Shepherd.—­As to being hangit, why, that’s a matter that happens to mony a deacent man, and it’s but a spurl or tway, and a gaspin gurble, an’ ae stour heave, and a’s ower; ye’re dead ere a body’s weel certified that the board’s awa’ from behind you—­and the night-cap’s a great blessing, baith to you and the company.  The gilliteen again, I’m tauld its just perfectly ridiculous how soon that does it’s turn.  Up ye come, and tway chiels ram your head into a shottle in a door like, and your hands are clasped ahint ye, and swee gangs the door, and you upset headforemost, and in below the axe, and hangie just taps you on the neck to see that it’s in the richt nick, and whirr, whirr, whirr, touch the spring, and down comes the thundering edge, loaded with at least a hunder weight o’ lead—­your head’s aff like a sybo—­Tuts, that’s naething—­onybody might mak up their mind to be justified on the gilliteen.

Odoherty.—­The old Dutch way—­the broadsword—­is, after all, the best; by much the easiest and the genteelest.  You are seated in a most comfortable arm-chair with a silk handkerchief over your eyes—­they read a prayer if you are so inclined—­you call for a glass of wine, or a cup of coffee—­an iced cream—­a dram—­any thing you please, in fact, and your desires are instantly complied with—­you put the cup to the lip, and just at that moment swap comes the whistling sabre.

Shepherd.—­Preserve us! keep your hand to yoursell, Captain.

Odoherty.—­Sweep he comes—­the basket is ready, they put a clean towel over it—­pack off the cold meat to the hospital—­scrub the scaffold—­take it to pieces—­all within five minutes.

Shepherd.—­That’s capital.  In fact a’ these are civilized exits—­but oh! man, man, to think of a lion on the Burntsfield Links—­what would your gowfers say to that, Mr. Tickler?

Tickler.—­A rum customer certainly.

Shepherd.—­Oh! the een, the red, fiery, fixit, unwinkin’ een, I think I see them—­and the laigh, deep, dour growl, like the purring o’ ten hundred cats—­and the muckle white sharp teeth girnin’ and grundin’—­and the lang rough tongue, and the yirnest slaver running outour the chaps o’ the brute—­and the cauld shiver—–­minutes may be—­and than the loup like lightning, and your back-bane broken wi’ a thud, like a rotten rash—­and then the creature begins to lick your face wi’ his tongue, and sniffle and snort over owre you, and now a snap at your nose, and than a rive out o’ your breast, and then a crunch at your knee—­and you’re a’ the time quite sensible, particularly sensible.

Odoherty.—­Give him a dig in the muzzle, and he’ll tip you the coup-de-grace.

North.—­What a vivid imagination the Shepherd has—­well, cowardice is an inspiring principle.

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HEAD WAGER.