Differing from the Lowland Scotch in personal appearance, in language, in style of dress, and in other respects, the Highlander’s humour also presents characteristics which are distinctively local. Though often rich, for example, it is never boisterous, never sparkling—is rarely spontaneous—but is nearly always slow, sly, severe, and insinuative. For, slow in muscular action, Donald is slow in mental action also. He has to be stimulated or induced to physical activity; and, naturally of a serious cast of mind, his humour, in its richest ore, comes out nearly always as the result of provocation. But rouse his Highland blood by insult—and a word will do it sometimes—or awaken his drowsy wits by banter, then get out of the reach of both his arms and his tongue instanter, for his hand is heavy, his eye is sure, and his speech is a hurricane. Much of what passes for Highland humour, as everybody knows, arises from the difference which exists between the Gaelic and the English and the Scottish idiom; and from the efforts of the semi-educated or non-educated Gaelic-speaking Highlander to express himself in English, or in the colloquial tongue of the Lowland Scot. The English language, “as she is spoke” by the Scottish mountaineer—felicitous examples of which we find in the lighter writings of John Donald Carrick, the first editor of “Whistle Binkie,” in Sandy Roger’s song of “Shon M’Nab,” in Alexander Fisher’s song, “Ta Offish in ta Mornin’,” and “Ta Praise o’ Ouskie,” and in the old ballad of “Turnumspikeman”—is fearfully and wonderfully made. He transposes his tenses; calls yesterday “to-morrow,” and to-morrow “yesterday.” He confuses his genders; calls everything “she,” except his wife and the cat, and these he calls “hims.” He makes his nouns qualify his adjectives, and places the cart before the horse in every second sentence. “Ze can never learn zat tamn English langvidge,” once exclaimed a French student in despair. “Ze spell von vord A-S-S, zen ze bronounce it DONKEY.” Synonyms equally vex the spirit of the Scottish Highlander. Thus Donald Roy M’Vean, when interrogated in regard to the quality of his potato crop, provided amusement to the Lowlanders around him by replying—“They are just ferry goot, inteed, but fery seldom whatefer.” Another fertile source of amusement is found in the difficulty with which the unkempt Highlander adapts himself to the usages of low country, and, particularly, to city life. A happy depiction of his speech and behaviour in such a circumstance is found in Rodger’s familiar song of “Shon M’Nab,” already referred to. On coming to Glasgow, “Shon” said—

There are some choice specimens of Donald’s English extant, and, before passing on to the richer ore of his natural humour, it will be worth while to glance at a few. First, there is the famous Inveraray proclamation, which I do not remember to have seen in print, but which, when a boy, I learned from the lips of a droll old man in Central Perthshire. It is a unique production, but is said to have actually been delivered at the Market Cross of Inveraray towards the close of the last century. Here it is—

“Ta-hoy!—a tither ta-hoy!—three times ta-hoy!—and ta-hoy! Wheesht!! By command of Her Majesty King Sheorge and Her Grace ta Tuke o’ Argyll! Any persons found fishing abune ta loch or below ta loch, afore ta loch or ahent ta loch, in ta loch or on ta loch, roun ta loch or about ta loch, will pe persecuted with three persecutions—First she’ll pe troon’d, and syne she’ll pe hang’d, and ten she’ll pe prunt; and if she’ll come back any more she’ll pe persecuted with a far worse persecution tan all that. Got save the King and Her Grace ta Tuke o’ Argyll!”

If we admit the above to be bona-fide, we can scarcely doubt the genuineness of the following prayer, which is said to have emanated from a contemporary of the Inveraray bellman:—

“Gracious Providence! Bless all ta Macdonalds, and ta Macdonalds’ children, tere sons’ sons and tere daughters’ daughters, for a thoosand years langsyne. Be gracious to send us mountains of snuff and tobacco, and send us oceans of whisky—ta very finest of whisky! Oh, yes! And send us hills of potatoes, and breads and cheeses as big as all ta Howe of Strathmore. And, moreover, likewise, send us floods of water, tat tere may pe grass for plenty to man and beast, and some to spare to ta poor of ta parish. Send us guns and pistols as more as ta sea and ta sand-shore; and swords, too, likewise, to kill all ta Grants and ta Macphersons for evermore. Bless ta wee stirk, and mak’ him a big coo pefore Martinmas. Bless ta wee soo, too, and mak’ him a big boar likewise. Oh, yes! Put the strength of Samson into Donald’s arms, and send us parley, kail, and corn prodigious. Bless all ta pairns—Duncan and Rory and Flora, and you, Donald, and you, Lauchie, and you, Peter; and glorious, yours for evermore.”

I do not ask any one to swallow the above, minus the proverbial “grain of salt.” I like to take it that way myself. And yet there are well-authenticated instances and occasions revealing deliverances quite as ludicrous and absurd. Witness the following fragment of a pulpit homily which appears in Hugh Boyd’s admittedly veracious Reminiscences of Fifty Years, and which the recorder appears to have heard himself, or received on highly credible authority:—

“Ah, my friends,” exclaimed the preacher, “what causes have we for gratitude! Oh, yes! for the deepest gratitude! Look at the place of our habitation. How grateful should we be that we do not leeve in the far North, Oh, no! amid the frost and the snaw, and the cauld and the weet, Oh, no! where there’s a lang day the a’e half o’ the year, Oh, yes! and a lang nicht the tither, Oh, yes! That we do not depend upon the aurawry boreawlis, Oh, no! That we do not gang shivering aboot in skins, Oh, no! snookin’ amang the snaw like mowdiewarts, Oh, no, no! And how grateful should we be that we do not leeve in the for Sooth, beneath the equawter, and the sun aye burnin’, burnin’. Where the sky’s het, Ah, yes! and the earth’s het, and the water’s het, and ye’re burnt black as a smiddy, Ah, yes! Where there’s teegurs, Oh, yes! And lions, Oh, yes! And crocodiles, Oh, yes! And fearsome beasts growlin’ and girnin’ at ye amang the woods. Where the very air is a fever, like the burnin’ breath o’ a fiery drawgon; that we do not leeve in these places—Oh, no, no, no, no! But that we leeve in this blessit island of ours, call’t Great Britain, Oh, yes, yes! and in that part of it named Scotland, that looks up at Ben Nevis—Oh, yes, yes, yes! Where’s neither frost, nor cauld, nor wund, nor weet, nor hail, nor rain, nor teegurs, nor lions, nor burnin’ suns, nor hurricanes, nor——”

“Here,” says the narrator, “a tremendous burst of wind and rain from Ben Nevis blew in the windows of the kirk, and brought the preacher’s eloquence to an abrupt conclusion.”

Highlanders have the habit when talking their English, so-called, of interjecting the personal pronoun “he” when it is not required—such as “the doctor he has come,” or “the postman he is going”—and often in consequence a sentence or an expression is rendered sufficiently ludicrous, as the sequel will show. A reverend and pious gentleman once began his discourse thus:—“My dearly beloved brethren, you will find the subject of our observations this afternoon in the First Epistle General of Peter, the fifth chapter and the eighth verse, and in these words, ‘The devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.’ Now, my brethren, with your leave, we will divide the subject of our text into four heads. First, we shall endeavour to ascertain who the devil he was. Secondly, we shall inquire into his geographical position—namely, where the devil he was going. Thirdly—and this is of a personal character—we will ask ourselves who the devil he was seeking. Fourthly, and lastly, my beloved brethren, we shall endeavour to solve a problem that has never been solved to this day—namely, what the devil he was roaring at.”

Recently a Highland policeman, not many weeks imported from the island of Jura, approached to where a number of young men were standing in a knot on the pavement of one of the busier streets of the Western metropolis, and pushing them somewhat roughly, exclaimed, “If you’ll be going to stand here, my lads, you’ll have to be moving about.”

“Is this not a free country?” demanded one of the fellows, somewhat sharply.

“This is not ta country at all, you tam sheep’s head,” shouted the now enraged member of the law, “this is one of the largest cities in the town of Glasgow!”

But if Donald’s uttered speech is sometimes ludicrous, what are we to say concerning some specimens which we have seen of his written address! The Glasgow Herald a number of years ago gave its authority for the following being a verbatim copy of a letter which, a short time previously, had been received by a local coal-agent, the writer’s name alone being mercifully withheld from publication:—

Not long ago a stalwart west country Highlander was describing to a company of Lowlanders the wonderful power and facility in drawing possessed by his brother Donald, “Hooch ay,” he said, “he’ll juist tak’ a bit cawk (chalk) the size o’ her thoom’s nose, and he’ll draw a man there, and a horse there, and you couldn’t tell which was which.” The company laughed. “Ay,” continued the speaker in a more impassioned vein, “and he wad tak’ a piece o’ cawk, and he wad draw a horse there and a cart there, and you couldn’t tell which was which. They was juist beautiful!”

We have so far here been looking at Donald’s humour on its least favourable side; having been viewing it, so to speak, in the garb of the Sassenach only. Let us now glance at a few examples in full Highland costume. And here at once is an instance showing rare shrewdness and wit combined. A Highland piper having a pupil placed in his hands by his chief, and not knowing the notes of music—the semibreves, minims, crotchets, and quavers, etc.—by the proper designations, although he knew each one by head mark, and its musical value very well, set to work in this way.

“Here, Donald,” said he, “took your pipes, my goot lad, and blow a blast.”

Donald did as requested.

“So, so!” exclaimed the old man, “tat iss very well blown, inteed—just beautiful. But what is sound, Donald, without sense? Just so. You may blow for ever without making a tune of it if I do not tell you how ta queer things on ta paper are to help you. Look here, lad. You see tat big fellow with ta round, open face (pointing to a semibreve between the two lines of a bar), he moves slowly from tat line to tis while you beat one with your foot and give a long blast. Now you put a leg to him. You make two of him, and he will move twice as fast. If you blacken hims face he will run four times faster as ta fellow with ta white face; but, besides blackenin’ hims face, if you will bend hims knees, or tie hims legs, he will hop eight times faster as ta white-faced fellow I showed you ta first time. And now whenever you blow your pipes, Donald, remember tis, the tighter you will tie tese fellows legs ta faster they will run, an’ ta quicker they will be sure to dance.”

There is a characteristic story which Highlanders themselves delight to tell, to the effect, that, once upon a time, when one of their countrymen was passing a farm-steading, the dog attached thereto came rushing and barking towards him, and latterly added injury to the insult which had been offered by inserting its fangs in the naked calf of one of the brawny Celt’s legs. Maddened by the pain, the Highlander seized a hayfork which happened to be conveniently near, and with one fell thrust transfixed the snarling tyke to the earth. The howls of agony quickly brought the farmer on the scene, who, on seeing his favourite collie writhing on the ground, exclaimed in wrath, “Why the devil did ye no tak’ the other end o’ the fork to the dog, you stupid ass?” “And why the dog did the deevil no tak’ his other end to me, you stupid ass yourself?” the Highlander replied.

It is the Ettrick Shepherd, I think, who tells of two Highlanders who set out on a reiving expedition to steal the litter of a wild sow, which lay in a narrow-mouthed cave. Seizing the opportunity of Madame Grumphie’s absence, one of the men crept in, and the other kept a watch at the mouth. Presently, down the hillside came the distracted and angry sow, and rushed with menacing tusks towards her den. The guard, as she slipped into the passage, had just time to lay hold of her tail, give it a firm twist round his strong hand; and, throwing himself down and setting his feet against the sides of the den, he held her fast. The Highlander in the cave was too much engaged with the screaming little pigs to hear the tussle going on outside; but finding himself in darkness, he called out to his mate, “Donald, fat the deil’s the maitter? I canna see.” Donald, who by this time had found a pig’s tail a most uneasy tenure, and who had no wind left for explanations, briefly but significantly answered, “Gin the tail breaks, Dougal’, my lad, you’ll see fat’s the maitter.”

“Hillo, Donald!” exclaimed one Highlander to another, as they met on a country road recently, “what are you doing here at all? I socht you was always with M’Lachlan down in the Glen.”

“So I was a long time with M’Lachlan too,” replied Donald, “but I have left him, whatever.”

“Why did you leave him? He’s a good master I’m sure.”

“Hooch, ay, a good master enough; but I left him about the salt beef.”

“Did you not like salt beef?”

“Hooch, ay, I like salt beef well enough.”

“Did you get too much salt beef?”

“This is how it was, you see. There was a cow that died, and he salted the cow, and we got nothing but salt cow as long as she lasted. And I like salt cow well enough. But then there was a sheeps that died, and he salted that too, and we got nothing but salt sheep as long as she lasted; and I like salt sheeps well enough. But some time after there was a pig that died, and he salted her too, and we got nothing but salt pig as long as she lasted. And I like salt pigs well enough. But just when the pig was nearly all done, one day his grandmother died, and he comes out to the stable, and says he, ‘You’ll have to go away for a stone of salt, Donald.’

“‘Hooch ay,’ thinks I to myself, ‘my man; but if you’ll thought that I was going to eat your grandmother you’re very far mistaken,’ and I never says a word to him at all, but just comes away.”

Highlanders make good soldiers, good policemen, and faithful watchmen and shepherds. Forgathering with one tending his sheep on the verdant slopes of a Northern mountain one day, a company of English tourists thought to have some entertainment at his expense, and began by remarking that he seemed to be enjoying himself.

“Ou, ay,” said the shepherd, “I’m shoost lookin’ aboot me here.”

“And what are you looking about you for?” inquired another.

“Oh, shoost because it’s a fine view from this side o’ the hill.”

“Yes, but what can you see from here?”

“Well, if there was no mist ta day I would see ta town, and ta boats on ta loch, and many more things, whatever.”

“I suppose you can see a great distance from here on a clear day?” remarked one.

“Oh, yes, shentlemen, a great distance, indeed,” said the shepherd.

“I suppose, on a clear day now, you can see London from this extreme altitude?” exclaimed one of the Cockneys, quizzing the countryman, and nudging his companions.

“Och, ay, and much further than that too,” replied the shepherd, who had perceived the nudge.

“Farther than London?” gasped two of the somewhat alarmed tourists.

“Ay, to be shurely, and further than America too,” replied the Highlander.

“Farther than America?” shouted all the Cockneys together. “Impossible!”

“It’s shoost true what I tell you whatever,” said Donald; “but if you’ll won’t believe me, shoost sit doon there, and took out your flasks and took a dram, and wait for twa oors and more, and if the mist will clear awa’ you will see the moon from here.”

We may suppose that the next shepherd who came in the way of these tourists would not be unduly interrogated.

A Highland lassie whom I have heard of was not quite so successful in an encounter with the Sassenach postmaster. She had gone to the Post Office to take out a money order.

“Where is your order to go?” demanded the clerk, with the snappishness which only Post Office officials can command, and which roused the inflammable blood of the young countrywoman of Helen Macgregor.

“What you’ll ask for? You’ll look your book, and you’ll saw there,” the girl tartly replied (she had got an order a short time previous).

“I must know where your order is to go to,” said the clerk, firmly.

The girl goes to the door and brings in a companion who explained that the order was for Tobermory.

“Who is to get the order?”

“My mother, to be surely.”

“What is your mother’s name?”

“My mother’s name is Mrs. M’Tavish.”

“What is your mother’s Christian name?”

“What you’ll want to know whether my Christian be a mother or not?” demanded the girl, now in a perfect rage with anger. “My mother be a good Christian woman, and will go to the Free Church in Tobermory every Sabbath, which is maybe more than you’ll do.”

“I don’t want to know anything about what church your mother goes to; I only wish to know her Christian name,” now, somewhat mildly, explained the clerk.

“My mother’s name is Mrs. M’Tavish,” replied the girl, “and she’s the decenter married womans than you are, and I’ll not tell any mans born any more, whatever,” and off she marched in the very highest dudgeon.

Donald is proud of his native heath, proud of his native dress, proud of his name and clan, proud of everything pertaining exclusively to his native hills. He claims for the Gaelic that it is not only the best but one of the oldest languages in the world. He would not like to say just the very oldest. The humorous poet no doubt has asserted that—

“But did you’ll opserve,” says Donald, “if it was ta Gaelic that was spoket in ta Garden of Eden, maybe they’ll say ta Teevil was a Hielandman, and she wouldn’t like that to pe at all, whatever!”

I have said that the Highlander is proud of his name and clan, and there are stories that reveal to what extent.

“Did you’ll know what day this is, Donald?” inquired one Celt of another, on the morning of a certain national occasion which will come out in the sequel.

“Hooch, ay,” replied Donald; “it’s just ta day after ta morn, Dugald.”

“Yes, Donald, to be shurely,” replied his friend. “But did you’ll forgot this was ta day ta Queen’s dochter was to be married to ta Tuke o’ Argyll’s son—ta Marquis o’ Lorne?”

“Ay, ay, did you’ll told me that? Well, well, it’s the prood, prood mans ta Queen will be this day.”

On the occasion aforesaid there was, of course, great national rejoicing, and the town of Inverness was, like every other municipality, illuminated at night.

“Dear me, Donald,” exclaimed one local shopkeeper to another, as he issued from his own door, “did you ever behold the likes of that? There’s five-fourths of the whole town under luminations this nicht!”

“Toots, man, Angus, I’ll thought that you know better than spoke like that,” replied his neighbour. “A fourth is a quarter, and five quarters would be more than the whole.”

“Och, Donald Fraser, my lad,” retorted Angus, “I’ve seen too many snowy days not to know what I’ll say. I’ve got cloths in my own shop six-quarters, and that is more—there, now, with your ignorance.”

The following is an amusing instance of the tenacity with which the Highlanders hold to the honours and antiquity of their kindred. A dispute arose between a Campbell and a M’Lean upon the never-ending subject. The M’Lean would not allow that the Campbells had any right to rank with his clan in the matter of antiquity, who, he insisted, were in existence as a clan from the beginning of the world. Campbell had a little more Biblical lore than his antagonist, and asked him if the Clan M’Lean was before the Flood.

“Flood! what flood?” demanded the M’Lean.

“The Flood that you know drowned all the world but Noah and his family, and his flocks and herds,” said Campbell.

“Pooh! you and your flood too,” said the M’Lean. “My clan was before ta Flood.”

“I have not read in my Bible,” said Campbell, “of the name of M’Lean going into Noah’s Ark.”

“Noah’s Ark!” snorted the M’Lean; “who ever heard of a M’Lean that had not a boat of his own?”

There was a fine exhibition of clan pride afforded during the years the late Earl of Airlie acted as Lord High Commissioner to the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland. Amongst his attendants at Holyrood were two pipers, who, at every dinner given to the clergy and other guests at the Palace, marched several times round the large dining-hall playing the wild and inspiriting music of the Highlands. One evening the Moderator of the Assembly, at some one’s request, asked his Grace whether he had any objections to instruct the pipers to play “The Bonnie House o’ Airlie.”

“None whatever,” replied the Earl, “but I doubt whether we shall get it, for the one piper is an Ogilvie and the other is a Campbell; but we shall see.”

Calling the butler, he gave orders that when the pipers next came in they should play “The Bonnie House o’ Airlie.”

The butler went at once with the message. By and by the pipes were heard approaching, and in a little, one piper, the Ogilvie, marched in, playing the desired tune with great dignity and vigour.

“I expected this,” said the Earl in a jocular way to the Moderator.

Summoning the butler again, he asked whether his message had been delivered.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then why has Campbell not come in with Ogilvie?”

“I gave him your message, my lord.”

“What did he say then?”

The man hesitated.

“What did Campbell say?” again demanded the Earl.

“He said—eh—eh,” still hesitating—“he said he would see your Lordship——”

The rest of the sentence was lost in a cough and the skirl of Ogilvie’s pipes.

“It must be frankly admitted,” says Dr. Norman Macleod, “that there is no man more easily offended, more thin-skinned, who cherishes longer the memory of an insult, or keeps up with more freshness a personal, family, or party feud than the genuine Highlander. Woe to the man who offends his pride or vanity! ‘I may forgive, but I cannot forget,’ is a favourite saying. He will stand by a friend to the last; but let a breach be once made, and it is most difficult ever again to repair it as it once was. The grudge is immortal.” Here is a case in proof:—

A Highlander was visited on his death-bed by his clergyman, who exhorted Donald to prepare himself for another world by a sincere repentance of all the crimes he had committed on earth, and strongly urged the absolute necessity of forgiving his enemies.

Donald shrugged up his shoulders at this hard request; yet he at last agreed to forgive every person who had injured him except one, who had long been the Highlander’s mortal foe, and of whom Donald hoped the parson, knowing all the circumstances of the case, would make an exception. The holy man, however, insisted so much on this point, that Donald at last said—

“Weel, weel, sir, since there be no help for it, Donald will forgive her; but,” he added, turning to his two sons, “may G—d d—n you, Duncan and Rory, if you’ll forgive her too!”

To be the means of causing a Highlander to emigrate from one locality to another, either by purchasing the property on which he resides, or obtaining a lease without his concurrence, is a sin not to be forgiven. A Glasgow gentleman wished to feu the patch of ground on which the Bellman’s house stood at Kilmun, with the stripe of garden attached to it, at which the Highland ire of the latter could scarcely be restrained.

“Did you’ll know?” queried he at an acquaintance, “a fellow—shentleman he is not; no, nor his mother before him—from your Glasgow, is going to put me away from my wee placie, where I was for all my days, an’ they’ll call her Macsmall—eh?”

“No,” replied the Glaswegian, “I don’t.”

“I was thought so, nor no decent mans. Well, maybe ay, and maybe no. A stone will put up his house or a stone will put it down; I’ll never did a mischiefs to no bodie, and I’ll not put my hand to a murder too. But, you see, there’s many friends in the glen will take a friend’s part—and they’ll be taking walks up the hill, an’ there’s many bigger stones there nor a house itself, and they’ll just be in the way, so they will; a bit dunch with the foot will make them come down without any carts and wheels, they’re heavy—very heavy—teet are they, and no easy to put a stop to when rinnin’, poor dumb creatures; and they canna help though they were taking the house of this trouster mosach (dirty scoundrel) with her. I wad just like, quietly between ourselfs, to see his house, six weeks after it was biggit, and the sclates on’t. Ay would I.”

Donald is dour and “thrawn as the wuddie,” and is consequently loath to eat his words. Yet there have been occasions when he has made the amende honorable. A notable case of the kind occurred not many years ago on board one of the West Highland steamers. One of the deck porters, whom we shall here call Duncan—just because his name was Donald—was much annoyed by a “pernickity” and, to say the least of it, rather troublesome lady passenger, who, without on any occasion producing the expected “tip,” kept Duncan shifting her baggage here and there about the boat. Greatly irritated by these frequent interruptions, Duncan at length so far forgot himself as to tell her to “go to Jericho,” or some other place in that direction. The lady, greatly shocked and insulted, complained to the captain, and insisted on an apology, failing which, she would communicate with the owners of the steamer. The captain promised to see the matter righted, and forthwith summoned Duncan to the state-room.

“Duncan,” said he, “you have been charged with gross incivility to a lady passenger, who threatens that, unless you apologise, she will inform the owners of the boat as soon as she reaches Glasgow. Now, you have just until we reach Greenock to do so. Off you go and apologise to her at once.”

Duncan bit his lip pretty hard, but the thing had to be done, so he went upstairs and snooved about rather sulkily until, by and by, he discovered the object of his quest, approaching whom, he said, with half-averted face, and eyes fixed on vacancy—

“Was you the old lady I was told to go to Jericho?”

“Yes,” replied the lady, snappishly.

“Well, the Captain says you’re not to go now!” said Duncan; and off he went, and had half a dozen passengers’ trunks in confusion on deck before the lady had time to adjust her spectacles and see where he had vanished to.

Speaking of boats. Not long ago a couple of Highland farmers, recognised as folks of some importance in their own immediate neighbourhood, left Stornoway by steamer with the view of attending an important market in the South. The weather looked good at the start, and considering this in conjunction with the fact that it would be so much cheaper, and few, or none, of those on board would know them, they resolved on travelling steerage. So far so good. But they had not been long out on the billowy deep when it commenced to blow a perfect hurricane, and all on board became alarmed as to the safety of their lives, and there was running to and fro and many anxious inquiries concerning the vessel’s chances of weathering the storm. Not the least perturbed in spirit were the two farmers. “Oich! Oich!” said the one to the other, “it will be awful if anything happens, and we’ve only got steerage tickets in oor pockets.” “Indeed, and it’s very true what you say, Mr. M’Donald, and that’s what troubles me most of all,” responded the other, looking, if possible, more doleful than his friend. “But I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll go abaft the bridge this moment, and if the worst comes, which the goodness forbid, we’ll fling awa’ our tickets, and gang doon as cabin passengers anyway.”

Another example here, in evidence of the Highlander’s peculiar powers of reasoning. Donald Macgregor, like his more illustrious namesake, Rob Roy, was a notorious sheep and cattle-lifter in the Highlands of Perthshire. At last he was overtaken by the grim tyrant of the human race, and was visited by the minister of the parish in which he resided. The holy man warmly exhorted the dying reiver to reflect upon the long and black catalogue of his sins before it was too late; otherwise, he would have a tremendous account to give at the great day of retribution, when all the crimes he had committed in the world would appear in dreadful array as evidence of his guilt.

“Och, sirse,” cried the dying man, “and will all ta sheeps and all ta cows and all ta things that Donald has helped hersel’ to, be there?”

“Undoubtedly,” replied the parson.

“Och, that will pe all right then; shust let every shentlemans took her own, and Donald Macgregor will be ta honest man again.”

And now, as the universal “Auld Lang Syne” has formed the parting-song of so many merry meetings at home and abroad, let the following clever set of verses, the reputed composition of a talented Perthshire divine of the “Auld Kirk,” afford the finishing touch to the present sederunt of anecdotal fun:—