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Thomas Mc Rae
[To Thomas Mc Rae’s index]

Rumblby Bumblby Bumbaleery

By Tomas Mc Rae, Brisbane, Queensland, Australia, © 2010

Och, thair ye are thain, sir, an’ ye’ve cum juist in time. Mah pint’s rinnin deed dree sae it is. Best tae buy thuree though fur ah’ve a lang tale tae tell ye the nicht … Mony thanks tae ye, sir, noo uz Ah wiz sayin’ …

The wey ye keep cumin bak tae this pub ye must like the bee/ur they gie ye, an sae ye shuid, they say thur’s been a pub oan this verra spoat fur weel ower a thoosan’ years or sae. Seemin’ly fur an awfy lang time o’ it aw they hud tae drink wiz stuff cawed meed that wiz like drinkin’ hoarsiz pee.

Nae bee/ur in thae days? Naw … ye see Scoatlan’ hud a loat o’ funny wee peepul cawed Picky’s an’ thair king wiz the only yin wi’ the seekrit fur makin’ the stuff. Aye ’e hud a munnupololly oan’t an’ ’e mak’t it frae bairley, coarn, an e’en haither.

He wiz an awfy bad fellie un lived in a cawsell up oan toap o’ Airthur’s Seat in whoat’s noo the King’s Pairk. Aw the Pickies tho’ hud tae live unnergroon’ up at the Calton Hill an’ only goat oot fur tae wurk oan croaps an’ pit the stuff fur the be-uhr thegither. Gin oany cumplain’t the king’s spayshul gairdies murthered thum. Aye an’ they did the same tae ony Picky the king didnae like.

The daft King o’ the Scoats wiz juist uz bad a fellie an’ his cawsell wiz richt whaur Holeyrood Palace is the day. He goat fed up haein’ tae buy aw ’is bee/ur frae the Picky’s so ’e thocht ’ed caitch the ither king, git the seekrit oot o’ ’im, murther aw the raist, an’ stairt iz ain brewry.

Yin day ’e gaither’t iz airmy an telt thair jainerul tae dae in aw the Pickys. That self same nicht thair wiz muckle shoodge big fie-urs up the Calton Hill an’ efter that thair wiz nae mair sign o’ thae Picky peepul.

They say the King o’ the Scoats catch’t the King o’ the Picky’s up oan the crags at Airthur’s Seat an’ deemantit the seekrit o’ the bee/ur. Insteed o’ daein’ that ’e grabb’t the Scoats king an’jump’t ower the crags killin’ thaim baith. Efter that naebuddy kent hoo tae tae mak bee/ur. The pubs cuid juist sell that meed. Naeb’dy like’t that much but ye’ve goat tae git steamin’ oan sumthin’ hivent ye? Sae it wiz that thuree years ganged by an e’en thain thur wiz a meed shoap richt whaur wu’re drinkin’ noo.

Ain nicht a fairmur cam in efter the mairkit an’ goat stuck intae that hoarsiz pee. Efter a few pints the nyaff stairtit tawkin’ muckle grate lees, tellin’ aebuddy an’ awbuddy that iz luvvly tochter Ailsie makt guid bee/ur ilk day fur ’im. Aye she cuid e’en mak it frae the haithur itsel’.

Eedjit ranted oan wi’ ’is lees gitten e’er shoodgur but sittin’ ower in a coarnur wuz nane ither but Barun Rory McGlory, Chief o’ the King’s airmy that wiz noo kingkliss. “Eh Heh!” thocht Rory, “Gin this man’s tawkin’ turrew if Ah catch iz dochter fur mahsel Ah cun mak a foartune an’ git decent stuff fur tae git steamin’ oan anaw. Efter aw things is deid borin fur the sojers thay dayz”.

Sae it wuz that when the fairmer left the meed shoap Rory goat ’is men an’ foallyd ’im hame tae iz fairum … Oh anither twa pints? Sir ye iz a gentillmun, so ye iz …

Onywey; whain Ailsie’s faithur goat hame Rory gied im a few meenits an’ thain chappit at the doh-ur, a wumman open’t it up. “Oh, hullo thair, Missus! Ye must be Ailsie’s mammy, so ye must. Ah wid like fur tae tak ye an’ hur an’ yer man back tae ma nice big hoose tae tawk aboot me gettin’ mairit tae Ailsie. Will ye aw no cum alang wi me the noo?” Ailsie’s mammy Jeannie wiz fair flummoxed, Ah cun tell ye, the deid king’s jainural nae less wanti’n tae mairy ’er dochter. “Ye aw better cum away in ben the hoose the noo thain. But ma man Shooie’s far tew steamin’ tae tawk tae ye.”

“That’s awricht, Missis,” sez Rory. “Yew an Ailsie cun cum hame wi us the noo an’ wi’ll saind sumb’dy fur ’im the moar’n. ah’ve goat a nice deener ready fur Yiz an cumfy beds fur the nicht tae.”

“Soonds guid tae me,” sez Jeannie, “Ailsie! Cum awa here this meenit thair’s guid news fur ye!” Up tae the doh-ur cums a richt brammer o’ a lassie “Heh” thinks Rory “Gin she maks bee/ur uz weel uz she luiks mibbee Ah will mairy ’er efter aw. But … wu’ll see.”

“Ailsie,” sez Jeannie, “Here’s Jainirul Rory issel’ cum tae tawk aboot mairyin’ ye. We is gawn tae iz hoose tae dislocus aboot it this verra meenit.” Och it wiz deid easy awa they went wi Rory tae iz big hoose that wiz alangside that meed shoap. Rory wiz aw nice until they goat inside. “Weel whair’s that deener?” asks Jeannie efter the doh-ur shut.

In a wee meenit that doh-ur open’t yince mair an’ in cam twa o’ Rory’s men wi’ steamin’ Shooie a’tween thaim. “Richt, folks,” sez Rory, “See’s the deal. Yew, wee Ailsie, iz gonnie spend the nicht in ma librairiry tae write doon aw the stuff ye’ll need tae mak that bee/ur yer faither wiz tawkin’ aboot.

Him an’ yer Mammie iz bein’ loaked intae ma bestest dunjun an’ thair they’ll stey till ye mak the stuff. Gin ye cannae thair ur three lang poles in ma luvly gairden an three heids’ll be daikuraytin’ thaim afore tew lang. Gin ye dae it ye’ll be mah wife and they’ll be rich. Sojers! … Tak the Lassie awa tae stairt wurkin’. ye ken whoat tae dae wi’ the ither twa/”.

Sae it wiz that the pewer wee lassie goat stuck in Rory’s librairiry. They gied ’er a cumfy chair an’ a wee bed but that Rory tellt ’er. “Richt, Lassie, here ye’ll stey till ye eether tell me whoat ye need tae mak me mah bee/ur oar we drag ye oot tae dee wi yer mammy an’ daddy.” An’ ’e laift er thair aw oan ’er ane fur tae contemptlicate … loakin’ the doh-ur ahint ’im.

Och, sir, noo ye’re a king amang men. A hale big jug o’ bee/ur tae keep mah lang story gawn fur a’hve hair’ly stairtit yit. Weel, here’s tae yew … Awricht oanwurds we gangsis.

Yince the puir wee sowel goat left oan ’er ain she stairtit tae bubble an’ greet, an rent ’er claise anaw. “Oh whoat am ah gontae dae? ah’ve nivver ivver e’en haird o’ that bee/ur stuff ’e wants. That eedjit faither o’mine’s dun it this time. We is aw gawn fur tae dee an’ here’s me such a braw bonnie lassie tae! ”

Noo ye cun b’leeve me or no but at that very meenit a wee bit o’ the flair rised like a lid. Aye it wiz ane o’ thae turrap doh-urs but whae wiz shuvin’ it up? Oot climb’t a wee wee man aw cuvert in rid hair an’ a big baird the same culler. The wee man luiked at Ailsie … “Hullooooooo … noo whoat hae we goat here thain?” sez him uz he croles oot o’ the hole. “Whoat’s yer trubbell, Lassie. Nae matter whoat it is Ah cun hailp when naebuddy ailse cun. Tell me aw.”

Sae it wiz that Wee Ailsie poored oot aw ’er soarry tale tae the wee felly whae lissen’t richt intenshuntly. “Och is that aw that’s worryin’ ye? See … Ah’m the verra verra last o’ the Picky’s. Son o’ the King nae the less an’ Ah ken aw the seekrits of aw the bee/urs. Noo pick up that quill thair an git stairtit writin’ doon whoat ye’ll need.”

Ailsie cheered up fast an’ wrote a lang list o’ stuff fur tae be goat uz the wee Picky purrince telt ’er whoat messages needit tae be gaithert. “Richt,” sez the hairy Picky, “Noo ye git that Big Rory tae gaithur aw that stuff an’ bring it here an’ efter that Ah’ll be back tae tell ye whoat tae dae nixt.”

An’ that wiz that. It wiz a cheerier wee Ailsie whoat goat intae the wee bed an’ hud a guid sleep tae ’ersel. Nixt moarnin’ Rory cam back shootin’, “Richt, whoat hae ye goat fur me?” … “Weel, Ah’ll be needin’ fower big caudruns, and a place fur tae pit fires unerneath thum. Big bairuls tae. Ah’ll be needin’ mawt, yaist, …” An awa she went giein ’im aw whoat wiz needit.

“Shairly ye hae aw that stuff at yer fairum awreddy?” sez Rory an’ ’e goat is men tae drag ’er back hame. “Oh A’m dun fur it noo” thocht Ailsie but, wunner o’ wunner, thair wiz awthin’ that she needit. That Picky hud been busy richt enow. “Tak this aw back tae mah hoose” sez Rory ta e’is men.

It tewk a lang time fur tae git the stuff back but, when it wiz aw reddy Big Rory telt the lassie “Richt, Hen, git stairtit.” Ailsie thocht fast, “Ah’m soarry, Sir, but the burrewin’ must ay stairt in the moarnin’ an’ noo it’s gittin’ dark ootside. Loack me back in the librairary fur the nicht an’ we’ll get gawn the moarn. Ah’ll be needin’ ma mammy an daddy tae help uz weel. Cun ye no git thum oot o’ that awfy dunjun an feed us an’ that?

So Rory gied the three o’ thum a gewd dinner an’ hud twa ither beds pit in ’is librairary an’ loacked them aw in thegithur. “Richt Mammy an’ Daddy, dinnae ye be feared at ontyhin’ yiz see oar heer the nicht” sez Ailsie. “Awthing’ll be aw richt.” In a wee whiley up gangs the lid oan the flair an’ oot popes the wee Picky. “Noo dinnae be afeared o’ me” ’e tells Mammy an’ Daddy. “Lassie. afore Ah cun tell ye ony mair ye is goat tae aintur intae an unviopable argreemunt wi’ me. Wull ye dae this?” “Whoat must Ah dae?” ast Ailsie … ”Richt deid eesy so it is Lassie, Ah’ll teach ye aw that Ah cun but ye must mak me a plaidge. If ye ivver git tae be the Queen o/ Scoatlan’ ye’ll gie me yer first bairn gin it’s a laddie an efter ’e gits tae be a year auld. That’s aw Ah want.” Ailsie hud a wee laugh tae ersel’ hoo cuid a fermer’s tochter git tae be a queen? Onyhoo thair wisnae e’en ony king noo.

“Deal,” she sez. “Aye” sez the Picky man an pu’s a paypur oot o’ ’is troosers an a toatty wee dirky. Nixt ’e prickit ’er fingur, “Juist sign yer name in bluid at the boatum o’ this doakermunt. … Gewd noo it’s aw leegull.”

This luiked tae Ailsie like the pairfick deal wi’ a peyment she’d nivver hae tae mak. But whae cun tell whoat the fewtyur huds? “Richt” sed the Picky an’ he telt them aw whoat they needit tae dae tae mak the stuff they hud intae bee/ur. “Aye an’ yince ye’v goat the wey o’ it Ah’ll be giein’ yeze ither resticipes uz weel e’en the bee/ur mak’d frae hither’ll be yur saikrit.”

Nixt moarnin’ the three o’ thum goat stuck intae stairtin that bee/ur. “Cun Ah drink it the noo?” askit Rory, “Naw ye cannae till efter sux weeks” sez Ailsie.

So ’e lit thum cum oot aroon ’is hoose but still loackit thum intae ’is librairairy ilk nicht. An’ ilk nicht that wee Picky cam up oot o’ the flair an’ telt them mony mair saikrits aboot bee/urs. Rory wiz goat tae gaither muckle loads o’ brewin’ stuff an’ they stairtit new burrews whilst that furst yin goat raidy. No only that they stairtit tae git real pally wi’ the jainirul.

But ere that first burrew wiz dun the King o’ Unglund thocht tae issel’ “That King o’ Scoats is deid so thae folks up thair need sumb’dy tae gie thum hailp. Aye an’ Ah’m the yin tae dae it.” So ’e gaithurt up ’is airmy in Lunnun an tewk it Noarth robein an’ pillarygisin’ aw the wey.

“Wiz no haein that,” said Rory McGlory, “Cum oan noo, Laddies! See that Unglish king wuh’ll gie the bamstick ’is heid in ’is hauns fur tae play wi.” Sae afore ’is bee/ur wis reddy the jainural an ’is airmy march’t awa doon sooth fur a hubbleshoo. Ailsie foond ’ersel’ wurrit ’ed be awricht but she kep’ oan wi the burrewein’ aw the same.

At lang last the burrew wiz raidy fur drinkin’ but juist uz the furst barrul wiz bein’ rol’t oot thair wiz a grate hallybaloo ootside. Yailin’ an cheerin’ an aw that. Big Rory cam stridin’ in sayin’, “See me! Ah’m fair waubit, so Ah am. We wun aw the fechts awrite an’, see that Unglish king, weel wi didnae gie ’im ’is heid in is hauns tae play wi, We tewk it hame wi us an’ it’s in the gairden stuck oan ain o’thae poles. Noo Ah need a guid drink, hae ye goat ony meed in the hoose?”

“Nae mair o’ that muck fur yew, Rory,” sez Ailsie, “Cum oan Fellies, roll oot the barrul.” Aye rol’t oot it wuz and they stuck a taup in it an’ fill’t up the biggest buckit in the hoose fur the victurorious McGlory. The fellie pick’t up the buckit an drunk it aw ut yin go, “Hey that wiz naictur o’ the goads so it wuz, hae yese ony mair.” “Juist seevun mair bairruls’ but thair’ll be a loat mair the moarun. Aye an’ ilk day efter that.”

Rory wiz owerjoeyed, “Lassie, ye’re a mairvul, so ye is. Whoat grait nyooz but that’s no aw. That new King o’ the Unglish is a gewd fellih an’ wi’ve signit a turreety. Nae mair wars a’tween us frae noo oan; wu’ll hae a fiitbaw match ilk year insteed. Ah ken Scoatlan’ll aye be the winners”.

Weel, onywey, uz fur that ’e wiz wrang. Unglund aye gits tae be the wunners tae this day. Noo, Sir, tawkin aboot bee/ur … hae tae be quick fur the pub’s aboot tae claise fur the nicht. Cum ye back the moarun an’ Ah’ll tell ye whoat happen’t nixt …

Help mah Boab Sir ye’ve gottae be deid keen oan mah story. Here ye staun’ at the verra do-ur o’ the pub waitin’ fur it tae oapun. Och here cums Jimmy. Ah’ll git a table gin yew git the pints up … Aye furst the day; o’mony ah hope.

Noo whaur wiz we? …

That nicht Rory an’ is men aw goat steamin’ oan that luvvly bee/ur an’ wakened up nixt moarnin’ wi soarry heids. They’d drunk aw the barruls dree sae sum o’ the sojers ganged ower tae the meed shoap fur a hair o’ the dug. Stuff taistit e’en wurser efter the guid beer they’d drunk but still they goat stuck intae it. Thain they stairtit talkin’ aboot hoo the bee-ur at Rory’s hoose acroass the road wiz a loat better than the muck they hud here.

“Ony chaunce o’ us yins haein’ a wee tastey Pal?” ast yin o’ the ither drinkers. “Maybe Big Rory’ll sell ye a pint gin ye ask ’im cannily.” Sez yin o’ the sojers. Aw themeed shoap folk went ower an’ whain Rory wiz telt whoat they wiz efter ’e kent ’e cuid mak a foartune oot o’ sellin’ the stuff. “Furst pint’s oan the hoose laddies efter that ye pey me twa times the price o’ that awfy meed.” Efter that free pint thay aw hud tae git mair an wee Ailsie cullected loats o’ munny. Lucky fur ’er she hud mak’d dubbel the number o’ barruls the secund an ither times roond.

Efter that ilk day Rory’s gairdun wiz fu’ frae doa/n tae dusk wi fellies getting’ fu’ o’ bee/ur and luikin’ at the King o’ Ungland’s heid oan the pole. Naeb’dy went near that meed shoap so it goat shut doon thain Rory bocht the pullace and selt is bee/ur frae thair. ’e stuck the King’s heid ootside fur a pub sign an peepul cam frae far an’ near tae drink this burraw new burrew.

No lang efter that ’e goat Ailsie tae mak a loat mair ilk day an’ hud sum o’ ’is sojers hailp wi the wurk. Wisnae aw that lang afore ’e hud tae bild a shoodge big big nyoo bildin uz a burrewry. The munny wiz poorin’ in but afore lang thair wisnae rume fur aw the drinkers in the shoap acroass the road. Rory bocht ither shut doon meed shoaps an’ selt beer in thaim as weel. Mair beer mair munny.

Nixt thing ye ken aw the meed shoaps in Scoatlan’ stairtit gitten beer frae Rory tae sell an’ didnae buy ony mair o’ that awfy meed. The meed makkers wisnae tew keen oan this at furst but Rory mak’d thum aw wurkurs in iz new burrewry an peyed them weel an aw.

Ailsie an’ ’er mammy an’ daddy wiznae kep’ purrizunurs ony mair. Rory oaffered thum the bestest rooms in ’is hoose but they juist as’t fur gewd chairs an’ baids an’ stuff in the librarairy. (ye ken whoat fur tae.) But a day cam by when the wee man telt them, “Weel Fowks, ah’ve telt ye aw ah ken an’ ah’m fur oaff. Yuh’ll no be seein’ me till the time Ah cums tae fewlfeel that plaidge whoat we mak’t.” An doon the hole ’e ganged ne’er tae be seen agin fur a lang time.

Aye awbuddy wiz happy at Rory’s hoose. Alsie’s mammy an’ daddy selt thair farm an’open’t thare ain pub doon at Portybelly. Yin day Rory sez tae Ailsie, “Heh Lassie wi’ aw that bee/ur stuff an me gawn tae fight an’ aw that ah’ve richt furgoat that Ah wanted ye tae be mah wife. Wull ye hae me?” Ailsie hud goat a richt fawncy fur the hansum jainural an’ she sed “Aye, oan yin coandeeshun. That king’s heid ower the road’s gitten the wurstist fur weer. Burry the thing an’ pit up a picter o’ ’im insteed.”

Rory wiz gled tae dae this an’ e’en noo ye’ll see that sign ootside sez “The KING’S HEID” Sune efter that they caw’d fur the chief Drood tae dae the merridge. ye see in thae days o’ lang syne they didnae hae ony pureesties yit.

In that pub acroass the road the Drood standit thum baith thegithur afore a shooge big crood o’ folks. Nixt ’e tewk a lump o’ miserytoe an belted thum baith oan the heid wi’ it sayin’, “Richt noo ye’re baith mairrit” an that wiz that. Thain the free bee/ur cam oot an awbuddy goat steamin’.

That pairty goat e’er obusturreptionuss till yin o’ the loards that wiz thair shooted oot. “Barun Rory’s dun wunners fur Scoatlan’. Furst ’e burrings back the bee/ur thain ’e bashes the Unglish an gies us peace. Luik Fellies we huvnae hud ony king fur years noo, whoat dae we no mak Rory King o’ Scoatlan’ fur?”

“Whoat a smashin’ thing tae dae” awbuddy yell’t. Sae it wiz the loards aw hud a meetin’ an’ electificated Rory King o’ Scoats. That Drood cam by again an’bailtit Rory an Ailsie wi the miserytoe tae mak thum the king an’ queen thain awbuddy daunced in the streets an thair wiz mair free beer.

Efter aw that naethin’ much happen’t in Scoatlan’ that year save fur the Unglish beatin’ the Scoats in the furst fitbaw gemme. Thain thur wiz joey through the lawnd fur Queen Ailsie hud a wee baby boy. Course the Chief Drood cam by an’ bailtit the bairn wi that miserytoe o’ his an’ the wee sowel didnae like that at aw an’ hooled the pulace doon.

They caw’d the laddie “Rory” efter ’is feyther an’ frae the stairt ’e showed ’e wiz a cluvver bairn. ’e wiz talkin’ whain ’e wiz thuree munths an’ walkin’ ut five. When ’e goat tae be seevun munths ’e cuid e’en reed an rite tae. Aye thair wiz loats o’ smeddum in ’im. Awbuddy luved the wee sowel an’ Ailsie thocht she’ ne’re see that wee Picky again.

Wee Rory wiz eleeven munths o’ age an’ Ailsie wiz walkin’ wi’ ’im in the gairden whain that wee Picky jump’t oot o’ a bush in furrunt o’ ’er. “Hulloo agin ma wee henny. Help mah boab! Whoat a luvly wee fellih ye hae wi’ ye and nixt munth ’ell be gawn awa wi’me anaw.”

Ailsie’s heid ganged aw mixter maxter “Naw! Naw! Naw! Ye’r no gontae’ hae ma’ bairnie, noo oar ivver. Gang ye awa oot o’ here or mah man’ll be cuttin aff yer heid an’ stickin’ it oan a pole.” “Lassie,” sez the Picky, “Mind ye that argreement whoat ye mak’t wi’ me lang syne. Here’s the verra paypur writ wi yer ain bluid.” An’ ’e puwed that paypur oot o’ is troosers. “That’s bindin’ Hen an’ ye must gie me yer laddie nixt munth.

Mind yew, Ah’m a reasonifibble fellie sae Ah’ll gie ye a wey oot. Oan the laddie’s burthday Ah want ye and yer man an’ yer son in the librairary ut newn Ah’ll gie ye three chaunciz tae tell me mah name, if ye’re richt Ah’ll no be baotherin’ ye e’er again, but if ye’re wrang! Oaf Ah gangs wi yer bairnie. See ye nixt munth an’ baist o’ luck tae yew.” An’ ’e div’t back intae that bushy an’ vanished.

The pewer queen goat ’ersel’ in a richt histereeria. “Oh, whoat’ll Ah dae? Whoat’ll Ah dae noo?” sez she an’ she stairts tae teer ’er clase an’ bubble an’ greet. Juist thain oot frae ahint a tree cam King Rory. “Aha!” sez him, “Ah think ye’ll be tellin’ me aw that’s been gawn oan so it cun be soartit oot. … Sit ye doon oan this gairdun seat an’ let me ken yer story. Dinnae ye be feart it’s no uz bad uz ye thunk it iz … Heh! Wee Rory; awa ye gang and rite a few soannits fur me. ” Sae the bairn rins awa an’ Ailsie telt the King the hale tale frae stairt tae finish. “Noo ye cun cut aff ma heid an stick it oan a pole.”

Big Rory juist hud a guid lauff. “Noo dinna ye fash yersel’ Lassie yuh’ve dun richt weel sae ye hae. Aye an’ e’en soalv’t a shooge big proablum fur us aw. Noo we is gawn fur tae dae whoat that fellie telt us tae an’ Ah’ll be soartin’ things oot fur guid. Cum woak wi’ me roond the gairdun an’ hae a bit lissen.” Thain ’e telt ’er mony seekrit things an’ efter that she wiz happy agin.

Oh anither pint, ken whoat? We goat that involvid wi’ mah story Ah e’en forgoat tae drink the yins ye bocht whain we cam in by here. OK oanwards e’er oanwards.

That las’ munth luik’t tae be wheeshy but ahint it aw thair wiz loats o’ stuff gawn oan. King Rory ganged up intae the hills wi a sma’ aiscort yin oar twa times but naeb’dy kent whoat fur. Thur wiz mair mistery ower the las’ few dayz afore the wee man cam back; peepul kep’ cumin in by Rory’s hoose at deid o’ nicht. At lang las’ the day areeved an’ it wiz gawn oan fur newn. King Rory. Queen Ailsie, Wee Purrince Rory, an’ twa sojers,wiz aw in the librairary waitin’ fur the Picky.

Deid oan the time whain that las’ bitty o’ saund fell doon the ’oorgless the lid in the flair cam up an’ oot jump’t the wee hairy man. “Ah’ve cum fur mah bairnie,” sez ’e an’ woaks ower tae thum. “Oh, aye?” sez Big Rory, “’An whoat aboot oor thuree chaunces to git yer name?”

“Yur waistin yer tyme, King Rory. Ye micht uz weel gie up noo an’ gie me the bairn; ye’ll ne’er git that. But furst tho’ lit me tell ye whoat ah’m daein’ this fur. It wiz yew whoat murthered ma mither, frienz, e’en bairns leavin’ me aw oan mah ain in the wuruld. Fur aw this tyme ah’ve been hidin’ in the auld Picky undergroon’ hame at Calton Hill. It wiz awfy lonely aw that time but noo Ah’ll be takin’ yer verra son fur ma ain an’ ye’ll ne’er see me oar him agane. Noo git oan wi’ it … Whoat’s ma name?”

“Cuthbert,” sez Rory. “Wrang” sez the Picky, “‘E’s the yin’s goat that big stoh-ur up the road whoat sails awthin’. Nixt turun?” “Knickerbocker Socceroo.” sez queen Ailsie. The Picky stairtit tae daunce up an’ doon … ”Wrang wrang wrang wrang wrang. He he he! Noo gie us yer las’ try thain gie me the bairn.” It wiz noo that King Rory smil’t ut the wee man. “Aw richt, Rumbly Dumbly Bumballery this is gawn far enow … ye’ve loast the gemme.”

The Picky goat richt crabbit an stairtit tae jump up an’ doon an’ kick the wa’. “Ye cuidnae ken that, naeb’dy livin’ kens that noo. ye yaised maijic an’ that wiz cheatin!’ Och ’e goat intae a richt hubblybubblyboo thain ’e stairtit tae bash ’is heid agin the wa’. "Sojers! Grab the fellie an’ sit ’im doon oan that chair thair!” sez Rory. They shoved the Picky doon oan the chair an’ held ’im fawst.

“Aye, Killer Rory! Cut aff mah heid an’ stick that oan a pole. Thair’s nuthin’ fur me tae live fur noo onywey. Cum oan git oan wi’ it!” … Big Rory telt ’im, “Oh, is thair no? Whoat aboot this thain. Sojers opun the doh-ur?” The doh-ur goat opun’t ut iz cummendent an’ in cam a wee wumman wi’ rid hare an’ anither wee man wi shoart rid hare an’ nae baird.

Bumbaleery jump’t up an’ ran tae the wumman shootin’, “Mammy! Mammy! Is it really yew? Ye’re deid shairly?” The wummun goat crabbiit, “Aye, it’s me awricht, an’ we didnae ken if ye wiz deid oar alive or whaur ye wuz ower aw thay years. Cum ’ere, yew!” an she grab’t Bumbaleery an’ stairtit tae bash ’im an’ thump ’im. “That’s whoat ye git fur makin’ yer mammy wurit aboot ye. Och, Darlin’, it’s guid tae see yew at lang las’. Bless that Rory!” Thain she stoap’t bashin’ ’im an’ cuddled ’im insteed. “But juist ye wait till Ah git ye hame and Ah’ll show ye whoat a real beatin’ is. Ah’ll gie yew rinnin awa frae us!” Yell’t ’is mammy kickin’ ’is shins.

She stairtit pu’in’ ’im by is baird tae the do-ur but Rory telt ’er, “Heh juist ye hud oan a meenit oar thuree. We’ve goat tae tell the laddie whoat really haipunt lang syne an’ he cun tell us whair ’es been aw this tyme anaw … Bumbaleery, ye cun stairt.”

But thair gangs the pub bell, closin’ time. Quick anither pint an’ ah’ll feenish the tale the moarun’ …

Guid tae see ye back Sir. Awricht the time huz cum fur the deenyoonemunty, git me a pint an’ sit ye doon …

Sae Bumbaleery telt iz story. Seemin’ly the auld Picky laws sed that the furstist son o’ the king hud tae git aw the seekrits o bee/ur makin’ oaff ’iz faithur whain ’e wiza twunty un yin. No aw that lang efter ’e goat thum the king thocht thut ’ed murther the laddie tae keep iz seekrit juist fur ’issel’. ’e summuntit the chief o’ iz gairdies tae iz librairairy an’ gied the oarder tae kill the purrunce.

Lucky fur Bumbaleery, ’e wiz sate ahint a curtain in the coarnur readin’ a skuroll an’ haird it aw. That verra meenit ’e ran awa frae the pailace ower tae the Calton Hill whair ’e cuid hide doon unnergroon’ paysidges. Ilk nicht ’ed cum oot an’ grab whoat fewd an’ durunk ’e cuid. Sum weeks laytur ’e heer’t soon’s like folk fechtin’ an’ yaillin’ fur a while thain juist a lang lang wheesht.

That nicht, whain ’e cam oot thair wiz nae turrace o’ onybuddy, ’e ganged ootside an’ see’d shoodge big fi-uhrs an’ Scoats sojers rinnin’ aboot. Nixt moarnin’ aw wiz peacfu’ agin so ’e keeked oot an’ seed heaps o’ ashes wi banes an’e’en skulls heids in thum. Aw ’iz peepuhl seem’t tae hae been murthered an’ he sweer’t that yin day ’ed git rayvainge. It turn’t oot that Alilsie wiz tae be the yin whoat wid gie it tae ’im.

King Rory sez tae the wee rid haired man, “Richt, Uncle Peepsy Boopsy Boondly Boo, tell Bumbaleery yew’re bit o’ the story!” … “Weel Jainurul Rory hud trustit men in the Scoat’s King’s gaird whoat telt ’im whoat ’e plann’t tae dae. Sae‘e sentit messages tae us oan Calton Hill tellin’ us whoat fur tae dae un we packit up aw oor stuff an gaithered loats o’ wid fur the bane fires. That nicht Rory’s sojers an’ us kill’t aw oor king’s murtherin’ gairdies an burnt thum tae ashes. Nane o’ us deid at aw we juist ganged far awa tae the hills.”

“Uz fur yew yersel,’ Queen Rory’s mither, yew’re names too lang fur tae say. Gie us yew’r bit o’ the story noo,” sez Rory …

She telt hoo Rory’s men hud goat thum aw awa’ tae a seekrit glen in the Pentland Hills an’ help’t thum tae build hames an’ git croaps stairtit. Rory cam by when ’e cuid wi’ cairts fu’ o’ stuff they needed an’ it wiz grate fur aw o’ thum tae be ootside agin an’ furee.

Thair bad king hud mak’d aw the men grow thur hair an hae lang bairds whoat they didnae like. Yince thay goat saitl’t aff cam’ aw that hairy stuff. Rory’s men kept luiking fur Rumbly wi nae raisult at aw an’ Mammy fair wurrit aboot ’im. Noo he cuid be King efter she gied ’im anither bashin’ fur makin’ ’er sae wurrit.

Finely up spaiked Rory “Awricht noo here’s ma bit o’ the tale … Ma freenz in the King’s gaird telt me the king wid mak me an ma airmy murther aw the Pickys, man, wuman, an’ e’en bairns. thain ah wiz tae catch thur king alive an’ toarture ’im fur the beer seekrits. Yince ’e’d telt thum Ah wiz tae murther that verra lastist Picky.

But ’is gairdies wiz oarder’t fur tae arraist me efter aw that an’ ah’d be hingit fur the atterocitous murthers o’ the Pickys. Oor king’d say ’e kent nicht nocht naethin’ aboot aw that. It wiz far too much fur ’is gairdies so they help’t me tae plan fur a coo. The king caw’d me intae is preezunce, treetit me like ’is baistist pal, an’ gied me ma oardurs. The awfy man telt me that fur a riwoard fur the durty deed ’ed bild me a big cawsell an’ gie me muckle gawd an’ siller.”

But, Sir, that Rory wiz naebuddy’s fewel an’ so ’e pit aw iz ain plans intae awkshun. Ye awredy ken whoat hapen’t up the Calton Hill an’ aw that. Nixt moarnin’ Rory gangs tae the king an’ tells him aw went tae pullan, It wiz time tae catch the Picky King whae wiz hidin’ in iz cawsell up Airthur’s Seat. Raithur thun bringin’ ’im doon ’e sudjaistit tae ’is king that ’e bide a whily up at the Crags. Aince the Picky Heid Bummer wiz catched ’ed tak ’im afore the King o’ Scoats whae cuid lairn is seekrits frae ’im wi’ naebuddy ailse thair.

Rory march’t ’is bestest sojers up tae the toap o’ Airthur’s Seat tae the Picky King’s cawsell whaur thay feeneeshed oaf aw ’is gairdies in nae time.

“Richt, Yew,” sez Big Rory tae the Picky King “Ye ken Ye’re feeneeshed noo, Aw Ye cun dae is cum awa wi’ me tae the Crags whair oor Heid Yin’s waitin’ fur yew. Gin Ye see ’im, rin up tae ’im, pit yer airms aroon’ ’im, an baig fur maircy. Me? Ah’ll pit in a guid wurd fur Ye wi ’im.”

Aye but Rory wiz akcherly gawn fur tae stab thaim baith whain they hud goat in the umbarrace. That didnae happen tho’. Ye see whain the Picky seed ’e wiz in trubell ’e tewk a guid bevy an’ ’e wiz steamin’ whain Rory t march’t ’im tae the Crags. But when thePicky’e run up tae the Scoats Heid Bummer ’e wiz that steamin’ ’e faw’d agin ’im an’ ower the Crags they baith ganged tae thair duroom.

An’ that, Sir, is the hale tale but fur the happy aindin’

The Pickies aw went hame tae the Pentlands whair Rumblby Bumblby’s mammy gied ’im anither beltin’. Frae that time oan they an’ the Scoats wiz bestist o’ pals. King Rory an’ Queen Ailsie liv’t happy aye efter, an Wee Rory goat tae be a grate skuler an’stairtit Edinburgh University. E’en noo the Unglish keep mollicatin’ the Scoats at fitbaw but dinnae Ye mak menshun o’ that gin ye traisyure yer life.

Cum tae this pub ony time; ah’m ay here an’ thair’s loats mair tales yit ta tell ye. Ye’ve yit tae here tell o’ the time that Hardman Tam mecht up wi Dracuncula.


[To Thomas Mc Rae’s index]

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