CHARACTERISTICS OF SCOTCH HUMOUR
Various writers have attempted to define Scotch humour, but it is a
difficult task, and in all my reading of the subject I do not remember
to have ever seen a very satisfactory analysis of the subtle quantity.
The famous Sydney Smith did not admit that such an element obtained
in our “puir cauld country.” “Their only idea of wit which prevails
occasionally in the North,” said he, “and which, under the name of
‘wut,’ is so infinitely distressing to people of good taste, is laughing
immoderately at stated intervals.” Further to this, the same sublime
authority declared that it would require a surgical operation to get a
joke well into a Scotch understanding. It has been presumed that the
witty Canon was not serious in his remark; that it was a laboured effort
of his to make a joke. This may be true; and the idea of a surgical
operation was possibly suggested by feeling its necessity on himself in
order to get his joke _out_. Be that as it may, but for the fact that the
genial Charles Lamb, curiously, entertained a somewhat similar notion
on the subject, the rude apothegm of the Rev. Sydney Smith would never
have misguided even the most hopelessly opaque of his own countrymen.
No humour in Scotch folk! No humour in Scotland! There is no country in
the world that has produced so much of it. Of no other country under the
sun can it be so truly said that humour is the common inheritance of the
people. Much of the kind of humour that drives an Englishman into an
ecstacy of delight, would, of course, only tend to make a Scotsman sad;
but that is no evidence that the Scotch are lacking in their perceptions
of the humorous. It only shows that “some folks are no ill to please.”
“The Cockney must have his puns and small jokes,” says Max O’Rell. “On
the stage he delights in jigs, and to really please him the best of
actors have to become rivals of the mountebanks at a fair. A hornpipe
delights his heart. An actor who, for an hour together, pretends not to
be able to keep on his hat, sends him into the seventh heaven of delight.
Such performances make the Scotch smile—but with pity. The Scotsman has
no wit of this sort. In the matter of wit he is an epicure, and only
appreciates dainty food.” In so far as the above quotation applies to the
denizens of the “North,” it is perfectly true. In such circumstances the
Scotch will “laugh immoderately at stated intervals,” but the laughs will
be like angels’ visits, “few and far between.”
Superficially regarded, Scotland is a hard-featured land; yet Scotch folk
are essentially humorous. Do not go to the places of public amusement—to
the theatres and music halls—particularly in the larger towns, where the
populations are so mixed; do not go there to learn the Scottish taste and
humour. This practice has led to the proverbial saying that “a Scotchman
takes his amusement seriously.” In such places you may learn something
of the English character and humour, but nothing of the Scotch. For an
Englishman’s wit (he has little or no humour) being an acquired taste,
comes out “on parade”—it is a gay thing—while Scotch folks’ humour being
the common gift of Nature to all and sundry in the land, differing only
in degree, slips out most frequently when and where least expected.
Famous specimens of it come down from our lonely hillsides—from the
cottage and farm ingle-nooks. It blossoms in the solemn assemblies of
the people—at meetings of Kirk Sessions, in the City and Town Council
Chambers, in our Presbyteries, our Courts of Justice, and occasionally
in the high Parliament of the Kirk itself. In testimony of this read the
_Reminiscences_ of Dean Ramsay, Dr. Rodgers’ _Century of Scottish Life_,
_The Laird of Logan_, and other similar collections of the national
humour; or study the humours of our Scottish life and character as they
are abundantly reflected in the immortal writings of Burns, and Scott,
and Galt, and Wilson.
One of the chief characteristics of Scotch humour, as I have already
indicated, is its spontaneity, or utter want of effort to effect its
production. Much of it comes out just as a matter of course, and without
the slightest indication on the part of the creator that he is aware
of the splendid part he is playing. Then it has nearly always a strong
practical basis. The Scotch are characteristically practical people,
and very much of what is most enjoyable in humorous Scotch stories
and anecdotes, as Dean Ramsay truly says, arises “from the simple and
matter-of-fact references made to circumstances which are unusual.”
There are others, of course, but these are the main characteristics
of Scotch humour. Our best anecdotes illustrate this. Here is a good
instance of the native wit and humour:—
“Jock,” cried a farmer’s wife to her cowherd, “come awa’ in to your
parritch, or the flees ’ill be droonin’ themsel’s in your milk bowl.”
“Nae fear o’ that,” was Jock’s roguish reply. “They’ll wade through.”
“Ye scoondrel,” cried the mistress, indignantly, “d’ye mean to say that
ye dinna get eneuch milk?”
“Ou, ay,” said Jock, “I get plenty o’ milk for a’ the parritch.”
[Illustration: “Jock,” cried a farmer’s wife to her cowherd, “come awa’
in to your parritch, or the flees ’ill be droonin’ themsel’s in your
milk bowl.” “Nae fear o’ that,” was Jock’s roguish reply. “They’ll wade
through.” “Ye scoundrel,” cried the mistress, indignantly, “d’ye mean to
say that ye dinna get eneuch milk?” “Ou, ay,” said Jock, “I get plenty o’
milk for a’ the parritch.”—_Page 35._]
The colloquy was richly humorous, and at the same time sublimely
practical. The same may be said of the following:—
During the time of the great Russian War a countryman accepted the
“Queen’s shilling,” and very soon thereafter was sent to the front. But
he had scarcely time to have received his “baptism of fire” when he
turned his back on the scenes of carnage, and immediately struck of in a
bee line for a distant haven of safety. A mounted officer, intercepting
his retreat, demanded to know where he was going.
“Whaur am I gaun?” said he. “Hame, of course; man, this is awfu’ walk;
they’re just killin’ ane anither ower there.”
A brother countryman took a different view of the same, or a similar
situation. Just before his regiment entered into an engagement with the
enemy, he was heard to pray in these terms:—“O, Lord! dinna be on oor
side, and dinna be on the tither side, but just stand ajee frae baith
o’ us for an oor or twa, an’ ye’ll see the toosiest fecht that ever was
fochen.” What a fine, rough hero was there!
Speaking of praying prior to entering into engagements, recalls another
good and equally representative anecdote. It is told of two old Scottish
matrons. They were discussing current events.
“Eh, woman!” said one, “I see by the papers that oor sodgers have been
victorious again.”
“Ah, nae fear o’ oor sodgers,” replied the other. “They’ll aye be
victorious, for they aye pray afore they engage wi’ the enemy.”
“But do you no think the French ’ill pray too?” questioned the first
speaker.
“The French pray!” sneered her friend. “Yatterin’ craturs! Wha wad ken
what they said?”
What a charmingly innocent auld wife! Surely it was this same matron who
once upon a time entered the village grocery and asked for a pound of
candles, at the same time laying down the price at which the article in
question had stood fixed for some time.
“Anither bawbee, mistress,” said the grocer. “Cawnils are up, on account
o’ the war.”
“Eh, megstie me!” was the response. “An’ can it be the case that they
really fecht wi’ cawnil licht?”
A Scotch blacksmith, being asked the meaning of metaphysics, explained
as follows:—“Weel, Geordie, ye see, it’s just like this. When the
pairty that listens disna ken what the pairty that speaks means, an’
when the pairty that speaks disna ken what he means himsel’, _that’s
metapheesics_.” Many a lecture of an hour’s length, I am thinking, has
had no better results.
No anecdote can better illustrate the practical basis of the Scotch mind
than the following:—“John,” said a minister to one of his congregation,
“I hope you hold family worship regularly.”
“Aye,” said John, “in the time o’ year o’t.”
“In the time o’ year o’t! What do you mean, John?”
“Ye ken, sir, we canna see in the winter nichts.”
“But, John, can’t you buy candles?”
“Weel, I could,” replied John, “but in that case I’m dootin’ the cost
would owergang the profit.”
And practical in the management of their devotional exercises, there is
a practical side to the grief of Scotch folk. “Dinna greet amang your
parritch, Geordie,” said one to another, “they’re thin eneuch already.”
And the story is told of an Aberdeenshire woman who, when on the occasion
of the death of her husband the minister’s wife came to condole with
her, and said—“It is a great loss you have sustained, Janet.”
She replied, “Deed is’t, my lady. An’ I’ve just been sittin’ here
greetin’ a’ day, an’ as sune as I get this bowliefu’ o’ kail suppit I’m
gaun to begin an’ greet again.”
“You have had a sore affliction, Margaret,” said a minister once to a
Scotch matron in circumstances similar to the heroine of the above story.
“A sore affliction indeed; but I hope you are not altogether without
consolation.”
“Na,” said Margaret, “an’ I’m no that, sir; for gin He has ta’en awa’ the
saul, it’s a great consolation for me to think that He’s ta’en awa’ the
stammick as weel.”
Ah, poor body! No doubt she gave expression to a thought that had for
some time been having a prominent place in her mind. As Tom Moore reminds
us, in the midst of a serious poem, “We must all dine,” and if the
bread-winner has been laid aside for a time, the means of subsistence are
sometimes difficult to obtain, and when “supply” is wholly cut off, a
decrease in “demand” is sometimes not unwelcome.
A splendid instance of the matter-of-fact view of things celestial
frequently taken by the Scotch mind is in that story which Dean Ramsay
tells of the old woman who was dying at Hawick. In this Border seat of
tweed manufacture the people wear wooden-soled boots—clogs—which make a
clanking noise on the pavement. Several friends stood by the bedside of
the dying person, and one of them said to her—
“Weel, Jenny, ye’re deein’; but ye’ve done the richt gaet here, an’ ye’ll
gang to heaven; an’ when ye gang there, should you see ony o’ oor fouk,
ye micht tell them that we’re a’ weel.”
“Ou,” said Jenny half-heartedly, “gin I see them I’se tell them; but ye
maunna expect that I’m to be gaun clank, clankin’ about through heaven
lookin’ for your fouk.”
Of all the stories of this class, however, the following death-bed
conversation between a husband and wife affords perhaps the very best
specimen of the dry humour peculiar to Scotch folk:—An old shoemaker in
Glasgow was sitting by the bedside of his wife, who was dying. Taking her
husband by the hand, the old woman said, “Weel, John, we’re to pairt. I
hae been a gude wife to you, John.”
“Oh, middlin’, middlin’, Jenny,” said John, not disposed to commit
himself wholly.
“Ay, I’ve been a gude wife to you, John,” says she, “an’ ye maun promise
to bury me in the auld kirkyard at Stra’von, beside my ain kith and kin,
for I couldna rest in peace among unoo fouk, in the dirt an’ smoke o’
Gleska’.”
“Weel, weel, Jenny, my woman,” said John, soothingly, “I’ll humour ye
thus far. We’ll pit ye in the Gorbals first, an’ gin ye dinna lie quiet
there, we’ll tak’ ye to Stra’von syne.”
And yet there is on record a retort of a Scotch beadle, which is almost
equally moving. Saunders was a victim to chronic asthma, and one day,
whilst in the act of opening a grave, was seized with a violent fit of
coughing. The minister, towards whom Saunders bore little affection, at
the same time entering the kirkyard, came up to the old man as he was
leaning over his spade wiping the tears from his eyes, and said, “That’s
a very bad cough you’ve got, Saunders.”
“Ay, it’s no very gude,” was the dry response, “but there’s a hantle fouk
lyin’ round aboot ye that wud be gey glad o’t.”
Speaking of beadles reminds me of another good illustration of the
“practicality,” if I may dare to coin a word, of the Scottish mind.
A country beadle had had repeated cause to complain to his minister
of interference with his duties on the part of his superannuated
predecessor. Coming up to the minister one day, “John’s been interfeerin’
again,” said he, “an’ I’ve come to see what’s to be dune?”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear it,” said the minister, “but as I have told you
before, David, John’s a silly body, and you should try, I think, some
other means of getting rid of his annoyance than by openly resisting him.
Why not follow the Scriptural injunction given for our guidance in such
cases, and heap coals of fire on your enemy’s head.”
“Dod, sir, that’s the very thing,” cried David, taking the minister
literally, and grinning and rubbing his hands with glee at the prospect
of an early and effectual settlement of the long-standing feud.
“Capital, minister; that’ll sort him; dod, ay—heap lowin’ coals on his
head, and burn the wratch!”
We are proverbially a cautious people. “The canny Scot” is a world-wide
term; but the Paisley man who described Niagara Falls as “naething but
a perfect waste o’ water,” was canny to a fault. And yet the Moffat
man—his more inspiring native surroundings notwithstanding—was scarcely
more visibly impressed by the same scene. “Did you ever see anything so
grand?” demanded his friend who had taken him to see the mighty cataract.
“Weel,” said the Moffat man, “as for grand, I maybe never saw onything
better; but for queer, man, d’ye ken, I ance saw a peacock wi’ a wooden
leg.”
How naturally the one thing would suggest the other will not readily
appear to most folks.
He was more of a true Scot who, when the schoolmaster in passing along
one day said to him, “I see you are to have a poor crop of potatoes this
year, Thomas,” replied—
“Ay, but there’s some consolation, sir; John Tamson’s are no a bit
better.”
“Hame’s aye hamely,”—some homes are more so than others. The “Paisley
bodies” have some reason for being proud of their native burgh, as they
are. I have heard of one who was on a visit to Edinburgh many years ago,
and during his brief stay there was discovered by one of the city guides
lying on his face on the Calton Hill, apparently asleep. The summer sun
was scorching the back of his uncovered head, and the guide thought it
his duty to rouse him up.
“I’m no sleepin’,” responded the Paisley man, to the touch of the guide’s
staff, “I’m just lyin’ here thinkin’;” then turning himself round and
looking up, “Ay, freend,” continued he, “I was just lyin’ thinkin’ aboot
Paisley.”
“Well,” responded the guide, “I don’t see why any thought of Paisley
should enter your head while you can feast your eyes on fair ‘Edina,
Scotia’s darling Seat,’ as the Poet Burns has called our city here.”
“Maybe ay, an’ maybe no, freend; but it’s no easy gettin’ the thocht o’
Paisley oot o’ a Paisley man’s head, even although he is in the middle
o’ Edinburgh. Up in yer braw college there, the maist distinguished
professor in it is John Wilson, a Paisley man. In St. George’s kirk, ower
there, yer precentor, R. A. Smith—an’ there’s no his marrow again in a’
Scotland—is a Paisley man. In the jail ower by fornent us there’s mair
than a’e Paisley callan’ the noo. Syne, ye see the Register House doon
there, weel, the woman that sweeps out the passages—an’ my ain kissen
to boot—is a Paisley woman. An’ so ye see, freend, although ane’s in
Edinburgh it’s no sae easy gettin’ thochts o’ Paisley kept oot o’ his
head.”
The next illustration is also truly Scotch. Two Lowland crofters lived
within a few hundred yards of each other. One of them, Duncan by name,
being the possessor of “Willison’s Works,” a rarity in the district, his
neighbour, Donald, sent his boy one day to ask Duncan to favour him with
a reading of the book. “Tell your father,” said Duncan, “that I canna
lend oot my book, but he may come to my hoose and read it there as lang
as he likes.” Country folk deal all more or less in “giff-gaff,” and in
a few days after, Duncan, having to go to the market, and being minus a
saddle, sent his boy to ask Donald to give him the loan of his saddle for
the occasion. “Tell your father,” said Donald, “that I canna lend oot my
saddle; but it’s in the barn, an’ he can come there an’ ride on it a’ day
if he likes.”
The cannyness characteristic of our countrymen, sometimes as a matter of
course, is found manifesting itself in ways which, to say the least of
them, are peculiar, as witness: A Forfar cobbler, described briefly as “a
notorious offender,” was not very long ago brought up before the local
magistrate, and being found guilty as libelled, was sentenced to pay a
fine of half-a-crown, or endure twenty-four hours’ imprisonment. If he
chose the latter, he would, in accordance with the police arrangements
of the district, be taken to the jail at Perth. Having his option,
the cobbler communed with himself. “I’ll go to Perth,” said he; “I’ve
business in the toon at ony rate.” An official forthwith conveyed him by
train to the “Fair City”; but when the prisoner reached the jail he said
he would now pay the fine. The Governor looked surprised, but found he
would have to take it. “And now,” said the canny cobbler, “I want my
fare hame.” The Governor demurred, made inquiries, and discovered that
there was no alternative; the prisoner must be sent at the public expense
to the place where he had been brought from. So the crafty son of St.
Crispin got the 2s. 8½d., which represented his railway fare, transacted
his business, and went home triumphant, 2½d. and a railway journey the
better for his offence.
Our next specimen is cousin-german to the above. It is of two elderly
Scotch ladies—“twa auld maids,” to use a more homely phrase—who, on a
certain Sunday not very long ago, set out to attend divine service in
the Auld Kirk, and discovered on the way thither that they had left home
without the usual small subscription for the “plate.” They resolved not
to return for the money, but to ask a loan of the necessary amount from a
friend whose door they would pass on the way. The friend was delighted to
be able to oblige them, and, producing her purse, spread out on the table
a number of coins of various values—halfpennies, pennies, threepenny, and
sixpenny pieces. The ladies immediately selected a halfpenny each and
went away. Later in the course of the same day they appeared to their
friend again, and said they had come to repay the loan.
“Toots, havers,” exclaimed old Janet, “ye needna hae been in sic a hurry
wi’ the bits o’ coppers; I could hae gotten them frae you at ony time.”
“Ou, but,” said the thrifty pair, in subdued and confidential tones, “it
was nae trouble ava’, for there was naebody stannin’ at the plate, so we
just slippit in an’ saved the bawbees.”
Now that is just the sort of anecdote which an Englishman delights to
commit to memory and retail in mixed companies of his Scotch and English
friends; and, lest he may have heard that one already—may have worn it
threadbare, indeed—I will tell another which, if not quite so good, has
the advantage of being not so well known. A Scotchman was once advised to
take shower baths. A friend explained to him how to fit up one by the use
of a cistern and colander, and Sandy accordingly set to work and had the
thing done at once. Subsequently he was met by the friend who had given
him the advice, and, being asked how he enjoyed the bath—
“Man,” said he, “it was fine. I liked it rale weel, and kept mysel’ quite
dry, too.”
Being asked how he managed to take the shower and yet remain quite dry,
he replied—
“Dod, ye dinna surely think I was sae daft as stand ablow the water
without an umbrella.”
That’s truly Scotch. So is the next specimen, as you will presently
perceive. Two or three nights before the advent of a recent Christmas, a
Scotch laddie of ten years old, or so, was sitting examining very gravely
a somewhat ugly hole in the heel of one of his stockings. At length he
looked towards his mother and said—
“Mither, ye micht gie me a pair o’ new stockin’s?”
“So I will, laddie, by and by; but ye’re no sair needin’ new anes yet,”
said his mother.
“Will I get them this week?”
“What mak’s ye sae anxious to hae them this week?”
“Because, if Santa Claus pits onything into thir anes it’ll fa’ oot.”
How naturally a Scotsman drops into poetry, too, will be seen from the
following:—
Mr. Dewar, a shopkeeper in Edinburgh, being in want of silver for a bank
note, went into the shop of a neighbour of the name of Scott, whom he
thus addressed—
“I say, Master Scott,
Can you change me a note?”
Mr. Scott’s reply was—
“I’m no very sure, but I’ll see.”
Then going into the back-room, he immediately returned and added—
“Indeed, Mr. Dewar,
It’s out o’ my power,
For my wife’s awa’ wi’ the key.”
It is by furnishing him with choice and representative examples that one
can best convey to a stranger a knowledge of the characteristics of our
national humour. So much of it depends often on the quaintness of the
Scottish idiom, that it defies explanation, and must be seen, or better
still, be heard, to be understood. This course I have pursued in the
present paper; and the examples deduced, I think, fairly demonstrate the
strong substratum of practical common-sense which underlies, and yet
manifests itself in, the lighter elements of the Scottish character,
frequently making humour where pathos was meant to be. Take a few more:—
The wife of a small farmer in Perthshire some time ago went to a
chemist’s in the “Fair City” with two prescriptions—one for her husband,
the other for her cow. Finding she had not enough of money to pay for
both, the chemist asked her which she would take.
“Gie me the stuff for the coo,” said she; “the morn will do weel eneuch
for _him_, puir body. Gin _he_ were to dee I could sune get another man,
but I’m no sure that I could sae sune get anither coo.”
The late Rev. Dr. Begg, was wont to tell of a Scotch woman to whom a
neighbour said, “Effie, I wonder hoo ye can sleep wi’ sae muckle debt on
your heid;” to which Effie quietly answered, “I can sleep fu’ weel; but I
wonder hoo they can sleep that trust me.”
“Are you a native of this parish?” asked a sheriff of a witness who was
summoned to testify in a case of distilling.
“Maistly, yer honour,” was the reply.
“I mean, were you born in this parish?”
“No, yer honour, I wisna born in this parish; but I’m maistly a native
for a’ that.”
“You came here when you were a child I suppose, you mean?” said the
sheriff.
“No, sir; I’m here just aboot sax year noo.”
“Then how do you come to be mostly a native of the parish?”
“Weel, ye see, when I cam here, sax year syne, I just weighed eight
stane, an’ I’m fully seventeen stane noo; so, ye see, that aboot nine
stane o’ me belangs to this parish, an’ I maun be maistly a native o’t.”
Not very long ago a countryman got married, and soon after invited a
friend to his house and introduced him to his new wife, who, by the by,
was a person of remarkably plain appearance. “What do you think o’ her
John?” he asked his friend, when the good lady had retired from the room
for a little. “She’s no’ very bonnie!” was the candid and discomforting
reply. “That’s true,” said the husband; “she’s no muckle to look at, but
she’s a rale gude-hearted woman. Positeevly ugly _outside_, but a’ that’s
lovely _inside_.” “Lord, man, Tam,” said the friend gravely, “it’s a
peety ye couldna _flype_ her!”
At a feeing market in Perth a boy was waiting to be hired, when a farmer,
who wanted such a servant, accosted him, and after some conversation,
enquired if he had a written character. The lad replied that he had, but
it was at home. “Bring it with you next Friday,” said the farmer, “and
meet me here at two o’clock.” When the parties met again, “Weel, my man,”
said the farmer, “ha’e ye got your character?” “Na,” was the reply, “but
I’ve gotten _yours_, an’ I’m no comin’!”
“There’s anither row up at the Soutars’,” said Willie Wilson, as he
shook the rain from his plaid and took his accustomed seat by the inn
parlour fire. “I heard them at it as I cam’ by just noo.”
“Ay, ay; there’s aye some fun gaun’ on at the Soutars’,” said another of
the company, with a laugh.
“Fun? I shouldn’t think there’s much _fun_ in those disgraceful family
disturbances,” said the schoolmaster.
“Aweel, it’s no’ so vera bad, after a’,” said the other, who had _his_
share of matrimonial strife. “Ye see, when the wife gets in her tantrums
she aye throws a plate or brush, or maybe twa or three, at Sandy’s head.
Gin she hits him _she’s_ gled, and gin she misses him _he’s_ gled; so, ye
see, there’s aye some pleasure to a’e side or the ither.”
The Laird of Balnamoon, riding past a high, steep bank, stopped opposite
a hole in it, and said, “John, I saw a brock gang in there.”
“Did ye?” said John; “will ye haud my horse, sir?”
“Certainly,” said the Laird, and away rushed John for a spade.
After digging for half an hour, he came back nigh speechless to the
Laird, who had regarded him musingly.
“I canna find him, sir,” said John.
“Deed,” said the Laird, very coolly, “I wad hae wondered if ye had, for
it’s ten years an’ mair sin’ I saw him gang in.”
On one occasion, when the gallant Highlanders were stationed at
Gibraltar, Sandy Macnab was sergeant of the guard, and in due course of
duty had sent his corporal to make the last relief before four o’clock in
the morning. Whilst proceeding to one of the outlying posts the corporal
missed his footing, fell over the cliff, and was killed. Meantime
Sergeant Macnab had been filling up the usual guard report, preparatory
to dismounting. Now, at the foot of the form on which such reports are
made out there is a printed inquiry—“Anything extraordinary occurred
since mounting guard?”
Macnab, unaware of the accident to his corporal, filled the query space
up with the word “_Nil_,” and, having no spare copy of the form, sent
this in to the orderly-room to take its chance. When the Colonel and
Adjutant attended in the orderly-room at ten o’clock, learned of the
mishap, and read Macnab’s report, the latter was peremptorily ordered to
appear before them.
“Macnab,” cried the Colonel, in a rage, “what the devil do you mean by
filling up your guard report in this way? You say ‘Nothing extraordinary
occurred since mounting guard,’ and yet your poor comrade fell over the
cliff and was killed.”
Sandy, finding himself in a fix, pulled himself together, and after a
moment or two of deliberation answered, coolly, “Weel, sir, I dinna see
onything very extraordinar’ in that. It would hae been something very
extraordinar’ if he hadna been killed; he fell fowr hunder feet!”
In Mr. Barrie’s _Little Minister_, a discussion takes place in the
village Parliament as to whether it is possible for a woman to refuse
to marry a minister. “I once,” said Snecky Hobart, “knew a widow who
did. His name was Samson, and if it had been Tamson she would hae ta’en
him. Ay, you may look, but it’s true. Her name was Turnbull, and she
had another gent after her, named Tibbets. She couldna make up her mind
atween them, and for a while she just keeped them dangling on. Ay, but
in the end she took Tibbets. And what, think you, was her reason? As you
ken, thae grand folk hae their initials on their spoons and nichtgowns.
Ay, weel, she thocht it would be mair handy to take Tibbets, because if
she had ta’en the minister, the _T’s_ would have to be changed to _S’s_.
_It was thochtfu’ o’ her._”
Our next two specimens show how waggish the Scotch can be.
A farmer, returning from a Northern tryst, accompanied by his servant
Pate, not many years ago, halted for refreshment at the Inn of Glamis,
where, meeting with a number of friends, a jolly party was soon formed.
Under the cheering hospitality of the gude wife of the inn they cracked
their jokes and told their tales, till at length the farmer proposed
that his attendant, Pate, should enliven the meeting with a song. One
of the party, who professed to have an estimate of the shepherd’s vocal
abilities, sneeringly replied, “Whaur can Pate sing?”
“What d’ye say?” answered the farmer. “Can Pate no sing? I’m thinkin’
he’s sung to as good fouk, an’ better than you, in his time. I’ll tell ye
o’ a’e place whaur he has been kent to sing wi’ mair honour to himsel’
than ye can brag o’, and that’s before the Queen. Ay, an’ if it will
heighten him ony in your estimation, I’ll prove to you, for the wager o’a
bottle o’ brandy, that he even sleepit, an’ that no’ sae lang syne, in
the same hoose she was in.”
Thinking this latter assertion outstretched the limits of all
probability, the wager was immediately taken by the party, when, to the
satisfaction of all the others present, the worthy farmer proved the
truth of his allegations by telling how, accompanied by Pate, he had
been to the Kirk of Crathie on the Sunday previous, and that during
the service, and in presence of Her Royal Majesty, Pate had both sung
and slept. The farmer won the wager, and the bottle circulated, amid
continued outbursts of stentorian laughter.
A worthy laird in a Perthshire village made the, for him, wonderful
journey to see the great Exhibition of 1851. On his return, his banker,
a man who was well known to have the idea that he was by far the most
influential and potent power in the shire, invited the laird, with some
cronies, to a glass of punch. The banker meant to amuse the company at
the old laird’s expense, to trot him out, and get him to describe the
sights of London. “An’ what, laird, most of all impressed you at the
great glass house?” asked the banker, with a sly wink at the company.
“Ah, weel, sir,” replied the laird, as he emptied his glass, “I was
muckle impressed wi’ a’ I saw—muckle impressed! But the thing abune a’
that impressed me maist was my ain insignificance. Losh, banker, I wad
strongly advise you to gang; it would do _you_ a vast amount o’ guid,
sir!”
The next example affords the promise of an abundant harvest of humour off
the rising generation of Scotsmen.
A little boy, whom we shall call Johnnie, just because that is his name,
was not very long since employed as message-boy to a grocer in a small
country town in the west, said grocer being an ardent advocate and
supporter of the Conservative party in the State. One morning Johnnie was
an hour or so late in turning out for duty, and on entering was promptly
interrogated by his master as to the cause.
“The cat’s had kittlins this mornin’,” asseverated the lad,
assuming a look of great earnestness; “four o’ them, an’ they’re a’
Conservatives.”[1]
[1] By the simple transposition of the words “Conservatives”
and “Leeberals” the politics of this story may be adapted to
suit any select company or association of individuals in these
realms, as by the same practice I have seen it made to serve
the interests of various Liberal and Conservative newspapers
since I first printed it in the _People’s Journal_ some years
ago.
“Get in bye and tidy up that back shop,” said the shopkeeper gruffly, not
at the moment in a mood to enquire fully into the extraordinary feline
phenomenon. One day, nearly a fortnight afterwards, the following sequel
added itself, however, and there was a perfect understanding established.
A commercial traveller, who is also a true-blue Tory, called at the shop,
and was discussing with the grocer the chances of victory or failure to
their party in an approaching bye-election. Said the grocer, “Our party
is gaining strength in the country, of that I am convinced, and with
reason; why, my message-boy was telling me recently that his mother’s
cat has had kittens—four of them—and they are all Conservatives.” The
traveller laughed, as only travellers who are anticipating an order can
laugh. When Johnnie entered the premises with his basket on his arm and a
tune in his mouth.
“Hillo, Johnnie!” exclaimed the commercial, “and so your cat has had
kittens, has she? Eh?”
“Ay,” replied Johnnie, “four o’ them.”
“And all Conservatives, too, I believe?” remarked the traveller.
“Na,” said Johnnie: “they’re Leeberals.”
“Liberals! you told me a fortnight ago they were Conservatives,”
interposed the master.
“Ou, ay; of course,” returned Johnnie, with the utmost gravity. “They
were Conservatives yon time, _but they’re seein’ noo_!”
Just one more here. There is a cobbler in a little town in the North—a
worthy old soul, as it would appear, whose custom has been for many
years to hammer and whistle from morn to night in his little shop, and
to discharge both functions so lustily as to be easily heard by the
passers-by in the street. One day not long since the minister, happening
to pass, missed the whistling accompaniment to the measured click on the
lapstone, and looked in to ascertain the cause. “Is all well with you,
Saunders?” he asked. “Na, na, sir; it’s far frae bein’ a’ weel wi’ me.
The sweep’s gane an’ ta’en the shop ower my head.” “Oh, that’s bad news,
indeed,” responded the minister, “but I think you might see your way out
of the difficulty soon if, as I always urge in cases of emergency, you
would make the matter a subject of earnest prayer.” Saunders promised to
do this, and the preacher departed. In less than a week he returned, and
found the old cobbler hammering and whistling away in his old familiar
“might and main” fashion. “Well, Saunders, how is it now?” “Oh, it’s a’
richt, minister,” was the reply. “I did as ye tell’d me, an’—_the sweep’s
deid_.”