I'VE heard a Frenchman wag his tongue
Wi' unco din an' rattle,
An', 'faith, my vera lugs hae sung
Wi' listenin' tae his prattle;
But French is no the worst of a'
In point o' noise an' clang, man;
There's ane that beats it far awa',
And that's the Lunnon twang, man.
You wadna think, within this land,
That folk could talk sae queerly,
But, sure as Death, tae understand
The callants beats me fairly.
An', 'faith, 'tis little gude their schules
Can teach them, as ye'll see, man,
For--wad ye credit it?--the fules
Can scarcely follow _me_, man.
An' yet, tae gie the deils their due,
(An' little praise they're worth, man,)
They seem tae ken, I kenna hoo.
That I come frae the Nor-r-rth, man!
They maun be clever, for ye ken
There's nought tae tell the chiels, man:
I'm jist like a' the ither men
That hail frae Galashiels, man.
But oh! I'm fain tae see again
The bonny hills an' heather!
Twa days, and ne'er a drap o' rain--
Sic awfu' drouthy weather!
But eh! I doubt the Gala boys
Will laugh when hame I gang, man,
For oo! I'm awfu' feared my voice
Has ta'en the Lunnon twang, man!
* * * * *
Demolition of Doctors' Commons.
SIR HERBERT JENNER FUST what would you say
To Doctors' Commons being done away!
No wonder its machinery is rusty,
Since in _your_ time at best it was but Fusty!
* * * * *