Punch (37.1859)

44

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[July 30, 1859.

A REAL SCOTCH ROMANCE.

he fact that oatmeal
is extremely fatten-
ing for ducks, may
account for the rare
growth of this line
Scotch canard, which
appeared the other
day in the Glasgow
Bulletin:—

“GARIBALDI A
SCOTSMAN.

“ Sir,—Being allowed
two days’ recreation last
week, I bent my way to
the banks ot the Allan,
to enjoy a day’s fishing.
In my rambles I neared
Greenloaning, where I
met an old man—by
name, Jame< Anderson,
pensioner, late of the
42nd Highlanders—and a
most intelligent old man
I found him to be. After
the weather, the next
great topio of the day
was the war. I had
b mght a copy of your
paper at the Bridge in
the morning, which I
gave Lim. lie said, as
most others do, that
Garibaldi was the hero
of this war; and, with
laughing face, exclaimed,

‘ Faith, we may be proud
of him ; I ken this faither
and grandfaither baith.’
Of course I questioned
him about him, when he
related the following : —

“ ‘ His grandfaither, i
auld James Garrow, was
a shoemaker at the auld
brig o’Stirling, who often

mended my shoes, and his son—Baldie—listed in our regiment, was present at mony a hard battle along wi’
myself, got a severe wound at Toulouse, and, under the care of a pretty Italian girl, a servant in a noble
family, got quite lecovered of the bullet wound, but not so easy of the wound made by her dark eyes. In
short, they were married, and had one child. E’er I left France, he went aloog with the family to Italy.
They could never call him Baldie Garrow, but Garibaldie, and his son, I am certain, is the present great
commander.’

“ On my return to Stirling in the evening, I made strict inquiry, and find there are still a great many
families of the name of Garrow : and an old man of the name of Daniel Karr recollects the same Baldie
having enlisted in the gallant Forty-Twa. Delighted with my success, I determined to communicate to you
as soon as I returned, in the hope that your giving publicity to the foiegoing, may elicit something more
concerning this mystery.

“ I am, <Sic,

“ 25, Hill Street, Glasgow, June, 1859.” “ John Sinclair.”

There, young ladies! isn’t that a nice romantic story ? and how clinchingly it proves that
in the quality of strangeness fiction falls far short of being comparable with fact! The
mending of the shoes by the venerable “ auld grandfaitherthe ’listing of the fiery and
frolicsome young Baldie, who, not content to step in his aged parent’s shoes, aspired in
his soul to higher things than soleing; the “ mony ” battles Baldie fought; his wounds by
black eyes and by bullets ; his nursing, love, and marriage ; and the birth and boy-behaviour
of his first and only chy-ild, who grew up like Alexander, and became a “ great com-
mander;”—what novelist could hope to fill up his three volumes with a string of more
exciting incidents than these? How sad it is to think, that there are brutal-minded readers
who unfeelingly would question the truth of the narration ; who would prick up their sharp
ears at the first words of the story-teller, and very likely pencil a curt query in the margin,
as to whether the word “faith !” is a Scottish exclamation, and whether all that follows be
not similarly false.

Bor ourselves, so far from casting any doubt upon the statement, we believe that, in reality,
it falls short of the facts. We believe that its narrator, had he further taxed his memory,
might have remembered that, while serving with the “ gallant Forty-twa,” be “kent” the
forty-second cousin of General Gyulai, whose name by those of his relations who could
write was written “ Gillie whose birthplace was the “ Rielands,” and whose Court dress
was the kilt. Had he further stretched bis memory, he might have also recollected that
General MacMahon was a hero of Scotch parentage, as, indeed, is plainly indicated by the
prefix “ Mac; ” and that the Trench hero, Canrobert, was by family a Briton, having in his
infancy been christened “Bobert Cann.” So, too, we opine that, by a little further
stretch, the “intelligent old man” might have still further recollected that the soldier
Baldie Garrow was so called from being bald; and that he inherited his baldness from his
“faither,” who was scalped by the Red Indians, when they fought at Bunker’s Hill,
commanded by the Austrian—but then Yankee—General Schlick.

All this, we repeat, might the old pensioner have stated, had his hearers only lent him
their long ears a little longer. We, who in our youth have turned believing aural organs
to the tales of Greenwich pensioners, can quite easily imagine what Scotch veterans could
tell us. The keen air of the north is sharpening to the wits, and invention comes to aid
when_ memory is failing. Had Mr. Anderson been treated to a sup or two of “whusky”
he might have made up something stronger than this tale of his about the mother of
Garibaldi, which our readers will, we fear, consider as a mere's-nest.

TO AND THOM THE WAR.

TO.

There came an Emperor over the sea,

(And it’s “Up with the Tricolor !”)

And outspake the heart of Italy.

(Joy, joy—this is Ereedom’s war !)

To theboomand the flash of three hundred guns,
(And it’s “Up with the Tricolor!”)

To greet the Deliverer Genoa runs.

(Joy, joy—this is Freedom’s war !)

Men, and women, and children small,

(And it’s “Up with the Tricolor !”)

There’s a cheer from each, and a smile from all.
(Joy, joy—this is Ereedom’s war !)

The flowers are flung before his boat,

(And it’s “ Up with the Tricolor! ”)

A people’s blessings about him float.

(Joy, joy—this is Ereedom’s war !)

What works beneath that guarded breast ?

(And it’s “ Up with the Tricolor!”)

So strange and sweet it is to be blest!

(Joy, joy—this is Ereedom’s war!)

As in Genoa, so in Milan,

(And it’s “Up with the Tricolor!”)

The faith of woman—the trust of man.

(Joy, joy—this is Ereedom’s war!)

At length he knows what ’tis to move—

(And it’s “Up with the Tricolor ! ”)

Girt about by a people’s love.

(Joy, joy—this is Ereedom’s war).

’Tis thus to the war Napoleon goes,

(And it’s “ Up with the Tricolor! ”)

His friends are Italy’s—his, her foes.

(Joy, joy—this is Ereedom’s war).

FROM

Through those same streets who rideth back,
(And it’s “Down with the Tricolor! ”)
With brooding silence about his track.

(Woe, woe—was it Ereedom’s war ?)

Men and women, and children small,

(And it’s “ Down with the Tricolor! ”)
There’s a frown from each, and a curse from
all.

(Woe, woe—was it Freedom’s war?)

The tongue that blessed to ban doth wait,
(And it’s “Down with the Tricolor! ”)

And a Nation’s love is turned to hate.

(Woe, woe—was it Ereedom’s war?)

Close brow, close breast: yet something shows,
(And it’s “Down with the Tricolor! ”)

That old, familiar, chill he knows.

(Woe, woe—was it Freedom’s war F)

From the horror that tracks the Tyrant’s tread,
(And it’s “Down with the Tricolor! ”)

The shade of the sword over Damocles’ head.
(Woe, woe—was it Ereedom’s war ?)

The thorn hath borne but thorny fruit,

(And it’s “ Down with the Tricolor! ”)

And thistles have sprung from the thistle-root.
(Woe, woe—was it Freedom’s war?)

The scarce-sheathed daggers are flashing fain,
(And it’s “Down with the Tricolor ? ”)

And the plotters, turned soldiers, are plotters
again.

(Woe, woe—was it Freedom’s war!)

’Tis thus from the war Napoleon goes,

(And it’s “ Down with the Tricolor ! ”)

Ilis friends are Austria’s—his, her foes.

(Woe, woe—’twas not Freedom’s war!)