Why should I be threatened with imprisonment, and be only pardoned by repaying my fare because I have lost my ticket?
And, lastly (for the present), why have I been carried to Little Peddlington-on-the-Ditch when I desired to reach the British Coast en route for Paris?
AIRS RESUMPTIVE.
III.—The Rime of the Ancient Sawbath-Breaker.
(Being a Record of the 12th.)
It was an ancient poacher-man,
Bronzed as a penny-bun;—
"By thy beady eye, now tell me why,
Thou offspring of a gun,
O tell me why beneath thy
Exceeding hoary tuft
Precisely half a brace of grouse chin's
Hangs, admirably stuffed?"
He blinked his beady eye; his voice
Was singularly clear;
And as I listened to his tale
I could not choose but hear.
"Mon, ye mun ken I have not aye
Been sec a feckless loon;
In me behold the wreck of what
Was once The McAroon.
Oft have I made a merrie bag
Across my native heath;
Shot o'er my ain ancestral dawgs
Or aiblins underneath.
Until lang syne, a monie year—
Ye couldna weel be born—
The blessed twalfth of August fell
Upon a Sawbath morn.
Braw were the birds, my gun was braw,
My bluid was pipin' hot;
I thocht it crime to gie 'em time—
Allowance like a yacht.
Scarce had I bagged but ane wee bird,
There was the de'il to pay:
It's unco deadly skaith wi' Scots
To break the Sawbath day.
The billies wha the nicht before
Were fou at my expense,
They deaved the meenister aboot
My verra bad offence.
An' a' the Kirk declared the work
Was perfect deevilrie,
An' hung the bird by this absurd
Arrangement whilk ye see.
Twal' month an' mair my shame I bear
Beneath the curse o' noon,
A paltry wraith of what was once
The Laird o' McAroon.
An' aye when fa's the blessed twalfth
Upo' the Sawbath day,
I bear the bird in this absurd
An' aggravatin' way."
The ancient ceased his sorry tale,
And craved a trifling boon,
To wet the whistle of what was once
The Laird o' McAroon.
