THISTLEDOWN

• New and Enlarged Edition, 1913
• Second Impression, 1914
• Third Impression, 1919
• Fourth Impression, 1921

Scotch folks humour, being the common gift of Nature to all and sundry in the land, differing only in degree, slips out most frequently when and where least expected. Famous specimens of it come down from our lonesome hillsides—from the cottage and farm ingle-nooks.—[Page 34.]

Frontispiece.

THISTLEDOWN

A BOOK OF SCOTCH HUMOUR
CHARACTER, FOLK-LORE
STORY & ANECDOTE

BY
ROBERT FORD
EDITOR OF
“BALLADS OF BAIRNHOOD,” “AULD SCOTS BALLANTS”
“VAGABOND SONGS,” ETC.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
BY JOHN DUNCAN

PAISLEY: ALEXANDER GARDNER
Publisher by Appointment to the late Queen Victoria

PREFACE

An eminently learned and genial ex-Professor of one of our Universities not long since pointed out how Scotland was remarkable for three things—Songs, Sermons, and Shillings. And whilst it may not be disputed that she has enormous and ever-increasing store of these three good things—and that, moreover, she loves them all—there is a fourth quality of her many-sided nature which is more distinctly characteristic of Auld Caledonia and her people, and that is the general possession of the faculty of original humour. Not one in ten thousand of the Scottish people may be able to produce a good song, or a good sermon; not one in twenty thousand of them may be able to “gather meikle gear and haud it weel thegither;” but every second Scotsman is a born humourist. Humour is part and parcel of his very being. He may not live without it—may not breathe. Consequently, it is found breaking out amongst us in the most unlikely as well as in the most likely places. It blossoms in the solemn assemblies of the people; at meetings of Kirk-Sessions; in the City and Town Council Chambers; in our Presbyteries; our Courts of Justice; and in the high Parliament of the Kirk itself. Famous specimens of it come down from the lonesome hillsides; from the cottage, bothy, and farm ingle-nooks. It issues from the village inn, the smiddy, the kirkyard; and functions of fasting and sorrow give it birth as well as occasions of feasting and mirth. It drops from the lips of the learned and the unlearned in the land; and is not more frequently revealed in the eloquence of the University savant than in the gibberish of the hobbling village and city natural.

Humorous Scottish anecdotes have been an abundant crop; and collectors of them there have been not a few. Dean Ramsay’s garrulous and entertaining Reminiscences, and Dr. Charles Rogers’ Familiar Illustrations of Scottish Life excepted, however, the published collections of our floating facetiæ have been “hotch-potch” affairs. Revelations each of some little industry, no doubt, but few of them affording any proof of the compiler’s familiarity with the subject. And as none of them have reached farther back than Dean Ramsay, and all have been content to take the more familiar of Ramsay’s and Rogers’ illustrations and anecdotes, and supplement these in hap-hazard fashion with random clippings from the variety columns of the daily and weekly newspapers, the individual result has been such as Voltaire’s famous criticism eloquently describes:—They have contained things both good and new; but what was good was not new, and what was new was not good.

To the present work the critical aphorism of the “brilliant Frenchman” may not in fairness be applied. In any attempt to afford an adequate representation of the humours of the Scottish people, illustrations must of necessity be drawn from widely different sources, and I have, consequently, to confess my indebtedness to various earlier gleaners in the same field, chiefly to Dean Ramsay, Dr. Rogers, and the genial trio, Carrick, Motherwell, and Henderson. But for representative illustrations of Scottish life and character I have gone further back and come down to a later period than any previous writer on the subject. And so, whilst the reader will discover here much that is old and good, he will find very much that is new, which, as illustrative of Scottish humour and character, will compare with the best of the old.

No pointless or dubiously nationalistic anecdote or illustration has been admitted. The work has been carefully and elaborately classified under eighteen distinct headings, each class, or section, being introduced by an exposition of the phase or phases of life and character to which it applies, and cemented from first to last by reflective and expository comment.

Essentially a book of humour, it is hoped that the reader will find it to be something more than a merely funny book. If he does not, the writer will have failed to realize fully his aim.

Robert Ford.

[1891.]

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THISTLEDOWN

CHAPTER I
THE SCOTTISH TONGUE—ITS GRAPHIC FORCE AND POWERS OF PATHOS AND HUMOUR

We are frequently told—and now and again receive unwelcome scraps of evidence in confirmation of the scandal—that our dear old mother tongue is falling into desuetude in our native land. Already, it must be confessed, it has been abrogated from the drawing-rooms of the ultra-refined upper circles of Scottish society. The snobbish element amongst the great middle-class, ever prone to imitate their “betters,” affect not to understand it, and blush (the sillier of them) when, in an unguarded moment, a manifest Scotticism slips into their conversation. There is a portion of the semi-educated working population, again, who, imitating the snobbish element of the middle grade, speak Scotch freely only in their working clothes. On Sundays, and extra occasions, when dressed in their very best, there is just about as much Scotch in their talk as will show one how poorly they can speak English, and just about enough English to render their Scotch ridiculous. Observing all this, and taking it in conjunction with the other denationalising tendencies of the age, there are those who predict that the time is not far distant when Burns’s poems, Scott’s novels, and Hogg’s tales will be sealed books to the partially educated Scotsman. That there is a growing tendency in the direction indicated is quite true, but the disease, I believe, is only skin deep as yet, and the bone and sinew of the country remain quite unaffected. That there will be a sudden reaction in the patient must be the sincere desire of every patriotic Scot. If the prediction of obsoletism is ever to be realized, then, “the mair’s the pity.” Scotland will not stand where she did. For very much—oh, so much—of what has made her glorious among the nations of the world will have passed away, taking the sheen of her glory with it. What Scotsmen, as Scotsmen, should ever prize most is bound up inseparably with the native language. Ours is a matured country, and the stirring scenes of her history on which the mind of the individual delights to dwell, are so frequently enshrined in spirited ballad and song, couched in the pithy Scottish vernacular, that, to suppose these latter dead—they are not translatable into English—is to suppose the best part of Scottish history dead and buried beyond the hope of resurrection. For its own sake alone the Scottish tongue is eminently deserving of regard—of cultivation and preservation. Scotsmen should be—and so all well-conditioned Scotsmen surely are—as proud of their native tongue as they are of their far-famed native bens and glens. For why, the rugged grandeur of the physical features of our country are not more worthy of admiration than the language in which their glories have been most fittingly extolled. They have characteristics in common; for rugged grandeur is as truly a feature of the Scottish language as it is the dominant feature of Scottish scenery. True, its various dialects are somewhat tantalising. The Forfar man is vividly identified by his “foo’s” and his “fa’s,” and his “fat’s” and his “fans”; and the Renfrewshire man by his “weans,” his “wee weans,” and his “yin pound yin and yinpence,” etc. Taking a simple phrase as an example—(Anglice):—“The spoon is on the loom.” The Aberdonian will tell you that “The speen’s on the leem.” The Perthshire man will say “That spun’s on the luim”; and the Glasgow citizen will inform you that “The spin’s on the lim.” In a fuller example, a Renfrewshire person will vouchsafe the information that he “Saw a seybo synd’t doon the syvor till it sank in the stank.” A native of Perthshire will only about half understand what the speaker has said, and may threaten to “rax a rung frae the boggars o’ the hoose and reeshil his rumple wi’t,” without sending terror to the soul of his West country confederate. Latterly, an Aberdonian may come on the scene and ask, “Fa’ fuppit the loonie?” and neither of the forenamed parties will at once perceive the drift of his inquiry. To illustrate how difficult it may be for the East and the West to understand each other, I will tell a little story. An Aberdonian not long ago got work in Glasgow where they used a quantity of tar, and was rather annoyed to see his fellow-workmen wash the tar off their hands while he washed and rubbed at his in vain. His patience could stand it no longer, and going up to the foreman, and, stretching out his hands, he asked:—“Fat’ll tak’ it aff?” “Yes,” replied the foreman, “fat’ll tak’ it aff.” “Fat’ll tak’ it aff?” “Yes, I said fat would tak’ it aff.” “But fat’ll tak’ it aff?” persisted the Aberdonian. The foreman pointed to a tub, and roared: “Grease, you stupid eediot!” “Weel than,” retorted the Aberdonian, “an’ fat for did you no say that at first?”

There are, however, dialects and provincialisms in the language of every country and people under the sun, and the Scottish vernacular is not worse—not nearly so bad as many are. Our dialects are mainly the results of a narrowing and broadening of the vowel sounds, as exemplified in the instance of the words “spoon” and “loom.” I have spoken of the rugged grandeur of the Scottish Doric, and its claims to preservation. There are single words in Scotch which cannot be adequately expressed in a whole sentence in English. Think of “fushionless,” “eerie,” “wersh,” “gloamin’,” “scunner,” “glower,” “cosie,” “bonnie,” “thoweless,” “splairge,” and “plowter,” etc., and try to find their equivalents in the language of the school. Try and find a sentence that will fairly express some of the words. “A gowpen o’ glaur” is but weakly expressed in “a handful of mud”; “stoure” is not adequately defined by calling it “dust in motion”; “flype yer stockin’, lassie,” is easier said than “turn your stocking inside out, girl.” “Auld lang syne” is not expressible in English. “A bonnie wee lassie” is more euphonious and expressive by a long way than “a pretty little girl.” “Hirsle yont,” “my cuit’s yeukie,” “e’enin’s orts mak’ gude mornin’ fodder,” “spak’ o’ lowpin’ ower a linn,” and “pree my mou’,” are also good examples of expressive Scotch. Nowhere, perhaps, is the singular beauty and rare expressiveness of the Scottish national tongue seen to better advantage than in the proverbial sayings—those short, sharp, and shiny shafts of speech, aptly defined as “the wit of one and the wisdom of many,”—and of which the Scottish language has been so prolific. “The genius, wit, and wisdom of a nation are discovered by their proverbs,” says Bacon; and, verily, while the proverbs of Scotland are singularly expressive of the pith and beauty of the vernacular in which they are couched, they also reveal in very great measure the mental and social characteristics of the people who have perpetuated them. “A gangin’ fit’s aye gettin’, were’t but a thorn;” “Burnt bairns dread the fire;” “A’e bird in the hand’s worth twa in the bush;” “A fool an’ his siller’s sune parted;” “Hang a thief when he’s young an’ he’ll no steal when he’s auld;” “There’s aye some water whaur the stirkie droons;” “Moudiwarts feedna on midges;” “When gossipin’ wives meet, the deil gangs to his dinner;” “Hungry dogs are blythe o’ bursten puddin’s;” “He needs a lang-shankit spune that wad sup wi’ the deil;” “A blate cat maks a prood mouse;” “Better a toom house than an ill tenant;” “Lippen to me, but look to yoursel’;” “Jouk an’ lat the jaw gang by;” “Better sma’ fish than nane;” “The tulziesome tyke comes hirplin’ hame;” “Ha’ binks are sliddery;” “Ilka cock craws best on his ain middenhead;” “Lazy youth mak’s lowsy age;” “Next to nae wife, a guid wife’s best;” “Lay your wame to your winnin’;” “It’s nae lauchin’ to girn in a widdy;” “The wife’s a’e dochter an’ the man’s a’e coo, the tane’s ne’er weel, an’ the tither’s ne’er fu’.” These give the evidence.

Ours is a language peculiarly powerful in its use of vowels, and the following dialogue between a shopman and a customer is a convincing example. The conversation relates to a plaid hanging at a shop door:—

Customer (inquiring the material)—“Oo?” (wool?).

Shopman—“Aye, oo.” (yes, wool).

Customer—“A’ oo?” (all wool?).

Shopman—“Ay, a’ oo” (yes, all wool).

Customer—“A’ a’e oo?” (all one wool?).

Shopman—“Ou, ay, a’ a’e oo” (oh, yes, all one wool).

A dialogue in vowel sounds—surely a thing unique in literature!

In his Scotch version of the Psalms—“frae Hebrew intil Scottis”—the late Rev. Dr. Hately Waddell, of Glasgow, gives many striking illustrations of the force and beauty of idiomatic Scotch. His language partakes rather much of the antique form to be readily perceptible to the present generation, but its purity is unquestionable, and its beauty and power inexpressible in other words than his own. Let us quote the familiar 23rd Psalm.

“The Lord is my herd; na want sal fa’ me.

“He louts me till lie amang green howes; He airts me atowre by the lown waters.

“He waukens my wa’gaen saul; He weises me roun for His ain name’s sake, intil richt roddins.

“Na! tho’ I gang thro’ the dead-mirk dail; e’en thar sal I dread nae skaithin; for Yersel’ are nar-by me; Yer stok an’ Yer stay haud me baith fu’ cheerie.

“My buird Ye ha’e hansell’d in face o’ my faes; Ye ha’e drookit my head wi’ oyle; my bicker is fu’ an’ skailin’.

“E’en sae sal gude guidin’ an’ gude gree gang wi’ me ilk day o’ my livin’; an’ ever mair syne i’ the Lord’s ain howff, at lang last, sal I mak bydan.”

Hear also Dr. Waddell’s translation of the last four verses of the 52nd chapter of Isaiah, they are inexpressibly beautiful:—

“Blythe and brak-out, lilt a’ like ane, ye bourocks sae swak o’ Jerusalem; for the Lord He has hearten’d His folk fu’ kin’; He has e’en boucht back Jerusalem.

“The Lord He rax’d yont His hailie arm, in sight o’ the nations mony, O; an’ ilk neuk o’ the yirth sal tak tent an’ learn the health o’ our God sae bonie, O!

“Awa, awa, clean but frae the toun: mak nor meddle wi’ nought that’s roun’; awa frae her bosom; haud ye soun’, wi’ the gear o’ the Lord forenent ye!

“For it’s no wi’ sic pingle ye’se gang the gate; nor it’s no wi’ sic speed ye maun spang the spate; for the Lord, He’s afore ye, ear’ an’ late; an’ Israel’s God, He’s ahint ye!”

These suggest “The Lord’s Prayer intill Auld Scottis,” as printed by Pinkerton, and which is cast in more antique form still:—“Uor fader quhilk beest i’ Hevin, Hallowit weird thyne nam. Cum thyne kinrik. Be dune thyne wull as is i’ Hevin, sva po yerd. Uor dailie breid gif us thilk day. And forleit us our skaths, as we forfeit tham quha skath us. And leed us na intill temtation. Butan fre us fra evil. Amen.”

No writer of any time—Burns alone excepted—has handled the native tongue to better purpose for the expression of every feeling of the human heart than has Sir Walter Scott; and in Jeanie Deans’ plea to the Queen for her sister’s life there is the finest example of simple pathos, dashed with the passion of hope struggling with despair, that is to be met with anywhere in literature. It shows the extent in this way of which the native speech is capable.

“My sister—my puir sister Effie, still lives, though her days and hours are numbered! She still lives, and a word o’ the King’s mouth might restore her to a heart-broken auld man, that never, in his daily and nightly exercise, forgot to pray that His Majesty might be blessed with a lang an’ a prosperous reign, and that his throne, and the throne o’ his posterity, might be established in righteousness. O, madam, if ever ye kend what it was to sorrow for and with a sinning and a suffering creature, whase mind is sae tossed that she can be neither ca’d fit to live or dee, hae some compassion on our misery! Save an honest house from dishonour, and an unhappy girl, not eighteen years of age, from an early and dreadful death! Alas! it is not when we sleep saft and wake merrily oursel’s that we think on other people’s sufferings. Our hearts are waxed light within us then, and we are for righting our ain wrangs and fighting our ain battles. But when the hour of trouble comes to the mind or to the body—and seldom may it visit your leddyship—and when the hour of death comes, that comes to high and low—lang and late may it be yours!—oh, my leddy, then it isna what we hae dune for oursel’s, but what we hae done for others, that we think on maist pleasantly. And the thought that ye hae intervened to spare the puir thing’s life will be sweeter in that hour, come when it may, than if a word o’ your mouth could hang the haill Porteous mob at the tail o’ a’e tow.”

Then the vigour and variety of the Scottish idiom as a vehicle of description has perhaps never received better illustration than in Andrew Fairservice’s account of Glasgow Cathedral:—“Ay! it’s a brave Kirk,” said Andrew. “Nane o’ yere whigmaleeries and curliwurlies and open steek hems aboot it—a’ solid, weel-jointed mason wark, that will stand as lang as the warld, keep hands and gunpowther aff it. It had amaist a douncome lang syne at the Reformation, when they pu’d doon the Kirks of St. Andrews and Perth, and thereawa’, to cleanse them o’ Papery, and idolatry, and image-worship, and surplices, and sic like rags o’ the muckle hure that sitteth on the seven hills, as if ane wasna braid enough for her auld hinder end. Sae the commons o’ Renfrew, and o’ the Barony, and the Gorbals, and a’ aboot, they behoved to come into Glasgow a’e fair morning, to try their hand on purging the High Kirk o’ Popish nick-nackets. But the townsmen o’ Glasgow, they were feared their auld edifice might slip the girths in gaun through siccan rough physic, sae they rang the common bell, and assembled the train-bands wi’ took o’ drum. By gude luck, the worthy James Rabat was Dean o’ Guild that year (and a gude mason he was himsell, made him keener to keep up the auld bigging). And the trades assembled, and offered downright battle to the commons, rather than their Kirk should coup the crans, as others had done elsewhere. It wasna for love o’ Papery—na, na!—nane could ever say that o’ the trades o’ Glasgow. Sae they sune came to an agreement to tak a’ the idolatrous statues o’ sants (sorrow be on them) out o’ their neuks—and sae the bits o’ stone idols were broken in pieces by Scripture warrant, and flung into the Molendiner burn, and the Auld Kirk stood as crouse as a cat when the flaes are kaimed aff her, and a’ body was alike pleased. And I hae heard wise folk say that if the same had been dune in ilka Kirk in Scotland, the Reform wad just hae been as pure as it is e’en now, and we wad hae mair Christianlike Kirks; for I hae been sae lang in England, that naething will drive out o’ my head, that the dog-kennel at Osbaldistone-Hall is better than mony a house o’ God in Scotland.”

No man, it is well known, had ever more command of the native vernacular than Robert Burns. In a letter written at Carlisle, in June 1787, to his friend William Nicol, Master of the High School, Edinburgh, he has left a curious testimony at once to the capabilities of the language and his own skill in it. “Kind, honest-hearted Willie,” he writes, “I’m sitten doon here, after seven-and-forty miles’ ridin’, e’en as forjeskit and forniaw’d as a forfoughten cock, to gie you some notion o’ my land-lowper-like stravaigin’ sin’ the sorrowfu’ hour that I sheuk hands and parted wi’ Auld Reekie.

“My auld ga’d gleyde o’ a meere has huchyall’d up hill and doun brae in Scotland and England, as teuch and birnie as a vera deevil wi’ me. It’s true, she’s as puir’s a sang-maker, an’ as hard’s a kirk, and tipper taipers when she tak’s the gate, jist like a lady’s gentlewoman in a minuwae, or a hen on a het girdle; but she’s a yauld, poutherie girran for a’ that, and has a stamach like Willie Stalker’s meere, that wad hae digeested tumbler-wheels, for she’ll whip me aff her five stimparts o’ the best aits at a down-sitten’, and ne’er fash her thoom. Whan ance her ring-banes and spavies, her crucks and cramps, are fairly soupl’d, she beets to, beets to, and aye the hindmost hour the tightest. I could wager her price to a thretty pennies, that for twa or three wooks, ridin’ at fifty miles a day, the deil-stickit a five gallopers acqueesh Clyde and Whithorn could cast saut on her tail.

“I hae dander’d owre a’ the country frae Dunbar to Selcraig, and ha’e forgather’d wi’ mony a gude fallow, and mony a weel-faur’d hizzie. I met wi’ twa dink queynes in particular. Ane o’ them a sonsie, fine, fodgel lass, baith braw and bonnie; the ither was a clean-shankit, straught, tight, weel-faur’d wench, as blythe’s a lintwhite on a flowerie thorn, and as sweet and modest’s a new blawn plum-rose in a hazel shaw. They were baith bred to mainers by the beuk, and ony ane o’ them had as muckle smeddum and rumblegumption as the half o’ some Presbytries that you and I baith ken. They played me sic a deil o’ a shavie, that I daur say if my harigals were turn’d out ye wad see twa nicks i’ the heart o’ me like the mark o’ a kail-whittle in a castock.

“I was gaun to write you a lang pystle, but, Gude forgi’e me, I gat mysel’ sae noutourously bitchify’d the day, after kail-time, than I can hardly stoiter but and ben.

“My best respecks to the guidwife and a’ our common friens, especiall Mr. and Mrs. Cruikshank, and the honest guidman o’ Jock’s Lodge.

“I’ll be in Dumfries the morn gif the beast be to the fore, and the branks bide hale.

“Gude be wi’ you, Willie! Amen!”

That letter might fairly be made the “Shibboleth” in any case of doubt regarding one’s ability to read Scotch. It would shiver the front teeth of some of your counterlouper gentry. Yet it is not an overdone example of the Scotch Doric as it was spoken in Edinburgh drawing-rooms a hundred years ago—vide, Henry Cockburn’s Memorials. Between it and the “braid Scotch” of half a century earlier there is a marked difference.

In the Scots Magazine for November, 1743, the following proclamation is printed:—

“All brethren and sisters, I let you to witt that there is a twa-year-auld lad littleane tint, that ist’ ere’en.

“It’s a’ scabbit i’ the how hole o’ the neck o’d, and a cauler kail-blade and brunt butter at it, that ist’er. It has a muckle maun blue pooch hingin’ at the carr side o’d, fou o’ mullers and chucky-stanes, and a spindle and a whorle, and it’s daddy’s ain jockteleg in’t. It’s a’ black aneath the nails wi’ howkin’ o’ yird, that is’t. It has its daddy’s gravat tied about the craig o’d, and hingin’ down the back o’d. The back o’ the hand o’d’s a’ brunt; it got it i’ the smiddy ae day.

“Whae’er can find this said twa-year-auld lad littleane may repair to M⸺o J⸺n’s, town-smith in C⸺n, and he sall hae for reward twall bear scones, and a ride o’ our ain auld beast to bear him hame, and nae mair words about it, that wilt’r no.”

Hogg, in his “Shepherd’s Calendar,” referring to the religious character of the shepherds of Scotland in his day, tells that “the antiquated but delightful exercise of family worship was never neglected,” and, “formality being a thing despised, there are no compositions I ever heard,” he continues, “so truly original as those prayers occasionally were; sometimes for rude eloquence and pathos, at other times for an indescribable sort of pomp, and, not infrequently, for a plain and somewhat unbecoming familiarity.” He gives several illustrations, quite justifying this description, from some with whom he had himself served and herded. One of the most notable men for this sort of family eloquence, he thought, was a certain Adam Scott, in Upper Dalgleish. Thus Scott prayed for a son who seemed thoughtless—

“For Thy mercy’s sake—for the sake o’ Thy puir, sinfu’ servants that are now addressing Thee in their ain shilly-shally way, and for the sake o’ mair than we daur weel name to Thee, hae mercy on Rab. Ye ken fu’ weel he’s a wild, mischievous callant, and thinks nae mair o’ committin’ sin than a dog does o’ lickin’ a dish; but put Thy hook in his nose, and Thy bridle in his gab, and gar him come back to Thee wi’ a jerk that he’ll no forget the langest day that he has to live.” For another son he prayed:—“Dinna forget puir Jamie, wha’s far awa’ frae us this nicht. Keep Thy arm o’ power about him; and, oh, I wish Ye wad endow him wi’ a little spunk and smeddum to act for himsel’; for, if Ye dinna, he’ll be but a bauchle i’ this warld, and a back-sitter i’ the neist.” Again:—“We’re a’ like hawks, we’re a’ like snails, we’re a’ like slogie riddles; like hawks to do evil, like snails to do good, and like slogie riddles to let through a’ the gude and keep a’ the bad.” When Napoleon I. was filling Europe with alarm, he prayed—“Bring doon the tyrant and his lang neb, for he has done muckle ill this year, and gie him a cup o’ Thy wrath, and gin he winna tak’ that, gie him kelty” [i.e., double, or two cups].

Very graphic, is it not! It reminds us of the prayer of one Jamie Hamilton, a celebrated poacher in the West country. As Jamie was reconnoitring a lonely situation one morning, his mind more set on hares than on prayers, a woman approached him from the only house in the immediate district and requested that he should “come owre and pray for auld Eppie, for she’s just deein’.”

“Ye ken weel enough that I can pray nane,” replied Jamie.

“But we haena time to rin for ony ither Jamie,” urged the woman, “Eppie’s just slippin’ awa’; and oh! it wad be an awfu’ like thing to lat the puir bodie dee without bein’ prayed for.”

“Weel, then,” said Jamie, “an I maun come, I maun come; but I’m sure I kenna right what to say.”

The occasion has ever so much to do with the making of the man. Approaching the bed, Jamie doffed his cap and proceeded:—“O Lord, Thou kens best Thy nainsel’ how the case stands atween Thee and auld Eppie; and sin’ Ye hae baith the heft and the blade in Yer nain hand, just guide the gully as best suits her guid and Yer nain glory. Amen.”

It was a poacher’s prayer in very truth, but a bishop could not have said more in as few words.

But it is easy to be expressive in Scotch, for it is peculiar to the native idiom that the simpler the language employed the effect is the greater. Think how this is manifested in the song and ballad literature of the country. In popular ballads like “Gil Morrice,” “Sir James the Rose,” “Barbara Allan,” and “The Dowie Dens o’ Yarrow”; in Jane Elliot’s song of “The Flowers of the Forest”; in Grizzel Baillie’s “Werena my heart licht I wad dee”; in Lady Lindsay’s “Auld Robin Gray”; in Lady Nairne’s “Land o’ the Leal”; in Burns’s “Auld Lang Syne”; in Tannahill’s “Gloomy Winter”; in Thom’s “Mitherless Bairn”; and in Smibert’s “Widow’s Lament.” I do not mean to say that the making of these songs and ballads was a simple matter; but the verbal material is in each case of the simplest character, and the effect such that the pieces are established in the common heart of Scotland. Burns did not go out of his way for either language or figures of speech to describe Willie Wastle’s wife, yet see the graphic picture we have presented to us by a few strokes of the pen:—

“She has an e’e—she has but ane,

The cat has twa the very colour;

Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump,

A clapper-tongue wad deave a miller;

A whiskin’ beard about her mou’,

Her nose and chin they threaten ither—

Sic a wife as Willie has,

I wadna gie a button for her.

“She’s bow-houghed, she’s hein-shinn’d,

Ae limpin’ leg, a hand-breed shorter;

She’s twisted right, she’s twisted left

To balance fair in ilka quarter:

She has a hump upon her breast

The twin o’ that upon her shouther—

Sic a wife as Willie has,

I wadna gie a button for her.”

No idea there is strained. Every word is common. The same may be said of Hew Ainshe’s lyric poem in a different vein, “Dowie in the hint o’ Hairst,” which I make no apology for quoting in full:—

“It’s dowie in the hint o’ hairst.

At the wa’-gang o’ the swallow,

When the wind grows cauld, and the burns grow bauld,

An’ the wuds are hingin’ yellow;

But oh, it’s dowier far to see

The wa’-gang o’ her the heart gangs wi’,

The dead-set o’ a shinin’ e’e.

That darkens the weary warld on thee.

“There was meikle love atween us twa—

Oh, twa could ne’er be fonder;

And the thing on yird was never made,

That could ha’e gart us sunder.

But the way o’ Heaven’s aboon a’ ken,

And we maun bear what it likes to sen’—

It’s comfort, though, to weary men,

That the warst o’ this warld’s waes maun en’.

“There’s mony things that come and gae,

Just kent, and just forgotten;

And the flowers that busk a bonnie brae,

Gin anither year lie rotten,

But the last look o’ yon lovely e’e,

And the deein’ grip she ga’e to me,

They’re settled like eternitie—

Oh, Mary; gin I were wi’ thee.”

By these illustrations I have endeavoured to shew forth, to all whom it may concern, the verbal beauty, the graphic force, and the powers for the expression of pathos and humour there is in the vernacular speech of Scotland. Like our national emblem—the thistle—it is, of course, nothing in the mouth of an ass. But well spoken, it is charming alike to the ear and the intellect; and, for the reasons already urged in this paper, is worthy of more general esteem and more general cultivation than the current generation of Scotch folk seem disposed to award it. Lord Cockburn pronounced it “the sweetest and most expressive of living languages;” and no unprejudiced reader of his Memorials will dispute the value of his opinion on the subject. He wrote excellent Doric himself, and made it the vehicle of his conversation in his family, and casually throughout the day, as long as he lived. Ho! for more such good old Scottish gentlemen! Ho! for another Jean, Duchess of Gordon, to teach our Scottish gentry how to speak naturally! That we had more men in our midst, with equal influence and education, and charged with the fine spirit of patriotism which animates Scotland’s ain “grand auld man”—Professor Blackie! It has been the fashion for English journalists with pretensions to wit, to animadvert by pen and pencil on what they regard as the idiosyncracies of Scottish speech and behaviour. Punch is a frequent offender in this way. I say offender advisedly, for no Punch artist, so far as I have seen—and I have scanned that journal from the first number to the last—ever drew a Scotsman in “his manner as he lived.” The originals of the pictures may have appeared in London Christmas pantomimes, but certainly nowhere else. Then the language which in their guileless innocence they expect will pass muster as Scotch, is a hash-up alike revolting to the ears of gods and men. We don’t expect very much from some folks, but surely even a London journalist should know that a Scotsman does not say “mon” when he means to say “man.” Charles Macklin put it that way, and the London journalist apparently can never get beyond Macklin. Don’t go to London for your Scotch, my reader! Listen to it as it may still be spoken at your granny’s ingleside. Familiarise yourself with it as it is to be found in its full vigour and purity in the Waverley Novels; in Burns’s Poems and Songs; in the “Noctes Ambrosianæ” of Professor Wilson; in Galt’s Tales; in the writings of the Ettrick Shepherd; in the stories of George MacDonald, J. M. Barrie, and S. R. Crockett; in the pages of “Mansie Wauch,” “Tammas Bodkin,” and “Johnny Gibb.” Don’t learn English less; but again, I say, read, write, and speak Scotch more frequently. And, when doing so, remember you are not indulging in a mere vulgar corruption of good English, comparable with the barbarous dialects of Yorkshire and Devon, but in a true and distinct, a powerful and beautiful language of your own, “differing not merely from modern English in pronunciation, but in the possession of many beautiful words, which have ceased to be English, and in the use of inflexions unknown to literary and spoken English since the days of Piers Ploughman and Chaucer.” “The Scotch,” as the late Lord Jeffrey said, “is not to be considered as a provincial dialect—the vehicle only of rustic vulgarity and rude local humour. It is the language of a whole country, long an independent kingdom, and still separate in laws, character, and manners. It is by no means peculiar to the vulgar, but is the common speech of the whole nation in early life, and with many of its most exalted and accomplished individuals throughout their whole existence; and though it be true that, in later times, it has been in some measure laid aside by the more ambitious and aspiring of the present generation, it is still recollected even by them as the familiar language of their childhood, and of those who were the earliest objects of their love and veneration. It is connected in their imagination not only with that olden time which is uniformly conceived as more pure, lofty, and simple than the present, but also with all the soft and bright colours of remembered childhood and domestic affection. All its phrases conjure up images of school-day innocence and sports, and friendships which have no pattern in succeeding years.”

CHAPTER II
CHARACTERISTICS OF SCOTCH HUMOUR

Various writers have attempted to define Scotch humour, but it is a difficult task, and in all my reading of the subject I do not remember to have ever seen a very satisfactory analysis of the subtle quantity. The famous Sydney Smith did not admit that such an element obtained in our “puir cauld country.” “Their only idea of wit which prevails occasionally in the North,” said he, “and which, under the name of ‘wut,’ is so infinitely distressing to people of good taste, is laughing immoderately at stated intervals.” Further to this, the same sublime authority declared that it would require a surgical operation to get a joke well into a Scotch understanding. It has been presumed that the witty Canon was not serious in his remark; that it was a laboured effort of his to make a joke. This may be true; and the idea of a surgical operation was possibly suggested by feeling its necessity on himself in order to get his joke out. Be that as it may, but for the fact that the genial Charles Lamb, curiously, entertained a somewhat similar notion on the subject, the rude apothegm of the Rev. Sydney Smith would never have misguided even the most hopelessly opaque of his own countrymen. No humour in Scotch folk! No humour in Scotland! There is no country in the world that has produced so much of it. Of no other country under the sun can it be so truly said that humour is the common inheritance of the people. Much of the kind of humour that drives an Englishman into an ecstacy of delight, would, of course, only tend to make a Scotsman sad; but that is no evidence that the Scotch are lacking in their perceptions of the humorous. It only shows that “some folks are no ill to please.” “The Cockney must have his puns and small jokes,” says Max O’Rell. “On the stage he delights in jigs, and to really please him the best of actors have to become rivals of the mountebanks at a fair. A hornpipe delights his heart. An actor who, for an hour together, pretends not to be able to keep on his hat, sends him into the seventh heaven of delight. Such performances make the Scotch smile—but with pity. The Scotsman has no wit of this sort. In the matter of wit he is an epicure, and only appreciates dainty food.” In so far as the above quotation applies to the denizens of the “North,” it is perfectly true. In such circumstances the Scotch will “laugh immoderately at stated intervals,” but the laughs will be like angels’ visits, “few and far between.”

Superficially regarded, Scotland is a hard-featured land; yet Scotch folk are essentially humorous. Do not go to the places of public amusement—to the theatres and music halls—particularly in the larger towns, where the populations are so mixed; do not go there to learn the Scottish taste and humour. This practice has led to the proverbial saying that “a Scotchman takes his amusement seriously.” In such places you may learn something of the English character and humour, but nothing of the Scotch. For an Englishman’s wit (he has little or no humour) being an acquired taste, comes out “on parade”—it is a gay thing—while Scotch folks’ humour being the common gift of Nature to all and sundry in the land, differing only in degree, slips out most frequently when and where least expected. Famous specimens of it come down from our lonely hillsides—from the cottage and farm ingle-nooks. It blossoms in the solemn assemblies of the people—at meetings of Kirk Sessions, in the City and Town Council Chambers, in our Presbyteries, our Courts of Justice, and occasionally in the high Parliament of the Kirk itself. In testimony of this read the Reminiscences of Dean Ramsay, Dr. Rodgers’ Century of Scottish Life, The Laird of Logan, and other similar collections of the national humour; or study the humours of our Scottish life and character as they are abundantly reflected in the immortal writings of Burns, and Scott, and Galt, and Wilson.

One of the chief characteristics of Scotch humour, as I have already indicated, is its spontaneity, or utter want of effort to effect its production. Much of it comes out just as a matter of course, and without the slightest indication on the part of the creator that he is aware of the splendid part he is playing. Then it has nearly always a strong practical basis. The Scotch are characteristically practical people, and very much of what is most enjoyable in humorous Scotch stories and anecdotes, as Dean Ramsay truly says, arises “from the simple and matter-of-fact references made to circumstances which are unusual.”

There are others, of course, but these are the main characteristics of Scotch humour. Our best anecdotes illustrate this. Here is a good instance of the native wit and humour:—

“Jock,” cried a farmer’s wife to her cowherd, “come awa’ in to your parritch, or the flees ’ill be droonin’ themsel’s in your milk bowl.”

“Nae fear o’ that,” was Jock’s roguish reply. “They’ll wade through.”

“Ye scoondrel,” cried the mistress, indignantly, “d’ye mean to say that ye dinna get eneuch milk?”

“Ou, ay,” said Jock, “I get plenty o’ milk for a’ the parritch.”

“Jock,” cried a farmer’s wife to her cowherd, “come awa’ in to your parritch, or the flees ’ill be droonin’ themsel’s in your milk bowl.” “Nae fear o’ that,” was Jock’s roguish reply. “They’ll wade through.” “Ye scoundrel,” cried the mistress, indignantly, “d’ye mean to say that ye dinna get eneuch milk?” “Ou, ay,” said Jock, “I get plenty o’ milk for a’ the parritch.”—[Page 35.]

The colloquy was richly humorous, and at the same time sublimely practical. The same may be said of the following:—

During the time of the great Russian War a countryman accepted the “Queen’s shilling,” and very soon thereafter was sent to the front. But he had scarcely time to have received his “baptism of fire” when he turned his back on the scenes of carnage, and immediately struck of in a bee line for a distant haven of safety. A mounted officer, intercepting his retreat, demanded to know where he was going.

“Whaur am I gaun?” said he. “Hame, of course; man, this is awfu’ walk; they’re just killin’ ane anither ower there.”

A brother countryman took a different view of the same, or a similar situation. Just before his regiment entered into an engagement with the enemy, he was heard to pray in these terms:—“O, Lord! dinna be on oor side, and dinna be on the tither side, but just stand ajee frae baith o’ us for an oor or twa, an’ ye’ll see the toosiest fecht that ever was fochen.” What a fine, rough hero was there!

Speaking of praying prior to entering into engagements, recalls another good and equally representative anecdote. It is told of two old Scottish matrons. They were discussing current events.

“Eh, woman!” said one, “I see by the papers that oor sodgers have been victorious again.”

“Ah, nae fear o’ oor sodgers,” replied the other. “They’ll aye be victorious, for they aye pray afore they engage wi’ the enemy.”

“But do you no think the French ’ill pray too?” questioned the first speaker.

“The French pray!” sneered her friend. “Yatterin’ craturs! Wha wad ken what they said?”

What a charmingly innocent auld wife! Surely it was this same matron who once upon a time entered the village grocery and asked for a pound of candles, at the same time laying down the price at which the article in question had stood fixed for some time.

“Anither bawbee, mistress,” said the grocer. “Cawnils are up, on account o’ the war.”

“Eh, megstie me!” was the response. “An’ can it be the case that they really fecht wi’ cawnil licht?”

A Scotch blacksmith, being asked the meaning of metaphysics, explained as follows:—“Weel, Geordie, ye see, it’s just like this. When the pairty that listens disna ken what the pairty that speaks means, an’ when the pairty that speaks disna ken what he means himsel’, that’s metapheesics.” Many a lecture of an hour’s length, I am thinking, has had no better results.

No anecdote can better illustrate the practical basis of the Scotch mind than the following:—“John,” said a minister to one of his congregation, “I hope you hold family worship regularly.”

“Aye,” said John, “in the time o’ year o’t.”

“In the time o’ year o’t! What do you mean, John?”

“Ye ken, sir, we canna see in the winter nichts.”

“But, John, can’t you buy candles?”

“Weel, I could,” replied John, “but in that case I’m dootin’ the cost would owergang the profit.”

And practical in the management of their devotional exercises, there is a practical side to the grief of Scotch folk. “Dinna greet amang your parritch, Geordie,” said one to another, “they’re thin eneuch already.” And the story is told of an Aberdeenshire woman who, when on the occasion of the death of her husband the minister’s wife came to condole with her, and said—“It is a great loss you have sustained, Janet.”

She replied, “Deed is’t, my lady. An’ I’ve just been sittin’ here greetin’ a’ day, an’ as sune as I get this bowliefu’ o’ kail suppit I’m gaun to begin an’ greet again.”

“You have had a sore affliction, Margaret,” said a minister once to a Scotch matron in circumstances similar to the heroine of the above story. “A sore affliction indeed; but I hope you are not altogether without consolation.”

“Na,” said Margaret, “an’ I’m no that, sir; for gin He has ta’en awa’ the saul, it’s a great consolation for me to think that He’s ta’en awa’ the stammick as weel.”

Ah, poor body! No doubt she gave expression to a thought that had for some time been having a prominent place in her mind. As Tom Moore reminds us, in the midst of a serious poem, “We must all dine,” and if the bread-winner has been laid aside for a time, the means of subsistence are sometimes difficult to obtain, and when “supply” is wholly cut off, a decrease in “demand” is sometimes not unwelcome.

A splendid instance of the matter-of-fact view of things celestial frequently taken by the Scotch mind is in that story which Dean Ramsay tells of the old woman who was dying at Hawick. In this Border seat of tweed manufacture the people wear wooden-soled boots—clogs—which make a clanking noise on the pavement. Several friends stood by the bedside of the dying person, and one of them said to her—

“Weel, Jenny, ye’re deein’; but ye’ve done the richt gaet here, an’ ye’ll gang to heaven; an’ when ye gang there, should you see ony o’ oor fouk, ye micht tell them that we’re a’ weel.”

“Ou,” said Jenny half-heartedly, “gin I see them I’se tell them; but ye maunna expect that I’m to be gaun clank, clankin’ about through heaven lookin’ for your fouk.”

Of all the stories of this class, however, the following death-bed conversation between a husband and wife affords perhaps the very best specimen of the dry humour peculiar to Scotch folk:—An old shoemaker in Glasgow was sitting by the bedside of his wife, who was dying. Taking her husband by the hand, the old woman said, “Weel, John, we’re to pairt. I hae been a gude wife to you, John.”

“Oh, middlin’, middlin’, Jenny,” said John, not disposed to commit himself wholly.

“Ay, I’ve been a gude wife to you, John,” says she, “an’ ye maun promise to bury me in the auld kirkyard at Stra’von, beside my ain kith and kin, for I couldna rest in peace among unoo fouk, in the dirt an’ smoke o’ Gleska’.”

“Weel, weel, Jenny, my woman,” said John, soothingly, “I’ll humour ye thus far. We’ll pit ye in the Gorbals first, an’ gin ye dinna lie quiet there, we’ll tak’ ye to Stra’von syne.”

And yet there is on record a retort of a Scotch beadle, which is almost equally moving. Saunders was a victim to chronic asthma, and one day, whilst in the act of opening a grave, was seized with a violent fit of coughing. The minister, towards whom Saunders bore little affection, at the same time entering the kirkyard, came up to the old man as he was leaning over his spade wiping the tears from his eyes, and said, “That’s a very bad cough you’ve got, Saunders.”

“Ay, it’s no very gude,” was the dry response, “but there’s a hantle fouk lyin’ round aboot ye that wud be gey glad o’t.”

Speaking of beadles reminds me of another good illustration of the “practicality,” if I may dare to coin a word, of the Scottish mind. A country beadle had had repeated cause to complain to his minister of interference with his duties on the part of his superannuated predecessor. Coming up to the minister one day, “John’s been interfeerin’ again,” said he, “an’ I’ve come to see what’s to be dune?”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear it,” said the minister, “but as I have told you before, David, John’s a silly body, and you should try, I think, some other means of getting rid of his annoyance than by openly resisting him. Why not follow the Scriptural injunction given for our guidance in such cases, and heap coals of fire on your enemy’s head.”

“Dod, sir, that’s the very thing,” cried David, taking the minister literally, and grinning and rubbing his hands with glee at the prospect of an early and effectual settlement of the long-standing feud. “Capital, minister; that’ll sort him; dod, ay—heap lowin’ coals on his head, and burn the wratch!”

We are proverbially a cautious people. “The canny Scot” is a world-wide term; but the Paisley man who described Niagara Falls as “naething but a perfect waste o’ water,” was canny to a fault. And yet the Moffat man—his more inspiring native surroundings notwithstanding—was scarcely more visibly impressed by the same scene. “Did you ever see anything so grand?” demanded his friend who had taken him to see the mighty cataract.

“Weel,” said the Moffat man, “as for grand, I maybe never saw onything better; but for queer, man, d’ye ken, I ance saw a peacock wi’ a wooden leg.”

How naturally the one thing would suggest the other will not readily appear to most folks.

He was more of a true Scot who, when the schoolmaster in passing along one day said to him, “I see you are to have a poor crop of potatoes this year, Thomas,” replied—

“Ay, but there’s some consolation, sir; John Tamson’s are no a bit better.”

“Hame’s aye hamely,”—some homes are more so than others. The “Paisley bodies” have some reason for being proud of their native burgh, as they are. I have heard of one who was on a visit to Edinburgh many years ago, and during his brief stay there was discovered by one of the city guides lying on his face on the Calton Hill, apparently asleep. The summer sun was scorching the back of his uncovered head, and the guide thought it his duty to rouse him up.

“I’m no sleepin’,” responded the Paisley man, to the touch of the guide’s staff, “I’m just lyin’ here thinkin’;” then turning himself round and looking up, “Ay, freend,” continued he, “I was just lyin’ thinkin’ aboot Paisley.”

“Well,” responded the guide, “I don’t see why any thought of Paisley should enter your head while you can feast your eyes on fair ‘Edina, Scotia’s darling Seat,’ as the Poet Burns has called our city here.”

“Maybe ay, an’ maybe no, freend; but it’s no easy gettin’ the thocht o’ Paisley oot o’ a Paisley man’s head, even although he is in the middle o’ Edinburgh. Up in yer braw college there, the maist distinguished professor in it is John Wilson, a Paisley man. In St. George’s kirk, ower there, yer precentor, R. A. Smith—an’ there’s no his marrow again in a’ Scotland—is a Paisley man. In the jail ower by fornent us there’s mair than a’e Paisley callan’ the noo. Syne, ye see the Register House doon there, weel, the woman that sweeps out the passages—an’ my ain kissen to boot—is a Paisley woman. An’ so ye see, freend, although ane’s in Edinburgh it’s no sae easy gettin’ thochts o’ Paisley kept oot o’ his head.”

The next illustration is also truly Scotch. Two Lowland crofters lived within a few hundred yards of each other. One of them, Duncan by name, being the possessor of “Willison’s Works,” a rarity in the district, his neighbour, Donald, sent his boy one day to ask Duncan to favour him with a reading of the book. “Tell your father,” said Duncan, “that I canna lend oot my book, but he may come to my hoose and read it there as lang as he likes.” Country folk deal all more or less in “giff-gaff,” and in a few days after, Duncan, having to go to the market, and being minus a saddle, sent his boy to ask Donald to give him the loan of his saddle for the occasion. “Tell your father,” said Donald, “that I canna lend oot my saddle; but it’s in the barn, an’ he can come there an’ ride on it a’ day if he likes.”

The cannyness characteristic of our countrymen, sometimes as a matter of course, is found manifesting itself in ways which, to say the least of them, are peculiar, as witness: A Forfar cobbler, described briefly as “a notorious offender,” was not very long ago brought up before the local magistrate, and being found guilty as libelled, was sentenced to pay a fine of half-a-crown, or endure twenty-four hours’ imprisonment. If he chose the latter, he would, in accordance with the police arrangements of the district, be taken to the jail at Perth. Having his option, the cobbler communed with himself. “I’ll go to Perth,” said he; “I’ve business in the toon at ony rate.” An official forthwith conveyed him by train to the “Fair City”; but when the prisoner reached the jail he said he would now pay the fine. The Governor looked surprised, but found he would have to take it. “And now,” said the canny cobbler, “I want my fare hame.” The Governor demurred, made inquiries, and discovered that there was no alternative; the prisoner must be sent at the public expense to the place where he had been brought from. So the crafty son of St. Crispin got the 2s. 8½d., which represented his railway fare, transacted his business, and went home triumphant, 2½d. and a railway journey the better for his offence.

Our next specimen is cousin-german to the above. It is of two elderly Scotch ladies—“twa auld maids,” to use a more homely phrase—who, on a certain Sunday not very long ago, set out to attend divine service in the Auld Kirk, and discovered on the way thither that they had left home without the usual small subscription for the “plate.” They resolved not to return for the money, but to ask a loan of the necessary amount from a friend whose door they would pass on the way. The friend was delighted to be able to oblige them, and, producing her purse, spread out on the table a number of coins of various values—halfpennies, pennies, threepenny, and sixpenny pieces. The ladies immediately selected a halfpenny each and went away. Later in the course of the same day they appeared to their friend again, and said they had come to repay the loan.

“Toots, havers,” exclaimed old Janet, “ye needna hae been in sic a hurry wi’ the bits o’ coppers; I could hae gotten them frae you at ony time.”

“Ou, but,” said the thrifty pair, in subdued and confidential tones, “it was nae trouble ava’, for there was naebody stannin’ at the plate, so we just slippit in an’ saved the bawbees.”

Now that is just the sort of anecdote which an Englishman delights to commit to memory and retail in mixed companies of his Scotch and English friends; and, lest he may have heard that one already—may have worn it threadbare, indeed—I will tell another which, if not quite so good, has the advantage of being not so well known. A Scotchman was once advised to take shower baths. A friend explained to him how to fit up one by the use of a cistern and colander, and Sandy accordingly set to work and had the thing done at once. Subsequently he was met by the friend who had given him the advice, and, being asked how he enjoyed the bath—

“Man,” said he, “it was fine. I liked it rale weel, and kept mysel’ quite dry, too.”

Being asked how he managed to take the shower and yet remain quite dry, he replied—

“Dod, ye dinna surely think I was sae daft as stand ablow the water without an umbrella.”

That’s truly Scotch. So is the next specimen, as you will presently perceive. Two or three nights before the advent of a recent Christmas, a Scotch laddie of ten years old, or so, was sitting examining very gravely a somewhat ugly hole in the heel of one of his stockings. At length he looked towards his mother and said—

“Mither, ye micht gie me a pair o’ new stockin’s?”

“So I will, laddie, by and by; but ye’re no sair needin’ new anes yet,” said his mother.

“Will I get them this week?”

“What mak’s ye sae anxious to hae them this week?”

“Because, if Santa Claus pits onything into thir anes it’ll fa’ oot.”

How naturally a Scotsman drops into poetry, too, will be seen from the following:—

Mr. Dewar, a shopkeeper in Edinburgh, being in want of silver for a bank note, went into the shop of a neighbour of the name of Scott, whom he thus addressed—

“I say, Master Scott,

Can you change me a note?”

Mr. Scott’s reply was—

“I’m no very sure, but I’ll see.”

Then going into the back-room, he immediately returned and added—

“Indeed, Mr. Dewar,

It’s out o’ my power,

For my wife’s awa’ wi’ the key.”

It is by furnishing him with choice and representative examples that one can best convey to a stranger a knowledge of the characteristics of our national humour. So much of it depends often on the quaintness of the Scottish idiom, that it defies explanation, and must be seen, or better still, be heard, to be understood. This course I have pursued in the present paper; and the examples deduced, I think, fairly demonstrate the strong substratum of practical common-sense which underlies, and yet manifests itself in, the lighter elements of the Scottish character, frequently making humour where pathos was meant to be. Take a few more:—

The wife of a small farmer in Perthshire some time ago went to a chemist’s in the “Fair City” with two prescriptions—one for her husband, the other for her cow. Finding she had not enough of money to pay for both, the chemist asked her which she would take.

“Gie me the stuff for the coo,” said she; “the morn will do weel eneuch for him, puir body. Gin he were to dee I could sune get another man, but I’m no sure that I could sae sune get anither coo.”

The late Rev. Dr. Begg, was wont to tell of a Scotch woman to whom a neighbour said, “Effie, I wonder hoo ye can sleep wi’ sae muckle debt on your heid;” to which Effie quietly answered, “I can sleep fu’ weel; but I wonder hoo they can sleep that trust me.”

“Are you a native of this parish?” asked a sheriff of a witness who was summoned to testify in a case of distilling.

“Maistly, yer honour,” was the reply.

“I mean, were you born in this parish?”

“No, yer honour, I wisna born in this parish; but I’m maistly a native for a’ that.”

“You came here when you were a child I suppose, you mean?” said the sheriff.

“No, sir; I’m here just aboot sax year noo.”

“Then how do you come to be mostly a native of the parish?”

“Weel, ye see, when I cam here, sax year syne, I just weighed eight stane, an’ I’m fully seventeen stane noo; so, ye see, that aboot nine stane o’ me belangs to this parish, an’ I maun be maistly a native o’t.”

Not very long ago a countryman got married, and soon after invited a friend to his house and introduced him to his new wife, who, by the by, was a person of remarkably plain appearance. “What do you think o’ her John?” he asked his friend, when the good lady had retired from the room for a little. “She’s no’ very bonnie!” was the candid and discomforting reply. “That’s true,” said the husband; “she’s no muckle to look at, but she’s a rale gude-hearted woman. Positeevly ugly outside, but a’ that’s lovely inside.” “Lord, man, Tam,” said the friend gravely, “it’s a peety ye couldna flype her!”

At a feeing market in Perth a boy was waiting to be hired, when a farmer, who wanted such a servant, accosted him, and after some conversation, enquired if he had a written character. The lad replied that he had, but it was at home. “Bring it with you next Friday,” said the farmer, “and meet me here at two o’clock.” When the parties met again, “Weel, my man,” said the farmer, “ha’e ye got your character?” “Na,” was the reply, “but I’ve gotten yours, an’ I’m no comin’!”

“There’s anither row up at the Soutars’,” said Willie Wilson, as he shook the rain from his plaid and took his accustomed seat by the inn parlour fire. “I heard them at it as I cam’ by just noo.”

“Ay, ay; there’s aye some fun gaun’ on at the Soutars’,” said another of the company, with a laugh.

“Fun? I shouldn’t think there’s much fun in those disgraceful family disturbances,” said the schoolmaster.

“Aweel, it’s no’ so vera bad, after a’,” said the other, who had his share of matrimonial strife. “Ye see, when the wife gets in her tantrums she aye throws a plate or brush, or maybe twa or three, at Sandy’s head. Gin she hits him she’s gled, and gin she misses him he’s gled; so, ye see, there’s aye some pleasure to a’e side or the ither.”

The Laird of Balnamoon, riding past a high, steep bank, stopped opposite a hole in it, and said, “John, I saw a brock gang in there.”

“Did ye?” said John; “will ye haud my horse, sir?”

“Certainly,” said the Laird, and away rushed John for a spade.

After digging for half an hour, he came back nigh speechless to the Laird, who had regarded him musingly.

“I canna find him, sir,” said John.

“Deed,” said the Laird, very coolly, “I wad hae wondered if ye had, for it’s ten years an’ mair sin’ I saw him gang in.”

On one occasion, when the gallant Highlanders were stationed at Gibraltar, Sandy Macnab was sergeant of the guard, and in due course of duty had sent his corporal to make the last relief before four o’clock in the morning. Whilst proceeding to one of the outlying posts the corporal missed his footing, fell over the cliff, and was killed. Meantime Sergeant Macnab had been filling up the usual guard report, preparatory to dismounting. Now, at the foot of the form on which such reports are made out there is a printed inquiry—“Anything extraordinary occurred since mounting guard?”

Macnab, unaware of the accident to his corporal, filled the query space up with the word “Nil,” and, having no spare copy of the form, sent this in to the orderly-room to take its chance. When the Colonel and Adjutant attended in the orderly-room at ten o’clock, learned of the mishap, and read Macnab’s report, the latter was peremptorily ordered to appear before them.

“Macnab,” cried the Colonel, in a rage, “what the devil do you mean by filling up your guard report in this way? You say ‘Nothing extraordinary occurred since mounting guard,’ and yet your poor comrade fell over the cliff and was killed.”

Sandy, finding himself in a fix, pulled himself together, and after a moment or two of deliberation answered, coolly, “Weel, sir, I dinna see onything very extraordinar’ in that. It would hae been something very extraordinar’ if he hadna been killed; he fell fowr hunder feet!”

In Mr. Barrie’s Little Minister, a discussion takes place in the village Parliament as to whether it is possible for a woman to refuse to marry a minister. “I once,” said Snecky Hobart, “knew a widow who did. His name was Samson, and if it had been Tamson she would hae ta’en him. Ay, you may look, but it’s true. Her name was Turnbull, and she had another gent after her, named Tibbets. She couldna make up her mind atween them, and for a while she just keeped them dangling on. Ay, but in the end she took Tibbets. And what, think you, was her reason? As you ken, thae grand folk hae their initials on their spoons and nichtgowns. Ay, weel, she thocht it would be mair handy to take Tibbets, because if she had ta’en the minister, the T’s would have to be changed to S’s. It was thochtfu’ o’ her.”

Our next two specimens show how waggish the Scotch can be.

A farmer, returning from a Northern tryst, accompanied by his servant Pate, not many years ago, halted for refreshment at the Inn of Glamis, where, meeting with a number of friends, a jolly party was soon formed. Under the cheering hospitality of the gude wife of the inn they cracked their jokes and told their tales, till at length the farmer proposed that his attendant, Pate, should enliven the meeting with a song. One of the party, who professed to have an estimate of the shepherd’s vocal abilities, sneeringly replied, “Whaur can Pate sing?”

“What d’ye say?” answered the farmer. “Can Pate no sing? I’m thinkin’ he’s sung to as good fouk, an’ better than you, in his time. I’ll tell ye o’ a’e place whaur he has been kent to sing wi’ mair honour to himsel’ than ye can brag o’, and that’s before the Queen. Ay, an’ if it will heighten him ony in your estimation, I’ll prove to you, for the wager o’a bottle o’ brandy, that he even sleepit, an’ that no’ sae lang syne, in the same hoose she was in.”

Thinking this latter assertion outstretched the limits of all probability, the wager was immediately taken by the party, when, to the satisfaction of all the others present, the worthy farmer proved the truth of his allegations by telling how, accompanied by Pate, he had been to the Kirk of Crathie on the Sunday previous, and that during the service, and in presence of Her Royal Majesty, Pate had both sung and slept. The farmer won the wager, and the bottle circulated, amid continued outbursts of stentorian laughter.

A worthy laird in a Perthshire village made the, for him, wonderful journey to see the great Exhibition of 1851. On his return, his banker, a man who was well known to have the idea that he was by far the most influential and potent power in the shire, invited the laird, with some cronies, to a glass of punch. The banker meant to amuse the company at the old laird’s expense, to trot him out, and get him to describe the sights of London. “An’ what, laird, most of all impressed you at the great glass house?” asked the banker, with a sly wink at the company. “Ah, weel, sir,” replied the laird, as he emptied his glass, “I was muckle impressed wi’ a’ I saw—muckle impressed! But the thing abune a’ that impressed me maist was my ain insignificance. Losh, banker, I wad strongly advise you to gang; it would do you a vast amount o’ guid, sir!”

The next example affords the promise of an abundant harvest of humour off the rising generation of Scotsmen.

A little boy, whom we shall call Johnnie, just because that is his name, was not very long since employed as message-boy to a grocer in a small country town in the west, said grocer being an ardent advocate and supporter of the Conservative party in the State. One morning Johnnie was an hour or so late in turning out for duty, and on entering was promptly interrogated by his master as to the cause.

“The cat’s had kittlins this mornin’,” asseverated the lad, assuming a look of great earnestness; “four o’ them, an’ they’re a’ Conservatives.”[1]

[1] By the simple transposition of the words “Conservatives” and “Leeberals” the politics of this story may be adapted to suit any select company or association of individuals in these realms, as by the same practice I have seen it made to serve the interests of various Liberal and Conservative newspapers since I first printed it in the People’s Journal some years ago.

“Get in bye and tidy up that back shop,” said the shopkeeper gruffly, not at the moment in a mood to enquire fully into the extraordinary feline phenomenon. One day, nearly a fortnight afterwards, the following sequel added itself, however, and there was a perfect understanding established. A commercial traveller, who is also a true-blue Tory, called at the shop, and was discussing with the grocer the chances of victory or failure to their party in an approaching bye-election. Said the grocer, “Our party is gaining strength in the country, of that I am convinced, and with reason; why, my message-boy was telling me recently that his mother’s cat has had kittens—four of them—and they are all Conservatives.” The traveller laughed, as only travellers who are anticipating an order can laugh. When Johnnie entered the premises with his basket on his arm and a tune in his mouth.

“Hillo, Johnnie!” exclaimed the commercial, “and so your cat has had kittens, has she? Eh?”

“Ay,” replied Johnnie, “four o’ them.”

“And all Conservatives, too, I believe?” remarked the traveller.

“Na,” said Johnnie: “they’re Leeberals.”

“Liberals! you told me a fortnight ago they were Conservatives,” interposed the master.

“Ou, ay; of course,” returned Johnnie, with the utmost gravity. “They were Conservatives yon time, but they’re seein’ noo!”

Just one more here. There is a cobbler in a little town in the North—a worthy old soul, as it would appear, whose custom has been for many years to hammer and whistle from morn to night in his little shop, and to discharge both functions so lustily as to be easily heard by the passers-by in the street. One day not long since the minister, happening to pass, missed the whistling accompaniment to the measured click on the lapstone, and looked in to ascertain the cause. “Is all well with you, Saunders?” he asked. “Na, na, sir; it’s far frae bein’ a’ weel wi’ me. The sweep’s gane an’ ta’en the shop ower my head.” “Oh, that’s bad news, indeed,” responded the minister, “but I think you might see your way out of the difficulty soon if, as I always urge in cases of emergency, you would make the matter a subject of earnest prayer.” Saunders promised to do this, and the preacher departed. In less than a week he returned, and found the old cobbler hammering and whistling away in his old familiar “might and main” fashion. “Well, Saunders, how is it now?” “Oh, it’s a’ richt, minister,” was the reply. “I did as ye tell’d me, an’—the sweep’s deid.”

CHAPTER III
HUMOUR OF OLD SCOTCH DIVINES

The late Lord Neaves, himself a man of a genial, humorous nature, was wont to complain pleasantly of his friend Dean Ramsay for having drawn so many specimens of Scottish humour from the sayings and doings of the native clergy. But the worthy Dean, to employ a figure of his own recording, simply “biggit’s dyke wi’ the feal at fit o’t;” in other words, he gathered most grain from the field which had produced the most abundant crop—the field of clerical life and work. Your typical pastor, it is true, has not to any extent been remarkable as a humourist—the reverse may with more truth be said of him. At the same time the Scottish pulpit has contained many earnest, good men, who were also genuine humourists. Yea, than the good old Scotch divines, certainly no other class or section of the community has laid up to its credit so many witty and humorous sayings that are destined to live with the language in which they are uttered. Every parish in the land has stories to tell of such pastors. It is only necessary to mention such prominent names as the Revs. Robert Shirra, of Kirkcaldy; Walter Dunlop, of Dumfries; John Skinner, of Longside, the author of “Tullochgorum”; Mr. Thom, of Govan; and the late Drs. Norman Macleod and William Anderson, of Glasgow, to suggest many other bright and shining lights. There have been many ministers of the Gospel, of course, who, not at all witty themselves, yet, by reason of certain idiosyncrasies of nature and eccentricities of character, have been the cause of wit in others. These, however, do not come within the scope of the present paper. Here we shall deal not with negative but with positive clerical humorists only.

Much of the old clerical humour of Scotland came direct from the pulpit, and was part and parcel of the pastoral matter and method of the time. The preaching of to-day gives but the faintest idea of the preaching of a hundred years ago. The sermon of the old divine was very much in the style of an easy conversation, interspersed with occasional parentheses applicable to individual characters or to the circumstances which arose before his eyes in church.

Dean Ramsay, in his faithful Reminiscences, tells of a clergyman who, observing one of his flock asleep during his sermon, paused, and called him to order, thus—“Jeems Robson, ye are sleepin’. I insist on your wauking when God’s word is preached to ye.”

“Look at your ain seat and ye’ll see a sleeper forby me,” answered Jeems, pointing to the clergyman’s lady in the minister’s pew.

“Then, Jeems,” said the minister, “when ye see my wife asleep again haud up your hand.”

By and by the arm was stretched out, and sure enough the fair lady was caught in the act. Her husband solemnly called upon her to stand up and receive the censure due to her offence, and thus addressed her—“Mrs. B., a’body kens that when I got ye for my wife I got nae beauty; yer freens ken I got nae siller; and, if I didna get God’s grace, I hae gotten a puir bargain indeed.”

It is fortunate for some folks, both you and I know, my reader, that Church discipline is not so rigorously enforced nowadays.

Mr. Shirra, of Kirkcaldy, distinguished for his homely and remarkable sayings, both in the pulpit and abroad, was greatly given to personal reproof in the course of divine service, and had a happy knack of sometimes killing two birds with one stone. One day, observing a young girl with a large and rather gaudy new bonnet, with which she herself seemed immoderately pleased, and also noticing or suspecting that his wife was indulging in a quiet nap, he paused in the middle of his sermon and said—“Look ony o’ ye there if my wife be sleepin’, for I canna see her for thae fine falderals on Jenny Bain’s new bonnet.” One day a weaver entered Shirra’s kirk dressed in the new uniform then procured for the volunteers, just raised. He kept walking about for a time as if looking for a seat, but really to show off his finery, which he perceived was attracting the attention of some of the less grave members of the congregation. He came to his place, however, rather quickly on Shirra quietly remarking, “Just sit down there, my man, and we’ll a’ see your new breeks when the kirk skails.”

This same Shirra was addicted to parenthetical remarks when reading the Scriptures, and one day, when reading from the 116th Psalm, “I said in my haste, all men are liars,” he quietly remarked—“Indeed, Dauvid, gin ye had lived in this parish ye might hae said it at your leisure.”

This, good as it is, was almost equalled by the remarks of an Edinburgh minister. The Rev. Mr. Scott, of the Cowgate, was a man of some popularity, but was seldom on good terms with his flock. One day, as he was preaching on Job, he said—“My brethren, Job, in the first place, was a sairly tried man; Job, in the second place, was an uncommonly patient man; Job, in the third place, never preached in the Cowgate; fourthly, and lastly, if Job had preached here, gude help his patience.”

The Rev. James Oliphant, of Dumbarton, was especially quaint in the pulpit. In reading the Scriptures, his habit was to make parenthetical comments in undertones. On this account the seats in nearest proximity to the pulpit were always best filled. Reading, one day, the passage which describes the possessed swine running into the deep and being there choked, he was heard to mutter, “Oh, that the deevil had been chockit too.” Again, in the passage as to Peter exclaiming, “We have left all and followed Thee,” the remark was, “Aye boasting, Peter, aye bragging; what had ye to leave but an auld, crazy boat, and maybe twa or three rotten nets?” There was considerable ingenuity in the mode by which Mr. Oliphant sought to establish the absolute wickedness of the devil. “From the word devil,” said Mr. Oliphant, “which means an enemy, take the d and you have evil; remove the e and you have vil (vile); take away the v and it is ill; and so you see, my brethren, he’s just an ill, vile, evil devil!”

A late minister of Crossmichael, in Galloway, did not disdain to illustrate his subjects with such images and allusions as were within the comprehension of his homely hearers. Accordingly, one Sabbath morning, he read a verse from the book of Exodus, as follows—“And the Lord said unto Moses—shut that door; I’m thinkin’ if ye had to sit beside the door yersel’ ye wadna be sae ready leavin’ it open; it was just beside that door that Yedam Tamson, the bellman, gat his death o’ cauld, an’ I’m sure, honest man, he didna let it stey muckle open.—And the Lord said unto Moses—put oot that dog; wha is’t that brings dogs to the kirk, yaff-yaffin’? Lat me never see ye bring yer dogs here ony mair, or I’ll put you an’ them baith oot.—And the Lord said unto Moses—I see a man aneath that wast laft wi’ his hat on; I’m sure ye’re clean oot o’ the souch o’ the door; keep aff yer bonnet, Tammas, an’ if yer bare pow be cauld, ye maun jist get a grey worset wig like mysel’; they’re no sae dear; plenty o’ them at Bob Gillespie’s for tenpence.” This said, he again began the verse, and at last made out the instructions to Moses in a manner more strictly in accordance with the text and with decency.

Another, remarkable for the simplicity and force of his style, was discoursing from the text, “Except ye repent ye shall all likewise perish,” and in order to impress upon his hearers the importance of attending to the solemn truth conveyed in the passage—“Yes, my freens,” he emphatically exclaimed, “unless ye repent ye shall all perish, just as surely as I’m gaun to ding the guts oot o’ that muckle blue flee that’s lichtit on my Bible.” Before the blow was struck the fly got away, upon which he struck the book with all his might and exclaimed at the top of his voice, “My freens, there’s a chance for ye yet!”

Dr. Paul, in his Past and Present of Aberdeenshire, tells of a minister who, while preaching on the subject of the wiles and crafts of Satan, suddenly paused, and then exclaimed—“See him sittin’ there in the crap o’ the wa’. What shall we do wi’ him, my brethren? He winna hang, for he’s licht as a feather; neither will he droon, my brethren, for he can soom like a cork; but we’ll shoot him wi’ the gun o’ the Gospel.” Then putting himself in the position of one aiming at an object, and imitating the noise of a shot, the minister called out exultingly, “He’s doon like a dead craw!”

This incident would have greatly delighted the man who thus described the kind of minister he was in search of—“Nane o’ your guid-warks men, or preachers o’ cauld morality for me! Gie me a speerit-rousin’ preacher that’ll haud the deil under the noses of the congregation and mak’ their flesh creep!”

It is related of a certain divine, whose matrimonial relations are supposed not to have been of the most agreeable kind, that one Sabbath morning, while reading to his congregation the parable of the Supper, in which occurs the passage—“And another said, I have bought five yoke of oxen, and I go to prove them; I pray thee have me excused. And another said, I have married a wife, and therefore cannot come,” he suddenly paused at the end of this verse, drew off his spectacles, and, looking on his hearers, said with emphasis—“The fact is, my brethren, one woman can draw a man farther away from the kingdom of heaven than fifty yoke of oxen.”

They were hard nuts to crack, many of these old preachers.

A late Earl of Airlie, when Lord High Commissioner, had the retiring Moderator to dinner with him on the evening previous to the opening of the General Assembly. In a spirit of mischief, the Earl tried to unfit him for his duties on the following day. As often as the reverend gentleman would endeavour to retire, the Earl met him with the exclamation, “Another glass, and then!” In spite of his late potations, the minister was in his place on the following day, and preached from the words, “The wicked shall be punished, and that right early.” Notwithstanding the manifest impatience of the Commissioner, the sermon was spun out to an inordinate length, the minister repeating with meaning emphasis each time that the sand glass which showed the half-hours was turned, “Another glass, and then! The wicked shall be punished, and that right early.”

A certain divine—or perhaps we should say an un-certain divine—preaching a sermon from the parable of the prodigal son, took as his text the words, “And when he came to himself,” and gave a reading of the passage at once unique and original. “We have here, brethren,” said he, “an instance of the wonderful depth of meaning there is in Scripture. We see how low this unprincipled young man had fallen. ‘When he came to himself’—what does it mean? Well, look at home. What do we do when our money’s gone and we’ve no credit? What do we turn to? The pawnshop. So did he. First, his coat would go; he might live a week on that. Then his waistcoat; that wouldn’t serve him long. Lastly, his shirt would follow; and then—ah, then, my friends, he came to himself! He couldn’t pawn himself, and so he went home to his father.”

The older style of preaching was often wonderfully graphic as well as amusing. Preaching from that text in Ecclesiastes—“Dead flies cause the ointment of the apothecary to send forth a stinking savour; so doth a little folly him that is in reputation for wisdom and honour,” a north country divine illustrated his subject by this example:—“See John at the kirk, an’ he looks amon’ folk like a man o’ mense; but follow him to the peat-moss, an’ ye’ll hear him tellin’ coorse stories to the loons an’ queans, haudin’ them lauchin’ at sin. There’s a dead flee in John’s sowl.” Sometimes, in his endeavour to give a vivid description, this same preacher became delightfully grotesque. Referring to Jonah—“The whawl,” he said, “shoutherin’ awa’ the waves, got at last geyan near the shore, and cried Byock-up. But Jonah didna come. Then the whawl cried [speaking it louder, and imitating the whale retching], Byock-up! But na! Jonah aye stack. Then the whawl cried [speaking it very loud and slow], Byock-up! Noo, sirs, divna ye see Jonah rinnin’, dreepin’, up the beach.” Once he described the progress of a sinner in a course of vice to the last stage of his hopelessness, when there is nothing left for him but a cry of pain—“Sirs, oot owre yon knowe there’s a sheepie tether’t, an’ in o’ reach o’ its tether there’s a breem buss [broom bush], an’ it gangs roond the buss, an’ roond the buss, till it’s hankit at the head, an’ then, what does it dee? It cries, Bae! That’s just the sinner cryin’ oot in its meesery.” In the same sermon, looking down upon the old women who sat near the pulpit and on the pulpit stair for the purpose of better hearing, in their clean white mutches, he said—“Here ye’re a’ sittin’, wi’ yer auld wither’t faces, that’s bonnier to me than a lass in her teens, for I ken ye hae seen sixty or seventy years, ilka ane o’ ye, an’ yer auld faces just say to me, ‘We hae served our Maister threescore years thegither, an’ we’re no tired servin’ Him yet.’” It does not surprise one to be told that this reference to the old women put them in a state of visible emotion.

The quaint homeliness thus manifested in the lesson and in the sermon found a place now and again in the prayers; and a west country divine, in the course of a wet harvest, in praying for more suitable weather, expressed himself thus:—“O Lord, gie us nae mair watter for a season, but wind—plenty o’ wind, an’ yet, O Lord, nane o’ yer rantin’, tantin’, tearin’ winds, but an oughin’, soughin’, winnin’ wind.”

Another, similarly circumstanced, prayed “that the floodgates of heaven might be shut for a season.” This was towards the close of a protracted period of rain and storm, and the weather had never been worse than on this particular Sabbath. And, just as the good man persisted in his petition, a fierce gust of wind bore the roof-window of the church down with a crash, which was succeeded by a terrific clatter of broken glass. “Oh,” he exclaimed, assuming an attitude of despair, “O Lord, this is perfectly ridiculous!”

He was more of a philosopher who, when his good lady told him that he did not insist enough when praying for a change of weather, replied, “Nae use o’ insistin’, Marget, until the change o’ the mune.”

The pastor of a small congregation of Dissenters in the West of Scotland, who, in prayer, often employed terms of familiarity towards the Great Being whom he invoked, was praying one day that such weather would be granted as was necessary for the ripening and gathering in of the fruits of the earth, when, pausing suddenly, he added in a lower tone of voice—“But what needs I talk! When I was up at the Shotts the other day, everything was as green as leeks!”

The Rev. Dr. Young, of Perth, used to be annoyed by a couple coming to church, sitting away in the gallery, “ssh-ssh” as they talked in lovers’ language all through the service. He could stand it no longer, so one Sunday he stopped in the middle of his sermon, looked up to the gallery, and said, “If that couple in the right hand gallery there will come to me on Monday I will marry them for nothing, if they will stop that ‘ssh-ssh’!”

The Rev. John Ross, of Blairgowrie, indulged a propensity for versifying in his pulpit announcements, and one day, at the close of the service, intimated that

“The Milton, the Hilton, Rochabie, and Tammamoon,

Will a’ be examined on Thursday afternoon.”

And now we are induced to follow our subject out of the pulpit and into the wider sphere of pastoral life. It was here more particularly that the pungent and ready wit of the famous Watty Dunlop got full reign and enjoyed free play. The best known anecdote of this worthy relates to an occasion when he happened to be accompanying a funeral through a straggling village in the parish of Caerlaverock. Entering at one end of the hamlet he met a man driving a flock of geese. The wayward disposition of the feathered bipeds at the moment was too much for the driver’s temper, and he indignantly cried out, “Deevil choke ye!” Mr. Dunlop walked a little further on, and passed a farm-stead where a servant was driving a number of swine, and banning them with “Deevil tak’ ye!” Upon which Mr. Dunlop stepped up to him, and said, “Ay, ay, my man, yer gentleman’ll be wi’ ye i’ the noo; he’s just back the road there a bit chokin’ some geese till a man.”

Than Mr. Dunlop few ministers were more esteemed by their congregations as faithful and affectionate pastors, and so much respected by all denominations. And no doubt his freedom of speech and frankness of manner were important factors in bringing about this happy result. Here we have a capital example of his free and easy manner. While pursuing his pastoral visitations among some of the country members of his flock, he came one evening to a farmhouse where he was expected; and the mistress, thinking that he would be in need of refreshment, proposed that he should take his tea before engaging in exercise, and said she would soon have it ready. Mr. Dunlop’s reply was, “I aye tak’ my tea better when my wark’s dune. I’ll just be gaun on. Ye can hing the pan on, an’ lea the door ajee, an’ I’ll draw to a close when I hear the ham fizzlin’.” With the frankness so characteristic of him, this divine did not hesitate occasionally to intimate how agreeable certain presents would be to himself and his better-half. Accordingly, on a further “visitation” occasion, and while at a “denner-tea,” as he called it, at the close of a hard day’s labour, he kept incessantly praising the ham, and stated that Mrs. Dunlop at home was as fond of ham as he was. His hostess took the hint, and kindly offered to send Mrs. Dunlop the present of a ham. “It’s unco kind o’ ye—unco kind o’ ye,” replied the divine; “but I’ll no put ye to sae muckle trouble. I’ll just tak’ it hame on the horse afore me.” On leaving, he mounted, and the ham was put into a sack, but some difficulty was experienced in getting it to lie properly. His inventive genius, however, soon cut the Gordion knot. “I think, mistress,” said he, “a cheese in the ither end o’ the poke would mak’ a grand balance.” The gudewife could not resist an appeal so neatly put, and, like another John Gilpin, the crafty and facetious divine moved away with his “balance true.” Mr. Dunlop’s penchant for “presents” was, of course, well known, and on one occasion at least brought him into rather an awkward predicament. While engaged in offering up prayer in a house at which he was visiting, a peculiar sound was heard to issue from his greatcoat pocket. This was afterwards discovered to have proceeded from a half-choked duck which he had “gotten in a present,” and whose neck he had been squeezing all the time to prevent its crying.

On one occasion two irreverent young fellows determined, as they put it, “to taigle (confound) the minister.” Therefore, coming up to him in the High Street of Dumfries, they accosted him with much apparent solemnity, saying—

“Mr. Dunlop, hae ye heard the news?”

“What news?”

“Oh, the deil’s dead.”

“Is he?” quoth Mr. Dunlop; “then I maun pray for twa faitherless bairns.”

On another occasion, Mr. Dunlop met, with characteristic humour, an attempt to play off a trick on him. It was known that he was to dine with a minister whose house was situated close to the church, so that his return walk must be through the churchyard. Accordingly, some idle and mischievous fellows waited for him in the middle of the kirkyard, dressed in the popularly accredited habiliments of a ghost, hoping to put him in a terrible fright. “Is’t a general risin’?” inquired Watty, as he leisurely passed by the unco figure, “or are ye just takin’ a daunder yer lane?”

The celebrated Edward Irving had been lecturing at Dumfries, and a man who passed as a wag in the locality had been to hear him. He met Watty Dunlop the following day, who said—

“Weel, Willie, man, an’ what do you think o’ Mr. Irving?”

“Oh,” said Willie, contemptuously, “the man’s crackit.”

“Ah, Willie,” rejoined Dunlop, patting the man quietly on the shoulder, “but ye’ll aften see a bright light shinin’ through a crack.” No rejoinder was ever more pat.

Of similar grit with the facetious Watty Dunlop was another Watty: to wit, the Rev. Walter Morrison, a well-known north country divine. It is told of this worthy that when he was entreating the commanding officer of a regiment at Fort-George to pardon a poor fellow who had been sent to the halberts, the officer declared he would grant the culprit a free pardon on the condition that Mr. Morrison should accord with the first favour he (the officer) asked. The preacher at once agreed. The favour was to perform the ceremony of baptism for his young puppy. A merry party was invited to the christening, and much fun was expected at the minister’s expense. But they had been reckoning without their host. On his arrival, Mr. Morrison desired the officer to hold up the pup. “As I am a minister of the Kirk of Scotland,” said he, “I must proceed accordingly.” The Major said he asked no more. “Well then, Major, I begin with the usual question—You acknowledge yourself the father of this puppy?” The Major saw he had been over-reached, and threw away the animal amid the loud laughter of his brother officers.