“That’s a shocking-like hat you have got on your head, Hawkie,” said one. “You never had anything like a decent one, but that is certainly the worst I ever saw you have.”
“I got it in Paddy’s Market,” said the wit, “and it’s made on the sliding scale,” said he, taking it off, and lifting off the upper portion. “Man!—I kent the sliding scale afore Peel.”
“Did you ever hear an ass, bray, Hawkie?” queried a young whiskered puppy.
“Never till the noo,” was the instant reply.
The street orator entered a shop one day where there happened to be a gentleman from Perth standing at the counter.
“Were you ever in Perth, Willie?” said he.
“Yes, I hae been there,” said Hawkie; “and I hae gude reason to mind Perth. I gaed in at a street ill-lichted, and I thocht, nae fear o’ the police here; so I commenced my story. But I hadna weel begun when a voice frae a window cries out, ‘Get you gone, sir, or the police will find quarters for ye.’ I ne’er loot on that I heard the threat, but cried awa’ till I got to the end o’ the street, and then took the road to my lodgings. I hadna been there mony minutes when in comes ane o’ the police, and lugs me aff to jail, whaur they keepit me till Monday—this was Friday—and just let me out then wi’ as much daylicht as would let me see across the brig. That’s a’ that I ken about the Fair City.” Standing for a few minutes, he held out his left hand, and, gathering the fingers of his right to a point, he dipped them into the hollow of his left, saying, “Weel, sir, what are ye gaun to gie to redeem the character o’ your town?”
Hawkie entered the shop of one of his almoners one day whilst a process of painting was going on. “Take care of your clothes!” shouted an attendant at the counter.
“Tak’ ye care o’ your paint,” retorted the ragged wit. “It’s mair likely to be damaged by me than I am by it.”