During the latter years of his life the poor waif had to take winter shelter in the Town’s Hospital, leaving which, in the spring, Dr. Auchincloss, surgeon, who was very attentive to him, gave him some money, remarking, “Weel, Hawkie, I’ll tak’ a bet that the first place ye land in is a spirit-cellar.”
“I’ll tak’ odds on your side, doctor,” replied Hawkie.
On his first appearance in the street to follow his wonted calling, he thus addressed his hearers,—“Weel, ye’ll hae been thinkin’ I was dead, but I needna tell ye that that’s no true, for I’m a living evidence to the contrary. I have been down in the Town’s Hospital this while taking care o’ mysel’, for I hae nae notion o’ puttin’ on a fir jackit as lang as I can help it. But I’m nae better otherwise than when I gaed in, and, if I may believe my ain een, there’s as little improvement on you.”
The “fir jacket” so much dreaded encircled the poor gangrel in 1851, and the streets and lanes which once knew him so well, will know him no more for ever.
The following genuine illustration of Hawkie’s street oratory, contributed by William Finlay, a Paisley poet, to the pages of Whistle Binkie, will fitly conclude the present paper.
“A-hey! bide a wee, bodies, and dinna hurry awa’ hame, till ye hear what I hae gotten to tell ye; do you think that I cam’ out at this time o’ nicht to cry to the stane wa’s o’ the Brig-gate for naething, or for onything else than the public guid?—wearing my constitution down to rags, like the claes on my carcase, without even seeking a pension frae Her Majesty; though mony a poor beggar wi’ a star o’er his breast has gotten ane for far less.”
(Voice from the crowd)—“Hawkie, ye should hae been sent to Parliament, to croak there like some ither Parliamentary puddocks till yer throat were cleared.”
(Reply)—“Tak’ aff yer hat when ye speak to a gentleman—it’s no the fashion in this country to put hats on cabbage stocks—a haggis would loup its lane for fricht afore ye—ye’ll be a king where a hornspoon is the emblem of authority!” (Resumes)—“Here ye hae the history of a notorious beggar, the full and particular account of his birth and parentage—at least on his mither’s side. This heir to the wallets was born in the byre o’ a kintra farmer, an’ just in the crib afore the kye, an’ was welcomed to the world by the nose of honest Hawkie.”
(From the crowd)—“Was this a sister o’ yours, Hawkie?”
(Answer)—“Whatna kail yard cam’ ye out o’? That’s yer brither aside ye, is’t? You’re a seemly pair, as the cow said to her cloots.” (Continues)—“It ne’er could be precisely ascertained the hour of this beggar’s birth, though the parish records hae been riddled to get at the fact. I maun also tell ye, for I dinna like to impose on my customers, that there is a great doubt about the day o’ the month, an’ even about the month itsel’; but that he was born hasna been disputed, though it might hae been, if we hadna an account o’ his life and death to convince the gainsayers. He arrived sooner at the years o’ discretion than usual; an’ if ye dinna ken the period when a beggar’s bairn comes to his estate duly qualified, I’ll tell you—it’s when he ceases to distinguish between ither folk’s property and his ain.”