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”

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.

Aits are baith bread an’ meat to me,

Wha dinna keep my carriage.

Mysel, forbye the barley-bree,

Can live richt weel on parritch.

THE CLYDE.—BEAUTIES OF SCOTTISH SCENERY AS SEEN BY OUR ARTIST.

TOO CANDID BY HALF

Visitor (to newly-married friend). “I was admiring your little carriage, Mrs. McLuckie, so——”

Mrs. McLuckie. “Oh, the brougham! Yes; you’ve no idea what a comfort I find it——”

Mr. McLuckie. “Oo aye! It’s gey handy! We’ve jist jobbit the cab for the coorse weather!!”

CAUTION

Host. “Just another wee drap ’fore you go——”

Guest. “Na, na, I’ll tak’ nae mair! I’m in a new lodgin’, and I’m no vera weel acquainted wi’ the stair!!”

“AULD EDINBRO’”

Saxon Traveller. “This is too bad, waiter! I told you we wanted to go by the 9.30 train, and here’s breakfast not ready!”

Celtic Waiter. “A weel, sir, fac’ is, the cook tak’s a gless!”

Scotland for Ever!—Benjamin Barking Creek (thinking he is going to pull the mighty leg of MacTavish). But you must allow that the national emblem of your country is the thistle.

The MacTavish. And for why? Because we grow it for ye Southrons to eat!

[Exit B. B. C.

“BENEATH THE LOWEST DEEP”

Swell. “Ah, Port-ar, is this twain—ah—composed entirely of second-class cawwiages?!”

Glasgow Porter. “Na, na, man, there’s a wheen third-cless anes further forrit there!!”

At Redrufus Castle.—The Duchess of Stony Cross (to Mrs. MacShoddy, who is returning a duty call). The Duke has actually consented to be Mayor of Crankborough in succession to poor Mr. Slitt.

Mrs. MacShoddy. Well! that’ll be very nice for you! You’re sure to be invited to the Mansion House in London during the season!

A Scot on Sweet Sounds.—A’ music whatever is o’ Scottish origin an’ derivation. It a’ cam Sooth frae ayont the Tweed. A’ music just resolves itsel’ intil a meexture o’ Tweed-ledum an’ Tweedle-Dee—the Scottish Dee.

The oreeginal St. Cecilia was a Miss MacWhirter. She invented the Bagpipes.

Rejected Medical Advice (by a Scotsman).—“Try your native air.”

In Scotland, it is not permitted even to whistle on the Sunday. My friend, Wagg, tells me, however, that “you must whistle for what you want.” I remark this contradiction. But they are an obstinate race, the Scots.

Mrs. Golightly (fishing for a compliment). “Ah! Mr. McJoseph, beauty is the most precious of all gifts for a woman! I’d sooner possess beauty than anything in the world!”

Mr. McJoseph (under the impression that he is making himself very agreeable). “I’m sure, Mrs. Golightly, that any regret you may possibly feel on that score must be amply compensated for by—er—the consciousness of your moral worth, you know,—and of your various mental accomplishments!”

Jink. “My dear MacFuddle, it’s the very thing you want! Charming house—lovely spot! Cheap, too. But one great drawback. You can’t get any water there!”

MacFuddle. “Oh, that doesn’t matter!”

REFRESHMENT

Hospitable Good Templar (to Visitor—average Scotsman). “Well, now, what will you tak’, Mac, after your walk—tea, or coffee, or pease-brose?”!!

[Comment is needless.

THE EGREGIOUS ENGLISHMAN

[The Scottish Education Department, not satisfied with the pronunciation in vogue beyond the Tweed, has appointed a Liverpool gentleman to instruct the teachers of Scot’and how to speak polite English.]

A plague on yon Depairtment, Jeames!

It maun be aye appearin’

Wi’ sic a host o’ daft-like schemes,

Forever interferin’.

’Tis past a joke when feckless fouk

Awa’ in Lunnon ettle

Wi’ a’ this fuss tae talk tae us,

The Schule Board o’ Kingskettle.

I’ll tell ye hoo it comes tae pass—

The facts are easy stated:

They tak’ inspectors frae a class

No richtly eddicated,

An’ when the fules inspect oor schules,

I’ll swear upon my life, Jeames,

There’s no a man can unnerstan’

The classic tongue o’ Fife, Jeames.

An’ whaur’s the cure? The thing tae dae

Tae pit them on their mettle

Wad be tae raise inspectors tae

The staundard o’ Kingskettle;

But eh! I fear frae what I hear

Thae fouk in Lunnon toun, Jeames,

Are bent the noo on findin’ hoo

To eddicate us doun, Jeames.

For hae ye heard their latest plan?

I canna weel believe it—

Deil tak’ the impidence o’ man

That ever daured conceive it!

They’re sending doun a Southron loon

Frae far across the border

Tae lairn us hoo tae shape oor mou’

An’ set oor tongue in order.

Noo hoo could ony man expec’

We’d thole thae Angliceesms

An’ lairn a furrin’ deealec’

O’ crude proveencialeesms?

Tae think a fule frae Liverpool

Should undertak’ tae settle

The kind o’ way we oucht tae say

Oor wordies in Kingskettle!

CONSCIENCE

U. P. Elder. “The meenister needna’ ’been that haurd en hes discoorse. Theer plenty o’ leears i’ Peebles forbye me!”

Providing for the Future.—The O’Hooligan (to the MacTavish). Faix! but ye seem to be overlapping your quantum to-night, Laird. Has your grandfather jined to the Kensal Greeners?

The MacTavish. That no, sir, but the morrow, gin that nae accident happen, I shall hae the luxury o’ lunching wi’ my bluid cousin, the ex-Baillie o’ Whilknacraigie, a strict temperance mon, wha canna stand whusky. And so I’m joost drinkin’ up to his soda-water beforehand.

“THE BAR-RD OF A-Y-VON!”

Member of the “Northern Shakspeare Society.” “Man, yon Wully Shakspeare maun hae been a maist extr’o’dinary pairson! Theer-r thengs cam’ entil his heid ’at wad never hae com’ ento mine!—NEVER!”

Scottish Waitress. “There’s a laddie doon the stair wa’antin’ tae see ’ye——”

Mossoo. “A lady! Mon Dieu! Say her to give herself the pain to sit down while I arrange my toilet.”

The “lady” in waiting.

PROMPT AND PRACTICAL

Reverend Stranger. “My good man, can you tell me the nearest way to the cathedral?”

Scottish Cabby. “Jist inside the cab here, sir.”

A SECOND VISIT TO SCOTLAND

(Being an additional Chapter to “The Tour in the Hebrides”)

“Sir,” said Dr. Johnson, “let us take a walk down Princes Street.”

Finding the great man in so excellent a humour, I seized upon the opportunity to put to him many interesting questions.

“Sir,” said I, “pray what do you think of Edinburgh?”

“I think, sir,” replied the Doctor, “that its name is most appropriate.”

“Sir,” I continued, in a fever of anticipation, “I shall be very much obliged to you if you will explain your meaning in greater detail.”

“THE BILLS OF MORTALITY”

Kirk Elder (after a look at his morning paper). “Poor McStagger deid! Et’s vera sad to thenk o’ the great number o’ destengweshed men that’s lately been ta’en! ’Deed—I no feel vera weel—mysel!”

A MERE DETAIL

Friend of the Family. “Weel, Mrs. M‘Glasgie, and how’s your daughter doin’, the one that was married a while ago?”

Mrs. M‘Glasgie. “Oh, varra weel, thank ye, Mr. Brown, varra weel, indeed! She canna abide her man. But then, ye ken, there’s aye a something!!”

A YOUNG HUMANITARIAN

“Oh, mamma, mamma, couldn’t you interfere? There’s a horrid man squeezing something under his arm, and he is hurting it so!”

Dr. Johnson. Sir, I am sorry that my meaning should require explanation. I say that the name Edinburgh is appropriate, because I find the city primitive and beautiful. Adam and Eve would, doubtless, have held it in high consideration had they had the advantage of its possession. In short, sir, they would have called it the town of their Eden, or Edinburgh.

Mr. Boswell. A pun, sir!

“It was a pun, sir!” cried the Doctor, very angrily, and I hastened to change the subject.

“I am surprised to find, sir,” said I, “that Her Majesty does not reside at Edinburgh. Do you not think, sir, that she might use her Scottish Palace at Christmas time?”

“No, sir, I do not think so,” replied the Doctor, “and I can find no reason for your surprise.”

“Indeed, sir!”

Dr. Johnson. Sir, were Her Most Gracious Majesty to dwell at Edinburgh at Christmas time, she would be put to great inconvenience. Her Most Gracious Majesty exhibits excellent sense in selecting Balmoral for her residence.

Mr. Boswell. Sir, I trust you do not call in question my loyalty to the House of Brunswick?

Dr. Johnson. Sir, I do not; I only question your wisdom.

CAPACITY!

First Traveller (proffering his mull). “Tak a pench?”

Second Traveller. “Na, ’m obleeged t’ye—ah dinna tak’t.”

First Traveller. “Man!—that’s a pety!—ye’ve gr-r-raund accaummodation for’t!”

Mr. Boswell. Sir, if I do not trouble you, will you explain to me why Her Majesty should avoid Edinburgh at Christmas time?

Dr. Johnson. Why, sir, the very branches put up in honour of the festive season would treat her with disrespect!

Mr. Boswell. Indeed, sir!

Dr. Johnson. Sir, if Her Most Gracious Majesty visited Edinburgh at Christmas time, would she not find Holly-rood?

Mr. Boswell. Another pun, sir!

“It was another pun, sir!” cried the Doctor, very wrathfully, and I said no more.

The next day we visited Stirling. We walked up to the Castle, and admired the magnificent view we there obtained of the surrounding country. We next examined the ramparts.

“These old walls, sir,” said I, “must weigh many thousand tons avoirdupois.”

“Sir,” replied the Doctor, “you should have said pounds Stirling!”

“Another pun, sir!” I exclaimed.

“It was another pun, sir!” roared the Doctor, and I thought it best to hold my peace.

DE MORTUIS

Sympathetic Young Mother. “I wunner ye could be sae cruel as to kill that bonnie wee cauf!”

Practical Butcher. “Weel, ye see, ye’ll no eat them leevin’!”

The next morning found us at Perth. Here we were received most hospitably by the gentry and the people. In the company of our host (a gentleman of the highest consideration in “The Fair City”), we ascended Kinnoul Hill, and greatly admired the splendid scenery.

“A very lovely spot, sir,” I ventured to observe.

Dr. Johnson. Sir, you are right. Sir, I have here found the people so kind-hearted, the city so handsome, and the scenery so magnificent, that I confess it would give me infinite satisfaction were I able to call the town in which I was born the place (as the Highlanders have it) of my Perth!

“A pun, sir!” exclaimed our excellent host, and I could not help noticing that he seemed greatly surprised.

The Doctor made no reply, but I could see by the working of his countenance that he was suffering pain.

We came to our journey’s end at Wick.

“What do you think of this place, sir,” I asked.

Dr. Johnson. Sir, I think that the title of “The Modern Athens” should be conferred upon Wick rather than upon Edinburgh.

Mr. Boswell. Indeed, sir! May I ask why?

Q. E. D.

Professor McPhairrson. “No, Mrs. Brown, it’s not that we Scots are dull; but you English see a joke in anything! Why, the other day I was in a room with four Englishmen, one of whom told a story, and, would you believe it, I was the only man that didn’t laugh!”

Dr. Johnson. Why, sir? Sir, you must be very dull. I say, sir, that Wick should be called “The Modern Athens.”

Mr. Boswell. I confess, sir, that I am dull, and yet I cannot perceive why Wick should be called “The Modern Athens” rather than Edinburgh.

Dr. Johnson. Sir, you indeed must be dull if you do not associate Wick with the centre of Greece!

I was silent for a few minutes, and then I ventured to make a remark.

“Sir,” said I, “you once expressed a very strong opinion about pun-makers. Sir, you asserted your belief that a man who would make a pun would be capable of picking a pocket.”

Dr. Johnson. Sir, I believe so still.

Mr. Boswell. And yet, sir, during the course of our tour, you have made a large number of puns.

Dr. Johnson. Sir, you have good grounds for what you assert. I admit, sir, with a feeling of sorrow, that I have made many puns during our tour.

Mr. Boswell. Sir, may I venture to ask you why you have made so many puns?

“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.

Boots (after search).—I beg pardon, sir, but the chambermaid mistook it for the skirt of the young lady in No. 13. But you’ve got her gown!

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE HOLIDAYS

Fussy Body (in search of a seat). “A’ fu’ here?”

Voice from the depths.

“‘We ar’na fou, we’re no sae fou,

But jist a drappie in oor e’e——’”

A WILLING MARTYR

Scottish Carrier. “Eh, bit that’s strong whusky! Bit! U’ll no spile the taste wi’ water. U’ll rather thole’t!”

THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE

Tam. “Sae ye’ve gotten back, Sanders?”

Sanders. “’Deed, aye. I’ve just gotten back.”

Jamie. “An’ hoo did ’e like London?”

Sanders. “Od, it’s an ootlandish place yon! They tell’t me they couldna unnerstaun ma awccent!”

John. “Awccent! I never heard tell that Fife folk had ony awccent!”

“THE HIELAND BEAUTY”

Mickle did I love my Jeanie,

Syn’ she wa’ a peekle weanie,[1]

Kittlin’[2] owre the flattit greenie,

A’ sae winsom’,

A’ sae hinsom’,

Dainty skirrock[3] Jeanie.

How I coodled[4] in her eekit,

Dooning[5] wha’ nae booties creekit

Till her twa bright een they leekit,

A’ sae hinsom’,

A’ sae winsom’,

Watting sair her cheekit.

Says she, “Let lassies fash their streeps

Wi’ drummie stick an’ paudy peeps,

Gie me my Tam wi’ squeezy-greeps,”[6]

A’ sae winsom’,

A’ sae hinsom’,

“Ane whiskey-toddy on fowre leeps.”[7]

Wull ye be my ain, my lassie?

Pibroch-peeps wi’ jug and glassie;

Pladdie, too, wi’ ribbon sassie,[8]

A’ sae hinsom’,

A’ sae winsom’,

All I gie, but hae nae brassie.

Says she, “Sin ye’ve nae brassie-jingle,

All the rest is sandie-shingle;

Sae wi’ ye I winna mingle,”

A’ sae hinsom’,

A’ sae winsom’,

“Steppit,[9] Tam, I’ll stoppit[10] single.”

Noo I seep ma whiskey-toddy,

Takin’ speerits wi’ nae boddy:

Sup for ane’s nae sup for twoddy,[11]

A’ sae winsom’,

A’ sae hinsom’,

Carls, gude night, I’ll niddy-noddy.[12]

[1] A little pickle.

[2] Sporting like a kitten.

[3] The Lowland language has no equivalent for this word, which in itself is so peculiarly expressive.

[4] Whispers soft things.

[5] Sitting.

[6] Arm round my waist.

[7] Four lips.

[8] Jaunty.

[9] Go away.

[10] Remain.

[11] Hieland proverb signifying that enough for one is not sufficient for two.

[12] Sleep.

SAWBATH RECREATION

Gentleman from N. B. (he had sent his Presbyterian butler to a service at Westminster Abbey). “Well, Dugald, what did you think of it?”

Dugald. “Aweel, sir, it was mair like heev’n than airth; but e—h, sir, it’s just an awfu’ way o’ spennin’ the Sawbath, yon!!”

The Irishman in Scotland.—Sorr, there is a river that requires milk an’ sugar before ye’d dhrink a dhrop of it? What is it? Sure ’tis the river Tay.

A Conundrum made by a Little Boy only Seven Years Old.—Why is an umbrella like a Scottish shower?—Because the moment it rains it’s missed.

Scene—A Scottish Estate. The New Heir has run down to see the property.

The Heir. “I sha’n’t be able to come and settle here just yet, McTavish, as I’m ordered out to South Africa, but——”

McTavish (his Factor—with feeling). “A’m sorry,—A’m varra sorry to hear that”—(the Heir is rather touched)—“because ye’ll understan’, if onything was to happen to ye, A doot the estate couldna stan’ two succession duties so close.”

KINGHORN AN’ LUNNON

(A Comparison)

The sichts we’ve seen! The punds my wife

Has spent instead o’ bankit!

But eh! we’re back in bonny Fife,

Sae let the Lord be thankit!

An’ Lunnon? Weel, ye ken, it’s gay

An’ busy, nicht an’ morn, man,

An’ there’s a pickle fouk—but eh!

It’s no—it’s no Kinghorn, man.

Ye’ll wanner on, an’ on, an’ on,

Through miles an’ miles o’ men, man,

An’ yet in a’ the crood like yon

There’s de’il a face ye’ll ken, man.

Na! Lunnon’s oot the warl’, ye see,

For look ye, I’ll be sworn, man,

Sic unco things could never be

In ceevilised Kinghorn, man.

The shops? Ou, aye, there’s shops indeed,

But faith, they’re rale unhaundy:

Ane keeps yer butter, ane yer breid,

An’ yet a third yer braundy.

Noo here, gin ye be wantin’ oucht,

Boots, butcher’s meat or corn, man,

Shag, bonnets, breeks, they’ll a’ be boucht

Thegither in Kinghorn, man.

The fashions? Weel, ye ken, we saw

A wheen o’ giddy hussies

Paradin’ in their duddies braw

Upon the cars an’ ’busses.

But dinna think owre much o’ yon,

For sure as I am born, man,

For style, it’s no a patch upon

Our floo’er show at Kinghorn, man.

An’ then sic ignorance! Losh me,

I’m feared ye’ll no can doot it,

But nane kent whaur Kinghorn micht be,

Nor onything aboot it.

Tis awfu’! Yet ’twad seem to ca’

For peety mair than scorn, man,

For mind ye, ’tisna gi’en to a’

To live aboot Kinghorn, man.

“USED TO IT!”

Officer at firing-point (who thinks that it’s raining). “Sergeant Mauchline, hadn’t you better wear your great coat till it’s your turn to fire?”

Sergeant Mauchline (frae the “Land of Lorne”). “Hoo! No the noo! I’ll pit it on when it comes wat!”

City Friend (visiting in Scottish rural town). And tell me, Andrew, are you wi’ the Wee Kirkers, or the United Frees?

Andrew. Man, I’m gi’en’ up releegion a’thegither, an j’inin’ the Auld Kirk.

The Scotsman who tumbled off a bicycle says that in future he intends to “let wheel alone.”

My Only “Crossed Checks.”—My own Shepherd’s-plaid Trousers.

QUANTITY, NOT QUALITY

English Angler, having discovered there are two sorts of whisky at the inn (best at 6d., second best at 3d.), orders a glass each of the sixpenny.

Gillie (in a whisper to the maid as she passes). “Make mine twa o’ the threepenny!”

A PRACTICAL APPLICATION

Irate Landlord (and Free-Kirk Elder, after being called in, for the fiftieth time, about some repairs). “The fact is, Mrs. McRacket, ye’ll ne’er be content till ye’re i’ the hoose made wi’out hands.”—(Severely.)—“See Second Corinthians, fifth chapter, and firrst vairse, Mrs. McRacket!”

“DEPRESSION”

Tourist (tipping the old gravedigger, who had shown him over the Cathedral). “I suppose, now so many visitors are in the town, you’ll be doing well?”

Gravedigger. “Ou aye, there’s a wheen fowk gaun aboot, but”—(gloomily)—“there’s terr’ble little deein’ in the diggin’ waye!”

A SKETCH IN SCOTLAND

Since the immortal meeting of the Brick Lane Temperance Society, at which the Messrs. Weller and the Reverend the Shepherd attended (after refection elsewhere), and the latter, in response to the Chairman’s fat smile and invitation to address the meeting, declined, on the ground that the meeting was drunk, we have seen nothing so good as this, which we take from the Dundee Courier:—

“On Sunday last, the minister of a large congregation in Dundee was interrupted in the course of his forenoon sermon by the repeated coughing of his auditors. Pausing in the midst of his observations, he addressed his congregation to the following effect:—‘You go about the streets at the New Year time—you get drunk, and get cold, then you come here and cough, cough like a park of artillery. I think I must give you a vacation of six weeks, that you may have time to get sober, and to regain your health again.’”

“MOST UNFORTUNATE!”

Bailie McScrew (to Smith, on a short visit to the North). “An’ what are ye daen’ to-morrow nicht, Mester Smeth?”

Smith. “To-morrow? Oh, nothing particular.”

Bailie. “An’ the next nicht?”

Smith. “Ah! on Friday I’m to dine with the Browns——”

Bailie. “Man, that’s a petty! Aw was gaun t’ ask ye to tak’ yer denner wi’ us o’ Friday!!”

IN VINO MEMORIA

Major Portsoken (a pretty constant guest). “I say, Buchanan, this isn’t—(another sip)—the same champagne——!”

Scots Butler. “Na, that’s a’ dune! There was thrutty dizzen; and ye’ve had yere share o’t, major!!”

TITLES TO DISTINCTION

Passenger (from the South, waking up). “Pray, sir, what station is this?”

Native. “Thes es Paisley, sir!—Paisley! Celebrated toon, sir!—Berrth-place o’ th’ poat Tannahul, sir! And—’hem?—ah’m a Paisley man mysel’, sir! Ah was born i’ Paisley—ah was——”

[Luckily the train had now run into the station, and stopped.

A PRACTICAL VIEW

First Parishioner (to recently-appointed Minister). “Verra gled to fall in wi’ ye, sir, an’ mak’ yer acqua’ntance! I hinna been at the kirk syne ye cam’, as I wis in Ross-shire.”

Parson. “Well, I am very pleased to meet you. You may have heard whether my serm——”

Parishioner. “Oh, a’ the fowk are greatly taken wi’ yer menners an’ appearance, yer attention to the puir bodies o’ the parish, yer visitin’ the sick, an’——wha cares for preachin’!”

This lenitive application did good, for the congregation sat quiet, and coughed no more than they would have dared to do had they been in presence of the Queen, or any other great person, instead of being in a mere church. But one seat-holder, though he held his seat, could not hold his tongue, and declared that the congregation was insulted. We suspect that the minister knew best. In fact, had the incident occurred anywhere but in Scotland, where every man is proverbially sober, we should have been sure that the minister knew best. Hurrah, for the toddy of Bonnie Dundee!

COMMERCIAL INSTINCT

Dugald. “Did ye hear that Sawney McNab was ta’en up for stealin’ a coo?”

Donald. “Hoot, toot, the stipit bodie! Could he no bocht it an’ no paid for’t?”

SPORTIVE SONGS

(An enamoured Southron endeavours to address a Highland Damsel in her own tongue)

Yon sky is bonny blue, fair lass,

But you boast bluer een;

Yon sun is bricht the noo, fair lass,

Your locks hae brichter sheen;

The fowl ahint the windy scaur

Flees to its hame awa’,

But, oh! my heart is fleeter far

Whene’er I hear you ca’.

The cushat seeks the hazel broch

Therein his mate to woo,

But I hie to the mountain loch

To lilt my lays o’ lo’e.

For here it was I speered you first

In a’ your pride o’ race,

You set my ardent soul athirst

When I gazed on your face!

I sat me down beside that cairn,

And looked, a feckless loon,

On you, the great MacMuckle’s bairn,

Wi’ ne’er a pair o’ shoon!

Wi’ winsome feet sae white as milk

You paddlit i’ the faem,

Your snoodless locks, sae soft as silk,

Whished roun’ your gouden kaem!

I looked and looked, and marvelled sair

If human you might be;

You laughed to see the wonder-stare

That came frae oot my ee.

And then you broke the eerie spell,

And oh! your voice was douce!

Like water trickling frae a shell,

What time the ebb runs loose!

An’ noo I maun my heart declare!

(Would you could hear its beat.)

I’ve lands, and siller, too, to spare,

An’ sic a hamestead sweet!

I ken you are MacMuckle’s chiel,

His only dearest ane,

But tell him that I lo’e you weel,

And canna bide alane!

NOT TO BE MADE A FOOL OF

Farmer. “Noo, if it’s a fair question, hoo much wull ye get for thae kye when ye’ve feenished them?”

Artist. “Oh, perhaps sixty guineas, or so.”

Farmer. “Wha-a-t! Dinna tell me, man; A’l no get that for them leevin’.”

At Bonnie Blinkie Castle.—Mr. Lysander B. Chunks, of Chicago (who has rented the property of the Duke of B. B.). I see this mansion described in the guide-books as “palatial.” Why, it isn’t in it with the Mastodon Hotel, Milwaukee!

English Guest. Then why didn’t you hire the hotel?

Macbeth to Bad Mock Turtle.—“Unreal mockery, hence!”

INCORRIGIBLE!

Mrs. M‘Finnan (very genteel, and speaks pure Edinburgh English). “My dear, you’ve got pigeon-pie there, I think.”

Mr. M‘Finnan (an Aberdonian, and not particular). “A——ye. Fa-a’s for doo tair-rt? I’m for neen mysel’!”

A FRIENDLY WARNING

First Tramp. “I wadna advise ye tae gang up there!”

Second Tramp. “What wye? Is there a muckle doug?”

First Tramp. “No; but there’s a danger o’ wark!”

“AGAINST THE GRAIN”

Widow Woman (to Chemist, who was weighing a grain of calomel in dispensing a prescription for her sick child). “Man, ye needna’ be sae scrimpy wi’t—’tis for a puir fatherless bairn!”

SOBER SCOTS

[“A ‘Sober Scot Society’ has been formed in Edinburgh. Its members bind themselves not to drink liquor before noon.”—Daily Paper.]

Willie brewed a peck o’ maut,

Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!

Tammas cam’ a-findin’ faut,

Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!

“What’s this poison ye wad pree?

Put awa’ the barley-bree!

Be a Sober Scot like me!”

Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!

Willie gied a fearsome froun,

Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!

Looked as he wad knock him doun

Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!

“Shober? Dinna gie me sic

Inshults! Gin I’m speakin’ thick

Lemme gang tae Jerich—hic!”

Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!

Tam turned up a yellow ee,

Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!

“Man, ye’re fou as fou can be;”

Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!

“Weel, an’, laddie, gin I am,

Div ye think I care a——Tam!

I am nae teetotal lamb!”

Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!

“Haud yer havers! Wha’s T. T.?

Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!

What! A Sober Scot like me?

Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!

I, my lad, like ither men,

Lo’e a drappie noo and then;

I am free at noon, ye ken.”

Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!

Hoo it cam’ let wise men tell,

Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!

While they cracked the clock struck twal’,

Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t!

Will filled up a glass an’, faith,

Tammas took it, naethin’ laith,

Noo they’re fou an’ canty baith,

Ha, ha, the brewin’ o’t.

STERN PULPIT-CRITICS

First Scot. “Fat sort o’ minister hae ye gotten, Geordie?”

Second Ditto. “Oh, weel, he’s no muckle worth. We seldom get a glint o’ him. Sax days o’ th’ week he’s envees’ble, and on the seventh he’s encomprehens’ble!!”

“GOOD INTENTIONS”

Scot (on Waterloo Bridge). “Hech! To think I save a bawbee every time I cross this bonny brig! I’ll just pit it in the plate the next time I gang t’ the kirk!”

CATECHISM UNDER DIFFICULTIES

Free Kirk Elder (preparatory to presenting a tract). “My friend, do you know the chief end of man?”

Piper (innocently). “Na, I dinna mind the chune! Can ye no whustle it?”!!

Companion Sign to the “Welsh Harp.”—The “Scots Fiddle.”

Wut at Wimbledon.—A Scots volunteer, one of the knot of critics round the firing-point where the line-prizes were being shot for, on asking, with some contempt in his voice, “Whaur thae lads come frae?” and being told “Aldershot,” was heard to mutter, complacently. “Hech, sirs! Aulder shots sud be better shots I’m thinkin’!”

“The Old Adam.”—The Minister (coming on them unawares). “E-e-h! Sandy McDougal! Ah’m sorry to see this! And you too, Wully! Fishin’ o’ the Sawbath! Ah thoucht ah’d enstellet better prenciples——” (A Rise.) “E-e-eh! Wully, man!—ye hae’m!—it’s entil’m! Haud up yer r-rod, man—or ye’ll lose’m—tak’ car-r-re!——”

[Recollects himself, and walks off.

A NEW “ADDRESS TO THE DEIL”

(A long way after Robbie Burns)

Oh, thou! whatever name, great Sir,

Prince Lucio, or plain Lucifer,

As up-to-date, thou may’st prefer,—

They’re nane great catches,

Whether derived frae classic or

Frae brimstone matches!—

Hear me, great Alias, for a wee!

The leddies winna let thee be.

Ye’d think sma’ pleasure it could gie,

E’en to she-novelist,

To drag thee frae the obscuritee

Wherein thou grovellest.

But leddies wi’ an eye to fame,

Take leeberties wi’ thy dread name,

Thy wanderings frae thy woefu’ hame,

Lang fixed afar;

Painting thee neither black, nor lame,

As auld fients are.

True, Wullie Shakspeare ance did say

Thou wert “a gentleman.” But to-day

The leddies limn thee masher gay,

Modish and maudlin’,

Weel-groomed, about the public way

Daundering and dawdlin’.

The Prince of Darkness as a dude,

Callow and cantin’, crass and crude,

Compound of prater, prig, male-prude,

And minor poet,

Is—weel, I wadna’ here intrude

The word—ye know it!

Milton and Goethe whyles might summon

Thine image forth, a graund, grim, glum ’un;

But ’tis beyond the scribblin’ woman

Wi’ truth to paint ye.

She’ll mak’ ye a reedeeculous rum ’un,

Unsex, half saint ye!

Thrasonic Bobadil the bard,

Wha deems Parnassus his backyard,

Tried to invoke thy presence—hard;

As did great “Festus.”

But somehow their attempts, ill-starred,

Scarce eenterest us.

They havena’ the true grit and grup

In mighty shape to raise ye up.

They wha’d on genuine horrors sup,

And scare a body,

Are not inspired by raw pork-chop,

An’ whusky-toddy.

But oh! a leddy-novelist’s Deil

Wad scarcely gar a bairnie squeel!

Like Hotspur’s “sarcenet oath,” we feel

It hath nae terror.

Is lathen dagger ta’en for steel

A greater error?

Sorrows o’ Satan! Aye, good lack!

’Tis bad to paint ye owre black;

But thus whitewash ye! Oh! quack! quack!

His truest “sorrow”

Satan from the she-scribbler’s knack

Must surely borrow.

Weel, fare-ye-weel, Auld Nickie-Ben!

Ye’ve borne some wrangs at hands o’ men,

But frae the writing-woman’s pen,

She-poet-prophet,

Gude luck deliver ye—and then

Ye’ll no dread Tophet!

A WARNING TO LAWSONITES

First Scots Boatman. “Weel, Geordie, hoo got ye on the day?”

Second Ditto (drouthy, he had been out with a Free Kirk Minister, a strict abstainer). “Nae ava. The auld carle had nae whusky, sae I took him whaur there was nae fush!”

DRIVING A BARGAIN

Economical Drover. “A teeck’t tae Faa’kirk.”

Polite Clerk. “Five-and-ninepence, please.”

Drover. “Ah’ll gie ye five shillings!”

Clerk (astonished).. “Eh!”

Drover. “Weel, ah’ll gie ye five-an’-thrippence, an’ deil a bawbee mair! Is’t a bargain?!”

UNCOMPROMISING

The Doctor’s Daughter. “I declare you’re a dreadful fanatic, Mrs. McCizzom. I do believe you think nobody will be saved but you and your minister!”

Old Lady. “Aweel, my dear, ah whiles hae ma doobts aboot the meenister!”

QUOI?

First Artist (six months in Paris).. “Yes, this is the best thing I’ve done.”

Second Artist (just arrived).. “Mon, dinna let that discoorage ye!”

“WHERE THERE’S A WILL THERE’S A WAY”

(Liberal Scots Farmer giving his workpeople a dram). “Awm sorry, Mrs. McDougal, ye canna tak a gless on account of your temperance principles!”

Mrs. McDougal. “Hoot, man! Ye jist poor’t on ma bap, [A] an’ I’ll eat it!”

[A] “Bap,” a roll.

Emily the Elder. “I can’t think why William wanted to take Archie out rabbit-shooting in such horrid weather.”—(Cousin Archie, who is evidently smitten in this quarter, waves an adieu with his bonnet.)—“A regular Scotch mist, I declare!”

Maria the Younger. “Yes, dear, and”—(mischievously)—“somebody doesn’t like missing a Scotsman!!”

[Emily goes in with a toss of her head, and plays “Tullochgorum” furiously on the piano.

At a West-end Club.—Hospitable Southerner (to Scottish guest). Have another go of whisky?

Scottish Guest (with a sigh). I thank ye. No.

Hospitable Southerner (astonished). What! Why surely it’s not a case of “the wee drappie i’ the ee”?

Scottish Guest. Nae, mon, it’s no that; it’s the wee drappee i’ the glass.

[H. S. takes hint and orders a tumbler of whisky.

A Real Scottish Joke.—What’s the next wine to golden sherry? Sillery. (Siller—eh?)

PLEASANT!

Scene—A bleak Scottish moor. Time—New Year’s Day. Train gradually stops.

Excited Passenger. “Now, then, guard, what are you stopping here for?”

Philosophical Guard. “Fact is, the watter’s gane aff the bile. Hooever, it’s jist possible th’ express behin’ll be late.”

MacAlister. “When ye come tae Scotland I’ll gie ye plenty fushin’ and shuitin’.”

Brown. “Are you fond of fishing and shooting?”

MacAlister. “Na! na! A canna fush and am faird tae shuit!”

THE RULING PASSION

Little Girl. “Wull ye gie’s ha’pennies for this thripenny, for ma granny’s feared it’s no a gude ane?”

THE DECAY OF THE KILT

Mr. Briggs loquitur:

I am going down to Scotland, to the country of the kilt,

For a little salmon-stalking in a place they call Glen Tilt;

And as I always like to be a Roman when at Rome,

I’ve purchased the correct costume and it has just come home.

The kilt is most becoming, and it hangs with grace and ease,

Though perhaps a little draughty in the region of the knees,

And if there should be midges—but no doubt the Scotch are drest

In the clothes Experience has found to suit the climate best.

The dirk that dangles from my waist looks very comme il faut,

And the sporran in my stocking gives a finish, don’t you know?

The girls are all in raptures as they gaze at me in turns,

And mother says they’ll take me for another Robert Burns.

Sandy loquitur:

Oh, mony are the fallacies that Ignorance’ll breed,