The Scotch Ghost.

'Twas New Year's Eve and Sandy's homeward way
Across the dark and lonely moorland lay,
Where once, as ancient Scotish legends tell,
All kinds of ghosts and goblins used to dwell.
Now Sandy was endowed, like all his race,
With full his share of ev'ry manly grace ;
But quenching thirst is human and, 'tis true
That Scots, in this respect, are human too.

"Hi ! Sandy, blitherin', ditherin' sinner, stay!
Wi' ye a solemn converse I maun hae."
A voice in weird, unearthly tones
Pronounced the word
That Sandy heard.
He stood dead-still,
And a sudden chill
Ran through the marrow of all his bones,
As he bethought him of the Judgment Day.

"They're damned who holy, solemn duties shirk ;
And ye maun own
Seven weeks have flown
Since ye did ope the Buik or 'tend the Kirk."
"Yes but --" "No 'buts'
My friend ; excuses fail to please ;
Oft on your desecrated knees
Sweet smiling sluts
Ye've ta'en!" "Yes but" "--and oft did squeeze
Your cousin Mary
A wee bit more than necessary."
"Yes but --" "Your wife neglected
And ye[?] gamblers oft detected."
"Oh! say na mair!"
"I will say on --"
"Oh! I implair!"
"Your neighbour John
This twelve month ye hae own
The siller he did loan."
"Oh God!" gasped Sandy, in despair,
As all his sins in grand array
The ghost remorselessly laid bare
"Tak mercy on this sinful clay."
Just then a happy thought relieved his care ;
"Here! tak a drap of whisky, friend," he cried.
"Ah! now ye're talking sense!" the ghost replied ;
"I'll na refuse and ne'er will plague ye mair."

BC Archives, MS-2570 Box 1 File 6/MIST, Henry Masterman, Ruhleben magazine, Prisoners' Pie, 1916