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. [Illustration: _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! * * * * * [Illustration: 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!”] A SCOTS BALL-ROOM BALLAD (_By The MacPry_) Why sit ye on the stair, ladie, Why sit ye on the stair? It’s merry dancing in the hall, And partners still are there. Ye arena in a cosy neuk, But in the lamp’s full glare; No gentle whisperin’ words are spoke-- Why sit ye on the stair? The runkled carle that’s by your side No tale of luve can tell; He fain wad win ye for his bride By talkin’ o’ himsel’. Your voice is clear, your laugh is cheer, But oh, your eyes are sad; You answer what the gaffer says, You’re lookin’ for the lad. (They winna stint their prattlin’ talk-- Oh, but her eyes are sad!-- Tis vain to cherche the fammy here, I’ll gang and speer the lad.) Why prop ye up the wa’, laddie, Why prop ye up the wa’? Your lissom shoes are stickit oot, Ye’ll gar the dancers fa’.