SCREEDS O’ TARTAN—A CHAPTER OF HIGHLAND HUMOUR
Differing from the Lowland Scotch in personal appearance, in language,
in style of dress, and in other respects, the Highlander’s humour also
presents characteristics which are distinctively local. Though often
rich, for example, it is never boisterous, never sparkling—is rarely
spontaneous—but is nearly always slow, sly, severe, and insinuative.
For, slow in muscular action, Donald is slow in mental action also. He
has to be stimulated or induced to physical activity; and, naturally
of a serious cast of mind, his humour, in its richest ore, comes out
nearly always as the result of provocation. But rouse his Highland blood
by insult—and a word will do it sometimes—or awaken his drowsy wits
by banter, then get out of the reach of both his arms and his tongue
instanter, for his hand is heavy, his eye is sure, and his speech is a
hurricane. Much of what passes for Highland humour, as everybody knows,
arises from the difference which exists between the Gaelic and the
English and the Scottish idiom; and from the efforts of the semi-educated
or non-educated Gaelic-speaking Highlander to express himself in
English, or in the colloquial tongue of the Lowland Scot. The English
language, “as she is spoke” by the Scottish mountaineer—felicitous
examples of which we find in the lighter writings of John Donald Carrick,
the first editor of “Whistle Binkie,” in Sandy Roger’s song of “Shon
M’Nab,” in Alexander Fisher’s song, “Ta Offish in ta Mornin’,” and
“Ta Praise o’ Ouskie,” and in the old ballad of “Turnumspikeman”—is
fearfully and wonderfully made. He transposes his tenses; calls yesterday
“to-morrow,” and to-morrow “yesterday.” He confuses his genders; calls
everything “she,” except his wife and the cat, and these he calls “hims.”
He makes his nouns qualify his adjectives, and places the cart before
the horse in every second sentence. “Ze can never learn zat tamn English
langvidge,” once exclaimed a French student in despair. “Ze spell von
vord A-S-S, zen ze bronounce it DONKEY.” Synonyms equally vex the spirit
of the Scottish Highlander. Thus Donald Roy M’Vean, when interrogated
in regard to the quality of his potato crop, provided amusement to the
Lowlanders around him by replying—“They are just ferry goot, inteed, but
fery _seldom_ whatefer.” Another fertile source of amusement is found in
the difficulty with which the unkempt Highlander adapts himself to the
usages of low country, and, particularly, to city life. A happy depiction
of his _speech_ and _behaviour_ in such a circumstance is found in
Rodger’s familiar song of “Shon M’Nab,” already referred to. On coming
to Glasgow, “Shon” said—
“Ta first thing she pe wonder at,
As she came doun ta street, man,
Was mans pe traw ta cart himsel’,
Shust ’pon his nain twa feet, man.
Och on! och on! her nainsel’ thought,
As she wad stood and glower, man;
Poor man, if they mak’ you ta _horse_—
Should gang ’pon a’ your _four_ man.
And when she turn ta corner round,
Ta black man tere she see, man;
Pe grund to music in ta kist,
And sell him for pawpee, man.
And aye she’ll grund, and grund, and grund,
And turn her mill aboot, man:
Pe strange! she will put nothings in,
Yet aye teuk music out, man.”
There are some choice specimens of Donald’s English extant, and,
before passing on to the richer ore of his natural humour, it will be
worth while to glance at a few. First, there is the famous Inveraray
proclamation, which I do not remember to have seen in print, but which,
when a boy, I learned from the lips of a droll old man in Central
Perthshire. It is a unique production, but is said to have actually been
delivered at the Market Cross of Inveraray towards the close of the last
century. Here it is—
“Ta-hoy!—a tither ta-hoy!—three times ta-hoy!—and ta-hoy! Wheesht!! By
command of Her Majesty King Sheorge and Her Grace ta Tuke o’ Argyll! Any
persons found fishing abune ta loch or below ta loch, afore ta loch or
ahent ta loch, in ta loch or on ta loch, roun ta loch or about ta loch,
will pe persecuted with three persecutions—First she’ll pe troon’d, and
syne she’ll pe hang’d, and ten she’ll pe prunt; and if she’ll come back
any more she’ll pe persecuted with a far worse persecution tan all that.
Got save the King and Her Grace ta Tuke o’ Argyll!”
If we admit the above to be _bona-fide_, we can scarcely doubt the
genuineness of the following prayer, which is said to have emanated from
a contemporary of the Inveraray bellman:—
“Gracious Providence! Bless all ta Macdonalds, and ta Macdonalds’
children, tere sons’ sons and tere daughters’ daughters, for a thoosand
years langsyne. Be gracious to send us mountains of snuff and tobacco,
and send us oceans of whisky—ta very finest of whisky! Oh, yes! And send
us hills of potatoes, and breads and cheeses as big as all ta Howe of
Strathmore. And, moreover, likewise, send us floods of water, tat tere
may pe grass for plenty to man and beast, and some to spare to ta poor of
ta parish. Send us guns and pistols as more as ta sea and ta sand-shore;
and swords, too, likewise, to kill all ta Grants and ta Macphersons for
evermore. Bless ta wee stirk, and mak’ him a big coo pefore Martinmas.
Bless ta wee soo, too, and mak’ him a big boar likewise. Oh, yes! Put
the strength of Samson into Donald’s arms, and send us parley, kail,
and corn prodigious. Bless all ta pairns—Duncan and Rory and Flora, and
you, Donald, and you, Lauchie, and you, Peter; and glorious, yours for
evermore.”
I do not ask any one to swallow the above, minus the proverbial
“grain of salt.” I like to take it that way myself. And yet there are
well-authenticated instances and occasions revealing deliverances quite
as ludicrous and absurd. Witness the following fragment of a pulpit
homily which appears in Hugh Boyd’s admittedly veracious _Reminiscences
of Fifty Years_, and which the recorder appears to have heard himself, or
received on highly credible authority:—
“Ah, my friends,” exclaimed the preacher, “what causes have we for
gratitude! Oh, yes! for the deepest gratitude! Look at the place of our
habitation. How grateful should we be that we do not leeve in the far
North, Oh, no! amid the frost and the snaw, and the cauld and the weet,
Oh, no! where there’s a lang day the a’e half o’ the year, Oh, yes!
and a lang nicht the tither, Oh, yes! That we do not depend upon the
aurawry boreawlis, Oh, no! That we do not gang shivering aboot in skins,
Oh, no! snookin’ amang the snaw like mowdiewarts, Oh, no, no! And how
grateful should we be that we do not leeve in the for Sooth, beneath the
equawter, and the sun aye burnin’, burnin’. Where the sky’s het, Ah, yes!
and the earth’s het, and the water’s het, and ye’re burnt black as a
smiddy, Ah, yes! Where there’s teegurs, Oh, yes! And lions, Oh, yes! And
crocodiles, Oh, yes! And fearsome beasts growlin’ and girnin’ at ye amang
the woods. Where the very air is a fever, like the burnin’ breath o’ a
fiery drawgon; that we do not leeve in these places—Oh, no, no, no, no!
But that we leeve in this blessit island of ours, call’t Great Britain,
Oh, yes, yes! and in that part of it named Scotland, that looks up at Ben
Nevis—Oh, yes, yes, yes! Where’s neither frost, nor cauld, nor wund, nor
weet, nor hail, nor rain, nor teegurs, nor lions, nor burnin’ suns, nor
hurricanes, nor——”
“Here,” says the narrator, “a tremendous burst of wind and rain from
Ben Nevis blew in the windows of the kirk, and brought the preacher’s
eloquence to an abrupt conclusion.”
Highlanders have the habit when talking their English, so-called, of
interjecting the personal pronoun “he” when it is not required—such
as “the doctor he has come,” or “the postman he is going”—and often
in consequence a sentence or an expression is rendered sufficiently
ludicrous, as the sequel will show. A reverend and pious gentleman once
began his discourse thus:—“My dearly beloved brethren, you will find
the subject of our observations this afternoon in the First Epistle
General of Peter, the fifth chapter and the eighth verse, and in these
words, ‘The devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may
devour.’ Now, my brethren, with your leave, we will divide the subject
of our text into four heads. First, we shall endeavour to ascertain
_who the devil he was_. Secondly, we shall inquire into his geographical
position—namely, _where the devil he was going_. Thirdly—and this is of a
personal character—we will ask ourselves _who the devil he was seeking_.
Fourthly, and lastly, my beloved brethren, we shall endeavour to solve a
problem that has never been solved to this day—namely, _what the devil he
was roaring at_.”
Recently a Highland policeman, not many weeks imported from the island of
Jura, approached to where a number of young men were standing in a knot
on the pavement of one of the busier streets of the Western metropolis,
and pushing them somewhat roughly, exclaimed, “If you’ll be going to
stand here, my lads, you’ll have to be moving about.”
“Is this not a free country?” demanded one of the fellows, somewhat
sharply.
“This is not ta country at all, you tam sheep’s head,” shouted the now
enraged member of the law, “this is one of the largest cities in the town
of Glasgow!”
But if Donald’s _uttered_ speech is sometimes ludicrous, what are we
to say concerning some specimens which we have seen of his _written_
address! The _Glasgow Herald_ a number of years ago gave its authority
for the following being a _verbatim_ copy of a letter which, a short time
previously, had been received by a local coal-agent, the writer’s name
alone being mercifully withheld from publication:—
“Turbert,
27 February, 180074
“Sur,—I was understand that you was a cole pit. i was want to
knew what was your monish for to supplie coal to be deliver
to turbert at the Quay most nearust to the city of turbert
loch fine side was I used to got my coal from a agent at
Greenock but he was charge me a great dale much more than i was
understand he was pae for them and though am always used to was
a onest man i was not have many monish to spare, and was wish
to have as chape a prise as I could got. I was tuk 2 cargos as
wad full a smak about 20 tons twice as more every week to land
on thursdae, and the monish wood be sented to you wunst every
fridae by the agint of the bank a very dacent man and his wife
too and has aulways pai his way and never was spoke an ill
about any man as I was knew before, if you will rite your price
to me the smallest you can took I will rite you a answer when
the day after will come.
“I was like to deal with a highlandman, and always did use to
like very more aul the Campbell’s, my wife’s cuisin’s faither’s
uncle was a Campbell—a very civil lad as was a fishing smak and
was made a dale of monish and was lefe a legacie to my wife who
will be glad to see you with myselfe and gave you a bed if you
was kum and spoke the prise you wood tuke for the coles and
save you the trubel of wrighting a letter to was to tell the
prise of the coles.
“If U cannot come ureself write to ⸺ ⸺.
“I was got my son Lachie was a goot riter to rite the name of
your shop in Glesco. He would tuke a place if you could get him
wan.”
Not long ago a stalwart west country Highlander was describing to a
company of Lowlanders the wonderful power and facility in drawing
possessed by his brother Donald, “Hooch ay,” he said, “he’ll juist tak’
a bit cawk (chalk) the size o’ her thoom’s nose, and he’ll draw a man
_there_, and a horse _there_, and you couldn’t tell which was which.” The
company laughed. “Ay,” continued the speaker in a more impassioned vein,
“and he wad tak’ a piece o’ cawk, and he wad draw a horse _there_ and a
cart _there_, and you _couldn’t_ tell which was which. They was _juist
beautiful_!”
We have so far here been looking at Donald’s humour on its least
favourable side; having been viewing it, so to speak, in the garb of the
Sassenach only. Let us now glance at a few examples in full Highland
costume. And here at once is an instance showing rare shrewdness and
wit combined. A Highland piper having a pupil placed in his hands by
his chief, and not knowing the notes of music—the semibreves, minims,
crotchets, and quavers, etc.—by the proper designations, although he knew
each one by head mark, and its musical value very well, set to work in
this way.
“Here, Donald,” said he, “took your pipes, my goot lad, and blow a
blast.”
Donald did as requested.
“So, so!” exclaimed the old man, “tat iss very well blown, inteed—just
beautiful. But what is sound, Donald, without sense? Just so. You may
blow for ever without making a tune of it if I do not tell you how ta
queer things on ta paper are to help you. Look here, lad. You see tat big
fellow with ta round, open face (pointing to a semibreve between the two
lines of a bar), he moves slowly from tat line to tis while you beat one
with your foot and give a long blast. Now you put a leg to him. You make
two of him, and he will move twice as fast. If you blacken hims face he
will run four times faster as ta fellow with ta white face; but, besides
blackenin’ hims face, if you will bend hims knees, or tie hims legs, he
will hop eight times faster as ta white-faced fellow I showed you ta
first time. And now whenever you blow your pipes, Donald, remember tis,
the tighter you will tie tese fellows legs ta faster they will run, an’
ta quicker they will be sure to dance.”
There is a characteristic story which Highlanders themselves delight to
tell, to the effect, that, once upon a time, when one of their countrymen
was passing a farm-steading, the dog attached thereto came rushing and
barking towards him, and latterly added injury to the insult which
had been offered by inserting its fangs in the naked calf of one of
the brawny Celt’s legs. Maddened by the pain, the Highlander seized a
hayfork which happened to be conveniently near, and with one fell thrust
transfixed the snarling tyke to the earth. The howls of agony quickly
brought the farmer on the scene, who, on seeing his favourite collie
writhing on the ground, exclaimed in wrath, “Why the devil did ye no tak’
the other end o’ the fork to the dog, you stupid ass?” “And why the dog
did the deevil no tak’ his other end to me, you stupid ass yourself?” the
Highlander replied.
It is the Ettrick Shepherd, I think, who tells of two Highlanders who set
out on a reiving expedition to steal the litter of a wild sow, which lay
in a narrow-mouthed cave. Seizing the opportunity of Madame Grumphie’s
absence, one of the men crept in, and the other kept a watch at the
mouth. Presently, down the hillside came the distracted and angry sow,
and rushed with menacing tusks towards her den. The guard, as she slipped
into the passage, had just time to lay hold of her tail, give it a firm
twist round his strong hand; and, throwing himself down and setting his
feet against the sides of the den, he held her fast. The Highlander in
the cave was too much engaged with the screaming little pigs to hear the
tussle going on outside; but finding himself in darkness, he called out
to his mate, “Donald, fat the deil’s the maitter? I canna see.” Donald,
who by this time had found a pig’s tail a most uneasy tenure, and who had
no wind left for explanations, briefly but significantly answered, “Gin
the tail breaks, Dougal’, my lad, you’ll see fat’s the maitter.”
“Hillo, Donald!” exclaimed one Highlander to another, as they met on a
country road recently, “what are you doing here at all? I socht you was
always with M’Lachlan down in the Glen.”
“So I was a long time with M’Lachlan too,” replied Donald, “but I have
left him, whatever.”
“Why did you leave him? He’s a good master I’m sure.”
“Hooch, ay, a good master enough; but I left him about the salt beef.”
“Did you not like salt beef?”
“Hooch, ay, I like salt beef well enough.”
“Did you get too much salt beef?”
“This is how it was, you see. There was a cow that died, and he salted
the cow, and we got nothing but salt cow as long as she lasted. And I
like salt cow well enough. But then there was a sheeps that died, and he
salted that too, and we got nothing but salt sheep as long as she lasted;
and I like salt sheeps well enough. But some time after there was a pig
that died, and he salted her too, and we got nothing but salt pig as long
as she lasted. And I like salt pigs well enough. But just when the pig
was nearly all done, one day his grandmother died, and he comes out to
the stable, and says he, ‘You’ll have to go away for a stone of salt,
Donald.’
“‘Hooch ay,’ thinks I to myself, ‘my man; but if you’ll thought that I
was going to eat your grandmother you’re very far mistaken,’ and I never
says a word to him at all, but just comes away.”
Highlanders make good soldiers, good policemen, and faithful watchmen and
shepherds. Forgathering with one tending his sheep on the verdant slopes
of a Northern mountain one day, a company of English tourists thought to
have some entertainment at his expense, and began by remarking that he
seemed to be enjoying himself.
“Ou, ay,” said the shepherd, “I’m shoost lookin’ aboot me here.”
“And what are you looking about you for?” inquired another.
“Oh, shoost because it’s a fine view from this side o’ the hill.”
“Yes, but what can you see from here?”
“Well, if there was no mist ta day I would see ta town, and ta boats on
ta loch, and many more things, whatever.”
“I suppose you can see a great distance from here on a clear day?”
remarked one.
“Oh, yes, shentlemen, a great distance, indeed,” said the shepherd.
“I suppose, on a clear day now, you can see London from this extreme
altitude?” exclaimed one of the Cockneys, quizzing the countryman, and
nudging his companions.
“Och, ay, and much further than that too,” replied the shepherd, who had
perceived the nudge.
“Farther than London?” gasped two of the somewhat alarmed tourists.
“Ay, to be shurely, and further than America too,” replied the Highlander.
“Farther than America?” shouted all the Cockneys together. “Impossible!”
“It’s shoost true what I tell you whatever,” said Donald; “but if you’ll
won’t believe me, shoost sit doon there, and took out your flasks and
took a dram, and wait for twa oors and more, and if the mist will clear
awa’ you will see the _moon_ from here.”
We may suppose that the next shepherd who came in the way of these
tourists would not be unduly interrogated.
A Highland lassie whom I have heard of was not quite so successful in an
encounter with the Sassenach postmaster. She had gone to the Post Office
to take out a money order.
“Where is your order to go?” demanded the clerk, with the snappishness
which only Post Office officials can command, and which roused the
inflammable blood of the young countrywoman of Helen Macgregor.
“What you’ll ask for? You’ll look your book, and you’ll saw there,” the
girl tartly replied (she had got an order a short time previous).
“I must know where your order is to go to,” said the clerk, firmly.
The girl goes to the door and brings in a companion who explained that
the order was for Tobermory.
“Who is to get the order?”
“My mother, to be surely.”
“What is your mother’s name?”
“My mother’s name is Mrs. M’Tavish.”
“What is your mother’s Christian name?”
“What you’ll want to know whether my Christian be a mother or not?”
demanded the girl, now in a perfect rage with anger. “My mother be a
good Christian woman, and will go to the Free Church in Tobermory every
Sabbath, which is maybe more than you’ll do.”
“I don’t want to know anything about what church your mother goes to; I
only wish to know her Christian name,” now, somewhat mildly, explained
the clerk.
“My mother’s name is Mrs. M’Tavish,” replied the girl, “and she’s the
decenter married womans than you are, and I’ll not tell any mans born any
more, whatever,” and off she marched in the very highest dudgeon.
Donald is proud of his native heath, proud of his native dress, proud
of his name and clan, proud of everything pertaining exclusively to his
native hills. He claims for the Gaelic that it is not only the best but
one of the oldest languages in the world. He would not like to say just
_the_ very oldest. The humorous poet no doubt has asserted that—
When Eve, all fresh in beauty’s charms,
First met fond Adam’s view,
The first word that he’ll spoke to her
Was “_Cia mar a tha thu an duidh?_”
“But did you’ll opserve,” says Donald, “if it was ta Gaelic that
was spoket in ta Garden of Eden, maybe they’ll say ta Teevil was a
Hielandman, and she wouldn’t like that to pe at all, whatever!”
I have said that the Highlander is proud of his name and clan, and there
are stories that reveal to what extent.
“Did you’ll know what day this is, Donald?” inquired one Celt of another,
on the morning of a certain national occasion which will come out in the
sequel.
“Hooch, ay,” replied Donald; “it’s just ta day after ta morn, Dugald.”
“Yes, Donald, to be shurely,” replied his friend. “But did you’ll forgot
this was ta day ta Queen’s dochter was to be married to ta Tuke o’
Argyll’s son—ta Marquis o’ Lorne?”
“Ay, ay, did you’ll told me that? Well, well, it’s the prood, prood mans
ta Queen will be this day.”
On the occasion aforesaid there was, of course, great national rejoicing,
and the town of Inverness was, like every other municipality, illuminated
at night.
“Dear me, Donald,” exclaimed one local shopkeeper to another, as he
issued from his own door, “did you ever behold the likes of that? There’s
five-fourths of the whole town under luminations this nicht!”
“Toots, man, Angus, I’ll thought that you know better than spoke like
that,” replied his neighbour. “A fourth is a quarter, and five quarters
would be more than the whole.”
“Och, Donald Fraser, my lad,” retorted Angus, “I’ve seen too many
snowy days not to know what I’ll say. I’ve got cloths in my own shop
six-quarters, and that is more—there, now, with your ignorance.”
The following is an amusing instance of the tenacity with which the
Highlanders hold to the honours and antiquity of their kindred. A dispute
arose between a Campbell and a M’Lean upon the never-ending subject. The
M’Lean would not allow that the Campbells had any right to rank with his
clan in the matter of antiquity, who, he insisted, were in existence as a
clan from the beginning of the world. Campbell had a little more Biblical
lore than his antagonist, and asked him if the Clan M’Lean was before the
Flood.
“Flood! what flood?” demanded the M’Lean.
“The Flood that you know drowned all the world but Noah and his family,
and his flocks and herds,” said Campbell.
“Pooh! you and your flood too,” said the M’Lean. “My clan was before ta
Flood.”
“I have not read in my Bible,” said Campbell, “of the name of M’Lean
going into Noah’s Ark.”
“Noah’s Ark!” snorted the M’Lean; “who ever heard of a M’Lean that had
not a boat of his own?”
There was a fine exhibition of clan pride afforded during the years the
late Earl of Airlie acted as Lord High Commissioner to the General
Assembly of the Church of Scotland. Amongst his attendants at Holyrood
were two pipers, who, at every dinner given to the clergy and other
guests at the Palace, marched several times round the large dining-hall
playing the wild and inspiriting music of the Highlands. One evening the
Moderator of the Assembly, at some one’s request, asked his Grace whether
he had any objections to instruct the pipers to play “The Bonnie House o’
Airlie.”
“None whatever,” replied the Earl, “but I doubt whether we shall get it,
for the one piper is an Ogilvie and the other is a Campbell; but we shall
see.”
Calling the butler, he gave orders that when the pipers next came in they
should play “The Bonnie House o’ Airlie.”
The butler went at once with the message. By and by the pipes were heard
approaching, and in a little, one piper, the Ogilvie, marched in, playing
the desired tune with great dignity and vigour.
“I expected this,” said the Earl in a jocular way to the Moderator.
Summoning the butler again, he asked whether his message had been
delivered.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then why has Campbell not come in with Ogilvie?”
“I gave him your message, my lord.”
“What did he say then?”
The man hesitated.
“What did Campbell say?” again demanded the Earl.
“He said—eh—eh,” still hesitating—“he said he would see your Lordship——”
The rest of the sentence was lost in a cough and the skirl of Ogilvie’s
pipes.
“It must be frankly admitted,” says Dr. Norman Macleod, “that there is
no man more easily offended, more thin-skinned, who cherishes longer the
memory of an insult, or keeps up with more freshness a personal, family,
or party feud than the genuine Highlander. Woe to the man who offends his
pride or vanity! ‘I may forgive, but I cannot forget,’ is a favourite
saying. He will stand by a friend to the last; but let a breach be once
made, and it is most difficult ever again to repair it as it once was.
The grudge is immortal.” Here is a case in proof:—
A Highlander was visited on his death-bed by his clergyman, who exhorted
Donald to prepare himself for another world by a sincere repentance of
all the crimes he had committed on earth, and strongly urged the absolute
necessity of forgiving his enemies.
Donald shrugged up his shoulders at this hard request; yet he at last
agreed to forgive every person who had injured him except one, who
had long been the Highlander’s mortal foe, and of whom Donald hoped
the parson, knowing all the circumstances of the case, would make an
exception. The holy man, however, insisted so much on this point, that
Donald at last said—
“Weel, weel, sir, since there be no help for it, Donald will forgive her;
but,” he added, turning to his two sons, “may G⸺d d⸺n you, Duncan and
Rory, if you’ll forgive her too!”
To be the means of causing a Highlander to emigrate from one locality
to another, either by purchasing the property on which he resides, or
obtaining a lease without his concurrence, is a sin not to be forgiven.
A Glasgow gentleman wished to feu the patch of ground on which the
Bellman’s house stood at Kilmun, with the stripe of garden attached to
it, at which the Highland ire of the latter could scarcely be restrained.
“Did you’ll know?” queried he at an acquaintance, “a fellow—shentleman he
is not; no, nor his mother before him—from your Glasgow, is going to put
me away from my wee placie, where I was for all my days, an’ they’ll call
her Macsmall—eh?”
“No,” replied the Glaswegian, “I don’t.”
“I was thought so, nor no decent mans. Well, maybe ay, and maybe no. A
stone will put up his house or a stone will put it down; I’ll never did
a mischiefs to no bodie, and I’ll not put my hand to a murder too. But,
you see, there’s many friends in the glen will take a friend’s part—and
they’ll be taking walks up the hill, an’ there’s many bigger stones there
nor a house itself, and they’ll just be in the way, so they will; a bit
dunch with the foot will make them come down without any carts and
wheels, they’re heavy—very heavy—teet are they, and no easy to put a stop
to when rinnin’, poor dumb creatures; and they canna help though they
were taking the house of this _trouster mosach_ (dirty scoundrel) with
her. I wad just like, quietly between ourselfs, to see his house, six
weeks after it was biggit, and the sclates on’t. Ay would I.”
Donald is dour and “thrawn as the wuddie,” and is consequently loath to
eat his words. Yet there have been occasions when he has made the _amende
honorable_. A notable case of the kind occurred not many years ago on
board one of the West Highland steamers. One of the deck porters, whom we
shall here call Duncan—just because his name was Donald—was much annoyed
by a “pernickity” and, to say the least of it, rather troublesome lady
passenger, who, without on any occasion producing the expected “tip,”
kept Duncan shifting her baggage here and there about the boat. Greatly
irritated by these frequent interruptions, Duncan at length so far forgot
himself as to tell her to “go to Jericho,” or some other place in that
direction. The lady, greatly shocked and insulted, complained to the
captain, and insisted on an apology, failing which, she would communicate
with the owners of the steamer. The captain promised to see the matter
righted, and forthwith summoned Duncan to the state-room.
“Duncan,” said he, “you have been charged with gross incivility to a
lady passenger, who threatens that, unless you apologise, she will inform
the owners of the boat as soon as she reaches Glasgow. Now, you have just
until we reach Greenock to do so. Off you go and apologise to her at
once.”
Duncan bit his lip pretty hard, but the thing had to be done, so he went
upstairs and snooved about rather sulkily until, by and by, he discovered
the object of his quest, approaching whom, he said, with half-averted
face, and eyes fixed on vacancy—
“Was you the old lady I was told to go to Jericho?”
“Yes,” replied the lady, snappishly.
“Well, the Captain says you’re not to go now!” said Duncan; and off he
went, and had half a dozen passengers’ trunks in confusion on deck before
the lady had time to adjust her spectacles and see where he had vanished
to.
Speaking of boats. Not long ago a couple of Highland farmers, recognised
as folks of some importance in their own immediate neighbourhood, left
Stornoway by steamer with the view of attending an important market in
the South. The weather looked good at the start, and considering this
in conjunction with the fact that it would be so much cheaper, and few,
or none, of those on board would know them, they resolved on travelling
steerage. So far so good. But they had not been long out on the billowy
deep when it commenced to blow a perfect hurricane, and all on board
became alarmed as to the safety of their lives, and there was running
to and fro and many anxious inquiries concerning the vessel’s chances
of weathering the storm. Not the least perturbed in spirit were the two
farmers. “Oich! Oich!” said the one to the other, “it will be awful if
anything happens, and we’ve only got steerage tickets in oor pockets.”
“Indeed, and it’s very true what you say, Mr. M’Donald, and that’s what
troubles me most of all,” responded the other, looking, if possible,
more doleful than his friend. “But I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll go
abaft the bridge this moment, and if the worst comes, which the goodness
forbid, we’ll fling awa’ our tickets, and _gang doon as cabin passengers
anyway_.”
Another example here, in evidence of the Highlander’s peculiar powers of
reasoning. Donald Macgregor, like his more illustrious namesake, Rob Roy,
was a notorious sheep and cattle-lifter in the Highlands of Perthshire.
At last he was overtaken by the grim tyrant of the human race, and was
visited by the minister of the parish in which he resided. The holy man
warmly exhorted the dying reiver to reflect upon the long and black
catalogue of his sins before it was too late; otherwise, he would have a
tremendous account to give at the great day of retribution, when all the
crimes he had committed in the world would appear in dreadful array as
evidence of his guilt.
“Och, sirse,” cried the dying man, “and will all ta sheeps and all ta
cows and all ta things that Donald has helped hersel’ to, be there?”
“Undoubtedly,” replied the parson.
“Och, that will pe all right then; shust let every shentlemans took her
own, and Donald Macgregor will be ta honest man again.”
And now, as the universal “Auld Lang Syne” has formed the parting-song
of so many merry meetings at home and abroad, let the following clever
set of verses, the reputed composition of a talented Perthshire divine of
the “Auld Kirk,” afford the finishing touch to the present sederunt of
anecdotal fun:—
AULD LANG SYNE, DONE UP IN TARTAN.
Should Gaelic speech be e’er forgot,
And never brocht to min’,
For she’ll be spoke in Paradise
In the days o’ auld lang syne.
When Eve, all fresh in beauty’s charms,
First met fond Adam’s view,
The first word that he’ll spoke to her
Was “_Cia mar a tha thu an duidh?_”
And Adam, in his garden fair,
Whene’er the day did close,
The dish that he’ll to supper teuk
Was always Athol brose.
When Adam from his leafy bower
Cam’ out at break o’ day,
He’ll always for his morning teuk
A quaich of usquebae.
And when wi’ Eve he’ll had a crack,
He’ll teuk his sneeshin’ horn,
And on the tap ye’ll weel micht mark
A braw big Cairngorm.
The sneeshin’ mull is fine, my frien’s,
The sneeshin’ mull is grand;
We’ll teuk a hearty sneesh, my frien’s,
And pass’t from hand to hand.
When man first fand the want o’ claes,
The wind and cauld to fleg,
He twisted round about hims waist
The tartan philabeg.
And music first on earth was heard
In Gaelic accents deep,
When Jubal in his oxter squeezed
The blether o’ a sheep.
The braw bagpipes is grand, my frien’s,
The braw bagpipes is fine;
We’ll teuk another pibroch yet,
For the days o’ auld lang syne.