Scot (to Fellow-Traveller on Northern Railway). “May ah ausk what line ye’re en?”
Our Artist (who had undergone a wide cross-examination with complaisance). “Well—I’m—I’m a painter.”
Scot. “Man, that’s lucky! Ah deal i’ pents—an’ ah can sall ye white leed faur cheaper than ye can buy’t at ony o’ the shoaps.”
Artist. “Oh, but I use very little. A pound or so serves me over a year.”
Scot. “E——h, man! Ye maun be in a vera sma’ way o’ beezeness!!”
SONG OF A LONDON SCOT.
Baker, baker, strike awa’;
Ye’ll na gar me greet, mon.
Ken that I defy ye a’;
Though bread grow dear as meat, mon.