Mr. Punch's Scottish Humour

Opening

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

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

LIFE IN LONDON COUNTRY LIFE IN THE HIGHLANDS SCOTTISH HUMOUR IRISH HUMOUR COCKNEY HUMOUR IN SOCIETY AFTER DINNER STORIES IN BOHEMIA AT THE PLAY MR. PUNCH AT HOME ON THE CONTINONG RAILWAY BOOK AT THE SEASIDE MR. PUNCH AFLOAT IN THE HUNTING FIELD MR. PUNCH ON TOUR WITH ROD AND GUN MR. PUNCH AWHEEL BOOK OF SPORTS GOLF STORIES IN WIG AND GOWN ON THE WARPATH BOOK OF LOVE WITH THE CHILDREN

“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?

* * * * *

GOOD NAME FOR A SCOTS POLICEMAN.--Macnab.

* * * * *

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

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.

[Illustration: “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!

* * * * *

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

[Illustration: 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!”

* * * * *

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

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.

[Illustration: 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.]

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.

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

[Illustration: 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!

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

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.”

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.

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.

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?

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?

“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!

* * * * *

“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]

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[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.

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* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

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.’”

[Illustration: 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.]

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!

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!

* * * * *

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!”

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

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’!”

* * * * *

[Illustration: “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!

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[A] “Bap,” a roll.

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[Illustration: 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?)

* * * * *

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, An’ mony the mistakes a man’ll get intil his heid, But the maddest o’ delusions mad wi’ which some folks are fillt, Is that ye suld gang tae Scotland, gin ye want to see the kilt

For a’ the year I hevna seen a single kilt but ane-- A wee bit white-legged Coackney wha’ was trudgin’ through the rain; The water it was pourin’ owre his knees intil his shoes, An’ eh! but he was wishin’ for a pair o’ honest trews.

Na! gin it’s kilts ye’re wantin’, dinna win sae mony miles! Jist bide at home in Lunnon toun and gang tae Seven Dials, An’ there amang the coasters, hurdy-gurdies, dancin’ bears, Ye’ll fin’ yer bogus Scotsmen pipin’ bogus Scottish airs.

* * * * *

“IN VINO VERITAS.”--Sandie Mac Sawnie respondeth: “Truth in wine, indeed! Hoot, mon, there’s nae sic a thing. Just skake up that auld port, and ye’ll find there’s muckle lees in it!”

* * * * *

AT THE BOARD-SCHOOL LECTURE.--Professor McCrobe. And now, where do you suppose germs are originated?

Oversmart Lad (promptly). In Germany, sir!

[Laughter, cheers and--tears.

* * * * *

AFTER A TRIP TO LONDON.--Archie. Weel, Sandy, an’ hoo did ye pass the time in Lunnon?

Sandy. Richt brawly, mon. An’ forbye, when I’d clappit a stove pipe on my head and put on a frockit coat, ’deed, Archie, if there was a Southron but didna’ take me for a Cockney born and bred!

* * * * *

A SCOTS BALL-ROOM BALLAD

(By The MacPry)

Why sit ye on the stair, ladie, Why sit ye on the stair? It’s merry dancing in the hall, And partners still are there.

Ye arena in a cosy neuk, But in the lamp’s full glare; No gentle whisperin’ words are spoke-- Why sit ye on the stair?

The runkled carle that’s by your side No tale of luve can tell; He fain wad win ye for his bride By talkin’ o’ himsel’.

Your voice is clear, your laugh is cheer, But oh, your eyes are sad; You answer what the gaffer says, You’re lookin’ for the lad.

(They winna stint their prattlin’ talk-- Oh, but her eyes are sad!-- Tis vain to cherche the fammy here, I’ll gang and speer the lad.)

Why prop ye up the wa’, laddie, Why prop ye up the wa’? Your lissom shoes are stickit oot, Ye’ll gar the dancers fa’.

Or feckless couples tearin’ past, Wi’ elbows at an angle, Will pin ye to the wainscoat fast As wild boar in a jungle.

The floor’s as smooth as summer grass Sma’ feet, like crickets, caper, And whirlin’ kirtles, as they pass, Sair waste the swealing taper.

The lassies’ gowns are creased and rent; The lads are oot o’ knowledge; They are as hot wi’ twirlin’ roon As blacksmith frae the village.

The fiddles pour their love-sick pray’rs The flutie-man is whis’lin’, Just like when ancient madam scares A thrummock-touzle hisslin’.

There’s young folks movin’ like a fair, There’s auld folks quaffin’ sherry. An’ you sae weary, fu’ o’ care, When all the world is merry?

Gin ye maun feed your dowie grudge, At least fill up your programme, And come victorious from the crush Like Bonaparte from Wagram.

Nay, dinna off the lassie score; Her heart sings, “Waly, waly!” She’s talkin’ with that awfu’ bore, The Laird o’ Lanthorn Jawley.

Quit, quit, for shame! This winna do. Rouse up and play the man, sir! For they should dance who have the chance, And they should sup who can, sir.

Ah, see, she smiles! Could any word More eloquently call ye? Now go and soothe your bonnie burd, And banish Lanthorn Jawley.

So prop nae mair the wa’, laddie, So prop nae mair the wa’----’ (Ye dinna ken that on your coat Yon candle-droppin’s fa’?)

[Illustration: “IS IT GREEK?”

Foreigner. “’Say, mun, rax me owre the pourrie.”

Southerner. “I’m sorry--Je ne parle no French.”

Foreigner. “O, I beg ye’re paurdon--han’ me the cream-jug.”

[No--it is Scotch.]

* * * * *

FOLLOWING THEIR NOSES.--We read a report of whales running ashore on the Orkney coast last week. They were of the bottle-nose kind, and probably followed their noses, tempted by the free flow of “het-pint,” a very tempting new year’s tipple, largely indulged in north of the Tweed.

* * * * *

Question. Why may Scotsmen be supposed to like policemen?

Answer. Eh, sirs, it’s just because they’re vera fond of the Bawbees.

* * * * *

THE POINT OF VIEW

Loch Scrimpy Hotel, N.B.

DEAR MAISTER PUNCH,--I’ve heerd often enough aboot ye as a kind sort o’ buddy, whae putts the warld richt, when it has gaun wrang, and I’m thinking to write tae ye, a screed about thae feckless critters, the South’ren tourists whae owerrun Auld Scotland at this time o’ the year with their coo-ponds and their excursion tuckets, thinking to tak their pleesures on the cheap. Noo, the hotels in this country are famed for their vera moderate charges. I mysel have had a real good breakfast (they ca’ it dijohnny now) for no more than five shullings--that’s cheap enough. And as for a bed! weel, no one can find faut with half of a sovereign? And yet thae tourists are aye complainin’. Hotel folk in Scotland should have fixed charges throughout. I, for yin, will make free to say that I will cheerfully pay them, when I find it necessary, one pound ten shullin’s for bed and breakfast and maybe half-a-croon for a good glass of the cratur, as a settler afterwards. If the hotel folk would all agree to some moderate charge like that, they could think aboot Culloden with eequanimity!

Yours most friend-like, ALEXANDER MACWHUSTLE.

HOMAGE TO THE SCOTS RIFLES

BY A SPITEFUL COMPETITOR

It seems that the Scots Turn out much better shots At long distance, than most of the Englishmen are: But this we all knew That a Scotsman could do-- Make a small piece of metal go awfully far.

UNSPEAKABLE SCOTS

Hear, Land o’ Cakes, and brither Scots, Frae Maidenkirk to Johnnie Groats-- A chiel’s amang ye takin’ notes: Behold his labours-- A volume padded weel wi’ “quotes” Aboot his neighbours.

And wha should ken sae weel as he What a’ oor fauts and failin’s be? Has he no seen wi’ his ain ee Auld Reekie’s lums? Drumtochty’s kent as weel’s E.C. And sae is Thrums.

Ou aye, there’s noucht he disna ken O’ Scottish life and Scottish men. Wi’ lugs attentive let us then List to his railin’s, And humbly set oorsels to men’ Oor mony failin’s.

The Scot, says he, is dull and dour, Aye jealous, greedy, jaundiced, sour, A drucken, coarse, ill-mannered boor, Wherein one traces Nae sign o’ Crosland’s mental pow’r And courtly graces.

We arena gleg, we Scottish folk: We canna catch the witty stroke That will a Surrey Ha’ provoke, To lauchter shakin’, Nay, whiles we canna see a joke O’ Crosland’s makin’.

We swear, we lo’e the barley bree, We thieve--but, eh, sirs! how should we Be quit o’ thae black vices he Sae criticises, When a’ the virtues Mr. C. Monopolises?

* * * * *

THE DAY AND THE DEED.--A certain Scottish Presbytery were sorely dumbfounded by an answer to a request of theirs for signature to a Sabbatarian petition. The reply (translated to them of course) was Laborare est orare.

* * * * *

Guard (to inebriated traveller, at junction). Now, sir, all change, please.

Traveller (with dignity). D’ye ken, mon, that I’ve got a return ticket?

* * * * *

A BALLAD OF EDINBORO’ TOON

The lusty sun did glower aboon, Wi’ welcome in his cheerfu’ rays; I walked in Edinboro’ toon, A’ in ma caller claes.

For I had donned ma coat o’ cheiks That cost me guineas twa an’ three. But and ma pair o’ ditto breeks That luiked sae pleasantlie.

On ilka breek were creasies twa; And they did hang sae fine, sae fine, Frae John o’ Groats to Gallowa’ Were nane sae fair as mine.

An’ first I honoured Geordie Street, An’ syne I walked the Princes ane, To gie to ilka lass a treat An’ a’ the laddies pain.

An’ mony a laddie’s hert was sair; An’ mony a lassie’s een, ay, mony, Uplicht wi’ joy to see a pair Sae canny an’ sae bonny.

I hadna walked an hour at maist, I hadna honoured half the toon, The air grew drumlie lik’ a ghaist, An’ syne the rain cam’ doon.

An’ first the dust it gently laid, An’ syne it cam’ in cats an’ doggies, That loosed the cobble-stanes and played Auld Hornie wi’ ma toggies.

O waly for ma coat o’ cheicks That cost me guineas twa and three! An’ waly for ma ditto breeks Sae bagsome at the knee!

The creasies twa are past reca’ That gard them hang sae fine, sae fine, Frae John o’ Groats to Gallowa’ Are nane sae puir as mine!

O fause, inhospitable toon, I rede thee, gin I come again, Ma claes sall be o’ reich-ma-doon, An’ deil tak’ your rain!

TO EDINBURGH[B]

IN EXPIATION

Thou dear and gracious town, where I Have sojourned for a fleeting spell, The hour has come that bids me fly; Edina, fare thee well!

Right heavy am I that we must part, For lo, I know not where or when I’ve met so--down, poor fluttering heart!-- And more agreeable men.

Forgive me that I spake in haste Winged words that I would fain forget; Thy welcome seemed in doubtful taste, And I was very wet!

But rather hold his memory dear, Whose sunny presence brought thee forth The finest weather of the year, And warmed the watery North.

Now onward speeds the busy train, O hospitable town and kind, Farewell! Until I come again, I leave my heart behind.

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[B] A postcript to “A Ballad of Edinboro’ Toon.”

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* * * * *

Give every man his due, and his Mountain Dew if he claims it.

* * * * *

THRUMS ON THE AULD STRING

(“MR. PUNCH’S PRIZE NOVELS.”)

By J. MUIR KIRRIE, Author of “A Door on Thumbs,” “Eight Bald Fiddlers,” “When a Man Sees Double,” “My Gentleman Meerschaum,” &c.

[With this story came a glossary of Scots expressions. We have referred to it as we went along, and found everything quite intelligible. As, however, we have no room to publish the glossary, we can only appeal to the indulgence of our readers. The story itself was written in a very clear, legible hand, and was enclosed in a wrapper labelled, “Arcadia Mixture. Strength and Aroma combined. Sold in Six-shilling cases. Special terms for Southrons. Liberal allowance for returned empties.”]

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