PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR
Edited by J. A. HAMMERTON
Designed to provide in a series of volumes, each complete in itself,
the cream of our national humour, contributed by the masters of comic
draughtsmanship and the leading wits of the age to “Punch,” from its
beginning in 1841 to the present day.
MR. PUNCH’S
SCOTTISH HUMOUR
[Illustration]
[Illustration: “BACKSLIDING”
_The Minister (reproachfully)._ “Ah, James! I’m sorry to see this! I
thought you were a steadfast teetotaller!”
_James._ “Sho I am, sir. But I’m no a bigoted ane!”]
MR. PUNCH’S
SCOTTISH
HUMOUR
_WITH 132 ILLUSTRATIONS_
BY
CHARLES KEENE, GEORGE
DU MAURIER, W. RALSTON,
A. S. BOYD, PHIL MAY, E. T.
REED, HARRY FURNISS,
J. BERNARD PARTRIDGE,
JAMES GREIG, L. RAVENHILL,
G. D. ARMOUR, AND
OTHERS
[Illustration]
PUBLISHED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH
THE PROPRIETORS OF “PUNCH”
[Illustration]
THE EDUCATIONAL BOOK CO. LTD.
PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR
_Twenty-five volumes, crown 8vo, 192 pages fully illustrated_
LIFE IN LONDON
COUNTRY LIFE
IN THE HIGHLANDS
SCOTTISH HUMOUR
IRISH HUMOUR
COCKNEY HUMOUR
IN SOCIETY
AFTER DINNER STORIES
IN BOHEMIA
AT THE PLAY
MR. PUNCH AT HOME
ON THE CONTINONG
RAILWAY BOOK
AT THE SEASIDE
MR. PUNCH AFLOAT
IN THE HUNTING FIELD
MR. PUNCH ON TOUR
WITH ROD AND GUN
MR. PUNCH AWHEEL
BOOK OF SPORTS
GOLF STORIES
IN WIG AND GOWN
ON THE WARPATH
BOOK OF LOVE
WITH THE CHILDREN
“N.B.”
An English friend of ours called many years ago at Inverness Post
Office for some letters awaiting him there. They were addressed to
the Poste Restante, “Inverness, N.B.” In handing him the letters, an
elderly lady who then graced the postal staff remarked: “You micht tell
your freen’s that ‘N.B.’ is quite superfluous. Hoo wad they like us
to write ‘London, S.B.’? _And we don’t think that muckle o’ London up
here._” Now, whether we use “N.B.” as meaning “North Britain,” or “Nota
Bene,” we shall leave you to guess!
[Illustration]
Unless we are mistaken, we have seen more than once in English
papers a suggestion that the Scots are a race devoid of humour. “He
joked wi’ deeficulty” is, we believe, a reference to a Scotsman. “A
surgical----.” But no, we shall not repeat _that_! Oddly enough, the
pages of MR. PUNCH, true mirror of our national characteristics,
yield an abundant harvest of Scottish humour. Have we not already in
this same series made merry with “Mr. Punch in the Highlands”? And we
are now to laugh with him again at this banquet of Scottish humour,
which by no means exhausts his store. We have already heard that some
seventy-five per cent. of the jokes appearing in _Punch_ contributed
by those not on the permanent staff come from Scotsmen; so it is a
reasonable assumption that the bulk of the anecdotes in the present
collection have originated north of the border, even when they tell
against the Scot; for it is not the least of his good points that Sandy
is able to appreciate a story that does not present him in the most
favourable light. No humour in Scotland! Here is MR. PUNCH’s reply!
Let this be noted by the Southerner: there is much confusion as to the
Highlander and the Lowlander. Here is not the place, even did space
allow, to attempt a definition of the difference between the two races
which Sir Walter Scott typifies in Rob Roy and in Bailie Nicol Jarvie.
In “Mr. Punch in the Highlands” we have something of the humour of the
one; here we have a good deal of the humour of the other.
Of course a portion of the present book would be properly described
as “the Scot through English glasses,” and in this respect it is none
the less valuable, being the next best thing to that for which Burns
sighed--
“O wad some power the giftie gie us,
To see oursel’s as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us,
And foolish notion.”
MR. PUNCH has striven to leave the Scot with no illusions as to the
characteristics he presents to his fellow Britons. We may gather from
these pages that MR. PUNCH, as spokesman for John Bull, has detected
in Sandy an occasional affection for that whisky which he produces
so industriously--and chiefly for English consumption--and that he
has noted in him a certain inclination “to keep the Sabbath day--and
everything else he can lay his hands on.” Who shall say that MR. PUNCH
has been mistaken? But we are not here to moralise; mirth is our
motive; and if the fun be good--as none will deny who fingers these
pages--enough is said.
This, at least, we may add: No artist who has ever been on MR. PUNCH’s
staff has made anything like so much of the dry, pawky humour that
obtains north of the Tweed as did Charles Keene. More than fifty per
cent. of MR. PUNCH’s illustrations of Scottish humour come from his
pencil; and he is ahead of his confrères not only in quantity but in
quality--none of them has beaten him in the pictorial representation of
Scottish character. The shrewd, dour faces of some of his Scotsmen are
inimitable.
MR. PUNCH’S SCOTTISH HUMOUR
[Illustration]
MAXIM FOR YOUNG SCOTSMEN WHO ARE FOND OF DANCING.--“Youth must have its
fling.”
* * * * *
A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT.--Being served with a glass of Bass when you
called for old Edinburgh.
* * * * *
MOTTO FOR HIGHLAND PIPERS.--“Blow Gentle, Gaels.”
* * * * *
“BREACHES OF DECORUM.”--A Highlander’s trousers.
* * * * *
CONFESSION OF A WHISKEY DRINKER.--“Scotland, with all thy faults, I
love thy still.”
“AS ITHERS SEE US”
[“He is a Scotsman and therefore fundamentally inept.”--_The Tiger._]
Ah, baist nae mair the bard o’ Ayr
That whiles was Scotland’s glory,
An’ dinna rave o’ Bruce the brave
An’ Bannockburn sae gory;
But greet yer lane an’ mak’ yer maen
That ye are ca’d a Scoatsman--
There’s naught but scorn for him that’s born
’Twixt Tweed an’ John-o’-Groat’s, man.
Nae poo’er hae we a joke tae see--
Ye ken the auld, auld rumour;
We canna taste the flavour chaste
That marks the Cockney humour;
’Tis owre refined for oor dull mind,
Though greeted wi’ guffaws, man,
By cultured wits that thrang the pits
O’ Surrey music ha’s, man.
Oor manners, tae!--my heart is wae
When I compare the races,
Contrastin’ oor behaviour dour
Wi’ English airs an’ graces.
We Scots maun hide oor humbled pride
An’ greet in sorrow dumb, man--
We canna baist the perfect taste
An’ canny tact o’ Brum, man.
An’ oh! ye ken, as beesness men,
In dealin’ wi’ an order,
We aye maun find oorsels behind
Oor brithers owre the Border.
We vie in vain wi’ English brain;
Hoo can we mak’ a haul, man,
Until we start tae lairn the art
That’s practised in the Mall, man?
[Illustration: CANDID
_Tam (very dry, at door of country inn, Sunday morning)._ “Aye, man, ye
micht gie me a bit gill oot in a bottle!”
_Landlord (from within)._ “Weel, ye ken, Tammas, I daurna sell onything
the day. And forbye ye got a half-mutchkin awa’ wi’ ye last nicht
(after hoors tae); it canna be a’ dune yet!”
_Tam._ “Dune! Losh, man, d’ye think I could sleep an’ whusky i’ the
hoose?!”]
[Illustration: “A NICHT WI’ BURNS”]
* * * * *
GOOD NAME FOR A SCOTS POLICEMAN.--Macnab.
* * * * *
[Illustration: STANDING ON HIS DIGNITY
_Shipping Agent._ “Are you a mechanic?”
_Intending Emigrant (justly indignant)._ “_No!_--I’m a Macpherson!”]
* * * * *
[Illustration]
OLD SCOTS SLANG.--In an old Scots Act of Parliament “anent the
punishment of drunkards” a clause adjudges all persons “convict” of
drunkenness, or tavern-haunting, “for the first fault” to a fine of
£3, “or in case of inability or refusal, to be put in jogges or jayle
for the space of six hours.” What was “jogges,” as distinguished from
“jayle”? Possibly a somewhat milder place of detention for the rather,
than that appointed for the very, drunken. If so, “jogges,” in the
lapse of time, we may suppose, having lost its distinctive sense, came
to be regarded as simply a synonym of “jayle,” and, as such, now passes
current in the People’s English (not to say the Queen’s) abbreviated
into the contraction “jug.” Thus imprisonment for a state of too much
beer might be described as jug for jug.
* * * * *
[Illustration: ILLUSIONS!
_McStaggert (on his way home, having jumped over the shadows of the
lamp-posts, &c., brought up by that of the kirk steeple)._ “E----h!”
(_Pauses._) “Ne’ mind! ’Sh no help for it.” (_Pulls up his pants._)
“Shall have to wade thish!”]
LINES BY A SCOTSMAN
(_On reading that an Act of the Australian Legislature against the
Growth of Thistles received the Royal Assent_)
What’s this? Forbid the growth o’ thristles,
Auld Scotia’s cherished symbol-flower--
The hair upon ma head it bristles,
At sic an awfu’ waste o’ power!
’Tis idle wark, as time will show,
To root the bonny plant frae ground;
For Nature still gars thristles grow
Where canny Scots are to be found.
What soil so puir but it can keep
A thristle green amang its stanes?
What land so bare a Scotsman deep
Canna pick something aff its banes?
As weel keep bees frae honey-pots,
Keep cats frae cream, or bairns frae tarts,
As thristles and their brither Scots
Frae lands whaur goud is found i’ quartz.
[Illustration: WELL TURNED
_Minister (reproachfully, to bibulous village barber with shaking
hand)._ “Ah, John, John! That whisky----”!
_Barber (condolently)._ “Aye, sir, it mak’s the skin unco tender!”]
[Illustration: “AU PIED DE LA LETTRE”
_Free-Kirk Minister (to his “Elder”)._ “John, I should like you to
intimate that on Monday next I propose paying pastoral visits in the
High and North Streets, in which I also hope to embrace all the servant
girls of the congregation in that district!”
_His Wife (whom he’d lately married from the South)._ “You shall do
nothing of the kind, sir! Let me see you dare to----!”
[_Goes into hysterics!_]
* * * * *
GEOGRAPHICAL.--_Examiner (to Scots boy in Free School)._ Where is the
village of Drum?
_Scots Boy (readily)._ In the county of Fife.
[_Prize given._
* * * * *
STOP HIM!--A Scots gentleman puts the postage stamps wrong way up on
his letters, and calls it, with a tender feeling,--Turning a penny!
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Hungry Visitor (ignorant of the nature of this
particular delicacy)._ “Ah, Donal, mon, we ken weel hae the rabbit for
saxpence. We ken get twa bawbees fur the skeen when we get back to
Glasgow!”]
* * * * *
SEASONABLE WEATHER IN SCOTLAND.--(_Edinburgh, New Year’s Day._)
_Sandy._ There’s mair snaw this new year than I’ve seen for mony a day;
it’s by ord’nar.
_Jock._ Ay, but it’s vera saisonable wather.
_Sandy._ ’Deed, ye may say that, Jock,--fine saft fa’in for the fou folk.
* * * * *
[Illustration: CURLING ON THE ICE IN SCOTLAND.]
[Illustration: HIGHLY CONSIDERATE
_Little Smithkin (debonairly)._ “Object to smoking?”
_North Briton._ “Nae in the least, if it does na’ mak’ ye seek!”
[_As Little S. said, he “cut the old cad for the
rest of the journey._”]
THE LUNNON TWANG
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-th, man!
They maun be clever, for ye ken
There’s nought tae tell the chiefs, 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!
* * * * *
THE GALLANT SCOTS.--As a party of very pretty girls approached the
camp of the Royal Scottish at Wimbledon, the band struck up--“The
Camp-belles are Coming!”
* * * * *
[Illustration: A PROMISING WITNESS!
_Scots Counsel (addressing an old woman in a case before Judge and
Jury)._ “Pray, my good woman, do you keep a diary?”
“Naw, sir, I kups a whusky shop!”]
[Illustration: PRECAUTION
_Donal’._ “A’m sayin’, Tam, what for dae ye tak’ yir dram a’ at a’e
mouthfu’?”
_Tam (gravely)._ “Eh, Donal’, man, A ance had ma gless knockit ower!”]
* * * * *
ALEXANDER AB ALEXANDRO.--(“It is stated that a Scotsman, at Greenock,
is to have the honour of contributing a considerable portion of the
machinery for the Suez Canal works.”) A Scotsman, of course. Who should
understand the desert but Sandy?
* * * * *
A SCOTS AUNT WHO’S ALWAYS ON THE SOFA.--Aunty-Macassar.
* * * * *
[Illustration: DISGUISED IN TARTAN
Mossoo has been invited north for a few days’ shooting. He arrives
_tout à fait_--“_en Montagnard_”!]
* * * * *
CHARM OF A SCOTS SMOKING CONCERT.--The Pipes.
* * * * *
SUCCOUR FOR SCOTSMEN.--If a Scotsman were between Scylla and Charybdis,
and puzzled as to which he should give the preference, would not his
national instinct prompt him at once to take the _Siller_? and, when
once he had got his hand fairly upon it, we do not think he would very
quickly leave it again.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THIS IS THE PROTECTION A PLAID AFFORDS TO THOSE WHO DO
NOT KNOW THE WAY TO CARRY IT]
[Illustration: REPUDIATION
_Butcher (rushing out)._ “Hey--ess that yoer doag, mun?”
_Donald._ “Aweel--he wass mine ance, but he’s aye daein’ for hessel
noo!!”]
SCOTLAND YET
What’s a’ the steer? Why, man, ye see,
Kinghorn is on its mettle,
The connysoor o’ ilka ee
Frae Anster tae Kingskettle.
We’ll show the warl’ a twa-three things
An’ let it ken the morn, man,
What way we coronate oor kings
In loyal auld Kinghorn, man.
There’ll be the Provost, robes an’ a’--
’Twill be as guid’s a play, sir:
I’m tell’t he’s boucht a dicky braw
In honour o’ the day, sir.
Then, dressed in a’ their Sabbath coats,
Wi’ collars newly stairchit
An’ stickin’ up intil their throats,
The Bailies will be mairchit.
An’ next the Toon Brass Band ye’ll see,
In scarlet coats an’ braid tae,
An’ then the hale I.O.G.T.,
Forbye the Fire Brigade tae.
There’ll be an awfu’ crood, ye ken,
Sae, as we mairch alang, man,
We’ll hae twa extry pólicemen
Tae clear awa’ the thrang, man.
An’ then at nicht--why, ilka ane
Has emptied oot his pockets,
An’ mony a guid bawbee has gaen
In crackers, squibs an’ rockets.
Eh, but I’d tak’ my aith on this--
The King’ll be gey sweer, man,
Tae bide at hame the morn an’ miss
Oor collieshangie here, man.
Although I’m tell’t in Lunnon tae
They’ve got a Coronation,
An’ even Cockneys mean tae hae
Their wee bit celebration;
But eh! I doot yon show’ll be
Disjaskit an’ forlorn, man,
Beside the bonny sichts ye’ll see
In loyal auld Kinghorn, man.
[Illustration: JUDGING BY APPEARANCES
_Old Scots Wife._ “Losh me! There’s a maun drenkin’ oot o’ twa boattles
at ance!!”
[_The old gentleman was trying his new binocular, a Christmas present
to his nephew._]
[Illustration: “A NARROW ESCAPE”
(FRAGMENT OVERHEARD THE OTHER DAY)
“Well, Lauchie, how are you?”
“Man, I’m wonderfu’ weel, considerin’.”
“Considerin’--what?”
“I did last nicht what I’ve no dune this thirty year. I gaed to bed
_pairfutly sober_, and I’m thankfu’ to say I got up this mornin’ _no a
bit the waur_.”]
[Illustration: SCRUPLES
_English Tourist (having arrived at Greenock on Sunday morning)._ “My
man, what’s your charge for rowing me across the frith?”
_Boatman._ “Weel, sir, I was jist thinkin’ I canna break the
Sawbath-day for no less than f’fteen shull’n’s!!”]
[Illustration: “WHOLESALE”
_Scot (to Fellow-Traveller on Northern Railway)._ “May ah ausk what
line ye’re en?”
_Our Artist (who had undergone a wide cross-examination with
complaisance)._ “Well--I’m--I’m a painter.”
_Scot._ “Man, that’s lucky! Ah deal i’ pents--an’ ah can sall ye white
leed faur cheaper than ye can buy’t at ony o’ the shoaps.”
_Artist._ “Oh, but I use very little. A pound or so serves me over a
year.”
_Scot._ “E----h, man! Ye maun be in a vera sma’ way o’ beezeness!!”]
SONG OF A LONDON SCOT.
Baker, baker, strike awa’;
Ye’ll na gar me greet, mon.
Ken that I defy ye a’;
Though bread grow dear as meat, mon.
Aits are baith bread an’ meat to me,
Wha dinna keep my carriage.
Mysel, forbye the barley-bree,
Can live richt weel on parritch.
[Illustration: THE CLYDE.--BEAUTIES OF SCOTTISH SCENERY AS SEEN BY OUR
ARTIST.]
[Illustration: TOO CANDID BY HALF
_Visitor (to newly-married friend)._ “I was admiring your little
carriage, Mrs. McLuckie, so----”
_Mrs. McLuckie._ “Oh, the brougham! Yes; you’ve no idea what a comfort
I find it----”
_Mr. McLuckie._ “Oo aye! It’s gey handy! We’ve jist jobbit the cab for
the coorse weather!!”]
[Illustration: CAUTION
_Host._ “Just another wee drap ’fore you go----”
_Guest._ “Na, na, I’ll tak’ nae mair! I’m in a new lodgin’, and I’m no
vera weel acquainted wi’ the stair!!”]
[Illustration: “AULD EDINBRO’”
_Saxon Traveller._ “This is too bad, waiter! I told you we wanted to go
by the 9.30 train, and here’s breakfast not ready!”
_Celtic Waiter._ “A weel, sir, fac’ is, the cook tak’s a gless!”]
* * * * *
SCOTLAND FOR EVER!--_Benjamin Barking Creek (thinking he is going
to pull the mighty leg of MacTavish)._ But you must allow that the
national emblem of your country is the thistle.
_The MacTavish._ And for why? Because we grow it for ye Southrons to
eat!
[_Exit B. B. C._
* * * * *
[Illustration: “BENEATH THE LOWEST DEEP”
_Swell._ “Ah, Port-ar, is this twain--ah--composed entirely of
second-class cawwiages?!”
_Glasgow Porter._ “Na, na, man, there’s a wheen third-cless anes
further forrit there!!”]
* * * * *
AT REDRUFUS CASTLE.--_The Duchess of Stony Cross (to Mrs. MacShoddy,
who is returning a duty call)._ The Duke has actually consented to be
Mayor of Crankborough in succession to poor Mr. Slitt.
_Mrs. MacShoddy._ Well! that’ll be very nice for you! You’re _sure_ to
be invited to the Mansion House in London during the season!
* * * * *
A SCOT ON SWEET SOUNDS.--A’ music whatever is o’ Scottish origin
an’ derivation. It a’ cam Sooth frae ayont the Tweed. A’ music just
resolves itsel’ intil a meexture o’ Tweed-ledum an’ Tweedle-Dee--the
Scottish Dee.
The oreeginal St. Cecilia was a Miss MacWhirter. She invented the
Bagpipes.
* * * * *
REJECTED MEDICAL ADVICE (BY A SCOTSMAN).--“Try your native air.”
* * * * *
In Scotland, it is not permitted even to whistle on the Sunday. My
friend, Wagg, tells me, however, that “you _must_ whistle for what you
want.” I remark this contradiction. But they are an obstinate race, the
Scots.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Mrs. Golightly (fishing for a compliment)._ “Ah! Mr.
McJoseph, _beauty_ is the most precious of all gifts for a _woman_! I’d
sooner possess _beauty_ than anything in the world!”
_Mr. McJoseph (under the impression that he is making himself very
agreeable)._ “I’m _sure_, Mrs. Golightly, that _any_ regret you may
possibly feel on _that_ score must be amply compensated for by--er--the
consciousness of your _moral worth_, you know,--and of your various
_mental_ accomplishments!”]
[Illustration: _Jink._ “My dear MacFuddle, it’s the very thing you
want! Charming house--lovely spot! Cheap, too. But one great drawback.
You can’t get any water there!”
_MacFuddle._ “Oh, that doesn’t matter!”]
[Illustration: REFRESHMENT
_Hospitable Good Templar (to Visitor--average Scotsman)._ “Well,
now, what will you tak’, Mac, after your walk--tea, or coffee, or
pease-brose?”!!
[_Comment is needless._]
THE EGREGIOUS ENGLISHMAN
[The Scottish Education Department, not satisfied with the
pronunciation in vogue beyond the Tweed, has appointed a Liverpool
gentleman to instruct the teachers of Scot’and how to speak polite
English.]
A plague on yon Depairtment, Jeames!
It maun be aye appearin’
Wi’ sic a host o’ daft-like schemes,
Forever interferin’.
’Tis past a joke when feckless fouk
Awa’ in Lunnon ettle
Wi’ a’ this fuss tae talk tae us,
The Schule Board o’ Kingskettle.
I’ll tell ye hoo it comes tae pass--
The facts are easy stated:
They tak’ inspectors frae a class
No richtly eddicated,
An’ when the fules inspect oor schules,
I’ll swear upon my life, Jeames,
There’s no a man can unnerstan’
The classic tongue o’ Fife, Jeames.
An’ whaur’s the cure? The thing tae dae
Tae pit them on their mettle
Wad be tae raise inspectors tae
The staundard o’ Kingskettle;
But eh! I fear frae what I hear
Thae fouk in Lunnon toun, Jeames,
Are bent the noo on findin’ hoo
To eddicate us doun, Jeames.
For hae ye heard their latest plan?
I canna weel believe it--
Deil tak’ the impidence o’ man
That ever daured conceive it!
They’re sending doun a Southron loon
Frae far across the border
Tae lairn us hoo tae shape oor mou’
An’ set oor tongue in order.
Noo hoo could ony man expec’
We’d thole thae Angliceesms
An’ lairn a furrin’ deealec’
O’ crude proveencialeesms?
Tae think a fule frae Liverpool
Should undertak’ tae settle
The kind o’ way we oucht tae say
Oor wordies in Kingskettle!
[Illustration: CONSCIENCE
_U. P. Elder._ “The meenister needna’ ’been that haurd en hes
discoorse. Theer plenty o’ leears i’ Peebles forbye me!”]
* * * * *
PROVIDING FOR THE FUTURE.--_The O’Hooligan (to the MacTavish)._ Faix!
but ye seem to be overlapping your quantum to-night, Laird. Has your
grandfather jined to the Kensal Greeners?
_The MacTavish._ That no, sir, but the morrow, gin that nae accident
happen, I shall hae the luxury o’ lunching wi’ my bluid cousin, the
ex-Baillie o’ Whilknacraigie, a strict temperance mon, wha canna stand
whusky. And so I’m _joost drinkin’ up to his soda-water beforehand_.
* * * * *
[Illustration: “THE BAR-RD OF A-Y-VON!”
_Member of the “Northern Shakspeare Society.”_ “Man, yon Wully
Shakspeare maun hae been a maist extr’o’dinary pairson! Theer-r thengs
cam’ entil his heid ’at wad never hae com’ ento mine!--NEVER!”]
[Illustration: _Scottish Waitress._ “There’s a laddie doon the stair
wa’antin’ tae see ’ye----”
_Mossoo._ “A lady! Mon Dieu! Say her to give herself the pain to sit
down while I arrange my toilet.”]
[Illustration: The “lady” in waiting.]
[Illustration: PROMPT AND PRACTICAL
_Reverend Stranger._ “My good man, can you tell me the nearest way to
the cathedral?”
_Scottish Cabby._ “Jist inside the cab here, sir.”]
A SECOND VISIT TO SCOTLAND
(_Being an additional Chapter to “The Tour in the Hebrides”_)
“Sir,” said Dr. Johnson, “let us take a walk down Princes Street.”
Finding the great man in so excellent a humour, I seized upon the
opportunity to put to him many interesting questions.
“Sir,” said I, “pray what do you think of Edinburgh?”
“I think, sir,” replied the Doctor, “that its name is most appropriate.”
“Sir,” I continued, in a fever of anticipation, “I shall be very much
obliged to you if you will explain your meaning in greater detail.”
[Illustration: “THE BILLS OF MORTALITY”
_Kirk Elder (after a look at his morning paper)._ “Poor McStagger deid!
Et’s vera sad to thenk o’ the great number o’ destengweshed men that’s
lately been ta’en! ’Deed--I no feel vera weel--mysel!”]
[Illustration: A MERE DETAIL
_Friend of the Family._ “Weel, Mrs. M‘Glasgie, and how’s your daughter
doin’, the one that was married a while ago?”
_Mrs. M‘Glasgie._ “Oh, varra weel, thank ye, Mr. Brown, varra weel,
indeed! She canna abide her man. But then, ye ken, there’s aye a
something!!”]
[Illustration: A YOUNG HUMANITARIAN
“Oh, mamma, mamma, couldn’t you interfere? There’s a horrid man
squeezing something under his arm, and he _is_ hurting it so!”]
_Dr. Johnson._ Sir, I am sorry that my meaning should require
explanation. I say that the name Edinburgh is appropriate, because I
find the city primitive and beautiful. Adam and Eve would, doubtless,
have held it in high consideration had they had the advantage of its
possession. In short, sir, they would have called it the town of
their Eden, or Edinburgh.
_Mr. Boswell._ A pun, sir!
“It was a pun, sir!” cried the Doctor, very angrily, and I hastened to
change the subject.
“I am surprised to find, sir,” said I, “that Her Majesty does not
reside at Edinburgh. Do you not think, sir, that she might use her
Scottish Palace at Christmas time?”
“No, sir, I do not think so,” replied the Doctor, “and I can find no
reason for your surprise.”
“Indeed, sir!”
_Dr. Johnson._ Sir, were Her Most Gracious Majesty to dwell at
Edinburgh at Christmas time, she would be put to great inconvenience.
Her Most Gracious Majesty exhibits excellent sense in selecting
Balmoral for her residence.
_Mr. Boswell._ Sir, I trust you do not call in question my loyalty to
the House of Brunswick?
_Dr. Johnson._ Sir, I do not; I only question your wisdom.
[Illustration: CAPACITY!
_First Traveller (proffering his mull)._ “Tak a pench?”
_Second Traveller._ “Na, ’m obleeged t’ye--ah dinna tak’t.”
_First Traveller._ “Man!--that’s a pety!--ye’ve gr-r-raund
accaummodation for’t!”]
_Mr. Boswell._ Sir, if I do not trouble you, will you explain to me
why Her Majesty should avoid Edinburgh at Christmas time?
_Dr. Johnson._ Why, sir, the very branches put up in honour of the
festive season would treat her with disrespect!
_Mr. Boswell._ Indeed, sir!
_Dr. Johnson._ Sir, if Her Most Gracious Majesty visited Edinburgh at
Christmas time, would she not find _Holly-rood_?
_Mr. Boswell._ Another pun, sir!
“It was another pun, sir!” cried the Doctor, very wrathfully, and I
said no more.
The next day we visited Stirling. We walked up to the Castle, and
admired the magnificent view we there obtained of the surrounding
country. We next examined the ramparts.
“These old walls, sir,” said I, “must weigh many thousand tons
avoirdupois.”
“Sir,” replied the Doctor, “you should have said pounds _Stirling_!”
“Another pun, sir!” I exclaimed.
“It was another pun, sir!” roared the Doctor, and I thought it best to
hold my peace.
[Illustration: DE MORTUIS
_Sympathetic Young Mother._ “I wunner ye could be sae cruel as to kill
that bonnie wee cauf!”
_Practical Butcher._ “Weel, ye see, ye’ll no eat them leevin’!”]
The next morning found us at Perth. Here we were received most
hospitably by the gentry and the people. In the company of our host (a
gentleman of the highest consideration in “The Fair City”), we ascended
Kinnoul Hill, and greatly admired the splendid scenery.
“A very lovely spot, sir,” I ventured to observe.
_Dr. Johnson._ Sir, you are right. Sir, I have here found the people
so kind-hearted, the city so handsome, and the scenery so magnificent,
that I confess it would give me infinite satisfaction were I able to
call the town in which I was born the place (as the Highlanders have
it) of my _Perth_!
“A pun, sir!” exclaimed our excellent host, and I could not help
noticing that he seemed greatly surprised.
The Doctor made no reply, but I could see by the working of his
countenance that he was suffering pain.
We came to our journey’s end at Wick.
“What do you think of this place, sir,” I asked.
_Dr. Johnson._ Sir, I think that the title of “The Modern Athens”
should be conferred upon Wick rather than upon Edinburgh.
_Mr. Boswell._ Indeed, sir! May I ask why?
[Illustration: Q. E. D.
_Professor McPhairrson._ “No, Mrs. Brown, it’s not that we Scots are
dull; but you English see a joke in _anything_! Why, the other day I
was in a room with four Englishmen, one of whom told a story, and,
would you believe it, I was the only man that didn’t laugh!”]
_Dr. Johnson._ Why, sir? Sir, you must be very dull. I say, sir, that
Wick should be called “The Modern Athens.”
_Mr. Boswell._ I confess, sir, that I am dull, and yet I cannot
perceive why Wick should be called “The Modern Athens” rather than
Edinburgh.
_Dr. Johnson._ Sir, you indeed must be dull if you do not associate
Wick with the centre of _Greece_!
I was silent for a few minutes, and then I ventured to make a remark.
“Sir,” said I, “you once expressed a very strong opinion about
pun-makers. Sir, you asserted your belief that a man who would make a
pun would be capable of picking a pocket.”
_Dr. Johnson._ Sir, I believe so still.
_Mr. Boswell._ And yet, sir, during the course of our tour, you have
made a large number of puns.
_Dr. Johnson._ Sir, you have good grounds for what you assert. I admit,
sir, with a feeling of sorrow, that I have made many puns during our
tour.
_Mr. Boswell._ Sir, may I venture to ask you why you have made so many
puns?
[Illustration: “DIRECTIONS”
_Scottish Village Practitioner (to Northern Farmer)._ “Eff the
Lunnon doacter”--(_his patient had been south to consult a great
specialist_)--“’ll no allow ye whusky, an’ ye can tak’ nowt but reed
wine, theer just twa ’ll dae ye ony guid--an’ ye’ll mind o’ them, for
they’re baith monoseelawbic!--po-or-r-t an’ clair-r-t!!”]
“Sir,” said Dr. Johnson, “the puns you have noticed are symptoms of
a painful disease, known to men of letters as ‘the Silly Fever.’ I
attribute the commencement of this melancholy malady to the depressing
effects of a Scottish climate upon a Londoner in September!”
* * * * *
THE BEST SCOTTISH JOKE WE EVER HEARD.--A clever Scotsman being told
that Demosthenes was in the habit of making speeches at the seaside
with small stones in his mouth, exclaimed, “Hoot, mon! then he must ha’
been the first Member for _Peebles_.” (_Loud cries of “Apology,” which
not being given, the Reader proceeds to groan._)
* * * * *
THE TARTAN EPIDEMIC.--_The MacTavish (very angrily, to the new Boots at
the “Rising Sun.”_)--Where, by St. Andrew! have ye planted my braw new
kilt that I put oot, for to be decently brushed! Green, red, black and
white plaid.
_Boots (after search)._--I beg pardon, sir, but the chambermaid mistook
it for the skirt of the young lady in No. 13. _But you’ve got her
gown!_
* * * * *
[Illustration: RECOLLECTIONS OF THE HOLIDAYS
_Fussy Body (in search of a seat)._ “A’ fu’ here?”
_Voice from the depths._
“‘We ar’na fou, we’re no sae fou,
But jist a drappie in oor e’e----’”]
[Illustration: A WILLING MARTYR
_Scottish Carrier._ “Eh, bit that’s strong whusky! Bit! U’ll no spile
the taste wi’ water. U’ll rather thole’t!”]
[Illustration: THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE
_Tam._ “Sae ye’ve gotten back, Sanders?”
_Sanders._ “’Deed, aye. I’ve just gotten back.”
_Jamie._ “An’ hoo did ’e like London?”
_Sanders._ “Od, it’s an ootlandish place yon! They tell’t me they
couldna unnerstaun ma awccent!”
_John._ “Awccent! I never heard tell that Fife folk had _ony_
awccent!”]
“THE HIELAND BEAUTY”
Mickle did I love my Jeanie,
Syn’ she wa’ a peekle weanie,[1]
Kittlin’[2] owre the flattit greenie,
A’ sae winsom’,
A’ sae hinsom’,
Dainty skirrock[3] Jeanie.
How I coodled[4] in her eekit,
Dooning[5] wha’ nae booties creekit
Till her twa bright een they leekit,
A’ sae hinsom’,
A’ sae winsom’,
Watting sair her cheekit.
Says she, “Let lassies fash their streeps
Wi’ drummie stick an’ paudy peeps,
Gie me my Tam wi’ squeezy-greeps,”[6]
A’ sae winsom’,
A’ sae hinsom’,
“Ane whiskey-toddy on fowre leeps.”[7]
Wull ye be my ain, my lassie?
Pibroch-peeps wi’ jug and glassie;
Pladdie, too, wi’ ribbon sassie,[8]
A’ sae hinsom’,
A’ sae winsom’,
All I gie, but hae nae brassie.
Says she, “Sin ye’ve nae brassie-jingle,
All the rest is sandie-shingle;
Sae wi’ ye I winna mingle,”
A’ sae hinsom’,
A’ sae winsom’,
“Steppit,[9] Tam, I’ll stoppit[10] single.”
Noo I seep ma whiskey-toddy,
Takin’ speerits wi’ nae boddy:
Sup for ane’s nae sup for twoddy,[11]
A’ sae winsom’,
A’ sae hinsom’,
Carls, gude night, I’ll niddy-noddy.[12]
----------------------------------
[1] A little pickle.
[2] Sporting like a kitten.
[3] The Lowland language has no equivalent for this word, which in
itself is so peculiarly expressive.
[4] Whispers soft things.
[5] Sitting.
[6] Arm round my waist.
[7] Four lips.
[8] Jaunty.
[9] Go away.
[10] Remain.
[11] Hieland proverb signifying that enough for one is _not_
sufficient for two.
[12] Sleep.
----------------------------------
[Illustration: SAWBATH RECREATION
_Gentleman from N. B. (he had sent his Presbyterian butler to a service
at Westminster Abbey)._ “Well, Dugald, what did you think of it?”
_Dugald._ “Aweel, sir, it was mair like heev’n than airth; but e--h,
sir, it’s just an awfu’ way o’ spennin’ the Sawbath, yon!!”]
* * * * *
THE IRISHMAN IN SCOTLAND.--Sorr, there is a river that requires milk
an’ sugar before ye’d dhrink a dhrop of it? What is it? Sure ’tis the
river _Tay_.
* * * * *
A CONUNDRUM MADE BY A LITTLE BOY ONLY SEVEN YEARS OLD.--Why is an
umbrella like a Scottish shower?--Because the moment it rains it’s
_missed_.
* * * * *
[Illustration: SCENE--_A Scottish Estate. The New Heir has run down to
see the property._
_The Heir._ “I sha’n’t be able to come and settle here just yet,
McTavish, as I’m ordered out to South Africa, but----”
_McTavish (his Factor--with feeling)._ “A’m sorry,--A’m varra sorry to
hear that”--(_the Heir is rather touched_)--“because ye’ll understan’,
if onything was to happen to ye, A doot the estate couldna stan’ two
succession duties so close.”]
KINGHORN AN’ LUNNON
(_A Comparison_)
The sichts we’ve seen! The punds my wife
Has spent instead o’ bankit!
But eh! we’re back in bonny Fife,
Sae let the Lord be thankit!
An’ Lunnon? Weel, ye ken, it’s gay
An’ busy, nicht an’ morn, man,
An’ there’s a pickle fouk--but eh!
It’s no--it’s no Kinghorn, man.
Ye’ll wanner on, an’ on, an’ on,
Through miles an’ miles o’ men, man,
An’ yet in a’ the crood like yon
There’s de’il a face ye’ll ken, man.
Na! Lunnon’s oot the warl’, ye see,
For look ye, I’ll be sworn, man,
Sic unco things could never be
In ceevilised Kinghorn, man.
The shops? Ou, aye, there’s shops indeed,
But faith, they’re rale unhaundy:
Ane keeps yer butter, ane yer breid,
An’ yet a third yer braundy.
Noo here, gin ye be wantin’ oucht,
Boots, butcher’s meat or corn, man,
Shag, bonnets, breeks, they’ll a’ be boucht
Thegither in Kinghorn, man.
The fashions? Weel, ye ken, we saw
A wheen o’ giddy hussies
Paradin’ in their duddies braw
Upon the cars an’ ’busses.
But dinna think owre much o’ yon,
For sure as I am born, man,
For style, it’s no a patch upon
Our floo’er show at Kinghorn, man.
An’ then sic ignorance! Losh me,
I’m feared ye’ll no can doot it,
But nane kent whaur Kinghorn micht be,
Nor onything aboot it.
Tis awfu’! Yet ’twad seem to ca’
For peety mair than scorn, man,
For mind ye, ’tisna gi’en to a’
To live aboot Kinghorn, man.
[Illustration: “USED TO IT!”
_Officer at firing-point (who thinks that it’s raining)._ “Sergeant
Mauchline, hadn’t you better wear your great coat till it’s your turn
to fire?”
_Sergeant Mauchline (frae the “Land of Lorne”)._ “Hoo! No the noo! I’ll
pit it on when it comes wat!”]
* * * * *
_City Friend (visiting in Scottish rural town)._ And tell me, Andrew,
are you wi’ the Wee Kirkers, or the United Frees?
_Andrew._ Man, I’m gi’en’ up releegion a’thegither, an j’inin’ the Auld
Kirk.
* * * * *
The Scotsman who tumbled off a bicycle says that in future he intends
to “let wheel alone.”
* * * * *
MY ONLY “CROSSED CHECKS.”--My own Shepherd’s-plaid Trousers.
* * * * *
[Illustration: QUANTITY, NOT QUALITY
_English Angler, having discovered there are two sorts of whisky at
the inn (best at 6d., second best at 3d.), orders a glass each of the
sixpenny._
_Gillie (in a whisper to the maid as she passes)._ “Make mine twa o’
the threepenny!”]
[Illustration: A PRACTICAL APPLICATION
_Irate Landlord (and Free-Kirk Elder, after being called in,
for the fiftieth time, about some repairs)._ “The fact is, Mrs.
McRacket, ye’ll ne’er be content till ye’re i’ the hoose made wi’out
hands.”--(_Severely._)--“See Second Corinthians, fifth chapter, and
firrst vairse, Mrs. McRacket!”]
[Illustration: “DEPRESSION”
_Tourist (tipping the old gravedigger, who had shown him over the
Cathedral)._ “I suppose, now so many visitors are in the town, you’ll
be doing well?”
_Gravedigger._ “Ou aye, there’s a wheen fowk gaun aboot,
but”--(_gloomily_)--“there’s terr’ble little deein’ in the diggin’
waye!”]
A SKETCH IN SCOTLAND
Since the immortal meeting of the Brick Lane Temperance Society, at
which the Messrs. Weller and the Reverend the Shepherd attended (after
refection elsewhere), and the latter, in response to the Chairman’s fat
smile and invitation to address the meeting, declined, on the ground
that the meeting was drunk, we have seen nothing so good as this, which
we take from the _Dundee Courier_:--
“On Sunday last, the minister of a large congregation in Dundee was
interrupted in the course of his forenoon sermon by the repeated
coughing of his auditors. Pausing in the midst of his observations, he
addressed his congregation to the following effect:--‘You go about the
streets at the New Year time--you get drunk, and get cold, then you
come here and cough, cough like a park of artillery. I think I must
give you a vacation of six weeks, that you may have time to get sober,
and to regain your health again.’”
[Illustration: “MOST UNFORTUNATE!”
_Bailie McScrew (to Smith, on a short visit to the North)._ “An’ what
are ye daen’ to-morrow nicht, Mester Smeth?”
_Smith._ “To-morrow? Oh, nothing particular.”
_Bailie._ “An’ the next nicht?”
_Smith._ “Ah! on Friday I’m to dine with the Browns----”
_Bailie._ “Man, that’s a petty! Aw was gaun t’ ask ye to tak’ yer
denner wi’ us o’ Friday!!”]
[Illustration: IN VINO MEMORIA
_Major Portsoken (a pretty constant guest)._ “I say, Buchanan, this
isn’t--(_another sip_)--the same champagne----!”
_Scots Butler._ “Na, that’s a’ dune! There was thrutty dizzen; and
ye’ve had yere share o’t, major!!”]
[Illustration: TITLES TO DISTINCTION
_Passenger (from the South, waking up)._ “Pray, sir, what station is
this?”
_Native._ “Thes es Paisley, sir!--Paisley! Celebrated toon,
sir!--Berrth-place o’ th’ poat Tannahul, sir! And--’hem?--ah’m a
Paisley man mysel’, sir! Ah was born i’ Paisley--ah was----”
[_Luckily the train had now run into the station, and stopped._]
[Illustration: A PRACTICAL VIEW
_First Parishioner (to recently-appointed Minister)._ “Verra gled to
fall in wi’ ye, sir, an’ mak’ yer acqua’ntance! I hinna been at the
kirk syne ye cam’, as I wis in Ross-shire.”
_Parson._ “Well, I am very pleased to meet you. You may have heard
whether my serm----”
_Parishioner._ “Oh, a’ the fowk are greatly taken wi’ yer menners
an’ appearance, yer attention to the puir bodies o’ the parish, yer
visitin’ the sick, an’----wha cares for preachin’!”]
This lenitive application did good, for the congregation sat quiet,
and coughed no more than they would have dared to do had they been in
presence of the Queen, or any other great person, instead of being in
a mere church. But one seat-holder, though he held his seat, could
not hold his tongue, and declared that the congregation was insulted.
We suspect that the minister knew best. In fact, had the incident
occurred anywhere but in Scotland, where every man is proverbially
sober, we should have been sure that the minister knew best. Hurrah,
for the toddy of Bonnie Dundee!
[Illustration: COMMERCIAL INSTINCT
_Dugald._ “Did ye hear that Sawney McNab was ta’en up for stealin’ a
coo?”
_Donald._ “Hoot, toot, the stipit bodie! Could he no bocht it an’ no
paid for’t?”]
SPORTIVE SONGS
(_An enamoured Southron endeavours to address a Highland Damsel in her
own tongue_)
Yon sky is bonny blue, fair lass,
But you boast bluer een;
Yon sun is bricht the noo, fair lass,
Your locks hae brichter sheen;
The fowl ahint the windy scaur
Flees to its hame awa’,
But, oh! my heart is fleeter far
Whene’er I hear you ca’.
The cushat seeks the hazel broch
Therein his mate to woo,
But I hie to the mountain loch
To lilt my lays o’ lo’e.
For here it was I speered you first
In a’ your pride o’ race,
You set my ardent soul athirst
When I gazed on your face!
I sat me down beside that cairn,
And looked, a feckless loon,
On you, the great MacMuckle’s bairn,
Wi’ ne’er a pair o’ shoon!
Wi’ winsome feet sae white as milk
You paddlit i’ the faem,
Your snoodless locks, sae soft as silk,
Whished roun’ your gouden kaem!
I looked and looked, and marvelled sair
If human you might be;
You laughed to see the wonder-stare
That came frae oot my ee.
And then you broke the eerie spell,
And oh! your voice was douce!
Like water trickling frae a shell,
What time the ebb runs loose!
An’ noo I maun my heart declare!
(Would you could hear its beat.)
I’ve lands, and siller, too, to spare,
An’ sic a hamestead sweet!
I ken you are MacMuckle’s chiel,
His only dearest ane,
But tell him that I lo’e you weel,
And canna bide alane!
[Illustration: NOT TO BE MADE A FOOL OF
_Farmer._ “Noo, if it’s a fair question, hoo much wull ye get for thae
kye when ye’ve feenished them?”
_Artist._ “Oh, perhaps sixty guineas, or so.”
_Farmer._ “Wha-a-t! Dinna tell me, man; A’l no get that for them
leevin’.”]
* * * * *
AT BONNIE BLINKIE CASTLE.--_Mr. Lysander B. Chunks, of Chicago_ (_who
has rented the property of the Duke of B. B._). I see this mansion
described in the guide-books as “palatial.” Why, it isn’t in it with
the Mastodon Hotel, Milwaukee!
_English Guest_. Then why didn’t you hire the hotel?
* * * * *
MACBETH TO BAD MOCK TURTLE.--“Unreal mockery, hence!”
* * * * *
[Illustration: INCORRIGIBLE!
_Mrs. M‘Finnan (very genteel, and speaks pure Edinburgh English)._ “My
dear, you’ve got pigeon-pie there, I think.”
_Mr. M‘Finnan (an Aberdonian, and not particular)._ “A----ye. Fa-a’s
for doo tair-rt? I’m for neen mysel’!”]
[Illustration: A FRIENDLY WARNING
_First Tramp._ “I wadna advise ye tae gang up there!”
_Second Tramp._ “What wye? Is there a muckle doug?”
_First Tramp._ “No; but there’s a danger o’ wark!”]
[Illustration: “AGAINST THE GRAIN”
_Widow Woman (to Chemist, who was weighing a grain of calomel in
dispensing a prescription for her sick child)._ “Man, ye needna’ be sae
scrimpy wi’t--’tis for a puir fatherless bairn!”]
SOBER SCOTS
[“A ‘Sober Scot Society’ has been formed in Edinburgh. Its members bind
themselves not to drink liquor before noon.”--_Daily Paper._]
Willie brewed a peck o’ maut,
Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!
Tammas cam’ a-findin’ faut,
Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!
“What’s this poison ye wad pree?
Put awa’ the barley-bree!
Be a Sober Scot like me!”
Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!
Willie gied a fearsome froun,
Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!
Looked as he wad knock him doun
Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!
“Shober? Dinna gie me sic
Inshults! Gin I’m speakin’ thick
Lemme gang tae Jerich--hic!”
Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!
Tam turned up a yellow ee,
Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!
“Man, ye’re fou as fou can be;”
Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!
“Weel, an’, laddie, gin I am,
Div ye think I care a----Tam!
I am nae teetotal lamb!”
Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!
“Haud yer havers! Wha’s T. T.?
Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!
What! A Sober Scot like me?
Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!
I, my lad, like ither men,
Lo’e a drappie noo and then;
I am free at noon, ye ken.”
Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!
Hoo it cam’ let wise men tell,
Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!
While they cracked the clock struck twal’,
Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!
Will filled up a glass an’, faith,
Tammas took it, naethin’ laith,
Noo they’re fou an’ canty baith,
Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t.
[Illustration: STERN PULPIT-CRITICS
_First Scot._ “Fat sort o’ minister hae ye gotten, Geordie?”
_Second Ditto._ “Oh, weel, he’s no muckle worth. We seldom get a glint
o’ him. Sax days o’ th’ week he’s envees’ble, and on the seventh he’s
encomprehens’ble!!”]
[Illustration: “GOOD INTENTIONS”
_Scot (on Waterloo Bridge)._ “Hech! To think I save a bawbee every time
I cross this bonny brig! I’ll just pit it in the plate the next time I
gang t’ the kirk!”]
[Illustration: CATECHISM UNDER DIFFICULTIES
_Free Kirk Elder (preparatory to presenting a tract)._ “My friend, do
you know the chief end of man?”
_Piper (innocently)._ “Na, I dinna mind the chune! Can ye no whustle
it?”!!]
* * * * *
COMPANION SIGN TO THE “WELSH HARP.”--The “Scots Fiddle.”
* * * * *
WUT AT WIMBLEDON.--A Scots volunteer, one of the knot of critics round
the firing-point where the line-prizes were being shot for, on asking,
with some contempt in his voice, “Whaur thae lads come frae?” and being
told “Aldershot,” was heard to mutter, complacently. “Hech, sirs!
Aulder shots sud be better shots I’m thinkin’!”
* * * * *
[Illustration: “THE OLD ADAM.”--_The Minister (coming on them
unawares)._ “E-e-h! Sandy McDougal! Ah’m sorry to see this! And you
too, Wully! Fishin’ o’ the Sawbath! Ah thoucht ah’d enstellet better
prenciples----” (_A Rise._) “E-e-eh! Wully, man!--ye hae’m!--it’s
entil’m! Haud up yer r-rod, man--or ye’ll lose’m--tak’ car-r-re!----”
[_Recollects himself, and walks off._]
A NEW “ADDRESS TO THE DEIL”
(_A long way after Robbie Burns_)
Oh, thou! whatever name, great Sir,
Prince Lucio, or plain Lucifer,
As up-to-date, thou may’st prefer,--
They’re nane great catches,
Whether derived frae classic or
Frae brimstone matches!--
Hear me, great Alias, for a wee!
The leddies winna let thee be.
Ye’d think sma’ pleasure it could gie,
E’en to she-novelist,
To drag thee frae the obscuritee
Wherein thou grovellest.
But leddies wi’ an eye to fame,
Take leeberties wi’ thy dread name,
Thy wanderings frae thy woefu’ hame,
Lang fixed afar;
Painting thee neither black, nor lame,
As auld fients are.
True, Wullie Shakspeare ance did say
Thou wert “a gentleman.” But to-day
The leddies limn thee masher gay,
Modish and maudlin’,
Weel-groomed, about the public way
Daundering and dawdlin’.
The Prince of Darkness as a dude,
Callow and cantin’, crass and crude,
Compound of prater, prig, male-prude,
And minor poet,
Is--weel, I wadna’ here intrude
_The_ word--ye know it!
Milton and Goethe whyles might summon
Thine image forth, a graund, grim, glum ’un;
But ’tis beyond the scribblin’ woman
Wi’ truth to paint ye.
She’ll mak’ ye a reedeeculous rum ’un,
Unsex, half saint ye!
Thrasonic Bobadil the bard,
Wha deems Parnassus his backyard,
Tried to invoke thy presence--hard;
As did great “Festus.”
But somehow their attempts, ill-starred,
Scarce eenterest us.
They havena’ the true grit and grup
In mighty shape to raise _ye_ up.
They wha’d on _genuine_ horrors sup,
And scare a body,
Are not inspired by raw pork-chop,
An’ whusky-toddy.
But oh! a leddy-novelist’s Deil
Wad scarcely gar a bairnie squeel!
Like Hotspur’s “sarcenet oath,” we feel
It hath nae terror.
Is lathen dagger ta’en for steel
A greater error?
Sorrows o’ Satan! Aye, good lack!
’Tis bad to paint ye owre black;
But thus whitewash ye! Oh! quack! quack!
His truest “sorrow”
Satan from the she-scribbler’s knack
Must surely borrow.
Weel, fare-ye-weel, Auld Nickie-Ben!
Ye’ve borne some wrangs at hands o’ men,
But frae the writing-woman’s pen,
She-poet-prophet,
Gude luck deliver ye--and then
Ye’ll no dread Tophet!
[Illustration: A WARNING TO LAWSONITES
_First Scots Boatman._ “Weel, Geordie, hoo got ye on the day?”
_Second Ditto (drouthy, he had been out with a Free Kirk Minister, a
strict abstainer)._ “Nae ava. The auld carle had nae whusky, sae I took
him whaur there was nae fush!”]
[Illustration: DRIVING A BARGAIN
_Economical Drover._ “A teeck’t tae Faa’kirk.”
_Polite Clerk._ “Five-and-ninepence, please.”
_Drover._ “Ah’ll gie ye five shillings!”
_Clerk (astonished)._. “Eh!”
_Drover._ “Weel, ah’ll gie ye five-an’-thrippence, an’ deil a bawbee
mair! Is’t a bargain?!”]
[Illustration: UNCOMPROMISING
_The Doctor’s Daughter._ “I declare you’re a dreadful fanatic, Mrs.
McCizzom. I do believe you think nobody will be saved but you and your
minister!”
_Old Lady._ “Aweel, my dear, ah whiles hae ma doobts aboot the
meenister!”]
[Illustration: QUOI?
_First Artist (six months in Paris)._. “Yes, this is the best thing
I’ve done.”
_Second Artist (just arrived)._. “Mon, dinna let that discoorage ye!”]
[Illustration: “WHERE THERE’S A WILL THERE’S A WAY”
(_Liberal Scots Farmer giving his workpeople a dram_). “Awm sorry,
Mrs. McDougal, ye canna tak a gless on account of your temperance
principles!”
_Mrs. McDougal._ “Hoot, man! Ye jist poor’t on ma bap,[A] an’ I’ll eat
it!”]
----------------------------------
[A] “_Bap_,” a roll.
----------------------------------
[Illustration: _Emily the Elder._ “I can’t think why William wanted
to take Archie out rabbit-shooting in such horrid weather.”--(_Cousin
Archie, who is evidently smitten in this quarter, waves an adieu with
his bonnet._)--“A regular Scotch mist, I declare!”
_Maria the Younger._ “Yes, dear, and”--(_mischievously_)--“somebody
doesn’t like missing a Scotsman!!”
[_Emily goes in with a toss of her head, and plays “Tullochgorum”
furiously on the piano._]
* * * * *
AT A WEST-END CLUB.--_Hospitable Southerner (to Scottish guest)._ Have
another go of whisky?
_Scottish Guest (with a sigh)._ I thank ye. No.
_Hospitable Southerner (astonished)._ What! Why surely it’s not a case
of “the wee drappie i’ the ee”?
_Scottish Guest._ Nae, mon, it’s no that; it’s the wee drappee i’ the
glass.
[_H. S. takes hint and orders a tumbler of whisky._
* * * * *
A REAL SCOTTISH JOKE.--What’s the next wine to golden sherry? Sillery.
(_Siller_--eh?)
* * * * *
[Illustration: PLEASANT!
SCENE--_A bleak Scottish moor._ TIME--_New Year’s Day. Train gradually
stops._
_Excited Passenger._ “Now, then, guard, what _are_ you stopping here
for?”
_Philosophical Guard._ “Fact is, the watter’s gane aff the bile.
Hooever, it’s jist possible th’ express behin’ll be late.”]
[Illustration: _MacAlister._ “When ye come tae Scotland I’ll gie ye
plenty fushin’ and shuitin’.”
_Brown._ “Are you fond of fishing and shooting?”
_MacAlister._ “Na! na! A canna fush and am faird tae shuit!”]
[Illustration: THE RULING PASSION
_Little Girl._ “Wull ye gie’s ha’pennies for this thripenny, for ma
granny’s feared it’s no a gude ane?”]
THE DECAY OF THE KILT
_Mr. Briggs loquitur_:
I am going down to Scotland, to the country of the kilt,
For a little salmon-stalking in a place they call Glen Tilt;
And as I always like to be a Roman when at Rome,
I’ve purchased the correct costume and it has just come home.
The kilt is most becoming, and it hangs with grace and ease,
Though perhaps a little draughty in the region of the knees,
And if there should be midges--but no doubt the Scotch are drest
In the clothes Experience has found to suit the climate best.
The dirk that dangles from my waist looks very _comme il faut_,
And the sporran in my stocking gives a finish, don’t you know?
The girls are all in raptures as they gaze at me in turns,
And mother says they’ll take me for another Robert Burns.
_Sandy loquitur_:
Oh, mony are the fallacies that Ignorance’ll breed,
An’ mony the mistakes a man’ll get intil his heid,
But the maddest o’ delusions mad wi’ which some folks are fillt,
Is that ye suld gang tae Scotland, gin ye want to see the kilt
For a’ the year I hevna seen a single kilt but ane--
A wee bit white-legged Coackney wha’ was trudgin’ through the rain;
The water it was pourin’ owre his knees intil his shoes,
An’ eh! but he was wishin’ for a pair o’ honest trews.
Na! gin it’s kilts ye’re wantin’, dinna win sae mony miles!
Jist bide at home in Lunnon toun and gang tae Seven Dials,
An’ there amang the coasters, hurdy-gurdies, dancin’ bears,
Ye’ll fin’ yer bogus Scotsmen pipin’ bogus Scottish airs.
[Illustration: _First Lady._ “Losh, but the doctor was gran’ the day!”
_Second Lady._ “H’m! D’ye think he is as clever as he used tae be?”
_First Lady (astonished)._ “Clever!--he’s faur cleverer, but we dinna
un’erstan’ him noo!”]
* * * * *
“IN VINO VERITAS.”--Sandie Mac Sawnie respondeth: “Truth in wine,
indeed! Hoot, mon, there’s nae sic a thing. Just skake up that auld
port, and ye’ll find there’s muckle _lees_ in it!”
* * * * *
AT THE BOARD-SCHOOL LECTURE.--_Professor McCrobe._ And now, where do
you suppose germs are originated?
_Oversmart Lad (promptly)._ In Germany, sir!
[_Laughter, cheers and--tears._
* * * * *
AFTER A TRIP TO LONDON.--_Archie._ Weel, Sandy, an’ hoo did ye pass the
time in Lunnon?
_Sandy._ Richt brawly, mon. An’ forbye, when I’d clappit a stove pipe
on my head and put on a frockit coat, ’deed, Archie, if there was a
Southron but didna’ take me for a Cockney born and bred!
* * * * *
[Illustration: WOMAN’S RIGHTS
_Scots Lady (who has taken a house in the Highlands, her servants
suddenly giving “warning”)._ “What’s the reason of this? Have you not
all you want?--good rooms, and good fresh air and food, and easy work?”
_Spokeswoman._ “Yes, mem--but--but there’s no a decent laad within cry
o’ us!”]
A SCOTS BALL-ROOM BALLAD
(_By The MacPry_)
Why sit ye on the stair, ladie,
Why sit ye on the stair?
It’s merry dancing in the hall,
And partners still are there.
Ye arena in a cosy neuk,
But in the lamp’s full glare;
No gentle whisperin’ words are spoke--
Why sit ye on the stair?
The runkled carle that’s by your side
No tale of luve can tell;
He fain wad win ye for his bride
By talkin’ o’ himsel’.
Your voice is clear, your laugh is cheer,
But oh, your eyes are sad;
You answer what the gaffer says,
You’re lookin’ for the lad.
(They winna stint their prattlin’ talk--
Oh, but her eyes are sad!--
Tis vain to cherche the fammy here,
I’ll gang and speer the lad.)
Why prop ye up the wa’, laddie,
Why prop ye up the wa’?
Your lissom shoes are stickit oot,
Ye’ll gar the dancers fa’.
Or feckless couples tearin’ past,
Wi’ elbows at an angle,
Will pin ye to the wainscoat fast
As wild boar in a jungle.
The floor’s as smooth as summer grass
Sma’ feet, like crickets, caper,
And whirlin’ kirtles, as they pass,
Sair waste the swealing taper.
The lassies’ gowns are creased and rent;
The lads are oot o’ knowledge;
They are as hot wi’ twirlin’ roon
As blacksmith frae the village.
The fiddles pour their love-sick pray’rs
The flutie-man is whis’lin’,
Just like when ancient madam scares
A thrummock-touzle hisslin’.
There’s young folks movin’ like a fair,
There’s auld folks quaffin’ sherry.
An’ you sae weary, fu’ o’ care,
When all the world is merry?
Gin ye maun feed your dowie grudge,
At least fill up your programme,
And come victorious from the crush
Like Bonaparte from Wagram.
Nay, dinna off the lassie score;
Her heart sings, “Waly, waly!”
She’s talkin’ with that awfu’ bore,
The Laird o’ Lanthorn Jawley.
Quit, quit, for shame! This winna do.
Rouse up and play the man, sir!
For they should dance who have the chance,
And they should sup who can, sir.
Ah, see, she smiles! Could any word
More eloquently call ye?
Now go and soothe your bonnie burd,
And banish Lanthorn Jawley.
So prop nae mair the wa’, laddie,
So prop nae mair the wa’----’
(Ye dinna ken that on your coat
Yon candle-droppin’s fa’?)
[Illustration: _Mariner._ “Yo hoy, Bill, stand by! We’ll find a ’bacco
shop alongside. Here’s the Scotsman!”]
[Illustration: “IS IT GREEK?”
_Foreigner._ “’Say, mun, rax me owre the pourrie.”
_Southerner._ “I’m sorry--Je ne parle no French.”
_Foreigner._ “O, I beg ye’re paurdon--han’ me the cream-jug.”
[_No--it is Scotch._]
[Illustration: EXPENSIVE!
_Londoner (to Friend from the North)._ “Well, how do you like the
opera, MacAlister?”
_Mr. MacAlister._ “No that bad. But is’t no dreadfu’, man, to be
sittin’ in thae chairs at ten shullins apiece!”]
[Illustration: “LIVE AND LET LIVE”
_Village Doctor (to the Grave-Digger, who is given to whisky)._ “Ah,
John! I’m sorry to see you in this pitiable condition again!”
_Grave-Digger._ “Toots, sir! can ye no’ let a’e little fau’t o’ mine
gae by? It’s mony a muckle ane o’ yours I ha’e happit owre, an’ said
naething aboot!”]
[Illustration: “SCOTCH MIST”
“The rain seems to be clearing off at last, Sandy.”
“Ay, I doot it’s _threatenin’ to be dry_!”]
[Illustration: PROPHETIC!
_Guest (late for dinner, the delicious odour of the Haggis, just coming
up, met him in the hall)._--“A----h!” (_On second thoughts._) “E----h!
I’ll be bad the morn!!”]
* * * * *
FOLLOWING THEIR NOSES.--We read a report of whales running ashore on
the Orkney coast last week. They were of the bottle-nose kind, and
probably followed their noses, tempted by the free flow of “het-pint,”
a very tempting new year’s tipple, largely indulged in north of the
Tweed.
* * * * *
_Question._ Why may Scotsmen be supposed to like policemen?
_Answer._ Eh, sirs, it’s just because they’re vera fond of the
_Bawbees_.
* * * * *
[Illustration: PRETTY DRY
_Young Beginner (fishing with dry fly)._ “Am I keeping my fly properly
dry, Duncan?”
_Scots Keeper._ “Oh, I’m thenkin’ she’ll be dry enough. She’s stickin
up in that big willow near by where ye started fushin’.”]
THE POINT OF VIEW
[Illustration]
_Loch Scrimpy Hotel, N.B._
DEAR MAISTER PUNCH,--I’ve heerd often enough aboot ye as a kind sort o’
buddy, whae putts the warld richt, _when it has gaun wrang_, and I’m
thinking to write tae ye, a screed about thae feckless critters, the
South’ren tourists whae owerrun Auld Scotland at this time o’ the year
with their _coo-ponds_ and their _excursion tuckets_, thinking to tak
their pleesures on the cheap. Noo, the hotels in this country are famed
for their vera moderate charges. I mysel have had a real good breakfast
(they ca’ it _dijohnny_ now) for no more than _five shullings_--that’s
cheap enough. And as for a bed! weel, no one can find faut with half
of a sovereign? And yet thae tourists are aye complainin’. Hotel
folk in Scotland should have fixed charges throughout. I, _for yin_,
will make free to say that I will cheerfully pay them, _when I find it
necessary_, one pound ten shullin’s for bed and breakfast and maybe
half-a-croon for a good glass of the cratur, as a settler afterwards.
If the hotel folk would all agree to some moderate charge like that,
they could think aboot Culloden with eequanimity!
Yours most friend-like,
ALEXANDER MACWHUSTLE.
[Illustration: _Guard (to excited passenger at the Edinburgh Station,
just as the train is starting)._ “Ye’re too late, sir. Ye canna enter.”
_Stalwart Aberdonian._ “I maun!”
_Guard (holding him back)._ “Ye canna.”
_Aberdonian._ “Tell ye I maun--I weel!” (_Gripping Guard._) “If I
maunna, ye sanna!!!”]
HOMAGE TO THE SCOTS RIFLES
BY A SPITEFUL COMPETITOR
It seems that the Scots
Turn out much better shots
At long distance, than most of the Englishmen are:
But this we all knew
That a Scotsman could do--
Make a small piece of metal go awfully far.
[Illustration: Illustration:
AT BILKINS’S ROYAL HOTEL AT THE ROB ROY INN, PEEBLES,
(LIMITED), LONDON. UNLIMITED!
_Mac (hungry)._ “Lo-or-sh
keep’s! Ca’ this a br’akfast!!”
THE PRINCIPAL REASON WHY MAC STAYED SUCH A SHORT TIME IN LONDON.]
[Illustration: CANNY
“Why I dinna prayfair tae smoke, hech? Weel, noo loddie, I’ll joost
tell ye. While’s ye’re smoking, ye blaw an’ blaw, an’ _whaur is’t_? But
gin ye tak a guid pench, losh! mon, ye ken _et’s there_!”]
[Illustration: A WEIGHTY REASON
_Rab._ “They’re tellin’ me that Tam Stirdy’s turned oot a great poet
since he gaed tae London.”
_Allan._ “Poet! Hoo could Tam Stirdy be a poet? Man, he was at the
schule wi’ _me_!”]
UNSPEAKABLE SCOTS
Hear, Land o’ Cakes, and brither Scots,
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnnie Groats--
A chiel’s amang ye takin’ notes:
Behold his labours--
A volume padded weel wi’ “quotes”
Aboot his neighbours.
And wha should ken sae weel as he
What a’ oor fauts and failin’s be?
Has he no seen wi’ his ain ee
Auld Reekie’s lums?
Drumtochty’s kent as weel’s E.C.
And sae is Thrums.
Ou aye, there’s noucht he disna ken
O’ Scottish life and Scottish men.
Wi’ lugs attentive let us then
List to his railin’s,
And humbly set oorsels to men’
Oor mony failin’s.
The Scot, says he, is dull and dour,
Aye jealous, greedy, jaundiced, sour,
A drucken, coarse, ill-mannered boor,
Wherein one traces
Nae sign o’ Crosland’s mental pow’r
And courtly graces.
We arena gleg, we Scottish folk:
We canna catch the witty stroke
That will a Surrey Ha’ provoke,
To lauchter shakin’,
Nay, whiles we canna see a joke
O’ Crosland’s makin’.
We swear, we lo’e the barley bree,
We thieve--but, eh, sirs! how should we
Be quit o’ thae black vices he
Sae criticises,
When a’ the virtues Mr. C.
Monopolises?
[Illustration: “SATISFACTORY”
_Mistress._ “Well, Jessie, I’m going into Nairn, and will see your
mother. Can I give her any message from you?”
_Jessie (her first “place”)._ “Ou, mem, ye can just say I’m unco weel
pleased wi’ ye!!”]
* * * * *
THE DAY AND THE DEED.--A certain Scottish Presbytery were sorely
dumbfounded by an answer to a request of theirs for signature to a
Sabbatarian petition. The reply (translated to them of course) was
_Laborare est orare_.
* * * * *
_Guard (to inebriated traveller, at junction)._ Now, sir, all change,
please.
_Traveller (with dignity)._ D’ye ken, mon, that I’ve got a return
ticket?
* * * * *
[Illustration: “ICHABOD!”
_Scots Wife (to her gossip)._ “Ah dinna ken what’s come ower the Kirk.
Ah canna bide to see oor menester spankin’ aboot on yon cyclopædy!”]
A BALLAD OF EDINBORO’ TOON
The lusty sun did glower aboon,
Wi’ welcome in his cheerfu’ rays;
I walked in Edinboro’ toon,
A’ in ma caller claes.
For I had donned ma coat o’ cheiks
That cost me guineas twa an’ three.
But and ma pair o’ ditto breeks
That luiked sae pleasantlie.
On ilka breek were creasies twa;
And they did hang sae fine, sae fine,
Frae John o’ Groats to Gallowa’
Were nane sae fair as mine.
An’ first I honoured Geordie Street,
An’ syne I walked the Princes ane,
To gie to ilka lass a treat
An’ a’ the laddies pain.
An’ mony a laddie’s hert was sair;
An’ mony a lassie’s een, ay, mony,
Uplicht wi’ joy to see a pair
Sae canny an’ sae bonny.
I hadna walked an hour at maist,
I hadna honoured half the toon,
The air grew drumlie lik’ a ghaist,
An’ syne the rain cam’ doon.
An’ first the dust it gently laid,
An’ syne it cam’ in cats an’ doggies,
That loosed the cobble-stanes and played
Auld Hornie wi’ ma toggies.
O waly for ma coat o’ cheicks
That cost me guineas twa and three!
An’ waly for ma ditto breeks
Sae bagsome at the knee!
The creasies twa are past reca’
That gard them hang sae fine, sae fine,
Frae John o’ Groats to Gallowa’
Are nane sae puir as mine!
O fause, inhospitable toon,
I rede thee, gin I come again,
Ma claes sall be o’ reich-ma-doon,
An’ deil tak’ your rain!
[Illustration: INTANGIBILITY
_Severe Scots Schoolmistress (visiting some English friends)._ “Sir
Joshua Reynolds, is it? Ah! vera pretty! And cherubs do vera weel in a
picture; but I dinna care for bairnies _whose feelings I can’t appeal
to_!”]
TO EDINBURGH[B]
IN EXPIATION
Thou dear and gracious town, where I
Have sojourned for a fleeting spell,
The hour has come that bids me fly;
Edina, fare thee well!
Right heavy am I that we must part,
For lo, I know not where or when
I’ve met so--down, poor fluttering heart!--
And more agreeable men.
Forgive me that I spake in haste
Winged words that I would fain forget;
Thy welcome seemed in doubtful taste,
And I was very wet!
But rather hold his memory dear,
Whose sunny presence brought thee forth
The finest weather of the year,
And warmed the watery North.
Now onward speeds the busy train,
O hospitable town and kind,
Farewell! Until I come again,
I leave my heart behind.
----------------------------------
[B] A postcript to “A Ballad of Edinboro’ Toon.”
----------------------------------
[Illustration: _Follower (at the tail of the procession)._ “E--h, d’ye
see yon wee Tam M‘Gowkie the-r-re! He maun be i’ th’ front, ye ken,
whatever’s gaun on!”
_His Companion._ “I’ the front! Aye, mun”--(_viciously_)--“he’d be i’
the hea-arse if he could!”]
* * * * *
Give every man his due, and his Mountain Dew if he claims it.
[Illustration]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Model._ “Fine day, sir.”
_Painter (aghast)._ “Fine--good heavens, man! Where’s your beard? What
have you done to your face?”
_Model._ “Me, sir? Naethin, but just made my whiskers a wee thing
decent wi’ the shears.”
_Painter._ “Then you’re an utterly ruined man, sir! and I’m very sorry
for you. You’re not worth twopence. Good morning.”]
THRUMS ON THE AULD STRING
(“MR. PUNCH’S PRIZE NOVELS.”)
_By_ J. MUIR KIRRIE, _Author of “A Door on Thumbs_,” “_Eight Bald
Fiddlers_,” “_When a Man Sees Double_,” “_My Gentleman Meerschaum_,”
&_c._
[With this story came a glossary of Scots expressions. We have
referred to it as we went along, and found everything quite
intelligible. As, however, we have no room to publish the glossary, we
can only appeal to the indulgence of our readers. The story itself was
written in a very clear, legible hand, and was enclosed in a wrapper
labelled, “Arcadia Mixture. Strength and Aroma combined. Sold in
Six-shilling cases. Special terms for Southrons. Liberal allowance for
returned empties.”]
CHAPTER I.
We were all sitting on the pig-sty at T’nowhead’s Farm. A pig-sty is
not, perhaps, a strictly eligible seat, but there were special reasons,
of which you shall hear something later, for sitting on this particular
pig-sty.
[Illustration: THE UNCO’ GUID
_Scrupulous Waiter._ “A what? A sangwitch! Na, na! I’ll gie ye
breed an’ cheese, an’ as much whusky as ye can drink; but, tae mak’
sangwidges on the Saubberth day!”----]
[Illustration: SKETCHED AT ISLINGTON
_Purchaser._ “K-a-t-l is no the way to spell ‘cattle.’”
_Drover (writing the receipt)._ “Naebody could spell wi’ this pen.
There’s been owre mony drucken bodies usin’ it!”]
[Illustration: _Southerner (in Glasgow, to Friend)._ “By the way, do
you know McScrew?”
_Northerner._ “Ken McScrew? Oo’ fine! A graund man, McScrew! Keeps the
Sawbath,--an’ everything else he can lay his hands on!”]
[Illustration: “SITTING ON THE PIG-STY AT T’NOWHEAD’S FARM.”]
The old sow was within, extended at full length. Occasionally she
grunted approval of what was said, but, beyond that, she seemed to show
but a faint interest in the proceedings. She had been a witness of
similar gatherings for some years, and, to tell the truth, they had
begun to bore her, but, on the whole, I am not prepared to deny that
her appreciation was an intelligent one. Behind us was the brae. Ah,
that brae! Do you remember how the child you once were sat in the brae,
spinning the peerie, and hunkering at I-dree I-dree I droppit-it? Do
you remember that? Do you even know what I mean? Life is like that.
When we are children the bread is thick, and the butter is thin; as
we grow to be lads and lassies, the bread dwindles, and the butter
increases; but the old men and women who totter about the commonty, how
shall they munch when their teeth are gone? That’s the question. I’m a
Dominie. What!--no answer? Go to the bottom of the class, all of you.
[Illustration: _First Aberdonian (from the road)._ “Fat’s the man-nie
deein’?”
_Second Ditto (who has got over the wall to inspect)._ “He’s draain’
wi’ paint.”
_First Boy._ “Fat’s he draain? Is’t bonny?”
_Second Ditto (after a pause, critically)._ “O, na, it’s onything but
bonny!!”]