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Title: Mr. Punch's Scottish Humour
Author: Various
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Mr. Punch's Scottish Humour" ***

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                        PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR

                       Edited by J. A. HAMMERTON

Designed to provide in a series of volumes, each complete in itself,
the cream of our national humour, contributed by the masters of comic
draughtsmanship and the leading wits of the age to “Punch,” from its
beginning in 1841 to the present day.

                              MR. PUNCH’S

                            SCOTTISH HUMOUR


[Illustration: “BACKSLIDING”

_The Minister (reproachfully)._ “Ah, James! I’m sorry to see this! I
thought you were a steadfast teetotaller!”

_James._ “Sho I am, sir. But I’m no a bigoted ane!”]

                              MR. PUNCH’S

                       _WITH 132 ILLUSTRATIONS_


                         CHARLES KEENE, GEORGE
                        DU MAURIER, W. RALSTON,
                      A. S. BOYD, PHIL MAY, E. T.
                         REED, HARRY FURNISS,
                         J. BERNARD PARTRIDGE,
                      JAMES GREIG, L. RAVENHILL,
                           G. D. ARMOUR, AND



                      THE PROPRIETORS OF “PUNCH”


                     THE EDUCATIONAL BOOK CO. LTD.


_Twenty-five volumes, crown 8vo, 192 pages fully illustrated_



An English friend of ours called many years ago at Inverness Post
Office for some letters awaiting him there. They were addressed to
the Poste Restante, “Inverness, N.B.” In handing him the letters, an
elderly lady who then graced the postal staff remarked: “You micht tell
your freen’s that ‘N.B.’ is quite superfluous. Hoo wad they like us
to write ‘London, S.B.’? _And we don’t think that muckle o’ London up
here._” Now, whether we use “N.B.” as meaning “North Britain,” or “Nota
Bene,” we shall leave you to guess!


Unless we are mistaken, we have seen more than once in English
papers a suggestion that the Scots are a race devoid of humour. “He
joked wi’ deeficulty” is, we believe, a reference to a Scotsman. “A
surgical----.” But no, we shall not repeat _that_! Oddly enough, the
pages of MR. PUNCH, true mirror of our national characteristics,
yield an abundant harvest of Scottish humour. Have we not already in
this same series made merry with “Mr. Punch in the Highlands”? And we
are now to laugh with him again at this banquet of Scottish humour,
which by no means exhausts his store. We have already heard that some
seventy-five per cent. of the jokes appearing in _Punch_ contributed
by those not on the permanent staff come from Scotsmen; so it is a
reasonable assumption that the bulk of the anecdotes in the present
collection have originated north of the border, even when they tell
against the Scot; for it is not the least of his good points that Sandy
is able to appreciate a story that does not present him in the most
favourable light. No humour in Scotland! Here is MR. PUNCH’s reply!

Let this be noted by the Southerner: there is much confusion as to the
Highlander and the Lowlander. Here is not the place, even did space
allow, to attempt a definition of the difference between the two races
which Sir Walter Scott typifies in Rob Roy and in Bailie Nicol Jarvie.
In “Mr. Punch in the Highlands” we have something of the humour of the
one; here we have a good deal of the humour of the other.

Of course a portion of the present book would be properly described
as “the Scot through English glasses,” and in this respect it is none
the less valuable, being the next best thing to that for which Burns

  “O wad some power the giftie gie us,
  To see oursel’s as others see us!
  It wad frae monie a blunder free us,
      And foolish notion.”

MR. PUNCH has striven to leave the Scot with no illusions as to the
characteristics he presents to his fellow Britons. We may gather from
these pages that MR. PUNCH, as spokesman for John Bull, has detected
in Sandy an occasional affection for that whisky which he produces
so industriously--and chiefly for English consumption--and that he
has noted in him a certain inclination “to keep the Sabbath day--and
everything else he can lay his hands on.” Who shall say that MR. PUNCH
has been mistaken? But we are not here to moralise; mirth is our
motive; and if the fun be good--as none will deny who fingers these
pages--enough is said.

This, at least, we may add: No artist who has ever been on MR. PUNCH’s
staff has made anything like so much of the dry, pawky humour that
obtains north of the Tweed as did Charles Keene. More than fifty per
cent. of MR. PUNCH’s illustrations of Scottish humour come from his
pencil; and he is ahead of his confrères not only in quantity but in
quality--none of them has beaten him in the pictorial representation of
Scottish character. The shrewd, dour faces of some of his Scotsmen are




       *       *       *       *       *

A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT.--Being served with a glass of Bass when you
called for old Edinburgh.

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *

“BREACHES OF DECORUM.”--A Highlander’s trousers.

       *       *       *       *       *

CONFESSION OF A WHISKEY DRINKER.--“Scotland, with all thy faults, I
love thy still.”


[“He is a Scotsman and therefore fundamentally inept.”--_The Tiger._]

  Ah, baist nae mair the bard o’ Ayr
    That whiles was Scotland’s glory,
  An’ dinna rave o’ Bruce the brave
    An’ Bannockburn sae gory;
  But greet yer lane an’ mak’ yer maen
    That ye are ca’d a Scoatsman--
  There’s naught but scorn for him that’s born
    ’Twixt Tweed an’ John-o’-Groat’s, man.

  Nae poo’er hae we a joke tae see--
    Ye ken the auld, auld rumour;
  We canna taste the flavour chaste
    That marks the Cockney humour;
  ’Tis owre refined for oor dull mind,
    Though greeted wi’ guffaws, man,
  By cultured wits that thrang the pits
    O’ Surrey music ha’s, man.

  Oor manners, tae!--my heart is wae
    When I compare the races,
  Contrastin’ oor behaviour dour
    Wi’ English airs an’ graces.
  We Scots maun hide oor humbled pride
    An’ greet in sorrow dumb, man--
  We canna baist the perfect taste
    An’ canny tact o’ Brum, man.

  An’ oh! ye ken, as beesness men,
    In dealin’ wi’ an order,
  We aye maun find oorsels behind
    Oor brithers owre the Border.
  We vie in vain wi’ English brain;
    Hoo can we mak’ a haul, man,
  Until we start tae lairn the art
    That’s practised in the Mall, man?

[Illustration: CANDID

_Tam (very dry, at door of country inn, Sunday morning)._ “Aye, man, ye
micht gie me a bit gill oot in a bottle!”

_Landlord (from within)._ “Weel, ye ken, Tammas, I daurna sell onything
the day. And forbye ye got a half-mutchkin awa’ wi’ ye last nicht
(after hoors tae); it canna be a’ dune yet!”

_Tam._ “Dune! Losh, man, d’ye think I could sleep an’ whusky i’ the

[Illustration: “A NICHT WI’ BURNS”]

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *


_Shipping Agent._ “Are you a mechanic?”

_Intending Emigrant (justly indignant)._ “_No!_--I’m a Macpherson!”]

       *       *       *       *       *


OLD SCOTS SLANG.--In an old Scots Act of Parliament “anent the
punishment of drunkards” a clause adjudges all persons “convict” of
drunkenness, or tavern-haunting, “for the first fault” to a fine of
£3, “or in case of inability or refusal, to be put in jogges or jayle
for the space of six hours.” What was “jogges,” as distinguished from
“jayle”? Possibly a somewhat milder place of detention for the rather,
than that appointed for the very, drunken. If so, “jogges,” in the
lapse of time, we may suppose, having lost its distinctive sense, came
to be regarded as simply a synonym of “jayle,” and, as such, now passes
current in the People’s English (not to say the Queen’s) abbreviated
into the contraction “jug.” Thus imprisonment for a state of too much
beer might be described as jug for jug.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ILLUSIONS!

_McStaggert (on his way home, having jumped over the shadows of the
lamp-posts, &c., brought up by that of the kirk steeple)._ “E----h!”
(_Pauses._) “Ne’ mind! ’Sh no help for it.” (_Pulls up his pants._)
“Shall have to wade thish!”]


(_On reading that an Act of the Australian Legislature against the
Growth of Thistles received the Royal Assent_)

  What’s this? Forbid the growth o’ thristles,
    Auld Scotia’s cherished symbol-flower--
  The hair upon ma head it bristles,
    At sic an awfu’ waste o’ power!

  ’Tis idle wark, as time will show,
    To root the bonny plant frae ground;
  For Nature still gars thristles grow
    Where canny Scots are to be found.

  What soil so puir but it can keep
    A thristle green amang its stanes?
  What land so bare a Scotsman deep
    Canna pick something aff its banes?

  As weel keep bees frae honey-pots,
    Keep cats frae cream, or bairns frae tarts,
  As thristles and their brither Scots
    Frae lands whaur goud is found i’ quartz.

[Illustration: WELL TURNED

_Minister (reproachfully, to bibulous village barber with shaking
hand)._ “Ah, John, John! That whisky----”!

_Barber (condolently)._ “Aye, sir, it mak’s the skin unco tender!”]

[Illustration: “AU PIED DE LA LETTRE”

_Free-Kirk Minister (to his “Elder”)._ “John, I should like you to
intimate that on Monday next I propose paying pastoral visits in the
High and North Streets, in which I also hope to embrace all the servant
girls of the congregation in that district!”

_His Wife (whom he’d lately married from the South)._ “You shall do
nothing of the kind, sir! Let me see you dare to----!”

  [_Goes into hysterics!_]

       *       *       *       *       *

GEOGRAPHICAL.--_Examiner (to Scots boy in Free School)._ Where is the
village of Drum?

_Scots Boy (readily)._ In the county of Fife.

  [_Prize given._

       *       *       *       *       *

STOP HIM!--A Scots gentleman puts the postage stamps wrong way up on
his letters, and calls it, with a tender feeling,--Turning a penny!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Hungry Visitor (ignorant of the nature of this
particular delicacy)._ “Ah, Donal, mon, we ken weel hae the rabbit for
saxpence. We ken get twa bawbees fur the skeen when we get back to

       *       *       *       *       *

SEASONABLE WEATHER IN SCOTLAND.--(_Edinburgh, New Year’s Day._)
_Sandy._ There’s mair snaw this new year than I’ve seen for mony a day;
it’s by ord’nar.

_Jock._ Ay, but it’s vera saisonable wather.

_Sandy._ ’Deed, ye may say that, Jock,--fine saft fa’in for the fou folk.

       *       *       *       *       *



_Little Smithkin (debonairly)._ “Object to smoking?”

_North Briton._ “Nae in the least, if it does na’ mak’ ye seek!”

  [_As Little S. said, he “cut the old cad for the
  rest of the journey._”]


  I’ve heard a Frenchman wag his tongue
    Wi’ unco din an’ rattle,
  An’, ’faith, my vera lugs hae sung
    Wi’ listenin’ tae his prattle;
  But French is no the worst of a’
    In point o’ noise an’ clang, man;
  There’s ane that beats it far awa’,
    And that’s the Lunnon twang, man.

  You wadna think, within this land,
    That folk could talk sae queerly,
  But, sure as death, tae understand
    The callants beats me fairly.
  An’, ’faith, ’tis little gude their schules
    Can teach them, as ye’ll see, man,
  For--wad ye credit it?--the fules
    Can scarcely follow _me_, man.

  An’ yet, tae gie the deils their due,
    (An’ little praise they’re worth, man,)
  They seem tae ken, I kenna hoo,
    That I come frae the Nor-r-th, man!
  They maun be clever, for ye ken
    There’s nought tae tell the chiefs, man:
  I’m jist like a’ the ither men
    That hail frae Galashiels, man.

  But oh! I’m fain tae see again
    The bonny hills an’ heather!
  Twa days, and ne’er a drap o’ rain--
    Sic awfu, drouthy weather!
  But eh! I doubt the Gala boys
    Will laugh when hame I gang, man,
  For oo! I’m awfu’ feared my voice
    Has ta’en the Lunnon twang, man!

         *       *       *       *       *

THE GALLANT SCOTS.--As a party of very pretty girls approached the
camp of the Royal Scottish at Wimbledon, the band struck up--“The
Camp-belles are Coming!”

       *       *       *       *       *


_Scots Counsel (addressing an old woman in a case before Judge and
Jury)._ “Pray, my good woman, do you keep a diary?”

“Naw, sir, I kups a whusky shop!”]

[Illustration: PRECAUTION

_Donal’._ “A’m sayin’, Tam, what for dae ye tak’ yir dram a’ at a’e

_Tam (gravely)._ “Eh, Donal’, man, A ance had ma gless knockit ower!”]

         *       *       *       *       *

ALEXANDER AB ALEXANDRO.--(“It is stated that a Scotsman, at Greenock,
is to have the honour of contributing a considerable portion of the
machinery for the Suez Canal works.”) A Scotsman, of course. Who should
understand the desert but Sandy?

         *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *


Mossoo has been invited north for a few days’ shooting. He arrives
_tout à fait_--“_en Montagnard_”!]

         *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *

SUCCOUR FOR SCOTSMEN.--If a Scotsman were between Scylla and Charybdis,
and puzzled as to which he should give the preference, would not his
national instinct prompt him at once to take the _Siller_? and, when
once he had got his hand fairly upon it, we do not think he would very
quickly leave it again.

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: REPUDIATION

_Butcher (rushing out)._ “Hey--ess that yoer doag, mun?”

_Donald._ “Aweel--he wass mine ance, but he’s aye daein’ for hessel


  What’s a’ the steer? Why, man, ye see,
    Kinghorn is on its mettle,
  The connysoor o’ ilka ee
    Frae Anster tae Kingskettle.
  We’ll show the warl’ a twa-three things
    An’ let it ken the morn, man,
  What way we coronate oor kings
    In loyal auld Kinghorn, man.

  There’ll be the Provost, robes an’ a’--
    ’Twill be as guid’s a play, sir:
  I’m tell’t he’s boucht a dicky braw
    In honour o’ the day, sir.
  Then, dressed in a’ their Sabbath coats,
    Wi’ collars newly stairchit
  An’ stickin’ up intil their throats,
    The Bailies will be mairchit.

  An’ next the Toon Brass Band ye’ll see,
    In scarlet coats an’ braid tae,
  An’ then the hale I.O.G.T.,
    Forbye the Fire Brigade tae.
  There’ll be an awfu’ crood, ye ken,
    Sae, as we mairch alang, man,
  We’ll hae twa extry pólicemen
    Tae clear awa’ the thrang, man.

  An’ then at nicht--why, ilka ane
    Has emptied oot his pockets,
  An’ mony a guid bawbee has gaen
    In crackers, squibs an’ rockets.
  Eh, but I’d tak’ my aith on this--
    The King’ll be gey sweer, man,
  Tae bide at hame the morn an’ miss
    Oor collieshangie here, man.

  Although I’m tell’t in Lunnon tae
    They’ve got a Coronation,
  An’ even Cockneys mean tae hae
    Their wee bit celebration;
  But eh! I doot yon show’ll be
    Disjaskit an’ forlorn, man,
  Beside the bonny sichts ye’ll see
    In loyal auld Kinghorn, man.


_Old Scots Wife._ “Losh me! There’s a maun drenkin’ oot o’ twa boattles
at ance!!”

[_The old gentleman was trying his new binocular, a Christmas present
to his nephew._]

[Illustration: “A NARROW ESCAPE”


“Well, Lauchie, how are you?”

“Man, I’m wonderfu’ weel, considerin’.”


“I did last nicht what I’ve no dune this thirty year. I gaed to bed
_pairfutly sober_, and I’m thankfu’ to say I got up this mornin’ _no a
bit the waur_.”]

[Illustration: SCRUPLES

_English Tourist (having arrived at Greenock on Sunday morning)._ “My
man, what’s your charge for rowing me across the frith?”

_Boatman._ “Weel, sir, I was jist thinkin’ I canna break the
Sawbath-day for no less than f’fteen shull’n’s!!”]

[Illustration: “WHOLESALE”

_Scot (to Fellow-Traveller on Northern Railway)._ “May ah ausk what
line ye’re en?”

_Our Artist (who had undergone a wide cross-examination with
complaisance)._ “Well--I’m--I’m a painter.”

_Scot._ “Man, that’s lucky! Ah deal i’ pents--an’ ah can sall ye white
leed faur cheaper than ye can buy’t at ony o’ the shoaps.”

_Artist._ “Oh, but I use very little. A pound or so serves me over a

_Scot._ “E----h, man! Ye maun be in a vera sma’ way o’ beezeness!!”]


  Baker, baker, strike awa’;
    Ye’ll na gar me greet, mon.
  Ken that I defy ye a’;
    Though bread grow dear as meat, mon.
  Aits are baith bread an’ meat to me,
    Wha dinna keep my carriage.
  Mysel, forbye the barley-bree,
    Can live richt weel on parritch.


[Illustration: TOO CANDID BY HALF

_Visitor (to newly-married friend)._ “I was admiring your little
carriage, Mrs. McLuckie, so----”

_Mrs. McLuckie._ “Oh, the brougham! Yes; you’ve no idea what a comfort
I find it----”

_Mr. McLuckie._ “Oo aye! It’s gey handy! We’ve jist jobbit the cab for
the coorse weather!!”]

[Illustration: CAUTION

_Host._ “Just another wee drap ’fore you go----”

_Guest._ “Na, na, I’ll tak’ nae mair! I’m in a new lodgin’, and I’m no
vera weel acquainted wi’ the stair!!”]

[Illustration: “AULD EDINBRO’”

_Saxon Traveller._ “This is too bad, waiter! I told you we wanted to go
by the 9.30 train, and here’s breakfast not ready!”

_Celtic Waiter._ “A weel, sir, fac’ is, the cook tak’s a gless!”]

       *       *       *       *       *

SCOTLAND FOR EVER!--_Benjamin Barking Creek (thinking he is going
to pull the mighty leg of MacTavish)._ But you must allow that the
national emblem of your country is the thistle.

_The MacTavish._ And for why? Because we grow it for ye Southrons to

  [_Exit B. B. C._

       *       *       *       *       *


_Swell._ “Ah, Port-ar, is this twain--ah--composed entirely of
second-class cawwiages?!”

_Glasgow Porter._ “Na, na, man, there’s a wheen third-cless anes
further forrit there!!”]

       *       *       *       *       *

AT REDRUFUS CASTLE.--_The Duchess of Stony Cross (to Mrs. MacShoddy,
who is returning a duty call)._ The Duke has actually consented to be
Mayor of Crankborough in succession to poor Mr. Slitt.

_Mrs. MacShoddy._ Well! that’ll be very nice for you! You’re _sure_ to
be invited to the Mansion House in London during the season!

       *       *       *       *       *

A SCOT ON SWEET SOUNDS.--A’ music whatever is o’ Scottish origin
an’ derivation. It a’ cam Sooth frae ayont the Tweed. A’ music just
resolves itsel’ intil a meexture o’ Tweed-ledum an’ Tweedle-Dee--the
Scottish Dee.

The oreeginal St. Cecilia was a Miss MacWhirter. She invented the

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *

In Scotland, it is not permitted even to whistle on the Sunday. My
friend, Wagg, tells me, however, that “you _must_ whistle for what you
want.” I remark this contradiction. But they are an obstinate race, the

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Mrs. Golightly (fishing for a compliment)._ “Ah! Mr.
McJoseph, _beauty_ is the most precious of all gifts for a _woman_! I’d
sooner possess _beauty_ than anything in the world!”

_Mr. McJoseph (under the impression that he is making himself very
agreeable)._ “I’m _sure_, Mrs. Golightly, that _any_ regret you may
possibly feel on _that_ score must be amply compensated for by--er--the
consciousness of your _moral worth_, you know,--and of your various
_mental_ accomplishments!”]

[Illustration: _Jink._ “My dear MacFuddle, it’s the very thing you
want! Charming house--lovely spot! Cheap, too. But one great drawback.
You can’t get any water there!”

_MacFuddle._ “Oh, that doesn’t matter!”]

[Illustration: REFRESHMENT

_Hospitable Good Templar (to Visitor--average Scotsman)._ “Well,
now, what will you tak’, Mac, after your walk--tea, or coffee, or

  [_Comment is needless._]


[The Scottish Education Department, not satisfied with the
pronunciation in vogue beyond the Tweed, has appointed a Liverpool
gentleman to instruct the teachers of Scot’and how to speak polite

  A plague on yon Depairtment, Jeames!
    It maun be aye appearin’
  Wi’ sic a host o’ daft-like schemes,
    Forever interferin’.
  ’Tis past a joke when feckless fouk
    Awa’ in Lunnon ettle
  Wi’ a’ this fuss tae talk tae us,
    The Schule Board o’ Kingskettle.

  I’ll tell ye hoo it comes tae pass--
    The facts are easy stated:
  They tak’ inspectors frae a class
    No richtly eddicated,
  An’ when the fules inspect oor schules,
    I’ll swear upon my life, Jeames,
  There’s no a man can unnerstan’
    The classic tongue o’ Fife, Jeames.

  An’ whaur’s the cure? The thing tae dae
    Tae pit them on their mettle
  Wad be tae raise inspectors tae
    The staundard o’ Kingskettle;
  But eh! I fear frae what I hear
    Thae fouk in Lunnon toun, Jeames,
  Are bent the noo on findin’ hoo
    To eddicate us doun, Jeames.

  For hae ye heard their latest plan?
    I canna weel believe it--
  Deil tak’ the impidence o’ man
    That ever daured conceive it!
  They’re sending doun a Southron loon
    Frae far across the border
  Tae lairn us hoo tae shape oor mou’
    An’ set oor tongue in order.

  Noo hoo could ony man expec’
    We’d thole thae Angliceesms
  An’ lairn a furrin’ deealec’
    O’ crude proveencialeesms?
  Tae think a fule frae Liverpool
    Should undertak’ tae settle
  The kind o’ way we oucht tae say
    Oor wordies in Kingskettle!

[Illustration: CONSCIENCE

_U. P. Elder._ “The meenister needna’ ’been that haurd en hes
discoorse. Theer plenty o’ leears i’ Peebles forbye me!”]

       *       *       *       *       *

PROVIDING FOR THE FUTURE.--_The O’Hooligan (to the MacTavish)._ Faix!
but ye seem to be overlapping your quantum to-night, Laird. Has your
grandfather jined to the Kensal Greeners?

_The MacTavish._ That no, sir, but the morrow, gin that nae accident
happen, I shall hae the luxury o’ lunching wi’ my bluid cousin, the
ex-Baillie o’ Whilknacraigie, a strict temperance mon, wha canna stand
whusky. And so I’m _joost drinkin’ up to his soda-water beforehand_.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: “THE BAR-RD OF A-Y-VON!”

_Member of the “Northern Shakspeare Society.”_ “Man, yon Wully
Shakspeare maun hae been a maist extr’o’dinary pairson! Theer-r thengs
cam’ entil his heid ’at wad never hae com’ ento mine!--NEVER!”]

[Illustration: _Scottish Waitress._ “There’s a laddie doon the stair
wa’antin’ tae see ’ye----”

_Mossoo._ “A lady! Mon Dieu! Say her to give herself the pain to sit
down while I arrange my toilet.”]

[Illustration: The “lady” in waiting.]


_Reverend Stranger._ “My good man, can you tell me the nearest way to
the cathedral?”

_Scottish Cabby._ “Jist inside the cab here, sir.”]


(_Being an additional Chapter to “The Tour in the Hebrides”_)

“Sir,” said Dr. Johnson, “let us take a walk down Princes Street.”

Finding the great man in so excellent a humour, I seized upon the
opportunity to put to him many interesting questions.

“Sir,” said I, “pray what do you think of Edinburgh?”

“I think, sir,” replied the Doctor, “that its name is most appropriate.”

“Sir,” I continued, in a fever of anticipation, “I shall be very much
obliged to you if you will explain your meaning in greater detail.”


_Kirk Elder (after a look at his morning paper)._ “Poor McStagger deid!
Et’s vera sad to thenk o’ the great number o’ destengweshed men that’s
lately been ta’en! ’Deed--I no feel vera weel--mysel!”]

[Illustration: A MERE DETAIL

_Friend of the Family._ “Weel, Mrs. M‘Glasgie, and how’s your daughter
doin’, the one that was married a while ago?”

_Mrs. M‘Glasgie._ “Oh, varra weel, thank ye, Mr. Brown, varra weel,
indeed! She canna abide her man. But then, ye ken, there’s aye a


“Oh, mamma, mamma, couldn’t you interfere? There’s a horrid man
squeezing something under his arm, and he _is_ hurting it so!”]

_Dr. Johnson._ Sir, I am sorry that my meaning should require
explanation. I say that the name Edinburgh is appropriate, because I
find the city primitive and beautiful. Adam and Eve would, doubtless,
have held it in high consideration had they had the advantage of its
possession. In short, sir, they would have called it the town of
their Eden, or Edinburgh.

_Mr. Boswell._ A pun, sir!

“It was a pun, sir!” cried the Doctor, very angrily, and I hastened to
change the subject.

“I am surprised to find, sir,” said I, “that Her Majesty does not
reside at Edinburgh. Do you not think, sir, that she might use her
Scottish Palace at Christmas time?”

“No, sir, I do not think so,” replied the Doctor, “and I can find no
reason for your surprise.”

“Indeed, sir!”

_Dr. Johnson._ Sir, were Her Most Gracious Majesty to dwell at
Edinburgh at Christmas time, she would be put to great inconvenience.
Her Most Gracious Majesty exhibits excellent sense in selecting
Balmoral for her residence.

_Mr. Boswell._ Sir, I trust you do not call in question my loyalty to
the House of Brunswick?

_Dr. Johnson._ Sir, I do not; I only question your wisdom.

[Illustration: CAPACITY!

_First Traveller (proffering his mull)._ “Tak a pench?”

_Second Traveller._ “Na, ’m obleeged t’ye--ah dinna tak’t.”

_First Traveller._ “Man!--that’s a pety!--ye’ve gr-r-raund
accaummodation for’t!”]

_Mr. Boswell._ Sir, if I do not trouble you, will you explain to me
why Her Majesty should avoid Edinburgh at Christmas time?

_Dr. Johnson._ Why, sir, the very branches put up in honour of the
festive season would treat her with disrespect!

_Mr. Boswell._ Indeed, sir!

_Dr. Johnson._ Sir, if Her Most Gracious Majesty visited Edinburgh at
Christmas time, would she not find _Holly-rood_?

_Mr. Boswell._ Another pun, sir!

“It was another pun, sir!” cried the Doctor, very wrathfully, and I
said no more.

The next day we visited Stirling. We walked up to the Castle, and
admired the magnificent view we there obtained of the surrounding
country. We next examined the ramparts.

“These old walls, sir,” said I, “must weigh many thousand tons

“Sir,” replied the Doctor, “you should have said pounds _Stirling_!”

“Another pun, sir!” I exclaimed.

“It was another pun, sir!” roared the Doctor, and I thought it best to
hold my peace.

[Illustration: DE MORTUIS

_Sympathetic Young Mother._ “I wunner ye could be sae cruel as to kill
that bonnie wee cauf!”

_Practical Butcher._ “Weel, ye see, ye’ll no eat them leevin’!”]

The next morning found us at Perth. Here we were received most
hospitably by the gentry and the people. In the company of our host (a
gentleman of the highest consideration in “The Fair City”), we ascended
Kinnoul Hill, and greatly admired the splendid scenery.

“A very lovely spot, sir,” I ventured to observe.

_Dr. Johnson._ Sir, you are right. Sir, I have here found the people
so kind-hearted, the city so handsome, and the scenery so magnificent,
that I confess it would give me infinite satisfaction were I able to
call the town in which I was born the place (as the Highlanders have
it) of my _Perth_!

“A pun, sir!” exclaimed our excellent host, and I could not help
noticing that he seemed greatly surprised.

The Doctor made no reply, but I could see by the working of his
countenance that he was suffering pain.

We came to our journey’s end at Wick.

“What do you think of this place, sir,” I asked.

_Dr. Johnson._ Sir, I think that the title of “The Modern Athens”
should be conferred upon Wick rather than upon Edinburgh.

_Mr. Boswell._ Indeed, sir! May I ask why?

[Illustration: Q. E. D.

_Professor McPhairrson._ “No, Mrs. Brown, it’s not that we Scots are
dull; but you English see a joke in _anything_! Why, the other day I
was in a room with four Englishmen, one of whom told a story, and,
would you believe it, I was the only man that didn’t laugh!”]

_Dr. Johnson._ Why, sir? Sir, you must be very dull. I say, sir, that
Wick should be called “The Modern Athens.”

_Mr. Boswell._ I confess, sir, that I am dull, and yet I cannot
perceive why Wick should be called “The Modern Athens” rather than

_Dr. Johnson._ Sir, you indeed must be dull if you do not associate
Wick with the centre of _Greece_!

I was silent for a few minutes, and then I ventured to make a remark.

“Sir,” said I, “you once expressed a very strong opinion about
pun-makers. Sir, you asserted your belief that a man who would make a
pun would be capable of picking a pocket.”

_Dr. Johnson._ Sir, I believe so still.

_Mr. Boswell._ And yet, sir, during the course of our tour, you have
made a large number of puns.

_Dr. Johnson._ Sir, you have good grounds for what you assert. I admit,
sir, with a feeling of sorrow, that I have made many puns during our

_Mr. Boswell._ Sir, may I venture to ask you why you have made so many

[Illustration: “DIRECTIONS”

_Scottish Village Practitioner (to Northern Farmer)._ “Eff the
Lunnon doacter”--(_his patient had been south to consult a great
specialist_)--“’ll no allow ye whusky, an’ ye can tak’ nowt but reed
wine, theer just twa ’ll dae ye ony guid--an’ ye’ll mind o’ them, for
they’re baith monoseelawbic!--po-or-r-t an’ clair-r-t!!”]

“Sir,” said Dr. Johnson, “the puns you have noticed are symptoms of
a painful disease, known to men of letters as ‘the Silly Fever.’ I
attribute the commencement of this melancholy malady to the depressing
effects of a Scottish climate upon a Londoner in September!”

       *       *       *       *       *

THE BEST SCOTTISH JOKE WE EVER HEARD.--A clever Scotsman being told
that Demosthenes was in the habit of making speeches at the seaside
with small stones in his mouth, exclaimed, “Hoot, mon! then he must ha’
been the first Member for _Peebles_.” (_Loud cries of “Apology,” which
not being given, the Reader proceeds to groan._)

       *       *       *       *       *

THE TARTAN EPIDEMIC.--_The MacTavish (very angrily, to the new Boots at
the “Rising Sun.”_)--Where, by St. Andrew! have ye planted my braw new
kilt that I put oot, for to be decently brushed! Green, red, black and
white plaid.

_Boots (after search)._--I beg pardon, sir, but the chambermaid mistook
it for the skirt of the young lady in No. 13. _But you’ve got her

       *       *       *       *       *


_Fussy Body (in search of a seat)._ “A’ fu’ here?”

_Voice from the depths._

  “‘We ar’na fou, we’re no sae fou,
  But jist a drappie in oor e’e----’”]

[Illustration: A WILLING MARTYR

_Scottish Carrier._ “Eh, bit that’s strong whusky! Bit! U’ll no spile
the taste wi’ water. U’ll rather thole’t!”]


_Tam._ “Sae ye’ve gotten back, Sanders?”

_Sanders._ “’Deed, aye. I’ve just gotten back.”

_Jamie._ “An’ hoo did ’e like London?”

_Sanders._ “Od, it’s an ootlandish place yon! They tell’t me they
couldna unnerstaun ma awccent!”

_John._ “Awccent! I never heard tell that Fife folk had _ony_


  Mickle did I love my Jeanie,
  Syn’ she wa’ a peekle weanie,[1]
  Kittlin’[2] owre the flattit greenie,
                  A’ sae winsom’,
                  A’ sae hinsom’,
  Dainty skirrock[3] Jeanie.

  How I coodled[4] in her eekit,
  Dooning[5] wha’ nae booties creekit
  Till her twa bright een they leekit,
                  A’ sae hinsom’,
                  A’ sae winsom’,
  Watting sair her cheekit.

  Says she, “Let lassies fash their streeps
  Wi’ drummie stick an’ paudy peeps,
  Gie me my Tam wi’ squeezy-greeps,”[6]
                  A’ sae winsom’,
                  A’ sae hinsom’,
  “Ane whiskey-toddy on fowre leeps.”[7]

  Wull ye be my ain, my lassie?
  Pibroch-peeps wi’ jug and glassie;
  Pladdie, too, wi’ ribbon sassie,[8]
                  A’ sae hinsom’,
                  A’ sae winsom’,
  All I gie, but hae nae brassie.
  Says she, “Sin ye’ve nae brassie-jingle,
  All the rest is sandie-shingle;
  Sae wi’ ye I winna mingle,”
                  A’ sae hinsom’,
                  A’ sae winsom’,
  “Steppit,[9] Tam, I’ll stoppit[10] single.”

  Noo I seep ma whiskey-toddy,
  Takin’ speerits wi’ nae boddy:
  Sup for ane’s nae sup for twoddy,[11]
                  A’ sae winsom’,
                  A’ sae hinsom’,
  Carls, gude night, I’ll niddy-noddy.[12]


      [1] A little pickle.
      [2] Sporting like a kitten.
      [3] The Lowland language has no equivalent for this word, which in
          itself is so peculiarly expressive.
      [4] Whispers soft things.
      [5] Sitting.
      [6] Arm round my waist.
      [7] Four lips.
      [8] Jaunty.
      [9] Go away.
      [10] Remain.
      [11] Hieland proverb signifying that enough for one is _not_
           sufficient for two.
      [12] Sleep.



_Gentleman from N. B. (he had sent his Presbyterian butler to a service
at Westminster Abbey)._ “Well, Dugald, what did you think of it?”

_Dugald._ “Aweel, sir, it was mair like heev’n than airth; but e--h,
sir, it’s just an awfu’ way o’ spennin’ the Sawbath, yon!!”]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE IRISHMAN IN SCOTLAND.--Sorr, there is a river that requires milk
an’ sugar before ye’d dhrink a dhrop of it? What is it? Sure ’tis the
river _Tay_.

       *       *       *       *       *

umbrella like a Scottish shower?--Because the moment it rains it’s

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SCENE--_A Scottish Estate. The New Heir has run down to
see the property._

_The Heir._ “I sha’n’t be able to come and settle here just yet,
McTavish, as I’m ordered out to South Africa, but----”

_McTavish (his Factor--with feeling)._ “A’m sorry,--A’m varra sorry to
hear that”--(_the Heir is rather touched_)--“because ye’ll understan’,
if onything was to happen to ye, A doot the estate couldna stan’ two
succession duties so close.”]


(_A Comparison_)

  The sichts we’ve seen! The punds my wife
    Has spent instead o’ bankit!
  But eh! we’re back in bonny Fife,
    Sae let the Lord be thankit!
  An’ Lunnon? Weel, ye ken, it’s gay
    An’ busy, nicht an’ morn, man,
  An’ there’s a pickle fouk--but eh!
    It’s no--it’s no Kinghorn, man.

  Ye’ll wanner on, an’ on, an’ on,
    Through miles an’ miles o’ men, man,
  An’ yet in a’ the crood like yon
    There’s de’il a face ye’ll ken, man.
  Na! Lunnon’s oot the warl’, ye see,
    For look ye, I’ll be sworn, man,
  Sic unco things could never be
    In ceevilised Kinghorn, man.

  The shops? Ou, aye, there’s shops indeed,
    But faith, they’re rale unhaundy:
  Ane keeps yer butter, ane yer breid,
    An’ yet a third yer braundy.
  Noo here, gin ye be wantin’ oucht,
    Boots, butcher’s meat or corn, man,
  Shag, bonnets, breeks, they’ll a’ be boucht
    Thegither in Kinghorn, man.

  The fashions? Weel, ye ken, we saw
    A wheen o’ giddy hussies
  Paradin’ in their duddies braw
    Upon the cars an’ ’busses.
  But dinna think owre much o’ yon,
    For sure as I am born, man,
  For style, it’s no a patch upon
    Our floo’er show at Kinghorn, man.

  An’ then sic ignorance! Losh me,
    I’m feared ye’ll no can doot it,
  But nane kent whaur Kinghorn micht be,
    Nor onything aboot it.
  Tis awfu’! Yet ’twad seem to ca’
    For peety mair than scorn, man,
  For mind ye, ’tisna gi’en to a’
    To live aboot Kinghorn, man.

[Illustration: “USED TO IT!”

_Officer at firing-point (who thinks that it’s raining)._ “Sergeant
Mauchline, hadn’t you better wear your great coat till it’s your turn
to fire?”

_Sergeant Mauchline (frae the “Land of Lorne”)._ “Hoo! No the noo! I’ll
pit it on when it comes wat!”]

       *       *       *       *       *

_City Friend (visiting in Scottish rural town)._ And tell me, Andrew,
are you wi’ the Wee Kirkers, or the United Frees?

_Andrew._ Man, I’m gi’en’ up releegion a’thegither, an j’inin’ the Auld

       *       *       *       *       *

The Scotsman who tumbled off a bicycle says that in future he intends
to “let wheel alone.”

       *       *       *       *       *

MY ONLY “CROSSED CHECKS.”--My own Shepherd’s-plaid Trousers.

       *       *       *       *       *


_English Angler, having discovered there are two sorts of whisky at
the inn (best at 6d., second best at 3d.), orders a glass each of the

_Gillie (in a whisper to the maid as she passes)._ “Make mine twa o’
the threepenny!”]


_Irate Landlord (and Free-Kirk Elder, after being called in,
for the fiftieth time, about some repairs)._ “The fact is, Mrs.
McRacket, ye’ll ne’er be content till ye’re i’ the hoose made wi’out
hands.”--(_Severely._)--“See Second Corinthians, fifth chapter, and
firrst vairse, Mrs. McRacket!”]

[Illustration: “DEPRESSION”

_Tourist (tipping the old gravedigger, who had shown him over the
Cathedral)._ “I suppose, now so many visitors are in the town, you’ll
be doing well?”

_Gravedigger._ “Ou aye, there’s a wheen fowk gaun aboot,
but”--(_gloomily_)--“there’s terr’ble little deein’ in the diggin’


Since the immortal meeting of the Brick Lane Temperance Society, at
which the Messrs. Weller and the Reverend the Shepherd attended (after
refection elsewhere), and the latter, in response to the Chairman’s fat
smile and invitation to address the meeting, declined, on the ground
that the meeting was drunk, we have seen nothing so good as this, which
we take from the _Dundee Courier_:--

 “On Sunday last, the minister of a large congregation in Dundee was
 interrupted in the course of his forenoon sermon by the repeated
 coughing of his auditors. Pausing in the midst of his observations, he
 addressed his congregation to the following effect:--‘You go about the
 streets at the New Year time--you get drunk, and get cold, then you
 come here and cough, cough like a park of artillery. I think I must
 give you a vacation of six weeks, that you may have time to get sober,
 and to regain your health again.’”

[Illustration: “MOST UNFORTUNATE!”

_Bailie McScrew (to Smith, on a short visit to the North)._ “An’ what
are ye daen’ to-morrow nicht, Mester Smeth?”

_Smith._ “To-morrow? Oh, nothing particular.”

_Bailie._ “An’ the next nicht?”

_Smith._ “Ah! on Friday I’m to dine with the Browns----”

_Bailie._ “Man, that’s a petty! Aw was gaun t’ ask ye to tak’ yer
denner wi’ us o’ Friday!!”]

[Illustration: IN VINO MEMORIA

_Major Portsoken (a pretty constant guest)._ “I say, Buchanan, this
isn’t--(_another sip_)--the same champagne----!”

_Scots Butler._ “Na, that’s a’ dune! There was thrutty dizzen; and
ye’ve had yere share o’t, major!!”]


_Passenger (from the South, waking up)._ “Pray, sir, what station is

_Native._ “Thes es Paisley, sir!--Paisley! Celebrated toon,
sir!--Berrth-place o’ th’ poat Tannahul, sir! And--’hem?--ah’m a
Paisley man mysel’, sir! Ah was born i’ Paisley--ah was----”

  [_Luckily the train had now run into the station, and stopped._]

[Illustration: A PRACTICAL VIEW

_First Parishioner (to recently-appointed Minister)._ “Verra gled to
fall in wi’ ye, sir, an’ mak’ yer acqua’ntance! I hinna been at the
kirk syne ye cam’, as I wis in Ross-shire.”

_Parson._ “Well, I am very pleased to meet you. You may have heard
whether my serm----”

_Parishioner._ “Oh, a’ the fowk are greatly taken wi’ yer menners
an’ appearance, yer attention to the puir bodies o’ the parish, yer
visitin’ the sick, an’----wha cares for preachin’!”]

This lenitive application did good, for the congregation sat quiet,
and coughed no more than they would have dared to do had they been in
presence of the Queen, or any other great person, instead of being in
a mere church. But one seat-holder, though he held his seat, could
not hold his tongue, and declared that the congregation was insulted.
We suspect that the minister knew best. In fact, had the incident
occurred anywhere but in Scotland, where every man is proverbially
sober, we should have been sure that the minister knew best. Hurrah,
for the toddy of Bonnie Dundee!


_Dugald._ “Did ye hear that Sawney McNab was ta’en up for stealin’ a

_Donald._ “Hoot, toot, the stipit bodie! Could he no bocht it an’ no
paid for’t?”]


(_An enamoured Southron endeavours to address a Highland Damsel in her
own tongue_)

  Yon sky is bonny blue, fair lass,
    But you boast bluer een;
  Yon sun is bricht the noo, fair lass,
    Your locks hae brichter sheen;
  The fowl ahint the windy scaur
    Flees to its hame awa’,
  But, oh! my heart is fleeter far
    Whene’er I hear you ca’.

  The cushat seeks the hazel broch
    Therein his mate to woo,
  But I hie to the mountain loch
    To lilt my lays o’ lo’e.
  For here it was I speered you first
    In a’ your pride o’ race,
  You set my ardent soul athirst
    When I gazed on your face!

  I sat me down beside that cairn,
    And looked, a feckless loon,
  On you, the great MacMuckle’s bairn,
    Wi’ ne’er a pair o’ shoon!
  Wi’ winsome feet sae white as milk
    You paddlit i’ the faem,
  Your snoodless locks, sae soft as silk,
    Whished roun’ your gouden kaem!

 I looked and looked, and marvelled sair
    If human you might be;
  You laughed to see the wonder-stare
    That came frae oot my ee.
  And then you broke the eerie spell,
    And oh! your voice was douce!
  Like water trickling frae a shell,
    What time the ebb runs loose!

  An’ noo I maun my heart declare!
    (Would you could hear its beat.)
  I’ve lands, and siller, too, to spare,
    An’ sic a hamestead sweet!
  I ken you are MacMuckle’s chiel,
    His only dearest ane,
  But tell him that I lo’e you weel,
    And canna bide alane!

[Illustration: NOT TO BE MADE A FOOL OF

_Farmer._ “Noo, if it’s a fair question, hoo much wull ye get for thae
kye when ye’ve feenished them?”

_Artist._ “Oh, perhaps sixty guineas, or so.”

_Farmer._ “Wha-a-t! Dinna tell me, man; A’l no get that for them

       *       *       *       *       *

AT BONNIE BLINKIE CASTLE.--_Mr. Lysander B. Chunks, of Chicago_ (_who
has rented the property of the Duke of B. B._). I see this mansion
described in the guide-books as “palatial.” Why, it isn’t in it with
the Mastodon Hotel, Milwaukee!

_English Guest_. Then why didn’t you hire the hotel?

       *       *       *       *       *

MACBETH TO BAD MOCK TURTLE.--“Unreal mockery, hence!”

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: INCORRIGIBLE!

_Mrs. M‘Finnan (very genteel, and speaks pure Edinburgh English)._ “My
dear, you’ve got pigeon-pie there, I think.”

_Mr. M‘Finnan (an Aberdonian, and not particular)._ “A----ye. Fa-a’s
for doo tair-rt? I’m for neen mysel’!”]


_First Tramp._ “I wadna advise ye tae gang up there!”

_Second Tramp._ “What wye? Is there a muckle doug?”

_First Tramp._ “No; but there’s a danger o’ wark!”]

[Illustration: “AGAINST THE GRAIN”

_Widow Woman (to Chemist, who was weighing a grain of calomel in
dispensing a prescription for her sick child)._ “Man, ye needna’ be sae
scrimpy wi’t--’tis for a puir fatherless bairn!”]


[“A ‘Sober Scot Society’ has been formed in Edinburgh. Its members bind
themselves not to drink liquor before noon.”--_Daily Paper._]

  Willie brewed a peck o’ maut,
    Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!
  Tammas cam’ a-findin’ faut,
    Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!
  “What’s this poison ye wad pree?
  Put awa’ the barley-bree!
  Be a Sober Scot like me!”
    Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!

  Willie gied a fearsome froun,
    Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!
  Looked as he wad knock him doun
    Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!
  “Shober? Dinna gie me sic
  Inshults! Gin I’m speakin’ thick
  Lemme gang tae Jerich--hic!”
    Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!

  Tam turned up a yellow ee,
    Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!
  “Man, ye’re fou as fou can be;”
    Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!
  “Weel, an’, laddie, gin I am,
  Div ye think I care a----Tam!
  I am nae teetotal lamb!”
    Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!

  “Haud yer havers! Wha’s T. T.?
    Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!
  What! A Sober Scot like me?
    Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!
  I, my lad, like ither men,
  Lo’e a drappie noo and then;
  I am free at noon, ye ken.”
    Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!

  Hoo it cam’ let wise men tell,
    Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!
  While they cracked the clock struck twal’,
    Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!
  Will filled up a glass an’, faith,
  Tammas took it, naethin’ laith,
  Noo they’re fou an’ canty baith,
    Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t.


_First Scot._ “Fat sort o’ minister hae ye gotten, Geordie?”

_Second Ditto._ “Oh, weel, he’s no muckle worth. We seldom get a glint
o’ him. Sax days o’ th’ week he’s envees’ble, and on the seventh he’s

[Illustration: “GOOD INTENTIONS”

_Scot (on Waterloo Bridge)._ “Hech! To think I save a bawbee every time
I cross this bonny brig! I’ll just pit it in the plate the next time I
gang t’ the kirk!”]


_Free Kirk Elder (preparatory to presenting a tract)._ “My friend, do
you know the chief end of man?”

_Piper (innocently)._ “Na, I dinna mind the chune! Can ye no whustle

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *

WUT AT WIMBLEDON.--A Scots volunteer, one of the knot of critics round
the firing-point where the line-prizes were being shot for, on asking,
with some contempt in his voice, “Whaur thae lads come frae?” and being
told “Aldershot,” was heard to mutter, complacently. “Hech, sirs!
Aulder shots sud be better shots I’m thinkin’!”

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: “THE OLD ADAM.”--_The Minister (coming on them
unawares)._ “E-e-h! Sandy McDougal! Ah’m sorry to see this! And you
too, Wully! Fishin’ o’ the Sawbath! Ah thoucht ah’d enstellet better
prenciples----” (_A Rise._) “E-e-eh! Wully, man!--ye hae’m!--it’s
entil’m! Haud up yer r-rod, man--or ye’ll lose’m--tak’ car-r-re!----”

  [_Recollects himself, and walks off._]


(_A long way after Robbie Burns_)

  Oh, thou! whatever name, great Sir,
  Prince Lucio, or plain Lucifer,
  As up-to-date, thou may’st prefer,--
              They’re nane great catches,
  Whether derived frae classic or
              Frae brimstone matches!--

  Hear me, great Alias, for a wee!
  The leddies winna let thee be.
  Ye’d think sma’ pleasure it could gie,
              E’en to she-novelist,
  To drag thee frae the obscuritee
              Wherein thou grovellest.

  But leddies wi’ an eye to fame,
  Take leeberties wi’ thy dread name,
  Thy wanderings frae thy woefu’ hame,
              Lang fixed afar;
  Painting thee neither black, nor lame,
              As auld fients are.

  True, Wullie Shakspeare ance did say
  Thou wert “a gentleman.” But to-day
  The leddies limn thee masher gay,
              Modish and maudlin’,
  Weel-groomed, about the public way
              Daundering and dawdlin’.

  The Prince of Darkness as a dude,
  Callow and cantin’, crass and crude,
  Compound of prater, prig, male-prude,
            And minor poet,
  Is--weel, I wadna’ here intrude
            _The_ word--ye know it!

  Milton and Goethe whyles might summon
  Thine image forth, a graund, grim, glum ’un;
  But ’tis beyond the scribblin’ woman
            Wi’ truth to paint ye.
  She’ll mak’ ye a reedeeculous rum ’un,
            Unsex, half saint ye!

  Thrasonic Bobadil the bard,
  Wha deems Parnassus his backyard,
  Tried to invoke thy presence--hard;
            As did great “Festus.”
  But somehow their attempts, ill-starred,
            Scarce eenterest us.

  They havena’ the true grit and grup
  In mighty shape to raise _ye_ up.
  They wha’d on _genuine_ horrors sup,
            And scare a body,
  Are not inspired by raw pork-chop,
            An’ whusky-toddy.

  But oh! a leddy-novelist’s Deil
  Wad scarcely gar a bairnie squeel!
  Like Hotspur’s “sarcenet oath,” we feel
            It hath nae terror.
  Is lathen dagger ta’en for steel
            A greater error?

  Sorrows o’ Satan! Aye, good lack!
  ’Tis bad to paint ye owre black;
  But thus whitewash ye! Oh! quack! quack!
              His truest “sorrow”
  Satan from the she-scribbler’s knack
              Must surely borrow.

  Weel, fare-ye-weel, Auld Nickie-Ben!
  Ye’ve borne some wrangs at hands o’ men,
  But frae the writing-woman’s pen,
  Gude luck deliver ye--and then
              Ye’ll no dread Tophet!


_First Scots Boatman._ “Weel, Geordie, hoo got ye on the day?”

_Second Ditto (drouthy, he had been out with a Free Kirk Minister, a
strict abstainer)._ “Nae ava. The auld carle had nae whusky, sae I took
him whaur there was nae fush!”]

[Illustration: DRIVING A BARGAIN

_Economical Drover._ “A teeck’t tae Faa’kirk.”

_Polite Clerk._ “Five-and-ninepence, please.”

_Drover._ “Ah’ll gie ye five shillings!”

_Clerk (astonished)._. “Eh!”

_Drover._ “Weel, ah’ll gie ye five-an’-thrippence, an’ deil a bawbee
mair! Is’t a bargain?!”]


_The Doctor’s Daughter._ “I declare you’re a dreadful fanatic, Mrs.
McCizzom. I do believe you think nobody will be saved but you and your

_Old Lady._ “Aweel, my dear, ah whiles hae ma doobts aboot the

[Illustration: QUOI?

_First Artist (six months in Paris)._. “Yes, this is the best thing
I’ve done.”

_Second Artist (just arrived)._. “Mon, dinna let that discoorage ye!”]


(_Liberal Scots Farmer giving his workpeople a dram_). “Awm sorry,
Mrs. McDougal, ye canna tak a gless on account of your temperance

_Mrs. McDougal._ “Hoot, man! Ye jist poor’t on ma bap,[A] an’ I’ll eat


      [A] “_Bap_,” a roll.


[Illustration: _Emily the Elder._ “I can’t think why William wanted
to take Archie out rabbit-shooting in such horrid weather.”--(_Cousin
Archie, who is evidently smitten in this quarter, waves an adieu with
his bonnet._)--“A regular Scotch mist, I declare!”

_Maria the Younger._ “Yes, dear, and”--(_mischievously_)--“somebody
doesn’t like missing a Scotsman!!”

  [_Emily goes in with a toss of her head, and plays “Tullochgorum”
  furiously on the piano._]

       *       *       *       *       *

AT A WEST-END CLUB.--_Hospitable Southerner (to Scottish guest)._ Have
another go of whisky?

_Scottish Guest (with a sigh)._ I thank ye. No.

_Hospitable Southerner (astonished)._ What! Why surely it’s not a case
of “the wee drappie i’ the ee”?

_Scottish Guest._ Nae, mon, it’s no that; it’s the wee drappee i’ the

  [_H. S. takes hint and orders a tumbler of whisky._

       *       *       *       *       *

A REAL SCOTTISH JOKE.--What’s the next wine to golden sherry? Sillery.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: PLEASANT!

SCENE--_A bleak Scottish moor._ TIME--_New Year’s Day. Train gradually

_Excited Passenger._ “Now, then, guard, what _are_ you stopping here

_Philosophical Guard._ “Fact is, the watter’s gane aff the bile.
Hooever, it’s jist possible th’ express behin’ll be late.”]

[Illustration: _MacAlister._ “When ye come tae Scotland I’ll gie ye
plenty fushin’ and shuitin’.”

_Brown._ “Are you fond of fishing and shooting?”

_MacAlister._ “Na! na! A canna fush and am faird tae shuit!”]


_Little Girl._ “Wull ye gie’s ha’pennies for this thripenny, for ma
granny’s feared it’s no a gude ane?”]


  _Mr. Briggs loquitur_:

  I am going down to Scotland, to the country of the kilt,
  For a little salmon-stalking in a place they call Glen Tilt;
  And as I always like to be a Roman when at Rome,
  I’ve purchased the correct costume and it has just come home.

  The kilt is most becoming, and it hangs with grace and ease,
  Though perhaps a little draughty in the region of the knees,
  And if there should be midges--but no doubt the Scotch are drest
  In the clothes Experience has found to suit the climate best.

  The dirk that dangles from my waist looks very _comme il faut_,
  And the sporran in my stocking gives a finish, don’t you know?
  The girls are all in raptures as they gaze at me in turns,
  And mother says they’ll take me for another Robert Burns.

  _Sandy loquitur_:

  Oh, mony are the fallacies that Ignorance’ll breed,
  An’ mony the mistakes a man’ll get intil his heid,
  But the maddest o’ delusions mad wi’ which some folks are fillt,
  Is that ye suld gang tae Scotland, gin ye want to see the kilt

  For a’ the year I hevna seen a single kilt but ane--
  A wee bit white-legged Coackney wha’ was trudgin’ through the rain;
  The water it was pourin’ owre his knees intil his shoes,
  An’ eh! but he was wishin’ for a pair o’ honest trews.

  Na! gin it’s kilts ye’re wantin’, dinna win sae mony miles!
  Jist bide at home in Lunnon toun and gang tae Seven Dials,
  An’ there amang the coasters, hurdy-gurdies, dancin’ bears,
  Ye’ll fin’ yer bogus Scotsmen pipin’ bogus Scottish airs.

[Illustration: _First Lady._ “Losh, but the doctor was gran’ the day!”

_Second Lady._ “H’m! D’ye think he is as clever as he used tae be?”

_First Lady (astonished)._ “Clever!--he’s faur cleverer, but we dinna
un’erstan’ him noo!”]

       *       *       *       *       *

“IN VINO VERITAS.”--Sandie Mac Sawnie respondeth: “Truth in wine,
indeed! Hoot, mon, there’s nae sic a thing. Just skake up that auld
port, and ye’ll find there’s muckle _lees_ in it!”

       *       *       *       *       *

AT THE BOARD-SCHOOL LECTURE.--_Professor McCrobe._ And now, where do
you suppose germs are originated?

_Oversmart Lad (promptly)._ In Germany, sir!

  [_Laughter, cheers and--tears._

       *       *       *       *       *

AFTER A TRIP TO LONDON.--_Archie._ Weel, Sandy, an’ hoo did ye pass the
time in Lunnon?

_Sandy._ Richt brawly, mon. An’ forbye, when I’d clappit a stove pipe
on my head and put on a frockit coat, ’deed, Archie, if there was a
Southron but didna’ take me for a Cockney born and bred!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: WOMAN’S RIGHTS

_Scots Lady (who has taken a house in the Highlands, her servants
suddenly giving “warning”)._ “What’s the reason of this? Have you not
all you want?--good rooms, and good fresh air and food, and easy work?”

_Spokeswoman._ “Yes, mem--but--but there’s no a decent laad within cry
o’ us!”]


(_By The MacPry_)

  Why sit ye on the stair, ladie,
    Why sit ye on the stair?
  It’s merry dancing in the hall,
    And partners still are there.

  Ye arena in a cosy neuk,
    But in the lamp’s full glare;
  No gentle whisperin’ words are spoke--
    Why sit ye on the stair?

  The runkled carle that’s by your side
    No tale of luve can tell;
  He fain wad win ye for his bride
    By talkin’ o’ himsel’.

  Your voice is clear, your laugh is cheer,
    But oh, your eyes are sad;
  You answer what the gaffer says,
    You’re lookin’ for the lad.

  (They winna stint their prattlin’ talk--
    Oh, but her eyes are sad!--
  Tis vain to cherche the fammy here,
    I’ll gang and speer the lad.)

  Why prop ye up the wa’, laddie,
    Why prop ye up the wa’?
  Your lissom shoes are stickit oot,
    Ye’ll gar the dancers fa’.

  Or feckless couples tearin’ past,
    Wi’ elbows at an angle,
  Will pin ye to the wainscoat fast
    As wild boar in a jungle.

  The floor’s as smooth as summer grass
    Sma’ feet, like crickets, caper,
  And whirlin’ kirtles, as they pass,
    Sair waste the swealing taper.

  The lassies’ gowns are creased and rent;
    The lads are oot o’ knowledge;
  They are as hot wi’ twirlin’ roon
    As blacksmith frae the village.

  The fiddles pour their love-sick pray’rs
    The flutie-man is whis’lin’,
  Just like when ancient madam scares
    A thrummock-touzle hisslin’.

  There’s young folks movin’ like a fair,
    There’s auld folks quaffin’ sherry.
  An’ you sae weary, fu’ o’ care,
    When all the world is merry?

  Gin ye maun feed your dowie grudge,
    At least fill up your programme,
  And come victorious from the crush
    Like Bonaparte from Wagram.

  Nay, dinna off the lassie score;
    Her heart sings, “Waly, waly!”
  She’s talkin’ with that awfu’ bore,
    The Laird o’ Lanthorn Jawley.

  Quit, quit, for shame! This winna do.
    Rouse up and play the man, sir!
  For they should dance who have the chance,
    And they should sup who can, sir.

  Ah, see, she smiles! Could any word
    More eloquently call ye?
  Now go and soothe your bonnie burd,
    And banish Lanthorn Jawley.

  So prop nae mair the wa’, laddie,
    So prop nae mair the wa’----’
  (Ye dinna ken that on your coat
    Yon candle-droppin’s fa’?)

[Illustration: _Mariner._ “Yo hoy, Bill, stand by! We’ll find a ’bacco
shop alongside. Here’s the Scotsman!”]

[Illustration: “IS IT GREEK?”

_Foreigner._ “’Say, mun, rax me owre the pourrie.”

_Southerner._ “I’m sorry--Je ne parle no French.”

_Foreigner._ “O, I beg ye’re paurdon--han’ me the cream-jug.”

  [_No--it is Scotch._]

[Illustration: EXPENSIVE!

_Londoner (to Friend from the North)._ “Well, how do you like the
opera, MacAlister?”

_Mr. MacAlister._ “No that bad. But is’t no dreadfu’, man, to be
sittin’ in thae chairs at ten shullins apiece!”]

[Illustration: “LIVE AND LET LIVE”

_Village Doctor (to the Grave-Digger, who is given to whisky)._ “Ah,
John! I’m sorry to see you in this pitiable condition again!”

_Grave-Digger._ “Toots, sir! can ye no’ let a’e little fau’t o’ mine
gae by? It’s mony a muckle ane o’ yours I ha’e happit owre, an’ said
naething aboot!”]

[Illustration: “SCOTCH MIST”

“The rain seems to be clearing off at last, Sandy.”

“Ay, I doot it’s _threatenin’ to be dry_!”]

[Illustration: PROPHETIC!

_Guest (late for dinner, the delicious odour of the Haggis, just coming
up, met him in the hall)._--“A----h!” (_On second thoughts._) “E----h!
I’ll be bad the morn!!”]

       *       *       *       *       *

FOLLOWING THEIR NOSES.--We read a report of whales running ashore on
the Orkney coast last week. They were of the bottle-nose kind, and
probably followed their noses, tempted by the free flow of “het-pint,”
a very tempting new year’s tipple, largely indulged in north of the

       *       *       *       *       *

_Question._ Why may Scotsmen be supposed to like policemen?

_Answer._ Eh, sirs, it’s just because they’re vera fond of the

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: PRETTY DRY

_Young Beginner (fishing with dry fly)._ “Am I keeping my fly properly
dry, Duncan?”

_Scots Keeper._ “Oh, I’m thenkin’ she’ll be dry enough. She’s stickin
up in that big willow near by where ye started fushin’.”]



  _Loch Scrimpy Hotel, N.B._

DEAR MAISTER PUNCH,--I’ve heerd often enough aboot ye as a kind sort o’
buddy, whae putts the warld richt, _when it has gaun wrang_, and I’m
thinking to write tae ye, a screed about thae feckless critters, the
South’ren tourists whae owerrun Auld Scotland at this time o’ the year
with their _coo-ponds_ and their _excursion tuckets_, thinking to tak
their pleesures on the cheap. Noo, the hotels in this country are famed
for their vera moderate charges. I mysel have had a real good breakfast
(they ca’ it _dijohnny_ now) for no more than _five shullings_--that’s
cheap enough. And as for a bed! weel, no one can find faut with half
of a sovereign? And yet thae tourists are aye complainin’. Hotel
folk in Scotland should have fixed charges throughout. I, _for yin_,
will make free to say that I will cheerfully pay them, _when I find it
necessary_, one pound ten shullin’s for bed and breakfast and maybe
half-a-croon for a good glass of the cratur, as a settler afterwards.
If the hotel folk would all agree to some moderate charge like that,
they could think aboot Culloden with eequanimity!

  Yours most friend-like,

[Illustration: _Guard (to excited passenger at the Edinburgh Station,
just as the train is starting)._ “Ye’re too late, sir. Ye canna enter.”

_Stalwart Aberdonian._ “I maun!”

_Guard (holding him back)._ “Ye canna.”

_Aberdonian._ “Tell ye I maun--I weel!” (_Gripping Guard._) “If I
maunna, ye sanna!!!”]



          It seems that the Scots
          Turn out much better shots
  At long distance, than most of the Englishmen are:
          But this we all knew
          That a Scotsman could do--
  Make a small piece of metal go awfully far.

  [Illustration:                      Illustration:

    (LIMITED), LONDON.                   UNLIMITED!

  _Mac (hungry)._ “Lo-or-sh
  keep’s! Ca’ this a br’akfast!!”


[Illustration: CANNY

“Why I dinna prayfair tae smoke, hech? Weel, noo loddie, I’ll joost
tell ye. While’s ye’re smoking, ye blaw an’ blaw, an’ _whaur is’t_? But
gin ye tak a guid pench, losh! mon, ye ken _et’s there_!”]

[Illustration: A WEIGHTY REASON

_Rab._ “They’re tellin’ me that Tam Stirdy’s turned oot a great poet
since he gaed tae London.”

_Allan._ “Poet! Hoo could Tam Stirdy be a poet? Man, he was at the
schule wi’ _me_!”]


  Hear, Land o’ Cakes, and brither Scots,
  Frae Maidenkirk to Johnnie Groats--
  A chiel’s amang ye takin’ notes:
              Behold his labours--
  A volume padded weel wi’ “quotes”
              Aboot his neighbours.

  And wha should ken sae weel as he
  What a’ oor fauts and failin’s be?
  Has he no seen wi’ his ain ee
              Auld Reekie’s lums?
  Drumtochty’s kent as weel’s E.C.
              And sae is Thrums.

  Ou aye, there’s noucht he disna ken
  O’ Scottish life and Scottish men.
  Wi’ lugs attentive let us then
              List to his railin’s,
  And humbly set oorsels to men’
              Oor mony failin’s.

  The Scot, says he, is dull and dour,
  Aye jealous, greedy, jaundiced, sour,
  A drucken, coarse, ill-mannered boor,
              Wherein one traces
  Nae sign o’ Crosland’s mental pow’r
              And courtly graces.

  We arena gleg, we Scottish folk:
  We canna catch the witty stroke
  That will a Surrey Ha’ provoke,
              To lauchter shakin’,
  Nay, whiles we canna see a joke
              O’ Crosland’s makin’.

  We swear, we lo’e the barley bree,
  We thieve--but, eh, sirs! how should we
  Be quit o’ thae black vices he
              Sae criticises,
  When a’ the virtues Mr. C.

[Illustration: “SATISFACTORY”

_Mistress._ “Well, Jessie, I’m going into Nairn, and will see your
mother. Can I give her any message from you?”

_Jessie (her first “place”)._ “Ou, mem, ye can just say I’m unco weel
pleased wi’ ye!!”]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE DAY AND THE DEED.--A certain Scottish Presbytery were sorely
dumbfounded by an answer to a request of theirs for signature to a
Sabbatarian petition. The reply (translated to them of course) was
_Laborare est orare_.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Guard (to inebriated traveller, at junction)._ Now, sir, all change,

_Traveller (with dignity)._ D’ye ken, mon, that I’ve got a return

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: “ICHABOD!”

_Scots Wife (to her gossip)._ “Ah dinna ken what’s come ower the Kirk.
Ah canna bide to see oor menester spankin’ aboot on yon cyclopædy!”]


  The lusty sun did glower aboon,
    Wi’ welcome in his cheerfu’ rays;
  I walked in Edinboro’ toon,
        A’ in ma caller claes.

  For I had donned ma coat o’ cheiks
    That cost me guineas twa an’ three.
  But and ma pair o’ ditto breeks
        That luiked sae pleasantlie.

  On ilka breek were creasies twa;
    And they did hang sae fine, sae fine,
  Frae John o’ Groats to Gallowa’
        Were nane sae fair as mine.

  An’ first I honoured Geordie Street,
    An’ syne I walked the Princes ane,
  To gie to ilka lass a treat
        An’ a’ the laddies pain.

  An’ mony a laddie’s hert was sair;
    An’ mony a lassie’s een, ay, mony,
  Uplicht wi’ joy to see a pair
        Sae canny an’ sae bonny.

  I hadna walked an hour at maist,
    I hadna honoured half the toon,
  The air grew drumlie lik’ a ghaist,
        An’ syne the rain cam’ doon.

  An’ first the dust it gently laid,
    An’ syne it cam’ in cats an’ doggies,
  That loosed the cobble-stanes and played
        Auld Hornie wi’ ma toggies.

  O waly for ma coat o’ cheicks
    That cost me guineas twa and three!
  An’ waly for ma ditto breeks
        Sae bagsome at the knee!

  The creasies twa are past reca’
    That gard them hang sae fine, sae fine,
  Frae John o’ Groats to Gallowa’
        Are nane sae puir as mine!

  O fause, inhospitable toon,
    I rede thee, gin I come again,
  Ma claes sall be o’ reich-ma-doon,
        An’ deil tak’ your rain!

[Illustration: INTANGIBILITY

_Severe Scots Schoolmistress (visiting some English friends)._ “Sir
Joshua Reynolds, is it? Ah! vera pretty! And cherubs do vera weel in a
picture; but I dinna care for bairnies _whose feelings I can’t appeal



  Thou dear and gracious town, where I
    Have sojourned for a fleeting spell,
  The hour has come that bids me fly;
    Edina, fare thee well!

  Right heavy am I that we must part,
    For lo, I know not where or when
  I’ve met so--down, poor fluttering heart!--
    And more agreeable men.

  Forgive me that I spake in haste
    Winged words that I would fain forget;
  Thy welcome seemed in doubtful taste,
    And I was very wet!

  But rather hold his memory dear,
    Whose sunny presence brought thee forth
  The finest weather of the year,
    And warmed the watery North.

  Now onward speeds the busy train,
    O hospitable town and kind,
  Farewell! Until I come again,
    I leave my heart behind.


      [B] A postcript to “A Ballad of Edinboro’ Toon.”


[Illustration: _Follower (at the tail of the procession)._ “E--h, d’ye
see yon wee Tam M‘Gowkie the-r-re! He maun be i’ th’ front, ye ken,
whatever’s gaun on!”

_His Companion._ “I’ the front! Aye, mun”--(_viciously_)--“he’d be i’
the hea-arse if he could!”]

       *       *       *       *       *

Give every man his due, and his Mountain Dew if he claims it.


       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Model._ “Fine day, sir.”

_Painter (aghast)._ “Fine--good heavens, man! Where’s your beard? What
have you done to your face?”

_Model._ “Me, sir? Naethin, but just made my whiskers a wee thing
decent wi’ the shears.”

_Painter._ “Then you’re an utterly ruined man, sir! and I’m very sorry
for you. You’re not worth twopence. Good morning.”]



 _By_ J. MUIR KIRRIE, _Author of “A Door on Thumbs_,” “_Eight Bald
 Fiddlers_,” “_When a Man Sees Double_,” “_My Gentleman Meerschaum_,”

 [With this story came a glossary of Scots expressions. We have
 referred to it as we went along, and found everything quite
 intelligible. As, however, we have no room to publish the glossary, we
 can only appeal to the indulgence of our readers. The story itself was
 written in a very clear, legible hand, and was enclosed in a wrapper
 labelled, “Arcadia Mixture. Strength and Aroma combined. Sold in
 Six-shilling cases. Special terms for Southrons. Liberal allowance for
 returned empties.”]


We were all sitting on the pig-sty at T’nowhead’s Farm. A pig-sty is
not, perhaps, a strictly eligible seat, but there were special reasons,
of which you shall hear something later, for sitting on this particular

[Illustration: THE UNCO’ GUID

_Scrupulous Waiter._ “A what? A sangwitch! Na, na! I’ll gie ye
breed an’ cheese, an’ as much whusky as ye can drink; but, tae mak’
sangwidges on the Saubberth day!”----]


_Purchaser._ “K-a-t-l is no the way to spell ‘cattle.’”

_Drover (writing the receipt)._ “Naebody could spell wi’ this pen.
There’s been owre mony drucken bodies usin’ it!”]

[Illustration: _Southerner (in Glasgow, to Friend)._ “By the way, do
you know McScrew?”

_Northerner._ “Ken McScrew? Oo’ fine! A graund man, McScrew! Keeps the
Sawbath,--an’ everything else he can lay his hands on!”]


The old sow was within, extended at full length. Occasionally she
grunted approval of what was said, but, beyond that, she seemed to show
but a faint interest in the proceedings. She had been a witness of
similar gatherings for some years, and, to tell the truth, they had
begun to bore her, but, on the whole, I am not prepared to deny that
her appreciation was an intelligent one. Behind us was the brae. Ah,
that brae! Do you remember how the child you once were sat in the brae,
spinning the peerie, and hunkering at I-dree I-dree I droppit-it? Do
you remember that? Do you even know what I mean? Life is like that.
When we are children the bread is thick, and the butter is thin; as
we grow to be lads and lassies, the bread dwindles, and the butter
increases; but the old men and women who totter about the commonty, how
shall they munch when their teeth are gone? That’s the question. I’m a
Dominie. What!--no answer? Go to the bottom of the class, all of you.

[Illustration: _First Aberdonian (from the road)._ “Fat’s the man-nie

_Second Ditto (who has got over the wall to inspect)._ “He’s draain’
wi’ paint.”

_First Boy._ “Fat’s he draain? Is’t bonny?”

_Second Ditto (after a pause, critically)._ “O, na, it’s onything but

Chapter II.

As I said, we were all on the pig-sty. Of the _habitués_ I scarcely
need to speak to you, since you must know their names, even if you fail
to pronounce them. But there was a stranger amongst us, a stranger
who, it was said, had come from London. Yesterday when I went ben the
house I found him sitting with Jess; to-day, he, too, was sitting with
us on the pig-sty. There were tales told about him, that he wrote for
papers in London, and stuffed his vases and his pillows with money, but
Tammas Haggart only shook his head at what he called “such auld fowks’
yeppins,” and evidently didn’t believe a single word. Now Tammas,
you must know, was our humorist. It was not without difficulty that
Tammas had attained to this position, and he was resolved to keep
it. Possibly he scented in the stranger a rival humorist whom he would
have to crush. At any rate, his greeting was not marked with the usual
genial cordiality characteristic of Scots weavers, and many were the
anxious looks exchanged amongst us, as we watched the preparations
for the impending conflict.


_The “Macwhuskey.”_ “Weel, my braw wee English laddie! Here have I
come a’ the way to London to veesit y’r guid feyther and mither, that
brought ye with ’em to see me in Thrumnitrochit last year--where ye
rode a cockhorse on my knee! D’ye _mind_ me, noo?”

_The Braw Wee English Laddie._ “Oh no--_I_ don’t mind you--not a bit.
It’s _papa and mamma_!”]

[Illustration: GOSSIPS

_First Gael (just come ashore from the Herrin’ Fushin’)_ “Hoo’s a’ wi’
you, Donal’? Hae ye ony news yonder?”

_Second Gael._ “Na, I hear naething,--oo, aye,--they were sayin’ Mac
Callum Mohr’s son’s goin’ to get marri’t!”

_First Gael._ “Ay! ay! An’ wha’s he goin’ to get marri’t on?”

_Second Gael._ “Ye ken the Queen--e-ch?”

_First Gael._ “Ay--I ken the Queen.”

_Second Gael._ “A--weel, it’s on her young dochter he’s goin’ to get

_First Gael._ “E--ch! Dod! the Queen mun be the _prood woman_!!!”]

[Illustration: REAL DARING

_M‘Phusky (Scots Partner)._ “Any war news this morning, Brown?”

_Brown (English ditto)._ “Well, freights are low, money seems to be
tight, and consols have fallen two----”

_M‘Phusky._ “Na, but war news, I mean.”

_Brown (risking the operation)._ “Well, you wouldn’t wish to hear
_waur_ news than that, would you?”]

[Illustration: PRACTICAL

_Fond Father._ “I see ye’ve put my son intil graummer an’ jography.
Noo, as I neither mean him tae be a minister or a sea-captain, it’s o’
nae use. Gie him a plain bizness eddication.”]


_Scots Cook._ “Whisht! There’s master whustlin’ o’ the Saubath! Losh
save us! an’ ‘Maggie Lauder,’ too!”]

Chapter III.

After Tammas had finished boring half-a-dozen holes in the old sow with
his sarcastic eye, he looked up, and addressed Hendry McQumpha.

“Hendry,” he said, “ye ken I’m a humorist, div ye no?”

Hendry scratched the old sow meditatively, before he answered.

“Ou ay,” he said, at length. “I’m no saying ’at ye’re no a humorist.
I ken fine ye’re a sarcesticist, but there’s other humorists in the
world, am thinkin’.”

This was scarcely what Tammas had expected. Hendry was usually one of
his most devoted admirers. There was an awkward silence, which made me
feel uncomfortable. I am only a poor Dominie, but some of my happiest
hours had been passed on the pig-sty. Were these merry meetings to come
to an end? Pete took up the talking.

“Hendry, my man,” he observed, as he helped himself out of Tammas’s
snuff-mull, “ye’re ower kyow-owy. Ye ken humour’s a thing ’at spouts
out o’ its ain accord, an’ there’s no nae spouter in Thrums ’at can
match wi’ Tammas.”

[Illustration: A VESTED INTEREST

_Bystander (to excited Scot, whose friend had been run over)._ “Not a
near relative, I hope, sir.”

_Scot._ “Na--but--he has on a pair of ma breeks!”]

He looked defiantly at Hendry, who was engaged in searching for coppers
in his north-east-by-east-trouser pocket. T’nowhead said nothing, and
Hookey was similarly occupied. At last, the stranger spoke.

“Gentlemen,” he began, “may I say a word? I may lay claim to some
experience in the matter. I travel in humour, and generally manage to
do a large business.”

He looked round interrogatively. Tammas eyed him with one of his keen
glances. Then he worked his mouth round and round to clear the course
for a sarcasm.

“So you’re the puir crittur,” said the stone-breaker, “’at’s meanin’ to
be a humorist.”

This was the challenge. We all knew what it meant, and fixed our eyes
on the stranger.

[Illustration: A TARTAR

Dr. M‘Currie (a chilly old soul), having ascertained from his landlady
that coals are sixpence a scuttle, politely insists on providing
a scuttle of his own, and begs to return, with many thanks, the
charmingly tasteful article she had intended for his use.]

[Illustration: SOLILOQUY

“If I hold on, I’ll lose my train; if I let go, I’ll fa’! Did ever
onybody hear tell o’ sic a predicament?”]

[Illustration: “THE GARB OF OLD GAUL”

_Native (to visitor from the South)._ “Ah, you’ve donned the kilt!
Quite killing, I declare! But why do you wear the Macdonald tartan when
your name is Thompson?”

_Little T. (who has been getting a good deal of chaff)._ “F’r a very
good reason--’cause I’ve paid for it!”

  [_Retires in a huff._]

“Certainly,” was his answer; “that is exactly my meaning. I trust I
make myself plain. I’m willing to meet any man at catch-weights. Now
here,” he continued, “are some of my samples. This story about a
house-boat, for instance, has been much appreciated. It’s almost in the
style of Mr. Jerome’s masterpiece; or this screamer about my wife’s
tobacco-pipe and the smoking mixture. Observe,” he went on, holding
the sample near to his mouth, “I can expand it to any extent. Puff,
puff! Ah! it has burst. No matter, these accidents sometimes happen to
the best regulated humorists. Now, just look at these,” he produced
half-a-dozen packets rapidly from his bundle. “Here we have a packet
of sarcasm--equal to dynamite. I left it on the steps of the Savile
Club, but it missed fire somehow. Then here are some particularly neat
things in cheques. I use them myself to paper my bedroom. It’s simpler
and easier than cashing them, and besides,” adjusting his mouth to his
sleeve, and laughing, “it’s quite killing when you come to think of it
in that way. Lastly, there’s this banking-account sample, thoroughly
suitable for journalists and children. You see how it’s done. I open
it, you draw on it. Oh, you don’t want a drawing-master, any fellow
can do it, and the point is it never varies. Now,” he concluded,
aggressively, “what have you got to set against that, my friend?”

[Illustration: _Sandy McPherson, in a moment of abstraction, put
half-a-crown in the collection plate last Sunday in mistake for a
penny, and has since expended a deal of thought as to the best way of
making up for it._ “Noo I might stay awa’ frae the kirk till the sum
was made up; but on the ither han’ I wad be payin’ pew rent a’ the time
an’ gettin’ nae guid o’ ’t. Losh! but I’m thinkin’ this is what the
meenister ca’s a ‘releegious defficulty!’”]

We all looked at Tammas. Hendry kicked the pail towards him, and he
put his foot on it. Thus we knew that Hendry had returned to his
ancient allegiance, and that the stranger would be crushed. Then Tammas

“Man, man, there’s no nae doubt ’at ye lauch at havers, an’ there’s
mony ’at lauchs at your clipper-clapper, but they’re no Thrums fowk,
and they canna’ lauch richt. But we maun juist settle this matter. When
we’re ta’en up wi’ the makkin’ o’ humour, we’re a’ dependent on other
fowk to tak’ note o’ the humour. There’s no nane o’ us ’at’s lauched at
anything you’ve telt us. But they’ll lauch at me. Noo then,” he roared
out, “‘A pie sat on a pear-tree.’”

We all knew this song of Tammas’s. A shout of laughter went up from the
whole gathering. The stranger fell backwards into the sty a senseless

“Man, man,” said Hookey to Tammas, as we walked home; “what a crittur
ye are! What pit that in your heed?”


_Minister._ “Weel, John, an hoo did ye like ma son’s discoorse?”

_John._ “Weel, meenister, ah maun admeet he’s vera soond, but, oh man!
he’s no deep! His pronoonciation’s no vera gweed; but ah’ve nae doobt
he’ll impruv’!”]

“It juist took a grip o’ me,” replied Tammas, without moving a muscle;
“it flashed upon me ’at he’d no stand that auld song. That’s where the
humour o’ it comes in.”

“Ou, ay,” added Hendry, “Thrums is the place for rale humour.” On the
whole, I agree with him.


AIR--“_Ye banks and braes._”

  Ye banks and mines a’ ganging doon,
    How sma’ the sum ye fetch per share!
  How flat ye’ve got, ye railway lines,
    And a’ the Change sae fu’ o’ care!
  Thou’lt break my heart, thou civic crash,
    That made my paper fit to burn,
  Thou mind’st me o’ departed cash,
    Departed never to return!

  Oft hae I purchased shares gane doon,
    When panic bade a’ stocks decline,
  And waited for them to improve,
    When muckle profit aye was mine.
  Wi’ lightsome heart I stored the gain
    Fu’ safe in the Per-Centies Three;
  Aweel, when Trust resumes his reign,
    The rise may mak’ amends to me!

[Illustration: DIPLOMACY

_First Boatman (sotto voce)._ “That’s only the weeds he’s caught.”

_Second Boatman._ “Haud yer tongue, ye muckle sumph! It’s a glass of
whusky we’ll be gettin’ if the body thinks he’s lost a fush!”]

[Illustration: _Country Gentleman (who thought he’d got such a
treasure of a new gardener)._ “Tut, tut, tut! Bless my soul, Saunders!
How----what’s all this? Disgracefully intoxicated at this hour of the
morning! Ain’t you ashamed of yourself?!”

_Saunders._ “’Sh-hamed! (_Hic._) Na, na, ’m nae sae drunk as that comes
t’! Ah ken varra weel what a’m aboot!!”]

[Illustration: “SHOUTHER TO SHOUTHER!”

_Obstinate Juryman (Licensed Victualler)._ “What! Gie a vardict agyen
Mr. McLushy? Not if aw sit here a’ nicht! Aw’ll see ye a’ starved
first! He’s one o’ the finest gen’lemen i’ the toon, an’ comes to ma
billiard-table every nicht, and a’ nichts whiles!”]



  Haggis broo is bla’ and braw,
  Kittle kail is a’ awa’;
  Gin a lassie kens fu’ weel,
  Ilka pawkie rattlin’ reel.
    Hey the laddie! Oh the pladdie!
    Hey the sonsie Finnie haddie!
                      Hoot awa’!

  Gang awa’ wi’ philibegs,
  Maut’s nae missed frae tappit kegs;
  Sound the spleuchan o’ the stanes,
  Post the pibroch i’ the lanes!
    Hey the swankie, scrievin’ shaver!
    Ho the canny clishmaclaver!
                      Hoot awa’!

  Paritch glowry i’ the ee,
  Mutchkin for a wee drappee;
  Feckfu’ is the barley-bree--
  Unco’ gude! Ah! wae is me!
    Hey the tousie Tullochgorum!
    Ho the mixtie-maxtie jorum!
                      Hoot awa’!

[We have received a note from the Lazy One, saying that he is staying
in the North of Scotland with the Maclather of Maclather. He says, if
we were to hear the retainers sing “_Rigs Awa’_”--of which he encloses
a copy--during dinner, accompanying themselves on the national
instruments, sporans and claymores, we should never forget it. We don’t
suppose we ever should.----On second thoughts, we do not believe he
has been out of town at all, but that someone has sent him a guinea
Christmas hamper. “_Rigs Awa’_,” indeed! We’ll give him a recht gude
willie waght in his ee when we catch him.--ED.]

[Illustration: VERY HARD LINES

“Well, Kirsty, how’s business?”

“Middlin’, mem, jist middlin’. Some days we dae naething ava, an’
ithers we dae twice as muckle.”]

[Illustration: _Tammas (to Friend, who has joined the teetotal)._
“There’s nae doot, Jeems, ye’re a much improved man,--but I’ve lost a

[Illustration: THRIFT!

_Mabel (who has just concluded a bargain for a fowl)._ “Then I’ll tell
mother you’ll kill it and send it up to-night.”

_Mrs. Macfarlane._ “Na, na, I’ll no kill it till the morn. I’m thinkin’
it’s goin’ to lay an egg this evenin’!”]


“My card, mon? I hanna got one! But I’d hae you to ken that I’m a

“You may be a _Humbereller_ for all I knows, but my fare’s

[Illustration: REASSURING!

_Old Gent (suddenly turning corner in narrow lane)._ “Oh!--I say!--Is
he?--Will he?”--(_backing into hedge._)--“Can he?”----

_Peasant._ “Don’t take no notice of ’im, sir! I’ve got a wee bit check
on ’im if he runs!!”]

[Illustration: “THE VERNACULAR”

_Old Gentleman, frae Aberdeen (at the Exhibition)._ “I say, Joack, look
up the cat’logk an see fa that is wi’ the ‘Brechum’ [horse-collar]

[Illustration: A NARCOTIC

_Doctor._ “Look here, Mrs. McCawdle. Don’t give him any more physic. A
sound sleep will do him more good than anything.”

_Gudewife._ “E-h, docthor, if we could only get him tae the kirk!!”]


_Returned Native (to country carrier, who has given him a lift)._ “We
don’t seem to be covering the ground so fast as we did twelve years

_Carrier._ “Ye’re wrang there, Mr. Broon, for it’s the same bit

[Illustration: AWARE OF THE CRISIS

_Sairgeant Mucklewham (more in sorrow than anger)._ “Halt! O Man Nummer
Three, I wunner tae sae ye! Hoo can ye think Foreign Powers can ever
respect ye, if ye wull persist in steppin’ three inches less than the

[Illustration: PUT TO THE ROUT

_Distracted Bandster._ “Komm avay--komm avay--ee zhall nod give you
nodingsh--ee vill blay de moozeek erselbst! Teufel!”

  [_They retreat hastily._]


_Dissipated Tradesman (to the expostulations of the minister)._ “Ye’re
aye crackin’ at me about my drinkin’, sir, but you don’t consider my


_English Angler (on this side of the Tweed)._ “Hi, Donald! come over
and help me to land him--a 20-pounder I’ll swear----”

_Highlander (on the other)._ “It wull tak’ ye a lang time to lan’ that
fush too, d’ye ken, sir, whatever!--Ye hae heuket the kingdom o’ auld

[Illustration: _Northern Gamekeeper._ “Will ye gie me some oil to my
guns this morning, cook?”

_Cook._ “If ye wunt oil frae me, ‘keeper,’ ye’ll need to mind. Ma
name’s no cook--ma name’s Misthress Macphairson!”

_Gamekeeper (with a sniff)._ “Weel, gin ye’re no to be ‘cook,’ I’m nae
to be ‘keeper’! Ye’ll be as gude as gie me ‘Maisther Forr-biss’!!”]


_The New Doctor._ “Well, Mac, how is the little girl’s arm going on?”

_Mac._ “Weel, sir, my gudewife says it’s looking just fine whaur ye
tattoo’d it.”]


_The Laird (to his Gardener, who had caught somebody trespassing)._
“Hum! And you say, Saunders, that the fellow was impudent?”

_Gardener._ “‘Impident!’ ’Deed, sir, if he had been the Laird himsell
he could na hae been mair ill-bred!”]

[Illustration: _MacNab (whose wife has met with a slight accident on
the railway, to Railway Agent, who has called to offer condolence, and
produces one or two pounds by way of solatium)._ “Na, na, if she dees
it will likely be twa or three hunders!”]

[Illustration: A MODERN ATHENIAN

_Southern Tourist (in Edinburgh)._ “Can you direct me to the Royal

_Native. (Vacant Stare.)_ “What est?”

_Tourist (giving a Clue)._ “Pictures, you know--Statues--and----”

_Native (after much thought)._ “Oo!--et’s the Stukky Feggars ye
mean!”--(_Pointing._)--“Yon’s et!”]

[Illustration: A POSER

_Fair Client._ “I’m always photographed from the same side, but I
forget which!”

_Scots Photographer (reflectively)._ “Well, it’ll no be _this_ side,
I’m thinkin’. Maybe it’s t’ither!”]


_Porter._ “Train’s awa, man. Ye should hae ran faster.”

_Passenger._ “Ran faster! Dod, I ran fast eneugh, but I should hae
startit sooner.”]

[Illustration: “ALARUMS, EXCURSIONS”

_Perplexed Old Lady (at Scottish Junction in a fog)._ “Ah hae ma
bundle--an’ ah hae ma teeck’t--but fa’s the Deeside Rel-ro’d!!”]

[Illustration: _Excited Scotsman (who has just hooked a fish)._ “I’m
dashed feared I’ll loose my half-crown flee!”]

[Illustration: “WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK.” SCENE--_District Court in a

_Scots Judge (with a very marked pug-nose)._ “Weel, noo, sir, if ye gae
along the ro’d in question, where’ll ye gang tae?”

_Scots Witness (deliberately)._ “That a’ depends, yer honour, on how
far ye gae!”

_Judge (snappishly)._ “Ye understan’ vera weel, sir. If ye follow yer
nose, mun, where’ll ye gang till?”

_Witness (after a pause)._ “Ah’ve always heer-ed it said, yer honour,
that if ye follow yer nose too far, it’ll tak’ ye t’ the moon!”

_Judge._ “Step doon, sir!”--(_In an angry aside_).--“The mon’s a

[Illustration: _Traveller (to Colonial Squatter)._ “Hullo, McDonald! I
didn’t expect this of you! All your men working on a Sunday!”

_Mac._ “This is nae Sunday, mun!--it’s Wednesday----”

_Traveller._ “Not a bit of it! This is Sunday, I assure you----”

_Mac._ “Aweel! Think o’ that, noo! We hinna seen a sowl for three
months, an’ there’s nae an almanack i’ the hoose, an’ we’ve gotten
jummelt up a’ th’gether!!”]

[Illustration: _Malcolm (to the Colonel, who had been narrating his
fishing adventures all over the globe)._ “Ye must ha’e had gran’ sport
among the black men, sir! Hed they ony releegion?”--_Colonel._ “All
kinds, Malcolm. Some worshipped idols, some the sun, some the moon,
some the water----”

_Malcolm._ “The watter!” (_Musing._) “Aweel, sir, I couldna’ bring
mysel’ to care for that!”]

[Illustration: _Keeper (to the two Tourists, who find canoeing more
difficult on the Highland rivers than on the Thames)._ “Hi! Hoy! Hoy!
D’ye no ken this is the McChizzlem’s private watter!?”]


_Peter._ “Na, laddie, this is ane o’ thae things a body can never
learn. There’s no nae use in a man takin’ tae _this_ job unless he has
a naiteral born aptitude for’d!”]

[Illustration: GOING TO EXTREMES

_He of the ruffled temper._ “As sure’s ma name’s Tammas Paterson, I’ll
hae the law o’ ye, though it should cost me hauf-a-croon!”]


Sandy McGuttle and a friend of his marking in butt. Officer in charge
of squad at the shooting-range wonders why the deuce they don’t
signal that last shot. He has also grave doubts about the number of
bulls’-eyes already recorded.]

[Illustration: STAUNCH

_Old Lady (who had been buying eggs)._ “’Deed, Mr. McTreacle, butchers’
meat’s sae dear now-a-days ah’m no able to buy’t!”

_Grocer._ “You should turn a vegetarian----”

_Old Lady._ “A veegetarian!--Na, na! ah was born an’ brocht up i’ the
Free Kirk, an’ a’m no gaun ta change ma releegion i’ m’ auld days!”]

[Illustration: _Officer of Militia._ “Well, sir, who are you? and
what’s the matter?”

_Excited Citizen._ “Me? I’m the bailie--the heid bailie, mon! I catched
this wee laddie feshin’ on the Sawbath day! Says he’s a Caath’lic--a
Rooman Caath’lic!! E-h, it’s just dreadfu’ to think o’--feshin’ in a
Protestant loch!! And o’ the Sawbath! Lord save us!”]

[Illustration: RESIGNATION

_He (Third-Class)._ “Come awa’! D’ye no see that’s a first-class?”

_She (ditto)._ “Aweel, on a busy day like this, we maun just put up wi’
_ony accommodation we can get!_!”]

[Illustration: DESECRATION.

_English Angler (on Saturday evening)._ “Anybody ever fish up here on a
Sunday, m’um?”

_Scots Landlady (in consternation)._ “Hech, mon! ye’d be jail’t!!”]


(_NOT by Dr. Robert Munro._)]

[Illustration: THE END]


       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.

Obvious printing mistakes have been corrected.

Inconsistencies of spelling in the original are retained in this

Images interrupting the flow of text in the original work have been
moved outside the body of the poem.

  Page 60, “!” added after “Bit.”
  Page 108, closing quotation mark added after “cream-jug.”

*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Mr. Punch's Scottish Humour" ***

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