The orator was addressing an audience in the street one day when he was interrupted by a passer-by—“I see you are preaching, as usual, Hawkie.”
“Yes, I am,” said he, holding out his open hand, “and there’s the plate for the collection.”
A little carpenter, with a shaving tied round as a hat-band, observing Hawkie standing at a corner, accosted the orator with, “Man, Hawkie, do you see, I’m gaun in mournings for you?”
“Is’t no,” replied Hawkie, appealing to the crowd, “a puir account o’ Presbyterian Glasgow, when a brat like that is permitted to gang about in mournings for a man before he’s dead?”
Our orateur du pavè, by reason of his calling and behaviour together, got into frequent conflict with the police.
“Take the road, sir, and not obstruct the street,” was the imperative demand of a batonman to him one day.
“I hae nae richt till’t,” replied the wit; “I pay nae road money.”
On another occasion he was told to be off and not disturb the street by collecting mobs.
“Dinna blame me,” was the reply, “but the congregation.”