The Maukin An The Hurcheon

This auld sang is sweir tae tell, laddies, but it's suithfast aw the same, acause ma gutcher, wha A hae it fae, wis aye mynt, whan he telt it me, tae say,
"Suithfast it maun be, ma son, acause ye canna tell it ony ither wey."
The story happent lik sae. It wis on a Sawbath morn juist afore the hairst, juist as the buckwheat wis flouerin. The sun haed hoven bricht in the hievins, the mornin wind blew wairm oot ower the stibble, the laverocks singit in the lift, the bumbees bummed in the buckwheat an the fowk gaed til the kirk in thair Sunday braws, an aw craiturs wis canty. The hurcheon an aw. The hurcheon stuid afore his door, plettit his airms, keekit oot intil the mornin wind an liltit a wee sang intil hissel, sae guid an sae ill as a hurcheon coud sing on a braw Sawbath morn. An as he wis liltin hauf souch intil hissel, he mynt his wife haed sin syne wuishen an dryit the bairns, an thay coud gang daunder in the pairk an see hou his neeps wis daein. The neeps wis the neist anes til his hoose an he wis aye mynt tae eat thaim wi his faimly, that's hou he seen thaim as his ain. Said an duin. The hurcheon steekit the hoose door ahint him an strack his gate intil the pairk. He wisna gey an faur fae his hoose an wis juist aboot tae gang aboot the slaebuss that grew afore the pairk for tae turn up til the neep field, whan he comes ower the maukin, wha wis oot an aboot wi seemlar ploy, that wis, for tae see his kail. Whan the hurcheon coud see the maukin he bid him a freendly guid morn, but the maukin, wha wis a bien chiel in his ain wey, an gruesome heich-heidit wi't, didna repone til the hurcheon's goamin, but said til the hurcheon, pittin on a mauchtie murgeon.
"Hou come ye're awreddies daunderin aboot the pairk on sic a canty morn?"
"A'm awa for a daunder", said the hurcheon.
"Daunder?" leuch the maukin, "A thocht ye coud uise yer shanks for mair better things."
Thon repone fasht the hurcheon a fair bit, for he can thole awthing, but he winna tak ocht anent his shanks, acause by naitur thay war camshauchelt.
"Ye hae a guid conceit o yersel", said the hurcheon tae the maukin,
"Lik ye coud dae mair wi yer shanks?"
"A think that", said the maukin.
"A s' warren on thon" thocht the hurcheon.
"A wad, gin we rin a kemp A s' rin past ye."
"thon gars me lauch, ye wi yer camshauchelt shanks", said the maukin.
"For ma sakes mak it yer ain gin ye're sae keen on't. Whit's the wad?"
"A gowden louis-d'or an a bottle o whisky", said the hurcheon.
"It's a deal", spak the maukin, "crack luifs, an we can stairt straucht awa."
"Nae, A'm no needin sic a breeshle", thocht the hurcheon.
"Ma kyte is aye still tuim; first A want tae gang hame for tae hae a bit brakfast, in a hauf oor A'll be back here on ma steid."
Wi thon the hurcheon gaed, for he wis pleased wi the maukin.

Unnerwey the hurcheon thocht til hissel,
"The maukin is lippnin on his lang shanks, but A'll lat him see. Deed ay, he's a bien chiel, still an on a dunder-heid an aw, an he'll hae tae pey."
As the hurcheon gat hame, he spak til his wife,
"wife cleid yersel fast, ye maun gang oot the pairk wi me."
"Whit's gaun on?" said his wife.
"A'v a wad agin the maukin for a gowden louis-d'or an bottle o whisky, A want tae rin a kemp wi him an ye're gaun tae be alang wi's."
"By crivens man" scraicht the hurcheon's wife, "hiv ye tint aw yer mense? Hou can ye want tae rin a kemp wi the maukin?"
"Haud yer tongue wife" said the hurcheon, "Thon's ma maiter. Dinna pit yer spuin in men's dealins. Mairch, cleid yersel an come wi us."
Whit shoud the hurcheon's wife dae? She maun follae, gin she wants tae or no. As thay wis unnerwey thegither, the hurcheon spak til his wife,
"Nou tak tent tae whit A hae tae say. D'ye see, up thare? Thon lang field's waur we're gaun tae rin wir kemp. The maukin rins in the ae furr an me in anither, an we stairt tae rin fae up thare. Nou ye dinna hae tae dae ocht ense but tae stell yersel doun here in the furr, an whan the maukin comes up the tither side, sae ye cry til him - 'A'm here awreddies!' "

Wi thon thay haed wun til the field, the hurcheon shawed his wife her steid an syne gaed up the field. As he gat til the tap the maukin wis thare awreddies.
"Can it stairt?" said the maukin.
"Ay!" said the hurcheon. "On wi't!"
An wi thon ilkane stellt thirsels in thair furr. The maukin coontit,
"ane, twa, three"
An aff he gaed doun the field lik a storm wind. But the hurcheon ran aboot three staps, syne he joukit hissel doun in the furr an bade sittin quate. As the maukin wan doun the field, the hurcheon's wife cryed til him,
" A'm here awreddies!"
The maukin stoppit deid an wis a bittie stammygastert. He thocht it wis nane ither nor the hurcheon hissel that wis rinnin til him, as is weel kent, the hurcheon's wife is the marrae o her guidman. But the maukin thocht,
"Thare's something joukerie-pawkerie wi thon."
He cryed,
"rin again, the tither airt!"
An awa he gaed again, lik a storm wind, sae that his lugs flew aboot his heid. The hurcheon's wife bade quate in her steid. As the maukin gat til the tap, the hurcheon cryed til him,
"A'm here awreddies!"
The maukin wis reid wud an scraicht,
"rin again, the tither airt!"
"Thon's no owre waur for me." answert the hurcheon, "for ma sakes sae aft as ye want."
Sae the maukin ran anither three an sieventie times, an the hurcheon coud aye keep up wi him. Ilka time the maukin wan up or doun the field, the hurcheon or his wife said,
"A'm here awreddies!"
But the maukin didna end the fower an sieventiet rin, in the mids o the field he fell til the grund, the bluid flew oot his hause an he bade liggin thare. The hurcheon teuk the gowden louis-d'or an his bottle o whisky he'd won, cryed til his wife for tae git oot the furr an baith gaed blythly hame thegither, an gin thay'v no dee'd, thay're aye til the fore.

Sae it happent up on thon muirland. The hurcheon that ran thare wi the maukin, an sin syne nae maukin haes thocht on rinnin a wad agin a muirland hurcheon. But firstlins, this tale lears us , that nae body, e'en gin thay think thirsel sae bien, sall lat thirsel be learnt no tae miscaw a wee-er man, e'en gin he wis a hurcheon. An seicontly, it's wice whan a body's wooin that he taks a wife fae his ain ilk, an ane that leuks juist like hissel. Sae wha's a hurcheon, shoud see til it that his wife's a hurcheon an aw, an sae on.

~Lizzy~