SPECTATOR COMPETITION No. 163

Report by Lucilio

Readers were invited to compose cat address by a postman to the much-bombed E II R pillar-box in. Edinburgh, or a lament by that unfortunate box to the postman, using the Scats stanza (e.g. To A Mouse).

Ane or twa didna tak tent on't an sae scrievit their stanzas in nae wey that the ghaist o Burns wad ken; but maist ettled straucht, an whan the post cam girnan wi the orra load an cowpit it ower the flair, I repentit o my glaikit scheme an thocht, like ane Seonaid Stewart o Aberfeldy:

This E H R? It maks me grue Tae hae a thing tae dae wi you.

But it as turnit oot a ploy sic as maks lang lauchter at the expense o thir raucle republican callants wha canna dae mair nor ding doon a puir, forfochen, forjeskit aufd trollope (sae namit by H. A. C. Evans eftir the scrievan chiel wha brocht them in lang syne) for the sake o a cypher on't. Frae Post tae Pillar I had thocht tae see pitie Rod compassioun in the pathetic fallacie, but, fegs, there was a gey Mak like this in't: Weel micht ye staun rid-faced, ye scunner;

That ye still staun at a's a wunner.

I ken ye'll never see a hunner,

An here's for why—

The S. R. A.'11 gar some giinner

Bias), ye sky-high! (STANLEY JAMISON.)

But there was a wheen tae o abstraklous dunts against thir towsy shavers wha post the gunpouther:

He was a fule that set ye here.

The fule that blew ye was his peer.

Guid sakes, let's never shed a tear For what they ca' Our bonnie Queen, wha's loved sincere

By ane an' a. (REV. WALTER ANGUS.) An a bittock o wycelike moralisan: - -

Troth! it's the queerest thing on earth How things ca'd principles gie birth To bairns o' sic ill-willie worth As Hate and Pride, While Nurse Solemnity keeps Mirth

Locked up outside. (OSWALD CLARK.) But Mirth cam rantan intil this baur wi 'nae hindrance, an I scarce could dae the darg for reddan orra stanzas thegither intil sic braw clashes atween Post an Pillar as:

Fause-smiling, murth'rous pillar-boxie, Wee may ye blush, ye kittle doxie! Wha kens what high-explosive stocks ye 'Mid card and packet?

III fa' the gomeril that unlocks ye!

The d tak it! (R. S. STANIER.)

You need na look at me an' glower, It's no my fau't I'm aye cowed ower, Indeed it's quite beyond my power Tae staun' or fa'.

I bide here empty hour by hour,

Ignored by a'. (HELEN TOWERS.) an lauchan at the justice o sic was words frae the box as:

At least ye micht hae me relined

Wi' Tito's weskit. (HELEN TOWERS.) In walein stanzas maist fit for Sitter frae the michty clanjamfrie caad thegither frae as the airts o the island (an the Sassenachs were nae blate tae hash at the Lallans) I hae been guidit by nae partisan principle but by the rhymin anerly, an sae I gie three pundis tae P. M., twa pundis tae Maister John A. S. MacDonald, douce words o conunendatioun tae the makars o the yirkit-oot stanzas printit ablow the winners, and thanks tae ilk' ither wha scrievit.

PRIZES (P. M.)

Eh, Postie, but I'm fair forfochan!

For dunts I dinna care a docken But man!—tae have these birkies lauchin'

At me an' you—

(A wheen wild billies frae the clachan) It gars me grue!

The Queen's ain temper wad be taskit Tae see me scan' here sae disjasket An' gapin' like a refuse basket, All tapsalteerie; —She'd keep her letters in a Casket Like oor Scots Mary!

I've borne the skaith wi'oot a sneeviL —I'm no a contramacious deevil

But half this cankered Hame Rule dreevil Jist stunners me.

I've aye believed in Service (ceevil) Whaure'er it be.

Aiblins yon cocky Stone o' Scone Through this strannash will be set doon: 1'// be the Pride o' Scotia soon Wi' Scott an' Rabbie, An' find a bield in London loon Inside the Abbey.

(JOHN A. S. MACDONALD) Aye, here's the van, and here's ma postie; He fair looks like he's seeing a ghostie, Though, hame the nicht, he'll hae his boastie

And boozie tittle: He looks the kind tae make the most he Cano' little.

Well may ye shake, ye sapsy clown! And peek wi' horror at ma crown! Your daft P.O. has given renown Tae ma poor belly.

Ye're feared I'll blast ye ower the town, Ye glakit jelly!

Steady, ye gowk! Forget your pension! I hae nae letters for attention.

It's numbers that I'd hae ye mention To your H.Q.- I'm no the kind-tae want dissension Ower numerals two.

It's no ma fault I'm called "The Killer": I didna forge that "Two" o' Biller.

I think I'll ask Lord Provost Miller (Of lofty station)

Tae tell the P.M.G. a pillar's

A reputation.

COMMENDED (J. B. MCGLASHAN) What, doon again, ma sonsie frien'? 'rho' mony a day I've seen ye bien,

This while back ye've some cantraips seen Wad gar a' scunner; They gied ye sic a ding that e'en As made men wonner.

What faut was thine? A number wiang (Sae said the cuffs) was worth a bang "For Scotland's sake"—an auld auld sang —But sung by knaves!

An' noo thy wame the letters' thrang Nae Langer saves:

Sic fouling o' the patriot's name! The Fifty-first wad blush for shame An' yeulc to guard thy mended wame

Frae ither pranks, Till miscreants learn a nobler game An' join the ranks.

(JOHN S. MARTIN)

Puir ill-used lamb wi' red-keeled rump, And hae they left ye scarce a stump? My hert made a byordinar jump When ill befell ye, And still my briest bane gies a thump When this I tell ye.

I'm sairly vexed to ken your plicht; No that it comes within my sicht; They've left ye neither breidth not hicht, Nor fit to stand on; Nor sall your beuk again see licht, Or stance be fand on.