“My gude man,” said she to the butcher, “I want a sheep’s head.”
“There’s plenty of them there,” said he; “choose which you will.”
“Na,” said she, “but there’s nane o’ thae that will do; I want a sheep’s head that will sing” (singe).
“Go, you idiot,” said the butcher, “who ever heard of a sheep’s head that could sing?”
“Why,” replied the girl in wrath, “an’ it’s you it’s the eedyit, I’m thinkin’; for ony sheep’s head in Scotland can sing; but I jalouse yer English sheep are just as grit fules as their owners, and they can do naething as they ocht.”
A Scotch gentleman, visiting some friends in England, displayed in conversation such contempt for the memory of England’s most illustrious sons that one of the family resolved to pay him off in his own coin. He therefore took down a steel engraving of John Knox, which adorned the dining-room wall, and hung it up in a lumber room. The Scotsman, missing the picture, asked what had become of it. “We no longer consider your Reformer worthy of a place here,” said his friend, “therefore we have hung him up in a dark closet.”
“You could not have done better,” said the Scotsman. “I consider the situation very appropriate; for if ever a man could throw light on a dark subject, that was the man.”
Another Scot being in England at the time the nightingales were in song, was invited by his host one evening to come and hear one singing. As the nightingale is never heard in Scotland it was considered this would prove a rare treat to the Scotsman. After listening for a considerable time to the beautiful melody, and becoming somewhat impatient at hearing no expression of surprise or pleasure from his Scottish guest, the Englishman asked if he was not delighted. “It’s a’ very gude,” replied the canny Scot, “but I wadna gie the wheeple o’ a whaup for a’ the nightingales that ever sang!”
Shortly after the accession of James I., when Scotch gentlemen were beginning to feel a little more at home than formerly in London, Lord Harewood gave a dinner party, to which there were invited a large number of courtiers and officers—both civil and military. The feast was ended, and with the flow of wine the company prepared for a corresponding flow of wit and jollity. After the bottle had circulated a few times, and the spirits of the assembly had begun to rise, General S⸺, an English trooper of fame, and a reckless bon vivant, arose and said, “Gentlemen, when I am in my cups, and the generous wine begins to warm my blood, I have an absurd custom of railing against the Scotch. Knowing my weakness, I hope no gentleman of the company will take it amiss.”
He sat down, and a Highland chief, Sir Robert Bleakie, of Blair Athol, presenting a front like an old battle-worn tower, quietly arose in his place, and with the utmost simplicity and good-nature remarked, “Gentlemen, I, when I am in my cups, and the generous wine begins to warm my blood, if I hear a man rail against the Scotch, have an absurd custom of kicking him at once out of the company. Knowing my weakness, I hope no gentleman of the company will take it amiss.”