“Dod, ye dinna surely think I was sae daft as stand ablow the water without an umbrella.”
That’s truly Scotch. So is the next specimen, as you will presently perceive. Two or three nights before the advent of a recent Christmas, a Scotch laddie of ten years old, or so, was sitting examining very gravely a somewhat ugly hole in the heel of one of his stockings. At length he looked towards his mother and said—
“Mither, ye micht gie me a pair o’ new stockin’s?”
“So I will, laddie, by and by; but ye’re no sair needin’ new anes yet,” said his mother.
“Will I get them this week?”
“What mak’s ye sae anxious to hae them this week?”
“Because, if Santa Claus pits onything into thir anes it’ll fa’ oot.”
How naturally a Scotsman drops into poetry, too, will be seen from the following:—
Mr. Dewar, a shopkeeper in Edinburgh, being in want of silver for a bank note, went into the shop of a neighbour of the name of Scott, whom he thus addressed—