A hae tuk a kine o a laizy fit this wather for am gane tae gie a wee bit o scrieven frae ‘Erchie Nuhan’ wha scrieved in tha papers awa baak in 1913. He is taakin aboot tha readin o a wull.
“I, Hughie Keyhole, lea a’oot tae the editor o’ the ‘Constitution,’ the only yin that brocht a wurd o’ comfort intae mae hoose for the last twunty years.”
“There’s no’ much tae lea tae onybody,” sez I.
“Weel, weel,” sez he, “whatever is he gets it.”
No, as he is awa’, I want tae tell ye in privit that al’ I seen wuz an’ ass an’ a doag, a rashur strap, a flute, an’ oul’ kalender, a pipe, twa empy paper bags, an’ a lot o’ ‘Constitutions.’ Bit he warned me that the papers wur tae be stuffed in alang wae him, as they wur the only comfort he had in this wurl, an’ they mcht come in handy in case o’ argyment or for reference. He toul tae be sure an’ pit his daith in the ‘Constitution,’ an’ tae be sure an’ say “Nae flours.”
Efter I come hame an’ got mae tay, the oul’ woman sez tae me,
“There’s something wrang up at oul’ Hugie’s. I hear an ass roarin’ an’ a doag howlin’.”
I run up, an’ sure enuch Hughie had deperted. A wheen o’ the nibers gathered in, an’ arranged for a wake. The hoose wuz fu’ o’ al’ classes an’ creeds, for he had nae ill-wishers. Ivery yin had brocht a bottle n their poket, an’ ivery yin wuz jolly, so efter a while, whan the whusky begun tae work, the argyin’ commenced. I jest lissened, an’ it wuz very amusin’ tae hear the different opeenions o’ men unner the influence o’ drink. Yin big fella — I hard since, he wuz a daler frae Tipperary — proposed a sang.
Then a middle-aged man — I’m sure he wuz merrit, for he had nae hair on his heid — got up an’ sung “The openin’ o’ the Bushside Hal’,” an’ tae an’ encore gien them “At the fitba’ match” (bae Shortfella). Somebody proposed a rerecitashun, an’ an’ oul fella recited “Huntin’ a badger in Coulrain,” an’ it wuz weel dane ‘at the very doag begun tae bark. Tae an’ encore he gien iz a sang, “Tam Ramsey’s men go free,” bit before he got through wi’ it he got a welt ower the heid wae stick, for, besides bein’ prepared wi’ whusky, ivery yin had a stoot stick.
Then his singin’ ended. Twa wur sittin’ ower at the front winda argyin’ releegin, n’ I hard yin o’ them sayin’ ‘at he wuz the best-learned man at the wake, an’ knowed his book intae the bargain, an’ he cud prove it oot o’ the Bible ‘at it wuznae a whale ‘at Jonah swallied bit a big fish. So they got intae ither, an’ the last I sa’ o’ yin o’ them wuz his boots gaun oot the winda.
I asked big Danny Corkscrew tae try an’ mak’ peace an’ get things intae order, or lives wid be loast, so he gied orders ‘at whaiver wid interrupt tae he wid houl a short servis he wid knock the face aff.
He drew a wee book oot o’ his poket, an’ started tae luck for some partikler porshun. Jest as he cleared his throat he got a welt wae a porter bottle on the heid, an’ ye wid hae hard the clout o’ it at the hoose en’. He fell unconshus, an’ as I wuz getherin’ up evidence in case o’ a daith, I pit the bottle in mae poket. Efter a while I wuz luckin’ at the label, an’ it read “Bottled bae Milliken, Coulrain,” so that shows hoo far a Coulrain porter bottle can go, an’ even at a wake they can pit a fella asleep if properly used.
As daylicht wuz beginnin’ tae break, I ordered the place tae be redd, al’ bit the coffin an’ the ass. I asked anither chap, an’ we got the hoose cleared o’ iverythin’ deid or leiven’ except Hughie, the ass an’ the doag. That wuz a mess — hats, skins, bottles, corks, mufflers, pieces o’ blackthorns, an’ pipes — an’ there, if it wuznae a copy o Burn’s poems ‘at Big Danny had whan he wuz struck wae the bottle, for it wuz lyin’ tramped wae the rest o’ the things. Efter al’ wuz cleared oot I bigged up the daur wae stanes, tae whatever time the funeral comes aff. Onybody passin’ wid think it wuz a nest o’ young rabbits ‘t wuz inside.
Tae tha nixt time behave yersels.
Tha Poocher Merch 2014