PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR

Edited by J. A. Hammerton

Designed to provide in a series of volumes, each complete in itself, the cream of our national humour, contributed by the masters of comic draughtsmanship and the leading wits of the age to “Punch,” from its beginning in 1841 to the present day.

MR. PUNCH’S
SCOTTISH HUMOUR

“BACKSLIDING”

The Minister (reproachfully). “Ah, James! I’m sorry to see this! I thought you were a steadfast teetotaller!”

James. “Sho I am, sir. But I’m no a bigoted ane!”

MR. PUNCH’S

SCOTTISH

HUMOUR

WITH 132 ILLUSTRATIONS

BY

CHARLES KEENE, GEORGE DU MAURIER, W. RALSTON, A. S. BOYD, PHIL MAY, E. T. REED, HARRY FURNISS, J. BERNARD PARTRIDGE, JAMES GREIG, L. RAVENHILL, G. D. ARMOUR, AND OTHERS

PUBLISHED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH

THE PROPRIETORS OF “PUNCH”

THE EDUCATIONAL BOOK CO. LTD.

Punch Library of Humour

Twenty-five volumes, crown 8vo, 192 pages fully illustrated

“N.B.”

An English friend of ours called many years ago at Inverness Post Office for some letters awaiting him there. They were addressed to the Poste Restante, “Inverness, N.B.” In handing him the letters, an elderly lady who then graced the postal staff remarked: “You micht tell your freen’s that ‘N.B.’ is quite superfluous. Hoo wad they like us to write ‘London, S.B.’? And we don’t think that muckle o’ London up here.” Now, whether we use “N.B.” as meaning “North Britain,” or “Nota Bene,” we shall leave you to guess!

Unless we are mistaken, we have seen more than once in English papers a suggestion that the Scots are a race devoid of humour. “He joked wi’ deeficulty” is, we believe, a reference to a Scotsman. “A surgical——.” But no, we shall not repeat that! Oddly enough, the pages of Mr. Punch, true mirror of our national characteristics, yield an abundant harvest of Scottish humour. Have we not already in this same series made merry with “Mr. Punch in the Highlands”? And we are now to laugh with him again at this banquet of Scottish humour, which by no means exhausts his store. We have already heard that some seventy-five per cent. of the jokes appearing in Punch contributed by those not on the permanent staff come from Scotsmen; so it is a reasonable assumption that the bulk of the anecdotes in the present collection have originated north of the border, even when they tell against the Scot; for it is not the least of his good points that Sandy is able to appreciate a story that does not present him in the most favourable light. No humour in Scotland! Here is Mr. Punch’s reply!

Let this be noted by the Southerner: there is much confusion as to the Highlander and the Lowlander. Here is not the place, even did space allow, to attempt a definition of the difference between the two races which Sir Walter Scott typifies in Rob Roy and in Bailie Nicol Jarvie. In “Mr. Punch in the Highlands” we have something of the humour of the one; here we have a good deal of the humour of the other.

Of course a portion of the present book would be properly described as “the Scot through English glasses,” and in this respect it is none the less valuable, being the next best thing to that for which Burns sighed—

“O wad some power the giftie gie us,

To see oursel’s as others see us!

It wad frae monie a blunder free us,

And foolish notion.”

Mr. Punch has striven to leave the Scot with no illusions as to the characteristics he presents to his fellow Britons. We may gather from these pages that Mr. Punch, as spokesman for John Bull, has detected in Sandy an occasional affection for that whisky which he produces so industriously—and chiefly for English consumption—and that he has noted in him a certain inclination “to keep the Sabbath day—and everything else he can lay his hands on.” Who shall say that Mr. Punch has been mistaken? But we are not here to moralise; mirth is our motive; and if the fun be good—as none will deny who fingers these pages—enough is said.

This, at least, we may add: No artist who has ever been on Mr. Punch’s staff has made anything like so much of the dry, pawky humour that obtains north of the Tweed as did Charles Keene. More than fifty per cent. of Mr. Punch’s illustrations of Scottish humour come from his pencil; and he is ahead of his confrères not only in quantity but in quality—none of them has beaten him in the pictorial representation of Scottish character. The shrewd, dour faces of some of his Scotsmen are inimitable.

MR. PUNCH’S
SCOTTISH HUMOUR

Maxim for Young Scotsmen who are Fond of Dancing.—“Youth must have its fling.”

A Bitter Disappointment.—Being served with a glass of Bass when you called for old Edinburgh.

Motto for Highland Pipers.—“Blow Gentle, Gaels.”

“Breaches of Decorum.”—A Highlander’s trousers.

Confession of a Whiskey Drinker.—“Scotland, with all thy faults, I love thy still.”

“AS ITHERS SEE US”

[“He is a Scotsman and therefore fundamentally inept.”—The Tiger.]

Ah, baist nae mair the bard o’ Ayr

That whiles was Scotland’s glory,

An’ dinna rave o’ Bruce the brave

An’ Bannockburn sae gory;

But greet yer lane an’ mak’ yer maen

That ye are ca’d a Scoatsman—

There’s naught but scorn for him that’s born

’Twixt Tweed an’ John-o’-Groat’s, man.

Nae poo’er hae we a joke tae see—

Ye ken the auld, auld rumour;

We canna taste the flavour chaste

That marks the Cockney humour;

’Tis owre refined for oor dull mind,

Though greeted wi’ guffaws, man,

By cultured wits that thrang the pits

O’ Surrey music ha’s, man.

Oor manners, tae!—my heart is wae

When I compare the races,

Contrastin’ oor behaviour dour

Wi’ English airs an’ graces.

We Scots maun hide oor humbled pride

An’ greet in sorrow dumb, man—

We canna baist the perfect taste

An’ canny tact o’ Brum, man.

An’ oh! ye ken, as beesness men,

In dealin’ wi’ an order,

We aye maun find oorsels behind

Oor brithers owre the Border.

We vie in vain wi’ English brain;

Hoo can we mak’ a haul, man,

Until we start tae lairn the art

That’s practised in the Mall, man?

CANDID

Tam (very dry, at door of country inn, Sunday morning). “Aye, man, ye micht gie me a bit gill oot in a bottle!”

Landlord (from within). “Weel, ye ken, Tammas, I daurna sell onything the day. And forbye ye got a half-mutchkin awa’ wi’ ye last nicht (after hoors tae); it canna be a’ dune yet!”

Tam. “Dune! Losh, man, d’ye think I could sleep an’ whusky i’ the hoose?!”

“A NICHT WI’ BURNS”

Good Name for a Scots Policeman.—Macnab.

STANDING ON HIS DIGNITY

Shipping Agent. “Are you a mechanic?”

Intending Emigrant (justly indignant). “No!—I’m a Macpherson!”

Old Scots Slang.—In an old Scots Act of Parliament “anent the punishment of drunkards” a clause adjudges all persons “convict” of drunkenness, or tavern-haunting, “for the first fault” to a fine of £3, “or in case of inability or refusal, to be put in jogges or jayle for the space of six hours.” What was “jogges,” as distinguished from “jayle”? Possibly a somewhat milder place of detention for the rather, than that appointed for the very, drunken. If so, “jogges,” in the lapse of time, we may suppose, having lost its distinctive sense, came to be regarded as simply a synonym of “jayle,” and, as such, now passes current in the People’s English (not to say the Queen’s) abbreviated into the contraction “jug.” Thus imprisonment for a state of too much beer might be described as jug for jug.

ILLUSIONS!

McStaggert (on his way home, having jumped over the shadows of the lamp-posts, &c., brought up by that of the kirk steeple). “E——h!” (Pauses.) “Ne’ mind! ’Sh no help for it.” (Pulls up his pants.) “Shall have to wade thish!”

LINES BY A SCOTSMAN

(On reading that an Act of the Australian Legislature against the Growth of Thistles received the Royal Assent)

What’s this? Forbid the growth o’ thristles,

Auld Scotia’s cherished symbol-flower—

The hair upon ma head it bristles,

At sic an awfu’ waste o’ power!

’Tis idle wark, as time will show,

To root the bonny plant frae ground;

For Nature still gars thristles grow

Where canny Scots are to be found.

What soil so puir but it can keep

A thristle green amang its stanes?

What land so bare a Scotsman deep

Canna pick something aff its banes?

As weel keep bees frae honey-pots,

Keep cats frae cream, or bairns frae tarts,

As thristles and their brither Scots

Frae lands whaur goud is found i’ quartz.

WELL TURNED

Minister (reproachfully, to bibulous village barber with shaking hand). “Ah, John, John! That whisky——”!

Barber (condolently). “Aye, sir, it mak’s the skin unco tender!”

“AU PIED DE LA LETTRE”

Free-Kirk Minister (to his “Elder”). “John, I should like you to intimate that on Monday next I propose paying pastoral visits in the High and North Streets, in which I also hope to embrace all the servant girls of the congregation in that district!”

His Wife (whom he’d lately married from the South). “You shall do nothing of the kind, sir! Let me see you dare to——!”

[Goes into hysterics!

Geographical.—Examiner (to Scots boy in Free School). Where is the village of Drum?

Scots Boy (readily). In the county of Fife.

[Prize given.

Stop Him!—A Scots gentleman puts the postage stamps wrong way up on his letters, and calls it, with a tender feeling,—Turning a penny!

Hungry Visitor (ignorant of the nature of this particular delicacy). “Ah, Donal, mon, we ken weel hae the rabbit for saxpence. We ken get twa bawbees fur the skeen when we get back to Glasgow!”

Seasonable Weather in Scotland.—(Edinburgh, New Year’s Day.) Sandy. There’s mair snaw this new year than I’ve seen for mony a day; it’s by ord’nar.

Jock. Ay, but it’s vera saisonable wather.

Sandy. ’Deed, ye may say that, Jock,—fine saft fa’in for the fou folk.

CURLING ON THE ICE IN SCOTLAND.

HIGHLY CONSIDERATE

Little Smithkin (debonairly). “Object to smoking?”

North Briton. “Nae in the least, if it does na’ mak’ ye seek!”

[As Little S. said, he “cut the old cad for the rest of the journey.”

THE LUNNON TWANG

I’ve heard a Frenchman wag his tongue

Wi’ unco din an’ rattle,

An’, ’faith, my vera lugs hae sung

Wi’ listenin’ tae his prattle;

But French is no the worst of a’

In point o’ noise an’ clang, man;

There’s ane that beats it far awa’,

And that’s the Lunnon twang, man.

You wadna think, within this land,

That folk could talk sae queerly,

But, sure as death, tae understand

The callants beats me fairly.

An’, ’faith, ’tis little gude their schules

Can teach them, as ye’ll see, man,

For—wad ye credit it?—the fules

Can scarcely follow me, man.

An’ yet, tae gie the deils their due,

(An’ little praise they’re worth, man,)

They seem tae ken, I kenna hoo,

That I come frae the Nor-r-th, man!

They maun be clever, for ye ken

There’s nought tae tell the chiefs, man:

I’m jist like a’ the ither men

That hail frae Galashiels, man.

But oh! I’m fain tae see again

The bonny hills an’ heather!

Twa days, and ne’er a drap o’ rain—

Sic awfu, drouthy weather!

But eh! I doubt the Gala boys

Will laugh when hame I gang, man,

For oo! I’m awfu’ feared my voice

Has ta’en the Lunnon twang, man!

The Gallant Scots.—As a party of very pretty girls approached the camp of the Royal Scottish at Wimbledon, the band struck up—“The Camp-belles are Coming!”

A PROMISING WITNESS!

Scots Counsel (addressing an old woman in a case before Judge and Jury). “Pray, my good woman, do you keep a diary?”

“Naw, sir, I kups a whusky shop!”

PRECAUTION

Donal’. “A’m sayin’, Tam, what for dae ye tak’ yir dram a’ at a’e mouthfu’?”

Tam (gravely). “Eh, Donal’, man, A ance had ma gless knockit ower!”

Alexander ab Alexandro.—(“It is stated that a Scotsman, at Greenock, is to have the honour of contributing a considerable portion of the machinery for the Suez Canal works.”) A Scotsman, of course. Who should understand the desert but Sandy?

A Scots Aunt who’s always on the Sofa.—Aunty-Macassar.

DISGUISED IN TARTAN

Mossoo has been invited north for a few days’ shooting. He arrives tout à fait—“en Montagnard”!

Charm of a Scots Smoking Concert.—The Pipes.

Succour for Scotsmen.—If a Scotsman were between Scylla and Charybdis, and puzzled as to which he should give the preference, would not his national instinct prompt him at once to take the Siller? and, when once he had got his hand fairly upon it, we do not think he would very quickly leave it again.

THIS IS THE PROTECTION A PLAID AFFORDS TO THOSE WHO DO NOT KNOW THE WAY TO CARRY IT

REPUDIATION

Butcher (rushing out). “Hey—ess that yoer doag, mun?”

Donald. “Aweel—he wass mine ance, but he’s aye daein’ for hessel noo!!”

SCOTLAND YET

What’s a’ the steer? Why, man, ye see,

Kinghorn is on its mettle,

The connysoor o’ ilka ee

Frae Anster tae Kingskettle.

We’ll show the warl’ a twa-three things

An’ let it ken the morn, man,

What way we coronate oor kings

In loyal auld Kinghorn, man.

There’ll be the Provost, robes an’ a’—

’Twill be as guid’s a play, sir:

I’m tell’t he’s boucht a dicky braw

In honour o’ the day, sir.

Then, dressed in a’ their Sabbath coats,

Wi’ collars newly stairchit

An’ stickin’ up intil their throats,

The Bailies will be mairchit.

An’ next the Toon Brass Band ye’ll see,

In scarlet coats an’ braid tae,

An’ then the hale I.O.G.T.,

Forbye the Fire Brigade tae.

There’ll be an awfu’ crood, ye ken,

Sae, as we mairch alang, man,

We’ll hae twa extry pólicemen

Tae clear awa’ the thrang, man.

An’ then at nicht—why, ilka ane

Has emptied oot his pockets,

An’ mony a guid bawbee has gaen

In crackers, squibs an’ rockets.

Eh, but I’d tak’ my aith on this—

The King’ll be gey sweer, man,

Tae bide at hame the morn an’ miss

Oor collieshangie here, man.

Although I’m tell’t in Lunnon tae

They’ve got a Coronation,

An’ even Cockneys mean tae hae

Their wee bit celebration;

But eh! I doot yon show’ll be

Disjaskit an’ forlorn, man,

Beside the bonny sichts ye’ll see

In loyal auld Kinghorn, man.

JUDGING BY APPEARANCES

Old Scots Wife. “Losh me! There’s a maun drenkin’ oot o’ twa boattles at ance!!”

[The old gentleman was trying his new binocular, a Christmas present to his nephew.

“A NARROW ESCAPE”

(FRAGMENT OVERHEARD THE OTHER DAY)

“Well, Lauchie, how are you?”

“Man, I’m wonderfu’ weel, considerin’.”

“Considerin’—what?”

“I did last nicht what I’ve no dune this thirty year. I gaed to bed pairfutly sober, and I’m thankfu’ to say I got up this mornin’ no a bit the waur.”

SCRUPLES

English Tourist (having arrived at Greenock on Sunday morning). “My man, what’s your charge for rowing me across the frith?”

Boatman. “Weel, sir, I was jist thinkin’ I canna break the Sawbath-day for no less than f’fteen shull’n’s!!”

“WHOLESALE”