  (A long way after Robbie Burns) Oh, thou! whatever name, great Sir, Prince Lucio, or plain Lucifer, As up-to-date, thou may’st prefer,— They’re nane great catches, Whether derived frae classic or Frae brimstone matches!— Hear me, great Alias, for a wee! The leddies winna let thee be. Ye’d think sma’ pleasure it could gie, E’en to she-novelist, To drag thee frae the obscuritee Wherein thou grovellest. But leddies wi’ an eye to fame, Take leeberties wi’ thy dread name, Thy wanderings frae thy woefu’ hame, Lang fixed afar; Painting thee neither black, nor lame, As auld fients are. True, Wullie Shakspeare ance did say Thou wert “a gentleman.” But to-day The leddies limn thee masher gay, Modish and maudlin’, Weel-groomed, about the public way Daundering and dawdlin’. The Prince of Darkness as a dude, Callow and cantin’, crass and crude, Compound of prater, prig, male-prude, And minor poet, Is—weel, I wadna’ here intrude The word—ye know it! Milton and Goethe whyles might summon Thine image forth, a graund, grim, glum ’un; But ’tis beyond the scribblin’ woman Wi’ truth to paint ye. She’ll mak’ ye a reedeeculous rum ’un, Unsex, half saint ye! Thrasonic Bobadil the bard, Wha deems Parnassus his backyard, Tried to invoke thy presence—hard; As did great “Festus.” But somehow their attempts, ill-starred, Scarce eenterest us. They havena’ the true grit and grup In mighty shape to raise ye up. They wha’d on genuine horrors sup, And scare a body, Are not inspired by raw pork-chop, An’ whusky-toddy. But oh! a leddy-novelist’s Deil Wad scarcely gar a bairnie squeel! Like Hotspur’s “sarcenet oath,” we feel It hath nae terror. Is lathen dagger ta’en for steel A greater error? Sorrows o’ Satan! Aye, good lack! ’Tis bad to paint ye owre black; But thus whitewash ye! Oh! quack! quack! His truest “sorrow” Satan from the she-scribbler’s knack Must surely borrow. Weel, fare-ye-weel, Auld Nickie-Ben! Ye’ve borne some wrangs at hands o’ men, But frae the writing-woman’s pen, She-poet-prophet, Gude luck deliver ye—and then Ye’ll no dread Tophet! A WARNING TO LAWSONITES First Scots Boatman. “Weel, Geordie, hoo got ye on the day?” Second Ditto (drouthy, he had been out with a Free Kirk Minister, a strict abstainer). “Nae ava. The auld carle had nae whusky, sae I took him whaur there was nae fush!” DRIVING A BARGAIN Economical Drover. “A teeck’t tae Faa’kirk.” Polite Clerk. “Five-and-ninepence, please.” Drover. “Ah’ll gie ye five shillings!” Clerk (astonished).. “Eh!” Drover. “Weel, ah’ll gie ye five-an’-thrippence, an’ deil a bawbee mair! Is’t a bargain?!” UNCOMPROMISING The Doctor’s Daughter. “I declare you’re a dreadful fanatic, Mrs. McCizzom. I do believe you think nobody will be saved but you and your minister!” Old Lady. “Aweel, my dear, ah whiles hae ma doobts aboot the meenister!” QUOI? First Artist (six months in Paris).. “Yes, this is the best thing I’ve done.” Second Artist (just arrived).. “Mon, dinna let that discoorage ye!” “WHERE THERE’S A WILL THERE’S A WAY” (Liberal Scots Farmer giving his workpeople a dram). “Awm sorry, Mrs. McDougal, ye canna tak a gless on account of your temperance principles!” Mrs. McDougal. “Hoot, man! Ye jist poor’t on ma bap, Emily the Elder. “I can’t think why William wanted to take Archie out rabbit-shooting in such horrid weather.”—(Cousin Archie, who is evidently smitten in this quarter, waves an adieu with his bonnet.)—“A regular Scotch mist, I declare!” Maria the Younger. “Yes, dear, and”—(mischievously)—“somebody doesn’t like missing a Scotsman!!” [Emily goes in with a toss of her head, and plays “Tullochgorum” furiously on the piano. At a West-end Club.—Hospitable Southerner (to Scottish guest). Have another go of whisky? Scottish Guest (with a sigh). I thank ye. No. Hospitable Southerner (astonished). What! Why surely it’s not a case of “the wee drappie i’ the ee”? Scottish Guest. Nae, mon, it’s no that; it’s the wee drappee i’ the glass. [H. S. takes hint and orders a tumbler of whisky. A Real Scottish Joke.—What’s the next wine to golden sherry? Sillery. (Siller—eh?) PLEASANT! Scene—A bleak Scottish moor. Time—New Year’s Day. Train gradually stops. Excited Passenger. “Now, then, guard, what are you stopping here for?” Philosophical Guard. “Fact is, the watter’s gane aff the bile. Hooever, it’s jist possible th’ express behin’ll be late.” MacAlister. “When ye come tae Scotland I’ll gie ye plenty fushin’ and shuitin’.” Brown. “Are you fond of fishing and shooting?” MacAlister. “Na! na! A canna fush and am faird tae shuit!” THE RULING PASSION Little Girl. “Wull ye gie’s ha’pennies for this thripenny, for ma granny’s feared it’s no a gude ane?” |
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