SONG OF A LONDON SCOT.
Reading edition
Baker, baker, strike awa’; Ye’ll na gar me greet, mon. Ken that I defy ye a’; Though bread grow dear as meat, mon. Aits are baith bread an’ meat to me, Wha dinna keep my carriage. Mysel, forbye the barley-bree, Can live richt weel on parritch.
THE CLYDE.—BEAUTIES OF SCOTTISH SCENERY AS SEEN BY OUR ARTIST.
TOO CANDID BY HALF
Visitor (to newly-married friend). “I was admiring your little carriage, Mrs. McLuckie, so——”
Mrs. McLuckie. “Oh, the brougham! Yes; you’ve no idea what a comfort I find it——”
Mr. McLuckie. “Oo aye! It’s gey handy! We’ve jist jobbit the cab for the coorse weather!!”
CAUTION
Host. “Just another wee drap ’fore you go——”
Guest. “Na, na, I’ll tak’ nae mair! I’m in a new lodgin’, and I’m no vera weel acquainted wi’ the stair!!”
“AULD EDINBRO’”
Saxon Traveller. “This is too bad, waiter! I told you we wanted to go by the 9.30 train, and here’s breakfast not ready!”
Celtic Waiter. “A weel, sir, fac’ is, the cook tak’s a gless!”
Scotland for Ever!—Benjamin Barking Creek (thinking he is going to pull the mighty leg of MacTavish). But you must allow that the national emblem of your country is the thistle.
The MacTavish. And for why? Because we grow it for ye Southrons to eat!
[Exit B. B. C.
“BENEATH THE LOWEST DEEP”
Swell. “Ah, Port-ar, is this twain—ah—composed entirely of second-class cawwiages?!”
Glasgow Porter. “Na, na, man, there’s a wheen third-cless anes further forrit there!!”
At Redrufus Castle.—The Duchess of Stony Cross (to Mrs. MacShoddy, who is returning a duty call). The Duke has actually consented to be Mayor of Crankborough in succession to poor Mr. Slitt.
Mrs. MacShoddy. Well! that’ll be very nice for you! You’re sure to be invited to the Mansion House in London during the season!
A Scot on Sweet Sounds.—A’ music whatever is o’ Scottish origin an’ derivation. It a’ cam Sooth frae ayont the Tweed. A’ music just resolves itsel’ intil a meexture o’ Tweed-ledum an’ Tweedle-Dee—the Scottish Dee.
The oreeginal St. Cecilia was a Miss MacWhirter. She invented the Bagpipes.
Rejected Medical Advice (by a Scotsman).—“Try your native air.”
In Scotland, it is not permitted even to whistle on the Sunday. My friend, Wagg, tells me, however, that “you must whistle for what you want.” I remark this contradiction. But they are an obstinate race, the Scots.
Mrs. Golightly (fishing for a compliment). “Ah! Mr. McJoseph, beauty is the most precious of all gifts for a woman! I’d sooner possess beauty than anything in the world!”
Mr. McJoseph (under the impression that he is making himself very agreeable). “I’m sure, Mrs. Golightly, that any regret you may possibly feel on that score must be amply compensated for by—er—the consciousness of your moral worth, you know,—and of your various mental accomplishments!”
Jink. “My dear MacFuddle, it’s the very thing you want! Charming house—lovely spot! Cheap, too. But one great drawback. You can’t get any water there!”
MacFuddle. “Oh, that doesn’t matter!”
REFRESHMENT
Hospitable Good Templar (to Visitor—average Scotsman). “Well, now, what will you tak’, Mac, after your walk—tea, or coffee, or pease-brose?”!!
[Comment is needless.