He was then shown an engraving of the Pope, and, being told who it was, he said, “I dinna ken, I never saw him.”
“Well,” said the Bishop, pointing to a picture of the Crucifixion, which was hanging between the two likenesses, “you surely know that?”
Hawkie gazed intently at it for a minute, and then said, “I aye heard that Christ was crucified between twa thieves, but I ne’er kent wha they were afore.”
It is needless to say Hawkie was rewarded with his glass of spirits, and both the gentlemen enjoyed a good laugh at the witty answer.
On one of the Glasgow half-yearly Fasts (now an unknown institution) Hawkie took his beat on the Dumbarton Road, between Glasgow and Partick. As the day happened to be fine, the “collector of poor’s rates” justly calculated that this district would be well frequented. “I am sent out here this afternoon,” said the ever fertile “collector” to the objects of his assessment, “I am sent out here this afternoon by the clergy of Glasgow to put a tax on a’ you gentry that hae mista’en the country for the kirk the day.”
He cherished an inveterate hatred of the Irish, and the lash of his satirical tongue never wagged with more delight than when it was flaying the back of poor Paddy. “Gae hame to your bogs and ditches!” he would shout. “Blast ye! the Glasgow folk canna get the honest use o’ their ain gallows for ye!”
“I’m neither,” said our public lecturer, “a Tory nor a Radical. I like middle courses—gang ayont that, either up or doon, it disna matter—it’s a wreck ony way ye like to tak’ it.”
A few gentlemen going home from a supper party, amongst whom was the amiable John Imlah, the writer of many popular Scottish songs, were accosted by Hawkie for the beggar’s impost.
“There’s a bawbee,” said Mr. Imlah, “will that do?”