Speaking of Scots (and why wouldn't we?), there's the story of the big, braw Scotsman who comes home with a black eye. And a beauty it was - several shades of yellow and purple, fading to deep black. Swollen, oozing a bit - all in all, a glory.
His missus takes a look at him and asks, 'Who's hung the mouse under your eye?'
'I dinna wan talk aboot it,' he grumps. After a solid ten minutes of badering by his good woman, the Scotsman finally answers,' Ah, woman, if ye MUST me told, it was Smythe give it tae me.'
'What?!' she gasps. 'Smythe, the Englishman? That wee, puny, snotty, underfed, sassanach? The miserable, runty, scabrous...'
'Peace, woman,' he interrupts. 'Dinna speak ill of the dead.'
Boru
His missus takes a look at him and asks, 'Who's hung the mouse under your eye?'
'I dinna wan talk aboot it,' he grumps. After a solid ten minutes of badering by his good woman, the Scotsman finally answers,' Ah, woman, if ye MUST me told, it was Smythe give it tae me.'
'What?!' she gasps. 'Smythe, the Englishman? That wee, puny, snotty, underfed, sassanach? The miserable, runty, scabrous...'
'Peace, woman,' he interrupts. 'Dinna speak ill of the dead.'
Boru
‘I can’t be having with this.’ - Esmeralda Weatherwax
