“Not at all, sir,” was the instant and innocent rejoiner; “this is only to hold out water.”
Tammas’s daughter, rumour said, at one time was about to marry with a young man of the village of whose family Tammas did not approve. Village gossips are active creatures, and the spirit, if not the exact letter, of Tammas’s dissent was early conveyed to the young man’s mother, a bit of a randy. The result was a forced meeting on the king’s highway, when the enraged matron demanded to know if Tammas had ever said that her son wasna a match for his dochter?
“I never said such a thing, lady,” Tammas replied coolly, “I simply remarked that he was a hawk out of a bad nest.” And the matter ended.
To be called “Fifish” is not a compliment, but there is much pawky humour in the typical Fife character. Here is a specimen:—Recently a tattered son of Orpheus attached to the end of a tin whistle penetrated the land as far as Kingsbarns, in the East Neuk. Entering at one end, he whistled himself right out at the other, without receiving a copper. As he passed the last door he turned towards an old native who sat sunning himself on a low dyke. “Man,” said he, “I havena got a farden in the hale toon.”
“Na, I’m no thinking ye wad,” replied the ancient Fifer; “ye see, we do a’ our ain whistlin’ here.”
“Man, I havena got a farden in the hale toon.” “Na, I’m no thinking ye wad; ye see, we do a’ our ain whistlin’ here.”—[Page 325.]
Every one who has seen much of country life has noticed with what patient skill and anxiety a ploughman builds, say, a load of hay or straw which he is afterwards to cart to the town, and the pride there is in his eye as he marches with it along the road, guiding his pair of horses with cheering words and gentle touches of the reins. Not many years ago a Perthshire ploughman was proceeding in the manner indicated when, in a narrow part of the road, he was met by a hearse and a funeral party on foot behind it. On either side of the road was a deep ditch, and it was at once evident that every inch of room would be required to effect a safe passage. The funeral party were, very naturally, most concerned about the safety of the hearse, and not less than half a dozen voices kept assailing the ploughman with “Haud t’ye! haud t’ye! haud t’ye!” The ploughman held to him, and held to him, and still being implored to yield further, he held to him just an inch too far, and heels-over-head the horses and cartload of hay went into the ditch. Jock viewed the wreck for one brief moment, then, turning to those around him, he exclaimed, “Ye see what ye’ve dune noo wi’ yer d—d—dawmed burial.”
There is room for the play of humour sometimes on the occasion of a “coupit cart.” One day a country lad approached a man who was ploughing in a field near the highway, and said—
“Od man, I’ve coupit my cart.”