SPORTIVE SONGS

(An enamoured Southron endeavours to address a Highland Damsel in her own tongue)

Yon sky is bonny blue, fair lass,
But you boast bluer een;
Yon sun is bricht the noo, fair lass,
Your locks hae brichter sheen;
The fowl ahint the windy scaur
Flees to its hame awa’,
But, oh! my heart is fleeter far
Whene’er I hear you ca’.
The cushat seeks the hazel broch
Therein his mate to woo,
But I hie to the mountain loch
To lilt my lays o’ lo’e.
For here it was I speered you first
In a’ your pride o’ race,
You set my ardent soul athirst
When I gazed on your face!
I sat me down beside that cairn,
And looked, a feckless loon,
On you, the great MacMuckle’s bairn,
Wi’ ne’er a pair o’ shoon!
Wi’ winsome feet sae white as milk
You paddlit i’ the faem,
Your snoodless locks, sae soft as silk,
Whished roun’ your gouden kaem!
I looked and looked, and marvelled sair
If human you might be;
You laughed to see the wonder-stare
That came frae oot my ee.
And then you broke the eerie spell,
And oh! your voice was douce!
Like water trickling frae a shell,
What time the ebb runs loose!
An’ noo I maun my heart declare!
(Would you could hear its beat.)
I’ve lands, and siller, too, to spare,
An’ sic a hamestead sweet!
I ken you are MacMuckle’s chiel,
His only dearest ane,
But tell him that I lo’e you weel,
And canna bide alane!

NOT TO BE MADE A FOOL OF

Farmer. “Noo, if it’s a fair question, hoo much wull ye get for thae kye when ye’ve feenished them?”

Artist. “Oh, perhaps sixty guineas, or so.”

Farmer. “Wha-a-t! Dinna tell me, man; A’l no get that for them leevin’.”

At Bonnie Blinkie Castle.—Mr. Lysander B. Chunks, of Chicago (who has rented the property of the Duke of B. B.). I see this mansion described in the guide-books as “palatial.” Why, it isn’t in it with the Mastodon Hotel, Milwaukee!

English Guest. Then why didn’t you hire the hotel?

Macbeth to Bad Mock Turtle.—“Unreal mockery, hence!”

INCORRIGIBLE!

Mrs. M‘Finnan (very genteel, and speaks pure Edinburgh English). “My dear, you’ve got pigeon-pie there, I think.”

Mr. M‘Finnan (an Aberdonian, and not particular). “A——ye. Fa-a’s for doo tair-rt? I’m for neen mysel’!”

A FRIENDLY WARNING

First Tramp. “I wadna advise ye tae gang up there!”

Second Tramp. “What wye? Is there a muckle doug?”

First Tramp. “No; but there’s a danger o’ wark!”

“AGAINST THE GRAIN”

Widow Woman (to Chemist, who was weighing a grain of calomel in dispensing a prescription for her sick child). “Man, ye needna’ be sae scrimpy wi’t—’tis for a puir fatherless bairn!”