw."
"Och wife says the man, "whit for dae ye want tae be the keeng?"
"Guidman", she says, "gang til the rodden fleuk, A want tae be the keeng."
"Och wife", says the man, "he canna mak keengs, A dinna want tae tell the rodden fleuk thon. Thare's juist the ae keeng in the kinrick. The rodden fleuk canna mak ye the keeng. He canna dae siclike."
"Whit!" says the wife, "A'm the laird an ye're ma guidman, are ye gaun tae gang richt nou? Gang straucht thare, gin he can mak a laird he can mak a keeng an aw, A want tae be the keeng, gang straucht thare."
The man buid gang. But as he gaed he becam awfu fleyed, an thocht intil hissel,
"thon winna gang guid. Keeng is ower sneistie, the rodden fleuk will be fauchelt by the end o't."
Wi thon he cam til the sea. The sea wis aye still sair mirk an stieve, an begoud tae hotter up sae as tae thraw up bubbles, an thare blew sic a snell wind ower it that it breinged up, an the man wis richt feart. He gaed an stuid thare an says:

"Mannie, mannie, Timpee Tee,
Fleukie, fleukie in the sea,
Ma lief wife the Iseabail
Winna dae as A her tell."

"Nou, whit's she efter?" speirs the rodden fleuk.
"Och rodden fleuk" says the man "ma wife wants tae be the keeng."
"gang back man" says the rodden fleuk "she's hit awreadies."
Syne the man gaed back, an as he gat thare, the hail castle wis happit wi polisht merble an alabastrine feegurs, an gowden whigmaleeries. Afore the door, mairchit the sodgers blawin the pipes an dingin the drums. But in the hoose the lairds an yerls wis gaun aboot lik servands. Thay opent the doors o pure gowd, an as he gaed in, he sees his wife sittin on a throne wrocht fae the ae daud gowd twa mile heich, She haed a muckle gowden croon on, that wis three ell heich, an plaistert wi diamonts an carbuncle stanes. In the ae haund she haed a sceptre an in the tither a glentin orb, an at baith her sides stuid the bairns in twa raws, ane wee-er nor the neist ane, fae the maist muckle ettin that wis twa mile heich, til the smawest droich that wis sae wee as ma pinkie. Afore her stuid sae mony princes an dukes. The man gaed an stuid atween thaim an says,
"Wife, are ye the keeng nou?"
"Ay!" she says, "A'm the keeng."
Syne he gaed an stuid thare an haed a richt guid leuk at her, an efter he'd leukit a whilie he says,
"Och wife, lat it be nou, nou that ye're the keeng."
"Guidman", she says, "whit ye daein staundin thare? A'm the keeng nou, but nou A want tae be the Pape, gang til the rodden fleuk."
"Och wife," says the man, "whit dae ye no want? Ye canna be the Pape, Thare's juist the ae Pape in Christendie, he canna dae thon."
"Guidman", she says, "A want tae be the Pape, gang straucht thare, A maun be the Pape the day."
"Na wife", says the man, "A dinna want tae tell him thon, thon winna gang weel, thon's ower coorse, the rodden fleuk canna mak ye the Pape."
"Guidman whit blethers!" says the wife, "Gin he can mak a keeng, he can mak a Pape an aw. Gang awa thare, A'm the keeng an ye're ma guidman will ye git on wi't?"
He wis sair feart an gaed thare, but he felt gey wammle an grue, an his knees an shanks wis tremmlin. An sic a wind blew ower the laund, an the cloods flew. As the gloamin cam agin the forenicht, the blads wis jachelt aff the trees, an the watter breinged up agin the lip o the sea, an hyne awa he seen ships that wis thrawn in an ill wey, dancin an lowpin in the swaw. The mids o the lift wis aye still a bittie blue, but at the sides it wis gaun richt reid, lik a sair storm. He gaed an stuid thare richt disjaskit an feart, an says:

"Mannie, mannie, Timpee Tee,
Fleukie, fleukie in the sea,
Ma lief wife the Iseabail
Winna dae as A her tell."

"Nou, whit's she efter?" speirs the rodden fleuk.
"Och", says the man, "She wants tae be the Pape."
"Gang back man, she's hit awreadies", says the rodden fleuk.
Syne he gaed back an whan he gat thare, thare stuid a muckle kirk surroondit wi mony palaces. He oxtert his wey throu the fowk. Inby awthing wis lichtit wi thoosands an thoosands o laumps, an his wife wis cleidit in pure gowd, an sat on an e'en mair muckle throne, an haed three muckle gowden croons on, an aboot her wis sae mony meenisters, an at baith her sides stuid twa raws o lichts, fae the maist muckle, sae muckle an braid as the muckle maist lichthoose, til the wee-est cruisie. An aw the keengs an queens boud doun ontil thair knees afore her an kisst her baffies.
"Wife", says the man, giein her a guid leuk ower, "Are ye the Pape nou?"
"Ay!", she says, "A'm the Pape."
Syne he gaed an stuid an haed a guid leuk, an it wis lik he wis leukin at the bricht sun. Efter he'd leukit a whilie, he says,
"Och wife, lat it be nou, nou that ye're the Pape!"
But she sat sae stieve as a tree, an didna tremmle or muive.
"You", he says, "wife be contentit, nou that ye're the Pape, ye canna be onything mair nou."
"A'll think on thon", says the wife.

Wi thon the baith o thaim gaed til thair beds, but she wisna contentit, an greed wadna lat her sleep, she aye thocht on whit she micht coud become. The man sleepit richt guid an deep, he'd traivelt a guid bit thon day, but the wife coudna faw aff at aw, an threw hersel fae the ae side til the tither the hail nicht, an aye thocht on whit she coud aye still become, an she coudna think on ocht forby. Wi thon the sun hove, an as she seen the dawin reid, she richtit hersel up in her bed an leukit ootby, an as she seen the sun raisin ower the windae,
"Ha", she thocht, "can A no gar the sun an the muin hove an aw?"
"Guidman", she says, an duntit her elbucks intil his kist-banes,
"wauken, an gang til the rodden fleuk, A want tae be lik God awmichtie."
The man wis aye still maistlins asleep, an he gied hissel sic a fricht that he fell oot the bed. He thocht that he haed mishaurd, dichtit his een an says,
"Och wife, whit did ye say?"
"Guidman" she says, "gin A canna gar the sun an the muin hove, an maun watch the sun an muin gaun up A coudna thole it, an wadna hae a quate meenit ony mair gin A coudna gar thaim hove masel."
Syne she glowert at him, awfu ugsome, sae that it gart him grue.
"Gang straucht thare, A want tae be lik God awmichtie.
"Och wife" says the man, an gaed doun ontil his knees afore her, "the rodden fleuk canna dae siclike. He can mak ye the keeng an the Pape, A bid ye, be mensefu, bide the Pape."
Syne she gaed gyte, her hair flew wild-like aboot her heid, she heezed up her bouk an gied him a dunt wi her fit an scraicht,
"A canna thole thon, A canna thole it ony langer, will ye gang thare?"
Syne he hault on his breeks an rin aff lik he wis begowkit. But ootby the storm gaed on, an bluffert siclike that he coud haurdly staund on his feet. The hooses an trees wis dingit doun an the bens dinnelt, an the craigs rowt intil the sea, an the lift wis pick-mirk, an it thunnert an flauchtert, an the sea rowed wi black swaws sae heich as kirk touers an the bens, an upon thaim thay haed white crouns o faem. Syne he scraicht, an he coudna hear his ain wirds,

"Mannie, mannie, Timpee Tee,
Fleukie, fleukie in the see,
Ma lief wife the Iseabail
Winna dae as A her tell."

"Nou, whit's she efter?" speirs the rodden fleuk.
"Och" says the man, "she wants tae be lik God awmichtie."
"Gang back, she's sittin ablo a chantie ance mae."
Thare thay aye still sit, till this verra day.

~Lizzy~