“Weel, they were rather strong, sir,” replied the patient, “but I just conquered them wi’ bread.”
I have heard of another country wife in the North who was “sairly fashed wi’ her stamach.” “Eh,” said she, “the time was when I could hae ta’en a harl o’ onything that was gaun, but noo, gin I sud eat a bittie o’ bawcon to my dinner twice the buik o’ yer steekit neive, sorra’s in me, but I’ll hae the ruft o’t the hale aifternoon.”
Mr. Inglis, in his book, Our Ain Folk, tells a story of a grand dinner that was given inside the ruins of Edzell Castle in honour of Fox Maule, who had succeeded his father, Lord Panmure. Sandie Eggo, a small landowner from Glenesk, had got seated between two burly farmers, who were too much taken up cracking their own jokes to heed the meek, shrinking Sandie, who, starving with hunger, could not attract the attention of any of the busy waiters. Dish after dish was whipped away from the table without his tasting it; and though he had paid a guinea for his ticket, he sat unnoticed and unattended to. At length, in desperation he seized a spoon and attacked a dish in front of him, which turned out to be mashed turnips, on which he gorged himself. By and by Mr. Inglis, the minister, met Sandie in the grounds, and asked how he enjoyed the grand dinner.
“Graund denner!” growled Sandie; “ye can ca’t graund if ye like; but I can only say the fodder’s michty dear at ane an’ twenty guid shillin’s for a wheen chappit neeps no fit to set doon to a stirk.”
The same banquet gave rise to another story concerning a sheep farmer from Lethnot. He was a hard-headed man, and could stand any amount of whisky at a market fair without “turning a hair,” but a banquet fairly bambaized him. He had got among some lawyers, who were drinking champagne, and looking with the utmost contempt on the potency of the “thin fizzin’ stuff,” he quaffed bumpers of it at every toast. Some time after Mr. Inglis came upon him at another table covered with toddy tumblers and whisky bottles, and arrived at that state of intoxication known as “greetin’ fou.” On the minister inquiring what was the matter with the poor man, he replied, weeping copious tears—
“Ah, Maister Inglis, I’m failin’; I’m failin’ fast. I’m no lang for this warl’!”
“Oh, nonsense,” said the minister, “don’t be foolish! You look hale and hearty yet. You just try to get away home.”
“I’m clean dune, sir! I’m clean failed,” persisted the lachrymose farmer, with intense pathos. “As fac’s death, sir, I’ve only haen aucht tumblers, and I’m fou, sir—I’m fou!”
The Carlyles were a country-bred family, and the country roadman’s criticism of them would have made “Teufelsdröckh” laugh as only readers of Sartor know how. “I ken them a’,” said he. “Jock’s a doctor aboot London. Tam’s a harem-scarem kind o’ chiel’, an’ wreats books, an’ that. But Jamie—yon’s his farm you see ower yonder—Jamie’s the man o’ that family, an’ I’m proud to say I ken him. Jamie Carlyle, sir, feeds the best swine that come into Dumfries market.”
