38. The Goodwife of Auchtermuchty
Ye-olde gender roles don’t stand a chance in this age-old tale! The Goodwife of Auchtermuchty is a poem that was first written down in the 16th century, but is likely much older, and it tells of a husband and wife mixing things up for a day
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In Auchtermuchty there dwelt ane man,
Ane husband, as I heard it tauld,
Wha weel could tipple out a can,
And neither lovit hunger nor cauld.
While ance it fell upon a day,
He yokit his pleugh upon the plain,
Gif it be true as I heard say,
The day was foul for wind and rain.
He lousit the pleugh at the land's end,
And drave his oxen hame at even;
When he cam in, he lookit ben,
l And saw the wife baith dry and clean;
Sittand at ane fire, full biek and bauld,
With ane fat soup, as I heard say;
The man beand very wet and cauld,
Between thae twa it was nae play.
Quoth he, " Where is my horses' corn?
My ox has neither hay nor strae:
Dame, ye maun to the pleugh the morn,
I sall be hussy,' if I may.
" Husband," quoth she, " content am I
To tak the pleugh my day about,
Sae ye will rule baith calves and kye,
And all the house baith in and out.
But sin' that ye will hussyskep ken,?
First ye sall sift and syne sall knead;
And aye as ye gang but and ben,
Look that the bairns fyle not the bed.
Ye'se lay ane soft wisp to the kiln,
(We have ane dear farm on our head),
And aye as ye gang furth and in,
Keep weel the gaislings frae the gled.
The wife was up richt late at e'en,
(I pray God give her ill to fare !)
She kirn'd the kirn, and skimm'd it clean,
And left the gudeman but bleddoch bare.
Then in the morning up she gat,
And on her heart laid her disjune;
She put as mickle in her lap,
As micht hae served them baith at noon.
Says Jock, " Will thou be master of wark?
And thou sall had and I sall call,
I'se promise thee ane gude new sark,
Aither of round claith or of small.
She lowsit oxen aucht or nine,
And hynt ane gad-staff in her hand;
And the gudeman raise after-syne,
And saw the wife had done command;
And a a shu sevens mith to me a;
And by there comes the greedy gled,
And lickit up five, left him but twa:
Then out he ran in all his mane,
How soon he heard the gaislings cry;
But than, or he cam in again,
The calves brak lowse and sookit the kye.
The man ran with ane rung to redd,
The calves and kye, beand met in the loan,
Then by there comes ane ill-willy cow,
And brodit his buttock while that it bled.
Then hame he ran to ane rock of tow,
And he sat down to sey the spinning;
I trow he lootit ower near the low,
Quoth he, “This wark has ane ill beginning.”
Then to the kirn that he did stour,
And jummilt at it while he swat;
When he had jummilt a full lang hour,
The sorrow crap of butter he gat.
Albeit nae butter he could get,
Yet he was cummerit with the kirn,
And syne he het the milk ower het,
And sorrow a spark of it wad yirn.
Then ben there cam ane greedy sow,
I trow he cunn'd her little thank,
For in she shot her greedy mou',
And aye she winkit and aye she drank.
He cleikit up ane crookit club,
And thought to hit the sow ane rout,
The twa gaislings the gled had left,
That strake dang baith their harns out.
He gat his foot upon the spire,
To have gotten the flesh down to the pat;
He fell backward into the fire,
And brak his head on the kaming stock;
Yet he gat the mickle pat on the fire,
And gat twa cans and ran to the spout,
Ere he cam in, what thought ye of it
The fire burnt a' the bottom out.
Then he bore kindling to the kiln,
But she stert up all in ane low:
Whatever he heard, whatever he saw,
That day he had nae will to mow.
Then he gaed to tak up the bairns,
Thought to have fund them fair and clean,
The first that he gat in his arms,
It was all dirt up to the een;
"The devil cut aff their hand," quoth he,
"That fill'd ye all sae fou yestree !"
He traild the foul sheets down the gait,
Thought to have wash'd them on ane stane
The burn was risen great of spate,
Away frae him the sheets has ta'en.
Then up he gat on ane knowe-head,
On her to cry, on her to shout;
She heard him, and she heard him not,
But stoutly steer'd the stots" about.
She drave the day unto the night,
She lowsit the pleugh, and syne cam hame;
She fand all wrang that sould been right;
I trow the man thought right great shame.
Quoth he, "My office I forsake,
For all the dayis of my life,
Had I been twenty days gudewife.
For I wald put ane house to wracks,”
Quoth she, " Weel mot ye brook your place,
For truly I will never accep' it;
Quoth he, " Fiend fall the liar's face,
But yet ye may be blythe to get it."
Then up she gat ane muckle rung,
And the gudeman made to the door:
Quoth he, " Dame, I sall hald my tongue,
For an we fecht, I'll get the waur."
Quoth he, " When I forsook my pleugh,
I trow, I but forsook mysel'
And I will to my pleugh again,
For I and this house will never do well."
In Auchtermuchty there lived a man,
A husband, so I have heard it told,
Who well could drink a jug of ale,
And never loved hunger or the cold.
Once it happened on a certain day,
He yoked his plough upon the plain;
If it be true as I have heard say,
The day was foul with wind and rain.
He loosed the plough at the field’s end,
And drove his oxen home at night;
When he came in, he looked within,
And saw his wife both dry and clean;
Sitting at the fire, both bold and warm,
With a fine soup, so I heard say;
The man being wet and very cold,
Between the two it was no play.
Said he: “Where is my horses’ feed?
My ox has neither hay nor straw.
Dame, you must to the plough tomorrow,
I’ll be the housewife, if I may.”
“Husband,” said she, “I’m content,
To take the plough for just one day,
If you will tend the calves and cows,
And keep the house in both in and out.
But since you wish to keep the house,
First you must sift, and then you knead;
And as you go but and ben,
See that the children foul not the bed.
You must lay a soft wisp to the kiln,
(We have a costly farm on hand),
And as you go forth and within,
Keep well the goslings from the hawk.”
The wife was up right late that night
(I pray God send her naught to fare!)
She churned the churn and skimmed it clean,
And left the goodman but butter milk.
Then in the morning up she rose,
And on her heart laid her breakfast fair;
She put as much into her lap
As might have served them both at noon.
Said Jock, “Will you be master of work?
And you shall hold, while I shall call;
I’ll promise you a fine new shirt,
Of cloth either coarse or small.”
She loosed the oxen, eight or nine,
And took a goad-staff in her hand;
And the goodman rose after her,
And saw the wife had done command.
But soon the greedy hawk came by,
And snapped up five, left him but two.
Then out he ran in all his might,
When once he heard the goslings cry;
But before he came back again,
The calves broke loose and sucked the cows.
The man ran with a stick to part
The calves and cows, all in the lane;
Then by there came an ill-willed cow,
And gored his buttock till it bled.
Then home he ran to a distaff of tow,
And sat him down to try the spinning;
I think he leaned too near the flame,
Quoth he, “This work has a bad beginning.”
Then to the churn he quickly went,
And struggled at it till he sweated;
When he had struggled a full long hour,
Not a scrap of butter he had got.
Though no butter came at all,
Still he was cumbered with the churn,
And then he heated the milk too hot,
And not a spark of curd would turn.
Then in there came a greedy sow,
I think he found her little kind;
For in she shot her greedy mouth,
And still she winked and still she drank.
He snatched up a crooked club,
And thought to strike the sow a blow,
But hit instead the goslings left—
And struck and smashed their little skulls.
He put his foot upon the stool,
To have got the meat into the pot;
He fell backward into the fire,
And broke his head on the combing-stock.
Yet he set the great pot on the fire,
And fetched two cans and ran to the spout,
But ere he came in, what think you of it?
The fire had burnt the bottom out.
Then he bore kindling to the kiln,
But she burst up all in a blaze:
Whatever he heard, whatever he saw,
That day he had no mind to mow.
Then he went to lift the children,
Hoping to find them fair and clean;
The first he took into his arms
Was all befouled up to the eyes.
“The devil cut off their hands,” quoth he,
“That filled you all so full last night!”
He dragged the foul sheets down the street,
Thinking to wash them on a stone;
But the stream was risen, in full flood,
And carried all the sheets away.
Then up he got on a knoll,
To call on her, to cry and shout;
She heard him, or she heard him not,
But stoutly drove the oxen about.
She drove the day until the night,
She loosed the plough, and then came home;
She found all wrong that should be right;
I think the man thought much of shame.
Quoth he, “I give up my duty,
For all the days of my life.
If I had been twenty days a goodwife,
I would have ruined a whole household."
Quoth she, “Well may you keep your place,
For truly I will never take it.”
Quoth he, “The fiend strike the liar’s face,
But yet you may be glad to get it.”
Then up she got a mighty stick,
And the goodman made for the door:
Quoth he, “Dame, I shall hold my tongue,
For if we fight, I’ll get the worse.”
Quoth he, “When I forsook my plough,
I think I but forsook myself;
And I will to my plough again,
For I and this house will never do well.
