THE HUMOUR OF THE PIPES.
“Wha wadna be in love
Wi’ bonnie Maggie Lauder?
A piper met her gaun to Fife
And spiered what was’t they ca’d her;
Richt scornfully she answered him,
‘Begone, you hallan shaker:
Jog on your gate, you bladder skate,
My name is Maggie Lauder.’”
—_Old Scots Song._
_Punch’s_ joke—King Charles’s heads—An amusing competition—A
Highlander’s Irishism—Wedding experiences—A piper’s fall—A
resourceful piper—A Cameron piper and his officer—“Lochaber no
more”—An elephant’s objection—Embarked in a tub—Glasgow street
scene—Bad player’s strategy—What the wind did—A new kind of tripe—A
Pasha and a piper—A Gordon nervous—A jealous piper—Dougal Mac
Dougal’s downfall.
Apart from the wilfully sarcastic humour exemplified in the previous
chapter, there clings round the pipes a host of innocently laughable
stories. _Punch_, the recognised pioneer of comic journalism, and always
the ablest of that class of papers, has in its day had a number of jokes
about the pipes, and, to do the writers and artists justice, they have
always been enjoyable, even to the perfervid Scot, and not of the kind
which does more to show the ignorance of the inventors than create a
laugh. _Punch’s_ humour is broad, but hardly ever offensive, and the
picture by Charles Keene, reproduced on another page, may be taken as a
fair sample. The drawing, which appeared on January 21st, 1871, shows
the best art of the caricaturist wedded to the broadest and yet the most
enjoyable humour. Charles Keene, by the way, was himself a performer on
the pipes, which he studied thoroughly. On one occasion he was some
distance from home seeing a sick friend, and, writing afterwards to
London, he said: “My only solace was skirling away for an hour on the
lonely beach, and I generally chose the most melancholy pibroch I could
think of.” So he can hardly be accused of endeavouring to joke at the
expense of the instrument.
After _Punch_ I must be permitted to work off several stories which have
been King Charles’s Heads unto me since I began to compile this volume.
They persisted in cropping up, now in some book which I was consulting,
then in a newspaper, and next in conversation with acquaintances. I know
all their variations so well now that I recognise them a long way off,
and generally manage to avoid them. Four are particularly determined in
keeping themselves to the front:—
A wandered Celt found himself laid up in an hospital in America with a
disease which fairly puzzled the physicians. They did not know what to
do with their patient, for he seemed to be sinking into the grave for no
reason whatever. They held a consultation, and decided as a last
resource to try music, preferably bagpipe music, as the patient was a
Scotsman. So every night for a fortnight a piper played in the lobbies
of the hospital, and gradually the Celt began to revive. At the
fortnight’s end he was well enough to be discharged, but—and this was
the worst feature of the case—_all the other patients had died_.
Once, I remember, that story hailed from the Crimea and referred to a
dying soldier of Sir Colin Campbell’s, who was cured by the pipes in one
hour. The music was, however, the death of forty-one of his comrades.
The exact number killed varies from time to time, but that is a small
matter. The incident is always the same. The last occasion on which it
crossed my path was in the spring of 1900, when it appeared in the
“London Letter” of a Glasgow evening paper, to which it had been
telegraphed the same morning from the “City Notes” of one of the leading
London dailies, each of the journalists concerned treating it as a great
discovery in the field of humour. And I had been doing all I could to
keep out of its way for about a year previously.
The next also shows the wonderful powers of pipe music. Music,
apparently, hath charms to soothe the savage _beast_. A Scotsman, a
piper of course, lost his way on an American prairie, and was overtaken
by a bear. To appease the brute Sandy threw it his modest lunch, the
only food he had to keep him alive until he found shelter. But Bruin was
not satisfied, and threatened to dine off Sandy himself, whereupon the
piper thought he would play a farewell lament before quitting the world.
So he struck up “Lochaber no more.” No sooner, however, did the big
drone give its first squeal than the bear stood stock still, then turned
and fled precipitously. Then Sandy exclaimed—
“If she had known she was so fond of ta music, she could have had ta
pipes before ta supper.”
On its last round that story had reached Siberia, and the Celt, who was
hungry, was pursued by a pack of wolves, who “fled with hideous howls”
when the slogan of the clan was heard.
The next illustrates the Highlander’s propensity towards whisky
drinking, and it rarely varies to any great extent. A Highland laird,
being unable to maintain a permanent piper, employed a local musician
occasionally when he had a party. Donald was once overlooked as to his
usual dram before commencing to play, and in revenge he gave very bad
music, which caused the laird to remonstrate with him and ask the cause.
“It’s the bag,” said Donald; “she pe ferry, ferry hard.” “And what will
soften it?” asked his employer. “Och, just whusky.” Accordingly the
butler was sent for a tumblerful of the specific, which Donald quickly
drank. “You rascal,” said the laird, “did you not say it was for the
bagpipes?” “Och, yess, yess,” said Donald; “but she will pe a ferry
peculiar pipes this. _She aye likes it blawed in._”
The piper’s story associated with “Boyne Water” is the fourth. The name
and the regiment vary, but the story is always the same:—
Sandy Mac-something or other—the surname has not come down to posterity—
was an old piper in the 92nd, and when his detachment was located in
Ireland an order was given that “Boyne Water” was not to be played. The
colonel probably did not wish to hurt the feelings of any of his
neighbours. “Boyne Water,” however, was Sandy’s favourite tune, and to
the surprise of the colonel, the first time the company marched out
after the prohibitory order had been issued, Sandy struck up the
forbidden air. “What do you mean?” cried the officer. “Do you not know
that you are not allowed to play ‘Boyne Water?’” “It’ll no pe ‘Boyne
Water’ at all,” replied Sandy. “It’ll pe quite another tune, but to the
same air.” But Sandy had to stop playing it all the same.
An amusing description is given by a writer who travelled in the
Highlands about seventy years ago, of a competition which he witnessed
between two pipers in Tongue. There was a certain John Mac Donald who
had blown before the Emperor of China, having accompanied an embassy to
that country, and a Donald Abroch, who traced his descent from some of
the hereditary pipers. Both had gained prizes in public, and they were
natural rivals:—
“The drone of Donald’s pipes streamed with bonny flags of red and
blue, while he made his cheeks as red as crimson, and bobbed around as
he blew. Meantime the banner of defiance hoisted on his antagonist’s
spirit-stirring engine floated on the troubled air in the radiant
yellow of the Celestial Empire. As etiquette demanded that each should
be heard in turn, the Imperial piper, having the preference, as of
divine right, put forth all his energy on the advent of his rival, as
the cock crows a louder defiance should some neighbour chanticleer
intrude on his hereditary domain. But John was now seventy, nor had
his wind much improved by the quantity of monsoon which he had
swallowed in the Indian seas. His breeze being blown, Donald, who knew
the weak point in his rival’s lungs, now raised a blast so loud and
dread that it reminded one of the roaring of the lion of Rabbi
Johosuah Ben Hananiah, at the sound of whose voice all the people’s
teeth dropped out of their heads. John turned yellow with despair, as
the Imperial ribbons, and thus ended the first act.
“It was not for us to decide between rival pibrochs or rival pipers,
but by the aid of some judicious applause and more acceptable whisky a
sort of amicable armistice was produced till the next act should
begin. It was now necessary that they should play together a duet,
composed of different pibrochs in different keys, in which it was the
business of each to outscream his neighbour by the united force of
lungs and elbows. The north side of the room was in possession of the
Emperor’s piper, and he of our clan drew up his force on the south;
each strutting and bellowing till, like rival bullfinches, they were
ready to burst their lungs and bag, each playing his own tune in
harmonious dissonance; and both as they crossed each other at every
turn, looking the defiance they would have breathed had their wind not
been otherwise employed. The chanters screamed, the drones grunted,
and as the battle raged with increasing fury, Donald’s wind seemed
ready to burst its cerements, while the steam of the whisky distilling
through the bag dropped as from the nozzle of a worm-pipe. Poor John
was now nearly blown, but as we were unwilling that he should puff out
for our amusement the last of that breath which he had with so much
difficulty brought all the way from Pekin, we determined that enough
had been done for honour, and put an end to the concert according to
the rules of bucolic contest, by allowing equal praise and equal
prizes to each swain. That they had both played _fort bein_ could not
be doubted, still less according to the French pun that they had
played _bein fort_.”
Pipers, when playing in public, often get into awkward positions. During
the performance of the well-known Julien Army Quadrilles, in connection
with which local bands represent England, Scotland, and Ireland—the
chief performing band being the orchestra—the pipes were once put into a
cellar in the lower part of the building and the door closed. Here, on a
given signal, they struck up “The Campbells are coming.” Thereupon the
doors gradually opened, and the pipers marched up from the lower regions
and through the vast hall, which was crowded. On their approach the
cheering was so vociferous that it was impossible to hear the sound of
the pipes, and it was only by carefully watching the parts of the tune,
the step, and the swing of the leading piper (who was endeavouring to
reach the platform on which the orchestra was seated) that they were
able to play in unison. Having ascended the platform, they placed
themselves in a conspicuous position, and when they stopped playing, the
well-known imitation fierce battle, for which these quadrilles are
famous, began. While rehearsing this performance, it should be added,
the door of the lower apartments had been accidentally left open, so
that the sounds were distinctly and loudly heard by the bandmaster, who
was a German. With lightning rapidity he came tearing downstairs in a
furious rage, exclaiming in wild tones—“Mein Got, fat is this. You may
be as well up on de stage. Why is de door not closed according to my
instructions?” Being thus interrogated, the pipe-major appealed to piper
Dougal Mac Donald, who was the last to enter, and who should have closed
the door.
“Why did you not shut the door when you came in, Dougal?” he asked.
Dougal’s reply, which was characteristic of the man, was—
“Ach man! What did I know? The door wasn’t shut when I opened it.”
After this matters went on all right and to the satisfaction of the
bandmaster.
On another occasion, when taking part in these quadrilles, the same band
had to cross a plank arrangement erected above the heads of the audience
before they could get to the platform. To get there under such
circumstances required tact, in addition to a good nerve.
To relate another awkward experience:—A piper was on one occasion
ordered to play at a wedding near Glasgow, at which his colonel was one
of the guests. The object was to take the company by surprise. The piper
therefore went there secretly. He had three and a half miles to walk, as
the ‘bus which plied to and fro at that time (twenty years ago) was full
of ladies. The day being exceptionally wet, he got drenched. The first
incident took place shortly after leaving the barracks in the
Gallowgate, where a fairly well dressed but drunken woman
unceremoniously slipped her arm inside his and said—“I am going where
you are going.” She vowed she knew him and all the pipers, as well as
all the officers, and the colonel in particular—in fact, she knew the
whole regiment. While making these declarations she clung tenaciously to
the piper, and nothing would shake her off. A motley crowd gathered
round them, and, to make matters worse, no policeman was in sight. A
gentleman, however, opportunely came to the rescue, and extricated the
piper from his predicament by inviting him into a shop and letting him
out by a side door into another street. In due course the piper arrived
at the mansion house where he was to play. He first made for the
kitchen, in order to be out of the way and to have his clothes and
appointments dried and replenished. Here he was accosted by a head
official, a woman, who wished to know what he was doing there and what
he wanted. The piper replied that he was sent there.
“Who sent you, and what for?” she asked.
He replied—“Colonel ——.”
“And who is he?” she next asked.
“He is my colonel.”
“Well,” she replied, snappishly, “I don’t know him, and never heard
anything about you.”
The piper, however, entered the kitchen, and made for the fire. It so
happened that the head cook—a stout, portly, good-natured woman—was a
native of Tobermory. She took the drenched man in hand, and when she
discovered that he could speak Gaelic, they became the best of friends.
He got himself so much into her favour that she undertook to dry his
coat and polish all his accoutrements. In course of time he got
brightened up and ready for any call. He had to ignore all the time the
repelling looks and nasty hints of the head official referred to, who
would have nothing to do with him, and whose dignity was evidently hurt
at his presence there without her being consulted. At two in the morning
he was sent for by the mistress of the house—a fine specimen of the old
Scottish lady—who led him to a door which communicated with the ball-
room, and, without more ado, she gave him the following instructions:—
“You’ll just blow up your bags and you will play in there”—pointing to
the door—“and John will show you where to go to.”
The piper struck up the “Cock of the North” very suddenly, to the
surprise of everyone. When he entered the room he nearly fell, the floor
was so smooth. Next, his big drone touched the chandeliers, under which
were standing three or four ladies with the usual long trains to their
dresses. He naturally became somewhat embarrassed, for he had to watch
his tune, to watch his feet, to watch the chandelier, as well as to
avoid the ladies’ dresses, and at the same time to watch “John,” who
ultimately led him into the recesses of a window, where he played the
“Highland Scottische” and “Reel of Tulloch.” This done, it was part of
his programme to play “The Campbells are coming,” and make his exit by
the door through which he entered. There were, unfortunately for him,
too many doors, and, as “John” had left, he was again perplexed. He,
however, made for, as he thought, the proper door, under the same
difficulties as he experienced on his entrance; but, instead of getting
out, he was landed in a pantry where there were two young women busily
engaged cutting up sandwiches. Here he was kept prisoner for about half
an hour. Any pipers who have had the same experience will admit that it
requires no little confidence and caution to discharge satisfactorily
such duties under similar circumstances.
There is a story told of another piper, which does not terminate quite
so happily. Piper Hugh Mac L—— was engaged to play at an Irish wedding.
Now, Irish people are generally very kind, and on such occasions are
possessed of a good supply of “the mercies.” The room in which the
wedding was held was rather small for dancing purposes, considering the
number of guests. They therefore placed a table in the corner of the
room, on the top of it a chair, and on the top of that a small flat
stool, on which sat the piper. Here he blew with might and main till
three o’clock in the morning, when down fell piper, pipes, and all on
the floor. There were, luckily, no bones broken. Legs were broken, but
they were wooden ones. After this somewhat amusing catastrophe the music
ceased for the night.
Pipers were a resourceful race, if the following story is to be
considered a typical one. A well-known piper, whose name is withheld
because some of his people are still with us, was very often hard put to
it for money, and many and various were the means he took to raise the
wind. One day, more than usually dead-broke, he found an old mahogany
leg of a table lying at the Clydeside, near Glasgow Green. He picked it
up, and going to a joiner’s shop in the Briggate, he hired a turning
lathe for an hour or two. Being an expert maker as well as player, he
soon had an imitation set of drones and a chanter turned out of the
mahogany. Then he got a piece of old skin and made a bag which would not
have kept in small stones, not to speak of wind, and by means of
borrowing pence from acquaintances, he raised some green velvet and
ribbons. After he had carefully covered and adorned his “pipes,” he
bored holes about an inch down the “drones,” stained the “virls” black,
and gravely offered the lot to a pawnbroker. He, poor man, did not know
much about pipes, for he gave the piper £1 on them. Then the dead-broke
man repaid all his loans and went off a richer man by some seventeen or
eighteen shillings. What the pawnbroker said when he attempted to sell
the “pipes” has not come down to posterity.
The best of the bagpipe stories, however, come from the regimental
piper. Army pipers were, and perhaps still are, treated a little more
leniently than their fellows. A piper of the 79th Cameron Highlanders
was brought before the officer in command for being drunk. The officer
was a bit of a wag, and on the delinquent being marched in he, looking
very severe, said, “Are you the piper that played before Moses?” “Yes,
sir,” said the piper, taking advantage of the familiarity. The officer
was a bit nonplussed, and shouted, “Get out of here, you scoundrel, and
never come before me again.” A day or so after the piper was again
brought up for being drunk, and the officer, annoyed at seeing him back
so soon, said, “I don’t wish to punish you, but if you continue coming
before me I must treat you like any other delinquent.” Quoting from the
defaulters’ sheet, he continued, “Drunk, drunk, drunk; why, sir, you’re
always drunk. Look here, just put yourself in my position and see what
you would do.” On the officer vacating the chair the piper, nothing
daunted, took his place, and proceeding to scan his own defaulter sheet,
said in grave tones, “Drunk, drunk, drunk. Why sir, you’re always drunk;
I’ll give you seven days’ cells and twenty-eight days confined to
barracks.” The officer was too amazed at the piper’s impudence to do
more than shout at the top of his voice—“Sergeant-major, take this man
out of here,” and as we have no record of any future infliction of
punishment, we may infer that the piper’s game of bluff succeeded in
getting him off scathless.
Another story of a piper who “took more than was good for him” is
associated with “Lochaber no more.” It was the duty of a piper of the
93rd Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders to play the officers’ mess.
Feeling somewhat unsteady, he chose “Lochaber no more” as being an easy
tune and suited for hiding his condition. His eccentric performance,
however, did not escape the colonel, who was in quarters close by
dressing for dinner, and, in passing to the mess room he called out
“Piper Mac Donald.” “Yes, sir,” replied the piper, approaching the
colonel with his best salute and under the impression that he was to be
complimented for serenading the commanding officer by his rendering of
such a beautiful air. “What tune was that you played?” growled the
colonel. “Hic! ‘Lochubu no more,’ sir.” “Then,” said the colonel
severely, “you’ll be piper no more, sir,” and Piper Mac Donald forthwith
returned to the ranks.
It is a well-known fact that pipers in Highland regiments are posted to
companies, and follow them wherever they go. On one occasion a company
of the Gordons were marching from a place called Jullunder to Fort
Kangra, situated on one of the lower ranges of the Himalayas.
Accompanying them was an elephant, on which were placed sick and
exhausted men. After a few days’ march they were deprived of music on
account of the piper’s feet becoming blistered, and he was relegated to
the back of the elephant. On the last day’s march, before entering their
new station, some one suggested that in order to brighten them up the
piper might be requested to play on the elephant’s back at the head of
the company. To this the officer assented, and accordingly the piper was
handed his pipes. When he began to tune them up it was evident that the
elephant had no appreciation of such sounds, for he shook his head,
flapped his big ears menacingly, raised his trunk, with which he
embraced the piper round the waist, and violently threw him and his
pipes into a ditch as a mark of his disapproval of such music.
A camp of exercise some three miles out of Delhi was visited at night by
a terrible storm of rain and wind. Tents were blown over, and much
wreckage and damage done. The pipe-major and drum-major, who, of course,
were both staff-sergeants, occupied a small tent by themselves, situated
in a hollow. Towards morning, just as daylight appeared, it was observed
from the sergeants’ mess that the pipe-major had got all his valuables—
silver, pipes, banner, dirk, sporran, etc.—placed in a tub in which he
himself was sitting. All round outside his tent, for a considerable
distance, was a sea of water, so hard had it rained during the night.
Being very anxious to save his valuables, uniform, and appointments he
embarked in the tub and paddled shorewards, and while doing so his
comrades began to shout and jeer at him. This roused the pipe-major’s
temper to boiling pitch, and caused him to become rather unsteady in his
precarious craft. Veering a little too much to one side, over it went,
and piper and cargo were thrown into the water, to the evident delight
of his comrades.
The playing of the Lords of Session from the hotel to the Court House in
Glasgow was an old custom. After having performed this duty, the captain
usually marched the band and escort to Gallowgate Barracks by way of
Saltmarket, which was at one time a very rough locality. While playing
through the street, the pipe-major of a gallant corps suddenly found
himself in a very unpleasant fix. A decrepit, drunken fish-wife pounced
upon him, lovingly caught him round the neck, and insisted on hugging
and kissing him. To make things worse the band kept marching on through
the large crowd, and no amount of struggling and swearing would make
this enthusiastic follower relinquish her hold of the pipe-major. At
last by a supreme effort he managed to extricate himself from her dirty
clutches. It is needless to say that the escort and pipers enjoyed a
fine laugh at the pipe-major’s predicament.
To show how good may sometimes come of evil, one of our gallant pipers,
who had evidently been enjoying himself rather freely the night before,
on returning to barracks found himself detailed for the duties of
orderly piper, the first of which is to play the men’s breakfast pipes.
The piper’s condition not being what it might have been, and the morning
being cold and raw, he was not making a very good tune. This attracted
the notice of the orderly officer, who belonged to the piper’s company,
and forthwith he had the piper brought before him and rebuked for his
bad playing. The piper, quick as thought, ingeniously turned matters
into quite a different channel by putting all the blame on his chanter.
He impudently pointed out to the young officer the lowest hole, which is
the largest on the chanter.
“Just look at the size of that hole, sir,” said he. “It is far too
large, sir, and while I was _birling_ with my little finger it went into
the hole, sir, and when I was getting it out it caused that nasty
screeching, sir.”
“Oh,” replied the officer, “is that the cause of it? Then you require a
new chanter.”
“Yes, very badly, sir,” replied the piper.
The officer, being a man of means, said, “Very well, I will give you a
present of one.”
This is obviously a case where the piper gulled the young officer into
presenting him with a new chanter, whereas he should have been severely
reprimanded for his unfitness to perform his duty.
A novel accident once happened to the pipers of the Cameronians while
playing in the Botanic Gardens in Glasgow. At that time they wore a Tam
o’ Shanter or blue bonnet, slightly cocked to one side. The day was
stormy, and the wind came in gusts. Eight of the pipers were marching
jauntily along in line when a gust of wind suddenly came and blew off
the eight Tam o’ Shanters, as if by word of command, starting with the
pipe-major, who was on the right. The scramble for bonnets which
followed can be more easily imagined than described.
Piper Donald Menzies, of the Breadalbane Fencibles, was one of the
resourceful kind. The men were in the habit of receiving money in place
of a certain quantity of rations, and on one occasion instead of buying
food in the usual way many of them bought whisky. This came to the
colonel’s ears, and he at once ordered the adjutant to go round at a
certain hour and report to him what the men were cooking for dinner. The
order got wind and the Fencibles were on the alert. When the adjutant
came to where Piper Menzies was doing his cooking he asked “What have
you got here, Donald?” “Tripe, sir,” said Donald. “Tripe,” said the
adjutant, “now just let me see,” and he lifted the lid off the pot.
“Well, Donald,” he said, walking away and smiling, “I never saw tripe
before with buttons and holes in it.” Donald had cut up a pair of white
moleskin trousers and put pieces of them into the pot to make believe he
was to have a dinner.
Shortly after the occupation of Cairo by the British troops, the late
Nubar Pasha took a prodigious fancy to the music of the Black Watch, and
had the idea of having a servant taught the use of the bagpipes. Nubar
despatched a French friend, who spoke English, to interview a piper on
the subject. Donald replied—“Weel, he micht learn or he micht no’. But,
let me tell you, it needs wind an’ mickle strength to fill the bag o’
the pipes an’ keep blawin’. Sae if yin o’ thae Egyptian chaps took the
job on he’d need to be bandaged a’ ow’re like yin o’ thae old mummies,
or maybe he’d burst himsel’!” This conversation was reported to Nubar,
who took the remarks seriously. So he gave up the idea of having a piper
attached to his household, as the use of the bagpipe was attended with
the prospect of such danger to the performer.
Soldiers are not nervous men as a rule, but a pipe-major of the Gordons
was. While the regiment was being inspected, he noticed while standing
behind the band that the colonel’s helmet was reversed. The officer
seemed perturbed about something, strutting backward and forward, every
now and then digging his sword into the ground. This made the pipe-
major, who was anxious to call the colonel’s attention to the mistake in
connection with his headgear, more nervous than before. At last by a
supreme effort he mustered up courage, and stepping out of the ranks he
approached the colonel, and after saluting said, “I beg your pardon,
sir, but your helmet is upside down, sir.” “What!” roared the officer,
evidently thinking the man had become insane. The pipe-major became more
nervous than ever, and stammered out, “I beg your pardon, sir, but I
mean to say, sir, that your helmet is outside in, sir.” “The devil it
is, sir,” roared the colonel, and the pipe-major as a last resource got
out, “Well, I mean to say, sir, that your hat is backside foremost,
sir.” The colonel instantly calmed down, and took the incident in good
part, put his “hat” right and thanked the pipe-major, who did not forget
his nervousness or his mistakes for many days.
Yet another instance of how the piper made free with his superiors. A
Highland officer having in obedience to orders added a drum to his pipe
band, a spirit of jealousy soon afterwards arose between the piper and
the drummer respecting their title to precedence. This gradually
increased until it became personal animosity. At length the subject of
the quarrel was submitted to the officer, who decided in favour of the
drummer, whereupon the piper exclaimed, “Ads wunds, sir (whatever that
may mean), and shall a little rascal that beats upon a sheep’s skin tak’
the right hand of me that am a musician?” A musician, no less!
The last item to be given under this heading is meant to illustrate the
high opinion Highlanders have of the pipes, but I do not vouch for its
authenticity. It is from a book of _Scottish Life and Character_:—
“Dougal Mac Dougal, he left his native fastnesses for the great city
of Glasgow, where he joined the police, as many a better man has done
since. But Dougal was not content with being a policeman, he must
needs join the police band. By-and-by another native of the fastnesses
came to Glasgow, and meeting Dougal, he said-‘And wad it be true
Tougal that her is a member of the polis prass pand?’
“‘Yus, Alastair, her was.’
“‘And what instrument was she play, Tougal?’
“‘Ta trombone.’
“Ta trombone! Her as draws and draws and plaws and plaws? Och, Tougal,
wad she tempt Providence by leaving ta pipes for that?’”
After which we had better adjourn.
[Illustration]