The Project Gutenberg eBook of Scottish toasts

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Title: Scottish toasts

Author: Charles Welsh

Release date: September 28, 2025 [eBook #76945]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: H. M. Caldwell Co, 1908

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/76945

Credits: Aaron Adrignola and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SCOTTISH TOASTS ***

SCOTTISH

TOASTS

By IVOR BEN McIVOR

H. M. CALDWELL CO.

Publishers

NEW YORK AND BOSTON

Copyright, 1908

BY H. M. CALDWELL CO.

Electrotyped and Printed by

THE COLONIAL PRESS

C. H. Simonds & Co., Boston, U.S.A.

INTRODUCTION

Whenever and wherever Scotchmen foregather the spirit of friendship and festivity is in the air.

To be able to say the right thing at the right moment is to contribute to the harmony of such occasions. This little book is offered as an aid to all who would do so—and it has been arranged so that Toasts, Sentiments and expressions of Conviviality, Love and Friendship of varying character and for all occasions come ready to hand. Here separately grouped are Patriotic Toasts, Convivial Toasts, Sentiments of Love and Friendship, Toasts to the Women, Humourous Toasts, and a budget of Miscellaneous Toasts and Sentiments from which to pick and choose at will.

Here also is a store of good stories; when toasts are not in order a good story is always in order. The best of all good stories are among the Scotch ones and these are of the kind that are ever welcome at the festive board.

And the compiler of this little book, to use the language of the Toast Master of the Lord Mayor of London, “bids you a right hearty good welcome” and drinks to all his brother Scots in a Loving Cup.

CONTENTS

PAGE

Introduction

v

Menu

ix

Patriotic Toasts

1

Patriotic Scotsmen

15

Toasts to Women, Love, Friendship, etc.

33

Convivial and Humourous Toasts and Sentiments

51

Some After Dinner Stories

73

Miscellaneous Toasts and Sentiments

89

Scottish Toasts: A Miscellany

105

Edinburgh Pen and Pencil Club

Scotch Nicht.

“And noo a rantin’ feast weel stored,

Saurs sweetly on the festive board.”—Picken’s Poems.

“A grace (but no) as lang’s my arm.”—Burns.

Bill o’ Fare.

Powsowdie and Cockie-leekie.

“Wi’ rowth o’ reekin’ kail supply

The inward man.”—Ferguson.

Cod and Oyster Sauce.

Haddies.

“... He’s no ill boden

That gusts his gab wi’ oyster sauce

An’ cod weel soden.”—Ferguson.

“They’re braw caller haddies.”—Antiquary.

Sheep’s Head and Trotters.

Haggis.

“A sheep’s head owre muckle boiled is rank poison.”—Bailie Nicol Jarvie.

“A haggis fat, weel tottled in a seything pat.”—Ferguson.

Drams.

“An’ his nose is juist a sicht, wi’ drinkin drams.”—Outram.

Beef and Greens.

Bubbly-Jock and Howtowdies.

“We’ll live a’ the winter on beef an’ lang kail,

An’ whang at the bannocks o’ barley meal.”—John, Duke of Argyll.

“Noo, maister, I sall thank ye for a prievin’ o’ your bubbly-jock.”—Saxon and the Gael.

“A fine fat howtowdie....

The fowl looks weel, an’ we’ll fa’ till her.”—Allan Ramsay.

Marrow Banes.

“Nil nisi bonum.”

“Os homini sublime dedit.”

Kapers.

“Do you not remember, Hugh, how I gave you a kaper?”—Clan Albyn.

“Then auld guidman, maist like to rive,

Bethankit hums.”—Burns.

Toddy.

“A guid auld sang comes never wrang,

When o’er a social cogie.”—William Reid.

“The hour approaches Tam maun ride.”—Burns.

“Landlady, count the lawin’.”—Burns.

“Guid nicht, an’ joy be wi’ ye a’!”—Old Song.

Waterloo Hotel.

W. G. R.

PATRIOTIC TOASTS

A health to the friends of Caledonia.

But let ilk man pursue his plan,

Let all have liberty of soul,

Let every man stand by his clan

And slavery have no control.

Be whaur I like, or gang whaur I like, I see nobody hae the sense and manners that the folk o’ our ain town hae!

Brave Caledonia, the chief of her line.

Breathes there a man with soul so dead,

Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land;

Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned,

As home his footsteps he hath turned

From wandering from a foreign strand?

Caledonia: the nursery of learning and the birthplace of heroes.

Edina! Scotia’s darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and tow’rs,

Where once beneath a monarch’s feet

Sat legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs!

From marking wildly-scatter’d flow’rs,

As on the bank of Ayr I stray’d,

And singing, lone, the ling’ring hours,

I shelter in thy honour’d shade.

Give me my Scotia’s darling sons

Sae kind and free.

O! but I loe their hamely tweils,

Their auld sweet songs and foursome reels,

Their heathery hills, their glens and biels

Sae snug and warm,

Rare honest independent chiels

Wha dread nae harm.

Green be thy hills, auld Scotia,

And fertile be thy plains, man;

Where friendship, love, and freedom reign,

To bless our nymphs and swains, man.

Here’s to dear Scotland, its crags and its glens!

The bonniest country that e’er mon micht ken!

The land where the lads and the lassies all learns

To play golf, to drink high-balls and read Bobby Burns.

Here’s to the land of bonnets blue,

Tartan kilts and tarry woat,

O for a waught of mountain dew,

To toast the guid and brave o’t.

Kyle for a man,

Carrick for a coo,

Cunningham for butter and cheese

And Galloway for woo.

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!

Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil,

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!

O Scotland! it was a gracious act in thee

To build a monument beside the sea

To Lincoln, to him who wrote the word,

And slavery’s shackles fell.

Old Scotia, loved at home, revered abroad.

Rear high thy bleak, majestic hills

Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread,

And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red.

Pledge to the much-loved land that gave us birth,

Invincible, romantic Scotia’s shore!

Pledge to the memory of departed worth,

And first, among the brave, remember Moore.

And be it deemed not wrong that name to give

In festive hours, which prompts the patriot’s sigh,

Who would not envy such a Moore to live—

And died he not as heroes wish to die?

Yes, though too soon attaining glory’s goal,

To us his bright career too short was given,

Yet, in a mighty cause, his phoenix soul

Rose, on the flames of victory, to heaven.

Now oft (if beats on subjugated Spain

One patriot heart) in secret shall it mourn

For him! now, oft, on far Corunna’s plain,

Shall British exiles weep upon his urn!

Peace to the mighty dead! our bosom-thanks

On sprightlier strains, the living may inspire!

Joy to the chief that leads old Scotia’s ranks,

Of Roman garb, and more than Roman fire.

Triumphant, be the thistle still unfurled!

Dear symbol wild! on Freedom’s hills it grows,

Where Fingal stemmed the tyrants of the world,

And Roman eagles found unconquer’d foes!

Joy to the bard, on ancient Egypt’s coast,

Whose valour tamed France’s proud tri-colour,

And wrenched the banner from her bravest host,

Baptized Invincible in Austria’s gore.

Joy for the day on red Vemeira’s strand,

When bayonet to bayonet opposed,

First of Britannia’s host, a Highland band

Gave but the death-shot once, and, foremost, closed.

Is there a son of generous England here,

Or fervid Erin? he with us shall join

To pray that in eternal union dear,

The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine.

Types of a race who shall the invader scorn,

As rocks resist the billows round their shore,—

Types of a race who shall, to time unborn,

Their country leave unconquered, as of yore!

Scotland and the products of its soil.

Scotland: the birthplace of valour—the country of worth.

Scotland, my auld, respected Mither!

Tho’ whiles ye moistify your leather,

Till whare ye sit, on craps o’ heather,

Ye tine your dam;

(Freedom and whiskey gang thegither!)

Tak’ aff your dram!

Scotland’s bonnie boys.

Scottish heroes; and may their fame live for ever.

Scottish learning and Scottish universities.

So may old Scotia’s darling hope,

Your little angel band,

Spring, like their father’s, up to prop

Their honour’d native land!

So may thro’ Albion’s farthest ken,

To social-flowing glasses,

The grace be—“Athole’s honest men,

And Athole’s bonnie lasses!”

The land o’ the leal.

The tartan plaid.

The thistle of Scotia!—the thistle sae green!

Then here’s may Scotland ne’er fa’ down,

A cringing coward doggie,

But bauldly stand and bang the loon,

Wha’d reave her of her coggie.

To the land o’ cakes.

To the banners of Scotland—long may they wave.

To the memory of the Heroes and Heroines of Bonnie Scotland.

To the memory of Wallace and the Scots who hae wi’ Wallace bled.

We toast ye, the nicht, the hill and the heather,

The lad o’ the bonnet, the plaid and the feather,

The land o’ the mountain, the stream and the river,

The land o’ our ancestors, Scotland for ever!

Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,

The hills of the Highlands for ever I love!

PATRIOTIC SCOTSMEN

A Budget of Stories

The expression, “Caledonia, stern and wild,” is very apt. The sternness has been seen in the Solemn League and Covenant, in Sabbath observance, and in the Disruption of 1843. The wildness has been seen on many a battlefield in every quarter of the world. Lord Byron refers to it in his description of Waterloo:—

“And wild and high the ‘Cameron’s Gathering’ rose.

... the fierce native daring which instils

The stirring memory of a thousand years.”

Sir Walter Scott, dealing with the same subject, uses a similar expression. In Ossian it occurs over and over again. Stern and wild applies to country, people, and music as much to-day as it did a hundred years ago. The qualities which Napoleon admired in the Scots at Waterloo in 1815 were displayed at Dargai and Atbara in 1898.

The Scots being a warlike race, it followed that the Volunteer movement should be popular. We all know the story of the urchin who laughed immoderately at the mounted Volunteer officer. The officer turned on him with the wrathful remark, “Boy, what are you laughing at; did you never see a war horse?” The urchin responded, “Oo, aye, I hae seen a waur horse mony a time, but I never saw a waur rider!”

Geordie Gardiner was a member of Trowan’s company, Crieff, which was composed chiefly of country lads. They used to squat down on the grass as soon as they entered the park, and no bugle call could bring them to their feet till Geordie would get into a frenzy, running about like a drover at Falkirk Tryst, shouting to the recumbent redcoats, “Rise and dress up there, or I’ll tak’ ye a crack wi’ a stane!”

A lad who got his living by the manufacture of horn spoons applied for admission into what was known as the Daft Company in Crieff. Lord John addressed the Company, and asked, “if they would be willing to serve along with the lad who was a tinker.” Gill Jock replied, “Ou, aye, sir, tak’ him by a’ means. We get the name o’ the Daft Company ony way, and then there’ll be naething but daft folk and tinkers in’t.” Poor Lord John, feeling himself, as it were, “rebuked and put down,” merely added, “Oh, I’ll inform the young man that he’ll not be accepted of.”

A story is told of a Haddington tinsmith, Harry Galbraith, who, when checked for inability to perform some military evolution in the Volunteer Corps, replied in a tone of disgust, “Every man to his trade, Captain Kinloch. Can ye mak’ a caffee-pat?”

The Tranent Volunteers, a very good company, consisting almost entirely of miners, were being drilled, a good many years after 1859, by Adjutant Ross, afterwards colonel of the Royal Scots. The order was new to them, “Stand at ease. Stand easy.” They stood easy, as miners do, by settling on their hunkers! I hope the expression is not too vague. The expression used by the adjutant was not. It is told of the same company that on one occasion, at a big affair in Annisfield Park, they were told to “ground arms.” This was done by every man. Afterwards, when the order was given, “take up arms,” one member had to be prompted, and this was how it was done: “Hi, Johnnie, man, lift yir cannon.”

This reminds me of another from the same company. It was during refreshment time after a big sham fight. “Hi, man,” says one, “a’ lost the skin o’ ma baagnet comin’ through that —— wud.” “Man, that’s naethin,” exclaims a comrade, “A’ lost the lid o’ ma cannon.” The worthies were deploring the loss of a scabbard and a sight protector.

I am not sure whether he was a member of Tranent company or not that was travelling one night by rail from Edinburgh when an old gentleman searched his pockets, grew very fidgety, and said it was a most extraordinary thing that he should lose his railway ticket. Our hero calmly replied, “Lose a bit ticket! That’s naethin. A’ lost the big drum.”

In one of the Haddington Volunteer companies there was a member named Porteous, who was not a crack shot, but it was understood that his bullets all went to the same place, which came to be known as Porteous’s hole. Whenever a Volunteer missed the target and asked, “I wunner whaur’ll that ane hae gane,” the reply was, “It’ll be in Porteous’s hole.”

It does not pay crack shots to brag too much, however. A squad of the 8th (Crieff) Volunteers, firing at Bennybeg Range, happened to hit a horse that was standing near—probably with a splinter from a bullet after it had struck the target. A short time afterwards the excellences of the “gallant eighth” were being extolled in presence of a well-known Breadalbane Highlander named Duncan. Becoming exasperated, he exclaimed, “Tamm you and ye gallants and eights and things, the first man ye shot was a horse!”

A private of the 7th V. B. R. S., of extreme weight, took part in a forced march from Stow to Dingleton Common, and, it being a very hot day, had to succumb. The doctor asked him if he knew his weight, and the answer gasped out was, “A’ no’ ken, but I was auchteen stane when I left Longniddry.”

At some Volunteer manoeuvres in the South of Scotland a young sergeant in charge of a squad was asked by a private, “Where are we to go now?” “Dae ye no see that beer barrel below the trees? Left turn. Quick march.”

It was a commissioned officer who, having to lead his company through a narrow gap in a hedge, gave the order, “Halt, disperse, form on other side of hedge.”

Adjutant Gordon, Haddington, once startled his company with the command, “When the bugle fires begin to sound.”

He was a Highland sergeant who told the men in camp, “If she’ll be findin’ pottles here and pottles there, and if she’ll find no more whatever the innocent will be punished as well as those that’s not guilty.”

On one occasion a sham fight was going on and two men were supposed to have been shot. One of them, however, got up and fired off a blank cartridge, when the other, a joiner, pulled him down, exclaiming, “Dae ye no ken yir a casualty?”

Colonel Ross of the Royal Scots, while adjutant of the Haddingtonshire Volunteers, allowed full sway to his humour and impulsiveness. On one occasion he took in hand the “sizing” of a company, and after stating the book instructions that the tallest man was to be placed on the right and the smallest on the left, shouted “Six feet two, three paces to the front.” There was no response. “Six feet one,” etc. One stepped forward. And so on down to five feet four, when one man was left. “Five fut,” shouted the adjutant, and little J—— responded to the order amid laughter which was not easily suppressed.

Old Sergeant Law of the Haddington company had a hunchback, no chest to speak of, and a head which reached far forward. When drilling he used to ask the members of the company to “Stand straight, head up, just like me.” The same old sergeant was a good shot, and on one occasion when putting on bull’s eyes in succession was asked by a man of position, who was a member of the company, how he managed to score so well. The reply was, “Oh, I juist shut ma een and pu’ the tricker!”

A good story of practice at “the butts” is told of a Volunteer who was observed to lower his rifle frequently and blow something from about the foresight. Asked by a comrade what was wrong, he said there was a blasted fly that persisted in landing on the barrel whenever he took aim. The comrade took the rifle and lay down, when he discovered that the mysterious fly was none other than the rangekeeper painting out bullet marks in front of the target. The old man had no idea how near he was to a future state.

It was a red-letter day in the annals of the Haddington Volunteers when the Marquis of Tweeddale invited them to have a sham fight in the neighbourhood of Goblin Ha’, famed through “Marmion.” The commander, a burly citizen who had attained to high honours in the birthplace of John Knox, placed himself in front of his company and addressed them in martial strains. “When the bugle sounds the charge,” he concluded, “follow me, my brave men.” The bugle sounded, the charge was made—for about thirty yards, when the gallant leader, looking back to see how his men were advancing, fell into a ditch. The rank and file pursued their wild career, but two kind-hearted sergeants remained by their discomfited leader. “Oh, captain, I hope you are not mortally wounded,” said one. “My breeks are wounded,” said the officer on being pulled out of the ditch. “Duncan, hae ye a needle and thread?” Duncan, who was a tailor, had the necessaries; at any rate the unmentionables were patched up in some way, and the officer was sympathized with in being so unfortunate as to get wounded in the back, thereby suggesting that he had been disgracefully fleeing from the enemy.

The old soldier was at one time a prominent personage in country districts. One of the earliest stories I remember is of a veteran who touched his hat whenever he spoke to anybody. Some one checked him for this, remarking that he was a very poor man and unworthy of such honour. The reply of the old warrior was, “Am I to spoil my good manners for your d—— poverty?”

The old warriors were not always well educated. A veteran in the Crieff district, John M’Niven, was one of the advance companies, or forlorn hope, which entered Washington, of which only eleven survived to tell of their daring. When asked by one of his neighbours how he felt when marching to the town he answered, “I dinna ken; I was just there.” John was religious and read his Bible on Sundays, spelling the difficult words, and giving pronunciations unknown in English dictionaries. He had several parts of a work entitled, “The Life of Christ,” and one of his lodgers had some parts of a work entitled, “The Scottish Chiefs,” and both publications had similar covers. One Sunday his lodgers and a neighbour were talking of things worldly to such a degree that John thought fit to challenge their proceedings, and told them it would be wiser were they reading their Bibles, and if they would not do so he would read it himself. He took “The Scottish Chiefs,” and commenced reading and spelling at a determined rate. After a little he got bewildered with an adventure connected with Wallace. His hearers could scarcely keep their gravity, but one ventured to ask who this Wallace was. He replied, “Ye micht ken that brawly, wi’ yer education. He was one i’ (of the) apostles.” John once offered to put up a dyke “at a penny below the lowest offer.” On another occasion the laird sent a servant asking John to make an offer. John, not being a ready writer, asked the servant to write out the offer. This the servant refused. “Well,” said John, “just tell the laird that I’ll put the dyke up for what he likes.”

When Tam Black, another Crieff worthy, went to the Highlands to buy yarn he always was attired in full regimentals, and if any one asked the reason the ready reply was, “Oh, a person’s money is always safe under a red coat. No one would ever think of robbing a soldier.”

Old Andrew Creach, Bower, was most unscrupulous in his dealings with those he did not like. He was very ready-witted. In a Thurso tavern he got into a discussion with a blacksmith about sweating, and the son of Vulcan, having got the worst of the argument, said, “Andrew, come down to the back of the chapel and I’ll put your soul ou’ of your body in five minutes.” “At leisure, at leisure,” said Andrew, “they’re no so easy putten thegither again.”

TOASTS TO WOMEN, LOVE, FRIENDSHIP, ETC.

A cozy but, and a cantie ben

To couthie women and trusty men.

An honest man may like a glass,

An honest man may like a lass,

But mean revenge, an’ malice fause,

He’ll still disdain.

And fill them high with generous juice,

As generous as your mind;

And pledge me in the generous toast—

“The whole of human kind!”

And here’s to a’ in barley bree,

Oursel’s and a’ the warld thegither,

To a’ wha luve the kilted knee,

Or bonnie lasses in the heather.

And pray a’ guid things may attend you!

And the sands shall sing,

And the round world ring,

With my love and thy love for me.

And whilst we thus should make our sorrows one

This happy harmony would make them none.

But truce with kings, and truce with constitutions,

With bloody armaments and revolutions;

Let Majesty your first attention summon,

Ah ça ira! the Majesty of Woman!

But ye whom social pleasure charms,

Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms,

Who hold your being on the terms,

“Each aid the others,”

Come to my bowl, come to my arms,

My friends, my brothers!

Drink ye to her that each loves best.

Fill me with the rosy wine,

Call a toast, a toast divine,

Give the poet’s darling flame,

Lovely —— be the name,

Then thou mayest freely boast

Thou hast given a peerless toast.

Farewell the glen sae bushy, O!

Farewell the plain sae rushy, O!

To other lands I now must go,

To sing my Highland lassie, O!

For a’ that and a’ that,

It’s coming yet for a’ that—

That man to man the warld o’er

Shall brithers be for a’ that.

For me, I’m woman’s slave confessed—

Without her, hopeless and unblessed.

For there’s nae luck about the house,

There’s nae luck at a’;

There’s little pleasure in the house

When our gudeman’s awa’.

Go to your sculptur’d tombs, ye Great,

In a’ the tinsel trash o’ state!

But by thy honest turf I’ll wait,

Thou Man of worth!

And weep the ae best fellow’s fate

E’er lay in earth.

Here’s a health to ane I lo’e dear,

Here’s a health to ane I lo’e dear;

Thou art as sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet,

And soft as their parting tear—Jessy!

Here’s a bottle and an honest friend!

What wad ye wish for mair, man?

Wha kens, before his life may end,

What his share may be of care, man?

Then catch the moments as they fly,

And use them as ye ought, man:—

Believe me, happiness is shy,

And comes not aye when sought, man.

Here’s to him who winna’ beguile ye.

Here’s a health to the ladies at hame,

Here’s a health to the ladies awa’,

And wha winna pledge wi’ all their soul

May they never be smiled on at a’.

Here’s health to the bright eyes at hame,

Here’s health to the bright eyes awa’,

Here’s health to the beauties of every clime,

And may we be smiled on by a’.

Here’s to the friends we can trust

When the storms of adversity blaw;

May they live in our song and be nearest our hearts

Nor depart like the year that’s awa’.

Here’s to the year that’s awa’,

We’ll drink it, in strong and in sma’;

And here’s to the bonnie young lassie in love

While swift flies the year that’s awa’.

Here’s to them that loe’s us, or lends us a lift.

Here’s to woman—she requires no eulogy—she can speak for herself.

Here’s to you, as good as you are,

And here’s to me, as bad as I am;

But as good as you are and as bad as I am

I’m as good as you are, as bad as I am.

Honest men and bonnie lassies.

I hae been blythe wi’ comrades dear;

I hae been merry drinkin’;

I hae been joyfu’ gath’ring gear;

I hae been happy thinkin’;

But a’ the pleasures e’er I saw,

Tho’ three times doubled fairly,

That happy night was worth them a’

Amang the rigs o’ barley.

It warms me, it charms me,

To mention but her name,

It heats me, it beats me,

And sets me a’ on flame.

Jessie, the flower of Dumblane.

Mair friends and less need o’ them.

May the hand of charity wipe the tear from the eye of sorrow.

May the friends of our youth be the companions of our old age.

May the honest heart never feel distress.

May the hinges o’ friendship never rust or the wings o’ love lose a feather.

May ne’er waur be amang us.

May we a’ be canty and cosy

And ilk hae a wife in his bosy.

Let’s drink our drap o’ barley bree,

Though moon and stars should blink thegither,

To each leal lad wi’ kilted knee,

And bonnie lass amang the heather.

May never wicked fortune touzle him!

May never wicked men bamboozle him!

Until a pow as auld’s Methusalem

He canty claw!

Then to the blessed New Jerusalem,

Fleet wing awa!

O! love! love! laddie.

Love’s like a dizziness!

It winna let a puir body

Gang about his business.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to min’?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And days o’ lang syne?

Chorus

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet

For auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes,

And pu’d the gowans fine;

But we’ve wander’d mony a weary foot

Sin auld lang syne.

For auld, etc.

We twa hae paidl’t i’ the burn,

From mornin’ sun till dine;

But seas between us braid hae roar’d

Sin auld lang syne.

For auld, etc.

And here’s a hand, my trust fiere,

And gie’s a hand o’ thine;

And we’ll tak a right guid willie-waught,

For auld lang syne.

For auld, etc.

And surely ye’ll be your pint-stoup,

And surely I’ll be thine;

And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet

For auld lang syne.

For auld, etc.

The de’il rock them in a creel that does na’ wish us a’ weel.

The Ingle neuk wi’ routh o’ bannocks and bairns.

The social friendly honest man,

Whae’er he be,

’Tis he fulfils great Nature’s plan,

And none but he.

The Highland lads and Lowland lassies.

The Lowland fare and the Highland lassies.

Then fill a bowl, and while we drink

We’ll rivet closer friendship’s link,

Till joy rin o’er and care deep sink,

Beneath the whirling wave o’t.

Till Hymen brought his love-delighted hour,

There dwelt no joy in Eden’s rosy bower.

To a’ Scots lassies.

To our next merry meeting.

Thumping luck and fat weans.

To see her is to love her,

And love but her for ever;

For Nature made her what she is.

And ne’er made sic anither!

This is a good world to live in,

To lend to spend or to give in,

But to get or to borrow or keep what’s one’s own

’Tis the very worst world that ever was known.

To those who love us, second fill;

But not to those whom we love:

Lest we love those who love not us!

A third—“to thee and me, Love!”

While highlandmen hate tolls and taxes;

While muirlan’ herds like guid fat braxies;

While terra firma, on her axis

Diurnal turns,

Count on a friend, in faith an’ practice,

In Robert Burns.

While waters wimple to the sea;

While day blinks in the lift sae hie;

Till clay-cauld death shall blin’ my e’e,

Ye shall be aye my dearie.

Whilst we together jovial sit

Careless, and crowned with mirth and wit,

We’ll think of all the friends we know

And drink to all worth drinking to!

CONVIVIAL AND HUMOUROUS TOASTS AND SENTIMENTS

A man when he’s sober is deils ill to ken;

Gude sooks than there’s nae kenning o’ him.

But prime him wi’ nappie, than ye mae gae ben

And learn what he is—for ’twill show him.

A club of good fellows like those that are here

And a bottle like this I most heartily cheer.

A ram’s horn filled with usquebaugh.

Here’s to the chief whose heart is brave,

That merrily lives in the mountain cave

And bides by greenwood law,

Who scorns the weather,

Whose bed’s the heather,

Fill high, fill high together.

And let the careless moments roll

In social pleasures unconfin’d

And confidence that spurns control

Unlock the inmost springs of mind.

And now I have lived—I know not how long.

And still I can join in a cup or a song.

Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware

That jaups in luggies;

But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer,

Gie her a Haggis!

Be’t whiskey gill, or penny wheep

Or any stronger potion,

It never fails, on drinking deep,

To kittle up our notion

By night or day.

Blythe, blythe, aroun’ the nappy,

Let us join in social glee;

While we’re here we’ll hae a drappy,

Scotia’s sons hae aye been free.

Blythe may we a’ be,

Ill may we never see.

Breeks and brochan (brose).

By the gaily circling glass

We can tell how minutes pass.

By the hollow cask we’re told

How the waning night grows old.

Comrades, you may pass the rosy.

With permission of the Chair

I shall leave you for a little, for I wish

to take the air.

Drink to-day, and drown all sorrow;

You shall perhaps not do’t to-morrow.

Food fills the wame, an’ keeps us livin’;

Tho’ life’s a gift no worth receivin’

When heavy dragged in pine and grievin’;

But oil’d by thee,

The wheels o’ life gae down-hill, screivin,

Wi’ rattlin’ glee.

Fortune, if thou’lt but gie me still

Hale breeks, a scone, an’ whiskey gill,

An’ rowth o’ rhyme to rave at will,

Tak a’ the rest,

An’ deal’t about as thy blind skill

Directs thee best.

Freedom and whiskey gang thegither!

Take aff your dram!

Gae fill the three pint cup o’ ale,

The maul maun be above the meal,

We hope your ale is stark and stout

For men to drink the auld year out.

Gie him strong drink, until he wink,

That’s sinking in despair;

An’ liquor guid to fire his bluid,

That’s prest wi’ grief an’ care;

There let him bouse, an’ deep carouse,

Wi’ bumpers flowing o’er,

Till he forgets his loves and debts,

An’ minds his griefs no more.

Gude e’en to ye a’ an’ tak your nappy,

A wully-waught’s a good night cappy.

Here’s to the place where a drap o’ guid drink’s to be gotten.

Here’s your fery good healths

And tamm ta whiskey duty.

In Vino Veritas! which means

A man’s a very ass in liquor.

The thief that slowly steals our brains

Makes nothing but the temper quicker.

Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn,

What dangers thou canst make us scorn.

Lang may they bloom, as aye they’ve been

The pride o’ lang syne.

Then fill the bicker reaming fu’

Wi’ Scotland’s Highland wine,

An’ drink to a’ whar’re leel an’ true,

An’ days o’ lang syne.

Let other poets raise a fracas

’Bout vines, and wines, and druncken Bacchus,

And crabbit names and stories wrack us,

An’ grate our lug,

I sing the juice Scotch barley can make us,

In glass or jug.

Let Pride in Fortune’s chariots fly,

Sae empty, vain, and vogie;

The source of wit, the spring of joy,

Lies in the social coggie.

Then O revere the coggie, sirs!

The poor man’s patron coggie!

It warsels care, it fights life’s faughts

And lifts him frae the boggie.

Lees me wi’ drink.

It gives us mair than either school or college,

It wakens wit, it kindles lear

An’ primes us fou o’ knowledge.

May the pleasures of the evening bear the reflections of the morning.

May love and whiskey both

Rejoice an honest fellow,

May the unripe joys of life

Love and whiskey mellow.

May ye never ken a fiddler’s drouth.

May we have preed an’ cheese like Pen Nevis, an’ whiskey like Loch Lomond and a pig dyke ’tween us an’ the Tevil.

May we never be wearing lug warmers when we are offered a drink of whiskey.

May we ne’er want a friend or a drappie to gie him.

Now fill your glasses ane an’ a’

And drink the toast I gie ye, O,

“To merry chiels and lasses braw,

And every joy be wi’ ye, O.”

Fair fa’ the whiskey, O,

Fair fa’ the whiskey, O,

What wad a drouthy body do,

If ’twere nae for the whiskey, O?

O gie me the times when the ploys were in vogue

An’ the cake an’ the kebbuck gaed down wi’ the cogue.

O guid ale comes and guid ale goes,

Guid ale gars me sell my hose,

Sell my hose and pawn my shoon,

Guid ale keeps my heart aboon.

O thou my muse! guid auld Scotch drink!

There’s nought so sweet in this poor life

As knittin’ soul to soul;

And what maist close may bind that knot?

The glass and bowl!

The glass and bowl, my boys,

The glass and bowl;

So let us call, for this is out,

Anither bowl.

We never dabbled in the burn,

Nor pull’d the gowan droll,

But often has the sun’s return

Surprised our bowl.

Chorus—Our glass and bowl, etc.

And aft did we the merry catch

And cheering ditty troll,

And hooted mony a whiggish wretch

About the bowl.

Chorus—Our glass and bowl, etc.

And, therefore, hill betwixt may rise,

And though ocean water roll,

Yet we’ll ne’er forget the lads who met

About the bowl.

Chorus—Our glass and bowl, etc.

And when yer poet’s dead and gane,

And laid beneath the moul,

Let those who sung his memory, drink

About the bowl.

Chorus—Our glass and bowl, etc.

Our heads cool, our feet warm.

And a glass of good liquor to do us no harm.

Peat whiskey hot

Tempered with well boiled water,

These make the long night shorter.

Scotch whiskey and Scotch cakes.

See the smoking bowl before us,

Mark our jovial ragged ring;

Round and round take up the chorus,

And in raptures let us sing.

Some hae meat and canna’ eat,

And some wad eat who want it;

But we hae meat and we can eat,

So let the Lord be thankit.

Strong ale was ablution,

Small beer persecution,

A dram was memento mori;

But a full flowing bowl

Was the saving his soul,

And port was celestial glory.

The grace is said: it’s nae o’wer lang;

The claret reams in bells.

Quo, Deacon, “Let the toast round gang,

Come, here’s our noble sels’,

Weel met the day.”

The Highlandman’s bauld, the Highlandman’s free,

His arm is strong and his heart is true:

What gives the Highlandman courage and glee?

What but the drops of his mountain dew.

The juice of the grape is given to him who will use it wisely,

As that which cheers the heart of men after toil,

Refreshes him in sickness, and comforts him in sorrow.

He who enjoyeth it may thank God for his wine cup as for his daily bread.

And he who abuses the gift of heaven is not a greater fool than thou in thine abstinence.

The sweets of Life—Mirth, Music, Love, and Wine.

Life’s a bumper filled by fate,

Let us guests enjoy the treat,

Nor, like silly mortals, pass

Life as ’twere but half a glass;

Let this scene with joy be crown’d,

Let the glee and catch go round!

All the sweets of life combine,

Mirth, music, love and wine.

Then fill up a bumper, and make it o’erflow,

And honours masonic prepare for to throw;

May every true brother of the compass and square

Have a big-bellied bottle when harass’d with care.

Then here’s to ilka kindly Scot:

Wi’ mony good broths he boils his pot,

But rare hotch potch beats a’ the lot,

It smells so brawly.

For there’s carrots intill’t and neaps intill’t,

There’s peas and beans and beets intill’t,

The hearty wholesome meats intill’t

That stick the kite sae brawly.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,

Each man a glass in hand;

And may his great posterity

Ne’er fail in old Scotland!

Then sip the dew, and cheerful sing,

And loud the bagpipes play, man,

And gae the very welkin ring

Wi’ blithe St. Andrew’s Day, man.

There’s death in the cup—sae beware!

Nay, more—there is danger in touching;

But wha can resist the fell snare?

The man and his wine’s sae bewitching.

To sum up all, be merry, I advise;

And as we’re merry, may we still be wise.

To the three things necessary to the happiness of a Scotchman—First, the sneeshin’ (snuff), second, the whiskey, third, more whiskey.

To whiskey—o’er a’ the ills o’ life victorious.

We arena fou, we’re nae that fou,

But just a drappie in our ee;

The cock may craw, the day may daw,

And aye we’ll taste the barley bree.

We hae a’ kinds o’ whisky, fre Glenlivet sae clear,

That ne’er gaes a headache—to the five bawbee gear;

We hae Gin, Rum, Shrub, and ither neck-rackets

For them whan the clear stuff their brain sets in rackets

We hae fine Yill frae Peebles, an’ Porter frae Lonnon—

Ginger beer frae the toon, an’ Sma’ brisk an’ foaming;

We hae Teas, Bread an’ Cheese, alias Welsh Rabbits;

Ham, Eggs an’ Red Herrings for wairsh tasted gabbets.

If at ony time aught else should be wanted

We’ll raither send for ’t than see freen’s disappointed.

We meet to be merry, then let us part wise

Nor suffer the bottle to blind reason’s eyes.

Wi’ tippeny, we fear nae evil;

Wi’ usquebae, we’ll face the devil!

Now for the Doch an’ Doris.

SOME AFTER DINNER STORIES

The source o’ joy below,

The antidote to woe,

And the only proper go,

Is drinking drams.

So sang George Outram. The barley bree is peculiarly national, and is responsible for an extraordinary amount of wit and humour. Of course there are the tragic and the pathetic sides. But, as is related elsewhere, “A kirk withoot a hell’s just no worth a d—— docken.” If there had been less harm there would have been less fun in whisky. When could lemonade make a man “Glorious, o’er a’ the ills o’ life victorious!” What a pathetic little scene is that of Hawkie, the well-known Glasgow “character,” as he himself describes it. “Wearied out, I lay down at the roadside to rest me, an’ a’ the laddies were saying as they passed, ‘Hawkie’s drunk,’ an’ vext was I that it wasna true.”

“Was ye ever drunk, sir,” inquired a Perthshire blacksmith of the Free Church minister who was remonstrating with him for excessive indulgence. “No, Donald,” said the minister, “I am glad to say I never was.” “I thocht as muckle,” said the smith; “for man, if ye was ance richt drunk, ye wad never like to be sober a’ your days again.”

A Perthshire village tradesman got on the “batter” and did not return home until after the lapse of several days. His wife met him in the door with the question, “Whaur hae ye been a’ this time?” “Perth,” was the sententious reply. “Perth!” echoed the wife. “An’ what was ye doin’ sae lang in Perth? Nae mortal man could be doin’ gude stayin’ in Perth for three hale days on end.” “Awa! an’ no haiver, woman,” was the dry reply, “plenty o’ fouk stay a’ their days in Perth an’ do brawly.”

“There’s death in the cup!” exclaimed a violent teetotal lecturer as he rushed up to where an old farmer was carefully toning his dram with water from a huge decanter. More of the pura had flowed forth than was intended, and eyeing his glass critically, “Hech, an’ I think ye’re richt, freend,” was the response, “for I’ve droon’d the miller.”

Here is a peculiar form of “drunk.” The grandfather of the author of “Oor Ain Folk” sent his man Donald to dispose of a skep of bees at Edzell market. The seductions of the fair, etc., were too much for Donald, who arrived home nearly “blin’ fou” and could only give a long, rambling rigmarole of the most imaginative character about the lost siller. Seeing clearly, however, what had happened, the old minister in great irritation cut him short with the following outburst of broadest vernacular: “Hoots! ye leein’ sumph, ye’ve drucken the haill hypothec; I can hear the vera bees bizzen i’ yer wame!”

Johnnie Baxter, of Montrose, was ordered by the doctor to give his wife some whisky. Shortly afterwards the doctor called again, and, being rather dubious of Johnnie’s moral rectitude when whisky was in question, asked him point blank, “Weel, Johnnie, did ye get yer wife the stimulant I ordered?”, “Ou ay,” said Johnnie with a hiccough, “I got the steemulant.” “Ay, but did ye administer it?” Then Johnnie, with a fine outburst of drunken candour, said: “Weel, as fac’s deith, doctor, I got the whusky for her, but ye see ye tell’t me she couldna last till mornin’, and that naethin’ would dae her ony guid, so I jist thocht it’s a peety tae waste guid whusky, and so, doctor” (this with a sigh), “I jist took the drappie masel’;” but he hastened to add, seeing a look of strong disgust on the doctor’s face, “I gied her the hooch o’t.”

For the pure “peat reek” one must go away to the far north. There whisky was a “mercy,” something sent by an all-wise Providence to comfort the sons of men in all their troubles. Old Andrew Creach, of Caithness, was the reverse of a bigoted teetotaler. A shepherd accused him of being drunk, and quoted Scripture to the effect that no drunkard should inherit the Kingdom of God. Andrew retorted, “Ye know nothing about it, shir; what does the Scripture say? ‘Whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely.’ That’s the Gospel call, and I tell ye, shir, I hope I’ll go singing fu’ ower Jordan.”

A hard-working weaver had a less Scriptural explanation. Recognizing that the only social relaxation he could possibly enjoy was when he met his cronies to interchange ideas over a tumbler of toddy, and on being reproached by his good minister for having allowed himself to be overcome by the seductions of the potent national spirit, he said, as the minister expressed his astonishment that he would allow his love for whisky to overcome the better part of his nature: “Ah, meenister, it’s no the whisky, it’s the ‘here’s t’ye’ that dis a’ the mischief.”

There is an old story of one man coming into a public-house and asking for a glass of whisky because he was hot, another asking for one because he was cold, and a third because he liked it.

A young countryman went a considerable distance to pay a visit to his uncle and aunt and cousins, who were reputed a family of strict teetotalers. During his first meal at his kinsman’s table the young man commented on the absence of spirituous liquors. “We’re a’ temperance folk here, ye ken,” interrupted the old man. “No spirituous liquors are allowed to enter this house.” After dinner the old man went upstairs to take his customary “forty winks,” the girls started off to Sunday School, and the boys lounged away to smoke in the stable. As soon as Aunt Betty found herself alone in the kitchen she put her fore finger to her lips, to enjoin silence on the part of her youthful nephew, and going to a dark nook in the pantry, she drew therefrom a little black bottle, and filling a glass, held it out to him and said, “Here, John, tak’ a taste o’ that. Our gudeman’s sic a strict teetotaler that I daurna let him ken that I keep a wee drap in the hoose—just for medicine. So dinna mention it.” A few minutes later the old man cried from the stairhead, “Are you there, John?” The nephew went upstairs, when the head of the house took him to his own bedroom, where he promptly produced a gallon-jar of whisky from an old portmanteau under the bed, and, pouring out a hearty dram, said: “Teetotalin’ doesna prevent me frae keepin’ a wee drap o’ the ‘rale peat reek’ in case o’ illness or that; so here, lad, put ye that in yer cheek; but (confidentially) not a word aboot it to your auntie, or the laddies.” Strolling out of doors after this second surprise, and entering the stable, the cousins beckoned their relative into the barn, where after fumbling among the straw for a few seconds, they handed him a black bottle, with the encouraging—“Tak’ a sook o’ that, cousin, ye’ll find it’s gude; but not a word to the old fouks, mind, for twa mair infatuated teetotalers were never born.” Such things happen also in the State of Maine they say. [Ed.

John and Betty M’Dougal went to a temperance lecture and signed the pledge. On their way home they bought a bottle of whisky to have in the house in case of illness—“medicine,” they called it. About a week after John complained of not feeling well, and said, “Betty, wuman, I’m no weel; I’ve a terrible sair stamach. Fetch the medicine; quick, wuman, quick.” Betty brought the bottle and held it up to the light, and said, “I wush, John, there may be a gless in it, for I’ve had a terrible sair stamach mysel’ every day this week!”

Three drovers in a roadside inn met and celebrated—in whiskey. There was but one glass and that with no foot to it. One after the other they filled and refilled it, one of them saying gravely each time it came to his turn, “I think we wadna be the waur of some water,” but he never used any.

It was a Scotchman who said that porter was a wholesome beverage if you did not drink more than a dozen bottles!

It may have been the same man who observed, “Na, na, I never knew onybody killed wi’ drinking; but I hae kenned some that deed in the training.”

“Bend well to the Madeira at dinner, for here you’ll get little o’t after,” was the advice given to a fellow guest at the table of a friend the latter was visiting for the first time.

A stag party below stairs broke up late, or rather early in the morning. The wife, who was thrifty, could not sleep for the thought of the quantity of whiskey that must have been consumed. She eagerly called down the stairs to the maid, “How many bottles of whiskey have they used, Betty?” The girl, who had not to pay for the whiskey but who had to fetch water from the well, replied, “I dinna ken, mem, but they’ve drunken sax gang o’ watter.”

When men used to drink till they fell under the table, one of a party who did not wish to go to excess followed the example of some and slid to the floor; presently he felt a small pair of hands about his throat. On asking what he was doing there came the reply, “Sir, I’m the lad to lowse the neckties.”

MISCELLANEOUS TOASTS AND SENTIMENTS

A chiel’s amang ye takin’ notes and, faith, he’ll prent it!

A garland for the hero’s crest

And twined by her whom he loves best.

And here’s to a’ wha drink this night,

And here’s to them that’s far awa’,

And muckle joy and pure delight.

And so suppose now, while the things go away,

By way of a grace we all stand up and say

How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho,

How pleasant it is to have money!

And there in soul sunshine, shall bloom evermore

The mem’ry of Burns, the bard of the Poor.

Auld Lang Syne.

Barley rigs; may we experience a few of Burns’ happy nights among them.

Dinna’ forget.

God loves man when he refrains from sin,

The De’il loves man when he persists therein,

The world loves man, when riches on him flow,

And you’d love me could I pay what I owe.

Gude nicht, and joy be wi’ you a’.

Gude Nicht.

Health to the man, death to the fish, and good growth to all in the ground.

Here’s to him that has the right

And yet received the wrang,

Has five shillings in his pouch

And yet he wants a crown.

Here’s to him that’s out

And no to him that pits him out,

And de’il turn all their insides out

That doesna drink this toast about.

Happy’s the man that belongs to nae party

But sits in his ain house and looks at Benarty.

Here’s health to the sick, stilts to the lame, claise to the back and brose to the wame.

Here’s health, wealth, wit and meal.

Here’s to a’ your fouk an’ a’ our fouk, an’ a’ the fouk that’s been kind to your fouk an’ our fouk; an’ if a’ fouk had aye been as kind to fouk as your fouk’s been to our fouk, there wad aye hae been guid fouk i’ the warld sin fouks bin fouks.

Here’s to horn, corn, wool and yarn.

In politics if thou would’st mix,

And mean thy fortunes be;

Bear this in mind, be deaf and blind,

Let great folks hear and see.

Mair sense and mair siller.

May every Scotchman be fed with crowdy-mowdy, lang-kail, and ranty-tanty.

May liberty meet wi’ success!

May prudence protect her frae evil!

May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist

And wander their way to the devil.

May poortith never throw us in the dirt, or gowd into the high saddle.

May the mouse ne’er leave our meal pock with the tear in his ee.

May the winds o’ adversity never blaw open our door.

May want, discontent and turbulence cease,

May men live thegither in concord and peace,

May Scotland aye yield a rich crop an’ fleece

To keep our hands full wi’ the spinnin’ o’t.

Nae treasures, nor pleasures,

Could mak’ us happy lang;

The heart aye’s the part aye,

That mak’s us right or wrang.

Of all the arts beneath the heaven

That man has found or God has given,

None draws the soul so sweet away

As Music’s melting mystic lay.

O’ a’ roads to pleasure that ever were tried

There’s nane half so sure as our ain fireside.

O wad some pow’r the giftie gie us,

To see oursels as others see us!

It wad frae mony a blunder free us.

Success for aye to the guid auld game,

To the grand old game of the gowff.

To horny hands and weather-beaten haffets (cheeks).

To the rending o’ rocks and the pu’in’ doun o’ auld houses.

The anniversary of St. Andrew’s Day and all its convivial meetings.

The Duke of Argyll and the Campbell clan.

Let the waiter bring clean glasses,

With a fresh supply of wine—

For I see by all your faces,

In my wishes you will join.

It is not the charms of beauty,

Which I purpose to explain,

We awhile will leave that duty,

For a more prevailing theme.

To the health I’m now proposing,

Let’s have one full glass at least,

No one here can think’t imposing—

’Tis—“The Founder of the Feast!”

The Highland fling: may it ever cast care away.

The nobles of Caledonia and their ladies.

The poet of chivalry, Sir Walter Scott.

The Scotch bagpipe but not the Scotch fiddle.

The Scotch Greys: that made the Eagles look black.

The Scotchman’s proverb: Get a good price but give good measure.

The three great generals—General Peace, General Plenty and General Satisfaction.

Then dormy hame we can sing through the round

And die like golfers keen.

We’ve played fu’ well the short game and lang,

The game on the golfing green.

Then gently scan your brother man,

Still gentler sister woman;

Tho’ they may gang a kennin wrang,

To step aside is human,

Then at the balance let’s be mute,

We never can adjust it;

What’s done we partly may compute,

But know not what’s resisted.

“To each and all a fair good night,

And pleasing dreams and slumbers bright.”

To Edinburgh—the penniless lass wi’ the lang pedigree.

To Burns

Touched by his hand, the wayside weed

Becomes a flower; the lowest reed

Beside the stream

Is clothed with beauty; gorse and grass

And heather, where his footsteps pass

The brighter seem.

To Burns

For now he haunts his native land

As an immortal youth; his hand

Guides every plough:

He sits beside each ingle-nook;

His voice is in each rushing brook

Each rustling bough.

To the memory of Sir Ralph Abercromby, and may the laurels which Scotland gained when he fell bloom to the latest ages untarnished by any of her future warriors.

To the memory of Robert Bruce.

To the Shakespeare of novelists, Sir Walter Scott.

Up wi’ my ploughman, lad,

And hey my merry ploughman,

Of a’ the trades that I do ken

Commend me to the ploughman.

When driving ceases, may we still be able

To play the shorts, putt and be comfortable.

Yonder’s the moon, I ken her horn,

She’s blinkin’ in the lift sae hie;

She shines fu’ bright to wyle us hame,

But by my sooth she’ll wait a wee!

SCOTTISH TOASTS

A MISCELLANY

Most folks give their sentiments after their song,

But I cannot say that is my teacher;

To part heart and harmony sure must be wrong,

Song and Sentiment I join together:

So at once in a Song I’ll my Sentiments give,

Sure you’ll all approve what I am giving—

“Here’s our noble selves, and long may we live,

With dear Scotland, the land that we lived in.”

Then here’s “Lovely Woman!” each man will drink that,

For in each care and ill she’ll relieve him;

“Sweet home,” for though homely, ’tis home for all that,

With “a friend and a bottle to give him.”

Here’s “may honour and honesty never decline,”

’Tis the wish of my heart, I assure ye;

“May justice and mercy for ever entwine,”

With our glorious “Trial by Jury.”

May the moment now present, of life be the worst,

May the honest heart ne’er know distress,

May we have in our arms what in heart we love best,

All those that bless us may we bless.

“A good trade and well paid” which ensures “peace and plenty;”

“Honest men, pretty women” for ever!

“Playhouses full, and Workhouses empty,”

And “may worth and want finally sever.”

“Here’s the heart that can feel for another’s distress,”

And “the man that was never ungrateful;”

Here’s “may we the smiles of good humour possess,

With friends around, cheerful and faithful.”

Here’s “our own wooden walls,” that still lay our foes flat,

With those treasures, wives, children, and friends,

“Here’s our own noble selves,” and now having drank that,

Here my Song of good Sentiment ends.

THE END.

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Table of Contents

SCOTTISH TOASTS

INTRODUCTION

CONTENTS

Edinburgh Pen and Pencil Club

PATRIOTIC TOASTS

PATRIOTIC SCOTSMEN A Budget of Stories

TOASTS TO WOMEN, LOVE, FRIENDSHIP, ETC.

CONVIVIAL AND HUMOUROUS TOASTS AND SENTIMENTS

SOME AFTER DINNER STORIES

MISCELLANEOUS TOASTS AND SENTIMENTS

SCOTTISH TOASTS A MISCELLANY

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