The Glesca Mileeshy was a noble force, recruited from the Weary Willies and Never-works of the famous town of Glasgow. It was also a regiment with traditions, for in the dim and distant past it had been founded by 1000 heroic scallywags from out of the city jails. These men were dressed in tartan breeks and red coats, given a gun and kit, shipped straight to the Peninsula, and on landing there were told to fight or starve.

"We'll fecht," was their unanimous reply, and fight they did. Inured to hardships, they quickly adapted themselves to the tented field, and early displayed a thirst

[pg 4] "Ay—I waant tae jine the Mileeshy."

"Which Militia?"

"The Glesca Mileeshy, of coorse."

"Very well, come with me, and I'll get you a Field-Marshal's baton," said the sergeant with glee, for this recruiter was feeling thirsty and much in need of his half-crown fee. He led Spud into the recruiting office, and told him to strip.

"When did you have a bath last?"

"Last Glesca Fair," answered Spud, quite unashamed of his nigger-like skin.

"What! Ten months ago?"

"Ach! that's naething; ma faither hisna had a waash since he got mairret."

"Well then, what's your age?"

"Age! I dinnae ken!"

"Don't know your age?"

"Naw, but I wis born the year that the auld chap wis sent tae Peterheid."

"Oh, what was that for?"

"Knockin' lumps aff the auld wife's heid wi' a poker."

"Very well, we'll say you're nineteen," added the sergeant. "Now, what's your religion?"

"The Salvation Army. Ye see, the auld [pg 5] chap kept in wi' them, for they gie him a bed when he's 'on the bash.'"

"And what's your occupation?"

"Cornet-player. I blaw the trumpet, an' the auld chap gies oot the balloons and candy."

"What is your full name and address?"

"Spud Tamson, Murder Close, the Gallowgate, five up, ticket number 10,005."

"That's a big number!"

"Ay, that's the number o' fleas in the close."

"Now, my lad, get into that bath and then you'll pass the doctor."

When Spud emerged from the water he was a different lad. The grime of years had gone, leaving his skin pink and fresh. He looked fit indeed with the exception of his spurtle legs and somewhat comical face. However, the old sergeant wanted his half-crown, so Spud had to pass by hook or by crook. He made him hop round the doctor's room like a kangaroo, and when he was just on the verge of failing in the eyesight test he whispered the number of dots in his ear. And so Spud Tamson was passed as a fullblown private into the Glesca Mileeshy.

[pg 6] "There's the shilling. Go home and say good-bye to your friends; but remember, be at the station to-night at eight."

"A' richt, sergint. I'll be there," replied Spud, as he marched proudly out of the door. Soon after, he announced the news to his now fond and proud parents.

"I'm prood o' ye, son," said Mrs Tamson. "Here, tak' yer faither's shirt and Sunday breeks and pawn them. You'll get twa shillin's on them. And bring back a gill o' the best, twa bottles o' table beer, an' a pun' o' ham. We'll hae a feast afore ye gang tae the Mileeshy," concluded his mother, as she handed Spud the articles for pawning. He blithely stepped off, and on his return was followed by all the thirsty members of the "Murder Close Brigade."

"Here's tae Private Spud Tamson of the Glesca Mileeshy," said Mrs Tamson, raising a glass to her lips, and giving Spud a look of pride.

"Ay, he'll be a braw sodger," chimed in an old wife.

"If it wisnae for his legs," said Tamson senior.

"Let's hae a sang," interjected "Hungry [pg 7] Bob," another relative who was a professional militiaman. All were agreed, and Bob commenced to sing—

"Their caps were tattered and battered,

And jackets faded and worn,

Their breeches ragged wi' crawling

When boosey and a' forlorn;

Yet when dressed in the tartan

They're the pride o' the women's eye,

Are the Rusty, Dusty, Deil-may-care,

Plucky Auld G.L.I."

"Hear! hear!" echoed the audience, sipping up the last of the refreshments, then rising to follow Spud to the station.

"What's up?" asked the neighbour, Mrs M'Fatty, as she saw the crowd go marching out of the close.

"D'ye no' ken—Spud Tamson's jined the Mileeshy!"

"D'ye tell me! But he's got bachle legs and bleary een. A braw sodger he'll mak'," said the other with a snicker.

"Oh, but he'll blaw up weel when he gets a skinfu' o' skilly and army duff," said Mrs M'Fatty, shutting her door again.

Meantime Spud was marching to the station, headed by the melodeon and tinwhistle band of the "Murder Close Brigade." [pg 8] It was the proudest day of his life, and he stuck out his chest as he marched into the Central Station.

"In here," said the old sergeant, getting him by the scruff of the neck and half pitching him into a railway carriage for Blacktoon. The whistle blew, and as the train moved out his friends shouted—

"Keep oot o' the Nick, Tamson."

"Pawn your claes an' send me the ticket."

"I'll come oot tae see ye," said his faither.

"If you're no in Barlinnie," shouted Spud as a last farewell, then collapsed down on the seat, to the disgust of a woman next to him.

"Dinnae smother ma wean," she said.

"I'm sorry, missus. I thocht it wis a doll."

"Did ye, ye impident keely. If I wis your mither I wid hae drooned ye."

"I'm ower bonny for that," answered Spud in a good-humoured way.

"Ha! ha! ha! What a face!"

"What's wrang wi' ma face?"

"It's like a burst German sausage."

"She's got ye that time," said an old packman in the opposite corner; "but whaur are ye gaun?"

[pg 9] "Tae jine the Mileeshy."

"Man, I'm a piper in that 'crush.' You'll like it—it's great sport. But mind Sergeant-Major Fireworks. He's a holy terror. He's got a chist like a horse, and a breist o' tin medals. When he howls the dogs start barking, and when he curses he mak's ye shiver as if ye had the fever. But he'll mak' a man o' ye."

"What d'ye get tae eat?"

"Hard breid, skilly, bully beef, an' army duff. You'll smell the beef a mile away. And mind the blankets."

"What's wrang wi' them?"

"They're like the picture shows—movin'. But here's Blacktoon, an' there's a sergint waitin' for ye. I'll see ye at camp, and mine's a pint. Ta-ta," concluded the old warrior, as Spud stepped out to meet the sergeant.

"I'm Private Spud Tamson," said our hero, saluting the sergeant.

"Alright, but don't salute me—salute the heid yins, that's the officers. Quick march." And off went Spud and his escort through the streets of Blacktoon.

There was a smile as the bold Militiaman went by, and a little gang of unwashed [pg 10] urchins joined the procession, singing—

"Oh, this is Jock M'Craw,

A sodger in the raw,

But Bully Beef and Duff

'll mak' him fat an' tough,

And then he'll be

Like Bob M'Gee,

A twelve stane three

Mileeshiman! Mileeshiman!"

[pg 11]