Waggish some of them, and wild not a few. There are many rare good fellows among the farmers of Perthshire; genuine humourists, too. Here was how one of them proposed the toast of “The Queen” at a recent Cattle Show dinner. He was Chairman, and, “Noo, gentlemen,” said he, “fill a’ your glasses, for I’m aboot to bring forrit ‘The Queen.’ (Applause.) Our Queen, gentlemen, is really a wonderfu’ woman, if I may say it. She’s ane o’ the gude auld sort; nae whigmaleeries or falderalls aboot her, but a douce, daicent bodie. Respectable, beyond a’ doot. She’s brocht up a grand family o’ weel-faur’d lads and lasses—her auldest son wad be a credit to ony mither; and they’re a’ weel married—a’e dauchter is nae less than married to the Duke o’ Argyle’s son and heir. (Cheers.) Gentlemen, ye’ll maybe no believe it, but I ance saw the Queen. (Sensation.) I did. It was when I took my auld broon coo to the Perth Show. I mind o’ her weel—sic colour! sic hair! sic——(Interruptions, and cries of “Is it the coo or the Queen ye’re proposin’?”) The Queen, gentlemen. I beg your pardon, but I was talkin’ aboot the coo. Hooever, as to the Queen; somebody pointed her out to me at the Perth station. And there she was, smart and tidy-like; and says I to mysel’, ‘Gin my auld woman at hame slips awa’ ye needna remain a widow anither hour langer.’ (Cheers.) Noo, gentlemen, the whisky’s gude, the nicht’s lang, the weather’s weet, and the roads are saft and will harm naebody that comes to grief. So aff wi’ ye; every gless to the boddom—‘The Queen!’”
Many forces in Nature and circumstances in life conspire to disturb the peace of the farmer. Amongst them—trespassers. But, if he is a man of resource, he may summon a species of artillery that will “hold the field” against all comers. It is told of one in the South that, while some members of the Ordnance Survey were plodding here and there through growing grain and everything else on his farm, and perhaps more than was necessary, just to irritate the farmer, who, they had learned, was a crusty customer. They had not manœuvred long when the farmer approached.
“What are ye dancin’ aboot there for?” he demanded.
“Oh, we have a right to go anywhere,” returned one of the company. “We are surveying, and here are our Government papers.”
“Papers here or papers there,” returned the farmer, “oot ye gang oot o’ my field.”
“No, we shan’t,” was the reply; “and, remember, you are rendering yourself liable to prosecution for interrupting us.”
The farmer said no more; but going over to a shed which opened into the field, and at the time chanced to contain a vicious bull, he gently opened the door and stood aside. The bull no sooner saw the red coats than he, of course, rushed at them in full career. The surveyors snatched up their theodolite and ran for their lives, while the old farmer held his sides with laughter, and yelled after them—“What are ye a’ rinnin’ for? Can ye no show him yer Government papers?”
“What are ye a’ rinnin’ for? Can ye no show him yer Government papers?”—[Page 322.]