  What’s a’ the steer? Why, man, ye see, Kinghorn is on its mettle, The connysoor o’ ilka ee Frae Anster tae Kingskettle. We’ll show the warl’ a twa-three things An’ let it ken the morn, man, What way we coronate oor kings In loyal auld Kinghorn, man. There’ll be the Provost, robes an’ a’— ’Twill be as guid’s a play, sir: I’m tell’t he’s boucht a dicky braw In honour o’ the day, sir. Then, dressed in a’ their Sabbath coats, Wi’ collars newly stairchit An’ stickin’ up intil their throats, The Bailies will be mairchit. An’ next the Toon Brass Band ye’ll see, In scarlet coats an’ braid tae, An’ then the hale I.O.G.T., Forbye the Fire Brigade tae. There’ll be an awfu’ crood, ye ken, Sae, as we mairch alang, man, We’ll hae twa extry pÓlicemen Tae clear awa’ the thrang, man. An’ then at nicht—why, ilka ane Has emptied oot his pockets, An’ mony a guid bawbee has gaen In crackers, squibs an’ rockets. Eh, but I’d tak’ my aith on this— The King’ll be gey sweer, man, Tae bide at hame the morn an’ miss Oor collieshangie here, man. Although I’m tell’t in Lunnon tae They’ve got a Coronation, An’ even Cockneys mean tae hae Their wee bit celebration; But eh! I doot yon show’ll be Disjaskit an’ forlorn, man, Beside the bonny sichts ye’ll see In loyal auld Kinghorn, man. JUDGING BY APPEARANCES Old Scots Wife. “Losh me! There’s a maun drenkin’ oot o’ twa boattles at ance!!” [The old gentleman was trying his new binocular, a Christmas present to his nephew. “A NARROW ESCAPE” (FRAGMENT OVERHEARD THE OTHER DAY) “Well, Lauchie, how are you?” “Man, I’m wonderfu’ weel, considerin’.” “Considerin’—what?” “I did last nicht what I’ve no dune this thirty year. I gaed to bed pairfutly sober, and I’m thankfu’ to say I got up this mornin’ no a bit the waur.” SCRUPLES English Tourist (having arrived at Greenock on Sunday morning). “My man, what’s your charge for rowing me across the frith?” Boatman. “Weel, sir, I was jist thinkin’ I canna break the Sawbath-day for no less than f’fteen shull’n’s!!” “WHOLESALE” Scot (to Fellow-Traveller on Northern Railway). “May ah ausk what line ye’re en?” Our Artist (who had undergone a wide cross-examination with complaisance). “Well—I’m—I’m a painter.” Scot. “Man, that’s lucky! Ah deal i’ pents—an’ ah can sall ye white leed faur cheaper than ye can buy’t at ony o’ the shoaps.” Artist. “Oh, but I use very little. A pound or so serves me over a year.” Scot. “E——h, man! Ye maun be in a vera sma’ way o’ beezeness!!” |
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