# The Unfortunate Son, or, A Kind Wife is Worth Gold

THE
Unfortunate Son,
OR, A
Kind Wife is worth Gold.
BEING
Full of Mirth and Paſtime.
Good Reader, let thy Patience brook, But to read over this ſmall Book, Which will thee ſatisfy awhile, And ſurely force from thee a Smile, A Story of ſuch Fortune bad, Had never ſure poor harm⟨leſs⟩ Lad.
Printed according to Order.
The HISTORY of the
Unfortunate Son.
There was a man but one Son had, and he was all his joy. But ſtill his fortune was but bad, tho’ he was a pretty boy, His father ſent him forth one day, to feed a flock of ſheep, And half of them were ſtole away, while he lay down to ſleep. Next day he went with one Tom Goff, to reap as he was ſeen, And there he cut his fingers off, the ſickle was ſo keen Jack climbed up with nimble legs, to the hen rook ſo high But he fell down and broke both his legs, and hurt him piteouſly. Jack then went to thatch the ſtable, but there came ſuch a blaſt, To ſit up he was not able but down he came at laſt. Poor Jack a cleaving wood had been, his father held the quarter, He cut his father o’er the ſhins not much below the garter. To ſeek his fortune Jack wou’d go,
to range the world around, His father willing was thereto, and gave him twenty pounds. But Jack no ſooner then was gone, out of of his father’s door, But he was ſtraitway knocked down, and robb’d by thieves and whores. Jack went unto a farmer’s yard, deſiring there to dwell. The farmer entertain’d him ſtraight, and lik’d him wond’rous well. Himſelf ſo well he did behave, that the farmer and he agreed, That he his daughter then ſhould have, which made him glad indeed. Jack then took up his bagpipes, which there did by him lie And he began to ſing and pipe, when he had cauſe to cry For tho’ the farmer’s daughter did love him wond’rous well, Yet I will ſhew hereafter What unto him beſel. No ſooner was he married, but his wages they were rais’d, And tho’ he oft miſcarryed, ⟨y⟩e⟨t⟩ he was never prais’d. Jack then was ſent unto the wood, on purpoſe to fell oaks, He ſhewed his endeavour good, and laid on luſty ſtrokes.
He cut a mighty oak in two, his cart and team ſtood by, The tree fell down, and thus it ſlew his horses preſently. What courſe to take he did not know, his horſes being ſlain, Unto his father-in-law to go he thought it was in vain. Jack went o’er bogs and ſandy ſhelves, at laſt he ſpy’d a pool, Where flocks of wild geeſe ſhew’d themſelves, too wiſe for this ſad fool. Quoth he, ſure I can kill with eaſe one of theſe fowls to ſell, My father-in-law then I ſhall pleaſe, and all things muſt go well. His hatchet at them he did ſling, hoping to ſtrike one dead. But they were all too light of wing, and from him ſtrait they fled. His hatchet ſunk immediately, it would not ſwim to ſhore. Alas! ſaid he, where am I now? in worſe caſe than before. I will not loſe may hatchet ſo, altho’ my luck be ill; But I will have it ere I go, or I muſt make my will, He then ſtript off his cloaths, ſome ſay, and ſo to diving went. A rogue came by, and took away
his clothes incontinent. Why now, ſaid he, I am undone, alas! who can aſſure me. My dad won’t own me for his ſon, nor eke my wife endure me For I have ſlain my horſes brave, and loſt my hatchet too, My cloaths are taken by a knave, alas! what muſt I do? Stark naked am I, and forlorn, in ſome clofe place I’ll hide me, Woe to the time when I was born, alas! that can betide me? Into a hollow tree he creeps, and quaking there he ſtands, And ſigns, and mournfully he weeps, and often wrings his hands. But cold and hunger brought him forth, he wiſhed at home he were, Thoſe wiſhes were but of little worth, ſince he durſt not come there. But night at length came on apace, thus be reſolv’d to do Altho’ he durſt not ſhew his face, yet homeward he would go. When he came home the doors faſt be, yet there he made a ſtay, And at the windows liſtens he, to hear what they did ſay. There did he hear his wife lament, his father-in-law complain,
And all the houſe in diſcontent, concluding he was ſlain. Jack naked was, the wind blew cold, he could no longer ſtay, But in the hog-ſtie he made bold, ant that full cloſe he lay. The churliſh hogs ſo hoggiſh were to this their maſter’s ſon Small manners in then did appear, for him they over run. And ſome upon his feet did tread, and ſome did full ſore did bite him, And they with him ſo quarrelled, he fear’d they would indict him. And ſuch a fearful noiſe they made, for they did fore diſmay him He with their noiſe was terrify’d, that they would betray him. Poor Jack he did ſpeak them fairly, as being an intruder, He ſcratch’d their poles but ne’er the near, for they were but the ruder. Until at laſt his wife did hear the cry of theſe rude cattle And out of the door ſhe came with fear, to end this ſudden battle. Jack ſaw her coming and began with ſpeed to ſtand upright, She ſeeing there a naked man, was in a grievous fright, She gave a ſhriek, and leap’d in the dirt,
ſo greatly ſhe was mov’d, But ſhe was more afraid than hurt, for it was her beſt belov’d. Sweetheart, ſaid he, be not afraid, I am thy huſband dear. Alas! poor creature, than ſhe ſaid, why ſtand you naked here? Alas! quoth he, I am undone, my team of horſes ſlain My hatchet loſt, my hoſe and ſhoon, and my apparel plain. Poor man! ſaid ſhe, what what will you do? my heart for you doth ach Yet tho’ my father envies you, I will not you forſake. Thanks, my kind wife, then ſaid he, your love to me is great, And as my love is ſo to thee, give me ſomething for to eat. For I am both hungry and cold, then fetch me ſomething ſtrait, Once in this houſe I have been great, but now am forced to wait. Alas! my father’s up, ſhe ſaid, and little can I get But ſomething I will get for thee, and thus I’ll uſe my wit: Into the butters I will go. and there I will be ſure, A pot of butter-milk for you I know I can procure.
And ’cauſe it as a darkſome night that you might not forget it, I’ll cover it with a white cloth, and on the dunghill ſet it. While ſhe went to the buttery, a great white dog came out, And on the dunghill down did lie, to bring the jeſt about. Poor Jack out of the hogſtye peeps, the great white dog eſpies, With joy and gladneſs out he creeps, his hunger to ſuffice. The dog we took to be a clout, which the butter milk to cover, But he did find it was as ſtout, before that he gave over, The dog was white as he might ſee, the night was dark and black, Then ſure a wiſer then he might eaſily miſtake, Faſt on the back he took the dog, inſtead of the butter-milk pot, And being naked as a frog now judge but what he got. The dog takes Jack faſt by the toe, and Jack with him did ſtrive, Quoth he, I ne’er before did know that butter-milk was alive. The ⟨curliſh⟩ dog would not give o‘er, ⟨’till⟩ he had ⟨rent⟩ him ſo. That he ⟨his fleſh⟩ ſo much had tore,
that he could hardly go. Both shoulders, arms and head, he bit in ſuch a ſort, That he could hardly go, he did not like the ſport. At laſt the dog did come to know it was his maſter's ſon, And was content to let him go, ſo thus the war was done. Into the hog-ſtie then he creeps, and curſed ill bred dogs, And there he ſits him down to weep, amongſt the churliſh hogs. His wife came then down in haſte, and down the butter milk lays, But little did ſhe know what paſt, unſeen ſhe goes her ways. It was covered with a white clean cloth, upon the dunghill then, And tho’ ’twas but cold broth, ’twould ſerve a hungry man. Jack wonder’d that ſhe ſtaid ſo long, being vex’d with cold and pain, Did think that he had double wrong, and ſorely did complain. Alas! fair Jack, now I muſt die, with under ſore amain, For why he knew not certainly, that ſhe was come and gone. Jack looked out at laſt in fear, and there perceive he might,
The butter-milk on dunghill there, cover’d o’er with white. Jack thought the wthie dog it had been, that did bite him before, To ſtudy now he doth begin to be reveng’d therefore. Jack he a cudgel then had got, a weapon ſtout and ſtrong, And went towards the butter-milk, for to revenge his wrong. Said he, you cur, you now ſhall know I’ll be reveng’d on you With that he gave the pot a blow, which made him after rue. The pot in pieces broke apace, Jack knew not what to think. For why the milk flew in his face, and made him backwards ſhrink. The cracking of the pot he thought was the dog’s bones, and judg’d The milk which in his face wrought, to be the maſtiff’s blood. You ill bred cur, now know, ſaid he, what ’twas to wrong a man, I think I am reveng’d on you as much as e’er I can. Let others curs a warning take, how they abuſe their friends, For much of thee I ſtill did make, and had but ill amends. His anger ſwag’d, which ſore did burn,
glory of his victory. And let the butter-milk ſo churn‘d, upon the dunghill lie, Not knowing otherwiſe than he had kill’d the cog outright, Thus mony men miſtaken be, comparing white to white, But at laſt the woman came, and to her huſband went, Then like a kind and loving wife ſhe told him her intent, She ſaid, good huſband, do come in, my father is in bed. Alas! ſaid he, ill luck hath been, and I am almoſt dead. The white dog on the dunghill lay, and I miſtook the mark, I took him for a pot of whey, as well I night in the dark. He faſten’d on me in ſuth ſort, that ſore he hath me bit, Poor man, ſaid ſhe, I’m ſorry for ’t, but let me tell you yet, A pot of butter-milk ſat upon the dunghill there. And, ’cauſe you ſhould not it forget, I ſpread a cloth moſt fair. Alas! ſaid he, I saw it not, ſure good luck I have none. For ſure it was the butter-milk pot that I ſo beat upon.
With that they went into the place, where they the truth ſoon found, For he beheld with great diſgrace, the butter-milk upon the ground. Now fie upon ill luck, ſaid he, my beſt days now are ſpent, But ſince it will no better be, we muſt be both content. His wife then took him by the hand, and led him without ſorrow, Yet little did he underſtand what paſſed on the morrow. Jack ſat him down juſt by the fire, his frozen bones to warm, And pull’d his ſtool nigher and nigher, not thinking any harm. But he ſo near the fire came, and creeped down ſo low, That he did fall into the fire, and knew not what to do. But he got up again with ſpeed, and he was burnt full ſore, It was for want of takin heed, that he fell down before. To make a poſſet then his wife did uſe her utmoſt ſkill, But he was weary of his life, for he was very ill. No ſooner was the poſſet made, but the old man knocks in haſte, Alas! ſaid he, we are betray’d,
My father knocks full faſt, And I do fear that he’ll come down, and find the poſſet there. Said Jack, he is not ſuch a clown, that he ſhould ſo much fear But to prevent the worſt, ſaid ſhe, I’ll hide it now awa; I would rot have the old one ſee, leſt that we have a tray. Old age is crabbed, that we have ſeen, and by experience find And to prevent the following woe, theſe things we well muſt mind, Into the privy houſe ſhe goes, and ſets it on a ſtool Her huſband little did ſuppoſe that it was there, poor fool! No ſooner he came out again, but with redoubled force, The old man kick’d with might and main, and began to ſwear and curſe. Up ſtairs ſhe ran with haſte and ſpeed, when fearing to be ſent, In the mean time he having need, unto the privy went. Now Jack⟨’s⟩ unto the privy come, he look’d as he could roſs it, He very fairly ſet his bum, in the middle of the poſſet. So ſcalded he was ne’er in his life, which made him ſkip and trip,
And he had railed on his wife, but that he bit his lip. He blam’d her becauſe ſhe had not told him of the ſame The ſcalding had almoſt made him mad, ‘twas long ere he was tame. But down at laſt his wife did come, with her he made a ſtir. He tells her of his ſcalded bum, and ſays, ’twas long with her. She prays him to be content, and moaned like a baby. Had ſhe given this poor Jack of Lent as dainty words as may be. She fetch‘d him drink and nuts, and more than he requir‘d, And when he had fill’d his guts, to ſleep ſhe him deſir’d. Upon his bed freſh ſheets ſhe laid, with blankets fine and trim, And begg’d him not to be diſmay’d, for ſhe would lay with him. And James he would not idle be, while ſhe his bed did made, For he the warming pan did ſee, then down the ſame did take Jack’s father, thus ſaid honeſt man, ſome gunpowder had got, He put it in the warming pan, thinking no harm, God wot! Into the pan he ne’er did look,
it was not his deſire, But manfully the tongs he took, and quickly it gave fire. But he not being us’d to ſhoot, did frighten half the town. Nor could he fairly ſtand unto’t, for why it beat him down. His beard was burnt onto the ſtumps, the chimney did ſo fame, That all the wells, ſprings, and pumps, could hardly quench the ſame. The townſmen up in arms did riſe, and much amazed were An he was ſtaring with his eyes, being almoſt dead with fear. The powder flew about the houſe, might move ſome one to laughter, For there was neither rat nor mouſe for ſeven long winters after. The old man all this time did ſleep, ſince none did him moleſt, Poor Jack alone did only weep, all elſe went to their reſt. But Jack concluſions ſtill would try with the ſame warming pan, He took it up and earneſtly the ſecond part began. Jack put ſome fire again into it, as being very bold. Perhaps it was to try his wits, for he could not be cold.
And up into the bed did creep, and bid his wife ſtand by, But being overcome with ſleep, let the warming pan lie Between the ſheets, as ſome ſay, it burnt them piteouſly. While the woman was away, it happened ſo unlucky, And had ſhe not ſoon come again, much more harm had been done, For why, the ſluggiſh ſleepy ſwain, knew not I would burn. She ſaid, now I have cauſe to mourn at your unhappy life For why the ſheets you burn. O peace, ſaid he, good wife, For I will go to bed with ſpeed, for fear more hurt I do. Age, ſaid the wife, and ſo you had need, theſe things I fear you’ll rue. With this he roſe and rubb’d his eyes, and fetch’d a yawn or two And ſo down on the bed with ſpeed, as ſluggads us’d to do. His wife ſhe went a bed with ſpeed, the old man he lay by What happen’d after you ſhall hear, in the twinkling of an eye. He miſs’d the bull, and hit poor Jack, poor woman! the forgot To bring up what, without doubt,
is call’d a chamber-pot. To make water Jack had a like, but he was loath to riſe And if he did the bed bepiſs, he thought it bad likewiſe. At laſt he roſe and ſcratch’d about, but all in vain, God wot! In every place he made a rout, but could not find the pot. Under his father’s bed he creeps, hoping to find one there. The good old man now ſoundy ſleeps, and nothing he doth hear. Two bird-lime pots there were which the old man had in ſtore, And ſo poor Jack was round beſet with troubles evermore. Jack thruſts his hands with might and main into the bird lime pans He could not get them out again, but there be grumbling ſtands. Round about the room he walks with the lime pots on his hands, Then often to himſelf he talks, curſing of bird-lime pans, He ſtamps, ſtares, fumes, and frets, and ſhakes his head in vain, And like a man beſide his wits, to his wife he does complain. When ſhe the jeſt did come to know, ſhe could not chuſe but ſmile,
Tho’ he was round beſet with woe, and ſorrow all the while. Said ſhe, ſtrike both your hands againſt ſome poſt here in the room And break the line pots if you can, that you to bed may come. The old man wore a white сар, his head hung o’er the bed With the pots he gave him ſuch a rap, as almoſt ſtruck him dead. He gueſs’d his head had been a poſt, the old man loud did cry Jack naked ran away in haſte, intended for to fly. Quoth Jack, and if my father die, his head being ſorely bang’d, If I be taken, ſurely I ſhall without doubt be hang’d. I’ll ſaddle me a horſe moſt brave, and then away I’ll ride, So by this means my life I’ll ſave, for hear I’ll not abide. But he miſtook the ſtable, and went into the cow-houſe, To ſtand I am not able, for laughing at the gooſe. In he comes, and up he ſtrides, upon a mighty bull. And fiercely up and down he rides upon the horned mule The great white maſtiff seeing this,
did open his month now wider And ſeldom it was the dog did miſs the fierce bull or his rider Sometimes he did upon Jack light, ſometimes upon his nag. And ſo ſtoutly with them fights, they had ſmall cauſe to brag. He rent the bull in ſuch a ſort, that he was now ſtark med The bull had cauſe to blame Jack for’t, that vile unhappy lad The wears dog did leave them then, when he was tir’d out The weary dog did leave them then, the bull ſtill runs about. And laſt a country man came by, with his ſtaff upon his neck, And very unadviſedly did give the bull a check He thought the bull the devil had been, or he upon his back. He rail’d at them, and would not leave, till he knock’d down pour Jack. The headſtrong bull he did eſpy the country fellow there And at him ran moſt furiouſly, without all dread or fear. The countryman did think to take a blow right at his head He miſs’d the bull, and hit poor Jack and ſtruck him almost dead.
Away then went this country clown, and the world with laughter fill’d, For he reported in the town he had the devil kill’d. But Jack recover’d at the laſt, as one who had been dead, And ſaddled a horſe in haſte, and then away he fled. The townſmen up in arms he meets, who waited on him then, With all the allies, lanes, and ſtreets, beſet with armed men. Jack ſat naked upon the horſe, and thought no harm at all, Misfortunes ſtill were worſe and worſe, his comforts were but ſmall. The man that knock’d him down before from oft the mad bull’s back, Seeing him come, ſteps out of doors, and fiercely knock’d down Jack, About him people flock’d apace, to ſee his nakedneſs, Then looking stedfaſt in his face, they knew him who he was. They pity’d him, an aſk’d him how he came in that diſtreſs? What brought him into trouble now that I ſhall here expreſs Many a blind excuse he made, as good as he could frame, But ne’ertheleſs poor Jack they ſtay’d
until his father came Forth hue and cry they ſend with ſpeed, to ſeek him every where At laſt they found him out indeed, but almoſt dead with fear. The old man with great fury comes, Jack’s wife crying after, And Jack ſtood biting of his thumbs, which moved them to laughter Faſt by the throat he took poor Jack, quoth he, now I have found thee, Now villian thou ſhalt go to wreck, for it was thee did wound me. My team of horſes thou haſt ſlain, and loſt my hatchet too. My cloaths alſo from thee were taken, theſe things will make thee rue Before the judges they him hawl, this moſt unfortunate lad.
And there againſt him they did rall, as if they had been mad. His indictment was made with ſpeed, in haſte, as was ſuppoſ’d. And this indictment you may read, if you are ſo diſpoſ‘d.
His INDICTMENT.
IMPRIMIS,
For killing his father’s horſes. Item, for loſing a hatchet. Item, for loſing his clothes, which were borrowed. Item, for laying hands upon his father’s white dog. Item, for breaking to pieces the great butter milk pot. Item, for ſpoiling the poſſet. Item, for burning his father’s ſheets. Item, for piſſing his bed. Item, for unmercifully breaking his old father’s head. Item, for frightening a poor ſimple country fellow. Item, for riding away with his father‘s bull: Of all which he was found guilty.
Jack did confeſs the things aright, they could not be deny’d, But he deſired that he might by his own wife be try’d. If want of wit or too much fear, did then ſpeechleſs make him, It is well known, nor need we care, but as he is, ſo take him. His wife excus‘d the matter, ſo ſhe free’d him, as ’tis told. This having penn’d—you here may ſee “a loving wife‘s worth gold.“
FINIS.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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