HUMOURS OF DRAM-DRINKING IN SCOTLAND
“Leeze me on drink, it gie’s us mair
Than either school or college:
It kindles wit, it waukens lear,
It pangs us fu’ o’ knowledge.
Be’t whisky gill or penny wheep,
Or ony stronger potion,
It never fails, in drinking deep,
To kittle up oor notion
By night or day.”
So sang Scotland’s greatest, Scotland’s sweetest poet; and whether in
his heart of hearts he believed the sentiment which in those lines we
find so vigorously expressed, he has undoubtedly reflected therein, for
the enlightenment of his countrymen through succeeding ages, the popular
notion of his own time regarding the potency of the “dram.” In Burns’
day, and for some time thereafter, happiness and whisky were regarded as
almost synonymous terms; deep drinking was fashionable; and “the last
beside his chair to fa’” was verily the hero of the social community.
“We’re happiest when we’re fou,” is a well-worn proverb. “We’ll aye sit
an’ tipple owre a wee drappie o’t,” croons an old song-writer, evidently
impressed with the conviction that a man could not be better occupied
than in consuming malt liquors. “Freedom and whisky gang thegither—tak’
aff your dram!” shouts Burns. Yes. But the same sweet singer has fervidly
prayed—
“Oh, wad some power the giftie gi’e us,
To see oursel’s as ithers see us.”
And happily, whilst the _shout_ is going in at the one ear and out at
the other—is failing to command obedience—the _prayer_ is gradually
being answered. Old customs, like old prejudices, no matter how absurd
they may be, die hard; but with the general advance of education in
Scotland, and the dissemination of cheap and healthy literature, the
people are becoming day by day more distinctly convinced of the many
ludicrous absurdities connected with our social habits, particularly
with the old-fashioned ideas relating to hospitality and conviviality,
and with the practice of persistent and indiscriminate dram-drinking.
A man may be merry nowadays without being “half fou,” and yet not be
considered “daft,” and we have been realising that there are other ways
of hospitably entertaining a friend than by filling him to the chin
with whisky. Our dram-drinking tendencies have made us the butt of the
Continental jokist, and no wonder. How utterly absurd the practice in
general has been—in many instances how highly humorous! Your teetotal
lecturer, I have often thought, dwells too frequently on the tragedy of
the subject. It has a tragic side, no doubt, and a woefully pathetic
one; but very much connected with it, like the antics of a half-tipsy
individual, is ludicrously humorous, and needs only to be dangled before
the eye of sober sense to render the persistent and indiscriminate
participator more than half-ashamed of his connection with it. Let our
active teetotallers instruct themselves fairly in the art of photography,
and go around photographing respectably-dressed persons in their various
stages of intoxication, afterwards circulating copies of the photos
amongst the subject’s friends, being careful not to neglect sending
a few to the tippler himself, and they will do more service to the
temperance cause in one month than perhaps all the labour of their lives
has hitherto achieved. But to come directly to look at the humours of
dram-drinking. What have been the facts of the case? Whisky has been made
the cure for all diseases, and the “saw for a’ sairs.” Was Sandy cold, he
took a dram to warm him. Was he hot, he took a dram to cool himself. Did
he feel hungry, and the dinner not quite ready, he took a dram to appease
his appetite. Did he not feel very hungry when dinner was set before him,
he took a dram to sharpen his appetite, and another one after dinner to
aid his digestion. Was he sad, he took a dram to make him “bear his heart
abune.” Was he merry, he took a dram to tone himself down, or to increase
the jollity according as he might desire. Did he feel sleepy, a dram
was called in to hold him wide-a-wake. Did he feel too wide-a-wake, he
required a dram to induce sleep. Did he drink so much at night that he
had a headache in the morning he required “a hair more of the dog that
bit him,” and so on. Was there a birth in the family, the dram had to
circulate to handsel the young Scot. The “kirstenin’” had equal honour
awarded it. The “waddin’,” the “lyke-wake,” the “burial,” the “foondin’,”
the “hoose-heatin’,” the “foy,” the “maiden,” and dozens of inevitable
occasions demanded that the “grey-beard” should be filled and emptied
within a brief space of time. Did Sandy buy a cow, he “stood a dram;”
did he sell a cow he did the same. There is an old woman still living
in Dundee who some years ago actually went and took a dram to herself
because her cat had died. It was called in to solder every bargain,
and the “luck-penny,” and the “arle-penny,” and the “Queen’s-shilling”
demanded in the enlistment of every soldier, meant just so much money
to be spent in drink which should be consumed on the spot. Not of “Tam
o’ Shanter” alone might it be said that “ilka melder wi’ the miller he
drank as lang as he had siller; that ilka naig was ca’d a shoe on, the
smith an’ he got roarin’ fou on.” Two friends could not meet and part in
town or country but there had to be a dram both given and taken, or the
one would have suspected the other of entertaining a grudge towards him.
It was the unequivocal pledge of friendship, and “surely you’ll be your
pint-stoup, and surely I’ll be mine,” was the spirit principle of their
social creed. Were quarrels made over the dram they had to be settled
over it also—
“For aye the cheapest lawyer’s fee
’S to pree the barrel.”
In houses of quality, as late as the end of last century, it was the
custom to keep a household officer, whose duty it was to prevent the
drunk guests from choking. Old Henry Mackenzie, the author of _The Man
of Feeling_, Lord Cockburn tells, was once at a festival at Kilravock
Castle, towards the close of which the exhausted topers sank gradually
back and down on their chairs, till little of them was seen above the
table but their noses; at last they disappeared altogether and fell on
the floor. Those who were too far gone lay still there from necessity;
while those who, like the _Man of Feeling_, were glad of a pretence for
escaping, fell into a dose from policy. While Mackenzie was in this state
he was alarmed by feeling a hand working about his throat, and called
out, when a voice answered, “Dinna be fear’d, sir; its me.” “And who are
you?” “I’m the lad that lowses the graavats.”
It was employed, I have said, as the cure for all diseases, and the “saw
for a’ sairs;” and the practice finds apt illustration in the story of
a schoolmaster who had been appointed to “teach the young idea” in a
sparsely populated country district. Sallying forth one day soon after
his settlement in the neighbourhood to spy out the land, and discover
whether or not he was within a day’s march of any person of intelligence,
he came up, after walking about two miles, to a man breaking stones
by the roadside. Interrogating the workman as to the amenities of
the locality in general, the dominie proceeded to make enquiries in
particular, and said—
“How far distant is the nearest minister?”
“Ou, about four mile,” said the roadman.
“Indeed. And how far are we from a doctor?”
“Ten mile an’ a bittock, e’en as the craw flees,” replied the roadman.
“Dear me, that’s very awkward. How do you do when anyone turns suddenly
ill?”
“Ou, just gi’e him a gless o’ whisky.”
“But if a glass of whisky has not the desired effect; what then?”
“We just gi’e him anither ane.”
“But if two does not set him right?”
“Weel, just gi’e him three.”
“But if neither three nor four either will cure him?”
“Weel, then, fill him fou, and put him till his bed.”
“Yes; but if filling him fou does not even suffice?”
“Weel, just lat him lie in his bed and drink until he’s better.”
“Yes, yes, my friend, but if whisky administered to him in any quantity
will not cure him?”
“Ou, weel, then, sir,” gravely replied the roadman, “if whisky winna cure
a man, he’s no worth curin’, an’ may weel be latten slip.”
Oh, they had sublime confidence in the “dram” as a revivifying agent,
and no mistake about it! Indeed, it was regarded in some quarters as
a necessity to existence. And “be carefu’ o’ the mercies” was a stock
phrase relating to it. The Highlander, content to pray for “a mountain
of snuff,” wanted “_oceans o’ whisky_.” It was called in to act as “an
eye-opener,” and to serve also as “a night-cap.”
So regularly had a certain Scotch laird used it in the latter capacity,
that once in his lifetime—so he said himself—he “got an awfu’ fricht.”
“We ran short o’ the mercies,” said he, “and I had to gang to my bed
sober. I dinna feel ony the waur the day; _but, Lodsake, man, I got an
awfu’ fricht_.”
A well-known Scotch laird of the old school, Dean Ramsay tells us,
expressed himself with great indignation when someone charged hard
drinking with having actually _killed_ people. “Na, na,” said he; “I
never knew onybody that was killed wi’ drinking, but I hae kenned some
that dee’d in the training.”
So have we all, laird—a great many! And yet the students have been
numerous and persistent. That Highlander who, when the minister shook
his reverend head towards him, and said, “Whisky is a bad, bad thing,
Donald,” replied, “Ay, sir, especially _bad_ whisky,” thought, no doubt,
that he had made a concession in opinion that would greatly mollify his
clerical mentor. Many of your tipplers possessed a rough and ready wit,
and from that fact no little humour has sprung. A Perthshire blacksmith,
whom I myself knew intimately, was once remonstrated with by the Free
Church minister who lived near by anent his frequent and excessive
indulgences.
“Was ye ever drunk, sir?” inquired the smith.
“No, Donald,” said the minister, “I am glad to say I never was.”
“I thocht as muckle,” said the smith; “for, man, if ye was ance richt
drunk, ye wad never like to be sober a’ your days again.”
“There’s death in the cup!” exclaimed a violent teetotal lecturer as
he rushed up to where an old farmer was carefully toning his dram with
water from a huge decanter. More of the _pura_ had flowed forth than
was intended, and eyeing his glass critically, “Hech, an’ I think ye’re
richt, freend,” was the response, “for _I’ve droon’d the miller_.”
“There is good whusky, and there is better whusky,” said an old
Highlander, “but there never yet was bad whusky.” Many Lowlanders act as
if they held the same opinion.
“You’re just a sot, man, John,” once said a wife to her tippling husband;
“ye ha’e drucken a hoose in your time.”
“Ah, weel, Kate, I think its been a thack ane,” was the reply; “an’
there’s some o’ the stoure in my throat yet.”
“It’s an awful thing that drink,” exclaimed a clergyman, when the barber,
who was visibly affected, had drawn blood from his face for the third
time.
“Ay,” replied the tonsorial artist, with a wicked leer in his eye, “it
mak’s the skin tender.”
Told that whisky was a slow poison; “It maun be awfu’ slow, then,” said
an old veteran, “for I’ve toothfu’d an’ toothfu’d awa’ at it this saxty
year, an’ I’m aye livin’ yet.”
Neil Gow honestly declared that, when in a certain condition, “it wasna
the length o’ the road, but the breadth o’t,” that bothered him. Another,
“wha leeward whiles against his will” was taking “a bicker,” on being
asked by a passing acquaintance if he was getting home, eloquently
replied in the word, “Whiles.”
“You are reeling, Janet,” remarked a country parson, meeting one of
his parishioners carrying more sail than ballast, as a preliminary to
lecturing her on the evils of her conduct.
“Troth, an’ I canna aye be spinnin’, sir,” returned she, casting anchor
in the middle of the road, and leering blandly up into the face of her
interrogator.
“You do not seem to catch my meaning clearly, Janet,” continued the
divine. “Do you know where drunkards, go?”
“Indeed, they generally gang whaur they get the whisky cheapest and best,
sir.”
“Yes, Janet, but there is another place where they go. They go where
there is weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.”
“Humph!” sneered the case-hardened old sinner. “They can gnash teeth that
have teeth to gnash. I hav’na had but a’e stump this forty year.”
A Perthshire village tradesman, recently deceased, as a rule “took a
drappie mair than was gude for him” when he visited the county town.
Indeed, he occasionally got “on the batter” and did not return home until
after the lapse of several days. Returning from one of these “bouts” his
wife met him in the door with the question, “Whaur ha’e ye been a’ this
time?”
“Perth,” was the sententious reply.
“Perth!” echoed the wife. “An’ what was ye doin’ sae lang at Perth? Nae
mortal man could be doin’ gude stayin’ in Perth for three hale days on
end.”
“Awa! an’ no haiver, woman,” was the dry reply; “plenty o’ fouk stay a’
their days in Perth an’ do brawly.”
The parish minister, in reproving this same character warned him that
there would be a day of reckoning for it all yet. “I wish a day may do
it, sir,” said the immovable Peter, “it’ll tak’ a day an’ a hauf I doubt.
Deed, a day an’ a hauf, sir, ilka minute o’t,” and leisurely moved on.
One festive old Scot recently visited another in the English capital.
They had not met before for many years, and a good deal of hot water and
sugar joined by a corresponding quantity of “barley bree” was stowed away
within their waistcoats before it was considered that full justice had
been done to the occasion. By this time the night was well advanced, and
the visitor began to speak of making tracks for his hotel, when a cab was
accordingly called and brought to the door. Now came the supreme moment
of parting, and the host having led his friend by the arm in devious
fashion to the head of the stair, halted and solemnly addressed him.
“John,” said he, “I winna gang doon the stair mysel’ for fear I mayna get
up again. I’m real gled to have seen you, and we’ve had a grand nicht.
Good-nicht, John, good-nicht; and mind your feet on the stair. And John,
hark ye! when ye gang oot at the door you’ll see twa cabs, but tak’ the
first ane—the tither ane’s no’ there.”
John M’Nab, though withal an industrious crofter, got “roarin’ fou” every
time he went to Perth, which was once a fortnight or so, and like every
other person who so conducted himself, found always some excuse for
his behaviour, however far-fetched it might be. John could not have a
glass, as his wife said, but “a’ the toon boot ken, for he was ane o’ the
singing kind, an’ waukened a’ the country-side.”
On the morning which succeeded one of his periodical “bursts,” the
minister happening to pass just as John was watering the cow at the
burn a little beyond the door of his house, saw, as he thought, in the
incident a fine opportunity for improving the occasion.
“Ah, John,” said he, “you see how Crummie does. She just drinks as much
as will do her good, and not a drop more. You might take an example of
the poor dumb brute.”
“Ah,” said John, “it’s easy for her.”
“Why more easy for her than you, John?”
“Oh, just because it is. Man, there’s nae temptation in her case.”
“Temptation, John? What do you mean?”
“Weel, you see, sir, it’s no the love o’ the drink a’thegether that gars
a body get the waur o’t. It’s the conveeviality o’ the thing that plays
the plisky. Ye see, sir, ye meet a freend on the street, an’ ye tak’ him
in to gie him a dram, an’ ye crack awa’ for a while, an’ syne he ca’s in
a dram, an’ there ye crack an’ ye drink, an’ ye drink an’ ye crack, an’
dod, ye just get fou afore ye ken whaur ye are. It’s easy for Crummie,
as I said, she has naebody to lead her aff her feet, as ye may say. She
comes oot here an’ tak’s her drink, an’ no anither coo says Crummie ye’re
there. But, certes, sir, had Dauvit Tamson’s coo just come to the ither
side o’ the burn a meenit syne, an’ as Crummie was takin’ her first
toothfu’, had flappit hersel’ doon on her hunkers an’ said, ‘Here’s to
ye, Crummie,’ I’ll eat my bonnet if she wadna hae flappit hersel’ doon on
her hunkers an’ said, ‘Here’s to _you_, Hornie.’ An’ there the twa jauds
wad hae sitten an’ drunken until they were baith blind fou. I tell you
again, sir, it’s the conveeviality o’ the thing that plays the plisky.”
And yet there are instances to show that some of those old tipplers
repented somewhat of their folly. The celebrated teetotaller, the Rev.
Dr. Ritchie, of Potterrow, Edinburgh, once went to form a teetotal
society at Peebles, and a man and wife who heard the speeches were
conscience-smitten, and after they went home the wife said—
“’Od, John, I think we’ll hae to set doon our names to that _thing_ yet.”
“We’ll gang to anither o’ the meetin’s yet afore we decide,” said the
husband.
Next meeting showed the picture of a young man ruined by drink, and the
two went forward at the close to set their names down.
“But are we never to taste it ava’?” they asked simultaneously.
“Never,” quoth the minister, “_unless for a medicine_.”
Nothing daunted by this the old couple took the pledge, and went home,
taking a bottle of whisky with them—the which Janet stowed away in the
ben-house press to wait on cases of emergency. More than a fortnight
elapsed before drink was again mentioned by one to the other, when one
night John complained of an “awfu’ pain in his stammack,” and suggested
that it might not be safe to go to bed without taking just half a glass
or so.
“O, man, John, it’s a pity ye hae been sae lang o’ speakin’,” said Janet,
“for ’odsake, I’ve had sae mony o’ thae towts mysel’ this auchtdays that
there’s no a drap o’ yon to the fore.”
An old woman, who was a rigid total abstainer, was very ill. The doctor
told the nurse that she must give her a little toddy the last thing at
night. So when night came the nurse said to her patient, “The doctor says
ye maun tak’ some toddy.” “Oh, no, no!” whined the poor old body; “it’s
against my principle.” “But,” remonstrated the nurse, “the doctor says ye
maun tak’ it.” “Aweel,” replied the old woman resignedly, “I suppose we
maun use the means; but mak’ it strong, and gar me tak’ it—gar me tak’
it.”
Tam Forsyth was one of those who went from bad to worse with the dram,
and never repented of his folly. One night in going home the breadth of
the road fatigued him so, that, coming to a quiet corner, he lay down,
and was soon fast asleep. Some young fellows finding him lying snoring,
resolved to have some fun out of the reprobate, so they gently removed
him to a dark cellar. Getting some phosphorus, they rubbed it on their
own and Tam’s hands and faces, and then awakened their victim. Tam seeing
the state those around him were in, inquired, fearfully—
“Whaur am I?”
“Ye’re dead,” said one of the young men.
“Hoo lang have I been dead?”
“A fortnicht.”
“An’ are ye dead, too?”
“Yes.”
“Hoo lang have you been dead?”
“Three weeks.”
“Then,” said Tam, without a tremour in his voice, “you’ll be better
acquaint here aboot than me: there’s a shillin’, skirt awa’ roond an’ see
if ye can get hauf a mutchkin, for I’m as dry’s a wooden leg.”
I have remarked on how strongly the practice of dram-drinking had
established itself in the social life of Scotland. It is _the_ sore
spot in our national character—a distinct characteristic (happily on
the wane)—and the inducements to participation have been often novel
and therefore humorous. Well-to-do individuals long ago frequently gave
instructions to their relatives likely to survive them to be sure and
have plenty of whisky at their funerals. A Montrose tradesman, feeling
the near approach of his dissolution, signalled his wife to his bedside
and very gravely said, “Ye’ll get in a bottle o’ whisky, Mary, for
there’s to be sad cheenge here this nicht.”
The association of the “dram” with our marriage festivities has been
happily hit off by Robert Buchanan in “The Wedding of Shon MacLean,”
where “every piper was fou—twenty pipers together;” but surely the
stupidity, the folly, the humour of dram-drinking to excess was never
better illustrated than by Burns in the tale of “Tam o’ Shanter.” To have
attributed such hair-lifting experiences to any sober Carrick farmer,
as he “frae Ayr a’e nicht did canter,” would have been absurd, and the
author knew it. Such a phantasmagoria of “warlocks and witches in a
dance” could be patent only to the heated imagination of a “bletherin’,
blusterin’, drunken blellum,” such as the poet has represented his hero
to have been.
Of whisky the poet has said—
“It makes a man forget his woes,
It heightens all his joys;
It makes the widow’s heart to sing
Though the tears are in her eyes.”
And so it does; but it reduces all who imbibe it for such effects,
mentally to the level of the ring-tailed monkey, and makes them cut
capers as fantastic as were ever performed by the most agile “Jacko.” To
this showing let our further illustrations here tend.
A West country farmer on a certain moonlight night, setting out towards
home from the market town where he had sat too long and drunk too deep,
had reached the burn near to his own house, attempting to cross which by
the stepping-stones he missed his footing and came down with a splash
into the burn. Unable to raise himself beyond his hands and knees,
he looked down into the clear water, in which the moon was vividly
reflected. In this position, and with the water streaming from his
forelock and beard he began to shout to his wife. “Marget! Marget!”
The good woman heard and distinguished the well-known voice of her
husband, and rushed out crying, “Ho, John! My, John! Is that you, John?
Whaur are you, John?”
“Whaur am I?” rejoined the voice from the burn. “Gudeness kens whaur I
am, Marget, but I see I’m far abune the mune.”
A country laird on one occasion sent his gardener, John by name, to his
cellar to bottle a barrel of whisky, and cautioned him at the same time
to be sure and drink one whole glass of the liquor before starting to the
work, or else the fumes might go to his head and seriously affect him.
John was a careful man, generally speaking, so took extra precautions,
though these were not attended with satisfactory results. Entering the
cellar the laird was astonished to find his trusted retainer staggering
about stupidly in the place.
“Ah, John, John,” exclaimed the laird, “you have not acted on my advice,
I fear, and taken a dram before starting.”
“Dram be hang’d!” blurted out John. “It’s no a bit o’ use. I hae ta’en
nearly a dizzen o’ them, an’ I’m gettin’ aye the langer the waur.”
A Forfarshire agriculturist, somewhat given to the dram, coming home
one evening fully “three sheets to the wind,” took a seat by the fire,
and, what with the heat and the fumes of the whisky he had imbibed,
he soon became sick, and possessed of an irresistible desire to turn
himself inside out. At his feet sat a “coal baikie,” which for the nonce
was occupied by a brood of young ducklings that had been deserted by
their foster mother, and for the sake of preservation had been brought
into the kitchen and placed thus near the fire. Into this utensil our
hero deposited the cause of his internal derangement. And his good wife
appearing on the scene, observing but unobserved, a minute or two later,
she found her husband peering critically down into the “baikie,” and
muttering to himself—
“Eh! megstie me. It surely canna be possible. I mind weel eneuch o’
eating that cheese, an’ (hic) thae biscuits, an’ the beef. An’ I mind
perfectly weel o’ suppin’ thae (hic) kail, an’ the barley amon’ them;
but, in the name o’ a’ that’s wonderfu’, whaur in a’ the world did I get
(hic) thae young deucks!”
He learned next morning, doubtless, on the deafest side of his head.
Even so stern an institution as total abstinence (?) has its humorous
side:—
An old “wifie,” who had a weakness for whisky, had been prevailed upon to
take the pledge.
Shortly afterwards she called upon a rather “drouthie neebor,” who was
not aware of her visitor’s reformation.
The bottle was at once, as usual, produced, and the recent convert to
total abstinence was sorely tempted.
She made, however, a gallant effort to remain true to principle, and,
holding up deprecating hands, she said, “Na, thank ye, Mrs. Mitchell,
I’ve ta’en the pledge. I have made a solemn vow not to pit han’ or lip to
gless again.”
But then, seeing Mrs. Mitchell was about to remove the spirits, she
hesitatingly said, “I daur say if you wad put a wee drappie in a
_tea-cup_ I could maybe tak’ it.”
A young countryman went a considerable distance to pay a visit to
his uncle and aunt and cousins, who were reputed a family of strict
teetotallers. During his first meal at his kinsman’s table the young man
commented on the absence of spirituous liquors.
“We are a’ temperance folk here, ye ken,” interrupted the old man. “No
spirituous liquors are allowed to enter this house.”
After dinner the old man went up stairs to take his customary “forty
winks,” the girls started off to Sunday School, and the boys lounged away
to smoke in the stable. As soon as Aunt Betty found herself alone in the
kitchen she put her initial finger to her lips, to enjoin silence on the
part of her youthful nephew, and going to a dark nook in the pantry she
drew therefrom a little black bottle, and filling a glass held it out to
him, and said—
“Here, John, tak’ a taste o’ that. Our gudeman’s sic a strict teetotaller
that I daurna let him ken that I keep a wee drap in the hoose—just for
medicine. So dinna mention it.”
A few minutes later the old man cried from the stairhead, “Are you there,
John?”
The nephew went upstairs, when the head of the house took him to his own
bedroom, where he promptly produced a gallon-jar of whisky from an old
portmanteau under the bed, and pouring out a hearty dram, said—
“Teetotalin’ doesna prevent me frae keepin’ a wee drap o’ the ‘rale peat
reek’ in case o’ illness, or that; so here, lad, put ye that in your
cheek; but (confidentially) not a word aboot it to your auntie, or the
laddies.”
Strolling out of doors soon after this second surprise, and entering the
stable, the cousins beckoned their relative into the barn, where, after
fumbling among the straw for a few seconds, they handed him a black
bottle, with the encouraging words—
“Tak’ a sook o’ that, cousin, ye’ll find it gude; but not a word to the
old fouks, mind, for twa mair infatuated teetotallers were never born.”
I have said that our drinking customs have made us the butt of the
foreign “jokist.” Here is the proof, in the following clever skit—a
burlesque report of the celebration of St. Andrew’s Day in Calcutta—which
appeared some years ago in the columns of the _Indian Daily News_, under
the title of—
YE CHRONICLE OF SAINT ANDREW.
1. It came to pass in the year one thousand eight hundred and four score
and one, in the City of Palaces, dwelt certain wise men from a far
country beyond the great sea.
2. (In that year the rulers of the city did that which was right in their
own eyes).
3. Now these wise men assembled themselves together, and they said one to
the other, Go to, let us remember our brethren whom we have left.
4. For, behold, we be in a far country, and it shall come to pass that
men shall say to us, Ye be nameless on the earth; ye have fled from the
land of your nativity, because the land of your nativity is poor.
5. This thing, therefore, will we do; we will make a great feast, so that
the nose of whomsoever smelleth it shall tingle, and we will call to mind
the ancient days and the mighty deeds of our fathers.
6. So they appointed a day, and many were gathered together—a mixed
multitude from the Land of Cakes and of Thistles, from the West and from
the North, and from the Isles of the Sea.
7. And, behold, a great feast was prepared, and men in white raiment
ministered unto them, and a ruler of the feast was appointed, and set in
the midst.
8. And forthwith to each man was given a writing of the good things of
the feast, and the writing was in a tongue no man could understand, for
the language was the language of the _Crapaud_, which signifieth in the
heathen tongue, a frog.
9. And some there were who pretended to know the writing, and the
interpretation thereof; now these were hypocrites; for they knew but six
letters of the writing, and those letters were HAGGIS, and even this much
was a great mystery.
10. And the dishes no man could number; the people ate mightily, as it
were the space of one hour. And no man spoke to his neighbour till his
inner man was comforted.
11. And while they ate, behold there drew near three mighty men of
valour, clothed in many-coloured garments; and they bore in their arms
musical instruments shaped like unto a beast of prey.
12. And they blew mightily upon what seemed the tail thereof, and
straightway came there forth shrieks and sounds as if it were the
howlings of the damned.
13. And the hearts of the people were comforted, for this is that wherein
their great strength lieth.
14. And wine was brought in vessels, but the children of the North would
have none of these; for they quenched their thirst with the Dew of the
Mountain, which is the water of fire.
15. Then spake the wise men of the congregation unto them, and called to
mind the ancient days and mighty deeds of their fathers. And the people
rejoiced exceedingly.
16. Now it came to pass when they had eaten and drunk greatly, even unto
the full, that the hinges of their tongues were loosened—yea, even the
joints of their knees.
17. And the ruler of the feast fled to his home, and a third part of the
multitude followed, and a third part remained, saying, We thirst; and a
third part rose up to play.
18. And they played after the fashion of their country, and their
movements resembled the peregrinations of a hen upon a girdle which is
hot. Yet they seemed to think it pleasant, for they shouted with joy.
19. Now, as for them that were athirst, behold, their drinking was
steady, but their limbs were not so; yea, they also shouted for joy and
sang amazingly.
20. And they answered one to another, and said that, notwithstanding the
crowing of the cock or the dawning of the day, they should still partake
of the juice of the barley. So they encouraged one another with these
words.
21. Now it came to pass that, as they sat, one came and said he had seen
a strange fire in the sky, but what it was he could not tell.
22. And some said, It is the moon; and others said, It is the sun; and
some said, Doth the sun rise in the west? and others said, This is not
the west, but the east; and some said, Which is it, for we perceive two
in the sky.
23. And one said, I see nothing. Now the name of that man was Blin’ Foo.
He was the son of Fill Foo, and his mother’s name was Haud Foo; and his
brethren—Bung Foo, Sing Foo, Greet Foo, and Dam Foo—were speechless.
24. Then each man bade his neighbour farewell, embracing and vowing
eternal friendship, and some were borne home by men in scanty raiment,
and others in carriages which jingled as they went; and others drove
their own chariots home, and saw many strange sights, for they found
grass growing and ditches in the midst of the way where they had not
perceived them before.
25. And it came to pass that in the morning many lamented, and took no
breakfast that day; and the men in white raiment brought unto them many
cunningly-devised drinks, yea, pick-me-ups, for their tongues clove unto
the roofs of their mouths, and the spittle on their beard was like unto a
small silver coin, even a sixpence.
26. But, when they thought on the previous day, they rejoiced again, for
they said, Our brethren whom we have left will hear of it at the Feast of
the New Year, and they will remember us and bless us, and our hearts and
hands shall be strengthened for our labour here.
That is quite delicious! And now we will allow George Outram to close the
chapter with his inimitable poem:—
DRINKIN’ DRAMS,
OR, “THE TIPPLER’S PROGRESS.”
He ance was holy
An’ melancholy,
Till he fand the folly
O’ singin’ psalms;
He’s now as red’s a rose,
An’ there’s pimples on his nose,
An’ in size it daily grows,
By drinkin’ drams.
He ance was weak,
An’ couldna eat a steak
Without gettin’ sick,
An’ takin’ qualms;
But now he can eat
O’ ony kind o’ meat,
For he’s got an appeteet,
By drinkin’ drams.
He ance was thin,
Wi’ a nose like a pen,
An’ hands like a hen,
An’ nae hams;
But now he’s roond an’ ticht,
An’ a deevil o’ a wicht,
For he’s got himsel’ put richt
By drinkin’ drams.
He ance was saft as dirt,
An’ as pale as ony shirt,
An’ as useless as a cart
Without the trams;
But now he’d face the deil,
Or swallow Jonah’s whale—
He’s as gleg’s a puddock’s tail,
Wi’ drinkin’ drams.
Oh! pale, pale was his hue,
An’ cauld, cauld was his broo,
An’ he grumbled like a ewe
’Mang libbit rams;
But now his broo is bricht,
An’ his een are orbs o’ licht,
An’ his nose is just a sicht,
Wi’ drinkin’ drams.
He studied mathematics,
Logic, ethics, hydrostatics,
Till he needed diuretics
To lowse his dams;
But now, without a lee,
He could mak’ anither sea,
For he’s left philosophy,
An’ ta’en to drams.
He fand that learning, fame,
Gas, philanthropy, an’ steam,
Logic, loyalty, gude name,
Were a’ mere shams;
That the source o’ joy below,
An’ the antidote to woe,
An’ the only proper go,
Was drinkin’ drams.
It’s true that he can see
Auld Nick, wi’ gloatin’ e’e,
Just waitin’ till he dee
’Mid frichts an’ dwams;
But what’s Auld Nick to him,
Or palsied tongue or limb,
Wi’ glass filled to the brim,
When drinkin’ drams.