It was to this same Jock Amos that a female acquaintance, following a common Scotch idiom, said one day, “Jock, how auld will you be?” They had been talking of ages.
“Humph! It wad tak’ a wiser head than mine to tell ye that,” was Jock’s reply.
“It’s unco queer that ye dinna ken how auld ye are?” returned she.
“I ken weel enough how auld I am,” said Jock, “but dinna ken how auld I’ll be.” Jock had to be addressed by the book.
Will Speir was the eldest son of the Laird of Camphill, Dairy, Ayrshire, and many witty stories are put to his credit. Report had it that the cause of his mental aberration arose in this simple way. When a boy, some of his companions, in mere frolic, caught him, and suspended him by the heels over the parapet of a bridge of very considerable height, and from that hour the hitherto lively boy became dull, absent, and unsociable in his habits. Will, when he chanced to visit the village of Dalry, lodged with two personages—Souple Sandy, and Rab Paik, or Pollock—whose intellects were at a greater discount than even his own. Robert Speir, the brother of the witty natural, was precentor in the Parish Church of Dalry, and, when present, Will usually threw in the whole strength of his lungs to assist his brother, so that no voice but his own sometimes could be heard within the range of a dozen pews. Rab Paik, his fellow-lodger, tried to keep up with him, but could not muster such volume of voice as his associate. This annoyed Will rather than otherwise, and one day he glared over in the direction of his confederate, and shouted—
“Sing, man, Rab, sing, for the hail burden o’ the Psalm lies on you and me an’ our Rab.”
Will was accustomed to assist the beadle of the church, whereof he was an unworthy member, in some of the less important functions of his office. On one occasion, during service, a fight took place between two sturdy collies, in one of the aisles of the church, which interrupted the service for a time. Will rushed to the scene of the riot, and belabouring the belligerents with a stick, he exclaimed, “If you would pay mair attention to what the minister’s sayin’ to you, it would be muckle better for you than tearing your tousie jackets at that gate. Tak’ better care o’ your claes, you blockheads, for there’s no a tailor in Beith can either mend thae, or mak’ new anes to you when they’re dune,” and having delivered such stinging reproof, the censor gravely returned and resumed his seat.
Seated on the bench below the pulpit, Will one Sabbath joined in the psalmody with such noisy zeal that Mr. Fullerton, the minister, tapped him on the head, saying, “Not so loud, Will.”
“What, sir,” retorted the natural, “will I no praise the Lord with a’ my micht?”
Mr. Fullerton had advertised from the pulpit that he was to hold a diet of examination in a certain district of the parish, and meeting Will on his way thither, he inquired of the half-wit why he never appeared on such occasions.