A farmer, returning from a Northern tryst, accompanied by his servant Pate, not many years ago, halted for refreshment at the Inn of Glamis, where, meeting with a number of friends, a jolly party was soon formed. Under the cheering hospitality of the gude wife of the inn they cracked their jokes and told their tales, till at length the farmer proposed that his attendant, Pate, should enliven the meeting with a song. One of the party, who professed to have an estimate of the shepherd’s vocal abilities, sneeringly replied, “Whaur can Pate sing?”
“What d’ye say?” answered the farmer. “Can Pate no sing? I’m thinkin’ he’s sung to as good fouk, an’ better than you, in his time. I’ll tell ye o’ a’e place whaur he has been kent to sing wi’ mair honour to himsel’ than ye can brag o’, and that’s before the Queen. Ay, an’ if it will heighten him ony in your estimation, I’ll prove to you, for the wager o’a bottle o’ brandy, that he even sleepit, an’ that no’ sae lang syne, in the same hoose she was in.”
Thinking this latter assertion outstretched the limits of all probability, the wager was immediately taken by the party, when, to the satisfaction of all the others present, the worthy farmer proved the truth of his allegations by telling how, accompanied by Pate, he had been to the Kirk of Crathie on the Sunday previous, and that during the service, and in presence of Her Royal Majesty, Pate had both sung and slept. The farmer won the wager, and the bottle circulated, amid continued outbursts of stentorian laughter.
A worthy laird in a Perthshire village made the, for him, wonderful journey to see the great Exhibition of 1851. On his return, his banker, a man who was well known to have the idea that he was by far the most influential and potent power in the shire, invited the laird, with some cronies, to a glass of punch. The banker meant to amuse the company at the old laird’s expense, to trot him out, and get him to describe the sights of London. “An’ what, laird, most of all impressed you at the great glass house?” asked the banker, with a sly wink at the company. “Ah, weel, sir,” replied the laird, as he emptied his glass, “I was muckle impressed wi’ a’ I saw—muckle impressed! But the thing abune a’ that impressed me maist was my ain insignificance. Losh, banker, I wad strongly advise you to gang; it would do you a vast amount o’ guid, sir!”
The next example affords the promise of an abundant harvest of humour off the rising generation of Scotsmen.
A little boy, whom we shall call Johnnie, just because that is his name, was not very long since employed as message-boy to a grocer in a small country town in the west, said grocer being an ardent advocate and supporter of the Conservative party in the State. One morning Johnnie was an hour or so late in turning out for duty, and on entering was promptly interrogated by his master as to the cause.
“The cat’s had kittlins this mornin’,” asseverated the lad, assuming a look of great earnestness; “four o’ them, an’ they’re a’ Conservatives.”[1]
[1] By the simple transposition of the words “Conservatives” and “Leeberals” the politics of this story may be adapted to suit any select company or association of individuals in these realms, as by the same practice I have seen it made to serve the interests of various Liberal and Conservative newspapers since I first printed it in the People’s Journal some years ago.
“Get in bye and tidy up that back shop,” said the shopkeeper gruffly, not at the moment in a mood to enquire fully into the extraordinary feline phenomenon. One day, nearly a fortnight afterwards, the following sequel added itself, however, and there was a perfect understanding established. A commercial traveller, who is also a true-blue Tory, called at the shop, and was discussing with the grocer the chances of victory or failure to their party in an approaching bye-election. Said the grocer, “Our party is gaining strength in the country, of that I am convinced, and with reason; why, my message-boy was telling me recently that his mother’s cat has had kittens—four of them—and they are all Conservatives.” The traveller laughed, as only travellers who are anticipating an order can laugh. When Johnnie entered the premises with his basket on his arm and a tune in his mouth.
“Hillo, Johnnie!” exclaimed the commercial, “and so your cat has had kittens, has she? Eh?”