  Mr. Briggs loquitur: I am going down to Scotland, to the country of the kilt, For a little salmon-stalking in a place they call Glen Tilt; And as I always like to be a Roman when at Rome, I’ve purchased the correct costume and it has just come home. The kilt is most becoming, and it hangs with grace and ease, Though perhaps a little draughty in the region of the knees, And if there should be midges—but no doubt the Scotch are drest In the clothes Experience has found to suit the climate best. The dirk that dangles from my waist looks very comme il faut, And the sporran in my stocking gives a finish, don’t you know? The girls are all in raptures as they gaze at me in turns, And mother says they’ll take me for another Robert Burns. Sandy loquitur: Oh, mony are the fallacies that Ignorance’ll breed, An’ mony the mistakes a man’ll get intil his heid, But the maddest o’ delusions mad wi’ which some folks are fillt, Is that ye suld gang tae Scotland, gin ye want to see the kilt For a’ the year I hevna seen a single kilt but ane— A wee bit white-legged Coackney wha’ was trudgin’ through the rain; The water it was pourin’ owre his knees intil his shoes, An’ eh! but he was wishin’ for a pair o’ honest trews. Na! gin it’s kilts ye’re wantin’, dinna win sae mony miles! Jist bide at home in Lunnon toun and gang tae Seven Dials, An’ there amang the coasters, hurdy-gurdies, dancin’ bears, Ye’ll fin’ yer bogus Scotsmen pipin’ bogus Scottish airs. First Lady. “Losh, but the doctor was gran’ the day!” Second Lady. “H’m! D’ye think he is as clever as he used tae be?” First Lady (astonished). “Clever!—he’s faur cleverer, but we dinna un’erstan’ him noo!” “In Vino Veritas.”—Sandie Mac Sawnie respondeth: “Truth in wine, indeed! Hoot, mon, there’s nae sic a thing. Just skake up that auld port, and ye’ll find there’s muckle lees in it!” At the Board-School Lecture.—Professor McCrobe. And now, where do you suppose germs are originated? Oversmart Lad (promptly). In Germany, sir! [Laughter, cheers and—tears. After a Trip to London.—Archie. Weel, Sandy, an’ hoo did ye pass the time in Lunnon? Sandy. Richt brawly, mon. An’ forbye, when I’d clappit a stove pipe on my head and put on a frockit coat, ’deed, Archie, if there was a Southron but didna’ take me for a Cockney born and bred! WOMAN’S RIGHTS Scots Lady (who has taken a house in the Highlands, her servants suddenly giving “warning”). “What’s the reason of this? Have you not all you want?—good rooms, and good fresh air and food, and easy work?” Spokeswoman. “Yes, mem—but—but there’s no a decent laad within cry o’ us!” |
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