Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE BROKEN BOWL, by JESSIE D. M. MORTON


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE BROKEN BOWL, by                    
First Line: Whaur neidpath's wa's wi' pride look doon
Last Line: "that's hoo the lassie brak the bowl!"
Subject(s): Man-woman Relationships; Male-female Relations


WHAUR Neidpath's wa's wi' pride look doon
Upon a gude auld burgh toon,
A crankie cratur leev'd langsyne,
Amang the gude auld freen's o' mine:
But weel I wat ye sune sall see
She wasna ae drap's bluid tae me.
Ane o' the awfu' cleanin' kind,
That clean folk clean out o' their mind;
An' aften as we've seen betide,
Clean gude men frae their ain fireside.
A fykie, fashious, yammerin' yaud,
That could the gear fu' steevely haud;
An ill-set, sour, ill-willy wilk --
She had a face 'twad yearned milk,
Forbye a loud, ill-scrapit tongue
As e'er in human heid was hung.
To girn an' growl, to work an' flyte,
Was aye the ill-spun wisp's delight;
O heaven, I'm sure that Tibbie's meanin'
Was ae great everlastin' cleanin'.
Frae morn to nicht she ne'er was still --
Her life was like a teugh threadmill.
She was jist like an evil speerit,
She ne'er could settle for a minute;
But when a dud she made or clootit,
Then a' the toon wad hear aboot it.
Whene'er folk couldna keep her clues,
She heckled them about their views;
But when the wrath began to boil,
She grew real "fear't about their sowl."
'Twas queer! (but nocht's sae queer as folk)
Then to the workin' she wad yoke
Thro' perfect spite an' fair ill-natur';
An' the deil's-buckie o' a cratur'
Was o' the "pipe" a mortal hater.
John, honest man, had aye to hap,
For peace-sake, o'er the weeshen stap;
But e'er the lintel he wad pass,
'Twas, "Man, for gudesake, min' the bass;
Tak' care o' this, tak' care o' that,
Haud aff the hearth noo when it's wat,
When ance it's dry, syne tak' a heat;
Tak' care, man, whaur ye set your feet!
Fa' tae yer parritch, an' beware
Ye let nae jaups fa' on the flare;
Weel, o'er the bicker haud your snoot,
Nor fyle my weel-wash'd table-clout.
To toil, noo, 'deed I'm no sae able,
(Keep yer black dottle aff the table!)
Ye never think hoo sair I'm wrocht
Waes me! but ye ha'e little thocht --
To ha'e things richt when hame ye come --
(Confound ye! smoke it up the lum!)
Some men wad ha'e the mense to say,
Ye're sair for-foughen-like the day --
Puir body! 'od I'm sure ye're wearit? --
The like o' that wad gi'e ane speerit.
But you! whane'er ye've claw'd ye're coggie,
Ye mak' this hoose a fair killogie.
Inowre the door there's no a steek
But's pushion'd wi' yer 'bacca reek;
An' tho' I clocher till I'm chokin',
I winna pit ye past yer smokin'.
What needs I toil? what needs I care?
Yev'e blawn mair siller i' the air
Than wad ha'e built a house and mair.
Yer neist guidwife'll mend the matter --
She'll no be sic a tholin' cratur';
She'll gi'e yer weel-hain'd gear the air,
My certie! lad, she'll kaim yer hair;
An' wi' the saut blab in yer e'e,
Ye'll min' the patience I've ta'en wi'e.
D'ye want to scomfish me ootricht? --
Ye've ne'er laid doon the pipe the nicht;
For a' I've said ye're never heedin' --
Begin, ye scoondrel, to the readin'!"
Owre weel John ken'd his hoose was clean,
An' keepit like a new-made preen;
That a' frae end to end was bricht,
For Tibbie toil'd frae morn to nicht.
So he, to hain the weary wark,
Ance hired a lassie stoot an' stark --
A snod bit lassie, fell an' clever;
But Tibbie was as thrang as ever,
Nae suner was the cleanin' through
Than cleanin' just began anew.
Noo, on a bink, in stately pride,
Her favour'd bowls stood side by side;
Braw painted bowls, baith big an' bonny --
Bowls that were never touch'd by ony;
For they were honour'd vessels a',
An' servile wark they never saw,
Save when a dainteth she was makin',
She whiles took ane her meal to draik in.
Ae day, the lassie a' thing richtin',
W' canny care the bowls is dichtin',
An' puir thing! tho' her care increases,
She breaks ane in a thousand pieces.
"What's that?" screech'd Tibbie, "Losh preserve us!"
Is this the way the fremyt serve us?
De'il speed the fummlin' fingers o' ye --
Owre Cuddy Brig I'll tak' an' throw ye;
Ye glaikit gude-for-naething jaud,
Ye'll break us out o' hoose an' haud,
My fingers yeuk to ha'e ye whackit --
Tell me, ye cutty, hoo ye brak it?
Ye donnert slut! ye thochtless idiot!
Tell me, this moment, hoo ye did it?
"In Embro toon thae bowls were coft,
An' sax-an'-twenty miles were brocht,
Weel packet up an' kindly carrit,
An' gien tae me when I was marrit.
In name o' a' that e'er was wrackit
In a' the warl', hoo did ye brak it?"
The lassie sabbit lang and sair,
But Tibbie's tongue could never spare;
Loud was its clear an' wrathfu' tenor,
When in John stappit to his denner --
An' as he drew inowre his seat,
Her tongue brak owre him like a spate;
He heard o' a' the sad disaster,
An' aye the tongue gaed fast an' faster;
An' aye there cam' the ither growl --
"Lassie! hoo did ye brak the bowl?"
"Wheesht! wheesht!" quoth John, "nae mair aboot it.
Od sake! ye've plenty mair withoot it."
But ere anither word was spoken --
Wi' face thrawn like a weel-wrung stockin' --
She squeel'd -- "D'ye want to break my heart?
Ye monster; will ye tak' her pairt?
Is this my thanks for a' my toil?
Hoo could the gipsy brak my bowl?"
Patient John heard the endless clack
Till his twa lugs were like to crack;
An' risin', stappit to the shelf
Whaur whummilt stood the gaucie delf,
An' lookin' owre the precious raw,
He raised the biggest o' them a',
An', withoot steerin' aff the bit,
Clash loot the bowl fa' at his fit;
An' as the frichtit flinders flew,
Quoth he, "Ye ken the way o't noo,
For, sure as I'm a leevin' sowl,
That's hoo the lassie brak the bowl!"





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net