Scotch Wit and Humor Part 12

Lord Eskgrove is described by Lord c.o.c.kburn, in his "_Memorials_" as a most eccentric personage.

c.o.c.kburn heard him sentence a tailor for murdering a soldier, in these words: "And not only did you murder him, thereby he was berea-ved of his life, but you did thrust, or pierce, or push, or project, or propel the li-thall weapon through the belly band of his regimental breeches, which were his majesty's."

=Advice to an M.P.=

When Sir George Sinclair was chosen member of Parliament for his native county, a man came up to him and said: "Noo, Maister George, I'll gie ye some advice. They've made ye a Parliament man, and my advice to ye is, be ye aye tak-takin' what ye can get, and aye seek-seekin' until ye get mair."

=Stretching It=

Concerning the long-bow, no American effort can surpa.s.s one that comes to us from Scotland: It was told that Colonel M'Dowall, when he returned from the war, was one day walking along by The Nyroch, when he came on an old man sitting greetin' on a muckle stone at the roadside. When he came up, the old man rose and took off his bonnet, and said:

"Ye're welcome hame again, laird."

"Thank you," said the colonel; adding, after a pause, "I should surely know your face. Aren't you Nathan M'Culloch?"

"Ye're richt, 'deed," said Nathan, "it's just me, laird."

"You must be a good age, now, Nathan," says the colonel.

"I'm no verra aul' yet, laird," was the reply; "I'm just turnt a hunner."

"A hundred!" says the colonel, musing; "well, you must be all that. But the idea of a man of a hundred sitting blubbering that way! Whatever could _you_ get to cry about?"

"It was my father lashed me, sir," said Nathan, blubbering again; "an'

he put me oot, so he did."

"Your father!" said the colonel; "is your father alive yet?"

"Leevin! ay," replied Nathan; "I ken that the day tae my sorrow."

"Where is he?" says the colonel. "What an age he must be! I would like to see him."

"Oh, he's up in the barn there," says Nathan; "an no' in a horrid gude humor the noo, aither."

They went up to the barn together, and found the father busy threshing the barley with the big flail, and tearing on fearful. Seeing Nathan and the laird coming in, he stopped and saluted the colonel, who, after inquiring how he was, asked him why he had struck Nathan.

"The young rascal!" says the father, "there's nae dooin' wi' him; he's never oot o' mischief. I had to lick him this mornin' _for throwin'

stanes at his grandfather_!"

=Driving the Deevil Out=

A Scotch minister, named Downes, settled in a rural district in the north of Ireland, where the people are more Scotch in language and manners than in the land o' cakes itself. One evening he and a brother divine set out together to take part in some religious service.

Meeting one of his parishioners on the way, the latter quaintly observed, "Weel, Mr. Downes, you clergymen 'ill drive the deevil oot o'

the country the nicht!"

"Yes," replied the minister, "we will. _I see you are making your escape._"

Tommy did not use the deevil's name in his pastor's presence again.

=Mental Aberration=

In Lanarkshire, Scotland, there lived, about fifty years ago, a poor crazy man, by name Will Shooler. Will was a regular attendant of the parish church in the town, on the ceiling of which there was, for ornament, a dove with outstretched wings. One Sabbath day, Will grew rather tired of the sermon, and throwing his arms and head back, he saw the dove, and exclaimed, "O Lord! what a big hen!"

=Sunday Shaving and Milking=

On first going to Ross-shire to visit and preach for my friend Mr.

Carment, I asked him on the Sat.u.r.day evening before retiring to rest whether I would get warm water in the morning. Whereupon he held up a warning hand, saying: "Whist, whist!"

On my looking and expressing astonishment, he said, with a twinkle in his eye, "Speak of shaving on the Lord's day in Ross-shire, and you never need preach here more!"

In that same county Sir Kenneth Mackenzie directed my attention to a servant-girl, who, if not less scrupulous, was more logical in her practice. She astonished her master, one of Sir Kenneth's tenants, by refusing to feed the cows on the Sabbath. She was ready to milk, but by no means feed them--and her defence shows that though a fanatic, she was not a fool.

"The cows," she said--drawing a nice metaphysical distinction between what are not and what are works of necessity and mercy that would have done honor to a casuist--"the cows canna milk themselves; so to milk them is clear work of necessity and mercy; but let them out to the fields, and they'll feed themselves." Here certainly was _scrupulosity_; but the error was one that leaned to the right side. [15]

=A Typical Quarrel=

The story of the happy young couple who quarreled on the first day of their housekeeping life about the "rat" or the "mouse" which ran out of the fireplace, it seems, had its origin "long time ago" in the incident thus done into rhyme. The last verse explains the mysterious mistake:

John Davidson, and Tib his wife, Sat toastin' their taes ae nicht, When something start.i.t in the fluir And blinkit by their sicht.

"Guidwife," quoth John, "did you see that moose?

Whar sorra was the cat?"

"A moose?"--"Ay, a moose."--"Na, na, guidman, It wasna a moose! 'twas a rat."

"Ow, ow, guidwife, to think ye've been Sae lang aboot the hoose, An' no' to ken a moose frae a rat!

Yan wasna a rat! 'twas a moose!"

"I've seen mair mice than you, guidman-- An' what think ye o' that?

Sae haud your tongue, an' say nae mair-- I tell ye, _it_ was a _rat_."

"_Me_ haud my tongue for _you_, guidwife!

I'll be mester o' this hoose-- I saw't as plain as een could see, An' I tell ye, _it_ was a _moose_."

"If you're the mester of the hoose, It's I'm the mistress o't; An' I ken best what's in the hoose-- Sae I tell ye, _it_ was a _rat_."

"Weel, weel, guidwife, gae mak' the brose, An' ca' it what ye please."

So up she rose and mad' the brose, While John sat toastin' his taes.

They supit, and supit, and supit the brose, And aye their lips played smack; They supit, and supit, and supit the brose, Till their lugs began to crack.

"Sic fules we were to fa' out, guidwife, About a moose"--"A what?

It's a lee ye tell, an' I say again, It wasna a moose, 'twas a rat."