“One forenoon an English friend was placed under Willy’s charge to mount the hill in order to enjoy the glorious view. ‘I am told, shepherd, you are going to show me a wonderful view.’ ‘That’s quite true, sir.’ ‘What shall I see?’ ‘Weel, ye’ll see a feck o’ kingdoms—the best o’ sax, sir.’ ‘What the deuce do you mean, shepherd?’ ‘Weel, sir, I mean what I say.’ ‘But tell me all about it.’ ‘I’ll tell you naething mair, sir, until we’re at the tap o’ the hill.’ The top reached, Willy found everything he could desire in regard to a clear atmosphere. ‘Noo, sir, I houp ye’ve got guid een?’ ‘Oh, my eyes are excellent.’ ‘Then, that’s a’ richt, sir. Noo, div you see yon hills awa’ yonder?’ ‘Yes, I do.’ ‘Weel, sir, those are the hills o’ Cumberland, and Cumberland’s in the kingdom o’ England; that’s a’e kingdom. Noo, sir, please keep coont. Then, sir, I maun noo trouble you to look ower yonder. Div ye see what I mean?’ ‘I do.’ ‘That’s a’ richt. That’s the Isle o’ Man, and that was a kingdom and sovereignty in the families of the Earls o’ Derby and the Dukes o’ Athol frae the days o’ King David o’ Scotland, if ye ken onything o’ Scotch history.’ ‘You are quite right, shepherd.’ ‘Quite richt, did you say; I wadna ha’e brocht ye here, sir, if I was to be wrang. Weel, that’s twa kingdoms. Be sure, sir, to keep coont. Noo, turn awee aboot. Div ye see yon land yonder? It’s a bit farrer, but never mind that, sae lang as ye see it.’ ‘I see it distinctly.’ ‘Weel, that’s a’ I care aboot. Noo, sir, keep coont, for that’s Ireland, and mak’s three kingdoms; but there’s nae trouble aboot the neist, for ye’re stannin’ on’t—I mean Scotland. Weel, that mak’s four kingdoms; div you admit that, sir?’ ‘Yes, that makes four, and you have two yet to show me.’ ‘That’s true, sir, but dinna be in sic a hurry. Weel, sir, just look up aboon yer head, and this is by far the best o’ a’ the Kingdoms: that, sir, aboon, is Heaven. That’s five: and the saxth kingdom is that doon below yer feet, to which, sir, I houp ye’ll never gang; but that’s a point on which I canna speak wi’ ony certainty.’”
I have said that the Scotch and English are each inclined to over-estimate themselves and under-estimate their neighbours; but to this should be added the fact, that the canny craftiness of Sandy—his characteristic prudence—has shown him how much he might gain by familiarising himself with all John’s ways, and this he has done, whereas John has thought it sufficient to assume a knowledge of Sandy’s affairs, even although he possessed it not. And this contemptuous assumption of knowledge has led to some sublime blundering on John’s part. We scarcely expect our Cockney brethren to be familiar with our Northern tongue, or even to have very much sympathy with it. Yet, while they actually do not know it, and readily express contempt for it, they still continue to affect a knowledge, and so, to apply a well-known Irishism, “seldom open their mouth on the subject but they put their foot in it.” Thus, not very long ago, one Cockney told another that he had learned a beautiful Scotch song, and would write out for him a copy of the words. The song was, “The Lass o’ Gowrie,” and the first two lines came from his pen as follows:—
“’Twas on a summer’s afternoon,
A week before the sun went doon.”
The prospect of such a long continued spell of daylight in Scotland proved too much for the risible susceptibilities of the party who looked over the writer’s shoulder, and the pen had to be thrown aside, amid a roar of laughter. Not many years ago I myself saw the printed programme of a London Scottish concert, an item in which appeared as
“Ye Banks and Brays of Bonnie Doon,”
and I thought what an ass he must have been who prepared the “copy”! Punch—I think it was Punch—once made one Scotsman threaten to give another “A richt gude Willie-waucht in the side o’ the head.” Great dubiety existed in the London journalistic mind some time ago about the signification of the phrase, “The Land o’ the Leal,”—was it the poetical designation of Scotland, or Heaven? “Old long since ago,” and “Scots with him” are Anglicised Scotticisms as familiar as proverbs. But surely the very funniest results from Cockney intermeddling with things Scotch that ever appeared are to be found in a cheap edition of Burns’s poems, which was issued some time since by John Dicks, the well-known Strand publisher. From this copy it is made apparent that Tam o’ Shanter was not the hero of Burns’s humorous masterpiece at all, but one Tam Skelpit—vide the following lines:—
“Tam Skelpit on through mud and mire,
Despising wind and rain and fire.”