“DIRECTIONS”
Scottish Village Practitioner (to Northern Farmer). “Eff the Lunnon doacter”—(his patient had been south to consult a great specialist)—“’ll no allow ye whusky, an’ ye can tak’ nowt but reed wine, theer just twa ’ll dae ye ony guid—an’ ye’ll mind o’ them, for they’re baith monoseelawbic!—po-or-r-t an’ clair-r-t!!”
“Sir,” said Dr. Johnson, “the puns you have noticed are symptoms of a painful disease, known to men of letters as ‘the Silly Fever.’ I attribute the commencement of this melancholy malady to the depressing effects of a Scottish climate upon a Londoner in September!”
The best Scottish Joke we ever heard.—A clever Scotsman being told that Demosthenes was in the habit of making speeches at the seaside with small stones in his mouth, exclaimed, “Hoot, mon! then he must ha’ been the first Member for Peebles.” (Loud cries of “Apology,” which not being given, the Reader proceeds to groan.)
The Tartan Epidemic.—The MacTavish (very angrily, to the new Boots at the “Rising Sun.”)—Where, by St. Andrew! have ye planted my braw new kilt that I put oot, for to be decently brushed! Green, red, black and white plaid.