THISTLEDOWN
CHAPTER I
THE SCOTTISH TONGUE—ITS GRAPHIC FORCE AND POWERS OF PATHOS AND HUMOUR
We are frequently told—and now and again receive unwelcome scraps of evidence in confirmation of the scandal—that our dear old mother tongue is falling into desuetude in our native land. Already, it must be confessed, it has been abrogated from the drawing-rooms of the ultra-refined upper circles of Scottish society. The snobbish element amongst the great middle-class, ever prone to imitate their “betters,” affect not to understand it, and blush (the sillier of them) when, in an unguarded moment, a manifest Scotticism slips into their conversation. There is a portion of the semi-educated working population, again, who, imitating the snobbish element of the middle grade, speak Scotch freely only in their working clothes. On Sundays, and extra occasions, when dressed in their very best, there is just about as much Scotch in their talk as will show one how poorly they can speak English, and just about enough English to render their Scotch ridiculous. Observing all this, and taking it in conjunction with the other denationalising tendencies of the age, there are those who predict that the time is not far distant when Burns’s poems, Scott’s novels, and Hogg’s tales will be sealed books to the partially educated Scotsman. That there is a growing tendency in the direction indicated is quite true, but the disease, I believe, is only skin deep as yet, and the bone and sinew of the country remain quite unaffected. That there will be a sudden reaction in the patient must be the sincere desire of every patriotic Scot. If the prediction of obsoletism is ever to be realized, then, “the mair’s the pity.” Scotland will not stand where she did. For very much—oh, so much—of what has made her glorious among the nations of the world will have passed away, taking the sheen of her glory with it. What Scotsmen, as Scotsmen, should ever prize most is bound up inseparably with the native language. Ours is a matured country, and the stirring scenes of her history on which the mind of the individual delights to dwell, are so frequently enshrined in spirited ballad and song, couched in the pithy Scottish vernacular, that, to suppose these latter dead—they are not translatable into English—is to suppose the best part of Scottish history dead and buried beyond the hope of resurrection. For its own sake alone the Scottish tongue is eminently deserving of regard—of cultivation and preservation. Scotsmen should be—and so all well-conditioned Scotsmen surely are—as proud of their native tongue as they are of their far-famed native bens and glens. For why, the rugged grandeur of the physical features of our country are not more worthy of admiration than the language in which their glories have been most fittingly extolled. They have characteristics in common; for rugged grandeur is as truly a feature of the Scottish language as it is the dominant feature of Scottish scenery. True, its various dialects are somewhat tantalising. The Forfar man is vividly identified by his “foo’s” and his “fa’s,” and his “fat’s” and his “fans”; and the Renfrewshire man by his “weans,” his “wee weans,” and his “yin pound yin and yinpence,” etc. Taking a simple phrase as an example—(Anglice):—“The spoon is on the loom.” The Aberdonian will tell you that “The speen’s on the leem.” The Perthshire man will say “That spun’s on the luim”; and the Glasgow citizen will inform you that “The spin’s on the lim.” In a fuller example, a Renfrewshire person will vouchsafe the information that he “Saw a seybo synd’t doon the syvor till it sank in the stank.” A native of Perthshire will only about half understand what the speaker has said, and may threaten to “rax a rung frae the boggars o’ the hoose and reeshil his rumple wi’t,” without sending terror to the soul of his West country confederate. Latterly, an Aberdonian may come on the scene and ask, “Fa’ fuppit the loonie?” and neither of the forenamed parties will at once perceive the drift of his inquiry. To illustrate how difficult it may be for the East and the West to understand each other, I will tell a little story. An Aberdonian not long ago got work in Glasgow where they used a quantity of tar, and was rather annoyed to see his fellow-workmen wash the tar off their hands while he washed and rubbed at his in vain. His patience could stand it no longer, and going up to the foreman, and, stretching out his hands, he asked:—“Fat’ll tak’ it aff?” “Yes,” replied the foreman, “fat’ll tak’ it aff.” “Fat’ll tak’ it aff?” “Yes, I said fat would tak’ it aff.” “But fat’ll tak’ it aff?” persisted the Aberdonian. The foreman pointed to a tub, and roared: “Grease, you stupid eediot!” “Weel than,” retorted the Aberdonian, “an’ fat for did you no say that at first?”
There are, however, dialects and provincialisms in the language of every country and people under the sun, and the Scottish vernacular is not worse—not nearly so bad as many are. Our dialects are mainly the results of a narrowing and broadening of the vowel sounds, as exemplified in the instance of the words “spoon” and “loom.” I have spoken of the rugged grandeur of the Scottish Doric, and its claims to preservation. There are single words in Scotch which cannot be adequately expressed in a whole sentence in English. Think of “fushionless,” “eerie,” “wersh,” “gloamin’,” “scunner,” “glower,” “cosie,” “bonnie,” “thoweless,” “splairge,” and “plowter,” etc., and try to find their equivalents in the language of the school. Try and find a sentence that will fairly express some of the words. “A gowpen o’ glaur” is but weakly expressed in “a handful of mud”; “stoure” is not adequately defined by calling it “dust in motion”; “flype yer stockin’, lassie,” is easier said than “turn your stocking inside out, girl.” “Auld lang syne” is not expressible in English. “A bonnie wee lassie” is more euphonious and expressive by a long way than “a pretty little girl.” “Hirsle yont,” “my cuit’s yeukie,” “e’enin’s orts mak’ gude mornin’ fodder,” “spak’ o’ lowpin’ ower a linn,” and “pree my mou’,” are also good examples of expressive Scotch. Nowhere, perhaps, is the singular beauty and rare expressiveness of the Scottish national tongue seen to better advantage than in the proverbial sayings—those short, sharp, and shiny shafts of speech, aptly defined as “the wit of one and the wisdom of many,”—and of which the Scottish language has been so prolific. “The genius, wit, and wisdom of a nation are discovered by their proverbs,” says Bacon; and, verily, while the proverbs of Scotland are singularly expressive of the pith and beauty of the vernacular in which they are couched, they also reveal in very great measure the mental and social characteristics of the people who have perpetuated them. “A gangin’ fit’s aye gettin’, were’t but a thorn;” “Burnt bairns dread the fire;” “A’e bird in the hand’s worth twa in the bush;” “A fool an’ his siller’s sune parted;” “Hang a thief when he’s young an’ he’ll no steal when he’s auld;” “There’s aye some water whaur the stirkie droons;” “Moudiwarts feedna on midges;” “When gossipin’ wives meet, the deil gangs to his dinner;” “Hungry dogs are blythe o’ bursten puddin’s;” “He needs a lang-shankit spune that wad sup wi’ the deil;” “A blate cat maks a prood mouse;” “Better a toom house than an ill tenant;” “Lippen to me, but look to yoursel’;” “Jouk an’ lat the jaw gang by;” “Better sma’ fish than nane;” “The tulziesome tyke comes hirplin’ hame;” “Ha’ binks are sliddery;” “Ilka cock craws best on his ain middenhead;” “Lazy youth mak’s lowsy age;” “Next to nae wife, a guid wife’s best;” “Lay your wame to your winnin’;” “It’s nae lauchin’ to girn in a widdy;” “The wife’s a’e dochter an’ the man’s a’e coo, the tane’s ne’er weel, an’ the tither’s ne’er fu’.” These give the evidence.
Ours is a language peculiarly powerful in its use of vowels, and the following dialogue between a shopman and a customer is a convincing example. The conversation relates to a plaid hanging at a shop door:—
Customer (inquiring the material)—“Oo?” (wool?).
Shopman—“Aye, oo.” (yes, wool).
Customer—“A’ oo?” (all wool?).
Shopman—“Ay, a’ oo” (yes, all wool).
Customer—“A’ a’e oo?” (all one wool?).